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Rain lashed against the walls of Vizima as Vernon Roche escorted his prisoner into the throne room. Iorveth walked with his hands bound behind his back by a thick rope that bit into his wrists. His dark, rain-soaked hair clung to his forehead, while his lone green eye burned with cold defiance. Dried blood streaked his temple where Roche had struck him earlier in the forest, when the Scoia'tael had fallen into a Blue Stripes ambush.
Foltest stood behind a heavy oak table, bent over a spread of maps. When he looked up, his expression hardened.
"Vernon," he said curtly. "I see you've finally brought me this scoundrel."
"Your Majesty. We captured him by the Pontar. The rest of his unit fell. He wasn't willing to die easily."
"Your dog serves you faithfully, King," Iorveth sneered. "A pity he's kept on a human leash. Elven steel would never disgrace itself with such a slave."
Roche stiffened.
"Silence. You're standing before the King of Temeria."
Foltest raised a hand.
"Speak, Iorveth. Why did your commandos attack our supply convoys again? The treaty at Vergen was supposed to grant your people the forests."
Iorveth let out a short laugh.
"A dh'oine's word is like mist over the earth. It vanishes with the morning sun. Your soldiers still burned our trees. Your merchants still violated our women. And you ask why the arrows keep flying."
Roche stepped forward, his hand settling on the hilt of his sword.
"Enough. Your Majesty, give the order, and I'll finish him here and now."
Foltest approached the bound elf.
"No. Not yet. I want to know what he knows about the others' plans—"
He never finished.
Iorveth suddenly lunged forward. The rope snapped taut. Despite his bound hands, the Scoia'tael commander leaned in and crashed his lips against Roche's.
The kiss was deep, bitter.
Vernon flinched.
His hand tightened around his sword hilt but never drew the blade. He didn't shove the elf away. He stood frozen, allowing Iorveth's lips to remain pressed against his own. For the briefest instant, before reason returned, he kissed him back.
Silence settled over the throne room, heavy as lead.
Foltest took a step back. His face turned to stone. Anger mingled with disappointment. He adjusted his crown before speaking again, his voice calm, yet hard as steel.
"Roche... What is the meaning of this?"
Vernon's breathing turned shallow. His heart pounded so violently he was certain the king could hear it.
"Your Majesty... it's... it's a provocation. He—"
"You never reached for your sword," Foltest cut him off. "You have shed more blood for Temeria than many nobles have drunk wine. That is precisely why I cannot ignore what I have just seen. I saw that you did not resist... This demands an explanation. A thorough one. And explanations are not given in a throne room, before witnesses and in the heat of the moment. Guards!"
Roche went pale.
"No... I would never..."
The doors burst open. Two soldiers entered.
"Throw them both into the dungeon. They will await my judgment."
A broader smile spread across Iorveth's face as the guards seized him by the arms.
He tried to wrench himself free, kicking one of the soldiers in the shin.
"Your Majesty! I'm no traitor!"
"If this truly was a provocation, you'll have your chance to prove it," the king replied.
The guards were stronger. One slammed Roche against the wall while the other forced his arms behind his back. He struggled for another moment, but it was useless. His strength gave out. He lowered his head in resignation and let them lead him away. Heavy, obedient footsteps carried him through the castle corridors and down into the dungeons.
The dungeons beneath the castle reeked of rust. The cell was small, vaulted, with a single narrow window high above. The guards threw them inside, only untying Iorveth's wrists after the iron door slammed shut behind them.
Iorveth wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand and sat down on the straw.
Roche stood staring at the bars for a long moment before finally sitting opposite him, as far away as possible.
Neither of them spoke.
Water dripped steadily from the ceiling.
He shifted his gaze to the wall. The stone was rough, covered with a thin film of dried blood and scratches left by prisoners who had long since lost their wits. He stared at those stains so intently, as though he might find in them an answer he could not give himself. Upon his lips he still felt the taste of elven lips—bitter, alien, and stubbornly present.
He felt unclean. Not from the straw or the dust, but from within. As if that single kiss in the throne room had left upon him a stain that no holy water could wash away. Betrayal. Weakness. Something he should never have felt now seeped beneath his skin.
A lump rose in his throat. In his ears still rang Foltest’s words and his own pitiful excuses. Everything seemed distant and at the same time far too close. Humiliated. Dishonoured. And still, despite it all, alive.
At last he spoke:
“Why did you do it?”
Iorveth raised a brow, and satisfaction flashed in his eye.
“What? Did you think I would let myself be killed without a fight? I was testing how much you truly mean to him. As you can see... very little. He gave you up for a single kiss.”
Roche fixed his full attention upon him.
“You are disgusting. Disgusting and foul.”
“I know. And you... why did you not pull away?”
He waited for an answer that did not come.
“I felt you return the kiss,” he added.
“It was a moment of weakness. Nothing more.”
“Weakness?” Iorveth rose and drew nearer to Vernon. “Or desire? For I felt your heart quicken. That moment cost you everything.”
“Do not speak of it.”
Iorveth would not yield. He knelt before him. With one hand he took hold of his cheek; with the other he slid into the soldier’s short hair, tightening his fingers at the roots.
“You yielded,” he whispered. “And now you may do so again.”
He leaned in. Iorveth’s mouth came to rest just against Roche’s. Vernon closed his eyes. Thoughts still swirled in his head of that to which he had sworn loyalty. He wished to push away those lips that had already once brought shame upon him.
Yet the strength with which he tried dwindled with every second. In the dungeon there was no one else left. The king had turned from him. The guards held him as a traitor. The whole world to which he had given blood and life had left him alone between the castle cell and Iorveth—the only one who looked him in the eyes without pity, yet also without falsehood.
When the elf kissed him again—more slowly, more deeply—Roche froze. Resistance crumbled like sand. His hand rose to seize Iorveth by the nape. The kiss lasted long.
In his heart Iorveth already triumphed. He felt the enemy beneath him loosen, felt desire take the upper hand over a loyalty that no longer had anyone left to whom it might be entrusted.
“You see? You are doing it again.”
Roche’s eyes were clouded. Something spread through his chest that he should never have felt—a warm, unsettling shiver that crawled from his mouth down to his belly, weakening his knees and darkening thought. With every second of the kiss, shame mingled with hunger. As though a body wearied by years of service and hatred had at last found a forbidden relief and would not let it go.
“Stop...”
“I will not stop.”
Iorveth pushed him gently yet firmly until Vernon lay upon the straw. The elf straddled him; his hands unfastened the doublet and the shirt beneath. His mouth travelled over neck, chest, scars. Roche stifled a moan when he felt wetness upon his nipple.
Iorveth’s hand slid lower, over the taut belly, until his fingers found the edge of the trousers. Vernon seized his wrist.
“Enough...” he gasped.
His voice was hoarse, still full of resistance. Iorveth did not release him. He pressed Roche’s hand to the straw, intertwining their fingers, and with the other slid beneath the cloth. Vernon jerked his hips, trying to push the elf away, yet the movement was weak, powerless.
Iorveth lifted the corners of his mouth and continued—first with only his fingertips, then with his whole hand he pressed against the bulge of Roche’s manhood.
“Let go...” he forced out, yet the words sounded like a plea, not a command.
He did not answer. He untied the laces. Vernon jerked again; his hips rose in a gesture of resistance, yet when the cloth slid lower and the cold air of the dungeon brushed naked skin, the moan that escaped his throat betrayed everything.
The elf bent down and kissed the inner side of Roche’s thigh, trailing higher until his mouth came to rest against the already hard member. He did not take it at once.
He licked the length, savouring every quickened breath and tremor. Only after a moment did he close his lips around it.
His tongue enveloped the taut skin as he took him deeper. Roche’s hips rose of their own accord, and a broken sound escaped his throat. In that moment he lost the last remnants of dignity that had still remained to him. There was no longer a Temerian commander, no longer the faithful hound of the crown. Shame burned, yet it was weaker than the warmth of those lips and than how fiercely the body demanded more.
Roche reached for the elf’s breechcloth, tugging at its end. The material fell to the floor, and the elf’s hair spilled over his neck and back. Vernon slid his fingers into it. His breath grew uneven.
Iorveth did not stop. He sucked with such intensity that a moan tore from Roche’s throat. Vernon clenched a fist in the elf’s hair; his hips rose high. For a moment longer Iorveth held him in his mouth before he drew away. Saliva glistened on his lips as he kissed Roche. In the same motion he was pulling off his own trousers.
He straddled the soldier’s hips and drew his upper garments over his head as well. Pale, slender skin marked with scars was revealed in the torchlight. The ribs stood out clearly. Roche watched every scrap of that body and the tattoo upon it as though entranced. His hands rose of their own accord, as if they no longer belonged to him. They slid over the smooth skin, over the arches of the ribs, until they closed upon the narrow waist, feeling every shift of muscle beneath his palms.
Iorveth reached between Roche’s thighs and slowly, with a sigh, lowered himself onto him. Vernon gasped as heat and tightness enclosed him completely. For a long moment the elf did not move, allowing them both to feel every inch of the joining.
Then he began to rise lazily and sink back down. The motion was measured, full of control and pride.
Roche did not look away. His hands wandered without cease—sometimes higher, sometimes lower—holding the elf more firmly whenever he descended. They gave themselves to the moment without haste. Minutes drifted by, as though they wished to exhaust every second before the world beyond the door reminded them of itself.
When Iorveth sank more heavily, he moaned long and low with pleasure.
“Quieter...”
Iorveth rested his hands upon Roche’s chest, never slowing his movements.
“Do not tell me what to do, dh’oine,” he said with a note of mockery in his voice. “We shall be executed in any case. So allow yourself more. You have nothing left to protect.”
He slid his thumb between Roche’s lips. The soldier closed his mouth upon it without hesitation and began to suck, as though it were yet another form of surrender. Iorveth watched with pleasure. After a moment he withdrew the finger, wet with saliva, and drew it across Roche’s cheek, leaving a damp trail. Vernon turned his head that way, seeking the touch still.
Gradually he quickened. He rose high, almost to the end, only to sink fully once more, and Roche aided him with his hands, guiding the hips. Both breathed heavily; their skin shone with sweat. Iorveth’s moans grew less restrained, and Roche could no longer hold back either. His own sounds mingled with the elf’s, filling the small cell.
The movements grew shorter, more insistent. Roche shifted one hand from the elf’s hip and reached between their bodies. His fingers found Iorveth’s hard manhood, stroking first the tip—hot, slick with the pleasure already flowing. He closed his hand around the length and began to move it in time with the rising hips. Iorveth gasped louder; his head fell forward, hair veiling his face.
A few deeper thrusts were enough. The elf tensed suddenly, driving his nails into Roche’s skin. Heat spilled across the soldier’s belly, staining his fingers as well. Iorveth trembled a moment longer, drawing ragged breaths, when Vernon unexpectedly wrapped his arms around him and pulled him hard against his chest.
He began to move from below—more surely now, changing the tempo, taking the initiative for these final moments. He listened to the moans of the almost defenceless elf. He thrust one last time and spent himself inside him, with a low, muffled sound that dissolved into the damp air of the cell.
They lay thus entwined, their breaths slowly steadying. Sweat ran down their temples. Iorveth did not rise at once. He remained upon him, resting his cheek against the soldier’s chest.
Roche brushed the hair from the elf’s face.
“Everything I worked for ended because of you.”
“You should have killed me in that forest.”
Roche did not answer. He lifted his gaze to the dark ceiling and drew a breath, as though trying to prepare himself for whatever was to come. With one arm he encircled Iorveth’s back, holding him close; with the other hand he absently combed through the tangled hair. His fingers moved over the soft strands, yet Vernon’s thoughts were already elsewhere.
Iorveth stirred when the soldier’s arm closed around him. He had expected hatred. Not this. He glanced at Roche’s face—taut, distant. This man had possessed everything: the king’s trust, command, and a purpose for which he was ready to die. And he, Iorveth, had taken it from him with a single kiss. Deliberately.
He felt no regret. Had he been able to turn back time and stand once more in the throne room, he would have done exactly the same. With the same contempt and the same satisfaction. He remained lying upon Vernon’s chest, allowing himself to be held.
Whatever judgement Foltest might pass—death, exile, or something still worse—Vernon Roche waited, holding the only one who had remained with him.