#Blindsided | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

driflew · 10 months

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hello hello i have another au cherri and i came up with! this one’s called blindsided and this is the backstory that sets up the rest of the storyline. ive posted two bits about it for six sentence sunday, but that’s basically all. so uh. woe no context one shot be upon ye

Martyn’s out late.

That’s not necessarily unusual—Most nights, Ren wouldn’t even care. Martyn has a tendency to lose track of time, and he loves to wander almost as much as he loves Ren. It’s not uncommon for him to take an extra hour or so to get home after going out on this or that errand, usually with an interesting story or something extra tucked under his arm. Really, Ren hadn’t been worried at all… at least, not for the first hour.

It’s gotten dark now. Martyn was supposed to be home a few hours ago, and Ren is really starting to worry. He’s being unreasonable, he’s sure, but he flags down a member of his staff all the same.

“Could you run into town and find Martyn? He must’ve lost track of the time. Tell him he doesn’t have to come home, but I’d at least like to know what’s keeping him.” Ren bites his lip, wringing his hands. “I’d prefer it if he came home, though.”

The man nods. He turns and heads out the door without another word, leaving Ren to sit by himself. Town isn’t far, but Martyn likes to roam…

Ren picks up a book off the table and sits down. He’ll be here a while.

—

“My lord?” Ren starts awake at the sound of his title, book falling out of his lap. He doesn’t remember dozing off, but he scoops the book off the ground anyway.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the man says, but Ren smiles, waving him off.

“It’s fine,” Ren says, then looks past him. The hall is empty. “Martyn was busy, then?”

The man looks away.

“Your grace, uh,” the man stumbles. He glances over Ren, still seated at the fire, and then says, “He’s dead, sire.”

“…What?”

“He— there was a fight. I asked around for— for a while. A pirate engaged Martyn in the street and stabbed him in the back. The fight moved to an alley and, while I couldn’t find anyone who saw it, uh, he was heard, uh… people heard the scuffle. From the main street and from the buildings around it. When it stopped, he was carried away, and he was… they said he, um, didn’t look to be breathing, and there was a lot of, um— To confirm it, I visited the alley, still bearing proof of the fight, and it was. Bad. Even if he survived the fight, by now, with the pirates that took him, he’s certainly bled too much. I-I’m sorry.”

Ren says nothing, not for a long while. His mouth hangs open, his body still a mockery of the relaxed way he’d been leaning back in his chair.

That… can’t be true, can it? Martyn is strong. Surely he wouldn’t…

“Gather— gather as much of the staff as you can. We’re going to— we have to look for—” Ren stammers, climbing out of the chair. “The pirates, the ones who— what did they look like? If they have Martyn, I want him back.”

The man looks at him sadly, but nods. “I’ll gather the staff and meet you by the gate, and I’ll tell everyone what I heard.”

—

The search turns up nothing, but not for lack of trying. Martyn had been popular among the staff, and many of the men and women on the streets would call themselves his friends.

It is for precisely this reason no one will let Ren see the alleyway. He knows even without asking that he’s found the right one—all he has to do is follow the overpowering smell of copper and iron.

“It might have clues as to who did this!” Ren insists.

“We can review the clues,” says one of the posted guards.

“I would like to help,” Ren insists, “We don’t have time to be arguing about this. Martyn could still be alive.”

The two guards at the mouth of the alley share a glance, all pity. Ren bites his tongue to keep from snapping.

“Your grace, if I may,” the second guard says, “We’re trying to look out for you. It will only upset you to see the site of the crime.“

Ren considers saying that he’s already quite upset, thank you, but he doesn’t want to antagonize them into keeping him entirely out.

“I can handle myself,” Ren says, entirely without basis. “Let me through.”

They do, though not without another long, pitying glance.

Ren steps past.

For a moment, Ren thinks the alley may be paved with brick. The realization that it’s simply blood, splattered across half the alley, nearly knocks him over, but shock keeps him upright.

Well, that and the smell. Ren doesn’t think he could handle getting any closer to it by falling to his knees.

There’s plenty of proof here that the victim was… wasn’t mistaken. Martyn’s sword lies forgotten on the tiles, leather hilt stained a deeper brown.

There’s something lying in the thickest part of the puddle. Ren steps closer without a word, lifting his sleeve to his nose.

Martyn’s braid lies in the middle of the alley. He knows it intimately—he’d been the one to tie it just this morning, had placed the ribbon at the end himself. The cut is jagged and uneven, and it’s come loose on the end that would have… would have been attached to Martyn’s head. This, too, is covered in blood, just like everything else, and flakes off into Ren’s hand as he picks it up.

Ren holds it close to his chest, turning and leaving the alleyway without another word.

—

They don’t find him. Ren looks the entire night, braid clutched in one white-knuckle grip. He’s careful not to let it go, fearing that it may unravel if he isn’t. This is, he tells himself, a quality unique to the braid, and mirrors nothing and no one.

—

Ren is still holding it when he goes to sleep that night. It doesn’t smell like Martyn— at least, not exclusively. Hints of him are left when Ren pushes his nose into it, but they’re lost quickly to the smell of blood.

This smells like Martyn, too, of course, but is not a scent Ren ever thought he’d become familiar with.

He doesn’t change. Martyn is often the one who helps him, and he doesn’t think to ask anyone else. Not that it matters what he wears to bed tonight. Ren thinks sleep will be impossible, all alone in that bed for two.

The truth is, Ren is so exhausted after searching for Martyn, he sleeps like the dead. As far as Ren knows, it’s the last moment of connection he and Martyn will ever have.

—

The braid’s come untangled when he wakes up, loose hair lying beside his pillow, held together only by a red bow.

Ren has no bow to hold him together, and for the first and last time after losing Martyn, he shoves his face into the fistful of hair and sobs.

—

It seems, for a while, like a random act of bad luck. Martyn was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s heartbreaking, and Ren doesn’t understand it, but at least it’s over.

He finds the box on his bed. It’s labeled with Ren’s name, signed by Martyn’s, but the handwriting isn’t his. It’s too nice, too neat.

One of his staff must have put it here, but why? They might be trying to cheer him up, but… Why does Ren feel so uneasy?

There’s something about the box that makes Ren want to turn and run. He no longer has anyone to hide behind, though, so he lifts the box.

It’s light. When he shakes it, he hears glass. When he opens it, he—

When he opens it—

When he—

Ren… doesn’t remember much about opening the box. He hears about it second hand, only when his staff thinks he’s out of earshot.

He was screaming for hours afterward, says one, and though Ren doesn’t remember, his throat is still sore.

He wouldn’t let go. It had to be pried out of his hands, says another. Ren looks down. There are bruises on his wrist he doesn’t remember getting.

I heard his grace passed out after. Is that true? Ren’s head is still sore where the back of his head allegedly collided with the bed frame.

I haven’t seen him since. He hasn’t let anyone into his chambers and he doesn’t come out anymore. How is he supposed to let anyone in? Someone in this house left this on his bed. His bed, where he and Martyn used to sleep, and he has no idea who. It could be any of them. It could be all of them.

That’s so scary. Is it safe to stay? I’m thinking about leaving… Leave, then. Ren doesn’t want or need a single one of them.

Did you see what it looked like? Ren doesn’t need to eavesdrop for that. Martyn’s eye is something he’d known intimately before, had been able to speak to and understand without even a word. He’d recognize it immediately, even severed, even blank.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget opening it. The box had been a flimsy cardboard, and had opened easily. There had been writing on the inside flap, more elegant than the text outside.

BACK DOWN, it had read, OR SLEEP WITH ONE EYE OPEN.

And then he’d looked down.

When he thinks of Martyn now, it’s hard to remember anything except the glazed blue eye that had stared back.

If there’s a god out there, Ren hopes He’ll tell Martyn how sorry he is.

—

The thing is, it almost works. Ren hardly leaves his room, and when he does, he stays within the manor. Much of his staff leaves in that time, and of those left, he fires almost all.

The criteria is simple. Anyone whose whereabouts the night the box appeared he can’t ascertain beyond reasonable doubt, he sends away.

The staff consists of a few cooks, a few gardeners, a few maids, a few aides. Most of his attendants leave on their own—no one wants to be seen near Ren.

Despite the small staff, the manor workload gets lighter. Ren’s life ends the same day Martyn’s does.

It’s fear that drives him. They took his body, after all—there is nothing Ren fears more than receiving another piece.

It keeps him in bed. It keeps him awake. He won’t risk anything, not a toe out of line. He cows entirely, and it doesn’t save him. Every night, he sees it—a box on his bed, his hands reaching without his input, something staring back.

—

It takes a few months for sympathy to dry up. Ren’s back to doing only the bare minimum, running his estate and only his estate—staying exactly in his own lane. He hears his little staff whispering about it, though. About how it was bad, sure, but really, he’s supposed to be a duke. He can’t lie in bed moping forever. At this rate, they may as well give the title to someone else, someone less… fragile.

That would mean losing the manor, though. Losing their home, losing the place Martyn spent all his life. Losing the dream he and Martyn made together.

So Ren climbs out of bed. He gets dressed all on his own, dries his face, and vows not to let Martyn’s life have been wasted on him.

He has no choice.

—

It’s fear that drives him. Ren is afraid all the time. Afraid he’ll lose his home. Afraid he’ll waste Martyn’s life by not doing enough. Afraid he’ll receive another box by doing too much.

But Ren can’t be afraid. Not where anyone can see him.

So Ren is angry all the time.

They call him ruthless, volatile, cold as ice. He doesn’t think that’s fair—he’s never sent anyone a severed limb. But if they think he’s ruthless, maybe they’ll think twice before crossing him. Maybe if he’d been cold then…

He burns, constantly, fire seering at his heels to keep him running ever forward. There’s no safe place to rest, and so he won’t.

His dreams make sure of that.

Ren wakes up gasping, hands curled tight around something that isn’t real. Sometimes it’s an eye, sometimes it’s not. A finger, a hand, a tongue. A head, one socket empty, the other bright and intelligent and looking right at him—

He doesn’t think he’s dreamed of anything but that box for a year after he opens it. They die down a bit, but return every time Ren is stressed.

Ren is stressed all the time.

Tired, too, absolutely exhausted, not that it helps him get any sleep. He works in his office to avoid it, staying up late into the night managing this or that until he sees deeds and bills behind his eyelids instead.

—

He wants to move beds, but how could he? This was Martyn’s, too, was once the place he felt safest. He can’t leave it, even if it features so prominently in the worst moment of his life.

Hiding under their blankets like it’ll protect him, Ren has to wonder. What would Martyn think of him now?

He’ll never know, but the eye changes. He dreams of pity, an eye floating in a bottle of sympathetic tears. He dreams of accusation, bloody fingerprints staining the glass. He dreams of scorn, an eye that won’t even look at him. He dreams of love, rarely.

—

Theirs is not the bed he’s taken from, at the least.

No, King Ren is stolen from the castle, so as to be sure he never feels safe in any place he could conceivably consider home.

—

Ren sits on the deck of the ship, kneels at the feet of the Captain. When he looks up at the man who has stolen him from his new home, he finds himself eye level with a coat he knows very well.

The Captain speaks of assassination, then of ransom. Promises not to hurt the King, so long as he can get money for his life.

Ren wants to scoff, but he doesn’t. The only man who would have paid for his life is long dead, and the Captain wears a trophy of his murder tied around his waist.

Ren knows fear. He knows how to bury it, too, how to smother it in so much anger it boils him alive in his own bubbling, frothing blood.

He is so beyond the point of being afraid for his worthless, meaningless life. If he can make the Captain bleed, then it will all have been worth it.

#lew writes #blindsided #i will promise you the guy's not actually dead. it's probably fine

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