[A/N]: well fuck me gently, once more it has been a while, despite my promising I wouldn't take too long this time. I hope this extra long chapter will at least partly satisfy my dear readers! And on that note, I am glad to say that the reason I was so slow with updating this time was because I was on a writing roll and didn't want to break the spell by editing. As a result, the next chapter has already been written, and I am already 4k words into the chapter after that. I'm so excited to see what you guys will think of the developments that lie ahead! Enjoy~!
The chapter title was taken from the song "Meteorites" by Voices from the Fuselage.
When Iorveth realised that the glower the inh'eid reserved for him melted away after a few days, whereas his rage burned on, he couldn't help but wonder when she had changed. Now, when the two chanced upon each other, her furrowed brows would betray her confusion, not her anger. She went out of her way to avoid him, too, which was probably for the best.
Still, the commander could not help but wonder why he remained mad at her. Because she had slighted his pride? Men had done much worse to him, and for much less. In retrospect, the things he had said to her might have been out of place. That caused enough puzzlement for the Aen Seidhe as it was. Why did his rationality abandon him in the company of that bloede inh'eid? Why could he not keep his calm when near her?
And the kiss, that bloede cusan… Why did his mind constantly recall that moment without his leave? He had thought he would figure it all out before the ambush, but apparently that had not been the case. Soon word of Foltest's death would reach their ears out here in the forest, and he still wondered how it was possible for the inh'eid to have grown into a better person than him.
Then again, why did he care? He had slaughtered people by the dozens, whether man, woman or child. He had burned entire villages to the ground. He had fought for Nilfgaard, and when they had sought to eradicate him, he had survived. What did it matter that one stupid inh'eid who had blamed both human and elf for her predicament had managed to become more reasonable than he had?
He had no time for this. Any moment now, the La Valette squad would be returning, together with the vatt'ghern and Foltest's head, and the Scoia'tael had to make sure no prying eyes would be looking when they did. So soon after the Flotsam ambush, however, many soldiers were still recovering. He would need to assemble a team of strong and experienced elves to accompany him to the waterside, just in case. And he already feared who he would have to take.
Though there was nothing graceful about the way she moved, or so Ciaran had said, she had gotten the job done better than most. When questioned about how she had gotten wounded, he had blamed it on bad luck, but something in his eyes had told the commander there was more to it than that. Perhaps something that had to do with the state of the inh'eid's mind upon returning from the battle.
Still, bad luck was all it took to get someone killed. Skill, however, she had proved to have, then. Ciaran was not loose with his compliments, and certainly not when it came to her, with whom he seemed to have a rocky relationship at best. Then again, he wasn't the only one. Iorveth wondered who was at fault at the animosity that still lingered in part of his unit.
Owain, too, had emphasised her experience and talent. All that she had to do was work on her state of mind. Far too rash to be of any help, he had claimed, but Iorveth had seen that he was fond of her. At least she had also made friends in the camp. In time, they might forget the dh'oine blood that flowed through her veins.
And then there was Ivor, whose face always reminded him of days long gone. The commander neither regretted nor longed for the past they had had: it had simply come to an end, and they had parted on friendly terms. Still, the Aen Seidge was a dear friend of his, and the fact that Ivor seemed to trust the inh'eid made it all the easier for him. Then why didn't he just accept her sword by his side?
The fact that it had been raining all day did nothing to improve Iorveth's mood. He was still busy contemplating this when an elf appeared before him, lowering himself to his knee at once. The gesture always made him uncomfortable. He had not overthrown countless lords only to be seen as one himself. The moment they started addressing him with 'm'lord', he might scream.
"What is it, Shea?" he asked, gesturing for the boy to stand. It was one of the group he had sent to Lobinden to remain on the lookout for any news regarding the La Valette squad, which could only mean one thing.
"It's Foltest," Shea stated. "He's dead. I heard it from some fishermen in Lobinden, and Cedric confirmed it."
The commander nodded once and thanked his comrade. It would be impossible to find out when exactly the king had died through word of mouth, so Iorveth knew that the group could return anytime between that moment and a week… Which meant that he had to get to the river as soon as possible.
Much to his dismay, that meant he would have to take the inh'eid with him. Many of his subordinates were still too wounded for the battles that might ensue, and he had a bad feeling about the entire thing to begin with. The inh'eid was an invaluable asset, more experienced in a wide variety of situations than many others in the camp. And unlike with the ambush where Iorveth had had to divide his unit in two groups, this time he had to leave a strong guard behind to defend the camp while he took a small but powerful squad with him to the river. But no matter how logical Iorveth thought about it, it wasn't going to get any easier. There is no rest for the wicked, is there?
Without wasting any more time, he turned around and allowed word of a meeting to spread throughout the camp. In no time his subordinates had gathered at the designated place, wet hair sticking to their skins, and while they waited for the remaining few to arrive, Iorveth and Ciaran discussed the units. Iorveth wanted Ciaran to remain behind and assume command while the leader himself was out, and he assigned him a team of capable warriors to protect the camp. The elf nodded in understanding, gave suggestions when he thought they were needed, and together they picked the members of Iorveth's squad.
Although many of the Aen Seidhe that by now surrounded them had witnessed the forging of the plan, they repeated the results for any newcomers or those who had not been paying attention. In an absurdly short amount of time, the crowd had dispersed, some soldiers flocking to Ciaran for orders, while others remained at Iorveth's side. All of them were buzzing with excitement at the news they had just heard.
Foltest was dead. The vatt'ghern had succeeded. Not even the rain could dampen the joy in their hearts.
Gwen stood at the back of the group of elves surrounding Iorveth, trying her very best to remain out of sight. After all, she knew just how Iorveth felt about her, which was also part of why she was so confused that he had picked her for this mission. Though the most of her wounds had healed, she asked herself whether there hadn't been any more suitable warriors for this mission.
But then again, the fact that the commander had chosen her to join him to the river even though her body still ached a little made her swell with pride. He wouldn't have chosen her to accompany the group if he wasn't absolutely sure she would be an asset. She knew how stubborn he could be, and with how their last… encounter had ended, this was nothing short of a miracle and a huge compliment.
She just had to ignore the fact that the elf refused to even glance in her direction the whole time he stood there.
"We must depart at once, for we have no way of knowing when the others will return. We must try to be there to await them when they do," Iorveth said, his voice strangely soft in that moment as he stared at the ground, his brows knit together. When he raised his eye, it cut Gwen's way, whose breath caught in her throat. As if realising his mistake, he looked away immediately and added, "So pack all that you need for the oncoming week and return here. We will leave at once."
The soldiers – Gwen recognised a few, but knew only the name of the one who had attacked her when she had first come here, namely Maeve – nodded before leaving.
Honestly, the half-elf had no clue what it was she should take with her, other than a weapon. She had spent months, years even, wearing the same pair of clothes, which she had washed whenever she had gotten the chance and which she had repaired to the best of her abilities when something broke. Not often did one come across a corpse with the size of a female half-elf, and whenever she had found a village, she had not had the coin or wares to buy new clothes. She had made do with the hides of the animals she caught.
And so she decided to do just that; not even a bedroll did she take with her. The other elves gave her queer looks when she stood there with nothing but her armour and weapons Owain had given her, but she held her chin high. Perhaps her comrades were only glancing at her because the lower half of her face was still covered in bandages. Her inked skin did not necessarily hurt anymore; it was just that Gwen was too embarrassed to remove the bandages just yet and to reveal her Scoia'tael side to the world.
They departed for the Pontar when all five members of the group had gathered again. How strange that Aevon y Pont ar Gwennelen, translated as the River of Alabaster Bridges, would be called the Pontar in the Common Speech. Gwen wondered if the humans knew that they had basically named the river the Bridge, by taking that one word from the name in Elder Speech.
The group descended the hill on which the camp had been built by passing the roses of remembrance and the elven ruins, the same path Gwen had taken during her previous escapade. However, instead of following the stream as she had back then, they made their way deeper into the forest to the west. After all, the La Valette squad would arrive at the bay before reaching Flotsam, hopefully hidden behind the curves of the land and the forest covering it.
It didn't take them long to run into trouble. And by trouble, Gwen did not mean the couple of nekkers they took care of earlier, which she could have dealt with herself now that she had regained most of her strength.
By trouble, Gwen meant the three large endrega warriors that had them surrounded. The rain had drowned out all other sounds, and so the monsters had managed to catch them by surprise.
At once, the group split apart, slipping past the endregas and turning to face them. In a flash, Gwen had taken out her sword, rushing towards the endrega closest to her. Apparently Maeve had had the same idea. While her own blade struck the side of one of the beast's leg, Maeve's daggers clanged off the armour on its back.
"What," Gwen managed between breaths as she swung her sword in an upward motion, slashing at its abdomens in its moment of distraction, "never fought one of these before?"
The elf clicked her tongue before she moved to the side, the tail of a second endrega whizzing by and hitting its comrade in the face. "Not everyone is annoying enough to have to survive in the wilderness by themselves."
The half-elf grinned and spun out of the way of the third warrior, which closed in with its snapping jaws while the other elves – Lorcán and Aengus were their names – tried to draw its attention. It twisted its neck before turning to defend itself.
When Gwen looked back, she blinked at the display before her: somehow, Maeve had landed on her back. The endrega warrior rushed towards her, holding its forearms and tail ready. Her eyes met Maeve's for a split second, and beside the fear, she realised that the elf did not expect her to help her.
Reaching out, the half-elf's fingers caught the warrior by its tail, just above its mace-like ending, and yanked it back with all her might. While it halted its march, she swung her foot at one of its hind legs, her boot catching it just behind the knee, forcing it to buckle beneath its weight. Just like that, the warrior sank to the ground, and though it struggled to its feet at once, Maeve had just enough time to scramble up and take up her position once more.
In its anger, the endrega began to charge at her, but Gwen jumped to the side, landing another blow to its stomach as it passed her by. Its tail, however, waved towards her, and before she knew it, it crashed into her body, shoving her to the wet grass.
When she looked up, she saw Iorveth, parrying his endrega's blows with ease, or so it seemed. Even from where she lay, she saw him clench his angular jaw, his Adam's apple moving up and down when he swallowed. So mesmerised was she by the sight of him, that it took a yell from Maeve, who rushed past her towards the warrior, to pull her out of her thoughts and back to the matter at hand.
The elf danced away from the creature's arms, but could not close the distance between herself and its weak spot with nothing but her daggers. All she could do was keep it busy while Gwen approached it from the other side once more, piercing it in its side and yanking its skin open with a yell. Blood and entrails splashed onto her boots, and she clenched her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering when she thought about what it would have felt like had she been barefoot. The creature gave one final screech before it fell to the ground, where it lay unmoving.
Another endrega broke the moment by charging into the scene, followed by Aengus to its left and Lorcán to its right, who tried to reach its stomach with their swords. Though they only managed to get in small cuts here and there, when Maeve went after them, Gwen knew they'd be just fine. Probably.
Instead she made her way towards Iorveth, who by himself had managed to wound his warrior a couple of times as well, but the creature continued to put up quite the fight. He had parried the beast's spiked tail with his sword and gritted his teeth as he tried to keep it away from him.
Almost, the half-elf felt uncomfortable, helping the commander like this when he had made it quite obvious what he thought of her. But not coming to his aid because of this would be unreasonable and childish, so she raised her sword to attack the endrega.
In the blink of an eye, the monster had swept up one of its hind legs, hitting the half-elf square in the stomach. Gwen doubled over, coughing, and dropped her blade.
"Shit…!" she swore when she slipped, eyes widening when she saw the monster turn away from Iorveth and make its way towards her, its jaws clicking all the while.
Unfortunately, it was upon her before she could reach for her weapon or get back to her feet, and instead she found herself grabbing two of its forelegs and pushing them away with all her might. Seeing those pincers clacking together, reaching for her, a sudden terror filled her and she bit her tongue as she kept the beast away from her. She tasted blood, and a bead of sweat tickled her temple and cheek as it slid down her face. Much to her surprise, she managed to force the warrior to take a single step back.
Which it reclaimed immediately after, startling her by lifting its arms into the air, dragging her along with them. With a yelp, Gwen crashed to the ground again while the endrega moved closer still. She stared death right in the face, when suddenly the endrega slumped.
It took the half-elf a few moments before she realised it was dead. When she looked up, she saw Iorveth flicking blood off his sword and sheathing it. He reached down for hers and held out a hand for her. Moving gingerly, she accepted both his hand and the hilt of her sword that he offered her afterwards, her hands shaking as she returned her weapon to its sheath.
Then she dusted her hands off before stepping away from the corpse, as if it might jump at her again. Without a word, she moved towards Maeve and helped her gather ingredients from the warrior the two of them had killed.
"I thought you had experience fighting these things," the elf stated, her lips spread in a grin. "Seems like that was a close call. If it weren't for the commander…" She whistled and traced a finger across her neck.
Gwen only shrugged without looking up. "Well, we can't all pick the easy fights, now can we?" After all, Maeve had gone to help Angus and Lorcán – that was three against one.
Soon, the group was on its way once more, trudging through the rain towards the river. They passed whatever territory the warriors had been trying to defend and found that the rest of the trip went by in relative peace.
Gwen would have stepped into yet another trap had Iorveth not pushed her out of the way rather roughly. Aengus stumbled upon a nekker nest and shoved a Grapeshot bomb in, jumping out of the way just in time for the explosion, screaming loudly as he did so. Lorcán slipped while laughing at his friend, landed in a bush and came crawling out with ants covering his body. The elf spent the rest of the way complaining and scratching himself.
The farther they travelled, the more Gwen wondered how Iorveth could have considered this group to be any good for the mission.
After a few hours, they began to climb to the top of a hill nearby Flotsam, and the sound of other water than the rain could be heard. Though there were still many hours left to the day, it was already dark when Iorveth announced this was where they would set up camp. While the elves pitched their tents and rolled out their bedrolls, Gwen searched for dry pieces of wood in the hopes of getting a fire started after receiving Iorveth's permission to do so.
Though it took her a while and many attempts, in the end the half-elf managed to gather enough wood for a fire. After hesitating whether she should ask Iorveth to finish the deed, she instead went to Aengus, who did not even seem surprised by the request. By the time they had gotten a fire going, an elf from Lobinden had come and gone, announcing that the group had not yet arrived at their end of the river either, which meant that they were still on their way. Now all they had to do was wait.
Sitting around the fire, faces glowing oranges in the darkness, the Scoia'tael members stared at the flames as if they might show them the future. Gwen tried to keep her distance from the fire, feeling Iorveth's eye looking in her direction as she did so, but at the same time she wanted to rid her body of the cold.
Almost, almost she regretted not having brought anything else with her. But at the same time she felt strangely at peace, remembering the many nights she had sat beside a small fire all by herself, waiting for the next day to begin. She dug the toes of her bootless feet into the earth and closed her eyes.
As if somehow reading her thoughts, Maeve asked, "How long did you live like this?"
The half-elf looked up in surprise, wondering who the question had been meant for, but that soon became obvious when she saw Lorcán and Aengus looking at her as well. Averting her gaze to the fire once more, she lifted her shoulders in a shrug.
"It's not like I kept track of it. I left Vengerberg after my mother died, which must have been around… twenty years ago?" Put like that, it sounded like a long time ago. Then why could she remember like it had been yesterday? But then again, it had been even longer ago that Elric had taken their son away from her, and she still knew exactly how the child's wails had sounded and what the bastard had told her.
Maeve shook her head, as if in disbelief. "So that means you lived between humans for so long. For how long did you have to suffer that? Thirty years? Forty?"
"Uh…" was all Gwen could say. Maeve, who had actually cut her in her hatred for her, now talked to her as if she had been part of this unit for years, asking all these questions. The half-elf did not quite know how to react to that. Then again, she didn't know why she was even answering the questions. And why did everyone think she was so young? "Make that eighty."
Now it was the company's turn to stare at Gwen.
"You're a hundred years old?!" Lorcán all but shouted, scratching the bites scattered along his arms. "I didn't even know inh'eid could get that old."
"What, you think we all drop like flies, like the humans do? Where do you think our elf blood goes?"
"Weird to think that you're older than the rest of us," Maeve cut in, and Iorveth cleared his throat. "Well, most of us. The Goddess knows how old he is." The commander remained silent at that.
"But then you lived with humans for eighty years," Aengus stated. He let out a low whistle. "And managed to get out whole."
Gwen wondered if one could still call her 'whole', and so she said nothing, instead opting to listen to the others as they told her their stories.
Aengus told her of how he, too, had lived between humans in a city as well. Though it had been in the slums, his family had never been unhappy. Always surrounded by other children – humans, elves and even a couple of half-elves, sometimes a few dwarves as well – he had at least never gone lonely, which had made up for the lack of food. The plight of being poor brought all these different people together, who lived in relative harmony. Aengus had left the city of his own free will, wanting to lighten the burden of his parents by moving out. Joining the Scoia'tael had been a logical next step from there.
On the other hand, Lorcán was one of the few elves born and bred in the woods. His parents had belonged to another unit of the Scoia'tael. They – as well as many other elves there – died a few years ago during a harsh winter nobody had reckoned with, and his parents had sacrificed themselves to save him, freezing to death with him in the middle. Somehow he had managed to survive long enough to find Iorveth, who had taken him in.
And then there was Maeve, who hated humans above all else, even though she had been raised by them. A human couple had found her as a babe, sure to die soon, and had raised her as their own. They protected her from the other humans in the village, until her father died of old age. With only her mother there to keep the others at bay, the villagers would not accept defeat, and in the end even her mother had told her she had to leave. Gwen had wanted to tell her that her mother had probably believed that sending her off would be better for her than to keep her in the vicinity of the villagers. But Gwen knew better than anyone else that hearing such things from others meant little to nothing.
Feeling guilty about the small amount of information she had shared, Gwen, for the first time in years, talked about the death of her mother. Demavend had always been a hater of elves, even before he had inherited the throne. Gwen's presence must have been a blessing in disguise for the other elves, for Demavend hated none more than her: an unnatural creature, the evidence of the joining of human and elf. In the weeks leading up to the day that would be her mother's last, the guards had made her life pure torture, continually harassing her mother and her. When the guards had finally received the order to kill her, they hadn't been able to find her, and so they had set her house on fire. This resulted in the entire street burning to the ground. Anybody unlucky enough to get caught in the disaster died: her mother had only been one of the victims that night.
Iorveth remained silent throughout the entire evening. At one point, he even got up to retrieve some meat he had packed, one piece for each, and began to roast them above the fire. By then, the rain had finally stopped, allowing them to hear the sounds of the village in the distance, as well as the rustle of the leaves in the steady wind.
The leader was also the first to announce he would keep watch, leaving the fire in favour of settling down near the cliff, where he probably had a better view of the river.
Catching Gwen staring at him, Maeve whispered, "The commander rarely shares any information about himself. We barely even know how he got that scar."
The half-elf hummed softly, gaze never once leaving Iorveth's back. When the others retreated to their bedrolls, she remained outside, curled by the dying fire, staring at the broad back of her leader and the stars that shone beyond.
His mind had been blank for most of the evening, letting what he had heard sink in while he kept an eye on their surroundings. His eyes had gotten used to the dark after leaving the fire, and so he could easily discern the movements of the river. Or on the river.
Somebody sank to the ground next to him all of a sudden, and he didn't have to turn to see who it was. She yawned and stretched her arms out above her, so he guessed that she had been asleep for the past few hours.
Neither one of them spoke as they watched the wind play with the water, creating waves and ripples along the shore. Off to the side, Flotsam slept. From here, it almost seemed like a normal village, its troubles temporarily forgotten. If only the peace could last until past dawn.
When her breathing had evened out and Iorveth thought she had fallen asleep again, he said, "I had not known that Demavend meant to kill you."
His voice sounded loud in the silence of the night. He did not know why he said it. But from the moment she told them, certain things had suddenly made sense. Small, unnoticeable things that anybody else would have filed away and forgotten. She hadn't saved Talullah in Flotsam that day because she had been feeling particularly gallant. She had done so because she knew what it was like when innocent people died for her.
"Well, it's not exactly something I go about yelling at the top of my lungs," she pointed out, her voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper. "Claiming that kings have tried to kill you is bad for your reputation. No offense."
Possibly for the first time since meeting her, the commander chuckled. If the gesture surprised the half-elf, she did not show it. For once she kept her emotions in check.
Without thinking, he heard himself say, "Of the fifty-three Vrihedd brigade officers, only I and one other survived. If this reputation is what withholds a dh'oine from coming after me, I can only see it as favourable."
After he had spoken, for a while only the water and the wind could be heard. Almost, he reprimanded himself for suddenly talking about something like that, especially with how strained their relationship had been these past few days. Weeks, even.
"What…" she began before he could, swallowing and licking her lips. "What was it like? Fighting for Nilfgaard?"
"Just like it is to fight here. The enemy and the war changed, but it is what it is: surviving." The Aen Seidhe shrugged, his eye wondering across the piece of land on the other side of the river.
She parted her lips but quickly pressed them together again. He knew what she wanted to ask, as many others did. Though he did not hide his scar, at least not amongst his trusted comrades, he had never felt the need to share how he had acquired it with them. Perhaps that was why many ridiculous rumours about it existed in the camp. It had gotten to the point where the right side of his face had become something of a legend among his soldiers. If he had not been so bitter about the disfigurement, he might have found the whole ordeal amusing.
But the inh'eid did not voice her thoughts, and so he did not have to deflect her question, possibly ruining the almost friendly moment they were having. Iorveth did not want to admit how much this satisfied him.
Only when her head sank against his shoulder did he realise that she most likely hadn't asked her question because she had fallen asleep.
Cusan = Kiss (Welsh)