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Chapter Text

It wasn’t that Orym was familiar or comfortable with darkness, but more that he was used to it. His brief stint with the others and the crown of Lolth had landed them in a lot of shadowy places. None of these events seemed to remedy his inability to see in the darkness, but that was besides the point.

Orym hated this, though. This magical darkness that consumed all light and weighed down on him with oppressive, stifling, pitch. He wanted to get out, but the chirping, jittering creatures were still either side of him. If he moved, they would strike at him and Orym could feel in his bones how badly that would end for him.

He wasn’t sure he could take another hit.

There was still one creeper near him after the last time he had felt confident enough to lash out. He couldn’t see it - obviously - but he heard it. It had this weird, wet, stuttered pattern to it’s breathing and it gave Orym the shivers.

Dorian’s voice was somewhere off to one side, but the darkness was so total Orym wasn’t even sure which direction. But he sounded stressed…or maybe annoyed.

It was enough of a distraction that the creeper lingering nearby found an opening and purchase in his back. Ever the silent sufferer, Orym let out a strangled gasp and managed to twist in just the right way to dislodge it’s grip on him. Blood poured hot and thick against his back and soaked into his tunic. Orym grit his teeth, refusing to make a sound that might draw attention to him.

“I’ll take all of yah on,” Orym mumbled, half delirious and half serious, stumbling slightly.

If he could see, Orym was certain the room would be spinning. As it was, his proprioception felt upended, vertigo a swaying weight behind his eyes. The remaining creature was off to his right somewhere, still jittering and taunting. Orym turned slightly toward it, grunting quietly in pain as his wounds smarted with the movement.

Suddenly, there was a hand on his head.

Orym almost reacted with his sword, but the wash of healing energy that flowed through him brushed like wind on his face and smelled like a summer breeze. Orym found his footing and stabilized his stumbling. He recognized the touch of magic as Dorian almost as soon as his pain muddled thoughts cleared.

“I’m not feeling so well myself,” Dorian whispered, voice soft and panicked. Orym felt his gut hollow out and drop toward his feet. The darkness prevented him from seeing Dorian, of perhaps finding out what was wrong, and his nerves were lit on fire. He could only be left to imagine how badly Dorian was hurt.

Before Orym could voice any of his concerns to the dark, Dorian continued.

“Please help us.” More magic poured into Orym from the point of contact on his head. This did not feel like healing, but warmed like a hot dry wind and sparked to life at Orym’s fingertips.

Orym was still reveling in the warm familiarity of Dorian’s magic when the remaining creature garbled out a death cry, muffled and horrific. Feeling more stable in his limbs, Orym rolled away from the noise and knocked gently into Dorian’s leg. Grateful for his friend nearby and a reprieve from the lonely void, he leaned some of his weight against Dorian and waited, blade at the ready to defend.

It turned out to be an unnecessary position as the shadows eventually faded and no more enemies presented themselves. Orym heaved a weary breath, sagging a little against Dorian’s leg. That familiar hand returned, brushing feather light through Orym’s hair before landing on his shoulder. As Orym turned his face up to look at his friend, Dorian knelt beside him, sweeping a worried, critical gaze over Orym.

“Are you hurt?” Orym asked, voice a tad rough, before Dorian could say anything. There was still a nagging worry pulling at his gut from Dorian’s earlier comment - an urgent need to know if Dorian was okay.

Dorian gave him a surprised look, expression filtering through a few other emotions before settling on something weary. Orym waited patiently for an answer and tried not to think too deeply about the weight of Dorian’s hand on his shoulder.

“I’m fine, Orym,” Dorian said, brisk but shaky. “Just Bell not knowing which way to swing his sword. Are you okay? You’re covered in blood.”

“Oh,” Orym said, voice faint with relief now that he knew Dorian wasn’t about to collapse in front of him. He looked down at himself - at his somewhat tattered tunic, at the heavy blood stain on his side that was likely heavier on his back. Orym looked back at Dorian and shrugged under the weight of his hand.

“I’ve had worse.”

Dorian’s expression faltered into something incredulous before morphing with…despair?

“Orym–” Dorian cut himself off with a sharp sigh and a shake of his head. “Just…hold still.”

Dorian kept one hand on Orym’s shoulder and the other encircled Orym’s sword hand. Long fingers overlapped each other, engulfing Orym’s wrist. Still somewhat out of his own head, Orym fixated on the prominent, fine bones standing out on the back of Dorian’s hand. He had the hands of a musician. Another summer infused rush of healing energy wove through Orym’s veins, interrupting his thoughts as it knit sinew and vessels back together. His skin pulled taut over the wounds, likely to scar by tomorrow. Tension uncoiled from Orym’s muscles as he stopped carrying his weight through pain. Even with the relief, he looked at Dorian with a guilty wince.

“You should save your magic, in case we aren’t done for the night.”

“Oh, we’re done for the night,” Dorian said, huffing out his words on a humorless laugh. “The next time someone tries to fight us, we’re just leaving. Especially you, Orym.”

Opening his mouth to retort that they couldn’t just do that, Orym stopped himself before he spoke. He knew, deep in his heart he knew, that he could never just leave a fight unfinished. If Dorian was going to turn his back on an enemy to walk away from a fight, Orym would stand guard and engage so that Dorian - and his friends - would be safe.

Dorian, who smiled like a charlatan and laughed like a lie, but played his instruments with more honesty than he ever meant to. Who had magic that reminded Orym of home - warm like the mountain sun on his skin and moved like the breeze in autumn. Dorian, who still had so much of the world to see and a brother to protect, and friends to make. Who trusted Orym implicitly and supported him without question.

Orym had failed to protect everyone he cared about once, and he would die before it happened again.

Instead of saying all of this to Dorian, who was watching him with a raised eyebrow and clearly waiting for a response, Orym nodded.

Behind his back, he crossed his fingers.

Orym owed Dorian his life, and he was determined to die with no debts between them.

Chapter Text

“Dorian?”

Orym’s voice pulled like a tether, yanking Dorian back from the spiral of thoughts he had been caught in. He sounded tired, half-awake, and Dorian’s eyes felt itchy and dry as he blinked through the darkness. It was hard to tell how long it had been since they had gotten to Eshteross’ manor - since…Bertrand.

“Shit,” Dorian mumbled under his breath, dragging his hands down his face as his thoughts turned yet again to their lost companion.

“Dorian?” Orym’s voice again, closer this time. A small hand pressed against Dorian’s shoulder, a warm anchor. “Have you slept?”

Dorian considered lying - he was good at it and could probably get away with it. But Orym had always seen through him with far more ease than others. Besides, Dorian had promised himself he would stop lying to his friends while still keeping secrets from them - he had enough guilt on his shoulders already.

“No,” Dorian heaved out the word on a sigh. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” Orym whispered, moving to sit beside him. “I don’t think I truly fell asleep - more like dozed.”

“Hm,” Dorian hummed, already thinking about Bertrand again. What would have happened if Dorian had made Bertrand go upstairs with him? Why would someone do this? What–

“Talk to me, Dorian,” Orym said, his hand back, this time on Dorian’s knee. Through the heavy dim of the room and the early hour, Dorian could just make out the glint of Orym’s eyes. Neither of them could see in the dark very well, but Dorian felt the familiar weight of Orym’s gaze regardless.

“I’m just thinking about Bertrand,” Dorian said, sighing again. “Wishing I had…I don’t know - done something.”

“How could you have known, Dorian?” Orym said, squeezing Dorian’s knee. “You couldn’t have known that was the last time you’d see him. You can’t hold yourself responsible. It’ll eat you alive.”

There was a weight to Orym’s words that Dorian could not comprehend. He closed his eyes against the darkness, the point where Orym’s hand laid on his knee warm and grounding. He hadn’t known grief before leaving home - not like this at least. Dorian hadn’t lost anyone the way they had lost Bertrand. This consuming hollow in his chest was new and dark and unsettling. He felt angry, upset, and displaced all at once.

“I don’t know what to do, Orym,” Dorian confessed, braver for the darkness obscuring his friend’s features. “I’m angry more than anything, and I’ve no where to put it.”

“We’ll find the creep that killed him,” Orym’s voice came through the night, quiet for the sake of their sleeping companions, but firm. “We’ll make him pay and get justice for Bell.”

Orym sounded so certain, so stable and reassuring - every bit the leader he hadn’t want to be with the Crown Keepers. Dorian pushed out a shaky breath and fumbled in the dark for a moment before he found Orym’s hand on his knee. He gave Orym’s slender fingers a brief squeeze.

“You promise?”

Dorian hated how tremulous his voice sounded in that moment, but he couldn’t take it back. He trusted Orym with some of his vulnerabilities.

“I promise,” Orym said after a heartbeat of silence.

Dorian wasn’t great with trust or honesty, but Orym made both a little easier.

“For now,” Orym continued, surprising Dorian. “We need to sleep.”

In an abrupt pulse of nostalgia, Dorian found himself missing Dariax and his sturdy weight against Dorian’s back. Before Orym could move away and vanish back into the dark of the room, Dorian squeezed his fingers again to keep his attention.

“Would you sleep here, with me?” Dorian paused to give a soft, strained laugh. “Back to back?”

Orym’s pause was heavier with Dorian unable to see him. After a moment, he squeezed Dorian’s fingers back and shifted closer, rustling the blanket of Dorian’s bed roll.

“Sure,” and Orym sounded like he was smiling a little now. “Back to back.”

Chapter Text

Orym realized in the middle of their fight that this was beginning to feel familiar. He already knew to stick close to Imogen, to stand in front of her and with her whenever possible because she was easy to hit and easy to knock down. He knew that Ashton was reckless but effective, and that they always kept an eye on those prone to injury. Orym knew that F.C.G. was reliable in keeping the others up and getting them back up.

Dorian and Fearne were an old familiarity, a comfort at his back. And it was surprising to realize how quickly Orym had become accustomed to fighting alongside these newer folks.

Granted, he didn’t trust them with the details - not yet. But he trusted them to stay upright during a fight, to make it through.

(He tried not to trust too much, because the last time he did still stung.)

He was so worried about keeping Imogen safe that Orym forgot to duck. Doused in creepy goo, the rush of drunken, painful fatigue through his veins nearly took Orym to his knees. In his peripheral, the way Laudna stumbled made him realize he wasn’t the only one affected by…whatever this was.

But she pushed through, casting spells and trying to wrench herself free from the sticky spots in the room. Orym trusted her to keep fighting.

And it was chaos, confusion, and wholly disconnected from Orym’s senses for a few moments as the poison chewed through him. He slashed at the creepers, found himself unable to move away from them, and watched Fearne hit the ground. She was up a moment later but the fear still had a clawed choke hold on Orym’s ribs. Dorian reacted before Orym could find the strength to move and Dugger was incinerated in his wake.

Orym drew a shaky breath of relief as Dorian looked around, stunned and gleeful despite the grief. Fearne clambered to her hooves and Orym found enough energy to focus again.

Imogen shouted something over to his left and as he turned to respond, he watched the creepers lunge at her. For a moment, it was not Imogen he saw, but a face Orym tried not to think about. For another moment, it was not him but Dorian, and then Fearne, and then Laudna, and then every other person until it was Bertrand. In a horrible, sickening, flashing moment, Orym had failed every person he thought he could protect. The creepers tore into Imogen’s chest and the spray of blood in the air knocked Orym’s senses into motion.

Ashton shouted over the chattering creepers and their glee, Laudna screamed in a horrific, wailing tone across the room. Dorian had a hand pressed over his mouth like he might be sick.

Orym wrenched himself free of the goo at his feet and somehow made it to Imogen’s side. He didn’t even think about curing the poison in his system as he wrestled through the maniac creepers and shoved his arm between their frenzied claws. There were burns on his arms and his neck from being too close to those creatures when they died. Blood streaked his arms, his fingers, his clothes, and through his hair. But he upended the potion into Imogen’s mouth without hesitation and watched as her chest stuttered on an inhale.

She blinked up at him, alive and in pain, as the creepers pulled back to snarl down at Orym.

It was only because she survived that Orym allowed himself a moment to breathe and find his second wind.

He looked up for the rest of the party and found Dorian, face a little pale but still ready to fight. Relief nearly took Orym to the ground, but his eyes slid past Dorian to find Fearne stalking toward the creepers, her expression stony as she raised one hand at a crate. The ring on her finger glowed and the box moved by itself, Fearne never once looking at it, eyes set on Imogen.

There was a blur of action following that Orym barely remembered through the haze of exhaustion and poison. He might have helped Imogen block one of the creeper’s access points, but he wasn’t sure how effective he really was.

Somewhere in the chaos, there was quiet. Orym found it when Dorian knelt in front of him and settled a worried hand on Orym’s shoulder. It was a peace made whole when Fearne joined them, standing just over Dorian’s shoulder and smiling down at Orym like she wasn’t covered in blood and ooze. The others were doing…something, but Orym could worry about that in a moment. For now, he was okay here, in this pocket of relatively safe reality.

Dorian’s hand cupped beneath Orym’s elbow and raised his right arm for him. Orym looked at the pinched worry furrowing between Dorian’s brows before following his gaze to Orym’s arm. Burns laced up the exposed skin in fractal, frenetic patterns, marred by streaks of blood and ooze and dirt. There were a few distinct claw marks laced over it all as well. It took Orym a moment to register the pain, to remember that he had thrown himself into the fray to save Imogen.

“Here,” Dorian muttered, gaze fixed and determined. “Let me just…”

Orym blinked slowly against the sluggish drag of poison, watching as Dorian wet a rag with his waterskin to clean off the worst of the muck. He realized after Dorian’s hands glowed a pale white-blue - sealing some of the claw marks - against Orym’s skin that they should be saving spells. Just in case.

Instead of saying so, Orym mumbled a quiet thanks. He still felt unsteady, untethered from his limbs. Dorian flashed him a worried look, exchanged quiet words with Fearne, and then stood to his full height.

They eventually left Dugger’s house, and Orym stumbled blearily along with the group, his eyelids feeling like stone each time he blinked. They had barely turned the corner when Fearne was beside Orym, grinning and holding out her hand.

Orym was familiar enough with this routine to know it wasn’t worth fighting or protesting the inevitable. Plus, he was tired.

Fearne didn’t have to say anything to convince him before Orym was taking her hand and letting her help more than usual as he landed on her shoulder. That sequence of events more than anything probably gave Orym away, but it was too late now. Dorian came up beside Fearne, obviously concerned as he reached up and dropped another spell against Orym’s knee.

“‘m fine, Dorian,” Orym mumbled as the street swayed.

“Sure, Orym,” Dorian said, grinning despite the lingering furrow of his brows. “Let us take care of you anyway.”

It had been months since Orym left Zephrah, months since he had allowed anyone to get close enough to care for him like this. Trust was still a tenuous, difficult, and terrifying thing. Orym treated it like a feral animal, waiting for it to bite at any moment. But Dorian healed Orym without hesitation, without expecting anything in return. Fearne - for all her lovely, unpredictable chaos - loved Orym and Dorian so fiercely it was almost overwhelming.

He thought that maybe they could make it easier, to trust and to be cared for again.

Leaning his head against Fearne, careful of the curl of her antler, Orym smiled down at Dorian. A small uptick at the corner of his mouth, but a smile.

“Okay.”

Chapter Text

Dorian had friends growing up. Of course he did - why wouldn’t he?

But they were more friends out of convenience than anything. There was scarce common ground to build upon, and between lessons and expectations and formal occasions and and and and – Dorian had little time to spend with friends anyway. So, they did as friends do sometimes and grew apart with age.

The older Dorian got, the fewer friends he found himself turning to. Until there were none.

So when F.C.G. imbued him with confidence two-fold, and Imogen summoned her lights, all without Dorian asking? Just for a friendly competition? He felt choked up, warm, and excited all at once. It was good and strange to have friends who did things without being asked and without expecting anything in return. Dorian strummed at the rhythm with a little more joy than before, emboldened.

“Wait, wait, come here,” Orym said, voice soft from beside Dorian. “There’s something in your hair.”

He looked down in time to see his friend beckon, finger curling and eyes twinkling. Dorian grinned and bent closer, pleased by the attention of his companions.

“Oh, thank you,” Dorian murmured as he got to Orym’s level.

Orym’s fingers tangled lightly with the fine hair near Dorian’s ear, and it was only the proximity that allowed Dorian to feel the swell of magic and creation against his skin. The stem of a flower curled to weight, tucked behind his ear, before petals bloomed and popped gently open to brush against Dorian’s temple. Orym’s hand lingered for a moment, securing the bloom in place, before he pulled back with a pleased little grin on his face.

Dorian stared for a moment, still crouched, mouth slightly agape with the corners of his lips ticked upward. He hadn’t seen this side of Orym often - or for a while. The playful sweetness of a man who didn’t allow himself to be vulnerable. There were flashes of this Orym in Zephrah - always overshadowed, never permanent.

Dorian grabbed hold of that playful grin and tucked it into a memory, wanting to remember that it was possible.

With power in his strumming and lights above his head and a flower at his temple, Dorian played. Anni’s fiddle was a delightful contrast to his lute, the strings thrumming in harmony as they pushed and pulled one another to new heights. Dorian’s fingers ached and burned after a while against the coarse strings, but he reveled in the feel of it and let the sound he and Anni produced carry his worries away.

Their music was easy, jaunty, and steady. The rhythm Dorian brought forth was a heartbeat and Anni’s melody a shot of adrenaline, enrapturing and lively. Dorian could feel every chord in his veins - scintillating sounds that came as easy as breathing.

Alive and feeling it intentionally, Dorian plucked at his lute with an enthusiasm he thought he had lost, and did a few merry twirls. His cape snapped against his legs as he spun, hair flying with the movement as he grinned, breathless.

On his last spin, Dorian faced his friends again, drinking in their awe and joy and proud that this was his doing. That it was genuine and real and something he had cultivated all on his own.

His hair swinging with the halt of his inertia, cape doing the same, grin still in place, Dorian caught Orym’s eye. He was watching Dorian with a smile, a soft, fond tilt to his brows that made his green eyes shine with…something. The petals of the flower in Dorian’s hair brushed against his temple again and Dorian kept playing.

He would have gladly kept going for hours had Anni’s string not snapped. Despite her frustration, Dorian tried to reassure her that she was incredible. But she stormed off before he could get all the words out, and then Ashton was ducking into their room.

Dorian’s friends swarmed him in the new silence, the music halted. Their eyes were wide and bright and they were all smiling and telling him how incredible he was. Orym’s grin still sat fixed in place and that alone was prize enough.

“I didn’t do anything,” Dorian insisted as he tucked his lute away. “That was all you guys! It was the stage work, it filled me with confidence!”

And it had - it truly had. Confidence that Dorian sometimes faltered under, felt unworthy of bearing. But this had been so easy, so right and all for fun. Nothing like the false bravado Dorian was painfully familiar with painting into his smiles.

They continued to talk for a moment, waiting for Ashton to return with whatever was in their room. His friends - his friends - were ridiculous and Dorian would have them no other way.

It wasn’t until later, when they were following Laudna and Imogen to their place, waiting to hear what Orym had to say, that Dorian remembered.

The wind blew gently through the streets, rustling Dorian’s hair as waxy petals tapped against his temple. Near the rear of the group, Dorian went unnoticed as he carefully plucked the bloom from behind his ear and stared down at it in his palm. It was beautiful - full, waxy petals and a vibrant green stem. The deep, cobalt blue flower opened up at Dorian, pristine and alive despite the lack of roots.

Orym summoned it with magic, just for Dorian, just for luck. It seemed to have done the trick, given that Dorian hadn’t had that much fun performing in a long time.

Uncertain if the bloom would fade with time given the magical origin of it, Dorian pressed it carefully flat in a piece of spare cloth from his bag. He tucked the memory carefully into a pouch at his belt and looked at Orym’s back as they continued walking.

Dorian held tight to the weighted warmth nestled in his chest, knowing what it meant, but not ready. Not yet.

Chapter Text

Dorian blinked against the hit he took, grunting as he found his footing and shaking off the daze. How this group ended up in so many fights so close together, he would probably never know. It wasn’t getting old, per say, but it was getting exhausting. Dorian wondered if they would ever catch a break.

He looked up in time to see Orym get stuck against the wall, feet planted firmly beside the creature’s mouth, shield stuck, and panic warring with determination. Dorian felt his heart skip a beat before it sank into his gut.

Not keen on watching his friend be consumed, Dorian scrambled for a spell that might help, one that wouldn’t hurt Orym. Most of his spells wouldn’t do the kind of damage Dorian wanted, and others were healing spells or things to support his friends to make sure they succeeded. He needed something that would help–

Right. That one.

A memory of a tutor long forgotten, the basics of a spell that would benefit someone of Dorian’s status. He always had a diamond on him.

Without hesitation, Dorian plucked the diamond free of his chest plate and began casting the spell. He held the diamond to his lips and murmured a short incantation, catching the iridescent fragments of light from the nearby street lamps within the prism. With one hand cradling the gem, he performed the quick hand motions with practiced ease, watching as the rainbow fragments grew and brightened, crackled with potential and danger. With a mighty swing of his arm, Dorian hurled the now roiling ball of lightning at the creature.

He watched it with breath stuck in his throat, watched the lightning burrow into the creature and prayed to every deity he’s ever remembered learning about that this would be enough. The wall hesitated, then began twitching, wailing, bleeding. Orym and Imogen scrambled free of its tacky hold, Orym dropping to the ground and yanking his shield along with him.

Those moments between the lightning hitting and the creature dropping felt like a lifetime. Dorian stood at the end of the alley, diamond clutched so tightly in his hand he could feel the sharp points of it digging into his palm.

But it was over. He had dealt the killing blow.

Dorian popped the diamond back into place on his chest plate, pulling his hand through his ruffled hair with a heavy sigh. He watched the girls and F.C.G. start bustling around, looking through the remains of the battle and offering healing where they could.

Another glance around the alley found Orym face down on the ground. Dorian’s heartbeat rocked and skipped against his ribs as he took a fretful step forward. What had he missed? How had the others missed him going down?

As he walked briskly toward Orym’s prone form, Dorian watched him shift and groan before going still again. Not exactly reassuring, but enough proof that Orym was conscious. Dorian could relate to the exhaustion.

He crouched beside his companion and placed a careful hand on Orym’s shoulder. Orym grunted by way of greeting.

“How’re you holding up?” Dorian asked, voice pitched low to not draw attention.

“‘M great,” Orym said, muffled by the way his nose was squished against the cobblestone. Thank the gods this alley was so clean. “Could go another ten rounds.”

Dorian chuckled, a quick, fond huff of air as he pat Orym’s shoulder as lightly as possible.

“Sure buddy,” Dorian agreed as he cast a minor healing spell.

“Thanks,” Orym slurred against the stones as the healing pulsed through him in a burst of warmth. “Appreciate it.”

“Anytime.”

Dorian looked up as new voices clamored over one another at the mouth of the alley. Their spectacle had finally drawn curious eyes and ears their way, and Dorian sighed at the thought of putting his mask back in place and performing while covered in blood. But he would do whatever it took to get them out of this situation and somewhere safe they could lick their wounds.

“Guests,” Dorian murmured to Orym, hand still on his shoulder. “We should probably get you upright.”

“You mean I have to get up?” Orym said, sounding for all the world petulant and miserable. Dorian was half amused and half concerned by it.

“Sorry, friend,” Dorian said, giving Orym’s uninjured shoulder a light squeeze. “But you’d have to get up so we could go to the tavern at some point.”

Orym sighed gustily against the ground and shifted to stand, groaning and crying out softly as he did. Dorian’s expression shuttered with concern at the sound, realizing just how beat up his dear friend actually was.

“Letters?” Dorian called even as Orym tried to wave away his concern. “Could you help Orym, please?”

“‘M fine, ‘m great,” Orym insisted as he shakily wiped blood from his cheek.

Dorian opened his mouth to protest, but Letters intervened in that gentle, friendly way of theirs. Next thing he knew, Orym was on F.C.G.’s back, half asleep, but at least off the ground. Dorian watched them roll off and absently traced the pad of his thumb over the ridges of the diamond in his chest plate.

These fights were exhausting - for all of them. He wondered if one day, he wouldn’t be enough.

Chapter Text

Fearne found them on the lower deck of the airship, half hidden by cargo and shadow. She would have missed them if not driven by her frantic need to reassure herself that Orym was alive.

And he was.

He wasn’t, however, in bed with her. Where he was supposed to be. She already had to give up her middle spoon and Fearne would be damned if she lost her little spoon, too.

Instead, Orym sat half-asleep (she could tell, she knew) in a cramped, dark corner below decks. If Fearne actually understood anything about healing, she would tell him all the reasons this was bad for fresh injuries. As it were, she could tell him how it would obviously be better to curl up in bed with her to help those injuries heal. It was softer, warmer, and she was a fantastic cuddle buddy.

“You look like you want to murder me,” Ashton said, voice hushed for Orym’s sake, but their flat tone steadfast.

And there hid the barb in it all. Orym wasn’t cuddled up with her in bed, but slumped in a corner against Ashton’s shoulder, both of Orym’s legs thrown over one of Ashton’s.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Fearne countered sweetly, voice dripping in arsenic and very aware of how displeased she looked.

“I found him here fifteen minutes ago while making rounds,” Ashton stated. They looked far too relaxed for someone within Fearne’s striking distance. “I asked if he needed anything and then he fell asleep like this.”

Fearne looked away from Ashton long enough to sweep a critical gaze over Orym. She had catalogued his injuries earlier, memorizing each one with carefully concealed rage so that she might return the favor in kind whenever they encountered Otohan again. Of course, Fearne hadn’t left that fight without her own wounds and temporary death to contend with. But Fearne never cared about that stuff because wounds healed and she could come back as she chose. But Orym was another story - Orym was Fearne’s.

Nobody was allowed to hurt Orym and get away with it while Fearne still drew breath.

She glanced back at Ashton to find they were already looking at her. It might bother others to see a hint of wariness reflected at them, but Fearne took pride in it.

“Ashton,” Fearne crooned, voice curling at the edges the way fire devoured parchment. “You know you can pickpocket anything from me any time you want.”

Fearne paused for the drama of it all. She reveled in the way Ashton looked like they weren’t sure if she wanted an answer or not.

“I’d even give you something of mine if you asked for it,” Fearne reminded them sweetly, her tone cloying. “But you can’t have him. He’s mine.”

Ashton lifted a brow at Fearne, unable to mask their surprise and confusion. Fearne didn’t care to explain the way her relationship with Orym and Dorian worked. It wasn’t out of malice toward Ashton, but out of protective possessiveness for Orym. He had been dead in her arms less than twenty-four hours ago with a gaping wound in his chest. Fearne thought she was well within her rights.

Before Ashton could collect their wits or a retort, Fearne stalked forward and scooped Orym into her arms with little fanfare. He hated being carried, avoided it at all costs even when brutally injured. Orym only accepted rides on Fearne’s shoulders when disguised as a higher vantage point for observation, and she let him get away with it. But he was dozing and Fearne was on edge. The lingering shadows from that forest she had seen nipped too close for comfort at her tentative grasp on control.

Ashton winced and absently massaged their thigh as they observed Fearne curiously.

“I wasn’t planning on stealing him,” Ashton said, their voice slow and measured. “You can’t exactly steal a person, but I know you’re kind of weird about a lot of stuff.”

Fearne huffed quietly in response. She wasn’t sure if it came from indignation or humor, but she didn’t care enough to examine it. Ashton winced again as they kept trying to soothe some ache in their leg. As much as Fearne wanted to leave now that she had Orym, she paused.

“Are you hurt?”

“Not in the way you’re thinking,” Ashton said cryptically, grin sharp and humorless. “Everything hurts, remember? I just didn’t have the heart to move him.”

Fearne’s hold on Orym tightened a fraction as she glanced Ashton over, contemplating their expression. They offered no further branch of conversation, and Orym was decidedly no longer dozing if the way he tensed in her arms was any indication. With nothing more to gain here and their bed calling, Fearne made her choice.

“Goodnight, Ashton,” Fearne said, voice quiet. She hesitated as she turned toward the stairs. “Thank you for looking after him.”

Ashton smirked, a knowing glint to their eyes. “Night, Fearne.”

Fearne was halfway back to the room before she tightened her fingers over Orym’s shoulder and smiled a little.

“I know you’re awake. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay, Fearnie,” Orym mumbled without opening his eyes. He turned in toward Fearne’s collarbone, curling himself a little smaller and breathing out shakily. That alone told Fearne that Orym was no where near okay.

“I’ve got you,” Fearne whispered. Comfort was not her strong suit, nor was it Orym’s. Dorian hadn’t been much better, but together they managed. They had found a few phrases through trial and error that seemed to be effective in grounding them. Fearne fell back on that practice now, unsure of how else to proceed as she pushed their door open with her hip.

“I’ve got you, best friend,” Fearne promised, lilting her voice a bit more sweet. “You’re safe.”

Orym breathed out shakily again and gave no other response. Fearne deposited her precious load on their bed as gingerly as she could. She stepped away to lock the door behind them, knowing it would help both of them sleep better. In the time it took her to return to bed, Orym had tossed his shirt over the side and settled in his usual spot.

The large lump of fragile, fresh scar tissue in the middle of his chest taunted Fearne with his impermanence.

“Fearnie?” Orym whispered, squinting through the dark at her.

Fearne climbed into bed and tugged Orym close, pressing her face into his abdomen and wrapping her arms around his little body. She loved Orym so dearly sometimes it scared her. But he made it so easy with how fondly he observed every one of Fearne’s antics. He was sweet, reliable, and quietly funny, and his heart was big enough for Fearne and all her dimensions.

She knew he woke up sad and tired most days, even quieter now that Dorian was apart from them and they were on the trail of killers. Fearne wanted nothing more than to keep Orym in this bed and cuddled close until he smiled without strings attached.

Orym pushed his fingers into her hair and pressed his nose to the crown of her head. He understood an answer wasn’t forthcoming and didn’t press.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Fearne mumbled into his stomach. The bump of scar tissue pressed against her forehead. “Does it hurt?”

She didn’t realize she was trembling until Orym tightened his hold on her.

“I’m okay, Fearnie,” Orym whispered. He had said that before, but now he sounded steadier. “I’m okay.”

Fearne held him there as Orym gently pulled his fingers through her tangled hair. She would need to brush it in the morning if there was any hope of looking somewhat put together after the past day. She could feel the hidden dust and sand somewhere among the long waves of hair, but at the moment, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was Orym’s heartbeat against her forehead and his warm body in her arms.

They laid together in the quiet as Fearne collected her emotions into order and Orym fought the pull of sleep. She felt bad keeping him up when he clearly need rest, but Fearne had one more thing she needed to ask.

“Do you want to talk to Dorian?” Fearne whispered, fiddling with the edge of Orym’s bandages on his shoulder.

Orym hesitated above her, prompting Fearne to look up because, as far as she knew, Orym never had to think about the answer to that question. This development unsettled something fundamental in Fearne’s chest.

“Orym?”

He blinked down at her, the distance in his gaze pulling back so he could see her.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, an automatic response Fearne was determined to weed out of him. “I…I don’t want to tell him yet. That we…uh…y’know.”

“Died?” Fearne supplied, voice soft.

Orym flinched regardless, and Fearne stifled the spike of guilt in her chest. Before today, his reaction and hesitation to say the word might have confused her, because death was death, and then it turned into something else. There was nothing to fear, just something to explore. But Fearne had held Orym’s tiny, lithe body in her arms today and he hadn’t been there. His beaten, limp limbs had rested heavy against her lap, tiring her arms. Whatever made him Orym had been absent, though, and in that moment, Fearne feared death for the first time.

How dare it try to defy her claim over Orym? Of course death had looked Fearne Calloway in the eye and been the one to back down.

“Yeah,” Orym’s raspy voice tugged Fearne back to their conversation. “That. I uh…I don’t want him to know yet. He hasn’t been gone that long and I don’t want him to worry.”

“He’s Dorian,” Fearne reminded Orym patiently. “He worries about everything and everyone.”

Orym chuckled, a quiet but genuine sound, and Fearne pressed her ear happily against Orym’s chest to soak it in. She felt him bury his fingers in the hair near her horns, careful and familiar. Fearne finally had her little spoon back, and all was right with the world.

(Her remorse about Laudna gnawed at Fearne’s hooves, but that was a problem for the morning.)

“Maybe after we sleep,” Orym whispered. If Fearne didn’t know him the way she did, she would think it an empty promise, an avoidance tactic. But Orym always kept his promises.

“When the sun’s up,” Fearne added on quietly. “After breakfast and after you let me see your wounds.”

Orym chuckled again, this one more of a fondly amused huff against Fearne’s hair.

“Sure, Fearnie,” Orym promised around a yawn. “When the sun’s up.”

Chapter Text

Orym was intimately familiar with the taste of his own blood.

It was a recent development, if he was being honest with himself. Even in his youth, Orym was never this reckless. Back then he had a lust for living, people to return to at the end of the day, and a clear-cut, simple life. The most thrilling thing that had ever happened to Orym was sky-sailing.

That version of Orym died the moment Keyleth looked at him after a failed attempt at resurrection. Youthful, boyish Orym with a wonderful husband and an equally wonderful father-in-law was a victim of someone else’s story. A footnote in the margins, a single note in a never-ending song of grief.

This version of Orym thought breathing was a chore. This version made choices not with his head, nor with his heart, but with reckless abandon. He bore more scars than he thought possible – both physical and mental – and went to sleep with his own blood between his teeth most nights.

He cared about the people Orym had come to travel with, and loved Fearne and Dorian with a ferocity he thought he buried in Zephrah. Orym didn’t want to die because he still had people to avenge, but he wouldn’t have minded being allowed to stay with Will, either.

I wish I could stay.

Orym was usually honest, but that simple statement was more honest than Orym was willing to be even with himself.

And here he was, curled into Fearne’s embrace in the middle of the night, wide awake. His chest ached and Orym couldn’t be certain if it was phantom pain from the blow that killed him, or regret.

The back of his tongue tasted like ash and blood every time he swallowed.

Grief tasted oh so familiar it almost made him sick.

If Orym had learned anything from traveling with these people, it was that they were a band of misfits. They were the ones left behind, the unfortunate products of other people’s selfish, horrible choices. Sometimes, when Orym looked at them all from a few paces away, they reminded him of a mosaic. They were colorful, broken pieces that fit together by some universal machination to create something bigger, something beautiful. Orym had no clue where that left him, if he was the one looking at them.

Orym is the best of us.

He flinched and curled a little further into Fearne, biting back the noise that threatened to escape his throat. He might possess the firmest moral compass out of everyone present, but that hardly made him the best. It scarcely counted toward the sanity they all thought kept him level-headed.

Orym fought because the other option was to lie down and accept things as they were – and he couldn’t do that.

Somehow that made him noble and righteous.

Orym was so tired. He violently suppressed a sob and pressed his nose into Fearne’s hair, trying to ground himself.

“Orym?” Fearne’s sleepy mumble cut through the otherwise silence of the bedroom. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, Fearnie,” Orym said, ignoring the way his voice broke over the simple syllables. “Sorry I woke you.”

Fearne didn’t respond for a long moment and Orym wondered if she had even truly woken up to begin with. But then her grip around his middle tightened and she pulled him closer, pressing her nose to his shoulder and rubbed a large hand over his back.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Fearne said, a generous offer coming from her. Orym loved her so dearly but she was incredibly nosy. “But don’t try to carry it alone, okay?”

Something deep and fundamental in Orym’s chest shattered. He curled into Fearne’s embrace and broke down sobbing. He hadn’t cried like this since the day they had to put Will and Derrig in the ground. Even then, he had waited until the graves were abandoned and the wind, spirits, and sky were the only witnesses. At least like this, he couldn’t see Fearne’s face, didn’t have to face the pity that he might find there.

(Then again, it was Fearne. He didn’t know if she knew how to pity someone since he’d never seen her do it.)

But he sobbed, loud and aching and shuddering. As much as his chest and throat ached with it, as much as he knew his head and eyes would throb later, he couldn’t reel it in. Honestly, he didn’t want to. Whatever had come loose in his thorax rattled with the satisfaction of finally being set free, another broken piece to add to the pile that was this version of Orym.

Maybe the reason he didn’t fit into the group’s mosaic was because he was one all on his own. He had enough pieces for one.

Fearne’s warm hand continued to rub at Orym’s back as she hummed low in her chest, a soothing buzz in Orym’s ears. He felt untethered and scattered, but Fearne continued to hold him and Orym delegated the task of piecing himself together to the morning.

For now, he could be broken. He could still be Orym, no matter the order he put his pieces in.

That would have to be enough.

Chapter Text

Orym thought about death a lot. It was hard not to, all things considered.

What people don’t tell you, is that when you think about death a lot, it means you think about life, too. So, Orym thought about his life more than he cared to admit most days. Usually, he thought about the parts that were now missing. About the parts he had to leave behind, too.

The closest he got to thinking about his own death, however, was the occasional, bitter wish that he could have gone with Will that day.

Until now.

Until now, as he collapsed in the swirling dust storm, mouth full of sand and words he’d never get the chance to say. He could feel the smooth, steady surface of the Sending stone slip from his blood slick fingers as Otohan advanced on him. His eyes were heavy as they slid away from her sword and landed on the speck of blue amongst the dust.

A million words Orym wished he could say, only twenty-five with which to say them, and no time to speak, his conduit just out of reach. The blood behind his teeth tasted like rage and regret, felt like a swell of syllables caught somewhere between Dorian’s name and Will’s.

Orym wished he could stay.

As he struggled to keep his vision focused, to glare up at Otohan no matter how much it hurt, Orym was struck with a memory.

It had been a quiet morning, before Dorian left. Orym couldn’t remember where they had been - which city, which tavern, which morning. It had just been a morning, a perfect little capsule of a moment wrapped in the peaceful dawn.

He had woken as he always did, tucked between Dorian and Fearne, warm and secure. The morning was young, the light spilling in through the window the faint gray just before sunrise. Normally, Orym would get up and start his morning routine - would get in a brisk workout before breakfast, before he roused Fearne while Dorian stumbled through getting dressed.

But that morning, somehow Orym had migrated up the bed in the night, now resting closer to the pillows. Dorian had an arm draped over Orym’s waist, fingers tangled loosely in the blanket covering them. Fearne was sprawled, as usual, but her head was turned Orym’s way, nose buried against the back of his head.

Orym decided in that quiet moment, maybe just this once he could sleep in. Of course, his internal body clock wouldn’t allow him to fall back asleep, but that didn’t mean he had to get up.

Instead, Orym remained curled up between the two people he cared about most outside of Zephrah, and was content. He counted the quiet puffs of Fearne’s breath in his hair as pre-dawn gray melted into the gentle golden glow of sunrise. He was sole and primary witness to the way the sunbeams spread like watercolor over Dorian’s blue complexion. A fascination of contrast, highlighted in hope, and bright with promise.

Orym grinned silently to himself as the sunbeam slanted over Dorian’s eye and pulled him into wakefulness. Those first few bleary blinks back to consciousness, the sleepy smile of recognition, and the warm press of intention behind Dorian’s hand on Orym’s back flowed seamlessly together. Dorian woke up honest, his masks set aside and learned insecurities scattered on the floor for him to pick up later. This version of Dorian was the one Orym had met in Zephrah on their brief trip there. This Dorian had stolen the very air from Orym’s lungs the first time he witnessed the raw, sweet honesty of morning.

Brontë Wyvernwind as Dorian Storm was a thespian, an actor long familiar with the worn in treads made across the stage of day to day life. He knew every cue, memorized every stage direction and executed intricacies with precision. There was nothing wrong with that version of Dorian - at least not to Orym. But his smile never reached his eyes, his laughs were as beguiling as Fey Wild flora, and his silver tongue was more conducive as artillery than amicability. He could pivot between personas so precisely it sometimes left Orym dizzy.

Dorian Storm as Dorian Storm, however, was composed of provident passion. He was a little clumsy and tentatively honest. It was painfully clear that he was still finding his feet in this life, still learning to walk new trails and break in new boots - but he was trying. When Dorian laughed, he let joy run its course - sparkling eyes and all. He wasn’t made of fabricated fragments of various personalities, Dorian was an oil painting in progress where not every stroke came from intention.

Dorian Storm as Dorian Storm was one of the most wonderful people Orym had ever met - and he only existed in snatched up snippets between the bed and the bedroom door. He was raw, fresh honey dripping from the comb, a masterpiece in progress, bathed in the blissful rays of morning, and caught there like dew on a spider’s web.

Orym captured every moment of that Dorian he could grab and kept them for himself. He scooped this one up to add to the collection, certain to memorize the golden highlight sloped along Dorian’s cheekbone. The weight of Dorian’s warm hand on Orym’s back was a pleasant anchor as he smiled down at Orym.

“Good morning,” Dorian said, voice low and rumbling with disuse, music to Orym’s ears.

“Morning,” Orym replied, careful not to wake Fearne yet, as he smiled back.

This moment could sustain him for a while yet - this golden, glowing moment.

That moment had sustained him until he was breathing in sand and it was nothing but a memory. But for a second, the blood behind Orym’s teeth tasted like honey.

Orym wished he could stay.

He didn’t know why he remembered that now, as Otohan stood with her blade poised above his chest. Orym wondered if that memory was a glimpse at the bliss that waited beyond.

She furrowed her brow at him, squinting through the sand and dust swirling violently around them.

“We’ve met before,” she murmured, vicious in her composure.

“Yeah,” Orym choked out, clenched teeth a barrier for all the things he wanted to say instead, wrestling them back in an attempt to pick the words that would matter most.

Otohan’s blade sliding neatly between his ribs a heartbeat later made the choice for him.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t often that Fearne was the one awake and Orym the one out cold. Yet, here they were—Orym fast asleep with the fingers of one hand tangled in her leg fur, and Fearne on watch with Chetney. 

Since they had returned from Ruidus, Fearne thought they might catch a break, maybe travel on their own whims for a while with the chance to breathe. But they had been so busy, leaving almost no time to think or talk unless it was regarding their current goal. Earlier that evening, they had finally completed their latest mission after several grueling days of sleuthing and fighting. After all that, the party decided to extend their return journey so they could rest and relax for a few days.

Which landed them here, with Orym deeply asleep for once. Fearne had watched him wear himself to the bone, had borne witness to fresh scars and new fears that would never be addressed. She loved her little Halfling so dearly, but sometimes she wished he would let her protect him the same way he protected all of them. It seemed the least she could do was to sit sentinel over him like this while his guard was down.

The night was quiet—peaceful. Fearne drank in the steady melody of Chetney carving away at a new project, underscored by the soft, slumbering breaths of Fearne’s friends. However, beneath this gentle chorus, Fearne picked up on a sudden, discordant note.

Straightening, careful not to jostle Orym, Fearne’s ears flicked as her eyes scanned the shadowed trees beyond the light of their campfire. Chetney’s carving paused as he glanced up at Fearne in silent question.

Snap .

Fearne’s head whipped around, staring off into the shadows on her left. Chetney tracked the sound as well, eyes sharp and carving forgotten. His knuckles were white where he tightened his grip around his chisel.

She caught sight of movement just outside the glow of the firelight, and opened her mouth to call out, to scare off whatever or whoever dared approach them.

“Fearne? Chet?” 

Whatever Fearne was about to say choked off into a startled gasp, her heart leaping in her chest as the shadowed figure stepped into the light.

“Dorian?” Fearne said, voice thick with joyful disbelief. He grinned at her even as he pressed a finger to his lips, his gaze darting around to their sleeping companions. Dorian looked road weary, but otherwise unharmed. He looked stronger, too—a little sharper at the edges, more confident in the line of his posture.

Fearne had missed him so much.

“Holy crap ,” Chetney breathed, grinning as he leapt to his feet and threw his arms around Dorian’s leg. “How did you find us, you little shit?”

Dorian laughed softly, reaching down to pat the top of Chetney’s head, looking unbearably fond. 

“It’s a long story,” Dorian whispered. “One I’m happy to tell in the morning after I’ve slept and greeted everyone.”

Chetney released Dorian’s leg with a half-hearted grumble about having to wait, but went back to his project without further complaint. Dorian stepped around a slumbering Ashton to sink down next to Fearne and fall into her sideways hug. Fearne wrapped him up tight in her arms, content to never let him go again if she had any say in the matter. She let him pull away, though, only so she could get a good look at his face and hold his hand with ease.

“I missed you,” Fearne said, voice soft and wobbly. “We all did.”

“And I’ve missed you,” Dorian said. “The Crown Keepers send their regards, by the way.”

“How’s Opal?” Fearne asked, tightening her grip on Dorian’s hand. Her worry for their beloved friend was something she couldn’t put off or ignore until morning. “Is she doing alright?”

“She’s as well as we could expect her to be. Still annoying the shit out of Lolth, of course.”

Fearne relaxed minutely, laughing softly. “That’s good.”

She glanced around at the group, making sure they weren’t disturbing anyone with their hushed conversation. When she looked back at Dorian, however, she found him staring down at her opposite hip, his expression wistful and complicated. Fearne followed his eye line to Orym’s tiny fingers, barely visible over the top of her thigh. The rest of him remained hidden in the draping folds of her cape he was using as a blanket.

“How is he?” Dorian whispered, voice almost indiscernible over the fire and the lull of slumbering breaths.

Fearne hesitated. They never got the chance to tell Dorian the full scope of what had occurred since he left with his brother. He didn’t know both of them had died, the details of their mission on Ruidus, or that they had been separated following the events at the Key. In turn, they knew little of what Dorian had been through with his brother and the Crown Keepers. There was so much to say in response to such a simple question.

“Tired,” Fearne settled on, and felt exactly how lackluster an answer it was the moment she said it. Being able to say as much as she wanted after being constricted to twenty-five words for so long was not such a simple transition, it seemed. “A lot has happened, and he shoulders things he shouldn’t—just like always.”

Dorian’s face did something complicated as he kept staring at Orym’s hand.

“He missed you,” Fearne said at length, smiling sadly when Dorian’s gaze shot up to meet her own. “He tried to message you every day, even when we knew the Sending Stone wasn’t working.”

Dorian’s expression twisted into something pained as he huffed out a strained exhale, looking away. It took him a long moment to find his composure, but eventually he turned back to Fearne and spoke in a watery tone, “so did I.”

Fearne reached out and pulled him back into her side, sighing happily at the realization that she finally had both her boys here beside her.

Orym made a quiet noise beneath her cloak and shifted, fingers tightening in her fur. Dorian pulled back enough to peer down at him, expression bright and hesitant at once. Fearne moved her arm, giving Dorian the freedom to move around to her other side and shift the cloak away from Orym.

“Fearnie?” Orym mumbled, still half asleep. “Is it my watch?”

“Not quite,” Fearne said, her voice wobbling with emotion. Orym, ever perceptive, startled awake at her tone, concern lining his features before he was even fully upright. He opened his mouth, likely to ask if she was okay, before he caught sight of Dorian in his periphery and froze. Orym turned to Dorian and stared at him for a suspended moment of absolute silence.

“Hello,” Dorian whispered after a pause long enough to leave Fearne wondering if they would ever say anything. He smiled at Orym, shaky and hesitant, but intensely joyful.

“Dorian?” Orym said, his voice strained as it cracked over the syllables of his name. “Is this real?”

“Yes,” Dorian breathed, laughing wetly. “Quite real.”

“How…I mean–when did–?” Orym cut himself off with an unsteady exhale before launching himself into Dorian’s chest and wrapping him up in a hug so tight it almost looked painful. Fearne grinned, wide and aching, as Dorian gathered Orym closer and pressed a firm kiss to the top of Orym’s head. Both of their shoulders were shaking—from tears or joy Fearne couldn’t be sure. But she stared at them and her heart was full.

“You didn’t answer last time I messaged you,” Fearne heard Orym say where he had his face smushed into Dorian’s shoulder. “I thought you…I thought the worst.”

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said, voice pained. “I had already tried using the Stone that day when you called. And then I tried again the next day, and it was like the Stone never worked at all.”

“We were back on Ruidus by then,” Orym said with a quiet sniffle. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Dorian pressed another kiss to Orym’s head and glanced up at Fearne, his smile tired but real. “Me too.”

Fearne reached over and placed a hand on Orym’s back, her other cupping Dorian’s cheek. She had her boys, safe and whole.

“You should sleep,” Fearne whispered, pulling back to spread out her cloak beside her again, patting it invitingly. Orym made a soft, panicked noise before Dorian could move, making both Dorian and Fearne freeze.

“Orym?” Dorian said, trying to sound calm despite the concern on his face. Fearne watched him smooth a hand down Orym’s back without trying to get Orym to release his hold.

“Don’t leave.”

It was clear to Fearne that Orym had meant to say it like a question instead of the painful plea it ended up being. Her heart broke a little with the realization that he was scared—their tiny, unflappable guardian admitting a fraction of his loneliness.

“I won’t,” Dorian said with fierce conviction. “I will be here come sunrise, Orym—I promise.”

He glanced up at Fearne with a mix of emotions on his face as he clung to Orym. She patted her cloak again, gesturing for him to lie down beside her while she continued her shift with Chetney. Dorian, without releasing his hold on Orym, curled up on top of the soft fabric and pressed his forehead against Fearne’s hip. He tucked Orym’s head beneath his chin and exhaled at length. Fearne buried her fingers in Dorian’s hair, scratching gently at his scalp.

“Love,” Fearne whispered.

“Love,” Dorian responded immediately, his smile curling up at her.

“Love, love,” Orym mumbled from where he still refused to part from Dorian. “Missed you.”

Dorian didn’t respond, but Fearne saw the way he tightened his hold on Orym and curled up just a little more.

Big spoon, middle spoon, little spoon — a complete set once again.