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He’d heard the stories.
Of course he had. Growing up in Zephrah, how could he not? Their leader was a legend, and every visit from her friends came with tales of battles with dragons and gods and undead. Orym’s youth had been filled with songs of the saviors of Tal’Dorei from every tavern bard, with wide eyes around campfires as older kids whispered of corpses swaying from trees.
When he joined up with the guard of the Voice of the Tempest, the fuzzy folk tales of childhood sharpened with the realities of war.
The saviors of Tal’Dorei were heroes, but they were people, too. Remarkable people, to be sure, but people all the same. People who’d fought for the ones they loved, who’d lost loved ones anyway to violence and fate.
Keyleth was everything the Air Ashari boasted about their chief—powerful and wise and inspiring and true. She was also a woman whose eyes crinkled with compassion when she smiled. She tripped over her words when responding to praise. She knew the names of every soldier in her guard. She spent afternoons reading in the shade with her mother and father. She cracked jokes in council meetings that didn’t always land. She snuck crumbs to the ravens that seemed to always follow her around.
As for the ghost stories—behind every ghost was a body, and behind every body was a life cut short.
Everyone in Zephrah knew about Keyleth’s lost love. Vax’ildan, brother of Vex’ahlia, plucked from the mortal coil in service of the Raven Queen. But he wasn’t the only one that Keyleth mourned.
Once, when Orym was still in training, he’d accompanied Keyleth to Whitestone. She hadn’t wanted the entourage her advisors suggested, so she’d compromised by bringing Derrig, who’d convinced her to let his son and his son’s boyfriend tag along. When they’d stepped through their timber portal, Derrig had pulled the two of them aside.
The Voice of the Tempest had a quiet conversation with the Sun Tree, a gentle smile on her lips. Then she’d bowed her head, antlers brushing against the bark. The smile vanished, her shoulders tensed with lines of grief, and she took a breath that seemed to rattle painfully on its way in and out of her lungs.
Orym had stood there helplessly, a need to comfort pulling him towards his leader, the knowledge that it was far from his place to try keeping him rooted to the ground. Right as his need nearly overpowered his sense of decorum, as his eyes started to prickle in sympathy, he felt Will’s hand on his shoulder, steady, warm. He’d glanced up to see a familiar look, soft with understanding and a touch of amusement. Will always knew him far too well.
Come on, you sapling, he’d said. Dad wants to talk to you.
So they’d given Keyleth her space and privacy to visit her friends, then found a quiet corner and tankards in their hands. Derrig spoke of a vicious battle in Whitestone, of dead crawling out from their graves, of Lord and Lady Briarwood and their chokehold on the city. His hushed voice echoed stories around campfires, but he whispered in respect for the fallen rather than for the spectacle.
And every new detail sunk into Orym’s heart like barbs.
Those spooky, dangling corpses that once sent shivers up his spine were hung from the Sun Tree they’d just walked through. Seven mutilated innocents. One for each hero of Vox Machina. A warning, a threat, a cold promise.
It’s been years since that conversation, but as Orym lies on his cot now, fighting to keep his breaths even, he can hear Derrig’s voice right alongside Laudna’s.
The Briarwoods’ cruelty knew no bounds.
We were told we were going to be serving a greater purpose for Whitestone.
He’d heard the stories. He’d learned them. He hadn’t known.
There’s a difference between hearing the facts and looking one of the victims in the eye—Laudna, his new friend, so full of heart and delight that it’s as if she jumped back into life on her own. There’s a difference between learning of brutalization and seeing the jagged scars where Laudna’s ears were sliced into points. The trickery and dashed hopes, the beating, the fact that Laudna had been conscious for all of it, had been conscious when they hung her…
Orym curls up tighter, and he can almost feel Will’s hand squeezing his just as it did that evening with Derrig.
Laudna is a wonder. It’s not just her strength, the fact that she’d suffered and lost so much and survived for thirty years afterwards. It’s the way her eyes light up and she laughs so freely and entertains herself with a puppet of her own making. The way she almost doesn’t seem to mind what happened to her, but wears golden cuffs on her ears to set others at ease. The way she asked Orym if he was alright when he couldn’t find the words to express I’m sorry. It shouldn’t have happened. Not to you, not to anyone, but especially not to you.
Eventually, sunlight filters through the canopy of the Wilds, and Orym gives up on sleep. He hands out cups of tea as the others begin to rouse. Laudna takes one to Imogen, all of her attention trained on ensuring her friend is okay. Orym watches as Laudna helps Imogen sit up, a hand lifting to support her back, murmuring something that makes Imogen chuckle.
There’s no sign that Laudna is hurting from reliving her trauma just a few hours ago.
He pushes down the urge to check in with her. He shouldn’t. She really seems to be doing fine, and he would only be putting the onus on her to reassure him. He should move on, too.
He can’t. Orym closes his eyes, wrapping his fingers around his own cup. Laudna may not feel the need to dwell on what happened to her. That’s alright. Orym will carry her story with him, tucked in his heart beside the others.
A soldier who fought bravely and gave his life for his people. A son who set aside his desire for freedom to look after a brother in need. A young woman who was tortured and killed in the name of cruelty, who has somehow held onto her ability to love.