Wolves.
He could smell them, even above the coppery tang of his own blood. As he drifted back towards consciousness, the awareness of the wolves was there, a palpable presence in his mind as well as in his nostrils, so much more coming to him than mere scent alone.
Was this normal for one of his kind, or part of Danarius' multiple "gifts" to his pet? Fenris had no way of knowing; he had never met another werewolf. He had run with the normal wolves in forests here and there in his travels, but though he'd heard rumours here and there of werewolves he'd never followed them up. He was a loner by nature; lone wolf in name and deed, it seemed.
These wolves, though; there was something different about them. They were not like the wolves he had run with before. Were they as he was? A werewolf? Was this why he could practically see them with his mind, feel them all around him? Could they sense him the same way? He had no idea.
The pain was still present; it made it hard to think. The silver blade was still embedded in his guts, burning with acid fire; a white-hot ball of pain that pulsed in time with his heartbeat, reaching tendrils of agony out into his limbs. He tried to distance himself from the pain, as he had so often done before – but something about this wound made that impossible. His body was being poisoned by the silver, unable to heal itself, the lyrium lines buckling and twisting somehow within his flesh and amplifying each pulse of pain as neurons screamed silently.
He was panting, he distantly realised; faint sounds – whimpers? - escaping unbidden from his throat in his distraction. He gritted his teeth, fighting down the wave of panic that threatened to overwhelm him with the pain, and struggled to open his eyes. The right eye was still too swollen to open more than the merest slit, but after blinking fiercely he managed to open the left eye, flakes of dried blood still clinging to his eyelashes.
The cart had halted, and Fenris could hear sounds of wolves growling and snarling above that of a struggle. The wolfpack had attacked his captors, it seemed – and were coming off worse than their four-legged attackers. There was still one present in the cart with him – the city elf whose collarbone Fenris had broken when first they came for him. He was fumbling nervously with his blade in his left hand, the right immobilised in a sling. He stood no chance. Even as Fenris drew his legs up beneath him and managed to lurch into a kneeling position, hampered by his bonds, there was a blur of black and grey fur as two huge wolves threw themselves into the cart and launched themselves at the elf.
A scream, a spray of blood; and then silence as the elf fell beneath the savage jaws of his lupine executors. And from Fenris' kneeling position, he could see two other bodies ripped apart beside the cart, limbs strewn around in pools of blood. Of Kuriel there was no sign – had he escaped? Fenris had no way of knowing. About eight large wolves stood around the cart, a couple licking at minor wounds. The two in the cart turned their yellow gaze upon the lone bound elf, but their gaze held no malice, only curiosity. As Fenris regarded them warily, hunched over in pain, the black wolf's form shifted, blurred, then became more humanoid as his grey companion also shapeshifted; she was revealed to be a young woman with long silvery-grey hair and piercing yellow eyes. She reached towards him then hesitated.
"You are hurt." It was a statement, not a question. Fenris nodded. "May I?" she gestured.
Fenris slumped against the side of the cart, uncurling a little so she could see the hilt of the silver dagger where it protruded from his abdomen. "Silver," he managed to gasp.
There were hisses of indrawn breath and growls all around them; the woman's male companion had grown visually agitated at the sight of the wound, and as Fenris lifted his glance he saw that about half of the wolves had also shifted into human form and were crowded closer, staring aghast at him. He suddenly felt overwhelmed, claustrophobic; so many, so close – their regard and palpable concern was stifling. "Keep back!" he rasped, hunching in upon himself, curling around the pain, teeth bared in a snarl.
The black wolfman growled as he rose to his feet, and the rest of the pack backed away, falling silent as he stepped to the rear of the cart.
"Carodan, I'll need my healing kit," the woman called as she knelt beside Fenris. "It's alright," she added quietly. "You're amongst your own kind here. You're safe now."
"Are you a mage?" asked Fenris suspiciously as he glared up at her from beneath his white hair, filthy and streaked with blood. She shook her head.
"No. I am just a healer. I do what I can with bandages, poultices and herbs, I'm afraid." She smiled as he visibly relaxed and did not flinch when she tentatively reached out a hand to touch his shoulder briefly. "My name is Cersei. Will you let me help you?"
He nodded, and slumped back against the wooden cart side. "I am called Fenris," he replied quietly.
Cersei nodded and smiled encouragingly as she leaned over him, her fingers delicately probing around the wound but not actually touching it. Her fingers were also carefully skirting around the lyrium brands in his flesh, he noted. Could she sense what they were?
"The knife must come out, but it will be painful," she warned him quietly.
"I am no stranger to pain," he replied tersely.
"So I can see," she replied. She reached to her belt and he tensed as she drew a dagger, then relaxed as she gestured to the ropes binding him. He nodded assent, and Cersei swiftly cut him free. Fenris could not hold back a groan as feeling returned painfully to his hands and feet; Cersei tucked her blade away then set to work chafing his arms and legs, being careful of his leg wound, helping to restore blood flow and feeling.
Carodan returned with a leather satchel which Cersei took wordlessly. She took out a sturdy leather gauntlet, but Carodan laid his hand over hers as she started to pull it on.
"Let me," he said gruffly, his voice a harsh deep baritone. Fenris frowned; he was sure he had heard that accent before somewhere, but could not quite place it.
Cersei glanced to Fenris, then nodded to Carodan who took the glove then climbed up into the cart. He drew on the glove, then laid his ungauntleted hand firmly upon Fenris' shoulder.
"Are you ready, brother?" he asked.
"I'm not your-" Fenris began angrily, but got no further as with the gloved hand, Carodan grasped the hilt of the silver dagger and wrenched it out of the stricken elf's guts in one strong pull. Fenris threw his head back and screamed.
Anders' head jerked round and his eyes widened as the scream echoed to them distantly. He knew that voice.
As he glanced round at the others, he saw they recognised it too.
"Fenris," he breathed.
"Anders, wait a minute -" began Hawke, but Anders didn't hear him; he was off and running towards the sound, even as it cut off suddenly.
"Fenris!" he cried. "I'm coming! Hold on!"
His feet flew.