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What kind of loyalty kills?
That question was a mantra in Martyn’s mind, watching as Ren sifted through his inventory. The king grabs out an enchanted axe, diamond blade and etched with only the best spells from Renchanting.
It feels like a brick when it’s placed in Martyn’s gloved hands, like a weight that wouldn’t leave even if he dropped the weapon right then and there; he could’ve run miles and he still would feel the wooden handle against his palm. He searches past the dark sunglasses for any sign that this wasn’t the test — that this was a joke, rather, or maybe even a gift.
The gaze that catches onto him tells him anything but.
Martyn feels ill, a nausea constricting in his stomach and latching on like a parasite to a piece of rotten meat. He tries to even his breathing, to keep himself from feeling so vile , from knowing what Ren’s blood would feel like on his hands.
“Come, to the Black Heart Altar, me Hand,” Ren says, voice ever so careful. His tone is so unknowing, as though he hadn’t handed Martyn a weapon that, in only a moment’s beat, would be the death of him. He walks with a familiar, standing stature, his height alone such a stark contrast to his knight; some would’ve thought that Ren might’ve been the knight if it weren’t for the crown tucked between his wolf ears.
Martyn tries not to think about such beautiful amber covered in crimson.
He stops as Ren does, stiffening as the king turns to face him. The king lowers his sunglasses, smiling with an undertone of finality. That’s when Martyn knew.
Ren has accepted this from day one. He’s planned this since he became a yellow life. He’s known for so long.
“No,” Martyn whispers, shaking his head as a huff laugh escapes him, “No, Ren— m’liege, I can’t do this.” He catches blue eyes once again, a hint of yellow pigmented into them; a signature of a yellow life, Martyn absently notes.
“Sometimes, Martyn, we do things that we don’t want to,” Ren says, ever so calm. Martyn hates how calm he is, how he embraces death in her ruthless beauty. “And sometimes, those things hurt the people we love.” He takes a hand, placing it on Martyn’s face and cupping his cheek.
His Hand leans into the touch, a familiar one at that. It’s grounding, at the bare minimum, and maybe that was the reason behind this; there was no other reason, this was just so Martyn could keep himself stable until it was over.
“Come now, the Red Winter waits for no one,” Ren says, his hand falling to his side. He shuffles to one knee, Martyn standing awkwardly by the stairs onto the altar platform. He tightens his hold on the axe, taking a deep, resounding breath. He steps onto the platform and, for a moment, it feels odd; a stiff silence, where the king was exposing his neck to his knight, his hand.
Martyn breathes in, out. In, out. In, out.
He raises the axe.
He swings down.
Blood is a tricky thing, really.
It’s never a stark red, unless fresh. It’s sticky, yet it falls so effortlessly from one’s fingers. It smells of copper, though it feels like iron on the tongue. It can stick to skin like a sickness sticks to a person, yet it fades away faster than even a mere cold.
Martyn, however, cannot think of such trivials now. He stares at his shaking hands and the blood that stains his gloves, watching as some red drops dribbled from his fingertips and how trails of it began to fade onto his wrist, flowing with his vein lines. He can’t breathe, that much he knows, for the simple scent of copper in the air would only suffocate him.
The Black Heart Altar swims in a pool of blood, grey stone coloured a stark, much darker shade as the crimson seeps into the cracks. The axe lays in the pool, the blade stained with most of, if not, all of the blood from the impact.
Oh. Right.
Martyn just killed his king.
Martyn killed his king.
The Hand laughs, tears finally making contact with the foreign surface of his pale face. He crumbles to his knees, laughter and sobs mixing into the air, ever so tense and thick that he feels he is suffocating with each intake of oxygen. He pulls at his hair, cursing in between each sob and each hiccup of laughter; cursing himself, cursing the axe, cursing this world.
He stops for a fraction of a second as a firm hand brushes his shoulder. He sees stark red, panicking for a split second, before familiar chestnut hair falls onto the red shoulders. Martyn seizes Ren’s wrist immediately, eyes wide, as though he was seeing a ghost and not the real, living Ren.
“I’m still here, M,” Ren assures him, his voice barely above a whisper. He moves his trapped hand onto Martyn’s face, the pad of his thumb brushing away the stream of tears stained on his cheek. The king gives a small smile, not a toothy, sharp one that he would normally give (one normally reserved for Martyn in particular) as he presses his forehead against his Hand’s.
It was a sign of trust, one that couldn’t be broken. Martyn had passed the loyalty test, had proven that he would do anything that the Red King requested of him, but something still wasn’t right; something wasn’t proven, and Martyn wishes he could pinpoint it down, let it show itself in a bright, blinding limelight in the centre of an empty stage.
The Hand stumbles to his shaking knees, swallowing back bile that builds at the first whiff of copper. He gives Ren a confirming, stiff nod, watching as he leaves his side. Two hands, careful and now a stark grey, grab the helm of a gold crown, blood dripping through the curves at the start of the metal. It adds a sense of solidarity to what had occurred, and maybe it adds a deeper meaning to Red Winter, but Martyn can only see one thing.
Martyn can only see the deep, pink scar across his king’s neck.
He feels sick; with himself or with that damned test? He doesn’t know. He thinks he never will know, whether his nausea is aimed at his own actions or the ones of his other half — of his partner, to be more honest with such titles.
“The rest of the Red Army will see this as a betrayal,” Martyn mutters, the vamp of his boot kicking a loose pebble. He awkwardly slides his hands into his pockets, keeping his eyes low on the ground.
“Aye,” Ren nods, “but I will explain it to them. You have no need to be there when I do, me Hand.”
You don’t have to relive it, Ren doesn’t say. Martyn hears it nonetheless. The blonde gives a meek smile, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips. Even as a king, a man meant to be feared and respected, Ren would always find a way to be a big sap for his Hand, for his confidant.
For his other half, Martyn amends.
He’s brought out of his pool of thoughts by approaching footsteps. He’s quick to hover over the hilt of his sword, relaxing when he sees the other members of the Red Army.
“What in the Void’s name is happening?” Skizz is quick to question. He not so subtly shoots an accusing glare to Martyn. “We saw the death message and came as fast as we could, and—”
“Easy, Skizz,” Ren warns, his hand held out to emphasise it. “I will explain in a moment. Step aside for the Hand, for he has something to tend to.”
“No, he needs to explain himself,” Skizz argues. Martyn tries to manoeuvre away from Skizz, only to be stopped by the blade of a sword. It presses into his blazer, dark eyes meeting his stiffened gaze. “He’s not moving until he tells us what happened, Ren.”
“Skizz, lower your weapon!” Ren snaps. “That is an order from your King .” His voice lowers as he steps closer, forcing the blade down and away from Martyn’s chest. He gives his Hand a quick glance, motioning to the basement of Renchanting.
Go, is what Ren is telling him, please.
Against his better judgement, Martyn nods in response. He slides past Etho and BigB, feeling their eyes burning into the back of his head as he seeks shelter under the shop. The moment the door closes behind him, he lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, sinking slowly into the cold stone ground.
Void knows how long Martyn was down there, how long he’d been losing to his very own thoughts. Though, he blinks once, and all of a sudden, there’s a warm weight against him; there’s a thumb tracing circles in his shoulder, an arm slotted around his tense shoulders.
“I apologise,” Ren says, “for Skizz. You know how he is, quick to assume the worst.” He chuckles at that, sapphire eyes meeting Martyn’s sky blue. Ren only pulls his Hand closer, tucking his chin over strands of amber gold.
“Aren’t we all, though, m’liege?” Martyn replies with, giving a small smile. His voice is quiet, hoarse from how long he’d spent crying earlier. He takes Ren’s other hand, the pads of his thumbs pressing into the grey palm. “I don’t blame him, really. I would have too if it were someone else who had done it.”
“Aye,” is all Ren says. They sat in silence for a moment longer, and maybe that was all there was to do anymore: embrace the quiet, embrace the moments where nobody was there, where the world spun around them. The night lingers around them, the remnants of a sunset sliding under the crack of the door and only barely illuminating the dark basement.
Martyn realises something then, something he wouldn’t tell Ren until his dying breath, when Ren was already gone.
He didn’t want to lose this.
He didn’t want to lose the sharp laughter and the soft chestnut hair, he didn’t want to lose the playful mantra of Martyn! That would escape the king when the banter was reaching levels behind anyone’s comprehension, lost in between two partners in crime. He didn’t want to lose Ren; his other half, his earth and sun, his king, boss, whathaveyou.
He loved Ren, and Ren loved him, and that was all the universe wrote.