#iorveth wore it better

[kala4akrabee]

So I worked a little more on this funky sketch, but the best of all, I got a permission from the author to translate and share a fragment from the fic!

Here it is:

“This cannot be. At first, Roche thought he was dreaming. Then he though he got himself confused. But looking more closely, he lost all doubts.

       Iorveth himself, stood on the stage, gloomy as an oak tree in a cursed forest, and, apparently, portrayed the third vice. He was dressed in an incredibly frivolous turquoise dress. The dress revealed to all connoisseurs a long tanned leg and tattoos on the neck and shoulder. He tightened his lips and furrowed brows. It looked like they were trying to apply makeup on Iorveth, but it was only partially successful. The elf himself, judging by his face, was not satisfied with his debut. And, since he did not bother to voice his vice, the audience gradually become confused.

       "Hemmelfort" was forced to introduce the elf himself, and it turned out that Iorveth was Lust. The Scoia'tael stood looking as displeased as if he had always dreamed of portraying Greed, but he drew a short straw.

       Probably remembering that he needed to portray something, Iorveth spread his hands to the sides, and slapped them on his hips. Despite the elf's best efforts, the crowd liked Lust. The performance was supported by a storm of applause. Seeing this, Iorveth tried to hide behind the scenes, however, he was pushed back.”

The fic title is Under The Predatory Moon by Сорри_с_уважением, its in Russian and can be found here:

[limerental]

ficletvember 2023 - day 22

Wildlife conservation expert Geralt is roped into helping Roche identify some endangered species potentially poached by the suspicious characters living in the hills.

in other words a horrible tw2 modern au with cop roche and redneck elves. apologies in advance lol

The drive cutting up through the hills had seen better days, washed out in ruts and pot-holed to hell. If somebody didn't know better, they'd say whoever had once lived at the end of this drive was long gone. Or at least not worth bothering.

They'd left the truck back by the main road. For all that it was big and black and mean with an ugly grille and flashing lights, it was useless on land like this. Geralt grabbed Roche's arm as the guy slipped on a skid of gravel. 

“The tread on those boots just for show too?” he asked, and Roche shook him off.

Geralt knew his type. Small-town nobody with something to prove, a transfer all the way from Vizima out to the podunk Pontar Valley who took his job far too seriously. He kept fiddling with the bent brim of the black baseball cap he wore, frowning like he was displeased it couldn't keep the fine mist of rain off his race.

Geralt had never liked cops much and would rather be coming up here alone. There'd been some tip about poached squirrels. Endangered species endemic to this area. Unfortunately, Geralt was one of the few wildlife conservation experts around who could give an ID. 

“It's just over this ridge,” Roche grunted. He looked nervous, like he wanted to go for the gun at his hip.

When they came up over the ridge, the drive sank again, piddling out into a browned yard cluttered with scrap that surrounded a single-wide trailer. Smoke chugged from the crooked pipe of a chimney. 

“Where'd this tip come from again?” asked Geralt. These people didn't look like they got into town much.  A pair of muddy ATVs and a snowmobile sat parked in a run in shed, and scattered around were a dozen more pieces and parts of varying vehicles that might run in a pinch.

“Doesn't matter,” said Roche. “We've got a warrant to search the premises. I'll talk to them. You keep an eye out.”

He pounded the front door with more vigor than Geralt figured was necessary. At first, it seemed like no one would answer. Maybe they'd heard them blundering up the drive and booked it out a back window. 

The door cracked, and a green eye set in an angular face appeared.

“Good to see you, officer,” drawled a nasally voice that did not sound at all sincere. “How nice of you to visit again. Two times in one week? Pity you didn't call first. I'd have invited you for supper.”

“Iorveth, open the door,” Roche sighed. “We got another tip. Brought in an expert this time.”

The door opened further to reveal an eyepatch covering part of a scarred cheek, and the slender, pointed ears of an elf. Geralt hadn't seen an elf in years. They were as much in danger of dying out as any endangered species he studied, but of course, with far less protections afforded to them.

Iorveth looked him up and down. 

“You're not from around here,” he said. 

“Neither are you,” said Geralt.

Iorveth's accent was a thick and woodsy drawl common to mountain folk. He'd guess Blue Mountains, where pockets of whole towns full of elves still lived. Geralt had been raised farther north and given up his mountain dialect in the hopes of getting any respect in his field.

Mostly that respect had just roped him into shit like this.

Roche shot him a look, clearly not pleased that Geralt had ignored that he'd said he would do the talking.

This Iorveth, according to Roche, was a regular son of a bitch surrounded by rumors of all sorts of suspicious activity, but no one had ever been able to pin him with anything. 

He had connections through his fugitive cousin Isengrim Faoiltiarna to the domestic terrorist Scoia'tael movement and was rumored to be associated with dangerous anarchist Saskia, not to mention being the likely source of most illicit moonshine and hash in the Valley.

“Don't make this difficult,” Roche said. His thumbs hitched in the front of his belt, not far from his holster.

“Of course, come on in,” said Iorveth. “Don't want to have to fix the doorjamb again.”

The inside of the trailer was plenty short on space but almost cozy, a galley kitchen looking out over a living room furnished with lumpy couches. The space was full of elves, more than Geralt had ever seen. Peeling potatoes at the sink. Plucking at the strings of a guitar. Feeding a crackling woodstove and stirring the pot that bubbled on top.

They all eyed the intruders with clear disdain.

“That look like endangered squirrel stew to you, Geralt?” Roche asked, and Geralt didn't bother to cross the room to take a look. The meat in the pot could be just about anything.

“Sorry, I'm a wildlife guy. Not much of a culinary expert,” said Geralt, shrugging. “Smells good though.”

“Am I going to find anything interesting in the back rooms, Iorveth?” Roche asked as he headed down the hallway, so narrow his shoulders brushed each wall.

“I'm sure you'd like that, officer,” said Iorveth, dripping with innuendo. 

With Roche's back turned, the elf nodded to Geralt, a brow quirking up. It took him a breath to notice the others in the room had gone still and tense. The curtains of the a window set high on the wall billowed in a breeze. 

He had a feeling Roche would find far more than squirrel pelts in a thorough search of the trailer. That this hadn't really been about the damn squirrels from the start.

The door to the back bedroom clicked open.

“Geralt!” Roche's voice carried, and in a flurry of activity most of the elves scattered through the open doorway. ATVs revved.

There was the sound of a scuffle from the back room. Still standing by the woodstove, Iorveth met his eye. 

Geralt had only a moment to make a choice.

Roche reappeared with splotches of color high on his cheeks and cap knocked off his head, barking requests for backup into his radio.

Before Iorveth scrambled up and through the window, he kicked over the woodstove, threadbare carpet and peeling wallpaper swiftly catching as burning logs scattered. Then, he bent back through the window to offer a hand.

Swearing under his breath, Geralt clasped their arms together and went through.

[justleaf]

✨🤗🤩💥

✨ Give you and your writing a compliment. Go on now. You know you deserve it. 😉

Friend why do you make me compliment myself, I am very bad at it. I am good at sleeping. And my writing has good soup and maybe a crouton of plot.

🤗 What advice would you give to new fanfic writers that are just getting started?

Also while people read this, keep in mind though that I prioritize fluidity and pacing over everything. Everyone has different priorities so what I'm about to say might not be applicable.

Um I don't know what this is called or if it's even advice, but I find it more effective to describe characters with a memorable trait and/or a feeling, as opposed to just describing them from head to toe. Maybe it's just me but I have the memory of a goldfish and can't remember anything when you tell me too much LOL.

Oh and also personalising it to the character POV that the story is being written from (like making comparisons that they would make, or pointing out things they would be interested in) helps make the character voice stronger too so it kills two birb with one stone.

Some examples:

A full description: Emerlyn wore her hair in a high bun, secured by a pin tipped with a delicate silver butterfly. Her dress was as dark as dusk and trimmed with delicate ivory lace, the hem of which swept against the marble floors as she brushed by him. That was when he noticed the burn on her chest, growing out from her heart like a great oak tree.

Roche POV: Emerlyn reminded him of the ladies of the Vizima court. She would have fit right in with them, if not for the tree-like burn on her chest.

Iorveth POV: Emerlyn would have been yet another dh'oine, if not for the considerable burn on her chest that failed to mar her beauty. He fancied her a noble, perhaps, but with none of their ignorance. Her gaze was far too sharp for the likes of a highborn trophy.

In the context of a 5k fic where there's a shit ton happening, my approach is the shorter the better. But it's not everyone's cup of tea so take it as you will!

🤩 Who is your favorite character to write?

Iorveth LOL. When I'm writing from his POV, I feel like I can add a few flowers to my writing and it won't feel out of place, because he tends to be long-winded and a little theatrical.

💥 How do you feel about criticism?

It's a little hard to say because I haven't gotten any so far 😅 It's mostly just been people screaming affectionately in the comments and I'm very thankful that I haven't been subject to some of the things I've seen other writers go through.

[bloededhoine]

Please discuss Vernon Roche’s outfit 🥺

anon i would love to

here he is in all his temerian hunky glory

his dress is one of the few that i actually like, 1 it's blue and we love a man who knows his brand, 2 it laces up the front which is way better than buckles, and 3 it's sexy

what did they call those little dresses victorian women wore under their regular dresses? a chemise? i like roche's chain mail chemise. it looks durable but light enough he can chase iorveth

he has metal legwarmers which is... something ig. i mean iorveth would definitely try to kick him in the shins so it's probably smart.

i approve the belt situation. it looks like he had one regular belt with a tiny belt underneath it? i'm gonna take it. plus he can have his weapons/security blankets

ROCHE WEARS HIS HEART ON HIS SLEEVE

he also wears arm belts. i don't understand. were arm belts the height of fashion in the 13th century?

the fingerless gloves were are back but i think the absence of metal armwarmers makes his look actually normal

i like the little metal elbow guards. i'd think they're silly on someone else but roche definitely elbows a lot of people and the type of guy to go jumping off bridges in the middle of battle needs all the extra protection he can get

the hat is awesome. i've spent too long staring at it to not think that. i still have no idea how it works (is it like a scarf where he has to wrap it? does he keep it pinned the same way and just plops it on his head? where does the part under his chin come from?)

[mischiefxmuses]

Iorveth had decided to go for a wander. He felt better out in nature as apposed to in the mess of the tall buildings. He had his hands in his pockets. After coming here he finally cut his hair short, showing his elf ears more and changed from the eyepatch he first wore back to the red bandana over his eye. "DIdn't realize there was a vineyard around these parts."

∘⡊ ☾ ˚⊹ open starter: for anyone. ( @hiddenstarters )

The vineyard was quiet and it was perfect. A shuffle of the dirt, it caused a sudden diversion to what Hilda had been working on and, on cue, she offered the stranger the kindest of smiles. "Hi," she began, fingers pulling away a loose strand of dark hair to tuck it behind an ear as the expression remained. "How can I help you?"

[airiat]

Boy with the Sun Song (IV.)

iorveth/f!oc | m | friends to lovers, tooth-rotting fluff, hurt/comfort | no warnings apply

vesta aep maghenn knows iorveth (iorveth aep mirbrach, to her) in a way that no one else can claim: they grew up together in the blue mountains and have been the closest of friends ever since. when iorveth’s unit is wiped out in an ambush by a powerful but unknown  adversary, he seeks shelter with vesta until it’s safe for him to rebuild.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven

[read on ao3]

IV.

The fire burned brightly before us, but its heat was not enough. Not while Iorveth sat next to me shivering even though he had been in front of it for the past hour. It might have been from shock, but it might also have been because he still wore his scarf wrapped around his head, damp with rainwater as it was.

“Are you cold?” I asked him. “Still?”

We sat side-by-side on the rug in front of the fireplace, as close as we could possibly get to the flames without being burnt. It was enough to make sweat roll uncomfortably down my skin, flesh like melting wax, but I didn’t dream of leaving his side for my own comfort.

“I’m fine,” he grunted, but his teeth chattered around the words.

I kept my gaze locked firmly on the fire. “You can take it off, you know. I won’t look at you unless you tell me I can.”

“I don’t think so. It’s fine where it is.”

I sighed, but I still kept my eyes where they were. “Iorveth, you should at least let it dry out. You’ll get sick.”

He barked out a laugh. “Me? Get sick? Not a chance in hell. You’ll have to try harder than that.”

The flames were a beautiful orange against the slight green of the stones. 

“How long have we known each other? A hundred years? Two hundred?” I asked even though I already knew the answer: one hundred and seventy-four.

“A hundred and seventy-four,” he replied. “And that’s exactly it: you knew me before this happened.”

“Why would that make any difference?”

A dance of yellow and orange and green.

“Because you remain the same, as beautiful as always, and I no longer am.”

“So, that’s what this is about, then? Simple vanity? Bloede hell, Iorveth, I knew that you were proud, but this? Really?”

“No, Vesta, it’s not about ploughing vanity,” he snapped. “It’s about the beauty that made me an Aen Seidhe being taken from me by a bloede fucking dh’oine. How I look just like one of them now, and, worst yet, the lowest form: a bandit or a thief, a common ruffian,”

“Oh, well, rest assured, they call you much, much worse things than that.”

He let out a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was much calmer. “I know.”

“I still fail to understand what this has to do with me seeing you without the damn scarf,” I continued. “As if you wouldn’t still be beautiful--one eye, both, or none. Flawless or nothing but scars.”

Iorveth didn’t speak for a long time. I almost gave into the temptation I had to look at him, if only to see where his reservation lied, but I held my place. To do so would have been to shatter the progress I had just made with him. 

Eventually, he cursed viciously under his breath. Then, there was the soft clink of a buckle, a rustling of fabric, and then his scarf landed squarely in my lap. 

“There,” he said. “Are you happy now, beag’aine?”

Though his words were as callous as they usually were, my heart skipped at what he had just called me: little light, a name he’d given me when we were both young. An affectionate jab at how much smarter I was than him and at the brightness of my blonde hair. It was something I hadn’t heard in years, decades even, maybe a century.

But I still didn’t risk a glance at him.

“Happy? Yes. For you,” I stammered, eyes still locked onto the fire. “Because now you won’t catch a cold.”

He groaned in annoyance. “As if I could ever say no to you,” he muttered, mostly to himself, but made no attempt to mask it.

“Just as well,” I responded. “I usually know better.”

He didn’t answer, but the absence of a protest said just as much as words. 

“You may as well get it over with,” Iorveth finally said. 

I tried not to brace myself for the sight I would be met with. After all, I had spent plenty of time imagining that moment, filling in the space of what I imagined he might look like. I didn’t want him to see my horror, though I knew it would still be there as clear as the Pontar on a summer day.

But when I finally turned my sights to him, I was surprised by what I saw. The scar was brutal, yes. From his dead eye socket, the damaged tissue extended over his cheekbones to the corner of his mouth like red lightning across a pale sky. Yet, the familiarity of the scarring on his cheek--what wasn’t covered by his scarf--did much to lessen the blow. Of course, it was ugly and wretched and made a wound in my heart like nothing I’d ever felt before. His hair was cropped short, so unlike how he used to wear it long and braided. But he was still Iorveth, so utterly, unmistakably him.

I nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”

His face morphed into confusion and I was astonished to see that the emotion still wholly touched the damaged side of it, even without an eye to illuminate. “What for?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. For trusting me?”

“Right, well, how could I not?” he said. “You’ll always be you.”

“And you’ll always be you--putting up a fight even when you already know you’ll relent.”

“Well, they don’t call me worse names for nothing. Is ‘bastard’ one of them?”

I grinned and, for once, it looked like he might return it. “If it wasn’t before, it definitely is now.”

And then, he did smile. It touched every plane of his face, making him look as beautiful as I’d always remembered him to be.

[bard-llama]

For the word ask!

Dress 💃

Ooooh, this is a good one! I'm gonna cheat a little bit because I have an unstarted idea specifically about a dress, so I'm gonna share that. But I'll also check my WiPs for the word!

So first, these are the notes I wrote down for a Foltest/Vernon/Triss fic. Warnings for age kink, feminization, uh... Foltest? kinda deserves his own warning sometimes lol

Foltest and Triss dress their little girl up all pretty and give her jewels and paint her face. Then they wreck her – make her cry so her makeup runs, make her go down on them so her lipstick gets smeared, etc.

So that will be coming in the future! But for now...

Hmm, it seems like I use 'undress(ed)' a lot, but I'm having trouble finding a WiP with an actual dress referenced. So... have a couple that come close?

This one is from a WiP I've had FOREVER that is Roche basically dreaming about being Iorveth's pleasure slave/pet/whatever.

Instead, all that mattered was that he was good for Iorveth. He didn’t have to do anything else or say anything else, didn’t have to smile and pretend he gave a single fuck about the courtiers all around. All he had to do was dress up all pretty the way Iorveth liked and warm Iorveth’s cock. There were no other expectations of him, nothing else he had to be bothered with.

And this one I'll give a little more than a sentence, 'cause I want to and also 'cause context probably helps. In this one, Emhyr sent Roche as a diplomatic ambassador to an elven ritual to 'be their sacrifice'. Which Emhyr probably didn't know what that meant, but Roche quickly discovers that it means (if he's willing) that he gets to get gangbanged by a ton of elves.

Iorveth tilted his head, looking Roche over in a way that made Roche feel lightning zinging across his nerves. “You clean up well, dh’oine,” Iorveth greeted, voice just as brash and arrogant as Roche had remembered.

“Likewise,” he cleared his throat. He was wearing a dress uniform that consisted of a Temerian blue tailcoat with silver brocade detailing on the cuffs and the collar, with a line of polished silver buttons down his chest. It wasn’t a uniform he wore often and frankly, given how hot it had been outside, he was sure his undershirt was stained with sweat, the small of his back turning cold as it dried.

In other words, while Iorveth looked downright regal and refined, he just felt awkward and uncomfortable in these fancy clothes.

Oh! I found one with an actual dress! And it isn't even my Lambert Big Bang fic which I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to stay mum about until my posting date and which I still need to finish ugh

This one is from a WiP with a younger Roche (around his early 20s) and I'll give you a few lines for context 😉

Vernon Roche may have been hired as a companion for the royal children, but the reality was, he still needed his first job. Fortunately, ever since his mom had taken over ownership of the Clarabelle, working there had gotten a lot more fun.

Since he’d turned of age, the afterhours hangouts promised to be a lot more fun, too. And this week in particular was going to be fun, because it was his turn with the titty key jewelry. The titty key necklace belonged to the Clarabelle as a whole, so all of them had gotten a chance with it before – but this was going to be Roche’s first time, and he was excited to try out the enchantment that would magically give him tits. Nice tits, too. The kind of tits that would let him wear a strapless dress out dancing.

“You know how to walk in heels, right?” his mom asked, fussing over his hair.

He gave her a look. “Mom, I walk better than you in heels.”

“That is patently false,” Eliza clicked her tongue. “But just be careful, okay? I don’t want to hear that they had to carry you home with a twisted ankle.”

He rolled his eyes, “I’ll be fine, Mom. We’re just gonna have some fun.”

[capsule-cosplay]

« When you smile, I fall apart. » [RochexIorveth]

(end on hiatus)

Iorweth was sitting near the campfire, bending his back to sharpen his blade. Silently, precisely getting the polishing rock on each side, slowly. The scenery looked like a dream with the firelight dancing on his hands by each movement. Roche was supposed to spy the Scoia’Tael commander to get information of the next plan they were working on. But he ended luring the elf for hours now, silently hiding in the dark of night, the other camp members went to sleep, but not him. Why?

Iorweth was still working on each blade he owned, softly smiling at the dancing flames before him. Silence was his company as he put the last one next to him, widening his smile even more, due to the hard work he had sharpening his blades.

“When you smile, I fall apart.”

The words of the Temerian brunette made Iorweth freeze right here.

“Squass’me?”

The elf could not believe what he just heard. Roche on his own, froze as he realized what he just said out loud, blowing up his cover and hiding to the commander.

The two looked at each other in silence, open mouthed, not knowing if one or another was dreaming or not. Roche was the first to break the moment:

“Well, it’s kind of true…” he said scratching his head “I think I never saw you smile before, makes you look, kind of normal… Suits you.”

Iorweth could not believe he was awake. What did this bloede dh’oine just said? Halfway on anger and awkwardness, he still couldn’t get his eyes away from the Temerian boy, still trying to hide from the Scoia’Tael commander.

Iorweth shook his head, smiling again:

“Well, looks like someone is willing to die tonight… Tell me, is this a new way for Blue Stripes to provoke your enemies?” He stood up, coming slowly to Roche:

“Why didn’t you run after saying this? I can’t believe you’re still here. Waiting for death?”

One step more.

“Waiting for me to kill you?”

Two steps.

“Willing me to thank you for these words?”

Three steps, damn he was close.

Roche began to feel an unusual feeling up his guts “Tell me dh’oine…” the elf said cupping Roche’s cheek with one hand “Why would my smile be so important to you that you lure me all day long?”

Shit. He knew. He always knew Roche was there. And yet, he never said a work against the luring man.

Why?

The elf was close. Pretty damn close. Roche couldn’t even move anymore, heart beating like a crazy drummer on a battlefield.

Has he been always that tall?

“What do you want?” Roche asked. “If you’re not willing to kill me, why are you so close to me?”

The elf smirked.

“Well, it is not usual for me to be lured as you did by such an… Specially interesting dh’oine…”

Roche bite his lips as Iorweth put an awkward break between those words. But the Temerian brunette had no time to think more as a hand moved on his neck. A thumb was tracing his jawline softly, stopping on his bottom lip.

Oh, why did his knees decided to fall on such time?

“Strange, I always though you would be rough on touch, not… As soft as…”

The elf didn’t though of the end of his words, his lips were already connected to the human’s ones in a soft, long and shy embrace. Slowly turning into a more passionate kiss. None of them dared open his eyes, they knew already who they were.

As their bodies came closer, almost melting into one, they kiss also came more needed. Craving for each other with every breath, every touch, every armor part they laid down on the floor.

“Wait. We shouldn’t-” Roche was the first to break the kiss, panting, searching for air, as elves could retain their breathing for much longer than humans. “What if someone comes, I deeply don’t want to end this impaled like a milky pig by Eldain!”

Iorweth couldn’t help himself as he chuckled, even if he knew the reputation this dh’oine had with raw language. “Damn Vernon, can’t you be a little more romantic to predict your fate?” He looked at the man, smiling as he were doing so long ago.

“Still, you got the persecutor wrong.” He leaned on the human, whispering in his ear: “I am the one to make you bend tonight.”

Sharp. These words were sharp.

Normally, humans ended face on the floor in one fist for calling him Vernon.

But his smile. His genuine, gentle, charming smile.

Roche couldn’t help, he was down for the elf, for Temeria’s sake.

“Don’t you worry, it’ll be fine.” Said Iorweth in a breath. “Everyone is asleep for now.” He took his look up the man “For as long as your noises stay for my ears only. I don’t need you to be silent.” He looked up and down on the brunette before smirking and whispering: “This pretty coarse voice of yours can be nice on some…” He licked the dh’oine’s chin “Occasions…”

A sharp hiss came from Roche as the elf made place for his teeth in his neck. And maybe one damned low, strangled, half silent moan.

A hand slipped on his belt, gripping it like a leach.

“Take that off”

Roche cuffed “What, the belt?”

“Everything. Hurry.”

“Heard some elf-ass coming along?” Roche smirked as he began to open his trousers, slowly pulling the elf in pain of wait.

“No. Did you saw me eat anything today, when luring at me like a perv?”

Roche swallowed at the word. “No, why, you’re hungry? Need me to go hunt some berries for you princess?” Roche didn’t keep his smirk for long as the elf was quickly pushing him to the ground. Kissing him one last time, long enough to left him breathless, he slowly began to trail a road of kisses and lickings on the Temerian’s chest. Both were softly moaning with each lip smack.

He was pecking on his ears.

Jawline.

Neck.

Shoulders.

Collarbone.

Pecs.

Stomach.

Abs.

Hipbone.

He stopped at the inner tights of the man, locking his eyes into the ones. Roche was now a messy panting amount of red-faced flesh, deeply sweating. Iorweth smiled innocently at him:

“I am starving for the lilies.” The words were still resonating between the trees as surprised moan came from the lying brunette.

“Dammit you’re-… Way…” He tossed out the elf’s cap and tangled his fingers in his sweaty hair, guiding his head along his shaft in a better angle, making his legs shake. Curling his toes to the ground: “T-too good at-… Th-is!”

The filled mouth of the elf curled as he heard Roche’s voice crumble under his tongue moves. Swirling along the men’s length as his hands explored his chest. A deep humming was the only answer Iorweth gave to him.

Close. He was too close. Too soon. But damn the elf didn’t make it easier to maintain!

“Iorweth… P-please… Don’t… I – I’m not….”

His hands gripped at the elf’s hair as his back bend over.

“Iorweth dammit are you-… Listening to me!?”

A loud pop could be heard in the forest.

Iorweth used his thumb to get rid of saliva bits dropping from his lips.

“You said?”

“You damn elf!” Roche tried to get up but the sidh leaned on him, kissing his neck before pulling over.

“Turn over. And yes, it is an order.”

Roche’s lips began to part, but words fall down his throat. Living the panting mess voiceless as the elf places his lips on his:

“Please, don’t make me wait to treat you good…” Said Iorweth between two kisses, lovingly rubbing the man’s inner tights.

Roche couldn’t get his brain straight, half of his mind wanted him to run away. The other half was, strangely, curious about the elf’s skills… How come he felt so low? How did he managed to put himself above the highest cliff to jump off? For Temeria’s sake, what the bloody hell was he doing!

Still, he listened to Iorweth’s claiming.

Getting rid of every part of clothes he wore. Slowly, hesitant, but the elf didn’t think of it that way.

“What are you doing? I thought you more experienced than that! Ugh, let me help, you’ll be naked for Saovine if you continue to do things that slow…”

Even if the arrogance in his voice was persistent, a small hint of softness could be heard in Iorveth’s concern. He began to tuck under Roche’s clothes, getting rid of every part of armor ceremonially, but still quick, and somehow, with a hunger only him could feel.

“Get it up.”

Roche was shocked: “I beg your bloody pardon?”

“Get. It. Up! Now!”

Roches turned his face away: “You think it can be turned on in by simple ask?”

Iorweth gathered the dh’oine’s glance seriously, a faint smirk on his lips, shaking the man’s leg.

“Well, I don’t know what you have in mind, dh’oine, but your boots will be better off if you lift your leg a bit!” He said in a chuckle. Roche felt himself dying by the following words Iorweth said, lifting himself up to the man’s ear:

“But don’t worry, you won’t need any assistance for this, aren’t I good enough for you to be” He packed the man’s pack in one hand, slowly pressuring it as Roche seemed already prepared “tall enough?”.

Hard.

It was hard for the poor commander to swallow this time...

How could it be? What did the bloody bastard do to get him like that? Too fast, too confident, the elf was too much for him, in every way.

And yet he was standing there. Naked. The floor never looked as beautiful as he didn’t even dare look away from it. But sounds made him break his quick evasion: Iorveth took few steps further, getting rid of his gloves, letting them slowly fall near his ankle, bare legs pointing out of his gambeson.

How could a male have such slim and soft legs as he had? Wrists made no difference, and years, millennials, of sword fighting and archery did not expel the elf to get such beautiful hands.

Long and slim fingers running around each belt, each button, each part of his clothes slowly pulled off. Only to create a soft circle of fabric and chainmail around his body. A firepit in which Iorweth would be a dancing flame, heating Roche, keeping him awake in a cold night. A temptation none should touch, a burning desire.

The gambeson fell, leaving the man in a simple tunic, barely covering his body enough to be decent, but revealing much as Roche’s hope wished. The man stared, explored every inch of skin, scars, letting his imagination flow, drawing history for every detail he saw.

A quick snap of fingers took him back to reality, as Iorweth came closer to him:

“Never saw someone naked before? Who guessed the Blue Stripes Commander was a little new lamb?”

The elf said in a chuckle, barely covering his smile with his hand.

That. Damn. Smile.

“Is this where your bravery stops? I understand you’ll keep the mask on, but is it necessary to…” he lifted Iorweth’s tunic upon one of his hips, gently stroking at his skin. Incredibly soft, drawing every perfect shape of the elf’s muscles, bones. “…Let this on?” Roche said as a faint smirk of victory took his lips, as he saw the elf’s face come from a smile to a visible confusion.

He added:

“Or did you wish me to uncover your delicate body?” Roche took the only chance he had to inverse the roles for once. He was in the middle of a Scoia’Tael camp, totally naked, he had nothing left to lose.

He took a step further, making the elf rewind his trail.

“Tell me Iorweth, how do you want me to do it?” He was still slowly pushing the elf back, stopped by the nearest tree behind him.

“Want me to lift it up like a whore’s corset? Order you to take it off as a slave? Or even better-” He took the low part of the tunic in his strong hands, caroused by years of sword fighting, and special trainings. He murmured to the elf’s ear with the lowest voice he could: “Do you want me to rip it off as Nilfgaard did for your dreams?”

No more.

It took no more than a quick look on the shocked face of the elf to tire his hands apart, perfectly cutting open the light brown tunic. HE caught Iorweth in a gasp this time. HE let him wordless. He made his heart break his ribs from surprise.

HE made the elf HIS.

Roche closed his eyes and frowned a bit, as he saw Iorweth’s hands coming at his face in a fast movement, anticipating the slap he would receive.

Oh, he wasn’t ready.

His brain shut down as he felt these soft, delicate, cold hands on his cheeks. Soon coming along with hot lips roughly pressed against his. It took him only few seconds before letting himself go in, keeping the elf in a close embrace, arms around his waist, hands sliding on his back, a trail along these perfect curves.

Iorweth let his hands fall on Roche’s nape, softly gripping that ugly chaperon of his.

“Don’t you dare.” Said the man with his lips still pressed on the elf’s ones.

“I’m not going further if you keep that towel on you, dh’oine.” Responded Iorweth, still kissing, trying to get rid of the black curse Roche kept wearing anytime of the year.

“Then give up on yours too, elf.”

Darts.

Roche’s eyes were heated lances to Iorweth’s heart. He took a step backward, not even daring to look at the man.

Roche came back at him, taking back the elf’s attention with a cupped hand on his cheek:

“It’s alright, you can trust me, I’m not here to hurt you” He took off his chaperon, tossing it somewhere nearby. “Let me see you as you see me.”

Calm. Soft. Low and warm. These words, this voice, meant the world to him.

He peeked at the man’s face, a soft smile upon it, as his hand trailed to Iorweth’s head cap knot:

“Can I?”

[woodlandelk]

The Godling 2

Please read Drakenborg 1 -4 and Godling 1 first: https://woodlandelk.tumblr.com/post/163948584770/drakenborg https://woodlandelk.tumblr.com/post/164331108325/drakenborg-2 https://woodlandelk.tumblr.com/post/164439254210/drakenborg-3 https://woodlandelk.tumblr.com/post/165255024955/drakenborg-4 https://woodlandelk.tumblr.com/post/165300347330/the-godling)

When Iorveth woke up, he found himself covered by a mossy blanket, at a fireside. He wondered where he was, and what had happened to him… His sore hands were bandaged and when he reached for his face, he felt a wet compress. The slight touch caused an explosion of pain, spreading from his cheek through the whole skull. He nearly passed out again, so he focused on breathing. Iorveth started to remember how the spear hat shattered his face. With his tongue, he sensed that teeth were missing and somehow his mouth felt just… wrong.

But to his utter surprise, the pain was only half as bad as he remembered. When he looked around, he recognized some sort of camp with a small shelter made of branches and leaves. In the tree above, a collection of shiny metal things reflected the light of the flames and some steps aside someone sat at the fire, his back turned to Iorveth.

Iorveth blinked several times, the person seemed like a… child to him. The being had bluish skin and they only wore some patched trousers and a colourful knitted scarf wrapped around their neck. On their head, the individual wore a crown of twigs and fern, with a tiny pair of antlers at the sides.

“Who are you?” asked Iorveth, or at least he wanted to ask this. But he was not able to talk, instead he could only caw. But individual heard him anyway.

The bluish creature twirled around, and with a few jumps he was at Iorveths side. Indeed, he looked like a child, but with huge greenish eyes and something about his face was… odd. He was a godling.

“Oh, you are finally awake!” the godling squeaked excitedly, “Hope you feel better. By the gods…  What the hell happened to your face? Berthold and I discussed hours if it was more helpful to release you or to stitch you back together. Berthold actually wanted to eat you, but I told him in your condition you probably tasted like rotten fogger.” Without even awaiting an answer, the godling lifted the compress on Iorveths shattered face, and he grimaced over what he saw. So it was that bad, thought Iorveth. And who was Berthold?

“Wuah… that looks disgusting…” the godling shook his head. Again he twirled around and picked some leaves off a small tree, rubbed them between his hands, returned to Iorveth and put the leaves on his wound, the compress on top. Whatever that was, it burned on his skin, but the pain turned into a tingle, and after a while into numbness.

“Seriously elf, what were you thinking? Why would someone even GO to that evil castle? It´s just the meat market for nekkers!” the godling ranted, “See, that´s what you get: A squishy face. You were lucky that I found you, and not Berthold or some nekker… I don´t eat people. Especially not those who are such poor creatures as you are. Did you jump off the walls or what? It took the sparrows hours to find all the thorns and spikes, you looked like a hedgehog! And I needed Berthold’s help to get that quarrel out of your arm.” So this godling had knocked him out and had taken him here to help him?

Iorveth glanced at his arm, and was surprised to see a dressing. What quarrel? He had not even noticed the guards had shot at him, or the quarrel that had stuck in his arm for two days. Then he realized that he did not wear his shirt, and his skin was surprisingly clean. The godling must have taken good care of him. Carefully, he tried to prop himself up, but his arms started trembling, so he gave up. If he could not even talk or sit up, how should he get water? He licked his cracked lips and tried to swallow, the taste of blood still lingered on his tongue.

“Oh, I see. You want something to drink! Stupid me…” the godling noticed immediately. He hurried away and came back with a hollow dried fruit, filled with some liquid. “This is fresh water, with some herbs, mashed fruits and honey. It´s a recipe of Berthold, some ancient fever remedy. Really helpful!”

The godling had a sip himself, before he helped Iorveth to hold up his head and drink.

“Oh please! Not too fast! Otherwise you will vomit again, and that wasn´t fun the last time….” the bluish creature stated with a worried look. Iorveth was puzzled, because he did not remember anything. Carefully the godling paid attention that Iorveth did not get too much of the sweet liquid. At least it washed away the iron taste of blood. While the godling started chatting, the elf tried to follow his words. But soon he fell asleep again.

The upcoming days, the godling did his best to nurse the elf back to strength. Iorveth learned that his name was Eugene, and he used to live in this forest for years. He talked a lot about this mysterious Berthold, his best friend… but Iorveth never got an eye on Berthold, and he wondered why.

“So elf, after staying with us for more a week now, don´t you think it would be polite to tell us your name?” the godling asked one morning, while he fed Iorveth some mash of fruits and plants. Iorveth felt much better, and it seemed like his vocal cords remembered how to speak a few words.

“Iorveth” he answered with a hoarse voice, carefully and slowly forming the words with his lips and his mutilated jaw.

“That´s a strange name. Not that I ever met an elf before… But anyway. I will call you Iorv” the godling replied with a tilted head and a bold smile, “Berthold also had a very strange name when I met him, but I found Berthold suited him better. His crows liked the idea a lot! So we stuck with it.”

“Crows?” Iorveth asked hoarsely. Speaking hurt his face, so he kept his question short. He really wondered about Berthold. Sometimes he even suspected Berthold was just an imaginary friend.

[airiat]

Boy with the Sun Song (III.)

iorveth/f!oc | m | friends to lovers, tooth-rotting fluff, hurt/comfort | no warnings apply

vesta aep maghenn knows iorveth (iorveth aep mirbrach, to her) in a way that no one else can claim: they grew up together in the blue mountains and have been the closest of friends ever since. when iorveth’s unit is wiped out in an ambush by a powerful but unknown adversary, he seeks shelter with vesta until it’s safe for him to rebuild.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven

[read on ao3]

III.

It was a long time before I saw Iorveth again. As if his most recent transgression was enough to keep him away from me, as if the consequences were finally too great for him to risk seeing me.

 I wanted to tell myself that I didn’t miss him, but his absence was noticeable in every breath I took that was met with silence, in the way that I could go whole days without speaking to anyone else.

 I wanted to tell myself that I was used to that, that it was what I had wanted for myself when I built my home in these lonesome woods. But ever since he had come back into my life since the time we were separated as kids, he slowly started to take up space in it. And I wanted him to. I wanted to tell myself that I was fine with being alone, but I didn’t know if I was.

 The day he returned to me was cold and rainy. I had taken my writing to the chair in front of my fireplace, cocooned myself in a thick blanket. I told myself that I was content like that, told myself that I wasn’t imagining what it would feel like for him to be sitting next to me, his arm wrapped around me, pulling me into him. I was fine as I was. Alone. A whole person alone. Wasn’t I?

 A knock on the front door startled me out of my trance. Who was it? I wasn’t expecting anyone.

 I put my journal down and stood up from my chair, the blanket still wrapped around me.

 “Vesta, it’s me. Are you home?” came his battle-worn, raspy voice from behind my door.

 I opened the door without a second thought and he stepped through, rainwater dripping off his armor, his scarf a sopping mess on his head. He still wouldn’t take it off, would he?

 He looked downtrodden and beaten, more so than he usually did. His eye screamed of his exhaustion, his head tilted to stare at the floor.

  It was then that I noticed that he held a hand to the opposite arm, blood oozing past his pressed fingers.

 “Iorveth,” I said, shrugging the blanket off myself and wrapping it around his shoulders. I waited for him to protest, but he didn’t. In fact, he pulled it tighter around himself. “What happened to you? Are you alright?”

 I knew it was a question asked in vain.

 “I’m fine…” he started, but he shuddered. From the cold? “We were ambushed. A force unknown…out of nowhere…”

 I didn’t wait for him to finish. I took him gently by the hand and led him to sit in front of the fire. He took the seat that I had previously occupied and I knelt down in front of him.

 I had seen him before at times of lowness, but those times were always riddled with his faux anger, masking anything he might have truly felt. Those times were nothing compared to now.

 Iorveth sat there before me and there was nothing that veiled what he truly felt. He was a picture of misery, of loss, of ruin. I had never seen him in that way before. My heart ached to see him like this, emboldening me with a fierce, protective urge to do everything in my power to rid him of whatever made him so.

 He didn’t speak. He stared at his hands clenched tightly into fists on his lap. When I laid a hand on his knee, I felt that he trembled. The Iorveth I knew, the one that legends held him up to be, would never let himself sink to such depths. Not unless there was something truly devastating to make him so.

 “Where is the rest of your unit?” I asked him as gently as I could possibly make a question that will likely wound him.

 He shook his head. “Gone,” he answered through clenched teeth. “Killed, scattered, displaced...I don’t know. We...I...tried to fight them off for as long as I could. But eventually, even I had to flee.”

 I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “What of your assailants, then? They’re not...looking for you still, are they?”

 He looked up at me and met my eyes for the first time. There was a surprising form of his anger burning within the green depth of his own. His anger was familiar to me, but this kind was nothing I had ever seen before. “Do you mean to suggest that I would ever put you in danger, Vesta?”

 I snatched my hand back from his knee like his flesh had burned mine. “No, I mean...I know you would never, I just…”

 “Your house has an enchantment on it,” he said.

 “That’s not what I meant, Iorveth. I only…”

 There was something in his gaze that told me to stop speaking.

 “I sent the sorceress to you.”

 “Triss? The one who placed the enchantment? But she was a dh’oine.”

 “She’s the friend of a very dear friend of mine. I trust him, so I trust her.”

 “Iorveth, I don’t understand…”

 “I am always thinking of you,” he said. “Always, in every moment. Sometimes even to my detriment. You are not safe out here, yet you insist on remaining here. I had to do something. I would never, ever…”

 When the realization hit me, I gasped softly. “My house,” I interrupted him. “The enchantment. You’re safe here.”

 His shoulders relaxed and his eye softened, face smoothing from how it was crumpled with his frustration. He sat back in the chair as if, at last, he could rest. “Now you understand.”

 I rose to my feet and retreated to my bedroom in search of clean, dry clothes for him. I didn’t have much, but I did have a set of men’s clothing for the times that I went out in public not wishing to be recognized. Though Iorveth was of a taller, sturdier build than me, the clothes should fit him. I always wore things oversized.

 When I returned to him, he was slumped over in the chair, fast asleep. I almost hesitated to wake him, but I also didn’t want him to get sick from his wet clothes.

 “Here, Iorveth,” I murmured. He awoke instantly, stiffly, like he was on the verge of preparing for a moment of battle. “You can change into this. I’ll make you something to eat meanwhile.”

 I expected that he would surely protest this time, but he didn’t. Only nodded and made his own way back to my bedroom.

 While he was gone, I went into my kitchen and begin preparing the warmest meal I could have thought to make: squash soup and roast chicken with the buttered carrots I know he loves.

 When he returned, he said nothing, only sat quietly down at the table, leaning on his elbows like he was struggling to stay awake. It was only when I finally brought him the finished meal that he reanimated and began eating with the fervor of a man who had been stranded in the woods for months. Which, well…

 I picked at my own food slowly, my stomach still too knotted with worry to have much of an appetite. I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest until I found out exactly what happened and how exactly I could help him—and his unit—if I was able to. For him, I would have done anything.

 “Copper for your thoughts?”

 My head snapped up from where it had been burning a hole in my plate.

 “Huh?” I asked.

 With his plate now empty in front of him, he looked much better, brighter, alive, than he had earlier tonight. In fact, if I didn’t know him any better, I would have said that he looked at peace. But maybe, in his own way, he was. As best as he could be.

 “You’re upset,” he said. “Why?”

 “You, your unit, was attacked,” I answered. “Why would I not be?”

 “Why would you be?”

 “Because I care about you and your men are such an extension of you that they may as well be a third arm. And besides, why would I not care about my fellow Aen Seidhe?”

 “If you cared so much about our cause then you would have joined us,” he said, but there was no malice in his words. Only simple observation.

 I gritted my teeth. “I would be useless to you. I can’t fight.”

 “We would have taught you.”

 I shook my head. “But it’s not only that. I could learn the skill, but you can’t teach courage.”

 “For you to live the life you do: putting your name into the world, living alone not mere miles away from Vengerberg is either a result of stupidity or courage, and I know you’re not stupid.”

 My face flushed. That was about as close to a compliment as I ever usually receive from him.

 “So, what now then? What will you do?”

Iorveth sighed. “Lay low for a while, most like. Wait for everything to calm down, then try to regroup.”

 “Lay low? So does that mean…?”

 He gave me a bare glimmer of a smile. “I would stay with you if you’d have me.”

 “Of course,” I said a beat too quickly, a notch too excitedly. “I mean, yes, you’re more than welcome here.”

 His smile widened, and I returned it, not believing my fortune; from weeks of his absence to a long foreseeable future with him under my roof.

[bard-llama]

Know Thine Enemy (Iorveth/Roche) Part 1

Summary: Iorveth spends a lot of time wondering what it was about Vernon Roche that got to him. A chance encounter in the forest forces him to question if there might not be more to it than determination to outwit his enemy.

Read on AO3

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Notes:

There is some Elder Speech in this fic. Translations are below:

Aen Seidhe = Formal name for what elves call themselves. Two types: Those who lived before the Conjunction of the Spheres brought humanity to the continent, and those born after.

Dùthaich is Scottish Gaelic for Homeland, according to Google Translate

Dh’oine = Elder Speech for Human

Bloede = expletive along the lines of stupid/silly/fucking i.e. Bloede Dh’oine = Fucking Human

Aindeoin = taken from the Scottish Gaelic word for spite, a dh ’aindeoin, according to Google. 

Onto the Story:

Iorveth had spent a long time nursing his hatred for Temeria’s King. Well, for most of the Northern Kings, actually, but Temeria was special. Temeria had been his home, long before humans had named it such.

The elven name sounded better anyway. Dùthaich meant homeland in the dh’oine’s tongue, and that’s what it was. An elven homeland. Typical how dh’oine always forgot that their cities were built on elven ruins.

At any rate, there had been a time King Foltest was – well, not a good king, dh’oine didn’t really have those. But not a particularly notable bad king. Iorveth had hated him on principle, but it was a distant hate, a vague awareness of Foltest’s existence.

Then Foltest had decided that nonhumans should be eliminated. Just for existing.

Iorveth’s hate became very personal very fast. And he used it, used it to lead his men to fight Foltest’s order and save those they could. More than that, he used his hatred to do the things he had to do, to order his men to do. Kings never gave into the Scoia’tael because they asked nicely, they gave in because they had no choice, because the Scoia’tael had made it impossible for villages to go about their regular business of paying taxes and tributes, which meant the kingdom lost money.

Kings hated losing money. Dh’oine greed in general was a frightening thing – Iorveth had seen men beat and kill others for a mere copper – but it was especially prevalent amongst kings and nobility.

Money made Kings pay attention, made them stop ignoring the inconvenient elven uprisings and actually consider the terms the Scoia’tael proposed. Iorveth seethed; They weren’t even asking for much – all they wanted was a place where they could live without their mere existence carrying down a death sentence. Why couldn’t dh’oine understand that, understand that they were just people, people who wanted to live their lives?

Instead of giving them that, Foltest doubled down his efforts in his efforts to eradicate Iorveth’s people. It was a scary thing, to know that someone cared so little about you, thought so little of you that they sentenced your entire species to death.

Foltest created a special forces unit specifically to hunt down nonhumans. Roche may claim that his orders were only to stop the Scoia’tael, but Iorveth knew better. Foltest wanted them all destroyed: the Scoia’tael, the misguided nonhumans living under human rule, even the few innocent nonhumans left. He wanted them all dead.

Iorveth wasn’t sure if he was glad that Roche didn’t appear to want the same thing or not. Vernon Roche, Commander of the Blue Stripes, was confusing. And intriguing.

And, ultimately, his enemy.

The problem was, Iorveth spent a lot of time thinking about his enemy. He thought about how to outwit Roche, how to lay traps for the Blue Stripes, and how to give his own men an advantage. More nonhumans joined them every day, driven away from human villages by the uptick of hatred and violence that no one stopped. Iorveth had a responsibility to prepare them for the reality of living as a guerrilla soldier, to prepare them to survive.

He wasn’t sure when thinking about Roche had turned into thinking about how stupid the dh’oine’s hat was or how confusing his relationship with his second in command – who, everytime Iorveth had encountered her, seemed to believe that fastening the armor clasps down her front was for other people. If one of Iorveth’s soldiers did something so stupid, he would have them stuck on latrine duty until they learned that armor was supposed to protect your vulnerable spots. It didn’t do any good leaving them exposed.

But Roche never seemed concerned that his second in command walked around with her armor unfastened. The other men in his unit, from what Iorveth had observed, found the commander’s dress distracting and would often make lewd remarks, though Ves – the second in command – insulted them right back. She usually won the arguments that Iorveth saw, too, though sometimes that was purely because she’d decided it was now time for a knife throwing contest and the men quailed.

Iorveth couldn’t blame them. Ves was good with her knives. She’d nearly taken off Iorveth’s head more than once, and the feral snarl on her face had told Iorveth that she would be more than delighted to be the one to kill him.

It was different than the feral smirk Roche sometimes wore. Roche’s tended to have an energy that was more I will be the one to catch you as opposed to I want to murder you brutally.

Maybe that was why Iorveth found Roche so fascinating. The man honestly seemed to believe that their fight wasn’t about race at all, fixating on their tactics. Part of Iorveth understood – he hated ordering his men to do what they had to sometimes, but their methods worked. Ambushing any travelers through the forest gave the Scoia’tael a home that humans feared to invade. Stealing goods from the army gave the Scoia’tael medicine and supplies they otherwise wouldn’t be able to obtain. Burning caravans full of merchandise seemed harsh, but local governors were quick to give into their demands after they did. The Scoia’tael had some victories to truly celebrate.

Not enough of them, though. Cities enacted laws forbidding employers from refusing nonhumans work, but they weren’t enforced. There were rules that kept landlords from refusing housing to nonhumans, but that didn’t stop people from burning their houses down – often with the poor nonhumans still inside. There were even laws against hate crimes, against the brutal violence racists took comfort in. But that didn’t stop the governors and aldermen and local mayors from leading the lynchings.

Iorveth couldn’t remember what it was like to look at a dh’oine and see anything other than a threat.

Maybe that was what made Roche so interesting. The dh’oine was very much a threat – and yet, not as much of one as he could be. Roche was ruthless: ordering his men not to take prisoners in raids, torturing the few prisoners he did take for information, ignoring the way innocents sometimes became casualties of war. He was not a good man.

But he wasn’t as bad as he could have been. His predecessor had been far worse, and Iorveth wished he had been the one to slit that brute’s neck. Roche had never ordered their women raped, their babies battered and beaten, their schools and libraries set on fire.

Not that there were many of those left to set alight.

Dol Blathanna maintained some of their cultural heritage, but only for as long as Nilfgaard permitted it. What Iorveth wanted, what he and his men fought for, was a truly free elven state, where all were welcomed and treated as equals, dh’oine included. As much as Iorveth personally despised dh’oine, he had heard tales of enough decent ones to know that they weren’t all a lost cause.

Only most of them.

Iorveth didn’t know which category Vernon Roche fell into.

He didn’t know which one he wanted Roche to fall into. That was what scared him. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it, like picking at a scab, constantly wondering if Roche could be made to understand and why Iorveth even cared.

Because he did care. A lot. It wasn’t that he liked Roche – in point of fact, he was an extremely unlikeable man – but Roche’s determination to see this as a policy issue rather than a race issue both infuriated and entranced him. Iorveth felt like he had to understand where Roche was coming from, because how could anyone not see the obvious?

What he really wanted, he realized one day, was to sit down and have a debate with the man. As enjoyable as crossing swords with him was – and it truly was. Iorveth had forgotten how fun fighting could be when you had a worthy opponent – what Iorveth really wanted was to understand him.

Iorveth’s brethren would laugh at him if they could hear his thoughts. Who cared about understanding their enemy when they would eventually be destroyed? Anything beyond strategic information was meaningless.

And maybe it was meaningless. Learning more about Roche would do nothing to further the Scoia’tael’s cause. It wasn’t as if he could make Roche less racist or less willing to follow a genocidal maniac.

Nonetheless, the thought stayed with him all day – the idea that he wanted to know, to truly understand Vernon Roche – and it was still on his mind that evening when he was scouting with his second in command, Ciaran. Iorveth glanced at his companion with a measure of guilt. Ciaran would certainly find his interest inappropriate at best. At worst, grounds to overthrow his command. After all, how could the Scoia’tael be led by someone who fell for human excuses?

He didn’t, though. He was under no illusions that Roche was anything but a racist and that for nonhumans to survive, Foltest had to die. If Iorveth ever felt otherwise, he would step down immediately, because his people deserved to be led by someone who would do anything to free them.

Of course, they probably also deserved someone who watched where he was going. When they reached the end of their patrol route, Ciaran nodded to him and headed back to the others, to play music and eat and dance with their brethren. But Iorveth wasn’t feeling up to company yet, so he kept wandering through the forest, thinking about enemies and allies and friends and the complicated way those definitions had shifted of recent. Which was no excuse for not noticing the trap before he walked right into it.

The first hint that something was wrong was the feeling of something tugging on his ankle, slowly growing tighter. The moment he looked down to check was also the moment he was yanked into the air by the rope, and his arrows fell from his quiver, scattering on the forest floor, as he dangled upside down in the air

The Elder Speech he muttered was definitely not repeatable in polite company, but when was Iorveth ever in polite company, anyway? And this situation deserved his strongest curses, because it was just fucking embarrassing to get caught like this.

His clothing made a dedicated effort to fall around his ears, which was extra annoying when he was trying to bend in half so he could cut the stupid rope around his ankle. The spinning wasn’t helping either.

But the absolute worst thing about this situation was the sound of crunching leaves that signaled someone approaching. Maybe a hunter, coming to check for rabbits, or – more likely – someone who would be delighted to have caught the leader of the Scoia’tael, even if it was a decidedly temporary situation. One of his elves would never make so much noise, so it couldn’t be one of them.

But it could be the absolute worst person to possibly find him. As Iorveth tried to bat the gambeson out of his face, he caught a glimpse of none other than Vernon Roche making his way towards him.

Iorveth swore under his breath. Of fucking course it would be Roche. That was just the way this day was going, what with him walking into a trap, getting his leg jerked into the air, and the part where the rest of him followed. It was humiliating and painful and as much as the thought of having a proper conversation with Roche had been haunting him, he did not want to deal with Roche right now.

“Apparently I’ve been going about capturing Scoia’tael all wrong,” Roche laughed at him and Iorveth chucked his bow at the human. It wouldn’t do him much good without his arrows anyway.

Roche ducked, the bastard. But the force of the throw made Iorveth spin again and he was actually starting to feel a bit queasy. Nonetheless, he held his knife up threateningly. Of course, given that he was hanging upside down with his clothes dangling around his face, it was difficult to look appropriately threatening.

“Huh, guess it’s not just the ears that are pointy,” Roche muttered as Iorveth slowly spun around to face him.

Iorveth sputtered, flushing red. That was – firstly, it was beyond inappropriate for his enemy to be talking about his ears. But secondly, was Roche referring to his– his– well, what could be seen through his hose now that the gambeson that covered it hung down his chest instead of preserving his modesty?

Iorveth wasn’t sure what the strangled noise that left him could be defined as, but it had Roche laughing again. Of all the indecencies, Iorveth certainly hadn’t been expecting his enemy to proposition him! And then to laugh about it!

“Don’t get your ears in a twist,” Roche held up his hands pacifyingly, a growing smirk on his face.

“Stop talking about my ears!” Iorveth hollered, hating himself for losing control. Roche was surprisingly good and wrenching the control of a situation away from him, but usually Iorveth at least started out in control! Like this, he was completely off balance and entirely at a disadvantage in their face-off. It made something in his chest clench and something that must have been fury welled up inside him.

“Relax, pointy ears.” Roche said, referencing his ears again, as if Iorveth hadn’t been demeaned enough.

When Roche approached him, he slashed his knife wildly, but between his armor impeding him, and his awkward position, it was far too easy for Roche to disarm him. Roche held his captured knife up until the sun glinted off of the blade and Iorveth found it hard to breathe.

This was not how he would die. He refused to go out humiliated and helpless in front of Roche of all people.

“Stop squirming, you stupid elf,” Roche barked, grabbing his gambeson and leveling the knife against Iorveth’s throat. Iorveth froze, feeling the cool metal bite into his skin when he swallowed. “Now what should I do with you?” The dh’oine tilted his head in contemplation, slowly dragging the knife down to the hollow of Iorveth’s throat.

They stayed there like that for a long moment, eyes locked and Roche entirely in control. It made something squirm in his belly and it was probably all the blood rushing to his head, but his hose felt oddly tight. And considering the only reason his gambeson wasn’t blocking his face was because Roche had it in a firm hold, Iorveth was entirely on display – both his obviously confused cock and his bright red ears.

“Kill me already, dh’oine,” Iorveth challenged, honestly kind of hoping Roche would just get it over with. He understood the need to gloat over a victory, but Iorveth already wanted to crawl into the earth and never emerge. He would welcome death, if only to end this moment.

Roche licked his lips and tapped the tip of the blade against Iorveth’s collarbone once before abruptly turning away. Iorveth’s armor fell back in front of his face and he let out an outraged shout. Then his stomach lurched as the rope around his suddenly lost tension and he was falling towards the ground with a high pitched yelp. The forest floor welcomed him face-first into the dirt and leaves, his once-pristine arrows snapping as he landed on them.

Iorveth snarled, attempting to get his clothing back to rights so he could kill the son of a bitch that just stood next to the rope he’d cut, laughing at Iorveth.

“Always wondered if elves ate twigs and leaves,” Roche chuckled and Iorveth spat at his feet.

“You will die for this,” he threatened, even though he had no weapon aside from the broken arrowheads scattered under him.

“For freeing you?” Roche smirked. “Not very neighborly of you.”

“I am not your neighbor, invader!” Iorveth finally pulled himself to his feet, teeth barred.

Roche just cocked his eyebrow. “That’s gratitude for you. What would you have done if I hadn’t come along?”

The fucker was enjoying his, merriment dancing in his eyes. Iorveth’s fists clenched, fingernails digging into his palms. “I didn’t need your help! I would have freed myself!”

“Oh yeah, looked like you were making great progress on that.” Roche said. “How’s your ankle?”

Throbbing with pain, actually, but Iorveth would die before admitting it to a dh’oine. His entire face felt achy and bruised and the reality that he would likely have to limp back to his people – since Roche certainly didn’t seem to be preparing to kill him – made Iorveth want to burrow down into the earth between the tree’s roots and never return.

“Fuck off, dh’oine,” Iorveth hissed.

Roche shrugged. “And here I thought elves were supposed to be well-mannered and graceful.”

Iorveth grabbed a handful of arrowheads and threw them at Roche in impotent rage. Roche watched them fall to the ground not two paces in front of Iorveth and burst into laughter. “Oh, elf, this just isn’t your day, is it?” Iorveth growled. “All right, all right, I’ll leave you to your forest. Made my fucking night as it is.”

And then Vernon fucking Roche threw him a sloppy salute, turned on his heel, and walked away, still laughing.

Iorveth tried very hard to sink into the earth, but after several minutes in which he simply lay on his back, he was forced to admit that it wasn’t going to happen. Getting to his feet involved a horrifying amount of crawling and clawing at the tree, but finally, Iorveth recovered his bow and leaned on it heavily. It was absolutely not designed to be used as a walking stick, but he would likely have to repair it or make a new one anyway.

As he hobbled slowly back to camp, the absolute worst part of all of this was that the squirming heat in his belly hadn’t dissipated, and instead itched under his skin, making him want – something. Something a proud Aen Siedhe like him should never want.

Iorveth swallowed harshly and grit his teeth, forcing his mind to focus only on the journey back to Aindeoin, the Scoia’tael base camp. Iorveth had been the one to name it, years ago, in an attempt to make it feel more like a home, more like somewhere the Aen Seidhe of old might have respected, even if it was nowhere near as glorious as the great Silver Towers they’d used to live in. Before the Conjunction of Spheres, before dh’oine had come to their shores and driven them out of their homes.

Once upon a time, Iorveth had owned a concert hall, the stone strategically carved to enhance acoustics. Playing on that stage was a magical feeling – afloat in a world that was nothing but sound and music. He had practiced with some of the most renowned musicians in elven history and played before crowds of hundreds, back when it was possible to gather hundreds of elves together without a massacre.

Still, Aindeoin had it’s charms, things he might actually miss if they recovered their lands tomorrow. Things like sleeping under the stars – though, never in winter. He’d made that mistake once, and woken up with a foot of snow on top of him – living with his brethren in close reach, avoiding cooking duty for as long as possible, and even the heights of the forest. Aindeoin was built into the forest itself, high up in the trees, using the natural infrastructure of the branches to form buildings and houses for their use.

Of course, living in the trees meant climbing up them. Fortunately, elven ingenuity would save him from attempting to do so with his ankle in this state. Iorveth cupped a hand around his mouth and mimicked a birdcall.

At the signal, one of his guards lowered the platform that would raise Iorveth into the air. The pulley system they used was really quite simple, but it saved them hours of work transporting supplies and people.

Upon seeing him, several elves jumped up to help him.

“What happened? Were you attacked?”

Iorveth just grunted, determinedly scanning the camp until he found what he was looking for. Then he pushed his way past his concerned brethren and made a beeline for the liquor, pulling a flask out of the hands of his best archer. Taredd sputtered as Iorveth immediately downed the whole thing, wincing in disgust as the bitter taste hit the back of his throat and burned its way down to his stomach.

“Ugh, that’s vile,” he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and passed the flask back, clapping a stunned Taredd on the back. “Do we have more?”

“You don’t drink,” Taredd pointed out meekly.

It was true, Iorveth wasn’t big on imbibing mind-altering substances. Not because he was against them – he was over thirteen hundred years old, he had tried everything under the sun at least once – but because as Commander of the Scoia’tael, he had a responsibility to his men to always be at his best.

That responsibility could go fuck itself for the rest of the evening, Iorveth decided. “Tonight, I do.”

He caught the worried look Taredd sent over his shoulder, and Iorveth turned to face his second in command with a sigh.

“Should I ask?” Ciaran’s eyebrows climbed to his hairline as he looked over Iorveth’s rumpled appearance.

“No.” Another drink was placed in his hand and Iorveth sipped at it this time. The world already seemed hazy and slightly less awful.

“At least see Imadia,” Ciaran bit his lip in concern. “You look pretty beat up.”

Iorveth hummed, the drink making his entire miserable evening seem somehow less terrible. He let Ciaran caraouse him towards their medic and she tutted as she assessed him.

“You, Iorveth, are an absolute mess.” Imadia crossed her arms.

Tell me about it, he didn’t say. Imadia was an elder Aen Seidhe – the eldest in his territory – and she was entirely done with the “bullshit of these young whippersnappers,” as she put it. Iorveth wouldn’t usually be labeled as one of the young ones. He had lived on the continent since before the Conjunction of the Spheres, since before the arrival of humanity. He could hardly be called young – and yet, Imadia’s shrewdness was the reason she’d stayed alive so long. Iorveth had learned to listen to her long ago, even if he resented it at times.

Times like now.

“Sooooo,” she drew the word out for as long as her breath held, “what happened?”

Iorveth growled. It was useless to lie to her. She always saw through him and enjoyed making him pay for attempted lies.  “Vernon fucking Roche,” he snarled, and just thinking of the dh’oine made the hot, squirming sensation in his gut rise up towards his throat.

“Ah, the pretty dh’oine,” she sighed, the stern woman from a moment ago suddenly lovestruck. “I do hope I’ll get to meet him at some point.”

“He’s trying to kill us,” Iorveth said, pointedly not thinking about how Roche had had a wonderful opportunity to kill him and had freed him instead. “And he’s not pretty.” Ruggedly handsome maybe, but not pretty.

Iorveth swallowed hard. No, not ruggedly handsome either. Roche was a dh’oine. Iorveth had no opinion on the beauty of dh’oine.

Imadia ignored him. “I like him. He’s got a good voice. I can hear him yelling orders even back where I’m positioned,” which, as a medic, was supposed to be far behind their defensive line. She usually managed to edge a little closer than he’d like, but Iorveth knew better than to get between her and a patient. “Bet he has a lovely tongue.”

Her words were as salacious as her wink and he accidentally inhaled his drink and broke down coughing.

“All right there, dearie?” She smirked.

Iorveth made a rude hand gesture, wheezing for breath. Imadia just laughed.

“Keep your weight off your ankle for a day and you’ll be fine.”

“What about my face?”

“Sorry, can’t help you with that,” she winked.

Iorveth rolled his eye. “I landed on my face. Bloede hurts.”

“Landed? What exactly were you doing before that?” Her fingers gripped his chin, tilting his head from side to side, and tutted. “Light bruising. Fortunate – would be a shame to break your nose. Always thought it was one of your best features.”

Iorveth blinked at her. “My...nose?”

“Mmm. Straight and sharp.” Imadia tapped him on the nose and turned away. “You’re fine. I’d recommend a good night’s sleep, but from the drink in your hand, I’m guessing we shall be subjected to your dramatics instead.”

“I’m not dramatic.” Iorveth frowned. Then he took another drink. “But if I do start ranting, shut me up if I say anything about rabbit traps.”

Ranting was perhaps not the right word for the tirades he tended to fall into on the rare occasions he drank. It was simply that arguing and debating with his peers was one of the things he missed most from the Aen Seidhe’s heyday. Old memories of fond discussions with long-dead elves brought a faint smile to his lips.

Maybe that was what drew him to Roche. The man was inventive with his insults, cunning with his wit, and scathing with his remarks. It really was quite a shame Iorveth couldn’t just sit down and have a conversation with him.

Not that he ever wanted to see Roche again. He would never live down the humiliation of this day.

Imadia laughed. “Rabbit traps. Is that what they call it these days? In my day, we just called it–”

Iorveth covered his ears. Some things just shouldn’t be heard from the mouths of elders. Especially not elders who found dh’oine weirdly attractive and knew all the dirtiest words in their oldest languages.

Touching his ears reminded him of the way Roche had constantly referred to them and his face flushed. It was downright indecent for Roche to do such a thing! He couldn’t possibly mean it...right? Who just up and propositioned their sworn enemy, who they were constantly trying to kill?

Only Roche hadn’t killed him today. There had been, perhaps, times when they could have taken a lethal blow and held back, but this had been so much more than that. He had been entirely at Roche’s mercy, unable to effectively defend himself. Roche could have done anything to him.

And he had let Iorveth go. Yes, Iorveth had been hurt and humiliated and perhaps a little bit something else, but he’d been alive. And he shouldn’t have been.

Instead of killing him, Roche had laughed at him and commented on his ears and let him go.

Did that mean that Roche truly did intend to proposition him? How else could he interpret such brazen remarks about his ears. It would be like if – if he casually brought up the dh’oine’s nipples, like some sort of salacious sailor. What other intent could Roche have?

Iorveth licked his lips and desperately finished off his drink. Alcohol. He needed more of it, needed to not be thinking about dh’oine or propositions or Roche.

Especially Roche.

“I need a drink,” he announced, and proceeded to make no move to rise.

“I think that’s the opposite of what you need,” Imadia tsked. Nonetheless, she reached into her medicine bad and pulled out a vial of herbs.

Iorveth’s eyes lit up, leaning forward. He so rarely indulged, but when he did, there was no better combination than Imadia’s herbs and a drink. It brought back memories of a time before strife with the dh’oine – though not before strife with dwarves. They were only very recent allies, in the grand scheme of things – but rather than overwhelming him, the herbs kept the memories light and energizing, bolstering him instead of dragging him down. It was one of the few times he told tales of the old days, the days when elves had lived in peace.

That was probably why Kythaela cleared her throat from the entryway. “Got you another drink, sir.”

Iorveth accepted with a sigh. “You don’t have to call me sir, you know.”

“Yes sir,” she grinned.

Kythaela and the other younger elves were always eager to hear stories of the old days. He wasn’t sure what was so great about his stories when there were a handful of others who had been there too and were far more eager to talk about it. Especially because his stories often digressed into rants about the cultural significance of holy relicts that no longer existed.

His rants did not tend to be kind to dh’oine. Maybe that was what they liked. He wasn’t sure why that made something in his chest twinge, but he didn’t like it.

Iorveth took another drink, and when Imadia offered him a smoke, he eagerly imbibed.

The last thing he remembered was Ciaran’s hazel eyes looking worriedly up at him as he accepted another drink.

Coda: The Blue Stripes

When the Bossman returned to camp after a scouting mission into the forest, Finch wasn’t the only one to stare after him in surprise. Whistling merrily, Bossman picked up the pile of paperwork that they’d all taken turns nudging closer to the fire to avoid doing it, and actually sat down and started filling it out with a grin.

“Sir,” Silas, the newbie of the crew – still green behind the ears, but an impressive fighter – approached the Bossman’s temporary desk (actually a rock and a tree stump). “Is everything okay? Did anything happen?”

“Nothing to report,” Bossman shook his head, smile still curling his lips. It was weird. Bossman wore gruff and unhappy a lot more easily than – delight? Happiness? For a man with permanent frown lines, the grin made him look younger, kinder. It made Finch’s fingers ache for his bow, for the world that came with it, where the only thing that mattered was his aim and who he was targeting. He grabbed a branch off the ground and headed over to the campfire, taking a seat next to Thirteen. Thirteen immediately offered him the bottle they were all sharing and Finch took a small sip, feeling the burn all the way down.

The Blue Stripes made their own liquor and it was strong.  

“Whatcha carving this time?” Thirteen asked, knocking his knee against Finch’s.

Finch shrugged. He didn’t really carve with an idea in mind – he just needed to do something with his hands. Peeling away slow curls of wood was a good way to do that, and it still left him the attention to follow the conversation around him.

“I can’t be the only one thinking it,” Ves, Bossman’s Second said, taking a generous swig when the bottle came to her.

“Roche definitely got laid, right? Why else would he be so happy?” Fenn looked like yule had come early. No doubt he would soon propose placing bets on what Bossman had gotten up to.

“He wouldn’t!” Silas hissed. “He was on duty!”

Finch – and several others, he noticed – determinedly avoided Silas’s gaze.

“Sooooo,” PT dragged the word out in the awkward silence. “Who do we think it was?”

“Had to be an elf, didn’t it?”

“Maybe a dwarf? Scoia’tael’s been recruiting more o’ them lately.”

“Why’re we assuming he went to the forest? Could’ve gone to the whorehouse,” Thirteen stole the bottle back and guzzled it.

“You all realize I can hear you, right?” Bossman asked, looking over at them with a raised eyebrow. His makeshift desk was a handful of paces away from the fire, and they had been making no attempt to lower their voices.

“No one asked you,” Ves waved her hand. She leaned in towards the fire as if sharing a secret, and said loudly, “Bet Roche got fucked by a leshen. That’d bring a grin to his sour puss.”

Bossman snorted loudly, shook his head almost fondly, and went back to his paperwork, still whistling idly.

“I bet he’s got a secret lover,” Shorty winked. “Someone serious.”

“Oooooh, not a bad idea, Shorty,” Fenn’s grin made him look like he was high on fisstech. He was hurriedly writing down the betting options in his notebook. “All right! Let’s say...buy in is 20 orens. Plaaaaaaace your bets!” He threw his hands wide in a dramatic gesture and almost took out Thirteen’s eye with his pencil.

Finch bet 40 on the secret lover theory, mostly because he wanted to believe one of them was getting some on the regular. Shorty didn’t count; he may be happily married, but his wife had also let him name all sixteen of their children after troop divisions. Finch loved the little rascals – and not just because Foxtrot said he was the best uncle – but personally, he was looking for a sensible woman.

They spent the evening laughing and poking fun at the Bossman as they finished off three bottles of Thirtheen’s home brew. All the while, Bossman worked steadily through their backlog of paperwork and whistled a jaunty tune.

Maybe he really was getting laid.

Part 2