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Empathy for Monsters

Summary:

Regis has brought Dettlaff back to Toussaint over two years after the events of Blood and Wine in order to continue his rehabilitation, thinking the key is helping him develop a sense of empathy. Geralt thinks he's foolish, but Regis feels a chance meeting they had with a woman in the woods means more to Dettlaff than what it seemed.

Notes:

I’m working under the assumption that you beloved readers have at least a general knowledge of the games, specifically The Witcher 3: Blood and Wine. I don’t go crazy in-depth or anything and try to keep it to casual knowledge, don’t worry, but uh… spoilers for The Witcher 3 and Blood and Wine, I guess. I also added some general stuff from the books, like a little bit more about Regis, nothing crazy.

Content warnings: mentions of blood-drinking, manipulation/emotional abuse, hunger, homelessness, substance abuse, attempted force/non-con, murder, violence, and a few swears. Also probably some sensuality and romance in later chapters but hey, that’s why you clicked, right? ;)

Also, a disclaimer: I don’t own these characters or locations aside from my OC, but I try to keep my depictions as true as possible, so if you think I’ve screwed up, let me know, and I appreciate your patience. It’ll probably be a slow build.

Above all else, I hope you enjoy!

-FoxgloveFields

Chapter 1: New Beginnings

Chapter Text

Fjola stepped out into the warm rays of the late summer sun, smelling the first hints of autumn on the breeze blowing across the golden field.

“Get a move on, girl!” snapped the old woman standing in the small cottage behind her. “We told you we don’t want your wares, now get!”

Fjola bowed her head apologetically as she walked down the narrow pathway dotted intermittently with worn stones, her large, faded cloth bag bouncing against her hip as she left as briskly as she could. The old woman’s cottage door clapped shut, though Fjola could hear her grumbling through the open window all the way until the path met the main road that led along the banks of the Sansretour. Sighing and empty-handed once again, she headed away from the river and back south, towards Francollarts. It was a long walk back, but she reasoned she could likely make it to the town and the safety of its torches before dark really fell. The days were getting shorter and the nights cooler, but she really had no other recourse but to try to make it in time. As if driving the point home, Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery seemed to wink at her in the distance, the eerie fog that always seemed to linger there causing goosebumps up her arms as she began to walk more briskly. While she was used to walking long distances by now, Fjola still dreaded some of the more tedious ones not because of the effort they took, but rather the fact they gave her plenty of time to think.

Another penniless day, she mourned internally. Where do you think you can sleep tonight? Will the innkeeper allow you to rest behind the inn again, or will you be forced to spend the night with the pigs this time?

Shaking these intrusive and unhelpful thoughts from her head, Fjola tried to concentrate on the beauty of the sun setting behind the mountains, the golden fields of grain ready for harvest, and the vineyards full of large grapes seemingly ready to burst. This was a poor image to concentrate on, however, as her stomach began to growl audibly and her mind once again drifted back to her current situation. Homeless and penniless, Fjola had resorted to selling scraps and items she had scavenged here and there in order to pay for what little food she could. In summer being homeless was not so bad – there were still plenty of wild plants to forage for, and shelter wasn’t really a concern unless the weather was stormy. Now that the equinox was mere days away, however, Fjola realized that food and shelter were going to become a much more pressing problem.

Even more so than right now, she thought as her stomach made angry noises again. She sighed and kept walking, her grim thoughts seeming to chase her down the wheel-rutted road towards the small town miles ahead of her.

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

"Dettlaff,” the older man chided, “You’re being ridiculous. These events happened two years ago, and by Geralt’s account, the young Duchesses both lived anyway.”

You know how little comfort that brings me, Regis,” the younger-looking of the two men growled. “My intent was not to have Rhen…” He paused, pained. “...was not to have Syanna live happily ever after.”

“And she’s not,” the older man replied softly. “Not as far as I’ve heard. Her younger sister Anna Henrietta keeps her under close watch at all times, all but a prisoner in the castle that was to be hers by birthright.” He clucked his tongue in amusement. “I can’t say I don’t take some malicious joy in her situation,” he admitted. “After everything she did…” He caught a glance of his companion’s face and decided to drop the subject.

He looked up to the setting sun, barely visible through the fog and thick branches covering the cemetery of Mère-Lachaiselongue. His gray hair and mutton-chop beard moved gently in the breeze and his sharp, aquiline nose caught the scents of late summer foliage and the first flirtations of autumn weather, stronger than even the smell of dust and old bones that nearly overpowered the cemetery. Regis smiled softly, enjoying the nice moment, before his companion Dettlaff once again made a noise of discontent. He sighed.

It’s extremely unlikely anyone will ever bother us here at this crypt,” Regis pushed, “My privacy was never molested or trod upon without my explicit consent or cajoling – this cemetery is far too old for anyone to still care about any ancestors still residing here, and the ancient tales of the shades of bandits still stalking amongst the tombstones keep even the heartiest of explorers quite far away. Not to mention the archespores make excellent watch-dogs, so to speak.”

Regis chuckled slightly to try to lift his companion’s mood, but Dettlaff’s face only soured more.

I told you I wished to be far from men,” he grumbled. “This place has poor memories and the nearness of her makes me feel ill.”

Regis’ face softened. “I understand,” he comforted, placing his hand gently on Dettlaff’s shoulder. “But remember the goals we have set, the plans put in motion. If we truly are to live amongst men once again, it’s imperative to have periodic exposure.”

But why here?”

“Geralt is not far, and even after everything that transpired, I still consider him a very dear friend. Like you,” he smiled. Dettlaff did not return it, but raised an eyebrow. Regis continued. “Not to mention that despite your grim assessment of yourself, you’ve actually made much progress and come very far. I believe your final test will come in the form of forgiving the enemy that has hurt you the most.” Dettlaff’s eyebrow went a little higher and Regis hastily added, “...And well, I did leave a good amount of my things behind when I essentially fled with you. I’d like to have them back again.”

“I did not ask you to follow me!” Dettlaff suddenly shouted, jerking his shoulder free from Regis’ grasp. “You could have returned at any time! I did not ask for any of your companionship or proselytizing!”

“I know,” Regis said. “I know. But…” He scowled and pressed his lips together. “I could not let you go alone, my friend.”

Dettlaff’s shoulders fell as he turned away. Regis sighed again and started forth into the crypt.

I do hope my hat is still here, I was rather fond of it…”

Chapter 2: To Francollarts

Chapter Text

Fjola’s pace began to quicken as the sun sank ever lower, Francollarts still unfortunately far but at least finally visible. To her relief, a small group of farm laborers accompanied by a knight-errant escorting them for safety had joined her along the path, chatting merrily about what their evening would look like. The two female laborers laughed about flirting their way into free drinks while a particularly young male worker eyed them hungrily, ignorant of their conversation. Fjola smiled politely as she walked with them, not participating in their chatter but still grateful for the company. She heard the heavy steps of the horse’s footprints to her left as the knight brought himself to her side, smiling through the lifted visor of his ornate, feathered helmet.

“Where dost though go alone, my lady?” he pried. Fjola felt a little uncomfortable, but answered honestly.

“Francollarts,” she said, turning away and feigning deep interest in the rocks along the side of the road.

“Might I accompany you on your journey, my lady?”

“You already are,” she said softly, still not looking up. She heard the knight scoff slightly before he picked up his pace and began chatting with the female laborers ahead of her.

Fjola caught a glance at herself in a dirty puddle that had formed in a particularly deep rut in the road. Her brown hair was long, curly, and unkempt, her brown eyes had dark circles beneath them, the small, light freckles on her nose and cheeks seemed to have multiplied, and her clothes were frayed and stained from the daily journeys. Though she washed herself and clothes in the river each day, she knew her grooming probably wasn’t particularly up to Toussaintois standards.

Perhaps that’s why they keep turning me away, she thought with a titter. Who wants wares from a beggar girl?

She readjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder and the goods within clattered as if for emphasis.

*

Almost an hour later, Francollarts was finally within reach, and with good timing – the sun had finally dipped beneath the mountains and the air had gotten much cooler. Fjola shivered and made her way to the inn to ask for shelter outside the rear of the building once more. Her stomach always wound itself in knots at the thought of asking, no matter how many times she had done so already – she hated charity. Not for others, of course, but she could never seem to accept it for herself. The shame that came from holding one’s hand out for others to fill it burned like a hot knife in her belly, and she avoided it when she could, but hunger was a deeper blade and made help much easier to accept. She felt another hunger pang and the worry that came with it – she had no money for food again, and the thought of stealing was, as of yet, still not an option she was willing to take. She remembered that morning’s breakfast of a large bunch of sour grapes someone had discarded and her stomach growled again.

Ahem,” the knight errant coughed, suddenly standing before her. She hadn’t noticed with her face to the ground and so deep in thought, but he was mere inches ahead of her, standing on the ground instead of sitting on his horse, his gauntlet-covered hand outstretched, palm up. Fjola shook her head and attempted to walk around him, not wanting any more company tonight, but she had apparently misunderstood as the knight became annoyed and barred her path again. She stopped and cocked her head slightly, still not understanding what the knight could have wanted. He scoffed.

“A tip, you fool,” all courtesy gone from his voice, “For my services escorting you to safety!”

Your services?” Fjola was suddenly annoyed. “I thought knights-errant did these sorts of things for the sake of nobility and philanthropy, and that you were compensated by the Duchy?”

The knight growled, but did not rescind his hand. “We knights have to eat too, and I am not going all the way back to Beauclair for the pittance they allow us nowadays!”

Fjola felt guilty, but scowled. “I don’t even have money for my own food,” she admitted through gritted teeth, her cheeks reddening with shame. “I’m sorry.”

“Pah!” the knight spat at her feet and she jumped back. “You will see how much help you will receive when you next find yourself in trouble!”

With that, he hopped back onto his horse and rode into the town of Francollarts, the large plume on his helmet bouncing merrily in contrast to his furious mood. Fjola kept on her path towards the inn, the knight’s warning of not if she were to find herself in trouble, but when, hanging over her like a threat.

Chapter 3: Settling In

Chapter Text

Regis hummed contentedly as his fingers ran over his familiar books, bottles, and scrolls, wiping away two years’ worth of dust and cobwebs with gentle swipes. To his great fortune and surprise, very few things had been removed from the crypt, and the things that had been were of little use to him or were easily replaceable.

“Hm,” he muttered, scouring over the items he had left behind, “I’ll need new quills and ink, as those have been taken, though it’s funny they did not touch the parchment. I’ll still have to replace that too though, of course,” he said sadly as he plucked a piece up and it crumbled in his grasp. “My dried herbs and plants are gone, though fortunately I brought my current stores with me, and I know where to find much more. It’s odd that whatever thieves saw fit to steal my ingredients, however, did not pilfer my solutions, as well. Perhaps they were frightened of the contents… though perhaps not as much as they ought to have been,” Regis said with distaste as he noticed a shriveled corpse not far from the door, an empty bottle of clear mandrake solution still under its hand. “A shame,” he said, picking up the bottle and examining it, “Had this thief allowed me to make proper use of this instead of drinking it while in its current state, he’d likely have enjoyed it much more.” He gave a sarcastic smirk and took in the crypt with his dark eyes again. “Still, not bad for two years of neglect. What say you, Dettlaff? Is it a proper enough home, for the time being?”

It is,” he replied shortly, sitting on a low cement wall next to the warmth of the brazier Regis had lit upon entering. Regis placed the bottle back down next to the corpse and walked to Dettlaff, sitting next to him with a small groan.

“Mmph. Regenerated or not, even vampires such as us get tired, eh?” Regis said, clapping Dettlaff on the shoulder.

Dettlaff nodded slightly and examined the crypt. It would do, especially as he had no intentions of staying for very long. Just enough time to make Regis feel as though he had accomplished something, and then perhaps they – or just he – could move on again. Dettlaff felt he owed his friend that much.

* * * * * * * * * *

Fjola shivered against the stone wall of the Scarlet Cardinal Inn, wrapping herself in her thin clothes as tightly as she could and trying in vain to shield herself from the chilly wind that had suddenly picked up. She had tried to find a spot on the wall that was behind the hearth and roaring fire inside, but the fireplace had been reinforced and it barely warmed the cement behind the brick at all. Resting had become impossible due to the cold, and her mind had begun to occupy itself once again with her concerns for the future. A million different scenarios began to run through her head, each worse than the last.

Maybe I should go back to Belhaven? There wasn’t much there besides mining, but swinging a pickaxe is better than starving to death. I could try to find work in Beauclair again but if they wouldn’t accept me last time, I doubt they would now that my clothes are even rattier.

Another breeze blew through her thin skirt and top and she turned her back to it, shivering.

It’s almost a shame the borders into other territories are so difficult to cross. I don’t have the money for fabricated papers, either.

She considered her past paths and wondered if she had made the right choice in coming to Toussaint.

Maybe taking up with the temple I was sent to wouldn’t have been so bad after all, she considered. They housed and schooled me pretty well in return for my chores. Thinking about her time there caused her a pang of guilt – they had taken her in and cared for her until womanhood, and she had left without so much as a parting note or thanks.

When she was a young child, Fjola’s parents had died serving as crew in an attack against some ships, an attack they and several other ships had initiated. Her parents were from Skellige, but were at port in Oxenfurt, trading fish which were at a premium there at the time when they received the call to arms. Leaving her in the care of a small school and promising a swift return, they boarded the ship with their captain and crew mates for the last time. Fjola remembered them with another pang – she had been so young at the time that her memories of them were barely more than blurs and fractured feelings and images. She remembered they had brought her with them to the continent to try to stoke an interest in seafaring and the duties of her clan, but she had still spent the whole time dreaming about what new things she would see, if they had many books, or if by chance she might meet an elf or a dwarf and have a conversation with them. She wondered if perhaps that’s why the caretaker, upon learning of her parents’ deaths, chose to send her to a temple instead of shipping her back to Skellige, where she would just be another orphan.

Fjola had been too young for Oxenfurt at the time, not to mention poor, so the temple had been the next best option. She was grateful for being sent there, she supposed, but found it to be a very stale, unfulfilling experience over the years, and bolted before she could take any vows or steps towards further permanence there. They had taught her to read and write, heal, cook, clean, and, of course, pray. Fjola didn’t have much use for religion however, and being the obstinate explorer she was, departed for greener pastures one cool dawn several years ago. From there and over time, she made her way around the Mahakam mountains towards the east, then south through Aedirn, following the Yaruga to the Newi, to Riedbrune, then Belhaven, and eventually, down the Sansretour and into Toussaint. She had recalled depictions of the Duchy in the books she had read in the temple, and to her it had always seemed like a fairy tale kingdom, complete with tall-spired castles and rolling green hills full of aromatic flowers and weeds. She smiled now remembering her naivete, but took solace in the thought that, despite the fact she was starving and miserable, the place really was beautiful, like a painted storybook. She smiled thinking about how she used to believe in seeing things like talking animals, dragons, vampires, flying carpets and unicorns, chuckling lightly while she cowered from the cold and hunger.

Chapter 4: Watching the Fisherman

Chapter Text

Dettlaff stared out at a small boat on the water of the Sansretour, a lantern dangling from its prow as a lone fisherman cast his line into the water peacefully. Though humans generally disgusted or confused him, Dettlaff could not help but appreciate some of their simpler tasks, such as that of the fisherman casting for food or the grape cultivators training and pruning their vines, inch by inch across their vineyards. Though it was dark already, this man had just kept about his task, almost as though he hadn’t noticed the sun had set and the air had cooled, or that his was the only boat left on the water. Dettlaff suddenly wondered to himself what it would be like to be the type of cruel monster humans saw his kind as; relentless, bloodthirsty hunters, remorseless and eager only for their next kill, completely devoid of emotion.

How I almost wish it were so, he lamented, How easy it would be to exterminate these fools en masse and finally be rid of their cruelty and fear. To be able to walk in peace, to not have to hide my face or worry about stretching my wings at night. To not be manipulated or hurt for their own selfish, petty desires, or…

He stopped himself with a huff – he was doing it again.

“Having trouble sleeping?” came a voice from behind him. Regis.

Dettlaff merely returned his attention to the fisherman, who appeared to have started falling asleep.

“At times like this,” Regis said softly, “I’ve found myself doing this same identical task. It’s mesmerizing, isn’t it?”

Dettlaff grunted in assent. The pair of vampires stood for a moment in their cemetery, shrouded by the shadows of the trees and cloak of night as they watched the man slump down into his boat as he finally fell asleep. Regis chuckled.

“Were it so easy, hm?”

Dettlaff smiled and suddenly Regis felt hope for his old friend; he felt his heart swell with his dearest wish for him overcome his past trauma, to learn from his previous mistakes, to truly repent and finally move on with his (rather long) life. He had the odious feeling, however, that Dettlaff had merely been paying his words and ideals lip service in order to please him, and that as soon as he was out of his hair he would seclude himself once again from others. Then again, Regis thought, he always has been rather stiff.

He recalled with amusement the age at which they were young and irresponsible and vampires were more likely to group together, cutting their teeth so-to-speak and “letting loose” on the local populace. Dettlaff was more keen to stay behind and talk with the few others who abstained as well, or read by moonlight as he waited for his friends to return from their blood gorging. He had tried it, once, going with them and draining blood from villagers while they slept and taking out a group of bandits and arrogantly proclaiming themselves as heroes, but Dettlaff had found the experience unpleasant, his head swimming and mind wracked with guilt as he dropped the lifeless body of a young brigand from his arms. That was when their paths had begun to diverge – Regis had always envied him his effortless, self-assured demeanor, the fact that he simply did not care what others had thought of him at the time, but still abhorred his rigid determination to seemingly not have fun. He knew better now, of course, but Regis still felt guilt at having abandoned him at the time for the company of others who were seemingly enamored with him, but more often were just manipulating him for prey or their own amusement. He was grateful for his drastic change over the years, but found it still hard to forgive himself from time-to-time… especially now, as he gazed upon his black-and-silver haired friend and mourned the loss of his confidence and self-esteem.

“Do not do that, Regis,” he grumbled, closing his eyes. “Do not grieve for me. I hate the feeling of your pity.”

Regis’ face fell. “Forgive me, my friend. I cannot help but feel responsible for your current state. Were I a more accomplished mediator perhaps, or…”

Dettlaff cut across him with a gesture of his long-fingered hand.

“Enough,” he said. “You constantly preach to me the importance of letting the past go, I find it irritating you do not follow the same advice yourself.”

“Hmm,” Regis nodded, smirking slightly. “I suppose you’re right. But it is good to know you recall my lessons with such passion.”

Dettlaff closed his eyes disdainfully, shaking his head and reentering the crypt as Regis stood for a moment longer outside, enjoying the crisp air and wondering where their current path would take them.

Chapter 5: Told You So

Notes:

Scary incident at the end.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Fjola awoke with a groan, realizing it was still dark out and that the candles in the villagers’ homes had all been extinguished. A few lanterns still glowed along the roadside, but for the most part, everything was cold and dark. Rousing herself, she saw that the sky remained a deep, dark blue in the east and the stars were still scattered across it – dawn would not be for another couple of hours yet. She knew she wouldn’t get much more sleep anyway and grabbed a lantern that had been hanging from one of the poles lining the way through town, figuring that on her return, she would quietly place it somewhere where it could easily be discovered and hung once again. She used it to illuminate her way towards a small, hidden pond in the Caroberta woods to wash up like she normally did, absentmindedly plucking some perfumed herbs and flowers along the way to use in her bath. Although she knew dawn was approaching, it was still quite dark out, and she figured she would have decent privacy for some time. It wasn’t until she was on her way back that she realized how foolish she had been.

* * * * * * * * * *

Regis stretched, cat-like and full of energy as he cajoled his companion to come with him to grab some much-needed supplies. Dettlaff trudged along begrudgingly, still feeling uncomfortable at the thought of being in public, much less in a place where he might be recognized. Neither of them necessarily fit in, not to mention Regis had a way about him that was almost flirtatious, attracting others to him like moths to a flame. Thinking of this, Dettlaff fidgeted with the jeweled moth pin attached to his black leather frock coat, somberly recalling Regis’ words as he had gifted it to him. “You’ll always be attracted to the light,” he had said, and Dettlaff had always wondered why Regis even bothered to try.

It’s not as though I genuinely enjoy human company, so why force it? he wondered. Why not simply let me go? But he supposed with such long life spans, perhaps Regis simply wanted a project, or missed companionship of the same species. While they were usually solitary creatures, it’s not as though they never got lonely. Dettlaff recalled several bruxae and alps who had kept him company years ago and wondered how they were faring now. He wondered if they would be excited to see him, or neutral unless called upon. His ability to summon lesser vampires to his side was both a blessing and a burden; it was a useful power to have and at times did help chase the loneliness away, but because it was “forced” he often wondered about their true feelings towards him. Because of this, he had been fond of his occasional companions, but never truly close. He supposed that’s why it came so easy with Regis, even though they didn’t always see eye-to-eye – he couldn’t be put under Dettlaff’s spell, and so he knew his desire to be in his company was genuine. He still could never figure out why, however, and it could make him prickly at times.

“It’s still dark yet,” Regis commented, “But by the time we arrive, we’ll likely have first pick of whatever the stores are carrying. Ah, that reminds me, please alert me if you see any good satchels, I’ll need a rather large one for carrying herbs and such to replenish my stock. Also, keep an eye open for some decent parchment, seeing as mine has become just another pile of dust in the crypt. Speaking of which, I suppose we’ll need a broom as well…”

Dettlaff nodded, listening to Regis’ chattering patiently while they walked towards Francollarts in the dark.

* * * * * * * * * *

Fjola finished bathing, shivering in her underclothes as she exited the freezing pond, tossing her skirt and top back on before she could fully dry and grabbing her bag of odds and ends before she started to make her way back towards the path. She heard the snap of a tree branch and froze, blowing out the last bit of flame in her lantern and squatting down to listen. Stupid, she thought, I should have known better than to come out here in the dark. Damn wolves could have snuck up on me.

She waited patiently for a couple minutes before deciding that if she were about to be devoured, it likely would have happened by now, and picked herself back up and made towards the road again, this time hurrying as best as she could despite the lack of the lantern’s glow to light her way. She had a funny, creeping feeling and a newfound desperation to just make it out of the thick of the woods, then she’d be safe, she reasoned. Leaping over a fallen tree branch, she landed softly back onto the heavily worn road she had traveled just the day before, lifting her arms in victory as she did so.

I made it! she thought, before an arm grabbed her roughly about the waist from behind. She tried to scream but a coarse, reeking hand covered her mouth and she struggled, kicking her legs into the air and trying in vain to scream. Just then, a familiar horse came up the path and into view, the knight-errant she had met on the road yesterday lifting a torch and brandishing his blade. Her attacker stopped, but kept his grip on her. Fjola felt smug for a moment, her safety within reach, but suddenly saw the knight-errant’s face twist in recognition and he turned his horse back up with path and out of sight. Chuckling, her attacker began dragging her back into the woods, and the last thing she heard before disappearing into the trees was the knight calling, “I told you so.”

Notes:

Beware of next chapter if you are sensitive or have triggers, please.

Chapter 6: A Fine Mess

Notes:

Content/Trigger Warnings: Violence, description of injury, attempted rape

Chapter Text

Regis stopped in his tracks for a moment, cocking his head and holding out an arm to stop his companion. Dettlaff began listening, too, controlling his breaths and focusing his excellent hearing on the dark woods surrounding them. Regis suddenly took off into the trees, Dettlaff following without hesitation as they skillfully made their way through the darkness, being able to see in it quite well. They ran for perhaps only a minute or so before Regis halted abruptly, squatting down and glancing towards a small bonfire in the middle of a clearing. A large group of heavily-armored bandits was milling about, cursing, drinking, and lightly brawling as the commotion the pair of vampires had heard made itself apparent. A greasy, disheveled-looking man in dark leather armor was dragging a kicking, squirming young woman with him, covering her mouth with his calloused paw and smiling nastily.

“Caught this one all squeaky clean from the pond a mile about that way,” he motioned with his head, “Seems a nice treat before breakfast, boys, a reeaaal nice treat, what do you think?”

The woman squirmed and screamed as best as she could in his grasp, but could not seem to extricate herself. Regis scowled deeply and bared his sharp teeth, but this time it was Dettlaff held an arm out in front of him. Regis looked over in confusion but Dettlaff merely shook his head, whispering very lowly, “Do you really want to expose us already?”

“You know what’s about to happen otherwise,” Regis warned, his voice heavy.

The man had released the woman from his grasp, but she was clutching an iron lantern and swung it directly at his face, lacerating it in a spout of blood. Regis and Dettlaff both heard the sharp snap of bone and realized she had broken the bandit’s nose. He screamed and howled in pain, clutching his face as another pair of brigands grabbed the woman and pinned her to the ground. Dettlaff felt his stomach turn and blood boil, but turned towards Regis to argue his point.

“Humans make their own misery,” he growled, “this one is no exception.”

Regis looked furious. “Have I taught you nothing?” he hissed.

“We can’t save the world, nor should we!” he snapped back, but couldn’t help the guilt welling in his stomach as he glanced back over and saw the woman’s kidnapper standing over her, gushing blood from his wound and spitting it on the ground.

“You’ll pay for that, bitch,” he snarled, punching her hard in the face and kicking her in the ribs. She gasped from the pain, doubled over on her side and reeling, multiple bandits now holding her to the ground and laughing despicably.

Dettlaff felt another pang as the woman cried out, still desperately trying to kick at her attackers despite the pain and inability to free herself. Regis turned his head in disgust, removing his leather jerkin and other clothes quickly in preparation to transform into something more formidable. Dettlaff looked at him in alarm before it dawned on him.

“Your bat form?” he asked with incredulity.

“Yes,” Regis sneered, unable to look his cold companion in the face out of anger, “Then I won’t be recognized, should there be a survivor. Aside from the young lady, of course.”

Dettlaff saw the bloody brigand aim another kick at the woman, the heel of his sharp boot cutting her arm as he landed another blow. He pressed his dirty finger into the wound as she screamed and one of the bandits held her mouth shut again, the lacerated man finally standing and freeing himself in preparation for his next intended act.

“Don’t worry,” Dettlaff growled, transforming, “There won’t be.”

Before Regis could react, Dettlaff had shed his coat and launched himself into the group of bandits, fangs bared and claws flying, his hair whirling as he fought like an animal, his claws gouging deeply into the faces and chests of the repulsive men. The brigands holding the woman down released her, grabbing their axes and swinging down as Dettlaff’s back was turned, one of them whizzing close by his head, the other sinking into his right shoulder blade. He howled in pain and landed on his knees, but Regis knew it was over before the man had even managed to remove his axe from his enemy’s back. Immediately Dettlaff began to grow and change, shape-shifting into his massive, more intimidating form, his incredible wings and extra appendages forcing the axe from the flesh of his back with a sickening pop as his eyes disappeared and his gaping maw filled with long, savage fangs. Roaring with fury, he began slaughtering the rest of the men like the animals they were, their blood staining every surrounding surface, some of it hissing as it hit the fire still glowing in the pit in the center of the massacre. Finally, when the last of the pigs was butchered, Dettlaff breathed a heavy sigh and turned back towards the woman, checking to see if she was dead or merely unconscious.

Dettlaff was wrong on both counts; the woman was still simply frozen to the ground in fear and wonderment, her eyes almost swollen shut from the blows of the bandit who had beaten her. She had watched in awe as the winged miracle before her devastated her attackers in mere seconds, and watched now with a strange, cool calmness as the impossibly huge being approached her in giant steps. He knelt down and though she could not see him very well, she could feel his hot breath on her face, oddly welcome in the cool air. He brought a clawed hand to her, lifting a finger and placing it against her wrist to check her pulse. She gently brought her own fingers up to stroke his hand and he flinched, whipping his eyeless face towards hers. She could feel his own heart racing through the finger he still had placed upon her wrist.

“Thank you,” she whispered before closing her eyes, sliding her fingers against his hand once more before losing consciousness completely.

*

"A fine mess,” Regis said, though oddly cheerfully. “Not your problem indeed. Though thank you for saving me the trouble,” he chuckled.
“That’s not exactly what I said,” Dettlaff growled, hesitating. “Besides, you were taking too long.”

He was returning slowly to his more human form, his tattered clothes still littered across the ground from when his larger shape had burst forth. He sighed in annoyance but Regis merely handed him his black leather frock coat, which was the sole piece of clothing Dettlaff had shed, just in case.

“Of all the things to remove,” Regis laughed.
“Hmm,” Dettlaff grumbled, “I’m rather fond of this coat.”

There was a pause and a moment of silence while Dettlaff covered himself as best as he could with his jacket and Regis scoured the site for anything useful. Well, at least anything useful that wasn’t covered in blood.

“What made you change your mind?” he asked seemingly idly as Dettlaff secured the last of his buckles. He wasn’t sure how to answer.
“Her screaming,” he finally replied, softly, though Regis could sense the anger in his voice, and something else that he wasn’t saying. He nodded in understanding nonetheless, not wanting to press Dettlaff any further, approaching the woman and gently feeling for her pulse himself.

“I already checked,” he snapped. “She’s fine. Let us go.”

Regis cocked an eyebrow, though kept his gaze on the woman before him.

“What did she say to you?” he asked.
“I’m sure you heard,” Dettlaff said impatiently.
“I was rearranging my clothing,” Regis said defensively. Dettlaff emitted a low grumble.
“Hmm. She… thanked me,” he said haltingly, unsure of how to feel. Had she not been terrified of him, or was she in shock? Could she not see him from beneath her swelling eyes? Surely she must have been able to sense some of his monstrosity.

Regis stood up and faced his friend. “Would you kindly go back to Mère-Lachaiselongue and prepare it, while I make my way there in a moment?”

Dettlaff had a moment of confusion before realizing what Regis must have intended. He shook his head angrily but Regis held up his hand with insistence and a cold finality even Dettlaff did not want to challenge.

“And please,” Regis continued, a sly smile spreading across his face, “Don’t forget to clothe yourself more fully.”

Dettlaff scowled and set off towards the cemetery, defeated.

Chapter 7: Soothing

Chapter Text

Fjola had started to come to, her head and body absolutely pounding, but she was grateful to even be waking up at all. She felt a cold, wet cloth against her face and jerked backwards, throwing open her eyes to see an older gentleman glancing at her kindly, a dripping rag in hand.

“Shh,” he soothed, bringing the cloth up to her again.

She tried to sit up quickly and squirm away, but the pain in her ribs knocked the wind out of her and she gasped, falling back down onto the bed she had been placed upon.

“It’s alright,” the man comforted softly, “I promise, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Fjola glanced into his deep, black eyes and, despite all common sense, decided to trust him, for now. She didn’t have the energy to fight regardless, and, closing her eyes, resigned herself to his care. She lay there peacefully for a few minutes as he held the damp cloth against her eyes, taking in her surroundings as best as she could with her other senses. The first thing she noticed was the smell – beyond the medicinal odor of whatever was in the water the man was using against her face was something strongly herbal. Pleasant, even. A strong whiff of cinnamon was immediately apparent, along with sage and something that reminded her of licorice, mixed with a few other scents she was unable to place, despite her time training at the temple. It had been so long ago that the smells and knowledge seemed very distant to her now. The man moved his arms to wring the cloth out and re-saturate it, and the herbal smell became stronger for a moment until the cloth was put back on her face. The scent put her at ease for some reason and she relaxed the tension in her shoulders she hadn’t known she’d been carrying.

Listening to her surroundings wasn’t as helpful, however – beyond her caretaker’s quiet breathing and the sound of a small fire, there was a very deep silence, so complete it was almost oppressive. Fjola strained to hear more but her attempt was interrupted by the man’s voice.

“I apologize for bringing you here so suddenly,” he said softly. He sounded genuinely remorseful and Fjola was confused. The events that had transpired before she had lost consciousness were not his fault at all – were they? Her heartbeat suddenly quickened.

“Did you… how…” she wasn’t sure how to start and bit her lip gently as she paused. The man made a soft noise, almost like a sigh.

“Hmm. I…” he paused too for a moment. “You were unconscious at a bandit camp. We – that is, my friend Dettlaff and I – brought you to our… abode… to administer some medicine to you. We wanted to make sure you weren’t too badly injured. Which, I’m afraid to say, it seems as though you are. Oh nothing permanent,” he added quickly, sensing her fear, “But you’ll need some time to recover, at least. Perhaps a couple of weeks.”

A couple of weeks? she thought with alarm. “ I’m sorry,” she said, trying to right herself despite the pain in her head and body, throwing off the mask and trying to regain her senses, “I can’t stay here that long.”

The man put a hand gently on her shoulder to try to relax her but she flinched away from his grasp, a dreadful knot forming in the pit of her stomach as she took in the obvious scene of an old crypt before her. She froze and the gentleman caught her gaze, staring into her eyes intensely. Fjola strangely found herself unable to look away, her mind and body suddenly wanting to do nothing more than sleep.

“I apologize for this,” the man whispered, “But you need your rest.”

Fjola’s last image before succumbing was of the man’s deep, comforting black eyes, and a tall, broad shadow lurking in darkness behind him.

* * * * * * * * * *

"How soon can she leave?” Dettlaff asked.

Regis turned back from his now-unconscious patient to scowl at his friend, his thick eyebrows furrowing down in that judgmental glare he always made when someone said something that he took as foolish or disrespectful.

“Don’t mistake me,” Dettlaff said, holding a hand up, and Regis’ face relaxed a little. “I merely mean… perhaps there are people looking for her. Perhaps they could… follow us here.”

Regis considered this for a moment, but ultimately shook his head.

“I left no traces of us,” he said, “Only bodies, which will doubtless be chalked up to some wild fiend. I even went so far as to burn the scraps of your clothing. However, I see your point. It was never my plan to abduct the poor girl, just tend to her wounds and let her be on her way.”

“Maybe you should go back to Francollarts and ask?” Dettlaff suggested.

“No,” Regis said, “No, you were right the first time, she needs to go back. We’ll transport her tonight.” He looked back down at her in… was it warmth? Dettlaff couldn’t place it, but decided not to say anything. Regis removed the cloth from her face and wrung it out, getting up to dump the old water outside. “Who knows,” he said with a small laugh, “Perhaps she will consider all of this just a very strange dream.”

Dettlaff smirked and gazed outside at the noonday sun, tinged blue through the mist of the cemetery, eagerly anticipating having the crypt to themselves again.

*

“I still need to find a new satchel,” Fjola could hear the older man say, “I don’t mean to sound callous but today was irritatingly unfruitful.”

“You still have your usual one,” another voice said, deep and grumbling.

“Of course, of course,” the older man said dismissively, “But I’d need quite a large one to collect some of the items I need in more plentiful amounts. My leather one here is only capable of so much.”

Fjola opened her eyes just a crack to examine her surroundings once more, noticing with hope that her eyes no longer felt so swollen, though the rest of her still felt as though she had tumbled down Mt. Gorgon head first. She was definitely in a crypt, that much was clear; the cement caskets lining the alcoves couldn’t make it any plainer. However, she noticed copper pipes and wooden shelves stocked with dozens of books, scrolls, and potions among other things on the side of the crypt in which she was resting, all of it very much out-of-place in this dreary underground space. It clashed oddly and she gazed away towards a set of stone steps on the far end of the room, the daylight creeping in appearing as though it was almost gray, or filtered.

“Regis,” said the grumbling man, “I think she’s awoken.”

The older gentleman approached her again, and again, looked deeply into her eyes, lulling her to sleep almost instantaneously.

“Perhaps we should move her now,” he suggested. Dettlaff agreed, and they were soon on their way back toward Francollarts, taking turns carrying the unconscious woman to their destination.

Chapter 8: Discomfort

Chapter Text

Fjola dreamed of something dark and massive carrying her through valleys and woods, up over mountains and castles, the wind whipping her hair and a set of glistening fangs only inches above her. She reached up to touch the monster’s face and suddenly jolted awake, cold air blowing across her bare legs, her skirt bunched up around her thighs. She looked around in alarm, expecting to find herself in the strange crypt again, but instead slowly began to realize she was resting in one of the rooms at the Scarlet Cardinal. Groaning, she lay back against the bed and fixed her skirt, looking with annoyance at the open window, too pained and lazy to make the effort to cross the room to close it. The wind blew again and suddenly she smelled something delicious very close to her. Looking up more alertly now, she saw a large bowl of hot stew with a thick, small loaf of sourdough and a couple of beautiful apples sitting on a small table not far from her bedside.

Suddenly energized and ignoring her pain, she sat up and glanced about the room to see if it was intended for somebody else. It was only her in that small room, though, and despite her roaring stomach and watering mouth, she waited for a couple of minutes to see if anyone would return for it. No one did, however, and soon she could no longer stand it, launching herself at the first bit of hot food she’d had in weeks. She was practically moaning as she finally filled her stomach, but as her frenzy died down, realization settled in and she forced herself to save most of the bread and both apples, using her finger to wipe the gravy from the sides of the bowl after she had finished off the stew.

Finally satiated and with a full belly, Fjola leaned back to think about her terrifying morning and unbelievably fortunate afternoon. Her mind kept drifting back to why? and the possibility that perhaps, just maybe, she had dreamed it all after being attacked.

But then who saved me? She recalled with curiosity and a little bit of fear the hulking, winged creature that had taken out the bandits and thought, Or rather, what saved me? What was that thing? And why? Why did it bother?

She considered then the older gentleman who had given her medicine for her face and cared for her in the crypt, as well as the broad shadow behind him and the second masculine voice. Were they all related somehow? What had happened to the winged creature? Had it run or flown off when the other two men approached? And, once again, why had it bothered to help her? Fjola could not recall much kindness in the world, especially as of late, and especially not without strings attached, and the thought of being saved by a monster no less gave her very little comfort at all.

* * * * * * * * * *

Dettlaff and Regis had laid down next to each other on the sole bed in the crypt, which was unfortunately rather small. Regis’ slighter body curled up without much difficulty, but Dettlaff was having trouble with his much broader frame. He turned on his side and stared out at the crypt, sleepless as usual, knowing that it wasn’t really the bed’s fault. Something was tickling his ear and he swept a hand beneath his head, expecting it was just one of his thick black curls gone errant, but whatever it was was much longer. He pulled his hand away and noticed a long, curling brown hair attached to it, obviously left behind by their temporary “house” guest that day. Annoyed, he dropped it to the ground and attempted to sleep once more.

Drifting, he thought about the young woman, her gentle touch on his monstrous hand and sincere thank you as she had looked at him. He wondered again why she hadn’t shrunk from him, and tried to figure out exactly what had motivated him to help her in the first place.

Pity, I suppose, he considered, but it didn’t quite feel right. Anger, maybe, he also thought. It made the most sense – although he didn’t kill for joy or for sport, slaughtering cruel, monstrous excuses for men caused him no moral discomfort. In fact, it gave him a small sense of satisfaction, though he was loathe to admit it. He was not the type to frequently help humans, no matter their circumstances, but certainly didn’t deny them basic courtesies or just avoidance altogether. Yes, he thought, that must be it. I only helped her because I despised them so deeply. I was chasing the satisfaction of ridding the world of evil men, justifying it through her own need at the time.

He nodded to himself as though he had reached a great conclusion and rolled once more on the bed to find himself face-to-face with Regis, who had been watching him silently and was now giving him a curious glance. Dettlaff merely closed his eyes again and pretended to fall asleep. He knew Regis could tell he was faking, but also knew that he would understand that that meant he did not want to talk, and that Regis would leave him alone. He was right, though he found no solace in it.

Chapter 9: An Unexpected Visit

Chapter Text

While grateful for the bed and food her wonderful benefactor had gifted her, it was only for the evening and, come morning, she was rushed out of the inn hurriedly, her hair still dripping from her bath. Before she was unceremoniously booted out the door, however, Fjola stopped the innkeeper and asked about who had been so generous to her.

“A couple of men,” she said, “Don’t know who, they didn’t leave names, just insisted on paying for the bill and left.”
“Do you remember what they looked like?”
“One of ‘em was a bit older, maybe the other one’s dad? Though he was going gray too. Hm.”

She appeared to think for a moment, but Fjola was patient – she had a feeling that it was, indeed, the man who had cared for her yesterday, as well as his shadowy companion.

“The gray one was dressed like a tax collector,” she smirked, “But talked like there was no tomorrow. The other one was the quiet type, I suppose. Tall and dark-haired, all-in-all kind of handsome, but his eyes made me feel like someone walked over my grave. I didn’t ask their names or the like, they paid, I provided.”

Fjola nodded and thanked her, finally exiting the inn to start on her way. To where, she wasn’t quite sure. She just knew that she had to leave Francollarts behind, though.

“Ey,” the innkeeper called after her, “You going to sleep outside again here tonight? Because I’m going to start charging you, you know.”

“No need,” Fjola said, refusing to elaborate further as she made her way down the familiar road back towards the Sansretour, pausing to dump all of the scrap items she was never going to sell anyway upon a rubbish heap near the edge of town. She was planning on just one more stop.

* * * * * * * * * *

“It’s a shame most of the shops were closed last night by the time we got to Francollarts,” Regis sighed, staring at the mid-morning light coming from under the door, “I’d have liked to have saved myself the long walk.” He smiled and, with an air of nostalgia, stated, “It’s at times like these where I miss Drakuul. I do wonder whatever happened to that mule.”

Dettlaff remained as stoic as ever, merely watching the road ahead and letting Regis do enough talking for the both of them. Which he continued with, undeterred by Dettlaff’s stubborn silence.

“I’m still hoping to get a new satchel, as I mentioned,” he seemed to be talking to himself, “But at least we were able to get the parchment and a broom. Though remind me to find a new journal as well, should you see one; I used to keep one in the crypt but alas, I haven’t seen it since Geralt’s last visit those couple of years ago, and my new one is getting full. I suspect he was interested in its contents – he never much was one for asking permission before nosing about or even pilfering small objects, the devil. I’ve never known such a noble man with such a propensity for petty theft.” He gave a small laugh and shook his head thinking about his friend. Dettlaff closed his eyes and rolled them beneath his lids.

“Perhaps I should get him a housewarming gift – aside from the mutagenerator I designed for him, that is – despite the fact that I am over two years late in doing so. Hm, which reminds me, I do recall the vineyard he was gifted for his involvement in…” He coughed. “That matter… well, I remember him mentioning that the previous owner had planted new vines some time prior to Geralt’s acquisition of the estate. Seeing as they take about three years to bear fruit, perhaps less if one has the good fortune to know a particularly skilled and willing sorceress to help, by my estimation, this will be the first year his vines shall have produced a crop.” He chuckled again. “It does amuse me, admittedly, thinking of my gruff Witcher friend relaxing in the shade, wine in hand and lounging in repose after a day of meticulously training vines and pruning leaves.” Regis breathed in the sweet, mid-morning air. “Although, I’d forgotten about leaving my skeleton and hat in his cellar at Corvo Bianco, as well – I’d feel awful asking for any of it back now, but perhaps he’d be willing to accept my bony old friend as a gift, and allow me at least my cap back. I doubt he’d find it fashionable, in any case, so he might be persuaded to part with it…”

Dettlaff suddenly yanked Regis back into the trees, blending in with the shadows and staring warily at the road they had just been walking on. They both watched quietly, startling when they saw the young woman they had rescued yesterday coming slowly down the path.

“I’m astonished she’s able to walk about this far,” Regis whispered with surprise.
“I’m not,” Dettlaff muttered back nonchalantly, “You’re an expert in healing and medicine.”

Regis knew he had only mentioned it as a casual comment, but he couldn’t help but feel flattered. He was about to tell him so but noticed that his friend had crouched back even further into the shadows, looking a great deal like a panther stalking its prey, much to Regis’ amusement. He followed suit, however, the two of them watching the woman walk to the edge of the woods, freeze, and with great trepidation, start walking towards their crypt.

“I thought you said she was unconscious when we left,” Dettlaff scolded.
“She was,” Regis replied. “Not only did I put her to sleep myself – a talent I’m quite good at, I’d like to mention – but I could feel her heartbeat and hear the rhythm of her breathing. She was most definitely asleep.”
“Then how could she have followed us here?”
“Well, she did see that she had been on the inside of a crypt yesterday. This being the nearest one to Francollarts, it’s likely that she put two and two together. Or is just a phenomenal guesser.”
“What do you suppose she wants?”
“Maybe to thank us for the board for the night.”
“Hm, and the meal,” Dettlaff said quietly.
“The meal?” Regis asked. He had only paid for the room.

Dettlaff did not meet his eyes, but said, “I assumed you had forgotten to add it.”

Regis gave him a sly look for a moment before returning his attention to the young lady, who had just walked past her first tombstone and crossed her arms in front of her chest defensively. They were quite well hidden from human senses, but still used extra caution as they quietly turned into smoke and got closer, re-materializing in the treetops behind her, concealing themselves once more. She looked about her as she got to the crypt, standing on her tiptoes to glance at her surroundings before approaching the door and knocking on it gently. Obviously, no one was inside to answer, but Regis saw that she waited another minute before knocking again, this time more loudly. She tried the door but to no avail, backing up and gasping as she wrapped one of her arms around her ribs in pain. She leaned against the stone archway for a moment to catch her breath, looking around once more before resignation set in. She took her bag off from around her shoulder and removed some bread and two apples, folding the bag gently and placing it upon a broken pillar near to the door to the crypt. She finally went to leave, but suddenly stopped herself with a doubtful look on her face. With an expression Regis could only describe as a mix of satisfaction and remorse, she placed the two fruits on top of the bag, hopefully out of reach of scavenging animals, and left the cemetery as quickly as she could.

The pair of vampires waited for a few minutes to make sure she was truly gone before descending from the trees and examining what she had left. Regis smiled as he wrapped the bag around his shoulder, but noticed Dettlaff scowling deeply at the apples as though they somehow offended him.

“Rather charming of her, don’t you think?” he asked cautiously.

Dettlaff merely grunted and handed the apples to Regis before evaporating into black and red mist and filtering in to the crypt through the crack beneath the door.

“Where are you going?” Regis asked incredulously.
“Do your own shopping,” Dettlaff responded from the other side. “I’m… tired.”

Regis shrugged it off and once again started the long walk to town.

Chapter 10: Dettlaff's Pacing

Chapter Text

Dettlaff was pacing back and forth in the crypt, immersed in his own thoughts, tense and irritable despite the comfort of solitude.

Why would she bother? he thought. We did not ask for repayment. We didn’t expect it. And those apples were for her – was she rejecting them out of repulsion? Is she ungrateful? He considered a moment that perhaps she just wanted to share, or show gratitude, but shook his head, refusing to believe it. He had been able to accept it once upon a time, charity or kindness from humans, but had long ago found that it was often born out of manipulative intent or selfish motives. Why would any human care to show kindness to a monster? It suddenly occurred to him however that she hadn’t known it was he who had rescued her – there was no way she could have seen him transform, and he and Regis did not discuss it in her presence. At least… not when she was conscious. He stopped pacing for a moment and stared at the ground in thought. Had she heard us somehow? Does she realize what I am? But then why return and risk encountering me again? And even if she doesn’t know, why return at all? Gratitude? She could show us that much better by leaving us in peace.

He was suddenly nervous that she might return to see them again, and keep doing so until she was satisfied, but a thought occurred to him.

Perhaps if I take my form and terrify her, she will not be so keen on coming back… He scowled. Or she’ll alert some guards or a knight-errant. He growled and resumed pacing. So much for the so-called peace Regis offered upon coming here. We didn’t even have one uneventful evening before… He stopped his train of thought, realizing it was he who had acted on the woman’s behalf in the first place. Sure, Regis would have anyway, but that made little difference to Dettlaff as it dawned on him that this whole mess was his own doing. I should have left her to her fate, and forced Regis along with me. It is not up to us to decide the destinies of mortals. Even as he thought this however, he knew it was wrong. He didn’t know how he knew, he just did, despite it conflicting with his reticence to ever involve himself. Interfering in human affairs was something vampires rarely did, if ever, and the few times Dettlaff had himself did not usually turn out in his favor. He remembered with great pain the last time he had tried to scare a pursuing human female off with one of his monstrous forms, and how spectacularly that had failed in the long run.

Syanna, his mind whispered, and the thought of her brought him to a fury so thick he immediately transformed into his more bestial self, swinging his long claws in rage and sending several books and bottles flying across the crypt. One of them smashed and Dettlaff instantly felt guilty, sitting down on a rickety chair and burying his face in his claws.

I just want to be left alone.

Chapter 11: Beauclair Port

Chapter Text

Fjola staggered her way along the road that ran nearly parallel to the Sansretour, heading towards the Beauclair Port and hopefully, a new life. Even though she was still in poor physical shape, something about having had a hot meal the night before had put a fire in her belly. Well, she reasoned, a hot meal and nearly escaping rape, torture, and death, I’m sure.

She thought again about the creature that had rescued her, and why it seemed it had done so intentionally, but decided to put it out of her mind. She figured she had either been dreaming or hallucinating, and even if she hadn’t been, whatever had saved her life had decided to spare it, and if she saw it again, she would make a greater effort to extend her thanks. In the meantime, she had bigger fish to fry.

*

It was after noon by the time she had reached the port, for which she was grateful, as it meant the streets were bustling and there were plenty of sellers, merchants, and other potential employers about. For hours she walked about the port and eventually ventured into the San Sebastian district, where it seemed there were endless labor and work shops, but to no avail. With no work records, character references, residence, friends or even decent clothes, she was practically laughed out of every store, shop, and stall. Dejected and with another cool evening approaching, Fjola decided to curl up behind a random, desolate building and call it a night.

Despite the air being as cool as the night before, which seemed a thousand years ago to Fjola now, the close buildings offered more shelter than the inn had, and she found her eyes burning with exhaustion already. Falling asleep was an easy affair, but it was restless and broken as her thoughts and dreams kept turning to her winged protector and the gentleman healer who had helped her. She didn’t know how long she had been drifting off before suddenly she felt a presence close to her side. Alarmed, she sat up quickly and raised her fists, but an old man with a green, draped hat squatted before her and raised his hands in supplication.

“Miss, surely you have a place to sleep for the night, yes?”

Fjola shook her head no, still on guard.

“Then come,” he said kindly, “I offer free meals to those in need, and a place to sleep that is not in the street. It’s not much, but it is free.”

Fjola didn’t believe him for a second and remained where she was as he began walking up the street. The old man turned back to make sure she was following, but a resigned acceptance crossed over his haggard features as he realized she did not trust him, like all of his charges before desperation set in. He nodded with doleful understanding.

“I realize I must seem crazy or malicious, miss, but I assure you, I have no ill intent. Should you be interested, my shelter is over there,” he gestured to someplace beyond a stone archway, “I hang a pot outside on a pole when there is no supper, and bring it in when there is. Please, should you decide you wish for a hot meal and a warmer place to sleep, you are always welcome.”

With that, he continued his walk up the street and around the corner, out of sight. Fjola curled up a little tighter, wondering if she should try to find some place more secure so that she remained unperturbed during the night, but was too tired to look and soon fell back to her disjointed rest.

*

Fjola woke just before dawn, as usual, getting up with difficulty, her body stiff and sore from the harsh sleeping conditions and chill in the air. You’d think I’d have gotten used to it by now, she thought, stretching and looking around, wondering what new efforts she could make today. She sat on a nearby barrel, slowly eating half of the remainder of the sourdough she had, savoring it and planning on the rest for dinner. She smiled and remembered the hot stew she had been gifted the night before last, swearing she could still smell it. She stopped for a second, sniffing the air. Wait a minute… Someone is cooking!

Her stomach growled uncomfortably despite having a few bites of bread in it, and she had to make a firm, conscious effort to put the rest of the hardening loaf back into the pocket of her skirt, deciding to take a walk to clear her head and get away from the smell of hot food. As she walked up the hill of San Sebastian, she noticed a crudely assembled door opening up into a small, dirty plaza, the old man from the night before propping it ajar with a large stone. Fjola looked up and saw a metal pole on the side of the building, but no pot. Suddenly the man started waving at her, beckoning her forward with his hand and a crooked, gap-toothed smile.

“Please, miss, please! I am making soup now. If you are not willing to stay, at least take some with you.”

Despite her misgivings from the night prior, Fjola felt tempted to take the man up on his offer. She still hesitated though, until a small group of men passed by her, shuffling and downcast. The old man greeted them kindly.

“Ah, Romain, Freshy, Devan! Good to see you!”

Fjola watched the men shamble in to the plaza, still dejected but perking their heads up a bit at the thought of hot food awaiting them. Fjola knew what that felt like… With a sigh, she walked apprehensively into the plaza as well, keeping an eye to make sure the door still stayed open.

“Welcome, welcome!” the old man said, approaching her. “I am Germaine, please, sit down inside with the rest of my guests. The soup will be ready in just a few minutes.”

Fjola did so tensely, sitting on the bench at the far end, away from the group of men and as close as she could possibly be to the exit. She sat in quiet thought for a few minutes, alternately massaging her head and sides until a bowl was placed before her, full of a thin, steaming broth and smelling faintly of something sour. The men received their bowls next and didn’t hesitate before digging in, one even pouring the soup directly into his mouth instead of using the wooden spoon they had each been provided. Fjola picked hers up and dipped it into the soup, noticing it had almost nothing in it before bringing it to her mouth. While hot and satisfying, in a way, it tasted of old vegetables and dirty water. She hoped she wouldn’t become sick, but knew she had feasted on worse things and finished the thin broth quickly, still grateful for the hot meal. The men seemed to be of the same mind, and Fjola suddenly felt a great pity for them. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled the last of the loaf of sourdough out and ripped it into four even portions, giving them each a piece, but reserving one. They looked at each other first, one of them blushing with shame, but thanked her and ate the bread voraciously. Germaine saw from around the corner and Fjola approached him, giving him the last piece.

“Thank you,” she said, looking at the floor. She felt the same as the men, she supposed, full of shame at receiving charity, but incredibly grateful for it, nonetheless.

“It was my pleasure, miss,” Germaine said, attempting to hand back the bread. Fjola stepped back and shook her head. The old man smiled and beckoned her away from the other men, pointing to another room down a narrow hallway.

“I have no feminine clothes to give you, I’m afraid,” he said, “I do not often have women here, truth be told. But there are clean items in there, should you desire. I know of several labor shops and farms in the area that could have work for you, as well, but we shall worry about that tomorrow, or when you feel better. Take as long as you need to recover.”

Fjola felt the ache in her head and ribs, and looking down at her tattered skirt, suddenly wanted to cry. Why had she received such fortune in the past couple of days? She hadn’t found this sort of charity in any of the other places she had resided, perhaps not even the temple in which she was raised. She held back her tears, however, and rifled through the clothing until she had found a man’s small blouse and a pair of pants that fit. When she emerged, Germaine showed her to another small room with a pile of hay and a thin blanket, where she laid down and immediately fell into a deep sleep, dreaming about soaring above the clouds at night.

*

When Fjola had arisen around past noon and eaten a thin, mealy porridge that the shelter provided, Germaine gave her a long list of possible sources of employment, most of them vineyards and farms, who at this time of year needed all the labor they could get.

“Though I would not advise this, miss,” he said, “Given your injuries.”

Fjola was embarrassed that he had noticed from her unsteady gait and restricted movements that she was in pain, denying it and insisting she could work anyplace that would have her. He relented and Fjola walked out with the list, heading up the street toward the first one with an air of renewed hope.

Chapter 12: Regis Plans a Visit

Chapter Text

Regis grabbed the bag that the young lady had left for them over a week prior, jauntily preparing himself to go to Beauclair Port. He had decided to shop there alone on his and Dettlaff’s behalf, knowing that going there with him would be a terrible idea, as he’d likely be recognized. Neither of them were worried about running into any royalty or nobility there, certainly not either of the Duchesses, but were one of the few people Dettlaff had communicated with when he resided in the old toy shop there, it could make things complicated, or risky if someone casually mentioned his name and it traveled “through the grapevine” so to speak.

Not only that, Regis was planning on visiting Geralt, in order to catch up with his old friend. That is, of course, if he was in an agreeable mood. Regis knew he was still ignorant of Dettlaff’s survival of their previous encounter, and though it wasn’t really his intent to deceive his old friend, found he was having misgivings about mentioning the truth to him.

“I don’t care if the Witcher knows of my survival,” Dettlaff had said, almost bored. “If he wishes to be a fool and attack me, I’ll kill him. If he leaves me be, I shall extend the same courtesy.”

Regis didn’t take the threat too seriously, knowing Dettlaff would rather avoid the fight, seeing it as childish or a waste of time, but knew he’d likely have to make an appeal to Geralt to make him see reason.

“Perhaps I shall inquire about getting a mule again,” Regis mused, filling his bag carefully with some potions he had created to sell and bundles of straw to keep them from breaking.

Dettlaff gave a noncommittal grunt, his face buried deep in a book. A thought occurred to Regis.

“My friend, I recall that once upon a time you used to have a quite a knack – and a rather great fondness – for artistry. Might such a pastime be of interest to you again? Seeing as how we’ll likely have a lot of time here, and more readily available supplies such as a book of parchment and charcoal.”

Dettlaff didn’t look up at first. Then his eyes drifted up from his book and he gave a small, appreciative nod. Regis smiled, adjusting both the bag that had been gifted to him and his regular leather satchel and setting out from the crypt, hearing Dettlaff locking it quickly behind him.

* * * * * * * * * *

Fjola had been rejected from every single place she had applied to in the past week; today’s count alone included three vineyards already and even more labor camps. If it wasn’t her lack of experience that disqualified her, it was the fact that she was still slightly injured, or a female. Irritated and exhausted after a long, fruitless day, she looked at the last name on the list Germaine had given her, one of a place she had passed by on her way through the Sansretour Valley and had avoided at first, as it didn’t seem particularly inviting. She sighed as she backtracked from Castel Ravello and towards the recently renovated vineyard of Corvo Bianco.

Chapter 13: Regis and Geralt Catch Up

Chapter Text

“Regis!” Geralt called, stepping forward quickly to wrap his arms around his vampire friend. He returned the hug with vigor, clapping him roughly on the shoulder and extricating a bottle of something from his leather satchel. Geralt smiled and said, “Celebrating something or regretting it?”
“There are occasions” he said, smiling, “when it’s simply impossible not to have a drink.”
“...not to have a drink,” Geralt said at the same time.

Regis laughed.

“Cirilla told you about that?”
“Yeah.”
“I had hoped I hadn’t frightened her then, but she seemed quite capable, and from what you told me two years ago, it seems as though she is.”
“Something tells me you’re here for more than just reminiscing, Regis,” stated Geralt, seeing through his friend’s tactics immediately.

The vampire nodded at the Witcher, pushing the bottle into his hand firmly.

“All in due time, Geralt, though I must insist you have a drink with me first. I suspect you’ll need it.”

Geralt raised his scarred eyebrow, but agreed, the two of them sitting in a pair of chairs on the side of the estate’s main building, opening the mandrake hooch and grimacing at the fumes. They each took a quick swig and Geralt placed his glass back down on the table between them with a forceful clink.

“Talk,” he said.

Regis did.

*

“You’d better be joking,” Geralt said, his voice dangerously low and looking like he was smoldering as the setting sun tinged his snow-white hair orange and scarlet.

“Indeed I almost wish I were. But the fact of the matter remains that I did not kill Dettlaff. Grievously wounded at the time, yes, but he is alive and well, and I have been helping him these two years, as I’ve explained. He’s made wondrous strides, really, but I firmly believe that for him to truly repair his life, he must be able to stare down the Duchess Syanna and learn to forgive her. All in due time, of course,” he explained hastily. “I suspect that right now he’d still likely delight in murdering her himself, as slowly and as painfully as possible.”
“And despite that, you thought it was a good idea to bring him here? Are you out of your mind?”
“Quite possibly. Forgive the deception in regards to his fate, my friend, but Dettlaff is my companion too, and like you and I and the rest of the hansa, we’ve had a great many adventures together and I care for him very deeply. Which is why I’ve come to you.”
“You said he’s been pretty uncooperative – I don’t think that means he exactly values your time or efforts, Regis.” Geralt paused as he took another swig of the hooch directly from the bottle, their glasses abandoned shortly after their conversation had turned sour. “And if I were you, I’d take that to heart.” He gave his friend a significant look. Regis sighed and knit his eyebrows, staring out at the amber-tinted rows of olive trees and grapevines nearly bursting with fruit.

“Your crop is successful this year, I take it?”
“You’re avoiding the conversation.”
“Mmm, perhaps a little. In truth, I’ve no idea what to say.”
“That’s new.”

Regis scowled. “I’m not in the mood for jests, Geralt.”

“Just say you’ll leave him in that damned crypt and hope he stays there.”
“I cannot do that. You know I can’t.”
“Well he’s not staying here. Go ahead and use my cellar if you want, got that alchemy lab set up there and plenty of ingredients stocked up, but keep that vindictive friend of yours on a leash. Or at least out of my basement.”
“We’re quite well-situated in the crypt for now, thank you very much. And as I said, he’s more than willing to completely ignore you if you ignore him. So for now, if you cannot let bygones be bygones, at least allow him the courtesy of not hunting him down.”
“You know I’m not usually the vindictive type, Regis.”
“Hm, no, not usually. But he did…” Regis paused with a pained look on his face. “I do not wish to recall the events from that time,” he said, “So please forgive me for being reticent. However, I need to know that you’ll agree not to bother him. I assure you that despite his rather admirable fight to remain aloof and untroubled by humans, he has made great strides in recuperating his former self. Though I’m… still working on him,” he finished, drinking a gulp of the mandrake hooch and passing it back to Geralt.
“You have my word. But like I said…” he warned, holding up a finger.
“I know, death and gloom and all that sort of thing. But not to worry, you’ll have no need of it.”

Geralt relaxed and sat back in his chair, sighing contentedly as he took another tug from the bottle. Regis appeared lost in thought for a moment, glaring out over the landscape in deep concentration.

“Geralt, do you recall your pursuit of Ciri, and those that got in the way between you?”
“Mmhmm,” he said. “Where are you going with this?”
“Do you feel you would – had you not beheaded him, that is – ever feel compassion or forgiveness for, say, Vilgefortz? Even if he were to repent, throw his hands up in defeat and admit all wrongdoing with the promise to never behave that way again – even if you believed it for a second – do you think you’d be able to pardon him?”
“No,” Geralt said flatly, meeting Regis’ eyes. “I’d kill him just the same. Maybe even take a little longer to do it, if he was in chains.”

Regis gave a small grunt and nodded.

“Why?” Geralt asked.
“I’m beginning to realize that perhaps what I asked of Dettlaff truly is too much. That what I’ve asked him to do is indeed impossible.” He sighed and ran his long, clawed fingers back through his unruly gray hair. “I feel as though I’ve made a terrible mistake. Forgive me, Geralt, for burdening you with my thoughts, but know I appreciate your candor all the same. It’s always refreshing and a flattery of the highest caliber to receive another’s honesty.”
“Mmhmm.”

Regis sighed contentedly and said, “Ah, enough about scorned vampires and crazed mages. Tell me, Geralt, how is Dandelion these days? Has he been welcomed back into the Duchy yet?”

Geralt laughed and began to fill Regis in, the pair of them chuckling as they sat drinking and reminiscing, watching the sun set over the vineyard, a lone traveler slowly making their way up the path.

Chapter 14: I Know Her

Chapter Text

Fjola was grateful for the sun at her back, warming her as she walked up the hill to the main grounds of the Corvo Bianco vineyard. She noticed there were actually quite a few workers milling about already, and her heart sank. This was the last place on her list, and she was desperate. She knew Germaine would let her stay at the shelter as long as she needed, but the charity still made her feel a bit uncomfortable, as well as the stigma against her as, essentially, a beggar. Breathing deeply, she approached a man dressed in a silk suit with a frilled collar and wrists and a pair of small, round glasses.

“Good evening, lady,” he greeted in a thick Toussaintois accent, “I am Barnabas-Basil Foulty, the majordomo here. How might I be of service to you?”
“Um” she said, suddenly nervous. This place is nicer than I thought. “I’m here to ask if you need any servants, or laborers…”
“Do you have any experience?” he asked.

Fjola began to rattle off her training at the temple, as well as various other skills she had picked up in her travels, such as small house repairs and cooking, but the entire time, Barnabas-Basil merely gazed at her politely, if a little bored. When she had finished, Fjola already knew what his answer would be.

“I apologize, miss, but as of right now we already have many laborers, and a fine chef to cook any and all meals required by the Master, Geralt of Rivia…”

Geralt peered over the side of the deck at the mention of his name, then sat back again and grunted, the alcohol going to his head faster than he had expected. Regis glanced over at him, hardly affected at all, though still enjoying the excuse to lounge for a little bit.

“Anything interesting?” he asked.
“Just another laborer asking for a job. Most of the other vineyards have already hired everyone for the autumn harvest, so I tend to get a lot of people asking. I let Barnabas handle all of it,” Geralt said, waving a slow hand in the air dismissively.

Curious, Regis peeked over the edge of the balustrade and immediately his eyes widened. Geralt picked up on this and sat forward, suddenly alert despite his foggy head.

“What is it?” he asked tensely.
“I know her,” Regis said. “Well… a little. What in the world is she doing out here?”
“What do you mean?” asked Geralt.

Regis breathed deeply and began to quickly explain what had happened and how they had encountered and rescued the woman, though left out the part about Dettlaff turning into his most feral form in order to do it. He doubted Geralt would be pleased to recall it. Once he was done, Geralt’s brows were furrowed and he appeared thoughtful.

“So… I guess he really is turning a corner, then?”
“Yes,” Regis said, “Though I don’t think he’ll admit it.” He thought for another moment. “Geralt, would you be willing to employ this woman?”
“What? Why?”
“Forgive my impulsive request, but I believe she might be able to have a positive impact on Dettlaff, were the two to get to know each other.”
Geralt nearly laughed. “You’re joking? I’m sure the last thing he wants is to be around another human woman.”
“He saved her, Geralt,” Regis reminded. “He didn’t have to, knowing I was fully capable, but he did. I believe it was out of pure mercy, and, I hope, empathy. I’d wish to have help in stoking these emotions in him once more.”
“What would me hiring her have to do with any of that?”
“Convenience of access, to put it rather crudely. As her employer, you would be willing to be more… lenient with her hours,” he said with an impish smirk. “I’m sure days off would be quite easy to come by, for her. Not to mention, she will stay here in the servants’ quarters, yes? She certainly cannot – and likely will not – reside with us in the crypt.”
“Again, why should I care?”
“I’m sure knowing that one of your former enemies is rehabilitating himself will go a long way in easing your anxieties about him having survived your encounter. And,” Regis added simply, softly, “Because you have a kind heart.”

Geralt sighed and pressed his fingers into his eyes.

“Fine,” he finally said, “But she still has to work.”
“That is up to her,” Regis reminded, “though I doubt she’d come looking if she wasn’t willing.”

“Hey!” Geralt yelled over the balustrade and Barnabas-Basil Foulty looked up, nonplussed. The woman was already partway down the road, though not quite off the property. “Did you just hire her?” he asked his majordomo.
“No, sir, we are essentially full of workers, and she is quite inexperienced in the skills we require…”
“I don’t care, go hire her,” he said.
“What?” Foulty asked in surprise.
“Hire her!” Regis shouted with a grin, and Foulty looked back to Geralt for confirmation before rushing down the road and calling the young woman back.

From their distance, Geralt and Regis could see them briefly converse before they both nodded and she began to follow him back, stomping her feet and shaking her fists in the air in excitement behind his back. Regis chuckled slightly and Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“Thank you, my friend,” the vampire said, slinking into the shadows so that she would not see him just yet, “I have a very good feeling about this development indeed.”

*

Fjola was shown the servant’s quarters and was beside herself at seeing she would have an actual bed – with blankets! And a pillow! She threw herself upon it and, despite the fact that the sun had just barely set, fell asleep, smiling and finally free of worry.

*

Dettlaff took the art book and set of various charcoal pencils from Regis with deep appreciation, giving him a quick, tight hug before rifling through the items. Regis could not help but appreciate the way his long fingers ran across the surface of the currently blank pages almost reverently, his long nails making a gentle scratching noise that was somehow both soothing and exciting. He smiled and put the rest of the items he had bought in their proper places, for once not making much conversation. His head was too full of plans and hopes for the future, despite the fact that his heart was telling him to lower his expectations. Dettlaff could be quite unpredictable, and Regis knew he would have to go about this in just the right way, lest his friend become angry or upset. Still, he could not help but wish desperately for things to go well with his friend, and he held on to it tightly, no matter how tenuous that hope might be at the moment.

All good things to those who wait, Regis reminded himself.

Chapter 15: At the Vineyard

Chapter Text

It had been a few days since she had first started at Corvo Bianco, but Fjola felt she was finally getting the hang of things. At first she thought, How difficult can plucking grapes be? It was fun for the first hour or so, but after that, things got tedious. She had also been chided about exactly which grapes she was picking, whether they were too ripe or not ripe enough, how blushed or dusky they should be, whether to clip the entire bunch or just pick a few choice ones, not to mention the actual physical part of it – bending and stooping, lifting and lugging, treading and retreading – and by the end of the first day she was utterly exhausted, wondering whether or not she had made a mistake. The fresh memory of homelessness and hunger kept her where she was, however, and she found as she learned and became more practiced that things did get slightly easier for her. Slightly.

Suddenly one of her fellow vineyard workers began ringing the bell for the midday meal and Fjola practically leapt at the chance for a break. She wasn’t even very hungry, oddly enough, but her fingers were sore and her sides still ached when she moved in a particular fashion, so a chance to sit down and rest was more than welcome. As she did so however, reaching for a piece of bread with honeycomb and placing it upon her plate, she couldn’t help but feel a little uneasy, as though someone was watching her. She looked about but seeing nothing and no one besides her coworkers, who were too busy feasting themselves to give her a second glance, she resumed her meal.

*

“Just go talk to her,” Geralt growled, watching Regis quietly examine his newest worker from behind the shutter of the window. He backed away with a small hiss as she looked up to stare at the house.

“It’s not so easy, Geralt,” Regis said scornfully, walking away from the window and gesturing animatedly with his hands. “What am I to say? ‘Yes, hello, I know we don’t even know each others’ names, but I was curious if you would follow me to a crypt in a decrepit cemetery in the woods, alone, so you might meet my reclusive friend with an unpredictable temper, history of murder, and sometimes massive fangs for a cup of afternoon tea?’”
“Regis,” Geralt said uncomfortably, “You know that some of those things describe you too, right?”

Regis looked at him with confusion for a moment before his face relaxed and he smiled, the laugh lines deepening around his eyes.

“Hm, I suppose so…” he admitted with a chuckle, putting his finger and thumb to his chin in contemplation.
“Reclusive, massive fangs, history of killing…” Geralt listed.
“Enough,” Regis said calmly. “I’m aware of my past.”
“Sorry, Regis. Wasn’t trying to shame you, just remind you…”
“...That anyone is capable of change?” He raised his eyebrows, giving Geralt a significant look, who appeared to be annoyed, but sighed and jerked his head a little in credence. “And now you understand my position,” Regis continued. “You held your blade at my throat once, too. And decided to spare me anyway. You, a Witcher, whose entire existence revolves around eradicating murderous monsters. And yet, stayed his weapon because he knew it was the right thing to do.”
“I know the difference between who’s a monster and who’s not,” he said.
“And so do I. Please trust my judgment, my friend.”

Geralt decided to drop the subject and bring it back to the laborer Regis had made him hire.

“What are you going to say to her? Or are you going to wait until some bandits try to kill her again to really introduce yourself?”
“That’s hardly fair,” Regis chided, but sighed, bringing his head back and chin up, squaring his shoulders. “But I suppose you're right." He took a long, deep breath. "Well,” he said, “I’m assuming you don’t mind that she takes the rest of the day off?” he asked, amusement in his voice.

Geralt motioned to her with his palm open and a smirk on his face and Regis walked out the door, surprised to find himself inexplicably nervous.

*

Geralt watched from the window quietly with a small smile as he saw Regis confidently walk down the path towards the laborers returning to work in the vineyards, seeing him get closer and closer to the woman he had just hired. Suddenly, Regis stopped and ducked between some rows before reaching her completely, seeming to vanish from sight almost instantly.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Geralt grumbled, turning away from the window and deciding to just let Regis handle it himself.

Chapter 16: Care for a Stroll?

Chapter Text

Fjola got that funny feeling of being watched again and turned around to look behind her, but saw nothing. Her fellow laborers were already wrists-deep in the vines and she went to join them, but suddenly saw something rustle behind a row that they had already worked on earlier in the day.

Archespores? she thought with fear, creeping over carefully to check. Instead of a venomous plant with dangerous vines, however, all she saw was a man in a black leather jerkin and fraying shirt beneath it, his back to her as he plucked a singular grape from a cluster and examined it. He was a little bit older and she could see as she got closer… it’s him!

Fjola audibly gasped and the man who had helped heal her almost two weeks ago turned to her sharply, his free arm clutching the strap of his leather satchel defensively. Is he frightened? she wondered.

“It’s you,” she said softly, walking closer until she was barely two feet away from him. He suddenly smiled and bowed low, his right leg going out straight, toes pointing up and arm stretching out behind him with a flourish, his left leg folding as he leaned back and his other hand spread over his heart.

“Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy,” he finally introduced himself. “But you may call me Regis.” He lifted his head from the bow and smiled charmingly. “At your service.”

Fjola gave a small, uncomfortable curtsy and said, “I’m Fjola. Just… Fjola.”

Regis straightened himself and almost looked like he was glowing, which Fjola thought was impressive given the fact that he was somewhat pale and the day had grown cloudy. There was a quiet moment between them before they both tried to talk at once.

“I apologize for the abrupt dismissal…” Regis began.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to thank you…” she tried.

They both stopped and smiled a little before Regis held out the crook of his elbow for her to take and gestured down the path that led outside the estate with a soft jerk of his head.

“Care for a stroll?” he asked.
“Oh,” Fjola said, a little surprised, “I’d love to, but…”
“What’s the matter?”
“My boss…” she started.
“...Just so happens to be a very close friend of mine,” he finished. “I promise you, he will not miss you this afternoon. I shall clear it with him once I return.”

Fjola looked doubtful, but Regis offered his elbow again.

“I insist,” he said.

Worried that she was out of her mind, she took it and the two of them walked down in the path as the sky above threatened to rain.

Besides, she thought with amusement, if I get fired, at least I can probably stay with him in the crypt.

*

"How fascinating,” Regis said, Fjola blushing at the fact he was genuinely interested in her succinct but somewhat lengthy story about how she ended up in Toussaint. “I thought I detected a slight Skelligan accent, though obviously, quite hidden. I am glad to see my hunch was not altogether incorrect.”
“Yeah,” she said, “It was such a long time ago, and I was so young… I guess that stuff just fades.”
“I’ve found that a great many things do indeed change over long periods of time, and I suspect the longer one lives, the more drastic the changes they can make. Although,” he added quickly, suddenly looking perturbed, “That’s just a theory.”
Fjola laughed a little. “Regis, I know you’re a little bit older but it’s not like I think you’re ancient.”

His black eyes seemed to suddenly glint with amusement at a joke Fjola didn’t get, but he turned his gaze back to the road they were walking on, which she knew, depending on the path, led either to the Belgaard vineyard or back towards Mère-Lachaiselongue. She suddenly felt hesitant despite Regis’ great company, a feeling he picked up on immediately, and they stopped.

“Is something troubling you?” he asked gently.

Fjola simply stared out at the mountains, then back to the Sansretour. Regis let go of her arm and turned to face her.

“If you feel uncomfortable in my presence, please say so. I won’t hold you in my company against your will.”
“It’s not that,” she said, still looking away, ashamed.
“Forgive my intrusion, Fjola, but then what is the matter?”

She looked up at him earnestly and felt crippling shame, but asked anyway.

“Regis, why do you live in a crypt?”

To Fjola’s great surprise, Regis did not get upset or angry, but tilted his head back and laughed heartily, though curiously kept his mouth covered with his hand. When he saw she looked utterly confused, he cleared his throat to explain.

“I’m sure you know, as an herbalist and alchemist, my work can be very delicate – if not downright harmful. Not to mention many of the plants and ingredients I use would be harmed terribly were they exposed to sunlight, and even more still require a cool, dry environment. Therefore, an old crypt in an abandoned cemetery seemed the best place to carry out my work.”

Fjola looked relieved at this explanation, knowing first-hand that what he said about the plants and potions made sense – she had had some experience with them, after all, and not just as Regis’ patient. The temple she had trained in had taught her a decent amount of herbalism and alchemy, though she was woefully out of practice.

Regis suddenly had a mischievous look on his face as he leaned forward and said in a soft, conspiratorial voice, “I also make moonshine there, and the cemetery is perfect for cultivating the particular variety of mandrake I use.”

At this Fjola laughed out loud and all of her unease seemed to melt away in an instant. Regis was relieved and smiled through his pursed lips, but, as if in stark contrast to their delight, there was suddenly a loud crack of thunder and the heavens seemed to open up in a heartbeat and utterly drench the land in rain. Regis ran them both for cover under the golden leaves of an oak, but at the first flash of lightning, thought otherwise. The alternative, however, was not much better… he hadn’t planned on coming to this part so soon, but it seemed as though fate had its own plans.

“Forgive me if I seem forward,” he yelled, “But I think it advisable we seek better shelter.”

Fjola looked around through the torrential rain but saw nothing they could reliably utilize. She looked back to him in confusion and saw him raise his eyebrows in a seeming apology before leading her towards the Caroberta Woods and Mère-Lachaiselongue cemetery.

Chapter 17: Weak

Chapter Text

Dettlaff lit a fire in the small pit Regis had installed in the middle of the crypt, warming his hands and heaving a deep sigh of pleasure. Though Regis’ company generally made him feel happy, despite their differences and Regis’ constant efforts to “help” him, sometimes he really just needed the peace and quiet of when his friend was gone picking herbs, shopping, or just out strolling in the woods. He had a strong suspicion Regis was trying to give him some space, which he was grateful for, and made him appreciate his loyal friend all the more. Still, he thought, solitude is also nice. He heard thunder outside and felt another wave of contentment; he loved storms, and the soothing sounds of rain and thunder. Laying against the back of a dark wooden bench Regis had somehow relocated to the crypt and placed near to the pit, Dettlaff heaved another contended sigh and closed his eyes for a few minutes, listening to both the storm and the crackling fire.

He had started dozing off, he wasn’t sure for how long, when suddenly he smelled something… odd. Lifting his nose to the air slightly, annoyed by how the heavy rain was muddling the outside scents, he sniffed the air to try to suss it out. The strong herbal scent of Regis was always identifiable, even with the heavy moisture and rain distorting it, but there was something else, something… sweeter. He couldn’t place it, but thought it smelled faintly of fruit, and maybe perhaps orchids. He sniffed the air again, walking towards the crypt door when suddenly it burst open and a drenched Regis came tumbling through, an equally soaked female companion directly behind him. She straightened once they reached the bottom of the stairs and froze when she saw him. So did Regis. So did Dettlaff.

“Dettlaff,” Regis started cautiously, holding his hand out to gesture towards his female companion, “This is Fjola. I believe you remember her. Fjola, this is my very dear friend, Dettlaff van der Eretein.”

Dettlaff bowed in the same manner Regis had, despite the awkward circumstances, and Fjola gave her small curtsy in return.

“It’s nice to meet you again,” she said.
“Likewise,” Dettlaff returned stiffly.
“Well,” said Regis, clapping his hands loudly, “Now that the pleasantries are over, I believe some sort of dinner is in order, yes?”

Dettlaff gave a small nod of assent but Fjola looked uncomfortable and said, “I shouldn’t… you’ve already done enough for me, really, I can’t possibly intrude any more.”

Regis realized she was talking about his efforts to heal her, as well as the night they had given her at the inn.

“Nonsense,” he said with a smile, “It was our pleasure. But if that’s how you truly feel, you can help me cook. Then you may consider your non-existent debt repaid.”
“I feel I’d owe a lot more than…”
“You said you’ve had culinary training, yes? Then a meal from your hands would be worth much more than some herbal water and a night in a thin, straw bed.”

Fjola looked bashful.

“Please,” Regis said, gesturing to the raised area he had dedicated to his laboratory and library which were above the entrance, up another small staircase at the side of the crypt. The “kitchen” was little more than a small bit of extra counter space next to his workspace and was decorated only with a box of various fruits, vegetables, and roots. Dettlaff lifted a thick metal grate that resembled a table, placing it above the fire in the middle of the crypt so it could heat and be used for cooking. Fjola noticed it took him no effort to do this, despite the obvious weight of it, but said nothing as she gathered ingredients to start preparing them. Regis joined her but ended up feeling a bit superfluous as she skillfully chopped and diced the food and herbs she was using, becoming completely engrossed in the activity, her eyes alight. Eventually she put everything in a pot on the metal grate to cook, wiping her hands clean and standing to the side to watch the food cook. Dettlaff took this opportunity to summon Regis to the stone staircase leading to the door outside, away from their guest’s hearing. When they reached the small alcove, Dettlaff’s eyes were wild and his sharp teeth were bared.

“What is the meaning of this?” he snarled.
“I honestly hadn’t planned on formally introducing the two of you yet, but we happened to be in the area and the rain caught us both. This was a completely spontaneous happenstance.”
Yet?” he seethed. “How long have you been friends with this woman?”
“I only just saw her a few days ago while visiting Geralt. She happened to be there at the same time, inquiring about a job. I convinced him to hire her and let her have some, hm, shall we say… liberties with her production and labor expectations. Today was the first time I had even spoken to her, and I had had no intentions of bringing her to the crypt at all. Though it seems perhaps fate – or a stunning coincidence – has had their hand shuffling the cards about today, so to speak,” he chuckled.
“I fail to see how this is humorous,” Dettlaff said, peering back at the woman who was politely giving them space. “I want to be left alone, especially by humans. Especially by this one.”

Regis’ ears perked up at this line and he cocked his head in an inquisitorial manner.

“You mean to say you wanted to avoid this specific woman entirely? Why?”
Dettlaff’s cheeks reddened slightly and he looked away. “I do not wish to discuss it.”
“Dettlaff, now is not the time to be coy. Do you know her?”
“I hadn’t met her at all before the night we rescued her,” he said.
“You mean the night before you rescued her,” Regis corrected.
“You were going to anyway,” Dettlaff said dismissively.
“But I didn’t. You rushed in much more quickly than I, despite knowing I was actively getting ready to interfere. I asked you then, and I shall ask you again now: why?”

Dettlaff turned his face away.

Why?” Regis repeated, a little more forcefully.
“She made me feel…” he hesitated, his voice barely above a whisper, shaking his head gently in what Regis realized was confusion. He didn’t know how to put it. “...weak,” was all he could manage.
“Weak?” Regis cocked his head back again.
“I lack the ability to explain it,” he admitted, still looking away.
“Try,” Regis urged softly. Dettlaff looked back to him and scowled.

“When I saw her being attacked, at first I felt nothing. When she attacked the bandit, suddenly I felt…” he hesitated again. “Hm. Relieved?” Regis nodded and he continued. “By the time she was being held down, suddenly it was anger. The type I’ve always felt at injustices, the kind you say I need to learn to… hm… manage,” he said with a sneer. “Once I realized I was furious at the situation, suddenly I felt as though I was helpless again. And then I realized she was helpless. When I saw that you would likely not reach her in time, I acted… impulsively, though you’ve told me countless times not to,” he grumbled. He remained quiet for another moment as he processed the memory of that night, and Regis mercifully allowed him to instead of butting in as usual. After a short time had passed, Dettlaff said, “Losing control like that… giving in to my fury again… it felt good. Retributive. But also maddening, and hurtful, like I had… lost something.” He thought again for another moment. “I felt weak, Regis. Weak for losing control, and weak for caring that I had lost control.” He huffed. “…and then again when she touched my monstrous hand. I…” he struggled to get the words out and bared his teeth again, clenching his fists, his claws starting to grow. “Her touch… it made my heart race. I was terrified, and yet… it hurt, receiving it. I felt like something terribly wrong had happened, though secretly it pleased me. And, once again, I felt weakened.”

“By her touch,” Regis said in a soft breath. Dettlaff, emotionally exhausted, only nodded.
“In that moment, I felt like less of a monster.”

Regis’ face softened and he embraced his friend briefly before grasping him about the shoulders and holding him at arms’ length proudly.

“This is monumental, my dearest friend,” he said. Dettlaff looked confused. “You’ve discovered empathy. Not just righteous ideals or a black-and-white morality code, beyond the retribution you wanted to – and did – take, even more than the delight you felt in another’s touch,” Regis continued, Dettlaff looking uncomfortable but staying silent. “More than the bestial love you had for your former mate or unconditional, slavish devotion to her, or needing to take revenge for her actions. More than your fury, or lust, or ethics. You felt something – helplessness – and recognized another – her – feeling the same way. You connected through your mutual emotions and finally, truly understood what it meant to be in another’s place. To feel their feelings wholly, to…”
“Regis, please,” Dettlaff groaned, tired of his sermon.
“My apologies,” Regis said, releasing his friend. “But this is what I was desperately trying to help you find. And after years, it was not me who aided you in discovering it, but her,” he said, pointing. “This is what I desired for you, most of all, Dettlaff. To find humanity and not be repulsed by it, but instead, intrigued.”

Dettlaff looked at Regis for a moment, then to the woman inside bending over the pot and stirring it, then back to his friend again. He looked truly conflicted, caught between a rock and a hard place.

“Please,” Regis begged softly. “Please try.”

Dettlaff scrunched up his face for a moment before heaving a large breath and releasing his tension, giving a stiff nod and agreeing to Regis’ plea.

“I will try,” he vowed, but held up a stern finger, glowering. “But no promises.”

Chapter 18: A Pleasant Evening

Chapter Text

“Positively splendid,” Regis said, polishing off the second serving of soup he had taken. “It was, all-in-all, a perfect day for a meal such as this. I thank you for the courtesy.”

Fjola was a little taken aback. Why is he thanking me? They’re the ones who took me in and provided for me. Twice. Regis must have sensed her thoughts, gently putting the bowl down and leaning forward

“I know you feel you owe us an enormous debt, Fjola, but truly, I don’t want you to think anything of it. The last thing I would care for is for you to only spend time with either of us simply because you feel beholden to be in our company.”

Fjola’s eyes flickered to Dettlaff when Regis said the phrase “either of us.” He had been sullen and silent for nearly the entire meal, instead choosing to let his older friend do most of the talking. She doubted very much he would ever want to spend time with her again after this. Regis stood and collected the bowls, dropping them into a basin by his alchemy station and insisting he would take care of them in the morning. Fjola looked at the door at the head of the crypt’s entry staircase with worry; it was still pouring rain, and pitch black out, as it was somewhat late into the evening. There was no way she was going to be able to get back to Corvo Bianco tonight.

“I apologize,” Regis said, “I did not mean to trap you here, only shelter us. It seems the weather has made fools of us both.”

Fjola gave a half-hearted smile, dreading spending the night here. Although she doubted the two would hurt her – Dettlaff seemed grouchy, but harmless – she still felt uncomfortable and vulnerable, especially as she had seen only one bed here, next to Regis’ library. Well, she thought, I’ve slept in worse places than against a crypt wall and floor. I can manage.

Regis started going through some of his effects and pulled out a small chessboard that folded into a box, the pieces rattling around inside of it.

“Anyone care for a game?” he asked. Fjola and Dettlaff both made a face at the same time.
“You always defeat me, Regis,” he said. “I’m tired of it.”
“I never had a head for chess either,” Fjola admitted. “I was always more into cards.”

Dettlaff raised an eyebrow.

“Hm,” he growled, “Me too.” He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then asked, “Would you care for a game?”

Fjola’s face lit up and Regis retrieved a deck for them, which was worn and frayed, but still usable. He returned himself to a chair and table near his laboratory to play against himself at chess, leaving Dettlaff and Fjola to their card game. They sat on one of the low concrete walls, facing each other, but still several feet apart. He let her choose which game they should play first, and demolished her within minutes. Then again, and again, and again. After their seventh game and getting beaten soundly once more, Fjola tossed the cards down with a laugh and exclaimed, “Alright, how are you doing it? Have you memorized which cards are which because of the way they’re damaged?”

Dettlaff looked affronted, then angry.

“Of course not,” he snapped, scowling, his bright blue eyes lit with malice. Regis looked over stiffly in concern, but did not move. Fjola was still looking at the cards however and hadn’t noticed Dettlaff’s ire, shuffling the deck with a smile and saying, “Don’t worry, I know you’re not cheating, Dettlaff. But I’m usually pretty good at this game, I don’t know how you keep beating me so easily. Where did you learn it?”

She finally looked up and saw his face, which was still twisted and dour. She looked alarmed and froze, but after a moment he shook his head slightly and relaxed.

“Here,” Dettlaff said, crossing over to her, gesturing toward the cards, “Let me show you some tips I’ve picked up.”

Regis was still watching them both very carefully. Dettlaff began to shuffle and deal, examining her hand and showing his, instructing her in some new methods and strategies. They all relaxed and Dettlaff continued the lesson, Fjola listening attentively with a smile. As he stood next to her and leaned over her shoulder, his warm breath tickled her face and suddenly she was reminded of the monster from that night, breathing on her as it had put a claw to her wrist.

Fjola stiffened, lost in thought. Why does this seem so familiar? Her eyebrows knit down in contemplation as she tried with difficulty to recall the more detailed features of the beast.

Dettlaff continued with his explanation for a moment, but asked a question she did not respond to. He looked down at her and when he saw her expression, he mistook her puzzled frown for one of annoyance. He backed away from her quickly, his face fallen and contorted into a pained scowl. Suddenly he turned toward the staircase, heading out the door and into the rain before Fjola had even had a chance to react. She leapt up but he was already gone, her heart falling as she stood and watched the doorway he had just vanished through. What just happened? she thought sadly. Regis quietly approached, putting a hand on her shoulder and leading her away toward the raised area above the entrance of the crypt.

“Here,” he said, “I’ll make up the bed for you.”

*

Dettlaff paced back and forth in the rain, alternating between hurt and fury, irritation and ambivalence.

Why do I care so much? he thought. She owes me nothing, and I nothing to her. So what if she gave us the apples I had gifted her? It probably wasn’t out of kindness anyway. Perhaps she did not want to carry them back with her.

His mouth curled into a sneer; he knew that wasn’t it at all, but was trying to convince himself. He did not want to befriend any more humans, ever again. It had never ended well for either party, and he was exhausted from the years of either loss or pain, in various and seemingly never-ending forms. It was easier to be secluded, even if it meant only Regis or some lesser vampires under his control for company. He breathed in deeply and released it as a sigh, water rolling down the back of his neck and soaking the shirt beneath his leather coat. He suddenly recalled the night he had rescued her, her simple thank you and the small, soft stroke of her hand on his own, despite its monstrous form. His stomach squirmed uncomfortably and he bared his teeth in defeat.

Regis was right; he should try, promise or no promise.

Chapter 19: She Knows She Sounds Crazy

Chapter Text

Fjola tossed and turned on the small bed Regis had insisted she take, despite her adamant opposition to him spending the night in one of the empty concrete alcoves where a coffin would normally lay. She had even threatened to spend the night on the floor herself.

“Please,” he had insisted, “I will sleep in that space regardless of where you decide to lay your head, so your sacrifice is unnecessary. I feel it would be best for your still-healing ribs, however, if you would rest on something softer, hm?”

Fjola had finally relented and laid on the bed, but found it no more restful than if she had decided to sleep on the floor. Her thoughts turned to Dettlaff and why exactly he had fled – had she done something wrong? Was he tired of her? It seemed as though he didn’t even want her to be there in the first place, like her presence was offensive. She turned again on the bed, staring out at the open space of the crypt and dying fire in the center where just a few hours before she had been playing cards with Dettlaff and enjoying the evening. She closed her eyes and tried to force herself to sleep, but a sudden cool breeze blew through the crypt and she shivered, opening her eyes again to see the black-haired man coming through the entryway below her and sitting quietly on the bench in front of the fire. He took a metal rod and attempted to stoke it, but it was mostly just embers and he was forced to fetch more wood from the corner. Fjola shivered again – although the door had only been open for a brief moment as Dettlaff had entered, it seemed as though every bit of warm air had been sucked out of the crypt entirely.

Dettlaff tossed a small amount of wood back onto the fire, arranging it with no hurry despite how warm the embers must still be. Fjola sat up to watch him and he noticed, pulling his hand back and using more caution to stack the wood in the pit as the flames began to catch. Yearning desperately for the heat, she wrapped the blanket around herself and walked softly down the stairs from the stone platform, joining Dettlaff across the fire. It wasn’t her intent to impose, so she turned her face away from him and watched an area near the floor, instead, focusing on nothing in particular. Dettlaff was the first to speak.

“It will warm up soon,” he muttered, barely audible above the now-crackling fire.
“Thanks,” she said, sounding a little hoarse and clearing her throat.

They were quiet for another minute or two as the warmth from the fire slowly started to spread and Fjola felt blessed relief from the cold of the crypt. She looked over at Dettlaff appreciatively, but he was hanging his head and did not notice her. She watched him for a moment as he breathed in and out, slowly, his eyebrows seemingly constantly furrowed and his thick black hair catching the light of the fire’s glow, illuminating the silver hairs at his temples attractively. His sculpted features cast beautiful shadows across his face and Fjola noticed with a small, confusing flutter that he was actually quite handsome. She was just pondering this when Dettlaff finally raised his eyes to her and she blushed, looking away again. Another silent moment passed before Fjola decided to address the discomfort between them.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you, Dettlaff,” she said softly. He gazed over at her, his eyebrows furrowing deeper. She continued unsteadily. “I’m… not sure what I said or did to make you leave, but whatever it was, I really am sorry. Truly.”

Dettlaff ran his hand back through his hair and breathed out heavily, then waved it dismissively.

“You’ve no reason to apologize,” he said with resign. “I thought I was annoying you with my lesson, but in truth, you were likely just scowling in concentration.” He looked into her eyes. “Yes?”

Fjola shook her head, and Dettlaff frowned again. She backpedaled a little bit.

“Of course I was concentrating on what you were saying,” she explained, “But to be honest I did get a little bit… distracted.”

Dettlaff’s stomach roiled uncomfortably.

“See, I…” she hesitated. I don’t want to sound crazy… but here it goes. “That night… the one where you and Regis helped me…” Dettlaff nodded and she continued. “Well, you said you found me at a bandit camp, passed out. I know you must have seen the bodies, but that wasn’t me, I swear it.”
“We hadn’t thought it was,” he stated. Fjola nodded in appreciation.
“The thing is, before you both got there, there was… someone… some thing else that had already saved me from them.” Dettlaff seemed to stiffen. Gods, she thought, how mental do I sound right now? “I know this sounds… unbelievable… but… there was this… thing, there.” Her face seemed to sour as though the word itself had a bitter taste. “I hate to describe it that way, but I really couldn’t see that clearly. But it was fast, impossibly fast, and huge. I can’t even begin to tell you how massive it seemed. It looked like it didn’t even have eyes, just a small nose and massive mouth full of fangs, and claws, and these huge wings and extra limbs…” she held her arms out for emphasis and suddenly blushed, realizing she looked foolish in addition to sounding crazy. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I just… I don’t know what it was and it’s been torturing me ever since.”

Dettlaff seemed horrified but said slowly, sympathetically, “It sounds horrible.”

“No,” Fjola shook her head, “That’s just it. It was… beautiful. It saved me. I mean even though it looked terrifying, it… I never once felt like I was in danger.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “In fact,” she admitted softly, “I even felt… safe. Safer than I’ve ever felt in my life.” She sighed and shook her head. “I know I sound insane right now, but… it’s just how I feel. I’m sorry for burdening you with this, you must think I’m crazy,” she smiled apologetically. She gazed over at Dettlaff, expecting him to look confused or frightened, but instead he just looked sad.

“How is this related to your… distraction earlier?” he asked cautiously. Fjola’s shoulders fell and she looked embarrassed again.
“Please, don’t take this as an insult, because I genuinely don’t mean it as one, but… you reminded me of it, somehow.” Dettlaff’s eyes widened and he sat up stiffly. “When I could feel your breath against my cheek, it reminded me of when the… monster did too,” she said, again making an unpleasant face at having to use a pejorative term to describe it. “It made me…” she blinked, looking away and turning scarlet. “...happy.” There was a pause. “Gods,” she laughed, “I’m so sorry.”
Dettlaff shook his head. “Don’t be,” he said. “I… I believe you.”

Fjola’s head snapped up when he said this and she looked at him in sheer surprise.

“You do?”
“Yes,” he said. “Monsters are no real rarity in this world, it is no surprise you came across one.”
“But it saved me. I felt safe around it. Does that mean it’s really a monster?”

He shook his head again, his voice hoarse as he responded, “Only if you think it is.”

Fjola’s face shifted from one of insecurity to confidence. She shook her head with a strong smile. “Not at all,” she said.

Dettlaff’s face actually broke into a wide, appreciative smile and he had a hard time keeping his mouth closed as he did so. Fjola got up and walked around the fire to join him on the bench. He allowed this, and did not shrink away from her presence as he had before. She smiled contentedly, mirroring Dettlaff.

“Thanks,” she said. “For not thinking I’m crazy.”
“Thank you,” he returned, “For not assuming all monsters are evil.”

Fjola wasn’t sure what he meant by that but was satisfied enough to be enjoying his company once more. The two of them sat in silence until Dettlaff fell asleep first, Fjola covering him with the blanket before walking back upstairs and curling up on the bed, finally able to rest. In the corner, Regis smiled warmly to himself.

Chapter 20: Leaving

Chapter Text

When Fjola rose, it was to find Regis and Dettlaff both gone, no note or hint of their whereabouts left behind. She walked to the crypt entrance, noticing the sun had already risen in the sky and the mist around the cemetery looked like it was made of transparent gold beneath its light. She soaked it in briefly, listening to a few birds chirp overhead before she suddenly heard voices. Realizing they belonged to Dettlaff and Regis, she walked out to greet them, their words carrying through the woods and over the tombstones.

“It’s not as though she has to go back,” Dettlaff said, “You said so yourself. The Witcher will likely not even notice.”
“Hm,” said Regis, relishing his friend’s contention, “This is rich. The man who didn’t want her around is suddenly begging me to make her stay!”
“I am not begging,” Dettlaff argued, “I am simply pointing out that such a long walk at this hour would be fruitless. She might as well stay… at least until evening.”

Fjola’s heart lifted, then fell. She suddenly felt incredibly guilty for listening in, albeit accidentally, and cleared her throat loudly to announce her presence. Oddly enough, neither Regis nor Dettlaff seemed surprised at her arrival, and their expressions almost looked like they had been expecting her.

“Sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
“No matter,” said Regis cheerfully, “We were only having a friendly debate over whether or not you should be escorted back to Corvo Bianco now, or this evening. Obviously you have final say in the matter, but, should you need to be swayed a little, keep in mind you could still get some working hours in if we were to leave right now.”
“However,” Dettlaff butt in, glaring at Regis, “Even if we were to rush there, you would not have much time in which to work, so it might be more prudent to spend the day here and leisurely walk back in the evening. For your… health,” he stammered a little.

Fjola guiltily replied that she needed to go back now. “I don’t want my boss to think I’m lazy. Even if he is friends with Regis. I’m sorry,” she finished, sounding genuinely apologetic. She had a hard time meeting Dettlaff’s gaze, especially as she heard him huff and walk back into the crypt.

“He’s not going to say goodbye?” she asked, stung.
“It’s not that time yet,” Regis explained. “We shall be escorting you back… most of the way.”
“Most of the way?”
“I can accompany you for the entire journey, not to worry, but Dettlaff must part with us before we get to Beauclair Port. He will not be able to walk with us to the door of Corvo Bianco.”
“Is he wanted?” she asked, suddenly worried. Regis chuckled, shaking his head.
“No, no, not really. At least, not anymore, technically,” he said with a wink, and Fjola was unsure whether or not he was joking. He continued, more seriously this time, “He had a hard enough time tolerating the presence of just one other person besides me, despite what delightful company she is,” Fjola blushed, “So imagine the great unease he must feel in the middle of such large crowds and chaos.”

Fjola nodded, understanding completely. She remembered how active the temple was and how it was nearly impossible to get any time or space to oneself, even at night. Sometimes she had felt she would go mad if she was forced to interact with yet another traveler, priestess, or acolyte, or had to go through yet another lesson at the crack of dawn, or bear the advances and gropes of healing soldiers who didn’t get the hint when she slapped their hands away. It was even worse when they became angered at her rejections...

“I get it,” she laughed. “And because of that, I can see more and more why the two of you prefer your crypt.”

Regis chuckled, and Fjola suddenly let out a light scoff.

“I remember being scared of this cemetery when I first came here,” she said.
“Really?” asked Regis, feigning ignorance but remembering how she had shivered and held herself defensively when walking through it to quietly deliver their gifts. “Are you still?”
“No,” she shook her head, “Not now. Now, it’s…” She let her eyes take in the trees around her, the peacefulness of the forest and soothing cover of mist. “...comforting,” she finished.

Regis gave an appreciative smile and Dettlaff suddenly emerged from the crypt, looking around cautiously and joining them for the walk back.

Chapter 21: Fighting Sisters

Chapter Text

Syanna gazed out one of the windows of the tower she had isolated herself in, unable to enjoy the stunning view of the Duchy despite being able to see its rolling, flowered hills and fertile vineyards while being kept essentially a prisoner in the Beauclair Palace. She thought that her sister, being fickle and prone to emotional impulses, would eventually cool after they made up and she might be able to reclaim her birthright. This was not the case however, and Syanna suspected it was to keep Annarietta in power. Syanna wasn’t sure she cared about ruling the Duchy anymore or not – the people despised her for the chaos and destruction she inadvertently wrought thanks to her involvement with the Beast of Beauclair, not to mention the attempt on the Duchess’ life and her supposed “curse” from being born during the Black Sun – she mostly just wanted her freedom back.

She recalled with a wry smile her time as a bandit leader and her enjoyment running a vandaguild. She assumed that ruling a country would be similar and was practically desperate to do so again, but, even though she had not had the chance yet, realized that it wouldn’t be the same. The main reasons she enjoyed running the guild were their fear of her, obedience, loyalty, admiration, and the powerful strength that came from the combination of these. Were she to assume rule over the Duchy, however, she would not find these same attributes; the joy of ruling would be lost under the headaches of the everyday tasks and decisions she would be forced to make, as well as enduring the hate of the people. Annarietta had her advisors to rule things for her and simply got to lay back and bask in hedonism and frivolity – Syanna knew she would have no such luxury. No advisors would ever willingly help her rule, and indeed, would likely actively work against her. She had no problem spilling the blood of her opposition and oppressors, but it would probably become frustrating after a while when no more advisors would be available to her. She groaned in boredom and turned back away from her window to see her sister herself standing in the middle of her room, several armored guards standing casually in the doorway behind her.

“Sister, dear,” Anna started, “Why don’t you come down for breakfast? Surely you are hungry?”

Syanna sneered and turned away, crossing her arms and putting her leg out to the side obstinately.

“What does it matter? Do you plan on telling me what to eat now, as well?”
“Guards, leave us,” Anna said shortly.

They hesitated, but followed orders, closing the heavy door behind them and doubtless standing outside of it. She approached her sister and tried to put her bejeweled hand on her shoulder, but was shrugged away gruffly.

“What is the matter?” Anna repeated. “Are you not happy? Has someone displeased you?” She suddenly looked angry. “Has someone abused you? Tell me their name!”

Syanna rolled her eyes furiously.

“Stop acting like my protector!” she snapped. “I am not a child!”
Annarietta’s face softened slightly. “I know,” she said, “But I still worry about you.”
“Like you did all those years I was missing?”
“I told you I had always worried!” she shouted. “I did everything I could to find you, to assuage our parents’ wrath! How long are you going to hold this against me?”
“When I have my freedom,” Syanna calmly explained, “You may have my forgiveness.”
“Out of the question!” Anna was fuming again. “Syanna, I have already explained countless times how much danger you would be in were you to leave the palace.”
“I thought your subjects adored you?” she challenged airily. “Surely they would follow your orders not to allow me to come to any harm?”
“I may be beloved but I am not all-powerful,” she admitted without malice. “Syanna, dear, I promise you, this is for your own good.”

With that, she turned and left, the guards closing the door behind her again and standing outside, leaving Syanna to ponder how much evil had befallen her throughout her life under the guise of good intentions.

Chapter 22: The Walk to the Port

Chapter Text

Dettlaff, Regis and Fjola walked towards Beauclair more slowly than they had intended, enjoying the conversation and warm sunshine before autumn officially began. The moisture from the rainstorm the day prior was evaporating quickly in the heat and sun, but a few deep puddles remained in some rutted parts of the road, Fjola being careful to lift her skirt each time she hopped over one to avoid getting muddy. Regis continued the conversation.

“...And so, I… departed from Geralt’s company rather abruptly after my… injury…” he said carefully, Dettlaff raising an eyebrow at how he tiptoed around the real details, “Dettlaff found me in that castle soon after, helping me recover from my rather catastrophic wounds for quite a long time before we parted ways, temporarily. He took much time and made much effort at his own expense to help me,” Regis said, meeting his friend’s eyes and showing genuine gratitude, “For which I will always feel eternally indebted. Or, well, at least until I save him, in return,” he said with a chuckle.

“But Geralt just left you like that? Injured and possibly dying?” she asked incredulously. She sounded horrified.
“He thought I was dead, my dear,” Regis explained. “And there were much more pressing matters at hand.”

Fjola didn’t look convinced but decided to let it go. She did not want to harbor ill will towards her employer, not to mention that were she in the same situation, she wasn’t sure how she would react, either. Still, she kept it in her mind to be wary of the Witcher. No wonder Dettlaff didn’t seem particularly fond of him or the discussion.

“I do not wish to have my ego stroked,” he said, “Regis, please change the subject.”
“What do you suggest we discuss, then? Politics, religion, money?” he jested.
Fjola laughed and said, “Dettlaff, Regis said you used to live in Nazair. What’s it like?”

Dettlaff smiled warmly, a sight Fjola still wasn’t used to yet. “Hmm, it is quite beautiful, especially where the land borders the Great Sea, as well as Lake Muredach and the castle there, Rhys-Rhun, despite it being abandoned. Azure roses are cultivated there, I’m sure you know. When you visit an affluent area, there are rows of shrubs of brilliant blue blooms with the faintest blush of purple at the tips…” He was lost in thought for moment.

“Are you homesick?” she asked.
“Perhaps a little,” he said sadly.

This admission surprised Regis – he had never expressed such a thing before, not even hinted at it. Fjola reached over and placed her hand on Dettlaff’s arm briefly.

“I would be, too,” she said. “It sounds wonderful.”
“Hm. I think you would like it,” he said, “The meals are rich, and even somewhat inland you can breathe in the salt from the sea air and hear the waves thrusting against the stony coast. I expect you miss the sea.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I can hear the Skelligan in your voice, sometimes. Such as when you scoff, or sometimes how you pronounce your ‘os,’” he said with a smile. “Also, when the sunlight hits your eyes, there are flecks of green amidst the brown – that seems somewhat common with Skelligers.”

Fjola wasn’t sure she had even noticed that herself. Then again, she didn’t inspect her reflection very often.

“Thank you,” she said hesitantly. She wasn’t sure he was complimenting her, exactly, but still wanted to be polite. She found she was enjoying his company more than she expected, especially as she was pleasantly surprised by how kind he actually was. Perhaps they just needed to get to know each other better, or maybe he was just painfully shy. She couldn’t fault him for that. He nodded at her thanks and they kept moving until they reached a sizable rut not far from the port. It was too long to jump over, so Fjola made to go around, through the tall grass. Dettlaff, however, suddenly stepped directly into it, the mud up past the ankle of his boot, and held his long-fingered hand out for her to take. Stunned, she just stood there for a moment, staring at him uncertainly. He extended his hand further, palm-up, and Fjola took it hesitantly. With no effort at all, Dettlaff used his hands to help her stay aloft as she leapt over the puddle, extricating himself after and continuing as though one of his boots wasn’t covered several inches up in thick mud. Fjola thanked him again and he simply nodded briefly as usual, Regis smirking oddly as he walked beside them. Dettlaff returned to talking about Nazair, Regis interjecting with a fact or observation here and there, and Fjola listened politely, genuinely wishing she could see it someday.

“Perhaps one day you will,” Dettlaff said.
“I’d like that,” she said.

Suddenly Dettlaff’s face darkened as Beauclair Port loomed in front of them and stopped, giving a small, polite bow in Fjola’s direction.

“I hope to see you again soon,” he said, his voice seemingly a tad lighter than normal.

Fjola beamed and nodded, and with that, he turned and began walking back toward the cemetery. Regis took her arm in his softly and she turned back to him, the two of them continuing on the road ahead. Fjola looked back for just the quickest of moments, but Dettlaff was already gone.

Chapter 23: Regis Asks Geralt Another Favor

Chapter Text

Geralt watched as Regis escorted his most recent worker up the road towards the vineyard, the early afternoon sun above overly warm and bothersome. Annoyed, he leaned over the balustrade, catching Regis’ eye from afar. The vampire bowed to his companion, who immediately started her work, and resumed his journey up the path to his friend. Regis started talking before Geralt could say a word.

“You likely didn’t even know she was still gone until you saw me escorting her back,” he said defensively.
“I saw you leave with her yesterday,” Geralt stated, his voice curious. Suddenly he lifted an eyebrow and smirked. “Have a good night?”

Regis looked back at him and his eyebrows furrowed. “I may be, er, active, but I am not a cad, Geralt.”

Geralt’s smirk widened and his eyebrows rose a little more.

“Last I remember, you were able to keep even a succubus from prowling,” he laughed. “Is active how you describe it?”
“And as I recall, you profited quite well from that relationship,” he said, shooting a look, “As for your young worker and I, well, we merely got caught in the rain,” Regis explained, still defensive. “We decided to sleep in the crypt. Separately.”
“Uh-huh.”

Regis looked irritated for a moment, but realized Geralt was teasing him and decided it was far better than him being angry with him for keeping one of his employees away for so long. He waved his hand and shook his head, deciding to change the tone.

“Well, at least she met Dettlaff,” he said. “Officially.”

Geralt’s expression suddenly changed to one of deep interest.

“And?”
“And as you can see, she’s still here,” the vampire smiled, gesturing to the vineyards.
“You mean Dettlaff didn’t try to stick his claws in her stomach? That’s surprising.”
“You knew the circumstances behind his actions then,” Regis said, miffed.
“Circumstances? Regis, he tried to...”
“I was not defending those decisions, merely saying there was a cause. Fjola has given him no such grief or cruelty.”
“That her name?”
“I take it you don’t trouble yourself with the lesser people now?” Regis said, holding back a bit of scorn.
“I told you, Barnabas-Basil handles all that. You know I don’t actually like running things,” Geralt replied.
“Still on the Path?” Regis asked politely.
“Mentally, yeah. Yen’s got it in her head that this is it, we’ve retired. But neither of us have, really. She still works, and I’ll occasionally take a contract.”
“When she’s gone, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Geralt laughed.
“Is she here now? I’d very much like to say hello.”

Geralt shook his head and Regis tsked. The conversation stagnated a bit as they both took in the scenery, the comfortable silence that spoke of years of friendship between them settling in.

“Aren’t you going to inquire what’s next?” Regis pried.
“No,” Geralt said.
“I take it keeping her from the vineyard is not going to egregiously decimate the profits or productivity of Corvo Bianco?”
“No,” Geralt said slowly. “Why?”
“You stated you had very little to absolutely no interest at all in my future endeavors,” Regis said humorously. “Have you suddenly changed your mind?”
“Fine. I’ll bite.”
“The two of them seem to be getting along splendidly,” he said cryptically.
“Regis…”
“I haven’t seen Dettlaff in so truly pleasant a mood in, oh, I can’t recall when. Then again, we only reconnected shortly after his mate had left him and he was in the midst of healing me, then after that he was being blackmailed and manipulated by that she-spawn Syanna, next was our time in exile, flitting about from one nearly inhospitable place to the next. It’s no wonder he feels reprieve now. I don’t think Dettlaff has had any true happiness since he was with his last lover… And even now those memories are forever tainted by her ghastly behavior.”
Last lover?”

Regis shook his head.

“Not to worry,” he said, “I doubt very much Dettlaff would ever take another human female for a mate. What I mean by the conversation is that he seems genuinely happy for the first time in recent memory. Perhaps finding companionship other than me is the real key, here,” he laughed. “Like most effective medicines, I know I can be hard to swallow in large doses.”

Geralt smiled weakly, waiting for Regis to get to the point.

“I assume you’re waiting for me to ask yet another favor, my friend?”
“If you suggest staying in my cellar…”
“I suppose that’s still out, isn’t it?” Regis laughed. “No, I was going to suggest – should you care to release her – that perhaps I could hire her to ah, help me, as well.”
“That sounded like a euphemism.”
“Don’t be crude. What I mean is, she has training in herbalism and alchemy, though she stated she has been out of practice for some time. Still, it’s a decent enough excuse to get her to spend more time at the crypt.”
“Fine,” Geralt said automatically, surprising Regis.
“Aren’t you going to ask for how long, or what days?”
“No,” Geralt replied. “I barely even need her as it is, I only hired her as a favor to you.”

Regis pondered for a moment.

“I figured our debt had been settled long ago, Geralt. This isn’t your way of trying to repay me for saving your beloved sorceress’ life, is it? Your efforts in helping me with Dettlaff…”
“That’s not it, Regis.”
“Then may I ask why?”
“You’re asking me for the reason why I’m helping you?”
“And helping Dettlaff,” Regis said. Geralt scoffed a little.
“You said it yourself – I have a kind heart,” he said, but it sounded mocking. The vampire raised an eyebrow. Geralt relented and said, “Alright – since Yen assumes I’ve ‘retired,’ I’d rather not have to go out and hunt down a higher vampire. Especially one that would probably kill me. If this helps you to keep him under control, I’m all for it.”
“This isn’t about controlling him,” Regis explained, “It’s about him learning to control himself. His urges, his anger, his impulses.”
“And subjecting the gi… Fjola… to that, you still think that’s the best method?”
“I do,” Regis stated confidently, nodding his head once for emphasis.
Geralt shrugged. “Then be my guest. Just let me ask you one thing.”
“Yes?”
“Why didn’t you just hire her from the start? Why bother making me do it first?”

Regis gave his small, characteristic chuckle. “Well for starters I didn’t know about her talents until last night, over a week after you hired her. Also, even if I had known, I did not want her to think I was offering out of charity. Seems rather bashful about it, I’m afraid. And third…” he hesitated.

Geralt raised an eyebrow and cocked his head expectantly.

“…Dettlaff,” was all Regis said, smiling a little sadly as he walked out the door to give his offer to Fjola, who practically leapt in joy and assented immediately.

Chapter 24: Syanna Plans

Notes:

(I know this is a very short one, that’s why I’m uploading two chapters at once. I kept them separate for narrative reasons.)

Chapter Text

Syanna had been trying to befriend some of the knights and guards who were constantly in and out of the palace, either through charm, flattery, or sheer bribery, but none of it had worked. They were all frustratingly allegiant to Duchess Anna Henrietta, and Syanna found herself at a loss.

It figures that now knights are chivalrous and loyal. Were they so when I was young.

Compounding her fury was the fact that her sister had given her the unfair impression that things would be better from the time they made up, but Syanna had only found isolation, boredom, and powerlessness.

I should have remembered not to believe in fairy tales.

Looking out over her balcony yet again, she imagined ways to escape and how they would fail. She could not gain access to anyone who could smuggle her out, there was not enough cloth in the entire palace to be able to make a rope (and not enough gold to convince her to try), the trellises were laughably far below her, none of her charms had met with success, and to top it all off, there were guards and knights positively everywhere. There was simply no way she could escape unnoticed – not without help. A new thought occurred to her.

Then I won’t go unnoticed. I’ll do what I have always done to protect myself – fight. In whatever way possible.

Chapter 25: Stay

Chapter Text

Fjola had been helping Regis as his unofficial apprentice for weeks now, and she found it harder and harder to make the daily walks to and from Corvo Bianco to Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery every few days. The weather of mid-October had gotten colder than expected, which was bad enough, but had also threatened the last crops of grapes, meaning she had to work much harder at the vineyard to avoid them being damaged or going to waste. Not only that, but the days were getting shorter and shorter, and Fjola did not feel comfortable walking at night.

She adored her time with Regis and Dettlaff, and her training in herbalism and alchemy was coming back to her quicker than she had expected. When not working with Regis, she would frequently play cards with Dettlaff, or the three of them would take walks and gather herbs, never straying too close to Beauclair itself or other people. Most of the time though, it was her and Dettlaff gathering ingredients while Regis brewed potions to sell or worked on his mandrake moonshine, the two of them talking about anything and everything. Sometimes, even long after the herbs, plants, and other items were gathered, Fjola and Dettlaff would relax on a stump or fallen log to read, his arm about her as they discussed a book together. Other times they would just sit and watch the river in silence before returning to the cemetery, Fjola often leaning on him for warmth in the autumn chill, feeling as though she was on fire when she was near him. It seemed as though Dettlaff never wanted to return to the crypt, and she felt sorry for him. She wondered if he was simply using her as an excuse to escape a little bit, but couldn’t find it in her heart to complain, as she enjoyed their time together so much it didn’t really matter to her what his reasoning was. All she cared about was that they both loved it on some level, and that was good enough for her – the burning in her stomach and chest could wait.

Some days though, it felt as though she only got about 10 minutes with them before she had to turn around and go back. She had stubbornly avoided spending the night there again, realizing there were three of them and only one small bed. While she wouldn’t have minded sharing, it was simply a matter of space. Neither of them would hear of her sleeping on the floor or bench, either, and she felt horrendously guilty thinking of them doing the same, so she would always leave well before dusk, much to their dismay. While they didn’t mention it out loud, they knew the other felt the same – the air was lighter and the conversation better when Fjola was visiting. Not to mention the food.

“Mmph, you are getting better every time you very generously make a meal for us,” Regis said.
“Generous? You buy all of the ingredients,” she shot back, smiling. “But thank you.”
“But the labor of it all…” he tried to continue, but Fjola shushed him and tucked away the last bits of the roasted chicken she had made.
“Thank you, again,” Dettlaff said, cleaning his plate delicately.

Regis leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stomach in an undignified manner, making Fjola laugh and even Dettlaff crack a wry smile. As usual he rose to take care of the dishes, heading outside to get water from the river and leaving Dettlaff and Fjola sitting across from each other at the small table not far from the fire. He shifted, reaching into a pocket of his black leather coat and retrieving a small package wrapped in cloth and handing it to her. Surprised, she stared at the gift in his hand for a moment, her eyes flicking between it and his face. He frowned a little and shoved it forward a bit more, Fjola finally coming to her senses and taking it with her thanks and gently undoing the wrapping. Inside the package was a brand new deck of cards, painted humbly but beautifully. Fjola was at a loss for words.

“Care for a game?” he asked simply. Fjola nodded, her throat tight, and he dealt each of them a standard hand.

They played several rounds, with Fjola finally having gotten good enough to beat him a couple of times.

“HA!” she exclaimed, laying her hand out. “I finally beat you twice in one night!”
“Hm, perhaps I should stop giving you lessons,” he said.
“Don’t you dare,” she joked. “Someday I’m going to make you bet something precious and I’ll sweep it up from you.”
“Something precious?” Dettlaff asked, furrowing his brows in thought.
“Yes, you know, something expensive, or something you love. I was only kidding anyway, I’d never.”
“I have very few precious things,” he said seriously. “Only people.”

Fjola’s heart leapt. Regis, she thought, He means Regis. She looked back up at him to smile but saw that his gaze had become quite intense. Unable to look away, she groped forward clumsily to pick up the cards and instead brushed his hand. He instinctively reached up and caught it, not taking his eyes off of her for a moment. All the blood rushed towards Fjola’s face, but she did not remove her hand. Instead, dreamily, she started tracing the outlines of his fingerless gloves and examining his long nails, lost in thought.

“Dettlaff?” she asked.
“Yes?”

She looked back up into his icy blue eyes, holding his gaze for a moment before looking outside to check the position of the sun. It was already getting dark and her heart and face both fell. Dettlaff leaned forward slightly.

“You don’t have to go,” he whispered. “Not if you don’t want to.”
“I have to,” she said sadly.

Dettlaff looked pained for a moment before releasing her hand and standing, politely grabbing her cloak from where it hung on the wall.

“I shall escort you,” he said.
“Thanks,” she managed, rising and, on his insistence, allowing him to put her cloak on her.

They walked out of the crypt slowly, as though savoring every step. Regis approached, clean dishes in hand, and made an unhappy face.

“Is it that time again already?” he asked, looking toward the quickly darkening sky.

Dettlaff merely grunted. Regis gave a small, polite bow to Fjola and slid back into their underground chamber, shutting the door behind him. She and Dettlaff started heading out, the sound of crunching leaves the only noise between them for several minutes before Fjola suddenly felt a cold breeze and shivered. Dettlaff was immediately close beside her, removing his leather coat and placing it over her shoulders. She tried to refuse but he held the coat on her firmly with a playful smile and she giggled, realizing he would not let it go. He allowed her to turn towards him however, his hands still on either side of her neck, and she stepped a little closer, her fingers clasped together in front of her for warmth. They had stopped.

Dettlaff saw her frigid hands and brought his own down, covering hers easily with his long, warm fingers. Fjola watched as he brought his mouth down and blew hot air onto her balled fists to heat them, finally looking back up at her after the third breath. She stepped closer to him again, and he returned the gesture, their bodies almost touching. Fjola looked back up into his mournful eyes and felt herself ache with sorrow.

“I don’t want to go back,” she whispered, looking down.

Dettlaff made a small noise before wrapping her up in his arms and holding her to his chest, placing his cheek on top of her head and instinctively kissing it gently. It was as if his lips touching her spread a fire down her body; suddenly she had wrapped her arms around his back and intertwined her legs with his, her cheek nuzzling into the cool fabric of his shirt as she let out a shaky sigh. Dettlaff brought his hand below her chin, one of his claws scratching her cheek very slightly, bringing her gaze up to meet his own. He studied her face carefully before haltingly leaning forward, his lips meeting hers after an agonizingly hesitant moment. She breathed in deeply, bringing one of her hands to his thick, black hair and returning his kiss voraciously. Dettlaff actually grunted as he held her tighter, the two of them matching each others’ fervor. When she felt his tongue in her mouth she moaned and he parted from her briefly, almost panting, his hands clutching her face and his forehead against hers.

Stay,” he begged.

Fjola could only nod feverishly, clutching him again and kissing him deeply. Dettlaff brought her back to the crypt, Regis conveniently absent as they ran up the stairs, tossing their clothes and finally giving in to what had been building between them for weeks. Afterwards, they curled up under the blankets and she slept while he played with her hair gently and ran his fingers down her sides. She whimpered in her sleep and he held her closely, utterly content for the first time in years, finally succumbing to sleep himself with a smile on his face.

Chapter 26: Manipulation, Syanna's Strong Suit

Chapter Text

Syanna, flanked by guards as always, walked to the rose garden outside the palace where her sister usually was. She had dressed especially nice today in a blue gown, her hair which she had let grow out past her shoulders was curled and adorned tastefully with a jeweled comb, and she put on an air of contrition as she approached Anna Henrietta.

“Sister, dear, to what do I owe this pleasure?” she asked as she stood up from her seat at an ornate café table and hugged Syanna. She gestured for her to sit, and she did, smiling stiffly. “Leave us,” Annarietta snapped at the guards, and they followed orders with a sideways glance at the older sister. When the two of them were alone at the table, Syanna finally spoke.

“Anna,” she said humbly, “I have been thinking. Perhaps I have been too hard on you. I’ve been cold and callous, despite everything you have been trying to do for me.” She appeared to struggle for a moment. “I am sorry.”
“Syanna, never, my darling,” she said, hugging her as best she could across the table. “I know my protections are too strict, I know this, and yet I put them in place anyway.”
“I understand you are trying to help,” Syanna said, trying to sound sincere without overselling it. “I must admit, I’ve… been resentful.”
“Ach,” Anna lamented, putting her long fingers against her temple in angst. “It is no wonder. Kept to the palace grounds, little company besides guards or myself…”
“I know I’ve been cruel,” Syanna said, and Anna gave her a slightly appraising look.

Careful, she reminded herself, a gentle touch. She gave her characteristic frown and crossed her arms and Anna relaxed somewhat, though still looked concerned.

“But my cruelty was in response to your own,” she said in honest anger. “It’s true, I am tired of the guards, the seclusion, the constant judgment. I am not meant to be kept in a cage!”
“I know,” the Duchess moaned, “I know. But I cannot help myself. I cannot lose you again.”
“And yet you want the same thing as I.”
“And what do you suppose I want?”
“My sister back,” she said, scooting her chair closer and putting her hands on Anna’s. “But I suppose I was foolish to believe things would go back to how they used to be when we were children.”
“We still fought as children,” Anna laughed. “Do you remember the time when mother bought me a new comb and you cut off all my hair so that I couldn’t use it?”

Syanna gave a weak smile and pretended to laugh, as well, but the memory of the pain she felt made it hollow. Her parents had bought Anna Henrietta the jeweled adornment from their trip to Nilfgaard, but to Syanna, they had brought nothing. Not even a terrible gift, not even something lame but practical like a book or even a wooden duck. Just… nothing. She forced a bit more laughter until Anna Henrietta stopped.

“Ah, but here we still are. My dear sister. Whatever shall we do with one another?”
“All I ask is for a little more freedom,” she pleaded. “Or, if not that, something to do. I am tired of going back and forth from my window to the library through the gardens to… ugh. I cannot even talk about my days anymore.”
“I understand,” said Anna sympathetically, “But what am I to do? Half the Duchy still calls for your head and the other half would rather just see you imprisoned. Or tortured.”
“I am already imprisoned,” Syanna snapped.
“What would you have me do?” Anna said, throwing up her hands. “I cannot let you leave the grounds. Not even unsupervised. An arrow pierces more quickly than a shield can block it.”
“Then at least, spend more time with me,” she said. “Or give me something to do. Education of some sort, or, a project,” she hinted, trying to leave breadcrumbs for her sister to follow.
“A project? We have laborers and masters for such work.”
“Then something… fun! Something bright and cheerful, to break up this gloom. Before winter approaches,” Syanna pushed. Come on, come on… she urged internally.
“Ah, yes, winter solstice is only two months away. I cannot believe that Yule is just right around the corner,” Anna said contemplatively.
“Hm,” Syanna sighed with nostalgia. “Do you recall the feasts that mother and father used to throw? The rich dinners and incredible wine, the fires and games and all of the handsome men…”
Anna giggled. “Oh, yes, the men I remember quite fondly. Ah, it’s been forever since we’ve had a feast,” she whined. “I miss the frivolity.”
“And hedonism,” Syanna giggled.
“And the fun we had,” Anna replied, rubbing her sister’s hand and suddenly seeming to come to a conclusion. “Perhaps it is time for another one,” she said carefully.

Finally! Syanna thought.

“In two months’ time? How could you ever manage it?”
“But that’s just it, Syanna! You wanted a project, and here it is, I’ve given you one!”
Syanna pretended to look shocked. “But all that it will require! The planning, the invitations, the preparations! I don’t think I could handle such a task!”
“You can and will!” Anna said, standing dramatically and pointing her finger up. “From now until the Feast of Yule, you shall help plan all of the festivities!”

She sat back down with a victorious grin.

“Does that make you happy, sister dear?”
“Oh Anna, thank you! Thank you my loving sister!” Syanna reached over and embraced her, smiling genuinely.

A feast is not the only thing I shall be planning, she thought, calculating all the ways in her head she could possibly make the night go the way she wanted. Finally, my escape is at hand.

Chapter 27: Emiel Regis, Homeowner

Chapter Text

Geralt eyed Regis carefully as they sat inside at the table, Regis with a hot mug of tea in front of him, smelling it deeply and sighing in pleasure.

“Mmm, bergamot, lavender, and…” he sniffed again. “Hm, cornflower? A rather unique blend. I like it very much.”
“Mhmm. So you didn’t tell me why you needed to stay here last night.”
“I did,” Regis replied sternly. “I told you that I came to let you know Fjola would not be back, as it was too dark to travel.”
“Uh huh. That much I got. But why did you decide to stay here? Last I knew, you could travel in the dark yourself no problem.”
“I was tired,” Regis lied, sipping his tea.
“You know I can usually tell when you’re full of shit.”
“Does it matter?” Regis said it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that for a moment Geralt was truly stunned.
“Hm. I guess not.”
“Then you needn’t concern yourself.”

Geralt took a small breath. He didn’t want to pry. Truly. But he was still concerned.

“You felt confident leaving her with Dettlaff?”

To Geralt’s surprise, Regis suddenly grinned, not meeting his eyes.

“Very,” he said, taking another sip of tea, oddly taciturn.

Geralt merely hummed. Regis looked at his friend and appeared to be calculating something. He was silent for a few more minutes as he finished his tea, deep in thought.

“I want Dettlaff and I to potentially live closer to here,” he suddenly said. Geralt’s stomach dropped.
“Now you really are out of your mind.”
“Not so, my friend; I obviously don’t plan on us inhabiting any easily-frequented or conspicuous dwelling, but rather something like a…”
“Cave.”
“No, perhaps a cottage, or a cabin. Do you recall the one I had in Sodden?”
“I barely remember anything about that night, thanks to your moonshine.”

Regis chuckled and said, “I’ve seen a fair amount of small homesteads have sprung up here and there, quite pleasant and pleasurable places, and decently far enough away from the main roads and towns.” Geralt just kept staring at him. “However,” Regis said haltingly, “I doubt ones such as ourselves – that is to say, Dettlaff and I – would be welcome to buy any of these dwellings.”
“What are you getting at?”

Geralt knew full well what he was trying to ask, but was desperately hoping he didn’t really mean it or that it was a terrible joke.

“Should Dettlaff or myself put the cottage in our names, I doubt very much that we would be welcomed with open arms by the Duchess.”
“So lie on the forms,” he said, getting annoyed.
“An established line of credit must exist, even if one is paying up-front with coin. Not to mention we’d need some form of paper recommendation or identification.” He sighed, scowling. “The bureaucracy of Beauclair is maddening.”
“Tell me about it,” Geralt said, “You have no idea the hoops I had to jump through at the Cianfanelli bank just to get 300 lousy florens that were owed to me from years ago.”
“So then you understand and are in agreement.”
“What? With what?”
“Dettlaff and I shall pay you the coin up-front for a cottage of our choosing, while you buy it in your name to avoid suspicion.”
“I already own Corvo Bianco,” Geralt argued. “Buying a cement shack in the middle of nowhere is definitely suspicious, Regis.”
“Not if it’s close by. You could call it a guest home, if you will, or, should any nosy paper-pushers ask, simply say you are expanding.”
“And you intend to let her stay there, I take it? Gonna play house?” he asked sarcastically.
“That’s a gross over-exaggeration,” Regis said. “I am ready for no such commitments. Nor is Dettlaff. I simply feel that residing in an area more accessible than Mère-Lachaiselongue would be of greater benefit.”
“Uh-huh. Well, if you’re worried about the commute, I’ll let her go, and she can work with you full-time. Harvest season is just about over, after that I really wouldn’t need her until spring, if at all; I barely need her now. She can spend the winter with you.”
“That’s just it, Geralt, I’m concerned about the winter.” The Witcher lowered his eyebrows and gave his vampire friend a questioning glance. Regis continued explaining. “The crypt will hardly be tolerable even to Dettlaff and myself come the ice and snow; it is no place for the young lady. The draft is staggering and there is little access to food or fresh water. None of us will want to be making trips all the way to Francollarts or Beauclair to shop, not from the cemetery. Something a tad closer and actually made for the living such as us to inhabit would be much more convenient.”
“I thought you shied away from Beauclair?” he asked.
“Mm, for the most part, though mainly just away from the palace. I’m unsure of the Duchess’ feelings toward me, especially as I was not included in the ceremony she threw for you to receive your medal and honors.” He sounded a bit snide.
“Regis,” Geralt said, “What happened was…”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” he said bluntly. “I am not offended, and truthfully, the farce made me ill.”
“I’m sorry,” the Witcher said genuinely. Regis shrugged.
“Bygones.”
“Look, if it’s really something you want, I suppose I could look into it. I owe you a lifetime’s worth of favors.”
“And so do I in return. But, as I’m in a bind, I suppose it’s my turn to accept your assistance this time.”

He smiled and Geralt felt a bit better about the situation.

“How soon are you going to start looking?”
“Well, about that,” Regis said, pulling a paper from his jerkin, “I had already found a suitable dwelling. Tell me what you think.”

Geralt smirked and looked at the form and the artistic rendering of the home upon it.

“Two floors and a cellar?” he said, raising an eyebrow mockingly. “Someone’s got expensive taste.”

Regis frowned slightly and gave his friend an annoyed glance. Geralt decided not to tease him.

“It is nice,” he admitted. “Think Dettlaff will go for it?”
“He’ll have no choice,” Regis said, leaning back.
“No offense Regis, but I don’t think he’ll be easily intimidated.”
“I do not intend to intimidate or to threaten him,” he explained shortly, “Merely coerce.”

Geralt was beginning to get frustrated. Why is he only withholding when I actually want to know something? He didn’t want to pry anyway, but still had his doubts about the other, less civilized vampire. The last thing he wanted was him stalking near his home. Near Yen.

“Spit it out, Regis.”
“Hm.” He looked back to his friend, tapping his sharp nails on the table and considering for a moment. “If I move closer to Corvo Bianco and bring my work with me, Fjola will have no choice but to follow me there. Dettlaff, if he wants to see her, will have to come, too, or put up with extremely limited visits, the latter of which is not something I believe he will be willing to tolerate.”

Geralt was almost speechless and he was suddenly more than just concerned. Fjola and… Dettlaff?

“You’re kidding?” he blurted.
“I am not,” Regis said, shaking his head and looking back up to meet his friend’s eyes. He refused to elaborate further, but Geralt didn’t need any more explaining. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to think about it. He sighed heavily.
“Fuck.”

Regis merely kept staring at his friend, his expression dark and serious, but expectant.

“Fine,” Geralt said. “I’ll help you. But good luck with that.”

Regis finally smiled again.

“So, we are in agreement?”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… yeah.”

They shook hands and Regis finally stood, stretching and walking towards the door.

“I think I’ve given them enough time,” he muttered, then turned back to Geralt. “Thank you again, my friend. I’ll have your money for you soon.”

Geralt tipped his head and Regis left, heading back to the cemetery with a bounce in his step. The Witcher shook his head again.

Fuck.

Chapter 28: Trouble

Chapter Text

Dettlaff pressed his nose gently into Fjola’s neck from behind her, taking in her scent, which closely resembled peaches and orchids. Perhaps it is from the grapes, herbs, and flowers she is always picking, he thought, kissing her hair. She murmured and shifted, opening her eyes and, realizing where she was, smiled and pushed herself back into Dettlaff. He wrapped his arms around her more tightly, kissing her neck and shoulders.

“Hmm,” he sighed.
“Gods,” Fjola whispered, “I’m so happy.”

Dettlaff stopped his affections for a moment and turned her face towards his own.

“Do you truly mean that?”
“Of course,” she said, smiling and kissing him.

He let out a jagged sigh and she frowned a bit, turning towards him and putting her hands on either side of his face, her thumbs tracing his defined cheekbones and grazing his seemingly permanent stubble. He closed his eyes and just enjoyed her touch, emitting a sigh of contentment that sounded almost like a growl. Fjola giggled, but tried to hide it.

“What?” Dettlaff asked. She shook her head, still trying to cover her grin. He started smiling himself and repeated the question. “What?”
“You kind of…” she stifled a laugh again before meeting his gaze. “You reminded me of a bear.”
“A bear?” he asked incredulously.
“It’s not an insult, Dettlaff, I swear! It’s just that… with your long fingernails, and your sharp teeth, and the way you kind of growled just now…”

She shrugged. Suddenly his smile faded and he examined his hands. A bitter memory swam to the surface of his mind.

By the gods, Dettlaff, trim your nails. It makes my skin crawl when you scratch me with them.”
It is not on purpose, Syanna. You know what I am – I cannot control this.”
Trim them or stop touching me altogether; it’s your choice.”

Dettlaff had trimmed them as she had asked, but they regrew almost instantly and she looked at him in disappointment and disgust, he recalled with shame. After that she had shied away from his touch almost completely and very rarely allowed him to be intimate with her. He had never blamed Syanna, only himself.

“Dettlaff? What’s wrong?” The concern in Fjola’s voice brought him back to the present. He stroked her face lovingly and she pushed her face into his hand contentedly.
“Sorry about the bear remark,” she said, a little sadly. “I honestly just meant that it was cute.”
Cute?” He made a face and Fjola started giggling again.

He immediately resumed kissing her every place he could reach, his hands filling themselves with her as they roamed, her doing the same with him. Her tongue slid across his sharp teeth and suddenly he pulled away with a small hiss. She looked hurt for a moment, but Dettlaff ran his hands through her hair and kissed her forehead.

“Forgive me,” he asked.
“For what?”

I should tell her now, he thought. Before this goes any further.

“For my claws,” he said, “And my… fangs.”
“Oh Dettlaff, they’re not fangs,” she said offhandedly, kissing his cheeks. “Besides, Regis has sharp nails and teeth, too. So what? I think they’re…”
“Don’t say it again,” he groaned. Fjola giggled.
“…adorable,” she said.
“Hmm,” he growled again. She kissed him deeply and his heart ached.

Tell her now, his mind urged. She should know what you are. He knew he should tell her, that he needed to tell her, but the thought of her becoming frightened and fleeing was too much for him to bear. The agony at the thought of losing her already burned him from the inside out, and he clutched her tighter in response, digging his nose into the warm spot where her neck met her shoulder and inhaling deeply.

“Fjola,” he started.
“Yes?”
“I… I am…” he was fumbling over his words, unsure of how to get it out.

He remembered her saying that she hadn’t been afraid that night, that the beast she had seen had made her feel safe, but Dettlaff knew that accepting the presence of a monster was a different thing entirely from welcoming one as a lover. I need to just tell her. I am a vampire. A monster. The monster she saw that night I saved her. I will tell her. I must tell her. Instead, Dettlaff only squeezed Fjola back, cursing himself for not revealing the truth about what he was yet, but overwhelmed with fear, frantic he would lose the happiness he felt in that moment.

I just need a little more time, he thought. I’ll tell her soon. Just… not yet. He rolled on top of her and she wrapped her legs around his waist.

I cannot lose her.

*

Regis walked into the crypt to find Dettlaff and Fjola composedly eating eggs and toast for breakfast, all of them trying with difficulty not to smirk.

“Morning, Regis,” Fjola said, trying to sound casual and offering him some breakfast.
He greeted her with a small bow, refusing the food politely. “I already ate at Geralt’s this morning.”

Dettlaff turned to him slowly and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sure Geralt was pleased to see you,” he said slowly. “And surprised.”

Regis tried to change the subject somewhat.

“Fjola, I am quite pleasantly surprised you decided to spend the night. I apologize for not joining you, but, ah…” Oh gods, he thought. What a poor choice of words. He heard Fjola snicker and blushed very deeply. “…Um, ah, where was I? Yes, I apologize for my… absence, but…” There’s no way to tiptoe around this, Regis thought, uncharacteristically awkward and blushing further.
“So what did you and Geralt get to talk about?” Fjola interjected skillfully.
“I’m glad you asked!” he burst with relief, flourishing his hands and dramatically stating, “I’ve decided to buy a cottage!”
“Oh wow, congratulations!” Fjola said, genuinely happy for him. Dettlaff looked nearly murderous however.
“And where is this cottage?” he asked darkly.
“Not far from Corvo Bianco, actually. At least, not nearly as far as here,” he said, gesturing to the crypt. “It even has a nice cellar for my herbs and alchemy… and a nice cask or two of Geralt’s wine, if he’s feeling neighborly,” he laughed, winking. Dettlaff did not return his mirth.
“I hope you enjoy it,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Thank you,” Regis said, suddenly somber. “I intend to. And I’m sure Fjola wouldn’t mind the less strenuous walk in order to help me each day.”

At this, she looked up in glee.

“Really? Every day?”
“Of course!” he said. “Geralt is willing to let you work for me full-time. That is,” he implored humbly, “If you’re interested.”
“Are you kidding, Regis? Of course I am!” Fjola leapt up and hugged him tightly, kicking her legs in delight. Regis held her back, watching Dettlaff stiffen and scowl. Fjola released him and straightened her shirt. “I’m so sick of picking grapes,” she moaned, returning to her seat beside Dettlaff, who immediately wrapped a protective arm around her and kissed her head. Regis diplomatically acted as though it wasn’t anything new and immediately went to start packing his things.
“It’s a bit early, isn’t it?” Dettlaff asked, his voice almost accusatory. “Did you even finalize things? Or pay for it?”
“Yes, well, seeing as how it’s technically going to be in Geralt’s name, which carries weight in Beauclair, I expect the process to be completed with much more haste than usual, and we should be able to move in within the week.”
“A week?” Dettlaff snarled, standing up and clenching his fists. He stared up with fury at Regis, who was leaning over the railing with a somber face.

Fjola removed herself from the table awkwardly and grabbed her cloak.

“I’ll see you at Geralt’s,” she said, exiting quickly.

Dettlaff immediately began to prowl dangerously up to Regis, his shoulders squared and fangs elongating slightly, intimidating even to the older vampire.

“You are trying to take her from me!” he accused instantly, his face mere inches from Regis’ own.
“I would do no such thing,” Regis reacted calmly. “I truly am thinking of her and you both.”

Dettlaff snarled and turned away, pacing. Regis was concerned – he had not seen his friend so agitated since before he had started helping him. Has he regressed?

“Please, my friend. The winters here are harder than one would expect, as I’m sure you recall. The crypt is barely inhabitable by us, let alone a human. At the cottage, there will be better access to food, water, heat… and none of us will have to fight over a small, barely stable bed,” he said, gesturing to the shabby one in the corner. “We will be able to see her every day, as opposed to every two or three.”

Dettlaff seemed to be cooling down, considering, but still seemed emotional and angry. Regis pressed further.

“No more having her leave before sunset, or not arriving until almost noon. No more days needing to be spent without her. No more worrying about her long walk if we are not there to escort her.”

Dettlaff emitted a small growl again, to Regis’ surprise. He was almost feral. Regis decided to really hit home in the final part of his argument.

“No more needing to share her with Geralt,” he said. As Regis suspected, Dettlaff turned around quickly at this.
“What do you mean?”
“As I said, Geralt has given me leave to have her full-time, he barely needs her as it is. This would likely continue into spring, should Fjola be willing to stay, of course.”
“She would quit Corvo Bianco?”
“I suspect more that Geralt would either release her or just simply not rehire her after winter is over.”

Dettlaff moved closer to Regis, tilting his head questioningly. He wasn’t finished, he could tell. Regis smirked.

“Not to mention, there is a room with space enough for a rather large bed, and another one with room for mine… separately.”

That was it. Dettlaff finally relaxed and approached him, placing his forehead against his friend’s and squeezing his shoulders.

“Thank you, Regis,” he said. “I apologize.”

Regis closed his eyes, embracing his friend in return.

“I want you… both of you… to be happy,” he said. “That is why I have done this.”

The two stood holding each other for a few moments until they broke apart and silently began to pack.

*

A few days later, after the paperwork had been mercifully expedited thanks to Geralt’s ties with the Duchess and the bank, the Witcher watched Fjola and Regis walk down the road with her few effects, talking animatedly. He was escorting her with her hand in his elbow as usual, strolling casually as he leaned in close to tell her something. It must have been a joke or clever remark of some sort as she threw her head back and laughed, then hugged his arm to herself briefly. Geralt could see even from this distance that Regis was not taking his eyes off of her and looking, to put it in a very clichéd term, absolutely smitten.

That’s going to be trouble, he thought grimly.

Chapter 29: Regis Reconnects with a Friend

Chapter Text

“Syanna, beloved sister, you have quite exquisite taste!” Duchess Anna Henrietta exclaimed with a smile.
“You said money was of no consequence,” she said haughtily.
“It is not,” she said, still grinning. “I am actually quite pleased with this list. Ah, I can tell I will get fat just reading this,” she laughed, putting the parchment full of food and wine requests back down on the gilded table between them and looking serious for a moment. “Tell me, sister dear, are you pleased with your new occupation?”
“Yes, Anna,” Syanna said truthfully. “I find I am rather enjoying planning something pleasurable, for a change.” Annarietta’s face lit up and her eyes glistened.
“This is all I wanted for you, sister dear,” she said, placing her soft, elegant hands on either side of Syanna’s cheeks gently. “I just want for you to be happy.”
“I am,” Syanna said, smiling. “Now, I still have plenty of work to do…”
“Ach, say no more! I shall leave you to it!” The Duchess stood and began to walk out the door, adding, “Remember, no cost is to be spared; there is no wine too rich or dish too decadent for our table or our humble guests. If you need anything else, or if some fool troubles you regarding planning, let me know, and it shall be dealt with swiftly.”

She nodded and blew her sister a kiss, who returned it before leaving with her usual retinue of guards. Syanna returned her attention to the planning, particularly the casks of wine and the laborers’ duties regarding removal and restocking.

Each piece in place, bit by bit, she told herself. After all, Beauclair wasn’t built in a day.

Syanna smiled to herself and continued her work.

*

Regis removed his hands from in front of Fjola’s eyes and she took in the cottage with a gasp. Calling it a “cottage” seemed like a wild underestimation; it had two floors, a small stable, sizable garden, several orchard trees, a pond, and, best of all, was tucked away in the woods a bit for privacy. The cream-colored cement looked cheerful even amongst the currently barren trees, and the brown shutters and red door had fresh coats of paint on them. As they entered the home, Regis excitedly showed her the cellar with his alchemy lab and brewery already set up, and Dettlaff one of the bedrooms with a double-sized bed inside of it. He referred to it as “our room” and Fjola’s heart soared. She was also relieved, honestly – Dettlaff was affectionate and she adored every moment of his presence, but he could also be very… intense. More than once he had started to get passionate with her in the crypt, Regis eyeing them uncomfortably before leaving to give them some privacy. She had noticed that he had started expressing less and less patience whenever it had happened, and Fjola felt guilty. Upon his return he would be short and clipped for a fair amount of time, and it turned the mood in the crypt sour. She was grateful Regis would no longer be subject to their affections. He must be angry because we are tiresome, she thought, then wondered why he had no one of his own. Too busy, she figured.

As they made to go back downstairs, she caught a glimpse of another small bedroom at the end of the hall and peeked into it. There was a small, though comfortable bed inside of it, but little else aside from a single small window, scarred dresser, and threadbare rug.

“It’s a little sparse, isn’t it?” Regis asked from behind her. She jumped, startled as always when one of them crept up on her.
“Regis,” she said sadly, “This is your room?”

He nodded cheerfully in assent. Fjola’s eyebrows knit up in concern.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Is the décor not to your liking? I suppose I could hang a small tapestry or painting, or maybe adorn the walls with some shelves and books. I’d have to remove them from our little library, however, or buy new ones. A charming thought, though – I delight in any excuse to buy more reading material.”
“It’s so… lonely,” she said, immediately regretting her candor. Regis felt a small pang.
“Worry not, my dear – believe it or not, I rather enjoy my solitude. And, seeing as how you will help me carry out some of my work in the basement, this humble room will likely be my only source of privacy.”

Fjola was unconvinced, but let it go and followed him back down the stairs where Dettlaff was sitting at the table near the open kitchen, reading a book. She had noticed something odd about the house, however – there were no mirrors in it. She asked Regis and Dettlaff about it.

“Not that I want to criticize your home or anything, but…”
“Fjola. This is your home, too, remember,” Dettlaff explained firmly. Regis smiled widely.

She was suddenly taken aback and lost her train of thought. She had forgotten already, despite having helped move her items in herself, as well as Dettlaff’s identifying the one room as “ours.” The thought of a stable home, not having to scrounge out of the trash for food, not having to worry about freezing to death in winter – it was still all new to her. She froze, processing the reality of this. Living at Geralt’s was one thing, as she was a laborer there and it had never felt permanent, but to be invited into Regis and Dettlaff’s home as a resident (even if she would be working) was emotionally staggering.

“I’m sorry,” she said, clearing her head, “This is… still a lot to take.”
“Don’t be troubled,” Dettlaff said, rising from his seat and wrapping his arms around her.
“I’ll be alright,” she said, sounding happier in his embrace, “It’s just new to me, that’s all.”
“How long has it been since you’ve had a permanent home?” Regis asked her. Dettlaff shot him a dirty look.
“Since the temple,” she said. “I don’t know – about 10 years ago, I guess?”
“Why did you leave?” he asked. Dettlaff held her a little tighter, displeased with Regis’ questioning.
“I hated it,” she replied honestly. “It became a bore, and the people who visited there sometimes treated us like slaves. They would grab at or grope us, and the elder priestesses did nothing. Often the soldiers who stayed there would become angry with us and…” She hesitated, shaking her head. “I’m not going to complain. I was taught many things, including the skills that brought me to you,” she said, looking at Dettlaff and Regis with a smile. Dettlaff kissed her tenderly but Regis decided to press a little further.
“Fjola, were you ever…?” Regis’ eyes traveled up and down her body.
“No,” she said firmly. “I never let them get that far. But they were… unkind when they didn’t get what they wanted. I’d like to leave it at that, please.”
“I apologize if I made you feel uncomfortable, Fjola,” Regis explained. “I have just never experienced temple life and was idly curious. I had often heard there is hazing, but I’ve never recalled stories of beatings.”

His frankness stung.

Fjola looked away, upset. “It was never the people who lived there who did it,” she muttered.
“I wasn’t aware, Fjola, and I apologize again.”
“It’s alright, Regis. I was actually pretty lucky, the worst I ever got was a brand, and you can’t even see it normally, anyway.”

Dettlaff suddenly frowned.

“Is that where the scar on your posterior came from?” he blurted.
“Dettlaff,” she groaned, smiling in embarrassment, but glad to have something to lighten the mood a little.
“Well, that was awkward,” Regis laughed, rising to put water on for tea. “Later I am going to get more supplies at the port; Fjola, would you like to accompany me?”
“No,” Dettlaff answered.

She leaned back from his embrace and gave him a scolding look, but retained her smile. Dettlaff raised his eyebrows and she smirked.

“No thanks, Regis,” she said, holding her head against Dettlaff’s chest. Regis’ own suddenly burned uncomfortably, and he coughed.
“You all right?” she asked him in concern.
“Yes,” he said, sounding slightly choked, “I just need to find a… remedy… while I am out and about today.”

Fjola seemed worried for a moment before Dettlaff’s physical attention distracted her again and she collapsed against him, neither of them even noticing when Regis had left the room.

*

Gods, this is intolerable, Regis complained internally. He thought that the extra space and separation would ease his discomfort and the new tension he had been feeling since Fjola and Dettlaff had become… involved… the week prior. Not to mention, he had given them plenty of time to canoodle in private earlier when he had left for the port. But apparently that is not enough for them, he thought in irritation as the sounds of their muffled moans could be heard down the hall and in his room.

I suppose me having supernaturally heightened senses does make it more difficult for them to “keep it down,” but Dettlaff should be more than aware of that himself and curb their passions during sleeping hours.

He sighed, rising.

This is what I wanted, he tried to remind himself. I wanted Dettlaff to find companionship besides my own. I did not fully expect it to blossom into a romance, however, especially considering the only other human female he had gotten close to, and what a cruel, unpleasant harpy she turned out to be. He ran his fingers down his face in frustration. Perhaps I should move back to the crypt. He immediately reconsidered, however. We did just move in. I suppose the excitement of the first night in a new bed, and a large and comfortable one at that, must be hard to contain.

His mind started to drift and suddenly he began to imagine the curves of Fjola’s body, her heavy breathing and moaning, her hands traveling up Dettlaff’s back and running through his thick hair, the sight of his strong arms and perfectly rounded backside, sweat beading down his brow and broad chest as… Regis stopped.

Well that’s new, he thought, his heart racing. His skin prickled and a thin sheen of sweat was beginning to collect on his own brow as he considered both of them. That is very new. He pushed the thoughts from his mind, chalking it up to sleeplessness and a general, primal need exacerbated by hearing them express their own.

I just need release, he thought, dressing himself, grabbing some fruit up in a cloth, and heading outside into the darkness of the middle of the night, knowing exactly where he was headed.

*

As he walked up the hilly path to the familiar cave he had known all those years ago, his steps already started to feel lighter. He started humming gently, readjusting the bundle of fruits in his arm and inhaling the familiar scent of exotic flowers and wine with a smile. As he reached the mouth of the cave, as usual covered in a thick curtain of ivy and vines to hide it from view, he cleared his throat loudly.

“Tubbynubs, you know you can just walk right in,” came a singing voice.

Regis chuckled and walked through the plants, gazing around and taking in the thick bundles of flora, plates of succulent fruits, and a chest full of silks and jewelry. Suddenly, he felt a small blade at his jugular and a strong hand on his shoulder.

“Who are you and what do you want?” the woman demanded harshly.
“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” he asked.

She was silent for a moment before gasping loudly and removing the knife from his throat.

“Regis?” she asked incredulously.

He turned around with a smile and she made a face, taking him in, but soon grinned and placed a finger beneath his chin affectionately.

“When did these deepen?” she asked, running her other hand across the crows' feet at the corners of his eyes.
“Is that your first question?” he asked, and she wrapped her arms about him.
“I had heard you were dead,” she said, then pulled herself back away. “Then I had heard rumors of your regeneration, but didn’t put any stock in them, of course. I’m so glad I was mistaken.”
“Me too, Natanis,” he said, kissing her hand and sitting down on a boulder.

She joined him, crossing her furry succubus legs daintily, her tufted tail swishing in delight, a blonde lock of hair tumbling from behind one of her horns. She tucked it back softly.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, dearest Regis?”

He handed her the fruits he had carried with him and she gave a small chuckle.

“You know I never expected tokens from you,” she said. “Your… services were quite enough.”
“Consider it an apology,” he said. “For not visiting sooner.”
“I knew what it was,” she said. “We had an understanding. You did not need to say goodbye.”
“Hm, I certainly felt so at the time, but still, I was in Toussaint two years ago, I should have…”
“Shh,” she said, holding a slender finger to his lips. “I know what you need,” she whispered, kissing him.

He leaned into it desperately, trying not to think of the reasons he needed to see his former lover again so badly, and what said reasons were likely doing back at the cottage at the moment.

Chapter 30: Stroll

Chapter Text

Dettlaff held Fjola about the waist as they walked along the banks of the Sansretour, huddling together for warmth and enjoying the beautiful morning, despite the cold.

“Do you like it here?” he asked her. She nodded happily.
“It feels like a palace,” she admitted a little sheepishly.
“Compared to the crypt, I suppose it would,” he said.
“Well compared to anything,” she said.

Dettlaff stopped their walk for a moment and gazed at her seriously.

“Was your life truly so terrible?” he asked. Fjola shrugged.
“I don’t like to dwell on those things,” she said. “I find it makes my life a lot easier if I just focus on things in my life that go right, instead of all the shit that goes wrong.” She chuckled. “And there’s a lot of it that does.”

Dettlaff looked startled for a moment, then a sly smile spread across his stubbled cheeks. “Did I just hear you swear?”

Fjola rolled her eyes and shoved him playfully, her hand grazing his jeweled moth pin and accidentally tilting it on his leather coat. She straightened it, examining the details with her fingers.

“You said Regis gave this to you, right?” she asked.
“Yes,” he nodded. “Though it was more as a… reminder, I suppose.”
“A reminder of what?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Hmm,” he sighed, looking away. “Of moths being attracted to light. It is difficult to explain.” ...without revealing too much, he amended in his head.
“Just try your best,” she said, standing on her tiptoes and kissing him on the cheek.

Dettlaff’s heart leapt. She loved kissing him there, especially on the jut of his cheekbone; sometimes she would simply lay next to him at night and nuzzle it gently with the bridge of her nose until they both fell asleep. His heart ached just thinking of her, and she was already right there in front of him.

“Hmm,” he grunted again. “There was a time when I had… another,” he started slowly. Fjola’s face didn’t change, so he continued. “She was…”

He stopped, his face twisting in anger, and hurt. Fjola put her hand to his cheek gently.

“You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready,” she said, tenderly rubbing her thumb against his face. He removed her hand and held it tightly in his own, stroking it briefly before continuing.
“I loved her. More than anything. It was… consuming. Like you.”

At this, Fjola was startled.

“Dettlaff…”
“Let me finish,” he demanded, firm but not harsh. Fjola nodded. “She was everything to me. I hung on her every word, her every movement, it was…” He paused again. “I am ashamed to say it.”

Fjola merely waited silently for him to collect his thoughts, which he appreciated.

“She was an obsession,” he continued. “I could consider nothing without her. I felt overwhelmed. And apparently, she did, as well. She left me without a word, without a trace. I was… devastated.”

Fjola made a soft, sad noise and held him more closely, her arms around his waist, squeezing him gently.

“I could not bear the sorrow, so I traveled. In those travels, I reunited with Regis, who as you know, was wounded at the time. I spent some years helping him recover, and when I felt he had improved sufficiently, we parted ways, though did not stray far. After that, I…”

His face twisted with pain again and he looked away with shame.

“I did terrible things,” he whispered, two small tears falling down either side of his face. Fjola brushed them away and kissed him, but he barely returned it. “I am a monster,” he hissed. “There is no taking back the horrors I have committed.” He breathed heavily, still looking away. “You deserve better than to be the lover of a beast.”

Fjola’s heart wrenched at the way he talked about himself and she sternly forced his face to her own.

“Don’t ever say that about yourself,” she said forcefully. “You are not a monster.”

He gazed at her as though he wanted to say something, but instead just held her hand more firmly to his cheek.

“Whatever you did Dettlaff, whatever happened… I want you to know that it doesn’t matter to me. You are not the same person you once were. Neither am I.”

At this Dettlaff looked at her curiously. She sucked in air through her teeth.

“I’ve stolen, Dettlaff. Lied. Taken advantage of people. I did whatever I had to to survive.” He was scowling, his eyes searching hers. “I could try to justify my actions this way, and I doubt many would convict me, knowing it was that or starvation. Or rape. Or death. But I can’t do that.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “All I can do is be a better person than I was, years ago. And I have been. I’ll never erase that stain, I’ll never be able to forgive myself entirely, but it makes me feel better… a little… to know that I would not do those things again. And whatever it was that happened to you, whatever you did in the past… I don’t think you would do them again, either.”
“But I would,” he said, clenching his jaw. “To protect the ones I love.”
“Then is that really so evil?” she said.
“Regis once told me ‘people justify bad deeds by good intentions.’ He said he was not sure if there was any greater idiocy.”
“Regis isn’t always right,” she said, a little amusement in her voice.
“He usually is,” said Dettlaff, sounding defeated. “He was right about you.”

Fjola brought her head back to give him an inquisitive look. Dettlaff looked uncomfortable for a moment before elaborating.

“He said you seemed kind. Tender. Empathetic, smart, compassionate.”
“Regis said all that?” she asked, genuinely surprised, feeling flattered and tender. Dettlaff nodded. “And you feel that way too?” He nodded again.
“It’s more than that,” he said. He paused, trying to find the words, and Fjola waited patiently once more. “You have a healing touch,” he finally said. She smiled softly and kissed him again, and this time, he returned it with ardor.
“So do you,” she breathed as they broke apart. “I’ve always tried to will happiness into existence by forcing it into my thoughts every day,” she admitted. “But I never truly felt it until I met you.”

Dettlaff moaned and held her more tightly, Fjola returning the embrace with equal passion.

“I love you,” he sighed.
“I love you too,” she returned, kissing him once more.

Chapter 31: Regis' Big Mouth

Chapter Text

“Oof, please, shut the door!” Fjola said, covering herself with her shawl. Dettlaff obeyed, stomping the late November snow off of his boots as he entered the cottage. She launched herself at him and kissed him deeply; he dropped the bag of food he was carrying in order to embrace her more fully, while Regis entered the cottage next. His hands were full of other items and he glared at the mess on the floor, seemingly in a bit of a mood again. It had begun escalating over the past month since they had moved in to the cottage, and though they were still infrequent, his irritations could be frightening.

“I carefully selected these fruits and vegetables – which were at a high cost, by the way – while you merely stood by in the shadows of the forest and waited at your leisure. Please use more care,” he snapped.

Fjola stood there staring at him in shock, her arms still about Dettlaff’s shoulders.

“Is everything alright, Regis?” she asked. He seemed to cringe slightly at the sound of his name.
Fine,” he said with a tone, placing the items he had in his arms onto the kitchen counter behind her.

Fjola carefully walked over to the mess on the floor and started picking it up, Dettlaff backing away and staring intensely at his friend. Regis kept his back turned to them both, preoccupied with the task of putting the items away.

“I will put the mule in the barn,” Dettlaff said slowly, exiting the cottage with one more look.

Fjola continued picking up the groceries silently, feeling as though she had been scolded. Regis’ touchiness that had started shortly after he had announced the purchase of the cottage, about the same time she and Dettlaff had become involved, was truly beginning to worry her. She assumed that the loss of the home he knew, the cool and dank of the cemetery, the comfort of the ever-present mist and seclusion was something he missed desperately, more than he had planned for, and it was making him irritable and upset. Some days were better than others, but the mood he seemed to be giving off now alarmed her and she was careful to do her best not to set him off.

“Ouch!” she yelped suddenly as her finger grazed a broken jar of preserves she was unaware had shattered inside the bag.
“What?” Regis snapped, looking over in annoyance. He saw her bleeding, however, and immediately guilt twisted his features and he softened. It’s not her fault, he reminded himself. I’ll have to make more frequent visits to Natanis, he thought desperately, They don’t seem to be working at their current frequency.

“Here,” he said, calming himself and grabbing a cloth, “let me see.”

She stood and he took her hand in his own, but she flinched.

“Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You didn’t,” she said. Regis was confused but she looked away and let him help clean her hand.

They were tense for a moment as he tended to her wound.

“Just like old times, mm?” he asked. Fjola said nothing. Regis looked back up at her and realized she was upset. “What’s the matter?” he asked, genuinely concerned.
“I’m sorry, Regis,” she nearly whispered. “I’m so sorry.” Suddenly her face scrunched up and she started sobbing heavily into her hands. Alarmed, Regis backed away from her. He had never seen her cry before.

Dettlaff was behind her in a heartbeat, his signature red and black smoke enveloping her for a moment before he fully took form. Regis was surprised he took such a risk, but she hadn’t seemed to notice with her head in her hands. Dettlaff wrapped his arms about Fjola protectively, throwing Regis an accusatory glare.

“What did you do?” he seethed, taking in the sight of the blood on the floor.
“Nothing, Dettlaff, it wasn’t him,” she said. That’s odd, she thought, I didn’t hear the door open or close, or feel a draft. “It was me. I…” she stammered, looking at the older man sadly, guiltily. “I’m the reason you’re unhappy here.”

At this Regis was even more confused.

“I know that’s why you’re aggravated all the time, Regis,” she said, wiping her eyes, “You miss the crypt, and I understand that. I also realized that the whole reason you both bought this place was for me.” She looked angry all of the sudden. “I’ve done nothing but take you from your home, upset everything, and offered nothing in return. I know you say I’m helping you with your work but there was no need for you to buy a home here for me to do it. You only did it so I could have an easier walk, or more comfort if I stayed. You’ve both been so kind, and generous, and all I’ve done is take.” She shook her head, looking disgusted with herself. “I’m so sorry.”

“Fjola,” Regis started, genuinely taken aback, “I had no idea you felt this way. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel as though my anger was your fault. It is not, I assure you.”
“There’s no other reason for you to be upset,” she said, throwing up her hands a little. The motion tore open the fresh cut on her finger again and she hissed, examining it.

Regis made to step forward to tend to it again, but Dettlaff was on him in an instant, his hand around his throat, careful to keep his back to Fjola as he bared his fangs to his friend.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed your moods,” he hissed lowly so only the two of them could hear. “The way you watch her. Your hand on hers as you help her chop ingredients. How you insist that she hold your elbow when you walk together. I see it,” he said. “I see all of it. And yet you let her believe it is her fault.”

“Dettlaff!” Fjola cried. “Let him go! He didn’t do anything wrong!”

He realized she sounded genuinely frightened and the sudden guilt made him release Regis quickly, turning away with shame and stalking out, being sure to use the door this time. Fjola just watched him go helplessly, her heart racing. She had never seen him lose control like that before and it terrified her. Images from her youth at the temple swam unpleasantly to her mind and she was suddenly afraid.

“Please,” Regis said softly, running a hand across his neck to check if he had been injured. “You have no reason to be afraid of him.”

How did he know? she wondered. She looked back to the door, worry eating at her.

“He would never hurt you, Fjola,” Regis said, standing in front of her again and resuming his attentions to her bleeding finger. “He was concerned that I had wounded you, that is why he is upset.”
“I’ve never seen him act like that before,” she whispered.
“He is protective of his loved ones,” Regis explained. “Passionately so.”

This appeared to have little effect on Fjola’s frightened state, and Regis was suddenly scared himself. Gods, no, he thought, pleading. Please don’t leave him over this. I could not bear the guilt. All of this is my fault, and if she abandons him… I weep for the world.

“Fjola,” he stated, catching her eyes. “He would never hurt you,” he reiterated. Regis could feel her hand trembling in his own. “This is all my fault, I’m afraid.”
“How could that be?’ she asked. “The only thing I can think of…”
“Is wrong.” She blanched. “I apologize,” he said, “But it is not the cottage or the relocation from the crypt that has made me this way. Or him.”
“Then what’s wrong, Regis? I feel as though everything is suddenly collapsing and I’m the only possible cause.”

Regis stared at her for a moment, desperately wanting to tell her everything, furious at Dettlaff for not having done so already and furious with himself for the same.

“One day, we shall tell you. Until then, please take solace in the fact that you have done absolutely nothing wrong. I promise you that.”

Fjola still looked unconvinced and Regis suddenly acted rashly, pulling her in for a tight hug and placing his head on top of hers, in the same manner Dettlaff so often did. Fjola merely held him back weakly, unsure if this was okay but accepting it just the same because it was a comfort. He could feel her heartbeat slowing against his chest. Regis parted them first and stroked her cheek.

“No matter what,” he said, “We will both do everything we can to protect you.” He grimaced. “Even if that means from each other.”

Fjola looked worried again but he shook his head. “You have nothing to fear, my dear. I was simply saying that you will not come to any harm from either of us. Besides,” he laughed, trying to lighten the mood, “I daresay you can defend yourself. I doubt that that bandit even saw the lantern coming…”

Shit.

Regis closed his eyes and looked away, pursing his lips in self-reproach. Fjola’s mouth dropped and she backed away, realization covering her features. She wrapped her arms about herself defensively, her eyes huge as she gaped at Regis.

Her voice took on a hushed tone. “The monster in the woods that night...”
Regis shook his head furiously. “Please, Fjola, let me explain…”
“How could you? How could you go all this time and not let me know? Did you think I wouldn’t accept you? That I would run from you? That…”
Regis held a hand up to interrupt her. “It wasn’t me, my dear.” He took a shaky breath. “Dettlaff and I both were there that night.” He gave her a meaningful look and raised his eyebrows. Fjola shook her head in disbelief.
“But… he’s so… I mean he’s not… I mean neither was the monster, and neither are you, but…” She simply couldn’t wrap her head around it. “Why wouldn’t he tell me? Why wouldn’t you?” She felt so betrayed, and her anger rose to the surface quickly.
“Would you truly have accepted us that night? Or in the nights shortly after?”
Us?” she emphasized, trying to confirm her suspicions. Regis pursed his lips and nodded.
“Us,” he confirmed.

Her face twisted up in fury as she stepped forward and for a moment Regis was concerned she was going to slap him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she hissed. Regis’ shoulders fell as he looked away in embarrassment. Fjola put a hand to his cheek and forced him to look at her. “Why… NOT?” she demanded.
“At first, I was scared you would flee. That is indeed what Dettlaff wanted, initially. But I convinced him to bear your presence, as you were a good influence, to put it very succinctly. And after that night, after you told him about what your encounter with his monstrous form was like…” Regis scowled. “You cannot imagine what an impact that made for him. For us.”

Fjola’s anger started to melt into sympathy.

“I was just being honest,” she said.
“I know. Dettlaff knows. And that is why he wanted to get to know you. And the more he did, the closer you grew, and the closer you grew, the more difficult it became to tell you. His terror at the thought of losing you overrode everything else. Even his strict moral code – and that, my dear, is truly saying something.”
“Did he really think I would leave him?”
“Do you really think he’d expect anyone to stay? If you were him, would you?”

Fjola considered for a moment and shook her head.

“No, I guess I wouldn’t,” she admitted. Something suddenly occurred to her. “He mentioned his last partner left him very suddenly. Is that why?” Regis eyed her very carefully for a moment before answering.
“No. She knew what he was. Well, to some extent. As for the form you saw him take that night we first met, I don’t believe she had ever been privy to seeing that side of him. The most she ever saw was his wingless, more vampiric form.” Fjola was taken aback.
“Is that what you are?” she asked. “What you both are? Vampires?” Regis nodded.
“Higher vampires,” he specified. “Not the mindless blood-guzzling ones like ekimmaras or fleders, mind you, the… well, false modesty aside, the more intelligent and talented kind.” He gave a small wink and a lopsided grin, finally exposing his sharp teeth more clearly.
“I always kind of wondered why you and Dettlaff looked a little… different,” she snorted. “I just figured it was some kind of cultural thing and didn’t want to be rude by prying.”
“Well, strictly speaking, in cultural terms, vampires…” Fjola stopped him with a polite look and a hand before he could go on a tangent. While she was relieved he had calmed down from his earlier mood, she could not bear to hear a long-winded explanation at the moment. He smiled abashedly and gave a small nod. Fjola looked thoughtful for a moment.
“I’ve seen you eat garlic though, when I cook. Have I been hurting you both this whole time?” She looked mortified. At this, Regis threw his head back and laughed, shaking his head.
“No, my dear, garlic does not harm us at all. Nor do religious symbols of any creed, or holy water. Silver can sting, and there are multiple theories as to why their backing on mirrors is what makes our reflections incapable of appearing on them, but it cannot kill us. Nor can the sun, stakes through the heart, flames, dismemberment, or beheading – all of which I can account for first-hand,” he chuckled.

Fjola was stunned. Suddenly, she felt very awkward, muttering something barely perceptible even to Regis’ highly attuned ears.

“What was that?” he asked.
“Why haven’t either of you tried to drink my blood?” she asked, turning red and staring at her feet.
“You make it sound as if it is something you would wish for,” Regis noted.
“No!” Fjola said a little too quickly, trying not to blush thinking about Dettlaff’s mouth sucking on her neck when they got physical. Was he secretly hungry or was it just a coincidence? Regis laughed softly as though he could tell what she was thinking.
“Vampires – at least higher ones, like Dettlaff and I – do not need to drink blood in order to survive. It is rather like alcohol for us – a decadent and luxurious indulgence, depending on the 'bottle' from which you drink – putting one into an altered state rather like drunkenness. It is just as entertaining and inhibition-reducing as booze…” he explained, suddenly frowning deeply and clutching the rag still wet with Fjola’s blood in his hand. “...And just as addictive,” he added ruefully.
“Have you ever…?”
“It is not something I wish to discuss at this time,” he said firmly. Fjola apologized immediately. “There is no need for that. Perhaps someday we will have a frank and honest discussion about it, if you truly wish. But for now I am not feeling quite up to the task.”
“Regis, I…” she looked down, seemingly embarrassed. “I’m so sorry that you felt you couldn’t tell me. That Dettlaff felt he couldn’t tell me. That he thought I would…” She scrunched her face up in anger, then relaxed, letting a deep, heavy breath go and looking back up to Regis and placing a hand on his cheek. “Thank you for telling me, Regis.” He twitched a little at the sound of his name, but held her hand to his cheek for a moment in a very Dettlaff-like manner before releasing her.
“I’m sorry you had to hear it from me,” he said sadly.
“I’m not,” she said as she headed towards the door. She turned and gave him a sweet, grateful smile before walking outside to talk to Dettlaff.

Regis watched her go for a moment, then turned to throw away the rag saturated in her blood. He hesitated, however, clutching it more tightly, the smell making him clench his teeth and groan as he pocketed it.

Chapter 32: Discovery

Chapter Text

Dettlaff paced back and forth in the barn, the mule they had purchased braying loudly, sensing his anger and fury, uncomfortable in a predator’s presence.

Of course she is terrified of me, he seethed. She may not know what I am but she can sense it – that instinctual fear prey would have. Just as this mule innately fears me for what I am, so does Fjola.

But…

But she said she felt safe around me in my monstrous form, even though she is unaware it was me.

He let out a thoughtful hmm and stopped, trying to calm his racing heart.

This is all Regis’ fault! he raged. His moods are making mine worse, his dogged clutching at Fjola, how he haunts her steps, his disappearances at night…

Jealousy swelled within him and he could not contain his fury, his claws extending, blade-like and deadly, his upper lip split like a muzzle to make room for his elongating fangs, his ears growing pointed and eyes more feral. He snarled and swung at nothing, finally terrifying the poor mule enough that it hopped the gate to its stall and began pounding its front hooves on the door to the barn, desperately trying to escape. Suddenly, the door opened and a confused Fjola jumped back as the mule leapt past her in a panic and bolted into the woods faster than she could ever hope to try and chase.

“Oh,” said Fjola, “Regis is not going to be happy.”

Dettlaff whirled away from her, bending over to hide himself from her view, trying in vain to calm down enough to go back to his more human appearance. She had noticed his odd posture and heavy breathing however and immediately grew concerned; he could hear her heart start beating faster even from where she stood several feet away.

“Dettlaff? What’s wrong?”

He shook his head, curling his claws toward the inside of his arms and crossing them against his chest. He heard Fjola shift, walking closer, and his heart started pounding. She cannot see me like this!

“Leave me be!” he growled, walking further towards the back wall.

Fjola jerked back, startled by the sudden drop in his voice. Suddenly Regis’ conversation from just a couple of minutes before swam to her mind. “...his wingless, more vampiric form.” Suddenly she softened, realizing he was terrified himself. Terrified that he would frighten or repulse her, that she would leave him because of it, and of the cavernous ache such a loss would create. She knew this because his fear was her own – that he would leave her or shut himself away to try to spare her, and she would go mad with longing and pain.

“It must be awful,” she said carefully. “Always feeling you have to hide who you are.”

Dettlaff’s breathing calmed somewhat and he tilted his head somewhat in interest.

“My love,” she said, her voice sounding chiding, but heavy with sympathy and care. At first he tensed, loathing her pity and shamed by it, but her new moniker for him melted him ever so slightly. He shook his head.
“Leave me!” he barked again, sounding panicked and choked.

Fjola walked over carefully, reaching out her hand tentatively to touch his shoulder. When it made contact, he jerked away like it had burnt him and continued sheltering his form from her.

“Dettlaff,” she pleaded, “Please, it’s ok – I know.”

He cringed, tilting the side of his head delicately towards her once more, still being careful to shield himself from her gaze. She reached out again and this time he did not jerk from her touch, but rather collapsed under it, falling to his knees and curling forward further.

“Please,” he begged, his voice raspy and harsh, “I beg of you… do not look at me like this.”

Fjola merely leaned forward, pressing her body against the back of his own, bending over him and kissing the back of his head tenderly, her hands running through his hair, brushing it back towards herself.

“Shh,” she soothed, bringing her hands down to clutch him across his chest, feeling the tips of his claws graze her as she did so. He twitched again, but did not try to beg or flee any longer, instead shaking where he knelt, tears forming in his eyes. They stood like this for a while, motionless save for Dettlaff’s trembling and Fjola’s soothing hands. Finally, his heart stopped pounding and knees became strong enough for him to stand, though he still kept his back to Fjola. She let her hands run down his back as he stood, but he stepped away and she let them fall back, watching him with concern. Finally, he spoke.

“What if you don’t like what you see?” he asked quietly, his voice still deeper and more gravelly than usual.
“It’s still you, isn’t it?”
Dettlaff cringed, shaking his head. “Not the way you are used to me.”
Fjola chose her words more carefully. “What I mean is, no matter what, you’re still you. Your looks cannot change that.”
“I am hideous,” he growled.
“Let me be the judge of that,” she said snarkily.

His shoulders dropped, but he began turning around, his face still down. Fjola watched as he finally turned and straightened, taking his new form in slowly. His eyes moved up and when his small black pupils met hers, she felt her stomach lurch. He must have sensed it as he suddenly chuffed and tried to back away further, but she stepped forward, hands reaching up to cup his face.

“Don’t worry, my love, it was a good feeling,” she said, running her fingers over the deep creases in his face with wonderment. His eyes never left her, watching her carefully as she explored his more vampiric form. Her hands reached his fangs and he sucked in air, but she just asked “May I?” and when he nodded, she ran her fingers over them gently, feeling their length and sharpness. He made a small growl as his mouth twitched, and she stood up on her tiptoes to kiss his lower lip carefully. When she pulled back he looked almost confused, the fear melting away and softening his features. Finally, she brushed his hair back again gently, exposing his pointed ears, and she grinned.

“What?” he growled, still feeling self-conscious.
“Your ears,” she said, “They’re…”
He frowned and shook his head. “Don’t say it.”
She pressed her lips together to keep control, but couldn’t resist and finished, “…cute.”

He closed his eyes in a scowl and pretended to be displeased, but Fjola knew he was secretly amused. She began rubbing the pointed tips of his ears gently and he unintentionally emitted a low, contented growl, his face turning red. Fjola giggled and kissed his lower lip again. He tried to return it, but found it difficult with his fangs. She felt him begin to change back to his more human form.

“Wait!” she said. He stopped and looked at her calculatingly, raising an eyebrow. “Have you…” It was Fjola’s turn to blush. She bit her lip, looking down and gathering her courage before asking him. “Have you ever, um…”

Dettlaff’s eyebrows knitted down, his eyes searching her face for clues.

“Have you ever had sex like that?” she blurted, covering her burning cheeks with her hands. To her surprise, he laughed, and immediately her shame and anxiety seemed incredibly silly, melting away as her heart soared at him smiling with his long fangs. He shook his head, bringing his claws through her long, curly hair more gently than she expected.

“Not with a human,” he answered, nuzzling his broad, flat nose against her forehead gently.
“Can I be the first?’ she asked with a mischievous grin.

Dettlaff snorted in amusement, suddenly picking her up as though she weighed nothing and carrying her out of the barn.

“Wait, the mule took off,” she said.
“Regis has already gone to get it,” Dettlaff responded in his growling voice, squeezing her gently.

Suddenly Fjola felt a pang of guilt. He acts as though he is the servant sometimes, she realized. He must be so tired of us. She felt that the help she provided him regarding his herbs, alchemy and moonshine, and the walks they took frequently just simply weren’t enough, resolving to make him feel more wanted than needed. In the meantime, Dettlaff carried her upstairs and she discovered just how deliciously bestial he could be.

Chapter 33: Overwhelmed

Notes:

CWs at end of chapter

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Regis, darling,” cooed Natanis, wrapping her arms about him as he entered the cave, which was beautifully decorated as always.

He kissed her gently, which she returned before taking the flowers he had brought her and placing them in a tall ceramic pot on the flat boulder she often used as a table. She had barely had time to adjust the bouquet before Regis was behind her, running his hands up her bare stomach and under the silk wrap she used as a top, groping her breasts more roughly than she was used to from him.

“Regis,” she half-scolded, half-moaned. “Those are attached,” she laughed.

She heard him make a small growl in return, grinding himself against her forcefully as he bent her over the stone. She wasn’t used to him being this frantic and it frightened her a little. Natanis knew how to take care of herself, and certainly had in the past when her lovers didn’t respect the few boundaries she had, but she still didn’t enjoy it. Regis was beginning to clutch her painfully, his claws digging into her hips and almost piercing through her fur.

“Ah! Not so hard!” she snapped, but Regis wasn’t responding.

Suddenly she felt sharp teeth on her neck and he began to bite down. Before he could break skin, however, she used her powerful, goat-like succubus legs to kick back, making contact with his thighs with enough force to send him tumbling backwards onto the floor of the cave. She whirled on him in an instant, glaring at him as he collected himself and stood with a grimace, not meeting her eyes.

“Natanis,” he said apologetically, “I am so sor…”
“Get out!” she yelled, pointing her finger to the mouth of the cave.
“It was a mistake,” he tried pleading, “I promise it won’t…”
“GET OUT!” she screamed, suddenly leaping forward and butting his torso with her strong, curled horns.

Regis stumbled toward the mouth of the cave, trying to apologize one more time before she kicked him as hard as she could in the chest, sending him flying back outside and tumbling down the hill. He crashed to a stop against a rather thick tree, looking back up in time to see Natanis rolling a stone across the entrance to her cave, but not before tossing the flowers he had given her out onto the path. Regis collected himself with a groan, aching and miserable, making the shameful trip back to the cottage slowly, his thoughts heavy.

*

Fjola sat down on the soft couch near the window with the cup of “tea” she always made after being intimate with Dettlaff, grimacing at the taste, but downing it as quickly as she could. She watched as the sky started to lighten in the east, the night sky fading with the arrival of dawn, enjoying a moment to herself.

“Good morning,” said a low, rough voice.

She looked over in alarm but saw to her relief that Regis had just walked down the stairs and into the kitchen. He looked positively awful, however, and Fjola examined him in shock. His eyes were bloodshot and the skin under his eyes was dark, his cheekbones seemed to jut out further than usual and his body moved a little jerkily as he walked. He almost seemed to twitch.

“Regis!” she gasped. “Are you alright?”
“I’ve had better nights, certainly,” he said, his voice more gravelly than usual, “But I’ll survive.”

He tried to give her a toothy grin, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes and Fjola suddenly felt cold, shivering. He noticed.

“That tea is dreadful, isn’t it?” he said, his voice lightening ever so slightly, relaxing her just a little bit. “Well, you should be pleased to know you no longer have any need to imbibe it.”
“Hm? Regis, this is so there aren’t any… um… ‘unwelcome surprises.’ I’m not really interested in…”
“I’m aware of what it’s for,” he suddenly snapped, but silently chided himself and said, more lightly this time, “I am simply telling you it is unnecessary. It always was in the first place. I apologize, as this was kept concealed from you merely because you were incognizant of our status as supernatural beings until yesterday.”
“Wait a minute… are you saying I won’t get pregnant?”

Regis nodded.

“Vampires cannot procreate with humans,” he said.

Fjola looked beyond relieved and dumped the tea outside on the ground immediately as Regis chuckled. When she reentered the cottage, she was smiling gratefully and thanked him. He gave a small nod of acknowledgment and began getting ingredients together to make a meal. While he wasn’t particularly hungry, he wanted… needed… something to do with his hands and mind at the moment. When Fjola saw what he was doing, however, she leapt back up from the couch and practically hopped over into the kitchen, smiling and grabbing items to help.

“You know I’m the cook in this household, Regis,” she said with a playful grin. “Scoot.”

Regis did not return her smile and Fjola’s own faltered.

“I would rather you not be near me right now,” he said coldly. This sudden shift in his personality was shocking and she could feel cold dread forming in the pit of her stomach.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, backing away a little.

Regis turned away. She could hear his breathing becoming heavy.

“Please. Go back on the couch.”

Fjola’s sense of compassion overrode that of self-preservation, and she tried to put a calming hand on his shoulder. He whirled around and suddenly pinned her against the counter, his hands against it on either side of her, his face barely an inch from hers as he towered over her trembling frame. She gasped as her heart started beating furiously, but Regis tried to collect himself, shaking his head to clear it and gritting his sharp teeth as he backed away. He turned his back to her again and walked toward the stairs, clutching something unseen in his pocket.

“Regis,” she tried, walking up behind and trying to comfort him again. “Please tell me what’s wr…”

He snapped around, feral and snarling, his eyes completely black save for small red irises. His nose was flat and pink, fangs rodent-like but deathly sharp and massive, while his long ears became thin and pointed at the ends. He bared his fangs and hissed and Fjola leapt back, stumbling as she launched backwards into the kitchen. Regis suddenly vanished in a puff of gray and blue smoke, reappearing almost instantly a few feet in front of her, running and throwing himself against her and knocking them both onto the ground. They hit the floor with a thud and he quickly gained the upper hand, climbing atop her and settling between her legs. She squirmed but his claws wrapped around her wrists and held her fast, his hips grinding against her as he pinned her down. She immediately felt his fangs against the side of her neck and screamed as he bit down. Her blood rushed into his mouth and he moaned, jutting his hips forward as he drank from her. She could suddenly feel him against the most intimate part of her, hard and excited as he sucked on her neck and continued making soft, greedy noises of contentment. She gasped and let out a soft moan, the kicking of her legs slowing as she felt her consciousness slipping away, Regis’ hard erection against the inside of her thighs and wet mouth on her throat the last things she could feel.

Suddenly, Dettlaff was standing over Regis, his fangs bared, roaring as he yanked him back away from Fjola and held him up by his neck, snarling in his face. Regis hissed back in fury, kicking and growling savagely, his feet dangling above the floor as Dettlaff continued to hold him suspended in the air. He looked back down to Fjola to make sure she was ok, and Regis used his split second of distraction to evaporate in a puff of smoke, reappearing behind him and attempting to stab him with his claws. Dettlaff was too quick however and caught him once again, squeezing his neck and slamming him to the ground, his other claws digging into Regis’ pockets. He brought forth a cloth soaked with dried blood and suddenly his body sagged.

“Regis,” he said sadly through his fangs, looking back at him, his eyebrows knit upwards in concern as he tossed it away from the two of them.

Regis suddenly started shaking, wracked with sobs as he transformed back into his less feral self.

“I’m sorry,” he wept.

Dettlaff merely watched him in pity for a moment as he sobbed, then, with a contemptuous look, used his hands on his neck in a particular motion that almost immediately knocked him unconscious. Regis’ body slumped back on the floor and Dettlaff rose, transforming back as well. He knelt beside Fjola who was limp and senseless, the wound on her neck still bleeding. Thankful that Regis had not pierced her jugular, Dettlaff grabbed a clean cloth and tended to her softly, keeping a close eye on her pulse. When he had stopped the bleeding and bandaged her neck, he carried her upstairs and put her to bed.

He walked back down the stairs and collected Regis in his arms, storming out the door and heading in the direction of Corvo Bianco.

*

Geralt saw them coming from a fair distance away, grabbing his gear and a vial of black blood, just in case. Shooing the laborers inside, he grabbed his silver sword and watched warily as Dettlaff walked boldly up to the him, carrying an unconscious Regis in his arms.

“Dettlaff,” Geralt sneered.
“Witcher,” he said back, nodding his head politely, which surprised him. He still gripped his sword, however, running his golden, cat-like eyes over the pair of them.

Dettlaff looked back down at his friend sadly, then back up to Geralt.

“I wish to ask a favor of you,” he said.
“I’m tired of granting vampires favors,” Geralt growled. Dettlaff acted as though he hadn’t heard him and continued.
“Regis has succumbed to his addiction once more.”

Geralt’s chest felt heavy and he suddenly felt a great swell of pity for his friend, though still cursed him internally.

“What does this have to do with me?” he asked, putting on a harsh front. Dettlaff saw through this ruse.
“You are his friend as well. I am hopeful you’d be willing to take him in for now, allow him to recover here.”
“Why can’t he do that at the cottage?” he asked, already dreading the answer, noticing the smear of blood still on Regis’ lips.

Dettlaff suddenly looked particularly murderous, sneering at Regis in disdain and looking away.

“He attacked Fjola,” he said grimly, clenching his jaw. Geralt’s stomach hit rock bottom.
“Is she okay?”

Dettlaff nodded.

“She will be,” he said. “But I do not think Regis could ever hope to recuperate with her… presence.”

Geralt sighed and lowered his weapon, opening the door and directing the vampire inside. Dettlaff walked in confidently, past an older, horrified woman and up a set of steps to dump Regis unceremoniously on the bed upstairs. He paused, regretting his gruffness and sighing. He placed a hand beneath his friend’s neck, leaning forward to put his forehead against Regis’ tenderly for a moment before starting back down the stairs, passing a dumbstruck Geralt at the head of them. He began to head back out the door but paused, his long fingers clutching the frame.

“You’ll… you will update me on how he is doing, yes?” Dettlaff asked, his back still to the Witcher.
“Yeah, sure,” Geralt said, still stunned and surprised by all of this.

I knew there was gonna be trouble, Geralt thought ruefully.

Dettlaff gave one last nod before heading out and back towards the cottage, leaving Geralt to care for their friend, who moaned in his sleep and curled into a ball, his dreams red and full of blood.

Notes:

CW warnings: violence, blood, sexuality that borders on non-consent

Chapter 34: Dettlaff and Fjola Cope

Chapter Text

Fjola awoke with her head pounding, feeling her heart beat painfully at the wound in her neck as she went to touch it and found a bandage there, inspecting it gently with her fingers. She suddenly wished desperately that Dettlaff and Regis had put mirrors in the house…

Regis.

Suddenly everything swam back to Fjola painfully. She had set him off somehow, she knew it. Regis’ moods of late were her fault, after all – his exoneration of her meant nothing. The guilt ate at her stomach and she was suddenly scared she was going to be sick, stumbling down the stairs and outside into the cold air to calm herself.

How on earth could I possibly make this up to him? she thought. There’s no way he could ever forgive me, and no way I could ever forgive myself. It’s my fault. It’s my fault. It’s my fault…

She stood there for some time, letting the snow fall on her shoulders as she wished desperately he was there right now.

*

When Dettlaff returned, he was surprised to hear noises coming from the cellar. The gentle clink of bottles and a boiling pot enticed him to look, and he saw with annoyance that Fjola was working on some potions, her hair even curlier and frizzier with the steam, her tongue between her lips as she read some of Regis’ notes in a thick leather book. He let out a small grumble and she turned to give him a little smile before returning to her work. He placed his hands about her waist and pulled her away, forcing her around to look at him.

“You should be resting,” he said.
“I couldn’t sleep anymore,” she said. “I… my thoughts won’t turn off.”
“Hmm, Regis has the same problem…” Dettlaff said, stopping himself from continuing with a pained expression. Fjola placed her head on his chest, wrapping her arms behind him and bringing her hands to rest on his shoulder blades.
“That’s why I’m doing this,” she admitted. “For R… for him.”

Dettlaff gave her a look of surprise.

“For the income?” he asked.
“No, silly, I’m making some potions I think could help him. I looked through his notes and found some promising things, recipes he had come up with to help him with his… problem.”
They were silent for a moment before Dettlaff said, his voice choked, “That’s kind of you.”
“Is he ok?” she asked with a hushed tone.
“I left him at Geralt’s,” he said. “I figured it would be easier for him to recover there, rather than here.”

Fjola nodded, suddenly crying into Dettlaff’s chest. He pulled her away to wipe her tears.

“It’s all my fault,” she sobbed, “I know it is. Something about me set him off, somehow. I don’t know what I did but I need to fix it,” she said.
“Darling,” he said, scowling and shaking his head and taking her face between his hands. “It was not you. Not directly. Regis has struggled with blood addiction for many years. Perhaps centuries.”
Centuries?” she asked, alarmed. Dettlaff chuckled.
“Centuries,” he confirmed. Fjola was about to ask something else, but stopped, blushing. Dettlaff could guess what her question was going to be. “438. 439 next year.” She looked at him like he had just told her the sun rose in the west. “At least, that’s how old he is. I am a tad younger, at 435.”
“You’re that close in age? I wouldn’t have guessed,” she said, suddenly ashamed. “Sorry. That was rude. He just looks so much… older. Well, in human terms, I guess.”
“He has had a much harder life.”
“With his addiction? He mentioned yesterday how blood can cause it.” She shrank. “That’s probably what did it then. When I cut my finger. He smelled it and it caused him to go crazy.”
“Hmm.”
“So it was me, then,” she sighed, taking Dettlaff’s reticence for confirmation.
“It is a complicated matter,” he said. “As I said, this is something Regis has struggled with for a very long time.”
“What in his life could possibly have done this to him?” she asked sadly.

His lips flattened and eyebrows lowered as he struggled with whether or not to tell her. She ran her fingers through the curls at the back of his neck and gave him an imploring look. Well, he thought with a rueful smile, he did spill all my secrets yesterday, after all.

Sitting the two of them down, Dettlaff explained Regis’ checkered past, his struggles with addiction, being left by his lover, his decapitation and burial for half a century, his eventual recovery and eventually how he had met up with Geralt. “I know Regis has told you much about that period of time, however,” he acknowledged. Dettlaff finished with Regis’ death at the hands of Vilgefortz and modestly mentioned his resurrection and recovery thanks to him, finally reaching where they had moved to Beauclair, hesitating.

Now that you have told her of Regis, what of yourself?

“My love?” she questioned.
“Hmm?”

She sat up and looked in his eyes. “What else aren’t you telling me?”

Dettlaff pursed his lips and looked away.

“You will not like me after I tell you,” he said sadly.
“Try me,” she said, rubbing his cheek tenderly.

He was still silent, doubtful. She suddenly smiled.

“If I can still care about someone who bit me and tried to drink all my blood, I think I can find it in my heart to stay in love with you. No matter what.”

He still looked dubious, but conceded. No more secrets. Slowly, he brought the topic of Syanna back up, and how she had manipulated his feelings for her from afar, the murders she made him commit, his attack on the duchy in retaliation, his fight with Regis and how he had secretly spared him. He closed his eyes at the end of his story, his stomach turning and grip tightening on Fjola.

“I understand if you want to leave me,” he managed to choke out. “But…”
“Never, Dettlaff,” she said, kissing him deeply. “I love you.”
“How could you ever forgive me for what I’ve done?” he hissed.
“Well, you didn’t try to cut me up, so…” she tried to joke, but the look on Dettlaff’s face made her serious again. “Sorry. But – I love you. Nothing will ever change that. I can’t condone what you did, but then again, I can’t condone my shitty actions in the past, either.”
“I’m assuming you didn’t cause the slaughter of dozens of innocents, so it is a false equivalent,” he sneered.
“Hm, true. But – not to sound callous – I don’t care.”

He jerked his head back and glared at her.

“Is this something you actively take part in? Is it something you would do again? You told me once you were unsure. Are you still?”
“Hmm. I don’t know how much forgiveness I am capable of.”

Fjola considered his statement.

“Maybe it’s me being foolish, Dettlaff, but… I understand.”
“You couldn’t possibly.”
“Give me some credit,” she scolded. “Putting myself in your shoes, thinking of how I would feel if you had done something like that to me… I don’t know how I would ever bear it. And, were I to have your powers, I can’t say I wouldn’t use them either to attempt closure. I mean, honestly, I wouldn’t try to kill you over it, but I’m not you, and you aren’t me.”
“If you wouldn’t kill me for doing what she did to me, then you understand nothing.”
“Life’s not that black-and-white,” she argued.
“You sound like Regis,” he said coldly.
“Well, since he’s not here, I suppose somebody has to,” she said sadly.

Dettlaff felt the ache of his absence already.

“Dettlaff,” she said, and he looked back up at her. “I wouldn’t kill you under those circumstances because I love you. And I would continue to love you. I could never hurt somebody I love, no matter how deeply they hurt me.”
“Your compassion is touching,” he said sarcastically.
“I didn’t say I’d stay, or tolerate it, or try to make up. Just that I would end up hurting myself far more by hurting you.”

Dettlaff frowned in consideration.

“You’re making very little sense,” he said. She shook her head.
“Just because you can’t comprehend it doesn’t mean it’s not valid. Look, the point is, I understand why you did what you did, even if I would be unlikely to do the same thing. I know why you did it, and if I had your powers, maybe I would do the same thing. But at the end of the day, regardless, I still could never bring myself to hurt you.”
“Why do you think this way?” he asked, genuinely confused.
“Life isn’t all give and take, action and reaction. Sometimes it’s forgiving, or forgetting. A lot of it is just trying to understand others, though. To feel how they feel so you can sympathize with them, even if you don’t agree with their actions. To show some empathy, and care. Sometimes that’s all someone really needs.”

Dettlaff felt something spark within him at her mention of empathy, the virtue Regis was always trying to lecture him about.

“It sounds maddening and weak,” he said, remembering how he had felt the night he had decided to save her. While things had certainly turned out well between the two of them, he had felt crippled and powerless by his emotions at the time. Which, he supposed, is normal for me, albeit usually in a different way. The powerlessness from anger or empathy; neither was ideal and frustrated him just the same. “It sounds like an exhausting experience.”
“Maybe,” she shrugged. “But it’s just how I feel.”
“Hmm.”
“Besides,” she said, smiling again to lighten the mood, “If I didn’t feel this way, and wasn’t able to empathize with you, who’s to say how things would have turned out between us?”
“Don’t jest!” he snapped, holding her closely and dreading the thought.
“Sorry, my love,” she said, kissing him. “No matter what, I’m glad we found each other.”

He held her closely and whispered, “Likewise.”

Chapter 35: The Road to Recovery

Chapter Text

Regis gazed around at the mildly familiar surroundings, trying to piece things together in his haze.

I am at Corvo Bianco, he realized, recognizing the hideous joke of a painting hanging on the wall depicting Geralt almost completely in the nude. Regis chuckled lightly at the sight of it, but his head suddenly felt like it was splitting in two and he groaned. It hurt to even blink.

“You look like shit,” Geralt said.
“I feel like it,” Regis returned, gazing over at his friend, who had just come up the stairs with some water and a small, blue potion. He brought it over and set it on the table next to where Regis lay, trying to keep his distance a little without seeming to. “Thanks for the table service,” the vampire growled, downing the potion quickly and chasing it quickly with the water. He bent over the side of the bed, his elbows on his knees and hands in his hair. “How bad is it?” he asked.
“Fjola is fine,” Geralt said.
“I didn’t ask…”
“You didn’t have to.”

There was a moment of silence while the two of them appraised each other, then Regis let out a heavy sigh.

“Was it that obvious?”
“To me, at least. Dunno about Dettlaff. Suspect if he knew, you wouldn’t be here.”
“No, he has his suspicions. You've both been very, ah... direct about it.”
“Not gonna apologize.”
“I didn’t expect you to,” Regis said without malice. “If there’s one thing I truly appreciate about you, Geralt, it’s your natural propensity for honesty and candor. And I thank you for that.”
“Avoiding the subject?”
“Not this time. Although you’ve likely already surmised quite a deal about my current situation. I doubt I have any secrets left from you about it.”
“Dettlaff was pretty vague about it, actually. Mind filling me in?”
“Since when do you pry so deeply?”
“Since you relapsed and apparently I’m in charge of your care now,” he said.
“You’ve done me enough favors,” Regis said tiredly. “Do me one more and let me recover on my own. I’ll leave for the crypt, spend my days in solitude, as I should.”
“Hypocrite.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You kept telling Dettlaff to go out and… mingle. Yet here you are, feeling sorry for yourself and promising to hide out in that crypt like an animal. Can’t let that happen.”
“Once again I am puzzled by what logic you could possibly be considering. I am a danger, Geralt. I attacked a woman… the woman I… care very deeply for. If I cannot control myself around her, there are likely few people around whom I could. Present company excluded, of course.”
“Of course,” Geralt smirked, then thought for a moment. “Know what I think?”
“No, I’ve told you before, we vampires are not psychics.”
“Not what I meant.”
“Please get to the point,” Regis pleaded, clenching his teeth and holding his aching head. “I’m losing patience even for my own verbiage.”
“I think you lost control because you care for her. They don’t call it ‘going mad for somebody’ without reason.”

Regis clucked his tongue in disapproval.

“Ever the perceptive analyst, aren’t you, Geralt? But no, I don’t believe you are correct. I lost control from the smell of her blood. Not at the moment when it was fresh, no, but it taunted me, tormented me so much I kept a cloth soaked with it in my pocket.” He had begun sounding more agitated as he went along and was now close to snarling. “Those are not the actions of one who has kept their grip on sanity or their addiction. I am a danger, it’s as simple as that.”
“You weren’t a danger to Dandelion after he had gotten cut from that arrow. Or to Milva when she had miscarried.”
“Those are very different scenarios…”
“You’re full of shit.”

Regis launched himself up off the bed despite his splitting headache and aching body.

“I almost killer her Geralt!” he shouted. “I almost killed a woman I love because I cannot contain my lust, not for blood or otherwise!”

Geralt’s eyebrows shot up his forehead, but he didn’t say anything. Regis realized what he had finally confessed to and icy reality washed over him. He lost the strength in his legs again and sat back down on the side of the bed with a sigh, putting his head in his hands and dropping his shoulders.

“Help me, Geralt,” he pleaded.
“Just get some rest,” he said, walking over and covering him with a blanket.

Regis nodded and rolled back over on the bed, curling into himself and groaning.

“I am very tired, and fuck it all,” he muttered before falling back to sleep.

*

Syanna was finally starting to feel comfortable in the palace again. Not merely because she found moments of pleasant nostalgia from when she and Anna were children happening more and more frequently, or that the familiar setting made her feel at home again, but rather, she found the most normalcy in delegating tasks to servants and followers.

“I told you, half-wit, thirty casks of the 1267, not the 1268. If I have to go over this a third time, you will find yourself wishing you had stayed in whatever piss-soaked, flea-bottom village you came from. Do you understand?”

The servant nodded fearfully and took off, scrambling out the door as quickly as possible and apologizing profusely for almost knocking into Duchess Anna Henrietta. She dismissed him quickly and sharply and entered the library where Syanna stood, her fingers to her temples.

“Now is not a good time,” Syanna said. “I’ve not gotten enough sleep and I’m exhausted.”
“Nightmares, still?” Anna asked with a genuinely kind, sympathetic tone. “After all this time, you still have them?”
“They’ve never stopped,” Syanna said bitterly. “Only when…” she suddenly looked ashamed, then angry, crossing her arms. “What do you care?”

Anna looked at her sister sadly.

“I have always cared,” she said. “I’ve told you this.”

Syanna scoffed and looked away. Annarietta took a deep breath, thinking before she spoke again.

“Do you recall when you told me of that nightmare when we were children, the one of our parents?”
“Where they were beheaded by their own people? Yes. Vividly.”
“You are aware, of course, that this never came to pass.”
“I’m aware, so what?” She suddenly turned around, furious and almost spitting. “Just because it did not eventually happen does not make it any easier for me to have experienced, over and over again, almost every night for weeks! To see their lifeless eyes staring at me, their tongues lolling out like those of dogs, the crowd ripping their bodies to shreds in front of me, even the feeling of being drowned in their blood as my head was held under the surface…”

Syanna suddenly coiled herself up, shaking.

“You don’t know what it was like to experience that. Dozens of times. It never got any easier.”
“I know, sister dear, that was not my point.”
“Then make it already!” she snapped.
“Those terrible dreams, those nightmares – you had always remained absolutely convinced that they would come to be, that our parents would meet such an end, and so would you.”
“Does it matter that they didn’t?”
“Only that you still cling to these fears – that the shadows are there lurking, merely waiting to jump and attack you at any given moment. That spectres and shades are only biding their time in the darkness, and the people who surround you are no better.”
“You are suggesting I am paranoid?” She glared at the Duchess. “Were you to have a life such as I, you would have turned out the same.”
“I know, Syanna, I know. I can’t tell you how you should feel, but please,” she walked over and reached up to place a soft hand against her cheek, “Remember that I am not one of those shadows.”

Syanna yanked her face away and turned her back on her sister, who walked out quietly save for the click of her heels on the fine marble. When she had gone, Syanna sat down in a plush, velvet chair and continued her plans, though with less enthusiasm than before.

Chapter 36: Regis Recovering

Chapter Text

Fjola could feel Dettlaff thrashing next to her on the bed, restless, sweating in his sleep despite the cold of early December outside. She rolled over and placed her hand on his brow to comfort him and he awoke immediately, clutching her hand tensely before lucidity returned to him. He fell back on the pillows with a groan.

“My darling, go back to sleep,” he grumbled.
“Likewise,” she shot back with a smile.

He murmured and lifted his arm, Fjola immediately scooting over to snuggle against his chest as his hand went down to cup her side. He kissed her head and sighed, staring at the ceiling.

“A floren for your thoughts?” she asked.
“Hmm.”

She did not have to guess.

“I miss him too,” she said wistfully. She felt Dettlaff’s chest fall beneath her fingertips and soothed him, tracing lines along his stomach absentmindedly. “Do you think he misses us?”

Dettlaff felt a pang deep within. He honestly wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want to upset Fjola. Still, he could not find it within himself to be dishonest with her and sighed before answering.

“I don’t know. I hope he thinks of us with happiness, at least.”
“Geralt still hasn’t sent you any word?”
“No.”
“Neither has Re…”
“No.”

Fjola made a sad, soft noise and squeezed closer to Dettlaff.

“I still feel like it’s my fault,” she said.
“How so? We’ve discussed this.”

He sounded a little annoyed, but she was unsure how to explain it to him. She was still confused and conflicted about the whole experience – his attack had terrified her, absolutely, and she was genuinely concerned that had Dettlaff not intervened, Regis would have bled her dry, but… he had been excited, which made her recall with guilt and shame how much she had enjoyed it, too. Regis’ body on her own, his mouth on her neck, the pleased noises he had been making as he writhed against her… She squirmed under the sheets, trying to force it from her mind.

“Mmm, is this an appropriate time?” Dettlaff chuckled, sensing her excitement and starting to kiss her. She couldn’t in good conscience continue, however, and pushed him back down gently, continuing to run her fingers along his stomach. “Tease,” he grumbled, smiling.
“Part of me hopes he doesn’t miss us,” she said. Dettlaff looked at her in confusion. “I don’t want him to be unhappy,” she clarified, noticing his face.
“Mmm. You care about him. As I do.”

Maybe a little differently than you do, she thought with embarrassment. He kissed her on top of her head again and readjusted himself, closing his eyes to fall back asleep. Fjola curled up with him, soothed by his steady breathing, but unable to return to rest as easily as he did. After an agonizingly long time, she decided to just get up. He made a sweet hmm noise as she left, but did not stir or follow her. He knew she was likely going to the cellar as she usually did to comfort herself by looking through Regis’ notes or preparing ingredients and potions. She found herself shuffling down the hallway, barely half-awake, when suddenly she smelled the familiar scent of cinnamon, sage, cloves, anise, and a host of other herbs. She launched herself into Regis’ room with hope only to find the same emptiness that had been there for two weeks. There was a draft coming in from the window, which had blown his scent out from under the door. It was strong even now, despite his absence, and she picked the pillow up from his bed to inhale it more deeply. Immediately she felt soothed and comfortable, deciding to lay on his bed to console herself further, falling asleep almost instantly.

*

Dettlaff watched Fjola where she lay, fast asleep on Regis’ bed, curled into the fetal position and gripping his pillow to her face.

Well at least she fell back to sleep, he thought. He crept out quietly, making sure not to disturb her as he walked down the hall and stairs, making himself tea and sitting in front of the window, watching the snow glisten like diamonds as the rising sun hit it, reminding him of the same glittering on the sea off the coast of Nazair. Closing his eyes, he could recall the smell and taste of the salt and almost hear the cawing gulls and waves, considering how homesick he felt despite how beautiful Beauclair was, even in winter.

Aside from Fjola, the only thing that made it tolerable was Regis. He grimaced, still feeling the pain of his absence keenly. Fjola feels it too, he thought sadly. This horrendous situation could be made more bearable had there been any news of Regis’ progress, but so far, there hadn’t been a single word. Dettlaff had even taken to looking for ravens in some desperate hope he was trying to send a message with them, but they rarely appeared, and the few times they did, merely croaked and called for food. Would that I could see him now, he thought morosely. But then it suddenly occurred to him – why couldn’t he?

Would I be welcome? he pondered. Would my presence be upsetting to either of them? Geralt hadn’t attacked him last time, and he doubted anyone else was traveling through the thick snow on the ground to visit him. He likely didn’t even have many laborers about this time of year, and most of the ones left were likely working in his barn or stables. And as far as Regis was concerned, well… Dettlaff had certainly seen him in worse situations. He was doubtful his friend would care, or, would hopefully let it go quickly. He is the forgiving type, after all.

“Hmm.”

Dettlaff dressed and got his coat, heading out the cottage door and toward Corvo Bianco.

*

Regis had certainly had stronger times in his very, very long life, but all in all, was feeling much better now than when he had first arrived and been placed into Geralt’s care. He had found to his immense relief that his Witcher friend’s definition of “recovery process” mostly meant a large amount of space, unrestricted access to his laboratory, and a very rich diet thanks to his cook, Marlene. He had even put on a little weight, which Geralt had tactlessly said he needed desperately. Finishing his last bite of omelet, Regis leaned back and sighed contentedly, feeling warm from the hot food, fire, and good company.

“That, my friend, was utterly delicious.”
“Mmhmm, Marlene’s a great cook,” Geralt said.
“Almost as good as Fjola,” Regis said, licking his finger.

Geralt gave him a fierce look before, full of chagrin and horror, Regis clarified.

“I meant her cooking, Geralt,” he said harshly.

The Witcher gave a skeptical look before something suddenly occurred to him.

“That’s the first you’ve actually said her name here since the day you arrived.”
“And why would you bother analyzing something so trivial?”
“Because it’s not trivial at all.”
“Please, my friend. Though I know my own verbose inclinations can be wearisome to most, especially you, and you are well within your rights to take such odious revenge as making vague, long-winded statements specifically to entice or irritate, I do politely ask that you do not.”
“That’s a long way to say ‘get to the point.’”

Regis raised his eyebrows and Geralt held up his hands defensively.

“Alright, alright. Just wondering if this means you’re ready yet.”
“Ready?”
“To return to your house,” Geralt said, annoyed at having to point out the obvious.
“Ah, yes, that. Well, while my recuperation and rehabilitation seem to be going rather smoothly, it is for that exact reason I feel that it would be best, in fact, not to return just yet.”
“What? How long do you plan on staying here?” he snapped, a little agitated.
“As long as it takes,” Regis responded calmly, which settled Geralt a little. “Is my presence troubling you? I’m aware Yennefer is returning from Nilfgaard soon, and I doubt a house guest is something either of you would desire.” He smiled a little, but looked disappointed.
“You know you can stay here as long as you need, Regis. And Yen feels the same. I just figured maybe you’d be eager to see… her.”
“I told you, I do not fear Fjola's name, Geralt. As evidenced by my utterance of it earlier.”
“I’m just trying to be…”
“Polite?” Regis chuckled. “As kind-hearted and noble as you can be and often are, I would not count manners or decorum amongst any of your strong suits.”

Geralt agreed with a shrug, about to make a joke when suddenly he heard Roach whinnying from the stable as Regis perked up, alarmed.

“The fuck?” he said, grabbing his sword and opening the door to see what the problem was. There, coming up the path, collar pulled up around his intense face, was Dettlaff.

Chapter 37: Prospect

Chapter Text

“What do you want?” Geralt asked, closing the door behind him.

He knew Regis would be aware of his friend’s presence, but wanted to protect him in case it would set him off again, somehow. He knew Fjola was part of the reason he had relapsed, but Dettlaff had had some sort of influence, as well, and with everything that had happened two years prior, he still made the Witcher very wary.

“You did not keep me updated as promised, and so I have come to see Regis, of course,” he said, meeting Geralt face-to-face on his doorstep and standing confidently, waiting to be let in purely out of courtesy. He could toss him to the side and burst into the house before the Witcher would even have been able to say “stop,” but he was at least pretending to be patient and mannerly.
“That’s up to Regis,” he replied, his grip tightening on his sword.
“For the gods’ sakes, Geralt, please let him in,” Regis called.

Dettlaff raised his eyebrows expectantly while Geralt hesitantly opened the door, the vampire giving him a polite bow before entering. As soon as he did, however, Regis stood frozen, eyeing his friend up and down while Dettlaff did likewise. He took a small step toward him before Dettlaff lurched forward, Geralt’s heart leaping into this throat as he unsheathed his blade. His concerns were unfounded, however, as Dettlaff wrapped his arms around Regis tightly and squeezed him against his body, one hand wrapped around his waist, the other on the back of his head, weaving his fingers through his short hair. Both of them closed their eyes, enjoying the moment, while Geralt silently let himself out the door to give them some privacy. Regis breathed in the musky scent of his friend, reminding him of cardamom, cedar blossom, and sandalwood, sighing as he felt Dettlaff do the same, his mouth on his neck briefly before the bridge of his nose rubbed Regis’ earlobe softly as he pulled away. They placed their hands on each others’ shoulders, foreheads pressed together as they simply stood and soaked the other’s presence in for the first time in two weeks.

“We’ve missed you so much, Regis,” Dettlaff whispered, the two of them finally breaking their embrace and sitting diagonally from each other at the table.
We?” Regis asked with a surprisingly bitter tone.
“We,” Dettlaff confirmed. Regis snorted.
“Come now, my friend. I appreciate your attempts to smooth things over, but…”
“This is not a lie,” Dettlaff scolded loudly, clenching his teeth. Regis watched him for a moment as he blinked, shook his head, and took a breath. “Fjola and I are both amiss without your presence.”

Regis sneered and, with surprising malice, shot “I’m surprised you’ve had time to notice my absence at all, doubtless using the seclusion to your advantage as you fruitlessly attempt to breed in every room and on every surface possible across the cottage.”

Dettlaff was absolutely stunned and completely taken aback. He had never heard such venom from Regis before, least of all aimed at him or Fjola. His surprise turned to anger quickly, however, and his fingernails dug into the table as he tensed.

“Your inability to control yourself around her almost killed her,” he hissed.

Regis flattened his lips, frowned and looked away, the realization and shame coming to a head again. He was right – of course he was right. That fact was something he reminded himself of every day, a wound he nursed over and over as the knowledge that he almost removed her from himself permanently tortured him unimaginably. Perhaps now I understand Dettlaff’s self-loathing.

“I know,” Regis said quietly. “I know I did. And I despise it. My actions, the repercussions for all of us, the terror at what I did – and almost did – I can’t begin to express how much hatred I feel for myself.”

A tear escaped his eye as Dettlaff watched him, first in anger, then slowly, softened pity. Finally, he put his hand on his friend’s, catching his eye.

“Since when are you unable to express yourself?” he asked with a smile.

Regis’ face broke into a grin and they both found themselves laughing at Dettlaff’s stupid, unexpected joke, the iciness between them suddenly melting. The older vampire wiped a tear from his cheek and stroked Dettlaff’s hand briefly in return before standing to make tea.

“How is she, by the way?” he asked carefully.
“As I said, she misses you.”
Regis snorted. “Is that what she told you?” he asked in a semi-mocking tone.
“No,” Dettlaff responded seriously, “It is what I have witnessed. Well… yes, and what she’s told me.”
“Hmph.”
“She still blames herself.”

Regis sucked air in through his sharp, clenched teeth.

“It’s not her fault. I’d told her so many times…”
“Well then, tell her again.”

Regis shook his head as he sat back down.

“I am not ready for that, yet.”
“How long will it be?”
“I am unsure, my friend. While the urges have passed, the thought of her still makes me…”

He clenched his teeth again and shivered, emitting a small gasp as the trembling passed.

“Dettlaff, I’m still afraid I cannot control myself.”
“You just said your urges had passed.”
“…Some of them.”

Dettlaff’s face went stony with realization. So, he thought, we are addressing this. He decided to let Regis take the lead, but he hesitated for a long while, looking away and ignoring the subject before the kettle boiled and he went to collect it. When he returned, mug in hand, he was still uncharacteristically silent. Dettlaff sighed.

“I am not angry, Regis.”
“Mm. That’s good to know.”
“Neither is Fjola.”
“Wonderful,” he said flatly, staring at the table and frowning, refusing to make eye contact.
“Perhaps it would ease the tension to see her again,” Dettlaff suggested. “I could escort her here…”
“No!” Regis shouted, suddenly agitated again, slamming his hand on the table.
“You once told me that avoiding a substance entirely is not recovering from addiction, but rather letting that addiction control you,” Dettlaff said heavily. “That you have never fully recovered from that temptation until you can stare it in the face, fearlessly, and say ‘I don’t need it anymore.’ That is when it no longer holds power over you.”

Regis was silent for awhile as, once again, Dettlaff managed to parrot his words back to him at an inopportune moment.

“And if it does? If it… if she still affects me in that way… what then?”
“That is up to you and her,” he said.

Regis whipped his head up and stared Dettlaff down, his eyes wild.

“What did you say?”
“If you and she are willing… I can see no reason to prohibit it.”
“You would let her go so easily?” Regis asked scathingly, disgusted.
“I never said I would let her go,” Dettlaff said.
“So you would… are you suggesting that, were she willing…”

Regis couldn’t wrap his head around what his friend was suggesting. The acknowledgment gave way to the idea, inspiring hopeful thoughts and considerations, but just as quickly they became dark and dour realizations, acceptance of what he was really suggesting and recognizing the grim reality of it.

“The jealousy would tear us apart,” he said, defeated. “It almost did already. I could never even hope for what you are suggesting.”

Dettlaff leaned forward and took Regis’ face in his hands in a surprisingly tender gesture.

“My jealousy has faded,” he said.
“So easily?” Regis asked, doubting.
“You said once that it was your desire to make me happy. To make both of us happy,” Dettlaff said, his thumbs grazing the facial hair on either side of his cheeks. “I am more willing to embrace that than any sour feelings between us all for something that happened naturally.”

Regis pulled his face out of Dettlaff’s grasp and looked away again, closing his eyes and refusing to respond. It is too much to hope for.

Dettlaff shrugged and stood. “It is merely an opportunity, not an obligation,” he said. “We shall await you at the cottage. For when you are ready. Otherwise, I shall visit you again soon.”

Regis merely watched him leave with a small nod, not sure if he felt hope or horror at the prospect that lay before him.

Chapter 38: Concessions and Considerations

Chapter Text

“Geralt, it is one evening. One. I’ve made endless concessions for you, it is time for you to make at least one for me.”
“Concessions? Yen, it’s not like I asked you to uproot your life to live here.”
“I didn’t hear you complaining when you ‘retired’ either, Geralt.”
“You didn’t retire yourself.”
“Stop changing the subject. I’ve tired of it. My point is, I ask and require very little of you. An evening at the palace is nothing compared to all I’ve done for you.”
“Like I’ve sat on my ass the whole time?”

Regis rolled his eyes, tired of the nearly non-stop bickering between the pair of them once Yennefer had returned to Corvo Bianco a few days prior. He cleared his throat loudly from where he was reading upstairs, but they ignored him entirely and kept arguing.

“I hate doublets,” Geralt snapped. Yennefer decided to change her tactic slightly.
“But you look so wonderful in them, Geralt,” she said smoothly. “The way they accentuate your shoulders, your waist… I’ve never seen you look so masculine.”

Geralt murmured something sarcastic and Yen was off again. Regis slammed his book down on the bed and walked downstairs, heading for the door.

“Regis would agree with me!” Yen said, suddenly trying to pull him into it.
“Please don’t,” he begged politely. He knew he was a guest in their house and did not want to choose sides between either of them. “I’m on my way out, as it is.”
“Regis knows how I feel about parties. He’s not gonna pick a side, but he at least understands.”
“It’s not a matter of understanding, Geralt, it’s a matter of doing something for the woman you profess to love.”
“My love for you has got nothing to do with having to go to that fucking feast.”

Regis was finally able to quietly slither out the door and into the snow, the white powder crunching beneath his feet at he tightened his dark gray cloak about his shoulders and decided to take a walk. He was finding solitude more and more tempting with every passing day, and was seriously considering moving back to the crypt despite Geralt’s suggestion not to do so. This surprised Regis as Geralt normally didn’t tell his friends how to act, merely made sarcastic or chiding comments until they came to their own decision themselves. When his hand was forced, he would certainly step in, but Regis was still confused as to why he would bother trying to interfere in his life now.

Perhaps he needs a hobby, Regis thought with a smile. I am quite the project at the moment, after all, and I’m sure his quasi-retirement has grown quite dull, especially in winter with no vines to tend.

Regis breathed in the cold air, enjoying the fresh chill in his lungs and clarity of being alone with his thoughts.

I could start the laboratory and brewery afresh, he thought, mulling over the specifics in his mind. I know I left the old bed and some assorted materials behind that I replaced with new ones in the cottage. Food will not be scarce, as I will still be close to the port.

The idea was seeming better and better with every passing moment, compounded by the eagerness he was feeling as his feet automatically led him back to the Mère-Lachaiselongue cemetery.

*

Fjola pored over Regis’ notes, trying in vain to find a particular recipe for a cold remedy, which would sell well at this time of year and net a decent amount of money, getting more and more frustrated that she couldn’t find the correct book.

He’s usually so organized, she thought with annoyance. Why on earth would he hide this one?

She had already rummaged through most of the tomes and scrolls that seemed relevant, but her search had turned up nothing. Tapping her foot impatiently, she put a finger to her temple in thought, looking around and suddenly seeing an errant book peeking out from beneath the cushioned seat near the library of the lab.

Aha!

She began rifling through the pages, but noticed grimly it still wasn’t what she was looking for, pausing at the sight of her name written in Regis’ familiar hand.

I feel the desire consuming me. I understand now how Dettlaff felt for Syanna, how he feels for Fjola now. It’s like dying all over again, just in a different sort of fire than that in which had Vilgefortz melted me. It makes me long for the emptiness of the existence I experienced then, or to drown myself in blood once more; perhaps both.

Fjola dropped the book in horror; her stomach felt like she had been made to swallow coals and her hands were trembling.

“Darling?” she heard Dettlaff inquire from upstairs. “Are you well?”
“Fine!” she called, stuffing the journal back under the seat cushion and deciding to just make a different potion.

*

Syanna carefully finalized the last bits of the Feast of Yule, signing off on the wine, liquor, and food orders, at last, and putting her signature on the contract regarding servant uniforms. The aide bowed to her politely as he took the lists from her to get Duchess Anna Henrietta’s final approval once she returned from her day trip, backing out without making eye contact.

“And remember, I wish to inspect all of these things myself!” she demanded. “I have seen servants milling about in frayed blouses and sloppily-stitched tights too many times, I will not have it at the Feast. Am I understood?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“You will refer to me as ‘Your Grace’ if you wish to keep your head.”
“But my lady, that is for the officially titled…” he stopped and bowed obsequiously.

Syanna placed her hands on her hips and raised her chin defiantly.

“...By your leave, Your Grace?”
“Get out of my sight,” she said, waving her hands in anger and disgust.

The servant left quickly before she could change her mind about letting him keep his head attached to his neck and Syanna began pacing back and forth, considering all of the possible snags and holes in her plans, and what contingencies she would employ.

I cannot make a mistake now, she thought, not when my freedom is so close.

*

Regis slipped through the locked door of the crypt as his soft, blue-gray mist and crept down the familiar stairs, looking around for the first time in two months. Most everything appeared as it had been, just… colder. It was obvious the fire had not been lit in ages and the strong draft had scattered the ashes all over the floor where they had remained undisturbed, things were empty or already had a decent covering of dust, and all was dark and quiet. He walked up the stairs to where his laboratory and library had been, assessing how bare the shelves and counters were. The lifelessness of the crypt did not truly hit him until he saw the area they had used a kitchen – it was bare and colorless without the usual pile of food and spices, and truly desolate without Fjola herself standing there, tossing items into the pot or tasting something before she served it. Regis ran his hands across the space and made his way to the old, tiny bed in the corner, the thin blanket still spread across where Fjola had placed it. Regis sat upon the bed with a groan, moving his hand gently across it and thinking of when he had first had her here, holding medicine to her swollen face and tending to her wounds.

Her blood did not trouble me then, he thought with sadness. Nor did her mere presence in my company. Were it that things had stayed that way.

Still, that didn’t feel quite right to think. After all, Dettlaff had certainly benefited from her companionship, and Regis did not regret their relationship up until that point, when he had lost control and hurt her. He ran his fingers across his face and as they passed over his eyes, he looked out over the crypt, examining every detail he could.

It used to be this place felt like home, he thought. But that time has been spent. There is nothing I can do about it now, but…

He thought about all he had done, the pain he must have caused. Despite Dettlaff’s seeming acceptance and encouragement of what could be, and his insistence that they both missed him and wanted his return, Regis was terrified that things would never be the same between them. No matter what path I take, I suppose they can’t be, he realized, sighing.

He left the crypt the same way he had entered and continued his long walk back to Corvo Bianco, trying not to remind himself that the last time he had made the journey was with Fjola by his side. Regis was not a strong believer in fate or destiny, at least not for himself, but decided the best course of action at the moment was taking none.

If I remain patient, I’m sure a solution will present itself eventually.

Chapter 39: A Surprise Visit

Chapter Text

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Your Grace?” Geralt said, concerned by her visit.

He hadn’t seen the Duchess in any personal capacity since the events concerning her sister over two years prior. While she used to travel to various places in the duchy on her own private business, either wanting to oversee her wishes filled personally or just needing an excuse to travel freely, it had become much less frequent since Syanna’s return. Geralt suspected it was so she could keep an eye on her. The Duchess was known for being stubborn and controlling; there was little doubt in the minds of most that she needed to keep power over any and all details regarding her sister.

“You have not responded yet to my invitation!” she said, dismounting from her beautifully adorned horse, the fur cloak she had on falling back down around her ankles.
“Hasn’t he?” Yennefer said coldly as she exited the house and greeted the Duchess. “Well, I’m sure it was a careless oversight, Your Grace, and I’m positive he wishes to apologize for it.”

She glared at Geralt maliciously.

“Are you not going to invite me in?” Anna Henrietta scolded.

Geralt reluctantly opened the door and allowed her in, Yennefer giving him a disappointed glance as she followed Annarietta inside. They sat down at the table while Marlene served them.

*

Regis walked back up the path where the now-barren grapevines were covered for the winter, stifling a yawn and dreaming wistfully of laying in the overly comfortable bed upstairs. As he came into the homestead proper, he noticed with surprise a new, fabulously decorated horse standing next to Roach in the stable. Regis’ herbal oil he used to cover his scent from wary animals did the trick, and he was able to inspect it more closely, noticing with dismay it almost definitely belonged to Anna Henrietta herself.

What the devil is she doing out here? She hasn’t visited Geralt in years.

Regis was not sure whether his appearance would be welcome or not, considering his involvement with Dettlaff, Anna’s fickle nature itself, and the fact he had likely offended her by rejecting her invitation to Geralt’s Vitis Vinifera reception ceremony those few years ago. For those same reasons he had not been willing to put the cottage he had purchased in his name, and now, it made him come to the decision to turn to mist and quietly filter in through the window upstairs to eavesdrop instead of going in through the front door. Once he had done so, his feet landing softly on the hard, wooden floor, he quietly sat down to listen.

Geralt heard a soft, almost imperceptible creak as someone rested in the wooden chair upstairs. The only reason he had even heard it himself was because of his supernaturally attuned Witcher hearing – Anna Henrietta continued her conversation with Yennefer, while Yen herself had noticed Geralt’s attentive movement, though kept quiet so as not to alert the Duchess to anything.

“So you truly feel as though she’s changed?” Yennefer asked Anna.
“Hm, I have my doubts, of course, sometimes she seems too eager to please me but, I cannot say for certain. Only that I hope she has, and that, sadly, some of my guards will not be able to join the festivities, as I have charged them with giving me extra protection that night.” She sighed. “We shall see, I suppose.”
“You know my services are also always available to you, Your Grace,” Yen said.

Geralt knew she was not being sycophantic, but merely proposing a business transaction, if need be. He suddenly felt a swell of affection for her – he loved when she showed off her power and cunning, even when it was non-magical.

“I shall let you know, madam sorceress,” Anna Henrietta said politely, knowing exactly what Yen was presenting. She generally was an excellent judge of character, even if she was a bit too soft when it came to her sister, and Geralt found he appreciated her company more when she was not at court or surrounded by the usual boot-licking toadies always found there. He was sure she tired of them, as well. The conversation seemed to slow and Geralt knew she would be leaving soon, so he thought quickly.

“Did I tell you I saw Regis recently?”
“Regis? Oh my, how is he? It’s been ages!”
“He’s fine, sends his regards,” he lied.
“Is he still the area? Had I known I would have sent him an invitation to the feast, as well!”
“He’s staying with us, as a matter of fact,” Yennefer said, smiling, having an inkling of what Geralt was up to.
“Is he now? It’s a shame I did not come at a time when I could see him. He’s out visiting a friend, I suppose? He was always devilishly outgoing and flirtatious,” Anna laughed. “Those countesses he wooed over the last feast he attended inquired about him for months.”

Geralt returned the laughter genuinely, recalling Regis telling them lies about how to stop vampires with garlic and silver, while Yennefer had to force it somewhat – she knew Geralt had been with Fringilla Vigo at the time.

“I’ll tell him you were looking forward to seeing him again.”
“Do better than that, please,” she said, snapping her fingers, “Allow me some paper and ink, Geralt.”

He raised an eyebrow, not enjoying being bossed around in his home, but got what she requested and placed it in front of her. Quickly and delicately, in her distinct and beautiful hand, she wrote out one more invitation to the feast, specifically stating Regis’ name.

“A gift from me upon his arrival,” she said, tapping her painted nail on the table. “Make sure he gets it. I would enjoy seeing him again, despite everything.”
“Not still angry he didn’t come to that ridi… hm, my ceremony?”

Anna picked up on his slip and raised an eyebrow, but smiled at his cheek. She was rather fond of him.

“If I can forgive Dandelion, I can forgive Regis.”
“Dandelion will be there?” Geralt asked, suddenly surprised.
“Of course!” she tittered. “What good is a feast without one of the world’s most notorious bards?”
“And scoundrels,” Geralt muttered.
“Eh?”
“Nothing, Your Grace. I’ll see to it that Regis gets his invitation.”
“And make sure he attends,” she said, rising. “He owes my countesses that much.”

They said their goodbyes politely and she left, fastening her long fur cloak about her shoulders, mounting her horse, and taking off swiftly towards Castel Ravello, where Geralt assumed she was likely checking in on the wine order.

“You know I’m not going, right?” Regis said from behind Yennefer and Geralt as he descended the stairs. Neither of them were surprised to see him.
“Duchess’ orders,” the Witcher explained calmly.
“Forgive me for being rude, my friend, but you’re out of your damned mind if you think for one moment I’m going to risk killing someone just so I can watch you frolic. Apologies, Yennefer.”
“None necessary,” she said, holding up a hand. “But I would highly suggest taking advantage of this, Regis.”
“I beg your pardon? How can either of you possibly think this is a good idea?”
“Hm, seems I remember you thinking Dettlaff’s recovery should have involved him seeing Syanna again, confronting her…” Geralt said with a smirk.

Regis’ face darkened.

“Then you should also remember I realized it was a terrible idea and changed tactics.”
“You still made him spend time with Fjola,” Geralt pointed out. “A human woman.”
“That’s not… it’s not as dangerous… a totally false equivalency…” he sputtered.
“Regis,” Geralt said solemnly. “Think you’ve got a good handle on yourself already. You take regular walks and you go by the port with no problem. You haven’t given Yen or me any reason to be worried, and you’ve left all of the servants and workers alone, too.”
“Hmm,” he sighed, starting to see reason despite his best efforts not to. “What would be the point?” he asked. “Why bother with such frivolity?”
“Because you secretly love the attention.”
“I resent that,” he tried to sneer, but struggled to hold back a smile. “I value my privacy.”
“Yeah, on your terms. Otherwise you love the entertainment.” Regis raised his eyebrows. Geralt closed his eyes and shook his head a little as he continued. “Fine, then. You secretly love watching me suffer at a banquet, surrounded by brown-nosers and sycophants while I have to wear an expensive, tailored doublet and listen to horrible conversations regarding politics and intrigues. You’ll get to make jokes at my expense, smirk at me from across the table, and drink heavily when I’m restricted from it.”

Yen scowled and put her hands on her hips, but Regis finally let out a laugh, the first real one Geralt had heard since he’d arrived after his “incident.”

“Geralt, you know I don’t delight in your misery. However, you’ve been quite kind and tolerant hosts to me thus far; does my presence at this affair truly mean so much to you?”
“It does,” insisted Yennefer.
“Besides, if all goes well and you feel you can contain yourself… maybe…” Geralt stalled.
“...Maybe I can go home?” Regis asked bluntly. Geralt looked a little awkward. “No need for shame, my friend, I understand. I was a third wheel at the cottage, as well.”
“Regis, that’s not…”

The vampire held up a hand. “No need for apologies either, Geralt, it’s quite alright. Know that I honestly hold no vitriolic thoughts towards you or Yennefer; it is high time I move forward with my recovery. I daresay it’s time.”

They gave him a sympathetic look but he merely smiled and rubbed his hands together.

“Well then, when does this delightful event take place?”

Chapter 40: Dettlaff's Suggestion

Chapter Text

Again?” Geralt asked sarcastically, letting Dettlaff into his home to visit Regis.
“I have brought more potions,” the vampire explained, holding up the bag Fjola had gifted to Regis those few months prior.
“Just get in before anyone sees you,” Geralt said, scanning the hills surrounding his home. “I had an unexpected visit from the Duchess the other day. Wouldn’t want her to know you’re still alive – and local.”
“Hm, well thank you for your regard concerning my safety,” Dettlaff said.
“It’s more that I don’t want to throw rocks at a hornet’s nest.”
“Hm.”
“Regis is upstairs,” Geralt said, closing the door behind him with a snap as he left the house.

Dettlaff went up to find Regis with his back to him, examining himself in a black, well-tailored outfit, his forefinger and thumb wrapped around his chin as usual when he was thinking very deeply about something. The younger vampire watched his friend for a moment, his icy blue eyes running up and down his svelte, lithe figure.

“Regis,” he purred.

Regis turned around, expecting Dettlaff, but not his pleasurable tone of voice.

“Dettlaff,” he returned softly.
“What’s the occasion?”
“Ech, Geralt and Yennefer are insisting I attend the Feast of Yule with them. They are under the impression that, as I have been able to live with them and the staff with no incidents, as well as maneuver the crowds at the port more than comfortably, I should be able to return to the cottage soon. I’m assuming the Feast is a ‘final test’ of sorts, for lack of a more thorough term.”
“Hm. Do you feel able to handle that? Is it even necessary?”

Regis turned back to his friend to see genuine concern in his eyes.

“Does it trouble you that I have agreed to go?”
“Somewhat.”

Regis was startled.

“My friend – are you concerned I will relapse again?” He suddenly scowled. “Do you have so little faith in me?”
“No, Regis. It is merely… the sooner you are back at the cabin, the better.”
“Is something wrong?” Regis asked, stepping forward and placing his hands on Dettlaff’s broad shoulders. “Are you both alright?”
“We are fine,” he responded, putting his hands on Regis’ shoulders in return and pressing their foreheads together as he often did when they had a serious conversation. “But your absence is drastically felt there.”

Regis sighed through his nose, closing his eyes. Dettlaff closed the distance between them and held him more closely, the two of them wrapping their arms around one another’s backs. Regis’ heart fluttered somewhat as Dettlaff’s warmth enveloped him and a lock of his black hair came loose and tickled his cheek. Dettlaff took in the familiar herbal scent of Regis almost automatically, trying not to make his breathing audible as he inhaled greedily. They stood this way for a moment, Dettlaff finally breaking the embrace and running his hands down the velvet of Regis’ tailored coat softly, shaking his head to clear it and stepping away.

“Have you considered coming back to the cabin now, and forgoing the feast?” he asked.
“Yes, but I did give Geralt my word. I think he wants to be more assured for his own peace of mind, not to mention he despises banquets and the like, and – I say this with all humility – I will be his only reliable source of decent conversation.”
“Are you ready to see Fjola again?”
Regis hesitated. “Hm. I think so. Provided she… still wants to see me.”
“She does, Regis. As I’ve said, we both do.”
“But does she… Have you spoken to her, of… what you suggested when you were here last?”
“No, I have not,” Dettlaff said. Regis huffed. “I feel that is something you need to discuss with her yourself. Perhaps… hm… perhaps at the feast?”
“What?” Regis looked at him in confusion. “You did not receive invitations, did you?”
“No, obviously not, but I assumed the Witcher would be able to ask for one more, for Fjola to accompany you.”
“Absolutely not.”
“What?” Dettlaff was suddenly angry. “Why would you refuse?”
“If this feast is truly to be a test, I’d rather not drag the unintended and accidental catalyst for my relapse into the fray.”
“Hm. Ordinarily I would agree with you Regis, but you did insist you were ready for both the feast and facing Fjola. What’s the difference with combining them in the same night?”
Everything, Dettlaff. What if I truly cannot be around her? What then?”
“I can await in the shadows or above, to ensure neither of you come to any harm.”
“Out of the question. I cannot risk you exposing yourself, either.”
“Hm, perhaps you could return the favor of regeneration if I do.”

Regis knew Dettlaff had meant it as a joke, but his concerns were still very real.

“And you would be willing to do that to Fjola? Have her lover recuperating for perhaps several years? Human lives are comparatively short, my friend, I would not carelessly risk any moment over the simple urge to see us reunite sooner.”
Dettlaff scowled. “I am not so careless.”
“And neither am I. It’s best to leave her out of this and I will see you both the day after.”
“Hm.”
“Please trust my judgment, Dettlaff.”
“I’ll… consider it,” he said.

They talked a bit more about unrelated things before Dettlaff parted again, leaving behind the bag of regenerative potions Fjola had made. Regis lifted it, thinking with a fond smile of when she had first left it for him outside of the crypt those few months ago. He brought the bag to his face, opened it, and for the first time in weeks, inhaled the soft, sweet smell of Fjola. To his great relief and hope, he felt no animalistic or violent urges, merely a sense of happiness and serenity. Soon, he told himself, smiling and putting the tailored suit to the side to await the upcoming feast.

*

“Witcher, I must speak with you,” Dettlaff said, approaching him and his female companion with a brisk, almost predatory pace. She seemed to ready herself, holding her hands up defensively and flexing her fingers, the vampire realizing she must be the sorceress Regis had mentioned. Geralt’s hand was on his silver blade as usual in his presence.

“I am not here to attack you,” he scolded. The sorceress did not lower her hands, though the Witcher released his grip on his blade. “Enough of this. I’ve come to ask if you could spare an invitation to the feast for Fjola.”
“Why not ask the Duchess yourself?” Geralt asked somewhat maliciously.

Dettlaff rolled his eyes.

“I wish for Fjola to go and see Regis.”
“Can’t you just wait for him to come back to the cottage?”
“I could. But I do not wish to.”
“Why not?” Geralt asked, genuinely curious.
“Hm,” Dettlaff considered for a moment. “I did not mention this to Regis, as I do not wish for him to be concerned I doubt his progress, however… I feel that in the presence of others, with distractions and hundreds of eyes, he would be less likely to, ah, be affected by her. And, as I obviously cannot attend, and can only perhaps hide myself in the shadows on the roof, I realize you both would have better access. In…” He flattened his mouth in distaste. “… Just in case.”

He raised his eyebrows and Geralt realized he had a point. Relaxing, Yennefer lowered her hands.

“Very well. But be aware she will likely not go if she knows Regis is there,” she pointed out.

Dettlaff suddenly felt wildly uncomfortable. He despised dishonesty. Geralt must have seen the conflict on his face and made a suggestion.

“I doubt she’ll even ask, but if she does, just say you’re not sure. Regis could still always back out.”
“Lying by omission is still lying,” he sneered.
“Says the vampire who just admitted he refuses to tell his friend he's worried that he'll relapse," Geralt jabbed.

Dettlaff snarled.

"I do not suspect he would relapse, I said I do not wish for him to think I doubt him," he said through bared teeth.
"I have a better suggestion,” Yennefer said silkily, interfering. “Just tell her, ‘I cannot say.’ To her it will seem as doubt or ignorance, but your intent will be honest – you simply cannot tell her.”

Dettlaff’s eyebrows rose.

“I still don’t like it, but I suppose it is more… palatable.”
“Then we’re agreed,” she said, “Geralt will get one from the Duchess and deliver it when he does. Perhaps he can say it is as an apology for Regis’ behavior.”

Dettlaff’s face screwed up in discomfort at the farce, but remembered Regis’ lessons about acknowledging humans’ abilities to distort and create moral gray areas in order to achieve their goals.

For them, he convinced himself.

Chapter 41: An Invitation

Chapter Text

Dettlaff leapt forward to help Fjola bring the supplies in, lifting it all as though it were nothing.

“Show off,” she muttered playfully.
“Hmm,” he growled, but smiled and began unpacking.
“Thanks for helping,” she said, “But you didn’t really have to – supplies are pretty light right now.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Well, it is winter, so that effects the market, but there are also a lot of travelers coming in, some sort of ball at the palace next week.”
“Ah, the Feast of Yule,” Dettlaff said, and, to Fjola’s surprise, he looked somewhat wistful.
“I didn’t take you for a great lover of parties,” she said.
“Hmhmhmhmhm,” he chuckled, Fjola delighting in the gravelly tone of it that always made her heart flutter. “Just because I do not seek it does not mean I do not enjoy it, on occasion.”
“What? Since when?”
“I’ve been to social situations and parties, before. Even some vampires like to entertain.”

Fjola couldn’t help grinning at the thought of her beloved at a crowded party, making small talk and eating cocktail food, a glass of fine wine in his large hands.

“Hm, well, better you than me,” she said.
“You do not enjoy them?”

He was suddenly a bit nervous – what if she would not go to the feast even after receiving an invitation?

“I’ve never been to one.”
“Ah. Why not?”
“Um, well, lack of access, for one. Then, lack of interest, I suppose. Finally, lack of skill.”
“What skills would you require aside from basic etiquette?”

Fjola gave him a significant look.

“I haven’t even mastered that, my love.”
Dettlaff scoffed. “It is easy,” he said dismissively. “Even I could teach you that.”

Fjola gave him an appraising look, a small smile playing on her lips.

“Human etiquette?”
“Yes. In order to blend in, vampires must learn to act as you do. I’m well-skilled in courtly manners and protocol. Did they not teach you that at the temple?”
“Only the basics. We were never expected to go to court or serve in palaces, or for nobles.”
“Hm. Would you like to learn?”
“What would I ever need it for?” she asked with a small laugh and shake of her head.
“You could go to the feast,” he suggested.

She raised her eyebrows and gave another laugh.

“Ah, yes, I’m sure all the peasant girls are being called to the palace so they can waste good wine and food on them.”
“Hmm.”

He looked away in contemplation as the last of the supplies were put away, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter.

“What?” she asked lightly. “You’re not actually suggesting we go, right? You’ll be torn apart. Not to mention… her.”

Dettlaff scowled at the thought of his last lover and felt the familiar fury rising within him.

“Sorry, my love,” Fjola said, running her hands across his shoulders in comfort. Dettlaff took one of her hands in his gently and kissed it.
“Not to worry,” he said. “I would not attend.”
“That’s actually very sad,” she said. “You said you did like some parties – I imagine it’s been quite some time since you’ve been to one.”
“Yes, but I am more suggestible to ones thrown by my own kind. As this will be a strictly human affair, I doubt I’d feel very comfortable.”
“Even with me there?” she teased.
“Hm,” he smiled devilishly, “Especially if you were there. I would not be able to see you in glamorous clothing without wanting to shred it from you.”

Fjola blushed furiously at his sudden blunt, lusty rapaciousness and giggled.

“Well then it’s a good thing we’re not going,” she said, kissing him and walking downstairs to work at the alchemy lab again.

Well, he thought with amusement, not me, anyway.

*

Dettlaff was deep into a book about Nilfgaard when suddenly a knock at the door brought him out of his reverie. He had smelled them from quite a distance off, but allowed himself to be sucked back into the book as he had been expecting them.

Geralt, Yennefer,” he greeted politely as he opened the door.

Yennefer walked in without further invitation and Geralt followed, glancing around at their cottage hungrily as it was the first time he had seen it.

“Nice place,” he said, and Dettlaff couldn’t be sure he was being snide or not.
“Where is she?” Yennefer asked.

It was at this time Fjola made herself known by launching up the stairs from the cellar, grinning hugely and practically glowing. It made it all the more heartbreaking for Dettlaff to see her face fall as she realized it had not been Regis who had entered the house, but rather her former employer and his lover. She tried to hide her disappointment as pleasantries were exchanged, but he could tell everyone knew whom she had really wanted to see. After some brief chit-chat, Geralt finally got around to the point.

“Anyway, wanted to offer this to you,” he said, handing an envelope over to Fjola.
“What is it?” she asked, opening the invitation and examining it with surprise. “Why me?”
“I asked the Duchess for it.”
“I’m sorry, but we weren’t particularly close… why was I your first consideration for this?”
“Because of… what you went through. And as a thanks, for the potions, to help him.”

Fjola suddenly let her sadness be displayed across her features in earnest, not bothering to hide them this time.

“How is he?” she asked, looking at the floor.
“Better,” Geralt said, and at this Fjola perked up.
“Really?” she asked in elation. “Is he coming home? Does he miss us? Is he mad at…” She stopped herself, blushing.
“Is he mad at you?” Geralt finished. He shook his head. “He never was, Fjola. Only himself.”
“I wish he’d come home,” she sighed.
“He will eventually. For now, you should go. Yennefer and I will be there.”

Fjola eyed the sorceress up carefully – she didn’t really know her, but she seemed stronger and sharper than one might assume. She actually felt a bit afraid of her.

“I’m sorry, I appreciate the offer, but… no thank you.”

She held the envelope back out for them to take.

“What?” Geralt practically shouted, taken aback. “You need to go to this. I had the Duchess invite you specifically.”
“But why? I never seemed all that important before, I doubt I am now. Besides, going alone seems… depressing.” She put her hand on Dettlaff’s elbow softly. “I’d rather just stay home.”

Geralt was speechless. Yennefer was scowling, unsure what to say to convince her as she didn’t know her very well.

“Regis will be there,” Dettlaff suddenly said.

Geralt and Yennefer groaned simultaneously, while Fjola gasped and whipped her head around at the vampire.

“Are you being honest?” she asked, suddenly gripping him tightly. “Tell me you’re not just making a joke.”

Dettlaff eyed her seriously, bringing one of his large hands up to stroke her cheek fondly.

“I would not make jests about this – this was my idea. I want you to see him there, so if… if he’s truly not ready, you will still be safe.” He kissed her forehead. “I wish for you both to be happy. I believe this will do so.”

Fjola searched his face earnestly for a few moments before smiling and wrapping her arms around him tightly, surprising their guests.

“I thought you wouldn’t go for it if you knew Regis was going to be there,” Geralt admitted. Fjola shook her head.
“No, Geralt, that’s the only reason I do want to go.” She looked back up at Dettlaff. “Thank you for being honest, my love.”

He gave a smug look to the Witcher and sorceress as he embraced Fjola again.

“Hm, looks like you should take me up on those etiquette lessons after all, yes?”
“Is that why you offered them the other day?” she asked, squinting at him.
“Yes. Forgive me not being more forthcoming with you sooner.”

She shrugged.

“Well, to be fair, you and Regis didn’t tell me what you were until after I had known you for a few months, so a couple of days is a vast improvement,” she laughed.

Dettlaff looked chagrined, but smiled.

“I’m afraid you’ll need to go to Beauclair without me, however,” he said, scowling. “To buy a dress.”
“I will help with that,” Yennefer said. “It’s awfully close to the event and no tailor would provide her with anything without some… persuasion,” she said.
“I’ll distract Regis when you go,” Geralt said. “Wouldn’t want him running into her, even though it’s damn unlikely.”

Dettlaff nodded in appreciation.

“Does this please you, my love?” he asked Fjola. She smiled and nodded, but seemed hesitant. “What’s the matter?”
“It seems you’re all going to a lot of trouble just for me. Why?”
“It’s not just for you,” Yennefer said, sounding bored. “It’s for Regis, too.”
“Huh? How?”
“I told you,” Dettlaff said, “He misses you as well.”
“Then why doesn’t he just come home? And why can’t we tell him I’ll be there ahead of time?”
“To protect you both,” the vampire said, stroking her hair.
“And he thinks that you won’t want to see him,” Geralt added. “After everything.”
“Why would he think that?”
“You doubted me when I told you he misses you,” Dettlaff reminded her.

She nodded. “Fair.”

“I shall come for you tomorrow,” Yennefer said. “Be prepared by early morning, and bring your own coin – I’m not a charity.”

With that, Geralt and Yennefer left, their horses kicking up the fresh powder that lay on the ground in small, twinkling plumes. Fjola watched them go for a bit before Dettlaff wrapped his hands around her waist in whispered in her ear.

“Now, about those lessons,” he murmured.

Chapter 42: Lessons

Chapter Text

The sun had already set and Fjola was exhausted.

Left,” Dettlaff snapped, pointing to her table setting, “The fork goes on your left.”
“Uuuugh,” she groaned, irritated. “Dettlaff, I know you’ve had years of practice for this, but I haven’t. Please be patient with me.”
“I am patient,” he insisted tensely.
“You’re worse than Regis that time I accidentally used only three drops of lotus extract instead of four. I thought he was going to toss me out of the crypt,” she laughed.

Dettlaff lightened up a little bit, but his instructions were still grueling. After she had misremembered another formal gesture he tried to teach her, he sighed in exasperation and tossed the book of etiquette he had unearthed in Regis’ library onto the table. Fjola cringed, and Dettlaff let out another sigh, running his fingers through his silver and black hair. He suddenly seemed to come to a conclusion, softening as he walked over to her and held his arms out oddly.

“Here, let us try something we will both enjoy,” he said.

Fjola did not understand, so he grasped her by the waist and took her left hand in his right, leading her backwards in small, measured steps.

“This would be easier to music,” he explained, “But we can just count beats instead.”

Fjola grinned, her freckled cheeks turning slightly pink, and adjusted herself so they were in proper form to dance. Dettlaff hummed in contentment.

“Ready?” he asked. She nodded.
“One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three-four,” he counted, making calculated steps and leading her as he did so. She stepped on his toe.
“Whoops! Sorry, Dettlaff.”
“Try again, my love. One-two-three, one-two-three…”

*

It was dawn already, and Fjola was exhausted, but couldn’t sleep anymore due to excitement so she decided to watch the sunrise as usual when she was restless.

I wonder what time Yennefer meant when she said “early morning,” she thought. Suddenly the stairs groaned behind her and she turned to see Dettlaff walking down, his eyes bleary but sparkling.

“Mm,” he chuckled. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Fjola smiled and shook her head.

“Sorry if I woke you.”
“Only your absence,” he said, sitting behind her on the couch and placing his hands on her waist, kissing her neck gently. “Are you anxious about seeing him again?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “I’m scared he won’t be as happy to see me.”
“He will be,” he chuckled.
“How can you be so sure?” she asked, turning towards him and looking concerned.
“Darling. I can sense it. He desires to see you again. And I… I desire for you to see him, too.”

Fjola frowned in thought. Does he mean what I think he does?

“Dettlaff?” she asked, unsure. “Are you aware that…”

He chuckled, kissing her ear.

“Hmhmhm, yes, my love, I am aware of that. I can sense your excitement when you see or talk to him,” he said. "Or even about him."

Fjola blushed furiously, turning to him completely and putting her face in her hands.

“I’m so sorry, my love,” she gasped. “I’ve tried for weeks to just forget about it, to try to will these feelings away, of course I have, because I love you and I’d never try to…”
“Shhh,” he soothed, placing a long finger to her lips delicately. “I want you to.”
“But I… you what?”
“Mm, your happiness – as well as Regis’ – is paramount to me. More than any claims of ownership or possession of your affections. Love does not work that way.”
“But you’re supposed to… I mean I’m supposed…” she tsked. “People are supposed to just fall in love with one person. Or just be with one at a time.”
“Hm, and where did you learn that? Did you teach your heart to choose one of us, then? Or do you still desire us both?”
“I love you, Dettlaff,” she said, running her hands on his cheek. She looked at him and was surprised – and a bit angered – to see that he was seemingly amused by all of it. “What’s so funny?”
“I’m aware human relationships and habits tend to lean toward the monogamous, but usually only when it suits them. Royalty often has concubines, men and women stray quite frequently, succubi and prostitutes flourish in any city or area they inhabit.”
“But you’re talking about lust, Dettlaff, not love.”
“The two are often intertwined,” he explained, “And there are many forms of love. Including,” he chuckled, biting her ear gently, “Love for the sake of lust. But there is also that of companionship, procreation, friendship, the abatement of loneliness, the feeling itself as most would describe it, including myself," he nuzzled her cheek softly at this. "There are many forms, ever-varying and changing, intertwining or coexisting. For instance, look at you and Regis.”

She cringed somewhat, but glanced at him in earnest curiosity.

“What about us?”
“As with you and I, you and Regis started as mere friends, but your affections began to become pliable, and bend; new ones grew and intertwined with what you already had, and soon, you found yourself enjoying his company as a friend, but also desiring him and his companionship in more than one way, his physical touch and presence – it was only natural.”

The way he explained it made sense, but still made Fjola recoil slightly.

“But you and I, Dettlaff…”
“Love is not a finite thing, Fjola. There is no end to it, no limit or capacity to which one can feel it. Falling in love with Regis has not made your adoration for me any less. Has it?”
“No, but…” she couldn’t come up with a good counter-argument other than, “It’s just not right. I don’t want you to think you’re not enough for me.”

Dettlaff sighed and decided to go out on a limb.

“And were I to say I fell in love with Regis?" he asked, feeling suddenly warm. "Would you scold me or doubt my affections for you?”
“Of course not! I mean, not as long as you…” she smirked. “Not as long as you could share, I guess.”
“And that is my point,” he said, glad she finally seemed to be coming around. “Your love for Regis does not diminish that of your love for me.”
“You would not be jealous? Or hurt?”
“No,” he laughed. “I would be happy for you both.”
“Does Regis feel the same for me?” she asked seriously.

Dettlaff hesitated.

“That is something you will have to ask him,” he said, feeling a little queasy at the slight deception, but knowing it was not his place. “Perhaps at the feast, with a bit of good wine in him…”
“Dettlaff! I wouldn’t get him drunk to…!”
“I know,” he chuckled, “I know. But I am suggesting that perhaps, the mood of the banquet might make for an easier conversation.”
“I don’t think he’d be willing without your permission, either.”
“Then tell him he has it. You both do.”

He shifted slightly and placed Fjola on his lap. She could feel his arousal against her and raised an eyebrow.

“Dettlaff,” she laughed softly, “Are you thinking about Regis and I?”
“Mm,” he growled, teasing her earlobe with his teeth again, “I am.”

Fjola examined him carefully, about to ask him something, but there was a knock at the door and she realized it must be Yennefer.

“She has terrible timing,” Fjola moaned.
“I heard that,” the sorceress said from behind the door. “Ready yourself – I am leaving with or without you in five minutes.”

Fjola leapt off of Dettlaff and ran upstairs to get ready as he let Yennefer inside. For the first time in weeks, Fjola suddenly felt incredibly hopeful.

Chapter 43: Fitting

Chapter Text

“You will make an exception for me,” Yennefer stated strongly. “And my guest.”
“But, my lady, what you ask is impossible! A completely new dress, hand-tailored, and in three days? It simply cannot be done!”
“When do you recall me saying it had to be made completely afresh?”

The tailor stammered for a moment, struggling to find words while Fjola somewhat hid behind Yennefer. She did not wait for him to find his tongue.

“What I asked is to see your stock available now that can be made ready in three days. And none of those leftover rags with uneven hems and imperfect stitching – something fit for a countess,” she demanded, gesturing to Fjola.
“A… a countess, you say? My word, that is… much different, my ladies. Please, forgive my earlier hesitancy, right this way. I will show you the rarest of beauties, though ah, not quite as rare as either of you…”

He led the way into the back of the shop, unlocking a door with a key from the ring hanging on his waist. Fjola held Yennefer back for a moment.

“He just took your word for it that I’m a countess? Why wouldn’t he check?”
“I am quite well-known, you must be aware, and not just in Toussaint. My word is to be taken as truth.”
“Where did you get the idea to call me a countess?”

At this, Yennefer suddenly displayed a true, cunning smile.

“Years ago, on his first visit here, Geralt convinced members of the court that Regis was a count. I found your new title only fitting.”

Fjola grinned appreciatively, thinking again of Regis, his smile, his voice, the soft, familiar crook of his elbow where she often rested her hand when they walked. She could hardly wait the three days until the feast to see him again.

“Come, ladies, please!” the tailor called, ushering them in urgently.

Fjola and Yennefer eyed up a multitude of dresses in a dizzying array of colors and styles. Not being familiar with finery, Fjola simply gazed at them in a stupor.

“What do I do?” she asked Yennefer under her breath. The sorceress sighed and rolled her eyes, but patiently led her to several different gowns, holding each one up here and there and assessing how they complemented her hair, eyes, or skin. Something suddenly occurred to Fjola.

“What will Regis be wearing?”
“Do you really want me to spoil it for you?” she asked, examining a violet gown with golden trim.
“Can you at least make me match him? Just a little?”

Yennefer looked up from the cloth she was examining and smiled.

“Of course,” she said, suddenly much softer and leading her to a series of ebony gowns. “Now normally, black is my signature color, but if we avoid the trims and accents being white, I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

She ran her delicate, well-manicured fingers over a broad, silky black dress that split in the middle to reveal a deep red underneath. There was black velvet trim at the pointed end of the tight sleeves, as well as at the top and bottom hems of the corset piece, and it revealed the shoulders and bosom amply.

“Ah, this looks fit for a countess,” she said, holding it up to Fjola.
“Yennefer, may I ask you something? Something that might be… kind of rude?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you so kind to me?”

Yen looked up in surprise, thinking about her answer for a moment.

“I owe Regis my life. I owe him Geralt’s, as well, and Ciri’s, too. If he deems you worthy of his affection and companionship, I shall support it in any way I can. I hope you truly are worthy.”
“I hope so too.”

She looked back to Fjola and gave her a genuine smile. Fjola glowed and tried the dress on.

“It’s a bit long…”
“We can fix that!” the tailor exclaimed, running his hands along the bottom hem and making a few white marks with chalk.
“I mean, if it’s not too much trouble…”
“Nonsense!” he said amicably. Yennefer really must be important, Fjola realized.

They stayed in the shop for over an hour, making final decisions about any and all alterations, the tailor guaranteeing she would be happy with the results.

“We shall be back at the end of the day,” Yennefer said once they had finally settled on the last little details.

The tailor turned pale and began stammering again. Yen gestured with her head and Fjola took out the coin purse she had full of florens from selling a slew of the potions she had made. The tailor saw the gold and went from pale to scarlet, scooping some of the coins up quickly before Yennefer stopped him.

“Ah ah ah,” she said, giving the rest of the stack back to Fjola, “Half now, half when we are satisfied.”
“Yes, my ladies,” he bowed deeply as the sorceress led them out of the shop.

She continued dragging Fjola from shop to shop, focusing on all the feminine things Fjola had little to no clue about and promising her dinner once everything was over with.

“Because,” she pointed out, “It is unwise to feast before one’s final fitting.”

Fjola giggled as she followed Yennefer up the street.

*

The sun had set over an hour before and Fjola was exhausted – more so than she would get even after slaving away in the temple, or when she used to work in Geralt’s vineyard. Her feet and legs ached from all of the walking (especially as most of it was uphill), and inside, she just felt tired. Tired of people, shops, talking, everything. It’s not that she was ungrateful for Yennefer’s help, just that she had grown weary in public as she was so used to and fond of seclusion. I guess I’m a bit like Regis and Dettlaff in that regard, she thought with a smile.

“Alright, your dress should be done by now.”
“It was really nice of him to do it on such short notice.”
“The coin certainly helps,” Yen muttered as she opened the door to the shop.

They had had to make multiple stops throughout the day to allow him to make certain adjustments only after she tried the gown with the shoes she bought, then again with the corset she had purchased later. Fjola noticed the tailor looked utterly exhausted when he saw them enter the shop again, but pleased nonetheless.

“Ladies,” he greeted softly with a bow, “The gown has been finished. Please, see if it is to your liking.”

Yen ushered her forward into the fitting room, the sorceress tying the corset behind her with a brutal strength she was not expecting while Fjola gasped and clutched her ribs.

“Can you let it out a bit?” she wheezed. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sit like this.”
“You likely won’t be sitting long,” she said. “The hors d'oeuvres are served with cocktails, all of which is done standing as servers come with trays, then the feast itself is actually rather short, with conversing and dancing traditionally taking place after, and finally, dessert and copious amounts of wine served almost throughout the entire night, also which is done standing.”
“Well I doubt I’ll be able to eat much with my stomach being squeezed to oblivion,” Fjola complained as Yen gave another strong tug at her laces, instructing her how to place her breasts within it, “And somehow I doubt even more that Regis is much of a dancer.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“I don’t know. Just a feeling, I guess. He seems more of the type for tons of study and work and little time for distractions. That’s not to say he’s dull, at all, just that I feel like he’d be more the type to enjoy talking at a feast instead of cavorting.”
“Regis is always full of surprises,” Yen said cryptically, holding the gown steady as Fjola stepped into it, lacing it up almost as tightly as the corset, testing the strength of both the article and its occupant. “There,” she said. “Let’s have a look.”

Fjola turned around on the small dais to face her and saw a little smile cross Yen’s face before she became stoic and business-like again, clearing her throat and adjusting parts of the dress gruffly.

“You’ll still need a jewel or other accoutrement for around your neck,” she said, sounding dissatisfied.
“I don’t know,” Fjola laughed, inspecting her cleavage, “I think these grab a fair amount of attention already.”

Yen rolled her eyes, but Fjola saw the corner of her mouth twitch in amusement. The tailor knocked on the wall outside the room and they told him it was fine to enter. He pushed aside the curtain and grinned widely at Fjola, tugging here and there at the dress to eliminate creases or adjust the way it lay, finally standing back and cocking his head with his fingers on his chin. He gave a knowing look to Yennefer and raised his eyebrows.

“Well?”
“Fjola, pay him the rest,” the sorceress ordered, and she complied.

As they left the shop, Fjola’s arms heavy with the now-packaged gown and items Yennefer had essentially forced her to buy, she was suddenly grateful for the horse she had been loaned for the journey. She voiced her thanks for this, but Yennefer scoffed.

“I’d not have let you ride a mule into Beauclair today,” she said, “Countess.”
“Ah. Right. Still, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Oh! And before I forget, I shall be loaning you a piece of jewelry I feel would be fitting with your gown. Take care not to lose it that night – I’m sure it was expensive.”
“Huh? I thought you only wore your black star necklace?”
“My obsidian star medallion you mean?” touching it gently as she often did during conversation or periods of thought. “While this is my constant accessory, it does not mean I have not been gifted fine things, from time to time.”
“From Geralt?”
“Hm, not this piece,” she laughed. “And Geralt isn’t really that type.”
“Yen, can I ask you something?”
“I’m sure you will, regardless,” she said. Fjola looked embarrassed for a moment and Yen softened. “I did not mean that as an insult. Go ahead.”
“What made you fall for Geralt?”

Yen chuckled.

“It is a long story.”
“Well, we’ve got a long journey,” she said, gesturing to the snowy fields and forests between them and, somewhere in the distance, beyond their current sight, the cottage.
“Fine. But keep up with me, I don’t intend on stressing my voice by yelling over the horses. And in turn, I expect you to inform me of how you came to enthrall a vampire."

And not just one vampire, she thought to herself. But TWO. Simultaneously.

Fjola snickered and mounted her horse, the two of them discussing their romantic choices and how much they had in common, having chosen lovers others often misunderstood as monsters.

“I suppose we’re really fortunate in that regard,” Fjola remarked.
“How so?” Yennefer asked.
“Less competition,” she said, deadpan.

They laughed and continued their conversation all the way to the cottage, where Dettlaff awaited them eagerly.

Chapter 44: Preparations

Chapter Text

Syanna was making final inspections rather frantically, but being careful to keep up an outward appearance of calm and self-assurance. While she was confident her plan could, and would, come to fruition, she still felt nervous. There were very few contingencies she could put into place, and it all rode on one part in particular. She mulled this part over in her mind yet again, going through each necessary piece in her head step-by-step.

Gift several barrels of the best – well, second-best – wine to the guards. Not all will drink, but enough to make their force weak. Wait until Anna is drunk, and occupied with a minstrel or courtier. Next, offer to grab another drink. Change into the servant’s clothes placed beneath my dress – shit, I still have to sneak those out after inspection – then change my appearance further. Save the underskirts under my servant’s shirt. I’ll go to the cellar under pretense of a servant fetching liquor. Give any suspicious guards another barrel of wine, say it’s under Anna Henrietta’s orders to take it from the royal stores and back to the rest of the guard. Soak the skirts I have saved with liquor. Plug them into the middle barrel of the stack. Light it with a candle from the wall and run like hell. Once it blows a hole in the wall, go through and get to the stable in the pandemonium. Grab a horse and fuck off as fast I can.

She breathed out.

This. Must. Work.

Syanna was confident in her strategy, but felt that so much was dependent on so much else that, for the first time in years, she was terrified something would go wrong.

Well, she laughed nervously to herself, If I can face down a vampire I wronged and survive, I can make my escape from a palace.

*

“Gods, Dettlaff, I’m so nervous,” Fjola said, trembling in his grasp as he tried again to teach her how to dance.
“Why?” he asked seriously, leading her backwards and around more quickly than before.
“What if Regis is unhappy to see me? What if he’s too happy to see me and loses control again? What if he does care about me too and wants to… to…” She looked to Dettlaff. “Are you sure you’re okay with that, my love?” she asked him, stroking his cheek softly.
“Hmhmhm, I’ve told you, I am more than fine with that. As long as it is what you both want.”

Fjola grinned and Dettlaff kissed her tenderly, running one of his clawed hands along her chin while the other gripped her waist.

“Do you want to see the dress now?”
“No.”
“Tsk! Why not?”
“I’ve told you that as well – it would not survive my, hm, fervor.”

Fjola laughed again and put her head against his chest. They were silent for a few moments as Dettlaff slowly led her in their dance sans music, breathing in the smell of fruit and orchids in her hair.

“Would you like me to be gone when you two arrive home?” he asked. “As Regis did for us?”
“My love,” she sounded almost as though she was scolding him, “This is your home too.”
“You should have some privacy.”
“Are you trying to avoid it? Do you think you’ll get jealous, as… as Regis did?”

She looked up to Dettlaff to give him a questioning glance full of concern. He scowled somewhat in return, stopping and holding her slightly apart from himself, looking away.

“That is it, isn’t it? His mood swings, and the reason he attacked me? He was upset over us.”
“I’m sure he had his reasons for all of that,” Dettlaff said stoically, “And you will simply have to ask him.”
“Hmph. I can’t believe the feast is tomorrow.”
“Well, you didn’t even receive your invitation until a few days ago.”
“True,” she chuckled. “But still – I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”
“I thought you were not sure you cared for parties?”
“I’m still not sure,” she said, “But I can’t wait to see Regis. It’s been a month.”

Dettlaff’s heart suddenly burned with the thought of finally having him home again and he sighed, though it came out as a slight growl.

“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I am just looking forward to seeing him,” he said. Fjola gave him a sly smile.
“Hm. Me too. I hope – I hope so much – that he even wants to come home.”
“He will,” Dettlaff said confidently.
“How can you be so sure?”

Dettlaff suddenly recalled with a strange, fluttering heat within himself the last time he had seen Regis, the look of his suit, the feel of the velvet under his finger tips, his thick, herbal scent rolling off of him, their breaths on each other’s necks as they held each other closely.

“Just a feeling,” he said.

*

Regis suddenly found himself wishing again for one of the few, rare times in his very long life that he could see his reflection in a mirror. He smoothed his hair back, feeling it spring back up in its usual unruly manner at the sides and sighed.

“Nervous?” Geralt asked.
“Incredibly so,” Regis responded.
“Obviously this is about the feast,” the Witcher said sarcastically, cheekily. “You’re worried about which fork to use, how to place your napkin, all that.”
“Very droll,” the vampire responded, rolling his dark eyes and reexamining himself. “But alas, no. Manners and courtly etiquette are easy, compared to the threat of unleashing my bloodlust upon some unsuspecting courtier. It puts us all in a rather awkward situation, doesn’t it?”
“Do you really think you’re that unprepared?” Geralt asked seriously, suddenly second-guessing Fjola’s presence at the event.

Should I warn him after all?

“I feel ready, however, my mind…” he chuckled. “You know how famously terrible I am at putting myself at ease when it concerns some of my insecurities and deeper thoughts.”
“Feeling philosophical?”
“Mmm, yes.”
“It’s one night, Regis,” he said, nudging his friend gently with his elbow. “Yen said I could even bring my swords, just in case. I’d rather not use them, and I don’t think I’ll need to, but if it puts you at ease…”

Regis chuckled again.

“Geralt, I’m sure you don’t really think I find the thought of you hacking me to pieces with your silver blade a comforting thought, effectively immortal though I may be.”
“No, but knowing my fighting you could allow everyone else to escape before you could hurt anyone might help.”

The vampire gave him a crooked smile, exposing a small fang.

“I’ll take the thought under consideration,” he said with amusement.
“Think you’ll go see Fjola after the feast?” Geralt suddenly asked.

Regis breathed in and out rather audibly.

“...Perhaps.”
“Is that why you’re really nervous? Going back to your house after? Facing her – the two of them?”
“Yes, Geralt.”
“I’d share a comforting word, but,” he shrugged.
“I know that was never amongst the utmost of your many varied talents,” Regis said, still smiling somewhat.
“We’ll be right there, Regis. Just in case.”
“Thank you, my friend.” He thought for a moment. “Perhaps you are not so terrible at comforting words, after all.”
“Fuck off,” Geralt joked.
“Ah, there you are.”

The two of them laughed a bit, trying in vain to release the anxiety building in anticipation for the next day, which was looming over them like a heavy cloud, thick and oppressive.

Chapter 45: The Start of the Evening

Chapter Text

“Gods,” Dettlaff breathed, drinking Fjola in with his eyes hungrily as though he was starving. She blushed and gave a small twirl in the mostly-black gown, the bottom layer with the sliver of red in the front flashing brightly as she did so.
“I take it you like it?” she asked softly, running her fingers through his thick, black-and-silver hair.
“I’d like it better if it was lying in the corner,” he growled, kissing down her neck voraciously and clutching her so tightly it was almost painful.

He suddenly stopped and forced himself to pull away.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, looking a little worried.
“I do not wish to smudge your cosmetics,” he said sheepishly.

Fjola laughed, deeply and heartily, putting her fingers to her as-yet bare throat, wondering what piece of jewelry Yennefer would have chosen for her.

“They’ll probably be here with a coach soon,” she said in disbelief. “I still feel incredibly uncomfortable with the whole affair.”
“Hm? Why?” asked Dettlaff severely.
“A few months ago I was homeless, my love. I had no money, no shelter, no food – I didn’t even have friends. And now… now?” She gestured with her hands to their surroundings. “It feels so undeserved.”
“Never talk that way again,” he suddenly warned, his gaze turning icy. “I will not have it.”

Fjola actually felt a little afraid for the briefest of moments, but let it go in a long exhale. She knew he did not mean to sound as though he was scolding her, merely unhappy when she spoke poorly of herself.

“Sorry, my love. It’s just hard to believe my luck,” she said, stroking his face again and kissing him.
“Hmm,” he purred, grabbing her again and trying with great effort not to nuzzle against her. “Part of me hates to see you go, even if it is only for one evening.”
“And the other part?”
He chuckled. “And the other part simply pictures the thought of you and Regis,” he growled.
“You degenerate,” she laughed.

He returned it and resumed kissing her, taking her in his embrace and lifting her left hand in his right.

“One more lesson?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said.

He began leading her around in a dance, hoping despite everything that Regis would be taking part in this same diversion with her soon. It was not long after that they heard the knock at the door from the coachman and parted, Yennefer practically glistening and shining radiance from the coach as Fjola stepped inside, assisted by Dettlaff. Their hands intertwined for another brief moment before he closed the door and waved her goodbye, happy but his heart aching, hopeful.

*

“How come Regis isn’t here?” Fjola asked almost immediately as the coach ambled up the snowy forest road. “Or Geralt?”
“We convinced Regis to ride with Geralt to wait there, to allow him time to integrate with large amounts of people again at his own pace, but still with protection.”
“And so he wouldn’t throw himself from the coach after realizing where you were headed first?” Fjola laughed.
“Well, yes, but we didn’t tell him that,” she smiled in return.

They watched the snow glow orange, then dark purple as the sun set and cast shadows across the land.

“It’s beautiful,” Fjola said.
“At least it is when one isn’t walking in it,” Yen returned, reaching into a matching black purse she had brought with her. “Here,” she said, handing Fjola something that glittered even in the low light of the coach, sending scarlet reflections across the cabin.

She took it in her hand delicately to examine it, gasping at a ruby roughly the size of a grape, cut expertly and embellished with intricate black metalwork that looked almost like lace it was so fine. Yen helped attached it, where it dangled gracefully at the base of her neck, the gem glistening from where it lay on her chest, slightly below her collarbone.

“It’s beautiful Yen, thank you,” she sighed.
“Hm, well, it’s still mine, apologies, so please take care of it.”

Fjola nodded enthusiastically, trying to keep her hand from fidgeting with it nervously.

“Are you scared of seeing Regis?” Yen asked bluntly.
“Terrified,” Fjola answered.
“Once again, I would not worry. He has been quite the gentleman while at Corvo Bianco. I doubt he would attack you.”
“Oh, I’m not so worried about that,” Fjola laughed, much to the sorceress’ surprise, “I’m more worried about him being angry about seeing me. That he might not be happy about the surprise.”
“Fjola,” she said, suddenly serious, “Regis wants to see you. I am very confident about this fact. Please – do not worry so much about that. Simply enjoy yourself for the evening.”
“I guess learning to do that is still somewhat new to me,” she said.
“It’s as if you’ve never allowed yourself to simply be a lady.”

Fjola gave a rueful smile and a nod, returning her gaze to the scenery outside the coach window as they made their way slowly towards the palace, sparkling like a jewel itself in the far distance ahead of them.

*

Geralt and Regis made their way slowly up to the palace, giving the reins of the horses to the attendants once they arrived and placing their heavy furs in the cloak room, kept watch over by several guards as they made their way through the corridors and throngs of people towards the feasting hall.

“My my, so many knights and soldiers, here just for some fops and dandies,” Regis chuckled.
“It’s probably more for Syanna than anyone else,” Geralt muttered as lowly as he could, though still trying to be heard over the crowd.
“I can hear you, remember,” Regis whispered back. “We have both been blessed with a wonderful sense of hearing, though obviously, through very different circumstances.”
“It’s still a lot to be heard over,” he grumbled. “I’m eager for this to be done with already. This doublet is killing me.”
“Yet you look wonderful, my friend! Even with your swords attached to your back. It was very nice of Yennefer to allow that, by the way.”
“Nice has nothing to do with it,” he said sourly, “You know why she did.”
Regis sighed. “Yes, I’m aware.”
“Don’t worry about it, Regis,” he said, “I’m sure I won’t need to use them. Seem fine as it is.”
“Thank you, Geralt. For the confidence in my behavior as well as your compliment on how I look in my attire.”

Geralt was confused for a moment until he realized Regis was making a joke. He clapped him roughly on the shoulder for a moment until they reached the feast, practically overwhelmed by all of the splendor.

There were rows and rows of long tables full of the finest crystal glasses and silverware, porcelain plates with gold trim and elegant napkins, absolute mountains of food in endless arrays and colors being devoured by people alike in that sense. Courtiers, nobles, and rich merchants chatted by the tables stacked with hors d'oeuvres, guzzled wine from a seemingly endless amount of casks and pitchers, or drunkenly leered at the ladies and sang bawdy songs. Regis and Geralt watched with amusement as an ornately dressed man stumbled towards a tall vase and vomited into it, then returned to one of the tables to refill his goblet with wine.

“And you say you hate all this, Geralt?” a man from behind them asked lightly, clapping the two of them on the shoulders. They both turned to suddenly see Dandelion, decked out and practically smothered in fine silks and medallions, his usual feathered cap perched somewhat jauntily on his head. They exclaimed in happiness and embraced one another, chatting merrily as the bard examined women through his peripherals. Even with most of his attention occupied by this activity, he talked with Regis intensely about his regeneration and current well-being. He indulgently filled him in while Geralt watched the entry doors to the hall, no doubt anticipating and simultaneously dreading the moment Yennefer would come to claim him.

“Nice of Geralt to take you in after all that. Glad to hear you’re well now though – but what of the lady?”
“Hm? Fjola?”
“Yes. Did she live?”
“Of course she did,” Regis sounded almost offended.
“So then is she here?”
“No, why ever would she be?”
“Well I mean seeing as how you tried to kill her, the least you could do is take her to an elegant affair…”

Geralt gave Dandelion a significant look and swiped his hand across his throat as a signal to cut it out. Dandelion could be thick, stubborn, and a terrible lecher, but he was not completely stupid, and stopped his questioning immediately once he saw Regis’ downcast face.

“Here,” Dandelion said, handing him his wine, “I’ll get another.”
“I’d rather not,” Regis said, handing it to Geralt, who downed it immediately before Yen arrived.
“Hey!”

Dandelion tried to pry the goblet back from Geralt, who held it out of his grasp jokingly.

“Show me where there’s more,” he said, the two of them heading off towards the booze. They turned back to Regis to invite him along, but he merely waved them away, walking towards the wall to inspect some new tapestries and paintings that had been hung since the last time he had been there.

Chapter 46: Argument and Arrival

Chapter Text

“Syanna, you look absolutely radiant,” Anna Henrietta gushed, taking in her sister’s massive, elegant gown, almost as encrusted with jewels and gems as the woman herself. Syanna was adding the final touches to her hair and makeup in the mirror, examining the Duchess’ reflection in it with an appraising glare.

“I’m glad you think so,” she said, “After all, a compliment from you, the fairest of all, is the highest in the world.”
“Why so malicious?” Anna hissed. “Have I not given you what you’ve wanted? Your home back, jewels, wine, luxury… family…”
“All with strings attached,” she said.
“Reviving and planning this feast was your idea!” the Duchess snapped.
“I did not mean the feast!” she shot back, finally turning around from the mirror to face Annarietta. “I mean that I am still held prisoner here, no freedoms whatsoever save for staring out my window. I am even monitored using a knife to cut my food, Anna!”
“You’re angry,” she said a little more softly, trying not to escalate things. “I am sorry for that, but again, it is for…”
“My own protection?” Syanna cursed. “Of all the cruelties enforced upon me in my life, few have ever been crueler than the ones supposedly designed to keep me safe.”
“I thought you would be happy for this evening,” Anna Henrietta said, sadness and disappointment heavy in her tone.
“Happy? How am I to be happy?” she snapped. I’ll never be happy until I leave this gilded cage. “All shall still treat me as ever – the spare sister, not even a Duchess anymore, cursed from the Black Sun and a stain on the duchy and royal family itself.”
“Once again, my dearest sister, all you have to do is come to me with your troubles, and I can help solve them.”

Syanna sneered and rolled her eyes.

“The richness of it – the older sister going to the younger for help. Ha! I made my own way for many years, and I can do so again… Were I only allowed.”
“I never said you were incapable,” Anna said, concerned and thinking deeply. “And in fact, I had considered many options you may find more palatable… staying in Nilfgaard, perhaps, or having a chateau of your liking to yourself in Toussaint.”

She was absolutely taken aback. Of all the scenarios she had been anticipating to happen this evening, this had not been one of them.

“You mean – have my freedom back? Truly?”
“Well, to a degree. I would still have to have guards posted nearby, though not to keep you where you are, as in the palace here, but rather to escort you so others would not try to harm you. It is sad to say, but alas, even after this evening, where I give you credit for it, as well as your title back, the people are still unlikely to embrace you, sister dear.”

Wait, my what?

“Did you just say you planned to give me my title back?” Syanna asked, stunned.

Is this some kind of trick? she wondered.

“Yes, Syanna. I had planned to have you announced after the party was over, of course, when everyone is incredibly drunk and much more receptive. But you are under no obligation to accept, of course. If you’d prefer the chateau, or to seek out our cousin Emhyr, I would allow you to do so.”
“Truly?” she repeated suspiciously.
“Yes – as long as a chosen retinue of guards and knights accompanies you to whichever destination you choose, and you are within reach,” she said amicably.

Ah, Syanna thought, so that’s it then. I will still be a prisoner, just with more room to beat my wings fruitlessly against the bars. She seethed, turning away again. I will give her no such pleasure.

I shall accept my title back,” Syanna said, leaning over the vanity, watching her sister’s reflection in the mirror again. “After the feast, of course.”
“Of course!” Anna cried, stepping forward to embrace her sister, but she did not return it.
Please,” she said, “I am still shaken.”
I see,” the Duchess said with disappointment, backing away and eyeing her sister warily. “Will you still come to the feast? I’d love the pleasure of your company.”
“Oh I shall see you,” Syanna returned. “And I’ll be in much better spirits.”

Anna Henrietta recoiled from her words as though she had spat them, though her tone had been even. Even now, after all this time, and under careful watch, it was hard to trust her sister or her motives. Still, she wanted so desperately to believe that she had truly changed, or to at least be the one person capable of believing she could. Her sister needed that. Her sister deserved that.

“I cannot wait,” she said softly before leaving, Syanna still examining her reflection in the mirror, her thoughts more tumultuous than they had been before.

*

“I think we’re late,” Fjola said, noticing how few people were waiting outside to enter, and how little horse, coach, and foot traffic there had been on the way up to the palace.
“Fashionably so,” Yen replied, giving one last look at her makeup in the mirror.

She looked at Fjola and insisted on doing her touch-ups, her subject squirming a little in discomfort at the glamour and attention. When she was finished, she leaned back to admire her work and gave her a small, confident smile.

“We’re ready,” she said, nearly pushing her out of the carriage. An attendant helped her down with a gentle hand and Fjola looked up to examine the palace up close for the first time. The palace itself shone like alabaster even in the night, and there were seemingly hundreds of windows, most of stained glass and almost all illuminated by flickering candles, even the ones up at the top of the towers. The spires looked strangely intimidating over the otherwise delicate stone and metalwork, woven into artistic archways and accents, the pathways almost dizzying they seemed so intricate. Fjola could see a tented glass roof practically glowing near the rear and knew it must be the feast hall. As they entered the palace, the smooth marble floors made their shoes click satisfyingly and nearly echo down the corridor, which was lined with innumerable paintings, tapestries, and frescoes. They were walking more quickly than Fjola had anticipated and she suddenly felt extremely nervous, almost shaking as they finally approached the feasting hall. She slowed down, holding her hand anxiously to her chest and staying just out of range of the doors. Yennefer went to enter but looked back, noticing Fjola’s hesitation with surprise and annoyance.

“Don’t tell me you’re too scared now?” she asked, her mouth twisted in irritation, her violet eyes squinting.
“Just a little,” Fjola practically gasped. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Face the crowds and remain so… confident?”

Yennefer’s features softened.

“I am rarely in doubt anymore,” she said, “But in times past, when I was, I just reminded myself that I am strong, and powerful, and devilishly intelligent.”
“And if I feel like I’m not?” she asked, looking ashamed.
“Then fake it until you do,” Yen said, smiling and holding her elbow out.

The gesture made Fjola instantly think of Regis, and suddenly she was filled with warmth and excitement, and she couldn’t wait to get in there fast enough. She took Yen’s elbow, grinned and held her head high, and the two of them walked into the banquet hall.

Chapter 47: Fruit and Orchids

Notes:

~ Happy Easter if you celebrate! If you don't, Happy Sunday! Either way... enjoy this one. ~

Chapter Text

Regis walked along the corridors slowly, taking in and savoring every work of art he encountered, and there were many. The guards patrolling the halls seemed to get drunker and drunker with every fresco, tapestry or sculpture he passed, and after nearly an hour of strolling the palace, he finally encountered a pair of them passed out in an inebriated stupor by the passageway that led to the barracks. Regis tittered and turned back to head towards the feast hall once more; he had been too nervous to eat upon his arrival, but now his stomach was starting to grumble uncomfortably and he knew the feast itself would be served soon, then soon after, dessert. He was loathe to admit it, but he did have a bit of a sweet tooth.

Or would it be called a sweet fang? he thought to himself, disappointed no one was there to whom he could tell his joke. Perhaps I’ll tell Geralt and Dandelion upon my return to the hall, he mused, that is, if they are not preoccupied with their ladies.

He felt a sharp, consuming pang of loneliness and was suddenly aching for this whole event to be over with so he could just go back to their cottage already. He knew he was well, he knew he was ready, and every minute of this feast simply drove the point home further that he felt utterly, desperately alone in spite of the masses of people attending. He imagined Fjola cooking over a pot in the kitchen, lifting a wooden spoon to her mouth in contemplation before almost always adding more salt, to which she had a particular inclination and fondness. Then he thought of Dettlaff, reading at the table or in the corner, or sitting outside drawing something unknown to Regis that he must have thought was beautiful or worth capturing at the time. He comforted himself with these thoughts and the knowledge that soon, these wouldn’t just be painful memories that exacerbated his feelings of loneliness and solitude, but new moments, everyday joys that he was desperate to experience again.

He began whistling a soft, jaunty tune as he continued his walk back to the hall, his music echoing down the nearly empty corridors.

*

Fjola searched for Regis all around the hall but couldn’t seem to find him; she had seen Geralt at some point, but Yennefer had quickly scooped him up and the pair of them vanished amidst the tight throngs of people. She felt completely and utterly abandoned and terrified; her stomach was rumbling and she couldn’t even tell if it was hunger or nerves. As she looked at the tables piled high with food, however, she felt somewhat sick to her stomach, remembering times not so long ago where she had been starving for merely a scrap of food, and meanwhile here even entire plates of rich, decadent eats were wasted after a noble had taken two bites and felt dissatisfied with the taste or texture. The thought of eating something now made her insides clench, so she decided not to risk it.

Not only that, she thought glumly, but this dress is so tight I can barely move, let alone eat.

She had already been at the feast for over an hour; with no sign of Regis, she was beginning to lose hope and become exhausted and frustrated as she always did in overwhelming crowds. Despite the time of year and thick covering of snow outside on the ground, the inside of the hall was stifling and overly warm and she soon began to fantasize about stealing a horse and just bailing back to the cottage.

Perhaps I should. I’m exhausted and disappointed and hungry and sick and tired and I just want to be somewhere safe.

She felt suddenly guilty for thinking these things, as Yennefer had gone to a lot of trouble to get her ready for this event, and Geralt had been kind enough to get her the invitation. She decided to give it a bit more time, and if she still didn’t see anyone, she would just take a walk outside to cool off, then try again. She briefly considered standing on one of the wooden casks of wine stacked against the wall in order to see better, but she knew it would be indecent and would attract a lot of negative attention to herself and, very likely, Yennefer and Geralt. She was a guest of theirs.

Besides, she considered, Regis is pretty recognizable – I would have seen him by now even without having to stand on a barrel.

She walked around the perimeter of the crowd again, scanning fruitlessly for the older vampire.

*

Regis made his way slowly back to the hall, cringing at the volume of the raucous mass of people cavorting about inside. He breathed in deeply, readying himself once again before entering the already-overcrowded event. Most of the attendants were, like the guards, already heavily drunk and stumbling over one another, dancing tipsily and yelling in each others’ ears or laughing at bawdy jokes and anecdotes. Regis gave small, tight-lipped smiles as he brushed past people, trying in vain to find Geralt and Yennefer to get their blessing to finally leave, despite it being somewhat early in the evening.

To hell with the desserts, he thought.

Although the party had only been going on for a bit over an hour, they had just finally laid down the feast itself, and people were mercifully leaving the main floor to seat themselves at the tables, lifting the oppressive warmth and suffocating presence of the crowds somewhat. He began sniffing the air delicately, trying to locate Yennefer’s signature scent of lilac and gooseberries, but it was difficult with so many people there. He picked up mostly wine and liquor, but also meat, bread, cheese, perfume, cologne, sweat, a bit of blood which startled him but washed over and away from him with no issue, horses, soap, something a bit like fruit and orchids…

He froze. Sniffed the air again.

Fruit… and orchids.

She can’t be…

He looked around frantically in search of the source, but could not locate it. He suddenly spotted Geralt’s white mane of hair in the crowd heading towards the table but saw no one with him but Yennefer. Regis turned in his spot again, his eyes scanning the still-crowded hall, his nostrils flaring as he tried desperately to locate the smell again, but the herbal oil he always wore was overpowering as he began to sweat.

Why did I wear so damn much? he cursed at himself.

 

 

The crowds were thinning and Fjola kept looking around anxiously for Yen and Geralt, but the amount of people bumping past her to eat and her somewhat small stature prevented her from really getting a good look. She moved toward the tables as well, trying hard not to bump into people but utterly surrounded by courtiers and nobles who towered over her. Suddenly, she smelled it – the strong herbal scent of cinnamon, sage, cloves, anise – the smell of Regis. She would know it anywhere.

Anxious and excited, she halted in her tracks, a few other attendees tripping over her and muttering angrily, but she did not care. She knew he was here, she needed to find him, to tell him how sorry she was, how everything was her fault, how she regretted ever hurting him, even if it was by accident, how she didn’t care about the fact he bit her or hurt her, it didn’t matter anymore because she knew she was his, too, and not just Dettlaff’s, that… that…

All of these thoughts and apologies and oaths suddenly melted away as she turned and saw him standing there, just a few feet away; Regis, his back to her as his face scanned the crowds moving toward the head of the hall, looked absolutely regal. Her heart leapt into her throat and started racing so fast she felt faint, unable to move, unable to do anything but soak in the sight of him, cloaked all in black with a velvet coat that accentuated his beautiful shoulders and elegant neck and figure, holding himself like a king despite everything in this world that should have beaten it out of him. And all of a sudden, as though he could feel her eyes on him, Regis finally turned around and saw here there, standing with her eyes wide and glistening, her dress accentuating her bare shoulders and ample bosom, the black and velvet complementing his perfectly, the ruby around her neck practically dancing in the firelight. But her eyes – Gods, he thought, those eyes – they burned into him with an intensity he swore he could actually feel. They each stepped forward, uncertainly, before Fjola launched herself at him and threw her arms about his neck and decorum out the window as she embraced him passionately, pressing her body against him tightly as he did the same, holding his face into her neck and breathing her in, sighing shakily as he practically burned in her grasp.

They stood there for a few moments, ignoring the people passing them and muttering rudely or making snide comments, ignoring the feast behind them, their obligation to join Geralt and Yennefer or to address the unspoken things between them, just simply existing against one another for as long as they felt they needed. Finally they parted, Regis running his hands all the way down underneath Fjola’s arms until they came to hers. A sly smile suddenly spread across his lovely face as he grabbed her waist and took her left hand in his right, leading her in a waltz where they could barely hear the music or even the people behind them at the tables. Neither of them cared that they likely looked silly dancing when so few others were either, or that Geralt and Yennefer were watching as Fjola tenderly brought her lips up as Regis brought his down, their mouths finally meeting in the middle and tasting each other hungrily, desperately, their fear and frustrations melting away in an instant in the heat between them.

“I’ve missed you so much,” she whispered, resting her face against Regis’ chest, bringing her hands down from his lead to wrap them around his waist.
“And I you,” he whispered in return, kissing the top of her head and clutching her back, holding her to him.

They danced like this a bit more before Fjola was suddenly breathing heavily and Regis looked down at her in alarm.

“Are you well?” he asked.
“The corset,” she gasped.

Regis instantly laughed out loud, the sound of it almost booming over the other voices and music, but he didn’t care, merely led her away to a quiet side corridor and down to a massive tapestry that covered the wall.

“Behold,” he said, holding it back to reveal a small, dark alcove behind it. Fjola gave him a raised eyebrow, but slid in quickly, Regis following. “Here,” he said, turning her around as her eyes still adjusted to the semi-darkness, the light filtering in through the tapestry illuminating Regis’ features, especially his cheekbones, beautifully and elegantly. She went to kiss him again but he kept her back to him, his hands working at the laces on the back of her dress and corset with the speed and accuracy of a surgeon.

Well, she thought with a giggle, I suppose he is.

“You really are eager,” she laughed. She heard him chuckle, then tut.
“I am alleviating the pressure on your ribs,” he said, and suddenly Fjola felt blessed relief as the laces came free and her cloth bindings loosened, moaning in pleasure.
“Shh shh shh,” he laughed in her ear, tying the laces back again, though this time much less tightly than Yen had done. “What was that sorceress thinking?” he muttered. “I swear you ladies try to kill yourselves trying to hide the best of your assets.”

He turned her back around again and looked her in the eyes, her hands reaching up to stroke the facial hair on his cheeks, her thumbs grazing his cheekbones delicately. Regis could not help himself, and lurched forward to begin kissing her passionately, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly as her back hit the wall and her legs wrapped around him. His tongue entered her mouth and she moaned happily, clutching his shoulders tightly and pushing her hips against him. He pulled his mouth away with a gasp.

“Not here,” he moaned.
“What?” she groaned in disappointment. “You started it.”
“After the feast,” he said, licking the ridge of her ear as she whimpered. “I’d like to go home, first.”

Fjola’s heart was racing.

“Did you just say you wanted to go home?” she asked excitedly, kissing him again. “Please tell me you’re ready to come home.”
“I’m ready to come home,” he moaned, and the two of them were wrapped around each other again, kissing and grasping passionately before Regis broke them apart again with a lustful growl, placing his forehead against hers.

“Shall we get back to the feast?” he breathed heavily.

Fjola nodded, smiling widely and kissing him one more time. Regis returned it fervently, clutching her again and swearing to himself he could never possibly get tired of this, her touch, her taste, the feel of her beneath his hands and the tickle of her breath against his face and neck, the way her hair smelled and her smile as she beheld him, or the pure sound of her happiness as the two of them simply held and touched and tasted each other.

“We should probably stop now,” he laughed.
“I know,” she said, kissing his cheek, “Or we’ll never be able to at all.”
“Come,” he said, leading the way back out from behind the tapestry, “I saw some delicious-looking meals being brought to the table and I’m suddenly quite famished. If you like, I can even explain their origins and the significance of their presence at this feast.”

Fjola laughed at his predictability but reveled in it, pausing for a moment in deep appreciation and affection when she saw Regis hold his elbow out for her to take, a soft, fond smile on his face. She did so immediately, warmth spreading through them both as they walked towards the banquet in their usual style. Upon arrival, they found Dandelion, Geralt and Yennefer and made room to sit by them. Geralt ended up sandwiched between Yen and Regis, with Fjola next to Dandelion and directly across from the vampire. As soon as they were seated, their legs intertwined under the table as Regis explained the various dishes they were tasting and Fjola dreamily drank it in, happy to simply hear the sound of his voice again.

Chapter 48: Dessert

Chapter Text

Syanna walked slowly behind Annarietta as they finally headed towards the feast, later than royalty normally would arrive. Usually, the Duchess would be the one to begin the main meal, but ordered the servants to let them start without her. When Syanna asked why, Anna reiterated her original plan.

“If they are stuffed full of food and wine, they will be more receptive to your presence and the restoration of your title,” she reminded.

Anna can certainly be clever when she wants to be, Syanna thought ruefully. I shall have to use extra caution when making my escape later.

The sisters arrived quickly and entered the hall almost unnoticed, save for a few nobles at the table reserved for those of highest stature.

“I am surprised you did not coordinate the seating,” Anna muttered, somewhat displeased. “Normally I am quite firm about seating arrangements, and who sits where. Otherwise it is an insult to our higher guests.”
“There is no one higher than… us…” she said slowly. “And I wanted it to be random, to force a sense of camaraderie and equality amongst the guests, to force them to mingle and accept one another, as they must accept me.”
“Hm, I suppose,” Anna grumbled. “But at least you kept the highest to this table only.”

Syanna smiled and nodded gracefully, but the truth was, she simply didn’t care about where people sat, it wasn’t a detail that would have any impact on her plan, and so she did not bother to concern herself with it. Her quick lie didn’t necessarily seem to fool the Duchess, but was plausible enough and she settled down upon seeing some of her favorite courtiers at their table. Most of them froze upon seeing Syanna, however, though as she was used to the sort of treatment reserved for vermin and lepers, she held her head high and awaited a servant to pull her chair out for her. Once they were all seated, Anna at the head and Syanna to her right, they began eating without much more ado.

*

Geralt looked up at the ducal table and suddenly nearly choked.

“Chew your food, you animal!” Dandelion scolded.
“Look,” Geralt gagged, nodding his head in gesture to the table across the hall from them.

Regis nearly spat his drink.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed, a stuffy-looking man to his right giving him a look heavy with offense and judgment.

Fjola followed their gaze and saw two glamorous women sitting down and eating at a table full of nobles, one with beautiful auburn hair and a crown, absolutely smothered in jewels, the other to her right with black-hair, and equally as glamorous but also… grim.

“Who are those women?” she asked.

Regis raised his eyebrows and hesitated, unsure of how to answer. He decided “bluntly” was the best course of action.

“The fairer one is Duchess Anna Henrietta, ruler of Toussaint, and the lady to her right…”
“Is Syanna,” Fjola finished darkly. Regis nodded.

Fjola suddenly felt a deep, burning hatred fill her, alarmed at the sensation and somewhat ashamed.

“It’s alright,” said Regis, stroking her hand from across the table, sensing her discomfort. “We’ll likely not have to interact with them. They rarely trouble themselves with the rabble at these sorts of events, not even the ones they know.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted to punch someone so badly in the face before,” she seethed.
“Shh!” Geralt scolded, Yennefer seconding him.
“Sorry,” she said, “But judging by what I’ve been told, I don’t think my feelings are anything new.”

They looked around and saw, indeed, many burning and hateful glances being thrown Syanna’s way, the hall quieting down somewhat as the people’s joyous conversations became hisses and whispers.

“Just leave it alone,” Geralt warned, the group of them except Dandelion returning to their food. The bard rose from the table and adjusted his clothes, putting on a dashing smile and checking his teeth in the reflection on his spoon.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Yennefer chided.
“The Duchess requested me by name,” he said with great airs, “And I don’t want to disappoint my Little Weasel.”

With that, he walked off to join the ducal table, Fjola’s jaw dropping as Anna Henrietta shooed a baron to her left away and invited Dandelion to sit down, immediately beginning to fawn over him as he kissed her hand.

“Well, that’s the Duchess for you,” Regis chuckled. “One day she wants to cut off his head, the next she wants it between her thighs.”

Yennefer gave him a scolding glance but Geralt and Fjola were cracking up, trying not to make a scene as they stifled their laughter. Regis gave Fjola a winning smile, keeping his fangs covered but radiating charm nonetheless. It was good to see him like this. After the main meal had ended, the tables at the sides of the hall were being filled with rich and decadent desserts, Regis eyeing them curiously.

“I’m tempted to being some home to De… you know who,” she said, remembering where she was. “Would it be bad form?”
“Not if we’re quick,” Regis said, ushering her over and scooping some of the less messy ones into a cloth napkin and placing it carefully into Fjola’s bag when no one was looking. The two of them were chuckling and Geralt gave Yennefer a satisfied smirk.
“I’m happy for them,” she said in a low voice, being careful not to be overheard, “But I do hope she’s careful. From what you’ve told me, vampire tempers can run hot and unpredictably.”
“I hope so too,” he said, “But Regis is much better than he was, you have to admit.”
“Hm, alright, yes,” she confessed, “But her… other lover is the one who worries me. From what you’ve told me…”
“Yen,” he said, “It’ll be alright. He knows. But why so concerned all of the sudden?”
“Never you mind,” she snapped defensively.
“Have you made a friend, Yen? An actual friend?”
“Stop teasing me and get a me a dessert. Dearest.”

Geralt laughed and went to grab them something sweet and decadent, gulping a glass of wine from the table as he did so. Regis saw but said nothing, it suddenly occurring to him that Fjola had not had any alcohol to drink the entire night. He questioned her about it.

“I didn’t want to put pressure on you,” she said, “I know that blood and wine often cause the same effect when it comes to vampires. I didn’t want you to be tempted.”

To her surprise, Regis chuckled.

“My dear,” he said, “While they may induce similar states of drunkenness, wine and other alcohols do not quite affect me in the same way as blood. There was a time when I thought that it had, however, and abstained entirely, around the time I first met Geralt, in fact, but have realized over the years that it is only blood that is the root of my addiction. So please, feel free to drink in my presence – it will not cause me to relapse again.”
“Oh. Well, there was one other reason…”
“Oh?” he asked curiously, his brows furrowing. “And what is that? We’ve already established pregnancy is impossible between our species.”
“No, it’s not that, it’s just that…” She bit her lip a bit and blushed. “Gods, you think I’d be used to talking about these things by now.”
“Please, Fjola, speak freely with me.”

She looked him in the eyes and softened, taking a deep breath.

“Regis, I promise I am not trying to pressure you into moving too fast, really, but… I was worried about the fact that, were we to um, consummate our relationship tonight, you wouldn’t want to if you thought I was drunk.”
Consummate?” he laughed. Fjola blushed more deeply.
“Well, you implied we would earlier but I didn’t want to just assume, and I don’t want you to feel pressured or that we’re moving too fast,” she explained sheepishly, running her hand along his cheek. He leaned into it, then took her hand in his own and kissed her palm, looking into her eyes seriously for a moment.

“My darling,” he said, “Were you not more bashful and were we to not be thrown out of here promptly for such misconduct, I would, ah,” he kissed her, “right now in the middle of this hall.”

Hearing him talk this way, seeing the lust and fire in his eyes, Fjola felt herself turn scarlet and melt internally, pressing herself against him and kissing his neck.

“Oh Regis,” she begged, “How soon can we go home?”
“How about one more dance?” he asked flirtatiously, taking her in his arms once more and leading her about the dance floor. “Which, by the way, you are quite unexpectedly lovely at.”
“Hm,” she smirked, “Dettlaff taught me, these past few days.”
“Dettlaff?” he asked, feeling suddenly much warmer than he already did. “He knew you were coming… and… helped…”

Suddenly it all made sense and Fjola was worried he was going to be upset, but was immediately relieved as his face truly broke into a grin, his fangs displayed merrily before he forced himself to cover them up.

“You’re not mad, are you?” she asked, just to be sure.
“Of course not, my darling,” he said, kissing her gently. “In fact, I’m rather happy that he is so… hm… supportive.”
“He just wants us to be happy,” she said.
“I know,” he replied, “I believe he’s been encouraging us both behind the other.”
“I’m not complaining,” she said lightly.
“Nor am I,” he chuckled.

Fjola let herself be swept about, the warmth of the hall and the sweet, herbal scent of Regis making her head swim in the most delightful way. She simultaneously wanted this moment to last forever and end as soon as possible so that they could go home, her heart aching with a happiness that matched Regis’ as they moved in tandem, content to simply just be with one another again, at last.

Chapter 49: Boom

Chapter Text

Syanna kept her silent tabs on her sister throughout the night, noticing with immense relief that she had finally started to lose control of herself.

Her tolerance is frustratingly high, she thought angrily. But I suppose that’s what comes of constant luxury and indulgences.

The bard on Anna’s left kissed her hand and she giggled, her hand going to her collarbone daintily as he led her out to dance, reciting a poem or some such into her ear as she blushed and giggled again.

Pathetic, Syanna sneered. Like all men, he is scoping the other ladies to the left while his mouth leans right to provide her with false promises and romance.

Syanna had long ago abandoned any romantic ideals, focusing instead on what she had to do to survive. Love was only for children and fools, or to be used as a convenient tool to get what one needed. Sex could be used for the same purpose but was much more fun and fulfilling. She dipped a long, slender finger into her wine glass to wipe out the last drop of Sangreal and lick it away, knowing it was just about time to make her move. Seeing Anna Henrietta drunkenly twirling with her pompous, preening minstrel was the cue she needed to make her escape unnoticed.

Rising from her seat, she slunk off toward a side corridor where there was known to be a room with a chamber pot, reserved for the ducal family during events. No one even looked twice, and most of the guards were so intoxicated they didn’t even notice her leave – not even when she slunk down another quiet passageway and began to change her clothes into the servant’s set she had quietly stolen during inspection. Once she had finished, saving the thin slips and slipping them down her shirt, she used the gown to remove her makeup and stuffed it in a suit of armor on display. Next, she removed the accoutrements from her hair and placed what she could into her pockets to sell later. The rest followed the gown and other garments down into the suit of armor, but one final piece, a hair pin with several sapphires, rubies, emeralds and diamonds, she palmed carefully, the sharpened point held between her fingers so as to allow her to jab any assailant easily. Looking at herself in the reflection of the displayed armor, she realized she was still too recognizable. She considered this for a moment before eyeing up the axe in the armor’s hand. While she would not be able to carry it far for use as a weapon – not if she wanted to remain somewhat inconspicuous, anyway – it was useful for chopping off the majority of her locks to throw anyone who might see her from a distance. She threw that too into the armor, noticing with relief the face plate was still able to close and hide its contents.

Smirking, she made her way as quietly as she could to the cellar.

And now the fun begins.

*

Regis waltzed Fjola slowly and softly to the music, and she noticed the look of immense joy and satisfaction on his face with a sweet, though somewhat sly smile.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked her.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” she said. He grinned and brought her in closer. “I didn’t know you knew how to dance.”
“Well, my dear, you never asked,” he laughed.
“Regis!” came a somewhat sloppy voice to their left.

They both looked over slowly to recognize the Duchess Anna Henrietta, clinging drunkenly to Dandelion and radiating wealth and decadence. She removed herself from the bard’s grasp and greeted Regis with a small peck on each of his cheeks, which he accepted gracefully as a chaste greeting between close friends.

“I am so glad you came!” she said. “And this must be the lovely lady I was forced to write an extra invitation for.”

Annarietta greeted Fjola in the same way and she stood frozen as it happened, not sure whether it was polite to reciprocate or not.

Dettlaff didn’t go over this with me! she thought in a panic.

Luckily, the Duchess did not seem offended by not receiving the same gesture in return, and went on to gush about how beautiful and perfect the evening had been thus far. Regis heartily agreed with her and suddenly they were both on a tangent about the decorations, the history of the feast itself, traditions, etc. until Fjola and Dandelion quietly made their way to the side, back toward the desserts.

“So you’re pretty fond of Regis, huh?” he asked. “Gotten to know him pretty well?”
“I know you know what he is because he told me about your adventures together, and I know you know that I know what he is because Geralt told me you were asking him about me getting… um… a ‘love bite.’ So neither of us has to tiptoe around it,” she finished, her head swimming a little.
“Oh thank the Gods,” he said, relieved. “So then I’m just going to ask – why a vampire? Why two of them?”

Fjola laughed.

“Why not a bard?” she asked a little sarcastically.
“Well, to be fair, there’s a much lower risk of getting your blood drained,” he muttered, helping himself to another goblet of wine. She smiled.
“It just… happened,” she said, recalling Dettlaff’s words about love being unpredictable and infinite. She felt a sudden warmth thinking of him and was suddenly terribly homesick. Dandelion noticed her face and apologized.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s not that,” she said, “I’m just a little bit tired…”

 

BOOM.

 

A sudden explosion rattled the palace, the ground beneath them shaking so hard they collapsed, the glass ceiling and most of the windows in the ballroom shattering as the cold winter wind blew in and extinguished most of the candles. There were screams and shrieks from all around and the entire room, full of hundreds of people, began to panic and riot. A stampede of nobles and aristocrats was suddenly rampaging through the hall, stumbling over those who had fallen and, in some horrifying cases, trampling on them in their blind panic. Fjola lifted her head groggily from the floor, a peculiar ringing in her ears and her vision blurry, but she could comprehend well enough that something was horribly awry. Dandelion was sprawled out on the floor in front of her, bringing his head up in the same daze. The bard was more used to trouble and chaos, however, and before he could think, he grabbed Fjola and lifted her up, running to the wall as quickly as possible to get away from the pandemonium.

“Are you alright?” he asked her, shouting over the screaming crowds as best he could. Fjola nodded, her eyes scanning the crowd eagerly for Regis, but it was too difficult in the dark. What few candles remained lit were closer to the entrance to the hall, safe from the winter breeze now almost howling through the shattered windows and ceiling.

“Regis!” she cried, knowing he could at least probably hear her through the din. She needn’t have bothered, however; a warm cloud of blue and gray smoke enveloped her before transforming into Regis, his arms about her shoulders from behind, protectively.

“What was that?” Dandelion shouted.
“I don’t know,” he yelled back, “But whatever it was, we need to leave, now.”
“What about Geralt?” Fjola asked.

Dandelion and Regis shared a look.

“Take Fjola to Corvo Bianco,” Regis said, pushing her towards the bard.

“What?” she shrieked. “No! I want to help…”

“Either of you could – and likely would – be injured much more dearly than I. That chance cannot be taken.” He nodded to Dandelion, who wrapped his arms about her and began dragging her towards the doors.

Fjola began screaming Regis’ name, trying to get him to stop, come back, but he ignored her cries as the bard continued to drag her away. Furious, she took her elbow and rammed it directly into his stomach. He let out a massive breath of air and a pained oof and immediately doubled over in pain, releasing his grasp.

“Sorry!” she called out behind her, running toward where she had last seen Regis heading toward a dark hallway.

She had barely turned the corner before a voice came out of the darkness, nearly making her jump out of her skin.

“I told you to stay with Dandelion!” Regis hissed.
“I’m not letting you out of my sight,” she said, groping forward in the pitch black to try to find him. To her surprise, she heard a mild chuckle before she felt his fingers intertwine with her own.
“Well, my dear, it seems as though you won’t be able to help that,” referencing the fact she was nearly blind in the darkness. “But worry not – do as I say, exactly as I say, and we’ll escape this unscathed. Do you understand?”

She nodded, knowing he could see her gestures in the dark.

“Very well then,” he sighed, keeping his grip on her hand and leading her through hallways she could not see. She clutched his hand tightly back, enjoying the feel of his long fingers between hers and feeling vulgar for enjoying his touch at a moment like this.
“Where are we going?” she whispered, noticing with a cold chill that she could still hear the screaming from the banquet hall.
“I am following Yennefer and Geralt’s scents,” he said. “This would be an easy task for a vampire even under normal circumstances, but the sorceress’ perfume makes it even more than trivial. It is as though I had a map – ah!”

They turned the corner and Fjola could see the dim light of a torch all the way down the corridor and around another bend ahead of them, but as they got closer, she realized the glow was much too bright for something as simple as that. There was a slight heat as well, though she could feel and smell the fresh winter air blowing in from somewhere, which cooled it. The two of them turned the final corner to be met with a rather horrible scene.

There were ashes and bits of crumbled and broken stone everywhere, a few tapestries and paintings completely obliterated nearest the blast and still smoldering further off. Large chunks of charcoal, what used to be the wooden slats of barrels, were littered all over the floor in pieces, most still smoking as well. Geralt stood over the remains with his sword out, Yen casting some sort of illuminating spell over the whole catastrophe.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked sternly.
“I came to help you investigate,” Regis started, but Geralt cut him off.
“No you, you,” he growled, pointing at Fjola.
“It’s unimportant right now,” Yen shot. “Geralt, what can you make of all this?”
“Someone blew the barrels of booze, that’s for sure,” he said, running his fingers over a pile of rubble and using his Witcher senses.
“No shit,” Yen shot, but Geralt continued as though she hadn’t interjected, his fingers prodding different bits of the ruins and his eyes cat-like in the glow of the sorceress’ spell as he continued examining the scene.

Fjola was fascinated watching him work, thinking him a much better Witcher than vintner, though she kept that opinion to herself.

“Footprints,” he said, gesturing further away, toward the outside of the castle. The four of them went through the hole that had been blasted in the wall carefully, Fjola noticing with interest that the snow had been melted for quite a distance around the explosion.

How could he see footprints? she wondered, but Geralt was hot on the trail and following a track she couldn’t see until they reached the snow.

“Here, toward the stables!” he yelled, noticing with annoyance that a large crowd had gathered nearby, over a hundred feast attendants too stubborn or too stupid to run for their lives and instead making their first thoughts their expensive horses or coaches. A group of knights, most still drunk, were trying – and failing – to hold the crowd at bay. The horses that hadn’t already bolted after the explosion were panicking and frothing at the mouth. Since they had come from the directions of the explosion and not the street or path outside the palace, they were able to slip behind the guards distracted by the chaos and find a couple of horses for themselves, which were all too happy to leave the area. Geralt and Yen practically flew past the crowd, Regis and Fjola in short pursuit, someone in the crowd shouting that they had just stolen their horse, but they disappeared into the night, hot on the trail Geralt had picked up with his Witcher senses.

Chapter 50: Pursuit

Chapter Text

Dettlaff paced back and forth in the main area of the cottage, his long fingers grazing the stubble on his chin anxiously. Something was not right – he could simply feel it.

Calm yourself, he urged. You are simply worried for them.

Still, something was continuing to eat at him from within – there was something off about the evening, something he could not place. Vampires were not psychics or soothsayers, but even humans experienced “gut feelings” from time to time.

Perhaps I should check on them, he thought. I can observe from the glass ceiling above the hall.

Suddenly, a horrendous boom sounded in the distance, followed by, very faintly, the sound of screams. He couldn’t make it out from this distance, but it was thanks to his vampiric senses and hearing that he even heard anything at all. He wasn’t worried any longer about whether or not to check in on them – he immediately shed his clothes, transformed into his bestial bat form, and flew off in the direction of the castle, nearly invisibly in the darkness of the night sky.

*

Syanna rode the horse she had stolen hard, whipping it roughly despite its tired state and the slick ice on the less populated roads she was taking to cover her tracks somewhat.

“Run, you shit! Run!”

The horse continued bolting as hard and fast as it could, foam collecting around the bit in its mouth, its eyes wild with fear and pain. Suddenly, as they neared the Sansretour valley and headed north, the horse slipped on a patch of ice Syanna did not see under the snow, throwing her from the saddle and collapsing, whinnying in pain. She stood up to look, fearful it had broken a leg, but to her fortune, it didn’t. To her misfortune, however, the horse was too exhausted to move any further, refusing to stand to its feet or budge from the spot in the snow in which it had collapsed. Syanna screamed in frustration, heading for a small, dark shack in the distance, trying her best to keep her footprints out of the snow as much as she could.

*

Fjola held onto Regis tightly from behind as he led their horse in close pursuit of Geralt and Yennefer’s, pushing her face into his back to avoid the stinging wind. He was unusually stiff, his brows furrowed deeply and his lips flattened thinly in anger or frustration, but when she asked him what was wrong, he merely shook his head and said it was nothing. Fjola knew he was lying to her, realizing she’d have to get used to it as a sharp contrast to Dettlaff’s more honest nature. Thinking of Dettlaff so suddenly hit her in the stomach; she wondered what he was doing at that moment and she had – for what seemed like the hundredth time that night – the sudden urge to just go home.

“I think we’ve almost caught up,” Geralt cried, “The tracks look brighter.”

Brighter? Fjola wondered. Must be a Witcher thing.

As they continued toward the Sansretour valley and started north, they could see the outlines of Corvo Bianco not far off. Geralt suddenly slowed, looking around the ground from his horse with deep interest. He dismounted and began scanning the icy road they were on, realizing the prints were hard to locate across the ice and frozen dirt. Regis dismounted as well, getting close and glancing back at Fjola to make sure she was out of earshot.

“I know who it is,” he whispered in Geralt’s ear. “I can smell Syanna nearly a mile off.”
“Then help me find the trail again,” the Witcher sneered.
“She’s dangerous. Fjola needs to leave.”
“So then leave,” Geralt snapped.
“I can’t let her go alone, but I cannot abandon you either. Syanna is volatile, even for you. Would Yennefer accompany her?”
“Ask her yourself,” he said, his fingers running over a cracked part of the ice.

Regis gave him a half-smile and approached Yen, but suddenly heard something terrifying – a screaming horse. He looked over quickly to Geralt, who looked off into the same direction.

“I heard it too,” he said, jumping onto his and Yennefer’s mount and taking off in the direction of the shrieking animal.

No time now, Regis thought ruefully, leaping onto his and Fjola’s horse and following Geralt with great haste.

“Fjola,” he called back, “No matter what happens, if you are in danger, please run.”
“What? Why would I just abandon…”
“Remember earlier; you said you would listen to whatever I said,” he snapped, but felt guilty for doing so immediately and said, a little more delicately, “I promise you I shall be fine. Please just do as I say.”

Fjola hesitated, then nodded. Doubtful but satisfied, Regis slapped the reigns and continued their gallop towards the sound of the screaming horse.

*

Gods, damn it, Syanna cursed as she peered outside the shack through the small crack in the door, watching as the knight knelt by the horse and assessed its state. He stood slowly, trying in vain to find the rider in the darkness beyond his torch light.

“Hello?” he called, his red feather plume being flattened against his plated helmet by the wind. “Is there anyone about? Is there someone in need?”

He began walking toward the shack, unsheathing his blade and puffing out his chest. Syanna eyed him warily, taking the sharp point of her hairpin between her fingers as a weapon and preparing to ambush him as he opened the door. As she did so, however, she noticed something peculiar – there was a large sack of something dangling from his belt, bulging and clanking as he walked. She realized it was coin.

No honest knight would ever have a coin purse that big, she thought with a smirk. Perhaps violence is not needed here.

“Sir knight,” she called in an overly-sweet voice, keeping her hair pin at the ready anyway, just to be safe, “I’m but a poor maiden, desperately seeking to escape my tormentors. If you could see it in your heart to aid me, or escort me to a safe location, I’d be ever so grateful.”
“Hm, gratitude does not put food and drink on the table, my dear lady,” he said. “Knights must eat, too.”
“Oh, thank the gods,” she said in her normal tone. As she exited the shack, the knight seemed to blanch in response to her face.
“Ah, my Lady, I did not realize it was you!” he cried, bowing deeply.
“Cut the shit,” she snapped. “You will take payment for protection, yes?”
“Ah, well,” he said, licking his wind-chapped lips hungrily, “Not if… I mean only when…”
“I told you to cut the act. I have jewels, each worth several tens of times over whatever pittance you carry in the bag on your hip. But your loyalty is to be to that – my payment – not to your duchess, not to your duchy, not to the empty vows and oaths you took as a knight. Is that understood? Any dissidence will earn you a slow, painful death. Your commitment, however, will earn you great rewards.”
“M-my lady,” he still stalled. “My honor is not…”

Syanna rolled her eyes and brought out a couple of trivial pieces of jewelry that, while not as impressive as the rest of the heirlooms she kept hidden in her pockets, nonetheless caught the torch light quite prettily and made the knight lick his lips again.

“Protect me and aid me, and these shall be yours, with more to come as long as your loyalty does not waver.”

She knew most peoples’ loyalty lied solely with money or riches; this knight was no different.

“I accept,” he said, nodding and swooping in to take the jewelry.
“Ah ah ah!” she said, holding them just out of reach, but taking a ring and dropping it into his palm, “Just a taste, first. You will earn much more as you continue, I promise you that.”
“Yes, my lady,” he bowed, shoving the ring into his already-bulging coin purse quickly.
“Good. Now, I likely have pursuers,” she snapped. “Kill them.”

Chapter 51: Escape

Chapter Text

The group crested the hill and saw, down the slope and ahead of them, a crude hut with a portly knight sitting outside of it, his sword drawn as he waited expectantly for something – or someone. The horse they had heard was not far off, exhausted and panting on its side, but otherwise unharmed. Geralt began to ride down first, Yennefer raising her hands, ready to cast a spell, but Regis stopped them.

“Yennefer, please – Geralt and I could handle him just as easily as you can – I beg you, take Fjola home.”
“I am not some courier or escort,” she snapped, but she recognized the danger Fjola would be in as the only unarmed person there. She gave a small hiss and dismounted her and Geralt’s horse and settled into Regis’ place as he jumped to the ground to stand beside Geralt.
“Regis…!” Fjola tried, but Yennefer slapped the reigns and launched the horse forward before she could protest any further. The sorceress turned the horse to the right and took off with Fjola hanging onto her, giving one last look at Regis before they disappeared into the darkness.

Geralt dismounted and stepped forward, the vampire following him closely and casually as they approached the ready knight. Regis began sniffing the air subtly, trying to find Syanna, turning toward the road Yennefer had just fled down with Fjola. Syanna’s scent was strong here, but…

Suddenly the knight tossed a small bomb, catching them unawares as a cloud of green enveloped them, Regis howling in pain as small shards of metal embedded in his skin, making him feel weak and as though he was on fire. The knight must have had a lousy arm, as he had been aiming for Geralt, but to the Witcher’s fortune (and Regis’ misfortune), the vampire took the brunt of it.

“It’s dimeritium!” he hissed, backing away as the metal slowly, very slowly began working itself from his skin. Bombs were rarely, if ever carried by most ordinary knights – occasionally they had ones such as dimeritium or moon dust for dealing with monsters, but only the richest or most decorated tended to have them. This knight did not look like either – black market dealings or partnerships with thieves and criminals was the far more likely scenario.

Geralt and the knight clashed swords, twirling about and fighting, the knight surprisingly quick for one who appeared so oafish. Regis tried to smell the air again but the dimeritium was still affecting him, clouding his senses until his body’s natural healing capabilities could catch up. Geralt was not struggling in the least, and his victory was assured, but Regis couldn’t help but feel anxious. Syanna had not appeared yet.

*

Fjola and Yennefer nearly flew down the road despite the ice, Fjola terrified, upset, and angry with Regis for dismissing her. She understood it was likely to keep her safe from whatever danger he and Geralt were going to fight, but she still felt a somewhat misplaced fury stemming from her concern and worry.

They’ll be fine, she thought. He’s just a knight.

Suddenly, Fjola and Yennefer heard something whizzing through the air, but too late – a cross bow bolt struck Yennefer right in the thigh, throwing her from their mount and into the snow. Fjola leapt after her, checking her leg frantically.

“Shit!” she cried, grabbing handfuls of snow to try to numb the wound and staunch the bleeding.
“Don’t worry about it,” Yen said through gritted teeth, trying to cast a spell to heal herself, “Just grab the horse.”

Fjola nodded and turned, but a figure quickly sucker-punched her in the stomach, doubling her over as she gasped for air. She saw a woman clad in servant’s clothes grab the horse and attempt to take off. Fjola leapt up as best as she could and yanked at the woman’s leg, but she turned and aimed a kick. She jumped back and avoided it, but caught a glimpse of the attacker’s face – even in the darkness, she could make out the grim, nobly-born face of Syanna. She gasped and the disgraced woman used her distraction to flee while she could, disappearing down the dark road with the stolen horse. Yennefer aimed a spell toward her but it missed as she was already too far gone.

“Well shit,” Yen said, trying to steady herself despite her injured leg. Fjola took a look at it, and despite never really being very good at healing, even she could tell the sorceress’ spell was doing its work remarkably well. “I should keep this as a souvenir,” she said, brandishing the arrow she had pulled from her leg.
“Here,” Fjola said, putting her arm around Yennefer’s back to support her, “Regis and Geralt have probably taken care of that knight already, and it’s not that far.”

The two of them began walking slowly back, Fjola’s mind racing with the knowledge that Syanna was now free – but as to what she was up to, gods only knew.

*

Geralt swung his sword deftly and smashed the knight against the side of his helmet with the flat of his blade, making him finally collapse lifelessly. He knew he wasn’t dead, but as long as he was down for the count, he was satisfied for now.

“Is he dead?” Regis asked, still rubbing his eyes.
“No,” Geralt replied, keeping his blade unsheathed just in case, “We might need him for questioning. When he wakes up again, anyway.”
“I’m sure he helped Syanna in some capacity,” Regis said, his voice heavy with obvious distaste.
“You gonna tell Dettlaff?”

Regis pondered in thought for a moment.

“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “While his fury would be great knowing I withheld information from him willingly and willfully, I doubt it would be so great as for him to want to cause me bodily harm. I could see, however, him being even more greatly agitated were he to discover that his former lover and manipulator was free once more. He would not worry for his own physical well-being, obviously, but I know the knowledge of her enjoying the freedoms of Beauclair, unrestrained and unchecked, would burn at the core of him due to his strict morals and rather biased sense of justice and equity. Perhaps in discussing these matters with him, we could still make some headway into realigning these said perceptions of his, address once more the skew with which he views and reacts to these such situations, to…”
“Regis, fuck, I just asked if you were going to tell him or not.”
“Apologies,” he said with a sheepish expression, “The short answer is, I’m not sure yet.”

Geralt gave a curt nod and turned back to examine the knight, inspecting his belt and finding several different bombs attached to it.

“Knights don’t normally carry these around,” Geralt remarked, holding one in his hand, Regis nodding.
“I know,” he said, “He must either be very honorable or very dishonorable, thought my heart feels as though it’s far more likely the latter.”

They both suddenly sensed someone – or something – approaching from the road. The Witcher ran forward to look, still holding his blade aloft, Regis following as his eyes had finally started to clear. They both looked down the path and noticed, to their collective dismay, Fjola and Yennefer making their way back, horseless. Geralt jumped forward to help, collecting the sorceress, who squirmed and waved him away, insisting he not make a fuss. Regis looked furious and Fjola gave him an apologetic look, but he merely began silently running his hands up and down her arms, examining her with concern.

“It was Syanna,” she said, and Regis froze, staring into her eyes.
“I had a feeling,” he said grimly. Fjola suddenly felt irritated and angry again.
“You knew?” she snapped, and Regis suddenly looked contrite. “You knew it was her, didn’t you, and you didn’t say anything? Why?”
“What would it have mattered?” he returned shortly. “She has escaped, and that’s that.”
“Who has escaped?” came an impossibly deep, rumbling growl from behind them.

The group of them turned to see Dettlaff in his most bestial form, landing gently despite his monstrous size and figure. He kept his distance from them, and despite his lack of expressive eyes or clear facial features, Fjola could still sense he felt uneasy. She tried to walk forward and embrace him, but he backed away slightly, still trying to lurk in the shadows.

He’s still nervous around me in that form? she thought with pity, but realized she had only seen him like that one other time, at their initial meeting. It made sense he might still be self-conscious. He covered himself somewhat with his wings, which was impressive considering his absolutely massive size. He turned his eyeless face toward Regis.

Who has escaped?” he repeated with a sinister growl, his fangs glinting in the light of the torch Geralt had lit. He must have already known the answer, but Regis complied with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes as if expecting a blow.
“Syanna has. She caused an explosion by igniting some barrels of liquor in the castle, fleeing through the opening it caused and presumably hiring this knight to help her escape.”

Dettlaff growled and stomped over to the knight, towering over him maliciously while everyone just stood by and watched. Yennefer was wise enough not to interfere, and Geralt’s jaw clenched but he followed her lead. Regis watch ed him cautiously, though also did nothing to intervene as Dettlaff grabbed the now-waking knight by the throat and lift ed him above his head, starting to squeeze.

“Where is she headed?” he snarled, the knight kicking his legs and starting to gasp, lifting the face plate of his helmet in a vain attempt to get more air.
“Dettlaff…” Regis tried, but Dettlaff roared at him and turned back to the portly knight.
“Tell me!” he roared, squeezing harder still, his claws digging into his throat.

The knight’s feet were flailing wildly, kicking at Dettlaff with no effect whatsoever, clawing at the vampire’s massive hand around his neck fruitlessly and emitting horrifying gurgling noises as the life was literally being choked out of him. His eyes were bulging in his head and his face was turning purple, but Fjola saw to her horror that it was the same knight who had left her at the mercy of the bandits all those months ago. While his presence was quite a shock, the greater one was seeing Dettlaff become so feral in her presence. Not since the night they had first met had she seen his fury and monstrous nature unleashed, the ease with which he could harm and kill laid bare, and it terrified her. She gasped, covering her mouth with her hands, and Dettlaff turned at the sound, suddenly freezing. Her eyes were wide and staring, glossy with sheer terror, and he suddenly felt ashamed and ill, something he had never felt before when dealing with an enemy. Something hurt within his chest, burning there with shame, and he tossed the knight roughly against the wall of the shack and immediately took off, flying into the blackness of the sky without so much as another sound.

“Dettlaff!” Fjola cried, trying to chase after him, but he was too fast and used his vampiric skill of disappearing immediately, having vanished almost as soon as his wings had left the ground. Her face fell and she merely stood for a moment, watching the space where he had just been, the knight he had harmed still lying limply against the wall, wheezing and gurgling. Geralt approached him, kneeling down to catch his gaze.

“You need to tell us what happened here,” he said in his gravelly voice, “Or a vampire’s going to be the least of your problems.”

The knight’s eyes got wide again and he clutched at his throat. Suddenly, Regis cocked his head to the side, listening and scowling.

“There is a cavalry coming,” he said tersely, “Definitely the ducal guard. It’s not wise for us to be seen here,” he said to Fjola, gesturing with his chin down the road, “Get a head start and I’ll meet you momentarily.”
“But…”
“Please,” he said with a tight expression.

She hesitated briefly, then nodded and began running down the road and out of sight, but abruptly skidded to halt and turned back quickly to run to Geralt and Yennefer.

“Thanks for the incredible evening!” she said with a small curtsy before she spun and continued running back down the path again.

They shook their heads and snickered a bit before returning their attention to the knight. Geralt looked over to Regis, who was creeping behind the shack to disappear.

“I wouldn’t stay if I were you,” the Witcher called, “Not even to eavesdrop.”
“I’m not,” came his voice, deeper and more gravelly than usual, bellowing out of the darkness and causing the flesh on the back of Geralt’s neck to prickle.

The Witcher jerked back in surprise as he suddenly saw a massive, inhumanly large gray bat lift up from behind the shack, nod, and flap its wings, flying in the same direction in which Fjola had fled, a small pile of black, velvet clothes hanging from its jaws. He vanished quickly into the night as Dettlaff had.

“I’ve seen stranger shit,” Geralt remarked, “But that comes close. Damn close.”

Yennefer agreed and the two of them waited for the quickly-approaching cavalry.

Chapter 52: Warmth

Chapter Text

Fjola was running down the pathway as quickly as she could in the darkness, trying to remember what direction Corvo Bianco had been in when they had passed it. She could see the palace in the distance behind her and tried to use that as her guide, but suddenly, she was lifted from the ground from behind and was sailing through the air, a massive pair of clawed feet gripping her over the shoulders and beneath her armpits. She somehow instinctively knew not to scream, but looked up in fear regardless, only to behold a large, furry gray bat above her, a set of black clothes held between its massive fangs. She smiled with relief and tried to nuzzle her cheek against Regis’ leg, but her movements threw his flight off-balance and they swerved a bit in the air, Fjola’s stomach turning. Regis said something but it was muffled by the items in his mouth. It sounded urgent and pleading, however, and she easily understood that she should hang as still as she could while he flew them away from potential danger.

After about a minute or so, she asked him, “Can you see Syanna from up there?”
“Nn-nn,” came his muffled reply. She hesitated.
“What about Dettlaff?”

Regis shook his head and Fjola fell silent, letting him carry them to whatever destination he had in mind. Only a few short minutes had gone by, however, before she was shivering deeply and uncontrollably, the winter chill made worse by the altitude and force of the wind. Regis instantly began descending, aiming toward another seemingly abandoned shack near the edge of the woods and Sansretour. As they neared the ground, he began flapping his wings harder to stay steadily aloft, setting Fjola gently onto her feet and fluttering down to land himself. She rubbed her arms quickly for warmth and looked over to Regis, who seemed to hesitate before opening his wings wide in… was it invitation? She saw with curiosity that he did not have arms and wings like Dettlaff, or even extra appendages, though he did have eyes, though from what little she could see in the moonlight, they looked entirely black save for his red irises, rather like his other bestial form. Instead his arms had simply become his wings, massive and leathery, and tipped with long, cruel claws. Still, Fjola knew that he was in control of himself, and practically threw herself against him, his wings curling around her to keep her warm. And he did – his fur was impossibly comforting, soft and practically radiating heat. His large bat ears twitched back as she ran her fingers through his softness, pressing her head against his chest.

“Let’s get inside,” he growled, leading her towards the door.
“It’s probably locked,” she said, but Regis gave her a very knowing look she recognized even in his bat form and disappeared into gray and blue mist, filtering in through the door and unlocking it from within.

She ran in and practically slammed and locked the door behind her, looking around frantically for both Regis and a hearth. There was a little moonlight to illuminate the interior, but it was still difficult to see most of it.

“Apologies,” he said, Fjola realizing his voice was coming from around a small stone wall with a fireplace, around which she could see a windowless room with a small bed. “Just… give me a moment,” he said, rustling around, “I’m getting redressed.”

I don’t know why you’re bothering, she thought to herself with a smirk.

She heard Regis continue dressing while she looked around the small cottage for wood and kindling for the hearth, which she noticed with interest was double-sided. The style had been common in Skellige, the purpose being to allow two rooms to be heated with only one fire to save on wood, which went quickly during the harsh mountain winters. She looked down to inspect it and caught a glimpse of Regis’ bare legs on the other side, which were surprisingly toned, but straightened when he cleared his throat nervously.

“How come there are so many empty cabins and cottages around Toussaint?” she asked, trying to avoid awkwardness.

She was also genuinely curious – during their flight earlier, Fjola had noticed a great many dark, seemingly abandoned homes, especially lining the Sansretour river. Most of them were small shacks, really, but seemed sturdily built and equipped to handle the winter.

“Most of them are utilized only during the warmer months,” he explained. “As the river freezes, lack of access to fresh water drives most closer to Beauclair, where they often have much nicer homes. These are merely kept as hunting cabins – or as a private place for spouses to have a tryst or two.”

Is that what we’re doing? she wondered with sudden guilt. Even with Dettlaff’s blessing, does this count as infidelity?

Her mind turned to him softly and her heart sank with worry for him, and sadness at his departure.

“Where did Dettlaff go?” she asked, rooting about the cottage in the darkness as best as she could.
“To soothe his nerves,” Regis replied, his voice muffled as he pulled his shirt over his head. “He’s likely incredibly upset and does not wish to act rashly. I rather admire him for it; his restraint can be unexpected, but I am glad of it – too often he reacts more passionately first. I’m glad to see my consistent nagging and sermonizing has had an affect on him, over the years,” he said with mirth.
“Will he be okay?” she asked, quietly.
“Yes,” he said, “Eventually. I get the feeling he also wanted to give us some space this evening.”

Fjola blushed and felt warmth blooming inside of her, though was suddenly oddly nervous and insecure.

What if he’s changed his mind? What if he’s not in the mood? What if I’m not ready for this? What if we feel guilty, or Dettlaff becomes jealous? What if Regis becomes jealous? What will the sleeping arrangements be? What if I’m thinking too far ahead to begin with – maybe Regis will rethink things, realize I’m not worth the hassle. Or Dettlaff will. Oh, gods, I can’t lose them. I can’t lose either of them.

Fjola stopped herself and focused on breathing in, and out, slowly and purposefully. They both said they wanted this. She wanted this. Everything will be alright, she reassured herself, returning her concentration to trying to locate some kindling. She continued searching and found some old rags, parchment, and wood bits that could do, and by the time she had finished that, Regis was coming around the corner, rolling back his sleeves and grabbing some of the wood that was stacked in the corner. Fjola went to help him and noticed that some of the buttons of his shirt were left undone, revealing his chest and collarbone. She felt her belly flutter and her face turn hot; Regis looked at her but she couldn’t read his expression in the dark. They stacked the small logs within the fireplace, but realized they did not have flint or matches.

“Hm, one moment,” Regis said, and soon Fjola heard an odd, scratching sound, similar to two swords scraping together. Sparks flew out in the darkness and caught the kindling, beginning to illuminate the cottage and Regis’ face, which was surprisingly bat-like again. He was in the same form as when he had attacked her last month – she felt her skin prickle slightly, but was not afraid.

“A bit of vampire magic,” he explained before she could ask, holding up his incredibly long claws and scraping them together before he smoothly turned back into his human form, his talons and fangs disappearing. “When one is in their more vampiric form, their claws can create sparks through friction. It’s useful for small fires or intimidating an enemy.”

He sat down on the floor in front of the fire with a small groan and Fjola followed suit, curling up next to him but not daring to touch yet. He was currently a little hard to read, and she did not want to push him or make him uncomfortable if he was upset by the night’s events.

“Now what enemies could you possibly have, Regis?” she asked, staring into the fire as it began spreading. She shivered, waiting for the warmth to spread, too.
“I’ve acquired a few,” he replied loftily, gazing down at her.

She looked up to him and saw with relief that he was smiling and relaxed. Fjola leaned in a little bit closer, hesitant, but Regis wrapped his arm about her shoulders and brought her snugly against his side. She pressed herself to him more tightly, wrapping her arms around his waist and sighing as his heat warmed her almost instantly. He chuckled and she felt it rumble against her; she loved the sensation and giggled a little bit, rubbing her cheek against him affectionately.

“Is this how you imagined the evening would go?” he asked after a few quiet moments.
“No,” she admitted, “But then again, most things in my life don’t.”
“Hm, such as?”
“Well, I mean, my parents, for one,” she said bluntly, and Regis recoiled. She was just being honest but didn’t want to sound too grim, so she continued. “The temple, and fleeing it. Everything else. Meeting you. And Dettlaff. Working in a vineyard, then as your apprentice. Getting to go to a royal event and dance in a palace ballroom. Falling for two incredibly kind, handsome vampires.”

She could see Regis blushing in the firelight. It was the first time either of them had truly acknowledged it out loud before. Sure, they had already flirted about and began indulging in some of their more physical desires, but neither of them had mentioned their feelings for one another. He took a deep breath and held it for a moment before letting it out shakily.

“Fjola,” he began, and she felt herself beginning to tremble. He suddenly looked concerned. “Why are you frightened?” he asked.
“I’m scared of rejection,” she blurted. To her surprise, he began to laugh, heartily.
“Why would you ever think that?” he asked. “I thought I made it abundantly clear earlier what my intentions were.”
“Well, physically, yes, but…”

She turned away a bit. It had been so easy admitting her feelings to Dettlaff – his honesty had freed her, emboldened her to be more honest, but Regis – he was so damn hard to read. She felt his fingers under her chin as he lifted her face to his and turned to her more fully.

“My dearest,” he said, somber and serious as he gazed into her eyes, “I am madly in love with you.”

Hearing him say it, Fjola felt she was going to cry, but instead she just closed her eyes and savored the moment.

“I love you too,” she breathed, opening her eyes again to see Regis staring at her hungrily.

He leaned forward and kissed her deeply, pressing his mouth against hers firmly and clutching her shoulders with his long hands, his fingers digging into her deeply and roughly. Fjola readjusted herself to be on her knees, sitting on his lap and straddling him, squeezing her thighs together on the outsides of his lustfully. He moaned and slid his tongue into her mouth, one hand now undoing her hair and the other clutching at her hips. He was already aching with need and she could feel him hard and excited against her once more, thinking with lust instead of terror of the last time she had been faced with this. He rubbed himself against her and growled softly, kissing and sucking on her neck. She let out a groan of pleasure and ground herself against him, forcing him to elicit harsh whimpers of pleasure himself. He began undoing her laces frantically as she fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, practically ripping it away from his body and exposing his chest. He did the same to her, his mouth traveling down her body and kissing her every place he could.

“Please,” she whimpered, “Regis, please…”

He lifted her up immediately and carried her to the bed, the two of them fulfilling every desire they could and had been dreaming of for months, finally collapsing with exhaustion near dawn, practically in tears with relief and delight as they both fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Chapter 53: Dettlaff's Nerves

Chapter Text

Dettlaff woke from his fitful sleep suddenly, the light from dawn illuminating the shallow cave he had found in the side of Mount Gorgon and falling onto his eyeless face. He stretched his wings and appendages behind him slowly, yawning and exposing his knife-like fangs to the air, looking rather like a large cat as he did so. Straightening and finally standing up, he sensed the area around himself, examining the snowy landscape through his vampiric senses. Judging from where he was on the mountain, it would be too risky for him to descend at this time – if he flew, he would be easily spotted in the sky, however, he could not use either of his other physical forms, as he had no clothes and it would be a long, arduous walk that would have to be halted before reaching civilization, regardless. Walking nude through Beauclair or the populated areas surrounding it was obviously not an option. He considered traveling as mist, knowing it would take a decent amount of time and there was still a risk of being spotted, but still, better than lying about the cave all day. Still, he was in no particular rush, wanting to give Fjola and Regis some time together, as Regis himself had done for them. Sighing, he simply continued stretching, letting his mind wander to recent events.

Syanna, he thought with sudden distaste. That fiend has escaped her well-deserved imprisonment. I am ashamed I did not see her from the air, though admittedly, I was looking more urgently for Fjola and Regis.

He growled at the thought of his cold, manipulative ex-lover, likely using another foolishly besotted male for her own purposes, stringing him along as her own personal puppet. He smirked at a sudden, random thought. The mental image of a puppet on a string oddly enough reminded him of his abandoned pastime of making toys in the foreclosed-upon shop in the port – it had distracted him well enough then, and gave him a sense of serenity and joy. He had liked to leave them on the doorsteps of local children, especially the needy ones whose parents struggled to find food, let alone toys. While he did not want to attract attention to himself, the deed made him feel good about himself once more, and Regis had often encouraged it, nurturing that part of him passionately.

“It speaks of your true nature,” he had said, “Your deep-down humanity.”

While Dettlaff would not describe these actions as part of a human inclination to do kind things with no reward (seeing as how, personally, most humans were the exact opposite of such), he did have to admit it made him feel less monstrous. The local myth the children had started amongst themselves, that it was a fairy or magical imp that was bringing toys to the good ones, also amused Dettlaff to no end, and he didn’t mind accidentally encouraging it. Children were the least offensive part of humanity, to him – they were often purer, more innocent, prone to helping each other through purely sympathetic reasons or simply knowing what was “right.” The harsh realities of life had not beaten them down and tortured them into cruelty yet, and their wide-eyed belief in random, untamed magic was silly, but nonetheless endearing. He did not desire offspring of his own, however, and he felt a sudden rush of gratitude that Fjola was not a vampire and children were an impossibility for them. Their mating was carefree and reckless, and he instantly felt hot and taut at the thought of her.

Then his mind strayed to the thought of what she and Regis were likely doing at this particular moment, and he smiled. He wanted them to be happy, both of them, and he hoped dearly that their coupling would help mend the wounds between them. Dettlaff breathed in deeply, savoring the thought of his lover being pleased and happy. He imagined Regis as joyful and content, as well, picturing the two of them together, what it must feel like for Fjola to run her hands through his short hair and mutton chops, over his collar and down his shoulders, cradling his waist between her palms, bringing him in roughly for a kiss, tilting his chin up slightly…

Wait, he thought, his heart pounding, suddenly realizing the perspective he was fantasizing about was his own. Once he noticed it, however, he couldn’t stop. He emitted a low, soft rumble as suddenly fleeting images of affectionate moments between them flooded his mind. Pressing their heads together in close moments of understanding, holding each other after Regis’ relapse, his ear rubbing gently across Dettlaff’s nose as they pulled apart, the incredible scent of herbs that always smothered him – it all suddenly felt overwhelming, and he burned with it.

Impossible, he told himself, shaking his head. Regis has enough on his plate. He is just finishing his recovery, he had to attend a royal feast that ended up a nightmare, and he and Fjola are just now starting their own journey. He hasn’t even returned home officially yet and I am already…

He shook his head again, angry with himself.

I can overcome this. I am simply feeling lustful because of Fjola – perhaps it truly is a little bit of jealousy. We all wanted this, but the feeling is only natural.

Dettlaff pondered it some more and decided that that was all it was, primal jealousy stemming from now having to share his mate, especially with his oldest, closest friend and blood brother.

Things will return to normal once Regis is back and we have settled. I’m sure of it.

Chapter 54: "Our"

Chapter Text

Regis woke first, the sudden jolt of sleeping next to another person – and a naked one at that – bringing him to wakefulness rather quickly. He opened his eyes to look over at her quietly, smiling at her form wrapped against his. The vampire was lying on his back, and Fjola had curled up against his left side, her leg lying over his waist and her head over his heart, her hand lying comfortably against his stomach, while his left arm was wrapped around her, his hand lying on the small of her back just above her buttocks. She stirred somewhat, and Regis noticed something cool and wet against his chest. Moving very slightly to look, he realized Fjola had drooled on him in her sleep. Not able to contain himself, he started chuckling, his body shaking and waking her. It took her a few seconds to come to, but she looked confused, then disgusted as she wiped her saliva away from her cheek and his chest.

“Ugh,” she groaned, “Sorry, Regis.”
“Not to worry,” he said softly, kissing the top of her head. “This is a wondrous way to wake up.”
“It is, isn’t it?” she said, smiling broadly, her shoulders relaxing as she looked at him in – was it gratitude? Regis wasn’t sure what to call it.
“What’s that look for?” he asked, bringing his hand to her face and rubbing her cheek. She pressed it against him and smiled again.
“I’m just happy,” she said. “I’m happy I finally got to see you again, happy that you’re coming home, and happy for… this,” she said, gesturing to the two of them still under the covers, nuzzling against him once more. Regis sighed.
“As am I, my darling,” he said, squeezing her gently. “It amuses me to think that as of this time yesterday, I had no idea I was even to see you, yet. What an unexpected – and welcome – end to my self-imposed exile.”
“Welcome?” she asked with amusement. “Um, Regis, I hate to remind you, but…”
“Oh, yes, that unpleasantness… well, aside from a crazed member of the royal family escaping, my taking a dimeritium bomb to the face, and Yennefer getting shot with a crossbow bolt in the leg, I’d say the evening was a rousing success,” he laughed, Fjola returning it and his heart burning with joy. “Gods,” he murmured, suddenly more solemn, “I still feel as though I don’t deserve this.”
“What?” Fjola was scowling.
“After everything that happened… what I did to you…” He turned back to her, his face dour and sad. “Fjola, I am so sorry.”

Fjola’s shoulders fell but she straightened herself and Regis sat up to meet her, face-to-face.

“Regis,” she said, her hands coming up to rest on the hair on his cheeks, thumbing it softly, “Regis I am very beyond that now. Truly.”
“Fjola. Fjola, I could have killed you.”
“But you didn’t.”
“How can you be so blasé about this?” he asked incredulously, scowling. “How can you move on as if nothing has happened?”
“And how can you preach to Dettlaff – and anyone else within earshot – about how people need to live more in the present, while still punishing yourself for the past?”
“I see you picked up Dettlaff’s unfortunate habit of repeating my lectures back to me,” he said with a deeper scowl, but suddenly smiled. “How alike the two of you are.”
“And you and I?” she asked, thumbing his cheeks affectionately again. “Do we have more in common than just a fondness for herbs and potions?”
“We do,” he said, bringing her palm to his mouth and kissing it.

She removed her hand and used it to clutch his head, bringing him in for a deeper kiss, her tongue in his mouth instantly, voraciously. Regis moaned and she pushed him back on the bed, straddling him.

“Well our fondness for relations of a sexual nature is certainly a commonality between us,” he started, but Fjola kissed him to quiet him and he followed her lead.

*

They dressed and split one of the duplicate desserts they had smuggled away from the palace last night, noticing with relief that they were mostly intact, despite the scrapes and excitement they had had.

“I hope Dettlaff likes them,” she said, closing her bag. “Only a couple got squished, but maybe he won’t be too disappointed – I don’t see him eat too many sweets, but still.”
“While I’m sure you’ve noticed he will not necessarily turn down a treat, Dettlaff is indeed more enamored of savory dishes,” Regis said, “Perhaps that’s why he enjoyed Nazair so much. Or perhaps Nazair is why he likes rich food.”
“He said he’d love to bring me there, one day.”
“And visit you should! I’m sure you would love it, my dear. The sand, the sea, the… salt.” He chuckled. “You would be in heaven.”
“Would you come with us?” she asked.

Regis froze.

“I am… not sure.”
“Why not?”
“You must realize that while you now have two lovers, Dettlaff and I still only have one. Sharing is more palatable when not faced with one’s, ah… competition.”
“I thought you said neither of you would be jealous?” she asked skeptically, putting her hands on her hips.
“This is not about jealousy, but rather an innate awkwardness of confronting the other mate your mate is sleeping with. While neither of us will or would fight the other, I doubt imposing on each other’s vacations or intimate moments would be at all welcome.”
“Oh,” she said, and Regis thought he detected a hint of disappointment. He raised an eyebrow.
“Is there something troubling you about this, Fjola?” he asked, sounding somewhat amused.
“No, I guess we’ll all just need to learn to adjust. But, I do have to ask – what will our sleeping arrangements look like?”
“Hm, admittedly, I had been curious about that, as well. Perhaps taking turns could work.”

Fjola made a face.

“What?” he laughed.
“Feels cheap.”
“Tsk, we know you’re not a piece of property, my dear. It was merely an amicable suggestion.”

She still looked doubtful and raised her eyebrows. Regis’ heart suddenly fluttered at the sight of her looking mildly irritated and he pulled her in for a kiss. She lightened up as she returned it, giggling as he nibbled at her ear. He parted from her and grabbed the handle of the door to leave, but turned to eye her up for a moment before removing his velvet coat and placing it around her shoulders. She tried to refuse but her just wrapped her more tightly.

“Remember, vampires do not feel the cold or heat as smartly as you humans. To me, this will be like a walk on a cool spring day, nothing more.”

Fjola scrutinized him for a moment before relenting and thanking him repeatedly, their walk home slow and enjoyable.

*

When Regis and Fjola arrived back at the cottage, they both noticed a little sadly that Dettlaff had not returned home yet. Regis quickly started a fire to warm the main room and kitchen while Fjola retrieved a large blanket from her and Dettlaff’s bed and, after changing from her gown to her normal, everyday wear, went back downstairs and wrapped the two of them up in it to sit in front of the hearth. They held each other in silence for a time before she began falling asleep, so Regis collected her gently and carried her back upstairs. He settled her down and began to walk back out quietly but she made a soft noise and he turned back around again.

“Where are you going?” she asked sadly.
“You should get some rest.”
“But what about you?”
“I’ll be downstairs. Is it too cold in here for you?” he asked, eyeing the small fireplace located on the wall facing the foot of the bed. “I can light another fire.”
“The one downstairs will bring up enough hot air,” she whimpered, stifling a yawn. “What I meant was, why don’t you lie down too?”

Regis’ mouth went tight and his eyebrows knit with concern.

“Fjola, this bed belongs to you and Dettlaff. I do not feel it would be appropriate for me to try to occupy it myself.”
“Huh? You just said it was mine, too. So, I’m giving you permission.”
“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said somberly, shaking his head. “Some boundaries should just remain in place.”
“Oh,” she muttered with disappointment. “Okay.”
“Sleep well.”
“Mmm.”

Regis exited the room but left the door ajar to help encourage the flow of heat that would inevitably creep upstairs once the fire was more established. He settled back down in front of it to read, poring over old notes in a tome of rare herbs he had pulled from his personal library, only to suddenly smell the musky, familiar notes of cardamom, cedar blossom, and sandalwood in the not-too-far distance. He continued reading, waiting for a few minutes before turning to face the door, watching as Dettlaff finally arrived as a cloud of red and black smoke. He seemed to start to materialize, then hesitated, drifting quickly into the small library beyond the stairs.

“Dettlaff?” he called softly. “What is the matter?”

Regis suddenly began to worry. Was he having second thoughts? A fit of jealousy or rage? Shame, perhaps, or regret? He approached the door, and waited only a few seconds before opening it to confront him. Instead of seeing an irritable or upset Dettlaff, however, Regis was greeted with his bare backside as he was starting to get dressed. The younger vampire turned his head over his shoulder and scowled, but said nothing as he finished pulling his pants up and securing them, though his torso was still bare.

“Was there something you needed?” he asked, turning a bit red. Regis blushed, too.
“Ah, forgive me, and forgive my intrusion. You breezed through so suddenly without speaking, I thought that perhaps you were unwell. I see now that you were merely, ah…” He faltered.
“Nothing to forgive,” Dettlaff said shortly. “During your recuperation I had to bathe you myself, if you recall, and neither of us had balked at the other’s nudity then.”
“Of course. It was kind of you to do so.”

They both looked away from each other.

Why is this so strange all of a sudden? Regis wondered. His thoughts drifted back to almost two months prior, when he had been imagining Fjola and Dettlaff together and found pleasure in picturing them both, but cleared his head before speaking again. That was just my lust overwhelming me at the time, he reasoned.

“I also apologize for the unpleasantness, last night,” trying to address the obvious and prod Dettlaff’s feelings on the subject. He was genuinely concerned.
“Did Fjola enjoy her evening, at least?” Dettlaff asked, trying to cut through their awkwardness by skirting around the subject and approaching one of mutual interest. Regis decided to acquiesce.
“Quite well, actually,” he said with a smile. “The food, conversation, dancing… she is quite lovely at it, by the way, you did a wonderful job teaching her.”
“Oh, she mentioned that?” he asked, looking a little sheepish. “I am not a courtier so my skills were barely adequate, I’m sure, but I am glad to hear you both enjoyed yourselves.”

There was no tone of bitterness in his voice, but Regis thought he detected that he was less than pleased about something, or preoccupied with a thought.

“Are you wondering if we…?”
“No,” he said flatly. “I already know.”
“Are you not upset?”
“Why would I be?” Dettlaff asked, sounding somewhat offended. “I encouraged it.”
“Yes, to both of us, privately, without the other’s knowledge or consent.”

Dettlaff raised an eyebrow, despite not detecting a rude tone.

“Do you feel regret, Regis?”
“Do you?”

Their eyes met and both of their faces softened.

“Thank you,” Regis whispered.
“Fjola is not my property, Regis. She made these decisions herself.”
“I know that,” he said, “But all the same – were you to have forbidden it, or expressed your reticence…”
“I had no such plans.”
“But why? Do you not feel jealousy?”
“Hm, perhaps a little, though it’s a minor, instinctual feeling, easily overcome with the knowledge that you are both happy.” He froze for a moment, scowling in concern. “You are both happy, yes?”
“Absolutely,” Regis sighed, the laugh back in his voice. Dettlaff relaxed, too.
“Where is she now?” Dettlaff asked, lifting his head slightly to listen. “Asleep?”
“Yes, she was falling asleep in front of the fire, so I placed her in your bed.”

There was a beat as Regis’ voice became ever so slightly strained at the end of that sentence. Dettlaff picked up on it instantly, however, contemplating the reason why he might be unhappy about that.

Ah, he thought, realizing.

Regis looked away, pretending to study a bookshelf with great concentration.

Our bed, Regis,” Dettlaff said softly.

Regis’ eyes narrowed as they shot back to Dettlaff in an instant. He scrutinized him deeply.

“Come,” Dettlaff merely said, approaching his friend and running his fingers along the velvet of the vest he had been wearing since last night. “Though you may want to change your clothes, for comfort’s sake.”

Regis smirked and the two of them walked upstairs, Regis changing into a simple pair of pants and buttoned shirt in his room before walking to Fjola and Dettlaff’s room. Dettlaff was already in the bed behind Fjola, tucking his legs gently behind hers and lifting the blankets in front of her for Regis to slide in. He did so as cautiously as he could, not wanting to wake her, wrapping his arms about her instinctively before realizing he might be imposing or being too assertive. He needn’t have worried, however, as Dettlaff merely threw the covers back over him, the three of them curling into a tight bundle, Fjola sandwiched between them as they fell asleep in comfort.

Chapter 55: Audience with The Duchess

Chapter Text

Geralt stood before Duchess Anna Henrietta as she paced in a large receiving room, Yennefer to his right. The sorceress’ arms were crossed haughtily, but she said nothing, merely watched the Duchess walk back and forth in agitation. Dandelion was sitting in a rather large, cushioned armchair in the corner, gently tuning his lute as he watched things warily. While he was seemingly enjoying being in the company of the Duchess again, very likely becoming a favorite of hers once more, he had insisted upon coming along to this meeting in case there might be a need for some of his trademark smooth-talk and negotiation skills. He was a cad, a lecher, and attracted trouble like flies to sugar, but he was still loyal to his friends, most of all Geralt. The Witcher was grateful for his presence, but hoped deep-down that they wouldn’t need his silver tongue.

“This is unacceptable,” the Duchess finally said. “Do you hear me?” she suddenly shouted, slamming her fist on the gilded desk in front of her.

She stalked out from behind it like a predatory panther, her movements fluid but dangerous. Her teeth were even bared.

“My sister escaped from right under your noses! She had but one knight defending her and you couldn’t even get information out of him!”
“Your Grace,” Geralt said slowly, annoyed that she was insulting his competence but careful not to end up under the headsman’s axe, “He had accepted some jewels from her not even a half an hour before. Didn’t even help her escape – she did that on her own. Syanna planned everything, probably right from the start. She used your forgiveness. I’m sorry.”

For a moment Anna Henrietta looked at him in barely-bridled fury and disgust, and for a few frightened heartbeats, Geralt truly was concerned she was going to have him executed. But after shaking in anger for a bit, she finally heaved a large sigh and threw herself down into the throne-like chair behind the desk, leaning over it and putting her head in her hands.

“I must admit, my guards have fared little better. The knight has been completely uncooperative during our interrogation. I don’t know how you managed to get anything out of him, but he refuses to say anything more than Syanna had hired him, and that you beat him soundly.”

She heaved another sigh and leaned back in her chair, her fingers tracing over the fine details carved into the arms of it. Geralt knew the reason for the knight’s reserve, but kept it to himself for obvious reasons, recalling their conversation from the night prior.

 

“Listen,” he had said, “Things are gonna get ugly. Real ugly. As in, your head rotting on a pike by tomorrow afternoon kind of ugly. If you let slip you saw a vampire here, and didn’t destroy it? You’re fucked. No two ways about it. Helping her sister is one thing – you can argue you thought you were being allegiant, helping the royal family, that you didn’t know she had done anything wrong. But mention vampires in the Duchess’ presence again, after what happened two years ago with the Beast? She’ll kill you, and make a show of it in the square, to boot. Nothing soothes the pain of a royal feast gone wrong like a public execution. The bloodier, the better. I doubt she’d even let the headsman sharpen his axe, just to make it go on longer, give her subjects a good show.”

The knight had seen the truth and value in his words, and swore silence regarding having seen a vampire attack him and give flight. Just to be sure, however, Geralt sweetened the pot.

“Keeping your silence means keeping your life. Trust me. But you know what else will be yours, in addition to your sorry, pathetic life? A handful of jewels, bigger even than what Syanna gave you. And a case of wine – Est Est, maybe, or Erveluce. Hell, maybe even a whole cask, if I can track one down.”
“You are… too generous, sir…” the knight had stuttered.
“Only one reason I’m being so ‘generous,’” Geralt had lied, “That vampire’s mine. I want that trophy, I want its head dangling from my horse’s saddle. Not gonna go to some piss-ant knight errant so he can sell it for beer money.”
“I understand, Master Witcher,” he said obsequiously with a slight bow of his head.
“And if you betray us, I’ll finish the job,” Geralt said, brandishing his blade mere centimeters from the knight’s neck, then closer and closer, finally close enough to shave a few short hairs from his vulnerable neck.

The knight got the message, truly convinced as he put a trembling hand to his throat, but Yennefer had taken the Witcher aside to speak with him privately.

“We need to kill him, just to be sure.”
“You crazy? We might actually get him to lead us to Syanna.”
“He doesn’t even know where she went.”
“If he discovers her again, he could be useful.”
“I’m not willing to bet our safety, or that of Fjola and her… boyfriends,” she sputtered, “On a simple ‘if.’ He needs to be dealt with now, and if you don’t do it, I will,” she said dangerously, raising her hands as they started to glow.
“Yen, it’ll be too suspicious if the cavalry gets here and he’s already dead.”
“How so? He attacked, you killed him. The Duchess has had no problem with you killing on her behalf before.”
“Mindless bandits, sure, but this knight is the last person to see Syanna. She’ll want him for questioning.”
“You mean the last one besides Fjola and I,” she said cautiously.
“Rather not drag her into this, especially considering who she spends her time with. And I didn’t know if you wanted to become involved, either.”
“Since when are you such a filthy, underhanded liar?” she asked coolly.
“Since my job is to protect both our asses,” he said.

Yennefer sighed and lowered her hands.

“Alright,” she relented. “Though I will tell the Duchess about getting shot by that hateful bitch.”
“Maybe don’t call her that up front,” Geralt smirked.
“What should we do about him seeing Fjola and Regis, as well?”
“So far it seems like he’s gonna cooperate, just mention what we told him to mention. Still, I feel like if we make a big deal out of hushing the two of them up, it’ll be more suspicious. He might be more willing to sell out if the Duchess’ men offer enough coin.”
“The good news is, Annarietta is more fond of torture than bribery, by a long shot,” she breathed, running a hand through her long black hair, her violet eyes aglow with annoyance. “Shit. I don’t like this, Geralt, not at all.”
“Me either, but we’re stuck anyway,” he said, nodding his head toward the top of the hill. A large glow was cresting it, revealing the source as the Duchess’ cavalry, armed and furious as they took the knight into custody and summoned Geralt and Yennefer for questioning.

 

Geralt snapped back to the present, shooting Yennefer a glance. She didn’t return it, however, keeping her eyes steady on the Duchess so as not to arouse any suspicion.

“What are you going to do with him?” Geralt blurted. The sorceress finally shot him a look but he ignored her right back.
“Ach, there is not much I really can do,” Annarietta said, sounding tired and resigned, the fingers of her right hand pressed against her temple in frustration. “I suppose I’ll just keep him imprisoned. Why?”
“Maybe Your Grace would see fit to set him free.”

She finally looked up at him in alarm, furious once more.

“And why should I do that?” she roared. “To undermine my entire justice system or to allow him to seek out and rejoin my sister?”
“The latter,” Geralt replied calmly. The Duchess narrowed her eyes.
“Explain yourself,” she said, still sounding angry, but moreso intrigued.
“See there’s no way Syanna’s gonna know you caught him,” he said. “She’ll know I defeated him, sure, and she might guess he was imprisoned for a time. But she knows you – knows you’d never let someone who helped her go free.”

The Duchess’ face seemed to be calculating, considering.

“Go on,” she demanded.
“If you let him go, but pay him well enough – say, a small chest of jewels and gold, a few casks of wine, not to mention set him up for a promised retirement, like a plot of land and a pension – well, no knight in their right mind would ever take that over whatever pittance your sister is offering her help these days. You said it yourself – she was only able to take some of the jewels she was wearing. I’m sure they’re worth a lot, but they won’t go as far as she’d like. She’s not going to blow it all on one knight, either – make the pot you offer him much sweeter, he’ll betray Syanna the first moment he gets.”

Annarietta had roused herself again and was pacing once more, her hands behind her back as she contemplated, her heels clicking loudly on the marble and echoing in the massive room.

“Say I do what you ask, Witcher,” her voice high and curious, “Would you, say, assist the duchy in these efforts? Would you lend your expertise and sword, if need be?”
“I did last time,” he said, but saw her raised eyebrow and finished, “Your Grace.”
“Hm. And if you complete your task, and my sister is captured, alive, well… I know altruism is part of the code of honor for my knights, but not a Witcher.” She looked at him and smirked. “What would you ask of your Duchess?”

Geralt and Yennefer looked at each other, then back to the Duchess.

“Extended land around Corvo Bianco for now, perhaps something else later once the job’s done.”
“Agreed!” the Duchess said with a smile, much to Geralt’s surprise. “I shall give you the land stretching across the river to where your cottage is, to connect your properties. I feel it is more than generous.”

Geralt’s stomach dropped and Yennefer turned paler than usual.

How did she know? he thought, then felt foolish. Of course she knows. I’m a person of interest and “bought land” in her duchy. Shit.

“That is generous,” was all he said, but mentally reminded himself to warn Regis.

And Dettlaff too, I suppose.

Chapter 56: The Bandit Camp

Notes:

Content warning: Suggestions of force/noncon

Chapter Text

Syanna jumped off from her exhausted horse, leading it to the edge of the river where the ice was less thick, breaking through it to let the poor animal drink, getting a small scoop for herself. She glanced around at their surroundings, noticing with annoyance there was very little this far out on the northern borders of Toussaint, near the mountains.

Perhaps I can go through the Cervantes Pass, she thought, but remembered the outpost of Vedette was likely still active and did not want to risk being seen by the knights errant just taking their oaths to Annarietta and the duchy. Not only that, but it would likely be incredibly perilous to attempt in winter, even for the most seasoned travelers. She spit on the ground in frustration, her horse suddenly picking up its head and laying its ears flat against the back of its head. It whinnied and stomped its hooves, and Syanna attempted to jump onto its back to take off, just in case, but suddenly saw a group of bandits heading her way, weapons raised. Instead of seeing a threat, however, she saw an opportunity.

Hey beautiful,” called one of the men, “Where you headed?”
“To your chief,” she said confidently. “I wish to parley with them.”

A few of them laughed, a few more just looked confused.

“The bitch has got balls, I’ll give her that!” one particularly greasy bandit laughed.
Give me a sword and I’ll deprive you of yours,” she sneered. “Though I doubt I’d likely have an easy time finding the pathetic things.”

Most of the bandits hooted and chortled while the insulted one turned scarlet and began sputtering.

“Once again, I demand an audience with your chief.”
“And why should we do that?”
“Because I’m going to kill them and take over your hansa,” she said calmly.

More laughter, more japes.

“Eh, give the bitch her way. I’d rather have my way with her around the fire than out here in the ice,” he said, grabbing his genitals lewdly. “Let her see me in all my glory without the cold to affect it.”
“I doubt even the heat of a dragon’s fire could make your equipment visible,” she sneered.

Most continued shouting obscenities, insults, and suggestions at her the entire way back to their base, though a few remained silent or stern. She made a mental note of their faces or identifying features.

Those I can work with much easier, she thought, When the time comes.

The journey was not long, but Syanna was still surprised to see the relative ruins of Arthach Palace seemingly materialize out of nowhere before her as they got closer. The boggy area surrounding and enveloping it was mostly frozen, fortunately for her and her horse, and they walked across it with few problems. Once arriving in the camp proper, she counted dozens of men and even some women huddled around fires, staring, hungry, desperate. Syanna did not feel sorrow for them, exactly, but vowed to solve their troubles as soon as she could, if only for their quick allegiance. Bringing her before a small, makeshift shack built into the trees, they forced her to dismount and stand before a raised wooden platform jutting out from the front of it.

“Who’s this cunt?” roared a harsh voice from above.
“I am S… Rhenawedd, a challenger for the title of chief,” she responded in a loud, clear voice, putting her hands on her hips confidently. “You’ll either hand me the title or I’ll hand the camp your entrails.”

Nearly the entire camp erupted in laughter, much like the small group that had escorted her had done. She merely kept her head held high, evaluating the chief standing on the platform above her quickly and quietly. Syanna had taken on larger than him, and broader. While he was muscular, the apparent lack of food in the camp during winter had likely weakened him and the others.

“I’ll show you what I’ll do with your entrails, witless whore,” he shouted gleefully.
“Give me a blade and show me.”
“Pah! I’m not that stupid,” he growled.

A few of his men backed him up, but Syanna heard a significant amount of grumbling among the rest of the camp and company. The chief looked around and glowered at them all.

“Shut your gobs!” he snarled. “I can best this bitch with my arms tied in a knot. I needn’t have to prove it to you shits!”

More murmurs, grumbles. Some of the more allegiant began shoving the dissenters roughly, pushing their faces and chests against them aggressively. Syanna smirked, an evil look darkening her already dour features.

“It seems, Chief, you are afraid to fight me, a mere stripling of a woman, lost in the woods, all alone with her horse. Pity.”

The chief looked over his hansa, many more of whom appeared disappointed, others goading him to fight. He seemed to calculate under that thick, dirty scalp of his for a few moments. Syanna could easily guess as to what he was thinking. Fight her for the sake of it and perhaps take a few scrapes, or appear weak or cowardly in front of the clan? He glared at her, measuring up the fight, noticing she was blade-less. He gave a lopsided grin full of yellow, mossy teeth and raised his hands up in a praise-like gesture.

“We’ve been without blood for too long!” he shouted, the hansa crying out excitedly in response, shouting for him to cut her up and make it slow, or use her skull as a pot to piss in. Once again, she noticed and kept track of as many of those faces as she could. The chief stomped down the stairs from the dilapidated platform, grabbing a heavy, double-sided axe and readying himself, a circle forming around the two of them quickly. He gripped his weapon and stared her down.

“I’m going to fuck your guts when I’m through with you,” he said repulsively.

Syanna held her arms out in a grand show of being empty-handed, calling out to the crowd surrounding them, “Well that’s hardly a fair fight, now is it?” She turned back to him and curled her lip up into a sneer. “Give me a blade.”

He motioned to the weapon smith resentfully, who gave him a skeptical glance before bringing over several choices of arms.

“Tell me, chief,” she said dramatically, “Which blade would you like me to use to separate your head from your shoulders?”
“Whichever one you want shoved up your arse later,” he spat.

Syanna smiled and picked up the one that seemed to have the best weight, balance, and sharpness, though they were all poor choices. She purposefully dropped it upon trying to remove it from the smith’s arms and heard the crowd groan and jeer. When she went to pick it up, she let it slip from her fingers again and put on a worried look.

“What’s the matter?” the chief taunted, “Lose your nerve?”
“It’s just a bit heavy,” she snapped, pretending to look concerned as she lifted it with false effort. “No matter, I’ll still…” she grunted as she pretended to struggle with it, “…I’ll still use this to cut you, limb from limb.”

By this point the laughter and calls were just background noise, Syanna’s real focus solely on the chief and his movements, where his attention lay, and the ground beneath their feet. He feigned a leap towards her and she jumped back with a yelp, dropping her sword once more and faking her fear. He chuckled and did it again, then again, absolutely roaring with laughter after the fourth or fifth time his attempt to shame and humiliate her had “worked.” She picked the blade up yet again, dragging it slightly to her side. The chief shook his head and turned to the crowd, raising his arms to make them cheer.

“This is child’s play!” he laughed, throwing his head back, baring his neck.

Now.

Syanna launched forward with a speed that surprised them all, deftly sweeping her blade across his throat so quickly that no one was sure she had even connected with his body until his head rolled off of his neck and tumbled across the ground, his body collapsing feebly in the winter snow.

Pandemonium erupted across the camp as his supporters suddenly lunged forward to attack her, but others who had recognized her victory as fair rose against them, a bloodbath between the two groups breaking out quickly, Syanna joi ned the fray where she could, stabbing in the back here, or chopping off a limb there. It seemed as though an hour had passed before the frenzy had settled down, but in reality it had only been a few short minutes. The now-former chief, it appeared, had not had many supporters after all. Once it had all finally stopped, the last few dozen bandits standing bloody red in the snow and staring at her, she drove her lousy sword into the ground tip-first and raised her chin proudly to them all.

“I am now your chief. You may call me Rhenawedd, or Rhena. Are there any who oppose?”

They all stood still, their eyes gaping at her, silent as the snow.

Good. First things first, sharpen these blades,” she commanded to the weapon smith, who thankfully had survived. “Those of you who are strong enough are going to accompany me to a village not far from here – we are going to have a feast tonight, courtesy of our unwilling neighbors. Fill your bellies for now, for soon I shall fill your cups with blood and gold!” she cried.

The bandit clan, her bandit clan, all cheered and hooted in joy and excitement. Some still appeared skeptical, but as long as they followed her orders, she was not too concerned. Their allegiance would be bought soon with the gifts she had already promised, and more. The camp got busy collecting blades for improvement and wood for fires to stoke the furnace. Syanna picked up the former chief’s head and impaled it on the butt of the sword she had driven into the ground for show, and as a warning.

No one will ever imprison me again, she vowed.

Chapter 57: Strange

Chapter Text

Fjola felt the warmth of Regis leave the bed, slipping away from her quietly as he usually did in the early morning hours.

“Mm,” she muttered softly, “I thought I was the early riser.”

Regis stopped and turned back to her, looking into her soft brown eyes and smiling, his black ones twinkling before he went to leave again.

“Why don’t you stay a little while longer?” she pleaded, patting the bed beside her. “It’s still so cold out.”

Dettlaff’s arms suddenly wrapped around her firmly from behind, bringing her to himself and grunting, still half-asleep. Regis gave a slightly sorrowful smile and went to his room to get properly dressed, as he was still in a set of dark night-clothes. Fjola, truth be told, missed sleeping in the nude, but realized that even though they had all agreed to share a bed, that did not make it less awkward for Dettlaff and Regis to abandon their clothing each night. Fjola would have felt too odd being the only one without, so she had adopted a sleeping gown as well, though found she slept more fitfully than before. Still, it was a small price to pay to be able to wake up next to both of them, even if Regis did tend to slip out somewhat early.

Dettlaff’s soft, warm lips moving up and down her neck as he kissed her, however, kept her where she was happily.

*

Regis grabbed his cloak and wrapped it around himself, trudging outside into the late January snow to collect some wood for the fire. While they had plenty of actual logs dried and stocked up in a small woodshed by the barn, instead of just the small sticks he was carrying that might only be good for kindling, Regis found it a welcome distraction from Fjola and Dettlaff’s intimate moments. When he was being perfectly honest with himself, however, he would ruminate over the fact that it was not Dettlaff he was purely jealous of, and indeed, often found the younger vampire himself the subject of his more lustful thoughts. He would methodically tuck these away, however, simply chalking it up to confusion or curiosity due to a general, feral lust over sharing a mate. This is why he enjoyed taking walks when the two of them were expressing their affections – it helped him to clear his head and return him to a more natural, neutral state. To Regis’ immense gratitude, Dettlaff himself always extended the same courtesy – while there had been little jealousy between them, there had still been some, most often happening seemingly at random.

One such moment was when Fjola had been reading a winter guide to herbalism near the fire, Dettlaff running his fingers through her hair, and had started asking Regis about some of his notes. Regis had approached to explain them in more detail, but Dettlaff had suddenly growled at him, like a wild beast. It had surprised them all, especially Dettlaff, who apologized profusely and left the room until the older vampire had finished his explanations to her. Another time, Regis had been preparing ingredients with Fjola and wrapped himself around her from behind, placing his hands on hers to guide her chopping, even though she really didn’t need the lesson. Dettlaff had come down into the cellar and Regis had immediately turned into his vampiric form, his claws digging into Fjola’s hips protectively. That time Fjola had removed herself to go for a walk, and the two of them calmed down after a few tense minutes. Again, nothing particularly egregious had happened, but they still found it somewhat worrisome.

Regis was suddenly snapped from his reverie by the sound of breaking twigs behind him. Although Geralt had warned him of the Duchess’ gift of the land connecting their two properties (or rather, legally speaking, Geralt’s two properties), the vampire did not expect visitors or bureaucrats for so simple a matter and did not have his guard up. What did put him on edge, however, was the fact that Syanna was still very much at large, with no hint or whisper as to her whereabouts, despite Geralt, Yennefer, and the Duchess’ men – not the mention the sell-sword knight they had bribed – all putting in their best efforts to find and capture her. There had not even been rumors as to anything unsavory yet, which was suspicious and caused a decent amount of anxiety for them all. Regis had no reason to worry at the sudden intruder now, however; he had simply been caught off-guard by Dettlaff, whose smell permeated the woods surrounding their home as deeply as Fjola and Regis himself. His scent had just simply not alarmed him.

“Regis,” he said, nodding his head.
“Dettlaff,” he returned, readjusting the sticks in his arms.

The black-haired vampire strode forward to help him, collecting half the bundle himself. As he did so, Regis caught the thick, musky scent of him, stronger and more heady as always after he and Fjola had been intimate. Regis closed his eyes and breathed it in for a moment, his mouth parting slightly as he exhaled, long and slow. When he opened his eyes again, Dettlaff was staring at him with heavy-lidded eyes, apparently held under the same sway as Regis. They both snapped out of it upon seeing the other, chuckling nervously and heading back to the house. The older vampire decided to try to break the tension.

“She’s sleeping back at the house, I take it?”
“Yes,” Dettlaff replied, his voice somewhat thick, picking up a stick Regis had passed over because it was too small and adding it to his stack.
“She’ll appreciate the blazing fire upon her waking, I’m sure.”
“Mm.”

Regis couldn’t remember things ever being this awkward between them before, but took it simply as a part of the new household dynamic. It had been over a month since Fjola and Regis had first started sleeping together after the Feast of Yule; while things were bound to be odd for a little while, a month really did seem excessive, but he wasn’t sure there was much they could do about it but adapt. They headed back toward to cottage in heavy silence.

*

Fjola kept glancing back at the two of them as she prepared breakfast, tasting the oats to make sure they were soft enough. They were sitting across from each other at the table, though were looking in opposite directions, Dettlaff drumming his sharp nails rhythmically on the table.

“Would it be inappropriate to ask you to cease your activity?” Regis asked, his words harsher than his tone.

Dettlaff looked at him briefly, then back away again, stopping his fingers from their dance but looking somewhat stung. Fjola’s eyebrows knitted up in concern; it was no secret that the two of them had become somewhat strange towards each other in the past month, and she felt both guilty and sad for their sudden distance. She did not want to blame herself again as she had done for Regis’ relapse, understanding at last that although she was the catalyst, it was nothing she had done directly to trigger it – however it was a hellish period of time during which she struggled with enormous feelings of guilt and remorse, and she did not wish to repeat it. She shivered suddenly at the memory of it, and the two vampires instantly became protective. Dettlaff had appeared in front of her as a puff of red and black smoke, materializing and immediately rubbing her shoulders. Regis was only a split second behind, reappearing from his blue and gray fog just as quickly, his hands squeezing her waist gently from behind as he nuzzled her neck.

“My loves, I’m fine,” she insisted, trying to extricate herself from their grasps, but to no avail. “Really, it was nothing, I swear, please go sit down, I’m almost done.”

Neither of them wanted to do anything of the sort, however, Regis’ hands straying up to her shoulders, his fingers vying with Dettlaff’s for purchase there. The younger vampire pushed his hands aside, squeezing their lover a little more firmly, though not roughly. While she did not fear that they might do anything to her, she did fear what they might do to each other if this were to escalate.

“My loves…” she chided, and after a tense couple of seconds, Regis and Dettlaff released her.

They locked eyes for the briefest of moments before looking away again in embarrassment, practically shuffling back towards the table to sit back down, Dettlaff resisting the urge to tap his fingernails once more. Fjola took pity and decided to serve them, adding a little cinnamon and sugar to all of their bowls, along with a pinch of salt to her own. Regis saw this and chuckled, releasing some tension.

“I swear, I should have gotten you a salt lick for Yule,” he joked, but Dettlaff suddenly looked angry.
“That was cruel, Regis,” he shot.
“It would be gone by now,” Fjola laughed, trying to deflect any mistaken hostility, “Besides, the book you got me was wonderful. As was the cloak, Dettlaff,” she kissed each of their foreheads lovingly as she put their bowls down. “I wish I had gotten you both more than just some books and fruits.”
“Nonsense,” Dettlaff said. “Neither of us truly celebrated the holiday, before. Especially not in the traditional human manner.”
“Well, thanks for celebrating with me,” she smiled, sitting down. “It was nice to actually have family to celebrate with, for once.”

There was a pause. The words had slipped out of her mouth before she had thought about them – they were simply instinctual – but she had failed to take into account how Regis and Dettlaff might feel about the term “family.” She loved them dearly and they her, but sometimes they were hard to read and fathom. Vampire culture was still somewhat of a mystery to her, and she wasn’t even sure there were vampire families. She swallowed hard and forced herself to look at them.

“Indeed,” Regis stated simply with a slight nod of his head.

Fjola released a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding, looking to Dettlaff for his reaction. He didn’t say a word, merely put his hand over her own and gently squeezed it, giving her a soft, delicate smile that lit up his icy blue eyes. She returned it and sighed in relief.

What a strange family we make, she thought with a smile, but I’ve never been happier. I hope they feel the same.

Chapter 58: Beautiful

Chapter Text

It was an oddly temperate day for February, much of the ice beginning to thaw, the water falling off the trees making slapping noises onto the mud and piles of remaining snow below. It was almost like rain, except the sun was shining warmly and there was hardly a single cloud in the sky. Fjola nearly leapt out of bed, Regis and Dettlaff amused by her energy. After breakfast, however, they became alarmed when she grabbed the cloak Dettlaff had given her for Yule, fastening it around herself warmly and heading for the cellar, bringing up one of the many bottles of mandrake moonshine she had helped Regis make over the past few months.

“Where are you going?” they demanded, almost in unison. Dettlaff appeared frustrated and Regis looked downright alarmed.
“I figured I’d head over to Corvo Bianco,” she said casually, “Bring a gift, ask and see how the search… um… how things are going.”
“Since when are you and the Witcher such close friends?” Dettlaff grilled.
“Don’t worry, my love,” she said, kissing him on the tip of his nose. He did not smile, but his jaw relaxed somewhat. “I’ll be back in no time. And I doubt I’ll encounter any trouble there. And even if I were to, you’d probably hear it or smell it before I do. Plus Geralt and Yennefer are well-equipped to handle any of it. And even if they weren’t, do you know what the likelihood of me getting mugged on a muddy road in winter in broad daylight is?”
“Even a slight chance is one I’m uncomfortable with,” Regis said quietly.

Fjola almost rolled her eyes, but their protectiveness could be somewhat endearing, as long as they didn’t try to force her into or out of anything, which they never did. Still, they had been cooped up all winter and it was starting to become exhausting. She loved their company and attention, most of the time, but once in a while she just really wanted to be alone with her thoughts. Not only that, but there were still odd moments of tension in the household between Dettlaff and Regis, and she figured some time away from her presence could be soothing for them.

Let them relax and let go of their jealousy for a bit, even if it is pretty mild.

Dettlaff shifted uncomfortably at the idea, but knew that Fjola, like most beings, himself and Regis included, sometimes needed a bit of space. Regardless of this fact, he could not help but worry, even if he knew, logically, that his fears were pretty unfounded.

“At least take the mule,” he insisted. Regis agreed.

Fjola relented and got it ready, the two vampires seeing her off gently as she mounted it, their brows shifting up with concern, though they tried to smile. They watched her in silence for a few minutes until the mule she was riding crested a hill, then descended on the other side, vanishing from sight.

“Do you think she’ll be alright?” Regis asked. Dettlaff only nodded and grunted in response, Regis suddenly a little agitated by his behavior. “Ever the conversationalist,” he shot.

Dettlaff turned to him and, to Regis’ surprise, looked hurt for a moment. Regis’ heart sank.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” he tried, reaching out to place his hand on his shoulder in comfort, but was rebuffed.

Dettlaff merely walked away and back into the house, retrieving his sketchbook and pencils and sitting back outside on the small wooden bench to draw. Regis tried to approach him and apologize once more, but Dettlaff merely hugged the book to his chest, obstructing his view of the pages as usual. He sighed and shook his head, retreating back into the cottage and down into the cellar to work on his moonshine, or a new batch of potions to sell.

Perhaps I’ll just sit and read, he thought glumly, pondering where things might have been going wrong these past couple of months. While it was true he and Dettlaff got along for the most part, there were still awkward moments between them, some of which had begun increasing in frequency. For instance, there were a few days barely two weeks prior where Fjola had been feeling “under the weather,” as she had put it, and the two vampires had agreed to cook in order to give her a break. They offered often, but she normally refused, loving the artistry and skill of the culinary world, which Regis likened to her similar passions of herbalism and alchemy. It was all cooking and science in some form or another, she had reasoned. Nevertheless, this was one of the few times she had weakly agreed to their help, and the two of them had put their heads together to attempt some form of cream soup she had been fond of making.

“Don’t stoke the fire too high,” Regis had warned, “Or the cream will burn.”
“I’m aware of that,” Dettlaff had shot, the cream starting to smoke in the pot as he went to stir it.
“Watch,” said Regis, “Or you’ll scrape the scalding milk off the bottom and ruin the soup. Best to let it keep burning, strain it out later.”
“If it’s so easy, be my guest,” he snarled.

Regis gave him a sympathetic look. His aim was not to admonish or humiliate him, but rather guide and aid. If not for their own egos, at least for Fjola’s poor tongue and stomach.

“Here,” he said, standing behind him and taking his right hand under his own, guiding his stirring gently, avoiding the burnt cream at the bottom of the pot. Regis stepped forward a little closer behind Dettlaff as he continued leading him, the younger vampire leaning back a little as he relaxed.

“See? Easy,” he said, placing his left hand on Dettlaff’s hip instinctively, the same way he had often done with Fjola. The two of them stood stirring the soup quietly for a few moments, their movements slowing more and more as they stood listening to each other’s breathing. Finally Regis backed away awkwardly and to the side to slice mushrooms, the two of them practically silent towards each other for the rest of the day.

Little moments such as that had been catching Regis off guard, making his insides burn with a longing he wasn’t sure existed, let alone was reciprocated.

No, he convinced himself, it simply isn’t, cannot be. Dettlaff would never… never even consider…

Regis sighed and continued reading, looking over the same paragraph he couldn’t seem to absorb for the fifth time in a row.

*

Dettlaff sat on the bench outside, the air still somewhat chilly, though milder than it had been as of late, and even milder still to his resistant vampire body. He breathed in the crisp air, his long fingers gripping one of the charcoal pencils Regis had bought for him back in autumn.

I’ll have to ask him to get more of them soon, he thought, realizing he was down to the second-to-last one. He’s always been very kind about getting me supplies.

Dettlaff’s hand seemingly moved on its own, without thought or structure, drawing a familiar form he had put down to paper many times over the past several months. The soft hair, gentle eyes, the beautiful smile – it was as if his hand simply magically recreated it in his sketchbook with no effort at all, the form pleasing and teasing him all at the same time. His movements became faster, more frantic, the tip of his pencil digging into the book harder, harder until suddenly it snapped, rolling away, the charcoal creating errant markings on the page. Dettlaff growled in frustration and put the book to the side, patting his coat for a knife or extra utensil. Finding neither, he went back inside the house to look, about to ask Regis for help, but thinking better of it. Things had been tense between them for a while, and Dettlaff thought he could figure out why.

It had started as little moments between them, such as both of them waking in the morning with their hands on Fjola, but touching one another’s. On more than one occasion, the two vampires had awoken with their fingers intertwined, though they merely parted, neither of them saying or acknowledging anything. Sometimes it was a slight touch, their hands, legs, or bodies barely grazing as they passed one another or stood very close, other times they would catch each other’s gazes for a time, heat rising in Dettlaff’s ears as the two of them looked away again. He was sure he could feel Regis’ gaze on him, just as Regis must be able to feel his, but Dettlaff did not want to address this directly in case he was wrong. As he ran upstairs to look in the room for his supplies, he was reminded of a time a few weeks ago that he thought for sure was a spark, a sign of something, but had done nothing but frustrate them both further.

Dettlaff had been sanding down and working to repair and improve the wooden table they used for dining, the top having become warped somewhat with regular use and exposure to hot meals. Also, he had found it a little dull, and wanted to add some decorative details, such as leaves, vines, and fruit. He had taken it outside to prevent a mess in the kitchen, but his shirt and pants had become absolutely covered in sawdust as he stood outside sanding it down. Regis had come out with a drink which Dettlaff had accepted gratefully, guzzling it down almost instantly before returning to his task. Regis had leaned over the table and run his hands along it, inquiring as to the process.

“I could mix potions, shave faces, or even perform minor surgeries in my sleep,” he said, “But the mystery of creating physical or artistic representations in any other form eludes me. It’s a pity and a cruelty almost, seeing as how deeply I appreciate it.”

Dettlaff chuckled and quickly explained what the different tools were for, what the differences in the sanding equipment grains meant, as well as the process by which he used each and why. Regis, adoring knowledge, tried his best to pay attention raptly, but once Dettlaff had begun to explain how he made the more creative details he liked to put into his work, he had lost him.

“I understand the joy of having an artistic flair in some form or another in one’s home, but again, cannot seem to grasp exactly how one decides how to do it, or what designs to create. Is it all arbitrary?”
“Not truly – one should envision what they want. Here,” he said, pulling Regis over gently, “I’ve already used a pencil to trace a leaf pattern here, on the edge. All you must do is use this tool,” he handed him a delicate-looking chisel, “To help roughly carve it out.”

Regis made small attempts, but soon became too focused on trying to make it perfect from the start, getting frustrated when he noticed the leaves he had helped carve looked blocky and abstract. He huffed in annoyance.

“Apparently my fingers are fine enough to wield such delicate things as a surgeon’s scalpel or barber’s blade, but not what basically equates to a screwdriver to be used as a chisel.”

He handed it over to Dettlaff in irritation, not meeting his gaze.

“You are focusing too much on what these leaves will become, rather than how to simply reveal their first, rough features, Regis,” he said softly. “The smaller, finer details come later.” He suddenly smirked. “Much like myself, I’m afraid.”
“What?”

Regis truly didn’t understand.

“When you first met me,” Dettlaff had said, guiding his friend’s hands with the chisel to help hew the shapes of the leaves into the wood, “I was rather like this table. Sturdy enough, appearing strong, but easily nicked and marred.”

He made a quick, rough movement with the tool to easily break a piece of wood away to emphasize his point.

“I was rough, unrefined. Simplistic.” He put the chisel down and gave Regis a new one, this one smaller and more like the scalpel the older vampire was used to. “But,” Dettlaff continued, guiding Regis’ movements with his hands over his own again, “Using the right methods, or tools, if you wish, one whittles away at the harsher edges, detailing them more acutely to how one envisions the final design.”

Regis could see that the pattern of the leaves was becoming more detailed, more obvious, not simply the rough, choppy mess he had attempted before. This time, Dettlaff retrieved another tool, almost like a pick, with a smooth grain to it. He placed it in Regis’ hand and guided his movements again.

“Next, a bit of smoothing, and sanding. Refining further. Focusing on the minutiae to truly culture the piece you are sculpting.”

To his amazement, Regis could see the fine details of the pattern he and Dettlaff were making go from simple to stunning, the leaves delicate, the vines intricately curling, the grapes looking round, soft, and plump despite being carved from mere wood. The overall effect truly was beautiful. He smiled in wonder and looked back at the younger vampire, whose eyes were focused intensely on the woodwork as though a man obsessed. He leaned over and blew the sawdust out of the work, using a small brush to remove the rest, as skilled and meticulous at his artistry as Regis was at potion-making.

“And finally,” he said, grabbing a different, wider brush and dipping it into a small tin of thick, translucent oil and handing it to Regis, “A bit of polish.”

Together they smoothed the lacquer over the wood they had just carved, sealing and protecting the wood and details. Once they were through, they both stood silently for a moment, admiring their work. Regis could feel Dettlaff’s breath on his neck, warm and slow, suddenly shivering at the sensation. Dettlaff backed away immediately, Regis turning to him in concern. They were practically frozen, the intensity between them almost tangible as the gray-haired vampire reached forward and used his hand to brush the sawdust gently off of Dettlaff’s chest, continuing down towards his stomach. He had backed away, feeling strange and scared of it at the time, but simply foolish and regretful about it now. Regis’ face had fallen and he had placed the brush back down into the tin with a soft clink, tipping his head slightly and thanking him before retreating back into the house.

Dettlaff cursed himself internally for that moment now, wishing he had just let him continue grooming him with no conscious thought as to where his hands had been headed. Scowling, he finally located the knife he used to sharpen his pencil, taking it with him back downstairs, heading towards the front door.

*

Regis finally gave up on attempting to read his book, his concentration utterly shattered and his mind swirling like mad. He placed it down more roughly than he had intended on the table in front of him, deciding he needed some fresh air, regardless of whether or not Dettlaff was still in a sour mood outside.

Then again, he thought, I should not have been so snide to him earlier about his taciturnity. Perhaps I should try to apologize once more – things between us are difficult enough as it is.

Regis stood up and walked upstairs, hearing Dettlaff shuffling about in the room above and deciding to wait for him outside in the fresh air. Upon opening the door, the clean, almost warm air hit him in a most refreshing manner and he sighed. He stepped out into the remains of the snow, hearing it crunch and squish beneath his boots as he breathed in, enjoying escaping the staleness of the indoors for once. While he normally enjoyed dank, dark spaces, it could not be helped that such a beautiful day simply needed to be enjoyed. He glanced about him satisfactorily, still waiting for Dettlaff, but noticed with surprise that his sketchbook was still lying on the bench where he had been sitting earlier. His curiosity was suddenly piqued – Dettlaff was always fiercely, oddly protective over his sketches nowadays, when in the past he had been a bit more neutral about it. Regis wondered for a few moments what he might have to hide, then a rather lecherous thought crossed his mind and he grinned.

Perhaps he has drawn Fjola in the nude, he thought. I have awoken in the night to find him sketching at the foot of the bed by candlelight, doubtless he did the same when it was just the two of them.

While he did not necessarily want to betray his friend’s trust by snooping, the thought of erotic sketches of Fjola within those pages made Regis’ urge to look utterly overwhelming.

A quick glance, he told himself, still feeling shame as he reached for the book, I will deal with the tongue-lashing after, but give him my compliments on what are sure to be absolutely divine pictures.

Regis opened the book and began to leaf through it, noticing that the dates began not long after he had gifted it to him in autumn. He smiled at the first pictures, simple but nonetheless beautiful depictions of Mère-Lachaiselongue, where they had been living at the time. Certain gravestones, monuments, a tree full of crows, the Sansretour through the thick fog, the inside of the crypt itself – there was even a drawing of Regis himself, bent over a steaming cauldron as he inspected a potion recipe in a book. He chuckled to himself and kept glancing through it. More scenery, more monuments, a dead wolf, a few drawings of plants – ah, Regis thought, there she is.

His face stretched back into a bigger grin as the first humble drawings of Fjola began, starting with her lying wounded in their bed, the next one non-chronologically depicting her swinging her lantern at the bandit who had attacked her, though her movements were exacerbated to look more elegant, more dance-like. Surely these are from memory, he realized with a chuckle, As he did not have his book with him then, nor would he have paused in his mission to save her – not even for a quick sketch.

She became a more frequent subject in his book, interspersed more often between the drawings of foliage and landscapes, the style of them becoming more detailed, more doting and beautiful. It was almost like watching Dettlaff fall in love through the course of his artwork, and Regis himself felt passion at the sight of it, reminded himself of the slow, wonderful way she had worked her way into both their hearts, suddenly longing for her with a fresh pang.

Aha. There they are, Regis thought with a chuckle, admiring some rather candid drawings of Fjola in various states of dress and undress. He gave a soft, appreciative moan at one particularly detailed drawing of her stretched out across the bed as she slept, her naked breasts featuring prominently, the blankets bunched around her waist in a delightfully erotic manner. There were quite a few drawn in a similar fashion, and Regis noticed she must have been asleep for more than half of them. Sneak, he thought with a smile. A few were of her cooking or preparing ingredients, several especially dedicated ones of her in her Yule Feast attire, even more of her going about mundane daily tasks, all nonetheless depicted with the utmost care and adoration, looking lovely and beautiful in each stroke of Dettlaff’s hand. Eventually, however, the pictures ended, the last one depicting Fjola staring out the window at the snow, her chin on her hands as she watched the snowflakes with a sort of soft reverence. Regis smiled and went to put the book back down, but the pages shifted and he saw a smear of charcoal near the back.

Oho, what’s this? he wondered. A few hidden ones? He tittered with glee.

But the laughter in his throat ceased and the lecherous smile on his face faded as he realized the subject of all of the drawings hidden in the back were of him. The first one was dated back to when he had had his relapse – it was an image of him in his feral form, snarling. Regis scowled and flicked past it with disgust, but the next one was of him at Geralt’s, simply drinking tea and sitting at the table. Another of him, this time standing out in the snow, his cloak billowing around him, his jawline outlined handsomely as he looked off into the distance. One of him in his Yule Feast attire, another of the same thing, just in a different stance. The next one made him smile fondly – it was his interpretation of Regis and Fjola dancing that night, a scene he surely would not have seen, but felt compelled to draw regardless. He kept flipping through, noticing with both adoration and ache that the drawings of him were given the same reverence and care as those of Fjola; the depictions of him were simply beautiful. He could not deny it, despite his preference to remain humble and modest. There he was, making potions, checking the pipes of his moonshine brewery, reading, staring out at the snow, sleeping with Fjola in his arms, resting topless against the bed, his arms akimbo and chest proudly exposed. The last image Dettlaff had drawn was as-yet unfinished, and Regis realized it was what he had been working on before it appeared as though the tip of his pencil had snapped, the telltale marks of broken charcoal marring an otherwise incredibly attractive drawing of him. In it, his hair and sideburns were soft and feathery, drawn so dynamically they actually looked as though they were moving in the breeze, his nose was aquiline and his face was set regally, his Adam's apple graceful on his neck, his eyes – gods, he thought – his eyes were sparkling even on the page, black as onyx and simply alive. Regis ran his long fingers over the image delicately, a lump forming in his throat and tears springing to his eyes.

This is how he sees me. This is how he truly sees me.

“Regis?”

He turned in alarm to see Dettlaff coming out from the house, his eyes flitting to the open page before him and his face turning scarlet. He gritted his teeth in shame and turned away, bringing his shoulders up protectively and huffing.

“You were not meant to see those,” he said, his voice pained.
“Dettlaff…” Regis tried, but could not find the words.

The younger vampire was still breathing heavily, his body shaking in – was it fear? Or anger? Regis couldn’t tell, but approached him regardless, speaking softly only a couple short feet behind him.

“I apologize,” he said meekly, sadly. “I know I should not have looked, and I did anyway. I’m sorry for betraying your trust.”

He held the sketchbook out to Dettlaff’s side, beckoning for him to take it, but he ignored it, turning his head in the opposite direction. Regis sighed, bringing the book back to himself and stroking the cover of it gently.

“For what it’s worth, they’re beautiful. You truly do have a gift, Dettlaff.”

Dettlaff’s head turned very slightly, his ears still red, but his breathing was slowing somewhat.

“You are… not upset?”
“No.” Regis shook his head and stepped forward again. “Dettlaff, I am so far from upset. In fact I…”

He froze, unsure of how to proceed.

No, he thought, It’s time to tell him.

“...I have never felt more beautiful in my entire life than I do looking at these pages,” he whispered, placing his hand over Dettlaff’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

Dettlaff finally straightened and turned back to him, and to Regis’ surprise, his cold blue eyes were glistening.

“Do you truly feel that way, Regis?” he asked, his voice deep, hoarse, and rumbling. It made his stomach do somersaults. “And you are… accepting of this?”

Regis nodded and stared at Dettlaff silently for a moment, the two of them locking eyes meaningfully. There was a beat between them before the older vampire moved forward slowly, bringing his hands up to Dettlaff’s face and settling them over his angular cheekbones compassionately. He pressed their faces together and they closed their eyes. Suddenly Regis felt moisture on his forehead as Dettlaff shifted and kissed him there gently, then brought the bridge of his nose down to stroke against his cheek, his lips mere centimeters away. Regis tried to lean into it, but Dettlaff suddenly backed away again, breathing heavily.

“Dettlaff,” Regis whispered huskily, “Please don’t toy with me any longer.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be. It’s new to me too and if it’s not something you want…”
“Fjola,” Dettlaff explained. “I will not be unfaithful.”
“You do not consider her and I coupling to be the same?” Regis asked.
“Not if all are consenting.”
“Are you suggesting that when it concerns you and I, one of us is not?”
“What I mean is, Fjola is unaware of…” Dettlaff bit his lip in frustration. “How did this come to be?”
“Does it matter?” he asked, stroking his face with his thumb again.

Dettlaff kissed it softly and Regis let out a small, barely audible sigh.

“You are making this difficult, you know,” he said with a titter.
“Apologies,” he rumbled, kissing his thumb again.

Regis laughed again and pulled back away before they both did something foolish. Dettlaff let go of a shaky sigh and sat down at the bench, putting his hands on his knees and releasing another heavy breath. Regis joined him and placed a hand over one of his.

“How do you think she’ll take it?” he asked.
“Hopefully well,” Dettlaff responded, though he sounded glum.
“I suppose we shall see.”
“I suppose we shall.”

Chapter 59: Fjola Visits Geralt

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Syanna looked out over the hansa, which had nearly tripled in size since she had taken over. There had been a few mutinies at first, but thankfully they had all been squashed easily by her supporters, who outnumbered the traitors by a large margin. Eventually, they had stopped altogether, and once she had gained an iron grip on the clan, she had been able to recruit.

Still, she thought, dissatisfied, They are no army.

She had been smart enough to make sure their marks were never too frequent, too close together, or too violent – she did not want to attract attention. Not yet.

“Where d’ya want these, Chief?” asked an absolute mountain of a man, bulging with muscle and carrying a barrel practically stuffed with swords, axes, and maces. She pointed to the smelter and blacksmith, who was waving the man over eagerly, covered in grease and black smudges. He began sizing them up quickly, tossing some to smelt and remake, others simply to improve or repair. Syanna smiled and continued monitoring her horde.

*

Geralt and Yennefer fortunately took Fjola’s surprise visit as a welcome one, especially as she had come with the snifter of mandrake hooch and some fruits. Geralt’s cook Marlene was making some tea, but Yennefer decided to leave, stating she had an appointment of some sort in Beauclair and would not be staying. They said their goodbyes quickly before Geralt shut the door behind her and immediately sat down, leaning forward and glaring in concentration.

“I know you’re not just here to say hi,” he started.

Despite being found out so easily, Fjola was relieved to be able to cut to the chase.

“Has there been any progress?” she asked.
“Don’t know why you trouble yourself about it,” he grumbled, leaning back in his chair again. “It’s not like she knows who you are, would come looking out of jealousy or spite.”
“Well, definitely not jealousy, she wasn’t even in love with Dettlaff in the first place,” she said quietly, angrily. “But that’s why I’m worried – for him. His peace of mind. Knowing she’s allowed to roam free after everything she did, well… he's better, but he did take it kind of personally.”
“Guess I would too. Even if I wasn’t an overly-emotional killing machine.”
“Don’t talk about him like that,” she said harshly, surprising Geralt.

He leaned back a bit further, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. She blushed, but kept her strong gaze on him firmly. Normally she was on the gentler side, kind and doting to a naive fault, Yennefer even going so far as to call her “meek and soft.” But this was a side Geralt had not seen – hard and angry, defensive, even. He was almost proud and impressed to see it, always being fond of strong women himself.

“Sorry,” he said slowly. Fjola nodded and looked away again, crossing her arms.
“Anyone would have difficulty coming to terms with what happened to him,” she said. “Abandoned, scorned, lied to, manipulated, and worst of all, finding out that the person you loved most in this world – the one you would literally kill for – and did – didn’t even love you at all. Never had. Had, in fact, simply used you for their own gain, even if that wasn’t their intent from the start.” Fjola paused, her face twisting in fury, looking like she was going to be ill. “She didn’t even feel hatred for him, just ambivalence – somehow, that’s so much worse than hate. So much worse.”

Privately, Geralt agreed with her wholeheartedly. While he didn’t necessarily enjoy admitting his private thoughts, seeing them and his feelings as useless in the situations he was forced to deal with, he couldn’t help but admit he found it hard not to sympathize with Dettlaff. He had imagined how he would feel if Yennefer had done that to him, and even just picturing it felt sickening to him. He could only imagine how Dettlaff felt, having actually been the victim of such cruel conniving, the emotions doubtless made so much stronger by his naturally intense, vampiric nature.

“Anyway,” Fjola sighed, “I do still worry that she’s up to something. No, it’s none of my business, and no, I don’t think she’d ever come after us, especially considering that she’s still under the impression that Dettlaff is dead, but… I can’t stand the thought of her running around free, either. It’s not like Dettlaff dwells on it all the time, he’s learned to put it out of his mind for the most part, but…” She pressed her lips together, looking somewhat embarrassed.
“You want justice on his behalf,” Geralt finished.

Fjola nodded.

“I try not to be vindictive, I try to be forgiving, and empathetic, but… It’s not fair,” she said childishly, blushing.

Geralt laughed.

“You’re just mad because she interrupted your and Regis’ romantic evening,” he joked.
“Aw, you found me out,” she said sarcastically, laughing.

The two of them chuckled for a little bit before her face became firm again.

“To be honest,” she started slowly, “I’m not sure why I care so much. Maybe I’m more like Dettlaff than I think – hopeful to see bad people punished for the horrible things they do – but in reality, the small, cynical part of me,” she said, interrupted by a scoff from Geralt and raising an eyebrow, “...yes, Geralt, that does exist in me – well, I know that there are crimes committed every day that will always go unpunished. There’s nothing you or I or anybody else can do about it. But this one, it just feels so… personal.”

Geralt took a breath before responding.

“Do you think that by bringing her back to justice, Dettlaff will receive closure? Do you really think it won’t cross his mind now that she’ll just figure out how to escape again? Do you think for a second that her death isn’t the only thing that would actually bring him any sort of comfort?”
“Yes,” she said seriously, “I do.”

The Witcher was surprised at this, then annoyed.

“Then you really are naive.”
“I don’t think so,” she argued softly, “I know he’s trying to put it behind him, and he’s doing a wonderful job, but I can’t help but think that if I’m angry about it too, it’s almost like… as if I…” She was struggling to put it into words. “It’s almost as if I wish I could draw it out of him like poison and take it on myself.” She scoffed and shook her head, rolling her eyes. “I know I sound crazy.”
“Sounds like you just want to feel his feelings for him. And that’s not going to work.”
“I know,” she conceded. “But I guess that’s the dark side of empathy.”

Geralt balked.

“I get what you’re saying, but what you’re asking is impossible,” he reiterated.
“I know.”
“He’s gonna have to keep working on it by himself.”
“I know.”
“But you don’t care, do you?”
“I hate her,” she finally said.

Geralt was surprised to hear those words come out of her mouth, but knew instantly she was just struggling inside. Deep down, although he didn’t really know her that well and her anger and disgust on behalf of her lovers was justified, he hated the thought of seeing her succumb to the bitterness and cynicism that poisoned the world. He had seen too much of it already, making an already harsh world even harder and more venomous. He himself had fallen into this trap, and Yennefer, and just about everybody else he knew. He wasn’t sure he would want to see one of the last few genuinely kind, caring people left turn down that path as well.

“You know that’s not you,” he said quietly.

Fjola looked up, her face somewhere between sadness and desperation.

“What am I supposed to do?” she asked. “Nothing? Just sit by while the woman who hurt Dettlaff most in this world gets to flounce around and do whatever she wants?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”

His bluntness made her pause for a moment in surprise. Then, slowly, she cracked an appreciative smile.

“I guess you’ve dealt with some of those same situations yourself, huh? Yet you usually get to come out squeaky clean on the other side, in the end.”
“Regis told you a bit about me?”

She nodded, and he sighed a little, leaning forward.

“Most of it’s bullshit. The myths, the legends, the fucking ballads Dandelion likes to sing at parties – in real life, it’s a lot messier. Most of the time, there aren’t choices that are good or evil – sometimes any choice you make is evil, and the people would sooner spit on you for interfering than simply thank you for saving them from a wight or a wyvern.”
“I’m not looking to save a town,” she said tiredly, “Just help Dettlaff. And Regis. Because I know this affects him, too.”

Geralt nodded.

“He helped me,” he said. “He did it to save his friend. Do you know how he went about it?”
“Trying to get him closure?”
“But how? Do you think he encouraged Dettlaff to kill Syanna?”
“Well, no, Regis just said he tried to get him to be more empathetic. To be…”
“More like you.”

Fjola nodded sadly.

“I guess I’m failing miserably at that right now, huh? Some hero I make.”
“The world doesn’t need heroes,” Geralt said. “And that’s definitely not what Regis and Dettlaff need.”
“I thought you lived by the sword?” she asked.
I do. Not you. And considering who you keep company with, I’d say it’d be a wasted effort.”

At this Fjola had to laugh a little – he was right; no one but a fool would try to cross a higher vampire, let alone two.

“But shouldn’t I… be prepared or something?” She stopped herself, heaving a large sigh. “I mean, like I said, I don't actually think she's going to try anything, but... maybe? Should I worry?" She sighed again. "I guess it wouldn’t matter. When it comes right down to it, I… I could never kill anybody. I couldn’t even kill those bandits that assaulted me.”
“I don’t know what you think Syanna’s up to or is going to do to any of you, but whatever assumption you have, it’s wrong. She doesn’t give a shit about Regis, probably doesn’t even remember his name, same as you, and she doesn’t even know Dettlaff is still alive. Even if she did, she’s not stupid enough to try to cross him again."

The air was suddenly heavy with thoughts of the last encounter between the two former lovers and all the events surrounding it. So much spilled blood, anger, and pain, she mourned.

“She’s likely trying to escape the duchy, or just get revenge on her sister for locking her up.”
“You speak as if you know her,” she stated cautiously.
“I did. A little. Got to help her escape a fairy-tale prison, once, and I mean that in the most literal sense.”

Fjola looked at him quizzically; Regis had mentioned it, but as he had not gone with Geralt through the magical book, knew very little about it first-hand. He continued.

“Syanna’s a human being, just like anyone else. She fucked up. She made mistakes. She did things the wrong way, hurt people. Killed people. But that doesn’t mean she’s a cold-blooded monster. She did things for her own reasons and yeah, if I were her, maybe I might have done some of those things myself.”

Fjola was astounded to hear these admissions coming out of Geralt’s mouth.

“That doesn’t mean she’s not dangerous,” he continued darkly. “Because she definitely is. But I wouldn’t trouble yourself with looking for her – because she’s just not going to fucking bother with you.”

She looked away and nodded, Geralt leaning forward more, his tone lone, grumbling.

“And you know what else?” he asked. Fjola looked up, straight into his golden, cat-like eyes.
“Everything I just said to you about Syanna can be said for Dettlaff, too.”

A small, barely audible gasp of realization.

“Oh,” she said.
“Yeah. So, maybe revenge isn’t the path for you. Even if it’s for reasons you think are noble. It’s just another way to justify more killing, more shittiness in the world. And like I said – that’s just not you.”

Geralt leaned back again and crossed his arms across his chest in triumph. Fjola gave him a wide, appreciative smile and seemed to instantly relax, the tension easing from her shoulders and her brown eyes glistening slightly in relief.

“Thanks, Geralt,” she said, wiping a couple of unshed tears away from her face before they fell. He nodded and suddenly grabbed the bottle of mandrake she had brought as a gift, unscrewing the cap and dumping some into each of their cups of tea.
“Shh,” he said, smiling, putting a finger to his lips. Fjola laughed and the two of them drank the spiked tea, then shivered. “Ugh,” he said, “Tastes like shit.” They each took another sip again, the second swig going down easier, laughing some more.
“You know,” Fjola said, wiping her mouth, “You’re a really great person, Geralt. I can see why Regis likes you so much.”
“Ugh,” he groaned, “You’ve already got two men, don’t need a third.”

Fjola nearly spat her tea and they continued talking, the conversation much easier, Fjola eager to get home to Dettlaff and Regis, where hopefully things had lightened between them, as well. Eventually the sun was setting and she realized she had to leave, grateful she had stopped drinking early so as not to be traveling home drunk. As she mounted the mule and took off, waving goodbye to Geralt, her heart suddenly lifted at the thought of seeing Regis and Dettlaff soon, though felt pity that they had probably just been sitting around home all day, bored. She smiled and urged the mule on faster.

Notes:

Alright guys, buckle in for some upcoming chapters of love and fluff, they deserve it and we all know it’s what we’re here for! Enjoy!

Chapter 60: Three Fingers

Notes:

CW I guess: A little steamy

Chapter Text

Dettlaff was pacing nervously, upset that the sun had already set and Fjola was not home yet. His agitated manner was beginning to rub off on Regis, who wanted to maintain his calm for when she got home and they could both talk with her about the new feelings they had discovered.

I wonder if she’ll be surprised, he pondered, Surely she’s sensed it as well.

He relaxed thinking about her, but was brought out of it quickly as Dettlaff let out a slow, ominous growl.

“What is it?” Regis asked, jumping up from his seat.
“Hm? Nothing, I’m just anxious. Stop worrying so much.”

Dettlaff immediately realized how hypocritical his words had been and shook his head, looking away and out the window again. Regis simply had to chuckle and set his book down on the table, approaching his friend from behind and placing his hands on his shoulders comfortingly. He began to squeeze and rub, soothing him gently and pulling him back towards a chair to sit down. Dettlaff tried to resist at first, but the feeling of Regis’ strong fingers digging into his tense muscles felt wonderful and he relented, slumping back and allowing his friend to ease him.

“She’ll be home before you know it, we’ll gauge her mood and if we think she’s ready, we’ll tell her then.”
“And if she’s not?”
“Then she’s not,” Regis tried to say confidently, but Dettlaff picked up on the small crack at the end and grimaced.
“I realize it is selfish, Regis, but I don’t know what we will do if she refuses our new… hm… dynamic.”
“You mean the fact that we wish to be together as well? I doubt she’ll see much wrong with it,” he reasoned, assuaging himself slightly and trying to do the same for the younger vampire. “I mean, after all, she has two lovers, why not us?”
“Hm,” Dettlaff chuckled, Regis feeling it shaking his body somewhat, making his stomach squirm pleasurably. “I suppose you’re right. I don’t believe she’s the greedy type.”
“Well, and if she is, perhaps she’d consider moving another step forward.”

Dettlaff didn’t realize what Regis had meant at first and his eyebrows knit in puzzlement. Regis raised his own brows and held up three fingers, wiggling them seductively. Dettlaff turned red and pressed his lips together, but Regis could see a small, anticipatory smile playing at the corners.

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Regis,” he said, trying to hide the amusement and arousal in his voice.
“We,” Regis corrected with a laugh. “We are getting ahead of ourselves.”
“Hm.”

Regis’ fingers dug into Dettlaff’s shoulders and back in a particularly exquisite way and suddenly the younger vampire elicited a deep moan. Regis let out a deep breath and began removing Dettlaff’s coat, tossing it onto another chair beside them and returning to his efforts.

“Hmm, Regis,” he groaned. Regis leaned forward and placed his cheek against Dettlaff’s, breathing in his ear as he dug his fingers in again, his thumbs working in circles, his palms applying delicious pressure. Dettlaff gasped and reached back, his hand going to Regis’ cheek and rubbing it delicately. The older vampire brought his head back slightly, his facial hair tickling his companion’s stubbled cheek, his lips grazing his ear seductively.

“Damn you, Regis,” he growled, leaping up out of the chair and grabbing him roughly, pressing him back so his butt was against the table. Dettlaff pinned him there, rubbing his face against his, making soft, harsh noises of pleasure as their cheeks grazed and hands roamed. Regis’ hands clutched at his back roughly and they both groaned, their hands flying to each other’s hair, grasping and rubbing, their lips teasing but never touching as they brushed closely.

The door opened and Fjola strode in, looking utterly exhausted and suddenly freezing in shock at the scene before her. Regis was essentially sitting on the table, his legs splayed around Dettlaff, each of them clutching the other’s head in their hands, their faces flushed and pressed against one another’s. Nobody said a word for several seconds before a soft, sly smile spread widely across Fjola’s freckled cheeks.

“It’s about time,” she said with amusement, hanging her cloak up and approaching them casually. “I could have cut through the tension with a knife these past couple of months.”
“You are not upset?” Dettlaff finally asked, his heart racing, feeling shame that she had found out so suddenly. They had been too distracted to focus on outside sounds and smells and thus had not noticed her approaching, allowing her to surprise them.
“Why on earth would I be?” she asked, genuinely incredulous.
“Because this counts as infidelity, my dear,” Regis said softly.
“And what would you consider our arrangement now?”
“Well, it’s… perhaps it’s a bit different?” he tried, but Fjola merely raised her eyebrows. Dettlaff could not help but laugh.
“It’s fine, Regis. Fjola, if you are not upset by this…”
“Oh my loves,” she said, approaching them gently, giving each of them a soft, deep kiss, “I am so happy for you.” She kissed them again. “Truly.”

Regis and Dettlaff both felt the heavy feeling in their stomachs dissolve, replaced quickly by elation and excitement, or butterflies, as the humans liked to call it. Fjola nuzzled against them both, the two of them joining in, making a soft, affectionate trio.

“I’m exhausted,” she said, backing away and starting towards the stairs before she paused, turning back and smiling mischievously. “I’m going to sleep in Regis’ old bed tonight,” she said, giving them a meaningful look and heading upstairs. “Goodnight.”

The pair of vampires watched her go, still clutching each other loosely.

“Well,” Regis said, “That went better than I thought.”

He looked back to Dettlaff, who was merely staring at him and scowling.

“What?” he asked.

Dettlaff suddenly lurched forward, kissing Regis deeply and passionately, his stubble scraping him coarsely, his long, claw-tipped fingers clutching at his short gray hair. Regis moaned and kissed him back deeply, his tongue entering his mouth, swirling around his and sucking on it, hungry for him like he’d been starving. Dettlaff’s nails dug into his back and he ground against him, Regis’ legs squeezing his waist as he gasped.

“Dettlaff,” he moaned.
“Hm?”
“Dettlaff, I’ve never done this,” he said hurriedly.
“Neither have I,” Dettlaff said after a brief pause. “But I want it,” he growled, kissing Regis’ neck, then stopping himself and pulling away to look him in the eyes. “Do you?”
“Of course,” he gasped, clutching his shoulders. “Absolutely. I’m just, ah, unprepared. I’m… gods,” he suddenly laughed, “I’m actually nervous!”

Dettlaff began chuckling too and resumed kissing his neck, dragging his lips up to his companion’s ear.

“As am I,” he said softly.

Regis had a feeling they would both be blushing had the blood in their bodies not been focused someplace else. He tittered at the thought, then gently pushed Dettlaff away and headed toward the cellar.

“A moment,” he asked, descending the stairs. Dettlaff could hear him rummaging around through several things, the tinkling of glass bottles and Regis’ muttering before he ascended back up the stairs, wobbling a bit as he came back up too fast. He was clutching something in his fist tightly and Dettlaff had a feeling he knew what it was. The dark-haired vampire raised a long finger and pointed it upwards with an arched eyebrow. Regis smirked and nodded, and the two of them went into the bedroom, noticing that Fjola had indeed gone to sleep in the smaller room down the hall. Dettlaff had practically slammed the door behind him in excitement, startling Regis.

“Shh!” he laughed, but the younger vampire had already crossed the room and grabbed him roughly, pushing him back on the bed and kissing him forcefully. “Dett…” he tried, but he kissed him again, his tongue pushing into his mouth frantically.

Regis moaned and relaxed, Dettlaff taking the opportunity to reach under his leather jerkin to stroke him gently. He inhaled sharply and did the same, the two of them groaning in unison. Dettlaff suddenly backed away, out of his grasp, and began unbuttoning his shirt with haste. Regis did the same, the two of them clashing back together for a few heated minutes before continuing disrobing. When they were finished, they stared at each other for a few moments, finally turning red, panting.

“Are you sure?” Dettlaff asked huskily, grabbing the bottle Regis had retrieved and beginning to apply the contents to both of them. Regis nodded enthusiastically, practically incapable of speech with Dettlaff’s ministrations. He licked the older vampire’s ear slowly before turning him around on the bed and lowering himself on top of him.

“I love you, Regis,” he almost sighed.
“I love you too, Dettlaff,” he returned.

Regis cried out and Fjola could hear them down the hall, moaning and growling, an event that repeated itself throughout the night, startling her awake multiple times, but never irritating her. She simply smiled and enjoyed the thought of them finally together, wondering how this would change things for them in the future. She wasn’t sure she cared if things became a little different, just as long as Regis and Dettlaff were happy.

And, she thought with blush and a smile, they certainly sound that way.

Chapter 61: History

Chapter Text

There was cold dread. Unknowing. It wasn’t even dark, or light, just the absence of both. Nothingness. No heat, no cold, no hunger or pain, just an emptiness vaster than anything Regis had ever experienced. It was endless and unfathomable. Time ceased to exist, and he lacked the capacity for thought to analyze it. It was all instinct and emotion. Wordless fear and terror.

Then suddenly, a sensation. A wetness. Warmth. Awareness of a presence. That was it for a time, again, to an unknowing degree, until the wetness and warmth returned, and the next sensation was unimaginable pain. He wanted to scream but lacked the mouth to do so, could not squirm, could not flail, just endure what felt like scalding, red-hot knives being thrust into the very core of him, as if he were being skinned alive.

Eventually there was the moisture again – he could tell now it was blood. Someone or something was slowly pouring it on him, attempting to regenerate him. But why? Again, Regis could still barely think, let alone rationalize, and simply accepted each new sensation that came after the fresh dose of blood. More pain. His bones were growing. His muscles were reforming. His skin was reappearing but it was like being submerged in molten lead. It was agonizingly painful, and the torture and lack of most rational awareness made it seem like both an eternity and a simple matter of minutes. After another such eternity had passed, he realized he had vision again, as well as hearing, though both were weak. He groaned.

“Easy, Regis,” a male voice had said. “Take your time. Go slowly.”

Whose voice was that? It seemed familiar, yet he could not place it. He tried to gaze at the figure, but his eyes were still blurry and he could only make out a very tall man with broad shoulders and shoulder-length hair. His hands were large, as well – he must be a vampire, another of his kind. He passed from consciousness for a time, and when he reawakened, he realized with no small amount of surprise that the man who had been helping him was Dettlaff van der Eretein, an old acquaintance from his youth.

“...why…?” he had tried to ask, but it came out as a bloody gurgle and Dettlaff held up a long-fingered hand.
“Rest,” he had ordered. Regis did.

By the time he had awakened again, the pain had mostly subsided, but he was still weak and could hardly move. Examining himself, he noticed he had regrown his limbs and torso, and assumed the rest of him was there, as well, but thin, nearly shriveled, nude and brittle. His vision was much better, and hearing, and he tested his voice out by trying to clear his throat. More gurgling noises came out, and suddenly Dettlaff reappeared, holding a goblet and a knife. Regis watched with a shameful thirst as Dettlaff sliced open his palm and poured his own blood into the goblet, nearly filling it. He looked pained and weakened, but there was a willful determination on his face that Regis admired as beautiful. Dettlaff reached a hand under Regis’ head to lift him up slightly, feeding him his blood from the goblet with the other. Regis drank greedily, not even caring when some small rivulets escaped and ran down his cheeks and neck, Dettlaff taking it all in stride and only stopping when the goblet was empty. He used a cloth to wipe his friend’s face and ordered him to rest again.

This pattern went on for weeks, and soon months, Regis growing slowly stronger by the day as Dettlaff cared for him with his own blood, fortifying himself by eating raw meat and drinking the blood of small creatures in the area, careful not to overindulge on the latter. Soon Regis was capable of speech, and small movements. Dettlaff still had to help him to the pot to relieve himself, bathe him, dress him, and feed him, but he bore it all patiently, never saying a harsh word or even emoting a single second of irritation or frustration. Regis, finally having regained the ability to speak, though only in brief, asked him about it one day.

“I do not wish… to sound ungrateful,” he croaked, “But why?” Regis let out a hacking cough, the two of them waiting for it to subside. “Why bother?” he finished.
“Hm,” Dettlaff looked away, frowning and suddenly looking incredibly saddened. “It’s a long story,” he had said. Regis leaned back with a gurgling chuckle.
“We’ve time.”

Dettlaff smirked, appreciative of Regis’ kind ear and humor.

“I suppose,” he started, his deep, rumbling voice comforting, “I wanted something – a project – to take my mind off of things. To feel useful again.” Regis lifted an eyebrow in curiosity and Dettlaff continued.
“I had, for a time, a lover in Metinna. Her name was Rhenawedd…”

He had gone on at length about how they had met and how he had tried to lunge at her with his fangs exposed to chase her away, but she had only been intrigued. How they had begun to spend time together, growing closer, until becoming sexually and romantically involved. And how, eventually, things had become tense between them and one day, when he had come home from a small excursion, she had simply vanished. Her things were gone, as well. He had tried to track her immediately, but her smell was muddled in the rain, no one had claimed to have seen her, and no matter how many lesser vampires he had enlisted to help him, none could pick up her trail or discover a single lead. He had been utterly bewildered, and for the first time since his regeneration, Regis saw Dettlaff actually become angry. Furious, even. Deadly.

He had suddenly transformed into his more feral self, his claws and fangs extended, picking up pieces of broken furniture and tossing them to the wall, shattering them into pieces. He snarled and roared and raged as he relayed the story of his missing lover, screaming in fury at what he had said was madness and worry for her, but Regis felt was also frustration and helplessness, and feelings of impotence at his inability to locate her.

“De… Dettlaff…” he groaned, and his friend turned back to him, still raging. “Do you feel she left… of her own accord?” Regis motioned with his eyes to the mess Dettlaff had just created around them. “Were you ever this angry in her presence?”
“I would never have hurt her!” he snarled, launching another broken chair into the stone walls of the ruins of Stygga castle. “She knew this!”
“Did she?”

Dettlaff whirled on him again but did not attack.

“She was more than my mate, she was my pack, Regis,” he growled, “One does not hurt a member of their pack. Nor do they flee from them. Some filth has stolen her away! I know this!”

He began raging again, ranting about humans’ lack of morals and their selfishness and greed.

“One of them must have taken her! She is in trouble, and I cannot save her! She’s… she’s…”

He suddenly collapsed, curling up on the floor and shaking. Regis could smell his tears, and his heart wrenched with pity for his friend. He felt a deep ache within himself, something deeply emotional, horror and heartbreak, like he was being torn apart from the inside. He could not fathom this until suddenly, he realized he could actually feel what Dettlaff was going through. Though it was somewhat more muted than what Dettlaff himself was surely experiencing, the fact Regis could sense it at all was astounding.

Ah, he thought, But we are blood brothers, now. Dettlaff’s act of saving me and recreating me from his own blood has forged this link between us.

Regis suddenly wished he had the strength to lean forward and comfort him, but all he could do was mildly adjust himself and look on his friend in pity, empathetic tears falling down his face. Dettlaff suddenly stopped, righting himself and walking back to Regis, transforming back into his more human form and retrieving a cloth, wiping the tears away from his cheeks gingerly.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” he said gently, wiping the tears away from Regis’ face, “I forgot that you are as affected by this as I am, at the moment. When you are less reliant on my blood, these feelings will fade.”
“I’m aware,” Regis said, “But I am glad of it.” He started coughing, Dettlaff once again patiently waiting for it to pass. “I’m glad I can sense your pain. It gives me… gives me insight.”

Dettlaff’s face softened.

“But you doubt my reasoning,” he said in a low tone, looking away.
“Forgive me. But… having been witness to your fury just now… are you sure she was not simply frightened away?”
“She was my pack, Regis,” he reiterated. “I would do anything for her. I rarely left her side, I offered her everything, the world, the moon itself if I could manage it. For what reason would she flee?”
“Perhaps she was overwhelmed?”

Dettlaff scowled again, baring his sharp teeth.

“Why would one willingly give up the unconditional love and servitude of their partner?”
“Because not all partners want their lover to be a servant.”
“But it was a benefit to her! It was my way of showing I would do anything for her. Anything.”
“That is not what all humans want.”
“Fickle beasts!” he snarled. “Appreciating nothing and taking what is given to them for granted!”
“So you do believe she felt this way?”
“No! I was speaking of humans in general, though I have not troubled myself much with them for centuries. But Rhena was not like them. It was the reason I was so close with her, and her alone. She accepted me, Regis. Loved me. She would not take for granted all I had given – and was willing to give. No, I cannot believe she would flee from me.”

Regis had his doubts, understanding human nature much more deeply and easily than Dettlaff did, especially as he had just admitted he had avoided them for the most part over the centuries. Regis, meanwhile, had immersed himself in their culture, though somewhat at the cost of his own happiness. Living like a human had mostly just made him feel alienated from both races, and sometimes he felt regret at the decision, suddenly grateful to be able to connect with another of his kind at the moment, even if it was somewhat tragic.

“I hope you find answers someday, my friend,” he had yawned, Dettlaff forcing him to lay back, covering him with a thin, coarse blanket.
“I apologize if I’ve tired you, Regis,” he said sadly. “Sometimes my emotions can be… very intense.”
“No apologies necessary,” he said, stroking Dettlaff’s hand gratefully and falling back to sleep.

Dettlaff had watched him for a time before succumbing himself, turning Regis’ words over in his head and countering every argument with his own.

He did not even know her, he consoled himself, how could he possibly know what she was feeling or thinking? I know she loved me. She must have. She would not leave me, not willingly.

 

 

Dettlaff cared for Regis for several more months, as he was still unable to walk or even really crawl on his own. During that time, they had gotten to know each other much better, growing closer and closer in a manner that had nothing to do with their blood bond. Dettlaff was stunned to realize what a humanist Regis had become, considering his past and the careless, almost arrogant manner with which he had regarded human life.

“What made you change?” Dettlaff asked one day.
“I’m surprised to find you so curious,” Regis answered, “Considering how little you care for interacting with humans yourself, for good or ill.”
“Hmm, you seem much different than the person I once knew,” he said, pulling out the familiar goblet and knife. “I’m fascinated with what could cause such a drastic change.”
“Mm, many things, I suppose. It started, perhaps, when I had had a lover.”

Dettlaff raised an eyebrow and brought over the goblet full of his blood. Regis took it with thanks, long beyond shame at drinking it, but still trying not to appear as though he was enjoying it as much as he was. Dettlaff’s blood tasted wonderful, if he was being quite honest, rich and exotic in a way that human blood could never achieve. Still, he knew it was not being given to him for pleasure, and sipped it carefully.

“A lover?” Dettlaff smirked, amused. “What were they like?”
“She was another of our kind, beautiful and buxom, with long dark hair and a penchant for mischief and pleasure, rather like me. But unlike me, she knew where to draw the line, to put boundaries in place to stop herself from going over the edge. I, as you may have heard or at least suspected from our youth, had no such reservations, and became undeniably addicted to blood, as well as quite a hellion and fiend.”

Dettlaff sat back and nodded slightly.

“I had heard, and saw it for myself, shortly before our paths diverged. Which did surprise me, honestly – you were quite shy at first when we were very young.”

Regis chuckled.

“That I was, my friend. But I found drinking blood helped ‘break the ice,’ so to speak, and I became more confident with the ladies. One such creature was my one-time lover. Ah, how I adored her,” he said, his voice suddenly nostalgic and wistful.

“But,” he sighed, “Although we had bonded over out mutual affection for blood and sex, and copious amounts of each, I became more and more dependent on the former, while she simply enjoyed it like fine wine, on occasion. I would stay several nights away from our crypt, not telling her where I was going, and it was already becoming too much. We’d fight, she’d be concerned for me, and I’d promise to be better, regardless of whatever I felt personally on the inside. I don’t believe I had ever intended to truly give up blood, I just assumed she would learn to live with it, or tolerate my behavior because we were in love. I realize now how foolish and cruel that is, of course,” he sighed, sipping from the goblet again. “Eventually, however, she truly had had enough, and abandoned me without another word. Maybe she had waited to tell me and I simply took too long returning to the crypt again, or perhaps she had left that way on purpose, worried that I would persuade her not to once more – in any case, by the time I had gone back, she had left, and the loss drove me further into the depths of addiction. Despair and grief, as you know, are perfect excuses.”

He looked saddened, but continued.

“I still had some ah, well, ‘friends’ I’d called them at the time but now realize were just advantageous acquaintances, who encouraged me to go and fetch ‘us’ some more blood. We had already been drinking heavily – as you know, most of us know better than to fly while under the influence, but I had become arrogant in my abilities over the years. One of these said powers is being able to lull humans and animals to sleep almost instantaneously, which made for easier hunting, and assured we had never gone without. However, I relished the slight challenge of ‘purer’ hunting, and decided to fly to the nearby village in my bat form and just grab someone more naturally. This, of course, backfired terribly – as I went to grasp the poor creature, I, drunk, misjudged my aim and slammed face-first into a well. Already weary and tired of the constant attacks, the villagers had been on the defensive, and it did not take them long to pierce me with stakes, cut off my head, stuff it with garlic, saturate my corpse with holy water and bury it several feet deep for good measure. Recovery took a decent amount of time, approximately 50 years or so, and during that period I had turned over in my head where I had gone – and had been going – inexcusably wrong with my life. By the time I had regenerated and clawed my way out of my grave and back to the crypt, I had no one. My so-called friends had lost their primary provider of blood, and cared naught for much else, so they moved on shortly after discovering what had happened to me. I do not know if they realized it at the time, but I could hear their voices through the ground, and could hear them arguing about whether or not to assist me. The answer was a unanimous and resounding ‘no.’ And as I told you, my lover had long since left me, and I was not surprised that she did not return. I cannot blame her – I was nothing to wait for, at that point. So I traveled after, vowing to not let blood control me as the way it had once done, and came across another of our kind who felt similarly. He insisted we were guests in this land, and as such, owed the humans and elder races a debt of gratitude and respect. It took some time, practice, and convincing, but eventually he got through to me. Upon our parting, he gave me a very delicate, lovely-looking ring from our homeland.”

Regis glanced down at it, still swirled around his finger elegantly. He was grateful it had not been destroyed by Vilgefortz’s fire.

“I suppose you’d call him a humanist. His ideals were certainly so, at least. And I believe he was right.”

At this, Dettlaff scoffed, Regis looking over at him in surprise.

“Do you not feel the same way?”
“No,” Dettlaff responded. “They are confusing, ill-mannered beings, capable of little else besides destroying and misleading one another. I do not comprehend their two-faced natures, or why they feel the need for such. I cannot fathom what would cause one to be false with another, or their penchant for killing and duplicitous acts.”
“Hm, humans can certainly be a confusing lot, to be sure,” Regis said thoughtfully, “But they are nuanced, intriguing. A bit hard to fathom, I suppose, but their culture is full of subtleties that become easier to understand once you live amongst them.”
“I do not wish to live amongst them,” Dettlaff said quietly. “I’d rather be left alone.”
“You could find another to keep you company,” Regis said hopefully. “Surely if you found one you could tolerate, you could find another.”
“No!” Dettlaff suddenly said, rather sternly, Regis feeling the anger and something akin to fear rising within him.
“Perhaps I could at least tell you of some of the ideals my friend championed,” he offered gently. “Maybe if you learn to accept them, you could also learn to appreciate them. In time, you might even come to enjoy their company.”
“I doubt that very much,” he growled.
“But would it not give you peace of mind, in some sense? Perhaps there would be less inner turmoil and conflict if your understanding of them increases and so, in equal measure, would your disgust decrease.”

Dettlaff raised an eyebrow and gave him a heavy look.

“It couldn’t hurt,” Regis offered.
“I suppose,” Dettlaff conceded, “If it could make me less tired to live in their world.”
“That’s the spirit,” he laughed, wriggling the ring off of his finger and offering it to Dettlaff. “Here,” he said, “A reminder.”
“Regis…” Dettlaff tried to refuse, but the older vampire shoved it into his palm forcefully.
“Please,” he insisted, “Just as a very, very small token in thanks, though it does little repay to any of the immense debt I owe you now. Also, take it as a reminder of the lessons you’ve agreed to let me teach you.” He hesitated. “And of home.”

Dettlaff looked up, sadly, wishing they could have known it first-hand. Even being born and raised in this land did not make either of them – or any vampires, really – feel as though they belonged to it.

“Thank you,” he merely said, grateful, placing the ring on a finger of his right hand and smiling.

 

 

They had been together for over a full year before Regis was finally able to stand on his own and walk again, and decided it was at last time to part. Stygga castle was secluded enough for their purposes at the time, but Regis had wanted to walk amongst the humans again, find entertainment and joy in things such as art, literature, food, and culture. He had also wanted to allow his friend to recover for himself; the undertaking of healing Regis had been immense, and he could tell Dettlaff was exhausted.

“Where do you intend to go?” he had asked.
“Brugge. I used to live in Dillingen, if you recall, and made a decent living there as a rural healer and surgeon. I think I’d like to do that again. I could continue my recovery in relative peace, and you would be free to do as you please once more. You deserve that, at least.”
“Are you sure you can make the journey?”
“Yes, my friend,” Regis had almost laughed.
“Once you are there, send me a raven to tell me of your location, so that I may assist you if necessary.”
“I’ll be fine,” he chuckled. “You’ve taken better care of me than I possibly could have myself.”
“Hm. Promise me that you will stay there.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Stay there once you arrive, finish regenerating.”
“Very well, Dettlaff. I shall.”

Dettlaff had nodded in assent and the two had parted, holding one another for a long time before finally letting go and traveling their separate ways, but not before Regis gave him a final gift, a beautifully bejeweled and intricate pin of a gold and emerald moth.

“As another reminder,” he had said, fastening it to his frock coat. “You’ll always be attracted to the light.”

Regis eventually made his way to his destination, and though he was far from Dettlaff, he could still sense most of his emotions, feeling them as though they belonged to he himself. Sometimes in the early morning hours he would awake with a deep sadness, lonely and aching. Other times, he felt fury and rage, and found it hard to be in human company for a time. Strangely enough, fear was another emotion that made itself known, though Regis could not fathom what a vampire as strong as Dettlaff could possibly be afraid of. The most alarming, however, came a good deal after they had parted ways, and nearly crippled Regis with self-disgust, horror, and fury. That was when he knew something was terribly wrong with his friend, and he closed up his shop and traveled to where they had parted ways, employing ravens along the way to help him find him. They had returned within a few short days, notifying him of rumors that had spread about a beast roaming the city of Beauclair, shredding its victims with vicious fangs and claws, winged and terrible. Regis knew, instinctively, that this must be Dettlaff, and felt a great deal of terror and sadness for his friend. He could not imagine what would ever drive him to such acts, but knew he had likely found himself in a mess, and was either being wounded or controlled. He hurried as fast as he could to Toussaint to find him, and to his delighted surprise, this led to his and Geralt’s paths crossing once more.

The investigation, the torture he endured at Tesham Mutna, the pleading and reasoning he did on Dettlaff’s behalf still felt like nothing compared to the gravity of what his friend had undertaken for him. He would do it all a thousand times over, but in the end, none of it had mattered. Dettlaff had simply lost his mind to his emotions, overcome with pain and grief at what his former lover had truly felt and done to him. Regis had felt that same pain himself, through Dettlaff, and simply wanted to die from the agony of it. And still he had tried – tried to save Geralt, tried to make Dettlaff see reason, tried to fight him off to delay his fury. None of it made any difference, though, no matter how hard Regis had tried – Dettlaff was simply beyond reason, burying his old friend under a pile of stone at Tesham Mutna while he fought the Witcher in a blind rage.

When Geralt had emerged victorious and freed Regis from the rubble, he knew what had to be done. Dettlaff would not stop his rage, did not want to stop it, and Regis had to consider the needs and lives of the humans of Beauclair over that of his friend’s desire for revenge, however justified he felt it was. Seeing first-hand the violence, gore, and havoc his friend had wrought, he could no longer deny that Dettlaff was simply utterly beyond reach. Regis had sent Geralt away sternly, not wishing for him to witness what he was about to do. Feeling through their blood bond that Dettlaff no longer wished to live anymore, Regis ached with pity for his friend. He had simply given up – he could find no solace in the human world, that his best option was a quick death at the hands – or fangs – of the one being left in this world that he cared about. Regis could sense the defeat, the longing for death, and that he bore no ill feelings for him; he simply wanted him to free him of his pain. Regis wept and apologized, hating Dettlaff for putting him in that situation and yet loving him just the same, fated to always be a part of him.

Still, he hesitated. His fangs dug deeply into Dettlaff’s monstrous neck, again, and again, the familiar taste of his blood causing him to flash back to their time in Stygga castle, where Dettlaff had painstakingly helped him recuperate with that same blood Regis was tearing from him now. Regis could not bear it; he stopped mauling him, gasping and collapsing by his side in defeat, hoping he had stopped his assault in time. Dettlaff was weakened, shrinking back to his human form, smothered in blood and barely clinging to life.

“Please, my friend,” he wept, “Stay with me. And forgive me.”

Regis had grabbed him and turned him over, slitting his wrist with his fangs and pouring his blood into Dettlaff’s mouth. He stirred, barely, but enough so that Regis held hope. With great pain and effort, still wounded from their battle and weakened from the blood-letting, he scooped Dettlaff up in his arms and carried him down into the chambers of Tesham Mutna, placing him gently into the cage built specifically for housing and torturing a vampire. He locked it well and took the sole key, knowing that even if Dettlaff had tried to call any lesser vampires to his aid, the metal the cage was built from would make them too weak to pry it open, just as it did to Dettlaff.

“I’m sorry,” he had said again, resting his head against the cool bars, Dettlaff still naked and unconscious on the floor of the cage. “But I shall return soon.”

Regis went through the motions with Geralt, resentfully applauding his success and imploring him to finish the investigation. He could not bring himself to attend the farce of a ceremony they held for him, but instead used that time to purchase some clothes, a new leather frock coat, and some simple food, bringing it back to Tesham Mutna. As he went to descend the stairs from the secret entrance, however, a certain glistening caught his eye amongst the rubble of their fight. He approached and noticed with a grateful, bemused smile that it was the moth pin he had once gifted his friend so long ago. He collected it and continued on his way to Dettlaff, still imprisoned in the cellar and beside himself with fury and sadness.

“I thought I communicated it quite clearly that I no longer wished to exist,” he said dangerously, his blue eyes alight with anger.
“As I have given you some of my blood,” Regis said calmly, placing the clothes on the ground beside the cage to allow Dettlaff access without risking himself, “You must be able to sense some of my emotions in return. Yes?”

Dettlaff nodded curtly, dressing himself.

“Then you must know I simply could not allow you to do that.”
“I can sense your emotions, Regis, but I cannot read your thoughts. I do not understand why you cling to me so. I was ready. You had almost achieved what I wanted – you were in the act of it – why did you stop?”
“Because you are my friend,” Regis said simply. “And I care for you very deeply.”

Dettlaff merely huffed.

“In killing you, I would be putting myself into the same position in which you found yourself – alone, mournful, and longing for death.”

This revelation had surprised Dettlaff – he had not known how much he had meant to Regis. But he could feel it, now – his blood coursing through him allowed him that – and he suddenly felt guilty and ashamed. Regis winced.

“Do not trouble yourself with it,” Regis soothed. “But please, I do beg your forgiveness for my unwillingness to follow through.”
“Hmm.”
“Allow me some time, Dettlaff, to say goodbye to Geralt, and I will escort us both from Toussaint. We can live abroad, and I can help you heal, as you once did for me.”
“I do not deserve it,” he said gruffly, his voice thick with grief.
“You can sense for yourself that I do not feel that is so.”

Dettlaff indeed could feel Regis’ emotions, his care and concern for him, and a kind of deep, soft ache, painful and yet sweet. A sort of love, he supposed, or at least a deep compassion. It softened him somewhat, made him relent.

“Alright,” he had said, “I will try.”

Regis leaned forward and reached through the bars, his hand clutching Dettlaff’s hair as he did the same to him, bringing their foreheads together in deep appreciation and affection. From that point forward they had traveled and healed, always together, eventually their emotions no longer able to be felt by one another, but shared nonetheless. When Regis had told him of his plan to return to Toussaint, optimistic with his progress over the two years they had spent together, Dettlaff had thought him a fool, but nevertheless went along to please him, the two of them desperately wanting to make the other one happy.

 

 

Looking back now, they both laughed in amusement and elation with how things had eventually played out, grateful for each other, and for Fjola. Dettlaff reached his hand up to stroke Regis’ face, Regis leaning into it affectionately and kissing his palm. This moved them to kiss some more, and more, holding each other tightly, their chests pressed against one another’s firmly as they fell asleep, blissfully happy and at peace.

Chapter 62: Taste

Chapter Text

Fjola got up early as usual, creeping downstairs and resisting the urge to peek in on Dettlaff and Regis in the main bedroom. She hadn’t heard them stirring for some time, and took the opportunity to sneak out without them noticing. She walked out to the barn, shivering as the air had turned cold again and everything that had thawed the day prior had now refrozen. She fed the mule and gave it water, throwing a coarse blanket over its back to keep it warm in the barn. She crept back inside and ate some fruit for breakfast, but the pair was still not up.

Well, they let me sleep after an… eventful evening, she thought with amusement, It’s only fair to return the favor.

She heated some water, bathed, and dressed, looking at the position of the sun and realizing it was already mid-morning. She continued on about her day but it was not until she had started cooking past noon that she heard the first faint movements and mumbles above her. She smiled to herself as Regis made his appearance first, yawning widely and exposing his sharp teeth, his eyes more tired than usual. He saw her making soup and tea and slumped somewhat in quiet appreciation, kissing her and sitting down at the table with a slight wince and a sigh. Fjola said nothing, but found it hard to contain her grin as Dettlaff came shuffling down the stairs next, kissing her silently also before he too went to sit at the table, grimacing somewhat at the effort. Fjola found it difficult to contain herself. It was not her intent or thought to be teasing or snide, but she felt a simple, uncontrollable giddiness at the thought of them together. She served them all the food and drink, sitting next to them quietly and trying with great effort not to smile.

“Fjola, darling, you may as well let it out,” Regis finally sighed after a few moments.

Dettlaff cocked an eyebrow while Fjola tightened her lips and tried to shake her head in denial, but simply couldn’t, soon letting out a loud, airy laugh. She apologized profusely, turning red, Dettlaff scowling in confusion and Regis rolling his eyes. Fjola kissed them each in turn, letting her giggling subside and apologizing again.

“There’s no need,” Regis stated, taking a spoonful of soup and moaning slightly, savoring it. “You are not laughing as a jape or a jest – you are simply, ah…”
“Amused,” Dettlaff finished seriously, still self-conscious.
“No, my loves, I swear, it’s just… I’m just happy. All this stupid tension can pass and we can all stop pretending you two haven’t been in love for months.” She paused in thought. “Or longer…”

“We’ve been very close for a long time, my dear,” Regis said, stroking her hand gently, “But I wasn’t aware of what it was until perhaps around Yule. I thought my love and lust for Dettlaff was merely confused with those same feelings I had for you, that I was merely conflicted and in emotional disarray. Once my yearning for you was finally fulfilled and realized, however, I came to the understanding that those same desires did indeed extend to Dettlaff, and were not at all connected with what I feel for you.” He smiled to himself, sipping his tea. “Having both of you is just a perk.”

Dettlaff looked to Fjola, still concerned, stiff and tight.

“And you, Fjola? Do you return this love for… for both of us? Still?”

Fjola looked at him softly, the smile that was spreading across her face comforting to him.

“Dettlaff,” she said, stroking his cheek gently, “You once told me that love is not a finite thing. That there is no end to it, no limit or capacity to which one can feel it. That loving one of you doesn’t diminish my love for the other in any way.” He nodded, but still looked pained and unsure. “I finally understand that, Dettlaff. Truly. Those words make sense to me, now.”

He released a very heavy breath and knew by looking in her eyes that she was telling the truth. He leaned forward to stroke her cheek in return, running the bridge of his nose against her affectionately in the same manner he did with Regis. Fjola let out a soft sigh of contentment as the older vampire joined them gently, the three of them holding each other, hearts pounding, finally relieved to be able to express their emotions and desires freely.

“Does this happen often with vampires?” Fjola suddenly blurted, and Regis flopped back in his seat with a laugh.
“Well it depends on the vampires, I suppose,” he said mirthfully, “Does it happen frequently amongst humans, as well?”
“I don’t think so. I mean… I guess I don’t know,” she shrugged. “How could anyone? Besides those involved, anyway.”
“Well then, there you have it,” he said. “If it does indeed occur – which I can assure you, my dear, it certainly does – it is likely hidden behind closed doors. Toussaint is somewhat open-minded when it comes to affairs of the heart – or at least loins – but I would venture to guess trios of lovers are not a popular choice of discussion. Though I am also quite aware of the frequency at which non-monogamous relationships and even orgies occur. Toussaintois may claim to hold chivalry, and by extension virtuosity in high regard, but those values are usually tossed out the window quite quickly when faced with the prospect of wanton rutting in the arms of multiple lovers.”
“Oh,” Fjola said, slightly pink.
“Regardless, Fjola, we are quite secluded out here, away from the eyes of the hypocrites and the repressed, so you need not worry about our arrangement.” He took another sip of tea. “But to answer your question, yes, vampires often do take multiple lovers. Take Dettlaff, for instance, why I hardly believe there is a bruxa or alp alive who has not…”

Regis suddenly stopped himself after seeing Dettlaff’s face become anxious and irritated. Regis cleared his throat.

“Do you still see them?” Fjola asked quietly.

While she considered herself very open-minded at this point, she didn’t care for the idea of either one of them sleeping with someone she didn’t know. Dettlaff and Regis as a couple was one thing – they all loved each other, it was to be expected for things to progress the way they had. But bruxae and alps were a different story – she had seen artistic renderings of them and felt herself get prickly with jealousy at the memory. They were deadly, but stunningly beautiful. Fjola felt she could not compete, and a hot envy crept up her into her cheeks, turning her red underneath her freckles. She felt shame for feeling so covetous of either of them, but she couldn’t help it, turning away and trying not to blush, which of course only made her do so harder. Dettlaff leaned forward and grasped her chin lightly with his fingers, gently turning her face back to his.

“Fjola,” he said, “It was a very long time ago. I have not been in contact with any of the lovers I had had in years.”
“I feel really foolish being so jealous,” she said meekly. “What would it matter? It would be awfully hypocritical if I suddenly had a problem with you, uh, exploring other options… right…?”

To her surprise, Dettlaff started chuckling in the way that she always loved so much, her heart twisting happily.

“Mhmhmhmhmhm, no. There is a vast difference between what the three of us have and trysts with whatever female was willing. They were dear to me, for a time, but I could not even bring myself to call them lovers, so shallow was our bond. It was never more than just a couple of vampires wishing to slake their lust.”

He looked to Regis, who was nodding.

“I’ve had more companions than I could even keep count of over the years,” Regis said casually, waving a hand, “It’s not uncommon among our kind. Mates, however, pack members – those are far more rare.”
“What’s the difference?” Fjola asked. She could guess a little from context, but wanted to hear how her two lovers experienced it. “How do you know?”
“A feeling,” Regis said, uncharacteristically reticent.

Fjola raised her eyebrows with a small smile and motioned for him to continue. He scowled and shook his head slightly.

“It is essentially impossible to explain to one who cannot feel it,” he said.

Fjola was stung, and Dettlaff intervened.

“What Regis means to say is that it is something that is likely incapable of being felt by humans. I’m sure he meant no offense,” he said tersely with a significant look at Regis.
“Oh,” Fjola said. “So do you… do you feel it?”

Regis and Dettlaff looked at each other for a moment, something unspoken passing between them.

Maybe that’s it, Fjola thought. They can share that kind of feeling, an unspoken bond, and I can’t.

Fjola put on a fake smile and made a motion to leave the table, but Dettlaff quickly put his hand over her own, pressing down gently and urging her to sit with a slight, thoughtful frown. She complied and looked at them expectantly in turn. Regis breathed in deeply, giving the younger vampire another look before speaking slowly.

“It is… possible… for you to feel as we feel, though it will not be in a natural manner. In fact, it’s achieved via a method..."

Fjola stayed silent and waited for him to finish with bated breath. She looked to Dettlaff, but he was staring to the side and down at the floor, his brows furrowed as his hand squeezed hers more tightly.

“You are aware, of course,” Regis said slowly, “The effect human blood tends to have on us vampires. It induces a state similar to drunkenness, and is often highly addictive. In many cases, it can end up controlling a vampire’s every waking thought and action, and even become problematic enough that other vampires might be forced to intervene, to protect the tribe.”

Fjola nodded for him to continue.

“Have you ever wondered then, why vampires would take such a risk? Why they would not just simply, say, drink from one another?”

She scowled slightly in thought, shaking her head.

“I mean, is it viewed as a kind of cannibalism?” she asked. “Would animal blood be easier?”

Regis smiled.

“Animals tend to taste of wherever they’ve been and whatever they’ve eaten. In times of desperation or a famine of human blood, some vampires have indeed drunk from deer, wolves, or even rats and other vermin. You can just imagine what that would taste like – either bitter vegetation, rotten meat, or waste – not very appetizing at all.” He paused, his mouth twisting in distaste. “But humans, however, especially in Toussaint – the diet is rich in fat, sugar, and alcohol, making the blood of victims utterly irresistible, delicious beyond measure and quite a tempting feast, indeed. It’s no wonder so many of our kind chose this land as our home – while it was here we arrived after the Conjunction of Spheres, and we are all bound to it regardless because of that, the real truth lies in the decadent indulgences. Prosperous lands where the population has a much richer, more sumptuous diet make for the best meals – and there are very few lands with people as well-fed as in Toussaint.”

Regis suddenly paused, looking away in a seemingly nostalgic reverie for a few moments, his lids heavy as he contemplated his thoughts before snapping out of it with a blush, shaking his head and refocusing.

“Eh, where was I… ah, regardless of this fact, could it not be argued that a vampire feasting on humans such as this would have a rich taste to their blood, as well? As you may have guessed, my dear, there is indeed an unspoken cultural taboo on the practice, though it is not necessarily a part of our codex. But do you know why?”

Fjola shook her head again, and Dettlaff looked at Regis with an expression she couldn’t read. He looked unhappy, almost, or frightened.

“It is because of the effect vampire blood has on those who imbibe it. And I don’t mean strictly other vampires – humans are susceptible to its influence as well, same with the elder races.”
“Oh,” was all Fjola said, not sure whether or not to ask questions, or just continue letting Regis speak.

She felt a gnawing in the pit of her stomach, having a feeling she knew where this conversation was going. Regis caught her expression and nodded solemnly.

“Said species who have drunk from a vampire, though it is exceedingly uncommon, have had interesting and rather fascinating reactions to it. Ah, from a scholar’s point of view, of course. Euphoria, for one, can often occur, as well as drunkenness when imbibed to excess, loss of consciousness, disinhibition… In fact there have even been stories about even the most prudish of humans becoming quite licentious after having just a few sips of…”
“Regis,” Dettlaff chided softly.
“Right. Regardless of those possibilities, one of the most frequent occurrences actually mirrors that of what vampires themselves experience when drinking from one another, which is the ability to experience the emotions and feelings of the one from whom was drunk.”

Fjola felt confused, then hopeful, then suddenly frightened. Regis nodded solemnly and Dettlaff pressed his lips together, his face taut.

“Are you suggesting we…?” Fjola started, but Regis suddenly looked flustered and waved his hands defensively.
“No no no, no no, of course not. I would never ask you to try such a thing! I was merely mentioning it from an, ah, informational standpoint.”
“Regis, there is no reason to lie to her,” Dettlaff grumbled, Fjola’s hand still engulfed in his own. He squeezed it gently and turned back to her. “It would be possible for you to feel what we feel, to understand the pack bond we spoke of for yourself, but it is… not something either of us has ever done with a human. Most vampires don’t.”
“Are human lovers that uncommon?”
“Of course not,” Regis chuckled, “But human mates… mm… yes, somewhat.”
“May I ask why?”
“Lifespans,” was all Dettlaff said, looking grim.
“Oh.” Fjola looked solemn for a moment. “Is there any other reason you don’t, um…?”
“How would one ask their partner such a thing?” Regis asked sarcastically. “Here, darling, have a goblet of my blood, drink up?”
“Well, to be fair it wouldn’t be the first thing I’ve drunk from either…”

Regis turned a little red and chuckled, interrupting her.

“Fjola, it is not something we would ever expect, or even ask of you. The only reason it even came up is because you inquired about feeling what we do.”
“Okay.”

There was a heavy moment of silence that settled over them all, none of them sure where to take things. Fjola was caught between the thrilling curiosity of it, and the shame of asking for such a thing, especially as Regis had stated he was uncomfortable with the idea and Dettlaff seemed more tense than usual. Regis shot Dettlaff a pleading look as the latter had begun to tap his sharp nails on the table and stopped, looking sheepish. Fjola squeezed Dettlaff’s hand and he calmed somewhat, lifting hers to kiss it gently and make eye contact, her heart fluttering as she stared into his icy blues. Any time she felt their gaze on her or they made eye contact, the experience was always the same – her heart would race and twist pleasurably, and she would feel immeasurably warm and happy. The sensation was almost addicting, and it made her suddenly curious about something.

“Is vampire blood addictive like human blood is?” she asked.

Regis strained his face for a moment in thought.

“I don’t think so,” he said, “Not in the biological or chemical sense, at least. I’m sure one can become psychologically dependent upon it, just as with any substance, but in terms of an actual physical addiction? I highly doubt it.”
“Because you and Dettlaff drank from each other, right? When healing?”

Dettlaff nodded.

“I was concerned, healing Regis from my blood years ago, but it seems not to have caused a relapse. Though I could be mistaken,” he said, looking at his companion in a seeking manner, “You were quite weak to begin with, I doubt you’d have had the strength to attack me, even when you were almost fully healed.”
“And quite right you are,” Regis said. “In previous times, and unfortunately quite recently, as we all found out, upon smelling or tasting blood in most scenarios, I could be overcome very quickly and become quite bestial indeed.”
“But not from Dettlaff’s.”
“No, my dear, not from Dettlaff’s. I suppose vampire blood does not trigger it – the experience is vastly different from that of drinking from a human or animal, after all. The taste is similar, but the sensations are… hm… indescribable.”

Fjola bit her lip, burning to ask but so unsure of their reaction. She wondered how it would taste, if the experience would be awkward or bring them closer, what it would be like to feel the same sensations they did, though as they pointed out, a tad more muted. Would they have her try to bite them? Or would they simply pour some of their blood into a goblet as Regis mentioned? He had seemed somewhat facetious, but still, he had mentioned it. Then she started to worry. Would Regis be triggered by the scent of blood, regardless of whether or not it was a vampire’s? Would he miss the experience, try to bite her again? She thought of the day when he had attacked her and suddenly felt shame as she became aroused recalling it. Even though she had been in danger, and his fangs had been hurting her, she couldn’t help but find the entire experience highly erotic. Fjola turned redder and redder, and Dettlaff and Regis looked at her curiously until realizing what was going on. The older vampire smiled slyly and chuckled.

“Tsk, tsk. Darling – shame on you,” he teased.
“Please,” she muttered. “I’m a little embarrassed.”
“What ever for?” Regis asked. “Sex is a wondrous thing, to be celebrated. And becoming more liberated is cause for celebration, indeed.”
“It’s… not just that,” she said softly.

Dettlaff seemed to catch on before Regis did, looking somewhat distraught.

“Fjola, if this is something that you wish for…” he started, Regis suddenly understanding and becoming much more serious.
“I apologize, my dear, if my humor made you uncomfortable. I did not think it would actually be… I mean… I suppose it would be tempting, from a human standpoint, to try a vampire’s blood. But – are you sure that would be something you’d actually want?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked, shrugging stiffly.

Dettlaff and Regis exchanged looks again.

“It’s ah, it can be…” Regis started, hesitating.
“Overwhelming,” Dettlaff finished.

Fjola felt embarrassed again.

“Listen, this is… I know it was asking too much. I’m sorry to have pushed it.”
“My love,” Dettlaff said, kissing her hand again, “Your curiosity is understandable. And if you wish, we… I… would be willing to try it.”

Fjola considered for a moment.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not yet.”
“What?” he asked incredulously. “Is it not something you want?”
“Not if it’s something neither of you want,” she argued, and the younger vampire tsked.
“I would love for you to feel what I feel for you,” he said in a low, grumbling voice, leaning forward and beginning to kiss her neck. Fjola saw Regis tense, then come around the table and behind her, kissing the other side of her throat just as gently.
“Darling,” he purred, “I would love for you to sense what I do, as well. I want you to know what I feel for you… and for Dettlaff. I’m flattered beyond reason that this is something you’d want.”
“Of course I’d want it,” she said huskily, closing her eyes in pleasure at their attentions. "But..."

He and Dettlaff stopped, and Fjola turned to look at them both.

“But not yet,” Regis pouted, trying to hide his disappointment.
“Things are still fresh between you,” Fjola said with a quick glance at Dettlaff. “I know you’re already tense from the dynamic changing so rapidly. Again. It’s unfair of me to put that kind of pressure on either one of you.”

Dettlaff looked suddenly ashamed. She leaned forward and cupped his cheek gently. He knew that after drinking from him, Fjola would definitely be able to sense his hesitation in allowing her to do so, and could only imagine how horrible she would feel knowing that he had been coerced simply because he loved her. Their negative feelings would only compound and ruin the act forever after, something he was unwilling to risk. Dettlaff felt immense guilt at denying Fjola something she wanted. She asked for very little, so the fact she had expressed her desire for it at all was significant. Deep down, however, he was much too nervous, only complying because he knew it would make her happy, and he knew it was wrong to force them into such an act when any of them were unwilling, himself included.

“Are you sure you’re not irritated?” Regis asked pleadingly.
“When the time is right, I hope you trust me enough to let me experience it,” she said quietly, kissing each of them in turn. “But for now, I’m fine. Things keep changing between us as it is. And besides, I don’t have to drink your blood to be able to sense some of the things you’re feeling.”
“Oh?” Regis teased. “Such as?”
“Such as I already fed the mule and cooked today, so that means one of you must be desperate to do the laundry.”

Regis threw his head back and laughed, then leaned forward and kissed her passionately, Dettlaff getting noticeably agitated.

“Which one of us are you jealous of?” Fjola asked with a smirk.
“Both,” he grumbled, kissing Regis first, then Fjola, his hands wandering on each of them before he suddenly stopped himself, parting from them and walking away. “I’m going to draw a bath,” he said, gesturing with his chin and giving Regis a meaningful glance before disappearing down the hallway. Fjola watched him go wistfully, a look Regis caught immediately.
“If he’s not ready to have you drink from us,” he said, “Then he’s definitely not ready for… that.”

Regis gave her a significant look before going to join Dettlaff, leaving Fjola standing alone and blushing as she realized what he had meant.

Eventually, she thought. Eventually.

Chapter 63: Swear it to Me

Notes:

Thanks for being patient while I slowly update. I've been really hard on myself about my writing lately and it's slowing me down. I'll try to have weekly updates, at least! Thanks again and I hope you're still enjoying it!

Chapter Text

It was finally spring and Fjola had found herself much more energetic lately, rising even earlier, sometimes just to take long walks around the woods surrounding their home. Though she never strayed too far, Regis and Dettlaff becoming worried and agitated if they could not sense her presence, it was liberating to get some time to herself in the sunshine, watching the trees bud and grow greener every day. Despite Dettlaff and Regis pleading with her not to wander beyond where they could sense her, they still tried their best to allow her independence and freedom while struggling with their own feelings of concern and over-protectiveness. One day Fjola had asked why they bothered, and Regis looked grim.

“To speak quite bluntly and perhaps even offensively, it’s dreadfully easy for a human to die or be killed. While we doubt you’d put yourself into a harmful situation purposefully, despite you doing just that during the Yule Feast,” he said, raising an eyebrow in reproach, “It simply concerns us to think of you out in the woods, alone, defenseless against bears, wolves, or bandits.”
“Hey, I defended myself against… one bandit,” she had laughed, but Regis did not return it.
“Please, my darling,” he had begged, “Just stay where we can sense you.”

Fjola had complied simply because she knew it made them feel better, and that their intent wasn’t to control her. She still made frequent trips to the port, though Regis had always accompanied her. She didn’t feel suffocated or smothered, but still, it was nice to be out in the sunshine, alone with her thoughts again. As she strolled around, pausing here and there to collect a budding herb or leaf, she thought she heard the sound of a horse’s hooves and voices in the near distance. She strained to listen, but it was still too far. She knew nothing was a match for Regis or Dettlaff, but still, felt more comfortable starting her journey home early. She was glad she did, as when she arrived, she noticed gleefully that Roach was tied up outside their home, nibbling some fresh spring grass and flicking her tail. Fjola walked into the cottage and saw Geralt sitting at the table, dressed in his full gear, his two swords strapped to his back as he leaned back and crossed his arms, Regis and Dettlaff both looking thoughtful. She grimaced and made a motion to leave again, but Regis ushered her in and she followed, sitting next to him at the table.

“Like I was saying, word is there’s a group of violent bandits led by an ‘ebon-haired wraith in armor’ stalking around the Northeast of Toussaint, around Arthach Palace and the bogs. I’ve investigated but with the spring rains, the bogs hide fucking everything, every track and footprint.”
“I’m sure the Duchess is pleased with the progress you’ve made in almost four months,” Regis chuckled darkly.
“Ugh,” he groaned, “I’ve definitely ‘fallen out of favor’ – not that I really give a shit. It’s bothering Yen, though. The only thing that’s saving my ass is that the rest of her guards and knights haven’t even found a tenth of what I have.”
“Do you believe she’ll punish you somehow, take back Corvo Bianco?”
“No, nothing like that. But uh…” Geralt hesitated.
“This isn’t purely a social call,” Dettlaff said coldly.

Regis gave him a scolding look, but the younger vampire ignored it.

“No,” Geralt replied equally coolly, “It’s not.”
“Are you sure it’s her?” Regis asked, noting with worry that Dettlaff was getting more and more agitated.
“Yeah,” Geralt replied, “The descriptions from survivors, one of ‘em even drew her. It’s her. It’s definitely her.”

Regis sighed.

“Well, I cannot speak for Dettlaff, but I will help you, my friend. Though I am giving you fair warning now – I refuse to take part in any physical altercation.”

Dettlaff whipped his head around and stared at his friend angrily, but Regis refused to meet his gaze.

“I get it,” said Geralt, waving a hand. “Just might be helpful to have a second pair of eyes. At night. In the sky.”
“Enough,” Regis said, raising a hand and nodding. “I’ll help you tonight, while it’s clear.”
“You will?” asked Dettlaff, raising an eyebrow.

Regis nodded again with a firm, significant look. Dettlaff scowled and pressed his lips together in distaste, looking away but saying nothing. Fjola felt concern, but did not voice it right away. Not in front of Geralt, she thought.

“Thanks Regis,” Geralt said, rising from the table.

He gave him a time and place, then nodded his goodbyes and left, Regis closing the door behind him and standing in the middle of the room quietly, not making eye contact. They all waited for a few moments after Geralt had begun riding away to say a word. Dettlaff was the first, and he was livid.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, helping him look for her?” he snapped, and Fjola felt her neck prickle. Even knowing his anger wasn’t directed at her, there was an innate, instinctual fear at seeing either of them in a rage. “She’s been keeping to herself for months; no sightings, no threats, no word – things have been better this way.”

“Until now, that is,” Regis replied, oddly calm. The back of Fjola’s neck tingled again.
“Let the Witcher take care of her then! She deserves to die horribly.”
“The Duchess has ordered her alive.”
“She has no right!” he roared. “There will be no repercussions, no justice! She will avoid the axe or the rope once again, despite her being responsible for the harm and innumerable deaths of innocents!”
“So were you, once,” was all Regis retorted. So was I, he thought.

Dettlaff snarled and suddenly hurled a chair across the room where it clattered against the wall and fell to the floor, partially shattered. He morphed into his more vampiric form, his pupils small, eyes feral, and massive fangs bared as he launched forward to put his face in Regis’ confrontationally.

“Those deaths were on her!” he shot. “I gave reasonable demands, they were refused! They knew the consequences, and still they chose to deal with them!”
“She’s been harming people, Dettlaff,” Regis reasoned, but his cheeks reddened. “Just as you did. Perhaps she is as misguided as you w… are.”

Dettlaff growled menacingly.

“Is the wound still so deep?” Regis asked in a hushed tone. “You loved her once. Yes, she harmed you, and used you to harm others, but should that be a death sentence? She is still a human being.”

Is he afraid? Fjola wondered, incredibly tense as Dettlaff began stalking back and forth.

“All the more reason for her to perish,” he snarled, and Fjola’s stomach dropped at hearing it. “Yet you plan to do nothing if you spot her.”
“Dettlaff,” Regis said softly, “Do you remember our original plan? To have you make peace and…”

Dettlaff suddenly wrapped a clawed hand around Regis’ throat and shoved him back against the wall. Fjola panicked and shot up, not thinking clearly as she tried to yank Dettlaff off of him from behind. He ignored her, squeezing Regis more tightly and lifting him off the ground. Regis squirmed and kicked, but kept eye contact.

“You gave up on that plan! You knew it was never reasonably going to happen.”
“Not if you can’t let it go,” Regis choked. “You need to release all th…”

He started gagging as Dettlaff’s hand clenched again.

“She’s one woman,” Regis managed to gurgle out. “You’ve… another…”
“She deserves to pay for what she’s done!” Dettlaff shouted, slamming Regis into the wall.

Fjola could see the older vampire beginning to lose consciousness, his legs kicking less frequently and the veins in his face bulging. She knew vampires were hard to kill, but that it could be done by another of their species. She didn’t know under what circumstances or what actions it would take to do it, however, and panicked, her fear taking over her as she tried vainly again to grab Dettlaff and drag him away. He lost his grip on Regis somewhat and dropped him to his feet, turning and jerking his arm back from Fjola before whirling on his friend again.

“You would choose her side over mine?” he roared. “After everything? Do you value that monster’s feelings over my own?”
“This isn’t about sides, Dettlaff,” Regis said, rubbing his throat. “This is about valuing life – anyone’s life.”

Annoyed and infuriated, Dettlaff readied his claws and bellowed in frustration. Fjola realized with terror that he was likely going to attack Regis, and jumped forward to try to defend him at the last second. As he lurched forward, Dettlaff’s elongated claws cut through the air and suddenly all he heard was a soft “oh!” as his nails grazed something to his left. He was in a blind rage, however, and what had happened didn’t fully occur to him until he saw Regis’ face turn horrified and he smelled fresh blood, hearing it splash to the floor, louder than anything he had ever heard before. He stopped his attack on his friend immediately and turned back in terror to see Fjola clutching her side, her dress soaked with blood.

Strangely enough, she did not seem frightened, only frozen. Curious, even. Regis pushed Dettlaff out of the way roughly and immediately grabbed a cloth from the kitchen, pressing it against her wound to stop the bleeding. His lips were pressed tightly and he didn’t say a word, merely tended to her quietly. Dettlaff returned to his human form and suddenly felt sick, a terrified shock and shame overwhelming him as the gravity of what he had done sank in. His mind tried still to deny it, however, and he lashed out in guilt.

“It’s not that bad,” he tried to say calmly, but his trembling gave him away as he looked at Fjola, who was still merely staring at her wound, her face blank even as Regis pressed into her side painfully. “Right…?”
“She’s going into shock,” Regis said, clenching his teeth and looking up at her. “Fjola, I need you to lie on the floor, here. Can you do that?”

She nodded and complied, and Regis pulled her feet up onto a remaining chair, loosening her clothes a little and continuing to hold her wound tightly.

“I need another cloth,” he demanded. Dettlaff did nothing, seemingly rooted to the spot, and he couldn’t understand why. It was as if Regis was speaking from very far away. He turned back to Dettlaff and bared his teeth. “NOW!” he shouted.

Dettlaff came around a bit and followed his directions, grabbing another towel and handing it to Regis, who yanked it from his grasp roughly and continued his attentions on Fjola, whose face still remained blank and impassive. The blood had saturated the first cloth and was already soaking into the second. The smell of her blood was intense. Regis was pale and trying not to shake, but his surgeon’s instinct kept him steady and focused.

“In the cellar,” he said clearly, “There is a surgeon’s kit with a small, opaque jar of white powder in it. Bring it…”

He hesitated, releasing a slow, heavy breath.

“No. Bring me the whole kit.”

Dettlaff vanished in a puff of smoke and into the cellar, his panic making it increasingly frustrating to try to locate Regis’ small, black leather bag with medical equipment in it. Every passing second felt like a minute, and the relief was sweeter than any honey when he finally found the bag. He brought it up in a heartbeat and Regis yanked it from his grasp as he had the towel, throwing it open and retrieving the small jar he had been talking about, opening it and shaking it around to loosen the substance within. He readied it and pulled away from Fjola’s wound, dumping the powder on it quickly as it resumed gushing, Fjola’s face still blank and unemotional. Regis squeezed the fabrics back against her again and waited.

“Regis…” Dettlaff tried, but the older vampire silenced him with a furious glare.
“Stay awake,” he said to Fjola, stroking her hair gently. Her face was far away, but she nodded, though her eyes were heavy. “I should probably stop making you comfortable then, hm?” he asked, trying to chuckle to alleviate her fear and ceasing his petting.

He reached into his bag slowly, retrieving alcohol, a strange, hooked needle and a coarse form of thread. Fjola saw it and finally showed real fear, trying to squirm away, but Regis held her fast.

“Stop,” he ordered firmly. “This isn’t a joy for either of us, but I can’t have you jumping about whilst I make your sutures.”
“You’ve done this countless times,” she finally said, trying to reassure herself.
“Countless,” he parroted.

Dettlaff stood nearby in the corner, feeling useless, terrified, and guilty.

I have done this, he thought. It was me. It was an accident, but it was me. He watched Regis remove his belt and fold it, placing it between Fjola’s teeth. I’ve done this through my carelessness. The fury and rage I still hold over Syanna. Regis was threading the needle as she began to tremble. This is her fault! All of this. And yet… Fjola turned her head away, biting the belt and stifling a scream as the curved needle made the first puncture in her skin. Her manipulations still hold so much sway over me. Regis continued stitching as she tried her best to sit still despite the pain. This is my fault, his mind reiterated. Another stitch. If I had learned to let go as Regis has tried to teach me to do for years, I wouldn’t have been so angry, and I wouldn’t have attacked him. Fjola wouldn’t have intervened, and she would not be sitting now as she is in a pool of her own blood.

“First wound done,” Regis said comfortingly, leaning forward and kissing her sweaty forehead. She was still clutching the belt between her teeth, her face to the side. He threaded the needle again and started on the next mark Dettlaff’s claws had made. There were four in all. Dettlaff’s heart sank, but he approached her side cautiously, kneeling down beside her but not daring to touch. Fjola sensed his presence and opened her eyes, examining him, noticing the creases on his face seemed deeper, his face more dour than she had ever seen it. His eyes were sad, hopeless, lost. Regis was opposite him, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve before resuming his stitching. Fjola groaned and squeezed Dettlaff’s hand, her eyes shut again just as tightly, her face twisted in pain. The procedure lasted an agonizingly long time, Regis’ hands covered in her blood by the end of it. Dettlaff thought it had all been a success, but his companion’s face was still tense and desperate. He looked to the younger vampire and regretfully held up the bottle of alcohol, unstopping it and grimacing. Dettlaff sucked in air and squeezed Fjola’s hand tightly.

“Fjola,” Regis said, “I’m afraid this is going to cause a tremendous amount of pain. And for that, I apologize.”

She nodded and kept her eyes shut, but squeezed her dark-haired lover’s hand even harder, biting the belt so tightly between her teeth that her jaw had begun to hurt. Regis’ face twisted in regret once more as he slowly tipped the bottle over her wound. Fjola immediately began to scream, the belt in her mouth barely muffling anything as she began to writhe in pain.

“Hold her!” Regis commanded, continuing his pour.

Dettlaff complied, using one of his hands to hold her down as tightly as he could while clutching her hand firmly with the other. She squeezed him so hard that he was genuinely concerned his hand would break, but after about a minute or so, well after Regis had finished dousing her wounds, her body released its tension, and she soon began shaking and trembling, finally breaking down and weeping as the barber surgeon began wrapping her abdomen in bandages. By the time he was done, she was almost unconscious. He suddenly vanished in a puff of smoke, heading to the cellar quickly, reemerging in less than a minute, clutching a brown bottle and small silver utensil. He knelt beside her again, motioning for Dettlaff to hold her up while he poured an atrocious-smelling potion into the spoon and fed it to her. She started to gag but Regis held his hand against her mouth to keep it in. She swallowed it and immediately began coughing and gagging, but was mercifully able to keep it down.

Regis brought her legs back down and Dettlaff stood, holding out a hand to help her up, feeling awkward. The older vampire simply ignored him, however, scooping Fjola up gently and walking her to the tub, taking his time washing the blood away from her gently while they both bathed. Dettlaff merely sat at the table with his head down, staring at his clawed hands in heavy contemplation. He noticed Fjola’s blood was still under the nails of his left hand and immediately felt an uncontrollable hate and revulsion. He grew the claws on his right out and simply sliced off the offending hand, grunting in pain and tucking the bloody stump under his opposing armpit. He grabbed the twitching, severed hand from the floor and tossed it hatefully into the fireplace, watching it turn to ashes with unbridled malice and self-loathing. By the time Regis had reemerged with Fjola in his arms, changed into a simple shift and now dozing in his grasp, Dettlaff had managed to stop the bleeding and the hand was long gone. Regis took in the scene before him and scowled, closing his eyes briefly in disappointment before carrying Fjola upstairs and placing her quietly into bed. The younger vampire tried cleaning the blood from the floor, but found it incredibly difficult with only one hand and a temporary stump. Regis returned down the stairs, freshly dressed, and tutting and shaking his head, shooed him away while he tended to it. Dettlaff felt lightheaded and decided to sit, his head and stomach both spinning uncomfortably.

Once Regis had cleaned up the mess and finished washing his hands, Dettlaff had expected him to give him a long, stern lecture. Instead, he popped silently down into the cellar again, not returning for some time. When he did, he had a tall glass bottle in his hands, placing it with a heavy clunk on the table between them.

“Drink,” Regis commanded.

Dettlaff opened it, wincing at the fumes of mandrake, but took a heavy swig and grimaced as it burned his throat. Regis copied him, still not meeting his eyes or acknowledging him any further. Dettlaff took another drink, then Regis, the two of them following this pattern until the bottle was finally over half gone. Dettlaff’s head was spinning even worse, but he didn’t care – anything to take his mind off of what had just happened.

“I realize day-drinking is not a reasonable solution to our very problematic occurrence, but… I thought perhaps it might soften the blow,” Regis said quietly, still staring off into the distance.

Dettlaff’s heart sank and he suddenly felt like vomiting all the mandrake moonshine he had just swallowed. Surely he couldn’t mean… she hadn’t been that badly hurt? Why would he suture her wounds if…?

“She’ll live,” Regis said, sensing his unease. “But another half an inch and she would already be dead.” He finally turned himself to face Dettlaff head-on across the table. He was furious beyond description, his black eyes alight with anger, struggling to keep his tone measured. “Dettlaff – I need you to understand this.” He leaned forward and made intense, steady eye contact for emphasis. “Had she been but a half a second faster, or you a centimeter closer, she would be dead. Absolutely.”

Dettlaff felt his eyes burn and his heart pound, a massive crushing sensation in his chest seemingly pushing the tears from him by force.

“I couldn’t… I didn’t mean to… I did not think she would be foolish enough to intervene…” he wept, slumping forward and throwing his head in his good hand, his body wracking with sobs.

Regis let him cry for a few moments, waiting to speak until his tears and trembling had subsided somewhat. Once they had, he caught his eye once more with his intense gaze.

“It is not my intent or desire to be cruel, but if that is what I must do, then I shall.”
“Tough love?” Dettlaff sneered resentfully, baring a fang.
“Call it what you want,” Regis snapped, rising and walking over to stand in front of Dettlaff, arms crossed, feet planted firmly apart in a somewhat aggressive stance. “Regardless of what we refer to it as, what it means is, get your shit together. You must learn to control yourself!” He leaned forward, his face inches from Dettlaff’s, placing his hands on the younger vampire’s shoulders and shaking him roughly. “Do you hear me? You. Almost. Killed. Fjola.”

Dettlaff tried to turn away again in shame, but Regis grasped his chin firmly and forced him to look at him once more.

“I need you to repeat that.”
“What?”
“Tell me what I just told you!”
“I almost killed Fjola.” Hearing himself say it, feeling the words slip down his tongue and past his lips, Dettlaff felt the immense, horrendous weight of them, sinking into his mind and chest like burning daggers. More tears fell from his eyes, but he kept his gaze on Regis. “I almost killed Fjola,” he repeated.
“And what are you going to do about it?”
“What?” Dettlaff asked, genuinely confused. “What can I do? I cannot erase the past. I have harmed her… harmed her almost irreparably.” He paused for a moment, letting his words sink into himself again. “She will despise me for what I have done. I… I have lost her completely. I’ve failed her.” He began to hang his head again, but Regis shook him once more.

“Stop that,” Regis snapped, and Dettlaff glared back up at him angrily. “Your self-pity is as useless as your impotent anger and indignation in regards to Syanna and her fate. This prostrate fury is the cause of most of your suffering, not Syanna. Yes, she treated you miserably, and harshly. She used you. She used you callously, and cruelly. But she did not love you, Dettlaff,” Regis stressed. His companion cringed at his words, hating to hear them but knowing they were true. “Fjola does, however. She loves us both. And we her.” Regis paused, breathing. “Come with me.”

Dettlaff rose and followed him upstairs and into the bedroom, where they stood and watched Fjola sleeping peacefully despite her ordeal. Regis leaned forward, bringing her shift up gently so they could see the bandages on her side more clearly, peeling a fold of it up and away, exposing her bloody wound and stitches. Dettlaff winced.

“I want you to think of this every time you feel rage over Syanna,” Regis said calmly, softly, placing the bandage back down and pulling the covers over her once more. “Not to torture yourself, not to instill guilt or shame, but as a reminder of what you can do when you lose control like that.” He looked back to him solemnly. “What you did do.” They returned downstairs so as not to wake her.

Dettlaff stood helplessly in the living room, watching Regis as he stood silently in front of the window, contemplating something in his head.

I recall when I myself had hurt her. It was an accident then, too. But the fact remains… I almost killed her, as well.

He remembered grimly what Dettlaff had said to him that day.

Your inability to control yourself around her almost killed her.”

How ironic it was that he was repeating those same words back to him now. Regis remembered the shame he had felt, the uncontrollable guilt and horror – how he still felt them now, looking back on everything, though to a lesser degree. Those feelings might lesson over time, as they already had, but nothing could ever make him forget them entirely.

Perhaps now I understand Dettlaff’s self-loathing, he had thought at the time. Then he recalled his words to Dettlaff.

My actions, the repercussions for all of us, the terror at what I did – and almost did – I can’t begin to express how much hatred I feel for myself.”

Regis sighed, choosing his next words carefully.

“Again, it is not my intent to manipulate you through guilt or fear,” he said slowly. “But I want you to realize and acknowledge the impact of what losing your control can have.” He turned back to face him, calm, but sad. “As you once did for me.”

Dettlaff looked at him pityingly, recalling with sadness how destroyed Regis had become after he had unintentionally hurt Fjola. If anyone knew what he was going through, it was him. He felt sick again, and looked back down to the floor.

“We made so much progress these past few years – and you almost threw it all away in one moment of blind rage.” He looked to the side, his face drawn and tight. “I know my words did not help you, Dettlaff. I acknowledge my part in this. Had I chosen them more carefully… who knows. And Fjola… Gods, she certainly loves to put herself into reckless situations, doesn’t she?” He smiled and chuckled very slightly, but Dettlaff could hardly bring himself to give him a begrudging smirk. “I’ll have another talk with her, just the same, but…” He looked back to Dettlaff pleadingly. “You cannot lose control like this again. Please.”

Dettlaff continued looking down at his feet, scowling, more hot, shameful tears falling from his eyes. Regis crossed the room towards him quickly, taking his shoulders in his hands and once again trying to catch his gaze.

“I need you to swear it to me this time,” he practically begged, his voice cracking somewhat. Dettlaff looked up at him in alarm and surprise. “Promise me, Dettlaff. Promise me you will try harder.” Regis’ voice finally gave and he began sobbing, the tears falling from his dark eyes as he croaked, desperately, “I cannot lose you. I cannot lose either of you.”

The two of them lunged forward at once, wrapping their arms about each other and holding one another tightly, weeping into the other’s shoulders. Regis’ one hand was wrapped in Dettlaff’s thick black hair, the other on his back, holding their bodies closer. Dettlaff’s good hand was on the back of Regis’ head, running his fingers through his short hair there gently as he rested his stump against his companion’s lower back.

“I need your promise, Dettlaff,” Regis said thickly into his neck, “And I need you to keep it.”
“I promise,” he said.
“No matter what I discover, what actions I do or do not take… I need to know, with absolute certainty, that you will not lose control over yourself again. Please, Dettlaff. Please promise me.”
“I promise,” he repeated, his tears seeping into Regis’ shoulder and wetting his own cheek as he laid his face against it. “I promise you both – never again.”

Chapter 64: A Shitty Situation

Chapter Text

Regis felt Geralt’s eyes on him heavily as he stepped back out from the darkness in his bat form, gray fur waving in the cool April breeze.

“Alright,” the Witcher said, “I’ve been checking around the old Arthach Palace. I’ve seen some remains of fires, a few items recently disturbed, muddy footprints, the like. But I lost the trail in the bogs. Even searching around the area outside the swamp earlier today wasn’t helpful… I couldn’t pick up a trail until the cobblestone road, where there were muddy tracks, but they vanished again at the riverside. I can see a few boats had been moored there, but as to where they went?” He shrugged, frustrated. “I’ve gone up and down these banks a dozen times looking for clues.”

“And yet you turned up nothing?” Regis asked, his voice oddly-pitched and more gravelly than usual in his bat form. “My my, since when has anything stumped a Witcher as talented as you before?”

Geralt could hear the amusement in his voice and scowled.

“Very funny, Regis. Now you gonna help me?”
“I didn’t turn into this form for nothing,” he said snidely, flapping his wings to take off from the ground, Geralt shielding himself from the dust he was stirring up.
“Remember, anything at all, no matter how trivial,” the Witcher said. “Even a scent will do.”
“I know,” Regis still managed to sneer, flying off into the night, turning invisible against the blackened sky.

He didn’t return for several minutes, Geralt pacing up and down the riverbank thoughtfully.

He seems off, he mused. Like he didn’t want to come tonight, like he didn’t want to be here. Something’s distracting him. Geralt stopped, turning around and walking back along the bank the way he came. Still, he showed up anyway, so how bad can it be? He looked up at the stars, trying to spot Regis’ bat-like silhouette. I could smell blood on him, too. It wasn’t his, though, and I don’t think it was Dettlaff’s, either. Could it have been Fjola’s? Has he relapsed again? So soon? Geralt’s heart started pounding at the thought, but he consoled himself with logic. No, if that had happened, he’d be an even bigger mess than last time. Not to mention Dettlaff would probably tear him apart if he hurt her again.

So then what?

Geralt didn’t have any more time to ruminate on this, however, as Regis had returned, swooping down in eerie silence and landing almost as noiselessly.

“You know, makes me glad you’re on my side,” he said, “Sometimes your powers are downright frightening.”
“Hm,” was all he said, returning to the woods to change back to his human form and don his clothes once more.

He emerged after a minute, still pulling his leather jerkin over himself and straightening it. Geralt suddenly had a rotten feeling in his stomach.

“You didn’t find anything, did you?”

Regis sighed heavily.

“I smelled nothing but sewage, honestly,” he said, “The closer I got to Beauclair. Downriver, however? Nothing at all.”
“You think they went into the sewer?” Geralt asked. Not that he’d be surprised – he’d seen people do much worse to survive. Much worse.
“That was my first assumption, yes,” he said, fastening his belt. “But I checked the drainage pipe, the one that empties itself into a rather foul-smelling pond near its base – it’s still grated, and quite heavily so. I did not even see signs of disturbance.”
“Well that’s just fucking great,” Geralt cursed, “I needed another dead end.”
“Now hold on,” Regis said, holding up a hand, “It’s still possible that that is where they went. But they would have had to had an accomplice in the city – the grate appears to only unlock from the inside.”
“You said there were no signs of disturbance.”
“Yes. So it has not been 'jimmied' so to speak or otherwise tampered with. A legitimate form of entry, however – well, that’s still entirely possible.”
“But is it probable?”

Regis only shrugged.

“I suppose it’s your only lead, for now. Shall I enter it?”
“Be doing me a hell of a favor.”

Regis genuinely laughed.

“Is it to be back and forth like this forever between us? Scratching one another’s backs until the end of eternity?”
“Thought that was Dettlaff’s job, now.”
“Ugh, your sense of humor is terrible,” Regis sighed as the two of them headed towards the sewer entrance.
“So uh, gonna tell me why you smell like blood?” Geralt pried.
“No,” said Regis, keeping his eyes ahead of them.
“You alright at least?”
“Fine.”
“Hm.”
“There’s the grate,” Regis said, pointing ahead. “Mind if I…?”
“I guess that’s one good way to end an awkward conversation.”

Regis shook his head disdainfully and vanished into fog, filtering into the sewer through the bars of the door and reforming on the other side.

“Gods, the stench is terrible,” he said.
“I have heightened senses too, Regis, it’s no walk in a garden for me, either.”
“As admirably strong as your senses already are, imagine amplifying them by about ten – or even a hundred – then you can lecture me about abrasive sounds and odors.”
“Alright, alright, just tell me what you can see, not just smell.”

The vampire walked further into the pipe, examining the sludge for any signs of footprints or trespass, but as far as he could see, there were none.

“Either the sewage has covered any tracks, or they swept it back behind themselves to hide them.”
“Can you unlock the door for me?”
“Yennefer will be most pleased when you arrive back home,” Regis chuckled sarcastically as he complied, picking the lock and holding the grate open for Geralt.
“Dunno, I was with her after I fought that zeugl years ago…”
“Let me guess – she made you bathe? What a terrible turn of events, indeed.”
“Shut up.”

They explored what they could of the sewers, their supernaturally heightened senses helping greatly to avoid falls into the muck and filth they were walking through, but not to find any evidence or clues as to whether Syanna had led her group of bandits and killers through here.

“I must admit, I’m starting to lose heart, Geralt,” Regis stated seriously. “We’ve been through this muck for hours now and we haven’t even seen a single out-of-place bootprint, let alone an article of clothing or jewelry.”
“Maybe once we reach Beauclair, there will be a trail.”
“Maybe,” Regis started chuckling, “Or maybe we’ll just terrify the locals as a couple of waste-covered ghouls climbing up from the sewer into the street outside their favorite cafe.”
“Nothing neither of us isn’t used to already,” Geralt said, deadpan.
“Well – perhaps you’re a tad more of a giveaway,” Regis said humorously. “I’ve gotten quite good at blending in over the centuries – but for you, well, if it isn’t your eyes that give you away, or your pair of swords, it’s your downright admirable stubbornness in actually informing everyone as to what you are.”
“Wouldn’t make any money, otherwise. People don’t know I’m a Witcher, they don’t hire me.”
“You know, I’ve often thought about what it would be like were you and I to set up some sort of scheme, in which I play the part of the, er, monster, and you hunt me down for great amounts of coin. This is solidly a hypothetical, of course, but it’s never ceased to tickle my amusement when I think on it and how we would arrange it just so to be the most believable.”

Geralt turned around to look at him incredulously, and finding that he was serious, suddenly couldn’t stop laughing.

“Fuck’s sake, Regis, and you thought being a thief would be dull. I can’t imagine a more boring hell than faking killing monsters.”
“Not even crawling through Toussaintois sewage?”

The two of them were suddenly beside themselves laughing, mostly because it was at such an inopportune time, and moment, to be kidding around and jesting with each other.

“Now we’ll be laughing, crawling ghouls when we come out of the sewer,” Geralt said with a great deal of sarcasm.
“Never too late to rethink your career, my friend, and join my proposal for a very stirring sort of live theater.”
“You’re insane, Regis.”

The pair of them kept crawling through the tunnels, Regis entertaining them both with suggested acts they could perform, Geralt pretending he was offended but laughing quietly despite it all.

 

*

 

Fjola’s first sensation on waking was pain. Immense, incredible pain. It was so bad she didn’t even want to move, so she just lay there silently and motionlessly, hoping futilely that the excruciating ache would subside. It did not. She opened her eyes and looked about her, but all she could make out was that it was their bedroom, and it was already dark outside. She attempted to shift her legs, but it flexed the skin on her stomach and she groaned in pain, trying to bite the pillow to muffle it. It was too late, however, she already saw a soft red and black mist appearing at her side in a heartbeat, just as quickly forming into Dettlaff.

“Don’t move,” he said, vanishing again and reappearing a few seconds later with a brown bottle and silver spoon clutched in his right hand. Fjola was barely coherent, but she knew what that stuff was.
“Uh-uh,” she tried to moan, but Dettlaff shushed her softly.

It suddenly occurred to him that he would have difficulty pouring it into a spoon with only one hand. He made an annoyed noise, then went back downstairs, poured a small dose into a cup, and brought it back to her quickly. She initially tried to refuse, but as she pulled away her wounds twisted again and she finally relented, gulping it down quickly so as not to taste it. She was asleep again in a matter of seconds, her last thought before succumbing Is Dettlaff missing a hand?

 

*

 

“I am never going to look at a sewer the same way again,” Regis moaned.
“You get used to it,” Geralt said, helping him climb out of the grate in the middle of a dark alleyway in Beauclair.
“I do not think I want to, my friend.”

Geralt chuckled and scanned the area around them, but unsurprisingly he saw no possible clues. No muddy footprints, signs of a scuffle, hell, even the air was pleasant if he concentrated beyond the funk that was currently coming off of them both.

“Fuck,” he muttered.
“Agreed,” was Regis’ reply.

A couple of drunk noblemen in large, plumed silk hats came staggering down the alley, but as soon as they smelled them, turned back the way they came, retching and covering their mouths and noses.

“Hm, was it something we said?” Regis joked.

Geralt rolled his eyes and motioned for them to continue searching where they could. There was no real sign of anything on the streets, walls, or even various shrubs they had checked over the next few hours. Geralt’s Witcher senses didn’t pick up anything either, just as in the sewers. He was utterly exhausted, frustrated, and miserable.

“Hm, reminds me of another rather unfortunate time, right here in this very city, doesn’t it?” Regis said quietly, looking grim. Geralt knew what he meant.
“You mean with Dettlaff? But that was a vampire – could turn into fog, vanish into thin air – that’s a lot different than trying to hunt down an entire bandit clan, let alone one led by a venomous ex-royal.”
“Ah, very true, but… both were skilled, calculating, and had… or in Syanna’s case, have… many loyal followers. There's no shame in admitting that she’s slipped through your grasp.”

Geralt went from irritated to furious, but the first rays of dawn over the city reminded him just how long they had been at it, and how badly he needed a rest. He also knew that Regis wasn’t really that sort, to rub salt into a wound (at least not intentionally), he was really just pushing for Geralt to give up and take a break already, even if it was only temporary. The Witcher sighed.

“Gods, damn it. Alright.”
“I’m sure you’ll come across something else, in the meantime. She’ll let her guard down, make herself known again soon, not to worry. In the meantime,” he said, examining himself and wrinkling his nose, “I believe some sort of bath may be in order.”
“Not a bad idea. Think an inn can manage a couple gallons of wine too this early in the day?”

Regis chuckled.

“This is Toussaint, my friend – wine is sacred. I imagine you’d even be able to get an entire cask, if you tip well enough.”
“Wanna test that theory?”

They walked to the nearest inn, exhausted and desperate for a drink.

Chapter 65: Safe

Chapter Text

Dettlaff stared at the new light of dawn, scowling deeply – Regis was still not back yet. He straightened himself with a groan, standing up from the table and cracking his back. He had been dozing on and off there all night, able to keep an ear on Fjola upstairs without being too near her. He wasn’t ready for that yet – the guilt he felt was still too new, too raw. Aside from giving her medicine, he could not yet face her after what he had done. Still, he would have to, sometime, in order to bring her food or change her bandages, since Regis had not yet returned. His stomach twisted in anxiety and fear at the thought of being around her – he did not think he could take the look of disgust and hatred that was sure to be on her face once she beheld him. Dettlaff shuffled to the kitchen and picked up an apple to serve to Fjola for when she’d awaken.

Something light for her, he thought, and sweet. She will probably not want to eat anyway.

He went to peel it and remembered stupidly that his hand had not yet fully regrown, and he was not able to grip both the apple and knife at once to prepare the fruit. He extended the claws of his right hand and, with a shrug, used them to carefully slice the apple as he held it down on the counter with his stump. Once he was finished, he plated it and grabbed the bottle of medicine, realizing with discomfort that Regis was still not within a discernible distance to tend to her. He stuffed the glass bottle into the medical bag, dangled it from his wrist, and picked up the plate with his good hand, hauling it all upstairs as quietly as he could. He entered the room, setting the medicine and apple on the side table and searching through the bag for gauze and bandages.

I helped bandage her neck after Regis, he thought glumly, I can do this, as well.

He did everything as slowly and gently as he could, wincing and sick to his stomach at the sight of her sutured side. It was not the slight gore that bothered him at all, but rather the memory and knowledge of how the wounds got there, and how painful they must be. The four claw marks that he had made would more than likely scar.

Four permanent reminders of my monstrosity, he lamented , his stomach clenching in shame and horror. I’ll be lucky if she ever even looks at me again. He sighed. Perhaps that is why it is even better that she has Regis – that way, at least, she won’t be alone.

He finished wrapping her wounds again in clean bandages, just congratulating himself on not waking Fjola when suddenly her eyes fluttered open. His stomach turned horribly and he immediately vanished into smoke, seeing her confused expression as he left the room and headed downstairs as quickly as he could. He did not want to traumatize her all over again.

Shit, he realized. Her medicine.

He wasn’t sure if she would be able to reach over to the table and retrieve it herself. He contemplated going back up, but decided to wait a few minutes in case she might fall back asleep again. He walked outside to feed the mule, grabbed fresh water from the spring nearby, and on his way back, even picked a few colorful spring blossoms that had already sprouted and bloomed. Dettlaff placed them in a small cup with water, ready to walk them to their room when suddenly he heard a loud crash and the shattering of glass. He launched himself upstairs with lightning speed, grimacing as he saw Fjola picking herself up from the floor and cursing, her teeth clenched in pain. He didn’t want to touch her, to see her recoil or tremble in fear at the sight of him, but he had no choice, placing his arms beneath hers and gently lifting her into a sitting position on the bed. To his surprise, she did not shrink or flinch from him, but acted as though there was nothing abnormal about this at all, really. Something crunched beneath Dettlaff’s boots, and he looked down with an ill feeling to see the bottle of medicine had fallen and shattered, its contents spilling everywhere. He stooped to clean the mess, discarding of the pieces in a nearby bucket silently.

“I’m sorry,” Fjola suddenly gasped, looking miserable, “I had to use the room,” she explained, pointing down the hall to the small space they used for their needs, “And I didn’t want to trouble you. I was doing pretty okay until I stumbled and my side hit the table on my way back and knocked the bottle over. I couldn’t grab it in time. I’m so sorry, Dettlaff.”

He was utterly taken aback by her demeanor. Fjola was obviously in a tremendous amount of pain, pain that he himself had caused her, and yet she was apologizing to him for taking care of her basic functions? She wasn’t frightened, or worried, or even seemingly angry – just embarrassed and apologetic.

“Why in the world would you apologize to me?” he asked quietly. “If anything, I… I…”

He looked away in chagrin, scrunching up his face and holding back tears of revulsion and self-loathing.

“Dettlaff,” she soothed, her voice soft and full of concern. The sweet, sympathetic tone of it broke him and he began to weep, not wanting to do so in front of Fjola but unable to help himself. “Come here,” she almost hummed.

He initially refused, but caught a glimpse of the hurt on her face after he did so and relented. The last thing he wanted to do was cause her any more pain – physical, emotional, or otherwise. He sat down next to her on the bed, but kept a small distance between them. Fjola noticed, but did not remark on it. She didn’t want to push him too far if he was uncomfortable, reminding herself of how withdrawn and aloof Regis had been after his relapse. His distance had stung more than his fangs, and she was nearly sick with the thought of a repeat with Dettlaff. Take it slow, she reminded herself. She went to touch his hand gently but to her horror, found only a bandaged stump where his left hand should have been.

“Dettlaff!” she gasped. He pulled it away from her view but she had already seen, a look of shock and sadness crossing her features. “Did you do that because of me?” she asked quietly.
“Because of myself,” he answered, hanging his head.
“My love,” she said, and it came out as a soft reprimand. Dettlaff closed his eyes, facing away from her.

To hell with going slow, she thought, placing her head on his shoulder and wrapping her arms about him as best as she could without aggravating her wounds. Dettlaff jerked somewhat at her touch, and Fjola knew it was because he was still feeling guilt at what he had done.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Right now all I want is for you to just hold me.”

A pained expression crossed his face, then the barest, slightest hint of an appreciative smile. He complied, slowly wrapping what remained of his left arm around her as she held herself softly against his side, placing her head on his chest and sighing. They stayed like this for several moments before Fjola shifted uncomfortably, a small gasp escaping her lips.

“Sorry,” she said immediately, which irritated Dettlaff.
“You’ve done nothing to apologize for,” he growled.
“Bad habit,” she said. “But I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty if you thought I was in pain.”
“Are you?”
“I’ll be alright.”
“That’s not what I asked,” he said with annoyance. She held her breath for a moment before responding.
“Yes.”

Dettlaff didn’t know what to do. He could not simply go to the port to just buy more medicine, it was too risky. He was not scared for himself so much, but rather what she would do if he were attacked and incapacitated before he could bring her the pain medication, his mind drudging up Regis’ retelling of him getting buried for half a century after being beheaded. The older vampire was not back yet to make more, which Dettlaff wasn’t even sure if he could - he suspected it was possible, but the knowledge he had regarding alchemy and herbalism was limited. He didn’t want to risk potentially making her worse were he to attempt it.

“Perhaps I could go to Corvo Bianco and ask Geralt’s servants if they would spare me some medicine. If they know it’s for you, they might be more hospitable.”
“I don’t care about the medicine right now,” she said, which surprised Dettlaff, as she was gritting her teeth somewhat.
“But you are in pain,” he argued.
“I don’t care,” she said.
“Well then what do you want?” he asked. “Tell me. Please.”
“I just want to feel safe.”

Dettlaff was confused.

“What do you mean?”
“Do you remember the night we first met?” she asked hesitantly.

Oh. Oh, no.

Fjola sensed his unease and gripped him gently.

“Please, Dettlaff. When I told you I felt safer than I had ever had before, I meant it. And I need that now. I’ve never asked it of you before because… because I know you’re self-conscious about it, and scared. But I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”
“I already did,” he grunted.
“Well then so what are you worried about?” she tried to joke, but Dettlaff scowled deeply and said nothing. She released a soft breath and relented. “Alright, I won’t ask it of you if you’re uncomfortable. But at least lay with me, my love. Please?”

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded, helping her lay on her good side on the bed, leaving room for himself in front of her. She patted the bed a little, her eyes heavy, dark circles underneath them. He prepared to lay next to her, but wavered.

I can’t believe I’m going to do this, he thought. He knew it would make her happy, however, and began removing his clothes, laying them on a chair neatly before looking away from her and starting to transform. Immediately his wings and extra pair of appendages sliced through the flesh of his back, growing to massive size and ending in cruel, hooked claws, while his other limbs lengthened and broadened. His neck followed suit and his eyes disappeared, his secondary, supernatural sight taking over instead. Dettlaff’s entire head and face smoothed out save for the slits of his nose, jutting cheekbones, and terrifying, fang-filled mouth, regretful that he could not close it completely to avoid frightening his mate. He paused after the transformation was complete, breathing heavily and noticing with relief that his left hand was regrowing quickly, almost complete already.

“Dettlaff,” Fjola called softly.

He turned slowly, not wanting to intimidate her, but when he was facing her fully he noticed that all she did was simply smile and beckon him over, patting the space on the bed in front of her once more.

“Come here,” she said, sounding almost sultry.

Dettlaff crossed to where she lay in two large steps, laying himself in front of her on the bed slowly, uncertainly. She reached forward, arms extended, and Dettlaff placed himself against her, her arms wrapping about him almost greedily. He folded one of his wings behind himself, the other extending up and over them both, blanketing them in it as his extra limbs bent forward around her, being mindful not to prick her with his claws. His hands rested on her thighs, one of which she picked up and wrapped around his hip, fitting neatly between his body and the small, jutting curve of bone there as if it was made for it. She sighed contentedly and snuggled her head against his chest, her hands grazing his neck gently before suddenly slowing as she fell asleep in almost a heartbeat, Dettlaff soon following suit.

 

*

 

Regis stood there examining them both in surprise, then delight, and finally, peace. The long night he had had, followed by an incredibly hot bath and freshly cleaned clothes had made him rather sleepy, and he had had a hard time staying awake on his journey home. He undressed himself and tucked into the bed behind Fjola, spooning her gently and bringing Dettlaff’s wing over himself as well, his arms wrapping around both of them as best as he could before he began dozing off, a small, contented smile playing on his lips.

Chapter 66: Playful

Chapter Text

“You’re healing quite nicely,” Regis said with satisfaction as he finished checking her wounds while she sat on the table, “I’m actually rather impressed.”
“Well, I did have a very good doctor,” Fjola joked.
“And assistant,” Dettlaff chimed in from the kitchen.
“I’m very lucky,” she said, lowering her shirt back down again.

The past two weeks had really flown by, thanks in part to the medicine Regis had given her knocking her out for a large portion of her healing process, but also the wonderful time she got to spend with each of them as they read together, talked about recent events, or Dettlaff showed her how to draw and carve, sometimes slyly bringing out a deck of cards for them to play. Regis had attempted to teach her chess, but he was merciless and brutal, and Fjola didn’t enjoy not even standing a chance against him. She had watched him and Dettlaff play a bit as well, but the younger vampire had the same impatience she did and would quit after a short round or two, Regis usually deciding to play against himself. To her delight, Fjola found that this time heavily reminded her of when she had first started getting to know them when they still lived in the crypt at Mère-Lachaiselongue cemetery. Perhaps it was the chess, or the cards, or maybe it was just them being able to enjoy simple time with one another again, with no awkwardness or strained dynamics due to unspoken feelings. It just felt so… nice.

“Something troubling you?” Regis asked, seeing her faraway face.
“Nah, Doc, I’m okay,” she said with a smile. Regis rolled his eyes at the use of the new moniker she had given him a couple weeks ago at the start of her healing process.
“You know I’m not a doctor,” he explained yet again, but it was in vain. Fjola knew it didn’t really bother him, and she liked to tease them a little sometimes.
“Okay then, Reggie,” she laughed.
“Alright now, that one I really must protest,” he said, slamming a hand on the table, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. Fjola relented with a giggle and a submissive raise of her hands.
“Fine, fine, sorry, Doc.”

He couldn’t help but smile as he shook his head and joined Dettlaff in the kitchen, helping him carry out a dinner he had made. Fjola had been teaching him how to cook, and while his efforts hadn’t been perfect, he had made vast improvements, tonight being the first time he had done it himself. She had been sorely tempted to join him and help when she saw him struggling, but both she and Regis had committed to leaving him alone, as per his request. He served bowls of some sort of orange soup that smelled somewhat earthy, and buttery.

“Be kind,” he said.

Fjola heard the pop of a cork and saw Regis carrying two bottles of Est Est in one hand and three wine glasses in the other, all of it balanced easily between his long fingers.

“Seeing as how you no longer need medicine for your pain and thus are no longer at risk for a reaction, I thought a wonderful way to celebrate would be with a nice, rich drink.”
“Rich? You're not kidding,” she said, her eyes huge. “I don’t know how many days I’d have to spend toiling in Geralt’s vineyard to be able to afford that.”
“Well, you make much more creating and selling potions,” he argued, “Though consider this a personal gift, darling.”
“Thank you. Although, I hope Geralt isn’t mad I haven’t come back, yet. Does he know about…?” she trailed off, gesturing to her wounded side.
“No,” Regis said firmly with a sideways glance at Dettlaff, who had turned somewhat stony.
“Good,” she said. “But again, I hope he isn’t disappointed. I’ll be able to go back as soon as my doctor clears me,” she said with a wink, scrunching her nose up in amusement.
“Go back?” Regis asked, genuinely confused. “Why ever would you want to do that?”
“Well, because he expects me,” she said. “Doesn’t he?”
“Fjola… ah… perhaps I should explain…” Regis floundered.

Dettlaff’s face suddenly relaxed and he actually started grinning, his sharp teeth glinting as he lit a couple of candles on the table.

“Oh yes, Regis, do explain,” he chuckled.

Fjola was utterly confused and looked to the older vampire for answers.

“Well, please don’t be cross with me, darling, but ah… Geralt didn’t hire you because he needed you. He hired you because I asked him to.”
“What? Why would you do that?”
“I saw the positive effect you had had on Dettlaff, despite your meeting being very brief.”
“When I saved you,” Dettlaff clarified.
“It was the first time I had seen him truly exercise any empathy towards a human, at least in recent years,” Regis said with a smile. “I happened to be visiting Geralt at Corvo Bianco that day, and implored him to hire you when you arrived.”

Fjola was silent, one of her eyebrows slowly lifting, waiting for him to elaborate more.

“Hm,” he sighed, deciding to just come clean. “I wanted to be able to have more reliable access to you, in order to help foster a relationship of some sort between you and Dettlaff, to help mold his sense of compassion. You seemed kind, and generous, and… tender. I figured at the very least, you would make a fine companion, hoping he would at least learn to enjoy the company of even a single human again. You seemed like a wonderful candidate due to your kindness towards us, and especially him – especially in his most intimidating form. You have no idea the monumental change you inspired in him just from the simple stroke of your hand on his. I could not let that opportunity go. Forgive me, my darling. My interests were almost purely on Dettlaff’s behalf… though it did benefit you, besides.”

He seemed apologetic, and Fjola smiled.

“Regis, I’m so grateful you did,” she said, rising and holding him against her in a tight embrace. “If your intent was to bring us all closer, it worked, and I’m so happy for it.”
“Well, I did not plan on things going quite this way, I wasn’t considering Dettlaff falling in love with you, let alone both of us doing so, but I am glad for it, as well.”

Fjola reached one of her hands out and grabbed Dettlaff, pulling him closer to join them. He did, kissing the top of Fjola’s head and running his fingers through Regis’ hair.

“The soup’s going to get cold,” he begrudgingly pointed out after a moment, “And I’ll need all the help I can get in terms of flavor.”
“Oh, it smells wonderful,” Fjola said, kissing his cheekbone as she loved to do. “So I’m sure it is.”

It was. Dettlaff blushed and tried to be modest, but the truth was, it was delicious, and paired beautifully with the bottles of Est Est Regis had provided. Fjola didn’t know much about wine, but she did know everything tasted incredible and the conversation was wonderful, and all she could think about was how happy and contented she was. She crossed her legs under the table, the higher one grazing Dettlaff’s knee as she did so. He paused, smiling mischievously but keeping his attention on Regis as the latter continued his lecture on the wine-making process and history of the Castel Ravello vineyard. Fjola grinned and this time, did it on purpose, slowly and rhythmically rubbing her ankle against his knee. Dettlaff just as slowly brought his hand down, pretending to rest it on his thigh casually, but instead began running his fingers up and down her calf.

Fjola shifted a bit, pulling away from Dettlaff to tease him, focusing instead on Regis’ legs in front of her. She used her foot to nudge between his calves, rubbing them up and down as she had Dettlaff’s knee. Regis froze, then gave her a toothy grin, continuing his conversation but much more breathlessly. Trying to woo her back, Dettlaff used his leg to hook hers from underneath and bring it back towards himself. She tried to pull away, but he used a long finger to knock her shoe off and tickle her foot. Fjola threw her head back in laughter and Dettlaff brought his hands back up to the table, blushing.

“Honestly,” Regis said, slapping the table and shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Get a little wine in you two and suddenly you’re children.”
“Didn’t hear you complaining,” she shot back, and Regis smirked, then pretended to be haughty.
“I’m not the one losing myself over a simple game of physical teasing,” he said with a sniff.
“Oh no?” Dettlaff said, reaching forward and digging one of his fingers into Regis’ side.

Regis tried to jerk away but couldn’t conceal his laughter as Dettlaff tickled his side, the older vampire slapping him away and rising from the table to clear it. He wouldn’t let it go so easily, however, wrapping his hands about Regis’ waist and yanking him down onto his lap, Fjola tickling his sides as Dettlaff held him fast.

“Get off!” he cried, “St… st… stop it!”

He was laughing, but they both relented, Fjola rubbing his shoulders to relax him again.

“Fiends,” Regis practically gasped.

Dettlaff chuckled and leaned forward, beginning to kiss his neck tenderly. Regis went practically limp and sighed, Fjola joining in and kissing the other side of his throat. She bit his earlobe softly, causing him to groan. Dettlaff began rubbing Regis’ chest with one hand, the other going to Fjola’s hair, his fingernails scratching her gently. She continued massaging his shoulder on the same side on which she was kissing him, her other hand straying down between Dettlaff’s thighs, soon joined by one of Regis’ as well. Dettlaff groaned and bucked slightly, his fingers digging into Fjola’s scalp and Regis’ chest desperately. His kisses became more insistent on his neck, more fervent, and Regis was practically panting with want.

“Please,” was all he was capable of saying, and Dettlaff suddenly placed him gently to the side, rising slowly.

They both looked concerned for a moment, but Dettlaff simply approached Fjola and picked her up gently in his arms, looking at the older vampire heavily. A look of understanding came across Regis’ features and he stood as well, following closely, his hands on Dettlaff’s hips as the three of them continued upstairs. Fjola was placed on the bed, Regis settling in behind her and bringing her backwards far enough to start kissing and licking at her lips, nibbling a little here and there and driving her wild. Dettlaff settled in front of her, bringing her legs up to straddle him as he began kissing her too, his tongue meeting hers and Regis’ both. His hands went between her thighs and held her legs apart as he ground against her, Regis’ hands beginning to massage her breasts.

“Gods,” she gasped, the three of them able to bear it no longer and tearing their clothes off with haste. Dettlaff’s fingers grazed against her wound and she sucked in air, looking back to Regis. He let out a small chuckle that was more of a lustful growl.
“Don’t worry,” he said into her ear huskily, “I’ve cleared it with your doctor.”

She let out a nervous laugh that soon turned into a sigh as Regis licked her along the length of her throat and Dettlaff began his ministrations between her legs. He reached over with his other hand and brought out a small bottle from the side table, Fjola knowing what it was immediately and moaning with desire. She wanted this more than anything. They all did, and after, lying in their sweat, panting and sore from pleasure, they all somehow collectively knew this was where they were meant to be.

Chapter 67: Everything You Wanted to Know About Vampires But Were Afraid to Ask

Notes:

I broke the dialogue up a little bit with the heavier paragraphs to help spare your eyes, since there's a lot of it. Enjoy!

Chapter Text

“Is this how you imagined your lives would go?” Fjola asked sleepily.
“Hm?” Dettlaff grunted, running a hand through her curly brown hair.
“When you and Regis were younger – did you ever imagine…?”
“No,” Dettlaff said flatly. “Regis and I, hm… we ran with different crowds.”
“You had a stick up your ass,” Regis mumbled.
“Irresponsible punk,” Dettlaff shot.
“Stuffed shirt,” Regis retorted.

Fjola laughed, Regis curling around to spoon her snugly while she laid her head on Dettlaff’s chest. He stretched beneath her, bringing his hand down from her hair to begin stroking Regis’ arm.

“But did we ever imagine this, you ask? Sharing a mate and becoming mates?” the older vampire tutted. “Not in a million years. Or, well, four centuries, I suppose.”
“What’s it like to live that long? Does it get boring after a while?”
“I would not call it boring,” Dettlaff answered. “Just… hm…” He struggled to elaborate.
“The years seem to lose their meaning,” Regis finished, Dettlaff nodding in concurrence.
“Like it just becomes a big blur?” she asked, furrowing her brow.
“Hm, not quite… more that time simply ceases to be of a concern. There is no pressure to succeed or push oneself, or rush into decisions based solely on worrying about ‘running out of time.’ It’s very common for you humans to do that, but for us, the years will be endless, if things go as they should. What does a decade matter here, or a century there? Time is an abstract concept to begin with. Not needing to concern oneself with it is quite freeing, actually.”
“What will it be like for you after I’m gone?”

The room seemed to go cold in an instant.

“Fjola,” Dettlaff said heavily. “That will not be for quite a decent amount of time.”
“But someday.” She turned her head slightly to look at him, then back to Regis, who looked sad and concerned. “Will you still stay together?”

The two vampires looked at each other for a moment, their faces softening.

“Of course,” Regis said. Dettlaff nodded, kissing her forehead.
“Enough of this horrendous conversation,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to upset you. I guess I just wanted to know that you two were going to stay together forever.”
“I suppose it’s entirely possible. Quite probable, even,” Regis replied, running his thumb affectionately against Dettlaff’s jaw.
“Good,” said Fjola, smiling. “That makes me happy.”
“Do try to live in the present however, my dear,” Regis said gruffly.
“Another lecture?” Dettlaff asked heavily. “I know that’s one of your favorites, discussing why dwelling in the past or future is to be avoided.”
“Hm, yes, well, when it comes to your future, I see a lot of misery ahead for you if you don’t stop mocking me,” Regis said lightly, chuckling.
“Can you tell me more about your childhood?” she asked.
“What’s there to tell, really? It was centuries ago.”

“Like… what are vampire families like? Do they exist? Where are your guys’ parents? Are there vampire marriages? Since none of you die of natural causes, where are all the other higher vampires like you? Did you have any siblings? How come you don’t see a lot of vampire children? Do you age in the same amount of time a human does when you’re young, or is it slower for you like it is now? Do you just keeping growing older and older or does it eventually stop? I know you can’t make higher vampires aside from the uh, traditional way, but if you could, would you? Do female higher vampires lose their ability to have kids after a while like the other races do? Do males? How does your society work, or does everyone just sort of keep to themselves? Do you vote, or is there a royal family…?”

“Slow down!” Regis laughed, Dettlaff joining in, his chest shaking under Fjola’s cheek.
“How long have you been bottling these questions?”
“Ever since Regis blabbed that you were vampires.”
“Hm, yes, he is terrible at keeping secrets.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Who was it that told the Duchess of what I was?”
“Ah, that. Yes, well… she would have figured it out eventually.”
“Mmhmm,” Dettlaff grunted in a sing-song tone of disbelief.
“You two do love to fight, don’t you?” Fjola asked. “Just make sure I don’t get shanked this time.”
“Fjola!” Regis chided, Dettlaff looking grim. Fjola immediately felt guilty.
“Sorry,” she said, straightening and smoothing his hair back gently, kissing him. “I thought it would be okay to joke about now. You know, to help remove the uh… sting, I guess.”

Dettlaff nodded, but still looked dour.

“Come on,” she said, kissing his cheeks and trying to distract him, “Tell me about when you were younger. Did you two always kind of bicker or were you more neutral towards each other?”
“Hm, we’ve always been a bit like oil and water,” Regis said.
“We’ve become closer than that,” Dettlaff argued.
“See?” Regis whispered conspiratorially to Fjola.

Dettlaff pinched him playfully, the older vampire emitting a small laugh.

“Truth be told,” he started, “Dettlaff and I were simply part of different groups that happened to cross paths quite frequently in our youth. My group was composed primarily of blood-guzzlers, party folk – the 'plasma crowd,' you understand. And Dettlaff tended to be more comfortable spending time with lesser vampires, which coincidentally included several alps and bruxae, who more often than not tend to be the same sort of vampires I was spending my time with. Blood abusers, generally.”
“Ah.”
“There were a few other higher vampires that were mutual acquaintances, to be sure,” Dettlaff said, “But often they were on the outer fringes of Regis’ circle, as they were less prone to, ah…”
“Youthful shenanigans?” Regis suggested, and Dettlaff nodded with a smile. “To us, meaning the group I ran with and myself, it meant they were considered quite the bore.”
“Perfect for me, hm?”
“Oh hush,” Fjola scolded with a smile, “You are not boring.”
“Well at the time…” Regis said teasingly.

Dettlaff rolled his eyes and Regis stroked his jaw again affectionately.

“But often in the evenings, my friends and I, as well as the alps and bruxae from Dettlaff’s group, would go out looking for fresh vic… ah… something to drink, and some of the less enthusiastic would stay behind. That included Dettlaff, who found the rabble quite silly and foolish, and of course now I agree with him. But at the time we mocked him a bit, then went out on our own, staying out until dawn and then returning to sleep it off.”
“Return where? Did you all live together?”
“No. At that time, before we really had skills or knowledge to ply a lucrative trade, and not being of the age to want to settle down anyplace in particular yet anyway, most often we – meaning younger vampires – slept in caves or cemeteries, sometimes in a tree or hollow if one was truly desperate. Then we would convene again in the evenings to uh… socialize.”
“No need to tiptoe around it, my loves,” Fjola said. “I know what you are, and you’re telling me what you were – I want you to feel comfortable being honest with me. I promise – I’ll never judge you for who you used to be.”

Dettlaff let out a small noise and brought her face to his to kiss her deeply and appreciatively. Regis realized that she truly meant it, and that her love for Dettlaff – and, he supposed, himself as well, despite their violent history – was reflective of her feelings towards the matter. While he knew some might consider her naive, Regis knew how anyone, especially vampires with incredibly long lifespans, could truly, honestly change for the better. He knew Fjola could see that for herself, and that was why it was so much easier for her to love and respect them. He felt his eyes start to get somewhat misty in appreciation, and began kissing her shoulder to distract himself. She turned and kissed him back, running her hands through his facial hair as she loved to do.

“You were telling me about your youthful escapades?” she pressed with a smile. Regis returned it and continued.
“As I said, we had seldom spent much one-on-one time together, though there was a time when…” he hesitated, looking to Dettlaff for reassurance or acceptance.

“There was a time I went with them to drink,” Dettlaff continued. “I thought to myself that they always seemed in such good spirits when they returned, perhaps there was something to it that I was missing. So one evening, I decided to accompany them.” He hesitated. “We drank first from some villagers, passing them around like they were… hors d'oeuvres… and next found a murderous bandit clan hiding out in the woods. We drained them all without pity, many cheering and hailing themselves as heroes for taking out such despicable creatures. I suppose I should have felt happy about it as well – even now I am not above cutting down the foulest of beasts – but as I drained the life from one myself, my head was swimming, my stomach was sick, and it burdened me so to feel him go limp in my grasp. I looked at him and saw he was a youth of about my age, barely even old enough to grow facial hair, and I had killed him simply because I wanted to feel excitement or stupor. To murder without cause, or only because of selfish reasons of delight, I… I could not take pleasure in it. And so shortly after, I abandoned the groups entirely, striking out on my own to find solitude, which was much more comfortable to me at the time.”

Fjola was silent for a moment as she watched Dettlaff consider his words, weighing the memory in his mind.

“It was then our paths diverged,” he finally continued. “Regis continued with his crowd, and I struck out for other parts, staying mostly by myself. I picked up some skills, here and there, but overall I shunned humans and vampires alike, save for a few lesser ones. They were so much less complex, less frustrating, and I could control them, to a degree.”
“How did you discover you could do that?” she asked.

“Hm, I was very young. and had been relaxing in the woods, hungry but enjoying the warm summer air too much to disturb myself to fetch food and dearly wishing I had some sweet fruit. It wasn’t long before a fleder of all creatures had brought me a small pile of pears, peaches, and plums and dropped them at my feet obediently. This was alarming to me at first, then enticing. I took advantage of this, I am ashamed to admit, having them run my errands, fetch me food, build me a crude shelter. Eventually I grew bored, and tired of the game, and though I was careful not to overwork my herd, I could see the confusion on their faces afterward, or sense their disturbances when not under my influence. It took some time, but eventually I stopped trying to control them, save for in dire emergencies, which were few.”

“Are there other vampires who can do that?”
“A few,” Regis said cautiously.

Dettlaff looked at him uncertainly.

“Elders,” he said.
“What’s an elder?”
“A very ancient and powerful member of our race. Leaders, essentially. Most of them do not aim to control except in emergencies, like Dettlaff, but some of the crueler ones do. Whichever elder’s land you are in, you owe them fealty and allegiance – by which I mean, if you fail to do so by virtue, you will be made to do so by force. It’s part of the reason some lands have plenty of us, and others, far fewer. Many are killed or flee in lands where an unfortunately cruel or selfish elder reigns.”
“What about here?”
“Ever wonder why the vampires in Toussaint are so plentiful? The elder here doesn’t like to be disturbed, at all. It’s rare indeed he communicates with a single one of us, let alone orders us to do his bidding or makes other demands. He has a few trusted allies, but generally despises the company of others and does not take an active role in ruling, merely exists to guard the gate to our home world, lost to us in the Conjunction of the Spheres.”
“So does that mean Dettlaff’s an elder? Since he can control some of the other vampires?”
“No, but in a thousand years or so?” Regis shrugged. “Perhaps. While most higher vampires have very unique skills, part of the reason we as a species are so difficult to classify, it seems Dettlaff was given the gift of herd mentality. While he cannot control other higher vampires yet, in another few centuries, as his powers grow? It would be incredibly likely.”

Dettlaff looked uncomfortable.

“Regis, you could take the mantle, you are much more gregarious and… convincing.
“That has nothing to do with it,” Regis said seriously.
“It is not a role I wish to take.”
“Nothing is set in stone, my friend. Only that you are a likely candidate for it.”
“Would you stay by my side if I did so?” Dettlaff suddenly asked, staring at the ceiling.

Regis hesitated.

“If you wished me to.”
“But you would not want to.”
“I am a bit of a traveler, Dettlaff. It would be difficult for me to live in one place forever, no matter how much I love the one residing there.”
“Now you know why I do not wish for the role.”

Regis’ face softened and he leaned forward to kiss Dettlaff deeply, rubbing his cheek.

“I did not say you had to,” he said, “Only that you were suited for it.”
“Hm.”

The three of them lay quietly for a time before Regis suddenly giggled at something.

“What?” Fjola asked, grinning and curious.
“I was just thinking of how amusing it would be if Dettlaff were to learn to control other races, as well. All of Toussaint, suddenly devoid of humans. Except you of course, my dear.”
“It would be paradise,” Dettlaff chuckled.
“Very few vampires enjoy that ability, thankfully,” Regis said, “And the ones that do have it only as a minor talent.”
“Like you?” Fjola asked. “Being able to put people to sleep?” Regis chuckled again.
“I suppose it could fit into that category, yes. But be aware that is not my only ability,” he said, sounding somewhat reproachful. “My rather advanced intellect, if you’ll excuse the immodesty, is also one of my vampirically-enhanced qualities.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to sound offensive, or insulting…” She suddenly looked worried.
“Not at all, my treasure,” Regis said, kissing her forehead.
“So how did you figure out you could do that? Well, your intelligence I guess was easy enough to figure out, right? But what about making people pass out?"

Regis shrugged.

“Eh, it’s a far less interesting tale than Dettlaff’s. I was being careless with the other vampires I was drinking with, and a villager cornered me to confront me. I stared him down haughtily, but inside I was quite nervous. I just kept looking him deeply in the eyes with false bravado, and suddenly he began to waver, then stumble, and finally he fell at my feet, sound asleep. Well, I launched myself away so quickly I wasn’t even sure what exactly had occurred. Though later, surmising what might have happened, I tried it again on a…” he sighed. “I tried it on a young, female peasant, and she collapsed in my arms. I was then able to drink from her trouble-free. Well, once I had discovered that particular talent, you can imagine how much my popularity soared.”
“Is that why you drank? To become popular?”
“Truth be told, it was because – believe it or not – I used to be incredibly shy, especially around females of my species. After drinking copious amounts of blood, however, I gained much more confidence and success with the ladies. With all humility, of course,” he finished.
“Humans call that ‘beer balls,’” Fjola said, and the two vampires started laughing.

Dettlaff began running his hands through her hair again, Regis joining in. Fjola began running her nails gently down Dettlaff’s stomach with one hand, shifting herself so she could reach up and stroke Regis’ arm with the other.

“So what happened to all your friends?” she asked.

“Hm, as I told you once, I had a lover then, beautiful and buxom. I was… we were… very close. I suppose now I would call it love. But my addiction – I came to realize that my so-called ‘friends’ were only using me to fetch them victims and amuse themselves at my expense. Those who weren’t as close, such as Dettlaff, I regret to say, fell by the wayside quite easily, though I feel much guilt for it, now. Soon enough the addiction took hold of me so strongly, however, that I no longer wished to spend time even with the companions who remained, simply seeking out blood and overindulging myself because it felt pleasurable, and I could not stop. My lover tried time and time again to get through to me, but it wasn’t until I had had my accident that things changed for me. She, as well as all of my supposed friends, had already completely abandoned me by that point. So, that was the end of that,” he said with a sarcastic titter.

“But wait… you said Dettlaff healed you, once, years later,” Fjola pried. “Why didn’t any of your friends or your lover do that, then? They just left you to rot for 50 years?” She seemed angry.
“You must understand, my love, that I was simply a lost cause by that point. I was not worth the effort of attempting to resurrect.”
“That’s bullshit,” she said forcefully, and both of the vampires raised their eyebrows. “If your girlfriend or whatever she was at the time really cared about you, she would have helped you.”
“One can only watch the person they love destroy themselves for so long,” Regis said sadly. “Eventually one must let their partner face the consequences. She had left me long before I had hit that well and been decapitated by the townsfolk. I hold no resentment over it.”
“But… but… your codex that you’ve mentioned before…”
“It is either to help them recover fully, or not at all,” Regis stated. “After I had neglected her for so long to pursue my bloodlust, I doubt she’d have wanted to come back, dig me up, and help me recuperate with her own dear blood for several years.”
“Dettlaff did.”
“I’m aware,” he said softly, gazing at him for a moment before kissing him tenderly, then Fjola. “But that was his choice. I am glad of it. But she made hers as well, and I hold no ill will towards her.”

Fjola muttered something like unnecessarily cruel but Dettlaff began kissing her to redirect the conversation.

“You know, I used to envy Dettlaff for how confident he was. It was effortless, and impressive. I always admired that about him.”
“Hm, seems as though the tables have turned,” Dettlaff said.
“And what a pity that is. Still, I see more and more of your old self coming back every day, Dettlaff. Soon enough, who knows? Perhaps you will not need my nagging anymore.”
“And what a tragic day that will be,” he joked.

The three of them chuckled for a bit before Regis remembered Fjola had asked more questions and reminded her about it.

“You asked something about vampire families, I believe?”
“Ah, yes! Do they exist? Like marriage, family, kids, that sort of thing?”
“Hm, there are some marriages, I suppose, though they are generally quite informal affairs, seeing as how our species generally does not practice or follow any religion. They’re essentially just a ceremony where oaths are exchanged, though they are generally quite rare, as marriage is more a construct of the humans and elder races.”
“Then why would any of them bother?”
“The idea is quite romantic, to some, as with any other race,” Dettlaff responded.
“Ah. What about children? If there aren’t marriages, who’s responsible for raising them?”
“Hm, couples will normally raise them together until they are strong enough to ‘leave the nest,’ so to speak, so only a handful of years, until adolescence. About twelve, perhaps?”
“Twelve?!” Fjola cried. “How could a child take care of themselves at that age? I mean… that is, assuming you age the same as humans…”
“We do indeed, at least until we reach adulthood, and then the process slows. As you can see by the misleading appearance that Dettlaff and I have a very large gap between us, we can age at different rates… high amounts of stress or trauma taking their toll and speeding up the process, at least physically, as you can see.” Regis gestured to his grizzled hair and laugh lines with a lopsided smile.
“I love the grays you both have,” she said fondly, “Don’t worry. I think they’re sexy.”

They laughed and Dettlaff nuzzled her with his stubble gently as she closed her eyes in delight.

“By the time we reach our teenage years,” Regis continued, his mouth twitching up into a smile as he watched his two lovers being affectionate with each other, “Vampire youths have started banding together to form their own little clans or tribes. We depend on and learn from each other, and our parents are no longer seen as necessary, so they often leave to journey on their own again, if they haven’t already. Most of us never see our parents ever again after they leave us.”
“That sounds awful,” she said.
“Well, to you, of course it does,” Regis actually laughed, “But if you recall, vampires are not so easily harmed or destroyed. We have very little to worry about, not even starvation really; in fact the reason most of us even bother to band together instead of going it alone from the start is so that humans don’t get as suspicious of us. A lone child can be unsettling or even preyed upon, but a group is somehow seen as less conspicuous. Although most of our social behaviors are honed during that age as well, so I suppose that is the primary purpose for coming together during that time. We usually stay a part of it for maybe about a half a decade or so, perhaps a tad longer, before finally setting off on our own indefinitely.”

“So you’re saying most vampire parents get together, have a child, and go their separate ways again after a few years?”
“Yes,” they responded in unison.
“Well, at least mine did,” Regis said. “It’s why I have no siblings, and my name, by vampiric tradition, is hyphenated. Terzieff was my mother’s name, Godefroy my father’s.”
“So that means Dettlaff…”
“My parents were a mated pair,” he said, “And agreed upon my father’s surname. Though I doubt they had more children after me. Most vampire couples only have one, if any, and very rarely two – three or more is almost unheard of. Vampire women, like elvish ones, are fertile only once every few years, and eventually lose their ability altogether.”
“Hm,” Fjola seemed lost in thought.
“Are you troubled by this, my dear?” Regis asked. “Or pitying us?”
“Neither. It’s just surprising, that’s all.”
“You had another question?” Dettlaff asked. “…Or ten?”
“Very funny,” she laughed, rolling her eyes. “Hm… what about being able to turn other races into vampires?”
“It’s not possible,” Regis clarified, sounding bored of the question. Fjola knew he must hear it a lot when people discovered what he is.
“I know that,” she said, “But if you could, would you?”

Regis and Dettlaff each seemed to stare out at nothing in particular for a time, considering.

“No,” Dettlaff responded.
“It would depend on the circumstances,” Regis said. Dettlaff suddenly nodded, and the older vampire raised an eyebrow. “Change your mind?”
“I would turn Fjola, were it possible,” he said.

Regis agreed with him, and despite the oddity of the sentiment, Fjola couldn’t help but be touched, kissing each of them in turn and humming contentedly.

“So you just keep living forever if another of your species doesn’t kill you, right?” she asked. “What happens when you get really, ridiculously old? You turn into an elder, right?”
“Ah, one could say that,” Regis said, running his thumb across his chin in thought. “Though one cannot achieve that title without being very ancient, some of the most ancient among us, of course – it is also more of an earned title, bestowed only upon those who are willing to lead. Otherwise, to answer your question, yes, we just get old. Case in point,” he laughed, gesturing to himself again.
“Oh, Regis,” she scolded slightly, kissing the tip of his nose, “You and Dettlaff are both beautiful and majestic, no matter what.”
Majestic?” Dettlaff chuckled incredulously.
“Sometimes it’s the only word I can think of to describe you both accurately,” Fjola said sheepishly.

Dettlaff stroked her cheek with an appreciative smile and Regis kissed the back of her head, bringing his hands down to massage her waist gently.

“Any other questions, darling?” he asked.
“Do you mind?” she asked, worried she was being annoying.
“Not at all! In fact I rather admire your curiosity. It’s a trait I value most deeply.”
“Hm, thanks,” she said with a smile. “So where are all the other higher vampires, anyway? It seems there would be more if you can’t really die easily.”

“Well, there are still very few of us, due not only to rare instances of procreation, but also the fact that during the Conjunction there were only handfuls of us who came to this land to begin with. Finally, there are others, to be sure, however there are many other lands than these, as well – we are simply usually spread out, or do not wish to interact very frequently. The more of us there are in one spot, the more obvious we become. Toussaint is somewhat of an exception, as this is where our race first crossed over during the Conjunction, and many still want to stay close to the gate, however impassible it remains. More often, however, we are split apart, and hiding in broad daylight, blending in with the humans and elder races. Chances are, we are not the first higher vampires you have encountered, and it’s doubtful we will be the last.”

“I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to have fallen in love with one of you, let alone two,” Fjola said tenderly. “And to have you both love me back?” She let out a soft, appreciative moan.
“Trust me, my loves,” Dettlaff said, stroking each of them softly, “The feeling is mutual.”

They were tired and falling asleep again, but Fjola suddenly scowled, seemingly wanting to ask something, but somewhat afraid.

“What is it?” Dettlaff pried.
“I don’t want to upset you.”

Regis stroked her cheek and reassured her.

“So, we’re mates, right? Bonded, sealed, all that?”
“Yes,” they replied in unison, smiling at the fact they had done it again.
“What will happen when I die, then?”

The mood chilled again.

“Will you just stay with each other and mourn, or find someone new?”
“Find someone new?” Dettlaff repeated angrily, straightening on the bed, Fjola sliding off his chest and to the side. Regis wrapped his hands around her shoulders protectively.
“To be fair, Dettlaff, you never thought this was possible, not after Syanna. And I had only accepted casual lovers for decades after my lover left me,” Regis attempted to soothe.
“You are suggesting it is as easy as collecting goods at a market,” he said darkly. He shook his head, his black and sable locks jiggling. “That you could even suggest it would be so simple…”

He paused for a moment in thought, his jaw working.

“Would it be so easy for you?” he asked, not meeting her gaze.
“What?”
“Were the tables turned, and we perished before you, how long would you wait until you found another to share your bed?”
“Dettlaff,” she said, almost scolding as she sat up and forced him to face her, placing her hands on his cheeks. “I would never. In fact, you’re the only ones I’ve ever…”

Fjola suddenly stopped, turning red. Dettlaff scowled and stared at her deeply.

“Surely I wasn’t…”
“You were,” she said with a shrug. “Between the temple life and constant traveling, I never found anyone I actually cared about that much. I had uh… male company, I guess you’d call it, here and there, but never anything more serious than kissing, heavy petting, the like…”
“Enough,” Dettlaff growled, trying to banish the thought. “Why hadn’t you told me?”
“What would it have mattered?”
“I would have been gentler,” he said softly.
“Did you ever consider that maybe I didn’t want you to be gentle?” she asked huskily, leaning forward and nibbling his earlobe.

He emitted a giggle and relaxed somewhat, Regis doing so in turn. They laid back down again, Fjola laying against his chest, Dettlaff wrapping his arm around Regis’ back as he spooned her.

“I hate to press, but…”
“Fjola,” Regis let out an exasperated gasp.
“Sorry, I just… I’m not suggesting you would need my permission, but… for what it’s worth… I would want you to.”
“What?” Dettlaff asked incredulously.
“I would want you to find someone new, to make you both happy. As long as she – or he – treats you well. Besides, even if you put me in a glass coffin like in that fairy tale, I doubt I’d be very flexible after a few years or so…”
“That’s horrible,” Dettlaff cringed, shaking his head, but a small, wry smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, Regis making a noise of disgust.
“Sorry, my loves, it’s just easier to talk about it if you try to make it a joke,” she said. “I guess that’s a human thing.”
“Your species does not have a monopoly on gallows humor,” Regis said, his face still slightly twisted in repulsion, “But please… be comforted by the fact that we love you now, and we will even then. No matter what happens, you will not be forgotten, and our memories of you not discarded.” He kissed her jaw lightly.
“Especially not after that remark,” Dettlaff quipped.

They all began laughing again, and Fjola felt more relaxed about everything. She had not meant to hurt them, but she wanted them to know that after her, she wanted them to move on, to be happy. She was confident now that that was going to happen, even if it took them another four centuries, and felt calmer for it.

They deserve happiness, she thought, a mischievous smile suddenly crossing her face. Especially now…

Fjola’s hands slithered down their bodies slowly, stroking them gently and making a soft, needy moan that the two vampires echoed.

“What? Again?” Regis asked incredulously.
“C’mon, I know you’ve both got the stamina for it, you’ve said so yourselves.”
“You’re insatiable,” he chuckled.

He looked to Dettlaff for backup, but he was already kissing Fjola’s neck and looking at him hungrily.

“Gods, the pair of you.”
“Oh please,” she said, “Last I heard you were able to keep a succubus tamed,” she teased, giving Regis a sultry glance that Dettlaff mirrored.
“You’re far more enthusiastic,” he chuckled, his voice becoming husky as he began gingerly kissing and nibbling at her neck, periodically meeting Dettlaff’s mouth with his own, both of them touching and massaging Fjola and each other methodically, causing her to groan and squirm lustfully.

I wonder why that is, she thought with a smile as they continued.

Chapter 68: *HOUSE LAYOUT DOODLE*

Summary:

I'm not an artist, okay? But it gives the gist of what the house kind of looks like.

Chapter Text

Chapter 69: Burning

Notes:

CW: Blood

Chapter Text

Fjola awoke to Regis smelling her neck, something he and Dettlaff had started doing quite frequently as of late. It was not unwelcome, but it baffled her somewhat. She tensed at first, simply from the sheer surprise of it, and to her unhappiness he flinched back away from her with a quick apology.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “I’m not mad – you just startled me, is all.”

Regis hummed softly and returned his face to her neck, kissing her there repeatedly as he inhaled, slowing and deepening his touch. Suddenly he licked her neck, stroking it along her jugular agonizingly slowly. Fjola smiled softly and reached up with one hand to rub his hair, the other stretching out to find Dettlaff. All she felt was an empty pillow, however, and she opened her eyes to realize he was gone.

“Where’d he go?” she asked. To her surprise, Regis tensed somewhat.
“Does he need to be here?” he asked somberly.

Fjola paused for a moment. Is he feeling… jealousy? she wondered. She turned and shifted herself to face the older vampire, pressing her naked body against his and wrapping her arms about his shoulders, bringing a hand up to the back of his head. He relaxed and breathed heavily, closing his eyes as he pressed his face into her neck once more.

“Are you okay?” she asked tenderly, stroking his gray, untamed hair.
“Forgive me,” Regis said, pulling away a little. “I am… I’ve found myself becoming somewhat… mm… needy as of late. Insecure. It troubles me that I am becoming less proficient at controlling it.”
“When did this start?”
“Fjola, we needn’t discuss it…”
“When did it start?” she repeated patiently.
“Not long after the three of us became intimate.”

So a little over a month, she thought, doing the math in her head, surprised as she realized it was already late June. The days had turned hotter, and the evenings had been warm as well, but they were not far from the Sansretour and the breeze off the river, as well as being heavily shaded in the woods, made the heat more bearable. There was also a small, clear pond fed by a stream that was cool and pleasant, though she wanted to save that for the really hot days that were sure to come in July and August. It was warm already this morning, but she didn’t care, pressing her body against Regis’ more firmly. He let out a soft moan and squeezed her gently.

“Feeling overwhelmed?” she asked.
“No,” he said, a slight pitch to his voice hinting that he wanted to say more.

Fjola simply stayed silent, waiting for him to continue as she often would for Dettlaff. The two of them tended to think more about the words they spoke before letting them leave their mouths, a trait Fjola admired and tried to accommodate for. Regis sighed.

“I’m sorry. Truth be told – Dettlaff and I – well… we both are. Ever so slightly.”

Fjola’s stomach dropped.

“Oh.” She wasn’t sure what to say, so she stayed silent once more, hoping for Regis to continue.
“It’s not your fault, my darling, I promise you,” he said, running his fingers through her hair in return. “It is simply a part of our vampiric nature.”
“I get it. You explained most vampires don’t group together too often, so I understand you feeling that our arrangement is a bit too much.”
“Eh?” Regis seemed genuinely confused, his eyebrows knitting as he pulled back to stare her in the face. “What are you talking about?”
“That you need space. What are you talking about?”

To her surprise, Regis threw his head back and laughed, Fjola admiring the length and sculpt of his neck and jaw despite the fact this was an odd moment to do so. He straightened and shook his head, kissing her gently.

No, my darling, not that kind of overwhelmed. We all accommodate for each other to have some time to ourselves, and that is enough. Neither of us is oppressed by yours or one another’s presence.”
“Then how are you overwhelmed?” she asked, genuinely becoming frustrated by the run-around.
“Our instincts, Fjola. Our urges. It’s why Dettlaff left early this morning for a walk – he does not wish to act upon those impulses. Even though it is more of a recreational activity, the fact remains that it does stem from an ancient need of it, something our species relied on once, long ago. And there are some species of lesser vampires that still do. Not to mention the fact that the act itself is immensely pleasurable, most often linked – even to you humans who mythologize us – with sex and forced acts of such.”
“I… what?”
“It has been difficult for us both to resist you. To resist drinking from you.”

It was as if a veil had been lifted from Fjola’s eyes – waking up with their faces against her neck, their frequent kisses along her throat, the smelling and extended holding, it all made sense now.

“Aha,” she said slowly. Regis nodded grimly. Fjola thought for a moment. “Well… what if I want you to?”
“Don’t be foolish,” he snapped. Fjola cringed slightly and Regis chided himself internally for his harshness. “I don’t want to see you hurt,” he said, more softly this time as he kissed her forehead, his facial hair tickling her. “…Again.”
“You still wouldn’t be able to control yourself?”
“I am… not sure, truth be told. On the one hand, you are one of my mates, and I have an instinctual need to shield and protect you. I feel as though that instinct would prevent me from losing control, at least when drinking from you. Obviously I would never wish to hurt you – were I to sense you were truly in distress, physically or otherwise, I am almost positive I would be compelled to stop myself immediately. Again, a protective instinct when it comes to mates.”

He paused, looking away for a moment in contemplation.

“And yet… as I stated earlier, the urge for nourishment – in this case blood – and the urge for sex are often intertwined, psychologically, even for you humans. Being hungry for one often feels the same as being hungry for the other, and can lead one to make awfully rash decisions out of a lust, whether for food or for sex. When it comes to vampires, however, blood addiction becomes a primal need, very similar to the urge to mate. If a vampire goes without one, it can influence the desire for the other very heavily. Shamefully, I must admit that when I had attacked you several months ago, I was acting out my insatiable lust for you sexually in a manner most violent. Namely, if I could not have you bodily in one way, my instincts caused me to seek taking you bodily in another. Much to my regret and shame.”

Fjola remembered his excitement as he drank from her with a small blush.

“For what it’s worth, my love… even though I was scared, I… I kind of liked it,” she admitted with a small voice.
“I know,” he said flatly.
“Huh? How? I never told you about that.”
“I could taste it in your blood. And smell it.”
“You can taste when…?”
“Yes. My ancestors did many studies and experiments of varying subjects – and on various subjects, I am sorry to say – especially regarding you humans, whom they saw as a weaker, but still somewhat useful species after the Conjunction of the Spheres. It was during these experiments that they discovered that when a victim was willing, or at least tame and docile, they often felt sexual arousal and tension when a vampire was drinking from them. It always made the blood much richer and tastier.”
“And I guess I…”
“Yes. Yes, my darling, I knew you had enjoyed it. And yet still, I never wanted to try it again.”
“Oh. Do you think you would still lose control of yourself over it? I mean… you were saying that if you’re satisfied one way, you’d be less likely…”
“No,” he interrupted again, “It’s not a risk I am willing to take, Fjola.”
“Well what about Dettlaff?”

Regis looked almost angry for moment. He stared at her for a long moment before responding.

“So if I deny you something, you will simply run to him, instead? Is the reverse same, that you seek me out on the occasions he says no?”
“What? Of course not!”
“Why is this something you think you’d want to experience again, Fjola? Was the first time not terrifying enough?”
“Because it wasn’t,” she said, “At least not completely. To be honest, it was… it was kind of exciting,” she blushed.

Regis straightened himself and got out of bed, dressing himself hastily with his back to her.

“Regis? Regis, what’s wrong? I didn’t mean to offend…”
“It is infuriating that you treat this as though it is some sort of amusement, an idée fixe or kink. I am trying not to become upset at the moment.”

His frankness made his words feel so much worse and she felt her stomach twist in shame.

“I’m sorry, Regis.”
“Don’t be,” he said, “You’re only human, after all.”

With that he strode out from their room without so much as a second glance at her, leaving her alone in the bed to cry and wonder what she had done wrong.

 

*

 

Dettlaff continued his walk back to the cottage, enjoying the sounds of the birds singing in the warm morning sunshine and the rumble of a stream nearby. It was so peaceful like this, in these early hours, and he could feel his vampiric urges practically melting away during his stroll. Though being together was wonderful, these small breaks to clear his head were lovely, and often made him more docile when he returned home. He felt happy with both of his mates and was rarely easily aggravated anymore, but he still liked the practice of his walks.

Perhaps some days I shall bring one or both of them with me. Fjola could gather her herbs, Regis could help her, perhaps I could find some new branches to whittle or…

Suddenly he heard it. A soft whimpering, like a sigh or a sob. Fjola’s sob. It was rare he ever heard it, but it was distinct to his ears and he suddenly changed into his vampiric form and fled through the forest and back home in nearly instant flashes and spurts. He threw open the door and bolted upstairs, launching into their room so quickly he had startled Fjola, who immediately turned her head to the side, trying to hide her tears before he saw them.

“Hey my love,” she said, clearing her throat, “I’m happy you’re home.”
“Fjola, what troubles you?” he asked with a growl, clinging to her side immediately.
“Nothing,” she lied, “You just scared me.”

He ran his hands over her body, assessing her for wounds and pain, but could find nothing physically amiss.

“Do not be false with me,” he warned. “I could hear your sobbing from a mile off.”
“I didn’t mean to worry you, sorry, it’s nothing, I didn’t realize I was that loud…”
“You weren’t. I simply have excellent hearing. Now,” he said tenderly, putting a long finger under her jaw and turning her face to his gently, noticing with sadness that her eyes were bloodshot, “Tell me what is wrong.”

Fjola hesitated briefly.

“I hurt Regis,” she said. Dettlaff sucked in air slightly, but stayed silent to allow her to continue, as she always did for them. She gave a wry smile at the thought, but it quickly faded as she continued. “He warned me that the two of you were having, uh… urges pertaining to my blood.”

Dettlaff’s cheeks reddened, but he simply nodded and continued his silence.

“I told him that I… well, that either of you… we could…”

Dettlaff raised an eyebrow as she stammered.

“I let him know I enjoyed it when he drank from me,” she said quickly, wanting the awkward words to be out of her already. Dettlaff scowled slightly. “That the thought of it excites me.” Dettlaff sucked in air again at her words. She made a chagrined face. “I told him that it’s something I want and he got… he was really…” She sighed. “He seemed really upset.”

Dettlaff was quiet for a few moments while he contemplated, his voice smooth when he finally spoke again.

“For Regis, it is not necessarily a pleasurable act,” he said slowly. “While it is for him physically, the toll it takes on him mentally and emotionally makes the risk completely foolish, to him. It creates fear, regret, shame, discomfort at causing his mate pain, and stress at the thought of potentially relapsing again, or even worse, killing you. Regis does not take these things lightly, and… my love, I say this with all possible tenderness… ah, you treating it as purely an act of sexual pleasure demeans his struggle. At least, to him. I know that was not your intent, but that is simply how Regis sees it, and why he was unhappy.”

Fjola shrank internally at the truth of Dettlaff’s words. How could I be so selfish and cruel? she thought with a grimace. I know how much he struggles with it, how could I possibly think that he would embrace the suggestion?

She crossed her arms over her stomach and cringed, nodding.

“You’re right, my love. Of course you’re right. And I feel so ashamed.”

She started crying again, softly, and Dettlaff wrapped his arms about her, bringing her against him and holding her tightly.

“Shh,” he soothed, “You did not mean to cause harm. I know you, you would not do such a thing. Regis knows this, as well – he will calm down, and return. You will see.”

Fjola nodded, her head resting between his neck and shoulder as he held her.

“I’ll do something nice for him when he gets back,” she said.
“Hm, I would merely give him space, for the time being,” Dettlaff said. “Let him settle himself, even before trying to make it up to him. Which, I don’t feel as though you have to do anyway, my love. You did not hurt his feelings intentionally.”
“But the fact remains that I still hurt him,” she sighed.
“Hm.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Do you think it’s awful that I found it… enjoyable?” she asked softly. “Do you find me disgusting now?”
“Of course not,” he hissed, turning her to face him with a furious look. “I merely informed you of how Regis felt, and why. Not myself.”
“Then what do you think?”
“Of… that?”
“Yes.”

She sucked in air, feeling terrified of his answer. They were all close enough to be honest with one another, which Fjola was grateful for, but it did not always make her thoughts much easier to verbalize, or less awkward to express her desires. Dettlaff seemed to be considering for a moment.

“I’ve had these… urges for some time now. I’d never experienced them so strongly before. It is… difficult to deal with. At least objectively.”
“Is there a reason for it?”
“Vampire mates often drink from one another, as a form of bonding.”
“Oh.”

He nodded gravely.

“Regis mentioned it was mostly sexual.”
“It can be, obviously,” Dettlaff said hesitantly. “And of course for us, there is a part – a rather large part – that does stem from the desire of the physical pleasure it can bring. But, in a more sentimental way, the majority simply comes from the bonding creating through nourishing one another. The pleasure is twofold – physical and emotional – if one truly loves their companion. It is… quite intimate.”
“Ah.”
“Yes.”
“So do you…?”
“Yes, Fjola, I do. I wish to, very deeply. But you must realize my reluctance stems from many of the same issues that Regis has.”
“You don’t want to become addicted?”
“I am not so terrified of that,” Dettlaff said. “It is more that I do not wish to hurt you, or that I feel that drinking from you is, hm… disrespectful, somehow. Even if you do desire it.”
“Are you scared you’d lose control?”

Dettlaff shook his head, his black curls bouncing, making Fjola smile a little bit as she reached up to stroke them softly. He took her wrist in his hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing her there tenderly and looking her in the eyes.

“I’m concerned you would not enjoy it after all,” he said, continuing his attentions.
“You said you weren’t one for drinking blood, you and Regis both told me you used to think it was foolish. Why now, then?”
“Because,” he said in a low tone, his voice husky as the hand of his not holding her wrist began to massage her tenderly, “As I said, it is born of an instinctual desire to share blood and bond with a mate. To drink and be drunk from, to nourish and be nourished. That is not the same as drowning oneself in blood to forget one’s troubles or seek fleeting joy at the cost of another.”
“So you would still want to?” she asked, her eyes half-lidded as his lips made their way quickly from her wrist to her throat. His groping became deeper, more focused, and Fjola groaned softly. “If I asked you to… would you?”
“Yes,” he whispered throatily into her ear.

He brought his lips back to her throat, kissing and sucking there as she brought herself against him more tightly, clenching his ebony hair in her hands.

“Would you?” she repeated, and Dettlaff realized it was a request. He kissed her neck again, opening his mouth on it and licking, leaving hot wetness behind as he pulled slightly away again. Fjola moaned with want.
“Are you sure?” he growled. Fjola nodded.

Dettlaff returned his mouth to her neck and suddenly Fjola felt him change under her grasp, his ears becoming pointed and his teeth growing as he changed into his vampiric form. The long, hard tips of his fangs grazed her neck and she shivered, causing him to pull back again and look at her in concern, his small black pupils searching hers for pain or discomfort.

“Please don’t stop,” she gasped.

Dettlaff growled again lustfully and returned his mouth to her throat, far enough from her jugular so that she would not be grievously injured. He began applying pressure and Fjola gritted her teeth, waiting for the pain of it. His fangs suddenly penetrated her and she cried out, clutching his hair roughly as he groaned and thrust against her, waiting for her to become accustomed to it. A few moments had passed before Fjola relaxed and Dettlaff removed his fangs from her throat, replacing them with his tongue as he licked the blood from her neck, sucking gently to draw it from her. She moaned and collapsed against him, squeezing him tightly, her hand holding the back of his head, pressing his face to her throat. He groaned again and sucked harder, Fjola clutching him in pleasure. After what seemed like less than a minute, however, Dettlaff stopped, giving her neck one final kiss before he parted them slightly, returning his lips to her mouth. Fjola could taste blood on them, but it wasn’t unpleasant, simply different. She kissed him back eagerly, teasing him with her tongue, then tried to push his mouth back to her throat again. He hesitated and held firm.

“No, my love.”
“Why not?” she nearly whined.
“Not too much,” was his only explanation.

Now that she thought about it, she did feel somewhat lightheaded. She thought maybe it was because she was simply incredibly aroused, but realized she didn’t know just how much Dettlaff had taken from her. She knew he was just being cautious, and kissed him deeply in appreciation. He smirked, then closed his eyes and made a quick movement with his hands. Fjola didn’t understand what he had done for a moment until he lifted his bloody palm and looked at her deeply. Understanding immediately, she slowly brought his hand to her mouth and drank.

It was as if the entire world had suddenly changed. While her senses did not necessarily heighten, she still felt a nearly overwhelming surge of emotions. Suddenly she felt fiery and strong, confident, satisfied, pleased, and then, strangely, somewhat weakened. She opened her eyes to find Dettlaff staring at her as she licked the blood away from her lips, the wound on his hand healing almost instantly.

“How are you feeling?”
“Like I… could take on the world,” she said, laughing. “Is this what it’s like for you, all the time?”

He did not answer her question.

“Do you feel nothing else?” he asked seriously.
“Dettlaff, there are a million things…” she said, holding her hand up to her head, barely able to think straight.

He leaned forward and kissed her neck and suddenly she felt lightheaded again, in a new way, like she was soaring and the room was spinning. Her heart felt like it was going to explode, her skin was hot and something inside her felt like it was being incinerated and reformed every few seconds. She felt lust, arousal, uncontrollable desire and… she allowed it to wash over her, reveling in the new sensation she felt, which was a burning, consuming, passionate love, unconditional and so powerful she felt like she was going to die. She looked back at Dettlaff, staring into his beautiful glacial-blue eyes and suddenly her insides soared again and she was worried she was actually going to burn up in his grasp.

“Dettlaff,” she said softly, knitting her eyebrows up in concern. “Is this…?”

He nodded with a knowing smile, kissing her and turning her insides into an inferno again.

“How can you… I mean what… do you really…?”

She was finding that it was difficult to form words with all of the emotions and sensations that were quickly and perpetually overwhelming her since she had taken that first sip of Dettlaff’s blood.

“How can you possibly manage to feel this way all the time?” she gasped. He chuckled in the way she loved so much and kissed her deeply.
“Mmhmhmhmhmhm. My love,” he grumbled, beginning to nip her neck gently, “Let me show you what helps…”

He placed her down onto the bed and practically tore their clothes off, the two of them like rutting, untamed animals, furious, uncontrollable, wild.

Chapter 70: Regis and the Snide Sorceress

Chapter Text

Regis continued his long walk, heading back down south again after deciding to explore the Sansretour Valley and view the most famous vineyards, tapping a walking stick here and there that he had picked up along the path. The air was getting ever warmer and while he didn’t feel temperature extremes as sensitively as humans, he still found himself breaking a sweat, his shirt clinging to his back underneath his black leather jerkin.

Perhaps I should visit Geralt, he thought. It’s been some time. I do wonder how his investigation is coming along – I haven’t heard anything or had requests for my help in ages.

He looked up to the bright summer sky and winced at the light.

And a good excuse for a cool bit of shade and perhaps a drink is always welcome, he thought with a smile.

As he made the trek to the familiar estate of Corvo Bianco, Regis began to think ruefully of his earlier interaction with Fjola.

Perhaps I was a bit harsh, he thought. I should have explained with more care why it was upsetting to me that she was treating such a serious thing as trivial or as a sexual novelty. He growled slightly, frowning. I shall have to apologize upon my return, be more forthright with her about why I was angry.

Regis’ mood was starting to improve and he internally applauded himself for deciding to go for a long walk to clear his head.

Maybe I could even get a nice bottle of wine for her from Geralt, if he has any stock yet.

The thought made him smile, and after a fair distance, when he finally began walking the familiar path to Geralt’s door, he had already decided on his romantic plans and intentions with her for the evening. Even if the Witcher had no stock of his own, perhaps he would give Regis a bottle from his stores out of kindness, or with Regis’ promise of reciprocation later, to save him a trip to the market. Regis raised his hand to knock on the door when suddenly it flew open, a familiar, furious-looking sorceress staring at him from the inside of the house.

“He's not here,” she huffed, but still motioned for him to come in with an air of annoyance.

Regis stepped in cautiously and sniffed the air, picking up on the well-known smell of her lilac and gooseberries, as well as Geralt’s musk of leather and horses, but also something else, something… richer, more flowery, so strong it was almost acrid. He looked back to Yennefer and saw that she looked perfectly livid.

“Is everything alright?” Regis asked, alarmed, his eyes scanning the house in concern, ears straining to pick up on any strange sounds. “You seem…”
“Pissed?” Yennefer asked, crossing her arms. “That’s only the beginning.”
“What ever is the matter?” he asked, sniffing the perfume in the air again. It was so familiar…

She took a deep breath, then began to explain.

“Geralt’s gone off on another damned, foolish investigation, still fruitlessly trying to find the Duchess’ sister. He’s trying to find a lead in Beauclair again.”
“Aha. I thought he had given up not long after our trek through the Toussaintois sewers.”
“He didn’t truly quit until the trail went cold even after I had attempted to help him.”
“Mmph. I’m assuming you had to crawl through those tunnels as well, unfortunately?”
“Unfortunately, I did, especially as my normal methods were of no help whatsoever. Whatever this royal pain-in-the-ass is up to, she likely has another sorceress or mage at her back. Or something…” she hesitated, putting her thumb to her lips in contemplation for a moment. “Her tracks once we got into the sewers essentially vanished into thin air – I attempted again to find traces, but it’s as if she completely and utterly disappeared from existence.”

Yennefer scowled in frustration, but looked away. Regis could tell that there was something she was holding back, however.

“What else is there?” he asked cautiously.

Yennefer glared at him slightly, as though assessing him.

“Geralt had a theory… he was going to go investigate it. About a… certain book. A certain… magical book.”
“Aah,” said Regis, finally understanding. “I know of this book, though was unsure of it’s continued existence or not after the events with Dettlaff, those three years ago, now.”
“That was Geralt’s thought, and I agree with him. It’s the only thing that could possibly make any sense.”
“Why so unsure of telling me your theory, though?”
“Geralt did not wish to involve you as much, anymore.”

Regis was astounded, and honestly, a little hurt.

“Why not?”
“He feared that – circumstances being what they are pertaining to your personal life – you would not be able to be objective, were Syanna found.”

At this, it was Regis’ turn to be livid.

“After all we have been through?” he snapped angrily. “I have never given him even a modicum of doubt when it comes to my own personal motives or desires…”
“Settle yourself, Regis, he was merely concerned for you. I believe he is more concerned about the actions of your… male companion. Dettlaff. I’ve heard everything.”
“Hm, Geralt is severely lacking in discretion sometimes, isn’t he?”

Yennefer smirked.

“Clearly.”

Regis sighed and ran a hand through his gray hair.

Today is not shaping up to be very enjoyable, thus far, he thought with a wry smile.

“Very well. I thank you for the information, Yennefer.”

The vampire gave a small, polite bow and motioned to leave.

“Wait,” she called. Regis turned. “I wouldn’t advise looking for Geralt right now, if I were you.”
“Why not? He went looking for the book, did he not? Perhaps he could use my assistance, as he had the previous time we investigated the matter.”
“Yes, but Anna Henrietta was just here, and took off looking for him,” the sorceress said. Regis’ heart started racing. The perfume… “If she finds him, I do not think it wise for you to become embroiled in their argument. I adore you, Regis, and you’re often the voice of reason in an unreasonable situation, but… the Duchess is not in a sane state of mind. I do not wish for you to have to reveal yourself trying to protect Geralt, were she to order him arrested for his failures.”

At this, Regis nodded seriously, but argued nonetheless.

“Were that to happen, I could merely go along with the farce, then slip through the bars later, get the key, release us…”
“No, Regis. Releasing Geralt like that – they’d come after us. They’d take control of both Corvo Bianco and your cottage, which I’m sure you recall…”
“I had put in his name,” he said slowly, heaving a regretful sigh.
“Let whatever is to happen, happen – I trust Geralt, and that he won’t be stupid enough to land himself in another terrible situation, however…”
“He does seem to have the knack,” Regis interrupted again.

She raised an eyebrow and he politely waited for her to speak.

“If he does get arrested, we will let whatever gross mockery of what they call justice play out, and hope he is released. If not, then… last resort, Regis. I do not want to you to risk yourself for any of us. Even if you’re immortal,” she suddenly chuckled, “I doubt being beheaded is a pleasant experience.”
“No, it is not,” he laughed. “And you, Yennefer? What will you do if they come for more than your beloved Witcher?”
“I decided to stay behind and protect the estate – I am far more capable of that than Geralt – let them come if they will.”
“You seem awfully calm about all this. Are you not resentful of the situation he’s placed you both in?”

She shrugged.

“I doubt any of this will happen anyway. Let him search for his book of fables. He’ll likely not find it; it could be anywhere in this damnable duchy. What I do know is this – Anna Henrietta is nearly unhinged at this point. She had had what she had wanted her entire life within her grasp – her sister – and the damn wench not only escaped her grasp again, but has managed to stay hidden for months. She has thrown all she could at the problem – money, knights, sellswords…”
“…A Witcher…”
“Exactly. Even when she was here she was… frantic. Manic, even. I cannot say what she might do at this point.”

Regis accepted this information with his thanks, promising her to be of help if she needed it, but she scoffed and guided him out the door politely.

“I’ll be fine, Regis, just… watch out for yourself. And – maybe help Geralt, if he needs it. Quietly, if you can, and without revealing yourself.”
"Aha. Is that why you asked me in?"
"Apologies. But, yes."
"Not to worry. I appreciate your confidence in me. And, if I discover he is in any trouble..."
"Straight back to me," she said.

Regis nodded and stepped outside as the sorceress shut the door behind him without another word. He sighed a little, trying to push his concerns for Geralt down and inhaling deeply of the hot summer air. It was somewhat stagnant with no breeze but plenty of humidity, making the scent of what Regis now knew to be the Duchess’ perfume much more easily detectable. He inhaled it deeply, deciding that he should at least find out where she went, for Geralt’s safety. He could easily hide out in the shadows and observe what happened, intervene if need be, or at least be able to communicate to Yennefer what happened if, gods forbid, he got arrested. He followed the smell quickly down the path and out the gate, heading right, towards Beauclair, where he knew Geralt was investigating the whereabouts of the book. However, to his horror, he realized the scent was becoming somewhat weaker that way, and turned himself around, heading towards the Sansretour and beyond, in the woods, their cottage. “Geralt’s” cottage. Where the Duchess might have gone looking for him.

Regis cursed and turned himself to mist, traveling as quickly as he could towards the woods and their cottage within it.

Chapter 71: Discovered

Chapter Text

“Mmm,” Fjola moaned, rolling over onto Dettlaff. She was completely and utterly exhausted, as was he. To her surprise, he did not even stir when she wrapped herself around him, having fallen fast asleep from their activities, as well as still being somewhat drunk from feeding off of her. She did not mind – she was happy and incredibly satisfied, still feeling the effects herself of the bond forged by her and Dettlaff through sharing each other’s blood.

He wasn’t kidding – it truly is powerful, she thought sleepily, her hands dancing on his chest as it rose and fell with his heavy breaths. She trailed her fingers down further, past his stomach, stroking the outside of his sleep pants along his thighs with a mischievous smile. He remained asleep. Wow, she thought with a smile, he is OUT of it.

Fjola tucked herself against him more firmly, falling back to sleep after only a few short moments. It seemed as though she had barely nodded of at all, however, when suddenly a loud, insistent knocking woke her from her sleep.

Bang bang bang bang bang

She scowled, wondering who it could possibly be. She rose and quickly put on the short, thin dress and blouse Dettlaff had tossed into the corner earlier in his passion. She smiled at the thought but made her way downstairs in a rush, heading toward the front door but seeing no one. There was the slight scent of a flowery, somewhat bitter perfume in the air, and Fjola stepped outside to investigate, scowling when she saw, to her surprise, a very beautiful, very expensive-looking horse nibbling at the grass not far from their small barn.

What the hell?

Fjola went over to investigate, cautiously.

 

*

 

The Duchess Anna Henrietta hated being made a fool of. Despised it. In fact, quite frequently, heads would roll under these circumstances, and her subjects would be treated to a great show of blood and justice, with much dedicated feasting afterward. Now, however, she found herself conflicted by the ire stoked by the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia. While it was true he had made much greater strides than her scores of great and gallant knights, the fact remained that he had not yet completed his task, and to make matters worse, was beginning to grasp at straws, at least in her opinion.

That blasted book, she thought with annoyance. Would that I had never uncovered it again all those years ago!

She knocked on the locked door of the small cottage she knew belonged to Geralt, or at least served as a guest house. As her visit to Corvo Bianco had been fruitless, she assumed this would be the next most likely place to look. No one was answering, though as she peeked in through the window, she saw that the fresh remains and nearly-extinguished embers of a recent fire in the stove gave away the fact that someone had at least been here recently. She was furious at the undignified manner with which she had to track him down, and considered calling her knights back to threaten to break down the door if he did not answer it. She had made them wait at a fair distance, however, at the crossroads at the edge of the forest near the Sansretour. She did not want them hearing anything that might damage Syanna’s reputation, just in case, though still wanted them close enough to intervene on her behalf, were it necessary. While in her heart she doubted if she would ever get her back again, truly, and they would become as close as they were as children, she still held on to the tiniest sliver of foolish hope, taking every precaution to protect her sister’s name and spin the tale in her favor, if she could.

No, she suddenly thought with a sigh, I must be honest with myself. This is more about revenge, now - she has made a fool out of me, and fools of my knights. She must face justice for her crimes. I can be lenient, but I cannot forgive, and I cannot forget. Even if that means locking her in a tower again, only this time remembering the shackles and bars on the windows. It is for her own good.

Annarietta continued looking about the house and making her way around the side to check for another entrance. Well someone must be living here, she wagered, thinking of the recent fire and noticing another door near the back garden. She approached it, losing her footing somewhat and stepping right into the freshly-tilled dirt. That Witcher owes me a new pair of heels, she thought testily as she tried the rear door that led into the back hallway. To her surprise and relief, it was open.

I’m going to give him a piece of my mind, she thought with anger, hoisting up her skirt and storming into the house.

 

*

 

Fjola inspected the horse carefully, but needn’t have worried; it was calm and quite well-trained. She reached up to stroke its mane, examining the gold-trimmed saddle with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. It belonged to Toussaintois royalty, there was no doubt in her mind. She looked about her frantically, concerned that she could not find the rider.

 

*

 

Annarietta looked through the small main floor, calling out Geralt’s name, getting louder and angrier with each seeking shout, finally stomping upstairs to give the house one final, thorough look before calling it quits and sending her waiting knights out to find him.

 

*

As she jogged around the perimeter of the house, Fjola saw to her horror that there was a single, fresh footprint in the softer dirt near the garden in the back. A heel print, no less.

Oh gods, she thought, her stomach sinking yet again as she threw herself into the house through the back entrance and looked frantically for any intruder. She heard the floorboards creak above her and went to run upstairs, but it was too late – Anna Henrietta’s horrified shriek rang out through the house, Regis just appearing as smoke through one of the open windows and reforming himself with a dismal look on his face. He and Fjola made eye contact very briefly before both running up the stairs towards the Duchess’ scream. Their current quarrel would have to wait.

 

*

Duchess Anna Henrietta held her hand against her mouth, but it was too late – her wail had alerted the familiar, dark-haired vampire and his eyes flew open, the two of them completely frozen as they beheld each other in recognition before the situation turned volatile. Dettlaff immediately turned into his vampiric form and snarled, his fangs bared menacingly as he backed off the bed and held his claws to the side defensively. Fjola and Regis skidded to a halt in the doorway, and everybody froze.

“…You!” Annarietta finally stammered after a moment. “You were supposed to be dead!”

Dettlaff merely snarled in return.

“Please, Your Grace, if you would…” Regis tried to interject, but the Duchess interrupted furiously, her indignation overcoming her fear, for the moment.
“Not another word! You have hidden this beast from me again – for the second time you have done this! Why, Regis? Why protect this monster? And Geralt! He shall be hearing from me, as well!”

Regis scowled very deeply, but did not respond, meanwhile Fjola was beginning to tremble in anger, the older vampire placing a hand on her shoulder to calm her.

“You!” she snapped, jabbing a polished finger in Dettlaff’s direction, “My knights will surely have heard me and are on their way as we speak! You will surrender for your crimes or be killed!”
“Tell me,” Dettlaff growled menacingly, “How did that plan work for you and the rest of the duchy the last time we had a disagreement?”
“You dare threaten me, vampire?”
“Your Grace, I do not advise…” Regis tried to interrupt again, but she cut across him.
“You are under arrest, as well! I do not care if Geralt vouches for you or the considerations of your service to the duchy in the past – your defense of this mindless, soulless monster, this foul, heartless beast is…”

The Duchess could not finish her sentence as Fjola suddenly lunged forward and punched her squarely in the mouth.

Everything happened in a flash – the Duchess staggered backwards and collapsed in the corner, holding her bleeding lips, her guards burst into the house by breaking down the door downstairs, and Dettlaff crossed the room in an instant, grabbing Fjola and carrying her back across and out the window, where he promptly changed into his winged, most monstrous form, taking off with her immediately through the air, Regis not far behind on his own furry gray wings, flapping hard to catch up with his friend’s head start.

“Fool,” Dettlaff snarled at his friend, “You’ve given yourself away, revealed what you truly are. The Duchess still thought you were human.”
“So be it,” Regis growled back, both of their voices more gravelly than usual in these forms. “You’ve managed all this time – I can, too.”
“I’ve managed because of you,” he said. “Now you’ve gone and ruined yourself in this land.”
“It was my only means of escape, Dettlaff,” Regis said defensively.
“You could have let them arrest you, simply escaped in the night.”
“No – I may need to rescue Geralt, later, and need to be able to plan from the outside. Not to mention my aversion to being beheaded, again.”
“What would it matter?” Dettlaff asked. Regis looked down pointedly at Fjola.
“Everything,” he said.

Dettlaff only grunted in return. He understood – wasting time with regeneration meant less time with their mate. He supposed he could not fault Regis, but his reveal to the Duchess meant definite difficulty for them all. They flew silently for a few minutes as the sun set and turned the sky to fire, being careful to avoid going too low, but none of them wanted to stay this high in the atmosphere for too long – the air was thin and cold and likely to hurt Fjola, who was already eerily silent and contemplative, and shivering in Dettlaff’s grasp. Regis started to divert his path somewhat and Dettlaff tilted his head instinctively.

“Where are you going?” he asked. “Aren’t you coming with us to the cave?”
“Yes, in short order – but first I must find Geralt, if I am able. Word of what happened will spread shortly, I’d rather find him before he’s followed… or worse. He needs to be warned, and advised to lie about knowing we were living there. Perhaps, selfishly, I also hope to convince him to make sure our things are not disturbed. I can’t begin to tell you how exhausted I’ve become having to rebuild my mandrake brewery every time…”

To Regis’ surprise, Dettlaff let out a slight, chuckling growl.

“You have strange priorities, my friend.”
“I’ll also see if he can liberate your sketch book.”

A moment of silence.

“…Thank you.”

Regis nodded in response, flying below Dettlaff and gently grazing Fjola’s cheek with his wing. She tried to nuzzle herself against it but it was too difficult to keep steady and he fell back again, pausing briefly before diving back down towards another forest and turning into mist. He disappeared.

Fjola glanced back up at Dettlaff, but he was silent for the entire trek to the cave he had established in Mount Gorgon, where he had last stayed in December in order to give Regis and Fjola space. He grumbled to himself internally, knowing there was no food and very little water provided by some drips from the ceiling. It would also have to be boiled first so that she would not get sick – humans are so fragile, he mourned. At this reminder, he looked down at Fjola wrapped up in his arms and noticed she was shivering, her breathing labored. He began descending earlier than he had planned, hopeful they were close enough not to be spotted. Luckily, there was a decent amount of clouds rolling in over the mountain, and he used them as cover until he was able to slow his flight and land in the cave, the two of them dampened from their journey through them.

He immediately started sniffing near the entrance, making sure he could sense no other people nearby, and he must have been satisfied, as he returned to Fjola shortly. As he approached her slowly, she threw her arms about him and held her face against his sinewy, muscular chest, Dettlaff bringing his wings down and gently placing them around her. She sighed and gave a small moan. Dettlaff held her back slightly to examine her face, concerned to find that she looked utterly miserable. Although, considering the circumstances, he supposed it wasn’t all that surprising.

“Are you well?” he asked, bringing one of his clawed hands to her cheek carefully.
“Yes,” she said, holding his hand there with her own affectionately. “It’s just…”
“Hm. That our secret is ‘out?’”
“Well, yes, that too, but… I also hurt my knuckles punching that bitch in the face, and now they're bleeding.”

Dettlaff let out a bark of laugh, his lips curling back to reveal his staggeringly sharp fangs, Fjola smiling appreciatively that he could find humor at a time like this, too. Perhaps I am rubbing off on him a bit, she thought, Dettlaff inspecting her right hand attentively. He brought his mouth to her wound and kissed it tenderly, Fjola melting inside at his affection. He began licking the blood from her hand, shivering at its taste. She moaned softly and he stopped, though kept his wings and arms about her.

“I am sorry, my love,” he said, his voice suddenly sounding strained even in his current form.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, smiling as always. “It was worth a bruised hand.”
“Not that,” he said somewhat impatiently. “Our home… we will likely not be able to return to it. Ever.”
“Oh. Well, Regis said Geralt could get some of our things, right? And if not, well – they’re all just things, aren’t they? Plus there’s always the crypt. It’s much cooler there in the summer, anyway.”

Dettlaff tilted his head curiously, not sure if she was simply trying to be optimistic, or kidding. Fjola caught his confused look and stood on her tiptoes, straining to kiss him but unable to reach. He really was massive.

“Wherever I am, as long as I’m with you and Regis, I know I’m home,” she said, looking away with a soft pink tinge to her cheeks.

Dettlaff let out a low moan and bent down, rubbing his bony cheek against her own affectionately. She returned it, taking the opportunity to hold his head down and kiss him. He squirmed, uncomfortable still with her being affectionate while he was in his current form. Shifting on his feet, he tried to back away, but Fjola gripped his jaw tightly in her hands and kissed him again, trying to push her tongue into his huge, fanged mouth. He growled, and she backed away, unsure.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, hurt.
“Are you not uncomfortable with me in this form?” he asked.
“Dettlaff,” she said chidingly, putting her hands on her hips, “You know I’m not.”
“But why? I could rend you apart in a heartbeat.”

At this he held his claws out in front of himself, inspecting them, his nose wrinkling.

“But you won’t,” she whispered, stepping forward again and kissing him.

This time, he let her, their tongues trying their best to wrap around each other, tasting and seeking, Fjola instantly becoming excited with his attentions. He stopped and tilted his head again.

“Truly?” he asked incredulously.

Fjola smiled, nodding and turning red, then began kissing him again. His attentions became more frantic, his long tongue trailing its way down her neck and to her chest. She began disrobing, but he stopped her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her breath already heavy.
“Are you sure?” he asked her. “My form is quite… hm… formidable.”

Fjola look at him in confusion for a moment before what he really meant dawned on her.

“Ooh,” she blurted stupidly, covering her mouth after in embarrassment. Dettlaff chuckled a little and brought his claws gently to her jaw, stroking her softly.
“I will not be angry or upset should you say no,” he said, nuzzling his face against hers once more.
“Listen, I know the stone floor of the cave will be painful, but we’ll figure it out,” she joked, trying to ease the tension.

If Dettlaff had eyes at that moment, he would have rolled them. Instead, he emitted a soft, irritated growl.

“Sorry,” she laughed lightly.
“My love…” he insisted.
“My love,” she returned, kissing him again and trailing her hands along his body.
“If this is what you truly want…”
“Only if it’s what you want, too…”
“I will simply take it slow. But promise me,” he added sternly, suddenly grasping her roughly and bringing her against himself as he leaned back and brought himself to his knees on the floor in front of her, “You will tell me if…”
“Shh,” she soothed, straddling him and silencing him with a kiss.

Pain gave way to pleasure and the two of them nearly screamed themselves hoarse, not retiring until long after midnight. She lay against him, gasping, her eyebrows knitted in concern.

“Are you well?” he asked.

Fjola nodded.

“Just exhausted. And…”
“...And?” he pried. Fjola was still able to sense his emotions, somewhat, and she felt his feeling of concern growing in her stomach, second only to the emotional and physical satisfaction they were both slowly panting away.
“And I hope Regis is okay,” she nearly whispered.
“He is,” Dettlaff said bluntly.
“How do you know?” she asked, a little indignant.
“Trust me,” he said, bringing her back to him.

Fjola complied, rubbing his chest softly beneath her hands, wondering where her other lover could be.

Chapter 72: The Cave

Chapter Text

“Geralt.”

The Witcher’s eyes flew open to see a massive bat kneeling by his side, its face a mere foot from his own. Geralt’s reflexes jumped in in a heartbeat and he grabbed his sword and brandished it quickly.

“Fuck’s sake, that’d better be you, Regis.”
“Do you know any other large, talking bats?” he chuckled. “And it was not my intent to frighten you, Geralt, my apologies. I thought you would sense me through your meditation.”
“You’re about the only one who’s ever been able to sneak up on me – at least, when you’re not stinking of your usual herbs.”

Geralt lowered his sword and sat in a chair in the corner next to a rickety table, staring at his friend for a moment as he collected himself.

“Why did you come here like that, anyway?”

Regis righted himself slowly, looking even larger than normal in the tiny room Geralt was inhabiting in the combination inn and brothel.

“I admit, I was at a disadvantage, having torn my clothes to pieces fleeing from the Duchess after she came to the cottage and discovered Dettlaff still alive,” he said with a fair amount of sass. “Having to reveal myself in order to quickly escape before being either arrested or beheaded, I had no time to carefully undress and carry my clothes with me for later recovery. Seeing as how greeting you in the nude would be somewhat immodest, I chose to remain as a bat, assuming you would realize who I am quite quickly. I am no stranger to you in this form.”

Geralt’s head reeled as he took Regis’ words in, his brain trying to make sense of everything he had just said.

“Did you say the Duchess…?”
“Yes, I’m afraid.”
“Why did she…?”
“She was looking for you. Something about an enchanted book,” he said, his usual mannerisms apparent even in his bat form, which simultaneously amused and unsettled Geralt.
“Spoke to Yen?” he asked, knowing the answer already.
“Yes. I stopped by merely to say hello, as I was on a walk to clear my head at the time, but she filled me in briefly about your current situation, requesting in her usual tactful manner that I assist you, if possible. She was concerned the Duchess was going to have you arrested. Or worse. Her Grace had stopped by Corvo Bianco and, not finding you there, traveled with her retinue of knights to our – ahem, your cottage. She let herself in and found Dettlaff. Fjola punched her and…”
“She what?”
“…in order to protect her, as the guards were approaching the door, Dettlaff changed into his winged form, took off with Fjola out the window, and I was forced to follow suit, or risk being arrested or attacked. I came to find you and warn you of what has transpired, to allow you to deny ‘harboring’ us.”
“Regis…”

Geralt’s head was still swimming. Regis sighed and went over all the other details quickly, which Geralt knew was unusual for him, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach the entire time he was speaking. When he was done, Regis heaved another sigh and readjusted his wings, feeling cramped in the tiny room.

“There you have it, my friend. It’s quite a conundrum we’re in.”
“Not exactly how I would describe it,” Geralt retorted, running his hands through his snow-white hair.
“I expect you want me to deny I knew you were ever there?” he asked. “To protect myself?”
“I believe that would be best, yes. Deny everything. Even knowing Dettlaff was still alive. Even… even knowing what I am.”
“Hm. Thanks, Regis.”

Regis nodded, again amusing Geralt to see him do so in his giant bat form.

“What are you gonna do now?” he asked.
“I suppose moving back to the crypt is possible,” Regis said, but his voice was heavy.
“Why even bother with that? Why not just leave the duchy?” Geralt paused, rubbing his short beard, a small smile appearing on his face. “You’re not just staying for me, are you?”
“Well,” Regis said, his tone awkward, “Somewhat. I do feel a need to help you finish your ah, quest, I suppose we shall call it. Perhaps Dettlaff and Fjola can go on their way without me, first, establish a homestead someplace else and notify me of when they do. Ravens are no stranger to Dettlaff, either, and they can relay his message quite quickly and more anonymously than through a letter. Useful little birds, truly.”
“Hm.”
“You object to this plan?”
“Selfishly do want to keep you around to help me. Having a vampire assistant is useful, for sure, and I want you to know I’d be happy to have your help, Regis. But I can’t ask you to put yourself at risk on my account. Doubt she’d lock me away, especially not when I’ve got a lead.”
“A rather weak one in my opinion, I’m afraid. How did you even come to that conclusion?”
“How else could you transport an entire army of bandits through the duchy without being noticed?”
“But we did notice them, Geralt. We found their prints coming out of the bogs, we followed their trail into the sewers, even their scent, and…”

Suddenly Regis’ face changed as the possibility of it dawned on him.

“How did we not see it before?” he asked with chagrin. “Geralt, I thought you were mad, but…”
“Yeah, but I’ve been at this a long time, bound to have a few hunches pan out, least here and there.”

He was having trouble keeping the smirk off of his face and Regis suddenly knew what it must be like for him when the tables were turned and he himself was enjoying, rather smugly, having vast knowledge of something Geralt or someone else did not. Regis’ ears tilted back against his head in an irritated manner and the Witcher let out a small laugh the vampire did not return.

“Whatever are you waiting for?” Regis asked, his pride deflated somewhat. “And in such an establishment?” His tone was somewhat hushed, chiding. “I doubt Yennefer would enjoy knowing just where you are right now. Not that it’s my concern, mind you, however…”
“That’s not why I’m here, Regis.”
“Then why…?”

It was Geralt’s turn to interrupt.

“Remember when we were back in the sewers, and realized the break-in was likely an inside job? That Syanna had had help getting in and disappearing?”
“Yes, but…”
“And remember I said I got a lead?”

Regis simply stared at him for a moment, seemingly struggling with something, then apparently deciding to come to a conclusion.

“Tell me what we’re doing, Geralt.”

Geralt did.

 

*

 

Fjola’s eyes shot open at a sudden gust of wind through the cave. She looked up from her makeshift bed atop Dettlaff’s chest and saw the silhouette of Regis in his bat form trying gingerly to enter and make his way over. Fjola tried to sit up, but the weight of Dettlaff’s wings kept her pinned down against his chest. She felt them tighten slightly in affection, then release her.

“Regis,” she sighed, standing up and embracing him. “I’m so glad you’re okay, I was so worried.”
“You know my incarceration or decapitation would not be permanent,” he said. “You’d no reason to trouble yourself.”

His tone did not sound harsh, but Fjola still suddenly felt the awkwardness between them rise once again at his choice of words. They had briefly put aside their argument when facing the Duchess earlier, but her embarrassment and Regis’ anger with her made her feel small inside. She dropped her arms from his shoulders and stood a few steps away. Dettlaff cleared his throat and sat up, sensing their tension.

“Geralt was kind enough to supply us with a few spare items of clothing, Dettlaff,” Regis said, skirting around the issue for the time being and holding up a small knapsack bulging with items. “Some shirts and pants, a bit of food – not much, but at least enough to cover us for a day or two until he can find you both some clandestine passage to another kingdom or realm.”

Dettlaff froze and his tone was icy when he spoke.

“What do you mean, the two of ‘you?’” he asked dangerously, his fangs slightly bared.
“I am going to stay behind and help Geralt complete his investigation. Then, when the two of you have found suitable housing or accommodations, you will tell some ravens to inform me of it, and I shall follow in due course. As I said, once the investigation is complete and Syanna is back in her sister’s custody.” He paused heavily. “Or at the end of the hangman’s rope, I suppose.”

Dettlaff spread his wings out broadly in an intimidating gesture.

“Like hell,” he said menacingly. “You’ve no obligation to help that Witcher with anything, let alone with assisting him in finding that traitorous wench. You admitted yourself letting the matter with her go – at least when it comes to me and my feelings towards her – was the best course of action. Now you are telling me you would abandon us to tangle yourself in her affairs?”
“I gave Geralt my word, Dettlaff.”
“Why would you do something so foolish?”

Regis was silent for a moment, his large bat ears flattening back as he looked away.

“…For you.”

Dettlaff was dumbstruck.

“…What?”
“You know why we came back here, to Toussaint – I made promises to help you become whole again. To help you heal from the wounds caused by Syanna that I was not able to do years ago after it had happened. I failed you then, and if we leave without adequate closure, I will be failing you now.”

There was a heavy moment of silence where Regis simply stared out of the cave at the lightening sky, his ears still back and large, black eyes sad, and Dettlaff merely watched him, speechless. Fjola stood by silently, a great ache filling her as both her and Dettlaff’s feelings made themselves known within her. She could sense the pain, the longing, and the guilt. The sorrow for himself less than the sorrow for Regis, who seemed to be constantly suffering on his behalf. He exhaled and approached his friend, wrapping his clawed hands about his shoulders and forcing him to face him.

“My friend… my love. You owe me nothing.”

Regis looked up at him and scowled slightly.

“You owe me nothing,” Dettlaff repeated, bringing him in closer to hold him, wrapping his arms and wings about him and clutching him gently. One of his clawed hands went to the back of his head, his fingers gently massaging his fur. “You have given me everything I have, now. You have even given me my life, sparing it despite my fate being well-deserved.” Regis tried to interject but Dettlaff shushed him. “It was, Regis. I was uncontrollable. In some ways, I still am. But I have grown, and I have healed, mostly. You started that journey, simply with your compassion and sympathy. Fjola continued it, and it was you who helped us to find each other. I owe everything I currently have to you, Regis.” He paused briefly to rub his bony cheek against Regis’ soft, furry head. “I love you, and that is all we need.”

Regis pulled back slightly to rub his forehead against Dettlaff’s affectionately, some unspoken words and emotions passing between them. Fjola could sense Dettlaff’s love and affection, and an odd, indescribable feeling of closeness and belonging, a bond, she knew, the two of them shared that was ordinarily beyond her. It filled her and warmed her, and there was a feeling that she couldn’t place, almost as though the three of them were one. She suddenly felt herself being tugged into their embrace by Dettlaff, Regis making room for her as they both wrapped their wings about each other once more, Fjola snuggled between them perfectly.

“Let us leave this dreadful place,” Dettlaff whispered. Regis nodded against his sinewy chest.
“Yes,” he said. “It will take a few days for Geralt to arrange it, but… yes. As long as Fj…”
“I am ready,” she said with a smile. With a significant look at Dettlaff, she repeated her words from the evening prior for Regis to hear. “As long as I’m with both of you, I’m home.”

Regis emitted something that sounded akin to a purr, making Fjola laugh and squeeze him tightly. Dettlaff, however, parted from them, stretching his wings and gazing with concern to the first rays of dawn. He seemed anxious, and Regis looked to him curiously as he changed back to his human form and dressed himself in some of Geralt’s clothes. He approached the mouth of the cave and looked about curiously, seemingly readying himself to leave.

“Wherever do you intend on going at this time of day?” he asked. “You’ll be spotted for sure.”
“I am going to collect firewood for later,” he said, but there was a slight hesitance in his voice. “I will not be far.”
“Forgive me, my friend, but I refuse to accept that you consider that a wise idea.”
“I will stick to the top of Mount Gorgon, where there are no humans. And I shall travel as mist – it is highly unlikely I will be seen.”
“Why not just call some lesser vampires…”
“No,” he suddenly snapped, cutting across Regis with a slashing motion of his hand. “I do not call on their help anymore, you know this.”
“Well that was mostly so you did not get caught, yes? You were worried about betrayal, however unlikely it would be. Does it truly matter now? No human could really reach up here. At least not easily, and not without alerting us far before they could ever hope to get close.”
“I shall return… later,” was all he said, evaporating into his usual black and red fog and traveling towards the mountain summit.
“What in the world was that about?” Regis asked, mostly to himself.

Fjola shrugged, honestly confused herself. He grumbled slightly and parted from her, walking toward the entrance and peering out at the land.

“Well, I suppose it was quite deserted on my way up here. I shall keep my ears open, in any case.”
“Hm, not hard for you like this,” she joked, fingering the ridge of one of his large, soft ears gently.

He flicked it back instinctively and turned to look at her, staring at her for a moment, his nose twitching before hanging his head slightly and walking to the back of the cave, curling up on a blanket. Fjola’s stomach sank. I thought maybe he had forgiven me already – I guess not.

She sighed and sat down at the mouth of the cave, dangling her feet over the edge and watching the sun rise. She was there for a decent amount of time before she heard Regis mutter from the back of the cave, “I’m sorry.”

Whipping her head around, Fjola stared at his large, furry form, curled up and facing away from her.

“Why are you sorry?” she asked quietly, cautiously.
“I have been… moody, as of late. Since yesterday. You do not deserve it, and I apologize.”

Her shoulders slumped and she picked herself up, walking over to him cautiously and sitting on the ground a couple of feet away.

“Regis,” she said softly, and he turned to her, but kept his eyes downcast. She scooted forward and picked his head up in her hands, placing it on her lap and running her fingers through his fur gently. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he sighed. “Too much to be so cold to you.”
“Lovers have quarrels,” she pointed out. “Even vampire ones, I’m sure.”

He chuckled a little.

“True.” His voice became somber again. “But I have hurt you.”
“Less than I hurt you, Regis.”
“I am truly sorry,” he said. “I feel as though I… ah. What does it matter? I understand your ignorance toward my feelings about my condition.”
“I don’t want to be ignorant,” she said. “And I’m sorry I seemed callous. I was so caught up in making you feel accepted and – normal, I guess – that I completely neglected how you must feel about such an act. I was more focused on letting you know what I desired rather than whether or not it would be something you actually wanted. Of course you wouldn’t – and I understand why. I’m sorry I didn’t see that yesterday. It was cruel of me, Regis, and you deserve better. I’ll never ask you for something like that again.”

He hesitated.

“But the fact of the matter is, Fjola… I do still want it. Very badly.”

She held her breath. What?

“So badly, in fact, I was merely trying to convince myself it’s not what I wanted at all. Because the thought of it terrifies me, my love.” He righted himself, finally looking into her eyes. “Do you understand that? I am terrified that I am going to hurt you.”
“Regis, I…” she exhaled, slowly. “If it scares you that badly, then we really shouldn’t. It’s not fair of me to ask for something that frightens and worries you so much.”
“Did it hurt with Dettlaff?”
“What?” She was incredulous. “How did you…?”
“I can smell it,” he said casually. “I can smell your blood on him, and his on you.”

They were silent for a moment.

“Did it hurt you?” he asked again.
“A little, at first. His fangs are definitely sharp, and huge. But…” She squirmed. “Once the initial pain of it had stopped, it felt… um…”
“Good?” he offered, his fangs peeping out as his lips curled slightly into a smile.
“Oh gods, it felt incredible,” she admitted with a blush. “I don’t know why it did, but it just did. I loved every damn second of it, and I wanted more, but he was scared he would take too much.”
“He likely wanted to make sure I could drink from you, as well. At least without harming you.”
“He knows you don’t want that.”
“Hmm, but he also knows that… smelling him on you might, ah, increase my desire for it. To share that bond, as well. Not quite out of jealousy, mind you, but rather an instinctual need to share the experience.”
“Are you angry I asked him? Do you think it was conniving?”
“A little, at first,” Regis admitted. “But I understand you’ve wanted to bond with us in the manner vampire mates usually do for some time now. The way we described it to you so long ago – well, I knew then from your reaction that it was an inevitability.”
“Are you still mad?”
“I was never truly angry at you, Fjola. I thought I was, at first, to be fair. But the more I thought about it, the more I came to realize that I was merely angry at myself.”
“Why in the world would you be angry with yourself?”
“For blaming my reticence and ire on you. Yes, your desire was a catalyst, but underneath that, I am ashamed to admit I am simply an old, frail vampire who’s frightened of blood.” He chuckled. “Quite the irony, isn’t it?”
“Regis,” she sighed, bringing herself forward and kissing him. “You are strong. You are so much stronger than you believe yourself to be.”

He let out a soft noise of appreciation and buried his head in her neck, his wings wrapping around her again. She kissed his neck, nuzzling her nose into the soft fur at the base of his large ears. He chuckled a little, and she pulled away, now kissing his bat-like nose.

“Honestly, what you see in me, I’ll never know,” he said.
“Are you fishing, Regis?” she teased.
“Of course not,” he said, putting his lips to her forehead. “I simply cannot understand what you see in an old…”
“…Experienced,” she corrected.
“…foolish…”
“Brilliant.”
“…selfish…”
“Enough, Regis,” she sighed. “Regardless of what you think of yourself, the you that I know – that Dettlaff and I know – is kind, patient, intelligent, sympathetic, and wonderful.”

He huffed slightly, looking away. Fjola took his face in her hands and began rubbing his cheeks with her thumbs. Regis closed his eyes, enjoying the comfort while she began kissing him gently. He kissed back as best as he could, finding the same problem Dettlaff did in accommodating for his fangs and maw. He heard the rustle of clothes and opened his eyes again to find Fjola undressing herself, holding her body against him and sighing in delight.

“I love the way your fur feels against my skin,” she whispered in his ear.

Regis completely lost it. He growled and began kissing her fiercely, his mouth moving up and down every part of her he could comfortably reach, his wings tightening against her back as he ground himself against her, rock hard and already near the boiling point. She brought herself down on him slowly, Regis surprised she was still willing after what must have been a painful start. He groaned, the sensation new to him in this form, and it wasn’t long before he was over the edge, practically screaming against her. As he calmed down, he began kissing her neck again tenderly, Fjola running her hands through his fur. Regis’ fangs suddenly grazed her neck, she shivered, and they both froze.

“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Don’t be,” she said, cradling his head. “I liked it.”

Regis growled, a low sound not unlike a purr.

“Fjola…” he started, unsure.
“You don’t have to,” she said honestly. “You’re more than enough for me, no matter what.”

Regis felt a warmth pooling in his chest and abdomen, the sensation growing as he brought his fangs to her throat, being careful of where he positioned them. His heart was pounding.

“Regis,” she gasped, and he bit.

He thrust himself forward, holding her tightly and moaning loudly as her blood flooded his mouth for the first time since he had attacked her several months prior. It was different this time, sweeter and richer, and he moaned again from pleasure, Fjola joining him. He took a few small swallows before his head started to become light and his mind fuzzy, but he removed himself before it went too far. Gasping, he began licking the wound, Fjola whimpering again in pleasure.

“Gods,” she moaned, “I hate to say it, I swear, but that was so much better than the first time you did it.”

She turned red and gave him a shameful, apologetic look. To her surprise, Regis chuckled.

“Likely because this time you were willing,” he muttered. She smiled gratefully.

There was suddenly an awkward moment of silence as Fjola looked at him expectantly.

What’s wrong? he wondered, a slight scowl appearing on his features. Is she unhappy?

Does he not want to? she wondered. Maybe I shouldn’t ask. This is a lot for him already.

He searched her eyes, Fjola’s brows raising slightly as she gazed at him. He scowled more deeply before it finally occurred to him.

Ah. That.

He looked down at himself, wondering where to do it, when Fjola ran her tongue across his chest, where there was slightly less fur near his nipples. He giggled and kissed the top of her head before making a small incision with the clawed tip of his wing, bringing Fjola’s mouth to it gently. He hissed slightly as Fjola drank from him, sucking on his nipple simultaneously.

Gods, he moaned internally, emitting a small growl of pleasure again. She smiled and finished, his wound healing rapidly once she had stopped. Fjola closed her eyes, the sensation of Regis’ feelings washing over her in a massive wave of emotions. Initially, she was concerned she would sense his fear, his doubt, terrified that she would feel he had been reluctant and only allowed this moment to please her. To her immense relief, however, his feelings that were now flooding through her were incredibly similar to Dettlaff’s. Love, passion, pleasure, contentment, relief, a heady mixture of all of them as her head and heart lifted and swam. She slumped against him and suddenly started weeping. Alarmed, Regis held her tightly.

“Are you well, darling?” he asked, fearful.
“So much better than well,” she laughed. “I was scared I’d sense you were unhappy. But instead…”
“Of course not,” he said, sounding slightly scolding as he kissed her cheek. “I love you. And I did want this, I was merely frightened. And angry. Eh… conflicted.” He released a heavy breath. “I was simply so afraid,” he nearly whispered, pressing his face into her neck again.
“I think that’s why Dettlaff said he wouldn’t be far, before he left. Just in case.”

Oh, Regis realizing she was right. He smirked.

“Scheming devil,” he laughed.

Fjola nodded, holding herself against his chest and making a small, soft noise of contentment. Regis held her back, the two of them snuggled against each other comfortably for several minutes before Fjola’s hands began to rub him softly, seeking gently, but a little greedily.

“Again?” he asked incredulously.

She nodded with an impish smile, Regis following her lead enthusiastically.

Chapter 73: Geralt's Lead

Chapter Text

Geralt paced back and forth in his room at the inn and brothel, uncharacteristically impatient while he waited for his suspect to arrive. The man had been impossible to track down, not because he was skilled or stealthy, but merely because he had very few grand deeds or posterity to his name. Most citizens simply had no idea who he was talking about – even the Duchess had had a hard time figuring out who he was when they made a deal after Syanna’s escape at Yule. Some coin or threats to the right people in Beauclair, however, had led him here, where apparently the knight was often a frequent visitor. He had lain in wait carefully, paying for his board and meal and itching for pleasurable company, but thoughts of Yennefer’s fury and his mission kept his urges at bay. Still, a good ale couldn’t hurt, and as Geralt sat sipping it peacefully, watching the flickering candle on the table in thought, he suddenly heard a familiar voice.

It is that knight, he realized with little surprise, satisfied his hunch was correct, but still disappointed. I knew it. I told the Duchess – what happened to make him do a triple-cross?

He jumped up out of his chair and blew the candle out, opening his door just barely enough to place his ear in the crack and listen more carefully.

“Of course I have plenty of gold, my sweet,” he said, a little drunkenly.
“You reek of booze,” said the harlot in a thick Toussaintois accent, “And cheap booze at that. No man that I know with coin would be willing to drink such things unless they were desperate.”
“I simply acquired a taste for it during my leaner years,” he said, jingling the purse at his waist, something metallic clanging within it. “You know I have never been thrown out for non-payment before,” he nearly begged.
“Not before, but certainly you would now. Why else would you not offer the coin up front?”
“Because you have insulted my honor!” he snapped with a hiccup. “Asking me to pay up front means you do not believe I have the money! It is an outrage! Especially coming from a whore!”

Enough of this, Geralt thought, throwing open his door and leaping towards the knight, his blade drawn. He was so drunk and the Witcher had taken him by such surprise that he stumbled backwards over his own feet and landed with a loud clang straight onto his ass on the floor. The harlot shrieked and ran into her room, slamming it behind her and locking it immediately. A burly man came up the steps with the brothel’s madam, but Geralt assured them it was official palace business.

“Then take it outside, and far from here,” the enormous man growled.

Geralt knew he could defeat him easily, but he didn’t really need to start a fight to get what he wanted here. Instead he grabbed the knight and yanked him up off the floor, dragging him outside and throwing him back down to the ground once they had traveled to a quieter spot down the road. The knight tried to right himself, but Geralt aimed a small kick at his shoulder and knocked him back down easily. He looked back up at the Witcher furiously, but his features suddenly shifted to shock, horror, and fear as he recognized who he was dealing with.

“Master Witcher!” he tried to say jovially, “I have been looking for you! I’ve, ah, some new information, yes…”
“Shut up,” Geralt spat, shoving him back down and leaning over him, his hand on his shoulder to hold him in place. “You’ve been avoiding both the Duchess and myself for a few weeks, now. She might not have pursued you since she’s got bigger fish to fry – but I don’t.”
“Whatever could you mean? I have ah, been around…”
“Cut the shit. I’ve been trying to track down Syanna, ever since that night at the Feast of Yule. Then I heard rumors of a large bandit hansa on the move – came right out of the bogs and into the sewers, then vanished. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Of course not, sir! I have been looking into the matter as hard as you have, I assure you! But every man needs a break now and then,” he said with a sheepish nod to the brothel, “Even an honorable knight such as me.”
“Honor’s not part of the Witcher’s code. Not part of yours, either. So I’ve got no problem sticking my blade into your stomach if you lie to me again.”

The knight began sweating and sputtering, practically incoherent with his drunken babbling.

“Be quiet,” Geralt commanded. The knight complied. “Where have you been these past few weeks? Answer honestly.”

The knight sputtered slightly again, then suddenly stopped, hanging his head in shame and shaking with a single, pained sob.

“You’ve no idea what she is like!” he cried. “Her threats do not mean nothing!”
“Neither do mine,” Geralt said dangerously.

The knight eyed his blade and swallowed.

“She will kill me!”
“So will the Duchess. Unless, of course, you can bring her her sister back. Then you might just get prison time.”

To Geralt’s surprise, the knight puffed up slightly, despite the supreme disadvantage and danger he was in.

“You promised me riches! Lands, jewels, a formal title! Now you threaten me with a jail cell!” He spat. “Now I will tell you nothing!”
“Fair enough,” said Geralt with a sick smile. He whistled for Roach, who started to trot over. “I’ll escort you to the palace – I’m sure the Duchess will at least let you live for a few more hours as she and some of your fellow knights… question you.”

The knight turned pale and the red plume on his helmet bounced as he shook his head side to side.

“You’ve no idea!” he repeated with a snarl. “No idea the depths of the sister’s madness!”
“I’m sure you can give the Duchess a good idea,” Geralt sneered, getting some rope from the side of Roach’s saddle.
“Witcher, allow me to cut a deal…”
“You couldn’t even pay the nice ladies in the brothel, what could you possibly offer me?”

He turned around, the rope in his hands going slack as he saw the knight holding up the infamous book containing the mage Artorius Vigo’s Fablesphere. Even though he had a feeling the book could have come into play, he was still astounded to see it. Very little surprised him anymore, but this definitely did. He stepped forward and yanked it out of the knight’s hands, stuffing it in his saddlebag and securing it tightly.

“I knew you would see reason,” the knight said, relieved.

Geralt said nothing, but kept the rope in his hands taut.

“What are you doing?”
“Taking you to the Duchess,” Geralt explained.
“But we had a deal!”
“We didn’t agree on anything – you offered, I took.”
“It was implied…!” he tried to argue, "A Gentleman's arrangement!"
"Neither of us are gentle men," Geralt growled, making a quick motion in the air for axii and calming the knight instantly as he began tying his hands up. “Walk quick,” Geralt said, mounting Roach. “She rides fast.”

The Witcher took off, the drunken knight trailing behind him, his hands bound to the saddle as he began sobbing and pleading, Geralt deaf to it all.

Hope this ends this fucking nonsense, he thought. I’m so tired of it all.

Chapter 74: The Cave, Part II

Chapter Text

“My dear, please stop pacing,” Regis said softly. He was back in his human form, sitting on the floor barefoot and looking rather strange in Geralt’s clothes. The pants were slightly too short, but the shirt was absolutely too loose, giving him an odd, unbalanced look.

Fjola ceased her walking across the cave, looking to Regis apologetically and returning to his side, sitting beside him with a sigh. He put and arm around her and pulled her into his chest, petting her brown curls, which were even messier thanks to their earlier activities. His other hand lowered to her hip and lower back, his long fingers caressing her there, briefly grazing across the top of her buttocks and making her smile.

Again?” she asked, a little incredulous.

Regis let out a loud breath and laughed.

“Not to worry, my darling, I’m ah… satisfied for the time being.”
“Hm,” she said with a suspicious smile.

Regis gave her a look of mock admonishment and she nuzzled against his chest, wrapping her arms about him and sighing in contentment. They sat watching the clouds go by for a few moments peacefully.

“He’s been gone a while,” she suddenly said with concern.
“It’s only noon. I heard it being called and chimed barely a few minutes ago.”
“Yeah, that’s a long time.”

She counted the hours briefly in her head, guessing at what time the sun had risen.

“It’s been… seven hours, maybe?”
“Hm, about,” Regis replied, looking somewhat grim.
“Do you think he’s okay? Should we look for him?”
“No, I’d have sensed it, were he in danger.”
“Ah, that whole unspoken bond thing. I wish I could feel it as you do, Regis.”
“You can, slightly. When you drink from us.”
“Well, yes, but not as strongly as you do.”

Regis laughed slightly.

“Strong enough for a human, my dear, trust me. And there are some things so inherently vampiric that other species simply cannot comprehend them, or are not physically capable of the experience.”
“I know,” she said a little sadly.
“Still,” he said, his voice rising in pitch as it did when he was truly pondering something, “You should be able to sense Dettlaff. You drank from him – what, barely a day ago?”
“Something like that.”
“Hm.”

Regis seemed to think things over for a moment.

“Here, my darling, allow me your kindness in doing me a favor, would you?”
“Of course,” she said, sitting up straight, his hands still on her hips.
“Now, what I need you to do, if you can, is picture Dettlaff. Just picture him, very clearly in your mind. Can you do that?”
“Not with your hand on my backside,” she joked.

Regis raised an eyebrow and made a stern face.

“Okay, okay, no jokes, sorry,” she held her hands up defensively, then closed her eyes and concentrated. “I’m picturing Dettlaff, right now.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Huh?”
“Anything you wish to, Fjola. Physically, emotionally, sexu…”
“I get it,” she said, a smile twisting at her mouth. “Let’s see… he’s tall, has broad shoulders, long, silky black hair that’s going silver at the temples and forehead – it curls a little at the bottom and I love it,” she said, giggling a little.

She opened her eyes slightly to peek at Regis, who smiled appreciatively and nodded for her to continue. She did, closing her eyes again.

“His ears are a little big but I like them that way – he likes when I nibble on…”
“Focus a little more on describing him,” Regis suggested.

“Right. Um… chiseled jaw, well-sculpted nose, beautiful, glacial blue eyes that make me think of the ice on the mountain lakes in Skellige when I was little…” She paused at the memory, astounded it was still there. It had been so long ago. She breathed out, releasing it, and continued. “His voice is deep and I love the sound of it, just like I love the sound of his leather coat when it creaks, or his footsteps in the hall outside our bedroom. I know he worries that I might find his sharp teeth scary, but honestly, I don’t fear them. Or him. Not even when he’s in his vampiric form, or the bigger, more bat-like one. I think I surprised him yesterday with just how much I do enjoy it. The thick muscles, sharp, enormous fangs, the extra appendages that grow and even the claws that tip them – he’s always careful not to scratch me with them when he holds me like that – and especially his wings. When he wraps me in them I feel so safe, just like I do with you, Regis, and there’s a special sort of feeling I get when he’s in that form and holding me and I…”

She gasped. Regis knew she had found what she was looking for, namely, the sensation of finding Dettlaff from afar, sensing his presence the way he himself did.

“Holy shit,” she whispered, her eyes flying open and her hand going to her mouth apologetically.
“I take it you’ve succeeded in finding your other lover?” Regis questioned with his usual smug look. Fjola closed her eyes again and nodded.
“I just feel… him,” she tried, having difficulty putting words to it. “It’s like… almost as though I can feel Dettlaff… right here.” She opened her eyes again. “This is more than just feeling his – or your – emotions. This is…” She sighed, settling herself. “It’s like…”
“Like feeling his soul?” Regis suggested quietly.

Fjola made an odd face.

“I don’t know if I’d be that dramatic about describing it, but… I guess that’s the closest I can get.”
“I do not find it dramatic at all,” he said matter-of-factly. “Most religions and sentient beings, even those who do not believe in ‘higher powers’ or most other metaphysical concepts, at least believe in the existence of a soul, or at least a conscious state of being and capability of emotions that would constitute such a definition.”
“Do you believe in it?”

“Hmm. It’s a tricky question, my dear. We vampires follow no religions or theological ideas, we simply exist according to our codices and societal structures; the rest is simply for us to ponder. Though I feel compelled to make the case for at least some state of being and consciousness above the physical, as I myself discovered existed when I was nothing but a bloody smear left against the column of Stygga Castle. I had no body, yet experienced at least one base emotion during my trial. I was not capable of rational thought, but I still existed, at least in some form. A soul? Perhaps not. But something at least akin to how you humans describe it.”

“Regis?”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad Dettlaff rescued you.”

Regis smiled, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepening, his face aglow.

“I’m glad he rescued you, too, my dear.” He thought for a moment, then snorted slightly and smiled. “You know, for someone who purports not to become embroiled in others’ lives and goes out of his way to avoid social contact, Dettlaff certainly does become entangled in others’ lives strangely frequently.”

Fjola laughed out loud and curled herself around Regis once more, squeezing him.

“I dare you to tell him that when he comes back,” she challenged.
“Which will be quite shortly, actually,” Regis said, nodding towards the cave entrance just as Dettlaff swooped into it, his arms full of sticks and small logs.

Fjola immediately jumped up and ran over, throwing her arms around his massive frame and holding him tightly, Dettlaff’s cheeks turning slightly pink even in his most monstrous form.

“My love,” he muttered, “The wood…”
“Oh! Right. Here,” she said, taking some of it from him and automatically starting to stack it for a fire.
“You seem quite skilled at that,” Regis remarked.
“Well, I mean… I was homeless for a number of years. Learning how to build a fire literally saved my life on several occasions. It’s a useful skill to have.”
“Of course,” Regis said, a little embarrassed.

He emitted a soft grunt and Fjola looked back at him curiously, Dettlaff gently placing the rest of the wood in a pile at the side of the cave.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“You are homeless again, I’m afraid.”
“I told you…” she started, but Regis held up a hand.
“I’m aware of how you feel with regards to what constitutes a home for you, and it’s a wonderful sentiment, however the reality is that love cannot shelter you from the frost, or the bite of the wind, or keep the rain from soaking into your clothes. We’ve failed to provide for you, and that’s not something I take lightly.”
Provide for me?” she scoffed, standing up and putting her hands on her hips angrily. Regis raised an eyebrow. “My love – is that what you think I need? For you – for either of you – to put a roof over my head, or food in my belly?”

Regis could tell she was truly irritated, as she was gesturing with her hands heavily as she spoke. He’d have found it amusing, but as he currently seemed to be the source of her ire, he kept his face straight.

“While I admit I’ve been on the receiving end of your generosity for the past few months, I’ve at least tried to contribute in a way to show that I’m not just some helpless damsel looking for her meal ticket.”
“Well… I did assist you in finding a job. Then I provided you a better one, essentially.”

Dettlaff made a small hissing noise and Fjola’s eyebrows shot up.

“Regis…” Dettlaff warned, but to his surprise, Fjola started laughing.
“You ass,” she scolded. “I guess I can’t argue with that. But still – I could just as easily provide for the three of us, now. We can find a new home, and neither of you even have to have a hand in it, next time.”
“Oh? And how will you do that?”
“Well… if Geralt can get us some of our things back, I say we sell the moonshine and bail to another realm. If we can’t, well… we just start over. There never seems to be an end to the need for herbs, potions, etc. We simply just… try again, someplace else.”

Regis raised his eyebrows.

“You act as though it would be that simple.”
“I’ve eaten out of the garbage, Regis,” Fjola suddenly said rather coldly. “I can deal with some pretty harsh conditions. Starting over simply doesn’t intimidate me any more. Especially not with the two of you by my side.”

Dettlaff came from behind and wrapped himself around her, pressing the slits of his nose into her neck and inhaling deeply.

“Forgive me, my dear,” Regis said, standing and joining his mates, squeezing Fjola between them as his arms wrapped around her to rest against Dettlaff’s sides.
“Don’t trouble yourself about it,” she said, resting her head on his chest. “We’ll figure something out, you’ll see.”
“We will,” Regis agreed. “But still… Having a few of our things back would indeed be useful.”
“How do you propose we get them?” Dettlaff asked.
“Through Geralt, of course.”

Chapter 75: Confrontation with the Duchess, Regis Asks Another Favor

Chapter Text

“Take him to the dungeons,” Duchess Anna Henrietta ordered, the knight screaming profusely and trying to excuse his actions, but his cries fell on deaf ears.

The Duchess waited quietly for his moaning to disappear before she addressed Geralt.

“Well well – it seems as though my doubts with you have been misplaced. Somewhat. You have surprised me, Witcher.”

Geralt was quiet, but acknowledged her words with a tip of his head.

“I admit I am surprised by his treachery, though I suppose I should not be.” She sighed, cursing herself internally, Geralt watching her fine face wrinkle slightly with the effort. “I thought my offer was most generous. I thought that, after the feast, his promised reward of riches, land, and a title would be more than enough, as you said.” She scowled, slamming her bejeweled fist down into her other hand in fury. “Of course I was wrong! Some of my foes, and yes, even my friends have told me I have a hard heart, oftentimes when it was not necessary. Pah! I see now those methods are always what have worked for me, and what will work for me in the future. Your advice was poor in that regard, Witcher.”

Geralt shrugged, and Annarietta frowned at him deeply.

“Do not take this so lightly,” she scolded. “I have given you much, and can easily take away much more. And indeed, I am quite perturbed by your… ahem, houseguests,” she suddenly said with ire, rubbing her heavily-makeupped cheek gently where Fjola had punched her the day before. “What were those vampires doing in your house?”
“What vampires?” he lied, feigning surprise.

Internally, however, he was suddenly concerned with the fact that the knight had seen Dettlaff that night when he had been apprehended – if money hadn’t kept his loyalty regarding Syanna, why would it do so for him? He didn’t have enough faith in people to assume he hadn’t ratted him out to the Duchess, but kept himself hopeful, regardless. Annarietta looked at him with anger and impatience.

“Do not try to fool me, Witcher – I came to find you in your forest cottage yesterday, as you were missing from Corvo Bianco. Upon entering and walking into the bedroom upstairs, I found, to my absolute horror, the fiendish, serial-murdering vampire you told me you killed almost three years ago!” she screamed, her voice shrill and booming in the high-ceiling reception chamber.
“Dettlaff?” Geralt asked incredulously. “I chopped him up myself,” he lied. “Are you sure it was…”
“YES, I AM SURE!” she screamed, crossing the room and getting in his face aggressively, all royal decorum gone as she turned blood red and started to shake as she continued shouting at him. “Of course I am sure! Do you think for even a second that I would forget the face of the monster who tried to murder my sister, and did slaughter dozens of my people? Innocent men, women, and children who did nothing to offend him besides exist?”

Geralt recalled with sadness the rogue garkain that had escaped Dettlaff’s notice or control, the one that had wiped out almost the entirety of the orphanage in cold blood and sadistic pleasure. His face twisted in anger and despair at the thought, and he had no retort for the Duchess.

“Aha. Yes. I see. No comeback? No defense?” Annarietta crossed her arms, scowling and looking away somewhat, no doubt as horrified and disgusted as he was at the memory. Her voice was somewhat softer as she spoke again. “And not only that, but… Regis…”

Geralt’s stomach twisted in knots at the mention of his name. He knew what was coming, and felt a small pain in his chest at knowing his friend had lost his disguise, forced to reveal himself as a “monster” to the Duchess. Still, he thought, she doesn’t seem to know that I let Dettlaff go that night. Why didn’t the knight say something yet? Perhaps I’ll pay him a visit later, if I can. Annarietta sighed, putting her fingers to her forehead in frustration and hurt.

“I would never have suspected it,” she said. “That he, of all people, was a vampire as well.”
“Regis?” he pitched, trying to sound surprised. “I mean, you wouldn’t think it to look at the guy. He’s been my friend for years…”
“I don’t care if he’s been your friend for decades! He is a bloodthirsty vampire and must be destroyed. Am I quite clear on this, Witcher? Him and Dettlaff both must die. Dettlaff for his crimes, and Regis for acting as his accomplice.”
“Accomplice?” Geralt suddenly snapped. “He helped me find his friend years ago, helped me bring him down – he didn’t touch a soul! …Your Grace,” he added hastily.
“They were obviously in league with one another, Geralt,” she said quietly. “You are too blinded by your love for your friend to see that. Both of the vampires must die. Them and the silly woman who was with them.”
“For what?” he asked angrily. “For associating with them? She probably didn’t know, herself. I didn’t.”
“No, not for that, though if I was aware she knew it would of course be cause for her death anyway. Her sentence as it stands, however, is for assaulting a member of the royal family,” she said, rubbing her cheek again. “I’d swing the axe myself if the inevitable gore wouldn’t stain my dress.”
“I kill monsters, your Grace,” he said, his tone heavy with disgust. “Not people. I agreed to help find your sister, mostly because she had shot Yen – But I don’t hunt humans as part of someone else’s personal vendetta.”
Well. My knights will have no problems bringing the trio to justice as I see fit. They will not fail me as you have.”

Annarietta turned back to him with a look of contempt, her glossy red lips curling in a furious, defiant sneer.

“This betrayal cuts very deep for me – you are fortunate indeed I do not find enough cause to have you decapitated as well. After all I have done for you – the vineyard, expediting the cottage, the lands I bestowed to you in return for your service…”

She shook her head in disgust, wanting to spit at him in fury but her manners prevailing and prohibiting her from such an act.

“I couldn’t give less of a shit about the land you gave,” Geralt spat, and Anna Henrietta gasped. “Take it back, and use it as a place to dig your and your sister’s graves, and some for your knights too – there’s no way any of you can stand against one higher vampire, let alone two. If they wanted to fight you, they’d have just done it right then and there when you discovered them – guards or no. But they didn’t. They fled. With all due respect, your Grace, only someone looking for death would try to go after them.”
“Do not lecture me on how to take action for my duchy!” she screamed.

There were a few moments of silence where the Duchess began to calm down, and Geralt waited patiently for her to have him hauled away in chains. Instead, however, she sighed, her face twisting in turmoil and exhaustion.

“Tell me, Witcher – how is it that the low knight we apprehended did not keep to his word? After everything we gave to him?”
“Your sister obviously held a lot more over his head – in my line of work, you usually see bribery and greed trump fear for people like him, but in this case…”
“In this case, we are not talking about any ordinary person,” she said, sighing with resign. “I will not punish you, Geralt, not right now, but only because you have brought me the prison which currently houses my sister.”

She ran her fingers gently over the book that housed the Fablesphere, which was resting on the desk beside her, ominous despite its pretty façade. She had sent a scout in to confirm her presence there, which he had, as well as reported there was a bandit hansa there over 200 strong. Geralt was surprised, but dismayed at the news. He could not – would not – fight an entire army for her, let alone because of another vindictive squabble with her sister.

“May I ask what you plan to do with it, your Grace?” he asked, still furious but maintaining a polite demeanor again for the sake of information.
“You may.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“I plan to invade it, of course,” she said bluntly, a cold gleam in her eye. “No one knows this book better than myself and Syanna. I shall lead the forces, and capture her myself.”
“Do you really think that’s wise?” he asked.

Annarietta looked up in fury.

“You doubt me for what reason? That I am a woman, or because I am perceived as a spoiled, royal brat? Which is it, Witcher?”
“None of them,” he said, cutting through the air with a motion of his hand, his voice calm. “You have no heirs, and Syanna’s obviously not a good fit for the throne. Should you fall…”
“So be it,” she said casually.

Geralt was a little taken aback at her lackadaisical attitude.

“Not concerned for your duchy?” he asked, trying not to sound too harsh. “Or your people?”
“You are aware, yes Witcher, that I am related to our dear Emperor, Emhyr var Emreis? That he is one of my cousins?”
“I’m aware.”
“He has conquered much of the world,” she said, sounding somewhat in awe. “Obviously we are, strictly speaking, a part of Nilfgaard – he could assume power over the duchy. In fact, I suspect he would be quite pleased to do so.”
“Think he’d be happy to see you fall?” he asked tactlessly.
“No,” she said softly. “We have no bad blood between us, fortunately. Though land is land, money is money, and power is a mix of both. Having control over Toussaint – and its wine, fertile lands, and stable economy – would mean much to his empire. We are allied, of course, but that is different than becoming emperor over it.”
“Think he’d be fair? Would your people accept him? As more than just an ally – I mean as their ruler.”
“Yes,” she said firmly, boldly. “I do.”

Geralt sighed, shaking his head.

“You will accompany me, as well,” she ordered.
Like hell, he thought, but instead, said, “Don’t understand why you’d still want me to help you.”
“Because,” she said coldly, “You have been the only one so far to have figured her out – twice. I am loathe to admit that I need your assistance, Geralt.”
“Sorry,” he said, crossing his arms and scowling deeply. “Find another patsy. I’m done.”
“I can offer land and a title…”
“I don’t want it.”
“I beg your pardon? Riches, then. A castle. Yennefer would surely…”
“No. End of story.”
“You dare deny me? Me, who has given you everything you own at this point? Who has assured you have a beautiful little nest to occupy with your sorceress? You claim I can offer you nothing, but this is only so because I have given you everything already! Think twice about your choice, Witcher!”

Geralt considered for a moment.

“Pardons, then.”
“Is that all?” she almost laughed. “Very well, I pardon you, Wi…”
“No, your Grace. What I mean is, pardons for Regis, and the woman who was with him and Dettlaff. I don’t expect you to pardon that vampire, obviously, but at least forgive Regis. He’s done nothing wrong but exist to you. Neither of us would have ever known what he is if he hadn’t revealed himself to you in the first place. He’s obviously not a threat to you, and neither is the girl. I want their pardons, signed, and then I will help you.”

Don’t say I never helped you out again, Regis, he thought, his throat dry as he anticipated hearing her decline his offer.

“Very well. I shall sign them myself and deliver them to you momentarily. In the meantime, ready yourself. I plan to invade at dawn.”

 

*


Geralt walked up the pathway to Corvo Bianco, his arms heavy with the bags he had taken off Roach when he stabled her. The sun had just about set, and the sky turned a deep, dusky orange, the first stars starting to twinkle overhead. He looked up to see Yennefer’s somewhat disapproving face as she took everything in, her mouth twisting slightly.

“What?” he asked, a little more harshly than he meant to.
“Not to worry, Geralt – I’m already well aware of what the Duchess has planned. No need to hide it from me, or ask my support – you have it already.”
“What, she send some errand boy already?”
“Yes,” Yennefer answered curtly. “Were you going to try to keep me in the dark?”
“Of course I wasn’t,” he argued.
“Hm,” she grunted softly in disbelief. She eyed him up for a brief moment before asking, with a sigh, “And what, dare I ask, did you request of that crazed noblewoman in return?”
“Pardons,” Geralt said. “For Regis, and Fjola. Obviously she wouldn’t have given one for Dettlaff, even if I brought her her sister and three ships’ worth of gold and jewels.”
“Their pardons?” she asked with a hint of surprise, and annoyance. “What on Earth for? A light little punch? Terrifying her foolish knights? What ridiculous reason did she come up with in the first place for their arrests?”
“Deaths,” Geralt clarified, and Yen’s face soured even more. “Regis, because she’s convinced he helped Dettlaff wreak havoc years ago, and even if he hadn’t, well, he’s still…”
“A monster.”
“Yeah,” Geralt said sadly.
“What about his mistress?”
“Fjola? Well, you were right about that one. It’s because she had punched her in the face.”
“How childishly petty. But, I suppose that’s to be expected from an entitled princess, isn’t it?”

Geralt closed the last bit of distance between them and placed his heavy satchels on the ground beside the front door.

“She’s unhinged, Yen.”
“I don’t doubt that. But Geralt… really?”

He raised an eyebrow and stared at her with his golden, cat-like eyes, Yennefer’s violet ones narrowing in return as she placed a delicate hand to her temple.

“You exchanged your help for something as simple that? Not more land, or riches, or perhaps even a castle? You traded it just to help a couple of besotted fools?”
“Yeah.”

To his surprise, Yennefer looked somewhat tender for the briefest of moments before her face took on its natural, hardened toned in an instant once more and she cleared her throat.

“Well, foolish as it was, you’ve made your bargain, and I have already agreed to help you. What do you know?”
“Syanna isn’t some random bandit – in fact, based on what the Duchess told me, she’s leading a considerable group of them – maybe close to 200. Could be a few more, if she’s recruited since taking up residence in the Fablesphere.”
“Where did she find them all?”
“The Duchess likes to pretend her duchy doesn’t experience want, or poverty, when it fact she’s just ignorant, plain and simple. There are plenty of starving men, women, and even children who want a piece of the pie – or at least just something to eat besides garbage and wild scallions.”

Yennefer looked thoughtful for a moment, then concerned.

“Do you think she’d really kill her sister?”

Geralt shook his head with a sigh.

“The Duchess still intends to capture her.”

Yen growled with frustration, throwing her hands up.

“Has she completely cracked or will she not be satisfied until her head is mounted on Syanna’s saddle?”
“Love is blind,” Geralt suggested.

Yennefer’s face softened and she placed a tender hand on Geralt’s cheek.

“I know, my darling,” she said. “But this is simply asinine.”
“Yeah. But since when can anyone tell an aristocrat or princess to do anything they don’t want to do?” he said with a small, mirthful chuckle. Yennefer returned it and motioned inside.
“I suppose we should get ready,” she said as she entered the house, running her long fingers through her ebony hair.

Geralt went to follow her in, but suddenly felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He hardly had time to turn before the figure of Regis stood before him, dressed in the Witcher’s own clothes and leaning against the wall of his house casually.

“One of these days, you’re going to give me a heart attack,” he complained.
“Is that Regis?” Yennefer asked from inside.
“Yes,” Regis called, smiling.
“Are you coming with us?” she called.
“I beg your pardon?”

Regis seemed genuinely confused, and Geralt scowled deeply.

“Since when are you so out of the loop?” he asked. The vampire frowned, his dark eyes glinting.
“Since I’ve spent the last day and a half holed up in a rather unaccommodating cave, knowing I’ve lost my and my mates’ home, as well as all of our possessions and indeed, even the clothes on our backs,” he said coarsely, gesturing to himself with an angry flourish. “So please, Geralt, seek instead to inform and educate me, rather than simply mock or tease.”

Geralt was a bit taken aback by Regis’ vitriol, but soon understood and begrudgingly nodded his head as a form of apology. The vampire softened and sighed.

“Not to worry, I suppose. We’ve known each other too long at this point to let a simple misunderstanding get between us.” He shook his head and clapped his hands together, approaching Geralt with a fascinated look in his eye. “But please, my very dear friend, allow me the privilege of knowing what mission you and your beloved sorceress are obviously on now at this very moment. Have you perhaps found Syanna, after all?”
“Yeah,” Geralt admitted, “But it’s not pretty. She’s definitely holed up in the book that was once her prison, and the knight we confronted at Yule was the one responsible for carrying it.” Geralt suddenly cursed, “I knew he’d lead us to her, but I didn’t think he’d try to cover up finding her again.”
“My friend,” Regis said softly, “You punish yourself too much. You did foresee something like this happening, if I recall correctly… and with no touch of hubris or boasting, I assure you, I often do.”

Geralt chuckled slightly.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, waving a hand flippantly in his direction.

There was a brief pause between them as Geralt burned to ask a question, but wasn’t sure how to proceed. Regis seemed to pick up on it, regardless, and addressed it more straightforwardly than was his usual style.

“I do not intend to accompany you, no,” he said. “I actually came here tonight to simply ask a favor. Another one, yet again. Apologies, my friend, but it will be the last.”

Geralt’s stomach sank.

“What do you mean, the last?” he questioned harshly. “Not gonna hand yourself over, are you? Cause, Regis, I gotta say, that would be the dumbest, most idiotic…”
“Of course not,” the vampire interrupted. “I am planning on leaving Toussaint. For good, this time. Or, well, at least until the current royal family passes away, I suppose. After that, what man is to say where the winds may lead us once again?” He shrugged.
“Us?” Geralt asked, raising an eyebrow. Regis scowled.
“Of course Dettlaff, Fjola and I will be fleeing together,” he said.
“Why even bother telling me this? Trying to secure passage? You could just fly and mist yourselves onto a ship or something. Take off in the night. Nobody would even notice until far after you’ve left. Not that it's necessary at this point, since...”
"Fjola’s inability to hide herself as Dettlaff and I can could make things difficult," Regis interrupted. "I’d like to think myself above theft, as well, however, circumstances often call for one to take part in ignoble deeds for noble purposes, as you of all people are aware," he sighed.
"You don't even need to worry about it," Geralt said, reaching into his armor and retrieving a couple of letters, the wax on them already broken, and handing them to Regis. "Sorry about the seal, I had to check, make sure she didn't try to cheat me."

Regis' black eyes flew over the pages hungrily, his eyebrows lifting in interest.

"Pardons?" he asked, looking back to Geralt softly. "Is this... Geralt... Why? How did you ever manage?"
"Couldn't get one for Dettlaff, I'm sorry, but he'd done too much to the duchy." Regis nodded, and Geralt continued. "The Duchess wanted me to help her capture Syanna again - this was my price."

Regis' mouth dropped slightly in surprise, but he closed it quickly, shaking his head.

"You could have asked her for just about anything, Geralt. Why this? What have I ever done to receive such generosity?" He paused, scowling again, trying to find the words to express his gratitude. "I… you have done a great deal for me these past few years, and I wish for you to know how truly grateful I am. I feel as though most of my presence in your life as of late has been in a manner of acquisition rather than impartation, and I’d value the opportunity to reciprocate your kindness, by any means possible.”
“Regis.” Geralt took a step forward, scowling and shaking his head, a small smile playing at his lips. “I told you before – I owe you a lifetime’s worth of favors after what you did for me on my quest to find Ciri. You were… Ah, I’m not good at this,” he said, clapping the vampire on the shoulder before hugging him tightly. “Thank you, Regis. It’s the least I can do to help, after everything.”
“Thank you, Geralt,” he said softly, squeezing him gently.

The two broke away after a tender moment, Regis tucking the pardons carefully into his pocket.

"You were gonna ask another favor?" Geralt asked.
"Ah," Regis stalled, suddenly feeling quite awkward. "Well, after this, I am somewhat hesitant, now, to ask yet more of you, despite the items I'd request from our former abode being of some import..."
"Regis, just spit it out," the Witcher chuckled. "Assuming you need me to go back to the cottage?"
“Well... It is mostly for some of our effects. I admit restarting everything – especially my brewery, which is quite lucrative – would be rather aggravating, though not impossible. Breaking down and carting everything would likely be worse. No, what I am mostly after is simply some clothes, perhaps a few herbs and potions, and a leather-bound book Dettlaff is rather fond of.”
“A book? He’s fond of a book?”
“Moreso of its contents.” He cleared his throat and Geralt could see even in the darkness that he was blushing somewhat. “Honestly, I am quite, ah… enamored of it, as well.”

Geralt could only guess what that was about, but decided he wasn’t sure he wanted to know and didn’t bother asking.

“You saying you want me to go back in there and grab some of your things? Regis, the Duchess still has the place heavily guarded… even if one of you showed up, it'd be practically impossible…”
“I’m aware,” he snapped, chiding himself for losing his temper. “I apologize. But Geralt, I know these things. I have already scouted and found our cottage essentially impenetrable. And you must realize I’d rather not slaughter a bunch of innocent knights over a few physical possessions. Neither would Dettlaff.”
“I find that last one hard to believe,” Geralt sneered, but a pleading look from Regis made him stop. “Alright. Maybe I could stop by and make an excuse, that it’s part of the investigation. Though that’s pretty damn thin. I doubt I can carry much out, anyway - your clothes, some potions, the book if I find it, for sure. Definitely not your equipment, though.”
“Mm, no surprise there, so - understood. But still, more than I was suspecting could be possible. Thank you, my friend. Truly.”
“It's nothing. Besides,” the Witcher said with a smirk, “Whatever I can’t carry out for you, I get to keep. Maybe write down how you make that mandrake moonshine for me, huh? I’d call that just about even.”

They shared a laugh and hugged again, briefly, before promising to meet again soon so Regis could collect his things before parting with his mates. Geralt joined Yennefer inside, throwing his vampire friend one last look before he spread his wings and vanished into the night sky.

Chapter 76: Approaching Dawn

Chapter Text

Dettlaff groaned as Regis finished inside him and retracted his fangs from his neck gently, kissing the closing wound and rubbing his nose affectionately against his ear, which he always loved.

“Gods,” he gasped, separating himself and giving Dettlaff’s neck a final kiss.

His mate chuckled and rubbed his eyes, heading towards the small pond where Fjola had said she would be bathing, intent on joining her. Regis cleared his throat, however, with a tone Dettlaff knew meant he wanted to speak with him about something. He stopped and turned around, holding his clothes awkwardly in front of himself as the cool morning air swept across his naked body.

“Something on your mind?” he asked, raising one of his eyebrows, his blue eyes shining beneath them even in the relative dark of the pre-dawn hours.
“I’ve told you I would be stopping by Corvo Bianco to pick up our things,” Regis said, “But, ah… Geralt is setting out this morning to help the Duchess confront Syanna.”
“And?” Dettlaff growled.
“And so I was curious how you were feeling about it. About her.”

Dettlaff felt a knot in his stomach, then a flare of anger as usual whenever he happened to think of his previous lover, which thankfully was not often. Not anymore.

“Does it matter?” he snapped.
“It does,” Regis said testily.
“You’re not still on about your original hopes for when we came here, are you?” he asked, a little impatiently. “I’ve told you – I’ve moved on.”
“I beg to differ,” Regis said quietly, tapping his chest. “Remember – I can sense…”
“I know,” Dettlaff suddenly snapped, but closed his eyes and exhaled softly. “My apologies.”
“It’s alright, my friend,” Regis said, approaching him and placing a warm hand on his bare shoulder. “I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it now, I was merely just, ah… checking in.”
“Making sure I had closure?” Dettlaff sneered, though not maliciously.
“I suppose,” Regis admitted. “I did not want it to trouble you – the way we are leaving. Skulking off like thieves in the night.”

He scowled and glanced away, his hand falling from Dettlaff’s shoulder.

“The truth is – I suppose I am more concerned for me leaving loose ends, rather than you.”
“Oh?” Dettlaff was surprised at this. “Concerned for the Witcher?”
“I always have concern for my friends, yes,” Regis answered. “But… and please do forgive me for seeming to weigh my sense of self-worth and satisfaction squarely on your beautifully broad shoulders I feel as though I have failed you, Dettlaff.”
“Failed me?” The younger vampire nearly laughed in his face. “Regis, I’ve told you how I feel about things. About Fjola. And you.”
“Yes, yes, I am quite aware of that,” Regis said, fanning a dismissive hand, making Dettlaff smirk and raise his eyebrows. “However – do you still resent Syanna? I can sense your anger towards her, even now. I doubt you feel you have healed from the wounds she inflicted on you, if you’ll forgive my candor.”

Regis cringed somewhat at his own words, usually not one to shy away from hard topics of conversation, but still leery of potentially hurting his mate. To his relief, Dettlaff merely smiled a little, though it was a little sad.

“Does it matter?” Dettlaff asked. “We are leaving this morning, right when the Duchess’ forces will be preoccupied with the book and the Land of a Thousand Fables. We can leave this mess behind us, just as we did last time.”
“But the manner in which we are leaving…”
“…Is unimportant,” he stressed. “Just as it was last time.”

Regis made a worried face, the wrinkles on his brow becoming more prominent. Dettlaff gave him a sympathetic look, placing one of his large hands on his cheek and rubbing the facial hair there softly.

“Regis,” he said soothingly, “You have done more than anyone could ever ask or expect, especially me.”
“Hm, but you didn’t ask,” he said with a small, impish grin, one of his fangs peeking out from beneath his upper lip as he curled it slightly.
“Exactly,” Dettlaff laughed. He placed his forehead against Regis’ tenderly, the two of them closing their eyes in happiness, simply enjoying the moment. “My beloved friend, my mate,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “I am what I am now because of you, and Fjola. Whether you feel I have made improvements or not is purely your judgment – but I want you to know, at least, that I do indeed feel better.” He kissed the tip of his well-defined nose. “As good as I’ve felt in… well, a very long time.”

Regis let out a shaky, appreciative breath, running his long fingers up the back of Dettlaff’s head and into his hair, clutching it tenderly as he brought their lips together, sharing a passionate kiss for a few moments before Dettlaff parted them with a growl.

“My turn,” he said, grabbing Regis’ waist and bringing him closer as they laughed.

 

*

 

Syanna looked to the white, fluffy clouds above them, scowling at the sun that never set in this place and feeling distraught with the lack of sleep and freedom. She hated the thought of having essentially fled into a prison to escape, but she supposed the irony was at least worth a laugh. Initially, she had had one of her thieves steal the book, a nearly impossible task itself, but she had succeeded. Her plan was to hide the hansa in the book, have the corrupt knight bring it back into the palace, and inform her of when it was ready. She would then invade with her hansa and take over the duchy. However... the knight had never notified her of his success. It was nearly impossible to tell the time of the outside world while within the Land of a Thousand Fables, but something should have happened by now. Calculating the rate at which time had passed when she and Anna Henrietta were children, it was safe to assume it had at least been a couple of days.

Why is he taking so long? she had thought. Is something amiss?

She had gotten her answer not long after, when an unfamiliar scout had been seen lurking through a mushroom forest. She had sent some of her bandits to find him, but there had been no trace of him yet, and the thought worried and agitated her.

“Chief Rhena?” a male voice came from behind her. She could sense his tension, his unease, and it only served to irritate her further.
“What?” she snapped, not turning around.
“We still have not found the scout,” the man said quietly, his voice full of fear. “We have been looking for hours, and we all think it is likely he managed to escape…”
“Who’s we?” she asked nastily, finally turning around to face the bandit.
“Um… uh… well, see, the rest of the hansa and… me… well, we… um…”
“Spit it out!” she demanded, and the simpering man before her cowered even more.

Is this the sort of help I am reduced to seeking? she wondered. Lowlifes and petty ruffians who could no more stand up to a chicken’s peck than to another swordsman? Or even a measly scout?

She sighed and turned back around.

“Tell the rest of the clan to ready themselves,” she said. “There will likely be intruders – and soon. We shall lay what traps we can, the usual – pits with piercing poles, ropes across the paths, hidden archers – don’t forget the boiling oil – they will regret ever coming here to seek us out.”

The bandit seemed slightly more confident, nodding his head and jogging off to relay her commands. Syanna, however, merely retreated to her tent and started packing.

I will not be a prisoner again, she reminded herself. Least of all here.

 

*

 

Geralt was somewhat surprised to find that the cottage where Regis and his mates had been living was almost completely unguarded, save for a few bored, tired knights who gave him little trouble despite the fact he was approaching in the middle of the night. They recognized him however and went back to their drinking and cards quickly, Geralt not even needing an excuse as to why he was there.

Shit, Regis could have probably come himself at this point – these knights are barely awake, and even less sober. Guess the rest got called for the raid on the Land of a Thousand Fables later.

The Witcher gathered what possessions he could from the cottage that he realized was now his by default, simply by having put it under his name to help Regis. He heaved a heavy sigh, tossing a few potions he knew would sell for a high price carefully into a straw-lined box, collecting some of the more expensive herbs and materials next and stuffing them into a bag that lay nearby. He saw to his dismay that much of the mandrake moonshine had already been pilfered, and he realized now what the knights outside were likely drunk off of.

They’ll have a hell of a hangover tomorrow, he thought with a grim smile, remembering with pain how he had felt after first sampling Regis’ hooch in Sodden all those years ago. He returned his attention to the task at hand with a small shake of his head. Shit, what was next? he thought, annoyed by this mission somewhat but, as always, willing to help Regis with whatever he required. Within reason. Ah, the book, he remembered, scouring the laboratory for it but finding nothing. He traipsed upstairs and checked the entire first floor, remembering to pause and throw in a decent amount of food for them, as well. He made his way up the stairs to collect clothes from their bedroom and saw the entire place was in disarray. The bed had been knocked askew and its straw guts were poking out liberally from the mattress, the tall candelabras had both been knocked to the ground, blankets were bunched in a small heap on the floor, and a nearby table and chair had also been tipped onto their sides.

Probably from Dettlaff and Regis’ hasty exits, he thought. Their wings probably sent this stuff flying before they did just the same, right out that window.

He examined it carefully, grimacing at the broken glass with dried blood and bits of Regis’ fur still attached. He saw the sky and noted the time, beginning to pick up the pace as he opened the dresser and started haphazardly grabbing clothes.

Last thing… ugh, the book. Fuck’s sake, how am I supposed to find a single black, leather-bound book in this whole damned house…

He had to laugh to himself as he suddenly spotted what was likely the exact thing he was looking for, stuffed underneath a pile of undergarments he had just disturbed in the drawer.

Why would he hide a book in here? he wondered, picking it up and leafing through it. Has to be it, though – looks like Dettlaff’s sketches. I guess I see why it’d be impo…

Geralt froze and snapped the book shut quickly, having seen a drawing of Regis showing much more than he had ever wanted to see of his friend. He finished collecting some more clothes, bringing the few bags and boxes he had packed out to Roach and loading her up, the knights nearly catatonic from all the booze they had been drinking.

Good luck, fellas, he thought maliciously, annoyed by their greed and theft of his friend’s valuable hooch. He noticed the sky lightening slightly in the east and felt a sudden sense of unease at his next mission.

And good luck to me, too.

 

*

 

“Geralt,” Regis called softly, materializing in the dining room of Corvo Bianco.

Am I too late? he wondered. The sun had not yet fully risen, but the sky had certainly lightened already. He looked about the room cautiously, his vampiric sight helping him greatly in the darkness.

“Is he here?” asked Dettlaff, filtering in under the door as red and black mist, materializing and looking about curiously. He sniffed the air.
“I don’t think so,” said Regis, copying the other vampire, his nose in the air. He shook his head. “No, he’s left. Not long ago, but still – I am disappointed we are late. Pleasures are pleasures until they interrupt one’s obligations.”

Dettlaff suddenly looked stung, and Regis gave him an apologetic look before starting to poke around the house. He caught the faint smell of some of their belongings, tucked away under the staircase. Attached was a small note – though it was not addressed, Regis did not have to guess it was for them, and he began to read it out loud.

You know where I went. Took the main highway if you want to catch up before you go. If not, good luck.”

Dettlaff nodded, gathering the items and starting to head back outside. Regis faltered.

“What’s wrong?” the younger vampire asked.
“Ah… nothing,” he lied, tucking the note away and grabbing the rest of the items.

Dettlaff rolled his eyes, raising an eyebrow impatiently. Regis let slip a small sigh and relented.

“I would like to drop in on him, say goodbye. He can’t really be that far…”

Dettlaff looked annoyed, releasing a heavy breath, but nodded.

“I will not forbid you from parting more politely from a friend you consider dear,” he grumbled, “But we must make it quick. Fjola…”
“…Is already waiting for us at the docks,” Regis said. “It will only take us a matter of moments to reach Geralt, especially by wing…”

Dettlaff sighed again.

“Very well, but please – quickly. I am uneasy.”

Regis nodded jovially as they set out, but internally, he had felt it too – a great sense of tension was hanging in the air, like a wet, heavy blanket on a hot day. It disturbed him greatly, but he just kept in mind that they would be free soon enough.

Chapter 77: Parting

Chapter Text

Geralt felt it before he saw him – the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he caught the thick, heavy scent of Regis’ usual cocktail of herbs. He did not see him land, but he slowed Roach to a halt and waited, his vampire friend finally approaching from the trees, adjusting his clothing, Dettlaff not far behind. Geralt dismounted and walked up to them, throwing his arms about Regis and clapping him on the back roughly.

“My friend,” Regis said, parting but keeping his hands on his shoulders, “Thank you immensely for doing so much for us.”
“I told you…”
“Yes, yes, lifetime’s worth of favors, something about Cirilla, something about Yennefer… don’t trouble yourself. I am merely expressing my deep, loving admiration for your unwavering loyalty and support toward me, despite some of the more foolish or concerning decisions I have made.”

Regis gestured towards Dettlaff with a bob of his chin, smiling mischievously. Dettlaff returned it with a weak smirk, looking about them anxiously.

“Where is your sorceress?” he asked.
“Went ahead,” Geralt explained. “Left while I finished putting the stuff under the stairs and writing that note. Which I’m assuming you got.”
“Yes,” Regis said, “And once again, thank you. You even managed to locate the bag Fjola had given me not long after our first meeting – I was quite sorry to have lost it.”
“The one with the herbs? Honestly I just grabbed whatever was convenient. Glad it worked out, though.”

Geralt examined the area surrounding them, scowling somewhat.

“Where is she, by the way?” he asked. “I’d have said goodbye.”
“I didn’t realize you were that fond of her, Witcher,” Dettlaff said, his tone low and eyebrows furrowed.
“Don’t bother getting worked up,” he sneered. “She was a good person, and I liked what little company we had together. She alright, at least?”
“Yes,” Regis replied, “She’s awaiting us down the Sansretour, near Beauclair port. We’re going to follow the river to Metinna, then make our way up to Nazair… if all goes as planned.”
“Nazair?” Geralt lifted his eyes questioningly, shooting a quick look at Dettlaff.
“She has wanted to go for some time,” the black-haired vampire explained, somewhat defensively.

Geralt snorted, and Dettlaff scowled more deeply, his upper lip curling somewhat to expose his sharp teeth.

“Settle yourselves,” Regis chided, and the two of them shifted on their feet, looking away. “Geralt, Nazair really isn’t that far, you know. Once things settle down, if you and Yennefer ever wanted…”
“Maybe,” the Witcher said, but he held up a hand, and his voice sounded strange.
“Are you well, my friend?” Regis asked in concern.

Geralt nodded, clearing his throat.

“Just fine,” he said, sounding normal again. “It’s just been nice having you back. Shame to see you go again, though. And so soon.”

The older vampire smiled appreciatively, giving his friend another hug before adjusting his leather bag on his shoulder and lifting his chin up. The Witcher reached forward to Dettlaff, extending his hand to shake it. Dettlaff seemed to sneer at first, but clasped his arm roughly and tugged him forward, giving him a brief, surprising hug before nearly throwing him back away from himself and looking away.

“Thank you,” he grumbled. “For everything.”
“Anytime,” the Witcher replied.

There was a brief, heavy pause in which they all looked to the quickly-lightening sky with dread. It was time.

“Well, Geralt,” Regis said softly, “Until we meet again. May the Path treat you well.”
“Likewise.”

With that, the two vampires headed back into the forest, Geralt watching them reappear briefly above the treeline in their winged forms, their possessions clutched in their claws, before vanishing into the night sky once again.

 

*

Fjola waited in the small boat she had bought the day before. She had been nervous to be at the port again, clutching her pardon tightly in her bag, but there were no knights about to recognize her, anyway, and the citizens themselves didn’t care. She had purchased a boat just large enough for the three of them and whatever meager possessions Geralt would have been able to take from their cottage; they needed to be light and speedy on their way to Metinna. Though she and Regis had pardons, they were still wary; the Duchess was known to be fickle, and none of them was willing to risk incarceration – or worse. It was why they had agreed to let Regis ask the Witcher to grab some items from their home, and why they had chosen to leave under the cover of relative darkness – better to be safe than sorry.

Fjola began nervously twiddling her thumbs, her legs jumping up and down as she continuously watched the sky for any signs of her lovers. The horizon was lightening quickly, and she was anxious for them to be on their way already. She glanced around her, taking note of the way the waves of the river sploshed against the banks, the sound of other boats colliding gently with the padding of the docks, a few birds chirping here and there as they gathered summer berries and insects, flitting about hastily as though they, too, could feel the tension in the air. She breathed out slowly, trying to calm herself.

We’re leaving soon, she reasoned with herself. They’re both going to be here any minute.

 

*

Syanna
finished the long and laborious task of climbing up the beanstalk to exit the Fablesphere, panting, her arms and legs exhausted as she rolled over onto the solid cloud to rest. Looking below her, she could see where her hansa had been situated, though could not make out the figures of the bandits themselves. She backed away from the edge of the cloud before she became sick, picking herself up and placing a dark cowl over her head to obstruct her face before approaching the well that would act as a teleport out of this rainbow-colored nightmare.

There will likely be a trap, she reminded herself. Run to the right, and down the mountainside, not to the left and down the path. Run fast. Don’t look behind you, and find a boat as fast as you can.

She nodded as though she had actually been instructed by another to do this, leaping into the well and shooting back out of the fountain, startling several guards who had been waiting there, not shocking her in the slightest.

“Wait!” one called out. “Stop right there! By order of the Duchess Anna Henrietta, I am arresting you for treason…!”

Syanna threw the middle finger at him over her back and launched herself over the side of the balustrade, climbing down the side of the stone quickly, knowing the guards would not be capable of following in their heavy armor.

“Fuck!” one of them cried. “Shoot him!”

Ah, she realized with relief, so they do not recognize me. Good, that will work in my favor.

A few archers had lined up to aim at her, but as she suspected, the angle was poor and the bolts would not have been able to reach.

“Around the side!” one of the men called. “Down the path, now!”

You will not reach in time! she thought to herself joyously, dropping down the rest of the way and onto the cobblestone below, running down the hill and over another railing to climb down the stone cliff side. She looked up briefly to see there were still dozens of candles lit in the windows of the palace, despite dawn coming fast on the horizon. She breathed out again and continued her descent as quickly as she could, finally making it to the large hillside that headed down and east towards the port.

Stealing a small, fast boat should be no problem, especially at this hour, when the fishermen are just starting out. I can blend in, grab a craft, and be on my way with none the wiser.

She ran over the bridge, through Gran’Place and out through the Harbor Gate, her freedom tasting ever closer as she spied the water ahead of her.

 

*

 

Anna Henrietta literally spat on the floor. She knew it was crude, she knew it was unbecoming, but she did not care. She simply spat right at the feet of the guard who informed her that someone had escaped their grasp when coming out from the fountain.

“Did you at least see who it was?” she asked, dreading the answer she knew was most likely.
“No,” the guard said to her surprise. “The man was dressed all in black, with a long cowl – it was dark out! Please, your Grace, have mercy!”
“A man, you say? Are you quite sure of this?”
“Yes, your Grace! They were slim, true, but…”
“But it was dark out, you said, and you were inattentive…”
“We were not told to go in yet…”
“DO NOT INTERRUPT ME!” she shouted, and the guard silenced himself, trying not to tremble.

So many of her guards had seemed to have lost their heart, of late, and it despaired her to know that Syanna’s army was likely much more fierce and willing.

Years of rich cheeses, bread, and wine have made them soft, she mourned internally.

Where are the rest of the guards now?” the Duchess demanded.
“Thirty strong are combing the streets and shops,” he said.
“Double it. How many for the raid were we able to muster?”
“Nearly 400, with another 70 in reserve to guard the palace, your Grace.”
“Take 30 from the raid, then. Gather the rest of the knights errant you can find. Do
not let that worm you let slip from your grasp escape again, or I promise you, your head will decorate the gates of the palace while your mother weeps at its base. Do I make myself clear?”
“As crystal, your Grace.”
“Go.”

The man fled from her presence, and Duchess Anna Henrietta finished getting ready to join the raid into the Land of a Thousand Fables, buckling leather armor over her torso and lacing her matching gloves.

She will not escape me again.

 

*

 

Geralt heard the commotion as he ran on Roach through the market, suddenly nearly colliding with Yennefer as she leapt out from a side street on a steed of her own.

Someone escaped,” she explained quickly. “I’m joining the pursuit, you go to the Duchess and the book.”
“Like hell,” he said, kicking Roach’s sides and following Yennefer down the next side street.
“She
needs help, Geralt,” she called from her saddle.
“Your
s is better,” he returned.
“Now is not the time for false modesty and charm,” she sneered.
“It’s not,” Geralt argued. “That thing is pure magic – an enchantment gone wild after years of neglect. You’re more capable of handling it than
I am.”

Yennefer slowed down, seeing the wisdom in his words, but struggling to back down. She scowled, seeming to make up her mind, then gritted her teeth and nodded.

“Alright, but I don’t care
what the Duchess says – if it’s Syanna and she tries anything, cut her down like a pig. I’ll get you out somehow, I promise.”

Geralt smiled and nodded, as always loving her fierceness and fury, pride and power. He leaned towards her from his saddle to give her a kiss but she cantered away with a teasing smile , back towards the palace, and he shook his head, heading down the streets of the market, his aim towards the port.

Chapter 78: Confronting a Monster

Chapter Text

Fjola sat in her boat, the last one remaining moored at the dock at this time, more anxious than ever as she waited for Regis and Dettlaff to appear. They were later than she expected, and her stomach clenched as her mind ran with terrible thoughts.

They are able to take care of themselves, she reminded herself, and each other. Worrying won’t help – I just have to be patient.

She was repeating these words to herself, trying to ease her anxiety, when suddenly she heard footsteps approaching quickly down the street. She looked up just in time to see a black, hooded figure leap into her boat and immediately cut the rope tethering it to the dock, pushing off with force and turning back to her, the knife brandished in her face.

“Get the fuck off this boat if you value your life,” the woman said.

Ordinarily, Fjola would consider this a fantastic piece of advice and comply , figuring she could get a new boat or let her lovers recover it themselves in any fashion they deemed fit. Ordinarily, she would not put up a fight when someone gave her the option to leave. Ordinarily, she would value her life over something as simple as a boat. But this woman was no ordinary woman, and neither was Fjola, and neither was her reaction . She recognized the face of Syanna peeking out from under the black of the hood, and forgoing all sense of self-preservation as she usually did in emotionally charged moments, she kicked out harshly, knocking Syanna in the knees and bringing her down onto them. Wasting no time, she leapt forward and grabbed the knife, throwing it overboard out of both of their reach.

“You little cunt!” Syanna cried, looking over the side, trying in vain to see it so she could grab it before it sank.

It was too late, however; the knife was gone. She whirled on Fjola, throwing herself on top of her and trying to land punches to her head and face while she protected herself with her arms. Frustrated, she brought a fist instead to her stomach, forcing the wind from her and making her lower her arms. Syanna took the opportunity to try to punch her in the face again, but Fjola kicked up and landed a knee directly into her groin. She grunted and grit her teeth, Fjola trying to strike again but her fist meeting her opponent’s shoulder as she blocked. The two women continued grappling as the boat flowed down the Sansretour, a few curious fishermen on the shore looking on in interest, but doing nothing to intervene.

“Just give me the damn boat!” Syanna suddenly cried, backing off somewhat. “Is this rotten piece of wood really worth your life?”
“Is it worth yours?” Fjola asked, straightening and standing back up to face her.
“Under normal circumstances I’d admire your insanity, but right now I am merely annoyed. Give me the damn boat, or I’ll throw you off of it.”
“Desperate, huh, Syanna?”

At this she froze, a frown slowly appearing on her face as she appraised Fjola carefully.

“Do I know you?” she asked, her eyes moving up and down her features, trying in vain to recall who she was.
“Probably not,” Fjola shrugged, “Though you did steal my horse when you escaped after Yule.”
“Is that was this is about?” she laughed, throwing her head back in amusement as she did so. “So petty! So unjustified! It was merely a horse! Are you so arrogant you think I am following you, determined to steal your methods of transportation? Don’t bother flattering yourself, this is just a mere coincidence.”
“That’s not it,” Fjola said flatly.

Her tone was dangerous, and Syanna suddenly stopped smiling.

“What then?” she asked, just as grim, throwing her hands up.
“You hurt someone very dear to me,” she said. “Someone I love… very much. I don’t think he’d be too pleased to find you here, quite honestly. And I don’t think it’d be wise for you to stick around, either.”
“I am afraid of no threats,” she said arrogantly.

Neither of them had been paying attention to the course of the river or the boat, however, and suddenly the two of them were thrown forward as it collided with a massive crop of rocks near the East bank, the sound of splitting wood cutting through the air as water started flooding around them.

“Shit!” Syanna moaned, hopping onto the rocks and out of the water, Fjola wading through the shallows and onto the bank. “Look at what you’ve done!”

“What I’ve done?” Fjola snapped. “You’re the one who came up and tried to take my boat!”
“To hell with you!” she returned angrily, throwing off her cloak. “I’ll find another means of escape.”
“Oh no you don’t,” Fjola said, grabbing at Syanna and trying to keep a grip on her. “The Duchess needs to deal with you.”
“Aha, is that it then? You are one of her patsies? You said I hurt someone you love – has she finally bored of shagging men, now that’s slept with just about all of them? She moved on to you?”
“What? No. But you need to rot in a prison for what you did to Dettlaff.”

Syanna’s stomach twisted into a knot at the mention of his name, and her skin crawled in fear, her throat going dry.

“What did you say?” she hissed.
“Dettlaff,” Fjola spat at her. “Your actions are what drove him to practically raze Beauclair three years ago – your conniving, deceitful, selfish, manipulative, downright monstrous actions…”

Despite her fear, Syanna was still frantic to escape from Toussaint any way she could, and now she saw a way to likely guarantee her safety. She leapt forward and instantly threw herself around Fjola, placing a hand against her mouth and whirling around as she tried to struggle away from her. While she was not weak herself, Syanna simply had more training, more experience – not to mention the element of surprise – and she managed to get a tight hold around Fjola’s neck from behind, tightening her grip and strangling her somewhat.

“You listen to me now. I have no intent on being taken back into my sister’s custody, ever again. And that’s where you’ll come in – either Annarietta leaves me alone, or she risks me killing an innocent.”
“She’ll never concede,” Fjola laughed through pained breaths. “I mean nothing to her.”
“But you do mean something to Dettlaff, yes? And if how he behaved around me when we were together is any indication, he will be absolutely desperate to keep you alive. To keep you safe.” She scoffed, emitting a bitter laugh. “So that is my bargaining chip – either my sister lets me flee, or I sic the vampire on her duchy again by threatening to kill his lover.”
“He’d kill you bef…”

Syanna pressed her wrist more tightly against Fjola’s throat, strangling her again.

“I’ve changed my plans,” she said nastily, “We’re going to go on a little journey. We’re going to find a horse, and a sword, and I will take my freedom in any way I can. As I have always had to do.”

Fjola was suddenly curious about what she could possibly mean, but remembered some of Geralt’s words to her, several months ago.

Syanna’s a human being, just like anyone else. She fucked up. She made mistakes. She did things the wrong way, hurt people. Killed people. But that doesn’t mean she’s a cold-blooded monster. She did things for her own reasons and yeah, if I were her, maybe I might have done some of those things myself.”

She remembered, with a pinkness in her cheeks, more of his words that followed.

And you know what else? Everything I just said to you about Syanna can be said for Dettlaff, too.”

Fjola breathed out, letting Syanna drag her towards the woods and away from the port.

Please, my loves, she begged internally, please don’t do what I think you’re going to do.

She could only hope as she was dragged into the treeline and under the forest boughs that her lovers wouldn’t have to bloody their hands. Not on her account.

 

*

 

Dettlaff came down for a landing as gracefully as he could in his massive form, dropping their effects with care and almost instantly transforming back into his more human form, Regis following suit, both of them dressing shortly after.

“I don’t like this sensation,” Dettlaff grumbled as he buttoned his shirt, leaving his leather coat to the side to avoid overheating himself. Though it was just barely dawn, the day was already hot, and a black leather frock was not likely going to do him any favors once the sun rose more fully.

“Mm? And what sensation is that?” Regis asked, not looking in his direction.
“You know what I mean,” he growled. “I can sense you just as clearly as you sense me.”

The older vampire sighed.

“Yes, Dettlaff, I can sense it, too. A foreboding, almost, or an anxious dread hanging over the duchy like a heavy, humid cloud.” He sighed again. “I do not like it, either – the sooner we can leave, the better. Come – Fjola awaits us at the port.”

The two of them walked down the path towards the port, possessions in hand, trying to keep their heads down and avoid eye contact with the few fishermen just starting to collect their things or set off for the day. No one really paid them any mind, to their great relief, and the walk was actually quite peaceful… for a time. Dettlaff suddenly scowled and picked up his head, his entire body going rigid as he listened carefully. He looked to Regis, neither of them saying anything as they dropped all of their items and took off running towards the docks, preferring to fly but still wanting to keep as low a profile as they could. They pushed roughly past fishmongers, merchants, and sailors, many of them calling out rude expressions toward their fleeing backs, but they refused to hesitate or stop. Their race did not even slow until, upon reaching the dock where Fjola was to be waiting, they quite literally ran into Geralt. Roach reared up on her haunches and tossed him from the saddle before fleeing, Geralt straightening and watching her go for a moment angrily before realizing just who he had run into.

What the hell are you both doing here? I thought you had left already?”
“We could not fly all the way to the dock, Geralt – we did not want to cause a panic or attract negative attention. What are
you doing here? Shouldn’t you be…?”
“I sent Yen instead – someone escaped and I don’t think it was a random bandit.”

The Witcher threw a heavy look in Dettlaff’s direction, and he sniffed the air quickly before twisting his face into a deep scowl.

“It was her,” he muttered, Regis and Geralt both understanding immediately.
“Where’s Fjola?” Geralt asked, already dreading the answer.

The trio exchanged glances and began running down the path that ran parallel to the Sansretour, looking carefully for signs of their boat, finding it eventually, crashed on the outcrop of rocks where Fjola and Syanna had crashed it not long before. Dettlaff and Regis both began to sniff the air, Geralt feeling it would have been amusing to see were he not as concerned for the situation at hand. The older vampire nodded towards the trees, his companion and the Witcher following his lead quickly.

 

*



“So, what,” Fjola choked, “You’re just going to kill me? Why not just do it already, save yourself the struggle?”
“Believe it or not, I don’t want to kill you,” she said straightly. “I’m no fool – if I toss my bargaining chip now, there is no other escape for me besides death itself.”
“Because you know Dettlaff will kill you?” she jabbed.

Syanna spared her a quick, arrogant glance, but beneath it, Fjola could see and sense her fear.

If you let me go,” she said, “I’m sure he’d give up his pursuit.”
“Hah!” she scoffed, actually emitting a small laugh. “I don’t believe that for a second! He tried to kill me once already, despite professing to love me – yes, I wronged him, but he still had feelings for me, and yet he tried to take my life as revenge for my wrongdoings. I don’t feel his counter to my actions was fair – I tried to reason with him, explain to him, but he tried to impale me with his claws instead
of listening, just like everyone else. I only got lucky because of the ribbon my sister gave to me when we were children.” She paused to catch her breath for a moment, still keeping a tight hold on Fjola. “Do not fool yourself for a second that he is anything but a wild, untamed animal. Truly a beast at heart, capable of nothing but anger, jealousy, and cruelty.”
“You’re wrong,” Fjola challenged, and there was a finality in her tone that made Syanna furious.
“You’re delusional if you think for even a heartbeat that he wouldn’t do the same to you!”
“He wouldn’t,” she said. “I
know he wouldn’t.”
“Oh,” Syanna laughed again, clearly in disbelief, “And why is that? What makes you so damned special?”
“Because I didn’t use him for my own selfish gains, or manipulate his emotions to serve myself. All I’ve ever done is love him, exactly for who he is. Regis, too.”

Syanna blanched for a moment.

Regis, too?” she mocked. “How you did not end up under Dettlaff’s claws is beyond me.”
“I did, though,” Fjola said, and Syanna looked back at her in confusion. She elaborated. “It was an accident, but still,” she explained, squirming a bit
with Syanna’s arm still around her neck and lifting up her blouse to show the scars on her abdomen. “The fact remains, I’ve seen him angry, furious even, and still survived.”

Syanna gave her a pitying look and bark of a laugh.

You’re a fool, then. A stupid fool.”
“Probably,” Fjola said. “But at least I’m not alone.”
Being alone is better, believe me,” she groaned, rolling her eyes. “Men – and women – they are all the same. Even ones of other species.”
“What’s made you so bitter, anyway?” Fjola pried, baiting her. “All I’ve ever heard about is people trying to love you, to become close to you, and all you do is manipulate and hurt them for your own selfish
reasons.”

Syanna shouted furiously, throwing Fjola roughly against a nearby tree and poking an angry finger into her face.

“Don’t act like you know me!” she shouted. “Like you know everything I’ve done and why and then judge me for it, without ever knowing the actual truth. You would not be the first, but every time it’s just a sickening reminder that all the world will ever see me as is a monster.”
“And that’s why I defend Dettlaff.”

Syanna’s shoulders slumped and she shook her head.

“We are not the same.”
“No, but you’re both shunned and vilified by the world simply because of what they think you are.”
“I did not kill innocent people for the sake of revenge!”
“But you did,” Fjola pointed out calmly.
“Those knights were not innocent,” she seethed.
“I wasn’t talking about the knights. I was talking about the duchy – all those people Dettlaff killed. Yes, it was his decision to act out like that, which, believe me, I know is vile and horrific and wrong…”
“Then why do you…” she tried to interrupt, but Fjola continued, grateful she had piqued her interest.
“But it was also your sister’s fault for not taking his threats seriously. To put you and you alone above the safety and well-being of her entire duchy, above every single one of those people – that’s really fucked up.”

Syanna’s head snapped back in surprise.

“Why are you not licking her boot?” she sneered. “Did she not buy you a nice vineyard for your loyalty, or set you up with a handsome count?”

Fjola snickered.

“I’ve barely even met her. But she basically declared war on Dettlaff for your sake – despite knowing what you’d done, and knowing what you were and are capable of, she completely ignored your culpability and instead secured you away in a cute little prison, away from justice. I get why she didn’t hand you over to Dettlaff, honestly – I mean, I do know him, and I understand that. But she even protected your from her own people, meanwhile not even defending them from the incredible mess you caused.”
“The fault still lies with my sister…!”

“She absolutely contributed,” Fjola agreed, “But in the end, if you hadn’t tried blackmailing Dettlaff, tried using his love for you as a manipulative fear tactic, things wouldn’t have even come close to how they turned out. Dozens dead, even more injured, buildings razed, people’s lives ruined – all so you could have a throne?” She looked Syanna up and down in disgust. “At least Dettlaff killed because he felt he had no choice. He wanted to protect the woman he loved, despite her complete ambivalence towards him – no, it doesn’t excuse it, but it does make it understandable – but you… You only did it so you could sit on a cushy chair and drink fancy wine and hold your head over a bunch of boot-lickers and sycophants. You’re not tragic or noble – you’re just another Anna Henrietta.”

Syanna suddenly felt as though she had been struck in the stomach.

“Fuck you,” she replied limply, picking up a sharp stick and jabbing Fjola with it. “Keep walking – we still need to find a horse.”

Chapter 79: Pursuit, Part II

Notes:

Thanks for being patient through the little hiatus I took while I went on vacation. Back to business!

Chapter Text

Dettlaff had overtaken Regis as they ran towards the woods, the smell of Fjola and Syanna strong in his nostrils, setting alight a fire within him that he was finding increasingly harder to control with each bounding step. He was panting, though not from the physical exertion, and he could feel the tips of his fangs elongating in his open mouth.

“Dettlaff…” Regis called softly, but firmly.

He whirled around furiously, suddenly transforming into his wingless vampiric form, claws extended and readied.

“What?” he snarled.

Geralt leapt back and grabbed his silver sword over his back, though did not unsheathe it. Regis held out a hand to stop him, giving him a significant, pleading look before turning back to Dettlaff.

“I realize you must be angry, still,” he started.
“‘Still?’” he mocked, his fangs flashing in the early morning light. “Regis, that heartless wench has stolen our mate! Of course I am… angry!”

He spit the last word derisively and roared, starting to turn back to his pursuit, but Regis stopped him again.

“Do you not understand that Fjola is in danger?” Dettlaff snarled, pressing his chest against the older vampire’s aggressively, his face mere centimeters from his. “Do you not understand your delaying could cost her her life?”
“Do you not understand your fury could cause it, as well?”

Dettlaff stepped back a little, seeming to cool off just enough to consider his words.

“What do you mean?” he growled.
“If you lunge at Syanna all fangs and fury, she might panic, kill Fjola to spite you immediately. That is, if she knows what she means to you. If not, she may simply kill her to dispose of any distractions, or tie up a loose end.”

The younger vampire emitted a low, dangerous growl, and for a moment Geralt was concerned he was going to attack him, but instead, the feral vampire merely squared his shoulders and made a circle with his neck, returning his gaze to Regis.

“I would kill her before the first blow,” he said lowly, and while Regis admired his conviction and confidence, he merely shook his head.
“We are both faster than imaginable,” the older vampire said, “At least to humans, that is. I have utmost faith in your abilities, and am confident in my own, as well. However, the bottom line is – are you willing to take that chance?”

Dettlaff scowled more deeply and looked away, his lips curling away from his fangs as he bared them in frustration.

“I want to kill her, Regis.”
“I thought you said…?”
“Not because of what she did to me in the past,” he said quietly. “But no one – no one – comes after our mate.”

Regis had to smile slightly at his protectiveness, putting his hands on his shoulders and bringing him in closely, touching their foreheads together affectionately.

“I understand,” Regis said. “Though I morally cannot condone it, I, believe it or not, also have the nearly overwhelming desire to disembowel her – slowly – and be done with this whole fiasco. However… you know I am rarely one for heat-of-the-moment type passions.”

Dettlaff grunted, and Regis chuckled and continued.

“No, my darling, I am thinking more of a… distraction.”

He looked to his black-haired, vampiric mate, who raised his eyebrows and looked for him to continue. He did, formulating a simple plan that even Geralt admitted was likely to work – if fate turned in their favor.

“It rarely does though,” he warned. “You two have a backup plan for if Syanna’s got her in a more vulnerable position? Or a stand-off?”
“Hm. I suppose talking, as anticlimactic as it sounds, is always an option,” Regis shrugged. Dettlaff rolled his eyes.
“Kill her,” he stated simply.
“But the risk of attacking while she has Fjola…”
“Fjola can still sense us, Regis,” he said softly. “Muted as though it may be, now, in close proximity our bond will still work. I trust she has the sense to use that to her advantage.”
“Do you truly think…” Regis fell off, knitting his eyebrows in concern and sighing. Dettlaff pressed their foreheads together again.
“I do,” he said.

Regis heaved another small sigh and nodded simply, rolling up his sleeves and giving a mischievous smile to Dettlaff as he prepared himself.

“You know,” he said, “While I do not wish to come across as needy or jealous, and I do not relish the thought that I am doubtless representing myself as unfortunately insecure, I must ask you, my dear – were Fjola and my roles reversed, would you be so feral, so dangerously and violently adamant about rescuing me, as well?”

He was still smiling, though his cheeks had reddened above his facial hair.

“Regis,” Dettlaff growled, a small smile forming on his lips, as well, “There is no place any could hide, or run, nor any words that could soften me from shredding apart any who would harm or threaten you – or even simply look at you crossly.”

The both of them chuckled somewhat and Geralt was left to stand, dumbfounded, shaking his head in confusion at their gallows-humor effort at romance.

 

*

 

Anna Henrietta clenched her leather-clad fists in fury at her knight’s words, adjusting herself atop her pink unicorn and raising her chin threateningly.

“What was that?” she asked, seething.
“Your Grace?”
“Repeat what you just said,” the Duchess said with a false sense of calm.
“Er…” the knight halted. “We have surrounded and captured the whole hansa,” he said slowly, tentatively. “But there has been so sign of your sister, Sylvia Anna, as of yet.”

Anna Henrietta merely stared at her knight for a moment contemptuously, raising her upper lip slightly in a sneer before kicking her mount’s sides and heading towards the bean stalk. Another knight tried to stop her, but she merely grabbed his sword from his hands and kicked him away with her foot. He jumped back, trying to retain his footing even as he held his broken, bloody nose, shattered from the Duchess’ kick. A couple of other soldiers surrounded him to help, throwing contemptuous glaces at Anna Henrietta’s back as she rode towards her exit furiously.

 

*



Syanna jabbed Fjola in the side yet again with the sharp stick, making her prisoner whirl on her quickly and attempt to grab the simple weapon. She tugged it away and wagged her finger.

“Ah ah ah,” she said teasingly.

Fjola rolled her eyes and continued walking, unsure of where they were, but guessing it was likely somewhere in the Caroberta woods. She suddenly felt at home and lost at the same time, remembering with a pang of nostalgia the time she had spent roaming this same forest with Dettlaff and Regis, gathering herbs and ingredients with the latter as they talked, or with the former as they sat on a stump to read. She suddenly felt a stinging sensation in her eyes, blinking back tears and the tight, hoarse feeling in her throat she got when she was about to cry. She cleared it with a rough sound, looking about her to try to take her mind off of them, hoping they weren’t about to do something rash just for her sake.

I can handle this, she thought.

“What are you looking for?” Syanna suddenly asked angrily, but Fjola could hear a slight timbre of fear in her voice as she also glanced about and above them. “Think they’ll come swooping in at any time to come rescue you?” She let out a harsh bark of a laugh and spit on the ground. “They’ll not try such heroics with a weapon at your neck.”
“I know,” Fjola said. “I actually hope they don’t show up.”
“Pah! Because you are afraid to die?”
“No. Because I don’t want them dirtying their hands on your account,” she shot with distaste.

Syanna poked her hard with the sharpened stick, and Fjola felt it pierce her slightly, a few wet drops of blood soaking into the back of her shirt. She gave out a small yelp, and Syanna sneered.

“Baby,” she said in disgust.
“Fuck off,” Fjola spat.

They continued walking in silence until they reached a road Fjola knew very well – the one that led to Francollarts, a path she had taken so many times she could basically walk it with a blindfold on. They both saw a young man walking down the path towards them, stopping in his tracks and raising an eyebrow at the sight of Fjola being led down the road with a sharp, slightly bloodied stick at her back, courtesy of Syanna. He did not recognize the Duchess’ older sister, and merely nodded a greeting, trying to give them a wide berth and mind his own business as he passed them. Syanna had no such plans, kicking Fjola into a tree to wind her and suddenly lashing out with the stick and cracking the young man harshly on the back of his head. He collapsed onto his knees in pain, trying desperately to grab for something at the side of his boot, but Syanna was quick to grab it herself, admiring the large, sharp blade she had just liberated from him.

“My thanks,” she said, swinging the hunting knife through the air a few times to test it before brandishing it close to his neck, then whirling back on Fjola to keep her in place as she rose. “Now – forget you saw us, and I might forget to come back to silence you myself, later.”

He did not need to be told twice – the young man jumped to his feet and ran full-speed down the path, looking behind him only once to make sure he was not being followed before disappearing around a corner. She admired the blade once more, tossing the stick to the side and giving a significant look to her prisoner.

“Lucky for me that hunter came by,” she said slyly, the blade shining in her fingers. “But rather unlucky for you.”
“Why bother keeping me prisoner now, anyway?” Fjola asked. “We’re still close to the river, and since we’re so near Francollarts, you’re guaranteed to be able to find at least a fishing boat there. Or a horse, if you keep up the path towards town. I’ll even keep Regis and Dettlaff off your back; they’re bound to find me, and if I’m safe and sound, I doubt they’d come after you. Not that you’d need to worry anyway, once you find transportation.”
“Trying to bargain again?” she laughed. “The last act of a desperate fool.”
“No,” Fjola shook her head, “I just didn’t want to see someone disemboweled today. And I don’t mean me.”

Syanna’s smile faltered slightly.

“They won’t hurt me as long as I’ve got you,” she sneered.
“How do you see this ending?” Fjola asked seriously, scowling. “That once you free me, they’ll just let you go, unpunished? Or…” she hesitated, licking her lips and smiling grimly. “You kill me, and then what? You get your revenge on Dettlaff, I suppose, but…”
“This was never about revenge on Dettlaff, you silly thing,” she scolded. “This is about me taking my freedom back for myself again!”
“I thought you wanted a throne?” she asked, genuinely surprised. “Your sister’s throne – your birthright?”
“Indeed I did,” she said, suddenly sighing. “But I see how the people of this land view me – you were not the first one to reveal such things to me. But after my incarceration there, in the palace, I came to realize it is not the throne I wanted, to rule and be beloved. I only ever wanted Anna to…” She suddenly scrunched up her face in fury, spitting to the side and poking her blade at Fjola threateningly. “It doesn’t matter. Keep walking.”

Fjola nodded and the two women continued their journey up the path toward Francollarts.

 

*

 

Dettlaff suddenly started shaking his head furiously, staggering backwards and gritting his sharp teeth. He was still in his vampiric form, looking horrifyingly dangerous and feral, his blue eyes glinting murderously.

“What’s the matter?” Regis asked, at his side immediately.

Geralt was wise enough to keep his distance from the younger vampire in his current state, and watched their scene from afar.

“Her blood,” Dettlaff managed to rasp, beginning to pant. “I can smell her blood.”

The hair on the back of Regis’ neck prickled as he, too, suddenly caught a whiff of it on the wind. It was unmistakable – the fruity, flowery smell of her mixed with the sweet, coppery tang of her blood, carried by the thick mist and gentle breeze blowing through the Caroberta woods.

“Make haste,” Regis said urgently, holding his stomach slightly.

Geralt approached cautiously to check on him, jumping back a little as Regis suddenly transformed almost violently into his vampiric form as well, his eyes turning black save for his red irises, his nose crinkling to become more bat-like, his fangs becoming massive and fearful as he bared them in anger. He looked over to Geralt almost apologetically, but the Witcher merely nodded in understanding as the group continued running through the familiar woods where the two vampires once made their home.

 

*

 

Anna Henrietta emerged from the fountain, blade in hand, wasting no time in demanding a servant bring her her horse from the stable, her personal mount and the one she knew was swiftest and most resilient. She huffed as she waited, grilling her guards about any possible leads as to where the one who had escaped earlier had gone.

“Your Grace, we have not found him yet…”
“Is that what I asked?” she questioned softly, dangerously. “Did I ask you, ‘Have you found the bandit?’ Hm?”
“N-no, your Grace.”
“What did I ask, then?”
“Where he might have gone.”
“And?”
“And we have no absolute lead, but there have been reports of a kerfuffle of sorts near the port. A small boat crashed not far down the Sansretour, someone who was there said a lady was kidnapped by a thief, clad all in black.”

It’s her, Annarietta thought. It has to be her. And now it appears she has taken a hostage.

She tapped her foot impatiently, weighing her options. She came to her conclusion rather quickly with a small shrug to herself.

To hell with her captive, she thought cruelly. She is no different than the dozens of other bodies my sister has left in her wake.

The mare was finally brought, and Annarietta leapt into the saddle, taking off towards the port quickly to try to pick up her sister’s trail.

 

*

 

Dettlaff groaned and fell to his knees, picking up a stick about the length of his arm that was pointed, and bloody. He smelled it deeply, baring his fangs as the smell of Fjola’s blood filled his nostrils, Regis’ clawed hand digging into his shoulder as he inhaled it, as well. Geralt paced behind them cautiously, using his Witcher senses to more solidly pick up the trail, noting with surprise that they had simply headed up the path towards the town of Francollarts. He was surprised Syanna would be so sloppy as to stick to a road, but then reconsidered.

She wasn’t being careless, she was being arrogant. She knew what she had, and didn’t care if they found her. That meant she was desperate, and desperate people do foolish things. Really foolish things. His stomach clenched as he took in the two vampires in their transitional forms again, remembering his fight against Dettlaff miserably, how hard-won it was even with his supernatural strength and reflexes, and even Regis’ help. For Syanna to be so confident in the face of that was alarming – she was either stupidly reckless, which in Geralt’s opinion really wasn’t her, or she was utterly assured of her victory, likely due to the value of her captive.

She knows who she is, he realized. And she realizes who – what – is coming for her.

He spared another glance at the two vampires, a gnawing feeling in his gut over knowing exactly how their treatment of Syanna was going to be now that they knew she had hurt her.

I think we’re going to have a change of plans, he thought grimly.

Chapter 80: Syanna Argues Her Side

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Hurry up!” Syanna snapped, shoving Fjola roughly forward as they walked down the path, pressing the blade of her knife gently against her back as a reminder.
“Yeah, yeah,” her hostage muttered.

This, for some reason, irritated Syanna deeply.

“Do you not fear for your life?” she sneered. “Do you have such faith in your lovers? Dettlaff failed me. He shall fail you, too.”
“Pfft, you mean your pathetic plan to have your sister as his final victim? Oh, yeah, it was his fault.”
“Not that,” she snapped. “I found out that that miserable wretch I had tasked with delivery of my final request simply did not follow my instructions.”
“Oh. Well then what did you mean? Because he…”

Syanna sensed another defensive rant and silenced her with a shake.

“No, you dullard, I meant in every other respect.”
“What are you talking about?” Fjola was genuinely confused.
“Dettlaff had failed me in every single regard except one – killing.” She suddenly tittered, scowling. “I suppose it would be such delicious irony – or at least a twisted sense of justice for those who wish me ill – for me to lose my life to a pair of claws that once served me. The very same ones that slaughtered dozens of citizens, because of me.” She looked somber for a moment.
“Is that all you ever saw him as?” Fjola asked quietly, her stomach turning. “Just a ‘pair of claws?’”

She sneered, and Syanna couldn’t help but blush slightly at the look of disdain that crossed her captive’s features.

“No,” Syanna said slowly, softening, but only a bit. “Indeed, when I first met him, I thought he was rather intriguing. But he disappointed me, like all the rest.”
“How so?”
“What do you care?” she suddenly snapped. “Wondering what the future holds for you? Well, I can tell you right now; it is simply boredom, his oppressive, smothering presence, and eventually, the slow, bitter dissolution of passion and desire.”
“For you, maybe,” Fjola said, though her tone was not harsh. “It seems like you always preferred to go it alone; it’s no surprise you found a relationship stifling.”
“Hmph. Again – what do you care?”
“It’s still a decent walk to Francollarts, and from there, the border, especially if we can’t find a horse.”
“We?”
“I am your hostage.”

Syanna sneered and looked to the road ahead of them, completely empty of travelers this late in the morning, the usual patrol of knights no doubt probably still in the Land of a Thousand Fables.

“Who knows,” Fjola pressed, “Maybe I’ll see your side of things, join your escape?”
“Shut up,” she said, knowing she wasn’t serious.
“Alright, yeah, that was bullshit. But still – like I said, it’s a long walk. We can continue our conversation from earlier – you said no one ever wanted to hear your side of things – why not?”
“You’re trying to trick me somehow, or will attempt to convince me of why I’m wrong. It’s nothing new; you’re not being clever.”
“At the end of this, I’m either going to be stuck with the point of your blade, or you’ll be stuck at the end of two vampires’ claws. What does it matter if I’m trying to be clever or not? It won’t change the outcome, either way.”
“Then why do you care?”

Fjola shrugged. In part, she really was killing time, but also, she was curious as to what exactly had made her treat Dettlaff with such loathing and contempt. They had shared a bed and a life, for a time – what was it that made her disregard it all simply to harm and manipulate him, after everything?

“Idle chatter?”

Syanna couldn’t help but chuckle slightly.

“You’re a fool, and what’s worse, you don’t actually realize you are. Dettlaff and Regis may yet attack and kill me, or they may not – that remains to be seen. But if I don’t kill you first, and you get to live out your happily-ever-after, well – let’s just say you may be surprised to learn there never will be such a thing.”
“What destroyed yours?”

Syanna rolled her eyes, but looked again to the road ahead curiously. Fjola raised her eyebrows slightly, turning to her with a significant look. She sighed, then inhaled deeply, explaining as succinctly as she could what had happened to her as a child, then her attempt to reclaim her birthright using Dettlaff as her pawn, having him serve justice to the knights who had abused her. “But, I suppose you know all about that, likely from the source himself,” Syanna said, and Fjola shrugged. She finished her tale with her loose imprisonment in the palace.

“Every day, a bird trapped in a gilded cage, afraid to sing and incapable of flying. A miserable existence for a miserable woman.” She spat. “Annarietta was quick to hold me close and express her thankfulness, and truthfully, it was nice to play family… for a time.” Her face twisted slightly and soured. “But like the rest of her playthings, she quickly grew bored of me, preferring instead to have late nights with minstrels and young aristocrats, drowning in wine and the company of others far more entertaining than I. She would try to reach out again when she felt my affections wavering, but it was too late by that point. I realized what I was – a toy.”
“You must see the similarities…” Fjola started, but Syanna heaved a heavy sigh, interrupting her.
“Of course I do,” she admitted, much to her captive’s surprise. “But it is still different. I used Dettlaff to punish those who deserved it – Annarietta merely used me to assuage her own guilt.”
“Hm. I don’t know the Duchess personally, of course, but… from what you’ve told me, yes, it does sound like she simply wanted control. Even if it was just over her own feelings of helplessness or frustration.”

Syanna balked for a moment.

“Trying to win me over?” she hissed.
“No,” Fjola said honestly, “I get it. I actually do.”
“You have siblings, as well?”

“No. But when I grew up in a temple, there were a lot of mind-games and a tight pecking order the other girls enforced, and more often than not, they were downright cruel. And all so a select few could have control. But for what? We were all orphans or castaways – why fight to control nothing but dirty halls and desperate girls? It wasn’t until years later, after I had left, that I realized the most brutal of those people simply felt as worthless and angry as the rest of us – they just couldn’t cope as well. So they bullied and punished in order to have some small semblance of control in their lives, even if the methods were horrid. I could be wrong, of course, but to me, the Duchess sounds exactly like one of those girls – struggling with a lack of control, and desperate to find it in any way possible. Including emotional manipulation and cruelty. I know it’s not exactly the same as what you went through, of course, but…”

“No, no,” Syanna said, in a surprisingly softer, but still hesitant tone. “You actually… have a… point.” She paused for a moment, considering. “Anna was always pressured to be the better of the two of us, to make up for the failure our parents perceived me as. She was expected to exhibit class, sophistication, obedience – all of the values I most obviously lacked. She was pressured to be all the things my parents no longer expected of me because of how they viewed me, a monster born under the Black Sun, cursed. In that, I found freedom, while she was met with constraints. However – I pressured her, as well. I pressured her to participate in my pranks and mischief, and expected her to defend me to our parents when we were caught. She did, sometimes, but eventually, it had become too much. She and I once made a prank of tossing fish bladders filled with suet aimed at the bald patch of a Nilfgaardian envoy, though it was her idea to light them on fire. Inspired though it was, it led to deeper trouble for me, in which the palace advisors had simply had enough, holding me to trial as a girl, listing my supposed offenses, and my parents merely agreed and sentenced me to a cruel exile. My sister simply stood by, quietly that time. Meanwhile I was exiled and beaten by the knights who had taken chivalrous vows and oaths, especially to protect the weak, and honor justice.”

Her face twisted in misery as she recalled her ordeal, fury rising within her at the injustice and cruelty of it all.

“They left me, bruised, bloody, hungry, dressed in nothing but tattered rags, and abandoned to the wilderness. All because I had a penchant for cheap mischief, snuck out of the palace, and made friends with the ‘wrong people.’ True, I was a trying child, for sure. But did I deserve to be beaten? Abused? Abandoned to starve or be eaten by wolves?” She shook her head. “But Annarietta – without me there to support her, my parents had finally gotten control over her, and it was then she lost all of it over her own life. Trained like a dog to be compliant and obedient, scolded, disciplined harshly, manipulated. Later she was even forced to marry a horrendous swine of a Duke, Raymund, who abused and cheated on her, even imprisoning her and threatening to find her lover, kill him, and feed him her heart.” She smiled maliciously. “He died while mounting one of his whores, much to Annarietta’s delight, I am sure, and certainly to her benefit. Still… I suppose, in some ways, she ended up suffering at the hands of our parents, too. I was not the only one they abused with cruelty and control.”

Fjola turned slightly to glance at her, noticing with surprise that she was wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. She faced forward again, quickly, looking to the skies and, to her own great surprise, actually feeling pity for Syanna. The way she had treated Dettlaff, in her opinion, really was unforgivable, but she did understand, now, why she had resorted to such horrendous measures. She would not, could not ever condone her actions – in her eyes, she would always be a sickening fiend to her for that – but she felt a great swell of sympathy for her, for the trials she unfairly endured simply for being initially perceived as evil due to no actions of her own at the time. She, like Dettlaff, was simply regarded as such purely due to the circumstances of who they were – Syanna, as a girl born under the Black Sun, and Dettlaff, for being a vampire. The label of monster had not been true for either of them, but time and circumstance forced them into making monstrous decisions.

If I can feel sympathy for Dettlaff despite his actions, why not Syanna?

Again, she could not forgive her for being the catalyst for her lover’s rage and violent actions, but she could certainly feel compassion for someone who acted horribly because their back was against the wall and they felt as though they had no other recourse but to lash back at the world that had hurt them.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Syanna suddenly said harshly. “Annarietta’s initial attention and joy after my trial were short-lived, and she sought more to control and attempt to refine me than anything else. It seems we did change much, over the years, more than either of us cares to admit. We both wanted our sister back, but what each of us received was merely a shadow of our former selves. I guess in that sense, we did earn our punishments – or at least, a lack of reward. I can’t speak for Anna’s wishes, now, but as for me…” she scoffed. “Trite as it may seem, I only wish for my freedom. I see now that trying to change the one you love to reflect who you think they are, or should be, is an inevitable folly. I suppose Dettlaff and I really were similar in that regard, as well.”

Fjola was surprised to hear Syanna speak of him with anything but contempt, but held her judgment and tongue, opting for silence instead, as she tended to do with Dettlaff and even Regis to allow them more room to consider and speak. After a time, she did.

“I hate to admit that yes, he and I were somewhat alike, after all.”

Another brief pause.

“So, just between us girls… what did happen between you two?” Fjola asked softly, with a quick glance backwards.

Syanna raised her eyebrows and smirked, throwing her a look that said really? But she gave a small snort and continued.

“I admit, honestly, I never harbored any romantic feelings for him,” Syanna said slowly, and Fjola’s heart sank, pained for her dark-haired lover. “I saw him clutching a silver candelabra through a cloth at a fence’s shop, and realized then he was not a man. Not in the clinical sense. So I followed him from a distance, but he sensed immediately what I was doing and ran through the crowded streets of Metinna. I gave chase, finally turning down an alleyway I saw him flee into, and he jumped out from behind some crates in his vampire’s form, fangs and claws out, hissing at me to frighten me.”

She paused again.

“This will probably sound very silly, and to this day I lack the words to explain it, but… I was not frightened by him, despite his attempts to do just that. In fact, all I saw was a desperate act of a cornered animal. He did not wish to hurt me, I could just feel it, and so I simply started talking to him.” She suddenly laughed a bit at the memory, surprising Fjola. “Such a silly start to our relationship, I suppose. But once he realized I meant him no harm, either, he relaxed, and we had a lively discussion about what he was and what being a vampire meant. I admit the things he told me left me stunned – what humans lack in knowledge regarding such beasts is truly staggering – but at the time, I truly just found him intriguing. Fascinating. It was not long before we were meeting daily, for long periods of time, and it was I who made the first move.”

Fjola’s heart burned with jealousy, but she was too interested in her captor’s tale to interrupt. Syanna must have seen the look of curiosity on her face, because she laughed slightly.

“I may not have ever been in love with him, but that does not mean I did not find him attractive. I have eyes, you know."

They were quiet very briefly before Syanna sighed and continued.

“He was an excellent lover, to be true, but terrible at everything else. What began as a little crush for him quickly turned into infatuation, obsession, and I found he could not stand to be away from me for more than small periods of time. Constantly touching, and smelling, grazing against me, watching while I read, or shopped, or bathed. I feel as though I was only given peace while using the chamber, and every other moment was spent under his gaze.”

Her shoulders drooped at the memory, and Fjola suddenly felt the urge to vehemently defend his actions.

“He was besotted, Syanna. You were probably the first human woman – hell, maybe even the first human at all – that he had felt comfortable enough to be around, to open himself up to. Of course he became infatuated – if you ate shit your entire life, pretty sure the first time you were to taste chocolate would be the moment you became obsessed, too.”
“Are you… comparing me to chocolate?” Syanna nearly laughed again.
“Well, I’m lacking any better comparisons, and I am a tad hungry…”

The two of them shared a brief, awkward laugh before Syanna continued her tale again.

“Thank you for the compliment, I suppose. But to the point – Dettlaff was not a cruel man, at the time, but eventually as he opened up to me, more and more, the more I realized I did not like what I saw and yes, I must admit, began to fear him.”

This stunned Fjola. But he is always so sweet to me, she thought, before images of his uncontrollable rage and anger swam into the forefront of her mind. Oh. Right. Syanna could see the realization on her face and smirked.

“You do know what I’m talking about, after all,” she said, a tone of gleeful arrogance in her voice.

Fjola nodded, reluctantly.

“I’ve shown you my scars,” she said. “Dettlaff never intended to hurt me, ever, but… He has lost control,” she admitted bitterly.
“I never once felt that he was ever going to attack me, but… It was unnerving. And dangerous.”
“I know it sounds like I'm making excuses,” Fjola said quietly, "But he has gotten so much better. Even Regis has said so. And when this happened,” she pointed to her side, “It truly was an accident. He was actually going for Regis.” She paused, hesitant. “Because of you.”

Syanna raised an eyebrow and gave her a look of sarcastic disbelief.

“It’s true,” she continued. “Geralt had come to ask Regis help him look for you and your bandit clan, since there had been reports of violence and crime appearing to come from a hansa centered around Arthach Palace. Dettlaff was furious when Regis agreed not to harm you if they found you, said he was choosing sides, honoring your life over his feelings, despite everything you had done.” Fjola breathed out. “When lunging at him at some point, I tried to stop him, got in the way, and… well… got quite a scratch, I’d say.”

Fjola tittered grimly and Syanna looked at her in pity.

“Better you than me. I knew things were headed that route, eventually – he would either smother me with his affections, or kill me when he found out how ambivalent I was towards him.”

Fjola felt another sad tug at her insides as she heard how little disregard Syanna had held for Dettlaff, or his feelings.

“Then why did you bother to stay as long as you did?” she asked, trying with difficulty not to sound angry. “Why not simply cut him loose, gently?”
“Would you want to explain to a violently-tempered, overly-emotional, and above all, unpredictable vampire that you suddenly never wanted to see him again? That you did not love him and wanted to be rid of him entirely?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say it that harshly…”
“It doesn’t matter. Dettlaff was certainly not the only lover I dumped, or the last.”
“Does that make you proud?” Fjola asked with a slight sneer.
“No. I only did what I had to do. To survive, or protect myself – or even, yes, simply attempt getting something I wanted. I would not say it makes me proud, but I am still alive, despite many others’ attempts to ensure the opposite.”
“I’ve been there too,” Fjola admitted. “I never toyed with anyone’s heart, but I did lie, cheat, and steal for a time after fleeing the temple in which I grew up. You’re right in saying that sometimes, you simply have to do what you have to do. But at what point do you need to admit to yourself that you just have to stop? It can’t go on forever. It’s an awful, lonely way to live, and eventually, it just leaves you feeling hollow and worthless. I can’t imagine choosing to continue living life like that.”
“Not all of us are so fortunate to have the luxury of being free.”
“And is that really all you want now? You don’t care about money, or indulgences? Just a place to call your own, see the sunrise without someone breathing down your neck?”

Syanna considered for a moment.

“Well… money certainly wouldn’t hurt, but… generally, yes. Find my way into a decent chunk of land or coin, live on a beautiful estate, and spend the rest of my days getting fat off of wine and cheese.” She let out a small, derisive snort. “But you and I both know that is never going to happen.”
“Why not?”
“Dettlaff is coming here to kill me. You’re all that’s standing between me and being gored by his claws, and once I let you go, what then? Do you think he will just let me ride off into the sunset, unhurt? Unpunished? You admitted he still harbors hatred towards me. Somehow I doubt he’d be willing to simply let bygones be bygones. And if you think otherwise, you’re even dumber than I first took you for.”
“Well… how did you get your sister to not kill you?”
“What?”
“When you were captured last time, and had to stand trial after everything that had happened regarding you and Dettlaff, and the duchy… why didn’t your sister kill you then? Or at least imprison you in something much worse than the palace?”

Syanna was thoughtful again.

“I… I told her what I had gone through. Why I had done what I did. I… she apologized to me. I did not want to forgive her, at first, but…” She shrugged. “She is my sister. She loves me. Even if she is terrible at expressing it.”
“Dettlaff loved you, once. And like it or not, you still cared for him to some degree, too, even if it was only for a brief amount of time.”
“What are you saying?”
“Maybe you should say you’re sorry, Syanna.”

There was a heavy, pregnant pause where she simply beheld Fjola, scowling in incredulity at her ridiculous suggestion.

“Do you truly think that he would simply let me go for that? I apologize, and suddenly all is forgiven?”

She wanted to strike Fjola for her stupidity, but instead merely shoved her ahead of herself again.

“You’re a damn fool and your vampires would do well to thank me if I should rid them of you.”

Well, I tried, Fjola thought with a deep ache. I can only hope if they appear that things don’t go horribly awry. Dettlaff is unpredictable enough on his own, but even Regis can have a temper, too. He’s no fan of Syanna’s, that’s for sure – he’s even referred to her as “evil.”

Fjola looked back at Syanna again, rage and pity playing a conflicting battle within her.

She hurt Dettlaff so badly, though, she thought with sadness, remembering some of the younger vampire’s insecurities with a pang. And Regis… what he had to go through, just trying to help Geralt and Dettlaff himself, every failure he blames himself for, every life lost during the battle of Beauclair… both of my loves have suffered so much at her hands. And she just shrugs it off because she feels like she’s had to endure more. If only she knew and could feel exactly what she’s done to them.

The image of Dettlaff and Regis swam to her mind and she found herself aching internally to see them, not sure whether or not she actually wanted them to stay away, after all. In a deep, shameful part of her, she wanted to be rescued. Fjola wanted to see them bounding towards her, anxious to collect her from Syanna’s grasp. She knew it was inevitable they were, but again, she hoped they wouldn’t have to soil their hands on her and her captor’s accounts. She breathed in slowly, thinking of them surely having arrived to the boat to find her gone, then likely spotting the craft further down the river, smelling her out and…

She could feel them.

Fjola tried not to react or let her emotions be known on her face, but her heart began absolutely racing as she realized they must be close… very close. She would not have been able to sense them if they weren’t. She gave Syanna another small glance back over her shoulder, but for now, she seemed unaware of anything besides her own misery.

“In the end, I suppose, none of it really matters,” Syanna reiterated. “I’ll either die here today, or be able to escape. Either one is a freedom.”

Fjola froze as the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

They are here.

Notes:

I'd apologize for the cliffhanger, but authors DO like to torture their audience. ;) The good news is I'm also almost done with the next chapter, so fate willing, it won't be a long wait!

Chapter 81: Finally

Notes:

Here it is, guys. The big one. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter Text

The most memorable part was the sting.

Not the knowledge, not the events, simply the raw, painful emotion he felt when first realizing he had been manipulated and betrayed.

He had backed up as if struck, his legs were shaky and he couldn’t catch his breath. For the first time in his life, he truly felt helpless, and weak. Not the same weakness he experienced when bleeding himself to help Regis recover; this was something entirely different, and new – something much worse.

He had been wounded, before, had his chest clawed and face shredded, even lost limbs, but all had recovered easily in a short time. The pain Dettlaff experienced at that moment, however, was something deep, and aching, desperately and agonizingly untouchable. There was no recovering from this type of wound, where it felt like a beast had burrowed into his chest and was trying to gouge its way out as viciously and as violently as possible.

His mind tried to convince him otherwise, that the Witcher was simply mistaken, or that his investigation had not been thorough enough. But as he pondered the evidence, he looked over to Regis, whose sad, hardened face and demeanor meant he had realized it was the truth, as well, and Dettlaff had had no choice but to accept it. He tensed his jaw and gritted his teeth at the pain ripped through him.

He remembered her trying to smile, approaching him as if to comfort or convince him. It was the smile that turned his pain into rage. He wrapped his hand around her throat and slammed her against the wall, his rage overcoming him briefly before he realized what he was doing and dropped her to her feet with chagrin. He could barely stomach seeing her face, but managed to rasp out a demand for her to meet him at Tesham Mutna in three days’ time to give him an explanation, and allow himself to cool. He warned that her failure to come would have dire repercussions for the duchy – he knew, at this point, she was not to be trusted. She had not even told him her real name – trust was something she was no longer privileged to receive from him. Dettlaff needed to assure she would appear.

He thought it calm. He thought it reasonable.

But the Duchess did not.

She had tried to keep Syanna from him. From facing him. From facing punishment. Dettlaff waited for the three days he had allowed, and his anger had not abated. In fact, it had grown – Syanna’s absence from Tesham Mutna only confirmed her guilt further.

She knows she is guilty. Perhaps she is thinking of an excuse, or another way to try to manipulate me,” he thought. He began pacing again in the small, underground cave that an ekimmara had fled and left empty when sensing his anger. The cool dank of the cave, comforting though it would be under ordinary circumstances, did nothing to better his mood. He lashed out with his claws, dragging them through the stone walls and gouging them deeply, sparks flying. Dettlaff continued this for several minutes before finally tiring and collapsing on the floor of the cave, weeping into his hands. “She did not love me,” he sobbed. “Was my love for her not enough? Why did she not tell me she was unhappy? I must have been able to do something to fix things! It is my fault. She was suffering, and I did not even notice. It’s all my fault.”

He wept and mourned bitterly for several moments before his thoughts intruded on him again.

Perhaps she did not love you at all,” his mind said. He stopped crying and sat up straighter, a massive frown crossing his features. “The Witcher warned you what she had done was all a ploy to help herself. Perhaps she had intended it from the beginning.”

Dettlaff shook his head, attempting to argue with himself, but the words rang unfortunately true the more he thought of them, and anger began to rise within him again.

She merely tolerated you so she could get what she wanted. Even if she had loved you from the start, she obviously felt it no longer, and only reached out for your help again – indirectly, adding insult – once she felt you might be useful. She did not reach out to you out of affection, desire, or love; her only intent was to use you from afar to get what she wanted – revenge.”

Dettlaff’s blood began to boil and he stood, hunching his shoulders and clenching his fists in rage, blood pouring from his hands as his long, sharp nails bit into the flesh of his palms.

That is all she wanted – revenge. That is why she used me. To achieve this for herself without getting her hands dirty. I was merely a useful tool for her.” He bared his teeth and roared. “If it is revenge she wants, it is revenge she shall get.”

The Duchess’ refusal to release her, her blatant disrespect despite his reasonable demand, must be met with an equal blow. He must show her that his threat was not idle – that Beauclair would suffer the consequences of her defiance.

So he mustered his strength.

And he called out.

Alps, bruxae, ekimmaras, garkains, fleders, katakans – all rose into the sky at his command, and fell upon the duchy in a dark cloud of wings and fangs. And still, still the Duchess did not release her sister.

But, to their credit, the Witcher and Regis had gone to great lengths to assure she would do just that. However, she had still refused, and they resorted to freeing her by force. He had kept watch over the city and his vampires’ attacks from the rooftops of Beauclair, until finally, a raven from Regis informed him that she was finally, indeed, awaiting him at Tesham Mutna.

He breathed deeply, still attempting to soothe his nerves, but knowing easily what he must do.

He transformed into mist and traveled unseen through the woods and vineyards, his fury rising with every passing field, until finally, he was outside the ruins. He could smell her already, as well as Regis and the Witcher, and despite not having a solid form, he could feel the anger and rage burning inside of him once more. He surrounded her as mist, misaddressing her as Rhenawedd at first, then correcting himself and taking his physical form once more.

He needed to ask. He needed to know, despite the pain it would cause.

Did she ever love me? Truly?

I’ve a question I must ask you,” he hissed as he took shape. She flinched away from him, cowered for a moment, unsure and concerned. “Did you truly feign it all? That which bound us was a... ruse?”

Dettlaff could smell her fear in that moment, which honestly somewhat surprised him.

 

He recalled their first meeting in Metinna, when she had followed him out of a fence’s shop, down the streets and eventually, into an alleyway where he had morphed into his vampiric form and pretended to ambush her to frighten her away.

Why is she following me?” he had thought, terrified that he was found out, and would be hounded until he was either dismembered or chased from the land. He wanted neither, simply solitude, and the solace found therein.

When he bared his fangs and lunged at her, however, intending to frighten her away, she did not flinch. She did not scream. She simply beheld him, and asked what he was.

Are you not afraid?” he had snarled.
“Should I be? If so, why do you not attack?” she had asked, and Dettlaff had remained silent, but lowered his head and examined her strangely. She had continued with an air of haughtiness that bordered on contempt. “I don’t feel as though you wish me ill. In fact… you seem rather frightened, yourself.”

It was then he knew he wished to be with her. Sooner than he dared hope they had become romantic, a relationship Rh… Syanna had initiated, but Dettlaff had had no qualms about complying with. Even after they had been together for some time, when most human couples fall into ruts or out of love, even when she yanked herself from his grip, or chided him about his claws or fangs, Dettlaff loved her unconditionally. “She accepts me,” he told himself. “She knows what I am and still chooses to stay,” convincing himself she was merely tired at the time, or teasing him. Still, he lavished her with attention, drawings, jewelry and delicate clothing, flowers, sweets – and above all, affection. He clung to her like the grapevines to the short trellises in the vineyards, telling her always how much he adored and desired her. Even when she doubted him, or became irritated by his attention, he merely continued, lathering it on her heavily in hopes she would come around and learn to be appreciated the way she deserved. To be loved.

Still, it had not been enough. Still, she had abandoned him, and now he knew. He had always figured she had simply run afoul of some bandits, or another monstrous human intent on harming her – but no, she had left of her own accord. She was his mate. She was a part of his pack. And yet still – she had abandoned him. Willingly. She had not even told him why. She simply vanished, with not a care or thought as to what they had had together, which made him realize… was nothing.

He thought back to her rescue at Dun Tynne, when he was tearing through the army of filthy men protecting he thought were imprisoning her, fury not filling him despite the situation, but rather, hope. He was hoping to save Rhenawedd, hoping to see her face again, feel her in his arms, smell the perfume of her hair. And when the slaughter was over and he approached the door behind which he knew she was captive, he transformed himself back into his human form, knowing that was what pleased her most, praying desperately within himself that she was not hurt. He had opened the door and to his great relief, she was fine. Shaken, but seemingly grateful to see him, placing her hands on his back gently as she embraced him, telling him she knew he would come, that she had merely just been waiting. The happiness that had filled him at the moment was sweeter than any honey or wine, safe in the knowledge that the woman he loved most in this world was safe, and his, once more.

But that was before… before he had learned the truth just moments later.

 

Dettlaff’s fury rose again as she reached forward in a vulgar mockery of affection, smiling the way she always used to when she wanted something and would beg him prettily for it, Dettlaff complying with her wishes almost instantly like a well-trained dog. Her gray eyes shone and he noticed with disgust that she was reaching towards his chest to stroke it in affection, placing her hand above his heart the way she used to when pleading for something. He jerked back in repulsion, startling her further.

She had seen his anger before, but never, not once had it ever been directed at her. She became more nervous, then, the fear of his unknown and unfamiliar reactions making her heart pound. She was sure he could hear it, which only made it pound that much faster.

Dettlaff,” she tried softly, reaching towards his face to stroke his cheek, “It’s not that simple. I…”

The feel of her hand against him again made his stomach turn, and not in the delicate, pleasurable way it had used to at her touch, but rather in pure and utter disgust and repulsion. And anger. He could not tolerate the falseness of her words, her affections any longer, and scowled deeply.

Oh no. It’s very simple. You either deceived me… or not.” he growled, reaching up and grabbing her wrist tightly, jerking it away from himself and squeezing harshly.

She grunted in pain and panic, squirming intensely as she realized what was about to happen to her. He knew then what he had truly meant to her. There was no love she held for him, and there never had been – her simple plea of “it’s not that simple” instead of a statement of love, or kindness, or merely a single tear shed in guilt, even when he had grasped her wrist and she merely panicked instead of professing her feelings for him – that was admission enough that she had only ever simply used him. Manipulated him. Despite knowing how deeply he loved and adored her, she felt nothing for him. Dettlaff could see in his peripherals that Geralt and Regis were running towards him, but it was too late. A firm, cool clarity had settled over him as he made his decision. He had already chosen his path, and hers.

In forgiving you, I grieve, for now we must part.”

He thrust forward with his extended claws, but instead of sinking into her flesh, they merely disturbed a cloud of flowers that suddenly appeared where the form of Syanna had been just a second ago, a thin ribbon fluttering down to settle amongst the petals on the ground. Fury consumed him once more as he realized that he had been duped.

Hah. Seems I’ve been fooled, again.”

He transformed fully into his vampiric state, clawing at the ground and gesticulating wildly in rage.

She will pay for this. Sooner or later, she will pay.”

His gaze flew up to see Regis and Geralt both standing there, staring in concern and astonishment. “It is his fault,” he thought, eyeing up the Witcher with disdain and humiliation, and above all, anger. This must have been his plan all along, to help Syanna and trick Dettlaff simply because he was a monster, and that was the Witcher’s job, to stop him.

You never should have meddled, Witcher.”

He vanished into smoke, reappearing much closer to his foe, leaning forward, claws readied, fangs bared, ready for the revenge he sought so much. To his great surprise, however, Regis flew at him from his right, also in his vampiric form, tackling him harshly and rolling with him along the ground, grabbing the back of his collar and throwing him forward against a stone wall. Dettlaff felt his arm dislocate from the blow, looking back up to Regis in shock, which quickly turned to burning anger and a more deepened sense of betrayal as his friend shook his head for him to stop. But it was too late for that. There was no more rational thought, merely a heated, pulsing fury that consumed every fiber of his being; it flowed through him like blood itself, powering his every action and emotion. Dettlaff stood, righting himself and popping his arm into its socket with a sickening crack. He bared his claws and fangs again, snarling.

So,” he thought,this is how it is to be. Very well, then.”

Regis roared back, sparks flying from his claws as he grated them together and launched at Dettlaff quickly. They tumbled through a wall, rolling and clawing at one another, the two of them twirling around and through the air in some gross pantomime of a delicate ballet. They scratched and snarled, fangs flashing in the moonlight, but neither could get the better of the other, until, arms wrapped about the other’s in a stalemate, Dettlaff hissed and used both of his legs to jump up and kick Regis square in the chest. He tumbled backwards, and the younger vampire used this opportunity to leap forward and deal a blow. It was blocked, however, by the Witcher, using his sword to defend his friend despite the uneven odds. Still, he managed to get a slice in across his chest, and Dettlaff stumbled forward, coughing and holding the wound. Regis had found his feet again and wrapped a strong hand around his throat, throwing him to the ground and brandishing his claws above him, urging him to concede.

The two vampires locked eyes, and Dettlaff could still sense his friend through their blood bond. Regis’ eyes and emotions were pleading with him to stop, please, please, just stop. It was over. He could help him.

Geralt brandished his blade and swung forward, Regis panicking and holding up a hand to stop him. Dettlaff used the opportunity to phase into his black and red mist, appearing behind Regis quickly and piercing him through his back with his claws, tossing him aside. Geralt tried to attack him again, but he was too quick, shifting into mist, grabbing Regis and throwing him into a wall which collapsed onto him, knocking him out and imprisoning him temporarily.

Geralt gritted his teeth, scowled deeply, and held his blade, ready for the fight. Dettlaff grated his claws together to create sparks and intimidate his new prey. Then he attacked.

I wanted just the lass. You tricked me, both of you.”
“Didn’t plan any of it,” Geralt tried stoically.
“Silence!”

They fought. Dettlaff felt he had the much better advantage himself, not just because of his physical prowess and powers, but knowing he was essentially immortal and any wounds inflicted would eventually heal, thus giving him little to no sense of self-preservation, no urge or need to hold back, making him frighteningly dangerous. However, a weakness in himself he did not consider a disadvantage was his anger. He felt it fueled him, made him stronger, however, mostly it just made him sloppier than he should have been. He took risks in his attacks, which left hi s back open to Geralt time and time again, who used the vampire’s carelessness to his advantage, getting hits in and wounding him more deeply than Dettlaff was used to . The Witcher used his magic to halt or try to harm him, but Dettlaff was still not giving up. They fought and fought until eventually, Dettlaff had taken enough hits and was livid with his lack of progress. He regretfully admitted to himself that the man was a better fighter than he had first suspected.

The vampire fell on his knees, wounded, clutching at his collar and roaring as his skin became smoother and his eyes vanished, his fangs growing and the bloody spikes of his extra appendages and wings slicing through the flesh of his back. He grew staggeringly large, faster, deadlier. His massive, leathery wings spread out impossibly far and he flapped them, sending dust and debris flying towards the Witcher as Dettlaff launched himself into the air.

Enough, he thought, growling, his voice low and monstrous, emitting a furious scream of anger and frustration.

If you acknowledge any gods… start praying, now.”

Dettlaff did not hesitate to lunge through the air at the Witcher, slashing towards him with his claws and wings, but Geralt cast aard at him, knocking him down from the air as it hit his wings. He hit the ground and the Witcher immediately began his assault, slicing him with his silver sword and keeping a focus on his wings. Dettlaff shouted in fury, taking to the air again as he recovered, summoning a flurry of bats to attack him and drain him of vitality. He was quick to dodge them, however, and suffered only minor injuries. He tried making spiked pools of his blood on the ground with which to trap and drain the Witcher, but again, he managed to dodge them and take him out of the air once more with his magic. Dettlaff was beyond rational thought; he lunged at Geralt with nothing but raw, careless fury and it cost him his wings, the Witcher slicing them from his back as he dodged the vampire’s blow and used his momentum to sever the appendages. Apoplectic, Dettlaff lunged at him again, managing to mount him and force him to the ground as he bit his neck and drank from him greedily, roaring in triumph. Geralt cast aard again, tossing the vampire from him, and it was then that Dettlaff decided to try his last and final form.

He entombed the Witcher in a giant dome made of his flesh, cocooned within a beating, pulsating sack rather like a heart to try to recover, sending a figure made out of his own blood to try to fight his enemy back.

Do you think that you will stop me?” he asked, still confident. “Prepare to die, Witcher!”

It was over in a matter of minutes, however – Geralt managed to sever the beating valves that kept his massive, fleshy form functioning, and Dettlaff was forced to resume the fight in his last form, his wings still missing from his back. As he tried to climb to his feet and recover, the Witcher did not hesitate, and instead continued attacking, Dettlaff finally collapsing on the ground, gasping as his torso was cut in two. His body tried to recuperate naturally, but he was too tired. So very tired.

Thoughts and rationality returned to him as the fight ended and he could focus within again.

From afar, he could hear Regis groan as he lifted himself from the rubble, and a small spark of hope emerged from the gloom and pain he had been forced to endure for what seemed like an endless span of time.

Regis.

While Geralt went to help their mutual friend, Dettlaff twitched on the ground, savoring the pain inside of him more deeply than the physical wounds he was currently suffering through. There was nothing left in this world for him – his anger, his bestial nature, his neediness and insecurity, the impulses he could not control, all in the physical form of a vampire’s predatory body – he was a monster, through and through, and no monster in this world was ever meant to experience love. That was why Syanna had betrayed him. That was why she had left him. He was simply unlovable. There was no place for him in this world, and it was better to be done with it altogether.

He begged him, internally, but their bond made it echo and penetrate Regis’ very core. He knew his friend could sense it, knew now what he desired. Simply an end to his suffering. Dettlaff knew what he was, and knew nothing could ever change it. He merely accepted his form and his fate, and that both should end at the hands – or fangs – of the one in this life who truly knew what it was like to be the wolf in sheep’s clothing, to wear the mask of one’s prey even while struggling not to tear their throat out. However, his friend had failed. He did not understand after all, for if he had, he would not have made the cruel choice to allow Dettlaff to live with his pain. Noble though his intentions were, Dettlaff would always need to live with the knowledge of what he was.

A monster.

 

Dettlaff recalled those emotions now, and it was as if the wound was made anew. The rage, the fury, the desperate, drowning frustration of self-loathing and hatred began to consume him as they had three years ago, when he had first faced them, all due to Syanna.

No, he corrected himself, Not just her. But because of myself, as well. I am simply an animal, and human deceit and manipulations are beyond my ken. I lashed out due to my own ignorance and emotions – the latter of which I cannot control, no matter how hard I try. How can one – especially one as monstrous as I – ever hope to overcome their own nature?

He seethed as they continued running, Dettlaff’s back itching to release his wings and extra appendages, yearning with a deep, throbbing, furious ache to shed his human and less-human forms to become the horror he was seen as anyway. He wanted to sow destruction, feel blood beneath his claws – simply put, he wanted to lose control.

Regis could sense it, too.

Dettlaff could feel his unease in return, prickling at the thought of his concern and need to attempt to control him. It only irritated him further, and he found himself baring and gritting his sharp fangs more tightly than he had intended, one of them snapping with a crack he knew they all heard due to their supernatural senses. He hissed, tonguing the fang gently as it already began to heal, but he felt Regis’ presence behind him immediately. Dettlaff tensed again at his approach, though the older vampire was sensitive enough to still keep a polite distance between them.

“My friend,” he asked softly, “Are you sure you can handle this?”

Dettlaff’s first instinct was to whirl on him, to lash out verbally and, if need be, physically, threatening him to save his lectures for one who could be saved. But something inside suddenly cooled him slightly; the memory of Regis peering at him through the bars of his cage in Tesham Mutna after refusing to kill him, nothing but deep care and unfathomable kindness emanating from him. The patience and gentleness he always radiated was so strong then it nearly burned Dettlaff, who was the direct, nearly-absolute antithesis of everything Regis represented. He was cruel, impatient, overly emotional, had little to no regard for humans or their problems, and existed as a cold, solitary being, content to starve himself of all companionship to avoid the annoyance or pain of it all. And yet there was Regis, soft and comforting, determined to help Dettlaff despite everything he had done.

Why?

What did the older vampire ever see in him that was worth saving?

Dettlaff shuddered at the sudden rush of contrary emotions he had been feeling, nearly sick at experiencing the abrupt juxtaposition. He halted, Regis finally closing the gap between them as Geralt stood a respectful distance away, kneeling down to meditate.

“There is little choice, now,” Dettlaff finally responded, his voice hoarse.

Regis slowly reached a hand up to rest on his friend and lover’s shoulder, pressing his forehead gently against the base of his neck.

“You always have a choice, Dettlaff,” he whispered.
“She has harmed Fjola,” the younger vampire said, his anger rising again as his nostrils flared and he began breathing quickly through his bared fangs. “You would let that go?”
“If she is still safe, and we can retrieve her without further mess, then yes, I would.”
“You understand nothing,” he hissed, jerking himself away from Regis, who sighed.
“Please, Dettlaff – please remember everything I’ve tried to teach you.”
“Do you really wish to protect Syanna in all this?” he asked, finally turning around to face his friend. “After everything she’s done to me, and through me, you – you would still defend her life? What about Fjola? Hm? Do her life and safety mean nothing to you? Why do you protect that heartless wench Syanna so?”

Dettlaff’s voice had risen to a shout, Regis’ exponentially falling quieter.

“Because it is not her I am protecting,” he said, incredibly gently.

Dettlaff merely gaped at him for a moment before scowling deeply again and turning away.

“Come,” he snarled, “It is time to be done with this.”

Regis nodded sadly, Geralt getting to his feet and sharing a heavy look with the older vampire as they continued on their path.

 

*

 

Syanna heard a limb crack and whirled just in time to see a flash of black leather brush past her, something white and glistening flashing near where her throat had been just half a second before. She gasped and clutched her prisoner, bringing her against her chest tightly and backing against a thick, moss-covered outcropping of rock, lifting her hunting blade to Fjola’s throat and glaring.

“If you try that again,” she shouted, “The little harlot will suffer!”

There was a long, seemingly endless span of time where a deafening silence fell over the Caroberta woods. Not even the birds were singing. Syanna gripped her captive more tightly to her, sensing something ominous and deadly amidst the trees. Slowly, a dark figure slid out from the forest, and Syanna’s heart sank.

It really is him.

Dettlaff approached her with very small steps, his long, vampiric claws readied and fangs bared. His chin was tilted down, but his feral blue eyes stared back up at her from under his brow, terrifying and emanating a raw, dangerous power.

“Syanna,” he said, almost silkily.

He glanced at Fjola and for the briefest of seconds, his expression softened. Syanna barely caught it, but it was there.

Ah, she thought, My advantage.

She raised her chin somewhat haughtily, setting her jaw and smirking.

“Lover,” she sneered, trying to put on a bravado she did not quite feel inside. Dettlaff hissed in disgust.
“Let her go,” he commanded. “And I might just let you live.”
“Let me go,” she countered nastily, “And I might just let the girl live.”

Dettlaff’s fingers twitched and his face crinkled in a snarl. Syanna sneered again.

“You’re fast, Dettlaff – but do you trust your speed against, say, my blade? Do you really trust it?” she asked, pointedly sticking her knife further into Fjola’s neck, where a small droplet of blood emerged and slithered down the metal.

Fjola tried not to hiss in pain, but she flinched somewhat and Dettlaff felt a hot, burning violence build inside of himself. His heart began pounding and he found himself sinking into the usual mind-numbing fog he experienced during moments of high duress or anger. He was quickly reaching the point at which his feral, vampiric instincts would take over and all rational thought would cease. He wanted to keep control of himself, for Fjola’s sake, but found it impossible to do so over the sight and smell of her blood and fear. He growled ominously, but kept his ground, the two of them staring each other down in a terrified, furious stalemate. Further away, out of Syanna’s earshot, Geralt and Regis lied in wait.

“Regis,” the Witcher whispered, “You gonna go the distraction route we discussed or what? I need to know if I’m gonna help.”

Regis sighed, and to Geralt’s surprise and dismay, he noticed the elder vampire’s hands and chin were trembling. He tilted his head back in surprise, but suddenly felt guilty, trying to look away and pretend he did not notice. Regis had, however.

“It’s alright, my friend,” the vampire said with a shaky smile. “I’ve faced down much worse than her… which I’m well-aware you recall, and in no doubt great detail.”
“Vilgefortz didn’t have someone you love held at the end of his weapon,” Geralt felt obligated to point out.
“No, but he did have someone you love in his grasp. Ciri was – is – important to you. I’d not have risked her life, either.”

Geralt clapped Regis on the shoulder gently and squeezed.

“I know. And thanks, Regis. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay you for what you’ve done… but I can try. What are you going to do?”
“I sacrificed nothing but some time, comfort, and peace of mind… eh, but now is not the time for that. Dettlaff… I do not think he will be able to stay rational for long,” he said with a small tilt of his head, gesturing toward where he and Syanna were at a standstill. “I can try to come up behind Syanna, as we initially planned, but… the position of her knife…” Regis looked doubtful and ashamed. “I am humiliated to admit that I doubt my talents and gifts. I am terrified of being just a half of a heartbeat too slow, what it would mean…”

Regis sounded choked, grasping at his collar and clearing his throat softly.

“Ahem. Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive, Regis.”

They looked at each other appreciatively for a moment before Regis steeled his face, sniffing a little and nodding towards Dettlaff, Syanna, and Fjola.

“What’s the plan?” Geralt reiterated.
“I’m caught between sneaking up on her as mist, or approaching gently and trying to reason with her.”
“Both sound stupid.”
“I suppose you have a better idea?” Regis asked with an offended air.
“Yeah. Join Dettlaff, since she’s probably expecting you, too. But who she won’t suspect is me.”
“What do you plan on doing?” the vampire asked, somewhat irate. “Try to convince her you’re on her side? Or there to protect her?” He snorted. “And your reflexes are indeed fast, my friend, far faster than hers, but not as quick as a vampire’s. If I don’t trust my own speed, I don’t trust yours, either. With my apologies.”
“No offense taken. But that’s not what I had in mind. I’m gonna use axii, try to…” Geralt tried, but Regis was already shaking his head.
“Absolutely not. Axii works only about half the time for you, there’s no guarantee as to its efficacy, and, I hate to admit it, but, Syanna is not easily persuaded or swayed. Her intelligence certainly outstrips the common bandit’s by a very far margin. I doubt whether your cast would even work, let alone last.”
“Hm. What about…”

They were in the middle of this argument, Regis getting more frustrated and tense by the second before suddenly, they heard the roar of horse hooves and barking of several dogs. They looked quickly over to the trio still conversing and in a physical standstill, Dettlaff halting mid-sentence and baring his teeth and claws, readying himself for whatever fight might be approaching.

“It wouldn’t be her clan of bandits, would it? Yennefer would not have allowed any to escape, certainly, and I doubt Syanna would risk having reserves outside the book, knowing they could be killed or captured by her sister…” Regis began sniffing the air.
“No, no, this is…” Geralt started, but suddenly, a beautiful, massive horse cut through the forest and up the path behind Dettlaff, slamming itself to a stop along with a pair of hunting dogs as it smelled the vampire and panicked. It was the Duchess, who was holding a long, thin sword, her hair windswept and tangled, a wild, desperate look on her face as she beheld the scene before her. A small group of knights and guards brought up the rear behind her, freezing as she had and waiting uncertainly for her command, several of them looking terrified at the sight of the furious vampire. He hissed and flexed his claws, and it was at that time Regis and Geralt decided to reveal themselves, jumping into the fray quickly to try to prevent any bloodshed.

It was a bizarre scene – Syanna had Fjola in her grasp, the tip of her knife still poking into her flesh, Anna Henrietta was still mounted on her jerking horse, sword in hand and small, armor-clad retinue behind her, Dettlaff between them and becoming increasingly more agitated with every passing second. Geralt and Regis joined at the side, Regis locking eyes with Fjola and trying desperately to calm himself so she would not be able to sense his panic. He mouthed, I’m here to comfort her and she smiled appreciatively, but she could still sense his and Dettlaff’s anxiety and fear. Regis could tell by the look on her face, and made an apologetic expression. It’s okay, she mouthed.

“Stand down, vampire!” Anna Henrietta shouted, brandishing her blade. “Or you’ll taste steel!”

Silver would be more effective, Geralt couldn’t help but quip internally, though just barely.

Dettlaff only growled in response, flexing the muscles of his shoulders, his eyes darting between the two sisters as he contemplated. The older vampire could sense that Dettlaff was considering taking the Duchess as a hostage, but the two of them made eye contact, and Regis shook his head, giving him a desperately pleading look. Dettlaff blinked, relaxing his shoulders almost imperceptibly.

Good, Regis thought, he is still capable of at least a little rational thought.

“Back off, Anna!” Syanna yelled, jerking Fjola closer against her. “I’m going to leave here in one way or another, but if you don’t leave, your meddling will ensure it’s in pieces instead of on horseback!” Her eyes went to Dettlaff significantly.

The Duchess understood, and seemed between rage and bitter sadness.

“I still don’t understand your desire to leave at all,” she said, readjusting herself in the saddle. “After everything I’ve done for you – keeping you safe, and fed, cared for, given the finest food, clothes, and jewelry – all I’ve ever asked is for you to be my sister!”
“You imprisoned me in the palace with armed guards!”
“For your safety!”
“Fuck safety,” Syanna shot, her face turning a deeper shade of scarlet, “All I ever wanted was a sister – one who allowed me my freedoms, instead of keeping me caged like a dumb, pretty little bird!”
“The public would have torn you apart,” Anna argued defensively. Her eyes flitted to Dettlaff and scowled. “After everything… the mess the two of you made…”
“I care not for the trouble you think I caused,” Dettlaff growled, “I was cheated of justice. Let me take it now, as well as my mates, and we will flee the duchy for good. I swear to you that I will never seek to return to this land again… as long as you grant me my request.”
“And let you kill my sister?” the Duchess shrieked. “I’d rather be torn to shreds myself.”
“I can arrange that,” Dettlaff muttered through his fangs.

At his threat, the guards and knights finally found themselves, leaping forward towards him and attacking en masse.

Fjola screamed and tried to extricate herself from Syanna’s grasp, but her knife was still pressed against her throat rather insistently, and she could not try to escape with grievously harming or killing herself. She writhed in panic as the horde fell on Dettlaff.

“Shit,” Geralt swore, Regis suddenly pushing him back hard, away from the fight as he changed into his vampiric self and fell upon Dettlaff’s attackers. The Duchess’ horse panicked and finally tossed her from the saddle, fleeing back down the path with the dogs as she swore and chased it for a small distance before throwing her hands up in anger and whirling around, raising her sword and intending to join her soldiers. Geralt righted himself and saw her bearing down on Dettlaff; he used aard instantly to try to knock her off-balance before she could get herself killed. While he was too far and it did not topple her due to the force becoming weaker over the distance, she did stumble, and it was enough for Geralt to run up and grab her, yanking her away from the whirl and clash of vampire fangs and soldiers' blades.

“Are you insane?” he asked. “It was difficult enough for me to ever tangle with one of them, let alone two, let alone being a…”
“Woman?” she spat.
“No,” he said. “Just not a Witcher.”

She scowled at his words, still clutching her sword as she watched her knights and guards get thrown to the side or clawed deeply, though not fatally. Geralt knit his brows at this, noticing the peculiarity.

He’s not aiming to kill them, he thought with surprise. He’s incapacitating and injuring, but not killing. Regis… He looked to his friend, who was attacking in the same measured manner. Regis must have had an impact, after all.

The two vampires were practically dancing in the thick of their enemies, backs to each other for protection – not that they needed it – and moving unfathomably fast, disappearing and reappearing, smoke one second and claws and fangs the next. It was all happening in the blink of an eye, their foes either dropping where they lay, clutching an incapacitating wound, or being thrown a considerable distance away against a tree, where they were promptly knocked unconscious or otherwise disabled. The Duchess watched on in incredulous horror, dropping her sword and clutching Geralt in anger and awe. Suddenly, however, one of the knights saw an opening and took it, his sword piercing Dettlaff from behind and out through his chest. Fjola screamed in horror, writhing again and catching Syanna by surprise, who jerked the knife awkwardly to keep her grip. The blade sliced an inch-long wound into her neck, and though it had fortunately missed her jugular, Regis nevertheless cringed, his stomach knotting at the thought of what was inevitably coming next.

Dettlaff roared, grabbing the sword through his chest and slicing it cleanly across the blade, stepping away from the stump of it to free himself and turning on the knight who had harmed him. He glanced up at Fjola, who was gritting her teeth in pain and trying to staunch the bleeding of her throat with her fingers. He began breathing heavily, looking to Regis, who could do nothing but step away, a pained, horrified expression on his weathered features. He knew there was no talking him out of this, now. They had hurt her again, and the thick smell of her blood in his nostrils, coupled with the painful wound in his chest and the situation itself, sent him into a frenzy.

He roared again, rearing back and stretching his arms wide as he began to grow impossibly large, his clothes tearing from him as they became too small and split at the seams. He stumbled and bent forward in pain as the sharp, clawed tips of his wings and extra appendages ripped through his skin, blood flowing down his back as they grew and spread into a menacing posture. His eyes vanished, his cheekbones jutted, and his mouth grew razor-sharp fangs that screamed death and dismay. He completed his transition to his fully vampiric, bat-like form, the last remaining few knights exchanging horrified, defeated glances before raising their blades, knowing it was going to be futile. Syanna lowered her knife slightly, awestruck, and Regis saw this as his opportunity to try to reason with her, approaching slowly and gently, back in his human form, hands raised in supplication.

“Syanna,” he pleaded, and she jerked the knife back up to Fjola’s throat.
“Don’t come any closer!” she snapped. Regis stopped, though kept his black eyes trained on her, unwavering.
“Please,” he said softly. “Just let her go.”
“I’m dead if I do!” she shouted.
“You’re dead if you don’t,” he said.
“Then what does it matter? At least I can take his whore with me when he comes for me.”

Regis flinched at the word, lowering his head slightly, dangerously.

“For that, I’d kill you myself,” he warned, his tone dangerous, “But none of the outcomes we’ve discussed so far are fruitful. I may remind you that even several years ago, knowing what the epitome of evil you are, I was still willing to protect you from Dettlaff. And I can do that again.”
“Why would you bother?” she snapped. “You’ve no reason to protect me.”
“That is true – if I were a more callous being, I’d tell you exactly how I’d wish to see you perish in the fire and hell of your own making – but as it is, I’m not going to. Because while I have no interest in protecting you, I do wish to protect Fjola. And Dettlaff.”
“Dettlaff doesn’t seem to need any help,” she spat, gesturing towards him as they watched him fling a rather broad knight in full plate armor through the air and against a tree.
“Oh,” said Regis, stepping slightly closer, “But he does.”

Syanna looked to the older vampire in fright, tightening the blade at Fjola’s throat after noticing how close he had gotten.

“What would he ever need protection from?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“From grief,” Regis said softly, sadly. “And from himself, and the terrible atrocities he will cause if he has to try to come to terms with that grief. Especially knowing it could have been stopped.”
“How?”
“By killing you.”

She looked annoyed at first, then, truly a little scared. She quickly steeled herself, however, scoffing and shaking her head.

“I do not fear death,” she hissed. “At least I would no longer be a prisoner.”
“If you release Fjola right now, I promise you, I shall help you escape if it comes to that.”
“Dettlaff will still kill me. Look at him.”

They all glanced back to Dettlaff, who was quickly dispatching the remaining knights and guards one by one, Geralt still standing aside to keep the Duchess safe. He wouldn’t dare leave her open for attack.

“I’d never seen him like that, before,” she nearly whispered. Her face wrinkled in disgust and Fjola saw and was furious. “He truly is a monster.”
“One you created, Syanna,” Regis scolded, though softly. “Every action you have taken against him has burned him so,” he pressed. “Every lie, every manipulation, toying with his emotions like a child tearing the wings from a fly. Do you imagine such pain and cruelty would create any pleasant thing in this world? Or do you realize now that it only serves to make the wounded, feral being before you, fighting once again for the small scrap of love he found in a world that serves only to hurt and to exploit?” He stepped closer to her once again, and Syanna’s blade trembled in her grasp. “You broke him years ago, Syanna. You destroyed every single speck of desire to so much as merely live that existed inside of him – he begged me to take his life from him because he simply could not bear the pain you had caused him. He felt that there was nothing left in this world to enjoy, no place for him, no possible means of ever finding love or acceptance. You took that from him. And now – now that he has finally recreated himself, and done the impossible – found new love, and a family – you intend to just take that away, for no other reason than you don’t want to be served in a palace every day and have to suffer guards treating you with snide remarks as they bring you wine and delicacies.”

Regis’ face twisted into a hateful sneer, and it chilled Fjola’s blood to see that kind of spite and disgust cross her older lover’s features, moreso than Dettlaff’s feral form ever could – it simply didn’t belong, and it pained her to see him, the most patient, empathetic person she had ever met, brought to such a point.

“You are a tragedy of a human being,” he seethed, his face dark, his black eyes wild and glinting. “You only take things, and give nothing in return but cruelty and a hard lesson in what selfishness really means.” Regis’ face twisted again, almost as if he were going to spit on her, but he didn’t. “You are, simply put, pure evil. It was not the curse of the Black Sun that made you so, it was just you. Your experiences turned you hard, and vicious, which would have better served society if you used those disasters to inspire you to do better for others, as Fjola had, to remember what it’s truly like to be at the sharp end of the stick and realize that’s not something you wish to perpetuate. Instead, you merely turned to the world and said, ‘I shall do whatever I wish because my life was hard.’” He bared a fang in repulsion. “You did nothing but become every horrible thing you experienced in this world.” Syanna looked back up at him in alarm, her eyes glistening and watery. “You are a travesty,” Regis hissed, his face mere inches from her own, “And a monster.”

Syanna finally realized there really was no way she could win anymore. Even if Dettlaff was defeated and she was safe from harm, Anna Henrietta would imprison her again for sure, only enforcing more strict protections and rules, controlling and orchestrating her entire life from now until the day she died. Not that it mattered anymore, anyway – her life had been a waste, and Regis was right – she had only become the same type of monster that she had spent her whole life hating and despising. Her parents who had selfishly tossed her out to avoid having to deal with her or trying to nurture her when they knew she was never going to be fit to rule, the knights who had beaten and abused her to satisfy their own sick needs, the others in her life who had merely just tried to take, take, take, because the entire world was shit and it was easier to find happiness for yourself by any cruel means necessary than it was to try to fight against it or create it for others. The blade dropped from her hand and Fjola immediately pushed away from her, raising her fist to try to beat her again, but Regis yanked her back away immediately, wrapping his arms about her protectively and watching the now-weeping Syanna as she collapsed onto her knees and sobbed like a child.

Dettlaff’s enraged, triumphant roar suddenly ripped through the forest, startling them all. The Duchess’ soldiers had all been dispatched in one way or another, and, seeing Syanna presumably defeated, moved like lightning towards them, on them in an instant as he grabbed his former lover by the throat and slammed her against the stone cliff behind her. Fjola yelped, but Regis covered her mouth and stepped away, trying to turn her so that she would not see what was about to happen. Dettlaff’s grip tightened and Syanna’s face began to turn purple, her legs kicking out fruitlessly as he brought his fangs an inch away from her and roared. Fjola looked desperately to Geralt, but he and Regis were exchanging looks – she could sense Regis urgency, and almost hear his plea to get the Duchess out of there, now.

Helpless and horrified, Fjola did the only thing she knew how to do in a crisis. She put her sense of self-preservation aside, yanked herself unexpectedly from Regis’ grasp, and leaped forward towards her other lover and his prey. Regis tried to yell and grab her again, but his fingers merely grazed her arm as she skirted his grasp and placed herself firmly between Dettlaff and the still-struggling Syanna. His head tilted down and she knew he was looking at her in whatever way it was possible for him to do so in this form, growling slightly.

“Dettlaff,” she breathed, bringing her hands up gently, and painstakingly slowly, laying them on his chest and feeling his warmth, sighing with contentment even amidst this terrifying mess. She pressed her head against him there, breathing out slowly and listening to the calming sound of his heart beating. “My love,” she whispered, and his grip on Syanna relaxed, ever so slightly. “My love, please don’t do this.”

She felt a furious growl reverberate within his chest, and rubbed her cheek softly against his skin.

“I know, my love, I know. She hurt you, she hurt you so much, and I hate her for it, too.” She lifted her head back to look him in the face. “I’m not going to pretend to know how you feel,” she said softly. “Even with our bond, and the fact I can still feel you, I know I’ll never be able to know the full breadth of everything she has put you through.” She reached out and felt, faintly, his anger, rage, pain, sadness, feeling as though he was standing at the edge of a deep, black abyss and simply waiting to jump or, more likely, fall. It broke her heart to know he was feeling that way, but bit her lip slightly to stifle her tears and reached up instead to try to stroke his cheek. She could not reach, and Dettlaff hesitated. Finally, after a brief moment, he lowered his head to meet her hands, which went immediately to rest on his bony cheeks, stroking him there affectionately as she gave him a soft smile. He emitted another low growl, and his grip on Syanna relaxed enough that she was able to take in air again, gasping loudly and choking. Dettlaff brought his head down further, nuzzling his face against Fjola’s, something somewhat like a purr rumbling within his chest.

“Let’s just go home, Dettlaff,” she whispered. “I don’t even care where that is – we’ll find a place, and make it one. Just the three of us. Please.”

Dettlaff growled again, his face lifting towards Syanna again. He bared his fangs, and she whimpered.

“Syanna…” Fjola whispered, turning slightly to make eye contact, her face pleading with her.

It took a moment, but soon enough, her face began to soften, she stopped struggling, and she looked back up to Dettlaff with tears in her eyes. She tried to get something out, but it was strangled. He hissed, and she flinched. The red in her face was dissipating for the most part except in her cheeks, which gave the appearance that she was blushing furiously.

“I’m s…” she tried, but began coughing. Her voice was so low it was barely more than a strangled whisper, but then Fjola heard it, distinctly. Rushed, but unmistakable. “I’m sorry.”

Dettlaff snarled in a low tone, his grip tightening for a brief moment.

This is what I wanted, he thought, his rationale returning to him more strongly. I’ve wanted this for years. Syanna, finally in my grasp, at my mercy, about to be punished for everything she has done. His grip tightened ever so slightly again, and he could see her eyes beginning to bulge as they stared at him in fear. I have complete control over her. She is helpless in my grasp. Finally.

He bared his teeth, anger surging within him. He looked back to Fjola, but instead of relief, he saw only sadness there. Something within him lurched, and he returned his gaze to his prey.

I can finally have my revenge, he thought. I can finally make her pay. I can make her see the monster I truly am, just as I see her as the one she is.

Monster.

The word reverberated within him.

Monster.

His grip tightened one last time as he watched her struggling, but he suddenly dropped her immediately, clutching Fjola against himself as though she was going to vanish if he didn’t. He backed away, squeezing her tightly, his body suddenly shaking. Slowly, painstakingly slowly, he began to turn back into his human self, still holding his lover snugly, his face pressing into the crook of her neck where it met her shoulders, smelling deeply as he continued to tremble. Fjola merely wrapped her fingers into his thick black locks, grasping him back tightly and nuzzling her cheek against his head, tilting to kiss his bare shoulders. Dettlaff finally began weeping in earnest, sobbing loudly as Fjola gently guided them both down to their knees, still holding one another as he simply cried out several years’ worth of unbearable pain and sadness.

Regis approached softly, exchanging a look with Geralt, who grabbed the Duchess and Syanna, leading them back down the path and towards Beauclair. He ended up having to carry the older sister, who was having trouble even staying awake, let alone walking. Anna Henrietta was uncharacteristically quiet, lost in thought as they jogged quickly down the path. She spared one last look behind her at the two vampires and their mate, curled against each other in comfort.

“It’s ok,” Fjola whispered into Dettlaff’s ear. He heaved another large sob, his fingers digging into her back as he continued to shake. She wanted to tell him how proud she was of him, how utterly relieved and full of admiration, but knew it would just come out as condescending or patronizing, so instead, she simply continued to hold him and occasionally pepper him with small kisses, whispering to him again, “I love you.”

He shivered against her and she could feel him releasing all of the hateful, bitter emotions he had been building inside of himself for years, something similar happening within Regis, as well. Fjola could feel them both experiencing a wave of blessed relief, a sudden lightness building within them both to fill the vacuum left by the void of darkness that had filled them for years. The three of them simply stayed there for a seemingly endless amount of time, reveling in each other’s presence and taking joy in the fact that, finally, it was over. Finally, they were safe. Finally, they could live.

Chapter 82: Finale

Chapter Text

A few weeks later

 

Fjola stood on the small patio at Corvo Bianco, glancing over the vineyards where Geralt’s laborers were busy tending the grapes that would be harvested in a simple matter of weeks. She recalled with a startling realization that, barely a year before, that had been her, as well.

How much has happened in just a year, Fjola thought. Her mind wandered to her past - eating from the garbage, begging for work, or selling recovered trash just trying to survive, huddling into the dark inner corners of buildings simply to shield herself from the wind. She shivered with rememberance, but suddenly a warm wave of happiness and appreciation overtook her as she recalled how wonderfully things had changed. How Dettlaff had saved her and Regis had tended to her, risking their own exposure just to help someone who needed it. Even when she had been placed back at the Inn, how incredible and unspeakably moving it had been to wake next to a hot bowl of modest stew and a chunk of bread. How Regis had gone out of his way to help Dettlaff, by, fortunately enough, helping her, as well. None of them could possibly have foreseen how things would eventually have turned out - their blossoming friendship and eventual romance - but that just made it all the more wonderful, and she felt a deep appreciation in the pit of her stomach.

She breathed the air in again, savoring it as the sun began to descend in the west, the sky a fiery orange and the fields aglow with like colors.

“Enjoying the scenery, my darling?” Regis whispered in her ear.

Her smile was practically ear-to-ear as she turned softly and pecked the vampire on his cheek, rubbing his facial hair softly as he closed his eyes in enjoyment. Dettlaff walked out of the house a second later, smiling at them both before joining on Fjola’s opposite side.

“Are we almost ready to go?” Regis asked. “Everything packed?”
“You had much more than I did,” Dettlaff grumbled. “We’ll likely need a bigger ship just for your laboratory and brewery alone.”
“You know why we need it,” he said with a loaded glance. Dettlaff looked away and nodded, furrowing his brow.

Fjola cocked her head in curiosity, but Regis ignored the glance.“The prime time to depart from the port will be in about two hour’s time,” he mentioned. “We should leave soon, honestly.”

He looked saddened for a moment, but raised his face to the sky and looked about them.

“I’ll certainly miss Toussaint,” he said wistfully, “The soft, rolling hillsides, clear, sparkling rivers, and fertile, endless vineyards bursting with the most sumptuous grapes simply begging to be made in delectable wines, all in the shadow of one of the most breathtaking mountain ranges I have ever had the fortune to see.” He sighed. “So magical when one isn’t being hunted down by sour royalty, but – there are other sunsets to see.”

He looked back down at Fjola and flashed her a charming grin, his fangs glinting. She smiled back appreciatively and the three of them turned their gaze to the vineyards. There was a heavy silence until they saw Geralt coming up the path and under the flowered trellis, looking grim. Fjola felt uneasy, but Regis placed a calming hand on her shoulder.

“He does not wish to see us go,” he whispered.
“You kidding?” the Witcher shot, heading up the stairs towards them. “Be nice to have my cellar back to myself again. And not have to worry about Roach spooking daily.”
“Both Dettlaff and myself have been using herbal oils to mask our scent from your mare, but the simple fact of the matter is that she is skittish, and easily frightened. I doubt whether our presence is really what is making her so difficult – she simply seems like a young, untrained horse to me.”
“You basing that on your extensive knowledge, Regis? Learned a lot from your donkey?”
“Drakuul was a mule, Geralt,” the older vampire corrected with a sniff. “You should know the difference, as you took ours in after the ah… unpleasantness. And I do thank you for that. As well as many other things I find myself unable to express at the moment without my eyes burning and my throat getting tight.”

They exchanged sad smiles and embraced, clapping one another on the back for a moment before Geralt backed away first, clearing his throat.

“Feeling sentimental?” Regis asked with a laugh in his voice. “I thought Witchers did not have emotions.”
“Regis.”
“Yes, Geralt?”
“Shut up.”

They chuckled and Regis decided to press about something.

“Any word on Syanna’s punishment, yet?” he asked softly.

Dettlaff looked over with a frown, but said nothing, merely holding Fjola tighter and kissing her on the top of her head.

“Well, now that you mention it…” Geralt started.

 

*

 

Syanna gazed out over Beauclair, glaring with an aimless eye at the subjects milling about several stories below her, the setting sun signifying the end of their workday and the start of another drunken evening. Her lips curled into a jealous sneer, resentful of their daily lives and their comfort in knowing each day would be very like the one before, for them. Wake up, tend animals or farmland, go to the market, go home, eat with loved ones, drink, go to bed, get up the next day and do it all again. They would have few luxuries in life, to be sure, but they would still have food and wine, and the ability to simply hop on a horse and go where they pleased, if they wished it. Most wouldn’t, she mused, because they simply lacked the courage. She knew better, however. If she could, she’d grab the fastest horse she could find and flee from the duchy as fast as the animal’s legs could carry her. It didn’t even matter where she would end up – she was sick of Toussaint, the painful memories it held and the beautiful bars that kept her enclosed like a maiden in one of the fairytales she and Anna used to read as children. Only this time, there was no handsome prince to come to the rescue – not that she wanted one – and the villain keeping her imprisoned was not a vile witch or a wicked stepmother, but her own sister. The most likely one out of any of them to have been a hero to her. She scoffed and turned back away from the window again, crossing her arms and scowling at nothing.

Fuck those fables, she thought bitterly, And this dark, fake fairytale land, as well.

Syanna sat in morose anger for a few minutes before she heard footsteps outside her door, and some muffled voices. Guards. Of course. She knew they had come for her, at last. That Annarietta would not be so easy to forgive this time, or her people had finally had enough and she had to relent to their wishes, and that she would finally be beheaded for her crimes.

It would be better than this, she snorted.

The door to her chamber opened, and a few armed guards stood at the ready, gesturing for her to follow them. She sniffed and held her head high, following them with an arrogant air, ready for anything at this point. After coming face-to-face with Dettlaff, she feared nothing. In all the time she had known him, she had never once seen his most feral form. She had heard rumors, of course, especially after the attacks she had sent him on, but had never seen it herself. He was a horror to behold. It wasn’t just his size – enormous though he was – it was the fact that he simply radiated danger, and death. Every single part of him looked as though it was designed to kill, and it likely would.

Even his wings had been clawed at the tips, for gods’ sakes, she thought.

She recalled vividly how it felt to be in his grasp. She had told herself she was not afraid of anything, but during her time as Syanna’s captive, Fjola had made an observation that the displaced royal now knew to be true – that, deep down, she had been afraid. She knew Dettlaff’s rage knew no bounds, and that nothing in this world existed to temper it. Until, apparently, Fjola. Dull and foolish though Syanna considered her, the girl had somehow managed to cool the vampire enough that he had relented.

No, her brain tried to counter, It’s because you apologized.

But she knew that was only a very small part of it. The apology was necessary, she supposed, since Dettlaff had ended up releasing her, after all, but the more she considered it, the more she began to realize that one of the only reasons the vampire had actually let her go was because of his new lover.

What makes her so damn special? she sneered. The girl is foolish, and utterly naive about Dettlaff’s true nature. Still, she mused, I suppose that’s not really my problem. If she wants to get herself killed, so be it.

Syanna remembered with a chill Fjola standing between the two of them when Dettlaff had grabbed her by the neck and squeezed. He could have torn either of the women to shreds easily – Syanna was certain at that point that that was what he was going to do – but instead, he hesitated, though only briefly at first. She recalled the astonishment she felt when his grip had relaxed enough for her to breathe, and when Fjola had wrapped her arms about him as though nothing was wrong, as though he was simply not a repulsive monster standing before her, all wings, claws, and fangs, thirsty for blood and revenge. She did not shiver, or flinch, she did not even draw from his touch, and in fact, hadinitiated it. Syanna could simply not wrap her head around what made that stupid girl yearn for an inhuman abomination as a lover. Or, she recalled, two of them – polite and civilized though Regis was, he was the same kind of horror as Dettlaff – a displaced fiend hiding behind the mask of a man.

She suddenly mused that she herself wasn’t much better. She had romanced Dettlaff as well, after all, even after seeing him in his half-human, half-vampire form. Still, she had never tolerated him in that shape much aside from their first meeting, and she certainly never let him touch her or love her like that. She came to the misguided conclusion that Fjola must either have a death wish or a bizarre sexual fetish.

Suddenly the group of guards stopped before the familiar large, gilded door that led to Duchess Anna Henrietta’s receiving room. They knocked and her sister’s familiar, haughty voiced floated from within, “Enter.” The guards led her in with a rough shove, then, to Syanna’s surprise, exited quickly and slammed the door behind them. It was only her and her sister left in the chamber. Anna turned to her slowly, her face down, gold and jeweled crown glinting and throwing prismatic refractions in the sunlight. She sighed softly, then lifted her face, surprising Syanna again with the doleful expression it held; she was expecting her to be angry, or at least patronizing and chiding.

“How are you?” the Duchess asked awkwardly.

Syanna balked and shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Ah. Right. Forgive me,” she implored softly. She walked down the small dais where her table was, leveling herself more properly to Syanna, who again felt wary at her more humbled demeanor. This was not the angry, reprimanding sibling she was used to, and it immediately made her suspicious. She closed her arms about herself more tightly and scowled, eyeing her up with a cold, shrewd look. Annarietta looked hurt, but nodded in understanding.

“You feel you know why you are here, I suppose?” she asked, looking away.

“Going to imprison me again, hm?” she shot venomously. “Threaten me with the axe, or a good hanging? I’m sure your subjects would be more than pleased.” She spat on the ground. “Just get it over with, already. I’ve tired of these intrigues, these games.” She sighed, her shoulders slumping somewhat as she, too, could not meet her sister’s eyes. “Staring down death in the face has made me cling to life that much less.”

There was a cool silence as Annarietta eyed her sister up sympathetically, unsure of what to say. Yes, she loved her dearly, and despised the monster who had threatened and hurt her, but… she had finally come to acknowledge that Syanna, blood and beloved by the Duchess though she was, was… less than perfect.

“I am… glad he did not hurt you too badly,” she sputtered awkwardly.

“Spare me your falsehoods,” Syanna whispered. “It would have made my mess much easier for you to deal with.”

Suddenly Annarietta lunged forward, catching Syanna off guard, who stumbled backwards, arms spread in surprise. The Duchess wrapped herself tightly against her sister, her arms squeezing around her middle and shoulders as tears sprang from her eyes and soaked into Syanna’s clothing. Syanna recalled a moment nearly identical to this one just a few short years ago, when her sister had embraced her in front of a small portion of the court present for her so-called “trial.” She felt soon after, when Annarietta’s interest and attention in her had waned, that it had merely been for show – dramatic effect – and to perhaps sow sympathy for their situation. In her lighter moods, she considered that the act and attempt to garner sympathy from the public had been for her own protection – she knew Annarietta did not hate her, but the older sister was still resentful of being used as a pawn, or merely as a set piece in a very dramatic play. However, now that they were in private together, and out of the public eye, Syanna was forced to consider that Annarietta’s current actions were, indeed, genuine. However, the difficulties she had experienced in her life had made her wary, and she shoved herself out of the embrace rather quickly, crossing her arms again and turning away slightly, examining her sister coldly out of the corner of her eye.

“Don’t do that,” she nearly whispered.
“What?”
“Don’t pretend we are close. That we are family, at this point.”

Annarietta grunted.

“If we are not family, then what, pray tell, do you believe we are?”
“We shared a life, once,” Syanna tried, thinking with remorse over their rocky childhood.

Their fights, conniving, and plotting against one another, their parent’s blatant favoritism of their younger daughter, the arguments and tantrums and jealousy all sprang to her mind and swam there like gasping, wriggling fish in a sea of decay. Then, just as quickly, she was reminded of some of the softer times, as well. Not just the dreadful pranks they pulled or the wicked schemes, but the adventures they had in their magical book, sharing jewels and toys and playing dress up, slipping the other one food or dessert when being sent to their room without as punishment, Syanna teaching Anna how to ride a horse and how proud and grateful she became once she had mastered it, Anna running into her room to comfort her when she had awoken, screaming in the dark as another red nightmare filled with blood and carnage slowly faded from her eyes. At this, Syanna suddenly began to weep. First one tear, then another, until suddenly she could not stop and found herself gasping from the surprise and strain of it all. She stumbled backwards a little and Annarietta stepped forward to hold her again, guiding them both to an impeccably ornate love-seat as she clutched her older sister softly and began stroking her hands over her slick black hair.

“Shh,” she soothed, “It’s alright. I promise, my dear sister, everything will be alright.”

She sucked in a breath and held it.

“I am letting you go.”

It took a moment for her words to sink in before she pulled herself back, slowly raising her eyes to Anna’s and staring at her with a slightly confused scowl.

“What did you just say?” she asked, despite knowing exactly what she had just said. But she could not believe it. She needed to hear it again.
“I am letting you go,” the Duchess said softly, looking away as glittering tears made their way down her soft cheeks, as well.
“Why?” Syanna asked, narrowing her eyes. “Is this some form of trick? I will make my way outside these walls and you will have a small army awaiting me, justifying your decision to decapitate me to the people with the excuse that I was attempting to escape?”

Annarietta laughed bitterly.

“If I wanted to kill you, even publicly, the people of Toussaint would hold no objections – there would be no excuse necessary.”

She was telling the truth, and it hit her like a punch in the stomach.

“Why, then?” Syanna asked. “Why just simply let me go? Have I not harmed the duchy? Have I not harmed… you?”
“You have,” Anna said, “It’s true. But this is how I know, sister – this is how I know you must not stay here. You are… unhappy, here.” She looked at her somberly, earnestly. “Would leaving to live your own life not make it a more pleasant one?” The Duchess lifted her hand to wipe away her sister’s tears. “Would you not be happy, at last?”

“I don’t understand your mercy,” Syanna hissed.

Annarietta took in a breath, thinking for a moment.

“Do you understand why caged birds sing?” she finally asked.

Syanna nodded.

“They are blinded, so they do not know they are caged.”
“Does this knowledge please you?”
“No,” Syanna shook her head, glaring at the floor. “I always thought it a filthy practice. I…” Her voice suddenly became hushed. “I remember begging mother and father to ban the act. ‘We can still hear their songs outside the window, in spring,’ I had cried. They simply told me I was too spoiled, that I did not appreciate the luxury.” Her face hardened again. “I had nightmares of blinded, screaming nightingales for weeks.”
“I remember,” Anna said, stroking her sister’s cheek softly. “I remember soothing your hair and telling you stories after you woke, screaming and howling.” She hesitated. “That is why.”

Syanna turned back to her with another shrewd look.

“You are setting me free because you feel for caged birds? Of all the tired clichés…”
“I don’t care if it’s trite,” Anna Henrietta snapped. She ran a soft hand down her sister’s cheek tenderly. “I cannot bear the thought of clipping your wings and scalding your eyes from your head just to keep you by my side, selfishly.” She bit her lip. “You would not be the same Syanna I love.”

Syanna had nothing to say. She was still anticipating another trick or deception.

“You act as though it would be so easy,” she said after a moment. “As though the duchy will simply bend to your will because you decree it.”
“You know they would,” Annarietta laughed. Syanna did not return it and instead merely kept her unfaltering, icy glare. The Duchess sighed.
“I have a horse ready at my word. Clothes, food, jewels and coin are already packed, as well. The mare is merely waiting to be loaded and saddled, which would take only a moment. You can leave during the night, for cover. The stableman simply awaits my command.”
“You think it would be so simple?” she laughed coldly. “You think for a moment that man will not sell you out at a moment’s notice? At the end of the day, your head on a pike is just as entertaining as the coin with which you bought him.”
“Not everyone is bought with fear, Syanna,” Anna said softly, but sternly. “Many follow out of duty. Or valor. Or love.”

Syanna scoffed. Suddenly the thought of Dettlaff leapt to her mind; his devotion to her, fawning and infatuation, all in the name of love. Yet he had tried to kill her all the same. She knew in her heart of hearts the fault was partly her own for wounding him, but his reaction was… unpredictable. And unacceptable. But in the end… he had let her go anyway. Not because he had loved her still, but because his new lover… or rather, lovers… had convinced him that she simply wasn’t worth it anymore. She was somewhat in awe of the power that their simple love had held over him, but dismissed it away as a weakness on his part. One she was grateful for, but a weakness nonetheless.

“I have no faith in any of that,” she said.
“But I do,” Anna said proudly, rising from her seat and placing her fists on her hips.

Her haughty, regal expression and dramatic pose suddenly made Syanna start giggling. The small, delicate laughs she tried to stifle soon made their way into snorts and, eventually, hearty laughter, her younger sister joining in after a moment, the two of them sharing a genuine moment of joy and ridiculousness together for the first time since they were children. After a few minutes, wiping tears away and gasping for air, the two embraced once more, Syanna whispering into her sister’s ear.

“Thank you,” she said.

Annarietta knew she meant it, and smiled. Then hesitated.

“Another caveat…” she said slowly. Syanna pulled away and looked into her face suspiciously. Annarietta inhaled. “You cannot come back to the duchy again.”

Syanna hadn’t honestly planned to, but now the command made her angry. The Duchess raised her hand before she could protest.

“It is for your safety, as well as mine.” she added softly. “It is not personal, my dear sister. I promise you! I am merely cautious. I want to – I need to protect the duchy, and the people of Toussaint. I…”
“I get it,” said Syanna, raising a hand in return. “You have experience leading a nation, whereas my leadership experience is limited to manipulating bandit clans and a vampire. I understand. You have valuable political connections, and information – decade’s worth – and I am simply not qualified. Is that correct?”
“I am sorry,” she sighed. “We can visit each other, in other places – I do not wish to erase you from my life entirely, Syanna. Not after everything.” She looked up and her eyes were full of tears. “I promise you, this is merely for the good of the duchy.” Anna wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“Don’t be,” returned Syanna, though her heart felt shriveled and heavy. “You are far more conniving and skilled at manipulation than I, after all,” she shot, but smiled slightly so as to appear in on the joke. Annarietta gave a lopsided, glimmering smile as she embraced her again.

Syanna knew she loved her, in her way, and that this really wasn’t completely personal. Still, it had left a somewhat sour taste in her mouth, after everything. But, Syanna had to admit to herself that Annarietta had a point – she was not a bird that was ever meant to be caged.

 

*

 

“So no one knows where she might have run off to, or how she even escaped?” Regis said sarcastically, raising an eyebrow. “Quite a mystery, indeed,” he sneered.

Geralt grunted, sneaking a peek at Dettlaff. The black-haired vampire was leaning on the stone balustrade, his hands supporting him as he hunched over, his gaze steady across the vineyard. He suddenly turned, feeling the Witcher’s attention upon him. Recognizing the accusation in his eyes, he curled a lip over a fang in an irritated sneer.

“No need to trouble yourself, Witcher,” Dettlaff said, straightening and smiling as he held his arms open as if welcoming an attack. “She holds no power over me anymore.”

Geralt raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Just like that?” he asked in a low, rumbling growl. “No hard feelings? Lingering resentment? Urge to balance the scales?”
“I have already done that,” Dettlaff returned softly, turning his face away slightly, his eyebrows knitting upwards. Geralt scoffed slightly and Regis threw him a chiding glance, but Dettlaff smirked and waved it away. “I did not receive the initial closure I wanted, it is true, which was to see her lifeless body heaped upon the ground at my feet.” He sighed. “I realize that what I was seeking was merely revenge, and I thought that was what I wanted. I wanted to cause her harm as retribution, much as she did to everyone else in her life, due to her own tragedies.” He clenched his fists, but let out a slow breath and closed his eyes. “But I would not be that monster any longer. I ‘balanced the scales,’ as you put it, by realizing she had given me a gift. Albeit an unintentional one.” He looked back to Geralt slowly. “By demonstrating what true fiendishness and cruelty is, she allowed me to see how I was perceived myself. What I had done, to myself.” He smiled again, somewhat sadly. “I still believe, in some part of me, that tearing her apart would have brought me some closure and satisfaction. But not the correct kind. I am more than how others perceive me – and I have Fjola to thank for that. And Regis.” He paused. “Perhaps it is not the closure I was seeking, but it is still closure, just the same.”

Regis and Fjola threw him sympathetic glances, and Geralt grunted.

“Can’t say I’d ever be – or have been – as merciful to those who hurt Yen and Ciri.”
“Hmm. I don’t wish to show her mercy, but… I refuse to prove myself the monster everyone else would perceive me to be. I wish to be the person my loved ones see me as.” He exhaled. “I need to deserve that.”

Dettlaff gave a wry smirk.

“I suppose I wish I had done so before we were essentially banished from Toussaint.”
“Now now,” said Regis cheerfully, placing an arm about his vampiric friend and lover, “As the mortals say, ‘it’s better late, than never.’ And besides that trite little saying, the real meat is that our new land, and new adventures, await us with eager arms. Nazair waits to bring us to her supple bosom and suckle us fat on delicious fish, herbs, and dark liquors.” He raised his eyebrows with a winning, toothsome smirk, his sharp fangs glistening somewhat in the warm light of the setting sun.

Dettlaff reached forward and yanked him towards himself, kissing his forehead and giving a brief, contented hum. Fjola lingered several steps away, but they pulled her in in short order and the three held each other in a tight embrace for several moments, Geralt finally breaking it with a coarse clearing of his throat.

“Best get moving, soon. Sun’s about set.”
“Yes, of course,” Regis said, his face and throat somewhat taut. “I’ll pack the rest of the items on the mules, shall I?”
“Already done,” said Geralt.
“Hm. Eager to see us off, Witcher?” Dettlaff grumbled, but a small smile played on his lips.
“Need my house back. And some…” he stalled.
“Private time?” Regis said with a mischievous grin.
“Hmph.”
“What will you do with the cottage?” Regis asked. “I’m afraid after the Duchess’ rather short-sighted and foolish – ah – would we call it a raid? A minor war? Perhaps more of a personal vendetta? Suppose, if you would…” He pondered for a moment, obviously on the verge of starting another long-winded musing, but Geralt gave him a look and he stopped himself with a slightly embarrassed look. “Ah, well, in any case, the cottage is in some state of disrepair, at the moment. I’m afraid we picked our belongings of it quite clean, aside from some heavier items and furniture, but the window in the main bedroom…”
“Taken care of, Regis. But I feel bad not giving you the full cost of it. Seems rude.”
“Yes, yes,” Regis said with a dismissive wave, “You and your famous morals…”
“Hypocrite,” Geralt grumbled, but the older vampire continued as though he hadn’t heard him.

“...But in truth, you saved us from a great deal of trouble, likely prevented several deaths, and helped a trio of fools escape with their skins intact. For which I am eternally grateful.” He gave a deep, highly affected bow. “Half the cost of a measly cottage is no reward fit for what you have done for us. For me. Recently and through the years.”
“Regis, you know…”

Dettlaff grunted lowly and Fjola cleared her throat.

“You guys are going to get caught in a loop again,” she muttered quietly, raising her eyebrows while her expression begged for mercy. Dettlaff looked irritated, but remained patient, grateful Fjola had said something. Regis laughed and Geralt gave a small, guilty look of chagrin.

“I suppose we can halt this conversation, for now,” the older vampire said.
“For now?” repeated Geralt, raising a curious eyebrow. “Thought you weren’t allowed back in the duchy?”
“Well, how can she possibly keep track of all of her subjects?” Regis said mischievously. Suddenly, however, his look turned dour. “Though, I’m afraid to say, it will likely be a number of years before…”

Geralt held up a hand.

“Yen and I could always use a vacation. Someplace quiet. Near the shore.”

Regis smiled appreciatively. Dettlaff and Fjola turned to look at the setting sun once more, turning the land blood red with its last struggling gasps before disappearing behind the mountainside.

 

*


Regis dusted his hands off after loading the last piece of luggage on the small cargo boat that was to take them down the Sansretour to join the Sylte, then Metinna, and eventually, a more legitimate ship. This one was large enough to have a small cabin below the deck for a decent amount of cargo, though Fjola knew they would doubtless be sleeping down there with all of their supplies, as well. She stared out at the land, a hand on the post where the boat was tied to the dock, the other against her chest. She turned her eyes to gaze up at the moon and stars, looking somewhat wistful.

“Are you having second thoughts?” Regis asked seriously.

Fjola turned to him and saw a stern, deep look of concern on his features. She smiled and brought the hand that had been against her chest to his cheek, squeezing it gently.

“No,” she said, turning back to Toussaint, “I’ve gotten used to goodbyes, by now. But this is the first time I’m actually confident I’ll be going someplace better.” She snorted slightly and gave a rueful smile. “Is that silly?”
“No,” Regis replied, his black eyes looking deeper than usual. “Just a bit sad, really.”

Fjola gave him a questioning, concerned look. It was Regis’ turn to give the bittersweet smile.

“Not just for me, my darling,” he said, “Or Dettlaff,” running a hand against her cheek as she turned to face him again. “But you are also being yanked from a home you have found once again. Dettlaff and I have had centuries of experience doing so – you are still relatively young,” he finished, raising his eyebrows.

Fjola looked at him in appreciation, kissing him gently.

“Don’t worry, my love – I’m happy about this.”
“Truly?” Regis asked hurriedly, as though it had been waiting to burst from his mouth. “Because if you have second thoughts, there are always other crypts, and caves, Toussaint is a large land and you do have a pardon…”

“Regis!” Fjola laughed, grasping both of his cheeks in her hands, “It’s fine, I swear.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, and her eyes crinkled slightly, sparkling. “I’m actually looking forward to seeing the ocean again. Sailing was never my strong suit, but…” She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. “The smells… the salt and tang of the water, feeling the cold sand under my feet as I walk along the shore at night or in the morning…” She opened her eyes again and smiled. “Plus, I always was pretty fond of seafood.”

Regis chuckled and suddenly Fjola heard the familiar, exciting squeak of leather as Dettlaff approached from behind. She turned and grinned and Dettlaff felt his heart leap pleasurably as always when he saw either of his mates happy. He wrapped her in a short embrace, but parted quickly, glaring shrewdly at the boat they had all packed.

“Regis…” he grumbled.

“I’m aware it’s a lot,” the older vampire laughed, “But please, trust me when I say that most of this is absolutely essential to me.”

“Most?” Dettlaff asked with a raised eyebrow. “What about the rest?” he asked, gesturing.

“Essential to others,” Regis said haughtily.

Dettlaff and Fjola couldn’t help but chuckle, helping secure the last of their belongings and going over everything one more time. It was all there.

“Well then, I should say we’re ready to go, yes…?”

“Wait!” Fjola almost yelled, clambering out of the boat quickly, coin purse in hand, “I’ll be right back.”

She trotted down the street and around a corner, Regis rose to follow, concerned, but to his surprise, Dettlaff held a hand out to stop him with a smile. The older vampire raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Snacks,” Dettlaff explained. Regis couldn’t help but laugh.

 

*

 

Fjola started tossing apples, copious amounts of grapes, carrots, preserved sausages, bread, a couple small wheels of hard cheese, wine, and water into her bag, shoving the appropriate amount of coins into the vendor’s hand before turning to leave. Seeing some daintily wrapped bricks of toffee, she hastily grabbed them and slapped down more coin before nearly skipping back to the boat, giddy and looking forward to the long journey ahead. She had just rounded a corner and nearly slammed into a pair of older women carrying several bottles of wine and clearly drunk, the two of them cursing her out in Toussaintois as she apologized and tried not to laugh as she picked up an apple that had fallen out of her bag. As she stooped to pick it up, her gaze went up and across the market, where she saw a broad, familiar figure slumped down against the wall.

Fjola gathered herself and her things slowly and began approaching the man with deliberate movements. She noted with hardness the broken, frayed red plume on the top of his tarnished, dented helmet, and saw that most of his armor missing, the last few bits left remaining in as bad a state as his plumed helm. She came to a stop before him, taking in his limp, defeated figure, his clothes frayed beneath the armor, his facial hair scraggly and dirty, an empty metal mug placed hopefully in front of him. Seeing her feet, the man looked up hopefully for a bit of coin, but his eyes reached her face and he blanched. The two merely stared and took each other in for the briefest of moments before the disgraced knight grimaced and he lowered his gaze, looking away. Fjola felt a horrendous flash of anger, but it quickly subsided and she regained control of herself. Reaching into her purse, she retrieved two shining coins, kneeling down and continuing to stare at the knight. He looked back up into her face warily. She squatted, never breaking eye contact, and placed the coins into the mug at his feet with a hollow clang. Fjola then raised herself up, took one last look at him, and turned away. The knight suddenly burst into tears, burying his face in his hands. Fjola resumed her journey back to the boat, giving no more thought to the knight in disgrace.

 

*

 

Dettlaff kicked the boat away from the dock with his heavy black boot, using a bit too much power and making them all stumble slightly as the small craft jettisoned down the Sansretour briefly before slowing to the speed of the river.

“Are you that eager to leave?” Regis smirked.
“I have rarely sailed a ship,” Dettlaff muttered defensively. “And even more rarely with company.”

Regis scoffed.

“Are you telling me that in all those years in Nazair, you hardly ever bothered to go out into the free sea and cast a line, or even just stare out at the moonlight?”
“We’ll have plenty of time for that once we get there,” Fjola said, scowling slightly at Regis to drop the subject.
“I never had much cause,” Dettlaff shrugged.

The cool air of autumn evening suddenly caught them all by surprise. Fjola knew they, as vampires, did not experience heat and cold as sharply as she did, but she still made the effort to grab a thick, woolen blanket and drape it over Dettlaff’s shoulders, leading him to sit next to Regis and stretching it over him, as well. They exchanged glances with small smiles between them.

“What?” she asked, hands on her hips.

Dettlaff and Regis both reached up and drew her in, attempting to fit the three of them under the large blanket with little success, but it was enough to at least not feel the wind as much.

“We could go into the small room below the deck,” Regis suggested. “I’ve set up a bed large enough for two to perhaps squeeze in, albeit a bit more uncomfortably than with just one.” He gave a sidelong glance. “Certainly not enough for three.”

Dettlaff snorted and scowled.

“I did away with that foolish thing,” he said.
“You what?” Regis asked, mildly affronted.

“There was no room,” the younger vampire argued, gesturing with a hand. “So I sold it for a few crowns and made up something simpler.”

Regis raised an eyebrow and rose, then descended into the small room and disappeared. He materialized again a few moments later, looking perturbed.

“It’s barely even a mess of blankets and pillows,” he grumbled. “Hardly what one would call a bed.”
“But it can fit three easily,” Dettlaff stated firmly.

A small smile tugged at the corner of Regis’ lips as he pretended to be displeased with the situation, but soon he could not contain his smile and his mouth turned into a grin wide enough to reveal his sharp fangs, returning to his seat and wrapping the blanket back about himself with his mates. The trio was silent for a few minutes as they trundled along, the lights of the Beauclair Port and palace becoming smaller and smaller in the distance. Regis suddenly chuckled and Fjola and Dettlaff both gave him a curious glance. He smiled and nodded his chin to the forest along the bank – although it was nighttime, the nearly-full moon illuminated much and even Fjola could see, in the distance, the vague outline of the forest surrounding Mère-Lachaiselongue cemetery.

“Mm,” Regis mused, “How far we’ve come, and yet how little we’ve strayed. Until now, that is,” he corrected, nodding down the river toward their intended destination. He looked sad for a moment.

“Homesick already?” Dettlaff asked quietly.
“I suppose I’ll miss the familiarity of Toussaint, yes. After all, the ties we vampires have to it, as the first arrival point for our people after the Conjunction…” He sighed. “Well, it’s simply not to be ignored. I suppose I shall always feel drawn to this place.”
“Well, maybe one day, we can come back,” Fjola suggested hopefully.

Regis looked over sadly, his eyes darting to meet Dettlaff’s for a brief moment, the unspoken weight of her mortality heavy between them.

“Of course, my darling,” he said softly, wrapping an arm about her. “One day.”

Dettlaff rose, grabbed the handle of the rudder, and began steering the boat around the bend of the Sansretour, both Beauclair and the familiar mists of Mère-Lachaiselongue cemetery fading into the night. They had not been moving long before they suddenly saw a dark figure on horseback seemingly gliding down the road beside the river, illuminated by the strong moonlight overhead and graceful enough as to appear almost specter-like. Dettlaff breathed in sharply and suddenly Regis tensed, standing beside him and squaring his shoulders. Fjola rose to glance out at the figure in concern, reaching for the small blade she now kept at her belt. Regis reached back and held her hand still, looking over his shoulder with a frown and shaking his head.

They all watched the figure carefully, who suddenly caught the glint of the lamp hanging from the bow of the ship with the corner of their eye and looked over, pulling the reigns of their horse tightly and halting. Dettlaff’s nostrils flared and the figure near the bank lowered their hood; Fjola was only mildly surprised to see the small face and black hair of Syanna staring at them from the path, shifting uncomfortably and gripping the reigns of her horse tightly. Dettlaff inhaled deeply. The two of them locked eyes for a moment before Dettlaff released the breath he had been holding and his entire body relaxed. He nodded slowly and stiffly as the craft continued swiftly down the river, steadily leaving Syanna behind. Regis leaned forward and kissed the younger vampire gently, rubbing a hand across his stubble, and Fjola could not help but look back at her former attacker.

She had already disappeared into the darkness.

 

*

 

“Mmn?” Fjola moaned, wiping the sleep from her eyes. “Are we there yet?” She tried to peep up from the small cabin below the deck toward the sky, but the door was closed.
“Just about, my love,” Dettlaff said in his deep, soothing voice, running a hand through her hair. “We shall soon stop in Metinna.”

Fjola sat up quickly.

“But we only just joined the Sylte… a few hours ago…? A day?” She hesitated, bringing a finger to her lips in contemplation. Dettlaff’s heart soared at the small gesture and he grabbed her face gently. She looked up and smiled, the faint lines at the corners of her eyes becoming slightly deeper as she did so. He kissed them each, softly at first, then becoming firmer and faster, hungrier, making his way down to her mouth and prodding her with his tongue. She moaned softly.

“How much time do we have before we reach Metinna?” she asked, laying back down and grabbing Dettlaff’s shoulders.
“Hrmm,” he grumbled, a smile crossing his lips, “Enough.”

 

*

 

Metinna was a fascinating place. The huge, seemingly endless fields of the Mag Deira plains surrounded a massive port and market absolutely flooded with traders, merchants, buyers, sellers, and livestock. Hundreds of horses and ponies were being led this way and that across the square and down alleyways, onto boats, or being harnessed to carriages and carts. Regis immediately felt drawn to a row of competing herbalists, checking their stock carefully and beginning to bicker with the merchants regarding prices and quality. Fjola turned around to see Dettlaff looking at a grim alleyway, a slight brood painted across his features as he recalled his past. She tilted her head in curiosity at first before it suddenly hit her. She stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He turned his head slightly and kissed her fingers, though kept his arms folded and his stance tense. Regis approached them from the side.

“You’ll be pleased to know I have not acquired additional supplies for us to move and stow,” he said, suddenly noticing the mood. “Ah.” He paused, taking in the scenery. “Are you alright?” he asked softly after a moment.
“I am,” Dettlaff said, suddenly smiling. He turned towards them fully. “I truly am.”

He spread his arms slightly and Fjola embraced him, wrapping her arms about his waist and enjoying the familiar creak of his leather coat, the smell of cardamom, cedar, and sandalwood filling her nostrils. She breathed it in before being enveloped from behind by the scent of Regis’ cinnamon, sage, clove, and anise. They stood foolishly in the middle of the market simply basking in the new and the familiar, parting after a few comforting moments and picking up more supplies before heading back to the port, loading the rest of their cargo onto a much larger ship filled with other people intended to bring them down the rest of the Sylte and into the sea. Fjola took one last look at Metinna, waving to confused strangers off the side as they departed and Regis and Dettlaff stood by sniggering.

 

*

 

The ship began mooring to the dock and immediately Fjola could smell an incredible array of spices and foods, horses, herbs, smoke, and fish, all undercut by the refreshing scent of the sea. They disembarked, arranged for their cargo to be delivered, Regis made a stop at the bank, and soon they began the trek through Nazair and up to a series of fertile hills along the coast. They talked the entirety of the way to their destination about Nazairi culture, Regis being the more vociferous and enthusiastic, despite Dettlaff being the most knowledgeable.

“And so you see, after their uprising and subsequent defeat, the citizens of Nazair were forbidden to carry swords of any sort any longer. However, elven messer were deemed just as suitable in their place, as they are technically not swords, but instead, knives long enough to essentially serve the same purpose. Most Nazairi people carry them strapped against their backs for easy access – as so charmingly exemplified and represented by our very own, dear Dettlaff,” Regis said, gesturing to the long, sheathed blade always slung across the younger vampire’s back by a thin leather strap.
“Hm,” Dettlaff grumbled slightly, “You know part of ‘fitting in’ with humans involves their mimicry.”
“Of course, my dear, there was no slight intended, I was merely illustrating a point.”
“So illustrated,” he said a little curtly.

The sun was becoming unpleasant to be under, and the journey uphill was making it even more so.

“Are we almost there?” he asked.
“Yes, yes,” Regis said, waving a large hand. “My apologies for the long walk, but it will be less strenuous when we acquire some horses, and please, do trust me when I insist that the view is nothing less than positively breathtaking.”

Dettlaff sighed and the three of them continued, Regis chatting away merrily, Fjola enjoying the distraction from the long, hot walk.

“As I said, especially when we are coming back from the market, horses will make this journey much more bearable…”
“Or mules,” Fjola said softly with a mischievous smirk.

“Yes,” Regis rolled his eyes, smiling back, “Or mules. Returning to the subject of this land, however, and I do hope you are generously and continuously forgiving of my wagging tongue and loquacious prattling, I find it incredibly fascinating when considering the societal divide between…”

He continued for another several minutes.

“...Which brings me, at last, to my acquisition of said property. It did indeed used to be a bit of a summer home for more secluded aristocrats, however, for our purposes, I find it will be more than suitable as a more permanent residence.”

With perfect timing, they finally crested the last green and gold hill of feathery grass and saw that Regis had not been exaggerating about the beauty of this place. The top of the hill they were standing on dipped down somewhat to a large, beautiful stone homestead painted gray, sky, and sapphire blue with white trim around the windows and doors. Bright and deep green vines grew clinging to the sides, most of them flowering in a veritable rainbow of colors and various sizes of blooms. They drank in the fields, rows and rows of trees and untended vines, what looked like acres of fertile land and garden space, a deep, covered well, and a large pond shaded by willows and other deciduous trees. Fjola covered her mouth with her hands and smiled, her eyes glinting in delight at the – as Regis put it – positively breathtaking view of the Great Sea.

“Oh Regis,” she said, “It’s beautiful.” She turned back to him, grinned, and rushed up to wrap her arms around him and squeeze him tightly. “Thank you,” she said, burying her head in his chest. Regis’ heart soared.

“Well, it was not only for you, my dear,” he explained. “Have you noticed the extensive garden, and fields? I shall be installing a large greenhouse on the Eastern side, as well, attached to the house so we may have better ease of access and create a workshop of sorts.”
“Anxious to start working already?” she asked, looking back up at him. “Is that why you insisted on bringing almost all of your books, scrolls, and supplies?”
“Ah,” he said, holding her shoulders and pulling her away slightly so he could look into her face, his expression suddenly serious. “That, I’m afraid, is for a very specific purpose.”

Fjola raised an eyebrow.

“Well, for years, I’ve muddled in a certain small alchemical project, though with little genuine enthusiasm or motivation to complete it. It would not serve me at all, you see, and there was no inspiration for me to really dedicate my time or efforts to its creation, not to mention the ethical and possible environmental and societal chaos or devastation such a potion could and definitely would create…”

Fjola gave him an imploring smile and he stopped, clearing his throat.

“Ah, apologies, my darling. But, without delving too deep into my own personal reservations and ethics-based hesitancy… I believe I may be able to cultivate, for lack of a better term, a so-called ‘Elixir of Life.’ The proverbial fountain of youth, if you will.”

Fjola felt her body go cold, and then suddenly very, very warm.

“You could do such a thing? But in all the years I and countless others have researched and read and studied, there’s never…!”
“I know,” said Regis. “I know. However, many alchemists, herbalists, and indeed, scientists, lack access to a very useful and impossibly rare ingredient. One linked absolutely to longevity and immortality.”
“Vampire’s blood,” she realized.
“Not just any vampire’s blood,” he said. “As most vampires can be killed. They have more weaknesses and an effective mortality. Higher vampires and Elders lack such weaknesses. We do have higher vampire blood, and while we lack an established Elder’s blood, we still have the blood of one who, should he choose to embrace it, would become an Elder. In due time.”

Dettlaff stepped closer, slowly, looking hesitant.

“If you would wish it, my love,” he said, shaking his head. “We would never make you.”

“Are you kidding?” she shouted, grabbing them both and squeezing the three of them together tightly. Dettlaff suddenly felt hot, wet tears begin to soak through his shirt. He pulled Fjola away from him slightly, the two vampires wiping the tears from her cheeks.
“You would want that?” Dettlaff asked carefully. “You would want a veritable eternity with us?”
“My loves,” she said warmly, “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”
“Heh,” Regis chuckled, “If we’re successful, you’ve a very long time to contemplate that.”

Fjola laughed and kissed him, then Dettlaff.

“You’d have to help me, of course,” Regis said. “I need a fellow expert to help me create the potions, grow the required herbs and collect the ingredients, assist me with research…”
“And a test subject,” she shot playfully.
“Well…” Regis hesitated, uncomfortable.
“It’d be my honor,” she said, kissing him again gently and running her fingers through his facial hair.
“There’s no guarantee, of course,” he said quickly and apologetically. “This is all completely new science and alchemy, I’ve very little precedent to go off of and unfortunately, time might be a factor.”
“Regis,” she said soothingly, “We’ll just try. And appreciate the time we have, regardless.”

Fjola smiled and broke the embrace to explore the property a bit more and examine the site of their future garden and greenhouse.

Dettlaff gazed about at the scenery, positively relishing the view as well, the land familiar and welcoming to him, the smell and salty tang of the sea on the breeze both invigorating and comforting. He inhaled deeply to fill his lungs and sighed back out again, missing only one thing, in his opinion. Regis sidled up to him and whispered in his ear.

“There is a drop-off in the cliff not a quarter mile that way,” he gestured with his chin toward the sea, placing his hands on his lover’s shoulders and squeezing gently, “And an entrance to a dark, quiet cave hidden behind some jagged stone. I’ve not furnished it yet, but…”

Dettlaff swung around and grabbed Regis in a tight embrace, kissing him deeply, his tongue swirling lustfully. Regis could practically taste the relief and appreciation, finally breaking apart with a bit of a pop and a bashful smile. Fjola smiled at them both.

“How did you ever…?” Dettlaff started, but Regis cut in.

“Via letters, of course. And a hefty pocket of coin.”
“Did Geralt have to help you out this time, too?” the younger vampire asked with a grim, cheeky smile.
“Well… yes and no,” he laughed. “He obviously did get things expedited once more with the dwarves, banks, and his own good word, however… everything you see is under our names.”
“Our?” Dettlaff asked slowly.
“Yes,” Regis said, procuring the deed he had picked up earlier from the bank near the marketplace, breaking the seal and unraveling it. He read the property contract out loud, but Dettlaff and Fjola didn’t care about the wording, but rather, the names of the owners written in glistening, cinnabarite ink native to the region.

“...Herein named Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Dettlaff van der Eretein, and Fjola van der Eretein-Godefroy…”

She jumped and looked his way, Dettlaff whipping his head around as well in surprise, but the older vampire couldn’t keep a straight face and began chuckling merrily, exposing his fangs.

“I apologize, my darlings, I was just trying it on for size.” He cleared his throat and continued. “…Fjola of the isle of Faroe, the three forthwith referred to interchangeably within this document as ‘owners’ or ‘residents,’ shall have equal ownership and responsibilities as required by law of the land and property henceforth known as…”

He paused for dramatic effect again, cocking his head and raising his eyebrows.

“...for the sole purposes of this document only, Garden on the Golden Hill, to be formally renamed and addressed by the residents at a time they deem fit.”

“Oh,” said Fjola, a little deflated. “So we still have to name it?” She pondered for a moment, Dettlaff doing the same. “Why not just keep it as Garden on the Golden Hill?”
“Because, my dear, this is Garden on the Golden Hill number Seven… there are at least eighteen others, more if you count the ones that have already been renamed, but retain the old title in the bank’s records. It is a generic title.”
“Ah.” She thought for a moment. “It still sounded nice. Hm. Well, how would you say it in Nazairi?”

“Nilfgaardian,” Regis corrected gently.

“Tuin op de Gouden Heuvel,” Dettlaff chimed in, then grunted. “It’s not exactly catchy, is it?”

“Well, it is quite a mouthful…” Regis said slowly. “Even to me.”
“Any other suggestions?” Dettlaff asked, leading them to a shaded spot beneath a willow tree.

They sat down and began looking out at the sea, mulling over various names for several minutes.

“Well, I was considering Hol van de Nacht…”

“Lair of the Night?” Dettlaff groaned. “A little on-the-nose, Regis…”
“Ah, well… my next suggestion is not exactly going to be subtle, either, I’m afraid…”

“Let’s hear it,” Fjola prodded.

“Kasteel van Liefde.”

The two of them took it in for a moment, Fjola knitting her brows in confusion as Dettlaff groaned, trying not to betray the smile forming at the corners of his mouth.

Regis,” he said, wiping his hand across his face and keeping it there in frustration. “Gods.”

“What?” Fjola asked, looking quickly between the two of them. “What does it say? Something about a castle, right?”

Dettlaff peered above his hand, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead as he gave Regis a go ahead gesture. Fjola looked to him.

“Well, in a non-direct, but still legitimate translation, it means Love Castle. More literally, however, Castle of Love.”

Fjola closed her eyes and grunted, echoing Dettlaff.

“Regis.”
Oh,” he grumbled, rolling the deed back up and placing it roughly into his leather bag, “You two frustrate me. I thought it was of the utmost hilarity. And quite the romantic gesture – not that I’m prone to such overly grand displays, mind you,” he admonished, wagging a finger, “And this is exactly why!”

“Regis,” Dettlaff soothed, “It was a kind thought.”

He took him into an embrace, and the older vampire sighed.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, patting Dettlaff on the knee and leaning back against the tree. “We’ve eons to fight over the name of our bright little haven.”

Dettlaff furrowed his brow and sat upright.

“Is something amiss?” Regis asked.

Toevluchthaven,”Dettlaff said, looking slowly at his mates in turn. “We could name it that.”
“Well, it sounds lovely,” Fjola said, running her hand up his arm, “What does it mean?”
“Safe haven,” Dettlaff shrugged. “Refuge.”
“And yet you chided me for being too on-the-nose,” Regis said snidely. He broke out into a warm smile and nodded, however. “But yes – Toevluchthaven – I rather like the sound of that.”

“Me too,” Fjola said, suddenly smiling. “Although I also kind of liked Bloedtuin…”

“We are not naming our home ‘Blood Garden,’” Regis said exasperatedly.

Dettlaff chuckled and Regis threw him a look of betrayal.

It would keep visitors away,” he pressed.

Regis simply sighed and leaned back, the three of them watching the sun set  over the water from their place on the hill .

 

*

 

Fjola, Dettlaff, and Regis set out into the warm rays of the autumn sun, smelling the salty air blowing across the Great Sea as they launched their small boat upon it. They sat together  as they sailed , sharing warmth, anxious to cast their lines and gaze out upon the horizon.

Chapter 83: Author's Thanks

Summary:

Woohoo!

Chapter Text

Guys, thank you all SO MUCH for your endless patience! I realize I had unintentionally left this story at a spot where I could have, but I never wanted to give up (especially since I was so close)! I don't have a lot of excuses for why it took me about 8 months to get the final chapter out, but here's essentially what went down:

I went on vacation to see my best friend in another state
We decided we had a bunch of fun and missed each other when we were apart
We decided to live together
I moved over 1,200 miles to another state and region in the US
Completely new job and career
New state, new home, new surroundings
Started my Master's degree

So, yeah, it's been a lot. I've finally found a little more balance and got this last chapter cracked out - I had started it in August/September, it felt nice to finally put the finishing touches on it today.

Again, I appreciate your patience in waiting for it!

I hope you enjoy it.

Love,
FoxgloveFields