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One glance back. That’s all he gets.
He sees Yennefer in Letho’s arms, those cat’s eyes looking back at him with a promise to keep her safe, then Geralt feels a firm hand on his chin. His face is turned forcibly and he finds himself staring into the pale, unearthly eyes of the Sparrowhawk.
Eredin surveys him coldly, and smiles. He tilts Geralt’s face from side to side, admiring his prize, then lowers his hand and splays his fingers over the witcher’s chest.
Geralt glares, pouring as much hate as he can into his expression until it’s replaced by a sudden look of shock. The breath is snatched from his lungs as the icy magic of the Wild Hunt creeps over him, and he feels himself turn cold.
Frost bites at his skin, penetrating deep as the chill sweeps through his insides and his limbs go numb. His heart, moments ago racing, turns sluggish and lethargic in his chest. He can’t breathe. His throat’s frozen, as are his lungs.
At the corners of his vision, specks of white blur as frost dusts his eyelashes, then soon all he can see are shadows and the piercing glare of those ghostly eyes. Eredin is laughing. Geralt can barely hear it, his eardrums having frozen over, too.
He passes out with terror flooding his mind and Yennefer’s name frozen on his tongue.
They revive him later at Tir ná Lia, where he has no chance to run.
Eredin stands over him, placing his hand in the same spot on his chest as before as he reverses the spell and brings the witcher back to life. He feels the warmth return to Geralt’s skin, the heaving motion of his chest as he breathes, and it surprises him when he feels Geralt’s heart.
The elf had expected it to be faster. It had certainly raced quicker than this back at the Hanged Man’s Tree. Pounded, even, as the witcher had felt dread and fear for himself and for Yennefer, but now it’s slow, barely even a quarter the pace Eredin is used to feeling from the other men and women they’ve kidnapped. Of course, they don’t freeze those. Anyone less robust than a witcher wouldn’t survive the process, but nonetheless, the strength and steadiness of Geralt’s heartbeat is unexpected.
Then Geralt opens his eyes, sees where he is, and suddenly it’s racing.
Eredin smiles. He watches the witcher test his restraints, not struggling, but as he feels the strength of them he makes the wise choice not to try. His amber eyes dart round, taking in the cell that looks altogether too bright and pleasant for a prison, if it weren’t for the torture devices laid out nearby.
“You are in the homeworld of the Aen Elle,” Eredin explains, delighting in the panicked reaction from Geralt’s heart. “Soon, it will be the only world that matters to you. Your homeworld you will forget. All others will be nothing to you but conquests. You will become part of the Wild Hunt. Soon the name Geralt of Rivia will mean nothing to you.”
Geralt gazes up at him and snarls. “Fuck you.”
Now that had been far more expected. Eredin sneers. “You will ride with us, witcher, and it will be by your own choice. Maybe not today. Maybe not for many days. But you will.”
He steps away and waves a hand at Imlerith and Caranthir nearby to let the torture begin.