Work Text:
They come out of nowhere. One moment Bell’s Hells are gathered under the clocktower in the courtyard outside Whitestone’s castle, Keyleth chatting with a member of the Pale Guard, and the next they’re surrounded by shadowed figures, clad in grey and black and so fast with their blades. It’s like the fight in Bassuras all over again, except this time there’s snow instead of sand, and it’s stained with blood; a deep, almost-black red, and glistening like oil on the ground.
Ashton. Orym runs to them, where they’ve collapsed, gasping, heedless of any danger that might remain. He doesn’t see the assassins anymore. Only Ashton. Like the whole world has faded into darkness around the two of them. It’s happening again.
“No!” He cradles Ashton’s head in his lap as he coughs and seizes. “Keyleth! Help!”
But it’s too late, she’s too late, Orym’s too late. The light fades from Ashton’s eyes. The swirling colors of their brain go dim. The diamond FCG places on their chest shatters. Their body never twitches.
It’s cold in Whitestone. Orym is frozen. The rest of the world moves like the hands of a clock around Orym, holding Ashton’s body. Fresh Cut Grass brings a rag to clean the blood from the both of them. Fearne pulls Orym into her lap, the warmth of her fur thawing some of his chill. Chetney stands watch over the group. Imogen sends glowing balls of purple lightning into the sky as the sun falls behind the nearby mountains. Keyleth draws sigils in the snow.
Orym knows the ritual takes an hour. It feels like a heartbeat. It feels like forever.
Nothing happens.
Orym wants to freeze here. He wants to join the large ursine statue and the tick of the clocktower. He wants to trade places with Ashton. He wants to go home.
Orym wakes with a heavy ache in his chest, a sob breaking from his mouth as soon as he inhales. Ashton. Why is it that everyone Orym cares about is doomed to leave him behind? Will and Derrig died that day. Dorian had to leave to protect his brother. And now Ashton is gone, too, the same way Will had been, and nothing could bring him back.
Orym curls around himself, trembling around the pain of his shattered heart. How had he fallen asleep? He can’t remember. The last thing he remembers is…
He falters, two conflicting paths of memory colliding. They’d arrived at Whitestone and been offered rooms. The De Rolos had sent for their friend Pike to help Keyleth attempt to resurrect Laudna. They’d visited a local bakery and turned in early.
They’d arrived in Whitestone and been ambushed in the courtyard. The Grey Assassins had killed Ashton. They’d tried to resurrect him and failed. Orym had cradled their body in the snow.
Orym rubs at his eyes, trying to clear his head. A dream. The second one had been a dream. He’s almost certain.
Not certain enough.
Orym slides out of bed, bare feet burying themselves in the plush rug of the guest room he’d been assigned. He would have rather not slept alone, but it felt rude to turn down the hospitality of the Tempest’s friends. Based on the stories he’s heard, they probably would have understood the instinct to cling to one another. But maybe the others had wanted to enjoy their own rooms for a night, for once not having to worry about the cost.
It’s cold in Whitestone. Orym shivers against the chill as he makes his way to Ashton’s room. He’d memorized where all of the Hells were sleeping, made sure he knew the fastest way to get to each of his friends. Yes. He’d done that last night, after eating too much pie from The Slayer’s Cake. The memories flood back sluggishly, the dream—he hopes it was a dream, please be a dream—still sinking its claws into his mind.
Ashton’s door is locked. Orym jiggles the handle again, hoping the mechanism is just sticking, but no, definitely not budging. Is this Ashton’s room? Orym kicks himself mentally. Of course Ashton would keep their door locked, if given the option, when sleeping alone in an unfamiliar place. It makes sense. This doesn’t mean anything is wrong. Or maybe it does. Maybe the De Rolos keep all of their empty guest rooms locked? Orym doesn’t know what to believe. He remembers the first days after Will and Derrig died, how he’d forget for hours at a time, or sometimes even actively pretend they were still there, just one room over, until some irrefutable evidence of their loss submerged him mercilessly in the cold truth. Is he doing that to himself again? He has no idea. All he knows is he needs to see Ashton. He needs them to be alive and on the other side of this door.
“Ash?” He chokes out, knocking on the ornate wood between them. This is stupid. He feels so stupid. Ashton’s fine, they’re asleep, Orym’s overreacting and waking them up and he has no idea how he’s going to explain what’s wrong when—if— when they open the door. But Orym can’t make himself stop knocking. “Ashton? Ash?!”
Could he bust this door down if he tried? How upset would the De Rolos be? He’s seriously considering it when the door finally creaks open, a bleary-eyed, half-dressed Ashton peeking out the crack. They’re scowling like they always do in the morning, in a way that Orym has privately found endearing for a while now. The side of their head sparks sluggishly, like whatever magic’s in there is having a hard time waking up, too. They’re cranky, and beautiful, and alive.
“This better be fucking important.” Ashton grumbles.
Orym bursts into tears.
“Orym?” Ashton asks, scowl shifting into a frown of concern. “Fuck. S’the middle of the night. What’s wrong?”
Orym opens his mouth, but only a sob breaks free. He chokes on it, trying again. “You’re here.” Is all he can manage.
Ashton’s expression changes again, something like hurt flickering across their features. “Are you…sure you’re at the right room? If you weren’t looking for me, that’s fine. I thought—” Right. That came out wrong.
Orym shakes his head. “No. I mean. Yes. I’m…you’re…I thought…” He’s stumbling over his words, gasping for air between breathless sobs.
“Is everybody okay?” Ashton asks, shoulders tense like they’re ready to jump into a fight. Orym nods. Everybody’s okay. Ashton’s okay. It really was just a dream. He wipes at his tears, trying to get himself under control. He can’t think of anything to say to make this less ridiculous. After a few moments of silence—save for Orym’s sniffles—Ashton seems to realize they’re not going to get anything coherent out of him like this. “Shit. Come inside, we’ll…whatever this is, we’ll figure it out.”
They back up, and Orym stumbles into the room after them. Ashton closes the door behind him, flipping the lock again instantly. Force of habit, just like Orym had tried to tell himself. Of course. This is so stupid.
“You wanna sit down? There’s…like a million fucking cushions in this place.” They gesture at the well-appointed guest room. They’re right. Similar to Orym’s space, there’s a large, plush-looking four poster bed complete with a silk canopy in the silver and blue of the Whitestone crest. There’s also a large fireplace, which sputters and flickers, heating the room pleasantly. Orym remembers absently that Ashton likes warm weather best, because the cold makes them ache. There are cushions spread out near the fireplace. The bed looks mussed, like Ashton got up in a hurry when they heard Orym at the door.
Orym nods mutely, making his way to a seat near the fire and letting himself collapse onto it. “You were sleeping.” Orym murmurs, stupidly.
Ashton gives him a look like they’re trying very hard not to make fun of him. “People tend to be sleeping in the middle of the night, yeah.” They point out, although they don’t sound angry. More…bemused. “You wanna tell me why we’re both awake right now?”
Orym chews on the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t know if he wants to talk about this. He can still see Ashton’s blood drenching the snow outside. He can hear his dying gasps. He can feel the weight of his limp body in Orym’s lap. He can smell the acrid burn of a spell fizzling out, no effect. Should he tell Ashton that he just watched them die and that even though he’s sitting right here in front of them, he’s still not completely sure that was the dream and this is real? Ashton’s always saying Orym’s the only normal one in their group, the only one who isn’t a powder keg waiting to explode. He can guess why they want him to be that so badly; Ashton’s life has been lacking in consistency since they were a small child. Orym doesn’t want to take that safe foundation away from them. But is it better to lie? To let them think Orym’s completely with it when a single dream can send him spiraling so badly that he can hardly feel his body around him? He doesn’t know.
“Hey. Orym. Are you okay?” Ashton asks. They’ve found a cushion of their own and pulled it close, within reach of even Orym’s small, halfling arms.
His eyes well up with tears again.
“You died.”
Ashton blinks, confused. “No, you died.” They say, frowning. “Otohan knocked me on my ass, but nothing like—”
Orym doesn’t want to think about that fight. The memories of it blend too seamlessly with his nightmare, and he’s still trying to shrug those images off. “No. In my dream. You died. And we tried to bring you back and we couldn’t, just like with Will and Derrig. And then I woke up and I thought…” He trails off, shaking his head. “I’m still not sure which one’s real.”
Ashton is silent for a long moment.
“Fuck.” They finally say, like the air is being punched out of their lungs. “Orym, that’s…” They shake their head. “Fuck, I was an asshole when I opened the door.”
Orym shakes his head. “No, s’okay. I know it’s the middle of the night. I wasn’t thinking straight, I could still feel…” His mouth works silently, trying to find the right words for it. He thinks he’s crying, thinks his body is trembling again, but he can’t feel it. The whole world is distant again, and Orym’s alone on this side of a curtain of fog.
“You’re shaking.” Ashton’s voice sounds far away. Orym feels their hand on his shoulder, warm and solid. He can barely appreciate the gesture. Ashton’s been doing this more lately; offering small touches, mostly when someone seems like they need it, but it’s still rare. Orym still knows touch is a gift coming from them. He should acknowledge it more. “Fuck, Orym, you’re freezing.”
They’re probably right. The hallways were cold, much colder than Ashton’s room, and Orym isn’t dressed for the Whitestone chill. It had been fine under the plush blankets of his bed, but in hindsight wandering the castle in his thin sleep clothes was probably not a good idea.
There’s a fluffy weight around his shoulders, suddenly. He can just feel it through the fog. A blanket, he thinks. Ashton’s wrapped him up. “Thanks.” He whispers, forcing his clumsy fingers to grip the soft fabric and hold it tighter around himself. He tries to focus on Ashton’s face in front of him, the living, breathing version of him, not the one lying in the snow with blood in his mouth. His head is spinning.
“You look like shit, Orym. What…should I get Letters? Imogen? The…the Tempest?” They stumble over the last name, like the thought of tracking her down and asking for help terrifies them, but they’re willing to try.
“No!” Orym shakes his head, hand shooting out from under the blanket to cling to Ashton’s sleeve. He’d rather clutch at their hand, so he can feel their skin against his and know this is real, but he knows Ashton’s feelings about touch. He doesn’t want to push any boundaries. “Stay. Please. I can’t…I just need to sit here with you for a minute.”
Ashton nods, settling closer, so Orym can hold onto them without stretching. “Okay. Yeah, okay. Take as long as you need. I’m here.”
They lapse into silence, Orym still shaking under his blanket. He thinks he is cold, now that Ashton has pointed it out, but he still feels out-of-body, clinging to the present moment by the fistfull of fabric connecting him to Ashton.
Finally, Ashton breaks the silence. “You wanna talk about it?”
Orym shrugs, feeling it play out in a loop in his mind, in front of him, all around him. What harm could saying it out loud do? “Otohan stabbed you. You died. We tried to bring you back. All of us. Fearne. Grass. The…the Tempest. Didn’t work.” His voice is clipped, tone as empty and flat as the hole in Ashton’s head when the light went out and they went still for good. He balls his fists tight, wishing his nails were longer, that he could feel the bite of them in his skin.
“Orym? You look real fucking pale.” Ashton’s concerned voice comes through cotton and the thud of Orym’s heart. Is that his heart? It feels so far away. “You sure I shouldn’t get Letters?”
Orym shakes his head. The movement is robotic, disconnected. “No. This…happens sometimes. I get…like I can’t feel my body. S’fine. I’ll come back in a minute.” He tries to take stock. His heart, yes, he can feel it. He tries to start at the top of his head, to let his consciousness slide down, like a halo of light encasing his body, until he can feel all of it again, like Nell taught him when this first started happening. He can’t stay focused. Shit. He makes an irritated noise.
Ashton nods, seeming to understand more than most people he’s tried to explain this to. He guesses when your relationship with your body is as…fractured as Ashton’s is, it makes sense. “Can I help?”
Orym hesitates. “...I usually…touch is the only thing I’ve found that helps. But you don’t have to—”
Ashton is already moving closer, holding their hands out, palms up. “Tell me what to do.”
Orym shakes his head. “Ash, you don’t have to…I know you don’t always like it.”
Ashton meets his eyes stubbornly. “This shit is okay. It’s…” They pause, considering. “There’s a lot of reasons I don’t like it. I…people have…I don’t like other people deciding what happens to me. People I don’t fucking know. And it…sometimes it hurts, with this shit.” They gesture at their left side, at the gold scars that Orym now knows ache Ashton constantly. His own heart aches in sympathy. “But if I’m touching you , I get to decide. And I know you’re not gonna hurt me. So. It’s okay.”
Orym hesitates for a moment more. “...Okay.” He finally relents, taking a deep breath. “Okay, I need…pressure. Start at my head.” Ashton gently cradles Orym’s skull. “Harder. Like…like a massage. You’re not going to hurt me.”
Ashton presses harder. Orym closes his eyes, imagining the band of light again, this time tangible, warm through the weight of Ashton’s hands. “Is this okay?” He asks.
Orym nods. “Okay, now…slowly move down.” Orym breathes into it, trying to hold onto the feeling of Ashton’s fingers working his muscles loose; there it is. His neck, his shoulders, his biceps. Slowly, his body fades back into existence under Ashton’s touch. With it, the rest of the world comes back into sharper focus. He can hear the crackle of the fire, he can feel Ashton’s breath against his face, can smell the rich, earthy scent of them this close. He knows if he opened his eyes he would see the mismatched jade and opal of their eyes, the sheen of gold in their skin. This is real. This is real. This is real.
Orym directs Ashton to slow down, to pause, to move on, as their hands find their way down his body. There’s warmth with their touch now—or, there always was, but Orym is aware of it now. He is cold. Less so, now, but still. He shivers. Ashton massages his way down Orym’s legs, past his ankles, along the arches of his feet. They lean back, letting their hands rest in their lap, and look up into Orym’s freshly opened eyes for guidance. “Back with me?”
Orym nods, breathing deeply. The ache of despair in his chest is fading. It was a dream. Ashton’s okay. Ashton’s alive.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m… thank you, Ash. I’m sorry for waking you up.”
Ashton shakes their head. “It’s fine. You were real freaked.”
Orym laughs breathlessly. “Yeah, well…when I get like that, it’s…hard sometimes, to know what’s real. I kept seeing you die, and I…it’s stupid. I just needed to make sure you were still here.”
“Can I ask you a question?” Orym nods. There’s a pause, and then they speak, voice small. “Why did you come to me?” Ashton sounds puzzled.
Orym frowns, confused by their confusion. “I told you. I dreamed Otohan killed you. I came here to make sure you were okay.”
Ashton chews their lip, pensive. “Well, yeah, but…fuck, I thought it was everybody , the way you were freaked out.”
Orym frowns deeper. Gods, he’s exhausted. “Then why would I have just come here?”
Ashton shrugs. Looks away, like they’re embarrassed about what they’re about to say. “I guess I just figured it was a coincidence. Your room’s pretty close. Or maybe nobody else answered. I don’t fucking know.” They sound defensive. They’re folding into themself a bit. Orym can see something pained in their expression, in the flickers of firelight and sparks from their skull.
Understanding crashes over Orym suddenly. Oh. Oh, Ashton. “Ash. I’d be…devastated if something happened to you. You know that, right?”
Ashton is silent. They still won’t look at him. Orym understands. He thinks about what it must have been like for Ashton, to wake up after everything with Hexum and find out the only family he’d ever known had abandoned him. To spend all the years between then and now alone and in pain and afraid of the price he’ll have to pay for the magic that kept him alive. He thinks about the years even before that; wandering the desert alone. Growing up in Bassuras’ state home. Of course Ashton doesn’t believe they matter to anyone, because no one has ever made them believe they could.
“I don’t have Imogen’s powers, so I don’t know how to show it to you. But I…when I woke up and I thought you were gone…” His voice breaks. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. “It felt like someone ripped my heart out of my chest. I couldn’t breathe around it.” The feeling rises up again, less intense now that he knows it’s not real, but still the shadow of a brokenness at the core of him. “And that’s…of course I feel that way about the others, too, but…it felt like losing Will again. Not…not exactly the same, because you’re not him, but…the same kind of feeling.” He opens his eyes again; Ashton is staring at him now.Their shoulders are tense, their expression guarded. Maybe Orym has gone too far. He’s too drained by the dream and the subsequent panic to think all of his words through. He wants to curl up here and sleep. “I know that’s a lot. And I’m not asking you for anything. I just…I care about you a lot, Ash. Different from how I care about the others. That’s all.”
There’s an anxious instinct telling him to leave, to stop invading Ashton’s space with all of this, to stop needing, no matter how badly he wants to rest with Ashton within arm’s reach . But he can imagine what walking away would look like to Ashton, so he forces himself to stay put. They stare at each other in silence for a long moment.
“I don’t know if I can give you that.” Ashton finally murmurs, frowning. He laughs bitterly. “I don’t even fucking know why you’d want me to—”
Orym shakes his head. “I don’t want anything you’re not ready to give, Ash. But, for the record, I’m not the only one here who cares about you. I mean, you convinced Letters to quit their self-sacrificing routine because they didn’t want you to be unhappy. ” Orym shrugs. “I know you’ve had bad luck with family before, but when it’s good…it’s real good.” He pauses, smelling cherry blossoms on the breeze and feeling the warmth of a larger body beside him, just for a moment. “We’re a family now. All of us. And I think this could be good, if we want it to be.”
“Half the time I think all this is a dream.” Ashton mutters. “Like maybe I’m still out there dying in Hexum’s fucking courtyard, and my brain is just…making shit up to keep me company. I mean, it’s my dream, so of course everything is still fucked up. But it’s better than most of the shit I’ve had before.” He shakes his head. “I mean, we’re staying in a fucking castle. It’s fucking ridiculous.”
Orym smiles tiredly.
“It’s hard to fucking believe. All of this shit.” They gesture vaguely around the room, and then between themself and Orym. “But I want…this. Whatever it is. I don’t know if it could be… that. I…fuck, I don’t know how to do this. I just…you’re fucking important to me, too. All of you. But. Yeah.” He shrugs, looking shy, which is a strange expression on their face. Orym finds it endearing.
“Okay. Then we’ll start there.” He yawns, unable to keep the exhaustion at bay any longer.
Ashton laughs. “Fuck. We should sleep. Can you sleep? Are you good?”
A warmth settles in Orym’s chest. Yes, this is what he loves about Ashton. How much they care, when they have so much reason not to. He should tell them that. Maybe not tonight. His brain is too sluggish to find the right words. “I’ll be okay.” He’s actually not sure if he’ll be able to fall asleep, even tired as he is. He’s dreading the cold hallway. He shrugs off Ashton’s blanket, offering it to him.
Ashton starts to take it, and then pauses. “Would you wanna…you don’t have to leave. If that would help.” Orym raises an eyebrow, studying them. “Look, fucking…baby steps, okay?”
Orym smiles. “Okay. If you’re sure that’s alright.”
Ashton nods, standing up with a groan. “Yeah. S’fucking cold out there. You’re gonna freeze on your way back to bed, dressed like that.” They roll their left shoulder, wincing a little. “We’ve gotta get some fucking coats if we’re gonna hang out here.” They offer Orym a hand, and he accepts, remembering what they’d said about choosing where and how and by whom they’re touched. He’s glad to be in the circle of people that don’t make Ashton bristle, at least not all of the time.
“We can look into that tomorrow.” Truthfully, though, Orym hopes they won’t have to. As good as it was to see Keyleth, he doesn’t want to linger here. When they bring Laudna back…this place is full of shadows for her, he’s sure. Just like Zephrah had been for him.
Ashton starts toward the bed, but Orym hesitates, not sure how far the invitation extends. They turn around, seeing him still perched on the plush cushion by the fireplace. “You can…I mean, that thing’s probably about as soft as half the tavern beds in Jrusar, but…this bed could fit the whole fucking party. We can share.”
It’s a bit of an exaggeration, although Orym has to admit, the appointments here are lavish. It’s something he’s not used to, despite the few times he’s accompanied diplomatic missions. He wonders how much stranger all this must be for Ashton. Orym doesn’t call them on the hyperbole.
Instead, he climbs onto the bed, missing his boots for more reasons than the cold hallway floor, and slips under the covers. They’re rumpled from Ashton’s half night of sleep and sudden awakening. It looks like they’d been starfished on the bed, stretching to take up as much space as possible. It makes Orym smile fondly in the darkness.
“You good?” Ashton asks again, when they’ve both settled. Orym’s heart swells.
“Can I…” He wants to move closer, wants to feel the heat of another body beside him. It’s why he’d enjoyed squeezing between Fearne and Dorian so much, why he’d struggled so hard tonight, waking up alone. He doesn’t know how to ask for this without making Ashton uncomfortable.
“Here.” Orym hears the brush of skin on fabric, and then Ashton’s hand finds his on the bed between them. They lace their fingers with his, enveloping his small hand. The ache in his chest eases, the nightmare finally fully letting him go. “Is this enough?” There’s a vulnerability to Ashton’s voice, like after everything, he’s afraid he’s going to do something to make Orym change his mind. Orym wonders how close they are to their limit, letting him so close, offering so much of themself to him tonight.
He squeezes their hand. It’s not exactly what he’d wanted, but it’s enough. Of course it’s enough. It’s Ashton.
“Yeah, Ash. This is perfect.” Orym closes his eyes and drifts off to the sound of Ashton’s breath.