Archive of Our Own

When Ren is born, it is with bared claws and teeth.  

The midwife nearly drops him when she sees - the crown prince, a dog ? It's inconceivable that the child of the mighty king and his brilliant queen would be cursed - but even so, she screams, and in so doing, brings the king running.  

"What is the matter?" he demands, and the midwife extends the wailing child in her shaking hands.  

Ren is neither fully human, nor is he fully an animal. Ren, as the king says, is a monster.  

Even as a babe, he is something dangerous - something to be collared and kept under control. The midwife wraps a strip of leather around his throat and leaves him in the cradle meant for the perfect crown prince. Instead of slipping into a babe's sweet slumber, he instead tears his bedding to shreds.  

Under the king's decree, the crown prince is sent into the care of a trainer - not a caregiver, but a trainer, one housed on a distant island at the fringes of the kingdom. The trainer is to make him from a dog into a man, from beast to beauty. He is to be proper, to be human - to act everything he is not seen to be. He is to be the crown prince before he is a man, and he is to be a man before he is a dog. He is to be everything that his country needs him to be.  

Is this truly something difficult? Ren is not so far divorced from human as to be incapable of understanding human speech. He has ten fingers and enough manual dexterity to lift a fork. His skill at wine-tasting leaves nothing to be desired. Is he not proper enough?  

The answer, it seems, is no. This is especially true as Ren continues to age and - as becomes increasingly apparent - grows into his role as the only heir. The crown is to be his. He is not to be, as the people have dubbed him, Ren the Dog, but King Ren the Dog. He is to take over the throne - he with his sharp teeth and long hair and looming silhouette. The world sees a monster, but the throne demands a man.  

He finds himself lost in his early years. He is first not old enough to understand what it is about him that makes him so different, and once he is, he finds that those differences cannot be so easily swept away. As he comes into his body - his height, his bulk, his skill with a blade and his silver tongue - he files his nails, keeps his teeth behind his lips, and hides his over-sensitive eyes behind darkened lenses. He demands of himself the sharpest wit, the greatest performance, and the most skillful display in everything he puts his mind to. He will give them nothing to say but that which carries awe.  

He is called before his father from Black Skull Isle and told to kneel, pledging his loyalty to this man he has never known. He is given lush fabrics and glittering finery under which he hides the scars of the collar and whip. He is declared heir, and when the crown is placed on his brow, he feels nothing but the fervent burning of ambition.  

He is to be Ren the King, not Ren the Dog - a king so great that nobody will ever feel the need to look down on him again. A king of grandeur never before seen, despite his body. He will be, in body and soul, a king.

Ren's Hand is a young boy named Martyn. He's skilled with a blade, smooth in his words, and - most critically - entirely human.  

It's a sort of pacification for the more rebellious factions, Ren understands. To make the Hand someone so unassumingly human is to proclaim that he, Ren the Dog, is not a beast as the rumors say. For all Ren is the heir apparent, Martyn is the one who holds the leash.  

It chafes. The understanding burns just as much as the feeling that, were he different, his claim to the throne would be uncontested. There would be no managing rebellious territories or factions - no lords and mayors straining against the crown's restraints. There would be no whispers about his suitability to rule. He would simply be Ren, not Ren the Dog.  

Martyn always looks at him a bit askance - as if he's almost expecting Ren to snap and tear out his throat. The feeling itself seeps through his mind and into his bones, promising what could come were he to let go of his control. If he were to become a rabid dog, Martyn would be expected to put him down - but could Martyn finish him before he tore apart his Hand?  

He wonders. He and his Hand spar most mornings, and Ren is aware that Martyn is holding back. He wonders if Martyn is aware that he restrains himself in turn - that, if he so chose, he could cleave Martyn's head clean off his shoulders. Would that not be the act of a man, he wonders, rather than the throat-tearing malice of a vicious dog?  

Martyn carries deceit in his smile and lies in his throat. Ren, nonetheless, wants to trust him. It is a desperate wish of his, to be able to look to his Hand and not expect a blade to the back - but is it indeed so selfish? Is Ren not a king-to-be with all that should entail? Should he not have the power to demand total loyalty?  

He voices this to Martyn one day when they're taking a pass in the garden - a simple form of exercise more suited to conversation than actual fitness. Martyn, in a move unbefitting a Hand, walks directly at Ren's side. Ren wonders if he knows the power he holds in nothing but his human ears and hands.  

"I was wondering," he starts, turning his gaze to his Hand at his side, "if you had ever considered turning traitor."  

His tongue twists the words into something else - robs him of Martyn's clipped words and slurs syllables into each other. He envies the simple enunciation of his Hand - the way in which his "you" doesn't break off halfway through to avoid slurring into nonsense. He considers, for a moment, what it would be like to tear out Martyn's tongue and put it in his own mouth.  

"Well, yeah," Martyn says, as if he hasn't just admitted to treason. "Think everyone has in the kingdom at one point or another, y'know?"  

Ren does not know. Ren has spent his life under the purview of his trainer at Black Skull Isle and, as of late, in the capitol. Ren cannot fathom what it is to be anonymous in a crowd.  

"'s not personal," Martyn continues, casting his gaze up to the trees. There's not a hint of repentance in his voice, and Ren respects that as much as he hates it. "'s all about power, y'know. Might be better for me if someone else were king."  

"Better than this?" Ren asks, and Martyn rolls his eyes.  

"Gosh, boss, I meant the royal  we." Then, upon seeing Ren's smirk, "not like that- like, maybe there's some guy out there named Jamble McGee who's put a huge bet out on your head and your death would win him the lottery. Lots o' people've got stuff to gain." 

"But you," Ren clarifies, "stand to gain much from your loyalty."  

Martyn hums at that, but doesn't reply.

When he approaches Skizz, it is not as a prince, but as a man.  

It is, as the king sullenly informs him, tradition for the king to attend a gladiator match. Regardless of Ren's attributes - he says this with a sneer, as if Ren himself is hardly worthy of occupying the space in his mouth the words take - he should attend a match.  

It is, as it turns out, a test.  

The arena's owner welcomes him with no small degree of subservience - though, as Martyn whispers, his bowing borders on the mocking. Ren himself feels the prick of satire on the back of his neck, but in favor of the scene, he says nothing.  

He is introduced to and shakes hands with the owners of both gladiators set to fight. They wear the sharp smiles of wealthy men and the audacious rings of cruel ones - enough that even their polite greeting feels like a taunt. Ren, however, will give them nothing to complain about. He is to be the king, and as a king, he will be respected - best to earn that.  

They exchange polite greetings and settle down in the king's box to observe the game. The crowd titters and whispers down in the stands below, and Martyn - once again at Ren's side instead of a step behind - leans over to whisper something into the space his ear would be, were he a man.  

"They're staring at you, boss," he mutters, entirely unnecessarily.  

"Yes," Ren responds, voice carefully even, "I am aware."  

"Do you know who's fighting tonight?" Martyn asks, voice carrying with it a hint of amusement. There is a joke in the question, Ren thinks - one most likely at his own expense - and he shoves down the instinctual urge to snap at it. He is no dog who snaps at a toy dragged out of its reach. He can be patient.  

"Does it matter?"  

"Well," Martyn replies, dragging out the "l" in a way he only does when he has something interesting to say. "Just thought you might wanna know, boss, that, ah-"  

His Hand is cut off by the chiming of the match bell. Ren rests his hands on the armrests and turns his attention to the dusty field below.  

The metal grate at one side of the field slides open with a whining screech, and Ren's ears flick uncomfortably at the sound. A shadowed figure strides out of the gate, head held high and shoulders squared, but it's only once they step into the light of the arena that Ren sees the real reason he's been brought here today.  

The fighter wears a thick leather collar just like his trainer made him wear. The fighter's golden ears have been forced into points and their tail cropped near the base. Scars streak up and down their arms, along with wounds in various stages of healing.  

This, Ren thinks with no small amount of horror, is not a gladiator match. This is a dogfight.  

"It should put on a good show," the first fighter's owner croons as the second gladiator enters the ring. "Not all too common to see a golden in the ring, but trust me, my prince - it's vicious."  

"It's damaged parts," the other owner cackles. "It'll make a good show, alright."  

The bell chimes again, and the other fighter - a muscular fighter with razor-sharp teeth - rushes towards the golden, who barely manages to dodge the assault. The golden drops into a ready stance, teeth bared, and the larger fighter leaps at them again, this time knocking them to the ground. Any fine detail of the fight disappears, replaced with the image of writhing bodies and the sounds of snarling and tearing.  

"Not much of a spectator sport, is it?" Martyn mutters, and when Ren glances to the side, he sees his Hand staring back at him. He's watching his reaction, then, instead of the field.  

The golden scrambles back, blood seeping from a fresh wound in their shoulder. Their opponent simply rushes after them.  

The way dogs fight, Ren understands, is to the death. There is no true chance to flee. To turn one's back is to submit to fate. To ask for mercy is to ask not for the kindness of men below but of the gods above. There is no mercy here.  

Blood spurts out of the tangled mass of fighters. Ren stares at it for a moment too long - wonders what it'd be like to taste that, wonders what it'd be like to stand down in the ring, in the dirt, wearing the crown not of a ruler but of a champion. In another world, would he have been where these fighters are? What differentiates him from them save his noble birth?  

He is the best because he has to be. He is the best because to be anything less is to surrender his humanity and to bow before the death knell of his worst instincts.  

The bell rings again. The fighter on top clambers off, blood coating their face and streaked down their front. The golden lies on the ground, chest heaving with the force of their breath. Even from here, Ren can tell they have chunks missing.  

As one, the crowd turns to him. There is a horrible moment where Ren has no idea what they want, and then an even worse moment where he does.  

The golden's owner looks down at his fighter, lip curled in disgust. The disgraced fighter lies on the dirt, still twitching.  

Ren makes a decision, then - not as a prince, but as a man.  

The crowd is baying for the golden's death. Ren withdraws a few pieces of gold from the bag slung at his side and shoves them into the chest of the golden's owner, uncaring if the move is too rough or if his claws catch on the man's finely tailored silk. He approaches the railing, gathers his cloak around him, and jumps.  

The first fighter stumbles back as Ren enters the ring, ears flattening against their head in preparation for another fight. Perhaps they think Ren is here to fight them himself. It is a fair enough assumption, he supposes - he carries his blade at his side and wears the red cape of the battle-hungry - but he has other intentions. Other feelings.  

"You fought well," he states, and the fighter promptly falls over themself in their haste to bow. "Rise, noble warrior. You have done well to entertain your prince."  

He withdraws another fistful of coin - Martyn's face is doing a truly hilarious thing up in the box at the sight - and proffers it to the fighter left standing. "A prize," he announces, voice ringing through the space despite the fact that he only truly needs the person before him to hear his words. "For a noble warrior."  

The person's face does another set of motions at the sight, confusion mixing with disbelief mixing with fear. They accept the coin and bow deeper, deep enough that their ears are nearly touching the ground, and remain there even as Ren turns his back.  

The golden lies on the earth in a pool of their own blood, and as Ren draws closer, he catches sight of what must've been the match-ending wound. Blood seeps from a chasm in their chest, staining the brown dirt red, and with each breath the golden struggles to take, the wound seems to gape impossibly wider.  

In an instant, Ren is struck by the horrible unfairness of this situation.  

This person- this person  fought well. This person has been left to bleed out here, under the eyes of jeering onlookers who even now chant for Ren to end it. The blade weighs heavy on his hip. The golden looks at him, eyes dim with- not with fear, which would be horrible enough, but with the much worse state of acceptance.  

"End it!"  the crowd roars as one.  

Yes, Ren thinks, this ought to end.  

He withdraws his blade - not yet the axe of a king, not yet - and brandishes it for the crowd to see. Their roars grow, if possible, even louder.  

The golden looks at him, lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile, and closes his eyes.  

The blade comes down. The cheers stop.  

The golden's eyes slowly slide open, expression struggling into one of confusion. Ren's blade lies buried in the dirt, blade-down, in the space next to the warrior's head.  

"You too fought well," he shouts - roars, almost, his voice carrying through the silent chasms of the arena. "You both did. There is no need for anyone to meet the embrace of death today."  

He then kneels - kneels, despite the ripples of shock that sends through the crowd - and withdraws a potion from the inner folds of his cloak. The golden stares at him, expression one of muted confusion that only grows as Ren slides his hand behind their head to help them upright.  

"You are a worthy warrior," Ren murmurs, lifting the bottle to their bloodstained lips. "It would be a great honor to address you as a peer on the field of battle."  

The golden stares at him again for that, although they're still gamely drinking the potion under the prying eyes of all these onlookers. They look like they can't really understand what Ren's saying - which, fair; Martyn has said he has a flair for the antiquated - so he clears his throat and tries again. "What's your name, dude?"  

The golden swallows, blinking a few times as the warm haze of the potion starts to settle in. "Skizz," they say, almost like a dream. "My name's Skizz."

Nobody is happy with Ren's insistence on keeping Skizz around.  

The king is already displeased with Ren's flagrant disregard for the customs of the gladiatorial ring - he failed that test, he knows - and with his "waste of royal resources", meaning the relative pittance of gold and potions they can always brew again anyways. The idea of having another beast - he says this with no small amount of disgust - sullying the halls of his castle is a step too far.  

Ren is aware of what he is. Ren also knows that, by virtue of what he is, once he decides he wants something there is very little that can dissuade him from it.  

And, well, he wants Skizz as his bodyguard. So.  

It's not a very good argument. Skizz very much lost that fight. Still, though, there's something about him - something Ren hadn't even initially seen, caught up as he was in the simple injustice of it all - that has him believing foolishly that Skizz won't betray him. Perhaps it's the unfettered way in which he smiles. Perhaps it's the fact that he speaks his mind. Perhaps it's the fact that he seems bewildered at the mere idea that anyone might want to betray Ren. It's flattering, really - the way he seems to trust Ren as easy as breathing.  

Trust is something in short supply within these castle walls. Ren will not be diminishing his mere royal coffers at the order of a man with legions who would die at his word.  

He wins, in the end, and Skizz is formally appointed as his bodyguard. Ren somewhat suspects that his father is hoping that Skizz will get him killed so Martyn may become the heir apparent. Martyn is probably hoping for this outcome, too - almost anyone in the kingdom must be hoping for that outcome.  

Anyone except Skizz, that is, who wears his new responsibility like a great honor instead of the noose around his neck it really is.  

"You have been officially promoted to serve in the capacity of my chief bodyguard," Ren tells him, and Skizz turns for a moment, whispering something that sounds a lot like "yeah, baby!"  before turning back around and bowing. 

"Thank you, my king. I won't let you down."  

There's a hint of a playful grin to his words, and Ren only catches a moment late that Skizz called him a king. "Dude," he starts, then sighs. "Calling anyone else a king while a king reigns is literally high treason."  

"Well, I'm not calling him not a king," Skizz cheekily replies, "'cause I'm just callin' you a king to me, right?"  

Ren considers this, then sighs again. "Not around my father," he relents, and Skizz fist-pumps in a move that would've gotten Ren dragged out by the ear were he back at Black Skull Isle.  

"Got it! You can trust me, my king, I won't let you down!"  

"Skizz,"  Ren thinks, with some exhaustion but with no small amount of fondness. He feels, despite himself, a sort of overwhelming endearment towards this man the longer they interact, and - almost horrifyingly - the beginnings of trust there, too.

As Ren comes into his role as heir, a new contender for the throne comes into view.  

The royal spies call him the Silver-Tongued , the  Revolutionary , the Desert-Dweller .   

Ren calls him the Desert Hippie.  

He's seen the mock-up sketches of this man. He keeps his hair on the shaggy end in a way that has nothing to do with any of his traits, and he wears a poncho that he is reportedly fond of swishing aside to showcase his chest. His skin is so pale as to be almost gray, and yet he seems thoroughly acclimated to the deserts on the outskirts of the kingdom.  

Most oddly, he seems to travel about on llama-back. Ren is quite sure that can't be efficient.  

The king does not seem exceptionally bothered about this news - although, given he spends much of his day resting in an attempt to clear the sickness from his lungs, he isn't exceptionally bothered about anything save for his own continued breathing. Ren, on the other hand, is rather exceptionally bothered.  

He contracts a spy to investigate this man - someone to report back to him on what he's up to - and then a second, just in case the first one is untrustworthy. The first is a shifty-eyed man of indeterminate heritage named Impulse, who perpetually looks as though he's expecting someone to leap out of the shadows and rip out his throat, and the second is a masked half-fox who wears his confidence like a second skin.  

All he gets on this second man is his appearance and his name - Etho. He comes highly recommended, so there's something for that, at least.  

The first man, however, Skizz has quite a lot to say about. He wasn't especially subtle about it, too, since when Impulse stepped through the door, Skizz's tail promptly started wagging hard enough to shatter a vase. The news is that they - Impulse and Skizz - are childhood friends who've been separated for a number of years. Skizz cycles through at least three nicknames for this spy in about five minutes.  

Ren isn't quite sure if affiliation with Skizz lends credence to this man's spying capabilities or not, but Skizz seems to at least think rather highly of him, and Ren is beginning to think rather highly of Skizz, so.  

"You're weak for him," Martyn posits on one of the many nights they spend together in Ren's study, flipping through papers and debating the merits and drawbacks of different proposals and legal amendments.  

Ren's ear flicks and he lowers the paper he's skimming to glance at his Hand. "Hm?"  

"Skizz," Martyn clarifies, chucking the report in his hand into the "nonsense" stack teetering next to the trashcan. "I mean, you're weak for just about anyone who's nice to you, but especially him."  

"Dude," Ren replies, offended. "I am not weak  for  anyone who's nice to me ."  

"You're weak for me," Martyn retorts, grabbing another piece of paper off the top of the nearest precarious stack. "I've told you to your face that I'd be happy if you died like ten times."  

"Wh- how does that mean I'm weak for you?"  

Martyn stares at him, deadpan, and then gestures to the whole everything - that meaning the fact that he's sitting next to Martyn in his study at the dead of night while Skizz bodyguards outside the door. They're literally sharing a sofa under candlelight, for goodness' sake!  

Martyn's still looking at him. Ren chooses to employ the diplomatic strategy of careful reticence and says nothing.  

Martyn, of course, breaks out into a fit of guffaws. "Oh, your face!" he wheezes, eyes glistening with hysterical tears. "Oh my god- you should've seen yourself! You looked like I'd just told you your mother was a cat!"  

"Dude," Ren snorts, the image of himself as a puffed up cat-dog entering his mind. Martyn must see some of that on his face, since he just starts laughing harder, and then Ren himself starts laughing harder, and then it's all over, just the two of them laughing until they're bent over and wheezing hard enough that Skizz busts through the door in order to make sure they haven't been poisoned or something.  

Ren may be weak. It's not the worst thing to be.

"I just think there's maybe somethin' to be worried about."  

Etho delivers this news as if he's talking about the weather, voice light and eyes giving nothing away. Next to Ren, Skizz bristles - this entire business with the Desert Hippie and his associated entourage has him on-edge - and Ren gives him the barest hint of a glance in warning to head off his impending slew of insults at the pass.  

"The popular support is concerning," Martyn muses, staring down at the map of the kingdom before them. He's pulled out little tokens to indicate influence, and Ren's decidedly displeased by the quantity of purple on the kingdom's western edge. "Especially with power as... unconsolidated as it is."  

It's a polite way to say that the dissenting factions are only growing louder as Ren's father nears his death. Ren himself is pleasantly surprised that Martyn's assisting him instead of trying to lead him into a trap, but perhaps something has changed after all. Perhaps he himself has grown, as he once said, weak .  

The idea tickles something in Ren - some buried instinct that thrills at the prospect of pack . Then again, perhaps it's just his own human desire to have someone to place his trust in. The line between man and beast grows fuzzier day by day.  

"You could try going out to see them," the newest addition to their little posse - the de facto royal advisor, appointed presumably based on who drew the losing stick amongst his father's current advisors - muses. He's young for an advisor, around the age of the rest of them, and there's a kindness to his voice that belies a distaste for political machinations. Perhaps that's why he's been sent to advise the prince in a direct role.  

Ren is well aware of the rumors that he's prone to tearing apart staff in fits of rage. He wonders how much of them this new man - BigB, if memory serves - believes.  

Skizz's tail lashes unhappily as he stares down at the board before them, expression clouded with worry and contemplation. "I don't like that," he mutters, mostly to himself but loud enough for Ren to hear. If he has a contribution, Ren thinks, he ought to share - after all, he doesn't keep anyone on his council whose perspective he doesn't value.  

"Speak, Skizzleman," he commands, and Skizz's head jerks up, a momentary flicker of surprise passing over his face before he settles.  

"Yes, my king." Ren's given up belaboring that point - Skizz won't stop, and perhaps it's best to get in the habit now. "If we're dealing with popular unrest and people who want you dead-" which is a crude and technically treasonous way of putting it, but Ren doesn't bother to comment, "-then it seems like you should be staying as far away from them as possible. I mean, if they want you dead, they can come and try, but it's a helluva lot easier to protect you in the castle then out in the streets."  

"Valid points," Martyn considers, "but I agree with B. I mean, hiding away is like saying that you don't have a right to be out in public, and that, my lord, is terrible optics."  

Etho doesn't bother contributing, instead opting to twirl a pocketknife he's produced from somewhere in circles on the table.  

"Who cares about optics?" Skizz bristles - literally; the fur on his ears and tail is fully standing on end. "You can't improve someone's image if they're dead-"  

"Skizzle," Ren interjects, holding up a hand for silence. Skizz cuts off mid-sentence, looking almost cowed - " like a dog with its owner ", Ren thinks. "I appreciate your concerns. I would not be entering the kingdom unprotected. I am more than capable of holding my own, and I am sure you will take every step possible to ensure my safety."  

That seems to placate Skizz, but only slightly. "I still don't like this," he says to nobody in particular, and Ren reaches over to clasp his shoulder.  

"Peace, Skizzle. Have faith in your king."

A couple weeks later, Ren's father dies.  

His coronation is hastily scheduled for the next week, and invitations are hurriedly sent out to the neighboring kingdoms in hopes that they might be able to attend on short notice - and would be willing to publicly support a beast as a ruler. The latter point has caused more than a little difficulty with coronation planning; a new crown-bearer had to be found on account of the person who crowned his father categorically refusing to "sully the kingdom's name by bequeathing it to a beast", and unrest in the streets is already growing.  

Nonetheless, some diplomats do come - and, much to Ren's surprise, some royal dignitaries.  

Queen Cleo and her King Consort, Bdubs, make the trip themselves, accompanied by their royal advisor-slash-diplomat-slash-minister-of-cows, whatever that means. Ren's met Cleo once or twice in passing before, and it's difficult for him to hide his joy upon seeing them ascend to the throne proper.  

"Cleo!" he greets, opting to dispense with the formalities he knows they've always hated. "It's so good to see you, my dude! And Bdubs, too- I can't believe you'd both come all the way from your Crastle for this!"  

"Well, we couldn't very well miss your crowning," Cleo replies, lips curling into a smile. She's dressed up for this, flowers woven into her flowing hair and the traditional crown of her homeland perched atop them both. Bdubs, next to her, is similarly gussied up, wearing the circlet of a consort - although, Ren notes, he hasn't quite gotten the dust from his latest architectural exploit off. It's a contrast to many of the other dignitaries, some of whom are wearing things that are almost treasonously casual - although, if Ren were to execute everyone who was wearing something unsuitable to the occasion, he wouldn't be left with a very full ballroom at all. "This is our advisor - you've met Tango, right?"  

"He does the explosions!" Bdubs chips in, and Cleo rolls their eyes, already visibly exasperated.  

"Yes, and he does the explosions. Thank you, Bdubs. Tango?"  

"Your majesty," the aforementioned Tango greets, dipping into a formal bow. Ren scrutinizes him - something about him doesn't seem entirely normal - and Tango simply smiles, expression carefully vague.  

Skizz, on the other hand, seems to have noticed something Ren hasn't, based on the way he steps forwards to place himself between Ren and Cleo's advisor. "Stay back, my king," he insists, ignoring the fact that Ren hasn't even technically been crowned yet. "He's hiding something."  

"Aw, man," Tango complains, expression drooping in apparent disappointment.  

Ren flushes to the tips of his ears - surely Skizz has heard of Tango before? - and pushes his bodyguard to the side in hopes of heading this diplomatic incident off at the pass. "Skizzle," he warns, "Tango is a valued diplomat and guest." What goes unspoken: "lay off."  

Skizz does not seem inclined to lay off, his jaw set mulishly and ears flattened against his head. "Take off your coat," he commands, and Ren fights the urge to bury his face in his hands. He loves Skizz, truly, but this is absolutely a diplomatic incident waiting to happen.  

Tango hesitates, glancing over towards Bdubs and Cleo, and it's at that moment that Cleo decides to step in. "Tango here is a blaze hybrid," she states, tone brokering no argument. "Do you have a problem with that?"  

Skizz tilts his head in apparent confusion, glancing back to Ren for clarification. Ren's not sure why he thinks he'd know anything about it, so he tilts his head in Tango's general direction in another nonverbal order to stand down.  

"No problem," Ren interjects, laying on the charm as thick as he can. "Hybrids are just rather uncommon in the kingdom. My bodyguard meant no disrespect - he's simply on edge on account of the recent... situation."  

There's no point in lying. If Tango's even half-decent at his job, he already knows all of what's been going on, and if Cleo and Bdubs have any kind of functioning communication with their advisor, they undoubtedly know as well.  

"I'd hope not," Cleo smiles, a decidedly predatory edge to her words. "I'd hate to have to start something in front of all these people."  

Ren has absolutely no doubt that she would start something, and has even less doubt that this is an alliance he cannot afford to lose. He's about to elbow Skizz in the universal form of "say you're sorry" , but Skizz beats him to the punch.  

"My apologies," he states, dropping into a formal bow. It's times like these that Ren remembers that Skizz does, theoretically, have the capability to behave in formal situations - it's just very infrequent that the need for that arises. "Forgive me for my rudeness."  

Tango shrugs, smile turning bright and lopsided. "It's no big deal, man. Don't worry about it."  

Skizz's tail picks up a bit at the end, and Ren hides a smile behind his hand. He'd tell Skizz to go mingle if he thought there was any chance that he'd agree, but in lieu of that...  

"Skizz, would you accompany Her Majesty and her entourage until the crowning?"  

Skizz jolts at that, ears pricking up and expression falling. "My king-"  

"They are valued allies," Ren explains, trying to say without saying that if Tango's a hybrid, it's likely that another internationally significant incident will happen without someone very publicly in the king's favor looking over them. "Their safety is of the utmost priority, and there is nobody I trust more than yourself in that matter."  

Skizz looks torn between perking up in the face of the praise and protesting Ren's order, but he finally acquiesces with a nearly-hidden scowl. "As you wish," he replies, voice very clearly carrying the meaning that he thinks this is one of the worst ideas he's ever heard.  

The quartet disappear into the crowd soon after, and Ren turns to scan the ballroom, glass in hand. Many nobles here he recognizes - some he doesn't; there's one pair from the western reaches of the kingdom he needs to speak to, since the leadership of Hobbiton has just changed hands to figures Ren suspects are loyal to the Desert Hippie's cause - and he's about to start towards them when a voice from the crowd catches his attention.  

"Your majesty," someone greets, and Ren turns, gaze landing on the figure of Impulse.  

He can't even begin to fathom why Impulse is here. "Um," he says, eloquently, and Impulse winks, touching the side of his nose. "Don't question it."  

Perhaps it's not too horribly surprising. Impulse is heavily affiliated with the mercantile organization SV - though in what regard Ren isn't sure - and they've recently struck a deal regarding the supplying of armor and weaponry. Still, Ren had expected to see Impulse anywhere else but here.  

"It's lovely to see you," Ren greets, meaning "what are you doing here?"  

Impulse nods, taking a genteel sip from his glass. "Have you had the pleasure of making the acquaintances of the Lords of Hobbiton?"  

By this, Ren thinks, Impulse means "they are most certainly affiliated with the Desert Hippie and should not be trusted."  

"Not yet," he replies honestly, "but I highly anticipate our interaction," meaning "I was going to talk to them before you showed up."  

"I can assure you of their conversational capabilities," Impulse replies genially, though the hidden layers under his words convey the truth: "don't trust a thing they say."  

"Many thanks," Ren replies, and Impulse gives him a neutral smile in return.  

Duly warned, Ren makes his way across the room to the new Lords of Hobbiton. They, at least, have dressed formally for the part, with the blue-haired Lord proper dressed in flowers and light tones while his partner wears the more earthen-toned garb befitting the spouse of a Western Lord. It's the spouse who notices Ren's approach, since he grabs his partner by the sleeve and hurriedly whispers something into his ear.  

Ren is already beginning to doubt Impulse's estimation of both these men and himself. This man has all the subtlety of a brick, and Ren isn't sure what to think if Impulse thought he needed to be warned about his suspicious behavior.  

"My king," the Lord greets, dropping into a bow and surreptitiously kicking his spouse's calf to get him to do the same. "It is an honor to make your acquaintance. Scott Smajor of Hobbiton."  

His accent speaks to his heritage, the curl around his words characteristic of Hobbiton and its nobility. In contrast, his partner - who introduces himself as Jimmy Solidarity - has an accent much closer to that of the rest of the kingdom. Ren looks him up and down for a moment, disguising his glance as best he can, and finds he can best place him as being from the Western Desert - the same area the Desert Hippie made his first appearance.  

Yes, Ren is very much wondering what Impulse thinks of him.  

"The pleasure is mine," Ren replies, not entirely lying. "It is a delight to see you both in attendance at the festivities. I suppose you have attended to swear your fealty to your king?"  

Solidarity jolts like he's been stabbed, and Smajor kicks him in the calf again. "About that," he smiles, voice smooth as silk, "we had questions on what, exactly, we would receive in return for swearing our fealty."  

"Support of the kingdom," Ren easily replies. "Our support in the case of any invasions or encroachments upon your borders."  

Smajor tilts his head at this, apparently considering. It's Solidarity that speaks up next, words tumbling over themselves in his haste. "Well, yeah, and what do we have to give you in return?"  

"Tribute," Ren says simply. Honestly, don't they already know this? Ren has no plans to do a massive revamp of the system. He's quite pleased with the current one - and it's a good deal besides. The tributaries receive protection at their borders from hostile external forces, and Ren and the Crown receive enough to keep the kingdom running. It seems like a good deal.  

"And what, exactly," Smajor interjects, cutting Solidarity off before he can continue, "does that Tribute entail?"  

"A share of your crops," Ren replies, hoping to convey his confusion at being asked this in the first place. "Your loyalty in case of war. Your public allegiance to me as your king."  

Solidarity's expression sours at that last phrase, scrunching up like he's swallowed a lemon. It's Smajor who expands on that, although with much more tact - "you must understand the difficult position that request puts us in, my king. You are surely aware of the... difficulties currently facing Hobbiton, even without the problems that would arise if we were to swear our public loyalty."  

Ren doesn't know, exactly, but he can imagine. A marriage between a Hobbitonian Lord and a man from the Western Desert - there must be political reasons for that, especially if the stability of the region is under question. Still-  

"If it is unrest you worry about," he states, "then the Crown will send in our troops to quell it. We- I aim to ensure that loyalty does not go unrewarded during my reign."  

"You're going to send in soldiers ?" Solidarity retorts hotly, undeterred by Smajor's warning touch to his arm. "To- to what, kill a bunch of people just protesting? How is that right?"  

Ren can feel the eyes of the room on them, an ocean of silent spectators waiting eagerly for his next word. This is what his father had feared - what his father had anticipated. He had seen Ren as a weak leader, a prince who couldn't handle being king. He saw him as a rabid dog that would respond to any insult with claws and fangs.  

Nobles peer around each other in hopes of seeing something that could justify calling Ren the monster they believe him to be. Solidarity glares at him, clearly expecting a fight despite Smajor's warning hand across his chest. It is, perhaps, reflective of Ren's failure that he even let things get this far.  

Then - a flash of gold in his periphery. It's Skizz, standing at the ready, ears pricked and tail still as he surveys the situation. Something in Ren's chest softens at the simple sight - the simple existence of someone here for him.  

"Skizz," he calls, voice breaking the silence like a thunderclap, "escort the Lords of Hobbiton from the castle."  

"What?" Solidarity demands, half-lunging towards him before Smajor shoves him back. "You can't just-"  

Skizz grasps his shoulder before he can finish the sentence. "You heard the king," he growls, no hint of a smile on his face. "Let's go."  

Solidarity looks about to protest, but Smajor speaks up before he can. "Jimmy," he sighs, voice halfway between exasperated and pleading. "Don't start a fight."  

Despite how much Solidarity looks like he rather does want to start a fight, he bites back his words, lowering his shoulders and submitting to Skizz's grasp. Ren watches as his bodyguard escorts the two lords from the room - watches while trying not to look like he's watching, because no king would feel the need to observe their orders being carried out - and revels in the weight of eyes on him. There are no further questions of loyalty that night, and Ren is crowned as the moon reaches its highest peak.  

The next week, Etho informs him that the Desert Hippie has begun to speak of the "King's Lapdog" - a rabid creature who seeks out blood and wants nothing more than to rip men limb from limb. When Ren looks out his office window into the courtyard and sees Skizz practicing his swordsmanship - sees the gleaming whiteness of his bared teeth and the wood of his blade splintering from the force of his blows - he finds himself wondering how much of those rumors could be true.

The unrest that Ren had - rather optimistically - expected to diminish with his crowning does quite the opposite.  

The ejection of the Lords of Hobbiton from his crowning appears to have snowballed into something greater than Ren could've anticipated - twisted by the Desert Hippie's silver tongue into a tale of exclusion and horrors perpetuated by a monstrous king in his gilded tower. Martyn is recast as the hand holding Ren's leash, and Skizz as a mindless, violent beast in thrall to them both.  

Ren is no fool. He can see the impact this is having both in the capitol and in the loyal outskirts of his kingdom. More and more are turning their ears towards the Desert Hippie's slander, and more and more begin to look at him askance - as if they're wondering who he had to kill to reach this height. Whispers abound of Ren ripping out his father's throat, of Martyn slipping poison into his chalice, of Skizz tearing him limb from limb with his bare hands.  

They call him the Red King, the Rabid King, the Dog King of Dogwarts. For the time being, Ren chooses not to acknowledge it.  

He is draped in red like his father before him, handed a cloak and an axe and hailed as king. The streets continue to bubble with unrest even as the summer heat dissipates into the bracing breezes of autumn, and few will say his name. The Desert Hippie continues to weave lies with a silver tongue, and it becomes increasingly apparent that Ren cannot stand idly by any longer.  

As such, he declares a royal progress to the west.  

Skizz is... wary, as befits one of his station. He voices his discontent with the plan both outright and in furtive glances, ears pinned and tail lashing during their innumerable meetings. Martyn himself seems hesitant as well, his typical bravado turned to a facade behind which he hides his true fears. He does not voice his worries, but Ren understands them all the same - what if this does nothing but further undermine what little support he has across the kingdom? What if this provides the Desert Hippie and his forces with the chance they need to remove their primary opponent to the throne? What if all of this is a trap?  

Ren shares those misgivings, in all honesty. He's heard from Etho and Impulse regarding the situation at his western border, and though their information varies enough that he's not sure which of them is telling the full truth, the core of their intelligence is the same: Ren's position is precarious there at best. His public rebuking of the Lords of Hobbiton seems to have provided fuel to the anti-imperial fire that had, according to Etho, been long-smoldering - Etho's position is that this discontent is less to do with Ren himself and more to do with the nature of the Crown overall, which is a charitable if slightly optimistic reading in Ren's eyes. He knows what people think of him. He knows that men will look at him and see little more than a rabid dog ready to bite.  

Even so, their diplomatic relations with Hobbiton could use mending. Ren sends out a missive with Impulse - a request for a formal meeting with Smajor and Solidarity as a show of diplomatic unity. The response comes a couple weeks later, carried by Impulse and written in a swooping, elegant hand that calls Smajor's speech to mind - "we would be honored to host Your Highness."  

Thus the date and time are set, and Ren sets out for Hobbiton.  

They ride on horseback, Martyn to Ren's right as befits the king's Hand and Skizz directly in front of him to intercept any traps before they arise. Both Ren and Skizz have some degree of wariness regarding horse riding - Ren for the simple fact that horses rarely seem to like him and Skizz for the fact that he first saw horses when recovering in Ren's care and thus sees them as something to be exceedingly cautious around. Martyn, on the other hand, chatters on to his horse much like he does to Ren, and during their sojourn, he both names his and Ren's horses (Bob and Hillary) and creates a classification system based around some esoteric ideas that Ren cannot even begin to fathom. He has no idea what "Enderport" and "Cluckle-Cluck" mean, and he thinks that asking may be more trouble than it is worth.  

All the same, they arrive at Smajor's castle after a couple weeks of travel. It's a quaint building, built in the Hobbitonian style - a hole set into the side of a mountain, with bright colors and wooden decorations that match the wooden wall around it. It's smaller than Ren would've anticipated for such a sprawling domain, but Smajor and Solidarity don't seem to mind.  

Indeed, they are greeted as they dismount by Solidarity himself, who looks entirely displeased with their second meeting. He is clad in a style befitting the Western Desert more than Hobbiton, Ren notes - something which isn't entirely surprising, as Hobbiton itself borders the Western Desert, but something which sets him on edge nonetheless. Still, when Smajor emerges, it is in traditional Hobbitonian garb, so he lets himself relax. Perhaps this is not a trap, and will indeed provide the chance to mend this fraying diplomatic tie.  

Smajor bows properly once he is in front of them, eyes sparkling with some emotion Ren can't quite place. "Red King," he greets, a title just on the proper edge of formal to be acceptable while still letting Ren know exactly what he thinks of him. To greet him as the Red King instead of as his  King is a distinction worth note - one that is not lost on Skizz, as it seems, since he takes a step closer to Ren.   

"Smajor," Ren greets in return, and then, with a pause just long enough to be noteworthy, "Solidarity."  

The man's nostrils flare, and he seems about to say something before Smajor places a hand on his shoulder. "We are honored to have you here," Smajor continues, heading off his partner's objections before they can meet the air. "Please, this way."  

Ren follows, Skizz a step behind him and Martyn at his side. BigB - who had approached separately, having been previously engaged in some natural survey of the surrounding areas - stays behind Skizz, dark eyes flickering over the space - perhaps he sees something Ren himself does not, he muses, or perhaps he is simply admiring the architecture. Nonetheless, BigB soon strikes up a conversation with Solidarity, effectively solving Ren's largest problem before it can erupt.  

"This is a beautiful castle," Ren compliments, and Smajor snorts, waving a hand in the air.  

"Oh, no, no, it's not a castle. This is Hobbiton, Red King - a castle would absolutely ruin  the local aesthetic, and one thing we here in Hobbiton prioritize is our aesthetic."  

Ren glances at Solidarity - at his blue poncho and brightly colored undershirt and pants - and somehow finds that hard to believe.  

"It's been tough combining the desert architecture with ours," Smajor continues, words carefully measured in a way that tells Ren that this is far from being an inadvertent slip, "but the insights gained from the Western Desert have allowed us to make more long-lasting buildings. They've also helped us with flower and dye preparation."  

"I see," Ren replies, not wishing to speak any further on the subject.  

They come to a halt in front of a pair of large double doors, and Smajor steps out, gesturing to the doors with a flourish. "After you," he offers, and Ren - despite his misgivings - opens the door.  

The dining room hosts one large table - circular, much like the door outside and the halls they've passed through. Unlike the halls, however, this table is not empty.  

The man seated directly across from the door smiles - a sharp, predatory thing - as he sees their approach. In the dim lighting, his skin seems so dark as to be almost gray, and his poncho barely covers his chest, revealing a sculpted set of muscles. His trousers, too, seem to be short from what little Ren can see - attire that would be audaciously minimal even in the Western Desert - and the understanding of who, exactly, sits at this table hits him in an instant.  

"Get back, my king," Skizz growls, shoving Ren behind him before he can so much as react. The man at the table simply smirks, as though this has all been one part of his larger plan - and, glancing at Smajor, Ren sees none of the surprise he would have expected.  

"What is the meaning of this?" he demands, and the words come out perhaps a bit more wounded than he intended.  

"Oh, don't talk to him," the Desert Hippie dismisses, waving a hand as if to call Ren's concerns unimportant. "He's just the host. I'm here to see you."  

"I don't speak to tricksters," Ren growls, and the Desert Hippie places a hand to his chest as if scandalized.  

"Trickster? Me? Oh, no no no, you misunderstand! I'm a businessman , you see, and I'm just here to propose a trade."  

"He doesn't want anything to do with you," Skizz growls, and the Desert Hippie shifts his attention to Ren's bodyguard, smirk flattening out in an instant.  

"Well, I didn't ask you, did I?"  

"Scar," someone murmurs in warning, and Ren blinks, processing for the first time the presence of a second man next to him. He's smaller than the Desert Hippie, sandy hair falling casually over his face in a way that reminds Ren of Solidarity and dressed in more traditional Western Desert attire. Neither Etho nor Impulse had mentioned another man in their reports, and Ren feels suddenly caught off-balance.  

The Desert Hippie's expression flickers at his companion's words, though he soon regains his confidence. "Right! Where are my manners - please, sit!"  

None of them make any move to sit.  

The Desert Hippie sighs, looking almost childishly disappointed. "Aw, c'mon, I'm not gonna kill you!"  

"Pardon me if that's hard to believe," Martyn snipes, "after you tricked us into this meeting."  

"It wasn't a trick," the Desert Hippie huffs, "it was a tactical business arrangement! And besides, why would I go through all this trouble just to kill you? Come on, sit!"  

Skizz growls, shoulders hiking up as his hand inches towards the sword at his side. The Desert Hippie doesn't look cowed in the slightest - more intrigued, Ren would have to say. "Oh- you must be the Red King's Blade! I must say, I've heard a lot about you- it's quite an honor to meet you in person."  

"Absolutely not," Skizz growls.  

"Well, you can't fault a guy for trying." The Desert Hippie then turns his blinding smile onto Martyn, who's still partly behind Skizz. "You must be the King's Hand - Martyn, was it? It's an honor to meet you as well - you know, if you're ever looking for work, we in the Desert are always in need of a marketer..."  

"Yeah, no," Martyn scoffs. "I'm plenty happy where I am, thank you very much."  

The Desert Hippie shrugs, then turns his attention onto the last non-Ren member of his retinue. "And you- oh, BigB! Long time no see- I though we were friends, man!"  

Ren wheels, betrayal sparking in his chest as he turns his gaze onto his advisor. BigB seems thoroughly unaffected, simply giving the Desert Hippie a lopsided shrug. "I can have more than one friend."  

"Wh- BigB!" Ren protests, now fully unable to keep the hurt out of his voice. "I though- I trusted you, dude!"  

"You can trust me!" BigB counters, expression drooping with some kind of injured sentiment. "It was a long time ago, and besides, you know I'm loyal to you."  

"Do I?"  

"Listen," the Desert Hippie's companion interjects, folding his hands on the table and assessing their group with a flat gaze. "Scar set this whole thing up, and I'm basically bound to help him out, so why don't you all just sit and talk so we can all leave and hopefully finish off this nonsense for good?"  

There's a moment where Ren and his group simply gawp at him. The man must notice that, since he sighs and continues, "all this crown nonsense is, quite honestly, exhausting. You two, just- sit and figure it out so I can finally go back to my life."  

"Um," Ren replies, unsure of what to say. "No?"  

"Come on," the Desert Hippie wheedles, spreading his hands wide. "No weapons, see? I just wanna chat."  

Ren glances at Skizz, who shakes his head - a firm "absolutely not" - then at Martyn, who gives him a shrug -  "whatever you say" . BigB gives him a small nod, which doesn't mean much, but Ren is starting to wonder if it might be better to handle all of this here and now - to finally put an end to the insurrectionary spirit fostered by the Desert Hippie.  

"We keep our weapons," Ren counters, and the Desert Hippie makes a great show of sighing at the request.  

"Aw man, you don't trust me? Come on, I'm just a simple businessman here..."  

"No," Martyn mutters, quiet enough that only Ren and the others can hear.  

"Fine, fine," the Desert Hippie relents, raising his hands and gesturing to the other seats at the table. "Please, sit!"  

So they sit - Ren across from the Desert Hippie, Martyn and BigB at his right, and Skizz at his left. Smajor sits at the Desert Hippie's left, and Solidarity sits to the right of the Desert Hippie's companion - a move that only brings their similarities more into focus. They could be cousins, Ren thinks, or perhaps even siblings.  

Something about that makes Smajor and Solidarity's marriage sit uneasily in his stomach.  

"Now," the Desert Hippie grins, folding his hands to stare down Ren from across the table. "How about a proper introduction, hm? I'm Scar Goodtimes, and I was wondering what it would take to get your crown."  

There's a long moment where nobody speaks.  

Ren is- Ren is stunned silent at the audacity, in all honesty. This man - Goodtimes , if he insists on calling himself that - enters into negotiations by demanding the crown of Ren's forefathers? Not only is that audacious, it's also excessive. All of this - fostering rebellion to such a great extent for a single piece of jewelry? If Goodtimes wanted this so bad, why didn't he just steal it? More than that, why even try to take over the kingdom for the sake of a crown? That in itself should solidify Ren as the greater leader, and yet this man still maintains a base of support?  

"Um," Ren finally replies, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice, "no?"  

Goodtimes frowns, looking genuinely put-out by the whole situation. "Aw, c'mon- hey, what about a free lordship? Free sand? We have a monopoly on sand out in the desert, y'see."  

Skizz bristles, fur standing on end as he meets Goodtimes's gaze. "You've gotta be-"  

"Wait, wait," Martyn interjects, planting his elbows on the table and leaning forward, "all of this is about- what, the crown ? Dude, just- just make your own!"  

"What?" Goodtimes asks, tilting his head in apparent confusion. Then, when it apparently settles in, he snaps his fingers, a look of understanding dawning on his face. "Oh, no-no-no! You misunderstand! I don't just want the crown - although I do want the crown, 'cause it's pretty nice, and I mean, imagine how awesome I would look with that crown! Grian, you know how cool I would look with that crown, right?"  

"Scar," Goodtimes's companion - Grian - sighs, one hand coming up to rub at the bridge of his nose. "Focus."  

"Ah!" Goodtimes exclaims, snapping his fingers again. "Right! Actually, I want the whole kingdom."  

"Wh- no!" Ren exclaims, and Goodtimes frowns, apparently not deterred. "Get out!"  

"Actually, we're still welcome," Goodtimes grins, "and c'mon, you won't even enter into negotiations? Not even interested in talking about it a little bit?"  

"No! Get- you get out  of my kingdom!"  

"Well, really, I dunno how much it's your  kingdom," Goodtimes replies, cheery grin turning wolfish as he leans in to stare at Ren. "You're not exactly the most popular 'round here, and I'd bet that you wouldn't have a lot of support from your  loyal subjects if you tried to throw me out."  

"You shut your mouth!" Skizz shouts, slamming his fist into the table. "If you're not gonna show His Majesty the proper respect, then you'd better shut the hell up!"  

"Skizz," Ren growls, the noise carrying a slightly animalistic hint to it. Then, addressing Goodtimes, "I'm not interested in negotiating with a treasonous lout ."  

"Hey!" Goodtimes protests, "I am not a treasonous- uh," then, as an aside, "Grian, what's a lout?"  

Grian rolls his eyes, but leans in close to whisper something into Goodtimes's ear - something which apparently offends him greatly, since he gasps even louder than before. "I am not a lout , thank you very much! I am not awkward whatsoever!"  

"So he's just stupid," Martyn mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin.   

"I'll have you know, I am very decorum-ful," Goodtimes continues, folding his arms over his chest in an apparent show of dominance that only really serves to expose more of his - admittedly impressive - abs. "I would be a great king, actually- way better than you."  

"What's your policy?" Martyn asks before Ren can say anything. There's a twinkle in his eye like he's enjoying this, and Ren wants to absolutely scream.  

"Well," Goodtimes starts, then stops. A brief pause, then, "well, that doesn't really matter! All that matters is that it'd be a lot better than yours!"  

Ren glances at the others at the table, weighing their responses to Goodtimes's words. BigB looks interested in the way one looks interested in a clown-car-crash, Skizz looks murderous, and Smajor looks like he would give his entire fortune for this entire conversation to have never happened. Solidarity looks- Solidarity looks like he thinks Goodtimes has said only the most fascinating and correct things he's ever heard, which is comedic bordering on the unbelievable, and Grian looks like he wants to sink into the earth or possibly strangle his companion.  

"I'm not interested in bargaining," Ren finally replies, pushing back from the table and rising to his feet. "We'll be leaving."  

"That's unfortunate," Goodtimes frowns as Ren's entourage gather themselves. "Ah, well! I guess we have to do this the hard way!"  

"Get behind me, my king," Skizz growls, stepping forward to shove Ren behind him. Ren's about to protest when Goodtimes's frown splits into a grin, and something in the room clicks.  

There's a moment of silence, and then the room turns to burning light.

Ren comes to with a splitting headache and a high-pitched ringing in his ears.  

He forces his eyes open, although he has to immediately shut them as the light sears his retinas. Around him, the sounds of a scuffle slowly filter in, and when he opens his eyes again, he finds speckles of blood on the ground under him.  

He's on his stomach, he finds, and he reaches up a tentative hand to brush at his temple - only to immediately hiss and draw it away as a white-hot stinging shoots through his skull. His fingertips come away wet with blood, and as he shoves himself up to his knees, he notices more blood - both on his hands and under the scrapes on his clothes.  

Someone grabs his arm, and he wheels to growl at them, lips pulling back to reveal his razor-sharp fangs. Only- only a familiar smell filters in before the too-bright image does, and he recognizes them - it's Martyn, with BigB close behind.  

"My king!" Martyn shouts, though the words sound distant and far-away. "Come- we have to get you to safety!"  

Ren reaches up to his face again instead of moving and finds that his sunglasses are gone - broken in- in whatever happened. He can see them - or, rather, their remains - on the wooden floor nearby, one lens splintered beyond repair and the other nowhere to be seen.  

"Skizz," he says, or rather thinks he says. "Where- where is Skizz?"  

Martyn's expression twists, but it's BigB who points somewhere off to Ren's left. He turns, then, and sees.  

Skizz looks like some kind of avenging angel, blade locked with those of Goodtimes and Solidarity. His clothes are shredded from the force of- of whatever happened - an explosion, Ren thinks, since the meeting table has been splintered into bits and bits of the wooden room are smoldering at the edges - and blood spills both from scratches and fresh battle wounds.  

He got back up, Ren thinks dazedly. Skizz shielded him from the explosion and yet still got up.  

"You're good!" Goodtimes laughs, blade sweeping through the air with a dancer's grace and a warrior's force. "You sure you don't wanna join us?"  

"Scar!" Solidarity exclaims, scandalized. "Are you- really!"  

"Aw, it was worth a try," Goodtimes laughs, and Solidarity looks like he wants to throw his hands up in defeat.  

Skizz glances back then, and Ren nearly has to look away at the sight of the burns across his chest and arms. He can't imagine how Skizz is still standing with all those wounds, and yet he's still there- still holding his own. "My king!" he shouts, arms trembling under the weight of Solidarity and Goodtimes's offensives, "you have to go!"  

"You heard the man," Martyn grunts, scooping Ren up by the armpits. "Up we go."  

"No!" Ren protests, dissolving into sputtering for a moment as Martyn and BigB loop his arms over their shoulders. "Wh- you- as your king, I order you to let me go!"  

"Make me," Martyn retorts, casual as anything. Ren tries, he does, but the world is spinning and his legs are trembling enough that even his attempt to wrench his arm from Martyn's grasp sends him nearly tumbling to the earth. "Oh my- don't actually! For goodness' sake!"  

BigB huffs a laugh, and this close, Ren can feel the rumbling of the sound in his chest. "You can't just say that and not expect him to do it," he opines, to which Martyn huffs in offense.  

"Well, he shouldn't've."  

"Still-"  

Ren blinks and they're standing outside, Martyn tacking up their horses while BigB assumes the job of keeping Ren upright. The sounds of clashing metal still spill out of the door, and Ren turns back to face it, although his eyes catch on something else along the way.  

It's Smajor, clothes singed and an expression of deep displeasure on his face. Martyn must notice him, too, since he stills, saddle halfway on Bob's back and hand still wrapped around the horn.  

"Oh, don't worry," Smajor says, waving a hand in dismissal. "I'm not gonna stop you. Can't speak for Jimmy, of course, but they blew up my house, so I'm more upset with them than you right now."  

"Uh," Ren eloquently replies, "thanks?"  

"Don't mention it," Smajor sighs, sounding very much like he means it.  

Ren blinks again and there's a pair of hands around his waist. "Alright," Martyn grunts, "you gotta help me out here, buddy- upsy-daisy!"  

He manages to lift Ren all of one inch off the ground, at which point BigB steps in to physically hoist Ren's foot up into the saddle. At that point, Ren's able to come back to himself enough to properly mount the horse, and although the world is still spinning when he shakes his head, he feels as though all might not be lost.  

"Right," Martyn grunts, rushing over to swing himself into his own saddle. "Now we just need Skizz-"  

There's a shout from inside the not-castle, and Martyn and BigB exchange a look. "I think that might be Skizz," BigB says genially, and sure enough, Skizz comes rushing through the door, Solidarity and Goodtimes hot on his heels.  

Ren decides to intervene, spurring Hillary forward to cut off their paths. The horse rears at the sudden stop, and the two traitors stumble back, giving Skizz just enough of an opening to swing onto his own horse.  

"Let's go!" Martyn shouts, and Ren nods in agreement.

They ultimately make it all of twenty minutes outside Smajor's house before Goodtimes and Solidarity catch up to them.  

It is, objectively speaking, a horrible venue for a chase. On Martyn's suggestion, they'd cut through a city in hopes of blending into the crowd - only they aren't very anonymous, what with their royal finery, giant horses, and general high-speed movement. It's therefore not exactly surprising that Solidarity and Goodtimes would find them - just a bit annoying.  

Goodtimes is the one they encounter first, his horse leisurely trotting out in front of them to block their path. Ren yanks on Hillary's reins, stopping short of a physical collision, and Goodtimes grins, cheery as if they're friends meeting up after a long absence and not two groups actively trying to kill each other.  

"It's considered rude to leave during negotiations, you know," he grins, and Ren growls, ears flattening against his head.  

"You tried to kill us! I'd hardly call that negotiations!"  

"Grian says that war is just the continuing of politics in murderous ways," Goodtimes sagely retorts, and Martyn's surprised snort next to him is all Ren needs to hear to know he'd gotten the quote wrong.  

There's the sound of horse hooves on cobblestones behind them, and Ren turns to see Solidarity blocking the exit, another figure - Grian, he thinks - planted next to him. Escape, he fears, may not be an option.  

"Aw, c'mon," Skizz grins, though there's a hint of exhaustion to his words. "Did you guys not get enough'a me last time?"  

"You ran away!" Solidarity protests, sounding genuinely offended by Skizz fleeing for his life. "If anything, you're the one who's had enough'a us!"  

"Fat chance," Skizz retorts, and Ren turns his attention away from the men behind him and towards the man in front of him.  

"What do you want?" he demands, and Goodtimes looks actually surprised by the question.  

"I thought I told you- Grian, did I tell them I want the kingdom? I told them that, right?"  

"Yes, Scar," Grian shouts, his reply coming out weary as it drifts on the wind. "You told them you want the crown."  

"Great!" Goodtimes chirps, clapping his hands to accentuate his point. "I want that."  

"What do you want right now," Ren reiterates, and then, when it looks like Goodtimes is going to repeat his answer, "from this fight . Why did you stop us?"  

"Well, because I want the crown," Goodtimes replies, like it's obvious. Ren considers momentarily the consequences that would arise from burying his face in his hands, and then decides it's simply not worth it.  

"Well, you're not getting it," Ren hotly replies, and Goodtimes shrugs.  

"Ah, well. Guess I'll just kill you instead!"  

With that, Goodtimes produces a bow and shoots.  

The arrow lands - not in Ren, but in Hillary, who rears up and brays in pain. Ren leaps off before she can take off - which she does, sprinting past Goodtimes's horse and, wonderfully, unsettling him enough that he falls off with a resounding "whoomph". As he struggles to his feet, Ren is there, axe in hand and swinging.  

Goodtimes dodges his first swing and his second, producing a sword from inside his poncho at the third and blocking it with his blade. Ren swings again, and Goodtimes parries, knocking Ren's axe to the side before swinging himself.  

Ren's head is spinning, and Goodtimes has the advantage of range. His sword is simply longer than Ren's axe, though Ren's axe is sharper, and though Ren could get a better hit by leaping at him, he fears that he might not be able to land effectively enough to keep fighting afterwards.  

"What's wrong?" Goodtimes taunts, swinging again at Ren's side. "Can't keep up?"  

Ren doesn't deign to reply. He swings at Goodtimes's head, and Goodtimes barely manages to block, earning himself a gash on the ear. Goodtimes swings at his chest, and Ren blocks with the hilt of his axe. Goodtimes leaps back and Ren rushes forwards, focusing on the pounding of his boots on the pavement and his heart in his ears.  

Goodtimes raises his blade to block, evidently expecting a strike with his axe - only Ren doesn't strike that way. He tackles his opponent, and Goodtimes goes down hard, the sword in his hand slipping from his grasp and skittering away over the cobblestones.  

Ren plants his hands on Goodtimes's shoulders, diving in to tear at the man's throat. Goodtimes shoves blindly at his chest, trying to keep his head away until Ren gets a grip on his arm and he howls, blood spilling down his skin in thick rivulets.  

The way dogs fight, Ren understands, is to the death. He bites down and shakes.  

Goodtimes roars, free hand groping blindly for his sword. Ren bites down harder, feels something give, and he's about to dive deeper when something heavy and blunt slams into the side of his head, sending him reeling.  

The world spins like a kaleidoscope as Ren stumbles back, hands pressed to his head in an attempt to bring reality back into focus. He sees something like Goodtimes getting to his feet, sword held in one hand and the other hanging limply at his side as blood drips on the cobblestone below, and they face each other for a moment, both panting heavily. Ren's about to try and shake his dizziness off, about to try and jump back into the fight, when-  

Someone screams. Not a scream of injury - a scream of horror.  

Ren wheels, blinking a few times as the world tilts again with the movement. On the other end of the enclosure, Goodtimes's companion - Grian - rushes towards one figure hunched on the ground, a blade clutched in his hands. Martyn stumbles back, from where he must've been fighting Grian, hands over his mouth, and BigB catches him, hands wrapping around his forearms in an attempt to keep him steady.  

For one horrible moment, Ren thinks that Skizz is hurt - that Skizz is dying, that Skizz is- is inconceivably injured and that Grian is reacting to that, somehow. Only Grian tackles the person hunched on the ground, and that's Skizz, and there's still something lying there, human-shaped and covered in blood, and ah.  

"Oh," Goodtimes breathes, apparently rooted to the spot. Ren- Ren sees Skizz on the ground, hands wrapped around the blade of a sword, and sees Grian on top of him, hands shaking as he tries to bring it down, and he grabs his axe, stumbling over to bring the blade down.  

Goodtimes must have the same idea, since he rips Grian off Skizz before Ren can strike. Grian's twisting in Goodtimes's grasp, demanding to be let go, and Ren can see that blood-soaked person-like thing on the ground nearby, except what matters is Skizz - Skizz, whose chest is heaving and whose face is splattered in blood. Skizz has blood coating his chin, and Ren furiously reaches up to touch at his jaw, seeking the source of the injury.  

"I got him," Skizz grins, some kind of deranged light in his eyes. Clumps of his hair stick to his face, and his golden ears are spotted rusty-brown with- with whoever's blood that is. "I got him, Your Majesty- you don't have to worry about him. I'll get all of 'em."  

Ren looks at the figure on the ground and sees.  

Solidarity lies on the cobblestone, half of his face missing and his throat torn open to the spine. Ren sees, and then looks away.  

"I'll kill all of them," Skizz grins, words coming out solemn like a vow. "I'll kill all of them for you, my king."  

Ren's about to reply when someone grabs his arm, and then it's Martyn next to him, seated atop Bob's back with a look of horror on his face. "We gotta go," he breathes, "we- c'mon, we gotta go."  

"We gotta go right now," BigB echoes, and Skizz stumbles to his feet, grasping BigB's offered hand. Ren swings himself up onto Martyn's horse behind him and wraps his arms around his waist, glancing behind himself to make sure that Skizz is doing the same.  

"Wait- get back here!" Grian shouts, and Martyn curses, spurring Bob onwards. "You- Scar! They're getting away!"  

"Hey, wait!" Goodtimes exclaims, but they're already rushing down the street, any further words from their enemies disappearing onto the breeze.

They end up spending the night at Cleo's embassy.  

It's conveniently - for their purposes - located a half-day's ride away, which isn't great, but is better than nothing. Ren feels positively dead on his feet by the time they dismount, and from the way Martyn grips onto the horn of his saddle when dismounting and the way BigB leans into his horse's flank, the feeling is decidedly mutual.  

Skizz looks half-outside himself, expression slack and gaze a thousand miles away. There's blood caked on his face and in his hair, and Ren steps over to give him a proper once-over before he can try and sneak away to lick his wounds in private.  

Skizz hardly reacts when Ren brushes flecks of drying blood off with his nails, and barely bats an eye as Ren runs his fingers through his hair in search of any head wounds. Ren himself is acutely aware of the tacky mess that is his own hair - he's lucky that it's dark enough for him to be able to investigate Skizz at all, considering how much his eyes sans sunglasses sting in the bright sun - and the wound there that needs addressing, but what kind of a king would he be to put himself over his blade?  

"It's not mine," Skizz finally says, voice hollow and breathy. "It's- you don't gotta worry, my king."  

"Of course I worry," Ren tsks, turning his gaze to the scratches and burns over Skizz's body. "And besides, my dude, you're absolutely hurt! What're you even talking about?"  

"Most of it is his," Skizz murmurs, and Ren shakes his head, because honestly, Ren can see the extent of the burns. Sure, some of this blood is probably Solidarity's, but Skizz himself is still plenty hurt enough to warrant some fussing. "He- he bled a lot, when I- when I..."  

Skizz looks at him properly, then, something dark and desperate in his eyes. "I don't regret it," he breathes, like a confession or a prayer. "I... I killed him for you, and- and I'd do it again. I- anyone else who tries to hurt you, my king, I- I don't regret it."  

What goes unsaid: what kind of monster does that make me?  

Ren looks at Skizz - looks at the blood dried on his chin, on his too-sharp canines and his pointed ears and the tail hanging limply behind him - and shakes his head. "You're a good man, Skizzle," he assures him, one hand coming up to cup his cheek. "I could hardly ask for a better blade."  

"He follows you like a dog,"  his father's voice says, echoing from whatever afterlife he's gone on to.  

Then, Martyn: "he's loyal, I guess, if nothing else."  

Then Etho, leaning over the table and fixing him with that unnerving two-toned gaze: "they're callin' him your lapdog."  

He looks at Skizz and sees that loyalty - sees the leash around his neck that ends in Ren's grasp - and thinks, not for the first time, that the better term for that tie might be a noose.

Cleo and Bdubs aren't in their embassy, so they take a day or two to rest and regroup.  

Ren insists on bandaging all wounds himself before he'll let any of the others envelop him in their fussing. Skizz looks like a different man with bandages all up his arms - the burns will scar, Ren thinks, possibly overtop the marks from the fighting rings - and Ren needles him into wearing gloves over his hands lest the burns there worsen and impair their function. Even Martyn and BigB receive some treatment, be it a plaster or a bandage for some burns or scrapes.  

Nobody is particularly happy with Ren for putting off his treatment, but he doesn't exactly care. What kind of king would he be if he let himself be treated before others?  

"An alive one,"  Martyn snarks at one point, to which Ren told him that he didn't exactly plan on dying - which, of course, just made Martyn comment on how people don't usually plan on dying, and it's usually a rather unfortunate event.  

That made something shutter in Skizz's eyes, though, so Martyn did his best to change the subject.  

Ren pays someone to carry a letter to Cleo and Bdubs - asks them to ride to his castle a few weeks after they'll likely return. There's a suspicion he has that he wants to follow up on.  

In the interim, he names his blade.  

It's a time-honored tradition that kings are meant to name their axes - their weapons of war, be they in peacetime or not. Ren thinks long and hard about it for a day or two, but in the end, it's Skizz who gives him the answer.  

"It's gonna be winter soon," the man starts apropos of nothing, gaze pinned on the world outside. Ren follows his gaze and finds that yes, that is true - the leaves are already changing color, and it won't be long until the bitter cold sets in with a vengeance. "I wonder if it'll snow much this year?"  

"I'd think so," Ren comments, casting his gaze up to the cloudy sky. "I mean, it's good for the ground, isn't it?"  

"No clue," Skizz laughs, lips curling into a genuine smile. The expression grows rarer as time drags on - as he spends more and more time practicing in the courtyard or keeping watch on the parapets for enemies that could be ages away. "It sucks when you're tryin' to practice, though! I mean, how'm I supposed to work on my footwork when you just step wrong and there you go?"  

"I can imagine," Ren wryly remarks. From his understanding, Skizz's dog parts aren't from a breed particularly suited to the cold - unlike Ren, who never has trouble keeping his balance on snow or ice.  

Then, Skizz turns to look at him, expression turning into something more contemplative. "Hey," he starts, voice steeled into a more determined shape, "do you think this'll be done soon?"  

Ren considers this for a moment, and finds he hopes it will. "I think so," he replies, casting his gaze back out the window. "If we seize the forces of the winter and employ them to our side, then we'll surely succeed."  

"You sound so cool when you talk like that," Skizz snorts, in a way that seems to depreciate himself more than poke at Ren. "But yeah, that'd be nice."  

Ren considers this, and that night, he declares to the moon and sky that Red Winter is coming .  

Skizz looks at him when he says that, moonlight glinting off his fangs, and Ren feels his heart leap in anticipation. This will be over in the winter, Ren is sure - and more than that, they will finally see a peaceful spring.  

This kingdom is his, and Ren has no intention of resting until every corner of this land knows it.

Skizz, the kingdom says, is something to be feared. A rabid dog, the blade of the King, something less than human consumed entirely by bloodlust. Sordid and exaggerated accounts of Solidarity's death travel faster than Ren himself can, and he returns to a castle buzzing with rumors.  

Skizz cares not for those rumors - rather, he holds his head high and keeps his blade at his hip. The dark gloves Ren foisted upon him only serve to make him look even more dangerous, and Skizz takes to the role of a boogeyman like a fish to water. One step behind Ren and one to the side - Skizz is his shadow, and Ren finds that he grows increasingly accustomed to Skizz's persistent presence at his back.  

Etho and Impulse carry reports of the West's sentiment - that Solidarity's death has led to a fresh wave of anti-royal sentiment, that Skizz's actions are being misconstrued and weaponized against Ren and Skizz alike. Some rumors say that neither of them can even speak, and that Martyn puppeteers them into saying what he desires. Others say that their true rabid nature lurks just under the surface, that they've lost their minds and any humanity they may once have had.  

Ren does not respond to those rumors, save for a flick of the ear when first he hears them. His actions can gnaw at his mind - the feeling of Goodtimes's hands on his neck, his teeth snapping at his throat and sinking into his flesh and the thrill of blood bursting over his tongue - but he will be damned if they entertain others. He demands respect, and that - along with a few more-than-idle threats from Skizz - effectively silence the castle rumor mill.  

The arrival of Cleo and Bdubs, however, sets the rumor mill abuzz again.  

They don't bring Tango with them this time, much to Ren's surprise, but he commands Skizz to stay closer to his side this time nonetheless. If his suspicions are warranted, then his blade will be necessary.  

"You've been busy," Cleo greets when she arrives, stepping out of their carriage with a courteous bow. "Tell me, Ren, why've we been hearing about your exploits all the way in our Crastle?"  

"Cleo," Ren greets coolly, and Cleo arches a brow.  

"That's my name. What's been going on here, exactly?"  

"I don't see how that's relevant," Ren counters, and Cleo rolls her eyes.  

"Oh, don't play with me. I know you called us here to discuss something related to the insurrectionary in your borders, and I'd rather know what exactly I'm being accused of before we start chatting."  

"Cleo!" Bdubs protests, tumbling out of the carriage and barely avoiding a face full of dirt. He pops up after a moment, brushing dust off his pants, and stomps over to glare at his queen. "Y' can't just- just ask a guy what he's accusin' ya' of! How d'we even know he's accusin' ya' of somethin'!"  

"Because he's Ren," Cleo says, long-sufferingly, "and the only reason he'd invite us here is if he thought we did something."  

"Well, how d'ya know that!" Bdubs huffs, folding his arms over his chest. "He could just be invitin' us here for a- a chat or somethin'!"  

"No," Martyn comments, "this is definitely an accusation. You definitely did something."  

Bdubs's face turns an impressive shade of violet at that, and Ren fights the unkingly urge to bury his face in his hands.  

"Could we continue this discussion inside?" he nearly pleads, and Cleo arches a brow in response before slowly nodding their assent.  

They file inside the castle - that is, the castle that the kingdom has dubbed "Dogwarts" and that Ren himself has no particular name for, so Dogwarts it is - and up to the meeting room. There's no conversation, and only the clicks of boots on stone break the silence. Cleo and Bdubs travel in the middle of their pack, flanked on each side by Etho - who has been spending more time at Dogwarts as of late - and BigB, while Martyn keeps the rear. Ren does not deign to look at them - Skizz will guard his back, he is sure.  

The meeting room has one large window, designed to let in as much moonlight as possible while eschewing the sun. At the moment, it's well past noon, so only the faintest dregs of sunlight cast long shadows across the stone-hewn room. It's unnerving for anyone unfamiliar with the space, and Ren is gratified to see Bdubs pale at the sight of the space.  

Cleo, however, seems unperturbed, easily taking their seat across from Ren with an expression that gives nothing away. "You understand," she starts, thoroughly ignoring the other people around them, "that Bdubs and I are making a huge concession coming here. Not only are you in the middle of an active rebellion-" Skizz growls at this, and Ren gives him a warning glance, "-but we're here without guards, without weapons, and with no idea what we're even being accused of. We could start a war over this."  

"But we won't!" Bdubs hurriedly interjects, hands waving frantically as if to deny even the thought. "We won't, 'cause we're good buddies, right? And there doesn't need to be any killin' happenin' here, does there?"  

"Mm," Cleo hums, folding their hands in front of them. "How about Ren tells us why we're here, first?"  

Ren considers this, and then decides the suspense has built up for long enough. "We met with the Desert Hippie," he starts, keeping his gaze trained on Cleo's expression. "Although- it looks like you already knew that."  

"I think everyone knows that," Cleo snorts. "You weren't exactly private when you murdered one of his allies."  

"That was a conflict," Ren retorts, "not a meeting. Nobody should know we met formally - unless you already knew. Unless you already knew, because the Desert Hippie contacted you. Because your royal advisor is famous for his machinery and wiring, and you lent his bomb designs to the Desert Hippie-"  

"Wow!" Cleo scoffs, disbelief mingling with amusement. "I mean- do you even want me to say something to that? You seem like you've already gotten things all figured out in your head, so would anything I could say even make a difference?"  

"That is an act of war," Ren continues, steepling his hands in front of him while keeping his gaze on Cleo's face. "You surely understood that when you made your move."  

"This is ridiculous," Cleo dismisses. "I don't have to say anything to you, actually, especially not when you're making unfounded accusations. For all you know, that bomb could've been manufactured by one of your friends there. How much do you trust Impulse, really?"  

"This isn't about him," Ren snarls, trying to tamp down the instinctive feelings of betrayal that bubble up at her words. She's a liar who lies - nothing she says can be trusted. She just wants to get under Ren's skin, and he can't let that work. "This is about you. Do you deny these accusations?"  

"Cleo," Bdubs hisses, eyes wide with something like confusion or panic. "Cleo, what's goin'-"  

"Yeah," Cleo states, and Bdubs falls silent. "Yeah, we did it."  

"But- why?" Ren stammers, flailing for answers in a way that, mortifyingly, reveals far more than he'd intended. "I- I trusted you! I thought we were allies, my dude!"  

"I'm allied with the winning side," Cleo corrects, "and I know enough to know that your kingdom is crumbling . You're little more than a tyrant, Ren- a tyrant with a psychotic Hand and a rabid lapdog."  

Ren sits there for a moment, thoroughly stunned, but Cleo isn't done. "You're not a bad guy, Ren," she sighs, "but- well, you see, you're really just making all of this more difficult."  

A blade materializes in their hand, and Ren forgets to react, still stunned into silence. Skizz jolts to his feet, as does Martyn, but Cleo only has eyes for Ren. "Do us all a favor," they grin, launching themself over the table in one swift movement, "and die for me."  

Cleo isn't a fighter. Ren knows this, and he thinks they know it as well. The hallmark of their kingdom has always been their architecture, and it's their and Bdubs's intricate large- and small-scale work that has earned them international renown. As such, their blade misses anything important, instead spearing through his shoulder and into the back of his chair.  

"Cleo, no!" Martyn shouts as Ren shoves her off and rips the blade out of his shoulder. He shoves himself out of the chair and stumbles back, pointing at the traitorous queen with one shaking hand.  

"My Hand!" he calls, but Martyn's already there, pushing her back with his sword.  

"Don't touch my king!" he shouts, and Cleo hisses as Martyn scores a deep gash across her chest. She turns to flee, putting her back not to Martyn, but to Skizz, and Ren thinks of the fighters on the dirt floor of the arena, thinks about flashing teeth and blood drying on dirt.  

To turn your back is to submit to fate.  

Skizz's blade lands true, cleaving Cleo's spine in two and protruding out her chest.  

Cleo gags, blood splurting out of her mouth as she spasms on Skizz's blade. Skizz doesn't react to that - simply withdraws his sword and plunges it back in, a frenzied sort of mania in his eyes. Once, twice, three times, and Cleo hits the ground with a wet "thump", blood pooling under their limp body.  

"Oh," Bdubs breathes, hands flying up to cover his mouth. "Oh- oh- oh -"  

He retches, stumbling back away from Cleo's fresh corpse - corpse, because she is dead, surely - Ren can see the whites of her eyes and her mouth frozen in an "o" of surprise - to press his back against the wall. "I had- I didn't- I had-"  

"That's why you're still alive," Skizz smiles, tone out of place with the blood splattered on his mouth and face. He brings down his sword again, and Bdubs visibly flinches at the wet "squelch" it makes.  

Ren flinches at a soft touch to his arm, jolted out of his thoughts and into the real world of fight-or-flight - but it's just Martyn, looking down at him with an expression of concern. "Are you alright, my king?" he murmurs, voice soft and oddly caring. "That can't be good for you, what with the head injury and now the arm injury..."  

"I'll be alright," Ren dismisses, but accepts Martyn's helping hand anyways. He feels weak like this - leaning on Martyn for support with the blood of his enemies on Skizz's hands instead of his own - but Martyn's words echo in his ears nonetheless.   

"You're weak for him. You're weak for me."  

Skizz turns back to look at him, expression creased in concern and dark eyes flickering in search of any further wounds besides the one to Ren's shoulder. His ears swivel, evidently listening for anything further to be wary of, and his hand strays towards the blade at his hip.  

"You're weak for him."  

"Skizzle," Ren calls, and the man perks up, loping over like a dog who's just been called back to their owner.  

"Yes, my king?"  

"Thank you," Ren says honestly, and Skizz's blood-soaked frown melts into a blinding smile. "Truly. Your loyalty... I thank you from the bottom of my heart."  

"Hey," Martyn grouses, evidently displeased at being left out, "I went after her too, y'know. It wasn't just Skizz."  

"I thank you as well, my Hand," Ren adds, and Martyn huffs, apparently placated. "And BigB and Etho as well... I thank you all for your loyalty. Truly, I am the one who is lucky to have people like you under my command."  

"Aw, man," Skizz huffs, one hand coming up to scrub at the drying blood on his cheeks. "C'mon, dude, you don't gotta say that. We're all here for you- heck, I should be thanking you for letting me serve you!"  

"Nah, Ren's right," Martyn casually replies, Ren's name slipping off his tongue in a way closer to that of a friend than of a superior. "We're amazing, actually, and I don't get paid enough for this- hey, boss, can I get a pay raise?"  

"You're getting paid?" BigB chips in, and then they're laughing, all thoughts of Bdubs or the body on the floor or the insurrection completely forgotten.  

Ren feels- Ren feels safe. He feels like- like this might be what a family was supposed to be all along. He feels like he can trust his back to these men and know they'll guard him until their final day, and he wants to do the same for them in turn. He wants to bring Red Winter to an end and wait with them for the oncoming spring.  

He is weak for them. He wonders if there's anything that could be better than that.

A few days after Cleo's death, the Western Regions officially declare their independence.  

Publicly, their secession from Ren's kingdom was provoked by the deaths of Solidarity and Cleo. It's Smajor himself that says as much - puts on the record that he refuses to pledge his loyalty to a "murderous king and his deranged subordinates". In private, Ren can see the Desert Hippie's greasy mitts all over it.   

It's hardly even private, in fact. Goodtimes himself goes on record more than once in support of Smajor's decision - a move that only serves to make the strings with which he puppeteers the West more obvious. Ren busies himself with preparations to ride out to the West, intent on subduing this insurgency with force where words fail.  

It's during this time that he fails to question Skizz's distance.  

The man grows increasingly silent as the days after Cleo's death stretch on, his gaze locked somewhere on the horizon and expression tight with some unspoken stress. He never slacks in his duties - if anything, he performs them with even greater zeal - but Ren, buried in his preparations, simply chalks it up to the stress of wartime. Of course Skizz is worried - Ren himself is under more threat than he ever has been before, and it can't be easy to keep up a smile when the public is baying for your death. Skizz, more than Ren, is taking the brunt of the public disapproval, and Ren foolishly lets that linger.  

He's busy - truly, he is. When he's not planning their campaign to the West with BigB or discussing intelligence with Etho - not Impulse, who sent one vague letter stating he was going "deep undercover" and disappeared off the map, which should've concerned him more than it did - he's confiding in or otherwise speaking with Martyn. There's not much time in the midst of all that frenzy to speak to Skizz and untangle the complicated threads of his mind.  

Nonetheless, they set their plan. They'll ride out to Hobbiton again, and with Bdubs's permission, they'll stay in his embassy as before. They'll launch an attack on Hobbiton the next evening, and - with any luck - will catch not only Smajor off-guard, but Goodtimes and Grian as well.  

It's a flawless plan. Martyn certainly seems to think as much, since he enthuses about its likelihood of success during their brief stints off-horseback. His grandiosity is tempered by necessity, to be true - it's hard for him to be quite as loud and dramatic as he'd like when secrecy and speed are of the essence - but he's still a great storyteller, and when he tells such compelling tales of triumph and pride, Ren finds himself wanting to believe them.  

He wants to believe that their plan is flawless. He wants to finish all of this quickly. He wants to be able to welcome in the spring with his allies - his brothers  by his side. He wants like a dog salivating over a bone, wants to grip the future between his teeth and refuse to let go. He wants, he wants, he wants.  

They arrive at the embassy under cover of night. Ren and Martyn dismount first, headed off to review the plan for the next day. Skizz and BigB stay behind to detack the horses while Etho slips off into the shadows - off to gather information, Ren will later learn - and Ren puts them out of his mind as he and Martyn climb up the winding stone steps.  

"You're worried," Martyn opines on their way up, voice somehow both flat and amused. Ren arches a brow in response - that is, of course he's worried! Why wouldn't he be? This is quite possibly the largest venture they've ever undertaken, and Martyn's speaking about it as if they're just choosing what to have for breakfast!  

"You're not?" he retorts, and Martyn makes a sort of shrugging hum in response.  

"Well, way I see it, we've got the upper hand, yeah? We've got the numbers on 'em, and we've got the whole rest of the kingdom. The Desert Hippie may be a buff man, but he's still just a man. He bleeds like anyone else."  

The same, Ren thinks, could be said of him.  

"And besides, what do you even have to worry about?" Martyn laughs, leaning over Ren's shoulder to catch his gaze properly. "You've got Skizzle at your side! Man's never gonna let anything touch you!"  

"Mm," Ren hums, mind drifting down to the stables. Skizz is undoubtedly sweet-talking his own horse - Ren thinks its name is something like Kevin Giggles Maven Bingles Darnold the Second - while detacking him, as if they're not in a very time-sensitive situation. Then again, that's Skizz - he wouldn't be himself if he didn't have too much fondness for animals, even ones he's more than a bit afraid of.  

He thinks about Skizz sweet-talking his horse, and then about Skizz standing over Cleo's body, blood splattered on his face and blade skewering her corpse to the floor. He thinks about a guard dog straining on its leash and the collar of loyalty born from a life debt around Skizz's throat. For a moment, he almost thinks he can see the leash of Skizz's loyalty in his hands.  

"Yeah," he finally decides, something sweet and sour blooming in his chest at the thought. "Skizz can be trusted."

The beginning of the end starts like this: Etho returns to the castle the next morning with news.  

Skizz is on lookout, so he's the one to receive him. Ren does not see this, buried as he is in discussion and plans. Etho tells Skizz that he's found where the Desert Hippie and the others are located, and that Impulse is there with them. He tells him that Impulse and Bdubs and Tango have all betrayed them. He tells him that they don't suspect a thing, and that they expect Ren and the others to attack at night.  

Skizz considers this, and then comes to a decision.  

Ren's startled from his papers by a knock at the door, an old treatise on the theory of war slipping between his fingers and disappearing into the leaning piles around the space. "Come in!" he calls, already only half-paying attention to the person who enters.  

"My king," a familiar voice greets, and Ren hums acknowledgement. "I came to tell you that I've learned something that I've gotta act on right away."  

Ren registers this and sits back on his heels, concern creasing his expression. "Is everything alright, my dude?" he asks, and Skizz - now fully in his line of sight - nods his agreement.  

"Yeah, yeah!" he exclaims, and Ren finds himself unsure of how true, exactly, that is. Skizz is shifting from side to side and bouncing on the balls of his feet like he's hooked up to a burning flame - like the coursing energy of an inferno animates his veins. "It's just- I'll be back later, I just- I gotta check on this right now, yeah?"  

"We can go together," Ren slowly replies, trying to parse whether this animation comes from fear or not. "If you're nervous about it-"  

"Nah, nah," Skizz dismisses, lips curling into a sharp grin. "It's not- I have somethin' I gotta finish. I got a taste for this, and I- I don't want to get anyone else involved if I can."  

"Dude," Ren replies, unable to entirely keep the concern out of his voice. He draws himself up to his full height and steps closer to the door, taking in Skizz's almost manic animation with worry bubbling in his gut. "Just- we can handle this tonight, right? After we take out all of those filthy hippies . I don't- do you have enough information to go and do- do whatever it is you're doing? I don't- we need you here, my dude."  

"I'll be back!" Skizz insists. "Before dark, even! I just- I can't let this wait, and the longer I wait, the less time I'll have to do what I gotta do, so I just came to ask for your official royal blessing."  

"I can't- I can't just say yes if I don't know what it is," Ren pleads, and Skizz's expression flickers with something like guilt for a moment.  

"I can't tell you just yet, my king. But! Once I finish it, I swear, I'll tell you all about it! I just- I can't tell you yet, you get me?"  

"Is this something for Etho?" Ren tries, and Skizz, as if the thought has just occurred to him, nods hastily.  

"Yeah! Etho's actually the one who told me about this, and you know how he is with his super top-secret stuff! We'll totally tell you once we're done, my king, but we gotta move fast."  

Ren looks at Skizz, then - really looks at him. Skizz still looks like he's strung between two extremes, vibrating like a thread pulled taut and set to thrumming. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet again, grin sharp and wolfish, and Ren glances down to his hip where his hand is clenching and unclenching around the hilt of his sword.  

It can't hurt, he thinks, to let Skizz help Etho out with some errand he's got. Perhaps it'll help him burn off some of this mania before the night's excursion. It'd be best if Skizz was focused for the raid, and as he is now, Ren thinks he might be reckless enough to put himself in harm's way.  

"Sure," he relents, and Skizz lets out a victorious "yeah, baby!" "Just- be back before dark, yeah? And I expect a full report on what you all were up to when you return."  

"Of course," Skizz agrees, swooping into a low bow that, if it were from anyone less ardently devoted, would come off as mockingly subservient. From Skizz, though, it just feels like a genuine expression of care. "I'll be back before you know it, my king!"  

With that, he thunders out of the room, evidently off to find Etho on whatever errand they're on. Ren snorts fondly and turns his attention back to his papers, Skizz's odd behavior quickly slipping his mind.  

He should've looked. He should've said no. He should've sunk his teeth into Skizz's arm and refused to let go, should've held the end of his leash tighter, should've held things as they were like a dog with a bone. But for all Ren is a dog, he is also a man, and men believe lies.

The end goes like this:  

Skizz leaves the castle. He does not tell anyone where he is going, although Etho sees him leave. He brings with him his shield and his blade and sets off for the town that houses Smajor's home, bloodlust bubbling under his skin.  

The Desert Hippie's crew are set up in a tower - not Smajor's home - positioned well enough to see any impending approach. Impulse, a traitor to the king, is with them.  

Skizz approaches in broad daylight, armor gleaming in the sun and blade drawn. The townspeople around the tower flee into their homes at the sight of him. The Desert Hippie's alliance, stationed at the upper levels of the tower, sound the alarm.  

The door to the tower is barricaded with some wooden planks. Skizz breaks them down, wood splintering through the entryway. The trap stationed by the door - another trap of Tango's make - fails to detonate, and Skizz ascends the stairs.  

Impulse is there. Skizz does not hesitate - Impulse turns his back, and in so doing, seals his fate. Not in the moment, but in the future, where he will be slain by an ally under similar circumstances. All Skizz knows at the moment, though, is that Impulse is a traitor, and traitors must die.  

He scores two hits along Impulse's back before switching his attention to Grian - Grian, who was keeping watch on the second floor. There, too, he manages to score a couple hits before Grian pushes him into the corner.  

The first hit lands on his chest, splintering his chestplate and leaving a long gash across his breastbone. The second hit lands between his ribs, knocking the breath out of him and driving him into the wall. The third hit cleaves through his shoulder, blade digging deep enough to hit bone.  

The fourth hit pierces his throat.  

Skizz drops to his knees with a gurgle, eyes widening as his hands come up to grasp at the wound in his neck. Grian stares down at him for a moment, expression dispassionate, and Skizz looks up in time for him to bring the blade down.  

For a brief moment, in the eyes of his killer, Skizz sees the eyes of his king. As Grian brings the blade towards him, Skizz's mouth forms the shape of his king's name, and for a fraction of a second, he imagines that - instead of a blade - before him stands Ren, extending a hand to a warrior left to die in the dirt.  

The blade lands true. The rabid dog dies with the name of his king on his tongue and an apology left unanswered.  

They do not keep Skizz in the tower, nor do they let Smajor - who blames Skizz for what happened both to his husband slash political partner and to his house - have his way with him. Instead, the task falls to Impulse and Grian to drag his corpse from the second story out to the street. They do not bury him.  

His body, lying there on the cobblestone, is left to the townspeople and the dogs.

Ren begins to worry when the sun starts to set.  

It's been hours and still Skizz has not returned. He'd expected whatever Etho-based errand this was to take a couple hours at most, but the sun's starting to set, and Skizz still has not returned. Of course, he knows Skizz can take care of himself, but the gnawing stubbornness in his chest that might keen for a pack demands he investigate - and, well, who is Ren to deny that stubbornness its due?  

"I'll be back," he declares, placing his papers on the side table and rising to his feet.  

Martyn gives him a sidelong look before shrugging in response, apparently not particularly bothered by Ren's departure. "Just be back quick," he dismisses, turning his gaze back to the schematics in front of him. "We've still got more to look over."  

"I'm gonna check on Skizz," Ren clarifies, and Martyn gives him a sly look at that, lips curling into an amused sort of smirk. "Don't you look at me like that!"  

"You're such a worrier," Martyn teases, smirk blooming into a full-on amused grin. "Honestly, I doubt that man could get so much as a papercut with you fussing over him."  

"He's a valued member of this team!" Ren protests, and Martyn snorts, waving a hand in dismissal.  

"Yeah, yeah. Go on, you- go deal with your weird attachment issues. Me and the real work will be here when you're back."  

Ren rolls his eyes but leaves nonetheless, some of the thrumming anxiety in his chest put to bed at Martyn's words. It's true he worries - it's true he worries too much, in fact. Skizz is with Etho, and they're just off doing some errand. There's nothing to worry about. They're both fine.  

The worry drains from his chest at the sight of Etho stood out on the embassy's parapets, arms folded on the stone walls and posture the picture of calm. "Etho!" Ren calls up, and the man turns to blink down at him, an easy sort of rest in the slant of his shoulders. "My dude! Good to see you're back!"  

"I've been back for a while," Etho snorts, moving to lean onto the castle side of the parapet. "Nice to know you missed me, though."  

"Where's Skizzle?" Ren asks, casting his glance around the courtyard. He can't see any hint of his bodyguard, which is a bit unnerving, but there's always the possibility that Skizz is off crooning to his horse or practicing his footwork behind the main gate. There's nothing to be worried about, especially because Etho's here.  

"I dunno," Etho shrugs, and ah, there's Ren's familiar worry. It prickles in his chest like an ember, but it's rapidly threatening to bloom into a flame nonetheless. "Haven't seen him since earlier."  

"Wasn't he with you?" Ren asks, and Etho gives him a look somewhere between confusion and uncertainty.  

"When I got back? Yeah, I told him what I saw, but I haven't seen him since then. Why? Did he say he was?"  

"Yeah," Ren uselessly replies, and Etho's brows scrunch up in confusion. "I- he said he was going out to do something with you after you came back."  

"I haven't left with him," Etho replies, voice slow and measured as his mind visibly drifts to his memories. "I did see him leave earlier, but I figured he was just, y'know, goin' out to find something or whatever. He seemed like he knew where he was going."  

"He said he was going out with you," Ren repeats futilely. "I- are you sure you don't know where he went? He really wasn't with you?"  

"He really wasn't with me," Etho confirms, tilting his head in concern. "Is everything okay?"  

"I don't know," Ren admits, that ember of worry in his chest rapidly expanding into an inferno. "I- do you have any idea where he might've gone? Any idea at all?"  

"I mean, I told him where the Desert Hippie and those guys were," Etho shrugs. "If you think he might've gone there..."  

All the blood in Ren's veins turns to ice.  

He can see it so clearly - that's what scares him. Skizz asking for his approval in hedged language. Skizz lying about going off somewhere with Etho - only it wasn't really a lie, was it? Not if he'd gotten the information from Etho. Skizz charging in on his own, dead set on eliminating the entire group with his own bare hands. Skizz drenched in blood, grinning with the mania brought about by a kill.  

Skizz, dead.  

"Where were they," Ren demands, breath coming in short gasps. The image won't leave his mind now. Skizz, dead. Skizz, lying dead in the streets somewhere. Skizz, his mutilated body left for the birds. Skizz skewered, Skizz burned, Skizz broken, Skizz dead.  

"You sure you wanna?" Etho asks, suspicion evident in the slant of his brow. "I mean, if he went in there on his own and didn't come back-"  

"Where were they ?" Ren roars, unable to keep the fear-born fury out of his voice. Etho, taken aback, doesn't respond, so Ren presses on. "Tell me where they were right now, Etho, or I swear, you'll live to regret it."  

Etho tells him. Ren, heedless of such things as tacking up a horse or calling Martyn for backup, rushes out of the gates after his wayward soldier - all while fear pounds in his ears, his heartbeat thrumming a horrible beat of "too late, too late, too late" .

The story ends like this: Ren races through the streets as the sun drips long shadows over the cobblestones, heart pounding in his ears.   

The townspeople slam their doors as he passes, all of them recognizing the Red King, the Dog King, the Rabid King of Dogwarts. Ren pays them no heed. All he can hear in his furred ears is the thum-ba-dum of his boots on the road and the pounding of his heart in his chest as it beats out a frantic rhythm in search of Skizz. He takes the corners as fast as he dares, boots skidding on the stones, and as the tower rises in the distance, all he can think of is what he might see inside it. Perhaps Skizz will emerge victorious, blood-soaked and manic. Perhaps Skizz lives. Perhaps Skizz has claimed the glory that is his due.  

Ren fears for the worst nonetheless. He fears and he runs and he prays to whatever god might listen that there could be some mercy, although some part of him knows in his heart that the prayer will be unanswered.  

There's a knot of townspeople around the base of the tower, and Ren shoves through them with sharp claws and barked orders for them to clear the way. He pushes past dozens jockeying for a place, pushes past people tittering at his arrival, and there, before the base of the tower, he sees him.  

The world narrows to a pinprick as Ren catches sight of his soldier's face, and he's unable to keep a desperate whine from escaping his throat.  

Skizz lies on the cobblestone, mutilated almost past recognition. Wounds from a sword crisscross his armor-less body, and his one remaining eye stares sightlessly at the sky, expression frozen in a show of- of relief, Ren realizes, and something sinks deep in his chest.  

"Away," he growls, realizing now that these people have blood on them - have Skizz's blood on them, their revenge taken on the rabid dog of Dogwarts who killed one of their own. Nobody moves for a moment, apparently stunned, and Ren growls it again - "away!" - with such dark rage that they trip and stumble away, the wave dissipating in moments.  

Then, with none to watch, Ren falls to his knees at Skizz's side, hands reaching out desperately for Skizz's chest in hopes of finding- finding something, a pulse, a breath, something to deny what he sees. But there is nothing - nothing save Skizz's one eye, staring at the sky, and Ren keens, hunching over Skizz's body as if he could protect it from what's already happened.  

His whine gives way to sobs gives way to a broken howl, and he gathers Skizz to his chest, burying his face in his shoulder. Skizz, Skizz, lying here before him, body stained with blood and covered in grime from the townspeople, Skizz ravaged by the hands of the Desert Hippie and his ilk as well as the people who feared him. Skizz, his body covered in boot marks and his armor stripped from him in death.  

Skizz, who stares at the sky like he did Ren all those days ago. Skizz, who looks at the heavens with such hope, with such disbelief, with such fragile affection that Ren wonders what he saw as he died. Skizz, who swore his loyalty to Ren years ago and never faltered, Skizz who killed for him, Skizz who protected him, Skizz who went out ahead of him to try and secure his victory, Skizz, Skizz .  

Ren wails again, the sound breaking somewhere between human and animal as tears drip off his chin. They land on Skizz's skin, clearing paths in the blood and grime on his face, and Ren clutches him close, rocks him back and forth just a bit, as if to create a world where none of this is happening.  

"I should kill you now, you know," someone interjects, and Ren's grief immediately snaps into a growl, shoulders hiking up as he stares at the intruder. It's Grian there, a bandage wrapped around his shoulder and expression blank as he stares down at Ren and the body in his arms. "You're on my territory now, you realize. I could just kill you."  

"You killed him," Ren growls, fury bubbling up in his chest. "You- you killed him and you left him in the street for the  dogs -"  

"You killed my brother," Grian replies, tone dispassionate and expression carefully neutral. "You left him in the street. You left him for the dogs."  

"You let the townspeople rip him apart," Ren hisses, because he recognizes the marks of crude instruments, he knows that they hated Skizz, he knows what must've been done here. He saw the crowd. He knows what Grian let happen.  

"Surely you saw this coming," Grian simply replies, expression blank.  

The sun has nearly set. With the onset of winter, a harsh chill settles in the air. Ren clutches Skizz's body tighter, as if to breathe a spark of warmth into him even as his skin grows colder.  

"You're hardly a saint, Ren the Dog," Grian continues, although Ren can hardly hear him over the ringing in his ears. "Your blade was little more than a rabid dog at the end, and you know what happens to rabid dogs."  

"He wasn't a dog," Ren snarls, but Grian isn't done.  

"They put them down."  

Ren roars and nearly lunges for Grian- only for a firm grip to his shoulder to stop him. He turns, teeth bared, ready to rip whoever dared stop him limb from limb- but it's Martyn, expression tight with grief even as he levies a furious glare at Grian.  

"We'll be back," Martyn says, to Grian instead of Ren. Then, to Ren himself, "come on, my king. Let's take him home."  

Ren keens again, words deserting him in the face of this- this betrayal, truly, because Ren craves revenge and craves blood and wants them to hurt as much as he hurts, wants to see Skizz's smile and feel the warmth of his hand and Martyn's standing there, looking at him, and oh.  

Martyn's crying.  

"Let's take him home," Martyn repeats, and this time, there's a hint of tears to the edge of it. Ren lets Martyn lift him up, then - not carry Skizz; he refuses to let Skizz go the entire way back - but he lets Martyn lead him, lets himself walk away from his brother's killers, lets himself walk away from the fight, and- and he lets himself cry.

They cannot bury Skizz in state as Ren would've liked.   

Instead of attacking the Desert Hippie and his consortium that evening, they bury Skizz in a small ditch dug at the foot of the embassy. Ren feels it is hardly a just reward for Skizz's service - would've liked to bury him in state, bury him with honors, or better still, not bury him at all - but they do what they can. Martyn and BigB wash his body and wrap him in a sheet, and then it comes time to speak over his grave.  

Ren stands there, head bowed, for long enough that Etho decides to speak first. "Skizz," he starts, then stops, apparently considering what he's going to say. "You were a great guy. I loved everything about you. I just wish- I wish you'd made some better choices, man."  

"Too soon," Martyn admonishes, and Etho steps back with a lop-shouldered shrug. Ren, for his part, doesn't hear any of Etho's words - his hearing is enveloped by a dull ringing that started when he first saw Skizz's mutilated body and that hasn't diminished in the hours since.  

"We'll miss you," BigB pitches in, eyes soft with fresh grief. "You were- you were a good man, Skizzle. You'll really be missed."  

Then it's Martyn's turn - he reaches up to rub at the bridge of his nose, emotions visibly warring on his face. "Why'd you do it, man," he sighs, though it comes out more heartbroken than angry. "I just- why'd you have to go and do that all alone, huh? You had us. Why'd you- why'd you go and do that? We still needed you here! I just-" a shuddering sigh that borders on a sob, and then- "we'll miss you, Skizz. We really will."  

Then it's Ren's turn - something he only notices when Martyn nudges his arm. "Do you have something you want to say?" Martyn murmurs, and Ren blinks, dragging his gaze from the sheet-wrapped body below him to Martyn's face. There's a tightness to the corner of his Hand's lips, and in his gaze Ren finds a potent mixture of fear and grief.  

Ren dips his head in acknowledgement and Martyn steps back, though he keeps his stare pinned on Ren's face. Ren, for his part, turns his attention back to the body in front of him, blood roaring in his ears as the sheer reality of the situation crescendos like a funeral hymn.  

He feels a white-hot burning under his skin, his desire for revenge intertwining with a bloodlust that feels both strange and familiar at the same time. He imagines this must be how Skizz felt, animated as he was - must've been what propelled him on, what set him alight and gave him the power to tear apart both Solidarity and Cleo. He was a dog straining at his leash to defend Ren from harm, and Ren, much as he is a man, feels that same bestial urge inside him as well.  

There are stories of dogs who will not let any man near their master's corpse, who defend it even as it gives nothing back to them and who curl up to sleep beside it as if it still breathed. Ren feels much the same - feels that the spectre of Skizz holds the ghostly leash around his throat, feels the tightening of the noose around his neck as he understands, intimately, that he will kill these men or die trying.  

"You will be avenged," he says simply, though his voice carries with it the sandpaper-rough edge of his furious resolve. "I swear by my name and my blade, Skizz, that I will not rest until you are avenged."  

He withdraws his blade at that - not the axe of Red Winter, but the sword he rarely favors. "Ren?" Martyn asks, and Ren doesn't need to look to see him pale as Ren lifts the blade to the moon. "Ren, what're you-"  

"I dub this blade 'The Skizz Blade,'" Ren continues, heedless of Martyn's word, "and I swear to you, Skizz, that this blade shall whet its appetite with the blood of the monsters who slayed ye."  

What goes unsaid: "you can rest now. You've done enough. You were a good soldier and a better man. I don't know what to do without you."  

What goes unsaid: "I love you. Even though you're gone, I still love you."

The Desert Hippie and his crew attack the embassy the next night.  

Ren is roused from sleep by the sounds of battle below - that is, the sounds of Etho locked in combat with their opponents. He slides out of bed, straps on his armor, grasps The Skizz Blade, and rushes to join the fray.  

It seems to be an all-out assault, from the looks of things. On one side, he can see Etho tangling with Grian, and on the other, he can see Martyn chasing after Goodtimes. In the brief moment it takes Ren to process the situation, a blade cleaves through the space next to his head, and he spins, taking in the sight of his assailants.  

One he recognizes - it's Smajor, expression twisted in fury and a sword gripped tightly in his hands. The other he doesn't - it's a man with a green streak in his hair, and, surprisingly, a pair of dog ears.  

"You," Smajor growls, voice bordering on the animalistic, "ruined everything . You killed Jimmy, you blew up my home, you destroyed everything I'd worked for!"  

"You killed Skizz," Ren simply replies, and that's that.  

One thing that is easily forgotten is that Ren is a master swordsman. Skizz, perhaps, is the one who has the greatest reputation for it, but Ren himself has skill with a blade - more, even, than Skizz.  

It's clear that Smajor doesn't expect Ren to rush at him. He barely brings up his shield in time to block, and even so, Ren's blade splinters the hewn wood. A blade stabs at his side - Smajor's companion, then - and Ren twists to catch his blade with his own.  

Slash, twist, kick- Ren pushes Smajor back to focus on his companion. Their blades sing as they meet, and Ren uses his bulk to shove the man back, pushing him off-balance just enough to slash past his defenses.  

The man stumbles back, hand up to his throat - and wasn't that what happened to Skizz? Didn't Ren see the gaping chasm in his throat yawning like a crimson smile? - in some kind of attempt to staunch the bleeding. Smajor lets out a broken cry and leaps forwards, swinging manically at Ren's defenses as if to overpower him by sheer force.  

Smajor is a wordsmith, not a fighter. In his frenzy, he leaves himself open, and Ren's blade pierces his chest.  

The man crumbles, and Ren tears his eyes away before he can do something foolish like listen to the ravings of a dying madman. The thrumming pulse in his chest stirs him on - and there! Tango crouches behind a set of boxes, fiddling frantically with something in his hands, and Ren dismisses any questions about why such a traitor would be here in the first place in favor of pressing on.  

Tango's head jerks up just in time to see Ren's approach, and he scrambles back as Ren's blade cleaves through the space he just occupied. He leaps over one of the lower boxes, hands searching frantically for some kind of weapon, and before Ren can even land the finishing blow, Martyn's blade pierces through his chest.  

"My king," Martyn gasps, letting Tango's limp body slide off his blade. Ren jerks his head in a nod of acknowledgement - Martyn himself is coated in blood that Ren can only hope isn't his, and Ren can hardly imagine how he looks after Smajor and his companion's deaths - and they turn back to the fray as one.  

Etho is sprawled out in the dirt, one hand grasping blindly for something he'll never reach. Blood soaks through his jacket and onto the earth below, and Ren swallows hard, unwilling to let such sights sway his resolve. Etho, he vows, will be buried with all the respect he deserves.  

BigB is nowhere to be seen - nor are Impulse and Bdubs for that matter, though Ren has no doubt they're around somewhere. In the moment, all that exists is Ren, Martyn, Goodtimes, and Grian.  

There's a long moment where neither of them move.  

Fury pounds in Ren's chest in time with the beating of his heart, the rabid braying of the wolves in his chest calling for the blood of these monstrous men. How can he be called the monster after what these men have done? After the deaths they've wrought with their own selfish desires for power? How can Ren be the monster when these men - human as they are - have done so much worse than Ren himself ever has?  

"Scar," Grian murmurs, and Goodtimes shakes his head, brushing Grian off with a wave of his hand.  

"Don't worry, Grian. I've got this. After all, how cool is it for things to end this way?"  

"Cool?" Ren snaps, fury coloring his vision and his words a shade of blood-red. "You call this cool ? All you've done- all of this- was this all for your  amusement ?"  

Goodtimes's expression shutters at that, a coldness freezing his smile in place even as his words come out icicle-sharp. "I don't expect you to understand," he replies, words devoid of their usual light cheer. "After all, everything you've done has just been for yourself and your power."  

That-  

"Thank you, my king. I won't let you down."  

Ren launches himself at Goodtimes, teeth bared and blade raised high.  

Their blades clang against each other in a deadly dance, Ren pressing on with the frenzy of the bereaved living and Scar defending with the calmness of the unaffected. The earth around them fills with the blood of the recently-deceased, and Goodtimes's living allies watch them with a voyeuristic amusement.  

Ren thinks of none of this. Ren thinks of nothing but Goodtimes and his smile and Skizz's echoing laugh, voice ringing in his ears, and thinks about the strife this man has wrought, thinks about his father and names and all everyone has said he ever was, and thinks he wants to prove this man wrong, wants to rip him limb from limb, wants to feast on him in the streets as the dogs do and leave him to suffer as he has suffered. He wants this man to hurt, and wants him to hurt more than any man ever has before. He wants this man to know pain more intimately than love, wants this man to burn and burn and burn  with the same heat that sings through his veins, the same burning desire that animated Skizz, that informed Etho, that brought all of this about. He wants him to hurt as deeply as Ren loves.  

Goodtimes- Goodtimes has an arrow. He has an arrow, and Ren isn't looking, except Martyn's screaming and Ren can't breathe, suddenly, even as he's pushing forward, and Goodtimes is looking at him like he's a beast, like he's a monster, and Ren's strength is failing him but he wants Goodtimes to hurt, he wants him to burn, he wants him to bleed, and Ren swore he would never rest until Goodtimes was dead in the dirt just like Solidarity and Cleo and Smajor and his companion and Tango and Etho and Skizz and he hears Martyn screaming and hears someone shouting and the shick-squelch of something moving and something dripping on his face, and there's Martyn, looking down at him with blood and tears running down his face, and Ren wants to say something but there's nothing to say, there's no words he can find, there's nothing to say, but behind him there's Etho, looking down at him, and then Martyn pulls back with a pained cry and-  

and oh, there's Skizz's eyes. There's Skizz.  

Ren isn't alone anymore.