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Martyn knew he was going to die.
He knew it ever since he saw that axe slice a bloody line across BigB’s chest. He knew it ever since he saw the arrow pierce Skizz through the back of his head, his eyes wide and terrified as the light left his gaze.
He knew it as the cloaked, towering figure turned to him, blood dripping from the impossibly large hatchet held firmly in one huge hand. Red marred the ground in scarlet hues, stretching out from his fallen comrade’s bodies like hands desperately trying to grasp at what little remains of life they had left. It stained Martyn’s clothes, his skin, his hair- everything but the sword held tight in his trembling hands. He blinked through the haze of red as the man lumbered forward, his imposing steps seemingly shaking the ground with every movement, face covered with the shadow cast by the large hood adorning his head.
Martyn couldn’t feel his hands anymore, and through the blood rushing through his deaf ears he could distantly hear his sword clatter to the scarlet ground. It splashed in the pool at his feet, but he didn’t even have the strength to look down at the only hope he had left.
He dropped to his knees, pants quickly becoming soaked in the blood of his comrades, and he could scarcely register the warm liquid brushing against his knuckles which just barely scraped the ground.
He looked up as the figure stopped in front of him, and found he didn’t have the energy to flinch as the silver axehead flashed to his left, stopping mere inches from his throat. He felt a cold sweat running its way down his temple, dripping off his jaw and splashing into the red rapidly seeping into his pants. Blood stained the steel of the axe, and Martyn couldn’t help but envision his own blood would be mixed in with it soon enough.
Beyond the enormous figure, Martyn could see the outlines of his fallen comrades in the red haze of the overcast moon. BigB was on his back, face sharply outlined by the scarlet celestial glow. His eyes were shut, mouth slightly agape, dried blood staining his form from head to toe. He appeared almost peaceful, and Martyn would have half a mind to believe that he was merely deep in slumber if it wasn’t for the bloody, gaping wound stretching across the entirety of his chest.
Martyn couldn’t see Skizz’s face as he was laid out on his stomach much like a marionette cut from his strings. One arm was reached out in front of him, torn and bloody, one finger missing from the outstretched hand grasping for some sort of semblance to life. An arrow protruded obscenely from the back of his head, buried deep into the center of his skull, severing any ties that Skizz might have had to the land of the living.
His comrades, his friends, were dead.
They were gone, and there was nothing Martyn could do about it. No matter how much he pleaded, no matter how many times he begged for the stars to take him and not them, Martyn knew it would ultimately do him no good.
Because Martyn was about to die on the place stained with his fallen friend’s blood. There would be no trading of his life for theirs, because soon Martyn would have no life to give.
Martyn let out an involuntary gasp as the axe slightly tilted, the silver catching the glow of the moon, and in that moment it looked ethereal. He could almost believe it was a curved scythe, and the cloaked man in front of him was the reaper that Martyn had heard so many folk tales and ghost stories about.
In that moment, Martyn Littlewood believed he was going to die. He stared up into the icy gaze of death, and accepted that he was too far gone to save.
That was until something flashed in the moonlit night, and then the grim reaper was shoved back, the axe falling away from Martyn’s neck.
It all happened much too quick for Martyn’s muddled brain to comprehend. A flash of claws glinting silver in the darkness of night, an inhuman snarl filled with the most fury and agony that Martyn had ever heard, then he was moving.
Strong arms held him fast, clawed hands dripping red held tightly to his bruised, bloody skin.
Ren Dog was running through the trees, Martyn held tightly in his grip. He leaped over underbrush, swatted away branches and thorns that tried to hold him from going any further.
Martyn couldn’t say anything, only finding himself able to push himself closer to Ren. His head was pressed firmly against Ren’s chest, the elated thudding of Ren’s heart resounding in Martyn’s ears.
Ren was alive.
Despite Martyn’s friends dying in front of his eyes, despite their blood soaked into his clothes, Ren’s heart was beating a million miles an hour inches from Martyn’s face.
After what seemed like an eternity of running, Ren gradually slowed to a walk, then halted completely, chest heaving and heavy pants loud in the quiet night.
Martyn couldn’t find it in himself to move, knew that if he even attempted to put his feet to the ground he would crumple instantly. Apparently, Ren knew this as well because his grip on Martyn never loosened until he had to move an arm to open the door, and warmth flooded Martyn’s bones as Ren stepped into the tavern that they were staying at for the time being.
Distantly he could hear the low rumble of Ren’s voice say a few quick words to the woman at the counter, before Ren started moving again and the soft creaking of the ancient wooden stairs was all his ears could take in.
Before long they were back in their room for the night, and Ren was laying Martyn out on a bed.
Martyn cracked open his eyes, and through blurry vision he could vaguely see the outline of Etho rushing towards them, worry evident in his voice. Ren stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, and said something in a low voice, the words not quite reaching Martyn’s ears.
Etho froze, then turned, shoulders shaking silently.
Ren approached Martyn and sat on the edge of the bed, fiddling with the ring of his finger; a nervous habit that he often did whenever he was incredibly distressed about something.
“How hurt are you?” Ren asked, voice practically dripping with almost overwhelming concern.
Martyn didn’t respond, found he couldn’t. It was too painful.
Martyn had watched two of his closest friends die in front of his eyes, and it was too quick for him to do anything-
No. Martyn could have done something to prevent this. Anything.
Instead, Martyn had lived while the other two had died when Martyn could have saved them but chose not to.
“Martyn,” Ren said, reaching out a hesitant hand so as for Martyn not to get frightened. “I need to know if you’re hurt.”
Martyn shook his head, but wasn’t sure if it was entirely true.
Ren pursed his lips, looking down. He flicked his gaze back up hopefully. “Can I check? Just to make sure?”
“They’re dead,” Martyn said, voice coming out gruff and cracked. “Skizz- Skizz and BigB. They’re… dead. It’s my fault, and they’re dead. And they-”
“It’s not your fault,” Ren said firmly, and Martyn could see the grief etched into the lines of his face. “It’s- It’s my fault. I sent you three out there knowing it was dangerous. I just didn’t think- I didn’t think it was that dangerous.”
“Ren you don’t understand!” Martyn exclaimed desperately, grasping at Ren’s shoulders. “I- I could have saved them! I let it happen, I- I let them die!”
“No you didn’t.”
“Ren, I killed them,” Martyn said through a detached whisper. “I killed them.”
“You didn’t kill them, Martyn. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I- I-”
Martyn didn’t realize tears were freely spilling down his face until Ren wiped one away with a feather-light touch-so gentle. Too gentle. As if Martyn was made out of glass and one touch would shatter him completely.
Maybe that was true. Maybe one more thing and Martyn would just crumble to the ground in fractured fragments of the man he used to be.
“It’s my fault that they’re gone. We could have run, we could have left there, but I just- I just went along with the plan.”
“It wasn’t your axe nor your arrow that cut their lives short, my love,” Ren said, carding his fingers through Martyn’s sweat drenched hair. “Death is inevitable, and the world will never stop spinning because of the tragedy of man. We hate it for that, but in the end, that’s the reason we find the love that always eventually leads to despair. It’s a terrible cycle that will never cease its ways; it causes us to find love in the most unexpected places and death in the most expected. I will always love you, Martyn Littlewood, and that cycle will not break in the time that we’re alive, nor after our passing. I know that Skizz and BigB feel the same way, which is why I know that you shan’t feel guilty for their passing. They love you, and you love them, which in return is the causation for grief in the cycle of life and death that we as man will always be subjected to.”
Ren smiled a little sheepishly. “In other words, I know that they wouldn’t have wanted you to feel guilty, so you shouldn’t feel guilty.”
Martyn heaved a sob which tore through his throat in one painful burst, his chest heaving and heart lurching against his ribs. Ren pulled him in close for a hug, wrapping his arms tight around Martyn, and Martyn melted into it despite how it painfully tugged on the scratches littering his arms and the bruises marring his skin. He clutched Ren tight, and Ren held him just as fast.
“It’s okay, love, I got you. I’m never letting go again.”
Martyn trembled and sobbed in Ren’s hold, but never once did Ren loosen his grip or adjust his position.
Martyn fell asleep there, in Ren’s arms, the feeling of absolute warmth flooding through his very being. He dreamt of Skizz and BigB, of their smiling faces laughing raucously, and despite his knowledge of it being a work of pure fiction crafted from the imagination of his own mind, Martyn could feel the warmth of their hug seeping deep into his veins, and somehow, there, in that moment, he found it in himself to forgive himself.