Chapter Text
He’d lost track of the days.
At first, he’d tried to mark the time by tracking how often his captors brought the stale bread and stagnant water that had served as his meals for the last however long. Then, by how often he was “visited” by the thugs whose interrogation methods consisted entirely of punching.
He’d lost track of that the third time he lost consciousness.
He tried to place who had taken him (the interrogators all wore masks) based on the questions he was being asked. Unfortunately, whoever had provided the questions (there was no way these guys had come up with them on their own) was keeping it vague enough to point in any number of directions. Around the fifth beating, he’d given up on trying to learn anything and focused on keeping his mouth shut.
“You look like shit, Little Moon.”
Orym lifted his head from the stone floor, in the exact position that he’d landed after being thrown back into his cell. The semi-translucent form of his husband was leaning against the opposite wall.
“Will,” he said, voice hoarse from screaming.
He’d given up on dignity a long time ago.
The figure pushed off of the wall and walked–floated? One of Orym’s eyes was swollen shut and the other might as well have been–over to kneel beside him. An incorporeal hand reached out and hovered over his knee.
“Haven’t seen you this bad off since we were kids,” Will said, dark eyes worried.
Orym huffed out something that might have been a laugh. “Who would’ve thought the acolytes of Vecna would hate the Ashari so much?”
“Can’t imagine why,” Will said, using that dry sense of humor Orym loved so much. “Seriously though, you look awful.”
“There’ve been… a lot of punches. And kicks. One had a crowbar?” Orym said. “Or a rod or something?”
Will’s eyes darkened and he looked toward the heavy wooden cell door.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got something up your sleeves to get me out of here?” Orym asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Will said. “But help is coming. All you have to do is hold on.”
“Why would I do that when I can go with you?” Orym asked. “I think a rib pierced a lung awhile ago. Won’t be long now.”
“Not yet, Little Moon. You’ve still got things to do,” Will said.
“D’you not want me?” Orym asked, voice going slurred.
“Always, Orym. I can’t wait to see you,” Will said. “Never doubt that. But you’re not done yet.”
“Right. Gotta find out who killed you,” Orym said.
“I don’t need vengeance, love. There is something I need though.”
“Anything,” Orym said.
“Keep fighting. Keep fighting and keep living. When you’re old and gray, then you can come see me. But not before.” A wry smile quirked at the corners of Will’s mouth. “Besides, if you die now, a certain genasi barbarian of yours will probably tear through the veil to get you back.”
Orym felt what blood he had left in his body rush to his face.
Will chuckled. “You’re allowed to be happy, Orym. Do they make you happy?”
“Yes,” Orym said.
“Good. That’s good. They’ll fight with you and for you,” Will said. He tilted his head. “Sounds like your rescue has arrived.”
Orym tore his gaze away from his husband and looked over at the door to his cell. If he concentrated, he could hear bangs, thumps and yelling that usually accompanied the Bell’s Hells in a fight.
Subtlety was not his people’s strong suit.
“Huh,” Orym said, turning his head back toward Will. “They found me.”
“Of course they did. Even if the others were reluctant, which I don’t believe for a second, your barbarian wouldn’t accept any alternative,” Will said.
“Ashton. Their name is Ashton,” Orym said.
“Ashton,” Will repeated thoughtfully. “I like it. I’m excited to meet them.”
You are?”
“Of course! Anyone who will keep up with you in a fight and enjoy it is okay in my book. Besides, it's not like they’re hard on the eyes.”
“No,” Orym said, mind flashing to the half smile Ashton often employed when he thought no one else was looking. “No, they’re not.”
“You’ve got good taste. I’m proof of that,” Will said. A wicked grin lit his face. “And I’m sure we can work something out.”
Blood rushed back to Orym’s face as images of what that could mean filled his mind.
Will reached out again, semi-transparent hand almost resting against Orym’s cheek. “Keep fighting, Little Moon. I love you.”
Orym lifted a shaking hand to try and touch the hand. “Love you, too,” he whispered as Will’s figure faded into nothing.
“Love you, too,” he whispered again, resting his head again on the stone floor.
The sounds of running feet and bangs were getting closer. Orym closed his eyes and let himself drift. Just for a moment.
There was a loud crash, the sound of wood breaking against stone.
“Orym!”
The halfling forced his good(ish) eye open as he was lifted into familiar, strong arms. “Hey, Boss,” he said, blearily looking at the blur that was currently his partner’s face.
“Gods you look like shit,” Ashton said, patting down their vest. “Shit…where did that potion go? Fuck it. LETTERS!” they yelled over their shoulder.
Orym winced at the sound.
“Shit. Sorry. Sorry. Won’t do that again,” Ashton said. “Letters’ll get you fixed up in no time. Just hold on for a second.”
“M’kay…I might pass out though,” Orym said.
“No, no, no, I need you to stay awake,” Ashton said, a note of panic in their voice. “Just…just keep your eyes open. Please.”
“I’m not sure I can,” Orym said.
“Try. Please try,” Ashton said.
Orym frowned. Ashton sounded like they were begging. They never did that. Well, not outside of certain circumstances.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t much he could do. Blackness was creeping into the edges of the colored blur of his vision and he could feel himself beginning to fade.
“Orym. Orym! Stay with me. You’re going to be fine. HEAR THAT, RAVEN BITCH? HE’S GOING TO BE FINE. YOU CAN’T HAVE HIM!”
The words were angry, but Orym felt safe.
He let the sound follow him into darkness.