Chapter 1: Sleep is sleep, Dh'oine
1274, Upper Aedirn, Pontar Valley, South East of Vergen
Ailidh stood beside a lone, tall birch tree that's upper canopy blocked most of the midday sun from doing more damage to her skin than it already had in the last few hours - as if she wasn't sun-burnt enough already - her countless freckles were vulnerable enough as it was to the dangers of the bloody sun.
She complained in silence, staring angrily at the onset of a pinkish sunburn on the top of her hands and forearms, wishing she had worn her long-sleeved blouse instead of the thinner and cooler one she had decided on this morning – she thought it'd be too hot otherwise - which turned out to be terrible logic. Her empty hand soothingly rubbed the sore skin, while the other held hydration to her mouth, allowing her lips the soft touch of water. Closing her eyes for short intervals, she relished in the refreshment, with at times the water missing her tongue, and dribbling down her face in trickling patterns, falling onto the soil below her.
She huffed and puffed vigorously, shakily swallowing the lukewarm water she had scavenged from a rather clean stream nearby, keeping it that way in a waterskin. Her eyes searched the forest floor, scanning for any more clusters of Celandine - she had begun to run low on the flower after her previous trips and trades. Wiping away the mess of her clumsy drinking, she left the tree and continued to walk ahead, heading further in West – heading home- perhaps healing a flesh wound, selling goods or giving medical advice, nothing new. Irra would be busy with patients, hoping for her return with the supplies.
Her walk went on for a few minutes - her smaller, younger form compared to the large and old trees - strolling from one area to the other, gathering clusters of random plants and flowers, the majority being Celandine and the rare being Mousetail orchids, carrying them in a broad and rather bottomless wicker basket profuse with other objects, like the odd slice of bread, vegetables, ointments and potions she handed out to patients she visited some days when they couldn't travel.
She appeared quite natural to the environment in a strange way, well, the most being that she didn't look as if she didn't belong in the Forest. She wasn't clumsy, disorientated or ditzy, but she certainly wasn't fluent and elegant. She was just … her, Ailidh. A girl, that perhaps wouldn't stand out in the earthy colours and tones of the Forest if it weren't for the vibrant, red cloth adorning her belt, particularly on her left hip, acting as an ornament or decoration of some kind. It swung swiftly from side to side, following her movements, its red was like a rose, intense, rich and smooth. The fabric expensive in appearance, just as it was in wealth.
It was chiffon and lace melded together, a material intensely outstanding to her mostly cotton and wool wardrobe, its colour unmissable and quite beautiful to her – and of course, the most expensive item she owned. It hung from her waist along with her satchel internal with medical tools, coin pouches, and waterskin.
Although she knew no one would take notice of her attire or appearance - only her skills and help - she liked the idea of wearing such a thing, it distinguished her from who most thought she was, just a low-class, plain healer in progress, not even an actual certified medic.
However, in that moment, as she was knelt down picking a single plant's root from the ground, she felt like she was being watched. She heard a crunch of a branch or stick, a breath of something alive. Lips thinning out; skin and muscles growing stiff and tight, she dropped her basket gently on the ground and grasped a long, sturdy stick from lazily laying on the grass and dirt - holding it tight in both hands she spun quickly on her feet - a loud cry exploding from the depths of her lungs as she stumbled backwards in a failed attempt to step away from the rather innocent looking Deer who settled by a patch of grass, grazing at its strands.
Her heaving breaths and sighs of relief soon transformed into subtle giggles and murmurs, to then violent laughs, acquiring the animal's utmost attention. Its eyes wide and doe-like, curiously gazing at her from those few meters away.
'I apologise if I scared you, I thought you were- I actually don't know what I thought you were,' Ailidh began to communicate to the Deer, waiting for the animal to run away from her in fear or perhaps annoyance, but to her surprise, it stayed and listened, applying its focus on not eating, but to her only. The Deer's friendly gesture offered her retreat and rest, confidence to sit on her bum and relax for a little while, 'Um, well, my name is Ailidh; I'm really not that important, have a home, am a healer in progress and like solitary walks in Forests … who are you?' She joked with a humorous smile, gesturing to the Deer, who responded with a tilt of its head, as if it were understanding her in some way, again offering her confidence to continue. She found that this Deer listened to her with more interest than most patients, besides Dillon that is, the young boy always liked chatting with her whenever she visited his Mother… Soon, however, she was lost in a rather one-sided conversation with only an observer.
'Huh. You too?'
'It's incredibly hot today, could mean there's a storm to come this afternoon, the West was looking pretty dark when I left home earlier today.'
'Hmm, I know! My hair's falling apart! I'm not too good at doing up my hair, it's not on my list of skills you see. Irra's always trying to teach me but it never goes to any effect. So, I just put it in this simple bun, pretty ridiculous really, but I like it.' Ailidh rambled while playing with the hair that fell from the side of her head - her invisible sideburns – Hair was hanging left, right and centre from the loose bun she had behind her head to keep it from her sight, its waves loose and unpleasant in some places, the colour of it being a rather dull brown, darker than an Ash tree's bark, yet lighter than mud, a similar colour to her eyes that gazed off to the distance while Deer seemed to doze off too. Ailidh could promptly sense her eyes shutting down on her, every breath seemed to be lethargic and uncaring, every sound did nothing to poke a bit of worry or alarm in her. She was floating above water, in a state that walked the thin line between awareness and- well unawareness. She was about to allow the fatigue to take her, knock her unconscious on the very Forest floor she sat on -until that noise- the scream. Her eyes twitched under closed lids, her mouth shivered … her throat tightened. The scream again … Like a woodwind instrument being blown too hard, it squealed in the air filled with a pain and fear that shouldn't have sounded so palpable in a human voice.
Cry's, wails and screams continued. The crackling of flames like branches in a fierce wind, the smell of something burning, something grotesque. The cheers and laughs caught in the midst of war cry's, battle songs. Ailidh! Ailidh!
'Ailidh! Run for the forest! Go! Don't look back! I'll … we'll come find you!'
She sprang up from the leaves, chest bouncing up and down violently. Her eyes surveyed her surroundings hastily and fearfully; terrified of where she had woken up, relieved to discover she was still in the clearing alone. The colours speedily interchanged before her eyes; green, brown, grey … She realised quickly that the sun no longer rested in the sky above, and the trickling down her face and neck wasn't sweat, but growing rain. Gasping from her throat, she stood in a hurry, cursing under her breath and tangling the basket in her hands.
Irra … Irra. Damnit!
She ignored the pounding of her heart, the memories that flooded her mind like wildfire. She ignored the ringing of screams echoing in her ears like a bell chiming constantly. She ignored the shuddering of her bones and skin as she sprinted in the direction of home, ignored the cold stabs of heavy rain.
Instead, she focused on the squishes and crunches of her boots pounding against the ground – The sound of crashing waves that were, in fact, an array of single water-droplets falling into the earth like arrows being fired upon her in the midst of battle. She ran, never looking back – Too set on walking through that door and finding Irra. Comfort, all she wanted was comfort. Home. Ailidh wanted home.
Ailidh, presently calmer than before felt a spark of absolute conciliation at the sight of glowing – perhaps a little more dim than usual- lights calling for her in the windows of the homestead. The wooden door yelled for her to open it and fall on her face within the safety of the large shack. She made her way to the entrance, the surface begging for her to slam it open in a fit of desire for warmth. She was drenched from head to toe and knew the goods, the supplies would be too … She felt the anger return a little, but she held it back in her stomach – dropping the basket on the porch – She leaned forward against the door and waited for it to swing gently inwards. She expected to be greeted with a familiar hug, a familiar scent of spiced stew, a familiar and sweet voice … Yet, the door never swung open. It was jammed, locked shut.
'What?' She mumbled, the palm of her hands pushing softly at first, but growing impatient she pushed a little harder. Come on! She began to panic, of course, her eyes growing wide and heart pounding against her ribs. She raised her fist against the door and knocked gingerly, hoping that maybe Irra was busy, occupied and had locked the door for safety precautions. No sound … Not even a rustle from within … It was soundless -that's when the worry set in stone – Ailidh, breathing heavily knocked harder, louder. Nothing … No response.
'Irra! Are you okay? Are you in there? It's me! It's Ailidh!' She shouted mildly, careful to not raise her voice too loud that it would reach ears from afar. Ears that would be best not to hear her. Abandoning the door and wicker basket, she found her way to the window. She leaned on her tip toes and peered in. Everything was in order. Not a single piece of furniture had been moved or touched … The hearth was lit and in use, the table and chairs weren't as such, but there was an empty bowl placed neatly on the surface of the bench. She shouted again, colliding her knuckles with the window sill quietly, growing louder and louder by the minute.
Ailidh stood like that for a moment; watchful and observant for any noise, any movement from within. It was like a Skelton of a room, everything was structured right, it was only missing the flesh and blood … Irra, it was missing life.
That's when she heard it. A thump, and then a whisper … It wasn't female, familiar or anything of the sort. And it was certainly enough to push Ailidh over the edge, her fears began to come true. Panicking - mind and heart racing – she seethed painfully, teeth gritting together as her stomach muscles contracted, her arms strained and lungs burned with terror. She lifted herself through the open window clumsily and with great noise crawled awkwardly through the cut-out wood. She swore loudly and boorishly, unconcerned of what would happen to her. She just wanted to know Irra was safe.
The whispers intensified as she stumbled to the soft (Yet not soft enough) flooring. Her back hit with a thud, and legs up in the air. She lay on her back for a moment, taking the time to catch her bearings and think of a plan. A plan did conjure in her head, but it was in no way reliable or efficient.
She lifted herself from the thick rug adorning the otherwise hard foundation of the building -knowing what she would do if there were actual intruders – Scream and kick, maybe even reason with them. In all truth, she had no idea, but she continued to sneak closer and closer to the medic room … That's where the whispers and quiet arguing could be heard. Someone was arguing with someone under their breath, she heard her own name mentioned a few times. Her back began to straighten and her heart began to set back to a normal, average pace … Irra was speaking with a man? More than one man? It wasn't in common speech either, elder speech. So, elves … they were elves. She discerned that much as her feet attempted to be stealthy and silent … Not possible but certainly not impossible. She tried her hardest to stay stable and in-control of her breathing as she turned the corner and peeked into the opened door.
She hitched in a gasp, held it down in her chest and swung away from the corner. Falling into the wall rather forcefully, she knew they saw her and even then, they would have heard her well-enough to know she was there without seeing a single bit of her. Yet they ignored her? Didn't respond to her presence. Thank the gods.
There were five men, all Aen Seidhe … Nothing unusual, nothing weird, nothing to be afraid of. It wasn't them, their race, their gender or the number of which they were, as they sat on the beds listening to Irra speak in hushed tones. It was their attire … Their war paint. Their bows and arrows, daggers and swords. They were Scoia-tael. Fists clenched tight, she closed her eyes, locking them shut to find some form of respite. She breathed slowly and hesitantly, allowing herself the time to recollect her mind and thoughts.
Scoia-tael … Scoia-tael were in their house… And more horribly, they were here willingly, well willingly on Irra's behalf it seemed as she spoke politely to all of them. No, no … She wouldn't do that to Ailidh, she would not do that to her. After everything that had happened – even more, they were war criminals, not to be trusted and if they were to be trusted, it was against the law! Irra and Ailidh would be betraying the Empire by allowing them haven in this house! Her throat began to tighten as if her airway had become swollen and breathing was no longer natural to her but something to fight for; as if it were inflamed and she was asthmatic. Her heart audibly pounded, jumped as if it was attempting to escape her chest, her eyes lost focus; everything was blurred as if she were underwater … drowning.
They would kill her. They would kill her, and Irra wouldn't be able to stop them. Ailidh felt the impending doom, no matter how ridiculous she knew it was, it was always a possibility, it didn't stop them from trying last-las… There was nothing to stop them from hurting her for what she was… A Dh'oine. Her fingers numb, shakily reached to her chest, rubbing in circles to calm herself to an extent. What was she supposed to do? Why were they here? What were they here for? It didn't seem like they were hostile, besides those weapons … but how could she know for sure? Wouldn't it be best to leave it? Calm down, ask questions later? Have faith that Irra wouldn't put her in such danger? But would she? Would Irra really do that? It seemed like Ailidh didn't know the woman anymore, and it was wrong … shattered her everywhere. It burnt and cursed her memories to manipulate her view of everything. Irra deserved much more than that … but did she?
'Ailidh? Oh gods … come here.' Irra's voice provoked her from the trance, the calmness and familiarity welcomed and amiable. Ailidh, returning her awareness, sensing the blood flowing through her veins once again, moved her sight to the woman standing by the table, holding her arms open … asking for her to join. She shuddered, stumbled but did her damn hardest to walk over to Irra in one-piece, not to fall apart right before her eyes.
And she didn't, although not without a crack or break in her spirit. Ailidh fell into Irra's arms, gathering warmth and courage to speak – to stop panicking and surmising – but instead to ask, and to-to try … try and understand. 'Why are they here? Please, tell me why they're here?' Ailidh questioned faintly, face embracing the thick fur Irra adorned around her chest and neck, the rain-water leaving Ailidh and spreading to Irra.
'Ailidh … I know – I understand that this will hurt you, anger you even. I understand that you have reason to object, but you must listen and understand just as I have done for you,' Irra hushed, petting Ailidh's head with kind, caring strokes. The woman's blonde hair the scent of flowers, tickling at Ailidh's nose and mouth, 'These elves are honourable, good people at heart, they may fight for a cause you – you may disagree with but they are injured, without home and wish for security. I know their commander, I knew him when he was young … he will not hurt you, neither will his men. I won't let that happen. You know I won't-'
'Irra! Why-how … how could you expect me to believe that? I can't believe this … any of it. I don't care what these people are like! I'm not staying here with them, I can't! I will not live in a house with murderers! Maybe they are injured, fine! Help them, give them the help they need, but I'm not staying under this roof while you do so! You know I can't, so I don't know why you expected me to understand!' Ailidh released herself from the arms of the woman, standing on her own two feet, hands flaying around, eyes wide with outrage, skin red and burning. She couldn't stop herself, she wished she could, but she couldn't, 'How could you do this Irra? You're right, it does hurt me! And I am angry, but I will not understand! I don't need to understand, they don't deserve me to understand! Not after what happened … And for you to say they're without home and security? For you to say that. Did you forget about when I was ten! When I didn't have a home, when they destroyed it in front of my eyes! They didn't give a damn so why should I!'
'Ailidh!' Irra abruptly shouted, her own blue eyes ice with fury and worst of all, disappointment. There was that glaze over those pale eyes, something Ailidh always hated witnessing, especially when it was directed at her. It halted Ailidh instantly, her eyes unable to keep the tears from collecting with the rain-drops that had only just begun to dry. She sniffled, quietly sobbed, realising what she had done. She had screamed at the top of her lungs to the person who- who … right at the one person who did happen to care, who happened to give a damn, 'I thought you would be more compassionate … Where's the girl I brought up? Where's the girl whom was so kind and caring, gave a damn about everyone no matter who they were - This isn't about the past anymore, not everything is about the past - you need to realise that … These people weren't the ones who did that to you, were they? So why should they suffer for it? You're shouting hypocrisy. You always make sure to say how wrong the Scoia-tael's views, ideology's and actions are … but here you are, spouting from your mouth the very same things they do. One person, one group, one army even, does not represent a person. It does not represent every single individual, and that is why it is wrong to believe that all humans, alike all elves, all dwarves, all halflings are one thing, when they are so much more. I thought you were so much more.' Irra reasoned coolly, voice quiet but powerful. Like a gentle breeze colliding with bells, ringing, echoing something more influential, something that resonated in Ailidh. And oh, it hurt … It struck her where it hurt most.
There was silence then. Ailidh peering away from Irra, refusing to meet her eyes. It was unfair, unfair but she knew it was true.
'I'm -I'm sorry Irra. I had no right to- to. But I won't change my opinion of them … I can't, I just can't even if I wanted to, even if it makes me a hypocrite … I don't know how to. So maybe it'd be best if I stayed in Vergen for a while.' Ailidh said truthfully, whispering under heavy breaths knowing full well they could all hear the discussion. They all heard what she said, and they probably hated her the more for it. Another reason for her to stay in Vergen while Irra aided them. Irra however, shook her head in disregard, disagreement.
'No. Don't apologise, don't make excuses. Anyone can change their perspective, but only those who are willing to. You're not, and because of it, of course you won't know how, unless you learn. You can learn Ailidh.' Irra began, her eyes lightening, something ticking in the woman's mind like a clock … She was planning something, Ailidh realised shortly and surely. A shiver running down her spine, she made no sound. 'It would be so easy for you to leave, you would learn nothing, and you would regret it. You will stay Ailidh, and you will help them … and perhaps they will help you. Perhaps they will learn. Teach them that they're wrong too, that there's more to humans than they think - Yes, you will do so. You live under my roof, you will do what I say.' Irra suddenly argued, watching as Ailidh peered down, shaking her head in conflict and unease. Ailidh knew it was true … It was true … The more she thought on it, the more she hated it however. Because it was true, what if she did learn that-that it wasn't right to think of them as this entity that hated her kind … killed with cruelty and no remorse … What if her perspective did change … what if she forgave them? What about her parents? Would forgiving them, betray her family? Clear the memories of what really happened, destroy it all … No justice, no consideration of them. No. Never.
'Not like I've any choice, right? I'll just suck it up, do what I do best - do what I'm told.' Ailidh said apathetically, an attempt at coming across as deadpan and uncaring, knowing full well it would irritate Irra … and something deep down wanted that. She was just as irritated herself, because it wasn't true. She wasn't apathetic to this, she did care. She really did care. This was no justice for her parents… Yet, this wasn't about her parents, it shouldn't be about her parents. Still, Ailidh hoped she had hurt Irra just as Irra hurt her, but, it seemed to have done the exact opposite however, for Irra smiled at her … eyes calculating yet nurturing all the same. 'No, you will do what you believe is right. Give yourself a chance. I know you. You will certainly do what you do best – you will show compassion to those who might not deserve it from you.'
No, they didn't deserve it … not from her.
The Scoia-tael don't deserve compassion and she hated herself for it, because she knew -inevitably, no matter how long it would take – she would someday have sympathy for them, she would forgive them … You can only hate something for so long.
Ailidh was perched cosily by the hearth, snuggling into the cushions of the solitary armchair. She sat there, staring blankly into the flames that snapped, lashed out at her vividly. The warmth radiating from the fire was sultry, kept her protected from the cold wind seeping through the eyes of the house. Steam flew by her own eyes at times, slithering from the scorching fusion of stew and boiled water that sat in a bowl, cradled in her hands.
There was a silence, she sat there alone; at times taking a spoonful of the stew or pitching her silent gaze to the open window parallel to her. It had become routine in the last few days – well, last few nights – she would come home with the plants, the coin, the groceries – she would come home in the late afternoon quietly and stealth like – hoping to avoid coming across one of them.
She knew it was disrespectful, against what she was taught– but she was scared – terrified of what would happen if she did – if she did encounter one of them. She feared their eyes, she feared how they would look at her; she knew they would look at her with hate and she was afraid.
She peered down at the clumpy substance within the bowl, playing with it, rolling it under her spoon, listening faintly to the laughs and joyful chatter coming from the back room that used to house people, usually from nearby settlements, who would receive medical aid, rest for a night or two. They would arrive at the door step with a fever, a cold or with an illness that couldn't be cured but soothed; there would be women whom were with child, women who didn't want the child… There would be people who suffered the aftermath of war – rape, scars, mental illnesses – never was there joy or happiness. But, now, as she sat alone, solemn and quite captured in her own thoughts, she could hear happiness, almost reach out to it as if it were something real, an entity that haunted that room she had not set foot in since they first arrived.
They weren't completely ghosts however – they were real – she had witnessed passing shadows, flickers of colour strolling the bones of the house like fairies, soft-treaded, light and mysterious on their feet. They were avoiding her as well she realised … But it wouldn't last long, for she was to begin helping them tomorrow morning. Irra had demanded so. Ailidh was to assist in keeping the room clean, to make sure they were receiving the care they needed. To make sure they were eating, to make sure their wounds were clean and not vulnerable to infection. It was frustrating to say the least, they seemed and sounded capable enough to do that themselves …
A frown set in her eyebrows … but also, a strange tug at her lips. A smile … A smile?
She should have been angered, well – she was to a certain degree – but she couldn't stay that way. The cheers and laughs were too contagious, too lively and innocent. A sudden desire overcome her, a sudden drive to stare at the door that blocked her view of them. What are they like? Are they kind? Are they cruel? Are they sad? Is their spirit, their essence damaged? Ailidh - although really didn't care too much for the Scoia-tael - knew they had suffered greatly in the past few years, Nilfgaard's victory surely didn't improve their lifestyle. It puzzled her that they stayed in upper-Aedirn, it was practically a province to the Empire now … There was that pinch, that dull, aching pain in her chest then, and she attempted to draw it out as quickly as possible, yet part of her didn't want to. How could she anyway? It was natural, natural to feel that way.
She was being irrational – and as she sat alone listening intently to the rather humorous discussion occurring in that damn room – she knew for certain; she didn't hate them. No, she couldn't hate them, she just hated what happened, and what the Scoia-tael do, not who they are.
A spark, an energy expanded in her impulsively; an intensity of something foreign, something she had never felt before. It was light and chanted in her ear, it told her to stop sulking and to swallow her pride. Go into the room … Introduce yourself …
Her lips extended into a large smile, her heart pounded pleasantly against her ribs. Nervous, anxious, afraid … all of it, but she felt a strong pull, a desire to meet them and apologise. Yes, that's what it was. She had found a new courage in her thoughts. There was no reason to sit alone and worry over the future to come …
She cleared her throat, standing from the chair hesitantly but surely. A mild clatter of a bowl on the floor. A heavy inhale of air and a freeing exhale, she walked shyly, timidly, but she walked, made her way closer and closer to that door. Echoes of laughter and glee – Come on Ailidh, they're not going to murder you in your own home …well, hopefully. She was still a dh'oine, they're going to be suspicious, but she could handle that. She could handle anything, she always did.
Ailidh's eyes watered unintentionally, hand shaking and with tremor, as she raised it to the door above her head. Prepared to collide her knuckles with the surface of the wood; hopeful for a response, for the door to open and – and for her to be accepted… Accept me, please accept me. She suffocated the begs within her mind, but used them as a prayer to whatever would help her in that moment.
Mere seconds away, her eyes wide with expectation as her fist motioned forward, the impending knock so close, so near. Come on … You can do it. Get it over and done with –
'I'm surprised Dh'oine. Thought you had meant to disregard them as mere murderers – not worthy of your attention. To expect them to open that door and welcome you with open arms would be hypocritical don't you think?' A new voice postponed her intentions.
The voice was distinct and alarming to Ailidh, it was acute yet slowly-drawn, polished yet coarse. All small details that added together, forming an image of what this Scoia-tael member could look like. He was male - that was for sure –and she predicted with anxiety that he did not like her one bit. Extracting her hand from the door, she pulled it to her side and swallowed hard. The prickling and nagging of something sharp elevated up her legs to her stomach. This was not going to go well.
'I- I guess I shouldn't have expected it, but I would have liked to have tried -' She began, hoping to keep her cool – or in other terms, not to come across as defensive – but it wouldn't matter much anyway. When she moved on her feet to face the man, feeling his presence on the far side of the room near the dining table … She froze, stumbled in her words – She lost track of all collective thoughts – she peered down instantly knowing she had stared too long. He had noticed too; his response being a scoff through his nostrils. The atmosphere shifted to something ungraceful, unrefined and rigid. When you are forced to speak with someone above your rank, or when you speak with someone who had suffered a tremendous amount of pain and you are established to say something when you know nothing you do or say could help; change anything – there's nothing you can say or do – that was how it felt.
Come on Ailidh, you've seen much worse scars in the past … so why did this one impact her so much? Why did it shake her to the bone to witness that raw blow of cruelty on the man's face, the hollow chasm where his right eye should have been. It was disturbing, not for its appearance but for how it must have conjured there. The pain he must have experienced when it had happened. The torn, inflamed flesh running like blood from his missing eye to his top lip. It must have been a wound that wasn't treated, festered quickly, then maybe healed too aggressively.
Arguing with herself; obtaining an inner altercation within her mind on whether or not she was going to continue to speak and respect this man's presence and question, or whether she was going to do neither and run off to her room. She found herself leaning towards the easiest way out. To cower away, but a twitch in her neck said otherwise.
Raising her eyes to him, she did her hardest to ignore the scar – steering to the left side of his face – yet, it did nothing to supress her nerves, in fact it heightened them. She was conflicted with where to stare, and almost found it less nerve-wracking to stare at the scar instead of the untouched side of his face… Switching between green and nothingness, she made her first move.
'I would have liked to have met them- to apologize for what I-I said. It'd be better if we could be on good terms with one another before tomorrow morning, you see, I'll be helping them, you included, for the rest of the time you spend here, that's all. I'm not here to change the way you think about me, and I guess you could say the same.' She reassured, finding her eyes setting on his, a dull green framed with thick eyelashes that were a similar colour to the long, unruly dark hair framing his pale face.
The edge of his mouth raised a touch, appearing as a snarl, a wild animal bearing their teeth at her albeit a bit more humane and subdued than that. Maybe it was meant to be a smile, not a genuine one but a smile. This caused an uproar of something in Ailidh, it wasn't unpleasant however, and it confused her. 'Is that so. You might need to rethink your technique of saving face, dh'oine – and as we stand, I won't be requiring your support. Neither will my men.' He spoke strongly through gritted teeth, bringing his legs closer to where she stood. He wasn't aimlessly tall, but his height towered over her; she was just a shadow of something greater standing before all his might. Wide-eyed, she gawked at him; not with awe but with a new anger. She held it in, repressed it but patience was running short as he continued to act condescendingly. Treating her as if she were a child – perhaps even an animal. She pushed her back against the door, hoping to disappear into nothing as he blocked her view with his lean body.
'To think that Irra has you in this house willingly is bewildering to me. Suppose I can't change her mind and send you to Vergen where the rest of your kind dwell like vermin – it would have been spectacular to see.' He remarked spitefully, a shimmer in his eye conveying he very much enjoyed the reaction she was giving him. Her nostrils flared, eyes squinting painfully. 'Who the hell do you think you are? You've got no right to say such things. You don't know me, you don't know anything at all.' She spat impulsively, ducking away from his body and storming off to the armchair. Ignoring his scoffs and audible sneering, she grasped her still full bowl and directed herself to her room – however halted in her steps. Peering down, she frowned.
A cluster of feathered pillows, sheets and quilts were laid about on the floor by the hearth. She knew for certain they weren't there before; and that is when she realised the elf had practically appeared from nowhere -no, not nowhere. Turning to the dining table, she first noticed a bowl of stew; still warm and hot and a slice of fresh bread, and more concerning, a pipe casually sitting next to the food.
Had he been sitting there the whole time? While she sat on that chair eating along with him? She hadn't even noticed his presence … She was incredibly disorientated, and knew he was observing her as she attempted to put two and two together, but it didn't stop her from studying the scene in front of her. Her focus however, was drawn overtly to the bedding on the floor … he wasn't going to sleep like this, was he? Clearing her throat, she hastily sprung from the blankets and apologised.
Another scoff. Then a silence, as she tried to understand why he would be sleeping out here, not in the room with the others where there was proper bedding. She couldn't imagine being injured and then having to sleep on the ground in an uncomfortable setup. Meeting his gaze, she found his eyebrow questioning her.
Grimacing, she swallowed her pride once more and stated gently, 'Please tell me you're not going to sleep out here on the floor.' His eye, his mouth and body language, joined in on the questioning. She watched as he stood still for a moment, unsure of what to do or say it seemed. His eye flickered from her to the sheets and pillows. Folding his arms over the loose tunic he wore, the elf didn't respond as quick as she thought he would, instead she witnessed a change in his posture, only for him to grow defensive again. She had watched him break for but a moment and then quickly transition back to his intimidating self. Her face softened immensely at the sight. What had they been through? What had he been through?
'Sleep is sleep Dh'oine. We Scoia-tael don't get an option as to where it happens.' He counteracted, burning her with his eye that conveyed so much dislike for her. It radiated from him … but it didn't before in those spilt seconds, those split seconds that constantly flashed in her mind like memories held dear to her now.
'Well, maybe that's true, but it doesn't have to be, not here at least. Why don't you sleep with the others?' She replied, not arguing but encouraging … encouraging? Why was she losing so fast? She knew it was natural, that it would happen sooner or later, but not now. Why did she have to be like this?
'As you can see - I'd much rather finish my meal than discuss this with you, but if it irks you so much– there isn't enough room… Worry about yourself, dh'oine. I don't need your pity.'
She couldn't help herself … she didn't know why or what drove her to do it, but she dropped her bowl on the ground and began to gather all the spare sheets and pillows in her arms - she glanced at his back as he strode to the table - and quickly dispersed from the hearth, hoping to do what she needed to before he could protest. She neared the hall way, quiet and not suspicious, every now and then glancing back and forth for certainty, but to her misfortune, she tripped at an undesired time, to see he was just about to turn to the hallway, his left ear twitching … She cringed, pausing, paralysed from her steps. She had hit her elbow against the corner. Their eyes met, well his one eye met with her two … She shifted nervously as his eye glided down to his bed she was cradling in her arms.
'Dh'oine.' He growled, moving away from the table and positioning himself in something terrifying, a stance that was threatening, held its own even without a weapon or scowl. One leg in front of him, the other stretched behind him, foot scraping across the floor board as he took sly steps in her direction, which she responded with a step backwards, each time, closer to her room. 'I know this looks bad, but I'm trying to help you. Just give me some time to – I- I'll just show you.' She spun on her feet, and decided that reasoning with him was no option anymore. She would have to show him, and hope that he wouldn't stab her in the back while she did so. Cautiously, she walked gradually with slow steps to her room, gesturing for him to follow which he did; he did she couldn't help but smile, although he did it with a wryness and glare.
Nudging the door open with her foot, she began to regret this decision but knew it was too late to turn back now. Feeling his presence quickly returning behind, she made sure to clearly demonstrate what she planned. It was simple after all, the only problem being he wouldn't like it one bit … and quite honestly, neither would she, but it was the right thing to do.
Settling the bedding on the ground, Ailidh motioned to her own bed, her own mattress and peeled off her own boring, rather dull cotton blanket and sheet. She threw them and her most likely dirty pillow to the floor, kicking them to the side.
She felt his eye on her again, and suddenly felt a newfound pressure in making a bed she had never experienced before, which was irrational. This elf probably had no care in the world for the skill and practise of making a bed, but it didn't stop Ailidh from clumsily stumbling around like she was doing such a homely task with an arrow at her head. For all she knew, maybe there was and she hadn't seen it yet. But in the end, she managed to rather successfully finish tucking in the sheet, and placed the blankets and pillows on the surface in an orderly fashion, going the extra mile to do it similar to the way he had done it outside on the ground.
Stepping away from it like it was fire, she sighed. Feeling an ache in her arms and a burn in her abdomen from bending over so much, and also a tension from feeling a stare on a particular part of her body while she was bent over … No, she was just being paranoid. Either way, it didn't prevent the heat from bleeding through her skin – She hated making beds with or without an audience.
'See? How easy was that. You've a bed to sleep on now. Sleep is sleep, like a drink is a drink- but I'm sure you'd much rather drink from a clean tankard than from a dirty old shoe.' She jested, glancing at his form that leaned against her wardrobe. His eye was elsewhere however, staring at the bed as if it were the most horrible thing he had seen … She scowled, went to yell at him but thought better of it … That's when she noticed her stuffed animal Irra made for her many years ago. It was sitting on the bed all cosy and innocent, and she knew then why he stared like that.
Apologising again, she snatched the toy fox away and threw it into the pile of her bed linen.
'This changes nothing Dh'oine. If you expect me to abruptly thank you, be your best-friend – you're surely mistaken. Like you said, a drink is a drink - you may have exchanged an old shoe for a clean tankard, yet it will do nothing if the drink itself tastes sour.' He said plainly, eyeing her, sizing her up one last time before striding from her sight. Abandoning the room within minutes and leaving her alone, standing in the barely lit room. She stood in the shadows, until a familiar voice broke it, broke her out of the spell.
'Ailidh … Why was Iorveth in here?' Irra questioned with a panic, only to stop for a silent period. Observing the bed like it was mysterious and otherworldly.
Iorveth … The Iorveth. The Scoia-tael commander from all those stories she had heard ever since being a little girl. The ruthless, cruel and blood-thirsty Aen Seidhe warrior and tactical genius who murdered her kind for sport, and supposedly enjoyed it as if it were just that … a game. But, something told her those stories weren't true, not completely at least. Maybe he was a tactical genius, a brilliant and intimidating Scoia-tael, a ruthless figure to those who opposed him, people like her … But, it seemed there was so much more to him however, and she was conflicted with whether she wanted to know it or not, and whether it was possible.
Hello! Thank you so much for reading this first chapter of my new Fanfic! I'm very excited to write this, as I love Iorveth as a character like many of us do; he is and will be an interesting character to write just as much he is to watch and read about. Also, there's the question of what happened to him after the Witcher 2? And more specifically, after the Witcher 3. Hopefully, this will be a good non-canon answer haha\
Although this is a new fanfic, I'm not abandoning my other Witcher fanfic "Beasts fear men, men love beasts", i've actually nearly finished the next chapter for it and can't wait to update.
Hope you enjoy this introduction, and please don't be afraid to leave a review or pm regarding it, I would love to see and read any reactions and feedback you have. :)