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Blood.
Death.
Fear.
The enemy he’s been searching for the last six years stands before him, but it could very well be the end of the road. For him. For Bells Hells.
Orym reaches into his pocket and pulls out the sending stone. It’s cold against his palm, colder even than his own skin. If they all die here, the Voice of the Tempest has to know the truth. There’s only one person he can ask to deliver that message.
He raises it to his lips. “We’re in trouble. Tell Keyleth Otohan Thull in Bassuras was behind the gray assassins. She uses magic beyond our understanding.”
Twenty words. That should be enough for Keyleth to go on, or at least enough to protect her from another attack. It’s far more than he had when he picked up the trail. Five words now—what more does he need to say?
“And Dorian? I love you.”
That’s all he has before Otohan’s appearing in front of him, her sword slashing through his chest.
The stone tumbles from his fingers. Blood rushes in his ears as Otohan makes certain his next breath will be his last. He doesn’t hear Dorian’s voice screaming his name.
***
A soft breeze.
Zephrah.
Will.
He’s home, in more ways than one.
“You’re not done.”
“Now, go.”
Light.
***
Orym rolls the sending stone on his palm, staring out at the Ozmit Sea as it stretches beneath them. He feels tense in a way that won’t be settled by practicing forms as he usually would. Guilt churns in his stomach.
Guilt for his failure. For leaving Will behind. For returning home with only a name. For surviving when Laudna did not. For asking Dorian to be the one to bear the message back to his boss. For—for saying what he did in his final moments.
He stares at the stone as the minutes bend around him. He needs to let Dorian know they’re okay. He owes him that much. He doesn’t have to acknowledge the—the other stuff.
Orym takes a deep breath and gathers the courage to speak. “Dorian, I’m okay. We lost Laudna. We’re on our way to Zephrah to see if Keyleth can help. I’m sorry if I scared you.”
Nothing.
Orym’s heart leaps into his throat. If Otohan went after Dorian, if she did anything to him—
“I’m sorry about Laudna.” Dorian’s voice is breathless and hitched, like he’s been crying. “I’m sure if Keyleth can’t help, she’ll know someone who can. Fuck, Orym, I thought I lost you.”
Orym leans against the window, closing his eyes against the tears as they roll down his cheeks. “You almost did.”
***
It’s late evening when the airship touches down in Zephrah, settling in a grassy field.
“We’re almost there,” Orym tells Imogen, the two of them waiting for Captain Xandis’s word that it’s safe to disembark.
She nods, her face puffy and her eyes red. She’s holding Pate like a child would a beloved stuffed animal. “You’re sure about this?”
“Keyleth will know what to do. You can trust her.”
The ramp lowers and a warm breeze scented with wildflowers rushes inside. Orym steps into the warm sun of his home and his heart aches to remember Will standing under trees just like these ones. He scans their surroundings, expecting to see Keyleth coming to meet them.
Instead, he sees Dorian.
Dorian running.
Dorian crying.
Dorian sweeping him into a hug, holding him tight like he’s never going to let go again.
“Orym, Orym,” Dorian repeats, like a song’s refrain, like a prayer, tears soaking the collar of Orym’s shirt. “We need to talk. You need to tell me everything.”
Orym nods, glancing over his shoulder to where Ashton is carrying Laudna’s body from the airship. Behind Dorian, a familiar set of antlers is silhouetted against the sun. “I promise, but not now.”
“Not now,” Dorian agrees, as Fearne envelops the both of them.
***
Ashton sets Laudna’s body down on the warm grass. Her dark hair and dark clothes and pale-white skin look almost misplaced among the wildflowers and fireflies.
Orym stands sandwiched between Dorian and Fearne, holding hands with them both, and he almost feels like he’s right where he belongs. Almost.
“Her name is Laudna,” Imogen says, tears dripping down her cheeks as she kneels at her best friend’s side. Keyleth stands above them both, looking both kind and powerful with her flowing mantle. The autumn-colored leaves ripple gently in the wind. “Can you help her?”
“Death comes for us all,” Keyleth says, and her voice isn’t unkind. “I can’t save everyone.”
“Please. We need her. I need her. I love her.” Imogen’s hands fist against her dress and Orym swears he can see crackles of red lightning in the air around her.
Keyleth’s eyes flash with a grief Orym has seen—has felt—a thousand times before. He swallows hard, thinking of the ravens that always rest in the trees around her home. “I will try.”
Keyleth falls to her knees and the wind stills.
The ritual begins.
“I need three to contribute to the spell,” Keyleth says softly. “Who would like to go first?”
The entire party looks to Imogen. She doesn’t hesitate as she leans over and whispers right into Laudna’s ear. She blinks away her tears as she straightens, taking Laudna’s hand in hers.
Fearne lets go of Orym as she goes to join the circle. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice rough. “I promised that if I chose Orym over you, we’d find a way to bring you back too. This is it, Laudna. This is your chance. Also, you remember that time you woke up and Sashimi and Pate were boning? That was me.”
Keyleth’s face twitches with a brief moment of confusion before it smooths over again. There’s a pause and FCG rolls forward, their wheel leaving a divot in the long grass. They come to rest at Laudna’s feet.
“I didn’t mean it,” they say, “when I told you that you weren’t alive. You were—are the most alive of any of us and you can’t give up.”
Keyleth nods, resting her hands on Laudna’s temples. Orym holds his breath and clutches Dorian’s hand until he’s sure it has to hurt.
Laudna takes a horrible gasping breath and opens her eyes. “Imogen,” she says. “Where—where are we?”
***
Night falls and Bells Hells can, at last, find rest. Laudna is alive. There’ll be time to talk about Delilah Briarwood, Otohan Thull, and Armand Treshi and what comes next later.
For tonight, Keyleth offers them their pick of rooms. Orym retreats to his home, the one he shared with Will once and never will again. His heart aches once more.
Orym is pouring a cup of tea—he made enough for two, a habit he hasn’t repeated in years—when there’s a soft knock on the open door. He looks up to see Dorian smiling cautiously back at him. “Can I come in?”
“Of course.” Orym goes to get a second mug. At least the tea won’t go to waste.
They settle down on worn wooden rocking chairs and Dorian looks at Orym over the rim of his mug and says, “What happened?”
Orym opens his mouth and lets the whole story fall out—Paragon’s Call, FCG, Treshi, Otohan, how close they’d all come to death. It’s easier to talk about, somehow, by candlelight in this familiar house, knowing that his friends are safe for now.
“I should’ve been there,” Dorian says, staring into the dregs of his tea like he might be able to read the leaves.
“No,” Orym says, surprising even himself with the finality of it. “If you’d been there, she could’ve killed you too.”
I don’t think I could’ve survived that is left unsaid.
“Before you—” Dorian stops, shuffles his feet a bit, tries again. “When you sent—when you asked me to—right before you died—”
“I saw Will,” Orym blurts out. It isn’t part of the plan. He doesn’t particularly want to share his vision with anyone, doesn’t want his friends to feel guilty for bringing him back, Fearne in particular. “When I did, it was like I was here and I saw Will. Talked to him.”
“Oh.” Dorian pauses, swallows. “Do you wish you could’ve stayed with him?”
Orym shakes his head and it feels like a lie. Some part of him will always wonder if he should’ve fought harder to stay in that place, with him. “He told me that I’m not done, and he’s right. We need to figure out how to stop Otohan, and then there’s this whole business with Ruidus. I have to protect my friends.”
“Is there—” The look in Dorian’s eyes is the one he often gets when he’s writing a new song, eager and a little feverish. “—anything else?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You told me you loved me.”
“I meant it.”
Dorian sets his tea down and slides from the rocking chair to the floor, landing at Orym’s feet on the rug. Kneeling there, they’re nearly the same height. He rests his hands on the arms of Orym’s chair. “How did you mean it?”
Orym cups Dorian’s cheek in his palm, not daring to speak. He can feel the stickiness of the tear tracks still lingering there. He wants to kiss him, but he isn’t sure if he’s allowed. The ever-present hollow sensation of grief in his chest now has a knot of guilt twining around it.
“I know you’ll never love me like you love Will,” Dorian says into the silence, quiet and husky. “I would never want to replace him.”
“I know you wouldn’t.” Orym’s hand slips over Dorian’s chin and lands on his throat, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse beneath his palm. The constant reminder that Dorian is alive, that they both are. “I think—I think Will would be okay with it. He would want me to be happy. I just—I don’t know if I can be okay with it.”
“I’m here. Whatever you need.”
Orym nods, taking in the dark circles under Dorian’s eyes and the slight gray cast to his skin. He can feel the exhaustion of the last few days weighing on his own bones. “We should sleep.”
“Of course, I should let you rest.” Dorian gets to his feet in one fluid motion and moves away so Orym has room to stand. “You can message me, if you—”
Orym reaches out, catching Dorian’s hand before he can make a move for the door. “Or you could stay. I’ve missed you.”
Dorian’s lips part in surprise but he follows Orym to the bed. It’s large enough for two, of course it is, and Orym feels a pang in his chest as he climbs inside first.
“All we need is Fearne and it would be just like the old days,” Dorian says, leaving his outer robes in a heap on the floor before he joins him.
“I don’t want to bother her,” Orym says, tugging Dorian closer. He feels a cool pair of lips brush his forehead as his eyes slip closed. It’s too easy to give into the exhaustion and let it drag him down with Dorian’s arms wrapped around him.
He has missed this.
***
The cast of light across Orym’s eyes is familiar even without opening them. He’s in his bed, in his home, with a warm arm wrapped around his midsection. In his half-dreaming half-waking state, he thinks perhaps the last six years have been a terrible nightmare and if he opens his eyes, it’ll be to Will’s smiling face.
Except the hands are too soft, and the hair is too long, and Dorian smells like jasmine and summer wind instead of warm leather and wildflowers. Dorian’s hand rests lightly over his stomach when Will would probably be sneaking in the direction of Orym’s breeches, waiting to see how long it would take him to notice.
Orym rolls over, careful not to jostle Dorian enough to wake him. He can’t help but drink his fill of the man’s face, illuminated by the early morning light. The flutter of his lashes. The warm bow of his mouth. He wants to press a kiss to that mouth, to watch Dorian’s eyes open with a sleepy smile, but he doesn’t. Can’t.
He hopes someday he can.
Dorian’s eyes open, the blue dark and hazy like the sky before a storm. The sleepy smile stretches across his mouth anyway. “Good morning,” he says, stretching his arms above his head.
Orym can’t help but smile back. “Good morning.”
Dorian’s hand runs down the length of Orym’s side. It doesn’t feel indecent or pressuring. It’s more like he’s reassuring himself that Orym is here and alive. “There’s something I forgot to tell you last night.”
“What’s that?” Orym rests his hand on Dorian’s cheek. He runs his thumb over Dorian’s bottom lip, the way he wishes he could do with his own mouth, with his tongue.
Dorian smiles against the touch, a whole new shape for him to follow. “I love you too.”