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“You have an odd collection, you know that?”
“Says the man who routinely carries assorted monster heads in his luggage,” Regis said mildly, looking up from his microscope with a sly smile. Geralt was standing by one of Regis' many shelves in his new lab, holding a glass jar inside which bobbed a preserved kidney.
The witcher grunted, putting the organ back. “Alright, conceded. Why do you have all this, anyway?” he asked, wandering around to look at the dozens upon dozens of specimens Regis had preserved in various glass cylinders. “You really enjoy this kind of atmosphere?” he asked, picking up another jar.
“One of curiosity and learning?” Regis asked, resting his elbow on the oak table Geralt and Yennefer had bought for him as a housewarming present. It was finally safe for Regis to return to Toussaint and he'd more or less settled down in a house that connected with a vast underground. The still half-pulped Detlaff was his only company, but that was not information anyone but the witcher family was privy to.
“No, one of death,” Geralt said, turning the jar in his hands and quirking an eyebrow. “Thought you were a surgeon. Aren't you supposed to be more interested in preserving life?”
“I am. I'm surprised at you, Geralt. You mistake scientific curiosity for macabre interest. The body has parts I need to understand in order to heal. Those parts are what you see before you. I would argue that my collection invokes an atmosphere of life.”
Geralt snorted, holding the jar up. “A bunch of organs preserved in fluid invokes life?”
“Certainly,” the vampire said, nodding sagely. He gestured at Geralt's swords. “You keep weapons and armor mounted all over your walls. They are tools of the living, I'll concede, but they are for causing death. One may argue that the armor is for preserving life and that the swords are defenders, but at the end of the day a sword can do nothing active but draw blood. You're holding a heart, Geralt. What do you think it did once?”
“Huh, didn't think of it like that,” he admitted, turning the jar between his hands. The heart turned over in slow motion, suspended as it was in thick embalming liquid. “What kind of heart is this, anyway?” he asked. “I can't identify it.”
“Human,” Regis answered, slipping his glasses off and rubbing at his eyes. “Male, age unknown, to be slightly more precise.”
“You're kidding,” Geralt said, looking up in surprise, his yellow eyes incredulous. “There's no way this is a human heart it's too--”
“Mutated?” Regis supplied, quirking an eyebrow. “Yes, well, that's what the trials do, I'm afraid.”
Geralt's eyebrows really popped up at that. “This is a witcher heart?”
“Oh yes. One of your cousins from the school of the bear, actually.”
“I don't know if I should be impressed or worried,” he said, looking at the heart with a renewed fascination. “I had no idea they looked like that....it's a little unsettling.”
“Well,” Regis said, stepping up next to Geralt and taking the jar in hand. “Yours doesn't look like this, at least, I dearly hope it doesn't. This witcher died of a potion overdose. His heart was forced to work past even its extraordinary limits and it ruptured.” He held the jar up, turning it until the horrible tear in the thick wall was visible. “See?”
Geralt grimaced, a hand going reflexively to his chest. “Yen's always yelling at me for drinking too many...maybe she has a point.”
“Yennefer often has several,” Regis said cheekily, setting the specimen back on his shelf with reverence. “Unfortunately for our friend here, he did not have a sorceress or a vampire to keep tabs on him. Fortunately for you, you have both. And I now understand more about the dangers of your potions than I would have without his unintentional sacrifice.”
Geralt was still looking at the heart, suddenly much more aware of the one cradled and beating in his own breast. He was used to looking at dismembered parts. He was used to death. He just wasn't used to seeing some reflection of himself under such a clinical, mortal light. Witchers died all the time, it was their ultimate lot—but the bodies never lasted to show their scars or their mutations. This was entirely strange to him. He'd been on a slab before, been seen as a freak nearly his whole life, but this felt different.
“Are you alright, my friend?” Regis asked, breaking the silence with a tentative step. “You seem....troubled. If my inclusion of a witcher heart to my collection bothers you I can dispose of it.”
“No, Regis, it's not that. Just...I'm used to staring my own death in the face. Guess it's more seeing how far the mutations go that's getting to me. I know it...intellectually, but it's different seeing it.”
“You're thinking that people may be right about witchers, aren't you?” Regis asked. Geralt shook his head.
“I don't know what to think. My heart might not have a tear in it like that, but it's mutated all the same.”
“Yes, and what beautiful mutations they are,” Regis agreed, looking from the preserved heart to Geralt. Geralt's brow furrowed, like he didn't follow. “You don't think so?”
“Not really,” Geralt admitted. “Saw too many other boys die in the process. Those of us who came out of it....” he shook his head, gesturing at himself. “Since when are mutations beautiful?”
“Come now, Geralt. You've never been one to fish for compliments.”
“I'm serious, Regis. That heart is larger than it should be. Look at the veinwork...the valves. Is every inch of me like that?”
“Oh yes,” Regis said, nodding. “Your heart is slightly larger because it is stronger. The walls are thicker, the stroke volume much greater. The distribution of cardiac arteries is ingenious, allowing for a much more effective dispersal of oxygen. That heart, your heart, is a powerhouse of efficiency. Couple that with the remarkable blood you posses and it is the very core of what makes you capable of such feats. Your body is twenty times more efficient than the average man's. That's saved your life on countless occasions, allowing you to fight another day and ultimately live to end up where so few do: in the company of a good family. You lived to fall in love with Yennefer, and to watch Ciri grow up. You don't find that beautiful?”
Geralt looked uncertain, his arms crossed and his eyes fixed on the heart. After a while of silence, he let out a long breath and nodded. “Yeah. You're right.”
“The trials were horrific, and I am sorry you had to endure them, but what you got in exchange is something you should take pride in,” Regis said gently, resting his hand on Geralt's arm. “I'll ask it again, do you want me to dispose of the heart? Bury it or burn it perhaps? I'll understand if you find it disrespectful.”
“I don't want to make a hole in your collection,” Geralt said, gesturing lamely.
“And I do not wish a hole in our friendship. If it truly bothers you I'll do no more studies.”
“No,” Geralt breathed, shaking his head and turning away from the heart. “Keep it, Regis. It's not doing the witcher any good any more, someone might as well appreciate it. Besides, how many vampire parts have I toted around?”
“Very well then, if you're sure,” Regis said, letting go and going back to his table. He sat, adjusting instruments and moving books around. “For the record, I much prefer your heart. Beating. Inside you, not a jar.”
“Yeah. I'm sure you do,” Geralt muttered, moving on to look at more of the collection. “Gotta sound real tasty.”
“I'm serious,” Regis insisted, and when Geralt felt his eyes on his back he turned to shoot the vampire a questioning look.
“I find your heart in particular very beautiful. The sound is rock steady and strong, not quite like any other I've ever had the privilege to listen to, not even another witcher. Yours has always sounded deeper to me...more grounded and earthy. There's a poetry to the sound-- I can understand why it helped Yennefer fall in love with you. I find it soothing, rather than enticing.”
Geralt raised an eyebrow, his expression somewhat incredulous. “Yennefer did not fall in love with my heartbeat.”
Regis' lips quirked and the smile reached his dark eyes. “Perhaps not, but it didn't hurt.”
He folded his arms, unsure of what to make of what Regis was telling him. He'd accepted his mutations a long time ago—it didn't mean he was proud of them or comfortable discussing them. They just...were. Drawing attention to them made him feel odd.
“You're thinking loudly again, but I still cannot read minds. What troubles you, my friend?” Regis asked gently, kind eyes fixed with some amusement on Geralt.
“You're laughing at me,” Geralt said, mildly petulant.
“Only a little. You forget, to me you're still extremely young. I still feel like you're lying about your comfort with the topic at hand.”
“Maybe I am....I don't know,” Geralt sighed, running his hand through his hair and sitting heavily in the chair next to Regis' desk. He looked at the wall of organs, a somewhat lost expression in his eyes. “I mean...what really makes me different from the things I hunt? Detlaff himself said it, half the times men do things that are more reprehensible than the things I'm paid to hunt down. In the end, we're all just—this.”
“You've died, Geralt,” Regis said, resting a clawed hand on the witcher's shoulder. “Do you really believe that who you are is this flesh vessel that you inhabit? Have you no faith in the concept of a spirit that is separate?”
“No.....I do.”
“Then it is your spirit, your choices that make you different, just as the choices each of us make define what is truly monstrous and what is simply....” he shrugged. “Anatomy. Most find my vampiric features frightening and even ugly—but others have told me they make me rather dashing.” He grinned, showing off all his teeth.
Geralt laughed. “Yeah, alright. You're worse than Dandelion sometimes.”
“Ohh, take that back,” Regis said, placing a mocking hand on his chest. “You wound me deeply, Geralt.”
The witcher smiled. “Thank you, Regis.”
“Not at all,” he returned the smile. “Take pride in your body, Geralt, and the things it can do. Your spirit is far from monstrous, and your physical abilities are nothing short of extraordinary. Unlike a sword, you may be designed to kill but you have many more options available to you, just as I have. My hearing and enhanced sense of smell and touch were evolutionarily intended to make blood hunting easier, but I've turned those skills around to make myself an exceptional physician. Everything boils down to a choice, you know that.”
“I do,” Geralt nodded. “I've certainly made enough bad ones myself to never forget it, either.”
“So have we all, my friend,” Regis said, patting Geralt's shoulder and shaking his head. “So have we all.”
“Speaking of those physician abilities,” Geralt said, avoiding Regis' eyes and looking slightly uncomfortable. “You'd tell me, if you heard something off...right? Even if there wasn't anything we could do about it?”
“Of course I would,” Regis said, his brow furrowed. “Do you fear something is wrong?”
“No, just, not used to thinking about myself beyond the next fight. Witchers aren't taught to think long term. Everything is about winning the day and moving on to the next contract. Guess I feel a little lost being this far out from anything most other Witchers end up doing, thinking about old age or parts of me wearing down. I don't like enemies I can't see coming.”
“Well, if you're concerned about some internal ailment I've noticed nothing. Your heart beats steadily, without echo or stumble. It still sounds stronger than most humans in their prime, so I wouldn't worry. If you like, I could tell more but I'd need a blood sample.”
“What would that entail?” Geralt asked hesitantly, his head drawing back slightly.
“A simple prick of your finger, nothing more. I can tell a lot by taste and smell, and need no more than a drop. I promise.”
“Alright, why not,” Geralt muttered, holding his hand out. “Go for it.”
Regis reached out faster than Geralt could follow, pricking his thumb with a sharp nail. Geralt drew his hand away and pressed until the bleeding quickly stopped, watching Regis with a morbid fascination as the vampire first smelled and then tasted the drop on his nail. Even with that tiny sample Regis' eyes had gone very dark.
“Well?” Geralt pressed, feeling slightly uncomfortable.
“Relax, my friend,” Regis said, after a few moments, blinking away that darkness and smiling amiably at Geralt. “You're quite healthy. It seems Toussaint has been good to you. Your blood smells clean. No infections, not even a taste of malnutrition. From what I can tell, you still have a lot of years left. I do agree with Yennefer though—perhaps forgo the chemical help when you can. I've tasted witcher blood when it is infused with poison, and there is a bitterness to it that turns my stomach beyond simple distaste. Your blood is much better off with as little of it as possible.”
“Noted,” Geralt muttered, half touching a vial on his belt.
“Stop worrying so much,” Regis chided. “That's even worse for you than the elixirs.”
Geralt huffed, a small smile touching his lips. “Yeah...I know. Hard to help it."
"I'm sure you'll learn to manage."