It’s on the floor in the tavern they’re rooming in that Dorian gains the courage to voice his concerns to his companion.
“You went down again.” Dorian says softly, reaching out to brush his thumb along Orym’s cheek. With a low, soothing note, Dorian’s hand glows as he begins to cast cure wounds. The wind picks up briefly around them, bringing the scent of salt water and clean linen as the spell begins to work its way through Orym. “What a nasty little habit you’ve gotten into,” he teases, bringing his hand up to wipe along Orym’s brow. If he focuses, he can remember Orym covered in ash and blood and dark ichor. Can see the wounds in his back, the struggle to breathe as he adjusts his stance and goes back again, and again, and again. The way he pushes against his ribs to quell the bleeding so he can fight just a little longer.
“Sorry,” Orym murmurs, turning his head to hide the words in Dorian’s palm. “Don’t waste your spells on me. I’ll just go down again.”
“Hopefully not tonight.” Dorian teases, attempting to lighten the mood. But Orym flinches, and Dorian finds himself chasing him as the Halfling attempts to slip back. “Orym, I’m only joking. Even if you went down, I’d bring you right back up. The magic will come back in the morning, as it always does. The only going down—” he winces a bit at the phrasing, hands hovering near Orym in a way he hopes doesn’t feel caging. “Is laying down to sleep. It wouldn’t do any of us well for you to be meeting the Raven Queen in the middle of the night. And Orym,” he adds risking the flinch Orym may give to cup his face in his hands, pressing their foreheads together. “It’s not a waste of spells. Not if it’s you, Orym.”
“He’s right, you know.” Fearne’s voice enters the room, soft and steady. It’s sudden enough that it makes them both jump, scrambling apart like they had done something scandalous (the thought makes Dorian’s heart thud against his ribcage). The door is hardly open, the room filing with the sound of rattling dinnerware as Fearne uses her hip to widen the opening. Her hooves clop softly against the wood of the floor as she crosses the threshold into the room.
“Really, Fearne,” Dorian scolds, scrambling up to help her with the trays in her arms. “You could have knocked. You could hurt yourself.
“Oh, I’m quite alright. Thank you, Dorian.” She lets him take one of the trays, which is full of several steaming bowls of various colored, thick substance and flat pieces of bread. Fearne reaches up and pats his cheek twice before taking her tray laden with all the makings of a proper tea tray over to Orym. “Are you feeling better?”
“Much,” Orym says softly, standing up to take the tray from her. Fearne hums, but allows it, settling gracefully on the floor near where Orym had been sitting. As soon as he sets the tray down, she’s extending her arm, offering up the space next to her for him to lay. He glances at Dorian, almost as if he’s asking for permission, which Dorian easily grants with a warm smile and a nod as he sets the tray of food next to the tea tray. Orym slides next to her, letting Fearne wrap her arm around him. Dorian settles across from them, sitting crossed legged. “Do we want to talk about it?” He asks, reaching out for one of the mugs of tea.
There’s silence for a moment as they consider, filled only by the way clinking of his spoon against his teacup as he mixes in more sugar than he would normally take. It’s been a rough day. He deserves something sweet. They all do. Fearne breaks the silence first, reaching to make her own cup of tea, adding more sugar and milk than Darian would ever be able to stomach. “Yes, we should,” she begins, pausing when Orym tries to sit up. She places a hand on the side of his head, making him still at the contact. The hand holding her teacup shakes. After a moment, Orym falls back into her side, and she hums soothingly. “But not now. After eating, maybe. Or in the morning, when everyone has gathered again. But not yet. Is that alright with you, Orym?”
“That’s fine.”
“Then we’re agreed.” Dorian finishes. “Let’s eat, then. It smells wonderful!”
“It does.” Fearne sets her teacup aside to lean forward towards the tray with the food. “The barkeep called it curry. The red one is supposed to be the hottest in terms of spice. Good for bringing up energy and revitalizing sad senses, they said.” She dips one of the small pieces of bread into the curry and, after studying it for a moment, pops it into her mouth. Dorian follows suit, avoiding the red curry and going for one that’s green. As he chews, he focuses his attention on Orym.
The Halfling is settled against Fearne, eyes closed as her hand idly scratches at his scalp. He looks exhausted, and Dorian doesn’t blame him. His magic was able to chase some of the shadows and paleness from Orym’s face; a clean, blood-free shirt also helped. Orym looked about as content as one could be in a situation like this. And he knows, too, that if they don’t push, that Orym will let himself starve, just for a bit, until lunch the next day at least, in order to fully let the remorse and guilt go through his system. And Dorian doesn’t blame him for that, either; he hadn’t had much of an appetite after seeing Danas’s body. “You should eat, Orym. It’s good.” And you’ll need your strength to keep fighting. To stay alive.
Orym’s eyes open slowly, and the blank look in them makes Dorian straighten. His senses feel heightened, electric, and it’s only when Fearne says his name that he realizes a breeze is angrily blowing around them. “Sorry,” he mumbles, running a hand through his hair to try and get himself to calm down.
“Here, Orym. Sit up just a little. That’s it.”
Orym follows her instructions mechanically, siting upright and staring blankly ahead. Fearne carefully takes a piece of bread and scoops some of the green curry with it before holding it out to Orym. “Say ah,” she coaxes.
“You don’t need to coddle me.” Orym snaps. “I’m a grown man, Fearne.”
Dorian flinches; the anger is almost worse than the blankness. Fearne, however, takes it in stride, cocking her head to one side as she hums. “I know, Orym. Even grown men need taken care of sometimes. All people do.”
“You shouldn’t.” Orym states harshly.
“And why shouldn’t we?” He challenges. “You take care of us all the time in battle. The other day you were half-way to the Raven Queen’s throne and you goaded Lord Eshteross into attack you. You look at Laudna and can see past all her spookiness. You are full of empathy, and kindness, and self-sacrificing to a fault. Orym,” he hates the way his voice cracks, desperate, hands shaking to try and fight the urge to reach for him. “If you pour your cup until its empty and never refill it, you’ll have nothing left to give. Let us refill your cup. Let us take care of you.”
Orym takes a shaky breath and then nods, reaching out to take the food from Fearne. “Okay.”
“Thank you.” Dorian can’t resist the urge any longer, reaching out to cup Orym’s face. “Let’s take tonight to refill our cups, yes? And tomorrow we’ll find new places to empty them.”
Orym gives a huff that might be a laugh; Fearne giggles softly and reaches to fix herself another serving of the spicy curry. For a few minutes, the room is silent save for the sounds of them eating. The food is good, perfectly spiced and with a good texture. Fearne had gone red in the face with how spicy her curry was, sweat trickling down her neck and cheeks. Dorian laughs, sending a gust of wind in her direction. Orym is relatively quiet, though he doesn’t seem as far gone as before. He basks in the space that Fearne and Dorian fill with quiet conversation.
“Well,” Dorian begins after he’s finished his food and tea. “I think we should finish cleaning up and get ready for bed.”
“The dishes can go down in the morning.” Fearne says softly. “We’ve had a long day.” She gives a wave of her hand and the smell of the forest washes over the both of them, damp and rich, and the last dredges of the day’s stresses are washed away from them. “Would you like to be in the middle, Orym?”
“I…” Orym sighs after a moment, and Dorian can see the flush beginning to rise in his cheeks. “That sounds nice.”
“Excellent. Go on and get comfy, then. I’ll only be a moment.” As she speaks, Fearne begins to pull up her shirt.
Dorian quickly spins around, feeling the heat rising in his own cheeks. “Fearne! A warning, maybe?”
“Oh? You can see them, if you like. They’re very impressive.”
“I’m sure they’re lovely.” He hates how high his voice gets, the way it cracks on Orym’s name when he catches the Halfling laughing at him. But Orym is just as flushed as he is, all the way down his neck, the tips of his ears.
“Next time you’re in the middle you can sleep next to me. They’re very comfy.”
“Fearne,” he chokes, burying his face in his hands. Orym’s hand pats his thigh, and they share another look of solidarity as Fearne undresses (and hopefully redresses) behind them. “Okay,” she sings, making him jump as he places a hand on his shoulder. “You can look.”
“Are you clothed?” He manages. To his horror, Fearne only giggles.
“Is that new? It looks nice.” Dorian turns in shock to see Orym had turned around and is staring at Fearne. The color is still in his cheeks, the soft, adoring look he’s caught her giving him more than once on his face. And then his gaze moves to her, and Gods, she’s a sight. Ethereal is too weak a word for the Goddess in front of him. Her arms are blocking the view of her chest as she begins to carefully remove the jewelry and trinkets from her ears and horns. The flowers and fungi fall to the ground, lifeless and wilted; he knows from experience that without fail they will grow back tomorrow. The nightdress she’s wearing is short on her, barely covering her thighs, showing off the soft brown fur of her legs, and a beautiful cream color. There are several sheer, peach colored layers on top, reminding Dorian of a particularly sweet desert. She glances at him from the corner of her eye, grinning coyly as she gives a shake of her head to remove some more of the petals.
“Let us help you,” Dorian whispers. Even that feels too loud in the wake of Fearne’s beauty. But the faun just nods, moving between them and settling on the bed. Dorian moves to her left, Orym her right. Orym perches on his knees to reach more comfortably, carefully untangling golden chains and undoing tiny clasps to remove the various fixing. Dorian starts untangling any knots in Fearne’s hair as gently as he can, avoiding sections where the poisonous flowers and fungi have yet to be pulled out by Fearne’s hands. He guides them to places whenever they come near, ducking his head whenever she lets her fingers linger on his for a moment. “Would you like me to braid it for you, before you sleep?” He offers, narrowing his eyes a particularly difficult knot.
“Oh, that would be lovely.”
“I…can braid yours, Dorian.” Orym admits quietly. He’s finished removing the last of Fearne’s jewelry, holding them in his hands. “If you want.”
“That sounds wonderful, Orym. Thank you.”
“There’s a jewelry box in my bag, Orym, if you’d like to put them in that. Or just on the bedside table, if you don’t want to get up. Either way is fine with me.”
“It’s no trouble.” Orym takes the jewelry Fearne had already removed and moves to find the box in her bag. The last of the flora are removed from Fearne’s hair, and she reaches up to cup Dorian’s cheek. “Fill our cups, huh?” She says softly. “Are you sure that’s the only thing you wanted to fill?” She laughs as he splutters, twirling a strand of his hair around her finger. “I’m only teasing. Unless?”
“Unless?” He chokes. Dorian glances over to see Orym watching them, shaking his head with a smile. “I mean, if you’re offering, I—I wouldn’t, you’re lovely, Fearne, I.”
“Well, Orym would be welcome to join, too, if that’s what stopping you. And it wouldn’t be tonight.” She leans forward until they’re practically breathing the same air. “Maybe someday, but not tonight. We should rest. Will you let me fill your cup tonight, Dorian?”
His heart stops for an instant; the ocean has to be in his ears with how loud the next beat crashes in them. The words won’t come out, even if he wants them too. It’s all he’s ever had, music and words, but in the wake of her request, he’s left speechless. He nods, floundering, reaching shaking hands to cup her cheeks. “Only if I can fill yours.” He manages, praying to whatever Gods will listen to let them have this. To let the three of them have each other, have safety and security and rest in each other. Just until the sun rises. Just until the light peers through the curtains, and Orym rises only to stay in bed just a minute longer, running fingers through his hair because he doesn’t think he’s awake just yet. Just long enough to watch Fearne blink away, rubbing sleep from her eyes and stretching like a cat, graceful and elegant. These moments, precious and fleeting, are the ones he wants more than anything. More than gold, more than any glory their adventurous deeds could bring to his name. Performing on any stage would be bitter if they were not there to see him.
Fearne doesn’t answer, but presses her lips to his. It’s soft, so gentle he could cry. And maybe he does begin to, because her thumb is brushing along his cheek as she kisses him. He can feel the bed dip, and arms around his waist, a solid weight behind him. Dorian drops one of his hands to pat blindly at his middle, searching for Orym’s hand. It’s not enough; he has to be closer, more connected, because to be apart from them for even an instant feels worse than any sword wound. Death could come for them at any moment; had nearly taken Orym from them several times now. It was a dangerous life they lead, but one they were called to do. Called to greatness. To kindness. To one another.
When Fearne pulls away, Dorian can’t help but chase her. The spice lingers on her tongue, and he can’t get enough. But Orym is on his knees behind him, pushing his hair aside to press kisses along his neck, thumb rubbing soothing motions along Dorian’s hand as he whispers, over and over again, “I’ve got you. I love you. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Dorian whispers. “I should be the one who’s sorry—I’m the one crying over nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” Fearne and Orym say at the same time; Fearne is the one who continues. “You’re feeling. There’s nothing wrong about that. We’ve had a long day.”
“We have.” Dorian agrees with a sigh. “Come here, Orym; kiss me properly.”
In one easy motion, slipping underneath their arms, Orym settles in Dorian’s lap. They kiss, just as gentle as the one shared between Fearne and himself. Fearne takes Orym’s spot behind him, hands slipping around his back and underneath his shirt. They go no higher than his stomach, simply resting there. Warm and soft, almost possessive. “She can try to take you from me,” she whispers. “But I won’t let her. The Raven Queen has no business with you yet.”
Orym pulls back with a wounded noise, and Fearne is quick to lean over and press her lips to his. The weight of her feels good, even if it makes him bend at an awkward angle. Steadying. When they pull apart, Dorian pulls Orym to his chest, holding him tight. “I love you. Both of you.” It’s easier to say when he can’t look them in the eye. He’s a coward, and he knows it. But they love him, he knows it; Fearne says it into his hair, in the way she reaches to put a hand on the back of Orym’s head. Orym’s words are muffled into his shoulder, solidified by the tight grip on the back of his shirt.
They stay like that for a long time. There’s static starting to settle in his thighs; Fearne’s breathing is so soft that she might be asleep. And Orym had started to get restless, hands tracing shapes onto Dorian’s back. “Alright, dears, time for bed. Cuddling is much more comfortable laying down.”
“I’m not tired,” Fearne huffs. “Besides, if you don’t braid your hair, it’ll be a mess in the morning.”
“Coming from the walking bird’s nest,” he teases back. “But fair point. Alright, Orym, up we get.”
“Would you like me on the floor?” Fearne asks, raising her arms behind her in a stretch. “That way Orym can be behind you.”
“That’s alright with me. Would you like a pillow? Bruised knees are no fun, and the floor is rather uncomfortable to sit on.”
“I’ll be alright. It won’t be long.” Fearne pats the top of his head as she gets up, taking another moment to stretch. Orym carefully slips back behind him, reaching up to undo his topknot. His fingers are gentle as he runs them through the strands, checking for knots and tangles. “I’m not fragile,” Dorian teases.
Orym’s hands still. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” Dorian promises. “My mother always pulled and tugged; anything you do couldn’t be worse than her. And Dariax tried to braid my hair while he was drunk. It can’t be worse than that.”
Orym snorts, and begins to braid, carefully separating the sections. His attention is brought back to Fearne, who settles delicately in front of him. On her knees, she’s just the right height that he only has to shift a little further forward on the bed to reach her. She passes him a tie made of delicate vines that stretch easily when he tests it with a few of his fingers. “Just a quick one, then?” He asks, running his fingers through her hair.
“Just a quick one. But if you could, oh, yes. That’s it.”
“Your tail is wagging,” Dorian teases, nail scratching the spot behind Fearne’s horns that she’s told him makes her scalp alight in tingles. “Gods, Fearne, your hair is so soft.”
“I’ll wash it for you next time.”
“That’s if I’m lucky enough to steal you away. Laudna and Imogen may steal you to get your soft hair secrets, and Orym and I will be left to get them from Ashton, who’s hair is just a bunch of crystals; Letters, who is a robit, and Bertrand, who. Well. To be honest, I’d rather not see in a bathhouse.”
“Oh, Bertie is delightful.” Fearne coos. “He’s just a funny little man. Though, I do think it would be fun to steal from him. Just a little,” she adds, when Dorian makes a disappointed noise.
“He did throw a glass of brandy at her,” Orym offers.
“And he stabbed me. Though I did get a good backhand in return.”
“He stabbed you?” Orym asks seriously; the grip on his braid has suddenly grown tight.
“During the chaos of the fight tonight, yes. In the darkness. But, well, it’s alright. I lived, didn’t I?” The laugh he gives is pathetic, and even he knows it.
“I’ll disarm him the next chance I get. And maybe take a stab at his kneecaps while I’m at it.” Orym says after a moment.
“I’ll just kill him.” Fearne adds, earning a laugh from Orym.
“Now, now. We can’t kill him. He’s…well, he certainly means well. I think?”
“We’ll see. He can hold his own, when he isn’t acting like a joke. He’s a capable man. Keyleth mentioned him once or twice. He must have been impressive to have stood beside him.”
“If his claims are true,” Dorian adds.
“If they’re true.” Orym agrees, giving a little tug to signify that he had finished the braid. “It’s a little tight, sorry.”
“It’ll loosen in the night. I always turn a little more on nights like these. And you’re done as well, Fearne.” Dorian finishes the last few crosses of the braid, marveling at the way the tie Fearne had made easily adjusts to the size it needs to be as he slips it on the end. She rises with a shake of her head, glancing back to watch the braid swing. “Oh, it’s lovely, Dorian. Thank you.”
“It was pleasure.” He smiles fondly at her, accepting the kiss she presses to his lips. It’s chaste, and she pulls away after a moment. He flops back on the bed, turning to look at Orym. “I’d offer to braid yours, love, but I doubt I’d get very far.”
“I don’t mind.” He shakes his head at Dorian, settling back on his hands. “Come to bed, Dorian.”
“I’m already there.”
Orym huffs, rolling his eyes before climbing towards the front of the bed. “Guess I’ll just bury my face in Fearne’s chest instead.”
“Hey, now,” Dorian sits up, sure his face is dark purple. “Mine are—it’s—Orym!”
“That’s me.” The Halfling grins up at him, smug. Fearne is no help, arm around his shoulder, scratching behind Orym’s ear and looking equally pleased. Dorian huffs and scrambles up the bed to join them, pressing his lips to Orym’s neck to blow a very pointed raspberry before settling with his arm around the Halfling’s waist. Fearne settles after another moment, lying on her side so she’s facing Dorian. She reaches out and takes his hand, squeezing it. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” He and Orym echo, curling closer to one another.
It doesn’t take long for their breathing to even; it takes even less time for it to fall into sink. The three fall into a rhythm of one another, bond by fate and choice alike. Curled around one another to protect each other from the darkness that looms, ready to pounce at any moment. Holding onto the promise that they will have a tomorrow, and that tomorrow will be shared amongst the three of them. Together, they will live out their days in the sun, basking in the golden light of the springtime of their lives.
Each beat of their hearts carries that desire into the universe, a plea to any Gods who will listen: Please, let me live to see tomorrow with them.