roche, my fic, snippet post, not this story or the next but the one after
believe it or not, yeah i've been working on this
via https://ift.tt/3kNhkYt
help i saw a screenshot from Thronebreaker of Queen Meve accosting a
Scoia’tael and as she interrogates him, realizing that he’s unusually
young, and I thought hm i should use that character and now i have an elf
child soldier war veteran and i would die for him
Roche hadn’t stopped, and the man had wandered along the edge of the fence
where he was, and they were moving past conversational distance now, so he
was ready to let the conversation die, but then the man said, “Is that an
elf!”
Faengil started almost guiltily; his hood had slipped back as he’d been
buzzing animatedly between Roche and Ciaran, and his face was quite
visible, the inhuman-sharp cheekbones and the pointed ears. He looked young
and frightened as he looked at the man, and the men gathered around the
fence started making uneasy comments among themselves.
“A diplomatic envoy from the Upper Aedirn Free State,” Roche said, doing
his best to sound unperturbed but raising his voice a little so it would
carry, “so you’d best give him a polite greeting and no worse. Come here,
Faengil, ride with me,” and he kept moving.
Faengil nudged his horse and fetched up next to Roche, and Roche murmured
“Do not pull your hood up, you’ve every right to be here.”
“Vernon Roche, consorting with elves,” the man said, but he was fading in
the distance and it was clear nothing more was going to come of it.
The boy’s expression was miserable with fright and he was breathing hard,
casting glances back furtively but not daring to turn around. “Why can’t I
pull my hood up,” he asked, his voice barely over a whisper.
Roche sighed, and glanced back. The men had watched them go, but the road
turned, so they were already mostly out of eyeshot. “You can now,” he said.
“But I didn’t want them to see you act ashamed. You’re within your rights,
existing here, and sometimes the thing to do is brazen it out.”
Faengil yanked his hood back up and wrapped his face in his scarf, hunching
his shoulders. “Sometimes they throw things,” he said quietly. Roche
mentally revised his estimate of the age conversion down a little. Fifteen,
maybe. It was hard to tell, bundled as he was, but the boy seemed to be of
a reasonable adult height, yet likely wasn’t filled-out yet.
“Were you Scoia’tael?” Roche asked.
Faengil’s jaw jutted a little, mutinous– sensing condescension, the way a
human teenager would. “Led my own commando for Vrihedd in the second war,”
he said.
Roche considered that. It was only four years ago, which for a teenager in
his thirties might not have been that great a difference in his age.
“Thought they had all the leaders executed,” he commented.
“The real leader was killed in battle,” Faengil admitted, watching his
hands on the reins. “So I wasn’t– nobody turned me in. I wasn’t on their
list.”
Roche turned his head, feeling a gaze on him. Iorveth was riding behind
him, watching him keenly. He met the elf’s gaze and thought of his
introductory comment, about a just society. No, he wasn’t pleased that the
Scoia’tael had made up their numbers with child soldiers, that wasn’t hard
to read.
“That must have been hard,” Roche said.
“I wanted to turn myself in anyway,” Faengil said, “but Iorveth wouldn’t
let me. He went, but–” Faengil’s voice shook a little and he clamped his
mouth shut, looking away angrily in a manner it took Roche little effort to
see was hiding tears.
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