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bard-llama · 4 years

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Know Thine Enemy (Iorveth/Roche) Part 1

Summary: Iorveth spends a lot of time wondering what it was about Vernon Roche that got to him. A chance encounter in the forest forces him to question if there might not be more to it than determination to outwit his enemy.

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Notes:

There is some Elder Speech in this fic. Translations are below:

Aen Seidhe = Formal name for what elves call themselves. Two types: Those who lived before the Conjunction of the Spheres brought humanity to the continent, and those born after.

Dùthaich is Scottish Gaelic for Homeland, according to Google Translate

Dh’oine = Elder Speech for Human

Bloede = expletive along the lines of stupid/silly/fucking i.e. Bloede Dh’oine = Fucking Human

Aindeoin = taken from the Scottish Gaelic word for spite, a dh ’aindeoin, according to Google.

Onto the Story:

Iorveth had spent a long time nursing his hatred for Temeria’s King. Well, for most of the Northern Kings, actually, but Temeria was special. Temeria had been his home, long before humans had named it such.

The elven name sounded better anyway. Dùthaich meant homeland in the dh’oine’s tongue, and that’s what it was. An elven homeland. Typical how dh’oine always forgot that their cities were built on elven ruins.

At any rate, there had been a time King Foltest was – well, not a good king, dh’oine didn’t really have those. But not a particularly notable bad king. Iorveth had hated him on principle, but it was a distant hate, a vague awareness of Foltest’s existence.

Then Foltest had decided that nonhumans should be eliminated. Just for existing.

Iorveth’s hate became very personal very fast. And he used it, used it to lead his men to fight Foltest’s order and save those they could. More than that, he used his hatred to do the things he had to do, to order his men to do. Kings never gave into the Scoia’tael because they asked nicely, they gave in because they had no choice, because the Scoia’tael had made it impossible for villages to go about their regular business of paying taxes and tributes, which meant the kingdom lost money.

Kings hated losing money. Dh’oine greed in general was a frightening thing – Iorveth had seen men beat and kill others for a mere copper – but it was especially prevalent amongst kings and nobility.

Money made Kings pay attention, made them stop ignoring the inconvenient elven uprisings and actually consider the terms the Scoia’tael proposed. Iorveth seethed; They weren’t even asking for much – all they wanted was a place where they could live without their mere existence carrying down a death sentence. Why couldn’t dh’oine understand that, understand that they were just people, people who wanted to live their lives?

Instead of giving them that, Foltest doubled down his efforts in his efforts to eradicate Iorveth’s people. It was a scary thing, to know that someone cared so little about you, thought so little of you that they sentenced your entire species to death.

Foltest created a special forces unit specifically to hunt down nonhumans. Roche may claim that his orders were only to stop the Scoia’tael, but Iorveth knew better. Foltest wanted them all destroyed: the Scoia’tael, the misguided nonhumans living under human rule, even the few innocent nonhumans left. He wanted them all dead.

Iorveth wasn’t sure if he was glad that Roche didn’t appear to want the same thing or not. Vernon Roche, Commander of the Blue Stripes, was confusing. And intriguing.

And, ultimately, his enemy.

The problem was, Iorveth spent a lot of time thinking about his enemy. He thought about how to outwit Roche, how to lay traps for the Blue Stripes, and how to give his own men an advantage. More nonhumans joined them every day, driven away from human villages by the uptick of hatred and violence that no one stopped. Iorveth had a responsibility to prepare them for the reality of living as a guerrilla soldier, to prepare them to survive.

He wasn’t sure when thinking about Roche had turned into thinking about how stupid the dh’oine’s hat was or how confusing his relationship with his second in command – who, everytime Iorveth had encountered her, seemed to believe that fastening the armor clasps down her front was for other people. If one of Iorveth’s soldiers did something so stupid, he would have them stuck on latrine duty until they learned that armor was supposed to protect your vulnerable spots. It didn’t do any good leaving them exposed.

But Roche never seemed concerned that his second in command walked around with her armor unfastened. The other men in his unit, from what Iorveth had observed, found the commander’s dress distracting and would often make lewd remarks, though Ves – the second in command – insulted them right back. She usually won the arguments that Iorveth saw, too, though sometimes that was purely because she’d decided it was now time for a knife throwing contest and the men quailed.

Iorveth couldn’t blame them. Ves was good with her knives. She’d nearly taken off Iorveth’s head more than once, and the feral snarl on her face had told Iorveth that she would be more than delighted to be the one to kill him.

It was different than the feral smirk Roche sometimes wore. Roche’s tended to have an energy that was more I will be the one to catch you as opposed to I want to murder you brutally.

Maybe that was why Iorveth found Roche so fascinating. The man honestly seemed to believe that their fight wasn’t about race at all, fixating on their tactics. Part of Iorveth understood – he hated ordering his men to do what they had to sometimes, but their methods worked. Ambushing any travelers through the forest gave the Scoia’tael a home that humans feared to invade. Stealing goods from the army gave the Scoia’tael medicine and supplies they otherwise wouldn’t be able to obtain. Burning caravans full of merchandise seemed harsh, but local governors were quick to give into their demands after they did. The Scoia’tael had some victories to truly celebrate.

Not enough of them, though. Cities enacted laws forbidding employers from refusing nonhumans work, but they weren’t enforced. There were rules that kept landlords from refusing housing to nonhumans, but that didn’t stop people from burning their houses down – often with the poor nonhumans still inside. There were even laws against hate crimes, against the brutal violence racists took comfort in. But that didn’t stop the governors and aldermen and local mayors from leading the lynchings.

Iorveth couldn’t remember what it was like to look at a dh’oine and see anything other than a threat.

Maybe that was what made Roche so interesting. The dh’oine was very much a threat – and yet, not as much of one as he could be. Roche was ruthless: ordering his men not to take prisoners in raids, torturing the few prisoners he did take for information, ignoring the way innocents sometimes became casualties of war. He was not a good man.

But he wasn’t as bad as he could have been. His predecessor had been far worse, and Iorveth wished he had been the one to slit that brute’s neck. Roche had never ordered their women raped, their babies battered and beaten, their schools and libraries set on fire.

Not that there were many of those left to set alight.

Dol Blathanna maintained some of their cultural heritage, but only for as long as Nilfgaard permitted it. What Iorveth wanted, what he and his men fought for, was a truly free elven state, where all were welcomed and treated as equals, dh’oine included. As much as Iorveth personally despised dh’oine, he had heard tales of enough decent ones to know that they weren’t all a lost cause.

Only most of them.

Iorveth didn’t know which category Vernon Roche fell into.

He didn’t know which one he wanted Roche to fall into. That was what scared him. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it, like picking at a scab, constantly wondering if Roche could be made to understand and why Iorveth even cared.

Because he did care. A lot. It wasn’t that he liked Roche – in point of fact, he was an extremely unlikeable man – but Roche’s determination to see this as a policy issue rather than a race issue both infuriated and entranced him. Iorveth felt like he had to understand where Roche was coming from, because how could anyone not see the obvious?

What he really wanted, he realized one day, was to sit down and have a debate with the man. As enjoyable as crossing swords with him was – and it truly was. Iorveth had forgotten how fun fighting could be when you had a worthy opponent – what Iorveth really wanted was to understand him.

Iorveth’s brethren would laugh at him if they could hear his thoughts. Who cared about understanding their enemy when they would eventually be destroyed? Anything beyond strategic information was meaningless.

And maybe it was meaningless. Learning more about Roche would do nothing to further the Scoia’tael’s cause. It wasn’t as if he could make Roche less racist or less willing to follow a genocidal maniac.

Nonetheless, the thought stayed with him all day – the idea that he wanted to know, to truly understand Vernon Roche – and it was still on his mind that evening when he was scouting with his second in command, Ciaran. Iorveth glanced at his companion with a measure of guilt. Ciaran would certainly find his interest inappropriate at best. At worst, grounds to overthrow his command. After all, how could the Scoia’tael be led by someone who fell for human excuses?

He didn’t, though. He was under no illusions that Roche was anything but a racist and that for nonhumans to survive, Foltest had to die. If Iorveth ever felt otherwise, he would step down immediately, because his people deserved to be led by someone who would do anything to free them.

Of course, they probably also deserved someone who watched where he was going. When they reached the end of their patrol route, Ciaran nodded to him and headed back to the others, to play music and eat and dance with their brethren. But Iorveth wasn’t feeling up to company yet, so he kept wandering through the forest, thinking about enemies and allies and friends and the complicated way those definitions had shifted of recent. Which was no excuse for not noticing the trap before he walked right into it.

The first hint that something was wrong was the feeling of something tugging on his ankle, slowly growing tighter. The moment he looked down to check was also the moment he was yanked into the air by the rope, and his arrows fell from his quiver, scattering on the forest floor, as he dangled upside down in the air

The Elder Speech he muttered was definitely not repeatable in polite company, but when was Iorveth ever in polite company, anyway? And this situation deserved his strongest curses, because it was just fucking embarrassing to get caught like this.

His clothing made a dedicated effort to fall around his ears, which was extra annoying when he was trying to bend in half so he could cut the stupid rope around his ankle. The spinning wasn’t helping either.

But the absolute worst thing about this situation was the sound of crunching leaves that signaled someone approaching. Maybe a hunter, coming to check for rabbits, or – more likely – someone who would be delighted to have caught the leader of the Scoia’tael, even if it was a decidedly temporary situation. One of his elves would never make so much noise, so it couldn’t be one of them.

But it could be the absolute worst person to possibly find him. As Iorveth tried to bat the gambeson out of his face, he caught a glimpse of none other than Vernon Roche making his way towards him.

Iorveth swore under his breath. Of fucking course it would be Roche. That was just the way this day was going, what with him walking into a trap, getting his leg jerked into the air, and the part where the rest of him followed. It was humiliating and painful and as much as the thought of having a proper conversation with Roche had been haunting him, he did not want to deal with Roche right now.

“Apparently I’ve been going about capturing Scoia’tael all wrong,” Roche laughed at him and Iorveth chucked his bow at the human. It wouldn’t do him much good without his arrows anyway.

Roche ducked, the bastard. But the force of the throw made Iorveth spin again and he was actually starting to feel a bit queasy. Nonetheless, he held his knife up threateningly. Of course, given that he was hanging upside down with his clothes dangling around his face, it was difficult to look appropriately threatening.

“Huh, guess it’s not just the ears that are pointy,” Roche muttered as Iorveth slowly spun around to face him.

Iorveth sputtered, flushing red. That was – firstly, it was beyond inappropriate for his enemy to be talking about his ears. But secondly, was Roche referring to his– his– well, what could be seen through his hose now that the gambeson that covered it hung down his chest instead of preserving his modesty?

Iorveth wasn’t sure what the strangled noise that left him could be defined as, but it had Roche laughing again. Of all the indecencies, Iorveth certainly hadn’t been expecting his enemy to proposition him! And then to laugh about it!

“Don’t get your ears in a twist,” Roche held up his hands pacifyingly, a growing smirk on his face.

“Stop talking about my ears!” Iorveth hollered, hating himself for losing control. Roche was surprisingly good and wrenching the control of a situation away from him, but usually Iorveth at least started out in control! Like this, he was completely off balance and entirely at a disadvantage in their face-off. It made something in his chest clench and something that must have been fury welled up inside him.

“Relax, pointy ears.” Roche said, referencing his ears again, as if Iorveth hadn’t been demeaned enough.

When Roche approached him, he slashed his knife wildly, but between his armor impeding him, and his awkward position, it was far too easy for Roche to disarm him. Roche held his captured knife up until the sun glinted off of the blade and Iorveth found it hard to breathe.

This was not how he would die. He refused to go out humiliated and helpless in front of Roche of all people.

“Stop squirming, you stupid elf,” Roche barked, grabbing his gambeson and leveling the knife against Iorveth’s throat. Iorveth froze, feeling the cool metal bite into his skin when he swallowed. “Now what should I do with you?” The dh’oine tilted his head in contemplation, slowly dragging the knife down to the hollow of Iorveth’s throat.

They stayed there like that for a long moment, eyes locked and Roche entirely in control. It made something squirm in his belly and it was probably all the blood rushing to his head, but his hose felt oddly tight. And considering the only reason his gambeson wasn’t blocking his face was because Roche had it in a firm hold, Iorveth was entirely on display – both his obviously confused cock and his bright red ears.

“Kill me already, dh’oine,” Iorveth challenged, honestly kind of hoping Roche would just get it over with. He understood the need to gloat over a victory, but Iorveth already wanted to crawl into the earth and never emerge. He would welcome death, if only to end this moment.

Roche licked his lips and tapped the tip of the blade against Iorveth’s collarbone once before abruptly turning away. Iorveth’s armor fell back in front of his face and he let out an outraged shout. Then his stomach lurched as the rope around his suddenly lost tension and he was falling towards the ground with a high pitched yelp. The forest floor welcomed him face-first into the dirt and leaves, his once-pristine arrows snapping as he landed on them.

Iorveth snarled, attempting to get his clothing back to rights so he could kill the son of a bitch that just stood next to the rope he’d cut, laughing at Iorveth.

“Always wondered if elves ate twigs and leaves,” Roche chuckled and Iorveth spat at his feet.

“You will die for this,” he threatened, even though he had no weapon aside from the broken arrowheads scattered under him.

“For freeing you?” Roche smirked. “Not very neighborly of you.”

“I am not your neighbor, invader!” Iorveth finally pulled himself to his feet, teeth barred.

Roche just cocked his eyebrow. “That’s gratitude for you. What would you have done if I hadn’t come along?”

The fucker was enjoying his, merriment dancing in his eyes. Iorveth’s fists clenched, fingernails digging into his palms. “I didn’t need your help! I would have freed myself!”

“Oh yeah, looked like you were making great progress on that.” Roche said. “How’s your ankle?”

Throbbing with pain, actually, but Iorveth would die before admitting it to a dh’oine. His entire face felt achy and bruised and the reality that he would likely have to limp back to his people – since Roche certainly didn’t seem to be preparing to kill him – made Iorveth want to burrow down into the earth between the tree’s roots and never return.

“Fuck off, dh’oine,” Iorveth hissed.

Roche shrugged. “And here I thought elves were supposed to be well-mannered and graceful.”

Iorveth grabbed a handful of arrowheads and threw them at Roche in impotent rage. Roche watched them fall to the ground not two paces in front of Iorveth and burst into laughter. “Oh, elf, this just isn’t your day, is it?” Iorveth growled. “All right, all right, I’ll leave you to your forest. Made my fucking night as it is.”

And then Vernon fucking Roche threw him a sloppy salute, turned on his heel, and walked away, still laughing.

Iorveth tried very hard to sink into the earth, but after several minutes in which he simply lay on his back, he was forced to admit that it wasn’t going to happen. Getting to his feet involved a horrifying amount of crawling and clawing at the tree, but finally, Iorveth recovered his bow and leaned on it heavily. It was absolutely not designed to be used as a walking stick, but he would likely have to repair it or make a new one anyway.

As he hobbled slowly back to camp, the absolute worst part of all of this was that the squirming heat in his belly hadn’t dissipated, and instead itched under his skin, making him want – something. Something a proud Aen Siedhe like him should never want.

Iorveth swallowed harshly and grit his teeth, forcing his mind to focus only on the journey back to Aindeoin, the Scoia’tael base camp. Iorveth had been the one to name it, years ago, in an attempt to make it feel more like a home, more like somewhere the Aen Seidhe of old might have respected, even if it was nowhere near as glorious as the great Silver Towers they’d used to live in. Before the Conjunction of Spheres, before dh’oine had come to their shores and driven them out of their homes.

Once upon a time, Iorveth had owned a concert hall, the stone strategically carved to enhance acoustics. Playing on that stage was a magical feeling – afloat in a world that was nothing but sound and music. He had practiced with some of the most renowned musicians in elven history and played before crowds of hundreds, back when it was possible to gather hundreds of elves together without a massacre.

Still, Aindeoin had it’s charms, things he might actually miss if they recovered their lands tomorrow. Things like sleeping under the stars – though, never in winter. He’d made that mistake once, and woken up with a foot of snow on top of him – living with his brethren in close reach, avoiding cooking duty for as long as possible, and even the heights of the forest. Aindeoin was built into the forest itself, high up in the trees, using the natural infrastructure of the branches to form buildings and houses for their use.

Of course, living in the trees meant climbing up them. Fortunately, elven ingenuity would save him from attempting to do so with his ankle in this state. Iorveth cupped a hand around his mouth and mimicked a birdcall.

At the signal, one of his guards lowered the platform that would raise Iorveth into the air. The pulley system they used was really quite simple, but it saved them hours of work transporting supplies and people.

Upon seeing him, several elves jumped up to help him.

“What happened? Were you attacked?”

Iorveth just grunted, determinedly scanning the camp until he found what he was looking for. Then he pushed his way past his concerned brethren and made a beeline for the liquor, pulling a flask out of the hands of his best archer. Taredd sputtered as Iorveth immediately downed the whole thing, wincing in disgust as the bitter taste hit the back of his throat and burned its way down to his stomach.

“Ugh, that’s vile,” he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and passed the flask back, clapping a stunned Taredd on the back. “Do we have more?”

“You don’t drink,” Taredd pointed out meekly.

It was true, Iorveth wasn’t big on imbibing mind-altering substances. Not because he was against them – he was over thirteen hundred years old, he had tried everything under the sun at least once – but because as Commander of the Scoia’tael, he had a responsibility to his men to always be at his best.

That responsibility could go fuck itself for the rest of the evening, Iorveth decided. “Tonight, I do.”

He caught the worried look Taredd sent over his shoulder, and Iorveth turned to face his second in command with a sigh.

“Should I ask?” Ciaran’s eyebrows climbed to his hairline as he looked over Iorveth’s rumpled appearance.

“No.” Another drink was placed in his hand and Iorveth sipped at it this time. The world already seemed hazy and slightly less awful.

“At least see Imadia,” Ciaran bit his lip in concern. “You look pretty beat up.”

Iorveth hummed, the drink making his entire miserable evening seem somehow less terrible. He let Ciaran caraouse him towards their medic and she tutted as she assessed him.

“You, Iorveth, are an absolute mess.” Imadia crossed her arms.

Tell me about it, he didn’t say. Imadia was an elder Aen Seidhe – the eldest in his territory – and she was entirely done with the “bullshit of these young whippersnappers,” as she put it. Iorveth wouldn’t usually be labeled as one of the young ones. He had lived on the continent since before the Conjunction of the Spheres, since before the arrival of humanity. He could hardly be called young – and yet, Imadia’s shrewdness was the reason she’d stayed alive so long. Iorveth had learned to listen to her long ago, even if he resented it at times.

Times like now.

“Sooooo,” she drew the word out for as long as her breath held, “what happened?”

Iorveth growled. It was useless to lie to her. She always saw through him and enjoyed making him pay for attempted lies. “Vernon fucking Roche,” he snarled, and just thinking of the dh’oine made the hot, squirming sensation in his gut rise up towards his throat.

“Ah, the pretty dh’oine,” she sighed, the stern woman from a moment ago suddenly lovestruck. “I do hope I’ll get to meet him at some point.”

“He’s trying to kill us,” Iorveth said, pointedly not thinking about how Roche had had a wonderful opportunity to kill him and had freed him instead. “And he’s not pretty.” Ruggedly handsome maybe, but not pretty.

Iorveth swallowed hard. No, not ruggedly handsome either. Roche was a dh’oine. Iorveth had no opinion on the beauty of dh’oine.

Imadia ignored him. “I like him. He’s got a good voice. I can hear him yelling orders even back where I’m positioned,” which, as a medic, was supposed to be far behind their defensive line. She usually managed to edge a little closer than he’d like, but Iorveth knew better than to get between her and a patient. “Bet he has a lovely tongue.”

Her words were as salacious as her wink and he accidentally inhaled his drink and broke down coughing.

“All right there, dearie?” She smirked.

Iorveth made a rude hand gesture, wheezing for breath. Imadia just laughed.

“Keep your weight off your ankle for a day and you’ll be fine.”

“What about my face?”

“Sorry, can’t help you with that,” she winked.

Iorveth rolled his eye. “I landed on my face. Bloede hurts.”

“Landed? What exactly were you doing before that?” Her fingers gripped his chin, tilting his head from side to side, and tutted. “Light bruising. Fortunate – would be a shame to break your nose. Always thought it was one of your best features.”

Iorveth blinked at her. “My...nose?”

“Mmm. Straight and sharp.” Imadia tapped him on the nose and turned away. “You’re fine. I’d recommend a good night’s sleep, but from the drink in your hand, I’m guessing we shall be subjected to your dramatics instead.”

“I’m not dramatic.” Iorveth frowned. Then he took another drink. “But if I do start ranting, shut me up if I say anything about rabbit traps.”

Ranting was perhaps not the right word for the tirades he tended to fall into on the rare occasions he drank. It was simply that arguing and debating with his peers was one of the things he missed most from the Aen Seidhe’s heyday. Old memories of fond discussions with long-dead elves brought a faint smile to his lips.

Maybe that was what drew him to Roche. The man was inventive with his insults, cunning with his wit, and scathing with his remarks. It really was quite a shame Iorveth couldn’t just sit down and have a conversation with him.

Not that he ever wanted to see Roche again. He would never live down the humiliation of this day.

Imadia laughed. “Rabbit traps. Is that what they call it these days? In my day, we just called it–”

Iorveth covered his ears. Some things just shouldn’t be heard from the mouths of elders. Especially not elders who found dh’oine weirdly attractive and knew all the dirtiest words in their oldest languages.

Touching his ears reminded him of the way Roche had constantly referred to them and his face flushed. It was downright indecent for Roche to do such a thing! He couldn’t possibly mean it...right? Who just up and propositioned their sworn enemy, who they were constantly trying to kill?

Only Roche hadn’t killed him today. There had been, perhaps, times when they could have taken a lethal blow and held back, but this had been so much more than that. He had been entirely at Roche’s mercy, unable to effectively defend himself. Roche could have done anything to him.

And he had let Iorveth go. Yes, Iorveth had been hurt and humiliated and perhaps a little bit something else, but he’d been alive. And he shouldn’t have been.

Instead of killing him, Roche had laughed at him and commented on his ears and let him go.

Did that mean that Roche truly did intend to proposition him? How else could he interpret such brazen remarks about his ears. It would be like if – if he casually brought up the dh’oine’s nipples, like some sort of salacious sailor. What other intent could Roche have?

Iorveth licked his lips and desperately finished off his drink. Alcohol. He needed more of it, needed to not be thinking about dh’oine or propositions or Roche.

Especially Roche.

“I need a drink,” he announced, and proceeded to make no move to rise.

“I think that’s the opposite of what you need,” Imadia tsked. Nonetheless, she reached into her medicine bad and pulled out a vial of herbs.

Iorveth’s eyes lit up, leaning forward. He so rarely indulged, but when he did, there was no better combination than Imadia’s herbs and a drink. It brought back memories of a time before strife with the dh’oine – though not before strife with dwarves. They were only very recent allies, in the grand scheme of things – but rather than overwhelming him, the herbs kept the memories light and energizing, bolstering him instead of dragging him down. It was one of the few times he told tales of the old days, the days when elves had lived in peace.

That was probably why Kythaela cleared her throat from the entryway. “Got you another drink, sir.”

Iorveth accepted with a sigh. “You don’t have to call me sir, you know.”

“Yes sir,” she grinned.

Kythaela and the other younger elves were always eager to hear stories of the old days. He wasn’t sure what was so great about his stories when there were a handful of others who had been there too and were far more eager to talk about it. Especially because his stories often digressed into rants about the cultural significance of holy relicts that no longer existed.

His rants did not tend to be kind to dh’oine. Maybe that was what they liked. He wasn’t sure why that made something in his chest twinge, but he didn’t like it.

Iorveth took another drink, and when Imadia offered him a smoke, he eagerly imbibed.

The last thing he remembered was Ciaran’s hazel eyes looking worriedly up at him as he accepted another drink.

Coda: The Blue Stripes

When the Bossman returned to camp after a scouting mission into the forest, Finch wasn’t the only one to stare after him in surprise. Whistling merrily, Bossman picked up the pile of paperwork that they’d all taken turns nudging closer to the fire to avoid doing it, and actually sat down and started filling it out with a grin.

“Sir,” Silas, the newbie of the crew – still green behind the ears, but an impressive fighter – approached the Bossman’s temporary desk (actually a rock and a tree stump). “Is everything okay? Did anything happen?”

“Nothing to report,” Bossman shook his head, smile still curling his lips. It was weird. Bossman wore gruff and unhappy a lot more easily than – delight? Happiness? For a man with permanent frown lines, the grin made him look younger, kinder. It made Finch’s fingers ache for his bow, for the world that came with it, where the only thing that mattered was his aim and who he was targeting. He grabbed a branch off the ground and headed over to the campfire, taking a seat next to Thirteen. Thirteen immediately offered him the bottle they were all sharing and Finch took a small sip, feeling the burn all the way down.

The Blue Stripes made their own liquor and it was strong.

“Whatcha carving this time?” Thirteen asked, knocking his knee against Finch’s.

Finch shrugged. He didn’t really carve with an idea in mind – he just needed to do something with his hands. Peeling away slow curls of wood was a good way to do that, and it still left him the attention to follow the conversation around him.

“I can’t be the only one thinking it,” Ves, Bossman’s Second said, taking a generous swig when the bottle came to her.

“Roche definitely got laid, right? Why else would he be so happy?” Fenn looked like yule had come early. No doubt he would soon propose placing bets on what Bossman had gotten up to.

“He wouldn’t!” Silas hissed. “He was on duty!”

Finch – and several others, he noticed – determinedly avoided Silas’s gaze.

“Sooooo,” PT dragged the word out in the awkward silence. “Who do we think it was?”

“Had to be an elf, didn’t it?”

“Maybe a dwarf? Scoia’tael’s been recruiting more o’ them lately.”

“Why’re we assuming he went to the forest? Could’ve gone to the whorehouse,” Thirteen stole the bottle back and guzzled it.

“You all realize I can hear you, right?” Bossman asked, looking over at them with a raised eyebrow. His makeshift desk was a handful of paces away from the fire, and they had been making no attempt to lower their voices.

“No one asked you,” Ves waved her hand. She leaned in towards the fire as if sharing a secret, and said loudly, “Bet Roche got fucked by a leshen. That’d bring a grin to his sour puss.”

Bossman snorted loudly, shook his head almost fondly, and went back to his paperwork, still whistling idly.

“I bet he’s got a secret lover,” Shorty winked. “Someone serious.”

“Oooooh, not a bad idea, Shorty,” Fenn’s grin made him look like he was high on fisstech. He was hurriedly writing down the betting options in his notebook. “All right! Let’s say...buy in is 20 orens. Plaaaaaaace your bets!” He threw his hands wide in a dramatic gesture and almost took out Thirteen’s eye with his pencil.

Finch bet 40 on the secret lover theory, mostly because he wanted to believe one of them was getting some on the regular. Shorty didn’t count; he may be happily married, but his wife had also let him name all sixteen of their children after troop divisions. Finch loved the little rascals – and not just because Foxtrot said he was the best uncle – but personally, he was looking for a sensible woman.

They spent the evening laughing and poking fun at the Bossman as they finished off three bottles of Thirtheen’s home brew. All the while, Bossman worked steadily through their backlog of paperwork and whistled a jaunty tune.

Maybe he really was getting laid.

Part 2

#iorveth/roche #iorveth #vernon roche #enemies to lovers #the witcher #the witcher 2 #my fics #fic #writing #iorveth vernon roche

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anythingstephenking · 7 years

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Drive My Car

After months without turning a single page, I am crusin’! Man I am really on a roll! If you haven’t guessed yet, I am making car puns, as we dive (drive?) into Christine, the killer car story King promised his publishers would come after Different Seasons.

(Side note: while reading I make notes on my phone of pages to reference back to, cause only a real monster dog-ears pages. My notes on Christine read “crusin’…. on a roll… think of other car puns.” I didn’t.)

Although Wikipedia claims this book was published in ’82, it was actually released in ’83. Really letting me down Wikipedia. But happily I move into the next year of King books, and one step closer to catching them all like they were a buncha Pokemon.

This cover art is the tits. Also, the author’s photo on the back! Lastly, the inner cover with SK initialed in red and gold, like Gryffindor for serial killers.

This book has no preface or afterword, which is where I usually learn all my fun facts, so I did a bit more digging (nay, googling) for the backstory on this guy.

Well I couldn’t turn out much of interest. Sorry to disappoint. The story must have just appeared in King’s brain one day. I did love that the book was dedicated to George Romero. I have enjoyed learning all about King’s friendships, and imagine they all get together once a month in some kind of bizarro-minds-club, play cribbage and gripe about how everyone thinks they’re weirdos.

Posted without comment.

Each of the 51 chapters starts with a song lyric about cars. If you’ve ever listened to Car Talk, you know the list of songs about cars is long. I recognized the Bruce Springsteen ones. It was a throwaway device IMO, and just made me feel bad for the intern that had to work to get the rights to use 51 different song lyrics. King actually calls this out in a brief Author’s Note on the copyright page of my “Book Club” edition copy, thanking specific folks for helping him get the rights. OK, I guess I forgive you Stephen. Kisses.

On the surface, Christine is a story that is part killer car, part demon possession and part star-crossed lovers. I know, right?

Christine tells the story of Arnie Cunningham and his car Christine. Annie is your run-of-the-mill nerd. He’s got bad skin and has never done anything his parents wouldn’t approve of. His best bud Dennis is decidedly a cooler cat - he plays football so that means he’s automatically elevated to a higher class.

One day Arnie sees Christine, sitting broken on the lawn of an equally broken house and decides he has to have her. Men (eyeroll). He buys her from the owner, Roland LeBay and off he goes to a local garage to fix her up.

Dennis is almost immediately unnerved by Christine. Rightfully so, since the car goes on to kill a bunch of people.

Then along comes Leigh Cabot, the new girl in school. All the guys have the hots for her, but she’s only got eyes for Arnie. For once, the pretty girl picks the nerd, and it doesn’t really go all that well for her. Pick the quarterback the next time honey.

So Arnie and Leigh are an item, and Leigh also hates Christine. No one can quite put their fingers on it, but a rotten smell runs through her interior and the radio seems stuck on the 50’s rock station. Dennis and Leigh are plagued by nightmares of Christine coming to life.

And suddenly the engine began to rev and fall off, rev and fall off; its a hungry sound, frightening, and each time the engine revs Christine seems to lunge forward a bit, like a mean dog on a weak leash… and I want to move… but my feet seem nailed to the cracked pavement of the driveway.

King takes his time to build the story up, as he so often does. Christine doesn’t claim her first victim until halfway through. Until then you’re stuck with this looming sense of dread, knowing terrible things are coming. Every time Christine’s headlights turned on by themselves I muttered “oh... no “ to myself.

It’s not enough that Christine comes to life and runs people over (even manages this feat on a guy who is inside his house), but Arnie begins to take on characteristics of the previous owner, Roland LeBay. Since Roland was a real grade-a asshole, this doesn’t sit well with his friend, girlfriend or family. He becomes more and more like LeBay, until there’s no nerd left. Watching Arnie fall apart is heartbreaking.

But past the surface, Christine is a story of the pains of growing up, which isn’t really a new theme for King, who came of age himself in the 50s. And so often with King’s stories of teenage agony, and even when the story takes place in 1978, the 50s are lurking.

Before Arnie’s demise, he makes off-handed comments about how his parents know that having kids remind them that they’re going to die. Pretty grim stuff.

And Dennis has this revelation while out in Christine for the first time:

I was surprised by a choking panic that climbed up in my throat like dry fire. It was the first time a feeling like that came over me that year - but not the last. Yet it’s hard for me to explain, or even define. It had something to do with realizing that it was August 11, 1978, that I was going to be a senior in high school next month, and that when school started again it meant the end of a long, quiet phase of my life. I was getting ready to be a grown-up, and I saw that somehow - saw it for sure, for the first time in that lovely but somehow ancient spill of golden light flooding the alleyway between a bowling alley and a roast beef joint. And I think I understood then that what really scares people about growing up is that you stop trying on the life-mask and start trying on another one. If being a kid is about learning how to live, then being a grown-up is about learning how to die.

And these kids learn their lesson.

In some ways, Christine felt like a stronger coming of age tale than The Body. I was really rooting for these kids.

7/10

First line: This is the story of a lover’s triangle, I suppose you’d say - Arnie Cunningham, Leigh Cabot, and, of course, Christine.

Last line: His unending fury.

Added Bonus: King said in an interview about Christine getting killed and perhaps coming back to life (35 year old spoiler, sorry!): "All I can think of would be if the parts are recycled, you'd end up with this sort of homicidal Cuisinart, or something like that!”

Hardy Har Har! I might not be scared of cars but I am now scared of my food processor.

Adaptations:

Christine The Movie was the quickest turn-around from page to screen of any King movie, which began filming just as the book was released. The producer was a friend of King’s, and signed on before the book was published. He had his pick between Christine and Cujo, and chose Christine because Cujo seemed “too silly.” For real bro? I mean, they’re both great stories but I would tend to think of a rabid dog as a more serious threat than a sentient car that love Buddy Holly songs and blood.

1983 was a busy year for King movies. I’ve lost track since I am reading the books chronologically but not watching the movies that way. I’ve already watched some spectacularly bad King movies, but at this point in 1983, the movie-going public had only seen Carrie, Salem’s Lot and The Shining. Given the popularity of 2/3 of these movies, I bet everyone in Hollywood wanted their hands on the rights to a King story.

In 1983 Cujo, The Dead Zone and Christine all hit the big screens in August, October and December, respectively. I don’t know for sure but if I had to guess, that was too much King.

So, if you expect a whole lot of a John Carpenter movie about a killer car, well then, that’s your own fault. This movie was a lot of fun. As with so many King movies, his storytelling and character building just doesn’t translate to the big screen. The screenwriters seemed to not even care to try, boiling the main characters down to stereotypes. Arnie rocks giant glasses with tape across the arch; Dennis wears his letterman jacket; Leigh’s got great legs. Christine rolls around killing people that cross Arnie. There’s little mention of LeBay or his backstory in creating (or at least encouraging) Christine.

Instead, there’s the film’s opening sequence to explain Christine’s origin, which I just adored. Christine’s rolling along the production line in Detroit, the sole red car in a sea of white. A line worker attempts to open her hood, and it promptly clasps down on his hand. All while George Thorogood’s Bad To The Bone plays. Just on the nose, great start.

Unlike the novel with its clear themes of friendship, first love and looming adulthood, this movie is about one thing and one thing only - a killer car. Which is really ok. John Carpenter does his best and there’s some suspenseful moments with Halloween-esque sound effects. Whenever someone is pissing Christine off she locks her doors and Little Richard starts singing from her stereo "Keep a knockin' but you can't come in.” Christine catches on fire and still manages to run someone down, setting him on fire in the process. I’m not much a fan of big action sequences, but knowing they used almost 30 cars to make this and everything was filmed sans CGI made me appreciate it more.

Before I go, quick notes on the cast. Kevin Bacon was set to play Dennis, but chose to do Footloose instead. Good call, past Kevin Bacon. So they cast this guy, who is basically a poor man Kevin Bacon.

Leigh is played by Alexandra Paul, who would go on to rock a rad red swimsuit on Baywatch. Kelly Preston has a small role, and would go on to play the role of a lifetime as John Travolta’s wife. Rounding out the supporting cast was Robert Proskey (who I remember as Mr. Lundy in Mrs. Doubtfire), and Harry Dean Stanton who has basically been in everything.

Next up is Pet Semetery, which is (Chris Trager voice) literally my favorite King. My goal is to get through It before the new movie comes out in September, which means I have six books to get through in 3 months. So (spooky voice) I’ll be right back!

#christine #stephen king #book review #movie review

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rachelclewis · 5 years

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Brunch at Tiffany’s

I worked at the Utah Museum of Fine Arts when I was in college back in the 90s. I was on a work study program, and I actually started in the work shop, in the basement.

This may sound like a mismatch, and it was, but not for the obvious reasons. I took shop in Jr. High school and, all things considered, I did pretty well. The class was one year long but divided into three sections: wood shop, technology, and metal shop. My wood shop teacher loved me. He gave me 150% on one assignment because I carved a 3D design when everyone else had done a 2D cutout. I rarely saw the tech teacher but his student teacher told me flat out (and in front of the entire class) not to come to him with any questions because he had no intention of helping me. “I know you are only here to meet boys.”

I was thirteen and I would not have known what to do with a boy if I managed to get one's positive attention. And anyway, I spent each day of class just trying to stay out of the path of those trolls. I don’t know if there were particularly nasty personalities in that group or if it was the result of getting too many thirteen year old boys in one room with power tools, but those boys were the worst! They were both mean and dangerous and they made every day torture. They were constantly trying to humiliate me into quitting, or at least crying. If I said anything in class – right or wrong – I was teased for it for the rest of the period. One day they would roll the spot welder into place behind me and set it off to burn my arms and singe my clothes with the flying sparks. The next, they would wait for me to walk into class and then they would strip the skinny nerdy kid of his pants and push him toward me. It was an exercise in tolerance, and I survived it, one day at a time. I hope that skinny nerdy kid did, too.

The metal shop instructor in the final section of class was helpful but stern. I never got a sense that he knew I was in any way different from the 29 other male students. Then one day I got called down to the office and learned he had nominated me for student of the month. Maybe he wanted to reward my fortitude? Or maybe he felt bad about putting the spot welder on wheeled castors to begin with. I'll never know.

Fast forward a few years, and I was looking for a work study job at the University of Utah. I saw a post at the art museum and thought it would be fun to work there. I think I listed two things on my job application: 1.) my year of shop training in 8th grade and 2.) the fact that I got the highest possible score on my AP art history exam. I got the job. I may have been the only person who applied.

My boss in the museum's shop was what we would now call a “hot mess,” though by the time I met him he was cold and lumpy. On my first day, he told me to "earthquake proof the Pre-Columbian exhibit." Then he went back into his office where he sat at his desk and stared at a corner in the ceiling while medium priced scotch directly from the bottle. We never spoke again.

I had no idea what to do or where to start. Maybe if this weren't the year 1995 it would have occurred to me to look up "how to earthquake proof old ceramics" on the internet, but it wasn't and I was screwed. I walked around the exhibit trying to get some ideas. I looked for ways to suspend the smaller objects from the ceiling so that if there were a quake they would swing around but never hit the ground. Or each other? But still be out of reach of thieves or handsy children? I decided it wouldn't work but I was feeling like I had made some progress by having a bad idea and eliminating it and that seemed positive. Then I noticed a large mask under filtered light. It had a strangely familiar texture. I leaned in and read the card next to the plexiglass box which read, “made of animal skin.” It was the generality that made it come together for me. Human. It was definitely human skin. I was convinced. I still am. If I had ever found a way to secure that collection I might have left that particular object to fend for itself.

I still had a work ethic back then and I couldn't just not work. Having no clue what I was supposed to do and a distinct fear of trying and failing, I was stuck. Then I noticed a shop-vac in the corner. It was one of those trash-can sized deals on wheels with a suction tube like an elephant’s trunk coming off the side. I named it R2 and it was my only co-worker for a while. I showed up to work three afternoons a week and I vacuumed every nook and crevice whether it needed it or not. And it didn't. Not at all. At the end of each shift I emptied R2 and then I went home. Until one day I showed up and was informed (not by my boss, but someone else) that I had been transferred to the gift shop. For a few seconds before the relief set in, I felt that I had let all of womankind down. I had a shop job, and I failed. Then I headed upstairs to the lobby and the sunlight and I left R2 behind without so much as a backward glance.

My new boss was a man named Brad who rarely came in to work, but when he did he was over dressed and wearing too much foundation. On the days that he didn't come in, I was told he suffered from migraines. I interpreted this as code for a penchant for late nights and hangovers, but I don't really know. I just know that I was again left alone, but this time with post cards, a cash register, and some clear expectations.

This was not the MET or MOMA. Sometimes I would go days without a customer. There was plenty of time to do homework, but in the summers I read entire Steven King novels while sitting behind the register. Once in a while I had a customer, and they would want to pay with a credit card. On those occasions I had to run through the museum and ask everyone in their offices to hang up their phones. “We made a sale! I need to use the phone line to run a charge!”

The 90s were an adorable time to be alive. I'm sorry if you missed them.

One day I was sitting at my station, writing in my journal or something, when the security guard stopped by to ask if I needed a bathroom break. Her name was Debbie and I just adored her. She was sweet and worldly and she had one deformed tiny hand, not unlike the Kristen Wiig “Dooneese” sketches on Saturday Night Live. At least, that is what it made me think of, many years later, when I saw them. Debbie told me that when she was growing up, her mother always made her use her tiny had to clean out the garbage disposal and she was always frightened it might turn on spontaneously.

“Yes!” I shouted, hopping off my too tall stool. “Thank you!” But as I landed, the stool fell back and hit this weird waist high block thing that we used to push in front of the cash register area when no one was on duty in the gift shop. (It was very secure, obviously.) The block made a thunk and tipped on its side in the direction of the glass wall that was the only thing separating the gift shop area from the ten foot tall Tiffany crystal doors. I was told that they were a gift from Louis Comfort Tiffany to the LDS church in the late 1800s, but church leaders didn’t want them because they featured winged angels. Mormon angels don't have wings (because Joseph Smith saw some angels and he said they didn't have wings, and man who sees angels and talks to them in the woods and then reads secret books by putting his head in a hat and using magic stones to translate them into English is not weird. Angels with wings? That’s silly. Amazing what bunk some folks believe in. We don't want those. Give them to the university in case they ever get an art museum.).

I leapt between the falling block and the glass and stopped the impending crash with my body, the right angle edge of the block crushing into my full bladder. Luckily I was 19 and I didn't piss myself so that was the end of the drama.

“Woah,” I said. I looked back at the Tiffany angels, which are not the classic blue and green of the classic Tiffany lamp shades that you are probably picturing. They are long elegant slices of crystal with frosted angel designs carved into them. They could be the doors leading to Superman's Fortress of Solitude. For a moment I imagined them shattered and skittering in icy pieces across the floor. At the time, the museum's director was a diminutive octogenarian and man shaped ball of rage named Frank Sanguinetti. I had witnessed a few of his milder temper tantrums by then and I was imagining my new life as his forced butler or maid as I tried to work off the debt of the priceless art I had destroyed. I would have been buried in his garden beneath the irises within the week.

“Don't worry,” Debbie said, helping to unpin me with her little hand. “I always get clutzy on my period, too.”

That is when my head exploded. Yes, but how did she...? And was it true that...? Now that I think about it... Oh my goodness, yes! Why had no one told me before! This should be common knowledge! There should be a PSA or a warning label on forklifts, at the very least!

There have been a few occasions since that day nearly 20 years ago where I have watched a woman struggle with a task or gravity and, if I felt I knew her well enough, I repeated Debbie's phrase. “Don't worry, Sweetpea. I get like that when my red sea is parting, too.” (Side note, I just googled euphemisms for menstruation to find a funny one and was reminded that there aren’t any, so I just made that up. I did learn that in Japan they call it the “Arrival of Mathew Perry” which is the best thing I ever heard but I failed at finding a way to make it work here.) And each time I have witnessed a similar series of responses. Incredulousness, recognition, connection, amazement, horror, and finally amusement and laughter. Maybe not in that order exactly, but the moment usually ends with laughter. But there is always that moment of recognition. That moment of “Damn, she’s right! Why didn't I put that together myself? And why don't they mention that in those fifth grade maturation videos?”

I don't know the answer. It would have been nice. But as far as I can tell, it is still a well-kept secret.

I've been thinking about all of this the last few days, ever since I got the devastating alert on my phone that read the Cathedral of Notre Dame was on fire. It hurts to think about the loss of history and human accomplishment. The last I heard, they still didn't know how the fire began. It seems they have out-ruled arson, but I read that there was some reconstruction work going on somewhere in the cathedral. Which isn't a surprise. 800 year old buildings have a lot of maintenance required.

I just hope whatever stared the fire was some faulty piece of equipment being operated by some man. Women have suffered enough to build our cred with power tools. That is one disaster we simply do not need.

#blog #humor #art #girls in shop #power tools

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