Chapter Text
It was Geralt who found him.
The Redanians running the prison camp fled as soon as the news of the armistice had reached them – and good for them, because Geralt was itching to make use of the steel sword strapped to his back.
It was small compared to the others the Redanian kingdom had prepared for nonhumans during the war, but oh, it was so much worse. For one, it was specifically meant to house political prisoners. And two, its size meant that the guards and the officers were able to adopt a more… personalised approach when it came to treating the inmates.
“Pigs,” Zoltan Chivay murmured to his left as they entered the low building complex. Inside, it was dark; the Redanians made sure to cut the power supply once they learnt the camp was going to be liberated. “Fucking pigs.”
Geralt said nothing, but he had to agree with the dwarf: the Redanians were especially cruel in their hatred towards the nonhumans, be they mages, dwarves, or elves. He entered the building scared. Scared that he’d find Triss there, strung up like a piece of meat, tortured, dying, or already dead. Or Yennefer. Or Ciri.
The lack of light in combination with the stench was oppressive. Geralt gripped his rifle and walked forward. Somewhere in front of him, he heard Eskel give the all clear, but Geralt didn’t relax. His witcher senses wouldn’t let him - the whole place stank of sickness, of infection, shit, urine, blood, of suffering.
They reached the cells.
Geralt lowered his rifle, and Zoltan started swearing.
They killed them all. The cells were full of bodies, elves, dwarves, gnomes, halflings – he also saw a few humans and assumed they either had traces of non-human blood, or did the grave mistake of helping them. The Redanians weren’t stupid in their hatred: leaving any prisoner alive would mean they could be identified once it was time for reparations. And the time for reparations would come sooner than later, and with Temeria agreeing to become a Nilfgaardian protectorate, it would be only Redania who’d have to bear the heavy hand of justice.
They walked further down the corridors, desperately trying to find someone – anyone – still alive. The bodies lying everywhere like discarded toys showed signs of torture, and Geralt assumed it must have been the work of Sigismund Djikstra. Moreover, he was reminded of a conversation he had with Roche a few months ago, when Temeria was still playing at resistance by collaborating with Redania: apparently, Thaler had a new source of information – a source that could only come from Redanians, and all information coming from Redania had to go through Sigismund Djikstra. The information that reached Roche ears was all connected to the mixed elven-nilfgaardian units, especially those that the former Scoia’tael served in. And Nilfgaard handed the commandoes' leaders to Redania just a few months back.
The condition was that the elves would be given fair hearings by Redania, possibly even amnesty, but once the treaty was signed and the Vrihedd brigade handed over, the war continued almost immediately: the Northern kingdoms broke the peace conditions, and everyone was too busy to worry about a bunch of terrorists.
With most soldiers busy going through the bodies in the cells, or retching outside, Geralt pressed on. At the end of the hall, there were narrow, concrete stairs leading underground. Geralt looked at Zoltan. The dwarf looked sick.
“Ain’t no way, Witcher,” he said. “I’ve seen enough to last me a lifetime.”
“There might be someone,” Geralt said.
“With the state of those poor fuckers up here,” Zoltan said, “I doubt anyone unlucky enough to be housed in a bloody fucking torture cellar will still be alive.”
“But someone might be, Zoltan,” Geralt argued. “And even if not, we still must go there. Secure the whole perimeter. It’s our job.”
“Alright then, Witcher,” Zoltan sighed. “Lead the way.”
Tentatively, Geralt began his descent, changing the rifle, impractical in the narrow space, for a revolver. The walls were cool and wet, covered in a thin layer of moss and mildew. The smell of death was just as bad as in the rest of the complex, if not even worse.
Finally, he reached the bottom. The only light that penetrated the cellar came from a small, narrow window – if it could even be called that – located just below the ceiling, at ground level. Geralt and Zoltan turned on their flashlight, and Geralt could hear another pair of steps descending behind them – Milwa decided to follow.
The floor was made of rough concrete, streaked with rivulets of dark brown, reddish liquid. Geralt hasn’t even tried to hope it was paint. It was blood, oh, so much blood, and he could hear flies buzzing in the cool darkness of the cellar, disturbed from their feasting and egg-laying and procreating by their arrival.
Milwa swore softly, and Zoltan started retching.
Bodies were hanging from the ceiling, naked, their hands tied and fastened to butcher hooks, heads bowed lifelessly to their chests.
There were five of them, two more discarded in the corner, all covered in blood. Geralt noticed a heap of flesh on a steel table right next to the closest body, and his stomach clenched when he realised just what it was that he was looking at.
Ears. Those were elf ears, cut off from their dead owners, morbid trophies so highly priced by the Redanians.
Finally, he dared to direct the beam of his light higher, to see what was left of the elves’ faces. It looked like the Redanians tried to do as much damage as they could in the time they still had left, cutting off their prisoners’ ears one by one, while slicing their throats as they went. That was where all the blood came from; the elves must have bled to death.
“Fucking animals,” Milwa said.
Geralt said nothing. He stared at the scarred face of the elf directly in front of him. Isengrim. Isengrim Faoiltiarna. The Iron Wolf of the Vrihedd Brigade.
“So much for fair treatment,” he said. The maimed bodies, butchered beyond recognition, belonged to the Scoia’tael leaders. “I guess this is where Dijkstra got his information from.”
Standing there, he tried to think about right and wrong. Tried to think about how far one can go in their violence and call it justice. Tried to think about neutrality, and what good it ever did to anyone.
And he’d stand there for a while if it weren’t for a sudden call from Milwa.
“Geralt! This one’s still alive!”
He turned to see Milwa standing by the last body in the row, trying to lift the elf and ease some of the pressure on his wrist.
This one didn’t have his throat cut, not did they cut his ears off. For some reason, the Redanians chose a more cruel fate for him; a gaping wound to his lower belly would ensure a slow, agonising death. Even now, it was still bleeding, and if the elf really were still alive, as Milwa claimed, he wouldn’t be so long without help.
“We need to get him down,” Milwa said. “Zoltan, go and get Regis. He’s gonna need a doctor.”
Geralt grabbed a nearby chair and set it beside the elf, so that he could reach his bound hands. His wrists were raw, and when he touched his hands, it was like touching a corpse; who knows how long he’s been hanging there just by his hands, his feet not touching the floor.
“Oh, gods, Geralt, his face…”
“I know, Milwa. Hold him.”
The elf made a horrible, choked sound when Milwa put one arm around his waist and another under his knees to support his weight while Geralt worked on freeing him. She tried to make some sort of shushing noise, as one would to comfort a hurt child, but it was drowned out by the elf’s hoarse sobs. Finally, Geralt managed to lift his bound arms and slide them off the hook, quickly stepping down to take the elf’s weight from Milwa.
His face was covered in dried blood and pus from a jagged, horrible-looking wound extending from his left eye and ending just above his lips. The edges of the wound were cleanly sliced; someone must have taken a knife to his face. It looked to be several days old and infected, judging by the heat radiating from the elf. He fell silent again once Geralt gathered him up, breathing unevenly, but still managed to open his remaining eye and look at Geralt. Just a sliver of green, and then it rolled back again, but recognition still hit Geralt like a stone.
Iorveth.
It was Iorveth.