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The witcher walks louder than usual, letting the brittle bark and leaves break under his boots. He doesn't want to startle his old friend as he sits against a tree, pipe in hand and glassy eyes fixed on a stone slab.
Lieutenant Ves Roche
1249-1272
"What, Geralt?" The voice is strained from crying, disuse, or perhaps alcohol. Likely a combination of the three. Geralt, deciding to take the dejected inquiry as all the invitation he'll get, sits on a log a few feet away. "I, uh- Thaler told me you'd be here, I wanted to see if you're okay." Roche makes a noise between a scoff and a sob as Geralt takes in his ragged form. Layered civilian clothes to hide the weight loss, only for it to be revealed by the hollowness of his unshaven cheeks. The iconic chaperon is gone, leaving auburn curls to hang limply against his trembling shoulders.
" 'See if I'm okay... ' Huh. I'm sure Thaler told you everything since apparently my personal life is his to share, so why don't you take a wild guess at how I am? You've got eyes, witcher." The building venom in his voice breaks as Roche sighs again, running his hands over his face and tilting his head back against the tree. Geralt tries not to see the white bandages peeking out by his wrists.
He lets the silence sit for a long moment, unsure of what comfort he could offer. Is there any comfort he can offer? "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. And Thaler didn't tell me much, I actually went to him."
Roche gives a pained laugh, muttering something about sympathy. At his silence, Geralt continues. "I heard about some attacks against Nilfgaard, attacks that were definitely familiar. And then suddenly, nothing. I- uh, I guess there was just a lot of unanswered questions." And I was worried about you, he doesn't say.
"If this is your way of trying to prove that I'm selling out to Nilfgaard, I can assure you that your efforts are futile," Roche responds. He knows what the witcher wants, just wants to hear him say it.
"What happened?" Finally.
"With..." a nod to the stone, "her? Or in general?" Geralt shrugs. "Any of it. All of it. I don't have any plans."
As Roche pulls his hands away from his face, Geralt can see the tears clinging to his fingers. He didn't know Vernon Roche was capable of crying. "Three days..." he whispers, as if speaking any louder is too painful.
"Three days we held our ground, until we were ordered to retreat. Apparently two days after she took a knife to the stomach and decided to continue on vodka and spite. I- I didn't even know," his voice quiets as more tears fall down his gaunt cheeks.
"She, uh, she collapsed near Flotsam. We were going to find a boat and go up the Pontar to Novigrad, join that brat Radovid. I was- was selling some of our extra gear, just random shit we didn't need... when I turned around she was leaning against some crates, white as a sheet. I caught her before she hit the ground, but she... she was burning up and my hands were covered in blood and then I was riding to that temple in Ellander and all I could think was that I didn't fucking notice... my second in command was dying and I didn't fucking notice." Roche's voice breaks and he digs his knuckles into his eyes to stop the tears. He sighs with such exhaustion and sadness that Geralt's own chest tightens.
"The priestesses brought her inside, stitched her up as best they could... but she already had gangrene. Was half-delirious from the fever when they let me see her, kept calling me 'Da' and asking where Ma was. I- I couldn't do anything. Just sit there and tell her to go to sleep and try and ignore the way her eyes were turning yellow. Jandis or something. In the morning she knew where she was, where we were. I told her she'd be fine, should've known she's too damn smart for that. Or maybe I'm a bad actor. She said she was cold and made me squeeze into that tiny cot with her, then... then she thanked me for staying, like I could ever leaver her..."
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"C'n ya sing?" He wipes the blood from the side of her mouth with his thumb, trying not to cry from the fear and desperation in her eyes- it was the same way she looked at him when he first found her.
"I- sure, y-yeah" He moves an arm behind her back, letting her rest against it as he focuses on the feeling of her weak breath on his neck.
"Y- you belong among the wildflowers..." he begins, seeing her faint smile as she recognizes the song.
"You belong in a boat out at sea, sail away, kill off the hours... you belong somewhere you feel free" her eyes are glassy and filled with tears, he gently kisses her forehead before continuing,
"run away, go find you a lover, go away, somewhere all bright and new. I have seen no other, who compares to you" Each breath is stuttering now, he can feel her lungs struggle for air against his arm. Pulling her closer, he keeps whispering the song against her straw-coloured hair.
"You belong among the wildflowers, you belong i-in a boat out at sea... you belong with your love on your arm. you belong somewhere you feel free..."
Tears are freely falling down his cheeks, choking his voice. Her eyes are closed, face serene, and Roche is hit with an overwhelming sense of how young she looks. She probably can't hear him, but as long as her breath is barely puffing against his neck, he'll keep singing.
"Run away, go find a lover... run away, let your heart be your guide. You deserve the deepest of cover, you belong in that home by and by..." As the verse ends he pulls her closer, trying to feel the air escaping her cracked lips.
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In this moment, Geralt knows he can never say that mutants don't have feelings again. The knowledge that Roche practically raised Ves, gave her a home, and then lost her... it makes him want to sail all the way to Skellige just to give Ciri a hug.
"Roche, I- I'm so sorry..."
"It's fine, Geralt. Nothing you could've done." Geralt runs a thumb over his medallion, an old nervous habit rearing its head. His eyes fall on the headstone... Ves Roche?
As if he can hear Geralt thoughts, "She didn't have a last name, wasn't on any census lists or anything. The army wouldn't give a salary to someone that didn't legally exist, so we said Ves was some distant cousin. She always got a kick out of it, said I'm too damn ugly to be related to her." Roche smiles at the memory, a small, sad smile that just makes Geralt's heart hurt for his old friend even more.
"You staying long in Vizima?" the witcher asks.
Roche scoffs and shakes his head. "I've been wandering around the coast for 6 months, had planned to move back here when I got my shit in order, give her a proper grave and all, but now... I can't. The whole bloody city reminds me of her, I keep feeling like she's on some mission outside of Temeria, and any day now she's gonna come back, just barge into my office without knocking and demand I read her report right that second." Roche leans his head back again, his profile in the fading light looks far too exhausted for a man barely over 40.
"It's too much. Thought I felt the worse pain there is when Henselt... you were there. With Ves I thought, again, that there was no way anything could hurt like that much. But being here, in Vizima, I need to feel it every day. I just... I can't."
The witcher's own eyes burn in sympathy, "I uh, I know this doesn't help, but I ended up with some property in Toussaint. If you ever want out of the north, you could come visit," Geralt offers, despite feeling that it can't possibly be enough. Regardless, Roche's eyes wrinkle in a small smile. "Thank you, Geralt. There's a few things I need to do for now, but I might take you up on that someday."
Roche slowly stands up, wincing as he uses his arms for support. "Wanna get a drink?" Geralt offers while slinging his scabbard over his shoulder. The corner of Roche's mouth ticks as he shrugs in acquiescence, "Alright, but I'm buying, think of it as a thanks for you listening to my depressing bullshit."
"Fair enough," Geralt agrees as Roche starts towards the Temple Quarter.
Yes, he'll be okay.