#tamara.

   She never stops looking for her, not for a moment; never stops trying; from realm to realm, she travels, year after year after year-- she, no longer maiden-- only mother-- only, crone-- gathers the warmth of the night in the curve of her palm, stretches her arms toward the sky, over rivers of blood and the dark woods, singing with all her skin and bone and sacred body-- "Please keep her safe," whispers in Elven, "bring her back home to me--". and Luned. Cáemmm aep te modron... , howls it into the sky the night she slips through a portal to the other world-- feeling the frost upon her mouth; upon her shoulder. From Kaerh Mohern to Skellige, through silver plains and mists and woods, she passes, prowling the lands and realms beyond, summoning olden gods and spirits with spells and ancient magics; she slips through the chill, dark passage between the worlds-- seeking that, which she might never get back-- grows desperate with it-- obsessed, her body wrought in agony, in wrath. To the Blue Mountains she travels, and dwells with the hags on the edge of the marshes, so that she might learn from them to look into the sacred rivers, see where she might have vanished -- make your heart true, they tell her-- and light will come upon you, and you shall see-- you will see; but she never does.

       She returns empty handed and dripping rage-- locks herself away into a dark room; she tries to summon creatures from alternate dimensions or worlds across time and space, meaning to bargain with them, bind them blood and bone to her soul and have them leap across the span of time and space to bring her Ciri back--- casts spells upon herself so that she might prowl the lands that keep Cirilla, in her sleep-- she walks from dream to dream and realm to realm, but never finds her, her, more shadow than girl, always just out of her reach; she scalds her fair skin black and silver, her wrists and arms now covered in scars from rites gone wrong and summoning darklings that she has not yet learned to master-- that neither hag nor witch nor sorceress can she alone command.

       Go to Toussaint, Yennefer of Vengerberg. Look for the countess. Tamara., Elna of Rosberg tells her one moonless night besides the fire, not a week after the Belleteyn; Yennefer stares blindly ahead, at the stars rising cold above the hills, listens to the witch she's met not yet two moons ago in the forests, gathering herbs. The world seems narrowed to the tug of the knife in her hand, the faint scraping noise it makes as it slices through the flesh of her palm. For her, she thinks, she'd go to the end of the world and beyond.

Most Likely to Fuck Your Brother.