Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Chance of a Different Path
The heavy smell of honeysuckle washed over Geralt’s senses as he stood beside the bridge leading to Toussaint. He had been standing there whistling for Roach for a long time now, and his horse was nowhere in sight. Long enough, in fact, that the guards nearby had begun to mumble rude things about dimwitted nordlings. He huffed in annoyance and started wandering away from the city and into the surrounding farmland, whistling occasionally.
He frowned to himself while moving forward. This Roach was the only one he’d had in ages who would occasionally ignore his whistles. Over the years, he had trained all his horses to stay put when he dropped the reins, wandering in a tight little circle munching on grass or what have you. They were supposed to come immediately to him when they heard his whistle. If he was in a dangerous area, he would click his tongue twice. That signaled to his mount to return to camp or the stables of the Inn they had stayed at. He would, on occasion, tie up his mounts, but for the most part, he trusted them to stay put. He was beginning to think that trust was poorly placed with his newest Roach. Not that the click technique had always worked either, he mused while passing a group of beehives. He had to stamp down the instinct to pilfer them for honey. You have a cook now; don’t be greedy.
He instead turned his mind back, to a long time ago, when he had used that tactic and couldn’t find a trace of the damn horse anywhere near camp. He had assumed the mare, a gorgeous bay, had gotten eaten by something and had moped and grumbled the rest of the way to Kaer Morhen for the winter. He was surprised when he was met by a search party halfway down from the keep. They concluded Roach the fourth had somehow sensed the proximity, smell probably, to Kaer Morhen and gone “home” instead of to camp. Or more accurately, to a dry stable and oats. His brothers had feared the worst when she had shown up riderless with most of his gear and went looking for him. She’d been retired that winter and given to Vesemir to stay at Kaer Morhen permanently. The old Whitcher had renamed her “Faithful” because he had a shit sense of humor.
Geralt’s chest tightened uncomfortably when he thought about Vesemir—it hurt. The feelings were complex: sadness, anger, betrayal, guilt. He shoved the intrusive thoughts from his mind, burying them deep, with decades of practice avoiding thinking about unpleasant things.
This Roach, Roach the 13th, was a gift from…HIM…"Fuck him,” he murmured out loud under his breath. This Roach was… strange . The stallion was a Nilfgaardian warhorse, and as such, he didn’t scare easily. Or really at all. In fact, he had stomped a panther that had tried to ambush them to death before Geralt could even draw his swords on the second day in Toussaint. Geralt had been rather impressed in a reluctant kind of way, rather atypical horse behavior, but not unwelcome considering his vocation. He shrugged it off as residual training by Nilfgaard. Roach had been trained as a warhorse, after all, and Geralt had been kicked by plenty of heavy mounts in skirmishes to know they could be mean as fuck if properly motivated.
Geralt had been understandably distracted when his faithful Roach the 12th had been rather unceremoniously taken and exchanged for the black stallion. He hoped she was living an easy retirement; he had put more miles on her in two years than most of his mounts had in a lifetime. He’d been too focused on Ciri and her decision concerning… HIM. She had decided to talk to the bastard. He didn’t want to pry or ask her what the talk had been about; they hadn’t been done yet. So instead, he had thrown himself at what was left full force, and by some fucking miracle, they had both come out alive after everything.
He hadn’t really paid attention at first to Roach the 13th. But then he had become harder and harder to control the further out of the city they got. Culminating in the daft horse randomly trying to jump off bridges for no fucking reason or coming to a screeching halt rather than hopping down tiny ledges. But only sometimes. Without rhyme or reason to it. He had gotten so fed up with it as they left Vizima that he had spent far more than intended on peppermint leaves from a herbalist in order to address the problem.
He and his brothers had learned a trick to training horses from Vesemir, a Witcher trade secret. He shook the memory of Vesemir out of his head again and turned down a dusty road headed to Corvo Bianco. A recipe using peppermint leaves, oats, alfalfa, and some other specialized ingredients to produce crunchy quail egg-sized horse treats. Better than apples or carrots, the peppermint treats, or crunchies as dandelions had dubbed them, were dried and could last for months in a saddlebag. Dandelion had nagged him numerous times when picking a new Roach, asking how he picked the right one. He finally revealed the secret to him. You go with the horse that tries the hardest to get the crunchies. That one will be the easiest to train.
Geralt made a batch of crunchies in the hope that Roach the 13 could be bribed into behaving. He’d been hoping for a semi-favorable response from the stallion. What he got was utter devotion. This Roach loved crunchies so much that he was able to train the whistle and tongue click technique in three days. They now had a long list of other useful tricks Roach the 13th knew, more than any of his other Roaches. Geralt was still hesitant to think of this Roach as smarter than average because he kept doing exceptionally stupid things. Like suddenly veering off a path or trying to gallop down a random stream rather than following the perfectly good road… Roach the 13th’s fanatical love of crunchies had pleased him at the time…but after Ciri…after she… after she decided to leave him…
Geralt realized he had stopped walking when a knight errant on horseback very nearly trampled his foot. Swallowing hard from the lump in his throat, he carefully continued searching for his wayward steed. And pointedly ignored the fact that he couldn’t bring himself to push away any thought of Ciri no matter how painful. He was so proud of her, even if she had picked…HIM…over Geralt. Well, that wasn’t fair, he admonished himself in a voice that in no way sounded like Yen. She picked people, ordinary folk, the kind he himself tried to help on the path, over Geralt. And he was okay with that, surprisingly.
His jumbled thoughts came to an abrupt halt as he rounded the outside of a retaining wall in front of a home with a large pigpen. There, gathered around the hogs, was a gaggle of people. They were staring and pointing up at a beautiful black stallion standing calmly on the roof of the house. Geralt stared, mouth agape. Roach held his gaze and snorted. Geralt, his mouth still slightly hanging open, unclipped his hip pouch and dug down for two crunchies. Holding them out for his bat-shit crazy horse. He said in a rough voice that came out more as a question than a command, “Down, Roach?”
Roach obliged, jumping some 9 feet from the roof into the pigpen easily, sending the pigs squealing. And then hopped the pen’s fence effortlessly, at nearly a standstill, to trot up obediently to his master. Geralt stood there while Roach munched happily on his prize, and the people in front whispered amongst themselves about sorcery.
Geralt swung up into the saddle and urged Roach home - to Corvo Bianco, not home; he was sure this whole fiasco with the beast, with Dettlaff, would end with him dead or run out of town. The vineyard would surely be taken from him. Best case scenario, he would run away and set back out on the path, like a Witcher ought to.
As they trotted along, he asked the stallion, “Are you doing this shit on purpose? The people here are more tolerant than in the Velen but they do have limits.” Roach snorted, seemingly in response. “I know I’ve been stingy with the crunchies,” he conceded. “We’re low; I’ll make more. Promise.” Roach gave a happy little wicker following that statement. Whether that was because he understood or was scenting the mares in the fields, they were passing was debatable.
Geralt was torn about this Roach; on one hand, he did weird shit on a regular basis, standing on roofs, though that was new. On the other hand, he had been raised and trained by Nilfgaard...So Geralt was inclined to blame them for his odd behavior. The Nilfgaardens were, for all intents and purposes, insane. And that was a fact Geralt would drink to. It had probably rubbed off on the poor animal.
At first, he had tried giving the horse commands in Nilfgaardian, but it had no effect. Ciri had found it hilarious. She, of course, had been able to give the damn thing commands in both Nilfgaardian and common. Of course, the traitorous bastard had listened, albeit with little enthusiasm. But as soon as Geralt had begun using the crunchies Roach had flipped loyalties and all but ignored Ciri’s existence, much to Geralt’s smug delight. Not only that, but Roach went from simply performing a command to showing off as he did. Prancing instead of walking, flagging his tail and unnecessarily arching his neck, anything that might warrant an additional crunchy.
Can you blame an animal for the faults of those who raised it? Geralt didn’t think so; he wasn’t to blame for the deaths of all the boys who failed the trials just because he was a Witcher. But the horse was undeniably strange. He thought back to when he’d been camping alone after… after White Orchard. He had awakened or had been disturbed out of meditation several times by Roach standing over him in the dark, just staring at him. Or he sleeps with his eyes partially opened … Geralt thought, he was unsure if that was true or not. He’d begun to realize that while he knew a great deal about horses as was relevant to his Guild, he also kind of knew shit all about them as just animals.
They arrived at Corvo Bianco in short order, and Geralt swung down from Roach to make a beeline for his new lab. He was going to make a fuck ton of crunchies and stuff Roach’s face full to try and prevent any more bad behavior. It’s not like he could do anything less productive at the moment. Dettlaff was uncooperative, Anna Henrietta unrelenting, and Syanna was out of reach. He paused when he heard a familiar voice coming from his - he shook his head and thought, Don’t. Get. Attached - from the main house. He changed trajectory and jogged over to the front door. He stepped into the cool, dark interior of his… ah … temporary lodgings.
Barnabas-Basil and Marlene were being entertained by Regis in his - the dining room. Regis, who looked very at home in the dining room. In fact, Regis looked…relaxed, almost happy… Which considering they only had two more days to bring Syanna to Dettlaff before all hell quite literally broke loose upon the city was saying something.
The little group turned at his entrance, and BB immediately leapt to attention with “Sir. Geralt, master Terzieff-Godefroy informed us of your wish for him to assist you in the matter of the beast. I must say Sir, I am most relieved to hear you will not be facing such a threat alone. Master Terzieff-Godefroy is, as I understand, a most accomplished surgeon.”
Geralt blinked at his - the majordomo and glanced at Regis, who smiled encouragingly the way you might at a child you were trying to encourage to say Thank you . He cleared his throat and said, “Uh, I appreciate you letting him in, I got… held up.”
Regis cut in before BB could say anything more. “Not to worry, my friend, I haven’t been waiting long. Besides, we hadn’t officially decided upon a time for our rendezvous, and I rather feel I came a bit early. Preferably, perhaps, to being fashionably late but still an inconvenience, and for that, I do apologize.” Regis’ tightlipped smile was congenial and genteel as always. He even dipped his head a bit in mock contrition.
BB turned from Geralt to address Regis directly, hands clasped behind his back. “It was no trouble at all, Master Terzieff-Godefroy.”
Regis beamed and said in a soothing voice, “How terribly kind of you. And please, my name is Regis; no need to tongue-tie yourself with the formality of my many names.”
Geralt crossed the foyer and turned to the other occupant in the room, ignoring the vampire at his table. “Marlene, do we have any molasses in the kitchen?” He could see Regis frowning at him from the corner of his eye.
“Oh yes, master Geralt, would you like me to make Galettes à la Mélasse? I know an excellent recipe.” She said, clapping her hands together excitedly.
“That sounds… Good. Do you have enough for the…Mélasse if I take a couple spoonfuls for a potion?” Not knowing what she had suggested but having liked everything else she had made thus far, he figured whatever Mélasse were, it would be delicious.
“Of course, shall I fetch you a cupful?” She was already rising and heading for the kitchen before he could begin to answer her.
Regis made a face at him, “Ah, molasses, such an unassuming ingredient in witcher potions. No doubt used to make them more palpable, or alternatively to make them thicker and thus longer lasting.” The vampire nodded to himself while giving Geralt a look that said he knew he was full of shit.
Barnabas-Basil was also nodding, a thoughtful look on his face. “Ah, that does make good sense, Master Regis.”
Regis tried not to smirk, and Geralt rolled his eyes while Marlene returned with a small tin cup of molasses. “Thank you.” Was all he said as he gently took it from her.
“Dinner will be ready just past sundown, and hopefully, the Galettes à la Mélasse, too.” She told him with a pat on his arm. He ignored the fact that she had taken the time to clearly enunciate the dishes named for him.
Geralt nodded to BB and then glanced at Regis before he turned to the front door, “Going to help me brew my Witcher concoction, Regis? Or do you want to lounge some more?” He could practically feel the vampire’s disapproving look at his back. Regis was a very polite person and disliked general rudeness; the kind Geralt lived and breathed on a regular basis. Regis bid his newfound friends heartfelt goodbyes and followed closely behind Geralt as they left for the lab.
Geralt glanced down at the ground. It was past midday, the shadows just beginning to lengthen significantly. None of his - of the workers had noticed how close Regis was pressed to his side, strategically walking in Geralt’s shadow to hide the fact that he had none.
Regis looked at him tentatively, “Have I done something to offend you, my friend? I know we didn’t actually talk about me coming to your home, but I must admit I was curious to see it. I had thought it wouldn’t bother you. Perhaps I may have assumed too much.”
Geralt sighed as they crossed the threshold of the cellar. “No, I just-” he stopped his mouth from saying the stupid shit that he’d struggled with even before he knew Regis was a vampire.
Regis, who had often lightheartedly teased Geralt before when they traveled with the hanza, had a deep frown creasing his face. “Geralt, we had been getting on so well, even with the issue of Dettlaff shaping our every move. I feel as if in our reunion, perhaps because we are alone in one another’s company as opposed to being at the center of a group of people, that we have become closer to one another. I feel very at ease around you, even when you were smelling quite delectable after Tesham Mutna. I was glad you were there to help me. I am glad… that you are here helping me, that is. And… that it is you…specifically.”
Regis put his hand on Geralt’s upper arm, preventing him from continuing forward. As the vampire began stumbling over his words, Geralt opened his mouth to interject but was cut off by Regis, who looked away from him but kept holding his arm. “I know I will always make you feel at least slightly uncomfortable on a fundamental level,” he said softly. “I know that. You are a monster hunter, and I. I am a monster, though finely groomed and well dressed.” He glanced down at his patched gambeson and gave a tired sort of sigh. “Well, dress better than most,” he murmured, then raised his head and continued in a stronger voice. “I lost sight of the boundaries we had crafted together all those years ago… I should not have invited myself to your home… into your home even. Into your refuge without first asking. Or, in fact, without you explicitly extending the invitation yourself. I am very sorry, and if you would like me to leave, we can talk at Mère-Lachaiselongue instead.” Regis looked sad and worried again, the way he had when relaying the unpleasant final ingredient for the Resonance potion.
Shaking his head, Geralt patted Regis’ hand on his arm and lightly pulled at his wrist, talking him into the lab. “I’m happy to have you. Here. At Corvo Bianco. You don’t make me uncomfortable, not anymore. I got over that before we reached Toussaint the first time.” He paused, memories that he hadn’t dwelled on in years tumbling through his head. “Because of what you did for Dandelion. For Milva…” part of him was surprised it still hurt so much, all these years later thinking about what had happened at Stygga. “You’re not a monster; you’re a surgeon and a friend.” And with a deep breath, he buried all those memories again and allowed himself a small smile. “Besides, if you left now, I couldn’t rub in how much better my equipment is than yours,” he said, shifting topics away from the past.
Regis scoffed at him and looked more comfortable. “Really? This tiny little space - ?” They rounded the wall as he spoke, and Geralt was rewarded with Regis’s smirk sliding off his face as the full lab came into view. “-is that Dragon glass? And a sublimator?” Regis fell upon his new lab like a kid at a toy shop, picking up and handling, examining all the bits lying around. “Geralt, why didn’t you tell me you had all of this? We could have more easily brewed the potion here; with Dragon glass, it would’ve been far more stable.”
Geralt shrugged, putting the tin cup of molasses down and rummaging for the rest of what he would need. “It was walled up; I didn’t know about it until yesterday. I’ve decided that if I’m going to die, the least I can do is renovate the place for the workers that will be left behind.” Using Igni, he lit the burners he would need and began prepping his workspace.
Regis frowned again and looked at what he was collecting. “What is it that you are actually making?” He asked, curiosity making him less verbose than usual. Geralt made a noncommittal sound and continued prepping his ingredients, deciding on a triple batch. Regis sniffed the air and nearly shut his eyes, a look of contemplation coming over him. Then he stared as Geralt dug out the metal mixing bowls he bought in Oxenfurt for Roach the 13th’s larger batches of treats. “Geralt…are you making those horse treats you used to sneak my mule to try and get him to like you?” he asked in a strained voice.
“Didn’t try to get him to like me, got him to like me,” Geralt said while setting the peppermint leaves to boil. Regis was stock still, looking at Geralt with slightly narrowed eyes and an expression that suggested he was questioning Geralt’s sanity. “I’m getting low on them.” Geralt defended. “New Roach loves them a bit too much and has been acting out over not getting his usual quota.”
Regis closed his eyes and slowly reopened them to stare at Geralt from behind drawn brows. “You’re making horse treats when we have Dettlaff leveling threats against the city? Horse treats Geralt, not bombs or black blood or any number of Witcher concoctions I have heard you speak of in our travels together. Horse. Treats. “
Regis was looking at him skeptically, like he wasn’t very smart, and Geralt felt indignant. “He acts out Regis; he was on a roof today, for fuck sake! The treats keep him under control. We’ve made no progress on Dettlaff; at least this way, I won’t have to worry about Roach not listening to me during all the bullshit that’s probably about to happen.”
Regis slowly blinked at him, “Your horse was up on a roof? Of a house?”
“Yes,” Geralt said flatly. Then he paused. “You said you were curious about my home; why?”
Regis looked away from him, examining vials on the opposite wall. “I’ve always wondered how you would live; I suppose. Are you sure there are no vampire mutations used in the trials? You certainly have a lot of shiny trinkets and decorations for your home.” Regis was smiling again; he glanced back at him over his shoulder. “I was particularly fond of your portrait. Though I think the artist took some liberties. I haven’t seen you in your smalls for quite some time, but I imagine that the number of scars goes up, not down, over a Witcher’s lifetime.”
Geralt groaned. “You saw that?” then he paused as he said steadily. “Regis… that’s in my bedroom…”
Regis cleared his throat, “Ah yes, I was poking about and went into your bedroom by mistake. I do apologize; I couldn’t help myself.”
Geralt was trying to decide if he believed him or not and settled on not actually caring. “Did you come by just to satisfy your curiosity about how I live, or…?”
Regis’s smile faltered. He looked hesitant but determined. “No. I came to tell you that my friends have found Dettlaff’s hideout.”