Cherishing every moment is nearly impossible when you live for thousands of years.
You learn that memory is so fragile, things that once made you turn red with love, anger, hurt, all begin to lose feeling. However, every hundred years leaves its impact. Regis could only remember a couple that were blank. Years drenched in blood, heightened states, being someone other than himself for the chase of a feeling. He had become something even he couldnât recognize. And that thing took its memories with it, leaving Regis with a gaping hole of a thousand years. But time still moves. Eons will pass and memories come and they go, and moments will be cherished then forgotten. To Regis, it is all the same. He will fill the years with the intrigue of humans, learning their skills, picking up the things they create. Each generation gains something, loses something else. To continue to communicate effectively with them, he will have his hands full. This is how he chooses to spend his thousands of years, not forgetting them like his brethren, pretending to be greater than he is, but by learning.
Geralt had, at some point, forgotten when he had gotten on his knees. It could have been three days, or maybe just one, but in any case, he had forgotten. This seemed to happen a lot to him, waiting for something, watching the sun set and then rise over and over. Days blur together this way, making them easier to stomach. He had mastered the art of not thinking, emptying his thoughts to the point of serenity. It was in this way he learned to live without the people that mattered to him. He could only hope for peace and quiet, every decade waging the potential of a new war and a new decision to make. His bard could be in danger, his Yennefer could be dead, as could his Cirilla. So over thinking, the quiet felt much more homely.
âDo you ever think about dying?â Geralt asked the vampire, running his hands through the long grass patch next to him. They found themselves sitting by a lake, a bottle of Est Est between them, and nothing to do for the better half of a week.
âWhat a thing to ask the vampire, Geralt.â Regis quipped, yet was truly enamored by the question. He had often thought of what it meant to die, every brush with death screamed of torture, while death itself seemed so peaceful. âI think of death, yes, it is part of any being that knows of it, more so for those who come so close to it like you and I.â
âI think of dying all the time.â Geralt admitted words he would never say in front of other company. He took another swig of the wine, wondering why he was always so open with Regis. âWhat does it feel like? Is it better than this?â
âBetter than what Geralt? My company?â Regis joked. He was met with a half-hearted laugh, one that meant something serious.
âBetter than living, better than trying to save everyone, being the only thing breathing that can think.â
âHmm, dealing with one too many beings with capital, are you?â
âPerhaps that was rude of me, Regis.â Geralt sighed, he knew Regis had thick skin but didnât mean to damage it just because he could.
âOh no, I understand you Witcher,â Regis took the bottle of wine from Geralt, âdo you ever think that beings who die easily are so cruel because of their fear of death?â
âWhy might they Regis?â Geralt knew Regis could go on forever, so he sat back and found an interesting ripple in the lake to listen.
âPerhaps it is in their short lives that they begin to cling on to little things, trivial matters that you and I hold no weight towards.â He crossed his legs and leaned towards Geralt in intrigue. âLike animals who nash their teeth at the thing that has impaled them, every moment before death becomes so precious.â
âWeâve been close to death before, Regis, are we nashing our teeth?â Geralt entertained him, truly curious as to what the vampire had to add.
âNot quite, our lives are still extending, wrapping us in the history of the world. We are expansive still, even though death has knocked at our doors. You nor I will ever experience the life of a being only decades away from death. Neither will we know what it means to die slowly, have life taken away for years before we are truly gone.â
âDidnât you? After Vilgefortz?â
âBut did I really think that I would die? No, I felt pain, I felt lonely and tortured, but I did not feel dead.â Regis took another sip of the wine, then handed the bottle to Geralt. Geralt took a long sip before sitting the bottle next to him. They watched the water together for a moment, calm ripples nipping at the edge of the earth. Neither of them thought about how beautiful the scenery was, but they felt it. Cool summer night air kept them in the spot near the water, good company kept them from going back to life.
âI never thought Iâd know if youâd lived.â Geralt said, tossing the words like one might a rock into water.
âI never thought Iâd know what came of you.â Regis said into the air. He sat back on the large rock underneath him, feeling the roughness with the pads of his fingers. âI had lots of time to think of these things, Geralt.â
âYouâre sick of them?â Geralt guessed,
âPerhaps, â Regis confirmed, but mulled it over for a moment, âyet I remember it fondly, the moments I could remember you.â
Geralt smiled the prettiest smile Regis had ever seen on him. A trait of witchers, Regis found, was their inability to make humane facial expressions. But the thought of the smile, the curled lips and the air of appreciation, cued him into Geralt's feeling. Perhaps this is how people came to believe witchers couldnât feel, their faces devoid of fear for predatory sake, then devoid of all portrayal.
He looked back at the lake and sunset in front of him, a scene he would see in thousands of years, years past when his witcher would still roam the earth and chance upon him. For some reason, the thought of seeing a sight like this without him felt heavy, like giving up on so many years they had spent talking into nothingness like this.
âGeralt,â Regis began, looking straight into the witcher's cat-like eyes, âI will cherish these moments with you for a long time.â
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