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Orym feels just about ready to shake apart.
Every muscle in his body feels tense, pulled taut, and he cannot for the life of him remember his last night of uninterrupted sleep. There is nothing to be done about it, what with the Apogee Solstice looming over them, drawing ever closer, and them not in any position to do anything to stop Da'leth or Thull, if he is being honest with himself.
Sure, they might have destroyed the Malleus Key in the Fey Realm, for the time being at least, but he has a gut feeling that this is not a lasting solution to that particular problem. There are still two other Keys, and they have no idea what they are going to do about them, with how little time is left.
He is just so tired.
Not for the first time in the last few days Orym finds himself missing Dorian, all bashful smiles, clumsy words and relentless optimism. He yearns for the soft notes Dorian plays when composing a new song, not loud enough to reach anyone outside of their shared room. Some days he wakes up from his restless sleep and swears he can smell petrichor and sandalwood - if he'd just turn over, he would find Dorian next to him – only to be met with coarse dirt under his reaching palm.
On those nights, he takes watches, whether it is his turn or not, and clutches the sending stone in his hand until the sigil is imprinted into his palm. The others must have noticed by now, his restlessness, as well as his single-minded pursuit to protect and care for them so he can tune out his endlessly looping thoughts.
He talks to Ashton about what they presume must be pressure put upon his shoulders, but to him is only what comes with his responsibilities. He drafts flowers for Imogen and Laudna to remind them of the beautiful things in this world and soothe their frayed nerves. He lets Chetney teach him more about the intricacies of wood working and makes him a tiny, wooden wolf as a token of his appreciation. He helps Fearne with the many ribbons and trinkets adorning her wild curls, and rests with his head pillowed on her legs to make her not feel the cold of the too empty space as much. He makes sure that FCG knows they don't need to shoulder everyone else's feelings alone when they are already stretched thin by stress and close to lashing out.
He only lets his own guard down in 25 word increments, and even then he tries to not let it crumble entirely. And with every message his resolve to let Dorian sort his life out first, to let him help his brother, to let him care for the Crown Keepers and take some of the weight off of Fy'ra's shoulders, wanes a little more. To this day he has not brought himself to tell Dorian the full story of their confrontation with Thull. Not when he still hears Dorian's message from the evening just before that fateful fight, “Don't die”, smiled a continent away, firmly believing it unnecessary but still needing it to be heard.
Orym sits by the fire, having taken another watch, and his thoughts cannot be silenced. Chet has long since come back from securing the perimeter of their campgrounds and has curled up next to Fearne. He would have taken over for Orym, or kept him company, but instead Chet had just looked at him for a moment, eyes going just a bit soft. Now, there is only the low crackling of the small campfire, the soft rustling of wind in the treetops, the crackling of critters brushing through the undergrowths.
Orym sits awake, the sending stone gripped tightly in his left hand once again, a thousand messages in his head, none on his lips. He sits awake, his last message in his ears, “Glad you're not here. Wish you were anyway”, again and again and again, until he smells cherry blossoms and buries his head in his knees. There is only one path for him, one that inevitably will bring him face to face with Otohan Thull once more. The woman to blame for the rift in his heart where Will once resided. The woman who brought about his own demise as well. He will have to confront her again, make her answer his questions, make her pay for her crimes. He will face her, and if she kills him, then so be it, but he will take her with him if he has any say in it. Revenge was never something he needed, until her shadow creatures poisoned his heart and tore his life to shreds. He cannot, will not, have Dorian anywhere near that. Thull has already taken Will, she cannot take Dorian as well, he will not let her, not as long as he still has breath in his body, not as long as there is any fight in him left.
Orym sits awake, forehead pressed to his knees, eyes screwed shut, sending stone clutched in his hand, and he cannot breathe. He sees Will's still form, his empty stare, his blood pooling on the floor, and he cannot breathe. He sees Will's features change, sees skin like the summer sky and eyes like sapphire, and he cannot breathe. He sees more bodies appear in the shadows around him, lavender locks, red leather, soft fur, grey skin, dulled metal, blue hat, all terribly, irrevocably still, and silent, and cold, feels his hands grow cold and his lungs burn hot, and he cannot breathe. Beneath him, their blood mingles and soaks into his skin, and he cannot breathe. He cannot breathe. He cannot -
Orym sits awake, eyes open wide, sending stone cutting into his palm, lungs screaming for air. The dry dirt beneath him has grown colder. His friends are still asleep in his line of sight, safe and sound. He can hear them breathing, shifting.
He grasps at his leather armour with his free hand, presses it against his chest, and concentrates on the pressure that puts on his sternum. His eyes chase from one sleeping form to the next, all of them bathed in warm amber light, oblivious to the world around them. His breath does return in short bursts, but the burning in his lungs does not lessen nearly enough. He brings his left hand to his mouth, presses his lips against the stone and tries to breathe against it. Once. Twice. Again, and again, and again. His right hand lessens the pressure, begins to move in well-worn, erratic patterns. He breathes against the stone. His eyes want to close, just for a moment, and he glimpses skies and sapphires and cherry blossoms and chestnut bark, so he pries them open again. The stone grows more damp against his lips with every breath. His right hand leaves his chest, but keeps moving, the same motion, over and over. Ashton rolls over to their other side, the gemstone in their head now visible and dancing with low, colourful lights. Chetney grunts and kicks out his legs once.
Orym sits awake, sending stone pressed to his lips, and his lungs burn out steadily. He sucks in breaths against the resistance of the stone, again and again, until his chest grows cool and his hands warm.
When he feels like the flames are finally doused, he lets his eyes stray from his friends' forms and finds himself surrounded by Morning Glory. They are the same colour as the stone still pressed against his lips. One of the flowers rests in his now calmed right hand. Its velvety petals whisper of good luck and well-earned victory. Somehow, it weighs as much as the stone in his other hand. He carefully cradles it closer, feels the cool touch of a promise he is intent on keeping, and wants nothing more than to scream until the crawling in his skin stops once and for all. Instead, he will remain torn between want and need, wielding sword and shield with strong arms by day, cherishing stone and petals with soft hands by night, true rest firmly out of his grasp.
Orym sits awake, and the sun rises, not caring he has not slept for even a minute.
If his friends notice the remains of blue petals at the edges of their camp fire, they do not lose a word about it.
Orym feels just about ready to shake apart.
The skyship travel is hell for him. He can hardly manage to sit still for more than half an hour at a time, and if he had not been sure of it beforehand, he would be by now about the fact he can do the Zeph’aeratam in his sleep. Not that he ever really sleeps.
His nights are still haunted by his sorrows for his friends, his family, and everything the Solstice might bring to their doorstep. He can count the times he has not woken up drenched in sweat, heart pounding out of his chest, lifeless eyes burning through his tired mind. And even awake he cannot find reprieve. His fears want to spiral the moment the world around him falls quiet.
Dorian's last messages have not made these thoughts recede in the slightest. From the moment Opal had put that damned crown on to save her sister, Orym had been sure the decision would come back to haunt her. Now, it seems, he is proven right. Of course he cannot be sure what exactly is wrong with his friend, Dorian could never elaborate well enough in the meagre 25 words they have, and there is so much else they desperately need to talk about besides that, but considering their overall situation he is sure the Crown Keepers have their work cut out for them. The Spider Queen must be somewhere between livid and scared out of her mind, and Orym cannot even begin to imagine what that must mean for Opal and Ted. They should have sent that crown away when they had the chance to. They really should have. Maybe if he had been a bit faster, back then, a bit stronger...
The winds seem to pick up in intensity around them, and so does the fluttering of Orym's nerves. The last time he had felt this on edge had been because of that blasted crown, and what it had done to Dorian and him. Their friendship had still been new, their trust on shaky legs, but the thought of having to fight Dorian over the blasted thing had burned in his stomach like Imogen's musings do now. At least this time around he is sure that Fearne will help him deal with the situation, should push come to shove. Still, this feels all too familiar, and he truly does not want to deal with the anxiety of mistrusting an ally over the machinations of some God or another again.
Seedling grows heavy in his hand. His movements lose some of their fluidity, become sharp and short. The late afternoon sun burns on his arms.
“Oi, Orym!”
Ashton trudges over to Orym at the bow of the ship. They had been looking over Fearne's shoulder most of the day, trying to gain some understanding of the ship while she tried to learn to steer it. “Just in case”, they had said, and Orym had only just managed to still the motion his hand had started at his side.
“ You still doing your fancy gymnastics?”, they ask, and lean themselves and their hammer on the railing next to Orym.
“Yeah. Needed something to do, and I'm not much use at the wheel over there, am I? Can't even look properly over it without jumping. And there is only so much actual prep work we can do before we get to the Calloways' ”, Orym answers. He completes the last motion of the figure, then tries to let go of the tension in his muscles, without much success.
“I know what you mean. And there are only so many games of cards you can play against Fearne and Chet before you want to burn down the freaking ship.” They scrunch up their nose, and the hand still resting on the hammer's handle tightens just a bit. If Orym wasn't so aware of his allies' tells by now, he is sure he would miss it.
“Wanna spar, get rid of that excess energy? Might work better than your ballet moves against thin air.”
Ashton looks at him, and Orym is reminded, once again, that he is not the only one stressed out by the inevitably of their situation. Their crystal, normally languidly cycling between different hues of red, blue and purple, now flickers angrily, the way it normally only does mid-fight.
“Sure, why not?”
For the next hour they trade blows, round after round, and neither are pulling their punches more than strictly necessary. Anyone unfamiliar might take it as honest to the Gods fighting, Orym is sure of that, but at least to him it is just exhilarating. Pummeling the large form of Ashton in front of him, and taking blows in return, stops the shrieking in his head. There is no room for anxious ramblings when he has to parry a fist aimed at his face, or slide out of the way of a well-aimed kick to his stomach, and when they finally sit down next to each other, hurting and sweating and out of breath, Orym smiles at the balmy silence within his thoughts.
“Cheers, buddy. You were right, that was better than my ballet moves.”
“Nah, don't worry.” Ashton has closed their eyes, head leant against the railing. The flickering within the crystal has slowed significantly.
“I feel like we keep having this kind of conversation on this skyship over and over, but how are you holding up? And don't tell me you're fine, we know you're not sleeping properly.”
Orym looks up at the sky that is, by now, shifting into dusky tones, and ponders for some seconds, forearms resting lightly on his upturned knees.
“Honestly? Barely. I hate just about everything about this. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing that could make me leave you all hanging, but I'm just so done with this shit. I have fought Thull and her ghoulies two times now, and she's taken just about everything from me, including my own fucking life, all in the name of her brighter tomorrow. I wanted to lead a simple life, be a guard, share a home with my husband, start a family and grow old with him. Instead, I am on an airship, on my way to try and stop a second Calamity. It's just a tad much. And Dorian's last message about Opal and the Spider Crown really doesn't make this any better. I feel like I should do something, anything, to help them with that stupid thing. But I can't. Not without hanging you lot out to dry. And I can't do that, either.”
From the corner of his eye, he can see Ashton looking at him, face still tiredly relaxed from their sparring session, only the thinning line of their lips giving away their thought process. They reach out for him with a slow, clearly telegraphed movement, and carefully pull him against their side in a one-armed hug. There is no real pressure behind it, but Orym, for once, lets himself be tucked against his friend's larger form. He is enveloped by a deep, earthy smell under warm leather and fresh sweat, and he finally closes his eyes without fear.
“I can't do this again. I just can't. If Thull takes anyone else...”, he says, and his voice breaks at the thought.
“ We won't let her. I promise.”
They remain seated like this, Ashton's arm around him, their hand covering the two moons on his bicep, Orym's head resting against their ribs, both basking in the heavy silence. Ashton's heart beats a slow, steady rhythm, their chest moves slowly with every gentle breath. Orym feels warm, and safe, and loved, and still wishes for a tanned hand on his arm and soft blue silk under his cheek. His right hand lies still on Ashton's ribcage without any pressure, leather soft under his fingertips. His left rests on the small pouch at his hip that cradles the sending stone. A small gust of wind plays around them.
In the quiet night, it almost sounds like the memory of a far off melody.
The next morning, Orym wakes up in the quarters he shares with Fearne, fully rested for once, but without recollection of when or how he got there.
Orym feels just about ready to shake apart.
It has been a week since they have reunited with Dorian. He has not talked to him more than strictly necessary. Not that Dorian seems to notice much. They are friendly with each other. There is no clear avoidance from either of them.
Still, Orym does not know how Dorian even managed to find them.
The sending stone sits in its pouch at his hip, cold and silent since the Apogee Solstice. At first, he had thought that the red beam in the distance was just messing with the enchantment, like it seemed to do with Laudna's magic. But even when they were a good distance away, some days later, it still refused to send to its brother. So Orym had accepted the pressing silence from it, and welcomed back all the screeching voices he had banished after his last talk with Ashton.
They had tried to send to their missing friends, had sought out clerics and druids, but to no avail. No one seemed to be able to send, or scry, no matter if their magic had been granted by a god or not. They had been left with no answers as to the whereabouts of their friends, whether they lived, or where to start looking for them. Only Laudna's unshakeable belief that she would just know if Imogen was gone kept them all from truly falling apart. And if Ashton started drinking some more before turning in at night, or Laudna talked to herself when she thought them fast asleep, Orym would not mention it. He'd just curl up tighter around his whisperless stone and wait for morning to beckon their foolish hopes once more. After a while the three of them had decided to go back to Jrusar instead of aimlessly bouncing between villages and settlements, hoping against hope that maybe Imogen or FCG would think to return there. Ashton had led them to Krook House once more, and Milo had taken them in with open arms. Orym is sure that their faces must have told of their desperation on their own, and the long explanation they had given about the Solstice, and how they simply did not know where the rest of their party was had made resolution sink into the soft lines of Milo's face. Whenever they came back to Krook House after that first evening, Milo would have another idea on how to contact their friends, or a piece of gossip on the machinations around the Solstice.
From there, they had worked several small jobs, never going too far or taking too long before returning to their base but always keeping their ears down for any message about their missing friends. Over the course of weeks they had returned to every base they had had in Jrusar. They had spent their evenings in the Spire by Fire or the Soot and Swill and had left notes on where to find them with the barkeepers.
“Just in case”, Laudna had said, and had pressed a small, red yarn bow into the improvised wax seal.
They had visited Madam Zhudanna, making sure she was as healthy and happy as possible. Of course she had asked after Imogen, and of course Laudna had repeated her monologue about how she was sure Imogen was just fine, that otherwise she would know. The other two might have missed it, but Orym had seen the slight tightening around Zhudanna's eyes before she had patted Laudna's hand, smiled at her and then brought out another round of freshly baked goods. From then on, she had insisted they help her with her weekly shopping and other simple errands, always forgetting a small task to keep them a little while longer.
Weeks had turned into a month, then two, and they had come no closer to seeing their friends again. They had kept busy, but by the end Orym had felt he was running on empty. The sending stone was still weighing from his hips. The Ley Lines were still mocking them. Then, their luck had turned.
Ashton had suggested another night at the Spire by Fire to lick their wounds after a botched job. They had gone straight for their usual table, only, it had not been empty like they expected. Instead they were greeted by familiar faces and bright laughter. Orym had found himself enveloped by Fearne even before he could realise what was happening. She had hugged him and babbled about the Wildmother and signs and, for some odd reason, goats. He had not gotten any of it.
It had only gotten more chaotic from there. When Orym had managed to extricate himself from Fearne's arms enough to see the rest of his friends, he had been hit with Chet and FCG raucously telling a broadly grinning Ashton about another Aeormaton and a meet up with Oltgar, who seemingly had found a new calling in life, and someone named Deanna, all within what seemed like one breath between the both of them. Laudna and Imogen meanwhile had not stopped hugging even for a moment, both of them crying and making sure that the other one was well, had not suffered overly, assuring another how much they had missed each other, and how neither had even for one minute believed the other to be out of reach forever. Orym had looked at his friends catching up, leaned back into Fearne's embrace, and had been ready to let go of all tension of the last few weeks, for a moment at least. Then he had heard another voice.
“Guys, a bit of help here, please!”
Around him, his friends had exploded into excited chatter and bubbly laughter, crying over each other, hugging and clapping each other's backs.
Orym had smelled ozone.
For weeks, he had hoped for this day, longed to see Dorian again, have him near and in reach. In that moment, panic had overwhelmed him instead. Stuck in his thoughts, he had simply managed to stare silently at Dorian, screeching voices steadily growing louder. Only Ashton’s hand on his shoulder had grounded him enough to finally manage a mumbled “Good to have you back…”
Since then, they had both tried to go back to their old routines. Dorian had joined their cuddle pile once more, but somehow Fearne had ended up the middle spoon each night. On the road, they had rolled out their bedrolls within arm’s reach of one another, but never took a watch together. They had shared in the group’s conversation, but never really talked to one another. It had been as if an insurmountable glass wall had gone up between them, keeping them far enough apart to make even the simplest touch impossible.
The wall still towers over them, and Orym is shaking beneath it. He cannot concentrate for more than a few seconds, oscillating between hyperfocus on the world around them and looking at his empty, cramping hands. He feels ready to shake apart, shatter into a million fragments, any second now, and his lungs grow hot from the iron bands of control he keeps wrestled around them. He cannot bear the thought of letting Dorian out of sight, but even the chance of being alone with him makes his heart clench tightly in his chest. His thoughts are occupied with tides of need and fear, rooting him in his spot. He is living in a constant state of panic.
Maybe this is why he misses the, in hindsight, quite obvious traces of the group of thugs that are showering them in crossbow bolts. He is at the front of the group and as such takes the brunt of the first salve, but while his friends quickly jump into action to make short work of the fifteen people shooting at them, his brain short circuits. Instead of going up against the closest ones and keeping them on himself like he would normally do, he turns around to look for Dorian. He is in the middle of the group, scimitar at the ready, eyes on the bandits on his left. There is no sign he has realised how Orym has repositioned himself. So Orym keeps to Dorian’s right, parries whatever hits come their way and takes the damage that he deems inevitable.
The fight goes on for far longer than it should, or maybe he is just too focused on his position relative to Dorian, and how he can keep harm away from him in any way possible. His arms burn, and his legs seem to grow heavier by the minute. He has long lost any sense on where the rest of the group is, or how they are faring. Another salve of bolts comes their way, and he steps forward and throws up his shield arm. Will would have his head for the way it and the rest of his leathers must look by now. He really should take better care of them. Maybe later, when everyone else is tucked away safely in an inn room and he can afford to let his guard down a bit. On the other hand, they are still some ways away from Jrusar. Manageable that day, if they get rid of their opponents soon, but it will most likely already be dark by the time they will reach the city, and -
“Nononononono…!”
There is panic in Dorian’s voice. In his befuddled state of mind, Orym cannot make sense of just why. He must have been fast enough in bringing his body and shield between Dorian and the bolts. His vision starts to narrow, black encroaching from the outskirts. Still, he is sure that the bolts cannot have hit Dorian. Why does he sound so panicked, then?
Orym looks over his shoulder at his friend. He does not look any more hurt than 10 seconds ago, no bolts embedded anywhere Orym can see.
‘Good’, he thinks, and turns back around. It can’t be that bad then. He can hear Chet howling in some distance, followed by Fearne’s airy laughter and Little Mister’s shrill shrieking. Ashton barrels into the men who just unloaded the salve of crossbow bolts, crystal brightly flaring within their skull. In a matter of seconds, all of them go down like puppets with their strings cut. The hairs on Orym’s arm stand on end, and his skin prickles with electricity, so he assumes that Imogen and Laudna must have gotten rid of another bunch of thugs somewhere behind him. The world falls silent around him for a moment, all opponents finally dealt with.
Orym feels himself shake. He hears a loud clattering sound, like metal hitting the ground, though he cannot fathom who would just drop their weapons after a won fight for no good reason. Then he finds himself lying on his side on the ground, with no recollection of how he got there. He feels a soft hand on his face and hears a voice calling his name, and he wants to look at whoever is holding him this carefully, but his eyelids are simply too heavy to open them. A warm breeze caresses him, carrying the faint scent of petrichor. Gentle fingers cradle his face, card through his hair, and he tries to lean into them. He is still shaking.
“Letters! He needs more healing! Please, I already cast Cure Wounds, but he is not getting better, I don’t know what’s wrong, please…!” There is that distraught voice again, and he knows that he wants it to stop sounding like this, make the fear go away, but he does not know how, and he feels too heavy to move. The shaking gets worse.
Another hand touches his elbow, as careful as the one still cradling his face, but far colder and somehow too smooth, and a second wave of warmth washes over him, though this one feels more staticy and prickly. He ducks into the warm hand on his cheek and scrunches his eyes shut, and continues to shake.
“That should have worked, look, his wounds are healing over.”
“Then why is he still shaking like that?! Orym? Orym, what is wrong? Oym?!”
The panic gets worse, as does the shaking. Then, the warm hand leaves his face, and he cannot help the pitiful sound rising in his throat at the loss. He wants to chase it, or curl up, or just stop, and instead he keeps shaking.
There are more hands on him, petite ones, still soft, careful, feeling for injuries, trying to roll him onto his back, and another moan leaves his throat. The hands vanish immediately. He is still shaking. Why does it not stop?
“Orym? Please, what is wrong? Please, tell me how we can help you! I want to help you, what do you need? Orym, please…!” Featherlight fingers stroke his arm, his shoulder, his back. They are shaking as well, he is sure. Or maybe it is just him.
“...make it stop…” He does not know if he whispers or screams, he just knows that he needs the shaking to stop. He just needs it to stop.
“How, Orym, what do you need? Tell me how to help you, please, Orym! I want to help you!” A second hand clasps his fists, thumb caressing his knuckles. The first finds his cheek again, fingertips sweeping over his temple. Why do they feel damp? He is sure they haven’t been damp before. Are they hurt, bleeding?
“Just make it stop! Make it stop! Please…” His voice catches. His fists clench around nothing. His shoulders shake.
“I want to, please, tell me how to help you, how do I make it stop, what do you need, I…”
Strong arms pick him up, and he finds himself pressed into a solid mass. It smells of well-worn leather and pebbled beaches. He cannot stop shaking. His first continues to clench around nothing. By now, he is sure, he must finally be shaking apart.
“We’ve got you, Orym. Let go, I swear to you, we’ve got you. Dorian’s okay, you’re okay. You can let go, she is not here, she cannot get any of us, I promised. You’re safe. Let go, Orym. I promise, you can let go.” He grasps for the metal buckle beneath his hand and turns his head further into the solid mass, dimly aware that he is still pleading with someone, anyone, to make it stop. Why won’t it stop?
“Oi, Blue Boy, time for that later! Come ‘ere! Shh, Orym, we’ve got you, we’re all safe, it’s not gonna happen again, I promised, remember? Here, take him, Blue Boy. See, he’s fine, you protected him, he’s safe, it’s not happening again. That’s it, there you are.” He is lifted again, and then he feels silk under his cheek, and smells petrichor and ozone and sandalwood, and he cannot remember when he last felt as enveloped by warmth as he is in this moment. He is held securely, one hand holding the back of his head, the other pressing his body closer to the warm silk.
“I’ve got you, you’ve done so well. I’ve got you. Ashton, what is wrong? Has this happened before? I’ve got you, I’m here…”
The musical voice rumbles beneath his cheek. It is still too fearful. He buries himself deeper into the embrace.
“I’m here, Orym. Shhhhhh. I promise, ya amar, I’m here. We’re all safe.” The mumbled assurances continue on, while another conversation flows around them. Orym does not comprehend a single word. All that matters is the lilting voice and its sweet mutterings to him.
Finally, the shaking subsides, and he follows the beckoning of the darkness in the back of his mind.
When Orym wakes next it is dark around him. He is lying in a bed he does not remember getting in, in a room he does not remember renting. His limbs still feel too heavy, he is not sure whether from sleeping or the way he had been on edge the last couple of weeks. Every thought comes to him through thick batting, slow and mumbled. His mouth is dry, and his throat hurts as if he has been talking too much. He lets his head drift slowly to its right side, shifting his gaze with the movement. Next to the bed, head hanging low, arms on his knees and crown of his head resting in both palms, sits Dorian, almost unmoving but for the slow, uneven rise and fall of his shoulders. Orym’s first instinct is to reach for him, to touch him and make sure he’s whole, and safe, and there. Not much else registers with him for a few seconds besides his friend’s presence. Then, his memory comes crashing back to him - the fight, Dorian’s panic-tight voice, the shaking, and he gasps for a desperate next breath. From where he lies, he cannot make out whether Dorian is fine, if he still bears any unhealed injuries, he is too far away, he has to move closer, see for himself, he needs to -
“Orym? Oh, thank the gods, you’re awake! What…?” In an instant, Dorian kneels next to the bed, his hands hovering above Orym, obviously unsure if he is allowed to touch him. Orym still struggles to breathe, to sit up, to get to Dorian, so he ends up pushed up on his right elbow, hand fisted into the sheets. His left hand, the one that would hold the sending stone, reaches for Dorian’s face. Hesitant fingers brush over Dorian’s cheek, come to rest on the jawline, over the pulse point, feel the steady fluttering beneath their tips. For a few seconds, they remain in limbo, just looking at each other. Then Orym pulls his hand back as if burned. Fist pressed to his chest, he keeps looking at Dorian's worried face until he cannot stand to any longer. He tucks his chin into his chest, closes his eyes and just tries to breathe until his lungs open up again.
A warm hand comes to rest on his one still gripping the sheets.
"What is wrong, Orym? Please tell me so I can make it right again." Dorian's voice is very soft, like he is not speaking to a dear friend but a scared child. His touch remains light, barely there, as if he is still not sure if he is allowed the contact. Orym wants to throw himself at Dorian, or vanish into thin air, and instead he keeps his eyes closed and his voice silent. If he tried to speak he is not sure if he would manage to bring out a whole sentence. All those nights he has longed to have more than 25 words, and now he cannot even bring himself to whisper a single one. He slowly sits up more, tucking his knees into his chest, hiding his face in them. His right hand remains buried.
“Look, I…well. Ashton wouldn’t say much, and the others didn’t either, aside from you not sleeping much, I mean. And…”
Dorian stops, breathes in deeply once, twice.
“And this reminds me of back then, the circlet, and you not talking to me, and me not knowing how to fix it, and how awkward it was. But I don’t know what I did this time. I mean, obviously I must have done something, or you would be talking to me instead of avoiding me. You didn’t even say hello to me back in the tavern, not until Ashton made you - yes, I noticed that. Like, when I was in Kymal, I would dream of our reunion, how you would hug me and not let go, and how you would want to know everything about how we managed during the Solstice and not laugh at me for fumbling over the details, and how we would go back to normal and I would have my friend back and not need that stupid stone anymore. Instead you won’t even look at me. Orym, I missed you, all of you, but you most of all, and I thought you missed me as well. But now it feels like you don’t want me here, like you don’t trust me, and I hate it. So, what did I do? How do I fix this?! Tell me, what did I do?!”
Orym’s eyes burn. His lungs burn. His jaw is locked. He cannot look up.
Everything within him screams to assure Dorian he did nothing wrong, that it is him, that he is stuck, shaking, uprooted, broken. His chest grows even tighter. The unsaid words burn on his tongue like acid.
Seconds tick by, neither of them says anything.
“You know what, never mind. If you hate me being near so much you won’t even answer, I’ll leave you be. Don’t wanna be a burden, I’ll just go…”
Dorian’s hand pulls back when he begins to get up.
“NO!”
He is not sure when he moved, or how, but he finds himself grabbing onto the front of Dorian’s tunic with all of his might.
“Don’t leave me!”
He is dimly aware of how keening his voice sounds. But the thought of being left again is absolutely terrifying. Trembling, he presses closer to Dorian. He cannot be alone. Not again.
“Orym, wha-”
The surprised, almost scared cadence of Dorian’s voice makes the dams finally break. His breath hitches, once, and the tears start to flow.
“Don’t leave me! Please, not again, I can’t do it again!”
“Wait, no, I -”
He desperately clings to the fabric, and for a moment he wants nothing but to lean forward, hide in Dorian’s broad chest and wait for this nightmare to finally, finally be over. Instead, he looks up into his friend’s face.
“Not again, please. I can’t take it, not again, Dorian….!”
Strong arms come around him, pull him against his friend. He goes willingly. A hand rakes through his hair, cradles his head. Another rests on the small of his back. Sandalwood and petrichor and warmth envelope him. His tears fall silently.
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry, I’ll stay. I promise, ya amar, I’m not leaving you.”
A soft kiss is pressed into his hair.
“It’s okay, I’m not going anywhere. Here, I’ll get us a bit more comfortable, yeah? That okay with you?”
He nods, and Dorian manoeuvres them carefully up and to the middle of the bed. Orym comes to rest in his lap, still cradled against Dorian. He can hear his heartbeat, calm and steady, and slowly, his frantically screeching thoughts begin to quieten. Despite this, he does not trust himself to let go of Dorian’s tunic yet, even if he knows how illogical that is. Somehow, he still fears the moment he lets go will be the moment he’ll find himself alone once again.
Dorian’s hand keeps carding through his hair, slow but deliberate, and Orym is sure he has not felt this cherished in over six years now, not since Will was taken from him. His heart grows heavy.
“Do you want to talk about this?”, Dorian murmurs into his hair, low and undemanding. Orym hesitates, breathes in slowly. As much as he would like to keep everything close to his chest, he is sure that there will be no equilibrium to be had if he does. And even through all the assurances whispered to him, he is unsure whether Dorian might yet decide he is done with his brand of plaintive secrecy, so he looks at his hands and whispers, more to himself than Dorian.
“I am so scared. Not even just now, but always, really. From the day you left with Cyrus, but even more so since Bassuras. We fought Thull there, and she almost murdered us all, just like Will. She did get Fearne, and Laudna. And me. I let them down there, Dorian, I let them down and let her kill them, just like I let her kill Will and Derrig. She’s terrifying me. I can’t sleep without seeing her in every fucking nightmare, every fucking night, her, and Will and…and no matter what I do, I cannot stop her. Not in my dreams, not when I’m awake. She was at the Malleus Key during the Solstice, and I fought her again, and I wasn’t good enough. And you know what’s even worse? I brought her the Voice of the Tempest on a silver platter, just like she wanted me to. Without me, they wouldn’t have managed to power that fucking thing to begin with. This whole debacle could have been prevented without me chasing her down like the fucking idiot I am. “
He bites his lip, breathes purposely through his nose.
“The only bright spot was that you weren’t there. Do you know how much I missed you? Every day, every night, I‘ve missed you. I wanted you back with us, with me, so fucking much it hurt to breathe. Instead of sleeping, I crafted stupid Morning Glory, just so you felt close for a second. That godsdamned sending stone must have left scars on my palm from how much I held it. I would have given just about anything to be with you, to make sure you were safe and unharmed. But when you came back…I just couldn’t cope. She’s still out there. What if she finds us, you? What if I can’t stop her? She will kill you. And I will not be good enough to stop her, I’ve never been, not once! She’ll kill you, like she killed Will, I can’t do that again, it’ll crush me, I -”
There’s a hand on his face, insistently coaxing him to raise his gaze. He does turn up his face, but cannot look Dorian in the eye.
“Orym…”
Cool lips touch his forehead in the softest of kisses, wander to his temples, his cheekbones, his forehead again. The hand falls to his jaw, thumb brushing his earlobe with every reverent pass. He could weep from longing.
“I feel like I’m shaking apart. The thought of losing another man I love…”
His hands mirror Dorian’s on his face, cautiously cupping his jaw, right over his pulse.
“Being here, with me, is putting you in danger. So much more than we all already are in. What if -”
Every scenario is kissed from his lips. It is a delicate thing, not much more than a reluctant, petal-soft brush, and it ends far too fast.
“We will deal with her, together. You don’t have to fight her alone, Orym. And I wish I could promise you that she will not hurt anyone else, I do, but I can’t”, Dorian whispers, and brings their foreheads together. Orym's world shrinks to that point of contact.
“But I swear to you, we will take her down. That woman has taken enough from us. And if I have any say in it, she isn’t taking either of us. Trust me, ya amar, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her from hurting you anymore. I won’t let her, I promise.”
And in this moment, Orym simply believes him.
For the first time in a while, he feels calm.