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“I insist.”
Regis’ sharp tone gives him pause. Geralt blinks. He’s never spoken to me like that before. The witcher knows he should say something— this is his contract, after all. He’s supposed to be the one to deal with Dettlaff. Even if he can’t kill the higher vampire (and still doesn’t want to), Geralt knows that he should at least stick around to see the deed done. If only for Regis’ sake.
He almost says this, wants to, but his mind feels heavy, almost soup-like, and his skin hot and prickly. Words are difficult for him even in the best of circumstances; more so now, with the state that he’s in. He knows his main concern should be the mutilated, but-still-very-much-alive higher vampire lying prostrate before them— but Dettlaff isn’t. Regis is. As usual.
Geralt finds his attention wandering as he becomes distracted by another wave of bone-deep exhaustion. His pulse hammers, his ears ring, and his stomach churns. Fuck. I’m nearly at peak toxicity, then. The witcher blinks away the encroaching fog from his vision, and his friend’s equally-wearied countenance swims into focus. He’s not the only one to have come out worse-for-wear from the fight. Blood drips slowly from Regis’ nose, dirt smears his skin, and his clothing is torn and also bloodied. His posture is slumped and there’s a deep, aching sadness in the higher vampire’s eyes.
They’ve both had one hell of a night— many nights, actually.
He swallows, and silently turns to walk away, heeding the other man’s request. As he does, he hears the soft sound of Regis’ footsteps, the snick as his bestial form’s claws are revealed, and a quiet, heart-shattering, “I’m sorry.” Then come a series of awful, ear-piercing shrieks, the wet sound of flesh being torn from bone, and he tries desperately to focus on something— anything— else.
Geralt’s not squeamish by any means, but there’s something about listening to this, to Regis killing Dettlaff, that makes his guts churn, his head throb. Oh shit. Maybe it’s the toxicity after all.
He manages another stumbling step, then the ruins of Tesha Mutnam blur together, rushing upward before his rapidly-darkening vision—
Cool air. Cold fingers. As he becomes more alert, Geralt blinks. Briefly, he cracks open his eyes, but squeezes them shut again when his surroundings begin spinning. He swallows, feeling desperately, desperately thirsty. And weak. So, so weak. Absently, he realizes that those cold fingers have stilled.
“Geralt! Geralt, are you with me?”
“ ‘egis?” is all he can manage. The witcher slowly blinks open his eyes, and the higher vampire’s form blurs into existence. He shivers, and begins to feel quite nauseated as the starry sky swirls before him. A sudden change of altitude sets his ears ringing, and very distantly, Geralt realizes that Regis has picked him up, and is carrying him somewhere. His stomach churns violently.
“Put… me d’wn,” he pants. “R’gs.” Either his words get through to the higher vampire, or his pale, sickly countenance does. Gently, but swiftly, he is lowered to the ground. The witcher shoots out a hand to steady himself with, leans over, and vomits up sour, hot bile. Afterwards, he coughs, and spits. Ugh.
“Indeed, my friend.” Apparently, he’d said that out loud. “Are you done?”
Geralt nods absently, and Regis goes to pick him up again. He frowns. “Can— can w’lk.”
The higher vampire doesn’t hesitate. “Of course you can. But not right now, my friend. Rest.”
He does.
They reach the spot where he’d left Roach, and she whinnies nervously at the combined scents of Dettlaff’s blood, his blood, and the mix of potions still circulating through his veins. The sound startles Geralt awake. He blinks heavily, eyes already closing again, but Regis gently cups his cheek.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you go back to sleep quite yet, my dear Witcher. We’ve got to lower your toxicity first— I can smell those foul potions still affecting your blood, and, quite frankly, I am rather alarmed at their potency,” his friend says.
The witcher grunts, leaning back against Regis’ chest. “White Honey… round glass bottle. Light yellow.”
He feels the higher vampire hum in confirmation. Then they’re gently moving forward.
“Do you think you could stand for a few moments, my dear?” Geralt considers the question. He’s weak, and shaky, and exhausted, but that seems doable enough. So he nods. Somehow, Regis switches to a one-handed hold, and when Geralt more-or-less has his feet beneath him, the higher vampire begins rummaging through Roach’s saddlebag.
“Is this it?” The question jolts the witcher into full wakefulness— he’d almost managed to nod off while standing up.
“Yeah.” Weakly, he reaches for the glass bottle.
“Wait one moment, Geralt,” Regis murmurs softly. He uncorks the White Honey and passes it over. The witcher grunts his appreciation, and downs half the potion. Immediately, he feels the bitter taste that’s coating his tongue diminish, and most of the nausea vanishes. His skin feels less prickly and hot, too. Although the potion doesn’t cure all his hurts, he feels a good deal better.
“Hmm. Thanks.” Suddenly, it’s a monumental task to even keep his eyes open. Fuck. Haven’t had a fight like that in— a long time.
“I should hope not! Dettlaff—” Regis’ voice cuts off. He clears his throat, and continues on more quietly, “he was a fearsome vampire indeed.” Geralt’s chest constricts, and he frowns. Gods, what a disaster.
The following silence burns almost as badly as his toxicity had.
Finally, Regis lets out a small, shaky breath. “Is there anything in dire need of bandaging?”
Geralt thinks. Although he’s still bleeding in a few places, nothing is life-threatening; the potions he swallowed earlier took care of those sorts of wounds. Between this and the enhanced healing, he should be okay for now.
“No,” he answers. “But I could use some water.”
Regis gives him a careful once-over, as if judging the veracity of his statement. Then he nods, apparently satisfied. “Of course.” He unclips Geralt’s waterskin and unscrews the lid. Carefully, he holds it up to the witcher’s lips, and he drinks greedily. Ah. Much better.
“Thanks.”
The higher vampire offers a tight-lipped smile. “Can you mount Roach unaided?”
“Let’s find out,” Geralt mutters.
Regis slowly releases his hold, and for a moment, the world tilts alarmingly, and his pulse is the only thing the witcher hears. Then he stumbles that final step forward, and feels the comforting warmth of Roach’s side. He buries his face in her mane. “Good girl.” After a quick pat, the witcher shakily moves back towards the saddle, and mounts (with only a little push from his friend).
Then, unexpectedly, Regis is in the saddle behind him.
He starts, and the other man lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I do not think it would be a terribly good idea to let you ride by yourself at the moment, Geralt,” is the only explanation he receives. Gently, Regis takes the reins from him, and gives a soft tug. They start moving forward.
“Geralt.” His brow furrows, and the witcher stirs slowly. His nose wrinkles as Roach’s mane tickles it. Oh. Must’ve fallen asleep again. With a grunt, the witcher sits up and looks around. They’re at the Mere-Lachaiselongue Cemetery. He frowns slightly.
As if sensing the witcher’s confusion, Regis says, “I thought it best to take you to my supplies, rather than risk forgetting something, and wasting more valuable healing time.” He nods.
Once Regis has dismounted, Geralt stumbles off Roach with a groan. After riding, his already-sore muscles have stiffened up even more, and now he’s beginning to feel the full impact of the fight— really fights, with how much running around and how little resting he’s been doing recently. As the witcher straightens up, Regis is right there behind him. He looks sternly at the witcher, and Geralt just groans again. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to argue with you, Regis.”
As the other man pulls Geralt’s arm around his shoulder, he chuckles slightly. But though it’s amused, there’s still an unsettlingly strained undertone to the sound. “I shall consider myself fortunate then, for I would hate to argue with you.” They make their slow way into Regis’ crypt and then further inside, into his small dwelling-place.
As he’s set down on the somewhat-ratty mattress, Geralt sighs.
“Can you remove the armor by yourself?”
He blinks, and flicks his gaze to Regis, who’s now standing by his potions-brewing station, looking over his shoulder at the witcher. He realizes that he’s been staring off into the distance. “Think so.”
Regis nods, turning away. “If that changes, you need merely ask for my assistance, and you shall have it.”
“Hmm.” He busies himself with the more-tiring-than-usual process of removing his armor.
Soon enough, he smells the sharp, but oddly pleasant scent of one of Regis’ potions. The higher vampire is muttering to himself as he grinds something with his mortar and pestle. With nothing to distract him, the witcher’s tiredness is becoming more apparent. Geralt yawns, and frowns down at his armor. Unlike he usually might, Regis offers no idle commentary, asks no questions. That earlier tightness he’d felt in his chest returns. Silently, the witcher replays the moments before Regis dealt with Dettlaff.
“You look troubled, my friend. Is there something I can do to help?”
He frowns, and shifts his gaze up: Regis stands before him, steaming potion in hand.
Geralt sighs, frowns again, and shifts his gaze down to his messily-folded armor. “No.” Regis hums, then sits next to him. He holds out the cup. Geralt rolls his eyes, but takes it. He considers asking what’s in whatever Regis has made, but, gods help him, he trusts the higher vampire. Geralt downs the concoction in a few gulps, then wipes his mouth.
He sets the cup on the stone floor.
Instead of picking it up, making idle chatter, or asking another question, Regis just continues to sit next him. Geralt stares slightly past him, watching the darkness of the crypt become ever so slightly less dark. Dawn, he realizes. A quiet sigh breaks his reverie. Brow raised, the witcher turns to his friend. Regis’ fangs are momentarily revealed as he worries absently at his lower lip. He’s looking down at his entwined fingers. The long nails of his thumbs are visible as he twiddles the digits.
I should say something, Geralt thinks. But what? What could he possibly say to make this better? Sure, he hadn’t exactly… been a fan of Dettlaff van der Eretein— had serious issues with his moral compass, in fact— but he could also sympathize with the higher vampire. He’s not a particularly huge fan of Syanna’s, either. He grimaces.
“Geralt, my friend, you are brooding quite loudly.”
He meets Regis’ dark gaze, and almost becomes lost in it. Then the witcher blinks, and brings a hand up to rub his tired eyes. He yawns. “Sorry…” His friend huffs pointedly, so Geralt sighs, and continues, “It’s just that— you shouldn’t have had to do it. If I had—”
The higher vampire’s gaze suddenly goes cool. Regis rises, and begins pacing. “Do not finish that sentence! You did the best you could— no one could have reasonably ask more of you.” He sighs. “I could ask no more of you, my friend. For you did honor my wishes by giving… by giving Dettlaff a chance.”
But seeing Regis pace, hearing how difficult it is for him to even say his blood brother’s name, only makes the witcher feel worse. He battles another yawn, and tries to make his brain work. Two evils, he thinks tiredly, why’s it always got to be a choice between two fucking evils? “Regis—” Geralt shoots out a hand and catches the other man’s sleeve. Regis stops pacing. He looks down at the witcher, a curious tilt to his head. But in this time, he’s become distracted, and lost his train of thought. Damn.
“Yes, Geralt?” Regis prompts, sounding slightly concerned.
He frowns. What he’s feeling— Geralt’s not sure if he has the right words for it. “Nothing. Sorry.”
Regis nods, but his eyes say that he doesn’t quite believe him. “Very well. It’s about time we cleaned and bandaged your wounds anyway. Then rest.”
Despite himself, Geralt can’t quite say he disagrees with that plan.
It comes to him as Regis is dabbing at the now scabbed-over bite on his neck. There’s a sharp frown on his face, and a deep line between his brows. Yeah, we’re both thinking about the same thing. This reminds him of something the higher vampire told him earlier, about anathema. He sits up slightly, and Regis pauses in his work to let him. When he stills, the other man continues his ministrations.
“Regis…”
“Yes, Geralt?”
“What’ll happen?”
“You’ll have to be more specific, my friend. Do you mean with my healing poultice? Or the healing brew? Or the plan for when we’ll travel to your vineyard tom—”
“No. I mean… what’ll happen with the other vampires? You—” he yawns, “you told me about the law of anathema. And you killed Dettlaff.”
Regis frowns and stays quiet. Geralt blinks heavy eyelids, and tries to stay alert as his friend ties off the last of the bandages. Then, Regis looks up, and deliberately meets his gaze. Though he smiles reassuringly, his black eyes are full of turbulence. And deep sorrow. Geralt’s heart plummets. But Regis just pats his hand reassuringly. “That, my friend, is a problem for another day— rest. You need rest, Geralt.”
He opens his mouth to protest— if Regis is in trouble, and on his behalf no less, then Geralt will help him. But the quelling look Regis sends him, and the taut set of his shoulders, make him reconsider. So the witcher simply scowls, and lies down slowly, unable to repress a wince or two. As soon as he’s horizontal, Geralt’s eyelids feel heavy. The higher vampires goes to stand, and clumsily, the witcher grabs his sleeve. Regis stills.
“C’mere.”
“Geralt, I—”
“You need to rest too.”
A sigh. “Very well.” He smiles, and hums contentedly as soon as he feels Regis lie down beside him. Deliberately, Geralt scoots back, and hears a chuckle as the other man— perceptive as usual— understands what he’s after. Slowly, Regis wraps his arms around Geralt.
“Night, Regis.”
“Goodnight, Geralt.” He closes his eyes.
A few moments later, Regis mutters, “May it not be our last.”