Nothing But Tired
Goddamned! Never in all his years had Lambert encountered a arachnaphage. Fuck. He’d never even heard Eskel or the other’s mention one. And Eskel kept quite an in-depth bestiary. Arachas of every kind: armored, venomous, bitchy, brooding, and not. But dear god not one dead and come back to life, taking up a tomb as a home. That was not what Lambert had expected to come upon when he kicked put a rickety trap down and dropped down—right on top the bastard. Say what you will about sexual dimorphism this one might not have had size on his side but he had something.
Something that was really fucking Lambert up currently as he made his way back to the little backwater shithole that had hired him for this job. “Something lives in yonder tomb, master witcher,” and “Please help us, master witcher! We ain’t got much but what we got is yours.” If he wanted to get paid at all, Lambert would have to try again when he stopped dragging his leg behind him like a lame animal.
It had barely been a nick.
It was kicking his ass though, and he was exhausted from it. The last thing Lambert heard as he searched in vain for the shed he’d spent the night in preparing—not arachas oil obviously—was, “What? No trophy to show for you work? No coin for you then, puss peepers!”. The spit was warm on his cheek and somehow that much grosser than the cold mud that hit the other one as he fell, helpless.
What the fuck. It was no longer just his leg that didn’t want to obey him it was nearly—everything.
A raven cocked its head and cawed at him with no humor. Lambert would have snarked something back at it but the boot hitting his back knocked the wind from him and he couldn’t control his lips anyway.
Well shit.
A bad day was getting worse.
A LOT worse.
He managed a growl with all his might and swung one arm hard launching himself over to roll pathetically on his back. Maybe if they thought he was contagious they’d leave him and his shit alone. The world swam and went
black before he could even count how many there were.
"I need to go." Regis shoved the basket full of herbs into Geralt's arms. "Lambert is in trouble. I'll write to you when I can. Please give the raven some food."
Even while Geralt was trying to find his voice for questions, Regis leaned close for a kiss and slipped out of his corporeal form. After a moment of disorientation, he flew straight as an arrow towards the place the raven had pointed out to him.
Even with the world a mere shadow of itself and rushing below him like water, Regis had no problems finding the village. He had centuries of practice, and ravens were good at describing.
Rebuilding his body behind a barn in what always felt like a backwards sneeze, as he had once described it to a bemused Geralt, Regis strode towards the outskirts where he could hear the crowd. He could not hear Lambert, and that was a bad sign. His smell was clear enough, although off in a strange manner. Regis wove his way through the crush to the front, people making space for him without meaning to.
In their midst he found a hastily assembled pile of wood on a fallow piece of land, and Lambert tossed on top of it. He was limp, a puppet with cut strings, his eyes glassy and his skin shiny with sweat. There were no injuries Regis could see, except a shallow cut in his leg. Something was very wrong.
"Excuse me." Turning his back to the pyre, Regis faced the crowd. "I really must ask you to refrain from burning my friend. I will gladly take him off your hand and you will never see him again."
The men and women gawked at him, trying to understand where he had come from. For a moment, nobody moved.
"He'll turn! That thing got to him! Kill him now!" That was someone at the back of the crowd, clearly impatient. Thus emboldened, a huge man at the front made a step forward and tried to shove Regis aside, attempting to thrust his sputtering torch into the wood.
He might as well have tried to shove a troll. Regis snatched the torch away from him, tossing it into the ditch where it sank beneath the water with a hiss.
"Please." Regis had to look up to the man and did so with a pleasant smile. "There is no need for—"
The pitchfork thrust at him found its mark, puncturing his side. Regis growled in annoyance at how unreasonable these people were behaving and grabbed the handle, twisting it away from the man wielding it. He snapped the wood, dropping it at his feet.
"I suggest you all leave him to me." Fingers growing into claws, Regis gave up on being unthreatening. His features shifted, making room for his fangs. his back hunching with the sudden growth of wings. "Go home."
For the span of a breath, nobody moved. Shocked faces stared up at Regis, eyes and mouths wide open. And then the first people turned tail and ran. In no time at all, they all were gone, leaving behind trampled soil, doors slamming shut and bolts shooting home.
"Well, I did try." Regis didn't bother changing back, it would be easier to carry Lambert like this. Sniffing the air, he caught the scent of potions and a horse from a shack under the eaves of the wood. Very good, having a horse would make this easier. He picked Lambert up, dead weight in his arms, and walked across the fields towards the shack. They couldn't stay, but he knew a spot not far from here, well hidden from prying eyes.
The mud was hard and rough on Lambert’s back. Too hard. Not mud at all in fact. His head pounded and the shouts from the crowd did nothing to help at all. Everything was a bit blurry, but Lambert could have sworn the man with his back facing him transformed somehow— sprouting wings and growing larger.
Fuck.
Just what Lambert needed when he couldn’t seem to get his body in step with itself. He tried, he really did, but nothing happened. The crowd did seem to disperse though, which if Lambert were able, he would have too. He was in no condition to fight this monster, even he could recognize that.
The black came for him again about the time the world swam with movement and the next thing he knew he was oddly comfortable, warm, cradled in—oh shit.
This was not better than the wood pyre he’d been bedded on before. That had been considerably less dangerous. How he’d gone from bad day, to worse, to potential blood bag for a higher vampire in—how much time had actually passed? He wasn’t sure. He was sure this was a bad development though and tried to struggle like a babe in arms, with just as much effectiveness.
He was concerned with the giant bat carrying him away to a most unfortunate dinner to the point that it was the smell of his horse that hit Lambert before he actually caught sight of the beast. And now he was beyond concerned into just plain fucking confused. Regis maybe? No, it couldn’t be. He’d met Geralt’s vampire all of two times and yet he could think of no other higher vampire who would seeking out his horse in favor of drinking him dry. There was no reason for Regis to be here though.
Darkness swam at the edges of Lambert’s vision again, and he fought it. If he was going to get drunk in a bad way, he was going to at least be awake to fight it in any way he could. And if this was Regis by some odd turn of chance, well, Lambert was still going to be awake. He was just fucked up and tired. Very tired. He blinked sluggishly, too much for his own taste. A bit of sleep and he’d be right as rain. Especially if he could get the right potions from his bags.
He blinked again and when he opened his lids, he was in a whole new place that smelled of moss and dry stone, lying on something much softer than a wood pyre but not as warm as a big bat’s arms. Though he would credit Regis, he was covered with his own wool blanket at least. It was Regis, too. There was no mistaking that back with that pouch of gods knew what at his side, hands clutching the strap as he squatted, staring at a small fire as if willing it larger.
Lambert wanted to say something, to alert Regis, but his tongue was lead in his mouth. Instead his eyes tracked Regis’ every move in the firelight until he turned and noticed that Lambert was awake again.
"Oh, you are awake." Regis frowned. Lambert clearly still was unable to move, although his breathing and heartbeat were quite regular. "I am very sorry for my unannounced appearance, but the ravens told me of your predicament, and it did not sound like you would be able to solve it on your own. Sadly, I believe it will be better to cross that particular village off your Path for the next few decades."
He had already sorted through Lambert's potions. Geralt didn't bother that much with brewing them any more except for the basic ones like Swallow, unless he had picked up a contract. So Regis wasn't quite sure what they had on hand. He picked up a likely candidate and held it up.
"Please be so kind and blink twice if the answer to my questions is yes. Is your name Lambert?"
Only Lambert could manage to blink angrily, although Regis wasn't sure it was at his question or at the unfortunate situation. He was sure it angered Lambert to no end to be this helpless.
"Very good. Is this Golden Oriole?" Having his guess confirmed, Regis picked Lambert up and carefully held the vial to his lips, letting him drink the potion in small sips. Lambert was heavy in his arms, cradled against Regis' chest. The scent of the toxin in his blood was strong this close, permeating the air in the small cave. It had been the entrance to a mine, but it had long since collapsed. What was left was a short piece of tunnel hewn directly into the stone and closed off with a heavy wooden door, but not heavy enough to be an obstacle for Regis.
Once Lambert had emptied the vial, Regis carefully put him down on his bedroll, resting a finger on his neck to check his pulse. It was mere habit, he could have simply listened to Lambert's heart, but working as a barber surgeon he had always made sure to go through these motions.
Of course my name is… Lebioda’s tits. Lambert blinked twice furiously. It made sense to Lambert that Regis needed to assess if he was coherent. It still pissed him off. The fact that Regis took it all in stride calmly only pissed him off more. If anger had a smell, he surely reeked of it. Currently though, nothing much made its way over the smell of their hidey hole and the rancid wrongness wafting off of himself. Something seriously wrong had gotten into him by the smell alone, even if his limbs had been working.
At least he was able to work his throat enough to get down the Golden Oriole. That would have been a pathetic way to go: witcher, choked to death on his own alchemy. The effect wasn’t immediate, but bit by bit Lambert’s tongue began to work along with his throat, then he was even able to turn his head to glare at Regis.
“Following me with ravens now, are you? I’m not helpless you know? Well fuck, yes I am. Can you fix me?” Hope was a strange note to ever enter Lambert’s voice, which only meant it sounded more like sarcasm coming out, but he did genuinely hope Regis could right him. If anyone could, it was Geralt’s vampire. Regis was…smart. Good with shit like this in a way Lambert was with bombs and brews, or Eskel was with Signs. And gods, Lambert would never admit it to his face, but Geralt with people.
He might not think it or believe it, but of all of them to come out of Kaer Morhen Geralt could walk amongst the humans, the elves, and even the vampires it seemed, unperturbed in a way the rest of them had never mastered.
“Perhaps. I may required a sample of you blood to do it however.” Regis looked gravely worried now. The answer was not right at hand, and while Lambert supposed the presence of an interesting case was enthralling, Regis looked like he’d rather it involved nearly anyone else.
“Nick away, I don’t think Geralt would appreciate me letting his, uh… partner, nibble at me.” The words Lambert used in his head nearly slipped out of his mouth and he wasn’t sure Regis would appreciate them. He wasn’t a total ass. Definitely not when someone was helping him out of such a predicament as this one. He would have offered a wrist but those weren’t working just yet.
So it was dinner after all, though Regis was a teetotaler and Lambert was sure he wouldn’t fully imbibe.
"I have no intention of nibbling." Taking hold of Lambert's arm, Regis sliced the skin with a nail momentarily sharpened to a claw. He dabbed into the blood that welled up, licking up a drop from his finger. The cut had healed even before he had spit the blood back into a handkerchief. A foul taste lingered in his mouth, drowning out even the chemical tang of the potion.
"What did this to you, some kind of necrophage?" None that Regis had ever heard of, he was sure about that. And what Lambert described was entirely new to Regis indeed. An enticing puzzle on the one hand, but on the other hand it made finding a cure that much more complicated.
"I do not spy on you, nor are the ravens following you. But they are curious birds and very intelligent. They know you, and they know we are friends. So when they noticed your predicament, they notified me. It's lucky that you were already so close to Corvo, even a higher vampire can only travel so fast." Getting up, Regis started to pace around the cave. There wasn't much room for it, but it did help him think. It was a shame he had none of his books except his notebook. Leafing through it more in the hopes of jogging his memory than for any direct clues, Regis let his form dissolve and solidify again, over and over.
It was a good thing Geralt was as fond of Regis' mandrake moonshine as he was, causing Regis to always have some on hand. In this case, he thought it might combine well with another Golden Oriole to neutralize the toxin. He wasn't sure about Lambert's state of mind while it would do its work but considering the young witcher's habit of drinking White Gull on a regular basis, Regis thought it an acceptable side effect.
"I am not sure it will work, but I believe some mandrake in combination with this should lift the paralysis." He held up the second Golden Oriole vial he had found. Thankfully Lambert kept his potions supply well stocked. Regis would not have relished the thought of leaving him alone to go forage for ingredients. "It will just need to simmer for a while, then we can give it a try. If you agree."
“Well I sure as shit don’t wanna stay like this.” Having been laid back down while Regis paced, Lambert had watched him think quietly right up until that moment. There was a strangeness to watching a vampire pace and Lambert wondered if they all did it this way, dissolving and reappearing over and over again. Thoughts for another time. Right now what mattered was getting back to a functioning state.
“I highly doubted that you did.” No matter how much Lambert cussed and sputtered Regis’ responses were always calm and collected. It was slightly infuriating, but Lambert was distracted by his appreciation of a thorough and talented alchemist. Regis was immaculate with his addition of ingredients, never allowing anything to become tainted, and precise in his measurements. It comforted Lambert to know that like a good recipe for food, Regis put great care into his concoctions. He was in as safe of claws as he could have possibly been, outside of his own.
The brew went down like fire. Nothing as smooth as a regular Golden Oriole, the Mandrake burning along the back of his throat. It wasn’t long before the effects started hitting Lambert either: Regis’ face morphing from human to bat and back in a single moment that would have frightened someone less exposed to such things, the moss covering the pillars around him changing colors vividly.
“Well, that’s interesting.” Lambert held up a hand and waved it in front of his face. It left a trail everywhere he moved it. “I can move my hand, and it leaves nice colors behind too.”
Lambert drew Axii. Regis was immune after all. It threw a shower of silvery sparks in the air as the sign dissipated but the colors hung behind, and Lambert laughed. “Sorry, just had to see what one would look like, didn’t want to light the place on fire.”
"I am glad your good sense has not left you." Yet. With time on his hands and the excellent laboratory at Corvo Bianco, Regis has been improving his mandrake moonshine recipe. It was now strong enough to be downright dangerous to drink for any human, and it would get Geralt drunk in only a few swallows.
Lambert was no different, maybe even a little more strongly affected . Less body mass to holds its own against the alcohol and the psychoactive compounds. But Regis felt that a night of being roaringly drunk and extremely high was an acceptable price to pay to restore Lambert's control over his own body. And not one Lambert was unaccustomed to paying.
Rolling over, Lambert struggled to sit and finally managed. He looked much better already, less pale and no longer shaking with the chill of a fever. Even as someone capable to casually heal wounds that would have killed any human instantly, Regis always was impressed by how fast witchers healed and dealt with poisons. That arachnaphage would be worth another visit. Lambert had said he was almost sure he had killed it, but surely there would be enough venom left to study it. Later.
For now, Regis found himself just as fascinated by Lambert, who had pulled his saddle bags over and was digging inside of them, holding up a bag with a triumphant grin.
"Can't get properly drunk on an empty stomach."
The bag held a cured boar sausage and some small autumn apples, probably pilfered from someone's garden, and Regis was happy to accept some of both when Lambert offered. Sitting down kittycorner from Lambert, Regis tossed another piece of wood on their small fire.
"Geralt will quite often simply go from a pleasant high to deep sleep. If you feel like it, don't fight it, it will help you heal. And I dare say you will sleep more safely here than almost anywhere else." It was a good thing the villagers had run. Regis much preferred it this way, but he would have fought to defend Lambert. It was strange how quickly Regis had become attached to him, rude and overly sarcastic as Lambert was and slow to build such connections as Regis was.
“Noted.” Lambert didn’t doubt that he would. Nothing beat a higher vampire for a bodyguard. Not that he thought Regis was his or anything so crass, but for one night Regis seemed more than happy to watch over his drunk ass as he recuperated. And recuperate he would. Lambert was still aghast at the arachnaphage and its speed, dexterity, and the sheer potency of its poison. Witchers weren’t immune to poison like illness, but they were…inured to it. How could one not be after surviving the trials. Those were nothing but poison for the most part. It had taken him down like a chopped tree though.
Laughing internally at his own thoughts, Lambert was startled when Regis turned to look at him as if wondering what was funny. Perhaps it hadn’t been silent as he thought.
He tapped the side of head at the temple. “It was in my head.” With a smile Lambert laced his fingers together and rested them on his chest laying down on the make-shift bed Regis had made. It was actually quite comfortable. Warm with the fire.
Lambert couldn’t be sure there wasn’t a second or more arachnaphage in the tomb. Maybe Regis would check with him. He didn’t need the help, now that he knew what he was going up against. And it certainly wasn’t out of pity for that shit-hole village. But a leg preserved or a vial of blood even would make a good gift for Eskel the next time he saw the bastard. The little one up of, guess what I killed that you’ve never seen? And the idea of that didn’t sting at all. It sat pleasantly in Lambert’s chest as he did indeed doze off exactly as Regis predicted. Smart bat.
In the end, he really was nothing more than tired.