Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun could barely be seen rising above the hills that morning; a thick mist draped itself across the landscape following the chill of the night, swathing the land in an ominous, darkened cloud. The highways were deserted, and vintners stayed in the warmth and comfort of their homes, hoping to beat the cold at least a few minutes longer before work saw them heading to and fro.

A more fitting escape neither could have foreseen as two cloaked figures rode side by side upon Toussaint’s well-used paths. Saddlebags laden with victuals and horses well-fed and eager to beat the steadily worsening weather, their mount’s hooves clopped quickly upon the stone bridge spanning the canal below them as the water rolled and lapped away at the banks in a considerably calm manner. The Cockatrice Inn loomed before them on their right, and the scent of their famed crayfish chowder drove one of the riders to a halt. Indicating with a hand, the figure dismounted and strode in, his companion doing likewise.

It was a half hour later, as the fog had at last begun to disperse so as to allow the sun’s rays to gently illuminate the far peaks of the Gorgon mountain range that the two then left the inn, nodding politely to a trio of knights errant that had just led their horses into the stables. They then proceeded to ride away laughing softly as they spurred their mounts towards the northern highway.

The knights, so distracted by the promise of breakfast and the warmth afforded to them by the roaring fires of the inn, failed to notice that it was well past the sun’s first light. And that one of those cloaked figures who had so politely nodded to them was wearing twin swords strapped to his back.

It was three hours past the first stroke of dawn when Geralt of Rivia, in the company of the vampire Emiel Regis, left the duchy of Toussaint a free man once more.

*

“I must confess that even I maintain a certain degree of astonishment at so brazen a plan of yours, Geralt.”

Geralt turned his head, allowing himself a rare – though considerably less rare of late – smile at the vampire riding alongside him. They had just left the small town of Belhaven en route to Riedbrune, the border of Toussaint a half day’s journey behind them. The weather had cleared considerably since the foggy dawn that morning, and their horses whinnied and swished their tails merrily. With amusement the witcher thought back to their near escape that morning, and allowed himself a moment to savour the feeling that a well-thought out plan brought him.

“Food and wine are the only two things the people of Toussaint love more than their duchess and their realm,” the witcher explained, scanning his cat eyes out of habit over the heads of villagers that they passed by on their journey forwards, in the expectations that one of them would stop, recognise the swords on his back, and call them to a halt to ask for help with necrophages plaguing the garden or drowners stealing their boats – whatever the hell it always seemed to be these days that went wrong in small townships such as these and the overactive imaginations of the peasants who lived there. So far they didn’t get spared more than a few cursory glances, and that suited Geralt just fine.

Regis hummed, the twitch of a smile upon his lips barely visible behind the hood of the cloak he wore.

“Indeed. Yet as I have had no prior reason to trouble myself with being wary of the duchess’s guardsmen, it was a first-rate shock to me. Though the crayfish chowder was admittedly rather good.”

Geralt chuckled, looking back at his friend who wore a considerably satisfied expression upon his shadowed face. In hindsight, catching the knights at that time of day was entirely coincidental – the main reason Geralt had stopped them at the inn was only because he hadn’t eaten anything that morning. When the knights were too busy with thoughts of how to fill their bellies to notice the pair that had slipped past them later on, Geralt had allowed himself a sigh of relief as he had mounted Roach. He didn’t necessarily believe in fate, but at that moment it would seem that something was on his side.

He wasn’t going to question it.

As if sensing his thoughts, Regis laughed.

“Some of the best plans are those stemmed from accidental circumstances, it would seem.”   

A mild grunt of agreement was the response he was awarded with, and the vampire allowed another smile. They rode on in silence for a while longer, each enjoying the company of the other, and though Geralt was loath to admit it, he could feel the weight on his shoulders sagging away into nothing the further the distance they put between themselves and the green hills of Toussaint.

He busied himself with focusing on the task at hand, or rather, his plans for the future and how his companion had shaped them. For not the first time since waking that morning, he found himself thinking back to the events that had transpired the previous night. Regis, arriving at Corvo Bianco, sitting with him by the fire and the pair talking in quiet voices as a full flask of mandrake was passed back and forth without a care in the world.

Regis, walking side by side with him through the estate’s winding paths in the dead of night, the moon overhead masking the valley in its silver glow as the conversation suddenly turned to matters which carried a far greater weight than either of them had known.

Regis, writhing with him upon the bed in Geralt’s room, lips crushing together and bodies clawing to get closer in a lustful embrace which left both breathless and yearning for more.

Regis, who had smiled down at him when he had awoken after finally giving into the vampire’s suggestion of sleep, and who had more than welcomed the kiss that had been Geralt’s morning greeting.

Regis.

Geralt was no fool; it was both exhilarating yet left him, to a degree, uneasy at just how easily the vampire consumed his thoughts until he could no longer think of anything else. Truthfully, as Geralt remained silent and cast stolen glances in Regis’ direction every so often as their horses trotted on, he began to realise that perhaps he was now coming to a full understanding as to exactly the types of thoughts, the types of feelings that filled Regis’ mind when he had admitted to Geralt that he was suffering from the same overwhelming feelings whenever his thoughts turned to that of the witcher.

He knew what it was, these feelings, these emotions, this tightness in his chest that just would not abate. Knew it and would embrace it, if only he knew how to. He had only ever felt like this once before, a long time ago. When it had been him and Yennefer, and the twisted magic of a djinn that had bound them together, snared them into a trap that they could not break.

Until that’s exactly what Yennefer had done. And she had at last gotten the answer that she had been seeking for so long.

“Sorry, Yen. Magic’s gone for me.”

He looked back at Regis again who was only a few feet ahead, his horse tossing her head proudly and enjoying the warmth of the sunshine that had at last broken through the cloud cover above.

Part of him felt that he shouldn’t trust these feelings, trust these new – and old – sensations that had made themselves known, had manifested with such intensity that he felt himself swallow thickly. Perhaps he was worried in some way – concerned, and afraid – that perhaps it was just another magic trick. That it would disappear into nothing given just a single word.

He knew he was being irrational. He knew he was being uncharacteristically childish, even. But just as he knew what he felt – knew but could not name – he also knew that it was something he didn’t want to let go of.

Regis turned his head, seeing that Geralt was not keeping pace with him. He gently reined in his horse, allowing the witcher to catch up. One look into those dark eyes under the grey cloak he wore and Geralt knew that Regis could see everything going on in his mind from his expression alone. He always prided himself on his ability to mask any transparency in his expressions and thoughts, but it never worked on Regis. Indeed, there were times when Geralt had often had to remind himself that Regis was not man but vampire, and one who had roamed this earth for well over four centuries before he had met him. The intelligence in his eyes was one which only someone with centuries of experience and knowledge could possess. So he saw it all. Everything.

Thankfully, he didn’t deign to comment. Geralt had explained to him, in his own way more or less, that it would take time for him to understand himself, understand the traitorous thoughts flying through his mind. And Regis was more than willing to wait.

“Such a maudlin look in your eyes, Geralt. In my professional opinion I’d say what you’re most in need of right now is a contract to turn your mind to matters much more pressing for a witcher.”

Geralt barked a laugh.

“Damn it, Regis.”

Regis grinned, knowing by the tell-tale appreciative jump of Geralt’s heartbeat at the sight of his fangs fully bared and not hidden behind his usual tight-lipped smile that he had won again. He didn’t mind. After all, it was worth it to see the affection stirring within the depths of those golden eyes.

And worth it still when he had taken the man’s hand and pressed his lips to his knuckles, ignoring the looks of any who had seen as they passed them by.

*

They entered the village of Riedbrune around five in the evening some four days later, having made full use of various caves and clearings safely tucked away on the sides of the roads to make camp at night since they left Belhaven. Where the weather had thankfully been somewhat decent over the past few mornings, sunshine amidst cloud cover here and there, it was not enough to have completely warded off the chill that at once returned, and with increased vigour.

The rain was a deluge as they hastily drew their hoods back over their heads, their horses snorting and carefully picking their way through the muddy soil that more than a few peasants had slipped in in their hurry to escape indoors. Around them they gazed at the thatch roof housing of small huts clustered neatly together, espying a stable next to the inn from which raucous laughter and the loud hum of voices could only just be heard over the roar of the rain.

They dismounted, guiding their horses to the relatively dry stables and leaving them in the hands of the stable boy who looked up from the wood he was carving idly with a knife upon hearing their footsteps. He jumped up to immediately take the reins of the mares, and quickly pocketed the two crowns that Regis handed to him, the lad’s face lighting up considerably. Geralt watched the action, unable to completely stop himself from shaking his head in fond, if also thoughtful, amusement. That was more pay than the boy would get in an entire year. In fact, judging by how the urchin’s eyes had positively bulged as soon as they had turned their backs and strode towards the inn, it was probably the first time he had ever seen coin in his life.

Geralt swept his eyes around to the front of the inn before them, scanning the walls quickly. Not finding what he was looking for he then turned back to the vampire beside him.

“Hate to break it to you Regis, but that kindness is gonna kick you in the ass one day,” he muttered lowly, though not unkindly. “Good deeds don’t get rewarded in these parts.”

“Perhaps,” Regis mused, pressing his gloved hand against the wooden door and swinging it inwards to allow the pair to walk through. The noise around them blared to a volume which threatened to swallow them whole, so loud it was. “But at least it will ease both my conscience and the lad’s belly somewhat. He was starved, Geralt.”

He was. The boy was thin, skeletal almost. His skin was almost as pale as the witcher and vampire’s own.

Geralt had no answer to give, for at that moment as soon as they had pulled back their hoods the noise in the inn had died down considerably, so much so that naught but the rain could be clearly discerned. It was the usual, typical response the witcher received whenever he strode into villages with the intentions of grabbing a drink and a moment to sit away from the cold; tight-knit communities such as these saw a stranger, a dangerous looking man littered with scars and armed to the teeth, swords on his back and eyes like the devil. He could only imagine what they saw when they looked at Regis beside him. They were an odd pair by all accounts, even if people knew fully well what they both were.

In that regard, Geralt was damn glad that they didn’t.

The eyes of the village continued to follow them as they walked to the innkeeper, who had slowly lowered the cloth he had been in the middle of using to clean the mug raised in his left hand. Out of the corner of their eyes they saw wives and mothers shelter their children, whispering to them to avert their gazes. The men tightened their hands around their mugs. Some had even flown their fingers down to dance warningly upon the hilts of knives or clubs. Geralt didn’t fail to notice that Regis had taken half a step closer to his side.

It was only when the innkeeper greeted them, eyes wary, that the rest of the town seemed to relax their vigil and return to whispering in hushed conversations or the slow raising of mugs and bowls of stew to hungry mouths.

“Evening, masters. What can I do for ye?”

The innkeeper was a tall man, face ruddy with the heat of the oven flames behind him. He was careful to keep his voice as pleasant as he was able.

“Evening, my good man,” Regis replied. Geralt was surprised at Regis taking the opportunity to speak for him, but he was no less grateful at any rate. He dealt with people much better than the witcher did, after all. “Would you happen to spare some food and drink for two travellers wearied by the road?”

“That’ll be five crowns a head,” the innkeeper answered, continuing once more with his prior task of cleaning the ale mug in his grip as he indicated the drinks and meals already set and cooking in the oven – what looked and smelt like, to some extent, a braised beef stew. Regis merely smiled, nodded, and placed down the required sum from the small coin purse he wore at his side. The innkeeper brightened up considerably at seeing the gold on the worn benchtop.

Regis stood back, flashing Geralt a small, secretive smile as the man hurried to pocket the coin and fetch the meals. Geralt raised an eyebrow, saying nothing but not bothering to hide the impressed look on his face in the slightest.

Apparently convinced that the two were only after a meal and seemingly nothing more, the noise in the tavern resumed as it had before they had stepped through the door; people once more began talking and laughing boisterously without a care in the world. Geralt’s attention, however, was focused mainly on the frothing mugs of ale placed down before them a moment later, and the bowls of stew soon following suit, steam curling in fine wisps above the hot meals.

“Feel free to sit wherever you’ll be wishing,” the innkeeper announced cheerfully, though it was clear that more coin for his services wouldn’t go awry if the hopeful glint in his eyes said anything about it. “Will you uh… be needing a room tonight, masters? Weather’s awful dreadful out there. Got one already made up. Clean linens. Warm fires. Only ten apiece for you good sirs.”

This time it was Geralt who placed the coin down, much to the innkeeper’s delight.

“Please,” he grunted over a swig of his cool ale. It was by no means the best brew he’d tasted, but given how the past four days had been nothing but hard riding and an occasional stop for a bite to eat from the travel bags Marlene had handed them before they had departed Corvo Bianco, nothing worked better to clear the dust from his throat and quench his thirst.

A rusted iron key was pulled from the innkeeper’s pocket and laid down next to their food.

“Up the stairs, last door on the right.”

Geralt nodded, pocketed the key and turned around, roaming his eyes over the heads of the patrons gathered. He wasn’t so much interested in finding a spare place to sit, but more so he was distracted by the state of those present. Peasants such as these were far better off than those living in the settlements throughout the war-ridden zones of Temeria, especially with Nilfgaard’s recent conquest. He saw ladies with silks instead of coarse cotton blouses, and men with clean faces and hands instead of all manner of filth and muck caked deep into their skin. More importantly, these people were used to travellers, with the settlement residing on the main road that separated the south from the north.

So why had they been so wary when he and Regis walked in?  

“I can almost hear you thinking, Geralt,” Regis said quietly, pulling Geralt from his musings. He glanced at the vampire beside him, whose mug was raised to his lips as he took a sip of his own ale. He too was watching the crowd, and it didn’t take a genius to know that he had come to the same conclusion. “A crown for your thoughts?”

Geralt smiled, settling his ale down in favour of trying the stew he’d been left. It was hot and the broth much too watery, and there was a suspicious lack of beef. But it filled his belly nevertheless.

“Might pay the ealdorman a visit later on. What d’you say?”

Regis nodded, rubbing his free hand idly against his chin.

“Even a blind man can sense that something is not right with these good folk,” he muttered knowingly. “The food is weak and the people are tense. Fear cloaks these people like a shroud – fear and anger. Yes, I’d say that finding out as much as we can should indeed be our first priority.” When he turned to Geralt once more, a tight smile was on his lips, his fangs carefully hidden from view as he saw the surprised look in his lover’s eyes. “I also noticed you searching for the noticeboard when we were outside.”

“Regis, perceptive as ever,” the witcher chuckled wryly, almost feeling the widening grin on Regis’ face when he turned around to face the innkeeper – or more appropriately, the man’s back, as he was bent over the oven pulling out more bowls of stew for a family that had come up to the counter beside them. He waited a moment for the innkeeper to serve them before clearing his throat and drawing the tall man’s attention.

“The ealdorman here?”

The innkeeper scratched his brow.

“Aye, he be here, master. If it’s him you’ll be speakin’ with he shows up for his meals round the third hour past dusk.”

“Another two hours,” Regis supplied by Geralt’s side.

“What does he look like?” Geralt asked. The innkeeper scratched his brow again, the fingers caked with broth from the stews he’d been handling now drawing a fine line of muck upon his forehead.

“Tall, portly fellow. Balding head. Say… why you be needin’ to see him?” The man scrunched his eyes up shrewdly, all manner of former hospitality seemingly forgotten in place of the evident distrust now shown them. Before either Geralt or Regis could reply, the man had drawn his eyes to the hilts of the swords upon Geralt’s back, which had now slipped out from under the hood of his cloak when the witcher had shifted upon the chair he had sat himself on. Recognition sparked in the man’s eyes immediately. “Ye Gods – you be a witcher?!"

Geralt wanted to point out that normally the eyes gave it away first but he stayed his tongue, if only because the man didn’t look particularly bright concerning matters outside enterprise and recognising the colour gold on anything besides coins.

“I am.”

It seemed to him that the innkeeper sighed with relief.

“It be good you stoppin’ by here then, sirs,” he whispered in hushed tones, leaning in closer to the pair over the counter. “Ealdorman had put out a notice on the board outside some few days ago. Had to take it down ‘cos o’ the weather but he’ll be mighty glad to see you.”

“What’s been going on?” Regis asked, standing to attention beside Geralt, his brows creased in concentration as he hung onto the man’s every word. The innkeeper turned his attention to him.

“Don’t rightly know, but it be bad. Somethin’s unsettlin’ the folk. All we can do is stay indoors but we’re hungry and more oft than not we fear we’ll die of starving.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes, then indicated the bowl of stew before him.

“What about the meals you’re serving tonight?”

The innkeeper sighed morosely.

“Last month’s rations we received from the last caravan that what passed through here. Our crops’ve been suffering aplenty of late – can only hope the rain will put a right to it. First rainfall we’ve had in ages. As it is this be the fourth night in a row we’ve had to re-use the broth. Barely anythin’ else but the ale after this goes.”

Geralt promptly pushed his plate away.

“Do you know why the ealdorman needed to hire a witcher?” Regis asked softly. “It seems to me that a bad harvest this year is at fault.”

The innkeeper fixed him with a defeated stare.

“Would that I knew, master,” he muttered. And that was the end of the brief, and troubling, conversation. The innkeeper had been called over to the other side of the bar by two older men demanding another round of ale. Geralt gently nudged Regis to turn around, his hand sliding down his back in a gesture that went unnoticed by any save themselves. Seeing no need to talk, at least for now – given the lack of privacy or quiet for the pair to fully collect their thoughts – they settled themselves down and finished off their drinks, eyes constantly scanning over the heads of those gathered and the front door in the hopes that the ealdorman would soon show himself.

They didn’t have to wait long, despite the estimate of a couple of hours’ worth that the innkeeper had given them.

Barely a half hour later had the door opened and a great hulk of a man walked in, stomach bulging and swaying with each step that he took. His head was near completely bald and his silken doublet was flecked with rain, which had lessened considerably since Geralt and Regis had entered the inn. Even without the innkeeper’s quiet murmur to them that that was the man they had been asking about, it was plain to see given the reactions of the peasants gathered inside. People nodded to him, welcomed him inside, and a couple had even moved out of their seats by a considerably quieter corner to let him sit down.

He couldn’t have been more than fifty years old. His eyes were cold as stone.

Sharing a glance, Geralt stood from the stool he had been sitting on, as did Regis beside him. They thanked the innkeeper and walked over to the man sitting by himself, the flames of the fireplace against his back. He watched them with beady little eyes when he noticed the strangers approaching him, and he straightened in his seat when they stood by the head of the table. It was a long time before either of the three spoke, until the ealdorman was the first to break the silence. His voice was gruff and hoarse sounding.

“Who might you two be?”

Geralt gestured to himself and the vampire.

“Geralt of Rivia. Emiel Regis. Just passing through here, heard about your notice.”

The ealdorman didn’t even blink. Then he noticed the swords on Geralt’s back and studied his eyes carefully. 

“You a witcher?”

Geralt nodded. The ealdorman indicated the spare seat in front of him, to which the witcher and vampire occupied silently. The ealdorman watched them quietly a moment more before lifting a hand and waving to the innkeeper, raising his voice to a loud bark.

“Dennis, three rounds of ale!”

The innkeeper – known as Dennis – nodded and set about the request immediately.

“About bloody time. Notice’s been hanging out there for weeks,” the ealdorman groused, crossing his arms over the huge girth of his chest. “How soon until you start figuring out what the hell’s been happening to my town?”

Geralt blinked.

“Haven’t actually had a look at the notice yet,” he answered. “Innkeeper said it was taken down because of the weather. We’ve only just arrived.”

The look with which the man fixed them with was far too reminiscent of the icy glare the duchess had given Geralt that morning in Toussaint, when she had first ordered him driven away. He didn’t react.

“Bloody figures.” A grumbled sigh followed, but was soon broken off into a noisy, careless slurp from one of the mugs that Dennis had now placed down in front of them. Geralt and Regis didn’t bother with their own mugs, having had their fill of the – considerably poor – booze already. Instead they contented themselves with watching the man; Geralt could see out the corner of his eye that Regis was sizing him up with a glance, taking in every detail. The man was by all means repulsive, and both Geralt and the vampire had learnt from many an experience from the last time they had travelled together all those years ago that characters such as these often needed one eye kept on them at all times. The witcher knew he wouldn’t be surprised if come morning a raven had been sent out to keep watch of him.

The ealdorman belched loudly, wiped his mouth loosely on the back of his sleeve, and sighed as he leant back against the wall. He looked from one to the other, sizing them up just as they were doing likewise, and he spared a brief nod to the crowd of villagers seated down behind them.

“You’ll have to forgive the people here. Been some time since we’ve seen nary a traveller on the road, what with the war up north. It’ll take a while still, folk only just now braving to venture the highways again. And what with the stories heard tell about the goings on in the south lately… their caution is well placed.” He paused, belched again, and glared distrustfully. “Lately people from here to Belhaven have been too afeared to leave their homes. So what brings you here? Can’t’ve just been the notice. Where’re you from?”

Geralt and Regis looked at one another, silently questioning in their glances how much to tell the man. Regis turned his head and cleared his throat softly.

“Toussaint. We’re seeking to travel northwards.”

The ealdorman whistled lowly.

“Well bugger me. What about the vampires? Entire bloody duchy’d been slaughtered by the blood sucking cunts last I heard.”

Regis blinked, Geralt meanwhile slipping his hand down under the table to rest lightly upon the vampire’s knee. It was a needless gesture, but one that brought both of them comfort at the very least.

“Not the entire duchy, no,” Regis answered slowly. “The land is much the same as it was before. Thankfully the issue was resolved reasonably quickly despite some of the casualties.” He cast another glance to Geralt when the ealdorman had gone to pick up his ale again. The witcher merely tightened his hold upon Regis’ knee.

Returning his beady eyes to them, the ealdorman gave the remarkable impression that he didn’t care either way. Waving a hand as if to visibly indicate the change of topic, he belched once more and crossed his arms over the table, leaning in.

“Down to business. You want to know what’s going on, I’ll tell you. Hunger, that’s what. Not just any hunger. Some monster has been stealing valuable grain from the storage every night the moon shows. Find it. Kill it.” He leaned back.

Geralt arched an eyebrow.

“Monster? What kind of monster? Gonna need more information than that. Besides, no monster I know of is in the habit of stealing grain from a village, moon showing or not.”

Those beady little eyes narrowed in on him, much like a vice clamping down.

“You’re the bloody witchers, you should know!”

Regis was unable to fully hide the small smile at the corner of his lips at having been regarded as such by the man in front of them. Geralt saw this and tried his hardest to not allow a smile of his own to show. The ealdorman continued, having not noticed the exchange.

“For fuck’s sake – moon shows, there’s howling in the woods by the village soon after, use your bloody noggins! It’s clearly a werewolf!”

This time Regis arched a brow.

“A werewolf?” He repeated.

By now the ealdorman was looking at them as if they had each suddenly grown three heads.

“Are you fucking dense or what? A fucking werewolf, yes! Man what turns into a dog in the middle of the night and preys on children and virgins – and for lack of those has now gone on to steal our grain! He’s making us desperate, easier to kill! Find the bastard, skin him alive, and maybe my fucking town will finally get some fucking peace and food!”

“Any idea why just the grain is being targeted?” Geralt asked.

This time the ealdorman near flew into a rage.

“How the fuck should I know?! That’s why I hired professionals! People I’m paying for results, not asking damn questions!”

There was silence for a minute – the noise in the tavern had died out instantly the second people had heard the ealdorman raise his voice. Geralt cleared his throat, shifting a little in his seat and trying to stay as calm as possible, despite the idiocy of the entire situation.

“How much are you willing to pay us? Contracts like these… rare as they are… when dealing with a werewolf the risks are significantly greater than clearing out a few drowners or asking restless spirits to leave nicely.” At this point he was half convinced a restless spirit had smacked the ealdorman upside the head. A witcher’s life is never dull, he mused.

“Three hundred crowns. Just three hundred,” the man warned, making sure to cut in before either of them questioned if the fee was three hundred for them each, or the single sum for their combined services. Neither of them batted an eyelid, having fully expected it to be the latter.

Geralt stood from his seat, Regis following suit.

“Agreed,” Geralt announced. The ealdorman almost looked pleased.

“We shall have to conduct our investigations on the morrow, if only because the weather is still somewhat unfavourable,” Regis added after a quick glance out the window. It was still raining. The ealdorman looked less pleased.

“Fine. Just get it done.”  

They were waved away without so much as another word. Geralt turned, raising both brows and making a show to exhale softly through his teeth. Regis’ lips quirked but he remained silent, merely brushing the folds of his cloak neatly down around himself as he fell into step beside the witcher, the pair striding towards the staircase that they could see on the far left. Feeling for their room key in the folds and pockets of his armour, Geralt held it out at the ready when they drew further towards the room that was to be their lodgings for the evening, down on the far right-hand side of the second floor, as directed to them by Dennis earlier on.

The floorboards were so old that they creaked under the lightest of steps, as proven by their advances down the hall. The heavy smell of dust and aged wood and timber hit their noses, and when Geralt had turned the key in the lock of their door it screeched as if this was the first time it had been used in centuries. It was even harder to push the door open, as stuck as it was – perhaps due to the weather. When they finally did manage it to walk into their lodgings, eyes raised and darting to and fro, a quick inspection proved that their low expectations had paid off; in this room were two beds barely holding together with sheets spread out over straw, a small fireplace which looked more like the remaining cinders of a campfire as it had obviously never been cleaned and was burnt as black as tar, and a singular window which wasn’t high enough to see fully over the top of the stables.

But it was warm and it was better than nothing. And much to Geralt’s satisfaction especially, it was quiet.

“Well, quite a predicament we seem to have found ourselves thrown into,” Regis mused thoughtfully, loosening his cloak and draping it over one of the beds. Geralt grunted in reply, dashing the fireplace with a blast of Igni and savouring the added warmth that greeted him in the dancing of the orange flames. For a fireplace that had clearly never been cleaned, it still worked remarkably well. He turned his attention back to the vampire, shrugging off his own cloak as he did so, followed by his swords which he placed carefully by the wall, and he smiled to see that Regis was watching him fondly.

“Definitely not the worst contract I’ve taken, but by far the most… interesting,” the witcher agreed. Regis chuckled.

“By that of course you mean that this isn’t even a contract at all?”

“More like the rantings of a madman if you ask me.”

“And yet,” the vampire stood up, striding next to Geralt to join him at the fireplace after the witcher had turned back to savour once more in its warmth, “the madman does raise a few valid and interesting points. One cannot ignore the hunger gripping this town. And that the certain circumstances that led to his abrupt conclusion are of a regular occurrence.”

Geralt hummed, rolling his shoulders to free the tension from his muscles after a long day in the saddle. He felt two long nailed hands come up to rest on the back of his neck, which then moved further down to the worn muscles in question and began to rhythmically knead ever so gently. And because they were alone Geralt didn’t bother to stifle the low, pleased groan that pulled from his throat.

He felt Regis step closer, his lips brushing Geralt’s jaw in a soft yet sensual caress.

“But one thing, admittedly, troubles me above all else in this curious scenario,” and Regis pulled back only to dip his hands lower down Geralt’s shoulders, continuing that slow, rhythmic kneading that was quickly turning the witcher’s knees weak underneath him, “and that is of the ealdorman himself.”

Geralt opened his eyes, having closed them for a moment as soon as he had felt the other’s hands on him.

“He’s too well off for the rest of the town,” he concluded, and though he couldn’t see it he knew that Regis was nodding his agreement. Geralt’s brows furrowed as he reflected on his words. “Not to mention he’s the only one who doesn’t seem to be on the verge of eating the horses. Too shifty… got defensive when we asked him questions.” He turned fully, facing his lover and stepping in to press a slow kiss to his lips. The hands on his shoulders slid to his waist, pulling him closer.

“Mhm… knows too much but says too little. All too familiar with his type.” Geralt pressed another slow kiss to those soft lips, and Regis hummed his agreement once more, this time against Geralt’s mouth whilst threading a hand upwards into the thick white strands of his hair.

“A prime suspect indeed.”

“Don’t even pretend you’re not gonna send your ravens after him.”

Regis smiled, dancing his mouth lightly against the corner of Geralt’s lips and gripping his hip tighter in his free hand.

“The thought never crossed my mind.”

Geralt scoffed at that, amused despite himself. At least those birds wouldn’t be following him for once. He pulled back a little only so as to begin unstrapping the buckles of his armour, needing to get out of the damp leather that had begun to finally stick to the linen of his shirt underneath.     

“Let us see what we have here: before us is a man who has, whether willingly or no, drawn suspicion to himself by his strange insistence to avoid answering questions. He has sent out for the services of a witcher, or witchers, as I must now apparently classify myself as such,” Regis began, stepping back himself and stroking his chin and bottom lip in thought as he paced slowly in front of the fireplace whilst Geralt busied himself with his clothes, “to see to the stopping and subsequent slaying of what he has convinced himself is the resulting work of a werewolf who has tired of molesting women and eating children all in favour of turning his wrath to the town’s grain storage instead. These occurrences are frequent, and always under the light of the moon.”

“If it wasn’t for that last part his claim would’ve made sense. Werewolves are typically active by moonlight, especially the full moon,” Geralt added, slinging the leather breastplate of his armour off and placing it down by the fire to dry somewhat. “Still never heard of one going after a grain storage, though. Can’t be a werewolf.”

“There was howling in the woods each time the grain was stolen,” Regis pointed out, looking back at the man. Geralt shrugged.

“If wolves hunt in the area, sure. Probably much more likely a single pack is at fault here.”

“A pack of wolves stealing the grain?”

Geralt had to admit the idea was as stupid as it sounded. He sighed. Regis on the other hand chuckled to himself, beginning to slowly divest himself of his own damp clothes. His smile soon faded.

“It also leaves me to ponder the question of just why is the grain being stored? The people are clearly starving. They’ve nothing to eat except rations they reuse to the point of being entirely inedible.”

Geralt’s eyes darkened, the thought having bothered him for some time, too.

“Dunno. That at least I wanna find out.”

Regis nodded solemnly at that. And, seeing the mood his lover was in, he deigned to lighten the situation as best he could.

“So I am correct in assuming that despite how incredibly nonsensical this contract is, you have no doubts about investigating the matter further tomorrow evening?” He looked up, fixing Geralt with a knowing smile when he saw the witcher sitting down on one of the beds, now devoid of his shirt and leather breeches and cat eyes locked on the vampire with one eyebrow arched.

“You’re enjoying this,” Geralt stated bluntly. Regis grinned, baring his fangs in the process.

“The whole thing is a mystery. Of course I am.”

Geralt barked a short laugh, rubbing a palm down his face in a small show of fond exasperation. He reached out, beckoning with his finger for Regis to walk over.

“Hurry up and come to bed.”

Regis didn’t need any convincing, still grinning widely as he shrugged the last of his tunic off, strode over, and met Geralt halfway in another slow, deep kiss.

*

He remembered well the morning they had left; each intricate detail seared itself into his memory as if he was in danger of forgetting it otherwise. Despite all that had happened, all that would happen, nothing could dampen the mood he had awoken in – not even the darkness of the sky or the knocking on his door as his majordomo hurriedly insisted he wake and get ready for the road, lest the knights stopped by and caught him still in the duchy.

Those first few seconds of wakefulness were first devoted to spurring his limbs to move and his thoughts to fully function after the refreshing lull that his rest had put his mind in. They were also devoted to looking up into the dark eyes of the vampire above him, Regis offering a small smile and a stroke of a hand down Geralt’s jaw.

He remembered well the night before, the revelations of heartfelt matters and the hot flood of passion that had followed, sweeping through them both with the raw force of something wild, yet still subdued. He had wanted it, he had decided this when he had been lain on his back, helpless to do nothing but gasp and grip at pale skin as that willowy, firm body swayed and rubbed against him, seeking pleasure but being careful, cautious all the same. Taking it slowly, as Regis had wanted and as Geralt had agreed. He knew though that when the time would come he would want it all, want to give in and give himself completely, but until then he could not. Not now. Not just yet. His chest had ached with something intense, all-consuming and altogether foreign. He knew what it was, what it still was, but he couldn’t trust himself. Not just yet.

But he could trust him. He always had. And he always would.

Looking into those dark eyes that morning, Geralt wasn’t surprised in the slightest to find that none of his thoughts had changed. Something had shifted between them – something that had drawn them together, indefinitely. Friendship that had grown, had morphed into something that could not be described, breathless it was to even think of it. He knew well Regis’ feelings for him, and in a way he had even suspected them from the very start – and just as soon as he could break down those last remaining barriers in his head, those last few tugs of restraint that demanded him to calm down, assess the situation, weigh all the pros and cons, he would be the first to reciprocate in the way that they both knew how.

But as it was, here, right now, waking up that foggy morning in Corvo Bianco nestled together under the warm sheets of the bed, bodies touching and hands slowly trailing over skin, mapping each twitch of muscle and each soft sigh to memory, Geralt would remember this moment, remember and savour it. He would allow himself to indulge in the softness of those lips, and the dizzying bliss that quickly followed as his hands slid down that pale back, pulling his lover’s weight closer still against him.

Regis chuckled, smiling and gripping either side of Geralt’s neck with long fingered hands, swallowing the pleased groans that issued from the witcher's throat. The knocking at the door became insistently impatient, and Geralt pulled away with a sharp cuss when it became a distracting racket.

“Sir, you really must get ready!”

“Geralt, it’s already dawn,” Regis added, in far softer and less urgent tones than B.B. Geralt sighed, knowing they were both right. He sat up when Regis pulled back, already standing from the bed and locating the rest of their shirts and belongings. With a yawn, Geralt stood and stretched and caught the shirt passed to him. Slipping it on and finding his armour, swiftly fastening each strap, lace and buckle with well-practiced efficiency, it was only another few minutes until the door was opened.

Barnabas-Basil didn’t comment when he saw that Geralt was not alone when the pair strode out to the foyer to meet him, but he quickly passed Geralt his swords, and with hurried words told them that the rest of his belongings left behind would be sent off immediately to The Chameleon in Novigrad when the courier arrived at the estate in the afternoon.

All it was were a few books and mementos from his various contracts undertaken whilst in Toussaint, but Geralt thanked B.B. for his efforts nevertheless. The following few minutes passed in a whirlwind: the servants had all gathered outside, and the horses were saddled. The majordomo had gone to immediately send for a second mount soon after Regis had arrived the previous night, and as always his choices were impeccable. The mare was kind-tempered and had no qualms about the vampire, and when Geralt questioned B.B. about his foresight into the matter Regis had told him that he had requested the horse when the man had greeted him at the door.

Admittedly, he hadn’t known whether Geralt would agree to his company on the road or not, and had asked for the mare if only to keep a low profile and to avoid suspicion whilst travelling along the ducal highway, should they part their separate ways for good on the morrow. Given the recent events in Beauclair, it would be far safer to blend in as thoroughly as possible, and to not be seen walking around at night. So it was with small shared smiles that they had both simultaneously agreed that it was fortunate in more ways than one how last night’s events had gone for the better, and that they would be travelling alongside one another once more.

Marlene had packed their saddlebags full with victuals aplenty, and the tears stained her wizened cheeks as she pulled them both down and imparted kisses on their brows. She promised to visit them in Novigrad, and with a final wave to the servants gathered and after the majordomo’s embrace and claps to the back, passing heart-felt thanks for all he had done for them and hearing the man’s well-wishes for the journey ahead and of his desires to see them once again, they had mounted their horses and rode off, the fog draping over the valley in sweeping tendrils that lasted until late afternoon when they had long since gone.

He was woken from these memories swirling like dreams within his head by the feel of something pressing against his brow.

Opening his eyes immediately, Geralt tightened his hand around the arm draped across his waist, Regis’ body a warm weight on his back as the vampire contented himself with the close proximity of the man before him, and of ensuring that he woke him in as gentle a way as he knew how. He could feel those lips parting into a smile on his forehead, followed by another kiss soon after, and Regis’ arm wound tighter still around his hip. They had quickly grown used to this on the road; each night, in those caves or clearings by the sides of the highways, they would rest and Geralt would awake with the vampire draped closely around him, hand on his waist and lips on his brow. He never said it out loud, but he relished the closeness, relished the care, the feel of a warm body beside his. That this warm body was Regis didn’t even matter as much as it should have, and given the addiction, the intoxication with this vampire that had grown, burst into something both primal and treasured, Geralt would have been a hypocrite to have turned him away. It had also been that first night on the road when Geralt had thought of him as not just a friend, but also something more akin to a lover. The fire within him had burned at the thought, and his chest ached eagerly in response.

Now though, he was aching with something completely different. Something closer to hunger.

“What time is it?” He grunted, slowly shifting in the bed and sitting upright. Regis watched, head turned to glance out the window.

“Not yet midday,” he answered. “I must say you slept remarkably well. You didn’t kick me this time.”

Geralt winced, remembering that little incident from their first night in Corvo Bianco, not merely half an hour after he had first closed his eyes to sleep. In his defence, as he had quickly apologised to a deeply amused looking Regis, he was not in the habit of sleeping so close to someone. It was no wonder his instincts had kicked in, his senses alert and hyper responsive particularly after the flood of oxytocins that had sharpened his mind to a point when they had been enthralled with each other upon the bed. Seeing Geralt’s reaction now, Regis smiled and stood up, the covers falling from his bare chest and giving Geralt something to focus his appreciative gaze on as the vampire set about picking his clothes from the floor.

That was when he felt his stomach growl in protest, and remembered the kind of food they served here. He felt the hunger dissipate almost instantly.

“Need to start heading around town… ask some of the locals if they know anything more,” the witcher muttered, rubbing his brow and getting up himself. Regis nodded.

“First, a bath then a small bite to eat. From the saddlebags,” he added, seeing the look on Geralt’s face.

“You’re not in any particular hurry to get to the bottom of this,” Geralt noted.

“What else can we do, Geralt?” Regis asked. “By all means we can go ahead and ask the townsfolk, but we are powerless to do any worthwhile investigating until nightfall. Besides, I have already taken care of the first matter. At least to some extent.”

“You sent your ravens after the ealdorman, didn’t you?”

“Of course. By the time we are somewhat more refreshed they should have some information for us.”

Geralt paused, considering this fact for a moment. Then he shook his head and took his shirt from Regis’ offering hand.

“Could’ve used something like that myself all the other times I was on a contract with close to fuck all to go on,” he muttered, allowing Regis’ ravens one rare moment of begrudging respect. A hand rested on his shoulder, squeezing sympathetically. Regis didn’t say anything, but Geralt could see exactly how amused the vampire was. He rolled his eyes, shaking his head once more and then nodding in the direction of the door.

“Let’s get cleaned up.”     

*

The rain had abated over the course of the night, leaving nothing but the earthy scent of its remains upon the wet soil and muddy grounds when the pair left the inn, feeling at least moderately cleaner than they had since first arriving after the lukewarm bath Dennis had directed them to. They first visited the stables to check up on their mares, Roach greeting Geralt with a toss of her head and a soft nicker to which the witcher answered by running a hand down her neck and a pat to her rump. Regis’ mare, a stout grey who had been given the honourary name of Draakul in memory of a mule that he had once owned, snorted softly and bowed her head to his shoulder. When Geralt had asked about the name of the horse the second day of their journey, still having not quite learnt what such a name was meant to mean in the ancient vampiric tongue, Regis had cheerfully responded by saying that it was still untranslatable, but by all means the witcher could continue to try his best to figure it out.

Geralt had then given up, letting the vampire chuckle merrily away to himself.

They sorted through the saddlebags, making sure that their food and various other possessions were still intact, and seeming pleased that they were and that the horses at least were well-fed, they turned and stepped through the mud and wet grass in search of answers to the puzzling situation that was the contract they had been issued with the night prior. The sun broke through the scattered remnants of rainclouds that coursed through the sky in swift swirling patterns, and the blindingly sharp glare of the light reflected off the puddles was taking its toll on those people who walked past around them.

Squinting their eyes and blinking once then twice, they grumbled to each other their morning greetings, and no one paid even a thought to the witcher and vampire striding leisurely side by side, completely unaffected.

Two ravens flew by overhead, cawing once, and Regis looked up, giving a barely perceptible nod. Geralt noticed this however, and he followed his friend as Regis indicated with a finger to walk with him towards the outstretch of houses lined side by side out of the main square. When they had drawn together under the shade of one of the thatched roofs, Regis raised his hand and one of the ravens that had been circling the sky around them swooped down, alighted on the proffered arm, and cawed in a slow, rhythmical pattern for some time. Then Regis spoke.

“The ealdorman has gone away on business,” he began in quiet tones so as to avoid drawing any unwanted attention, “to a neighbouring village within which he deals with a group of men thrice weekly.”

“What’s the name of this village?”

“It has no name.” Regis looked at him. “It was once part of Riedbrune itself but due to Nilfgaard’s influence over the south and the imperial control they still maintain in Toussaint, they had broken it off some ten years ago and set it up as a logging site. It’s a common stop for soldiers on the road, with the availability of crafting resources for armour and weaponry.”

Geralt nodded his head.

“Huh. Interesting. Your friend say what business he went there for?”

“Yes, though I’m afraid it won’t particularly help our investigations here. He was signing for three carts of blacksmith’s tools to be delivered to Riedbrune the following week.”

Geralt sighed, gazing at the raven on Regis’ arm as if in the hopes that by glaring at it, the bird would suddenly come up with something more useful. It simply stared right back at him with those beady black little eyes. It reminded him somewhat of the ealdorman and his gaze last night. He turned back to the vampire.

“Oh come now, Geralt,” Regis smiled reassuringly, “we’ve learnt that the ealdorman leaves the village regularly. I would have thought that you would be jumping for joy at the prospect of visiting his home to gather vital clues in his absence.”

Geralt scoffed.

“Given any other circumstance I would be,” he muttered drily. The raven uttered an indignant caw. Regis deigned not to translate, though the witcher didn’t miss how his lips curved upwards into a smirk.

“Fine, so we go to his house, look around. The villagers are avoiding us like the plague and the innkeep doesn’t know anything. Maybe the stable hand might have something to say.” Geralt crossed his arms over his chest.

“Hm, and perhaps a quick inspection of the granary,” Regis added, looking back at the raven which then cawed once more and spread its wings, flying from the vampire’s arm and disappearing into the trees overhead. “I doubt the supposed werewolf showed itself last night due to the downpour, but perhaps some old tracks still remain.”

Geralt looked at him, a thoughtful gaze entering his cat eyes.

“Sure you weren’t a witcher in a previous life?”

Regis glanced at him.

“Sometimes I wonder if that wouldn’t have been more preferable.”

*

The stable hand knew nothing, and he was just as wary as the rest of the villagers were. Geralt felt sorry for the lad; it wasn’t until the promise of more coin made itself known that the boy bothered to open his mouth long enough to tell them that he knew nothing at all about why the town was so short on food, swearing by his mother’s grave in doing so. Geralt wasn’t sure whether the mother would appreciate that. 

The blacksmith was no help either – not even when they asked about the tools the ealdorman had sent out for. The blacksmith had requested them, and the ealdorman had delivered. End of story. He had then grunted that they best be on their way before he clobbered both of them over the head with a poker. Geralt had just been about to calm the situation with a succinct twist of his fingers and a call of the Sign of Axii if need be, when Regis had beaten him to it. He diffused the tension with naught but the blink of an eye and a heartfelt word of apology for disturbing the man and his work, and the blacksmith grumbled his response and went back to the flames of his forge.

“How about we make a deal – you stick to the interrogations and I’ll be the hired muscle,” Geralt chuckled when they drew up shortly afterwards to the front of the ealdorman’s house, a well-kept lodging with ivy crawling up the lengths of the doorframes and window panes. He heard the vampire laugh and he smiled.

“I would say that until we think of another way to use our particular negotiating talents to the best of their abilities, I am willing to give that a shot,” Regis answered warmly. His brows then creased and a look of contemplation crossed his pale features. “It would be pointless trying to look for a key.”

Geralt was only half-listening; he’d walked towards the window and peered inside, trying to see past the grime of the glass to determine if the house was empty. So far he couldn’t see anything aside from a few tables and chairs and a writing desk in the far corner of the living room, but that alone wasn’t enough to go on.

“Damn. Should’ve asked if he lives alone,” he muttered, more to himself than anything.

“Can you imagine anyone in their right minds willing to share the same space as that vile man?” Regis asked quietly beside him. Geralt pulled back from the window.

“Good point.”

He was just about to say something else when Regis threw him a smile over his shoulder, offered a sly wink, and evaporated into a sudden cloud of grey mist. Geralt took a step back, feeling momentarily disoriented, and he stood there with brows arched and a sharp question ready on his lips until the front door opened and Regis stood there, beckoning the man to quickly walk in before someone saw them.

Casting another glance around him, Geralt strode inside. Regis closed the door behind him.

“Still gonna take a while to get used to that,” Geralt groused, following the vampire who had taken the lead and had begun directing them towards what looked to be the office; the desk that Geralt had eyed from outside was littered with slips of yellowed parchment, and the metallic smells of old inkpots with their ink still inside. Regis reached a hand out to gently cup it against Geralt’s cheek in a silent gesture of apology, and then quickly directed his attention again towards the stacks of paper he was now leafing through.

“Next time I will be sure to offer you a verbal warning beforehand,” Regis commented offhandedly, and Geralt shook his head in amusement before picking up the second half of the papers that his lover passed to him. “Now, what do we have here?”

“Looks like your run-of-the-mill tax forms, requests from the villagers, orders for the weapons and armour from that village you mentioned earlier…” Geralt looked around again, taking in the room they were standing in. The furniture and upholstery was old and well-used, and reeked of the heavy musky smell of dust and stale fabric. The fireplace was in reasonable condition however, as was the kitchen at the far end of the house, from what he could see. Much better condition than the inn, anyway. There was also a bed in the far corner layered with sheets of thick wool. A veritable luxury home, compared to the state of every other village house the witcher had ever seen. It wasn’t surprising however, given that the ealdorman was known to trade in local business. “Can’t see anything too out of the ordinary here.”

“Mm, I must concur,” Regis agreed, straightening himself up and stroking his chin in idle thought. “Geralt, would this cabinet by any chance have a false drawer?”

Geralt turned to the cabinet that Regis was gesturing to; stood next to the desk, it was equal in height and contained three draws carved out of solid oak. It looked sturdy, at first glance. And about as ordinary as the rest of the place.

“Wanna find out?” He asked. Regis nodded.

“Yes, I believe I do. One must never overlook all the possibilities, no matter how ridiculous at first they may seem.”

Geralt couldn’t argue with that logic, and so he and the vampire closed in on the cabinet, fingers sliding over each nook and cranny they could reach, feeling for some kind of hidden mechanism that would prove their theory correct. They found it. Right behind the bottom right leg.

“Aha,” Regis smiled, seeming pleased with their handiwork when a tell-tale click could be heard from lower down. Sure enough a small rectangular box then thumped neatly onto the stone floor below them, utterly plain in its simple craftsmanship, but nevertheless carrying with it a certain degree of mystery. They looked at each other for a moment, and then stooped down to pick it up and place it on the desk.

“Well, well, well…” Geralt whistled. “What have we here?” He opened the box, finding himself gladdened though somewhat confused at no evident lock anywhere to be seen, and the three envelopes that fell out and floated down towards the table made both witcher and vampire freeze in place where they stood.

They were each stamped with a red wax seal bearing the golden sun of Nilfgaard.

“The plot thickens by the minute,” Regis muttered, picking up one of the papers and inspecting it closely. It was addressed to the ealdorman, his name written out on the front of the envelope in a thin, neat script, as were the next two they inspected. He made to open one.

“Looking through the guy’s mail,” Geralt grinned as Regis neatly removed the wax, slipping his deft fingers into the open envelope to pull out the thin slip of paper inside, “what will people say?”

“Oh I’m certain I can get myself out of it some way or the other,” Regis announced cheerfully. “Besides, he’s already looked at these.”

Geralt blinked.

“What?”

Regis showed him the back of the wax seal, which had only been loosely refastened onto the envelope when he had gone to open it. Geralt cleared his throat, turning his attention instead to the paper that the vampire was now holding out in front of them, and he peered over Regis’ shoulder as their eyes flicked from line to line.

“Seems our friend’s in the good graces of the local army camp,” Geralt concluded after he had finished, having noted that the ealdorman had been commended for the supplies he had delivered to the imperial quartermaster of the small unit that had been located in the nearby forests, back when Nilfgaard had first moved up from the south towards the northern regions of Temeria. These papers weren’t recent. But they were still exceedingly interesting, nevertheless.

“It still provides precious little clues towards our current situation, but I daresay we can use the information here to help us piece together the puzzle that is the ealdorman himself,” Regis commented, looking through the other two envelopes and confirming that the papers in there all said more or less the same thing as the first. He placed them neatly back in their envelopes, reattached the wax seals, and nestled them once more into the box and slid it back into its base under the cabinet. Another click could be heard as the compartment closed over.

He straightened up, looking at the witcher.

“I think we’ve learned all there is to learn from this place.” Geralt nodded his agreement, and the pair quickly walked to the door, checking to make sure that no one from the village was walking by before stepping out. Geralt waited as Regis informed him that he would be locking the door, and he leant his back against the uneven surface of the nearby window frame whilst the vampire vanished once more into a mist, reappearing directly in front of the witcher some few seconds later.

“Still think you’d have made a great burglar.”

Regis uttered a short laugh.

“Perhaps one day.” He offered another wink and strode off, Geralt following. By now the sun had passed its zenith at this point, the weather growing cooler at the onset of the late afternoon. The clouds continued to sail past in the sky, but thankfully showed no sign of more rainfall. The walk to the granary was silent, and their eyes were alert for anything that would shine some light on their suspicions.

Nothing jumped out at them, nothing that gave any indication that anything unusual was going on. And when they appeared out the front of the granary, which was situated just outside the township, surrounded by a clearing on all sides, the clues continued to remain just as hidden as the letters of commendation that the ealdorman kept lying in his home.

“There’s too many tracks. People’ve walked through here all day,” Geralt announced with ire in his voice as he took to kneeling down, eyes running over the imprints in the mud before him. He saw the faint outlines of men’s shoes, some women’s, and a few children and animals – mainly wild dogs and birds. Nothing that indicated a werewolf, but then again it still wasn’t night.

Regis glanced up at the warehouse, brows furrowed in concentration as he looked at the solid craftsmanship of the granary. It wasn’t by any means impenetrable, the lock being only loosely closed around the door's handles which proved very easy indeed to open and remove with quick work from the vampire's hands. Walking inside, he noted the sacks of grain that remained. Enough to feed a whole village. He called Geralt inside.

“Shit,” the witcher growled when he saw. 

“Enough to feed a village, but not enough to last them until next winter,” Regis confirmed as he stepped between the sacks and planks of wood strewn haphazardly around the place. A rat squeaked from somewhere in the shadows. He span around, anger clear in his usually calm and composed features. “Just what in the hell does the man think he’s doing?”

“Believe me, you’re not the only one who wants to find out,” Geralt muttered. “He’s keeping it here for something. Just need to find out what.”

“If I’d have to stake a bet on it I’m more inclined to believe that his Nilfgaardian friends have a part to play in all this,” Regis sighed, running a hand over his face and slowly walking back outside. Geralt considered his words.

“It’d make sense. We know he’s in league with them. Dunno how far back it goes though, but…” he paused, glancing again at the granary behind him. “Nilfgaard’s no longer in the area. Pretty sure all their forces pulled out when Emhyr took over the north after Radovid’s death.”

“But no werewolf we know of steals grain,” Regis shook his head. Geralt looked at him and felt his expression soften in sympathy.

“We know it’s not a werewolf. Thought that’d please you,” he added. “Don’t ever remember you being particularly fond of them anyway.”

Regis smiled grimly at that.

“There are some things even I am afraid of,” he said softly, “and they are not just limited to werewolves.”

Geralt felt that he shouldn’t pry, but at the same time he wanted to know. What things in the world could possibly frighten a creature as old and powerful as the vampire he now stood beside? Regis saw the questioning gaze in his eyes and told him.

“Death, for starters. The thought of a death of someone very dear to me.” Those black eyes bored into Geralt’s own, and in that instant Geralt felt the breath being sucked from his very lungs.

“Don’t plan on dying any time soon,” he said quietly. Regis’ smile remained grim and tight-lipped.

“Thank you.” And that was all he said on the matter. He turned away. “Come. We must wait here until nightfall.”

*

The hours passed in relative silence, Geralt using the time to sit upon a nearby rock with whetstone in hand, sharpening his blades to gleaming, cruel points. Regis sat next to him, his eyes locked on the granary from the vantage point the pair had found in the clearing around the warehouse. They had hidden themselves under the cover of the trees and growing darkness, concealing themselves from the roaming eyes of whomever passed by. And hopefully away from the prying eyes of who – or what – it was that so often snuck into the clearing at night.

Ravens flew overhead every so often, giving the vampire updates on the situation in the village, as per Regis’ request. The ealdorman had returned and was partaking in his evening meal, and still no sight nor sound of any creature could be seen approaching the two lying in wait. It was now just after dusk’s final light, and the moon was slowly brightening in the darkened sky above.

Regis slipped his hand down, silently grasping onto Geralt’s own from where he had been leaning back on it against the rock. Geralt returned the gesture, brushing his thumb along Regis’ knuckles.

They didn’t have to wait very long after that.

Another hour and the sun had dropped completely from the horizon, the clearing now becoming illuminated in the silvery tendrils of the moon’s light. The birds had stopped their chirping, and all was silent – not even the song of crickets could be heard. Which was why they heard with crystal clarity the low howl that rippled through the forest behind them shortly afterwards – a lonely, sad wail that would have been enough to tear at the heart had it not been the call of a wild animal.

“Wolves,” Geralt muttered. That solved the riddle of the howling in the night, though it was a riddle which didn’t take much to solve in the first place. They had already known what the howling belonged to the moment the ealdorman had brought it up with them; the forest teemed with the canine hunters. Regis didn’t reply, for he quickly tightened his hand around the witcher’s own and urged him to look in the direction of the granary behind which a small figure could now be seen darting to and fro.

“Humanoid,” Regis observed, standing silently and narrowing his eyes. Geralt danced his fingers atop the hilt of his steel sword, sharing a quick glance with the vampire before the two stepped forwards, inching ever so closer. They didn’t step free of the clearing just yet, however. They wished to observe a moment longer.

It was good they did. Geralt wouldn’t have believed his own eyes otherwise.

The shadowy figure peered its head out from the back of the warehouse, as if checking the surroundings for anything. Then it stepped out, running quickly towards the front doors. Another turn of its head, another pause to see if anyone was coming, and the child, for that is exactly what it was, unclasped the lock and pulled the doors open with a heave and raced inside.

Geralt’s eyes widened and he shared a glance with Regis, the vampire looking just as perplexed as he. Geralt dropped his hand from the hilt of his sword, but still his fingers remained flexed and wary by his side. Regis walked forwards, the witcher following, with their steps silent as the grave. And then they waited by the doors for the young lad to come back out.

When he did he dropped the three large bags of grain he was holding and opened his mouth to scream. Regis quickly stopped him.

“Hush, we mean you no harm,” he said softly, lowering himself down to a knee to meet the boy’s eyes. The boy instead made to stifle his scream with the back of his hand, and after he’d whimpered away his shock he came to his senses and trembled. Geralt lowered himself down next to his friend, studying the boy carefully. He was dirty, covered with mud and dust. His thin form looked as if ready to snap in half at any minute, yet the strength in his arms was surprising if he was able to carry those sacks by himself. His eyes darted back and forth like a wild animal’s caught in a trap as he glanced first at the vampire, then at the witcher, then at the swords carried on Geralt’s back. He also saw how their eyes, one pair dark black and the other a slitted golden, reflected lightly in the night.

He whimpered again.

“It’s alright,” Regis consoled him again, holding both hands up in a placating gesture. “We’d just like to know what’s been happening here.”

“I’ve… I’ve done nothin’ wrong!” The lad squeaked.

“We’re not accusing you,” Geralt added, and then looked at the bags of grain. “The ealdorman know you’ve been the one taking his stuff?”

The boy stopped trembling and flushed in the face.

“It was ours to begin with!” He sniffed indignantly. “We been near dyin’ of hunger, we have! Ealdorman’d said to keep all the grain in the barn for the next winter, but that left us with naught but nothin’ this winter!”

“Did he say why he wanted to keep the grain?” Regis asked. The boy sniffed again and shook his head, and then his mood deflated visibly in front of them.

“Dunno… but… we was talkin’ in the village we were an’… an’… we knew that we’d have to get it back. Me pop died last week. So did me friend’s nan. Millie, the blacksmith’s missus… she… she passed away a month back, moanin’ for a loaf o’ bread… an’ then there was Ollie an’ Thomil an’—”

“Shh, shh…” Geralt shook his head, telling the boy he needn’t go on. The lad’s eyes were watering. The witcher felt anger in his chest, tugging at his blood and pulling at his veins. The ealdorman needed a serious talking to. The witcher’s way.

“I been… I been the one going out at night to bring back some grain for the rest o’ us… last week it were Johann, but he got sick from the cold an’ he’s growin’ weaker by the day…”

“When did you start taking the grain?” Geralt frowned. The boy wiped his eyes with the back of his grubby hand.

“Three weeks past. Couldn’t stand it no more. Didn’t care ‘bout the Black Ones anymore, either.”

That made the two pause.

“What are the Nilfgaardians doing here?” The boy looked at Regis when the vampire spoke quietly.

“The whole village knows the ealdorman’d done some business with ‘em way back, when the war was on. He threatened us to keep quiet 'bout it, for all time. We overheard ‘em talkin’ three weeks back, same night we decided to start takin’ the grain…” the boy swallowed, hiccoughed, and continued in a stammering tone: “Somethin’ ‘bout sellin’ ‘em next winter’s supply o’ grain for the soldiers still out here so as to get coin an’ a place o’ honour in the capital. Ealdorman’d told Dennis tonight that he was plannin’ on heading down south for the next month day after tomorrow. Heard ‘em at dinner.”

Geralt and Regis stood.

“Think that’s our answer,” Geralt muttered, a growl rising in his throat. Regis nodded, his expression dark. He then turned to the lad who was whimpering again.

“You’re… you’re not gonna tell on me… are you?”

“No. Quite the opposite,” Regis answered, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder and looking into his eyes. “Take this grain back to the village, and quickly. We shall pay the ealdorman a visit and return to help you with the rest.”

The boy’s mouth flew agape and something like hope kindled suddenly in his watery eyes. Then he smiled.

“Thank you, sirs!” He nodded eagerly, leaning down to pick up the grain he had dropped earlier. “I will, don’t you worry! Thank you again!”

They watched as he raced off, quick feet flying over the mud and grass. Behind them in the forest they heard once more the lonely howl of a wolf. When Geralt turned around to make towards the village it was with murder in his eyes.

“I’m gonna kill that bastard.”

“Something that I too find to be a completely acceptable course of action in this dire situation,” Regis said alongside him, his steps level with Geralt’s own as they strode quickly down the hillside. His voice was cold, and Geralt turned to look at him out the corner of his eye for a moment, quite certain that he had never heard that tone before. Regis saw Geralt looking at him and blinked, turning his head to fix his black eyes on the witcher. He allowed a half smile to form on his lips, which were otherwise pressed tightly together in a thin line. “So many years we’ve known each other and yet I still surprise you?”

Geralt looked away and huffed.

“All the damn time.”

“I will consider that a compliment,” Regis answered, and the smile dropped quickly from his lips. They had entered the outskirts of the village; a light could be seen from the window of the house that belonged to the ealdorman. Smoke could be seen rising in billowing wisps from the chimney. Sparing another glance they gave no thought to courtesy and kicked open the door.

*

The ealdorman had just sat himself down at his desk, bowl in hand, when he heard the racket from the doorway.

“What the bloody fuck—” He didn’t get time to finish as he wheeled around and found himself face to face with two angry looking figures, the very ones he had given the contract to. He stood in confusion at the twin dark stares, eyes black and slitted gold both gazing at him with a look that churned the stomach and could have caused a grown man to sweat in terror. But not the ealdorman. He was made of sterner stuff. His lips curled and he rounded on them.

“And just what the hell do you think you’re doing?! Barging in here, middle of the night – I gave you a contract to fill!”

“Contract’s taken care of,” the white haired man with the swords growled, stepping closer to the ealdorman. He didn’t budge, staring the witcher down. The pale grey haired man stood back, but his eyes were narrowed so intensely upon him that he almost did feel a chill run down his spine. Almost, but not quite. He was made of sterner stuff.

His hand twitched by his side.

“Then why the fuck are you in—”

“Shut up and listen to me, because I’ve got something very interesting I wanna say,” the witcher silenced him and took one more step closer. Then another. The ealdorman felt the corner of the desk press against the back of his thigh. It was then he realised he’d been taking steps backwards. The grey haired man behind the witcher broke his gaze for a moment to walk towards the table, peering down at the bowl the ealdorman had placed down earlier. He seemed to have found whatever it was he was hoping to find by looking at it, because he straightened back up and gave a long, heavy sigh and then fixed him with such a look that the man felt his legs grow weak. He swallowed. Thickly. He would not be swayed. He was made of sterner—

“Did a little digging around town today, asked a couple of questions here and there… funny. People were all claiming the village was undergoing famine, but no one seemed to know the cause of it. Almost like they were too scared to,” Geralt began, enunciating his words slowly as if he was dealing with a child. “What’s also funny is how the grain in the warehouse was being left alone. How you apparently thought it’d be a good idea to store everything until next winter. Until three weeks ago, when it started to go missing.” Geralt paced in front of the ealdorman, sweeping his eyes briefly over to the bowl that Regis indicated, containing a hearty meal of hot porridge that the man had just been about to eat. He felt rage twist and tighten in his gut. Bastard.

He could see the ealdorman start to inch away out the corner of his eyes. He held him in place with a sharp turn of his head.

“Werewolf story… pretty inspired, I have to admit. Went to great effort to make sure no one would come by and visit the town while you carried out your little deals. Because that’s how you got the word out, isn’t it? Telling your friends the next village over to go to everyone they knew and say that Riedbrune was haunted by a werewolf on the prowl.” Geralt’s eyes narrowed and his lip curled into a thin line. He’d pieced it all together on the way over from the granary. Hunger didn’t make people afraid. Stories did. The fear and anxiety of the villagers and the lack of visitors naturally followed suit.

“But you didn’t count on a witcher passing by. You panicked, knowing that you couldn’t get rid of us, not when you’d already placed a notice out knowing full well that it would be a damn miracle if anyone would come down to this part of the world just to see it. It'd give you more time to get your pay, run off down south because the fear of that curse would mean that no one, not your villagers or any other traveller would be able to stop you… but someone did notice. Someone trained to deal with all manner of monsters and curses – and let me tell you, something stunk from the very start…”

He looked the man square in the eyes, daring him to look away.  

“How much does Nilfgaard pay for grain these days?”

The ealdorman’s eyes bugged.

“What?!” He choked out. The grey haired man stepped forward.

“I would advise you to answer immediately,” he said quietly. “In as much detail as you can manage. Quickly, now.”

He could feel the heat from the fire behind him, his eagerness to get away having taken him well past his desk. He stood his ground. Tried to, anyway.

“I… I don’t know what the arse fucking shite is going on here! You come into my home, you accuse me of… of… collusion with the Black Ones and—”

“Wrong answer.”

The only warning the ealdorman received before the witcher moved was a flash of his golden eyes and a sweep of his gloved hand, and the next minute a tight pain wound around his chest, tearing through his throat as gurgling gasps spat forth from his lips. His eyes bulged against the grip the witcher had on his throat, and with a forceful shove he felt his bones rattle and the air flee his lungs with the impact of the wall roughly meeting his back. Coughing, gasping and trying feebly to claw at the hands wound around his neck he could feel the lack of oxygen burning through his lungs; his sight darkened and he saw stars.

“Met a lot of monsters in my time, but you’re on a whole new level. People like you make me sick,” Geralt hissed by his ear, voice low and dangerous and a fire in his eyes to match the glow of the fireplace behind them. In his scarred face the ealdorman saw the devil incarnate. A sour smell filled his nostrils, and he knew he’d pissed himself.

“Geralt,” Regis said warningly, and in the ealdorman’s darkened and dizzied vision he barely registered seeing the grey haired man place a hand on the witcher’s shoulder. The grip around the ealdorman’s throat loosened immediately and the man fell to the ground, choking, wheezing, and fighting the reflexive urge to vomit.

“Deal with him, Regis,” Geralt snapped. “I can’t anymore.”

Regis nodded, giving all manner of indication that he had fully intended to do so. He knelt down in front of the heaving and gasping ealdorman, and in the ealdorman’s watery eyes he saw dark eyes fixed on him, watching and gauging his every move. He felt trapped.

“We came across a few notes in your possession from the commander of the garrison in the next village,” Regis began softly. “A few very interesting notes I might add – ones that had already been read through – commending your services to the troops. I suggest you not act as if you have no idea what we are referring to.” He paused, ensuring he still held the man’s gaze before continuing: “You starved your own town for a bit of coin. Villagers greet death by the week. We met the young lad who so valiantly takes the grain from the warehouse to give the rest of the village back what they are owed, and he explained the situation in very heartbreaking terms.”

A long silence filled the house, broken only by the hoarse coughs from the man on the floor.

“Now listen carefully, as I have neither the time nor the patience to repeat myself. You will go to Nilfgaard—” Regis silenced the man with a single look when he had begun to open his mouth to splutter something in reply, “and you will stay there. You wished to go there after all, did you not?”

Another silence. This time the man whimpered and managed something akin to a shaky nod. Regis leant in closer and narrowed his eyes.

“You will stay there,” he repeated, “and if you return, we will know of it. We will know, and no one will be able to help you.” He stood, and this time his glare sharpened with something strange, foreign almost. It was a glare that Geralt had never seen before, carrying with it such an intense focus that even he found it hard to look away at first.  

The man let loose a wailing cry and his eyes then closed, the ealdorman falling completely silent. A moment passed and then they heard the distinct sound of snoring. Regis had put him to sleep when he had looked into those beady eyes for the last time. He stepped back and straightened his tunic, tightening his hand around the strap of his satchel. Geralt said nothing. He couldn’t. He was stunned. His heart thudded and his chest tightened, and he felt a stubborn dryness tear at his tongue. He wanted to kiss him, to have him against the wall whispering words of praise. That, sadly, would have to wait a while longer.

“Wow,” he breathed when the vampire turned around and sighed, Regis now looking weary beyond words, “never actually seen you do that before. Almost forgot about it, in fact.”

“I try not to if I can help it,” Regis murmured, stepping past the sleeping man and walking towards the direction of the door. “It takes a reasonable amount of exertion on my part to influence the brain in such a way. Forcing sleep is… even more uncomfortable now when I am still regenerating, regaining my full strength.” He turned, offering a weak smile at Geralt when he raised his hand towards the door. “Shall we depart? I very much wish to be done of this place.”

“Regis… you gonna be ok?” Geralt asked quietly, laying a hand on his lover’s shoulder when he drew up beside him. Regis nodded, his smile growing more sincere by the moment.

“I will be. Thank you, Geralt. Your concern is touching.” He held his eyes for another minute and then walked outside, the air cold after the warmth of the house they had entered. He cast a final glance back at the ealdorman inside before closing the door. “When he awakens he will mount the first horse he can find in the stables and flee until he reaches Nilfgaard. I posed no idle threats.”

“I could see that,” Geralt blinked, the mere memory of the threat in Regis’ words causing a chill to devour his spine, followed by a rush of excitement. The sensation was soon replaced with yet more worry, yet more concern. “Look, you don’t have to keep doing this is you don’t want to. If you feel like you’re not cut out for this lifestyle we can—”

“Geralt,” Regis’ tone was incredulous and he stared at the witcher as if he had suddenly gone mad, “what on earth are you insinuating? This is hardly my first time on the road with you. I know the risks, I know what must be done. I’ve killed before, you know – both humans and the lesser brethren of my own kind. Let us not also forget the course of events in Stygga Castle. I was always ready, still am ready, to put my life on the line and to make sacrifices for something I believe in, especially for the people I believe in. Yes, even if I must quell my more compassionate side and turn towards actions more bestial.”

He stopped walking, now standing in front of Geralt. He reached out, grasping his chin in gentle hands.

“Cast aside your doubts, my friend. I would readily follow you to the end of the world and back.”

He was serious, Geralt realised. He knew he was serious, but to see that conviction in his eyes, to feel how firm his hands were, no trace of a tremble in his hold… he nodded, unable to speak nor think. When firm lips met his own in a brief, tender kiss, he felt the blaze of something equal to a thousand suns burn once more within his chest, consuming, overwhelming him until he could think of nothing else, feel nothing else. He knew what the feeling was, felt it grow stronger every minute.

He grasped the shoulders of the vampire, bleeding everything he could into that kiss. Regis sighed against his lips and slowly pulled back, his lips moist and reddened. He then simply smiled, stroking a hand once more down Geralt’s cheek before turning back around, continuing down the path that led into the moonlit village.

“Now then, let us help with the remainder of the grain and leave this town. I think we’re done here.”

Geralt couldn’t agree more.