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Orym is a man who finds beauty in the most unlikely places, but even he can’t find anything that is appealing about Shadycreek Run. Truth be told, he doesn’t even know why he ended up here, of all places. He just knows that he needed time away, far away, from where it all happened, so he took a skyship and then a regular ship and then hitched a ride on a wagon going north and then just walked and walked and walked. Walked to escape his pain, but no matter how far he gets on his journey it is always one step ahead of him, waiting around every corner, tormenting him with memories, haunting him in his dreams. When he curls up at night, sleep doesn’t bring him peace, instead making him relive the events of the attack over and over in his mind until he wakes in a cold sweat and with a pounding, heavy heart.
Filth collects in the gutters he passes, dirt and debris filling doorways and corners. The people who dwell here huddle in shadowed alleyways and alcoves, muttering to one another in harsh voices. It’s a hostile place. Crows pick over the mounds of rubbish, taking to the air with loud cries of protest whenever someone disturbs them in their scavenging.
The city is suffocating him, he needs to get away from it and fast. He needs to get somewhere where the air doesn’t smell like stale piss and rotten vegetables, where the colours aren’t dulled down, where he can breathe. He finishes the mediocre breakfast he bought in the rundown tavern where he spent the night, grabs his gear and turns east, towards the closest city gate. He needs to see the sky again, unencumbered by the silhouettes of crumbling buildings.
In his hurry to get out of the town he doesn’t pay enough attention to his route and soon finds himself in a dirty cul-de-sac littered with abandoned furniture and other rubble. When he turns to retrace his steps, annoyed at how little use his skills of navigating untouched lands is here, he finds the way blocked by two tall individuals armed with clubs and smiles like sharks. They’re both human, and from the looks of it, locals. Their clothes, their hair, their eyes, everything is of the same dull greyish colour as the mud and bricks that make up the foundation of Shadycreek Run.
“That’s a nice-looking shield you got there, stranger,” one of them snarls. “Hand it over and we’ll leave you be.”
“I’m not looking for trouble,” Orym says, raising his hands in a peaceful gesture. He’s so tired. “But I can’t give you this shield, sorry.”
“Too bad,” the taller of the two says. “Then we’re gonna have to take it from you. It’s nothing personal you see, life in the city is just rough like that.”
Orym sighs, biting back his anger. There’s already enough blood on his hands, can’t they see that? “You don’t want to do this, I assure you,” he says, a last futile attempt at diffusing the situation.
The taller of the two laughs nastily. “Oh, and how are you going to stop me little man? I could toss you with one hand!”
In one smooth gesture Orym draws the sword from the scabbard on his back. “Fine, have it your way then.”
He raises his shield and gets into position.
The first who spoke nudges the other in the ribs. “Look at that, he wants to fight us, how adorable. It’llbe like taking candy from a kid.” The other nods. “Thing is, you see, I really like candy.” They both laugh, and then they charge towards him.
Orym has his blade ready, willing to face them in this pathetic back alley for a battlefield, willing to defend him and what he holds dear, to defend the pieces of home he brought with him to this foreign land.
But when the first club rushes towards him in the shadow on the dirty wall he sees Will, eyes wide, air rushing out of his lungs as the blade draws back from his chest accompanied by an arc of blood, sees him fall and call out, sees the sword drop from his hand, sees him hit the ground heavy and barely conscious.
A sharp pain brings him back into reality as the blow hits his head and sends him stumbling. He uses the momentum, rolls through the mud, comes up with an angry yell and brings his blade up towards his attackers, eager to spill their blood for mocking his pain, but he slips and merely cuts through fabric, not skin. Jumping back he adjusts his position, his grip on the sword, waiting for them to strike again.
“What’s up little man, arms too short to hit anyone?” one of them mocks him before attacking again.
This time he is ready and shoves the club aside with ease, hits the wrist that holds it with the edge of his blade. The club falls into the mud, a useless piece of wood without its wielder, and Orym lets out a triumphant laugh as he kicks it, sending it out into the busy street.
He grips his sword and shield even tighter, his valued possessions, gifted to him by the people he loves. It’s not over yet. They are still blocking his exit.
“He’s got a bite, the little man,” his first attacker says, blood running down his hand, dripping to the filthy ground. He reaches into his boot and draws a dagger, a long and nasty thing. The other shifts around, uneasy at the prospect of blood being spilled over this, before lifting his club again. “Let’s get this over with.”
They charge again, and Orym lifts his shield to protect himself against the dagger aiming for his neck.
His balance is off, he’s so tired and he can’t see the sky and the air is all wrong. He takes another blow to the head and almost topples, but lurches forward instead, his sword piercing flesh this time, before he lands in the mud and something hits his leg. He yelps and rolls out of the way, jumping back to his feet. His left leg almost buckles, something warm running down his thigh, but he catches himself and raises his sword again.
In the distance, someone screams. His attackers look at each other.
“It’s not worth it, come on, leave him,” one of them says and the other simply turns around and vanishes around the corner. The first gives him another grim look and does the same.
Only after their footsteps have faded in the distance does Orym allow himself to drop to the floor to catch his breath. He is so tired.
It’s quiet outside of the city walls, and the air is much nicer. Orym is covered in mud, sports a hastily bandaged stab wound and several bruises, and something is also wrong with his left knee, but he is determined to bring that cursed place far behind him.
He’s not sure how he ends up at the grove, just as he isn’t sure of any place his feet take him to these days. Maybe he could instinctively feel the beckoning call of this bastion of prospering nature in a barren, hostile land.
It’s a beautiful place, especially now basked into the golden light of the evening sun. It had always been Will’s favourite time of the day, when the world was on fire briefly. They used to wait for the sunset together, for gold to turn to blue to turn to darkness.
The garden spans the entirety of the clearing in the ancient forest. Every corner is overtaken with greenery. The air is fragrant with the scent of a multitude of flowers. Stalks and vines emerge from the rich earth, growing up on the wall of the building in the centre of the grove, a simple house built from cobblestones and wood. The symbol of the Wildmother is etched above the door. Everything is quiet.
An assortment of different herbs are lined up in a small patch close to the house, aromas of rosemary, oregano, and thyme filling the air. It reminds Orym of the garden at his own house, where they would grow herbs to cook and to remedy small ailments. Briefly he hopes that someone will take care of it in his absence.
Barely able to stand with the exhaustion and pain weighing him down he limps between the flowers until he finds a small pond rich with water lilies, and sits down next to it. For a while, he simply focuses on breathing.
At some point he can sense he is not alone anymore, but doesn’t bother turning around. It’s a peaceful place, a place of worship and faith. Whoever approached him with slow footsteps, before settling down close by, would not spill his blood on this holy ground.
Maybe it’s that. Or maybe a small part of him longs for a pain that distracts him from the abyss in his soul, and for the sweet relief of death.
The silence persists, although the birds have not stopped singing. That’s why I’m so calm, Orym thinks. The birds know whoever it is, they are not afraid. The shadows have grown longer and the sun is about to touch the trees.
“This is a beautiful garden,” Orym says without taking his eyes away from the lilies.
The voice that responds is a gentle baritone. “I think so too.”
“Do you live here?”
“I do.”
Orym watches a small flock of starlings take off from a nearby tree. “Sorry for intruding.”
“You are not intruding,” the gentle voice replies. “How may I ease your pain?”
Orym opens his mouth to respond, but feels his voice failing as the tears start to come and closes it again. He knows that his injuries are obvious, but the man doesn’t talk about his physical condition. Orym sits up a little straighter, trying to will his eyes to stay dry. It doesn’t work.
“It’s no good if you keep it down and hidden away,” the gentle voice tells him. “It will grow into something twisted and ugly. This is—among other things—a place of mourning. Many have cried here and felt lighter for it. Do not be ashamed.”
Orym swallows, wipes at his eyes and finally turns around. The man who sits a comfortable distance apart from him is tall, more than twice as tall as Orym judging from his impressive height while sitting down. Pink hair is hanging loose over his left shoulder. His eyes are purple and full of kindhearted curiosity and empathy. Orym hasn’t met many firbolgs, but enough to know that this man is one of them.
“I’m Orym,” he says. “Of the Air Ashari.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Orym of the Air Ashari, my name is Caduceus Clay. Welcome to the Blooming Grove.”
“Thank you for not turning me away. I don’t… I don’t really have a place to go at the moment.”
“Let me tend to your wounds,” the firbolg says. “There is no need to punish your body for matters of the heart.”
Orym lets his shoulders sink and nods, cheeks burning with shame. Will would scold him for not taking care of himself properly, and he would be right to do so. They had been taught better, and for good reason.
Caduceus takes his silence as the agreement it is and moves closer, looming over him yet not in any way that threatens Orym. His presence is nice and calming, like the still pool of water next to them. He gets out a healer’s kit and starts to clean the wound the men in the alley gave him. If he recognizes it as the stab wound it is, he doesn’t mention it. When he comes to his knee he frowns. “Bad fall?” he asks.
“I slipped,” Orym murmurs.
“Here, I can make that better,” the firbolg offers and starts to pray. Orym is no stranger to healing magic, and yet he is fascinated by this man who just met him after he invaded his garden offering it up so freely. Warmth spreads through his leg and the pain subsides. He feels himself relax.
“Thank you for your kindness.”
“You lost someone,” Caduceus says, and it isn’t a question.
Orym swallows as the tears start to rise again. “My husband.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” Caduceus tells him, and Orym believes him. There’s sympathy but no pity in the firbolg’s voice and expression,and Orym is grateful. He wouldn’t be able to handle pity. And suddenly the words just start to flow.
“I’ve known him since we were little kids. His family practically raised me. We used to get in all sorts of trouble together, climbing trees and flying kites, sneaking out at night to see the stars.” He smiles briefly, before his brows draw together in a frown.
“There was an attack…” Orym shakes his head. He’s not ready to revisit that particular day.
Caduceus’ hand still rests on his knee, and the firbold doesn’t seem to be in a hurry for him to continue his story. Orym tries to shake off the memories of Will’s still body in a puddle of blood and thinks of happier times instead.
“I remember the first time we kissed. As we so often did we had hiked up onto a hill to watch the stars and the moons. We spread out a blanket and held hands and told each other stories about the constellations. Lying there, in the dim light of the fire, smiling and pointing at the sky... He was the most beautiful thing in the world. Nothing will ever compare to that beauty. I see it everytime I close my eyes at night and it hurts. I wish I could talk to him one last time. I miss him so bad.”
With that the last of his resolve breaks and he begins to cry in earnest, sobs shaking his body, tears running down his face, seeping into his shirt. He catches his breath enough to press out “Can I— Could you leave me alone for a bit, I—”
Caduceus nods and gets up. “I will make some tea. There is no rush, just join me in the house once you are ready.”
The sun vanishes behind the trees just as Orym hears a door open and close behind him. He is alone, surrounded by a lush garden and peaceful silence. Darkness falls in the clearing.
Ruidus is nowhere to be seen, but thanks to the mirror before him there are still two moons tonight, Catha shining from above and below, illuminating the tears glistening on his cheeks.
“Sometimes I get angry,” he admits. “Angry at you. For leaving me alone. You do not deserve my anger.”
The moons do not answer. A breeze sends a ripple over the surface of the pond and makes Catha’s light shiver.
“I miss you,” Orym continues. “And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to bear this pain.” He wipes tears away from his face and feels how it has mingled with the mud he hasn’t cleaned away.
“Sometimes I think it gets easier and then an oriole flies past and I remember the first time you explained to me how they weave their nests high in the treetops, hanging from the branches like little hammocks. Or someone plays a flute and I remember how you played the flute for me under the stars. How can I move on if your memory lingers everywhere I go?”
There is no response, of course there isn’t.
“I’m afraid I will forget the sound of your voice. The colour of your eyes. Your laughter,” Orym’s voice has dropped to a whisper, barely able to get the words out through the pain in his chest.
“I promised you to be yours forever and now I have to face an entire lifetime without you by my side. How is that fair?”
Only silence answers him.
He turns around, to the light that falls from the windows of the house into the garden, to the moths dancing in its trace. He should get up, seek shelter for the night, find a place to rest. He’s so tired.
Instead he curls up right where he is sitting, one eye trained on the stars, now that he can finally see them again.
Eventually he falls asleep.
When he wakes up the first thing he notices is the smell of freshly brewed tea and the sound of quiet chatter in the next room. He is curled up under a soft knitted blanket and when he blinks into the morning light he sees that he is lying next to a fireplace. It still holds some burning embers from the night. Underneath him a sheepskin is keeping the cold from the rough stone tiles at bay. Someone must have carried him inside and he didn’t even wake. He scolds himself for being so bad at staying alert. What if someone had attacked him in the night?
Maybe he feels safe here.
He stirs when he hears the voices, multiple voices, on the other side of the door. The night before he had been under the impression that Caduceus lived alone, but apparently that wasn’t the case.
The door opens and an unfamiliar firbolg peaks into the room, with grey hair instead of pink.
“Hello?” Orym says, a bit uncertain.
“You’re awake! How lovely. I will go get Caduceus, just wait here and take your time.” The door closes again.
He gets up and shakes off the blanket. His armour is placed in a neat stack next to the sheepskin, his sword and shield too. He’s much cleaner than he was the night before, but not so clean to feel uncomfortable at the thought that someone washed him as he slept. He knows some people can clean away dirt via magic, and he assumes this is what happened here.
He decides to leave the stack where it is, they clearly do not want to harm him. On bare feet he walks over to the door and has to smile as memories about being a kid and too small to reach door handles comes back. He can reach this one, but it’s a stretch. The house is clearly build for much taller folk than him.
When he pushes the door open he sees a big table that is surrounded by a whole group of firbolgs, one of them Caduceus who gives him a smile. “We’re having breakfast, come and join us!”
There’s an empty chair for him, with several pillows stacked on top of it and he climbs it with an appreciative smile. Once he is settled down Caduceus points around the table.
“These are my parents, Cornelius and Constance, and these are my siblings, Calliope, Colton and Clarabelle. My aunt Corrin is visiting a friend right now, but I’m sure she’d love to meet you too.”
“I’m honestly surprised,” Orym admits. “Last night I thought you lived alone.”
“Oh that’s okay, my family returned only this morning. They’ve been out to move the bee hives. We spread them out through the Savalirwood to help it grow and frequently mix it up to make sure everything gets covered. The forest has been sick for a long time, but it’s recovering now.”
Bees. Orym remembers the hives at home, the honey they would harvest in the fall.
Constance pushes a full plate over to him, and only now does he notice how hungry he is. He thanks her and begins to eat. The food is delicious and most of it seems to have been grown in the Grove, an assortment of vegetables and mushrooms, berries and of course, freshly brewed tea with honey.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” Orym says over his cup. He has to hold it with both hands.
“Of course,” Cornelius assures him.
Clarabelle smiles at him.“We are going down to the lake today, to harvest blackberries and rosehips, do you want to join us?”
“I would love to.”
He ends up staying for a week. Helping with some small repairs around the house, with foraging the woods for food and with tending to the garden.
The Clay’s are a close knit family, the siblings are fighting and bickering like all siblings do, and at night they curl up together by the fire like a litter of puppies, all gangly limbs and soft pink hair. It makes his heart ache and he misses Zephra so much it hurts deep in his core.
He has to take his leave. He has to go home. Pick up the pieces of his shattered life and make something new of them.
It’s early in the day when he departs from the Blooming Grove. Cornelius has packed him a generous amount of travelling rations—including a jar of the finest honey—and Constance mended his torn clothes. His physical wounds have healed, thanks to their care and magic. He’s ready to begin the long journey back.
“I wanted to thank you,” he tells them, as they all gathered in front of the house to see him off. “For taking me in, without knowing me. For being so kind. If you ever want to visit the Air Ashari, it would be an honour to show you around.”
Caduceus hands him a small package with the tea blend that has quickly turned his favourite during his short time here. “To stay warm at night. And Orym - find someone to travel with. Travelling alone isn’t something I would recommend. It’s bad for the heart. Loneliness can grind a person down like little else.”
Orym looks up into these purple, ancient eyes and finds a man who has experienced a lot of pain and solitude. He nods. “I will keep it in mind.”
“Oh, and one last thing. You are from Zephrah?”
“I am,” he confirms.
“Be so kind and send Vilya my regards when you see her next. I hope she is well.”
Orym has so many follow-up questions, but something about Caduceus’ cryptic smile tells him that he won’t answer them today. Maybe once they meet again.
“Thank you for everything,” Orym tells him and then steps forward, hugging him around the knees. A heavy, gentle hand comes to rest on his back.
“The Wildmother’s blessing be with you, Orym of the Air Ashari.”
Once he is on the road, walking under a brilliant blue sky, Orym feels a little lighter.
“I wonder how he knows Vilya,” he tells Will, as he tells him many things when he’s alone. “There’s probably only one way to find out. Let’s go home.”