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“Aouh-” Careful not to slip, the roughly piled stone of the wall deceptively slick this time of night, condensation collecting on anything exposed. Lucky he didn’t mind the shivers the dew brought. Would’ve been a tough tumble, falling down there, left to face off against whatever darkstalking thing lay in wait.
Hand against a supporting beam, Etho took as best a squint at the castle across the river as he could. The two usuals, with Tango joining them. Seen in snatches through thin windows. They built that thing smart and sturdy, that wasn’t fair. It looked warm inside. Not fair at all
Footfalls from behind yanked his attention away. The Red King- no, Ren, pacing circles across his altar. Up here to have a think? Round and round he went, claws pressing against his own arched spine, then curling forwards, then repeat. For a good, long moment, he stilled, neck craned to the moon, a scrape of silver in the heavens. Ladon . That’s what he reminded him of.
Ladon, the dragon, coiled, guarding the garden. Beast of scale and godsdust, left to crawl rings around what he keeps. Joke of fate. Watching the struggle bored him.
“You’re gonna hurt yourself.” He interrupted, marveling at the way Ren’s shoulders hitched, so quick to face him. Really... like a startled animal. Etho could only guess in the ways he himself had changed. He’d like to, perhaps childishly, pretend he hadn’t. “You’ve been red longer than me, and you still haven’t figured it out?”
“Aren’t you on watch?” Ren’s voice little more than a gravelly hiss. Whether from fizzling acidity of last life energy, or his still-visibly torn throat... Etho couldn’t say.
“IIII’m watch-ing you hurt yourself?” He knew that answer would vex him, and it did, and the expected, complicated frown and tensing of fists coaxed just the right kind of amusement to hum in his chest. If Martyn were aboveground, he’d’ve laughed, surely. Ren’s right hand made conversations both better and worse but, most times, easier.
Unfortunate or not, no third party helped ease the tension. The dreadful silence Ren allowed to settle in the air between them carried knives, so he slid down the wall, shadowed from the moon. No move to join Ren at the altar, and no move by Ren, to join him in the shade. Some strange contrast; light and dark. That crown glinting like diamond in the glare.
He could’ve sworn it was the other way round, just days ago. But who else could make that distinction? The others, caught up in their own silver strings of conspiracy. The Blood-Crowned King, and his soldiers, with no thoughts their own! The category they got sorted into. No separation.
No need for a separation, truly. They worked together as each the sinews of some icebound creature. Red Winter is coming, it’s here, it will soon pass. He’d added his sword to the cause, just for the promise of a racing pulse, so he tried to convince himself. Go wherever the chaos is.
Quietly, he knew it was more than that.
“Come on,” Etho tried, blinking his way out of less pressing thoughts, “what’s- tell me what’s going on. How you feelin’.” Placating.
Ren and his claws (again, claws, were they always so sharp?) clutched at his own wrists, as if to shackle himself in place. Deadened voices from Dogwarts’ belly threatening to drown out what then came as a whispered grumble, defensive and disappointed. “You know how it is. Hurts.”
“Ahh...” What to do with that? Etho, very suddenly, got the distinct gut feeling he didn’t want to be the one to deal with this. Claiming he was out of his depth couldn’t possibly encapsulate just how much drowning he was doing. “You can’t give me whiplash like that, c’mere.”
A moment’s hesitation, as Ren decided; chest heaving a breath, holding it, then caving. Beginning his lonesome trek, picking between rows of carrots. Careful, very careful. The wall did not cast a long enough shadow to shroud the King entirely from where he stood. It left the spires of his crown still frosted.
The story of Ladon is the story of Heracles, and most tellings do not leave the serpent well. In some, Heracles slays the thing, claiming the golden prize by force. In others, he shoulders the weight of the sky for Atlas, who steals them in turn, unaware of hidden motive. Scar and Grian, champion and thief. An unpromising metaphor, thus far.
“I don’t understand why our bodies feel the need to make war against themselves.” The statement was sighed, but the sound made the hairs on the back of Etho’s arms raise. Maybe in the way he caught glimpse of some red reflection, or in the way simply hinting at combat pulled a sick urge up and into his throat.
He could stomach it. He did.
“Side effect of dying but not staying dead, probably.” Easy enough to answer, he’d guessed a while ago. Resurrection stole the air out their lungs and the marrow out their bones. They weren’t meant to stick around this long. “Just look at Scar, he’s already... He looks worse than we do, at least. He’s been red the longest.”
The only response he got, a single midtone hum.
He changed his stance a few times, hands itching for something to work on. Hated standing around like this. “So- so, is it just your back?”
“Um. Yeah, it’s- it’s stuck, here, it won’t go.” Ren, turning to reach his arm back and stick his fingers somewhere against his spine. Lost in the fabric and fur of his mantle.
Some... upper-back spot. “Okay, here, take this- get this off. I’ll lift you.” Tugging at the cloak, impatient.
“...What?” Couldn’t tell if he was taken aback, or guarded.
“Yeah, I’ll lift you. Your weight’ll pull at your spine and it should crack.”
Ren made his decision quicker, this time. Silently undid the clasps, shrugging the bulk off, laying it in the dirt with the same amount of care one would a corpse. Even behind dark glasses, Etho could tell his stare was deadly. The absurdity of wearing sunglasses at night didn’t escape him, and definitely compensated for whatever energy was gathering here.
He just... He really...
“You’re staring.” It made his insides drop.
“Sorry.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing. You’re... smaller than I expected?” And when Ren frowned again, dissatisfied, he stumbled to elaborate. “Your furs and your armour make you scarier than you actually are.” Humour lacing his words. “Like, your shoulders get broader, I dunno. Optical illusion.”
“I don’t think that’s what that is.”
“Nnno, I’m pretty sure I’m right.”
“Ehm... Okay.”
“Stand here, hold, uh, cross and hold your upper arms. Yeah, like that.” Directed him around, positioning him where he needed. He hadn’t noticed Ren’s size and stature until now, or perhaps he’d forgotten. So easy to fall prey to the common narrative. He was so... small. Not worryingly so, just surprisingly. Not the ideal image of a bloodthirsty killer. More fragile. Something that could break.
In kinder, more artistic interpretations of Ladon’s fate, the Hesperides, guardians and gardeners, invite Heracles to their table, and he is allowed the apples freely. The question then becomes: which version were they living through?
And... Did that make him and the other Red Banners the Hesperides? Were they sisters ?
“Etho. Are you cracking my back or what.”
“O. Yes.”
Carefully, very carefully, he held Ren back against his chest, his own arms crossed over the arms of the other. “Deep breath in,” and he hefted him up. The sounds his backbone made would’ve caused skin to crawl, if Etho hadn’t been accustomed to it already. He shook him a little, just to make sure no sneaky sections were being stubborn, which they were, and set him on his feet.
Distracting, needed something to occupy his hands. Footwork was good enough, but this loitering, it killed him. “Skizz went red before you and I did.” He watched Ren stretch and stand a little taller, testing the limits of his less-pained spine, out of the edges of his vision. “Has he ever said anything to you about, uh, any of this?”
A pause. “No, he hasn’t. Why? Do you suspect him of something?” Ren spoke like the accusation couldn’t get out fast enough.
“Uh, ahh, no. No, I don’t think so?” He didn’t. Skizz, very obviously, thought only of the Banners. It wasn’t hard to see. He didn’t think he could handle it if, somehow, Skizz truly was harbouring something. “I wonder how he’s coping, that’s all.”
Ren gave him another appraising hum. “You’re like a ghost, you know.” Cloaked up again, trappings and all. Enough steps back that the line of light went down to his mouth.
“...What does that mean?”
“Well, it’s... You stop existing when you leave the room.” Etho could admit to that. He knew he had an unfortunate habit of sneaking up on people. “I guess maybe you haven’t noticed, but everyone looks at you like you’ll fade away if they stop.” Ren’s teeth were silver.
The breath he took shook as he agreed. “I haven’t. Yeah. I guess Impulse...” A wince. “He probably thinks that way too. I just haunt the swamp, or, something?” Never at the woolen fortress when he was. Like fated to never touch. “Hah.”
“What’s funny?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if my castle is burning again.”
Ren all but laughed, his smile bright against his face. “Uhum... Yeah... It’s like, a rite of passage, at this point.”
Skizz’s voice, dragging its way up from underground. “Etho, I heard ya giggle, where you at, buddy?”
Splash of cold water, shaking them both out of whatever this had been. Sending Ren towards the door, and Etho scrambling up the stone again. As if they’d been caught out? What?
“I’m- I’m watchin’ the walls here.”
“You tell me, I want a clever way for somebody to die.”
“Well-” A clever way for somebody to die. “It’s a tough one.”
They thought that funny, at least.
“So here’s the deal: the Crastle People are bein’ held up in their castle. They’re just watchin’.” He pointed, as Martyn began the climb up next to him. “Tango’s, just been watchin’. For like. Twenty minutes.” Martyn made a noise on his ascent, maybe a lost foothold. “Auoh- careful, don’t slip.”