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His body fell with a sickening thud. It was a horrifying sound, yet oddly comforting. His jaw was slack, and his wings curled into himself. Blood had begun to drip down his lips. He was only dead for a few seconds, yet his eyes were already so… vacant.
Martyn panted heavily. He'd done it. He'd killed the last of them, Grian, all for his king. For Ren. He wouldn't forget the ear-shattering screams of that pesky hobbit as his lover died, nor would he forget the feeling of fire curling up his skin as he burned by the zombie's hand. But it was worth it.
At first, his voice was breathless, desperately clawing for any sound he could muster, “Ren…” he called to his lord. Then, his voice came to him, “Ren! We did it!” No response. He called again, “My lord, we've done it!”
He could see Rens' shoulders heave as he chuckled. He was laughing? Tears were pouring down his cheeks, washing down the blood and dirt that had caked his face. He was filthy, they'd have to fix that.
Martyn rushed forward, gripping Ren’s shoulders. “My lord! You weren't injured too badly, were you?” Ren swiped the tears, but only halfway. The dirt itched at his skin as it moved.
Martyn hadn’t even registered what was going on by the time Ren grabbed his cheeks and pulled him into a kiss.
His lips were soft, beautiful. Just as Martyn had always imagined them. He didn’t even mind the feeling of the man’s mustache scratching against his wounds. He didn’t mind it because it was unapologetically Ren, in his brightest form.
Martyn grabbed the sides of Ren’s face, before pulling back. The two stared at each other for a moment in complete silence.
Ren smiled softly. “I suppose this is it, my hand. We’ve done it.” Martyn nodded, “Do you think they’d let us share the victory? Surely they will, we’ve worked so hard to get here!”
Martyn could almost laugh at the way Ren danced around saying their names.
Then the messages came. They wanted a fight, that much they made clear. The demanded blood. Why did sweet moments never last? Why couldn’t he stay with his king forever?
Ren looked like he was about to cry, for he could tell what Martyn was thinking. “My hand, you know you don’t have to do this.” But the truth was, he did.
Martyn would never be able to live with himself after the games, never look at REN’s face if he knew he put him through even the smallest amount of pain.
The sword in his stomach went quickly, piercing through his entire being. Martyn had died twice before, but this death hurt the most, as he fell to his knees:
He coughed as he desperately tried to pry the sword from himself, his hands now stained with blood. He knew the blood loss would speed things up.
Ren rushed forward, crying and yelling curses to whoever had made the world like this. Ren cherished every ounce of blood Martyn coughed up, every tear he shed and every gargled sound his throat made.
Then there was nothing. Just his kings arms.
But this had let Martyn realize something new. Martyn was not his king, nor his lord, not even his lover.
He was his god. And he’d watch over him.