Work Text:
His chest heaved as everything was silent around him. No more explosions, no more screams and shouts, no more people whispering inside his ears. They have gotten their fill, the negative emotions slowly being sapped out of his body as his timer ticked down, down, down.
None of those kills gave him time. It wasn't him. It didn't count. Not in their game.
Then, a thought broke through his racing head, broke through his exhausted stupor.
Everything he has been working towards. Everything this was for. The person this was for.
He stood up from where he was kneeled into the dirt (when did he collapse?) and stumbled, slowly, to the mountain edge.
The souls watched, whispered amongst each other, too wrapped up in greetings and reunions to care about the Last Alive until one pointed it out. They watched, partially in silence, as he placed one bleeding foot in front of the other. There was no expression on his face, it was deathly blank.
It sent chills down their spines.
"What is he doing?" Tango asks, near-whispers, echoey. Etho, next to him, shrugs.
Something red stands out against the black and white of the afterlife. Grian's eyes zero towards it, squinting.
He trembles, body aching from the exertion. Everything's hazy. He wades through the molasses, pushing back the fog just a tiny bit, just to do this one last thing. Just one last thing.
The cliff edge overlooks the charred dark oak forest. A sapling stands out against the darkness, the sun setting casting a shadow upon it. A flow of memories explode in his brain. He groans, hands flying up to grip at the ends of his hair. He grinds his teeth, eyes scrunching up in pain, and takes another step.
("Fantastico-")
The ghosts crowd around the winner; concern, confusion, shock, worry ebbing through their minds and their souls.
("-And away we-")
He almost loses himself when he falls to the floor. A trail of blood drips behind him, pooling underneath. He painstakingly opens his eyes to look at his timer.
Thirty seconds.
"What?!" Scott yells, "He should have way more time than that!!"
"He killed us but- even if it didn't count.. he should have around thirty minutes, right? What is this?!" Impulse says.
Four souls stand to the side of the commotion. They hold their breath, they remember. They know what happened to each other, they know what's about to happen.
He coughs, blood splattering all over the grass. One last thing, please.
With trembling hands, he unclasps the banner from his hip, dragging it along the floor to set it infront of him. The sight of it still gives him chills, the memories make him smile despite himself.
The Banner of Dogwarts.
His King.
He takes a deep breath, feeling someone sharp pierce into his skin, and hurriedly unsheathes the axe. It's diamond, tainted with blood spilled on the altar that one fateful day. Just like back then. He can still feel the presence of his Liege behind him, sometimes, and it has never felt clearer now.
"You've done well, me Hand," He can almost hear him saying.
As his timer ticks, and ticks, and ticks -- he holds the blade to his neck. His time, his death, his life -- it will not go to those sick gods. He will die by his own hands and to never those that Watch above, that feed on the negative emotions this damned game generates.
Fuck. That.
Blood drips down his neck from where the axe pierced the skin. He holds it above his artery and watches his time go down, down, down.
10.
He can feel a warm hand settle on his shoulder, just like it did back then.
9.
The ghosts wait with a bated breath, some look away, some yell.
8.
He hears them all clearly now.
7.
A purple haze comes up on his vision, lightning strikes in the distance.
6.
It beckons him to let go of the axe, he hears the threat hidden behind the unspoken words.
5.
His hold on the axe becomes firmer.
4.
"Me Hand," He hears somewhere off to the side.
3.
Despite his focus, he lets his eyes stray, his mouth move without his consent.
2.
"My King."
1.
Martyn finally remembers his name.
…
InTheLittleWood was slain by InTheLittleWood using [💀💀💀 RED WINTER IS COMING 💀💀💀]