Tension, yes, but what little golden skin of his back that is revealed by his night shift is blessedly free from both tattoo and the disfiguring scarring that the Pale Woman had wrought upon him in her vengeance. Fitz had made him hale and whole again, mended wounds both old and new.
"...Beloved."
He turns, then, at the sound of his name, and meets Fitz's eyes. That name had been such a source of torment to him while he lay suffering under the Pale Woman's knife. Still, it made an old ache twinge in his heart--but to hear the name from Fitz's mouth soothes the pain. He was always insufferably gifted at saying just the right--or just the wrong--thing.
Wordlessly, he lays back down onto the sleeping pallet and opens his arm to Fitz, a silent invitation for him to come, to be close, in what little time they may have left. "Sleep next to me," he pleads softly.
no subject
"...Beloved."
He turns, then, at the sound of his name, and meets Fitz's eyes. That name had been such a source of torment to him while he lay suffering under the Pale Woman's knife. Still, it made an old ache twinge in his heart--but to hear the name from Fitz's mouth soothes the pain. He was always insufferably gifted at saying just the right--or just the wrong--thing.
Wordlessly, he lays back down onto the sleeping pallet and opens his arm to Fitz, a silent invitation for him to come, to be close, in what little time they may have left. "Sleep next to me," he pleads softly.