Chapter Text
Yennefer had never celebrated Midinváerne.
She knew about the celebrations, of course. Had spent countless drab nights locked in the pigpen, watching the warm lights in the house’s windows enviously as she tried to ignore the chill in her bones and gnawing hunger in her belly.
If ever she was allowed to be part of a Midinváerne celebration? Yennefer had no memory of it.
It didn’t bother her. Not really – after so many years, she’d long resigned herself to the knowledge it was yet another privilege beyond her reach. It was hard to miss what she had never had anyway.
Unease twisted Yennefer’s gut, a curling grip of unnameable hollowness, whenever she thought about it. Though she knew objectively about the Midinváerne celebrations, the details were… vague. There had hardly been a cue of people waiting to explain the tidings to her.
From what she’d gleaned over surreptitiously overheard exchanges and drifting sounds from the house, Yennefer knew singing was common. Dancing too, almost always accompanied it. Feasting and spending time with family – if the tittering of some of the village girls was to be believed, apparently apple peels were thrown?
Yennefer never had discovered the purpose of that particular practice.
Things were different among the mages.
Ensconced in the stronghold of Aretuza’s thick, cool walls, Yennefer had learned much in the last weeks about the history of Midinváerne among the sorceresses. Practices across the Continent’s many kingdoms and what they ought to know should they find themselves stationed in a court there. Traditions came from the elves, and those humans had polluted in over the centuries.
Yennefer suspected she might enjoy it more if it involved less divination. As with seemingly every other task, she was quite shit at the foretelling of any future to come. That it was a more obscure art most mages had limited ability with would be more comforting if she could succeed at literally anything else. Perhaps its only redeeming feature was finally finding something Sabrina wasn’t perfect at - the blonde entirely too fastidious for the art.
Still, there was no denying the effect the coming celebrations had on Aretuza’s usually drab halls. Though the Rectoress’s iron rule was as unyielding as ever, there was a different kind of magic in the air. A thick sort of energy, it filled up the space with a flavour Yennefer could not name.
The drafty corridors adorned with sprigs of spruce and pine, their bundles tied with thick velvet ribbons, dyed in rich blues. Each of Aretuza’s main hearths was kept aglow with brightly burning logs, although Yennefer had come to learn there was a reserve of the best logs saved to be ceremonially burned on the actual day.
There were even rumours that, come Midinváerne, the venerable Lady Laux-Antille was known to attempt pinning a wreath of mistletoe to the Rectoress’s door. From her place tucked around the corner, Yennefer’s jaw had dropped open in shock at the notion as Lark and Sabrina had shrieked in disbelief at Fringilla’s mischievous words. The raven-haired girl didn’t believe it – surely, no one would dare?
Nevertheless, with the coming celebrations, there was no denying the general sense of frivolity whispering in the wind. Though the Rectoress herself seemed immovable as ever, many of their other instructors seemed to be in unusually high spirits. Moreover, Yennefer had noticed a few of her classmates softly humming tunes they all seemed to know. Ballads of the coming festivals, she supposed, the words unfamiliar to her ears. Their giddiness had only grown greater still when, earlier in the week, the Rectoress had informed them that there was an outing to Gors Velen in the coming days.
Bewildered, Yennefer had watched as her often skittish peers seemed to nearly forget the Rectoress’s imposing presence as they giggled. The purpose of the trip was simple. Those girls with the coin would be allowed to make any purchases they wished or to collect supplies they might need to create something, and the resulting gifts would be sent to the families they left behind. Likewise, should any of their families send good tidings to them, the girls were assured that they would receive them.
In the end? The whole affair filled Yennefer’s anxious heart with trepidation.
Despite her unease, Yennefer couldn’t help the quiet wonder that crept through her.
In the quiet hours after classes had ended and she was left to slink through the empty corridors as the pain in her back heralded another sleepless night, Yennefer drifted. Her violet gaze aglow from the low torchlight as she greedily drank in the artfully placed decorations. Recently an arrangement of holly sprigs, twined with a flourish of ivy leaves had made its way above the entrance to the bridge to Tor Lara – it had become a favourite of Yennefer’s from the moment she saw it.
The vivid red of the small berries reminded her of the shocking crimson of the Rectoress’s gown when, stunned, she’d glimpsed the woman departing months before for a Velen ball. The rosy shade of the berries had rapidly become her favourite colour. Under the faint, emerald glow of the tiny balls of light charmed about the doorframe? Yennefer silently counted each one.
As the dark night air wafted in, Yennefer’s violet gaze fluttered, and she listened to the faint chime of bells across the vast stretch – Tor Lara’s own entrance having been embellished with a pair beneath plentiful boughs of spruce.
Crooked lips trembled as the raven-haired girl breathed it all in. She didn’t know how to be part of this. Every new decoration and whisper of song and merriment filled her with the gut-twisting awareness she did not belong. Had no idea what to say or where to stand or any of the courtesies that ought to be paid.
That did not mean she did not want to.
As her eyes fluttered open, Yennefer’s violet gaze again traced the arc of holly and ivy, a gusty sigh escaping her. It was a silly thing – a ludicrous desire, really. Yet, listening as the others giggled and whispered excitedly over the gifts that they would send their families and of those received in years passed had led Yennefer to a dilemma.
There was someone she wanted to give a gift to.
It was a terrible idea. Absolutely mad.
More than likely, an offering from Yennefer of all people would be rejected outright if not scornfully mocked. Yennefer didn’t even know why she wanted to – the woman had hardly been kind to her. She called her piglet, for Melitele’s sake!
And yet.
The blunted edge of Yennefer’s teeth gnawed unconsciously at the crooked edge of her lip. The Rectoress was not kind. She was cold and relentless and cutting with her words in a way that Yennefer hadn’t known another could be. Each day Yennefer’s heart quaked, anxious for what new cruelty would meet her. The Rectoress was critical, severe, disdainful, forbidding and—
Safe. The Rectoress – Tissaia, Yennefer dared think only for the dark ocean around her ensuring her solitude – whatever else she may be, was safe. She was not kind, nor gentle or pleasant in their interactions, but even at her worst, Yennefer – slowly, cautiously, wearily – had come to realize the brunette would not harm her.
That was a rarity in Yennefer’s short life.
In all likelihood, the Rectoress had saved Yennefer’s wretched life for no more than some esoteric reason of pragmatism and duty. Yet, save her, she had.
Yennefer wouldn’t thank her for it. Still, it was more than any other would have done for her.
The brunette’s cold words still skittered through her head: Do you know how many people wouldn’t blink, if you died?.
Yennefer did. And perhaps the Rectoress had not blinked, but she had healed her. Where most would far less than blink, perhaps even cheer for her demise, the Rectoress had audaciously denied her the reprieve. Dared to assert that Yennefer’s life could be worth more.
Perhaps that was why, when she listened to Anica’s fanciful whispers of a warm home full of cheer and giving gifts to those most treasured in their hearts, it was the Rectoress’s forbiddingly lovely face that formed in Yennefer’s mind.
It left the raven-haired girl with a dilemma. Yennefer knew nothing of gifts – neither giving nor receiving. Least of all what one would give to Tissaia de Vries of all people.
Worse, Yennefer could hardly make use of the trip to Gors Velen to purchase anything – not without a single coin to her name. A doomed task from the very start.
And yet, foolish as it was, Yennefer wanted it. Wanted to give the wretched ice woman something.
Leaning against the cool stone that framed the door to relieve the strain on her twisted spine, Yennefer’s amethyst eyes stared blankly into the darkness, and she listened again to Tor Lara’s chiming bells. A shaky exhale escaped her crooked lips as her head tipped against the archway.
She was not skilled enough to enchant anything as a gift. Never mind that the idea of the Rectoress of Aretuza wanting anything made with the level of skill at magic a novice - especially Yennefer’s - had was laughable. Nor was she skilled in human methods of creating – had never been taught more than she needed to know to exist within that cursed pigpen.
Despair trickled into Yennefer’s heart just thinking about it. Pathetic little crooked girl with nothing to give.
A shimmering pulse from one of the floating orbs of emerald light drew her gaze. Yennefer grimaced. Well. There was one thing she knew how to do – crude though it was.
Her crooked mouth twisted, uncertain. There were no pigs at Aretuza – no lard to be found. Yennefer ran her tongue across the gap between her teeth, dark brows furrowing. As her violet eyes turned thoughtfully to the rocky shore around her, she tipped her head upright and hummed softly.
There were, however, several types of seabirds.
~~~
When Tissaia awoke the morning of Midinváerne, she immediately knew that something was outside the door of her quarters. Her wards told her that it wasn’t alive. However, that did not mean it wasn’t hostile. Sighing, Tissaia rose from her bed, reaching for the familiar, soft fabric of her duck-egg blue robe.
Carefully straightening the cuffs and smoothing any wrinkles, the brunette spared the time to grab a long clip from her vanity. Lithe fingers deftly flew through the familiar motions to arrange the forested waves of her hair into a loose chignon. Satisfied, she allowed a small smile to tug at the edges of her lips.
In all likelihood, it was whatever asinine jest Rita had decided on for the year – Tissaia spared a hope her vivacious friend had forgone anything unseemly if she chose to leave it outside. The last thing the brunette needed was some well-intending novice coming upon a Midinváerne log adorned with a phallus or something equally appalling.
Although, Tissaia ruefully acknowledged as she crossed her chambers, Rita was far from her only friend who might decide to spread their own special brand of cheer. Melitele only knew where Coral had found an entire collection of vulvic conch shells a half-century past, and the less said about Philippa’s idea of humour, the better.
Still, ever cautious, Tissaia raised a shield lest what awaited her be some rigged projectile or of far more hostile intentions than a well-meaning jest. Her cerulean gaze steady, the brunette opened the door with a deft flow of chaos.
Shield lowering, verdant flecks coloured the depths of her gaze as her eyes widened. The small off-white lump of congealed fat that now sat at her door was familiar.
For several evenings earlier in the week, the Rectoress had watched in curiosity and bemusement as her piglet had captured and killed three seabirds. Her brows had crept higher when the girl calmly set about the bloody task of skinning and dissecting the things. Intrigued and confident the raven-haired girl had neither the skill or knowledge – nor the predilection, if Tissaia were truthful – to perform any sacrificial magics, the brunette hadn’t intervened.
Still, it was not normal behaviour of the girl, nor was it becoming of a student of Aretuza. So, beneath the shadows of the small cavern the girl had chosen to work in, Tissaia drank in the curious sight.
She’d been faintly astounded when she’d realized on the third night, after her piglet had painstakingly built and coaxed a small fire to life and carefully rendered down the fat she’d removed from the corpses, that the girl was making a candle.
It was the same candle that now sat before her. A crooked navy-blue ribbon tied about its stocky circumference holding a sprig each of pine and spruce to its surface, angled into a V. A snipping of holly tucked between them and a thin wick poking out the uneven top.
A gift.
Tissaia blinked, momentarily stunned.
She knew, of course, that the students often assumed that their Rectoress received a plethora of gifts for Midinváerne. In a manner of speaking, they were correct. Many kingdoms and their nobles as well as her former students sent all manner of extravagant, expensive gifts in the hopes of currying favour.
Old as she was, the brunette had little use for most of the offerings. The overwhelming majority, Tissaia dispensed herself of, leaving them to various sources. Either passing onto those with far better use for such objects or discretely selling them and adding the coin to Aretuza’s coffers.
It made the whole affair quite exhausting to deal with. Much the same as the endless pandering she would have to entertain at the feasts to come later in the day. Fools that they were to think that she could be so influenced by pretty trinkets and syrupy words after so long.
This, however, was quite different.
Much like its creator, the candle was not particularly pretty. It was a stumpy thing. Lumpier than the desirable smooth cylinder, with a colour more cornsilk than white. On inspection, the wick sticking out of the top appeared to be made from intertwined bits of string sawed off from the supplies in the greenhouse. The greenery itself, Tissaia would be unsurprised to find pilfered from some of Aretuza’s many decorations.
From a formal standpoint, it was borderline insulting to leave such a thing for someone of Tissaia’s standing. The brunette was more than aware that a great many of her fellow Brotherhood members would perceive such a gift that way.
She did not.
It was a far more personal effort to create a gift than to have gone looking for baubles. One that touched Tissaia deeply. She knew her piglet to her core. And this? This was a sizeable gesture.
No one had ever shown the girl kindness. Certainly nothing on the scale of the care taken making this mishappen candle. The poorly creature Tissaia had found in the shit and muck knew nothing of Midinváerne or gifts. The brunette’s chaos crackled merrily along her arms as she took in the offered devotion.
This candle, crude though it was, had been made for her. The materials hunted and forged into their current state by hours of tedious labour from her most troublesome charge. Tangible proof of devotion and care for Tissaia.
Beneath the warmth that suffused her, the brunette withheld a grimace at the sharp lance of regret. It was far more than she deserved, given her treatment of the girl.
Necessary though it was to forge her into the mage she might one day be, it made something in Tissaia’s chest ache to know this was the result. How cruel life had been to her girl, for this to be the result.
Wordlessly, the Rectoress strode the short steps to her door and elegantly bent to lift the offering from the ground. Closing the door behind her with an absent wave, Tissaia carefully brought it to her desk, setting it atop a small ceramic plate.
Hands resting lightly atop the desk, Tissaia – in an uncharacteristic move – allowed her head to droop slightly forward. Her cerulean gaze momentarily closed as the brunette breathed through the sting of sorrow. A weariness filled her as she opened them to look again at the guileless gift. By rights, a gift of this measure warranted an offering in return – improper though it may be.
Worse, the Rectoress knew what her girl longed for most. Simple thing that it was. Her name.
Her piglet had not yet realized how precious she was to the Rectoress. The possessive honour Tissaia had bestowed upon her with that pet name. The raven-haired girl did not know what a rarity it was for Tissaia to offer a pet name. Even one dressed up as an insult.
No, what the young mage desired was for Tissaia to speak the name her wretched excuse for parents had given her. To be addressed as Yennefer. Something approaching acknowledgement as a potential equal one day.
Eyes shutting, Tissaia’s lips thinned against the sharp pang of regret, the merry crackle of her chaos dulling.
She could not give it to her.
Not yet.
Not when the girl, proud and powerful as she was, hadn’t yet shown the Rectoress that she truly meant to succeed. That she had what it took to succeed as a mage. One day Tissaia would give the girl her name - she spared a prayer that it would not be before turning her into an eel - but it cannot be today.
The brunette’s lips twisted downward at the ends. Truthfully, she could not give a gift in return at all. Even if it was assuredly warranted. Not a physical one, at any rate.
She was Tissaia de Vries, Archmistress of Magic. The Rectoress of Aretuza. It would be entirely inappropriate to give a gift to a novice, Midinváerne or not.
To speak nothing of the danger it would put the girl in to be so obviously important to Tissaia. The piglet moniker was risky enough as it was. Only its seemingly derogatory nature prevented any from assuming the Rectoress to be anything but as calculating and neutral of the girl’s fate as she was of all others.
Inhaling a slow breath, Tissaia’s cerulean gaze drifted again to the candle on her desk. It was far less than deserved, but there was one thing she could give her piglet.
It would have to be enough.
When she called the girl to her office the following day under the pretext of assessing an assignment? Tissaia had the candle sitting very obviously on her desk. She carefully smothered a smile at the undisguised awe that flitted across the girl’s face. The amethyst surface of her vibrant gaze alight with cautious joy.
It wasn’t perfect, but Tissaia knew the girl before her to her core. Her piglet had been waiting her entire life for acceptance. Though she couldn’t offer it aloud, Tissaia could give the girl that.
If wide, violet eyes fixated on the object, on the tiny flame atop it where the Rectoress had lit the damn thing? Tissaia made no mention of it.
She could not give her girl the acknowledgement she so craved, but this? This she could give. A subtle sign of gratitude for the gift. It would have to be enough.
Long after the girl departed, her pipe lit and held aloft in her hand, Tissaia’s sharp gaze drifted again to the candle. Its wick still merrily crackling though the wax – subtly spelled for preservation – remained unmelted. One day.
One day she would be able to offer the thanks truly deserved.