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Snow falls in a gentle dusting around the world, and for once, all is quiet.
Ren stares up at the sky, watching giant fluffy flakes swirl down to join the pillowy bunches on the ground. It’s been a quiet week, and they’ve had hardly any visitors at Dogwarts, the stone walls quiet in the everlasting cold spell the server has been going through.
In the yard, Martyn is shovelling snow off their frozen farm, despite Ren telling him there was no use. The man was restless, always with a constant need to do something, and Ren couldn’t fault him for it. For some, peace was relaxing. For others, it was a warning.
It’s a reasonable fear when so much has happened just recently. Ren is red now, and he’s constantly reminded by the reflection of his own blood-red eyes in any reflective surface. Martyn is still green, eyes sparkling despite the drab walls of their castle, and Ren can’t help but feel like he’s the only one who brings life to it anymore.
Wrapping his fur coat around himself tighter, Ren sighs.
It’s been almost a full week since the last attack. Or, sort of attack. Grian and Scar were poking around the week prior, but they didn’t do anything further than mess around with the farm and cast some warning glares. Scar is red, and so is Ren– it’s a natural rivalry, but no bloodshed has occurred just yet.
Martyn shoves aside his shovel, stomping to shake snow off his boots as he joins Ren on the front porch. “What’s up?”
Ren turns to look at him, emerald green eyes meeting ruby red. “Nothing much, my hand. Just enjoying the cold air of winter.”
Martyn’s brow wrinkles, and he stares out at the land beyond the wall, freckles in cold contrast to the harsh winter. “There’s nothing happening in winter. Just endless snow and dead trees.”
“Not dead,” Ren says quietly. “Just resting. Waiting.”
“I’ve always preferred summer,” Martyn admits, rubbing his hands together frantically. They’re chapped and red, and Ren sympathizes, handing over the leather gloves that he’s been wearing. Martyn waves him off, but Ren shoves them at him until he reluctantly slips them on. “It’s much more freeing. I’d rather fight amongst flowers and grasses than wait while snow covers the world.”
“Winter is quiet,” Ren comments, embracing the sting of a cold gale as it bites at his exposed face. “It’s about resetting, letting things pause and taking a breath. The air is so brisk and clean.”
“I suppose you would like winter,” Martyn said begrudgingly. “Red winter, and all.”
“It’s not a red thing,” Ren says teasingly. “I mean, have you seen Jimmy? The poor guy looks like he’s one step from falling over all the time.”
Martyn laughs, his voice echoing out over the quiet world. It warms something in Ren, knowing that this is his companion. If Ren is ice and snow, calm and hesitating, then Martyn is fire and sun, always leaping forward to act, laughing loudly just because he can.
And Ren will always melt in his presence.
“My liege,” Martyn says cheerfully, “May I invite you to dinner indoors?”
“How presumptuous, my hand,” Ren replies, face twisting into a fond smile. It hurts, as his cheeks have frozen in place, but he bares his teeth regardless. “I presume you’ll be cooking this meal that you offer?”
“Uh, right. About that,” Martyn grins and turns, letting himself into the cabin, and Ren laughs as he follows after him.
The warmth of the cabin is a shock to Ren’s system after standing outside so long in the cold. He takes his time to unbutton the cloak that’s wrapped around his shoulders, relaxing in the warmth that emanates from the doorway nearby. As he walks into the main room, he sees Martyn standing up from where he had been feeding the fire, the flickering flames licking at the brick fireplace behind him.
“What’s for dinner?” Martyn asks, and Ren frowns, staring at the trapdoor to their makeshift cellar. “Probably rabbit soup, or something related,” he tells him, tilting his head. The cold metal crown that sits atop his hair begins to slide, and Martyn adjusts it absentmindedly as he sweeps past.
“I’m going to grab some more wood from the shed,” his hand tells him cheerily, “Just in case it snows more overnight.”
“If it does, your shovelling today will have been useless,” Ren replies lightly. Martyn laughs in the distance, and the door to the cabin swings shut.
As the brief wave of cold air washes over the room from the open door, Ren collects the ingredients for his soup. It’s already heating up over the stove when Martyn comes back, arms full of wood encrusted with ice.
“You better not track snow into the hallway,” Ren warns fondly, and Martyn laughs, doubling back into the hallway to make a big show of shaking snow onto the floorboards.
It’s times like these, when steam curls up into the cold air of the kitchen, and frost collects on the windowpanes, when Ren likes to pretend that everything is right in the world.
Like he doesn’t itch to bury a blade into someone’s back. Like Scar and Grian are still friends, and the entire server is friendly and ready to offer help to each other at any moment.
Martyn clatters in to begin setting the table, practiced hands carefully laying out makeshift silverware and cups as Ren begins to serve their portions. He always gives Martyn a little more, knowing how cold he gets, spending so much time outside in the freezing air.
They sit down together at their small kitchen table, with the window that overlooks the land beyond the wall, and eat in silence.
Snowflakes begin to fall larger, burying the path that Martyn worked to clear, but he seems unbothered.
“One could consider your quest to clear all of that snow Sisyphean,” Ren says, in that pretentious voice that makes Martyn laugh, with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. Martyn, predictably, does.
“Any hard work done is hardly a waste of energy, if you have the right intent,” he parries, and Ren just tilts up his chin indignantly.
“You know,” Reb says after a while, stirring around his soup absentmindedly, “I’ve always liked winter.”
“I can tell,” Martyn replies teasingly, and Ren just shakes his head, eyes crinkling into a smile.
Ren takes a breath before lifting his crown from his head, setting it firmly on the table. Sitting on rough wood, it doesn’t look quite as regal.
“I worry, my Hand,” Ren says stiffly, “for Spring.”
“How could you?” Martyn tilts his head. The snow has ceased, and the sun tilts through the clouds, beaming directly to highlight his blonde hair with golden accents. “Spring marks new beginnings. I thought that was your theme, with the whole…” He trails off, but Ren knows what he means. Martyn has always skirted around the subject of Ren’s execution, so much so that Ren regrets having imposed the duty on him.
“I don’t know, My Hand. I fear the loss of winter. I was born in a Red Winter. I suppose I’m worried I’ll die with it.” He takes a deep breath. “Our foes reside in the desert. They’re the epitome of warmth. I worry that I shall melt with the snow that decorates our fields.”
Martyn rests a hand over Ren’s own, and the king can’t help but note how harshly they contrast. Martyn’s rosy, lively skin, next to Ren’s graying, dull hand.
“My king,” he begins, in that voice of his that melts Ren down to his core. “I’m here. Always. No matter what dangers come our way, I shall protect you, my liege. I would follow you to the ends of the earth.”
“That’s my second fear for spring,” Ren says drily, and Martyn’s mouth twists into a wry smile.
“I’m fearless if I’m standing to protect you.”
Ren stands, lifting his bowl and placing it gingerly in the sink. “Sometimes,” he begins, watching Martyn follow suit, “I wish you would have a few more fears.”
“I have many fears,” Martyn tells him, honest and soft in the dimming light of the day. “Many.”
Ren tilts his head, leading them both to the fireplace, where they head to sit by the fireplace, skin warming in its fiery heat. “You could’ve fooled me, my Hand. Every battle you partake in, you look aglow with bravery.”
“I am brave because you are watching, my liege,” Martyn replies, eyes watching Ren carefully. His green eyes are darting over Ren, and he feels flayed open by Martyn’s eyes alone. Martyn’s hands hesitate before he lifts the crown that he had taken from the table. “I feel invincible when I can protect you.”
“I wish you wouldn’t value my life so high above yours,” Ren whispers, frail in the shadows that flicker across the room. “I wish, for once, you’d raise the shield to block your own chest instead of mine.”
Martyn’s eyes dart away, resting momentarily on the fire before they begin to dance around the room. “You’re on red, my king. If you were to die again, it would be my doing, my own fault. And I would be alone.”
“It would not be your fault,” Ren blurts, a little louder than he had intended. He lowers his voice slightly, reaching out to grasp Martyn’s pale hand with his own dulled grip. “It would not be your fault at all. I commanded you to kill me. That was no betrayal, nor murder. That was just an honour for me.”
“Your blood drips from my fingertips,” Martyn murmurs, fingers shaking in Ren’s grip. “It streams down my wrists and drips from the sword I wield. It taints the axe you swing. It’s all I can see, and I’ll be damned if I must see it again in my lifetime.”
Ren blinks at him, throat constricting in guilt. “My dear Martyn,” he begins, heart weighing heavily in his chest. “If I had known that killing me would haunt you so, I would never have asked it.”
“I wish you hadn’t,” Martyn admits. “I wish I hadn’t agreed. I wish none of this were necessary. I have so many wishes, and none come true.”
Ren blinks at him, at the crown that he grasps in his hand, and lifts a hand to gently lower it. “If I could promise you the world, I would.” “I don’t want the world,” Martyn sighs. “I just want you to stay alive.”
“I can’t promise that,” Ren says wryly, and Martyn sighs, leaning forward to rest his forehead on Ren’s chest. He smells of pine and smoke, and Ren wraps his free arm around him, trying to memorize the feeling of Martyn’s body pressed against his own.
“I know. I just… I just wish.”
“Winter ends eventually,” Ren says absentmindedly, and when Martyn laughs ruefully, the feeling rumbles against Ren’s chest, mingling with his heartbeat.
“I know. But I’ll be here when spring comes. And, come hell or high water, I’ll make sure you are too.”
“We can watch the flowers bloom together,” Ren says quietly, and Martyn nods.
Now, with Martyn pressed against him and a fire blazing, Ren allows a final thought to run through his quieting mind.
Perhaps the snow melting wouldn’t be so bad, after all.
Outside, the snow begins to fall again. Red winter rages on, and inside the castle, Martyn and Ren finally fall asleep.