Fenris saw a light up ahead.
With the last of his strength, he launched himself at the rock wall. His hands tore at the stone, grappling onto holds when there were ones and scratching into rock when there weren't. His head craned upwards, trying to judge the distance between himself and his escape.
Fifteen feet.
Dislodged pebbles gathered under his fingernails. Stone tore at his body, leaving gashes and scratches that dribbled blood onto the rock. The higher he climbed, the fewer footholds he found. He smashed his hands into the rock, scaling up the near-vertical crag.
Eleven feet. Faster.
His gauntlets splintered from the exertion. Shards of metal embedded themselves in his hands and wrists. Blood leaked into the crevices, making it harder to maintain a grip. All the while, Fenris urged himself on, scrabbling up the rock-face even as his body screamed with the effort.
Seven feet. Oh Maker, seven feet.
There were hisses below him; inhuman gurgles and shouts. Fenris knew that the darkspawn were right behind him, but he did not look back. There was no time. With extra urgency, he clawed his way up towards the light.
Five feet. Only five feet to go.
All was agony, now. His hands were bruised and bleeding; his broken fingernails pushed into his flesh every time he found another handhold. His arms quivered in exhaustion. His legs dragged up the rock, threatening to give way at any moment. Tears of pain trickled down his dirt-stained cheeks, ignored. Even as his body tortured him, fear drove him on; he could hear the darkspawn, scrabbling up the wall behind him.
Two feet.
He wasn't going to make it. His hands were numb and exhausted; his legs were becoming unresponsive. It was too far. He would never reach it in time. He would slip and fall to the bottom. The darkspawn would butcher him. As he lay paralysed on the floor, they would hack at him with their swords. Or drag him away to be devoured. Or worse yet, vomit their infected blood into his mouth.
He continued climbing.
One foot.
He would make it. He was almost there. Just a few more seconds and he would be free. He would cast himself out of this subterranean hell. He would let the sweet air fill his shattered lungs. He would bathe his bloodstained face in the clean river, taste cold water on his chapped lips. The deep – and all its associated evils – would be gone forever.
His hand reached out, grabbing the final rock that would allow him to pull himself out of the cave.
Almost there. It was so close. So close-
The rock slipped from his grasp.