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Hours later, after the grand meeting of the Exandrian Accord, after making their report to Keyleth, after communing with the Wildmother, after being shown to their shared quarters inside the Birth Heart, Orym tugs on Dorian’s sleeve. The fine mithril is cool and oddly silky under his fingers, and Dorian’s face is curious when he looks down.
“Hey… can we talk?” Orym’s voice comes out quiet, hesitant– a little nervous in spite of himself. Dorian gives him a searching look, then nods. As though he can sense Orym’s anxiety, he also offers a small, encouraging smile.
“Of course,” He gestures to the balcony in their quarters that looks out over the city, “Why don’t we get some fresh air?”
Orym murmurs an affirmative and follows Dorian outside. He leans up against the railing and peers through the gaps to take in the view. He can see the towering, mountainous form of the dead Earth Titan pretty well from here. Their quarters are higher up than most, but even at this height they’re barely eye-level with the Titan's waist.
“Pretty incredible, isn’t it?” Dorian asks, his voice a little wistful as he stands next to Orym. He leans against the top bar of the railing, looking out across the Dawn City towards the distant mountain range.
“Yeah…” Orym takes a little time to gather his thoughts before continuing, “I wanted to apologize for before.”
Dorian doesn’t say anything. He just blinks and turns to look at Orym, waiting patiently for him to continue. Orym swallows around the lump in his throat and takes a shaky breath.
“I shouldn't have said what I did yesterday. About Cyrus. It was harsh, and insensitive, and I shouldn't have used him in my argument. It… I felt awful as soon as I said it, and I’m sorry.”
Dorian lets out a sad, drawn-out sigh and kneels so he can be at Orym’s eye level. He bites his lip and looks down at his hands for a moment before speaking.
“I'm not going to lie, it hurt when you said that. Quite a lot, actually.” Dorian fidgets with one of his gold rings, looking miserable, “Cyrus is dead because of the gods. The Spider Queen murdered him, and took Opal away, and none of the other gods so much as lifted a finger to help us. Not even your Wildmother.” He gives Orym a long, piercing look, “This isn't just philosophical for me either, you know.”
“...Right.” Orym hangs his head, eyes beginning to burn with unshed tears, “I just– hearing you agree with Ludinus… it scared me. It really, really scared me. I didn’t mean to snap at you, or make you feel like your feelings don’t matter to me. I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“I'm sorry too. I didn't know Ludinus was behind the attack on your home. But Orym,” A delicate finger– callused from years of playing stringed instruments– gently tips Orym’s chin up so Dorian can meet his eyes, “You have to know… just because I think his arguments might have some merit, that doesn't mean I'm going to abandon you to join his side.”
“...Yeah.” Orym whispers, slightly distraught and utterly unconvincing. Dorian’s frown deepens.
“You… do know that, right? You know I'm not going to leave you again?”
In a burst of panic, Orym grasps for Dorian’s hands, “No! I mean– yes! I– I know that! I know.”
Dorian allows Orym to hold onto his hands. He gives them a reassuring squeeze, running his thumbs gently over Orym’s knuckles.
“I–” Orym chokes and sucks in a deep breath, “I really needed you to understand why I can't give up on this fight. He sent the assassin who attacked my home, and killed my husband and father. The same assassin FCG sacrificed himself to save us from. I can't let this go. I can't .”
“Well, that is certainly something I can understand.”
“It– it's more than that, though,” Orym sniffles, “Everyone keeps telling me that… If any of us turns, if any of us joins the Vanguard… it's up to me to take them out.”
Dorian gives him a horrified look, “Orym…”
“I don’t want to fight any of you. I don’t want to hurt any of you. You're my family. ” Orym grits out, beginning to crumble, “If I had to… I could never forgive myself if I failed you like that. Never.”
“That’s not something anyone should be asking of you,” Dorian insists vehemently, “Not Laudna, not the Tempest, not the gods. Nobody. ”
“This isn't just about me, Dor. It's not even really about the gods . It's about the people of Exandria . If Predathos gets free… it's all over. For everyone.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“The Wildmother showed it to me. I saw Predathos, I felt its hunger, and it…” Orym shudders, forcing the memory of that hunger– that horror – away, “Even if the Wildmother was lying to me, do you think a hungry predator stops hunting once its natural prey is gone? Ludinus might trust Predathos, but I don’t. Not for a single fucking second.”
“I believe you. But…” Dorian just stares at him for a long moment and shakes his head. He looks tired and sad in a way that Orym can't remember ever seeing him, “You can’t save everyone, my friend.”
“I have to try.” Orym whispers helplessly. Dorian’s hands tighten around his own.
“I don’t think I want you to. I've been back less than three days, and I've watched you almost die half a dozen times. Opal and Fy’ra and Morr have all gone who-knows-where. I had to leave Dariax behind for his own safety. And Cyrus…” Dorian squeezes his eyes shut and takes a shaking breath, “You and Fearne are all I have left. Don’t make me lose you too.”
Orym’s feels his heart start to break at the grief in his friend’s voice. The guilt of it twists like a knife in his gut, “You know that’s not a promise I can make.”
“...I know.”
“I'm sorry.”
“I know you are.” Dorian sighs again and pulls his hands away, “You know, it’s often said that ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder.’ I think, perhaps, in the time we've been apart, we've put each other up on a pedestal. Maybe we've been missing our idea of who each other is, more than the actual person. I mean, we've both changed so much since the last time we saw each other.”
Orym swallows down the lump of anxiety that jumps into his throat, and forces himself to breathe evenly, “What does that mean?”
“It means we have to get to know each other again, as we really are. No miscommunications, no misconceptions.” Dorian gives him a bittersweet smile and reaches out to touch his cheek, “I may not believe in the gods, but I believe in you . I care about you . I'm not going to leave just because we happened to hit a rough patch.”
Orym fights back the tears that have started welling up again, lifting his hands to cling to Dorian's wrist, “I'm sorry I can't be what you need me to be.”
“Don't apologize for being you. I don’t want you to be anything else.” Dorian presses a kiss to the top of Orym’s head, “I just hate seeing you run yourself into the ground like this, and then tear yourself apart for not doing enough. I know I can’t ask you to walk away from this fight, no matter how much I might want to, but… there are things I can’t walk away from either. Not anymore.”
“I understand.” Orym’s voice comes out in a broken whisper. Dorian gives him a long, searching look, then sighs and shakes his head sadly. He strokes his thumb across Orym’s cheek in a soothing back-and-forth rhythm.
“Don't be so hard on yourself. You're already doing your best. No one has the right to ask for more than that.”
Orym nods and sniffles miserably. He leans hard into Dorian’s touch, trying to find the kind of solace he hasn't had since Will died. Getting to see his husband in the Wildmother’s glade had been both a gift and a curse. Experiencing that closeness again after so long, only to come back to a world without Will… it made the ache of missing him feel like a fresh wound again. On top of everything else, he’s starting to feel like his tiny halfling body can’t possibly contain all his emotions– not without cracking open and drowning everyone around him in the resulting flood.
Dorian lowers his head and presses his face into Orym’s hair. The two of them stay like that for a long moment, letting the warm, fragrant breeze from the Abundant Terrace below waft around them. They only pull away from each other when they're startled by the balcony door swinging open.
“Oh, shit,” Ashton looks between the two of them with wide eyes, a matchbox in one hand and an unlit cigarette hanging from his lip, “Am I interrupting something? I can go… somewhere else…”
“Don’t worry about it,” Dorian waves away their concern, pulling away from Orym and getting to his feet, “I was about to turn in for the night anyway.”
“Uh… right,” Ashton looks awkwardly between Orym and Dorian, “You two sure you're okay?”
“We were just… clearing the air. We'll be alright.” Dorian gives Orym a final pat on the shoulder and moves towards the door to go back inside, “Sleep well, you two. Don’t stay up too late.”
“No fucking promises!” Ashton calls after him. They glance briefly at Orym and do a double take to look at him properly, “Wh– hey, what’s wrong? What happened?”
It takes Orym a second to realize that the tears he’d been fighting so hard to hold back had finally spilled over, and were tracking silently down his cheeks. He hurriedly turns away and scrubs furiously at his face with his forearm. He doesn’t answer Ashton right away, trying to get his composure back before trusting himself to speak. He can hear Ashton shifting awkwardly from foot to foot where he stands.
“Should I… go get Fearne? Or ask Dorian to come back?”
“No. S’nothing. M’fine.” Orym chokes out, shaking his head insistently. He dashes the last few tears from his eyes, turns around to lean back against the railing, and slides down to sit on the ground. He folds his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them, feeling even smaller than usual.
Ashton hesitates for a long moment before crossing the balcony. He sits on the ground to Orym’s left with a pained groan, his joints popping loudly as he settles. They draw a match from the box in their hand and try to light it, but their hands are shaking too hard to strike it properly. They swear vehemently and give up, closing their eyes and letting their head tip back to rest against the railing.
“Oh, uh, here.” Orym offers, reaching for the trickle of magic that fuels his Druidcraft. He clicks his fingers a few times until a tiny flame springs to life on the tip of his thumb. He holds it up to Ashton, who lights his cigarette with a grateful murmur. They take a long pull and sag with relief almost immediately, blowing out the smoke with a ragged sigh.
“Thanks. That’s a handy fucking trick. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before.”
“I’m better at flowers.” Orym recognizes the scent of the smoke almost immediately– the rare, brassy-smelling herbs that cost Ashton a small fortune, that they make very certain to pre-roll and always have on hand. These cigarettes are the only thing that Ashton has strictly forbidden Fearne from stealing, and they only smoke them on their very worst pain days.
“Bad night?” He asks them quietly, shaking his hand to put out his little flame. Ashton hums tiredly, shrugs, then winces. He still looks completely exhausted– his complexion is pale and sickly-looking, with pronounced shadows under his eyes.
“Side effect of going Titan Mode,” Ashton grumbles, “I could say the same of you. D’you… fuck, I dunno. You wanna talk about it or something?”
“Or something.” Orym mutters dejectedly. He grimaces and looks away, “Sorry. I’ll be okay.”
Ashton lets out a cynical snort, “That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s… a lot. Everything.”
“Understatement of the fucking century,”
Orym chuckles bitterly and sighs, “I think maybe I’m just… a little overwhelmed.”
Ashton takes another drag from their cigarette, “Look, man. I’m not gonna make you talk about your shit if you really don’t want to,” He holds his cigarette over the side of the balcony and carefully flicks the ashes off the end, “Keeping it all bottled up isn’t fucking good for you, though.”
Orym pauses for a long time before responding, “I think I blew it, Ash.”
“What, with Dorian?” Ashton asks, receiving a shrug and a nod in response, “He didn’t seem mad at you. Said you guys were sorting things out.”
“Maybe not so much angry with me as… disappointed.” Orym admits reluctantly.
“Ah.” Ashton gives an understanding nod, “Yeah, that is worse, isn’t it? Fuck.”
“We’ve talked it out for now, I think, but…” Orym fidgets uncertainly with the glove on his shield arm, “I dunno if this difference is one we can overcome forever.”
“Is this because of the god debate? ‘Cause I don’t fucking like them either, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna buy into Ludinus’ bullshit.” Ashton finishes his smoke, puts out the stub of his cigarette, and flicks it dismissively off the balcony, “That crusty old fuck is the reason Letters is dead. He’s not getting shit from me.”
“Dorian told me his brother died because of the gods. That the Spider Queen killed him. He can’t let that go any more than I can let go of what Ludinus did to my family,” Orym clenches his fists in his lap, trying to stop his hands from shaking, “That’s not something we can ask of each other. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us. But… I mean, I don’t doubt anybody’s loyalty, but there’s a part of me that can’t help being afraid that we’ll end up on opposing sides.”
Ashton pats him on the back, “I don’t think you gotta worry about that. Dorian cares about you more than fucking anything. You didn’t see it in that last fight, on account of getting knocked the fuck out, but… all he wants is to protect you.”
Orym closes his eyes and tries to let Ashton’s reassurance take root. Tries to tuck that unwavering certainty away next to his heart where he’ll never be able to lose it. He thinks about Dorian’s own insistence that– even if they disagree– he cares about Orym and he’s not going to leave Bell’s Hells for the Vanguard. He tries to let that drown out the whisper of doubt that has lingered in the back of his mind for years, ever since his dearest loved ones were slaughtered in the one place where they should have been safe.
Orym doesn’t realise he’s started crying again until Ashton wraps an arm around him and pulls him into their side. He wipes the tears away with the heel of his hand and hiccups, “S-sorry. I don’t know why I… I don’t know…”
“Don’t worry about it,” Ashton gives him a gentle squeeze, “Like you said, it’s been a lot lately.”
“You don’t have to…” Orym sniffles and sucks in a harsh breath, “You’re hurting.”
“I always hurt. That’s what the fucking smokes are for. You’re fine.”
Orym finally gives in and relaxes into the side-hug. The firm pressure of the embrace loosens something in his chest after a long moment, giving way to a different sort of ache than the one that’s been eating at his insides all day.
“Ash, do you ever just… really want to go home, even though you don’t know where that is anymore?”
“Every fucking day of my shit-tacular life.” Ashton mutters bitterly. He gives a sheepish sideways glance and adds, “Sorry. Maybe that was a little much.”
“S’okay. I get it.” Orym winds his arms as far around Ashton’s waist as he can reach to return the hug, trying to be mindful of their scarring, “I saw Will.”
He feels Ashton’s body shift so they can look at him more directly, “What? When?”
“When I communed with the Wildmother. I guess his soul went to her realm after… After.”
“Oh.” Ashton chews nervously at his bottom lip, “Did it– Fuck, man, I dunno. Did it… help?”
“I’m not really sure.” Orym confesses, “He told me what I needed to hear, I think. I know he wants me to move on and be happy, but right now I… I just miss him.”
Ashton doesn’t say anything in response to that. They simply give him another tight squeeze and rub one hand up and down over his back. Orym lets a bit of that comfort sink in. Neither of them are particularly good at words, but what could anyone really say to a friend in the face of their greatest loss? Orym’s not one for empty platitudes, and neither is Ashton.
The two of them sit quietly for a while before Orym gives voice to a thought that’s been nagging at him all evening: “What do you suppose happens to the souls in the gods’ afterlives? If Predathos gets out?”
“Shit,” Ashton’s hand goes still where they’ve been rubbing his back, “I didn’t even think of that. Fuck.” He pauses for a moment to think before adding, “Doesn’t really change shit for us, though, does it? We still gotta put a fucking stop to this.”
“Raises the stakes, maybe.” Orym shrugs. Ashton snorts.
“Like they weren’t already sky-fucking-high to begin with.”
“Do you think maybe we should try to talk to the Changebringer? Since Letters had a soul, that’s probably where he went, right?”
Ashton sighs dejectedly, “Maybe. We can talk to the others about it, but… I dunno if my head’s in the right place to try to talk to her. Not yet, anyway.”
“It’s okay,” Orym murmurs, tightening his hold around their waist, “I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
“That’s sweet. But you know good and fucking well we don’t have the luxury of not doing shit we’re not ready for. Not right now.”
Orym gives a noncommittal hum, knowing Ashton’s right but not wanting to agree. Now that his more turbulent emotions have finally settled down, the exhaustion is starting to hit. He lets his eyes slip shut and sags a little harder against Ashton.
“Hey,” Their large, stony hand lands gently on Orym’s head and ruffles his hair, “When was the last time you had a decent night’s sleep?”
Orym frowns in confusion, but doesn’t open his eyes, “I– last night? Last night was fine.”
“Yeah, and that was our first uninterrupted night in, like… three days? Four days? We should probably both go to bed,” Ashton gives him one final squeeze and pats him on the back, “I definitely can’t sit like this all fucking night, so we might as well get up now.”
“Alright,” Orym sighs reluctantly, extricating himself from Ashton’s side and getting to his feet, “Need a hand?”
He gets a skeptical snort in response, “As if you could pull me up.”
“Probably not. You can use me to brace against, though. Get enough leverage to stand a little easier.” Orym takes one of Ashton’s hands and plants it on his shoulder, “C’mon. Don’t worry about me, I’ve done this a thousand times.”
Ashton cocks an eyebrow, but doesn’t reply. He presses down on Orym’s shoulder as he pushes himself up, and heaves himself upright with a strained grunt. Orym shifts into an immovable stance to bear their weight for that brief moment. He steadies them with firm hands on their flank when they nearly stumble– a little wobbly after smoking their potent, pain-killing herbs.
Orym stays close to Ashton’s side, keeping one of their hands on his shoulder as he guides them back indoors. Their bedroll is already set up near the hearth– probably wanting to be as close to its warmth as possible. Orym helps him get comfortable and stokes the dying fire, feeding it a little druidic magic to encourage it.
“Thanks.” Ashton mumbles tiredly.
“‘Course,” Orym gives him a fond smile, “Night, Ash.”
“G’night.”
Orym turns back to the rest of the room and takes a long look at the rest of his friends, reassuring himself they’re all safe and sleeping soundly. Chetney’s snoring like a wood saw. Braius also snores, as it turns out– deep rumbling breaths that moo slightly on every exhale. Imogen and Laudna are curled up together as usual. It’s one of the rare nights that Fearne isn’t snuggled up with either Ashton or her fellow witches, so Orym pads over to her bed and clambers up beside her. He curls up in his familiar spot in the crook of her knee, with his head pillowed on her furry goat thigh.
Dorian’s bed is perfectly visible from here. His back is facing towards Orym, allowing him to clearly see the slow rise-and-fall pattern of his breaths. They’re a little too long and measured to be natural, but Orym’s spent enough nights of his own lying awake while pretending to sleep that he doesn’t call him on it. He briefly considers inviting Dorian over here with him and Fearne– to be their medium spoon again, like old times– but decides it’s better not to disturb him.
Instead he keeps watch for a while, following the cycle of Dorian’s breathing until his eyelids start to droop. Eventually, when he can’t fight his own exhaustion anymore, Orym sleeps.