Chapter Text
Roche squinted his eyes against the blazing sun, its brightness radiating the farmlands and grape fields that spread vast around them. He could not recall the last time he had come to Toussaint, long before the war certainly, but it was as if nothing had changed. The citizens were the same, the beautiful landscapes, the wine. The only inconsistency was the new resident, Geralt of Rivia, who had somehow settled into semi-retirement long before Roche had. That inconsistency was also the reason Roche and Ves had ventured to Toussaint, to spend a week drinking and partying in celebration of the Witcher’s birthday, an event men like Geralt and Roche could rarely indulge in. But the war was over, Temeria was a free country once again and Geralt had since located his daughter and given her the title of Witcher.
Roche shifted the chaperone atop his head, still stubbornly wearing it despite the sun’s heat. He glanced over at Ves who was less bothered by the warmth and instead enthralled in the glowing landscape, clearly too accustomed to Velen’s dreary appearance. He focused his attention back on Corvo Bianco, and as they drew near he noticed just how busy it was, with servants preparing wines and meals, tending to the garden and the many horses crowding the stable. Fortunately, the civilians parted for the war veterans, allowing easy access to the stable where their horses were stripped of their tack and brushed down.
“How many people has Geralt invited?” Ves hummed, glancing at the multitude of horses before advancing to the supposed front door.
“Looks like half the damn continent.” Roche mused. “Wouldn’t be surprised if the Emperor was here too.”
Ves snorted, barging through the door and scaring the poor majordomo.
“Ah, welcome sir and madam, wonderful for you to join us, master Geralt is just inside the kitchen.”
Roche nodded his thanks, pressing past Ves into the small crowd of companions, some of which Roche recognised and an uncomfortable feeling sank in his gut, knowing his presence was a reminder of the war. He spotted Triss and Thaler amongst the crowd and made a mental note to greet them as he slipped into the kitchen almost unnoticed. Geralt was just passing a drink to Dandelion as he entered and the bard beamed at his arrival, much to the commander’s surprise.
“Well look who finally decided to show! Geralt, pour a drink for the good soldier!”
“It’s Geralt’s birthday, don’t you think you should be pouring the drinks?” Roche asked and Dandelion gasped dramatically.
“Roche! Glad you could make it,” Geralt smiled, clearly already intoxicated as he grasped Roche’s hand in a firm shake.
“Good to see you alive Geralt, been too long.”
Geralt hummed his agreement. “It has, it has. Here.” The witcher handed him a decent sized mug filled with Mahakaman mead.
“It’s a bit early don’t you think Geralt? The sun’s not even set.”
“Well, it will soon with that in your stomach. Cheers!”
Roche shook his head with a smile, it had been too long since he’d let himself relax. Somehow his job hadn’t gotten easier after the war, reestablishing Temeria and relocating the guerrilla soldiers were his main focus, but still, going unwanted among the council as if he was the fault behind every casualty. Every nobleman, Temerian or Nilfgaardian, just wanted him to lie down and stop reminding them of the war, but he was much too stubborn to do so yet.
“Cheers.” The metal thud rang out as the men crashed their mugs together. Roche decided against downing the whole beverage, unlike Geralt, and took a steady sip, watching in amusement as Dandelion tried to match Geralt’s pace but choked halfway through.
As the witcher laughed at the bard’s suffering Roche noticed Triss’s fair hand reach above the crowd and wave him over, he nodded in farewell to the duo, Dandelion giving him a small wave behind watery eyes and Geralt still laughing as he poured himself another drink.
Pressing his beverage close to his chest he stepped into the main room toward Triss who was nursing her own glass of wine, she greeted him with a warm smile but her eyes were quickly drawn back to the main table. Roche followed her gaze to where Ciri and Zoltan were seated, playing a very heated round of Gwent.
“Zoltan’s lost three games now, so he’s put his own card on the line to prove himself.” She chuckled, pressing the tinted glass to her lips.
Roche laughed. “Doesn’t know when to quit does he?”
“I think he’s had one too many to realise that.” As the sorceress spoke Roche indeed noticed the collection of empty mead jugs and wine bottles adorning the table, mostly centring around the dwarf. Though it was clear the young witcheress was drunk as well.
“He might still have a fighting chance.” He mused.
“Not against my little sis... so how have you been Roche?” She suddenly turned her full attention to the man and he couldn’t help but sigh, leaning against the bench behind them. It stirred a laugh from the sorceress and she leaned beside him.
“Not great huh?”
He shrugged. “I can’t complain, Temeria is free now… it’s just… hard to go back, I guess.”
The redhead frowned. “You’ve done a lot for the kingdom, surely you could retire at this point?”
“I think that would be worse.”
She nodded a silent understanding and they focused back on the Gwent match, casually sipping their alcohol. Roche began to wonder just how many drinks the dwarf had had as he followed the trail across the table. There were others seated at the table, the possible owners of the liquor as well, Ves, Lambert, the duchesses’ sister Sylvia, Eskell, Iorveth, the queen of Skellige Cerys. Roche froze then flicked his head back to the Scoia’tael commander. Iorveth. Of course, Iorveth was here. He was a good friend of Geralt’s, it made sense he was also invited. But still, his presence bothered the Temerian, and Roche couldn’t pinpoint why. The war was over and so was theirs. Iorveth looked up from the wine he was cradling and Roche looked away quickly, realising he’d been staring, though his sudden reaction might’ve looked a lot worse. He distracted himself immediately, focusing his attention on Triss and quizzing her about her life updates. Ignoring the eye that fixated on him.
***
Iorveth dropped the clear weather card on the table, smirking as Zoltan groaned in pure agony, his Impenetrable fog card cleared and resulting in his loss.
“One more round!” The dwarf cried, banging his palm against the table, as Iorveth collected his cards and Zoltan’s crowns. The elf shook his head.
“I think I’ve robbed enough from you.”
“How about one of me cards then? I’ll put my own on the table!”
Iorveth laughed, shaking his head. “Sober up some first,” Zoltan grumbled indignantly and took a swig of the mead.
“You’d give up your own card? Go on then, I’ll take it out of your hands gladly.”
The crowd looked up to see Ciri leaning over the table and staring down the dwarf, nursing a bottle of rye at her hip.
“Fuck yeah! Glad someone’s got some balls!”
Iorveth ignored the dwarf’s impurities and shifted into the adjacent seat, allowing Ciri to take his. She sat down with a smirk and pulled out her Skellige deck, placing her Hjalmar card into the betting pool, not foolish enough to bet her own. The An Craite cheered from the other side of the room. As they set up their match Iorveth reached for the Toussaint red wine, nodding gratefully as Lambert handed it over. He was amidst refilling his glass (and listening to Zoltan and Ciri throw childish insults at one another) when the door near flew open and in marched the Blue Stripes right hand- Ves, and its commander. Vernon fucking Roche.
He wasn’t surprised, Roche was Geralt’s friend too. It surprised him more that he was the last to arrive. But Iorveth couldn’t help but stare at the man, it felt like an age had passed since they last interacted and he could see the time creased into Roche’s still handsome face.
He felt himself internally cringe at the thought and turned his attention away, he couldn’t help that the d’hoine had approvable features, it was only natural that an elf could appreciate beauty, even on a human. He just wished it didn’t have to be that human.
Iorveth did his utmost to ignore the commander’s presence and hoped that the man was not feeling confrontational, not wishing to draw attention to himself, or start a brawl on Geralt’s birthday. With the help of the wine, Iorveth was able to invest himself into the match as Ciri skipped the second round, leading into the deciding third round. Soon people were starting to take sides and cheering them on.
His attention was not held long as his gaze drifted to Roche’s position, at the back of the room with the sorceress. Unfortunately, he met Roche’s eyes immediately, but as soon as he did the man was turning away and conversing with Triss, leaving a scowl on the elf’s face. The human didn’t even have the decency to acknowledge him, not that he particularly wanted him too, but being ignored hit Iorveth a little more personally. He bore a glare into the side of Roche’s head before returning to his liquor which was steadily running dry.
***
Vernon Roche had well and truly lost track of time, as stars now painted the night sky despite only having arrived an hour ago. Or what felt like an hour anyway. The gathering had become slightly smaller as some less-intoxicated attendees had returned to whatever hole in the world they inhabited while others had already gone to bed in the guest rooms the servants had organised. Ves was among those much to Roche’s disappointment, but he found the company of a bottle and the witchers to be more than adequate as their conversations ranged from heartfelt confessions to graphic retellings of events Roche should arrest them for.
They had since all moved outside where several seats and a table had been set up. Roche was leaning against the outside wall beside Thaler, their conversation now nothing more than content silence as they shared a bottle of the terribly bitter Temerian rye. Though peaceful, Roche knew the silence was uncanny for his associate and was not at all surprised when he stumbled away grumbling his desire to fucking puke.
The soldier decided against standing on his own and crashed onto the cushion seat at the far end of the table, close to where Geralt and Yennefer lay against each other, peacefully sobering up. Lambert and Ciri were the loudest, engaging in harsh banter that neither seemed to mind. Hjalmar and Folan were still enthusiastically drinking and encouraging Ciri to join in. Keira sat beside her boyfriend, having a ‘philosophical’ debate with Eskell and Regis, whilst Zoltan snored obnoxiously, his face pressed against the cold wood surface. Roche began to feel weary as well but the thud of the table made him jump to attention, he heard Geralt’s laugh beside him but could only focus on the body now climbing onto the table and plucking at the strings of his lute.
“One last homage! To a night well spent! Happy birthday Geralt, I grant you all the happiness I can!” The bard cheered, earning some cheers from the friends in turn and disturbing the dwarf.
“This better be a good one!” He moaned and Dandelion only nodded earnestly.
“Well naturally! I even have a special guest to play with me too!”
It was then that Roche noticed Iorveth perched on the garden wall behind the table, flute in hand and waiting for Dandelion’s cue.
Dandelion began plucking at his strings and Iorveth began a somber slow melody, as the song progressed Iorveth picked up the tempo and the song became hopeful and enigmatic, only heightened by Dandelion’s passionate playing. Roche closed his eyes to the sound, the music resonating in his mind, sensing beauty and emotion in the lyricless piece. When the pace picked up again it became evident that the musicians were winging it, although doing so seamlessly. The tune was more of a merry jig now and Lambert, Kiera, Ciri and Regis all got up to dance along. Even Yennefer and Geralt rose, although their dancing was a lot slower than the music demanded, that is until Ciri grasped their arms and urged them to join in the enthusiastic rhythm.
Roche had little urge to dance, instead ensnared by the lure of the song, his eyes never leaving Iorveth as he came to realise how long it had been since he last heard Elven music. With the amount of alcohol shared between everyone and himself, Roche had little reason to care if he was caught staring, his eyes, at first fixated on the flute now roamed over Iorveth. His long, nimble legs, aiding him in avoiding any capture Roche attempted, his slender waist, still underfed despite the end of the war, his hands, calloused, from years of experience using a bow, his neck, painted with that intricate tattoo, now on full display as the elf titled his head into his instrument. He caught himself admiring the elf and couldn’t understand why, but made little attempt to stop.
As Roche reached his face he met the Scoia'tael’s gaze. And didn’t look away. His green eye stared him down intensely, his expression unreadable, but he soon closed his eye, relaxing with the music but never turning his head away from Roche.
As Dandelion felt their song drawing to an end, he couldn’t help the stumble over some chords, completely distracted as he watched Roche and Iorveth stare each other down, his curiosity growing as, when Iorveth looked away, Roche continued to stare and not so subtly run his eyes along Iorveth’s form.
He couldn’t believe what he was witnessing but he knew that there was only one thing to do about it. With an elegant strum, the song was finished and the companions cheered. Dandelion bowed low and thanked everyone as if they were adoring fans. He leapt off the table to wrap himself around Geralt, smiling foolishly as Geralt complimented him.
“Although Iorveth’s playing was much nicer.” The witcher teased.
“How dare you?!” The bard gasped scandalously before breaking into a chuckle and pecking Geralt’s cheek. In a flourish, Dandelion leapt off Geralt to garner exclusively positive reviews of his performance.
Roche’s gaze finally dropped once Iorveth hopped off the wall and sauntered over to him. He stopped beside his chair, not meeting his eyes. Roche blinked up at him, not quite knowing what to say, feeling strangely awkward.
“Iorveth...”
“Been a while d’hoine.” He scowled, before disappearing toward the housing set up for the guests.
Roche bit down on his lip and sipped the remainder of the rye. Troubled by his intoxicated thoughts and oblivious to the blue eyes of the curious bard staring him down.