#stregobor

PROPAGANDA:

[Phillip]

"I mean have you seen him? submissive and breedable, bro was ready to sacrifice his whole life for his husband might as well sacrifice his womb too."

[Stregobor]

i was feeling so shitty recently with no ability to actually play the witcher 3 that i actually booted up s1e1 of the netflix show *for comfort*. Huge mistake, typically, I hate the witcher netflix with a burning passion with only very few exceptions (Joey Baitey the could never make me hate you and your performance as Jaskier)

I ended up positively suprised.

Cuz there's something Geralt says to Stregobor nefore leaving his tower:

"Evil is evil, Stregobor. Lesser, greater, middling, it's all the same. Proportions are negotiated, boundaries blurred. I'm not a pious hermit judging you, I havem't done only good in my life. But if I'm to choose between one evil and another, then I prefer not to choose at all."

And that? That's a direct quote from the book. The crossed out parts? The only lines that were cut/changed.

They had something. They were doing something. Something good, even. But it seems for every faithful adaptation, for every good decision made to honor the books, they fucked up 5 more.

A post-Sodden, pre-Yen's return scene I thought of while writing But I Have Promises to Keep but wasn't actually part of that fic.

The sharp knock at her door pulled Tissaia's attention from her grief-laden thoughts as she stared listlessly into the hearth's fire. "Enter," she called, anticipating Rita or Vilgefortz to enter. Though she was largely healed, the lingering effects of Fringilla's dimeritium still muted her chaos enough to prevent knowing who stood outside her doors. Triss, having leached the worst of the dimeritium from Tissaia's lungs, suspected the effect would diminish in time. The redhead, at last guess, had estimated the Rectoress ought to be completely back to herself by the third month. It was far from ideal.

Each day passed entirely too slowly.

Had she but any tears left, Tissaia was sure her cheeks would flow with the deluge of them. It had been many weeks now since Sodden. A month. Her fingers unconsciously twisted into the long, sleeveless black overrobe she'd donned in Sodden's wake. By rights, she ought to wear entirely black - certainly, she had a gown for it. She could not bear to wear it.

Black was Yennefer's colour.

Her heart throbbed at the thought of the younger mage. Yennefer's words echoed in her ears, as they so often did of late: 'I never even wanted to come back here.' And yet she had - under the presumption Tissaia had asked for her, the brunette learned far too late. The same reason Yennefer had come to Sodden at all. From a strategic standpoint, it had been the right decision to beseech Yennefer to come - they had won because of her.

That did nothing to mend the shattered remains of Tissaia's heart. It wasn't right. None of the losses suffered on Sodden's hill were, but Yennefer's was - Tissaia could not bear to think it. The scarce hours of sleep she attained each night when exhaustion overcame even her tenacity were plagued by memories of those final minutes. Had it truly only been minutes? Time had felt distorted through the agonized have of her poisoned state, yet she knew it must be true. For the scarce words they'd exchanged, perhaps a candle mark at most had passed that she'd seen Yennefer again. The ghostly warmth of the younger woman's forehead pressed against hers haunted Tissaia. Her ears echoed with the warbly, emotion-laden quake in Yennefer's voice as she'd sworn, "You saved me. I won't ever forget that."

The impossible control Yennefer had exerted to save her. Each dream was awash with that almighty torrent of flame. The torrid heat that had melted flesh from many bones yet had not so much as grazed Tissaia. Whatever destruction Yennefer had wrought on Nilfgaard, she had done the opposite for the Rectoress.

Yennefer had saved her.

It broke Tissaia's heart that she had failed to save the other woman now. She had searched the battlefield for days. Her throat burning as she screamed herself hoarse calling Yennefer's name to no avail. Mind amuck as she relived soldiers' deaths by the dozen seeking any sign of Yennefer. Crossed lines she never otherwise would, tearing apart a prisoner's mind for any indication of what had happened to the raven-haired woman.

She could not be gone. Not after they had only just started to reconcile.

And yet, after a month of fruitless searching, Tissaia could do little else but slowly lose the vestiges of hope she clung to until, finally, she could delay it no longer. In the morning, she would carve the monument for Sodden's fallen mages - all fourteen of them.

The Rectoress regretted offering her permission for her visitors to enter when Stregobor's familiar form came into view, Artorius a step behind him.

Her blue eyes narrowed, the weariness that never seemed to leave her these days set impossibly heavier across her shoulders. There was no reason for either man to be seeking her out, nor did she have the patience to deal with whatever asinine arguments they'd arrived with now.

As she caught sight of the black candle in Stregobor's grasp and an Aedirnian mourning nosegay in Artorius's, Tissaia bristled. Outrage flooded her as she seethed, "How dare you-"

"Peace, sister." Artorius cut her off calmly, raising a hand. Tissaia's nostrils flared. Still, she conceded the request if only for its atypicality. It was a rarity for any of them to address each other as such. Artorius met her gaze and said calmly, "We came only to offer our condolences and, as you've noted, some artifacts you may wish to use to mourn her."

Tissaia's throat bobbed, accusing stare twisting to Stregobor. "You hate Yennefer."

Unapologetic, he inclined his head, "And you love her." Catching the barely perceptible flicker of shock in Tissaia's eyes, Stregobor huffed an amused sound. "There was something about her from the beginning - even as a hunchbacked welp with no control, you cared for her. More than any of the others - Glevissig, Merigold, the Laux-Antilles, even Eilhart. You care for them all, but Vengerberg? I don't pretend to understand it, Tissaia, but it was quite obvious how greatly you cared for her." He shook his head. "With all you did for her, anyone with eyes or ears could see how you felt." Her heart trembled as an uncharacteristic gleam of sympathy entered the Rector's gaze, "She was your everything."

With an agreeing noise, Artorius added quietly, "Given Vengerberg's actions at Sodden, I would wager you were her everything too." He deposited the small bundle of fauna atop the side table next to Tissaia's desk, dark eyes holding the Rectoress's bright stare. "I am sorry for your loss, Tissaia. Whatever my personal feelings of Vengerberg, she deserved better than this." Artorius grimaced. "They all did."

Straightening, the Toussaintian withdrew as Stregobor stepped forward. The wide, stout black candle made a dull thunk as he set it on the table beside the flowers. "Mourn them, sister. Take the night to grieve as you must, we shall ensure you are undisturbed. In the morrow, we wage war once more." His large hand was heavy on her shoulder as the Rector said solemnly, "I did not know Vengerberg, but if half Istredd's reports were true, she would not see you this way."

As he too withdrew, Tissaia stared at her companions in dismay. She wanted to rage at them. To rail at their audacity of coming here and howl against the presumption of Yennefer's loss as a given truth.

And yet, after a month of endless searching with nary a hint of the younger woman's survival? She could not.

With her quiet dismissal, the pair withdrew. Raggedy as her chaos still was, the Rectoress did not miss the raising of wards around her quarters nor the lingering presence of the mens' chaos where they remained vigil guards over her grief outside the door.

Chest rising as she drew a shuddery breath, Tissaia reached a hand forward and with a tremulous gesture lit the dark candle's wick. Eyes falling shut, the first treacherous tear slipped down Tissaia's pale cheek as her heart cracked, grief spilling through her in a relentless deluge that drowned the breath in her lungs.