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Orym had never appreciated naps as a child. But then, what child did? Why sleep when you could be climbing trees or exploring with your best friend? It was only when Orym had grown older that he had started to see the appeal in taking a moment to lay down and close his eyes. Especially when the moment was a beautiful spring day, and when the person he was laying down with was the same best friend from childhood that he had wanted to forsake naps for in the first place. Best friend. Lover. Husband. Pillow.
Orym lets out a happy sigh, snuggling closer to Will, his strong arms, warm from the sun, as good as a blanket around him, his heartbeat as much of a lullaby as the breeze blowing through the branches above them.
Will chuckles, his lips brushing Orym’s forehead in a kiss. “Comfy?”
“Mmmm.” Orym yawns and tries to snuggle even closer, which only makes Will chuckle again.
“I love you.” Will’s fingers card through the loose curls of Orym’s hair. “And the wind loves you too.”
It’s the sort of sappy, romantic thing Will is fond of saying and Orym never gets tired of hearing. He huffs a laugh into Will’s chest. “And how do you know that?”
“It’s singing to you. Can’t you hear it?”
Now that Will’s mentioned it, the wind does sound like it’s singing, rising and falling like speech, all gusty consonants and rounded vowels mixed with leaf rustle. Orym smiles, already half asleep, feeling completely, utterly surrounded by love—
“That is a beautiful song,” Fy’ra Rai says quietly.
For a moment Orym can feel Will’s arms around him still, can hear the strong thump of his heartbeat. Then Orym is fully awake, curled up in his bedroll, alone. He keeps his eyes closed, partially out of a desire to go back into the beautiful dream, and partially to contain the tears he can feel welling up.
“Oh I— that was out loud, wasn’t it?” It’s impossible to hear someone blushing, but when Orym cracks one eye halfway open, he’s not surprised to see that Dorian’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose are darkening towards purple, the same shade as a dusky summer sky. “I didn’t mean to— it’s not finished— just something to occupy myself when I’m on watch—“ Dorian’s laugh is high, embarrassed, as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “It’s nothing.”
Fy’ra frowns. “I have to disagree with you. Even incomplete, it is clear to me how much of your feelings you have put into the song. It must be for someone very close to your heart.”
“Oh look, it’s time for third watch!” Dorian rises and Orym quickly closes his eyes, only to flutter them open in a slow and sleepy manner when Dorian places a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey,” Dorian says softly. “Time for your watch.”
“Thanks.” Orym sits up, rubbing at his eyes, and is surprised when the weight of Dorian’s hand remains.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Yeah.” His sleep is always restful, even if he wakes with a bittersweet ache in his heart. “I hope you do too— sleep well, I mean.”
“I’m sure I will.” The blush of moments ago is curiously slow to fade as Dorian pulls away, heading to his own bedroll at last.
Fy’ra gives Orym a look he can’t quite parse as they pass each other, but Orym doesn’t let it occupy his mind for long. He settles down for his watch, Fearne making flower chains beside him as he alternates between looking out into the darkness and taking care of his armor.
“What’s that you’re humming?” Fearne asks as he’s rummaging through his backpack, intending to trade his leather oil for his teapot. “It’s pretty.”
“Was I humming?” Orym doesn’t, usually. It had been Will who had hummed during tasks in the kitchen or the garden, and while Orym had picked it up from him, the habit had long ago been lost while Orym had been traveling alone. “What did it sound like?”
Fearne hums, a rising and falling tune that, even without words, Orym recognizes right away.
“Oh.” Orym looks over at Dorian, his face relaxed in sleep in a way that Orym rarely sees when the bard is awake. “It’s just something I heard in a dream.”
———
The night wasn’t supposed to have ended like this.
Orym combs out another section of Dorian’s hair before pulling it into the fishtail braid he’s constructing, his motions practiced and precise, even through the haze of wine he’s drunk. The hair is smooth and sleek under his hands, the black of it as dark and heavy as summer thunderheads, the blue and white sections almost as insubstantial as the thin clouds that sometimes stretch across the sky like horse’s tails. Over Dorian’s shoulders, he can see Fearne doing some braiding of her own, ribbons of peach and pink and green that she ties around one of Dorian’s wrists. Her ears, normally up and twitching, are drooping lower with every passing moment.
The night wasn’t supposed to have ended like this.
Over Fearne’s shoulder, Orym can see the others scattered around Lord Eshteross’s sitting room, worn out from the ball they attended tonight. Chetney is curled up under a small side table, asleep in a pile of wood shavings. Imogen and Laudna are sleeping next to each other on a large chaise longue, still dressed in their finery. Fresh Cut Grass is leaning up against one wall, his blue eyes dim in his own version of sleep as, nearby, Ashton’s own head sparks in faint reds and yellows where it rests on the tabletop, one hand curled around a bottle of wine. Last of all, Cyrus, who had curled up in an armchair with his head in his hands hours ago, the picture of misery, is now partially sprawled over the arm of the chair, snoring gently.
The night wasn’t supposed to have ended like this, Orym allows himself to think one more time. He should be in bed with Fearne and Dorian right now, his head on Fearne’s thigh, his legs slung over Dorian’s own. Just like they had slept on their way to Byroden, then later on their way to Zephrah. They should be sleeping together, waking together, having breakfast together before going about what is sure to be another long and exciting day. Instead, Orym is struggling to stay awake because in a few hours Dorian will be gone, sailing away on an airship with his brother, sailing away from them.
“I’ll come back as soon as I can,” Dorian is saying for at least the third time this evening. “And we have the sending stones.”
“Promise you’ll call if you need us,” Orym says, struggling to keep his voice even.
“I promise,” Dorian says. “The same goes for you.”
I always need you. The thought is so sudden and strong that Orym almost bites his tongue in an effort to keep it contained. Instead he concentrates on Dorian’s braid, taking a deep breath to steady his hands when he feels them shaking, growing a white, star shaped flower and twisting it into Dorian’s hair with the others. He’s not going to beg Dorian to stay, not going to try and change his mind anymore than he already has. He knows that Dorian will not be swayed from what he feels bound to do for his brother, and that any argument that Dorian is not responsible for what his older brother has gotten himself into will only serve to make everyone more miserable than they already are. No. The morning will already end in tears, there is no need to add anger and shouting to the mix.
Dorian half turns his head as Orym completes the next section of braid. “Orym? Where did you hear that song?”
“What song?” Orym asks, only now realizing that he must have been humming, but Fearne is already answering, her ears twitching as she grows tiny flowers the color of a sunset to tuck into Dorian’s bracelet.
“He says he heard it in a dream.”
“It was when we were heading back to Byroden with the rest of the Crown Keepers,” Orym admits. “Something you were working on while you were on watch. It’s been stuck in my head ever since.”
“Has it?” Dorian asks softly.
“He hums it sometimes when he’s taking care of his armor, or making tea.” Fearne confirms. “You haven’t noticed?”
Dorian huffs the saddest sounding laugh Orym’s ever heard. “I’ve been entirely in my own head lately, it seems.” He reaches out to touch Fearne’s hand while also reaching back to touch Orym’s shoulder. “It’s not finished. I thought— I’ll work on it while I’m—“ Dorian’s voice catches. “—While I’m away, so I can sing it for you when I get back.”
“You should sing what you have now,” Fearne suggests. “I haven’t heard it at all, except the bits Orym hums.”
“Fearne,” Orym says gently but firmly. “It’s been a long night, maybe Dorian doesn’t want to—“
“No no, it’s all right,” Dorian says quickly. “I don’t mind. Just— let’s get cozy first.”
Orym finishes off Dorian’s braid with a twist of flowering vine and together they lay on the plush hearth rug. Tonight, Orym finds himself, not in his usual hammock-like position between Fearne and Dorian’s legs, but sandwiched between the two, Fearne’s chest against Orym’s back, Dorian’s heartbeat under Orym’s ear.
“It doesn’t have a title yet,” Dorian says apologetically. “And it’s not in Common—“
“Just sing.” Fearne’s voice holds the tiniest of quivers, as if she’s holding back tears. “Sing us to sleep, Dorian.”
If Dorian’s singing suffers from the fact that he’s laying down, that he has his arms wrapped around Orym and Fearne, well, Orym certainly can’t tell. It still sounds like home to Orym, like the constant breezes of Zephrah blowing through tree branches and over rocks. Without being filtered through a dream, Orym can make out the words even more clearly, though he still can’t understand them, the short gusts of consonants, the swirling currents of vowels. Aer dra’thaar, seor harispeth—
Orym struggles to stay awake, determined not to sleep through this last night with Dorian, not when he isn’t sure when they’ll see each other again. He tries to think when, not if, even though he knows, he knows that tragedy can strike like lightning, not just once but oh so many times. Instead he focuses on the song as Dorian sings the phrases over and over again. Is it a love song? A ballad? A lullaby?
A knock on the door brings the song, and the night, to an end.
“It’s not goodbye,” Orym says, as they all stand by the front door, because he has to believe that, he has to. He reaches up to hug Dorian, and Dorian kneels to meet him, gathering Orym in his arms.
“No,” Dorian whispers, and kisses Orym on the forehead. “I’ll see you again.”
Hours later, curled up against Fearne’s leg, trying and failing to get a few more hours of sleep, Orym can still feel that kiss, still hear the last few notes of a song lingering in the air.
———
Orym never used to have trouble sleeping.
“You were such an easy baby.” The memory of his mother’s voice comes to him in the place on the edge of sleep, the cliff he’s been trying to fall off of for hours. “You were barely three months old before you were sleeping through the night.”
Orym opens his eyes for a moment, then closes them again, shifting slightly in his bedroll. He’s exhausted, and what broken sleep he has gotten over the past few days has done little to lessen the weariness he feels all the way down to his bones. He’s seen so much, done so much, and there is so much left to do. So much. He has to sleep. He needs to sleep.
Fearne lays sprawled in the dirt, her eyes closed, the rise and fall of her chest hard to see in the flickering firelight and shadow of her mirror self. Orym goes to his knees beside her, reaching for a potion on his belt and there’s a moment, a horrible terrible moment when he’s convinced his fingers will close around nothing—
Orym’s sitting up before his eyes are even open, his head turning to where Fearne had laid down for the night, the movement so fast that swears he feels muscle strain against bone. In the dim light of the dome that Essek has conjured after they had (eventually) teleported out of Aeor, he can see that Fearne is sleeping peacefully, her arms wrapped tightly around Ashton, as if the genesai would ever consider moving from her embrace.
Orym stares at the two of them, watching the light from Ashton’s skull (soft blues and purples) play across Fearne’s face as he waits for his heartbeat to slow. When it stubbornly refuses, he tries to soothe himself by counting heads, his heart aching at the absence of Fresh Cut Grass’s dimly glowing eyes. Essek is trancing over by Chetney, who is curled, wolflike, on top of his bedroll. Imogen and Laudna are of sleeping next to each other as always, though their bedrolls are further apart then they used to be. Still, even in sleep, Imogen and Laudna’s hands reach for each other. Braius, the newest addition to their party, is stretched out in the center of the dome, his tail twitching in his sleep. And Dorian, who is sleeping with his back to Orym, not quite close enough to touch— well, looking at Dorian doesn’t do anything to calm the pounding of Orym’s heart.
Orym’s gaze drifts over to Ashton and Fearne again. There’s a part of Orym that could be jealous of Ashton, of how they had asked for what they had wanted, even though they had been nervous and unsure. It’s a small part though, outweighed by the genuine happiness he feels for the two of them. It’s not their fault that Orym hasn’t followed their example.
It had stung a little, that first night when Dorian had come back, when he had unrolled his bedroll as far from the others as he could, a pain that Orym had berated himself about as he had struggled to sleep alone. Dorian had just lost his brother, it only made sense that he might need some space to grieve. It didn’t need to be any deeper than that. It didn’t mean that something had changed between them during the months that they had been apart, that something had been lost. It would be selfish to put Dorian in a position where he might feel he needed to set aside his own feelings just so Orym could curl up against Dorian so that maybe, maybe Orym could get some rest in a way that had been increasingly harder to come by since Dorian had left.
“If you ever find that you can’t sleep, just laying down with your eyes closed will bring you some measure of rest.” It had been Derrig who had told the newest of the Tempest Blades that, on the first night of overnight training, when half of the group had been fidgeting with nerves and most of the other half had been standing as straight as the blades they had worn at their sides, their own nerves keeping them still.
Orym had taken the information to heart even though he hadn’t needed it, falling asleep easily next to Will, their hands stretched across the space between their bedrolls, their fingers touching. They had been so young then, their last night together so very far away, distant and unknowable, that last good sleep in each other’s arms.
Honoring the memory of the man who had been his father in all the ways that had counted, Orym closes his eyes. He listens to his heartbeat, slower now than it was moments ago, to the breathing of those around him as he tries to put aside his worries and desires both. Tomorrow will come, and all the things that need doing will still need doing, but tomorrow is not now. What’s important is that tonight everyone is safe.
Blood on the ground. Blood on Will’s lips. Orym had kissed those lips just hours ago, the flesh warm and yielding. Will’s eyes had been bright, sparkling and teasing as he had pulled Orym back into bed where they had made love for the last time, not knowing, because how could they have known? This morning they’d had their whole lives ahead of them, an ocean of time. Now Orym is drowning, screaming—
Orym snaps back awake, his jaw clenched so hard against a scream that it aches, tears streaming down his face. He rolls onto his back, staring up at the stars, turned honey colored by the amber light of the dome.
This feels too much like the endless months after Will and Derrig had died. The broken sleep. The nightmares. The panic upon waking, made worse by reaching out for someone who was no longer there, that would never be there again. Only time and the love and support of those around him had brought gradual, eventual relief. But they don’t have time. Everything is happening so fast.
“Please.” Orym doesn’t know who he’s directing his plea to. The gods? The spirits of those he has lost? The stars themselves? “Please, I just need to sleep.”
“Orym?” Dorian’s voice, barely a whisper. “Are you all right?”
Orym is too tired to brush aside his own pain, to tell Dorian he’ll be all right, that he should go back to sleep. He keeps staring up at the stars as he takes a shuddering breath and forces out a single word that barely escapes being a sob. “No.”
“What’s wrong?” Fabric rustles, and in Orym’s periphery he can see Dorian sit up. “Can I help?”
“I can’t sleep.” I haven’t slept like I used to since you left and it’s only getting harder, only getting worse and I don’t know what to do.
“Come here,” Dorian says, and when Orym turns his head, tears running down his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose, Dorian is holding his arms out to him.
Orym’s too tired to rationalize any reason he shouldn’t. He moves and Dorian’s arms surround him, draw him in until Orym is laying with his head on Dorian’s chest, his skin slightly cool in the way Orym remembers and has missed oh so much.
“Aer dra’thaar, seor harispeth—“ The song is a whisper, a secret between the two of them in this moment. Orym feels the words entering his mind like a warm breeze, calming his thoughts, stopping his tears, slowing the beating of his heart until it matches the heartbeat Orym feels under his ear, steady and strong.
Did you finish it? Orym wants to ask, but he doesn’t want to break this moment, interrupt the song. He can barely keep his eyes open he feels so peaceful. Some of that is bardic magic, but most of what Orym feels has a much simpler source. Dorian’s long fingers card through Orym’s lengthening hair and he can’t help but sigh in contentment.
“—ell sanar eth tarrinoth—“
The song follows Orym into dreams of flying a skysail above the many hills of Zephrah, the air currents a melody, a map, a compass leading him to a house that he knows like he knows his own heart, surrounded by blue roses and lavender and honeysuckle, the smells combining with the music in the air, leaving Orym feeling dizzy and breathless when he sees Dorian sitting on a bench out in the garden, playing his mandolin. Orym jumps off the skysail and runs towards Dorian, who grins and sweeps Orym up into his arms seconds before their lips meet—
Orym wakes, not with a gasp, but slowly, gently, with sun warm on his eyelids and Dorian’s arms around him, his head still on Dorian’s chest. The bone deep exhaustion that has been haunting him for days doesn’t feel as deep now, less burrowed into his marrow and more on the surface of his skin, something that could be washed away. He doesn’t hear anyone else moving around, so it must still be early morning. He should get up, he knows. Start some breakfast, do his morning workout routine. There is so much to do, to be done, but those thoughts don’t cause his heart to race or his breath to come short this morning. Five more minutes laying down won’t be the doom of them all.
He must stir or make some sort of sound, because Dorian hums sleepily and is it Orym’s imagination, or do Dorian’s arms tighten around him the tiniest bit?
“This is the best I’ve slept since I left all of you,” Dorian murmurs into Orym’s hair.
“Me too,” Orym whispers into Dorian’s chest.
There is a conversation that could be had, maybe should be had, but both of them doze off before either of them can have it. When Orym wakes again, it’s to the sight of Fearne giving him a thumbs up when he raises his head from Dorian’s chest.
That night, back in the Hellcatch Valley, Orym and Dorian both look at each other for the space of a breath before wordlessly putting their bedrolls together. In the nights that follow, all the way to the moon and back, they sleep in each other’s arms, carving out a bit of peace for themselves in a time where peace feels so precious and rare. Sometimes Fearne joins them, and sometimes Ashton joins Fearne, but it is first and always Dorian and Orym together, Dorian’s song carrying all those who hear it into a gentle sleep.
———
Orym wakes up in his childhood bedroom, pre-dawn light filtering in through the slats in the shutters, and for a moment everything feels like a dream. Had they really gone to the moon, seen the downfall of Aeor, fought a god-eater? Those are all impossible things. But then, the tales the Tempest has told him, has lived through, those had seemed impossible too, and had been so very real. Yet every morning since coming home, Orym has woken up feeling like reality has twisted somehow. He had not wanted to die, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t, on some level, been expecting to. He hadn’t let himself plan beyond the mission, but now the mission is well and truly done.
Orym shifts in his pile of quilts and pillows, turning over to find an empty space in their makeshift floor nest where Dorian had been curled around him. That’s not unusual. Dorian has woken up just before sunrise more days than not for all the time Orym has known him. He says he does his best composing in the light of dawn, before the day has a chance to grow heavy with everything else that needs doing. It’s a sentiment that Orym understands completely. The days have become less heavy as of late, but there is still so much to be done.
Orym dresses for the day, not in armor, but in the loose shirt and pants that he prefers for ordinary wear. It still feels odd, not to have the tightness of leather surrounding him, but it doesn’t make the clothes feel any less comfortable. He stands before the bedroom mirror, combing out his curls with his fingers, catching the scent of fae flowers that seems to cling to him always now, sweet and light and strange. He looks down at the magical mark that encircles his wrist, the spidery leaves and vines looking nearly black in the faint light, shimmering with just the faintest hint of green.
“You paid in advance, remember?” Nana Morri’s voice is a floorboard creak made manifest. “That’s what you said. And that means you were in my service from the moment our deal was struck, even after the death of your delightful metal friend. You did all that I wished you to do, in keeping my Fearne safe. Now all I ask is that you come visit your dear Nana from time to time.” Both of her mouths curve into a smile as her hand settles on his wrist. “I do get so lonely here.”
It had been a far easier price than the one Orym thought he was going to have to pay, a lifetime or more spent in the Feywild in service to Nana Morri. He remembers the relief on Dorian’s face when Orym had told him that they could go back home together, the way he had let out his breath telling Orym that Dorian hadn’t been breathing at all.
Orym moves through the house with an ease and familiarity that even all his time away can never steal from him. The lack of bustling in the kitchen tells him that his mother must still be over at the Thompson’s house, seeing to the birth of their first child. Orym smiles, hoping things are going well, and steps out into the back yard, the grass cool under his bare feet, the darkness of the sky shading oh so slowly towards dawn.
Orym goes through the Zeph'aeratam more slowly than he would have a month ago, before he had nearly been bitten in half by that which would have devoured the gods. He had felt himself slipping away even as he had mouthed silent apologies for not being fast enough, for leaving behind those he had sworn in his heart to protect. It had been Dorian who had brought him back from the brink, his tear-stained face the first thing Orym had seen when he had opened his eyes, his ears filled with song that had been desperate and raw, nearly a scream.
Orym increases his pace again, then again, gradually moving faster as the sun begins to rise over the hills. Every day he makes a little more progress before where his wounds had been begin to ache, and today is no exception. He stops, sweat cool on his skin, and raises his sword to the dawn. “Morning, Dad.”
“Some things never change,” Leeta says from her place on the back steps.
Orym, who had heard Leeta come around the house minutes ago (and smelled the breakfast she’d been carrying) just gives her a little smile as he sheathes his blade. “Some things don’t need to.” He sits beside her on the steps and his smile turns into a grin when she reaches into her basket and pulls out a small bundle of pancakes, a jar of blueberry jam, and a spoon. “Like your mother’s pancakes.”
“I dreamt of these while I was gone,” Orym says as he spreads jam onto a still warm pancake and rolls it up. “I tried making them on the road, but they never came out quite the same. And blueberry jam tastes different off the mountain. The blueberries down there are bigger, but not as sweet.”
“You could have made your own.” Leeta imitates the hand gesture Orym often uses when he calls upon his small, druidic powers.
“Wouldn’t have been the same.”
They eat together quietly for awhile, washing down the pancakes with a container filled with green tea as the sun slowly continues to rise. If Orym closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that time has gone backwards, that they’re in the training yard before dawn just like in the old days, eating breakfast after their morning exercises and that any minute Will is going to pull him into a sticky jam kiss and Derrig will chuckle deep in his chest the way he used to do.
Orym opens his eyes, the smile not falling from his face. The memory aches, but it’s a good pain, something healing.
“So.” Leeta gives him a sidelong look. “Are you staying this time?”
“For a few days at least.” Orym rolls up another pancake. “Dorian is going to get in touch with some of our old friends, and when Fearne and Ashton come back from the Feywild, we’re going to track down Opal and see what— what can be done.” Save her, whatever form that might take.
Leeta nods. “And after that? Are you coming back home, or are you and your bard going to ride off into the clouds together?”
Orym feels his face heat. “I—we— we haven’t—“
Leeta gives Orym a look that he’s always thought of as the Big Sister Look, protective, exasperated, and fond. “You know he looks at you like you hung the moons in the sky, right? Or have you missed it because you’re too busy looking at him like he sang the stars into giving light?”
“We’re just—“ Friends Orym doesn’t say. What Orym feels for Dorian is so much more than the bounds of friendship can contain. He just hasn’t talked about it with Dorian because there’s always been something else happening, some excuse to put his feelings aside. Ruidus. Predathos. The deal with Nana Morri. Trying to save Opal. There’s always something, and the eventual day where Dorian will return to the Squall creeps steadily closer.
“This is you and Will all over again,” Leeta says with an exasperated sigh. “Dancing around and second guessing yourselves instead of talking. You know, the three of us were going to lock you two in a closet that midsummer if you hadn’t finally gotten over yourselves and figured things out?”
“You wouldn’t have—“ Orym starts to say, but he knows better.
“You can ask Baer or Maeve if you don’t believe me. Or Mom, she was in on it too.” Leeta looks thoughtful. “It might take some work to trick Dorian into a closet….”
“You’re terrible,” Orym tells her, but he laughs when he says it, leaning against her side. “Be patient with me a little longer?”
“I make no promises.” Leeta puts an arm around Orym in a sideways hug. “I miss him too. He would have wanted you to be happy though.”
Orym thinks of a Will made of flowers and vines and roots, bathed in golden light. Be happy. Don’t live your life in the shadow of mine. “I know.”
They sit in silence for a few minutes before Leeta chuckles. “I almost forgot why I was asking if you were staying. I was going to tell you that your house is still empty. If you wanted to move back in.”
Orym blinks. “But— I specifically left it for you. Well, any of you three that wanted it.”
“You did. And every spring and fall our moms go and air the place out and give it a good dusting, while Maeve and Baer tend to the gardens and I make sure the roof is still sound and occasionally do some repairs. It’s always going to be your home, Orym, your place to come back to. You should swing by and give it a look, see what your heart says about it.” She gives him another squeeze, then glances up at the sky. “I have to go. Duty and all that. Finish up these pancakes for me?”
“You just don’t want to clean up,” Orym says with a smile, and watches as she walks away before bundling everything up and leaving it on the kitchen table for his mother, in case she comes home before Orym does and wants something to eat. A moment later, he’s back out the door, this time with his boots on, and walking down the path that leads through the center of town, then out towards the northernmost fringes. See what his heart says about it. All right.
“I just want some space,” Orym says as he walks with Will, hand in hand. “I mean, living close to town is fine, I don’t mind it, but I’ve always wanted a really big garden, maybe some beehives—“
“Baby, you can just say that you want some distance from the neighbors so we can have sex outside without getting caught,” Will says with a laugh.
“That’s not—!” Orym tries to scowl at Will and completely fails as he feels his face heat. “That’s not the only reason!”
“But it is a reason,” Will tugs on Orym’s hand and Orym leaps up into Will’s arms for a kiss. “Wherever you want to live, that’s where we’ll live.”
Orym feels his heart beat faster as his feet and memory take him down the faded path, as he sees the house in the distance growing closer. He’s visited this place in dreams so often in the years since he was gone. Sometimes Will comes out of the house when Orym is halfway down the path. Other times he’s in the garden, picking tomatoes or pulling carrots. But this isn’t a dream. Orym’s steps slow as the grass path gives way to stone, as he takes in the scent of lavender and honeysuckle. The bee boxes and their colonies are in his Maeve’s yard now, Orym has visited them, but there are still plenty of bees buzzing through the air and pollinating the flowers. He stops by the front door, tracing the vines and flowers that he had hand-carved into the frame with a smile, wondering what Chetney would think of them.
There is no lock on the door, never has been, just a latch on the inside to keep it shut during harsh weather or when you don’t want your neighbors just walking in. The door opens easily under Orym’s hand, as if he’s only been gone a day instead of seven years. He sits on the little bench just inside the entryway and takes off his boots, feeling like he’s in a dream as he steps onto the floor of his home, the stone under his feet smooth and familiar.
Orym walks from room to room, feeling as if he’s haunting his own house as he drifts past shrouded furniture, as every step and breath comes with memories. Here is the living room, where once the cold fireplace had been warm, and the oversized chair had fit the two of them curled up together, reading or kissing or falling asleep as spring rains or winter snows had fallen. Here is the dining room, where their family, their huge, wonderful family, had eaten and laughed. There is the kitchen where Orym and Will had cooked, Will sneaking in more spices and herbs when Orym wasn’t looking, Orym forgoing the carefully carved stools and climbing cabinets and counters as easily as trees and rocks.
The bedroom— the bedroom is where Orym’s eyes begin to well up with tears. He doesn’t remove the sheet from the bed frame, but he doesn’t need to. He can remember every inch that he carved and sanded and stained with his own two hands, just as he can perfectly recall the feel of the mattress that Will had stuffed with goose down. The cedar chest that their marriage quilt had been kept in is at his mother’s house now, but oh, it’s easy to bring to mind how warm it had been with the two of them curled beneath it, making love as a married couple for the first time. He remembers the last time they had made love as well, quick and messy and comfortable, a pleasant start to a morning that they hadn’t known would be their last together.
The house is so full of memories. Can he live here again with the weight of them?
Orym closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and when he opens them again he imagines what could be, instead of remembering what had been.
The quilt on the bed is a true patchwork of a thing, different weights of fabric and scraps of old adventuring outfits sewn together with a rainbow color of threads, messy and imperfect and just as beautiful as the quilt hanging on the wall, with its bright colors and perfect stitches. The bed, while the headboard and the footboard are the same, is now a four poster bed with a silken canopy, the silk dyed in the colors of a sky shading toward night, silver embroidered stars shimmering in the light of jars that hang from the ceiling and seem to glow with captured moonlight.
Walking into the kitchen, Orym can almost smell fresh bread baking. There’s an apron covered in flour hanging on a hook near the bread oven. Dorian has always wanted to learn how to cook beyond the few simple meals he’s managed while on the road. On the stove there’s stew bubbling, rich and fragrant, and the spice rack is filled with spices from all over the world, every place they’ve ever travelled, the spices from the realm of the fae very clearly labeled.
From the dining room, Orym imagines he can hear the sounds of his family and friends, their voices and laughter mingling together. If he lets himself imagine Fresh Cut Grass’s metallic laughter for just a moment, well, it’s his daydream. He sees them all gathered there as clearly as if it were a vision, his gaze lingering on Opal, who bears no crown, who smiles and laughs along with everyone else. Orym will do his best to make that a reality, if nothing else.
The laughter fades as Orym steps into the living room, imagining a fire in the hearth, breathing in the smell of imagined woodsmoke. Firelight plays off the niches in the wall where souvenirs from their travels sit and small plants grow. The box Chetney gave him, the one with the moons on it, sits on a little table next to the oversized chair, and Orym knows if he opened it, it would contain his pipe-weed and his pipe. Orym’s sword and shield hang over the fireplace, and that is truly a fantasy, because he can’t yet imagine the day when he will put them aside. Still, it does him no harm to imagine them there, to think ahead to a time that hasn’t come yet.
Orym’s gaze turns to the oversized chair. Dorian’s mandolin is leaning up against the side, and a composition book has joined the box filled with pipe-weed on the side table. And there, in the chair itself, Orym imagines Dorian holding him, fingers carding through hair that’s nearly past his shoulders, singing softly as Orym sleeps.
The image doesn’t hurt to imagine, doesn’t make his breath stop short or squeeze his heart, though he can feel tears trailing down his cheeks. It doesn’t feel like he’s somehow dishonoring Will’s memory. This is okay. This is something he can do, something he’s allowed to do. Imagine. Hope. Work towards the future that he wants to see.
Orym shakes himself out of his daydream, wiping away the tears with his sleeve and reaching for the sending stone that he still wears on his belt. He has to find out where Dorian is, has to talk to him before he talks himself back into setting aside his feelings again. His thumb begins to trace the sigil— and that’s when he hears music, a melody as familiar to Orym by now as his own heartbeat, one he’s been falling asleep to for night upon night.
I’m dreaming, Orym thinks as he silently slips out the front door. I must be dreaming. But the music only grows louder as he moves around the back of the house, past where the blueberry bushes are just beginning to put forth flowers. Sure enough, Dorian is sitting under the blossoming apple tree, his eyes closed as he strums his mandolin. The sun shining through the branches dapples his skin while a gentle breeze tugs at his hair, but nothing is more beautiful than Dorian’s soft smile, like he’s thinking about something he truly, dearly loves.
As Orym stands perfectly still, not wanting to make a sound and spoil the perfect scene in front of him, Dorian begins to sing.
“Fierce warrior, the moons have risen
Sheath your sword
Put down your shield
Let me help you with your armor
For night has come
And you must rest
Brave warrior, lay down beside me
And listen to the song I sing
Let other eyes keep watch tonight
As soft breezes carry you away
To fields where there are no battles
Only flowers that reach for the sun
Lonely warrior, I hope my words
Can soften the lines that crease your brow
Or ease the ache within your heart
For even a moment
Remember that the wind loves you
And so do I.”
“And so do I,” Dorian repeats with a sigh, opening his eyes. “Now if only I could—“ He stops, mouth open when he sees Orym standing only a few feet away.
“Dorian, that was beautiful. Is that what you’ve been singing to us this whole time?” Orym asks, stepping closer to Dorian. “You finished it?“
Dorian’s face flushes a wine-dark purple as he half goes to stand, only to abruptly sit back down when his mandolin starts to slide out of his lap. “Orym, what are you doing here? I hadn’t meant for you— that is—“ His fingers tighten on the neck of the mandolin. “You truly liked it? It rhymes in Primordial— but you know that, you’ve been listening to me sing it for months now.“ He laughs, high and nervous, and his personal breeze causes a brief shower of apple blossoms.
“I loved it,” Orym says honestly. “I’m sorry if I wasn’t supposed to hear the translated version of it yet. I was just—“ He gestures at the house behind him. “This was— is— my house, and I was walking through it when I heard you playing.”
“Your—“ Dorian’s panicked flush somehow grows even darker. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know! I ran into your sisters the other day when I was looking for a private place to— practice, and Baer said there was a vacant house on the edge of town where you— where no one would be likely to overhear me, and the other two agreed that it would be a perfect spot. I didn’t mean to trespass—“
It’s always going to be your home, Orym, your place to come back to. You should swing by and give it a look, see what your heart says about it.
“I think we just got shoved into a closet,” Orym mutters.
“What?”
“It’s all right that you’re here,” Orym says, wrenching his thoughts away from how he’s going to get back at his big sisters for meddling, once he finishes hugging them. Growing skunk cabbages in their beds maybe, like old times. “I’m glad that you’re here, actually. There’s something I wanted to tell you. I—“ Orym swallows, his heart beating faster and his muscles tensing, as if preparing for combat. He forces himself to take a deep breath. “Dorian, I have feelings for you.”
Dorian doesn’t say anything, which is fine for the moment. Now that Orym’s said the words out loud, more words are crowding in this throat in their rush to escape.
“I think— the pageant in Byroden is when I realized what I was feeling, or maybe just acknowledged it for the first time. And even through everything with the circlet, that feeling didn’t change. As time went on it’s only grown bigger, deeper, but I kept pushing it aside, because so much was happening that was more important, that I thought was more important and because I—“ His gaze skirts away from Dorian for a moment. “I just wasn’t ready. Not until today. I’m sorry it wasn’t— it wasn’t sooner.”
Orym hears a twang, like the sound of a mandolin string snapping, and looks up to see Dorian still staring at him, not breathing, his face no longer flushed but as pale as the sky on a clear midwinter day. Oh.
“It’s all right if you don’t return my feelings,” Orym says softly, feeling his heart beginning to break. “I just wanted to be honest with you.” He will not cry. Not here in front of Dorian. He won’t make him feel more uncomfortable than he already does. “I hope this doesn’t change anything between us.”
Dorian blinks, as if waking from a dream, color beginning to return to his face. “It’s all right if I don’t—“ He looks at Orym, his expression one of incredulity. “Orym, who do you think my song is about?”
“I—“ Orym feels off balance, like someone’s swept his legs out from under him. “Wait, what?”
Dorian starts laughing, and then he’s putting the mandolin aside and standing up, only to close the distance to where Orym is standing before dropping to his knees and putting his hands on Orym’s shoulders. “I wrote that song about you. For you. I didn’t know how to tell you— I put it into Common ages ago and I’ve been working up the courage—“
Now Orym is laughing too, the situation too ridiculous and wonderful not to laugh at, and somehow in the middle of the laughter their lips meet, and it feels so soft and warm and right that Orym can’t help but cry just a little, tears of happiness after years of grief.
The two of them wind up under the apple tree eventually, cuddling and kissing each other until their lips are swollen with it. Orym curls up on Dorian’s chest, marveling at the novelty of being able to do this in the daytime and not in the dark before he falls asleep.
“I was afraid you already knew,” Dorian was saying as he runs his fingers through Orym’s hair. “About what the song was about. That maybe Ashton had said something.”
“Ashton?” Orym’s brow furrows as an old conversation suddenly becomes clearer. “Was that why he told me I should get you to teach me Primordial?”
Dorian huffs out a laugh. “I can do that, if you want. It’d be good for when—“ His fingers still.
Orym looks up at Dorian’s suddenly somber face. “When—?”
“Would you come with me, when I go back to the Squall?”
Orym reaches up to touch Dorian’s cheek, leading him in to another kiss. “Of course. I’ll go anywhere with you, as long as you’ll have me.” He looks back towards the house for a brief moment, remembering his daydreaming from before. “Would it be— I don’t know when you want to go back, after we rescue Opal obviously, but until then— we could stay in my house. Even if it’s only for a little while.”
“I would love that,” Dorian says softly. “And it doesn’t have to be for just a little while. Since I’m—“ He takes a breath. “Since I’m the heir now, I’ve been thinking more about my people, how we’ve been living. Being as isolated as we are— I want to change that. When my father said that we had historical ties with Zephrah, it got me thinking. Before I came here with you, when was the last time that a genasi of the Squall had set foot here?”
“I don’t remember any,” Orym says. “The Tempest would know, but if I had to guess, it’s been a long time.”
“Exactly,” Dorian says. “I want to open up trade and travel between Zephrah and the Silken Squall. Have a permanent teleportation circle placed here, between our two cities. Caleb taught me the trick of it, but it takes a full year to make a circle permanent. I’d have to cast it in the same place every day.”
Orym nods slowly, seeing what Dorian is saying. “And of course, it only makes sense that you would stay here during that time.”
“Not to mention that there would be so many meetings to make all of this happen,” Dorian says. “That alone could take months. And afterwards, well, I don’t see any reason why we couldn’t split our time between here and the Squall.”
“Like summer and winter homes,” Orym says, closing his eyes and letting his head rest on Dorian’s chest. So much has happened today, and there is so much more to be done. He’s going to rope his sisters into helping him open up the house and move in everything they need, and there is still Opal of course, and now with everything Dorian has said about his plans for the future— he feels elated and drained all at once.
“So much to be done,” Dorian says, echoing Orym’s thoughts. “And this is why I do all my composing in the morning, before the day gets heavy.” He leans down and kisses the top of Orym’s head. “How about a nap before we start running around trying to do everything at once?”
“Only if you sing to me,” Orym mumbles into Dorian’s chest.
“Of course,” Dorian says, and Orym can hear the smile in his voice. “Fierce warrior—“
The wind loves me, Orym thinks as he drifts off to sleep. And I love him.