Chapter Text
I know you can feel it
You're already there
Asleep underwater
Just screaming for air
I know you can feel it
You're already…
Don't you know we're freaks and creatures
Wake up I can almost see the light
David Usher - Alone in the Universe
Having two opposing forces stationed in the same place is a sure recipe for disaster. Having Scoia’tael and the Blue Stripes stationed anywhere near each other is an apocalypse waiting to happen. But nobody is interested in such an outcome, obviously, so arrangements have to be made and terms have to be negotiated in order to minimize the friction and stave off the war of the worlds for at least the needed couple of weeks or so. After heated discussions and cups being thrown at each other, both sides settle for a solution: a fight club. Nothing new, at least for the Blue Stripes, yes, but a few fixes have to be made before it becomes suitable for Scoia’tael as well: bets allowed only in fights among members of the same faction. Also, no trying to kill anybody (the fact that it had to be said aloud was sad but unsurprising). What this agreement leads to is an acceptable way to vent frustration and hate boiling because of the close proximity of grave enemies. You can throw punches with someone you would otherwise kill to trick yourself into feeling relief after a fight, but not for the cash. It’s satisfaction only.
Roche trusts his people to stick to the rules, they’ve been through so much after all, but still sometimes comes to cheer on them and also coincidentally to see that they don’t kill anybody and ruin the whole arrangement. It’s crowded and stinky because of all the sour beer and various bodily fluids spilled everywhere, but he’s learned to disregard this after years of having to endure it every time they pitch camp. Unlike the elves, who constantly wrinkle up their noses and spit curses in elder speech. Roche finds it funny, but cannot really judge them much for this.
He takes a seat on a chair that has just been conveniently emptied of its previous occupant when the guy fell over and was unable to stop rolling down the slope. The previous match has just finished, so Roche’s just in time to see the next one from start to finish. His wish, however, is not destined to come true because the announcer suddenly notices him, throws his hands up in the year and yells:
“Listen here, you lousy bastards! Today we have a guest of honour among us! Let’s hear it for the famous (or infamous if you will) commander of the Blue Stripes!”
The soldiers yell and shout in what could be a unison if they weren’t so desperately drunk, while the elves snort and shake their head disapprovingly. Roche just nods in acknowledgement, thinking nothing of this small show. But the announcer proceeds, much to his displeasure.
“How about we make a special performance today! Commander, can I ask you to come up here?”
Roche knows it’s not really a question. He cannot say no, not in front of all his soldiers who are already so riled up, not when all of the Scoia’tael have suddenly become so quiet and expectant. He curses himself for coming on this particular day and obediently gets up from the chair. He has to stand somewhat awkwardly on the makeshift scene while the announcer tries to convince somebody to have a sparring with him.
“So, who’s going to be our lucky adversary? Maybe you?” yells the guy and points at a decently built man in a blue gambeson. The man starts to shake his head violently and wave his hands in a desperate protest.
Roche cannot help but feel just a tiny bit curious about how the fight will go. It’s been quite a long time since he fought somebody like this, not on a battlefield with the intention to take his opponent’s life, but for fun (although, dubious fun some would argue). Remembering the last time somebody actually beat him is close to impossible.
“What, chickening out now? Pathetic! How about you, knife-eared?”
The elf the announcer pointed at throws a curse at him and spits on the ground. His comrades pat him on the shoulder, trying to calm him down and stop him from ruthlessly attacking the announcer who still hasn’t learned to be neutral enough in his expressions not to earn a couple of deadly enemies every day.
“Iorveth should do it!” somebody yells, and the time seems to pause for a second. The silence is almost defeating, but not for long, as the moment the mostly inebriated crowd is able to process the words, they erupt in an explosion of howls and yells and clapping.
The Scoia’tael shuffle around a bit and make way for Iorveth who seems to have been present here this whole time with not much attention being focused on him up until now. A slimy secretive ass, that he is.
As Iorveth silently approaches the ring, Roche suddenly hates the prospect of the upcoming fight. Now accepting is not enough, he also has to worry about not losing. It’s not like he has problems with adequately assessing his own skills or having not enough confidence, but losing to Iorveth… That would bring about some very unwanted consequences.
When Iorveth is on the same level as him, he sighs and takes off his sword together with a scabbard. Iorveth loses his bow and quiver, which he for some reason still carries around the camp despite no imminent threat being present. The crowd erupts in another fit of shouts, celebrating the silent acceptance of their fate by the contestants. Roche takes off his cherished medal and his chaperon – the less things Iorveth can grab him by, the better. After giving it another thought, he sighs and decides to get rid of the gambeson as well as a thin chainmail he had underneath it, staying only in a linen shirt. Iorveth is fast, frighteningly fast, so having less equipment will give Roche an additional chance at success or at least a fair fight. Only Iorveth sees right through him and also takes off his gambeson and every single piece of armour and weaponry he has. Having been freed from his gear, he rolls his shoulders and stretches his arms while Roche is standing there, worrying his lip with his teeth and trying to count his chances of success. He is indeed a superior swordsman, but he didn’t exactly have an opportunity to throw punches with Iorveth to know if he can win this. Well, regardless, failure is not an option.
With continuous roar of the crowd in the background, the announcer invites Roche and Iorveth to the scaffold.
“I don’t think I have to, but just to be on the safe side, let me remind you the rules. Try not to kill each other!” yells the announcer before jumping off the scaffold as if he were running away from a wildfire.
Roche rolls his eyes at his stupidly childlike behaviour and immediately catches a punch with his face.
Iorveth is fast. ‘I don’t waste any time on introductions’ type of fast. Everybody in the audience except for the elves probably thinks it’s a dick move, but it’s not like anybody can forbid Iorveth from doing something like this. Most of them are just happy they are not the ones to be on the scaffold with him.
Roche stumbles back a few steps but is able to quickly regain his balance. The punch was intentionally weak enough not to accidentally knock him out. Iorveth was just rushing to be the one to start as a way to show off, and this knowledge simply drives Roche crazy. He tries to read Iorveth’s face for any signs of complacency, but his expression is imperceptible.
He refuses to approach Iorveth to an arm’s length, so they make a couple of circles, staring each other down. Roche tries to spot an opening in Iorveth’s defence or at least a weakness he can exploit, but it proves to be more difficult than he anticipated. What’s worse, he suddenly feels pressured because all of the attention concentrated on them, which is not a problem he usually encounters in the sword fights.
Saving him from the need to continue his contemplations, Iorveth rushes forward again, but this time Roche manages to dodge his fist. He thinks that Iorveth is definitely incredibly fast but lacks the patience that is needed to come up with a strategy in the middle of a fight with a serious opponent. Going on like this, soon he will be out of breath and Roche will most likely memorize some of his go to moves and be able to successfully block them. But soon is soon and not now because now Roche has to narrowly evade another punch and even jump back a little. Right when he takes a step back, Iorveth immediately takes a few steps forward, as if he didn’t intend to punch him at all and only wanted him to stagger a bit, circles him and tries to kick him in the back of his knees to make Roche fall down. Well, he not only tries but also succeeds in it, yet Roche immediately rolls away, again able to escape the onslaught.
“You can’t run forever, d’hoine,” hisses Iorveth and a crooked smile grows on his face.
There it is, thinks Roche. A moment ago, he was worrying that a dull ache began spreading through his knees after the kick, but now all the worries were gone. Now, a rush of adrenaline sparked something in him, something that made all of the background noise faint and turned all of the movements of the crowd a negligible blur.
Roche jumps to his feet and goes at Iorveth, throwing a few punches as if trying to probe at his defences from different angles, then confidently dives into his blind spot, which causes a moment of frustration for Iorveth. Roche does his best to not miss such an opportunity, moves swiftly behind Iorveth’s back and grapples him, holding him steadily with an arm around his neck and another one keeping Iorveth’s left hand twisted behind his back.
“You don’t get to teach me, you little shit,” he snarls into Iorveth’s ear, trying hard not to let him squirm out of his grip.
“You might want to reconsider,” whispers Iorveth before his sharp teeth sink into Roche’s forearm. It sure doesn’t feel like an elf bite, more like it’s a vicious mongrel that is trying to rip out a part of Roche’s flesh, so he is forced to let go, although very unwillingly. His arm throbs with pain as he watches almost in slow motion as Iorveth spits out a mouthful of blood and wipes his mouth only to leave a thin red streak along the line of his hand’s movements. There are a few loud whistles of approval that are able to break through the battle fog simultaneously with Iorveth lunging at him, leaving him not a single second more to think about his plan of action. He dodges and blocks a few punches here and there and even makes a few attempts himself, but his arm still hurts, so when Iorveth violently tugs at it to make a hole in Roche’s defence, Roche yields for only a second, which turns out to be a second too much. Iorveth collects all of his strength and lands a heavy punch on Roche’s face, this time knocking him completely off balance.
The world becomes a blurry mess when, sprawled on the ground, Roche reaches to touch his nose only to see red on his fingers. Before he loses the remainders of his focus, he sees a slim figure lean over him.
“If you feel entitled to a rematch, you know where to find me, commander,” it says and disappears from his field of view.
The crowd seems utterly shocked to silence with only one man who is obviously completely insensitive to the atmosphere loudly vomiting out everything he has drunk so far. A few extremely brave dwarves feel like it’s a good idea to applaud while the Blue Stripes stare at each other in a dumb stupor, not yet sober enough to realize their commander could use some assistance.