Some of the old scars—which Fenris had thought would last until the unmarked grave—had faded. Skin that was once pale under the clasp of manacles was pale no longer, and although the markings ran parallel to the veins in Fenris’s wrist, he could tell their color.
It was a different shade.
Hawke had touched that line and not the one beside it in the night with his thumb. He had kissed it and while Fenris knew the pulse was not for Hawke alone, it quickened nonetheless, a heat without privacy or silence, followed by Hawke’s answering moan.
Just the taste of his skin, Fenris thought. His own lips parted, shaping a name on the air.
Then, after, Hawke sweaty and breathing hard, Fenris asked him if he had not been up and down Sundermount lately, sitting too long in his comfortable home.
‘Suddenly,’ Hawke said, ‘I’m completely rejuvenated for another round.’
He was proud, stubborn—and handsome. He was flat against his stomach and Fenris between his parted legs. He was pale, a back scattered with freckles, in the moonlight. He was large, but in such moments seemed too small. And Fenris…
Fenris mouthed that name in the air again. Pride, stubbornness. Something handsome, but nothing as strong as silence.
Where there were no scars, Fenris tied the knot in the fabric, neither too tight nor too loose around his wrist. ‘It was my father’s handkerchief,’ Hawke said, his breath and his beard tickling the tip of Fenris’s ear. ‘He won’t be needing it anymore, and it’s time I got a new one.’
One man’s chains. Another’s freedom. Fenris secured the knot, and stayed in Hawke’s arms.
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