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From the way the witcher’s knee and elbow ached— with the irritating consistency of an under-fed, snot-nosed child— a storm was on its way. He could tell by the intensity of his aches and pains that it would most likely reach their small, ragged company within a few days. Rubbing errantly at his stiff arm, Geralt cursed. He glanced back at Dandelion, astride the ever-slow Pegasus, talking to an evidently amused Angoulême, and even farther back at Milva, who’d fallen in beside Cahir. His companions all appeared to be relaxed, utterly unaware of the coming trouble. The witcher scowled deeply. We’ll never make it through the mountains at this rate.
“Is something the matter, Geralt? And if so, could it be alleviated by the aid of a barber-surgeon?” Regis asked, having pushed Draakul to move faster so that he could ride alongside the witcher.
Geralt grimaced at the being beside him momentarily, a sharp crease forming between his knit brows. Then he sighed and looked out at the landscape before them, rubbing at his elbow again, seeming not to realize that he was doing it. The higher vampire frowned at this, eyes flashing with concern. “There’s a storm coming,” the witcher replied tersely. He turned forward, shoulders stiff, posture erect and straight upon his horse. By all appearances, he seemed to be no worse off than a man experiencing a brief bout of ill humor.
Regis did not comment or query exactly how the monster-hunter knew this, nor at his somewhat aggressive display of normalcy. He also courteously ignored Geralt’s sudden, stifled groan as his companion reached down awkwardly to massage his knee. It throbbed with an echoing, fiery numbness that shot sparks of pain all the way down the limb. When the witcher finally straightened up, Regis spoke. “In that case, we shall have to ride quickly to avoid the worst of the inclement weather…” he paused, frowning momentarily as his gaze darted again to Geralt’s poorly-healed injuries. “We should also consider making camp soon if we’re to set out early tomorrow. I know the others could use a night of respite, and you—”
“Drop it,” Geralt interrupted, speaking sharply through tense lips. His gold-yellow eyes flashed with a warning. Regis regarded him calmly, but allowed himself a moment of private exasperation. The stubbornness of witchers truly knows no bounds. After a bit more introspection, his dark gaze met the witcher’s wary one again. The vampire said nothing. But surprisingly, Geralt did. “As long as we make it through the mountains before the storm hits, it shouldn’t worsen. You can examine me when we reach Toussaint if you’d like.”
Regis offered one of his formerly-enigmatic half smiles. “I would be more than happy to, Geralt.”
They stared at one another for a moment, seeming to communicate many things this way. He’s giving me a reprieve, the witcher thought. After a bit longer, he nodded gratefully at the vampire and looked away. Then he tugged at Roach’s reins and moved ahead.
`~`~`~`
After another hour of travel, the company had closed ranks and, for once, no one spoke. Each of the human members were too focused on retaining what warmth they could to combat the gloomy atmosphere by conversing. Regis was also uncharacteristically silent as he kept a discrete eye on his more vulnerable companions’ countenances for signs of illness. Geralt, unsurprisingly, was also uncommunicative, although his silence was, for once, not born of irritation or petulance but concentration.
The witcher was using his keen eyes to search for an appropriate campsite— ideally a cave or a recess in the towering rock face before them that was quickly turning into a mountain range. If that could not be found, then a gully enclosed by trees would do. Really, he would be satisfied by anything that could be made to block the wind and snow as well as offer some protection from the mounting cold.
After a half-hour more, he found what he had been looking for.
Geralt held up one black-gloved hand and stopped his horse. His companions did likewise. Cahir, well acquainted with the look of a man who was anticipating a fight, quietly dismounted. He cautiously approached the witcher’s side. The monster-hunter looked down at him, expression pinched and eyes hard. But he said nothing. So the Vicovarian stepped a little closer.
“What did you see?” he inquired lowly, sharp eyes searching their surroundings. “A monster? Soldiers? Bandits?”
“If we’re lucky, a potential stopping place for the night. If we’re unlucky… some combination of those things,” Geralt replied, equally quietly.
Regis materialized silently in front of the two men. Geralt did not startle, though he did tense momentarily. Cahir only jumped a little and swallowed nervously. “Forgive me for eavesdropping, but this seems to be an issue for which, shall we say, an unconventional solution may prove best. I would be more than happy to scout ahead for trouble,” the vampire said.
The witcher snorted at the offer. Then he recalled the earlier ache in his knee, his elbow. If there was trouble up in that cave, things might turn out quite poorly for him if it came down to a fight. And he did not want to give Regis more reason to complain when they reached Toussaint and the barber-surgeon saw just how poorly he’d been treating his injuries— not out of a lack of care, Geralt simply didn’t have the time— and the witcher had no wish to extend the inevitable lecture.
Cahir, still hesitant, glanced between the two older men. To him, they seemed to be locked in a silent discussion occurring through their distinctive eyes alone. Averting his gaze in a display of displeasure, Geralt relented to Regis’ request. “Fine.”
With a brief, practical nod, the higher vampire dematerialized in a blue-gray puff of smoke and was seen streaming his way off the path and up the hill towards the cave. The rest of the company, having been paying attention to this exchange, cautiously dismounted, and approached Geralt and Cahir. “Where’s he off too?” Milva asked, glancing pointedly at the witcher’s back.
“See that cave up there? To the left of the pine tree, above that small oak. He’s scouting it.”
The archer took no offense at the terseness, nor at the fact that the monster-hunter had not turned around or dismounted. She was all too familiar with Geralt’s injuries and she knew, from the way her own fingers ached with the cold, how poorly the witcher must currently be feeling. “Alright then,” Milva replied simply.
Dandelion sighed. “Oh, it would be nice to be out of this damned cold! Let us hope that the vampire’s spying turns up nothing— or if not nothing, then something no more dangerous than, say, several long-forgotten bottles with which we can set aside our troubles temporarily.” The comment was met with silence, save for Geralt’s irritated grunt.
`~`~`~`
When Regis returned, he did so with good news: the cave was empty. The company’s collective mood rose immensely. As the mid-afternoon turned towards evening, it had grown progressively colder and the wind had picked up slightly. Even the hardiest among them had not been looking forward to continuing their travels, or the prospect of making an exposed camp. So the witcher’s decision to stop early, as well as his keen eye which had spotted their campsite, were appreciated by all.
Dandelion, uncharacteristically, volunteered to venture back out into the cold in search of firewood— perhaps out of charitable good cheer brought on by the fact that he would be dry tonight, or out of concern for Geralt. He had not, after all, forgotten the events of Brokilon forest, nor would he for a long time to come. Angoulême was volunteered by Milva to assist him. Cahir and the archer had taken it upon themselves to form a firepit out of several large rocks and some rocky dirt in the cave. Regis helped them move the heavier ones. Geralt was caring for the horses, using their isolation as an excuse to privately deal with his pain.
Finally, Dandelion and Angoulême returned from their expedition, chattering between themselves and occasionally complaining about their cold fingers. Geralt followed them into the cave slowly. He leaned against the wall with a sharp exhale as those more experienced with fire-making went about setting the wood up in a proper configuration. Regis, standing apart from both groups, eyed the witcher with concern. For once, Geralt did not notice. His focus was on the fire-making process as if he needed a distraction.
After the wood had been arranged suitably, he pushed himself off the wall and moved forward stiffly. “Move aside,” the witcher ordered harshly. Everyone did so hastily. Knowing that crouching was beyond him— unless he wanted to make an ass of himself by falling— Geralt closed his eyes momentarily to center himself. Then he formed the sign of Igni and put as much force as he was able into it, and used his frustration at his situation to fuel the fire sign.
A burst of flame flew from his fingers and ignited the kindling.
Moments later, a cheery fire was growing steadily and Geralt felt the first traces of relaxation spreading through his limbs at the warmth. The witcher bit back a sigh and simply allowed the fire to do its work. There was a peaceful lull as the rest of his companions stepped forward and held their cold hands out to take in the warmth too. Regis, not needing the warmth, stood back and watched the ritual, eyes reflecting the firelight in a distinctively non-human manner. Then he slipped away quietly to gather more wood.
`~`~`~`
When the vampire returned, his assessing gaze roved over their camp and he saw that they were missing two members. He dropped the large fallen tree limb that he’d gathered with a sigh and turned to Cahir. Dandelion and Angoulême were bent over a cleared stretch of rocky ground with a large pot between them, evidently preparing for the evening’s meal. They looked up briefly, then went back to work. The knight, who had previously been sharpening his sword, stood and sheathed his blade.
“We seem to be missing Geralt and Milva,” Regis said.
The young man nodded. “Milva has gone off to hunt. There was a discussion about using our rations and who would be responsible for bagging tonight’s meal if we didn’t make use of them. The witcher is keeping watch.”
Regis grimaced briefly, imagining how that particular argument— between their two most hot-headed members nonetheless— must have gone. Especially if Geralt had not gotten his way and was already feeling vulnerable. He considered seeking the witcher out to speak with him but determined to give him his space for now. Nothing good would come from provoking the monster-hunter if he were already in a foul mood. Regis knew that humans, and mutants for that matter, were liable act rashly if provoked. Not that I myself am above such emotionality. “I see. Well perhaps not all cooperation need disappear from our camp— I could use another set of hands to break up this wood.”
Cahir looked, with amusement and perturbance, at the rather large limb. “I can see that.”
`~`~`~`
As the evening chill turned towards the coolness of night, Milva returned from her hunt. The archer’s bow was slung across her back and she held a rabbit in each hand. Dandelion and Angoulême cheered considerably at the sight, although the former looked away in disgust and the latter observed with interest as Milva unceremoniously began gutting her kill. Cahir sharpened a promising-looking stick to skewer the cubes of meat with before they went into the bubbling pot. It was a merry little scene and Regis was happy that the company seemed to be getting along. But he could not help but feel a pang of worry at the witcher’s continued absence.
His worry was alleviated slightly when Geralt reappeared in the cave’s opening as the smell of stew became more pronounced. The dimming light hid most of his expression from his companions, who looked up at his uncharacteristically loud steps. Only Regis saw the pained grimace which briefly crossed the monster-hunter’s face. Oh dear. He approached quietly, hesitating next to Geralt. The witcher’s shoulders slumped briefly and he made no protest as Regis gently looped his bad arm over his shoulder.
Without a word, Dandelion stood hurriedly and awkwardly carried over one of the larger blocks of firewood for Geralt to sit on. With a grunt, the witcher settled onto his perch and stared moodily into the fire. Every so often, he would rub his knee or elbow. His lips were pursed, and this gave the monster-hunter the appearance of being lost in thought. But his tense shoulders betrayed the fact that— as always— Geralt paid deceptively more attention to his surroundings than people imagined. His companions knew that the witcher was waiting for someone to ask after his health, or to offer him something, either conversation or water or to retrieve his bag. This would give him an excuse to lash out, assert his independence. No one gave him that excuse.
Instead, a companionable silence fell over their small camp, until Dandelion, who’d taken charge of the cooking, stirred the pot carefully with a wooden spoon and sniffed. He retrieved a bit of rabbit and several vegetables along with some broth and sampled it. Then the poet smacked his lips dramatically. “Not bad. Could do with a bit more pepper and—” a glare from Milva caused Dandelion to hastily amended his speech, “but all in all, a fine meal.” He stood and began serving the stew.
Geralt looked up when the poet held out a bowl and accepted it wordlessly. He ate quickly, neither showing pleasure or dissatisfaction with the meal. When he was done, the witcher collected his empty bowl and spoon then stood— much more easily than before thanks to his nearness to the fire— and retreated. Soon they heard him digging through his bag. Then Geralt sat in the growing dark away from the campfire, steel blade next to him.
Dandelion’s eyes flashed and he pursed his lips. The rest of the company looked to him uncertainly. The poet sighed, muttering unsavory things about bastard witchers beneath his breath. Then he stood and walked over to the witcher. He began speaking too quietly for anyone save Regis to hear. Geralt muttered something in response, arms crossing over his chest, though he did not move otherwise. Whether that was out of stubbornness or pain, no one was entirely sure.
Dandelion gestured dramatically to the fire with his arms thrown out, then put his hands on his hips. The witcher’s gaze darted to the group and back. Dandelion stepped forward slowly and crouched down. Equally as slow, he rested a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. The witcher tensed momentarily, then, abruptly, relaxed. He nodded.
The poet stepped back and held out a hand. Surprisingly, the monster-hunter accepted. He was slowly pulled to his feet and the rest of his companions averted their gazes when he stumbled. Dandelion swiftly retrieved the fur, then awkwardly lifted Geralt’s sword enough for the witcher to grasp the hilt. They approached the group.
“I’ll take first watch,” Milva declared firmly. She stuffed her hands under her armpits and then walked off. Geralt’s nostrils flared but he did not comment. Nor did he protest when Dandelion helped him sit near the fire in the space which the archer had just vacated. But when the poet went to drape the fur around his shoulders, the witcher snatched it from him quickly and none too gently. He folded it roughly and set the fur beneath his bad leg. Dandelion stood there awkwardly, looking a bit hurt.
Geralt sighed. “I’m alright, Dandelion.”
“I know.” The poet rested his hand briefly on the witcher’s shoulder then retreated into the darkness. He returned with a quill and his notebook.
Angoulême, who’d been poking absently at a rock with a stick, stood suddenly. “I’ll be up front with Aunty,” she announced, wandering off. Cahir continued to carve the stick he’d picked up, face relaxed.
Geralt allowed his attention to wander as he listened to the others’ various activities: Milva and Angoulême’s distant conversation, the scritch of Dandelion’s quill, and his distracted humming, Cahir’s knife’s scraping over the wood. His shoulders lowered slightly and the monster-hunter inhaled deeply as the fire’s warmth continued to work its magic on his muscles. Blinking, he realized that he had quite lost track of Regis. Just as the witcher had gathered himself to go looking for him, said vampire reappeared out of the darkness, herb-scent particularly strong, only not composed of its usual ingredients. Geralt’s nostrils flared and he frowned in puzzlement.
Regis sat at his side and opened his bag. What the witcher saw there explained the unusual smell. He frowned again. “I am not sure how much this will help you, but it certainly won’t be harmful. Nor will it dull your senses overly, merely provide… a bit of pain-alleviation,” he said quietly, holding out the small vial of murky herbs for the witcher’s inspection. Geralt’s lips pursed as he stared at the offering for a long moment. His gaze moved to the higher vampire’s face, where he found an earnest expression and cautiously hopeful, encouraging eyes.
Geralt exhaled. “How long will its effects last?”
“For several hours at most. I did not have the ingredients to make a stronger dose.”
The witcher nodded, wordlessly holding out his hand. He sniffed the vial again when he grasped it, then threw back its contents with the unflinching ease of someone who was used to ingesting far more unpleasant concoctions. He wiped his lips on one gloved hand then held out the empty vial for its owner to take back. “Thank you.”
Regis accepted it, replying quietly, “Of course. It was no trouble for me, Geralt. None at all.” He stood swiftly and retreated, giving the witcher his space. Cahir suddenly seemed to grow bored of his carving and stood. The Nilfgaardian who was not a Nilfgaardian tucked his knife away into a hidden pocket in his pants and nodded briskly at the witcher before retreating. Yellow eyes watched him until it was no longer possible without requiring movement.
`~`~`~`
Some time later, Geralt blinked, feeling a rush of drowsy warmth come over him. He realized, much more distantly than usual, that there was someone next to him. If it weren’t for his enhanced sense of smell, the witcher wouldn’t have noticed their presence at all, for the person cast no shadow. This observation should have been alarming, but he found that he couldn’t bring himself to care much about it. “Thought you said this concoction was weaker than usual,” Geralt murmured, twisting languidly to look at Regis.
The vampire smiled, fangs glinting in the firelight. He did not look at all apologetic. “That I did, Geralt. An unmutated person in your position would find themselves unconscious, or quite near that state, by now. I had no reason to believe a witcher would be as affected. I did not lie.”
The witcher stared flatly at him, seeming unimpressed with the argument. “A technicality.”
Regis’ dark eyes gleamed with amusement. “Perhaps. But not a falsehood all the same.” Geralt turned away, muttering something crass about the inherently untrustworthy nature of vampires. Regis snorted softly. “Yes, yes, malign me all you wish, my dear witcher. But in matters concerning my friends and patients’ health, I occasionally find it more prudent to ask forgiveness than permission.” Geralt scowled deeply but offered no further commentary. Regis smiled to himself and settled into a more comfortable position.
The witcher and vampire sat before the fire in companionable silence for a while after that.
`~`~`~`
Eventually, the fire burned low and Milva and Angoulême returned from their watch, each huddled beneath a fur. Cahir took their place. Dandelion stood stiffly, rubbed his hands, and grabbed a few more logs to toss on the fire. Regis had retreated, claiming he needed to reorder his herbs and take stock of his ingredients. The witcher had his bad leg stretched out before him atop the fur and his arms were splayed behind him, holding his weight up. His yellow gaze was half-mast, molten in the reflected firelight, and his characteristic leather hairband was gone, leaving white locks to spread loosely over his shoulders and upper back. He seemed relaxed, almost sleepy.
As the poet went about his task, the witcher observed him, and openly met Dandelion’s curious gaze. One corner of his mouth twitched upwards. The poet arched an eyebrow in return. His countenance reminds me of that festive, mandrake-soaked night we had in a certain vampire’s hut. “I was unaware that we possessed in our supplies alcohol of sufficient quality that you would choose to overindulge in it without sharing, witcher,” he jested.
Said witcher blinked, seeming to take his words seriously, much to the poet’s amusement. “We don’t,” he replied slowly. “Regis gave me something. For my leg. Otherwise I’d be sure to share it with you, Dandelion. To save myself from your bellyaching if nothing else.”
The poet colored slightly at the sound of Milva and Angoulême’s poorly-stifled laughter. But he was (mostly) unruffled by his friend’s barbed commentary. “Hilarious, Geralt. Truly, it astonishes me that you haven’t yet retired from witchering in order to ply your skill on the comedic stage.”
Geralt smiled slyly. “I will tell you why I haven’t, Dandelion. Firstly, both trades pay poorly, especially the latter if one is unfortunate enough to find themself with a face like mine. Secondly— and most importantly— unlike certain poets, or comedians, I still have my dignity.”
“You tell him, witcher!” Angoulême encouraged, shooting the poet a cheeky grin.
Dandelion was left squawking and huffing, quite indignantly, and turned to the archer for some assistance. Milva regarded him coolly, then shrugged. “He’s not wrong, Dandelion, and I’m not one to argue with the truth.” After that, the poet was left to sulk as he listened to the sound of feminine laughter, and Geralt’s deeper chortling.
Fortuitously for the poet, Regis soon returned and provided a distraction.
Dandelion turned to the vampire and said, somewhat pompously, “Regis! I demand you do something about your patient. Geralt is behaving quite uncouthly, and I fear whatever substance you gave him is at fault for it.”
Regis smiled gently. “I’m afraid I can’t do anything about the witcher’s behavior, my dear poet, except to gently remind him that his friendships might fare better if he were to save some of his harsh words for those he considers enemies.”
During this exchange, Geralt began removing his armor, finding that his good cheer and proximity to the fire had made him overly warm. The witcher did so with far less grace than usual. Damn it, Regis, he thought uncharitably, this clumsiness and idiocy is all your fault. A gentle, cool hand rested atop his, stilling Geralt’s movements. It was the vampire.
Conveniently, Milva, Angoulême, and Dandelion simultaneously experienced the desire to ready themselves for the night and had moved away from the fire. “Allow me,” Regis said softly. Geralt blinked and with some bemusement, let his hands drop.
Regis swiftly divested him of his armored top and loosened the laces of his boots. Then he courteously pulled Geralt to his feet and helped the witcher to his bags, noting with pleasure how the man walked without a groan or wince. Then he allowed Geralt to complete the rest of his nightly routine, knowing that he was not so out of his wits as to be incapable of it.
Since the fire was burning low again, Regis retrieved another log and fed it to the flames. Milva— back to the fire, apparently already asleep— stirred slightly. Angoulême’s eyelids fluttered. Dandelion, reclining beneath a fur, quill held to his pursed lips with his notebook open before him, didn’t look up. The scene was quite peaceful. The only thing missing was—
With more noise than usual, Geralt walked back into the cave, accompanied by a slightly worried, slightly amused looking Cahir. The young man met Regis’ gaze as he and the witcher came to a stop before him. “I assume you can handle the rest of the night’s watch?”
Regis nodded. “Indeed I can. Plesant dreams, Cahir. Geralt.”
Geralt inclined his head, gaze warm. “Night, Regis.”
With a bit of difficulty, the witcher retrieved his own bed roll and spread it out next to Dandelion’s. Cahir settled across the fire from him, nearer to Milva and Angoulême. The poet briefly met Regis’ gaze above the flames, then looked away. His expression was fond as he spoke lowly to Geralt. At last, all is well, Regis thought with satisfaction.
Half-listening to the increasingly nonsensical conversation— at least on Geralt’s end— the vampire adjusted the fur he’d pulled across his thin shoulders for appearance’s sake and strode toward the dark mouth of the cave. All is well, my friends, and I shall ensure it remains so at least until morning.