Work Text:
“Oh,” a voice came from behind. “Very nice.”
Geralt stood in the mirror, tightening the band tied around his hair, adjusting and readjusting leather straps, checking the position of empty vials, knives, and myriad tools attached to his belt.
He glanced at the empty doorway reflected above his right shoulder, behind his sword hilt.
“Hi, Regis.”
Geralt’s bedroom was located at the top floor of the palace, and was a long walk up from the basement in which the company breakfasted every morning since their arrival in Beauclair.
Geralt could have expected to see Regis, since the vampire and Cahir shared a room on the same floor, just on the opposite wing, so the distance between their rooms was not so great. The obvious deduction would have been that, about an hour into the breakfasting time, Regis had simply risen late, walked over from the west wing to meet Geralt, and planned to go downstairs together. But Regis rose early with the sun, and so too was Geralt an early riser. Regis would have expected to meet Geralt downstairs, as the witcher was deviating from his usual routine, and hadn't informed the company.
And he had already been to the kitchen, as evidenced by the toasted slice of rye, spread with farmer's cheese, which he was holding in his right hand and finishing off.
That was odd, Geralt thought. Not the toast itself, but its state. From the basement to the kitchen was several flights of stairs, and the time which such a hike took would have made the bread soggy. Not to mention, inconvenient to walk up with. But with his enhanced hearing and vision, the witcher noticed that the bread crunched, and the cheese hadn't seeped into it at the least. It had only been a couple of minutes, no, less than a minute, since Regis departed the kitchen with his toast.
Geralt wondered if it was natural stamina, or if he had simply decided to not walk, but fly up. Could he even fly before noon, with the sun risen and moon only three-quarters full the previous night? It was unlikely.
But Geralt knew Regis was capable of many things, not all which he was privy to. Nor which he could expect.
“May I come in?”
“Of course. You don’t need to ask. Unless you do? Should I rephrase it more formally?”
“No,” Regis smiled, crossing the threshold, “You needn’t do anything of the sort, I asked out of politeness, nothing more. But I can see you’re busy.”
The room was strewn about with witcher-related paraphernalia. Several small, empty glass vials lined the dresser—not to mention their ingredients. Weapons and objects of pure silver, in the forms of knives, daggers, and chains, were set on the floorboards, organized in a flat lay, and upon the only chair in the room.
Geralt cleared his throat. “Somewhat.”
The company had only been in Beauclair for barely two weeks of yet, and the witcher already had been contracted by several of the vineyards: To the Toricella estate, to clear its cellars of a solpuga, to Coronata, to rid it of a castoris infestation, to Sancerre, for their leaves had suffered a blight last autumn and they supposed the source may have been supernatural, and finally, to Corvo Bianco, which seemed to have something in its basement, but it was known not what.
The contracts seemed to only keep coming, and Saovine was already approaching. Geralt, ever the professional, prudently decided to spend part of the funds he inherited from the succubus contract with local armorers, artisans, and traders to resupply himself with the tools of the trade.
After all, one had to spend money to make money, and a witcher without his sword isn’t a witcher at all. Or so the sayings went.
The crafters, professionals themselves who could likely sense they were dealing with a fellow professional, had the orders ready quickly. The gear was top-notch, even after it all endured his close examination, Geralt had no complaints. It was amazing what decent money could buy.
“Ah, well,” Regis said, eyeing about the room. “I won’t stay long, anyways. I only wanted to come up to tell you that you’re being missed.”
In anticipation for the first of his contracts later that day, Geralt had skipped breakfast with his company in the palace kitchens, instead taking the time to perform a dress run of the new equipment.
He knew it was unwise to go to work on an empty stomach, much less upsetting, and that it would put him in a bad mood. But it wasn’t as if he had never done so before.
Furthermore, he hadn’t been eager to take the walk down and return walk up with his ailing knee. The winter chill was beginning to set in; it looked as though it would snow on Saovine. The pain gnawed at him like a dog.
“Thanks. Is that the only reason?”
“I thought you might want to know they’ve run out of eggs, and so early, too. It’s a pity. The chef has sent some of the servants to investigate the coops, it seems a fox found its way into the henhouse and caused a fuss. Of course, no eggs means other foods must compensate, so our company is eating their fill of bread and farmer's cheese at the moment. I requested they save some for you and I, but you know how it is. Angouleme stated she would grant me but ten minutes before proceeding to my share; yours, twenty.”
“That was generous of her. I thought she’d only give you five.”
“I talked her up from five,” Regis admitted, smiling slightly. “But these are altogether unimportant matters, compared to what you’ve got going on this morning.”
“Maybe, maybe not. The matter of the eggs sounded serious,” Geralt joked.
“May I sit?”
The question caught Geralt slightly off guard. There was hardly a place to sit in the room other than the bed, which was also occupied at the moment.
Over it was spread a thick, wolf-skin cloak. Resting upon the cloak was an oblong wrapping of goat hide, fastened with leather straps.
Geralt quickly moved the package and cloak, casting the latter over the chair with silver chains and spheres like shot put balls. Hesitating, he drew the package close to himself, not resting it on the opposite side of the bed, but unable to find a place for it. Before Regis turned his head, he placed it on the floor, gingerly pushing it underneath the bedframe with the tip of his boot.
Regis, ever perceptive, noticed his discomfort and watched him carefully with black eyes. Geralt imagined his awkwardness painting his face.
“You don’t have to hide from me, Geralt,” he smiled. “I know what it is you do for work. I’ve known that since the beginning. So you needn’t feel reluctant around me.”
“I’m not reluctant,” Geralt responded, trying not to sound as if he were protesting. “I moved it out of politeness. Nothing more.”
“Politeness,” Regis mused, “is a social necessity, used when we fear offending another with our truth or state of being, which might be taken the wrong way, seen as intrusion, or inappropriate. But I’m not offended, Geralt.”
“That’s good.”
“To the contrary, I’m… interested.”
Geralt’s eyebrows raised.
“I have to admit, I’ve never seen a witcher before. That is to say, a witcher prepared for action, as it were.”
“Really?” Geralt lifted his chin, examining him. “Never before, hmm?”
“Or perhaps I could have. I can’t remember. They came out with you quite recently, so I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Right, recently. Only some three hundred years ago,” Geralt smiled.
“Recently,” Regis nodded. “Witchers weren’t around… ah, back then. And when they were, there were not so many, it was very easy to… avoid them. And, after all, they didn’t look like this, either,” he motioned to Geralt, bristling with silver spikes. “Quite impressive, I must say.”
“Thanks. The technology has gotten better in recent years. Or, in my lifetime,” he corrected himself. “But, at its core, the principles remain the same.”
“And what principles might those be?” Regis’ eyes glittered with curiosity.
“Regis,” Geralt approached the bed, “are you asking me for a tour? A walkthrough? A demonstration, or…”
“I find it interesting, that’s all. I find you interesting, Geralt.”
“Is that so? You should know, I find you interesting, as well.”
Regis smiled.
“So, a demonstration, if you please.”
“Regis…”
“You needn’t reveal any professional secrets to me,” he assured. “You may just imagine, I have my own, ah… secrets, that you won’t find out about any time soon. But the guild of witchers is cloaked in mystery and prestige, you must admit.”
“Prestige,” Geralt grunted. “That’s a new one.”
“And owing to that,” Regis continued without responding to Geralt’s interjection, “legend and reality tend to blend together. I adore myths, they exist for a reason. But it seems ignorant to go without aquainting oneself with the real thing, don’t you think so?”
Geralt shrugged.
“And I’ve only seen your exploits as a witcher in puppet shows, or rather, one show, which—my admiration and applause to the creators of—was not highly accurate, I’d imagine.”
“How so?”
“The genie was eaten by a cat halfway through. So please, if you will.”
“I don’t know how much we can get to in ten minutes.”
“Try for twenty. Angouleme will get half-full after having had my portion, and will slow before she gets to yours.”
“Deal. Where should we start?”
“Anywhere you’d like. Omne initium difficile est.”
Geralt looked around the room, trying to broach the least divisive topic first. “You might like these,” he walked over to the nightstand, holding up the empty glasses. “The witcher potions.”
“Ah,” Regis said with interest. “The famous potions. Or rather, their absence.”
“I’m unable to have them refilled. There are no temples, no alchemists around with workshops intricate enough to craft them. But I’ve laid them out anyways, because that is what is done…”
“No alchemists?” Regis smiled. “And what am I, a shrew?”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Regis, but the potions are elaborate work. Even more elaborate than your mandrake,” he clarified. “We’d have to build the workshop from scratch.”
“Something might be had.”
“Indeed, but the proportions of ingredients…”
“Must be precise, exact? Or they’ll have, hm, undesirable outcomes, is that it?”
“That’s it. And…”
Geralt watched him with mutated eyes.
The potions, he thought, are secret. Their recipes privy only to witchers and those that can be trusted, that have aided the witchers for some time, like the priestesses of Melitele.
I would be divulging witcher secrets if I told Regis. Regis, after all, who is…
“They do many things.”
“Ah. I see. I heard that,” he looked to Geralt’s eyes, “they let you see in the dark. Perfectly in the dark.”
Geralt nodded in confirmation. “That would be Nightjar.”
“Nightjar?”
“The potions are named after birds.”
Regis smiled. “How quaint. And what are the others?”
Something held in Geralt’s throat. He realized the magnitude of the situation, of what he was doing.
For this wasn’t just only another friendly conversation, but a divulging of secrets—witcher secrets—to none other than a vampire. An intelligent vampire, who would remember every detail of what he was told.
Damn it, Geralt thought. If Vesemir saw me here, talking with Regis, he’d whip my ass, like when I was a boy. That is if, after what he saw, he didn’t take my medallion and swords from me and kick me out of Kaer Morhen first.
But I like Regis, and trust him.
And you have to grow up sometime.
I can tell him anything I want. I won’t tell him anything past what I’ve already told Dandelion.
And he isn’t asking for secrets. He’s only curious…
I wonder why.
“There are a few,” Geralt continued. “Nightjar is one of the metamorphing kind, the other being Rosefinch. Of morphing, there are three: Wagtail, Blackbird, and Heron. Likewise, with the healing potions, there are also three: Oriole, Black Seagull, and Lapwing.”
“I see. Were they named after their effects?”
“More or less. Hopefully, I won’t have to take them all. I imagine some of these contracts, anyhow, were the result of superstition and anxiety…”
“As they often are,” Regis nodded. “But what if you do?”
“They each present a risk. But it’s a better risk, than to risk death. Even if I don’t think I’ll need them all, I must have them all before I go out on a contract. I even stipulate that in the written agreements I have my clients sign. There have been times before, I was rushed by those who’d hired me to get a move on out the door, when potions were still brewing. I only pretended to leave them behind, but snuck in through the window to finish them.”
Regis smiled. “A matter of life and death. I presume.”
“Indeed. That’s why witchers endure taking these things, even though they’re nasty work.” He took out a small vial from his belt, containing dark liquid that seemed to cling to the glass. “Nightjar, the one you asked about, is made from banewart, monk's hood and eyebright.”
Regis examined the vial. “Nasty work,” he agreed. “A decoction only fit to be consumed by a witcher.”
“Luckily, the healing potions are milder.”
“Which are those?”
Geralt placed the vial back into his belt, turning to the nightstand to grab the glasses. “I haven’t decanted these yet, but… I have Golden Oriole and Black Seagull here. There’s another variation, not a potion, but made from similar ingredients, White Seagull. But that one’s only an intoxicant, and usually diluted…” his mind trailed off in memory. “At any rate,” he smiled, composing himself, “your mandrake was better.”
“I thank you for the flattery,” Regis returned his smile, “perhaps one day you’ll taste the real thing. That distillation was unfinished, I remind you.”
“Unfinished,” Geralt commented, turning back to the nightstand, “but better. At any rate, these two are finished, I’ll ready them later…”
The witcher turned around to find Regis not sitting on the bed several feet away, as he had been, but standing close to him. Very close. Inches away from his face.
When not acting on pretense, Regis moved quickly. And without making a sound.
“Your jacket is quite interesting,” he mused. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear something like it before. I can’t imagine it’s for fashion.”
Geralt cleared his throat.
“No, not fashion. It’s for the… hazards of the trade.”
Regis was observing him with obvious interest, waiting for him to go on. With him so close, Geralt felt his heartbeat—four times slower than that of a regular man’s—quicken. He wondered if Regis was capable of noticing it, too.
He likely was. He was capable of many things.
“But let’s start lower and work our way up,” Geralt suggested.
“Ah, so that’s your preference. I thought you might be the kind that likes to work his way down.”
“Only for this matter. You see, Regis, defense begins at the bottom. With the boots.”
“Oh?”
Geralt nodded, showing off his heels.
“Sturdy boots are needed, with a good grip to them, so one doesn’t slip on the moist floor of caverns, or layers of slime or excrement from where creatures are living, or, following a fight, uh… fluid. They also need to have thick padding around the ankles, for many things like to bite there. You’d be surprised.”
“I can imagine.”
“That goes for the leggings, too. They should be tight, so there’s nothing to catch on branches and brambles if tracking in forest undergrowth, or to be torn at in a fight. You wouldn’t want to see a witcher with his pants torn off.”
“I can imagine that, too.”
“The crotch is also padded.”
“Sensible.”
“Isn’t it? My mentor, Vesemir, taught us boys all to use a three-layer protection system. Over the linen britches go a padded cover, then chainmail, then fabric and some plate… witchers don’t wear plate anywhere else, but here.”
“It’s an area worth protecting. You have most of your nerve endings there.”
“And some have learned it as a weak spot. But, because it’s covered by the leggings, it goes without seeing.”
“Clever. Although not without hearing,” Regis tilted his head, “I was wondering what the noise was. But so, the metal starts there. Is it also silver?”
Silver.
“Yes,” Geralt answered, to his own surprise, mechanically. “Everything is silver.”
Regis swept his dark eyes over the spikes on Geralt’s jacket, over his gloves, over his arms, chest, shoulders.
The witcher was absolutely bristling with silver spikes, shorter and stud-like on the gauntlets and across his chest, but long and intimidating on the leather pauldrons. They shone in the morning sunlight filtered through the window, dazzling the room with reflection.
“They must be silver,” Geralt said, reciting rather than speaking freely, “Pure silver. Anything lesser, impure, and it won’t have an effect. Silver is fatal to creatures brought into existence by magic…”
Regis ran a hand over the spikes guarding Geralt’s arm, slowly meeting each one with a delicate touch.
Their eyes met.
Geralt swallowed.
“I see. And why spikes?”
“Self-explanatory.”
“Right.”
He moved his hand from Geralt's arm to his shoulder, ending at the collar—running his fingers along the tips all across.
They were sharp, Geralt knew, they had to be. And they were pure—he had brought it to three separate metallurgists for testing before paying the armorer in full.
Any other vampire would have hissed in pain at such a touch, stayed several feet away, not even entered the room.
But Regis stayed. He was reaching out.
And touching him.
He even stroked him prudently, in deep thought, as one might a cat.
Out of genuine curiosity? Or humble demonstration of his immunity? To make a point? Knowing Regis, likely all three…
Their eyes met again.
“... Geralt?”
“Yes?”
“Not a thought for right now, of course, since we don’t have much time, but... you might want to consider some extra protection.”
Geralt smiled, breaking the tension. “You should know, I always consider extra protection.”
“I'm serious,” Regis continued to observe him closely, walking around him. “I'm seeing a few missed spots.”
“Are you? This jacket is probably the best I've ever had. Did I mention, it was custom-made.”
“By someone who doesn't know quite as much as you certainly do.”
Geralt tried to follow Regis' gaze to see where he was alluding to, sweeping his eyes over his chest, arms, hands, and even throwing a look over his back to find any spots that might have been missed.
“Where are you seeing weaknesses, Regis? I can't find any…”
Geralt turned his head back, to find once again that Regis had reappeared right in front of his nose.
“Well, it's only the most obvious one,” he smiled, slightly lowering his eyes. “Your neck.”
“Ah."
“It's completely bare,” he sighed, smiling and showing his teeth, locking eyes with Geralt.
A vampire’s gaze was very dangerous, Geralt knew. Black eyes, black like jet, dark as darkness, from which one could be put under a spell, sent into a dream, from which they might never wake up. And yet he couldn’t help but stare into Regis’ eyes at any chance he got.
Out of genuine curiosity? Or…
“Haven't you noticed it’s uncovered? A pretty large oversight, it seems to me.”
“Not an oversight. You should know, Regis,” Geralt cleared his throat, “that keeping the neck exposed is intentional."
“Is it?" Regis smiled. “I can't imagine why. You’re dancing with danger. Do you think the silver guarding your clavicles will make a difference? I'd call that wishful thinking.”
“I don't. I call it strategic thinking.”
Regis raised an eyebrow.
“The silver,” Geralt motioned to his shoulders, arms, and chest, “is a deterrent. To keep… what I’m fighting… away from me. But if there’s only deterrents, what I’m fighting will have no reason to engage me and my sword, and it, seeing no chance to overcome me, might simply run away.”
Geralt drew a short breath.
“There needs to be an incentive, a so-called obvious weak spot, that’ll make it take that chance. The neck should remain open, as such an incentive. As a… temptation.”
“Ah," Regis said. “I see! Very clever indeed,” he smiled. “Very tempting,” he added coyly.
Geralt managed a brief smile.
“A temptation for several different senses, you should know,” Regis continued, turning away and beginning to enumerate, “At least seven out of nine.”
“Nine senses? I thought there were five.”
“There are several others which humans are not privy to. I’ll stick to the human ones, for clarity. As I said, several: Sight—obvious. Scent and hearing—one can smell and hear it, uncovered, unmuffled. I imagine in a fight, with adrenaline, it must be quite loud. All that’s left is, ah, touch. And taste. Naturally,” he smiled, pursing his lips.
“I’m glad it’s effective.”
“More than you might know,” Regis sighed. “But, I have one other concern.”
“What is it?”
“If whatever you’re… fighting… decides to take that chance, to pursue the incentive—that is, leap at your neck—what is there to stop it? For such a move may render you helpless.”
“Witcher reflexes,” Geralt grinned. “I’ll be fast to stop it.”
“Fast,” Regis echoed, and Geralt could sense the gears in his mind turning. “How fast?”
“Faster than one might think.”
For a moment, Geralt thought the vampire might strike out, challenging him to catch his movement. He anticipated such a challenge. But nothing came; Regis was obviously not inclined to competitive action, or simply didn’t feel like it at the moment.
“I wish you luck,” he sighed, then after a moment’s thought added, “Sincerely. Because there are things above and below this earth that are capable of much more than you may imagine.”
“I know.”
“I thank you for the tour.”
“It’s been my pleasure.”
“There are some other things,” Regis noted, gesturing with his chin to the chair with the cloak laid over it. “Chains and balls, if I remember correctly.”
“For tying and throwing,” Geralt smiled. “Nothing special. They’re really tricks, to buy time, to distract against creatures far less intelligent than…”
“Than?”
You, Geralt thought. But he didn’t dare speak it.
“Tricks, to distract. I’m surprised you don’t have a whip laying around here,” Regis sighed in humorous jest. “Or a flogger,” he snorted.
“You don’t know. I might.”
“With little silver rivets on the ends?”
“Perhaps.”
“I’d like to see that. But I suppose we’re done.”
“I suppose so.”
“Except for that package you kicked under the bed.”
Damn it.
“Did I? What package?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Geralt. I saw it when I walked in, and I heard you kick it under. And I think I know what’s inside,” Regis held his gaze, “don’t I?”
“You might. Did you want to see it?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Because, Geralt thought. Because it’s not only a tool, but a weapon. And a weapon is a symbol. A symbol used to cut, to kill, destroys, severs. Like limb from body, like head from neck. And several other parts: leathery wings, leonine tails, serpentine bodies, cadaver-like fingers, insectoid pincers.
To do so, it covers itself in blood. And suffering.
I cover it in blood, with my own two hands upon the handle, inflicting that suffering. Blood and suffering, which separates us, severs us two, after all…
No matter how hard we try.
No matter what we feel.
“There are a few reasons.”
“I can’t think of any.” Regis smiled softly. “Geralt, I won’t force you. But there should be nothing kept between us. I think so, at the very least. I meant what I said about legend and reality. I’d like to see the real thing, acquaint myself with it, know it. So that I might…”
“So that you might not be afraid,” Geralt nodded.
Regis took a step back, his eyes widened.
Dangerously.
“Whatever gave you that impression? Do you believe I should have any fear?”
“No,” he answered. “You would have nothing to fear, Regis.”
“Good. It was a satisfactory answer, Geralt. Satisfactory. So that I might believe you simply misspoke, rather than your words being the result of chauvinism.”
“I simply misspoke,” Geralt agreed. “I thought that maybe… you mentioned cowardice while we were in the Nevi Valley…”
“Ah,” Regis recalled, thinking. “So I did. I see…”
After a pause, he continued.
“I misinterpreted; I thought you meant, that I might take fear of witchers. And I’ve jumped down your throat for it. Ha, ha. I should have known better. My apologies.”
“Mine too, if I offended you,” Geralt smiled, particularly because he had meant, of witchers. “Perhaps a little politeness is needed after all.”
“Perhaps it is. Now show me your sword.”
***
They knelt on the floor, on opposite sides. Between them, Geralt placed the package of goat skins, unwrapping it slowly, methodically.
It was sheathed in a black leather scabbard, fashioned from the hide of a draconid, inscribed with rows of runes and sigils.
Geralt unsheathed it slowly, allowing the daylight to reflect off of the blade perfectly, shimmering like water.
As Geralt requested, and as he had later perfected himself, the blade had been polished and buffed. It reflected its surroundings like a mirror; less was his surprise then, that Regis had no reflection in it.
Regis’ eyes moved between the blade and Geralt.
“Can I hold it?”
Geralt hesitated.
“It’s razor-sharp, you may cut yourself. But that’s not a warning, merely a description. Here, let me help you…”
Geralt held the sword aloft, raising it at the crossguard and pommel, while Regis admired the blade.
“Would you like to feel its weight? I’ll drop it slightly.”
“It’s magnificently light.”
“Isn’t it? Thirty-six ounces. A work of craftsmanship. Beauclair has fine swordsmiths,” he admitted, “although they gave me strange looks when I said I wanted a sword made of silver. It’s not pure, of course, since silver is too soft to take a real edge.”
“Was it any trouble to have it made?”
“Not particularly. I had the specifications prepared. Rather, memorized: Fourty and a half inches long, the blade twenty-six and a quarter. Cruciform, with a spherical pommel. The glyphs on the crossguard, and the runes it should be etched with across the length of the blade.”
“I see them.”
“Dubhenn haern am glândeal, morc’h am fhean aiesin,” Geralt repeated, solemn as a funeral orator. “In the common tongue: My gleam penetrates the darkness, my brightness disperses the gloom.”
Regis smiled. “Extremely fitting for a witcher. Extremely. To disperse the gloom, and…”
Eyes, black as night.
“Penetrate the darkness.”
“The darkness demands it,” Geralt spoke, as if from memory. “As Chaos. A witcher is an agent of Good, that he might destroy the Evil he encounters, that he might bring Order. It’s a witcher’s ideal, that he might… disrupt darkness.”
“All darknesses?”
Not all, Geralt thought, never all of it. Because it’s impossible. And more than that, because there are some darknesses that are pure and beautiful, that shouldn’t be disturbed, shouldn’t be met with the gleam of a sword.
That’s not a witcher’s ideal, though.
It’s mine.
“I thank you again for the tour.”
“I repeat again, it’s my pleasure.”
“It’s more mine. There is something to be admired, Geralt, about the human spirit of survival. In… witchers.”
“Are witchers representative of the human spirit?” Geralt shot him a skeptical glance. “No one ever told me. I guess they forgot.”
“Of human spirit in the fight for survival in a hostile world,” Regis interrupted, “in a quite desperate move for survival, that conserves the majority while sending a few out covered in deterrent spikes, that, despite desperation, proves to be somewhat effective, saves the lives of others. That, in the fight for life, kills, cutting down other life. Killing made profession and art. Killing, violence, and yet, there is something admirable about it. And… beautiful.”
Geralt felt his mouth dry.
“That’s all. Ah, one more thing, Before I go.”
“What is it?”
“While your sword is out,” Regis smiled, “could you do me one more favor? Or two, or three. Depending on what you’d like.”
“I don’t understand.”
Regis moved past him, returning to sit on the bed.
“With your sword,” he leaned forward with interest, “strike a pose.”
“What?”
“I may never see you at work; my impression of you may remain incomplete. Strike a pose, of how you might handle… a monster.”
He smiled, showing his teeth.
“Regis,” Geralt chided. “You’re acting like a maiden, who, seeing her knight well-armored, commands him to pick up his lance and strike at the air, if only to amuse her with his masculinity.”
“Am I? So I am,” Regis sighed. “Go on. Amuse me with your masculinity.”
Geralt swapped the sihill in its lacquered scabbard for the silver, handing it to Regis to hold. Adjusting the scabbard of his silver above his shoulder, he looked around the room, assessing the space necessary to unsheathe it from his back and perform a moulinet.
“I should move slowly, or else I’ll knock the potions over.”
He cut and turned, light on his feet. Luckily, the room was wide enough so that he didn’t split the wooden beams of the wall.
“Such a performance should be done shirtless,” Geralt jested, “at a fair for entertainment.”
“It needn’t be,” Regis commented, taking his jest seriously.
“You can see me through my shirt?”
“I can perceive everything I want to. Sinew, muscles, heartbeat… It’s splendid, Geralt.”
“I should have known. This one is called a feint, like all the moves, it can be used against men, too. But against monsters—depending on the nature of the beast—it can be modified, with additional motion, like this. It distracts the opponent, particularly if they’re photosensitive.”
“Oh, yes. The sound also serves to confuse.”
“Right. After that, one might perform a lunge.”
“Impressive.”
“Not as impressive as a pirouette,” Geralt smiled, “which is my favorite. But the room is too small for it.”
“You’ll have to show me another time. It’s amazing to see you so light on your feet.”
Geralt resheathed the sword.
“Not a lot can be done standing around like a millstone. But it’s true, in general, people underestimate how fast a witcher can be.”
After a moment’s thought, he smiled.
“As I said, I’m faster than you think.”
“I can see that now clearly. Thank you,” Regis said, rising from his seat.
Before moving to the door, he stopped to adjust Geralt’s collar, raising it slightly.
“I still think you should cover your neck,” he said softly, voice not much more than a whisper. “A little temptation goes a long way.”
“I’ll consider it,” Geralt replied in an equal tone of voice.
Regis ran his fingers over the spikes again in light amusement. Geralt saw him scrunch his nose in a smile one could only describe as teasing.
“I’ll be down in a few. It’s likely been just about twenty minutes, so hopefully there’s still breakfast left.”
“Hopefully. The chef has a talent for making food appear, anyways.”
“Before you go—I have something to ask of you, now.”
“Oh? What is it?”
“I’ve shown you some of my tricks. So when might I get to see some of yours?”
Regis smiled.
“Perhaps soon. Perhaps never,” he mused.
“Come on.”
“Time and place, Geralt,” he said, moving closer to the door, “There’s a time and place for everything.”
“But my impression of you remains incomplete,” Geralt chided, not letting up. “How am I supposed to separate legend from reality? Aquaint myself with you?”
“One day. Not today.”
“The day when I penetrate the darkness?”
“Exactly. I’ll see you downstairs at breakfast.”
With that, he disappeared.
And Geralt stood alone once again.