It snows and snows and snows. And Geralt is cold. But Regis knows an easy remedy.
For the Hurtcember prompts 8 "Cuddle" and 13 "Nightmare" and the Witchery Yuletide Calendar Door 13 "Snow".
It snows and snows and snows, fluffy, beautiful crystals that settle on their shoulders and their hair at first. Giggling with mirth, Angoulême sticks out her tongue to catch them while they ride toward the looming, rugged mountain passes. Then the wind blowing down from the icy mountain tops becomes stronger and the snow more dense. They cover their heads with woollen hats and pull up their hoods against the cold.
The mountains come closer and closer as they ride on. Eventually, the snowflakes turn into sharp spikes that the ever increasing wind blasts into their faces without mercy. They bite and turn their skin into frozen masks of ice. With their scarves they cover as much of their faces as they can, yet, they need to see and to breathe. The moisture of their breathing soaks into the scarves and freezes solid. Their noses turn first red, then blue until they cannot feel anything anymore. They all look like snowmen, even the horses and the one mule. And there is no end to the snow in sight. Everything is turning white, a gigantic burial shroud covering the entire landscape, the sky, his comrades, and him. Thick with snow, the air becomes more and more difficult to breathe. The whiteness swallows up everything, every sound, every colour, every tiny little bit of warmth.
Suddenly, his comrades are gone, vanished, erased, not a single trace left in the endless snow. Geralt shudders. Will he vanish from the face of the continent, too? The White Wolf lost and alone and frozen to death in this freezing, vast whiteness?
But this cannot be how his story ends! It must not! For Ciri's and Yennefer's sake.
However, what can he do?
Nothing.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"Geralt, wake up, you're shivering." A soft, sympathetic and familiar voice close to his ear. A warm hand on his shoulder.
The Witcher starts from his sleep.
"Regis?" he asks, blinking up at his friend. Then he looks around, momentarily disoriented. A shed, they are in a shed. It is cold and outside the wind is howling, but it is not half as bad as in what must have been a nightmare. And they are all here, Milva, Angoulême, Cahir and Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, the higher-vampire-barber-surgeon.
"You better come closer, my friend. It's a lot warmer when we all cuddle up together," Regis says sagely and with his typical Regis smile. He lifts his blanket invitingly. Still shuddering from the nightmare and the cold, Geralt only hesitates for the fraction of a second. Then he moves over to Regis and the others who have snuggled up in one big heap under their combined blankets and furs. After a long day of riding through snow and cold, his three human companions seem to be sound asleep and dead to the world.
Wedged comfortably between Regis and Angoulême, it does not take long for Geralt to slowly drift off to sleep, Regis's arm wrapped tightly around him, much, much warmer already and with the reassuring feeling that he is not lost and alone. His Hanza is with him.
Who would have thought that, one day, he, Geralt of Rivia, would be thoroughly happy about having them? All of them, even the Nilfgaardian and the higher vampire. No, not even, especially the higher vampire.