difficult[ in all honesty, yennefer has no idea what to fucking think.
she feels some hope for the future. her magic thrums through her again, feeling warm and bright and right there, but she can't quite enjoy it. no, not with what it almost cost. she ignores it, the way it completes her once more. it runs through her like fire and warms her despite the chill of the tundra. she no longer feels so alone with it now alongside her with her current company.
geralt and ciri leave her on the edge of the bridge without a look back. both of them burn with anger towards her. she deserves it, she knows. wanting to sacrifice a child, for fuck's sake, doesn't exactly endear one to other people. (it hardly endears her to herself.) it's not exactly a choice she thinks she can walk away from without a scar. she has to grow around it, live with it—and yennefer, despite all she's seen and done, isn't quite sure how to properly take a step from that.
she remains out in the cold long after she should've picked herself up and wandered back into the grand ruined hall. it's half out of self-pity—she's sure jaskier might be in the middle of writing some stupid song about the evil witch finally getting her dues—and half out of absolute exhaustion that she picks herself up. yennefer of vengerberg has never let anything get her down, but this… this is different.
when she wanders back in, the room's still a shit pile. everything's ruined. tables remain broken, most of the bodies have been plucked from the ground and taken somewhere more sacred for the witchers to begin preparing for a proper goodbye. the hall doesn't look so grand. it looks pathetic and hollow, much like how she feels.
yennefer's never been one for self-deprecation, but she's a little tired of trying to convince herself all of this is fucking fine.
most of the witchers are gone, thank fuck. she's not interested in making small talk with them. none of them would say what she needs, look at her the way she needs them to. she's merely a stranger—and whatever geralt's told them of—and what she needs right now is the proper derision only one person can give her.
and there he is, sitting out of place. it's comforting to know he's as much of an outsider as she is. he doesn't sit like a witcher, certainly doesn't look like one.
she approaches, uncaring if he hears her boots, and childishly flicks jaskier's ear. ] You had a piece of flesh on you. [ monster or human, she's not quite sure. doesn't really care to elaborate, knowing she may use it in the very near future (in the next few minutes, perhaps) to torture his vanity.
yennefer takes a seat beside him, brushing up against him without much of a care, and drops onto the firm wooden bench. at least this one survived the attack from the monsters. it's strange to her, sometimes, what ends up surviving and what ends up dying. a lot of the strong get fucked over by luck.
although she wants to sit up straight, she rests her elbows on the table before her and her head in her hands. jaskier's already seen her at her worst and believes it. she has nothing left to lose. her hair's a mess, her nails are chipped, and she feels as dirty as she looks.
good thing jaskier doesn't look any better. if he did, she'd really consider throwing herself off the bridge.
in her hands, voice muffled, ] Thank you for doing what I asked.
[ for having faith in a magicless mage's potion. ]