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When Regis dreamed that night, it was of drinking blood by the bowlful. Never in his time of abstinence had he witnessed such horrid visions, seen his crypt drown in an ocean of red. His subconscious dredged up his worst sins and amplified them tenfold until he was sitting atop a perch made of bloodless men, women, and children. He drank until his clothes were sticky with blood, chasing the buzz of energy that flowed through his veins with each gulp. Then, perhaps the worst phantom slithered past his teeth: a man with white hair and amber eyes, arms slack at his sides as Regis fed from his carotid, ripping through flesh and sinew until he had his fill of witcher blood.
Regis woke snarling into the dark, mind and body clouded in a dense fog. Geralt, who had been using the vampire’s alchemy station, stepped back from the mortar reflexively, gloved fingers taught around the hilt of his silver sword.
“Regis? You okay?” Geralt asked, slowly lowering his hand as he approached the straw mat. His steps echoed in the dimly lit crypt until he was crouching beside the vampire, concern etched upon his features.
At the sound of the witcher’s voice, Regis remembered where he was, who he was, and forced himself to sit up against the stone wall. “I-I… I am. Forgive me. The effects of the sangurium are still muddling my brain, it seems.” He ran his tongue across his teeth and swallowed, wincing at the hot taste of copper that followed.
“I did not harm you, did I? I’m having trouble determining what is real and what is a dream.”
Geralt shook his head. “No, you were only out of it for a second. Didn’t even touch me.”
“That is a relief.” He sighed, running a tired hand through his messy locks. “Tell me, do I look as bad as I feel?”
“Honestly? You look like a corpse.” Geralt said, sitting beside the vampire. Whether the man was simply too trusting or did so in an attempt to assuage his friend’s fears, the witcher left little space between himself and Regis, shoulders brushing with each exhale.
Despite himself, the comment was enough to ruse a chuckle from Regis. “Charming. Perhaps I should run out and converse with the nightwraiths. They’ll be hard-pressed to tell the difference.”
Geralt hummed in turn, gaze cast to the candles lit by the writing desk. “Regis, what happened back at Tesham Mutna… I’m sorry. I never would have agreed if I had known how much it would have pained you.”
“We’ve been over this already, Geralt. It was our only option. You did not force me to do this—it was of my own free will. And I would do it again if I needed to. Dettlaff is a dear friend and I owe him—and you—this much.”
Geralt could only sigh. From his time as Regis’ friend, the vampire’s self-sacrificing nature had been a point of contention between them. It was likely out of a desire to atone for his past sins that Regis sacrificed so much. While Geralt did not know the extent of Regis’ misdeeds, he knew that the man beside him was proof that anyone could change—and that second chances, even for monsters, could reap ample rewards. It was mostly thanks to Regis that the witcher’s morals had been reshaped—flexible, in a way, when it came to the beasts he was paid to hunt. He had ended plenty of contracts without bloodshed, finding that the world was no longer as black-and-white as it had been painted all those years ago when he was first training to be a witcher.
Even now, here he was, alone in a crypt with a vampire recovering from an addiction to blood. A vampire he considered a friend. No other witcher would even entertain the notion; all the lore and teachings told of higher vampires as being emotionless, blood-starved monsters, prone to manipulation and betrayal. Despite it all, Geralt felt no fear in the den of the beast, merely worry and concern. Regis seemed too damn human at times.
It was really only in the heat of battle that the witcher saw the vampiric side of his friend. Otherwise, the man was the epitome of well cultured and polite, a barber-surgeon with a penchant for mandrake brews, rambling, and the occasional morbid joke. He was almost laughingly nonthreatening for the most part, looking out of place in Geralt’s rag-tag hansa. From his scent, a pungent mix of herbs and roots, to his appearance, that of a man dressed in simple rags, clutching a satchel to his hip, nothing about the man screamed supernatural.
Until now.
“Uh… your teeth. And claws.” Geralt said, unsure in how to articulate his unease. It wasn’t fear that stirred in his gut, but sympathy. For someone with such a strong mental fortitude, even the witcher couldn’t imagine how difficult bloodlust must be, especially for a vampire who decided to live amongst his temptation. It made as much sense as a recovering alcoholic working as a barkeep.
“My apologies.” With some effort, Regis detracted his claws, grinding his teeth down until his fangs panged with pain and returned to their original length. “My faculties are not all together present at the moment, but know that I am not so lost that I would ever consider you a viable meal.”
Another wave of damnable bloodlust overtook the man and he doubled over suddenly, feeling his past efforts dashed as he hissed, clutching at his stomach. “Geralt… I think it would be best if you left. The temptation is too great.”
Before he had much time to think about his decision, the witcher pulled off a glove. “Drink. You’re in pain. Better you take from me then to lose control and attack an entire village.”
Regis looked at the man incredulously before he became a cloud of dark smoke, darting back further into the crypt and away from the warm-blooded human. “That is out of the question! You are not some meal to me.”
“Didn’t say I was. If we’re going to confront Dettlaff you need to be in your best shape. Doesn’t human blood help with healing?”
“It does, but that doesn’t matter—“
“Regis,” Geralt interrupted, pulling a dagger from its sheath, “If you don’t get over here and listen to me I’ll spill blood all over your books.”
In the next moment, Regis was beside him, a hand gripped dangerously tight over his wrist. “Don’t, Geralt.” The dagger clattered to the ground.
“If I take too much or don’t respond to your call, cast Igni with your free hand. Some fire should be enough to bring me back to my senses.”
“But—“
“We are doing this on my terms or not at all. I am half tempted to simply fly out of the crypt now. But I see the determination in your eyes. Your stubbornness is truly beyond any other creature I’ve met.”
Before Geralt could respond, the vampire was guiding him to the floor. Now that they were both resting against the wall, Regis dipped his head to the man’s wrist and inhaled, a throaty growl slipping past his lips. He could hear the loud thrum of Geralt’s pulse, a slow, steady pace that caused his fangs to ache. It was too much to bear.
“I’m sorry.” He said, digging his fangs unceremoniously into the witcher’s flesh.
Regis had a death grip on the man’s arm, cradling it to his chest as he fed, drinking up every last drop that spilled from his veins. He focused on remembering who he was drinking from, Geralt’s name becoming a mantra in his head even as the blood, sweeter than any human blood he had tasted, cloyed his senses. By the time Geralt felt any sense of vertigo, the vampire was already pulling away, licking the wound closed. For the first time since Geralt had reunited with him, Regis’ expression was completely peaceful. The worry lines that once creased his forehead and brow melted away, the bags under his eyes visibly lightened, and he was smiling—albeit with blood still smearing his fangs. Like a sated animal, he rested his head against Geralt’s shoulder, content enough that he could already feel the spindles of sleep tugging at his eyelids.
“Thank you, Geralt. Truly. You are much too kind to be a witcher.” He paused, listening to the man's heart-rate. "I did not take too much, did I?"
“Was that some sort of backhanded compliment? And no, I'm fine. Barely hurt.”
“In a sense. I merely meant that no other witcher would willingly give up his blood to a vampire. Though I am glad that I did not cause you as much harm as I feared.” Regis explained, letting out a fanged yawn.
“I did it because you’re my friend first, a vampire second. I'm sure if the roles were reversed you would do the same.”
Regis did not respond. He had fallen asleep, head still resting against Geralt’s shoulder. The witcher couldn’t find it in himself to rouse the man, not after everything he had done that night.
“Sleep well. You deserve it.” A small smile crossed Geralt’s face before he too succumbed to his own tiredness, wrapping an arm around the vampire.