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Everything after that first drop of blood was a blur. Sensation came back to him in pieces, pain crashing through his body as Regis struggled against the shackles holding his wrists in place. This was his own plan, some dim part of his awareness reminded him. Geralt had protested. But there was no other path forward.
The violence of his hunger left him delirious, the scent of blood spilled fresh and hot upon the dilapidated stone floor of Tesham Mutna filling his flared nostrils. But the cage held. Regis threw his body against it with all his strength, but his momentum transferred uselessly into the swinging motion of the chain.
It was beyond torture. He’d expected as much. Centuries of longing hooked deep into his core, tugging mercilessly. If he didn’t taste blood soon he would perish from sheer want.
His prison crashed to the ground. A blinding flash of pain slashed through the haze of bloodlust as the sensitive flesh on his palm was rent open. He snapped his teeth at the blurry figure who grabbed his fingers.
“Easy now. Scent of blood’ll fade in a few hours. I’ll be here the whole time. Just breathe.”
He breathed. Harshly at first, then slowly. In and out, in and out, as the scent of blood steadily grew less potent. When he opened his eyes, his body felt like his own again. Just far weaker, with blurred vision and stiff joints to add to his exhaustion.
The shackles released his wrists and he fell to the floor of the cage. A vaguely familiar voice repeated, “Easy, I’ve got you,” as a pair of arms wrapped around his chest and hauled him to his feet.
Attempting to stand on his own nearly sent him crashing to the floor again, but the blurry figure caught him around the waist before his legs gave out completely. His arm was slung across a pair of narrow shoulders, muscular and knotted with tension. The familiar scent of leather, viscera, and sweat hung in the air. Geralt.
Regis tried to walk, he really did, but the witcher had to half-carry him out of the castle ruins.
“Of all the foolish plans…” Geralt’s voice was gruff, but a tremor of genuine worry lurked beneath his stiff tone. “You might have warned me what that was going to be like for you.”
“Ah,” Regis raised a finger, but lacked the strength to waggle it. “But then you might have attempted to dissuade me.”
“From torturing yourself? Yeah. Yeah, I might’ve.”
“Geralt, there was no other way.”
“Don’t believe you. But it’s done. Let’s get you home.”
Regis managed to remain upright in the saddle for several moments unassisted before nearly toppling off Roach’s back. Heaving an exasperated sigh, Geralt swung up into the saddle behind him and reached around his waist to grasp the reins. Drained of strength and fighting the residual thrall of bloodlust, Regis slumped back against Geralt and focused on the steady rise and fall of his chest against his back. He breathed in time with the witcher, the makeshift meditation emptying his mind of everything besides the gentle caress of the brisk night air and the crunch of gravel beneath Roach’s hooves.
The long trudge back to Mère-Lachaiselongue was a blur. He didn’t remember dismounting, but he did open his eyes long enough to realize that Geralt was carrying him down the steps of the mausoleum. With a grunt, he was gently deposited on the thin mattress that served as his bed.
“How do I brew it?”
Regis blinked, struggling to focus his eyes. “Hmm?”
“The potion, Regis. Teach me how to brew it. You’re in no state.”
“While your alchemical skills are no doubt more than adequate for your witchers’ tinctures, Resonance is notoriously sensitive. One wrong move will spell disaster,” he sat up slowly. “I shall prepare the potion- no, Geralt, I insist.”
“Are all higher vampires so stubborn?”
“Are all witchers?” Regis retorted, rising unsteadily to his feet.
He’d set out all the ingredients before their trek to Tesham Mutna, with the precious vial of spotted wight saliva nestled in a wooden case for extra protection. While Regis measured out powders with shaking hands, Geralt shed pieces of his armor. As he peeled battered leather away from his skin another heady waft of blood assaulted Regis’ frazzled senses.
“Give me a moment and I’ll see to that wound.”
Geralt pulled his shirt over his head, exposing a nasty, jagged slash down the left side of his ribs. “Just focus on brewing the damn potion. It isn’t deep enough to need stitches- if it were any other time, I’d let you, but I can see your hands trembling.”
“At least let me clean it,” he frowned.
“Regis, I’ve dressed far worse injuries on my own. Please-”
“-My disinfecting solution is in the small table to your right, second drawer from the top,” he continued stubbornly, returning his focus to the mixture now gently simmering in a glass flask over an open flame.
The drawer creaked open as Geralt rummaged through the neatly-labeled surgical supplies. “I do have my own, you know.”
“Yes, but mine is undoubtedly better.”
Geralt huffed what sounded like a laugh through his nose, then hissed as he pressed an alcohol-soaked cloth against his injured side.
“We’re nearly finished. At this stage,” Regis tapped the glass with a long, filed fingernail, “it merely needs to simmer until it becomes opaque. Then I shall add the final component.”
“The blood you sourced by subjecting yourself to torture.”
“Yes, yes, Geralt. You have made your disapproval quite clear. Now, I suggest you lie down and rest. I am afraid that the effects produced by resonance will be quite draining, even for a witcher.”
“Rather see you get some rest. You’re barely keeping upright. Are you sure I can’t finish this myself?”
Regis paused, considering the offer. He swayed slightly and nearly stumbled. That settled it.
“Wake me the moment that liquid turns opaque. And don’t let the fire go out.”
He traipsed over to the mattress and lowered himself to the ground. “If anything starts to smoke you must reduce the heat immediately, and-”
“-Just rest, Regis.”
He did not need to be told twice. The moment his aching body made contact with his thick woolen bed coverings, he slipped into a heavy, dreamless slumber.
A gentle hand on his shoulder shook him awake. He blinked into the warm light of the brazier at the foot of his bed and Geralt’s face swam into focus.
“I think it’s ready. You feeling any better?”
“Much the same, I’m afraid,” Regis grunted as he allowed his friend to help him stand.
The potion was nearly complete. Reducing the heat gradually produced a thick, opaque liquid with a pungent smell. Regis transferred the mixture to a small glass vial and gestured toward his mattress.
“Sit, please.”
Geralt looked as though he was about to argue but complied with the request, perching on the edge of the mattress with a hand clamped over his freshly-bandaged ribs.
“I shall monitor your condition while you are under the potion’s effects.”
“Regis, you’re barely keeping yourself upright. This could take hours. I’ll be fine, you should rest.”
“I insist. If it proves too toxic, I will have to purge it from your system. And even that may be ineffective. Time will be of the essence-”
“-At least sit down.”
“Very well,” he huffed and made his way across the room, his steps careful and slow. He sat down harder than he intended, crashing onto the edge of the mattress. Geralt held out an arm to steady him.
“Lie down before you drink it,” Regis passed over the vial, still warm to the touch. “If you collapse, I will not have the strength to move you.”
“Fine.” Geralt stretched out, grunting in discomfort as his injured ribs made contact with the bedding. He downed the potion in one quick belt.
“You should lie down too,” he muttered as his eyes unfocused. Resonance was taking effect quickly, draining the color from his face and making thick, purple veins stand out against blue-tinged skin. His jaw locked up, his breathing turning harsh and heavy. A series of violent shudders shook his frame, tensing his muscles until the fight went out of the witcher’s body all at once. He was still. Regis listened carefully, his keen senses tracking the slow pattern of Geralt’s breathing. It was steady. Not as deep as he’d like, but the stability was a good sign. He’d made it through the initial surge of toxicity.
Geralt’s suggestion that he lie down as well was sounding more tempting by the moment, but Regis feared that even a momentary repose would invite slumber. He found a compromise, lowering himself down at Geralt’s side and resting his head on his chest. This way if anything went wrong he’d hear it. He shifted until the slow thump of the witcher’s heartbeat rang out clearly beneath his ear. With his keen hearing, Regis could hear each chamber and valve working in careful harmony.
Resonance acted as a powerful sedative as well as a hallucinogen, slowing the already-sluggish pulse of a witcher to a crawl. Regis counted the seconds between each heartbeat, relaxing only once he was assured that the duration of the eerie silence was holding steady. Geralt’s skin was cold to the touch and he was shivering. A good sign, Regis thought. It meant his body was still responding to outside stimuli. He reached for his heaviest wool blanket and pulled it up over the both of them.
Regis startled awake, cursing himself for his lapse in attention. The volume of molten tallow gathered at the base of the nearest candlestick told him that he’d been asleep for about an hour. Whatever visions resonance was bestowing upon the witcher, he would be in the thick of them now. He listened. Geralt’s breathing was still shallow, stuttering at the crest of each inhale. Amidst the rush of air Regis detected a racing heartbeat. For a human, it would be a modest pace, as if after light exertion. For a witcher- this was all wrong.
Heaving himself upright, Regis studied Geralt’s face- pale and damp with sweat. His lips were curled up in an agonized grimace, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he ground his teeth. Pressing the back of his hand against his clammy forehead, Regis gauged his temperature. He was feverish. Dangerously so.
Still weak and groggy from slumber, Regis sat up, set his back against the wall, and placed Geralt’s arm in his lap so he could monitor the witcher’s pulse. With his other hand, he rummaged around in his worn satchel. He’d been so exhausted he had fallen asleep with the strap still slung across his chest. A useful oversight.
Pulling out a small vial, Regis turned it over in his hand to examine its contents. The thick, golden liquid inside gleamed in the candlelight. He’d prepared for the prospect of Geralt’s mutations being an insufficient bulwark against resonance’s more dangerous effects, but he didn’t expect to need to intervene so quickly. He only had one dose brewed; a precise mixture of hellebore, balisse fruit, celandine, and white gull. It would neutralize the potion currently tearing through Geralt’s bloodstream, but he wasn’t sure how quickly this reversal would occur. And there was no way to tell how deeply he was submerged in Dettlaff’s memories. If he pulled Geralt out of the trance prematurely, this entire endeavor would be an utter waste.
Regis set his jaw. He would need to wait until the last possible moment. His long fingernails tapped out a nervous rhythm against the pale skin of Geralt’s wrist. His pulse was racing, faster than before; Regis could feel it thrumming beneath the pads of his fingers.
Geralt twitched, his entire body going rigid. The tension grew, making his back arch and his limbs tremble. His shallow breathing turned to a series of desperate-sounding gasps, hissing between clenched teeth. Regis’ resolve to draw things out further faltered as he measured the witcher’s pulse again- it was erratic, crashing wildly from a gallop to a crawl.
Cursing profusely and eloquently under his breath, Regis tore the stopper from the vial and gripped the witcher’s jaw. It was still locked up, and he was too weak to force it open. He’d waited too long. With his other hand he held Geralt’s nose between his thumb and forefinger, sealing off his nostrils. The gambit paid off. As soon as he opened his mouth to gasp for air, Regis forced the potion down Geralt’s throat.
Nothing happened. Regis held his breath, fingers pressed into the side of Geralt’s neck to measure his weak pulse. It was fading. There was a cruel symmetry to the situation, Regis thought. Geralt had watched him die, now he was going to bear witness to the same. Regis had lived too long and seen too much to give in to despair, but the sensation swelled up nonetheless and threatened to swallow him whole as he watched his friend’s body go slack.
Silence - dead and smothering - filled the crypt. It was only when his lungs began to burn that Regis realized he was holding his breath. Tears stung his eyes as he gasped for air, on the verge of falling into useless weeping.
A faint rush of air- a gentle throbbing of the skin beneath Regis’ fingers. A blinding flash of relief. He was alive. Geralt was alive. He coughed and sputtered, curling onto his side as his coughing fit turned to dry heaves. Regis rubbed his back, absently murmuring comfort.
Geralt sat up slowly, trembling and shaking his head. “I suppose you did warn me.” His laughter was hollow, unconvincing.
“Lie back down,” Regis insisted, guiding his friend onto the mattress and pulling blankets up over his pale, shivering frame. “Are you all right? What did you see?”
“I’m fine… I saw…” Geralt ran a hand over his sweaty forehead, brushing strands of white hair out of his eyes, “I saw Dettlaff… I saw Dettlaff getting his shoes shined.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It was here, in Beauclaire. Looked like a wealthy area, but not adjacent to the palace. A center of commerce, perhaps? Nobleman cut in front of Dettlaff at the bootblack’s stand and another man - also noble, judging by his bearing and dress - wasn’t having it. Seems Dettlaff struck up a friendship of sorts.”
“Did you see a clear image of the man?”
“Clearer than the other figures I saw. Everything was hazy, indistinct. Like trying to recall a dream after you’ve woken up. I… I did not expect to see something so mundane.”
“Surely in your own long memory you’ve preserved inconsequential moments.”
Geralt frowned, considering this statement. The corner of his mouth twitched up into a distant, wistful smile. Regis let him drift in contemplative silence for a while, wondering which memories were stirring. He knew Geralt’s memory was still compromised in places, just as patchwork and fragmented as his own. After his near-death at the hands of Vilgefortz, Regis could recall only vague sensations for the longest time- a biting cold, a yawning emptiness. Then warmth, then pain, then finally regaining enough of his vision to make out the blurry figure of a fellow higher vampire - the first he’d seen in decades - spilling his own blood to knit together Regis’ broken body. He remembered the first gasp of air as his brittle ribcage expanded, a breath expelled from Dettlaff’s mouth to fill his lungs. It had hurt like nothing he’d felt before or since, but Dettlaff sustained him through it.
“Dettlaff has led an extraordinarily solitary existence, even for one of our kind. It stands to reason that an act of kindness would resonate with him.”
“I hoped to see his Rhenawedd. Give us more than a name and a sketch to identify her.”
“Hmm, yes,” Regis tapped a finger against his chin. “Perhaps memories of her are still too painful to access, he may be suppressing them.”
“There was more, but it’s even hazier than the first vision. I sensed… flashes of things, but they blended together. He was at an elaborate dinner- I could smell the food and the tannins in the red wine as he drank. Then the smell of the wine turned metallic. Blood. He was tearing a man apart. He… resisted. He did not want to do it. The last thing I felt was a searing flash of pain. Right across the wrist.”
“Which one?”
Geralt held up his right arm.
“Curious,” Regis glanced over at the severed hand twitching on his desk.
“Hardly seems like enough information… How long was I out?”
“Just over an hour. If I allowed you to remain in the trance any longer it would have killed you.”
Looking ready to argue, Geralt opened his mouth but clamped it shut upon seeing Regis’ expression.
“I owe you thanks.”
“You owe me nothing, my friend.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it, Regis. But I’ll settle for more of that mandrake brew.”
A wry grin split Regis’ face as he stood. Too fast. Lightheadedness came over him in a wave and he stumbled back.
“Woah, hey,” Geralt’s low cadence was so similar to the tone of voice he used to calm Roach that Regis had to laugh, swaying dangerously. The lightheaded sensation intensified, as if he were drunk. Residual bloodlust, perhaps, he thought dimly. A rough hand clasped his wrist and eased him back down to sit on the mattress. Regis was tired, he realized, so very tired. But he’d stood for a reason… Ah, the mandrake cordial. And the much more urgent matter of following their one, pitiful lead. He mumbled as much to Geralt.
“Must be dark by now, we won’t find that bootblack at his stand in the dead of night. We can wait until morning.”
Regis made a weak sound of protest, turning his head to look down at his friend. He looked terrible, still pale and sweaty, a faint tremor shaking the hand closed around Regis’ wrist.
“Very well,” he huffed, “but only because you so clearly need the rest.”
“So stubborn,” Geralt scolded him under his breath, the corner of his mouth turned up in a fond smile. “Come here.”
He tugged gently, pulling Regis toward him. It was an invitation Regis would not refuse even if he had the strength to do so, and he tucked himself against the witcher’s side. Calloused fingers stroked idly up and down the back of his neck as he pressed an ear against Geralt’s chest.
“So I can track your pulse,” he murmured. Geralt grunted in vague assent and shifted to wrap his arm around Regis’ back.
His fingers found the notches in Regis’ spine, not a difficult task when he was still so thin. Almost brittle. “I hate seeing you this frail.”
“I am afraid it will be some time before I recover my former strength. If ever. Dettlaff’s regenerative efforts could only go so far.”
“If this ends in bloodshed-”
“-A possibility to which I have already resigned myself, Geralt. If you were about to request that I abstain from any physical confrontation with Dettlaff due to my… condition,” his laugh was hollow, “well, restraint has never been one of my finer virtues.”
Geralt’s low chuckle resonated deep in his chest. “As long as you at least pretend to acknowledge your limitations.For my sake.” Burrowing deeper into the blankets, he laid out their plans for the following morning, where they would attempt the seemingly impossible task of tracking down the Beast of Beauclair using nothing but scant scraps of his memory. Regis was finding it hard to keep his eyes open, much less contribute, and slipped in and out of the conversation several times. When he drifted back in long enough to focus, he listened idly to the slow tempo of the witcher’s heartbeat- stable and steady at last. It took him several moments to realize that Geralt had stopped talking a while ago.
“You awake?” Geralt nudged him gently.
Regis mumbled an of course I’m awake, I’ve been listening to you quite intently this whole time that came out as a “hhmmph.”
“Go back to sleep, then. Plenty of time to strategize in the morning.”
Trying to follow the reasonable advice, Regis shut his eyes, drifting again. Time compressed and expanded, flowing in fits and starts as the aches and pains Regis could never fully ignore jolted him back into wakefulness. Since his regeneration began in earnest he rarely slept for more than an hour uninterrupted, his still-healing body choosing agonies seemingly at random. Some nights he tossed and turned, sore down to his bones. Sometimes it was sharp, stabbing pains. Other nights he was kept awake and pacing from a prickling, restless burning in his limbs. He stirred, and was about to abandon any attempt at rest when he was drawn into a deep embrace by two sinewy arms. His chest felt tight, not from the strength of Geralt’s grasp around his torso but from the sudden, clanging realization that he was charging headlong into yet another impossible confrontation.
Of course part of him had known from the beginning that this endeavor would likely end in bloodshed, but if there was any possibility that Dettlaff could be spared… At least he could trust Geralt to pursue it. Geralt shifted again, tangling his limbs with Regis’ and drawing him closer. The tightness in his chest spread, squeezing air out of his lungs and twisting his stomach with dread. He lay awake in the witcher’s arms, his mind churning with imagined scenarios. In some of them, Regis fell- slipping into cold oblivion once more. In most of them his mind provided gruesome pictures of the witcher’s death, so real he swore he could smell fresh blood. He still had not recovered from his transformation at Tesham Mutna, Regis reasoned, that must be it. That must be why he was so unsettled. His logic was sound but provided him no comfort.
He pressed his head into Geralt’s chest and waited for exhaustion to claim him. It took a long time. When he awoke the next morning the two of them were clinging to each other. As if even in slumber they knew they could soon be torn apart.