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It wasn't supposed to take this bad of a turn. Dogwarts works together, they stick together, they don't break off from the group and they certainly don't do it without telling someone.
But god forbid Ren listen to Martyn when he fusses like the cautious man he is. No matter how many times Martyn says it, says to be careful, wrapping carefully stitched wounds back up and seeing them dampen with blood till wrap twice, wrap thrice, and it's gone under the cloth.
No matter how many times he says it, Ren always kisses his forehead and tells him he's too paranoid. That he'd never died by a fault of his own, once to the folly of an enemy and the other by Martyn's own hand. And after a deceleration like the one they made that day-- how could Ren ever return to death if it wasn't with Martyn?
Yet he split off. Martyn didn't know why, couldn't pin down when he lost his king in the snowy blizzard that plagued Dogwarts land. There wasn't time to wonder, he was chasing down the last tracks of an invading force who'd torn their walls to shred. And since Ren had turned the world to a Red Winter, Martyn was able to flex his skill. He could do his, he could make Ren proud and return with a bloody blade and promise that for once, the injustice done to their kingdom had been righted.
The tracks were fading, Skizz just at his heels with the same blood in the water fever. Even the freezing cold couldn't hold them back.
Shades of a person fade into the darkness, behind trees and weaving out of sight, hidden behind white cloaks that blended them into the atmosphere. At a last chance effort, Martyn shoots blindly into the darkness. He hears a thunk, runs to investigate it, only to see it's sharpened and shining arrowhead is imbedded into the flesh of bark. Nothing.
He pauses, listens, and there's no noise beyond the shuffle of snow from trees.
Skizz steps ahead of him, scanning the skyline, "It's too dense, we're never going to find them in here."
"Could we climb to the top of a tree? Height advantage?"
"If you want to try climbing with these heavy furs, be my guest. But at this point, Ren has to have called for victory and a return to camp. We could be walking straight into a trap if we keep going."
Martyn lets out a displeased noise, corner of his mouth curved down in the spirit of a frown. His sword was still clean.
Ren wouldn't care. He never did. His skillful use of a sword wasn't what made Ren keep him around. It wouldn't make him upset to know he'd not taken someone down. Ren would just... be happy Martyn was alive. Happy. Which made him more enjoyable then most people Martyn's met in his lifetime.
A strangled gasp escapes Skizz's lips, the man suddenly shoving Martyn aside as he sprints past. The other gapes, "What the hell? What was that for?"
Skizz either doesn't hear him or ignores him, because the man doesn't reply.
Martyn sees his form dip and drop to his knees, and for a fearful moment, he's worried Skizz has been shot. But he's moving, gripping someone's shoulders, there's another figure there against a tree. Slumped, dark.
He takes a hurried pace to Skizz's side, assuming one of their battalion had been injured, already fiddling with the bottle clasps on his belt, pulling out the handy potions that were always at his side.
And those few moments where it finally registers who Skizz is holding, the pale face that he recognizes, are empty. It's the same lack of memory that happens before falling asleep, or when you have a pass with death. Where one moment you're standing, and then next you're not.
Because he's not standing anymore. He's kneeled at his side, gloved hands smearing blood across his cheek at they flutter uselessly from his chest (there's blood-- there's so much of it--) to his cheek, to his neck. And it's Ren, of course it's Ren, because he was missing and Martyn told him not to go without him and now he's sitting here, cold and quiet like the dead with one life left. Maybe no life left.
He should be doing something. Instinct should kick in and he should be working, bandaging, moving. But he can't. He can't stand, he can't move, he can't breathe. Ren was out of his sight for seconds-- He was only gone for seconds. Seconds that Martyn looked away that could've been prevented. Moments where Ren was here, sat against a tree, in the cold and alone. At least when Ren had died last time, it was with Martyn nearby, fast-- easy. He wouldn't have felt a thing.
A sword through the stomach, just under his rib, it...
His fingers shake as he smooths circles under his jaw like he often did without much cause. When they were sitting outside against a tree much like this, Martyn resting his chin on the other's head and in between two lax ruffled dog ears that always perplexed him, he would simply sit there and hold him. Wait with him for a moment. Wait for something else to matter more. He's always warm and smells like steel and cinnamon, byproducts of trades by villagers and simply working in the fields.
With distaste, Martyn realizes all of that is cold and stale.
"Martyn--" Skizz shoves at his shoulder, voice steeped in grief, "Fucking move! You can heal, you know what you're doing-- so do it!"
Right. Martyn heals. He can heal. He fixes things.
His glazed vision floats to the gaping wound in Ren's (his husband, his partner, his king, the red winter, the free man) chest.
Can he fix this?
Stifling his breath, Martyn pulls the other two potions from his belt and distributes them accordingly. One he splashes right onto the wound, nose wrinkling at the strong scent of watermelon. The other he pours onto his own hands and dabs quietly onto outer injuries that look easier to cover. Fixing them would help the main problem become a higher priority.
And finally, he presses his thumb to the man's bottom lip and tips back his head, pouring the last potion down his throat.
The moments between are tense. Martyn presses his ungloved fingers to Ren's neck, but it's hard to focus on anything over his own racing heartbeat and the cold.
He holds his face in his hands, searching Ren's face for anything, any sign he was still alive. The limp head was pressed into his palm, eerily similar to how Ren would press his cheek into his hand at any convenient moment, laughing as Martyn scolded him for distracting them from efforts to the war.
Martyn swallows thick around the rock in his throat. What if he never did that again? His heart was already aching for moments where he'd turn to his left and there wouldn't be someone there. Just an absence. A loud, angry, empty, absence.
A cough, and blood coats Martyn's hand as Ren hacks, heaving with breath. Skizz lets out a sob of relief, cussing under his breath.
Martyn doesn't even care. He doesn't give a shit about his gloves, his hands, none of it means anything if Ren isn't there. And now he is here, he's okay, he's alive, he's breathing, he's staring at Martyn's pale face and his eyes are dull, but alive. Holy shit. He's alive. He's alive.
"Hi," Ren slurs, weak grin on his face, "I got lost."
A hiccuping sob Martyn didn't know was in him wrestles out of him, chest shuddering as relief mixed with agony floods him with complex emotions. It's all wrong, it's all right, his world is in his hands and he's alive. He's okay.
He grips the back of Ren's neck and pulls him in for a bruising kiss, desperate and stupid, basically hitting their teeth together which was uncomfortable and wrong but holy shit-- who cared? Who cared about anything? They were here, Martyn didn't fail, Ren didn't die. He'd be able to see him in the fields, feel his weight on his shoulder, see him to his left. Always there, on his left, with a soft smile, that knowing look that he gave him that said; You are my summer.
He almost lost everything. Everything that was worth a damn.
Martyn pulls back from the kiss, pressing his forehead to Ren's hands still tight in his shirt, "Don't ever fucking do that again, you hear me?"
Ren lets out a dry chuckle, eyes closing contentedly as he leans into the touch, "You're warm."
"Don't do that again. You stupid... stupid bastard."
Skizz offers to help bring Ren back, but Martyn refuses to keep his hands off the man, his eyes always catching Ren out of the corner of his eye. He practically carries him, and Ren doesn't complain when Martyn holds most of his weight.
Getting back is hard, but Skizz has a good sense of direction and they get home. Their walls, their country, the place they're safest. Where Martyn knows Ren can't get hurt.
Stepping through the gates brings the greatest wave of relief.