Somewhat Clear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: SAFE
Fandom: The Witcher
Relationship: Regis/OMC
Tags: Original Vampire Characters, Blood drinking, Blood and violence, Emotional manipulation, Pre-Canon
Wordcount: 1559
Notes: scritto per "Esploratori" per il prompt "Origine", ambientato in un'altra dimensione.

Summary:
Regis mentioned he ran with a bad crew in his youth. This is the story of his descent.

Excerpt:

“I’m grateful,” Regis said. “But I’m not sure this lifestyle suits me. My sire was a scholar of medicine and alchemy and I’ve been trying to continue his research—there’s so much we don’t know about this world, despite the fact that our people spent the past millennium living here. Your ancient Elder’s journal is proof enough of that,” he pointed out. “Bloodlust can be quite detrimental to one’s studies.”

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Roefol wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, and the head of the young human male he’d been drinking from lolled limply on his shoulder. It had the glassy-eyed stare of the recently departed and it was already starting to smell cold and rotten.

“Did you know that humans mate for life?”

From the other side of their decadent little circle, Wichart groaned, distractedly groping his own thrall. “Oh dear stars, who fucking cares? You study human behaviour now?” He snorted. “I thought the nerd here was Emiel—ouch! Stop hitting me, Eeke!”

“That can’t be right. With their short lifespans it would only make sense to spread their seed as much as they can, wouldn’t it?” Regis objected, not looking up from the drawing of a plant he was doodling in his journal. “It would make for more variety in the genetic pool—give a better chance of survival for the species, down the line.”

“I’m telling you,” he insisted. “They mate for life, and they make a huge deal out of it, too. They call every member of their tribe to witness the union, and they promise each other they will be together until death.”

“A binding ritual?” Eeke mused, stealing Wichart’s thrall from under his nose. The human girl didn’t even blink, craning its neck to let her drink her fill, a quiet sigh escaping its lips. “Well, I guess it might be romantic, for them. Although it makes for a rather convenient pact, so maybe it’s meant to be practical.”

Regis looked up and tilted his head, curious. “How so?”

“Well, if death is what binds them to their promise, they just have to make sure that the other dies before they do to change partners whenever they like, and with how easily they die—” She gestured at the carcass on Roefol’s lap. “As I said, practical.”

“Oof, that’s cold, Eeke,” Wichart said with a grimace.

“I will admit I’m not familiar with this aspect of human culture, but I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” Regis said, shaking his head. “Human pacts aren’t like ours.”

Eeke ignored him. “I mean, imagine being in a relationship with Grada until eternity, with the only way to break it off being death—I would’ve killed her myself three times, by now.”

“Or—you know. Suicide is always an option.” Wichart bared his teeth in a menacing smile. “You would solve more than one problem, that way.”

Eeke growled. “You—”

“Stop teasing each other and fuck already, you two,” Derk piped up from where he and Karel were laying in a lazy sprawl, grooming each other and occasionally making out.

“Mind your business, Derp—”

“Why the sudden interest for human matters, Roefol?” Karel said at the same time, effectively cutting their bickering short. “Are you thinking of getting into farming?”

Roefol laughed. “Absolutely not. Quite the contrary, actually—my interest concerns vampires, not humans.” He started running a sharp claw along the dead thrall’s neck, slicing the flesh in thin stripes. “My sire recently came into possession of this very interesting manuscript—it’s barely intelligible, between the poor handwriting and the ancient language, but we believe it might have belonged to one of the Elders.”

That caught everyone’s attention; Regis closed the journal he was still scribbling into, Eeke and Wichart stopped snarling at each other and even Derk and Karel sat up straighter.

“They were among the first ones to realize that the Interpenetration of Planes wasn’t going to repeat itself anytime soon, and that it wasn’t something that could be reversed for the time being,” he continued, “so they started writing down Gharasham’s rituals and traditions, as many as they could.” His hand was covered in blood, and the precious fluid was starting to drip on the floor, wasted. “I thought our people had done a pretty good job passing down our customs to our generations but—” He shook his head and sighed. “I think the humans may have outshone them.”

“Are you telling us that—the eternal binding thing…” Eekes whispered, her voice cracking.

“It’s a Gharasham’s custom,” Roefol said, and looked up straight at Regis. His eyes were so intense, with the fire reflected into them, he felt a shiver down his spine. He clutched at the journal resting on his knees not to give himself away. “Our local nerd was right about the fact that it doesn’t make sense for humans to be faithful to a single partner for all their life—”

“—unless they were copying a much older custom from a species that is immortal and basically invulnerable to accidental deaths,” Regis finished for him. “Stars above.”

There was a sickening snap, and the young female thrall that had been sitting quietly in Eeke’s lap moments before rolled on the floor, lifeless, its face cut into ribbons. Eeke was on her feet, talons red to the knuckles where she had stabbed them through its cheeks, her face a mask of outrage.

“Well, that’s certainly some shocking news,” Karel commented, getting on his feet as well, breaking the silence that had fallen on the company for a moment, interrupted only by the crackle of the fire, “but there’s no need to waste perfectly good blood. It’s going to spoil, now.”

“He’s right,” Derk agreed. “All this standing around and wallowing in this distressing revelation is making me miserable, we’ve ran out of blood and the night is still young.” He dissolved and reformed next to his mate with a slight smile. “Shall we make a run for it, o Starless leader?”

Roefol just smiled at the familiar nickname, and vanished in the night air.

*

“You really like humans, don’t you, Emiel?” the starless leader asked a couple hours later, as they walked side by side through the carnage that his overenthusiastic minions had brought on what used to be a sleepy settlement of humans near the river. A bonfire crackled in the middle of a fenced field, the smell of charred flesh and wood spreading wide and high in the countryside.

“That’s such a stupid question,” Regis muttered, vaguely aware that he was being rude. The smell of blood was making him dizzy. “I like books.”

Roefol laughed at his crankiness instead of taking offence. “You’re such a weird square. I’m not sure what to make of you, but I like you.” He wrapped a hand around Regis’ arm near the elbow, and gently steered him towards the bonfire. “I can tell you don’t have fun running with us. Why are you even with us?”

“Karel,” Regis admitted, with a sheepish shrug. “He’s an old friend. He knows what kind of person I am and he was worried that I— Well. It’s not good form to hit the first century without a pack to run with, isn’t it.”

“Loners get picked off quite easily,” Starless said, gently. “Your friend is less stupid than he seems.”

They stopped near the bonfire, where the others were busy either drinking from enthralled humans — like in Eeke and Wichart’s case — or having drunken sex — like in Karel and Derk’s case; if there was anyone suited for the eternal ritual binding, it was them, Regis thought. They’d been together for so long he almost couldn’t remember a time they weren’t.

“I’m grateful,” Regis said. “But I’m not sure this lifestyle suits me. My sire was a scholar of medicine and alchemy and I’ve been trying to continue his research—there’s so much we don’t know about this world, despite the fact that our people spent the past millenium living here. Your ancient Elder’s journal is proof enough of that,” he pointed out. “Bloodlust can be quite detrimental to one’s studies.”

Roefol hummed. “Such discipline only makes me want to see what happens when you break,” he commented, giving Regis one of those intense smiles of his, before picking another young male from the small crowd of thralls that was sitting near the fire, waiting obediently for their turn.

Regis felt himself tense, in a way that had nothing to do with fear. He forced himself to answer to the smile. “Is that meant to scare me?”

“Not at all,” Roefol answered. He wrapped a hand around the thrall’s nape and sank his fangs in his throat without pulling his eyes off Regis. “Do you know why they call me Starless, Emiel?” he asked, blood spilling from his lip, glistening obscenely in the firelight.

Regis shook his head. The Starless leader walked closer, cradled Regis’ tense jaw in his blood-stained hand and pulled him into a kiss. The metallic, heady taste immediately went to Regis’ head, breaking his knees and his resolve; he gasped in Roefol’s mouth a sob that sounded like all the rejections he had to swallow quietly under the dome of a sky that never belonged to his ancestors and held on.

“I’m the Starless because I do not believe in the old gods and I don’t wish new ones,” Roefol said against his lips. “We burn the ancient customs and refuse to build a future. Death cannot touch us. Life is all there is.”

Regis trembled, wiped the blood off his chin and licked his fingers. He put his hand over Starless’ on the human’s neck, and drank the bottomless night until he forgot there were stars at all.