'Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, born in 1251, heiress to the throne of Cintra, Princess of Brugge and Duchess of Sodden, heiress to Inis Ard Skellig and Inis An Skellig and Suzerain of Attre and Abb Yarra. Daughter of Pavetta and the Urcheon of Erlenwald. Granddaughter of the famous Lioness of Cintra, Queen Calanthe.

A shipwreck occurred during a journey from Cintra to Skellige which took the lives of the Urcheon and Pavetta. Cirilla's further upbringing was then entrusted to her grandmother. In 1260, afraid of the looming Nilfgaardian threat, Queen Calanthe sent Cirilla to the court of King Ervyll, where the heiress of Cintra was to marry the heir to the throne of Verden, Prince Kistrin. Though allying with Verden and gaining the aid of that realm's army was at the time Calanthe's top priority, no marriage ever occurred, and Cirilla returned to her grandmother's court. In 1262, during the so-called Cintra Massacre, Cirilla went missing…'

"Interesting reading material you chose," Dettlaff followed along with Regis, holding up the book for him. The pair laid side-by-side on the cot, illuminated by candles.

Regis flipped the page, sitting up against Dettlaff's supportive arm. "Royal Lineages of the North. You have a limited selection. There wasn't much choosing involved."

"Yet I cannot help but feel the significance of it," Dettlaff placed the book face-down in his lap and tilted his head to catch his companion's gaze.

"Astute as always."

"Is it him?"

Regis cast his eyes down to the book, "No. Not him. Not exactly."

He sighed. He should be getting used to this by now. Dettlaff always asked him the hard questions, sparing no courtesies for half-truths and false pretenses. But Regis knew it came from a harmless place. Dettlaff simply wanted to understand what he was feeling when his feelings didn't come from him.

Regis changed positions to see Dettlaff head-on, putting some of space between them, "When we left for Stygga, the five of us, we had a goal. His goal. His child-surprise, Cirilla." Regis paused to think, but then continued, "Only one of us beside Geralt had ever met the girl, but we died that day – from what I know, at least four of us died, myself included. We died for her," Milva, Cahir, Angoulême… "I'm still struggling to put it all together in my head."

"You did not die for her. You died for him. All but one of you," he brushed back a tuft of hair that fell into Regis' eyes.

"I just want to make sense of it. I wish I knew the girl we risked so much for."

Dettlaff lounged against the wall, bringing Regis with him, "Did she survive?"

"I don't know."

He dug his hands into the fabric of Dettlaff's ruby tunic, and let his eyes slip closed, burying the side of his face against the silken brocade. Scents of oak and leather greeted him.

"I met her," Regis continued, "for but a brief moment. The things she must have endured before my intervention – for a child so young to face a vampire in full actuality of his nature and not scream. She saw a side of me I hadn't – indulged – in decades. But her first thought was to free her, uh, mother of a sort. Then, she demanded I warn Geralt to be careful."

Regis let out a soft yawn, curling up into Dettlaff's chest.

"Do not dwell on it," Dettlaff cooed, and Regis could feel his voice reverberate in rhythm with his heart beat.

Just as he was fading into a dream, Dettlaff slid out from under him, and sat at the edge of the cot.

"You need your rest," he moved to leave the room, but Regis caught him by the wrist.

"Don't go."

Dettlaff freed his hand. He was not harsh, but explained to Regis firmly, "Just because you require sleep does not mean I must sleep as well."

"You've been pale lately. You're losing too much blood. Please, stay and rest." As far as weak excuses go, perhaps it wasn't unconvincing from the mouth of a surgeon.

Regis could feel him reading his expression; deciding in his heart. He knew this choice would mean more than just a bit of comfort for the night. It would open up a door that, until then, had remained lock, unnamed, and unmentioned. They were both aware of the door's growing presence, but had some unspoken contract that it would not be brought to attention. Once open, that door cannot be shut again. In that moment, Regis didn't care. He didn't want to be alone tonight.

He felt that warm and nameless flutter in his stomach; was it his or was it Dettlaff's? Was there a difference?

"As you wish," the first twist of the key fell from Dettlaff's tongue, and he slid back down onto the cot.

Dettlaff was stiff and awkward as Regis settled at his side. He spun around in the bedsheets, first away from Regis and then back to face him. Regis wriggled away, giving him more room, and pulled his arms up to divide the space between them. Dettlaff watched curiously, and brought his arms up to mingle with his companion's.

Regis closed his eyes – he could feel when the weight returned Dettlaff's body as it sunk into the mattress – but when he opened them again, Dettlaff was still staring at him.

"Tell me," Regis didn't need to elaborate.

Dettlaff freed a hand and traced it along Regis' worried brow, "The last time I shared this bed with another," he swallowed. "Her name was Rhenawedd."

Dettlaff draped his arm across his lover's waist, pressing his cheek into her raven hair. He never knew such peace as when he rested by her side. It had become a nightly ritual for him, adjusting his natural rhythms to her human ones, closing the space between their species just enough to hold the illusion of commonality for a short time. Her body was turned away from his, catching the lamplight as she thumbed through the pages of her book of fables, and he watched over her shoulder as she read. He only picked up bits and pieces of her story, preferring to focus on the way her fingertips drew across each word.

When Rhena finally put the book down and blew out the light, she inched away from Dettlaff's embrace, gaining her accustomed distance.

"Why do you enjoy your fables so?" Dettlaff withdrew his arm, catching a long lock of her hair to twist between his fingers.

Rhena adjusted her pillow and gently tugged her hair back beneath her head. "Because they keep my mind sharp. They help me to remember the ways of the world."

Dettlaff pondered this for a moment, but couldn't quite add it up in his head. "I do not understand. What do foxes and crows have to do with the ways of the world?"

Rhena sighed, "I wouldn't expect you to understand. These are stories humans learn from."

That's right. Human. The illusion never holds for long. But Dettlaff knew there was no great difference in their species' intelligence. Surely, this isn't yet another bridge they cannot cross together?

"Could you teach them to me?"

Rhena shook her head into her pillow, and finally turned to face him, "I wouldn't want to teach you. They are stories that change the way you look at the world; stories for bandits and thieves. You are neither of these things. You are perfect just the way you are."

She pressed a kiss to his forehead. Her answer was disappointing, but the kiss was soft and sweet. Not being able to understand his lover's world was a constant frustration for him, but she made the bitter pill go down easy.

He grabbed her, pulling her down onto him, and buried his head into her neck.

"Dettlaff!" she squeaked in surprise, catching her weight on his shoulder.

"My Rhena..." he breathed against her skin.

Rhena tensed, trembled, but then relaxed and traced her fingers down his side. Dettlaff quickly fell asleep, embraced in her warmth.

"She was your lover," it wasn't a question.

Dettlaff confirmed with a nod.

"She was human?"

Regis watched as Dettlaff stared at their hands, clawed fingers entwined.

"Yes."

Regis could already feel the sting of the subject, but he asked the hard question, "Whatever happened to her?"

"She disappeared, not long before I found you."

"Disappeared?"

He felt Dettlaff's arms flinch back, still gripping their hands together. Regis pulled himself closer and held Dettlaff's gaze.

"One day she was there, the next day she was not; as though she had never existed," Dettlaff closed his eyes, and drew his brows together. His was voice pained but maintained an even tone, "She was taken from me, and whoever took her left not a trace. All I have now are her memories."

Regis' mind quickly clicked the pieces into place. The Fox and the Crow; vanishing without a struggle; her things taken with her. She had left Dettlaff.

"I'm sorry for your loss," was all he could muster. All he could do not to spill out what his mind had pieced together.

He could feel Dettlaff's aching and confusion. It mimicked, so completely, Regis' own dazed dispossession of the ones dear to him; his loss of Geralt. He wanted to take that pain away. To find some remedy for the soul. What words could do more good than harm? No, words would not suffice.

His strength was still not much, but with it Regis pulled himself up, leaned over, and placed his thin lips on Dettlaff's cheek.

Dettlaff shifted under him. When Regis pulled away, Dettlaff turned his head up to face him. He searched his black eyes, and Regis felt as though the door had not just unlocked but unhinged between them. Dettlaff brought a hand up to hold his face, before pulling him down.

When their lips met, Regis could feel the sting from the moment before melting away, replaced with a furious pounding in his chest. He breathed into the kiss, taking in that wonderful smell of wood and leather and binding the two sensations. Before long, the arm he held his weight with started to shake, and Dettlaff broke the kiss to lean up and catch him.

Both men sat there, holding each other, unsure what would happen next. Regis' body was giving out, the shaking in his arms spreading out into his entire being. Dettlaff held him tighter.

"I think… I need to lay back down."

"Of course! I'm sorry, I–" Dettlaff faltered, barely concealing the panic in his voice.

"It's ok, I'm dizzy is all."

Dettlaff relinquished Regis to the bed once more, but did not recline himself. Instead he sat over him like a hawk, and waited.

Regis smiled, "I don't want to give you the wrong impression. That was a very pleasant surprise. I just don't think my body can handle it. Yet."

"You are not… opposed?"

"Not at all," Regis slid his hand on top of Dettlaff's, pressed into the mattress under his weight.

Dettlaff turned away. The door was gone now, a smoldering pile of rubble strewn across the entrance to a vast cavern, but the cavern was only dimly lit. Who knew what else waited in its depths.

"Tell me more about your witcher. What was he like?"

An odd change of subject. The sudden contrast urged Regis to be honest; reflexive in his response. He didn't have to think long to put his feelings into place.

"Loyal. Selfless. A real martyr when he wanted to be. But stubborn. Once he picked a task nothing could keep him from it. He would hold others at arm's-length, but once you earned his friendship, there was no one more reliable in times of need. And he'd never leave a friend behind; not even his damned horse – the stubborn nag. Strangely, humans viewed him as a bit of monster, a freak of sorcery, but I've never met a more noble human in my life."

"It sounds like he was special to you. I am sorry for your loss," Dettlaff echoed Regis' words.

"I suppose its part and parcel for those like us. When we grow attached to humans, we know they will be gone someday. In two years or two hundred. I didn't expect to lose him so soon."

Dettlaff was motionless, lost in thought.

"Are you alright?" Regis asked.

"Yes. No. But I do not wish to discuss it now."

"If you're sure, though I think you should give it a voice for both of us," Regis cocked his lips into a lopsided grin. Using Dettlaff's reasoning against him held a certain triumph. Their bond worked both ways.

"I…" Dettlaff struggled with himself, "I'm grateful that we had this talk."

"As am I."

Reciprocity. Such a key ingredient to intimacy, but also so very dangerous.

Never had sunlight felt as refreshing to a vampire as it did to Regis, sitting in his chair under the cabin's porch. It wasn't an elaborate structure, more of an overhang marking the entrance into the humble home, and there were no floor boards covering the space, which suited Regis just fine. He dug his toes into the earth beneath his bare feet, reveling in the feelings of the outside world.

The sounds of the forest were alive with him, birdsong ringing through the trees, the rumble of distant thunder heralding the afternoon rains. He couldn't imagine a more perfect morning as he sipped down his regeneration potion – a concoction of his own invention. It was a shame he had to spend it alone, but a necessary bereavement.

He had been on his own for nearly 3 days now. Having regained the ability to move about by himself, Dettlaff left him to keep his promise. Soon, Regis would know the fate of his good friend. It had been a reluctant parting, nonetheless, Dettlaff worrying over his safety; reminding him he must take his potion twice a day – not once; twice. If he must hide, there was a crawlspace beneath the kitchen floor, and don't forget to lock the door behind him.

Regis knew it wasn't easy for Dettlaff to adapt to the shift in their relationship. He had taken care of Regis for nearly 6 years, and now Regis could more or less care for himself. It was hard for Dettlaff to wrap his mind around the fact that Regis no longer needed him.

Regis chuckled at the thought. Subtleties weren't Dettlaff's strong suit. The shift from needing Dettlaff to wanting him was a switch from night to day for Regis, but a change that brought alarm in his companion. To Regis, it was a defining factor in his feelings for the other man. Not less, but more. Different, but exciting.

He turned another page of his book, The Last Wish by Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove. Dandelion had such a flourish with his noble titles, and his romantic narrative. It wasn't the first, or even the fourth time Regis had read the book since its publication, but he had very much run out of options, and he wasn't about to read through Change Your Life! A Handbook for a second time. Yet another reason Dettlaff's mission was so important. Boredom can be deadly to an immortal and new books were just as necessary to Regis' continued recovery as rest and Dettlaff's blood.

The rains started in. Underneath the porch, Regis was mostly safe from the misting of the gentle rain. He set his book down just past the threshold of the open door, and allowed himself to nod off, slouching in his chair, and resting in the peace of the forest.

The man wore a black jacket. He slipped through the forest undergrowth, thinking himself concealed, no doubt. Dark clothing could hardly hide the smell of him. Personal hygiene was not the man's forte. Nor was stealth, and the man snapped twigs and cracked branches as he walked.

Who knows what the man's purpose was, but it hardly mattered now. He was trespassing; following his path through the forest in a way that suggested ill will.

Swiftly, he moved to catch the man's neck in gloved hands. The man had no time to react. His face twisted in fear and agony as claws sliced into his stomach, ripping up into his ribcage. Blood spilled from his mouth, in foul synchronization with the organs spilling from his gut, drowning him of air as much as the hand wrapped tightly around his throat.

His last guttural, gurgling cries whispered into nothingness as his limp body hit the forest floor.

Regis woke with a start, nearly falling out of his chair. Panic gripped his lungs, forcing his heart to beat at twice its normal rate. The rains had come and gone, and dusk had fallen on the forest. Something had happened to Dettlaff. He remembered a man's face, dripping with blood, but the rest of the dream had already blurred. Instinct blinded him, and though a part of him knew that Dettlaff could handle himself, he felt the necessity of action.

West. He must go west. It didn't make sense, even to himself, but he had to move, and Dettlaff was to the west.

As he hurried, weaving between the trees and shrubs, Regis' legs shook and his joints seared in protest. Though he could walk about the cabin without issue, the uneven forest floor was not as kind to him. He couldn't yet take on mist form, so every dip and hill was met with excruciating effort.

It wasn't long before he sensed he was in the right area.

The sun was dipping below the horizon, and the woods were nearly black, not that it mattered much to a vampire's eyes. Regis could smell the man before he found him, a mix of the memory from his dream and fresh-drawn blood. The man was strewn haphazardly in a small clearing, and Regis could already sense his heart had stopped and the warmth had left him. He spun around the clearing, searching for any other signs of Dettlaff, legs ready to give out beneath him. Just as he was about to steady himself on the trunk of a nearby pine tree, Dettlaff was on him, catching him roughly by his shoulders and pushing him back into the tree. His face was feral, livid, a portrait of rage and nightmares.

"You should not be here!" he roared, blood-soaked claws tearing into the stitching of Regis' coat.

The shock of the moment had triggered a similar reaction in Regis, and his fangs and claws extended as he grabbed Dettlaff's arms, but he quickly came to his senses. This experience might have been enough to stop the heart of a mortal man, but it was just another misunderstanding in Regis' cultural tongue. He smiled, and drooped his head forward to rest against the vampire in front of him.

"Ah. You're alright."

"Of course I am alright. Why did you come?"

Regis considered how to explain. Unlike most subjects, this wasn't one he could easily put into words. "I—I had a dream. Someone was dying, and I wasn't sure what to do. I felt you needed me."

Dettlaff sneered, but their bond resonated with a much more benevolent sensation, "What I need from you is your safety!"

"I'm sorry, but you can't expect me to lie around and do nothing."

Dettlaff calmed himself, though he seemed to have more difficulty shedding his natural form than Regis did.

"The man followed me from Rhys-Rhun," he nodded in the direction of the massacred corpse.

"Likely thought you were an easy target, walking through the woods alone at dusk."

Dettlaff laughed, his stretched back skin filled out once more, finally returning to his human guise.

Regis leaned back against the tree, his eyes taking on a glimmer in the darkness, "Have you good news for me?"

"I have… books for you," Dettlaff dodged, with less tact than he likely imagined.

"Nothing else?"

"We should return to the cabin."

Regis threw an arm over Dettlaff's shoulders, and Dettlaff moved to his side to support his weight. The short walk back to the cabin was wordless, and full of groans brought on by Regis' fuming joints.

"There were conflicting stories," Dettlaff started.

He sat across the room from Regis, having place him once again upon the bed – his bar-less prison cell; though Dettlaff was rapidly changing his opinion of the space with delightful moments, both raucous and serene, in which they shared it – and pulled the chair in from outside. A rucksack filled with various tomes and novels lay at his feet, bursting at its seams.

"I cannot be certain they are all of the same man," he continued, and Regis propped himself against the wall, braced for the news. "I know he did survive the assault on Stygga Castle, but…" Dettlaff trailed off again. The impact was coming; their bond seethed with apprehension, "There are rumors he was slain. There was a racial insurrection in Rivia – though more a slaughter. Your witcher stood to defend the ghetto's non-human residents, but a boy amongst the rioters stabbed him with a pitchfork… It must have been him, as he was describe as being in the company of a sorceress, clad in black and white as you've mentioned. She died at his side."

Regis' stony face fell, his head sagged forward on his chest. There was no doubt this man was Geralt; his gods damned, fucking insistence to stand up for the weak and down-trodden. Of course it was him.

Dettlaff cursed under his breath, his features etched with the pain of his blood-brethren's heart, "But this is where the stories become unclear. One man from Vizima said he saw a white-haired witcher at the side of King Foltest. Another has family who settled in Lyria after the second war. He spoke of an elven rebellion in Aedirn, led by a warrior queen. Supposedly, a witcher had aided in the assassinations of Demavand and Foltest. He is described as white-haired, from the wolf school. Are there other white-haired witchers?" Dettlaff practically blurted out the rest of the details.

Regis didn't dare to hope, "There may be, but they wouldn't be young. Geralt's mutation was unique. Most witchers go grey at a regular human rate," he explained without emotion, "But I have a hard time believing Geralt would betray a king."

Dettlaff leaned forward on his chair, lacing his fingers together over his knees, "A third war has come and gone."

Regis was glad for the change in subject, "I'm sure there's much of the world I've missed in my seclusion."

"What will you do now?"

"Now?" Regis huffed, slinking down into his bedsheets, "Now I will sleep. I will sleep and think about it tomorrow."

Regis brought a hand up to his face as he paced about the kitchen, grabbing dried herbs from the wall and crushing them into a pewter cauldron. The cauldron churned and bubbled from the heat of the hearth's flames, and a deep red liquid filled it nearly to the brim. Sunlight poured through the open entree way, and Dettlaff sat just outside, carving out a block of balsa wood he'd purchased from a merchant in Rhys-Rhun. It was a project he had taken up shortly after his return.

Life had gone on in the last few weeks of mourning. A part of Regis had been preparing for the worst, and the final blow did not come as a shock to him. Dettlaff at his side, his recovery, both physical and mental, continued on its path.

Regis, busy with his regeneration potion, hardly noticed as Dettlaff entered the room and placed an object on the modest table that was their dining space. He approached his den-mate from behind, catching Regis by the waist, and placed a kiss on the side of his neck, just above his shoulder.

"I have a gift for you," he purred into Regis' ear.

"Again?" Regis teased, leaning back into the embrace.

Dettlaff chuckled, "No, not that kind of gift."

He pivoted on his feet, gently spinning Regis around to face the table.

On it sat a marvelous, intricate carving of a wolf, howling up at a full moon. The balsa wood gave the piece a naturally pale glow, and the attention to every detail, from the wisps of grass at the wolf's feet to the wavy tufts of its fur, was truly remarkable.

Regis was speechless.

"I thought it might make a sort of memorial. For your friend," Dettlaff explained as Regis tried to remember how words were formed.

"I— it— How?" Regis stammered. "You have an amazing talent."

"You like it then?"

"Oh course! Dettlaff, it is lovely!" Regis pulled away to walk over and pick the carving up. "Thank you," he turned back so Dettlaff could see his face.

"It is worth every effort to see you smile again," and indeed, Regis was smiling from ear to ear, fangs exposed and gleaming.

"In that case, I've been meaning to ask something of you," Regis replaced the wolf as a centerpiece on the table.

"Ask anything," Dettlaff walked up to him, brushing a hand up against his side.

"I want you to be honest with me. I can feel the hair growth on my face," Regis reached a hand up once again to feel the tangled mess that was his beard. "Do I look ridiculous?"

Dettlaff's grin danced at the edges of his eyes, "I've certainly seen you… less dignified."

"I do look ridiculous then," he groaned.

"It is nothing I cannot fix, but you will have to guide me. I've difficulty enough with my own face, and I'm not accustomed to grooming others."

"What irony. I'm a barber in trade, and grooming is one of my many tasks, but I had always relied on the locals for my own needs."

Dettlaff's grin only grew, "It will be like old times."

"Yes, but I'll be sober."

They both laughed. Not all of Regis' memories of his youth were troubled. One thing he missed most from living with his crypt-mates was the silly antics they would get themselves into when left to their own devices. To creatures with no reflections, going to great lengths in describing one another had become a sort of game. One that was always more entertaining under the influence of blood. Turning his past into a humored jab took some of the bite from out of it.

"Sit, I'll fetch my razor."

Regis sat at the table, still marveling at the present he'd received while Dettlaff shuffled through the drawers of a cabinet. When he returned, he placed a few more objects out in front of Regis; an ebony straight razor, a small jar holding a cake of soap, another larger jar of water, a linen cloth, and a lathering brush with a matching ebony handle; the full ensemble for his grooming needs.

"You're not as unprepared as I expected!"

"How did you think I maintained myself?" Dettlaff went about wetting the brush and preparing the lather.

Regis leaned back in his chair to watch Dettlaff hovering over him, "For some dreadful reason, I imagined you used your claws."

"Am I truly such a beast?" Dettlaff smirked down at him, coyly. He smeared Regis' face with the lather, dabbing the brush along his jawline.

"Yes," Regis mirrored his expression with half-lidded eyes, "as a matter of fact, you are."

Dettlaff readied the blade, holding Regis's forehead back with two fingers, "Hold still. You are distracting me."

The first swipe was a bit blunt. It more or less removed a line of soap without touching the hair.

"Adjust the angle," Regis raised a hand momentarily to direct Dettlaff's, "Yes, like that. Much better."

The second swipe was much more effective, and the next. Dettlaff moved in semi-circles around Regis and his chair, scraping here and there, as if sculpting another piece of wood.

"Not too close to my neck!" Regis shouted, noticing how Dettlaff seemed to get lost in his work.

"Shh! Stop moving so much," He pushed Regis' hand back down into his lap.

Regis relaxed and closed his eyes, letting his mind drift while Dettlaff worked on him. This past year had been a gift, in its own way. Not just in that he received another chance at life, but in also in the company he kept. The companionship of humans was very dear to him, but he'd forgotten how much he missed the company of his own kind. No charades, no anxious worries that someone might spot his pointed teeth or lack of shadow, and no lies.

But all things beautiful contain a touch of sadness. This contrast in his company, from fragile mortals to another near-demigod like himself, was balm to an unsung rift inside of him; the imminent truth that he must learn to let go of the humans he cared so much for, but Dettlaff would remain. This obvious fact that he tried so hard to ignore in his every day shook him to the core. It called into question the choices he had built a life on.

"Dettlaff… I've been thinking."

"And this is unusual?"

"Oh hush," Regis tried to keep a flat face. "We both know I am at a point in my recovery where I no longer need assistance or protection."

"This current situation begs to differ," Dettlaff deflected, quite obviously, brandishing the razor to accentuate his point.

"You're being very smart tonight," Regis squinted up at him, and Dettlaff cleared his throat.

"I am sorry, continue."

There was clearly tension reflecting across their bond, but Regis had high hopes for this conversation.

"I'm sure you are wondering what my plans are for the future."

Dettlaff nodded, waiting for Regis to continue this time.

"Well, I have been thinking, and I believe I need some time to revisit my old life… back in Dillingen."

Dettlaff nodded again, this time with less enthusiasm. He pulled the blade back for a moment, and studied Regis' face.

"I don't mean for this to be a permanent arrangement though," Regis quickly clarified, "I have left my old friends, belongings, and profession for more than six years now. With everything that happened, I need some time to sort out those pieces of my life."

"You'll return?"

"Yes, I imagine I will," the tension released instantly, and Dettlaff went back to work, holding Regis by the jaw as he ran his razor very precisely up near his sideburns. "It won't be too long, I hope – only a year or two. Frankly, this is where I want to be right now, but I'm not ready yet."

Dettlaff gave him a tender, thoughtful look, observing his craftsmanship, "When will you leave?"

"I think I can be prepared in three weeks."

"May I accompany you on the road?" the words practically leaped off Dettlaff's tongue.

"I was hoping you might ask."

Dettlaff turned the chair around to face him, the legs of it grinding against the wood floor, bringing Regis with it. He grabbed his chin, and place a rough, pointed kiss firmly on his lips, as if you say 'of course, because you're mine!' and Regis could not find a single reason to protest the thought.

"There. Now, go wash off," Dettlaff stood back and let him move from out the chair.

Regis wiped his face clean with the linen cloth, tracing his fingertips behind it to feel the results of Dettlaff's efforts.

"What have you done to me?"

Dettlaff cocked a smile at him, "I've… improved upon you."

"You gave me mutton chops?" Regis gasped, feeling out each detail with his hands.

"You are growing gaunt with age. I think it suits you. It makes you dignified again," Dettlaff pulled at Regis' belt, loosening it enough to slide the coat off his shoulders and onto the floor.

"I am always dignified," Regis stepped away from the discarded coat, and started undoing the buttons of his long-sleeve tunic.

"Of course you are."