#yennefer healing ciri and dirtying her dress...

[hanzajesthanza]

me whenever the short story "something ends, something begins" is mentioned, or not even mentioned, but i have an opportunity to mention it myself

[yaskefer]

read on ao3

...

Yennefer’s magic is still weak. 

As soon as she’d gotten the slightest ember of chaos back, she’d expended it completely trying to heal all the injured witchers in a desperate bid for forgiveness, acceptance. 

She understands that she’s fucked up. She understands that she’ll need to work before she gets any trust back. She understands the grudge these Witchers hold against mages and she understands how precious Ciri is to Geralt. 

She’s just very tired. 

Turns out, slitting your wrists the second time hurts just as much as the first, and blood loss like that still leaves her dizzy and shaking. Her arms ache, and while the cuts are healed up now, she can still feel the phantom sting of the glass against her skin. 

She gives a frustrated little noise and slams down the comb on the table. There’s not even a mirror in this shit hole. The comb is old and wide toothed, the handle cold in her hands. Her fingers shake too much to comb through her hair properly. She doesn’t have a spare outfit, and she’s going crazy. 

She feels unclean, restless, uncomfortable. Her hair’s a tangled mess, her makeup is smudged up and dirty, her dress is ripped at places, and she stinks to high heaven. 

Her grooming takes place below healing others, but god does she wish she could do something about it. 

“Yen?” 

Yennefer whips about at the sound of her name, to Jaskier standing at the doorway to her room. He looks a little uncertain, eyes flicking over to the comb now on the floor, and her hands where she’s twisted them into her dress, knuckles white from the force of her grip. She makes herself unclench her fists.  

“May I come in?” he asks quietly. 

She thinks back to her recent interactions with him. The way he’d been the only one to not look at her with hate and distrust after what she did to Ciri. The way he’d been the one to catch her when she stumbled out of the portal. The way he’d said, so fondly, that chaos could never be done with the likes of her. 

The way he’s the only genuine, kind thing left in her life. 

She gives a nod, not trusting herself to speak without bursting into sobs from the frustration. And wouldn’t that be just embarrassing?

“What’s wrong?” he asks, perched on the bed beside Yennefer. It’s as cold and draughty a room as all the rest, and Yennefer wants to sidle up to him, remembering his warmth from when she’d hugged him. She stays put. 

She gives a short, bitter laugh, considers lying or snapping, and decides it doesn’t matter. “I can’t fucking comb my hair. Fucking useless, even with my magic back.” 

“I’d very much like to disagree,” Jaskier says promptly, holding up his healed hands. The calluses are gone, the skin pink and tender. But there’s not even going to be a scar. She feels absurdly proud at the sight. 

That was the last thing she’d healed before her magic became less than just a hum of existence beneath her skin. 

“I burned down Nilfgaard’s army at Sodden, healing a few burns shouldn’t be the limit of my powers.”

Jaskier hums, bending down to pick up the discarded comb, “I’d say it was quite a bit more than a few burns.” 

“Still less than I should be able to do,” she says, keeping her breathing even as Jaskier shifts closer to her. 

“May I?” he asks, holding the comb up. 

She stares at him, his earnest eyes, his sincere expression. She swallows and nods, turning around so her back is to him. 

Somehow, it doesn’t make her feel insecure. It’s rare for her to bare her back to anyone, especially with her magic at such a low. It’s a vulnerable position, especially when the memories of her twisted spine still haunt her, a past she can never erase, a phantom that’s been clinging to her despite the decades that have passed. 

It’s a vulnerable position, and she’s under no delusions that anyone’s going to care if something were to happen to her.

Except Jaskier, that is. 

She doesn’t feel vulnerable, or unsafe right now. She just feels an immense, full bodied relief when she feels the comb move through her hair. The pressure perfect against her scalp, and Jaskier’s hands incredibly gentle as he teases out the tangles. 

She doesn’t know how long it takes, but soon the comb is gliding through her hair like water, and she’s limp and relaxed, sitting cross legged on the bed as Jaskier puts down the comb. She almost whines, but restrains herself. 

“Feel better?” he asks, and she hums back in response. She leans back a little, unable to stop herself, and presses her back against his chest. He’s as warm as she remembers, if not more so. Quite sturdy and comfortable too. She feels his chest rumble as he chuckles. 

“Do you want me to braid your hair? I know quite a few of them, just ask Roach.” 

Yennefer snorts, thinks about it, and then nods again. Letting out a soft, long suffering groan as she pushes herself off him so he can access her hair better. 

“Your hair is amazing,” he murmurs, fingers carding through her hair, parting and tugging gently. And she hears, you’re amazing. “Any preferences?” 

“Whichever one you think best, I suppose,” she says, clearing her suddenly tight throat. 

She doesn’t remember the last time she felt someone’s hands in her hair when she wasn’t kissing them. She doesn’t remember anyone ever braiding her hair. Her mother certainly never cared enough to, and who would bother in Aretuza, or after, when you could just magic yourself the perfect hairstyle?

She thinks she could fall asleep like this. 

Jaskier starts humming after a few minutes, an old folk song Yennefer recognises. It’s soft, and wordless, distinct and soothing. Without even realising, she’s humming along with him. 

The braid feels complicated, something she would do if she were attending a royal court and cared about the way she was seen. It goes around the top of her head, and feels a little like a crown is resting atop her. 

“Done,” he says softly, abruptly ending his humming as he gives a few very soft pats and tugs to her hair. Yennefer blinks, and raises her own hands to very, very lightly feel the hair do. It is complicated, and it makes her feel… regal, perhaps. Despite her still frayed, dirty dress. It makes her feel worth something. 

She almost starts crying, eyes prickling a bit. 

Yennefer of Vengerberg, reduced to tears because someone braided her hair. 

She’s also exhausted, and relaxed enough that she thinks she might just fall asleep sitting up. But she doesn’t want to mess up the hair. Doesn’t want to lose this. Doesn’t want to wake up and see Jaskier gone. 

“You can sleep,” Jaskier whispers, as if reading her mind. He’s close again, pressed against her, and an arm snakes around her waist and tugs her down into a horizontal position. “I’ll be here. I’ll redo the braids too, if you want. Just rest, Yennefer.”

She closes her eyes, and sleeps.