[ Fenris is momentarily overcome with anxiety he doesn't know how to address, the material a shock on skin sticky with cold sweat. He feels his heart racing. He's trying not to pant. It is by virtue of the magic, however, that his body is at liberty to experience these things as they rush in to replace the pain and weakness that rushes out, and Fenris remembers and appreciates this in the sad, sad way of a man who finally feels good enough again to feel bad. He dimly registers a small commotion outside, even through the heavy wards on the heavy door, but by and large he's stopped trying to think of life outside this room. It's been nearly three years, after all.
He's not certain how long he passes out—just that he has a dream while he's unconscious and he can't remember anything about it but Justice blazing bright from the cracks in Anders's skin and summoning shade upon shade into the dark heart of Corypheus's prison. He wakes with a bodily jerk, flailing to find himself constricted, brands flaring effetely through the worn fabric.
It is not Justice he sees in front of him; only Anders. All this time, it has only ever been Anders. Justice has abandoned him, Fenris thinks, having revealed its true colors as an opportunistic demon—or simply knowing, perhaps, that Anders is here because this is the fate he's earned. Fenris, too, for having been, despite all intentions and principles and experiences, so complicit in the end.
His thrashing settles after a moment. His breathing slows but it's still harsh, ragged.
Outside the door it's quiet as death.
We deserve this, he wants to say. What he chooses instead is: ]
Water—?
[ And he's also chosen to ignore his fingers, twisted clawlike in the cloth at Anders's waist. ]
no subject
He's not certain how long he passes out—just that he has a dream while he's unconscious and he can't remember anything about it but Justice blazing bright from the cracks in Anders's skin and summoning shade upon shade into the dark heart of Corypheus's prison. He wakes with a bodily jerk, flailing to find himself constricted, brands flaring effetely through the worn fabric.
It is not Justice he sees in front of him; only Anders. All this time, it has only ever been Anders. Justice has abandoned him, Fenris thinks, having revealed its true colors as an opportunistic demon—or simply knowing, perhaps, that Anders is here because this is the fate he's earned. Fenris, too, for having been, despite all intentions and principles and experiences, so complicit in the end.
His thrashing settles after a moment. His breathing slows but it's still harsh, ragged.
Outside the door it's quiet as death.
We deserve this, he wants to say. What he chooses instead is: ]
Water—?
[ And he's also chosen to ignore his fingers, twisted clawlike in the cloth at Anders's waist. ]