Chapter Text
The eerie quiet of the afternoon sparkled goosebumps on the skin of Tissaia de Vries. The mage battled with an internal turmoil too grand to stand, one which soon should be extinguished, as shall her being.
Her existence had already spanned much too many centuries, and she had always vowed to preserve the wellbeing of the continent, which she was sure could only be done so by maintaining Aretuza alive. Nevertheless, her cause now lay destroyed by her own hand, by her own foolishness. Vilgefortz had encapsulated all she desired and presented it to her: stability, support, even love (or so she had thought).
She had been tired, appalled by the horrid events of Sodden Hill, by the loss of loved ones she so long knew; losses that she would never be able to forgive herself for. Her hands were covered with the blood of Coral, and her undying support, by that of Vanille, and her ever-present compassion, and for what seemed the longest time, she believed with that of Yennefer, too. Her darling piglet, who saved her from the flames of her wrath.
Such mourning ended up making, in her dazzled state, Vilgeforz her pillar, her companion, the staple that kept her sane and coherent. Steadily, she found in him what she saw as love. She had become blind, and now, she had lost all she cared and craved for. Hence, Tissaia had no longer any reason to live for. Ashamed, baffled and thoroughly humiliated, her time to die had come.
The mage withdrew the pin that kept together her updo, depositing it perfectly aligned to the right with her quill. Untangling her long white hair with deft fingers, she reminisced of her own mother’s hair, which had started to whiten two summers before she was to be gone for Aretuza. The stark contrast between her black hair and her newly white hairs made for the imagining of them being shooting stars, slowly descending while they died. She used to want such hair as her mother’s. Nevertheless, now that she had the hair of shooting stars, she did not feel beautiful, rather, simply defeated.
Opening the small wooden box to her left, she extracted her pipe for the last time, filling it with her favoured blend, and lit it with magic. A small, last waste of her chaos. Inhaling deeply, she reminisced of simpler times, when her bare feet carried her as a child through the small fishermen’s village her family lived in; through the rocks of the pavement, towards the beach, with the strong smell of salt in the air, her eyes blinded by the sun and a smile in her lips. She would reach the beach to see the women of the village braiding nets, speaking in loud tones, waiting for their husbands to come home at dawn.
She’d always bring them fruit in the afternoon. The women would often speak of trifles such as their last night’s dreams, or how their children were rapidly growing. The small girl with long braids always went unnoticed as she handed out the fruit of the season, only thanked by the older women, who did not usually partake in conversation with the others. Her mother would always sit next to them and another woman of her age, who she remembers as very skinny, with short blond hair. Her mother would, each day, gift her a seashell she found, kissing her in the temple as goodbye, and Tissaia would run home to place it atop the others in her wooden box.
Such sweet memories were short-lived, as Tissaia remembered how she, at only ten years of age, encountered death the first time when, on one of those afternoons, carrying a basket full of pears atop her head, she was stopped abruptly from her skipping and singing by two of the women who had been sowing, and was told her mother had been an undeniable great force of nature, that she would fly the highest. The young girl’s initial wailing was quickly replaced with anger, screams and disdain.
She would spend a whole season in between anger and loneliness, staring from her bed at the patterns in the wood of her room’s ceiling, always silent, except for when she cried. Her brown sun-kissed skin started to fade to a ghostly white; and whenever her father would return home at night, she’d not even spare a glance at him, for she blamed him for everything: he’d spent all her childhood at sea or with the rest of the men in the town’s tavern; leaving her mother to die, leaving her to rot in a house in which at night a strange man came to snore, reeking of ale.
One morning, she woke to find her shells scattered on the floor, many of them broken. She seethed from anger, from pure hatred towards the man she had to call father; and that night at dawn, when the ships were coming back from sea, the young girl, who did no longer wear braids, but dirty loose hair, run to the shore in her nightdress, with cuts in her hands from tightly gripping the broken shells, red puffy eyes and a ghost-like complexion, and started to scream atop her lungs as the boats neared, throwing the shells she still was gripping to the sand. And with the melody of anger and loss of the young girl, black clouds settled atop the village, and a dense rain started to fall, bringing along lightning which struck at the seashore.
The boats were suddenly cracked into two, little fires erupting out of the wood where the lightning had stricken, and screams of men were heard along the roaring thunderstorm. The women threw themselves at sea, swimming towards their husband’s boats, crying and holding onto broken wood panels. The skinny blonde woman was anchored to her husband’s dead body, tears mixed with salty seawater. And through this catastrophe, the young girl whose mother used to call Skylark could only but watch, sweating and heaving, until she saw nothing but black.
Nowadays, Tissaia de Vries did not cry remembering her conduit moment, as she used to for such lengthy years, but rather felt numb, and saw it from a third`s perspective, never her own eyes. Sighing, she tapped away the contents of her pipe, depositing it neatly in its place in the box and closed it. She wet her feather in ink and started writing her last letter. Every so often, she left blotches of ink on the paper as she was overcome with emotions and felt paralyzed. This was for her the last assurance of her need to end her life: she had lost all control over her emotions, she was rough chaos, she was soaring higher and higher from the earth, unable to determine her direction; she was like a cloud of fire.
After careful deliberation, she signed her letter as Skylark. After penning her long unused name, and as she was to fold the parchment, the door to her study was opened, and Yennefer came inside. She approached the Rectoress with steady steps, and started to make a cheeky remark:
-Triss and Sabrina are nowhere to be seen, must be… -She stopped speaking and quickly grabbed the parchment before Tissaia could muster up the words to stop her. Skimming through the letter, her eyes started to brim with unshed tears and rage started to brew inside of her.
-You were to kill yourself -She stated, harshly looking into the eyes of her mentor. With a tiny nod, Tissaia averted her eyes. -How could you? -Yennefer screamed, and made to grab her shoulders, but the older mage squirmed out of her touch.
-You have no right! After everything that has happened, after all that I have confessed to you. Does me needing you mean absolutely horse shit to you? Are you actually that fucking selfish?
-You will not deprive me of my decision, it has been made. -Tissaia stated, as she gathered the courage to look into the brunette’s eyes, but quickly lost it and sat up while looking pointedly onto the opposite direction, centering her eyesight onto one of the room’s columns. -I am my own self and needn’t give you any explanation over my right of choosing my own fate.
-Dying is not a fate Tissaia, choosing to be a coward, though, is -Yennefer declared with rage-filled eyes.
-You thoroughly accuse me of being selfish, a coward. And I am that, perhaps. But I have lived too long serving the interests of others, doing all I could for the betterment of the continent, for Aretuza, for the institutions that keep us alive and well. -the older mage declared, as she picked at her skin, leaving a small smear of blood near the nail of her index finger.
-Those institutions you hold in such high regard are dead.
-Indeed, and because of me. Hence, after destroying the work of my life -Tissaya swallowed down a sob- I seek peace.
-You seek an easy way out, that is what you willed yourself to do! Killing yourself is not, and never will be the answer! You are losing control, as you so told me decades ago.
-I have. I am dead without having to kill myself, all I was is in shambles.- With unsteady hands, she took the letter from Yennefer’s hold. Before being able to deposit it back onto the table, her hands are taken by those of Yennefer, and the parchment with her last goodbye falls to the ground. Tissaia stands completely still, chest rising and falling with great force, staring at their joined hands. She is trembling.
-I need you- Yennefer murmurs. -I need you with all I am since all I am is because of you. - her voice cracks- You are my greatest refuge from the world, you are what gives me strength, who I can count on always, to whom I can go back home to. Do not take that away from me. Do not.
Tissaia is crying by now, with full force, and Yennefer comes close to her, stepping onto the parchment on the floor, and lifts a tentative hand. She slowly seeks the white-haired woman’s cheek, and leaves her hand there, softly caressing her.
-You will not let the actions of a bastard destroy you when you yet have so much to give.
-I do not - Tissaia’s voice is unstable, like a leaf moved by a gust of wind.
Yennefer comes ever closer to her, and murmurs: -Indeed you do.- Her hand finds the other woman’s neck, and the other her lower waist. She engulfs Tissaia in a bone-crushing hug, one to which the latter woman does not immediately respond to. She is still like a statue, excepting small trembles. Nevertheless, when Yennefer burrows her nose in the crook of her neck, and deeply inhales, Tissaia relaxes and returns the hug. Fiercely. She holds onto Yennefer like a man at sea who found shore, she holds onto her like her life depends solely on this embrace, and it indeed does.
Yennefer places a kiss on Tissaia’s neck, and murmurs, while rocking her:
-I’ve got you. You have me, I am never letting go.