Orym is exhausted. Every movement hurts, and it takes all the strength he has left to drag himself up the stairs. He’s not entirely sure whether Bell paid for separate rooms for all of them, or whether he is sharing with Fearne and Dorian. He’s too exhausted to figure it out.
Fearne snores away, sprawled on the double bed. Orym slowly begins the process of doffing his armour, letting out little huffs of discomfort as he reaches for the various straps. He can do this by muscle memory, so he distracts himself from the pain by dissecting the fight.
Today was a fucking shitshow. They got the details they needed, but at the cost of Danas’s life. She didn’t deserve that. Very few people do.
And Dorian. He charged into the darkness to find Orym, saving him from possibly going down again. Dorian’s hands are usually cold (probably an Air Genasi thing), but his healing magic is much warmer, if that is what Dorian senses he needs.
The soft please help us as Dorian weaved magic into his words to give Orym one last burst of magical inspiration, to pull him through those last moments of the fight.
Dorian’s unconditional trust in him is, as always, humbling.
Soft footfalls outside the door, The creak of hinges. A pillar of light around a familiar silhouette.
“Did Bell change his mind?” Orym asks in a whisper.
“No, he wanted to be by himself for a bit. Enjoy the night air.” Dorian sounds a little uncertain about it, but Bell must have made a good case. “Are you all right?”
Orym is halfway out of his armour. He dreads moving again, for fear of passing out.
“Uh, yeah. Mostly. I just…” He shrugs. It hurts.
“Need a hand?”
“Please.”
Dorian slips inside and gently closes the door. It’s dark in here, but he kneels by Orym. Cool fingers dance across his skin as Dorian feels his way to the remaining buckles and straps. “Tell me if it hurts.”
Orym gives a loosely affirmative sound. Wow , he’s exhausted.
As Dorian slowly feeds straps through buckles and releases clasps, he whispers, “You got hit pretty hard today. I know it’s your thing, to put yourself in harm’s way to keep the rest of us out of it. It’s still… kinda scary.”
“I know,” Orym whispers back. “This is what I’m good at. I can take a hit.”
“Or four.” Dorian’s voice gets a little peevish. It’s endearing. “That was… horrible. But not seeing you at all was worse. I had no idea what was happening to you. You could’ve died, and I wouldn’t have known.” He has to pull harder on one of the straps, the one that remains stubborn no matter how much Orym oils it and tries to make it more pliable.
The jostling hurts. A gasp escapes Orym before he can stop it, eyes watering a little, and Dorian freezes.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay.”
The final strap comes free and Dorian helps Orym slip out of the armour. He takes it from Orym and sets it by his sword and shield.
Orym can barely scrape up the energy to move, but Dorian is strong. He carefully scoops Orym up, chanting sorry sorry sorry as it unavoidably hurts, and deposits Orym on the bed.
Then, Dorian sits by his side.
“I’m low on spells,” he says, “but I can play a Song of Rest. You’ll feel a bit better over the next hour.”
“Eager to test out a song for Bell?”
Dorian chuckles softly. “No. You’ll have to wait to hear that one.”
It’s too dark to see much, but Orym knows the telltale rustling and soft hollow knocks of Dorian setting the lute in his lap. He plays softly, like he has for the Crown Keepers after a hard fight. Orym’s limbs loosen by habit and he sinks into the mattress. Fearne shifts in her sleep, curling around him, just a little bit.
Orym is grateful for the familiarity. Today has the potential to make him terrified of the dark for the rest of his life (and only partly thanks to Laudna’s frightening messages and FCG’s feeling of curiosity… whatever the fuck that was about).
“Thank you,” he says.
Dorian hums, part melody and part response. “Don’t mention it.”
Orym chuckles quietly; it hurts. “You’ve really shown up for me. I appreciate it.”
“That’s what friends are for, right?” A hint of uncertainty. Orym knows loneliness when he sees it, as surely as he knows his own face in a mirror. Dorian gives and gives and gives for his friends with no expectation of a return. No debts, like he said. Orym fears that loyalty will lead Dorian to make rash decisions--it already does. As strong as he is, he cannot take a hit like Orym can. And, while Orym does not know the details of Dorian’s visions of the Spider Queen, he knows she finds fears and desires and twists until something snaps. She broke something in Dorian, and he could approach the crown without becoming ill. The memory is still frightening to this day.
Orym is grateful that Dorian listened when he told him to stop handling the crown. That’s the way of these things, right? What threatens to send you careening off the brink may also be the thing that saves you.
Orym still worries. He’s good at that, and he’s not without reason. Sometimes it scares him how much he worries. He’s been down this road before. It hurts.
Dorian’s magic is starting to work, beyond Orym’s habitual response. Some of the pain begins to lift, his muscles releasing their tension. He can breathe easier now. Dorian adjusts his position, his knee bumping Orym’s hip. The jostling aches a tiny bit.
“Sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
“You know…” Dorian keeps playing as he speaks. “You’re important to m--us.” His fingers slip on the strings. A jarring chord. An awkward laugh. “I mean, who’s going to hold the braincell if you’re too busy getting your ass kicked?”
Orym sighs deeply. He does not draw attention to whatever Dorian’s slip was going to be. He can probably guess. He doesn’t know if he wants to.
“You’re our little tactician, Orym. You can’t escape. Everyone knows how smart you are now.” Dorian must have thought of something, because he laughs softly. “Nice ‘lockpicking’ on the warehouse door, by the way.”
Orym may have snapped a little bit, after the… everything of those few minutes in the dark. Dorian coming along with Laudna was a relief. Laudna seems perfectly nice, and Orym is certain most of her creepiness is unintentional. But, by the gods, her messages .
He fully expects to have nightmares tonight.
Orym realises he never acknowledged what Dorian said. “It was a long night.”
“Yeah…” Dorian is still playing, but there’s something in the rhythm that suggests he is not wholly paying attention to it. “What happened to Danas was rough. I know you really wanted to save her. I did, too. I’m sorry.”
“Not our best moment.” Orym isn’t sure he’s ready to talk about it. “Well, we have more leads, and the carrot cake wasn’t bad.”
The change of topic is painfully inelegant, but Dorian lets out a little huff of a laugh and pivots along with him. “It’s the thought that counts.”
They fall into silence for a while. Orym closes his eyes and tries to drift off. It’s not easy tonight, even with Fearne and Dorian sandwiching him and keeping out the cold. Dorian’s soft plucking, which Orym has become so used to as a calming presence, helps. But it’s not quite enough. Not tonight.
Something in the air feels off. Orym’s not sure if that tiny hint of druidic magic in him is predicting a storm (literal or figurative), or if he’s just unsettled from the… everything of this day.
He’s still awake when Dorian finishes playing. The aches are mostly gone and he can move without much pain. Dorian sets his lute aside and leans over Orym, hovering oddly. He probably thinks Orym is asleep, so he lets him believe it.
A light pressure of lips against his forehead. Oh. Okay.
A moment of panic. Should he give up the act and let Dorian know he’s awake? He doesn’t know what to do, so he stays still as Dorian curls up around him, opposite Fearne, completing the other half of the shell with Orym as the yolk.
Orym reaches for his hand, somewhat impulsively. Dorian squeaks a little but lets him have it, twining their fingers together and resting them on Orym’s chest.
“How are you feeling?” Dorian asks.
“Better. Thank you.” Orym’s voice is, mercifully, groggy. If Dorian wants to believe he wasn’t awake for the kiss, Orym will let him have that.
“Glad I could help.” Tension through his voice. But he doesn’t call Orym out, nor does Orym give him an opening.
Now is not the right time for that conversation. It’s been a rough day; they’re both exhausted. And Orym doesn’t know what he wants. Or, more accurately, he doesn’t know if what he wants can overpower what he fears.
He gently squeezes Dorian’s hand. Dorian squeezes back.
“I’m glad you’re okay, Orym.” His voice is soft. Perhaps more vulnerable than intended. “Take it easy tomorrow, please.”
Orym smiles into the darkness. “We’ll see.”
And, finally, grounded and mostly healed after today’s ordeal, he sleeps.