[ yes, it probably would have helped matters if geralt had chosen to reach out in any capacity over the course of the last few weeks. or, really, if anyone had been able to tell her anything. she doesn't fault him for the silence, because in truth it was probably for the best - she's still not entirely sure how closely she's being watched and monitored, how closely the queens and her eyes have followed. it's why she's made no further move, even after the whispers of another escape from the dungeon, even after she'd gotten confirmation geralt was no longer within those walls, or any others of thorne's making.
( it's relief, that she grapples with most. fear, that it had been something worse, and then relief that had replaced it - that had nearly broken her façade, that had just about broken through. it's by the skin of her teeth that she manages to keep any reaction under check, a close thing that keeps her lips tight. it's only a rumor she had reminded herself, but it had been something. )
as it stood, yennefer heard nothing beyond that initial rumor. no messages, no letters, not even a whisper from the other courtiers - and so she carried on as nothing had changed. she went to her sessions of studying, with the younger mages. she spent some time in the library, researching the queen's family history. she attended court, and sometimes did not, took her walks through the gardens, and held together the façade.
it did not matter, what had gone down behind those closed doors. it had not affected her, and would not shake her resolve.
( except that it is in her room, late at night, when sleep escapes her too. when she lies awake and thinks of what it was she found, what it had been down that thread she had pulled. it had been excruciating, watching that come to light. watching geralt see it, watching geralt live through it, knowing. knowing.
made for a magical childhood
it eats away at her, the memories. the flashes of geralt, younger. geralt, in trials. geralt, forced through with a kind of magic that shouldn't have been possible to survive. each night for weeks, that is what yennefer finds in her bedroom waiting for her, memories that are not even her own, and the vision of geralt, bloodied and exhausted, who had turned to her, living through them all again. )
it is weeks later, though in all honesty she has lost count somewhere along the way of how many days, before her nightly ritual is interrupted. scrollwork in haphazard, scratchy lines appear across her eyes. she recognizes it, even before she realizes she does, sitting up so suddenly from where she lay that she feels a bit dizzy with it. but too soon, the letters fade, too soon she'd left alone again in her room, candles flickering, the cool night air fogging her window.
the urge is of course there to respond, the words almost appearing behind her very own eyes - tell me you're out of thorn. tell me you made it back to the free cities. what is that even supposed to mean? but she catches herself before the words form. as silly as it feels, her eyes go to the door. to the quiet sounds of empty halls. had anyone noticed the message? could the messages even be tracked? would they know she was communicating with him, now that he was free of the borders? (was she putting him in danger again?) a part of her aches with it - the need to reach out, to bridge this gap, to stand up and create a portal and just let the rest of the summoned deal with whatever thorne's royal family had plans for - but a quiet voice stops her.
it is a trap. do not fall for someone else's.
it takes her a few hours of pacing and errant frustrated uses of magic (the chair never stood a chance, but she can always fix it again) before the idea comes to her, before she settles back on her bed and calms the raging storm of panic and uncertainty and the need to act from her mind. once in the horizon, she moves quickly - it takes less than five minutes, perhaps barely even two - for her to arrive in the horizon, to portal to where it is she plans to go. the door is open, when she tries it (and there is a part of her surprised by even that) but she goes in all the same. leaves it, right where she left the last bit of her, and disappears before he can notice.
the next time geralt chooses to go to his room, he will find a small, tightly woven scroll under the candle stick on his bedside table. maybe he will search for it, or maybe he will just know, and upon unrolling the parchment there will be - in elder, though even in elder the script will seem familiar - a single line of text with a date attached. the parchment will smell like her, though - of lilac and gooseberries - with a familiar image on the back. one he might find the mirror of, on the pendant he wears. ]
no subject
( it's relief, that she grapples with most. fear, that it had been something worse, and then relief that had replaced it - that had nearly broken her façade, that had just about broken through. it's by the skin of her teeth that she manages to keep any reaction under check, a close thing that keeps her lips tight. it's only a rumor she had reminded herself, but it had been something. )
as it stood, yennefer heard nothing beyond that initial rumor. no messages, no letters, not even a whisper from the other courtiers - and so she carried on as nothing had changed. she went to her sessions of studying, with the younger mages. she spent some time in the library, researching the queen's family history. she attended court, and sometimes did not, took her walks through the gardens, and held together the façade.
it did not matter, what had gone down behind those closed doors. it had not affected her, and would not shake her resolve.
( except that it is in her room, late at night, when sleep escapes her too. when she lies awake and thinks of what it was she found, what it had been down that thread she had pulled. it had been excruciating, watching that come to light. watching geralt see it, watching geralt live through it, knowing. knowing.
made for a magical childhood
it eats away at her, the memories. the flashes of geralt, younger. geralt, in trials. geralt, forced through with a kind of magic that shouldn't have been possible to survive. each night for weeks, that is what yennefer finds in her bedroom waiting for her, memories that are not even her own, and the vision of geralt, bloodied and exhausted, who had turned to her, living through them all again. )
it is weeks later, though in all honesty she has lost count somewhere along the way of how many days, before her nightly ritual is interrupted. scrollwork in haphazard, scratchy lines appear across her eyes. she recognizes it, even before she realizes she does, sitting up so suddenly from where she lay that she feels a bit dizzy with it. but too soon, the letters fade, too soon she'd left alone again in her room, candles flickering, the cool night air fogging her window.
the urge is of course there to respond, the words almost appearing behind her very own eyes - tell me you're out of thorn. tell me you made it back to the free cities. what is that even supposed to mean? but she catches herself before the words form. as silly as it feels, her eyes go to the door. to the quiet sounds of empty halls. had anyone noticed the message? could the messages even be tracked? would they know she was communicating with him, now that he was free of the borders? (was she putting him in danger again?) a part of her aches with it - the need to reach out, to bridge this gap, to stand up and create a portal and just let the rest of the summoned deal with whatever thorne's royal family had plans for - but a quiet voice stops her.
it is a trap. do not fall for someone else's.
it takes her a few hours of pacing and errant frustrated uses of magic (the chair never stood a chance, but she can always fix it again) before the idea comes to her, before she settles back on her bed and calms the raging storm of panic and uncertainty and the need to act from her mind. once in the horizon, she moves quickly - it takes less than five minutes, perhaps barely even two - for her to arrive in the horizon, to portal to where it is she plans to go. the door is open, when she tries it (and there is a part of her surprised by even that) but she goes in all the same. leaves it, right where she left the last bit of her, and disappears before he can notice.
the next time geralt chooses to go to his room, he will find a small, tightly woven scroll under the candle stick on his bedside table. maybe he will search for it, or maybe he will just know, and upon unrolling the parchment there will be - in elder, though even in elder the script will seem familiar - a single line of text with a date attached. the parchment will smell like her, though - of lilac and gooseberries - with a familiar image on the back. one he might find the mirror of, on the pendant he wears. ]