Drowning

Drowning

This had happened before, he thinks, in another life.

He was cold.

When he opened his eyes, it was to a dark sky—the only light the full moon hanging in the sky, but it was bright enough.

Bright enough to see that he was back on the godforsaken black heart altar, kneeling off center on the cursed thing, in a congealing pool of blood.

For some reason, the blood didn’t disappear like the body—Ren’s body—had.

He wished it had. It was a reminder of how badly he had fucked it up, how he hadn’t made it a clean kill—it probably hurt Ren, was probably why he hadn’t respawned yet. 

He couldn’t bear to stand, walk through Dogwarts knowing that Ren might not be there anymore, he might’ve just ruined it all, all for a chance that this book Ren had found had the right idea—that summoning a blood god for help was their only hope. 

The sun was just creeping over the horizon when he heard footsteps, but he didn’t look up—too afraid that the cold had gotten to him, that it was a hallucination—or perhaps it was someone coming to ask why he’d killed Ren, drag him off for the illegal move.

The hands that touched him were, if it was possible, even cooler than the air surrounding them, and it made him flinch, even as he allowed those hands to cup his face, guide him so that he was looking up, to meet the (red, blood red) eyes of Ren. 

No, not Ren. The Red King.

“Arise, laddy, ye have done well.”

Martyn stared up at him, blinked disbelievingly, but when the shape didn’t waver, nor did the hands on him, he nodded, and clumsily rose, feeling his knees ache in protest at finally moving after hours of nothing.

As he stood though, he noticed the scar—a jagged, ugly thing, that would tell all who saw it that he had failed—this was a scar that showed clearly how it had come about, and Martyn opened his mouth to apologize—

But was swiftly silenced. “Shush, lad. Ye need not apologize for doing as ye were bid. But I’m afraid that the test isn’t over quite yet.”

Martyn blinked out of it, realizing how close they were, and fumbled at his scabbard, as if he thought he needed to defend himself—but the hands cupping his cheeks hadn’t strayed, feeling warmer by the minute.

His lungs burned, though. Maybe it came from staving off a panic attack, but he was going to power through it, be strong for Ren, who’d need it.

He couldn’t even think about it anymore when a sharp pain sliced through it, and it was clear what had happened, when Ren’s grip on his face tightened, before releasing, taking a step back. 

“Now you shall make a terrible choice, Hand,” he announced, still in that weirdly formal tone. “Are ye with the Red King to the end, or do you take Dogwarts for yourself? Make your choice, lad. Make. Your. Choice.”

The slice on his cheek was dripping blood, mirroring the blood on Ren's claw, as his hand went to his sword’s hilt at the pain, but at Ren’s words, he paused.

His hands and mouth began working before he could, unbuckling his scabbard and dropping it on the ground as he spoke, words bubbling out breathlessly, seeming familiar in his mouth—

The buzzing in his ears hadn’t stopped either making it hard to hear himself even think, but it was okay, Ren was striding back up to him to cup his face again, his thumb rubbing at the cut on his cheek, his eyes nearly glowing as he kept eye contact, pulling back to lick at the blood on his thumb—

The burning feeling in his lungs wasn’t going away—why wasn’t it going away? His king was alive and whole in front of him, had accepted his fealty—he should be happy, why was it so hard to breathe? 

He felt arms wrap around his waist—that couldn’t be right, Ren’s hands were on his face, what?—and they began dragging him away. (Martyn? Martyn—guys—) He fought against them, trying to get back to his king, who was fading away, like he never had been—

They breached the water, and Martyn began coughing up water as Jimmy smacked his back, and it was hard to hear him over the ringing in his ears, but he got the gist that he was worried, oddly enough.

“Cranky I got your kill?” Martyn managed to wheeze out, still feeling the sting of the water in his lungs, which made Jimmy squawk. 

He could tell Jimmy was coming up on a rant, and he was happy for that—he could let it go in one ear out the other while he figured out how to make excuses, go find Scott.

He had to be sure he came back right.