Work Text:
Nothing much changed, after it had all ended.
Geralt hadn't expected much changes either, of course. As someone who had already lived through decades of wars and upheavals and seen cities razed to the ground then born anew again, he had found in recent years that there was very little that could still surprise him. He had come to expect the worst from humanity, after all.
And thus Toussaint carried on after the nightmare Dettlaff had unleashed upon it. Once the bodies had been burnt in the tourney grounds and their ashes buried under the new memorial in the Gran'place by the Duchess's orders, the routines of the Toussaintois quickly returned. The rich continued to waste their days away with their pointless debates over art and tradition, the poor continued to squander their coin on cheap wine and even cheaper strumpets by the port, and the errant knights continued to wander around, waiting to chance upon damsels in distress.
For a while, Geralt, too, continued to take on the contracts that came his way as the duchy's resident witcher. Another archespore infestation in some vineyard, more kikimores in another mine that some vintner wanted to convert into a cellar. But never again did he encounter another vampire attack around Beauclair. No, the vampires kept their distance from Toussaint now. Whether to avoid persecution after the great spectacle they made in the capital or because they now have a greater target to hunt, Geralt couldn't tell. He found that he'd rather not think about it, so he didn't.
Autumn swung by and painted the entire duchy in stunning hues of amber and crimson, its vineyards filled with double the workers for the upcoming harvest. When there weren't any monsters for him to hunt, Geralt spent his days discussing the art of vinting with Barnabas-Basil after a few rounds of gwent and tending to the herb garden in the vineyard. If the workers had found it odd that he insisted on acquiring more common herbs like wormwood and anise, no one said a word to him. Marlene, for one, seemed to appreciate the addition; she made great concoction teas with them, and Geralt spent a good number of evenings sitting in comfortable silence in the parlor with her, each nursing a warm cup of herbal tea in their hands.
At night, however, he slept fitfully. His dreams were disturbed by the same scenes that used to torment him: Stygga Castle. Milva coughing out blood and her lifeless eyes that stared into the night sky she could no longer see. The bloodcurling screams of a friend. The stench of burning flesh and sounds which he couldn't forget for months on end, until he did. Except this time, the tormentor was no longer Vilgefortz.
It was Dettlaff.
Clearly, he was being haunted by the memories of the last time he wintered in Toussaint. By the time Yule came round, he looked so haggard from sleep deprivation that Barnabas-Basil—the man who usually refrained from commenting on the witcher's personal affairs out of deference to the master of the house and respect for another's privacy—broke protocol.
"Forgive my overstepping, sir, but I wonder if you would be keen to hear about this brilliant healer that resides in Belhaven. You see, a few years past, my grand-uncle was suddenly taken ill by this horrible affliction..."
It took two more spoonfuls of Marlene's scrumptious mutton stew and one whole minute more of the majordomo's story about his relative for Geralt to realise that he was being called out for how shitty he looked.
"... and it was quite an invasive process, with needles and—"
"B.B.," Geralt interjected, dropping his spoon back into his bowl rather unceremoniously.
"Y-Yes, sir?"
"I appreciate your concern, truly," he reassured the majordomo, who had turned a shade paler at his interruption.
"But I'm alright."
He considered his companions at the dining table: his majordomo, who had spent most of his life serving noblemen and from whom Geralt definitely did not deserve such deference, and his cook, a woman who had spent most of her life trapped in a horrible curse and now had no one else she could call family. They formed an unlikely team, the three of them. Yet they made it work, and the vineyard was now a home for them all.
Not unlike how it had been once, on the road with another rag-tag company, all those years ago.
"I'm fine," he repeated. Softer, weaker this time. Whether to convince them or himself, he didn't know.
"It's just..."
Geralt sighed. It was becoming increasingly apparent that the time he had spent away from Yennefer (perhaps for the better) and a certain vampire (much less so) was taking a toll on his eloquence.
"Winter," he concluded, with a vague wave of his hand.
"... Of course, sir." The majordomo nodded after a moment’s pause, his expression conveying the usual respect and understanding.
Marlene said nothing, only reaching over the table to place a veiny hand over Geralt's. Her eyes, however, told him everything she wanted him to know. I'm with you, she was saying wordlessly.
Geralt smiled, albeit weakly, and squeezed her hand gently in return.
Soon, however, he struggled even to enter the laboratory in the cellar to brew his potions; he couldn’t look at the silly skeleton with that single gauntlet and stupid hat without thinking about all the choices he made and the consequences he put those around him through. Not without being reminded of Cahir, who had fit right into the palace and its luxuries, whose loyalties and motives he had openly questioned more than once, yet who had still unquestioningly and faithfully followed him to the end of the world. Of Milva, with her chopped golden brown hair that grew into a rather awkward length by midwinter, in her oversized clothes that were meant for a nobleman, and her fiery glares at anyone who dared give her a strange look. Of Angoulême, who had looked so pretty in a dress, so vibrant as she told all those dirty jokes to the knights during the feast, and whose brave, young heart he had ultimately failed to protect. He hadn't even gotten a chance to say goodbye properly to all of them, much less give them the burial they deserved.
But perhaps what grieved him most was the reminder of his friend, who killed his own blood brethren to protect Geralt. His comrade, who had already died for him once and whom Geralt had yet again condemned to a life of exile. An anathema, because of him. And what for? His obligation to fulfill a contract? His morals and the damned lesser evil?
It was a few years too late, but Geralt had to concede that Angoulême was right after all: there truly was something bewitched about Toussaint. Nothing much had changed, indeed. Restless from the lack of sleep and plagued by his regrets, the spell the duchy had cast over him was broken once more, and no sooner had the temperatures begun to rise than Geralt was back on the Path.
He headed up North, at first. Braving the final blasts of the winter wind, he'd considered heading back to Velen. Last they corresponded, Ciri mentioned that the Bloody Baron had returned and that she planned to visit him in the spring. Geralt had invited the young witcher to winter with him in Corvo Bianco this year, but apparently some business held her up in Ellander. If it had been business of the professional kind, Ciri was certain to have been more verbose in her explanations, so he guessed that the business came in the form of some young maiden.
“Young love,” he sighed into the burning firewood. The snow had eased up, and the northern winds didn’t reach this side of the base of Mount Gorgon, which made it a good place to set up camp overnight.
“Right, Roach?”
Next to him, his mare shook her head once and nickered softly in response. Leave me alone, Geralt was sure she was telling him in that strange, male-sounding voice of hers. He snickered, but obliged her and went back to chewing on his three-day-old baguette with camembert.
They made it as far as Riedbrune, just north of Belhaven, before Geralt decided to turn back and move westward instead. He couldn’t say what compelled him to make that choice at that point in time. He had chalked it up to his unwillingness to pass through the Dank Wilderness again, old age and what not. Ciri definitely wouldn't let him live that down if she ever found out.
But later—much, much later, he would realise that it was Destiny all along.
Fortunately or not, the arrival of spring came with a slew of monsters prowling about, which meant more contracts he could busy himself with. While they used to be a survival necessity, he wasn’t exactly short on coin anymore, not after Anarietta had showered him with it for fulfilling his end of the deal. He could now very well afford to be picky with his contracts, but for some reason he still took whatever came his way. Vesemir was probably right; he did enjoy poking the hive.
He travelled from town to town, taking as long as he needed in each. In Tergano, the first major city he reached after exiting the Theodula Pass, he trudged through its grimy streets with Roach in tow, having just concluded a contract on a wyvern. The ash from the innumerable blacksmiths in the city stuck to his armor that was already coated with draconid innards, and he had to spend a decent sum at the local laundry just to get the grime off. The laundrymaid informed him that the village she came from, just south of the capital, was being haunted by apparitions—foglets, he later confirmed—so that was where he headed next. Rinse and repeat.
It was along the borders of Nazair where things finally took a downturn. This close to the coastline in the South, the climate was warmer and wetter, and spring showers were commonplace. The locals welcomed the rain with open arms, as a matter of fact; they had grown weary of the cold, dry weather. Witchers, however, didn’t particularly enjoy hunting monsters in the mud and rain. Especially witchers with injured knees which never had the chance to heal properly.
To be fair, the contract was simple enough. It was a run-of-the-mill job—a wraiths infestation in a village after an improper burial. What complicated matters was the uneven terrain of the village, and one small slip of his step on the muddy grounds proved too big a mistake as Geralt had to brace himself with his bad knee. To no one's surprise, his leg gave way, and it provided an opening for a wraith to strike. If he hadn’t cast another Yrden quick enough, the next blow was sure to have been deadly. No witcher had ever died in his bed, but he sure as hell didn’t want to go out over an amateur mistake either.
By the time he returned to the contract issuer with the nightwraith trophy, hobbling and soaked in mud from the waist down, he was ready to get back to his camp and call it a night. But evidently, the universe wasn’t done toying with him.
“You see, M-Master Witcher,” the poor grave digger stuttered in heavily accented Common Speech, his eyes darting about. Geralt stared at him as he moved to lean against a wall, attempting to ease the pain in his knee. He wouldn’t have had any problems conversing in Nilfgaardian, but folks here seemed to assume that Nordlings like him wouldn’t understand it. He couldn’t be bothered to correct them, so he let it lie.
A sheen of sweat was slowly beginning to form on the man’s wrinkled forehead as he continued talking. “While you were out there handling those—those things, our debt collector came by… We tried to negotiate, you see, said we had to pay you and all, but those men… Ah, they just couldn’t be swayed…!”
Geralt clenched his eyes shut, and his jaw even tighter. A few words pressed at his mind—just a few, none of them very nice—that he was sorely tempted to say, but when he reopened his eyes he noticed a woman standing further inside the house, watching them intently. She was clutching a milk jug so tightly in her hands he feared it might break. A young girl was peeking out from behind her dress, which, frankly, was starting to look like a rag.
In their eyes, he saw fear, but also hunger and desperation. He had seen those expressions so many times he should have been numb to them. But it seemed like the older he got, the harder it was becoming for him to look away. Briefly, he wondered what Lambert and Eskel would make of that. Nothing good, he suspected, knowing his brothers.
“Just pay me what you can afford,” Geralt grunted at last.
The grave digger sagged visibly with relief and thanked him profusely. He sang praises about how witchers were not as heartless as folks claimed while he handed the witcher his coin. Geralt, for his part, didn’t even bother to check the amount; all he could think about was the straw bed in his makeshift camp. He certainly hoped the rain today didn’t soak it through.
In his distracted state, he had forgotten about his knee, and the pain that shot up his leg when he pushed himself off the wall forced a garbled cry out of him. The grave digger stepped closer, probably wanting to help, but Geralt held out a hand to stop him. He inched towards the door, steadying himself against the wall with one arm. He wasn’t looking forward to the journey back in the slightest.
"W-Wait, Master Witcher,” the man called out to him just as he stepped outside.
“We can probably help you with that. Quick, dearest, find those herbs Master Regis gave us before he left!"
That stopped Geralt in his tracks. Heavy accent or not, he doubted there was any world in which he wouldn’t recognise that name. He turned slowly to regard the grave digger once again.
"Regis—”
His throat tightened unexpectedly, silencing him. It had been a while since Geralt had allowed himself to say, much less think of, that name. He swallowed hard, gathering himself, then tried again.
“Regis was here?”
“You know of Master Regis?” gasped the woman, who paused in her rummaging through the shelves.
“... Speaks like a professor, dresses like a tax collector, and smells like a walking apothecary?”
“Why, yes! That’s exactly him!” the grave digger exclaimed, the most energised he had looked the whole night. “What a small world this is!”
Geralt said nothing, despite how his heart hammered in his chest. He had plenty of questions that he knew he wouldn’t get the answers to, at least not right now. What was Regis doing here, in the outskirts of Nazair? Whatever happened to his plans in Nilfgaard?
But above all that internal ruckus, there was a deep sense of relief. Regis was alive and well, and he was doing what he loved.
It was then that he realised he had been assuming the worst all this while. That the other vampires would eventually get the best of Regis. That he had lost him again.
What solace it was to learn that he hadn’t. Not yet, at least.
"Ah, there it is!"
The woman walked over to hand him a burlap pouch filled with herbs. Celadine, white myrtle, sage… It was a poultice for healing inflammations.
“When you see him next, please tell him we are forever indebted to him,” the woman requested, her hazel eyes sincere. “Elena wouldn’t have made it if it wasn’t for his help. It’s a shame he left so suddenly.”
Geralt nodded slowly. Elena, the scrawny girl who didn’t look older than eight, was now hiding behind her father. She didn’t look particularly ill, but he did note that her breathing was heavier than what should be normal. It was probably a flu—harmless most of the time, but deadly in winter, especially when you didn’t already have much to get by on.
“When did Regis leave?”
“Around two weeks ago, right before the full moon,” answered the grave digger. “Poor fellow, he must have been scared off by the rumors of vampires lurking around.”
The witcher felt his blood run cold.
“There were vampires here?” he asked gravely.
“Not that we’ve seen, and we spend more time in the cemetery than regular folks do, mind,” the woman shook her head. “Joss, the butcher’s son, claimed he saw two of them one night, flying across rooftops or some rubbish. My, if that didn’t strike fear through the whole village overnight! I’ve never seen more garlic sold in the market in my entire life. As if that was the first time that boy had spouted nonsense like that!”
She looked positively incensed for reasons Geralt couldn’t comprehend. But the couple seemed perfectly content with their belief that Joss was just spewing rubbish, so he didn’t see the need to burst their bubble, nor to correct their knowledge about vampires. He doubted the vampires would stay long here now that Regis had left, but he supposed he ought to survey the area just to be safe. Tomorrow, though.
“... I’ll be sure to let Regis know that Elena is doing well,” he said with an air of finality.
“But mind telling me where he stayed while he was here?”
The cottage was close to the grave digger’s hut, on the other side of the cemetery. Limping his way towards it, Geralt wondered if Regis chose this spot because some particular type of mandrake grew here as well. He snorted at the thought, but a smile tugged at his mouth regardless.
As he approached, he pictured the vampire’s cottage—or shack, as Regis had called it—in Fen Carn, where they had been invited to the first night they met, almost a decade ago now. He remembered its dim interior and humble furnishings, the herbs and distillery equipment that cluttered the space and made the cottage feel more like a laboratory than a home, were it not for the pervasive herbal aroma that breathed warmth into every nook and cranny.
Reality differed, of course, if only because the cottage had already been abandoned for some time. The air inside smelled musty, likely from the recent bouts of rain and the lack of ventilation. Geralt shot a spark of Igni at the candle closest to the door and examined the space. Aside from the standard furnishings—a narrow cot in the corner, a few empty shelves, a wooden table that looked ready to give way at any moment—and some leftover herbs still hanging off the walls, the place was completely bereft of any other personal effects.
Yet again, Geralt felt relief wash over him. The lack of a mess was evidence that Regis had planned his departure, that he wasn’t fleeing from immediate danger. He fired another blast of Igni into the fireplace and plopped down onto the bed. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine Regis right here, fiddling with his distillery and making notes, corporeal one second and whirling about in his blue-greyish mist the next. Just the thought itself comforted him.
Exhaustion finally catching up to him, he shucked off his muddied trousers and shoes before collapsing fully onto the cot. He didn’t think Regis would mind a friend using his bed in his absence. The mattress was thin, but palpably more comfortable than the straw bed he had to make do with on the road. The witcher sighed, throwing an arm over his eyes. He would have to deal with his injury tomorrow. His supplies were all back at his camp, and he couldn’t make use of Regis’s poultice without water.
It took a while—much longer than it should have—for him to realise he was not alone in the cottage.
He lifted his arm away from his head and glanced towards the window. A raven sat perched on the sill. Its glossy, jet black feathers gleamed in the moonlight, lending it a majestic air despite its small size. With its head cocked to one side, the corvid looked at him almost inquisitively. Like it had expected to find someone else.
“... Regis isn't here," said Geralt grimly. “Sorry to disappoint.”
The raven continued to stare at him, unmoving from its position. It blinked once, then another time. Not up for a staring contest, Geralt decided to leave it be and closed his eyes again.
“You miss him too, huh?”
There was silence, long enough to make him wonder if he had been talking to himself, before he heard a soft coo, undiscernible if not for his witcher senses. Then, the fluttering of wings.
He was alone once more.
Pressing his nose into the straw-filled pillow, he picked up traces of wormwood and sage. He breathed the herbal scent in deeply, letting it soothe him into sleep.
And for the first time in months, he dreamed of nothing.