#will be rb'ing this w an ao3 link in. a few hours

[liloinkoink]

Wooden Mausoleum

Ren, for all his talk of valiant violence and brutal bloodshed, is not a man meant for the battlefield.

He could act the part, certainly, with a deep and steadfast sense of conviction and pride. He looks the part, too, the way his smile gives way to snarling, wolfish canines, or the way his brow is always smudged sticky, wet, and red beneath his gleaming crown.

However, when the Red King first rose, it wasn’t Ren with his hands dirty. It was Martyn, the green Hand, standing red-handed on the altar.

Ren’s crown dripped as he picked it up, but for all the terror the bleeding gold invoked, the flood always came from within, soaked into the gold at Ren's own execution. Ren is an excellent shot with a bow and vicious with a blade, but he still sobs in Martyn’s arms after one too many of his blows land their final, decisive marks.

Ren’s thirst for blood is theater. A wondrous and powerful show, but acting all the same.

Martyn, on the other hand?

Blood was never really what Martyn was after, not in the way he'd seen in the rest of this server. Chaos is more his speed, but Martyn isn’t afraid to make someone bleed to sate his hunger for it.

He wonders if that was why they took an interest in him. Discord is so similar to chaos, after all, and Martyn’s hands are already dirty. He’s sure they must think that it would be nothing at all for him to feel Ren’s blood under his nails again.

Must not have been paying attention, then, when Martyn went down to the river at Dogwarts's edge and washed his hands until the sun was high above the horizon.

Martyn is a lot of things. He’s trouble, by his own admission. Reliable, by Ren’s. He’s not particularly serious, except in the things he vows, in which he is deadly serious. He listens, even when he wishes he wouldn’t—listens when Ren puts the axe in his hand, listens when they whisper into his ear with demands for treachery and spring.

In that list of things which Martyn is, “traitor,” he once believed, would never find a home.

Then Cleo launches into Skizz’s blade. Scott stumbles in the forests as Ren hunts him down. Even a pack of wolves cannot save Joel from the jowls of the Red King. Etho’s persistence finally rewards him with a cannon capable of crumbling the Crastle and its stubborn, solo occupant. Tango topples without his allies. Impulse’s turncoat tendencies twist a blade in his back. An arrow shot off Ren’s bow dispatches Scar, sinking him into the sand.

Grian had been the hardest to be rid of, with how jealously he’d guarded each and every one of his lives, but he’d become sloppy after being forced to bury his reason for living under the desert’s blistering sun.

They lose some of their own as well, of course. Skizz flies too close to the sun and burns for it. Martyn himself sinks rapidly to red in short order, followed none-too-closely by BigB. If it weren’t for the fire resistance potion Etho had been lucky enough to carry on him, they probably would have already lost him for good.

Each and every one of the Red Army’s foes falls before them, and as their enemies dwindle in number, Martyn becomes more and more aware of an ugly truth.

Ren, he knows, believes that with their enemies vanquished, they’ll be able to return to peace in Dogwarts.

Martyn knows better.

Whatever it is that orchestrated this event, whatever those whispering creatures are that placed them here… They won’t be satisfied with four winners.

BigB doesn’t really seem the type to sink into bloodlust, but Martyn has no idea what he’ll do when his back hits the wall. Etho, Martyn hasn’t truly trusted since the start. Ren...

Ren's bloodlust is theater.

Ren loves Etho and BigB both, just as surely as he loved Skizz, just as surely as he loves Martyn. He was crushed to learn Impulse a traitor. He’ll be shattered to pieces to realize the truth of this game's ending, to hear their audience bray for him to spill the blood of his bannermen.

To take the life of one you love is an agony Martyn understands far too well. It’s not something he’d wish on anyone—not on his worst enemy, and certainly not on his dearest friends.

Least of all would he wish it on Ren, who wept even when covered in the blood of Scott and Joel, blood which he’d gleefully drawn himself moments before.

To win this game would fracture Ren beyond repair, leave him stranded without a single soul to help him pick up the pieces. To walk alone over the bodies of his friends would be a fate worse than death to Ren, one Martyn knew his King did not deserve

And, well.

After every Winter, that awful voice had said, there comes a Spring.

Were this a better world, Martyn would have gladly followed Ren to the ends of the Earth. In this, he’ll follow Ren to the end of the world.

As it stands, all Martyn can do is be happy he spent any time with the man at all.

As it stands, all Martyn can do is repay the man in the only way he knows how.

Martyn’s hand hovers over his sword, dripping red at his waist.

Their final battle, fittingly enough, lands them just outside the walls of Dogwarts. There’s still a hole in the door, but their home stands, mostly unscathed. Certainly, it’s made out better than Monopoly Mountain or the Crastle, both of which are more crater than structure by now.

When Martyn finds the rest of the army, they're clustered together a dozen paces from Dogwarts's front gate. BigB sits with his back against the mountain under his home, watching Martyn's approach with a smile and a wave. Ren has his arm around Etho’s shoulders, grinning with all his teeth. His smile hasn’t been the same since his head came off—the rolling and reattachment, Martyn suspects, must have shaken some tooth loose and left it all forever altered, forever off.

It unsettled Martyn at first, up until he realized Ren still laughs the same as always. That Ren’s wicked smile now softens on the edges, appearing almost like before, when he looks upon any of his men. That this is especially apparent when that man is Martyn, a privilege Martyn cherishes, has lived and died to be worthy of.

The edges of Ren’s smile soften, even now, as Martyn finds his way towards their little victory party. Martyn returns BigB's wave, Etho smacks Ren's back behind them, unhooking his arm from Ren with some happy send-off Martyn doesn't hear. Everything about Martyn’s job becomes instantly harder, yet all the more necessary, as Ren pulls his arm free from Etho and staggers over to Martyn’s side, tail wagging behind him.

“My Hand!” Ren’s hands are on Martyn’s shoulders immediately, and he feels Ren’s shaded eyes checking him up and down more than he sees them. He knows he looks worse for wear, but he also knows not all the blood is his own. “You’re all right? No grievous injuries we need to worry about?”

He feels Ren's eyes linger on a gash in his armor, his smile tugging down into a frown. Martyn pats at it with one of his hands, effectively covering it from Ren's view. He'd got it from Impulse, he thinks, wielding a sword enchanted with far more power than his battered chest plate could withstand. It had bled, but not enough to kill him, and a bite from a gleaming apple had cleared it right up.

“No. No, all good here,” Martyn says. "I had a couple close calls, and my armor needs some repairs, but I'm alright."

Ren’s smile returns, and it is all teeth, and Martyn would do anything to keep it all his life.

This, he thinks, will have to be the next best thing.

“Sweet. You had me worried for a bit there!” Ren laughs, squeezing Martyn's shoulders, only to remove his hands from Martyn entirely.

Then Ren leans forward, his arms out in a gesture Martyn has seen before. Martyn wants to let Ren sweep him up and hold him one last time, but he knows he won’t get a chance like this again. That he won't get the nerve again.

Martyn steps back, yanking his sword free from his hip and thrusting it upward, allowing Ren, trusting and open and rushing to meet him, to toss himself onto the blade.

It embeds itself eagerly through the front of Ren’s throat, threading under the scar Martyn left there just weeks before.

Ren chokes around diamond and blood, and Martyn thanks anything and everything that might be listening he can’t see Ren’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, m’lord. You have to understand,” Martyn says. His voice is even, compensating for hands that shake. Though his voice doesn’t sound it, he pleads for Ren to understand, “There could only ever be one winner.”

If Ren understands—if Ren even hears—Martyn will never know.

He rips the blade from Ren’s neck and, with a wet, gurgling cough, Ren collapses. Martyn doesn’t—can’t—look down, and with Ren out of the way, he sees Etho and BigB staring back at him. BigB has leapt to his feet, though there's nothing that either of them can do for their King now.

“Martyn?! How could you?!” BigB shouts, Martyn, mechanical, allows his sword to disappear from his hand, replacing it with his bow.

Etho’s eyes widen. His own shield, blood-red with Ren’s banner, materializes in his hand. BigB's hand hovers over the sword at his waist, but he hesitates.

“BigB, your shield!” Etho yells.

Neither of them are holding their weapons, not yet. Even now, they hesitate to draw any weapon on their friend.

Martyn loves them, and so, as his last gift both to them and to Ren, he won’t make them.

He draws back his bow.

Martyn is nowhere near the shot Ren had been, but his skills are nothing to scoff at, either. He looses an arrow, and perhaps luck is on his side, after all, as it sails between BigB’s eyes.

BigB sags against the stone behind him, smearing a line of blood on the rock face as he drops to the ground.

Etho lunges, shouting, sword in one hand and shield in the other. Martyn jumps back, calling forth his shield to block Etho’s second swing. He shoves it outward, throwing Etho off himself.

Martyn switches the shield to his left hand, freeing up his right. His axe appears, and with a practiced ease Martyn slams it down on Etho. Etho raises his shield, for all the good it does him.

Wood, Martyn finds, cracks far easier than bone, splitting the red banner straight down the center. Etho’s shield splinters apart with a loud, damning creak, revealing mismatched eyes burning with rage.

If looks could kill, Martyn is sure he would be dead.

As it would have it, axes are far more lethal.

Martyn swings again, slicing the axe through the side of Etho’s neck. It’s no clean, clear-through cut, but it doesn’t have to be. It only has to be enough.

And enough it is, but not quite. Raising the axe leaves Martyn vulnerable, and Etho is no amateur. He takes the opening to thrust his own weapon forward, pushing all his strength into one last blow.

It’s not clean, but it doesn’t have to be. It only has to be enough.

Etho's blade, clear and true, finds the gash in Martyn’s armor, sinking deep into the flesh below.

Etho slumps under the weight of Martyn’s axe. Martyn doesn’t bother to try to take it back as Etho falls, the blade embedded too deeply in Etho's flesh. He flails, releasing his sword, but the wound is fatal, even if Etho's razor-sharp eyes haven't noticed yet.

"I'm sorry," Martyn tells Etho. He hopes Etho will carry it to Ren and BigB, wherever the lot of them go.

Etho tries to reply, but his tongue seizes on the words, expelling blood rather than sound. Martyn gets the message.

Etho's sword comes loose from Martyn's stomach with barely a sound, save the involuntary suck of air that whistles between Martyn’s teeth. He drops it, then his chestplate, clattering against the sword when it hits the ground. Martyn rolls up his shirt, though he suspects what he’ll find even before he sees it.

The cut isn’t terribly wide, but it's deep. Without anything obstructing it, it bleeds easily. If Martyn isn't careful and doesn’t treat it soon, he’ll probably bleed to death.

Martyn doesn’t look down at the man fading away at his feet, though suddenly, Martyn is unbelievably grateful to him.

Perhaps Etho had understood. Perhaps he’d just wanted to make sure Martyn had no time to enjoy his victory. Martyn will never know, but whatever Etho had been thinking, Martyn can’t thank him enough.

Not that Martyn has time to. If he’s only got minutes to live, then Martyn has something far more pressing to tend to.

Holding one hand over his wound, Martyn turns, making his way back to Ren. The fight hadn't carried him far, at least, but with it over, adrenaline pumps less freely through him. Martyn already wants to rest, but he can’t afford it, not when he has no idea how long his strength will last.

Out of everyone in this world, Ren, he thinks, most deserves a proper burial. Failing that, Martyn can at least bring him the rest of the way home.

Martyn doesn’t look down as he trudges to Ren’s side, unwilling to look at his handiwork. Thankfully, he doesn’t need to. All he has to do is close his eyes and reach down, scooping Ren up into his arms.

Ren isn’t light, but Martyn isn’t weak, either. On a better day, he’d have been able to carry Ren… perhaps not effortlessly, but he'd certainly have managed it alright.

In his current state, Ren may as well weigh as much as the sky itself. Martyn shoulders him anyway. This is the closest thing to an apology he can offer Ren, and he refuses to compromise it. Besides, Ren is not the heaviest thing he has carried today.

Martyn stands, Ren in his arms, and he walks, one shambling foot over another.

The journey from the little field to Dogwarts’s half-destroyed door is not a far one, but with the adrenaline in Martyn’s blood leaking out of the gash in his side, each step Martyn is a greater trial. The idea of lying down tempts him, but he doesn’t dare entertain it. He'd shake it out of his head entirely if he had the energy to spare to twist his neck.

Martyn can’t even look down. To do so would be to look at Ren, and that, Martyn cannot do. Instead, he keeps his eyes trained on the familiar cobblestone walls closing in ahead, and he walks, one laborious foot over another.

Ren’s body has been cold to the touch ever since he went red, winter taking up residence in even his bones. Martyn had, in his own head, likened the feeling to that of a corpse, though he hadn't then known what that felt like.

As Ren’s head lolls into Martyn’s neck, Martyn realizes he’d been wrong. Ren had been cold, but it had been nothing like this. Ren’s cheek on his neck is like ice, a sharp, burning cold, taking accusatory snaps at the heat of Martyn's skin. Martyn thinks that Ren reaching up and slitting the skin there would hurt less.

He wouldn't know, of course. He fancies the idea that such a death would be so quick, the victim would never even feel it.

He can't ask, obviously, and so he walks, one trembling foot over another.

The gates of Dogwarts are a crater. They have been for weeks, though not since Grian first blasted it open has Martyn resented this fact quite as much as he does now. If he trips into the hole, he knows he won’t be able to pull himself back out, let alone Ren, and he has no desire to let Ren rest here two times over.

Martyn picks his way around the crater as best he can, staggering and stumbling over dirt and stone, balancing his way across the skinny shelf hanging over the crater’s edge. Sweat beads on his brow, but the tie in his hair keeps it from moving any further down his face, a small but wonderful mercy.

Martyn's legs shake. One of Ren's dangling legs bumps his thigh, and through the boot Martyn imagines shocks of ice rocketing up and down the meat of his leg. He squeezes Ren just a bit tighter against himself, bracing his hands against the ice of Ren's flesh, and he soldiers on, one shuddering foot over another.

Stepping over the threshold with Ren in his arms is all the cue his body needs to give up. Martyn's arms sag against his will, then seize with the effort to regain control. He can't hold Ren a moment longer—he barely has enough control of his limbs to allow Ren a semi-graceful descent into a carrot patch rather than just dropping him into the dirt.

Martyn sinks to his knees, bent over Ren, and he closes his eyes so as not to meet his King’s. They're so close, so close, his legs can't abandon him now.

Ren spent a lot of time tending to his field, sure, fond and diligent, and Martyn can think or worse places to leave the body of his King. But this it not where the Red King will rest, not if Martyn has the ability to stand, not if there's anything left in Martyn's body to do about it.

Ren isn’t a carrot, for crying out loud. He's a King!

Without standing, Martyn shuffles over to Ren's head. He hooks his hands under Ren’s armpits. He braces himself, closing his eyes and taking just a moment to double over, pressing his forehead to Ren's below him. The chill he feels against him this time is, mercifully, that of Ren's crown, the cold metal still sticky even now.

Martyn takes a long, steeling breath, in his nose and out of his mouth. Ren's hair smells metallic and salty, mixed with blood and sweat, and as Martyn exhales, he can picture the way Ren's ears would twitch under the affectionate, ruffling hand of a strong breeze.

His heart aches, his side throbs, his eyes burn. His shoulders sag, then hitch, the movement catching on something thick clotting up his throat.

Martyn is so very tired.

He forces himself to his feet, his knees wailing in protest. The cut in his side spits furiously at being strained. He's tired, but more than that, he's close. He's crossed this lawn a thousand times, and he won't let a bit of blood loss keep him from crossing it one more time.

Thus, Martyn begins the arduous and undignified process of dragging his King across their lawn.

Martyn watches over his shoulder as their final destination draws nearer and nearer. One foot, another foot, over and over, Ren weighing behind him.

When Martyn's heel catches on the first step, he thinks he could weep with relief.

Martyn drags Ren’s body up the short stairs, to the doors of what had once been Renchanting. It’s empty now, save for a few chests and a crafting table, as well as a third of its roof, splintered across its floor.

More than that, though, it’s home. It’s the place he had first met Ren, the heart of the Kingdom that Ren had built with his own two hands. From inside Renchanting's fence-post walls, Martyn can see all of Dogwarts. Every rolling carrot-top field, all the stone walls and spruce pillars, every dirt path and gentle podzol pocket. He can see the little campfire over the hill, and the iron golems loitering around it, cracked and limping.

Beneath it is their base of operations. Their stores and their treasures, their secret rooms and winding mines. Below him he can hear the muffled humming of villagers at work, the eager bleating of Ren's sheep. They'll look after each other, he hopes, though it's out of either of their hands now whether or not it actually happens.

Renchanting is the center of everything the two of them worked for. If Ren must rest, Martyn will make sure he does so inside—where everything started, it too shall end.

For only a moment, Martyn releases Ren with one hand to shove the doors open. Pressure plates click beneath them as he drags Ren across the threshold, shutting himself and Ren inside their wooden mausoleum. He lies Ren down in the center, in a clear patch, and finally lets his King go.

All his energy finally spent, Martyn drops once more to his knees at Ren’s side. His vision is swimming, draining in the corners, and all he wants to do is collapse. With nothing left to keep him upright, he does, pitching to the side. What little control is left in him he uses to guide his descent, resting himself beside his King.

For the first time since Ren fell, Martyn looks into Ren's face.

Ren lies on his back, his head tilted toward Martyn. His crown is coming loose, and though it hasn't yet fallen off his head, it's slid enough to mess up Ren's already-rumpled hair. One ear droops lamely over the crown, revealing the clean white fur underneath.

Blood smears all down Ren's neck and chest, across his flesh and staining the shirt below it. The red fabric does nothing to hide the blood, bright red contrasting sharply against wine-dark. The cut on his throat still dribbles a viscous, clotting stream onto the wooden planks below him, but it's slow. It'll stop soon, Martyn thinks, but he won't live to see it.

Ren's sunglasses are gone, though Martyn has no idea when he lost them. Their absence reveals wide, red eyes. By some small miracle, whatever look he’d had when he’d died has slackened off his features. Martyn reaches one trembling, feeble hand across the space, closing Ren’s eyes.

He pulls his hand back, glancing down at the space between them. One of Ren's hands lies, palm down, by Ren's waist, and Martyn allows himself the small comfort of using the last of his strength to chase it down. Martyn locks his fingers in Ren's, squeezing once, and closes his eyes.

Ren’s hand, he notices, drifting away, doesn’t feel quite so cold.