Chapter Text
“Why the hell did you have to do that?” Vernon spat angrily, looking at the alarming amount of blood flowing out of the gash on Iorveth's arm. Frustration was visibly building up in him as he scrambled to find something to press to the wound and staunch the bleeding.
“If you were at least slightly aware of your surroundings, I wouldn't have had to!” Iorveth snapped in response. He had snarled at Roche's earlier attempts to patch him up, to no avail of course, and was now giving him his famous glare. Only that didn't prevent the human from having a brilliant idea to tear a piece of his more or less clean shirt, revealing what he was so desperately hiding all this time in one stupid moment. His distressed "Don't" froze on his lips as Roche stared at a mark on a pale patch of skin. The mark that was identical to his own.
***
If there was anything in this life Iorveth still believed in, it was bloede caerme. He could apply a cynical outlook, forced by circumstances, to almost every aspect of life except for this. For, no matter how hard he tried to resist it, it would always find him. A long time ago, when he was still a naive, young, and hopeful elf, strolling about and dreaming of becoming a musician, the concept of destiny fascinated him. After all, who wouldn't want a perfect companion, a chosen one, marked as a true match for however long they walked this earth, a kindred spirit? He felt excited about meeting them, and would often imagine their appearance, character traits, and personality. The mark itself could be interpreted in too many different ways to deduce anything from it: a sword surrounded by a circle of flames. He found it strange that the symbol wasn't something more peaceful, like a flower or a musical instrument as he so adored his precious flute, but he figured it would make sense in the end. As years went by, he was getting more nervous and anxious that he still hadn't met his soulmate while more and more of his friends and family members were happily finding theirs. He still kept the embers of hope burning in his heart, patiently waiting for the right moment. He was a little worse for wear, his rose-colored glasses broken by the truth of reality, but life remained vivid and buoyant enough to carry on. Then his world clashed with the humans, collapsed, and turned on its head. His flute was exchanged for a sword in hand, the songs on his lips transformed into battle cries and the elaborate and beautiful garments he loved to wear had to go, giving way to practical shirts, tunics, and gambesons. He knew cruelty now, and anguish, the smell of a corpse and burning flesh. Each new death ripped a shard from his soul, scattering it onto the wind and replacing it with anger and fury. Gone were the innocence and kindness his younger version had, hidden under the lock and key was his heart, once worn on his sleeve. His destiny was nowhere to be found and for once in his life he was glad for it. It meant that no one would use it as leverage against him. No one would capture them and torture them in front of his eyes, slowly and extremely painfully letting them die in agony as he himself witnessed more times than he could count. He was an officer now, confident, experienced, and lethal. His people depended on him as he charged into the battle, reckless and brave, untethered to anyone special and heady in his phantom freedom. He hated bloede dh’oine now with every fiber of his being, despised how they perverted the eleven concept of soulmates and turned it into some nonsense fairytale, and couldn't stand how they trampled on the values and ideas all elves held in such high regard. Just when he thought they couldn't surprise him any longer or stoop lower, he was stabbed in the back again. The venerated and feared Vrihedd Brigade he was a proud member of, his fraeren and sor'ca he went through hell with were thrown to the wolves, discarded as if they were nothing, a convenient scapegoat, a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things. Lying on the cold unforgiving ground of the Drakenborg floor, spitting his lungs out, teeth clattering with inhumane cold, he was drowning in the cries of tortured prisoners, delirious from pain and out of their mind. It seemed like the walls themselves were seeping blood, filled to the brim with agony and never-ending wailing. Not one piece of him remained untouched, his body resembling a well-beaten lump of meat, oozing blood, bruised and battered beyond recognition. It didn't matter that all of the elite officers were to be executed soon, none of their garrotters could resist having their way with helpless captives, bound hand and foot. He refused to beg for mercy, his spirit untamed even now, so he received a final gift from his tormentors and could only observe the ugliness and brutality of this world with one eye. Blinded on one side, rendered almost incapacitated to attempt any sort of escape, he grit his teeth and let his innate stubbornness drive him toward the end. Even half-dead, he was still deadly, a subdued force of nature impossible to conquer. He paved his way to unattainable freedom, leaving behind a trail of cadavers, feeling like a living corpse. As he trudged far away from the cursed place of unfathomable horror, he sensed his mark burn. A mad, hysterical laughing sound found its way out of his parched raw throat. Fate was a cold-hearted cruel bitch.
***
He was a terrorist now. An infamous Scoia’tael leader, a murderer of innocents, a thief, and a war criminal. Or so claimed the humans. He paid no heed to his macabre glory. His wound healed badly, leaving an ugly and despicable scar bisecting his face and a terrifying empty void where his eye used to be. He fashioned a bandana covering the worst of it, a suitably red colored one as if it was soaked in all the blood he spilled, and it quickly became his signature item. He didn't mourn the loss of his elven beauty: it hardly served any purpose in a battle. And it was all his life was now: a never-ending fight for freedom, for a better life for his people, for the sake of all the fallen ones and in their honor. He was a living and breathing embodiment of fury, a demon unleashed into this world to purge it from damned humans who treated them worse than dirt under their nails, who knew nothing of loyalty and faithfulness, who deserved everything that he gave them and then some. His passion inspired many of his kind, and soon their guerrilla movement was causing a lot of problems for the powers to be. So much so that special units were created, units dedicated to exterminating the threat they now posed. Iorveth expected nothing less. And he never backed down from a challenge. Defeating the stupid dh’oine was a pleasure, a balm for his wounded soul scarred from multiple betrayals and broken promises, an addictive drug. Until he crossed paths with Vernon Roche. Underestimating this human was a fatal mistake. The mistake that cost him his whole unit. Reeling after finding out about the ambush and subsequent slaughter, Iorveth once again walked among the bodies of the fallen, grieving their loss and seeking a personal encounter with this man who managed to destroy all the expectations the experienced commander had. And he did not disappoint. Laying his eye on the man for the first time, he felt an electric current run through his entire body and cursed himself for such a stupid notion. Finally, someone worthy of his attention. Their swords clashed as he studied his opponent carefully: a ruthless fighter, a strong and formidable swordsman capable of holding his own against him which was no small feat, with a direct calculating gaze, observing everything around him with a fire burning in it. As he parried another blow, he thought that this was the beginning of something interesting.
***
Something interesting grew into a heated rivalry and turned into what his second-in-command Ciaran called an obsession. He studied the Blue Stripes unit commander religiously and even appointed a special spy just to follow his every move. Knowing your enemy is important, he would often explain to Ciaran as his friend began to question his behavior and unusual interest. To Iorveth, it was only natural. This man, once mistakenly deemed unremarkable, was the only one who truly stood a chance of defeating him and thus putting an end to his mission. And he could not let that happen. This time, he would see to it that elves were given the freedom they deserved, shed blood, sweat, and tears, and died for. Aen Seidhe didn't forget anything or forgive easily.
“Aren't you tired of always losing, Roche?” Iorveth taunted him after another successful supply raid right under his nose. Their units were locked in a skirmish as the commanders faced each other as they had done numerous times before. He enjoyed their verbal fights no less than physical ones. They breathed life into a dormant part of him he long since considered dead, the part that took great pleasure participating in debates and practicing wordsmithery.
“Aren't you?” Roche shot back as they circled each other. “You'd think someone who had been through so many battles would know better than to engage in one that cannot possibly be won.”
Iorveth snarled in response. “Look around you. Even with one eye, I can tell you'll soon have to retreat. We've got what we came for anyway unless you want to throw eliminating your entire unit into the bargain as well,” Iorveth lifted his eyebrow, smirking devilishly.
Roche squinted at him, his nostrils flaring angrily because he knew the elf was right. “Consider yourselves lucky,” he deflected the last thrust of the sword as he signaled Ves to cut their losses and fall back. He couldn't just let Iorveth have the last word as well, could he?
“Till next time,” Iorveth saluted him mockingly, knowing full well how it would infuriate the commander. Today was a good day.
***
“Temerian dog,” Iorveth spat an insult, struggling to control his breathing. “Tell me: do you enjoy murdering anyone within your eyesight? Or is it just helpless, innocent non-humans that make you tick?” He was cornered and needed to win some time to figure out how to escape. Unfortunately, the splitting headache he was nursing along with a minor but unpleasant wound in his leg were not helping him think clearly. Neither did the smug expression on the dh’oine face. He should have known sooner or later Roche's attempts at ambushing them would pay off. As a result, he was cut off from his unit, unable to get them to safety.
“Huh!” Roche laughed derisively. “Since when are known terrorists and cutthroats considered innocent?” He was too smart to lower his guard around Iorveth, even if he ostensibly had no way out of the current predicament.
“We wouldn't have had to do any of it had your species left us with any other choice. You only know how to destroy anything you touch, how to conquer, and plunder, and sow chaos wherever you set foot,” Iorveth's righteous fury fueled him to move forward, attacking Roche with usual ferocity.
“Spare me your drivel, Iorveth, it's getting old.” Roche was too calm and collected for Iorveth's liking, especially now that the elf knew first-hand how short-fused the Blue Stripes commander actually was. Perhaps he could goad him into making a wrong move this way?
“You're the only one who's getting old here, Roche. Or what, are you not proud of your accomplishments? Let's take slaughtering women and children for instance. That must have made you feel especially important.”
“I am just following orders, elf. It doesn't matter what I feel.” Roche wasn't quite on edge yet, but at least he dropped the facade of indifference. Sadly, it didn't make him falter in his movements, and at this rate, he would have Iorveth pinned down completely soon enough.
“Is that how you justify it to yourself? Is it working?” he pondered questioningly.
“You tell me, Squirrel,” Roche smirked at him, having seen through what the elf was trying to do and sidestepping it easily.
The endearment infuriated him even more. How dared this bloede dh’oine call him anything other than his given name? As he opened his mouth for a scathing remark and leaped backward to dodge another swipe of Roche's sword the ground under his feet suddenly gave way and he toppled down with an undignified yelp, barely managing to discard his own weapon not to get impaled on it. Judging by the loud cursing somewhere above him, Roche's momentum propelled him forward as well. The wind got knocked out of him as he struggled to grasp at anything around him and slow down his descent. His hand barely got hold of what felt like a tree branch as he keeled over, his legs and lower body dangling in the air. His hands scrambled to find purchase and push himself upward, but the bow and quiver, as well as his heavy gambeson, were weighing him down. He heard a thud somewhere to his left and lifted his head to see Roche landed there, all four limbs on the ground and seemingly intact. He only grit his teeth in annoyance, anticipating a speech from a triumphant human. His head was killing him and soon the fall would finish him off. For a few seconds nothing happened, then he registered a shuffling sound and after that, a hand extended towards him. He frowned in confusion.
“What are you doing?” he couldn't help but ask, bewildered to see Roche bent in an awkward position just to help him. He looked slightly dazed but otherwise unscathed.
“What does it look like I'm doing?” he shot back, obviously irritated. “Now grab my hand and let me pull you out,” he added firmly. Iorveth was too shocked to even object properly. Roche's grip was strong and secure as he helped haul him over the edge and onto the ground. Iorveth allowed himself a few seconds to catch his breath and regain his composure, too baffled by what had just transpired to question why his mark was burning again.
“What now?” he wondered, dreading the next part. He hated owing humans anything, especially this particular unbearable human. Regardless of the catch, he couldn't fathom what could possibly make Vernon Roche save his life.
“Well,” Roche lifted himself up, his voice projecting confidence, yet his movements somewhat unsure, “my weapons are somewhere above us and as much as I'd like to beat the shit out of you using just my fists, this is not the right time or place for it.”
“Why did you help me?” Iorveth asked despite himself.
“Dying like this is too undignified,” Roche replied easily. “I want to see you hanged on a central square of Vizima. Maybe I'll even help secure a noose around your neck,” he added dreamily.
Iorveth swallowed his snark for once, hurrying to say what he needed to: “I'm in your debt, Roche.”
“Forget it, Iorveth,” Roche dismissed him without a thought and started looking around for a safer path upward. Iorveth could only stare in his direction.
***
Years went by, and Iorveth still hadn't met his soulmate. Yet he was no longer naive enough to think that fate would spare him and leave him without one. The mark was still present, even though it burned fewer than a handful of times, seemingly for no rhyme or reason. Now that his musical career and hopes for a peaceful life were buried six feet under next to the bodies of all the brothers and sisters he lost he understood why his mark bore the symbol of sword. But it brought him no closer to figuring out who his destiny would be. Fire could mean anything and everything, and there was no consensus over whether the different parts of the mark were meant to represent each one of them individually or their bond as a whole. In any case, he was too busy and tired to care. The Blue Stripes unit was still bleeding them dry, the altercations between him and Vernon Roche were as regular as ever, and Iorveth struggled to find a more permanent solution to a problem. So when a certain witcher approached him with an offer that sounded too good to be true he jumped at it without too much debilitation. A beheaded Temeria would grow too unstable and restless to care for the Scoia’tael trouble, at least for an extended period of time. And he needed this time to regroup and plan the next steps. The fact that it would entail murdering the king worshipped by Vernon Roche himself was a pleasant bonus. Foltest was a rapist, a racist, and an incorrigible scumbag, whose politics turned a wedge between their people into a wholesale war of hatred and mutual destruction that would never cease. Someone needed to put an end to his reign and Iorveth was glad to have a hand in that momentous event. Little did he know things would only go downhill from there. The next time he saw Roche, standing tall and proud on the tree branch, the human was visibly seething with hatred and unchecked rage. Not that he was rainbow and sunshine on the best of days, but this was different. Apparently, losing his precious liege affected him even more than Iorveth could have predicted, and Iorveth didn't appreciate how volatile Roche's behavior could be now. Accompanied by a sorceress and a witcher, he was an epitome of vengeance, set on a path of destruction, unable to stop till he reached his goal. As Iorveth dodged a blade thrown in his direction with deadly precision and gave his archers a go-ahead to shoot, he knew their next encounter would prove fatal for one of them. The bad blood between them had reached a point of no return.
The witcher, on the other hand, turned out to be a peculiar character. Unbiased toward non-humans, famously neutral in his beliefs, and, unfortunately, also investigating Foltest's murder. As he was processing all the information about what was happening in Flotsam from his scouts and conversing with Ciaran, his thoughts involuntarily drifted toward Vernon Roche. His presence here would complicate things, again. Not to mention the whole 'dying at each other's hand' pact they had. Iorveth couldn't reasonably explain how, but over the course of years, their rivalry became deeply personal and took a possessive turn. He didn't recall the last time he claimed someone else's death belonged to him exclusively and Roche wholeheartedly believed he would be the one to put an end to Iorveth's life. Yet when he had a perfect chance to do just that, he opted to literally lend him a helping hand instead. Bloede dh’oine. He mentally kicked himself, realizing he got distracted one more time and lost the thread of conversation. He needed some air to clear his head and plan the next steps in private. He dismissed the rest of his company, informed Ciaran he would be back in a couple of hours, and started toward a small lake in the vicinity. He knew a short path not crawling with monsters, unlike the rest of the forest. As he unhurriedly approached the clearing, he registered the sounds of water splashing and realized he wasn't alone. Halting his steps, he quickly cast a look around, assessing potential hiding places, then glanced over to the water. The spot was secluded and off the beaten path, so he frowned thinking about who might have possibly-... Of course, he grunted, irritated, hurriedly climbing the nearby tree that would provide enough cover for him as none other than Vernon Roche turned in his direction, glancing around suspiciously. Iorveth was sure he hadn't made a sound earlier, so the bastard must have somehow sensed his presence. A Temerian hound indeed, he chuckled to himself. Obviously, he could attack him right now, he had an element of surprise at his disposal, but ambushing an unarmed man like that was beneath him. His best bet would be to wait for a few more minutes, then quietly backtrack the same way he came here. Even if Roche somehow noticed him, by the time he got dressed and chased after him he would have been long gone. Speaking of dressing, it was a great opportunity to find out what the dh’oine hid under the hideous thing called a chaperone or if he even bathed in one too. His gaze drifted toward a pile of clothes on the shore, noting the presence of the said garment, then glided over to Roche's uncovered head. He sported a regular, slightly curly crop of hair and Iorveth was almost disappointed in the discovery, until he chanced a glance lower, over the hard planes of his muscular back. He did a double take and almost fell off the tree in shock as he spotted a familiar sword surrounded by flames right between his shoulder blades. His own mark throbbed in response as he finally realized that Vernon Roche, the bane of his existence over the last decade or so, was his caerme. He felt betrayed and humiliated, taunted by fate once again, the bitter taste of truth heavy on his tongue. His soulmate was a dh’oine and not just any dh’oine, but the one who hated him the most. He could laugh at the irony of it all, but that laughter would probably make everyone's blood poison their veins with its acidity. Not even his impressive collection of swear words in both languages could cover what Iorveth was going through right now and he was honestly amazed at how he still hadn't made a single sound. How fitting that he deserved someone who would love nothing more than destroy him by any and all means necessary. He hit the trunk of the tree with his nape, urging himself to focus. He was overwhelmed, unable to think straight, and he needed to get out of there. After everything he had been through, his destiny found a new way to screw him over.
***
“Iorveth! Are you sure you're okay?” Ciaran asked for what felt like an umpteenth time.
Was he okay? Okay didn't even begin to cover what he was at the moment. His head was still spinning at the earlier discovery and he couldn't find his footing.
“Yes, Ciaran, I am perfectly fine,” he lied to his friend, again, irritated that he could be read so easily. “Now what about that raid we were planning? Do we have any new information on the route?”
Ciaran pursed his lips but had to let the subject go. At least his authority came with some perks and didn't just bring about a constant headache. As he dutifully listened to the report and even bounced back some ideas on how to minimize the risks of their endeavor, he begrudgingly admitted that he had to deal with the reality. The sooner the better. He couldn't simply run away from the truth and pretend nothing changed. To elves, caerme was a sacred concept, something everyone respected and cherished. It wasn't supposed to be a life-threatening secret or a burden to carry which he was sure Roche would see as such. He would be utterly disgusted by the mere thought of being paired with an elf, and the one he despised with every fiber of his being at that. No, Roche could never find out about their bond, he would make sure of it. If anything, it would probably make his desire to kill the elf even stronger, make him want to drown the despicable mark in his blood and purge the fact of its existence. Normally, one was meant to protect their caerme with everything they had, even lay their life down to save them, should it come to it. Of course, nothing about Iorveth was normal, not even his destiny. Regardless, he wouldn't deal a killing blow to the human. He avoided doing so before and would certainly not do it now. He wondered if some part of him had already known Roche was special all those times they had a close call. It was ironic how he would have to continue his mission to bring the elves the freedom they deserved yet not be able to eliminate one of the main obstacles on their way. In his gloomy thoughts, he didn't even notice that he had dismissed Ciaran some time ago and was now sitting in an empty space serving as his office, feeling more alone than ever.
***
Gwynbleidd proved to be a man of his word, which honestly surprised him. When he first learned that a certain witcher was seeking his company and offered himself as bait, he fully expected to be kicked in the head, not untied, and given back the sword. In his long life, too many people had betrayed him and his once endless well of trust got rotten with each new knife plunged into his back, leaving him weary of the world, cynical and skeptical. Letho was just the most recent proof that he couldn't count on anyone aside from his own kin. Of course, it was too much to ask to just deal with the traitor on their own, and, as he was forced to face the ambushers, he found himself locked in a fierce duel with Vernon Roche. As their blades clashed and rang with the ferocity of the attacks Iorveth thought that this time he might not walk off their makeshift battlefield alive. Roche was not the man to leave anything well alone and he was still clearly grieving the loss of his precious king, his stern gaze blazing with fury. He knew they were equally skilled warriors, yet the outcome of the fight was quite predictable when only one of the participants would never willingly kill the other. All around them, his Scoia’tael were fending off the Blue stripes as he inevitably followed Roche deeper into the woods to continue their one-on-one combat.
“So tell me, Roche, how does it feel to live without an owner”? He didn't exactly mean to taunt him, but the facade of a careless, snarky son of a whore was his default defense stance, especially when he was so lost and uncertain, just going through the motions.
Roche growled in response, countering his move and attacking even more viciously. “Don't you dare even say his name!“
“Why is that? He had no qualms flaunting my name and face as the most wanted criminal.” Iorveth knew he was absolutely insane to nag Roche on like that when all he wanted was some distance from him, preferably for a while.
“You absolute bastard, you know damn well why!” Roche clearly managed to channel all his emotions into his fighting, advancing more and more, giving him no quarter. Steel clashed against steel as Iorveth ducked another blow and kicked Roche in the shin, outmaneuvering him.
“Believe it or not, Roche, I didn't do it because of you. He might have been your beloved king and idol, but to the rest of the world he was just another tyrant and rapist who needed to be put down.” He knew Vernon would never see him that way, but it didn't matter. It was a simple truth that for once he could tell openly.
“That's rich coming from you,” Roche winced at the impact, regrouping. “Have you looked in the mirror lately, Iorveth? Do you see anyone else other than the terrorist and murderer there?”
“Yes, yes, the one-eyed ugly monster, how original of you,” Iorveth scowled. He knew perfectly well his beauty was long gone, there was no need to rub it in. Coming from Roche, the words stung more than he expected.
“You know what I meant,” Roche frowned in annoyance. “You always cover behind your ideals of freedom and equal rights for elves, not bothering to mention what you do to anyone who stands in your path.”
“I did what I had to do and will continue doing so if it means I bring at least some change for my people. And if I die for it, then so be it. I stand by my actions,” Iorveth sighed, frustrated that he let his emotions get the best of him. Roche wasn't faring any better, breathing heavily, nostrils flaring in anger. One clever move and a feigned attack from the left was enough to get him on the ground, his sword kicked out of reach. He could only glare in response, defeated, but unbroken, his spirit as strong and stubborn as ever. Iorveth reverted to his classic speech about Aen Seidhe supremacy, hoping it was not too obvious how halfhearted it was. He had no reasonable explanation as to why he would let Vernon live, a dying breed argument rather bleak and weak for his liking. He could, of course, claim he was just repaying a debt, but Vernon didn't accept its existence in the first place and he would prefer leaving Roche without any suspicions of his actions. He bid him farewell, retreating as gracefully as he could, knowing full well they would meet again. Roche's voice still echoed in his ears, his ominous promise to find him ringing more true than the human could ever know.
***
Things changed quite drastically after that. Geralt eventually chose his side and joined his mission, bringing them both to Vergen. There the whirlwind of events engulfed him completely and for a moment he got his heart's desire and some reprieve from the perpetual encounters with Roche. He had his hands full, dealing with Saskia's poisoning, stationing his unit, and preparing for the upcoming siege. Time allowed him to come to terms with his fate. After all, it wasn't like he could do anything about it. He was no stranger to hopeless causes, but this particular case might be the only one he would be willing to give in to. Besides, Vernon Roche hated him too much to even consider the possibility of acting on their bond. He never saw the dh’oine in any terms other than a worthy adversary, probably the sole human who could hold his own against him and he begrudgingly respected that. Objectively speaking, if he were to think about him as his partner, he would have to admit he wasn't unpleasant to look at. He had a solid muscular build, a direct, slightly unnerving gaze, a set of expressive hazel eyes, a strong jawline, and, more importantly, a shrewd mind going a mile a minute, always being on guard, calculating his every move. Iorveth could even admire a capable fighter and a gifted strategist in Vernon, were they not on the opposite sides of the field. So when, on the cusp of the upcoming battle, as the air was thick with tension, Vernon Roche decided to show up just like that, out of the blue, in the company of Ves, Iorveth could honestly say he wasn't even too surprised. He suspected fate wouldn't keep them separate for an extended period of time, now that one of them knew the other's identity. Geralt took one long look at both his and Roche's face and pointedly stated they were all on the same side here, to which Iorveth couldn't help but snort. Whatever temporary agenda brought the dh’oine here would soon be over, then they would be back to open hostility. For now, they both agreed to 'behave' as vatt’ghern asked them to. Surviving the ordeal was not a given and he could now be in the dh’oine presence without pondering dozens of questions. They would manage to stay civil for one battle. He had made a decision to protect Roche when he had a chance earlier and he would stand by it. And now, after Geralt so generously claimed them to be allies, no one would even question his actions should he do something out of character. They had hardly exchanged a few words since Roche's arrival, and Iorveth had enough on his plate as it was. He would have to be completely blind in both eyes, though, not to notice how Roche was unusually subdued, his face more pale and gaunt than ever. His vibrant, passionate spirit seemed lifeless now, devoid of any colors or warmth. Iorveth knew that look and wore it himself more often than he would have liked. Roche was grieving. Seeing as his famous Blue Stripes weren’t with him, Iorveth had no trouble putting two and two together as to why. News traveled fast around here, so sooner or later he would know the full story, whether he wanted to or not. For now, he could sympathize with the loss. Frankly speaking, the apparent decimation of the unit was a strategic win for the Scoia’tael side, so he couldn't in all earnesty say he regretted whatever had happened to them. But he knew grief intimately, knew what it could do to a person if left unchecked to rot and fester for too long, and knew the emptiness and hollowness it carved in one's soul. And, for what it was worth, he wouldn't wish that upon Roche. Not that he would ever admit it to him in so many words.
In the blink of an eye, the Kaedweni army was upon them as they had just finished the last preparations for the city defense. Iorveth was to be stationed slightly farther from the hand-to-hand combat, having chosen the location that allowed him and his unit to rain arrows barrage on the heads of their enemies when they least expected it. The tactic proved to be a roaring success, as they cleaned off rows and rows of soldiers encroaching the walls. Having used up all the arrows, he lithely climbed down from his position, unsheathing the sword to join the melee below. He could just about make out Roche in the swaying sea of bodies, both friendly and hostile. His arrows had rung true numerous times earlier, sending the attacking Kaedweni crashing down with a yell, and not an inconsiderable amount of them went in Roche's direction. The chaos of the fight provided ample cover for him to keep an eye on the human. So when he made it all the way across to the battlements, kicking and ducking, and plunging his sword into the enemies left and right and saw a blade aiming at Roche's side, it was only natural for him to rush forward and cut the soldier off, making him thrust it into his arm instead. Roche would never have heard his warning in all the noise and steel clashing sounds. He turned toward him, eyes widening as he realized what had happened, and frowned at the red spot around his wound growing bigger by a second. He pulled him aside sharply and forcefully, casting his eyes around to find a safer place. Iorveth's claims that the injury wasn't that serious and that he could still fight clearly fell on dead ears. Which is how Iorveth now found himself facing Roche as he gaped at the soulmate mark he had just discovered. The mark which, Iorveth realized belatedly, burned significantly, probably in light of their mutual awareness of each other's identity.
“We don't have time for this, Roche!” Iorveth said impatiently. “Get on with it, we need to go back.”
Vernon narrowed his eyes at him, his expression unreadable: “Fine. But we will talk about this later.” His tone told Iorveth he wouldn't let this one slide easily, and he nodded in acceptance. Roche patched him up quickly and efficiently, and soon enough they joined the others. The battle tide had turned in their favor, and, as Iorveth took in the remaining Kaedweni forces, he confidently surmised Vergen was saved. Swinging his sword with his uninjured arm as they rounded up those enemies who were still standing, he could feel Roche's burning gaze on him.
***
“How long? How long have you known?” Roche asked, something akin to the accusation in his voice. He approached Iorveth sometime after the fight ended when he had just barely finished taking stock of the elves' losses and the overall situation. Dethmold had been pronounced guilty of all his crimes and promptly executed, and Henselt was forced to recognize Saskia's authority, which, overall, was a far more favorable outcome than Iorveth expected. With so many dead and wounded protectors of the city, they had no trouble finding an abandoned building to talk in private. Roche was standing across him, his hands crossed over his chest, his expression clouded.
“Since Flotsam,” Iorveth admitted easily, leaning on the table in fake nonchalance. There was no point in lying now. “I stumbled upon you bathing.”
“I knew someone was watching me that day!” Roche exclaimed indignantly.
“I always said you were a hound, Roche, there's no need to prove it to me,” Iorveth didn't even try to rein in his snide remarks.
“You should have told me,” Roche let the insult slide, too focused on the topic at hand.
“Would that have changed anything?” Iorveth asked in return. “Don't answer that, I know it wouldn't.”
“Don't pretend you know me,” Roche countered angrily.
Iorveth continued, heedless of his temper. “To us, elves, caerme is sacred, to you, it's just some convoluted concept you can easily discard and move on.”
“So you didn't even deign to tell me and yet you still blame me for not respecting your ideas of caerme? That's rich,” Roche scoffed at him, pacing the small space of the house restlessly. Iorveth simply waited for him to calm down. His short fuse was infamous, and, if he was being honest with himself, Iorveth could admit he had a right to be... whatever it is he felt now. Angry, upset, disappointed? All of the above most likely. He needed time to process it.
“Look,” he resumed their conversation once Vernon stopped pacing, “I am well aware having me as your soulmate is not a gift or a blessing or anything else you were hoping to find. I don't expect you to stop hating me or seeing me as anything else other than a monster and a terrorist I am,” he continued casually. The words almost didn't hurt anymore. Vernon was watching his every move with a single utmost focus and it was making him more jittery than he usually was. Especially when he stepped closer to him, close enough that he could hear his labored breathing. Iorveth hoped it was because he had gotten so worked up, not because he had been injured in the battle.
“Do you regret it?” Roche asked suddenly, looking him dead in the eye, watching his expression carefully. “Having me as your caerme?”
Iorveth himself had pondered that question many times. Why did it have to be a dh’oine, not an elf? Why this particular dh’oine, the one who couldn't stand him? How did it make him feel? Would he change it if he could? In a way, it did make sense that they were tied together. They were an even match, a perfectly balanced pair, even if a pair of sworn enemies. “I've come to accept it,” he answered finally. And it was the truth, just not the whole picture.
Whatever answer Roche was expecting, it clearly wasn't this one, for his expression turned grim again, mouth turned down at the corners in... disappointment? He moved away, increasing the distance between them. “I don't need your love born out of obligation.”
Love? Iorveth's eyebrow shot up in surprise. Who said anything about love, he thought to himself but didn't voice it out loud, reverting to his cherished sarcastic manner of speaking: “How noble of you. You'd rather give me unconditional hatred instead, born of your own free will?” Roche's reaction was rather strange, and he wasn't sure how to deal with it. Honestly, what did he expect? That Iorveth would happily get down on one knee and offer his hand in marriage or some other dh’oine nonsense they called tradition? Roche couldn't possibly feel happy to be bonded with an elf, could he? Especially when the said elf was Iorveth.
“I don't have much of a choice, do I?” Roche quipped curtly. “So what, you're going to risk your life like that every time we meet? What about our "dying at each other's hand" deal?”
“I have no intention of killing you. You can do whatever you wish,” Iorveth wasn't naive anymore to think some stupid mark, as humans saw it, would suddenly make Vernon unwilling to kill him. He still recalled the murderous glare he threw at him at their encounter near Flotsam and the dagger that went along with it. “And yes, unlike you dh’oine, we, Aen Seidhe, cherish and value caerme, so as long as I am around, I will do my best to keep you safe.” It felt weird to spill his secrets like that, all the cards on the table. He much preferred keeping them close to his chest.
“Who said I needed your protection?” Roche argued indignantly. “I am more than capable of handling myself.” His posture was tense and closed-off.
Iorveth rolled his eye dismissively. Of course, that was what he chose to focus on: his pride. “Who said I doubted it? I have faced you in a battle countless times before, remember? If that's all you wanted to know, I think we're done here.”
And with that he slowly stood upright, wincing as the action caused his arm wound to sting. “Va fail Vernon Roche, I'm sure we'll meet again soon.”