Iorveth was like a wound in your chest, a deep, festering ache that never truly healed. You were the thin strings that kept the wound from bleeding out, holding together what little remained of his shattered heart. He had given everything he had to the Scoia'tael—to you, blath.

He fought for the Scoia'tael, but he lived for you. You remembered the promise whispered in the dim light of the cave, under the furs and the heavy silence, where the rain was the only witness. "If you go, blath," he had said softly, "I wanna go with you." Then came the night when everything shattered. The rain poured down like tears from the heavens, witnessing the final moments of your shared freedom. Iorveth's anguished cries filled the night as you were torn from his grasp. He had followed you with desperate resolve, his steps faltering as he was overpowered. On his knees in the mud, his face a grim mask of rage and despair, he watched as Nilfgaardian soldiers dragged you away. Their blades gleamed threateningly beside him, and as his voice cracked under the weight of his sorrow, he could only watch helplessly.

"En'ca minne!" you had screamed, your voice breaking through the storm. They pulled you away from him, like roots torn from the earth, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake. He was left in the dirt, his face pressed to the ground, one bloodshot eye the only witness to your screams.

You cried his name, your voice raw and broken, but it was swallowed by the rain and the shouts of the soldiers. They gagged you, beat you, threw you into a cage with the other Scoia’tael. The separation was unbearable—the thought that they would kill you, that he would die knowing he had failed to protect you. And in that moment, you wished for death, wished for an end to the agony of being torn from him.

The thought that they would kill you, that you might die alone, away from him, was unbearable. His voice broke as he cried your name, but no one listened. No one cared.

He would die with you, blath, in spirit if not in body.