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Martyn can feel it when it happens. It hits him like a sudden plunge into freezing waters, a hard shock to every nerve. He'll never get to process how visceral it was, never understand how or why he was struck with such vertigo and an intense burst of grief without having yet seen the cause. All he will ever know is that something shattered within him, fragmented to pieces and left an empty space behind, sent him sprinting blindly through smoke and flame to where his body somehow knew he needed to go.
It all makes sense when he rounds past the now-scorched remains of Dogwarts and sees him there—Ren lain flat amongst the mud and trampled crops, his own hands locked tight around his throat. An arrow protrudes between his fingers, the damage in its wake drenching his neck and chest in an all-too-familiar shade of red. The world around Martyn goes dull and muted, slowed into a sundered daze, and it's only when Ren jerks to look in his direction that Martyn realizes he’s screamed his throat raw.
At first, Ren looks scared. It's impossible to think that the man who bowed before Martyn all that time ago could ever be afraid to die, even now. But then Ren's eyes find him like they always do, red-ringed and beautiful, and that fear fades away. Suddenly, briefly, it's just the two of them again, no war and no worries, no frost beneath their boots.
With great strain, Ren smiles at Martyn and lifts a hand from his neck, reaching for him from across the field. Martyn stumbles to meet him, crashing into the dirt halfway and pushing himself up onto rubble-scraped arms to crawl to Ren's side.
“My liege,” Martyn starts, voice rough and tremulous. He sits on bruised knees and lifts his shaking hands towards him. The sharp tang of meat and copper permeates his senses. “M’lord… Ren–”
Ren opens his mouth as if to speak, but all that follows is gurgling and blood splatter. It pulls a shocked sob from Martyn's chest, leaving him abruptly and selfishly aware that he would never get to hear Ren's voice again.
“You and me. It was supposed to be you and me.”
Ren’s hand, sticky and warm, rises and finds the side of Martyn's face. His thumb brushes along Martyn’s cheek with gentleness as he tries to wipe away the tears there, but every stroke smears crimson along his skin. Martyn knows it's an apology.
Martyn closes his eyes tightly and reaches up to hold Ren's hand against his face, right where it belongs. It reminds him of seldom-quiet mornings when he would wake first and detangle himself from Ren’s embrace to sit up and watch him slumber. He’d brush the hair from Ren’s forehead and trace his face with reverent eyes, committing every dip and mark and blemish to memory. Ren always did look gorgeous in the candlelight, with his copper-silver hair free from its tie and a serenity about him Martyn saw less and less as the end drew ever closer. Martyn woke him up many times like that, leisurely bringing Ren's hand to his cheek and turning to kiss his palm until he stirred.
When Martyn opens his eyes again, Ren's have closed. The hand beneath his own is limp and still. Martyn cradles it along the curve of his jaw, presses Ren’s fingers firm with his own, and pretends—just for a moment—that it's another one of those mornings right before dawn. That soon Ren’s other hand will find him and pull him back down into his arms, and his rich, rumbling voice will murmur against his neck to beg for five more minutes beneath their blankets. It's a small mercy that he looks as peaceful as he does, quiet and reposed, having passed with the solace of having Martyn by his side. Martyn rests Ren's hand down upon his stomach, squeezing it as if for comfort. For whose, he couldn't say.
The sound of war rages on. Martyn's eyes don't leave Ren's face. He does not have the means to bury him, nor the time for the ceremony such a radiant life deserves. What Martyn does instead is unfasten the clasp of the tattered, gray cloak that Ren always wore, pulling the stained material up just enough to tuck under Ren's jaw and hide the wound that took him. He rakes quick fingers through Ren's hair, brushes it from his face for the last time, then leans to press his lips against his head.
“To the end.”
Martyn's tears, red hot with heartbreak, fall freely as he stands and turns to face the men who took everything from him, a long-standing promise fulfilled. They've spent this time celebrating, cheering for the death of the man who showed him life.
There is no winning here for Martyn. He could steal the final lives of every last remaining person in this world and it wouldn't change a thing.
The Hand readies himself with his axe and shield, the only remnants of a once-modest shop and a once-ambitious man. Blood dries to his face like warpaint, the last bit of his King that can follow him into battle one more time. He spares a glance around the ruins of his home, where his life began and so shall end, then marches off to meet his fate.
Spring follows soon after.