[A/N]: chapter title belongs to Voices from the Fuselage.

Iorveth paced back and forth, to and fro before the empty hearth. Although this old dwarven town somehow staved off much of the summer's warmth, anybody who wanted a fire inside was either ill or insane. He held a pipe to his lips, his teeth digging into the tip as he moved about inside the room. A restlessness had captivated him and he felt like some bear in a cage. He even found himself wanting to snarl at anybody who dared approach him.

The last time he had felt like this had been… back when he had found out Isengrim had vanished.

"He's gone," the elf beside him said for the sixth time already. The words left his mouth every time Iorveth's pacing reached him, as far as one could call the elf's stumbling about in circles 'pacing'. Each step he took tore through his battered body, but he just couldn't stay still under these circumstances.

Iorveth locked the whining out of his mind, turned around and started back towards the bare tree where he had come from. He had clasped his hands behind his back and did his best to ignore the limp in his steps. In the meantime he clenched his jaw until the muscles there all but began to cramp. Anything to overwhelm the throb in his head, just behind his eye. What was left of it.

They had wasted days now, valuable moments necessary to put as much distance as possible between them and the Nilfgaardians, waiting for their commander to return. The seidhe had yet to give them any sign that he was even alive.

Iorveth had barely finished his round when Connor muttered, "He's gone." The sound was muffled by the hand that he had pressed against his mouth, the appendage wrapped in dirty linens since Iorveth had decided to save all the fresh bandages for those who needed it most.

They had to face the music. Isengrim was gone and Iorveth was all they had left. The stupid one-eyed elf who couldn't even walk straight. But he didn't need two eyes to see that they didn't have enough resources left to take care of everybody. Neither did he need his legs to find Isengrim, because the man simply wasn't going to come back.

This time, when Iorveth reached Connor, he said, "He's dead." The words confirmed what Iorveth had only dared think until now, but hearing them out loud broke whatever spell he had been under.

Iorveth stopped his pacing, instead straightening his back so he could stare at the night sky. Stars shone there, fading in and out of existence as though someone with a million eyes were blinking down at him. The restlessness that made him jitter faded and he relaxed his jaw. He knew what he had to do.

Circumstances were completely different from back then, however. He had known the cause of the tenseness in his muscles, had pondered on the situation. This time, he had simply woken up with a general feeling of unease and anxiety crawling down his spine like a steady stream of ants. He had broken his pact to stop smoking in the hopes of finding sanctuary in his pipe.

"What do you think you're doing?" his mother's voice had resounded from somewhere behind him while he worked the tobacco, his fingers as agile as ever. It was like he had never stopped to begin with. With the shrug of a shoulder, he had replied, "It's not like she wants me anywhere near her any longer."

Unfortunately, it hadn't worked. His body only felt slower, but his mind was as alert as ever, and so he set the pipe aside. To make matters worse, guilt now filled him as well. Did this not mean he had simply accepted defeat? That there was no way to go back to the way things used to be? When did Iorveth ever bow his head just like that?

The commander did, though, if that meant success for his unit. And the commander had been the one to put them in this situation to begin with.

Why was it always the commander who decided the course of his life?

A hot flash of anger overcame him, the insides of his flesh singed by the sudden onslaught of fury. Gritting his teeth, Iorveth balled his right hand into a fist so tight his knuckles turned white and he surged towards the nearest wall. His fist hit the stone with barely a noise, the surface beneath his skin calm and cool as though it observed him with an unnervingly disinterested gaze. His fingers, however, cracked with an explosion of pain. He refused to utter a single sound as he pressed on, his digits throbbing against the unmoving wall.

With one eye hidden beneath blood stained bandages, Iorveth looked at each and every seidhe who stood before him. He had seen Isengrim do it countless times, remembered the rush it had given him whenever he was the one to make eye contact with their former commander. "Yes, Isengrim is gone and it doesn't seem like he's going to come back either. But we... We're still here and so are the dh'oine and the people who wish us harm because of what we are." He paused, swept his gaze back and forth as if searching for something, perhaps someone in particular. "That gives us two options… Either we lay down our weapons and hide for the rest of our lives, wondering 'what if'. 'What if I hadn't stopped fighting?', 'What if I had done something?', 'What if…'"

It was a lie. No matter what path they would choose, they would always be plagued by the what ifs that made them who they were. What if he had been stronger? What if he had been faster? What if he had seen it coming? But they need not know that. After all, that's what commanders were for.

He… was their commander now. He would be the one to stave off their fears and take on that burden for himself. He would give up his whole being to ensure their survival.

And as he met the eyes of each and every soldier before him, the harrowed looks, the drawn brows, the pinched mouths, the wrinkled foreheads, he saw that they needed it. And so he would pretend to be what they needed, for as long as he could last.

"...or we continue to fight, show them we are not like them. We shall not be defeated because our leader has fallen. We shall rise again, stronger than before exactly because we have suffered that loss and lived through it. What say you?!"

Hesitant at first, the Scoia'tael lifted their fists one by one, glancing at each other as they did so before their courage could fail them. But when Iorveth opened his mouth and let out a roar, his companions followed his lead until they all but chanted his name.

"Scoia'tael, I can't hear you!"

"Yes, commander!"

...and that was why the commander ruled his life and would do so until the end of the line. His line.

His fingers tried to resist his attempt to unfurl them and flatten his palm against the stones, but he ignored their struggle. Lifting his other hand to repeat the motion, he leant forward and rested his forehead against the smooth surface. The anger left his body with his breath and he felt like he had deflated to half his size.

Something creaked behind him and when he looked over his shoulder he caught sight of somebody standing in the doorway, their silhouette darkened against the light from outside. The figure was barely recognisable, but Iorveth had learned to read people simply by their stature. He had to be capable of at least that if he wanted to lead anybody. On some days, days where he wondered what he would have become if he had not taken on the role of commander, or days where he asked himself what he would do if he ever survived this war, he figured the skill would do him well if he ever became a troubadour. The voice and mind he had developed to command people's attentions and beliefs would aid him if he were a bard, but he feared he did not have the imagination necessary to think of the tales that people like Dandelion did. No, Iorveth very much would have liked to play his flute all day, every day.

"What is it, Ivor?" His movements were sluggish as he straightened his back, ignoring the ache in his hand as he turned to face the elf with his hands behind his back. He barely managed to contain his flinch when he clasped his fingers together again.

When his companion stepped into the room and his eyes fell to the table behind Iorveth before taking the man himself in from toe to crown, Iorveth knew that he most likely knew everything already. Silently cursing his luck, he heard Ivor ask, "You started smoking again?"

"Does it truly count as 'starting again' when I've only done it once?" Iorveth countered, clumsily unfurling his fingers so he could cross his arms over his chest, wincing as he did so.

Either his perception of the world had been tampered with more than he'd thought or perhaps Ivor moved horribly fast, but all of a sudden the elf stood before him and held his hand up so he could inspect the commander's. Until then Iorveth had yet to notice how swollen and bruised it had become so soon after hitting the wall, although it did explain why it stung so much. His knuckles had been scratched open, blood oozing out until it covered the skin like a thin red layer that shone in the dim light from outside.

"Did the wall insult your mother again?" Ivor asked, the corners of his lips curling up as he took out a piece of cloth from one of his pockets. The tissue was frayed at the edges and its white colour had long since made way for a more yellowed tone. Drops of blood still stained the fabric, faded from repeated attempts of cleaning but not completely gone.

Apparently the smoke had affected his mind after all, for it took Iorveth far too long to realise they were his drops of blood, shed what felt like several lifetimes ago. Perhaps, in one of those lifetimes, he would have found the sight nostalgic, but now he could only stare at it and watch how Ivor dabbed it against the wounded surface. Neither of them spoke up. After all, they both knew what the conversation would sound like.

"You must take better care of yourself," Ivor would say, refusing to look the other elf in the eye. "How many times must I tell you this?"

"Until I die, presumably," Iorveth would mutter. He would need to say the truth, would not want to give his friend any kind of hope when it came to this, but he would also wish he didn't have to do so in the first place. All his relationships had crumbled due to that little fact, that he was reckless and dangerous and unable to change.

Ivor's face would twist into one of his anguished looks that displayed how much he hated those words despite understanding them. Although he always tried to look out for the commander, he would never force him to change his ways. And seeing that face, Iorveth would think back to all the times his face had looked like that while holding Isengrim's wounded body, wishing it would be the last time but knowing that if that were true, his commander would be dead.

Iorveth would wonder if perhaps Isengrim's death had been the best thing to happen to him back then. He knew he would not have been able to tear himself away from the man like Ivor had been able to do with him. His sense of responsibility would trump his need for self-preservation and he would remain stuck in the cycle until he died. This way, however, he had some semblance of freedom to do the same to others.

He'd had a great teacher, after all. And that's why he never wanted to be glad for the man's death, why he said nothing in that moment. He figured that Ivor's thoughts would be no less unpleasant if they went down that road of conversation.

And so they remained silent as Ivor held his hand between his own to finish cleaning it, each stuck in their own thoughts. The tightness in Ivor's face belied his calmness, the mask too perfect to be true and Iorveth knew how to read the elf well. He wanted very much to say something, to tell him he would be fine. To not worry about him. But he wished he could say so without lying or bringing false hope.

Instead, he asked, "How is Gwenfrewi doing?" He hadn't seen the woman since their last conversation that had so obviously taken its toll on him and it was impossible to keep her off his mind for long.

"She is doing…" Ivor's voice trailed off, though his hands did not stop what they were doing. He took out a clean bandage from another pocket and shot the commander a look when the man opened his mouth to protest. As he wrapped the piece of cloth around the commander's knuckles, he said, "She is doing fine. She is still often sick, but from what I have heard, that is to be expected at this stage. And she has taken to training by the back entrance, with the lake near the forest."

Iorveth's entire body went rigid and he winced when he balled his hands into fists. He lamented the fact that she had to go through all this - again - without him by her side, but he had at least expected Ivor to never let her out of sight like this. "And you let her?!"

"Calm down, commander," Ivor said, the tiniest of smirks on his face as he tugged at his friend's hand to loosen it again. "As I said, she's doing fine. She asked me to help take care of any monsters roaming nearby a short while ago. Don't give me that look, she needed something to do and you can't keep her cooped up all the time in the hopes that she'll suddenly listen to everything you tell her."

"It'd make things easier for everybody if she just did as she was told," Iorveth grumbled and averted his gaze to the ground.

"Yes, well, I doubt you have any right to say things like that."

The commander had nothing to say to that, for he knew it was true. Neither of them spoke after that and Ivor soon finished wrapping up Iorveth's hand. He gave it a pat before saying, "We're lucky you can use both hands for fighting, otherwise we'd be in a lot of trouble right about now. 'Apologies comrades, we must postpone our return to Flotsam because our commander decided to pick a fight with a stone wall.' Doesn't sound very heroic, now does it?"

"That's only because you're bringing it like that." Iorveth surprised himself when he grinned and added, "You have to tell them, 'Our commander has wounded himself battling his demons whilst trying to keep everyone safe from them. Unfortunately, this means we must postpone our return, but we do so knowing our commander has our best interests at heart.'"

"I'm beginning to see your cunning tongue is what makes you such a great commander, not your battle prowess." Ivor's lips curled into a wicked grin that bared his teeth.

Iorveth needed but a single hand to count the amount of times he'd seen this look on Ivor's face. It was a look one that had never failed to make his cheeks grow red. Even so, he wasn't one to back down from a challenge and he narrowed his eye just so before saying, "You would know that better than anybody else out there, isn't that right?"

"Be careful of the words you choose, commander," the elf murmured as he cleaned up the supplies he'd used to take care of Iorveth's hand. "I might see them as an invitation."

What if I meant them as such? The words were caught in his throat and he quickly swallowed them back down. He had done too much in the heat of the moment back when he was younger, but he could no longer afford such carelessness. Not when his love wanted to stab him with a sword and then twist the blade to tear open the wound only to watch him bleed out on the ground. Not when she had every reason to do just that. It did not surprise the commander that he no longer had the will to assert the correctness of his decision.

After all, was a commander not also supposed to recognise a mistake when one had been made? To take blame for any misdoings, whether of his own design or not? And, looking back, his move had indeed been a mistake. Perhaps even one of his own making. But in his stubbornness - his own, not that of the commander - he had not relented in his confrontation with the inh'eid… Why? Because he had wished for her to recognise his authority? Because he hadn't wanted to acknowledge his fallacies in front of the person he loved? Whom he had hurt because of his own failure?

"I know what I must do..." the elf muttered to himself, his gaze fixed on the stone floor.

Ivor seemed amused by the assertion, his voice taking on a teasing tone when he said, "Ah, you do, do you? Thank the gods we're not following an improvising madman, then."

The commander heard the words but did not register them in his mind. Instead, he looked up and asked, "When do we begin?"

Though his friend looked taken aback for a moment, he quickly regained his footing. "If I'm not mistaken, they'll all have gathered soon. We should get going, too. It wouldn't do for the commander to be late for his own meeting."

The next time Gwen laid eyes upon Iorveth, he had summoned the Squirrels at the gates of Vergen in what had once been the market square. The elf himself stood at the top of the arch, looking down at his subordinates like a proper king. Though the half-elf had lost count of how many times the sun had set since meeting Moiriana and Bryn, or perhaps because she had lost count, she noted that the commander looked worse for wear.

Even from down here she saw how his posture faltered every now and then only for him to realise it soon after and correct it by straightening his back and broadening his shoulders. How his face looked slightly paler than usual. How his voice was a tad raspier than it used to be. How his right hand had been bandaged. Gwen couldn't help but wonder if he had been cooped inside all this time, away from other living beings.

What would it matter if he had, though? Would she sympathise with him? Allow her anger towards him to abate so she would want to get close to him again? Forgive him with the snap of a finger and forget how he had betrayed her? How she had all but given him her heart only to watch him throw it into a nekkar pit where the monsters could feed upon it?

"...Saskia has promised to assist us in our journey towards Novigrad. She only has power over Upper Aedirn and must first take care of its residents, which means she has but little to offer us. Even so, she has prepared several carts and horses to at least help us on our way back to Flotsam. We'll have to gather more resources on the road." Iorveth spoke with his feet spread apart and his hands clasped behind his back. His eye sought his companions one by one during his speech, although it constantly seemed to evade her.

"We have survived worse, however, and so I believe this will simply be yet another challenge for us to overcome." He paused, as if to let his words sink in. It seemed to work when murmurs began to sound throughout the square. "But I understand the journey will be perilous, more so to some than to others. All soldiers will therefore have the choice to stay in Vergen, whether they are wounded or not. I will do everything in my power to make sure that whatever each of you decides, that you will be as comfortable as possible given the circumstances. Saskia has agreed to aid us in this to offer those who wish to stay a place in this town."

"When will we be leaving?!" a voice from the crowd called out, though its owned eluded Gwen's field of view when she tried to spot them.

The commander waited before replying. It almost seemed like he had to steel himself for something, but it wasn't quite apparent what that something could be. "The day after tomorrow."

As if a switch had been turned, the crowd began to shout loudly, cries of excitement mingling with those of surprise. The elves had been cooped up too long in this place and longed for the freedom of the forests, but they dreaded what they might come across on the path towards their destination.

"They?" Gwen murmured to herself, her voice drowned out by the shouts of the people surrounding her. When had she started seeing herself as an entity separate from the Scoia'tael again? She had worked so hard to feel at home in the midst of these rebels, elves robbed of their families just like her. It had taken many others to make her realise that, perhaps, she wasn't as right about the elves as she had thought. When had all that hard work been undone?

Iorveth began to speak again, snapping her attention back to him, though his words didn't seem to reach her this time. It was all because of him, wasn't it? Because how was she to know the others hadn't been in on it from the start? That they hadn't tried to rid themselves of her? That her dwindling hatred towards the others hadn't been a one-sided development?

Her stomach clenched suddenly, as if to drag her out of the tiring cycle of thoughts before it could start anew. The half-elf let out the breath she had apparently been holding and released the tension in her body by tightening and relaxing her muscles several times. By the time she was done, the pain in her stomach had subsided, sparing her the embarrassment of vomiting in the middle of a meeting like this.

Before the venomous thoughts or the tenseness in her body could return, Gwen turned around and wormed her way through the elves and dwarves surrounding her. As she departed, her gaze met that of the commander, but by the time she realised it, she had already disappeared from his view.