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By the time they made camp that evening, the ache in his knee had flattened to a dull stiffness, an incessant, annoying twinge that warned Geralt anew each time he asked it to take any weight. It didn't hurt that much, but writ large in every twitch was the promise he was but one bad step away from landing in the dirt in a rictus of agony. Geralt had by now had ample time to learn the language of his new injury.
He bore it with characteristic stoicism, but his darkening mood must have shown, because he found himself left largely alone while his companions made camp and debated what their surroundings might provide for supper. While Milva and Cahir set off downhill in search of water and game, and Dandelion curled himself away with his pen and role of parchments to make the most of the fading light, Geralt gingerly levered himself down with his back against a tree trunk, his bad leg stretched out in front of him. It wasn't especially comfortable, but it was something.
Some minutes later, he opened his eyes to find Regis hovering over him, his expression thoughtful. "How bad is it?" the vampire asked, making no bones about what they all knew.
"What does it matter?" Geralt replied, too tired and too grumpy to temper his words. "It won't keep me out of the saddle tomorrow, and it's not so bad that I'm tempted to ignore your advice about resorting to painkilling narcotics. You've already assured me none of your concoctions will help with the souvenirs of the dryad's knitbone."
"With the nerve damage, no, I've no herbs to recommend," Regis agreed. "But it occurs to me... we might see how it responds to massage instead."
"Massage? For nerve damage?" Whatever platitude Geralt might have expected, this was not it.
Regis spread his hands. "It may work or it may not—I don't presume to promise you miracles. But there should be little risk of making it any worse, and it may well be effective in relieving the joint of some of its sensitivity. Would you like me to try?"
Geralt frowned. "Alchemist, barber-surgeon and masseuse? You must keep very busy, vampire."
Regis smiled in his customary thin-lipped way. "As I may have mentioned, I have had plenty of time in which to learn. Well? Are you game? Take the offer or leave it, I won't be offended either way."
Geralt considered the idea. In his experience, massage was a service offered by scantily-attired ladies (or occasionally men, depending on the preferences of their clientele) attached in variously-official arrangements to city bathhouses—and one that was offered mostly as a precursor to services of a more intimate nature. Dandelion for one swore by the skills of a particular well-built Zerrikanian wench in sporadic employ at the Novigrad baths, whose experienced hands could, for a modest fee, supposedly reduce all the tension in a sore body to a single, specific location. Geralt himself had never had the pleasure, but understood the principle well enough. The notion of massage for therapeutic purposes wasn't new to him, but he had generally assumed the benefits to be two-parts polite fiction to one-part snake-oil—the stuff of vain indulgences of the nouveau rich. Were anyone capable of converting Geralt to the practice, Regis was emphatically not the person or even the gender he'd have pictured. Then again, if Regis thought it worth trying, to decline based on the idea that massage necessarily represented some sort of indecent proposition seemed a very narrow-minded, cowardly response.
"Why not?" he agreed, though not without some apprehension.
This apprehension was not much assuaged when he realised that giving Regis access to his knee would require Geralt to first remove his trousers, which were too stiff to be rolled up to the thigh. Nor when Regis produced a small bottle of sweet-smelling oil, coating his fingers in preparation for applying them to Geralt's skin. But having come this far, Geralt felt duly prepared to sit there in his scrunched long johns and submit to whatever proceeded, and to grit his teeth and bear whatever mockery his companions felt appropriate afterwards.
What followed in no way resembled an erotic massage by any stretch of Geralt's imagination. Digging his fingers deep into the flesh around the offending joint, Regis set about finding each irate nerve—not, as Geralt learned, in order to sooth them, but with the apparent intent to bring them into submission by force. The experience rather drew to mind those days early in his training at Kaer Morhen when their instructors had introduced the topic of pressure points with a painful first-hand demonstration. Geralt may have thought he and his injury had had ample time to become acquainted, yet under Regis' hands it revealed whole new depths of character.
"Regis," he began at length, "just how sure was that promise that this can't make my condition any worse?"
"I am afraid a certain amount of pain is necessary to reach the deeper pockets of tension," Regis explained, apologetic. "Though you may not feel it yet, I am making progress. I'd assumed given your profession, you'd be able to endure a good deal more than I'd risk with an ordinary patient, but if you need me to ease off..."
The tease in Regis' question was subtle, but it was enough. "No," said Geralt, too quickly, cursing his wounded pride, "If it serves a purpose, I can bear it." He gritted his teeth and concentrated on suppressing the growing urge to yank his knee away and punch Regis in the face.
True to his word, there was no easing of the force of Regis' treatment, and he could have been under no illusion about the result on Geralt—now and then he would even catch his patient's eye right before digging his thumbs into a particularly sensitive knot. Geralt hadn't lied in claiming he could bear it, but by describing this novel treatment as a massage Regis had left him wholly unprepared. Still, there wasn't much to be done but grind his jaw, distracting himself with the reflection that if this in any way resembled those services offered at the bathhouse, he'd been gravely misled about their appeal.
Unbothered by Geralt's expression, Regis eventually declared himself done. He finished his work by producing a small jar of salve which produced an odd, tingling warmth when he rubbed liberally around Geralt's knee.
"Best keep it warm, at least until after supper," Regis advised, "then you ought to see if you notice any improvement. We can repeat the treatment later if you feel it worthwhile."
Geralt pulled his trousers back on stiffly, by then feeling petty enough to privately hope for the opposite.
The ache persisted into the evening, but it was an ache of a different character, more reminiscent of the burn of a muscle well-used. The tenderising of his knee had done little to improve Geralt's sour mood and he made poor company throughout supper, his contributions tired and brief. Later, however, when he got up to answer the call of nature, he finally noticed what he hadn't noticed earlier in the process: not once while rising to his feet and or taking the requisite several paces out into the trees had his knee bothered him, let alone threatened to give out under his weight. Doubtless, one particularly bad step on the uneven ground could have still have undone all Regis' good work, but as compared to how it had felt earlier, the improvement was unmistakable.
He was still deciding whether he'd forgiven Regis enough to admit that his ruthlessness had come to good effect when he got back to the fire, and saw the vampire watching him with a barely-concealed smile. With a jolt, Geralt knew that whatever he did or did not bother to admit would be moot: that damned vampire knew perfectly well his massage had worked as intended. So he gave Regis a nod in thanks before settling himself back down, mind abuzz, still feeling the ghostly reminder of Regis' fingers on his knee. Perhaps there was something to this massage nonsense after all...
This ought not to have been such a dangerous thought, yet something in it lingered.
Later that night, Geralt rolled in his bedroll to put his back to the fire, and determinedly did not think about the curve of Regis' distinctive, purse-lipped smile, or imagine the touch of slim fingers working their way higher up his thigh—gentler now, as when he'd rubbed in that last dressing of tingling salve. He fell soon into uneasy dreams, which did not feature any barber-surgeon of his acquaintance asking after other sources of tension that might be troubling the witcher, the release of which might well improve his mood were only Regis' skilled fingers applied. He certainly did not dream of the inevitable smug satisfaction on Regis' face after the fact, because nothing of that nature troubled Geralt at all.
The good effects of the massage persisted the following day, but had begun to decline by the day after that. All the same, Geralt knew it might be several days more before he gave in and allowed Regis to put his hands on him again.