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A Witch at the Door

Summary:

Instead of going to Nilfgaard, Fringilla left Aretuza after her graduation and became a village witch, far cry from the glamorous court life she expected. She lives a life of relative peace and quiet, until Yennefer of Vengerberg shows up at her door one afternoon, carrying a squalling infant and with an assassin on her heels.

Notes:

This is my first fic for the Witcher Rarepair Summer Bingo for the prompt "Accidental Baby/Child Acquisition"

A note on the implied/referenced domestic violence tags: Several times, it's mentioned that Fringilla deals with men in the village who are violent with their wives. I don't go into any details and nothing is shown on screen, but I included the tag because I decided it was better safe than sorry.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

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“Mistress Fringilla!”

Fringilla sighs and puts down her mortar and pestle at the sound of her apprentice, Elsa’s, high pitched voice. Elsa is the excitable sort and it’s not unusual for the girl to come thundering up to Fringilla’s cottage because of some perceived emergency. The only reason Fringilla tolerates it is because Elsa has a level head when it comes to actual emergencies and because there aren’t a lot of young people hankering to become the apprentice to the village witch in a nowhere town in the Temerian countryside.

The door flies open and Elsa stands there, breathing like she just ran all the way from the village. “Mistress Fringilla, there’s a sorceress!”

Fringilla wipes her hands on her skirts, frowning. This isn’t the kind of area where mages venture— the nearest city is Gors Velen, and that’s at least a two days’ ride away. “Is she attacking the town?”

“No.” Elsa’s eyes go wide. “Do you think she will?”

“Unlikely.” Fringilla turns back to her mortar. “Well, if that’s the case, then I have a poultice for the butcher’s shingles that I’m working on. You’d be better off helping me with that then bringing me village gossip.”

“But she’s coming here, mistress! She was asking if we had a hedgewitch and the alderman told her yes.”

Fringilla hates the word ‘hedgewitch.’ “Well, then put on a pot of tea.”

“She’s terrifying.” Elsa’s voice drops to a whisper. She does not go to put on a pot of tea. “Wearing all black with violet eyes and holding a babe that sounds like it’s screaming for its life—”

Fringilla drops the mortar and pestle again. “Violet eyes?”

There’s a knock at the door, accompanied by the sound of a squalling infant.

Elsa’s eyes go enormous. “That’s her!”

Fringilla takes off her apron and brushes her hair out of her face before striding to the door. She smells lilac and gooseberries before she even opens the door and her heart skips a beat. She knows that scent, though it’s been thirty years since she last smelled it. She thinks about hunkering down and pretending she’s not home, but the babe is still screaming and there’s another knock, this one more insistent.

Fringilla opens the door and there stands Yennefer of Vengerberg, practically unchanged from the last time Fringilla saw her thirty years ago.

Yennefer, the girl Fringilla once fancied herself in love with.

The girl Fringilla called a friend.

The girl who stabbed her in the back.

Yennefer blinks at her, clearly as caught off guard as Fringilla is. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

***

“Fringilla only knows how to do what she’s told.”

The moment Fringilla heard those words, first said by the odious Stregobor and repeated to her by her Uncle Artorius, it was like a knife to her heart. Artorius, who she had always loved like a father, didn’t even seem to disagree with the assessment. If anything, he just seemed annoyed that Stregobor had the nerve to say it out loud. And once she got over her shock and hurt, Fringilla realized he was right. She had spent her four years at Aretuza following all the rules, doing everything that was asked of her. And what had it gotten her? Shipped off to Nilfgaard.

And when she did get a reprieve and it looked like she was going to be sent to Aedirn, it wasn’t even because of anything she had done. It was only because Stregobor was trying to undermine Tissaia.

But Yennefer swooped in at the last minute and got her way, like she always did. As Fringilla watched Yennefer dance with the King of Aedirn— and really, she was no better a dancer than Fringilla; the king was just a prick— and tried to dodge the wandering hands of the King of Nilfgaard, she made a decision. She walked out of Aretuza that night, ignoring Sabrina calling after her, packed her things, and left.

She expected someone to try and stop her. She expected someone to follow her, to try and find a way to convince her to come back. Maybe even to send her somewhere that wasn’t Nilfgaard. But no one did, not even Sabrina or Istredd. It was like as soon as Fringilla was out of their line of sight, she ceased to exist.

It was by chance that Fringilla stumbled over Old Agata’s cottage in the woods. After yet another lonely, cold night roughing it in the woods, she was only looking for a place to say. But Agata had taken one look at her and said, “What in the hells is an Aretuza girl doing out here? Got lost on your way to orchestrate a coup?”

And that was how, somehow, Fringilla became a village witch’s apprentice. It was a far cry from what she had been expecting to do after Aretuza and more days than not, she hated it. She hated the crying babies and the ungrateful villagers with their variety of ailments. She hated the blood and the shit and the pus.

But slowly, she got used to it. And she got used to Agata, who was the stereotypical ancient village witch, right down to the warty nose and tendency to wander around naked under the moonlight. (“It’s good for the humors,” she said the one time Fringilla worked up the nerve to ask.) The woman was thoroughly unimpressed by Fringilla’s noble upbringing and her Aretuza education and they butted heads more often than not, but in the end, they became something like friends.

And then one day a little over a year after Fringilla had moved in, Fringilla woke up and found that Agata had died in her sleep. It shouldn’t have been a surprise; Agata didn’t have the immortality that an Aretuza ascension would have granted her and she had been pushing ninety. But Fringilla was completely caught off guard, because the witch hadn’t even been sick. She went to bed fine and never woke up.

Overnight, Fringilla went from the village witch’s apprentice to the village witch. There wasn’t time to decide if this was really what she wanted because there were still babies that needed to be birthed and poultices that needed to be made and the blacksmith had taken another swing at his wife and needed to be taught a lesson. Before she knew it, Fringilla was the witch and there was no turning back.

There was a peace to this life, a routine that Fringilla came to appreciate.

That was, until Yennefer of Vengerberg showed up at her door.

***

“What am I doing here?” Fringilla gives Yennefer an unimpressed look. “This is my cottage. What the fuck are you doing here?”

Yennefer looks taken aback, like she wasn’t expecting Fringilla to talk back. Fair enough, the Fringilla of thirty years ago, who had never slipped belladonna into a wife beating husband’s ale or breathed life into a stillborn infant’s lungs, would not have.

“I’m in need of shelter,” Yennefer says, visibly composing herself. “And healing. I was told there was a hedgewitch living here.”

“Just a witch, Yenna,” Fringilla says coolly. “You’ll notice a lack of hedges. Is it you that’s hurt, or the babe?”

Yennefer looks down at the child in her arms despairingly. “I don’t know. She won’t stop crying.”

“Elsa, see to the child,” Fringilla says and her apprentice stops wringing her hands long enough to pluck the infant out of Yennefer’s unresisting arms. “You might as well come in, Yenna.”

Yennefer follows her into the house. She has blood on her cheek, though it’s impossible to tell if it’s hers, the babe’s, or someone else’s. Her hair is bedraggled and the black dress she’s wearing has seen better days. The cloak she’s wearing looks like it’s been pilfered off a laundry line; it’s brown wool, far cry from her elegant gown. Most of all, she looks exhausted, with a drawn, ashen face as a pinched look around her eyes. It does nothing to hide how heart-stoppingly gorgeous she is, much to Fringilla’s irritation.

“What’s her name?” Elsa asks, bouncing the baby on her hip as she prepares a tincture one-handed. Fringilla feels a surge of affection for the girl; maybe she’s not as silly as Fringilla worried.

“I don’t know.” Yennefer shakes her head. “Her mother only referred to her as ‘the baby.’”

Fringilla notes the past tense. “And her mother?”

“Dead at an assassin’s hand.”

“Who was she?”

“Queen Kalis of Lyria.”

Behind Fringilla, Elsa sucks in a breath. Fringilla takes a moment to absorb that information. “You’re telling me you brought a Lyrian princess into my home? Did you steal her?”

“Of course not,” Yennefer snaps. “Her father is the one who sent the assassin to kill her and her mother.”

“And what of the assassin?”

“He’s a mage. He had a krallach with him.”

Fringilla barely suppresses a shudder. “Will he follow you?”

“I don’t know. I’m hoping he thinks that the knife he threw hit the baby and not me.”

Fringilla blinks at her, then closes the distance between them in two strides. “Yenna, have you been stabbed?”

In answer, Yennefer collapses onto the floor of the cottage, unconscious.

***

When Yennefer wakes up, she’s wrapped in blankets in front of a fire, her head pounding and her shoulder aching something fierce. She opens her eyes to find Fringilla standing over her, arms crossed over her chest.

“Next time you show up with a knife sticking out of your shoulder,” Fringilla says through gritted teeth. “Do me the courtesy of at least mentioning you’ve been stabbed before you collapse in the middle of my home.”

Yennefer would like nothing more than to fall back asleep, but she forces herself to sit up. “The baby?”

“Asleep.” Fringilla nods towards a bundle of blankets in the corner. “I sent Elsa home, since there’s apparently an assassin after you. It would have been nice for you to elaborate on that before you fell unconscious as well.”

“I didn’t plan to fall unconscious.” Yennefer starts to swing her legs out of bed, but a hand on her shoulder stops her.

“If you undo all my hard work, this assassin will be the least of your worries,” Fringilla says coolly.

Yennefer stares at her. In many ways, Fringilla looks exactly like the eighteen year old girl Yennefer last saw on the night of their ascension. They will all look eighteen forever; Giltine’s magic made sure of it. But somehow, she looks older. Maybe it’s her hands, which are rough and calloused in a way Aretuza mages’ hands never are. Maybe it’s her eyes, which seem strangely tired. Or maybe it’s the way she’s dressed in a simple linen dress, with her hair pinned back into a pile on top of her head. The Fringilla Yennefer knew wouldn’t have been caught dead in such a frock.

Fringilla was always a beautiful girl, even before the ascension. Right now, Yennefer can’t stop looking at her.

Fringilla must misinterpret the reason for Yennefer staring, because she juts her chin out defiantly. “I’m not where I thought I’d be thirty years ago,” she says coolly. “But I don’t think you are either.”

Yennefer looks away to hide the heat rising in her face.

“Tell me about the assassin,” Fringilla says.

Yennefer shudders. “I don’t know if he followed me. Queen Kalis is dead. He got what he came for.”

“And then he tried to kill the baby and nearly killed you, so he clearly isn’t finished. We need to assume the worst.”

“He’s a mage,” Yennefer says. “But no one I knew from the Brotherhood. He had a krallach as a weapon, but I killed it. He didn’t say a word, but he tore through over a dozen Lyrian guards in a matter of seconds. He clearly knew what he was doing and no amount of bargaining was going to stop him.”

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, trying not to remember the smell of blood and the soldiers’ terrified cries. She can’t truly mourn Queen Kalis, not after the stupid woman tried to sacrifice her own child to save her own life. But those men were just caught in the crossfire, guilty of no greater sin than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The King of Lyria clearly thinks nothing of cutting down the men sworn to protect him and his family if it means achieving his goals.

To her surprise, Fringilla’s hand lands on her shoulder and squeezes gently. “You’re safe here, you and the babe, for as long as you need.”

Yennefer looks around. The cottage is only one room, cluttered with the little bit of furniture that Fringilla owns. “I can’t ask that of you.”

“You’re weakened from your ordeal and it’s going to take you time to heal,” Fringilla says. “It will be days before you’re able to summon another portal. I’m not going to send you away in this condition.”

“Thank you, Fringilla,” Yennefer says cautiously. Part of her is still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Fringilla to tell her what she really wants.

This time, Fringilla reads the look on her face perfectly. “This isn’t Aretuza and I’m not Tissaia. I’m the witch in these parts. The people around here are my responsibility, including the ones just passing through. That means while you’re here, you and the babe are under my care.”

Yennefer swallows hard, unable to meet those liquid dark eyes. “Thank you,” she says again, and she means it this time.

***

Fringilla walks over to the nearest farm for some goat’s milk for the baby, giving Yennefer strict instructions not to overexert herself while she’s gone. She wanted to order the other woman to stay in bed, but Fringilla has never been one for picking losing battles. It’s nearing dusk as Fringilla makes her way back to her cottage, the bottle of goat's milk and a loaf of bread gifted to her by the farmers tucked under her arm. She’s just stepped inside the wards surrounding her property when she feels a shift in the air behind her.

Fringilla turns and finds herself face-to-face with a bearded man in all black, dark eyes peering at her from underneath his hood. There’s something disconcertingly flat in his gaze and Fringilla is suddenly very glad she’s within her wards.

“Can I help you?” she asks briskly.

He takes a step forward, then stops as her wards sense his malevolent intent and press him back. The mage eyes her speculatively for a moment, then says in a hoarse voice, “You have something of mine.”

Fringilla blinks. “Did the Viscountess send you about the fertility charm? I did tell her it wouldn’t be ready until after the full moon.”

“I’m here for the child and the sorceress.”

“There are no children here,” Fringilla says. “And no sorceresses, unless you count me, which the Brotherhood no longer would.”

A vein in his temple pops as he visibly struggles to step forward.

“The wards won’t let you or your magic through, so long as you intend me harm.” Fringilla is proud of how steady her voice remains. “You’re wasting your time.”

“There’s no such thing as infallible wards,” the mage rasps.

“No, of course not. But whoever you’re looking for, they’re not here. I hope they’re on the other side of the Continent.”

From inside the cottage, there’s a baby’s long, thin wail.

The mage’s lips twist into an ugly grin. “Not here, are they?”

A small, childish part of Fringilla would like nothing more than to bellow several choice curse words at the sky. Instead, she turns and continues towards her cottage, forcing herself not to run.

***

Yennefer has never had an affinity for children. Her parents never allowed her anywhere near her half-siblings, apparently afraid that her condition was catching, and her only other experience with small children were the prince and princesses of Aedirn, each one more spoiled and temperamental than the last. So as she bounces the wailing princess of Lyria in her arms, trying to imitate the way her mother used to hold her siblings, she’s at a loss for what to do.

“That won’t help,” she tells the princess. “Crying won’t change the fact that your mother is dead and your father wants you dead too.”

The baby lets out a hiccuping little sob, tears rolling down her doll like cheeks.

“If you’re hungry, Fringilla went to do something about that,” Yennefer assures her. “And if you’ve soiled yourself, I hope Fringilla will know what to do about that as well.”

Tentatively, she sniffs at the child. No signs of soiling. The princess’s wails only grow louder.

Yennefer groans. “I didn’t want to end up in the middle of Temeria either, but we’re going to have to adjust. And as soon as I can make a portal, we’ll move on. I don’t know where to, but—”

The door flies open and Fringilla stands there.

“Oh, thank fuck.” Yennefer holds out the baby. “She’s crying again.”

“I could hear that.” Fringilla’s face is set and it takes Yennefer a moment to recognize that the expression in her eyes is that of fear. “He’s here.”

Yennefer tightens her grip on the princess, icy panic shooting through her.

“He can’t get through my wards,” Fringilla says. “But it’s only a matter of time.”

“We need to get out of here, then,” Yennefer says. “If you make a portal…”

Fringilla shakes her head. “I was never proficient with portals, and that was thirty years ago. I wouldn’t trust myself with two passengers.”

“You haven’t portaled in thirty years?” The thought of three decades spent in this miserable little cottage is unbelievably depressing.

“I haven’t had any cause to leave here until now. Here, give me her.” Fringilla holds out her arms for the baby.

Even though she was just about to hand her over, Yennefer hesitates. She remembers Kalis placing her own daughter on the ground, calling her a sacrifice. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to feed her.” Fringilla’s eyes flash. “It’s impossible to think with a baby crying.”

Yennefer hands the child over and Fringilla coos to the baby in a low voice, bouncing her on her hip. “Warm the goats milk over the fire,” Fringilla instructs Yennefer. “But not too hot.”

Yennefer stares at her. “There’s an assassin outside who will kill us all.”

“Yes, and this babe is hungry,” Fringilla says coolly. “There’s nothing we can do about the assassin right now. I’m not trained for battle and neither are you. But we can feed her.”

Yennefer can’t argue with that logic, so she goes to heat up the goat’s milk.

“Tell me what you know about this assassin.” Fringilla’s voice is light and breezy, probably for the princess’s benefit.

“Nothing,” Yennefer says. “He didn’t say a word to me. I haven’t seen him use any magic besides portaling. He seems to prefer to use his krallach or a blade to kill instead of magic.”

“So he likes showing off.”

“Probably started out at Ban Ard then,” Yennefer grumbles.

Fringilla snorts. “Perhaps he knows Stregobor.”

“Perhaps. The magical beast was probably an improvement over Stregobor’s company.”

They share a brief smile.

“When you’re up to portaling, what will you do?” Fringilla asks. “Take her to Aedirn?”

Yennefer realizes that it never even occurred to her to return to Aedirn. “No, Aedirn and Lyria are in the middle of treaty negotiations right now. King Virfuril would not dare upset them. He would quietly have her sent back to her father and then…” She glances at the babe in Fringilla’s arms, who is still fussing, but more quietly. “I don’t know what would happen. My guess is, a terrible accident.”

Fringilla’s jaw clenches.

“It wasn’t what I expected, life at court.” Yennefer doesn’t know why she keeps talking. Perhaps it’s to keep her mind off what’s lurking outside. “I thought I would be making a difference. I thought I would have influence. Instead, I was nothing but an errand girl. Virfuril didn’t give a damn about what I had to say. He doesn’t care about a thing except for women and wine.”

“Doesn’t sound all that different from Nilfgaard then,” Fringilla muses.

Yennefer takes the goat’s milk from the fire. “No, probably not.”

“Was it worth it?”

Yennefer pauses, considering. “I don’t know.”

Fringilla says nothing and they lapse into silence.

***

Fringilla can feel the crackle of chaos in the air as the assassin works at the wards around her cottage. It’s full dark now and the fire is banked. Yennefer and Fringilla sit on the ground of the cottage, out of sight of the window. Yennefer is holding the sleeping Lyrian princess in her arms. She’s still clearly uncomfortable holding a baby, but she seems to have relaxed a bit now that the princess isn’t moving. Fringilla tries not to find it endearing.

“We should name her,” Yennefer says quietly, the first thing she’s said since the baby fell asleep.

“She has a name.”

“Given to her by a man who wants her dead and a woman who was willing to sacrifice her.” Yennefer scoffs. “She’s probably named after some terrible long-dead aunt.”

Fringilla’s lips twitch. “What would you call her?”

Yennefer is quiet for a moment. “Anica.”

Fringilla feels a pang. She has tried hard not to think about Anica, Lark, or Doralis in the years since Aretuza. Tissaia said they went home to their families. Fringilla knows better. You don’t get to just leave Aretuza. “Anica’s a lovely name.”

Another moment of silent stretches between them.

“I’m sorry,” Yennefer finally says.

“For?” Fringilla knows damn well what for, but a small, petty part of her needs Yennefer to say it.

“For taking the Aedirn position from you,” Yennefer says. “I’ve thought of you often, over the past three decades. When I heard you’d left Aretuza, I figured you had gone back to your family.”

“I couldn’t.” Fringilla shakes her head. “They would have thrown me out for shaming the family name. I was supposed to follow in Artorious’ footsteps, not run off in the middle of the night.”

“Why did you leave? You could have—”

“Been a glorified errand girl in Nilfgaard instead of Aedirn? I looked at the small, sad man who I was supposed to spend the next forty to fifty years serving before he finally died and I got to serve his son and I realized I couldn’t do it. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to mean something. So I walked away. I truly didn’t think they would let me go at first. I thought Tissaia would try to convince me to come back. But no one seemed to care that I was gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Yennefer says again.

“It wasn’t that you took Aedirn from me that mattered,” Fringilla says, even though that did matter to her at one point, quite a lot. “It was that I thought we were friends. And in the end, it turns out I was just another obstacle for you to overcome.”

“Everyone was back then.” Yennefer’s voice is soft, almost like a confession. “I thought the only way I could ever make something of myself was being the best in our class, going to the most powerful court, being the most beautiful. Everyone— you, Istredd, Sabrina, Tissaia— you were just means to an end.”

“And where did that get you?” There’s a cruel edge to Fringilla’s voice that she doesn’t care for, but maybe she isn’t as past what happened at Aretuza as she thought. She remembers the triumph on Yennefer’s face when she took King Virfuril’s hand, the indifference with which she looked at Fringilla.

“Here.” Yennefer sounds resigned.

Fringilla takes a deep breath, reminding herself that Aretuza was a long time ago. And they’re probably all about to die, so it doesn’t matter. “I know you don’t think much of this place, but I matter here. I’ve saved lives, I’ve ended lives, I’ve made lives better. It’s not glamorous work, but every time I bring a baby into the world or save a woman from a cruel husband, I think I make the world a little bit better. Most of all, I make my own decisions. The whims of the Brotherhood mean nothing to me anymore. To me, that makes this all worth it.”

“Good,” Yennefer says. “I’m glad you found your happiness, Fringilla.”

“And I hope you find yours, Yenna.”

If Yennefer is going to reply, she never gets the chance before there’s a crackle of chaos in the air and a faint burning smell pervades the cottage.

“He’s gotten through the wards.” Fringilla rises to her feet. “Put Anica somewhere out of sight.”

Yennefer nods and tucks the babe away under some blankets. There are few true hiding places in the cottage, so it will have to do. Rising to her feet, Fringilla squares her shoulders and crosses to the door of the cottage.

The assassin is standing right in the middle of her herb garden. “You have something of mine,” he says in that low, raspy voice. There’s a curved, wicked-looking blade in his hand.

Fringilla refuses to flinch. “Nothing here is yours.”

“You’re a hedgewitch. This isn’t your fight.”

“And if I stand aside, you’ll let me live?” His silence is answer enough. “I told you, there’s nothing here for you.”

She can feel Yennefer coming to stand behind her. The sorceress’s breath is coming fast on the back of Fringilla’s neck. Fringilla feels a surge of furious protectiveness.

The assassin’s eyes snap to Yennefer and he sneers. “Yennefer of Vengerberg. They told me you wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“You were misinformed,” Yennefer says, voice completely steady, even as the hand that lays on Fringilla’s back trembles slightly. “I have it on good authority that I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

Fringilla can feel the chaos crackling within Yennefer. She knows the tactic permission that the hand on her back contains.

“The princess is just a baby,” she says. “Surely there’s no need for her to die. She can vanish and you can go back to your employer and tell him the body was unrecoverable.”

The assassin just looks at her with cold eyes. “That would go against my professional pride.”

“The professional pride that has you targeting infants?” Acid drips from Yennefer’s voice.

Yennefer’s hand is small and slim, with delicate fingers and soft skin. The hand of someone who has spent decades at court, who doesn’t regularly prick her fingers weeding her herb garden and burn her hands on a hot stove. Most people would think those hands weak, but Fringilla can feel the raw power in her touch. Fringilla pulls that chaos into her and focuses on the assassin in front of her, on his sneering face and the knife clutched in his hand.

He doesn’t notice the roots wrapping around his ankles until it’s too late. His eyes go wide when he realizes and he tries to throw the knife at Fringilla, but the tree root snaking its way up his leg throws him off balance. Fringilla bends down to press her hand to the frozen ground, pouring all her and Yennefer’s combined chaos into this land that has been hers for these past three decades. This place is hers and this man won’t change that. He has no power here.

He might scream. He might beg. She doesn’t listen. She focuses purely on the ground underneath her and Yennefer’s small hand still pressed against her. She pays no attention to him until silence fills the air and she looks up to see a tree growing in the middle of her herb garden, blooming with flowers despite the fact that it’s the dead of winter.

“Fuck,” Yennefer says in a thin voice.

Fringilla rises to her feet, wiping her hands on her skirts. “I don’t think he’ll be a problem anymore.”

Fuck, Fringilla.”

Fringilla turns to her old friend, a little smile curling her lips. “I was thinking that the garden needed something.”

Yennefer is looking at her, hair disheveled, eyes wide, and lips slightly parted. For a moment, Fringilla thinks about kissing her.

And then for the second time that day, Yennefer of Vengerberg collapses to her cottage floor.

***

It takes Yennefer two days to fully wake, exhausted from the magical strain she’s put on herself. A few times, she regains consciousness just long enough for Fringilla to spoon some hot broth down her throat, but then immediately falls back to sleep. Fringilla tends to her and Anica, who turns out to be a cheerful, curious child.

Fringilla is rocking Anica to sleep after dinner when a voice rasps, “What happened?”

Fringilla looks up to see Yennefer watching her with hazy violet eyes. “You lent me some of your magic so I could turn a man into a tree. It was too much for you and you fainted.”

“I remember the bastard turning into a tree. I was just hoping I hadn’t fainted again.” Yennefer grimaces. “Can’t believe I fainted twice in one day.”

“And for good reason too. You clearly exhausted yourself.” Fringilla puts the baby down in the cradle she borrowed from one of the women in the village and goes to get Yennefer a cup of water.

Yennefer smiles her thanks and drinks greedily. When she’s done, she says, “Is he still a tree?”

“He’ll be a tree until we cut him down for firewood.”

“Good.” Yennefer nods. “Thank you. You saved us when you really didn’t owe me anything.”

She still looks so fucking beautiful, even ashen and exhausted. It’s truly unfair. “I told you, everyone in this area is my responsibility. And even if they weren’t, I wouldn’t have sent you away. We were friends once.”

Yennefer looks away with a grimace.

Tentatively, Fringilla reaches down to take her hand. When Yennefer’s eyes meet hers again, she says, “I’d like to be friends again, Yenna.”

She would like so much more than friendship, but she doesn't know how to put all that into words, not yet.

Yennefer smiles shakily. “I would like that.”

***

In the weeks that follow, Yennefer keeps meaning to move on from Fringilla’s cottage. It takes her well over a month to fully recover from the magical strain from the ordeal with the assassin. And by the time she’s recovered, there’s a terrible blizzard coming and she doesn’t want to travel in the middle of a snowstorm with a baby. And then there’s an outbreak of the pox in the village and Fringilla is running around tending to the sick and Yennefer can’t just leave her to deal with it by herself.

“I have Elsa,” Fringilla points out when Yennefer brings that up.

Yennefer sniffs disdainfully and goes back to mixing a tincture.

It’s not until Anica looks up at her with big brown eyes one morning and says, “Mama” that Yennefer realizes how long she’s been here. Months, at least, long enough that Anica is starting to struggle to stand.

“I think I’ll stay until spring,” she tells Fringilla that night as they make venison stew for dinner.

Fringilla shoots her a raised eyebrow. “The equinox was last week.”

Well, fuck.

“Yenna.” Fringilla turns towards her, a little smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Most of her hair is escaping from the twist on the top of her head. It skims over her shoulder in an incredibly distracting way. “You can just admit that you want to stay.”

“I…” Yennefer is at a loss for words.

“You’ve been here for four months,” Fringilla says. “You’ve taken on half my caseload. You’ve had myriad opportunities to move on and you’ve chosen not to.”

Somehow, Yennefer finds her voice. “Do you want me to stay?”

“If I didn’t, I would have told you so four months ago,” Fringilla says. “I never expected you to want to stay, Yenna, which is why I haven’t said anything.”

“Neither did I.” This village witch business will take getting used to, but there’s a quiet satisfaction to helping people and knowing that what she does is important, if only to the locals. She’s not influencing kingdoms or smoothing over international crises anymore, but somehow, none of that feels as important as the quiet gratitude of a young mother when Yennefer gives her something to ease her child’s coughs, Fringilla’s sleepy smile when she wakes up and finds Yennefer still there, or the way Anica babbles happily at her whenever Yennefer picks her up.

Anica croons at her and Yennefer smiles down at their daughter, smoothing her hair out of her eyes. It will need a trim soon, she thinks. “Anica is happy here,” she says softly. “I’d hate to take her away from all this.”

“And what do you want?” Fringilla takes a step closer.

Yennefer meets her gaze. “I think you know the answer to that.”

When Fringilla kisses her, it’s a tentative thing, full of questions. Yennefer responds by kissing back fiercely, leaving nothing up to interpretation. She wants this. She wants Fringilla. She wants to stay, for as long as Fringilla will have her. She says as much as soon as they pull apart.

“I want you to stay for as long as you can,” Fringilla tells her breathlessly. “You and Anica are family now. I couldn’t bear it if you left.”

Yennefer brushes her lips gently over Fringilla’s. “Then I’m not going anywhere.”

***

Not long after, Anica takes her first steps under the tree that used to be the assassin who killed her mother. Sitting in the grass, Yennefer watches Fringilla lead the little girl by the hands, holding her up with every step, and thinks that she has everything she could possibly want.

***

Notes:

Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated. You can find me on Tumblr or at Discord at ghostinthelibrary#1691