Chapter Text
ONLY ASHES REMAIN.
I.
Screams, blood and smoke. Sodden Hill had become a living hell of ash and bone.
“I’ll find Tissaia,” she told Sabrina.
Yennefer stood and stumbled, pressing a hand to her aching and bleeding wound, her nostrils flaring. The air smelt of iron and decay, for dead bodies littered the courtyard. Mages and peasants alike lay in pools of their own blood and stared at nothing with empty eyes. The few who had survived cradled those who were gone and had in their gazes the same turmoil that shone in her violet orbs.
Of the locals who’d come to fight, less than a handful lived. Mutilated corpses, discarded weapons and wailing sufferers were what was left of them. And of the twenty-two mages they had brought, less than ten remained. Yennefer had been so convinced that the only form of absolution she would ever find was to have a starving beast for a heart that she only acknowledged her friends, sisters and brothers when it was too late, and now she silently mourned them.
Inhaling sharply, Yennefer called out to Tissaia with telepathy, channelling all her remaining energy and strength into projecting her thoughts as far as possible. But no matter how loudly she spoke, no matter how afraid and desperate she allowed her voice to sound, Tissaia didn’t answer.
Dread welled up in her gut, her heart pounded frantically and her eyes watered. To keep calm, Yennefer told herself that Tissaia de fucking Vries couldn’t possibly be dead.
Sabrina needs you. We need you.
The truth was an ugly, humiliating thing, but it was all she had left.
At the gate was Triss. Kind and wise Triss, whose throat was burnt to a crisp. She was covered in dirt and blood, shaking and gasping as a man held her close.
Find her, Triss whispered telepathically when their eyes met.
If she wasn’t dying, Yennefer would have rolled her eyes. What did she think she was doing? And more importantly, who was she supposed to ask for help if not the Rectoress?
“I will,” Yennefer said hoarsely. “Don’t die.”
Fringilla spoke to her after she killed the soldiers, tempting her with lies masked as sweet promises, but Yennefer ignored her.
She continued to look for the only person in this wretched world who could put an end to this misery, Tissaia de Vries. The Rectoress of Aretuza, Arch-mistress of Magic and member of the Chapter of the Gift and the Art was one of the most powerful mages alive and who had ever existed. She was the only person in the Continent who could defeat Nilfgaard.
As she staggered, nearly tripping on a severed arm, Yennefer wondered how the books would portray this. Would they call it a noble cause? A valiant effort? A glorious, miraculous feat in the face of impossible odds? Only if they won. If they lost, they would say it was a stupid mistake. A foolhardy effort. A sad story of what happened when one ignored the warnings of wise men – cowardly men who were too arrogant and stupid to do the right thing. She would tell the historians in the Council to write that about Artorius and Stregobor if she survived.
In the Brotherhood, everyone who had ever ascended possessed too loud a voice, and their idiocy was too far-reaching.
She heard Coral’s cries and closed her eyes. The more the sorceress saw the destruction the Nilfgaardian troops had wrought, the more Yennefer’s emotions threatened to break free from the bottle.
It is your job to control Chaos, not to become it.
What would have happened if she had gone to Nilfgaard instead of Fringilla? Not this, most decidedly.
Fringilla would have been happy in Aedirn. The monotony, the tedious balls and the lavish gifts would have delighted her instead of boring and enraging her. Life at Aedirn’s court, serving that idiotic man King Virfuril would have made her flourish, whereas it had made Yennefer wither. She should have expected it, really. She always wanted more. Yearning fashioned her into a firestorm that consumed and destroyed everything that stood in her way of getting what she wanted.
Still, though by the third week, she had become restless and wanted to run, her stubbornness and pride had compelled her to stay.
The years spent in the service of her home country had passed torturously slowly and the sorceress had become increasingly bored and reckless, causing chaos to have some entertainment. Alas, she had miscalculated.
Yennefer had considered making a boy quicken in the Queen’s womb with magic, but a desperate monarch was one who unfailingly heeded her advice and gave her all she asked for, so why bother?
It had been a solid enterprise and a profitable business. Until he snapped, of course.
In the end, the lack of a male heir made Virfuril turn on her. Decades of work, of carefully crafted control, had all been lost on a cold day. Gone, as easily as a snowflake disappeared when it landed in a warm hand.
She would have lost more if she’d been slightly unluckier, Yennefer knew. The assassin had meant to slay her as fervently as he’d meant to slay that vapid woman Queen Kalis.
Queen Kalis… Her words, which had highlighted her ineptitude, had hurt. They had cut deep. As deeply as when similar ones had left the Rectoress’ lips.
The wounds that Tissaia’s comments had often left her with had sometimes been so red and raw that after her lessons she would go to her room and scream until her throat throbbed and her spit was tinged with crimson. The broken and bent thing that the Rectoress had bought for four marks, acting like a beast, proving them right. Eventually, the resentment and powerlessness had been too much and so Yennefer had vowed never to return to the woman who was her tormentor nor to the school that was her home.
Petty as it was, that forced return to the past was the reason Yennefer had let the Queen die, returning only for the babe even though her power and strength had been enough to save both their royal heads.
Tissaia, the bitch, had a knack for being right.
Sometimes the best thing a flower can do for us is die.
Yennefer had known she kept tabs on her, and yet she’d never thought she would act on the information she received. But she had.
Out of nowhere, without warning, the Rectoress had appeared in Rinde, in that manor she had stolen from the mayor. She had stood in the middle of her bedchamber, as though they had not parted on the worst terms imaginable.
By then they hadn’t seen or spoken a word to each other in nearly half a century.
In that enclosed space, Yennefer had beheld the bane of her existence and the cause of her dark thoughts for the first time since that fateful day. Tissaia had been impeccably groomed, dressed in a green dress that had the same cut and style as all the others she’d seen her don throughout the years. Though almost five decades had passed, she had remained unchanged to the naked eye. Her gaze had been as strong and proud as her posture, and her Chaos had been as intoxicating as the herbs she had ingested that morning.
Her heart, Yennefer remembered, had pounded so fiercely inside her ribcage at the sight of her that it had made her ears ring. Its erratic fluttering had made her question if perhaps the herbs had been a tad too strong. Perhaps she had become careless, as she was wont to do when she was left alone for too long.
And then Tissaia had begun to speak and the butterflies in her stomach had dissipated. All Yennefer had felt was rage.
Her words had infuriated her, but the extent of her talents and power had irked her as well. The bloody woman could come into any house, castle or dump and make it seem as though it was her possession with the same ease that she could bend any person to her will with whispered words and enthralling looks, making them think it was their idea to what she wanted them to.
As a novice, Yennefer had desired to command what she did with only a glance. She had made it her purpose to wield that power, but as with many things in her life, she had failed.
Return to Aretuza.
That place that represented so much of what she longed for had always been important to her, but going back was something she had sworn she would never do. Moreover, returning to the school meant that Yennefer would constantly be subjected to seeing Tissaia, and she would rather jump off a cliff than have to endure that. That hole in her chest that didn’t use to hurt quite as much and was once as large as the prick of a needle had become, by that point, a black hole. A painful ache that had threatened to kill her and she hadn’t been able to risk making any deadlier.
Besides, Yennefer had wanted, still wanted to forget all that Aretuza – she – meant, so she had been unable to oblige.
Oblivion was torture, a rapture. To forget, oh, what a beautiful thing it was.
One day, she would forget that she saved her. From herself and her family, from mediocrity and Chaos. From everything she had been able to.
One day, she would forget her weakness. The memory of pushing Annika into the eel pool in a desperate attempt to win Tissaia’s approval, which she got in the form of a small smile, would be reduced to cinders.
One day, she would forget how indignant and hurt Tissaia had been when she had accused her of telling the Chapter that she was quarter-elf. Her voice, turning for the first time into a slightly shaking thing, would flicker out of existence like the flame of a candle. As would the words that her eyes had screamed at her, that she had moved heaven and earth to try to keep her place in Aedirn’s court but had failed.
One day, Yennefer would forget the knot that had formed in her throat when she had exited her office. The way she’d dug her nails into her palms so harshly she had bled, the way she’d leant against the closed door as tears pricked her eyes, the way the smoke of her pipe and the line of her lips had clouded her mind with something that was equal parts hatred and desire would disappear forever. But the day those memories vanished wouldn’t be today. No. Yennefer perfectly recalled the sentiments that’d followed their argument. She had been livid to find herself betrayed by her lover. His disloyalty had hurt her like a knife to the gut, or rather like an arrow to the gut, she supposed. She had felt so shocked and hurt that the woman who could command the oceans had failed her so significantly that, at that moment, she’d been dragged back to the pigpen. As the drops of salted water had rolled down her cheeks, Yennefer had felt pathetic, small and weak. She had hated everyone, especially her, and everything.
There isn’t a more hideous sight than a sorceress weeping.
Despite the years that had passed between then and Rinde, the utter, despicable hopelessness had lingered in her and had been made more poisonous with each passing second. She had wanted to break Tissaia to see if what was inside her was still human and so Yennefer had said cruel words to her that she otherwise would not have. Even if she never showed it, respect was the one thing she allowed herself to feel for her without shame.
As they had traded verbal blows, her ice-blue eyes had bored into her own, pleading, seeking. Still, she’d been all darkness and rightful anger, as always.
During her centuries of life, the Rectoress had mastered many skills and had become exceptional at self-control and deception, but her eyes always betrayed her and Yennefer had counted on that. She had counted, as well, on her insistence managing to tear her open, and it had.
With each taunt that had left her lips, Tissaia had held her breath more constantly and for longer, stopping the quivering of her lower lip seconds too late. She had then tried to close the distance with small steps, holding her hands against her womb and trying to keep the agony she felt from showing on her face.
When she had noticed that, Yennefer had stopped. The harm she’d caused was too grave for a woman who was that stubborn and proud to struggle to compose herself.
How did we get this way? I gave you all I could give.
Yennefer hadn’t known, didn’t know when that great, uncrossable chasm had grown between them either. Perhaps on the day of her ascension, when she had finally felt powerful enough to do what she wanted. Perhaps during the years after, when her boredom had been too great and she had dreamt of leaving the castle, her gilded cage, to travel the world. Perhaps the wound their relationship had become had festered when the wonders and sights everyone talked about proved to be as disappointing as everything else.
No. That wasn’t it.
The point of no return had come when Yennefer had realised that what she wanted all along was a home and not power. The following realisation that what she yearned for had a name had been like thorn-covered vines that had wrapped themselves around her heart, choking her, blinding her, branding her.
Sixty-four years she had been alive, and at her core, she was but a scared and scarred child who wanted everything she was never allowed to have. The happy family and too-precious memories, the smiles and laughter, the safety and warmth… Love.
You still have so much left to give.
Watching her as she had said that had been its own kind of torture. Tissaia had been so close, and yet so far out of reach. Impossible to hold on to. So Yennefer had instead focused on the people preparing for a fight that they had been doomed to lose from the very start.
As the two women had contemplated the scene in front of them, they had wished for everything to stop if only for a minute. To cease the fighting and the hurting. But this wasn’t a world of wish fulfilment, it was one deliberately devoid of such satisfaction. As they had both known that, known that words and wishes could not change things, silence had filled the void. They could have filled it with mumbled words and rushed confessions, but there were things they could not say even when facing death. They were both too prideful to do so.
After swallowing the last of the ale, Yennefer had delighted in the absence of venom in their conversation. Likewise, she had relished in her possible demise. Death was peace. It was limbo. It would stop the thoughts and dreams. Forsaking her life was a sacrifice she was willing to make and embrace if it gave her that.
Contrary to her expectations, though, Yennefer wasn’t dead. A feat she attributed, in great part, to Tissaia putting her in a tower like some pitiful princess from a fairy tale.
Tissaia… All the time Yennefer had spent looking for her she’d been reminiscing. The many things Tissaia had told her throughout her life had been at the forefront of her mind, haunting her as she bled out. Though only one phrase was repeated over and over again as Yennefer searched. Never stopping although she was dizzy from blood loss, tired from the battle, fight and fall and grieving for what they had lost so swiftly that she could very well convince herself it was only a nightmare if she so desired.
If you will not do it for the Brotherhood, then do it for me… Please.
When she finally found her, the sky was dark and the moon and the stars twinkled gently from above. It had taken her hours, then.
Tissaia was standing, not that she had expected any different. She was dishevelled, blood spatters covered her dress and her chignon was messy and ruffled like a bird’s nest. She would never have allowed herself to look like that under any other circumstances. Normal circumstances.
“You’re alive,” Yennefer said as relief coursed through her.
“Yennefer,” Tissaia replied, turning to look at her. She could’ve wept. She was wounded, yes, but still alive.
She approached her, and the moment their hands touched her wound was healed. Yennefer could breathe again.
There is a give and take.
Tissaia’s knees collapsed under her, unable to hold her upright anymore. Her body had already been frail enough before she used the last of her Chaos on Yennefer.
Yennefer lunged for her and Tissaia grabbed her wrist to stop her fall. As Tissaia slowly and sloppily got on her knees, she stared at her. Anger, gratitude and adoration shone in her eyes as love bloomed in her chest.
What a horrid storm of emotions. Both contemptible and inconvenient.
She knelt in front of Tissaia and looked into her eyes, shaken in a way she had never been before in her entire life. This wasn’t right. Yennefer wanted to scream and shake her, to tell her that she did not deserve this mercy. She wanted to reproach her for continuing to save her, an ungrateful and bratty girl, but her defences had been destroyed with a single incantation. She was too overwrought to be vulnerable. Speechless and immobile.
Everything in her broke as Yennefer further searched her face. The pain of watching her surrender to death was unbearable.
Tissaia was not supposed to do this. She was supposed to win the battle and save them all.
Yennefer wasn’t supposed to lose her. If she did, she would reopen the scars on her wrists, cut deeper than before.
“The Northern Kingdoms are close! We can’t give up!” she exclaimed.
As she had just added another wound to her the many internal ones she already possessed, a fresh wave of pain hit her. Tissaia didn’t reply. She couldn’t. She only whimpered. Her head lolled from side to side as she blinked owlishly.
“You… you saved me.” There was an edge to her tone, Yennefer of Vengerberg had never felt so much at once. “I won’t ever forget that.”
“It’s your turn, to save these people, this Continent. This is your legacy,” the Rectoress whispered with conviction.
“How?! I can’t!” Yennefer protested.
“You can!” Tissaia said, hissing. “Everything you have ever felt, everything you’ve buried…” Blue eyes shining, she cupped her cheek and caressed the skin with her gloved thumb. “Forget the bottle. Let your Chaos explode.”
Yennefer grabbed her forearm, breathing heavily, and rested her forehead against hers. The touch, the brush of her mind against hers, the feeling of her Chaos feebly reaching out to hers gave her the bravery she needed.
Tissaia smiled as Yennefer pulled back and stood, holding her hand until the last moment.
She walked away and recalled every single thing that had ever hurt her, every memory of lies and disappointments and truthful statements that had felt like a punch in the face. Every word, every action and inaction that she regretted and could not go back and fix. Every single thing that robbed her of sleep. She let herself be consumed by the bitterness of being denied a happy childhood, by the disgust she felt at the blood on her hands and by the sorrow of knowing that she would never conceive a child. Yennefer also let the hurt of the witcher, who might have been the one if their feelings had been more than a lie, fill her. As well as the pain of her adopted family dying in a senseless war.
The bruised, lonely thing she called a heart burnt red with pain as she climbed the rock.
Yennefer looked at Tissaia as she got on her feet. She thought of her, who had saved her so many times and in so many ways, and the many things she represented and was. The countless, all-consuming feelings that Tissaia provoked in her all rushed forth, washing over her in a wave of rage, regret and resentment, love, longing and hope.
Every single thing and then some.
There are mages like Sabrina, who ignore their emotions. And then there are mages like us, who are consumed by them.
Yennefer screamed and cried until she burnt down the world.
Queen of the Ashes, her legacy was written in screams and blood.
With the last of her magic, she opened five portals and transported Tissaia, Sabrina, Triss, Coral and herself to Aretuza, and then Yennefer knew no more.