Archive of Our Own

Geralt understood perfectly well why Regis had not said goodbye to him. After all, the best way to keep a secret is to keep it to yourself and not entrust the mystery to anyone. Even a witcher can be coerced into revealing information if necessary; he knew this from personal experience. But if the witcher saw and heard nothing, then there was nothing to tell. Where did Emiel Regis go? Who the devil knows. In which direction did he go? Even if he had known, he would not have said. But surely some traces must have remained? Try tracking a higher vampire who wishes for only one thing - to disappear and for the entire world to forget his existence.

Yes, Geralt understood it all. But, waking up on the banks of Sansretour in complete solitude, he still felt a sting of annoyance. As he sat, staring at the barely glowing embers of the campfire, a feeling of inner emptiness intensified. However, Geralt didn’t pay it much heed. After all, anyone in his place would grieve the loss of a friend.

Fortunately, he had no time to sit and wallow in self-pity. The Beast of Beauclair had been defeated, but there was still plenty of work for a witcher in Toussaint, and the Corvo Bianco vineyard wouldn't generate income on its own.

Pushing his melancholy to the back of his mind in hope that it would “dissipate on its own", Geralt took a piss into the campfire. Whistling for his trusty Roach, he galloped off to his estate.

A new life awaited him.

Everything was happening so gradually that Geralt didn't even realize it. Indeed, his head hurt more frequently in the mornings, and his heart occasionally beat in a rhythm that was unusual for him, but being a witcher accustomed to toxic elixirs and potions, he paid little attention to such minor discomforts. After fulfilling particularly challenging contracts, he would sometimes be bedridden for days on end, so what was a little headache to him?

The trustworthy steward Barnabas-Basil and the servants either didn't notice the changes in the witcher or chose to maintain a respectful silence. After all, witchers were a peculiar and enigmatic lot, with their quirks and biological processes that seemed to operate on a different rhythm.

Geralt might have faded away in oblivion if not for the visiting Dandelion. Crossing the threshold of the mansion, the boisterous and merry bard loudly demanded to see the master of the house. But when Geralt stepped into the hall to greet his old friend, Dandelion, instead of rushing into an embrace, recoiled in horror.

"Geralt, did you gulp down some of that poison of yours?" the bard asked cautiously, grabbing his friend by the shoulders and turning him towards the light.

"Don't you dare talking about our wine like that in front of Basil, or he'll have a fit," Geralt raised an eyebrow but felt a sinking feeling inside. His heart tightened with a bad feeling.

"Save your silly jokes for the sorceresses," Dandelion snorted. "Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately?"

Geralt turned his head and stared at the mirror hanging next to the armor stand — a gift from Duchess Anna Henrietta, who loved grand gestures almost as much as balls and celebrations. Well, perhaps his face was a tad paler than usual, but due to the damned witcher mutations, a tan rarely took well to his skin, so it wasn’t all that surprising.

"I see nothing odd," he shrugged.

"Geralt, you look worse than when we hunted that creature in Oxenfurt, the one that was preying on drunken students returning home at night..."

"I am impressed with your choice of pronoun in that sentence."

"Oh, stop it! Where would you have been without me? And the ballad that came out of it was so wonderful. Believe it or not, someone even tried to claim it as their own, but I spread a rumor just in time..." As always, Dandelion started to ramble, and Geralt had to interrupt him.

"So, what was it you were saying? Ah, yes, you had drunk some of your concoction back then — your face changed, just like now! Skin as white as snow, dark hollows of your eyes... How did it go?" Dandelion furrowed his brow and began to recite to himself under his breath:

"How vulgar," Geralt sighed. Back then, those lines followed him in every tavern and brothel: after all, Dandelion knew how to create hits that even the laziest bards would then cover, even though Geralt sometimes found his art to be vastly overrated.

"As if you understand any of this," Dandelion retorted, not at all offended. "In short, you look just like you did then. You've lost weight, become as pale as milk, and what's that on your cheeks? Swollen veins? And I've only just arrived."

Geralt resisted the urge to roll his eyes and hurriedly tried to divert Dandelion's attention to his own accomplishments.

Fortunately, Dandelion could chatter about himself for hours.

However, when they sat by the fireplace in the evening, sipping wine and reminiscing about past adventures, Geralt suddenly coughed, covering his mouth with his sleeve. When he pulled his hand away, he saw that the white linen fabric was stained with blood.

"Damn it," he muttered. Pieces of the puzzle came together instantly; it seemed his subconscious had been analyzing a problem he hadn't even fully recognized. Geralt tried to discreetly pull up his sleeve, but the curious bard was already peering over his shoulder, flaring his noticeably long nose.

"Oh dear," Dandelion drawled. "Well, at least now we know for sure what's going on. Should I congratulate you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Geralt pushed him away with his shoulder. "It might just be sarcoma or tuberculosis."

"Or maybe you're mistaking wishful thinking for reality, huh, Geralt?" the poet smirked. "Has your lone wolf image finally crumbled like a house of cards? Come on, admit it, who is she and why did she leave you? Or maybe you left her, not realizing what you were giving up?"

"Dandelion..."

"No, no, Geralt, it's my duty as a friend to contribute to your personal happiness. After all, it was you who saved me from captivity and returned me to my precious Priscilla just in the nick of time. If not for you, we would've died and now rested in a small, cozy cemetery near Novigrad. Who knows."

"You're exaggerating."

"Not at all! And one day, I'll write about your feats in my memoirs! But right now, I must find out who this beautiful stranger is and do everything in my power to reconcile the lovers. Let me guess, you got involved with some village girl in the local winery but left after completing a contract?"

"No, Dandelion, it's not…"

"You're always like this, Geralt! You destroy happiness with your own hands and don't let anyone love you, hiding behind the myths about witchers. Supposedly, your only destiny is to follow the Path in complete solitude. Nonsense!"

With a barely noticeable smile, Geralt shook his head. Dandelion had jumped on his favorite topic and was now clearly relishing the sound of his own voice. All the witcher had to do was wait for the torrent of eloquence to dry up and then present his version of events.

"It's Regis," he admitted, as the obliging Barnabas-Basil brought a dish of snacks and Dandelion took a short break to eagerly bite into a chicken leg. "At least, I think so. We spent a lot of time together over the past month. And when he left — that's when it all began."

"Regis?" Dandelion choked and took a sip of wine. "That's impossible! You've known him for a hundred years!"

"I know," Geralt shrugged. "But back then, I was involved with Yen."

Dandelion froze, not bringing the cup to his mouth. He was always curious about what exactly Geralt had wished for many years ago when the furious djinn was ready to wipe Yennefer off the face of the earth. He had to tie his fate to hers, but use a formula that left the djinn with no room for maneuver. Dandelion wrote many ballads about the famous last wish and propagated the theme himself, but the actual formula remained a mystery to him. As a result, he hid it behind numerous metaphors and insinuations, typical of poetry.

But now it was crystal clear: Geralt wished for him and Yen to be soulmates, binding their lives forever. If the djinn harmed the sorceress, it would also destroy its master, which was beyond its abilities.

Such an artificial bond, however, couldn't bring them happiness. And now, with it broken, Geralt finally met someone truly meant for him.

The rest was just details.

"Well," Dandelion remarked, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of excellent ballad material he received that day. He should visit Geralt more often. "Now you just need to find Regis and never part with him again. So where did you say he went?"

The witcher shrugged.

Geralt wasn't particularly afraid for his life. Despite always finding a chatterbox in the inn, whose "friends of friends" or "acquaintances of acquaintances" perished from prolonged separation, he had never encountered evidence of such cases. Thus, he regarded the tales of the fatality of soulmate bonds as merely a myth. Indeed, he now felt firsthand how much one's well-being can deteriorate away from their counterpart, but believed that even this state had its limit.

However, the moment of realization opened a Pandora's box. As soon as the label was pinned on Emiel Regis, melancholy once again overtook the witcher, intensifying day by day. The vampire needed to be found as soon as possible, and only the sorcerers could help.

More precisely, one particular sorceress.

"You want me to do what?"

Yennefer planted her hands on her hips and angrily glared up at Geralt, somehow making him feel shorter – she had that effect. He could swear that her hair seemed to move like a nest of snakes.

"To find my destined one," Geralt coolly repeated his request.

"Whom you let slip like a complete fool," nodded Yennefer. "Yes, yes, I've heard. It was a rhetorical question. I'm simply astounded that even at your age, you still manage to land yourself in these situations, only to then come to me — expecting me to fix everything with a wave of a magic wand!"

"Well, you are a sorceress," Geralt smirked snidely. Seeing the flustered and muttering Yennefer, warmth spread in his chest. Amazingly, after the genie's spell was lifted, she seemed much more pleasant to him than before. It felt like seeing an old beloved friend after a long separation. Heck, even the sight of Istredd, who had answered the door wearing only a robe, didn't bring annoyance or resentment, just amused surprise. Finally, he and the sorcerer had nothing left to divide between them.

"Ha-ha, hilarious! It's comforting to see that your prickly sense of humor remains," snorted Yen. Her violet eyes continued to shoot daggers, but her lips twitched into a smile. "And how am I supposed to find your precious bloodsucker? As if you don't know that his kind can't be detected by scanning magic."

"Yes, Regis mentioned something like that. He also said vampires can be detected at close range."

"Like running into them face-to-face in a dark alley?"

"He mentioned analytical magic. Maybe if we track environmental changes where scanning magic shows a void, or... or..."

Geralt swayed and heavily dropped to one knee, suffering from another bout of weakness. This had a remarkable effect on Yen: she immediately switched from anger to compassion, seating Geralt in a massive oak chair and promising that she would certainly think of something.

"Don't worry, witcher," she assured, gently stroking his hair tied in a tail. "We'll find your beloved, and everything will be fine again."

"I'm not worried," the witcher croaked, wiping the blood that appeared at the corner of his mouth.

His confidence that his health was not at risk wavered.

To fulfill Geralt's request, Yennefer had to use all her connections and enlist dozens of sorcerers from various corners of the world. While she was searching, Geralt was staying at her estate and could have enjoyed all the pleasures of a carefree life, if not for his deteriorating condition. Now, looking in the mirror, even he noticed the changes. Shadows formed under his eyes, persistent even after a full night's sleep, and his face was marred with blue veins, forcing Geralt to constantly wear a hood to avoid scaring the village children.

He had become terribly thin and gaunt, but he still continued to train as much as his condition allowed. After all, even if Yennefer managed to find Regis, he would still have to get to him, and Geralt seemed to magnetically attract ghouls, alghouls, and other corpse-eaters, so an easy and safe journey was not to be expected.

After a month of living like this, Yennefer finally found out that Regis had settled on Faroe. As his shelter the troublesome vampire, of course, chose a hut on the highest point of the island, which would be a challenge even for a mountain goat, let alone a man.

All these details were provided by Yen's arch-enemy, the druid Mousesack, and Geralt would have to repay this immense debt and somehow compensate Yennefer for the inconvenience in the future.

Assuming he was to survive, of course.

Geralt vaguely remembered the journey to Skellige. On the ship, he slept most of the time, and when he was dropped off at the port of Kaer Trolde, he was lucky enough to bump into a local shipbuilder named Bjorg, for whom he had once completed a contract on a water hag terrorizing coastal villages. Taking pity on the exhausted witcher, Bjorg helped him find a ship heading to Faroe.

The sailors dropped him off in a semi-conscious state in the village of Harviken, and this could have been the end of Geralt's adventure: at that moment, even a child could have robbed him, emptying the contents of his bags and stripping him naked to save the quality wool clothing. The islanders weren't known for being courteous to the guests of hostile clans.

It could have ended just like that, but as Geralt stood on the pier, blinking sleepily, trying to take in his surroundings and figure out exactly where he was, a figure in a dark-blue cloak with a hood approached him. A moment later, a familiar hand with long, well-manicured nails rested on his shoulder. The air was filled with the scent of wormwood, camphor basil, sage, anise, cinnamon, and a dozen other medicinal herbs, for which Geralt already had a name — it smelled like home.

“Oh my, is it really Geralt of Rivia visiting me in such an unsightly place?"

"You're not surprised, I see," Geralt covered the pale hand with his own and closed his eyes, letting the familiar voice envelop his inflamed consciousness, providing its inexplicable therapeutic effect.

"Friends told me you came to Skellige."

"Made friends with the seagulls already?"

"Yes, but I confess to you in secret, I prefer crows. Just don't tell them, or they won't leave me alone."

A cold flask neck pressed against Geralt's lips, and he took a deep gulp, feeling the fiery liquid slide down his throat and explode in his stomach.

"I have to admit, the way you uncomplainingly accept something from my hands... it has a certain potential."

Geralt threw back his head and laughed hoarsely, then, for the first time in all this while, he took a good look at Regis. From under the hood, two cunning black eyes stared at him beneath graying eyebrows. It might have been the cold sea air, the predawn hour, or perhaps the blood of Dettlaff he had consumed, but in the six months they hadn't seen each other, Regis seemed noticeably younger. The regeneration was in full swing.

"I simply trust you," Geralt admitted, leaning on the offered hand and allowing Regis to lead him away from the pier and into the village.

"Oh?"

"I missed our conversations."

Regis smiled and mumbled something unintelligible, fully occupied with ensuring that Geralt didn't collide with the fishermen, traders, porters, and other regulars of the port rushing along the shore. The islanders were early risers.

"You knew I would find you, didn't you?"

"Of course, my dear. What's more, I wished for it. Otherwise, I wouldn't have come within an arrow's shot of your druid friend."

"Judging by everything, for the Dimun clan your presence on the island isn't news either," Geralt muttered, noticing how the herb trader nodded to Regis as they passed by.

"Well, you know me. Wherever I go, I always start spreading goodwill and altruism."

"Instead of hiding from your vampiric kin? You haven't forgotten there's a hunt declared on you?"

"I haven't forgotten, Geralt," Regis sighed, leading the witcher to a saddled donkey standing at the hitching post alongside a few bay steeds.

"No way, I'm not riding that!"

"Is the little donkey Vargosh not worthy of the protégé of the great Duchess Anna Henrietta? If you keep fussing, I'll carry you home myself."

Geralt grumbled a bit more for appearances, but then he did climb onto the donkey and wrapped himself in his cloak, shielding from the damp sea air. Regis took the animal by the reins, and the three of them left the village.

As soon as they left Harviken, the road started climbing steeper, leading them through a valley to the base of Mount Slettur. At one point, Geralt looked back and realized they had climbed quite high: below, Harviken spread out like a toy village, made up of hastily assembled wooden houses. On the horizon, one could make out the outlines of a neighboring island, most likely Fyresdal.

The vampire remained silent all the way, and Geralt didn't feel like breaking the silence either. He felt good: the sun had just risen, a surprisingly gentle Skellige breeze played with his hair, wrapping him in the scents of mountain herbs and the sea.

Finally, the brave donkey clambered onto another ledge, and the witcher saw a crooked hut on a gentle mountain slope, surrounded by a low fence. Along the moss-covered walls beds of arinaria and swallow's herb stretched.

"Here we are. Welcome to my humble abode. Under normal circumstances, I would, of course, have chosen a charming crypt, but I think you'll like it much better here. A great place to recover and regain strength."

"You knew everything, didn't you? From our very first meeting in Fen Carn?" Geralt asked the question that had been bothering him. He dismounted from the donkey. It scampered off joyfully and started nibbling on the fresh grass by the fence.

"My knowledge is truly vast, but even I don't know everything. I’m afraid, my dear friend, for a clear answer you'll have to be more specific," the vampire smirked, revealing a set of sharp teeth.

"So you did know," Geralt nodded, grabbing Regis by the edges of his cloak and pulling him closer. His eyes narrowed dangerously and glowed with a predatory feline gleam. "You knew, and yet you left me to die."

Regis stopped smiling, soothingly stroked the witcher's hand.

"You must forgive me for that trick, my dear. I admit, I had suspicions, but all these years you paraded your numerous sorceresses in front of me, yet for some reason you didn't suffer from incurable diseases or drop dead to the ground."

"And you would have liked that very much, wouldn't you?"

"On the contrary, it would be a pity to lose such a splendid specimen of masculinity, pleasing both the eye and ear. But a man must make his own choices, Geralt. I left to give you the freedom to make that choice for yourself."

"As if I have one. Without you, I feel miserable."

"Self-suggestion, Geralt, nothing more, and you know it perfectly well."

Regis raised his hand and caressed his cheek.

"We can joke about this as much as we want, but no one ever died of separation; these are just tales, fictions of romantics. However, your romantic longing was so strong that it drove you to the other end of the world, and I'm very flattered to, for once, be the object of that longing."

Geralt caught his fingers and brought them to his lips, warming the vampire's cold skin with his breath.

"Your abstruse speeches make my head hurt."

"I know. It's all the more surprising that you chose me. What, no more busty brunettes who set tapestries alight with a wave of their hand?"

"Regis..."

"And no ginger sorceresses with slender waists and devoted puppy-dog eyes?"

"God, you can be such an insufferable jerk sometim..."

The sun was rising over the island of Faroe.