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Coming across one another is a surprise. For them both, Vernon thinks, judging from the wide-eyed look on Iorveth’s face, quickly followed by an angry sneer and a sword being drawn. He tightens his lips, and refrains from drawing his own, forcing his hand to stay put.

“I’m not interested in a fight,” he says shortly. “Get out of my way, Iorveth.”

Iorveth gives him a calculating look, his eye bright and wary. He looks tired, Vernon notes. More so than usual. Not that it makes him any less dangerous. Iorveth is a lot like his namesake, a fox in all but body. And foxes, while inclined to flee, will fight if they feel cornered. Rather fiercely, too.

“Vernon Roche, not interested in a fight?” Iorveth finally drawls. “Forgive me if I doubt that. Where are your Stripes?”

“Where are your Scoia’tael?” Vernon retorts.

Iorveth sours, but there is something like pain in his eye too. Has he lost some of his elves? Surely not all of them though? Elves are hardy beings, Iorveth’s Scoia’tael more than most. Irritatingly so.

With a scowl, Iorveth lowers his sword, though he does not sheathe it. “What are you doing here?” he demands.

“How is that your bloody business?” Vernon replies irritably. “Contrary to what you may believe, squirrel, you do not in fact own the forest; I can go where I please.”

Iorveth squints at him. “…Are you lost, Roche?”

Vernon feels heat gather at the top of his cheekbones. “No,” he snaps. He is, in fact, not lost. He is merely… temporarily turned around. It could happen to anyone, and he has never claimed to be an expert on trees anyhow.

“You are,” Iorveth says, and his expression twitches, before his shoulders start shaking, and then he is laughing. Snickering, more like, but Vernon does not appreciate it. Maybe he should just draw his sword and kill the elf after all, no big loss.

“I cannot believe how much of a dh’oine you are, sometimes,” Iorveth tells him, looking greatly entertained.

“I am human, how is that supposed to be a damn surprise?” Vernon growls, turning on his foot. He might not need to kill the elf, but he certainly does not need to stay around to be mocked, nor does he have time to have bloody teatime and casual chats with the irritating bastard.

Iorveth makes an amused sound. “I wouldn’t head in that direction if I were you, Roche,” he drawls. He does not specify why, and Vernon twitches.

“…Why?” he asks.

“Oh, you’re going to lower yourself to ask an elf for advice?”

Vernon can feel a tick coming on in his eye. “I am not, in fact, an idiot. Why, Iorveth, should I not head in this direction? It must be quite something for you to choose to warn me, in your lovely dulcet tones.”

Iorveth snorts. “What a sincere compliment,” he says dryly. “You should reconsider going that way, because last I saw, there was a fiend in the area. And murderous as you are, I’m inclined to believe even you would have trouble with one of those.”

Vernon grimaces. A fiend? Not exactly something he would like to tangle with, no. He has seen one at a distance, seen the havoc and destruction they can leave in their wake. He would not like to be in said wake. Though, it is a surprise Iorveth would warn him, nonetheless.

“Why warn me?” he queries, raising an eyebrow. “Surely it would be to your benefit if I ended up a bloody smear on the ground?”

Iorveth shrugs dismissively. “What’s the fun in that?”

Vernon stares at him for a moment, then sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Elves. Contradictory bastards. And yet… it would seem they are both tired, and uninclined to fight. There is still the question of where Iorveth’s pointy-eared retinue has wandered off to, but mayhap their absence is part of why Iorveth is a bit more careful than he sometimes is. Without Scoia’tael or Stripes, it is after all just the two of them against each other, which, well, they have yet to figure out who will come out on top.

“How about we make a deal, Roche?” Iorveth suggests, tone slow and contemplative, even as his lips quirk up on one side. “I am looking for something, which may or may not be guarded. You are looking for your precious ‘civilisation’, I suppose. Which, I might add, you’re quite far from. So how about you help me, and I will help you?”

Vernon narrows his eyes. “And what, exactly, is to stop either of us from killing the other?”

“Common sense,” Iorveth replies idly. “What use is there for yet another corpse ‘midst the trees? Not to mention, if I am keeping an eye on you, you’re unlikely to run into some other elf to murder.”

“I do not murder people simply because I can,” Vernon says flatly. He can understand the logic of Iorveth’s thinking, but he also knows himself, and he would like to think he has gotten to know Iorveth rather well through all their fights. Logic rarely enters the equation when Iorveth pisses him off, or the other way around. Still, he might well be able to find his way to civilisation on his own, but there is no doubt it would be easier with Iorveth’s help. And whatever he is looking for surely cannot be that difficult to get a hold of, guarded or not?

Iorveth sheathes his sword. “Are elves people to you, now, and not just vermin?”

Vernon curls his lip. “Know something, Iorveth? People refers to everyone and everything that bleeds red. And last I checked, elves do indeed bleed as red as humans, or dwarves, or halflings.”

Iorveth blinks at him, looking something close to startled, and then exasperated, rolling his eye.

“Murderous dh’oine.”

“Is that news to you, now?” Vernon replies, unbothered.

Iorveth sneers at him, and makes an unnecessarily flourished motion to follow as he simply disappears into the bushes. Vernon’s eyebrow twitches. This is an absolutely terrible idea, and someone is going to end up dead.

He follows, regardless.

~

Vernon regrets following Iorveth. If he was not lost before, he certainly is now. And he would not be particularly concerned with it if it were not for the fact that Iorveth is so bloody snide about everything.

To be fair, so is Vernon, but at least he is trying to temper himself, for the sake of not murdering the only damned guide he has. He does actually know how to find north and south and whatnot, even in a forest, because he is not a bloody moron, but it does not change the fact that north and south hardly matters when he has no ploughing idea where he is in the first place.

“Keep up, Roche! One would think your feet had grown roots.”

Vernon grits his teeth. “We can’t all be goddamn squirrels,” he snaps.

Iorveth pauses to look back at him with a mocking smile. “Oh, but you would be such a darling with a long fluffy tail. You already have fur in your face, well on your way, no? Why ever do you even have fur grow in the face?”

“Because I’m human and humans grow beards?” Vernon bites. “It’s not bloody fur.”

“But why? Why don’t your women grow one, if it’s such a dh’oine thing?” Iorveth questions, and he actually sounds genuinely curious. Vernon eyes him dubiously, but the elf plants his hands at his hips, raising his eyebrow pointedly, and he rolls his eyes and shakes his head, feeling more exasperated than anything. He is too tired to keep getting angry.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” he answers. “It’s getting dark, Iorveth. How long are we going to meander about?”

Iorveth hums, looking up at the steadily darkening sky that can be seen through the treetops, a deepening blue interspersed with wisps of clouds. “Well, I suppose a dh’oine like you wouldn’t know how to begin moving in a forest at night-time. But, if I recall right, there are caves not too far off that should suffice as shelter. Will that do? To get some rest for your dainty little feet?”

Vernon glowers at the elf. There is nothing about him that can possibly be described as dainty. And he is fully aware Iorveth is just trying to rile him up, but it is bloody well working.

“I am still fully capable of strangling you to death,” he warns.

“You’d have to catch me first,” Iorveth drawls. “Now come along, already. You’re the one complaining about the light, and if you want us to reach those caves before it’s dark, we need to get moving.”

Vernon makes an irritated noise at the back of his throat, but gives a short nod. Iorveth moves on without another word. And that is another thing, Vernon notes, he is so used to Iorveth talking, soliloquising like a mummer performing for a crowd of hard hearing, that it is almost unsettling when Iorveth is silent. Because he is very silent. It should not be a surprise, he is after all an elf, but somehow…

Well, it hardly matters. He will simply have to keep it in mind.

It is far enough to the aforementioned caves that it is just a bit darker than dusk, the low lighting making the forest difficult to navigate. Everything melts into each other, and Vernon knows more romantically inclined people call dusk ‘mysterious’ and ‘magical’, but he mostly finds it really inconvenient.

Still, caves there are, and Iorveth makes a pleased, satisfied sort of sound as he surveys one. “No monsters, nor beasts,” he declares. “Make yourself useful for once and make a fire, and I will get something to eat.”

Vernon works his jaw, trying to ease up the ache that gritting his teeth makes.

Iorveth flounces off into the darkness, there and gone, and Vernon fights the unease that goes through him at realising how damn vulnerable he is right now. Iorveth seems perfectly comfortable in the poor lighting, and he is a damn good shot. There is nothing that stops him from sending an arrow through Vernon’s skull. But, he reminds himself, the elf could have done that at any time.

Shaking his head, he starts gathering wood for a fire. There are plenty of branches to gather without needing to start chopping down trees, and so he gathers enough to hold a small fire going for quite a while, before gathering birch bark and grass. Everything is reasonably dry, and the tinder catches fire from the second spark he strikes with his flint. How’s that for useless?

…Fuck, he needs to stop letting Iorveth’s words affect him. He is not a bloody child, and he certainly does not need the approval of a damned terrorist.

Regardless, the fire catches easily, and soon he has a little, merrily crackling fire by the entrance to the cave. Not that much later, Iorveth returns with a pair of gutted rabbits on a rope slung over his shoulder. He pauses at the light, Vernon notes. Probably because he has been in darkness. Is it worse, with only one eye? For the sake of peacefulness, he should probably not ask.

“Well, well, not bad,” Iorveth finally says. “Suppose you must’ve survived until now somehow. Do you know how to skin a rabbit?”

Vernon smiles without much humour. “I know how to skin a lot of things,” he replies.

Iorveth grimaces, dropping the rabbits to the ground. “Of course, how could I forget,” he mutters. “One could almost mistake you as a genuinely civilised being with how polite you’ve been, but it’s not a smart mistake to make, that, is it?”

“One could question whether it’s all that clever to antagonise a man whose job indeed includes skinning far more than rabbits,” Vernon retorts irritably.

Iorveth sneers. “Oh, I thought your job was being a miserable son of a whore.”

Vernon is on his feet almost before he registers it. “Shut your bloody mouth!” he snarls. “You know fucking nothing!”

Iorveth dances back, eye glimmering with something unreadable. His shoulders tense only briefly before he relaxes them, remaining loose and limber. Ready to fight. But he does not draw his sword.

“I know you react too damn easily to that insult,” Iorveth tells him. “So easily, in fact, I suspect it’s not so much an insult as the truth.”

Vernon can feel a muscle jump in his jaw. “Back. Off. Iorveth.”

Iorveth eyes him for a long moment, saying nothing, before he then relaxes more genuinely with a put-upon huff. “What does it matter?” he questions. “I would like you rather less if you were some ponce of a noble.”

Vernon scowls, swiping one of the rabbits and sitting down harshly enough that it jars him uncomfortably. “How the fuck would you understand? And ‘like’ seems to be a strong word for it,” he grumbles. He picks up a knife from his satchel, containing his glare to the dead rabbit rather than to Iorveth. At least the rabbit has no damn words coming out of it.

“Fine,” Iorveth says dryly. “I would ‘dislike you more’. Better?”

Vernon grunts, and keeps his focus on skinning the rabbit. Iorveth waits for a moment, then sighs irritably, taking the other rabbit and sitting down a bit off. Still close enough for the heat of the fire to reach him, but not quite within reach of Vernon unless he moves. He has no intention to, still needs the bloody elf, but it is probably a prudent choice of Iorveth regardless.

Iorveth slips off again, once he has skinned the other rabbit, but returns swiftly enough with some branches. Vernon watches the swift, easy way the elf makes a simple spit, and wonders how often that is the way Iorveth prepares his food. He is not going to ask. He would much prefer if there could just be silence, so he does not have to pretend not to want to throttle Iorveth the moment he opens his damn mouth.

Iorveth allows the silence, as he goes about rubbing some sort of herbs into both rabbits, then putting them over the fire. He looks contemplative, which Vernon is sceptical about. He can never quite get a grip on how the elf thinks, but a thoughtful Iorveth tends to be a precursor to irritation for Vernon.

It is first when the rabbits are nearly done that Iorveth speaks up again, still with that oddly contemplative look.

“Are we always going to be fighting?”

Vernon blinks. Frowns, a bit bewildered. Automatically, he wants to answer ‘yes’ and be done with it, but… that is not necessarily true, is it? It does not have to be. “Your ‘always’ is much longer than mine.”

Iorveth turns to face him properly, the fire casting odd, flickering shadows on him. It makes him at once both sharper and softer, both tamer and yet more dangerous. There is something almost beautiful in the dichotomy of it, and Vernon is not sure he likes the direction of his thoughts. But that could be because of lingering anger. He is aware Iorveth is beautiful, in his own way. Striking. He just does not want to admit to it aloud.

 “That was hardly an answer to my question,” the elf points out, wry, but awaiting.

Vernon grimaces, looking into the fire. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “Got used to it, I guess, but it’s not as if I have any actual reason to hunt you down anymore. Though I suppose you still feel you have more than enough reason to kill me.”

Iorveth’s lip curls at that. “If everyone kills someone for having killed someone else, we’re not going to get very far, are we? Dh’oine never had an inkling to the worth of a life,” he replies.

“Says the elf shooting down berry-pickers in the woods,” Vernon snorts.

“There are too many dh’oine, and you procreate like rabbits,” Iorveth shrugs. “Why, I could kill one dh’oine a day, and yet never come to an end! An absolutely useless endeavour.”

Vernon frowns, looking back at Iorveth properly. “Why fight, if you think it’s useless?”

“I hardly have any other choice at this point, do I?” Iorveth says.

There is a resignation, behind that statement. Not surprising, but not encouraging, either. Vernon folds his arms, forcing himself not to look away as he studies Iorveth: the proud arch of his nose, the high sweep of his cheekbones, what’s visible under the red scarf. The scar, sneaking down to split the corner of his lip. He is every inch the confident elven commander. But Vernon can see the shadows under the bright eye as well, the slight tightness of the jaw he knows he carries himself. Proud and confident, yes. But tired.

“Can’t you just… find some niche in a forest someplace, go make flower wreaths or whatnot?” Vernon asks, but it is weak. He knows it is not quite that simple, for many reasons.

Iorveth huffs something like a laugh, and this time he is the one who turns away, looking almost wistful. “I wish,” he says, and while it rings of consternation, his voice is soft.

Vernon does not know what to make of soft. They have been fighting for years, have killed each other’s people for years, there has been so much hatred and anger, and for what?

He hardly knows, anymore.

Iorveth removes the rabbits from the fire, leaving one a bit aside, and rips a leg off the other one, which he holds out. Vernon hesitates. The casualness of it, the near friendliness, it is so incongruent to what he knows from the elf sitting across from him. But at the same time, is there a point in keeping up with anger and uncooperative behaviour, when there is literally no good reason to?

Sometimes, it feels as if living is just a way to spite everyone who wants him dead. It is tiring. He takes the rabbit leg with a sigh, and lowers his shoulders.

“Thanks.”

Iorveth nods, taking one for himself and immediately starting in on it. Hungry, it would seem. But upon taking a bite, Vernon realises that so is he, and whether it is the herbs rubbed into it or the hunger, the meat tastes fantastic.

They share the meal in silence, and while there is some tension in them both, it is not… entirely awful. If Vernon is to be entirely truthful with himself, it does not feel dissimilar to sharing a meal with the Stripes after a long day, everyone tired and content to sit in silence rather than filling the air with chatter.

He does not hate Iorveth. Strange to realise, but there it is. He finds the elf irritating as few, and he is still lowly angry at him for many reasons, but… it is not hate. Not when they can sit like this, in some sort of odd camaraderie he cannot quite understand. He did at some point, but now it’s just fading away. Hatred is ugly and rough and so damn tiring that he simply cannot keep up with it anymore. There are so many things that seem so incredibly tiring now.

“You look as if you are having unpleasant realisations,” Iorveth comments. “What’s the matter now, then?”

Vernon wrinkles his nose. “Not necessarily ‘unpleasant’,” he mutters.

“Would it kill you to give an actual answer when I ask you something? Or are you only forthright when you are yelling at people?”

Vernon gives Iorveth a dry look. The elf raises his eyebrow, something like an amused smile playing on his lips for a moment. It makes him look oddly softer, particularly with the light of the fire, and Vernon huffs. He must be going mad, sitting here pondering trivial details of no import.

“What is it you’re looking for?” he asks, deciding to redirect the conversation to something more useful.

Iorveth hums thoughtfully. “An amulet,” he answers. “Should be in the elven ruins some ways off.”

Elven ruins and magic items. A recipe for disaster if Vernon has ever heard one. But he can hope Iorveth knows what he’s doing, whether the amulet is for himself or someone else. Despite all evidence to the contrary, the elf is not an idiot. At least when he is not trying to be one.

“And do you have any idea who or what might be guarding it?” he questions.

“Well, no. But, I doubt it’ll be a problem,” Iorveth replies assertively.

Vernon squints at him. “Somehow, that does not instil me with confidence,” he says flatly.

Iorveth waves his hand dismissively, unbothered. “Surely you can kill anything that can be thrown at you? I doubt it will be a problem, because I do intend to scout the area out and get an idea of what we might face, first. Surely you don’t believe me a fool, Roche?”

“I wonder,” Vernon drawls.

Iorveth snorts, and reaches over to add a branch to the fire, focusing his gaze on the way the flames quickly start to devour it. He is not insulted, Vernon notes. Which is for the better. It was not intended as an insult, but it could easily have been taken as one, and then they would be right back to sniping and angering each other, and he just does not have the energy for it right now.

He sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Half watch each?”

“Probably prudent,” Iorveth agrees. “I’ll take first watch. You look like you need some beauty sleep to fix the disaster you call a face.”

Vernon snorts, amused despite himself. “It’ll take a lot more than sleep to fix that, probably. Wake me up if a bear tries to eat your skinny arse?” he asks.

Iorveth nods, giving him a slightly amused expression. Vernon finds himself reasonably certain he is not going to be killed in his sleep. At this point, it would just be stupid.

It is not exactly a comfortable bed, but he settles with his back up against the cave wall, knowing full well he is going to have a terrible crick in the neck upon waking, and closes his eyes. His armour and the fire will keep him warm, and to the sound of flames crackling, rustling trees and Iorveth’s soft, even breaths, he falls asleep.

~

He is awoken by a firm but gentle shake of the shoulder, and blinks his eyes open a bit blearily. Iorveth pulls his hand back, smirking, but only half-heartedly. He looks tired.

“Your watch,” the elf tells him. “It’s been silent ‘till now, asides the usual life of the forest.”

Vernon nods, rubbing his eyes and rolling his neck. As surmised, it is distinctly uncomfortable. But he does not feel liable to fall over anymore, which is all that can be asked for at this point.

“Alright, you get some sleep,” he murmurs, moving over to the fire. There is still enough wood to last the night, he thinks, given that he rations it. There is no need for a massive bonfire, so it is hardly a problem.

Iorveth does not respond, instead removing his belt and the sash around his waist to pack the sash together, before then curling up and using it as a pillow. He does not fall asleep. His eye is closed, his breathing calm, but there is a slight line of tension in him that betrays him. Likely as anything because it is not an easy thing to allow oneself to be completely defenceless with a – former? – enemy.

Vernon is not entirely sure why, but he starts humming softly under his breath. Just small, incomplete melodies belonging here and there, he is hardly a bard, and can definitely not sing one way or another, so he would have made for a poor one even if he could learn an instrument. But hum, that he can do.

It is strangely gratifying when he sees the tension bleed out of Iorveth, and before long, the elf is breathing slow and deep. Vernon turns his attention outward instead.

It is calm, and silent. Whatever nocturnal critters are moving about, they stay away from the light cast by the fire, despite the remaining rabbit meat Iorveth has packed in some sort of waxed fabric. If only monsters and beings were as easy to deal with as normal forest life. Put up a fire, show a glint of steel, and gone. Would certainly make life a great deal easier for him. For Iorveth too, he is sure.

Sitting in the silence with nothing to do but think makes him damn near philosophical. Pointless. Too many thoughts of too many things, and in the end, few of them even matter.

Iorveth’s breath hitches, and he looks over sharply, but the elf appears to still be asleep. He looks tense though, a slight grimace coming over his face as he curls up tighter. A nightmare? It would hardly be a surprise. Even Vernon has nightmares, every now and then. He is not quite as unfeeling as people probably think him, even if it would be much easier if he were. Should he wake Iorveth though? Will he even manage to fall asleep again, after?

Uncertain about what would be the best course of action, and not entirely managing to simply ignore it, he starts humming again. At first, there is little change, but then, slowly, Iorveth appears to relax again. Is he used to the action as a form of comfort? Elves are said to be fond of music, so it would hardly be a surprise if singing or humming is a part of that.

It is useful, at least. If only for getting Iorveth to settle. He will be far more capable with some hours of rest than without them.

A rustle draws his attention, and he looks out of the cave, a bit cautious, then mostly just exasperated when he notices the shape twisting up around a tree. An actual squirrel. Well, he minds that rather less than a Scoia’tael. The critter moves with no concern for gravity whatsoever, up and down, and leaping from one tree to another. Odd animal. But he can somewhat understand the idea of being named after it. There is no doubt it is swift, after all.

There is very little else that happens, as the night goes on and over into early morning. He does not mind that. An uneventful watch is a damn sight better than a busy one.

Iorveth wakes of his own accord, and Vernon glances over when he hears the change in breathing and the rustle of fabric and metal. Iorveth pushes himself up into something of a sitting position with a hand, and blinks muzzily, looking incredibly disgruntled. His headscarf has gotten twisted in his sleep, it seems, nowhere near falling off, but exposing rather more of the scar.

“What are you staring at?” the elf grumbles.

“Your scar, mostly,” Vernon replies, dry of tone, but truthful. “Doesn’t look pleasant. Sleep badly, since you look like a particularly irritable cat?”

Iorveth wrinkles his nose, adjusting the headscarf. “It wasn’t anywhere near pleasant, no. And I am sure you would agree that there are certainly better places to sleep. Anything interesting happen during your watch?”

“I saw a squirrel. That’s about it,” Vernon shrugs.

“What, and you didn’t immediately run after it?” Iorveth drawls.

“Why run after a squirrel, when there’s one right here?” Vernon points out in return, giving Iorveth a pointed look. It gets him a small smirk, the previously displeased look on Iorveth’s face fading into something more neutral.

“Let’s eat something, and get to moving. By the time we are, it should be bright enough that it is no trouble.”

Vernon nods in agreement, and that is that. Iorveth remains more or less silent as they go about snacking on rabbit meat and dousing the fire. It would seem, from the grumbling he does, that he is not the type to wake quickly. It makes him no less dangerous, Vernon is sure, but it is… interesting to note, somehow. Himself he has always been quick to wake, out of necessity if nothing else.

They move onwards, and the atmosphere between them is calmer now, Iorveth not quite so inclined to disappear far ahead. Vernon hardly minds it, because it is by far easier to follow without Iorveth popping back and forth and complaining about how slow he is, but he wonders what has prompted the change.

They take a break after some hours, pausing by a stream of cold, refreshing water. They are on higher elevation now, Vernon is fairly certain, though the vegetation is much the same.

“Are they high up, these ruins?” he questions. “There seems to be a lot of elven ruins on heights.”

Iorveth scoffs, lips tightening minutely. “There are elven ruins everywhere. You dh’oine have simply built atop them, destroyed every trace of us as surely as you are exterminating us. Even your precious Vizima was elven once, long ago.”

Vernon frowns. He has heard rumours of the supposed fact, but has never really put much thought to it. He supposes it is hardly a surprise.

“But to answer your question, the ruins we are headed to are a bit higher. Not much. A few hours more to get there, I believe,” Iorveth continues. “Once we get near it, I will scout, and we’ll see what we do then, whether it is more prudent to get the amulet all at once, or wait and make a plan should there be problems to surmount.”

“Fair enough,” Vernon agrees.

Iorveth makes a soft, thoughtful sound, gazing down into the stream as if it holds answers to an as-yet unasked question.

“Have you ever felt a longing for something which you never had, Roche?”

Vernon blinks slowly. Not anymore, certainly, but he can remember watching other children, watching them with their two parents, and feeling such an ache from it. He loved his mother. She tried her best. But it does not change what the situation was, nor the fact that a father is something he has never had.

“I guess,” he answers. “Why?”

Iorveth is silent for a moment, contemplative. Then he looks up, looks at Vernon with an odd look on his face. It is almost… vulnerable. Vernon chews on the inside of his cheek, not entirely comfortable with it. Iorveth is strong, all sneers and mockery and clever quips. He does not know how to react to a Iorveth who is otherwise.

“I yearn for the ancient elven civilisations of my people, yet most of them, I have only ever seen as ruins,” Iorveth says.

“I… don’t think saying ‘sorry’ is going to cut it,” Vernon replies.

Iorveth gives a sharp laugh, shaking his head and turning his gaze into the forest instead, a grim, unhappy expression painting his features.

“No. It won’t,” he agrees. “Nor do I think you are particularly sorry.”

“It has never had anything to do with me, and I have no connection to it. No, I am not sorry,” Vernon allows. “But I can… understand it is upsetting.”

Iorveth huffs. “No connection to the ruins, perhaps, but you have gladly tried to exterminate us.”

Vernon sighs, rubbing his forehead. This is not really a conversation he wants to have, regardless of how calm Iorveth is for the time being. But he doubts Iorveth will react well if he tries to brush it aside, either.

“It was my job, Iorveth. And maybe I am cruel, maybe I am more brutal than I need to be, but I have always taken pride in getting things done, at succeeding at whatever job I am given,” he says.

“Hah, so we are collateral, to you?” Iorveth sneers.

“What do you want me to say? I am not a nice person. I’m never going to be a nice person. Nor a good one,” Vernon retorts.

Iorveth clicks his tongue, and rises to his feet.

“Let’s go.”

Vernon tightens his lips, but simply nods, and follows as Iorveth starts moving again. What did Iorveth hope to accomplish with that line of query? He must know Vernon cannot give him whatever it is the elf is seeking. Because if he were to feel regret for all the things he has done, Vernon thinks he might just die. He has gone through with so many things others have not dared, whether because of fear or because they simply have morals that he does not. He is not nice; he is not good. He is just a man, and the choices he has made have already been made. There is no changing that.

There is travelling to do. He can think later. Or, better yet, forget about it altogether.

~

When they reach the elven ruins, they take another break, eating the last remnants of rabbit before Iorveth sneaks off to scout out the area. There will be daylight for some hours more, but Vernon hopes they are not looking at a massive fight. He checks over all his weapons as if that is the case, smoothing down nicks in dagger and sword with a whetstone, but he is not at his best. Nor does he believe Iorveth is.

Would it be poetic, or just stupid, if it turns out they have both taken water over their heads, and end up dying out here?

…Probably mostly stupid.

Iorveth returns eventually, looking sceptical. That is not particularly reassuring, and Vernon raises an eyebrow at him, waiting.

“I could see nothing, and hear nothing,” the elf explains. “Of course, it hardly means there is nothing.”

“How tremendously useful. You’ve outdone yourself,” Vernon says snippily.

Iorveth makes an irritated sound at the back of his throat. “You want to have a go?” he retorts.

Vernon shakes his head. If Iorveth can notice nothing, it is doubtful he will. He might have two eyes to Iorveth’s single eye, but Iorveth has far better ears, and more experience with elven ruins. Most of what Vernon knows of them is that they tend to be absolutely treacherous areas to traverse.

“Plan?” he asks. “Do you know where, exactly, this amulet is to be found in there?”

“I have a general outline of it,” Iorveth answers.

Vernon’s eyebrow twitches. “Of a plan, or of where the amulet is? Or better yet, both?”

“Both,” Iorveth affirms, tone idle. “What is most important is that you do as I tell you. If you can manage such a thing?”

“I am fully aware I am at a disadvantage in elven ruins, Iorveth. But I would still like to know you have a semblance of a plan that is more than ‘let us wander straight into danger and cross our fingers it goes well’,” Vernon growls.

Iorveth sighs, looking more exasperated than anything. “Listen, Roche, there is literally no point in making a ten-point plan. I noticed nothing, which means it is unlikely there are any living beings to be problems, but there might be other things, such as traps. We are going blind. The plan is ‘do as I say, and be careful where you step’. I shan’t tell you to jump straight into a pit – you are far more use to me alive than dead. For now. But I have said I will help you find your way to civilisation once you’ve helped me, and I’ll have you know I keep my word.”

Vernon grimaces. Going in blind. Probably his least favourite way of doing anything. But it is as it is, and Iorveth may be many things, but he does trust that the elf will keep his word. He has some sort of honour to him, even if Vernon hardly understands it.

“Fine,” he says. “Let’s try not to die, then.”

Iorveth makes an amused, if derisive noise, and gestures to follow. He is a bit tense, wary, and moves in such a way that he can easily draw sword or bow at a moment’s notice. Vernon does much the same. If Iorveth is uneasy in the ruins, he is not about to ignore the warning underlying that.

The ruins themselves, once they enter them properly, are the usual disconcerting mix of beautiful and eerie. Falling apart, but only grudgingly so, as stubborn as the elves that built them.

It is quiet, though. Quieter than it should be.

“Shh! Did you hear that?” Iorveth asks, hand going to his sword, eye narrowed.

“I don’t have your hearing, so no, I didn’t hear anything,” Vernon bites. Nor can he see anything out of order, which is not any more comforting.

Iorveth remains still for a long moment, cautious, seemingly trying to pinpoint whatever sound he heard, before he tightens his lips with displeasure and elects to move forward. Vernon sweeps his gaze about before following. He can feel the hair at the back of his neck rising, a chill going through him, but even with another look, he cannot see what unsettles him. He is not about to ignore his instincts though, and carefully draws his falchion without making too much sound. As narrow as the passages are, it will be easier to manoeuvre with the shorter sword.

Iorveth disappears around a corner, and he growls irritably under his breath. The ruins are progressively turning into something of a maze, which is just fantastic. Should he need to make his way out on his own, he might just get fucking lost.

“Keep up,” Iorveth says in a hush, and he catches up to the elf to find him studying some incomprehensible scribbles on the wall.

“Learn anything that makes sense?” he asks.

“Hm… possibly. We’re close,” Iorveth answers, squinting at the scribbles and then looking ahead, to where there appears to be stairs disappearing down. “I think… if something is guarding the amulet, it will be down there. And I think you might want to draw your greatsword, rather than the falchion.”

Vernon narrows his eyes, but if Iorveth thinks it is better to switch weapon, then he might as well. There is more power in the greatsword, which makes it a concerning preference from Iorveth’s side – whatever might be waiting for them, it seems it is going to be something requiring brute force to deal with, not only clever tactics. But Vernon is good at brute force. It will have to do.

They descend carefully, and thankfully, while the lighting is dim, it is not entirely dark. There is more of the maze-like structure, but then, finally, they reach a more open space, something halfway between a room and a cave. The floor is uneven. Something to make note of, in the case of an eventual fight. But Vernon cannot yet see anything that might be a problem.

“There!” Iorveth hisses, a pleased grin lighting up his face as he hurries over to something of an alcove in the crumbling wall. His entire focus narrows on whatever he has found, and so he appears not to notice the sudden crack of stone. Vernon does. His eyes widen, and he lunges after Iorveth, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him back just as a craggy fist made of rock swipes through where the elf’s head was a moment ago.

Iorveth stumbles back, eye wide. “Fuck,” he breathes.

“Motherfucking son of a bitch!” Vernon barks.

With more cracking sounds, creaking and rumbling, a vaguely humanoid shape in rock steps into existence, wrapped with long strips of runic script. A golem, Vernon recognises. But that is about all he knows of the creature, too. How the fuck does one defeat a massive clump of moving rock?

“This… this is a problem,” Iorveth says, drawing both his swords.

“You don’t fucking say!” Vernon growls. “Know anything about this thing? Anything at all? Because I am not a damn witcher!”

The golem steps towards them, and Iorveth bends his knees, lowers his balance as he moves to circle it. “They are much quicker than you’d expect – and don’t get hit, or your organs might just end up liquefied!” he warns.

“Oh, I couldn’t tell!” Vernon snaps.

The golem seems to decide to go for him, and Vernon curses and leaps out of the way of a massive swing. He cannot block those fists, even with a greatsword. He is not too sure his greatsword would not simply bend, and that certainly will not be in any way helpful. Then again, how much use will it be against a creature made of rock? If he survives this at all, his sword might just be blunted to nonexistence.

Iorveth lashes out with an attack to the golem, before quickly dancing away. The sound of steel against rock is unpleasant, but the golem does rear back just a bit. Was it because the attack came from the back? Vernon sets his jaw, and uses the golem’s change of focus to deliver a heavy swing of the sword, leaping back and tucking into a roll when it roars and tries to hit him. He is not as quick as Iorveth, but he is stronger. Can they-?

“Watch out!” Iorveth shouts, and Vernon barely manages to dive out of the way as the golem charges like a raging bull, slamming into a wall. There is an ominous rumble, and Vernon looks to the ceiling with concern.

“Iorveth-”

“I know! But we can’t flee it, it’ll follow! It seems to be weaker in the back, we need to switch who takes the attention and who attacks, try to wear it down.”

“And what if the fucking ceiling falls down on us, huh?” Vernon says tightly.

Iorveth grimaces, eye fastened on the golem as it rights itself and focuses on them again. “I know. Just- if we don’t kill it, we’re dead regardless!”

Do or die, then. Vernon scowls, ducking away as Iorveth catches the attention of the golem with a mocking motion with a sword. Once it moves for the elf, he moves in close and manages to deliver two diagonal cuts before he has to hastily dodge as the golem turns on him instead. Is it just him, or is it reacting faster?

“Iorveth, are these things sentient?” he demands, a bit out of breath.

“They’re magic, who bloody knows!?” Iorveth answers. He makes to attack, but as he does, the golem turns on him again, and the elf barely pulls back in time so as not to be hit. One of his swords is sent clattering along the floor though, leaving him with only the one. And- fuck. His arm. The sword must have cut him as it was thrown off, in literally the only place he is not wearing armour.

“Sheyss!” Iorveth curses, switching his remaining sword from his right hand to the left one. “Bloede pest!”

Vernon grimaces. “You try to distract it, you’re faster! I’ll try to attack!”

Iorveth nods, and leaps back into action, ignoring how much he is bleeding. It is rather more than Vernon thinks is anywhere near healthy, but he cannot focus on that now, because if he does not focus on trying to defeat the golem, they are both going to die. The new tactic seems to work better by a smidgen, but he can tell Iorveth is getting tired. As is he, for that matter.

The golem spins around, fist flying, and Vernon’s eyes widen. He does not have time to dodge that. He manages to bring his sword up so he can use it to push himself back, but his foot catches on something – damn uneven floor! – and the rocky fist impacts with both sword and him. He is sent flying with a yelp, though he manages to lessen the impact as he lands by rolling. Just a glancing blow. Thank fuck.

“Roche!?” Iorveth snaps uneasily.

“I’m fine!” Vernon pants, pushing himself up, and then almost biting his tongue with a groan. “Ugh. Mostly fine.”

That is at least one broken rib. How nice. Damn how that hurts.

He climbs to his feet, forcing himself to ignore the pain. They are both weakened now, but… it seems the golem is, too. A bit more. Just a bit more, and they might manage, might survive this shitty encounter.

Iorveth slips away from another attack by the golem, looking distinctly grey in the face, and Vernon narrows his eyes, moving cautiously forward. Is it a crack he sees, in the golem’s back? If so… he doubts it has any heart, but that does not mean it will not take damage from being speared through.

It is probably far too reckless of him, but he goes for it. He runs, and instead of a slash, he thrusts his sword into the miniscule weakness. There is a moment where it is simply akin to hitting a rock, and Vernon feels something like bitterness, but then the sword punches through. He cannot twist it, but once it sits deeply into the golem which roars in some manufactured form of pain, he pushes the weight of it sideways, using the poor sword as a damn prise bar.

There is a loud cracking sound.

“I think you did it,” Iorveth breathes.

With a massive rumbling, the golem seemingly starts to crumble. Vernon relaxes despite himself. He then regrets it when the crumbling golem suddenly moves. It does not hit him, but it throws him off, and he hisses in pain as his ribs scream at him, then groans as he smacks into the wall. Not really that hard, compared to what it could have been, but his head bounces off the stone, and he blinks rapidly as he slumps down to a sitting position.

The golem crumbles and falls still, bent greatsword sticking up of its rough-hewn body like some marker of a great battle. More like a marker of idiocy and more idiocy, at this point.

“Gwynbleidd makes this look easy,” Iorveth complains. “Still alive?”

Vernon squints at the elf. His ears are ringing, and even so, Iorveth’s voice is too sharp. With how dizzy he is as well, there is a simple, if inconvenient explanation for that.

“Alive enough. Got a ploughing concussion, though,” he grumbles. “Wrap up your damn arm, Iorveth, before you bleed out.”

Iorveth looks at his arm, and grimaces. “I don’t have any bandages,” he replies. “And that will need stitches, too. Can see my bone. I… don’t think I’d have survived this on my own, honestly. Thanks, Roche.”

Vernon wrinkles his nose. “You practically tricked me into helping you,” he grumbles.

“Oh, don’t be like that. It’s a mutual agreement,” Iorveth retorts. “And you could have let my head be removed when the golem first woke, and didn’t, so I’ll consider that something like goodwill.”

Vernon grunts, leaning his head back. Iorveth, swaying a bit where he stands, moves over to the alcove the golem first erupted from, looking about warily, before he then picks up something from a pedestal. The amulet, presumably. It is an unassuming thing, carved rock with a silver chain. Iorveth studies it for a moment, then nods to himself, and stashes it away.

“We should get out of here.”

Vernon grimaces. He agrees entirely, but he is not looking forward to moving, right now. And there is still the matter of Iorveth practically bleeding out. With a grunt, he tugs his chaperon off along with the coif worn under it.

“We’ll get out of here once you’ve wrapped that arm, and we can stitch it later. Cut strips out of my chaperon, it’ll do as a stopgap measure,” he says.

Iorveth blinks at him. “You have hair,” he says.

Vernon stares. “…Was that in question? I’m fairly certain I am the one with a concussion, not you.”

“Blood loss,” Iorveth offers, almost teasing. “I don’t know, never seen you without a hat.”

Vernon rolls his eyes, immediately regrets doing that, and holds his hand in front of his eyes. He hates concussions. He can hear Iorveth moving closer though, and opening one eye a smidgen to glance at him, he finds the elf carefully cutting some strips off the chaperon with his hunting knife.

“Help me tie it? Don’t think I’ll do too well,” Iorveth admits.

Vernon grunts, gesturing for Iorveth to hold his arm out, which the elf does. It is not a good sight. The cut is luckily not across the vital vein further on the inside of the elbow, but it does indeed split to show a glimpse of bone. The only good thing is that it seems to be a clean cut, which will make it easier to sew it shut. He takes the strips of fabric and ties them tightly, hoping it will at least slow the bleeding a bit.

“The one bloody place you don’t have armour of one sort of another. I wonder at your luck sometimes, I really do,” he mutters.

“Lucky enough to stay mostly alive,” Iorveth replies wryly. “Thank you.”

“Help me up, will you?” Vernon says.

Iorveth nods, offering his left arm to help haul him up. Vernon grits his teeth to keep from groaning. Broken ribs are a pain in the arse, what with how little one can do about them. He almost stumbles once up as well, balance completely shot, and Iorveth snatches up the chaperon and coif before offering his arm.

“For once don’t let pride be in the way?”

Vernon grunts, forcing himself not to roll his eyes. “Says you?” he retorts, but allows himself to lean on the elf, seeing little other choice if they want to get out in a timely manner.

It takes time, regardless. Iorveth is weakened by blood loss, and Vernon cannot stand straight on his own. But eventually they do make their way outside, and Iorveth leads them off around the ruins to a place that seems to be an often-used spot for a camp, fairly well hidden. Iorveth looks entirely unhealthily pale by that point, but Vernon would not be surprised if he does too. What a fantastic adventure they are having. But they are alive, still. Somehow.

“Let me see… yes! Perfect,” Iorveth says, pleased.

Vernon raises an eyebrow, sitting down gingerly on a log, and watching as Iorveth pulls forth a roll packed in waxed leather. He unties it, revealing blankets and furs. Huh. That is rather convenient. But first things first.

“Iorveth. I don’t have any anaesthetics, but I do have supplies to sew a wound. Should take care of your arm.”

Iorveth blinks, looking over at him sceptically. “I can’t sew on myself very well at that angle. But can you even see straight?”

Vernon grunts. “Can’t walk straight, but my sight is fine. Might not be the prettiest stitches, granted, but it’s up to you. Bleed to death on the forest floor, or get a slightly ugly scar to add to the collection.”

Iorveth scoffs. “Well, if you think you know what you’re doing,” he says wryly.

“We can hope,” Vernon replies.

In the end, Iorveth ends up sitting still with his arm out, allowing Vernon to stitch the wound. He has taken both gloves off, and it is almost odd, to see skin where he is used to seeing brown leather, but he keeps his focus on pinching together slick and bloody skin, trying to make the stitches as neat as possible. He hardly cares if it turns out ugly, but neater stitching makes for quicker healing, too, and… well.

Iorveth lifts his left hand, and Vernon blinks, somewhat bewildered, when calloused fingertips brush over his cheek.

“It’s so coarse,” Iorveth comments.

“It’s stubble,” Vernon replies. “It tends to be coarse.”

Iorveth squints, not removing his hand. “Why wear it when it isn’t even pleasant?”

Vernon snorts, turning his attention back to the stitching. “Because it grows constantly, and I don’t always have time to shave it,” he answers. “It’s plain normal hair. Just coarser than what’s on top of the head.”

Iorveth hums, tracing Vernon’s cheekbone with a finger. “It’s odd, is what it is. You are odd.”

“And you have lost too much blood, clearly,” Vernon says dryly.

Iorveth laughs, finally dropping his hand. “That may well be the case. But you are not so terrible, I suppose. Not when you are without all your murderous Stripes, at least.”

Vernon places the last stitch, tying it off and giving the elf an exasperated look. “I’m going to bandage this up again, and then you should go get some sleep,” he replies. “Maybe you’ll be back to your sardonic self once you wake.”

Iorveth smirks, something mischievous to his eye despite the clear exhaustion that also pulls at him. He just holds his arm out as Vernon wraps clean strips of the torn chaperon around the stitched wound, and pulls it gingerly to himself once it is done, looking it over thoughtfully.

“You’ve wrapped many a wound before, huh?” Iorveth asks.

“As have you, I’m sure,” Vernon shrugs, regretting it as his rib is jostled. “Go sleep. I probably shouldn’t, yet, what with the concussion. I sure fucking can’t create a fire right now, nor be much of a good guard dog, though.”

Iorveth shakes his head. “We will not be bothered here. It is an elven camp, there are… contingencies in place. You should perhaps not sleep, but you might as well sit with a blanket – and if it starts raining, we can pull the leather over the both of us, keep dry that way.”

Vernon hesitates, but if Iorveth feels safe enough to not have a proper watch, then he supposes it should be fine. Iorveth gestures for him to move over to where the pile of blankets and furs are, placing one by the log and patting it pointedly. With a grunt, Vernon scoots over and seats himself at the fur with the log at his back, supporting him, and Iorveth hands him a blanket as well. It is softer than it looks, and smells faintly of herbs.

“There now,” Iorveth says, satisfied, before arranging furs and blankets for himself. Vernon supposes he should not be surprised when the elf ends up curling up practically next to him, swaddled in blankets and furs.

“…Would you hum again? As last night? It was… nice.”

Vernon blinks, and relaxes, leaning back properly against the log. “Sure.”

Something has changed. Why or how or to what, he has no idea. But the most important part is probably that they are both alive, and he feels he can be content with that, at least.

There is still something oddly satisfying to how Iorveth visibly relaxes to the soft, incomplete melodies Vernon knows.

~

He wakes from an uneasy sleep with a vague headache, and finds Iorveth already up, looking over his swords. He shifts, and grunts with discomfort at the immediate pain jolting through him, drawing Iorveth’s attention.

“You fell asleep after all – but it seemed you needed it,” the elf comments. “I found some berries and mushrooms to eat, if you don’t mind it – I’m not quite in shape to hunt.”

“Long as it’s edible, I don’t care,” Vernon replies. “How’s the arm?”

Iorveth wrinkles his nose, putting the swords aside to instead fetch a bowl that appears to be made by twining supple branches together. It is almost full, and Iorveth pops a fistful of blueberries in his mouth before holding the bowl out in offering. Vernon accepts it, and the elf sits gracefully next to him, slumping into the log he is leaning against.

“The arm aches. But it doesn’t feel infected, so that’s something. How about your shape, then? Going to fall over dying?”

Vernon snorts, chewing slowly on a handful of berries, a mix of tart and sweet bursting across his tongue. He is probably not going to die, unless they run into another ploughing golem, but he is not exactly itching for a fight right now either.

“Not going to fall over dying unless you push me,” he says.

Iorveth snickers. “Now that would be poor repayment, wouldn’t it? You’ve aided me, so it is time I aided you – but we’re facing some hours of travel, still. How’s your head?”

“Bit of a headache, but I think my balance should be reasonable again. Might be slow though, so if you bounce off into the trees like an energetic critter, don’t expect me to be able to follow,” Vernon says dryly.

“I’ll be nice,” Iorveth teases. “Need to be careful with my arm, anyhow. Shall we get moving, just as well? I’ll pack together the furs and blankets.”

Vernon nods, and climbs to his feet, trying to stretch without moving his torso too much. He has no idea what kind of degree of broken his rib is, but it puts him out of commission for at least a month. How bloody annoying. There are things to get done, he does not have the ploughing time to sit around resting.

Camp packed, they set to moving. They take it particularly slow at first, walking and sharing berries and mushrooms as they go, then upping the speed just a bit once they have eaten it all and can focus solely on travelling. Vernon misses the weight of his greatsword. Granted, it would probably not have helped on the whole problem with his broken rib, but it has always given him a feeling of safety to have it accessible. Not to mention that greatswords of good quality are not cheap. Damn it.

“What has you so grumpy now?” Iorveth asks. “Are you ever happy?”

“‘Happy’ is a simple emotion, fit for simple situations,” Vernon retorts. “But I am not ‘grumpy’ either – I just wish I’d not lost my sword. Or smashed it to a useless hunk of metal against an animated rock, rather.”

“Well, if you hadn’t done that, we’d both be dead,” Iorveth points out. “You can get a new one.”

Vernon snorts. “I know. Couldn’t wield it effectively right now regardless. Still…”

Iorveth tilts his head. “It’s not nice to lose a favoured weapon,” he muses.

“Yeah. Something like that,” Vernon agrees.

Iorveth hums, nodding thoughtfully, and says nothing more to that. He has probably lost his fair share of weapons and other cherished items. He might yet lose more, if no one catches him and executes him one way or another. But… so long as he does not get in the way, Vernon is not feeling up for executing the elf. Someone else can take on that useless task and fail in it. It is not as if he has any reason to hunt Scoia’tael now, regardless.

They travel in silence, onwards. They must take somewhat more frequent breaks, but make surprisingly good time for both being wounded. And eventually, the forest starts thinning, and they reach the edge of it. In the distance, Vernon can see buildings, see smoke snaking up from rough chimneys. Wherever it is they are, there is life, at least. And, hopefully, a horse.

“Delivered safe and sound to dubious civilisation,” Iorveth murmurs. “I’ll leave you here. Things to do and all, which doesn’t include being followed by a lynch mob of dh’oine.”

Vernon looks to the elf, gaze drawing over him. He is still pale, but his back is straight, his expression wryly amused. He will do fine on his own. He is always fine, that has been the most irritating thing about him. Now, it is almost comforting.

“Alright then,” he says. “Surprising we didn’t kill one another.”

Iorveth smirks, his eye gleaming. “Fortune must itself discover. Va faill, Roche.”

With that said, Iorveth’s expression shifts into pure mischief, and he leans forward lightning-quick to press their lips together, before disappearing amongst the trees with a wave and a grin that exposes a missing tooth where his scar strikes down.

“Wha-? Iorveth, what the ploughing hell!?” Vernon calls after him, cheeks heating up despite himself.

Iorveth only laughs, the sound fading along with the elf as he makes his way elsewhere. Vernon stares into the trees for a long moment, then sighs, shaking his head. Elves. He is never, ever going to understand elves, and Iorveth in particular. But he is back to human civilisation, time to get oriented and make his way to meet Ves.

…He can still feel the smooth press of lips against his own. Damn that elf.