This October, I am picking and choosing between prompts from Flufftober, Whumptober, and Kinktober lists, because i’m that bitch. This month shall henceforth be lovingly referred to as Flunktober.
For day 2, I present to you the alternate prompt from the Whumptober list: touch starved. (Also satisfies the touch-starved prompt on my BTHB card). Yeehaw?
(I did write a day 1 prompt, but it’ll be posted on day 25, because... reasons?)
They must decide that Tissaia is worth more to them alive than dead.
It’s a clever enough play, she supposes, keeping the most powerful living human mage at the Lodge’s disposal in the event that their values might one day align.
They will not. It seems Tissaia alone knows this.
They keep her locked away in dimeritium shackles for a time, but the wise among them know that Tissaia de Vries, Archmistress of Magic, may soon escape such bonds. She is one of a few powerful enough to resist the effects of dimeritium on the chaos around them, and although she spends the better part of three days overcome by bouts of nausea and vertigo, writhing upon the mattress when she’s meant to be sleeping, she adjusts to the cuffs - to the metal and its foul brand of magic - as the days wear on. Soon, she might be able to overcome her human guards. Later, to hold her own against the lesser mages. Sooner than even Philippa thinks, perhaps, if the rage burning in her chest continues to blossom within her.
But no, they have made quick work of setting wards in place around one of the guest rooms, and these are wards that even she cannot break. She is free of the shackles, free to roam the modest - very modest - accommodations, but she has been afforded the comfort of a bed and writing desk, at least. And clean clothes. There are no luxuries, but it is as good as a gilded cage.
Those who deliver her food and clothes and firewood are servants, nothing more. Often, they are kind or frightened enough to share what day it is, to verify for Tissaia that her mind is still keen enough to count the days.
In the beginning, Philippa visits a few times. To berate her for failing to see reason. To ingratiate herself into Tissaia’s good graces. To gloat over the Archmistress’ capture. Any number of reasons, all of which are thinly veiled and vary by the day.
Now she sees only the servants and guards. Occasionally, one smuggles in a book for her. Even some of the guards have taken pity, but she doubts they would hesitate to draw a sword on her if need arose. But she is a quiet prisoner. Calm, collected. She offers them no reason for distrust.
One savaed passes, and then another, and she is alone.
Her memory may be sharp, but the animal parts of her, the pieces of her mind which are still human, have begun to fall to despair.
Human beings were not meant for isolation. Perhaps she is yet more human than she thought. One night, she weeps. Another, she opens the window and lets the biting chill of the snugly-fitted iron grate sink into her forearms for the sake of any new sensation at all.
Another savaed. And another.
She is pacing the floor as she often does, lest her body fade away completely in this space which affords so little room for movement, when the door opens one evening. A meal. Wood for the fire. If she is lucky, there will be freshly-washed linens and another book. For all that she dedicates a not-insignificant portion of each day to washing herself, she has not had a proper bath, nor proper care for her hair, since she was locked away; in spite of her efforts at cleanliness, she feels filthy.
Yes, fresh bedding would be the greatest gift -
“Tissaia?”
Tissaia blinks, pausing to stare out the closed window, the dimming light casting shadows across the room.
She’s finally gone mad.
The door has closed, and for a long moment, there is no movement. And then, finally, a quiet sigh.
“I should have visited sooner. I’m sorry.”
Tissaia turns slowly toward the door, and - no, no, she has not gone mad. She’s there, laden with a tray holding too much food - simple fare, but enough to share.
The times have changed her.
“Rita.”
“There are other things for you, outside. Firewood, and - you really have no reflectors?”
“One.” She nods at the tiny table beside the bed, at the candle with the curved sheet of brass attached to its base. “I have little need for light, even when the nights are long.” At Rita’s expression, Tissaia thins her lips. “If you have guilt to feel, let it be for aligning with them, not for leaving me.”
“For the school,” Rita cries, taking two paces forward, then sighing her frustration and spinning to place the tray upon the little desk that doubles as a table. “For the safety of the students! Our students. Our girls. Times have changed, Tissaia; the Continent is in shambles, and - ”
“You do not need to tell me of the things I knew would come to pass in the event the Brotherhood fell, Rita. Who engineered that fall, I wonder?”
Rita’s hand lands on her arm, her grip firm, the contact a sudden rush of warmth as Tissaia’s heart races. Rita, who she has not seen since before the Coup - has not touched since that last night at The Silver Heron.
She has touched no one since that night; been touched only by those who took her captive when, weakened by the excessive use of her magic during the fighting, she had been overcome. By those who had shackled and unshackled her.
And so, after seasons of solitude, in the midst of the despair that began weeks and weeks ago to gnaw at the edges of her mind, she begins to cry.
She fights it at first, drawing herself upright as she glances down at Rita’s hand. Her throat feels thick; there is something wrong with her body, something much too primal, much too human. Sensing the blame in her, Rita loosens her grip, but when she begins to pull away Tissaia twists her wrist suddenly, bending her elbow to clasp Rita’s forearm in desperation.
It’s then that she begins to cry in earnest, pressing her lips into a thin line and squeezing her eyes shut in a vain attempt to stop them. But no, there is no stopping the rush of chemicals this unexpected contact has triggered. There is no fighting it.
So she yields to it. Why resist the inevitable? What pride does she have left? Is there any pride to be had in the presence of this erstwhile lover?
“Hold me.”
She barely recognises her own voice, hardly realises that it is she who has spoken, until Rita closes the distance between them and embraces her fiercely, working herself free of Tissaia’s hold to envelop her in both arms. And Tissaia surrenders herself to it, folding her arms around Rita’s ribs and pulling their bodies flush, until there is no breath of air between them.
Because as little intimacy as she has allowed herself these past centuries, she is still human. Because who knows when she will feel the touch of a human hand, whether for good or ill, again? Because Rita is soft, and warm, and right. Always was; always will be.
Because this physical contact after so long without shines a light on the distress of being without it. Awakens irrefutable sorrow and undeniable relief.
“Your poor hair,” Rita whispers into her ear, fingertips light on the back of Tissaia’s head, tracing around the chignon Tissaia continues to wear during most days for the sake of whatever decorum she has left and, for however short a time, to have something to do with her hands each day. But Tissaia doesn’t care about her hair, not now. She cares about the presence of another body next to her own, squeezes Rita all that much tighter. Taking this as a hint, Rita curls her arm more securely around Tissaia again. Still, her lips remain beside Tissaia’s ear, breath soft in her hair. “I’ll bring you some oils. I’ll tend to it.”
The latter part is an empty promise. They both know that if she spends too much time with Tissaia, it will arouse suspicion. To take a meal or two with her is one thing, but much more…
Still, it is a welcome fancy.
