Febuwhump Prompts:
Day 2 - Flinching
Day 5 - That's gonna scar
"What if he's not coming back? If something happens down there in that cave, something—"
"Don't worry about the Witcher too much, Cahir," Regis interrupts his young comrade in a raised voice so he would be able to understand him over the noise of the nearby waterfall. "He will be fine even without his sword and knives, I'm almost a hundred percent sure of it. It is a risk, of course, however, what is not? You took the risk in Belhaven and it nearly cost you your life, but you are still here, aren't you? Undeniably and very fortunately." The higher vampire smiles at Cahir through pursed lips. "Which reminds me of my duties as a barber-surgeon. How's the head?" He looks at the makeshift dressing wrapped around the young knight's brow questioningly. The torn-off black shirtsleeve is stiff with dried blood. There are blood stains on Cahir's clothes, too, and Regis can smell the scent of blood even on the horse's mane and neck.
"It's nothing, Geralt took care of it."
"Let me be the judge of that, son. Geralt has many qualities and surely can perform some basic first aid and stitching up of wounds. However, he is not a healer. And that bandage definitely needs to be changed." The barber-surgeon stands up from the boulder he is sitting on and walks over to his faithful mule Draakul to get his satchel with medical supplies.
When, a minute later, Regis touches the bandage around Cahir's head to remove it, the young knight flinches reflexively, going even paler than he was before.
"Sorry, my boy, this will hurt, but it has to be done, there's no way around it. Can you hold still for me? It won't take long."
Cahir takes a deep breath and nods. It can hardly hurt worse than when Geralt stitched up the mess back in the cave, probably a lot less so. Regis is a skilled healer after all, and he is feeling a lot better already in comparison to right after the fight three days ago. His head still hurts, but bearably so, not like it would explode any minute, and he does not feel like fainting or retching or burning up from fever anymore either. A considerable and more than welcome improvement. So, he holds still, as still as a statue.
"Oh dear, and here I thought Angoulême was exaggerating," Regis says after having carefully removed the blood-matted fabric. "Clearly she was not. They did give you quite a dreadful haircut, I must say." Regis looks at the crude stitches applied by the Witcher that are clearly visible running almost from temple to temple on Cahir's forehead just below the hairline. The suture is swollen, of an angry red colour, and continues quite a bit further still, above the ear where it is covered by his friend's curly hair. "That is going to scar, and badly so, I fear, at least if we leave the wound like that." He touches the suture lightly with his index finger, once more making his young comrade flinch with pain.
"Sorry Cahir, but I need to feel if there is any pus forming underneath the stitches. I suspect Geralt did not have the means to properly clean and disinfect the cut." He probes in several other places, eliciting a low moan from the injured knight. "Hm, it does not seem badly inflamed. However, I do not like the swelling much, and you are still a little feverish."
"You— You don't mean to cut it open again?" Cahir looks up at Regis, who is bending over him, in alarm.
"I hope this won't be necessary, my boy. Don't fear, a nice poultice made from my special herb mixture will surely do the trick. At least until we are in Toussaint," Regis reassures. "Once there, I'd advise you see the druids in Caed Myrkvid, they are famous for their profound knowledge and healing skills, far beyond my own humble expertise. They might even be able to prevent the worst of the scarring. You'll be as good as new." He smiles again, his typical Regis smile, then starts to rummage in his satchel.
"Here, drink this." Having found what he was looking for, the barber-surgeon holds out a glass phial to Cahir. "It will help with the massive headache that you, no doubt, must be suffering from." Cahir takes it and downs the content obediently, grimacing at the vile taste. "And, when I'm done with the poultice and fresh dressing," the vampire continues while crushing dried herbs with a pestle and mixing the powdery, olive-green substance with water from his canteen, stirring everything into a thick paste, "you'll lie down and rest some more. For you, my friend, have not only sustained a bad blow to the head causing severe concussion, but also lost quite a bit of blood. By vampire standards your complexion might appear passable, but by human ones it does not. You are far too pale and look like shit, as Angoulême would say."
Cahir opens his mouth to protest that it is really nothing, that he is not a child - or, even worse, a damsel in distress - that has to be taken care of and that he ought to stay awake in case Geralt needs his help, but before he can even start saying any of it, Regis wags his finger in his face. "No back talk, no, this is an order by a far older and higher authority. Geralt won't require any assistance this time, you'll see. Moreover, he won't come out of the cave any time soon. So there's plenty of time for a nap. Now, grit your teeth and don't move, this might sting a bit."
With deft fingers, Regis spreads the greenish paste onto the wound until the brass mortar is empty and dresses it with a fresh bandage. It stings indeed, and badly so, but Cahir does not flinch this time. He holds still as ordered, inhaling sharply through obediently gritted teeth. Groaning softly, he then lies down on the bedroll Regis has spread out for him on the ground. The vampire is not wrong, Cahir has to admit once he has reconciled himself with his much, much older friend's commands. He does feel untypically tired although it is only early afternoon, and a bit lightheaded. A quick lie-down in addition to the potion might help with the lingering headache, too.
"You'll wake me up as soon as Geralt is back?"
"I will, vampire's honour," Regis answers with a solemn nod, followed by a quick smile. "Sleep now. Well-rested you'll be of much more use to the Witcher, believe me." He grabs the blanket that is fastened to Drakuul's saddle and spreads it over his young friend. Cahir, half-asleep already, grunts in response, which Regis takes for a thank you. Then the vampire sits down on his boulder again and listens to Cahir's breathing deepening as sleep claims his injured friend almost instantly. Astounding, he muses, how eloquently certain humans can grunt, hum and swear - an ability vampires seem to lack - and that even though the human language is not in want of words. Nor are the particular two humans in mind lacking in intelligence to wield those words if need be. Perhaps this is related to the shorter lifespan? But then, there are plenty of humans who talk a mile a minute. Take Jaskier, for example, not even the head wound he sustained during his and Geralt's flight from Fort Armeria could stop his flow of words for long. After almost five hundred years on this continent and extensive research into the subject, Regis has to acknowledge that he has not completely figured out the workings of the human mind yet, that humans, unmutated and mutated ones, can still surprise him. Which is, come to think of it, a good thing as it keeps life interesting. Even if the majority of humans might not agree with the notion that he, Regis, is indeed alive ...
The Witcher, too, is alive and kicking when, a good while later, he emerges from the cave. However, Geralt is in such a haste that he is already gone again before Regis can even think of keeping his promise to Cahir. Gone with his weapons, several grunts, hums and fucks, and a few words in between which Regis believes indicated that Jaskier, Milva and Angoulême are in grave danger and that there is not a minute to be lost.
Well, knowing the Witcher quite well by now, Regis is almost a hundred percent sure that he will save their comrades from any and whatever danger they might be in and that he will do fine without Cahir's and his own help. So, no need to neither worry nor hurry. With little more than two hours left before sundown and not a chance to make it back to Toussaint before nightfall no matter how much they spur their mounts - not that Drakuul would ever let himself be spurred anyway - he decides that they will just stay here for the night and, well-rested, ride on at dawn to meet their friends. And, as he is the far older and higher authority, he will neither wake Cahir nor will he ask the young knight for his opinion. The long rest will do him good, as will something nice to eat. Quietly humming to himself, Regis stirs the embers of the almost expired campfire back to life, then he walks over to the nearby stream to capture some of the spawning and therefore easy to catch trout. Expertly seasoned with lots of fresh herbs they will make a healthy, delicious and satiating dinner. And surely stop Cahir from protesting too much.
And this is exactly what transpires when, eventually, the non-Nilfgaardian wakes up to the alluring smell of crisply roasted fish. As he is usually a quite reasonable lad, much more so than a certain Witcher. And, as a former soldier, not a stranger to submitting to a higher authority, even if this authority so happens to be a higher vampire instead of a general or emperor.
The end