Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Ashton finally makes it back to Zephrah after a couple days away, he finds the little cottage he’s been sharing with Orym and Fearne quiet and still. That’s not really unusual these days, not since the final battle with Ludinus, and dealing with Predathos, and everything that had come immediately after. It’s quiet more often than not, even when all of its inhabitants are home. In some ways it’s a relief, especially after the chaos of the last few weeks.

Once everything had finally started to calm down, Orym had decided it would be best for him to return home for a while. Fearne and Ashton had followed in his wake, both a little aimless with everyone starting to go their separate ways. The three of them have been quietly cohabitating for less than a week– living in a little cottage on the edge of town that was provided to them by the Voice of the Tempest. A thank-you gift for everything they’d done to help her and save Exandria. 

Ashton tries not to think too hard about how there should be four of them living here instead of three.

Dorian hadn’t made it out of that final fight. In the chaos of the battle with Ludinus, he’d thrown himself between Orym and a powerful, necrotic curse. As soon as the spell had struck, Dorian was gone– reduced to dust and ash before their very eyes– leaving nothing behind but his sword, his mandolin, and his Sending Stone. Orym’s scream of anguish and fury was still burned into Ashton’s memory.

At least he’d gotten the satisfaction of burying Seedling’s blade deep into Ludinus’ throat. Cold comfort now, though, with the conflict over and the rest of their lives stretching out before them. 

Ashton slips quietly through the front door, dropping his pack and leaning his hammer against the wall. He prefers not to wander too far from Orym and Fearne these days, with how deep they still are in their grief. But he’d needed some quick cash, and had been getting the irrepressible urge to hit something, so he’d taken a job escorting a merchant caravan to the next town over. He’d only been gone for a couple nights, but it’s still a relief to be back home with his people. 

It’s dim inside the cottage, with the overcast sky outside and the curtains drawn inside. The only sources of light are the two little candles on the mantle that they keep lit for Dorian and FCG. Their portraits, painstakingly rendered by Braius before they’d parted ways, hang on the wall. Ashton gives them a glance, and touches the mantle in greeting as he passes. 

They find Fearne in the kitchen. She’s leaning against the counter with her back to the door, sniffling quietly and periodically dashing the tears from her face with her forearm. A bowl of what looks like soup is sitting abandoned to one side, clearly getting cold. Ashton announces his presence with a gentle knock on the wall and a soft, “Hey.” 

Fearne spins around, still scrubbing the wetness from her face, “You’re back.”

“Yeah.”

She rushes towards them and practically collapses into their arms. Ashton has to brace himself to keep from getting knocked over. 

“Whoa, easy,” he murmurs, letting her bury her face in the crook of his neck, “You okay? Did something happen?” 

“Nothing happened,” Fearne whispers, her voice tight and trembling, “I just… it’s Orym.”  

Ashton’s heart sinks and he sighs. Those first couple of days after losing Dorian, Orym had been almost manic– throwing himself into every available task like he was afraid he'd crumble if he paused for even a moment. Once the most immediate concerns had been dealt with, and the three of them had settled into their new home, Orym had left Ashton and Fearne behind to accompany Keyleth to the Silken Squall. They’d needed to inform Dorian’s parents of his passing and to return the Wyvernwind family's ancestral blade. 

Orym had been practically vibrating with anxiety on his departure, clutching Gambolcleft tightly to his heart. He'd returned to Zephrah a few days later– just before Ashton was due to leave for their job– exhausted, dead-eyed, and empty-handed. He'd stayed up long enough to greet Fearne with a half-hearted hug and Ashton with a weak pat on their hip, before retreating to his room and collapsing into his bed. Ashton had popped their head in to check on him before leaving, but he’d been curled up in a tight ball with his back towards the door. That had been the last time they’d seen Orym before heading out. 

“He hasn't been eating,” Fearne sniffles helplessly as Ashton strokes her soft, seafoam hair, “I've been trying to bring him food, but he won't touch it. He can’t sleep. And I've been trying to ask what I can do to help, but he doesn’t talk anymore either.”

“He hasn't said anything since he's been home?” Ashton asks incredulously. Orym rarely talks about his problems, but it’s not like him to shut Fearne out so completely.

“Not a word,” Fearne shakes her head despairingly, pulling back just enough to wipe away another round of tears, “It’s been two days. I've tried everything, Ashton. I even called his moms. It's like he can’t even see that we're here. I want to help him, but I don't know what else to do.” 

Ashton sighs again and glances over at the bowl of soup sitting untouched on the counter. When he looks back at Fearne, she’s watching him with big, sad eyes that are reddened from crying. Her face is pale and there are dark shadows under her eyes that speak to how tired she must be. 

“Have you been sleeping at all?” Ashton asks, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her fuzzy, drooping ear, “You look fucking exhausted.”

Fearne drops her gaze and shakes her head, “A little. Not very well.” 

“You need to take a break. Go… have a lie down, or run a bath, or whatever the fuck you do to relax. I’ll make sure Orym eats something.” 

Relief creeps into Fearne’s expression, “Okay. Thank you, Ashton.” She touches them gratefully on the cheek and turns back towards the bowl of cold soup, “Let me just warm this up again first.” 

She lifts the bowl and cups it in both hands, murmuring a soft incantation and blowing across the surface of the broth. A wisp of steam immediately starts to rise from the bowl, bringing with it a pleasant, savoury scent.

“You’re the fucking best, you know that?” Ashton kisses her on the forehead and gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, “Get some rest. You know where to find me if you need anything.” 

Fearne nods and places the bowl in Ashton’s hands before taking her leave, her hooves clicking quietly on the wood floor. Ashton watches her go, then makes his way upstairs to Orym’s room. He taps lightly on the door and calls Orym’s name, but gets no response. They test the handle– it’s unlocked– and slowly push the door open. 

“Hey, buddy. I’m back.” 

Orym is in almost the same position he’d been in when Ashton left two days ago– curled up alone in a bed that’s too big for him, with his back facing towards the door. Logically Ashton knows there’s no possible way that Orym’s been completely motionless for two days straight, but the sight is unsettling nonetheless. 

They set the bowl of soup on Orym’s bedside table, and take a seat beside him on the edge of his bed. Orym doesn’t move a muscle, and gives no sign of acknowledging or even noticing Ashton’s presence. His breathing seems relatively relaxed and regular, at least ( small fucking mercies ). At first they think he might just be asleep, but when they lean carefully over his body to look at his face, his eyes are half-open– dull, deadened, and staring blankly into the distance. 

“Orym?” They reach for his shoulder and give him a gentle shake, “Can you hear me? C’mon, bud, talk to me.”

Nothing.

Shit. Ashton thought he’d seen Orym shut down before, but never like this. No wonder Fearne was so upset. They take a deep breath and blow it out slowly, scratching at the edges of their glass implant as they consider their options.

“Okay… I guess… Well, let’s just see what we’re working with here.” Ashton mutters to himself. They chew their bottom lip for a moment before reaching out and– slowly, hesitantly– turning Orym onto his back and checking his vital signs. He’s pliant under Ashton’s hands, staying put wherever they move him. His pulse feels pretty normal, and he’s not feverish. He’s definitely lost weight (which probably isn’t great– Orym cuts a slender figure on a good day), but he’s not to the point of emaciation or anything either. 

“I’m gonna try to sit you up now, alright? C’mon.” Still no response. Ashton frowns and slips a hand under Orym’s back to ease him into a sitting position, “There you go.” He sways slightly at first, but manages to stay upright on his own when Ashton pulls away. He's still silent, staring into the distance with vacant, half-lidded eyes. It's starting to get more than a little unnerving, if Ashton’s being honest. He leans over to the side table to retrieve the bowl of soup and holds it out to Orym with an encouraging half-smile. He hopes it doesn’t look as forced as it feels on his face.

“Brought you some soup. Fearne made it. Smells good, and I’m pretty sure there’s nothing hallucinogenic in it.” Ashton’s smile fades as their attempt to lighten the mood falls flat. They lean in a little closer, trying to catch Orym’s eye, “Listen, man, you need to fucking eat something. Please?” They pause for a long moment to see if their words are registering before adding, “...You’re scaring Fearne.”

A flicker of life finally (finally) moves behind Orym’s eyes. He doesn’t meet Ashton’s gaze, but his head turns just enough to look at the bowl of soup they’re holding out to him. His movements are stiff and stilted when he accepts the bowl from Ashton. He doesn’t start eating right away– he only stares tiredly down at his food for a long moment before reluctantly picking up the spoon. 

Orym eats like he’d rather be pulling his own teeth. He spoons the soup into his mouth mechanically, chews slowly, swallows with difficulty. When he’s finished, he lowers his hands and lets the empty bowl come to rest in his lap. He stares down into the last few dregs of broth like they might hold some sort of answer– the answer to what, exactly, Ashton doesn’t know for sure… but he can guess. 

Orym still hasn’t said a single word, but at least he’s finally eaten something. Ashton will take that as a fucking win. Baby steps, and all that shit.

“Good job, bud,” They murmur, gently taking the empty bowl and setting it aside on the nightstand. They reach out to cup the back of Orym’s neck and pull him forward just enough to press their head against his. His hair is a little bit greasy, like he hasn’t washed it in a few days, but Ashton doesn’t mind, “Thank you. It’ll make Fearne feel a lot better, just knowing that you’ve eaten something.” 

Orym’s breath hitches in his chest and he makes a soft, strained sound. Ashton rubs their thumb soothingly over the nape of his neck. They can feel him starting to tremble.

“Look, it–” Ashton cuts himself off and sighs dejectedly, “Y’know… it’s okay if you don’t feel up to taking care of yourself right now. I wouldn’t fucking blame you, if you wanted everything to just stop. But… don’t shut us out, okay? Let us help you. Please.” They swallow hard against the lump of emotion that’s rising in their throat, “We don’t wanna lose you too.”

Orym finally raises his head and looks Ashton in the face for the first time since he left for the Silken Squall. His eyes are bloodshot and sunken, and he looks completely stricken. He opens his mouth to say something, but his voice catches in his throat and he chokes. He tries a couple more times, but can’t seem to get any words out. Eventually he simply collapses into himself– clutching at his throat as his face crumples, making a sound like a wounded animal. 

Suddenly afraid that he’s trying to hurt himself, Ashton gently but firmly grasps for Orym’s wrists to pull his hands away from his neck, “Hey, no, no, no, don’t– It’s okay. Shhh, it’s okay. Are you sick? Is something wrong with your throat?” 

Orym shakes his head frenetically. His breath is starting to turn fast, and ragged, and shallow– but at least he stops trying to claw at his own throat. He lets go of his neck and shirt collar, and clings desperately to Ashton’s hands instead. They wrap their hands around Orym’s much smaller ones and squeeze hard, trying to help him anchor himself. 

“You’re not sick or hurt, you just… can’t talk? Is that it?” Ashton asks. Orym nods in response, gasping and hiccuping as he fights to regain control of his breathing. 

The knot of anxiety in Ashton’s chest loosens slightly– they can work with whatever the fuck this is, as long as Orym isn’t ill or injured. There were all kinds of traumatized kids back at Greymoore who couldn’t or wouldn’t talk, and Ashton had managed just fine growing up with them. He can fucking work with this.  

“Hey, Orym? Look at me, buddy. C’mon,” Ashton releases one of Orym’s hands, carefully takes hold of his chin, and tips his face up towards them, “It’s okay if you can’t talk right now. I promise it’s okay. It doesn’t change a single fucking thing between you and me and Fearne– or the rest of our friends for that matter. We’re not gonna leave you, just… don’t leave us either, alright?” 

Whatever’s left of the wall Orym normally builds around his worst emotions crumbles like a kicked sandcastle. He bursts into heaving, wracking sobs that practically bend him in half. Ashton gently pulls his tiny, shaking body down into their lap, murmuring soft reassurances and trying to coax him into taking slower breaths. Orym doesn’t seem to register their words at all, so they shift focus, curling their body around him and holding him as tightly as they can. The position is awkward and honestly kinda painful– but Orym clearly fucking needs this, so Ashton is happy to provide it for him.

He cries like that for what feels like fucking hours, his body quaking with the force of his harsh, gasping breaths. They’re punctuated by wordless, anguished cries that get muffled into Ashton’s thigh. They can’t do much more than hold him through it, squeezing him almost (but not quite) tight enough to hurt– trying to provide a grounding sensation that cuts through the overwhelming flood of grief, and guilt, and anger. Ashton can’t help but wonder just how long he’s been fighting to hold all this back. Knowing Orym, probably since Dorian was scattered to the winds forever. 

(Maybe even before that. Hell, almost certainly before that, at least for some of it. Ashton’s been watching him bear the weight of the whole fucking world on his shoulders for weeks.)

Orym runs out of tears long before he manages to stop crying, huddled in Ashton’s lap and shaking with dry sobs. He calms down eventually, but it’s slow, gradual– it feels less like a process that has reached its natural conclusion, and more like he simply runs out of steam. Like a crawler that burns through all its fuel and runs out of momentum halfway through the desert. It takes so long, in fact, that by the time Orym’s uncontrolled weeping finally gives way to soft, ragged breathing, Ashton’s whole body has started to lock up. 

Shit. He really didn’t want to have to move just yet, but the tell-tale ache is setting in fast. If he doesn’t change position now, the rest of the day will be a complete fucking write-off. 

They slowly start to unfold their body from its position, doing their best not to unsettle Orym. It doesn’t work– the second Ashton moves to sit back up, Orym startles violently, gasping and clutching desperately at their hands and clothes. 

“Easy, buddy. It’s okay,” Ashton soothes him, rubbing his back in long, slow sweeps, “M’not going anywhere, I promise. I’ve got you. Just can't sit like this anymore. Gimme a sec.” 

Orym relaxes a fraction of a hair. Ashton keeps one hand on his back, firm and reassuring, while they sit up and stretch out their cramped muscles. Their back and joints crackle and pop like a goddamn campfire and they let out a relieved groan. 

“Fuuuuuuck. Okay. That’s better. C’mere.” They scoop Orym up and shift him into a more comfortable position against their chest with his head tucked under their chin, “We’re gonna lie down for a bit. C’mon.”

Ashton toes off his boots and swings his legs up onto Orym’s bed. He shuffles to find a comfortable position and ends up lying on his side, facing out into the room. He wraps himself around Orym as much as he can, trying to surround and shelter and protect him. 

It’s an impulse he and Orym have always shared– to put their own bodies between their friends and anything that would cause them pain. Unfortunately, this isn’t something Ashton can protect him from. 

Orym fists his hands into the fabric of Ashton’s shirt and presses his face against their heart. A long, trembling sigh whistles out of him as the worst of the tension finally drains from his body. He doesn't relax completely, but Ashton’s not convinced he can . Orym’s always been the hypervigilant type, for as long as they've known each other. This is probably about as good as it ever gets for him. 

“You should try to get some rest, if you can.” Ashton murmurs, continuing to smooth his hand back and forth over Orym’s back, “Fearne said you haven’t been sleeping. You must be fucking exhausted.” 

Orym sniffles and gives a half-hearted, one-shouldered shrug. He doesn’t even need to say anything, really– the weariness is evident in every line of his body. He makes a soft, pained sound and rubs briefly at his eyes and temple. Ashton frowns in recognition.

“You got a headache?” Orym hesitates, then nods. That’s not surprising, really, given all the crying he’d just done. “I can get you some drugs, if you want. Or some water, or… whatever.” 

Orym’s grip on Ashton’s shirt tightens ever so slightly, and he shakes his head. Ashton gets the message loud and clear: Don’t leave. Don’t go.  

“Okay. I’ve got you.” Ashton tucks him in a little closer and presses their lips to the top of his head, “Try to sleep it off, alright? I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

Orym doesn’t so much relax into Ashton’s embrace as sag into it. Ashton keeps rubbing his back, the stony skin of their palm rasping quietly against the fabric of his shirt. It takes a while, but based on his faint, snuffling breaths, they’re pretty sure he’s finally passed out.

From his position in Orym’s bed, Ashton can see out into the rest of the bedroom– exceptionally messy by Orym’s usual standards. The only part of the room that looks like it’s been maintained is a low table opposite the bed, where Dorian’s mandolin is laid out next to Orym’s sword and shield. FCG’s pauldron, unclipped from Orym’s armor and carefully polished, sits next to a pair of Sending Stones and a carved wooden box that Ashton recognizes as Chetney’s work. The top of the box has been left open, displaying a matching pair of Ashari wedding bands on a necklace chain, one noticeably smaller than the other. The wanted poster of Orym, Dorian, Fearne, Dariax and Opal that Deni$e gave him back in Issylra is propped up against the wall. The entire setup has been lovingly adorned with vines and flowers. It makes Ashton’s heart ache to look at it.

“You’re such an asshole,” Ashton mutters bitterly at Dorian’s mandolin, “Look at him. You broke his fucking heart, and I can’t even kick your ass about it.” 

No response is forthcoming, of course. He sighs and lets his eyes slip closed, suddenly exhausted. The house is quiet. Orym is warm and solid and yet so fucking small in his arms. It doesn’t take much longer for Ashton to give in and follow him into slumber.

~*~

Orym is already awake when Ashton comes back to consciousness the next morning. He hasn’t moved an inch, still huddled in close to their chest with his head tucked under their chin. Last night’s soup bowl is gone, and there’s a blanket wrapped around them both that hadn’t been there last night– the edges tucked in tightly and with care to keep out any drafts. Fearne or someone must have popped in to check on the two of them while they were still asleep. 

Ashton can feel Orym tracing repetitive patterns into the hollow of their good shoulder with the tip of his finger. His touch is firm, so it doesn’t hurt (they’re always a little touched that Orym remembers), but something about the pattern he’s drawing niggles at the back of their mind. It takes a few more repetitions before Ashton realizes that they’re letters. Orym is writing something over and over on their shoulder with his finger. 

‘Sorry.’  

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, bud.” Ashton mumbles sleepily. Orym startles slightly, like he wasn’t expecting them to be awake just yet. He pauses for a long moment before tracing another series of letters into Ashton’s skin.

‘Scaring you. Hurting you.’

Ashton lets out a sad sigh, “You’re not hurting me. Don’t fucking worry about that.” He squeezes Orym tightly against his body as though to prove it, “And yeah, we’re worried about you. Of course we’re fucking worried about you, after… everything.” 

He can’t even bring himself to talk about what happened in detail. It’s only been a couple weeks since the battle with Ludinus and Predathos. The losses– the trauma– are still too fresh to bear poking at just yet. Ashton can still see the events of those last few weeks every time he closes his eyes, like they’ve been branded on the backs of his eyelids. His friends nearly crushed by a conjured black hole. Imogen’s unconscious body disappearing into Predathos’ throat. Orym being pulverized by a giant stone claw.

Dorian crumbling to ash. FCG swallowed by an explosion of light and magic. 

Fuck.

Ashton refocuses on the sensation of holding Orym close and tries to banish the memories. He can’t afford to have a fucking breakdown right now, not when Orym needs him to keep it together. He clears the lump from his throat and asks, “How long have you been having trouble talking?” 

Orym hesitates before writing his response on Ashton’s shoulder: ‘Silken Squall. C and D’s funeral.’  

He sniffles miserably and clings to Ashton a little harder. Ashton adjusts their hold on him so they can card their fingers through his unkempt hair. 

“Shit, man. You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone. They should’ve let the rest of us come with you.” 

Orym’s finger dances across his shoulder– ‘No outsiders allowed in the Squall.’ 

“Except you and your boss.”

‘Diplomatic access. Ashari political ties.’ 

“I know. Doesn’t mean I have to fucking like it.” Ashton mutters bitterly. They take a beat to process before adding, “How was the funeral?” 

Orym doesn’t respond for a long time. His hand shakes when he finally starts to press more words into Ashton’s skin. They can practically feel the grief radiating off of him in waves.

‘Hard. No bodies to bury.’ 

Ashton’s heart sinks, “So they weren’t able to find Cyrus?” 

Orym sniffles again and shakes his head, ‘Nothing left to find.’

Ashton curses under his breath and sighs heavily. They keep stroking Orym’s hair in a way they hope is comforting, waiting patiently for him to continue even as he falters.

‘Their parents–’ his hand stutters to a brief halt, ‘I couldn’t–’ 

His hand clenches against their shoulder as he dissolves into a mess of wet, hiccupy sobs. Ashton switches from petting Orym’s hair to rubbing his back, murmuring soft, reassuring nonsense in his ear. He doesn’t cry nearly as hard or as long as he did yesterday. Ashton’s not sure whether or not that’s an improvement. 

‘Sorry.’ Orym furiously dashes the tears from his eyes with the back of his fist.

“Don’t apologize. I already told you, you have nothing to be sorry for. Not a single fucking thing.” 

‘Not true. But thank you.’ Orym hesitates for a long moment before he resumes tracing letters on Ashton’s shoulder, ‘Tired of crying.’  

“Yeah, I bet.” Ashton goes quiet for a while, thinking about what to do next. They both slept away the afternoon yesterday, and straight through the night. Based on the light filtering in through the gap in Orym’s curtains, it must be close to midday. Despite all the sleep he'd managed to get, Ashton still feels pretty goddamn tired. More than that, though, he’s fucking starving. Neither of them has eaten since yesterday, so maybe that should be his next priority. 

When was the last time Orym had left this room, anyway? How long has he been curled up in here, so overwhelmed by his grief that he couldn’t speak even to his closest loved ones?

“Can I take you downstairs for a bit?” Ashton asks in a gentle voice, “Get us some food, and a change of scenery?” 

Orym seems to mull over the offer for a while before giving a shaky nod in response. He still looks tired and miserable when Ashton sits them both up, but that’s not too surprising. One night of sleep can’t offset the particular kind of exhaustion that’s plaguing him. They lift Orym up and settle him on their hip with ease, letting him wind his arms around their neck and bury his face in their shoulder. 

“I’ve got you, buddy.” They hold him securely in place with one hand, open Orym’s bedroom door with the other, and carry him down the stairs. The kitchen is empty, with no sign of Fearne. There’s a plate of fresh muffins sitting out on the counter that wasn’t there when Ashton had arrived home yesterday. He sets Orym down to perch on the counter, and passes him a muffin, “Looks like your mom stopped by. Must’ve been while we were sleeping.” 

Orym’s eyes well up a little as he stares down at the pastry in his hand. He tears small pieces off to nibble at, closing his eyes and sighing softly. Ashton snags a muffin of his own and takes a much less modest bite. It’s perfectly sweet and fluffy on his tongue. 

“Mmm… I swear these things taste better every time.” He groans appreciatively and shoves the remainder of the muffin in his mouth. Orym’s lips curve up in the very faintest of smiles as they grab for a second one. 

“You want another one?” Ashton asks once Orym has finished his muffin. He shakes his head ‘no’, but he takes a second to think about it first. That feels like progress.

Ashton brushes the crumbs from his face and shirt, and starts searching around for a clean rag. He finds one and wets it in a basin of fresh water that Fearne or Alma must have filled earlier. They wring out the excess water and offer it to Orym, who, after a moment of delay, accepts it. He presses the cool, damp cloth to his eyes for a long moment with a faint groan of relief, then proceeds to wipe the tear tracks from his cheeks. 

Ashton pours a glass of water while Orym washes his face, then swaps it for the damp rag once Orym is ready for it. He obediently drinks the whole glass, sets it aside, and gives Ashton an aching, plaintive look. When they move closer to him, he leans forward enough to drop his head down on their shoulder. A trembling, drawn-out breath escapes him as he settles into the contact.

“You okay?” Ashton asks, and immediately grimaces, “I mean– obviously fucking not, but like– fuck, man, you know what I mean.” 

Orym huffs dejectedly and lifts a hand to answer their question. The tip of his finger skates over Ashton’s arm, ‘Trying to stay present. Hard not to get lost.’  

“Lost?” 

‘Memories. Flashbacks. Feel outside my body. Can’t get back in.’ 

Well that sounds fucking awful. Ashton lifts a hand to rub the back of Orym’s neck, trying to loosen the knots of tension they find, “Is there anything we can do to help with that?”

‘Touch helps.’ Orym’s hand stutters as he hastily adds, ‘Don’t have to. Don’t wanna hurt you.’  

“Fucking– Okay.” Ashton takes Orym’s face in both hands and tips his head up so they can look him directly in the eyes, “You’re not fucking hurting me. Not more than I can handle, anyway. Besides, if it helps you, it’s worth it.” 

Orym’s face starts to crumple and he shakes his head, ‘Not worth it to me if it hurts you.’  

Ashton tightens his grip ever so slightly, hoping to convey how seriously they feel about this, “Buddy, I need you to listen to me, okay? If this will help you, I want to fucking do it. And I know I can trust you not to hurt me– you’ve always been really good about dealing with all my shit– but I need you to trust me to know my own limits. I promise I’ll tell you if I need some fucking space or whatever. Besides, I…” they swallow against the lump of grief that suddenly forms in their throat, “I think I need to feel like I’m fucking doing something right now. Something helpful. Can you do that for me? Let me help you however I fucking can?” 

Orym looks positively heartsick, but he nods anyway. He starts to lean forward again and Ashton draws him the rest of the way in, wrapping him up in a crushing hug. He sniffles as his still-turbulent emotions start to resurface again. Then he takes a deep breath, releases it slowly, and lets his little arms wind around Ashton’s waist as far as they can reach. The initial prickling in their scars subsides when Orym squeezes hard, and Ashton can’t help but crack a sad smile. They press their face into Orym’s hair and return the squeeze.

“Thanks, bud.” 

Orym’s hand lifts just enough to trace his words on Ashton’s side, ‘Always our rock.’  

“You know it.” 

The two of them remain in the hug for a while longer. Orym eventually pulls back, scrubbing at his face and giving a reassuring nod. He stays perched on the counter, watching tiredly as Ashton putters aimlessly around the kitchen. They’re digging through the pantry and the ice box, trying to figure out what needs to be put on their shopping list when Fearne steps in the front door with a basket full of mushrooms on her arm. 

“Orym?” Fearne gasps, “Oh, Orym!” She fumbles to put down her basket, lifting her skirts up to keep from tripping as she trots hastily towards him. Orym opens his mouth as if to greet her, but his voice catches and dies in his throat. Instead he simply reaches out to her and lets her scoop him up. Fearne holds him close and rocks him to and fro, carding her fingers through his hair.

“It’s so good to see you up and about! I’ve been so worried!” She peppers Orym’s face with kisses before setting him back down on the counter. She lays a hand on his cheek and gives him a thorough once-over, presumably checking for any signs of injury or illness, “Has Ashton been taking good care of you? I came to check on you a couple of times, but you were both sleeping.” 

Orym nods wordlessly and leans into Fearne’s hand. Her face twists in concern and she looks to Ashton for reassurance. They sigh and lean back against the counter.

“Sorry, Fearne. He, uh– he can’t talk.” 

“W-what do you mean? Is he sick?” She catches herself and turns to address Orym, “Are you sick?” 

Orym shakes his head, his eyes downcast. Fearne glances anxiously back and forth between him and Ashton. 

“I’m… not entirely sure how to explain it…” Ashton hedges, scratching awkwardly at the back of their neck, “You know how I grew up in a state home in Bassuras?”

“Uh-huh.” Fearne nods. She wraps her arms all the way around Orym again, resting her chin on the top of his head as she listens intently.

“There were kids I grew up with, who… saw a lot of shit, I guess. Or went through the kind of horrific things that really fuck you up. Lost their whole families. Stuff like that. And they never spoke. There wasn’t, like, anything physically wrong with them or whatever. They just… couldn’t talk.”  He turns to Orym, “I don’t wanna– for lack of a better fucking phrase– put words in your mouth, but… does that sound about right to you?”

Orym shrugs, looking sad and uncertain. Fearne smooths a stray curl off of his forehead and asks quietly, “Has this ever happened to you before?” 

Orym startles, then shrinks into himself, nodding slowly. He lifts his left hand to touch the moons tattooed on his right shoulder and Fearne softens immediately. 

“I think I understand. You don’t have to talk if it’s too hard, Orym. Your voice will come back when you’re ready.” She squeezes him around the waist and kisses him on the top of his head, “I only wish I could take all the pain away for you.” 

Orym leans into Fearne’s touch, but can’t seem to meet her gaze. He carefully takes one of her hands and starts tracing letters into her palm with the tip of his finger. Fearne looks confused, but Ashton’s too far away to see what Orym is trying to tell her.

“What–? I- I don’t…” Fearne stammers. 

Ashton steps a little closer to explain, “He’s writing words on your hand, Fearne.”

“Oh. Oh! I see. Can you repeat that a little slower?” She frowns in concentration as Orym obliges, looking sadder and sadder the more he writes, “If it doesn’t come back, then that’s okay too. You know we love you no matter what, right?” 

Orym swallows hard and squeezes his eyes shut, but gives another weak nod. She pulls him into another hug, and he lets himself collapse against her. They both look fucking exhausted. Ashton feels it in his bones. He starts looking for the kettle so he doesn’t have to dwell on it. 

“You two should go get comfortable. I can make you some tea or something if you want.” 

“That sounds lovely, Ashton, thank you.” Fearne replies softly. She gives them an appreciative touch on the arm before picking Orym up and carrying him into the living room. As she gets him settled on the couch, Ashton wonders vaguely if Orym minds being manhandled this much. They decide to let it go for now. If Orym really doesn’t want to be carried around, he has ways of making that clear– even without talking. 

Or Ashton could just ask him, like a proper fucking adult. 

Whatever. They fill the kettle and futz around in the kitchen while the water heats. He pulls out the box where the tea is kept and makes a selection - something flowery and aromatic for Fearne, and something more herbal and subdued for Orym. Ashton’s not much of a tea-drinker, but there’s something ritualistic and comforting about making it for others. He used to make tea for Milo all the time, on nights when neither of them could sleep. Between Milo’s insomnia and Ashton’s chronic pain, that ended up being more nights than most. 

Ashton stirs some milk and honey into Fearne’s tea (Orym takes his black or plain or whatever the fuck it’s called with tea) and brings it out to them in the living room. They’re cuddled together on the couch with Orym tucked securely under Fearne’s arm. Ashton hands them their respective mugs, takes a seat directly across from them on the coffee table, and gives them both a long, appraising look. Orym fidgets uncomfortably and stares down into his tea. Fearne raises an eyebrow.

“Do you need something?” 

“Will you two be okay if I step out for a bit? I won’t be gone long– a couple hours tops.” Ashton pulls out the shopping list they’d been working on earlier, “Just gonna hit the bath house and pick up a few things for dinner.”

“I was gonna make Mushroom Surprise.” Fearne replies quietly. She sounds less like she’s sharing a piece of information, and more like she’s making a confession. Ashton eyes the basket of mushrooms she’d abandoned by the door with some skepticism– she doesn’t have the best track record when it comes to identifying edible fungi, and her signature Mushroom Surprise tends to live up to its name. 

Ashton’s not really in the mood for surprises.

“I’ll take care of dinner tonight,” He reassures her, “I just want you two to get some fucking rest. Sound good?” 

“Yeah. Okay,” Fearne trails her fingers through Orym’s hair, “We’ll be alright here. I’ve got him, and he’s got me.” 

Ashton glances at Orym. He nods at them and leans a little harder into Fearne’s side. He certainly seems comfortable and safe for the moment, which is probably about as good as they can hope for right now. 

“Alright then,” they heave themself to their feet and stretch out their limbs and back, “I’ll be back in a bit. Don’t do anything crazy without me.” 

“We won’t.” 

“Great.” Ashton nabs his pack from its hook by the door and slings it over his shoulder. Before he steps outside he pauses to call back into the house, “And drink your fucking tea!”

~*~

Ashton hurries through his errands, keen to get back to his friends as soon as possible. He doesn’t linger at the bathhouse as long as he normally would, especially after two nights on the road– they usually prefer to soak for a while, letting the hot water soothe the perpetual ache in their scars. He’d wanted to come and get washed up yesterday after getting home, but… well, Fearne and Orym had needed him more. 

When he squeezes back through the door of their cottage a couple hours later– freshly clean and polished, and laden with groceries– the living room has been rearranged. The chairs from their kitchen table have been positioned strategically around the room and draped with about half the contents of the linen closet to form a colourful blanket fort. When Ashton peeks inside, they find Fearne and Orym curled up together in a nest of pillows and blankets, dimly lit by a swarm of magically conjured fireflies. Orym appears to be asleep– huddled in Fearne’s lap while she smooths her hand repeatedly from the top of his head to the small of his back, like she’s petting a cat. He’s wearing fresh, comfortable clothes, and his hair is damp. Ashton can smell the distinctive floral scent of Fearne’s homemade shampoo. Fearne gives them a little wave with her free hand. 

“Hi,” she murmurs, keeping her voice low to avoid disturbing Orym. She looks down at him sadly, “I washed his hair for him. He’s still so exhausted.” 

“Yeah, I kinda figured he would be.” Ashton replies quietly, “I’m just gonna put this stuff away first, and then I’ll come join you. Need anything from the kitchen?”  

“Maybe just some water for Orym? For when he wakes up.”

Ashton nods, “You got it.” 

They retreat from the blanket fort and collect up the groceries to put away. They fill a canteen with fresh water (there’s nowhere in Fearne’s little nest to put a glass where it won’t get knocked over), and return to their friends. Their knees and ankles crack loudly when they get down to crawl inside the blanket fort, and Fearne wrinkles her nose.

“That’s kinda gross.”

“Sure fucking is,” Ashton replies, sighing tiredly. He settles down on his good side with his head propped up on one hand, and gestures around at the assortment of blankets enclosing the space, “What the fuck is up with this?” 

“Well… when I was growing up– whenever I was sad, or missing my parents– Nana and I would gather up all the blankets and sheets and pillows we had and make the biggest blanket fort we could. The more blankets she made, the bigger it got.” Fearne smiles sadly up at the riot of coloured fabrics draped around them, “We don’t have as many here, but it always made me feel so cozy and safe. So I thought…” Her eyes well up with tears as she strokes Orym’s hair, “Since we’ve been so sad, and missing Dorian and FCG… m-maybe it would help.”

Ashton softens and asks, “Is it?” 

Fearne sniffles and shrugs, “I still really miss them. And I miss Orym. It’s not his fault, I know he’s hurting, but– he’s been so distant, and different, and it scares me a little. I’ve never missed someone who isn’t gone before.” She wipes away her tears and adds, “I really wish Dorian were here. He always knew exactly what to say to help us feel better.”

If Dorian were here, Orym would be perfectly fucking fine right now. Ashton thinks bitterly, but he keeps that to himself. They swallow back the growing resentment and say instead, “Sorry you’re stuck with just me. I’m no fucking good at that shit.” 

Fearne gives them a disapproving look, “That’s not true. Dorian was good at talking, but you’ve always been very good at doing. You got Orym to eat and drink and get out of bed for the first time since he’s been home. Even I couldn’t do that.” 

“Maybe I could’ve done it sooner if I hadn’t fucking left you for two days.” Ashton mutters.

“It’s okay. I think maybe you needed it. You were starting to get kinda grumpy.” Fearne tips her head to one side and examines them closely for a long, silent moment, “Are you angry with them?”

“With who?” Ashton knows he’s playing dumb. Fearne knows it too, judging by how she narrows her eyes at him. Why are all his friends so fucking perceptive?

“You know who I mean.” She glances pointedly out the entrance of the blanket fort. When Ashton follows her gaze, he can see the mantle framed in the opening, with the portraits of Dorian and FCG perfectly visible. 

Ashton sighs heavily and rolls over to bury his face in the blankets lining the floor of the fort. They won’t be able to lie to Fearne– she’s nearly as observant as Orym is, and she knows all their tricks. Plus they're a terrible fucking liar. 

Maybe if he just smothers himself, he won’t have to answer her question. 

Fearne lets him stew for a long time without interrupting, and Ashton eventually gives up on not answering. They don’t lift their head to look at her when they finally reply. 

“...I’m trying not to be.”

“It’s okay to be mad, you know.”

“I know, but there’s no fucking point,” Ashton mumbles into the floor, “I don’t like being mad at people I can’t punch.” 

Fearne hums in wordless understanding. Ashton rolls onto his back and stares up at the cloth ceiling. The magical fireflies are dancing across it, casting a warm, flickering light reminiscent of a campfire. Fearne’s ample body heat is keeping everything cozy, and the sound of Orym’s soft, rhythmic breathing helps ease some of the raw, aching grief they’ve been carrying these last few weeks. Something gradually begins to relax in Ashton’s chest as he and Fearne watch the fireflies in companionable silence. 

“Y’know what, Fearne? You were right. This is nice.” 

“I just wish I could do more,” She smiles sadly at them. All her smiles are a little sad these days, “You know I love you both, right? So much.”

“Yeah, I know. So does he.” Ashton murmurs, nodding down at Orym, “We love you too. More than fucking anything.” 

Fearne nods and rubs the wetness from her eyes. She can’t really move without disturbing Orym, so she blows a kiss to Ashton from across the blanket fort. They lift one hand and pretend to catch it, offering a sad smile of their own. 

Ashton lingers in the blanket fort for a couple more hours– snoozing on-and-off, and soaking up the warmth and closeness of their little family. They get up to make dinner once the restlessness kicks back in. They pour their excess energy into peeling and chopping vegetables, selecting the edible mushrooms from Fearne’s basket, cutting fresh meat into cubes, preparing a stock from the bones, and plucking some herbs from the as-yet untended garden outside. 

(Whoever had previously occupied this house had once had a large vegetable and herb garden that had been allowed to run wild after they'd vacated. Ashton has hopes that Orym and Fearne will take it over someday, when they’re feeling up to the challenge of wrangling the feral plants.) 

They get a pretty decent stew going and clean up the mess from their prep work while it simmers. Ashton’s life might be a fucking disaster, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t keep a clean kitchen. Once the food’s ready, he ladles out three generous bowlfuls, puts them all on a tray, and brings them back to Orym and Fearne in the blanket fort. 

Fearne gently rouses Orym, helping him sit up and passing him one of the bowls Ashton brought over. She gives him a long, plaintive look as she presses the stew into his hands. He stares down at it with a reluctant expression, but one glance at Fearne’s and Ashton’s faces has him reaching for his spoon. 

The three of them eat together in the blanket fort, squashed together in the small space and lit by Fearne’s fireflies. If it weren’t for the circumstances, Ashton could almost believe they were camping out in the wilds somewhere, sharing a meal and getting ready to bed down after a long day of travel. It’s quiet with only three of them (especially with Orym not talking), but not in an entirely unpleasant way. Ashton is so engrossed in their own thoughts that they startle pretty hard when a knock sounds at the door. It opens before anyone can get up to answer it, and Nel’s voice calls out through the house.

“Anyone home? Orym?” 

“In here!” Ashton calls back. The sound of Nel’s footfalls get closer and closer until her curious face appears in the entrance to the blanket fort. She smiles fondly at the sight of them all together.

“Room for one more?” 

Ashton shuffles over to make enough space for Nel to squeeze in with them. Once she makes herself comfortable, she gives her son-in-law a concerned up-and-down look, “How are you, sweetheart? I’m glad to see you back with us. We were starting to get worried.” 

Orym’s face is overtaken by grief and guilt, and he immediately crawls forward to collapse in Nel’s arms. She catches him easily and tugs him into a motherly embrace. She murmurs soft reassurances as she holds him, rocking him in her lap like a child. When Orym finally pulls away, Nel, unprompted, offers her hand with the palm turned upward. He instantly starts to trace words on Nel’s hand with his fingertip while she watches, nodding and humming periodically. They've clearly done this with each other before.

“No need for apologies, dear heart. You know I know how hard this is. We… suspected … that this might happen again.” Nel closes both her hands around Orym’s and lifts it up to press a kiss to his knuckles, “Your mother wanted to come with me tonight, but one of her patients went into labour earlier today. She asked me to tell you that she loves you very much, and she'll come visit again as soon as she can.”

Orym nods in understanding. He gently reopens Nel’s hand and writes something else on her palm. The angle’s not quite right for Ashton to see clearly, but he’s pretty sure he makes out something about ‘muffins’ in whatever Orym’s saying. 

“If I see her before you do, I’ll make sure to tell her.” Nel promises with a smile. She shifts around to reach into one of the pouches on her belt, “I brought a few things over for you. It took me a little while to get everything together, but I finished them up this morning.” There’s a clinking of glass as Nel withdraws three small bottles from her pouch. She passes the first and largest one to Orym, and two identical smaller ones to Ashton and Fearne.

“You remember how to use that?” Nel says to Orym, “Three drops in a glass of water before bedtime.” She softens at the dejected look on his face, “I know you don’t like taking it, sweetheart, but you need to be able to sleep.” 

“What’re these for?” Ashton asks, squinting at the contents of the bottle he’d been handed. He can’t quite see what it is through the dark green glass. 

“Those are a modified form of smelling salts,” Nel explains, smoothing a hand fondly through Orym’s hair, “If he loses himself and goes catatonic, just pop that open and hold it under his nose. It should snap him out of it pretty quickly. They’re not quite as potent as true smelling salts, but they’re still pretty unpleasant. Just be careful not to break the glass or spill any. You’ll have a hard time washing the smell off.” 

“Got it.” Ashton stashes his bottle inside his jacket, while Fearne tucks hers away in one of her many pockets. Once they’ve made sure that their bottle is safely stowed away, Ashton steals a glance at Orym. He’s refusing to look at anyone, and there’s a sharp, bitter edge to his expression that Ashton recognizes– shame. 

They scoot a little closer and hold out a hand to him with the palm up, just as he’d seen Nel do, “Hey. What’s on your mind, buddy?” 

Orym stares miserably at Ashton’s hand for a long moment before reaching out to take it in his own. His movements are shaky and hesitant when he writes on their palm.

‘Hate being a burden.’  

Oh, fuck no.

Ashton enfolds Orym’s hand in their own and squeezes hard, “You listen to me, alright? ‘Cause I will tell you as many times as I need to that you are not a fucking burden. Not to us.” They lean down to try to catch his eye, “Do you think of me as a burden? When my pain gets so fucking bad I can’t even move or do shit for myself?”

Orym’s head snaps up to meet Ashton’s gaze with a look of dismay. Fearne must catch on to the point Ashton’s trying to make, because she moves in close enough to take Orym’s other hand, “Do you think it’s a burden to hold my hand at the market, to help me remember not to take things?” 

Orym shakes his head vehemently, his hands clenching tightly around Ashton’s and Fearne’s. He’s glancing desperately back and forth between them, trying to convey without words just how much he disagrees that his friends are a burden to him. Ashton squeezes his hand again, to get his attention and keep him from spiraling. 

“Then why would you think we’d ever fucking feel that way about you?”  

Orym’s mouth falls open slightly and his whole body goes still. His lip starts to quiver and he bites down on it hard, ducking his head back down to hide the tears beginning to form at the corners of his eyes. He lifts Ashton’s and Fearne’s hands up and presses his cheek against their knuckles in a gesture of pure affection. 

“You’ve always been a helper, Orym. Sometimes helpers need help too. There’s no shame in that.” Nel admonishes gently, smoothing her hand in slow circles over his back, “I want you to try to remember - the joy and satisfaction that you get from helping others? Your friends feel the same way when they get to help you. We all do.” 

Orym sniffles and gives a weak nod. He reluctantly frees his hands from Ashton’s and Fearne’s, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubbing furiously. He releases a long breath when he finally lowers his hands, eyes reddened but no longer teary. 

“You can cry if you want,” Fearne offers, “As much as you want. We don’t mind.” 

A faint, bitter huff of a laugh escapes him. He takes Fearne’s hand again, and traces on her palm where everyone can see, ‘Need a break from crying.’  

“I understand.” Fearne gives him a fond kiss on the side of his head. Orym closes his eyes and leans into it with a sigh. He starts to get up when she pulls away.

‘Bathroom. BRB,’ he writes on Fearne’s hand. The rest of them watch quietly as he retreats from the blanket fort.

“It’s hard to see him like this again,” Nel murmurs once Orym’s out of earshot, “The last couple of times he was home… he was happier than he’d been in a long time. I was starting to hope that he might…” She shakes her head, looking heartbroken, “I’m sorry. You both lost your friend too.” 

“Dorian was wonderful. The best friend you could ever ask for. We miss him very much.” Fearne replies, her ears drooping sadly, “But what he and Orym had was… special.” 

“Oh, we could all tell,” Nel chuckles, “I hadn’t seen him so smitten since he and Will were teenagers.” Her smile fades and she sighs. 

“He deserves better.” Ashton mutters under his breath, “They both did.” Nel touches his hand and gives him a soft look. 

“For what it’s worth, I’m so grateful he has both of you.” 

Ashton hums noncommittally. Feels like a pretty poor consolation prize in his fucking opinion, to have him instead of Dorian. He keeps that thought to himself, though. Everyone’s got enough to worry about right now without adding Ashton to that list. He’s fine.

He’s fine.

Still… They can’t deny that the way Orym tucks himself in under their arm and presses against their side when he returns makes them feel a little bit more like a worthwhile person. They give him a gentle squeeze once he’s settled in. 

‘This OK?’ Orym traces onto the arm that’s wrapped around him, looking up at Ashton with big, concerned eyes. Ashton can’t help but soften under that gaze– even on his worst fucking days, Orym’s always trying to take care of everyone else.

“S’always okay.” They get a doubtful look in response to that, so they add, “I promised I would tell you if it wasn’t.” 

Orym visibly relaxes at the reminder, but he keeps looking at Ashton in a way they can’t quite pin down. He takes Ashton’s free hand to write on their palm– ‘Are you OK?’  

He even presses harder on the word ‘you’, as though trying to convey a sense of emphasis. Ashton actually has to think for a moment about how he wants to answer that. Orym keeps his eyes fixed on their face, watching carefully.

“Right now? Yeah, I’m okay.” A rueful half-smile creeps onto his face in spite of himself, “Can’t promise that won’t fucking change, though. You know what it’s like. Day by day, right?” 

Something like recognition flickers behind Orym’s eyes. He gives a slow nod and settles in more comfortably, tugging Ashton’s arm a bit tighter around himself and resting his little head against their ribcage. He relaxes into their side with a soft sigh, as though the increased pressure is providing some sort of relief. Given what Orym told him earlier today, maybe it is. 

Nel sticks around for the rest of the evening, making easy small talk with Ashton and Fearne while Orym listens attentively. Every so often he’ll trace a short sentence on an offered hand. As the night wears on and Orym and Fearne (morning people that they are) start yawning more and more, Nel moves to head home. The three of them walk her to the front door, where she wraps up her son-in-law in a tight hug, carding her fingers gently through his hair. Orym returns the hug with a strength that belies his tiny frame.

“I know you’re in good hands sweetheart, but don’t hesitate to send for me if you ever need anything. At any time. Day or night.” She takes Orym’s face in both her hands and kisses him on the forehead, “And don’t ever forget how much we all love you.” 

Orym nods and gives her one more hug before letting her go. Nel stands and turns to face Ashton and Fearne, “The same goes for both of you. You’re family now. We take care of our own.” 

A lump forms in Ashton’s throat in response. He swallows hard and chokes out, “Thanks. It–that means a lot.” 

Nel gives them a long, searching look. Ashton’s not entirely sure what she sees in them, but she softens after a moment and offers a motherly smile. 

“Sleep well, my dears. I’ll check in on you again soon,” she touches Orym’s cheek one last time then takes her leave, closing the front door quietly behind her. A quiet stillness descends over the cottage once Nel exits that no one seems especially keen to break. Orym is the first to stir, letting out a long, slow breath and allowing his shoulders to sag with exhaustion. He reaches for Ashton’s hand and presses a question into their open palm.

‘Can we sleep down here tonight?’  

“What, like in the blanket fort?” Ashton asks. Orym nods hesitantly, still holding onto their hand. “Yeah, sure. Why not? S’pretty fucking comfy. What about you, Fearne? Up for camping out in the living room with us?”

“Oh, yes, I think I’d like that. Just let me change into something more comfortable for sleeping.” She gives Orym’s ear an affectionate tweak as she sashays off to her room. Ashton looks down at Orym once she’s out of sight. He’s still clinging to their hand as he watches Fearne go, looking slightly lost. Ashton ruffles his hair with their free hand to get his attention. 

“You got anything you need to do before bed? Get changed, or… whatever?” 

Orym shrugs and plucks idly at the neckline of his shirt. He’s already wearing clean, comfortable clothes, so Ashton’s not too worried about that… but he’s clearly getting tired, and his eyes are starting to go distant in the way they were yesterday when Ashton first came home. 

“C’mon, buddy,” He tugs gently on Orym’s hand and leads him into the kitchen, “You got those meds your mom brought you?” 

Orym hesitates briefly, then pulls the bottle of sleeping draught from his pocket and hands it up to Ashton. They accept the bottle from him, pour a glass of water from the pitcher by the window, and carefully measure out three drops of syrupy, sweet-smelling potion into the water. They dig around in the silverware drawer for a spoon to stir it all together, but when they pass the glass to Orym, he doesn’t take it right away. He stares apprehensively into the lavender-coloured drink in a way that has Ashton dropping to one knee to be at his eye level. 

“I know your mom said you don’t like taking this stuff,” They hold out their hand to him and tip their head to one side, trying to make eye contact, “You wanna tell me what the fuck is up with that?” 

Orym glances up at them anxiously before accepting their offered hand. His fingertip skates carefully over the stone surface of their palm– ‘Makes it harder to wake up.’  

“Okay…? I mean, it’s supposed to help you sleep, right? So that tracks.”

Orym’s eyes start to well up as he writes: ‘What if something happens?’  

Oh.

It feels so obvious in hindsight that Ashton can’t believe he hadn’t thought of it himself. They’ve already lost two of their closest friends, and on top of that… How many times has their sleep been interrupted by something dangerous or hostile these last few months? Too many fucking times. Ashton can’t even promise that nothing’s gonna happen because Zephrah is a safe place, because something did happen here– Orym’s husband and father were murdered here. 

“Hey,” Ashton cups the back of Orym’s neck with their free hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze, “Fearne and I will be right there with you. If anything happens, we’ll make sure you wake up.” 

‘Promise?’  

“Yeah, of course. Promise.” 

Orym stares up at him for a long moment before accepting the sleeping draught and downing it in a few swallows. He passes the empty glass back to Ashton, and rubs the lingering wetness from his eyes with a quiet sniffle. He slips his hand into Ashton’s and allows them to guide him back to the living room to settle down for the night. 

Fearne is already cozied up inside the blanket fort, wearing a breezy nightgown. She opens her arms as soon as she sees them come in– Orym immediately crawls towards her and lets her pull him into the little spoon position. Fearne looks at Ashton with big doe eyes as she wraps herself around Orym.

“D’you wanna be the big spoon? Or you could try to be Orym’s little spoon, if you want.” 

Ashton examines the setup and considers his options. He doesn’t really mind being either the big spoon or the little spoon– with Fearne he’s mostly been the little spoon– but the way Fearne and Orym are cuddled together means that spooning would have Ashton lying on his busted side, where his scarring is at its worst. Even with all the blankets and pillows covering the floor, that’d get uncomfortable pretty fucking quick.

“What if we make a sandwich instead?” Ashton suggests. Fearne perks up with curiosity.

“A sandwich?”

“Yeah. Like this.” They lie down on their good side so they’re facing Orym and Fearne, and drag the two of them in until Orym is squished tightly in between his larger friends, “See? Halfling sandwich.” 

“The best kind.” Fearne agrees happily. She snuggles in a bit more comfortably and squeezes Orym around the middle, “Goodnight, my boys. Love you both.” 

“You too. G’night.” Ashton mumbles sleepily, letting their eyes slip closed. They briefly feel Orym tracing something on Fearne’s hand before a tiny fingertip draws a little heart on their bicep. The corner of their mouth tugs up slightly in response. 

A cozy quiet descends over the blanket fort as its occupants start to drift off to sleep. Fearne’s magical fireflies gradually wink out as she starts to doze, allowing a comfortable darkness to fall around them like a blanket. Nocturnal frogs and insects are singing outside, muffled by the walls of the cottage. Fearne smells like flowers and wood smoke, and Orym’s slow breaths puff softly against Ashton’s collarbone. 

Fuck, he really loves these people. He loves them more than he knows what to do with.

It’s all too easy to lose. FCG and Dorian had been ripped away in an instant. 

Ashton squeezes his eyes shut against the burning tears that have started to well up. He wraps his arms a little tighter around Orym and Fearne, and takes a measured breath. If he breaks down now, it’ll wake up his friends. They need the sleep. 

For now, at least, he can keep them close. And when he finally dreams, he doesn’t dream alone. 

Chapter Text

“Ashton?” 

They startle and spin around to look for the source of the voice, and find Imogen’s familiar face looking back. The surrounding landscape is faintly distorted and oddly hazy, but Imogen appears in perfect, crystal-clear detail. It occurs to Ashton that they must be dreaming, but it’s definitely not like his usual dreams. Not as far as he can tell, anyway. It’s fucking weird.

“Imogen? Wh– is this a thing you can do now?” Ashton glances around at the surrounding dreamscape, “Don’t get me wrong, it’s super fucking cool, but I can think of a few dreams you might not wanna pop into.” 

Imogen chuckles, her smile causing her eyes to crinkle at the corners. Her voice echoes slightly when she speaks, “It’s good to see you too, Ashton. I have to admit, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to reach ya. I tried to bring Orym and Fearne in too, but I couldn’t find ‘em.” She gives a fond but slightly sheepish grin, “I’m not very good at this yet.” 

“It might not be you,” Ashton reassures her, dropping to sit on a boulder that randomly appears behind him, “They, uh… they haven’t been sleeping very well. Not since… well. Since.”  

“I see.” Imogen adjusts her skirts and sits down on the boulder next to him, “How are y’all holdin’ up?” 

Ashton shrugs, “About as well as you might expect. Missing Dorian and Letters a whole fucking lot. Fearne and Orym have been taking it hard. Orym especially has been… struggling.” 

“...And you?” Imogen asks gently. Ashton sighs and looks away. 

“I’m just trying to hold us all together.” 

Imogen gives him a long, searching look, then leans into his side. She tucks her arm into his and lays her head on his shoulder. It doesn’t hurt for once, maybe because this is happening in a dream. It feels kinda weird, but not in a bad way.

“Sorry,” Ashton mutters, shaking his head and forcing a smile, “I don’t mean to be such a fucking bummer. It really is good to see you. So fucking good.”  

“It’s okay.” She gives their arm a little squeeze, “D’you wanna talk about it?” 

Ashton lets out a bark of bitter laughter, “Not really.” They tip their head to let their cheek press against Imogen’s hair, “I’d rather hear about you guys. You still building your house? How’s that going?”

“Pretty good. We’ve been doin’ what we can between helpin’ with the Ruidian resettlement efforts. We’re finally almost done– we’ve been tryin’ to put a little bit of everyone into the design. Chet and FRIDA have been busy makin’ the furniture. Laudna’s in her element too– Deanna’s been teachin’ her how to knit.” Ashton can hear the smile in her voice when she adds, “I think you’d really like it.” 

“Can’t wait to see it someday.” They return her smile with one of their own. More genuine this time.

“I know we haven’t even been apart all that long, but we’ve been missin’ y’all somethin’ fierce.” 

“You guys should come visit,” Ashton suggests immediately, “Y’know, when shit calms down a bit for you. I know you’re busy, but Orym and Fearne would love to see you. It might do them some good.” 

“I think we’d really like that too,” Imogen agrees, “I’ll run it by Laudna and the others later, and I’ll reach out again once we figure somethin’ out.” 

“Sounds good.” 

They sit together in companionable silence for a while, watching the slowly shifting colours in the sky of Ashton’s dreamscape. It looks a little like how the inside of Ashton’s head used to look, before the Matron of Ravens had used his magic to bind the gods to the cycle of reincarnation; before he’d died and been brought back– still himself (he’s pretty sure), but irrevocably changed. Brightly-coloured, slow-motion fireworks, exploding and fading and blooming again. Now replaced by swirling galaxies, trapped under gold and glass. 

Maybe he’s not as changed as he’d thought, if his subconscious mind looks more like his old brain than his new one. Who even fucking knows anymore?

“You’re thinkin’ real loud all of a sudden.” 

“Huh?” Ashton lifts their head to look at Imogen more directly. She meets their gaze and arches one eyebrow.

“I may be literally in your head right now, but that doesn’t mean I can see everything that’s goin’ on. What’s on your mind that’s got you so pensive?” 

“Oh. Fuck, I dunno. I guess…?” Ashton sighs and looks back up at the ever-shifting sky above them, “I think it’s just hitting me all at once how much everything’s changed. I mean, I had my whole fucking brain replaced, like, a week ago! Am I even the same fucking person anymore?” 

Imogen takes their hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze, “I don’t think any of us are the same person we were a few weeks ago. And if it helps, your mind still feels the same to me. It’s how I was able to find my way here in the first place.”

The tension in Ashton’s chest eases a bit, hearing that, “It does, yeah. Help, I mean. Thanks.” 

“I think I understand, though. Everythin’ just happened so damn fast. Only a few months ago, we were all fightin’ furniture together in Jrusar.” 

“Gods, it feels like fucking years.” Ashton chuckles, “I miss those days.” 

“Me too. The innocent times.” Imogen jokes. Her smile softens as she glances around Ashton’s dreamscape– or maybe that’s just Ashton’s vision going slightly fuzzy. “I think you might be wakin’ up.” 

“Okay. Hey, tell Laudna and Chet and Deanna and FRIDA I said hi, alright?” 

“I will. Give Orym and Fearne our love.” Imogen kisses him on the cheek, “Take care, Ashton. I’ll see ya again as soon as I can.”

~*~

When Ashton wakes late in the morning, he and Orym are alone in the blanket fort. They’d managed to roll onto their back at some point during the night and open their eyes to a view of the fabric ceiling. 

Fearne, being the morning person that she is, must be up and about already– a single oleander flower has been left behind on her pillow. Orym would normally rise alongside her to do his morning workout and watch the sunrise, but he hasn’t woken up yet. He shifted quite a bit in his sleep, too– now he’s sort of curled up and half-draped over Ashton’s side, with his head pillowed on their stomach. It’s not unlike how he sleeps in the crook of Fearne’s knee with his head resting on her furry thigh. 

Orym stirs when Ashton raises their head to look at him, but doesn’t wake. He twitches and shifts as a faint whimper escapes him. Even in sleep, his face is lined with grief, and his brows are knitted together like he’s in pain. His eyes wander restlessly beneath their lids– definitely dreaming, but nothing particularly pleasant, if the look on Orym’s face is anything to go by.

“Oh, buddy,” Ashton sighs sadly, “Shhhh. It’s okay. You’re safe.” He carefully smooths one hand over Orym’s hair and down his back, trying to soothe him without disturbing his sleep.

It has the exact opposite of the intended effect– Orym startles awake with a soft gasp, eyes wide and panicked. 

“Whoa, whoa– easy,” Ashton raises his hands placatingly and keeps his voice low and gentle, “It’s just me.” 

Orym’s rapid, panting breaths start to slow once his eyes lock onto Ashton’s. He lets his head drop to rest against their ribcage and releases a long, shaky exhale.

“Sorry, bud. Didn’t mean to wake you up.” 

Orym shakes his head, still taking calming, measured breaths. He gives Ashton’s side a couple reassuring pats. Even though they can’t see his face, the message is clear: ‘It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.’ 

This time, when Ashton reaches out to him, Orym doesn’t flinch. They give his shoulder a firm squeeze until the worst of the tension drains from his body. 

“Bad dreams, huh?” Ashton asks. Orym shrugs, sniffling quietly in a way that makes Ashton’s heart ache, “Me too, most nights.” 

Orym lifts his head to look at them with a stricken expression. Ashton strokes a hand over the curve of his back, trying to be comforting.

“S’nothing I’m not used to. It’s just the subject matter is a little different these days,” He stares up at the ceiling and continues rubbing Orym’s back as he speaks, “Mostly reliving the worst of the shit we’ve been dealing with these last couple months. Pretty sure you know what that’s like.” 

Orym nods sympathetically. He shuffles a little further up Ashton’s body so he can write on the hollow of their shoulder with his fingertip. 

‘Started having nightmares after Will and Dad. Got better for a bit. Came back when we were sent to Marquet.’  

“Because you were investigating the attack on your boss, right?” 

Orym nods again, his cheek rubbing against their chest, ‘Still get them sometimes, but now I mostly dream about–’ 

He cuts himself off before he can finish his sentence, his face crumpling and his hand clenching in Ashton’s shirt. A single tear escapes his eye and runs across the bridge of his nose. Ashton doesn’t have to ask to know Orym’s nightmares are about losing Dorian. 

I– Orym’s hand falters and he shakes with a suppressed sob, ‘I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this again.’ 

“Well, I’ll tell you how you don’t do it– all on your own.” Ashton murmurs, smoothing Orym’s hair back from his face, “We’re here for you. Anything you need. Whenever you need it. All you have to do is ask.” 

Orym doesn’t respond to that right away– he simply winds his little arms around Ashton as far as they can reach and holds on tight. Ashton wraps their arm around him to return the hug and gives him a good, hard squeeze. After a long moment, Orym’s fingertip starts to trace over their shoulder again. 

‘Miss him so bad.’  

“I know buddy. I’m sorry. We miss him too– obviously not the same way you do, but… He was good people. And a good friend. It’s not fucking fair.” 

‘My fault.’ 

“Wh–” Ashton props himself up on one arm to face Orym more directly. They pin him with a stern look, but he can’t seem to bring himself to meet their gaze, “It is not your fucking fault, you hear me? It’s not.”  

‘Asked him to come back.’ 

“Okay,” Ashton sits them both up and takes Orym’s despondent face in both hands, “That doesn’t make it your fault. Dorian would’ve found his way back to us, one way or another. He wanted to be there with us. He wanted to be with you. And he wanted the freedom to make his own fucking choices. Don’t take that agency away from him just so you can shoulder the blame for what happened.” 

Orym dissolves into helpless tears, and Ashton pulls him into another crushing hug. 

“M’sorry. I don’t mean to sound so harsh,” they murmur, trying to soften the edges of their voice, “But you know as well as I do that Dorian would be telling you off exactly the same if he were here right now.” 

Orym doesn’t respond to that– he just clings desperately to Ashton and weeps into their shoulder. There isn’t much they can do but sit with him in the shelter of the blanket fort and let him cry it out. Eventually the wracking sobs give way to soft sniffles and hiccuping breaths. Ashton’s actually a little surprised when he feels Orym start tracing more words onto their arm.

‘Sorry. Logically I know you’re right, but... Can’t help how I feel.’  

“Then we’ll just have to keep reminding you for as long as it takes to sink in.” Ashton replies firmly. 

‘I really loved him.’  

“He loved you too. Everyone could tell.” Ashton huffs out a dejected laugh, “Neither of you were even slightly fucking subtle.” 

A weak, wet chuckle gets muffled into their shoulder, followed by a few final sobs, ‘I should’ve told him sooner.’ 

“No point in chasing what-ifs and should-haves, man. It’s just gonna make it hurt more than it fucking needs to.” Ashton tips his head to lean against Orym’s, being careful not to poke him with their crystalline hair, “Y’know… I don’t really believe in the concept of ‘deserving’, I think it’s kinda bullshit. But… if there’s anyone in this whole fucking world who deserves better than what they got, it’s the two of you.” 

Orym turns his face into the crook of Ashton’s neck and just tries to breathe through the last of his tears. When his breathing finally stabilizes, he writes, Glad you’re here.  

Ashton holds him as close as they possibly can, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather fucking be.” 

The two of them stay like that for a while, holding each other in the soft morning light that diffuses through the fabric walls of the blanket fort. Ashton’s just starting to wonder if Orym’s fallen asleep again when Fearne crawls back in next to them. She’s holding a cup of tea in what Ashton recognizes as Orym’s favourite mug. 

“I heard him crying when I came back inside, so I made him some tea,” Fearne offers in a hushed voice, “It’s chamomile. It’s supposed to be soothing.” 

Her eyes are clearly wet. That might explain why she didn’t rush back in as soon as she heard Orym crying– she must have wanted to hide her own tears so that he wouldn’t worry about her. 

Ashton opens his mouth to reply, but Orym beats him to the punch– raising his head from their shoulder and turning to give Fearne a soft, grateful look. He carefully extracts himself from Ashton’s hold and clambers into her lap, accepting the mug of tea from her once he’s settled. He takes a sip and sighs appreciatively. Fearne’s arms find their way around Orym’s waist. She drops a kiss on the top of his head as he leans back into her embrace. 

Ashton scoots around to sit closer to his two friends, close enough for them to reach out for him if they need to, “How’re you holding up, Fearne? Did you sleep okay?” 

“Mmmm… I guess so? Better than I have in a while.” She rests her cheek against Orym’s hair, “Having all three of us together helped, I think. Y’know, even though you’re made of rock, you’re a pretty good snuggler.” Ashton snorts, but Fearne is looking at him earnestly, and Orym is nodding in agreement.

“If you say so.” 

“I do say so.” Fearne sniffs imperiously, “And I happen to be an expert on the subject, right Orym?” 

Orym cracks the first genuine smile that Ashton’s seen since the final battle with Ludinus– it’s wobbly and teary and sad, but it reaches his eyes in a way that it hasn’t done in weeks. He nods emphatically up at Fearne and gives Ashton a look that’s almost unbearably fond. It pulls at something in their chest in a way they’re not sure they can bear examining right now. They push the thought to the back of their mind and move to ruffle Orym’s hair.

“Alright, whatever.” Ashton grumbles good-naturedly. He decides to change the subject, “I talked to Imogen last night.” 

Fearne perks up, “Did she Send you a message? I didn’t hear you say anything back.” 

“Not a Sending. She showed up in my dream. It was fucking weird.” Ashton shrugs and adds, “She said she tried to bring you guys in too, but she couldn’t find you.” 

“Oh, that’s too bad. Maybe she’ll find us next time.” Fearne muses, only slightly disappointed. 

“Seemed like she’s pretty new at it, yeah.” 

Orym reaches over to trace his words on the back of Ashton’s hand, ‘Sleep meds make my dreams weird. Might be harder to find me.’  

“Makes your dreams weird? Weird how?” Ashton asks, raising an eyebrow. 

‘Suppresses them a bit. Takes the edge off the worst ones.’ 

“Does it help?” 

Orym only shrugs, worrying at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt with his eyes downcast. Ashton shares a concerned look with Fearne– she gives Orym a comforting squeeze around his middle and redirects the conversation, “What did Imogen say?”

“Mostly just checking in,” Ashton replies, leaning back on his hands and rolling the perpetual ache from his neck and shoulders, “They’re still pretty fucking busy out there, but she and Laudna and Chet might come for a visit once things quiet down. Maybe Deanna and FRIDA too, if they’re up for it.” 

Fearne brightens considerably, “Oh, that would be wonderful!” 

Ashton grins, “Thought you’d like that. She’s gonna talk to the others and get back to us when they figure their shit out. I’ll keep you guys posted. Y’know. Assuming you don’t hear from her yourself.” 

The three of them linger in the blanket fort for a bit longer, with Fearne and Ashton chatting idly while Orym drinks his tea. There’s a general sense of fragility in the air between them– that they’re all trying to breathe through the initial pang of grief that strikes every time they have to wake up in a world that no longer has two of their dearest friends in it. There’s an odd sort of comfort to be found in each other’s company, though. In knowing that there will always be a hand to hold, if they only reach out to take it. 

Eventually, Ashton has to crawl out of the blanket fort to stretch his aching limbs in an open space. He coaxes Orym and Fearne to come out and join him in puttering around the cottage– cooking, tidying up, making minor repairs– whatever little projects he can think of to keep them busy and take their minds off their heartache for a while. 

Alma pops in later in the day, looking tired and slightly harried from the birth she had been attending late into the previous night, but no less eager to shower her son in motherly love. She sits with Orym in the blanket fort for much of the evening, pulling him down to lay his head in her lap so she can stroke his hair. She accepts Ashton’s invitation to stay for dinner with a grateful smile, and only offers a token resistance when they insist she stay seated instead of helping them in the kitchen. 

The next few days pass in much the same way, with Ashton, Orym, and Fearne doing low-energy tasks around the house during the day. They visit regularly with Orym’s moms (his sisters are still in Marquet, helping with the Ruidian resettlement efforts) and sleep in sandwich formation in Fearne’s blanket fort every night. 

Orym becomes their little shadow, silently following in Ashton and Fearne’s wake most of the time and wordlessly offering assistance where he can. Every so often he’ll slip away to be alone for a while– Ashton sometimes finds him hidden in an isolated corner of the cottage, crying quietly by himself. They can’t help but struggle, trying to walk a fine line between giving Orym as much space as he needs, and keeping him close and safe at all times. 

Ashton’s reasonably sure that Orym won’t do anything to hurt himself. It doesn’t stop the spike of anxiety that drives into their heart every time he disappears. 

He finally gets up the courage to broach the subject one day in the kitchen, with Ashton washing dishes while Orym perches on the counter nearby.

“Look, I’m not trying to get all up in your fucking business or whatever. I know you need some time to yourself sometimes, and that’s fine.” It’s a relief to have a task to focus on while he talks– it means he doesn’t have to look at Orym directly while he awkwardly fumbles his way through his speech, “But, like– you know you can always come to us if you need a shoulder to cry on, right? Or even just a fucking hug?” 

Orym looks a little confused when Ashton finally catches his eye. The tip of his finger skates rapidly across their bicep. 

‘I know. Is everything OK?’  

“Yeah. Yeah, s’fine. It’s just…” Ashton sighs and reaches for a tea towel to dry his hands, “I’ve noticed you’ve been… hiding away… sometimes. When you’re obviously feeling really bad. There’s nothing wrong with taking some space when you need it, but…” They give Orym a sombre look, “We worry, y’know? I worry.” 

Orym’s confusion softens into the kind of sadness that hurts to look at. He reaches out to give Ashton’s wrist a reassuring squeeze before responding, ‘You can always check in with me when you feel worried. If I need to be alone, I’ll tell you.’  

“Yeah?” 

‘It’s always OK to ask. Don’t want you walking on eggshells around me.’  

It makes some amount of sense, they suppose. Ashton has always fucking hated when people try to handle him with kid gloves, and Orym usually prefers to be forthright with his friends anyway. Better to just ask and answer honestly than to have to tiptoe around a sensitive subject. 

(Still. Given how fresh and painful the wound of Dorian’s passing still is, Ashton hadn’t wanted to prod at it too hard just yet.)

“Okay.” It feels like some of the weight has been lifted from their shoulders, “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, man.” 

Orym nods and pats Ashton’s hand, then picks up the abandoned tea towel and starts drying the freshly washed dishes. From that point on, Ashton is a lot less anxious about checking on Orym when they find him grieving by himself– and Orym sends them away a lot less often than they expect him to. The few times he does ask to be left alone, he always finds his way back to Ashton afterwards. He’ll sidle up next to them and lean against their hip, or tuck himself under their arm, as if to reassure them that he’s still here.

Fuck if it doesn’t make them feel better. A lot better. Shit’s still fucking hard, though. 

In addition to the crying alone thing, Orym spaces out a lot. Like, a lot. He’s obviously doing his best to stay present (and Ashton and Fearne do what they can to help), but it doesn’t take much for him to start slipping. Ashton and Fearne keep the smelling salts Nel gave them on hand for when they find him unresponsive and staring blankly at nothing. The biting, pungent scent is quick to send him coughing and sputtering back to reality. It’s abrupt, and jarring, and stings Orym’s eyes and nose, and Ashton fucking hates that he has to use them. 

The exact second Orym doesn’t need them anymore, Ashton’s gonna throw these smelling salts off a fucking cliff. 

“M’sorry buddy,” Ashton murmurs, rubbing Orym’s back as he gasps and sneezes and chokes, “There’s gotta be a better fucking way to do this.” 

Orym just shakes his head and pats Ashton’s arm, trying to get his breathing back under control. He clutches at Ashton’s jacket with shaking hands and tries to pull himself closer. They catch on quickly to what he needs and wrap him up in a crushing hug. 

“I’ve got you. Just breathe. It’ll pass in a minute.” 

It’s not uncommon for Orym to suffer a panic attack from the shock of being ripped so suddenly from the terror of a flashback. All Ashton and Fearne can do is hold him tight and try to talk him through it. Sometimes Fearne will Druidcraft long, fragrant stalks of lavender to help him calm down. 

Ashton can’t make fucking aromatherapy flowers. But they can pull him in close and provide the kind of physical pressure that helps Orym find his way back into his body. They breathe in a slow rhythm and encourage Orym to try to match it. 

“There you go. You back with me, bud?” 

Orym nods weakly against Ashton’s chest, but doesn’t loosen his grip on their jacket. One trembling hand traces shaky letters into their side, ‘Hate this.’

“I know.” 

‘Sorry. You shouldn’t have to deal with it.’

“Not your fucking fault,” Ashton reminds him for the umpteenth time, “We talked about this, remember? Needing help doesn’t make you a burden. Don’t fucking treat yourself like one.” 

‘Trying.’ Orym sucks in a harsh breath and does his best to let it out slowly. He presses in even closer to Ashton, like he would burrow into their heart and curl up there if he could. 

“I know you are. I know.” Ashton murmurs sadly, rubbing one hand over Orym’s back. They keep holding him tight until Orym indicates that he’s ready to let go. It takes a while. Something occurs to Ashton during the period of quiet that stretches between them. When Orym finally starts to pull away, Ashton asks their question.

“When’s the last time you went outside?” 

Orym hesitates for a long moment before shrugging. For all that Orym’s been following Ashton and Fearne around inside the cottage, Ashton can’t remember the last time they’d seen him step outside. Some fresh air would probably do him good. They glance out a nearby window– the sun is shining brightly and the sky looks clear.

“It’s nice out. Why don’t you come out to the backyard with me?” Ashton offers, holding out a hand for Orym to take, “Just for a bit. Might be nice to just, like… touch some fucking grass or whatever. Feel the sun. All that shit.” 

Orym looks a little reluctant, but he slips his hand into Ashton’s and allows them to lead him out the back door. He flinches and blinks hard against the sudden rush of sunlight, and Ashton squeezes his hand reassuringly while his eyes adjust. He waits patiently as Orym stares out at the wild, overgrown back garden, looking slightly overwhelmed. 

“You okay?”

Orym nods shakily, still clinging to Ashton’s hand. He glances around the yard for a bit longer before looking up at Ashton for guidance. They give his hand another squeeze and coax him further out into the yard– Their gardening knowledge is pretty much non-existent, but there’s some raised beds that they think they might be able to take a crack at with minimal supervision. 

By the time Ashton gets close enough to get a proper look at them, he’s feeling a lot less confident. The raised beds are positively overflowing with wildflowers, and grasses, and tree saplings, none of which Ashton can identify. If any of these plants were ever put there intentionally, it’s fucking impossible to tell now. 

“Uh…” Ashton grimaces and shares a look with Orym, “I don’t suppose you know if there are any, like, actual fucking vegetables in here?” 

Orym blinks and turns to consider the raised beds more carefully. After a moment he lets go of Ashton’s hand and clambers up into one to dig through the plants himself. The grasses and foliage are so tall and thick that he almost disappears from sight. He shakes his head when he finally reemerges, reaching for Ashton’s hand to write a response.

‘It’s a mess. Have to rip it all out. Start over.’ 

“Huh. Feels weirdly like a metaphor for my whole fucking life, but alright.” Ashton gazes at the riot of colourful wildflowers overflowing from the raised beds, “Kinda seems a shame to have to pull all these out.” 

‘Lots of beds to use. Can keep some like this.’ Orym points out, gesturing to the flowers, ‘Good for bees.’ He scratches the side of his head thoughtfully, ‘Maybe medicinal? Ask Nel.’  

“Alright. Yeah. It’d be good to know exactly what’s in here before we pull it the fuck out.” Ashton holds out a hand to help Orym hop down from the raised garden bed– not that he needs it, but it’s fucking polite to offer, “Should we see what else we’re working with?” 

The two of them meander around the backyard for a bit, taking in the various overgrown features and rundown structures. There’s a gnarled old cherry tree with a rotted-out bench swing (“Maybe Chet can make us a new one…”). There’s a covered structure with three stalls full of what looks like decaying plant matter ( ‘It’s for compost. Needs to be turned.’ ). There’s a little frog pond, and a pile of logs full of mushrooms, and a half-collapsed chicken coop. There’s a long, arch trellis covered in climbing vines that Orym identifies as some kind of grape. And there’s Ashton’s favourite, a truly enormous raspberry thicket in the back corner, already laden with the first fruit of the season. 

They’re licking the juice from a handful of raspberries off of their fingers when they feel Orym tug lightly at the hem of their shirt. He points to something deep in the tangle of the thicket, and Ashton sticks their whole head inside to take a look– one of the benefits of being made of stone, he supposes, is not getting scratched the fuck up by all these thorns. 

Perched carefully on the fork of a delicate branch is the tiniest nest Ashton has ever fucking seen. It’s almost perfectly round, lined with moss and fluff, and small enough to sit on a copper coin with room to spare. Two little white eggs rest snugly inside, each one no larger than a pea. 

“Holy shit,” Ashton pulls his head out of the thicket and turns to Orym, “The fuck kind of nest is that?” 

‘Hummingbird.’  

“The fuck is a hummingbird?” 

The question is barely out of his mouth before he gets fucking dive-bombed by something small, buzzing, and squeaky. Orym manages to pull Ashton back a few steps before they instinctively swat at whatever just came at their face. When they recover their bearings, they find themself face-to-face with a miniscule bird with a long, slender beak and iridescent green feathers. It hovers like an insect above his head, peeping angrily before dive-bombing him again a few more times. 

“Okay, okay! We’re backing up! Fuck!” Ashton raises an arm to protect his face and jogs a few feet away, with Orym trotting along after him. They glance behind them just in time to see the strange little bird disappear into the thicket. 

“I take it that’s a fucking hummingbird.” 

Orym nods and reaches for Ashton’s hand, ‘You OK?’  

“Yeah, fine. Didn’t touch me or anything, just kinda buzzed at me.” Ashton scratches the back of his head, amused more than anything, now that he’s not so startled, “Little fucker’s got balls of steel, coming after something a hundred times its size. I can respect that.” 

‘Feisty,’ Orym agrees. ‘Just protecting her nest.’  

“Well, now that we know it’s there, we can steer clear.” 

The two of them walk back across the yard and sit down on the edge of one of the raised beds. Ashton watches Orym from the corner of their eye, trying to figure out where his head’s at. He looks distant as he gazes out at the garden, but not in a way that’s concerning. More contemplative.

Ashton holds out a hand to him with the palm facing up, “Copper for your thoughts?” 

Orym pauses to think for a moment before taking their hand to respond, ‘Someone really loved this garden once.’  

“Yeah, they did,” Ashton agrees. He gives Orym a meaningful glance, “And now it gets to be loved again. Maybe not in the same way as before, but… it’s still good, right?” 

Orym gives them a long, soft look before nodding in agreement. He starts to tip sideways to lean against Ashton’s arm, but they wrap it around him and tuck him into their side instead. They sit there together for a while, soaking up the sun’s warmth and watching the bees, and butterflies, and the occasional hummingbird as they float from flower to flower. 

Fearne doesn’t take long to find them when she comes home from the market with lunch. Since everyone’s already outside, she insists on taking the opportunity to have a picnic– fetching a blanket to spread out on the grass and passing out food. Once they finish eating, she coaxes Orym into helping her weave crowns and necklaces out of Druidcrafted flowers. 

 It’s a nice day. It’s not perfect. It doesn’t fucking fix anything. But it’s still good.

~*~

It’s bad. 

That’s the first thought that crosses Ashton’s mind when he wakes up the next day. His head is pounding with the rhythm of his pulse in a way that makes his stomach turn. Even the smallest movements send shockwaves of pain deep into the golden repair work that holds his shattered fucking body together. The worst of the old impact fractures that spiderweb across his left hip and shoulder are screaming at him. 

Gods, it’s bad. It’s the worst they’ve felt in a while, outside the immediate aftermath of going Titan Mode. 

Judging by the weak, greyish light filtering through the blanket fort’s walls, and the scent of petrichor wafting in through an open window, it must be raining. That might explain it– the wet seasons in Jrusar had turned hellish following Ashton’s injury. Milo had explained that the changes in air pressure and temperature might be fucking with the gold joinery, since it’s a softer material than the living stone that makes up the rest of his body. 

Ashton doesn’t need to know how it works to know it fucking sucks.

Even the dim light inside of the blanket fort is sending the pounding in their head into overdrive. The thought of having to get up and move while he’s in this much pain makes Ashton want to puke, but he has blackout curtains in his own room. And his meds.

Fuck, he really needs his meds. 

Ashton lets the thought of getting their hands on some painkillers motivate him into hauling his busted-ass body upstairs to his room. He shuts the door and pulls the curtains closed to plunge the room into darkness. They fumble around for their emergency pouch, dig out the correct bottle by feel, and knock back a few pills with a glass of stale water that’s been sitting around in here for a few days. It’s probably, technically, too many pills. Whatever. Ashton is extremely beyond caring at this point. 

Once they’re suitably medicated, they collapse into their bed on top of their blankets. It takes entirely too long to pass back out after they get horizontal. 

The next time Ashton wakes, it’s to a pair of bright green eyes peering at him over the edge of his mattress. 

“...Hi,” Ashton croaks, “S’everything okay?” 

Orym nods, then tips his head inquiringly to one side. 

“S’just a bad fucking pain day. I’ll be fine.” 

Orym’s expression turns to one of concern. He carefully places his hand on the mattress next to Ashton’s– close, but not touching. The gesture leaves a warm feeling in their chest. They try to give him a reassuring smile, but it sends a jolt of pain through their facial scars intense enough to white out their vision. When they can finally see again, Orym has disappeared. 

It briefly makes Ashton wonder if they’d hallucinated Orym’s visit, but it only takes a moment for him to slip back through the door with Fearne in tow. She takes one look at Ashton and winces in sympathy before speaking in a soft voice.

“You kinda look like shit.”

“Fucking feel like it, too” Ashton groans. They flinch away when Fearne reaches out, her hand glowing with healing magic, “D-don’t–”  

Fearne pulls her hand back, looking stricken, “I just wanna help!” 

“S-sorry, Touch is… really not good right now.” Ashton squeezes his eyes shut and swallows hard against a rush of nausea, “Healing magic doesn’t work on this anyway. People have tried. Just have to wait it out.” 

“Oh…” There’s a brief silence during which Ashton can picture the sad look that Orym and Fearne must be sharing, “Is there anything we can do? We can make you some tea. Or I could warm up a blanket for you, if you want.” 

Ashton takes a moment to think about it. Some heat might at least ease some of the tension in their locked-up muscles and take the edge off the bone-deep ache emanating from their scars. It sounds pretty fucking good, actually. 

“Warm blanket would be fucking great.” They crack one eye open to squint through the darkness at their friends, “What time s’it?” 

“A couple hours past midday.” 

Probably too early to take more painkillers, then. Ashton lets his eye slip shut and sighs dejectedly. This royally fucking sucks. 

Fearne’s dress rustles as she fidgets anxiously, “I’m gonna go get you that blanket. D’you need anything else? Something to eat?” 

“Just the blanket’s fine. M’only gonna puke if I try to eat anything.” 

“Okay. I’ll be right back.” Fearne does her best to step quietly, but she can’t completely silence the click of her hooves. Each of her steps sends a spark of pain shooting through their skull. There’s a faint shuffling by their bedside table before Orym’s much softer footsteps follow Fearne out of the room. 

Orym comes back first. He sets something on Ashton’s bedside table before patting the mattress next to their hand, trying to get their attention. When they manage to peel their eyes open, Orym is holding up a large bowl. Once he’s certain Ashton’s seen it, he pointedly puts it down within easy reach by their bed, then points out a glass of fresh water that’s been set out on the bedside table. The straw that Fearne swiped from Laudna and Imogen’s old landlady has been placed in the glass. 

That’s kinda nice. They won’t have to sit up or lift the glass all the way to their mouth to get a drink. Less movement is definitely better right now.

“Thanks buddy.” Ashton mumbles, tired but grateful. 

Orym gives them a thumbs-up and a little half-smile. He moves closer to their bedside and rests his hand next to Ashton’s again. 

Fearne comes back in with Mister on her shoulder and a couple thick blankets in her arms, “Got these nice and warm for you. I know you said touch hurts too much, but do you think you could handle Mister touching you? He’s even better than a hot water bottle when I’m not feeling well.” 

“I– maybe? We can try.” 

“Where do you want him?” She lifts Mister off of her shoulder and holds him out to Ashton. 

With some difficulty, Ashton adjusts the position of their arms to create a hollow next to their shoulder and chest for Mister to curl up in, “Right here would probably be best.” 

Fearne sets Mister down in the space and encourages him to settle in. The initial twinge of physical contact quickly subsides under the surprisingly substantial heat of his furry body. Then Fearne carefully spreads the blankets she warmed up over Ashton, and that’s– fuck, that feels so good. They let out an involuntary moan of relief as the warmth sinks in, easing the ache in their bones and relaxing the tension in their muscles. 

“Is it helping?” Fearne asks. Ashton can hear the hopeful smile in her voice. 

“Mmngh– yeah. S’good.” 

“Good.” There’s a momentary pause before Fearne adds, “We’re gonna let you rest now, but Orym says he wants to stay in case you need anything. Is that okay?” 

“Can if y’want,” Ashton replies, exhausted, “M’not gonna be good company though.” 

There’s another gentle pat on the bed next to Ashton’s hand– a wordless, touchless reassurance– before the foot end of the mattress dips as Orym climbs up. He settles somewhere next to Ashton’s feet, at a safe enough distance that he won’t accidentally hurt them. 

“There you go,” Fearne coos, fussing with their blankets for a moment before pulling away, “If you need me for anything, if you need your blankets warmed up again, just send Orym to come get me.” 

Ashton hums a vague affirmative, already half-asleep by the time Fearne takes her leave. Mister’s fur is soft against their stony skin, and he radiates the warmth of a hot cup of tea into their aching scars. The blankets, in addition to being magically pre-warmed, are doing a pretty good job of sealing in Mister’s body heat. Orym’s weight is a comforting presence on the foot of Ashton’s bed. 

It’s not quite as good as soaking in a scalding-hot bath, or basking in a steamy sauna, but it’s pretty fucking close. It doesn’t take long for Ashton to fall back to sleep. 

He drifts in and out of consciousness for the rest of the day, his memory hazy with pain. Fearne slips quietly in and out, periodically reheating their blankets. Eventually, Ashton chokes down a couple more pills– being more careful to count out an appropriate number this time, with Orym and Fearne nearby. Orym is a constant, quiet companion. 

At one point they wake to find Nel kneeling beside their bed, speaking to Orym in a low voice. 

“Oh, you’re awake! How’re you feeling, dear heart?” Nel asks, “Orym and Fearne tell me you’re having a bit of a chronic pain flare-up.” 

“You could say that.” Ashton mutters weakly. 

“Have you been taking any medicine for it?” 

Ashton fumbles for the bottle of pills he’d stashed under his pillow where he can most easily reach them, and passes them over to Nel. There’s a soft rattle as she turns the bottle over to examine the list of herbal ingredients packed into the concentrated pills. 

“These are quite strong. Do you take these regularly?”

Ashton almost laughs. Pills like this are rare, and fucking expensive. There’s only one apothecary in Jrusar that can make them, and Milo had hooked Ashton up with a discount in exchange for some pro bono artificing work on the head herbalist’s furnace– yet another thing he owes them for. He only takes these pills on his absolute worst fucking days. 

“Nah. Too hard to get. Gotta save ‘em for the really bad days.” 

“I see.” Nel goes quiet again as she continues to read the bottle’s label, “We don’t have the capacity to make compressed tablets like this here in Zephrah, but these herbs are all available to us. I should be able to make a version of this medicine for you using alternative means, once you run out.” 

A knot loosens in the pit of Ashton’s stomach that he hadn’t even known was there. He cracks an eye open to look directly at Nel, “That would be extremely fucking helpful. Thank you.” 

“Certainly, dear. It’s no trouble.” Nel gives him an up-and-down look, “May I ask, is your pain related to… all this?” She gestures at her own left side, referencing the gilded scars that cover half of Ashton’s body. 

“...Yeah. Fell out a window and shattered. My friend Milo did what they could, but… they’re an artificer, not a healer. Best they could do was melt down a pile of gold and glass, and try to glue me back together.” 

(Ashton leaves out the part about the criminal activity he was engaged in at the time. Orym’s mother-in-law is wonderful, but she doesn’t need to know about the things in their past they’re not proud of.)

“I’m so sorry that happened to you, sweetheart,” Nel murmurs, “I’m afraid my knowledge of Earth Genasi physiology is lacking– Air Genasi are more common here. Have you seen a specialist healer at all since your fall?” 

Ashton can’t hold back a snort, “Not sure there’s a healer anywhere in the world that would know what the hell to do with me.” 

“That may well be true,” Nel concedes, “But then again, you might be surprised. It might be a good idea for you to go to visit the Earth Ashari and seek out a healer with more experience with your kind.” 

“Earth Ashari?” Ashton lifts his head just enough to squint over at Orym, “You didn’t tell me there are Earth Ashari.” 

Orym gives them a sheepish look and a shrug in response. Ashton lets his head drop back down onto his pillow with a tired sigh. 

“I guess it just never came up.”

“We’ll take you there someday soon.” Nel promises, smiling fondly at them both, “Even if there’s no cure for your condition, it would be well worth the trip if it could give you some relief.”

 The sheer kindness of the offer (and the complete lack of hesitance behind it) is enough to put a convoluted lump of gratitude and guilt and relief in Ashton’s throat. He swallows hard against it and whispers, “Thank you. I can’t– I just– Thank you.”  

“Of course, love. You’re one of ours now, remember?” Nel passes back the bottle of pills and runs her fingers along the edges of Ashton’s blankets, “You should try to get some more sleep, if you can. Do you need anything? I can warm up your blankets again if you like.” 

“Gods, yes. Please.” 

“Okay. I’ll just need to borrow these for a moment.” Nel gently lifts the extra blankets away and folds them on her lap, beginning to warm them with her Druidcraft. Mister hoots softly in surprise at the sudden exposure, but settles back down pretty quickly– Ashton had almost forgotten he was there. 

“How warm would you like me to make these, dear? Do you have a preference?”

“Hot as you can make ‘em,” Ashton replies, “Don’t worry, I don’t burn easy.” 

“So I’ve heard.” Nel says, amused. It takes her a few minutes to finish warming the blankets. She hums quietly as she works. There’s something oddly comforting about it. Ashton can’t help but let out a long sigh of relief when Nel spreads the blankets back over his aching body. 

“Thanks…” Ashton mumbles, relaxing under the warm layers of fabric. 

“Anytime, love. Sleep well.” She tucks the blankets more tightly around Ashton, kisses Orym on the forehead, and takes her leave. There’s a faint disturbance near Ashton’s feet as Orym makes himself more comfortable, then quiet stillness. It doesn’t take long for them to drift back into sleep after that. 

Ashton’s pretty sure they slept all the way through the night, because the next time they wake there is pale morning light filtering in around the edges of their blackout curtains. 

They definitely hurt a hell of a lot less today. Still a bit sore, but almost back to their normal baseline levels. Thank fuck. 

Mister is gone, but Orym is still here, curled up near Ashton’s feet. He has a pillow under his head and a throw blanket covering him, and is snoring softly. It warms something deep in Ashton’s core to see that he stayed through the night. 

Fuck, their mouth is dry. They fumble for the glass of water on their bedside table and down half the contents. By the time they put the glass down, they notice that Orym has lifted his head and is blinking sleepily up at them. 

“Oh, shit, did I wake you? Sorry.” 

Orym shakes his head and sits up fully, yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He tips his head curiously and gestures to his left side to indicate Ashton’s scars - a clear inquiry as to how they’re feeling. 

“Better today. Almost back to normal.” They give Orym a grateful half-smile and ruffle his hair, “You didn’t have to stay all night, y’know.” 

Orym tilts his head to the other side and gives Ashton a fond little half-smile of his own. He holds out his hands and Ashton doesn’t hesitate to offer one of their own, palm-up for him to write on.

‘Wanted to. Shouldn’t have to be alone when you’re in pain.’ 

Ashton softens, reaching out with his free hand to palm the side of Orym’s face and neck, “You know that feeling’s mutual, right?” 

Orym’s expression turns sombre at their reminder. He nods and leans heavily into their touch. Affectionate little fucker. Ashton leans down to press their forehead into Orym’s hair. 

After a moment, Orym’s fingertip traces across Ashton’s palm, ‘You should eat something.’  

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Ashton sits up straight and stretches, groaning with satisfaction as his joints crackle and pop. A loud clattering sound rises from downstairs, accompanied by one of Mister’s distinctive shrieks, “Sounds like Fearne’s making breakfast. Should we head down?” 

Orym gives them another nod and hops down from Ashton’s bed. It takes Ashton a moment to get steady on their feet after spending almost twenty four hours in bed. Orym takes their hand and plants it on his shoulder to help stabilize them and they give him a grateful pat.

“She’d better not be letting that monkey on the goddamn counters,” Ashton grumbles, “He throws his own shit, and you know she doesn’t make him wash his hands after.”

~*~

Ashton is sitting on a cliffside, gazing out at Zephrah’s scenic views when a pair of cold, spindly hands descend over his eyes and obscure his vision. 

“Guess whooooo?”

It’s only the quick recognition of Laudna’s sing-song voice that keeps Ashton from taking a swing at her when he startles, “Shit, Laudna! I’m probably the last fucking person you wanna sneak up on!” 

“Oh you’re no fun.” Laudna pouts and sticks out her tongue at them, but she can’t hold back a grin as she takes a seat next to him, “It’s good to see you too, Ashton.” 

“Wait…” Ashton squints until he notices the strange clarity that surrounds her, “I’m dreaming, yeah? Are you actually fucking here right now?” 

“We sure are,” Imogen sits next to him on his other side, “I’ve been practicing. Wasn’t able to get Chet or Braius, but Fearne and Orym should be around here somewhere.” 

“We’re here!” Fearne whisper-shouts as she approaches from behind. Her lowered voice is explained by the sleeping halfling cradled in her arms. She takes a seat next to Laudna, being careful not to jostle Orym awake as she settles, “We’ve missed you guys so much!” 

Laudna raises an eyebrow at Orym, looking bemused, “Is he dreaming about sleeping?” 

“Might be the meds he’s on,” Ashton suggests, “He told us they make his dreams kinda weird.” 

“Meds?” Imogen asks, looking concerned. 

“He hasn’t been able to sleep very much at all since… well, since Dorian,”  Fearne explains, her voice shaking with grief as her arms tighten slightly around Orym. She presses a kiss to the top of his head before adding, “His mom made him some medicine to help him rest. He has to take it every night before bed.” 

Imogen turns to Ashton and lays a soft hand on his arm, “Has it been helpin’? I know last time we talked you mentioned y’all have been havin’ trouble sleepin’.” 

“Seems to be. He actually fucking sleeps now, so that’s an improvement,” Ashton sighs, “He still has nightmares most nights, though, even with the meds.” 

“Ooh, poor thing.” Laudna coos sadly, reaching over to card her fingers through Orym’s hair, “Dreaming about sleeping must be quite restful, at least. Unless…” She gasps and looks around at each of her friends, “Do you think he’s dreaming inside this dream? Maybe it’s just dreams all the way down!” 

Ashton snorts in amusement, “That sounds convoluted as fuck. Would you have to wake up from every layer of dreams individually to wake up for real? ‘Cause it feels like your brain is just gaslighting you at that point.” 

“We’ll have to ask him when we all wake up.” Fearne decides. She gently shifts Orym into a more comfortable position. He snuffles and grumbles drowsily at the disturbance, but doesn’t wake. His sleeping face looks more at ease here than it has in some time.

“So when are you fuckers coming to visit?” Ashton asks, changing the subject with a shit-eating grin. 

“Well, we still have a few loose ends to tie up on our end, but if y’all can swing it, we were thinkin’ maybe next week?” Imogen replies, “Deanna and FRIDA are interested in taggin’ along, if y’all are okay with that?” 

“Fuck yeah. The more the merrier.” Ashton throws an arm each around Imogen and Laudna and squeezes, “It’ll be good to have something to look forward to.” 

There’s a general murmur of agreement, which transitions into small talk and catching up with each other after the time they’d spent apart. After a while Fearne passes Orym over to Ashton so she can braid Laudna and Imogen’s hair. 

“Y’know it’s not gonna be braided when we wake up, right?” Imogen asks, amused. 

“Oh, I know,” Fearne smiles indulgently as she weaves a series of flowers into Imogen’s long, lavender tresses. Her smile falters slightly as she adds, “Dorian and I used to do this for each other before bedtime. I miss it.” 

“One of us could braid your hair for you at night.” Ashton offers. 

“Yes, but your hair is made of rocks, and Orym’s is too short to braid, so I wouldn’t be able to return the favour. That was always half the fun.”

Ashton hums in response, looking down at the halfling sleeping in his arms. Orym had stirred faintly at the handover and huddled unconsciously into Ashton’s chest before going still again. He’s curled up now, but not in a tense way– he’s warm and pliant and relaxed in their arms. 

“He looks real peaceful like this,” Imogen smiles softly, tipping her head so Fearne can braid her hair more easily, “I know things are hard right now, but y’all are clearly takin’ such good care of each other.” 

“It doesn’t always feel like enough. Especially for Orym, knowing he’s hurting so fucking bad,” Ashton confides, “Losing another partner to fucking Ludinus of all people. It’s not fucking fair.”

“It’s not. But do try not to be too hard on yourself, Ashton,” Laudna says quietly, fiddling with a cat’s cradle she’d made with the skein of red string that hangs from her belt, “All you can do is your best. Believe me when I say that just being there makes an enormous difference.” She smiles reassuringly at Ashton, “It may seem strange to say, but you’re actually a very comforting person to be around.” 

“...Sure.” Ashton snorts disbelievingly. 

“It’s true!” Laudna retorts, her eyes wide and earnest, “You’re loyal, and protective, and there’s never any bullshit with you. And…” She nods down at Orym, “I think you underestimate just how much you helped hold us together when we were stranded in Issylra.” 

“Sure, because that ended so fucking well for us.” Ashton mutters bitterly before catching himself and grimacing, “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” 

Laudna puts her hand on their shoulder and gives him a sad look, “What happened with Bor’dor was outside any of our control. I can’t speak for Orym, but… if you hadn’t been there with us– especially that first night– I think I might have broken down much sooner than I did.” She squeezes his shoulder and adds, “I don’t mean to make you feel pressured to be strong for everyone or anything, to be clear. I just think you should give yourself more credit, that’s all. You’re more capable than you realize.” 

Ashton swallows around the lump in his throat, “Thanks, Laudna.” 

She simply smiles at him and returns to her fiddling. Orym shifts in his sleep, nestling even closer and curling one little hand around a fold in Ashton’s jacket. He lets out a soft, relaxed sigh as he settles back down again. 

Fearne chuckles as she conjures another flower for Imogen’s hair, “See? Even when he’s sleeping, he knows he’s safe with you.”

“Alright, alright,” Ashton grumbles good-naturedly. He rolls his eyes at his friends, but there’s no real irritation in it, “You saps are gonna give me fucking cavities.” 

He gets a round of teasing giggles for his trouble, but it does nothing to quell the fluttery warmth that’s taken up residence inside his chest. Ashton finds he’s perfectly content to continue holding Orym while the witches weave each other’s hair into increasingly complex braids. It’s the best dream he’s had in a long fucking time.

Chapter Text

Ashton is quick to check in with Orym when they wake the next morning. 

“How’d you sleep, bud?” 

Orym pauses in the middle of rubbing his eyes to consider Ashton’s question. He reaches out for their hand and traces one finger across their palm.

‘Surprisingly OK. No nightmares.’ 

“Hey, that’s fucking great!” 

Orym gives them a faint smile and a nod, combing his fingers through his hair to try to tame the bed head. He certainly looks better rested than usual. He starts stretching a little– nothing like his usual morning exercises, but clearly more structured than a casual wake-up stretch. It gives Ashton a strange feeling of optimism. It’s unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. 

They can’t quite shake their curiosity, though, so they ask, “What did you dream about? Anything?” 

Orym tips his head inquisitively. 

“Imogen popped in for a visit last night. She was able to get all three of us this time, and brought Laudna along with her.” Ashton scratches idly at the edge of his glass implant, “You were in the dream with us, but you were asleep the whole time, so we were all kinda wondering what the fuck even were you experiencing.” 

Orym furrows his brow and makes a soft, pensive sound as he thinks back, ‘It’s a little fuzzy, but... could kinda hear all your voices. Remember feeling warm. Safe. It was nice.’ 

Ashton can’t help but soften, “That’s good. Y’know, we could probably ask Imogen to pop in more often if it helps you sleep better.” 

Orym squeezes their hand and gives them a grateful look, ‘Only if it’s not too hard on Imogen. But that would be nice.’ 

“I think she’d be fucking thrilled to be able to help you. Just like the rest of us. And if I’m being honest, I slept better too.” Ashton tells him, “But yeah, we’ll ask about it next time we hear from her.” 

Orym’s lips turn up at the corners ever so slightly, ‘Lucky to have you guys.’ 

“We’re pretty fucking great.” Ashton grins back and ruffles Orym’s hair with his free hand. Then their smile turns more sombre, “We’re lucky to have you too. I’m starting to think… maybe we don’t tell each other enough, y’know?” 

Orym nods understandingly, looking a little melancholy, ‘Only so many chances to say it.’ 

“Yeah…” Ashton sighs sadly, “Yeah.” The friendly hair ruffle shifts into a gentle head rub, smoothing over the mess he’d made of Orym’s hair. Orym closes his eyes and leans into the affectionate touch in a way that puts a lump in Ashton’s throat, “Sorry. I feel like I’m not very good at this.”  

‘Not sure anyone is good at grief,’ Orym responds, using firmer pressure to convey emphasis. His eyebrows knit together in concern and his fingertip dances across the palm of Ashton’s hand as he continues, ‘Better at this than you think. Give yourself some credit.’ 

“That’s what Laudna said.” Ashton huffs wryly. 

‘She’s smart. Should listen to her.’ 

“You’re probably right.” Ashton concedes, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness. He listens for the familiar click of Fearne’s hooves as she moves around the house, but there’s no sounds to indicate that she’s anywhere nearby, “Sounds like Fearne’s already out and about. Guess we should probably get up too, huh?” 

‘Can rest longer if you need,’ Orym offers, ‘You were hurting pretty bad the other day.’ 

“You don’t have to worry about that. Bad days happen. I’m doing better now.” 

‘Always worry.’ 

“I know you do,” Ashton gives him a fond pat on the back, “I’m okay. Besides, if Imogen and Laudna and everyone are gonna come visit next week, we’ll need to get all the house repairs done, right?” 

Orym perks up a bit at that, some of the old brightness seeming to come back into his eyes. It’s a welcome sight. 

Ashton lets it propel him into actually getting up, tempted though he is by Orym’s suggestion that he get some more sleep. He slips out of the blanket fort to stretch properly and get ready for the day. Orym follows close behind, content to offer his assistance with each task Ashton takes on that day– cleaning out the raised garden beds, repainting the shutters, and tidying up the messier parts of the house. 

It’s always nice to have a distraction from the ever-present, aching grief that sits inside his chest. Judging by how eager he is to throw himself into helping Ashton with the housework, Orym must be feeling the same. It doesn’t take long for Fearne to join them in the garden, her pockets weighed down by satchels of vegetable and flower seeds that she had (probably) purchased at the market. 

Orym is in the middle of teaching Ashton how to turn the contents of the compost piles when an unfamiliar voice rings out across the garden. 

“You motherfuckers! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were here!” 

Everyone spins around to face the owner of the voice, a grinning young dwarven man with red hair and a lyre slung casually across his back. Ashton’s hackles start to rise at the intrusion on their home, but Orym and Fearne’s reaction has them holding back the urge to pick a fight.

“Dariax?!” Fearne gasps excitedly. She throws herself forward and drops to her knees to throw her arms around the newcomer, “Oh my god! What are you doing here?!” 

Orym also springs towards Dariax to greet him with a fierce hug. Dariax laughs delightedly and squeezes them both with equal enthusiasm.

“I’ve been here for a while. We came here looking for you guys!” Dariax catches sight of Ashton and offers a friendly wave and a sing-song, “Hey!” 

“Uh… hi?” Ashton replies uncertainly, still hanging back. 

“Oh!” Fearne exclaims, “Dariax, this is Ashton, one of the friends we met in Jrusar! Ashton, this is Dariax! He’s one of the friends we used to travel with.” 

Ashton relaxes at the introduction– it’s easier to let his guard down around one of Fearne and Orym’s old friends, “Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.” They don’t mention that most of what they’d heard about Dariax had come from his jilted ex. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah! Nice to meet you too, man!” Dariax grins with recognition, “Dorian told me all about you! Where is that asshole, anyway? I have to give him a piece of my mind for abandoning me here to go after you guys on his own!” 

Ashton feels like a heavy block of ice has suddenly been dropped into their stomach. Fearne and Orym both freeze like a pair of deer caught in a beam of light, the joy on their faces giving way to shock and heartbreak. 

“Guys…?” Dariax asks hesitantly, his hopeful expression beginning to fall away, “Where’s Dorian?” 

Ashton sighs heavily and claps Dariax on the shoulder, “Why don’t you come inside? I think we should probably sit down for this conversation.” 

~*~

Ashton ushers everyone inside to have a seat at the kitchen table, and busies himself with making tea while Fearne fills Dariax in on everything that happened. By the time the tea is ready (steeped a little too long and liberally spiked with booze from Ashton’s hip flask), Dariax and Fearne are both openly weeping and Orym has gone still as a stone. 

Ashton had planned to let the others have this discussion in private, but when they move to slip away after delivering the tea, Orym’s hand catches them by the wrist. He’s pale and shaking, and his teary, red-rimmed eyes are starting to go distant in the way that they do when he’s having trouble staying in the present. It only takes one look for Ashton to pull a chair right up next to him. They wrap one arm around Orym’s tiny, trembling body and tuck him carefully into their side, squeezing him almost hard enough to hurt. 

Orym lets out a soft, wavering breath and turns to hide his face in Ashton’s ribs. They can faintly feel his tears soaking into their shirt. Fearne offers Ashton a grateful look through her own tears as she pulls Dariax into a side-hug. 

“I-I should’ve been there,” Dariax sniffles with his head in his hands, “I sh-should’ve gone with you guys, I–” 

“Hey,” Ashton interrupts, tapping on the table in front of him with their free hand to get his attention, “Don’t go blaming yourself for what happened, alright? We were deep in the shit, man, and I mean deep. If Dorian left you behind, it was to keep you fucking safe.” 

Dariax lifts his head just enough to glance miserably up at Ashton, “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” 

“No, it’s not,” Ashton answers honestly, “But it’s the fucking truth. It’s no one’s fault but Ludinus’ for getting everyone else caught up in his bullshit to begin with.” 

Dariax doesn’t reply to that. He just scrubs a hand down his face and stares despondently down at the grainy wooden surface of the table. Fearne smooths back a lock of his hair and kisses him on the temple. 

“Ashton’s right. It’s not your fault. It’s not any of our fault. We just have to keep reminding each other.” She holds Dariax close and presses her cheek to the top of his head, “I’m sorry we didn’t find you sooner. If we’d known you were here we would’ve come looking for you.” 

“I know.” Dariax whispers, patting Fearne’s hand where it rests on his shoulder. He looks over at Orym, still trembling and pressing himself tightly into Ashton’s side, “Is he… okay? Not that– I mean– He hasn’t said a word this whole time.” 

“No,” Ashton sighs, rubbing Orym’s back in a way he hopes is comforting, “He’s safe. We’re taking care of him. But no, he’s not okay.” 

“He hasn’t been able to talk for a while,” Fearne adds, “Not since he went to tell Dorian’s parents about what happened.” 

“Oh, buddy...” Dariax murmurs, heartache and sympathy plain on his face. 

Orym’s breath hitches and wheezes, muffled by the way he’s hidden his face in Ashton’s shirt. They frown and shift to kneel in front of Orym, trying to get a better look at his face. His eyes have gone blank and unseeing, and he stares right through Ashton even when they snap their fingers to try to get him to focus. 

“Shit.” Ashton curses under his breath and starts digging in his jacket pocket for the little bottle of smelling salts Nel had given him. 

“He’s gone again, isn’t he?” Fearne asks, quiet and sad. 

“Yeah. I’ve got him.” Ashton finds the bottle and pops the cork, then holds it under Orym’s nose. It only takes a second or two for Orym to startle back to awareness, sputtering and coughing at the pungent scent. He glances around frantically, his eyes wild with terror and his chest heaving with panicked breaths. 

Ashton takes Orym’s face in both hands and gives him a few bracing pats on the cheek, “Hey bud, you back with me? C’mon, Orym. Focus. Breathe. Fearne and I are right here.” 

Dariax gently extracts himself from Fearne’s embrace and moves to stand next to Ashton, “Here. I can help.”

He covers one of Orym’s hands with his own and it starts to glow with a warm, golden light. A wave of calming magic washes over the room, soothing the raw edges of everyone’s emotions. Orym’s breathing immediately eases up and he sags exhaustedly in his chair. 

Dariax pats his hand apologetically, “Sorry bud, this only lasts about a minute. You still gotta calm your body down or it’s just gonna come right back when the spell drops.” 

Ashton takes Orym’s free hand and plants it on their chest, “Breathe with me, alright? In through your nose, out through your mouth. That’s it.” 

They continue to coach Orym into regulating his breathing, and when Dariax’s spell finally runs out, he manages not to slip back into full panic mode. It takes a couple more minutes of matching his breaths to Ashton’s to fully come down from the panic attack. 

“There you are. You okay?” Ashton asks quietly. Orym nods, but doesn’t meet their gaze. His lips are pressed together in a thin, tight line and tears are welling in his eyes. It’s an anguished, shame-faced look that Ashton and Fearne are all-too familiar with. Ashton sighs heavily. He cups one hand around the back of Orym’s neck and gently pulls him down to press their heads together. 

“It’s okay,” Ashton murmurs, soft and soothing, “It’s okay.” 

Orym’s face starts to crumple and he lets his head drop onto Ashton’s shoulder with a soft, whispery sob. Ashton keeps one hand on the back of his neck and tries to massage out some of the remaining tension. Dariax fidgets anxiously next to them. 

“Does this happen… a lot?” He asks awkwardly, still holding one of Orym’s hands in his own. 

“Kind of,” Fearne replies, her eyes downcast, “Some days are better than others. He’s doing his best to stay present, but… he has a lot of flashbacks about– about Dorian,” She sniffles and adds, “These last few weeks have been really hard for him.” 

“That spell you just used helped a whole fucking lot, though,” Ashton adds, continuing to rub the back of Orym’s neck with one hand, “I think that was the fastest he’s ever come out of a panic attack.” 

Orym turns his little hand over to return Dariax’s hand-hold and gives a grateful squeeze. Dariax blinks and does his best to muster up a weak half-smile. 

“Well, y’know. Happy to help.” His attempt at a smile seems sincere enough, but it’s quick to falter and slip back into despair. There’s a long silence between the four of them. Eventually Ashton speaks up.

“Hey, uh… Dariax? Where the fuck have you been staying this whole time?”  

“Huh? Oh,” Dariax scratches the back of his head with his free hand, “The fella who runs the Airy Eyrie has been nice enough to put me up for a bit, as long as I play music at the bar in the evenings. Though, uh… I’m starting to think maybe he regrets making that offer, heh.” 

Fearne and Ashton share a look. Even Orym lifts his head just enough to catch both of their eyes. Clearly they’re all thinking the same thing. Ashton claps Dariax on the shoulder. 

“Go get your shit. We’ve got an extra room you can have.” 

~*~

It’s a hell of a lot less quiet in the house with Dariax around, but Ashton can’t say he minds it too much. It reminds them a bit of being back in the Krook House, having him puttering noisily around, or plucking idly at his lyre, or chattering away in the background. He’s surprisingly handy around the house and garden too, as Ashton found out one day while doing some repair work on the roof. 

“Yeah, I grew up on a farm in Turst Fields,” Dariax blithely informs them, “I didn’t really take to the farm life like my brother did, but I can patch a roof okay.” 

“More than okay,” Ashton snorts, gesturing at Dariax’s patch job, “This is great fucking work. And it got done, like, ten times faster than if I’d done it by myself.” 

Dariax seems to brighten slightly at the praise. He always has an air of sadness about him these days (same as every other resident of this little cottage), but he seems to have taken it upon himself to try to bring a little cheer back into their everyday lives. 

It reminds Ashton a little of Dorian, masking his grief over Cyrus by putting on a smile. Keeping up his optimistic disposition in an attempt to bolster his friends’ spirits. 

The thought leaves a faintly sick feeling in the pit of Ashton’s stomach. He makes a mental note and adds it to his list of things to keep an eye on. 

Speaking of things to keep an eye on…

Fearne seems to be in slightly better spirits with Dariax around– not that she isn’t still contending with her own grief, of course, but Fearne thrives more in the company of friends. Orym is as quiet as ever, but his flashbacks and panic attacks don’t seem to hit him quite as hard with the help of Dariax’s Calm Emotions spell. The odd time that Orym slips away to be by himself, Ashton sometimes finds that Dariax has gotten to him first to check up on him. On one occasion he finds the two of them in Orym’s room– kneeling in front of the little shrine of mementos from lost loved ones, with Orym listening attentively while Dariax rambles on in a quiet voice that Ashton can’t quite make out. They seem to be okay, though, so he lets them be. 

Dariax may not be the smartest person Ashton’s ever met, but he has a sensitivity about him that can sometimes get lost beneath his flighty disposition. Either way, it’s nice to have another pair of eyes looking out for Orym and Fearne.

Dariax, as it turns out, doesn’t seem to have strict preferences or strong desires in his own everyday life– in fact, he’s quite content to follow other people around most of the time. It’s not unusual for Fearne or Ashton to be futzing around the house or garden with both Orym and Dariax trailing along behind like a pair of ducklings. 

“It feels kinda weird,” Dariax confides one night in the blanket fort after Fearne and Orym fall asleep, “I’m more used to following him around,” he gestures to Orym, who is curled up with his head pillowed on Ashton’s chest, “Not so much the other way, y’know?” 

Ashton huffs in amusement, smoothing one hand absentmindedly back and forth over Orym’s back, “Yeah. Yeah, I do, actually. He’s easy to follow.” 

Ashton had followed him all the way to the moon and back, after all. 

“I think… I think maybe Dorian was a little bit in love with him, y’know?” Dariax continues haltingly, “He didn’t always talk about it, but he obviously missed him a lot. Kept that Sending Stone on him all the time. Stuff like that.” 

“It was the same with Orym,” Ashton admits, “The two of them only finally got their shit together right before the end. We didn’t even have Dorian back for very long.” He sighs dejectedly, staring up at the fabric ceiling, “It’s not fucking fair. They should’ve had more time.” 

 Dariax hums in agreement. Silence falls between them. It doesn’t take long for Dariax to fall asleep after that, lying back-to-back with Fearne. Ashton stays awake a while longer, staring into the distance and just… stewing. He knows he needs to go to sleep, in case Imogen tries to reach him in his dreams, but he can’t seem to quiet his mind enough to drift off. 

After a while, Orym starts to twitch and whimper in his sleep. Ashton shushes him gently and rubs his back, trying to soothe him without waking him. He settles again after a moment, letting out a long, shaky sigh as he relaxes under Ashton’s hand. 

Ashton keeps rubbing Orym’s back for a bit, continuing to stare through the top of the blanket fort like maybe an answer that will still his restless thoughts is hidden somewhere behind the sheets above them. 

His sleepless eyes eventually wander to the portraits of Dorian and FCG that are visible through the door of the fort. The sight of them causes something bitter and angry to start bubbling in the pit of his stomach. He drops his free forearm over his eyes, trying to block out all visual input. Swears under his breath a few times. Tries to focus on the sound of his friends breathing. 

Sleep never comes. 

~*~

Ashton’s being a fucking grump. 

He likes to think he’s a pretty self-aware guy. He’s always been a little on the angry side (surprisingly enough, not quite as angry as some of the other kids who came out of Greymoore– though that’s not saying very much) but he likes to think he can mostly direct it in reasonably productive ways. Usually that means hitting people for money, but he’s been doing a hell of a lot less of that these days. Maybe that’s part of the fucking problem. 

Fearne and Dariax have obviously picked up on Ashton’s bad mood, ‘cause they’ve been giving him a pretty wide berth since he’d grunted irritably at both of their morning greetings. Orym is definitely aware, but he isn’t really treating them any differently, and they’re kind of fucking grateful for it. Orym’s never been one to take offense on occasions where Ashton’s grouchiness has gotten the better of them. It’s one of their favourite things about him, actually, but that’s beside the fucking point. 

The point is that Ashton’s in a bad fucking mood and he doesn’t really want to take it out on his friends, even if they are all insufferable morning people. 

So they finish their food, knock back the rest of their coffee in one gulp like a shot, and trudge outside, grumbling a curt ‘thanks’ to whoever made breakfast as they leave. Maybe doing some yard work will help him work through whatever’s bothering him. 

He’s pretty sure he can feel Orym’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his head as he goes. 

Ashton gets halfway across the backyard before their trajectory grinds to a halt. They had thought that doing some hard physical labour might give them an outlet for whatever irritation has been plaguing them, but now that they’re out here, they can’t quite muster the motivation to do anything but brood. 

So he stomps around the back of the dilapidated old chicken coop, sits on the ground with his back to one of the crumbling walls, pulls his knees in tight to his chest, and does just that. 

What the fuck is he even mad about? They’ve had a pit of hot, bitter anger simmering in their gut since they got up, and they don’t have the faintest fucking clue as to why. 

Ashton’s not sure how long they’ve been sitting out here before he hears Orym’s soft footsteps padding towards their hiding spot. He circles around the remains of the chicken coop and takes a seat next to Ashton on their good side, where they can actually see him in their peripheral vision. Ashton suspects he made a deliberate effort not to sit in their blind spot, which they suppose is kind of nice. 

“You don’t have to hang around out here with me,” Ashton mumbles dejectedly, “M’not gonna be good company.” 

Orym gives their elbow a quick, reassuring pat before briefly retracting his hand. After a moment, Ashton feels a tiny halfling finger tracing over the back of their forearm.

‘Wanna talk about it?’ 

“Not really,” Ashton replies. Then he scoffs at himself, “It’s so fucking stupid. I don’t even know what I’m pissed off about. I’m just… angry.” 

Orym pauses to consider that. Ashton can see him watching them from the corner of their eye, his head tilted to one side. Then his fingertip skates across their arm again. 

‘Did you sleep OK?’ 

Ashton blinks in surprise at that, “Uh– no. No, I didn’t.” He turns to look at Orym more directly, offering a rueful half-smile, “I guess that probably doesn’t help, huh?” 

Orym shakes his head and shrugs, offering a sympathetic half-smile of his own. He holds out his hand to Ashton. They place their larger hand in his with the palm facing up so Orym can write on it more easily. 

‘In my experience, anger tends to be rooted in other feelings. Hurt. Injustice. Grief.’ Orym looks up at Ashton with big, sad eyes before continuing, ‘Have to unpack those other emotions if you wanna deal with the anger.’ 

Ashton snorts, “You sound like Letters.” 

Orym chuckles softly, amused and fond, ‘He was right about some things.’ 

Ashton can’t find it in himself to disagree. The two of them sit quietly for a moment before Orym continues. 

‘You’ve been so focused on taking care of us. Have you even had a chance to process everything that happened yet?’ 

“I…” Ashton pauses, thinks about deflecting, then sighs, “I’ve mostly been trying not to think too much about it.” 

‘You’re allowed to have feelings.’ 

“I know I’m allowed,” Ashton grumbles irritably, “Maybe I don’t fucking want to. I hate feeling my feelings. Feelings are fucking bullshit.” 

Orym gives a huff of soft, bitter laughter, ‘I get that.’ 

Ashton snorts, “Figured you might.” 

The two of them sit in silence for a time, listening to the birds singing in the morning sunlight. It’s too fucking cheerful, which kind of just compounds with the general discontent that’s been stewing inside him all morning. 

“I just… I don’t fucking get it!” Ashton eventually snaps as their frustration hits its peak, “It’s not Dorian and FCG’s fault that they–” He chokes on his words and swallows painfully around the lump in his throat, “I know it’s not. I’ve been abandoned before, like, actually fucking abandoned. This isn’t that. So why does it feel like it is?” 

Orym squeezes Ashton’s hand before responding, his fingertip dancing across their hand, ‘Grief feels like that sometimes. Doesn’t have to make sense. It just is. Doesn’t make you a bad person.’ 

Ashton hums noncommittally, but takes a moment to mull it over anyway. Orym pauses to let his words sink in, then continues to write. 

‘After Dad and Will… I felt like that a lot.’ Orym’s eyes start to well up at the memory, an old wound that’s been freshly torn open with Dorian’s passing, ‘Felt like they left me behind. Wished I had gone with them.’ 

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Ashton blurts out. Orym offers them a teary, heartsick smile. 

‘Me too. But it took time to stop feeling that way. Time, and talking, and loving my family and friends.’ He sniffles and rubs the wetness from his eyes, then sets his finger to Ashton’s palm again, ‘You asked me not to shut you guys out. Don’t shut us out either.’ 

Ashton’s vision blurs and his eyes burn, but he gives Orym a shaky nod, “Can’t promise to be any fucking good at it, though.” 

‘Don’t have to be good at it. Just have to try.’ 

“Okay.” Ashton whispers. The bitter, slow-burning anger they’ve been feeling recedes somewhat. Not completely. Never completely. But it leaves a cold, empty ache in its place as it burns down to cinders. They let out a long, dejected sigh. 

“I’m… tired. M’ so fucking tired, man.” 

‘I know.’ Orym tugs gently at their hand, ‘Said you didn’t sleep well. Should lie down for a bit. Let yourself rest.’ 

Ashton raises an eyebrow, “What, like, just right here?” 

‘If you want. It’s nice out. Peaceful.’ 

Ashton has to give him that. It’s shady and pleasantly cool behind the old chicken coop. The only sounds are birdsong (less irritating now that Ashton’s had a chance to chill out a little), and the rustle of the perpetual Zephran breeze through the tree branches. 

“Yeah, alright. Fuck it.” 

Orym gives them a soft smile and encourages them to lie down on the grass with their head in his lap. Orym is warm, and so tiny that his whole body sort of has to curl around the back of his head to accommodate it. Suddenly Ashton is struck by the worry that maybe he’s too heavy or sharp-edged for Orym to be comfortable.

“I’m not, like, squishing you or stabbing you with my hair or anything, am I?” 

Orym chuckles and shakes his head, tracing his words on the side of their arm, ‘I’m OK. Get comfy.’ 

So Ashton does. Once they get settled, Orym places one hand on the side of his neck and smooths his thumb back and forth over the stony skin at their pulse point. 

It feels a little weird to be on the receiving end of this sort of comfort, but he can’t deny… it’s kinda nice. Soothing. He lets his eyes slip shut and relaxes into Orym’s touch. Listens to the sounds of nature and feels the stability of the earth beneath him. Breathes the fresh air. 

He’s not quite sure at what point he fell asleep, but when Ashton wakes, his head is still in Orym’s lap and his body is half-buried in Druidcrafted flowers. Orym himself is snoozing away, leaning back against the wall of the chicken coop. He looks relaxed. Content. 

Ashton decides to stay where he is for now. He’s plenty comfortable, and doesn’t want to disturb Orym if he doesn’t have to. And anyway, he doesn’t have anywhere to fucking be. 

He’s vaguely entertaining the idea of going back to sleep again when Fearne pokes her head around the side of the chicken coop. Ashton gives her a little wave as she looks curiously between the two of them. 

‘Is everything okay?’ She mouths to them silently. Ashton flashes her a thumbs-up without moving from his position. She nods and adds, ‘Need anything?’

‘We’re good.’ Ashton mouths back, waving away her concern. 

‘Okay. Lunch soon.’ Fearne replies. She smiles fondly and blows them both a kiss before retreating back inside the house. Ashton lets out a long, slow breath and closes his eyes.

Might as well enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts. 

~*~

Ashton doesn’t really know why he didn’t think of it before. Maybe he’s just been too preoccupied with trying to hold everything together for his friends. But the thought occurs to him one day while he’s out running errands, so on a whim he stops to talk to Keyleth. 

The Tempest Blade on guard duty (one of Orym’s former comrades) recognizes Ashton and lets him enter Keyleth’s home without incident. He finds her alone in her office, reading through a stack of paper work and chewing pensively on the end of her quill. They knock on the doorframe and she smiles welcomingly when she sees them, setting down her quill and pushing the papers aside. 

“Ashton. It’s good to see you,” she gestures to a vacant chair opposite her desk and he takes a seat, “I’ve been meaning to stop by to check in on you all, but things are still so crazy with the gods gone and the resettlement still going on and everything. How are you doing?” 

“I’m okay.” Ashton fidgets awkwardly and glances around the office, “I, uh… I wanted to ask you something, but if now’s not a good time…” 

“No, no, you’re fine. I could use a break.” She folds her hands on top of her desk and regards Ashton kindly, “What can I do for you?” 

“Well… you’re, like, really fucking powerful. And know a lot about magic and stuff?” 

Keyleth looks amused, “You could say that.” 

Ashton chuckles a little sheepishly, but forges on anyway, “I was wondering… is it possible to bring someone back to life without a body? Like, if it was destroyed or something, could you still do it?” 

Keyleth gives him a long, searching look. After an extended, silent pause she speaks, “Why are you asking me this?” 

“It’s just… ever since we lost Dorian… Orym and Fearne have been struggling. Especially Orym. You know he hasn’t said a single word since he came home?” They give a helpless, bitter huff, “When Dorian was… well, you already know. There wasn’t a body left after, so we couldn’t Revivify him. But you’re really powerful, and you helped us bring Laudna back, and that was a whole clusterfuck, so… I just wanted to know if it’s possible.” 

Keyleth stares for a long, long moment before she sighs despondently. “So Orym didn’t tell you…” 

Ashton’s insides twist and he swallows hard, “Didn’t tell us what?” 

“To answer your question: with enough power and resources, yes it is possible. But Ashton…” She looks at him with such sadness and remorse that it makes his throat tighten, “We already tried.” 

Ashton gapes at her in shock, “I– What? When?!” 

“When Orym and I journeyed to the Silken Squall, I made an offer to Dorian’s parents– that if they were able to provide the necessary resources, I could make an attempt to resurrect their sons.” Keyleth’s eyes turn downcast, “The ritual failed both times. I wasn’t able to bring back Dorian or Cyrus. Zeru and Nephele were… inconsolable.” 

Ashton leans forward in their chair, propping their elbows on their knees and dropping their face into their hands. Shit. 

No wonder Orym had been catatonic for two days when he got home from the Squall. Fuck.

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” Keyleth continues, quiet and regretful, “It didn’t occur to me that Orym might not have told you.” 

“I think… I might understand why he didn’t.” Ashton sighs and scrubs his hands down his face, “Do you know why it didn’t work?” 

“It’s difficult to say. Any number of factors could have caused the spell to fail.” Keyleth can’t quite seem to meet his eyes, “There’s always a chance that the magic won’t take, even under the best of circumstances– and resurrection magic was getting a little temperamental even before the gods Descended, what with the apogee solstice and the Malleus Key and everything. And without the Matron to oversee the passage between life and death… we don’t know yet what the effects of that might be.” 

“Wait– Is this our fucking fault?” Ashton asks incredulously. Keyleth grimaces and holds her hands up placatingly. 

“No, no, of course not!” She waffles for a moment before adding, “At least, I’m pretty sure it’s not? I haven’t heard enough reports of other failed resurrections to be able to say for sure. Like I said, sometimes the spell just doesn’t work. And the soul has to be willing to return, or the ritual will fail automatically.” 

Ashton shakes his head vehemently, “No. There’s no fucking way Dorian wouldn’t come back if he had the chance to. He wouldn’t leave us behind. He wouldn’t leave Orym behind.” 

“I believe you. And I’m sorry.” Keyleth looks at him sadly, “I wish I had better answers for you.” 

“It's okay. I, uh… I got a lot more answers than I was expecting, honestly, so… Thanks for that.” Ashton rubs the back of his neck, “I appreciate you taking the time. I know you’re really fucking busy.” 

Keyleth smiles, “I’d be a poor leader if I didn’t take the time to hear the concerns of my people. Especially one who’s done and given so much to protect our world.” 

Ashton shrugs awkwardly and gets to his feet to get ready to leave, “Yeah, well. Still. Thanks. I’ll see you around, I guess.” 

“Of course. If there’s anything else I can help you with– anything at all– all you need to do is ask. And… Ashton?” They pause and glance over their shoulder at her, “Don’t be too hard on Orym. I really didn’t know he hadn’t told you.” 

Ashton can’t help but soften, “I won’t. I mean, I’m probably gonna talk to him about it, but… I’m not mad at him or anything. I even think I kinda get it, a little bit.” 

Some of the tension leaves her shoulders, “Thank you. I know I’ve said it before, but… I’m glad Orym has you by his side.” 

Ashton can’t quite bring himself to meet Keyleth’s eyes, so he just mumbles his way through a goodbye and takes his leave. People keep telling him shit like that with those earnest fucking looks on their faces. So why is it so hard to make himself believe them? 

~*~

It takes a little time before Ashton is able to pull Orym aside to speak privately. He doesn’t particularly want to risk being interrupted by Fearne or Dariax, so he waits until he knows the two of them are going to be out of the house for a while. 

“Hey, buddy. Can we talk for a second?” 

Orym looks at them curiously, but nods and follows Ashton out to a quiet corner of the garden. Ashton kneels to be at his eye level and takes one of his hands in their own. 

“Listen. I, uh… I talked to the Voice of the Tempest the other day.” Ashton does his best to keep his voice low and gentle, but Orym’s eyes go wide and anxious anyway. They give his hand a tight squeeze, as much to prevent him from bolting as to be reassuring, “Why didn’t you tell us she tried to bring Dorian back?” 

Orym turns pale and makes a faint choking sound in the back of his throat. His legs fold underneath him as he starts to shake, and he drops to his knees in the grass. Ashton reaches out to stabilize him and palms the side of his head with their free hand. 

“Hey, hey, hey, shhh. Easy. I’m not mad at you. I promise I’m not mad. I just wanna know why you didn’t tell us. That’s all.” 

Orym sucks in a harsh breath and raises his hands to grasp at Ashton’s wrist. He screws his eyes shut and leans hard into their steadying hand, his face twisting with grief and shame. Orym tries to write something on the inside of their wrist with his fingertip, but his hand is shaking too hard for Ashton to make out what he’s trying to say. They rub their thumb soothingly across Orym’s cheek.

“It’s okay. Take a minute. Breathe.” 

Orym does his best to follow Ashton’s instructions, clutching their wrist and forcing himself to take slower, more measured breaths until the shaking eases up. Ashton waits patiently for the initial shock to subside, keeping his hand on Orym’s face and murmuring soft reassurances. Eventually Orym’s fingertip starts to race across their arm.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry–’ Orym’s eyes start to well up as he scrawls his guilt repeatedly on Ashton’s skin. They raise their free hand and give him a couple bracing pats on the cheek to get him to focus. 

“Hey. There’s nothing for you to be sorry for,” Ashton insists, “Like I said, I’m not mad you didn’t tell us. I just need to know where your head’s at so I can actually fucking help you. Okay?” 

Orym whimpers and clings a little harder, but manages to give a shaky nod. He takes a few soft, gasping breaths, trying to compose himself a bit more before setting his finger to the inside of Ashton’s wrist again. 

‘Wasn’t sure how to tell you. Kind of didn’t want to.’ A few tears escape the corners of his eyes and Ashton thumbs them away, ‘Know from experience– bad enough to lose him once.’ 

Ashton’s heart sinks. It’s so fucking obvious in hindsight. It hadn’t been possible to bring Orym’s husband or father-in-law back either. Of course Orym would want to spare his friends the pain of having those hopes dashed. Of course he hadn’t wanted to break their hearts all over again. Ashton sighs sadly. 

‘I’m sorry.’ Orym is half curled into a tiny ball of tension in front of them. Ashton leans down to try to catch his eye, but his eyes are squeezed tightly shut.

“Don’t apologize. I get it. I really fucking do. But Orym–” He smooths Orym’s hair back from his face, “You never should’ve had to carry that alone. If anything it just pisses me off even more that they didn’t let us come with you to the Squall.” 

Something about that seems to put a leak in the emotional dam. Orym lets out a quiet sob and shuffles forward to collapse into Ashton’s arms. They catch him easily and pull him into a crushingly tight hug, letting him huddle in as close as he can get. He sniffles and hiccups in a way that says he’s trying and failing not to break down and cry. 

“I’ve got you, buddy. It’s okay. You can let go.” Ashton murmurs, letting their voice rumble low in their chest like a cat’s purr. As though he was just waiting for permission, Orym finally dissolves into uncontrollable tears. 

‘Why didn’t it work?!’ Orym’s hand is shaking so hard as he cries that Ashton can barely make out his words. They’re pretty sure if he hadn’t lost his voice he’d be wailing. ‘Why didn’t he come back?!’ 

Ashton screws his eyes shut against his own tears and squeezes Orym hard enough to hurt, “I’m sorry, Orym. I wish I knew.” 

Orym cries like that for a while– it’s probably the worst Ashton’s seen him since that first night they’d been home, when they’d had to coax him out of his catatonic state for the first time. His heaving, wracking sobs gradually fade into tight, ragged breaths that puff gently against Ashton’s shirt. He doesn’t move to pull away, and Ashton doesn’t let him go.

‘I’m sorry,’ Orym eventually traces on Ashton’s side, ‘I really didn’t mean to keep it secret.’ 

“I know, buddy. I know.” 

‘Do the others know?’ 

“No. I only just found out myself. I wanted to talk to you first before telling anyone.” Ashton cards their fingers through Orym’s hair, “D’you want to tell them?” 

Orym doesn’t respond for a long, long time. Ashton continues petting his hair for a while before asking, “D’you want me to tell them?” 

Orym hesitates a bit longer before finally replying, ‘...Maybe. Don’t know. Don’t wanna keep it from them, but…’ 

“You don’t wanna hurt them more.” Ashton finishes for him, sighing sadly. Orym sniffles and nods, pressing his face harder into Ashton’s chest. 

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Ashton murmurs, giving the back of Orym’s neck a gentle squeeze, “You have time to think about what you wanna do. And if it comes up in the meantime, we’ll deal with it then.” 

‘OK.’ Orym pauses before adding, ‘Head hurts.’ 

“Yeah, I bet it fucking does,” Ashton can feel the painful tension in Orym’s neck under their fingers, “C’mon. I’ll get you set up with some drugs, and then you can sleep it off.” 

They lift Orym up and settle him on their hip to carry him back inside. Orym makes a soft, pained sound at the change in position, instinctively winding his arms around Ashton’s neck and fastening his legs around their waist. He screws his eyes tightly shut and buries his face in the crook of Ashton’s neck– the light must be making his headache worse. 

Ashton heads for the kitchen and goes through the motions of making tea one-handed with Orym still held securely in their other arm. He fills the kettle and sets it on the heat, then digs around for a mug and the willow bark blend that he sometimes uses when his pain level is sitting on the very edge of intolerable. He fills Orym’s little teapot with a generous amount of willow tea and takes the kettle off the heat before it can whistle too loudly. 

Once the tea is steeping, Ashton busies himself by dampening a cloth with cool water. He lets the tea get just slightly too strong before pouring some into Orym’s favourite mug, then he gathers up the tea and the damp cloth and carries Orym upstairs. 

Ashton’s about to bring Orym to his room, but the thought of him having to look at that shrine full of mementos after such a terrible breakdown gives them pause. Instead they make for their own room– their blackout curtains will be better for Orym’s headache anyway. 

They use their foot to nudge the door shut, then place the tea on their bedside table and pull the curtains closed. Once it’s acceptably dark, Ashton gently sets Orym down on their bed and presses the mug of tea into his hands. 

“Try to drink all of that, okay? It’ll help with your head.” 

Orym stares balefully up at them, but does as he’s told, wrinkling his nose at the bitter taste. Once he’s finished his tea, Ashton takes back the mug and sets it aside. They’re about to help Orym lie back against their pillows, but he grasps desperately at their hand and gives them a plaintive look.

‘Stay? Please?’ 

Ashton can’t help but soften, “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Orym’s posture eases minutely and he allows them to help him lie down. After they’ve made sure he’s comfortable, Ashton lays the damp cloth across his tired, aching eyes. Orym lets out a soft sigh of relief under the cool compress and gives Ashton’s hand a grateful squeeze. 

Once they’ve got Orym settled, Ashton climbs into bed next to him, being careful not to jostle his head. They lie down on their good side and wrap one arm around Orym’s tiny body, pulling him in tight to their chest. 

“Get some sleep, bud. I’m here if you need anything.” 

Orym relaxes into their embrace and draws a little heart on the back of Ashton’s hand. It doesn’t take long for him to pass the fuck out, exhausted as he is. Ashton can feel Orym’s breathing gradually even out, his chest rising and falling gently under their enfolding arm. 

He’s so fucking small. 

It’s easy to forget how small he is sometimes, with how quick Orym is to throw himself at every threat and how fiercely he protects others. From pretty much the day they’d first met, he’d seemed larger than life, especially on the battlefield. For all that they’re nearly twice his height, Ashton couldn’t help but look up to him.

(It’s hard to forget how small he is, with all the times Ashton’s seen him get fucking pulverized by opponents many times his size. Watching him cut off pieces of himself, making himself even smaller to try to fit in a painfully narrow box– to balance saving the world with saving his friends– had hurt more than Ashton could ever have imagined in their earliest days together.) 

Ashton squeezes his eyes shut and holds his dear, small friend close to his heart. 

It’s not fucking fair that loving people has to hurt like this. 

Ashton isn’t sure how long it’s been by the time he hears his door creak open and Fearne’s hooves tapping quietly across the floor. When he finally cracks open his eyes she’s kneeling next to his bed, gazing sadly at him and Orym both. 

“Hi.” Fearne whispers.

“Hey.” 

“Are you two okay?” 

“No. He had a bad fucking day today. Ended up with a stress migraine, I’m pretty sure.” A huff of bitter laughter escapes Ashton’s throat, “M’ kinda surprised he didn’t get one sooner to be honest, with all the shit we’ve been through,” They glance down at Orym, still deeply asleep in their arms with the cool compress over his eyes, “M’ fucking tired of hurting, Fearne. Tired of watching him hurt.” 

“I know. Me too.” Fearne reaches out and caresses Ashton’s cheek with the back of her knuckles, “Is there anything I can do to help?” 

“I don’t think so,” Ashton replies honestly, tiredly, “Pretty sure we just have to wait it out.” He doesn’t just mean Orym’s headache. 

Fearne seems to understand. She continues stroking Ashton’s cheek for a while, her touch leaving warm tingles in its wake. 

“I love you both,” Ashton blurts out, the ache in his heart making his voice tremble, “I love you both so fucking much.” 

“We love you too,” Fearne murmurs, giving him a heartsick smile, “More than anything in the whole wide world.” She gives him a long, searching look, “You know we’re not gonna leave you, right? Never ever.” 

Ashton’s eyes burn as tears start to well up, “After everything we’ve been through… I don’t think that’s something you can promise.” 

“Not on purpose, then,” Fearne amends, “And we’ll always try to come back to you if we can.” 

Ashton can’t bring himself to argue when she’s looking at him with that sad puppy expression on her face. Despite his best efforts, a couple tears manage to escape from his eyes. 

“Will you stay?” Ashton whispers, “It doesn’t have to be for long. I just–” His throat starts to close around a lump of emotion, but he pushes through because fuck it– if he can’t be vulnerable with his closest friends, who can he be vulnerable with? “I think I’d really like to be held for a minute. If– if that’s okay.” 

“Oh, Ashton, of course it’s okay,” Fearne gives him an unbearably fond look, “Just gimme a second here…” 

She picks her way around the bed and clambers in as carefully as she can, doing her best not to wake Orym. She settles into the big spoon position and wraps her arm around Ashton’s waist with an affectionate squeeze. She’s warm and soft, and her smokey-sweet scent settles around them like a blanket. 

“...Thanks.” Ashton sniffles. Fearne lifts her head just enough to press a kiss to their temple, her lips brushing across the gold joinery that holds glass and stone together. 

“Anytime.” 

Ashton lies there in silence for a while, feeling Orym’s breathing and heartbeat at his front and Fearne’s at his back. The pressure and warmth of their bodies soothes the perpetual ache in his scars, and their company is a balm that eases the tight ball of grief in his chest. 

Dorian fucking Storm, Ashton thinks to himself, If I ever find out you chose not to come back to these people, I’ll never fucking forgive you. 

As though he can sense their discontent even in his sleep, Orym rolls over in Ashton’s arms and buries his face in their collarbone, closing one little hand around a fold of their shirt. The cool, damp cloth slips off his brow and lands on the pillow as he turns. Shadows are forming under his eyes and he looks a little pale– probably from the migraine. Ashton wonders vaguely if they should make him another dose of willow tea, but it hasn’t really been that long since the first one. They decide it’s probably better to just let him keep sleeping for now. 

Ashton carefully adjusts his hold on Orym once he settles back down and presses their face into his hair. They feel Fearne press another kiss to the nape of their neck. 

“You can have a little nap if you want,” she offers, “I’ll watch over you both.” 

“Maybe.” Ashton sighs, “Feels like all I fucking do anymore is take naps.” 

“There are worse things to be doing. We have plenty of time now.” Fearnes gives an imperious sniff, “After everything we went through, I think we should get to rest as much as we want.” 

Ashton’s huff of amusement ruffles Orym’s hair, “Not gonna argue with that.” 

There’s another long silence between them, but it’s not an uncomfortable one. After a while, Fearne speaks up again.

“...Ashton?” 

“Mm?” 

“I’m really glad you decided to come back to Zephrah with us.” 

Her admission puts an ache in his heart, a little bit. But it also makes him smile. 

“Me too, Fearne. Me fucking too.”