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In the early morning light, Dorian leans as far over the railing of the ship as he can, marvelling at the sea sparkling below. The wind in the clouds dances through his hair, sends it billowing up over his head like a halo, and he closes his eyes for just a moment. It feels like striding up into the air above the pageant crowd in Byroden, like parties at home when he’d dance with partner after partner in rare moments of enjoyment. He misses twirling through the air and never worrying where he’d land.
When the gust releases his hair, leaving it to sway with only the breeze he himself generates, he becomes aware of a presence at his side.
“Good morning,” Orym says, when Dorian withdraws from the railing to look at him. There’s a small smile on his face, something fond and sweet, just a little wistful just at the corners of his eyes.
Dorian smiles back. His heart thumps in his chest, ever a traitor. “Good morning, Orym.”
“Fearne’s still asleep.” Orym braces a foot on the railing and pushes himself up to look over it.
Dorian’s hands lift instinctively, hovering at a polite distance. Just in case. Just in case Orym loses balance. To catch him, he tells himself firmly. Not to push. In the back of his head, he can hear his brother’s voice, full of spitting disdain for their kin who live among the Ashari. Unending family discussions bubble into the back of his head, of Exandria’s rightful belonging to the Primordials, of the hubris of the gods to place mortals on the planet as if they had any right. He recalls his father and brother’s particular hatred for the Air Ashari, the insistence that any air genasi among their numbers must not know the truth of the fall of the Primordials and their mortal offspring or else be considered traitors.
Who gives Orym’s people the right, thinks the voice that sounds like his brother’s, to determine what gets to come out of the Elemental Plane of Air?
Orym is small. Light. It would take nothing for him to go over. The thought comes unbidden, but it spurs him to action. He grabs Orym and pulls him back down, heart thumping for an entirely different reason than before.
“I was being careful,” Orym says, but there’s only acceptance in his voice. He doesn’t look at Dorian with betrayal or mistrust the way he had all those months ago, and Dorian is thankful for it. He doesn’t think he could bear to see that again.
“If you go overboard, I don’t think myself or Fearne would be able to explain it to Keyleth,” Dorian points out. “Or Dariax and Opal. And I would never forgive myself.”
Orym frowns a little, catching the corner of his mouth between his teeth. “Do you think they’re okay? I’m really worried about Poska catching up with them while we’re gone.”
Dorian clasps his shoulder and squeezes, giving Orym a warm and reassuring smile. “If anything, we won’t be able to catch up with them ourselves. You know how Dariax is. He’ll take Opal with him wherever the wind blows.”
Orym sighs and nods. “You’re right. Thank you for being a voice of reason.”
Dorian lets himself laugh then, expelling the tension he’s been holding since Orym popped up next to him. “It’s the least I can do when you usually have that job. I’ll always have your back, Orym. I’ll do anything to make sure you and Fearne are safe while we’re here.”
Orym looks up at him, maybe even into him, and the corners of his mouth quirk back up after a moment. “I know. But hopefully you won’t have to.”
The memory of their argument about the crown hangs between them for a moment before Orym clasps his arm.
“Breakfast?” he suggests. “We might be able to eat in peace before Fearne starts causing mayhem.”
“Now that you’ve said it, it won’t happen,” Dorian says, but he follows when Orym pulls him.
The softness of Orym’s laughter as they head below deck to the galley is just as beautiful as any windstorm blowing through the Silken Squall.