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Clear skies today.
The Hand always cleaned himself up after a skirmish. Shining weaponry and unblemished armour standing in stark contrast with the King, hems muddied and edges bloodcrusted. Not today.
Today, the air sharpened itself to points, driving pig iron in their throats whenever they dared to steal a breath. Cloudless days of winter are always the most unsympathetic. No blanket to keep the warmth close to the ground. At least there weren’t any flies.
No, the Hand stood unsteady, staring through him. He’d always had sharp eyes. It brought a welcome chill to the King’s skin.
The King wet cracked lips, flicking scraps of something from his sword. “Hi.”
That made the Hand laugh, pressing the backs of his knuckles to his brow, like it would ground him. Maybe that helped. The King couldn’t tell. “Really? Hi? That’s what- okay, hey- hi, Ren.”
“Hi, Martyn.” His voice very nearly betrayed him, a half-step above shivering. It came out rasped regardless. His hands hurt. Too-tightly holding shieldstraps and hilts and gold-dipped apples. His lungs hurt.
“You have something to say, then?” He could only be described as agitated. Jittery, the Hand shifted his weight around. Made an attempt to sheathe a gifted weapon, but folded, its tip resting a centimetre or so above the frost. Kept cutting and mending eye contact. Just the two of them, now. Nothing left to watch out for. Not really. “Or, is that all.” Some part of the King appreciated the instinct still.
He felt mechanical, the way his joints protested movement. Start small, then. No need for grand gestures. Don’t spark self-defence. Start small. A slip of stance, a pulling taut of shoulders. Needed to give him an answer. Didn’t.
“…Okay.” More loitering, more awkward glanceaways. “You’re a decent general, you know.” Couldn’t place where that came from.
“Oh.” Scoffed. “I don’t know about that.”
“No, no, it’s true!” Seemed earnest enough, the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’ve seen my fair share of arenas; you’ve got, battle sense, and all that. You direct yourself a good army. You know when to quit.” Again, the Hand laughed a little. Quieter. If he didn’t know better, the King might have thought it mournful. Couldn’t escape that prickling suspicion this was a goodbye. That kindling of distrust, he could never quite stamp it out. Gods, he could never kill it.
“We did well this run-”
“-You did, yeah.”
“Well… If you say it, then…” Flash of teeth meant to be a grin, but twisted itself into more of a threat. Paranoia has haunted every player of this game better than ghosts could.
“…I think we’re running out of time.” He was right.
“Oh? Why do you say that?” Still, he pretended, feigning ignorance.
“Even after- after everything, after-” Staggered, the Hand waved with his blade to the crime scene they’d so conveniently ignored, strewn at their feet. “I can’t shake this, this-”
“I know.”
The Hand went subdued. Solemn. “You know.”
“I want to kill you.”
Something unreadable flickered across the Hand’s face. Maybe disbelief, but that didn’t mirror in the way he stood. He expected this. “I know you do.” Unplaceable.
“You aren’t tired of chases just yet, are you, Hand?” Shifted how he held himself. More alive. Sword up, shield hefted high. All in the anticipation.
“I’m not.” The Hand would bolt any moment now. All it takes is some initiative.
"Run."