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“All in all, best part of the whole ceremony?” Geralt said. “It was short.”
Regis looked at him, seeming both amused and indulgent. “Perhaps for you, as you ducked out early. The others are probably just getting started. The drunkenness never ends in this quaint realm…”
“Not so fond of Toussaint after all, are we?”
“Ah, this place is like a strong wine, Geralt,” Regis said, something rather weary in his voice. “Good in small sips.”
Geralt looked down and away. What Regis had had to go through…
“How do you find my personal brew?” Regis said then, quite abruptly, before Geralt’s thoughts had had the time to turn too dark. “Not too strong?”
Geralt scoffed slightly, glancing up and then swirling the hooch in his mug. “Just right.”
“Credit the local mandrake, of the Alrauna Diavolis variety, for that,” Regis told him, as ever accepting even the slightest hint of interest as an invitation to lecture. “The tubers which grow in this area’s volcanic soil have an altogether unique flavor profile and display a remarkably uncommon dark-brown tint.”
“Fascinating,” Geralt said, and even managed to sound quite sincere despite his underlying amusement. “All I can say is, this batch turned out excellent.”
“Indeed,” Regis agreed, sounding quite enthused. “It might even be wise to stockpile some roots for the future. Would you care to accompany me?”
Geralt felt his eyebrows crawl upwards slightly. Picking roots in the dark? After the ordeal they’d just gone through?
Then he remembered precisely what the ordeal had entailed for Regis, and swallowed all protests.
“If you think it’s a good idea, let’s go,” he agreed. “But I think you might be forgetting one thing. Fresh mandrake root of this variety’s highly toxic, even to a witcher.”
Even as he said it though, he put down his mug and stood.
Regis did the same. “Ah, not a problem. I never forget matters of safety and hygiene in alchemy.”
Geralt swallowed a smile. Of course he wouldn’t.
Regis bent to rifle through a sack leaned against the log he’d been sitting on. “Here, gloves and a mask. Don them and you shall be in no danger.”
Geralt accepted the gear with a faint trace of bemusement. So this had been a planned excursion, then? Because higher vampires weren’t bothered by something as mundane as the lowly mandrake, that was for certain, and as such had no need for protective gear.
He swallowed his questions, though.
“Thanks,” he said. “Right, then – let’s go.”
The gauntlets he’d been wearing he’d pulled off before he’d accepted the first drink from Regis, so it was a fairly simple matter to pull the long gloves over his bare hands. He did so as they started walking, the rather stiff leather reaching all the way up to his elbow.
And it was good, probably, that he’d switched from that Toussaint Armor set he’d found in that blasted storybook – if nothing else because the gloves would have never fitted over the arm braces on that thing. The feline gear the grandmaster had made him was mostly leather, and hugged closer to his skin. It was light and supple, and didn’t make him feel like he had been hauling a damn fiend on his back at the end of the day. Still though… gaudy as shit, that Toussaint set had been, and absolute crap for trying to sneak up on anything, but damn it had been able to take a beating like nothing else he’d ever worn.
Regis suddenly made a soft, plaintive noise at his side, pulling Geralt out of his reverie.
"This moonlight makes me oh so dreamy"
Geralt glanced up and found Regis watching him, lips upturned.
"Penny for your thoughts,” Geralt said, disregarding the swoop in his midsection. “Let me guess - succubus twins?"
Regis gave him a look of endless patience and indulgence. "No, I was thinking about... oh, how anything can look interesting when properly lit."
Geralt could not seem to get his insides in order, and so focused on getting his other glove on as he attempted to lighten the worryingly earnest tone Regis had set. "Even an old necrophage corpse?"
There was a pause. Then Regis huffed slightly.
"You've not an ounce of refinement in you, have you?" he said and, though he chiefly sounded amused, Geralt did not miss the trace of disappointment.
Regis did not attempt any further conversation as he led them towards the mandrakes, and Geralt could think of nothing to say either. He almost felt… ashamed, to have shut Regis down so completely. What point had he been wanting to make? What had he had to say? What kind of friend was Geralt, that he refused to listen to him?
Then Regis bent down to extricate a mandrake and it was all too late.
Geralt let out a soft breath, donned his mask, and went in search of his own.
The moon was high and nearly full and lent him more than enough light to make the hunting not much of a challenge, and the roots came from the earth with only a bit of tugging. As he brushed the dirt from his second one, though, a rustling came from the forest behind him that made him freeze.
Quickly, he walked back to where Regis had been.
He was gone.
“Now where’d that bloodsucker go?” he muttered to himself, throwing the mandrakes at the foot of a nearby gravestone and tearing off his mask.
Regis wouldn’t be as easy as a mandrake to track down – he was a vampire, after all – and the stuffy scent of the treated leather of the mask lingered and interfered.
“Regis!” he yelled, and wasn’t that a bit of a nice change of pace, just being able to call after whatever he was hunting down?
He tried to push away the fear that maybe Regis didn’t want to be found, either. Geralt was the reason that Regis had had to kill one of his oldest friends – someone who’d basically saved his life – after all. Maybe he’d finally learned how to hold a grudge.
Geralt didn’t dare call out again, a pit in his stomach already growing from the prolonged silence after his first shout.
Vampires had excellent hearing, after all.
Damn it, where did you go?
He could see footprints, though, he told himself. If Regis truly did not want Geralt to be able to follow him, that was far more than he would have found.
Then he heard the screech.
To make the sign for quen was so ingrained in him that he did it without thought.
“You raised your hand against a vampire! You shall die for that!” the bruxa screeched, voice hoarse and the words mangled.
Geralt pulled his silver sword.
“I did what I had to do!” Regis shouted back, a furious vehemence in his voice.
And that, Geralt thought, sounded like a someone trying to convince himself more than anyone else.
The point was driven home further when Regis shoved his claws through the bruxa in the next second, separating her head from her body; an enemy that you intended to kill didn’t need to be convinced of anything.
Geralt sheathed his sword again, the creatures felled before he even reached them.
“Those bruxae…” he said carefully, stepping up to where Regis was kneeling by the corpses. “They called you a traitor.”
Regis did not look up at him as he replied. “Alas… We’ve a very simple code of honor, we vampires. So simple you might call it trivial. Either one is with us – unconditionally, regardless of the circumstances – or…”
Regis trailed off, straightened.
Geralt kept his eyes on the fallen bruxae, breathing through the sinking feeling in his chest.
“Won’t let it go, will they.”
It wasn’t even a question. He’d gotten Regis in bigger shit than he’d even realized.
“They will not,” Regis confirmed. “Fortunately, we’ve another rule – an unwritten one, and just as trivial as the first. It is neatly summarized in the saying ‘out of sight, out of mind’.”
Geralt glanced up at the higher vampire, insides twisting with guilt at the bitterness and sorrow he could hear in his friends’ voice.
“That is why I must leave Toussaint. For a vastly long time, most like.”
Geralt turned away, looked down. His life, his friend, his home… was there anything meaningful left in Regis existence that Geralt had not robbed him of?
“Yeah, I get it,” he managed, unable to look at his friend.
Regis let out a weary sigh.
“Let us make for my camp,” he said, as always too good to place any blame. “I have an overwhelming desire for another drink.”
They walked in silence back to the camp, Regis picking up the mandrakes Geralt had discarded on the way back. Geralt kept an appropriate distance and left the mask off his face.
Regis set the roots down again by a statue near the entrance to his tomb, but then kept walking and gestured for Geralt to head back to their place by the fire.
Geralt sat down heavily, watching Regis dig through his bag by the log, and wondered how the fuck he was going to apologize for this mess. How he’d even begin.
He had come to no nearer to any answers when, a moment later, Regis straightened with bottle in hand and a triumphant aha!
Geralt had drained his mandrake concoction, and so simply held out his cup for Regis to fill. He did so, leaning over the fire, the red wine almost at the brim before he stopped.
Geralt almost smiled despite himself. There would be no dainty Beauclair fine-dining experience, here, with tiny glasses barely wetted at their bottoms.
Regis sat back down on his log and poured an equally generous portion for himself. Then he brought the mug to his nose and breathed in deep.
“Mmm, supreme bouquet,” his voice was husky and content, like the incident in the woods hadn’t happened at all. “Firm, defined beginning, then develops gently, rising to a startling finish. Don’t you think?”
Geralt thought it sounded like a description of a good fuck, not wine.
He raised his mug and took a large gulp.
“Not much of a connoisseur,” he said gruffly.
Regis gave him a teasing little smile. “Then it is high time you started your education. After all, the Corvo Bianco Vineyard is now yours.”
Geralt barely suppressed a groan, a ‘please, don’t remind me’.
“By the way,” Regis added then, with a nonchalance that Geralt couldn’t help but to feel was somehow feigned, “I left a gift for you at your new home. On the nightstand.”
Regis had gone into his bedroom. There was a massive table right through his front door, why hadn’t that been a good enough spot to leave a gift? And even if it was especially important to keep it from other eyes in the house, Geralt had a bookshelf in his bedroom. A desk with drawers. Why the nightstand?
He, naturally, voiced none of his wonderings, however. Perhaps the nature of the object would make it clear enough.
“Thanks,” he said. “Mind telling me what it is?”
Regis waved his curiosity away. “A trifle. That will nonetheless be useful should you need mutagens.”
Geralt nodded and made himself smile slightly in thanks. Mutagens. Useful. Not exactly what he’d hoped for, but… then again, what had he hoped for?
”Incidentally,” Regis said, pulling him from his thoughts, “have you thought about what you’ll do with your prize? Shall you hang your swords over the mantle and take to pruning vines?”
Friendly curiosity was the only thing present in his voice as he asked, as well as perhaps the slightest hint of amusement at the prospect of Geralt with clippers in hand instead of a sword.
Geralt, though, felt something uncomfortable swoop in his stomach, and was silent for too long. The future had never been something he’d comfortable speaking – hell, even thinking – of.
Perhaps that was the downside of long since having come to terms with that the next day always could be the last.
Regis' own inability to choose where to go – to stay – also colored his thoughts.
“Ehh… don’t really know yet,” he managed finally. “Might find the life of a hard-working vintner too tempting one day.”
The words felt hollow as he spoke them, though, not sitting quite right.
He gave it another go: “Or maybe I’ll just stick to the Path, go on roaming, staring up at the stars after laying my bedroll at the roadside.”
It was the other, very obvious option. Very Vessemir option. Yet it sounded somehow almost worse, his own words painting the picture of it in his mind and all he could see in it was… loneliness.
The sense of adventure regarding his profession had clung to Geralt long – too long, Yen would probably have said – and had most likely been helped in sticking around by him stumbling onto events and contracts far grander than what was supposed to be a witcher’s daily bread. But the last few months… Living with his heart in his throat, picturing what would happen to Ciri should she be caught… The persistent sense of failure in not having been able to protect her…
It had taken something out of him.
Toussaint was warm and bright and, with Ciri safe, it had helped drive some of that away; the drumming hoofbeats of the hunt growing ever fainter in his memory. But to be alone again…
“Ah, roadsides, bedrolls and the sky above. I sense some poetry coming on… which of course brings to mind Dandelion,” Regis said, almost wistfully, that near ubiquitous half-smile of his back in his voice.
Geralt glanced up at him.
Regis’ company was always deceptively easy to grow used to.
“I can remember a night, not too far from here, if I’m not mistaken. We hid in a cave while a blizzard raged all about. Does that sound at all familiar?”
They’d crowded close, Geralt casting ignis for warmth.
“How could it not? We’d just set off to rescue Ciri from Vilgefortz.”
That other time getting tangled up with Geralt had cost Regis far too much.
“Our encounter with Vilgefortz, that is something I do not remember so fondly,” Regis said with forced lightness, mirroring his thoughts. “But that first stay in Beauclair, far calmer than this one.”
And now Regis would not be able to get another calm stay, perhaps ever again.
Yet Geralt saw no blame as he looked up at the vampire. Just kind eyes and the upturned corner of his mouth.
He looked back into his cup again. “Seemed like a land straight out of a fairytale back then. Its sole problem – cellars too small to accommodate all that wine.”
Not blood running down the streets. Dismembered bodies littered over the cobbles. If he’d been faster… if he could have managed to persuade the Duchess instead of letting his mouth run away with him like usual…
“Appearances, Geralt. Appearances, like mamunes and dopplers, deceive. So what did become of Vilgefortz?”
Did Regis sense the dark turn of his thoughts? Vampire or not, they’d certainly spent enough time together at this point to learn to discern some of what went on in the other’s head. And Regis had always been good at keeping him from getting too morose.
“Killed him,” Geralt replied after a moment’s hesitation, letting himself be swayed by Regis gentle steering of the subject. “Sure wasn’t easy, though.”
It was the least he could do, after what had happened to Regis. The only thing.
“What about you?” Geralt asked, then, both to push the images from his mind and because he selfishly needed to hear that Regis would recover from his fuck-ups yet again. “Any idea where you’ll go?”
Regis looked down and away at the question, something sad entering his faint smile.
“Distance is of the essence,” he replied after a moment. “I thought I might venture south.”
“Nilfgaard?” Geralt asked, something dark twisting in his stomach.
Regis nodded. “Why ever not? The Nilfgaardians are a modern society. None there believe in vampires anymore. This fact alone could be very useful to one wishing to remain incognito.”
It made a certain amount of sense, to be sure. Yet, a bitter voice in the back of Geralt’s head whispered of how all those he loved seemed to go south, to that sprawling empire that was so modern that no witcher was ever needed there.
Those he loved…
Geralt focused his eyes at the dark of the forest in front of him and pushed the thoughts from his mind.
“Hmm. Interesting point of view,” he managed.
It was his fault that Regis needed to move at all. He had no right to complain about the location of the vampire’s choosing.
Even if it could very well mean that this was the very last time they saw each other.
He let out a sigh.
“I so don’t feel like going anywhere. Sit here a while longer?”
The words seemed to arrange themselves in an order that had not been pre-approved, and Geralt could only hope that it came out sounding like a simple request for camaraderie rather than a futile pleading for a delaying of the inevitable.
It was foolish, too, perhaps, to stay here, considering what had just happened with the bruxae. But Regis, as he was wont to do, indulged him.
“So we shall, my friend,” he said, turning to him with a fond look upon his face. “We have witnessed – and, in fact, on several occasions, incited – many great and weighty events. After all that toil, I believe we deserve a bit of a rest.”
Geralt felt a small smile creep up on his face at Regis little speech, his flair for the dramatic. “That we do.”
Regis let out a contented sigh and turned to look out over the lake. Geralt, after a moment, mirrored him.
And so they sat, in quiet amity, sipping their wine, for a little while.
It was one damn good view.
Regis was the one who, eventually, broke the silence.
“Will you have company, do you think?” he asked.
“Hm?” Geralt asked. “Company?”
“During your rest,” Regis elaborated. “Will your Yennefer perhaps join you at Corvo Bianco?" His lips quirked upwards slightly. "Or does the climate disagree too strongly with her wardrobe?”
“Ah…” Geralt said, dragging his thumb back and forth over an indent in the rim of his mug. “No, she’s not likely to keep me company, no.”
Regis turned to him fully, then, a concerned look upon his face. “Did something happen?”
“Well…” Geralt began, feeling awkward, scratching a bit at his beard. “Found a djinn up in Skellige. Made it remove the magic over us, and… we didn’t exactly click after that, I guess.”
“Oh,” Regis said, eyes falling to stare at the fire between them. “Oh. Well. I’m sorry to hear that.”
Geralt shrugged uncomfortably. “It is what it is. Argued a lot anyway. I… still love her, but… just not in the right way. Suspect it's the same for her.”
He took another gulp of wine. Slightly too large a gulp, really.
Regis hummed softly, contemplating. “Did another turn your head? That Triss Merigold, perhaps?”
“No,” Geralt said, shaking his head. “No, it’s… it was all just too complicated, I didn’t…”
He found no words to describe just what he didn’t, and ended up just shrugging instead.
Regis held up a placating hand and smiled crookedly. “You need not explain yourself to me, my friend. I was simply enquiring.”
Geralt gave a vague grunting noise in reply and nodded. Then a thought struck him.
“What about you?” he asked, hoping that he sounded more casual than he felt.
“What about me?” Regis asked affably.
“You know,” Geralt shrugged, already feeling uncomfortable with his chosen line of questioning. “Women.”
Regis looked at him for a moment, almost incredulously. Then he abruptly chuckled. “No, no women for me, I’m afraid.”
“Oh,” Geralt said, frowning slightly. “Is it… bad luck, or a vampire thing?”
Regis looked at him for a moment, considering.
“It is, as you put it, something of a ‘vampire thing’, I would say,” Regis said. Then he glanced away and smiled humorlessly. “Though I wouldn’t deny that I’ve had my fair share of bad luck, as well.”
“Oh,” Geralt said again, looking down into his mug, swirling the last dregs around, eyebrows drawing even closer together.
He wasn’t sure that he knew what Regis meant… As a matter of fact, he was actually entirely sure that he didn’t know what Regis meant. Yet he already felt like he’d gotten in over his head, as far as this conversation went. Attempting anything further… surely could not end well.
“It is a… curious process, love, for vampires, you see,” Regis continued, then, perhaps taking pity on Geralt’s conversational stumbling. Though… he was cradling his mug in both hands, eyes seemingly caught by the fire, and appeared almost to be talking to himself more than anyone else. “It’s… more instinctual than for you humans. Closer to our baser selves. Often develops quite abruptly. And, as Dettlaff so thoroughly demonstrated, once established, the feelings seldom go away, even in the face of betrayal or rejection. To humans it really must seem… quite silly, really.”
Regis did glance up then, with a rueful twist of his lips. Then he lifted his mug to his lips and drank the last.
“Anyway,” he said, after the wine was drained. “I shan’t drag the mood down any further. You must forgive my glummer tendencies.”
Geralt watched him.
Regis pretended he didn’t notice – or perhaps that was the extent of his distraction, that he truly did not – and looked out over the lake again. Up at the stars.
“So you are in love,” Geralt said, a conclusion more than a guess. “And she does not want you back.”
Regis turned back to him, looking a bit surprised. And then there again was that twist of his lips that only seemed to contain regret.
“If you must know,” Regis said. “Then, no, I have no indication that he returns my affections.”
Geralt blinked.
“A man?” he blurted, only to amend: “a… male? A…”
His attempts stuttered out, suddenly uncertain on how to cross the linguistic divide between species.
At least Regis smile seemed more genuinely amused. “A man, Geralt, no need to strain yourself.”
He was uncertain whether that was confirmation that it was a human, or if Regis was simply making allowances for the fact that there was no simpler way of referring to a male of his species.
The thought of a human having caught Regis' – Regis' – interest… And then for the man to have spurned him?
“Does it disturb you?” Regis asked, then, sounding curious. “That it should be a man? As I’ve understood it, a great proportion of your kind consider it something unnatural for two people of the same sex to be so involved?”
Geralt raised an eyebrow. “You’re asking if a witcher would shy away from the unnatural?”
“Point taken,” Regis conceded, inclining his head and grinning slightly.
“’sides, Ciri has… dabbled,” he gestured vaguely, not managing to suppress a slight grimace, preferring to keep anything sexual as far away from Ciri as possible, really. And, then, before he knew what the hell he was doing, his mouth continued: “And I’ve also-… Well…”
Regis' eyes went round.
“Well,” he breathed, as though Geralt had imparted some deep insight on him.
Geralt waved dismissively in the air, as though that could somehow be enough to erase the admission from Regis’ mind. Judging for the look on the vampire’s face, very little would.
He could not help but to wonder a bit as to why the confession mattered so. Regis' choice of words when he’d asked of humans’ attitudes towards men together with other men had made it seem as though vampires did not have any such… reservations. But perhaps they did? Perhaps it was a rare thing, and Regis had not expected to find any company in his preferences?
Then another thought struck him: was that what he had referred to, when he’d said that he’d had his share of bad luck? That the man that he wanted did not want other men? Was that why he’d been surprised that Geralt had not found it repulsive?
That… did not seem like a gap easy to bridge.
“I’m sorry,” Geralt said.
“Sorry?” Regis asked, sounding bewildered. “Whatever could you have to feel sorry for?”
Geralt almost wanted to point out the whole Dettlaff situation and its consequences but, then, that was not the conversation they were having at the moment.
“That…” he begun, but then found himself unsure of how to continue. Finally, he settled on: “That you’ve been unlucky.”
Regis smiled gently.
“That, you need not be sorry for. I have other things that I value in life,” he said. “Your friendship, for example.”
Geralt nodded, as always unsure of how to return Regis’ startlingly sincere professions of affection. This night, though, with that vague shape of a human male in mind, Geralt also found himself to be slightly bitter that it wasn’t the right-
He shook himself.
“Still though,” he said. “It isn’t fun.”
Regis straightened instantly, eyes going sharp.
“You have… unrequited affections, as well?” he asked. “I thought you said that no other had turned your head?”
Geralt suppressed the urge to curse under his breath at his slip-up, and instead shrugged uncomfortably. “You asked about Triss.”
Regis blinked, looking rather startled. Then he chuckled slightly. “I suppose that I did, indeed.”
Geralt shrugged again, and slowly the amusement faded from Regis' face. And then the vampire’s eyes remained upon him, something so searching in them that it made him feel uneasy.
“So…” Regis began, after several long moments. “In light of your recent… admission… Is it a man or a woman, this someone who has caught your interest?”
Geralt closed his eyes and rubbed over them with his hand.
“I- Regis.”
Regis held up his hands. “I apologize, Geralt, I did not mean to pry.”
But, then, almost as if he could not help himself: “Though to turn you down… they truly must be someone very special.”
There was a very slight hint of derision in his voice, breaking through his usual politeness, that made ‘very special’ not sound so much as a compliment.
Geralt couldn’t help but snort. “Yeah.”
And perhaps he had not managed to keep the fondness out of that simple syllable, because Regis' eyes went sharp and searching again.
Then he seemed to catch himself and deflated slightly with a brief sigh. “Well, I shan’t lie and claim that my curiosity isn’t piqued, but I’ll respect your desire to stay quiet on the matter.”
Regis offered him a self-deprecating little smile.
Geralt felt his own lips crook upwards in response, nodding his thanks.
“Though, naturally,” Regis continued, “if you have a change of heart, you should know that I will always be happy to listen to whatever you have to say.”
“I… yeah…” Geralt said, doubting that the day would ever come, but appreciating the offer nevertheless. Then he added: “You, too.”
Regis' lips curled, and he bowed his head.
They left talk of feelings and romance behind them after that. They turned instead to reminiscing about their past adventures, discussing the lives of their friends, and getting caught up to what had happened to other while they’d been parted. Neither witchers nor vampires needed concern themselves overmuch with the coming of the dawn on account of missed sleep, and yet rarely had Geralt felt a night such as… finite as this one.
When the birds began to sing and the eastern sky began to brighten, Geralt had to acknowledge that all they were doing was delaying the inevitable.
He turned his eyes to the city on the hill, where light glimmered in several of the windows. Then he stood, rolling his shoulders and stretching his back.
“Well, guess I’d better get a move on,” he said, trying his best to act and feel as though the thought did not bother him.
Regis remained seated for a moment, simply looking up at him. And there was sorrow in his eyes that, for a moment, made Geralt feel ashamed that he’d attempted to make the matter light.
When Regis stood, it was with a weariness in his movements that did not befit an immortal.
As he straightened completely, though, he had a smile painted on his face.
“I suppose you should,” he agreed. “And I as well.”
Regis turned to look south, where there was nothing, really, except more graves and trees.
“You’re set on Nilfgaard, then?” Geralt asked.
Regis nodded. “Seems as good a place as any, to me.”
Geralt wanted to point out what he’d thought before – that there would be nearly no chance of them crossing paths if Regis was to be down there – but could not find a way to do it without it feeling accusatory. There was also the chance that a significantly lessened chance of running into Witchers did play a part in his friends decision-making, and Geralt was not brave enough to dare hear it confirmed.
He hummed slightly to indicate his understanding.
Regis turned to him with a twinkle in his eye. “I think I shall miss your verbosity most of all, Geralt.”
Geralt raised his eyebrows. “The way I figure, you talk enough for both of us.”
Regis laughed easily. “True enough.”
Regis simply looked at him, then, seemingly taking all of him in, from head to foot. Geralt seldom felt self-conscious anymore, but that look did it. Then his eyes returned to his face and he smiled.
“We’ve had a journey, haven’t we?” Regis said, walking round the smoldering embers that were all that was left of the fire.
“We have,” Geralt agreed, unable to make his feet move to meet him.
The vampire was upon him soon enough, however, drawing him into another one of those hugs of his. The last one, perhaps.
And, for once, Geralt wished himself to be clad in ordinary clothes instead of armor.
“Farewell, my friend,” Regis said, drawing back. “Our respective kinds have the possibility of leading long lives. Perhaps we shall see each other again, before our ends are upon us.”
Something in Regis’ smile told him that it would not be so.
Regis backed away from him, then he bowed.
And then he was smoke, whirling away in the air.
Geralt remained, watching, until all trace of him was gone.
Then he whistled for roach.
On the ride back to Corvo Bianco, Geralt reflected that Regis surely could not have meant to leave all his possessions behind? To simply turn to smoke and fly all the way to Nilfgaard? It would be faster, to be sure, but Geralt had seen the amounts of books he had amassed, and could not imagine Regis would willingly leave them all behind.
Which begged the question: why had he turned to smoke in the first place? To spare them both a prolonged goodbye? That flair for the dramatic setting in again? Or, had he simply sensed Geralt’s discomfort and decided to ease it?
It was not a question he would get answers to, and so he forced himself to abandon it as he unsaddled roach in the stable.
Stepping through his front door, he found Marlene already up and about. He’d already noticed that her sleep patterns seemed to have not entirely reverted back to normal after her time as a wight, and wasn’t too surprised.
She hummed when she spotted him, and had him sitting at the table with a bowl of porridge in front of him a few minutes later. It was nice porridge, made with milk and honey, strewn with fresh berries, and he realized that it had been long since he’d last eaten. The party he’d absconded from before much food had been presented, and Regis had mostly offered him drink.
Still he ate woodenly, finding himself unable to much appreciate the taste.
He grunted out a thanks to Marlene, stood, went into his bedroom, and fell upon the bed.
With a last, angry thought dedicated to maddening vampires, he fell asleep.
He woke feeling well rested, and it was an ill match for his foul mood. Even sleeping in full armor as he had been, the bed in Corvo Bianco was more comfortable than most other places he’d rested his head.
Now, though, he wrenched the boots off his feet and tugged at the straps covering his chest. And thank fuck that the chest-piece was easy enough to get out off on his own, and not one of those infernal things designed for pompous arseholes with squires to help them undress in the evening – he wasn’t sure either he, nor it, would have survived the indignity of having to call BB for help.
He flung the armor over the chair by his desk, the sturdy thing only barely managing to not tip over under the weight of it, and then his eyes fell to a square thing laying atop his nightstand.
Regis’ gift.
He picked it up.
It was slightly bigger than a deck of gwent cards, and about twice as thick as a good sized one. The outer layers were silver in color, whereas the innards were bronze-gold. His medallion was humming.
He glanced at the nightstand again, and found that a neatly folded piece of parchment had been hidden beneath the object. His insides constricted.
He put the silver box down and picked up the letter, unfolding it quickly.
Dear Geralt, it started and, fuck, he could practically hear Regis saying it.
If you are reading these words, it means I am already far beyond the borders of Toussaint and
Geralt had to stop reading for a moment. Close his eyes.
Regis was gone.
Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to open his eyes and continue.
I am already far beyond the borders of Toussaint and you have found my Mutagenerator…
I have been working on this device in my spare time…
You are surely wondering what function it is meant to serve…
As you surely understand, I am an amateur engineer…
I trust you shall find my gift useful.
Geralt lifted his eyes to the ceiling. Useful. Yeah, that’s what this was. Useful and sterile, like any good piece of alchemy equipment should be.
With a frown, he rubbed his thumb over Regis’ parting words.
Your dearly devoted friend
The last time they would ever see each other, and this was what Regis left him with? Instructions to a damn mutagen-whatever? Not-… no-… nothing else?
Squeezing his eyes shut, he crumpled the parchment in his hand.
“I take it my letter was not to your liking?” a vaguely amused voice said behind him.
Geralt spun.
“Regis.”
Regis smiled slightly and inclined his head in greeting.
“You…” Geralt started, not quite knowing what he wanted to say. “I thought…”
“That we’d said our farewells?” Regis offered. “And so we did. However, I… I found myself with unfinished business.”
Geralt frowned.
“You see,” Regis said, taking a small step forward. “There is a matter that’s weighed heavily on my mind for quite some time now. I have gone back and forth on what the optimal course of action would be, not least of all last night, and… well.” Regis drew in a rather deep breath, then let it out again. “I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”
Geralt swords stood leaned by the door. His chest and feet were bare, and the higher vampire opposite him took another small step closer.
What secret could a creature such as he – someone like Regis – keep from him for so long, and then finally decide to share on the very day that they were to part?
“Okay…?” Geralt said, somewhat warily.
Regis smiled slightly. “You need not be concerned. It is not a matter that requires your, ah, professional attention, let’s say.”
“Okay,” Geralt said again, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
The silence lengthened.
“And this is where I would tell you, no?” Regis said, seemingly half to himself, laughing slightly and his hands coming up to play with the strap of his satchel. “Gods, this is harder than I would have imagined.”
Geralt waited, feeling like a spring coiled too tight, feeling like he was about to leap onto Regis and shake him until whatever secrets he’d been keeping came falling out. He needed to hear whatever he was going to say.
He needed it.
“The truth is, Geralt…” Regis trailed off, now gripping the strap running across his chest in both hands. “Well, the truth is, quite simply, that I have loved you since the night that we met.”
Geralt stared at him blankly.
“Ah, they always speak of a lightening of the heart in situations such as these, don’t they?” Regis said, nearly conversationally. “I cannot say that I feel it much yet. Perhaps it is one of those things that will arrive with time.”
Geralt still stood frozen.
Regis regarded him for a moment, something of a grimace on his face.
“I must beg of you to say something soon, Geralt,” he said, finally. “Immortal such as I am, I do believe there are still strains too hard for even my heart to bear.”
Geralt managed to clear his throat.
“That’s…” he started, then lost his voice.
“Quite an embarrassingly long time spent on a man who’s always had another, I am aware.” Regis smiled self-deprecatingly. “Another who is a woman, onto that.”
Regis shrugged slightly.
“I take pride in that logic govern most of what I am, my friend,” he continued. “But this has never been a dominion over which it has held much sway.”
Geralt was still at the point where he found sentences hard to string together. “But- you- why haven’t you ever-…?”
“Said something?” Regis asked kindly. “I admit that I never saw the point. You had Yennefer, Geralt, a literally magical romance. And, beyond that, because I have always considered myself very lucky indeed to be able to call you my friend. To risk damaging that has always seemed, to me, to be a most ruinous error.”
It felt like someone had moved the sun in the sky. Like everything in his life needed examining in this new light, and the shadows all looked different than they used to.
“You said something now,” Geralt pointed out, and it wasn’t exactly the question he wanted to ask, but at least it was a complete sentence.
“Ah, yes,” Regis said, and Geralt thought that he’d almost come to hate that little smile Regis forced onto his lips whenever he would make a mockery of himself. “The events over the past weeks have forced me to… confront the depths of my affection. I’d previously thought that I knew the limits of it, but… not so.”
Regis abashed smile grew a bit wider, and Geralt had the absurd urge to punch it off his face.
“I thought it good that I give my foolish heart a rest,” Regis explained, spreading his arms in an almost-shrug. “Nilfgaard, after all, generally has little use for a witcher’s skills.”
So it was as Geralt had thought, in a way. Not exactly, but still enough that it hurt to hear.
“It doesn’t explain why you decided to tell me,” Geralt pointed out.
Regis' shoulders fell slightly, and so did his smile. “No, I suppose that it doesn’t.”
His eyes turned to the floor and his hands found their way back to the strap of the bag. Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and looked back up.
“I mean to never see you again, Geralt,” Regis said. “And I thought that you deserved to know why.”
Geralt stared at him.
Regis met his eyes evenly.
“Nilfgaard, huh?” Geralt managed finally.
Regis shrugged. “Why ever not?”
Geralt had to turn around, flexing his hands and then forming them into fists.
He spun back to face Regis.
“So that’s your plan, then?” he said, and his anger was leaking through, now.
Regis' mouth grew tight. “Such as it is.”
“Nilfgaard,” Geralt spat, taking a step closer.
Regis stood his ground. “What else am I to do?”
“Stay!” Geralt growled.
“An altogether unappealing prospect,” Regis said evenly, “considering the slew of lesser vampires that will surely haunt my steps.”
“Not here!” Geralt exclaimed, gesturing widely. “With me!”
A look of utter bewilderment came upon Regis’ face. “What?”
“You haven’t even asked me,” Geralt seethed. “You were just gonna fuck off to Nilfgaard.”
“Asked you?” Regis wondered, confusion clearly rising. “What would I ask you?”
Geralt looked at him with bitter incredulity. “How I feel.”
“How you feel? Geralt, I’m afraid that your feelings on the matter are entirely-…” then Regis cut himself off. Blinked. Then his eyes went to the floor. The annoyance melted away and gave way to something tentative, tense.
Then Regis looked up at him as though he was seeing him for the first time. “Geralt. How do you feel?”
Geralt made a wordless noise in his throat and stalked towards him. Regis – a higher vampire – backed away until he hit the wall.
Geralt pinned him against it and kissed him.
Regis let out a small noise of surprise. Geralt ignored it, just crowed closer and kissed and kissed. Regis made an altogether different noise, then, and his cool fingers brushed briefly over Geralt’s naked back. Then they returned, stroking more firmly along his spine.
Then Regis kissed him.
He tasted of the wine they had drunk, still, somehow, and those unnaturally sharp teeth grazed his lips. And, at that, it was Geralt’s turn making noises.
Those teeth…
Regis broke away, then, leaving Geralt’s head spinning.
And then he just stared at him, like he was a particularly difficult book he was trying to read.
“You…” Regis tried, but this time it was his turn not to find the words to finish his sentences.
“Feel the same, yeah,” Geralt said, nodding. “Not for quite as long, I admit, but for a while now.”
Regis scoffed incredulously, but it wasn’t an unkind sound. Just… disbelieving.
“Do I need to convince you?” Geralt asked, pushing closer.
Regis' eyelids fluttered closed for a moment, at that, in a most gratifying way.
Then he opened them back up and smiled slightly. “No, your word has ever been enough for me. I am simply finding myself… astonished.”
“Hmm,” Geralt said. “I usually have to wait until I get people into bed to get that reaction.”
Regis laughed delightedly, and Geralt took the opportunity to push his nose against the skin of his neck. To be allowed to do this… to finally be able to do this…
“Geralt, forgive me, but I must ask…” Regis said, laying a hand against his shoulder and pushing gently. “What… would this be, to you?”
Geralt frowned. “You’re not just a quick fuck, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m gratified to hear it,” Regis said, smiling quickly. “I just wondered-… That is to say-… Vampires usually-…”
“How long?” Geralt offered.
Regis released a breath. “Yes. Thank you. Not something precise, mind you, simply… to make certain that we’re on the same page.”
“Hm, I dunno,” Geralt replied, pretending to think. And that was mean, maybe, because Regis started looking a little crestfallen. “Our kinds can live long, after all. And we’re both pretty stubborn.”
There was a heartbeat of silence. Then Regis laughed.
“And do you view this as a point in our favor, I wonder?” he asked, but it was clear from his voice that he already knew.
“Depends, I guess,” Geralt replied, lifting his hand to let his fingers graze along the strands of hair on Regis’ cheek. “But witcher’s are known for their stamina.”
Delight and… something else sparked in Regis’ eyes, then, and warmth coiled heavy in Geralt’s stomach at the sight.
“Ah, but you are, at your foundation, mere humans,” Regis said, leaning close, sharp nails dragging against the skin along his spine. Geralt tried, and failed, to suppress the noise it drew from him. “Would you presume vampires to be in any way the lesser?”
“Dunno,” Geralt said, closing his hands around Regis’ hips and pulling him from the wall, back towards the bed. “Why don’t you view this as an opportunity to educate me?"