Archive of Our Own

Dorian has been made painfully aware of the fact that being royalty (for a lack of a better word; he’s gotten increasingly tired of having to explain himself) comes with particular risks, even when he is hiding it to the best of his limited abilities, slipping into the role of a humble bard in the next best tavern across the street. At least out here in the real world, away from the safety he took for granted all his life, smelling of coin and wealth and legacy might as well be the same as painting a gods-damn target on your forehead. 

Dorian is no stranger to danger on the streets per se, even though most of the time he is capable enough to defend himself or at least make himself appear somewhat intimidating enough in build to scare shady folk off (thank the many years of excessive sword training).

He remembers the first few hours he spent all on his own just after he managed to escape the gilded cradle he grew up in. His second night outside, someone cut the strings of his purse and stole a few platinum pieces and a vial of perfume, which honestly hurt him more than any coin could have at the time. Another night, a group of bandits ended up tailing him, taking advantage of the obvious bumbling inexperience he displayed on the road all by himself. He remembers their faces above him, distorted visages of mockery, as they robbed him at knife point.

He couldn’t sleep for a few nights after.

It’s all part of the lifestyle, of course. He knows that much.

That said, being kidnapped off an open street and held for ransom is admittedly a little overblown. And while Dorian is all for entirely new experiences, this one doesn’t quite make his top ten.

Apparently, this particular group caught wind of his identity. He can only assume it’s due to the Hells’ current standing in the world. Unfortunately, for better or worse, their names and faces are known (and in some cases hated) across all of Exandria after all, and perhaps it doesn’t take as much investigation as it would have taken a few months ago to figure out that he is now the only living heir to the Wyvernwind legacy.

All it took was a moment alone, cooling down outside a tavern after a show that stole his voice and left him sweaty and breathless. A surprise attack, a hand on his mouth, a few blows to the gut and face, a knife swing, and a burst of magic and here he is, tied to a post, gagged, with a terrible headache and a few broken ribs.

Probably the worst start to his week.

Through the pounding crown of pain blooming around his skull, Dorian’s gaze wanders around the encampment. The two that attacked him before and tied him to the post in the middle of the ring of tents, a broad human woman and half-elven man, have now gathered around a campfire for dinner.

The fire cracks and pops, flames licking at the clear, starry night sky above. It’s little short of torture, as Dorian sits in the dark, shivering but with a perfect view of the heat rising up in blurs. He swears he spots the half-elven man smirking sharply at him, as he shifts closer to the fire and takes a sip of whatever alcoholic beverage helps him warm his bones alongside it.

Dorian has since found out that these people are not playing around. They’re the bad kind, the kind that likes to hit him for looking at them funny. They don’t need excuses or real reasons at that.

He’s sure that once they actually reach his parents, he’ll be free in no time, if these people decide to not simply kill him for fun afterwards. They have the money and the need to have him returned for more than one reason. He’s their precious, remaining heir and only living son (and he believes the latter is the deciding factor here).

And despite his predicament and the very likely prospect of being kicked around some more in the near future, all Dorian can really think about is Orym. He knows with a near adamant certainty that his boyfriend must be worried out of his mind, probably blaming himself before anything else. He’s already missed a few of their daily sendings, his own stone snatched from around his neck and sunken deep into the pocket of one of his two captors by the fire. Surely that is enough to send the halfling into a panic spiral.

Dorian sighs, rolling his sore shoulders to find at least a little relief from the strain of his current position, arms bent back awkwardly, back taut against the wood, his wrists burning from whatever odd, uncomfortable material these doubtlessly magic-infused chains are made of.

And perhaps it’s the sudden movement, a sign of life and energy, that attracts the yet unknown half-orc to join him on his little stage of shame, where he is put on display in the middle of the camp with everyone to keep an eye on.

He walks up to him, a man richly adorned with a visage of grim satisfaction, who inspects him like he would a prized horse. He huffs through his nose, before roughly pulling the gag out of his mouth and ripping out a few stray hairs in the process. Before Dorian can enjoy the opportunity to untense his aching jaw however, his captor forcefully shoves a stale, hard piece of bread in his mouth instead.

“Hope it’s up to your standards, your highness,” he snarls, his mocking grin growing wider as he watches the bard sputter around and eventually nearly choke on his own sparse meal. “I’m sorry to say dinner doesn’t come with a fucking foot rub today.”

Dorian coughs against the spoiled, bitter taste and spits the bread out, struggling for breath. A feeling he despises more than anything else in the world.  

“Ever a snotty, rotten prince. Can’t even appreciate the food he’s offered,” the half-orc sneers down at him and kicks him in the side, not enough to do any serious damage, but enough to force Dorian to bite his tongue. “Come on, go and get it. We don’t want to waste any of it now, do we? Or does your highness deem himself too precious for a low commoner’s hard-earned bread now?”

Dorian is no stranger to mockery such as this. Gods, a part of him can’t even blame the guy. The part that is well aware that he’s lived a privileged life; that he’s never had to pray or fight for his own meals. The part that can hear his grandfather’s voice scolding him for eating off the wrong plate with the wrong fork. The part whose biggest problem at dinner used to be his posture and the desperate need to avoid staining his vest until desert.

Well, little does the guy know, he’s had worse meals over the course of his adventurer days. He also doesn’t know Dorian has long since been disgracing himself (as is grandparents would put it) in many colourful ways, not even mentioning the evening he lost the roof pissing contest. Not that that’s any help to him now.

He doesn’t move.

He recognizes that it’s a mistake even before his captor dishes out the immediate consequence. Dorian can’t do much more than growl in a last burst of defiance, as the half-orc fishes the piece of bread out of the mud, grabs a fistful of his long hair, pulls his head back and shoves it in his mouth anyways.

Dorian struggles against his restrains, the taste of dirt and mud on his tongue, and squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to somehow regain some sense of composure. He tries his best to chew and not choke again, tears burning in his eyes as his throat insists on contracting and refusing the rough and rotten piece of hard bread.

For just a split second, Dorian is convinced he might actually suffocate, if it wasn’t for the fact that he doesn’t actually need air to survive. With his mind muddled with panic, he has a hard time controlling his unending breath. His eye sting with salt, the world a blur as his heartbeat rises to his head. He tries. He tries his best to remind himself he doesn’t need to breathe. But knowing and doing are two different things and his body doesn’t cooperate the way he needs it to.

He suppressed the need to throw up what little still remains in his stomach from the past days, bile rising despite the effort.

Relentless and with a glimmer of the wicked amusement in his eyes, the half-orc watches in fascination and makes dead sure Dorian swallows it all down through his cries and the tears that are threatening to spill, before he huffs and quickly gags the genasi once more.

Dorian struggles for breath as he tries to calm down. He doesn’t say anything, focusing on regulating the airflow through his nose as best he can, desperate to feel it swirl safely and comfortably in his lungs again. His captor merely clicks his tongue, now suddenly disappointed by the lacklustre performance.

He makes a move to kick the bard in the side again, a twitch of muscle that is perhaps meant to scare Dorian off more than do damage, because he seems to change his mind rather quickly. Instead, he simply turns around and leaves with a hiss through his teeth, “I’m not done with you, princeling.”

With his own breath in bursts and the blood roaring through his own ears, Dorian watches the half-orc disappear through a tent flap, wondering for just a second how long it’ll be before he can get the hell out of here; how fast message would travel home. If his parents would send someone right away. If someone is already on the way. If Orym even knows what happened. Dorian would prefer for him to just never find out, sleep through the night and wake up with Dorian back safe and sound already; save the halfling the panic and concern.

Dorian wiggles and shifts a little where he sits on the cold floor, frustrated with himself for even letting it come to this, groaning softly behind his gag as he tries to sit in a way that doesn’t make his ribs, shoulders and wrists flare up in pain.

He has read many stories just like this; tales of dangerous journeys in books that he or Cyrus managed to sneak into their tents unnoticed to read under the blankets. Sometimes together, sometimes apart. Sometimes Cyrus would try and scare his younger brother on purpose, read aloud dramatically, and pinch his side in a moment of tension, then cover his mouth whenever Dorian would be unable to swallow his squeals in the middle of the night.

Back then, he heard is parents talk about these kinds of scenarios many times. Whispers and warnings. It was their way of keeping their two nosy children from ever wanting to leave and seek these journeys out for themselves, scare them away from the world. They would tell their sons about war and raids and kidnapping and, how sometimes, evil folk might do worse than just kill. Especially when it comes to people like them.

Well, as much as he hates to admit it now, it seems like his parents weren’t completely wrong. Moments like this, when the cold of night and the dread of continuous pain claim his legs and climb to his chest, have Dorian wonder if – only maybe – his parents were right. At least sometimes. If their words weren’t just empty threats to keep them caged. If they actually believed every single one.

The bard lets out a desperate sigh once more, feeling it burn the entire way through his body; every vein lighting up with it.

Not only is every bone in his body aching, Dorian also notices he is terribly bored, longing for something to take his mind off the discomfort of his current situation. His instruments are all gone of course. Earlier today, Dorian had to watch with a bleeding heart as some of his captors fooled around with them by the fire, forcing flat notes from his flute and cutting the strings off his precious mandolin.

Of course, all of his weapons are stashed away too, together with all his jewellery, out of reach and sight. And perhaps, Dorian thinks as the nausea rises up from his stomach, they intend on selling all of it. Maybe they’ve already done so. The jewellery he can spare, but Gambolcleft? He doesn’t even want to imagine what would happen if he doesn’t manage to get it back. His family’s heirloom. The heirloom his father trusted him with it, for the first time in his life. After years of begging for just a little bit of faith in him. Dorian wouldn’t be surprised if his father decided to banish him back to his tent for losing it, locked inside with no chance of ever leaving again.

Until then however, all Dorian can really know is that he’s going to have a few more miserable nights.

With the moonlight barely reaching through the roof of the forest around them, the camp gets darker and darker the more of the oil lamps are extinguished around him. One by one, his captors disappear into their tents to rest, only a few of them remain by the single camp fire, occasionally laughing aloud among each other as they regard him with vicious eyes.

A biting cold gnaws at his exposed skin, the wind slithering through the tree trunks to bite him where he sits, far away from the warmth of the flames, aching and shivering. Dorian hasn’t really been sleeping, obviously. They don’t let him. Not really, at least. He can find an hour or two of restless sleep, but his body refuses any more; the position too uncomfortable, his wounds pulsing hotly, probably fighting an infection.

He’s stopped breathing by now, as his bruised and shattered ribs scream in pain at even the smallest movement.

The group gathered by the fire seems to revel in his agony. They throw him amused looks, drinking in how he wiggles uncomfortably, enjoying the way his hands and fingers mimic the motions of a healing spell. It’s desperate instinct more than anything. He’s well aware of the fact that his magic is sealed by the chain tying him to the post. His spells are burning under his skin, begging to be let out. It nearly hurts as much as the broken bones. He’s not used to just sitting it out.

In an odd way, his fear remains limited. He knows these people are not going to kill him and the pain he can swallow. The only thing that really keeps stinging in his heart and eating at his conscience is Orym’s absence and the knowledge that the halfling is going to worry himself to death. At the end of the day, should anything happen to Dorian, no matter what it is, the halfling’s reaction will hurt him much more than any broken bone could. Even in death, whatever that means in a godless world.

Dorian feels his heart twist at the thought of it. It’s only been a few days, but the bard realizes now, shivering and lonely, just how terribly he misses Orym. It’s the kind of ache that sits too deep to quench with anything less than his presence; with both of them safe and sound. He’s tired, cold, in pain and hungry and all he craves now is a homecooked meal, a bath and to fall asleep snuggled into a familiar warm body.

But the night merely creeps onward and Dorian remains alone and longing for anything beyond the tall trees and stares of mockery around him. With thoughts of his boyfriend guiding him through the numbing cold and ache in his veins, he finds himself drifting off, too exhausted to fight it anymore. Everything hurts, nothing is right, but sleep finds him anyways, albeit restless.

He wakes up just a few hours later, as he judges from his surroundings through the gathering fog in his mind. The world looks heavy, blurred and washed out, colours blending into greys and whites. Nothing really comes into focus, no matter what he does. The exhaustion seems to have finally claimed his senses completely. Not only that, but his colourful bruises are swollen around his chest and lip, pulsing with his rabbit heart. He’s so cold he has the feeling that even setting him on fire wouldn’t cure him of it. Everything fucking hurts.

It’s dusk but the sun isn’t anywhere to be seen. Either it’s a cloudy day or Dorian has lost all sense of vision and clarity.

His captors haven’t risen to meet him yet. Only two guards are posted on opposite sides of the camp, one of which is watching him, visibly fighting sleep as much as rest is fighting Dorian. Her small, beady eyes seem to stare right through him, narrowed and bored yet briefly flashing with some sort of new-found interest at the sign of life from her prisoner.

Dorian stares back, trying his best to keep his eyes open and gaze straight to meet hers. Perhaps something deep inside of him is hoping for sympathy; something else than the prospect of pain. A spark of regret or maybe simple entertainment.

As they lock eyes, even through the mist of his own fading consciousness, Dorian swears he can spot something shifting in the depth in the woman’s own. For a second Dorian thinks it might have been his own doing, some small success he can crown himself with. Then her stare grows wider, dark and cold and oddly dull. Then she opens her mouth, as if to speak. Or scream, perhaps.

She never does.

Dorian hears the thud on the cold, wet dirt before he can even process that she’s fallen. Her body like a ragdoll, heavy like stone. The ground greets her, yielding under her weight, caving in as if to welcome her to a grave yet undug. It gives. And it gives.

And Dorian understands that he is sleep deprived and slightly delirious from the pain, but he still knows there is something unnatural about the way the ground swallows that woman’s body the way it does. Slowly, she disappears from sight. Drowning. Further and further, the earth claims her. Her arms and legs and her torso vanish, as spindly-fingered hands shoot out of the dirt, grabbing and scraping at her skin. Pulling her down. Down, down, down until she is gone and not a trace of her body remains.

For a moment, the genasi thinks he must be hallucinating. Perhaps he is still dreaming. Maybe a fever has claimed him and is playing tricks on his sick mind. He looks around frantically, heart pounding, blood rushing, causing all his wounds and bruises to flare up in pain once more with it.

Then he sees it. And he begins to understand that this is not a dream at all. Or if so, it’s one he certainly wouldn’t mind never waking from.

From the tall grass that sways in gentle waves, a small familiar figure emerges, lithe and quick like a rabbit they leap from their hiding spot and into the shadows of the nearest tent only to scurry into the nearest bush without so much as a sound. Dorian knows these movements like the back of his own hand, recognizes the swift, fluid shift of muscle, has felt it many times under his own hands.

Orym.

Orym is here.

Of course, he is. Of course, he is fucking here.

Dorian feels his heart beat even harder; even faster. An odd rhythm conducted by a mix of burning excitement and a dark, cold fear. A fear he hasn’t felt this whole time. He never feels that kind of fear whenever he is alone; whenever he gets himself in danger. It’s always reserved just for Orym. An endless worry he knows he will carry for as long as he loves him.

The genasi takes a deep breath, trying not to stare and give his boyfriend’s position away. Instead, he directs his gaze up to the trees. He focuses on the darkness beneath the leaves, the crown above, blocking the sun. And as he looks up slowly, there he spots another surprise. Like stars slowly flickering to life in the night sky, his eyes catch two other silhouettes melting from the shadows into view. A spindly creature made from oak and bark, eyes flooded with thick darkness, almost impossible to recognize as anything remotely human-shaped. One arm outstretched, frozen in the last motion of a spell, Laudna sits in wait with a grin stretching from ear to ear, cutting her face in two. Her clawed fingers grip at the branch she is sitting on. In her form of tread, she catches his gaze and her eyes flash in alarm.

Right there next to her, a large shoebill perches in wait, wings twitching in anticipation. Its feathers soft and green, the doe stare so oddly familiar. And when Dorian locks eyes with it – with her, Fearne opens her long, curved beak and gives a loud, shrill cry, before she dives out of the tree and toward the camp.

A signal.

A distraction.

To his right, a tent flap flies opens and the half-orc from before emerges, rubbing his eyes and holding onto a massive broadsword. He finds Dorian, eyes locking onto him and burning with confused fury at the sudden commotion. His sword dragging through the mud behind him, he approaches the genasi, ready to punish him accordingly.

He doesn’t get very far.

To his right, leaves tremble, before a tiny shadow jumps out of the shrub, sword and shield at the ready. 20 feet high into the air the halfling leaps, covering so much distance in mere seconds. Not a sound escapes him, only a loud crack echoes through the air as the blunt handle of his sword connects with the skull of the orc. The man’s eyes, loud and bright with anger a moment before, flicker out, now so dull Dorian can see his own reflection in them for a second, even from a distance.

Orym lands gracefully in the grass at the same time as the body hits it too. They lock eyes and Dorian feels his entire body tremble uncontrollably. The magic in his veins screams and burns under his skin, aching desperately. His heartbeat echoes in his ears, loud and manic.

He wants to say something, but there’s no time. The commotion has already lured some more of his captors into the fading light of dawn. A human woman rushes out of a tent to the left, spots Orym and runs, a long silver spear in her hand.

Slowly but surely, the camp comes to life. Voices scream for aid and backup. Fearne cries from above, more hands shoot from the ground, Orym leaps again and his own sword meets the one of the woman with a sharp clank. Breathing shallowly through the pain of every broken bone, Dorian finds himself struggling against his restrains, tears of frustration in his eyes. There’s a flash of black and white then, blood splattering, glass hitting flesh, the howl of a wolf. Everything blurs around him. Too much. Too loud.

Orym dances through his field of vision, his feet barely even touching the ground. He mirrors his opponent, slips through every slash, until one catches him only briefly across the upper thigh. Dorian wants to scream, his voice weak and thin. It tears at his throat, but he forces a sound out anyways.

“Orym!”

Orym can only spare a glance, before the blade catches him again and he is forced to retaliate. And in all his 27 years of life, Dorian has never felt so utterly useless. Tied down and forced to watch his boyfriend bleed right there in front of his nose, his magic crackling and exploding in his veins like fireworks. His wrists are bleeding from how hard he’s been trying to rip himself free and for a moment Dorian considers breaking both his hands to facilitate his escape. He needs to do something.

He sees it all happen in slow motion. Orym hits the ground hard. His nose is bleeding; his face contorted in anger and exhaustion. Silver metal gleams, the woman grunts and swings.

“No,” Dorian hears his own voice shriek. “No, stop!”

Something gives then. The world tumbles and turns around him and somehow, Dorian is moving. The air around him crackles with heat and static, lighting hisses and thunder roars. His arms and fingers alight with flame and electricity.

“I said stop!”

He throws himself forward blindly and grabs a hold of something. Something warm and alive. And someone howls in pain as his finger touch skin, then slowly sink deeper to find flesh as his spell bursts from him in a whirlwind of chaos. It sears through tissue, the smell of burned flesh going straight to his nose.

“Dorian, watch out!”

He can only spot the shadow of a silhouette approaching him, before a flash of blinding pain hits him square in the face. He feels is his nose shatter, the gush of blood spill over his lip. The taste of iron in his mouth, his tongue throbbing from where his teeth dug into it in shock. And then he’s nowhere at all.

He sees darkness, feels his broken rips give under a boot, hears screaming and yelling. Then he sees red, white and wings, a giant glass hammer, oak and branches and purple lighting.

He’s floating. Drowning. He’s cold.

And then, for the first time in days, he doesn’t feel anything. No pain, no aches, no fear, no worries. Everything is oddly quiet, all sound swallowed by a gaping blackness eating at the edges of his vision.

Until –

“Dorian.”

His senses return to him, light floods under his eyelids, his own blood rushes in his ears, his heart beats against his broken ribs so hard he can’t help but gasp and cry out in pain. He feels the remains of lightning under his fingertips, can smell and taste the blood and dirt on his lip from where the heavy boot has hit him in the face. And he can feel a hand on his, warm breath on his cheek, gentle whispers and lips on his eyelids, “Hey hey, it’s okay.”

When his eyes flutter open, the first thing he spots, although blurry and – oh gods – doubled, is Orym is above him. The halfling is clinging to him, the fingers of his left hand digging into his shoulders, the others wrapped around an empty potion vial. Slowly but surely, his image sharpens, his deep green eyes dark and wide with concern, his hair, soaked in sweat and mud and clinging to his forehead. A split lip, laboured breath and a rush of relief as Dorian opens his own mouth.

“Orym,” he croaks weakly through the shattered bone of his nose, more hot blood spilling down his lips and chin. He tries a smile. “Hi.”

From the look on Orym’s face, he can about guess in how terrible of a state his face must be. Even though the halfling is trying his very best to conceal the shock and disgust. He merely shushes him gently, before exhaling a few days’ worth of stress and anxiety.

“Fuck,” he mutters, clutching his boyfriend tighter. “Hi back.”

Dorian reaches out blindly, fingers finding purchase in the halfling’s tunic as he pulls him closer, feeling his pain fade just a little when Orym’s lips come to pepper small, delicate kisses over his cheeks and forehead.

“Shit, are you okay?” the low drawl of Imogen Temult sounds to his left, as she comes running toward the two of them half-sprawled across the ground. “Oh goodness, you look bad. What’d they do to you?”

“This is nothing, you should see the other guy,” Dorian jokes and manages a smirk, blood on his teeth.

Imogen merely sighs. The hem of her sheer skirt is covered in drying mud and her lavender hair is askew on her head, but she looks unharmed at least. Dorian also spots a familiar flute in her right hand. “Here,” she says, a grimace of slight repulsion on her features as she quickly prestidigitates the instrument with a flick of her wrist. She hands it to Orym with a nod, before she turns and yells: “Laudna, do you have the lute?”

The ever-bright chant of Laudna’s voice chimes in, “Coming!”

“It’s a mandolin,” Dorian corrects weakly as the spindly silhouette of his friend appears behind her girlfriend, her face a little red from the exertion of their rescue mission. It’s an oddly comforting image.

Laudna shrugs her thin shoulders wordlessly and quickly mends the mandolin, before making a move to hand it over to Orym as well. Dorian however tries his best to sit up and take it from her hands for himself.

“Be careful, babe,” Orym scolds softly, fingers digging into his arms in an attempt to keep him anchored close. “You’re still hurt pretty badly.”

Ashton, who makes his own way toward the group now, their steps heavy and grounded, tosses him the precious Wyvernwind blade with a smirk. They look mostly unharmed. “Don’t worry, I’ve seen worse,” they say nonchalantly and cross their arms. “Look, all his teeth are there, he’s got all his limbs. Nothing another cure wounds can’t fix.” The edges of their lips twitch a little as they scan the genasi carefully from top to bottom. “The pain though, that’s another story.”

Orym perks up at that, ears wiggling attentively at the mention of a cure wounds spell. “Fearne!”, he calls softly, never taking his eyes off Dorian’s face. “Can you take a quick look?”

Not a second later, the large shoebill lands on the wet, uneven ground, talons struggling to find purchase in the softness of the mud, before it transforms in the blink of an eye. The wings and beak shrink back and the body stretches to unnatural heights and there stands Fearne Calloway, who rushes over to engulf the bard in nothing but seafoam green hair, gentle eyes and a familiar scent of flowers.

“Orym can you move a little?”

“Hang on.”

“Let me…”

Dorian smiles up at the gentle earthy hues of Fearne’s figure, feeling a wave of comfort wash over his weary bones as Mister peeks over her shoulder, watching intently.

“Hi Fearnie,” he says weakly.

The faun’s fluffy ears twitch at the sound of her name from his lips and she manages a reassuring smile back as she places her hands on his chest to work her magic on his broken body. “Hey best friend," she hums, a brief flash of an odd expression darkening her features at the sound of her own words. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too.”

As the healing spell eases the throbbing of his infections, there is a loud howl somewhere to his right, the air hisses as a flail swings and the sound of bones splitting cuts through the cold of dusk.

“Sorry!” a brittle shout echoes across the camp and not a moment later, Chetney comes running toward them with strong wolven legs, his lower body still transformed, while the upper part is already back to being fully gnome-shaped. “Fuckers had backup. That should really be all of ‘em!”

“They won’t be bothering us anymore,” adds Braius breathlessly, who is hot on the old man’s heels, flail still in hand, painted in scarlet blood. “Now let’s get going, before they bring out another surprise.”

Ashton huffs, gripping his hammer tighter, “Yeah, let’s haul ass.”

Dorian doesn’t even have time to blink, before Braius picks him up from the ground and the group gathers around the Staff of Dark Odyssey, leaving nothing but lifeless bodies and the smell of blood in their wake.

Even after a relatively successful teleportation, the Hells have a few more miles to walk back to Zephrah. Normally, it would be a journey of no more than two or three hours, but with Dorian helplessly limping at the tail end of the group, braced against Braius for the first part of their voyage and Ashton for the second, they take most of the precious day to get back home.

His nose starts bleeding then and again, even after several healing stops, which eventually has Ashton ripping off a piece of their shirt for him to stuff up his nostrils and contain the flow at least a little. “Head down, chin to your chest,” the earth genasi barks without bite, the anger written all over their features doing little to hide to concern underneath.

Back in Zephrah, they reconvene with the Tempest, who promptly sends word to Dorian’s parents about their son’s return, before sending the genasi off to a healer’s tent to get the proper treatment he needs. So, throughout the rest of the day, Dorian is tended to by nearly every physician on duty that day.

Orym is glued to his side the entire time, eyes glassy and dull, refusing any medical care for his own ailments before Dorian is fully patched up and taken care of.

When evening comes, the genasi’s parents send a message back to Keyleth, demanding their son come home for a few days as of tomorrow. Dorian cannot even find it in himself to resist their call, considering the circumstances. He knows he owns both his mother and father the reassurance, perhaps for the rest of his life, in exchange for his freedom.

It is late when the Hells scatter off to chase their well-deserved rest that night. Dorian and Orym spend their time at home in silence, packing for the bard’s journey home and reheating some stew for dinner. They don’t speak much, merely the occasional yes or no or a quick inquiry about which item of clothing would be best to wear for the coming days of rain. Whether it’s because of exhaustion or the lingering stench of concern in the air between them, Dorian can’t quite say.

All he knows is that Orym’s eyes remain glassy and unfocused as the night creeps ever onward. His scarred hands always find their way to Dorian’s, tracing lines and scars and veins, the flow of blood underneath. A small anchor, a mere plea that says more than Orym could with his lips and one that Dorian understands well with how much clarity he still possesses.

The halfling pours him a bath, changes his bandages, rubs the ointments into his skin, kisses and touches him so softly, like he’s afraid that parts of Dorian might chip off like shards off a fragile vase.

Once the two of them fall into their pillows, Orym leaves Seedling at the side of the bed and curls around him protectively, trying to cover as much of Dorian’s larger body with his own as he can manage. Fingernails clutch to skin and flesh as the small figure shifts ever closer, trembling and tense. Like he’s trying to crawl right under the genasi’s skin and settle in his ribcage.

Dorian would let him. Carry him and keep him there. He can feel Orym’s heartbeat against his back, fast and panicked as if he is still running, still chasing something. It thuds alongside his own, matching pace, matching beat and rhythm.

Dorian swallows so hard it hurts. “Orym...”

Orym’s breath hitches. Dorian can feel it in his own body, feels every hesitant motion like it’s his very own. No matter how hard Orym tries to conceal it, Dorian just knowns, reads it off every muscle and sound.

When the halfling finally speaks, Dorian finds himself surprised by how faint his voice appears, as if he’s far away and not buried down deep in the genasi’s presence. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers thinly, barely a sound at all. “I can’t help it, I’m –”

Orym’s voice finally breaks then; snaps in two like a brittle old bone. A sob is all that escapes.

Dorian turns around instinctively, reaching out, pulling in. His hand lands on the back of the halfling’s head, fingers scratching his scalp. “Hey, hey it’s alright,” he breathes, holding on to the small, trembling body like it’s the only thing still anchoring him to reality.

“Nothing is alright, Dor,” Orym whimpers into his chest, tears slipping down his cheeks and into the pillows. “You were all alone for so long, you were in danger, they were hurting you. They were hurting you and I wasn’t there, I couldn’t do anything.”

Dorian shakes his head, fighting off his own tears at the sight before him. “Hey,” he murmurs. “I’m right here, I’m okay. You came to rescue me, didn’t you?” He gently nudges Orym’s chin with his finger, trying to get him to look up, before he repeats softly, “I’m okay.”

Orym refuses to be moved and squeezes his eyes closed, forcing more tears to flow. “I could have lost you,” he sobs openly, all subtlety he’s tried his best to uphold now thrown to the wind as he shakes harder, lungs rattling with the force of his terror.  “I was – I was so fucking scared. I was terrified, Dorian.”

I was too, Dorian doesn’t say, because he knows he wouldn’t be able to explain the reason behind it; that he’s never scared for himself, no matter who’s holding a knife to his throat. That the only fear remaining by the end of the day is the tears spilled in his name. Whatever terrifying wreckage he might leave behind when the day comes where he cannot find his way back; when he cannot keep his promises. 

“It’s okay,” is all he says, rubbing Orym’s back. “We’re okay.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Dorian shakes his head, fighting for his voice to remain stable. “Don’t you dare apologize,” he finds himself pleading, grabbing the smaller face with his hands, holding an entire world right there between his bruised finger. “Not for this, never for this.”

Orym tries to turn his head away. “But –”

“Look at me.”

The green of the halfling’s eyes is vibrant behind his tears as he flinches and looks up, almost as if he is compelled against his will.

“I told you before,” Dorian continues. “You are not responsible for the actions of others around you. You need to understand that, Orym. It’s out of your own control.” He swallows, trying not to lose himself in the fearful stare right there in front of him. “Gods, I know it’s so easy to say. I know you want to – I know you need to blame yourself because it’s easier to aim for that target, but please – please understand you can’t keep putting it all on yourself.”

Orym opens his mouth, but nothing but a whimper escapes.

“Orym, things like these happen. Dangerous, terrible things will always happen to us. There will be days like this one again and again, and there is simply no avoiding it sometimes. But just know that whatever unfolds will never be your fault. You cannot hold yourself responsible every time.”

Orym curls into himself, a flicker of embarrassment on his face as he scrunches his nose and forehead. Dorian moves his thumb to gently smooth out the deep creases that formed like dried out riverbeds on the soft, earthy skin. “I will tell you this as many times as you need me to,” he reminds the halfling with a smile.

Orym takes a deep breath, chasing the sensation of Dorian’s touch on the bridge of his nose. “I understand, you know…” he whispers, warm breath on Dorian’s face. “It’s just so hard to accept it.”

Dorian hums thoughtfully, nodding his heavy head as he continuously caresses the halflings cheek. “I get it, darling.”

Orym sighs wistfully, “I know you do.”

Dorian shifts a little, carefully rolling onto his back and guiding Orym’s head to rest on his chest, right where his heart beats steady and strong against his ribs. One hand is still buried in the soft hair on his boyfriend’s nape, the other pulls the woollen blanket over the both of them, the warmth bleeding into their veins.

Orym breathes in slowly, shakily, through his nose, rubbing his cheek against the genasi’s skin, trying his best to calm his mind and body. Yet, Dorian can still see the restlessness in the way his eyes move frantically even under his closed eyelids.

“What do you need, Orym?” he asks, breathing in the scent of pine and freesia lingering in the halfling’s hair from their shared bath.

Orym shrugs his shoulders, eyes fluttering open and staring at nothing as he thinks.

Perhaps it’s a silly question; and an impossible one at that. Maybe whatever it is that Orym needs, Dorian cannot provide for him, at least not right now.

There is a beat of silence. A beat that turns to two then three.

“Do you want to come with me?” Dorian asks eventually and perhaps he does understand. He knows– feels it too; desperately craves the same thing. The smallest promise of safety. “To the Squall, I mean. It would make me feel a lot more comfortable.”

Orym bites his lip, eyes softening a little in relief. Suddenly the man feels a little lighter in his arms. “Is – is that going to be okay?” he asks shyly.

Dorian cannot possibly pull the halfling any closer, but he does it anyways. “I’ll make it okay.”

“Then yes,” Orym is barely audible. “Please. I want it.”

Dorian hums. “Good.”

“Good,” Orym echoes mindlessly, tensing and untensing his fingers, before reaching for Dorian’s arm and latching onto it, wrapping around him like a tattoo.

He lets the halfling hold him for the rest of the night.