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Years later, what Roche remembered were the details.
Not the battles or the great incidents, but the odd fragments: the sweet rotting smell of Floatsam in the morning. A man stood awkwardly on the Tretogor court terrace, looked a bit like an officer Roche used to know; Ves spitted 'no balls fucker' to some robber; Dijkstra kept biting his lower lip before they all set out.
Those were just details. Meaningless, useless details. Garbages. But Roche kept fishing out those bits from the void in his head. Too many lost, too many histories.
One day, in the Temerian army training ground, Roche had overheard some old officer boasted to the recruits (young, frighten, impatient, half or 1/4 Nilfgaardian) They were saying, unlike you youths, we had been through fires, we were giants.
We are but rats in the guts, thought of Roche, we fought to live, nothing more.
He turned and stepped on rock staircases to the city wall - suddenly, he saw King Foltest. An echo from La Valette Castle. The king had just climbed on the siege tower. He raised a telescope to his right eye, frowned, and pointed out to somewhere far out there. There were floating, moist fogs below his feet, embraced the castle. A warm morning light shined on Foltest's forehead.
"Did you see what I see?" The king asked.
I didn't. Roche told himself.
I wished, but I didn't. I never did.
So he kept drifting, in this crowd of ghosts and the striped field, just like that.
On the second post-war diplomacy meeting, Roche had seen a familiar face on the Nilfgaardian garden party. Of all the people, Iorveth, the former Scoia'tael leader, unsuccessful terrorist, was gawked in front of the table. He looks incongruous.
Roche stared at him, trying to recall the old times: shitty weather, weeks-long trek, loose and rotten teeth, diarrhea, gangrenes; the fear, the adrenalin rush, the thrill. But nothing comes.
He was here, not there. It was long passed. Nobody misses misery.
Iorveth noticed Roche. He titled his head, glanced at him. A familiar vicious smile slowly crawling up to Iorveth's damaged face, pierce and mocking. A taunt.
But all of a sudden, before Roche could react, it faded. Iorveth was still staring at Roche, expressionless.
The things we do in the war - the things we did, Roche chewed on those words, the hunt is over. They are no longer the hunter and the prey. They are now rats, in jester's cloth. He thought, almost find the punch line.
He raised his cup, blankly.
Iorveth looked away.
There's something Roche did remember about Iorveth. It was in the middle of the forest of Floatsam, they were dueling. For a moment, Iorveth was on him. There were heavy breaths, rasps of anger, a mix of chaos, everything was in a flash. Red, red, red. And Iorveth was on Roche, face twisted. His fingers reached for Roche's right eye, the salt on Iorveth's skin burned his eyelid. With his ruthless and rapid movement, a few sweats drops dripped on Roche's face. Then Roche realized it, Iorveth was sweaty heavily. It's not just because of the heat or excitement or anger - it was fear. The smell of fear was leaking from the elf's stinky armor and weeks-long unwashed body, like rotten peaches. Somehow, it felt real. More than a lot of things.
Those fat, warm drops, etched on his skin.
It was just a moment, then Roche elbowed Iorveth on the stomach and rolled to the other side, back for the next turn of combat.
But that duel was long over. Those battles - fighting for something, were long over.
Now, Roche put down his cup, decided to retreat himself.
But through the lights of torches and the gold blaze of braziers, the faces, and shadows of strange people, a flash in the eye corner. There was something that got Roche's attention.
He turned around.
Iorveth gazed at him, again.
I could still kill you, he mouthed in silence, slowly, and deliberately.
Roche smiled, calm and dry.
Maybe next time, He said.
FIN