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Geralt doesn’t let on to Roche how much that document has shaken him, but shake him it does. It drags him away from all thoughts of assassinations and executions. For a few moments, he forgets the importance of the here and now, forgets that he has inextricably tangled himself in politics he ought never have touched. Geralt feels his muscles go stiff as an ephemeral pain emanates from his gut. It is distant, untouchable, how he imagines losing a hand would feel twenty years on, but it is undeniably there. His eyes flicker, the world spins, and his vision is blurred. He is lying on the ground, the taste of salt and blood in his mouth, and above him, just out of reach, is a face...
When the vision clears, Roche’s rugged mug remains, questioning. There is wariness in those eyes, and grief at the loss of a treasured mentor. Foltest was an idiot and a nutter in the way that most royals are, but having encountered Radovid and Adda, Geralt was inclined to think he was less of one than some, unfortunate penchant for romance notwithstanding.
A moment ago, Geralt was angry, his blood boiling at the circumstances of his false accusation. He could feel the heat coursing through him still, but now it was accompanied by a buzzing in his ears, as both an unprovided answer and the accompanying unasked question drifted tantalizingly close, but definitively out of reach.
He answers Roche’s hypothetical plan mechanically, the classic sarcasm forming a shell around his real thoughts. He dislikes the beefy frankenman who framed him, for sure, if only for causing yet more political unrest and landing Geralt in his current predicament, but he wouldn’t go so far as to say that vengeance was a priority goal. He’d place that several rungs down, right below Living, Getting The Fuck Out of Prison, and Forcibly Removing Himself From The Political Climate Of Temeria Permanently, Thank You Very Much. Goal three seemed fairly unobtainable, and Geralt momentarily considers the merits of spending the next decade reconstructing Kaer Morhen with only the labor of his own two hands as the only feasible way to accomplish it. Vesemir would be pleased, at the very least.
Unfortunately, Roche’s intentions for him seemed to fit squarely with goals one and two, and as far away from goal three as it was possible to get within the space of a single lifetime. Give the man what he wants and it’ll be over as painlessly as possible, Geralt thinks, sighing inwardly. “I would go after the Kingslayer,” he says, without very much vitriol at all really, but it seems good enough for Roche, who proceeds to explain that much like every other endeavor Geralt has ever undertaken in his life, he will have to escape from prison himself without the aid of additional hands, arms, or altered guard patrols. If Geralt ever sees another simple ghoul killing contract again he fears he will weep from relief.
It is only later, in the prison cell, that the elusive goal three begins to drop in importance for the first time in several months. It is replaced by buzzing questions left by the stale pain of death. By a blurry vision, a whispered, poetic name uttered from his own hoarse and fading voice. By the smell of lilac and gooseberries. By the achingly intimate memory of a long forgotten face.