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In the setting sun, the swampy land near the point where the river Cholta met the river Ina was hardly an attractive location. Flies buzzed around Geralt’s head and darted at his horse’s eyes, while occasional unpleasant smells wafted from the many ponds and marshes. Still, after three weeks with Dandelion, the Witcher was glad of the quiet. The surrounding land was still scarred by Nilfgaard’s warring—Roach had already picked her way between skulls and rusted shields more than once—and settlements were few and far between. There were still some days‘ journeying to go before they would reach Toussaint, but Geralt was in no hurry. Retirement and the vineyard had their advantages—not having to accept every small town’s contracts for ghouls and drowners, for one—but without the occasional change of scenery, it would be barely tolerable, in Geralt’s view.
He had traveled this way before, more than once, and under far less pleasant circumstances than now. The first time he had been this way, he recalled, he had been following Ciri’s trail—in the wrong direction, as it turned out—with good company, but surrounded by war and horror. This time, he knew exactly where Ciri was (more or less, in any case), having just seen her a week prior, at Dandelion’s tavern, the Chameleon, in Novigrad. This time, he could afford to make camp in the early evening, in a spot of his choosing, without fear of ambush by anything other than the minor monsters that were a Witcher’s usual stock-in-trade.
Roach’s ambling trot had brought them into a clearing in the wooded marsh, with stones and twisted metal poking up between tufts of grass. Not just any stones, but headstones, the Witcher realized. A cemetery - and one he had been to before. His eyes rested upon a small building to one side of the clearing, little more than a ruined shack now, with half its roof gone and gaping holes for windows. His hand went to his medallion, and for a moment, he thought he felt it thrum—a memory? Or something else?
Geralt sighed. “And I was hoping for a quiet night,” he muttered, dismounting and gesturing Roach towards a clump of grass. Slinging his smaller pack, the one with his elixirs, over his shoulder, he trudged towards the hut.
The sun slipped below the treeline as Geralt ducked beneath the stone lintel and entered the former abode of Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy—the place where they had first encountered one another. The ruined shack was full of shadows, but the Witcher’s eyes quickly adjusted to the dark. He sighed a little at the broken table and scattered bricks that had once formed the fireplace, remembering a warm and drunken night when the room had been a welcome respite from a long hard slog. A chill ran down his spine—but his medallion was still. He shrugged. “Just old memories, then,” he said aloud, unsure if he was talking more to himself or to the memories of old friends.
Turning, he went to step back out into the clearing. But as he laid a hand on the stonework, his medallion began to thrum, this time insistent and impossible to ignore. In one move, the Witcher spun around and drew his silver sword. From the darkest corner of the room rose a black shape, impossible to make out even with his Witcher’s vision.
“And I had so hoped to have a peaceful night,” Geralt said, settling into a fighting stance. “What are you then? A ghoul? A wraith?” He eyed the shape warily. “If you’ll leave me to my campfire and my rest, I’ll not fight you. Nobody’s sent me to deal with you.”
Silence. For a moment, the dark shape was still, and Geralt wondered if he was in luck, and had met something unknown but peaceable. He gripped his sword and considered lowering it.
Then, silver claws erupted from the shape‘s limbs, and it sprung forward, hissing. “Wrongsssss! Disssturbsss! Killsssss!”
Geralt threw himself to one side, and claws scraped stone, barely missing his arm. The creature hissed again, spraying a sticky substance against the stone and onto his shoulder, and Geralt heard a distant cry—a scream or a yell, strangely familiar-sounding. He struck, slashing at the dark shape’s flank. It twisted away and his sword struck air. Such a miss was not enough to throw the Witcher, though, and he followed the thrust, shifting his balance so that he landed behind his attacker. Or so he thought. He cursed, regaining his footing. The creature had disappeared, though his medallion still thrummed on his chest. Some warped form of wraith, then, he guessed, and ducked, expecting an attack from behind. Instead, the attack came from the side, a hissing spray of some disgusting substance catching him in the face. He threw himself sideways, striking towards the source of the sound, but finding only air.
A scream echoed in the distance, louder this time, and now Geralt recognized it. "Ciri?" he called, disbelievingly, turning towards it, his head spinning with confusion.
"She will always be mine." The deep voice rattled in his bones, and he looked up in disbelief at the impossible figure before him.
"How..." Geralt breathed, squeezing his eyes briefly closed against his reeling mind. He had been hit by... something. This had to be some sort of hallucination. "You're not real," he said firmly, raising his sword.
The King of the Wild Hunt laughed coldly, and raised his scythe. "You cannot defeat me. She is still mine."
Geralt had no choice but to meet the scythe with his sword, the power of the blow knocking him backwards against the crumbling walls of the shack. Bruised and winded, he cursed again and leapt to his feet with a cry. "Over my dead body!"
But as his sword met air, claws caught his thigh, drawing blood from a deep wound. The Witcher stumbled, but thrust at the creature, finally feeling his sword biting into something corporeal. It screamed and hissed again, the sticky venom shooting past Geralt's sword arm as he twisted away. "So, you can be hit," he told it. His head clearing again, vision no longer spinning, he glanced around. He was unsurprised to find the creature had once again disappeared. The Witcher readied himself and raised his sword, ignoring the blood seeping through his breeches.
With a hiss, the creature launched itself at him from the side where he was wounded, meeting the silver sword with a clatter of claws and a noxious spray of its hallucinogen. Geralt thrust low and upwards, finding his target, spitting as some of the monster's poison caught him in the face. Cold air filled his throat, sending freezing tendrils into his lungs and deadening his limbs. He tried to look up, suddenly unable to move. The creature twisted away, howling at the wound he had put in its side, and Geralt's senses filled with other sounds and smells: pine needles, blood on stone, and voices he immediately recognized.
"Run, Ciri!" Vesemir cried, and Geralt heard the squelch of Vesemir's dagger finding its mark in Imlerith's belly, the sickening crunch as his neck was snapped. Just as on that day, Geralt fought against his frozen limbs, willing himself to move, but the ice held him fast. The throbbing pain of the wound in his leg was the only thing that still reminded him that he wasn't, couldn't be in Kaer Morhen. Ciri's earsplitting, otherworldly scream tore through him, breaking the ice, and he forgot the pain, rushing forward to attack... and hit the wall of the ruined hut, stone scraping painfully across his knuckles. With a screech, the creature's claws caught his left hand, tearing into tendons and flesh, and Geralt roared, smacking it into the wall. Stones crumbled and the creature wailed and hissed as Geralt ripped his torn hand free of its grasp, bringing his sword down onto its back as it spat venom into his eyes.
Geralt stumbled back, scrubbing at the sticky poison. His eyes burned and his vision swam. In front of him, he saw Ciri, covered with flames in a strange desert, desperation in her eyes. He croaked out a call to her, the heat singeing his exposed skin and the wounds on his hand and leg. She looked at him and became Yennefer, screaming curses, flanked by Triss Merigold and Philippa Eilhart. An arrow flew past his cheek and he spun around, raising his sword in alarm, as a man, screaming in full armor, charged into him with an axe. On instinct, he deflected the blow, throwing his body-weight against the man's shoulder as he knocked him off balance with his sword. Something hit him in the side, and his sword flew from his hand as he fell on top of the man with the axe, groaning at the cracking in his ribs.
With a grunt of pain, he forced himself to roll, pulling his steel sword from his back. He no longer had any idea where or when he was, or what was happening, but those questions could wait until he had survived this... whatever this was. The ends of his broken ribs ground painfully against one another and the raw wounds on his hand screamed as he forced himself to stand, stumbling as his weight pushed blood out of the deep gouge in his thigh.
The battlefield was gone, and the ruined hut spun in his vision. A flash of claws in front of him... Geralt leapt forward, and struck true. The creature screamed, recoiled, struggled, caught between the tip of his sword and the wall. Geralt gritted his teeth against the dizziness, pain, and confusion and held fast. With a last burst of energy, the creature drew back its lips, and hissed a burst of venom into his face. The Witcher finally stumbled back. As the creature collapsed with a shriek to the ground, unmoving, Geralt's vision swam and blackened, and he dropped to the ground with a groan, the steel sword falling from his hand.
---
Light swam into the Witcher's vision, but his head spun too much to focus. Blindly, he grasped for a weapon, finding the silver sword on the ground beside him. Whatever specter from his past the creature threw at him now, he had no choice but to face it, even as the broken ribs left him panting. Something moved at the corner of his eye, and he struck out, one-handed, trying to stumble to his feet. Instead, he fell back to the ground, and blackness again encroached on the edge of his vision. Something liquid hit him in the face, and unconsciousness claimed him…
---
A coal fire glowing. The smell of herbs and roots--intense and familiar. "Regis," Geralt muttered, confused. "What...?" Something moved, a voice spoke, but he felt himself being swept away.
---
Ciri, fighting off wolves, a tall elf by her side... Dandelion, sobbing over Priscilla's hand, her throat heavily bandaged as she lay unconscious in bed... Vesemir stood over him and fed him an elixir, its inexorable power coursing through his blood, and Geralt screamed....
---
... and opened his eyes to light, a sharp pain lancing through his chest as his ribs protested at the arching of his back.
"Be still," a familiar voice said, and a wooden cup was pressed into his good hand. "Drink this." Cold hands cupped his and helped him raise it to his lips, filling his nose with a smell of willow-bark, horsetail, and valerian root. The unpleasant taste pushed him back to greater awareness, and he spluttered. "Regis... How are... where is....?" Gradually, he noticed the splint on his hand, could feel a dressing on his leg, and he relaxed . "Always know when you're needed..." he mumbled, head nodding sideways as his eyes closed.
---
The next time Geralt awoke, he couldn't remember his dreams... if that's what they had been. Cautiously, he raised his head and looked around. The pain was still there, thrumming solidly with his heartbeat, but in a way he could ignore if he didn't move too much. Instead, he blinked and took a breath, clearing the last vestiges of confusion from his mind. He seemed to be lying, not on the ground, but on a simple cot. The room was dark, but his sharp eyes allowed him to make out a pot-bellied stove, and a rickety table, laden with strange contraptions. A chair by the stove, occupied by a familiar figure. A familiar place altogether... and one that couldn’t possible exist like this, not now.
There shouldn‘t have been a table, much less a stove. The last time he‘d seen this place...
Alert now, he pushed himself upright with his good hand, grimacing as sharp pains shot through his body, and looked around for his sword. The memories of his fight with the strange wraith were confused and hazy. But whatever it had been, and whatever it had done to him, it wasn't over yet. He steeled himself for an attack, and, not finding his sword, pushed himself painfully upright.
"Regis," he said. "Give me back my sword. I appreciate your help, but it'll be back any minute."
The vampire regarded him for a moment, his expression unreadable. "I don't expect you'll need it just yet," he said finally. "And it's probably for the best if you lie down again, Witcher. You're rather badly injured, and I've taken some pains to treat your wounds."
Geralt huffed in frustration. "And I appreciate it Regis, I really do. But you didn't see this thing, nor what it can do. I'd rather not let it take out the both of us and then whoever else is fool enough to settle around... well, here..." He trailed off. "Here." With narrowed eyes he looked at the vampire, suspicion clouded his face. "In this old cemetery, near where the Cholta meets the Ina."
Regis looked, strangely, intrigued. "Indeed," he said.
"In this hut, which, when last I saw it, was an abandoned ruin," Geralt continued, staring at the vampire.
Regis raised an eyebrow. "And yet now you find yourself in my humble abode? I can understand your confusion, Witcher."
Light flashed disconcertingly at the edges of Geralt's vision as he tried to stand. "My sword, now, Regis," he said, dangerously. "If that's indeed who you are. Or what you are." He swayed, fighting to stay upright and ignore his the pain of his injuries.
"Sit, Witcher," Regis said forcefully. "It seems clear to me that you already know both of those answers. Up until now, you've spoken to me like an old friend." Geralt glared at him, but collapsed back onto the cot, which squeaked under his weight. "'But I cannot in good conscience give you your sword until I'm certain that we both understand what has happened."
Geralt scowled. "You know, sometimes it's necessary to take action before you have time to consult innumerable dusty tomes," he said. "Earlier today, when I arrived here, this shack was a ruin. The roof was gone. And yet, in the middle of a fight with something that I, with all my years of experience, have never before encountered, I find myself here, as if all the years that have passed since you and I met have never been!" He raised his hand to his medallion reflexively. "And you should know to trust me when I say that it's not yet over. I can feel it." Light flashed again around the edges of his vision, and for a moment, the room swam in front of him.
Regis frowned, greying eyebrows furrowing over black eyes. Then he stood. "We met here, you say," he started, continuing even as Geralt's eyes narrowed. "And yet I have never seen you before. Nor any Witcher, nor any other intelligent being, for months. You mutter in your sleep, Witcher," he went on, leaving no pause for Geralt to interrupt. "It's clear that you know me. Consider me a friend, even!" From beneath the table, he pulled out Geralt's silver sword, and looked at it for a moment, running his nose along its length. Then he tilted his head and looked back at the Witcher, who was regarding him with growing suspicion. "What you fought... are fighting... it showed you images from your past, correct?"
Geralt frowned. "Not just my past. Things others lived through, too--things they told me about. What are you--?"
Regis held up a hand to cut him off. "'I don't believe that those were only visions or hallucinations," he said. "Whatever it was, it was able to throw you through time itself, albeit temporarily." He looked thoughtful. "Perhaps some kind of defense reaction, formed through a chemical process...?"
"This is no time for scholarly investigation, Regis," Geralt interrupted with a growl. The flashes in his vision were increasing, the dizziness growing. He pushed himself to his feet anyway, stubbornly ignoring the pain. "Give me back my sword, and tell me how to kill this thing!"
The room swam in front of him, and his head spun. Regis pressed the sword into his good hand. "... I don't believe you'll have to," he said, oddly, and to Geralt it now seemed that two--no, three--of him spoke in chorus. He blinked, hard, trying to regain his equilibrium, and for a moment, all was black.
---
Then the vampire was gone, and the ruins of the hut surrounded him. The Witcher steadied himself, clutching his sword one-handed, and breathed slowly, trying to settle his mind, but expecting to be attacked again at any minute. Nothing came. Gradually, his senses returned to him, and he became aware of a terrible stench. In his newly-cleared vision, the state of Regis' former home became clear to him. A sticky substance was splattered liberally across the remaining walls, and beneath it lay the stinking remains of the creature that attacked him.
He poked at it cautiously with his sword, but it seemed truly dead. "Not a wraith," he muttered. Whatever powers of obscuring itself it had had, they had now worn off, and he could see its long, spindly arms and sharp claws clearly. "A hym. But ancient..." Just to be certain it was dead, he cut off its head with a single stroke of his silver sword.
The creature disintegrated before he could even sheathe his sword.
"It's a good thing I didn't have a contract for that one," Geralt remarked to himself, feeling lightheaded. Looking down, he saw his pack in the corner, and near it—thankfully!—his steel sword. He gingerly reached down and pulled out a healing elixir, then pulled the pack over his good arm. "I'm getting far too old for this," he muttered, returning the steel sword to its place on his back. Slowly, limping and inwardly cursing, he ducked back out of the doorway and into the cemetery, hoping to find Roach where he had left her. Supporting himself on tombstones and trees, he limped back through the necropolis.
To his surprise, where he had left Roach, he now found not only his horse, but also a crackling campfire. His good hand went to his silversword. Some last trickery or hallucination? Before he could draw it, however, a familiar voice stayed his hand.
"'Witchers," Regis said, from his seat by the fire. "Kill first, ask questions later."
Wearily, Geralt sank down next to the fire, propping himself up against his pack. "Hello, Regis," he said. His tone made it almost a question.
"Well met, Geralt," Regis answered, and passed him a steaming cup.
The Witcher accepted it in silence. For a while, they stared at the campfire. Then he turned to the vampire. "You knew me," he began, half-accusingly. "When we first met – when I thought we first met. From the start, you knew I was never a threat to you."
"Yes," Regis replied, turning to Geralt with his usual wry expression.
"And all this time, you never said a word." The Witcher shifted, with difficulty, against his pack and stifled a groan. "Nor a warning!"
Regis looked into the fire. "In truth, I didn't know for sure if the man I eventually met was the same as the man who appeared that day." He glanced at Geralt. "As you know very well, there are many worlds that overlap with this one. How was I to know which of them you came from? I chose to say nothing and observe, to discover the kind of man you were." The corner of Regis' mouth twisted up into an odd smile. "And I was not entirely convinced that your appearance that day wasn't some kind of strange premonition, a product of my own mind. I had not truly conversed with another being in many months, you know." He looked back at the fire, black eyes intense beneath furrowed brows. "Less than a week later, you met me for the first time--from your perspective, at least!--and I chose to help you rather than... well, leave this life behind me."
Geralt pushed himself up from the pack with his good right hand, hissing between his teeth at the shifting of his ribs. "Regis..." he began, before sinking back down, grimacing. "Gods, I really am getting too old for this life!" The wound on his leg had opened with his movement, and a sluggish flow of blood had begun to seep through the edges of the dressing.
"Stop moving around," Regis said, pulling open his satchel. "If anything, this dressing proves that I wasn't in my right mind that day. I could hardly have done a worse job of it." He peeled back the dressing from the wound as Geralt gritted his teeth. "The stitches will hold, at least." He covered the slashed flesh with a strong-smelling paste and bandaged the wound, not looking up. "I didn't know for certain that I met you then, until tonight." Having completed his work, he sat back. "But I cannot apologize for the lack of warning. For if you hadn't appeared in my apothecary that day, I cannot say that I would still have been here when you arrived with Dandelion and the rest, later on." His eyes met Geralt's own. "And I find I cannot regret the rest of our acquaintance in the slightest."
The vampire lapsed into silence and looked back into the fire. After a moment, he felt the warmth of the Witcher's hand come to rest over his. "I don't blame you for this, Regis," Geralt said. "I know as well as you that I'm hardly one to listen to advice, in any case--so who's to say I'd have listened to you?" He closed his fingers over Regis' hand, gripping it gently. "For all I was an ass to you when I first met you here, you chose to join my journey all the same, offered your help when I had done nothing to deserve it, killed and been killed to serve my causes... you have been the truest of friends, all of these years." He began to yawn, then winced. "I could have done without that clawed beast of a hym, all the same."
Regis laid his other hand over the Witcher's. "Rest, old friend," he said. "The accounts are balanced between you and I. And you have plenty more journeying to do, of that I am sure."
Geralt's pale eyes met Regis' dark ones. Both could see well in the dark; both could sense the other‘s sincerity in the scent of his skin and the set of his face. For a moment, all was still. Then, something in the Witcher's jaw shifted, and he let out a short breath, as if coming to a long-considered decision. "Join me again, Regis," he said, holding the vampire's gaze. "I would never have been able to see it back then, but you and I are two of a kind. Whether it was fate, or coincidence, or a bloody monster that drew us together...." He pulled Regis' hands onto his chest, over his heart. "... I'd like to see where our path leads."
Regis' gaze seemed to bore into the Witcher's soul. For a few moments, he was silent. Then he spoke softly. "For many years, my heart was Detlaff's. How could it not be, after all he did for me? Of course, he could never return my feelings, but still... After I had to destroy him, I thought that that part of me was gone forever." He looked down at his hands, resting over Geralt's heart. "But I am coming to believe that to be wrong." Experimentally, he leaned in, pressing a kiss to Geralt's lips. After a moment, the Witcher responded. Regis' mouth was warmer than Geralt had expected. His tongue brushed fangs and tasted herbs and moonshine.
After a moment, Regis drew back, closing his eyes and breathing in the Witcher's scent. Then, gently, he removed his hands from Geralt's grip, the corner of his mouth rising into a smile as the Witcher yawned and then winced with the pain. "Sleep, and heal. I'll keep watch."
The Witcher slept. The vampire sat contemplatively by their campfire. The scent of new possibilities hung in the air.