The pain in his markings were steadily diminishing, as was his strength. His markings’ power had started fading a good ten years ago, and back then, Fenris thought nothing of it. But now he was sixty years old and laying in a filthy bed, lacking the energy to even get up to close the blinds so he could pass without the sun blurring his vision.
He couldn’t remember when he realized what was happening. He couldn’t remember a lot of things, in fact. His memory consisted of how his markings got onto his body, what they gave him the power to do, and the name Hawke. Hawke, he repeated. He would have said the name aloud were his lips not chapped shut.
The name Hawke was all he remembered. He couldn’t remember a face, a gender, a personality, a character, nor why the name stuck with him. It was a good name, he pondered, and he hoped the person was deserving of it.
Rather this Hawke stuck with him on good merits or bad, he couldn’t figure. But as he drawled in his last breath, he thought of that name, and the ghost of a smile was etched into his lifeless face.