Chapter Text
Roche shoulders the door closed and latches it shut with a sigh. After days on bumpy roads and sleeping in a tent that reeked of his fellow travelers, he’s looking forward to the fabled bed in the room above the Sherriff’s office and jail.
Click
Roche freezes.
“Hands up, slowly.” The voice has a strange, nasally tone to it. Roche can’t place the accent from just a few words.
Roche slowly raises his hands. Who’s stupid enough to break into the town jail?
“You armed?”
“No.” Roche lies.
A huge hand begins to search him roughly. The stranger snorts as he finds Roche’s gun, and whistles at the discovery of his two knives. “Strange weapons for a lawman.”
So, the stranger knows who Roche is. “You’d draw on an officer of the law?”
“I’d do worse. Have done.” The stranger presses his gun against the back of Roche’s head. “Shot a Marshall right here.” He presses the gun between Roche’s shoulderblades. “Shot three Sheriffs hereabouts.”
“In the back?” Roche sneers. “That’s a coward’s way.”
The stranger grabs Roche by the back of the neck, fingers squeezing just enough to be painful. “Are you so eager to die, Sheriff? Is that why you took this cursed job?”
Roche stomps with all his might, catching the other man’s foot. He twists out of the stranger’s grasp and dives behind the desk, scrambling for the drawers for something to throw, or if the gods are good another gun –
The stranger grabs Roche’s ankle and yanks him back.
Roche flails and tries to kick with his free leg, aiming for the stranger’s knees. The stranger darts back and pulls his gun out again.
“That’s enough.” The stranger is panting for breath but holds the gun steadily.
Now Roche can get a good look at him. The stranger is a tall man, lean more than broad, with a bandana slung over one eye and a dark braid of hair. No, not a man, Roche realizes, catching the ears: an elf.
Roche shifts up onto his knees from the uncomfortable crouch he’d been in. Elves in this area are a known threat, bedeviling stagecoach routes, robbing trains, killing any lawmen they came across. This elf matches the description of a notorious local leader Roche had read reports about on the coach here. Those hadn’t been idle boasts to frighten Roche into compliance: this elf has killed before.
“What now … Iorveth?” Roche asks.
“Stand up.” The elf doesn’t react to hearing his own name. “Put your hands on the desk.”
Roche balks. “The fuck?”
“You heard me.”
Like an unruly child, being disciplined in school? The back of Roche’s neck heats at the memory of many such incidents in his own past. The humiliation, the burning strikes to his backside or, later as he aged, his shoulders.
He puts his hands on the desk, hating the way he’s leaning over the wood. “Gonna shoot me in the back, like you did those other poor souls?”
“They’d earned nothing more.” Iorveth drawls. “Your fate remains to be decided.”
Roche hears the sounds of metal creaking and papers being rifled through. Right, there’s a wall safe … and it’s being pilfered on his very first night in town. What’s Iorveth after? Reports? Land deeds? Could it be as simple as money?
“And one last thing …” Iorveth’s voice is suddenly very close, just behind Roche, wrapping an arm around his chest.
Roche forgets to breathe. The last time a man held him like this had been under extremely different circumstances. He can feel the heat of the elf, even through layers of clothes, smell the leather of his boots, the floral scent of whatever he treats his hair with …
Iorveth plucks the badge from Roche’s vest. “I have a collection to maintain.”
Roche snarls. The elf keeps trophies of his kills? He thrashes, but Iorveth seizes him by the back of his shirt collar and hauls backwards, catching Roche off balance.
“You’re either very brave or very foolish to take this position, Sheriff.” Iorveth says, shoving Roche into one of the cells and slamming the door between them.
“Not gonna stick around to find out?” Roche asks, unable to stop himself.
“Not tonight, no.” Iorveth tips his hat. “Be seeing you, Sheriff.” He waves the badge and strides off into the night.
Roche shakes the bars of the cell door. They’re solid. That would have been a good thing, had he been on the other side.
Slowly, he begins to work the lockpicks from the lining of his vest. It hasn’t been a promising start to his tenure, but at least he won’t be found by the townsfolk trapped in the cell come morning.