Geralt does none of those things. He plants his feet instead and lets her barrel straight into him. He doesn't need to fall, but he lets it happen, landing on his back.

If she swings her knife a second time, he'll try to catch it again. But it's not really the blow he's thinking about. It's that she must, deep down, remember something if she recalls this dagger. So maybe—

He reaches, quick, for the medallion she wears on her belt, the one she's never taken off: the silver wolf head decorated with florals. Snatches it off with a twist. It is not identical, but the familiar edges are there.

"Then who gave this to you? Why does it look like mine?"