continued from here:
Even now, he remembers everything. He remembers the moment when burning hot hands seized him, the blood not nearly enough to dull the pain as the sorcerer tore and tore and tore, laughter in his voice and madness in his eyes. He remembers screaming, high and loud and uncontrolled, of another voice screaming too, desperate but ultimately impotent and even in the midst of his terror he tried to reach out for its owner - for him to help, to flee, he didn’t know. He remembers the fear, all-consuming, maddening, and always that horrible face, grinning and delighting in his suffering. He remembers those hands glowing white-hot as skin sears and bones crack, and everything is blinding and incoherent and there is no such thing as rational thought, only an endless litany of helpmehelpmehelpmemakeitstopmakeitSTOP---
And then, nothing.
Geralt knows none of this. Geralt has not been there the nights when Regis awakes screaming, sobbing, sure that he is there to drag him back to oblivion. He doesn’t see the burn scars still livid on Regis’ entire body, regeneration itself still not enough to remove the evidence of that cursed spell. And he makes damn sure that Geralt never sees him wince when he casts the sign of Igni, the animal in him fearing that any moment he will be caught again, and he will burn.
But he knows the aftermath, and there is one thing that maybe, just maybe, might help Regis sleep a little better.
“ Good. ” It’s quiet, but no less fervent, Regis’ eyes hollow and his mouth twisted as though tasting something sour. “ Then he is quite assuredly gone. If he felt even a fraction of your wrath, then I am glad for it. ”
@wolfpaid
