Work Text:
Bdubs was the first to fall, attempting to flank the Red Army while they were engaging those damned desert dwellers. It was not the greatest plan, considering there were four of them with a home field advantage, and only one of him. He was supposed to have been backed up by the others, but he revealed himself too early and so his end was marked by Martyn’s axe.
The momentary distraction was enough for Grian to take aim and fire two arrows in rapid succession at BigB. Only one of them hit their mark but it was enough to heavily injure him, allowing Impulse to charge him and finish the job. Another member of the Red Army had now been taken out by that traitor. This wasn’t BigB’s last life, he’d be back soon.
His death would not go unavenged for long, as Impulse’s shield was soon met by Etho’s blade which splintered the flimsy wood. They used to be best friends once, before Impulse had switched sides and killed Skizz. The small hope Etho secretly held of getting his former friend back died along with BigB. The bastard managed to get a good slash on him, but Etho ultimately triumphed.
Tango went down soon after, eliminated from the death game in between volleys from Grian’s bow by way of the Red King’s deft sword. The fight was short, only a few blows were traded before the King was able to move forward and engage Scar. Killing him would end things once and for all.
Then Etho was eliminated, followed shortly by the returned BigB. They, along with Martyn, tried going after Grian to keep him from providing covering fire for Scar. Three arrows digging their way into Etho’s chest stopped him before he even got close. BigB managed to dodge for long enough to get Grian to finally draw his sword, which soon painted the soil with BigB’s blood.
The Red King finally succeeded in breaking its enemy’s guard, shoving Scar down to the ground with a swift kick to the abdomen. It then delivered one final slash across his torso, cutting open skin and flesh. This wound wouldn’t get to join the conman’s impressive collection of scars.
Grian screamed his partner’s name and made to run towards Scar, which left him open to a vicious strike from Martyn. It wasn’t enough to kill him outright, but it did cause him to fall to the ground. He didn’t have any other choice but to watch as Martyn’s axe came down and sealed his fate.
The King and its Hand looked at each other. They did it, they won.
Why didn’t the game end then?
They stood still, breathing heavily. The bodies of their enemies lay unmoving at their feet in the now crimson stained grass, with those of their comrades closely scattered nearby. They had to give them whatever burial they could. Heroes should be honoured, and that’s exactly what Etho and BigB were. The graves were too shallow, dug hastily by the Red King and Martyn’s hands, and too far away from Skizz’s. The knights should have had their final resting place next to each other, in the same soil, not apart. The traitor was left face down and untouched.
They won, didn’t they?
Elsewhere, it was snowing in what was left of the desert.
Martyn and the Red King could feel the many eyes of the Watchers fall expectantly on them, as they realised the horrible truth. This should have been the end, the two of them peacefully going away and rebuilding together, mourning their fallen friends, but there could only be one winner in this death game. The suffering wouldn’t end until there was only one soul left alive.
So the Red King gave a grandiose speech of how there’s no greater glory than dying in battle, of how they must now duel under the stars painting night sky, axe versus sword. It hated every word that came out of its mouth. Ren would have ended himself before even thinking about hurting Martyn, and yet, somehow, that seemed even crueler. They already asked so much of their Hand.
They walked back into Dogwarts together, hand in hand. The Red King’s grip was freezing but Martyn had long since gotten used to it, the chill brought him comfort, and they both needed as much of that as they could get. The beleaguered sun retreated some time ago, letting the full moon take her place on the firmament. She had been there for the Red King’s beginning, it seems fitting she would also be there for its end.
They figured they didn’t have much time left, the Watchers’ gaze growing heavier. It was now joined by a chorus of bloodthirsty ghosts, whispering in their ears, urging them to get it over with already. They did their best to ignore the voices as they took off their armour and left everything but their weapons haphazardly thrown around. They embraced each other for a brief moment.
They left the base, following the walls to a small field of flowers that had been planted by Ren back when he and Martyn were just business partners, not King and Hand. There, among the yellow chrysanthemums and purple hyacinths, they would have their first and final battle.
They looked at each other as they stood among the flowers. Martyn’s face projected nothing but grim determination but The Red King knew its Hand better than that. His grip on his axe was too tight, his stance too rigid, and his beautiful eyes were hazy and unfocused. Maybe the old Martyn, the one that died when the axe fell on Ren’s neck, would have been even more hesitant.
With a muttered “Good luck, Hand”, the fight started. They knew each other too well for it to be quick. Whenever one would swing, the other would move their weapon to match. At least they could see each other relatively well with the moon’s light shining on them.
It went like this for a while, before the Red King managed to get a good hit in through sheer luck. Martyn tried going for a feint and the King had correctly gambled on where he actually wanted to strike and reacted accordingly. It tried to press its advantage but didn’t succeed and Martyn quickly punished his liege’s overextension with a hard kick, pushing him back.
They circled around each other like vultures before they feast. Neither were moving to attack again, until suddenly Martyn unexpectedly charged forward catching the Red King by surprise with a brutal slash from the top of his chest to his upper abdomen. For the second time, the Red Winter axe tasted its creator’s blood. The abrupt movement left Martyn’s entire left side completely exposed, and the Red King took the chance to plunge its blade as deep as it could between its Hand’s ribs. Martyn looked at his liege, and went limp on the sword
It… it won. But this didn’t feel like winning.
It gently placed an arm around him as it took the sword out to catch Martyn’s body as he fell forward, and propped him up against a nearby solitary tree. The Red King collapsed next to him soon after, and leaned against the tree while it looked around. What a beautiful place to bleed out in.
It remembered the time when Ren and Martyn were having a picnic in this exact same flower field. The memory felt like it came from lifetimes ago, and technically it did, both of them had been on their first life when it happened. Ren wasn’t certain Martyn trusted him back then, and had been trying to endear himself to his marketing manager. It ended with Ren making a small little flower crown for him. The Red King tried doing the same thing now, one final gift for its Hand, but the petals froze and crumbled away at its touch.
It could barely stay awake now. Every slight movement felt like it took more energy than it ever possessed. This body was spent beyond its limit, it was a wonder it made this far. The Red King closed its eyes and felt its head fall on Martyn’s still warm shoulder. Ren would have been proud of his Hand, it thought. As it felt its grip on the world fade, the Red King couldn’t help but wonder, would he have also been proud of it?
There among the gladioli and freesias, the King and the Hand died.