[A/N]: *carefully places chapter on ground, then flees*
Because of reasons, this chapter has two songs for the title, one for Iorveth and one for Gwen. Iorveth's song is "Disconnect" by Evergrey, Gwen's is "Linger" by Oceans Ate Alaska.
Also, the thing that Dandelion recites comes from Andrzej Sapkowski's book "Blood of Elves". Thought it might be a nice touch to actually include it instead of thinking of some arbitrary adventure of Geralt.
Pain. A nagging yet piercing ache that ran so deep it was impossible to tell whether it was mental or physical. Bones felt so very old because of it, creaking and cracking. A testimony to the many years lived. Survived.
Fire. It was everywhere, enveloping, embracing. It crackled menacingly, like the wings of bats flying by. The heat it produced mingled with the pain, magnified it until it was blinding. Or maybe that was just the dagger, reflecting the light of the flames into squinting eyes.
A scream. Shrill and high, it almost caused the air to vibrate. It made the pain pulse harsher, the fires burn brighter. Together, they consumed everything until there was nothing left but darkness.
Although the sound of the pain, the smarting of the fire and the burning of the voice disappeared, somehow they were still there, just beyond this plane of existence.
They were no longer there, but their effects lingered.
And suddenly Gwen stood there, her speckled brown eyes almost golden despite the blackness that surrounded her, as if the flames were still there to illuminate them. With wide eyes, she stared straight ahead, as if there were anything there to begin with.
Her mouth hung open and it took a moment before the realisation came that she was screaming. Her brows dipped down, wrinkles covering her forehead as her expression turned into one of intense pain. Tears gathered at the corner of her left eye before leaking, escaping from their confine by sliding down her cheek.
A cheek that seemed pale in comparison to the tears that stained them.
Dark tears, almost the colour of black.
Blood.
She lifted hands that quivered to touch her face, her fingers coming away moist. Then she shifted her eyes from staring off into the distance to staring straight at him, and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of the fire that raged within her orbs.
Moving slowly, she reached for him with her trembling hands, her grip weakening as she grabbed the wrist in front of her face.
His wrist.
The very moment she touched him, the dagger materialised out of nowhere.
Now there was only one fiery eye peering at him.
This time, the scream that rang out was his.
And then he shot up, his tunic clinging to his heaving chest and his hair sticking to his face. He looked around and, noting the walls of the cabin on the boat, slumped against the mattress. There was no knife, no blood, no Gwenfrewi.
He balled his hands into fists and pressed them against his closed eyes. With a sigh, he willed the images to go away, but he realised that, like many of the others, they never would.
The air up top was strangely soothing. The last time Gwen had been on a barge had been her first, and that hadn't been quite as spectacular as she would have liked. Although the marks on her back no longer stung, Gwen knew that they would remain visible for the rest of her life. Leaning against the railing and staring at the water that lapped at the barge as it made its way along the river felt almost like victory after all the shit the humans had put her through.
Plus, it also made her forget the fact that she basically stood on top of Ciaran's grave, the place he had spoken his last words. To the vatt'ghern who had brought his situation to their attention. She supposed she should be grateful for the fact that he didn't die with only his enemies for company.
The matter of why exactly she cared was a different one. It wasn't as if they had been friends. They had barely even gotten past hating each other…
At the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of something white. Moments later, thick arms leaned against the wood of the railing beside her. How had he crept up on her without making a single sound? It made goose bumps rise along the skin of her arms, and not in the good way.
"Gwenfrewi, right?" he asked, his voice as deep and detached as always. It was strange how he could sound so cold and warm at the same time.
Gwen bit her lip and turned to look at the water again. "Just Gwen."
"You're a half-elf, correct?"
"Well, that's the politest way I've ever had that question asked to me," she replied with raised eyebrows. "I'm guessing that, since you haven't threatened me with your sword yet, you're not here to judge me, are you?"
When he shook his head, his hair fell over one of his shoulders. Without taking his gaze from the lush forests they were sailing past, he raised a hand and threw it back again. "Cedric told me to pass something on to you. A message."
"Cedric did? A message?" Gwen wondered out loud. Now her brows sank. She hadn't seen the elf since that fateful day in Flotsam. What could he possibly have to tell her?
"He said, 'Tell the half-blooded one that it was the mother who saved the daughter, not the daughter who killed the mother.'" When he spoke, he straightened his back to look her in the eye. "Does this mean anything to you?"
Gwen stared at him. For a moment, it seemed as if the entire world had slowed down. Then, she felt the tell-tale prickle of tears in them and so she quickly blinked and looked away. In a soft voice, she said, "Yes. Yes it does."
With a hum, Gwynbleidd nodded and moved his attention to the river once more. She wondered about all the stories people had been telling each other when Letho had been at their camp. About the vatt'gherns. This one didn't seem all that bad. If Cedric had entrusted something like this to him, then she could trust him too, right?
Still… Something didn't feel right. "Why did Cedric tell you this to begin with?"
The man, however, remained silent. Even when Gwen rested her arms against the railing again, looking up at him with glassy eyes. Seagulls called from the air and the ship creaked and groaned loudly as she waited for him to open his mouth. At one point, she even thought he would never start speaking.
Of course, that was also the moment he chose to speak up.
"He… was dying. The fool decided to get involved with Letho, because, 'Sometimes we must.' It didn't go so well for him, though." Gwynbleidd spoke softly, as if he were talking to himself. Only a slight movement of his head signalled that he was actually addressing her. "He used his last breath to give me that message, so I assume it must have been important."
When the sigh escaped her lips, Gwen felt like she had deflated to half her size. Cedric… Cedric was dead? The tears that had refused to go away completely now dripped down onto the railing between her white-knuckled hands.
Where would she be today if she hadn't met the old elf that day? Probably eaten by nekkers. And even if she had somehow managed to get past that, then she would still be the old her. The her that hated and was hated. The her no longer capable of love and trust.
She hadn't even been able to say goodbye. Or thank you. iAgain last words he told her were quite fittingly, "Good luck."
And Ciaran… She did not even remember the last time she had spoken to Ciaran. Only moments ago she had wondered about their relationship, but suddenly she could see it clearly for what had been. They may not have been friends or anything even remotely close to that. But in the end, they had respected each other, and that was more important than any superficial relationship status that she could stick to this now.
"I… I need to go," Gwen murmured, drying her eyes with her sleeve after pushing herself off the railing. "And… thank you."
The vatt'ghern's grunt barely registered in her mind as she made her way towards the stairs that would lead her to the deck below. Although a lot of elves who had gotten wounded in the battle were already up and about, many of them still lay down here, hushed whispers filling the space as they entertained themselves down here.
Whenever somebody walked across the wood above their heads, the walls would shake slightly and the sound of the steps would echo throughout the room. It was barely even noticeable, what with the slight swinging of the barge and all the noises that came with that. And with the smell of blood and sweat hanging heavy in the air, it was a wonder anybody could concentrate at all.
Everybody tried their best to ignore the fact that they resided within what basically amounted to a prison. It was a prison barge, after all. Only the cell Gwynbleidd had claimed had been Ciaran's was deserted. All that remained was the blood on the floor and the few piles of straw scattered around the space.
Now she stood there, leaning with her back against the grates of the cell, staring at the red blotch on the ground. In some way, it reminded her of the one she must have left behind on the one that had brought her here to begin with. Except she had made it out alive. Ciaran hadn't.
Never got a proper funeral either. She heard others tell of what happened when they got to the barge the day before. Some elves had still been alive when they arrived. Others hadn't been as lucky. Ciaran's body hadn't even been on board by the time they arrived, so they could only assume the worst.
She wondered why these deaths were affecting her like this. Many elves had died during her time with the Scoia'tael. Sure, she had felt… something, but had she mourned? Was she mourning right now? Her mourning had always consisted of anger and hatred, directed towards both herself and the world outside. Now she could only feel a calm note of sadness inside of her, a strange sense of emptiness. Was this what loss felt like?
"Strange, isn't it?" a voice asked from behind her.
The half-elf turned, almost expecting Ivor to step into the cell beside her. When she recognised Mervyn, she felt her shoulders tensing ever so slightly. "What is?"
"Death."
Her face remained blank as she watched the elf crouch beside the red mark and trace it with fingers that sported a similar colour. Strands of his long hair fell over his shoulder, hiding his face from her sight. Even so, she had taken note of the slight tremor in his chin. The way his fingers trembled as well told her enough.
Whatever she was feeling, it had to be worse for these people. While she had lost comrades and half-friends, they had lost family. She could only think back to the first few days after she had lost her son, though all she could truly remember was a lot of empty bottles and far too much blood – her blood. If her mother hadn't found her in time, who knew what would have happened to her.
Without a word, Gwen stepped towards the elf and sank to the ground beside him. She placed a hand on his shoulder and kneaded it like she had seen others do. In turn, his entire body began to shake and he let out a sniff. It hadn't been the reaction she had expected, but then again, she didn't even know what she had expected to begin with.
"It is, isn't it?" she heard herself say. "One moment they're still there and then, in the next, they're just… gone."
The muscles beneath her palm tensed and she cursed inwardly.
"But he's with the others now, isn't he? Where the apple trees bloom?" she continued, trying her best to keep the frantic tone out of her voice. "He's fulfilled his duty and now he's been released from this… this life. Wherever he is right now, he's at peace, and we should… I think we should honour his sacrifice by moving forward. It's all we can do, really."
"You… you know of the blooming apple trees?" came the small voice from behind a curtain of dark hair.
Gwen bit back a scoff. "My… my mother always told me about them. She hoped that I'd be able to reach them, too. Even though I'm, well… this." Though he probably couldn't see, she used her other hand to gesture at herself.
Rather abruptly, Mervyn pulled away and looked at her, the tears making his strange wolfbane-coloured eyes even more vibrant. Or maybe that was the spark of anger in them. "Don't say that about yourself. You… you've proven yourself worthy a long time ago. No one doubts that."
Though she had concluded as much from the changes in their demeanour, her breath still hitched in her throat at hearing someone actually say it. Somehow it seemed ironic that it was one of the few elves she still recognised from the beginning of her Squirrel career to tell her this. Or perhaps it was fate?
"Thank you," she murmured, dipping her head down before she pushed herself up again. Once she stood, she held her hand out for the man on the ground. "Ciaran… He was a pain in the ass. And you probably knew him better, but he wouldn't have wanted us to sit on… here."
"No, he wouldn't have," Mervyn admitted softly as he accepted her help. He kept his eyes on that damned spot, though.
The corners of Gwen's mouth quirked upwards and she patted him on the shoulders again. "Go on, tell me what he would have wanted us to do instead?"
"He…" Licking his lips, he finally lifted her gaze. "He would have wanted us to kill a lot of dh'oine in return."
"Exactly. Now come. We should tend to the living, not linger on the dead."
As they left the cell, Gwen noted that mourning people by helping others get up again wasn't so bad.
Up top, it seemed that the only human on board – Dandelion, who used far too many fancy words to actually be understood properly – had gathered a sizable audience. Standing at the front of the barge and playing a soft, slow melody on his lute, he seemed to be relaying some tale of sorts.
"It was a dream. Sleep peacefully. It won't come back," Dandelion recited in a singsong voice, his fingers working his lute as if he had been born with it.
Though Gwen was not quite sure why the dh'oine could stand so easily between the Scoia'tael – and how the Scoia'tael members seemed to not mind his presence – she stopped at the top of the staircase and watched him. Mervyn hesitated for a moment before he tilted his head at her and made his way over to the group.
"Ciri had heard such reassurances in the past. They had been repeated to her endlessly; many, many times she had been offered comforting words when her screams had woken her during the night." The poet paused briefly, his eyes sweeping across his audience, watching the elves like a hawk. "But this time it was different. Now she believed it. Because it was Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the Witcher, who said it. The man who was her destiny. The one for whom she was destined. Geralt the Witcher, who had found her surrounded by war, death and despair, who had taken her with him and promised they would never part." He dropped his gaze and hunched his shoulders close to his body, as if he suddenly felt naked and vulnerable. Then, softly, he finished, "She fell asleep holding tight to his hand."
Only when he bowed deeply did the warriors watching him clap their hands. Reluctantly at first, the sound grew in strength as more joined in. Gwen wondered if that was because of their unfamiliarity with the tradition, or because this was how they truly felt about the story.
Whatever the case, the half-elf found herself glancing around in search of the vatt'ghern. What was this about a Ciri person? His lover, perhaps? How much of it was true to begin with? Poets and bards were known for… embellishing the tales they touched with their tongues.
Gwynbleidd was nowhere to be seen, however, and so she turned around to see if she could find him elsewhere. When she saw no sign of him on the other side of the ship, she lifted her shoulders in a shrug.
"Did you enjoy the performance?" somebody behind her asked.
When she whipped her head around, her dark eyes met bright blue ones. Dandelion reclined against the railing behind her in a rather casual manner, all the while stroking his goatee.
Her gaze flickered over to the already dispersing audience before meeting his again. "I have to admit I missed most of it. Well, all of it except for the last few lines or strophes or whatever you people call them."
"With 'you people' I suppose you mean us poets?" he asked, dark brows disappearing beneath the red hat he wore. When the half-elf nodded, he chuckled and shook his head. "Not a lover of the arts, I take it?"
"Not really," Gwen admitted with another shrug.
"What a surprise!" Dandelion exclaimed, although he did not look all that surprised. "I haven't met a lot of women who cannot appreciate the fine arts."
She couldn't help the smirk that broke free of her lips. "I find that I'm different from a lot of women on a lot of different fronts."
"Do tell." The poet clasped his hands in front of him. Though his surprise hadn't been sincere, his curiosity most certainly looked like it was.
"What if I said I could chop your head off before you could even blink your eyes?"
Dandelion shook his head. "No can do. I've met quite a few of those already."
"Maybe you should write songs about those instead."
"Ballads, not songs," the man responded at once. "And you just heard one, in fact."
With a hum, Gwen tapped a finger to her chin. "Perhaps. I can't remember much of it after hearing you recite at least five different titles for Gwynbleidd. Couldn't you have added that one as well? 'Gwynbleidd'? 'Vatt'ghern' would have been a nice addition, too. Some constructive criticism for the next time, perhaps?"
Much to her surprise, the human threw his head back and burst into laughter. She watched him with a raised brow, wondering if he had lost his mind. That was a thing that happened to artistic people, was it not?
"Ahahaha… Forgive me… I…" the bard began, wiping a tear from his eye. "I have to admit… I have never had a response such… such as that before. Normally people start debating about whether any of it is real or not. I've been threatened a few times, too, because of it."
The half-elf frowned. "Threatened? What for?"
"For information on the Lion Cub of Cintra, her whereabouts and the like," Dandelion responded, his chest puffed out and his hands gesturing wildly. The moment the words left his lips, however, he tensed and deflated.
Standing beside them was the vatt'ghern, his face as blank as that of an elf as he stared at the two of them. Gwen couldn't stop herself from jerking away from him. How had he gotten so close without her noticing again?!
His eyes moved over her form for a moment before he directed his attention towards the bard again. "I know I can't remember any of this, but do I need to remind you how much trouble this tale gave you back then?"
"That was a long time ago, Geralt," Dandelion stated, waving his hand about as if to make the matter disappear that way. "I doubt anybody would need this information now. And even if they did, I would place a bet on how long they would survive. You see, Gwen, the ballad was about one such woman, although back then she was but a young girl."
Gwynbleidd let out a sigh and Gwen couldn't help but ask, "You can't remember any of this? The Lion Cub of Cintra, Ciri… She wasn't your lover, she was your daughter. A daughter destined to be? And you can't remember?"
"It's a long story," he responded.
Dandelion opened his mouth, but he shut it again at the sight of the vatt'gherns glare. Gwen decided to drop the issue as well. She did not wish to die enough to sate her curiosity. Plus, perhaps she could corner Dandelion somewhere in Vergen and have him explain what was going on.
For now, however, she would have to wait.
They arrived early the next day, mooring somewhere north of Vergen. The rest would have to be walked by foot, but Dandelion claimed rather cheerfully that it wasn't that far. Together with Gwynbleidd and Zoltan, the poet left while Iorveth gathered a group of elves to join them. Those who remained behind were mostly the wounded, those tending to them and those guarding them and the barge.
Gwen fell into step beside Ivor as they followed Iorveth along the stony path that was more sand than stone. Here by the water the wind was harsh, tugging at their armour, pushing against them with every step they took. To the right a tall, white cliff rose, offering them only little protection from the irregular gusts. What little vegetation that grew here seemed deformed by the weather, bare and bent. Empty. As they left the river behind them, an eerie silence took over. The sound of their armour clinking and their boots stepping in sand was all they could here – at least, whenever the wind died down for a moment. A strange feeling of tension hung in the air, making sure that nobody opened their mouths.
It didn't take long before they caught up with the others, who were conversing with a group of dwarves. Iorveth raised a hand to those behind him before making his way towards where Gwynbleidd stood. Gwen stayed behind with the rest of the elves, watching him go with a frown on her face. Somehow, for some reason, something felt wrong here. She just didn't know what.
From this distance, combined with the wind, she could hear none of what they were saying, although, going by the gestures everyone was making, it looked like a rather lively discussion.
"What are they talking about?" Gwen whispered to Ivor, who stood beside her with his arms crossed. His expression mirrored her own.
"I cannot hear," he replied and he tilted his head to the side, as if that might help. He opened his mouth again, but before he could say anything, their surroundings grew darker all of a sudden.
"The sun!" someone behind her murmured.
Gwen raised her head, her eyes widening when she saw the shadow that had begun to cover it all of a sudden. "What…?"
Before anybody could do anything, Iorveth and Geralt had started moving again. The commander sent them another signal before he went out of sight, but it was to stop them from following him. Gwen bit her lip; she had been about to run after him. What if something had happened? Why had he brought all these warriors with him if he was simply going to let them stand there?
In the meantime, one of the dwarves had rushed off in a different direction.
"Where's he going?" she asked nobody in particular. "We can't just stand here, can we? We… we've got to do something, right?"
She had fixed her attention on Ivor, but the elf was still too busy gaping at the sun. When he ignored her calling his name, she decided to take matters into her own hands. Three of the dwarves had stayed behind, staring at the sky together with Dandelion and Zoltan, so she ran towards them. At least Dandelion turned to look at her when she arrived.
"We can't stay out here like this," Gwen said, gesturing towards the clouds. "Can't you take us to Vergen while we wait?"
That seemed to snap the others out of their stupor as well. Ivor and some more elves came to a halt behind her, and the dwarves turned their gazes towards her as well. With all the eyes on her all of a sudden, the half-elf found herself straightening her back without thinking.
"We're vulnerable out here, but Iorveth told us to stay behind. He'll find out where we are afterwards. I doubt he would have kept us here if he thought he'd need us," Gwen continued. "You need to get somewhere safe too, right? In case something happens?"
One of the dwarves spat on the ground. "'Somewhere safe'? Wot d'ya think we are? A buncha pansies dressed in green, afraid o' a lil' dark?"
"Actually," Gwen said, staring rather pointedly at Dandelion, "I was talking about the less capable among us, if you mind. Or more capable, depending on your criteria."
Zoltan chuckled loudly and shook his head. "The lass's right. Dandelion here's no match fer whatever opponent ya wanna throw at him. And I'm sure many o' us are tired after the trip."
More murmured assents came from behind the half-elf.
"Fine, fine, we get the point," another dwarf muttered. He gestured for the other two, who looked at him rather sullenly, to follow him and repeated the movement for the others.
With one more look at the dark sun – surely an ominous sign – Gwen made sure that everyone in their eccentric collection of travellers was on their way.
How long had it been? How much time had passed? When were they coming back? Were they even going to come back? What if they had died, doing who knew what? Their corpses lying there for the crows to feed upon?
Gwen looked out of the window the next time she passed it on her pacing round. It was still light out. How many times had she asked herself that question now? What if an entire day had passed without her knowing, without her realising, sunken too deep in her own thoughts to notice the passage of time?
"Gwen."
What if he never came back? What if she were to have her trust betrayed once more? To have her heart broken again?
"Gwen."
She didn't think she could do this anymore. Not again. Not after all this. She just couldn't.
"Gwen!"
A pair of hands grabbed her shoulders and shook her. Her teeth clattered together, catching the skin of her cheeks in between them, and she winced at the pain. She looked up to see Ivor staring down at her, his brows lowered and his lips forming a thin line.
"Sorry," she muttered when he let go of her.
"Stop worrying. It'll be fine. They haven't been gone nearly long enough to warrant this kind of pacing."
With a sigh, the half-elf dropped herself into a nearby chair and leaned her head back. Her eyes fell upon her sword, resting against a stone wall nearby, and her fingers twitched. Had she ever felt the need to cut something – or someone – into pieces as much as she did in that moment?
Rolling her head to the other side, she stared out of the small window that allowed her a view of the streets outside. A few elves had gathered there, talking to each other about who knew what.
"The villagers say that a fog has been spreading from the top of a hill nearby and is slowly making its way toward the village," Ivor said after a few moments of silence.
The elves standing outside straightened their backs all of a sudden, their heads jerking into the same direction.
With a huff, Gwen asked, "Is that supposed to make me feel better somehow?"
Before her companion could respond, the Scoia'tael outside had sprinted off. Others seemed to have been following the display, for more elves left their houses and went after them. Gwen shot out of her chair and towards the door, which she threw open with more force than intended. It smacked against the wall with a loud crash, but she ignored it in favour of following the elves who had left the small plaza. Those who occupied the same house as her didn't take long to run after her.
She made her way across wooden planks thrown onto puddles to keep their feet dry, down stone stairs, past market stalls and finally came to a stop beneath a high arch. The gates were open, but a couple of elves blocked the way. Even so, she could hear the commotion coming from the other side. She could hear his voice.
By the time she stopped at the back of the small crowd, she was breathing heavily and sweating all over. Her wounds complained all the while, though she tried her best to ignore them. She didn't wait long before making her past the murmuring Squirrels to get to the front. As she got closer to the front, she could start to hear what they were saying.
"…do not have time for this." That was Iorveth. Somehow, he sounded calm and agitated at the same time. Or perhaps that was simply because of the roughness of his voice. "I need to find the one who poisoned her."
"How are we to know it wasn't your doing?" someone else snapped back.
"Stop that, Harold." Gwen froze the moment she recognised that voice. Incidentally, that was also the moment she could finally see what was happening. "Saskia had placed all her faith in him – killing her would have been the worst thing he could possibly do. Unless, of course, he wished to sow chaos. After all, does the legendary Iorveth even wish to live in peace with humans?"
In front of her stood Prince Stennis in all his glory, his golden armour still as annoyingly shiny as it had been on the day he threw her out of her own country. One of her few remaining relatives. Thankfully she didn't resemble him in any way at all.
"Pah!" Iorveth spat, his face contorting with anger, but he balled his hands into fists and held back. Then, suddenly, he caught sight of her, turning his head towards her.
The movement made Stennis look at her, as well, and his eyes went so wide it might have been comical had the situation been less tense. She ignored him, however, and continued to watch Iorveth.
As though someone had cast a spell, time seemed to slow down when she noticed the look in his eye. There was no flicker of recognition, no speck of warmth, though she wouldn't, or shouldn't, have expected the latter to begin with. But it was the former that scared her, that caused a sliver of doubt to worm its way into her core. For the duration of a single heartbeat, something she hadn't expected flickered through his green orb – apprehension? Regret? It was gone before she could recognise it, replaced by something even more frightening: resolution.
He waved his hand at her, gesturing for her to come closer. The move captured Stennis's attention once more. Hope flooded here and Gwen took a step forward, and another, and one more. All the while she ignored that voice in her mind.
Run, it whispered. Just as it had back then. Don't go with him.
But it was too late. She stood beside the elf and he stepped behind her, his hands on her shoulders. Like he was presenting her.
"What if," Iorveth began, his voice far colder than Gwen had ever heard it before, "as a gesture of… peace, if you will, I were to return something of yours to you."
This time, the entire world stopped spinning.
The half-elf did not respond, did not even register, the commander lowering his hands from her shoulders to her wrists. Tying her hands together with a coarse piece of rope. Shoving her forward, almost causing her to stumble to her knees.
Somewhere in the background, someone called out her name.
Only when two pairs of hands found her arms, metal gloves instead of leather coming upon her, did her surroundings fall into place again. She dug her heels into the stones beneath her and, bellowing a yell, she tried to rip herself from the grasps of the soldiers sporting the familiar colours of Aedirn, of what once was home. They only tightened their holds on her, making her wince and bite her tongue when one of them disturbed the cut on her arm. From the stain on her sleeve, she knew she had started bleeding again.
She couldn't have cared less, however. Ignoring the pain, she continued to struggle, screaming as she tried to break free. She sought him, sought Iorveth, her new home, with wide eyes. He was staring at her, unseeing. Or uncaring. She didn't know which was worse.
When the guards began to drag her away, she screamed. Without a second thought, she threw her head back, only for it to collide with armour. Now, her surroundings sped up, circling around and making her stomach churn. Even then she didn't let up.
Only when they passed Iorveth did she realise the sudden close proximity to the man. With another scream she tried to throw her arms at him, both to hug him and to punch him, to beg him to save her, to ask why, why, why, why -
"Why? Why? Why?" she shrieked at him. It became a chant, one she repeated even when he turned his head to look the other way, his jaw set.
"Gwen!" Ivor's voice roared above her one, above the clamour of those watching the display.
Though tears had begun to fill her eyes, she tried to find the source of the voice, hope flaring inside of her once more. Bright and blinding and biting into her. Only for her to find him being held back by other elves. He stretched his arm out towards her, calling her name over and over again while she continued to voice that one question, but his fingers curled around thin air.
Why?
Why?
Why?
Whywhywhywhywhy?
That one word accompanied her as the soldiers dragged her out of Vergen, towards the camp Stennis's army had set up nearby. It was her solace as they tied her to a pole in the middle of the field, surrounded by tents and leering men. Her companion as, finally, the tears broke free and she sank to the ground, sobbing loudly.
When it was no longer a word but only a feeling, it took root somewhere deep inside of her. And when her crying died down into soft hiccups, and those hiccups turned into the grinding of teeth, she raised her face to the darkened sky and opened her eyes feeling half a century younger.
And full of hate.