Chapter Text
Most days are fine. Really. He knew what he was getting into when he made the deal, and while he might have expected, if not hoped, for things to turn out differently, he can’t pretend he didn’t walk into this with his eyes wide open. He can’t pretend he wouldn’t make the same choice again.
That doesn’t help with the loneliness, though. With staying here in Ligament Manor with only Fearne’s menagerie of critters to keep him company, apart from Nana. Still, he’s been lonely for a long time. Just has a few more people to miss, now.
A long ear pokes out of the shrub Orym is perched atop as he carefully sculpts the topiary. “Oh, hey, Peepers.” He slides down to the ground to give the rabbitlike creature a good scratch behind the ears. “Yeah, I miss Fearne, too. Maybe if we’re lucky she’ll be dropping in soon.”
Fearne’s magic lets her come by when she likes, so he’s seen her a handful of times since this place became her permanent address, but there’s so much of the world she wants to see and experience; he can hardly begrudge her for doing so. He did this for her, after all; did it for all of them, so they could have the lives they wanted and deserved. It was his mission that they’d all been dragged along on; it wasn’t fair for anyone else to pay the price.
So in the end, how can he think this is anything less than worth it? They’d ended Otohan, and Ludinus. They’d managed to protect the gods and keep the people of both Ruidus and Exandria safe. And no one had to die for it, and his friends are happy and free to live their lives, and he’s no worse off than he had been.
From the open door, Orym can smell his pie browning in the oven; it’ll be ready soon. He’s not sure how much Nana needs to eat; she certainly doesn’t need to prepare food, based on the apparent disuse of the kitchen when he arrived, but she seems to enjoy his cooking, simple as it is. Pieced together from the few things he learned at home and the occasional recipe from a companion, a lot of it’s been trial and error since his arrival. Most of the cooking he’s had to do before then has been on the road, without access to an oven, but stews and jams are easy enough to wrap in a bit of pastry, making a satisfying meal for both of them.
Orym stands and gives one last look at the shards of moonless twilight peeking through the canopy, traces a finger over the two moons adorning his arm, and slips inside.
Ashton carefully balances the stew pot as he makes his way out of the pub’s back door, catching it with his foot so it doesn’t slam. There aren’t too many people willing to work the closing shift, but for Ashton it’s perfect; no one expects them out of bed on the wrong side of noon, and these small hours of the morning are their favorite time of day in Zephrah, when they can enjoy the mountain breezes while still remaining connected to the earth beneath their feet. The isolation of this late hour also lets him pretend that Orym might be fast asleep in one of these huts instead of locked away in another plane entirely. And it lets them do this favor for Alma, whose hours are even less consistent than Ashton’s, so she always appreciates having some leftovers in the icebox.
He’s surprised, though, by her intake of breath as he pushes through the front door. “Just me, sorry.” They’d put their hands in the air if it weren’t for the heavy pot they were holding. “If I’d thought you’d still be up I would’ve knocked.”
“No, you’re fine, really. I just got in myself. Naya’s twins really took their time.”
Ashton sets the pot on the counter and grabs a bowl from the cupboard; if Alma’s just getting home after a tough delivery she’ll appreciate the hot meal.
“Everything went okay, though?”
“Everyone’s fine—oh, bless you,” she adds as she notices him ladling out two bowls of stew. Ashton’s not all that hungry after having his share of pickings from the kitchen, but it gives him an excuse to keep Alma company during her own dinner.
They hand Alma their bowl and take their own seat, eyes gliding over the pictures hanging beside the door, one of Orym almost impossibly young, a newly-minted tempest blade, and the other at Will’s side on their wedding day. As a rule, Ashton tries to avoid the subject of Orym, unless Alma brings him up first; he knows how much the wound of his absence stings and doesn’t want to push the blade any deeper, but he comes up in conversation often enough for Ashton to have context for the pictures, and that in turn allows him to occasionally look at them and feel Orym’s presence, rather than his loss.
This isn’t one of those times, though, and they avoid Alma’s eyes as they slip into the chair across from her. He shouldn’t have stayed. They’re not even hungry and now their brain is failing to supply conversation and at this late hour Orym’s shadow hangs heavy over the house.
“Oh, this is delicious,” Alma says, and Ashton takes a bite of his own stew to mirror her. “It’s so good of you to do this for me.”
“He’d want someone looking out for you. I can do that much for him. For both of you.” Anyone else in Zephrah could easily do the same, of course, and would have a hundred times more excuse to than Ashton. But though they’ve tried, and for the most part managed, to put away their anger toward Orym for leaving (and would never take that anger out on Alma regardless), they can’t deny a little bit of spite at the same time.
“Anything exciting going on at the Eyrie?” Alma blissfully manages to pick up on their discomfort and nudge them into a different conversation.
“Well, Larrick’s wanting to see about redecorating a bit. Which I guess’ll put me on furniture duty.” He stretches his arms over his head in anticipation of the work and then goes in for another bite of stew.
“Yes, he does get that itch every few years or so.”
“Guess he’s lucky to have me around, then.”
Alma continues to guide the small talk from there, letting Ashton get away with forming quick responses, and again they’re reminded of why they stayed here. Because this is what home should feel like.
“Oh, quite good, quite good. Where did you learn to bake such lovely pastries?”
“Oh, you know, just something I’ve picked up in my travels.” It’s not the same conversation every time, but there’s a consistent enough rotation that it often becomes tedious to formulate appropriate answers.
Not that he’s complaining; it’s preferable to the alternative. Still, he’d love to see this place with the wonder Fearne always showed toward it. She’d confessed to being lonely at times while growing up here, but never really bored. But solitude has never suited Orym well, and all he can see before him now is an endless cycle of days.
Really, not even that; the endless twilight offers no true day or night cycle, just one eternal block of time, broken up by sleep, and meals, and work, and sleep again. Maybe it was different for Fearne, being of this place and having a different sense of time altogether. But he knows there’s more to it than that, that he needs people, much as he’s tried not to.
“Orym, dear? Aren’t you listening?” Orym blinks. He hadn’t been, he realizes; whatever had prompted the inquiry he can’t recall. “You know, you’ve been particularly poor company of late.”
“I’m sorry, Nana. I don’t mean to be.”
“I hope not. That would be cheating.” The threat hangs heavy in her voice.
He doesn’t dare tell her the whole truth, admit that he finds her home unpleasant in any way, even if it’s only that he’s ill-suited to it. “I suppose I’ve been feeling a little homesick,” he admits. “I’m sure it’ll pass.”
“Or perhaps it doesn’t need to.”
“I’m sorry?” He’s already lost so much by coming here, what can she be planning for him now? He knows she has the power to alter his memories, or meddle with his emotions. Is that why Fearne never complained? It’s one thing to give up his home, his family, in the interest of ultimately saving them. It’s another to sacrifice his very sense of self.
“I believe it’s called a vacation.” He blinks again. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. I think I can get by without you for a few days.”
It’s closer to dawn than midnight when Ashton leaves Alma’s house, and though his own place is nearby, his mind is still too busy for sleep. And the best way to deal with that will be to wear themself out a little more. So he makes his usual circuit, down the stairs carved along the cliffside and toward the central square. Which of course would be abandoned at this hour.
Which is probably why it only takes the tiniest rustle of movement to draw their attention. Ashton immediately pours his energy into the ground, melding his form into the earth as much as he can without activating the shard. If someone’s creeping around up here, up to no good, he can at least get the jump on them.
And then they see the figure turn toward them, and Ashton realizes they’re looking at the one person they’ve never been able to hide from. “Orym?”
Ashton drops to one knee almost instinctively as Orym rushes toward him, throwing his arms around him as if it’s been years. Which of course, it has. Still, they know they’re nowhere near the person that Orym is most eager to see. “You know, I was just coming from your mom’s house; she might still be up.”
“Not yet.” Orym clings on even harder, and as Ashton puts their arms around him they notice he’s trembling. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I’m just…”
“It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re good.” There are so many things Ashton wants to say, and none of them matter right now. If after so many years alone, Orym just wants to be held, Ashton’s not going to refuse.
“Okay.” Orym takes a few deep breaths and shrugs his way out of Ashton’s embrace. “Let’s go check in at home. I don’t want to wake her, though; there should still be time in the morning.” They’re not exactly sure what he means by that, but whatever Orym’s story is, they’re not going to make him tell it twice.
There’s a dim light still shining in the window of Alma’s house as they approach, and Ashton gives the door a gentle tap before stepping inside. Alma’s curls are poking up over the back of the couch, and she turns toward the door. “Ashton? Did you leave someth— Oh!” She’s on her feet in a flash, arms around Orym and fingers stroking his hair. “You’re home.”
“It’s so good to see you, I wasn’t expecting…”
“Do you want something to eat? I can heat up some of the stew that Ashton brought.”
“No, no, I’m good.. I—” He steps back to look at them both as her words catch up with him. “You brought her stew?”
Ashton can only shrug.
Alma smiles. “He takes good care of me.”
Orym glances at Ashton, who’s pressed against the door frame, trying to make himself invisible. “I should be doing that.”
“Nonsense. You never brought me dinner, and I never expected you to. Ashton’s in a position to, and they do.” She pulls him close again, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I’m just glad we have you back.”
“Yeah…” Orym ducks away from her gaze. “I wouldn’t call it ‘back’, exactly. I’m not… I can’t stay.”
“What?” Any awkwardness about his presence during the reunion falls away from Ashton as he stands up straight and approaches them.
“Ash, you know what I agreed to—we all make it through safe and I stay with her. That hasn’t changed. This is just a visit.”
They want to rage. What’s the point of him coming back at all then? To tease the rest of them with what they’ve lost? No, that’s not fair. Orym lost as much in the transaction as any of them. And he clearly wants this, even if it’s only temporary. “How long?”
“A few days, she said. Or whatever that comes to in fey realm time.”
“All right then.” Alma presses her lips into a smile. “We’ll catch up tomorrow. I do need some sleep.” She pulls him in for one more hug, then turns and heads up the stairs.
The night air is cool as they head back out into the village—Orym barely noticed on the walk to the house. The breeze is a refreshing change from the constant humidity of the swamp, but he’s so accustomed to the latter now that it makes him shiver.
“You wanna go back and grab a jacket or something?”
“I’m fine. I can grab something after I walk you home.” He didn’t make this journey just to spend it alone, but he’s not going to ask Ashton to stay up with him either. He’s careful not to rule it out, though.
“I'll probably be up a little longer. If you’re wanting some company.”
“Oh, gods, yes.” And Orym feels the same sudden release in his voice that he felt in his body when he embraced Ashton earlier.
“Okay,” Ashton says matter-of-factly, as if Orym had just asked them to pass the salt. “This ought to help then.” He slips out of his shirt and folds it to drap over Orym’s shoulders.
“I mean, you don’t have to…” Orym tries to protest even as he accepts the shirt, warm from body heat, and looks up to see Ashton’s shoulders looking as good as they ever have in the tank they’re wearing underneath.
“Bullshit! It’s been years, you don’t think I’d want to see you, too? Better get my time in now, they're gonna be pulling you in a hundred directions come morning.”
Orym swallows. “You’re not still angry?”
“Why the fuck would I be angry?”
“Because when I left, you said that now I was leaving you, too. And you weren’t wrong.”
“I won’t say I’m not. It comes and goes. And I’m not sure anger’s even the right word for it anymore. Either way, it’s not gonna get in the way of being happy to see you.”