[ Fenris is so surprised by the way his hand flashes up to seize Anders' wrist indignantly, defensively, that it pulls a choked and slightly crazy little laugh out of him. To have been given something to feel, anything, even if for just a second—
He lets go with some reluctance.
Does it hurt?
Physically? Or otherwise?
This was your doing.
Only when they choose for it to.
What business is it of yours, mage? ] Yes. It does.
[ If he expected he'd have more to say, it's gone and left him now. The sun is setting; it's already passed beyond the barred periphery of the window near the ceiling. Lately Fenris can feel the approach of winter in the air every time night falls, and he knows soon enough he and Anders will be alone in the cloying frigid damp with only the glow of torches under the door and the large cold moon for light. Food is intermittent at best, only ever sufficient to keep a man clinging to life by a few fine threads, and he knows with Anders' arrival there's no chance of it today.
There's a crude bandage around his right forearm, made from scraps of an old mages' cowl. All Fenris can think about is how today's bleeding means he'll be blessedly left alone for the next several days and what a piteous wretch he is for feeling so much gratitude for it. He shivers. ]
Your spirit could not save you.
[ Spirit, he says, without heat or judgment. But spirit, demon—neither term means much anymore. Any remnant of his life before this room feels like nothing but an abstraction. ]
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branchandroot
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Date: 2014-11-21 01:17 am (UTC)He lets go with some reluctance.
Does it hurt?
Physically? Or otherwise?
This was your doing.
Only when they choose for it to.
What business is it of yours, mage? ] Yes. It does.
[ If he expected he'd have more to say, it's gone and left him now. The sun is setting; it's already passed beyond the barred periphery of the window near the ceiling. Lately Fenris can feel the approach of winter in the air every time night falls, and he knows soon enough he and Anders will be alone in the cloying frigid damp with only the glow of torches under the door and the large cold moon for light. Food is intermittent at best, only ever sufficient to keep a man clinging to life by a few fine threads, and he knows with Anders' arrival there's no chance of it today.
There's a crude bandage around his right forearm, made from scraps of an old mages' cowl. All Fenris can think about is how today's bleeding means he'll be blessedly left alone for the next several days and what a piteous wretch he is for feeling so much gratitude for it. He shivers. ]
Your spirit could not save you.
[ Spirit, he says, without heat or judgment. But spirit, demon—neither term means much anymore. Any remnant of his life before this room feels like nothing but an abstraction. ]