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thelonelylaketo the deluge of age. the witcher - andrzej sapkowski, francesca/tissaia. spring memories in a newly-blossoming valley. 500w, rated t. for the shadow of the sun, light of the moon prompt 'petals'.
Dol Blathanna blooms in the spring, and Tissaia can no longer deny that time has continued to turn outside the valley. She has seen the sun rise and set, endured Francesca's visits and felt relief when she left again, but she has yet to think: the world is moving on.
It was always meant to move on without her, but to see such a reminder — to know that she is still here to watch it do so — is unsettling. There has been ice in the shape of Francesca's hand wrapped around her heart since that night on Thanedd, and it will not be thawing this spring.
From her spot on the riverbank, Tissaia watches the flashes of yellow and blue and pink struggle their way upwards from their beds of green, young and flimsy and bearing no outward sign of the blood that was spilled for them. She will not ask Francesca if it was worth it, though the woman herself sits at her side.
Three petals have drifted down to the blanket between them, and Tissaia moves them to the grass one by one. The line she forms is neat, but she is careless with her movements: Francesca flinches as Tissaia's bandaged wrist brushes her own bare hand.
Long years of practise keep the smile off Tissaia's face, but she feels it curl around her throat anyway. Among the blooms they must both witness the consequences of their actions. If Francesca did not want to be reminded of what she had stopped, she should never have gone to the Silver Heron, never offered Tissaia a place in the valley.
If Tissaia truly did not mean to remind her, she would stop wrapping wrists that hadn't bled in months.
But Tissaia knows now better than to think her old friend would have allowed for anything else. She is as much a product and project of Francesca's hope as Dol Blathanna itself, and they are both as full up with ghosts as they can bear.
For now, she is anchored by the weight of Francesca's head on her shoulder. She smooths out the wrinkles at the edge of the blanket, because they are a thing in front of her she can put to rights. She lets Francesca's hair prickle against her cheek and watches branches weighed down by blossoms dip in the breeze until they nearly touch the river.
"The Lodge is meeting here tomorrow."
The words wound still, more with the reminder of how few they are now than with anything else. Tissaia breathes in, turns just enough that their temples are pressed together. A daisy petal is caught in Francesca's hair, blinding white against dark gold in the corner of Tissaia's vision. The need to place it in line with the others burns, not quite as strongly as the fear of touching Francesca any more intimately.
Francesca does not offer. Tissaia does not ask.
They will have to talk about it, one day. But the flowers are still blooming.
Dol Blathanna blooms in the spring, and Tissaia can no longer deny that time has continued to turn outside the valley. She has seen the sun rise and set, endured Francesca's visits and felt relief when she left again, but she has yet to think: the world is moving on.
It was always meant to move on without her, but to see such a reminder — to know that she is still here to watch it do so — is unsettling. There has been ice in the shape of Francesca's hand wrapped around her heart since that night on Thanedd, and it will not be thawing this spring.
From her spot on the riverbank, Tissaia watches the flashes of yellow and blue and pink struggle their way upwards from their beds of green, young and flimsy and bearing no outward sign of the blood that was spilled for them. She will not ask Francesca if it was worth it, though the woman herself sits at her side.
Three petals have drifted down to the blanket between them, and Tissaia moves them to the grass one by one. The line she forms is neat, but she is careless with her movements: Francesca flinches as Tissaia's bandaged wrist brushes her own bare hand.
Long years of practise keep the smile off Tissaia's face, but she feels it curl around her throat anyway. Among the blooms they must both witness the consequences of their actions. If Francesca did not want to be reminded of what she had stopped, she should never have gone to the Silver Heron, never offered Tissaia a place in the valley.
If Tissaia truly did not mean to remind her, she would stop wrapping wrists that hadn't bled in months.
But Tissaia knows now better than to think her old friend would have allowed for anything else. She is as much a product and project of Francesca's hope as Dol Blathanna itself, and they are both as full up with ghosts as they can bear.
For now, she is anchored by the weight of Francesca's head on her shoulder. She smooths out the wrinkles at the edge of the blanket, because they are a thing in front of her she can put to rights. She lets Francesca's hair prickle against her cheek and watches branches weighed down by blossoms dip in the breeze until they nearly touch the river.
"The Lodge is meeting here tomorrow."
The words wound still, more with the reminder of how few they are now than with anything else. Tissaia breathes in, turns just enough that their temples are pressed together. A daisy petal is caught in Francesca's hair, blinding white against dark gold in the corner of Tissaia's vision. The need to place it in line with the others burns, not quite as strongly as the fear of touching Francesca any more intimately.
Francesca does not offer. Tissaia does not ask.
They will have to talk about it, one day. But the flowers are still blooming.
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Date: 2024-04-22 02:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-04-22 02:15 am (UTC)LOSING MY FUCKING MINNNNNNND
Date: 2024-04-27 02:41 am (UTC)And while I know nothing of the books, I’m still feeling all the feels here and ohhhhhh I am SO EMOTIONAL. 😭 I love how the sort of fragile tentative but steadfast energy of spring mimics the feelings and their dynamic and AUGH JUST THIS IS SO GOOD. IM PUTTING IT IN MY MOUTH AND SHAKING IT.
Re: LOSING MY FUCKING MINNNNNNND
Date: 2024-04-27 02:49 am (UTC)Did u know Francesca is also called Enid an Gleanna or 'the Daisy of the Valley' I simply HAD to go overboard with the spring imagery...