Chapter Text
"Hand, what do you imagine they're talking about down there?"
Ren's voice is a hiss in the shadows, clawed fingers drumming on the pale brick balcony of the castle. Though he was trying to hear the whispers below, ears piqued and prepared, Ren's own rage was ringing too loudly to allow him any snippet. Were he to brave the daylight and slip closer to them, perhaps he could at least read their lips, but even with his eyes narrowed, he can't make out a word. Two figures are cast in latticed shadows in the courtyard below: a duke and his knight.
Etho's hair turned blue in the shadows, his normally bloodred eye now cast in orange as the daylight fractures against in. Bloodied and bruised after the fight, Joel is as animated as ever, even as he attempts to bandage his hand. The scrap of fabric flutters down from his wrist whenever he speaks, the wind doing her best to tear it away from him. Just as quickly as it attempts to make its escape, however, Joel's fingers snatch it back and continue to wrap himself up. Stains peek through the quickly applied garment, even from Ren's high vantage point.
"I've got no ideas, milord," Martyn says from behind him, hand pressed tight against his side. While no more blood leaks through his clothes, Ren can feel the pain that throbs underneath, pulsing with each of Martyn's heartbeats. While the tension of bindings wrapped around his torso, underneath his armor, did everything to mute Martyn's pain for himself, Ren could still feel every inch of the gash Joel had given his knight. Stretching an inch from his navel to the very curve of his back, it was a thin laceration that nevertheless struck deep. Punctuated now by stitches to hold ut shut, it would be a bigger scar than any spar should have allowed. To Ren, it still gaped in his side, the image of royal greens splashed red pressed against his eyelids with every blink.
"That rabid dog," Ren curses, smacking his hand lightly against the stonework below, turning his back on the duo below. "He bests you in combat without a shred of dignity, he pays no mind to the grace of what a duel should be, and yet he dares declare himself to be a knight. Foul, wretched. I care not for his charge either. Whether or not his lord has sworn fealty to us, there is no indication that the same respect is shared by his hound."
"Don't despair, milord. Etho's the only one whose ally-ship we truly need. If his dog strikes out again out of line, heaven forbid against you directly, we have every blessing for violent recourse." Martyn joins his side, pressing his shoulder against Ren's in a spark of pressure. "If it helps, I feel no shame at all for my actions. Joel was the one who stuck his toe out of line, not I. This reflects more poorly on him than it does myself. Besides, now I think Joel's showed us all what he's capable of, save for those who weren't present. All the worse for them."
"Thank you, Martyn," Ren says, though his ails are not alleviated. He turns his back on the courtyard, pinching between his eyebrows, wincing as his long nails catch his skin. Though Martyn shares the pain, he doesn't react, as muted as ever.
Ever since his crowning, Ren had felt eyes everywhere, teeth at the scruff of his neck, nails ready to scratch down and pierce his back. Though it was some consolation to know how accomplished of a fighter Joel was, how adept he was at caring for his soulmate, at the same time Ren now had a deep fear that weighed down his bones, turning them to iron, ready to drag him into the depths of his own demise. Nothing imminent was bringing death towards him, but as more and more people fell— whether to the bloodthirsty curse, minor skirmishes, or even just a minor trip over a cliff —Ren knew at some point soon it would be his turn. Martyn had already gifted him absolution, relinquishing him from the pressure of a picturesque, green life, then a yellow shadow, crowned in a pallid mask of being halfway dead already. Becoming red in the eyes, in the teeth, at his brow, was supposed to bring serenity; with the threat of death being so everpresent, what was there to fear? It would come when it was ready. Now, however, he could hear all the whispers, the voices, the preparations, whether or not they were happening, even as Martyn soothed him and claimed nobody was doing such a thing. Not to him, not yet.
With a sigh, Ren tilts his head back and has to grasp tightly to his crown, keeping it stable atop his head. "I yearn for this to be all over with, to give us peace. Laying down armaments will only invite more violence, I know this, but how I long for a quiet night without curses, without you needing to keep watch. Can't we soon have some peace and serenity?"
"Not until they're all dead and your reign secure." Gravitas infects Martyn's inflection, sighing as he watches over their friends, the potential heirs to the throne, whose polite game was growing more tense, jaws more set with every death. "Though trust that I feel the same, lord. Rest, let it come for us soon. I cannot deal any more death than what's already come to pass, even to them."
Ren glances over his shoulder for a moment, catching a glimpse of Joel, leg bouncing as he hunches over. It was a shame he had to die. For all his crude inelegance, for his vile ripping and tearing of his opponents, twice the werewolf that Ren would ever be, there was a beauty to his violence. Unfettered by fear, by hesitation, he was always prepared by never being prepared. No preconceived notions of his opponents shaped his moves, only absolute surety of himself that could mold to fit their styles. Always the first stroke, and always the last, Joel was an utter menace, built for this exact squabbling for power.
Only he was loyal to no one. Etho was an illusion, Ren reckoned, a masked mask to hide Joel's own hunger for power, for utter and complete victory. The higher he rose, the more violence he would be able to indulge in. No longer would he need excuses when he became red, when he wore the crown of the king. What would end for Ren when his title was secured would only escalate for Joel.
"My king, look!"
Twisting, Ren follows Martyn's pointed finger, back down to the two no longer sitting, but now standing. Joel's hands grip Etho's collar, hoisting him up and towards his face. Spit flies from Joel's lips, curled into a snarl as he barks in Etho's face. It's a complete re-contextualization of Joel's magnanimous movements, once only emphatic but now aggressive, as tinted with rage as Ren's own ears were. This is enough to lift Ren's spirit, drawing him closer to the ledge of the balcony, dangerously close to the sunlight streaming down from above. With the rage chased away from his head (and Joel's lack of volume control) he can now make out what they're both saying.
"Now is the right time. You're never going to feel like it's the right time, because there's never going to be a right time."
The two are nose to nose, but Joel's next words lower in volume, though every one has the same bite as the last. He chomps them down, teeth gnashing, shining in the morning light. Ren can't read lips, he can't even tell what Joel is goading Etho to be ready for. But there's bloodlust there, there's a desire not just to fight but to kill, to be ready for the next fight.
"By the gods," Ren breathes, pulling his glasses out of his shirt and perching them on the end of his nose, "what a stroke of luck. Dissent among the ranks."
Etho shoves Joel away, just as scrappy and inelegant as Joel's own fighting style is. The two are, in a way, quite a match for each other. Unpolished, unbalanced in energy, with radically different passions, they're a chimera of traits that should never be brought together. Ren's chest swells with pride at the bond he's formed, assured in its strength. Why the world brought those two together, he would never understand, but he didn't need to. Martyn and he could predict each other's movements, work in harmony and in the same key, dance around each other like they had been doing it their whole lives, and it only took the universe to stitch them together eternally.
"Our victory shall be unquestionable soon!" Martyn exclaims, bringing a hand up to thump against Ren's back. Perhaps it was a little harder than Martyn was expecting— it certainly was for Ren. Lurching towards the edge of the balcony, Ren is too focused on catching himself than the glasses teetering at the edge of his nose. Gasping, it's only at the last second that he tosses his arm over the edge, fingers scraping the little metal arms but finding no purchase as they hurtle towards the courtyard below.
No great shatter rips apart the world. Even a pin drop would have been louder than his wire frames bouncing into the grass. Yet to Ren, even the softest bounce of them feels like the ricochet of an explosion. Tearing his eyes from his lenses, Ren stares at Joel and Etho, prepared for their wrath.
Etho's head snaps over first, spying the practically glowing glass, fracturing the sunlight. Joel is still intensely whispering, stopped only when Etho's hand falls against his shoulder. In tandem, their heads lift, and Ren feels himself yanked away from the edge. His back hits the wall, and every shred of grass disappears from view. Both of their hearts are racing; Ren doesn't need a soul bond to tell him that. Casting a glance over to Martyn, mouth stuck open in shock, he takes a slow breath in.
"Hand, whatever happens next, you need to be prepared.