#iroche

Iorveth dragged the tip of his blade lightly across Vernon’s throat. “Tell me why.” “Why?” Vernon spat blood onto the ground. “Now?” The elf raised his arm to encompass all the other Scoia’tael in the clearing. “I’ve never had the luxury to ask.” He tilted his head with a roguish smile. “I like to know a little bit about who I’m killing.” Vernon squinted at him, gasping for breath. “The king wanted you gone and I obliged.” “Is that all? Just following orders?” Iorveth’s smile tightened. “I expected something deeper from you.” It was a jab for their audience. Vernon studied the blade under his chin, how his blood already congealed upon it. He had imagined this moment many times, but he’d always been furious at losing or leaving a task undone. Now he was bleeding out onto the ground and a sense of heaviness steadily overcame his pain. It hadn’t been so easy for his men. Not a single one of them had born a broken neck. Henselt had made sure the noose strangled them. “We killed you, you killed us.” Vernon paused, momentarily silenced by the image of his Blue Stripes thrashing on the ends of ropes. “Hate’s easy enough after that.” Iorveth nodded. “That’s more like it.” One of the nearest elves hissed something and drew Iorveth’s eye. “If you don’t like how I deal with my nemesis, go get your own.” He withdrew his blade. “Continue. Dazzle us.” Vernon slumped but kept himself upright with his good arm. His right side looked like a porcupine’s back. An arrow jutted from his chest. With each breath, it felt like a band tightened around his lungs. “What do you want, Iorveth? Am I not dying fast enough?” “I want to hear you justify yourself.” “Justify my—?” Vernon laughed weakly and his mouth tasted of rust. “I hate you. I want you dead.” He sucked in a breath against sudden pain. It was a flash so intense that he started shivering, though the sun was near its zenith and it was a lovely spring day. “And I wanted to live.” Iorveth bent down and looked him right in the eye. “You want to live?” That had been too honest. Vernon shut his eyes, teeth clenched. “Plenty of men left to take my place. We’re like vermin, remember? You know how this plays out, Iorveth.” He opened his eyes and had enough strength to be angry. “You know this.”   The mask dropped for a moment. Iorveth studied him with a blank expression. He had the ageless look of all grown elves, but that blankness made him seem old. Frail, even. Vernon wondered how many times he’d done this. It felt like a ritual. One cycle ended so another could begin. On and on it would go. “Tell me anyway,” Iorveth said. It was getting hard to think. Vernon hung his head, sweat burning at the corners of his eyes. He had to concentrate on getting enough air into his lungs. “Even if I didn’t hate you, there was only one result that would keep me fed and clothed.” He coughed and it wrenched at the arrow. Blood spattered on the grass. Black dots danced in his vision. “I didn’t sign up to kill civilians, but I did it. I did all of it.” “Why?” Iorveth asked again, but so softly only the two of them could hear it. “Easier to feel guilt with a full stomach than starve with your principles.” Vernon collapsed onto the ground and wheezed between more coughing fits. “It was a purpose, it—” He choked and it took a terrifying second to regain his breath. “—It meant something.” Iorveth tilted his head. “Torture and murder.” “Yes,” Vernon rasped. “I got medals for it.” Silence settled between them. Vernon’s vision started to darken. Even his pain felt dulled and distant. “I can give you purpose.” Iorveth stood up and faced the Scoia’tael behind him. “I claim right of service.” Everyone started shouting. Vernon tried to puzzle it out, but things slipped out of focus. He was in dark waters and slowly sank beneath their surface. He dissolved, as did his pain and grief and worry.