1.
Dorian was still getting used to the rhythm of fighting, especially in as chaotic a group as the one he’d ended up with somehow (those first memories with the group were still a little blurry, he’d remember at some point, surely). Every time he managed to toss out an inspiration, or take a swipe at something, he had two more attacks coming straight at him. It was great training for his reflexes, and a terrible experience for his nerves.
As a sword whipped just past his shoulder, he yelped and stumbled backwards, nearly tripping in his attempts to avoid a follow-up hit. “A little help here!” he called out to his friends, bringing his own blade up in a sloppy parry. He continued stumbling backwards as his assailant pressed forward again. Oh dear, he thought, cringing and bracing himself for a hit. This is going to hurt—
And then Orym was sliding between Dorian’s legs and jumping in front of him, shield up high to catch the blow that was arcing down, then coming down on the attacker’s wrist hard, disarming them. “You good?” he asked, breathing heavily, eyes sharp and concerned.
“Y-yeah, I’m good,” Dorian confirmed, still a little stunned. “Thanks for the save, Orym.”
Orym tossed a quick smile over his shoulder at Dorian, “you got it,” he said before leaping back towards the disarmed bandit in front of him. Dorian took the chance to regroup with Opal, who was hurling eldritch blasts and knives with vicious disdain from the back.
“That was close,” Opal said, glancing over at him, barely hiding a wince as it pulled at the sluggishly bleeding cut on her shoulder.
“Too close,” Dorian agreed, tapping her shoulder with his fist and casting a weak cure wounds to stitch up the gash there. “I still can’t get over how fast he is,” he murmured, half to himself, as he watched Orym flip over one of the assailants, bashing them in the head with his shield and coming down with his blade on one of the others. “He’s really something else, I mean, just look at him.”
“No kidding,” Opal agreed. “But maybe fight now, gay panic later?” she suggested, raising an immaculate eyebrow at him and firing off another spell, a zap of opalescent pink energy that left behind a burning ozone scent that Dorian tried not to gag on.
Dorian blushed a dark blue, sputtering. “I, I wasn’t, that’s not, I was just admiring—”
“Yeah yeah, kill bandits now, ‘admire’ later,” she rolled her eyes, turning away so she could send some support Fearne’s way, yelling insults at the bandits and something about ‘sibling rivalry’, whatever that meant.
There’s no panic of any sort, Dorian griped to himself as he pulled out his blade again, running over to fight back to back with Dariax. He’s just an easy person to admire, that’s all. He risked another quick look at the halfling on the other side of the fight, trying not to stare at the ever-impressive display of acrobatics, the clash of steel on steel, the crack of shield against flesh and bone. That’s all there is to it.
2.
Dorian hadn’t really been in a jungle before their trip to the Rifenmist Peninsula, and the novelty of the experience had very quickly given way to irritation and a desire to leave and never come back. He yelped and ducked out of the way of a giant tail that was aimed straight for his head, dropping to the ground and scrambling out of its reach. “I hate this place!” he screeched, grabbing his sword and parrying the next blow, pulling himself back up to his feet.
“You and me both,” Opal snarled, running past him and screaming something about a ‘Ted’ and ‘stop laughing at me’, even though no one was laughing.
Dorian turned, blade up, and tried to find out what was going on. He heard a roar from his left and turned his head to see one of the monsters barreling straight at him. Before he had time to even think about dodging, he heard the sounds of footsteps sprinting behind him and then a hard yank on the back of his cape, and he was back on the ground, with Orym standing over him and deflecting the monster with his shield, letting it fly over them both. Still standing over Dorian (half on top of him, to be honest, the halfling was impressive but he didn’t have the longest legs), Orym turned to Dorian with blood running from a cut on his temple and his eyes bright with adrenaline. “Okay?” he asked, glancing down at Dorian before jumping off of him and standing between him and the recovering monster, shield up.
“Just some bruises and hurt pride,” Dorian joked, getting back to his feet and smiling at Orym. “Thanks again, feels like we keep doing this.”
Orym huffed a little laugh and smiled wryly at Dorian over his shoulder. “Hey, we all watch out for one another, yeah?” he said, then his heels were tapping together and he was off.
“Yeah,” Dorian muttered to himself, feeling a little dazed. “Yeah, yup, that’s,” he coughed, straightening out his hair and tunic before getting back to it, throwing an inspiration to Fearne as he passed her, and then a cure wounds to Fy’ra Rai. “Just looking out for one another,” he muttered under his breath, hoping he could blame the dark flush on his face on the exertion and the humidity.
3.
The first two times Orym had jumped in front of Dorian, the deflected blow had been so fast, and Dorian’s mind had been stuck on how impressed he was. The third time felt like a moment that lasted hours, and instead of being impressed, Dorian was more horrified. The stone panther that had come running at Dorian, and then Orym was suddenly just there, between its jaws, making a hurt little gasping noise that Dorian never wanted to hear again.
It was so easy to look at Orym and see how small he was, but on the battlefield, he seemed larger than life; at least, he did to Dorian. He was the party’s stalwart protector, their moral compass, their ace in the hole. He was the strongest of all of them, and Dorian had never seen him this hurt before. It was paralyzing, it was terrifying, and for those few moments after that awful noise, Dorian couldn’t move.
And then time started back up again, and Orym was hacking into the panther and prying himself loose, hopping down to the ground with a pained grunt. Dorian drew in a shuddering breath and then he was running towards Orym, hands already buzzing with the cold energy of a cure wounds, as high a level as he could manage. “Are you okay?” he asked, finally reaching his friend and putting his hands on his shoulders, dissipating the energy from the spell and letting it run its course.
Orym winced at the cold feeling before relaxing, rolling a shoulder gingerly as the gouges from stone teeth sealed up. “Yeah, I’m alright,” he said, nodding at Dorian. “Thanks for the assist.”
“I feel like that’s my line,” Dorian tried to joke, managing a shaky smile. “This is turning into a bad habit of yours.”
Orym furrowed his brow. “Bad habit?”
“Yeah, the whole, jumping in front of the metaphorical and sometimes literal sword that’s aimed for me,” Dorian explained, giving Orym a once-over to make sure the worst of the damage was healed, and giving a shaky sigh of relief when it seemed to be the case.
Orym huffed, “that’s kind of my thing,” he said, gently clapping Dorian on the arm. “Don’t worry about it,” and then he hopped to his feet and stretched gingerly, rotating his shoulder before picking up his shield, throwing a small smile back at the bard. “I’m just happy you’re not hurt,” and then, as always, he was off again, leaving Dorian feeling dissatisfied and concerned.
4.
Marquet had its ups and downs, for sure. They had new friends there, which was amazing, and they had good food, interesting sights, and they were never bored. The biggest downside was obviously that not all of them were there; they hadn’t been together all that long, but Dorian still felt the empty presence at his side that should have been Opal, Dariax, and Fy’ra Rai. But Fearne was there with him, and Orym was there. And if Orym was there, no problem was too big to handle.
At least, that should be the case; but some of the fights they had been getting into lately had Dorian questioning that, none more-so than the current predicament the party had found themselves in. Following a lead from Ashton had led them underground, to one of the gangs there; but in typical Ashton fashion, the lead had soured and instead the group was fighting for their lives against a dozen angry mercenaries, a problem that even Orym was having trouble keeping up with.
Dorian tried to keep to the back, blade out for defense, but mainly staying back by Fresh Cut Grass and Imogen, slinging spells left and right wherever he could find an opening. Everything was absolute chaos, with Ashton cackling somewhere to Dorian’s left (followed by the sharp crack of their hammer making contact with something that probably wasn’t alive anymore), the cacophony of nightmarish whispers off to the right, indicating Laudna had broken out a scarier form for this fight. The stench of singed hair lingered after Fearne had used Burning Hands again, and she was now mauling two of the mercenaries in her dire wolf form. Imogen was firing off twin witch bolts on one side, and Fresh Cut Grass was on Dorian’s other side, taking a break from healing to attach a new tool to their arm. Flicking his eyes around, Dorian tried to make sense of the chaos to find—there!
Leaping off of a cabinet on the wall and jumping on the shoulders of a few of the mercenaries was Orym, sword arcing around his body, the steel of the edge catching the glint of the dim lamplight, drawing Dorian’s eye like a beacon in a lighthouse. He had a few cuts and scrapes, but he didn’t appear to be seriously injured, and that realization dissipated some of the tension gathered in Dorian’s shoulders. He reluctantly turned his attention back to the party at large as Fresh Cut Grass finished attaching their saw blade. “I’m on my way, Ashton!” they called out, zipping away to give backup to the genasi, who was struggling with three opponents. Imogen and Dorian closed ranks, going back to back as they tried to avoid drawing too much attention while still giving support to their friends.
It didn’t work for long, as a hulking brute of a mercenary caught on to them, bulldozing his way through the fight straight over to them with his club raised high in an arc to swing at Imogen. Panicking, Dorian grabbed Imogen’s wrist and swung her around, pulling her out of the way (and making a mental note to apologize for getting in her space as she yelped and flinched away from the contact). Unfortunately, this put Dorian in the path of that swing instead, and he was out of time to maneuver himself away, or even bring up his scimitar to block—
There was a flash of steel and brown, and then a sandaled foot planted on Dorian’s back and shoved, and he and Orym were both going down to the ground. All the breath flew out of Dorian’s lungs, a sharp pain bursting in his collarbone. He forced himself to roll away, looking back just in time to see the mercenary grab Orym by the back of his armor and throw him as hard as he could, hurling him straight at the wall behind Dorian. There wasn’t even time to yell before the halfling made contact with the stone, making a sickening crack just before he slumped down to the ground, unmoving.
“Orym!” Dorian screamed, scrabbling towards his friend, feet nearly flying out from under him as he threw himself forward. He heard a roar as Fearne, still in her dire wolf form, threw herself onto the mercenary; a stream of wrathful curse words came from Ashton as they followed after. He finally made it to Orym, grabbing him by the shoulders, hands shaking, and rolling him over, already halfway through the incantation to cure whatever he could.
“Is he alright?” Imogen asked breathlessly, kneeling down next to the both of them, anxiously looking back over her shoulder at the fight.
“I don’t know,” Dorian mumbled, hands scrabbling for a pulse, for any sign of life. “He’s not moving, I-I don’t know—Orym,” he called, voice shaking, “come on, friend, don’t do this to me. Orym!”
As if to answer Dorian’s call, Orym took a shuddering breath, which quickly devolved into a series of painful coughs. “‘M up,” he slurred, blinking owlishly and trying to push himself back to his feet before stopping and squinting at Dorian. “You alright?” he asked.
For the second time in as many minutes, Dorian felt all the breath leave his body, throat closing up with the sheer relief of seeing those green eyes open and aware again. All of the adrenaline seemed to leave Dorian’s body all at once and he slumped forward, head resting against Orym’s shoulder. “You’re supposed to be the fast one,” he tried to joke, still shaking. “Maybe don’t get caught like that again, yeah?”
He felt Orym stiffen up at the contact before relaxing, a small hand coming up to the back of Dorian’s neck. “I’m okay,” he said, the vibration of the words reverberating through Dorian where his head still rested against the halfling. “I’m good, I promise.” There was a puff of air against Dorian’s hair as Orym let out a small chuckle. “Thanks for the save, partner.”
Always, Dorian wanted to tell him. Always, always, always.
“Bad habit,” he said instead, chastising. “That was reckless.” He pulled his head back up, looking Orym in the eye and trying not to let his throat close up again at the look of concern and fondness reflecting back at him. He paused, trying his best to push down the fear, the memory of blood in an alley, a well-worn cane, and a song that was still unfinished. “Please be more careful.” He closed his eyes, trying to get his emotions and his racing heart back under control.
There was a pause before he felt Orym’s calloused hand reach to the back of his neck again, pulling his forehead down to touch Orym’s own. “Sorry for the scare,” he said, impossibly gentle for such a powerful man. “Glad you’re okay.”
Dorian breathed out slowly, leaning into the touch and trusting his friends to keep them safe long enough to live in that moment for a little bit longer. “You too.”
5.
A fight hadn’t gone this wrong for them since My’ratta, since the vestige, since Opal’s sister had gotten dragged out from the ground and all hell had broken loose. They’d at least had the vestige to fall back on then (horrible as it was), but now, even pulling out all the stops, things weren’t looking good.
Ashton was barely hanging on to consciousness, snarling and swinging their hammer at the beasts in front of them, standing over Laudna’s prone body. Imogen was slumped down against the wall behind Dorian, stabilized, but down for the count. Fearne tried to back up Ashton as best she could, in wild shape once more, and trying her best to rip through anything that tried to break through their ranks. Fresh Cut Grass and Dorian were doing their very best to keep Fearne and Ashton going, burning through every cantrip and spell slot they had to keep everyone in one piece.
Standing in front of the two healers, Orym swayed on his feet, barely staying upright. He’d already gone down once (and gone down hard), and though he was back in the fight, the blood loss was clearly getting to him, as was the obvious concussion. It was the concussion that had eventually worn him down into guard duty instead of flinging himself into the vanguard as usual. Dorian kept an anxious eye on him, his heart rate spiking every time another monster broke through the front defenses and made it back to them, his breath catching as Orym threw himself between Letters and Dorian and whatever threatened them. He had started to slow down, his reflexes dulled to the point where everyone could notice it.
The fatigue had set in for the whole party, and Dorian was down to his last spell slot; he knew Fresh Cut Grass was all but out as well. Just a few more hits, on either side, and the fight would be over. Dorian just hoped the hits would be in their favor. Two of the monsters broke through Ashton and ran straight for the healers, and before Dorian could even flinch, Orym was there, his shield up to take the blows. The shield held, but Orym didn’t, and he blew back towards Dorian, who caught him by the shoulders with a yell. Fearne roared and swung around to them, swiping the monsters away from them and back towards Ashton, who was leaning on their hammer and breathing heavily.
“Orym?” Dorian knew he sounded a little bit frantic, but couldn’t bring himself to care. “Orym, please just stand down for now, okay? You can’t take any more hits like that.”
Orym was pulling in heaving, gasping breaths and just shook his head. “‘M good,” he mumbled, and tried to push himself back to his feet.
“No, you’re not,” Dorian snapped at him, wrangling him back to the ground. “As someone who patched a hole in your chest and a nasty head wound about five minutes ago, I feel pretty qualified to say you’re ‘not good’ right now.”
Not listening, Orym kept trying to struggle back to his feet. “I’ll rest when this is over,” he said, as if it was something that could possibly placate anyone.
"You'll be dead before that if you don't sit down," Dorian yelled, yanking Orym back down to sit on the ground. "Stop trying to take on everything yourself," he berated a bewildered looking Orym. "I can fight too, okay? And if it goes bad, I can also take a hit. You're not the only one who can protect your friends so please, let me protect you, just this once."
Dorian's hands shook, still clutching at Orym's arms like it was the only thing that was keeping him anchored. He looked the fighter directly in the eyes, watched his face go slack with surprise and then soften into something Dorian wasn't sure he was brave enough to put a name to. Orym gently maneuvered his arms out of Dorian’s grasp, moving to hold onto his still-shaking hands instead. "I know you can," he said softly. "I don't doubt your skill, I just don't want you to get hurt. Not when I can stop it."
Dorian felt tears sting his eyes, feeling frustrated and fond all at the same time. "Well I don't want you to get hurt, which you seem to do every time you get between me and whatever we're fighting. Seeing you hurt like this is worse, Orym. Please."
Orym sighed, squeezing his hands before glancing back at the fight. "I'll—" he cut off, going stiff before tearing his hands away and jumping back to his feet, staggering over to his shield a few steps away.
Dorian's protest died before it really began, as one of the enemies Fearne and Ashton had been fighting broke through and lunged for the two of them. Dorian scrambled to his feet, hand going to his scimitar, Orym still reaching for his shield—
Neither of them was fast enough. The creature reached them before either of them could grab anything, and it was all Dorian could do to brace himself for the barbed tail whipping towards him—and then there Orym was, throwing himself in front of Dorian like he always did.
In Dorian's eyes, Orym on the battlefield was a wonder, he was a dancer, he was hypnotizing to watch. Every block he made was art, every parry a masterpiece. As much as Dorian would prefer to avoid violence, he found a satisfaction he couldn't explain watching Orym fight. It was part admiration, part wonder, and part some sort of faith. A faith in Orym's skill, in his ability to still be standing at the end of every fight, in his ability to keep it all together.
This was none of that. This was the shatter of bone, the slice of flesh, and all of Dorian's faith ripped out of his chest and tossed onto a flaming pyre.
Orym's lifeless body was flung to the ground, hitting hard and bouncing before coming to a stop somewhere on Dorian's right. "ASHTON!" Dorian yelled, racing towards Orym and clawing back what he could of that faith, pulling every last scrap of reserve he had of his magic and slamming his hands down onto Orym’s chest, his armor torn and slick with blood. "FEARNE!"
"FUCK YOU!" Ashton came careening around the monster, roaring furiously at it and swinging their hammer with all their might, letting it crack against the monster's face. Fearne followed right behind, throwing herself on its back and clamping her teeth down in a vice grip. Fresh was speeding towards them all on their wheel as fast as they could, Laudna and Imogen still prone on the ground.
"Come on Orym, come on." Dorian didn't even try to stop the tears this time, too focused on hurling every scrap of magic he could claw from his veins into the shredded wounds in Orym's chest. "Breathe, gods damn you!"
"That doesn't look good," Fresh said nervously, hovering next to them both. "I don't have anything left in me, I'm afraid," they turned nervously to Dorian.
Their words might as well have been background noise, all of Dorian's focus was on Orym's still chest. "You're not allowed to leave me, Orym. You don't get to leave us alone like this. We go where you go, that was the deal. Don't you dare leave me behind."
Finally, a wet shuddering inhale shook Orym's chest, then another, until he was breathing again. Dorian fell, boneless, on top of him, heaving in breaths of his own like he was that one that had been dying. He could hear Fearne and Ashton finish the fight and couldn't even bring himself to care.
Orym kept breathing, each inhale a rattle, but at least he was breathing. Fearne sprinted over, dropping her wild form to kneel next to the two of them and hugging Dorian against her with one arm while stretching out the other hand to gently hold Orym's face and cast a healing spell. "He's going to be okay," she said softly, leaning her head on top of Dorian's and squeezing him gently. "It's alright now."
Dorian resisted for a moment before collapsing against her, curling into the hug with one arm while grasping Orym's hand as tightly as he possibly could.
"Let's get everyone else taken care of, okay?" Fearne nuzzled him gently before standing up and making her way over to Laudna, picking her up gently and setting her down next to Imogen, her hands glowing a gentle green. Mister jumped off of her shoulder and ran back over to Orym, curling up around his head and settling down to keep watch.
"...right," Dorian agreed, squeezing Orym's hand one last time. He wiped his eyes, tok a deep breath to compose himself, and turned to Mister. "Keep an eye on him, okay?" Mister screeched at him as if to agree, and Dorian smiled before pulling himself to his feet and going to help however he could
—
Orym had slept through the rest of the afternoon and all through the night, even through being moved some space away to where the group had set up camp. Dorian kept an eye on him and eventually curled up on his bedroll next to the halfling, keeping a hand on top of Orym's just in case he woke up.
It wasn't until just before dawn that he started to stir. Dorian jolted out of sleep as he felt Orym moving next to him. "Orym?" He mumbled, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.
"Wha's h'ppening," Orym slurred, still trying to sit up, not quite aware of his surroundings yet.
Dorian tried to gently push Orym back down. "We're all safe," he whispered, trying not to wake the others. "We won, everyone's okay, just lie down."
Orym settled down slowly, leaning back into his bedroll and sighing. He turned to look at Dorian, "what happened?"
Dorian waited for a moment, picking his words. "You took a pretty bad hit," he settled on. "You went down… really hard. Fearne and I barely got you breathing again."
"Sorry to worry you. Thanks for getting me back up again. That’s another one I owe you.”
Dorian just sighed, resting his forehead on Orym’s shoulder, all the stress and uncertainty bleeding out of him. “I’ve told you before Orym, no debts between us.”
“Yeah,” Orym agreed quietly, running a hand gently through Dorian’s disheveled hair, making him shiver at the touch. “Good thing we’re pretty good at saving each other, huh?”
“We are,” Dorian agreed. “But let’s try not to have so many close calls, okay?”
Orym nodded, a motion Dorian felt more than saw, with his head still rested in the crook of the halfling’s neck. “Well, I’d definitely prefer to avoid any more calls that close. I really thought we might lose that one.”
“We almost did,” Dorian admitted. “Letters and I were out of juice by the end, and Fearne and Ashton were barely standing. Laudna and Imogen are okay, they both woke up yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“Mhm,” Dorian hummed, leaning into the hand still running through his hair lazily. “Fight was yesterday afternoon, you were out the better part of a day.” He opened his eyes and looked up at Orym. “Like I said, it was pretty bad.”
“Sorry to worry you,” Orym repeated softly. “I know you told me not to take more hits for you, but honestly that one was pretty much just panic and instinct. I promise I wasn’t trying to get myself killed.”
Dorian just wrapped his arms around Orym’s waist in response. “I get that, I suppose. But seriously, let’s make that the end of this bad habit, okay?”
Orym chuckled. “I’ll do my best. I can’t make any promises that I’m not going to do everything I can to keep you and everyone else safe, but I do promise I’ll put more faith in your reflexes, how’s that?”
“That’s a start.” He pulled back to look Orym in the eye, “I mean, that was one of the most terrifying experiences of my entire life, so let’s never repeat that, but also… thanks. For saving my life.”
Orym smiled back at him, hair disheveled, dried blood still along his hairline, and looking like he needed a week of sleep. Even like this, or maybe especially like this, Dorian’s conviction in Orym quietly strengthened, that whisper in his mind again chanting always, always, always.
“No debts between us, right?” Orym whispered, leaning forward.
Dorian smiled back. “No debts,” he agreed, and met Orym halfway.
+1
There was nothing quite like the chaos of the battlefield. The smells, the sounds, the reactions, everything was so much sharper, faster and slower all at once. The shouts of his friends, the panicked yells of their opponents, and the obstacles standing between danger and safety. This was where Orym thrived, this was where he had honed his edge and strengthened his will, and sometimes it felt like this was what he was made for.
Only sometimes though; he flipped over one of the men they were fighting, cutting through the backs of his knees as he landed and sprinting away before the scream could catch up to him. Other times, like now, watching Fearne flick a flame blade through the chest of her opponent before loping over to Ashton, clapping them on the shoulder with a quick heal before running off to assist Imogen; seeing Laudna hurl an eldritch blast at a woman aiming an axe at Fresh Cut Grass, who wheeled as fast as they could to patch up Imogen and crack a joke—
A sword swung towards Orym’s neck from behind, and before he could even make a move, a moonlit scimitar whipped up to meet it, catching the flat of the blade and spinning it away, bringing its wielder right into the path of Ashton’s hammer.
Other times, like now, watching Dorian’s triumphant grin at a plan well-executed, his cape fluttering behind him and hair catching the moonlight as he turned to shine that smile at him—those times, Orym knew he was made for a hell of a lot more than just fighting.
“Thanks for the save,” he quipped up at Dorian, who flicked his sword in a jaunty salute, looking awfully smug.
“It’s what we do,” he answered back, leaning down to kiss Orym lightning-fast before pulling back and winking, sprinting back into the fight.
Orym laughed and flipped up his sword. “Always,” he said with a grin, and raced after Dorian.