This is the first chapter of a longer work to be uploaded as they're written. Chapters will get smuttier, so be warned.
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of The Witcher. All of the quotes in the first chapter are taken directly from the game.
The first time Geralt met Iorveth, he thought he was a pompous asshole. Granted, an asshole who could play the flute like a gentle songbird, but an asshole nonetheless.
"King or beggar, what's the difference," Iorveth declared when Roche had accused him of aiding Foltest's killer. "One dh'oine less."
And if Geralt sliced off the elf's pretty head now, there would be one heartless killer less.
Not that Roche was much better, goading the scoia'tael leader with fighting words when Iorveth charged him with the genocide of nonhumans—women and children included. In Geralt's mind, they were both terrorists. But he had allied himself to one of these terrorists in order to find Foltest's killer and clear his name. Defending the kingslayer's ally wouldn't do much for his reputation.
So he distracted Iorveth with political talk to give Triss a chance to prepare a spell that would get them all out of there—"political talk" being a polite way to describe the jibes he spewed to embarrass Iorveth in front of his archers.
"Seems like you spout the same old elvin drivel," he began.
Iorveth turned his attention to Geralt for the first time then, no doubt wondering what a professional monster hunter and mutant was doing in the company of the Blue Stripes, who had no fondness for nonhumans. "What do you mean, witcher?"
"I've seen your kind before," Geralt went on. "Proud Aen Seidhe, sneaking around forest. Helpless, yet masking that with acts of increasing cruelty."
That got to the elf. His mouth turned down in a sneer, his voice growing harsh with a flaring temper. "I helped kill Roche's king—you call that helpless? Or would you call me a terrorist?" He took a breath to calm himself. "No one will grant us our freedom, witcher. We must win it for ourselves."
Geralt felt a pang of empathy for the elf. That was what Iorveth wanted, though—to include him in a community, in the "we" that formed the scoia'tael and their supporters. Perhaps what Iorveth said was true. But Geralt wasn't one to sell his soul to an ideal. He did what was best for himself. He was no freedom fighter.
Or so he told himself as he retorted, "You're just another old elf in a young elf's skin, using clever words to mask an obvious truth."
"Obvious, you say?" Iorveth spewed. Geralt didn't want to make a mockery of the scoia'tael's cause—it was a worthy one, though carried out through unworthy means. But he suspected that he was right, and pointing out the truth would give Triss more time to prepare.
"This is not about race or freedom, or even vengeance," he shouted to the elf and his cohorts. "You're here because someone powerful told you to be. Someone who's using you. They might wear a crown, carry a magic wand, or even lead a guild. But be sure of this: it's not about your freedom, your rights, or your ears. Nilfgaard ploughed you once. Now someone new does." He looked at the rage in Iorveth's eye and almost hated himself for asking, "Am I wrong?"
Geralt could tell that Iorveth was uncertain under that red scarf he used to hide his disfigurement, but he raised his battle-roughened voice over his own doubt, and Geralt could see—or, rather, hear—why young elves were so eager to join Iorveth's war. "Those times are done. No one will ever use the scoia'tael again."
Geralt couldn't help but challenge him. "Who are you addressing?" he asked. "Me? Yourself? Or the archers in those shrubs?"
Iorveth didn't have to respond to that last crack. When Geralt acknowledged Iorveth's archers, the archers responded with a shower of arrows that would have left a mark if not for the barrier Triss cast just before collapsing into Roche's arms. And so the conversation concluded.
Perhaps Geralt should have been jealous that Roche was marching to Flotsam with his hands on Geralt's woman's "lovely ass." But he couldn't find it in himself to care. He kept turning back to glimpse the sculpted face of the scoia'tael leader, at the fire in the elf's left eye and at the intriguing scar that disappeared under fabric red as blood. He found himself wanting to lift the scarf from Iorveth's face and let the sun gaze on the rest of the scar for the first time in who knew how long, relieving the elf of at least part of his burden.
Geralt didn't know why he suddenly felt so much tenderness toward a terrorist, but he wanted to get rid of it. He swung his steel blade at Iorveth's men with added vigor. Iorveth was the enemy, he reminded himself—for now.