[A/N]: chapter title is by Hurts.
The only moments Iorveth ever saw the world with both eyes again was in his sleep. It was as if, even after all these years, his mind still refused to believe that he had lost one of them. And so only in his sleep was he blessed with the ability to see the world in all its horrific grandeur. On some nights, he dreamed of a peaceful place he could consider home, although its appearance was never the same. Sometimes he stood on a beach looking over the sea, while other dreams took him to a meadow surrounded by hills. Now and then he found himself in a wooden house, small but cosy, but he also often walked through the halls of castles fit for kings.
Other nights took him to the past, to the things he'd had to suffer to get where he was. Closing his eye at night was therefore always a gamble for the commander, for he never knew whether his sleep would soothe or torture him. When he opened his eyes on that particular night, he knew at once that he had been denied a peaceful rest.
The space around him was dark, and it took him a few moments to realise that it was no sky but a roof over his head. Iron shackles bit into the skin of his wrist as he leaned his weight on them, a necessary evil seeing as he hung from then. Holes in his breeches did not protect his throbbing knees from the cold of the stones beneath him and he did not need any light to know that they, amongst other parts of his body, were covered in crusts and bruises. Once his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he recognised the cell he was being held in and his heart jumped into his throat as he began to pull at the chains holding him up.
With a creak, the door to the cell opened, bright light seeping into the room. The elf winced and closed his eyes again. A cool breeze followed soon after and Iorveth shivered when it wrapped itself around his chest. He remembered that his shirt had been torn to shreds beneath the whip that had left behind a painting of lines across both sides of his torso.
A man in black armour stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. He held a candle in one hand and illuminated the cell with it. In the other he held what looked like a dagger that he twirled around his fingers in an almost casual manner. The candlelight reflected in the man's eyes, creating a gleam that promised no good.
Footsteps echoed and reverberated throughout the cell as the soldier stepped closer, teeth becoming visible when he grinned.
"I hear they've not been able to get you to talk," he stated in that awfully thick Nilfgaardian accent. "About your elfy friends." As if he expected a response from the prisoner, he paused and tilted his head to the side. When Iorveth remained silent, the man added, "So they called me in, hoping you might be a bit more talkative in a... conversation with me."
As the soldier came closer still, always twirling that blade of his between his fingers and around his knuckles, the sound of static filled the commander's head until all he could hear was that, his heavy, irregular breathing and the clattering of the chains that held him up. Even so, he did not need to hear the Nilfgaardian's words to know what he had said.
Back then, when the commander had not yet been the commander, he had grinned and spat at the feet of the approaching man. Now, knowing what was to come, he was nothing more than a coward who could piss his breeches at a moment's notice. For him, who so often witnessed humans on their knees in similar positions, to be reduced to the same state… That memory alone was torture enough, long after the captivity itself had ended.
Rough fingers wound themselves through what remained of his hair and dug into his scalp to drag his head up. Green eyes shimmered with pain and anger as they met those of the man who looked down upon him. The knife was brought up to one eye as the Nilfgaardian said, "I will ask you one last time. Where did your elven friends run off to?"
Iorveth ground his teeth together, jawline clenched while his mouth remained shut. Dh'oine always thought that a little torture would get anybody to speak. Perhaps it worked on their own kind, but the Seidhe spent their whole lives being tortured by dh'oine simply for being different. If this was supposed to get him to open his mouth, they'd have to try harder than that. Even in his dreams.
"As you wish," the soldier said before he carved the dagger into the flesh just above his right eyebrow.
The pain that flared throughout the commander's face was something that he, to this day, remembered like it had only just happened. On bad days, he could still feel it burn, starting at his brow and moving down ever so slowly, as though his scar were a blacksmith's mold being filled with fluid metal.
The seidhe could only stare at the dagger's edge as it neared his eye, the grip on his head not relenting no matter how hard he tried to pull back. His nostrils flared and the taste of blood erupted in his mouth when he caught his cheek between his bared teeth. Once the blade reached his eye and dug into the organ, Iorveth shot up in bed. The stone walls of his shelter in Vergen greeted him, their presence a cooling and welcome sight to the unit leader, who felt far too hot in his bed roll. He moved a hand to his face, fingers touching the old scar there while he dragged in breath after breath. His mind remained blank until his chest stopped heaving with every breath intake. When it did, he laid back down, covering his eyes with an arm.
How was it possible to lead his unit through this particular war if his ability to think straight left him the very moment the Black Ones were involved? Perhaps he should resign before he led his people to their demise, simply because he had suffered at the hands of their southern neighbours.
But then again, who were to take up the reigns in his stead? There were many Scoia'tael who had the potential to become commander, but all too inexperienced for a war with Nilfgaard. But then again, he doubted Isengrim had thought such matters through before he escaped and left matters in Iorveth's hands. There were many things Isengrim had done that Iorveth did not wish to repeat, however. Ivor might in fact be the next best candidate, especially with the amount of trust and respect he had garnered amongst the others. In the past, however, the man used to have trouble accepting Iorveth's actions as the commander, nevermind making them himself. Moiriana took after himself in many ways and had experienced the same horrors, though she was even more passionate about the cause than he was. She would not be able to keep the greater good of the unit in mind and instead let her emotions control her. His other confidants, Siana, Bryn and Rhys, followed rather than led. Their sharp minds helped him refine most of his plans, but they would be hard pressed to come up with their own tactics. Owain, on the other hand, had neither the mind nor the motivation to take on the mantle of commander. In the end Ciaran would have been the best option, but unfortunately that was no longer possible. Because of his own ineptitude.
No, Iorveth would have to continue on his own. All he could do was learn from past mistakes and make sure he didn't repeat them.
And so, since he knew he wasn't going to get any more sleep, the commander let out one final breath before reaching for his scarf and wrapping it around his head. He noted the dust and dirt that had gathered on it and decided he would have to wash it soon. In fact, he hadn't had the chance to wash any of his armour in a while. It wasn't as if Vergen had a waterfall and lake placed conveniently right beside their camp like back in Flotsam.
That was for another day, though. First, he had to get through this one.
If Gwen had thought she hated the way the Squirrels had reacted to her existing among them, she had not considered how they might react to the news of her carrying the commander's child. It wasn't as if she were currently doing her best to forget her predicament or anything, something made impossible by everyone who felt like bothering her. As the half-elf made her way through the village for the first time since arriving, she almost regretted the fact that she had recovered to begin with.
Where before elves had sneered, glared and whispered behind her back, they now gawked and stared as if she were some extinct animal that had come back from the dead. It did not seem all bad, though. Sure, some of them hurled insults and inappropriate questions her way, but other elves treated her with a strange reverence. Of course, many of them had never encountered a pregnant woman, much less one carrying the commander's child. Again, something she did not want to be reminded of.
To tell the truth, it surprised her that the news had become so widespread in the first place. Had they not kept their relationship to themselves? Iorveth had always emphasised the fact that he did not want everyone knowing about them.
About how he had fallen for the inh'eid.
Apparently that wish had been in vain, since only few people were surprised by the news that they had even had something to begin with. Most seemed to know about that and reacted instead to the reveal of her pregnancy. Had one of her friends blabbed? Or had someone outside the house heard them speak? The half-elf did not know how gossip functioned.
Whatever the case, none of that was relevant as Gwen slipped past an elf who muttered, "How are we even going to feed it?"
She heard more than she saw his companion hit him and hiss, "At least someone is fighting our extinction."
After turning a corner, she heard someone say, "It'll have dh'oine blood, won't it?"
"Well, she is an inh'eid after all…"
More than ever, said half-elf felt more like an object that was being evaluated by everyone with at least one eye, rather than an actual living being. At best, she could pass for a cow being discussed by a group of farmers who wished to purchase her. The thought of the Squirrels dressed up in farmers get-ups and wearing straw hats, pitchfork in hand, made her snicker.
When finally she reached the marketplace, she was greeted by an empty space and realised this was where, according to the tales, much of the fighting between Vergen and Kaedweni had taken place. She remembered Ivor telling her that the market had been closed. Since so many had left town, merchants no longer considered Vergen a viable source of income and instead moved to other places.
Where did Ivor get all the food from then? This little adventure of hers was turning into quite the headache. Her limbs felt like they were losing their strength and she had barely even done anything. In the silence of the market square, the grumbling of her stomach sounded even more violent.
"You looking for something?" a voice asked behind her.
Gwen whirled around, her heart stuttering as she did so. Bloody elves! How had she not heard anybody approach? Behind her stood an elf she hadn't seen before.
The stranger's eyes widened and her grin disappeared. "Oh! Apologies! I thought you were…" An elf. "...someone else."
"It's fine," Gwen replied. Her body had gone rigid of its own accord, muscles tensing and ready for action. She felt her lack of strength in the grip of her clenched fists.
"Ah!" the elf exclaimed. "You're the one everyone's talking around, aren't you? Iorveth's lover?" When the other woman nodded, she raised a hand to her chin and frowned. "Hm, strange. I had thought that if the commander chose anybody to share his sleep with, it would be someone… special."
How the hell was she supposed to respond to that?!
Before she did, the stranger clapped her hands in front of her mouth, muffling her next words. "Sorry! I have no filter! I did not mean to imply that you're nothing special!"
Young elves were indeed a sight to behold, Gwen realised. She had never felt as old as she did in that moment, watching this elf flit about in blind panic. So much energy that they radiated, so full of love and life despite the fact that many of them would never see a peaceful day in their lives. Then again, they would always have a place that welcomed them home, no matter what happened…
"It's fine," Gwen said again. This time she forced her brows not to knit together and the corners of her lips to remain neutral.
The elf shot her a wide smile before asking, "Still, what are you doing here? Are you looking for someone too?"
"I was actually searching the market…"
"Truly? Like anybody in their right mind would want to sell wares in Vergen at this point!" the elf exclaimed. "All we get is specifically brought here on Saskia's orders. Everything is available at the keep now, so if you're searching for the market, that'd be your best bet to get anything at all."
At least this encounter hadn't been for naught, then.
"You know what? Since I'm in a generous mood, I'll take you there myself! I forgot that you haven't been around until recently, so of course you wouldn't know what's what in this place. Wouldn't want you getting lost now, would we?" And just like that, she bounded off in the direction of the keep, though she stopped after a few steps to look over her shoulder, large blue eyes peering at the half-elf. "Well?"
"I know where the keep is! You don't have to-"
"Nonsense, don't be shy! Come!" The stranger gestured for her to follow.
Despite her words, Gwen went after the young elf, all the while muttering about how she knew where to go herself. They passed through the large gates that were open to anybody who wished to find shelter in the city, if there were any people like that left.
"Didn't you say you were looking for someone yourself?"
"Doesn't matter, they'll just have to wait! And it's not like they'd mind once they hear why."
"Eh?" Gwen knit her brows together. "What is that supposed to mean?"
The elf's shoulders jerked and she froze on the spot. "Weeell… Let's just say you're kind of a legend in some parts of the unit, despite what the others say."
"What kind of legend? In which parts?" Now the half-elf's brows flew up.
Skipping up the steps until the first landing, the girl stopped and twirled around to watch Gwen with her hands on her hips. "You might not even remember her, but you saved Talullah's life, and since she's a dear friend to me and some others, we are forever grateful to you."
While climbing the stairs herself, Gwen inhaled sharply at the memory of the light-haired girl she had saved from the gallows, which automatically led her mind to what had happened after that. By the time she reached the top of the flight, the stranger had gone up the next set.
"So when we heard others tell us, well, let's just call them not so nice things about you, of course we couldn't believe it." At the top of the flight, the girl spread out her arms to the side. "They call us stubborn, but they're just as stuck in their ways."
The half-elf had to bite her lip to not start laughing. To hear one of their own describe them in such terms… It was truly beautiful.
"Plus, you're not at all as they described you. They make you out to be loud and aggressive. You seem like none of those things to me," the stranger pointed out before sprinting up yet another set of stairs.
The higher she climbed, the more Gwen's legs began to ache and her breath came out in puffs. She really needed to start training again soon, otherwise this whole Nilfgaard thing would kill her simply because she had been sitting on her ass for too long. Around pants, she said, "I can be loud and aggressive, though."
"But only to a select few." Gwen's companion looked up with a frown, perhaps counting the last remaining steps. "Come, we only have a few left to go." She was more perceptive than she seemed, then. "You're only loud and aggressive to people who you think deserve it. That, to me, is sign enough of a rational mind. No matter how faulty the rationality may be. But that's a discussion for another time."
"How old are you again?" Gwen asked with a huff when she stood beside her again.
The girl had to count on her fingers to answer her. "Thirty-something. I lost track somewhere along the way."
At that, the half-elf couldn't hold back the bark of laughter that escaped her lips. "I hope you haven't forgotten your name though."
"I'm rather fond of my name, so I don't see that happening any time soon, to tell the truth." The girl grinned back at her. "The name's Lucy."
In all her years, Gwen had never met any elf with such a human name. The thought must have been visible on her face, for Lucy giggled at the sight of it.
"My parents were human," she provided. "No, not my actual parents, but those who raised me."
"You mean they adopted you?"
"Yes, sorry, words aren't really my allies." She glanced away, almost as if she were contemplating whether to actually say the next thing that lay on the tip of her tongue. She wanted to say it so badly, Gwen saw, chewing on her cheeks as she contemplated her next sentence. Anything that had to do with humans went down badly with elves, it seemed. Even if it came from one of their own.
"Back in Vengerberg, there used to be an old man who lived in my street. A dh'oine. He was so old that he couldn't work a full day's worth any longer, but his wife had already died by then and for as far as we knew, he had no children of his own. He lived all by himself in that hut of his," Gwen said, her mind taken to a time and place far away from then. She must have been even younger than this girl. "But one day this elven child appeared, just came to our street one night and collapsed on the road. Everyone was in a panic, because leaving a kid like that was the 'way of the dh'oine'." The half-elf used her fingers to create quotation marks in the air.
"None of them had the means to take in another child though. I mean, we lived in the ploughing slums. My mother was prepared to do it, back then we still had the King's grace and whatnot though she never wanted to flaunt it, but then the old man spoke up, said he'd take care of her." By now, Lucy had turned back to Gwen and listened with wide eyes. "He had saved some money and didn't have anything to spend it on, he said, and he had all the time in the world. So he took the girl in, gave her his wife's name, claiming that's what she would have wanted. He lived just long enough for her to be able to take care of herself, but for as far as I know, she remained in that house of his." With a frown, the half-elf wondered what had happened to her in the destruction of their street. "The elves never spoke another bad word about him."
Lucy spun around and hid her face in her hands. Her next words were muffled by the palms pressed to her mouth. "I come from Maribor, where I was found in the woods by the river that runs right by it. A human hunter stumbled upon me one day, a baby wrapped up in a blanket and left there for… well, I don't know what." The elf inhaled deeply before dropping her arms, though her back still faced the half-elf.
"He took me home, where his wife and their children greeted me. He gave me a name and I grew up as one of them, though the other humans would not leave them be. My siblings probably suffered a lot because of me and we had our difficulties, but we loved each other. I think
" She paused again and Gwen realised just how quiet this town was. When she looked down from their position near the top of the staircase, she saw no signs of life. It offered her a sense of eeriness, like something was going to happen. Goose pimples rose along her arms at the thought.
The sensation was interrupted when Lucy ran up the final flight, taking two steps at a time. When she reached the top, she turned again with her hands on her hips. Her eyes glistened with sadness, her face honest and open to the feelings rushing through her. "I left them, hoping to spare them more misery. All I can do now is hope they're all right, what with the war and all."
Gwen followed her to the top and reached for the girl's hands, squeezed them tightly. She wanted to offer the elf hopeful words, warm words that would help her sleep at night. But she knew those would only hurt more in the end, so instead she said, "I hope so too."
A smile broke out across Lucy's face and her cheeks grew red. "Come, we've arrived."
From the outside, the keep seemed as deserted as the rest of Vergen did. Only when they pushed their way past the first set of doors did the sound of people greet them, murmurs and whispers that bounced off the stone walls and were sent in all directions. Here, the smell of food floated through the air, and Gwen's stomach growled as though calling out to it. Lucy giggled before bouncing down the hallway and taking corners without hesitation. Within no time, the source of the mouthwatering scent came into view.
Tables were laid out with all types of substances, from bread and rice to sausages and cheeses. It seemed like an unrealistic amount of food gathered for what little population remained in town, but Gwen couldn't be sure of the power of Saskia's reputation outside of Vergen. Either way, her belly was happy for the change of meal.
"Well then, I suppose it is time I went back," Lucy declared. "My friends have probably passed the stage of believing I'm simply late at this point."
"Good idea. I am sure we'll see each other around, won't we?" Gwen asked, surprising herself.
Lucy blinked several times as well before she grinned and gave the half-elf a thumbs up. "But of course!" And with that, she spun around and sprinted off again.
From beside her, a deep chuckle arose. "I see you've met Lucy." A dwarf whose hair was styled into some sort of mohawk appeared next to her, a plate of food in one hand and a pint of beer in the other. He looked familiar, though Gwen couldn't quite place his name. "Cheerful lil bugger, that one. There's nobody she hasn't won over yet, though I s'pose a fair share of elves've had their trouble with her."
"I'm sorry, but, uhm, what's your name again?" the half-elf asked and took a step back before glancing around. "And where does all this food come from? Who is it for? I doubt there are this many people still in Vergen, so where does the rest go?"
The dwarf laughed and shook his head. "A lil paranoid, aren'cha? Since you insist, name's Zoltan. And the food… Ya might note that none of it is exactly fresh, 't can all be stowed away for later. This..." Zoltan raised his beer in the direction of the long table that had been pressed up against a wall. Other Squirrels and villagers had gathered around and chatted as they ate. "Will be lunch. And dinner. Perhaps even breakfast again."
Gwen began to wonder just how old all the soup was that she had been eating. "That explains a lot."
"Wait," Zoltan declared, though the half-elf hadn't moved to leave yet. He raised his drink to his lips and threw it all back in one swig. With a gasp he lowered the cup and wiped his mouth with the back of the hand holding the now-empty pint. "Lemme help you pick the proper stuff."
Despite the fact that she hadn't done anything since waking up, her head felt stuffy and tired. Without the energy to resist his demand, she merely nodded and followed him to the table. He handed her a plate that looked relatively clean.
"Now I know yer not much of a 'bread person' at the moment, but there's still some lembas here. It's some elven shit ye surely know more of than I do, but apparently it's like bread, except it's more like cake. That's the best description I can manage, so ye'll just have to try it for yerself." He pointed at an almost-empty plate that still contained a few pieces of the legendary elven bread the half-elf had only witnessed a few times in her life.
It was therefore with wide eyes that she made her way over to the table to pick up a piece of it. Sniffing it did nothing to her stomach, which continued to grumble, and so she lifted it to her mouth and tore a piece off with her teeth. After eating mostly bland soup for the last few days, the taste of bread, but sweetened, washed over her like rain after a drought. She chewed thoroughly, savouring every moment before swallowing it. Then she stood still, waiting for her stomach to protest, but it did nothing but growl for more, and so she all but inhaled the rest of what lay on her plate.
"I'm guessin' it works, don't it?" the dwarf spoke from beside her, already holding a new pint. For a moment Gwen wondered how he even ate with his hands full like this. "Ivor was right afta' all. Then again, when isn't that fella right about somethin'?"
"Ivor told you to give me this?" Gwen asked as she took another piece of bread and stared at it. Its consistency was slightly harder than that of normal bread and crumbled easier, just like cake.
With a shrug, Zoltan took a large gulp of his beer. "Aye, he said ye couldn't survive on nothing but soup, so he told us to set aside some lembas and let ye try it. Thought it might help."
The half-elf's eyes burned for the umpteenth time and she cursed herself. Even so, in that moment, she couldn't help but wonder what her life had been like had she been carrying Ivor's child instead of Iorveth's. If she had fallen in love with the elf who had embraced her the moment she had entered the camp.
The moment she recognised the thoughts, she forced them to halt and refused to pay them any more attention. Wishing things like that only discredited their friendship, which she had come to value in and of itself. It warmed her heart to come to such a realisation so suddenly, to finally put words to what she had been feeling all along.
"You all right there, lass?" Zoltan had lowered his brows as he took her in. "Ye were gone for quite a while there."
Shaking her head, Gwen responded, "No, I'm fine. Just hungry."
"Well then, I won't bother ye any longer. Duty calls, after all. 't Was nice meeting ye, though." With a wave and his third tankard, the dwarf left Gwen to her own devices.
She used her time wisely, loading her plate with lembas until the table was almost devoid of it. Her shame had momentarily left her, however, and now that she was alone, there was nobody to distract her from the nagging in her stomach. Before anybody else could bother her, she fled the keep and sought a spot at the side of the path leading up and down the hill, her legs dangling off the edge.
Up here, she could see much of the town down below. It wasn't a particularly pretty village, mostly made out of stone, as one expected from a dwarven town. For any sort of green, one had to leave the city walls and enter the forests surrounding it. Gwen's heart weighed heavy at the sight of it. She had always had something around that was alive, be it a plant on the windowsill or the woods she hid in. Even Vengerberg itself was a surprisingly green city.
To emphasise the lack of life, a gentle wind brushed by the half-elf, rolling the crumbs on her empty plate over a few times. The air carried no sounds, no cattle like on the hill outside of the farm where James had stayed behind, no birds like on the road to Vergen, no water like in the camp near Flotsam. Instead it almost sounded as if someone were whispering in her ear. Perhaps they contained the voices of the stones all around her. Perhaps she was simply going crazy.
Whatever the case, she closed her eyes and simply listened to what the voices had to say.