The first thing he was aware of as consciousness slowly returned was pain.
His whole body seemed an interconnected network of pain, focussed around a sharp, white-hot shaft of pure agony that seemed to pierce him right through the gut, paralysing him as the wound throbbed in time to his heartbeat, and each pulse sent an echoing lance of pain through the lyrium brands entwining his entire body.
His head ached abominably. He tried to open his eyes, but the left one was crusted over with dried blood, and the right was so badly swollen it would not open.
He was lying upon his left side, arms bound tightly behind his back. He could feel ropes binding his legs at thigh, knee and ankle. His left cheek rested against bare wooden planks that smelled faintly of meadow hay. As full consciousness slowly returned, he became aware that he was in a moving cart of some sort – and he was not alone. His keen ears could discern the sounds of more than one person breathing nearby, stirring slightly as the movement of the cart jostled them in their seats.
He lay still, feigning unconsciousness whilst waiting for the mental fog to dissipate and silently assessing the state of his body. He had not gone down easily; in addition to the head wound that had finally dropped him into the less than tender mercies of his captors and the black eye, the small of his back ached where he had sustained kicks and punches over his kidneys. At least one rib was broken, and his right leg throbbed where he had taken a wound in the fight - though from the feel of it, his captors had bandaged it. He was still light-headed from the concussion and loss of blood, but all things considered he had weathered worse – save for the agonising wound in his abdomen.
He was utterly disgusted with himself for having been taken so easily. They had caught him just as he had finished his simple evening meal. He had not even heard them enter; he still wondered at that. There were four of them, though he had only gotten sight of the two city elf mercenaries – he had heard the others behind him but, unarmed and without armour as he had been, he had been hard-pressed to defend himself from the mercenaries.
Even without Blade of Mercy, Fenris was a fearsome opponent, making full use of his abilities in unarmed combat and the abilities granted him by the lyrium in his flesh. The mercenaries were hampered, also, by the need to capture him alive rather than slay him outright – Fenris was not so restricted and indeed fought to kill. But the long reach of their swords put him at a disadvantage; and swift though he was, they had evidently taken potions to grant them haste that near matched him. It was inevitable, perhaps, that he should fall to their assault – but at least he had the satisfaction of knowing he had not gone down easily. Though his blood had been shed heavily, the two mercenaries had shed at least an equal amount of blood, and he was reasonably certain that one of them must now be sporting a sling to support a broken collarbone, unless they had healing potions aplenty with them.
And yet, even with the sword wound that laid his thigh open from groin to knee and the head wound, yet still he might have rallied against them; drawn upon the wolf within, embraced his lupine form and put the fear of Fen'Harel truly into these city-born elves – until one of them plunged a dagger of pure silver into his guts, unleashing an agony that almost rivalled that of the lyrium branding.
They had known what he was. And they had come prepared with silver against him.
He had gone down then, succumbing to his wounds; yet at the very least, he had left adequate signs of the struggle behind that a keen-eyed rogue such as Hawke or Varric would be able to read; with luck, his friends would not be too far behind. Sooner or later he would be missed, and then the hunt would be on.
Wouldn't it?
Fenris wished he could be that optimistic. Hawke was a busy man, as was the dwarf; sometimes the quiet periods between their expeditions could stretch to a couple of weeks or more. And who else would notice him gone? Perhaps Isabela.
The mage?
No, why should he? Anders rarely left his clinic between excursions with Hawke's little band of misfits. Fenris had not returned since that night when he had found himself, sleepless, drawn to the small clinic in Darktown where the lanterns had long been extinguished for hours but a single candle still flickered within.
He focussed on that memory now, willing his mind away from the wound in his stomach, his body wracked with poison fire from the silver dagger still embedded in his body. He recalled how those soft brown eyes had caught the candle's golden glow as Anders had drowsily lifted his head at the elf's touch. His sleepy confusion as Fenris had drawn him to his feet, steadying him as he swayed, then silencing his bewildered words with a kiss.
It had been a thing of impulse, that kiss; borne of fascination, a strange connection forged in the face of death and danger, amid deathly cold and the blades of enemies. Borne of a growing respect, a new understanding, an opening of eyes, minds... hearts? Perhaps. Fenris had no expectations of what would follow such a kiss; he knew only the now of wolfsong, the eternal present of the hunter. Unable to sleep, he was irresistibly drawn to the mage, not knowing or perhaps, not caring for why or how, knowing only the desire of here and the rightness of the moment. He kissed Anders because it seemed the right thing to do in that moment.
What might have transpired next between them however would remain unknown, for the exhausted mage had swooned and would have fallen if not for the strong hands of the elf which swept him up into a sure embrace, bearing him gently to a cot. He had gently removed the unconscious apostate's boots, covered him in blankets, smoothed the tousled blond hair away from the shadowed eyes closed in sleep... and then slipped away as silently as he had come.
And now Fenris clung to those memories, replaying them in his mind, interleaved with fragmentary scenes from other moments in their recent shared past – the mage's breath warm upon his furred flank in sleep. The tingling warmth of Anders' healing magic drawing the elf back from death's brink. A shared moment in a silent aravel.
An incautious movement, and Fenris gasped as the wound pulled unbearably, the blade within him twisting. The gasp turned into an involuntary scream which drew his captor's attention; but mercifully he was spared their attentions as the pain overwhelmed him and he sank back into unconsciousness again, still unaware of who it was had captured him or where they were taking him, only that they wanted him alive – but not unscathed. He longed to feel Anders' healing magic, feel it set the lyrium singing in his flesh and in his very veins, drive out the insidious poison fire of the silver.
His last thought as his mind spiralled into darkness was how strange it was that he, of all people, should find himself longing for a mage's touch. And then he knew no more.