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The route from the Dol Blathanna frontline to Novigrad inevitably leads through Pontar, so getting on a boat is the quickest, most efficient way to cross. Vernon fucking hates it, but it's an undeniable fact—so that's exactly what they do.
Saskia's 'free' state is flying the Nilfgaardian colours.
"Unbelievable," scoffs Ves next to him. "After everything—they just gave up?"
Vernon's hands clench on the taffrail.
"We'll come for them." He snaps. "Once we've secured Temeria's freedom, we will come for them."
Ves stares at the golden sun a moment longer, then turns away and crosses her arms. "I just wish…" She begins and trails off with a helpless shrug.
Vernon nods. The lost lives of his Blue Stripes weigh heavy on him, too.
—
They stop for provisions in Flotsam.
It belongs to Kaedwen now, after Loredo’s betrayal. It stings almost as much as the Nilfgaardian suns on the walls of the State of Pontar Valley.
And suddenly it's all too much all at once, and he can't stand it, can't deal with it right now.
"I need to clear my head." He grumbles.
Ves gives him a look he refuses to acknowledge as pitying and nods.
"I'll take care of things here while you're gone."
—
He wanders through the surrounding forest for a while, stopping for a time at the clearing where him and Iorveth had their fateful duel.
The elf had bested him that time, yet he had chosen to spare him. Would things have gone differently, had the outcome been in his favor?
Would the Stripes still be alive?
But there's no point in dwelling on such things now.
—
As his luck would have it, a couple hours into his stroll it starts raining. Just a drizzle at first, but soon enough it gets heavy enough to penetrate the thick canopy of the branches. Vernon swears and begins stumbling through the trees, looking for shelter.
He finds it in the form of a forest cave. Curiously, it seems recently occupied, but there are also signs of a struggle. Many crates lie shattered, their contents strewn about the place: food, drink, and numerous personal possessions. They are mostly clothes, toys and cookware, but many different kinds of objects as well.
His stomach grumbles, so he begins rifling through the consumables. He manages to salvage some bread, dried meat, and a bottle of fine wine.
—
He'd never been good at sitting on his ass and twiddling his thumbs and he's bored out of his skull in no time. To combat the monotony, he starts wandering through the cave, picking through the discarded objects.
Eventually, he finds a pile that clearly belonged to a band of performers: colorful clothes, make up kits and a bunch of props.
His eyes fall on three stacked up juggling rings. Vernon picks them up and tosses experimentally into the air, then allows them to clatter uselessly to the ground. He used to be quite proficient with juggling. When you're a soldier, it's easy to pick up strange new hobbies while stewing in the barracks or camping out for weeks at a time with nothing to do but eat, shit and sleep.
He hadn't done so in a while, though… But who's to see and judge him here? After only a moment of hesitation, he picks them up and starts juggling.
He's rusty as shit. At first, he can barely keep them flying through the air, much less perform any tricks. After a little while, though, the muscle memory returns and he feels confident enough to try a 180 degree turn.
It almost works. Would have, if not for the fact that when he turns, he notices an unexpected presence at the mouth of the cave and drops the rings in surprise.
"You're really awful at this," Iorveth informs him.
—
Roche reaches for his sword almost as soon as he sees him.
"How long have you been standing here?" He growls, eyes narrowing. "Are you here to settle the score?"
If anyone has a score to settle here, it's Roche, but Iorveth doesn't say it out loud. Instead, he runs a tired hand over his face. Of course the bleoede dh'oine always find a way to complicate his life. Even in such simple things as retrieving a lost doll. Right now, what he needs is some food and some rest, but as fight would have it, what he gets instead is a fight with Roche.
And he hadn't even been trying to pick one this time.
One could argue the complications are entirely self-inflicted, says a traitorous little voice from the back of his head, but he quashes it immediately. Even if he chose a different path, even if he chose to become someone elese, they bloody pests would still find a way.
"Only a short moment." He says wearily. "And no, I'm not. Believe it or not, my life doesn't revolve around you." Well. Not anymore, at least.
Roche remains wary. "What do you want, then?" Reasonable, Iorveth thinks. He's not about to relax either.
But the dh'oine is not attacking him, either, which Iorveth is grateful for.
He shouldn't engage him. He should just ignore him, just grab what he came here for and leave. But the desire to one-up Roche at any opportunity is just too strong.
And while Roche is, despite what Iorveth had just said, somewhat competent, he knows he can do better.
"Teaching you how to juggle, apparently."
Roche's expression turns incredulous.
"You? You juggle?"
Iorveth rolls his eye at the display of eloquence. "Astute as always, I see."
He pulls his gloves off and warms up his hands and wrists, then slowly walks into the cave, carefully telegraphing his movements. Roche continues scowling at him as he bends down to pick up the fallen rings, but the dh'oine doesn't move, merely observing instead.
Iorveth does his best not to acknowledge it as he moves away to give himself some space and tosses the rings into the air. He hadn't done it in a very long time, so he simply juggles them through a few loops at first, just to get a feel for it. Once he's satisfied, he catches Roche's eye. The Blue Stripes commander is still glaring at him, teeth bared as if preparing to bite him, but he'd put down his sword at least, in favor of crossing his arms over his chest.
"Watch and learn, dh'oine."
—
At first, Vernon is alarmed. Then, he is apprehensive. After that, as he watches Iorveth effortlessly spin the rings on their axis and perform several tricks, the hoops never stuttering through the air, he is irked. But the longer he watches, the more the annoyance gives way to awe. The way Iorveth does it, neatly and gracefully, he can't help but marvel at the sight.
The elf finishes his performance by tossing the rings high and extending his hand into up the air. The hoops fall and slide down his arm as if they belong there.
Just for a moment, Vernon thinks he can see an expression that seems foreign on Iorveth's face: exhilaration. Then the elf inclines his head to give him a smug smile, and Vernon releases the breath he didn't realize he was holding.
Then he goes scrounging for more liquor, because why not? It's not like this day can get any more ridiculous.
He finds some not-so-well aged wine and holds the bottle out to Iorveth. "Drink?"
—
Once he's certain that he'd proven his point, Iorveth finishes his little performance and turns to look at Roche. The dh'oine blinks at him, then turns away to dig through the items strewn on the ground, and Iorveth scowls. It's not that he'd expected a standing ovation, but being brushed off like this stings for some reason.
It doesn't matter. Why should he care about Roche's opinion? He loathes the man. Remember what you came here for, he tells himself, and begins casting around for a dark haired dwarven doll, but Roche's question stops him in his tracks.
At first, he's sure he must have misheard him.
"What did you say?"
Roche shakes a bottle in his direction.
"I said, do you want a drink?" He repeats his question impatiently.
Iorveth is unsure of how to respond at first, so he just stares awkwardly for a moment. He shouldn't. This could be a trick, a trap, some elaborate setup for an ambush-
Be serious, he chastises himself. What ambush? There's no way Roche could have known he would be here right now. He hadn't planned on it, after all.
Plus, it’s not like he’ll get another chance to have a drink with Vernon Roche, the commander of Temeria’s special forces, and he must admit he's somewhat curious.
He reaches for the bottle.
—
They drink in silence for a while, and Roche is content with that for a while—but he can’t stop thinking about the Nilfgaardian suns on Pontar’s walls. Finally, he caves: “Pontar is flying Nilfgaardian flags.”
Iorveth snorts.
“I know, I live there.”
Roche looks at him, a mix of indignation and confusion bubbling up in his chest.
“And you... don’t care?”
Iorveth shrugs. “I’m not thrilled with it, but it’s been working out for us thus far.”
“Weren’t you- didn’t you want a free Pontar State?”
Iorveth levels him with a gaze and takes a long, leisurely drink.
“Pontar is free in all the ways that matter.”
Vernon opens and closes his mouth, unsure of how to respond, but Iorveth must see something in his face, because he continues after a while.
“Have you actually spoken to the Nilfgaardian emperor, or his ambassadors? He is quite reasonable, for a tyrant.”
Vernon sputters.
“Spoken to- Reasonable?” The concept is so outlandish that at first, he's unable to wrap his mind around it. Nilfgaard and Emhyr var Emreis are the enemy, a threat to Temeria’s survival. Conducting a dialogue with the Emperor seems about as rational a notion as attempting to fight the sun itself with a grain cradle.
But Iorveth shrugs.
“The way I see it, as long as your people are happy, it doesn’t matter whose flag you fly.”
Vernon doesn’t have an answer to that.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” He asks to change the subject. “You've said you live in Pontar.”
Iorveth frowns and clicks his tongue. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m helping the refugees from Flotsam reach Pontar.”
“Refugees?” Vernon frowns. As far as he knows, war hasn’t reached the region yet. “From what?”
Iorveth looks at him pointedly. “From dh’oine.”
Vernon looks at the ground. “Can’t see any refugees here.” He grumbles, and Iorveth gives him an unimpressed look.
“Can’t you, really?” He begins pointing at various items, his voice harsh. “Those rings you were playing with—they belonged to a troupe of elves and dopplers that happened to be passing through town. The bellflower glassware? A dwarven family. These tools—four craftsmen, an elf, a half-elf and two dwarves. Need I go on?”
Vernon swallows. “Why here, though?”
“Tensions between dh'oine and the nobler races were high for a long time now."
Vernon grits his teeth at the insult.
"And whose fault was that?"
Iorveth presses his lips into a tight line for a moment.
"The dh'oine would have found another excuse sooner or later. They always do."
The set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders—he's not quite sure why, but Vernon feels like for Iorveth, this is personal somehow. But he doesn't ask, and the elf doesn't elaborate, instead continuing the account of events.
"A week or a couple ago, some of the non-human residents of Flotsam and Lobinden had asked Saskia for help—they were desperate to get out of here. By the time we reached the town, things had already gone sideways,” Iorveth's expression darkes as he says that, “but we managed to get them out. They laid low here while we attempted to retrieve their belongings, but... I don’t know. Someone was careless, or maybe it was an accident- but the townspeople found this plave and we had to get them out in a rush.”
“You said things had gone sideways," Vernon says slowly. "In what way?”
Iorveth’s expression turns into a mix of bitterness and anger. “They’ve just about started stringing them up.”
Vernon doesn’t know how to respond to that, either.
—
Iorveth breaks the silence after a while.
“And what about you? Missed the good old xenophobic Flotsam? I bet you feel right at home here.” The words are harsher than he intends, but speaking about the lynching had left him full of resentment.
Roche gives him an annoyed look. “I don’t, actually. We’re just passing through.”
“You and your Blue Stripes?”
Roche's expression clouds over.
“Me and Ves. The rest of the Stripes are dead.” He says curtly, and Iorveth looks at him in surprise. Perhaps it’s hubris, but he can’t imagine the Stripes falling to a commando other than his own. Nilfgaardians, then?
“How?” He asks the question before he can stop himself.
Vernon hunches his shoulders. “Things… escalated in Aedirn,” is all he says.
“I’m-” Iorveth starts, but can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. He’s not sorry at all. The Blue Stripes were a group of bandits, murderers and butchers. They got exactly what they always had coming, and he hopes they suffered before they perished.
He eventually settles on: “My condolences.”
Roche acknowledges the words with a grunt.
After that, the silence stretches between them for so long it starts to get opressive, and Iorveth graps for something to say.
The words that eventually leave his mouth are nothing he would have ever said fully sober. But he's not, and they do.
“Would you like me to teach you how to juggle?”
Roche gives him an offended look: “I know how to juggle.”
“Would you like me to teach you how to juggle better?”
Roche snorts.
“Can’t improve on perfection.”
Iorveth rolls his eye.
“Fine, stay mediocre if you prefer.”
“Mediocre?” Roche sputters. “Just because I don’t do it fancy as an elf it doesn’t mean I’m mediocre!”
Iorveth gives him a crooked smile: “It does if you are an elf.”
Roche turns to punches him in the arm, but there's no real strength behind it, When he lets his hand fall down, his palm brushes against Iorveth’s.
Iorveth doesn’t move it.
—
By the time Ves finds them, Iorveth is opening the second bottle of wine and Roche had gotten into the rye vodka.
At first, she just stares at the two of them open mouthed. Roche doesn’t notice her presence, so it falls to Iorveth to awkwardly reach out the bottle towards her.
“Wine?”
“Wha-” She sputters. “Roche- what in the world are you doing? And with him?” She snaps, and Roche finally registers her presence.
He turns towards her. “We’re drinking,” he announces merrily. “And juggling.” He adds, as an afterthought. “You should join us.”
“Vernon, what the fuck? Do you know how worried I was?” She gives Iorveth an accusatory glare, as if he's personally responsible for the circumstances she'd found them in. “The ship is leaving soon, we need to get back!”
Roche considers her words for several long moment.
“Fine. Once you try juggling.”
Ves scowls. “I’m not fucking juggling.”
Roche crosses his arms over his chest, looking the world's oldest petulant child.
“Then I’m not fucking leaving.”
Ves works her jaw for a moment, and Iorveth notes that her and Roche's angry expressions are not dissimilar. She doesn’t say anything, but after a few moments, she finally reaches her hand out, and Iorveth passes her the rings.
“What am I even supposed to do with this?” She growls, staring at them in disgust.
“Just...” He gestures vaguely. “It's really quite simple. Just toss them into the air and catch them.”
Ves glowers, but she attempts to heed his vague instructions, tossing all three rings into the air at once.
She manages to catch only one. The others bounce off her head and fall to the floor.
Roche begins laughing hysterically, and even Iorveth can’t stop a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Oh, like your drunk asses can do it better!” She fumes.
Iorveth and Roche glance at each other and stand up almost simultaneously.
Iorveth picks up the rings, Roche digs up some juggling balls, and in short order, they’re tossing them in unison.
“Roche!” When the dh’oine turns towards him, Iorveth tosses one of the rings at him. Roche catches it, and throws a ball back. Soon enough, they’re passing at each other in perfect synch.
“Braggarts.” Ves mutters, crossing her arms over her chest.
Iorveth laughs.
—
Eventually, they tire out and Ves takes it as a sign to start dragging Roche back towards Flotsam.
Just before they disappear outside, Iorveth calls out: "Roche!"
The dh’oine turns around.
“You should come to Pontar sometime. See what it’s really like, living under a Nilfgaardian flag.”
Roche flips him off.