Chapter Text
When she receives it, it does not spark immediate recognition. The black velvet choker is a filthy length of fabric. Crusted with blood and dirt, it holds a deep-black vitreous pendant. Tiny jewels form a star on its surface, attempting to sparkle through the layer of grime. She thoughtlessly turns it over in her fingers and starts rubbing it face down against her blanket. It is cleaner now, but is still quite stark and does not look that valuable or remarkable, and she has no notion of why the Witchers make such a fuss about it.
All three are in the room with her, with the fire in the hearth crackling indecorously cheerfully. Another round of bear stew is bubbling in a large cauldron - Letho has indeed recovered some of Auckes' traps. The food smells delicious, and she gets angry at the Witchers' audacity to deny her any meat. Just the broth again. Her stomach cannot handle solid foods yet. What would they know about what she can stomach? Well, in fact, more than she herself does at the moment, as it turns out. In a gesture of infantile defiance, and in response to their expecting stares, she shrugs and says,
"Nice trinket."
It is Serrit's turn to stir the stew, and he thinly avoids spitting right into it in frustration with her comment. If he actually did that, she would just have to starve.
Letho's huge veiny arms flop to his sides. He grumbles a profanity.
"Told you," he says to Auckes who still sits with his forearms on his knees, leaning forward as if to gauge her reactions better. It is astonishingly ridiculous how these three strangers look more invested in her recovering her memory than herself does. It is pretence on her side, naturally. She will not allow them to see how terrified she is by not knowing. And they - who knows why they are really doing this. Which makes it all even worse.
The choker is left unwanted over the rags. As she notices the tremor in her hands, she hides the ugly things under the blanket. Someone has trimmed her nails in her delirium, but not very expertly. They look awful, sharp and ragged, seemingly chewed in places - no knife wounds though. She does not know herself, but she does not like looking at the scabbed, cracked skin on her pale hands. They look weak. They are. Their biggest achievement lately has been managing to lift a spoonful of soup to her lips and only spill about half of the contents. They have not let her try to eat by herself again after that.
And just like that, she is back on food. She guesses it is a good sign. Her body is requesting fortification, so it must be recovering. The pains and aches have not departed, but there appear new itches now, from her skin healing or just being unwashed for too long - she does not know. But her mind has not made a single leap yet, or even a trifling conclusion. It is in such a pitiful state, she has had to be told directly she is a sorceress. And the knowing has produced no effect.
She feels nothing, knows nothing. How is she supposed to use magic when she does not even know where to begin? And her only questionable companions are not particularly equipped to aid her in the return of her powers. Power. The word feels absurd. Powerful? Her? All she is now is sore, drained, lost, and both utterly lonely and surrounded, trapped at the same time.
The emptiness in her head is haunted by a constant buzz, as if of a fly over a corpse. But she is alive, she thinks resentfully. She guesses resentment is good, it is … almost an activity, of a kind. She lifts a hand from its confinement to massage at her throbbing temple.
"Look," Auckes says, "I get that it's hard but it'll come back. Give yourself some time." Serrit turns from the cauldron, having banged the big wooden spoon on its edge to satisfy his anger rather than clear the contents off the spoon.
"Time's what we don't have here. Can't stay here too long, can't be stuck playing a fucking field hospital." He looks at his brother as he says it, and only then points a grubby finger at her. "I think you gotta try a little harder."
"No one cares what you think, Serrit," Letho says calmly and it sounds like he's chewing metal. "I won't repeat my offer to fuck off if you aren't happy with the present arrangements."
"Come on, Letho, I don't wanna leave you two. You promised Geralt, I know, but are you sure that promise is actually... fulfillable?"
"How's that stew coming along? I don't like bits stuck to the bottom." He stared at Serrit until the other Witcher returned to stirring. Only then Letho added, "I'm gonna do what it takes to fulfil it. Auckes' right. You can't force some things. You might want to learn some of your brother's finesse there, Serrit. Bashing is not always the most effective method of solving problems. And yes, that's coming from me." To her surprise, Serrit, instead of getting angrier, smirks.
"Yennefer." The name startles her, as it does every time one of them uses it, even though Letho says it nearly gently now - or what passes for it with his grating voice. "So you want to rest or to talk before we eat?"
"Talk?" Her voice is hoarse with both fatigue and disuse. "What about?" Why don't they just leave her alone? Letho shrugs.
"Whatever. You never know what might jolt your memory. Or even turn out to be a passably interesting conversation." The quip somehow feels the most normal thing in the current situation and she decides she does not want to be alone now after all. She attempts a snicker. Her parched lower lip cracks and she moans, pressing her lips together, tasting the blood. She shuts her eyes and fights the rolling pain as the memory rushes over her.
"Bloede daerienn, voe'rle varh'he!"* The voice roars and the creature's huge armoured frame almost blocks the flicker of fires behind him as she looks from below. She's on the ground, on her hands and knees, and she tastes blood in her mouth. She has just unleashed a strike of crackling lightning on this demon, this spectre, whatever he is she knows he is not a man - but he only stumbles rolling away from it, his spiky armour now frosted with ice barely singed as he grips his massive two-handed sword at a white-haired man wearing leather who is dancing around his much larger opponent. She is trying to help the man, she knows she needs to - but that is all she knows. As he takes a slash in his ribs from an overpowering swing, she growls.
She grabs handfuls of soil, breaking her nails digging in, gripping small bones of the bird carcass and rises to her full small height and bellows the words. She does not know them now but she can hear the ring of them in her head as she throws the earth and rocks and bones and they explode as a black raven darts towards the armoured beast. And she ducks. She looks up to see the raven trying to hit the eye hole in the skull-like helmet be impaled by the spikes in its crown. All she has achieved is but a small distraction, but it might… The last thing she feels before it goes dark is a cudgel to her head. Not too strong, not to kill, but she loses consciousness very fast, loses herself so fast. And the white-haired man screams.
She thrashes and still hears the scream, but it scratches at her throat more than her ears now so it has to be her own. She is in pain and she is scared, so scared, not for herself - not just, but she feels powerless, and that makes her fury rise. She screams louder and sits up and scrambles to throw the rags off her, and something cold touches her palm, and she grips it without thinking, on instinct, and its smooth surface pricks her skin as a tiny bolt of lightning fizzles from the ceiling and strikes the floor just between Letho and Serrit.
As the smoke rises off the spot, she watches them wide-eyed and even more frightened with disorientation. Letho is up so fast you would not believe him capable with his bulk, his arms outstretched towards her, palms in front in a calming motion. Her gaze flickers to Serrit to note his hand grip the dagger on his belt. She nearly jumps, startled to find Auckes right next to her. She has been too distracted by Letho to notice the other Witcher approach. He grabs her by her shoulders almost gently and crouches down next to her, still holding. The physical contact makes her want to scream again and scratch at his eyes, but he is not looming over her, he is right here, and not really threatening.
"I'll let you go now, alright? It's all right, you're safe, everything's all right," he says looking her straight in the eyes. As he lowers his hand, he takes one of hers, and she only now notices it is clenched in a fist so tight it hurts. She does not let go. She starts to tremble. She pours all her hatred in the stare she levels him with and his fingers make a strange shape in front of her face and she exhales with relief. Auckes helps unclench her stiff fingers, takes her pendant and pockets it.
"You do know how to use it after all. That's good news, I'd say." He smiles. She does not know how to feel about that smile - she is torn between appalled and comforted. She chooses comfort.
"I don't know what I did," she confesses, swallowing hard, and Letho hands her a mug half-full of water. She wants more, she needs all the water she can drink, but she cannot really hold a full mug now. She drinks thirstily, gasping for breath.
"You did magic," Letho says matter-of-factly. "Not sure what caused it, but your medallion - pendant - has helped."
"What happened before… the lightning?" Auckes asks cautiously, still crouching by her bed.
"A memory," she says. She feels like she is being manipulated to disclose this information, but can do nothing about that. And she is not truly worried or angry about that either. Not enough strength.
"Of?"
"The fight against the Wild Hunt. The last one, I think."
"You remembered Geralt?" Serrit asks in the quiet, the stew forgotten. Even he looks more friendly now, hopeful.
"No," she says, and she thinks it is the truth. She has seen the white-haired man in her memories before, but there has been no meaning in them. She does not know him. Serrit's face makes a disappointed scowl and he swears as he hurries to take the cauldron off the fire.
"Step by step," his brother reassures. "You've made progress today."
"What kind of progress is it if I don't even know what or how I did it? If I have no control over any magic I can potentially do?" She feels annoyance seeping back into her. The effects of the Witcher sign must be wearing off.
"We'll figure it out," he says simply, annoyingly. Letho scratches his bald scalp.
"Yeah," the bigger man confirms. "Let's eat first." The three start making arrangements for the meal, which only means bringing the bowls and spoons and the crumbly bread to the table and some more sorry rags for her, so she does not spill the food all over herself.
"Hey," Auckes suddenly turns to Letho, having refilled her water mug. "Do you think a Place of Power would help her?"
"Help her how? She's a sorceress, not a Witcher, she can't use it. Have you ever seen a sorceress using Power like that?"
"No, I don't mean she can use it like we do, but it's full of Power. I mean, she would probably feel it like we do. Might help her figure out how to access it or harness it or whatever."
Letho sighs heavily. He does not like the idea, it appears.
"She'd need to be able to walk first. Besides, I don't know of any Places of Power nearby."
"There are some, not too close, but I've read about them in some Witchers' notes. Besides, if she regains control of her power, she'd be able to heal herself just like that."
"That makes sense," Serrit nods in approval, pouring the stew with a dented ladle. Letho grunts noncommittally. It is hard to say what he is thinking, but it seems obvious they would all prefer to stop being her nurses. She resents the situation as much as she resents being spoken of as if she is not present.
"I am right here," she says through her teeth. Letho turns to her and gives her an unexpected little flash of a smile.
"Yeah, I guess you are. More than you were yesterday anyway."