for the touch prompts: with a promise! 😊
The fireplace roars before them, warming Yennefer’s face as much as the bottle of Everluce they split. The flickering firelight dances across Triss’s skin and brings out all its gorgeous golden tones. Her chestnut hair falls in soft, tousled curls that seem to bounce on her shoulders every time she dissolves into giggles.
Triss dissolves into giggles frequently with Yennefer. Always has. But Triss is vibrant and warm and full of life, Yennefer’s opposite in every way; no, making Triss giggle has never been a challenge.
That Triss somehow pulls unexpected, faltering chuckles from Yennefer is far more disconcerting. Somehow Triss can melt the ice queen’s heart, reduce her to a school girl, nervous and desperate to please.
The little house in Vengerberg has never felt so warm.
The air between them is pregnant, heavy with potential. It always is, somehow, but tonight’s amplified, tonight Triss’s fingers are lost in Yennefer’s silky black tresses as she bites her lower lip, a silent question in those honey-brown eyes.
And Yennefer wants her, has always wanted her, in truth, but her relationship with Triss is the only pure, uncomplicated friendship she has, the only person in her life who seems to stick around even after they’ve gotten to know her, even after they’re done using her for her power.
Yennefer traces Triss’s jaw, the perfect little indentation of her chin with her thumb. “Promise this won’t ruin us?” Her voice is barely more than a whisper. She hates the uncharacteristic vulnerability in her voice but can’t seem to tamp it down.
Triss fixes her with a soft, brilliant smile. “I promise,” she swears sweetly, and then she kisses her.
They lie side by side in the grass, staring at the stars and knowing that neither will sleep.
Not far away, the gathered forces of Sodden Hill, such as they are, drink and pray and carouse and prepare for battle.
The Temerians have not come, and Nilfgaard draws ever closer.
Triss shivers beside her, and instinctively Yennefer covers her, covers them both in her cloak. But it’s not the cold.
She curls into Yennefer, throwing an arm about her waist and pulling her close. “Promise me.” She lets out a choked little noise as she clings, her tears warm when they hit the skin of Yennefer’s neck but quickly cooled by the night’s wind. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid and sacrificial.”
Yennefer kisses the top of her head. Triss’s prodigious magical control of plant life makes such sense; beneath her tender, attentive care, watered by her tears, Yennefer thinks she could flourish, too. “Only if you promise the same.”
It’s a promise neither can keep, so they hold each other in silence.
It’s been an afternoon of fighting.
About everything, about nothing.
About the way the dishes are arranged in the cabinets. About whether they’ll need a shawl on this cool autumn day. About the candle left burning on the nightstand every night and how it’s going to burn the house down one day. About the properties of a particular spell. About whether they should walk or teleport to the market. About...
“I wish you would damn well tell me what it is you’re so pissed about or go bother someone else!” Yennefer barks.
Triss looks as though she’s been struck.
Yennefer turns away for a moment, pinching the bridge of her nose. She hears Triss moving slowly, the quiet drag of a chair against the wooden floor. “I shouldn’t have—”
“I don’t want to lose you.”
Triss is sitting at the kitchen table, staring at her hands folded primly in front of her. “You have a family now. When it was just Geralt and the wish and all that, that was one thing, but now you have Ciri, too.” Triss sighs, burying her head in her hands with a moan of frustration. “I don’t begrudge you that, truly I don’t. I adore them both, and...she’s Geralt’s fate, his Child of Surprise, but she’s something more than that to you, Yennefer. She’s the child you chose.”
“Let me finish,” she says softly, taking Yennefer’s hand. “I’m overjoyed that you get to experience this! Gods know family isn’t an option for most of us. I just don’t know that there’s a place for me in it.”
There’s loneliness written in the furrows of Triss’s brow, the downcast eyes.
Yennefer climbs into her lap, straddling her and taking her face in both hands. “Nothing ties me here but my choice,” she says. “You’re right. Geralt and I are linked by fate, now I have Ciri to consider. But I want everything, Triss. And I choose you.” She kisses her fiercely before burying her face in Triss’s lavender-scented hair, pulling her into a long, tight hug. “You won’t be rid of me that easily,” she murmurs into her neck. “Where there’s a place for me, there’s a place for you.”
She feels the long breath Triss releases, the way her arms tighten around Yennefer’s waist. “Promise?” she asks softly.
Yennefer pulls back and tilts Triss’s face up gently, locking eyes. “Promise.”
“It’s bad luck to see the bride on her wedding day,” Triss scolds, but there’s no heat to it. She faces away from the door, pointedly refusing to make eye contact in the mirror as she brushes a warm sunset red on her lips.
“Peasant superstition. I’ve seen you plenty of times.”
Triss rolls her eyes at that, but she’s smiling. “You’re incorrigible,” she says, but her dimple belies the chastisement. “Getting cold feet?”
Yennefer hesitates. “Not about you.”
Triss turns to look at her. Those kind eyes miss nothing. “But about the wedding?” she prompts gently.
Yennefer shrugs. “It all seems a bit superficial, doesn’t it? The pomp? The flowers? Gods, Triss, the flowers are out of control, have you seen what Jaskier’s done?”
“I like the flowers.” Triss stands, taking both Yennefer’s hands in hers. “What’s wrong, love?”
She’s beautiful. The flowing yellow gown, the glow of her tawny skin, the sparkle in her eyes, the crown of white and yellow and orange flowers in her hair: Triss Merigold is the most beautiful bride, and Yennefer forgets how to speak.
Triss just laughs, kissing her softly. “You’re afraid that once we’re married, things will be somehow different. That we’ll immediately know we’ve made a huge mistake, that we’ll stop making love and realize we hate each other as soon as we’re bound.”
“Not immediately,” Yennefer admits quietly. “Slowly.”
Triss brushes a loose strand of dark hair from her lover’s face. “I’ve no intention of tying you down, love,” she murmurs. “If things change, we’ll adapt, just as we always have. We’ll tell everyone to go home if you want, but the purpose of the wedding isn’t to lock you into something you can’t escape. All I want is to stand before our friends and our family and let them know how completely I adore you.” Triss rests her forehead against Yennefer’s. “I can’t promise that nothing will change, love. We’ve both seen far too much to believe such a thing. But we’re together and we love each other, and I think that’s something worth celebrating.”
Yennefer takes a breath. “This won’t ruin us,” she says softly.
Triss smiles. “I’ve yet to find anything that can.”
