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The smell of singed skin and burned wood filled the air, a putrid mix that spoke volumes of what had just unfurled.
Martyn had seen it from a distance, had watched as flint and steel were rubbed together until sparks ignited the wooden tower with the old King atop it. It had been a different life, a different world, but his legs had still carried him with the same urgency and his heart had still filled with the same panic as he ran through trees without a care. It was night, he should have been thinking about mobs or drops that could cost him a life, but he didn’t. All he could think of was Ren.
Ren, alone in his tower, hurting.
He’d climbed the inferno and poured water over the flames until the wood simply smouldered, before turning his attention to the fallen monarch before him.
That was where they were now. Not a word had been spoken since, both with too much to think about and not enough to say, as Martyn had quietly tended to the wounds of his former master. His fingers, calloused and dirty from a day in the mines, moved gently across red skin, a sadness in his eyes not quite hidden as he thought about days gone by. He did what he could to cool the skin, to soothe the wounds and prevent them from worsening before he could feel safe bandaging them.
He knew he wasn’t Ren’s Hand. He knew they weren’t the same people. But the memories were still there, keeping Martyn warm in the cold of the night, driving him mad with forbidden desire, leaving him desperate to help but helpless to act whenever he bore witness to Ren’s suffering.
At least, sometimes. Sometimes he was helpless to act.
Sometimes he’d throw the rules of the world in its face and run to him regardless.
“I don’t understand.” He whispered, finally settling on the three words to lead with. “Why would you… Why would you do this?”
Martyn managed to tear his eyes away from Ren’s arm, but when he tried to meet the man’s gaze he only looked away. He wondered if it was shame, or regret, or fear that drove him, but he wouldn’t push for an answer. All he would do was sit and wait, no matter how long it took. The threat of another morning wouldn’t be enough for him to return to his allies, not this time.
“You’re a King.”
“I was a King. Now?” Ren laughed. “I was born into this world already jaundiced, mistakes from my last life plaguing me, following every step I take. I was no King, no leader, nothing good. I led us into a fruitless war that we lost, I got us killed, I--”
“Everyone died.” Martyn reminded him firmly. “Everyone. Grian killed Scar. In the end, no alliances mattered. Everything was lost. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I should have protected you better.”
“You died before me. There was nothing more you could have done, I don’t blame you for any of it. Even if I did, what good do you think doing this would bring?” He asked, his head tilting toward the worst affected arm on Ren’s body. “At best you would’ve turned yourself red and you would’ve been my enemy. You’d have had to take my life with your own hand.”
“I wouldn’t.” Ren said in an instant, almost snapping in response, and Martyn shifted where he sat.
He swallowed, his lips parting to allow his tongue a chance to pass over dry skin, and he let himself breathe. Their alliance had been a different world, here Ren had no ties to him. Even if he did, ties were broken when someone turned red.
Yet Martyn knew his words were true.
As he contemplated the ramifications of what had been said in silence he felt Ren’s hand move. Slowly, almost unsure of itself, the fallen King’s fingers splayed out and slipped between his own. The squeeze that followed was tentative and weak - though that could easily have been as a result of the shock from his injuries in the fire - but it was enough to draw Martyn’s attention.
He looked where their hands met, where chipped nails and splintered fingers became one, where this world and its ills were forgotten and their old life was all that mattered.
Where they held each other in the dead of night, crying out in a blurred mess of mental anguish and physical pleasure. Where they protected each other not just as Lord and Hand, but as equals, as partners, as lovers. Where they yearned to be given more time to get to know each other, more time to be happy, more time to experience passion and desire.
Yet here they were. In the dead of night, burdened shoulders carrying emotional turmoil and in need of release. No longer Lord and Hand, nor partners or lovers, but still equals.
Here they were, alone, hidden from the world and its damn rules, with just a little bit more time.
Martyn wasn’t sure who moved first. Their lips crashed together, desperate and needy, and their hands began searching for more. There was nothing gentle about the encounter, there was no elegance in the way their bodies united, no coy dance where they pretended to be shy and reserved. Both men knew what they wanted, what they needed, and both men had existed in a world like this before. They knew the world didn’t care for those that took their time. The sun would still rise when it always did, and it would force them to go their separate ways.
Their kiss became sloppy, trails of saliva keeping them together even as they parted for air. Skin pressed against skin, hands explored lower on the bodies that were both familiar and strange at the same time. They took what they yearned for and the wind carried their whispers far from the tower. The promises made, the confessions muttered, shared with a world that would seek to spit them back in their faces.
For now though, it was enough. For tonight, it was enough.
King and Hand united one last time.