Furiously walking off and down the dark, emptied hallways, needing to put as much distance between her and everything that had just transpired, Yennefer tore open the door to the chambers that she had come to call hers over the years, then furiously banged it shut behind her. Frantic, erratic breaths were parting her lips as she pressed her back to the door, eyes falling shut as she desperately tried to regain her self-composure. It was difficult to process the sheer magnitude of everything this night had granted upon her— seeing him again, safe and alive, the heat of her fury, her anger, her hopeless, desolate longing; the kiss. She gasped, eyes flying open. Truthfully, she was only just coming down from running on naught more but pure adrenaline and shock. Everything began to hit her at once, and the tightness in her chest felt like the weight of it all was pressing down upon her, choking the very breath from her lungs.
Screaming in anger, a breathless, furious sound, she palmed at her head as she pushed herself off the door, pacing up and down the length of the room. Waves of desperate, frantic energy were spilling off of her very core, choking the air around her, suffocating, as reality violently sank in. Screaming furiously, the sorceress felt herself, half in a daze, tremble, felt her hands ache, and with an abrupt pang of anger swelling in her chest, she swept everything set upon her vanity off it and onto the floor in a frenzy, a bottle of her perfume breaking into a million pieces at her feet. The mirror of her vanity cracked in half with a thunderous snap from the force of her emotions that thrummed in the air all around her, snapping her out of the fog of her fury.
Her mind was afire, a blur of nonsensical, frenzied thoughts, of fear and regret; of the feral, wild desire that burned in her veins, rendering her completely powerless.
Bracing her hands against the table set before her now broken mirror, she took deep, slow breaths, trying to muster her self-control. She refused to yield to her emotions as though she was naught more than some weakling, prey to her every whim and feeling. She had nothing to answer for; her explosive anger, her cold, dark fury, her furious want for him; it was all hers and hers alone to command to her liking. She had nothing to regret, not one thing to apologize for — lest of all, to someone as insignificant to her as Lambert. He knew nothing of what this meant to her: to see Eskel again, after such long a time without a word... To know he is alive; safe. To know that the child, too, is safely hidden away where the Association could not touch her... It meant more to her that anyone could ever understand. No. She could not regret a thing.
Exhaling sharply, she moved to the window, feeling her hands nervously tremble as she reached for the obsidian star hung about her slim throat, breathing a little less frantically now as she slowly strained to recover herself. She would not leave this room tonight; she couldn't. The very thought of seeing Lambert and the pathetic little witch ever hanging off his arm like some trophy, gawking at her and Eskel, as though they were a spectacle for their entertainment and vile gossip that was sure to follow, made her stomach turn and twist. She loathed the very idea of it.
It was a flood of emotions then as the hour grew later and later, and she was left in the desolate darkness, furiously blazing and battling herself, sat wide awake in her bed, flickering on and off, on and off, like a fire that never quite went out despite of the harsh winds blowing all around it. Now, she took to pacing, as though trapped in the confines of her own desire, her own feelings that she could never wholly escape, then to lying upon the furs draped over her bed, breathlessly staring at the ceiling, every last ounce of her body ignited and heatedly awake. She half expected him to come to her, but in a feverish moment of something achingly intense she could not quite put a name to, she locked her door, fearing what would happen if he came anywhere near her at her present state. She tossed and turned in her bed, burned and burned and burned with wordless longing; she was a flame, flickering: she flared up, was consumed, left her ashes behind her and when the morning came, she knew not how she had survived it, but she had. There was nothing more pathetic than a sorceress succumbing to frail, volatile emotion, she kept reminding herself, over and over again all through the night.
Yennefer took her time leaving her quarters; by the time she had emerged, swathed in her sable, black cloak and with her sharp lips excessively, perfectly accentuated with dark red lipstick so that she might mask the weariness tugging at her edges, the sun was already flaming low upon the sky.
She flowed into the common area with an air of sharp, cold detachment wreathed about her shapely shoulders like a shawl, her cold, dispassionate eyes draping their violet gaze over the room as she came to sit somewhere near Eskel. Lambert and his little witch, too, were there, of course, and she could not help to note the meaningful look that swiftly stole over his face as she strolled over with all the aloofness and powerful poise of a sorceress sure of herself. Yennefer wanted to scoff, but she did not, paying little mind to either of them. She readily returned his mocking stares, deep-red lips curling into a sneer of pure contempt as their gazes met over the table.
She came to take her place near where her witcher sat, a perfectly pleasant, if a tad cold, smile splaying over her lips as though last night's kiss was some distant, far off memory. As though her heart was not already racing inside of her breast. She defiantly ignored it, tossing masses of rippling, shining curls off her shoulders. ❝ good morning.❞ Yennefer offered curtly, despite the lateness of the hour, and reached over to help herself to whatever was in Eskel's cups, ignoring Keira's curious glances towards her, that little smile that flickered over her hideous lips— heavens, I shall stab her with this fork! the sorceress thought furiously, sudden anger flaring inside of her, but she did not show it. Remaining perfectly composed, she rationed her violet gaze towards Eskel instead, her pulse skipping a beat in spite of herself as their gazes met. ❝ it is terribly cold in here...❞ she remarked, despite the obvious flush staining the high apples of her cheeks. ❝ and you ought to have woken me.❞ Yennefer scolded, violet eyes shimmering in the late morning light filtering dustily through the slats of the closed windows— never mind that her door had remained locked and barred; never mind that she had not asked it of him, either. ( Never mind that she had awoken, flushed and restless, hours before finally abandoning her rooms.)
