Work Text:
It’s a matter of seconds between a perfectly pleasant afternoon and a bloody battlefield.
Between one heartbeat and the next, falling from tree branches that Orym was certain had been empty before he’d blinked, a dozen assassins come out of nowhere.
Twelve seconds after that, they go back to nowhere, aside from the ones who melt into nothing but black goo dripping off the blade of Orym’s sword.
The Voice of the Tempest has the same goo dripping from her rocky fists.
Orym does his duty. He guards her back until the danger passes.
And the danger does pass, like it was never there at all, except that there are a half a dozen Ashari cut down on the ground and Will is among them.
Orym’s a guard. What he can do is fight, and so he spends too long, which is not long at all, still clutching his sword, unable to accept that he’s done everything he can.
He is not the only one unwilling to admit the battle is over. The antlered earth elemental stalks back and forth around the battleground that’s been made of the amphitheater while a giant owl with one leg made of green vines screeches and circles through the air above them in search of their vanished foes.
Once he lays down his sword, Orym sits on the soft and bloodied grass with Will’s head in his lap. It is a strange thing, to feel like he’s on the wrong side of an embrace, but this has been a strange minute.
“You’re not alone,” he promises, but truthfully he doesn’t think he’s heard. Will was alone for six seconds too many.
Will goes quickly but not easily. If he had last words, Orym is too late to hear them, and he spends his final two minutes spasming and choking, his eyes glazed and teary and his hands clawing at the dirt. Then he is still.
The warm breeze blows gently and an unkindness of ravens floats down on its currents.
Three minutes after that, there’s a knight standing over them adorned in shining gold armor which catches the afternoon light so strongly that Orym has to blink away spots from his eyes.
You can’t live in Zephrah without knowing Vox Machina when you see them, though Orym finds in this moment that he can’t quite recall the name of the man with the jeweled helmet and meticulous goatee who is now standing before them.
Someone must have activated the crisis orb, because the amphitheater is suddenly beset by the legendary heroes of Tal’Dorei and a host of battle-ready soldiers and druids from the other Ashari tribes. They’ve arrived more quickly than even their own healers and neither Nell nor Maeve have found them yet.
The knight drops to his knees and, from a small pouch at his side, produces a monogrammed coin.
But when he reaches out to place the coin on Will’s chest— oh, it must be a magic coin, Orym realizes— the raven that is standing at Will’s shoulder gives a softly reproachful cry, leans forward, and nudges the coin back with its beak.
“Ah,” the knight says, a drawn-out word of somber understanding. He does not question the raven’s edict and withdraws his hand, the coin still clutched between two fingers. His fingernails are ink-stained but well-groomed. “I’m sorry,” he says to Orym. “I can’t help him now.”
Orym nods, feeling distant and far from his body, as if his own skin is no longer up to the task of containing him. And then, because he doesn’t want the knight to feel like his efforts weren’t appreciated, he says, “Thanks for trying, though.”
“You’re… welcome,” says the knight, like a question.
Orym watches the man rise to his feet and realizes that there has been an eight-food-tall metal construct standing behind him this entire time.
He’s heard about the construct. Different seeing it in person.
The knight turns away from them. “I can Revivfy someone! Who needs to be Revivified? Has anyone been dead for less than one minute?!” He has to raise his voice to be heard over the growing clamor around them as belated reinforcements continue to swarm the scene.
“Tary,” says the construct, and it lurches off into the commotion too.
Orym hadn’t even noticed it was getting loud. It all seems so distant.
The raven croaks at Orym, a surprisingly gentle sound, and it taps its beak against his wrist.
Orym pulls his hand from his husband’s shoulder and when he turns it over the raven dips down its head and lays in his palm a single perfect snowdrop. A doleful white bell of two trios of petals, a narrow stem, and two leaves in vivid green. Orym closes his hand delicately around the stem, draws his hand back, and accepts the condolence.
And then the raven is gone too.