Chapter Text
"So, let me get this straight; this Iorveth person is our only trail?" Zir asked, as the small group ventured forward down the road.
Geralt of Rivia, Triss Merigold, Vernon Roche and Zirael "Zir" Farroc. An interesting collection of creatures on the road to Flotsam; a witcher with amnesia, a jealous sorceress, a temperamental Commander of the Blue Stripes and a smart-mouthed half-elf.
Zir had been reluctant to join Geralt when he was dragged off to King Foltest's war. Partly because of the fact her skills were more defined for the cityscape than the battlefield and partly because she knew Triss would be there. And Triss Merigold and Zir just couldn't be in the same room without sparks flying. It was probably mostly due to chemistry, or lack thereof, but Zir suspected that Triss was protective of Geralt. She wasn't much of a sharing person.
But Zir wasn't even going to try to move in on Geralt. Sure, he was a handsome bastard and she more than happily enjoyed the view whenever he took off his shirt, but she was perfectly fine with just looking. He was a friend and not much else and that suited the half-elf just fine.
When Geralt insisted that her skills would be good on the battlefield as a scout, and insisted that she was the only one who could match him in a drinking contest and that he'd be bored to tears without a proper drinking partner, she gave up and agreed to come along. Despite the presence of Triss. At least she hadn't been bored while she was there; lots of gambling and drinking going on and the boys thought she was just one of them.
That was mainly due to how cleverly she dressed. She was a smart woman; she knew that half-elf women were treated with less respect than dirt, so she dressed in loose-fitting clothes to hide what little feminine form she had and covered her ears with a bandana, which also kept her longish reddish hair out of her eyes. No one who didn't know her personally was any the wiser.
It was a trick she had picked up many years earlier, and one she used every day to disguise herself in the streets. It reduced the risk of getting mugged or raped greatly. And not only that, but her little theatric landed her a job with Thaler as one of his 'rats'.
"Yes, he is. The Kingslayer was last heard of in this area and the forest belongs to Iorveth," Roche answered with a grunt. He clearly didn't like this particular elf.... well, he didn't like Zir either, but that was for a whole other reason. Ever since the two of them had met, they just couldn't get out of each other's way. Insults and threats had been shot from one end of the ship to the other the whole way there. Apparently the reason to Roche's annoyance was Zir's elven lineage and Zir's bone with Vernon lay with his racism and 'mildly' shallow view of the world.
"Sounds like you don't like him that much, Roche. Personal vendetta? Did he set your house on fire, or overturned the outhouse you were sitting in? The latter would certainly explain the smell," Zir grinned at the sour glare he turned to her.
"Shut your trap, rat. You know nothing of what's between me and Iorveth," he growled at the thief. Zir frowned at the nickname.
"If I'm a rat, you're a cockroach," she added as payback.
The otherwise stern and level-headed Commander spluttered out an angry insult, ready to backhand her a few across the face, hard enough to make her see stars for a week.
"One more word from you, half-bred bitch, and I'll personally hang you in the gallows!"
"I'd like to see you try!"
Geralt stopped in his tracks for a moment, listening.
"Do you hear that?"
The soft tunes of a wooden flute were carried through the wind and to them. Both Roche and Zir stopped insulting one another for a moment and listened to the soothing tunes from up ahead.
"I smell an elf!" he growled and went forward, his and Zir's fight forgotten for the moment as determination took over.
Unlike Roche, Zir liked the soft tunes which danced through the air to her pointed ears. She came quickly to the same conclusion as Roche; only an elf could caress a flute like that to bring out a melody so hauntingly beautiful and so... mournful. It was hard to hear, but she could recognize the slight melancholy that laced the tunes. It struck home in her heart and filled her with sadness and pity. Pity for whoever was playing and the things that had happened to make the piper caress such a sad melody out of the instrument.
Zir quickly followed the rest of them as they made their way towards the elf with the flute. The first thing that greeted their eyes was a shadowed figure sitting atop a toppled tree that leaned over the dirt path. Roche growled at the sight, which easily told Zir that this was the infamous forest fox Iorveth.
As they neared the figure, she couldn't help but find the elf intriguing already.
He was dressed in the forest's colours beneath his leather armour. Across his chest hung a belt with several emblems on it... emblems of Special Forces. Nearly every single force was there, except for the Blue Stripes.
Trophies, she figured. Trophies taken from the men sent out to hunt down the brigand.
But what truly caught her attention was his face and the red bandana covering half of it. A scar. A deep scar, she decided, was beneath that. Whatever had happened must have left a deep scar there since she could see a bit of warped skin at the edge of the bandana on his right cheek.
But the other half of his face was handsome. Stern, cold, distrusting but handsome. Beautiful, like any other elf she had seen. It was another race thing, another thing to set apart humans and elves. The sweet tunes floated from the wooden flute in his gloved hands and Zir was quite impressed by the fact he could caress the flute like he did while wearing heavy leather gloves. Now, that was just showing off.
"That's-" Roche began, however the elf stood on the log and cut him off.
"Vernon Roche! Special Forces Commander for the last four years. Servant of the Temarian King. Responsible for the pacification of the Mahakam foothills. Hunter of elves, murderer of women and children," he mocked him, holding out his hands in a mockingly grandiose way as he spoke.
"Twice decorated for valour on the field of battle..." he applauded, adding to the mocking of the Commander who was starting to turn red-faced.
"Iorveth- a regular son of a whore!" he pointed at him as the insult rolled off his tongue.
"I've long awaited our meeting. Laid plans, set traps... And now you appear in my forest of your own volition," Iorveth seemed rather gleeful at the appearance of his arch-nemesis in his forest, and he hadn't even lifted a finger to make it happen.
"You aided the man who slew my king!" Roche spat at him, his blood beginning to boil in his veins.
"King or beggar; what's the difference? One dh'oine less," although the elf didn't smile, Zir could hear the wide smirk in his voice. She was beginning to like this guy. Although he was a human-hating bastard, there was that desire for freedom within him, that fire that would never die down but never be satisfied. She had seen it before in another Scoia'tael leader.
Now Geralt spoke up from his spot among the travellers.
"Since when do the Scoia'tael hire professional killers to do their dirty work? A dh'oine, even. You've fallen low..."
"A hired killer, true. But in all certainty, he is no dh'oine," Iorveth countered with a sly tongue.
"Don't make a big deal of the race thing..." Geralt threw at him, trying to spur him on.
"Yet race is the very reason we fight! We have pointed ears, yours are rounded. We are few, yet long-lived, your kind multiplies like vermin, though thankfully expires quickly... Humans and elves alike, trying to prove one shape is better than the other. Four hundred years of killing over the mold of the auricle."
Among the insults and spitting hatred, Zir saw a bit of truth in his words. Indeed; humans and elves had been killing each other for the mere shape of their eyes and ears. Innocent blood had been spilled because of this, and more innocent blood would be spilled in the future. It was a shame, a waste of life and resource.
"The kingslayer's among you. We've come for him," Geralt changed the subject, going back to the reason they were there.
"Then our interests collide... The kingslayer is under my protection and I'll not hand over a guest," Iorveth crossed his arms over his chest, underlining his words with a firm gaze.
"You're just another old elf in a young elf's skin, using clever words to mask an obvious truth. This is not about race or freedom. Or even vengeance. You're here because someone powerful told you to be. Someone who's using you. They may wear a crown, carry a magic wand, or even lead a guild..." Iorveth's eye began to fill with a boiling and dangerous anger at Geralt's words.
"But be sure of this: it's not about your freedom, your rights, or your ears. Nilfgaard ploughed you once, now someone new does. Am I wrong?" Zir nearly cringed at the dangerous assumption Geralt handed out. This couldn't end well. The elven leader, however, stood stock still with the cold glare in his eye upon the group.
In the brief silence that follow, Zir noticed a sound in the shrubs nearby. Her ears picked up a wheezing breath. Seems like Iorveth had back-up and one of them was either ill or on fizztech. Poor sod, in either case.
"Those times are gone... No one will ever use the Scoia'tael again," Iorveth answered firmly, wanting it to be known that he was no puppet. Not any more. And he would never be again.
"Who are you addressing? Me, yourself... or the archers in those shrubs?" And Geralt had noticed them too.
"Enough of this piss! Die!" Roche roared with anger and drew a knife. He prepared to pin Iorveth to the log with it, preferably through his cold, black heart.
However, Zir tackled him the moment the knife left his hand, making it fly in a lazy arch and miss Iorveth by a hair's breadth as said Scoia'tael leader moved to the side and away from the line of fire.
A mere fraction of a second later, three arrows imbedded themselves in the soil where Roche had just stood, shot by expert archers from the undergrowth.
"Spar'le!" Iorveth called and dashed across the log to safety near the shrubs, where his archers stood by with loaded bows.