Chapter Text
Standing on top of the fortress hewn from the solid rock of the mountain open to and battered by all winds might not have been the best idea. But from the upper terraces of the mighty citadel she could see the whole archipelago. She looked far to the east - hundreds of leagues beyond Undvik and Hindarsfjall, straining her eyes, but in fact only pretending she could see that far, all the way beyond the massif of the Amell Mountains and into the lush fertile valley of Toussaint. She pretended, because she desperately wanted to see it now, because he was there. And she wanted to see him.
Yennefer’s chest rose and fell slowly with a deep sigh. She missed the Witcher. The gusts of wind and the biting air - and her unblinking staring, and nothing else - brought the prick of tears to her eyes. She wiped them with the back of her hand, careful to keep her perfect makeup intact, and pulled her black curls thrown about by the northerly wind away from her face - she really should have enchanted them to stay put.
She placed her hands on the rough stone of the wall of the Kaer Trolde fortress, and looked down into the slate-blue sea. She could, in theory, simply pack a few things and take a portal to see him. Even right now. After all, it had been herself who had asked him, before the horror of the final battle against the Wild Hunt, to leave the world behind. To retire, together, to live in peace, away from politics and machinations, from demands and contracts. But an old acquaintance had asked for his help. I don’t think I like that Duchess at all, she mumbled under her breath, her knuckles whitening as she tightened her grip. She sighed. It was stupid: she knew Geralt would remain faithful to her. Or so she believed. Hoped.
She was faithful to him, had been for a long time now. And really, if they were to settle down together, spend every single day in each other’s company - would that not be bliss? - they had to trust each other. And so she chose to trust, as he had accepted the contract from the Duchess of Toussaint, and she herself had agreed to assist the Queen of Skellige. Yennefer smiled faintly: she truly was unable to refuse a young woman, the one she could in moments clearly see as just a girl really, a motherless girl. Someone like her Ciri had been once. Someone she could help. So she took Cerys under her wing, too. Although the Queen, of course, would never admit to their relationship being anything more than that of a sovereign and an adviser. No, wrong - she would definitely call Yennefer her friend, just like she called Geralt, and Ciri, friends.
The thoughts of her dearest people caused a mixture of longing and happiness to squeeze at her heart. Yes, she would stay here, with Cerys, for a while more, until she was less needed, less necessary here. And then she would join her Witcher in the sunny Toussaint. Truth be told, Yennefer preferred the crispy freshness of the air in Skellige, but, whether she realised it herself or not, she would follow Geralt anywhere. Although she might never tell him that. She pulled a parchment out of her tight sleeve - she had resolved to wear slightly more sensible clothes in the local climate after all - and smiled as her eyes followed along the lines of the letter written by his hand. No, she could not simply teleport herself to see him right now - she could not trust herself to return here: to leave the warmth of his body, the sweetest pressure of his weight on her, the smoothness of his skin between the ragged scar tissue, that scent of something wild that accompanied him. She let out a long shaky breath: she was no longer cold.
The sorceress checked her own letter once again, rolled and tied the parchment, and, closing her eyes, breathed out a few words in the Elder Speech, her left hand waving a pattern in the air. She smiled and opened her eyes, looking up to the sky, as a high-pitched chant of a kestrel answered her call. She could see the bird soar high up, and waited patiently for him to slowly hover down, putting a single leather glove on. The kestrel alighted on her forearm, his claws biting into the thick leather of the glove. The bird turned his head to the woman, the large black eye blinking, and ruffled his brown feathers speckled with black spots. She brought the fingers of her right hand up cautiously, and gently stroked the spotted-cream plumage on the bird’s breast. She started fitting the parchment into the small ring on the kestrel’s leg when she heard the heavy oak door leading out onto the terraces slam shut.
“Here ye 're! I Been lookin for ye. You’ve got to help me! Me father’s drivin me insane! I’m his queen, aren’t I? I mean I know, he’s still me da, but I dunna ken how to get rid of him sometimes! Yennefer?” The Sorceress only looked at the Queen after she had made sure her message was not going to fall out in flight. Cerys was draped in her usual ensemble of red and blue, and fiery energy. She noticed the bird Yennefer was still holding on her arm, and a girlishly open smile lit the features of her scarred face which was becoming used to being stern and serious.
“Ooh, he’s beautiful!” The Queen, known to her friends - although no longer referred to as such - as Sparrowhawk, had a love of all things wild and free and brave. “May I?” Yennefer smiled benevolently, allowing the younger woman to gently touch the bird with her ringed fingers. “Is this for Geralt?” she asked quietly, in a nearly apologetic tone.
“Well, this is strictly speaking none of Your Majesty’s business, but yes,” the sorceress shot her a mildly disapproving glance, but allowed a hint of a smile to play on her lips. The Queen sighed and pursed her lips.
“Ye miss him. I’m sorry. Why don’t ye go visit him for a while? Ye surely can be back fast enough through one of yer portals, and ...” Yennefer stopped her with her free hand.
“Cerys, I’ll stay here as long as you need me. We talked about this already. Unless anything changes,” she hesitated, “very seriously, I’ll finish everything we’ve started before I depart.” Cerys only nodded. She really was a good choice for a queen: Yennefer admired her confidence and bravery, albeit she often noted the same kind of infuriating stubbornness the girl shared with Ciri.
“I’ll give you a moment then,” The red-haired woman nodded, and without waiting for the confirmation, turned on her heels and left.
Yennefer watched the door shut dutifully behind her, then brought the kestrel up at her eye level and placed a gentle kiss to the bird’s soft brown head.
“Take care of him for me, will you?” and threw her hand in the air, releasing the kestrel, who made a single circle above her head, chanting, before heading straight east. To her Geralt.