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Vernon stands in the shadows, watching as the Temerian guards give Geralt a pounding. They don’t hold back, they enjoy their work; it’s why Vernon chose them for it after all.
The guards try whips at first, but then they apparently want something more personal, so they switch to fists and hard boots.
The witcher’s body is soon covered in cuts and bruises, but these only come atop older scars, and there’s so many of them that from the distance, Vernon can’t really quite tell which scars are new and which ones are old.
It makes him remember an old saying that claimed the witchers have nine lives like cats. Vernon never really believed even cats had nine lives either, but now, as he watches the countless traces of previous injuries on the witcher’s pale torso, Vernon suddenly gains respect for the monster-slayer. It’s hard to comprehend how he’s even still alive after all that he’s obviously been through, let alone how the white-haired one manages to stay in such good shape.
Had the witcher not surrendered to the Temerians after they found him hovering above king Foltest’s body, they never would have managed to capture him. Well, at least not alive.
He had surrendered, laid his sword down, raised his hands. He hadn’t fought the Temerians as they swarmed him, knocked him down and bound his wrists and ankles. Only then, when the witcher was defenceless, one soldier kicked the kneeling man in the head so hard that the witcher passed out.
He didn’t fight them at all, Vernon ponderes, watching the witcher curiously. He claimed to be innocent and he wanted to explain. The Special Forces commander barely suppresses an amused snort. The witcher was found alone with the dead king’s body, weapon drawn, and he thought that if he explained things, the Temerians would let him go.
How can someone be so naive? No, not naive, more like stupid.
But King Foltest trusted this naive witcher, and Vernon trusted his king. He has to find out the truth. Find the real killer. Avenge his king’s death.
And for that, he needs the witcher’s help. He needs to know what really happened in the solar.
The two guards have switched to thick wooden clubs now. Sounds of hard wood hitting flesh echo loudly in the room, accompanied occasionally by the witcher’s grunts or cries of pain and the guards’ malicious laughter and insults.
Geralt doesn’t suffer in silence, he voices his frustration and pain. He must know from experience that it helps, Vernon thinks absently. And he’s confident enough to realize that there’s no shame in showing your enemy that the beating hurts.
The witcher is also sane enough not to provoke his guards with taunting words. There is no point in bringing even more harm upon you, nothing heroic in making the damage done to you even worse.
Good, Vernon thinks. The witcher wants to get out of this alive and as unharmed as possible. He wants to survive.
Vernon observes the scene before him as if hypnotized. The witcher’s body shakes with each blow, chains rattling, cutting into his wrists so that thin rivulets of dark blood trail down his arms. The man’s hands are curled into tight fists and he is gritting his teeth against the pain. His golden, cat-like eyes coldly watch the two guards beating him, never leaving their faces.
The guards do their job well, Vernon notes with twisted pride, causing as much pain as they can without giving their victim the chance to escape into unconsciousness. The commander feels sorry for the white-haired witcher. But at the same time, he can’t help thinking that there’s something strangely, eerily entrancing about the scene. The witcher’s whole being emanates inner strength, determination... the will not to give up, no matter what life throws at him.
There is beauty in that scarred, battered body, in those lean, hard muscles tensing under pale skin with each punch and kick—the guards switched back to fists and boots again. They can work him over like this for hours or days, but the witcher won’t break. Won’t talk.
Vernon finds this attractive and enticing—a challenge. A will matching his own. Vernon wants to try to make that will surrender, to make it yield. And it doesn’t really matter who wins in the end.
A strange desire starts to build inside him, and Vernon swallows thickly.
The witcher’s golden eyes follow that sound, looking into the darkness, finding the exact spot where Vernon is hiding. He couldn’t have heard me, Vernon thinks incredulously and shifts a little. The witcher’s gaze follows him and those battered lips curve into a smile.
He knows about me, Vernon realizes and his pulse quickens. It’s time for this game to really start.
Vernon steps out of the shadows, as if he just walked into the dungeons. “Enough,” he stops the guards and tells them to bring the prisoner to the interrogation room.
“I thought you died,” the witcher tells Vernon while the guards unshackle him and bind his hands behind his back. Vernon is sure that if Geralt wanted to break free, the guards and Vernon would already be on the ground, no matter that the witcher was unarmed. But the witcher obviously doesn’t want to escape without clearing his name, without helping Vernon find the truth.
“I’m not so easy to kill,” Vernon mutters and walks out so Geralt can’t see the smile that’s tugging at his lips. The Temerian commander is really looking forward to their conversation.
==
When Vernon steps into the interrogation room, Geralt is sitting behind the table calmly, looking unusually at ease for someone who spent the last few hours being beaten and is likely to expect much worse before the day is done.
Unless... That bastard knows, Vernon realizes again. He knows I need his help because I don’t believe he’s the real killer.
Vernon shuts the door behind him. That normally sounds menacing, but this time it just sounds like a door being shut.
Those cat-like eyes watch him curiously.
“I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced,” Vernon decides to stop trying to be threatening, it’s obviously useless anyway. “Vernon Roche.”
The witcher smiles slightly and makes a none-too-subtle comment about his hands still being bound. Vernon calls Ves to take care of it and the two men shake hands firmly. Vernon already knows the witcher won’t try to escape.
Then they get down to business. “You will tell me everything you remember. The entire assault.”
“And if I refuse?” The witcher asks, but this time it’s Vernon who knows the question is just for show, because Geralt wants to tell him, it’s the only reason why he’s still here. But Vernon doesn’t let any of this show, and answers with a nasty threat.
When Vernon finishes with “You’re a witcher. You’d endure much,” and Geralt answers with a firm “You better believe it,” Vernon feels that pang of desire inside him again.
The empty threats continue for a little while longer and then Geralt starts telling his tale. Vernon listens, sometimes interrupting the witcher with a question or a comment. When Geralt gets to the part where Foltest is murdered so treacherously, anger and sadness boil inside Vernon and some of it must show on his face.
“He was a good king. I’m sorry I did nothing to help him,” the witcher says solemnly, for the first time avoiding Vernon’s gaze in shame. Vernon understands the helpless feeling of failure, because he feels the same. Foltest shouldn’t have died. Not like that.
He reaches across the table to touch Geralt’s hand tentatively. When the witcher looks at him in surprise, the Special Forces commander pulls back. “You can still help Foltest,” he says finally. Geralt snorts at that in bitter amusement, but Vernon keeps talking. “You can help me catch the king’s killer, make sure that these regicides stop. You want to help me,” he continues, finally saying what he’s known for quite some time now, “it’s the only reason you let yourself be captured in the first place.”
Geralt nods slightly, but doesn’t say anything.
But if Vernon is to let this man accused of regicide run free, he needs more than a nod. “What would you do if you were freed?”
Geralt ponders the question for a moment and then meets Vernon’s eyes calmly. “I’d go after the kingslayer.”
Vernon relaxes at those words. He believes the witcher’s intentions, and he also believes Triss Merigold and Dandelion, who both vouched for the white-haired man.
Ves shackles Geralt’s hands again. Vernon leaves the keys on the table. That’s all he can do without drawing attention to himself. The rest is up to Geralt.
==
It’s almost dawn and Vernon’s ship is ready to sail out, but the witcher still hasn’t arrived.
Vernon can tell that Triss is nervous, worried about her lover and friend. Vernon is also a little nervous himself. What if Geralt wasn’t honest with him after all? What if he just wanted to get out of the dungeons? Maybe he didn’t care about Foltest’s murderer. Maybe he was Foltest’s murderer after all and by letting himself be captured he only made sure Vernon believed his innocence...
No, that’s not it. The witcher was honest with Vernon. The only reason why it's taking him so long to get out of the dungeons is that the underground complex is quite big, quite full of guards and Geralt himself isn't quite in the best shape.
Triss frowns at Vernon. “You should’ve helped him more, Roche,” she says, her voice biting.
“Would you stop reading my thoughts?” Vernon retorts angrily, avoiding the subject. “It’s impolite.”
“Don’t think so loudly then,” the sorceress replies. “It’s disturbing.”
Vernon opens his mouth to say something both impolite and disturbing, but Triss points towards the pier. “Look, it’s him!”
They both breathe out in relief, watching the witcher’s lone figure approaching them.
The ship leaves Castle La Valette behind. The castle is burning now and the fire obviously started in the dungeons. Vernon doesn’t ask.
==
The sail is uneventful, the ship’s crew making sure that everything works as it should. This means Vernon has nothing to do but think. He hates being alone with his thoughts so he decides to go talk to Geralt.
He finds the witcher with Triss in the hold of the ship. The witcher is sitting on a bunk, shirtless, with his back turned to the sorceress, who is cleaning the wounds there carefully.
Vernon doesn’t know whether to come in or leave, but Geralt must have heard him coming, because he turns at the Special Forces commander. “Roche?”
Triss stands up and stretches her back before turning to Vernon. “Perfect, I was just getting tired. Want to replace me for a while? It was you who caused this mess after all.”
Both Geralt and Vernon start to protest, but Triss ignores them and leaves swiftly, her hips swaying.
“You plan on standing there whole day?” Geralt asks amusedly.
Vernon takes that as encouragement and moves to sit on the bunk behind the witcher. There’s a bowl full of warm water, a wet cloth and a jar with some salve that smells of sage, plantain and other herbs that Vernon doesn’t recognize.
“Alright,” Vernon says and soaks the cloth in the water, wrings it out and brings it to touch one of the deep, ugly cuts on Geralt’s upper back. The witcher tenses under the touch, but holds still as Vernon wipes away the crust of dried blood carefully.
When Vernon rinses the cloth in the bowl, the water turns red. He wrings it out again and proceeds to clean another cut.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters when his clumsy touch makes Geralt groan in pain.
“It has to be done,” the witcher says, voice tight.
Vernon shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “For all of this. Triss was right, this is my fault.”
Geralt chuckles softly. “Triss is always right. Even when she isn’t.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Just... don’t think about what she said.” The witcher gasps again and Vernon inwardly curses his own clumsiness. He’s just not good at healing wounds.
“See? How can I not think about it?” Vernon asks, angry at himself. “I didn’t believe you were guilty and I still let them do this to you. I told them to.”
Geralt shrugs and curses when the movement opens a wound. “You were doing your job.”
“If I was doing my job, king Foltest would still be alive,” Vernon mumbles.
They sit in silence for a while, the only sounds in the room made by the water dripping from the cloth into the bowl, Geralt’s occasional curses or groans and Vernon’s corresponding sorry’s.
“Stop apologizing already,” Geralt says finally, somehow sounding both tired and angry. “This is not the first time I took a beating. Not the worst one either.”
“That’s hardly comforting,” Vernon objects grumpily.
“I’m not trying to comfort you,” the witcher turns his head to look at the Special Forces commander. “Look, Vernon. You trusted me. You helped me get out of there. So stop apologizing and get this done already. I’m tired.”
Vernon obliges.
When all the wounds are cleaned, Vernon stops, unsure what to do.
“Rub the salve into the wounds,” Geralt instructs him. “Triss says it’s both antiseptic and analgesic.”
“Don’t witchers have their own stuff like this?” Vernon asks and dips two fingers into the salve. It’s pleasantly cool to the touch.
“I drank some potions that support regeneration, but...” Geralt’s words trail off as Vernon’s fingers touch his skin. Vernon tries very hard to be gentle and judging by the soft sounds Geralt is making, he’s doing quite well.
Vernon concentrates on the touch and on Geralt’s breathing. Every time he touches the witcher’s skin, it feels like something electrifying shimmers under his fingertips. Vernon swallows thickly and that sound brings him back to the dungeons when he was watching Geralt from the shadows. He feels slightly light-headed.
“You say you’re sorry,” Geralt talks slowly, “but you enjoyed watching me in the dungeons.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“I...” Vernon isn’t really sure what to say.
“Do you always watch your prisoners being interrogated with such enjoyment?” There is a hint of amusement in the witcher’s voice.
To hell with this all, Vernon thinks. “No. Just you.”
“Hmm,” Geralt rumbles low in his throat.
“Some part of me wished you weren’t cooperative with me,” Vernon admits although his brain is screaming at him to shut the fuck up. “So I could work on you myself. Make you talk.”
“You wouldn’t have,” the witcher states simply.
Vernon’s fingers press roughly into one gash on Geralt’s shoulder and the witcher barely suppresses a scream. “See?” Vernon asks hoarsely. “You’re making sounds already.”
The witcher turns so he’s facing the commander. There’s a wicked smile tugging at his lips and he’s staring Vernon right in the eyes. Vernon suddenly feels a little like a mouse cornered by a cat.
“I can make all sorts of sounds,” Geralt drawls and that sound makes Vernon shiver.
They sit motionless, their gazes locked, breathing heavily. The air between them is so thick it’s almost tangible.
Then the wooden floor creaks and somebody enters.
It’s Triss. She’s looking at them inquiringly, head tilted to one side, hands resting at her hips.
“Hmm...” She shrugs and steps closer to inspect Geralt’s wounds. “Good work, Vernon,” she praises the commander. “Now let’s go, Geralt needs to rest.”
Vernon stands up reluctantly. Triss gathers the bowl with water and the salve and walks away, shouting “Come on, Vernon,” over her shoulder.
Geralt is grinning at him. “I told you she’s always right. I really should rest now. There’s a lot more ahead of us.”
Vernon is grinning, too. “Is that a promise?”