Blood and Wine has me by the throat. Pun only slightly intended. After the scene with Resonance I just had to write a fill in, especially because my feelings about Regis are far beyond what I was prepared for. I haven't finished the DLC yet, so please no spoilers if you comment.

Subjecting himself to pain was part of the penance. It was in his plan, calculated from the start when Dettlaff had first gone missing. Regis knew the moment the other vampire was in trouble and he knew in that same instant that he would do anything to help him, to protect him, to give back in some small portion the enormous debt he owed.

Geralt though—he'd never intended this.

Regis hovered nearby as Geralt drank the Resonance, knowing from his research and his now considerable grasp of the human physique just what Witchers often went through when spiked with poison in their veins. He still remembered the tangy smell, the acrid sting and the sickly visage of a Witcher that had tried to hunt him many years back.

That same pallor, somehow even more intense than Geralt's mutated skin tone, slowly stole over his friend as he knelt in the dust created by the decay Regis felt comfortable in. He almost snorted to himself, thinking that perhaps he should write something about that down. It was poetic, was it not? His being immortal and comfortable around crumbling things? He wasn't, after all, holed up in the cemetery for irony's sake. He genuinely liked it there, felt...safe.

Geralt grit his teeth and groaned, his head bowing as the veins in his face and throat began to twitch and turn dark. The hollows of his eyes became black as plague flesh and his lips were white. He tilted his head back as though seeking a blinded sun, but his eyes were rolled back in his head and he looked utterly inhuman. His breathing panted ragged, lifting his breastplate and causing the chainmail protecting his stomach to glitter in the candlelight. The medallion resting on his breast shuddered. Seconds later, so did he.

Then he slumped to the side. Regis pressed his lips together and watched with furrowed brow, keeping his hands clasped gently on one another in his lap—for the moment. I do hope you truly followed my direction, he thought, his eyes roving over the Witcher's slackened form. For the moment, he was lying still. Regis knew that could not last. The elements in the potion, they wreaked havoc with the entire body. Unless Resonance killed Geralt outright, he would not remain still.

Regis was very patient, even by vampire standards, so waiting even with so much on the line was not nearly the torture a human might think it would be. Yes, he was worried for Dettlaff and wanted badly to find him, but he and Dettlaff were immortal. He wanted only to rescue Dettlaff from the great upset that would follow after so many murders. He wanted his friend, his blood brother back before he was damaged further. But there was time.

And yet, there wasn't, because no matter how much he did not quite understand the human drive to live, he did understand the mortal fear of losing someone. He'd grown unerringly fond of Geralt, and while Witchers lived long lives compared to most mortals it was still barely a breath for Regis. It was a shame, really, for Geralt had always been able to hold his attention in conversation and sometimes even challenge his perspective. That was a rare thing, for one so old as he was. He liked Geralt, and he didn't realize how much he saddened at the thought of losing him until the seizures began.

At first Regis was pulled from his thoughts by a scraping. He looked down to find Geralt shifting against the rock, his mail making the rough sound as it ground against the floor. Slowly, Regis turned in his chair, watching as Geralt's head turned slowly and then very quickly, as though the tendon had seized. The vampire's brow furrowed and he leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. He kept his composure. He always did. He needed to see what was going to happen.

Geralt gave a huff, his brow twisted and his jaw clenched, his molars grinding together audibly. Regis winced for him. He turned on his back, his fingers twitching first, then his abdominal muscles seemed to clench momentarily because he jerked, his head thumping against the stone. Regis winced again and looked around, taking a musty cloak he didn't need and laying it on the floor, carefully slipping his hand beneath Geralt's head just long enough to lift it and set it gently back against the bundle. Geralt groaned and his breathing whimpered as though Regis' touch hurt him, and Regis pulled back, sitting on his heels with his hands resting on his thighs.

His brow furrowed further as Geralt's spasms intensified and became more regular. Soon, a full blown seizure was gripping Geralt's body and Regis reacted the only way he could—he hovered his hands around Geralt's neck and shoulders, preventing him from slamming his skull too hard into anything besides the cloak. He knew from experience that humans would either come out of a seizure on their own or they would die in the middle of it.

Geralt's lasted a full two and a half minutes. Regis pressed his lips together, searching Geralt's ashen face as the seizure stopped abruptly. Though his ears were sharp for hunting, Regis still found using his heightened sense of touch was better when handling human patients, especially since focusing on the sound of a beating heart right then was just too much for him. He was still aching from his experience in the dungeon and the memory of blood addiction clung to him like cold ichor. No, he did not want to hear Geralt's heartbeat, so he very gently slipped his clawed fingers past Geralt's collar and rest his hand against the jugular vein.

A pulse, far too rapid for a Witcher, but Regis had no time to dwell or to diagnose whether it was a natural reaction or whether Geralt had gotten the brew wrong because he'd started to move again. This time though, instead of the involuntary spasaming, Geralt was twisting and fighting, as though trying to get away from some great pain. His expression crumpled and his muscles went taught.

Somehow, though a deep pain was carved into his expression, he did not scream. He was silent, but there was absolutely no respite. He writhed, his fingers nearly clawing into the rock, his armor scraping harsh against the stone, his sword handles making an awful clang as one hit a candle cage sitting at the corner of the sarcophagus. Regis expected eventually Geralt was stop moving out of pure exhaustion but the agony continued. A cold sweat broke out across Geralt's skin and he finally cried out, though it was soft and deep, a pained groan that finished in a breathy whimper.

The fight continued and Regis looked on, forced himself to look on because this was part of his penance as well. He knew so much remedy, knew every inch of a human body even mutated, and yet there was nothing he could do for Geralt. For his friend. He could only kneel vigil and either respect Geralt's willingness to also go through torture to help Dettlaff, or he could pay solemn witness to Geralt's final death. Oh he'd heard about the massacre in Rivia. Dettlaff had told him. It was one of many things the other vampire had told him while he was recovering, a way of orienting him back into the world.

Geralt's writhing became less violent and more disturbing, his wrists snapping taught as his fingers clawed, his head dashing to the side as an awful, strained, rattle of a breath passed through him. Regis felt a spear of sadness and worry and he lifted his head, glancing over at the cauldron again, hoping dearly that Geralt hadn't messed the potion up. He turned his dark eyes back on Geralt's pale figure, and dared to rest a hand on his shoulder, not impeding the continued twitches. All of Geralt's considerable power surged through, only to strain his body and bruise his head against the rock. Another awful rattle and Regis swallowed. He recognized that sound. How could he not?

That was a death rattle, and as Regis watched the way Geralt's body twisted and tensed he began to see a pattern. Death throes. He'd seen those before too.

"Hold on my friend, I beg you," Regis said quietly, his brow twisted with grief now as Geralt began to slow, not because he was coming out of it but because of exhaustion. When the writhing finally turned into mild twitching, Regis dared to touch his friend, hoping against all evidence he hadn't made a grave mistake not finishing that potion himself.

Swiftly, he unbuckled Geralt's armor and cracked open the leather shell, loosening the ties that bound his abdomen securely in mail. He still didn't trust himself to listen for a heartbeat, but right then it was more than the fear of what blood temptation may do. Regis had to admit to himself, as he looped an arm around Geralt's chest and shifted him to lay against his legs, that if Geralt's heart was still pulsing in that moment he did not want to hear the silence that would fill the crypt were it to cease.

Careful, exceedingly aware of his sharp claws and strength, Regis lay his palm against Geralt's shirt, closing his eyes and bowing his head as he concentrated. For a human, Geralt was built sturdy. His bones did not feel like they would immediately snap if Regis applied too much pressure and his skin did not stand to be cut quite so easily. All the same, Regis could only think of how frail even a Witcher's life was. It took more to kill one than it did to kill a human, but the difference was negligible in Regis' ancient measure of the world.

He waited patiently for some kind of sign that Geralt was still with him. He knew a Witcher's heart took time to beat. That was one of the greatest prizes that came from the trial—their fragile, children's hearts were broken down and many boys died. But those that survived were rewarded with a pulse only a quarter of that of other men and a heart powerful as a forktail's. One that grew only stronger and more vital with the Witcher's maturation into adulthood. Where other men were already losing strength at forty, Geralt's life at that age had only just begun. There was a theory that humans had a finite, pre destined number of heartbeats. If that was the case, it helped to explain a Witcher's longevity. Barring accidents and poisoned brews, of course.

Regis frowned lightly at his own thoughts.

The warmth that came through the pale cotton separating his palm from Geralt's body was still a living, muscular warmth. That kind of vital heat that came from nothing else in creation besides a living, warm-blooded creature. As long as Geralt's blood still held heat and his spirit a will to live, there was a chance Regis could help him.

If Geralt's heart would not beat on its own, Regis would reach into the fragile structure that housed it and coax it back into service. Massaging the muscle wouldn't work on a human, the damage of breaching the chest cavity would be too extensive, but in a Witcher...Geralt had arguably healed from worse.

Regis was just pressing his lips together and preparing to try compressions first when a weak movement thumped against his palm. The vampire did not change his expression, he made no sudden movements. He just shifted his palm a little, dared to press a little harder, and waited.

Thump-thump

There it was. A definitive, full cycled pulse. Regis breathed out through his nose and ducked his head a little. He waited another seven seconds before he sensed the pulse again, but this time it was accompanied by a weak breath. It was barely strong enough to press against his palm, but Regis heard the whisper of it through Geralt's parted lips. He was still pale as a corpse but Regis found confidence in the persistent nature of his heartbeat and the way he tried to breathe despite the corset of exhaustion and metal.

Regis frowned, then raised one eybrow, resting his clawed hand on Geralt's shoulder and cocking his head so he could look down Geralt's side. Come to think of it, Geralt's current armor was very like a corset. It couldn't restrict movement and breathing too much or else he'd not be able to fight effectively but it was also made to help bind injury and protect the soft part of his stomach. Regis further loosened the ties running down Geralt's side and all at once he took a deeper breath, his skin not quite so pale.

The vampire smiled softly and pat Geralt's shoulder with affection. "There you are, apologies that did not occur to me quicker. I did not realize how the cross straps were placing pressure on you."

He sat with Geralt for a long time, but though the seizing had stopped the Witcher still did not wake. Regis kept one hand on Geralt's shoulder, trying to offer some kind of solidarity and comfort. Gradually, Geralt's breathing grew deeper and when Regis rest his palm against his breastbone his heart was easier to pinpoint.

"I've done all I can for you till you wake, I'm afraid," he said, gently lacing Geralt's armor back up, though not nearly as tight. He merely wanted to preserve Geralt's warmth and his unconscious security. A Witcher coming out of an unpleasant ordeal should not first wake to realize he was unprotected. Instinct could prove very harmful in that case—not to Regis, of course, but to Geralt in his weakened state. Regis simply did not want him coming conscious into a panic.

Regis performed one final check on Geralt's circulation, resting one hand against his friend's heart and then placing the other just under his jaw, pressing lightly and avoiding touching the vulnerable spot with his clawed nails. The heart beat and only a moment after Regis felt the answering pulse in Geralt's throat. He performed the same test at both points in Geralt's wrists and even slipped his boots off briefly to check the pulse in his feet. When he was certain everything was in order he carefully re-buckled and tied Geralt back together and then rolled him onto his side so that if he should be sick he wouldn't choke on it.

Now it was only for him to wait. Regis touched Geralt's shoulder gently one more time and then rose, settling in the chair by the desk and bowing his head.

Twenty minutes later Geralt groaned heartily and he shifted. "Awake at last," he said, turning to watch as the Witcher sat slowly, painfully up and leaned wearily against the sarcophagus. "You writhed like a squirrel caught in a snare." He paused, his brow furrowing slightly. "I'd begun to fear they were death throes," he admitted softly. "That you'd—departed." The last word stuck oddly in his throat and he blinked the emotion away.

"Sure wasn't pleasant," Geralt rasped, sighing heavily. "But it worked."