ficletober day 8 - rita/tissaia
As the new Rectoress of Aretuza, Margarita Laux-Antille can reliably be found hiding from her responsibilities in the office of former Rectoress Tissaia de Vries.
Takes place ambigiously pre-saga with some vague foreshadowing of canon events. I'd wanted to write a fix-it with Ciri attending Aretuza and Rita bitching while Tissaia just smiles knowingly, recalling Yennefer... but Rita got all emotional instead
"Ugh," moaned Margarita Laux-Antille as she collapsed into a chair across from Tissaia's desk. When her disgruntled moaning did not get her the desired attention and the chair proved to be horribly uncomfortable, she stretched out further and sighed deeply instead.
"Rita," said Tissaia de Vries without looking up, the scratch of her writing implement barely pausing. "You do realize you have an office of your own, yes? A much larger, nicer one. I should know. It was mine for a long while."
"Yes, but anyone can find me there," said Rita, dropping her head back against the arm of the chair, her curly hair spilling over it. As though anyone who knew anything would not search for her in Tissaia's office next. "Though I will say, my chairs are more comfortable than yours."
"Mine are plenty comfortable when one sits in them in a reasonable fashion," said Tissaia, though she had not looked up once the other woman entered and could not know what truly ridiculous position Rita was seated in this time.
Rita, who sprawled in an exaggerated lean with her heels kicked up on the small table beside the chair, adjusted her posture into even more of an unreasonable slump. She sighed more deeply and dramatically still and stared up at the arched ceiling.
"These girls are going to be the death of me. Not a single one of them knows what's good for them."
"You're meant to teach them that."
"Yes, well, they're either dumb as rocks or deliberately ignoring the lesson."
"Rita, I don't believe it's good form for the Rectoress to call her students 'dumb as rocks'," said Tissaia. "No matter how true it is." The phrase sounded very silly spoken in her level tone, and Rita giggled.
"I trust you won't tell anyone," she said, adjusting her sitting position to find Tissaia watching her, one thin brow arched. The dull scratch of her quill paused as she dipped it in the inkwell and then resumed, her attention returned to her work.
It perplexed Rita that she continued to use such an antiquated and mundane form of writing, especially given how much time she spent lost in writing and research. Rita owned several of the market's latest gadgets, from pens with self-contained inkwells thinner than a finger to magical contraptions that leapt across the page to the sound of the user's voice. The latter had saved her a fair bit of mortification in her position as Rectoress. Her penmanship was atrocious on her best day.
Rita forgot, often, how old Tissaia truly was. No matter how many times she observed the older sorceress, she could find no real marks of that great age. How unfair that the sorcerers of the same era have grown wizened and grey, their wrinkles and pockmarks and long wisps of beards lending them a mark of status, a respected wisdom, and yet, no sorceress has ever been allowed to show even a grey hair or a blemish without being regarded as a dowdy old witch who has lost her touch.
Rita tried to picture Tissaia with the stoop and hardened features of an ordinary village hedge witch and could not. She appeared timeless, her hair slicked back into a neat braid, her skin pale and smooth. Her long, nimble fingers, showing no signs of stiffness of the joints, delicately lifted a finished page by the edges to set aside to dry. Rita watched as they laced together under Tissaia's chin, realizing she had spent several quiet minutes staring at those fingers and that the woman's attention had suddenly returned wholly to her.
"Well, go on," said Tissaia. "I know you'll sit there groaning and sighing the rest of the evening if you don't spit out the real reason you're not in your own office working. And I'm sure you have a good deal of work that you're avoiding. And more piling up the longer you delay here."
Rita groaned.
"Don't remind me," she says. "You should see the stack of documents waiting in my inbox, I swear they're in danger of spilling over and–" Tissaia's facial expression said she would truly rather not see or imagine a disaster like that. "Truthfully, I… it's lonely."
The office of the Rectoress of Aretuza was tall-ceilinged and ornately furnished, the shelves and cabinets stocked with anything she required, the portraits of figures of note in the school's history staring out from gilded frames along the long, shadowed vestibule. Rita found that her own portrait hardly looked like her at all, too severe and upright, and Tissaia's also had a wan coldness to it that did little to reflect her true nature.
Tissaia may be stiff and formal and particular, appearing unfeeling and disinterested, but to those who knew what to look for, her eyes always betrayed the depth of her compassion and conviction.
The way she watched Rita now was undeniably warm, her cheek settling with the slightest soft give against her laced hands. It ignited a horrible possessive fondness in Rita. Did Tissaia look at anyone else like that, allowing then to see a small glimpse of what could be perceived as weakness? Did she know what her trust and care meant to Rita, to be selected of all possible candidates as her successor, to have spent years in teaching and preparing her, to openly give her this time and attention now, though it would be a simple thing to ignore or shoo her?
Rita had always felt like too much. Too messy, too scattered, too loud and sensual and stubborn in her emotional convictions, and it made little sense that Tissaia ever tolerated her. And yet, she was never been made to feel like her presence became an imposition, unwanted and irritating.
Someday, she thought, I will be brave enough to confess what that means to me.
Tissaia was old, and Rita would be old too someday. She planned to be there beside her. They had all the time in the world.
"It's lonely," Rita said again. "I don't know how you stand it, sitting alone in this office all day."
"I rarely feel alone," said Tissaia, smiling a small, fond smile, "knowing that you are likely to call on me."
It was a hopeful and ageless sort of love, what she felt for Tissaia. A love without words and with no need for swift consummation or grand declarations. Unlike their stuffy portraits thet would hang for all tome in Aretuza's halls, it was a love that reflected their true natures, their shared warmth and deep passion.
Years on, after all the dark and terrible and lonely things that inevitably transpired, Margarita could only hope that that had been enough.
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