Fenris hits the ground and the breath is forced out of him. It takes a few seconds for his world to stop feeling, plenty of time for Astarion to get on top of him. He can feel the sharp edge of a blade against his throat like a warning and and weight pressing him in place. His green eyes are bright as he focuses on the man above him and tries to catch his breath.

There's a faint, sharp prick against Astarion's side where Fenris has angled his own blade up against the pale elf's ribs. It might not be as devastating an injury as a slit throat, but it certainly would give someone a really bad day. He might be down, but he certainly isn't going out alone.

Fenris keeps his grip on the hilt firm even as he tries to slow his heart. His body aches and he is aware of every injury and every over-exerted muscle, but he feels better than he has in weeks. White hair clings to his face where he's started to sweat and his body is quite warm beneath his opponent's.

His hips move as he draws a leg up, trying to get his foot planted.