When Vernon Roche first opened the case file, he hadn’t expected anything special. On the surface, it was just a case of two soldiers going missing, which would be true cause for concern – but a further look showed that each of the soldiers had taken leave at the same time, as they’d done seven other times. Roche figured the most likely answer was that the happy couple had gotten carried away on leave and decided to desert the army.

Which was a hanging offense in Temeria.

So perhaps there was something more to it. In any case, it was his duty to Temeria to discover what had happened to two of her soldiers, and Roche did not like unanswered questions. Like why two decorated soldiers would decide to never return from leave.

Unfortunately, the last place they had been seen was just over the Redanian border in a little resort outside of Murivel. If they had been in Temeria, Roche could have easily used his authority to go to the resort and find more information. But in Redania, Roche was, at best, no one notable; at worst, an enemy spy. It was, perhaps, best not to risk running into a Redanian army commander in a bad mood.

Which meant he needed stealth – a way to get into the resort without raising eyebrows so that he could search the soldiers’ rooms and find out where they went. The problem was, the Murivel Resort for Couples was, well, for couples. 

Usually Roche would enlist Ves for help, but while he was stuck closing out army casefiles, his second in command was leading the Blue Stripes through complicated training exercises. Roche wasn’t sure who would be in more agony – him from hunching over a desk, or his squad after Ves was done with them.

So it was by his lonesome that Roche crossed the Pontar River into Redania a short distance from Murivel and hid his boat in the forest. The Flotsam Forest spread across the Pontar on all sides and while, technically, it was part of Iorveth’s Scoia’tael’s territory, the outskirts of the forest were too expansive to patrol, so there was little chance of his boat being discovered. Which only meant he had to find his way into the couple’s resort. 

Dressed in a simple tunic and trousers with his chaperon on his head, Roche paced alongside the river and tried to figure out what he could do. What he’d seen of the outside of the resort was massive, and sneaking in to search it without even knowing what room the soldiers had been in? It would take forever and every moment he’d be at risk of discovery, at which point they’d likely turn him over to the guards, and well, there was that “enemy spy” issue again. Even though Roche wasn’t actually a spy. Or at least, not just a spy. Which would only make things worse for him.

Struggling to determine the next step of his plan, Roche was absolutely not expecting the brash voice that called down to him, “tired of the Lilies already, Vernon?”

Everyone who knew anything about Vernon Roche knew he was addicted to coffee. Every single report Iorveth had of Roche off duty had him drinking coffee.

In truth, Iorveth hadn’t though about it much beyond the initial ‘how can I use this against him?’, but if he had, perhaps he might have seen this coming.

It was an average day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the Stripes and the Scoia’tael were fighting – your basic Tuesday.

Iorveth was right in the middle of a grandiose statement when Roche’s face crumpled in pain and he collapsed to the ground. Iorveth could admit, he was more than startled enough to freeze for a few moments. And he wasn’t the only one! Several of the Stripes had stilled, turning to their commander with wide eyes.

Fortunately, there were two who were not frozen, though they had been further back from the action than the rest of them. The two teams’ medics dashed forward to kneel by Roche’s side. The Blue Stripes’ medic, whose true name Iorveth did not know, pressed his ear against Roche’s chest and swore.

“No heartbeat,” the gigantic man known as Pillow Tits reported grimly. He began applying compressions to Roche’s chest, but Iorveth’s medic started digging in her bag.

“Imadia?” he asked.

“I know I’ve got it somewhere – here!”

Iorveth was tied up in the middle of the Blue Stripes camp. A year ago, that would have sent cold fear running through him and he would have been thinking up his last words. But now, after somehow winding up in this weird relationship with Roche, he actually felt comfortable around these people. These humans.

And like all humans, they were obsessed with sex. Completely, utterly obsessed. Even so, Iorveth wasn’t wholly certain how he’d ended up in this position: suspended in the air with his hands bound above his head and his legs tied up and out, leaving him entirely exposed. It was probably Roche’s fault he was in this situation. It was definitely Roche’s fault that heat was simmering in his belly, anticipating what was to come.

Roche’s wide hands stroked through his hair. “Ready?”

Iorveth met his gaze and nodded, “yes.”

Roche bent down and kissed him, deep and possessive, and Iorveth could practically feel the change wash over him as he let himself truly give up control. He relaxed into the ropes holding him suspended and when Roche released his head, he let it fall back without resistance.

There are moments that define you for the rest of your life. Moments where you know, without a doubt, everything is about to change.

Vernon Roche experienced one such moment at the age of fifteen, when he spotted an arbalist hiding in a crowd and accidentally saved the lives of the royal family. From that moment forward, his life was different, and this difference would define him for years to come.

Everyone knew Vernon Roche would die for his King. He just hadn’t expected to actually do it. But now, struggling to breathe as he slowly bled out, all he could think about was how he hadn’t expected to actually have to die for his King. Not like this.

His eyes darted around the room restlessly, trying to find something, anything, that could save him. When the assassin had taken him hostage, holding a knife to his throat, he’d been dragged over by the brazier they kept burning at all hours in the throne room.

Vaguely, he was aware of things happening around him, of King Foltest sending guards after the assassin that had slit his throat when Foltest had dared him to. But mostly, all he knew was that he was growing cold, colder than he ever should have been. And right next to him, the warm embers of the fire glowed.

A stupid idea occurred to him. He knew it was stupid even as he thought it, but what options did he have? Bleed out here, on the throne room floor? Fuck that.

He reached out a shaking hand and grasped a fire poker.

There were several great things about traveling to Kaer Morhen to aid in the impending battle. First, Geralt had asked him, and Roche would do just about anything for Geralt, just as Geralt had done for him. Secondly, the impending fight was to protect Geralt’s daughter, who he’d heard much about but had never met. He was excited to finally get to do so, to meet the one woman the Wolf Witchers had made an exception for and trained.

Thirdly, and perhaps most selfishly, it gave Roche an opportunity to be alone with Iorveth, which they hadn’t managed since they’d first gotten together about a month ago. While in the loyalist camp, they’d been pretty careful not to seem… well, too close. Sure, everyone knew that Iorveth shared his bunk, but the last thing either of them wanted was to be overheard when getting up to more… intimate activities.

Not that they’d done much. It was entirely too difficult to find time alone together and frankly, kissing Iorveth was so intoxicating that he could hardly imagine how much more amazing everything else would be as well.

Roche licked his lips, imagining that he could still taste Iorveth on them. Gods, what he wouldn’t give for just a moment’s break to kiss Iorveth again.

But they’d only just started on the road an hour ago and it was too soon to stop for a break. Plus, Iorveth was still grumpy and brooding from his parting argument with Ves. Roche could understand why she was irritated at being left behind, but the way she’d deliberately dug under Iorveth’s skin and flayed it open was uncalled for.

Unfortunately, Roche had learned after their first big argument not to get involved when Ves and Iorveth butted heads. Siding with either one of them could only end badly for him, and they usually fought over stupid things anyway.

This time, it wasn’t exactly stupid. Ves accepted Roche’s logic in the choice of who to accompany him, but that didn’t mean she liked it. And she definitely didn’t like Iorveth. And Iorveth, Roche was discovering, expected people to hate him and yet, was still hurt when they did. It was heartbreaking to watch, and Roche was truly grateful that they could have this journey alone together.

Feeling daring, he brushed the backs of their hands together, waiting to see what Iorveth’s response would be.

The day dawned cloudy and overcast, threatening rain. As they made breakfast, the two of them kept glancing at the sky, wondering when the downpour would start. Was it worth leaving their camp – which, this time, came in the form of an abandoned fisherman’s hut – or should they just stay here until the bad weather passed?

Roche groaned, attempting to stretch out sore muscles. The bedroll he’d gotten for the two of them was nice, but it still meant sleeping on the ground and at his age, that was getting more and more difficult to do.

Iorveth clicked his tongue after the fifth time Roche attempted to twist and crack his back. “Okay, clearly you need help,” the elf pointed out with the air of someone doing him a favor. “Lay down on your front. Where does it hurt most?”

With a grumble that was 90% for show, Roche followed the instructions, stretching out on his front on their bedroll, left side warm from the fire. He could hear Iorveth searching through their bags for something and very pointedly did not comment on Iorveth’s organizing skills. But finally, Iorveth found what he was looking for and came to stand next to the bedroll.

“Clothes off,” Iorveth ordered and Roche could feel himself blushing. “Or top off, at least.”