A/N: Written for my own Ves.
Somewhere, he thought he could still hear the battle raging, though he was certain that they were quite in the middle of nowhere. The forest around them was black as pitch, and even the moon and stars were blotted out by the crossing branches overhead. And more importantly, the battle had ended, when the Nilfgaardian cavalry had appeared unexpectedly from their right and had pushed their flank, while the artillery pounded the center mercilessly.
It had been admirable that the Temerians had even held them off for one day, let alone three, and Roche was deeply proud that his countrymen had done so, despite the loss.
They had scattered in all directions from pursuit, and he and Ves had been no different, sticking only with each other as they had fled in disarray with the rest of the army that they could find. But pursuit and chase had pushed and pushed them, until—
He breathed, and his chest exploded with pain as if a hot poker had just been drilled into him.
Roche was certain he did not make any noise. And yet as soon as he felt it, there were wonderfully cool hands on his face, touching him gently. A voice spoke to him, but he could not understand the words over the sound of battle.
Battle? No, no it could not be. It was—blood, yes, he understood now. The pounding of his own pulse inside of his head, his own dizziness and memories layered across his senses, leaving him confused as to what was real and what was not. But even then, his logic remained: they had fled. So unless something had gone terribly, terribly wrong, there should be no sounds of armies doing battle around.
His chest and lungs still burned, and even more so when something—touched inside of him. That brought a grunt from him, a drawn one, but then memory came back to him again.
Yes, he remembered that now. A lucky arrow from the enemy, finding its mark in his side just as the trees closed in around them. It had landed right on his lower ribs—where it still remained. There had been no time to pull it out while the Nilfgaardians were still trying to run them down.
"I'm so sorry Roche!" Ves's voice came back to him as if cotton had suddenly been pulled from his ears. "I know it hurts, but it has to come out."
If he had not been so busy trying to master his pain and ride it, he might have snorted at her. But presently sarcasm was nowhere in his ability, breathing and speaking alone were both an effort. "Just—" he panted a little, "—just get the damn thing out. I'll be fine." Sweat dripped down his brow from the effort of speaking.
A cold cloth was draped over his head, which was a blessing no greater than if it was from Melitele herself, and then he frowned and turned his head. There was a small fire, with a small pot next to it. When had a fire been started? Had they made some sort of camp? He realized with a small jolt of alarm that he remembered none of it. Just the running in the black forest with his side on fire, running and running until he was forced to lean on Ves for support, and then even that had faded into gray nothing.
Ves's face came into view. There was dried blood in her hair, and on her uniform, and he frowned a little. Was she hurt? He tried to reach for her and see, but his arm felt clumsy and heavy, not responding the way he wanted it to. She gripped his hand in hers, tightly, and he held back as tightly as he could.
Her eyes were large and worried, and she peered at him intently. Then abruptly she looked away, down, and then took her hand out of his to reach for something that glittered in the firelight. "I-I'll have to cut it out," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
"Do it, then," he replied immediately, taking another scorching breath. Gods damn it all, it had gone right through his uniform, through the padded wool of his surcoat, even through his chain mail, and it was his pure luck that it did not pierce his lung. Perhaps everything else had slowed the arrow's impact enough that—
Pain. Hot, driving pain that was splitting his skin and destroying every other thought, feeling, or sensation in his head. Automatically he groaned, his hands clenching, and then he was silent. Discipline, order, that was all that mattered, everything important. For Temeria he had to be silent. So the Black Ones would not find them.
He remembered the lilies in the field of blue. He remembered Vizima. He remembered Ves—her eyes were the blue field where the Temerian lilies grew.
He fought tooth and nail with the pain, and allowed himself to think of nothing else but the pain—if he was distracted, then the pain would come again and take him by surprise, and he might not be able to stop himself then. Still, when there was a peak of sudden, blazing agony it was enough to shake him to his core and there was a rush—he did not know whether it was his pulse inside of his head or his own voice—but it chased him into blackness again.
When awareness came back to him, it was through touch rather than sight or sound. He saw nothing and heard only fire, but the sensation of lips against his own brought him back faster than either sight or sound could have achieved.
There were hands touching his face with a gentleness he would have recognized anywhere.
He kissed Ves back, again trying to hold her, but his hand moved with that same sluggishness that, to his eternal frustration, all of his mental strength could not force to move faster. Still he found her hip and waist, clumsily, almost, and stroked there, trying to seem as comforting as possible. He barely even cared where he was touching, he just needed to touch her.
"Roche," she was whispering, and his eyes fluttered open to see her leaning over him, their faces inches apart. Her eyes looked red, but he did not know if it was from exhaustion or tears. "Roche, how are you feeling?"
He took a breath, expecting pain. It did come, but it was none of the burning agony that the arrow had brought. It was sharp and short, but much more like a deep ache that was at least manageable. "I'll be fine," he assured her, but the words were difficult to form. His mouth felt dry and thick.
As if sensing his desire before he could say a word, she reached for a waterskin, though to his embarrassment she had to help him sit up a little before he could drink. It was warm, but he did not care, it felt as if it had been years since he had last sipped anything. He allowed himself a few mouthfuls before he remembered that this was the only water than they had, and they needed to conserve it while the Black Ones still hunted for Temerian survivors. He capped it and placed it down.
He was leaning against Ves, and her worried hands darted over him, unsure of where to rest. On his back, his other side, his arms, his—hair?
It shouldn't have surprised him that his chaperon was missing, but it did. A quick search of his eyes showed him that it was not far, a rumpled black mass that he would have to properly sort out later.
He gratefully leaned into Ves, and worked one of his hands into her own. She gripped it tightly, thankfully, and the beginnings of a smile worked its way onto his face. It felt strange. "Are you alright?" he asked, taking light breaths in order to speak. "You are not hurt?"
He felt her stiffen. "You're the one who was shot with an arrow and passed out while I cut it out, and you're asking me if I'm alright?" she breathed incredulously.
"I notice you not answering my question."
"Bloody hell, Roche, of course I'm alright! You're the injured one here!"
"Good," he said, relief washing over him. "I'm glad you're fine." He stroked her hand, unwilling to let it go. "That's one good thing out of this."
She was silent, but he could sense her emotions in the gentleness that she held his hand and stroked it in both of hers, and the little huff that left her lips. "You're insane," she whispered. But a grateful sound of deep relief. I'm glad you're alright.
He pressed against her for a moment. Of course I am. "How long was I out? How bad was it?"
"Only 'bout a quarter hour, and not very serious, thank the gods. It was in your skin but it didn't get past the ribs. I-I think one of them might be cracked or broken, I couldn't tell very well—it's dark—"
That would explain why it hurt every time he breathed. Not the normal hurt of a surface wound, it was that far too sharp pain inside that spoke of a deeper problem. With how quickly they had to move to stay ahead of the Nilfgaardians, that could present a problem.
They would manage, though. If he had to crawl on hands and knees to stay ahead of the invaders, it was no question at all.
"You did well," he said, gentle but firmly interrupting her worried babbling and silencing her. "I'm proud of you."
His breaths were becoming irregular, the pain forcing his rhythm out of balance, and with an effort he paused before forcing them in and out, counting the seconds carefully. His head was swimming, the world tilting a little, and then he was really tilting, and he jerked a little before he understood that it was merely Ves lowering him again.
"Lie down," she said, trying make her voice sound commanding and failing spectacularly. "You're still injured, you'll pass out again if you don't give yourself some rest."
"Mmm," he muttered, feeling for the wound, and noticed only with a start then that much of his uniform had been stripped off. Only his undershirt remained. "Did you bandage the wound?" he asked, his voice sounding odd to his own ears.
"What?" Ves said. "For fuck's sake Roche, of course I bandaged your bloody wound! You think I'd just leave it open?!"
His mind always tried to stay on top of things. Make sure everything was done, was taken care of. He couldn't help it, it was pure habit, it allowed him to keep functioning when there was nothing else left for him. "Did you make sure it was clean? No fabric or armor stuck in the wound? They can cause infection."
"Yes, commander, I did." There was an irritated huff to her tone, but it was more relaxed than it had been a moment ago. Roche not pestering and making sure everything was in order meant that something was terribly wrong. "Do you want tea? We have some rations still, we can eat now and move later before daybreak."
"Yes," he said, or at least think he said so. It was hard to say, as the black sleep of unconsciousness claimed him again swiftly after.