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The blazing heat reflects Triss’ hair, and the gentle warmth dances on her skin; she can almost feel the heat brushing against her, just like the soft voice blowing towards her and the rest of the audience. The beginning of the song is clear, and the chatter of the other watchers hush significantly, enjoying the sweet melody.
Triss doesn’t make a habit of going out for her own enjoyment, not when Novigrad is as dangerous for sorceresses as it is right now, but Priscilla said she was to be performing here tonight, and who’s Triss to pass up an opportunity to hear her friend, The Callonetta, perform in a lovely tavern.
And maybe the sorceress wants to hear that song again, although she doesn’t want to admit to herself why. Not yet anyway.
So here she is, the space slightly cramped from the number of people here (she’s proud of Priscilla, her songs are truly wonderful and anyone with ears knows it), swaying slightly with the beat of the music, the light pluck of strings rolling in her head.
The chorus draws near, and as it does the coil of nervousness draws tighter in Triss’ stomach. It always does this near the chorus, a fluttering sense of shyness, and a sweep of embarrassment that a song about Geralt and Yennefer can have any type of effect on her. She can’t help but think that maybe she should be feeling something negative, that there should be anger bubbling under her skin instead of fondness, that her cheeks should be wet with tears contrary to their current pink flush.
As Priscilla sings the lyrics that Triss has engraved in her mind by now, Triss hums along and looks down at where her hands are locked together on her lap, letting the soft words drift into her ears. They’re saccharine whisps of poison, enticing her and drawing her in, but fracturing her mind and splitting it apart whenever she so much as thinks about the meaning of melody. About why the words have such a strange effect on her. About Yennefer and Geralt.
Priscilla continues to sing, pouring so much emotion into her silky voice that it’s no wonder there are tears forming in the eyes of some audience members. Her eyes are closed, lost in the movement of her hands and flow of her voice, but when they open the sage green almost immediately find Triss. As if Priscilla can sense the inner turmoil of the mage, her eyes stay locked on the other. Until the verse ends, anyway, then the viridis eyes roam other members of the audience.
The song comes to an end, as Triss will later say to The Callonetta herself later, all too soon. The other listeners seem to share Triss’ sentiment if the noise after the last note is anything to go by. Not as melodic as the previous sound, and slightly overwhelming, but that’s overshadowed by Triss’ urge to join in on the appreciation towards Priscilla.
But she can’t, it’ll have to wait until afterwards, she can’t risk making too much noise in public, on the off chance that there’s a spy here, or anyone else that could recognise her and turn her in. She can’t let that happen now that there are people - vulnerable people - that are relying on her to get them to safety. If something goes wrong and Triss ends bound with dimeritium and surrounded by impenetrable bars, there’s no one in a position to help her out.
The only escape she’ll get from that is death.
There was once a time when she’d maybe hold out hope for Yennefer to help her, to storm in wearing one of her expensive back outfits, lilac eyes ablaze. Or maybe even Geralt trotting in, hair long and slightly tangled from the fight he’s just won.
But she’s messed all that up now, Yennefer probably won’t willingly look in her direction unless it’s to place a nasty spell upon her, and Geralt is going to run back to Yennefer and they’ll both forget about her. No need to remember Triss Merigold of Maribor, Fourteenth of the Hill, when they have each other.
If Triss can’t have either of them, they should have each other.
Not that she’d tell her reasoning to anyone if they asked why she is in support of the pairing. She’s barely even admitted it to herself until now, sitting in a crowded tavern, eyes glazed over as Priscilla walks off stage. She’ll talk to her friend later, she needs to get out of here first, it’s a little too cramped for her comfort. Certainly not the place for a sorceress, especially not one as wanted as the redhead herself.
She works her way through the crowd and steps outside, taking in a breath of the air straight away, and regretting it almost as quickly. The tavern was stuffy and reeked of booze, but at least it didn’t smell of the Novigrad air in there. One day maybe the city wont stink of sewage and other such rotten things, but one can only hope.
Her apartment isn’t much, but she should be thankful that someone’s giving her a place to stay. It’s cosy enough, and it’s somewhere to stay so that’s all that really matters. She arrives there quick enough, keeping up a quick pace through the “free city” (most definitely in need of a name upgrade, maybe it used to be free, but Triss can certainly attest to the fact that there’s no free part about the city anymore) with her hood up and hair tucked away. There were only one or two witch hunters that she passed, luck seemingly on her side.
Something she thinks about all too much is how a certain other two people would feel about her life now, where she’s staying, her plans for escaping, how dangerous her situation is. Maybe she even wants to know how they would feel about her. It’s stupid, she knows, it’ll only be negative thoughts, and it’s not good to surround yourself with such deprecating words – not that it would make a difference at all, what’s a little more, she’s already got the eternal fire and everyone else in Novigrad on her back.
How did she ever even get into this position? It’s what she’d spent nights in her draft-filled little apartment wondering, what exactly lead her to this point? Or, better yet, what would she change if she had the opportunity to go back and redo anything? Not that it’s something she’d genuinely consider, but the thought can’t really be helped. It’s not as if thoughts ask for permission, if they did then Triss probably wouldn’t find herself plagued with a head full of purple and black, and yellow and silver, and the respective faces.
Now, laying on an uncomfortable bed that may as well be the ground, she needs to sleep. Extremely bad. But, because Triss doesn’t seem to have much luck anymore, rest doesn’t want to come easily to her. Instead, images of a certain couple lingered behind her eyes every time they dared close. If she were to fall asleep tonight, she knows that her head will be full of thoughts about the pair, like it always does after Priscilla sings her song. The Wolven Storm, the Callonetta calls it. It’s a beautiful name for a beautiful song, Triss knows, but it always brings her back to one moment of the song, where the wistful voice carries and hits her:
“The wolf I will follow into the storm,
To find your heart, it’s passion displaced”
That part seems to continuously hit her hard, knowing that she was once one of the places that Geralt’s passion was “displaced.” There’s no denying it, and maybe Priscilla didn’t mean it as harsh as Triss takes it, but inadvertently the song is just there to remind her that she never had a chance with Geralt. Nor with Yennefer, but that’s always been obvious.
The pair have a perfect romance, one framed perfectly by the song. Rocky, yes, and sometimes disastrous, but in the end it’s always been the two of them, hasn’t it? They belong as one, weaved together, like an intricate and beautiful silk, by Destiny herself. Fate pulled them close, Triss would rather not get in the way of what seemingly must happen.
If complete honesty with herself was what Triss wanted at the moment, she probably would admit to herself that she doesn’t particularly care about getting in the way of Destiny. But that’s a dangerous sentiment, wanting to overthrow fate and change the will of the world. It’s unnatural. Just like the love she feels for the sorceress and the witcher.
That thought doesn’t get much farther before the door to her apartment bursts open with a gust, and no one on the other side.
A cloak billows behind her as she flies into action, the plan already having been prepared since the situation in Novigrad got dangerous. She’s almost out of the apartment when steps reach her ears, and she prepares herself to fight the intruder. The steps are too heavy to be anyone she knows here in Novigrad, they sound armoured, it’s a witch hunter or a guard here for her, probably with manacles already in their hands.
A fire blast is aimed towards the encroaching person, and the yelp sounds more familiar than Triss expected, as is what looks like heliotrop having been cast. The fire clears and any suspicions that Triss had are solved immediately. Silver hair, yellow eyes, wrists crossed from casting the sign, a frowning face. Geralt.
The air is still, neither make a move to speak, they both stand still. More steps cut through the quiet, sharper than Geralt’s swords could ever, but this time it doesn’t send Triss into a flurry. Geralt continues to stand still, which further proves that Triss is safe. Maybe, depending on if Yennefer is going to attack her or not, but it’s definitely the clacking of her shoes.
Raven hair and violet eyes appear and Triss feels her heart beat a little faster, faced with both people she’s been thinking about for the past hour.
No dimeritium, no prison, just the two people she secretly loves. The two people that she can never be with, however much she wants to.
They all sit down, only a few words exchanged, an apology for bursting in and scaring her, one in return about trying to light Geralt on fire. Yennefer’s nose is screwed up the entire time, until Geralt brings up why they’re there, asking for help. The raven’s face softens the second the name “Ciri” is mentioned, and frowns as the words “missing” and “hunted” are used almost immediately after.
Triss watches with a sinking feeling as a hand places itself on top of Yennefer’s in a gesture of comfort, large hands covered in scars and callouses from holding a sword over dainty and well-manicured hands. She wishes, deep down, that it was her hand there. She wouldn’t even mind seeing the discoloured red of them if they were near Yennefer’s, as much as she usually avoids pondering on her scars, she can’t help but think that maybe it would help Yennefer see how much Triss cares about her. She was there fighting on Sodden hill with her, and it left it’s mark on them both. But they’re still there beside each other, no matter how rocky the years have been. But it’s Geralt’s hands there, not hers.
Triss has always cared about Ciri, ever since they first met, the little rascal full of life and energy. Triss can’t wait to see the young woman that Cirilla has grown into, and she wants to see Yennefer and Geralt happy. They won’t be happy until Ciri is with them and Triss is probably far away.
She agrees to help them look for the princess, even if being near the two of them, knowing that she can never be with them, makes Triss want to drink a magical potion.