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Roche has almost made it back to Flotsam when the forest around him goes eerily quiet. He draws his sword, scanning the trees for archers.
“I’ve got bigger vermin than squirrels to deal with right now, so why don’t you run back to wherever you cowards are hiding these days?” he calls out. Not that he’s worried about Ves and Geralt being able to handle Loredo without him—but he does want to be there to see the whoreson meet his end.
There’s a rustle of leaves off to his right, and Roche feels his heart rate pick up as Iorveth himself steps out of the undergrowth. “And here I thought murdering elves was your top priority,” he drawls.
Roche risks another quick glance at the trees, but doesn’t spot any other signs of movement. Fuck Loredo, he decides; there’s no way he’s passing up an opportunity to deal with this particular squirrel.
“For you, I’ll make an exception. Don’t tell me you’re actually stupid enough to be out here alone.”
Iorveth smiles—a wicked expression that kicks Roche’s heart rate up another notch—and draws his own blades.
“Funny,” he says. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
Then he moves, and it’s all Roche can do to deflect his first strike from taking Roche’s head off.
Roche has fought elves before. He’s killed more than he’s cared to count. In his experience the stories about their agility are worth so much horse manure; even the squirrels are just men in the end, no harder to kill than humans.
Iorveth, however, moves with a fluidity and ferocity Roche has rarely seen.
He follows his first swing up with a flurry of strikes that drive Roche back across the clearing, then lands a kick to Roche’s gut that sends him sprawling. Roche gets his sword up in front of him, a last-ditch attempt to stop the killing blow that’s sure to follow. But Iorveth just stands over him, smirking.
“Is that really the best Temeria has to offer? Pathetic.” He twirls one of his swords and takes a step backwards. “Go on, get up. I’ll let you have another try.”
Roche grits his teeth and gets to his feet. Fucking squirrel. He raises his sword again and circles to the left, watching closely for any hint of Iorveth’s next move.
Iorveth shakes his head. “Too obvious, dh’oine.” And then he’s on Roche again.
This time they trade a good two dozen blows before Iorveth manages to sidestep and sweep Roche’s legs out from under him. Roche finds himself flat on his back a second time, the wind knocked out of him.
“Maybe you just enjoy being put on your back by an elf, is that it?”
“Fuck you.” Roche feels his face flush despite himself. That’s definitely not an image he needs in his head right now. Not while Iorveth is stalking around him like a predator all too capable of putting him down.
“It did sometimes seem like all those rants about filthy squirrels were a bit performative.” Iorveth puts his hands on his hips, that infuriating smirk back on his face. “You protest that you hate us an awful lot.”
“Fuck you,” Roche repeats, and launches himself at Iorveth before the elf can get his guard back up.
Roche slams into Iorveth’s chest, knocking him to the ground with enough force that both his swords go flying. In an instant Roche has his own sword at Iorveth’s throat, using his full weight to pin him down. Something flickers and shifts in Iorveth’s expression, and he licks his lips.
“Well,” Iorveth pants. “I guess now you have me right where you want me.”
Roche swallows. They’re so close he can feel Iorveth’s breath on his face, and when Iorveth shifts underneath him Roche can feel every long, lean line of his body where they’re pressed together.
Roche leans in, loosening his grip on his sword.
Pain explodes through his temple, and the next thing he knows he’s on his back again, blinking to try to clear the spots from his vision. Something connects hard with his ribs and he groans, rolling onto his side, before he’s yanked up by his hair and finds himself face to face with Iorveth again.
The elf’s expression is one of utter contempt. “Scanlach bloede dh’oine,” he spits. “There really is no limit to your kind’s hypocrisy, is there?” He throws Roche back to the ground. “You disgust me. Ending your miserable life would be a mercy, and one I’m not inclined to grant. Just remember that I’ve beaten you once, and I can do it again.”
He gives another vicious kick to Roche’s ribs and then he’s gone, leaving Roche curled in around his aching chest and hot, bitter shame.