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His trunk split, his leaves shriveled, his branches cracked, roots ungrounded. He knows this pain, this is not new to himThe pain of dying, he remembers being nearly felled before, but not as a tree. One similarity between them - the gentle cradle of the soil.  But now the hum of blood in his ears, the rapid rhythm of his heartbeat—it was overwhelming. The steady pulse of the forest was gone, replaced by a rushing river of sensations he no longer knew how to contain.Roche?” Geralt called again, kneeling down in the soil.Vernon’s mouth hung open, the unfamiliar vocal cords a tough terrain to maneuver.Geralt placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Easy… it’s alright. You’re back.”He was wearing exactly what he had worn the day he had been turned into a tree all those decades ago— the fabric, untouched by time, just darkened by the touch of the damp soil now. “Sixty years” Iorveth broke the silence, “you made me wait.”Vernon blinked slowly, the ghost of disbelief flickering through his tired eyes. Then, in a rasping whisper, the first word he managed was not one of confusion, nor anger, nor even relief.“Sorry.”    Geralt, ever the pragmatist, acquired a cart from a nearby farmer to carry Vernon, whose legs still trembled beneath him. Geralt took the reins, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the worn dirt road filling the silence. Iorveth, to Geralt’s mild surprise, climbed into the back without a word, settling across from Vernon. The witcher never asked why Iorveth had decided to come along. Perhaps he didn’t need to.The closest place to rest was Cizmar, a bustling city on the banks of the Chotla River. Vernon’s eyes widened at the sight as it came into view The world had changed. Sixty years had not passed gently. Unfamiliar buildings rose high into the sky, their glass windows gleaming like polished gems, strange contraptions powered by steam and gears hissed softly in the alleys. The people were dressed in new odd fashions. The only familiar sight on the teeming streets were the merchants hawking their wares. Vernon felt displaced—the past felt like a distant dream, and the present an unfamiliar cacophony. Soon, Vernon learned that not all was bad in this new future. Indoor plumbing, for one, was a marvel—greatly improving the smell of every bustling city street. The contraption that brought water down from above, cascading over him in a steady stream, brought a moment of reprieve. As the warm water soaked into his skin, he closed his eyes and let himself imagine, just for a moment, that he was growing again, roots spreading through soft earth, branches reaching toward the sun.  The inn’s dining hall was warm, filled with the murmur of conversation and the clinking of cutlery. At their table, Vernon sat with a plate before him, pushing bits of food around absently. He stared at the meal as if it were foreign. What was the point of eating? To fuel a body that had no place in this new world? He wasn’t sure he wanted that. Iorveth, chewing on a piece of bread, glanced at him. “You’ll need your strength,” he said simply. “Not much use to anyone if you wither away now.”Vernon didn’t respond. He plucked a piece of meat from his plate but only stared at it.“Still silent?” Iorveth leaned back, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Sixty years rooted in place, and you’ve nothing to say?”Geralt, sipping his ale, observed quietly.Vernon’s fingers tightened around his fork, but he said nothing.Iorveth exhaled through his nose, more amused than irritated. “Fine. I’ll talk enough for both of us, as usual.” He gestured vaguely around the room. “Do you see what’s become of your beloved world? New kings, new wars, new grudges. And you—” he pointed his bread at Vernon, “—left behind. Must be maddening.”Still, Vernon was silent.Geralt intervened, his voice calm. “Why are you here, Iorveth?”Iorveth’s smirk faded slightly. He didn’t answer immediately. “Call it curiosity.” he replied at last, “Eat, Roche. The world isn’t done with you yet. I'm not done with you yet.”Vernon’s eyes flicked up at that, just briefly.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Cizmar bustled with life, the streets teeming with merchants peddling their wares and townsfolk haggling over prices. The smell of baked goods mingled with the sharper scents of leather and metalwork.

Geralt paused at the edge of the market square. “I need to visit the alchemist,” he said, glancing at Vernon with a silent question.

Vernon responded with a simple shake of his head, his eyes drifting toward the nearest shop. Geralt gave a faint nod and disappeared into the crowd.

When Vernon turned to find Iorveth, he was already walking with a determined step to a shop on the other side of the square. He threw his arms half up, a half defeated huff escaping his lips - the damned elf had no patience.

Vernon wandered into a modest clothing shop, its shelves lined with garments both familiar and foreign. Fabrics in bold colors and intricate patterns surrounded him, all far too flashy for his taste. He ran his fingers absently over the hem of a plain tunic, lost in thought.

“Mm, no, not your color,” came a playful voice from behind.

Vernon jolted slightly at the sudden interruption from his musings.

Iorveth stood there, grinning as he held out a warm apple strudel, wrapped in paper.

Vernon inhaled deeply, smelling the rich sweetness and accepted the pastry with a short nod of thanks. As he bit into it, Iorveth’s grin widened.

“See anything you like?” Iorveth asked, leaning against a nearby shelf.

Vernon’s eyes landed on a garish yellow tunic, and he shot Iorveth a look that clearly said,

Absolutely not.

Iorveth chuckled. “You know,” he said, voice lilting with mischief, “that hat of yours looks even dustier now. Bit outdated, don’t you think? Perhaps it's time for something a little more… modern.”

Vernon ignored him entirely, turning his attention back to the garments, occasionally nibbling at his pastry.

“You’ve lost your wit? What a shame,” Iorveth prodded, more amused than annoyed.

Annoyed by the lack of response, he grabbed a rich blue hood from a shelf and held it up. “Ah, this is just your color,” he teased.

Vernon’s gaze settled on the hood, a quiet sadness flickering behind his eyes.

The bell above the door chimed softly as Geralt returned. Vernon moved toward him, grateful for the distraction from Iorveth’s endless chatter.

Iorveth, momentarily forgotten, muttered to himself before following them out.

Outside, Geralt adjusted the strap of his pack and asked, “Where to next?”

For the first time that day, Vernon spoke—a single word, almost too soft to hear.

“Home.”

Geralt nodded, assuming the path ahead lay north, toward Temeria.

But Vernon, quietly, meant something else entirely.
  
The road to Gors Velen stretched long and winding, the cart’s steady rhythm a constant hum beneath them. The further they traveled from Cizmar, the more the clamor of the city faded, replaced by the quiet hush of untouched forests and sprawling wetlands.

Vernon leaned back in the cart, eyes fluttering closed as the warmth of the sun caressed his face. The shadows of passing trees danced across his features, flickering like memories just out of reach. The hum of blood in his veins, so foreign upon his return, now felt slower, calmer. The wilds, though ever-changing through the seasons, felt eternal. Leaves fell, branches stretched bare through winter, only to bloom again in spring. For the first time, Vernon wondered if he too could grow anew.

He opened his eyes and caught Iorveth watching him. Not with mockery or scrutiny—but something quieter, almost reverent.

For a moment, neither spoke. The stillness between them hummed like a plucked string.

Finally, Vernon, with a voice still rough from disuse, broke the silence.

“What’s changed?” he asked, his gaze steady on the elf.

Iorveth blinked, momentarily startled by the question.

“The world,” Vernon continued, voice low but clear. “What’s happened… while I was gone?”

A grin, softer than usual, pulled at Iorveth’s lips. He settled back against the cart’s wooden frame, eyes glinting with stories waiting to be told.

“Where do I even begin?” Iorveth chuckled. “Everything and nothing, Roche.”

And so, the stories began. Tales of shifting borders, vassal state rebelling and being quashed once again by Nilfgaard. But also quieter tales—of the Aen Seidhe reclaiming their place in the world, new homes carved from old forests. The Scoia’tael’s mission accomplished, to whatever end. Peace, however fragile, had settled upon the continent.

Vernon listened, eyes half-lidded, as the world he once knew unfolded in fragments and echoes. It was an ending as happy as anyone could hope for, could have dreamed of amidst the days of blood shed, one he wouldn’t have been alive to see if his existence hadn’t been extended by several decades.

“And you?” Vernon asked, looking him directly in his eye. Wishing he had more words to express his wonder at how the elf who seemingly had nothing left but fight in him, had stopped fighting.

Iorveth thought for a moment about how best to answer, he didn't want to fall into any traps the man could be planning. "I settled, for a time. Then I set out again."

"Even spends some winters with me" Geralt interjected slyly from the front of the cart.

Iorveth silently cursed the witcher.

Roche raised his eyebrows.

"I have a vineyard, down in Toussaint. Mostly runs itself, but I come for Winter, much warmer than the keep was."

Vernon, as most people were at the information, was pleasantly shocked and curious as to how a witcher would come to own and live in a vineyard in the land of fairy tales. He did not press for answers though, they would come in their time and in their turn, as all things do if you're patient enough. 
  
In the late afternoon, they stopped a day’s journey from Gors Velen. Setting up camp, the crackling fire was the only sound until Iorveth approached Vernon with two swords.

Iorveth approached, two swords in hand, a glint of mischief in his eye. “For old times’ sake,” he said, offering one to Vernon.

Vernon held the sword staring at the shining blade - Violence, purpose, identity—all wrapped in the cold metal. For a long moment, he did nothing.

Iorveth, impatient, struck first with a shove and a swift strike.

Vernon parried out of instinct, his body remembering what his mind had not yet accepted.

But the force of Iorveth’s blow sent him stumbling back, landing unceremoniously on the ground.

“Not very rooted,” Iorveth quipped,  though his smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes.

.Geralt, watching from the side, stepped in, helping Vernon up and tossing the sword aside. “Enough,” he said quietly.

Later, as Vernon slept, Geralt sat by the fire with Iorveth. The witcher’s golden eyes flickered in the firelight as he studied the elf. “What is this really about?” Geralt asked. “You’ve not been like this in years. Not since…”

“Since I stopped fighting?” Iorveth finished, voice low. He stared into the flames. “He was my last challenge, Geralt. My reflection. We sharpened each other, pushed each other. And now…”

“People change,” Geralt said softly.

When they awoke the next morning, Iorveth was gone.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

As the day stretched on, Geralt and Vernon arrived at the towering walls of Gors Velen.Vernon, raised in the temple quarter of Vizima, eyed the city with mild curiosity. “Why Gors Velen?” he asked Geralt. “Vizima isn’t much further.”Geralt smirked. “You’ll see.”They wove through Kardo Street’s bustling marketplace and stopped outside a wooden door. Above it, a swinging sign read The Unlaced Corset .Vernon raised an eyebrow, glancing between Geralt and the sign. “Really? A brothel? Now?”Geralt chuckled, a rare hearty laugh escaping him. “Just trust me.” He pushed open the door.Inside, it wasn’t a brothel at all—just a bustling tavern filled with the scent of ale and fresh bread. Vernon shook his head with a faint grin, stepping inside after him.Geralt clapped him gently on the shoulder, nudging him toward the dining area while he walked to the bar to order food. The dining area was standard: tables with benches, a fireplace at the far wall flanked by bookshelves, and several Temerian shields adorned with silver lilies mounted on the walls. Above the fireplace, a portrait hung on the mantle—of Vernon Roche.Vernon meandered slowly through the tables, taking in the room. First, the shields caught his eye, then the portrait. His pace quickened, faster than he knew he could move anymore. He stood in front of the portrait, staring at it. He never sat for a portrait—how did this come to be?“Commander.”Vernon turned at the familiar voice and saw an old woman descending the stairs slowly. But once on flat ground, her hips swayed in a way no man could forget. Vernon watched in disbelief.“Ves!” he cried, tears welling in his eyes. There was more left for him in this world than he thought.They embraced for a long moment before pulling away. Ves cupped his face, smiling softly. “Still a handsome bastard.”Vernon’s mouth hung open, unsure of what to say, wanting to say so much.“Shut your jaw before the flies make a home in there, like I thought they would’ve all those years I thought you dead.”Vernon let out a breathy, disbelieving chuckle.He gestured to the comfy chairs nearby, and they sat, knees touching. Vernon wasn’t ready to face the grief his absence left behind. He placed a hand over hers. “How was your life, Ves?”She cackled. “It’s not quite over yet, Roche. Unless I’m hallucinating and you’ve come from the afterlife to drag me back with you.”Vernon gave her his old stern look, and Ves swallowed. “Rough start, but it turned out just fine,” she admitted, giving his hand a squeeze. “Turns out, once your life's not on the line every day, you can fill those days with whatever you want. And there is so very much to see and do.”Geralt approached with food and drink, setting them down quietly. “The witcher rescued me,” Vernon said, nodding in appreciation. Geralt clasped Ves’s shoulder tenderly before retreating to another table.“Yes, I know. We kept in contact,” Ves replied.She recounted her life: searching for him, the end of the wars, and how she struggled to adjust. 
I revisited many of our old battle sites and walked over the land where we had shed blood, not expecting the carnage to still be laying there, but somehow still surprised that it wasn't.

When I found there was no blood soaking the soil anymore, that those days only remained in my nightmares, I travelled south in search of something new untainted by the memories of the past.
 I was passing just east of the Amell mountains when I stopped in a tavern and found the strangest thing, a bottle of wine called The White Wolf, and demanded to know its origin. I sailed down the Sansretour river the next day and found that the witcher had become a hero to beauclair, and somehow joined the landed gentry. I, of course, stayed much past my welcome and nearly drank his cellar dry. To be fair, he owed us for all that wild hunt nonsense.
The drink dragged me down into depths of despair more often than not. Eventually, Geralt kicked me out. no no no not out of his house, just out of the wine cellar. Made me do work around the house, made me learn new things, picked up arts and music as one should when in Toussaint, took many noble knights to bed too, but after about a decade, the fairytale got old. Life is so much longer than I ever imagined it could be.

When I decided to leave, Geralt joined me, yearning for the path he so loves. We travelled west, then north in no particular rush. We trained with swords, I took on the lesser monsters, aided in larger hunts, or rather just pulled Geralt out of the mud when he was done. It was a different kind of war, a different kind of peace.

We parted on the banks of the Yaruga, Geralt taking the sea route to Novigrad to visit his bard, and I sailed up the Yaruga - honestly happy to rest my weary feet - and arse - from all the riding.

I worked the trades routes for some time, seeing how the country I fought for fared once the dust settled. 
“When late middle age began to ache my bones, I decided to finally plant some roots. I settled in Gors Velen” She gestured around the room “and the rest is history.”“This place is yours?!” Vernon exclaimed.“The Unlaced Corset? Of course. Thought you’d guess, what with all the scoldings for ‘traipsing into battle with my navel exposed.’”A quiet fell over them. Ves looked at the shields and Vernon’s portrait, a sad expression crossing her face.“I have business to attend to, but stay in town a while. I’ll have rooms made up for you both.”“Of course,” Vernon nodded, helping her to her feet.Geralt joined Vernon by the fire. “She never forgot you,” he said, gesturing to the portrait. “Put her skills to use.”Vernon stared at the portrait, the weight of Geralt’s words settling on him like a cloak.“She painted it,” Geralt said softly. “Every line, every shadow.”“I always thought...” Vernon began, voice rough, “I’d be remembered for the terrible things I did.”“But this?” He gestured to the portrait. “This isn’t the commander. This is... me.”“It always was,” Geralt replied.“I’ll stay,” Vernon said quietly. “For a while.”Geralt nodded, and Vernon turned back to the fire, eyes flickering with the flames.
She remembered me. Even when I forgot myself.
And that was enough, for now.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The morning sun filtered through the high windows of The Unlaced Corset. Vernon Roche sat at the long table near the hearth, nursing a cup of tea he barely tasted.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been staring into the fire when Ves appeared at his side, dropping into the chair across from him and carrying on as if she hadn’t aged a day, picking up right where they had left off.

“Well, commander,” she said, stretching her arms above her head, “are you going to sit here sulking like an old ghost, or are we going out?”

Vernon arched a brow at her.

She stood, offering a hand. Vernon looked at it for a long moment before clasping it, letting her pull him to his feet.

The streets of Gors Velen bustled with life, the scent of salt and fish heavy in the air. Vendors called out from their stalls, hawking spices from Zerrikania, fine silks from Ofir, blades honed by Mahakaman smiths. The city had always been a hub of trade, but to Vernon, it felt like another world entirely.

Ves, however, moved through it as if she belonged.

As if she always had.

He watched her from the corner of his eye as they walked, the way she greeted the shopkeepers by name, the way she paused to toss a coin to a beggar without a second thought. She had built a life here, carved something out of the years he had lost.

He felt

fortunate.

Fortunate that at least one of them had lived the years the Blue Stripes had left them behind.

And as Ves had said, it wasn’t quite over yet.

The days in Gors Velen fell into a rhythm, not the unending cadence of war, nor the slow march of rooted seasons. It was something more visceral in body and mind than he had ever been allowed experience. Ves wasted no time in immersing him in her world, in the city that had become her home.

Ves made no grand declarations, no attempts to ease him in gently. Vernon was simply expected to keep up.

And so, he did.

The Unlaced Corset never truly slept. Mornings were filled with the scent of fresh bread baking in the kitchen, afternoons with the clatter of tankards and the laughter of weary sailors, and nights with the hum of quiet conversations by firelight. Vernon found himself caught in the ebb and flow of it, hands dusted in flour as he kneaded dough under the watchful eye of the kitchen matron, hauling casks of ale for the evening rush, wiping down tables long after the last of the patrons had stumbled home.

The sea called to him in its own way—not as something to be conquered, but as something to be understood. He learned to mend nets, fingers fumbling at first, then growing deft under the careful instruction of an old fisherman with hands as gnarled as driftwood. He spent long mornings aboard a fishing boat, feeling the steady rock of the waves beneath him, pulling in lines that bit into his palms, gutting fish with the easy efficiency of a man accustomed to blood on his hands. The work was hard, but there was satisfaction in it, in the way the city relied on the catch, in the way a day’s labor could be measured in something tangible.

Ves didn’t let him work himself into the ground.

When she found him too caught up in it all, she pulled him away, dragging him off for a midday drink or an evening spent walking the harbor. She never let him forget to breathe, to live.

“You never did know when to stop,” she chided one afternoon, arms crossed as she watched him scrub down a table long past the point of necessity. “You keep at it like this, and you’ll drop dead before I do.”

“I thought you wanted me to work,” he countered, wiping his hands on a rag.

“I want you to do

something

,” she corrected, “but not this all day, every day.

Come on

.”

And just like that, he was whisked away.

They spent afternoons walking the docks, Ves pointing out things that had changed over the years, sharing odd bits of wisdom she had picked up in her travels. She taught him how to read the tides, how to tell when a storm was coming just by the way the seabirds moved. He showed her how to mend her own gear properly, despite her insisting that she had people for that now.

When they weren’t working, they played. Ves never lost her competitive edge, challenging him to dice games, cards, and once—laughably—to an arm-wrestling match. She was older now, but Vernon quickly realized that age had done little to dull her spirit. She nearly bested him before he managed to pin her wrist to the table, and she only accepted defeat when he bought her a drink afterward.

And when they weren’t playing, they simply

were

.

One evening by the fire, as the city settled into the hush of night, Vernon found himself speaking of things he never thought he’d put into words.

“I was aware, mostly,” he said, voice low, thoughtful. “I don’t know if I had thoughts like I do now, but… I

felt

things. The sun warming my bark, the rain sinking deep into my roots. The weight of snow in winter. The creatures that made their homes in me, the birds nesting in my branches, the insects that skittered over my skin. I felt

time

in a way I never did before.”

Ves listened, her expression unreadable but intent.

“I never felt alone,” he admitted. “Not in the way I used to think of loneliness.”

Her lips quirked slightly. “So you didn’t sit there brooding for sixty years, then?”

A short chuckle escaped him. “No. No brooding.” He tilted his head, considering. “It was… peaceful. Slow. I never thought about what came next. Only what was.”

Ves hummed, thoughtful. “And now?”

Vernon glanced at her, then at the fire between them, the warmth licking at his skin. “Now, I suppose I have to figure that out.”

She clapped a hand on his shoulder, her grip still firm despite the years. “Well, you’ve got time for that.”

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he

believed

her.

Time passed.

Vernon spent his time learning, working, integrating himself into the city as if he had always been there.

Children ran through the alleys, kicking a makeshift ball, shrieking with laughter as they darted between carts and startled merchants. One day, a stray pass sent the ball rolling to his feet.

He stopped it with the toe of his boot.

The children hesitated, eyes wide, unsure of what to make of him.

Then he kicked it back.

That was all it took. They pulled him into the fray, into a game with no rules but the sheer delight of movement, of running, of laughter ringing out between stone walls. He didn’t notice how light he felt until much later, standing breathless in the dying sun.

And yet, for all of it, there was still something missing.

One morning, after delivering the day’s catch to the market vendor he had worked for, Vernon wandered up Winding Street, drawn by something he couldn’t quite name.

The fish market was a chaos of scent and sound—vendors calling over one another, seagulls crying from the rooftops, cats weaving through the stalls in search of scraps. He crouched beside one, scratching behind its ears, murmuring softly. It purred, pressing its head into his palm.

The other cats watched him, some inching closer, as if his words carried a meaning they understood.

He rose, gaze drifting toward the towering stone structure at the market’s center.

The Thief’s Bastion.

Its walls, built from stone said to have been pulled from the seabed itself, loomed above the square, weathered by time but unyielding. At its base, a cluster of platanus trees stood like sentinels, their branches stretching outward, roots buried deep in the earth.

The bastion had been built by Temerians long ago, a mark of their power, a stronghold in a city that had stood against the tides of time. But the trees… they had come later, growing at its feet, wrapping their roots around the foundation, not breaking it, but protecting it.

The bastion and the trees.

The soldier and the forest.

Steel and roots.

Vernon closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

He finished out his work for the week, closed out the odd jobs he had taken, and then… he stopped.

He had been go, go, going since deciding to stay—perhaps in an attempt to force himself back into life, as if speed and effort alone could bridge the gap between who he had been and who he was now. But the truth was, he was not twenty anymore. He was not really forty anymore either. If the years counted, he was closer to a hundred.

His body didn’t bear those years, but his soul did.

It was time to let himself rest.

That afternoon, he walked out past the edges of the city, past the docks and the clustered homes of sailors and merchants, following the winding path along the cliffs until he reached a house that overlooked the sea.

Ves had taken more and more time away from the tavern over the years, leaving it in the hands of trusted managers while she spent her days in the quiet.

She looked up as he approached, laughing as soon as she saw him.

“Never were one for moderation, were you, Vernon?”

He smirked and shook his head, holding up a wrapped snack from the market as an offering.

Ves gestured to the chair beside her. “Come sit by the fire,” she said, shifting slightly to make room. “You’ve earned it.”

“I think…I need a break.” Vernon huffed as he plopped into the chair.

She hummed into her tea, raising an eyebrow. “A bold admittance, coming from you.”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He shifted in his seat, rolling his shoulders as if to shake off the weight of decades.

Ves set her cup down on the armrest. “Stay here with me a while,” she said, her voice softer now, not a command but an invitation. “I’m handing the tavern completely over to Diana. We’ve got nothing left to do but enjoy the waves… until the tide pulls me in.”

Vernon nodded, solemn and understanding. Another era was ending for Ves, just one of the many in her life. He could see it in the way she spoke, in the way her hands no longer fidgeted with restless energy but lay still beneath her blanket, warmed by the fire.

He had known the ebbs and flows of life, had lived them as surely as any. The bursting of spring, the shining heat of summer, the crisp twilight of autumn. He had seen leaves fall, had felt the seasons turn in his very bones.

And now, this was her final winter.

And he would be here. To keep her warm. To make sure she was comfortable. To watch the tide with her, until it was time for her to go.

Vernon Roche had spent years witnessing death.

On the battlefield, in the mud, in the gutters of war where men bled out with steel in their guts and curses on their tongues. He had seen soldiers gurgle their last breaths, their hands grasping at wounds that could not be closed. He had watched the death rattle steal the air from men who had fought tooth and nail to stay alive, only to succumb in the end.

He had never been there for the quiet kind of dying.

Not until now.

Ves had always been restless, but in these last days, she was still. The woman who had once stormed through life with reckless abandon now sat wrapped in her thick woven blanket, her hands soft and still in her lap. The winter wind rolled in from the sea, but the fire was warm, and Vernon kept it lit long after she had fallen asleep.

There was no sickness, no violent end waiting for her. Just time. Time that had finally caught up.

She had known before he had. Of course, she had.

Days passed with little change. He made her meals even when she ate less and less of them. He adjusted her pillows, stoked the fire, read to her when her eyes grew too tired to focus. Sometimes, when the wind howled too fiercely against the cliffs, she would slip her hand into his, and neither of them would speak.

Then she fell asleep, and could not be roused. She stayed that way for 2 days, he expected the end to come soon.

That night, she unexpectedly awoke from her long slumber, pressed her fingers lightly against the back of his hand, her grip no longer firm, but still familiar. “You’ll stay,” she said, not as a question but as a quiet truth.

“I’ll stay,” he confirmed. And she closed her eyes once more into sleep.

And then, the tide began to pull.

Her breaths grew shallow, coming in fits and starts. The rattle was faint at first, the smallest hitch in her lungs, but Vernon knew. He knew it as well as he knew the weight of a blade in his hand, as well as he knew the sound of steel meeting steel.

Ves was dying.

She was not afraid.

The storm outside had passed, leaving only the steady crash of the waves against the shore. Vernon sat beside her, his hands folded over hers, his head bowed.For a long moment, he just listened.

Then, he did what he had always done.

He gave her an order.

“Let go,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He squeezed her hand once, twice. “Into the tides, Ves. Into your next adventure.”

Her lips curved, the smallest ghost of a smirk.

And then, with one last exhale, she obeyed.

The house was silent.

He sat with her, his hands still wrapped around hers, until the morning sun rose over the waves.

Vernon told Diana of Ves’s passing the next morning.

She didn’t weep, didn’t waver. She simply closed her eyes for a long moment, exhaled through her nose, and then turned to the tavern’s patrons. With a clear, unwavering voice, she announced, “Ves has passed.”

The Unlaced Corset went silent.

Then, as if it had been rehearsed a thousand times over, the room lifted their drinks in unison and roared,
“To Ves!”
and the thunking of cups slamming the table in the next moment seemed to rattle very walls.

Vernon swallowed hard.

Diana wasted no time. She wiped at her eyes and slammed her fist against the counter. "First round’s on the house," she declared.

The tavern erupted. Chairs scraped against the floor as men and women clambered to their feet, drinks sloshing as tankards were raised again and again in her honor. Ves would have hated a somber sendoff. She would have wanted this—raucous and loud, her name carried on the voices of those who knew her best.

She had earned it.

They built the pyre on the beach, just outside her home, where the cliffs met the rolling waves.

The barbacks did most of the labor, but Vernon helped where he could.

And when the fire was lit, the city came.

More than Vernon had expected. Dozens. No,

hundreds

.

Merchants who had known her from trade, captains who had sailed with her, sailors she had danced with, fought with, laughed with, drank under tables with. Men and women from every corner of the city stood shoulder to shoulder, a single voice rang out over the crashing waves.

Oh, have you heard the tale before,

Of Ves, who swayed and danced to war?

With steel in hand and hips so bold,

A heart of fire, a will of gold!

So raise your glass, let voices ring,

For Ves, the storm, the fire, the king!

She fought like hell, she drank like sin,

And left the world with a roguish grin!

She walked the decks, she rode the waves,

Put foolish men into their graves!

But lift a hand, she'd mend a soul,

And drink ye dry from a bottomless bowl!

Then the crowd joined in the chorus this time round.

So raise your glass, let voices ring,

For Ves, the storm, the fire, the king!

She fought like hell, she drank like sin,

And left the world with a roguish grin!

With ale that flowed and fires warm,

She’d shelter sailors from the storm.

With laughter loud and tales well spun,

The Unlaced Corset’s light would run!

So raise your glass, let voices ring,

For Ves, the storm, the fire, the king!

She fought like hell, she drank like sin,

And left the world with a roguish grin!

Now sails are set, the tide is high,

She drifts beyond the mortal sky.

No chains, no war, no weight to bear,

Just endless wind in golden hair.

So raise your glass, let voices ring,

For Ves, the storm, the fire, the king…

The pyre burned long into the right, people came and went, leaving words and tokens of appreciation and love.

When dawn rose and the fire subsided, Vernon took the urn in his hands. He had kept a small jar for himself, something to carry with him, something to hold when the world felt too empty.

The rest, he let go.

He stepped to the water’s edge, let the salt spray kiss his skin, and then, with one final exhale, he scattered her ashes into the waiting sea.

The waves carried her away, back into the world, back into the tide.

And he was alone again

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Vernon Roche was of course not truly alone.

He had made acquaintances in Gors Velen, people who welcomed his presence, who expected to see him in the tavern or the market. He had a place in the city. A place Ves had carved out for herself and, by extension, for him.

Once, the city had overwhelmed him with its noise and change, its unfamiliar pace that seemed to move forward without care for what had been left behind. But now, it no longer suffocated him. It was a home, in its own way. A place where people waited for him, where merchants called his name in greeting, where Diana had a drink ready before he even sat down at the bar.

But grief was not something that could be drowned in ale or talked away in the company of others. Some losses required quiet.

Winter passed in silence.

He spent his time at home, moving through the motions of a life that did not feel entirely like his own. He read, he cooked, he worked when he needed coin. He sorted through Ves’s house, her belongings, the pieces of a life well-lived. It was an exercise in patience, in remembering. He did not rush. He let the memories settle, let them fill the spaces she had once occupied.

But when the first signs of spring began to peek through the cold, he knew this chapter had ended.

He had learned much in Gors Velen—how to live, how to breathe again—but without Ves, it no longer felt like home.

And so, he set out toward the last place that had ever felt like home. The forest.
 
Just east of Gors Velen lay Jay Forest, its towering trees forming a dense green canopy that filtered the light into shifting patterns along the moss-covered ground. The deeper he walked, the less the city lingered on his skin, until all that remained was the whispering of the leaves, the scent of damp earth, and the steady, grounding weight of his own breath.

He did not come with a purpose, nor with a plan.

He simply… was.

At first, he wandered. Followed the game trails, let the bend of the branches guide his path. He touched the rough bark of the trees, felt the life thrumming beneath his fingertips. When he grew weary, he sat, not thinking, not waiting—just existing.

He returned to Gors Velen at night, but his stays grew shorter. He packed his belongings carefully, preparing to spend longer stretches in the wild, to travel deeper, to follow the quiet.

To follow where it would take him next.

The forest did not welcome him.

Not at first.

It tolerated him, in the way it tolerated all things that passed through it. A traveler, a wanderer, something moving through its depths without truly belonging.

But as the days stretched into weeks, and the weeks into months, Vernon learned.

He lived simply, but not in hardship. He hunted with his crossbow, fished with lines he wove himself, slept beneath the canopy, in hollowed-out trees and nestled within caves. It was not unlike his time as a soldier, as a guerrilla fighter moving unseen through the wilds. He rekindled old skills—the quiet, calculated movement of a hunter, the patience of a soldier—but without war’s urgency. There was no looming enemy, no high alert that kept him sleepless through the night.

And slowly, the forest softened toward him.

The birds grew used to his presence, their songs uninterrupted by his steps. The wind whispered through the leaves, and he let it guide him.The streams carved their paths through the land, their waters running clear and steady, and he drank from them without fear.

Without meaning to, his steps began to follow the rivers.

The streams ran east, their winding paths cutting through the thick woods like veins through flesh, guiding him forward. He walked along their edges, following the soft murmur of flowing water, tracing its bends and curves without a second thought.

At first, he told himself it was because rivers led to towns, to places where supplies could be bought, to roads that would one day matter again. Whether it was intention or instinct, his feet carried him toward the city where he had been born, where his earliest memories were forged.

He was heading home.

Vernon's journey was not one of haste.

The rivers carried him forward, but they did not rush him. He let himself drift between days, between places, finding solace in the quiet, in the way the world moved without him needing to direct it. His soul, once split between the man he had been and the thing he had become, was slowly stitching itself back together. He was learning how to be whole. To be both steel and root, soldier and wanderer. To let the past and present sit side by side without battle.

It was not a lonely life.

Not truly.

He let the rhythms of the land claim him.

The forests were alive, even in their stillness. He felt the shift of the wind in the branches, the hush before the rain, the way the animals moved in cycles of certainty that had nothing to do with the concerns of men. The squirrels were the next to take notice of him, drawn by the food he left in his wake.

He lured them in with peanuts, scattering them across fallen logs, waiting with the patience of a man who had lived long enough to know that good things were never rushed. The braver ones came first, inching forward, their small paws snatching the treats before darting back.

Then, curiosity won over fear. He laughed, the first real laugh he had let loose in months, when one particularly daring squirrel perched on his shoulder, tiny claws gripping the worn fabric of his coat as it sniffed at his hair. “You’d make fine scouts,” he muttered, tossing another peanut into the leaves.

Eventually, they all took food from his hand. They climbed onto his shoulders, scurried along his arms, twitching noses sniffing at his pockets for more. He taught them tricks—simple ones at first, then more complex, rewarding them with food and quiet praise. They watched him with bright, intelligent eyes, and he found himself laughing at their antics.

As Autumn grew deeper, he approached Vizima. The city had changed.

The gate ahead bore two banners—one black and gold, the sun of Nilfgaard blazing in silent dominion, and beside it, the silver lilies of Temeria, unfurled but subdued. A compromise.

For a long moment, he simply stood there, watching the fabric ripple in the breeze.

This is what he had fought for, the last hope to keep his homeland alive in the face of the unrelenting flames of Nilfgaard burning through the continent. Temeria had endured, to whatever end.

Vernon Roche had expected many things upon returning to Vizima.

He had expected change—the inevitable shifting of power, the creeping influence of Nilfgaard reshaping the city like roots cracking through stone. He had expected a compromise, the uneasy truce between conqueror and conquered, the silver lilies of Temeria still present but dwarfed beside Nilfgaard’s sun.

But he had not expected this.

The Temple Quarter still bore the same brick-laid bones, the arching overpasses, the towering facades of stone and mortar. But gone was the filth, the shadowy dealings that lurked in the alleyways. The Order of the Flaming Rose had been wiped away, its militant grip reduced to nothing but history. No sign of the Eternal Fire’s zealots either. Where once the streets had been filled with scowling men, with frustrated nonhumans pressed into the margins, with guards who looked the other way when blood soaked into the cobblestones—now, it was something different.

It was a neighborhood. A real one.

The merchant streets bustled with life, and not in the desperate, clawing way they once had. Shops stood clean and open, their windows filled with wares from all across the continent. Bakers hawked fresh bread, tailors displayed fabrics of every shade, and the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine carried through the air like an invitation rather than a taunt to the starving. Vernon stopped, staring at the richness that had replaced what was once struggle.

He followed the pull of memory toward the old non-human district, his boots carrying him down paths he had once sprinted through as a child, barefoot and wild. The sound of a blacksmith’s hammer rang through the street—steady, rhythmic, unbothered.

Vernon Roche walked through the streets of Vizima like a ghost.

No one stopped him. No one recognized him.

Once, his name had been spoken in whispers, in orders given beneath the cover of night, in curses spat by Nilfgaardians who feared the shadow of Temeria’s resistance. He had been the hidden dagger, the unseen blade in Temeria’s desperate struggle. And now?

Now, he passed unnoticed, just another traveler, another aging man moving through the crowd.

It was fitting, in a way. He had fought for this city in the shadows. It was only right that he should haunt its streets unseen.

The banners at the gate had already told him all he needed to know—Temeria endured. Temeria thrived. It was not the same, no, but it was alive, still breathing, still standing. That was more than many had hoped for.

He did not bother with the Royal Quarter, did not care to look upon the castle or whatever noble halls still housed the remnants of the old order. Better he remain dead to those powers, lest they desire to use him again.

Instead, he walked through the Trade Quarter.

It was wealthier than he remembered, but was wealthy back then all the same. He bartered a bundle of well-prepared animal pelts for fresh supplies— new boots, grains, a sturdy replacement for his waterskin.

Business, as always, was simple.

But his feet did not stop there.

The pull of memory led him further, past the markets, past the homes and shops, past the places that had once been familiar. The path was quieter here, winding beyond the noise of the city proper, where the air was cooler and the weight of time pressed heavier on his chest.

The cemetery was once little more than a forgotten stretch of land, graves haphazardly tended, stones crumbling, weeds creeping between the markers of the dead. It had been a place of neglect, of sorrow left to fester beneath broken headstones and sinking earth.

But now—now it was whole.

The pathways were clean, the graves tended. Flowers rested at the foot of many markers, signs of remembrance that had not been left to fade with time. Someone—many someones—had taken care to restore this place, to make it more than a mass grave for the lost and forgotten victims of the plague.

He walked slowly, his steps measured, his breath steady.

Then he saw it.

Helene Roche.

The name was carved into stone, the letters deep and clear, not worn away by the years. Someone had replaced the old marker. The grave was tended, not left to the elements.

He knelt before it, brushing his fingers over the cool surface.

His mother had died before he could make things right. Before he could give her the answers she had deserved.

She had died believing he was a man worth mourning.

Vernon exhaled, slow and steady. Then, he reached beneath his collar, pulling free the silver chain of office that had once hung proudly across his armor.

A commander no more.

He dug into the earth, not far from the headstone, pressing the chain into the soil.

Here, he would leave it.

Not abandoned. Not forgotten.

He pressed the dirt over the silver links, patted it down with careful fingers, then sat there for a long time.

A wraith finally laid to rest.

He did not know how long he sat there.

The sun crept higher in the sky, shifting the shadows across the stones. The city was waking fully now, with all its noise, all its life. A life he had once fought for.

Vernon let out a breath, slow and measured.

Then he stood.

So he turned, boots crunching over the cemetery path, and walked out of Vizima.

The Ismena River cut its path northward, a silver thread winding through the heart of Temeria. It had always been there, older than any kingdom, older than any war. It did not care for the banners that hung from the gates of Vizima, did not know of the men who had died screaming in its waters. It simply flowed, as it always had.

Vernon followed it.

His boots found the worn trails that ran parallel to the riverbanks, his movements slow but steady. The forest had already reshaped him, and now, the road did too. He fell into the rhythm of walking, of letting the land move around him, of stepping forward without urgency.

And still, he was not alone.

The squirrels returned to him.

At first, it was just one, the bold little scout he had named

Nothing

in a rare moment of humor. It skittered along the branches above him, keeping pace as he walked, chittering loudly as if chastising him for leaving in the first place. Soon, the others followed, drawn by familiarity, by the quiet, steady presence of the man who had fed them, spoken to them, played his small part in their woodland world.

They leapt from branch to branch above his head, sometimes darting down to scamper across his shoulders, noses twitching at his pockets in search of treats. Vernon sighed but gave in, scattering peanuts from his bag, watching as they scrambled to gather them up.

“You lot aren’t making this easy,” he muttered, shaking his head.

But he did not shoo them away.

They were his now, just as much as he was theirs.

Winter was creeping in, slow but steady. The chill was sharp in the mornings, and the frost clung to the edges of the riverbank, painting the grass silver in the early light.

Vernon had weathered worse.

But he had also learned, over long years in the wilderness, that winter was not something to be endured on sheer will alone. It required preparation. Shelter. Food. A plan.

He had no home, not anymore. Not in any way that mattered.

The land shifted as he moved farther north. The river bent and twisted, pulling him toward Ellander in slow, winding paths.

The temple would not turn him away.

He had known men who had found solace there—former soldiers, wanderers with no place to rest, men who had once lived by the sword and had grown weary of its weight. The priestesses would take him in for the winter, would ask only that he work in return.

Hunting. Hauling wood. Guarding the temple’s outer grounds.

He could do that.

They would not turn away a wanderer.

Not if he was willing to work for his place among them.

And Vernon Roche had never shied away from work.

His path north became one of preparation. He hunted often, not just for himself, but for those he met along the way. In the small villages scattered along the river, he left pelts and dried meat with those who needed them most.

Some accepted his offerings with quiet gratitude, nodding solemnly as they tucked the warmth of his kills into their homes for the coming cold.

Others gave gifts in return—a fresh loaf of dense winter bread, a pouch of dried herbs, a mended cloak to replace his own threadbare one. Vernon took what was offered.
  
Winter had settled over the land by the time Vernon reached Ellander’s outskirts. The city’s spires loomed in the distance, its streets no doubt bustling despite the cold. He skirted the city, keeping to the edge of the forest and the winding trails that led beyond its reach. He moved with purpose, boots crunching over the frost-laced ground

The Temple of Melitele.

The road leading to it was lined with poplars, the path was well-worn, its stones pressed smooth by the feet of countless pilgrims. The temple was built against the mountain, its towering stone structure a quiet monolith of stability, unshaken by time.

Gardens sprawled around its base, stubborn green persisting even against the creeping chill, the work of careful tending and perhaps a bit of divine favor. Outbuildings clustered near the sanctuary, warm candlelight flickering through their windows, signs of life within.

But it was the grotto that drew his eye.

Hewn into the mountain itself, its walls carved from the rock, the greenhouse of crystal and stone stood like something out of a dream. He had heard of it before, of the warmth within even in the dead of winter, of the plants that thrived beneath the crystalline roof, untouched by the frost outside.

It was a place of healing. A place of rest.

Vernon exhaled, breath misting in the cold air.

He had come seeking shelter, a place to winter, a place to lend his hands to whatever work needed doing.

He had followed the rivers, followed the forests, followed something deep within himself that led him farther north.

Perhaps it was time to listen.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The temple grounds were quiet, save for the occasional rustle of wind through the poplars and the distant murmur of voices within the sanctuary. Vernon stepped forward, his boots crunching over the frost-laced path, the scent of burning wood and herbs drifting toward him as he approached the entrance.The heavy doors stood slightly ajar, warmth spilling out from within, and he pushed them open without hesitation. Inside, the air was thick with the faint scent of incense, candle wax, and something sweet—honey, perhaps. Acolytes in soft, earth-toned robes moved about with quiet efficiency, their steps light against the stone floor.One of them, a young woman with kind eyes and a face half-hidden behind a woolen scarf, noticed him first."Welcome, traveler," she said gently, folding her hands before her. "You must have come a long way."Vernon inclined his head in greeting but said nothing. "You should eat first," she decided, before he could speak. "No doubt you've had a long journey."That made him pause. He didn’t feel particularly hungry. Nor tired. The cold had nipped at him, sure, but he had moved steadily enough through it, kept his body warm with work. Still, there was something oddly expectant about the way she and the others around her waited, as if the simple act of entering meant surrendering to the temple’s care."Food first," the acolyte repeated when he did not immediately move. It was not unkind, but firm in that way only those well-accustomed to dealing with stubborn men could be.With a grunt, he relented.The dining hall was filled with the quiet clatter of spoons against bowls, the occasional murmuring of prayers or hushed conversation. The meal placed before him was simple—bread still warm from the oven, thick stew laden with root vegetables and herbs. A steaming cup of tea sat beside it, fragrant and strong.He ate, though not out of any great hunger. More out of habit. Out of some strange obligation, now that they had offered it. The stew was hearty, the bread better than he expected, the tea not half bad.He had just taken another spoonful when he heard the distinct sound of footsteps approaching behind him—brisk, purposeful, and far too familiar.Then, without warning, something whacked him across the head.His chaperon, the simple woolen cap he had pulled over his ears against the cold, was sent flying onto the table."Vernon Roche," came the voice, unmistakable in its mixture of authority and exasperation.He didn't need to turn around.He knew exactly who stood behind him.Nenneke.Vernon hadn't returned to the temple since the whole debacle with Adda recuperating at the temple after her curse had been broken. He had been young then—brash, full of fire.For a moment, he just sat there, slightly stunned, stew still warm in his hands. Then, slow and sure, a grin pulled at his lips."Old coot,” he called out, eyes glinting as he turned in his seat. “Rattlin’ my head when I’m eatin’. Ain’t you got better manners?"He barely gave her time to react before he rose, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into a firm, bone-creaking embrace.Nenneke let out a short, exasperated huff, but her arms came up all the same, returning the hug with a warmth that belied her gruff exterior.He had enjoyed his time visiting the temple back in the day, he had pestered Nenneke without fear, greatly enjoying her banter, her occasional scoldings, and the well-placed, well-timed attacks she would land when he pushed his luck.“You’re still a brute,” she muttered into his shoulder, patting his back once—twice—before shoving at him. “Let me go before you break something, you overgrown lout.”Vernon chuckled, finally releasing her, but not before giving her an extra squeeze for good measure."Thought I'd have a few more years before you caught up with me," she said, stepping back to look at him properly, eyes sharp as they scanned over him. "I should've known you'd find your way here eventually.""Don't make it sound like fate,” Vernon snorted, shaking his head. “Just needed a place to winter."Nenneke folded her arms, unimpressed. "Oh, of course. Just a simple wanderer, are we? No deeper reason, no great revelation?""None that concern you," he replied smoothly, though there was no real weight to the words.Her lips twitched, almost amused. "That remains to be seen."Then, with a sharp motion, she gestured toward his bowl."Finish your food before it gets cold. You need a bath."Vernon huffed, amused. Gesturing his arms upward “I’m fine!”“ Covered in..what is that, moss? ,” Nenneke corrected, plucking his cap off the table and tossing it back at his chest. “Raggedy hair, twigs all about..” she trailed off as she walked away. Vernon shook his head but sat back down without complaint, a small cloud of dust puffing up around him. Some things never changed.And he was glad for that.Vernon claimed a room without much thought, accepting the simple lodging with a nod of thanks to the acolyte who led him there. It was a modest space, like everything else in the temple—functional, warm, and without excess. A small hearth stood in the corner, unlit for now, with neatly stacked wood beside it. A bed, firm but not unkind. A sturdy wooden table, a single chair, a dresser of plain but well-crafted wood. It was the kind of room that did not demand anything of the one who occupied it, only offering what was necessary.And a mirror.That gave him pause.It had been… how long? Months. Nearly a year since he had last seen himself clearly, more than just a wavering impression caught in the reflection of a river’s surface or the fragmented glimpse in a polished blade. Water had always been his mirror—rippling, imperfect, giving only hints of what lay beneath. Slowly, he stepped toward it.The face that stared back at him was one he should have known. And yet, for a long moment, it felt as though he was looking at someone else entirely.He looked… healthy.It struck him more than it should have. His skin, tanned from months beneath the open sky, was clear, free of the sallow exhaustion that had once settled deep in his bones. His face was neither gaunt nor filled with excess, neither the sunken, hardened weariness of a war-weary man nor the sharp lines of someone stretched too thin. He looked… balanced. Whole.And his hair. He pulled off his chaperon,His hair fell down, having been shoved up into the hat. He ran a hand through it, fingers catching slightly against a tangle near the ends. It fell nearly to his shoulders now, longer than it had ever been in his adult life. He had always kept it short, tidy, something manageable beneath a helmet, something practical. But he had not cut it since returning to his human form. He pulled his hand away and—Nenneke had been right—there was, in fact, a twig caught in the strands.A short, breathy chuckle escaped him. He plucked it free, turning it between his fingers before flicking it absently into the hearth.For the first time in a long while, Vernon Roche looked at himself.He held his own gaze a moment longer, then let out a quiet huff. He turned from the mirror, rolling his shoulders as he set to unpacking what little he carried. Order was a habit, not a burden. He folded his spare shirt, tucked his knife in its place, checked the straps of his pack before stowing it beside the bed. There wasn’t much, but that suited him just fine.With that done, he made his way to the baths.When he arrived, he was met with three separate tubs, each one filled with steaming water. He blinked, looking from one to the other before letting out a short, incredulous laugh. Alright. Message received.Turns out, he did need all three.By the time he was finished, the water had gone murky, the scent of sweat and woodsmoke replaced by the sharp, clean notes of soap. He ran a hand through his hair, fingers slipping easily through where before they would have snagged on dirt and stray twigs. He felt… lighter.Stepping out, he found fresh clothes folded neatly atop a bench—simple but clean.. He tugged them on without hesitation, rolling his shoulders, testing the feel of the fabric. Sturdier than he expected. Comfortable.His own clothes, now thoroughly in need of care, were bundled up beneath his arm as he made his way to the temple’s wash basins. No sense in putting off what needed doing—best get used to the rhythms of this place, to the expectations of cleanliness and order. He worked in silence, scrubbing away months of travel and forest life, watching the water darken and swirl as it carried the dirt away. When he was done, he wrung them out and carried them back to his quarters, stringing a drying line from wall to wall above the small hearth, the fire’s gentle heat ensuring they would be ready come morning.With everything in its place, Vernon finally sat down on the bed, stretching his legs out, exhaling slowly.He knew better than to get too comfortable.It wouldn’t be long before someone came looking for him. The temple had no room for idle hands.Vernon fell asleep like that, stretched out on the bed, the warmth of the hearth filling the room. Turns out, a proper mattress was still leagues better than a bedroll on frozen ground.He woke to sunlight spilling through the small window, golden and soft, cutting through the lingering haze of sleep. He turned onto his side, blinking slowly as the fire crackled low in the hearth. Someone must have come in during the night to stoke it—a priestess, most likely. He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before sitting up, rolling his shoulders loose.His clothes were dry, warmed by the fire’s heat. He redressed in them, tugging the familiar fabric into place. Clean, soft, comfortable. Last came his chaperon. He pulled it over his head, fingers working to shove his hair beneath it, only to find the fabric and strands resisting one another. Now that both were free of dirt and sweat, they were too slick to catch properly. He muttered a curse under his breath, tried again. Same result.With a sigh, he tossed the hat onto the bed and rummaged through his pack, pulling out a length of leather. He tied his hair back, fingers working quickly, securing it into a neat bun, well as neat as he could manage with the short strands, some falling free. 
There. Done and dusted. Vernon Roche, as ever.
That morning, as expected, he was placed on the duty roster.He started with feeding the temple animals—chickens, goats, a handful of horses in the stables. The work was simple, routine, the kind that kept hands busy and thoughts at bay. Afterward, he tended the garden, hauling water, clearing frost-wilted stalks, covering the more delicate plants to protect them against the creeping chill of winter.The days rolled by easily.Each morning, he found himself assigned a new task—chopping wood for the hearths, repairing fences, carrying heavy sacks of grain, whatever needed doing. There was something familiar in the work, something grounding. He moved from one job to the next without complaint, sharing easy conversation with whoever was nearby.Lighthearted chatter over morning chores. A game of Gwent here and there with passing travelers.One afternoon, he was roped into helping with the children’s lessons, even helping put on a puppet show. All in all, he was having a good time.Existing in the way people needed him to, as always. But this time, there was no expectation of violence. No deception, no whispered orders, no lurking threats in the shadows.Just work. Just routine. Just peace.It was deep into winter when Nenneke came to him with a new task.A village about fifteen miles north had sent word, their supplies dwindling as the cold deepened. Nenneke worried for their health—their stores of citrus long depleted, grain and dried goods running thin. Illness spread quickly in such conditions, and without proper nourishment, even a mild sickness could take a turn for the worse. The temple had enough to spare, and it was their duty to aid those in need.Vernon listened as she laid out the details, arms crossed, head tilted slightly. It was not an unwelcome change to his routine. The weather looked fair enough—overcast, but not threatening—and the air, while bitter, was calm. He accepted the task without further question, knowing full well he was the most capable person to make the journey.By that afternoon, he was packed and ready. They had provided him with a horse and a covered cart, stocked with barrels of grain, dried meats, medicinal herbs, and a bundle of oranges wrapped carefully in cloth. A simple hand-drawn map was pressed into his palm.He estimated he could cover half the journey before nightfall.The road stretched ahead, blanketed in snow, the stillness of winter broken only by the rhythmic crunch of hooves and wheels against frozen ground. The sky shifted from pale grey to deeper blue as dusk settled in. He made camp beneath the bare branches of an old oak, kindling a fire to warm his evening meal.After eating, he climbed into the back of the cart, pulling his cloak tighter as he settled into the bundled hay meant for the horse. It wasn’t luxury, but it was better than sleeping out in the wind.The second half of the journey passed just as peacefully as the first.Until he realized where he was.The river to the east—slow-moving beneath its sheet of ice, winding through the skeletal trees—was the Dyfne.His fingers tightened around the reins.He was approaching Flotsam.From the south.Oh, no.Vernon stopped the horse, his gaze drifting upward as a familiar tune carried down from the cliffside. His fingers curled around the reins, and he whispered to himself, "I smell an elf," with neither a smile nor a frown, uncertain of how this confrontation would unfold.It had been some time since their last meeting, though it felt even longer. He had come so far since then, in rediscovering who he was in this world—finding his voice again, finding his humanity again, if not truly for the first time. He climbed down from the cart’s bench, boots crunching against the snow-dusted earth, and took a few steps forward.Then the elf appeared, and he stilled once more.“I’ve long awaited our meeting,” Iorveth called down, his voice carrying over the wind. “Heard tales of a wild D’hoine wandering north, then whispers of his arrival at the temple. This seemed like a perfect trap to lay if you would not appear in my forest of your own volition.”Vernon weighed his response, then took a calculated risk."Come down here and face me, Elf ."Iorveth’s lips curled into something sharp and knowing, a smile that bordered on vicious. Then, without hesitation, he leapt from the cliffside, boots finding purchase against a tree trunk to slow his descent before he landed with effortless grace.Vernon moved closer, steps slow but sure, and they stood mere feet apart.Iorveth began to speak. “Now, how abou—”But Vernon cut him off.He lunged forward.And wrapped the elf in a hug.Iorveth went rigid, utterly still. Too stunned to move, too stunned to even speak.Vernon only tightened his grip, smirking against his shoulder. "Who's as still as a tree now, elf?" For a beat, nothing.Then, Iorveth let out a full-bellied laugh, something raw and genuine, the kind Vernon hadn't heard in years. His arms came up, hesitant at first, then certain as he returned the embrace. Only for a few seconds—just long enough to be real—before he set his hands on Vernon’s shoulders and pushed him back slightly, just enough to meet his gaze.The sharp green of Iorveth’s eye searched him, probing, trying to make sense of what stood before him. Vernon could see the hesitation there—the war between amusement and disbelief, between familiarity and something... different.“I see you’ve got your wit back,” Iorveth murmured, his voice low, edged with curiosity. “But the man I knew would’ve sooner drawn a blade than embraced me.”Vernon shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe I’m not the man you knew.”Iorveth tilted his head, considering him. “No? Then who are you, Vernon Roche? A wanderer? A monk? A tree in disguise?”Vernon chuckled, shaking his head. “Still a smartass, I see.”“Some things never change,” Iorveth said, though his gaze was still studying him, weighing him. “But you… you’ve gone soft. Or perhaps you’ve just grown roots.”Vernon’s smirk faltered as his eyes flickered toward the frozen river and the skeletal trees beyond. “Maybe I have. Or maybe I’ve just learned to stop fighting everything.”Iorveth let the words settle between them before he finally stepped back, folding his arms across his chest. “Yes, here you are. Delivering supplies to a village in need. Playing the hero.”“Not a hero,” Vernon corrected quickly, his voice firm. “Just… doing what needs to be done.”Iorveth huffed a quiet laugh, but there was something softer about it. “Spoken like a true soldier. Or perhaps a man who’s finally found his purpose.”Vernon met his gaze, unreadable. “And what about you, Iorveth? What’s your purpose these days?”Something flickered in Iorveth’s expression. Just for a moment. Then he scoffed, shrugging off the question. “I watch over the forest. Protect my people. The usual.”“And lay traps for old friends?” Vernon teased, though there was no real bite to it.Iorveth’s smirk returned, but it wasn’t cruel. “Perhaps I missed the thrill of our little games.”Vernon snorted. “Games, huh? Is that what we’re calling it now?”“Call it what you will,” Iorveth said, voice quieter now. “But we both know it’s been a long while since death was truly on the line.”The words lingered, heavy but not unwelcome.Vernon’s smirk faded, his expression shifting into something more sincere. He opened his mouth, ready to speak, but Iorveth held up a hand.“Don’t,” the elf said, his tone firm but not harsh. “Just… don’t disappear again.”Vernon exhaled slowly, nodding once. “You either.”A silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, just filled with the weight of years. Then Iorveth clapped a hand on Vernon’s shoulder, smirk returning.“Good. Now, let’s get this cart to the village before the snow starts again. I’ll ride with you—someone has to keep you out of trouble.”Vernon rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. “You’re the one who’s trouble, Elf .”“And yet, here you are,” Iorveth shot back, already striding toward the cart. “Seems you can’t resist me.”Vernon chuckled, shaking his head as he followed. “Don’t push your luck.”They offloaded the goods into a storage shed, working in quiet harmony, both deep in thought about what came next. Vernon unhitched the horse and followed Iorveth to the stables, the silence stretching long between them.Iorveth nodded toward a path, gesturing for Vernon to follow. The quiet between them was thick but not strained, pressing yet unobtrusive.Eventually, they arrived at a cabin nestled between two large alder trees.Vernon hesitated at the threshold, just for a moment, before stepping inside. The space was warm, dimly lit by a low-burning hearth. Practical, like everything Iorveth did. A sturdy table, two chairs. A rather comfortable-looking couch. Weapons racked along the wall—bows and blades, all meticulously maintained. A few worn books stacked beside the hearth. And on the mantel, a small carved wooden fox.“This where you’ve been hiding?” Vernon finally asked, voice rough but not unkind.Iorveth scoffed, tugging off his gloves. “I do not hide.”“No?” Vernon arched a brow. “You left in the night without a word. Sounds like hiding to me.”That struck something. Iorveth stilled, just for a moment, before shrugging off his coat and tossing it over the back of a chair. “I thought you preferred silence,” he deflected.Vernon huffed a short laugh. “Aye, maybe once. But I suppose I’ve found my voice again.”Iorveth studied him at that, his smirk fading. “So I see.”A beat of silence.“You caught me off guard,” Iorveth admitted, reaching for a dark earthenware bottle. He poured himself a drink, taking a slow sip as he watched Vernon over the rim. “That was not the reunion I envisioned.”Vernon smirked. “What, you thought I’d throw a punch?”Iorveth smirked back. “Only in my dreams.”Vernon tilted his head. “Suppose I could still take a swing. Just for old times’ sake.”A quiet moment passed.Then Iorveth poured another drink and slid it across the table. “Drink with me,” he said simply. “Tell me about the man you’ve become.”Vernon hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward, pulling out a chair, and sitting down. He took the cup, rolling it between his palms before taking a slow sip. The liquor burned, sharp and clean, but settled warm in his stomach.He kept his words simple. The bare bones of it all—finding Ves still kicking, working odd jobs in Gors Velen, her passing, his wandering through the forest, his return to Vizima, then to the temple. A report, boiled down to the essentials.Iorveth, however, was not satisfied.“That doesn’t explain how I kept hearing stories of a wild man,” the elf said, leaning forward with an incredulous look. “A walking tree, covered in dirt, moss, and sticks. Traipsing about with a horde of squirrels. Giving out furs and goods to the needy like some myth come to life—only to turn out to be you. Vernon Roche.”Vernon exhaled through his nose, rolling the cup between his palms again before setting it down. He met Iorveth’s gaze with a flat, measured look. “I don’t know what to tell you,” he admitted. “That’s just how it happened.”Iorveth scoffed, shaking his head. “You expect me to believe that you simply became some forest-wandering spirit? That you, of all people, left war behind without looking back? That you drifted from place to place with no fight, no cause, no orders to bark?” He tapped a finger against the table, his one good eye searching for something deeper in Vernon’s expression. “No. You changed. And I want to know how.”“And you?” Vernon continued, voice calm but unrelenting. He gestured toward the cabin, toward the simple walls and well-worn furniture. “How did you, Iorveth?”Iorveth’s scoff was sharp, but his arms folded tighter over his chest, a sign that the question had landed.A flash of something passed through Iorveth’s eyes—something defensive, something wary. He exhaled sharply through his nose.“You wouldn’t understand.”Vernon snorted and took another sip of his drink, feigning indifference. “Geralt told me all about Toussaint.”It was a lie, an obvious one. But it had the intended effect.Iorveth was on his feet in an instant, his chair scraping against the floor. “You don’t know a damned thing—”Vernon stood as well, his own movements deliberate, matching the fire in Iorveth’s stance. For a moment, the tension stretched thin, like a bowstring pulled taut, ready to snap.And then, Vernon let it out.“I spent two decades doing whatever horrible things my country needed me to.” His voice carried weight, old burdens given words. “I spent sixty years cursed with roots in the ground and leaves for hair.” His voice softened, not in weakness but weariness. “I came back to a world that doesn’t remember me.”He let that hang in the air between them.“I didn’t have to be a soldier. Didn’t have to be anyone, really. Just… me.”Iorveth’s breath hitched. His fury had nowhere to go, no battlefield, no opponent willing to draw steel. Instead, he was left with the truth between them, hanging there, raw and real.And it was unbearable.Iorveth wanted a fight, wanted the clash of steel and fury, wanted to prove that whatever had become of Vernon Roche, it couldn’t erase the man he had been. But Vernon had found something Iorveth hadn’t. A stillness. A peace that had settled deep into his bones, something unshakable, something beyond duty, beyond war.But what he really wanted—what he had always wanted—was for Vernon to meet him. Not as an enemy. Not as a commander. But as an equal.And Vernon, ever the soldier, ever the force of will, didn’t give him a fight.He gave him something far more powerful—truth. Vulnerability,  in the simple, undeniable fact that he is who he is . That he chooses to be.And that choice—the weight of it, the quiet certainty of it—was something Iorveth could never fight against.So when Vernon lowered his voice, when the weight of everything settled in the space between them, Iorveth realized the fight was already over. There was nothing left to win.There was only this—only them.A moment of silence.A heartbeat."I remembered you."Then, the distance between them disappears, and Iorveth—frustrated, desperate, needing something to ground himself in this new reality—closes the space with a kiss.It’s not soft. Not at first.It’s the discharge of everything unsaid, the force of every battle that never happened between them, the answer to every question neither of them could ask. It’s sharp, searching, an impact as much as an embrace, the ghost of an old fight neither of them are willing to name.But Vernon doesn’t falter.He meets Iorveth, steady and sure, the way he always has, but without the weight of war between them. Without the need to prove anything. His hands find their place at Iorveth’s sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat, grounding him, holding him there.And slowly—inevitably—the heat of it shifts.The anger melts away, just like the war between them melted into history. Just like the ice in Vernon’s chest melted back into something human.It’s not about winning.It never was.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The warmth between them lingered even after they pulled apart. Their breaths came slow, measured, as if neither quite knew what to say.

Vernon exhaled first, running a hand over his face, as if grounding himself in the moment. He didn’t step away, but the space between them grew heavier, filled with the weight of unspoken things.

Iorveth’s gaze remained on him, sharp. His lips parted slightly, as if he meant to speak, but no words came.

Instead, Vernon reached out, grasping Iorveth’s forearm. His fingers pressed firm-real

“I have to be getting back to the temple,” Vernon said finally, voice low but certain. “Duties to attend to.”

Iorveth didn’t reply. He only watched as Vernon slowly pulled back, fingers lingering just a moment longer before letting go.

Vernon turned, making his way toward the door. He paused with his hand on the latch, but he didn’t look back. The moment slipped between them like smoke.

Iorveth watched him go.

The wind picked up about three miles down the road.

At first, it was just a whisper through the trees, tugging at his cloak, nudging the horse’s mane in restless little bursts. Then, the gust slammed into the cart with enough force to jolt Vernon upright. He frowned, shifting in his seat, squinting against the sudden flurry of snow that had begun to swirl across the road.

The weather had turned in minutes.

The drifts thickened, blocking the road in uneven patches. Vernon cursed under his breath and pulled at the reins, guiding the horse off to the side, where the snow was less treacherous.The wind tore through his coat, biting into his skin. He needed to unhitch the horse and leave the cart behind - it was dead weight in a storm like this.

With stiff fingers, he climbed down. The moment his boots hit the ground, another vicious gust barreled through the pass. The cart groaned under the pressure - then, with a sickening

crack

, it tipped sideways.

Vernon barely had time to register what was happening before the wooden frame

slammed

into him.

The impact sent him sprawling, knocking the air from his lungs. He crashed backward, the world tilting violently.

Then -

crack

.

His head struck something hard beneath the snow-a buried rock or a slab of ice-pain flaring sharp and immediate at the back of his skull.

A burst of white behind his eyes - then,  nothing

Everything ached.

His ribs throbbed where the cart had hit him, his back protesting even the shallow rise and fall of his breath. His limbs felt distant, weighted, the cold creeping in fast. His gloved fingers twitched uselessly in the snow. He forced himself to move-

had

to move-but his thoughts felt sluggish, unfocused. His ears rang, muffling the howling wind.

The horse. Have to get the horse.

He tried, though he wasn’t sure how long it took. He rolled to his side, every muscle screaming, and rose to his feet.

His fingers fumbled at the harness. The buckles refused to cooperate. His hands felt stiff, his grip weak. The cold. The pain. The goddamn

cart

. He muttered a curse - at himself, at the storm, at the damned choices that had led him here.

A sound - distant, muffled. Hoofbeats.

Vernon barely had the presence of mind to lift his head before a blur of movement cut through the swirling white. A rider, swift and sure, dismounting in a single motion. Hands-strong, steady-grasping his shoulders, steadying him.

A voice. Familiar. Firm. But muffled, as though spoken through water.

Iorveth.

Vernon barely registered his words before he was hauled upward, his legs barely cooperating. A shift-pressure against his waist, and suddenly he was being lifted onto a saddle. His balance wavered, nausea curling in his gut as the world tilted again.

The warmth of a solid frame in front of him. The scent of leather, pine, something sharp and familiar. Instinct overrode thought-his arms moved of their own accord, wrapping around Iorveth’s waist, gripping tight. His forehead pressed against the elf’s back, breath coming in uneven bursts.

The rhythmic motion of the horse beneath them should have been grounding. It wasn’t. His body ached, head pounding, the distant hum of pain ebbing and flowing with each stride. He squeezed his eyes shut.
  
Iorveth cursed, urging the horse faster, Roche’s horse tethered behind. But speed was difficult as the wind clawed at them, the snow thickening into a near-whiteout. He could barely see the path ahead, but his focus wasn’t on the road-it was on the weight against his back. The shift. The slow, undeniable slackening.

He felt it - Roche’s grip on him, firm at first, then weakening.

Then - gone.

The loss of pressure was instant. Iorveth did not have time to react before he heard it - the unmistakable

thud

of a body hitting the snow.

“Damn you, Vernon.”

Reining in the horse sharply, he twisted in the saddle. Vernon lay crumpled in the drift, half-buried, his body still except for the slow rise and fall of his breath. His face was pale, too pale, his lashes dusted with ice. The damn fool had passed out.

Iorveth swung down in a heartbeat, moving fast. The wind howled, drowning out his words as he knelt, grabbing Roche by the coat and hauling him upright. The man barely stirred, his head lolling forward, leaving a red splotch in the white snow where it had been.

Iorveth shifted his grip, bracing Roche against him, then hoisted him up. He slung the man over the saddle like a sack of grain, securing him as best he could before swinging himself back up. One arm locked around Roche’s waist, keeping him steady.

“Hold on just a little longer, Roche,” he muttered, kicking the horse forward.

The storm howled around them, relentless, as Iorveth urged the horse forward, its hooves crunching through deep snowdrifts. Roche slumped lifelessly against him, his weight deadened by exhaustion, draped across the saddle like something discarded.

Then, finally-mercifully-the cabin came into view through the thick curtain of white. A dark silhouette against the endless snow, smoke still curling from the chimney, the promise of warmth just beyond the threshold.

Iorveth didn’t bother with care when they reached the door. He dismounted quickly, his movements sharp, urgent. Snow clung to his shoulders, to the edges of his hood, but he ignored it as he reached up, gripping Vernon by the coat and dragging him down.

Roche barely reacted when his boots hit the ground. His legs gave out instantly, forcing Iorveth to tighten his hold, half-carrying, half-dragging him toward the door.

The door swung open with a shove of his shoulder, and they stumbled inside. The warmth inside hit like a wall, melting the ice clinging to them, the fire still crackling low in the hearth. Iorveth kicked the door shut behind them and unceremoniously lowered Vernon onto the couch by the fire.

Vernon half chuckled, half grunted as he settled, apparently back in the land of the living. He muttered something incoherent as he began tugging at his cloak fastening, though his hands were sluggish, fingers fumbling.

Iorveth exhaled, pressing a hand to his own face as if that could somehow steady him. Then, without further hesitation, he stripped the damp outer layers from Roche-his cloak, his gloves, his boots-all soaked through, all useless now. He pulled a thick woolen blanket from the foot of the couch and draped it over Roche’s body, pressing the fabric down against his shoulders, trying to force the warmth back into him.

He stoked the fire, set water to boil.

Then stood by the fire for a moment. A much-needed moment for himself. He took a deep breath, trying to chase away the thoughts pressing in - the frustration, the regret. He should have asked him to stay instead of letting that moment go to waste.

Then he exhaled, and let the moment pass.

Iorveth knelt beside the couch, shaking Vernon’s shoulder gently.

Iorveth huffed. “You’re still with me.”

Vernon blinked sluggishly, his brows knitting together in slow confusion. His mouth opened, lips parting as if to speak, but all that came was a rough exhale, something between a sigh and a groan. His pupils were wide, swallowing the deep brown of his irises, but at least he was conscious. That was something.

“Come on, Vernon,” Iorveth muttered, shifting closer. “Tell me you didn’t let a bit of wind and a cart take you down.”

Vernon huffed, his head rolling slightly toward him. “Bit more than… wind,” he managed, closing his eyes briefly. “Should’ve stayed…”

“I shouldn’t have let you go,” Iorveth said, sincerity threading through his voice, his conviction unwavering.

His eyes fluttered open again, unfocused but searching, as if trying to make sense of the words through the haze of exhaustion and pain.

Iorveth didn’t look away. He didn’t smirk, didn’t soften it with his usual biting humor. He meant it. Every word.

Vernon swallowed, his throat bobbing, but when he spoke, his voice was quieter. More grounded. “Wasn’t your call to make.”

"I didn’t

want

you to go."

Vernon blinked slowly, pushing himself up slightly. He stared at Iorveth, searching his face, his brows knitting together as though he wasn’t sure if he’d heard him right.

Iorveth held his gaze, unwavering. He let the truth settle between them, unguarded.

Instead, he knelt down beside the couch, raising his hand to cup Vernon’s face, tilting his chin slightly as he studied his pupils with concern. “You definitely hit your head on something out there.”

Vernon touched the back of his head. Winced. Pulled his hand away - blood.

Iorveth cursed softly under his breath, shifting his grip. He moved his hand from Vernon’s jaw to the back of his head, slipping his fingers beneath the chaperon to assess the wound. It was only as he ran his fingers through the damp strands near the wound that he hesitated.

Iorveth pushed the chaperon back. The damp fabric peeled away, revealing hair that fell past Vernon’s shoulders, curling slightly from being twisted beneath the cap.

Iorveth stilled.

Then, after a moment, he smiled, shaking his head. “Seems like you’re turning into the tree-hugging elves you used to hunt.”

Vernon let out a low, tired huff, though whether it was amusement or exasperation was unclear. He smirked, slow and lopsided. “Didn’t have a mirror.”

Iorveth chuckled, still shaking his head as he ghosted his fingers over Vernon’s damp hair, testing the weight of it between his fingertips before letting it slip away. “Tch. Next thing I know, you’ll be braiding it.”

Vernon let his head loll against the couch, his smirk softening as his body began to relax again. “Give me a few more months.”

Iorveth scoffed, standing fully now, though he still watched Vernon closely. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Vernon’s lips curled into a slow, lopsided grin-cheesy, amused, entirely unrepentant.

Iorveth rolled his eyes but didn’t bother to hide the small smirk tugging at the corner of his own mouth. “You are ridiculous,” he muttered.

With a shake of his head, he set to work. He parted Vernon’s damp hair to assess the wound properly. The gash wasn’t deep, but it had bled enough to be a nuisance. His fingers brushed against the strands carefully, his touch firm but not rough as he threaded a needle.

“This’ll sting,” he warned, though he doubted Vernon was in any state to care.

Vernon made a vague noise of acknowledgment but didn’t protest.

Iorveth worked quickly, each stitch precise, securing the wound before spreading a thin layer of salve over it. The herbal scent filled the air, sharp but soothing, and he pressed a small piece of cloth over the salve to keep it in place.

He moved to help Vernon roll onto his least battered side, mindful of the bruising. Vernon grunted in discomfort but didn’t resist, letting Iorveth adjust him with minimal fuss.

“Rest,” Iorveth said, his tone softer now, less an order and more a quiet insistence.

Vernon hummed, already halfway there, his body sinking further into the couch as exhaustion dragged him down. His breath evened out within moments.

Iorveth lingered, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of Vernon’s chest, the way the firelight flickered over his features, casting them in soft amber hues. The sharp lines of exhaustion had eased from his face.

He exhaled, the tension in his own shoulders slowly unwinding. Vernon was safe, warm, breathing. That should have been enough to let him step away, to put some distance between them and let sleep take him properly.

But he didn’t move.

Instead, he settled back onto his knees beside the couch, his movements slow, almost hesitant. His fingers brushed against Vernon’s, the slightest, fleeting touch, before he let his hand rest there, just a ghost of pressure curling around the man’s larger, calloused hand.

Vernon didn’t stir. Didn’t pull away.

Then, as if drawn by something unspoken, he lowered himself further, resting his head against Vernon’s hip, his body finally yielding to exhaustion. The warmth of the fire wrapped around them both, the storm still raging beyond the cabin walls, but here - here, there was quiet.

And for the first time in a long time, Iorveth let himself rest.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Vernon woke slowly.

For a long moment, he didn’t move, letting the warmth of the fire seep into his bones, his mind drifting somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. The last thing he remembered was the storm, the weight of exhaustion dragging him under, Iorveth’s voice, steady and sure, telling him to rest.

And something else.

A weight against his hip.

Vernon frowned, shifting slightly, and immediately regretted it. His ribs ached, his head pulsed in dull protest, and the movement disturbed whatever was resting against him.

There was a soft huff, the sensation of something shifting, a warmth pulling away.

Vernon cracked his eyes open.

Iorveth.

The elf was still close, still kneeling beside the couch, blinking blearily as he stirred from where he’d been resting his head against Vernon’s hip. Bits of hair plastered to his face from where it had rested all night.

Vernon stared at him, not quite awake enough to mask his expression.

Iorveth stretched, rolling his shoulders with a quiet grunt, his movements slow, unbothered.

Vernon’s brain was still catching up. “Were you…?” He trailed off, his voice hoarse, unused. He cleared his throat. “You were sleeping on me.”

Iorveth blinked at him, unbothered. “And?”

Vernon scowled, trying to push himself up onto his elbows, only for his body to remind him why that was a terrible idea. He groaned, falling back against the couch with a hiss.

Iorveth snorted, shaking his head. “Idiot.”

Vernon sighed through his nose, closing his eyes for a moment before cracking them open again. “Storm still going?”

Iorveth rolled his shoulders, standing fully and stretching, his joints popping faintly. He padded over to the window, brushing aside the frost-covered curtain with the back of his hand. The outside world was still a blur of white, the snow piled thick against the edges of the cabin.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Iorveth confirmed, letting the curtain fall back into place.

Vernon exhaled slowly, letting his head roll to the side. “Figures.”

He already knew what was coming before Iorveth even turned to look at him.

“Storm could last a few days,” Iorveth mused, arms folding across his chest. “Could be a long while before you’re well enough to ride.”

Vernon exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling. “You’re enjoying this.”

Iorveth smirked. “I don’t mind the company.”

Vernon rolled his eyes, shifting beneath the blanket. He was still sore, still stiff, but the worst of the cold had left his limbs, leaving only an ache in his ribs and back, the deep bruising settling in.

The blanket was warm, almost too warm now, the fire steadily feeding the heat into the room. Vernon let out a slow breath and sat up fully this time, pushing the blanket off his shoulders. The movement tugged at his injuries, and he grimaced as he reached up, rubbing at the stiff muscles in his neck.

Iorveth raised a brow. “Finally deciding to act like you have a spine?”

Vernon shot him a look. “Shut it.”

With a grunt, he peeled off the undershirt he’d slept in, the fabric damp with sweat and snowmelt, sticking unpleasantly to his skin. He pulled it over his head, tossing it onto the chair near the hearth, rolling his shoulders slightly as the warmth of the fire licked at his bare skin.

He barely noticed the way Iorveth went still.

Not at first.

But after a beat of silence, he glanced up and found the elf staring.

Not just staring.

Frozen.

Vernon frowned. “What?”

Iorveth didn’t answer right away. His gaze was fixed-not on Vernon’s face, not even on the broad bruises still darkening along his ribs, but lower. His eyes traced over his chest, his shoulders, his arms, as if something

shouldn’t

be there-

And then Vernon realized.

The scars.

Thin white lines, barely visible in the firelight. They were ghostly traces of what had once been cuts, countless, running across his chest like delicate filigree.

Like the strokes of a blade.

Like something

carved.

Vernon swallowed.

Iorveth’s jaw tightened.

Neither of them spoke.

Vernon glanced down at himself, at the lines stretched across his skin-ones he hadn’t thought much about, ones he had barely noticed once he’d returned to flesh. He knew how they got there, of course. He remembered. The way Iorveth had slashed into him when he was a tree.

Vernon sighed through his nose,  “Didn’t hurt,” he said, voice steady.

Iorveth’s gaze snapped to his.

Vernon held it.

“I was made of bark,” he continued, as if that would make it

nothing

. “I have plenty of scars from you, from when I was flesh the first time round.”

Iorveth didn’t move. Didn’t so much as blink.

And then, very quietly, he said, “Not like this.”

The words hit differently than anything else before. Not an accusation. Not a deflection. Not Iorveth’s usual biting sarcasm, nor his casual indifference. It was something unarmored.

Iorveth stepped closer. “These weren’t from battle.” His voice was low, rough around the edges. His fingers twitched at his sides. “They weren’t earned in a fight. They weren’t

defended

against.” His breath came sharper through his nose. “You

couldn’t

.”

Vernon’s jaw tightened. “Iorveth-”

“I carved into you like a fucking

plaything

.” Iorveth’s voice turned sharp, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “I cut you because I

could

, because I thought-” His mouth snapped shut. His throat worked, something unreadable flickering across his face.

Vernon exhaled slowly, lowering his gaze.

Iorveth let out a short, humorless laugh. He ran a hand over his face, dragging it down before shaking his head. “I

stabbed

you,” he muttered. “Gods, Roche-I stabbed you

deeply

. You bled at first. I

laughed

about it.”

“You

spoke

to me.” Iorveth’s voice was barely more than a breath. “And I still did it.”

Vernon swallowed. He could still feel it, in some distant, detached way. The sharpness of the blade, the strange sensation of being torn open without a body to

feel

it the way he once had. The way his awareness moved sluggishly through each wound, only catching up long after the cut had been made.

“I-” He stopped. Swallowed. Pressed his lips together like the words wouldn’t come out if he didn’t force them.

Vernon blinked, his head tilting slightly as he studied him for a long moment.

Then, finally, he sighed and leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “I don’t think you knew what you were doing.”

Iorveth let out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh? And what do you think I was doing, Roche?”

Vernon raised a brow. His voice was quiet, steady. “Grieving me.” A beat. Then, softer, “Keeping me.”

Iorveth

froze

.

His breath hitched just slightly, his fingers twitching at his sides.

Vernon held his gaze, something heavy settling between them.

“You stayed,” Vernon said, voice still calm. “You talked to me, yelled at me, carved into me-” He tilted his head. “But you never tried to

cut me down

.”

Iorveth’s throat worked. His eye flickered, scanning Vernon’s face like he wanted to refute it, wanted to

deny

it outright.

But he didn’t.

Because they both

knew

.

Vernon let the moment stretch before he huffed a faint chuckle, glancing down. “Not sure that was

mercy

on your part, but-” He shrugged. “You never would’ve let anyone else take an axe to me.”

Iorveth exhaled sharply, stepping back like he needed

space

.

“Your death still does belong to me.”

Vernon snorted, leaning back slightly against the couch. “Oh, I know.” He glanced toward the fire, his voice quieter now. “You’ve earned it.”

Iorveth frowned slightly.

Vernon inhaled, “It’s in the past. I’m here now.” He lifted his gaze, meeting Iorveth’s eyes again. “And I’m

not

carrying it with me.”

Iorveth, his shoulders still rigid, but something in his posture had shifted.

Vernon watched him for a long moment, then, with a small smirk, added, “But if it makes you feel better, you can prostrate yourself before me and beg my forgiveness.”

Iorveth scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Not in a thousand years,

dh’oine

.”

Vernon snorted. “Suit yourself.”

The tension lingered, but something about it had softened-no longer razor-sharp, but quieter, heavier.

Iorveth, rubbing at his jaw, then muttered, “You’re still insufferable.”

Vernon grinned, “Starting to think you like that about me.”

Iorveth rolled his eyes, “Don’t push your luck.”

But Vernon only smirked.

The weight of it all still hung between them, lingering in the crackling firelight, but it wasn’t suffocating. It wasn’t unbearable. It was just

there

- like the space between their bodies, like the years neither of them could rewrite.

Iorveth hadn’t moved far. His shoulders were still tight, his fingers still curled like he wasn’t quite finished bracing for something. His eye flickered, lingering on Vernon’s chest-

So Vernon made the choice for him.

Slowly, deliberately, he stood. His ribs ached from the movement, but he ignored it. Instead, he reached out, caught Iorveth’s wrist before the elf could think to pull away.

Iorveth stiffened. His eye flicked up, startled, but he didn’t jerk back. Didn’t sneer. Didn’t speak.

Vernon guided his hand forward, pressing it against his heart. .

Iorveth inhaled sharply, feeling the thump of Vernons life blood beneath his palm.

The fire crackled in the silence between them.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then, Iorveth’s fingers spread, hesitant at first, then surer, tracing the lines carved so long ago. He followed their paths with deliberate care, as if relearning something he never meant to write. His thumb ghosted over a particularly long scar near Vernon’s ribs, his jaw tight, his face unreadable - but his touch spoke louder than words ever could.

And then, Vernon moved too.

His own fingers lifted, slow, certain, grazing over Iorveth’s mouth first-just the faintest brush over his lips, rough fingertips against something softer.

Iorveth’s breath hitched, his fingers twitching against Vernon’s chest, but neither of them stopped.

Vernon’s touch wandered upward, following the scar that stretched along Iorveth’s cheek-the one time itself hadn’t allowed to fade. His thumb brushed over it, careful, deliberate, like he was trying to understand something through touch alone.

Iorveth’s fingers, still resting against Vernon’s skin, moved again, dragging across another scar, mapping the damage he had once inflicted with blade and bitterness. Vernon barely breathed, standing still beneath it, letting him remember, letting him

feel

what had been done.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them moved more than they had to.

The fire flickered, the only witness to the way they touched each other like they weren’t supposed to, but were deeply meant to.

The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy, but it wasn’t suffocating. It was just there-like the weight of their hands, the heat of the fire, the years neither of them could rewrite.

Vernon moved his hand up, slow and deliberate, his fingers grazing against the worn fabric of Iorveth’s bandana. He didn’t push, didn’t try to remove it-just traced the edge where cloth met skin, the curve of his brow, the place where his eye had once been. His thumb lingered there, a whisper of a touch, reverent in its softness.

Iorveth tensed beneath it. His breath hitched, barely audible, but Vernon felt it-the way his shoulders drew taut, the way his body stilled, caught between flinching and leaning in.

Then, voice quiet but certain, Vernon asked,

“What happened to you?”

“You’ll have to be more specific, dh’oine,” he muttered, his voice rough, strained in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion. “I’ve had quite the eventful life.”

Vernon let out a slow breath, dropping his hand away first. Iorveth followed a second later, though the ghost of his touch lingered, burned into the skin it had traced.

Vernon didn’t let him deflect. “Not to your elves. Not to your war. To

you.

”

He leaned forward, his voice steady, quiet, but insistent. “I came back from something I was never meant to return from. And so did you. But you-” He exhaled, watching Iorveth’s face, “So tell me. What happened to you after the war?”

Iorveth scoffed, shaking his head slightly, but it wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t dismissive. He turned toward the fire, letting the heat lick against his skin, his eye flickering with something distant.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

“Saskia reclaimed Vergen. She ruled as she always meant to, rebuilding, leading-

thriving.

” His fingers curled at his sides. “The people had what they needed. The cities settled. “The Scoia’tael had no more war to fight.”

He turned his head slightly, meeting Vernon’s gaze with something sharp. “And yet, I was not at peace.”

The words hung between them, raw, unguarded.

Vernon’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt.

Iorveth scoffed softly, but it was more at himself than anything else. He shook his head, his voice quieter now. “I thought the war would have taken me.” A pause. “I think it was meant to.”

Vernon swallowed, his fingers curling against his knee.

Iorveth exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before dropping it again. “I ran.” He turned back to the fire, his expression unreadable. “I left Vergen. Left the cities. Left them to their peace. And I ran into Brokilon, thinking I could finally live as Dana Meadbh intended.”

He huffed, shaking his head slightly. “It was supposed to be deep enough that I could be truly alone.”

Vernon’s voice was quiet, but even. “And then you found me.”

“…Yes.”

“So you ran from Brokilon too.”

Iorveth let out a quiet chuckle, humorless. “I tried.”

Vernon tilted his head slightly. “And then?”

“I checked in on the forests as I went. The elves that remained. I told myself I was watching over them.” His voice flattened slightly. “But really, I was just wandering. And every so often, I returned to you.”

His voice was quieter now, more measured. “And then I ran into Geralt.”

Vernon raised a brow.

“Yes. The great Gwynbleidd himself.” He turned his gaze back to the fire, “He took one look at me and decided I wasn’t fit to be left wandering. Told me I was ‘off.’” His mouth twitched slightly, not quite a smirk. “I imagine I must have looked as mad as I felt.”

Vernon studied him, the way his shoulders had relaxed just slightly, the way his voice had lost its sharpest edges as he spoke. He didn’t press. Not yet.

Iorveth continued, “He dragged me down to Toussaint. Fed me. Housed me. Left me in the care of his little vineyard, as though I was something that could be repaired with enough food and wine.” His fingers tapped idly against his knee, a restless motion. “I suppose if anyone could have brought me back to myself, it was Geralt.”

Vernon tilted his head. “And did he?”

Iorveth scoffed, shaking his head. “If only it were that simple.” shifting slightly where he sat. “But I watched him. I saw the life he built for himself, despite everything. A witcher- considered by many a monster. And yet, there he was, living like a proper little dh’oine with a proper little life.”

His voice dropped just slightly, almost contemplative. “I think that unsettled me more than anything.”

Vernon frowned slightly. “Why?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Because it meant there was no excuse.” His eye flicked to Vernon’s. “If even Geralt of Rivia could make peace with the life he was given, then what was stopping me?”

The words settled between them, weighty and raw.

Vernon watched him carefully. “And did you find your answer?”

“Not in Toussaint.” A pause. Then, softer, “But I think I am closer now.”

After a moment, Iorveth huffed a short breath, tilting his head back slightly. “Geralt, for all his wisdom, decided that a bottle of Black Gull would help me clear my mind.”

Vernon raised a brow. “The witcher alcohol?”

Iorveth smirked wryly. “He called it a test of constitution. Said it had hallucinogenic properties, warned me that it wasn’t for the faint of heart.” He scoffed. “As if I were some unblooded child who’d never had a vision before. I told him I’d drunk from the Waters of Brokilon-I was no stranger to seeing things that weren’t there.”

Vernon was on the edge of his seat, “And?”

Iorveth’s fingers drummed idly against his knee, the movement slow, thoughtful. “And I should’ve been more cautious.”

Vernon’s chest tightened.

Iorveth’s fingers stilled. “It didn’t show me memories, not like I expected. It didn’t drag me through the past or force me to relive some long-buried moment. No, this was something else.”

He went quiet for a moment, like he was searching for the words.

Then, finally-“I saw you.”

Vernon’s stomach clenched.

Iorveth’s jaw tightened, his eye flickering with something distant, something that did not belong to the present.

“Not as you are now. As you were then.” He exhaled, voice quieter, like he was speaking less to Vernon and more to himself. “Bark and moss. Root and branch. You stood the same way you always did, but-” His lips pressed together, as if trying to hold something back. “You were looking at me.”

Vernon said nothing, just watched him, waiting.

Iorveth’s fingers curled again, his knuckles whitening. “And then, you withered.Your branches… they fell. Your roots shriveled. The forest took you back into the dirt, swallowed you whole, and there was nothing I could do. Nothing I could stop.”

His voice was tight, like it physically hurt to recall. “I eventually came back to myself, Geralt said I’d been screaming.” His fingers twitched. “Screaming about trees. And you.”

Vernon swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “And then?”

Iorveth huffed a humorless chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “And then he made me tell him everything.” His lips twisted. “Didn’t give me a choice, really. Just sat there and waited until I spilled my guts.”

His voice, when it came, was quieter, edged with something raw. “Geralt didn’t seem to believe me. Not at first.” He huffed, shaking his head slightly. “Not that I could blame him. It was a rare curse. A wild, unnatural thing. And even if he had believed me, what could he have done?”

Vernon stayed quiet, letting him speak.

Iorveth exhaled sharply through his nose. “But he was gone the next day. Portalled off by his witch.” His jaw tensed. “Later, I learned he went to visit you.”

Vernon’s breath caught, but he didn’t speak.

“And when he returned, he was set on breaking the curse.” His lips twisted, like he still couldn’t quite believe it. “Determined. Single-minded. Convinced it could be done.”

He shook his head, his fingers twitching. “I left Toussaint shortly after.”

Vernon frowned slightly. “Why?”

Iorveth exhaled sharply, the sound too much like a laugh. “Because I was furious.”

Vernon’s brows drew together.

“I knew what I had seen. I knew what it meant. That vision wasn’t just some hallucination, some drunken nightmare-it was a

warning

.” His jaw clenched. “And he ignored it.”

Vernon swallowed.

Iorveth’s eye flicked to his, sharp as a blade. “Geralt was going to try and do the impossible. And in doing so, he would

kill

you.” His voice dipped lower, tighter. “Just as my vision had foretold.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Vernon carefully asked, “When you both came into the forest that final time… when I cried out for him to stop - that I couldn’t grow…what happened then?”

Iorveth’s fingers curled at his sides, the memory thick in his voice. “I had to take my last chance. My last right over your life.” His jaw clenched. “And so I poured out the rest of the potion.”

Vernon’s breath hitched.

Iorveth’s eye was dark, unreadable. “Finishing the job.”

Silence stretched.

“And then,” Iorveth continued, his voice quieter now, but no less weighted, “my vision came true.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “Just as I saw it.”

He let the words settle between them, let them breathe.

“But you were there.” His voice softened, like he still didn’t quite believe it. “A dh’oine again. Just as you had been.” He swallowed, his eye searching Vernon’s face, still trying to reconcile something that defied reason. “As you always were.”

A beat of silence. Then, lower, almost to himself, Iorveth muttered, “And I didn’t know what to do with that.”

Vernon’s throat bobbed. He held Iorveth’s gaze, steady and unwavering.

His eye flickered with something unreadable, something not quite anger, not quite regret.

“I didn’t know how much you remembered,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “How far you had gone into becoming part of the forest. After all… you didn’t respond to me much.”

His fingers curled slightly, gaze distant. “But I still spoke to you. I

cared

for you, in my own way. Confessed my sins. My fears. My hopes.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “You had become closer to my essence than any dh’oine ever could-by being part of the very nature I was made of.”

Vernon inhaled slowly, listening. Waiting.

Iorveth’s throat bobbed. “And then you returned. Flesh and blood again. A man again.” He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “And I thought - I

thought

I had a piece of my old life back.”

The words struck something deep in Vernon’s chest.

“But you were different And I didn’t know what to do with that.” His voice lowered, edged with something frustrated, something raw. “I was mad. At you. At Geralt. At myself.” A sharp breath. “So I left.”

Vernon finally spoke.

“We spent so long chasing each other,” he murmured, his voice steady but carrying the weight of years. “Dancing around our battles-just showing off, really.”

Iorveth’s eye flickered to his.

“You became a part of me,” Vernon continued, gaze unwavering. “I could never truly defeat you.” He exhaled, something like a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “How could one destroy their own reflection?”

Iorveth held his breath, cautious, raw.

Vernon, quieter now, murmured, “Perhaps in this new world, we don’t have to be on opposite sides of the coin.”

Iorveth didn’t move, didn’t speak right away. He only studied Vernon, as if searching for the lie, as if waiting for the inevitable retreat.

But there was no lie.

And Vernon wasn’t retreating.

Not this time.

Slowly, something in Iorveth’s posture eased-not fully, not completely, but just enough for the tension in the room to shift. He hummed, a quiet, considering sound.

Then, with the faintest hint of something almost resembling a smirk, he muttered, “That depends.”

Vernon raised a brow. “On what?”

Iorveth tilted his head slightly, voice low, amused. “Are you willing to share the damn coin?”

Vernon didn’t hesitate. “There is nothing to share. You have all of me.”

Iorveth inhaled sharply. He didn’t know what to do with the words, like they were something fragile. Something dangerous.

Something he

wanted

.

The fire crackled, filling the silence where Iorveth might have spoken. But he didn’t. He just stared, his fingers twitching at his sides, as if resisting the urge to reach for something-someone.

Vernon didn’t move, didn’t waver. His gaze remained steady, unwavering, as the weight of what he’d just said settled between them. “You have all of me,” he repeated, quieter this time, but no less certain. “You always have.”

Iorveth swallowed, his jaw clenching like he was trying to fight something off. “You’re a damn fool,” he muttered, but there was no bite to it, no mockery. Just something tired. Something worn. Something…

afraid

.

Vernon huffed a quiet breath, tilting his head slightly. “I know.”

Another pause. A heartbeat stretched too long.

Then, finally, Iorveth exhaled, and the last of his resistance broke. His hand twitched once more-then,

finally

, he reached.

Caught Vernon’s wrist.

Pulled him in.

It wasn’t rushed, nor desperate, but something quiet. Something certain.

Iorveth’s arms wrapped around him-not crushing, not clinging, just

there

. Steady. Solid. Real.

Vernon felt the way Iorveth’s fingers curled into him-not gripping, just anchoring. Like he was afraid to let go.

So Vernon made the choice for him.

He pressed in just a little closer, until their heartbeats aligned, steady and slow. Their bodies met, warmth against warmth, the faint press of breath against collarbones, heartbeats settling into a rhythm neither of them had to name. Until Iorveth exhaled, the weight in his chest loosening, like something he’d been holding for far too long had finally been set down.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them pulled away.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Nenneke stared at them, unimpressed.

“So let me get this straight,” she said, arms folded, tone sharp enough to cut stone. “You got caught in a snowstorm, got crushed by your own cart, were saved by your ex-arch-nemesis, and—” she leveled a look at Vernon, “—you left my cart stuck in the snow?”

Vernon exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “I hit my head, Nenneke.”

“And yet, somehow, you lived,” she shot back. “Miraculous, really.” She turned her sharp gaze to Iorveth. “And you. Putting him through

vigorous exercise

while injured?”

Iorveth smirked. “Don’t fret. I did all the hard work.”

Vernon groaned, tilting his head back. “Nenneke—”

“Enough.” She cut him off with a flick of her hand. “Roche, go get healing before you keel over in my temple.”

Vernon sighed but didn’t argue.

“And you,” she turned to Iorveth with a pointed look, “get to work.”

Iorveth raised a brow, clearly amused. “Doing what, exactly?”

“I don’t know, elf,” she said dryly. “You’ve got working hands, don’t you? Go chop firewood. Shovel snow. Carry things. If you’re going to lurk here all winter, you’re going to make yourself useful.”

Iorveth smirked, glancing at Vernon.

Nenneke clapped her hands. “Move.”

They both moved.

At first, Vernon resented the bedrest, he’d  never been a man who sat still well.

And Iorveth—Iorveth, of all people—was the one keeping him there.

It was ruthless tenderness, the kind that didn’t ask permission, that didn’t second-guess itself. There was no sarcasm, no thinly veiled mockery, no smugness in the way Iorveth cared for him. He simply did.

And Gods, it was infuriating.

Because Iorveth wasn’t just tending to him. He was enjoying it. Iorveth touched him like he was something treasured.

Every ache, every bruise, every lingering pain—Iorveth made it his personal mission to tend to. With his hands, with whispered words, with kisses pressed to every battered inch of skin.

One evening, fingers traced the bruises along Vernon’s ribs, light as a breath. A quiet hum, an assessment. Then lips, warm and deliberate, pressing softly against the deepest bruise.

Vernon exhaled sharply, a laugh caught somewhere in his throat. “That actually helping, or is this just indulgence?”

Iorveth kissed him again, firmer this time. “It’s both.”

Vernon didn’t complain. Didn’t move away.

It became a pattern. A routine. A terrible, indulgent habit.

Iorveth kissed his knuckles when Vernon clenched his fists too tightly. The corner of his mouth when he bit back a groan from stretching too soon. His temples when pain tightened his brow. His shoulder when it ached. His spine when the bruises lingered too long.

And when Vernon grumbled and rolled his eyes, Iorveth only hummed, utterly unbothered, pressing another kiss to his wrist.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being thorough.”

“You’re pampering me.”

“And?” Iorveth raised a brow, smirking against Vernon’s skin. “What of it?”

Vernon had no response.

Mostly because he didn’t actually mind.

Because it wasn’t just indulgence. It was devotion.

Iorveth held Vernon’s hands as though they weren’t built for war but for holding, for cradling. He kissed his scars as if they weren’t battle wounds but part of a story he wanted to learn by heart.

And Vernon—stubborn, hardened, reckless Vernon—let him.

More than that, he leaned into it.

Healed beneath Iorveth’s hands, beneath his lips, beneath the kind of love that was entirely, unashamedly undeserved.

And he let it happen anyway.

Vernon awoke one morning to fingers brushing through his hair.

The fire had burned low, and the temple chambers were quiet, the muffled hush of snowfall soft against the distant walls. The scent of healing balms lingered in the air, the faintest trace of chamomile and myrrh from the last salve application.

But all of that faded to nothing beneath the weight of Iorveth’s touch.

His hand moved slowly, fingers threading through the tangled mess of Vernon’s hair, absent and deliberate all at once. Like he had been doing this for a while. Like it wasn’t the first time.

Vernon’s breath hitched. He didn’t move.

The fingers didn’t stop.

“I know you’re awake,” Iorveth murmured, his voice dark velvet in the dim firelight.

Vernon swallowed, keeping his eyes shut for a moment longer. “Could’ve let me pretend.”

Iorveth hummed, his fingers dragging down, tracing the curve of Vernon’s ear, the sharp line of his jaw.

“You never sleep deeply enough,” Iorveth muttered. “You’re always listening. Always waiting for something.”

“Old habits,” Vernon rasped.

A pause.

Then—softer—“You don’t have to, with me.”

The words struck something deep, something raw.

Vernon’s eyes finally opened, hazy and slow, and Iorveth was there.

Watching him.

No smirk. No mockery. No walls between them.

Just that gaze. That unbearable, unrelenting gaze.

And Vernon couldn’t stand it.

Not without doing something about it.

He moved before he thought—grabbing Iorveth’s wrist, flipping their positions, pushing him back against the mattress with a growl.

Iorveth barely reacted, just let him.

Let Vernon cage him in, let him lean down, let their breath mingle in the heavy heat between them.

And then, finally—finally— Vernon kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.

It was hungry.

A claiming.

A surrender.

Iorveth made a noise—something dark, something satisfied—and dragged Vernon down further.

Their limbs tangled beneath the sheets, their bodies pressing together like they were trying to memorize the feel of each other’s warmth.

And that was how the winter passed.

With soft laughter against the firelight.

With heated whispers in the dead of night.

With featherlight touches over old scars.

With the quiet devastation of being loved—truly, deeply, entirely.

Until the snow began to melt.

Nenneke watched them with fond exasperation.

“So,” she said, arms folded, unimpressed as always, “ you spent the entire winter rolling around like a pair of lovesick fools instead of doing anything productive?”

Vernon—not even remotely ashamed—shrugged. “I was recovering.”

Iorveth smirked, his arm draped lazily over the back of Vernon’s chair. “I made myself useful.”

“You certainly did,” Nenneke said dryly, eyeing the bruises Vernon was currently trying to pretend didn’t exist.

Vernon coughed, shifting. “Uh—”

“Enough,” she cut in. “You’re both infuriatingly healthy now, which means it’s time for you to get out of my temple before you drive me insane.”

She handed Vernon a sealed letter.

“A ship is waiting,” she said simply. “Passage down the Pontar. A gift.”

Vernon took the letter, staring at it. Then, slower—softer—“Thank you.”

Nenneke’s gaze softened, just slightly. “May you walk your path together, and may the road ahead lead you where you’re meant to go.”

Vernon swallowed, something catching at the back of his throat. Iorveth’s hand brushed against his, just briefly, grounding.

They stood at the docks, watching as supplies were loaded, the smell of damp wood and thawing earth thick in the air.

“Try not to die,” she said dryly as they boarded.

Vernon smirked. “No promises.”

Iorveth, ever the instigator, added, “If we do, we’ll be sure to haunt you.”

Nenneke snorted, shaking her head. “Get out of here, you fools.”

And so they left, riding the river toward Novigrad.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Welcome to Novigrad,” Vernon said dryly, gesturing toward the crowded streets beyond the docks. “The beating heart of the North, the jewel of the Pontar, the—”“A cesspit,” Iorveth interrupted flatly.Vernon smirked. “That too.”They descended the gangplank, the wood creaking beneath their boots as they stepped onto solid ground. The dockworkers barely gave them a second glance, too busy hauling crates and yelling at one another to care about two travelers.Roche nudged Iorveth with an elbow. “Where to first?”“Not going to lie, I don’t really want to be in this city,” Iorveth admitted.“One drink,” Vernon gestured toward a tavern with a bright yellow sign in the shape of a fish, The Golden Sturgeon, “then we figure out what’s next.”The Golden Sturgeon smelled of stale ale, sweat, and bad decisions—a fitting place to start their stay in Novigrad. The air was thick with pipe smoke, the hum of conversation broken only by the occasional burst of laughter or the clatter of dice on wood.Iorveth took in their surroundings with a mild look of disapproval, tugging his hood lower. Vernon ordered their drinks before steering them toward a dimly lit corner near the back.One drink turned into two.Two turned into four.Four became eight.By then, neither of them was keeping count.Iorveth, to his credit, was only mildly tipsy. Vernon, however, was sloshed. He leaned heavily on the table, his smirk loose, his words slightly slower but still full of that same sharp-edged charm.“Iorveth,” he declared, pointing a little too dramatically across the tavern, “I could take every bastard in here in a fight. Blindfolded.”Iorveth hummed into his tankard. “You could also fall flat on your ass trying.”And then Vernon heard it.A name, slipping through the conversation at the next table.The Percival.His head snapped toward the voices, ears honing in with drunken precision.“Captain’s found extra hands,” one man was saying. “Old ship’s still running well. She’s been through hell, but she’s sturdy.”“Lucky she didn’t sink in the last storm,” another added. “A damn relic.”Vernon shot up so fast he nearly knocked over the table.Iorveth barely had time to react before Vernon was moving.“Vernon?” Iorveth called, setting down his drink with a sigh, watching as Vernon stumbled his way out of the tavern like a man possessed.Iorveth followed, stepping outside just in time to see Vernon standing at the edge of the docks, staring.At her.The Percival.Across the harbor, moored between two merchant vessels. A little worn, a little weathered, but unmistakably his.Vernon inhaled sharply. “That’s my ship.”He grabbed Iorveth’s wrist and ran.Iorveth barely had time to grunt in surprise before he was being dragged along, forced into a sprint as Vernon wove through the crowded docks.“It was your ship,” Iorveth corrected, ducking to avoid colliding with a crate of fish.“I’m reclaiming it.”Iorveth pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”They made it aboard without anyone noticing.A miracle, really, considering Vernon was several drinks deep and still laughing under his breath about how easy this was.“This is the stupidest thing we have ever done,” he muttered as Vernon worked at the ropes, untying the moorings with the ease of someone who had done this before.“That’s not true,” Vernon said, tossing the last line into the harbor. “We’ve done much worse.”Iorveth scoffed. “Name one thing.”Vernon grinned. “You.”Iorveth rolled his eye so hard he nearly saw his own brain.Despite his questionable sobriety, Vernon still knew his ship.He moved with muscle memory, hands finding the right ropes, the right knots, the right way to coax The Percival into motion.Iorveth, despite his complaints, helped. Because at this point, why the hell not?The sails unfurled. The ship shifted, creaking like an old warhorse ready for battle.The moment the wind caught the canvas, the ship lurched forward.The harbor slipped away behind them.And still—no one had noticed.Vernon laughed, leaning back against the wheel.“See?” he said, arms wide. “Smooth as silk.”They were just into open water when the first poor bastard stumbled up from below deck.The sailor yawned as he stepped onto the deck, scratching his stomach.Then he froze.He blinked at Vernon. Then at Iorveth. Then at the open sea rolling beneath them.Another long, slow blink.“…Who the fuck are you?”Vernon, still a little drunk, still grinning like an idiot, spread his arms.“I’m the captain now...again.”The sailor blinked harder.Then—realization.“Oh, for fuck’s sake—BOYS! WAKE UP!”The ship erupted into chaos as dozens of groggy, confused sailors stumbled onto the deck, all of them trying to piece together what the hell was happening.Some immediately accepted their fate.
Some immediately started swearing.
One poor soul looked out at the open sea, turned back with a look of pure horror, and shouted:“WHERE THE HELL ARE WE GOING?!”Vernon—still grinning, still entirely too pleased with himself—clapped his hands together.“Skellige.”The reaction was immediate.Groans. Curses. A man dramatically dropping to his knees.“Oh, fuck me—Skellige?!”
“Gods, I can already feel the cold in my balls.”
“We’re going to die!”A couple of the smarter men immediately drew weapons.One of them—a broad-shouldered brute with a nasty-looking cutlass—pointed it directly at Vernon.“Turn the ship around. Now.”Vernon smirked.The big man swung, expecting a slow, drunk idiot.Instead, he got nothing but air. By the time he blinked, Vernon was behind him, one arm around his throat, a dagger pressed neatly to his ribs.“Now, now,” Vernon purred, voice too smug for anyone’s good, “that’s no way to treat your new captain.”Meanwhile—Another man lunged for Iorveth.This was, in a word, a mistake.Iorveth didn’t even bother drawing a weapon.He just moved.One step, one turn, one flick of his wrist—and the sailor found himself flat on his ass with a boot pressed against his throat.Iorveth sighed, like this was all very inconvenient for him personally.Vernon, still holding his hostage, smirked.“Look, you want to mutiny? Fine. Kill me, throw me overboard, turn this ship around—if you think you can.”The crew hesitated.And that was the opening Vernon needed.“You’ve got two options,” he went on, grinning like the bastard he was. “You do your part and get us to Skellige, earn your coin—or you jump ship and see if you can swim back before the sharks get hungry.”Iorveth, ever helpful, added, “I’d recommend jumping now, before we reach deep water. Sharks prefer desperate men. They thrash more.”A few men immediately shut up.A long pause.Then someone sighed heavily.“Might as well get paid for it.”A few others nodded.A handful of men just started working the ship like nothing happened.One of the drunker sailors laughed, clapping Vernon on the back. “Hells, I like you already.” Another muttered, “I hate this fucking job.”And just like that—the mutiny was over.Vernon grinned, turning back toward the wheel.“Alright then, lads—next stop, Skellige!”Vernon woke up to the worst headache of his life.His skull felt like it had been split open.His mouth was dry as sand.And worse—far, far worse—he could feel the ship moving.No.No, no, no.That was a dream.A snort came from the other side of the cabin.“You’re awake.”Oh, fuck.Vernon cracked one eye open.Iorveth was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching him like an amused cat watching a particularly stupid bird.Vernon groaned.“Please,” he rasped, voice rough with misery, “tell me I just had a really elaborate, deeply unfortunate nightmare.”Iorveth sipped his tea, loudly.“Nope.”Vernon closed his eyes again.“Would you like to hear the full account of last night’s crimes?”“No.”“A shame.”Iorveth set down his cup, very deliberately.Then he clapped Vernon on the shoulder.“Come on, Captain,” he said, entirely too pleased. “You have a ship to run.”Vernon groaned louder.The trip to Skellige was relatively uneventful—at least, as uneventful as things could be after an impromptu ship heist.The weather held. The winds were favorable.And Vernon Roche—former commander, former guerrilla, former respectable(ish) man—was having the time of his fucking life.Turns out, that made him a damn good pirate captain.And he was enjoying it.He barked orders like a seasoned sailor, leading with grins and sharp laughter. He played Gwent with the crew, cheated at dice, and occasionally got way too into the role of a stereotypical pirate.“Oi, you lot! Fetch me rum and riches, or I’ll make ye swab the decks ‘til your legs fall off!”A beat of silence.One of the sailors gave him a deeply unimpressed look. “Captain, we are literally getting paid.”Iorveth, from where he sat cleaning his knives, didn’t even look up. “Please shut the fuck up, Roche.”Vernon, still grinning, patted the helm. “Aye, you’re all a miserable lot. More rum for me.”As they neared the outer islands, Iorveth—because he had nothing better to do—climbed the main mast, settling into the crow’s nest. From his vantage point, he scanned the waters, sharp eyes catching glimmers beneath the waves—half-sunken chests, floating crates, the telltale signs of smuggler caches.He called the locations down to Vernon."Two points starboard—chest just under the reef.”Vernon turned the wheel, barking orders with an entirely unearned sense of authority.They hit five smuggler caches before reaching Skellige, hauling up chests of coin, weapons, jewelry, and other contraband.By the time they neared the islands, Vernon stood in front of his crew, grinning like a bastard, and tossed a heavy purse of crowns onto the deck.“Right, lads—your pay.”Silence.One of the sailors—the same brute who had tried to start a mutiny—picked up the purse and weighed it in his hands. Then, slowly, he looked up.“…You’re actually paying us?”Vernon raised a brow. “What kind of man do you take me for?”Iorveth coughed something that sounded suspiciously like “a thief.”Vernon ignored him.“I may have commandeered this fine vessel,” he continued, “but I’m an honest pirate, damn it.”A long pause.Then the big man shook his head, snorted, and pocketed his share.“…You’re still an absolute menace, Captain.”“That,” Vernon said smugly, “I won’t argue with.”And just like that, the crew was officially his.By the time they saw the jagged cliffs of Ard Skellig rising in the distance, The Percival was running smooth, her crew grumbling, but content, and Vernon—Vernon fucking Roche—Was a pirate.They dock in Kaer Trolde, the sharp sea air thick with salt and the distant smell of roasting meat and burning pine. The Percival groans as it settles into the harbor, her crew already shouting to secure the mooring lines.Iorveth watches Vernon expectantly as they disembark.“Alright, Captain,” he says, voice dry. “Now what?”Vernon freezes.“…I have no fucking idea,” he admits, almost breathless.Iorveth bursts out laughing. Loud, sharp, delighted.He turns to Iorveth, at a complete loss. “I think… we just do whatever we want?”Iorveth sighed and gestured to the grand hall. “Come on. If drinking got us here, drinking will get us through this.”The grand hall was already alive with raucous laughter, the thick scent of ale, and the clang of fists meeting flesh. A ring had formed in the center, where men the size of bears threw punches that could have felled trees.Vernon took one look and grinned. “Now that’s what I call a welcome.”One drink turned into two, then three, and somehow, neither of them were entirely sure how, Vernon and Iorveth found themselves signed up for the ranked fistfighting tournament.Vernon, foolishly confident, rolled his shoulders and stepped into the ring. “Just a brawl,” he muttered. “I’ve done worse.”Then his opponent hit him so hard his ancestors felt it.“FUCK ME—” Vernon barely dodged the follow-up punch, shaking out his rattled brain. “WHY IS EVERY MAN HERE BUILT LIKE A FUCKING OX?”Iorveth, watching from the sidelines with a mug of mead, took a slow sip. “You could always surrender.”Vernon spat blood onto the floorboards. “Like hell.”Through sheer, unrelenting stubbornness, Vernon bulldozed his way through his fights. Iorveth, meanwhile, danced around his opponents like a specter, making them look slow and ridiculous as he dodged with infuriating ease, striking only when it was absolutely necessary.Then came the final match.Each other.The anticipation in the mead hall was electric. Bets had been placed, mead had been spilled, and the crowd was hungry for a brutal, bloody brawl.And oh, they would get a fight.Just… not the one they expected.Vernon cracked his knuckles as he stepped into the circle. Iorveth rolled his shoulders, tilting his head to either side, letting the tension settle.A hush fell over the crowd.Then Iorveth lunged.The impact sent Vernon staggering back, but not from a real hit. It was precise, calculated—the kind of push that set the stage for something far greater. He caught himself, pivoting, and retaliated with a swing that looked vicious but stopped just short of Iorveth’s jaw.Gasps rippled through the audience.Vernon smirked.Iorveth smirked back.They were going to put on a fucking show.The next exchange was a dance . Iorveth twisted and wove like a serpent, just barely avoiding Vernon’s swings, while Vernon fought with the precision of a spy who had learned how to be dramatic. Every movement was sharp, every dodge exaggerated just enough to make the crowd feel the near-miss. They moved in a practiced rhythm, instinctually mirroring each other, turning what should have been a drunken brawl into something that felt almost… mythic.The hall fell silent, watching.Then, like a story unfolding, the tide shifted.Vernon allowed himself to get thrown—tumbling into a table, rolling to his feet just as Iorveth lunged again. The move was too perfect, too smooth to be real, but the crowd didn’t care. They roared .Iorveth spun, sweeping Vernon’s legs out from under him. Vernon landed hard, but he kicked up, sending Iorveth staggering back. They circled each other, breathing hard, grinning like madmen.Then they escalated.Vernon feigned a wild haymaker, and Iorveth ducked, twisting to throw him, but at the last second, Vernon caught Iorveth’s arm— dipping him backward like a lover in the final act of a tragic play.A gasp rippled through the audience.Somewhere, someone sobbed .Iorveth, eyes gleaming, let out a sharp laugh. “You absolute bastard.”Vernon grinned down at him. “You love it.”Then, in the most ridiculous move of all, they both collapsed , dramatically rolling apart as if they had struck each other in a perfect, final blow.The silence was staggering .Then— Applause . Cheers .The mead hall erupted .Men wiped their eyes. Some clapped so hard their hands went red. Coins changed hands in stunned silence. Someone screamed, “I’LL TELL MY GRANDCHILDREN OF THIS DAY.”The fight was declared a tie.Neither of them was mad about it.They won armor, weapons, and a ridiculous amount of coin.Vernon, still breathless, still grinning, held up their winnings. “What the fuck are we supposed to do with this?”Iorveth shrugged. “Sell it. Wear it. Maybe start a clan war.”Vernon barked a laugh.The mead hall was still buzzing as they left, people still talking about the fight, still reliving every moment.And as they stepped into the cold Skellige air, Iorveth turned to him, brow raised.“You did dip me.”Vernon smirked. “You loved it.”As spring leaned onward, Vernon made the mistake of mentioning he had never tried Skellige delicacies. The locals, eager to rectify this, placed a plate of hákarl—fermented shark—in front of him.He took one bite and gagged so violently a man three tables away clutched his own throat in sympathy.“IT TASTES LIKE SOMETHING CRAWLED OUT OF A GRAVE.”Iorveth, chewing his own piece with ease, didn’t even look at him. “Its an acquired taste ”“ACQUIRED BY WHO? CORPSES?”Iorveth sighed, tossing another piece into his mouth. “You’re so dramatic.”They didn’t mean to take a contract.They were just passing through a village—a cold, wind-beaten settlement nestled at the edge of a dense, ancient forest—w,hen they stumbled upon the argument.The village elder, insisting the spirit was to be respected, the youthful warrior calling for vengeance. A body lay in the center of the gathering. Twisted, contorted, its limbs half-consumed by roots that had grown through the corpse.“This is a monster,” Sven growled. “And we’ll end up like him”—he gestured to the ruined body—“if we do nothing.”The elder shook his head. “We’ve always lived in its shadow. It makes us strong.”“It kills us.”Vernon had heard enough.“That sounds like a you problem,” he muttered, nudging Iorveth to keep walking.Iorveth, watching the corpse, exhaled sharply. “That sounds like a Leshen .”Vernon paused. “…A what ?”Iorveth tilted his head toward the forest. “A guardian spirit. Old. It does not simply kill . It culls.”Vernon narrowed his eyes. “Culls what, exactly?”Iorveth’s gaze flickered to the men. “Those who step too far.”Vernon scoffed. “So it’s a territorial bastard.”“It is older than territory.”Vernon hated cryptic elven bullshit.But curiosity—dangerous, stupid curiosity—itched at the back of his skull.“Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s go see the damn thing.”~ ~ ~ ~After slaying a few wolves and collecting their hearts, at the behest of Iorveth, they set off into the forest. And the forest swallowed them whole. The deeper they ventured, the more the world itself seemed to shift—roots curling unnaturally, twisting like grasping fingers. Shadows stretched too long. Then the ground moved.Vernon stopped dead as the earth shifted, as bark cracked and split open like old wounds, and a shape unfurled from the trees themselves.A towering form, crowned with antlers that tangled like dead branches. A skull-like face, hollow eyes glowing with unnatural light. Its fingers stretched into claws, its presence crackling like a storm held in a single breath.The Leshen.It watched them.Not moving. Not attacking. Simply... waiting .Vernon’s hand went to his sword.Iorveth grabbed his wrist. Tight.“No,” he murmured, voice low, steady.Vernon exhaled sharply through his nose. His instincts screamed at him to do something —to cut, to run, to act .Iorveth knelt, reaching into his satchel. Carefully, deliberately, he withdrew the wolves hearts—an offering.He set it at the creature’s feet.For a long, unbearable moment, the Leshen did nothing.Then, slowly, it moved.Not forward. Around them .Its gaze lingered. Assessing. Judging.It plucked the feather from Iorveth’s bandana, poking it through the moss that covered its shoulders. Then—without a sound—it turned.And vanished into the trees.The silence it left behind was deafening .Vernon let out the breath he’d been holding. “That’s it? It’s just... gone ?”Iorveth, still kneeling, reached out.At their feet, where the offering had been placed, something new lay in the dirt.A charm.Twisted wood, carved with runes neither of them recognized.A gift.A mark.Iorveth lifted it, running his thumb over the etchings. His lips curled into something unreadable.Vernon, still tense, frowned. “Did we just... get a Leshen’s blessing ?”Iorveth shrugged, slipping the charm into his pocket.“Or a curse,” he mused. “We’ll find out later.”As summer deepened, Iorveth convinced Vernon to go whale watching.“We could go see them,” he had said. “Might be nice.”Vernon had narrowed his eyes. “You mean voluntarily get in a boat and just sit there, watching? No hunting? No fighting?”“Yes.”Vernon had grumbled the entire way. But when the first whale breached—massive and ancient, cutting through the waves like some god of the deep—he fell silent. The sheer scale of it, the slow, graceful power, left him breathless.Then a whale slapped its tail into the water, drenching them both.“FUCK!”Iorveth, laughing so hard he nearly fell into the sea, was no help at all.When the leaves began to change color, Iorveth dragged Vernon up the winding path toward Gedyneith, weaving through ancient oaks and stone altars, muttering something about culture and expanding perspectives and not being an ignorant human all his life. Vernon immediately hated it.Everything was too quiet. Too self-important. The air smelled like existential dread that came from being surrounded by men who talked in riddles and thought that staring at trees for hours counted as meaningful discourse.Vernon could feel the druids watching him. Judging. They all looked the same—hooded, bearded, weathered like old stone, and probably convinced that drinking rainwater infused with oak bark made them enlightened.Iorveth, naturally, was right at home.“I hate this,” Vernon muttered, crossing his arms as they stepped onto the stone clearing where a ring of ancient oaks loomed, marking the heart of Gedyneith.Iorveth smirked. “Of course you do.”A few druids turned at their arrival, but it was Ermion who approached first—his staff tapping against the earth as he stepped forward.Vernon had met him once before—briefly, at Kaer Morhen, when the Wild Hunt had stormed the keep..Ermion stopped before him, his deep-set eyes sweeping him over in a slow, assessing way.“You have changed, Roche,” he said at last, his voice as rough as the cliffs that surrounded the islands.Vernon held his gaze, keeping his expression blank.Knowing damn well he used to be a tree.“Yep,” he said flatly.Ermion narrowed his eyes, as if he could see something beneath the skin, something Vernon didn’t want him looking at too closely.Then he muttered something low in Elder Speech, words that Vernon didn’t understand.Iorveth—who did understand—smirked like a bastard.Vernon frowned. “What?”Iorveth just waved a hand, as if brushing off the question. “Nothing important.”“Mm,” Ermion hummed, still watching him, still looking at him like he was something else entirely.Vernon hated that, too.Ermion studied him for a moment longer, then reached into his robes and pulled out a bottle of dark glass, pressing it into Vernon’s hands.“A gift,” he said. “Rare Skellige mead. Drink wisely.”Iorveth was already reaching for the cork. “Sure.”Vernon smacked his hand away.Ermion exhaled, shaking his head like he had already resigned himself to the fact that these two idiots were not, in fact, going to drink wisely. Then, as if remembering something, he glanced at Iorveth, speaking in Elder Speech once more.Iorveth’s smirk deepened.Vernon squinted. “Alright, what the hell did he just say?”Ermion gave a cryptic smile.Iorveth shrugged, looking way too smug. Vernon stared between them. “…I hate both of you.”Ermion inclined his head. “May the path ahead be clear, Roche.”Vernon, knowing damn well it wouldn’t be: “Sure.”They left Gedyneith with the weight of Ermion’s words lingering in the air, though Vernon tried to ignore it, but the feeling of something unseen coiling in the back of his mind, something shifting, something waiting.And then, because the gods had a sense of humor, they heard about the Cave of Dreams. “You eat the herbs, and you face your greatest fears,” the Skelliger guide explained.Vernon swallowed hard. He wanted clarity, even if it terrified him.The entrance to the cave gaped before them, mouth-like, lined with jagged rocks slick with mist. Inside, torches flickered along the damp walls, their light barely reaching the depths beyond. The Skelligers who accompanied them prepared bowls of hallucinogenic herbs, one to eat, and the other to be burned as a fine paste, seeping thick, pungent smoke.“Should be fun,” Iorveth smirked as they stepped forward.“You just want to trip balls.” Roche murmured. “That too.”They ate the herbs without hesitation.Vernon wasn’t sure what to expect.Didn’t expect it to hit so fast.  A shared vision.The cave was glowing, shimmering with smoke and now had strange markings on the walls. They began walking deeper into the cave, following a floating whale’s path Vernon barely had time to process it before the world lurched.Darkness.His breath caught—then stopped entirely.Heavy. Absolute.For a moment, he thought he had simply closed his eyes.But he couldn’t open them.He couldn’t move.He couldn’t breathe.Oh.
Oh, fuck.He wasn’t just in the dark. He was beneath it.Buried.The weight of the earth pressed in around him, cold and unyielding. He tried to move his arms, his legs, but there was nothing—no resistance, no sensation. No body. Just an overwhelming, crushing stillness.And in that stillness, realization came like ice in his veins.I’m dead.Not dying. Not wounded, clinging to life.
Dead.And there was nothing.No afterlife. No hall of heroes. No golden fields or fiery abyss.
Just this. Just black.There was no heartbeat in his chest. No breath in his lungs.
No Vernon Roche left to be.Panic surged in him, sharp and mindless. He tried to scream, to claw his way out, but his mouth didn’t move. His fingers—where were his fingers? Where was he?There had been battles. Blood. War. A life full of something, even if it was pain. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.Because now there was nothing.
And there never would be again.It was unbearable.It was forever.And then—A tremor. Faint at first, then stronger. A distant, muffled sound—dull thuds, the scrape of something tearing through earth.Digging.Vernon’s nonexistent lungs seized.
He heard it.Again.Then again.And then—Light.A crack in the dark. The shuddering of earth as something punched through.A hand.A wrist, dirt-streaked, veins pulsing with life.Iorveth.His fingers curled into the fabric of Vernon’s tunic, real, strong, unyielding, and yanked him forward.Vernon gasped.Air flooded his lungs. His heart roared back to life. Blood surged through him like wildfire, searing away the cold, the stillness, the nothing.Alive.
He was alive.And Iorveth—panting, streaked in dirt and sweat, eyes dark with something fierce and unshaken—looked him dead in the eyes and snarled:“Not without me.”And then—They were back.In the very regular, dim, non-mystic cave.Vernon stumbled, still reeling, his knees nearly giving out beneath him. His hands—real hands, solid hands—trembled at his sides.He turned sharply to Iorveth, who was still, silent, unreadable.Vernon swallowed, hard.“…That was mine.” His voice came out rough. “We—we didn’t do yours.”Iorveth blinked. Then—slowly—he shrugged.
Calm. Certain."Yes, we did." They spent the last bit of autumn tying up loose ends—selling off some of their ill-gotten treasures, trading old weapons for new ones, rounding up what was left of their old crew and hiring new hands. It was time to get off the islands before the season turned, winter in skellige was harsher than they were willing to weather. They spent one last night drinking on the cliffs, watching the waves crash against the jagged shores. The air smelled of salt and pine, the sky endless and vast above them.“So,” Vernon muses, rolling a coin between his fingers, “where do we go next?”Iorveth shivered with the breeze “Somewhere warmer.”Vernon snorted, flipping the coin into the air and catching it. “Aye, no argument there.”Iorveth, arms crossed against the bite of the wind, glanced sideways at him. “You have that look.”“What look?”“The one that means you’re about to say something incredibly stupid.”Vernon grinned, easy and sharp. “I was thinking Toussaint. ”Iorveth made a noise deep in his throat, something caught between amusement and distaste. “You would suggest that overgrown vineyard of a duchy.”“Wine, sunshine, warm beds, knights too pompous to know when they’re being insulted—what’s not to love?” Vernon stretched out his legs, letting the sea wind whip his hair back. “And besides, you owe Geralt an apology.”Iorveth arched a brow. “For what?”“For leaving so abruptly outside Gors Velen.” Vernon smirked, tilting his head. “Didn’t even say goodbye. Poor bastard probably thinks you died.”Iorveth snorted. “Geralt’s too cynical to think I’d die that easily.”“Well, he is the world’s luckiest witcher.” Vernon flipped the coin in his fingers again, catching it without looking. “Wouldn’t hurt to let him know we’re still alive.”Iorveth exhaled sharply, arms crossed against the bite of the wind. “I think I’d rather freeze to death.”Vernon laughed, leaning back on his elbows, watching the stars burn above the black sea. “Toussaint, then.”Iorveth shook his head, but he was smiling.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Beauclair Harbor, Along the Sansetour River 
 They arrived in Beauclair with all the grace and decorum of two men who had absolutely no right to be there.The Percival glided into the high-end marina like she belonged among the gleaming pleasure yachts and ornate trade galleons - illusion solely maintained by Vernon’s unshakable confidence.“Vernon, listen,” Iorveth muttered as they pulled. “We need to blend in. Keep it subtle.”“Name and Vessel?” questioned a harbor master, appearing on the landing dock.Vernon puffed up his chest, “Caelan An Craite, Merchant Prince of Skellige, sailing The Percival” flashing a gwent-won signet ring to the man.Iorveth exhaled sharply, looking toward the city as if considering walking into sea instead.The second their boots hit the dock, Vernon swept forward like he owned the place.  He cut a striking figure, cloak billowing just right, boots clicking against the polished stone, radiating exactly the kind of presence that made people whisper.Iorveth followed at a safe distance, looking exactly like a very reluctant bodyguard.“Stop sulking,” Vernon muttered under his breath. “You’re ruining the illusion.”“I’m ruining it?” Iorveth hissed. “You just declared yourself a prince. ”“ Merchant prince,” Vernon corrected smoothly. “Completely different.”Iorveth pinched the bridge of his nose.And then, just to make things worse, Vernon swept dramatically into the nearest vineyard.The establishment, draped in ivy and far too expensive for any sane person to drink at, was immediately enchanted by their presence. A noblewoman gasped softly into her lace gloves. A wealthy baron raised an intrigued brow.Vernon flashed the gwent-won signet ring again.“Your finest vintages,” he said, absolutely not paying for anything.Iorveth stared as free glasses of Beauclair’s most exquisite wines were poured before them.“I hate you,” Iorveth muttered, watching as Vernon flirted effortlessly with a noblewoman who had introduced herself as Duchess Something-or-Other. “Drink your wine, trusted war advisor, ” Vernon murmured between sips.Iorveth considered breaking his own glass over Vernon’s head.Instead, he sighed, drank, and resigned himself to the fact that they were never leaving this city unnoticed.By the time they ventured into the bustling streets, the rumors had already started. "A noble from Skellige - imagine! "
"A merchant prince, no less! And did you see his companion? A bodyguard? A sorcerer?"
"They say his ship is filled with treasures from the isles - gold, spices, rare Skelligan mead!" Iorveth, catching snippets of conversation, looked like he wanted to die on the spot.Vernon, pleased beyond reason, adjusted his collar and strolled down the boulevard as if he had personally conquered Toussaint in single combat.  Vernon, lounging in his chair like he belonged among Beauclair’s finest, raised his glass for another sip when a familiar voice rumbled behind them"Well, I'll be damned."Both he and Iorveth turned at the same time, and there stood Geralt, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, silver hair catching the late afternoon light. He looked them over, taking in the fine wine, the absurd luxury, the fact that they were both very much alive, and huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh."Heard word of a Skelligan noble and his one-eyed war advisor drinking their way through Beauclair," he said, shaking his head. "Took a gamble it was you two idiots."Vernon grinned wide, setting his glass down with a clink. “And here I thought we'd get at least a week before you found us.”"Please," Geralt scoffed, "you're about as subtle as a drunk troll in a glass shop."Iorveth chuckled, standing just as Geralt stepped forward, clasping his forearm in a rare, genuine show of camaraderie."You're doing well," Geralt said simply, voice softer.Iorveth smirked, squeezing back. "Better than ever before, despite the piracy.""So I hear, care to explain?" Geralt turned to Vernon with an arched brow. "Merchant prince? "Vernon shrugged, all mock innocence. " Emhyr Var Emreis, spice merchant wouldn’t work anymore."Geralt barked a laugh. Vernon lifted his glass in salute. Geralt shook his head, still smiling, and pulled out a chair. "Alright, tell me everything. Where the hell have you two been?"Iorveth smirked, waving to the serving girl. "Better get another bottle."  Naturally, Geralt invited them to Corvo Bianco, and neither of them hesitated to accept.It was ridiculously comfortable. Vernon took to it instantly, lounging shirtless on the terrace with a glass in hand like he’d been born for noble life. Iorveth took to picking his own grapes and spent much of his time barefoot, knee-deep in a wooden basin of grapes, crushing them beneath his feet like a man on a mission, insisting he create his own blend of wine. Then the invitation came.A gilded letter, hand-delivered by an impeccably dressed courier bearing the insignia of the Duchess.Duchess Ysabeau Henrietta , had heard of "Caelan An Craite, Merchant Prince of Skellige, and his formidable war advisor" and cordially invited them to an audience at the Ducal Palace.Vernon and Iorveth gulped in unison.Geralt, watching their expressions, smirked into his wine. “Relax. She’s not going to hang you for lying about being Skelligan nobles.”Vernon squinted at him. “How sure of that are you?”“Eighty percent.”“That’s not enough.”But avoiding an invitation from a ruling duchess wasn’t an option-so they dressed appropriately and followed Geralt to the palace.  The meeting went… surprisingly well.Geralt casually informed the Duchess that the mysterious Skelligan noble was, in fact, Vernon Roche, former Temerian special forces commander , and Iorveth, ex-Scoia’tael commander, infamous across the Continent.There was a pause.A very long pause.Vernon started mentally drafting his will.Then-Princess Ysabeau lit up."Legends! In my court!" She clapped her hands together, delighted. "Oh, this is far better than some nobleman."Vernon blinked. Iorveth narrowed his eye.Yasbeau Henrietta sipped her wine, entirely unbothered."I suppose we should be cross about the deception," she mused, "but really, what a delightful tale! You two must tell me everything over dinner."They exchanged glances.Geralt smirked.Dinner was lavish. Conversation flowed. Tales of the far past, and the recent present. The royal family was enchanted by the tale, gasping in horror and sighing in awe in all the appropriate places.Before the night ended Ysabeau insisted they take part in the upcoming tournament.Vernon, who had already been mentally calculating how to humiliate knights in a fair duel before her offer was even presented, graciously accepted. Iorveth pondered if he would have to wear the bulky annoying armor. And just like that-They were signed up for the grand tournament of Toussaint.  The armors arrived a few days before the tournament, personally crafted by Toussaint’s finest artisans.Vernon didn’t expect to care.
And yet, when the chestplate was presented to him-polished steel, masterfully forged, the silver lilies of Temeria emblazoned on the breast-he felt something lodge itself in his throat.The lilies were bright and proud, not tattered or fading. Not a relic of a fallen kingdom, but something whole, something real.It shouldn’t have mattered. Temeria was gone. The lilies had been trampled beneath Nilfgaard’s boots, scattered into history. But here they were, shining on his chest like they had never left.His fingers grazed the insignia, feeling the raised metal. New. Whole. Undaunted.Iorveth, standing beside him as the artisans revealed his own armor, was grinning.Unlike Vernon, he had specifically requested his insignia.
Three arrows, crossing in a sigil of the Scoia’tael.The artisans hadn’t questioned it-only taken the design and turned it into something beautiful and fierce.Vernon gave him a sidelong glance. “You really put a guerrilla faction on knightly armor?”Iorveth, adjusting the gauntlets with a satisfied hum, smirked.“If Nilfgaard can knight a witcher, Toussaint can knight a Scoia’tael.”  Knights from all across the land stood in ceremonial formation, draped in resplendent armor, their squires and retainers bustling about. It was all very grand. Very noble. Very, very ridiculous.And yet-Vernon and Iorveth stood among them.Now they weren’t outlaws or relics of a bygone war.
They were knights of Toussaint.For the duration of the tournament, anyway."Knights make vows to which they hold for the duration of the tournament," the herald announced, voice carrying across the courtyard. "Each swears upon something which, to him, represents his most cherished virtue."Vernon and Iorveth exchanged a glance.
Iorveth smirked.
Vernon sighed.One by one, knights stepped forward, declaring their oaths with solemn voices."I swear upon the honor of my house!" one knight proclaimed."I swear upon the love of my lady!" declared another."I swear upon the Heron!"Vernon muttered under his breath, "I swear this is the most absurd thing I’ve ever done."Then-it was their turn.Vernon stepped forward first.
Vernon squared his shoulders, stepping forward first.He should have gone with something easy. Something meaningless. Some poetic drivel about courage or honor.
Instead, his mouth betrayed him.He placed a hand over the Temerian lilies on his chest, took a slow breath, and before he could stop himself, declared,“I swear upon loyalty - to stand beside the one I trust most, without hesitation, without doubt, without fear.”A murmur rippled through the crowd.Vernon felt the weight of what he had just said immediately.

And when he turned his head, Iorveth was already watching him.He stepped forward without breaking eye contact, placing a hand over the three arrows on his chest.Iorveth, grinning like he had just won the entire tournament before it even began, spoke.“And I swear upon defiance - to fight beside the one who challenges me most, until the day we fall, or the world does first.”The silence was immediate.And long.The gathered knights exchanged looks.A few nobles whispered furiously amongst themselves.Somewhere, someone actually sighed dreamily.One knight looked distinctly uncomfortable. Another looked mildly offended.Geralt, standing off to the side, pinched the bridge of his nose.The herald, after a pause that felt like eternity, cleared his throat loudly.“Ahem. Sworn and witnessed.”Iorveth, pleased beyond reason, turned to Vernon with a smirk.   The knights of Toussaint rode gleaming destriers, their armor polished to a blinding sheen, their lances and bows crafted with a care that spoke of artistry as much as warfare. The entire event felt more like a grand theater production than a proper contest.Iorveth absolutely ruined the archery contest.Vernon had abstained from that particular event-not because he was a bad shot, but because he knew that standing next to Iorveth in a contest of marksmanship was an invitation for humiliation.He fired his first shot.It landed dead center.So did the second.So did every damn arrow after that.By the end of it, he wasn’t even looking at the targets. He was turning, mid-stride, loosing arrows without breaking his pace, shooting over his shoulder with his back to the target.The crowd lost their minds. By the time the contest was over, the other competitors had simply accepted their fate. One knight sighed, took off his helmet, and muttered something about retiring.Iorveth, grinning, gave an exaggerated bow before sauntering off the field.  The horse race with target striking was-shockingly-fun.They weren’t expected to win.Unlike the other competitors-who had been training for this for years -they had walked in with absolutely zero preparation and absolutely no plan.But that didn’t stop them from making a scene. Vernon took to the horseback riding portion effortlessly. He was fast, confident, charging through the course like he had a point to prove. The problem was, every time he lined up a shot for the targets-he missed.“FUCK!”Iorveth, riding ahead, twisted in his saddle, loosed an arrow, and struck the target Vernon had just failed to hit.Vernon narrowed his eyes. “That wasn’t yours!”Iorveth shrugged, looking entirely too pleased. “Consider it charity.”Vernon nearly leapt off his horse just to punch him.Still-they both finished strong, neither of them winning, but neither of them losing either.And judging by the wild cheers of the audience, they had provided an excellent show.  They flat-out refused to sign up for the melee.“I am not dying in Toussaint,” Vernon muttered.Iorveth nodded. “Agreed.”So instead, they stood by and watched as far too many armored men beat each other senseless with blunted weapons that still managed to draw blood.They placed bets.They argued about technique.Vernon kept pointing out openings in people’s defenses.
Iorveth kept scoffing and saying, “You always go for brute force, you lack finesse.”Vernon elbowed him. “Says the one who kicked a man in the stomach during his duel.”Iorveth shrugged. “I have excellent form.”By the time the final match came-the reigning champion versus the new victor-they were both deeply invested, arguing over who had the better footwork and who was clearly getting tired too fast.When the champion finally crushed his opponent into the dirt, Vernon just whistled.
Iorveth nodded. “Not bad.”And that was the end of that.  By the time the final event had drawn to a close, the festival grounds were still alive with revelry-knights boasting their victories, noblewomen fanning themselves over particularly dashing warriors, bards already composing ridiculously embellished tales about the day’s events.By the time they returned to Corvo Bianco, the exhaustion and excitement of the day had set in like a lead weight.It was only barely conscious effort that got them into bed.The moon was high by the time Vernon pulled off the last of his undershirt, tossing it somewhere he absolutely would not remember in the morning.Iorveth didn’t even bother. He had collapsed backward onto the mattress, stretching his arms above his head, exhaling long and slow, entirely bonelessVernon flopped onto the bed and half-sprawled over Iorveth without a second thought.A grunt from the elf. A sharp exhale.“Comfortable?” Iorveth chuckledVernon shifted slightly, pressing his forehead against the warmth of Iorveth’s shoulder. “Mmm.”That was about the extent of what he could articulate.Iorveth huffed out a laugh, but his arms curled around him anyway, one hand settling against the small of Vernon’s back, the other weaving through his hair, absentmindedly.They were too tired to fight it.Too warm. Too comfortable..For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of the wind outside, the soft crackle of the fire, the rhythmic rise and fall of their breathing.Then, half-asleep, Vernon murmured“…Could’ve won the melee.”Iorveth snorted.“Would’ve died.”Vernon, eyes already closed, shrugged against him. “Would’ve been funny, though.”A soft chuckle. Then a sigh.Iorveth tucked him closer, pressing his lips to Vernon’s temple for a moment.And just like that, they slept.  The next morning Vernon, still half-buried in blankets, groaned as he felt the empty space beside him.He peeled one eye open.Iorveth was already gone.Vernon yawned, running a hand through his hair as he stepped further onto the patio. He squinted against the early sunlight, watching Iorveth handle the ingredients with all the seriousness of planning a war campaign.He stared at the scene for a long moment. The basin of foot-stomped grapes, the various spices and berries laid out with precision, the majordomo dutifully taking notes as if this were a royal decree.Then, with a smile, he leaned against the doorway. "You’re really doing this."Iorveth looked up “I have the time...This one’s for us. ”Vernon rolled his shoulders and made his way over, grabbing an apple off a nearby platter and biting into it as he surveyed Iorveth’s project. The ingredients all lined up like pieces on a chessboard, waiting to be combined into something bold and unpredictable.The majordomo cleared his throat, dipping his quill into ink. "So, your final choices for flavor notes are Rowan berries, cinnamon, spiced pepper, and dried roses?"Iorveth ran a hand along the rim of the wooden barrel, staring at the ingredients before him like he was seeing the future in them. He smiled. “Yes. I think that will do nicely. Bit of bite, bit of soft.”The majordomo nodded approvingly. "Indeed, sir. It will have a rich, deep base with earthy and smoky notes. Warm, spiced elements… I admit the roses were a bit of a surprise." He tapped his quill against his parchment. "But they will bring an elegant and defiant finish to the flavor.”Vernon made a vague, tired gesture with his apple. "Elegant and defiant. Sounds about right.""Go back to bed, dhoine."Vernon chewed, swallowed, and shook his head. "Nope. I’m hoping BB will get to the part where we set the barrels on fire soon.” “I hate to bear the bad news, but wine requires gently toasted oak, not charred.” the majordomo let him down gently. Vernon scowled and plopped himself down on a sunny reclining chair and closed his eyes, relaxing back into the sun-warmed cushions. Iorveth and the majordomo went about adding the chosen flavors into the wine, and then the steward took his leave, leaving Iorveth to the slow, methodical task of stirring.Time passed.Vernon wasn’t sure when his eyes had shut or when the weight of the sun-warmed cushions had pulled him under, but something soft stirred him back. A voice. Low, steady, threaded with quiet sorrow.Oh, great Dana Meadbh
Eternal One
I call to you in sorrow
And with a broken heart.His brow furrowed, body sluggish with lingering sleep.Long have I wandered
Through forests, through time,
But now I stand before thee
Where silent roots entwine.Recognition clawed at the edges of his mind, but it was muffled, tangled in the haze between waking and dreaming.Then, realization.It was Iorveth.Singing.Vernon’s breath caught. He cracked his eyes open, slow, careful, unwilling to shatter the moment too soon. Iorveth sat on a low wooden stool, back turned, a steady hand swirling the darkening wine. The melody wove around him, curling like mist over the patio, wrapping itself in the air between them.I seek a man who sleeps in wood,
A soul lost in the trees.
I swore I would not leave him
And yet he does not see.A sharp inhale. Vernon sat up, his chest tightening, the warmth of sleep stripped away in an instant.The song wasn’t just about loss.It was about him. Iorveth’s voice was unwavering, but there was something raw in the edges of it, something that ached. He kept stirring, slow and methodical, as if speaking this grief aloud would summon it into existence.This man, this ghost, this fleeting thing,
He fought, he burned, he bled.
And now the wind calls only me
For he is lost instead.Vernon pushed himself to his feet, hands bracing against the chair for balance. The ground felt unsteady beneath him, but he stepped forward anyway, pulled by something deep and undeniable.Iorveth didn’t turn. He just kept singing.Oh, tell me this is not the end,
Not silence where steel once sang.
For that would be too cruel a fate,
I beg him be restored.Vernon swallowed hard, the lump in his throat tightening. Each word dug into his ribs like a knife, pressing deep, unrelenting. He wanted to move faster, to reach him, but his body felt too heavy, too slow.His heart pounded.His voice caught in his throat.What is the fight, what is the war,
If this is where it ends?
For never was a truer bond
Than that between lost men.He opened his mouth, the instinct to interrupt overwhelming—but something stopped him.No.If he spoke, if he broke the moment, he might never hear it again. Might never know the ending.He stepped around the stool, moving into Iorveth’s line of sight, his breath coming harder, sharper.Iorveth’s hands stilled, but he didn’t look up.If he is lost, then strike me down,
For what am I alone?
And if he sleeps, then let him dream,
Of me still by his side.His knees hit the stone.The weight of everything—Iorveth’s grief, his own, the knowing of what they had both suffered, what they had nearly lost—collapsed in on him. His chest ached with it. His throat burned. He wasn’t even sure when the first tear fell, only that the warmth of it streaked down his face, caught in his beard, dripped onto his hands clenched tight against his thighs.And then, voice shaking, Vernon sang the last verse. The one he had forgotten until now.Once sworn, forever binding us,
Though roots and time divide.
Just lost, just faded—not yet gone,
Through fate, we still abide.The final note hung in the air between them.Iorveth finally looked up.And Vernon, eyes burning, breath shuddering, looked back.Iorveth moves first. His hands find Vernon’s chin, lifting it just enough, just so he sees him. So he knows it's realHis thumb catches the tear before it can fall, but it doesn’t stop the rest. Vernon is shaking. " Fret not, enca mínne, " Iorveth murmurs, voice steady, grounding, but softer than Vernon has ever heard it."Those times are past now. Memories. Legends… Myths, one day, perhaps."And that breaks Vernon completely.A sob punches out of him, raw and aching, and Iorveth moves —off the stool, onto his knees, arms wrapping around Vernon before he can crumble further.They hold each other.Tightly. Fiercely. Desperately.Vernon presses his face into Iorveth’s shoulder, hands curled into the fabric of his tunic like letting go would mean losing him all over again. Iorveth just holds him closer , his own breath shaking, his fingers burying into Vernon’s hair.Iorveth, voice rough, breath shaky "My prayers... my pleas were finally heard. Of all the times my prayers went unanswered, of all the pain I endured, I begged the gods countless times for countless reasons. I thought they had abandoned me…"He pulls back just enough to look Vernon in the eyes, thumb still resting against his cheek, wiping away the tears that won’t stop falling."But all my strife… all my suffering… It was leading me here. To this place, past the pain."And Vernon, like he’s been holding together by a thread,  that thread just snaps.Vernon’s whole body collapses into him, arms locking around Iorveth’s back, clutching like he’s drowning, like he can’t hold himself up anymoreAnd Iorveth lets him. Holds him. Braces him. Keeps him steady as Vernon finally, finally lets himself grieve.Grieve for the years lost, the uncertainty, the hope. The tears slow, though neither of them move for a long time.The morning sun creeps higher, golden light spilling over the terrace, catching in Iorveth’s hair, in the tracks of tears drying against Vernon’s skin. The world keeps moving, indifferent to the quiet storm that just passed between them.Eventually, Vernon exhales, a long, shuddering breath against Iorveth’s shoulder.“…You really are making wine,” he mutters, voice hoarse.Iorveth lets out a breathy laugh, the ghost of a chuckle, rubbing slow circles between Vernon’s shoulder blades. “I did say I had the time.”Vernon sniffs, pulls back slightly, eyes red-rimmed but clear. He glances at the wine barrel, the lingering swirl of deep crimson inside, the remnants of the song still hanging heavy in the air.“…Hope it’s strong,” he says.Iorveth tilts his head, amused, still carding a hand through Vernon’s hair. Vernon huffs, watery but genuine. He drags a hand over his face, wiping away the last remnants of grief, the exhaustion of everything left unspoken. Then, slower, softer, he rests his forehead against Iorveth’s.A pause.A breath.And then - 
"Ahem."
They both startled slightly, Iorveth tensing just enough to be noticeable, Vernon blinking rapidly as they turned toward the doorway.The majordomo, standing primly with his hands clasped behind his back, nodded toward them as if he hadn’t just walked in on an utterly sacred moment."Lunch is served, gentlemen."A long silence.Vernon let out a slow, measured breath. "…Of course it is."Iorveth sighed, shaking his head, standing first before offering a hand to Vernon.  Lunch was… comfortable. Surprisingly so.Geralt had returned from whatever morning task had taken him away, now settled at the head of the table, already working on a plate of roasted meat and fresh bread. His eyes flicked up as they entered, gaze sweeping over them with that sharp witcher’s awareness.If he noticed anything unusual - the red-rimmed eyes, the quiet way Vernon and Iorveth moved just a little closer than before - he didn’t comment.Instead, he poured them both wine from a deep green bottle, pushing the glasses toward them as they sat."You two are in luck," he said casually, slicing into his meal. "This is a good year."Vernon picked up his glass, gave it a quick sniff, then took a solid gulp. He smacked his lips. "Strong." Iorveth scoffed. "Insightful." "What do you want from me?" Vernon gestured with the glass. "It tastes good, smooth, and I’d drink a whole damn bottle of it. That’s all I need to know."Geralt huffed a quiet chuckle."Good to know you have a refined palate, " Iorveth muttered dryly."Didn’t know I needed one" Vernon shot back, reaching for some bread.Geralt huffed out something close to a laugh before lifting his glass again. "Well, if you’re actually making your own, you might want to start refining that palate.  Vernon smirked. "Fair."The conversation wandered, dipping into comfortable banter, discussing Toussaint’s vineyards, the absurdity of its nobility, and Geralt’s absolute refusal to engage in any more knightly affairs, much to Vernon’s amusement.And then - "So," Geralt said, pouring himself another glass. "What are you calling it?"Vernon blinked mid-bite. " What ?" Geralt lifted his glass slightly, swirling the deep red liquid. "The wine. Everything here has a name. Your creation should, too."Vernon and Iorveth exchanged glances.They hadn’t thought about that."Something fitting," Vernon said, chewing thoughtfully."Something with weight, " Iorveth agreed.Geralt studied them, then, in the driest tone possible, said, "You should just call it War Criminals." Vernon snorted so hard he nearly choked. Iorveth just blinked at him. "Geralt," Vernon managed between coughs."What?" Geralt shrugged. "It’s honest."Vernon wiped his mouth, shaking his head, still grinning. "For fuck’s sake."Iorveth hummed, tilting his head slightly. "…It does have a certain charm."Vernon shot him a look. "Don’t encourage him."Geralt smirked, sipping his wine. "I mean, if the name fits..."Vernon groaned, running a hand down his face."We’re not calling it War Criminals.""Then what?" Geralt asked, still entirely too amused.Vernon hesitated.Then, slower, he glanced toward Iorveth.Iorveth, thoughtful, set his glass down, fingers trailing over the stem.He looked at Vernon.Vernon turned back to Geralt, exhaling as he reached for his wine again."We’ll figure it out."Geralt considered them for a moment longer. Then, with a small, knowing smirk, he nodded. "Fair enough."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The streets of Beauclair were alive with color and chaos, the kind of revelry only Toussaint could conjure. Banners hung between the narrow alleyways, golden lights dripped from balconies, and the scent of roasted meats and spiced wines curled through the air. Musicians played lively tunes on every street corner, dancers twirled with ribbons in their hands, and children ran through the crowd clutching sweet pastries like treasures.

It was the kind of festival that demanded indulgence, the kind that made it easy to forget the past and bask in the present.

So naturally, Vernon Roche was making snide remarks.

"Gods, these fairs are all the same," he muttered, sidestepping a man dressed as a particularly flamboyant knight juggling apples. "Too many people. Too much noise. Too many overpriced trinkets."

"You say that as if you’re not already carrying three of those overpriced trinkets," Geralt pointed out, nodding toward Vernon’s belt, where a small leather pouch, a silver medallion, and a finely-carved wooden horse were now hanging.

Vernon scowled. "That’s different."

Iorveth smirked. "Is it?"

"Yes. That man carved this horse

right in front of me.

That’s craftsmanship, not a scam."

"Mhm," Iorveth hummed, unimpressed.

They wandered deeper into the fair, past booths selling charms and elixirs, past performers swallowing fire, past tables stacked with bottles of rare Toussaintois vintages.

Then Vernon saw it.

A small, candle-lit tent draped in deep purple fabric, set apart from the louder festivities. A wooden sign outside read:

"Madame Lasair's Palmistry & Fate Weaving"

Know Your Past. Face Your Future.

Vernon scoffed. Loudly.

"Charlatans," he muttered, shaking his head. "All of them. A gold coin and a few vague phrases and suddenly they know your destiny. Bollocks, the lot of it."

Iorveth gave him a look. "Careful, dhoine. Just because you don’t understand something doesn’t make it false."

"You believe in this nonsense?" Vernon arched a brow.

Iorveth shrugged, crossing his arms. "I believe in power. Magic. Threads of fate woven into things we cannot always see. But I do not believe every peddler in a tent knows how to read them."

"Exactly," Vernon said, pointing at him. "Scam."

Geralt, who had been silently observing, suddenly smirked. "Alright, Roche. Go on, then."

Vernon blinked. "What?"

"Get your palm read," Geralt said, nodding toward the tent. "Since you’re so sure it’s all bollocks."

Vernon huffed. "What, and waste my coin?"

Geralt flipped a coin between his fingers, then tossed it to the tent’s waiting attendant. "On me."

Iorveth snorted. "Now

that

is a wager I’d like to see."

Vernon hesitated, glancing at the darkened entrance of the tent. His skepticism was still firm, but Geralt’s sudden confidence put a strange pit in his stomach.

"Wait," Vernon said, squinting at him. "You know this woman."

Geralt simply smirked.

Vernon scowled. "

Of course

you do."

But it was too late. The attendant swept the curtain aside, gesturing for him to enter.

With a sigh, he rolled his shoulders and stepped inside.

The air was thick with the scent of incense, warm and spiced. Candles flickered in sconces, casting long shadows against the fabric walls. The interior was simple: no gaudy decorations, no strange trinkets, just a low wooden table draped in dark cloth and a single chair on either side.

Sitting at the table was Madame Lasair.

She was older, with silver-threaded hair bound in loose braids, her face lined not with frailty but with the kind of wisdom that settled deep in the bones. Her eyes - dark, sharp, knowing - studied him the moment he entered, her lips curling in something that was neither quite a smile nor a frown.

"You’re late," she said simply.

Vernon stopped short. "What?"

She gestured for him to sit. "Come. Let’s not waste time."

Still wary, he slowly lowered himself into the chair.

Madame Lasair reached across the table, palm up.

"Your hand," she said.

Vernon hesitated. His skin prickled.

He had agreed to this as a joke. A farce. A way to prove that it was all just vague riddles and empty mysticism.

But now, sitting here, under her gaze, with the heavy hush of the tent pressing in around him…

He wasn’t so sure.

Still, he exhaled and extended his hand.

She took it, her fingers cool and steady, and turned his palm upward.

She was silent for a long moment.

Then she traced the lines of his palm with her thumb, following the deep creases, mapping the places where fate had pressed hardest.

"You were raised in love by one." she murmured

Vernon’s breath hitched.

"You knew death young, and you never stopped knowing it."

Her fingers moved.

“You grew in battle, in strength, in leadership."

A pause.

Her thumb pressed lightly against the center of his palm.

"Here," she said. "Here is where the noose was tied."

A chill ran through him.

She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. He knew.

The Blue Stripes.

The men he had lost.

Her eyes flicked up to his, piercing.

"Twice you let steel do what justice could not."

Vernon’s fingers twitched. The Kings.

Then her thumb shifted slightly.

She followed a curve in his palm, tracing a place where the lines forked sharply, splintering into two paths.

"Violent delights have violent ends," she murmured. "That was the course set before you. A life carved in war, to end in war. But here -" she tapped the place where the lines diverted. "Here it diverges. Here, something broke the cycle."

His pulse pounded, throat dry.

She traced the new path, slowly, reverently.

"You were lost. Then found. And you will be lost again."

Vernon clenched his jaw.

"But not alone."

His breath caught.

She frowned slightly, tilting his hand to the candlelight.

"Your road stretches long. A journey with no clear end. A path that circles back, back to where it began. Back to your roots."

Vernon went still.

He yanked his hand back.

The air between them thrummed with something heavy, something neither of them dared put into words.

Madame Lasair exhaled through her nose, gaze still steady. "Your fate is not written in stone, Commander."

Vernon forced a breath, gripping his knee. "It’s written in the dirt, then?"

She tilted her head.

"In time," she said softly, "you’ll understand."

Vernon pushed back his chair.

"I think I understand just fine."

And with that, he turned and stepped into the bright, blinding light of the fair.

His face is pale. His expression - somewhere between shock and horror.

Iorveth and Geralt, waiting just outside, take one look at him and immediately start laughing.

Geralt barks out a short, knowing chuckle, crossing his arms. "That bad, huh?"

Iorveth smirks, eyeing him like a predator who just saw their prey stumble. "Tell me, d’hoine, do you believe now?"

Vernon glares at them, jaw tight, looking like he’s just seen his own damn obituary.

He takes a slow, measured breath and without breaking stride, mutters through gritted teeth:

"Shut up and get me a godsdamned funnel cake."

Iorveth snorts. Geralt huffs a quiet laugh.

Vernon stalks off toward the nearest food stall like a man on a mission.

Geralt claps Iorveth on the back, shaking his head. "Guess that’s a yes."
  
The streets of Beauclair faded behind them as they rode, the clamor of the festival dwindling into the quiet rustle of trees and the rhythmic clop of hooves against the road..

Iorveth rode slightly ahead, posture relaxed, the warm evening breeze tugging at his cloak. He was waiting, patient, but expectant.

Vernon, lagging just a bit behind, stared fixedly at the road ahead.

The silence stretched.

Iorveth finally broke it.

"So," he drawled, glancing over his shoulder. "What did she tell you?"

Vernon didn’t look at him. "Just as the sign said. My past and my future."

Iorveth hummed. "Mm. And?"

"And what?" Vernon muttered.

"Anything interesting?" Iorveth pressed, eyeing him.

"No," Vernon said immediately, kicking his horse forward.

Iorveth narrowed his eye. "No?"

"Nope."

"You sure about that?"

"Yep."

There was a pause.

Then Iorveth’s smirk returned, slow and knowing. "Ah. So she told you you're doomed."

Vernon groaned, shaking his head. "Shut the fuck up."

"Or—" Iorveth tapped his chin theatrically. "—perhaps she saw some grand fate in your future? Something glorious? Something tragic? Maybe you’re the lost heir to a forgotten throne."

Vernon scowled. "I swear to Melitele—"

"Or, gods forbid," Iorveth gasped, mock-horrified, "you’re destined for

true love

."

That did it.

Vernon kicked his horse into a gallop.

Iorveth, laughing, spurred his own horse after him.

They raced the short distance back to Corvo Bianco, the dust of the road kicking up behind them. Vernon pushed his horse as fast as it would go, but Iorveth was faster. He always was.

Iorveth pulled ahead, grinning as he reached the villa first, reining in with a triumphant laugh. "Better luck next time!"

Vernon, scowling but breathless with exertion, slowed his horse beside him. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t bite back. Didn’t even glare.

That was unusual.

Iorveth’s grin faltered slightly. "Oh, come on, Roche. At least pretend to be mad about it."

Still, Vernon said nothing.

Instead, he swung off his horse, patting its neck absently as he led it toward the stables. Iorveth started to follow, expecting some smart remark, expecting some begrudging retort.

But Vernon didn’t stop.

He walked the horses into the stables, set to unfastening their saddles and rubbing them down without a word, leaving Iorveth standing there, talking to himself.

Iorveth huffed a breath, crossing his arms. "Alright, fine. Keep your secrets."

Vernon, still silent, still focused on the simple motions of caring for the horses, let the quiet settle over him.

Once Iorveth gave up and walked away, Vernon finally let himself breathe.

The familiar, simple work of tending the horses helped ground him. The smell of hay, old wood and saddle leather eased the strange weight sitting in his chest since he left that damn tent.

Back to your roots.

The words wouldn’t leave him.

He exhaled slowly, pressing his forehead against the flank of his horse, letting the warmth sink into him.

His past.

His future.

He had spent most of his life fighting for something, it had been all he knew.

Then the world moved on. And he had been… adrift.

He hadn’t known what to do with himself. He had lost everything—his kingdom, his cause, his men. The Blue Stripes were dead. Temeria was gone. He should have been too.

And yet.

Somehow, through all of it - through blood and betrayal, through exile and desperation, through curses and years lost - he had found something else.

The last few years had been the best of his life.

Not because it had been easy. Not because it had been peaceful. It had been chaotic at times, but it had also been filled with

laughter.

With long nights on deck, watching the stars from the

Percival,

swapping stories, arguing over cards, drinking too much. With Iorveth’s sharp wit and infuriating smirk, his unshakable confidence, his restless energy.

With freedom.

You will be lost again. But not alone.

He closed his eyes.

The thought of settling somewhere...he had been considering it. The thought of staying in Toussaint, of having something stable after all his life adrift..

But that wasn’t him.

And it wasn’t Iorveth, either.

They weren’t meant for stillness. They weren’t meant for quiet lives in golden vineyards.

They were meant for the horizon. For the unknown. For the thrill of whatever came next.

The fortune-teller had said his journey was long. That it had no clear end. And maybe, just maybe, that was a

good

thing.

He wasn’t going to waste it.

Vernon gave the horse one last pat, then stepped out of the stable into the cool evening air.

Somewhere inside, Iorveth was probably pouring himself a drink, waiting for him to come to his senses.

And he would.

But not just yet.

He wanted to breathe it in first.

Vernon lingered in the quiet, watching the last traces of daylight fade beyond the hills. The sky stretched wide and open above Corvo Bianco, bathed in dusky hues of violet and amber.

His boots scuffed lightly against the worn stone as he paced the edge of the vineyard. He could hear the faint sounds of the villa, muffled conversation, the clink of glasses, the easy hum of a life well-lived.

It was tempting. It really was.

Toussaint was beautiful, comfortable. A place to rest. A place to

stay.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

He wasn’t ready to stay.

He rubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head at himself.

The fortune-teller had rattled him more than he wanted to admit. But, dammit, she was

right

. He had a long road ahead of him, and if he had learned anything over the last few years, it was that he didn’t want to waste it waiting around for time to catch up to him.

And, more than anything, he didn’t want to waste it in one place.

Not when he had a ship. Not when he had the open road.

Not when he had

Iorveth

.

That decided it.

With a final exhale, he pushed off the stone railing and turned toward the villa.

Inside, the warmth of candlelight flickered across the walls, the rich scent of wine and dinner still lingering in the air. He found Iorveth exactly where he expected - leaning back in his chair, boot propped up on the edge of the table, rolling a glass of Toussaint’s finest between his fingers.

Iorveth arched a brow as Vernon stepped in. “Done brooding?”

Vernon ignored the jab and grabbed a bottle of wine from the table, pouring himself a generous glass before slumping into the chair across from him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, casually, like it was the simplest thing in the world, Vernon leaned back, rolling the stem of his glass between his fingers, and said:

“I think it’s time we got back on the road.”

Iorveth paused.

His grip on his glass stilled for just a fraction of a second, his keen eye flickering over Vernon’s face, searching.

“Getting restless, are we?”

Vernon exhaled a quiet laugh. “Something like that.”

“Then it’s settled,” Iorveth said, raising his glass. “One last toast to Toussaint?”

Vernon clinked his glass against Iorveth’s.
Iorveth raises his glass, "To the road."Vernon clinks his glass against his, meeting his gaze."To the journey."Iorveth, softer now, steady. "To us."