Work Text:
It was rare that Iorveth miscalculated and led them into a fight that they couldn’t win, but in those few and far between moments they knew to flee for survival.
They had accomplished what they needed to anyways, so it wasn’t a complete loss when Iorveth had called for retreat and his unit scattered. A group of dh’oine from Flotsam had come out to try and find the Scoia’tael base, going against their commandants orders in the name of revenge for a recent merchant attack Ciaran had led.
Iorveth had almost laughed when he’d received word of the plan. Their base was scattered throughout the forest, not residing in one place, and deep enough in that the monsters would kill off any dh’oine before they even caught wind of flutes playing and roasting rabbit.
Iorveth led a counter attack to strategically lead the dh’oine away from their camps and into monster dens. It had been wildly successful at first, leading them into an ambush of nekkers and scoia’tael. They wouldn’t find their base, not today. And Iorveth had gotten lucky enough that they had even been able to cut down most of the dh’oine.
But the dh’oine were more numbered than Iorveth had initially heard from one of his many spies, and the nekker population was larger than he recalled, handfuls of more nests teeming with creatures.
It took Iorveth getting sliced from chest to hip for him to call a retreat, knowing that if he was getting overwhelmed, his unit was as well. No point in losing good elves when he could save them.
Which brought him to where he was now. Panting, clutching at a wound, and tucked away between mossy rocks right on the border of what he deemed monster territory.
He was pressing hard at the gash in his side, struggling to cover the worst of his wound with just one hand. Bloede dh’oine got him good… struck him on his right side where he lacked the vision to protect himself.
It was deep, long, and would need stitching. He didn’t have any supplies on him to treat his injury, had left all of that with his second in command. Iorveth was hoping to slow the bleeding enough to get up and trudge his way back to camp for help.
But the bleeding had yet to slow at all, blood still seeping out between his fingers. He had taken his gloves off, covered in dirt and blood that wasn’t his from the skirmish. Now red was soaking into his skin, into leaf tattoos, making his hands sticky and stained.
Iorveth leant his head back against the rocks, trying to steady himself and slow his breathing, still sucking wind from his sprint away from the attack. He waited, breathed, felt faint as the wound refused to coagulate.
Something cracked far off in the distance behind him, a twig snapping under something’s weight. Iorveth tensed quickly enough that he sucked in a breath of pain. He clapped a blood soaked hand over his mouth, quieting his breathing while he strained to listen.
Footsteps, behind the rocks he was hiding by. His mind raced for a second. He had no judgement of what was behind him, how dangerous, how capable of—or willing to—kill him while he was wounded.
Iorveth moved slowly, uncovering his hand to grab the dagger strapped to his chest.
Iorveth withheld a grunt at the deep sting that was racing across his waist, feeling like it was burning into his flesh.
The footsteps would stop, then start again, like the owner of said steps were looking for something. Iorveth looked around, trying to catch if he had left a blood trail behind himself. He wouldn’t be shocked... but had assumed his gambeson had soaked most of it up.
The footsteps rounded around the mossy rock, and the sshhk of a blade unsheathing made Iorveth’s heart race.
Someone ran around the rock, blade raised. Iorveth raised his dagger, pushing himself up with a slippery hand braced on the rocks. The pain was almost unbearable, making Iorveth’s vision blurry as he pushed his body to it’s current limit.
His panting filled the quiet clearing, only accompanied by chirping birds and settling of leaves disturbed by his persuer.
“Iorveth?” An incredulous voice called.
Vernon Roche.
Iorveth scowled, disgust hot in his chest, fear hotter. His greatest enemy, a demon, finding him bleeding out in the forest. What a perfect opportunity for Vernon to end their long feud and cut down the Scoia’tael commander.
Iorveth kept the grip on his dagger firm, glaring at the shocked expression of the blue stripes commander.
Roche looked at Iorveth, taking in his appearance. The cogs of his stupid brain were clearly turning, Iorveth could swear he could see steam leaving his ears.
Roche frowned at the wound soaking through Iorveth’s gambeson, freely bleeding with Iorveth’s hands occupied. Roche lowered his blade reluctantly. Iorveth kept his raised, wickedly sharp.
Roche sheathed his blade. He raised his hands at Iorveth, showing his palms. The Scoia’tael commander stared. He didn’t trust Roche, not with an ounce of his being.
“Drop the blade, I’m not letting ending this when you’re already harmed. I want one of us to go out in a duel, fairly.” Iorveth just snarled, scarred face twisting into something nasty, gripping his blade tighter. He felt lightheaded.
Roche would take any opportunity to catch him off guard, but catching him wounded was too far? Iorveth swallowed hard, feeling sick as cold started to seep around his wound. If he had found Roche injured, would he have done the same? Did he want a fair fight?
“Yield Iorveth. You wouldn’t win this one were we to cross blades, and I’m not battling you as you are.” Roche said. Iorveth held strong for a moment.
He would want a fair fight, a story to bring his unit about how he finally earned his temerian lilies.
Iorveth dropped his blade to his side, sliding back down the rock to sit haphazardly in the leaves and dirt below him. He pressed both of his hands to the wound, fingers catching on the frayed fabric of his gambeson. He groaned at the pressure.
Roche kneeled in front of him, looking at his injury hesitantly. He reached forward to touch Iorveth and paused for only a moment before he moved one of the elf’s hands out of the way, wound on display. Iorveth didn’t fight it, too worn to resist.
Roche touched torn flesh, making Iorveth hiss in surprise. His fingers came back bloody.
“What happened?” He asked, starting to slowly fumble at his belt bags for something. His eyes were transfixed on Iorveth’s side, his tattoo cut in two by the injury.
“Dh’oine.” Iorveth responded, voice strained.
“Of course.” Roche responded, clearly annoyed. Iorveth could practically hear the eye roll in his words.
“Hold still.” Roche said, warning just before Iorveth felt the burn. He hissed, looking down to see Roche pouring something over flesh and tissue. Roche met his gaze, silently telling Iorveth to again to hold still. Iorveth tried to restrain his squirming, the pain making him feel faint.
Iorveth saw that Roche had set aside thread, a needle sticking out of the neat roll. Roche put the canteen of whatever he poursed on Iorveth to the side, and went to thread the needle.
He held up the threaded needle, checking it over for a second before placing a steadying hand on Iorveth’s waist. It made something warm blossom in Iorveth’s stomach to feel the strong hand on his skin, holding him down.
“I’m sure you know it will hurt. Don’t make this harder than it already is.” Roche said. He sounded irritated, his constant state of being with the elf, but his helping actions betrayed that aggravation. It was confusing to Iorveth’s already wishy washy mind, losing blood fast.
Iorveth just grunted in response, feeling the first press of the slim needle into his flesh. It burned, made his stomach churn. The pull of thread inside his skin made him sick.
Iorveth closed his eye, turning his head to the side to press his forehead to the cool stone of the rock, blocking his view of Roche as he cast the blind side of his face towards him.
Roche worked efficiently, but not particularly careful. Stupid, clumsy dh’oine hands, unsurprisingly messy at stitches when they were messy at making everything else.
Iorveth tried to keep himself present, tried to focus on the man in front of him and all the hatred he had for him. Whatever kept his fire alight.
He thought he’d pass out as Roche got halfway through, right between his chest and hip. Iorveth groaned and flinched away from the pain weakly as Roche weaved the thread through his skin.
“It’s alright, I’ve got you,” Roche said, stopping for a moment to give the elf a break for but a moment before he started again. There was a care in his voice Iorveth had of course never been privy to, and never thought the man could be capable of.
Did he ever patch up his blue stripes, talk them through the pain and comfort them when it was too much? Give them breaks when their eyes became too unfocused? Iorveth was no stranger to playing medic, the thread and needle, the strong spirits and smoked herbs for pain dampening a familiar friend.
But Roche’s clumsy hands told him that this wasn’t an experience Roche was used to. This was just something special for his enemy.
Iorveth panted, breathing through the pain as best he could. It was becoming all encompassing, stealing Iorveth’s focus. Iorveth had experienced pain before, horrid pain and had the scars to prove it, but that never made experiencing the pain any easier.
“You’re gonna be fine, elf.” Roche said, voice low and rumbling as he kept stitching him up. Iorveth swallowed hard as a wave of nausea hit him, blindly grabbing at Roche’s hand holding down his waist. He gripped him, squeezed hard, trying to ground himself. Roche froze for a moment before he kept going.
Roche had to be finished soon, it had to almost be over. Roche kept murmuring to him in what he assumed was supposed to be a soothing manner, making Iorveth’s brain swim with confusion. He wasn’t used to this, had never thought he’d be in this position.
It was strange to hear it from Roche and not his second in command, not whatever member of his unit had the steadiest hands at the time.
On a particularly nasty pull at Iorveth’s flesh the nausea became too much. Iorveth turned to the side, throwing up what little was in his stomach. He coughed for a few painful moments, then spitting to get the taste out of his mouth.
He felt fucking miserable. He was too old to be doing this.
Roche watched him, some unreadable emotion in his eyes, brows furrowed hard. Iorveth stared back, unbearably tired, unable to do much but blink lazily and try to bear through the pain.
Roche went back to his stitching, continuing to work with a steady stream of what was supposed to be comforting words. A few more stitches, more grunts of pain from Iorveth, and Roche finally deemed the stitching finished.
He leaned in close to Iorveth’s overheated skin, using his teeth to cut off the thread, before he leaned back. He wound his thread back up, stuck the now dirty needle in it. Iorveth didn’t make a comment on that, feeling lightheaded and almost numb now that the pain was lessening.
Roche wiped at his forehead with his striped sleeve, shoving the needle and thread into a random belt pack.
Roche pulled his canteen back out, holding it to Iorveth. The elf eyed him.
“Take a swig and spit it out, get that taste out of your mouth,” Iorveth took the canteen warily, Roche keeping a hand on it so the elf didn’t drop it with his shaking. Maybe his grand scheme was to poison Iorveth, pretend to have a truce and stitch up his enemy, then poison him and send him back to the elves.
“You can have some after you wash your mouth out.”
Iorveth listened despite his thoughts. What would Roche gain from striking now, after all his work?
Iorveth took a swig and swished it in his mouth before spitting it out on top of the mess of bile he’d made. He took a long sip afterwards, the cool water a relief.
“There you go.” Roche murmured, sounding unsure of himself, looking over Iorveth. Neither of them had anything to wrap the fresh stitching in, Iorveth would just have to be careful not to get anything in it for now.
Roche took the canteen back, fishing out a small cloth he had and wetting it. He moved forward, cloth in hand, and Iorveth pulled away from Roche out of instinct. He hissed, pain lightning hot at the sudden movement.
“You have blood on your mouth.” Roche said. Iorveth blinked at him.
At the lack of response Roche moved forward again, wiping the cloth gently against the elf’s face. The white of the cloth came back red. Roche grabbed Iorveth’s wrist, one at a time, wiping the blood off his hands as best he could. Iorveth watched as best as he could, still confused, still unsure. Still not understanding the care he was receiving.
“How did you manage to get blood on your mouth, elf?” Roche asked, rubbing the cloth between Iorveth’s fingers. It tickled, the sensation distracting him from his pain. Roche’s hands were rough on his skin, rough on tattooed leaves and busted knuckles.
“Covered my mouth with my hand. Heard you—" He swallowed, “Heard you coming. Had to be quiet.” His words were rough and scratchier than normal, throat sore from throwing up. Roche didn’t respond, just finished cleaning Iorveth up before he pulled back, tucking the cloth into the same pouch he had put the thread and needle.
“We need to get you back to your camp.” Roche spoke up. Iorveth huffed. He didn’t have any strength left to make the trip and didn’t want Roche learning where all of his warriors ate, drank, and slept.
“I know you won’t let me take you back to your camp,” Roche said in response to Iorveth’s silence, “We can wait here, at least till morning and you can drag your ass back there.” Iorveth frowned.
“Dragging isn’t as dignified as I’d like to travel.” Iorveth said, breathy. Roche laughed, rough and quiet. A strange sound to Iorveth’s ears.
He helped shift Iorveth to a different spot, away from the vomit, and made a small fire to keep them warm as the sun was setting.
Iorveth’s mind didn’t want him falling asleep around Roche, but he was exhausted and needed the rest. Iorveth’s mind was fearful around the blue stripes commander, but another part of him was seeing Vernon in a different light. Was trusting him… at least in this very moment.
Iorveth drifted to sleep quickly as stars started winking in the sky, the pull of rest laying heavy and tempting in his bones.
Iorveth woke to Roche asleep, the sun barely peeking through the treetops. Their fire was out, nothing but embers left behind.
Iorveth pulled himself up with the help of the tree Roche had propped him up against for the night.
He would leave before Roche awoke. At least that would be less awkward than whatever goodbyes Roche would have. And what if the Temerian commander turned on him? Decided to end this long feud?
And if he had friendly goodbyes for Iorveth? Used that soft, cautious tone again, or softer than anything Iorveth had ever head from him.
No, Iorveth wanted to be back with his unit, wanted to make sure everyone had found their way him safely.
He trudged away, pain hot but Iorveth had no more time to lay about and wait to heal. He cast one more look back at Roche.
Curse the dh’oine, but sometimes they surprised him. Iorveth turned, making his way out of their shared clearing.