Geralt's brows knit together. "Mm. I love riddles." No, he doesn't.
He's gathered Yennefer sent Kylo, he's gathered she has given him the medallion so Geralt knows who sent him. That Yennefer has decided Kylo can be trusted, at least for this purpose. Beyond that, he doesn't have the energy to piece together more. If Kylo wants him to do or know something specific, he will have to tell him outright.
There's a second before he shifts. He's half tempted to tell Kylo to simply fucking throw the thing between the bars and he'll pick it up later when he summons the strength to, but he's aware there are guards watching and that this would be unwise. Moving also feels unwise. Vesemir would tell him nearly everything in his life is unwise, and the old man would probably be right, but here they are.
He sighs, struggling to his knees so he can reach out and take the medallion. The metal is cool, the weight of silver in his hands. His thumb brushes over the snarling wolf head. He's never been without it for this long, remembers vividly the day he was given it. Remembers vividly the boys who were not given the same, bled out in a dark room. (He wants to believe Yennefer had not meant to force that memory at the time, but there's a part of him that isn't sure. And no matter how hard he wants to not think about it, it is all he can think about.)
He leans his head back against the wall. His focus is clearly waning, even if he seems to be trying. "I didn't take you for a messenger boy."
As blunt as he sounds, it isn't meant to be an insult; there's only curiosity behind the words. He just wants to know why Kylo's agreed to this. It can't be solely at Yennefer's behest, as charming as she can be. And it certainly isn't for him—at least, not as far as he believes. They've spoken exactly once. For Geralt, he imagines them vaguely acquainted, at best. Certainly not someone you put effort towards when they're trapped in a cell by the order of the most powerful person in the castle.
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He's gathered Yennefer sent Kylo, he's gathered she has given him the medallion so Geralt knows who sent him. That Yennefer has decided Kylo can be trusted, at least for this purpose. Beyond that, he doesn't have the energy to piece together more. If Kylo wants him to do or know something specific, he will have to tell him outright.
There's a second before he shifts. He's half tempted to tell Kylo to simply fucking throw the thing between the bars and he'll pick it up later when he summons the strength to, but he's aware there are guards watching and that this would be unwise. Moving also feels unwise. Vesemir would tell him nearly everything in his life is unwise, and the old man would probably be right, but here they are.
He sighs, struggling to his knees so he can reach out and take the medallion. The metal is cool, the weight of silver in his hands. His thumb brushes over the snarling wolf head. He's never been without it for this long, remembers vividly the day he was given it. Remembers vividly the boys who were not given the same, bled out in a dark room. (He wants to believe Yennefer had not meant to force that memory at the time, but there's a part of him that isn't sure. And no matter how hard he wants to not think about it, it is all he can think about.)
He leans his head back against the wall. His focus is clearly waning, even if he seems to be trying. "I didn't take you for a messenger boy."
As blunt as he sounds, it isn't meant to be an insult; there's only curiosity behind the words. He just wants to know why Kylo's agreed to this. It can't be solely at Yennefer's behest, as charming as she can be. And it certainly isn't for him—at least, not as far as he believes. They've spoken exactly once. For Geralt, he imagines them vaguely acquainted, at best. Certainly not someone you put effort towards when they're trapped in a cell by the order of the most powerful person in the castle.