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He lies on his back, staring up at the sky. Y’know, after weeks of staring at it, it’s become so clear to Martyn that it’s not real. It’s almost funny how they never noticed before - how they never noticed that nothing in this place is real - how they never noticed that there’s nothing beyond the border and that the stars are just the silver eyes of Watchers staring down on him.
The clouds glitch, flickering out in lines of purple and lime green code. Martyn sighs. It’s getting worse. Maybe it’s time to try dying again. He curls onto his side. The bloody remains of bodies lie across the ground, as far as he can see from his spot in the grass. They’re utterly ravaged, torn apart by the teeth of a siren driven to insanity.
He shudders with the memory and blinks the visions away, rolling onto his back again. The coral that digs into his skull hurts like hell as he smashes the back of his head into the dirt and groans. Raising his wrist above his eyeline, he looks at the ever-frozen red number on his wrist. He’s so tired. It’s been fuck knows how long, and he’s still here. Alone. It’s what he deserves for backstabbing his partners. Well- exes now, Martyn supposes. Why would Impulse and Scott want to stay with someone who betrayed them, and tore their bodies to pieces with his teeth?
Rhetorical question. There’s no way in hell that they would. Not even they’re delusional enough for that.
The siren mutters up to the sky, “M’lord, we’re really in it now…”
As if in response, bright purple lightning slashes across the sky - the axe of red winter arcing downwards.
The stars laugh, as They often do.
Martyn wishes for the millionth time that he was in on the joke.
A cloak, soaked in blood to the point of almost being black settles across the sky; blocking all Their eyes.
All their eyes, but a cluster of six.
Martyn feels the pinpricks of light that are masking as stars staring into his soul. He shudders, squeezing his eyes shut and curling himself up tighter. Somehow, it feels much more… personal, when it’s just one Watcher analysing him.
Like he’s not a joke or pet, but something beloved and understood. While his being’s still being dissected and put onto display, it feels softer. Almost kinder.
But not kind.
Martyn sighs.
“Why so sorrowful, me hand?”
It sounds so real. Martyn knows this isn’t really his king, his Ren, no matter how much he wishes; it’s just a shoddy hallucination of his voice. But it still sounds so
real
.
He doesn’t want to look. He wants to curl up and finally be allowed to go somewhere else.
“Hand, you know I would never hurt thee. Raise thou eyes.”
Maybe tears prick at Martyn’s eyes when he raises them to see the figure.
The first thing he sees is Ren. It’s his Ren; his hair a mess, golden crown propped up on his ear haphazardly. A silver coated sword hangs at his side, rust almost indistinguishable to the dried blood. The tattered cloak Martyn spent nights slaving over is now mended, billowing behind Ren in an invisible wind.
A sickly red scar is painfully visible across his neck. Martyn’s mouth feels dry.
The second thing he sees is that Ren has six eyes, silvery and shining with Their light.
He scrambles back against a tree, curling into himself even more. Glaring up at Ren- the Watcher, Martyn holds back the urge to sob as his soul is scrutinised. Awkwardly, the Watcher coughs,
“Hello again, me hand.”
They still sound like him. Saltwater tears pool in his eyes. It’s his king - the man he trusted his life in and the man he killed and the man he died for - but it’s not. Not anymore.
When did They take him? When did this happen? Has Ren actually been the Watcher that tortured him the whole ‘game’? Bile creeps up Martyn’s throat as his traitorous mind wonders if Ren was always… this.
He wouldn’t put it past Them. To make him fall in love with one of… Them.
“Wh- when did this happen?”
Martyn asks, screwing his eyes up again. It hurts to look at the
thing
that was once his lover, and he doesn’t want to risk being under the power that comes from looking into a Watcher’s eyes.
Ren’s sigh mixes with his low grumbling laugh; his cloak swishing and sending a small burst of wind into Martyn’s face as he crouches down in front of Martyn, “Since the night of the altar,”
The siren’s breath catches in his throat. A lone tear slips down his face. The ghost of Ren’s arms on that night hold him close as he shies further away from the Watcher. The Watcher (There’s no way Martyn can admit this was his Ren. That would be giving in) continues,
“Thank you, my Martyn. You saved me, allowed me to ascend. Now, kneel as I take my sword of winter and help you join me.”
No. There’s no way.
Martyn feels his mind shatter. There’s no way. There’s no way! Incredulous laughter spills from his mouth: high pitched and loud and insane. He can’t have been the one who ascended Ren to Watcherhood.
The Ren that comforted him when he sobbed over the corpse of yellow-life-Ren couldn’t have been turning into a Watcher.
The Ren that let him stay in arm’s reach for the next week couldn’t have been halfway to being a deity physically unable of feeling kindness.
But deep down, Martyn knows he was.
And he knows it explains everything.
The coldness of the Red King.
Ren’s absence this game.
The glimmers of purple that flickered around the Red King.
How Ren knew things that he had no way of finding out.
Martyn feels broken, the laughs that flow from his mouth having morphed to sobs as his world falls apart and slots back together in a way that makes so much more sense, but feels so much worse.
“No, no no no no no no- you can’t be- no-”
Not even thinking through the consequences, Martyn raises his head and pleadingly meets Ren’s eyes.
The silver glow feels like a gut punch. The cloak across the sky is pulled away and hundreds of eyes begin to Watch him again. He screams as-
Martyn Littlewood was claimed by the W̸̨̢̯̰̥̯͍̳̼̳̳͎̯̮̻͍̩̞͓̹̥̪̯̭͕̦̙̣̥̺̯͈̙͚̼̪̫̙̹̞̞͈̉͌̇̌͂̓̈́̀͗̾͒̈́̒͑̓̿̐͋͊̎̌̊̀̕͜͜͜͠á̵̧̡̨̰̘̤͕̦̞͍̺͇͉͔̟̖̳̣̘̣̼̱̄̀̿̂̈̑̓͋͗̕͝ͅͅẗ̴̢̡̨̧̧̧̟̮̩̭̭̳̬̳͍̗̘̳͎̳̩͓̰͔̞͔̞͈̳́͊́̑͑̓̀̋̈́̆̿̇̃̏̓́͊̒̉̾̈̓̚̕̕͜ͅͅc̷̨̛̛̛̣͍̰͎̱͎͚͇̪̩͙̜͈̠̤͈̞̺͗́͛̓̾̔̈́̌̆̑̊̀͌͌̈́̀̄̔͐̿͗̈́̍̄͊̋̅̏̅̆͐̒͂́̂̚͝͝h̶̢̡̢̛̛̛͚̙͍̺̺̮̦̰̱͇͇͖̦̰̠̟̪̝̞͇͈̬̰̝̗̠̻͎̼̤͖̦͈͚̒̀̈̊̍̐̐̀̂̆̓̈́̈́͗̍͆̇̈́̏́̏̎͑̄̕̚͠ͅͅe̸̡̢̧̨̗͎̼̼͙͔̠̥͓̟͈͍̩̣͙͍̬͓̘̿́͘͜͜͜͠ŕ̷̢̡̢̢̛̛̞͖̲̼̗̙̙̞͉̱͙̗̦͖̫̝͈̯̜̭̱͉̰̹̙̖̱͇̀̑̃̃̂̅̎́͋͒͊̀͋̾́͌͛̉͌̈͋̏͛̚̕̕̕s̷̨̨̡̰̲̰̞̠̘̪̩̺̰̟̮̬̈̑̒͂̿͌́̄̀͘͠