Chapter Text
He opens his eyes at the sound of a familiar voice, blinking the light spots out.
He’s standing back in Dogwarts -or something similar enough to Dogwarts that he recognizes it as such. Different walls greet him, wooden now, but the roof is the same. The air feels calmer as if the world itself knows that, one way or the other, it’s all finally over.
He shuts his eyes again at the thought, unable to stop a few tears of relief from slipping from his eyes. Taking a moment just to breathe, he focuses on inhaling and exhaling, letting some of the anger and fear float away on his breath.
When he opens his eyes again, he gives the room a good look wondering why this of all things has been changed. Wanting to understand.
Instead of armor and weapons, he can see books lining the walls. He’s not sure how but he knows that these books are only available here. The shelves reach the ceiling with one or two ladders in place to reach the higher of the shelves.
The room is bathed in golden hour light, soft and gentle. It’s warm too, and the heat has him confused for a second. A glance out the open door gives away that it’s far past spring and moving swiftly into summer. Tulips dot the hills outside.
He’s not sure why he had assumed there would be no sense of smell after he died, but he’s pleasantly surprised when the scent of old books and something sugary greets his nose. The wooden walls give the faint scent of living things as if the trees that replaced the stone did so happily.
Drawing his hand along the spines of the books, he forgets for a moment why he opened his eyes in the first place.
Each book is hand-bound, clearly a collection, someone’s life’s work. Some are enchanted, the magic familiarly humming under his hands. The rest are old books, incredible journeys, discussions of love, poems. Dust doesn’t dare land on these books; it knows the careful hands that will come along and sweep it away if it does.
He pulls one off the shelf, a newer one, the book’s binding fading from the brown of a bow into the deep black of damage arrows. Flipping through, he skims the words.
It’s a tale of a liar, a backstabber, a man afraid. Flipping towards the end, a passage catches his eye, speaking of a bookseller and his lover.
“The depths of their affection shone plainly. I loved my kingdom, I did, but they would die for it. I knew then that if the three of us made it to the end, it would be them against me. So I will not ask their forgiveness if I win; I will ask their pity.”
No.
He closes the book, shoving it back onto the shelf and picking up the one next to it with shaking hands. This one is the bright red of the red names, the ombre that drifts downward, getting lighter and lighter until it looks like it’s emitting a faint light that mimics the light he’d seen just moments ago. He flips through right to the end.
“I don’t think we’ll have forever here, but not even the stars spend forever in the sky.”
He flips a few pages back, throat closing with emotion. Surely it’s not them.
“I can see him now, approaching over the hill. I think he’ll like what I’ve done with the place. I’m not much of a builder, but I tried to learn; I’ve got time now to learn, for Scott.”
The book almost falls out of his hands.
It’s barely a shelf, but the books nearby are bound in a way that makes each clear what story they tell. Greens and golds sit next to blues and purples, each given the same amount of care, each built to last.
There’s still so much he doesn’t understand, but some things click, some missing pieces of him gently settle into the cracks. They’re here with him.
“Beautiful.” He murmurs. He never thought Dogwarts would be beautiful.
“I wish it could have been like this when we were alive.”
He’s turning in an instant at the sound of Ren’s voice. If there’s any way he’s been this lucky…
A table sits in the middle of the room with two glasses on it, full of a shimmering liquid that looks like molten gold. Somehow he knows that when the glass is empty, he moves on to wherever is after this in-between place.
Across the table sits Ren, armorless and looking at him like he’ll never get enough of the sight.
“My king.” He breathes, throwing every ounce of love he can into the words.
“My…” Ren smiles fondly, tilts his head, and starts the sentence over -or maybe he’s not starting the sentence over, “Martyn.”
And they have time, they finally have time, so Martyn slowly crosses the room towards him. He takes in every detail as Ren, still with a look of disbelief, stands to meet him.
He’s more relaxed than Martyn’s ever seen him, eyes trusting and affectionate where they still haven’t looked away. His smile is open and honest as he lets him approach, unafraid. Ren’s scars are still there, a pattern describing his life, and he reaches out to touch them, maybe finally get closure in a place where Ren doesn’t have to guess if he’s telling the truth.
They don’t touch. Instead, his hand phases through to nothingness.
He sighs, too tired to feel upset right now, and takes a seat in one of the chairs.
“Oh,” Ren murmurs, sitting back down as well, “I should have known there would be a catch to seeing you again.”
“There’s always something, isn’t there?” There had always been something. A deadly game, too much hurt, not enough time.
“I’m sorry.” He looks up to see Ren shaking his head and looking down at where he has the glass clutched tightly in his hands, “I tried, you know? This is always what I wanted Renchanting to be. Somewhere safe.”
Taking a sip of the mead, warm and pleasant, he contemplates. All the time in the world. All the time, to be honest, to be angry, to be so utterly human that they end up hating each other. He wants to kiss him everywhere and hates that they can’t touch even now.
“I forgot you’d named it that in the beginning.” He hums, trying to keep his mind focused, “Don’t be a dog, be a god. Feeling particularly godlike?”
Ren laughs, “I’m feeling like a bit of a fool for trying to take on Scar alone.”
“I didn’t know this was what you imagined.” Martyn changes the subject, nothing they can do about that now, “I had assumed you wanted something that looked a little more like a shop.”
“For the enchanting books, yeah.” Ren looks around the room, and Martyn notices the way his face seems gentler than it had been when they were alive like it’s only now that he’s relaxing, “The rest I don’t think I would have parted with.”
“I… didn’t know you liked books that much.” He’s not sure why it sounds like an apology when it comes out, “I had assumed you were just playing the game.”
“It’s alright,” Ren answered his unsaid fears, “We didn’t have the time to talk about stuff like that.”
“I know.” He shakes his head, wishing he could take Ren’s hand, just once more, “I wish we had won, we… gosh we were so close, weren’t we?” Ren goes quiet, and he amends, “I mean, we would have had to fight each other, but I’d rather die at your hand than Scar’s, as morbid as it is.” His voice trails off all on its own, “And we could have waited, for a bit. Talked about things like that… before…”
He’s sure they would have talked beforehand. He knows he would have bared his soul; confessed until the words stopped feeling real. Somehow they would have been able to fight. But not before they really knew each other.
“You wouldn’t have died.” And he sounds so sure, too sure. He doesn’t make eye contact when Martyn looks up.
“Well,” he lets his voice get angry, “What on earth do you mean by that?”
They both know what he means.
That’s when Ren looks up, guilt and anguish written in the lines of his face, “You cared for me that whole time. You did everything I needed and then everything I asked, even when I asked you to betray me. You offered…” he trails off, grimaces, and Martyn knows what he’s thinking as if he’s the one thinking it himself. “And I denied. I tried to make it easier to betray you in the end; I promise I tried. Even then…” he shrugs, as if he’s not talking about throwing the last fight, “I don’t think I could have done it.”
He kicks his chair under the table, happy that he can at least unbalance him if he can’t hold him close, “You would have left me with that?” he accuses, “Killing you?”
It’s pettiness that brings the glass to his lips, and he chugs the drink, wanting desperately to leave before new wounds open inside him. It goes down like smooth glass, hot as fire. One would be wrong to think the afterlife is the one place free of pain.
Reaching out, Ren tries to catch his hand in his own. It lands on the table instead.
“Don’t do that, Martyn.” He urges, “Don’t make our last moments together angry ones.”
Despite the hurt, he’s right. The glass hits the table, half empty. They both sit back in their chairs.
They’re back at stalemate.
“Did you love me?” Martyn asks, still angry. Hurt sits under the anger, quiet and afraid, fingers clutching the glass ready to drink again, “And not like a friend or a kingdom,” he spits the word out, “Did you love me like I loved you?”
“Will you believe me if I answer honestly?” Ren shoots back, “Or have I lost your trust that quickly?”
His heart pulls. Funny, he wasn’t sure it could do that here. “I don’t know if it matters anymore. We’re already dead.”
“It matters,” The sincerity with which Ren speaks draws his eyes up. Ren’s fiddling with his own glass, but he doesn’t look unsure, just anxious, “I swear it matters.”
“If we could do it all over-”
He’s not even through the question when Ren speaks, gaze soft but voice fierce, “I would have kissed you, that day in the forest. Picking apples.” He chuckles, but he doesn’t seem to find it funny, “I would have held you when you ran from the mines. I wouldn’t have asked you-” He looks like he wants to leave the sentence there, but he pushes on. “I wouldn’t have ever asked you to kill me. I would have told you that everything you felt, I felt too.” He trails off, looks away, “And we would have died because of it.”
“Well,” Martyn informs him, “We died anyway, didn’t we?”
“I-” Ren swallows, “I thought I would hurt less than this.”
There’s no way to tell if it would have hurt less. They’ve got nothing to compare it to.
They sit quietly together.
“I’m still glad I get to see you.” Ren offers an olive branch quietly.
He sighs, “Me too.”
His eyes catch on their glasses, somehow both too full and too empty at the same time.
“You know eventually we have to leave, right?” He murmurs, wanting it to be too quiet to hear.
“Not until we’re both ready.” It seems strange that Ren’s saying it as he takes a sip, but he lets it slide. There’s still a lot left in his glass for now.
“I don’t think I’m ever going to be ready.” He admits. There’s still too much that he needs to say, and not a word of it comes to mind.
“Then we’ll stay here.” Ren gives him a small smile, “But eventually we do go.”
Martyn tilts his head, confused.
“I read the beginning of a couple of books while I was waiting. I don’t know how, but I knew you were on your way.” He takes a deep breath, “There’s more of the same after this.”
“No,” Martyn whispers.
“I didn’t get to look far before the books disappeared,” Ren amends, “I don’t think I’m supposed to know what happens. Just that it does.”
“Can’t believe you got to look at all, honestly.” He’s not sure why he doesn’t feel angry at the knowledge. Maybe defeat. But not anger. “I’m going to miss you.” He whispers, “But if what comes after this is more of the same, I hope I never see you. In fact, I think I’ll make my own army. And then,” He’s spiraling into fantasy now, but he needs it so badly that he doesn’t stop, “Then, I’ll do what Impulse did, and I’ll just betray them all.”
Ren laughs in a way that says he doesn’t quite believe him, “Solid plan. I hope the next time we meet in battle, you betray me of your own accord.”
“I will,” he grins through the way the idea brings water welling up behind his eyes, “I’ll make it hurt too.”
“I think I’ll take everyone down by myself.” Ren hums, “No alliances, no friends, no one to betray at the end.”
This time it’s Martyn who laughs. The two of them liars until -even after -the end. “Nah, you couldn’t; you’re as loyal as I am.”
“I couldn’t,” Ren sheepishly admits, “But it would be so much easier if I could.”
“Wouldn’t be worth it, though.” He challenges, “Knowing you did it all for nothing.” He means to stop there, but his mouth opens of its own accord, “I wish I could kiss you, or just touch you, just once more, even if it’s the last time we ever touch. We-” His voice cracks, “We never did get anything gentle.”
Something pulls when he says it in a way that makes his stomach lurch. Ren must feel it too, with the way he keels over and grabs his hand to steady himself. It feels like an earthquake that resonates just within his body, turning his vision white and shaking his bones in ways no bone is supposed to shake.
When the feeling passes, the drinks are gone. Ren’s hand is warm in his own. One exit replaced by another. They both stand, shocked.
Blinking, unsure if it’s real, he brings a shaking hand up. He’s afraid at the end of it all that Ren isn’t real, that it’s all been a cruel lie.
He means to touch his face, but something else in him is ready for healing. The scars from the axe are still raised and angry looking, but the skin there is still just skin when he touches it. He laughs quietly, wondering why his mind had ever told him differently. Slowly he steps closer, taking his face in both of his hands and taking a second to just hold him.
Ren takes longer to recover, mouth agape for a few seconds before returning the gesture, tracing the poison scars under his eyes with his thumbs.
“Hi.” He breathes, relishing the way he feels under his hands.
“I love you.” Ren responds like he’s been holding it back long enough that the chains keeping it in rusted and snapped, “I-” His voice breaks, “I’m so sorry.”
Maybe there’s something about the way that the fighting’s finally all over. The things they did, still painful, move away from where they’ve been collapsing his lungs for far too long.
He takes a breath in, then a second to make sure he’s sure, “I forgive you.”
Laughter, bright and dazzling, leaves Ren’s lips, and it’s a second before his own joins in. It takes reaching the afterlife but finally, he can feel all the cracked bits of him filled with gold. Maybe it was something in the drink. He brushes his thumbs across Ren’s skin, not sure he’ll ever get enough of touching him.
“Thank you.” Ren breathes.
They both go still, letting peace wash over them. It feels fitting that they’re in Dogwarts. Finally, it’s a place for healing instead of hurt.
“Impulse thought-” He laughs, unsure as to why he finds it funny but sure that it is, “That we wouldn’t hurt each other in the end. It’s why he left.”
Ren chuckles, “Etho thought a similar thing.”
That’s news to Martyn, “Was he planning a betrayal?”
Shaking his head, Ren gives him a conspiring look, “No, he was sure he could beat the both of us in a battle.”
Martyn laughs, “You know, good for him.”
This time, it’s laughter that draws them into each other’s arms, bright and beautiful and healing in ways Martyn was almost sure didn’t exist.
“Ready to go?” Ren asks eventually, pulling back to look at him. His thumb traces Martyn’s bottom lip, and he shivers at the touch, still undone even now.
This time he almost means it when he says, “I don’t think I ever will be.” Not now. Not when he’s finally able to touch him like he wants. Slow and gentle, treating him like he’s precious.
“Me neither.” Ren lies, but they’re already close enough that he can feel his breath on his lips and now there’s really no going back.
Their lips brush softly at first. Ren makes a little hum noise, and Martyn mimics it against his lips. He smells like apples and honey, he thinks fondly, wonders if he’ll ever know if he tastes like them too.
Ren tilts his head a little with his hands, and he thinks he gets a hint of honey, but he’s really not sure, so he tries to pull him closer in response. It’s dizzying, being this close to him, finally kissing him. It feels like floating in nothingness and everything all at once.
He knows they’re supposed to only get the one kiss, but he’s ignored the rules before.
When they pull back, there’s just enough time to smile and steal one more peck under the petulant eyes of the universe before the light swells again.