Chapter Text
Triss fades in and out of consciousness after the sound of battle dims, chest wrapped in blood-soaked linens. The gate door, not giving up but wanting to, fire, unbelievable searing pain, fading, being held, eyes unseeing, finally unconscious. Where was she now?
She looks up at a small commotion at the flap of what must be the triage tent. There, a woman in armor, the Redanian sigil on her breast plate, wearing men’s breeches and fine boots. Blood-spattered, her single plait coming undone, eyes sharp and focused.
“Lady Philippa,” one of the attendants in the tent says with awe in his voice. Triss hadn’t noticed him before, lost in thought: ‘I tried, I hope I didn’t fail’ loops in her mind.
“I’m here to help. Point me where I’m needed most.”
“The woman there needs healing – Triss Merigold. We’ve done our best with practical medicines, but every mage is depleted. She requires more.”
Without a word, Philippa strips off her gloves and rinses her hands in a nearby basin. Sword, helm, and gloves propped beside Triss’s cot, she begins to assess Triss.
She doesn’t speak, just hisses a bit through her teeth as she unwraps the linens.
Triss stirs, eyes still glassy from the pain and whatever weak draughts she’s been given by the attendants. Her hand trembles as it closes over Philippa’s, trying to stop the inevitable. If she doesn’t see it, it isn’t real.
“Brave enchantress, survivor and hero of Sodden. Here’s the proof you held this stronghold against every odd and lived. Now, let me help you.”
Her voice is low, and her accent refined, and she doesn’t sound unkind – but there’s an edge of chastisement to her words that has Triss more alert than before. Plucking up her courage, she loosens her grip on Philippa’s hand but holds her dark eyes. She nods once. Then Philippa returns to her task.
The survivors of Sodden gather in the too-small tent shoulder to shoulder with kings. Across the table covered in maps and evidence of strategies to keep Nilfgaard on the run, Triss finds Philippa. Her armor, which had cut a fine figure, has been replaced with a dark velvet doublet. The hair that was falling from its braid before is loose and draped over a shoulder.
In the low light of the fires burning throughout the room – a discomfort to Triss though she pushes it down – she sees the tension in Philippa’s stance, in the set of her jaw, in the way she clasps her hands behind her back and lifts her chin like she’s pushing something down of her own.
Vilgefortz says a word and all chatter ceases: “Great Kings of the North. Today, we mages of Aretuza and Ban Ard stand at your sides as protectors and servants. Nilfgaard tried to best us and failed, because together united we are stronger than any southern force.”
Tissaia steps forward to speak, but before she can, Stregobor appears from a shadow, voice slimy: “The Brotherhood is proud to be known as the saviors of Sodden, Your Royal Highnesses. The Usurper would be on your doorsteps if not for the sacrifices we have made.”
Triss can still feel the heat of the torch on her chest, burning through layers of skin all the way to bone. She can remember watching mages and innocents – brave peasants and children – around her fall.
She remembers screaming until she couldn’t anymore and then waking in a pain she couldn’t describe. Not only because of her own injuries but because in the cot beside her was Sabrina, body broken until mages with greater reserves of chaos could be called to right the twisted bones and mend her punctured lungs.
To see Sabrina standing at Tissaia’s side now, eyebrows furrowed, one almost couldn’t believe that she’d been on the verge of death just a day before. Then again, they all had – without the Brotherhood’s support.
“And you have our most sincere thanks, Wise Stregobor,” comes the deep rumble of King Foltest of Temeria, thumbs resting on his belt, “It shouldn’t be lost on anyone that if not for your intervention here, Cintra’s fate could have been our own.”
Foltest looks to Triss then, discreetly nodding his head, “I know firsthand the value of a mage.”
“Then you should know that our losses here were significant. We were not the force we could have been. But still, we gave every inch of ourselves in this battle and now fourteen of our brothers and sisters are dead,” Tissaia finally finds her voice.
“Rest assured, Rectoress, they will not be forgotten. Philippa, the plans—” King Vizimir II of Redania says from his position around the table, inclining his head at Philippa who steps forward, hands still clasped behind her back.
“A stone obelisk with the names of the fourteen etched into its face. It will not bring back those who’ve been lost and there’s nothing we can do to honor them except continue our fight to protect the Northern Kingdoms. But it will give us a place to mourn and remember them.”
“Thank you, Philippa.” There’s a warmth in Tissaia’s voice as she regards her former student. “And thank you for all you’ve done here.”
“Speak no more of it, Tissaia. We don’t abandon our own,” Philippa says, eyes flitting to Triss and Sabrina as she speaks.
Philippa finds Triss on the outskirts of the keep’s grounds, against a tree overlooking the river, away from the scorched valley. The sun has set. She carries a blanket.
A small retinue of Northern forces have made camp among the mages. They’ve helped bury and burn the dead. One body is unaccounted for – Yennefer’s.
The soldiers are loud but not unnecessarily so. There’s no merry making this night. Just the din of young soldiers around fires, swapping stories of home and dreams of adventures to come. They don’t yet realize that this is how wars begin.
“A lovely lintar for your company, Triss Merigold,” Philippa says, blanket draped over her shoulders and a small white bundle of what Triss figures must be food under her arm. “I don’t come empty handed.”
“How could I say no? Have a seat, Lady Philippa.”
“Thank you.”
Philippa sits beside Triss, back against the tree they now share. A respite. She lays the blanket over herself then holds up one side to Triss until she tugs it over the skirt of her dress, tucking the corners.
“Bread, cheese, and... an apple to share,” Triss lists off as Philippa unwraps the bundle.
“If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
They eat in quiet, stars twinkling brightly in the calm night’s sky, bright enough to reflect in the river below the craggy cliffs. All of Fringilla’s fog has fallen away into the valley.
Philippa slips a knife from her waist and brandishes it with a tiny flourish as Triss holds out the apple.
“So,” the apple now in slices, “I may have arrived late, but I’m seldom out of the loop. Am I correct in saying ‘Fuck Stregobor’?”
“With that knife, please and thank you.”
Philippa smiles sadly. “Same Brotherhood then. Do you ever get the sinking feeling nothing will ever change?”
Triss thinks, takes a bite of apple. “Not unless we change it.”
“I quite agree. Imagine a day when we mages need to act, and instead of calling a vote that hinges on the principles of ancient, bearded men whose unkempt eyebrows perpetually obscure their vision, we simply do what needs doing. The greatest good for the greatest number of people.”
“How can we know what the greatest good is? Surely even Stregobor, backwards and cruel as he is, thinks the actions he takes serve the lesser evil.”
“And he decides that based on hunches, instincts, and assumptions. We’d calculate a path forward based on knowledge and preparation. Nilfgaard is vastly underestimated; its spies are everywhere. Shouldn’t ours be too?”
“Spies?”
Philippa holds her gaze a moment. “It’s just a thought.”
“You’re an advisor to Vizimir. What do you do for him exactly?”
“Whatever he needs.” Philippa exhales and relaxes deeper into her seat against the tree. Her eyes steal back to Triss, taking in her high-collared dress. “How’re you feeling? Is there anything I can do?”
“Are you always this interested in serving others?”
Philippa smiles, incredulous, before pressing Triss, “Come on. How is it?”
“Better now.”
“May I?”
Triss takes a beat then leans toward Philippa. Still, she keeps her eyes on the stars, unable to watch as her chest is bared.
Philippa’s fingers are warm when they come to the snaps at the top of her dress. She works quickly and Triss is thankful for that.
“It looks good. Not much scarring either. I’m sorry you were in pain for so long.”
“It’s alright. You made that day less scary somehow.”
Philippa casts a simple soothing spell and then refastens everything as it was, adjusting the high neck so it sits properly once more. They sit in comfortable silence before sleep takes them there against the tree.
When they wake, it’s with the pink light of dawn warming their faces. Triss’s head rests against Philippa’s chest, their bodies turned toward each other, legs tangled. It might have been an uncomfortable sleep, but neither cares just then.
Pulling away, Philippa unties the waterskin she keeps at her belt and wordlessly offers it to Triss. She doesn’t stop herself from watching as she drinks.
The colors of the rising sun shift imperceptibly with every moment Philippa watches her – the brave survivor of Sodden Hill.
Triss hands back the waterskin and Philippa replaces its top before setting it aside.
Triss and Philippa hold each other’s gaze for a moment before Philippa pats at her chest with an exasperated smile.
“Come on then. No one will be looking for us just yet.”
Triss wastes no time getting comfy.
Philippa adjusts the blanket over them.
The sun continues to rise.
“Can I kiss you?” Triss says, breaking the comfortable silence.
“Why?”
“Because I want to.”
“Then yes, you can.”
Triss takes Philippa’s hand, lacing their fingers, and presses her full lips to hers. Not hungry, just seeking comfort. Philippa smiles into the kiss then peppers more kisses along her freckled cheeks.
The sun rises higher still, and the sound of camp stirring reaches their quiet haven against the tree.
There are hard days ahead, Philippa knows. Somehow, with Triss’s free hand twisting into her hair, that burden feels lighter – the path ahead, clearer.