Chapter Text
Martyn is no stranger to being an outsider, a runaway.
Almost every week, or less, he finds himself in another place where everyone knows each other except him.
It is, ironically, familiar to him. His little song-and-dance, waltzing through the lands searching for food and a roof over his head.
So the day he finds a home for himself sticks out as an eventful memory for him, as far as things go.
Martyn is a runaway from every place, a someone who's never been remembered—or cared enough about to stay.
Martyn's hungry. He's been hungry his whole life. He doesn't know if there was a time he wasn't. Maybe he was born hungry.
He needs a place out of this- of this life.
(He's only an outsider to people. The ground he walks on knows him, and the wind may be the only one to remember him.)
He finds himself in a tavern.
Martyn is not a beggar. Martyn is a survivalist—not out of choice, but by fate. He knows nothing but the hunger in his stomach and the ache in his bones, and the calloused palms of his hands.
Maybe he can do some labor in exchange for food?
The pub workers seem a little busy, so he sits on a table waiting for a good time.
This is the day everything changes. No—his hunger doesn't end, just not now, at least. But this is a story. The story. Big scenes and set pieces, one hit after another, and a little (lot) of tragedy pinched in, the whole game. And really, it’s got to be like that, hasn’t it? No good story’s boring, or it stays unsung. Martyn never liked those songs.
So his life changes.
Then, three people he's never met in his life—officially—but three people he's known ever since, joins his table.
He makes no move to acknowledge them, only a small ‘hnk.’
“Martyn,” the blue-haired man says. He's wearing a short sleeved collared shirt, flowy, beige with blue and brown trim. He sits down comfortably on the wooden chair, smoothing his pants.
“Hm? Oh yeah,” he replies, lamely. “Hello, Scott.”
The three people in identical clothes look. Ancient.
But they are not the elderly ancient.
They simply look like they've been here for a good while, longer than we think they've been. They have eyes that tell a history of stories, and ears that keep secrets centuries past.
They look like magic.
Three sets of eyes focus on him. Two blue, and one velvet green.
The women sit on Scott's side each, backs all facing the entrance, leaving Martyn cornered.
“You don't sound happy to see us.” Pearl, the brunette, says. She places her hands on the table, picking at her fingers.
“How's life, Martyn?” The ginger, Cleo, asks. There is no genuine malice in her tone, but still.
“Which answer do you want?” He replies, voice stripped bare and monotone.
The three smile.
“Okay, well! Nothing's the same anymore,” he goes on. “it’s—I don't know. It's going. I never thought I'd get this far, or that I'd get anywhere at all.”
He fixes up the collar of his scruffy black coat and sighs.
“And I don't even have a chance to rest and complain about it properly. Tonight, after I eat, I'll leave again.” He explains.
(Will he eat, however? Or will he be left waiting for his meeting with death.
He cannot live like this. He cannot live, period.)
“There's not really much you can do, is there?” Pearl asks, like she doesn't know the answer.
It's basically his fate. A thought Martyn's heard in his head, piercing his heart day by day as it seems inevitable.
“What, leaving? Or being alone?” He smiles. “In my experience, it's better that way. Less mouths to feed and- less, just. Yeah, less.”
Like a tumbleweed in the desert, Martyn can't help but be moved by the wind, place to place.
His heart aches for a home he's never had.
He can feel the staring eyes of the boy he bumped into, and so he shifts a little so he can be out of sight.
“I almost feel sad for you. You’ve been looking for shelter since the day that you were born, and really, you’ll be looking ‘till the day you go.” Scott adds.
Martyn raises an eyebrow at that, but doesn't question. “Hmn. I hope not.”
“We know you do.” Cleo offers.
“Would it kill you three to be less creepy?”
The three of them smile again— Pearl's charming, inoffensive. Cleo looks disturbed- no, disturbing, and Scott is. A something.
He frowns, mouth quirking downwards as quickly as it was up.
“It won't kill us.” Pearl chirps.
“I'm not so sure of that myself.” Martyn says.
“Well it won't kill us if you're so worried—” Pearl mumbles.
“No. But it's not your concern, is it? We know what you want.” Cleo remarks.
“And granted, if anyone deserves it it's you. I don't say that often, so.” She gestures vaguely in his vicinity, staring at the commotion at another table.
“I would do- I would do anything.”
Martyn, a boy who just turned 20 a few nights ago, a boy who's tired, sleepy, who just wants to eat, feels like crying.
But he does not. A fire inside him burns, crackling and morphing, searching for something to feast on.
Anything.
“I don't know what you're asking of me. Like is it- are you mocking, the way I just let the wind— the way I go anywhere? Surely you're bored being watchers of this- I mean, a man's just trying to live—” he stops himself.
Pearl, Scott and Cleo blink at him.
Distantly, he hears the god Xelqua spill a drink. And the whine that follows, then the sound of voices.
“Any of you got a match?”
Now for Ren.
The son of a Muse.
Muses are beautiful. Muses are talented, muses have voices that rivals sirens. Muses have knowledge. Muses are like the melody of a songbird in the early morning, like the red apple that falls from the tree. Muses are artists.
Yet I never said Muses were nice.
No, they—she, isn't evil.
But muses, well, they abandon you.
“Ren!” That's Jimmy—The blond boy from behind the bar calls for him.
He snaps out of his trance. The pretty boy seems engrossed in his own business, anyway.
Which is what Ren had to return to. Business.
“Sorry Skizz,” he says, gesturing to the tall, lanky boy impatiently waiting for him. “I gotta go.” He mouths. Skizz smiles, understanding.
He trots over to Jimmy.
“Yeah, what's up man?”
Jimmy frowns.
“Joel and I need your help, you know. We—its not like we don't like it, but it'd be great if you keep your head out of the clouds and start working.”
“Wh- what did I do?” He balks, asking the younger boy. Jimmy crosses his arms, but he doesn't look mad mad. Just tired.
“Nothing, Ren. You did nothing,” he says, tasting frustration on his tongue. “It's okay, just go in the back with Joel. I'll take over the tables.”
Ren nods hastily, tucking the paper flower in his pocket.
Joel, a somewhat short man opened the employees door for him. He's wearing more or less the same of what Jimmy wore, except for a black bandana tied around his forearm. In his hair is a vibrant streak of green, contrasting his dark eyes, so black it may as well be liquid obsidian.
“Hello Ren. Three orders of ale and wine. Two wines, one ale, by the way.”
“Yessir,” he smiles.
“Xelqua’s been ordering a bloody lot.” Joel mentions, wiping glasses with a wet rag.
“Ah well, you know. Springtime is a happy time..” Ren trails off, the weight of the paper flower on his thigh heavy like a beating heart. You can't tell it's heavy, but you know it is.
Joel shivers. “Yeah well, if I was stuck in there for even a few seconds I'd be clobbering my way out.”
“He looks fine, though, considering.” He finishes up the drinks, and carries them on his way out. Joel hums absent mindedly, not noticing Ren hurriedly leaving.
Is the- is the boy still there?
He is, he's still sitting in that corner—
He hands Grian the beverages, bobbing up and down on his feet.
Grian yawns, hand almost hitting Ren. “Ooh! Oh finally.” He sighs contentedly, drinking immediately. “It's not like we don't have wine down there,” he chats, hand somehow gripping on Ren's shirt now. “But it's always just better up here. Everything is!” He laughs, still holding on to Ren.
“Um,” he squeaks. Grian spills a drink. He groans in dismay, and Ren tries cleaning it up, to little success.
After a beat, Ren asks awkwardly, “Do.. Do you want something?”
“No.” Grian says, shaking his head.
He makes a face, and almost falls over onto the table. Ren, terrified, attempts to help the god by grabbing on to his forearm.
A few petals from his hair fall onto the table and the floor. Almost immediately, two smaller purple ones pop up in its place.
Huh.
Okay.
Well, Ren's just gonna—
“Ah! Grian, Ren, my guy.” Grian's head snaps to Skizzleman, eyes alight with keen interest.
“Am I interrupting anything, gentlemen?” “No, but Skizz, actually I—” Grian watches them interact, lucidity hanging on a barely weaved thread.
Grian sees what seems to be Skizzleman, talking to a young, bright eyed boy. The boy shakes his head, stammers, and blushes. Skizz chuckles, smile not quite reaching his blue eyes. The boy speaks again, mouth moving mile a minute, voice wavering almost melodically.
“—and, I just have to- Can I talk to him?”
And Skizz looks at Ren, this poor, young boy who wears his heart on his sleeve, with a voice and mind that coaxes rivers to cry and birds to sing. This boy who grew up with wolves and nature rather than with a mother or a father, this boy who—if granted wings, could out-fly Icarus into the sky.
This boy, who lived life to how much it let him. He knew how to live, and it was one thing that Skizzleman never knew how to.
This is a boy who asks for nothing. He works for it.
He goes wherever the wind blows, like a bird to its destination.
“You want to talk to him?”
“Yes!”
“Well, go on.” “Yes!” “Oh, and Ren?” He adds.
“Yes?”
“Don't… come on too strong.”
Ren nods, giddy.
“Oh yeah, never want that.” Grian adds on. Skizz side eyes him amused. “No pomegranate seeds too. Not great for a first date.” He snorts, calling after him. Ren, not paying attention, rushes over to the man's table.
Wait, he thinks. Do I look too excited? Maybe I shouldn't rush. Yeah, just, slow down. Yup! Be- be cool.
Then the boy looks at him, straight in the eyes. All (half) coherent thoughts jump out of a window.
“Come home with me.”
‘Er— excuse me?’ Is what Martyn wants to say. Or maybe, ‘I’m sorry, what?’
What comes out of his mouth, is, however, “What me?”
Still gets the point across, I guess, so half a point?
If Martyn wasn't so concerned and—kind of flattered? Embarrassed? Confused? For the other boy, he would be so incredibly upset at his brain to mouth motor skills right then. Fortunately, he seems to be decidedly the lesser weird in this instance.
Scott, Cleo, and Pearl burst into hysterical laughter.
“Uhhhah. What I mean is, who- are you?” Martyn says, face reddening.
The strange boy fishes out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket—What the heck, Martyn thinks. Is he seriously reading now? Or oh god, he's reading from a script—
It is neither. It's a flower.
Well. It's cute.
“I— the man who's gonna marry you.”
Pearl, now holding on to Scott for dear life, wheezes. Wow. It's not that funny, Pearl. He shoots her a look.
Cleo takes a deep breath, giggling.
“I'm Ren.” Ren says. Admittedly, he's good looking. Way better than the average type of men who just go proposing to random people.
A man in a black suit and dark red tie slides over, sensing a commotion.
“Is he always like this?” Martyn asks the man, who he assumes is a relative or something.
“Yes.” Skizz sighs.
Proposing?? He thinks to himself. Scott starts shaking Pearl with his uncontrollable laughter, wiping his eyes.
Just to spite them, Martyn puts out a hand for Ren to shake.
“I'm Martyn.”
“Your name is like a melody.”
“Oh? A singer, is that what you are?”
“Lyre— I also play the lyre.” He says, handing the flower to Martyn's extended hand.
It's admittedly quite crumpled. But it's still beautiful. He looks up at Ren.
He hears the Fates giggling. “Ah, a liar and a player too! I've met too many men like you.” He says, riding off the high.
Ren's eyebrows shoot up, and he flushes, shaking his head earnestly.
“Oh no, I'm not like that.”
“He's not.” Cleo tacks on, laughter dying down.
“Not like any man you've met.” Skizz agrees. “Tell him what you're working on.” He tries to subtly give Ren a small thumbs up, which goes unnoticed to Scott, mouth quirking upwards.
“I'm working on a song.” He says.
Martyn relaxes into his seat, arm slung behind him.
“It's not finished yet,” Ren tells him. “But when it is—and when I sing it- spring will come again.”
“Come again?”
“Spring will come.” He says confidently. His eyes are pretty, Martyn notes.
“I.,” Martyn straightens himself up. “When? I haven't seen a spring or fall since..” Since he's last been hungry, he wants to say.
“I can't recall.”
“That's why I'm working on it. A song to fix what's been wronged, what's broken, repaired.” He pauses, looking at the ground.
“Something so beautiful it puts the world back in order.” He glances back at Martyn.
“The flowers will bloom again.”
Then Ren says, “When you become my husband.”
“Ohhhhhhhh,” Martyn breathes out. “He's crazy. Why would I become his husband?”
“Maybe because he'll make you feel alive.” Skizz states. Chuckling dies down, and Martyn says—
“Alive? That's worth a lot.” He cocks his head. “What else ya got?