Slender, delicate fingers gently caressed the leather-wrapped, curved hilt of the small kitchen knife, then slid down its concave blade unhurriedly, curiously, exploring every minuscule nick and dent. The metal, expensively layered and tempered, was cool to the touch. Solid. Strong.
She had feared her hands would shake with nervousness, shiver in anticipation of the task ahead, yet they held the utensil steadily, calmly. The choice had already been made.
Her first real choice, and yet not truly much of a choice at all.
She was a bad person, she knew intuitively, and had been all her life. Oh, she had tried to be good, of course, had done everything she thought would please them. But papa always noticed when she was bad. He saw when she missed a speck of dust with the tattered broom - he had good eyes, her papa -, he heard when she whistled a song to herself, out of tune, while tending to the flowers in the garden, he noticed when her pretty dress was a little too tight around her crooked shoulders. He would strike her, of course. In the beginning, when she was younger, she hadn't known why, but eventually she understood. If he didn't punish her, how was she to know that she had been bad? Yes, papa had tried to teach her, to help her to finally be a good person. And mama helped him, eventually.
She cried a lot, mama did. Because of how bad her little daughter was, how rotten and incorrigible.
Oh, she had tried to be a good daughter, she had really tried. But as always, she had failed. It seemed she just couldn't be a good person. It was in her blood, papa had said, her cursed blood.
And that was why mama and papa had finally given up on her, had sent her away. Here, the ladies would take care of her, those beautiful women with the cold eyes. Perhaps they knew what to do with her, papa had hoped.
She knew she had been a bad daughter, but still she missed them both dearly. At times so much that it hurt far worse than even papa's old belt with the bent buckle that he kept in the top drawer of his dresser.
No, there was no hope for her anymore. No one would be able to turn her, who was so inherently rotten, into a good person. It would be much better for everyone if she weren't there anymore. If she simply stopped being. The pretty ladies could focus on their other, better students. Mama and papa could finally stop worrying about their defective daughter and be happy. There would be no more yelling, no more crying. No more belts.
Yes, this was best for everyone.
She studied the knife again, carefully tested the blade against her palm. Despite the wear, it hadn't lost any of its sharpness. It would do the job well.
Breathing easily, she shifted the instrument from her right into her left hand. The former was her dominant, stronger one, so she hoped it would still be able to make the cut even when weakened.
She set the blade against the skin of her wrist - I'm sorry, mama, papa -, pressed down hard and pulled it diagonally toward her body. The tiny line of crimson soon widened, skin gaping open beneath a steady flow of blood. She watched the spectacle curiously, detachedly, followed the macabre bubbles on their way onto the stone floor.
Finally, she tore herself from her trance. With a little difficulty, the blade changed hands, slick with blood, strangely sticky and slippery at the same time. She repeated the motion on her left wrist, putting even more force into it, severing arteries, and something else that gave a snapping sensation - tendons, maybe? Still, what did it matter now?
The deed done, she neatly placed the blade on the dresser in front of her and curiously regarded both wrists streaming with blood. She was surprised at how little it actually hurt. To be honest, she had been a bit scared that the pain would be too much for her to finish, that she would have to give up halfway through. That she would fail again.
But not this time. Just this once, she had done something just right.
As her heart hammered ever faster in her chest, the sound almost deafening in her ears, a clammy feeling spread from her hands to her arms and dropped to her legs and feet. Accompanied by a strange, vibrating dizziness, the cold finally reached her head and began to numb her mind.
Not much longer now.
As her breaths grew shallower, a small smile gently tugged at her pale lips.
Yes, she had done good. She had really done good.
See, papa? Mama? I've done good!
Geralt felt his heart threaten to burst through his ribcage as the illusion was dispelled and his mind once again his own. Delicate fingers slowly trailed along his jawbone and came to rest on the white linens. Briefly he had to resist the urge to grab her hand, return it to his cheek to further ascertain himself that she was still there. Gradually, his pulse slowed, calmed by the knowledge of her very existence, her tangible presence, her warm body radiating the life he had just witnessed slipping from her.
"Yen…", his voice raw, his eyes sought hers while his thumb still caressed the faint scar that had prompted his question. A question he now wasn't sure he had had the right to ask.
But Yennefer gave him a rare, honest smile, the kind that reached even her unusual violet eyes. The one, he hoped, reserved for only him, and their daughter.
"You deserved to know, and I am glad you finally do."
Geralt hummed a wordless reply, unsure of how to express his own thoughts when he had so much trouble sorting them out himself. She knew them regardless, he was aware.
"Tissaia de Vries found me. She gave me quite the verbal lashing."
Geralt gave a small smile, his thumb still running circles along the scarred tissue.
"She was right to."
"I am not proud of what I did, Geralt. But I have no regrets", she supplied after a while, her gaze still steadily holding his. "Times were different then. I was not who I am now."
"For what it's worth, I love who you are, Yen. All scars included."
The sorceress raised her dark eyebrows, her eyes sparkling mischievously, ignited by his honest confession, and leaned toward him.
"Oh, and I love you, witcher. All of your scars included."
