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Orym takes the cane from Chetney and stares at it as they make their way towards the Spire by Fire. As soon as he’d said the blood smelled off, Orym’s own blood began to pound in his ears.
Proximity to the stuff only confirms it. As soon as he’s gripping it in his hands, he’s not on the streets of Jrusar. He’s home in Zephrah, cradling Will’s body, his lap too small to hold Derrig, too, his wounds burning, his breath impossible, his eyes blurry with tears, begging the Voice of the Tempest to help them.
He watches her try and fail, try and fail, and all the while that smell –tainted blood, familiar but wrong, on his hands, his clothes, his face. His hair is tacky with it. He’s drowning in it, it’s in his nose, his mouth, his lungs. Blood is everywhere, everything, and Orym wants to go away.
“Hey. Orym. Fuck. Are you good?”
Orym blinks. Or, that’s the instinct. He’s not sure if he does or not. He has no idea where his eyes are. Where anything is. He can’t feel his body. There’s just…blood and nothingness.
The voice pierces again. “You got about six seconds before I wake up Grass. Fucking talk to me man.”
Orym tries to focus on it. He struggles to find his mouth. “Ash?”
There’s a relieved exhale. He was scaring Ashton. Oh.
“Fuck. Where did you go just then?”
“We’re going to the Spire by Fire.” Orym frowns, confused. He can see Ashton in front of him, but it’s like he’s looking at him from a distance, or with something between them. Like that first glimpse of Whitestone through Keyleth’s tree portal. Ashton is in a tavern room. But that’s not right. They were just on the street.
The image of Ashton frowns. “We’ve been here for a few hours, Orym.”
Orym looks around. He must turn his head to do it, but he doesn’t feel the pull of muscles in his neck that he knows should be there. “Where is everyone?” It’s dark. All he can see is Ashton, perpetually their own beacon in the shadows.
“Asleep.” Ashton gets closer. “You’re really freaking me out, man. You volunteered for first watch. Are you telling me you don’t remember any of that?”
Orym takes a deep breath–he can hear it, can see his chest expand in his peripheral vision, but he doesn’t feel the air in his lungs. All it does is fill his nose with that tainted blood scent again. “No.” He chokes. “I’m not–I’m not here. I don’t–I can’t–” The blood is rising up all around him again, threatening to take Ashton, his only tie to his body, with it. He hears himself suck in another harsh breath but with it comes that smell and another flood of memories
“Woah, hey, you’re okay. Fuck, I’m shit at this. Just. Let’s get you back with us, yeah?” He takes Orym’s hands, grips them tight. Orym is still clinging to the cane. He barely feels the touch.
“S’not enough.” He can feel Will’s body in his lap again, heavier than the hold on his hands. He doesn’t want to go back there. Desperately, he casts out for anything to keep him here, with Ash.
Pain pricks his fingers, his palms, his wrists. He blinks. Looks down. There are thorns growing from his hands, their sharp tips digging into his skin, twining around Ashton’s hands where they’re connected to his. Bright blood wells from the punctures, and at first Orym panics, but the drops smell of iron and nothing more.
“Fuck, Orym, you’re hurting yourself.” Ashton gasps, trying to free their hands to pry the thorns from Orym’s skin, but Orym clings tighter; with his fingers and his vines.
“No, s’okay. S’good.” The pain is helping. He can feel it, can feel this, and it’s bringing him back to his body. His knuckles are white around Eshteross’ cane. His eyes are heavy and tired from staring into the darkness. His chest feels hollow inside.
“I don’t think ‘good’ is how I’d describe this shit, Orym.” Ashton says. Their voice isn’t harsh; there’s no judgment in it, just concern. Their grip tightens on his hands. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
Orym shakes his head. “Give me a second.” He’s still catching his breath, still slowly sinking back into his body. He focuses on the sharp sting in his hands. Lets the thorns dig in a little deeper, wincing. Good. He’s here.
“Orym–” Ashton starts.
Orym looks down at their hands, still entwined, the vines climbing up Ashton’s wrists. Oh.
“Gods, sorry, Ash, I–” He pulls the vines back, watching them wither until Ashton is free of them. They don’t let go of Orym’s hands. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, I just needed…I don’t know what happened, I don’t remember, and I couldn’t focus– ”
“Hey, I’m fine.” Ashton does release Orym’s hands now, so they can show him their wrists, their hands. The green stone of their skin is unblemished and unbroken. “I’ve got thick skin. Literally.” They frown. “You’re bleeding.”
The relief is what does it, Orym thinks. That split second of being worried about Ashton, and then the warm rush of peace when he realized he hadn’t hurt him had been enough to nudge his brain down a different path. Suddenly, he’s in his body, and his body hurts. He winces again. Ashton is right, he’s still bleeding; it oozes out from the thorns digging into his skin. “Ouch.”
Ashton huffs, too worried to be a laugh. “Can you…call these things off? I think that might go better than me trying to pry them out. We’re done with this, yeah?” Their voice is shaky. Orym looks up into their face, and suddenly he can see just how much this has freaked them out. He thinks about how many times they’ve referred to him as the only stable one in the group. This has to have proved them wrong. Yanked the rug out from under their feet. Left them falling again, with nothing solid to tether to. His head is spinning with guilt and confusion and exhaustion. He still has no idea how he got here, or how much time he’s missing, but Ashton’s right in front of him, and they need him to be okay, so he’ll try.
“Yeah.” Orym breathes. “Yeah, we’re done.” He takes a moment, closing his eyes, and lets the vines wither and fade. He hisses in pain as the thorns pull themselves out of his skin. Ashton squeezes his hands.
“How bout we let this go, too?” Ashton wraps their long fingers around Eshteross’ cane, not pulling yet, even though Orym knows it would be nothing for them to break it free from his grasp. They can’t have any idea why he’s clinging to it so tightly, not unless he explained without remembering, but still they’re waiting for him to say it’s okay. He appreciates that.
Orym doesn’t know what he wants to do. He doesn’t know why he can’t let go of the cane. It’s not like holding onto it will bring him back. Nothing can. Nothing can bring any of them back, not Eshteross, not Derrig, not Will. They’re lucky they were able to bring Laudna back. His breath is coming too fast again, and with it the smell of that blood.
“Yes. Take it. Please. Get it…away.” He chokes out.
Ashton does as he asks; he pulls the cane from Orym’s hands and stands, stashing it in a far corner of the room. Orym watches him, trying to hang onto this moment. His surroundings are familiar by now; the passable, if a bit cramped rooms of the Spire by Fire. Orym’s sitting in a low chair with his back to the wall with the door. There are two beds in either corner of the far side of the room. It’s dark, but based on the size of the shapes piled onto the mattresses, Orym guesses Chetney is starfished on one of them, and the witches are curled up together on the other. Orym can see the dim light of Fresh Cut Grass’ eyes in the space between the beds, whirring quietly in stasis mode. He frowns.
“Where are you sleeping?”
Ashton nods toward a bedroll stretched out right in front of the door. “Didn’t want anything getting fucking past me. Probably a good call, since our watchman was zoned the fuck out.”
A flash of guilt burns through Orym. Suddenly he feels the need to check on the others, sleeping less than ten feet away from him. What if Otohan had followed them here? What if she’d broken in while Orym was checked out and hurt them? “I’m sorry, I don’t–”
“Shit. That was supposed to be a joke.” Ashton grabs the room’s other chair and drags it over to Orym, sitting down right in front of him. They grimace. “Bad call on my part. I didn’t mean…Sorry. I just…this is real freaky. You were walkin and talkin like normal when we got here.”
Orym shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry. You’re right, anything could have…”
Ashton studies his face. “You wanna tell me what happened? I mean…I think I sorta get what happened. Sometimes, shit up here gets fucked and I’m just…gone.” They gesture toward their head. “But I guess…I don’t really get what caused it. I mean, I know we lost Eshteross, which fucking sucks, but I didn’t think…”
Orym nods. “It’s not just…losing him. It’s…” His voice breaks, eyes filling with angry tears. He hurts, all the way through his chest. “It’s Otohan . She keeps taking people from me. And I had the chance to stop her and I failed. ” The confrontation with Otohan replays in his head, and something else occurs to him. The blood drains from his face. “She knew about Eshteross because of me.”
Ashton frowns. “What?”
“She got his name from me, when she dug around in my head.” It’s like a blow to the gut. Orym feels sick. “I got him killed. And he can’t come back, because…” He gestures towards the cane, where Ashton stashed it. They stare back at him blankly. “The…toxin. I can smell it.” He has no idea if Ashton can understand him, voice thick with tears as it is. “It’s the same as it was with Will, and Derrig. It’s the same, and it’s my fault. ”
“No, it’s fucking not, Orym.” Ashton’s voice is hard. “Stop that shit. You couldn’t stop Otohan from digging through your head? I’m not fucking surprised. I couldn’t kick FCG out of my head. Is that my fault? Fuck. This shit that happened to Eshteross, it fucking sucks. But it’s not on you.” He crosses his arms. “And I wasn’t there in Zephrah that day, but I can fucking guarantee that wasn’t on you either.” They shake their head. “Bad people do bad shit and they get away with it cause good people blame themselves, when they should be getting fucking pissed at the people who are actually fucking bad.” They take his hands, the gentleness of his touch incongruous with the fire in his eyes. “Now, you’re gonna let me patch this shit up, and then I’m taking over watch.”
Orym doesn’t have the energy to resist, so he leans back in his chair and lets Ashton examine his wrists. The bleeding has stopped. He doesn’t think it’s actually that bad, now that the thorns are out. But he lets Ashton dig through their pack for something to clean the punctures with, lets him wrap the skin in clean white bandages. “You know, there’s other ways to deal with this shit than hurting yourself.”
Orym starts to protest. Ashton cuts him off.
“I’m not judging. I’ve done plenty of stupid shit for worse reasons. But…fuck. Milo used to get onto me. They always worry about everything.” He rolls his eyes, but Orym can tell it's fond. It’s a pleasant divergence from the typical, Orym guesses, for Ashton to feel cared about. “They did help me figure out some other ways to come back, when I get lost in my head.” They pause in their bandaging, digging in a pocket until they produce a slightly battered sprig of lavender. With a start, Orym realizes it’s one of his; the stuff he grew to calm Ash down after Grass and Imogen got stuck in their head. “Seems like you might already have a few ideas.”
Orym wipes at his eyes with the arm Ashton isn’t currently bandaging. “It was the smell of the blood that set me off. I…well, I wasn’t really thinking, but I don’t think that would have been enough. Sometimes I need…pain is the only thing I can feel.”
Ashton nods. “I get that. But there’s shit you can do that hurts without cutting yourself up like this. Fuck, Orym, you really…” They stop for a moment, hands frozen on the fastening of a bandage. “You scared me.” The last part comes out quiet, seconds away from breaking. They won’t let him catch their eyes.
Orym softens. “I’m sorry.”
Ashton is quiet for a moment too long. Then, they sniff and shake their head, getting back to work. “It’s fine. Just…what can you do with that…?” They make a vague, twisting gesture with their free hand, their best approximation of Orym’s own movements when he calls on that spark of druidic power.
Orym shrugs. “Small stuff. Flowers. I can light a small fire. I can…trick your senses, just a little. Smells, sights.”
“Temperature?” Ashton asks.
Orym thinks. “I’ve never tried. But…probably? What are you thinking?”
“Can you make ice? Or…the feeling of ice? I don’t know how this shit works.”
Orym stares at his open palm, concentrating, and murmurs under his breath, ancient words for cold. A small block of ice appears in his hand. The cold of it seeps through the bandage across his palm, stinging the small cuts in his skin. He winces.
“See? If you hold it tight, it fucking hurts after a while. But it’s not going to actually… hurt you.” Ashton explains, nodding in approval.
Orym looks up at them. “Milo taught you this?”
They nod. “They have this…thing. I dunno what it used to be, but they enchanted it to get cold like that with a command word. They used to let me borrow it, when…all this shit first happened.” They gesture toward the flickering lights in their skull. “I was…fucked up, back then. Stuff like this happened a lot.”
“Does it still happen?” Orym asks.
Ashton shrugs. “Sometimes. Not in a while. Well, fuck, except for the thing with Grass and Imogen. But that was…a special case. And you helped.”
Orym nods. He closes his fingers around the ice in his hands. He doesn’t think it will melt, as long as he doesn’t want it to. Ashton’s right, the cold aches all the way down to his bones. This is good. This could work. “Thank you, Ash. This is…seriously. Thanks.”
Ashton looks down, back at Orym’s non bandaged hand. “Yeah, well, just passing on Milo’s brains.” Orym doesn’t think anything he says will convince them that this is more than Milo’s gift to him, so he lets it go. Another time, when he’s not so frazzled, and can think of the right words. Instead, they sit in silence; Ashton focused on the injuries they’re tending to, Orym watching the gentle, methodical movements of their fingers. It always surprises him, how soft Ashton’s touch is, despite everything. After a while, Orym feels solid enough that he dismisses the ice cupped in his palm; it dissipates into a cloud of cold air.
Ashton looks up at Orym expectantly when they’re finished. “You sharing with Chetney, or squeezing in with the girls?”
Orym feels his stubborn streak stir. “I didn’t really do any of my watch.” He protests.
Ashton shakes their head. “Too bad. You need to sleep this off.” They poke at his bandages. It’s overkill, the tending Ashton did. The cuts will be gone in the morning, even without their intervention. But Orym appreciates the thought nonetheless. What he doesn’t appreciate is Ashton trying to do his work for him.
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.”
Orym is settled in for a battle of wills, prepared to stare Ashton down until they lie back on their mat and go back to sleep, but before he can say as much, a voice pipes up from one of the beds across the room.
“Will you two quit bickering? Some of us are trying to sleep.”
Apparently they’ve woken up Chetney.
“Fuck off.” Ashton rolls their eyes, their tone playful rather than harsh, as the patter of small feet on wood closes the distance between them. “Go back to sleep, old man.”
Chetney plants himself on Ashton’s bedroll in front of the door. “Too late. I’m awake now. Besides, I’ve got work to do.” He pulls out aof small block of wood and a chisel–from where, Orym doesn’t want to know, considering his sleep clothes don’t appear to have pockets–and starts slicing away, bits of wood falling on Ashton’s bedroll.
“You’re on my fucking bed.” They complain.
“And? There’s a whole mattress over there, you two figure it out.” Chetney doesn’t even look up from whatever project he’s working on, just gestures with his hand towards the bed he vacated.
Orym looks to Ashton. “I can get my bedroll out–”
They’re already pulling him up from his chair and towards the bed.
“Got it warm for you.” Chetney’s whisper carries across the room. Orym rolls his eyes, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at the full body shudder Ashton gives. They climb onto the mattress with Orym without protest, though. There’s space for the two of them. In fact, this is the less cramped sleeping option, truth be told, considering Fearne’s tendency to spread her large furry legs across as much of a bed as she can reach at any given time. Still, Orym hesitates to get too close to Ashton. They’ve been touching more lately; Ashton doesn’t shrink away from Orym’s offered hands. Still, he doesn’t want to assume.
“I’m gonna be fucking cleaning that shit out of my blankets for weeks.” Ashton grumbles, bending close to Orym on the bed so they can whisper.
Orym chuckles. “Any idea what he’s working on?”
Ashton shakes their head. “Not a fucking clue.” They’re silent for a long moment, and Orym might think they’d fallen asleep, if it weren’t for the tell-tale spark of their skull, flickering in a way that’s ever so slightly different than the light it gives off in their sleep. Orym guesses you’d have to be paying really close attention to notice that, though. He waits for whatever Ashton’s chewing on patiently. These things take time, with them, he’s learned.
“S’weird.” Ashton says, finally.
“Mmm?” Orym asks, fatigue having caught up with him now that he’s horizontal.
“Nobody’s ever left me shit in their will before. Plenty of people have died, but nobody’s ever had anything to leave, or if they did they didn’t care enough to leave it to me.”
Orym hesitates. Then; “My dad left me my shield.” He whispers. “Well, Will’s dad. But he was always like my dad, too, even before we got married.” His voice only shakes a little.
Ashton slides closer under the covers. “What’s it like?” They ask.
Orym frowns. “What’s what like?”
Ashton is quiet for a beat, and Orym thinks he might have pushed too much, with just that one question. Finally, they speak. “Having someone who cares that much?”
Orym thinks. “It’s…hard to describe. My family, they’ve always made me feel safe. But it’s also terrifying, because I know I can lose them. I have lost them.” He takes a shaky breath. “But, for the record, Ash, you can answer that question for yourself, now.” Hesitantly, Orym reaches out and takes Ashton’s hand in his, lightly enough that they could pull away, no questions asked.
They don’t.
“Yeah.” They breathe, after several more beats of silence, punctuated only by Chetney’s soft humming and the sound of chisel on wood, the whir of FCG’s chassis, the soft snores of the witches on the bed a few feet away. “Yeah, I guess I can.”