#·· v; the experiment / VERSE3

[vanbredevoort]

starter for @caracarnn ♥

'To you, now a stranger,

It would be absurd to start this by saying that I hope this letter finds you well, since the reason for my writing is quite the opposite. Starting it by saying 'I hope this letter finds you', and nothing else, seems like an omen of bad luck I am trying to prevent by writing this words.

You were in the run when we met, and were still in the run when we met again. I would repeat that sentence eleven times, which is roughly the amount of encounters we had I can remember, if I had the patience. I do not know what kind of power envelops you that you seem to run in trouble over and over again (something I do not miss, by all means), but I know you're close to Toussaint because guards are knocking doors asking for you. Directions are being whispered. And if I know, it means they know.

As much as I sometimes wanted to strangle you myself, I am writing this to warn you: run again, as far as you can. Leave Beuclair, if you are here as the informants are saying. Do not let them kill you, for I plan to do that personally some day, and it would be rude of you to deprive me of that pleasure.

Live, Rand.'

Lydia did not sign the letter. She didn't have to. The parchment carrying the scent of jasmine would be her signature. And it would shook him--- after all, dead women tell no tales and usually, write no letters.

[vanbredevoort]

starter for @okruchlodu

Walking was a nighmare. Taking a deep breath was a luxury because there was a living being inside of her that did not like sharing space with her lungs. Fatigue was her new best friend.

It was a bad idea, and she didn't have enough fingers on her hands to count the reasons. Summarizing it to the important ones, being eight and a half months pregnant and alone took a secure top spot on the list.

Lydia did not usually venture out without Vilgefortz, but she did not like being a burden. And at this point of her pregnancy, she was the definition of one. It's just a quick trip to the market, she thought. If he knew-- She could blame it on the hormones, but guilt was a known feeling. After all, she had promised that this time she would let him protect her. And now---

"Oh, now you're kicking", she whispered, a hand placed on her swollen, oh very swollen belly, "Am I going to get scolded by both of you? Fine. Fine. I'm going home--"

She turned around and all she could see was black, violet and red. Black curls, loose and apparently wild but in reality brushed to perfection, beautiful violet eyes, and her own ANGER turned red. Fingers closed into fists. Walking turned to running.

"You... YOU!!", she screamed as she approached her, "YOU KILLED HIM!"

[vanbredevoort]

@krwioholik / continued from here

"That would be stealing. I'm just borrowing the saying from my husband."

Oil stained fingers tapped the canvas gently. Other painters, while she was studying in Oxenfurt, told her that when they painted, the rest of the world disappeared. For Lydia it was the other way around: when she painted, her eyes opened to everything.

The man's presence behind her wasn't making her uncomfortable. His tone was soothing and that kind of comfort went well with her painting-- a landscape. Her steady hand stretched, showing him the palette she was working with, as an offering.

"Pick a color. I'll add it, so I'll remember you when I see it"

She smiled at him, and the smile was filled with innocent joy and honesty. She would have not smiled if she knew that was the same man that tried to KILL her husband.

[vanbredevoort]

@enidrhena

The beautiful way the sunlight of Toussaint illuminated the room, Lydia thought, did not quite reach the perfection Francesca was. Not even her frown as she stared at the pictures Lydia had so diligently drawn for her could take away the ethereal perfection she carried in every single gesture and movement.

Athena slept peacefully in her crib, ignorant of the one-sided conversation that was being held in Lydia and Vilgefortz’s living room. Lydia had never been one to talk much, but her second attempt at life had changed a lot of her demeanor, and that included her self imposed silence. For an hour, an entire hour she had spoken, explained, with patience and politeness—because some things just don’t change.

“And that, Lady Findabair… is how babies are made”, she finished, “That’s how Vil and I made that one over there, the one you so passionately avoid. Questions?”

[vanbredevoort]

@wilczmin asked: she smells distinctly of jasmine, in a way that geralt can’t help but to stop and sniff. he tries not to make himself known, but the sound of rapid sniffing just can’t be helped. he ducks his head, turning his face away to hide his frown. / unprompted · always accepting!

Pale fingers pull the cloak back, revealing her face.

"You're not very handsome to start with. And when you frown like that, no matter how much you try to hide it, you're beyond ugly and downright scary"

She leans against the wall and folds her arms under her chest. She allows a moment of silence to pass. Sometimes Lydia misses the way her telephatic voice sounded like-- confident, cold. Did not crack. Her voice now is the same as before, a mere whisper, ethereal, weak. Frail, like her.

"Are you picking up a trail? Do you feel threatened? Or are you trying to remember, because you just forgot how this ghost used to smell like?"

Another moment of silence, where he sits and she stares.

The sound, steps that guide her to stand in front of him, bending slightly, leaning forward to be at eye level. The sight, a pale woman with bright, expressive green eyes filled with hatred. A woman that should be dead. The smell...

"It's still jasmine, Geralt. Minus the blood."

[vanbredevoort]

Anonymous (?) asked: ❝ nay nay dove !! it was not your time then nor is it now should you ask&plead ━━ my oh my, vilgefortz's little bird chirps prettier than i thought !! ❞ giddy, he claps again and sits on the edge of the bed. ❝ ━━ too bad it is not m i n e to cage ❞

For some reason the little dove monicker annoyed her, coming from him. For a very specific reason she remained silent about her discomfort towards it.

"Again, you do not make any sense"

In a bout of pride, she remained still as he sat at the end of the bed. She did, nonetheless, pull her knees up to hug them, wrapping her arms around them, eyes focused on the sheets.

"You must know I have no reason to plead for death now, Master Mirror. Not anymore", she whispered, "In fact, there's almost nothing that I value more than my own life now, but you also know that already"

Fear and anger. Whispers and silence. Silk and wishes. This time her eyes did find his own, trying and failing to see beyond the mask of humanity. To read the colors of his palette and find solace in knowledge--- alas, she could see none.

"If I am to... ask and plead, as you said, it would be for it to remain unchanged. Your presence here is an alert that THAT is wishful thinking. I am happy, happier than I've ever been. Do not profit on that."

She smiled, eyes suddenly bright with thoughts that escaped no one in that bedroom. Not herself, not the monster sitting on her bed as if he owned it.

"No matter what you do, no matter what you say, no matter what you plan--- you said so yourself. I'm not yours-- Never will be."

[vanbredevoort]

@rekakrola / continued from here

The woman's cold shackles had made crimson shreds of the tender flesh at her wrists && ankles. her once-pristine chemise was tattered at the hem, grime && muck creeping up the fine fabric. roche knew that underneath that shift were a few scattered raw welts from the whip's lashes, lacerations from it's clawlike knouts. his men had reported that they were afraid to lash her much more than the few times they already had, lest she perish on the spot. roche still couldn't make sense of how she had been a sorceress before, yet wasn't now - but her story didn't interest him half as much as her usefulness. ❝that's fine. you're not here to surrender. you're here for bait.❞ roche's arms crossed as he leaned against the worn stone wall. ❝van bredevoort... what's that last name, nilfgaardian?❞ his shoulders raised in an indifferent shrug. ❝i'm here to check on you && your conditions, van bredevoort. make sure we haven't killed you by accident, yet. a healer will come make sure your wounds aren't infected.❞ he didn't mention that after the wounds were healed, they would be replaced by newer ones. that sort of thing was usually assumed, in these situations. somewhere, water drip-drip-dripped into a puddle. the noise echoed in the chill air. ❝it's been a few days... what's the matter, doesn't vilgefortz care about you?❞

Talking hurt. Moving hurt. Shifting hurt. Gods, even thinking hurt. Her eyes were cast down, allowing herself a moment of brief respite. The lashing was particularly challenging. Her promise not to show weakness from the moment they took her faltered, and she did what they expected: she screamed and cried, but not even once she crumbled. Until he said that word.

Bait.

She was being used as bait to get to HIM.

The thought worked as a double edged sword. It weakened her knees ( bruised, dirty ), fear grasping at her throat so tightly she was out of breath, lips parting even more than when she was being beaten into a pulp. Her eyes, those green expressive eyes, spoke louder than any words-- and they said she'd rather get another lashing rather than be a tool to hurt him.

Double edged. Because there was relief. Because the thought spread like a balm after a short while, relaxed her muscles and strenghtened her resolve.

For him? She'd withstand an eternity of torture.

With renewed confidence, she had the indecency of smiling at her captor. Vernon Roche. Roche, who looked like he had lived a hundred lives, fought a thousand wars and had nightmares worth a million more. Who carried the pride of his nation like another skin.

"It is nilfgaardian, yes. I was born in south Nilfgaard-- Baccalà, actually", she whispered, as if making small talk with your kidnapper made absolute sense. He spoke of checking her and healers, and with another bout of disregard for her situation, Lydia bowed her head. "Oh no, most of your men know where to LASH and BEAT without doing serious damage. It's impressive and even commendable. Yet I say most because moustache guy, big, bald with the hooded eyes, needs some more training."

The mention of Vilgefortz made her stomach clench in ugly, painful ways. She tugged at her restraints but the mere action had her bending slightly in a spasm of pain. Lydia managed to adjust herself, her head resting on the pillar behind her.

"As you might have noticed, I'm not a sorceress anymore. Magic is traceable. Normal people? Not that easy to locate", she held his gaze, "This might have escaped you, but you do have a clue about his situation: you're still alive, Roche, and that means he hasn't found me yet."

[vanbredevoort]

@toussainttwins asked: Mistress van Bredevoort, is there any work of art, you admire so passionately, that would like to steal it? Oh, only in your dreams, of course! unprompted / always accepting!

“So many I cannot count them”

Lydia remained still, pondering about the apparently impossible task of picking one work of art to hypothetically steal. The stillness helped the progress, but it wasn’t like she had much of a choice, since one of the twins was braiding her hair so diligently the best Lydia could do was reciprocate with compliance.

“One comes to mind—Because there are few I admire as much as van Rogh. Mine are mostly historical scenarios, but van Rogh—van Rogh puts emotions to shame because it captures still moments that only exist in nostalgia, while you’re taking a long bath and remembering brief glimpses of happiness. Wishing your eyes would have captured it for eternity. While those moments last only in that finite shard of time, van Rogh puts it in canvas— It’s sadness and longing, it’s beauty in the darkest corner, that’s what van Rogh does.”

Lydia’s hand, when it came to painting, was far more simple. She drew what she saw and felt, and did not struggle with banality. Oblivious as she was, she never knew what her paintings meant to others, how they became tiny shards of her own soul that turned a canvas into a mirror to her heart and the colours of her feelings ( so vast, so many, when the painter showed none ). Lydia was proud of her work, but did not see the importance of it beyond the ephemeral moment when someone gazed upon them. Tissaia, cold and obsessive, loved them. Geralt, usually too focused on the present and the practical side of life, immediately grew fond of her work without even knowing she was the artist behind it.

“It’s not a well known artist, mind you, and ‘Starry Night Over the Pontar’ might be one of the only paintings that ring a bell about him. But I managed to catch a glimpse of an unnamed painting of a black haired woman near a window, and… see?”, her index finger pointed at the exposed skin of her arm, clearly affected, “Goosebumps. Just thinking about it.”

When she felt the weight of her own hair on her back, she turned her head around and smiled, with lips and eyes because some things just don’t change, no matter how many chances at life you get.

“But of course, this is hypothetical—I’m not into stealing. You’re not trying to drag me into stealing, right--? Wait, which one of you am I talking to?”

[vanbredevoort]

@fioletowaroza asked: “the hard thing is finding the courage to do it.” catching fire sentence starters / accepting!

She ran her hands through Iris' hair. It was a beautiful hair. Black and soft. All in all, it was but a mirror of the rest--- Iris was beautiful, period. That black hair cascaded and framed a strickingly beautiful face, a pair of breath taking green eyes and glossy lips that turned slightly upwards.

If she had any intention to pick a brush again, Lydia would have sketched her, captured her esence and immortalized it in a canvas. Iris had been painted before, but not through Lydia's eyes. With Lydia's hand.

Absentmindedly she kept stroking the black locks, allowing her hands to reach the ends, twirl them around her fingers and then watch as they fell down again. She repeated the process over and over again, sometimes tugging very slightly.

Iris' head lay on Lydia's lap. Tears ran down her cheeks. Down Iris'. Down Lydia's. Pale fingers stroked a pale cheek. Iris' green eyes were on Lydia's green eyes. But neither stared at each other---

I did not need courage, she thought. I just needed to be nothing better than a sacrifice, and a sharp dagger. I was one. I had one.

Lydia did not speak out loud. She saw no reason to do so. She did not want to. She just kept stroking, briefly wondering if Iris could feel it-- the way she delicately allowed her nails to brush against Iris' scalp, the softness in the way she wrapped the black locks around her fingers. It did not matter that this wasn't real, that the pretty world around her was made out of a painting, that she was actually cradling a corpse.

If Iris hadn't attacked her yet, being a wraith, it meant Lydia wasn't far from becoming one as well, after all.

[vanbredevoort]

Anonymous (?) asked: ❝ little dove! ❞ clap clap clap & a smile from master mirror ❝ it is marvellous to see you again!! that colour suits you perfectly ❞

"Maybe the third time is the charm."

She was slowly growing accustomed to her own voice. Five years of telepathy, then death, and then self imposed silence for two years ( she saw no reason to speak out loud back then ) make you forget the sound of your own, real voice. Soothing, so low one could think she was whispering-- that was the original her.

Right at that moment, it held notes of trying to sound confident yet cracking out of sheer fear. After all, she had almost screamed when he appeared out of nowhere. Her hands quickly pulled the sheets of their bed, as if covering herself would protect her, hiding the bordeaux nightgown he had just praised.

"Three times you have appeared for me, Master Mirror. Three times. The first one--- I do not remember much. I was Philippa's prisoner, and I remember asking you for death without knowing who you were. You did not grant me that wish"

Her fingers, usually steady, tugged at the sheets in a fit of nervousness.

"Second time, that one I remember clearly. It was the first time I was alone in the manor. You timed it perfectly because you knew he'd be away. You spoke, and did not make your intentions clear."

Only then, she looked at him.

"And now we have the third. I hope, Master, that this time you'll enlighten me about what you NEED from me, because I know enough about you to fear you, and ignorant enough to not understand the depths of your power. Ignorant enough-- but smart enough to guess I'm to become a puppet for something bigger than myself"

[vanbredevoort]

can you believe that this is real footage of resurrected!lydia feeding her daughter ???

[vanbredevoort]

Anonymous asked: CRIES

Motherhood, she had discovered, was a blessing and quite a journey of discovery. The discovery, this time, was that while Athena looked more like her father, she had her mother’s stubborness.

“I don’t--- know -- what -- to -- do!”

Lydia’s arms stretched, holding Athena with her hands under the baby’s armpits, as if the new point of view could give her a new perspective on how to make her stop crying as loudly as she was.

“She cries because Vilgefortz has been gone for few days. I try not to, but I cry about it too-- and when I cry, she immediately cries, over... solidarity for me!”, she stared staight into her daughter’s eyes, “I don’t know when he’s coming home, and I don’t know how your tiny lungs can produce this amount of noise!”

Hugging her against her chest didn’t work. Taking a walk through the gardens while rocking her didn’t work. Having a serious talk about the absurdity of it all, apparently, didn’t work either.

“I miss him too, little light, but we can’t both put banshees to shame at the same time. One of us has to hold it together, and you’ll learn when you grow up that that’s not your mother’s forte anymore”

A soft kiss on her forehead. Snuggling of cheeks. More wailing.

“It’s his voice, I know it is. When I was pregnant I had to tell Vilgefortz to stop talking at times because his voice made her kick, and she kicked like a HURRICANE. She misses his voice, and she doesn’t like it when I cry, and when you put all of that together--- well, we get to my current state of being unab-- Athena, love, please, stop crying!”

[vanbredevoort]

@snarkomancy

“Which you were prepared to die to uphold.” Philippa nods her head slowly, she cannot help but to give credit where credit is due. The sorceress passes her long stemmed pipe, carved ivory yellowed with age, from the left to the right and to the left again, brings it to her lips, inhales. A thin plume of smoke billows from the corner of her mouth, a cloying scent, sweet and rich and somehow intrusive.

She watches the smoke drift away through narrowed eyes, her mind turning Lydia’s words over and over.

“So what you are saying is it was about you. Screw love, Lydia. It was about you all along. Did you want to feel seen, by us? Make yourself a martyr, defiant until the very end? I’ve always seen you, Lydia van Bredevoort. And you just threw your life away.”

“Were you ever prepared to die for a cause that isn’t yours, Philippa?”, she asked, hands turning into fists as she folded her legs, trying her best to hide her discomfort. “It’s always got to be about you, isn’t it? About sorcerers. About what we represent... No. My love was only mine to deal with. Not for you, not for anyone else--- it was an act of defiance to the world that lets people like you triumph.”

A world that allowed Vilgefortz to die by the hands of that witcher, a fate that conspired against the sole mind that sought peace before pride of his cause.

“You’re selfish, you’re arrogant, and you think so highly of yourself you didn’t even let me die in peace, Philippa”

[vanbredevoort]

The Witcher, in an attempt to be...festive, had left a present where it would be found easily by Lydia. In it, was a fresh set of paints. Nothing fancy, nothing special. But something for her to continue the art he admired so much.

Her fingers ran through the tiny vials containing an asortment of colors for her to paint. Ironically, those fingers were already smeared with different oils from her most recent work.

“How many dumpsters did you swam into to afford this kind of paints, witcher?”, she asked, taking one of the bottles and shaking it, staring at the bottom of the vial, “You… mentioned you liked my paintings. And I’m guessing this is your silent way of saying it again. I… thank you… beetrot”