I'm Back On My Bullshit

I'm back on my bullshit

"Hand, rise."

Martyn stays as he is, knelt at Ren's feet, forehead so low as to almost be touching the ground and leaning on the sword that he balances precariously on its edge in front of him. 

"Hand."

Ren's voice is so close, so tantalisingly near, and every inch of him craves to stand, to bask in Ren's stare and take his rightful place by his side. 

Martyn does not dare to lift his head. 

"Martyn," his king's voice cuts through the overwhelmingly tense stillness. "Look up."

Ah, a command. That he can obey, and Martyn does, slowly raising his head as his eyes stay firmly planted to the ground. 

"Oh, Hand," and a finger lovingly strokes his cheek, "what has happened to you?"

While I've been gone, goes unsaid. Finally, Martyn raises his eyes as well, meets his king's gaze, his king, his king—

And he breaks. 

Feels his face contort and shoulders start to shake as big, ugly sobs rip through his chest, soundless at first and then unbecomingly loud as he tries and fails to catch his breath. His king's image swims before him; he tries to blink past it, fails and remains gasping, shuddering, curling in on himself with the force of his love, his joy, his boundless, agonising sorrow. 

It's a shameful, pathetic display. By all rights, he should be instantly cast away; if Ren kicked at him like an unwanted puppy and bid he get out of his sight, Martyn would fall over himself and break his legs in his haste to rid the king of his despicable presence.

But Ren reaches out, instead, takes his face in his hands, wiping at the tears that stain his thumbs. He graces his skin with all the gentleness of someone who is clueless as to the things Martyn's done in his absence, what he's become—

It's presumptuous and improper, and he does not deserve to kiss the ground at his king's feet, he knows—but he stumbles and grips Ren's wrist with both his hands, holding on, begging with the drowning he does in Ren's eyes to never let go, please don't let me go. 

Ren kneels, as well, then. The hand that makes contact with his neck guides his head to rest on his shoulder; the other rubs his back. It's tender and more than anything he's ever known, more than his entire world, and Martyn is undone.

Oh, my liege, if you'd seen the things I've seen. 

Ren holds him, and in the weight of his king's hand tangled in his hair Martyn can hear only Ren's whispered words of comfort and his own choked-off sobbing. There are no voices and there is no never-ending laughter; there is only them, as they should be, as they are.

For the first time since a tear ran down his cheek when he saw the arrow go through his king's chest, everything is quiet.