Work Text:
Their faces are pale under the white moon on that fateful night. The axe gleams menacingly, its shine reflecting the visages of a solemn king and his loyal hand. It’s so dark that they can barely see, but sometimes the heart sees better than the eyes. It feels like the world is painted in monochrome; black stone, grey trees, white skin. Cold. Dreary. Yet there is fury. And most importantly, trust.
The axe swings, and one of them is painted in monochrome-
for real this time.
Red blood splatters on the black tiles, and the executioner wails, bringing his sticky hands to his face. “What have I done?” He howls.
There’s a flurry of movement, and he watches as white specks of snow swirl to the ground. The first fall of snow. And emerging from the snow is his king, hulking and grey and determined. His red eyes slice through him. The king’s lips slowly part. His voice is hoarse, weathered, but never weary.
Red Winter is coming. Two red hearts beat on, unwavering, in the depths of that cold night.
They collect wool from the sheep and crush sweet berries in a motar. Carefully, they dye the threads red. Then they weave their banners, red against white. Blood dripping down snow. King and hand sit side by side as they solemnly weave. Their fingers are stained red from the berry juice. The hand absentmindedly licks his index finger. The king watches.
The king’s bleeding, and the hand’s panicked. He hurriedly wraps bandages around the large gash on his chest. They watch as fresh blood seeps into the previously pristine bandage. He wraps around a few more times, desperate to staunch the blood flow.
“Tis a scratch,” the king utters, his hot breath hitting the hand’s cheek. “Your king is not so fragile.”
“I know, milord.” His voice is high and scared. “I’m just worried. You have one life left.”
The king smiles. It’s a gentle smile, reminiscent of the man he used to be. “What did I do to deserve you, my loyal hand?”
The hand works quickly, applying healing potions and rewrapping bandages. Rolls of soaked white cloth lay discarded on the ground. They both know it’s a shallow slash, but the blood makes it look more threatening than it really is. An hour later and they’re done. The hand lifts the last bit of the healing potion to his king’s lips, and gently tips it. The hand’s fingers are covered with dry blood, and he makes his way outside.
“Wait,” the king calls out. “Where are you going, laddie?”
“To wash my hands, milord.”
“Nay, the water is cold outside. Bring a potful back in and we’ll heat it over the fire.”
And so he does. The hand puts his hands inside the pot of warm water, and he watches as the king cleans the blood off.
“You don’t have to, milord.”
The king answers by tenderly rubbing the hand’s fingers. His long wolf claws, although sharp, do no harm to his loved ones. The king’s hands are large, and he holds the smaller pair of hands with so much care. A claw brushes his pulse point, and the hand inhales.
“Thank you, milord.”
“Thank you, me hand.”
Red cheeks in the wind. The gale feels like a knife on their exposed skin. They exhale, white puffs of mist escaping from their lips. Their gazes linger on each other for a little too long. Their cheeks get a little redder.
His lips are frozen in the blizzard. They’re both red now, desperate and hopeful, with nothing to lose but each other.
Their lips find each other, thawing the cold, kissing the snow away. Delicate snowflakes land on their skin, leeching their body warmth, but they have each other and somehow that’s enough.
They refuse to give in. They refuse to wither away without a sound. They’ll paint the place red. Mark it with their mutual devotion. Red on white, red consuming white.
They kiss the cold away, and for a while, everything is alright.
It’s always blood on snow.
Blood staining their cotton shirts.
Their enemies taunt them gleefully as king and hand lay on what used to be home, arrows protruding from their chests. Their crops are trampled over, chickens slaughtered, battered iron golems slowly coming to a halt. The wind whistles.
It’s cold.
This is their kingdom. It might not be as grand or prosperous as they like, but it’s theirs. From the beginning till the end. They’re dying where they lived. Warm blood seeping into the cold soil.
They’ll mark the place. King and hand together, one last time.
Their hands, sticky with their own blood, find each other. The slightest of all connections, but perhaps one of the most important.
They fall asleep. And when they wake up, they’re not themselves anymore.
It’s another world. It’s another role they play. A Southerner and a loyal knight. Their meeting was by chance, but it was their decisions that led them to this point. They’re inexplicably drawn to each other, and they don’t remember why. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it does.
They’re under the moon again, talking and making deals. The knight focuses on the bright blue of the Southerner’s eyes. He blinks, and abruptly everything is in monochrome again.
Again?
But wait. Not everything is in black and grey and white. The Southerner’s lips are frighteningly red, and the knight finds himself drawn to him as he speaks. When he sees those lips, he tastes sweet berries. The copper tang of blood. He tastes the harsh wind and yearning and forgotten promises.
His lips are red, so red. They’re calling out to him, almost like a reminder from another world.
It’s so dark that they can barely see, but sometimes the eyes see what the heart wants.