He hasn’t the slightest. In a way, he doesn’t really need to: at the height of desperation, so habitually used to self-reliance in all things, he expects to be alone.

And he’s not.

Does Fenris realize what it is he gifts by way of that mercy? Potent, suffusing, kind.

His lungs are cleared, his eyes shut, his shoulders forcibly rounded— he focuses every wearied fragment of himself, pours every shred of it down through his arm, into his palm, down to the edges of his fingertips, green spark limning like spreading embers, and—

“—ahh, it’s no bloody use,” choked out with a snapping sort of buckling as he goes slack, his arms too numb, his efforts exhausted. “I can’t. It won’t.”