Work Text:
Dorian has become more uncertain, as of late. Orym has seen it with his own eyes and finds that he hates it more than words can express.
He is still weary around the crown, the dark thorny thing perched upon Opal's head like a mockery of a halo, and Orym can't help but wonder if She still whispers platitudes and insults to him in his sleep. Not that they'd ever know, not really. Dorian will never speak up if something is bothering him, will smile and laugh it off and change the subject, doing everything he can to dissuade suspicion. He's good at it, too, as if he's had a lifetime of practice. Orym almost wouldn't notice, but he's been paying extra attention to him lately, making sure the crown no longer calls to him now that it's found a wearer, and he sees the effortless way Dorian lies through his teeth and bats his eyelashes until they turn away.
He doesn't speak up quite as often, preferring to sit back and let Dariax and Opal and Fearne take the lead, and Orym finds very quickly that he hates it. It was one thing for Dorian to look to him for answers as if uncertain if his own plans would be well received, but watching Dorian bite his tongue and sit back on his haunches instead of speaking up unprompted makes something sour curdle in his gut. As if he's afraid to rock the boat. Even when it seems that Dorian's skills are best suited, he prefers to stand back. He lets Fearne play her panflutes when patrons call for a song, he lets Opal haggle with shopkeeps and tavern owners, he lets Dariax do the introductions and sweet-talk their way into more coin, he lets Orym come up with plans and make decisions. Dorian doesn't provide anything unless they ask him, even in battle, even at camp, even when walking to their next destination, he is quiet and subdued. Orym knows, at least partially, that it's because of his distrust of letting Dorian near the crown. Now, Dorian avoids doing anything that might elicit that similar distrust again. Orym hates it. He hates it and hates that he understands.
The problem is that Orym likes Dorian, he really does. This whole situation would be so much easier if Orym were indifferent, but he's not, he's quite fond of the blue-skinned bard. The fact that Dorian has become quiet and timid and unsure after their ordeal does not fill Orym with a good feeling. Lie's spill from Dorian's lips as easy as breathing, and when he thinks that nobody is looking- but Orym is always looking- his face darkens into something unbelievably sad, morose, heartbroken and frightful. Does he really not trust them enough to share his woes? Or is he afraid to burden the group with issues that will draw attention to him? Orym doesn't know. He wishes he could ask, but Dorian is very good at changing the subject and conversing about anything except for himself.
They're lost, again, and there's a man on the road with a cart escorted by two massive wolves. Orym nudges Dorian, "Hey, why don't you go and ask that guy for directions?"
Startled, Dorian blinks at Orym, as if surprised to be addressed. "Me?"
"Yeah, you," Orym says. "You're great at talking. It should be easy."
Though uncertain, Dorian smiles and nods as he pushes to the front of the group and makes his way a little down the road. He holds up a hand and the cart stops, the reins pulled back and the wolves coming to a halt. "Greetings!" Dorian calls. "You wouldn't happen to be coming from a nearby town, would you?"
The man, a scarred one-eyed man wearing leather and straw, spits off the side of the cart. He glares at Dorian with his one good eye. "What's it to ya'?"
"Well, simply put, my troupe and I seem to have gotten ourselves lost," Dorian continues. Magic pours off of him in waves, Orym recognizes the taste of it, like ice water and mint, and the man sits more relaxed in his seat. "I was wondering if you'd be able to point us in the direction of the nearest city or town."
"Only fools get lost out here. There's pretty much one road, and there are signs everywhere," the man grumbles. The wolves huff and paw at the ground, impatient. Dorian eyes them wearily. "Can't any of you read?"
"We must have missed them," Dorian offers the man a strained smile. "In any case, the town?"
"Back the way I came, half a day's journey," the man jerks his thumb over his shoulder in the direction he came from. Dorian follows the action and peers down the dirt road. "Try not to miss it this time."
"Oh!" Dorian's exclamation is maybe a little too excited, but the spell works wonders to smooth it over. "Wonderful. Thank you, we could do with a warm bath and a soft bed after being on the road for so long."
"Heh," The man laughs, a sly smile stretching across his sun-blemished face. Not for the first time, Orym is grateful for Dorian's magic. He highly doubts that this stranger would be so amenable and talkative if Dariax or Fearne had approached him. No, it's only Dorian's magic and talent for talking that has gotten them this far. "I hear ya'. I won't ever miss that. Your best bet is-"
Everything goes wrong rather quickly from there. The wolves, bored and impatient and antsy, begin to wrestle, kicking up dirt as they writhe on the ground. One of them takes a swipe at Dorian as he talks to the man, and Dorian yelps as he jumps back and away from its claws. Dorian loses his concentration on his spell, and Orym can practically feel the way the magic fades. The man, previously a friend, blinks a couple of times before an ugly, violent scowl crosses his face and he points a sabre at Dorian. "You! You dare cast spells on me and think you can get away with it? You're stupider than you look, you dumb mother fucker," he hisses. Dorian recoils and Orym pulls his sword just as the man barks a word in thieves' cant and the wolves simultaneously lunge at Dorian, spittle flying from their open maws.
Orym moves. He can feel the others moving too, Dariax and Fearne and Opal hot on his heels, barely moments behind him, but in his fear Dorian reacts first. A burst of thunderous energy is shunted from him, silvery-blue and smelling of ozone, and the wolves are jettisoned back with a yelp, bleeding. The man roars and leaps from his perch on the cart, swinging at Dorian with his sabre, but Orym gets there first and blocks the blow with his shield. The strike is strong enough to send pins and needles through Orym's arm. If he hadn't gotten there in time, it probably would have taken a large chunk out of Dorian, at the very least.
They slay the man and the wolves in record time. He doesn't feel so bad about it when he checks the back of the cart, throws the heavy tarp aside, and finds crates full of weapons and barrels full of money. He doubts the man was up to any good and forcibly shoves aside any trepidation he has about the death of it all. He glances at the rest of the group- Opal and Fearne are observing the wolves, and Dorian and Dariax are having a hushed conversation on the other side of the cart. Dorian is very obviously upset. Usually, Orym tries not to eavesdrop on his friends if he can help it, but Dorian seems so distressed, so bitter, that Orym finds that he needs to know what's wrong.
"I knew it was a bad idea," Dorian says, shaking his head. "Everything I do goes wrong."
"That's not true, buddy," Dariax tries. He doesn't sound very convincing, and from where he's hiding behind the cart, Orym winces. Dariax means well, but he's quite possibly the worst person for this job. Ironically, Dorian has always been the best at comforting people in their moments of need, but nobody has really stopped to wonder who's supposed to comfort Dorian when the circumstances are reversed. "I mean, you did some really great talking for a minute there! That guy was falling for it, and you didn't even tell him your real name this time!"
"Yeah, sure, and then I lost the spell and the guy nearly cut me in half," Dorian says through clenched teeth. He brings his arms up around him and holds them tightly, probably the closest thing to a hug he's gotten in a while. "If Orym hadn't been there I probably would have died. He trusted me to get us directions and to get away without causing any trouble and I screwed up, again."
Even without seeing him, Orym can feel the way Dariax flounders as he searches for an appropriate reply. "Everybody has off days," He eventually settles on. "Maybe today is just yours, is all."
"Sure," Dorian spits bitterly. "I would love to believe that, but unfortunately, I've had a couple of off months so I don't really think that logic applies to me, Dariax. But thanks for trying to cheer me up."
Sighing, Dariax claps Dorian on the elbow, the highest he can reach, and moves away, joining the ladies in kicking the dead wolves and braiding their dirty, grey fur, unbothered by the blood pooling at their feet. Dorian remains, looking so angry with himself that he's seemingly on the verge of tears, his pretty face twisted in anger, his bright blue eyes shimmering and wet. Orym feels bad, and he wishes that he knew what to do. Dorian was once so optimistic and self-assured. Sure, he was never as assertive and confident as Dariax, but he was never so hesitant and weary either. Orym wonders how long he's going to stay stuck in this slump. It's not good for him, and it's not good for the team. How does he broach the subject without coming off as an over-protective jackass though? Dorian is his friend, but he'll be the first to admit that things have been strained ever since the 'incident' with the crown. He doesn't want Dorian to think that Orym considers him to be incapable or useless or a burden. He knows that Dorian is probably already thinking it.
That night in the tavern that the man had directed them to before he died, Orym watches as Fearne, Opal and Dariax dance together amidst the crowd of other drunken patrons, and Dorian sits alone at a table in the corner, running his finger around the rim of his tankard. His face is maybe a little flushed from the ale, but his expression is contemplative and morose. Orym knows that he is thinking about his performance today and all the things he could have done better. Personally, Orym thought he did a great job and that everything that happened was out of his control, but he knows that Dorian thinks differently than he does, especially when it comes to himself.
He looks rather lonely, all by himself in a secluded corner of the bar. Orym rises from his seat and crosses the tavern to join him, darting and weaving and dodging in between people's legs, being extra mindful of Fearne's hooves, and joins Dorian at his table. Dorian doesn't notice him, too lost in his thoughts, so Orym takes it upon himself to break the ice. "Copper for your thoughts?"
Dorian jumps, surprised. "Oh, Orym! I didn't see you there," he laughs awkwardly. "What can I do for you?"
"Well, you can tell me what's got you thinking so hard for a start," Orym says even though he already knows the answer. "What's troubling you?"
"Oh, you know," Dorian tries to laugh it off, but Orym can see the way his shoulders slump and he hunches more into himself, looking smaller and more timid despite his natural confidence and taller-than-average stature. "Just thinking about all the ways I screwed up today and how I nearly got us all killed. Just the usual."
Despite Orym already knowing the answer, hearing Dorian admit it makes him impossibly sad. "You think you screwed up? I thought you did a great job. You got the information we needed. If not for you, we would have camped another night on the road when a town was less than a day away."
"And then I lost control of my spell, and then the wolves nearly tore Daraix to ribbons, and the guy nearly cut me in half if you hadn't been there to save my hide, again," Dorian says bitterly, glaring down into his tankard. Orym hates the tortured look on his face. And without the crown's dark influence, the only thing Dorian has to hate and fight is himself. "Face it, Orym. I've caused this team nothing but trouble from the day I joined."
"I don't think that's true," Orym says quietly, barely loud enough to be heard over the gnome band playing in the far corner. On another night, it would be Dorian performing. "I don't think the team would be the same without you. And isn't that what being in a team is all about? We help each other when we need it, so nobody needs to fight their own battles alone. I can't even count how many times you've saved me. We're a team. It's what we do."
"I don't know. I just feel like you guys would all be better off without me," Dorian sighs, looking sadder than Orym has ever seen him. He wishes he could reach out, to comfort Dorian, to convince him that he's wrong, but he can't. He doesn't know how. Dorian has always been better with words. Shaking his head, he offers Orym a slight, fabricated smile and drains the rest of his tankard before standing up. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm beat. See you upstairs?"
Orym hums his assent, and he watches from his stool as Doran crosses the tavern and ascends the stairs, disappearing swiftly to the upper levels. Orym feels a different kind of heartache, one he hasn't felt in a very long time, and he hopes that in the morning Dorian might feel a little bit better about himself but he also knows better than to hold out hope for miracles. Orym knows that there are some battles that his friends have to fight on their own, but that doesn't mean that he has to like sitting back and watching his friends suffer, even if it's by their own hands.
Hoping that tomorrow will bring better spirits, Orym finishes his drink and follows after Dorian in search of a restful slumber.