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Ren, burdened by responsibility for his kingdom and people, asked the love of his life and hand to take his life so he may rise from the ashes like the stories of old as the red king, to fend off the coming armies.

“I have to do what’s best for my kingdom.”

Martyn, always Martyn, kneeling at his feet. “What about you?”

Ren said nothing.

“If this doesnt work…” Martyn started, trailing off with an aborted sigh. He turned to the sky, where the sun was drawing low on the horizon.

“It will.” Ren whispered. His family always called him a dreamer, for believing in the old legends. A worthy king would rise from death more powerful than ever, able to destroy whole armies, as long as their blood was shed by someone who loved them. Ren had never actually heard the last part. It was suspicion at best, all the previous kings had been slain by their lover or devoted friend.

Martyn rose, voice challenging. “If it doesn’t, what happens?” He met his gaze, gathering steam. “Then we’ll lose a good king and the council will fall apart trying to make a play for the throne. Your throne. It’s not worth the risk. I won’t do it.”

Ren offered him a sad, but resolute, smile.

—-

“Then the kingdom is yours.”

At those words, a lick of flame lit in Martyn’s eyes.

He could have it. Everything. But he wouldn’t. He knew that. He would never take from his king. Could never.

“I won’t. I can’t.” He dropped his sword, diamond clanking on the altar.

“You can’t make me.” Martyn stalked away, kneeling at the other side of the altar. “Execute me for disloyalty, I don’t care. I won’t take your life.”

Martyn heard the telltale scrape of an axe being drawn, and prepared himself for death. When it didn’t come, he looked up.

Ren held the axe handle to him. Runes glowed in ancient tongue down the blade, spelling something Martyn could only recognize as powerful. Martyn took the axe.

“Don’t make me do this.” He pleaded.

Ren only unclasped his armor, bowing his exposed neck to Martyn. “Do it, hand. I trust ye.”

“I’m so sorry.” Martyn whispered as the axe sliced through the air toward Ren.

It connected with a horrible crunch sound, and he let it fall to the ground. Ren crumpled, blood seeping on the altar. Martyn fell with him, clutching his broken form.

“Do not mourn, hand.” Ren gurgled, voice soft and strange. “I will see ye…”

Martyn clung to him as he went silent, blood seeping into his blond hair, staining it crimson. He would never wash it off. Everyone should know what he had done. He killed his king. His best friend. His lover.

His voice ached with words he never got to say. “I can’t lose you. Please, don’t leave me alone again.”

Martyn refused to move. When the phantoms came, they would circle over the corpse of the king and the trembling body of his hand. It was not a night to disturb.

And when the sun finally rose, scarlet and violent, over these lands, it cast blood red light over a fitfully sleeping Martyn, unconscious hands clawing into the robes of the man he had killed.

The crimson light turned the bloodstained stone to blood red flames. They rose and circled over the pair, never touching, never burning.

Martyn stirred as the flames consumed the body of his king. He sat up with wide eyed amazement. The legends were true. The flames caressed the cold skin of the king, and as Martyn watched, trembling, it raced up his form, finding a way inside through the gaping wound in his neck. It found a place there, curling inside and reanimating the fallen king.

For a moment, it disappeared completely, leaving the altar cold and bare. Martyn shook. He had failed. He had taken the life of his king and it had amounted to nothing but a broken body and a kingdom that would soon fall under the enemy forces.

Then there was a crackle, and flame exploded from Ren, pouring out of him as his eyes burst open. Blood red fire filled his eyes, and Martyn crept closer, leaning over his king. “Ren?” His eyes cleared, the flame reducing to a crimson iris.

“Martyn?” Ren gasped, voice ragged but his.

“You’re alive. It worked. I-“

Ren reached up to pull Martyn to him. Martyn let out a shocked “oof” as he fell onto his king. Ren held on for dear life, trembling. Martyn pulled him close, burying his face in his shoulder, trying to ignore the sticky smell of blood he had spilled.

Ren pulled away after a moment, reaching up to hold Martyn’s face. He wiped a tear Martyn didn’t realize he had shed away with gentle fingers, tracing his cheeks.

“I didn’t-“ Ren choked over his words, his eyes flitting over Martyn’s face, as if desperate to catch every detail. For a moment Martyn couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t believe that his king could ever stare into his face and forget how to speak.

“I’m so glad I get to see your pretty face again.” Ren whispered, finally.

—-

Martyn blushed as he said it. He looked a mess, face tear streaked and bloodstained, hair matted with dried blood, Ren’s blood, eyes watering and face checkered with the pattern of Ren’s chainmail. And yet, as Ren stared into his eyes, he had never looked more beautiful.

“God, we need to shower.” Martyn said suddenly, too loud for the quiet moment they’d been having. Ren barked a laugh.

“Good idea, hand.” He agreed as Martyn pushed off of him and offered a hand. Ren smiled as he kissed it, feather light.

“Milord…”

—-

Martyn never spoke of it. But Ren could see how that night haunted him. He’d lost count of the nights he’d awake to a mysterious sound and an empty bed. Lost count of the times he’d find Martyn curled in a windowsill, knees hugged tight and head pressed against the cold glass, eyes trained on the altar as if he could still see the bloodstains.

It was one such night. Ren stirred under the threadbare covers, instinctively reaching out to pull Martyn closer. His paws fumbled on cold mattress. He pushed his eyes open.

“Martyn?” He whispered into the cold room.

The moon painted silver light across a figure in the window, pushing him into stark relief against the shadowed room. A quiet sob echoed through the room. Ren dragged himself out of bed, approaching the man in the window.

Ren climbed up next to him, pressing up close, a stubborn reminder that he was here. Martyn said nothing, turning to stare at him with heartbroken eyes. He reached up to trace a finger over Ren’s scar. A single tear slid down his cheek.

Ren closed a paw over Martyn’s wrist. I’m here. I’m safe.

Martyn’s face crumbled. He turned to stare out the window again, at that cursed altar, always that altar. Ren pressed closer, forcing his head into Martyn’s hand. I’m here. I’m safe.

Martyn shifted to pull Ren closer, into his arms, closer. Ren nuzzled into his shoulder, a silent promise.

When morning came, a chilly world would find Ren draped over Martyn in that windowsill, asleep and extremely uncomfortable, but comforted and safe in each other’s hold.