Flotsam Forest
The muggy stench of Flotsam's swamp land paled in comparison to the crew riding by Rusa's side. There was Dove, blonde hair matted to his forehead, smacking his gums on a new wad of tobacco. His restless eyes searched the outskirts of the forest. Ever since Rusa informed them of her fugitive status the boy was on high alert.
"Couldn't have told us sooner?"
"Scared, Dove?"
"I ain't afraid of nothing."
"Glad to hear it."
"Honesty, Elyot. S'important."
Rusa waved him off, but she'd be lying if the words didn't hold weight. Dove was a strange boy, sometimes child, sometimes man. Depended on the day, on his mood. Rusa was shocked when he volunteered to accompany her back to Vergen. As a gesture of goodwill, Bedlam rounded up a gang of three, one of whom declined and was sent on her way. Rusa imagined her body washed up on the shore of the canal come morning. Bedlam took it seriously. Everything. Bravery, trust, obedience. The foundation of a strong kingdom. It was Dove who stepped up. Behind the insolence was a young man determined to prove himself to the Grove. There was goodness there, stifled as it was by the sniggering, tantrums and endless jokes about female anatomy.
"Horses need a break."
Rusa turned to Adyl, sitting proud on her chestnut mount. The veteran rogue was one-eyed and one-handed. The left side of her face was a crater of scarred earth sunk into bone, while the hook peeking out from her tattered sleeve occasionally caught a glint of Flotsam's fading light. Adyl was old. No one knew exactly how old. The woman had seen things, done things, lived a full and dangerous life. A woman of story etched into the lines of her skin. And, gods, could she drink. The eventual clash between her and Zoltan was sure to become legend.
Adyl was not an easy woman to deny, which left Rusa chewing the inside of her cheek as she carefully considered her next words. They couldn't stop, not even for the horses. Flotsam was the one place on the entire continent openly out for her slow and painful death. They needed to skirt the forest fringe, hijack a barge and sail down river to Vergen before dusk gave way to dawn and the guards roused themselves from their drunken stupor.
Adyl frowned, disagreeing, but the small nod was enough for Rusa to sense some kind of approval underneath the hard exterior. To Adyl's right sat a burly man with hammers for fists and a barrel chest that strained the stitching of his shirt. A sailor from Novigrad's docks, Willem was an old sea dog who wished to taste adventure in his twilight years. A born and bred brawler and Bedlam's eyes and ears along the river, the man could also cook up a feast fit for a royal with nothing but berries and leaves.
It was an awkward companionship, but one Rusa grew to depend on in the harsh terrain and even harsher weathers during their journey to Flotsam. Willem was constant and never complained. He was strong and steady. Dove was the opposite. Adyl's no-nonsense approach to life snatched Rusa out of the rabbit hole of worries and regrets. Long, quiet nights by the campfire often saw Rusa withdraw into silence. Adyl watched her the first few nights. It didn't sit right, didn't do the girl any good. She would sit there with a blank stare. Beyond thinking and strategizing. Gone. Adyl recognised it as the look of someone closing off, retreating to memory and vision. On the third night, Adyl made it her mission to keep the girl firmly in reality. Where things actually mattered. There was a fire in Rusa that drew Adyl to her cause in the steamy lungwort swamp of Bedlam's office. Adyl had no intention of seeing it snuffed out. Sitting in this bloody saddle with chafing thighs and a blistered arse at her age was going to count for something.
They reached the forest's edge and kept an eye out for roaming militia. Many were cut down during Rusa's last visit, but there would be more. There would always be more. The soft glow of Lobinden was a distant haze. Rusa fought off an urgent longing to return. Just for moment. Long enough to see if Seven was alive. To simply hold her and breathe in her scent. To tell her how sorry she was for leaving.
Dove's voice came quick and fast.
"The fuck's that up there?"
Rusa's breath caught as the headless lovers statue came into view. A place of memory and none of them nice. Roche's warning, Iorveth's sword, Rusa's arrow. Roche's retreat, Iorveth's help, Rusa's decision. It pained her to be this close to the ruins. They passed the hole in the wall. Rusa frowned, squinting into the sunset. There had been two surviving roses of remembrance. One was with Iorveth or so she hoped. And the other? Undoubtedly trampled under the boot of some Flotsam thug.
A startle in the bushes and weapons were out. Rusa's bow, Dove's sword, Adyl's dagger and Willem's blackjack. The horses shuffled restlessly. Strange how history repeated itself, thought Rusa, batting away the memory of Igo, the Blue Stripes scout, who emerged from the same bushes with an arrow in his back. Before all hell broke loose. Before everything went to shit.
A dishevelled figure stumbled out of the bushes, wide-eyed and ghost-white. The woman stared at them with a vacant expression before drawing her sword. There was something feral in her movements. A cornered snake ready to strike. She was covered in bruises and mud. Sticks and leaves caught in her hair and shirt sleeves. Her lips twisted into a snarl.
"Gods," whispered Rusa, motioning her companions to lower their weapons. She swung down off her horse.
"The fuck are you doing?" cried Dove. "This she-devil wants us dead!"
"Don't be stupid, girl," warned Adyl, fingers flexing around the hilt of her dagger.
Rusa ignored Willem's silent plea and pressed on towards the trouble. She sheathed her bow and brought a hand between them. The woman levelled her sword. The tip touched Rusa's chest.
"Ves."
The blade pushed deeper into her tunic.
"Ves, I need you to lower your sword."
Between laboured breaths, Ves's eyes brightened with recognition. Rusa gave a reassuring nod, an uneasy smile. Ves lowered her sword, fixed Rusa with a hollow stare and swung a swollen fist into her face.
Rusa stumbled back from the impact. Fuck her if Ves didn't pack a punch that put every man to shame. The others scrambled from their saddles, voices and weapons raised.
"No!" said Rusa, the tang of blood rushing into her mouth, lips numb and teeth ringing.
Willem offered a hand as they drew up beside her. Rusa mumbled a thanks and kept her eyes on Ves. The soldier braced herself and raised her sword once more. The blade trembled. Ves never broke eye contact, not even when her knees buckled and her body collapsed.
Securing a barge under the cover of darkness proved difficult because this was Flotsam and nothing was easy in this cursed swampland of degenerates. Rusa ground her teeth through hurried negotiations. No amount of coin convinced the first two, but this third man was interested. He stood folding his beefy arms across a hairy chest and stroked his beard. The 'driving a hard bargain' posture. Rusa smiled tightly. This piece of Flotsam was their only way back to Vergen. After some thought, the captain nodded.
"I'll allow it," he said. "But mind you pay your way. Once aboard The Longsword…"
Dove and Willem hurried on deck. Adyl hauled Ves's body over her shoulders and trudged up the gangplank.
"Once aboard The Longsword…" repeated Rusa.
The captain looked her up and down then narrowed his eyes. "Know how it got its name? Eh? The Longsword?"
Rusa busied herself with her belongings and made for the plank. The deal was struck, a heavy sack of coin cradled in the captain's tattooed hand. He hobbled after her and blocked the path with his arm. His face split into a wolfish smile.
"Ain't named after the blade, love, y'know what I mean."
Rusa bit back a retort and pushed past him. Much as it pained her to admit, she needed the idiot. Diplomacy was key. If Roche were here, Captain Longsword would be a flaccid prick flailing about in Flotsam's bog.
Rusa joined her companions at the far end of the lower deck. Ves was unconscious and propped up against a crate. Rusa sunk down next to her and reached for the closest thing resembling a cloth. She dabbed the crusted blood across Ves's cheeks and mouth. So lost in the quiet rhythm of it, she failed to notice the soldier stir under her touch.
"—you doing?" mumbled Ves.
Rusa pressed her swollen lips together. The lower half of her face was numb.
"Returning the favour," said Rusa and they were back on the barge sailing away from a burning La Valette.
Ves struggled to sit up. She scanned the room, blue eyes blinking under heavily bruised lids. She stared at Rusa and snorted under her breath.
"Nice haircut."
Dove offered Ves some water. She shrugged him off.
"Didn't have much of a choice," said Rusa.
"I should hope not."
It was tense. The conversation, the closeness. The last time they spoke was a night neither woman wished to revisit. Ves possessed an enviable poker face. It served her well in the basement of Flotsam's inn. It served her even better here surrounded by strangers and a woman she'd almost considered a friend. A woman whose capture saw her commander abandon his unit and gallivant across half the continent in time to see the spectacle. Ves flushed at the thought of what came after. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, eyes stinging. She pushed it down. Forced it away. Down, away, down down down where it didn't touch, didn't breathe, didn't feel.
"Ves."
She wanted to reach down and rip the gentle concern out of Rusa's throat, tear it from her worried eyes.
"Ves, what's going on? Where are the others?"
It was as if the blinding speed at which Ves threw herself at Rusa suspended in time. The soldier wrapped her dislocated fingers around Rusa's throat and squeezed. Rusa clawed at her hands, terrified eyes pinned down by wild blue orbs in a struggle of exhausted bodies. Adyl's dagger found Ves's windpipe.
"Off."
Ves glanced up at the command. The blade pressed into her skin. Adyl sniffed. As if it were something she'd seen a thousand times. As if it were nothing.
"Five seconds and then I slit your pretty little throat," said Adyl.
Ves looked back at Rusa. With a guttural cry, she loosened her grip. Rusa scrambled backwards, but not before Ves grabbed her by the collar and leaned in so close their noses almost touched.
"There are no others, Rusa," she said. "They're dead."
Ves pushed back so violently Rusa's head collided with the wall. It pounded, though not from the contact. Ves slumped against the crate and closed her eyes with a desperate frown. Rusa looked to the others. Adyl shook her head. Don't approach. For the second time that day, Rusa ignored the warning. She had to. She needed to do something. Anything. Anything to quell the explosive panic in her chest.
Rusa crawled to Ves on hands and knees. The soldier didn't budge, merely sat breathing heavily through her nose. Rusa sat beside her, a little way off at first, then, slowly, inched closer to test the waters. Ves was silent for some time.
"They cornered us in the camp," she mumbled, voice cracking. "I got away, but not before…"
Rusa stared at the ceiling.
"Vernon wasn't there," said Ves. "He was with you."
Rusa choked back tears. They left scorch marks on her wind-burned cheeks.
Rusa told Dove and the others to make themselves known to Cecil Burdon, Vergen's alderman, as a gesture of goodwill from Novigrad. A show of support from Redania's Free City to Saskia's Free State. Then, drawing in a deep breath, she dragged an almost unconscious Ves towards the lone figure of Toruviel in the stables. Rusa's stomach flipped. She looked fully recovered from the injuries sustained in Flotsam's jail. The image of that hulking brute frothing at the mouth and chomping at the bit to hunt Toruviel through the forest was seared into the back of Rusa's skull. Then, Natalis's indifference as he signalled to let the beast off his leash. Rusa, not knowing the elf's fate until this moment, whether she made it to Vergen or became nothing but food for Flotsam's nekkers. Or worse. There was always something worse.
Of course, Toruviel was attuned to Rusa's footsteps long before the latter neared the stables. It was moments like this she was thankful for elven hearing. It gave her time to assess the situation and her feelings towards a woman whose allegiance seemed to shift with the rising and setting of the sun. Toruviel recalled the conversation with Iorveth. Rusa may have left Vizima with Roche but it was all for Vergen. And Toruviel certainly hadn't forgotten about their time in Flotsam. Still, she couldn't shake her stubborn pride. Welcoming someone who didn't even attempt to hide their intimate association with her commander's fiercest enemy was no easy task. Rusa played both sides of the fence and it frustrated the she-elf to no end.
But Toruviel said it herself. Rusa's reasons were just. Just a cursory glance around Vergen revealed the pleasing results of the Cintran's funds from Novigrad. Every crown was put to good use. The stables underwent a complete overhaul and builders worked tirelessly on the construction of extra lodgings for four more Scoia'tael commandos and the Cintran Volunteers who were yet to arrive. A training arena was currently under construction and the dwarves worked day and night forging weaponry fit for an army that was becoming a very real threat to Henselt.
Toruviel wiped her forehead with the back of her sleeve. Rusa's reasons were just but it was the way she went about them, the people she allied herself with to get results. Or, person. Calling Vernon Roche a thorn in the Scoia'tael's side was putting it lightly. As long as Rusa associated with him, she was a liability.
Toruviel sighed, ears perking up at Rusa's nearing footsteps accompanied by a separate sound of…feet dragging, stumbling. The elf gave Seven one last pat on the muzzle—for good luck, she didn't know—and turned to see a dishevelled Rusa Elyot struggling to support a hooded Blue Stripes soldier hanging limply off her side. The swell of well-trained venom towards anything Blue Stripes put Toruviel on notice and she drew two daggers to her chest. Rusa stopped in her tracks.
"Please," she said, surrendering both hands.
The pitiful look on her face wasn't enough to break Toruviel's glare. The elf edged closer and tore away the hood with her blade. Ves. Her face was bruised and her eyes swollen but there was no mistaking Roche's Second. Toruviel settled a dagger at Ves's throat, the other at Rusa's chest.
"You go too far this time, Rusa Elyot," snarled the elf. Gone was Toruviel's usual veneer of composure. It's not that the Xin'trean was directly to blame for her short temper. The memory of Flotsam—the failure, the betrayal, the torture—combined with building tensions among the Scoia'tael and the looming war with Kaedwen saw Toruviel in a heightened state of vigilance. Even Iorveth, for all his stoicism, was on edge. And now this. It was bad enough that Rusa felt the need to disappear into the forests of Temeria with Vernon Roche—no matter how just her reasons—but to blatantly flaunt her ties to the Blue Stripes by practically carrying one straight into the heart of Vergen! It was too much.
"Please," came a quiet voice and Toruviel lifted Ves's chin with the tip of her blade. The latter struggled to speak through cracked lips. "…be gone… morning."
"Toruviel, the Blue Stripes were destroyed," Rusa explained, watching the workings of the elf's mind play out across her features. Shock, confusion, suspicion, anger all flickering behind a pair of shrewd, unforgiving eyes.
"Henselt murdered them—"
"Not all," Toruviel spat, shoving Ves's face away.
"No, not all," agreed Rusa. She hesitated under Toruviel's gaze, simultaneously wanting to plead Ves's case and respect the soldier's privacy. As if on cue, Ves dropped to the ground, breathing light and shallow. Rusa followed suit, stumbling over Ves and falling to her knees in the dirt. She chanced a look at Toruviel who was standing above them, arms folded, lips pressed into a thin line.
"Death would have been a blessing," whispered Rusa and she knew the elf understood. It was an understanding forged by an unspoken bond between women of all races.
Toruviel let out a sharp exhale.
"Iorveth won't stand for this, Rusa. Not even for a night," she said, already dreading the conversation. Yaevinn was another problem altogether.
Together they supported Ves between them and carried her to a clean stable located opposite number seven. Rusa let out an excited yelp and ran to her horse's side, threading her fingers through the soft mane. Toruviel looked on as their foreheads touched, tears leaving damp streaks along Seven's muzzle. Rusa sent the elf a watery smile as Sev demanded her attention with a smoosh of wet nose to the cheek. Toruviel joined her by the stable door and came face-to-face with the childlike creature she first encountered in Flotsam's forest. Naïve but wilful, completely out of her depth but demanding to speak to their commander all the same. She'd changed somehow since Toruviel saw her last. Somehow older, the naiveté replaced with something harder, something sharp. Another laugh met with loud appreciative grunts and, for the first time in a long time, Toruviel smiled. It pleased her to know Rusa kept hold of her spirit. She needed it with what was to come and Toruviel wasn't thinking about the war.
"My thanks," smiled Rusa, and Toruviel inclined her head.
A moment's more peace and happiness before, "Rusa, Saskia is alive"—Toruviel held up a hand, the dh'oine's excitement unbearable—"there was a rose of remembrance in Vergen all along."
A flurry of thought and feeling swept across Rusa's face.
"So everything we"—she swallowed—"it was all for nothing?"
"Saskia lives, Rusa," reminded Toruviel and it pained her to watch the girl bow her head in shame. And another piece of news. "We've four more Scoia'tael units in Vergen."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, scratching Sev behind the ear. "This is good news indeed."
Toruviel's smile was grim. "Yes." She gestured to the opposite stable. "And no."
"She'll stay with me for the night. I won't let her out of my sight."
"Why even bring her here?" asked Toruviel.
All trace of merriment vanished when Rusa simply said, "Revenge."
Toruviel knew it well. It clawed its way into your stomach and sat there, waiting, scratching the skin. Never mind the Kaedwenis, Toruviel's burned incessantly with a hunger for the Temerian purebloods: John Natalis, Vernon Roche and—
"Ves wants to fight," said Rusa. "She'll kill Henselt herself if she gets the chance."
At Toruviel's silence, the Cintran shrugged and examined Sev's leg with a look of amazement.
"I'm sure she'll settle for a few hundred Kaedwenis if Henselt is otherwise engaged," she added.
Toruviel refrained from rolling her eyes. It was an irritating mannerism peculiar to dh'oine and dwarven folk and Toruviel, graceful elf, was neither. She was very much surprised on hearing herself let slip an incredulous snort; testament to the absurdity of Rusa's poorly-veiled insinuations.
"You wish for Ves to stay," said Toruviel. It wasn't a question.
"She was always good to me. And she's a soldier, a skillful fighter."
"She's our enemy," hissed Toruviel. Seven flinched. "The Blue Stripes outrank even Henselt in that respect—"
"They're no longer a threat to you," cried Rusa, following the elf out the stable.
Toruviel almost laughed. The dh'oine had taken leave of her senses. "You cannot believe that, Rusa. You honestly cannot believe that. Ves—maybe. Maybe. But as long as Vernon Roche lives, the Blue Stripes and everything they represent is a threat to the Scoia'tael."
Rusa took a slow, steadying breath. Toruviel's comments about Ves didn't go unnoticed. It was an in, of sorts, one that was to be approached carefully like a den of sleeping wolves.
"Henselt is the threat to the Scoia'tael and what's left of the Blue Stripes. What do they say? The enemy of my enemy is my friend," said Rusa.
It was the pensive stare into the distance that brought a laugh bubbling into Toruviel's chest. No bitterness, no incredulity. A proper laugh. Light, airy, almost musical. Rusa was taken aback as Toruviel laid a hand on her shoulder.
"You do yourself a great disservice quoting the ramblings of warmongering dh'oine."
"I am a dh'oine," grumbled Rusa.
"Not entirely."
Toruviel sobered and sent Ves a long, deliberate look. The crumpled mess on the floor of Vergen's stable was a broken woman indeed. And though it pained Toruviel to admit, she knew this Blue Stripes to be different than the others. Seherim told her as much during his tragic tale of Moril's demise. It was Ves that cared for the elf before she slit her wrists. Ves that delivered the little half-breed child, now a healthy baby boy living in Lobinden. She wasn't a racist—she was a soldier.
But that was the problem. Ves was a soldier under the command of the most vengeful, hateful demon walking the Continent. By his side, she'd slaughtered more loved ones than Toruviel could count. It wouldn't be long before Vernon Roche showed up in Vergen looking for his faithful second-in-command. What then? Iorveth wouldn't deny himself the pleasure of slitting Roche's throat. She certainly wouldn't deny herself the pleasure of watching his body convulse in its death throes.
And there was something else. Something far more complicated than Rusa Elyot could conceive. Ves's presence in Vergen was dangerous; not just because of her association with Vernon Roche, but with the Scoia'tael. Toruviel pushed it away. The memory was hard and bitter. When Yaevinn changed into someone she no longer knew. Someone she could no longer love.
Toruviel turned her thoughts to the Xin'trean dh'oine who did everything in her power to help retrieve the Rose of Remembrance, falling victim to Ele'yas's betrayal as a result. The memory of Rusa's body shielding her own as a barrage of heavy blows rained down on them courtesy of Natalis's men was something deep and potent, as was the knowledge that it was Rusa who helped Iorveth escape Vizima. Just as it was Seherim who helped Toruviel flee Flotsam.
And so it was. The faces of Rusa Elyot and Seherim coming together as a reminder of favours owed. And, as fate would have it, connecting puzzle pieces in the form of a dead she-elf, a helpless half-breed and a Blue Stripes with a conscience. Iorveth wouldn't agree to this. But Toruviel owed it to them to try.
"There's something you must know—"
"But you'll help?" interrupted Rusa with a desperate look.
Toruviel sighed. It was all Rusa could do to keep from embracing the elf when she agreed to broach the subject with the Scoia'tael.
"There's an abandoned shack in Rhundurin Square. Take Ves and stay hidden until I come and get you." Rusa was quick to comply. Toruviel walked away, visibly uncomfortable when she glanced over her shoulder, adding, "Keep to the back alleys. Try not to get caught."
It was an inconspicuous shack at the end of an unremarkable alleyway. They made for quite the rag-tag group, Rusa and Willem practically hauling Ves over the threshold as Adyl pushed past a red-faced Dove hacking his lungs up from all the dust. The shack wasn't entirely abandoned with its menagerie of rats, moths and beetles, one of which met an untimely end under the sole of Willem's heavy boot. The burly sailor peeled it off with a sad look. Chop down a human, but step on a bug and the brawler came close to tears.
Adyl dusted the bedspread overhanging a wooden pallet with furious fists. It simply worsened the dust storm currently raging around the room, but no one was going to tell Adyl to stop. Satisfied, she beckoned them over and stood aside as Ves was deposited on the bed. Rusa huffed and took in the room. For that's all the shack was. One small room with a bed and a chamber pot in the corner. Still, a spacious luxury compared to the seedy confines of The Longsword.
Dove sneezed loudly and announced he'd shit outside because he was a gentleman and a gentleman always offered the lady the chamber pot to shit in because he was raised right and proper and Rusa longed for him to shut up and go outside and shit to his heart's content.
"Alrigh', alrigh," he grinned, hands high. Adyl shoved him outside.
Willem pulled back the rag curtain. The light was thin and feeble. Rusa crouched beside Ves. The soldier snored softly, peacefully. Rusa envied the oblivion. The reprieve. She couldn't remember the last time she had something akin to a good night's sleep. The first night at Henrietta's inn, perhaps, before she and Roche set off for Maribor. Rusa stared at Ves's tattered uniform. One patch of Temerian lilies torn off from the shoulder pad. The other held on by a thread. Willem grunted about brewing tea and set to building a makeshift kitchen near the foot of the bed.
Dusk shadowed the shack in hues of failing amber. The four of them sat on the floor around Willem's culinary delight of dried pike and beans. Rusa grew to appreciate the sound of clattering tins and bowls. Every morning and evening without fail Willem made sure they were fed with whatever was on hand. She glanced at Ves asleep on the bed. Each held vigil in their own way; Willem dabbing Ves's face and lips with a damp cloth; Adyl massaging one foot at a time to keep the blood pumping; even Dove, in between crude jokes and smoking out the place, sat faithfully on the edge on the bed and watched for any signs of movement. And Rusa paced. She paced the room, along the walls, diagonally, in zig-zag patterns. She sensed the relief in her companions when Willem eventually convinced her to sit down and eat.
"You'll wear yourself out something proper, girly," said Adyl and Rusa shot her a beseeching look.
"I know. I'm just—with Ves, and Toruviel said she'd come and we're sitting ducks here and Iorveth—"
"Eat," said Willem, sloshing a spoonful of beans into Rusa's untouched bowl. Adyl saw it coming as the girl slipped into an empty state. Another withdrawal.
By the time Rusa found Alannah D'arcy, the general was deep in her cups. Dressed head to toe in black just as Rusa remembered, minus a decapitated Scoia'tael head leashed to her belt. She sat in a makeshift booth in a darkened corner of the Grove's tavern, puddles of ale and gods knew what else under her feet. Even seated, she was a formidable woman, tall and strong and solid despite years of drinking softening muscle. She looked older than her years, scarred trenches etched into a bloated, weathered face. D'arcy skewered a chunk of pork, tore at it with sharp, yellowing teeth, then spat it at a passing serving maid. The girl shrieked and hurried into the crowd. D'arcy threw her shaven head back and laughed. It was a deep, resonant sound that would be pleasant if it weren't so malicious.
The general stared at Rusa as she approached.
"My compatriot I've heard so much about."
Rusa stopped. D'arcy waved a goblet in her direction.
"Sit."
Rusa obeyed and slid onto the opposite bench. In the candlelight, Rusa noticed the general's eyes—ice blue, almost white, cold, hard and indifferent. D'arcy belched. Rusa flinched at the smell.
"Drink."
Rusa took a gulp and instantly regretted it. D'arcy smiled.
"Talk."
Rusa expected nothing less. But how to begin?
"General D'arcy" –a derisive snort across the table—"I need your help gathering the Cintran Volunteers to aid Vergen in its fight against Kaedwen."
D'arcy spoke through a mouthful of stubborn gristle, juices dripping down her chin.
"Cintra has no business with Vergen. I have no business with Cintra," she slurred. "Unicorn bastard saw to that."
D'arcy fixed Rusa with an icy stare.
"You see, there's so much you're not telling me. Either you're a forgetful little chit, or you simply don't want to tell me."
D'arcy leaned forward into her plate.
"I may be stuck in this hole, but word gets around and I make sure to hear it. You expect me to aid a city harbouring the Scoia'tael? Full of dumbfuck peasants treating Iorveth"—she spat on the ground—"as some Defender of the Downtrodden?"
Rusa sucked in a breath.
"And you," D'arcy went on, "rambling about Novigrad on some fool's errand with your Temerian shit-stirrer of a spymaster. What could you possibly offer me that would have me consider for the briefest moment helping you and your cause?"
Rusa took a swig of ale and landed on the only word worth saying.
"Revenge."
D'arcy stared at her for what seemed like an age.
"Defeating Henselt does nothing for your situation with Nilfgaard but—"
"Good old fashioned revenge will suit me nicely."
Rusa nodded. "If that's what you want, then you'll get it."
"What I want is to go home. To Cintra."
In a tavern in Putrid Grove, two exiles shared a moment of understanding. Just a moment. Rusa spoke, low and serious, to perhaps the one woman who truly felt what she felt.
"The only chance we have of ever taking back what's ours is to keep Upper Aedirn and Temeria out of Henselt's hands," explained Rusa.
"And with Kaedwen at bay, the regions could unite and stand a better chance of repelling Nilfgaard from Cintra," replied the general, suspicious of this impossible hope.
They stared at each other. Both knowing and not liking what they knew to be the truth: a trail of falling cards would see Cintra lost to them forever. D'arcy rested her chin on her chest and gazed at the platter of half-eaten foods. She missed the days when things were black and white. When the Scoia'tael were the enemy. No. Some hatred was too deeply ingrained. If Henselt fell to another's blade, D'arcy would settle with Iorveth's head.
"What of Vissegerd?" she asked.
Rusa's silence confirmed her suspicions. D'arcy swept a gaze over the tavern courtyard. This place was all she'd known for years. But it wasn't home. In her drunken haze the thought of seeing Cintra again was sharp and clear. For the first time since Henselt squealed to Nilfgaard and had her exiled to Redania, D'arcy allowed herself to hope. That it aligned itself with the stupid chit coughing into her tankard left her somewhat deflated.
"Let's get one thing straight," said D'arcy. "I don't like you, Rusa Elyot. I don't like you or your Blue Stripes fuckboy."
Rusa raised her eyebrows.
"Oh. Well, no one likes Roche."
The general got up and dusted her trousers with a smirk. She gave Rusa the once-over.
"Revenge it is then," she said. "Give me ten days to do what I can. Any longer and you can safely assume I bled out on a Nilfgaardian torture rack."
Rusa chased after her.
"And Iorveth?"
D'arcy could have strangled her. And people called her a traitor to Cintra? She inhaled slowly. A headache formed at the base of her skull as a warning of sobriety. D'arcy didn't make any promises. She couldn't.
"Make sure he stays out of my way."
Rusa was left standing in the courtyard. She heard him before she saw him. That distinctive limping gait as Thaler sidled up to her. Rusa kept her gaze on the general's retreating form.
"I've doomed everyone," she said.
"We're already doomed."
Rusa made a pathetic sound and reached into her knapsack. She handed Thaler the new monocle purchased from Glory Lane.
"Let's hope this one's made of sturdier stuff," she said.
Thaler regarded the girl with slack-jawed surprise. His face lit up with a toothy grin as he kissed the palm of her hand with a loud smack of the lips.
Ves stirred behind them with a soft moan. Dove sprung to his feet. Rusa barely noticed, distracted by her racing heartbeat on hearing the soft knock at the door. It was Toruviel come to take her to Iorveth. Rusa searched for Adyl's reassurance. The rogue returned a curt nod. It was enough to see Rusa head for the door, nerves hardened with determination.
Yaevinn was witness to much in his long and violent life, but the sight of Iorveth ordering his men to leave the quadroon unharmed as Toruviel escorted her into the encampment left him with a furious urge to simply slash the commander's throat and be done with it. He'd dispose of Toruviel then tear the quadroon limb from glorious limb in bloody delight. The image excited him. The Scoia'tael were corralled like cattle in their designated space just outside Vergen's walls and Yaevinn was bored. Best behaviour didn't suit him. The fantasy of blinding Iorveth's watchful eye lulled him into restless sleep come nightfall. It was enough for a time, but time was running out. Yaevinn itched to fight and this war was taking too long. Many nights were spent trying to convince Iorveth to storm into Saskia's quarters and demand she give Geralt the order to dispel the mist. All this waiting around for reinforcements that might not come. The Cintran Volunteers. Yaevinn grimaced and spat his disgust in the general direction of the dh'oine. Toruviel shot him a warning glare and he smiled.
The Scoia'tael commanders gathered in the main shack. Yaevinn ignored Iorveth and went to stand beside Nyana and Vernossiel. They regarded him with subtle disdain. No surprise there given their vocal allegiance to the one-eyed whoreson so sickeningly absorbed with the arriving Xin'trean. Against his better judgement, Yaevinn looked. The girl wore her own armour, torn and battered but good quality. Green eyes met his with a confidence that annoyed him. Yaevinn arched a challenging brow. She quickly looked away. Gods, he despised her. What she wore, what she looked like, what she represented.
It was Vernossiel who spoke first.
"Rusa Elyot of Xin'trea, we meet at last," she said in a soft, lilting voice. "Toruviel aep Sihiel speaks highly of you, though I fear you ask too much of us in regards to your wounded soldier."
Rusa made to speak, but Yaevinn cut in.
"Yes, the soldier," he sneered. "Tell me, how is Ves?"
Rusa turned to Toruviel who dropped her gaze with a blush. Yaevinn laughed and clapped his hands.
"Marvellous—she doesn't know, does she?" he gestured at Iorveth before fixing Toruviel with a cold stare. "Let that one slip, did you, Ru?"
Iorveth leant against the mantelpiece, arms folded with his eye trained on Rusa.
"It's not my story to tell," Toruviel bit back.
Yaevinn's smile didn't reach his eyes when he said, "Yet you lived it just as I did. We lived it—"
"This is hardly the time for your history lessons, Yaevinn," said Nyana, mouth tightened with impatience.
"—together," he continued and Toruviel's eyes darkened as he stepped towards them. She moved in front of Rusa. Yaevinn studied the dh'oine over her shoulder.
"Ever wondered how Ves came to learn Elder Speech?" he asked, eyes wild and red lips twisted in a predatory snarl.
Rusa placed a hand on Toruviel's shoulder.
"You're going to tell me," she said, stepping out from behind the elf.
"With pleasure, little one," said Yaevinn. He cast a look at Iorveth who looked on with an indifference that only deepened Yaevinn's frustration. Bored, bored, bored. Yaevinn entertained himself by watching the girl squirm under his gaze.
"I'm sorry, Rusa, I tried to tell you before," said Toruviel.
Rusa rounded on both of them with her hands on her hips like an old nursemaid.
"Tell me what?
Iorveth straightened as Yaevinn stared her down in long, demanding strides.
"No dínen, Yaevinn," came Vernossiel's voice from the corner, but Yaevinn wasn't one to be silenced.
Her concern was distant and hazy as he charged on Rusa. Impossibly, he inched closer. Rusa reluctantly breathed him in and was surprised at the scent of fresh rains and springflower. It contrasted sharply with dark eyes that flashed with something ancient and primeval. Something that lodged itself into her chest. A cold, hard realisation: Yaevinn wasn't Iorveth.
"I'll tell you everything you need to know—and more," he murmured, then turned on his heel with a dramatic sigh. "Ves and I are old friends. She was barely sixteen and I was bored. And boredom, Rusa Elyot, is a poison to which the antidote often involves a certain, shall we say, selfishness from time to time."
Rusa's jaw clenched at the image of Ves recovering in the shack. All the violence and bloodshed that came with her life in the Blue Stripes—was this demonic Aen Seidhe to blame for all of it?
"We came across her pathetic little village—that is, Toruviel and I, you understand," continued Yaevinn with a smirk over his shoulder. "With me all the way, weren't you, Ru? Even lit the first torch that set the place ablaze."
Toruviel stared at Rusa with a strange expression, half apologetic, half unforgiving. A shadow of their first meeting fell between them as did something else; an understanding that they'd both wronged and been wronged. That things weren't so simple anymore.
"Ah, and sweet Ves," drawled Yaevinn, "so hot-headed and wilful. I slaughtered her family in front of her and what did she do? Lit the fuse of a grapeshot bomb and threw it right at me."
Yaevinn grabbed Rusa's hand. Toruviel shot a nervous glance at the others. Nyana and Vernossiel looked on with mild concern. Iorveth watched it all play out. Yaevinn fed off attention; best to starve him from the start. He wouldn't do anything with the four of them in the room. And with that thought came the slither of doubt. Iorveth looked to the one who knew Yaevinn best. Toruviel shook her head. A warning. They were approaching dangerous territory.
"There," said Yaevinn, pressing Rusa's fingers to his throat. The flesh was hard and uneven. "Grapeshot shrapnel. A daily reminder of Ves's disobedience."
Rusa shrugged from his grip.
"So, what, you took a shining to her? Kept her prisoner?"
"Prisoner. Pet. Protégée," replied Yaevinn with a flick of the wrist. "Ru didn't like my methods. Got a bit angry with me, didn't you, love?"
Toruviel's eyes were fierce, her features impossibly sharp.
"What you did—"
"I did nothing but toughen the girl up and teach her the ways of the world," said Yaevinn. His lip curled in disgust. "Then Vernon Roche stole her from me."
"You tortured her," said Toruviel with a shaky breath. "Locked her in a cage, starved her, beat her—"
"Well, it was all for naught. You said itself, Ru, she's our enemy," said Yaevinn and he locked eyes with Rusa. "Our enemy then, our enemy now. Much like you, Rusa Elyot of Xin'trea. That bow on your back killed many of my men."
Rusa smiled. "Yet, sadly you still live. For how much longer I wonder."
Yaevinn's eyes brightened. Finally, a reaction.
"Careful, dh'oine, or I'll consider that a threat."
"Please do."
"I'll cut that pretty face to ribbons and feed you to the horses," he whispered, licking his lips in anticipation.
Rusa pouted. "Did mean old Roche take away your favourite toy?"
Yaevinn inhaled sharply through his nose and squared his shoulders. Iorveth stepped away from the mantelpiece having indulged him long enough. His voice was firm and commanding.
"Rusa's loyalty to Vergen's plight is evident in its new defenses," said Iorveth, meeting her eyes in uneasy accord. He was holding back. So much said and unsaid in the intensity of his gaze. There was much to discuss. With a dismissive wave towards Yaevinn, he added, "I trust Toruviel's judgment. The soldier lives as long as she makes herself useful. You're not to provoke her, Yaevinn."
Iorveth's indifference spoke an uncomfortable truth. The saga of Ves and Yaevinn was a mere blip on a blood-soaked history spanning centuries. It wasn't significant or inconsequential, but simply had its place in the endless war between humans and Scoia'tael.
"You expect me to simply sit around and wait for the inevitable blade at my throat?" cried Yaevinn. "What of Roche? We'll just wait and see, shall we?"
Iorveth gave him a long, hard look and nodded.
"They get in our way and they die," he said to Rusa.
"No, Iorveth—they die now," said Yaevinn, a desperate man refusing to concede defeat.
"Enough," growled Iorveth. "Our priority is Vergen."
Yaevinn was beside himself. "Whose best interests you claim to have at heart, yet willingly allow the Blue Stripes to destroy us from the inside."
A thick silence fell over the room. An agitated Vernossiel kept her doubts to herself. Nyana busied herself with stoking the fire. Toruviel's head was lowered, a deep frown creasing the fine skin of her forehead.
"I take no responsibility for what happens after the war," said Iorveth with a pointed look at Rusa.
Know that when this is all over, he will die.
With the decision made, Vernossiel and Nyana escorted an unsatisfied Yaevinn from the shack. Toruviel lingered by the door and with one last look at Iorveth closed it behind her with an ominous thud.
On securing Iorveth's approval to let Ves stay, Rusa considered pushing her luck. It wouldn't be long until the Cintran Volunteers marched into Vergen with Alannah D'arcy leading the charge.
The shack was unbearably warm. Rusa shifted awkwardly. Iorveth's back was to her, but what to expect? Cold distance or heated tongue-lashing, the kind peculiar to Iorveth, the kind that needled its way into your skin and only later blistered and ruptured in open sores. His words were a deliberate sting that dismantled you over time. Insidious. They'd not spoken since the escape from Vizima. When she disappeared into the Temerian wilderness with Roche.
"Saskia lives," said Rusa.
Iorveth removed his bandana and tossed it aside. He pushed a hand through wayward strands of black hair. Rusa's breath hitched in her chest. Iorveth turned with a nod and she instinctively lowered her gaze. The sudden intimacy of the act caught her off guard. He gestured to a worn armchair as he sank into the other. The firelight illuminated the shadowed hollow above his cheekbone. And now she'd met the cause in the form of a murderous Yaevinn. Rusa was vigilant. The only predictable thing about Iorveth was that he was unpredictable. How long until the eerie calm spilled over into disagreement?
"As do you," replied Iorveth.
"And you. I'd no idea if you made it back to Vergen."
Iorveth stared into the fire.
"I'm not so easy to kill," he said.
Rusa's fidgeting told him everything he needed to know. She had something to say but didn't know how to say it. He waited. She didn't sit still for long, choosing to pace the hearth instead.
"Good news or bad news first?" she asked.
Iorveth gave a grim smile and let her decide. Rusa exhaled slowly.
"With any luck, the remnants of Cintra's Volunteers will be in Vergen ten days hence."
Iorveth lounged in his chair and watched the performance with an impassive expression. Back and forth Rusa paced, almost speaking, then thinking twice about it, frustration evident in balled fists and impatient huffs. Iorveth considered this so-called "bad news". Ves was in Vergen and Vernon Roche would soon follow, he knew this. The Scoia'tael knew this. In Vizima's dungeons, Rusa assured him Roche could help Vergen's cause. Iorveth didn't believe it then. He didn't let himself believe it now. With the decimation of his unit, Vernon Roche was out for blood and that made him even more dangerous. Iorveth rubbed his jaw, thoughts of Roche and Rusa's skittering steps starting to aggravate him.
"Bheith fós, Rusa Elyot," he said. Be still.
Rusa came to stand directly in front of him. It was almost comical the way she stood there like a child caught thieving from the local . The expectation of bad news caused Iorveth to shift into a heightened state of alertness. Rusa noticed, drew back and moved behind the chair. Stalling, he thought. Iorveth rose from his seat and stared her down.
"What have you done?"
Rusa gripped the headrest with whitened knuckles. Iorveth closed the distance until they were inches apart.
"Speak."
"If we stood any chance in gathering the Volunteers, I had to enlist someone," she explained hurriedly. "Someone you know very well."
Iorveth scanned her face as realisation dawned. Slow, deliberate steps backed Rusa into the wall. She steeled herself as Iorveth bore down on her. His voice was soft.
"Under whose banner do the Volunteers unite?"
Iorveth gripped her chin and forced her to look at him.
"Whose banner?"
"Alannah D'arcy," breathed Rusa, a guttural sound escaping her lips as Iorveth dug his fingers into her jaw. His face distorted into a beastly snarl as he released her and marched to the fireplace. Iorveth placed a hand on the mantel and turned his fury on the flames below. How to explain this to his commanders? To Yaevinn?
Rusa rubbed her jaw and made to leave. It wasn't wise remaining confined to a small space having just angered the Scourge of the North.
"We're not finished," said Iorveth, and Rusa swore under her breath. He was on her again, enlivened and on the offensive. Rusa circled the room.
"It was the only way," she said.
Iorveth stalked towards her and watched with satisfaction as Rusa reached for an arrow and drew up empty-handed. On his orders, Toruviel made sure to send her in with an empty quiver. The bow was a compromise, but merely ornamental. Iorveth's lips quirked when Rusa grabbed the fire poker and levelled it between them.
"What would you have had me do?" she said. "Vissegerd is dead."
"Good news at last."
"D'arcy wants revenge against Henselt."
"So she claims," hissed Iorveth. "As do the Blue Stripes. But until Henselt's within reach, who do you think will become the focus of their ire?"
Rusa laughed. "Oh, don't act like the injured party. Everyone's out for revenge. You want revenge! You said it yourself in Vizima."
Iorveth shot her a murderous glare. Bloede dh'oine!
"I'm willing to do whatever it takes to see Vergen emerge victorious," he said, snatching the poker and tossing it to the ground with clang. Iorveth seized her arms. "Against every instinct, I've considered who's left of the Blue Stripes potentially useful if they agree to follow Saskia's orders, but Alannah D'arcy is another beast altogether."
Rusa breathed heavily and stared up at him. Iorveth noted an almost imperceptible smile dimpling her cheek. He loosened his grip, but only slightly.
"Well, there's no love lost between D'arcy and Roche so hopefully they'll distract each other."
Iorveth frowned on feeling her hand on his chest. How long had it been there?
"I can't promise how Ves will react on learning Yaevinn's here," continued Rusa. "But I promise I'll try and keep her on side. Roche, too"—Iorveth pressed his lips into a thin line—"as long as you do the same with the Scoia'tael."
Rusa's hand burned through his harness.
"And Alannah D'arcy?" he asked.
"Honestly, I'd be more worried for the barmaids at the Cauldron."
Iorveth let out an exasperated sigh and drew back.
"I meet with Saskia tonight," he said, slipping on his bandana. "We'll discuss a way forward."
At the mention of Saskia, Rusa said, "Triss's rose worked."
Iorveth considered her for a long time, then gestured to a knapsack on the table. Peeking out from under were the singed petals of their rose of remembrance. It glowed a soft pink. Rusa smiled.
"They really are magical," she said, confirming Iorveth's suspicions. The dh'oine had no idea how it worked. If there was ever a time to tell her, this wasn't it. Nor, for that matter, was it worth explaining—to himself, as much as to her—Toruviel's theory that if Rusa felt nothing the rose should have wilted when she returned it to him that day in Vizima.
Some days passed before a hush fell over the marketplace and the gates of Rhundurin Square opened to reveal the solitary figure of Vernon Roche. From her place atop the western battlement, Rusa stood, stunned as the commander marched through the square with an expression so unmistakably hostile she quickly scanned the area for Scoia'tael, then hurried to meet him. She struggled against the crowd and pushed her way through the circle of townsfolk. At its centre was Roche at the ready, hand wandering to the falchion at his side. His gaze landed on a nervous Rusa. They stood a distance apart, neither making a move. Roche breathing heavily, a veritable tinderbox of emotion; Rusa not wanting to set him off.
Seeing one of Vergen's defenders placated the bulk of the crowd with most returning to business as usual. Several curious onlookers lingered, unable to believe their luck in seeing not one but two Blue Stripes in less than a week and the Commander at that. As the crowd dispersed, Rusa approached him carefully, noting the almost imperceptible slouching of his shoulders, the bruises under his eyes. Roche stared at her; a cold, hard evaluation. So much changed during their time apart. He received no word from Thaler regarding their adventures in Novigrad. Not that it would have reached him whilst burrowing through abandoned mining tunnels in the Kestrel Mountains to avoid the magical fucking death mist keeping Henselt at bay. At the thought of Kaedwen's king, Roche succumbed to the familiar rage. It had the ability to numb his feelings and he couldn't be fucked dealing with them now or ever. He had pushed through and onto Vergen; spurred on by the slither of information he overheard in Lobinden regarding 'the Blue Stripes woman' who boarded a barge with a gang of cutthroats.
In a moment that sparked a wave of whispers around Rhundurin Square, Rusa brought her hands to his face. Roche tensed under her touch. It took every ounce of control to shut her out. The woman made him feeland letting her in left the door open for an unwelcome guest. Roche didn't even think the word, let alone allow himself to feel it. It was some kind of monster, large and amorphous, and it threatened to swallow him whole. He convinced himself it lay dead and buried in the Kestrel mines. Smothered deep underground, hidden from the light of day. Shrivelled, dying, soon to be dead.
That was, until Rusa gently guided his forehead to hers, meeting him halfway with a touch so light Roche's rage was momentarily taken aback. It was all she could do to console a man who had lost everything. Her eyes fluttered closed at the sensation of Roche's hand tightening around her hip. She hadn't lost him yet.
The arrival of Cecil Burdon's assurances restored the usual hum of the marketplace. The alderman made his way towards them, eyes on Roche.
"Was wonderin' when you'd show up," Burdon grumbled, arms folded across his barrel chest. "Can't have yer slaughterin' half of Vergen now."
Roche pressed his lips into a grim line. "Agreed. May as well make it the whole lot."
Rusa glanced at the two gate guards limping towards them. The look of dismay on their faces said it all. They didn't want to re-engage with Vernon Roche. She sent Cecil a pleading look. The alderman sighed and signalled his guards to back off. They didn't need to be told twice.
"Well, where goes one Blue Stripes, others are sure to follow," said Cecil, resigned to seeing his Vergen become a dangerous melting pot of dangerous people. People simply too skilled to turn away.
"Others," repeated Roche.
"Well… I—what I meant was—with everything that—" Cecil stuttered, eyes darting to Rusa in desperation. Leave it to Roche to get under the skin of the usually stern and sober alderman.
"Ves is here," Rusa jumped in. "We found her in Flotsam. Alive and well. All things considered."
A darkness swept over Roche's face. His jaw was clenched, his fingers curled around his blade, knuckles white, eyes almost black; a violent outburst of rage was imminent.
"All things considered," he whispered to no one in particular. And there it was. The grief behind the rage, very much alive and well. He needed to kill someone and Vergen's alderman looked particularly enticing.
"If yer plannin' on stayin' in Vergen," said Cecil, "you'll need to make yourself known to Saskia."
Roche barely bit back a snort. Ah, yes, the rebel wench. The honourable Virgin of Aedirn. Undoubtedly interested in learning his intentions; selflessly willing to play diplomat between him and Iorveth. Well, there was no need.
"I'll be leaving Vergen by nightfall," said Roche. "Run along and tell your Virgin she's nothing to fear."
Cecil stared evenly at Roche, the act of sensible alderman replaced by a proud dwarf willing to defend his home and its ideals to the death.
"Yer listen here, boy. Saskia fears nothin' and no one."
"Well, I'll settle with slaughtering half the town and be on my way then," said Roche.
Vergen's alderman was grateful when Rusa practically dragged the commander towards Ves's lodgings. She sent a prayer of thanks to Melitele. Roche's anger rolled off him in waves and Vergen already had enough bloodshed to worry about with the coming battle.
They were in sight of the shack when Roche pulled her aside.
"Who knows?" he asked.
Rusa swallowed. News about the decimation of the Blue Stripes spread through Vergen like wildfire, stoked by a gleeful Yaevinn and his men. Out of some shred of respect for Ves, Toruviel celebrated quietly. For Iorveth, any celebration was premature. As long as Vernon Roche lived so did the Blue Stripes. Add to that his loyal second-in-command currently convalescing in the heart of Vergen's town and the Blue Stripes remained a threat possibly more dangerous than ever before. Thinking about the Scoia'tael felt like a ball of iron spikes driven into Rusa's chest. That Iorveth and Roche would cross paths was inevitable, especially with Yaevinn fanning the flames.
Rusa didn't insult him by meandering around the truth.
"Everyone," she said, expecting Roche to snap. He didn't. Instead, he simply waited, making her feel small under his penetrating gaze.
"Telling the truth was the only way to get Ves into Vergen safely," continued Rusa. Roche's presence was suffocating and she had to look away. The truth was that the Blue Stripes were massacred by Henselt's men and strung up like pigs to the slaughter. A gift for their commander and his conspiring against the king. The whole of Vergen knew this.
It was yet to be seen if Roche's second-in-command would tell him everything. To Rusa's knowledge, no one else knew about Henselt's assault on Ves.
"The Scoia'tael had to believe Ves was no longer a threat," she said. "Toruviel—Iorveth's second—"
"I know who she is," Roche bit out, his irritation only outweighed by disbelief. This was fucking ridiculous.
But it was nothing compared to what came next. Roche was completely beside himself at the mention of Moril's baby—the fuck was Moril?—and…Toruviel's pity? One of his men—under the protection of some fucking squirrel who, lest he forget, was under the protection of that one-eyed-son-of-a-whore, who, Roche learned, managed to rope in a bunch of other squirrels to Vergen's cause including Yaevinn, the Scoia'tael's happy homicidal maniac. No. This was too much. He was to collect Ves then get the fuck out of Vergen for good.
"…otherwise there won't even be a Vergen left for Henselt to attack."
Roche barely heard Rusa spouting some nonsense about peaceful coexistence between the Blue Stripes and the Scoia'tael. Get Ves, leave Vergen. It was a simple plan hastily put together on catching wind of her whereabouts. He should have known better. Nothing was simple anymore. Before Foltest's death, Roche designed the plan and executed it—no hesitation, no regrets, just action. He didn't have the luxury of being sentimental, protecting his men the closest he came to such a feeling. He snapped his attention to Rusa who eyed him warily. The warmth of her fingers interlacing with his annoyedhim. Roche exhaled sharply through his nose. Everything used to be so simple.
A loud belch echoed down the laneway, followed by a mop of blond hair that definitely didn't belong to Ves. Whistling inanely, Dove stepped onto the cobbles and sent a hearty glob of chewing tobacco into a makeshift spit bucket. His eyes widened on seeing Rusa approach, shadowed by the dour-looking Temerian.
Roche leaned over her shoulder. "Are these Bedlam's men?"
Dove unsuccessfully tried to rouse the others 'guarding' the door.
"Another heavy night at the Cauldron by the look of things," muttered Rusa, forcing down a laugh as Willem caught his foot in the spit bucket and tumbled into the wall.
Roche's breath was hot against her ear. "What is it with you and bringing home strays?"
Dove sidled up to Rusa, casting a wary glance at Roche's uniform.
"Uh, might be best to wait a mo—"
Roche shoved the younger boy aside and strode into the shack. A she-elf draped in Scoia'tael red knelt at Ves's bedside administering a blueish paste to the soldier's bruises.
"Get away from her," said Roche, jaw set.
The elf merely glanced over her shoulder then returned to her patient. Rusa knew her as Alessia, one of Yaevinn's and a skilled herbalist.
"You've no authority here, Vernon Roche," replied Alessia.
Roche stared a hole into the elf's back.
"She's one of mine," he bit out.
Alessia sighed, wiped her hands, and turned to face them.
"Yes. And now the only one."
Rusa stepped in to literally save Alessia's neck. A decapitated Scoia'tael wasn't something one simply explained away with a 'well, it's like this'.
The elf shrugged and gathered her supplies. The door clicked shut and Rusa shot Roche an impatient look. Ignored, of course, the latter very much engaged in waking Ves out of whatever stupor she fell into after a measly breakfast. An eyelid occasionally fluttered open but closed before they could get a word in.
"Must be the paste," said Rusa.
"Impossible. Most likely some kind of tonic," said Roche, emptying a tankard of its dregs. He pointed an accusing finger at Rusa. "This is your doing."
"Excuse me?"
"You left Ves to the mercy of the Scoia'tael," he went on. "They could have poisoned her. Seems a popular method of killing here in sunny old Vergen."
Rusa bristled. "I practically live in this shack, Roche!" She massaged her temples. "And Toruviel's the only reason Ves still lives."
Roche shot her an incredulous glare and slowly shook his head.
"No."
Rusa huffed. "What?"
"She's alive because of Iorveth," said Roche, eyes turning dark, expressionless. "Because he allows it. As long as Ves remains here, her life depends on his whim. A fate worse than death."
Rusa opened her mouth, rebuttal firmly at the ready, when Ves let out a groan of protest.
"Take it outside," she coughed, and Rusa rushed to support her into a seated position.
Ves's face was void of colour except for eyes that still shone their striking blue. She stared up at Roche with an expression of everything and nothing. They were soldiers. This was no reunion. Emotions needed to be checked, words exchanged, plans made. Ves was grateful. She didn't know how much more pity she could take.
Roche took a seat and steepled his fingers in thought.
"What happened?"
Ves gulped down some water and stared at the floor. "Dethmold invited everyone to a feast. He said the king was grateful that we'd helped reveal the plot. He said…he said…"
Rusa implored Roche to leave it be, but the commander simply waited. These were details straight from the horse's mouth and he wanted all of it, right down to the weather.
"He said Vernon had just returned from Kaedwen," continued Ves. "You were to be personally decorated by the king and I was to be there to see it. The men were to go to the canteen for a feast, I was to go to the Royal Tent. I knew something was wrong but…I wasn't fast enough."
"Go on," said Roche.
"They cornered us in the tent, cut down the men one by one. I begged and pleaded with them, Roche, I tried!"
Roche held up a hand. "I know you did."
Nothing but dust moved, caught in the soft rays of late afternoon sun. It was the one time of day natural light graced them with a visit. But the serenity was short-lived. Roche's chair crashed against the wall before his fist found its way through the door.
"Wonderful. Fucking brilliant!"
Rusa stayed with Ves on the bed. She placed a hand on the soldier's forearm. Ves mouthed a reassurance.
"The only reason I didn't charge into their camp and kill every Kaedweni on sight was because I didn't see your—" Roche swallowed the memory—"you weren't among the bodies."
Ves steeled herself. "I didn't know when you'd return. None of us did. Don't you understand? They hanged the lads to provoke you. Please don't go back there, Roche, it's suicide."
Roche threw himself against the wall and sank to floor. "Plough it all! My country disintegrates. My friends, cruelly murdered. Everything I loved died in that tent!"
A heavy silence fell over the room.
Rusa grabbed a fresh bandage and signalled Ves to roll her shirt up. It was a stubborn wound under the left rib made all the worse by the grimy dampness of Flotsam. That god forsaken outpost, as if disease simply lingered on the air.
Roche studied the women. One, loyal like no other, a soldier, a fighter, a confidante and friend. The other something else entirely. The only woman on the fucking continent capable of getting under his skin and into his bones. Ves would follow him into the fire without question. Good thing, too, because it was usually Rusa who set the light and got caught in the flames. Turned out good intentions were highly flammable. Watching her fuss over a battle-hardened Blue Stripes soldier made him realise the weight of his words. Something died in that tent. But something was alive in this shack.
Rusa broke the silence.
"If it's vengeance you want, Roche, stay and fight with Vergen."
Roche hesitated. "I want blood. I want it now."
"As do I," argued Ves. "You've no idea how much. I can still smell that swine on me!"
In the silence, Rusa left the two of them alone. This was between a soldier and her commander.
With the uneasy reassurance of Iorveth's permission, Rusa tagged along behind her companions as they climbed the steps to the Cauldron. Adyl lead the charge with a spring in her step that came with the promise of honey mead. Willem entered his gambling battle trance on leaving the shack. His brow was heavy and gaze set dead ahead as they entered the inn.
"Would you get a look at that," drooled Dove on passing a particular pleasing barmaid.
Adyl snorted. "Look 'ere, young pup thinking he's the biggest bollocks in the room."
Dove reddened and the old rogue dragged him to the bar by the ear. Willem sequestered himself away in an alcove of heated dice poker. Dwarves, elves, and humans milled about, crossing the floor this way and that in a cacophony of voices. Rusa stood in the midst of it all with a tight smile, drowning in a sea of unfamiliar faces. Her armpits pinched in the heat. Sweat pricked her forehead and her lungs tightened. She hurried to her former lodgings in the back rooms and was unsurprised to see no trace of herself among piles of linen and clothing and scattered knapsacks. Rusa navigated her way back through the inn. And then she saw them. Henrietta and Corley laughing as Dandelion regaled them with a bawdy tale. She made to move towards them, but found her footsteps heavy and reluctant. A tingling sensation pooled in her palms. The heat of the room or a…too muchness of something she couldn't… Rusa drew up her hood and breathed the cool night air as she slammed the door behind her. On the stone balcony overlooking Rhundurin Square, the lone candle above Ves's bed pinpointed Rusa's place in the constellation of things. She fled for the stairs when a gruff voice captured her mid-flight. Rusa spun around and located the voice shadowed behind the breathing embers of a smoking pipe.
"Yer not even goin' to say hello, lass?"
She smiled.
"Yer should be dead with all the shit you've pulled," said Zoltan.
"The general consensus in Vergen it seems," muttered Rusa, lowering her hood.
The dwarf grunted and opened his arms.
"Ah, come lass! Was worried for yer is all."
Rusa held out a moment longer then wrapped her arms around his solid frame. Zoltan smelled of leaf and mead and oil and warm bread. Rusa inhaled like a woman starved. Her lungs loosened and the tingling subsided. He smelled of Vergen and not since La Valette had a place been reminiscent of a home.
Zoltan drew back, puffed his pipe.
"Where's Geralt?" asked Rusa.
He waved a heavy hand in the general direction of Philippa's lodgings mumbling something about the mist. His eyes narrowed.
"Where were yer off to in such a rush?"
Rusa hesitated. Zoltan jerked his head toward the stairs.
"He goin' to be trouble?"
Rusa responded with a flat look. Zoltan chuckled into his beard.
"Right. Go on, off with yer then."
Rusa returned a grateful smile and made for the shack. Roche sat in the alley, still as a statue, eyes on the ground with a small crease between his brows. Rusa perched on the rock next to him with a fleeting moment of regret. The commander was deep in thought. She stood to leave, but stopped on feeling a light touch on the small of her back. She looked at Roche. His eyes remained locked on the ground as he removed his hand and turned his palm upward. Rusa placed her hand in his.
"Tomorrow," mumbled Roche and he looked at her. "Vergen goes to war."
Rusa shook her head. "Geralt hasn't broken the curse yet. Not until we're ready."
Roche let out a hollow laugh.
"Civil war. I've been summoned to attend Saskia's war council. Invited by the Virgin herself. An honour."
Rusa stiffened. So much for everyone staying out of each other's way.
"Saskia knows Vergen's chances for victory greatly increased with the arrival of you and Ves," she offered.
Roche grunted and changed the subject.
"You were successful in Novigrad?"
"Define success."
Roche scanned her face. She looked much the same as when they parted ways in Temeria. Perhaps a little thinner, sharper cheekbones, but her eyes were the same curious green despite the dark rings underneath. There was leftover bruising on her upper lip. Ves filled him on their exchange in Flotsam. He grazed a thumb across the sensitive skin.
"Ves hits hard," mumbled Rusa, and she yelped when Roche lifted her lip and angled her chin to get a better look.
"All teeth accounted for," he said, withdrawing his hand and letting it fall to the necklace. Still in one piece. Roche tucked it safely inside her tunic. "Ves held back."
Rusa pulled a sour face.
"Alannah D'arcy's gathering Volunteers as we speak," she sighed.
The way her posture straightened, the sudden crossing of her ankles to keep her foot from tapping, angling her body ever so slightly away from him.
"This is where you tell me what went wrong," he said softly.
Rusa didn't look at him and replied, "'Wrong' is a matter of perspective."
Roche pinched the bridge of his nose and stood up to leave. He wasn't in the fucking mood for her evasions. Rusa scrambled after him.
"Wait, where are you going?"
"To sleep."
Rusa pushed past him and slipped into the shack and drew in a long, slow breath. Roche followed close behind and rolled out a bed spread. The others wouldn't make it out the Cauldron before morning. Soft candlelight shadowed a halo around Ves's sleeping form. Rusa stood in the centre of the room.
"I may have made a deal."
Roche thumped the dust from the bed spread harder than necessary.
"You made a deal," he said.
Rusa swallowed and nodded. Roche straightened and brought his hands behind his back.
"You made a deal in Novigrad."
Silence.
"With Alannah D'arcy?" he asked.
"Not exactly."
"Not exactly."
For the second time that day Rusa was backed into a corner. Roche planted his fists on the wall behind her.
"Well, it involved her up to a point," she breathed, and Roche threw her a sardonic smile.
"You're insufferably vague," he said.
"You're not going to like it—"
"What makes you think that?"
"—but know that I did it for the children and—"
Roche brought his hands to her face. His grip was rough and desperate as he rested his forehead against hers with sharp, controlled breaths. Rusa whimpered under the pressure. He released her and pushed back.
"If you fucking—"
Rusa hushed him and motioned towards Ves. They descended into furious whispers.
"Rusa, I"—Roche brought a fist to his mouth—"I don't even want to imagine—"
"Thaler was of the same mind," said Rusa. Why she thought mentioning the spymaster would help her cause was beyond her. But it was the truth. Thaler lathered on the praise when she told him the news about her deal with Bedlam.
Roche responded with an incredulous glare.
"Oh, Bernard gave his approval, did he? I've changed my mind. If you and Bernard are behind it all then its fucking fool-proof."
Rusa drove her boot into the floor with an indignant huff.
"Bedlam," she said.
Roche turned wary.
"Bedlam," he replied. Fuck, if he didn't want to shake her skinny little frame and toss her out the window or onto the bed roll or both—he couldn't tell anymore. "Tell me exactly what happened."
A moment too long for his threadbare patience and Rusa finally nodded. It was a harried explanation that left Roche so utterly perplexed he simply stared at the ceiling. Anywhere but at the fidgeting woman in front of him. Anaïs and Boussy, Foltest's son and heir to the Temerian throne, promised to Bedlam in exchange for safe haven in Putrid Grove. For the first time in a long time the Commander of the Blue Stripes was speechless. Basic words didn't stand a chance against cold, unabating fury.
"In return, Bedlam gave me Alannah D'arcy," explained Rusa and she inwardly cringed. She knew how it sounded. "To help Vergen. To save Temeria. So the children might have a home to go back to when they're older. In the meantime—"
"You sold Foltest's offspring."
Rusa batted away the hot shame pricking her palms, stinging her eyes.
"You know as well as I do that Anaïs and Boussy aren't safe anywhere else. Not even with you," she pleaded. "They'd be safe in the Grove, Roche. Bedlam gave me his word."
Roche laughed. Stupid, infuriating woman. She didn't understand how it worked. Oh, he was sure of Bernard's approval now, understood precisely what the manipulative bastard was doing. Temeria's spymaster was rebuilding his network under the guise of keeping the children out of enemy hands. And Rusa was caught in the crossfire. No fucking surprise there. Only this time she'd damned the children along with her.
Roche decided then and there that Anaïs and Boussy would never step foot in Novigrad, let alone the slimy bowels of Putrid Grove. He thought back to that night in Flotsam. After we get the kingslayer, we'll find Foltest's children. Now impossible. You have my word. Broken. It was a flurry of knee-jerk reactions that left no room for compromise. Why should it? Rusa failed to consider him when she decided to place the children under the shit-covered thumb of Francis Bedlam.
The candlelight waned. Ves slept on. In his anger, Roche didn't notice Rusa curling up on the bed roll. It was all too much. Grief, betrayal, frustration. Towards the loss of his unit and his wounded second, towards the woman in a tangle of blankets on the floor. And then something else; something worse. Guilt. Not finding the children, abandoning Ves, forcing Thaler to accompany Rusa to Novigrad. Head swimming, Roche slipped off his heavy boots and within a matter of minutes found himself lying next to the source of all his problems. Rusa leaned into him, palm on his chest and head resting in the crook of his neck. Such was the violent mood of Vernon Roche that the dissipation of one anger simply lead to another in its place. Layer upon layer. Rusa kissed his hand so lightly he almost didn't catch it.
"Tomorrow," she whispered.
Roche grunted. The conversation was far from over. Rusa draped her exhausted body over his and fell into light, rhythmic breaths. Roche tightened his grip on her waist. A grieving soldier and the woman who always broke through. He rubbed a hand over his face.
For-fucking-Vergen.