The summer air was hot and dense as Martyn waded through it. It clung to his skin like his sweat-drenched clothes, like the sick memories that clung to his waking dreams. Neither he nor Scott said much to each other as they traveled through the hot night. They let the crickets and cicadas speak for them. The whirring and buzzing of the summer evening wild was loud enough to drown their words, if they’d had any.

It was a peaceful silence. Martyn was grateful for that. He needed peace, after everything. They all needed peace.

From the dark underbrush, Entertainment Rock became visible like a glowing beacon of gold, awash in the light of a thousand torches. A small crowd was gathered at its base, among them Martyn could identify Cleo, Scar and Bdubs. Martyn found himself checking the message log on his wristband, where the lattermost’s death had been spelled out in plain letters. He tried not to look at the ticking clock in the corner of the screen- it was too low for his liking, and staring at it would only make him sick.

As the pair of them came to the end of the woods and neared the Rock, Cleo spotted Martyn and Scott, and beckoned them forward. It was nice to have allies, Martyn thought.

He waved as he approached the group as he approached them. “Aw, Bdubs, what happened there?” Martyn said by way of greeting, and briefly turned to Scott when he echoed similar sentiments. His partner was lingering slightly to the back of the group, but didn’t seem concerned. Scott never seemed that concerned. He was good at hiding his fear.

Bdubs crossed his arms and restlessly paced around the base of the Rock. “I’m furious and frustrated and bloodthirsty,” He proclaimed, in his very Bdubs-y way of proclaiming things. He briefly ceased his pacing to approach Cleo. “Turn me red, Somebody make me red, right now.”

Cleo didn’t react but for a raised eyebrow, and before Martyn could, Scott interjected. “What hours are you at?”

Bdubs checked his wristband. “I have, uh- twelve hours.”

“Oh, you still have a lot of time…” Scott murmured, and before Martyn could react to that, something possessed him.

“Lucky for you, I have experience in the ‘turning-people-red’ department.” He laughed, then stopped. Did he? In those dream-like memories that plagued him so, he did. In that haze of a past life, he could remember the biting cold of a winter’s night, the heaviness of the axe in his hand, the red of the fresh blood on the snow. Who was the body he’d killed? What memories possesed him like the cold hands of death around his neck? What war was this?

He shook off the chill, for once grateful for the wet heat of the summer. Blinking out of his daze, he cast his gaze about the gathered group. Scott was watching, neutral and unbothered by the sudden commotion. Scar had removed himself from the conversation entirely and started tending to some dogs. Cleo was chiding Bdubs, and Bdubs-

- had lowered his head and bared his neck, all too much like something he’d seen before.

Martyn forced a laugh- suddenly, there were eyes watching him that he did not want to be seen by, all too familiar. The moonlight was harsh, all too familiar. The axe in his hand was heavy, he tightened his grip over it, all too familiar. When had he brought out his axe? What had possessed him to hold it?

“If it’s by request,” He justified with a fake laugh. He looked to Cleo, then Scott. He couldn’t look to Bdubs- was he still bowed?

“We should all just take a swing at him.” Scar said, in the background of Martyn’s thoughts. He was joking. Martyn hoped he was, too.

Scott stepped between Martyn and the subject of his mock-execution. “If it’s by request, he can jump off of a wall.” Scott was always so calm, so logical about things. Martyn was fond of him, for that.

Martyn placed his axe back on his belt. With nothing else to do with his hands, he planted them on his hips. “Well,” He said, “You can take the King away from the Hand, but you can’t take the Hand away from the King.”

The King- who was the King? He found, no matter how hard he tried, he could not remember the face of his King. His memories were plagued by nothing but faces- familiar faces in unfamiliar places. His enemies at his side, his allies with their hands at his throat. But he could not remember the face of his king. All he could remember of him was his crown, the gild stained by blood, and the strange devotion he felt for this enigma of a man, and the way his blood had spilled over the snow, like crimson rivulets, draining from his headless neck.

In an attempt to make his odd comment a joke, Martyn added, “Bdubs has suddenly become royalty.”

Nobody laughed. Martyn kept his eyes on Bdubs, so he wouldn’t have to see the way the others stared at him.

A beat of silence followed. It might’ve been an eternity. Martyn would’ve thought it was, if it hadn’t been for the tick-tick-ticking of the clock on his wrist, and the one in his head.

Bdubs coughed into his hand. He got up from his kneeling position on the ground. “It’s true,” He said, and it was a joke. Scar laughed, and everyone else fake-laughed along with him. Martyn put one hand over his sheathed axe, and intended to keep both there, for the rest of the night.

The conversation continued, as Scott asked Bdubs the specifics of his death. Apparently, Tango had been inflicted with the curse yet again, and he’d lured Bdubs to the nether only to blow him up with a rigged portal. It was all very interesting, gruesome stuff, and Martyn bit his tongue through all of it, so that he would not say anything more.

After they’d got what they came for- a explanation as to what had happened- and the rest of the Clockers had gone on to busy themselves with other tasks, Scott pulled Martyn aside, to the other side of the clocktower.

“What was that?” He hissed, his sharp fangs showing in the moonlight. He held onto Martyn’s shirt, pulling him forward. It would’ve been a threat- it almost was a threat- if they hadn’t been allies.

“What was what?” Martyn asked, pleading dumbfoundedness.

“All that- execution talk. You aren’t executing anyone.”

“I- don’t know.” Martyn confessed. He knew if he were to confide to anyone of his troubling visions, of the apparitions that kept him from sleeping, it would have to be Scott, yet he could not make the words leave his lips. Terror stilled him. Scott was not the only one listening. “I was just… joking around, I guess.”

Scott looked up to him, studying his face. Some pained, unidentifiable emotion briefly passed over his features, but it was gone before it came. He released Martyn. “Don’t joke around like that.”

“I won’t.” Martyn answered, but Scott was already leaving back to the other side of the tower. Martyn lingered, and looked up to the vast, empty sky. Through the summer heat, he could still feel the ghost of that winter’s chill, and he wondered if it had ever been real.