[ His ears ring louder. Desperately, he tries to hold onto what he can, for all the fucking good it'll do. He clutches his head, every breath sharp and shallow. If he remembers where he is, or with whom, it's distant at best. Flashes of images tumble together, new and old and forgotten. A shadowed form someone says. His eyes flick upwards towards Grigory before he can stop himself.
He's only dimly aware of Yennefer's presence for an instant. Subtle. He remembers the first time she slipped into his head, when he'd barely caught on. Not that it would take much effort to get in, split wide open as he is. The memory she finds is already at the surface, never buried as deep as he wants it to be, even after all these decades. Especially now, magic suffocating the air and blood slick beneath him—it's there, waiting. But where the others come and go as Grigory rifles through, this one snaps loose altogether.
Afterwards, he will understand what she did. Here, in this moment, he has no time to react before he drowns under the sudden torrent. What's happening now or then or someplace else, he can't tell the difference. Every thought washes away. There's just blood, the heavy taste and smell of it, the sickly sweet stench of herbs, filling his senses until he's choking on it, until his eyes water. A fire sweeps through his veins, burns his lungs. He can't see, he can't fucking breathe. He doesn't know what they're doing to him (except he does, of course he knows what it is to be unmade and remade. They—mages, all of them, does it matter who?) He hears screaming, echoing, discordant, a dozen voices layered—or maybe it's just him.
His fingers dig into the marble (stone), clawing, red streaks left behind. The sound that comes is not pained; it runs deeper, an animal noise that tears from his throat. ]
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He's only dimly aware of Yennefer's presence for an instant. Subtle. He remembers the first time she slipped into his head, when he'd barely caught on. Not that it would take much effort to get in, split wide open as he is. The memory she finds is already at the surface, never buried as deep as he wants it to be, even after all these decades. Especially now, magic suffocating the air and blood slick beneath him—it's there, waiting. But where the others come and go as Grigory rifles through, this one snaps loose altogether.
Afterwards, he will understand what she did. Here, in this moment, he has no time to react before he drowns under the sudden torrent. What's happening now or then or someplace else, he can't tell the difference. Every thought washes away. There's just blood, the heavy taste and smell of it, the sickly sweet stench of herbs, filling his senses until he's choking on it, until his eyes water. A fire sweeps through his veins, burns his lungs. He can't see, he can't fucking breathe. He doesn't know what they're doing to him (except he does, of course he knows what it is to be unmade and remade. They—mages, all of them, does it matter who?) He hears screaming, echoing, discordant, a dozen voices layered—or maybe it's just him.
His fingers dig into the marble (stone), clawing, red streaks left behind. The sound that comes is not pained; it runs deeper, an animal noise that tears from his throat. ]