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When you were in the business long enough, you could tell who was the traitor by one single glance.
All the traces were there, right on their faces: shifty eyes, tightened lips, cold sweats. Everything was revealing their secrets: they betrayed someone or something and now felt frightened and guilty. They knew they would be sentenced for life for their crimes as a rat, a mole, a traitor. A filthy scumbag that would probably end up with two feet sticking out of the sack in the river. There was nothing left for them. No pitying, no mourning, no recollection.
After the unpleasant surprise of running into Iorveth at Nilfgaardian Court again, Roche found that they had already gone through the following stages: taunting each other on the so-called meetings, exchanging harmless and hollow threats while no one's watching, ignoring each other in the Emperor's briefing; get into a dog fight in the hallway while dead-drunk and blinded by fury - followed by rushing into Iorveth's room struggling, and finally ending up in Iorveth's bed. Simple, cliché, unsurprising.
Later Roche found himself woke up on the floor. He was naked. His body was covered with a bunch of new bruises and scratches. A mild headache crawled into Roche's head. He rubbed his face, having no idea how things went down like this.
He decided not to talk about it, or think about it.
It did work.
But this accident kept happening. After a while, it's no longer an accident at all.
Still, Roche refused to call it an affair.
The truth is, every time Roche looks at Iorveth, every time Iorveth turns his head, stares at Roche, and utters an empty threat. Every time Roche uses his tongue and fingers to open up Iorveth’s body and sees him shivering in anger, pleasure, and shame. Roche could see those marks: shifty eyes, tightened lips, cold sweats that stink with fear. A traitor.
Who did you betray to get out of the forest and the stinky cave? So that you can have those fancy new clothes, talk about politics with the Nilfgaardians?
Roche already knew the answer.
Because these days, he was afraid to look at his own reflection in the mirror too.
So this is how things go now, Roche tries to forget. he drinks heavily, attends long meetings without absence. He tried his best to help to rebuild Temeria. Roche stayed single. Because if he had to wake up in the middle of the night frequently, at least no one would hear his screams.
Roche guessed that Iorveth does the same. He was probably Iorveth's only mistress. Vice versa.
Other than Iorveth, most of the people Roche knew did not survive the three long wars, and those who survived bore traces of what they did in the wars on their faces. They had made a deal with themselves and had to live with the price. Some of them had stains on their consciences, and others had blood on their hands that couldn't be washed off.
Now we all have to live together, knowing that you are a murderer, you are a rapist, you are a traitor; you have given everything to save your loved ones, including other people's lovers and children.
Roche was too old, too tired, too cynical. He already accepted such results with peace in his mind.
Sometimes Roche would watch Emhyr in the lobby of Nilfgaardian Court, performing those little acts. He knew that he was watching something as rare as a unicorn. The Emperor of Nilfgaard belonged to a dying race: the royals. Other than Queen Meve, he was the only one left now.
Because I had lost my king a long time ago, so there would be no more kings for anyone.
Roche found a strange comfort in this thought.
So he went back to Nilfgaardian Court and Iorveth's bed repeatedly, lost in lust and disgust and torment and humiliation and anger and emptiness, again and again. The elf kept leaving mark stubbornly on Roche's body, using his teeth and nails, like it was some kind of new records. Like Roche, Iorveth didn't have a wife or a child, no successors. They were a dying race too, the two of them. Some people must die so that the new world wouldn't remember anything that should not be remembered. A new world must be born from there, without hatred and mourning.
It's just a matter of time, sooner or later, they will all be dead. No pitying, no mourning, no recollection.
It doesn't matter. Thought Roche. You can live on. You can live with shame, pain, and all the dead men.
He tried to.
As this strange relationship of theirs entered its sixth year, Roche woke up one night and was surprised to find that he was still alive and not lying on the floor. He sat up slowly, then stared blankly at the wall in the darkness. He felt strangely empty. Iorveth was still sleeping beside him. Roche looked at Iorveth's back — old, bony, heavily scarred. Iorveth was exposed to him, unguarded. Roche remains still, watching Iorveth's body slowly undulating with steady breathing. He was warm, and alive. Roche didn’t know what to do with him.
For a while, in this dilapidated room, Iorveth looked exhausted and oddly fragile, like he was tired with waiting for an end that seemed to have forgotten to come. Now he was trapped, and yet still waiting.
You did the best you could. Roche thought. We both did.
He lay down, faced Iorveth, thought about all the things that happened in the past, like it's from another life.
Roche fell asleep.
FIN