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Chapter Text

Outside, it was a dark night, almost starless, with a moon obscured by clouds. The night’s silence was pierced by laughter and music from the first floor of the brothel, the cheerful voices of the girls and the drunken voices of the men. While the local patrons were letting loose with the establishment’s workers, history was unfolding in the expensive chambers of the inn.

“Don’t get me wrong, my friend, but your stubbornness isn’t helping our cause,” Dijkstra chided his companion, his fingers clasped on the table. “Or, as our mutual acquaintance would put it, ‘it’s a fucking pain in our neck.’”

“If it weren’t for my stubbornness, I wouldn’t be standing here now,” Roche retorted, leaning against the wall. “Talking of our mutual friend.”

From the slightly ajar door, the sounds of music grew louder, accompanied by a hoarse, vibrant voice. The guest laughed heartily, and, as he entered the room, managed to slap a worker’s backside as she led him upstairs.

“Now that’s service, damn it! I thought I’d gone feral in this forest,” the man swaggered into the room, spreading his arms. “And here they are, the little bastards, drinkin' wine, and Radovid still ain’t dead. Our criminal fatso and jester in blue stripes. How glad I am to see you guys.”

Roche and Sigi sighed simultaneously, as if on cue—Vernon wearily and Rouven heavily, with a touch of breathlessness.

“Thaler, our aristocratic friend, as polite as ever,” Dijkstra greeted, shaking hands with the spy who approached him. “Did you arrive safely?”

Thaler smirked, patting Roche on the back in an overly familiar but evidently sincere hug.

“Are you kiddin'? The locals nearly butchered me,” Thaler fell onto the expensive velvet sofa and leaned his head back. “I feel like if it weren’t for my eloquence and a tiny bit of Geralt’s help, I’d be sittin' in a cauldron right now.”

“No one would have eaten you, Thaler,” Dijkstra sighed, shaking his head. “They’d have poisoned themselves.”

The meeting promised nothing productive—Roche and Dijkstra clashed too much in personality and methods. As it turned out, their goals were also quite different. Dijkstra was irritated by Roche’s arrogance and excessive independence; he was used to unquestioning obedience from his subordinates, and independence among his spies was not in vogue.

“You’ve always been pretty principled, Roche,” Reuven continued to reproach him as Thaler successfully settled in to eat woodcock and drink some wine. “But sometimes you need to swallow your principles for the greater good and trust your friends.”

Vernon, with his characteristic suspicion, smirked, arms crossed over his chest.

“And are we friends now?”

“We’re sitting together, drinking Fiorano,” Reuven theatrically exclaimed, gesturing at the table set for Thaler. “My guard inspected you only twice. What’s not to like about that?”

“That’s honor.”

Bernard next to Sigi suddenly cleared his throat, hoarsely, as a dedicated smoker would, and surprisingly politely wiped his tomato sauce-stained lips with a napkin.

“So, what’s the deal, guys?”

Dijkstra nodded challengingly at Roche, as if saying, “You explain.” Roche, clearly unwilling to explain, merely cast a frustrated glance at the floor. Reuven shrugged, straightened his rheumatic back, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“You see, Thaler, our partner still has his head in the clouds. He’s once again droning on about Emhyr’s honest word and the independence of your sacred Temeria. He doesn’t even want to hear about defending the rest of the North.” Dijkstra had not once taken his eyes off Vernon, who was burning with dissatisfaction. “Dreaming isn’t harmful when you’re an innocent child, Roche. But not when you’re in your forties and deciding people’s fates.”

Vernon exhaled loudly and languidly, turning away from both of them, staring at the wall.

“I propose ending the war with a peace treaty with Nilfgaard; it’s a favorable offer. Note that I never promised to defend the North, we have enough problems in Temeria.”

Dijkstra just waved his hand, looking at Thaler with a silent “see what I mean” expression. Bernard nodded resignedly. He gnawed on a chicken leg a few times with an unpleasant smacking sound and threw the bone onto the plate before turning his body toward Vernon.

“Roche, listen. I’m no cosmopolitan, I’m all for Temeria, as you know,” the spy raised his hands in a “surrender” gesture. “Foltest, may he rest in peace, was like a father to me. But the fat guy’s right. The Nilfgaardians will surely try to attack again and will never, damn them, stop. If we want to protect Temeria in the long run, we need strong allies, not pitiful dogs dancin’ to the black ones’ tune.”

“Listen to your poetic friend, Roche,” Dijkstra agreed, pouring more wine for Thaler. “With strong Redania, Novigrad, powerful Kaedwen and Aedirn, Lyria and Rivia, we have much better chances of pushing the Nilfgaardians off your homeland. They’ll be our shield, our barrier. We just need to create a centralized, strict administration.”

Vernon smirked at the corner of his lips. The captain’s brazen behavior was increasingly annoying Dijkstra. Roche was lucky to be in this company, according to Reuven, and he showed no gratitude whatsoever. Vernon shook his head.

“And who will be this centralized and strict administrator, Dijkstra? You?”

Sigismund shrugged, pursed his lips.

“Possibly, yes. I could establish connections with neighboring states and build a strong frontier to the South. Especially with such…”—he gestured at Thaler and Roche with his hand—“patriotic allies in Temeria.”

Roche, with evident aggression in his eyes, took a step toward the sofa where Reuven was lounging.

“Like hell you trust us.”

“And you’re the very epitome of trust, Vernon,” Sigi cut him off, pointing at Roche’s belt. “And you always keep a dagger at hand out of pure love for Thaler and me. Don’t talk to me about trust, my fatherless friend.”

Dijkstra himself didn’t know why he had let that slip. Sometimes the right words came out on their own, but Royven decided it was meant to be. Roche’s hand was now tightly gripping the hilt of his dagger.

“You motherfucker…” he hissed before advancing on Dijkstra with a fierce expression and burning eyes.

Thaler wedged himself between them, and with his thin arms, managed to separate them and lead Vernon away.

“Oi, ladies, we ain't gettin' nowhere like this. Bickerin' like a bunch o' washerwomen over a stained sheet, I swear, it's bloody disgustin' to watch. And here, mind you, we have matters of state importance, damn it!” the spy lamented, looking from one to the other. “History is happenin’ here, and you’re tearing each other apart like dogs over a bitch.”

The men looked at each other with undisguised disgust, but for Dijkstra to punch Roche in the face, he would have to stand up. And despite Sigi’s lack of modesty, he was no warrior and certainly wouldn’t be able to stand up to someone like Roche. He fought well, that’s for sure. Sigi sighed heavily, trying to calm his rising fury.

“Thaler’s right. Listen to me, Roche,” he began, gesturing confidently with his hands. “Your plan relies solely on the assumption that Emperor Emhyr will keep his word. And Emhyr’s word is worth less than a bucket of piss, just like his sealed agreements. Ask your pet squirrel and his thirty dead officers—they know exactly how faithful Nilfgaard is to its agreements. The elves will be scared of the black ones for another hundred years.”

Roche pressed his lips together, clearly having nothing to say in response. He exhaled loudly.

“Well then, what do you suggest? Unify the entire North into one state, one army? And what will it be called? Dijkstra-land?”

The ensuing silence was broken by Thaler’s awkward cough from the chair. Dijkstra took a sip of wine from the glass on the table.

“Don’t joke, Roche, you’re much better at fighting,” Reuven set aside his glass and leaned in closer, looking at Vernon from beneath his brow. “I don’t want to rule the world; I want to gather the weakened, useless, and helpless states together, provide them with the aid they’re asking for. Aedirn and Kaedwen will never withstand Nilfgaard separately. You’re willing to sacrifice half of the North for your trembling Temeria—that’s very patriotic, I admit, but also cruel, don’t you think?”

Roche paced the room, walking back and forth, leisurely but tensely.

“And how do you plan to ‘bring the North together’? Create the Northern Union? We’ve been trying to cooperate for thousands of years, and we still haven’t succeeded. Rulers are not ready to share power, sovereignty.”

Dijkstra smiled in response to Thaler’s snarling expression and nodded.

"In this matter, Nilfgaard, without even realizing it, has helped us. Emhyr doesn't understand how grief affects people. The war has swept over the Northerners like a plague. People just want it all to end and will do anything for that. Half the Northern kings are dead, the remaining states are in chaos and famine. I don't think anyone would refuse to cooperate with us for the common good, for our shared freedom."

"And if they do refuse?" Roche raised an eyebrow, stopping in the middle of the room.

"Then we'll follow the only sensible decision my mad king ever made," Dijkstra spread his legs to ease the discomfort. "Radovid had no trouble marching into dying Kaedwen. By combining our forces, we can compel any stubborn monarch in the North to cooperate."

Roche stared at Dijkstra for a few seconds, seemingly deep in thought, before clicking his tongue and shaking his head.

"I don't like this."

"I know your sensitive liberal heart can't even bear the thought of military campaigns and violence, Roche," Reuven quickly pressed on, placing a hand on his chest. "You probably tamed the Scoia'tael with sermons and lectures on freedom, rather than with swords and starvation."

Roche barely rolled his eyes.

"Get to the point, Dijkstra."

"If necessary, we'll force the Northern Kingdoms to unite," Reuven concluded, finally rising from the sofa to look down at Vernon. "I understand you don't like the idea and know how sincerely you cared for Kaedwen under Redania's control, but as far as I know, you don't give a shit about the North."

Sigismund received no response. Roche fell silent, glancing sideways at Thaler, who nodded while dipping bread in melted garlic butter. Seeing their doubts, Dijkstra hastened to add:

"As a last resort, we can allocate some land, few little villages in the godforsaken Velen, and give it to the elves for their help against Nilfgaard. The Scoia'tael hate the Black Ones, you know. You personally hanged elven officers in Drakenborg."

Vernon raised his eyes in surprise. He arched his eyebrows. His hand slipped from the dagger in disbelief.

"You're an idealist, Dijkstra," Roche smirked, tilting his head to the side. "And how do you propose we make a deal with the elves? Send them a courier with flowers? Will you go yourself?"

Dijkstra shook his head and raised his hands.

"I've never had any dealings with the elves. They don't know me and won't trust me, so don't ask me."

Roche and Dijkstra simultaneously looked at Thaler, who chuckled hoarsely.

"No way, those elves make me back itch. Bastards irritate me with their arrogance. I wouldn't last a minute in negotiations—they'd shoot me, or I'd shoot myself."

This time Dijkstra and Thaler both looked at Roche, who had been pondering the problem. Noticing their gaze, he shook his head.

"No, absolutely not. That's completely out of the question."

Wiping his greasy lips with a napkin, Thaler stood up and approached Vernon.

"Come on, Roche, you know those assholes better than Dijkstra and I do. You've been dealing with them for years."

"You mean I've been fighting them for years?"

"Well, hatred is better than indifference."

Dijkstra grabbed Thaler by the shoulder, gently pushing him back.

"Thaler's right, Roche, you know the elves well. You know what they want and how to negotiate with them."

"What they want is my corpse filled with arrows like a hedgehog," Vernon grumbled, and Sigi was starting to tire of his stubbornness.

"It's no trouble for you to go into the forest and have a chat with your old friend, the elven leader Iorveth, known as the Fox."

Hearing the name, Roche's expression changed. He looked more troubled. Reuven hurried to note this interesting detail.

"Old friend? Are you kidding?"

"I've done some checking—Iorveth has been sitting in the forests near Novigrad for months now," Sigismund pointed to the map of the North hanging on the wall.

"No, Dijkstra, that's a dead end."

Vernon seemed ready to leave or sit back down on the sofa when Royven made a last attempt.

"What, Roche, have you gone soft?" Dijkstra began to flatter, smiling with greasy lips. "The elves used to scare their children with your name. You wiped out Scoia'tael units one by one. But I understand, the years pass, you're not getting any younger. Every sword dulls eventually, even the sharpest and strongest."

Thaler raised his eyebrows with interest, nearly dropping his pince-nez on the floor. Roche turned suspiciously to him, looking from under his lashes.

"What's your point?"

"Nothing special," Reuven casually threw out, heading to the sofa and lowering himself onto it with difficulty. "I won't blame you for deciding to hang up your spurs. You can't confront your old enemy anymore—I understand. It happens to all men sometimes, for various reasons. Sometimes it's just cold."

Both men fell silent. They stared at each other, and everyone in the room could feel the tension hanging in the air. Thaler tried to make no sound, not wanting to become a target. Roche blinked a few times, his lips tightly pressed, before lifting his chin with too much confidence.

"If that's how your manipulation looks, I don't understand how you became head of intelligence," he said, moving to the wall with the map of the North, glancing at it briefly, grabbing his sword, and heading for the door.

The door slammed shut behind him. Sigismund turned to Thaler, who had been watching Vernon without stopping. The spy's jaw slowly returned to its place.

Sigi slammed his hand on the table in frustration, causing the forks to jump.

"What did Foltest see in him?" Reuven grumbled, pouring himself a full glass of wine.

“Dijkstra, you're wrong too," Thaler replied, holding out his glass for the bottle. "Trying to manipulate a spy? Roche didn't just knead dough in the court kitchen."

"Undoubtedly," Reuven muttered before downing his entire glass and squinting. "Is that what they're calling kissing the monarch's ass now—kneading dough?"

Thaler shook his head, mimicking his partner by drinking his glass, though it clearly went down harder for him than for Dijkstra.

"No, Roche is certainly a bastard, but he'd go to hell for his friends."

"I've heard that being his friend can be worse than being his enemy," Dijkstra smirked, picking up a piece of bread; he no longer felt like eating and set it back down.

"Well, not too good, that's for sure," Thaler nodded, happily serving himself more stew. "But worse—I'd not say that."

"I've been told a gang of thugs attacked you shouting 'This one's working for Roche!' and you call that 'not too good.'"

"Let's not talk about it."

The leafy forest had rusted and turned red. Autumn was coming. Vernon made his way through branches and thorns that tugged at his clothes, scratched his face, and cut his hands. The deeper Roche went into the thicket, the less sunlight pierced through the mighty canopies. The trees rustled, creaked, and whispered—oaks and maples all bathed in autumn's copper. The air smelled of rain, and Roche breathed in the moisture deeply.

He finally reached the clearing, almost running. There were no flowers, no bushes, but it was ringed with yellowing rowan trees, heavy with clusters of red berries. Roche looked around, breathing heavily, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. His chest heaved under his doublet. His eyes darted back and forth, waiting for the true master of the forest to appear. The one whom the forest creatures obeyed, whom the trees shielded with their large branches. Exhausted, Roche rested his forehead against the rough, scraping bark of an oak, leaning his hand on the thick trunk to catch his breath. Panting, he focused on his breaths, listening to the thud of his own heart, the pulse in his temples, and the rush in his ears. Inside, Roche was excited, thrilled, mentally stimulated. Concentrating on himself, he didn't hear the crunch of fallen leaves underfoot and didn't notice anything until a heavy gloved hand landed on his shoulder.

He was abruptly turned and pressed harshly against the trunk; even through layers of clothing, he felt the sharp splinters digging into his shoulder blades. Cold metal burned his neck as a knife was pressed to his throat. Right in front of him, Iorveth's face appeared out of nowhere, perpetually furrowed brow, narrowed eye, and a contemptuous sneer. The knife's blade was under Roche's Adam's apple, which bobbed right beneath it as Vernon swallowed. Iorveth's fingers dug into his shoulder.

"In my forest, are you?" the elf hissed arrogantly, glaring down at Roche.

Vernon lifted his chin, trying to avoid the sharp blade, and pressed the back of his head against the trunk. He inhaled sharply.

"Matters can't wait," he rasped with a dry throat.

"You're lucky you weren't shot on sight then."

Iorveth smelled of pine, tobacco, and something herbal. No bow on his back.

"We're going to kill Radovid, soon. Dijkstra, the bastard, fancies himself a dictator," Roche began quickly and hoarsely, trying to say as much as he could, swallowing his words. "He wants to take over the whole North. But he can't do it alone; he needs us. I can't let him do as he pleases..."

"What has that to do with me?" Iorveth interrupted, leaning closer to Roche's face, watching him from the side, noting his sweaty face.

He inspected him, sniffing like a beast, never taking his eyes off him like a hawk eyeing its prey.

"He doesn't have the strength alone, but he'll kill me as soon as Radovid is dead," Vernon continued low and hurriedly, trying not to lose sight of the elf. "He needs fighters for his plan. He'll make me ask the Scoia'tael for help; he sent me to speak with you."

Iorveth leaned in very close, right to his chin, and Roche didn't even notice when the knife was removed from his face.

"He won't stop; he's mad, no better than Radovid. He needs elves for his plan, but I can't let him..." he swallowed his breath when other man’s lips silenced him.

The last words were stolen. Iorveth kissed him hard, almost painfully, greedily, fiercely. Roche closed his eyes, responding to the kiss as the elf pressed him harder against the tree with his chest. A gloved hand settled on his stubbled jaw. Vernon's throat emitted a muffled groan that drowned in Iorveth's throat. Roche pulled the elf closer by his back and waist, and the elf enveloped him, biting his lips. They kissed with wide-open mouths, uncontrollably and insatiably, as if trying to devour each other. Both felt this overwhelming desire, having not seen or touched each other for too long.

"Dijkstra can go to hell," Iorveth snarled threateningly when they pulled away, resting his forehead and nose against Vernon's. "My elves won't die for his ambitions."

Vernon hurriedly nodded, stroking Iorveth's cheek, and kissed him again, holding him by the nape.

"To hell with Dijkstra," Roche agreed when Iorveth's lips slid to his jaw.

"Killing him would solve everything," Iorveth muttered, kissing down his jawline, making Vernon tilt his head back.

"Yes, killing him, yes, right..."

The cave, equipped with a shelter, was well illuminated by the sun, unlike the dense forest. Inside there was everything that could be needed, no worse than a room in an inexpensive inn: a couch, several tables, a workbench, a warehouse of salted food and weapons. Both men collapsed onto the blankets spread out on the ground, and Iorveth leaned on top of Vernon, not stopping kissing him on the neck, behind the ear, on the chin.

“You can handle him, you're smarter than him. “

Both of them knew that this was not true - Dijkstra was not inferior to anyone in strategy. But Vernon was incredibly aroused by these words, he was already hardening only from the voice, besides the hand that slipped into his pants.

”He can dream on. Kill him, and his plans are over.

Roche nodded, gasped, trying to pull off Iorveth's chain mail while the elf climbed behind his aketon. No one even flinched from the rustling of branches outside, both knew perfectly well that none of the elves would dare to go to the commander without asking. Roche bent his leg so that his knee rested directly between the other's thighs, and the elf moaned softly.

“Will you help me?”, Roche whispered, throwing off his aketon, and Iorveth pulled off his chain mail.

“Of course. Let's do it together.”

The caftan followed the chain mail, the elf helped Vernon get rid of the aketon completely, unbuttoned his shirt. He pressed his lips to his chest, below the collarbone. Roche did not come to Iorveth because he was afraid — not at all. He just felt a strange obligation to report it, since it directly concerned the elf himself.

"I could have done it myself," Vernon decided to add, expecting a grin, but Iorveth was too keen on buttons.

“You could. But it's more fun together, isn’t it?”

The edges of the shirt opened, the elf clung to another man’ stomach, moved lower, along the line of the press, to the groin hair, hooked his fingers into the loop of the pants. His tongue ran over the salty skin.

"The bastard dared to threaten me”,— Roche continued, lifting his hips, trying to find friction. “ He thinks too much about himself.”

The pants slid down, first to the knees, then to the ankles, until they were finally removed along with the underwear. Iorveth reached for Vernon's groin, took his hips in his hands, so the thighs wrapped around his head, squeezed. The elf made a strangled sound in his throat, he weirdly liked it. Vernon liked to have his mouth.

His back arched. Tenacious fingers gripped the skin of his thighs tightly as the elf took deeper. Roche could not restrain himself from pulling his head, planting it even deeper, taking it by the hair. His nails dug painfully into the pelvis.

“He can choke on his power if he wants.”

If Iorveth could talk, he would answer, or at least nod. Warmth flowed in Vernon's stomach, curled into a knot, he moaned, bit his cheeks, pulled the elf's hair.

“If he tries one more time, he's... damn it!”He swallowed when the oiled finger was inside him. “Yes, that's it!.. If at least once he... “

The sensations covered him from head to toe, his arms were weak. His head was up, his adam's apple was bouncing back and forth. His pelvis began to cramp. The moans became thinner, longer.

“If he tries…”, Roche held the other's head as tightly as he could and froze.

Convulsions went up his thighs, and the man trembled. It seems that he even tore out a piece of Iorveth's hair, because they remained in his hand when his hips touched the couch again. Vernon exhaled slowly. Already two slimy fingers were moving inside, and Iorveth broke away from him, licked his lips. His tongue ran over Roche’s wet thigh. The elf looked up at him with clouded eyes.

Vernon completely forgot himself in feelings, in stretching, in pain, in pleasure, in touching, kissing. He was bitten, scratched, and he himself scratched another man’s back with his nails, trying to pull the elf as close to him as possible, pressing his hips against his lower back, his hands behind his neck and back. Her lips were swollen. The skin burned. Iorveth pushed into him, grabbed him by the waist, pressed his face into his neck and shoulders.

Vernon hissed, once again scratching Iorveth’s back with his nails, and in response, the elf bit him painfully in the shoulder, close to the throat.

”Oh hell, fuck me, oh fuck!”

“Hell has nothing to do with it. Ask me.”

If Roche had had even one thought in his head besides passion, he would have laughed. The elf has always had this craving for pathos, and Roche will surely laugh at it afterwards. For now, he spread his legs wider so that Iorveth could lean even closer, position himself directly on Roche so that they could touch breasts. Vernon wrapped his arms around his waist, the fingers of his other hand gripped his buttock.

“Just don't stop.”

Iorveth grabbed him by the hips tighter, then laid down, placing his forearm on either side of Vernon, took his head in his hands, sucked the skin under his ear, without stopping pushing inside.

"This idiot doesn't know shit," Roche continued to wheeze, waving his pelvis towards him. “I have an advantage...”

“Stop thinking about him,” — Iorveth interrupted him, taking his face away from his neck to look directly. “I only want to hear my name.”

He kissed him without even letting him breathe, gagged him with his mouth, as he had in the forest, and refused to pull away until Vernon began to push him away a little. As soon as the elf broke away from Roche, he made a sharp, ragged sigh, a stronger push inside made him throw his hips up so that Iorveth could grab them with his hands, pull sharply on himself, and Roche almost suffocated. He continued to make soft moans, sometimes still pronouncing the elf's name on the exhale, grabbing at Iorveth until he began to pound into him, losing his rhythm. He didn't remember much of that misty autumn evening. He remembered only the animal passion that consumed them both, and the anger of Vernon himself that spurred it on. Iorveth beat the thoughts out of him as best he could, as Roche liked. Vernon was originally going to ride him, along the way erotically discussing all those terrible things that they would do to Dijkstra after, but for this the man's head worked too badly, and Iorveth pushed into him too well, doing all the work. When the elf finally snapped and began to ram madly, Roche did not even have the strength to hold him or touch himself, he preferred to let the elf do whatever he wanted and scold him for it afterwards. The hand then closed tightly on his own trunk — no matter how hard he tried, riding on someone else's penis was still not enough for him to cum. He tried, but the excitement grew and grew, it hurt, the blood continued to rush, but the peak still did not come. Letting an elf fuck him is one thing, but he didn't promise that they would both finish together.

"Is Radovid's death necessary?" Iorveth smoked a pipe, the smell of tobacco filling Roche's nose. Roche himself hasn’t smoked for a while.

"Radovid's gone mad. He's burning everyone he can get his hands on: elves, dwarves, gnomes," Roche replied wearily, drying his hands with a towel. "And I'd gladly leave them all to their fates, but Radovid's death is Nilfgaard's main condition for ending the war."

They lay with their heads against the wall of the cave, where a carpet had been nailed earlier. Iorveth glanced at Roche and smirked, stuffing his pipe with tobacco.

"What's so funny?" Vernon frowned, and Iorveth shook his head.

"Planning to become a kings assassin? Ironic," the elf replied with a smile, inhaling smoke and releasing it in front of him.

"Took you long enough to figure that out?"

Iorveth shrugged playfully. He extended the pipe to Roche, but he declined.

"I know Dijkstra doesn't care about non-humans either," Roche continued, wiping moisture from his thighs. "But as long as we have a common goal... And what after? Why would he need me alive, a Temerian viceroy? The governor of Vizima maybe? No, he'll kill me the same day."

"And you're planning to become a politician, Baron Roche?" Iorveth smirked, flicking leaves from his pipe, and Vernon wrinkled his nose.

"I don't plan to, but better a living Baron Roche than a dead captain."

"Can't argue with that."

Vernon tossed the towel beside him and glanced at Iorveth's profile. An irresistible thought appeared in his mind, like when he crossed a bridge and looked down, wanting to jump. When Iorveth released smoke from his mouth again, Roche grabbed the pipe, bringing it to his lips along with the astonished elf's hand. He took a drag, the smoke spreading through his chest. Iorveth watched him with a raised eyebrow. His throat burned.

"Will you help me?" Roche asked, trying not to show how much he disliked the taste in his mouth.

Iorveth stared at him for a moment without moving, even though Vernon had already let go of the pipe. Then he closed his mouth, ran his tongue over his lower lip, and nodded.

"There are many elves living in Novigrad. But not as many as before. Radovid's been a thorn in my side for quite some time."

Chapter Text

Rosemary and Thyme lived its new life, amidst repairs and haste. Fortunately, Geralt had nothing to do with it. He lay on the bed, having removed all his armor, sipping ervelus straight from the bottle. The witcher could hardly remember the last time he allowed himself to finally rest, and his acquaintance with Dandelion was finally starting to pay off. A cool breeze refreshed the richly furnished room, and Geralt was genuinely surprised that his friend hadn't jokingly demanded extra payment for it. The wine was strong, the music upstairs was quiet. Quiet too were the footsteps outside his door, which he didn't notice in his drowsiness, as he was lost in his thoughts. When he opened his eyes, a massive bulky figure stood right at the threshold. The witcher still couldn't understand how such a corpulent man could walk so quietly.

"Dijkstra. How did you get in here?" the Wolf asked in confusion, sinking back onto the bed.

Sigismund entered unceremoniously with a cunning expression on his full face and closed the door.

"Novigrad has the widest network of sewer pipes in the North, can you believe it?" Reuven asked ingratiatingly, walking deeper into the room, and Geralt shook his head.

"I can't believe it."

"That they're the widest?" Dijkstra raised a gray eyebrow, approaching the witcher who had risen from the bed.

"That you could fit through the sewer."

The spy laughed and shook Geralt's hand. Seeing Dijkstra was never a good sign; almost all their meetings ended in problems, often for Geralt. Although, Reuven himself sometimes had it rough, as evidenced by the wooden leg frame. But if Reuven decided to come himself, things were bad. Usually, he just sent someone.

"You're right. I bribed the guard. Thought about calling you myself, but you've stopped running errands lately, to my regret," Dijkstra sighed with genuine sadness.

He pretended to look around the room with interest, pursed his lips, evaluating something, and waved at the bottle.

"Well, Geralt, won't you greet an old friend with some wine?"

The witcher took two glasses from the nightstand, placed them on a small table between two armchairs by the fireplace; such were only in the most expensive rooms of Rosemary and Thyme. He sat in an armchair.

"Sorry, saved the wine for a sleepover with girls. Forgot to send you an invitation," he poured ervelus into the glasses, and the wine dripped onto the wooden table. "Going to braid hair?"

"Of course," Dijkstra smirked, sitting on the neighboring sofa. "Look at my mane."

Conversations with Dijkstra always strained Geralt but also amused him in a masochistic way. Reuven managed to speak kindly but still sound threatening, a true talent.

"I heard Dandelion was invited to be the chairman of the Ministry of Culture in Kaedwen," Sigi said, swirling the wine in his glass.

Geralt choked on his wine a bit, coughed. Of all things, he hadn't expected to hear Dandelion’s name; it was a bad sign.

"Well, despite all his flaws, Dandelion is very talented," he said, perhaps too sincerely.

Dijkstra's face didn't change, but his eyes lit up differently. Had Geralt not known him long enough, he wouldn't have noticed. After all, Reuven did his job excellently.

"That's true. Did you know your bard friend was spying in Kaedwen for another of your friends, Vernon Roche?" Dijkstra asked sharply, straightening his back and looking Geralt in the eye; the witcher reluctantly swallowed his wine.

"I said Dandelion was talented, not smart."

"Then tell Dandelion he's keeping company with some unreliable people."

"Do you have something against Vernon Roche?" the Wolf asked, tilting his head with interest.

"I have something against Nilfgaard," Reuven snapped, waving his hand, and also tilted his head. "And Roche has been seen too often with the Blacks lately. You don't think they spend evenings in taverns together, drinking Toussaint wine, and Roche tells them touching stories from his childhood?"

The witcher chuckled softly and shook his head.

"If there's one thing I know about Roche, it's that his childhood can't be called touching."

"You're right. Although, I must admit, finding out where our royal lackey came from was no easy task. Those like him know how to cover their tracks."

"But you, of course, found out?" the Wolf raised an eyebrow, and Dijkstra smirked.

Geralt didn't quite understand where this conversation was going or why, but if he could delay the favor or request that Reuven would inevitably bring up later, he would do so. Besides, Sigi seemed unusually interested in the conversation; he always loved to boast about a job well done.

"I'm good at my profession. Otherwise, I wouldn't have lasted a year at King Vizimir's court, may he rest in peace," Dijkstra began his tale, his stony face coming to life. "Our Temerian grew up in one of the many brothels of Vizima. His mother turned to prostitution, and his father, according to rumors, raped the poor woman. Other rumors say his father was a half-elf or even a pureblood elf, but that's hard to believe. After all, elves don't usually fancy human women."

"Are you saying he's a half-elf?"

"A quarter-elf, if you will. But no, I can't say that. Rumors can be misleading. Though, it would tell a lot."

"Care to explain?" the Wolf asked, sipping more wine.

"What's there to explain, Geralt?" Dijkstra cut off calmly as always. "We both know how Roche feels about elves. He can say whatever he wants, that he's not a racist and just wants justice, but those are all excuses. The Blue Stripes unit was created specifically to fight the squirrels."

"What's your point?"

"That people often hate in others what they hate in themselves."

Geralt smirked, clasping his hands together.

"Very philosophical. Let me guess, you learned that at Oxenfurt University?"

"No, philosophy is usually spewed by drunk prostitutes and teenagers who just hit puberty," Dijkstra replied confidently and smiled again.

"And which one are you?"

"What a silly question, Geralt? I've long since passed my youthful age," Reuven frowned his thick brows. "But let's get back to business. Questions arise when Vernon suddenly climbs the career ladder and becomes the king's favorite. What did he do to get the king's notice, you ask? There are many versions, all equally absurd. The most known ones are that Roche is Foltest's illegitimate son born to one of his mistresses or that Foltest simply fucked him. Both versions are false."

Sigismund had a habit of saying something sudden in a completely mundane tone, as Geralt noticed. The witcher also frowned.

"Why so?"

"Because, in the first case, Foltest would have had to father a child at eleven, which is impossible. From birth, young Foltest was surrounded by a horde of mages who made sure his blood, saliva, and urine were in good condition, and also checked the functionality of his seed," the spy began listing, waving his plump open palm over the table. "How exactly they found out, don't ask. And in the second case, throughout his life, the King of Temeria was only interested in women."

"The King of Temeria slept with his own sister. Are you so sure of him?" Geralt doubted, looking at Dijkstra askance.

"But not with a brother."

"He didn't have a brother."

"Even if he did, he wouldn't sleep with him."

"Why do you think so?"

"Geralt, sometimes you just have to trust the professional who knows what he's talking about," Reuven interrupted, rolling his eyes, and Geralt sighed in agreement.

"Alright, our conversation has taken a strange turn. I understand, Vernon wasn't the king's son or the royal whore, as the aristocracy sometimes affectionately calls him. But who is he then?"

Dijkstra spread his hands to the sides.

"The most realistic version is that Roche distinguished himself in the ranks while in the army. Foltest was always more interested in military marches and battles than bureaucracy and politics. Warring was what truly delighted the King of Temeria. He was close to the soldiers; they respected him, and he rewarded them with royal favor and honor. Foltest's warriors would go through fire for him—how else, when your king knows you by face and fights back to back with you, spilling blood together. Foltest spent a lot of time in formations. At one such, they say, someone tried to assassinate Foltest, to stab him from behind. Young Vernon Roche managed to uncover the would-be assassin. If this is true, it wasn't the last time Roche exposed conspiracies for Temeria's good. In general, if instead of you in that tower was Vernon Roche, perhaps Foltest would be alive and well now, no offense," Dijkstra sweetly added, and Geralt looked at him with completely indifferent eyes.

"And if you consumed less cholesterol, you'd fit into the sewer."

"Be that as it may. But the rest is there to ask Roche himself," Reuven drank the wine to the bottom, placing the glass on the table with a clink. "He worshiped the king, revered him and groveled, and maybe Vernon Roche is a rare bastard, but loyal as a dog. Now the dog is left without a master, and that's what worries me."

"Afraid Roche will fall into depression?" Geralt smiled, but Reuven waved him off with a hand.

"Damn that Roche of yours. I'm worried about the North. Roche is a general, not a politician. Not stupid, but reckless. Without his beloved king, he's thrashing about like a fish out of water. And I fear his rash actions could have unpleasant consequences for me. He'll do anything to get his precious Temeria back, but the price might be too high, including for us," the spy settled down, leaning slightly forward towards Geralt. "A free Temeria might cost us dearly, Geralt."

"You don't trust him?" The Wolf leaned in response, but Reuven immediately sat back.

"I trust no one. Especially people with convictions. They don't adapt to the situation and fight for their principles, often unafraid of death. You can expect anything from them. Everything was fine when Roche and his peasants in blue-striped armor were running through the forests shooting elves, but now that Roche has stepped onto the political stage, he's hard to control. He could become an obstacle."

"I can hear Philippa Eilhart talking through you," nodded the Wolf, eyeing Sigi appraisingly.

"Thank you, I'm flattered. It means I'm good at politics."

Geralt finally let out a loud breath and leaned back against the chair.

"But you didn't start this conversation just for the sake of it. What do you need?"

"I like practical people. I've always liked that about you," Dijkstra jumped in immediately. "Well, listen. I need you to persuade Roche not to rush and to do as I say."

"Can you elaborate?" Geralt raised an eyebrow as cold air blew in through the window.

"I can't say much, you understand, state secret. But I need Roche to swallow his pride and negotiate with the elves."

Geralt's eyes widened as he looked at Sigi in bewilderment.

"With the elves? That's like asking a dog to make peace with cats."

"Then we're lucky we're dealing with a loyal dog," Dijkstra clapped his hands. "Except that it's not Temeria at stake, so Roche doesn't give a damn about my requests. You get along with him better; you have a better chance of convincing him."

"And why should I do that?" Geralt asked, as expected, already roughly understanding what would follow.

"Because otherwise I'll have to report to someone higher up that your friend Dandelion was spying for Temeria in Kaedwen, and believe me, he won't get a pat on the back for that," Dijkstra squinted cunningly. "Is there any place left in the North where Dandelion could hide without fearing a knife in the ribs from men he's cuckolded?"

This was exactly what the Wolf had been waiting for all along. One could say Dijkstra was even a bit late.

"And this is how you treat people you like?" Geralt asked, resting his head on his fist. "Threaten them? I'd hate to think what you do to those who irritate you."

"Let's just say those people won't tell you themselves," Reuven copied his movement, leaning on the armrest. "But I'm lucky you fuss over Dandelion like a child; otherwise, I'd have to blackmail you with something else."

"I get it, no need for all this," Geralt waved his hand. "But I expect you won't owe me one."

"I won't. We've had very healthy market relations from the start," something resembling honesty shone on Reuven’s face.

Geralt stood up from the chair, and Reuven followed.

"Have it your way, I'll talk to him. But I can't promise everything will go smoothly. You know what connects the elves and Roche. As much as I respect him, I'm afraid he might not come back from the negotiations, and you won't find another reckless patriot like him."

The Wolf extended his hand, and Sigi shook it slowly, wrinkling his nose.

"We'll manage somehow. But you're right, we wouldn't want to lose him so foolishly. We won't send him alone, of course, but who knows the elves better than he does?"

Not everyone knew the whereabouts of the Temerian patriot, not even every second or third person. If the partisan commander wasn’t in his camp, there were still a few places where Roche could be hiding: an abandoned shack in the middle of Velen, or more precisely, the basement leading to it, a room in one of the inns in Oxenfurt, though as far as Geralt knew, that place was noted by witch hunters, and a small apartment under Novigrad, in the Putrid Grove. Being in Novigrad, Geralt decided to try his luck, and as usual, it didn’t fail him. As soon as he introduced himself through the rotten oak door of one of the stone houses in the Grove, the door opened a crack. The owner, predictably, didn’t come out but let the witcher in and immediately shut the door behind him. Such behavior might be considered suspicious anywhere else but not in the Putrid Grove. Here, every passerby aroused suspicion, and as they say, among the sick, the healthy man is seen as ill.

Inside the apartment, it was dark, with several windows draped in netting to be on the safe side. Vernon himself stood before Geralt in trousers and a shirt, which seemed to be the first time the witcher had seen him like this. Only his eternal chaperon still covered his hair. Roche’s face was flushed as if he had just been drinking, though there was no smell of alcohol. Instead, there was a strange rancid smell, and Geralt clearly heard the rapid beating of another man's heart. From behind the door of another room came a calmer heartbeat. Roche looked unusually worried.

"Geralt of Rivia, safe and sound. Sorry, but your timing is...," Vernon smirked and then suddenly changed his expression to one of cunning. "Wait, I know that look. Dijkstra sent you, didn’t he?"

The witcher spread his hands.

"Vernon Roche, always on guard. You guessed it," he said with a smile, extending his hand for a handshake. "Time is of the essence, Dandelion's career is at stake."

Roche was about to say something when a figure in a robe appeared from the bedroom door. Geralt didn’t recognize him at first, but as soon as the hair revealed the scar on the cheek, the witcher’s mouth fell open. Iorveth approached while Vernon, as Geralt heard, held his breath.

"Vatt'ghern, good to see you. I was going to visit you, but didn't make it yet."

The hand that Roche had just shaken was now shaken by Iorveth, and Geralt looked from one to the other, then at his hand, and with a touch of disgust, thought about what might be on his palm but refrained from wiping it on his trousers out of politeness. He looked back at the smiling Iorveth and the resigned Roche staring somewhere behind Geralt, and closed his mouth.

"Yeah, come by," the witcher responded dumbfoundedly, surely looking at them with eyes as wide as wheels. "But it’s better at night. You two are hiding way too well."

The elf smirked and patted the Wolf on the shoulder.

"Remember Loc Muinne? You lost to me twice in Gwent back then, owing me about three hundred orens."

Geralt was already too surprised to be amazed by anything else, so he just nodded.

"I remember, I remember, I’ll pay you back soon."

Roche tightly pressed his lips together, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked away.

"How's your sorceress? The redhead I mean, not the dominatrix; that one shall be fine," Iorveth continued to ask nonchalantly, leaning against the wall next to him.

Geralt shrugged with still raised eyebrows.

"Alive and well."

"Great," the elf grunted, pushing off the wall, smiling at the witcher, glancing at Roche, who frowned worriedly, then walked further into the apartment.

Vernon and Geralt were left alone, the Wolf—shocked, Roche—with despair and hopelessness in his eyes.

"Well, it’s none of my business, I…"

"Just say what you think," Vernon interrupted, waving his hand, and the witcher swallowed.

Saying something, as it turned out, wasn’t so easy. Roche led him to the kitchen and sat him down at the table. Iorveth was dressing somewhere in the bedroom, occasionally making noises. Vernon sat at the other end of the table.

"But how, you two?..." Geralt began, since his opinion was sought, "hated each other?"

"And I still hate him," Iorveth jumped into the conversation, now half-dressed, coming out of the bedroom. "This idiot killed three of my squad, can you imagine? He took a barrel of gunpowder and set it on fire. What if I had been in that hut?"

"Then I’d be living a peaceful life," Roche found his answer, looking at the elf in a completely mundane way.

"Peaceful and very boring," Iorveth began doing something in the kitchen, seemingly taking jugs of milk out of the cellar.

Roche just helplessly sighed. Geralt shook his head at this. He usually wasn’t interested in other people’s personal affairs, but as it turned out, both of these characters played a significant role in his life, and he had even worried about them both at some point.

"So many years of destroying each other, and for what? I don’t get it," the witcher said, spreading his hands on the table, and Vernon raised an eyebrow.

"And your relationship with Yennefer is any different from ours?"

Geralt opened his mouth but then shut it immediately.

"I have nothing to say to that," he said after a moment, and Roche nodded.

"Better not show off."

The witcher nodded in agreement. Iorveth, having taken something from the cellar, went back to the bedroom. Geralt sighed loudly.

"Dandelion must find out about this. This ballad would be the peak of his career."

"You tell anyone, and Dandelion won’t have anything to write with," Roche replied in his unemotional threat tone, though Geralt had already expected it. "Why did you come?"

The Wolf leaned back against the creaky chair.

"Knowing Dandelion is costing me too much. Dijkstra threatened me with him too."

"He’d better, considering how you fuss over him," Roche grinned.

They both fell silent for a moment to process everything.

"So, Dijkstra asked me to talk to you about negotiations with the elves, but it seems they’ve already gone well," Geralt allowed himself a jab, and a voice came from behind the door.

"Better than usual, in fact."

Roche covered his face with his hands and sighed as if he had lived eighty years instead of forty.

"Does Reuven know?" Geralt asked seriously now, and Roche shrugged, wiping his face with his hand.

"No idea. I think he does. He called Iorveth my pet squirrel. And when did Dijkstra not know something?"

Iorveth, who appeared from behind the door, squinted in offense and opened his mouth.

"Sorry, your pet squirrel?" he repeated, and Roche rolled his eyes wearily.

The elf’s face disappeared again, and the two men looked at each other.

"Can I consider my job done?" Geralt inquired, and Roche spread his hands.

"It seems so. Listen, Geralt," Vernon hunched over the table, folded his hands, and looked at the witcher from under his brow. "You are my friend, and I don’t want to force you to choose between the North and Temeria. But I will have to make you choose between Dijkstra and me, if the need arises."

Geralt pressed his lips together, took a deep breath, and nodded.

"I won’t pressure you. Just think about what future awaits the North with Dijkstra," Roche finished and left the table.

Iorveth returned to the kitchen, now fully dressed, with a chainmail and bow on his back. He stood next to Roche. Geralt looked at them, his lips twitching into a smile.

"It’s scary to imagine the future of the North if you guys unite. We’re all doomed."