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I’m never going to be able to sleep here, Orym had thought to himself as Fearne had lead them all through the garden of topiaries shaped like people in pain, the ones who might have been people once, with heartbeats as slow as sap moving in winter. He had thought it before, in the forest with the screaming flowers, while meeting with Nana Morri, while looking at the curiosities in the collection room, at the skinned faces stretched across strange, petrified fruits. He had thought it again in the vardo, which would have felt more like a place of comfort and safety without the tapestries of screaming faces on the walls.
Orym had realized, belatedly, that for all the tales Fearne had told him, he had imagined the Feywild to be much like the Heartmoor. Strange, yes, dangerous, yes, but knowable. Maybe if they were here for awhile, years and years spent in this twilight place, maybe then he would feel more comfortable, would be able to tell an innocent sound from a dangerous one instead of internally startling at every sound. How could he sleep in a place where the line between what was threatening and what was normal was twisted and blurred?
It would have been hard enough to drift off if the Hells had just settled down to sleep immediately. But there had been so much catching up to do, Imogen recalling her conversation with Professor Sumal, talking about the red energy beings that come from Ruidus, that reach out in dreams. The conversation had shifted to lucid dreaming, Orym happily crafting flowers that might help remind Imogen of her home. If only that had been when the night ended.
“It’s weird,” Imogen has said when Orym had asked her what she had thought about all this, about the people who wanted to get a hold of her. “They make some good points, right? I mean, are the gods that great?”
Orym had felt his fingers still moving, still crafting blossoms the same shade as Imogen’s hair as he had stared at her. What does it matter if the gods are great or not?! Orym had not shouted. Who are they to decide that the gods need to be destroyed? To kill innocent people so their plans can continue? My father! My husband!
There had been more of the conversation after that, Fresh Cut Grass saying they wanted to learn more about the gods to understand why people seemed to oppose them, Imogen saying that she didn’t like the idea of so many people being wiped out if Ludinus’s plans for the solstice came to pass, Ashton saying that a clever argument doesn’t make a person good or bad, that anyone can make a clever argument whether they believed what they were saying or not.
“I don’t have to debate it,” Orym had said calmly, hands shaking as flowers had continued to fall from his fingertips. “I lost my father and my husband to these people.”
Everyone had gone to bed shortly after that, Orym curling up with Fearne as he always did, sure that he wouldn’t be able to sleep, not with Imogen’s words still echoing in his head. They make some good points, right?
The words are still echoing hours later when Orym awakes with a gasp, heart pounding, chest heaving with panicked breaths. He immediately looks around with sleep blurred eyes, counting heads, looking for threats. There are no shadowy figures, no Otohan Thull standing over him with the blood of his husband and his father (father in law, father in everything but blood) on her blade. Fearne is alive and breathing beside him. Laudna is in the next bed over, holding Imogen’s hand as Fresh Cut Grass leans against the bed Ashton sleeps in, their eyes glowing a dim blue. Ashton, like Orym, sleeps on top of the covers, his hammer close to hand. Chetney is curled up on a thick black fur by the foot of the bed, one leg kicking slightly as he dreams.
Orym’s sigh of relief is a shaky thing that ends in a sharp exhale of pain as his right hand suddenly cramps. Looking down, he realizes that he’s surrounded by heaps of flowers as his fingers move and twitch in familiar, practiced motions. He watches as a dusty chamomile bloom falls on top of the thick fur he’d been sleeping on, followed by the tiny flowers and pointed leaves of lemon verbena, which tumble next to the a drift of lavender stems whose purple flowers look dark in the light of the candles that line the walls of the vardo.
This isn’t the work of a minute or two. Orym doesn’t need the ache in his hand to tell him that. No one wakes up as Orym gets down from the bed, rummaging in his pack until he finds a spool of strong, white thread. He ties the flowers he’d been crafting in his sleep into bundles to be dried and made into tea later. Chamomile for anxiety and insomnia. Lemon verbena to decrease agitation. Lavender to calm the mind and ease migraines. He’s been running low on all three lately.
The work of gathering and tying is soothing in its own way, but sleep does not come when Orym curls back up against Fearne’s side. For as large as the vardo is, the walls and their disturbing tapestries feel too close, the scent of the strange incense that had greeted them all upon entering too cloying. While the sound of everyone breathing (excluding FCG) is comforting, it’s not enough to lull him to sleep.
Orym sighs and shifts, opening his eyes and staring up at the ceiling. His first thought is to take his sword outside and run through the Zeph'aeratam a few times to see if that helps, as he would have done on the road or on the airship. But in this fey garden, would his movements disturb the flowers, causing them to do more than sing or scream? He considers the roof of the vardo, but it hadn’t looked large enough from the outside for him to move the way he would prefer, and for all that he is very light on his feet, he doesn’t want to risk waking anyone else up. Still, the roof is big enough for other things.
It’s the work of a moment to grab his sword, a few small items from his pack, and one of the thick sleeping furs. Getting up on the roof is made much easier with the help of a vine that grows from his hand and grasps the roof’s edge, and soon enough he’s on top of the vardo, wrapped in his fur and smoking from a wooden pipe as he stares up at the sky. If there are stars, strange unknown constellations, Orym can’t see them through the slowly shifting colors of the night. The moon is clear enough, red Ruidus without Catha’s bright glow to mute it. The little moon, no longer cast in shadow. Alone.
Orym turns his gaze away from the moon, instead following the flight of the fireflies in the garden as he smokes his pipe. It’s so hard not to try and think about how every moment of lost sleep might lead to dulled reflexes later, but he knows from experience that worrying about not sleeping doesn’t help in getting back to sleep. Still, it’s not easy to just let himself relax.
Everything is happening so fast. It’s been what, maybe two months since Orym stepped off the airship with Dorian and Fearne, looking for answers about the attack on Zephrah? Two months since they had stepped foot in Jrusar. Two weeks since he had told Imogen she was a born leader. He had meant it. He thinks he still means it. But what are they all being lead into? This is all just so much, it’s all so big—
Just do the work that’s in front of you today. Derrig’s voice in Orym’s memory is stern but kind. Let tomorrow be tomorrow.
Orym breathes out a smoke ring, watching it drift on the breeze. “Still trying to learn that one, Dad.”
Orym tries not to think about how long it might be until he gets to enjoy a quiet moment again and simply tries to experience what’s happening right in front of him. The movements of the fireflies, the rich taste of the pipe tobacco, the slight chill of the air on his face and the warmth of the fur he’s wrapped in. By the time he finishes his pipe, he feels a little easier in his head, like sleep might be a possibility. Still, he has one more thing to do, something he had almost forgotten after the stresses of the day.
The sending stone is cool in Orym’s hand as he holds it, counting out precious words in his head. He knows from overheard conversations that sometimes messaging magics don’t stretch across the planes, but he hasn’t failed to update Dorian whenever they change locations yet. Just in case—
Orym traces his thumb over the sigil on the stone, feeling it immediately begin to warm. “Hi,” he says quietly, as if anyone down in the vardo could overhear him. “In the Feywild now. Met Fearne’s Nana Morri. She’s—“ Terrifying, Orym thinks. “—Definitely interesting. The singing flowers here don’t hold a candle to you. I—“ I miss you. I miss you and I wish you were here. “—can’t sleep,” Orym finishes, feeling the tips of his ears grow hot at the unspoken words as he waits for a response.
“Close your eyes and get comfortable.” Dorian’s voice through the stone is soft as well. Orym wonders what time it is where he is, if maybe he also can’t sleep. “I want to try something.”
“What?” Orym asks as he snuggles deeper into the sleeping fur and closes his eyes, knowing that his question won’t be heard. He hears a gentle humming and for a moment Orym thinks it’s the flowers surrounding the vardo, but no. The humming is coming from the stone. Dorian, a whole plane away, is humming a song Orym doesn’t know, something soothing and gentle.
Orym nearly holds his breath, waiting for the humming to cut off, waiting for the rise and fall of the song to end. Instead, it continues, though Orym doesn’t know how. Moreover, he doesn’t need to know. He feels himself relaxing as the song goes on, mind quieted by the simple, ordinary magic of soft music in the dark. Even without words, the message is clear. Rest. You’ll get through this.
Orym is asleep before the song ends, so he doesn’t hear Dorian’s soft little chuckle. “I hope you heard that. Sleep well, Orym.”
In the garden, some of the flowers begin to hum, spreading the song amongst themselves. Orym will smile to hear it in the morning, his heart just a little bit lighter as he continues with his friends down the long road ahead of them.