Work Text:
Of all the blasted luck, Martyn thinks, as he glances through the small frosted window, where the most terrifying blizzard he`d ever seen rages in the dark of the night. This damnable snowstorm might have passed them by if they stayed in Lord Impulse's fortress, but Ren insisted and now the king and his entourage are stuck in the tavern in the middle of nowhere.
“I told you it was a bad idea," Martyn says with a frown. “Look at this! It’s like the world ended yesterday. And it’s only getting worse."
Ren chuckles and adds another log to the roaring fireplace. The crackling fire offers some warmth, but the shadows dancing across the walls do nothing to put Martyn’s mind at ease.
"Never seen a storm brew so quick," Martyn mutters.
“Don’t worry. In the morning the weather will be perfect for travel again. Late fall and early winter are always like this here in the North.”
But even as Ren speaks, the gusting wind howls and screams, raging behind the walls of the inn where the king and his retinue have taken refuge for the night.
“Yeah, right,” Martyn says skeptically.
"Have a little faith in your king!" Ren teases him. Then he grabs a heavy woolen blanket and wraps it around Martyn’s shoulders. “Here you go, my dear cold-fearing southerner. Feeling better?”
Martyn grumbles something unintelligible and sits down on the large bed in the middle of the room. The straw mattress springs a little under his weight. Ren settles down next to him.
“Lie with me. Or do you need help with your boots?” Ren smiles and winks, wagging his tail.
“My liege!” Finally laughs Martyn, still uneasy but genuine. “It’s inappropriate. You’re not my servant.”
“For my favorite and most loyal knight, I can be anything.”
Martin smiles back at Ren, kicks off the heavy winter boots, and snuggles against his warm side. Ren covers them both with the royal fur coat.
Martin huffs a laugh, the sound brittle and short-lived. "Should any of them hear you now, the tales they'll spin..."
“Them? Do you mean the other Red Knights? Well, I’ve known them for a long time, and let me tell you, my dude, they aren’t sharing that room downstairs just for warmth.”
Martyn doesn't show it, not even a flicker of cunning glints in his eyes, but his mind lights up with calculations. If in political games he needs compromising material on one of these three, this could come in handy.
“No,” he says out loud, “the courtiers, and the servants, and the rest of the fancy folk from the capital.”
"Let them talk." Ren's voice is sure and steady. He caresses Martin's cheek, his thumb grazes the stubble. "Their words can't touch what we have."
He's always been like this. In the great game, the king preferred to rely on his awkward charisma and instincts, paying little attention to the intricacy of the palace intrigues. Sooner or later it will come back to bite Ren in his fluffy dog butt but for now this approach is working. At least it worked on Martyn.
"Let them," he agrees, voice barely above the roar of the wind and the crackle of the fire.
The moment is interrupted by an especially strong gust of cold wind seeping through cracks in the window, sending a shiver through both of them. They curl into one another, limbs tangling beneath the blankets and the coat. Martyn shivers - not just from the cold, no, - and Ren runs his hand soothingly down his back.
Whispering, as if to avoid disturbing their shared bubble of warmth, he asks, "You’re worried about something else, aren’t you?"
Martyn’s entire body tenses and goes completely still under Ren’s touch. How did he notice? Why does he always notice these things?
“It’s not just the rumors or the weather. You know you can tell me anything, right? I’ll help however I can.”
Martyn shifts, his gaze lingering on the dark low ceiling before finally meeting Ren's sky-blue eyes.
"It's not just the winter ahead that worries me, it’s how early it started, and how violent the snowstorms were so far, and-" He interrupts himself, sights heavily, and finally admits what exactly was bothering him all this time, “What if it is The Winter? You know, the Red one from the prophecy.”
“Prophecies!” Ren proudly waves it off. “I didn't become a king because I listened to fortune tellers and priests talk! Prophecies mean nothing to men who choose their own path in life.”
Martyn knows that Ren simply tries to reassure him, but after being almost forced to speak he’s having none of it.
“Not when you have powerful enemies like, you know, The Church of the Watchers. They seem to want you gone for some reason, and now, after I refused to kill you, I`m also on their list.”
Martyn doesn't mention the actual Watchers, their numerous eyes constantly following him, their haunting voices whispering in his dreams. He also doesn't tell Ren that he can always win their favor back with a simple strike of his dagger through the heart that beats steady and reassuring under his palm - a truth that he tries desperately to forget, to bury deep within himself.
Unspoken words lay heavy between them, and Martyn knows, he just knows , that Ren also can feel it. But instead of calling his treacherous knight, friend, and lover out this madman runs his fingers through Martyn`s hair, looks him in the eyes, and says, “If the Red Winter is really coming, then let it come.” He drops his ostentatious pride, now there`s real, almost doomed confidence in his voice. "We shall face it together as we always have - any foe, any challenge. But here and now it is just the two of us. Let us not taint this moment with worries of what may come."
“And what if-”
Ren holds his face gently, gazing into his eyes with unbearably soft all-consuming adoration.
“Let us have the “now”, my love”, he whispers, his tail tapping Martyn`s leg. “Let us have this.”
Ren kisses him, and Martyn is a weak, weak man because the moment rough chapped lips meet his skin his mind shuts off completely. He can only focus on the fingers running through his hair, the trail of kisses on his face and down his neck. Martyn leans in closer, silently begging for more from the one person who holds his heart captive. And Ren happily gives Martyn whatever he wants, his blunt claws tracing patterns on Martyn's burning skin. The howling of the snowstorm outside fades into the background as Martyn giggles uncontrollably, a foolish grin tugging at his lips.
"You're such a moron, m'lord!"
"I love you too," Ren says and pulls his collar aside to lightly bite his collarbone.
"This is hardly how one ends a serious conversation!"
"Yet it seems to work."
Well, Martyn can't argue with that. In Ren's arms, there's no dark past or uncertain future. They are just two lovers holding onto each other, existing in this perfect, simple bubble of warmth where nothing else matters. Martyn knows that this is all he wants - to love Ren, to be loved by him, forever and always.
When morning comes, Martyn is almost thankful for the cold. It justifies his high-collared coat and tightly wrapped scarf, concealing his neck from prying eyes. Etho gives them a side glance, but Martyn pays it no mind.
The road to the capital lies ahead of them, wide and clear.