Yennefer had been found starved to her bones. Ribs poked beneath her skin, creating the illusion of papery flesh as it draped over a lack of muscle. Joints, pointed and strained, wobbled with intense exercise. Her face had become concave, with jagged cheekbones and a prominent brow bone, and resembled a skeleton more than a healthy adult. Thinning hair would leave clumps along her Aretuza robes, which were horribly oversized. Brittle teeth hurt to bite down onto a fork with. She was a divinely crafted body, tarnished and worn at the hands of brutal men, arriving at Aretuza with only a core intact. It was a core of bronze and gold, with strands of dark hair that caressed her cheekbones like the night sky, but it was weakened nonetheless.
She didn’t feel like a real woman without the curves that society defined as femininity.
She didn’t feel beautiful.
“Piglet?”
Tissaia’s thoughts brought her attention to reality. Wisps of smoke circled her head, and she put the tobacco pipe down with elegant fingers. Concern riddled Tissaia’s gaze. High cheekbones also graced her features, but they weren’t rough; her hands were delicate, but not withered; the fine line of her pursed lips was merely an illusion for a cherry-tinted smile. Tissaia had severities, but they were balanced and graceful – not like the scars of circ*mstance that burned Yennefer. And there were so many feline, feminine, silken accents to the way her face shone. The upward quirk of her eyes, shaded by long lashes. Blushes the color of wild roses that kissed her cheeks. Even the curve of her silhouette beneath robes suggested strength and health. She was magnificent, the very standard Yennefer held herself to.
“Why weren’t you focused in class today?” Tissaia asked, folding her hands.
“I haven’t slept well.”
“Dear, you are an awful liar.”
A curve of Tissaia’s lip accompanied an arched eyebrow.
“I’m still weak from blood loss,” mumbled Yennefer, pulling her sleeves over her wrists.
“I can feel the tension in your mind. Simply say it.”
“If you can feel my mind so much, shouldn’t you already know?”
“Piglet–”
“Why do you call me that?” Yennefer snapped, bracing her fingers on the edge of the oak desk. Splinters jammed beneath her nails. “Is it that obvious? Nobody sees a human? Just a creature, shunned into a pigpen, filthier than the animals sent to the slaughter? Something the universe discarded its leftovers into? So you see it too? The nightmares, Rectoress? I can feel your chaos slipping into them, sometimes! The dismantlement of my bones for a better use? Death, and its possible releases, into sweet oblivion? It would have been easier to let me rot than to make a sorceress from this! I know how many people wouldn’t blink if I died. Lovers, children, artists. Anyone with an aesthetic sensibility. Because what stands here is no miracle. I am evidence of curses whispered onto the wind, a mistake, a slip of the cosmic hand. I don’t deserve the fanciful endings these other girls get. You can feel that my chaos is just hate, can’t you?”
Tissaia was behind Yennefer in an instant.
“I can, and that’s why I want to show you something.”
She summoned a mirror into the air in front of them both.
“Look,” she commanded, whispering with a velvet softness. “What do you see?”
“Two people.”
Yennefer omitted part of her thought. She saw Tissaia, focused with a small bite of her lower lip, framed with wisps of dark hair that had fallen from her bun – and she saw the goosebumps on her neck where Tissaia’s breath ghosted. She smelled the vanilla and tobacco that clung to Tissaia’s clothes, and remembered embracing her in a dream; she felt the heat of a body behind her, inches away, and struggled to not lean into it.
“That’s not what I see, dear. I see two beautiful women. One has silver around her neck, and the other has a heart of gold. I see a lovely young woman whose powerful chaos is only surpassed by the strength of her soul. Do you see the violet in your eyes?”
“Yes.”
Tissaia leaned in closer, resting her chin over Yennefer’s shoulder.
“I see a field of lilacs,” she whispered, making eye contact with Yennefer in the mirror. “Your face is bright and elegant, even though you may not feel like it yet. I’ve seen sunsets the color of your hands, and sometimes golden moons flash like your cheeks. The curve of your nose matches the ancient statues remaining at the White Orchard. Your jaw and cheekbones, though you think them harsh, are the very epitome of regality. Not a single wrinkle rests next to your eyes, though if they did, they could not possibly subtract from your loveliness. There is not a person alive who does not look into the mirror and see some deformity. Except for us. We remake ourselves on our own terms. The world has no say in it. And do you know how that begins?”
“The Enchantment,” recited Yennefer, too stunned to breathe.
“Seeing beauty in your mind’s eye.”
“With chaos?”
“With your very soul,” Tissaia said, resting her hands over Yennefer’s. “Believe in yourself. There is no single thing that could ever prevent the grace of your composure, the colors of your mind, or the beauty in your emerging health from shining.”
Yennefer didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing, and avoided the subject for months. It was with stunned awe that she left Tissaia’s office that afternoon. There had been a flicker of hope in her mind since, but she dared not analyze the overwhelming sensations that standing next to Tissaia brought. The softness hovering just out of reach, the tendrils of hair brushing her throat, the curiosity to discover what her neck’s tendons felt like beneath her lips had she turned and kissed her. Thoughts of this nature consumed Yennefer – once in the baths, and she had flushed the images from her mind as Tissaia entered.
“Enjoying yourself?” Tissaia had asked, letting each syllable drip from her tongue.
“The water does never cool.”
Tissaia had smiled – devilishly – and shaken her head in mild disbelief. Adorable dimples rose onto her cheeks. The slight marks of her crow’s feet only intensified the color of her eyes, which were fixated directly on Yennefer’s, and darkened with inklings of lust. Wistful glimmers of light reflected from them. Her hands fiddled with the edges of her bath robes, toying with the idea of loosening its silk sash, but she hesitated. Instead, she sat on the edge of the bath, allowing her legs to slide into the water. Everything above her knees was hidden beneath swaths of blue fabric.
Yennefer stared at her muscular calves.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise, since Tissaia was constantly walking at a brisk pace, tense and stoic with her hands carrying heavy books. But Yennefer hadn’t yet considered that. The flexing of muscles, at once powerful and refined, against the water’s edge sent tiny ripples into the pool. She wondered what they would feel like beneath her fingertips. Her eyes instinctively followed the lines towards Tissaia’s knees, and then she averted her gaze.
“You seem like you’re doing better,” said Tissaia, breaking the long silence.
“I am. I’ve reconsidered what I want done for my Enchantment. My original plan was to make myself more traditionally feminine; fuller features, thicker hair, new lips, and something sultry curving into the angle of my eyes. But I’m healing nicely without it, as best I can. I suppose I’d rather emphasize what I have, and realign existing curves. My teeth don’t hurt when they sink into apples anymore, and my gums don’t bleed at the slightest scratch. It’s an experience. Seeing something that doesn’t feel like more than a vessel for breathing and suffering become something artistic. I see what you showed me, now. It’s hard sometimes. But I do.”
“I’m glad you feel better,” Tissaia sighed, leaning closer to her.
“Why did you call me Piglet?”
“To remind you of your strength.”
Tissaia reached her fingertips into Yennefer’s braid, slowly and with warning, before beginning to unfurl its plaits. A silence fell between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but had too many unanswered questions to be considered relaxing. Yennefer closed her eyes, and smiled gently at the tingles that erupted onto her scalp. This was a precious moment. Tissaia de Vries, powerful sorceress and brilliant writer, was without her stern exterior. She did not need to see the relaxed slope of Tissaia’s shoulders to know how relaxed she was. And Yennefer cherished the vulnerability, feeling safe, with warmth blossoming beneath the knowledge of her gaze. There was another warmth, settling in her lower abdomen, but she tried to ignore it.
Every breath into the empty chamber, with both of them stretched out languidly, echoed in Yennefer’s mind. She suddenly became aware of the fact she was naked. It was normal in the baths, obviously, but she hadn’t realized the full intensity of the situation.
She rested on a slab of shallow stone, with her collarbones peeking out from the water. Droplets remained around her forehead in a crown. Just beneath the surface of the water, her arms were crossed over her chest, hiding her breasts from Tissaia’s view. Yennefer wasn’t embarrassed of her own anatomy, not anymore; but the thought of Tissaia seeing the pebbling of her nipples, or their darkening color, petrified her. What if Tissaia didn’t want this? Beneath that, her legs were crossed tightly, and the friction of her thighs was tempting to move for. While Yennefer wasn’t embarrassed of being a woman, she couldn’t help but wonder if she still lacked something. Was her chest still flattened? Were her thighs still marked with that gap, that unhealthy thinness that reminded her of her time in Vengerberg?
A shiver ran down her body.
“I thought you said the water didn’t get cold,” said Tissaia, furrowing her eyebrows. “Would you like me to cast a heating charm?”
“I’m fine.”
It came out uncharacteristically meek.
“Would you like me to fetch you a towel?”
“No, why?”
“You’re hiding yourself,” she whispered, her voice laced with pain. “I understand that I may have overstepped what is appropriate. I’m sorry. I should probably leave and let you bathe in peace–”
“Stay.”
