After a long journey, the Scoia'tael found a new place in the woods to camp after a recent battle with Nilfgaard's soldiers. Iorveth was tense, like a taut string that could snap at any moment. You understood him, because the loss of his comrades was hard for him, even if he had seen many deaths before. The elves were recovering, continued to live, and you helped healer Aramil with the last wounded in the infirmary. However, the commander did not leave the tent, drawing plans known only to him on maps and worked without interruptions. You brought the food to him yourself, otherwise you knew that he would not join the dinner around the campfire.

You understood Iorveth. Understood his struggle, how important it was and his thirst for revenge on all humanity, but it couldn't go on like this anymore. One morning, long before the camp was supposed to wake up, you took him by the hand and dragged him into the woods, not listening to his rude words and grumbling protests.

The morning forest awakens from a quiet sleep, shrouded in a light mist that gently spreads over the ground like a delicate blanket. The first rays of the sun penetrate through dense foliage, drawing a play of light and shadow on the ground. The sounds of the forest gradually fill the space — the chirping of birds, the crunching of animals' footsteps on a soft litter of leaves, an occasional gust of wind stirring the crowns of trees. Iorveth reluctantly sat down on the grass, leaning his head back against the tree and allows you to lie down next to him, resting your head on his lap.

"Is this what you wanted?" the elf snorts, but reaches out with his fingers to touch your hair. Iorveth missed your presence, even if he doesn't admit it out loud.

"That's enough. No comments. You're grumbling like an old man," You frown and added with a hint of irony. "Oh, yeah. I forgot that you are an old man."

"How funny," he rolled his one eye, secretly amused at how quickly you turn from a gentle caring woman into a pain in his ass.