Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Day by day looks like many things.

One day, it looks like Dorian leaning over the railing of the Silken Squall, the smell of smoke clinging to his funeral robes. He stares out across a horizon obscured by storm clouds, bleary eyes drifting in and out of focus as his thoughts drift with the wind. His soul is heavy but his body is weightless. Perhaps one strong gust will carry him off with the storm. Would the winds be so kind as to carry him to Cyrus and bring them both home?

Then a warm hand slides into his, and Dorian is grounded by the weight of Orym standing by his side. His vision blurs as he somehow finds more tears to shed. Within his hollowed-out soul, two seeds have been planted: one of vengeance and one of gratitude. A farmer who plants in the soils of sorrow will reap what they sow like any other. However, that does not mean what grows will taste bitter with despair. Not when tended to by Orym’s gentle hands and the love of all of Dorian’s friends.

Another day looks like a clear night sky waiting for Dorian as he stumbles out of a lively tavern. His fingertips throb and his lungs ache, but his heart swells as the crowds behind him continue singing the songs he left for them. The cold evening air provides welcome refreshment and he lets them guide him to the comfort and safety of a quieter inn down the street.

As he sprawls across his bed and fatigue settles into his bones, a familiar voice calls out to him. He smiles and holds his sending stone close to his chest. With twenty-five words, they can only manage a quick check-in and a simple ‘miss you,’ but what must be left unsaid is already felt. I’ll come back to you. I’ll wait for you. Just as I did before. Just as I always will.

Not all days are spent separated by grief or distance. Most are spent together wherever they so please. Some are spent in Zephrah. Some are spent in the squall. Some are spent with friends all across the world. But regardless of where they are or who they’re with, whether they’re traveling for business or for pleasure, Dorian cherishes every moment at his lover’s side. He takes none of these days for granted, knowing full well the burden of responsibility will be his only company one day.

But for now, his life is his own and he shares it freely. With all of his friends, and of course, with Orym. He reflects quite often on how pivotal their meeting was, how it changed both their lives in unexpected ways. Despite Orym insisting the contrary, Dorian knows he’s a better man for having met the Ashari; if Dorian had ever been left to guide himself, he’d have only listened to his impulses and not to his heart. He owes Orym more than the man could ever know, and while there are no debts between them, Dorian makes every effort he can to show Orym his appreciation. Learning prestidigitation to help clean around their Zephrahn home, buying expensive oil for polishing Seedling, and always lending a shoulder to cry on when needed. Orym may not realize this, and Dorian’s tendency to flit around Exandria may not convey this, but he is utterly devoted to him. Whatever Orym needs, Dorian will do his best to provide. Because he loves him.

Gods, he loves him so much.

It’s while watching Orym practice his sword techniques in their backyard one day that Dorian reflects on just how much he loves him. Suddenly, he realizes, I could spend the rest of my life with him. I want to spend the rest of my life with him. I think I want to marry him. Oh fuck. I want to marry Orym.

In typical Dorian fashion, the realization sends him into a little bit of a spiral. 

One emotion after the other hits him with full force, and he’s too overwhelmed by all he's feeling to figure out what to do next.

The confusion hits him first. Growing up in the Silken Squall, the idea of marriage was always tied to duty. Furthering his bloodline, ensuring there would always be someone ready to inherit the throne, and knowing that while love could blossom from such an arrangement, it would never be required or expected. Just hearing the word marriage--especially from his parents--has only ever filled him with dread. So for such an idea to suddenly inspire feelings of joy and excitement within him, he shifts subconsciously into a defensive mindset.

I can’t want this. I don’t want this. Why would I ever want this? This is what’s expected of me. I need to fight this.

The next feeling that hits him is curiosity, and slowly, he starts to lower the walls around him. He’s not living within the squall anymore. Marriage can mean something new. What could it mean for him now? What could it mean for Orym? Maybe it could mean whatever they want it to.

It’s a brand new idea he loves so much, he takes every other feeling in stride. Anxiety has its way with him--because of course it will--but he’s gotten better at learning which thoughts of his to trust and which to ignore. However, several of those thoughts he tries to ignore congeal into one unavoidable fear: this decision could ruin what Orym and him already have. While Dorian is much more open to marriage now in life, it’s a tradition that still carries baggage for each of them. What if Orym doesn’t want to remarry? What if being asked to share new vows is a step too far?

They’ve discussed Will together before, because really, how could they not? He’s an important person in Orym’s life, whether he’s here with them or not. Dorian would never try to replace Will in Orym’s memory, nor would he try to erase what remains of him, and yet he still worries about inserting himself into a role that’s maybe not meant to be shared. Then Dorian realizes how stupid that sounds, because Orym confided in him about Will’s spirit wishing him to move on and love again. It’s selfish of him to give into his insecurities and hold Orym back from his own happiness.

So, he decides to be brave. He’s going to propose to Orym. He’ll write a fabulous speech and pour out every ounce of his heart. He’ll get down on one knee and present Orym with a magnificent ring box and open it to reveal an even more magnificent ring. And no matter what Orym says, at least he’ll have been given another chance to make his feelings known. Marriage isn’t necessary for them to be happy, but it’s also something they should feel allowed to have.

Dorian Storm is going to propose to Orym of the Air Ashari.

Unfortunately, everything kind of goes to shit from there.

Chapter Text

Dorian’s string of bad luck starts with a dream.

He comes to unconsciousness within an oily expanse, colors blossoming as his brain slips deeper into sleep. The world of his imagination forms from an amalgamation of his memories, hills and valleys colliding with mountains and desert plains to create a beautifully chaotic landscape.

In his dream, Dorian floats above his mind’s creation amongst gently drifting clouds. There’s a sliver of Marquet to the west and a piece of Wildemount to the east. He drifts with the winds as his awareness sharpens and the land takes more details. Or maybe it’s due to the sudden--though never unwelcome--appearance of a dear friend.

Imogen floats up right beside him. “Hey Dorian.”

“Hey Genny.”

She rolls her eyes. “That is not catchin’ on.”

“Fine. We’ll go back to Maude then.”

She starts to float away.

Dorian catches her by the sleeve. “Okay, okay! Hi Imogen . How’re you?”

She tugs her arm free and crosses it with the other. “I’m good. You doin’ well? Orym came to visit us recently and we missed you.”

He cocks his head at that. “I’m good? Sorry, but I wasn’t actually aware he came to see you. What was he doing all the way out in your area?”

The world loses its texture for a moment as Imogen stares back at him. “Oh…guess he just felt like sayin’ hi. So anyway, what’s goin’ on with you? Got any shows or heists planned?”

It occurs to Dorian that he has a choice to make in regards to his proposal planning: keep it a secret, or blab about it to everyone but Orym. Given that he’s never been able to keep a secret in life (or at least, not for very long), perhaps it’s better to indulge in his excitement.

The wind picks up around him as he grins from ear to ear. “As a matter of fact, I’m planning the greatest heist of all. It’ll take all my skills, all my cunning, and a fair bit of charm to pull off. But I feel confident that by the end…I’ll have stolen a certain someone’s hand in marriage.”

His cheeky declaration doesn’t garner the reaction he was expecting. Instead, a brief wince flashes across Imogen’s face. She tries to recover quickly with a smile. “Wow! Oh, Dorian, that’s…that’s, uh…wow!”

Dorian’s heart drops, his confidence killed. “Oh. Is it…a bad idea?”

Imogen’s eyes widen and the world burns briefly with a bright, red light. “No! No no no, Dorian, it’s not a bad idea at all! You just…you caught me by surprise! I didn’t know you and Orym were…w-well, I just assumed--and it was probably rude of me to do so--that marriage really wasn’t somethin’ y’all…wanted?”

The nerves bundled at the bottom of Dorian’s stomach flare up. “No, you’re fine! Marriage is just…I mean, it’s a bit of a delicate subject for both of us. B-But that doesn't mean we’re against--well, I’m not against it, but I suppose I don’t actually know if Orym…”

A cold sweat builds on the back of his neck. Like a tidal wave, the same anxious thoughts he worked so hard to wade through some crashing down on him. Imogen is a friend and her assumptions are based in concern. But for Dorian to assume Orym would be ready for marriage without discussing it first? That has to make Dorian some sort of asshole here, right? He tries to remind himself that Orym can always say no, that he won’t push his boyfriend to commit to something he’s not (and may never be) ready for, but with his thoughts all jumbled it’s much easier to call himself an asshole and kick himself for his eagerness.

He’s drawn away from his thoughts by a pained grunt. Hovering this close to him, Imogen rubs her temples as she’s bombarded by his sudden panic. Dorian hurriedly thinks, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize you weren’t wearing your circlet!

“Well, yeah. I’m sleeping. ” She shakes her head and takes a breath. “I’m sorry for speaking out of turn like that. I didn’t mean to make you second-guess yourself.”

“You didn’t--it’s fine. No need to apologize. It just…what you said caught me a bit off guard, that’s all.” He wraps his arms around himself and searches for a cloud in the sky to center his attention on. A bit more grounded (metaphorically speaking), he adds, “We’ve both got some… baggage, true, but each of us is working through our respective…bags? Is that the right word?”

Imogen shrugs unhelpfully.

Dorian sighs. “Maybe it is a bad idea. I mean, if the slightest bit of pushback has me doubting myself this much--”

Lighting-scarred hands grasp his shoulders firmly. “It’s not a bad idea,” Imogen assures him. “I think it’s a very good idea, actually. I just…I was caught off guard, and I shouldn’t have said what I said the way I said it. Alright?”

He wants to nod, but to his dismay finds he can’t quite agree with her. “But what if--?”

Imogen shakes him. “No. Dorian. It’s good. Trust me. You trust me, right?”

That he can nod to.

She beams at him. “Good. Then go for it. Marry Orym. He would be happy to be your husband.”

Dorian’s heart rises slowly back to the top of his chest. “I hope so. I would…I would certainly be happy to be his.”

Imogen releases him with a laugh. “Well, you got any plans in motion for this proposal?”

He gasps with an idea. “Yes! I meant to ask you before my, ah, 'moment', if Laudna would perhaps be willing to take on a jewelry commission for me?”

Yet again, to his dismay, Imogen’s reaction is less than enthusiastic. She makes no effort to hide her sour expression. “Uh, about that…”

“A year?” Chetney whistles. “Damn. Wish my other clients were as patient as you.”

Dorian takes a long sip of his drink. “That’s how long Laudna said the rings would take.”

He says this right as Chetney goes to take a sip of his own drink, which leads to the gnome spitting ale onto the Spire by Fire bar top. “A year?! If she ever wants to get really into the artisan business, she’s gotta realize time is money! Ask her for a discount.”

Dorian passes him a napkin. “I offered to pay her, but she refused my money.”

“Well, shit. See if you can pay to speed up the process then!”

“I don’t want to stress her out. Besides, she’s working on something for an ‘important client’. They got to her first, so--” He plants an elbow on the bar and drops his head into his hand. “What can I do?”

Chetney takes another swig of ale, avoiding any spillage this time. “Any idea who this client is? Who could be more important than a friend asking for wedding rings, anyway?”

“I have no idea, but I’m not that offended to be put second.”

“Hmm. You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Chetney pulls out his wood chisel. “Because we could just, y’know…”

Dorian pushes the chisel out of sight. Just two tables behind them is a group of city guards enjoying their break, and the last time Dorian was in Marquet…let’s just say it’s just better if he keeps a low profile for now. Also, he blames Ashton for everything.

“No, we’re not doing anything to the client,” Dorian laments. “Though I admit, it’s hard to be patient. Especially this patient. A year. What if…I don’t know. A lot could happen by then.”

Chetney grumbles to himself as he pockets his chisel. “Why don’t you just get someone else to make your rings?”

“Absolutely not! They have to be Laudna originals. Orym would want her to be a part of our story, and so do I.”

“Hmph. Yeah, I get it. So, I got a year to make a ring box, huh?”

“Yes, and full creative freedom. I’m putting my full trust in a master of his craft.”

Chetney looks away from him as he slides his tankard between his hands atop the bar. “Sorry, friend. I’m booked for the foreseeable future. In a year, I may have time. Get back to me then.”

Dorian sits up so fast, his chair wobbles.

“Wah!” Chetney screams. “Careful with spooking the elderly!”

“You too, Chet?” Dorian huffs. “But, can’t you--? I’ll pay whatever you want. Any price, name it! Please, I just need--”

“Nope. Can’t do it, your highness. C-Pop’s got too much on his plate right now. Sorry.”

Once again, the tidal wave of thoughts comes rushing for him. There’s not enough alcohol in his system to quiet the noise. He sounds so entitled. So whiny. Just a spoiled, sheltered, rich kid upset that things aren’t going the way he wants. He shouldn’t be talking to Chetney like this. He shouldn't be upset with Laudna, either. They have their own lives, their own commitments, and they can’t just put them on hold because Dorian is equal parts impatient and insecure.

Okay, maybe more the latter than the former.

A sharp fingernail scratches the tip of Dorian’s nose as Chetney flicks a finger at him. “Ah shit. You with me? Don’t float away from me, blue boy.”

The dull sting helps somewhat to quiet the noise. Dorian rubs his nose. “Sorry. I’m here.”

“You good?”

“I’m…yeah. I’m very sorry for being pushy. If you ever do find the time--or if it takes a year!--I’d still love to pay you for your work. I could even pay you now just for…just for. Here, let me--”

Chetney smacks Dorian’s hand away as he reaches for his coin purse. “Alright. Time for an old man to share his wisdom. Let’s start unpacking all you got stored in your brain that’s stressing you out so much.”

Dorian glances around at the lively tavern around them. More patrons are streaming in, and soon there will barely be enough room to walk between the tables. “Um…here though?”

“You betcha.” Chetney drowns the rest of his mug with a single swig, then slams his tankard down hard. “A lot can happen in a year, huh? What the fuck is up with that?”

Dorian’s face flushes. “Nothing! I meant nothing. I was just being impatient.”

“Uh huh.” In a blink, Chetney is leaning right in Dorian’s face, his tiny shoes pushing off the back of his bar stool. “I don’t have to get this close to smell the bullshit on you, but I will!”

“Gods! Personal space, Chet!”

Dorian shoves him back, almost feeling bad when the little gnome nearly tumbles onto the floor. Thankfully he manages to catch himself, and unfortunately he goes right back to leaning in Dorian’s face again. Dorian gives him another shove, but this time the gnome won’t budge. The bartender is giving them an odd look and the voices at the table behind them have grown quiet and those city guards are still here--

“FINE! Just get back!”

This time when he shoves Chetney, the gnome stays in his seat. He crosses his little arms and taps his little foot against the side of the bar. “Spill it, then.”

Channeling those thoughts into actual words takes all of Dorian’s focus. He sucks in the smell of ale and meats and holds it within his lungs. Then, leaning his elbows back on the bar top, he lets the words pour out. “I’m starting to realize that there’s a difference between being ready to marry someone and being ready to be married. I plan on spending the rest of my life with Orym, married or not, but…it’s something I want to be a possibility for us, and I’m worried I may never be in a position where I’m able to be the husband he deserves.”

Chetney scoffs. “Please. You really need me to tell you how much you mean to the guy?”

Dorian smiles briefly. “No, I…I think I have a pretty good idea.” Then he grows somber again. “Chetney, one day I’ll have to leave. My parents are healthy, but there’s…there’s no guarantees. I’ve learned that. Once I go back to the Silken Squall, I can’t just ask Orym to give up his life to come with me.”

“You two are already sorta doing the long distance thing, though. Have been ever since I met you, pretty much!”

“It would be different then.”

“How so? He comes to visit, or you’ll visit him, and you’ll have your stones.”

Dorian shuts his eyes. “If he decides to come with me, he’ll become royalty. He won’t just be able to leave.”

A small silence stretches between them. Then, Chetney says, “Alright. I get it now. You don’t want marriage to trap Orym in a life he wouldn’t want.”

Dorian holds tight to the sending stone around his neck. “I could never burden him with that.”

“Fuck’s sake. You two really were meant for each other. How about you just talk to Orym about this, you dummy?!”

He opens his eyes at the outburst. “I’m sorry?”

Chetney waves a raging fist right in his face. “You heard me! Talk to Orym! It’s not that hard!”

Dorian huffs. “It’ll be pretty hard for him not to realize I’m planning to propose if I ask about marriage!”

“You’re not asking about marriage, you idiot! You’re worried about your future together. How serious you two are, what you expect, ground level stuff that all partners gotta discuss with each other, married or not!”

It’s as comforting as it is humbling to remember, for how much Dorian has grown into himself, of how much more he still has yet to learn of who Dorian Storm actually is. Today, he’s learned that Dorian Storm still has the tendency to fret over a big issue that can be resolved by tackling a smaller one. The world offers him its wisdom when these lessons need to be learned, and today, his lesson has come to him in the form of Chetney Pock O’Pea.

For as much as Dorian was just complaining about personal space, he reaches out and drags the grouchy old gnome into an awkward hug. “Man, I hate when you’re right.”

Chetney squirms in his grasp. “I would’ve preferred a simple ‘thank you’! Argh! Your stone is digging into my back!”

Chapter Text

There’s plenty of time for Dorian to reflect on his discussion with Chetney while riding Coriolis back to Zephrah. He’s put the matter of the ring box aside while flying through Marquet,  and now, as they soar high above the ocean, he attempts to string together the right words to broach the subject of his relationship with Orym. Asking outright seems too brash to Dorian, not to mention daunting, but he knows that he risks the conversation not going anywhere if he dances around the issue too much. Calling it an issue though doesn’t feel right. Dorian is confident in the strength of their bond; he just worries about an abrupt ending to their tale. As does everyone, he supposes, but still…it’s not something he thinks he can risk living through again.

Yet another reason Orym is the strongest man he’s ever met.

After days of travel, Coriolis descends towards the tree in the center of Zephrah. They land safely back in the village and he hops back onto solid ground with only a slight wobble in his knees. By this point, he’s mostly, fairly, pretty much, just about, as sure as he can be, for the most part ready to talk to Orym. There’s an eloquent script running through his head that he thinks covers all the bases he needs to. Now all he has to do is find the courage to speak the words aloud. He should have a little time left before their reunion to do that, right?

Well, there’s a three foot nothing halfling leaning against the tree, where he’s been waiting for Dorian ever since he received a call on his sending stone that morning.

Orym hops to his feet with a warm grin, then with another hop leaps through the air--so high up!--and lands right into Dorian’s outstretched arms. Dorian clings to the weight of his whole world, the exhaustion of his return journey melting away. He cradles himself over the top of Orym’s head, breathing in the scents of lavender, earth, and home. Every tense muscle in his body eases at once with a loving sigh.

There’s a kiss to his collarbone. “Hey you.”

Dorian gazes down upon his boyfriend, basking in the smile only he gets to see. “Hey beautiful.”

The rosy hue in Orym’s cheeks spreads to the tips of his ears. “Missed you here. Take me with you next time, or else I’ll go crazy.”

He’s too caught up in cherishing the moment to remember what he worried himself to pieces during the flight back. Find something, right. Say something charming; he’ll get to it. Maybe. Oh, who cares? Feelings of love and lust fog the parts of his brain that aren’t travel weary, and any effort to do anything other than cherish Orym is put on hold.

He leans back in, his hot breath puffing back into his own face as he whispers, “Or you could take me now.”

There’s a pause as the words sink in, but not long enough to jolt Dorian from his passion-fueled haze. Orym presses a chast kiss to his lips, then backflips out of Dorian’s arms and grabs him by the hand. “Or I could do just that.”

He drags Dorian back to their cottage as if their lives depend on it, the two of them laughing and tripping over themselves along the way.

Hours later, while lying in bed wonderfully exhausted, Dorian finally remembers, Oh shit. Yeah. The conversation. It’s not like he spent days planning exactly what he was going to say or anything.

He flops his head over on his pillow to face Orym, who is smiling contently to himself. Too tired to let himself think, Dorian surprises even himself when he asks, “What are we?”

Orym, who hadn’t broken a sweat during their love making, spins around to Dorian in a panic. “Wh…do you really not know? Do you really need to ask?”

Dorian wakes right up . He slaps his hands over his face and rushes out, “No! Shit, sorry! That’s not what I meant. You fucked my brains out. I can’t think straight.”

Orym chuckles, though somewhat nervously. He scoots closer to Dorian and puts a hand on his chest, right above his racing heart. “I would hope you’re not. Take your time. Help me understand what you wanna say.”

What does Dorian want to say? Now that he’s thinking about it, going into this conversation with the script he had planned feels incredibly disingenuous. Honesty requires sincerity, and while everything in his script reflected his true feelings, nothing could be more true than just letting his heart speak for himself. So, after dragging his hands down over his face, he opens his mouth and hopes something more well-spoken comes out.

“I’ve been thinking--well, perhaps worrying is the better term here…about the future. About us.”

Again, his words are followed by a pause. He’s known Orym for years now, and very seldomly has Dorian ever said anything that his boyfriend didn’t stop to contemplate properly. Treating everything Dorian says like a wise proverb worth internalizing, giving his ramblings far more thought than they deserve. As a bard, it’s extremely dangerous for his ego; maybe the purpose of all his anxiety is to keep him humble.

Orym begins to run his hand gently over Dorian’s chest. “What about the future troubles you? Is it a specific obstacle or just a general fear for what’s to come?”

Dorian sighs. “Both? It’s just that, I’ve been thinking a lot about the squall recently...”

“Ah. Did you hear from your folks recently?”

“Not too recently, but they’re fine. Both of them are in good health, and there’s no reason to believe I’ll have to go back anytime soon.”

“But…?”

“...but anything can happen. Anything has happened. It’s hard to enjoy this freedom of mine when it could be snatched away from me at any second. Planning anything for the future, even if it’s something worth looking forward to…it always comes with this sense of dread. And guilt. And I don’t know how to stop feeling those things because nothing can assure me that the life I have now will last. It can’t, right? Not with Cyrus--”

His mouth clamps shut. He trusted his heart to speak for him, but that doesn't mean he was prepared for what might come out. Tears of shame and sorrow well up behind his eyes. He hasn’t talked about Cyrus in a while, though he’s thought about him every day.

Orym cups Dorian’s face in his hands. “There will be a future. I can’t tell you what it’ll look like. I can’t tell you where we’ll be, but I’ll be there. With you here, with you there, I’ll follow you anywhere you go. Anywhere you need to be. We’ll take it day by day, just as we always have.”

Dorian takes a deep breath in and holds it. He counts the faint freckles on Orym’s face to calm himself down, and thankfully, the tears subside. “If you…if you had a choice, though--”

“I’d choose you.” Orym smiles softly. “I have chosen you.”

Well, that’s not fair. His tears are back. “But I can’t ask you to join me in the squall.”

“We’d figure that out then, what my role there would be and what it would look like. But I’ll be there if you’re there. As long as it’s by your side, in any capacity, I’ll be happy.”

Dorian shakes his head, Orym’s hands following his movements. “But is that..is that what you really want? Because once I’m ruler…that’s all I can be.”

Orym sighs, crestfallen. He crawls onto Dorian’s lap, leaning forward so their faces are just inches apart. “You can be anyone, Dorian Storm. A crown on your head won’t change that.”

“But it’ll change things. Maybe not for the better.”

“We’ll take on those changes as they come. And they won’t all be bad; they’ll just be different. I can do different if you can.”

Dorian exhales shakily. “If it’s with you…yeah. I just don’t want to--”

Orym kisses him, and without needing to be told, Dorian lets go of the idea that his future will burden them. He kisses Orym desperately, arms wrapping around his boyfriend and bringing him closer. They stay like that for some time, until the golden light of the evening sunset pokes through the curtains. When they finally untangle themselves from each other, Orym finds Dorian’s hand and clutches it tightly.

“I don’t want you to ever worry about this. Not because of what may come. I lived with that fear for far too long. I won’t let you fall sick with that same misery.”

Dorian smiles, though his heart aches for wounds he wasn’t there to heal. “Are you sure you’re not a bard? That sounded like poetry.”

Orym laughs. “I can find the right words sometimes, but I’m no poet. Tell me what you need to ground yourself, and I’ll do my best.”

“You do so much already.”

“But I mean it, though. Anything, Dor. How can I help?”

Dorian finds there’s a response waiting on his tongue. “Can you promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“We’ve already promised each other tomorrow, to be there in the morning…but could I ask…”

No. It’s not time for that. Not without rings and a box and Alma’s blessing. But what he’s asking isn’t Orym’s hand in marriage. Not yet.

“...could tomorrow extend beyond that? Could it be forever?”

Orym brings their joined hands to his chest. He just smiles, eyes glossing over before leaning in for another kiss.

Chapter Text

One thing Dorian has learned as a bard is that there’s a good reason heroic ballads only cover the greatest hits of an adventurer’s life, and that’s because an adventurer spends a majority of their time walking, waiting, and being bored as fuck.

Case in point, Dorian lays prone over the edge of a sand ridge, listlessly watching the crawler gang they’ve been tailing about a hundred yards away. To his left, Braius draws random patterns in the sand just to wave them away a moment later and start over again. To his right, Ashton shifts restlessly and picks at the molten rock on his arm, specks of ash dotting the sand like black freckles. The three of them have just been staring for hours, waiting for the crawlers to do something. Literally anything. Unfortunately, the gang refuses to lead them straight to the hidden cash Ashton was hired to rob, perfectly content to waste the day away camping out in the middle of nowhere, drinking and playing cards and doing absolutely jack shit.

Ashton snaps first, unsurprisingly. “I’m just gonna go down there and start beating up motherfuckers, or else we gotta start talking about our feelings or some shit so my ass stays awake.”

Braius perks up at that. “You want to talk about our feelings?”

“Preferably, no. Just suggesting literally anything to keep us from going insane. These fuckers, I swear. It’s like they know we’re here and are trying to get a rise out of us…”

A concerning claim if true, but regrettably for their safety, Dorian blurts out, “How do you know what kind of relationship you’re in with someone, even when you’ve asked and still have no idea?”

For a moment, the only response comes from the desert wind and distant voices of the gang below. Then, eerily in sync, Dorian’s friends snap their heads to face him.

“Are you talking about Orym?” Braius asks, intrigued.

“What do you mean you’ve already asked?!” Ashton asks, bewildered.

It’s frustrating how often Dorian betrays his own efforts not to make a fool out of himself by opening his mouth. He’s supposed to be a bard, for gods’ sake. And equally frustrating is that despite his conversations with Imogen, Chetney, and Orym, Dorian’s concerns about proposing refuse to be settled. At this point, he may be standing at the altar (should all go well) and still be questioning everything in his life.

He blames the boredom and sarcastic offer of a heart-to-heart for the terrible turn of events that day. But before their heist crashes and burns, Dorian’s friends eagerly await an explanation.

He knocks his forehead against the sand to hide his flushed face. “It’s nothing. We’re fine. Great even! I think we want to spend the rest of our lives together, but he didn’t exactly give me a verbal answer when I asked? So, now I’m overthinking things. I’m good. Really. Let’s go back to sitting in silence please. Thank you.”

A stone hand pats Dorian hard on the back, knocking the wind from his lungs. “Nope. I’m mad at how interested I am in your love life now. I’m gonna have to know more. Fuck.”

A much gentler hoof soothes the bruise now forming over Dorian’s spine. “Perhaps going over the conversation with us in great detail will help.”

Dorian groans. “I’ve been doing that enough in my head already.”

“Then just give us a little context. How was the question phrased? Maybe Orym just misunderstood.”

“I mean, I asked him if we could promise ourselves to each other forever. I’m not really sure there’s a wrong way to interpret that.”

With a pained groan, Ashton props themself on their side to face Dorian. “I really shouldn’t care, but why even ask? In my experience, labels often just make things more complicated. Better to establish boundaries than to restrict the nature of something for no good reason.” They rub the lace sewn onto their wrist brace between their fingers, a faint smile tugging at their lips. “Besides, it keeps things interesting. Just being, not trying to define anything…it’s nice. But also, I get it. It’s not for everyone. I just thought, I dunno, that you two weren’t looking to be anything specific. What changed suddenly?”

No sense in keeping a secret from any of his other friends when half of Bells Hells already knows of his intentions. Still, Dorian feels the need to take a deep breath before confessing. “I want to ask Orym to marry me.”

Once again, the only response comes from the wind and the crawlers.

Then, Braius bursts into tears.

Ashton flings himself over Dorian to smack a hand over Braius’ mouth. “Shh! You forget what we’re doing here, idiot?!”

Braius’ gives a muffled sniffle. Once freed, he blubbers, “That’s c-cool. That’s great. I’m… happy for you both. Uh huh, yeah…”

Dorian awkwardly pats the minotaur’s knee. “Would’ve been you…in another life…I’m sure…Ash, you’re heavy--!”

Suddenly, Ashton presses more of their weight against Dorian’s back, literally pinning him between a rock and a hard place. “The hell are you thinking?! You fucking dumbass!”

“Wh--?”

“You wanna marry Orym? And you’re going out doing shit like this?!” they hiss right into his ear. “Are you trying to put him through another heartbreak? Fuck me…if something happens to you on one of my jobs--I don’t need that shit on my conscience!”

Dorian stills. The hot breath against his face and the warm sand beneath him suddenly turn cold. Then he realizes where all that warmth went, because now it’s burning inside him.

He pushes up against Ashton, catching the barbarian off guard and shoving them off him and onto the sand. Now it’s Dorian’s turn to get right in their face, close enough he can see his reflection glaring back at him through the glass on Ashton’s skull.

“I would never be so careless with the heart Orym entrusted to me. Do you honestly think I would ever risk putting him through that kind of tragedy again?”

A spark dances around the inside of Ashton’s head. “No, but there’s a difference between having good intentions and good luck. I’ve found that often, you can only ever have one at a time--”

A part of Dorian that’s laid dormant since Cyrus’ passing suddenly seizes him: brotherly instinct. Not the kind that reacts when there’s a need to protect or comfort, but to lash out and hurt.

“Oh, what do you know? Truly, Ashton. What do you know about anything? What could you possibly understand about my relationship with Orym if you don’t even have a grasp of what your relationship is with Fearne?”

That spark in Ashton’s head bursts into an explosion of fireworks. His gaze hardens as he grit out, “Alright. Clearly I touched a nerve, but now you’re touching mine. Kindly back the fuck outta my face, your highness.”

“We tamed Predothos. Talked down to gods. Does getting married suddenly take away my capabilities? It’s not going to change anything other than what we refer to each other as!”

“Well, shit man! Why get married then? Why does it matter?!”

Braius pulls Dorian out of Ashton’s face. “Enough! Lower your voices or else they’ll notice--”

An arrow whizzes past Dorian’s nose, embedding itself in the space he just occupied. In an instant, the three of them are on their feet with their weapons drawn. But no matter their quick initiative, they’re no match for the flanking crawler gang that’s snuck up on them. At a glance Dorian counts over a dozen combatants, armed and riding atop heavily-shielded vehicles. An archer notches another arrow into their crossbow, holding their next shot until one of them makes a move.

“...us.”

Ashton’s body shifts out of focus, spectral copies of himself floating around him. “Yeah, we were fucking asking for it. On three, we break.”

“And go where?” Dorian asks, though he wants to say he’s sorry. Crazy how the anger that gripped him so suddenly releases him just as quickly.

“Guess we’ll figure it out on the way. THREE!”

They take off, and as Dorian’s punishment for his outburst, everything for him goes poetically wrong. None of his spells hit. He trips on nothing and falls behind. And just as he’s catching up to his friends, with arrows raining down above him, his foot sinks below the sand. Something sharp, something hungry, clamps down viciously on his leg just below the knee.

Dorian’s vision goes white. His body seizes in agony. Then everything goes dark as he is pulled beneath the surface.

When the pain fades and Dorian comes to, he’s in a space not much brighter than where he lost consciousness. A dimly-lit expanse stretches out before him, dotted with the faintest of lights all across the horizon. It’s with a startled breath that he realizes he is floating amidst the night sky, his only companions the stars shining from so far away.

Then, once his eyes adjust, he sees a person. Even from a distance, Dorian would recognize Cyrus anywhere. His thicker build, shoulder-length hair, and familiar teal skin. It doesn’t occur to Dorian how he’s been reunited with his brother, nor does he care. He calls on the winds to propel him forward, but for the first time in his life, they do not answer.

Helpless and alone, all Dorian can do is yell, “CYRUS!”

His brother approaches, though slowly. Dorian can just barely make out Cyrus’ expression, his dimples dotting the edges of an apprehensive smile. Then, he stops. Still too far away. The closest he’s been in so long.

Dorian reaches for him, not unlike a child. “Come here! I-I can’t reach you, please! I need to tell you that I’m--! I’m…”

For the second time that day, he is unable to apologize. Not for any lack of regret, but an overwhelming sense of failure. His brother should be here. Not here here, but out there. In the sunlight, charting a world he barely got to see. Exandria would love Cyrus Wyvernmind, if only he had gotten the change to--

Had.

Dorian looks down at his leg. The calf attached to his right knee seems fainter somehow, as if he’s had to conjure its image to replace what’s missing. Taken out by a kagaronk of all things--after facing gods and god-eaters alike--feels so insulting. But the universe didn’t intend for Dorian’s death to be an insult; perhaps it meant for his death to be a reunion?

Again, he reaches for Cyrus. He chokes on a sob, unable to call to him.

Finally, Cyrus closes the distance. He floats before Dorian, keeping them an arm’s length apart. His older brother, so strong and so foolish. Dorian searches his expression for any hidden malice, any trace of blame, but finds only pride.

“I like the new outfit. Gold looks good on you.”

Dorian crumbles under the weight of his grief. It feels heavy enough to drag him down from the sky. “Looked better on you…I can’t stay with you, can I?”

Cyrus shakes his head sadly. “You don’t want to. You just got your own life; don’t throw it away.”

“It’s no life without you.”

“But I am there. I’m walking beside you with every step you take. You just don’t see me.”

Despite everything, Dorian laughs. It’s wet and causes snot to bubble out of his nose, but it’s real. “You sound so much more mature in death. Unless you’re being literal?”

Cyrus shrugs. “Eh. Kinda am, kinda ain’t. But you know what I mean.”

“I do. Doesn’t make it any easier.”

“I know, brother. I know.”

One last time, Dorian reaches for him. “I’ll go. I promise. Just…I didn’t get to say goodbye last time. Please…”

Tears shine in Cyrus’ eyes as he finally closes the gap between them. There’s no warmth to the embrace, or an embrace at all. There’s just the feeling of being made whole again, if even for a moment. In spite of the ugliness that separated them, Dorian weeps softly. A gentle release, which more than anything is a sigh of relief.

He could stay. How easy it would be to let his tether to mortality slip from his grasp. But no, he wouldn’t dare. He made a promise to his brother and another to Orym. Dorian will live, even if it hurts. He’ll endure the pain of leaving a part of himself behind again.

Cyrus releases him as the winds finally answer. Instead of heeding Dorian’s command, they listen to the elder Wyvernwind.

“Love you. Now go.”

The winds carry Dorian away. As Cyrus vanishes from sight, white takes his vision once more.

Chapter Text

Dorian wakes up to Braius’ face five inches from his. “Thank The Traveler! Er, I suppose. How are you feeling, friend?”

A great question, especially since Dorian is still easing into consciousness. His neck is too stiff to look around and properly take in their dimly-lit surroundings. A dull pain pulses through his body, causing his limbs to seize up every few seconds. His hands curl into feeble fists at his sides. “Not great…”

Braius leans back, and it’s then that Dorian notices the red staining his chest plate. “You may be feeling that way for a bit, I’m afraid. We’re out of potions and I just used my last spell to--uh, bring you back. But help should be on the way. Just lay still and stay with us, okay?”

Though Dorian has yet to shake the daze of his sudden revival, the memory of his brother shines crystal clear. Tears he hasn’t actually shed yet burn behind his eyes. “Okay…where’s Ashton?”

Right on cue, heavy footprints echo nearby. Sluggishly, Dorian turns his head and takes in the absolute state that Ashton is in. Coated in sand and blood, the barbarian drags their hammer behind them and clutches a familiar-looking sending stone in their hand. Their eyes, hollowed by exhaustion, widen once they meet his gaze.

“What happened? Braius, why are you looking at me like that?”

Braius shifts nervously, his armor clinking together. “Yeah, um…he sort of died when you were making your call. I brought him back, though!”

The cave--at least, Dorian thinks they’re in a cave--lights up as Ashton’s dome sparkles. He drops his hammer and kneels hurriedly beside Dorian. “He what now? You what now?”

“He’s fine, he’ll live! As long as Orym and the others are quick, and the bandages hold, and he keeps his eyes open, and…he’ll be fine.”

It’s a common sight to see an angry scowl on Ashton’s face. However, there’s something more to their expression this time that twists Dorian’s stomach into knots. He’s too tired to pinpoint exactly all that he‘s feeling, but there is undoubtedly some guilt. You don’t just snap at one of your closest friends and then die on them; bit of an asshole move on Dorian’s part. He notices the hand clutching the sending stone start to shake.

Weakly, Dorian lifts a hand of his own. He places it over Ashton’s and gives a feeble squeeze. “You can say I told you so…”

Ashton scoffs, looking sharply away from him. “As soon as I say it, I’ll jinx you. Orym’s on his way, just…don’t fucking die again. Then we’re square. Nothing happened. There was just an accident. No permanent accidents. Think it’s better if Orym doesn’t know about--”

They gesture to Dorian, or what’s left of him. Sure enough, the leg Dorian knew would be gone…is gone. Blood seeps out slowly into the bandage wrapped around his knee, the white of the fabric almost entirely overtaken by crimson. It may be the shock or lack of blood pumping through him, but it’s not a sight that instills Dorian with any sense of nausea or fear; it’s simply a consequence of what happened.

Alright, it may be the blood loss. Dorian Storm, completely level-headed and cool about something as serious as his own dismemberment? Blood loss for sure.

“You were right,” he tries to say. His hoarse voice is barely able to climb above a whisper. “Definitely a difference…between good intentions and good luck…”

“I can be a little wise sometimes. Shocking, I know.”

“It really is.”

“Okay, we were just starting to make up.”

Dorian attempts to laugh, but no sound comes out. He chokes on a cough and feels a faint splattering of blood coat his lips. In an unusual act of tenderness, Ashton dabs the lace woven into their wrist guard and dabs Dorian’s mouth clean. Damn, he must be looking real bad off then.

“I’m sorry,” he says once Ashton pulls away.

“I know you are. I guess, uh…me too.”

“Huh?”

“Me too. I’m sorry too.”

Dorian cracks a smile. “Hoping I die…so I won’t tell anyone about you apologizing?”

Ashton smiles back. “Only a little. Look…shit happens. You’re not fragile, despite current evidence of the contrary. Orym’s not made of glass, either. I was being overbearing.”

“And I was…being snippy…”

“Yeah. And then you died. So, we’re good.”

“Just like that?”

“Why, you wanna talk about it more?”

“Not really…” Which is true, and yet he still blurts out, “Until now, until Orym…marriage was a royal duty for me. Now it can…it can be something more. Mine. Ours. If he wants it too. That’s why…”

Ashton presses the sending stone back into Dorian’s grasp, then gently lays Dorian’s hand down on top of his chest. “I get it. Or at least, now I do. You picked a fight with the one friend you know has the shortest temper. You were kinda asking for it.”

“I was.”

“He’ll say yes. Whenever you ask. Guy’s a sucker for you.”

“Me too…but for him.”

“I know. Everyone knows.”

Dorian goes to protest but instead says, “I saw Cyrus.”

Ashton blinks, stunned. “Shit. You, uh, good?”

“No…but I’ll be okay.”

“You sure?”

He lingers for a moment in memories of that final embrace. “More than I have been. I feel…at ease. I’ve been on edge for…gods, it feels like forever…second-guessing every thought that enters my head…I just don’t want anything to end the way his life did. I was so afraid of being careless, and look at me now…”

Ashton nods. “I know a thing or two about painful lessons. You won’t forget this. Trust me. At the very least, it’ll provide you with some clarity. The important shit’ll stick out more. What really needs worrying about, and marrying Orym ain’t it.”

Dorian smiles back up at him. “No, it’s not. And I…I got to say goodbye…my brother doesn’t hate me and I got to say goodbye…”

From the corner of his bleary eyes, he watches Braius slip his sketchpad out from his bag. “That’s a wonderful thing, Dorian. You sound like you’re starting to fade on us.”

“‘M not. Just…” He pauses to blink tears and dark spots out of his vision. “Tired.”

Ashton shakes him by the shoulder. “Eyes open, mister. A few more minutes and Orym’ll be here. Promise.”

“Don’t worry…not going anywhere.”

As his vision obscures again, Braius dangles his paint brush over Dorain’s face. “Good. Then you can tell me how Cyrus looked. I doubt there’s any way he was more handsome than you, but I need to see his face for myself.” He puts his brush to paper and waits expectantly for direction.

Dorian recognizes the distraction for what it is, and with what little of his strength remains, he describes Cyrus’ face to the best of his ability. Some time passes before Cyrus’ visage begins to emerge from the page, and it’s when Dorian catches his brother’s painted gaze that an idea comes to him.

“Hey Braius…how hard would it be…to turn that into a tattoo design?”

Chapter Text

Dorian has no idea what herbs Baernie put into his tea to help alleviate the pain in his new leg, but they are working wonders. Every nerve ending below his knee buzzes like static, a massive improvement from the red hot pulsing he had woken up to. In fact, his whole body fizzes from head to toe, his vision wobbly in a soup kind of way. Soup?

Yeah, she gave him the good shit.

Regenerative magic is funny. Seedling’s enchantment can regrow limbs in just one short hour, but it can’t transfer the muscle memory and strength of Dorian’s old leg to his new one. Meaning, it’s going to take months of physical therapy (and the occasional concoction from Baernie) before Dorian can safely go adventuring again. It took nearly two months before he could walk again with the help of a cane, and it’s looking like it’ll take another two before he’ll be able to ditch the walking aid.

Orym, his doting and vigilant boyfriend, does all he can to support Dorian through his recovery. He’s eliminated all tripping hazards in their home and helps Dorian take short walks through Zephrah when he gets stir crazy. He wrote up Dorian’s therapy regime himself and keeps him accountable in pushing towards his recovery. With Orym there’s no days off, which is both a blessing and a curse. Especially when Dorian overdoes it and needs his (future?) sister-in-law to brew the pain away.

Dorian cradles his teacup close to his chest and basks in the wibbly-wobbliness. It’s a sensation similar to floating on his back in the water, and yet also similar to when Ashton pinned him against the sand with their body weight. He’s weightless and anchored and completely out of it; a blissful feeling but not one he would ever want to overindulge in. It’s difficult to focus on his surroundings, wrangle a coherent thought, or participate in the conversation playing out between Opal and Baernie.

“No, you could totally rock a pixie cut! You’ve got the cheekbones for it and everything!”

“You’re sweet, girlie, but um…crown?”

“So? The stylist would just have to take their time. I say go for it. And if you hate it, it grows back like--” The air pops with the snap of Baernie’s fingers.

“You are so wise. How have we never hung out before? You’re wonderful!”

“Oh, stop it. You’re wonderful! And for what it’s worth, you’re making that crown work.”

“Oh?” There’s a short pause, presumably to give Opal time to flip her hair over her shoulder. “You think so?”

Dorian nods his head to agree, but he’s having a hard time looking anywhere but up at the ceiling. He must attempt to move his head anyway, because his vision sloshes and suddenly he’s staring right at Opal and Baernie. As they laugh at him.

Baernie covers her mouth, still giggling. “Oh no, I think I gave you a little too much!”

“Nothing wrong with a good time!” Opal says.

“Yeah, but I was hoping it would wear off before Orym got home!”

Dorian’s gaze swims around the house, the rooms blending together into one liquidly room. “Or’m’s home?”

Opal pats his knee fondly. “No, you sweet little lightweight. You miss him?”

“Yeah...”

“Aww!” the women coo at him. If Dorian were more lucid, he would definitely take offense to being ogled over like a baby. But to be fair, he has the mental capability and motor skills of a baby right now.

“He’ll be home before you know it,” Baernie assures him. “And then I’ll have to apologize for drugging you. Let’s try a poultice next time, okay?”

Dorian shrugs (or at least, he thinks he does). “‘M feelin’ fine.”

Opal snickers. “More than fine, I bet.”

“Or’m won’be mad,” he assures Baernie. “You’re ah good sis’er n’law. He l’ves you…”

There’s another pause. Baernie eyes Dorian over, less like a physician this time and more like a detective. “Hey, Dorian?”

“M’yeah?”

“I think I could interpret that two different ways. Which way should I take it?”

He blinks heavily. “Did I say somethin’ bad?”

She smirks. “No. Just curious.”

Dorian shrugs again, unfortunately oblivious. “I jus’ meant…I mean, you are. Gonna be, anyway. Maybe…hopef’lly…need rings firsss…”

His eyelids gently shut themselves as he gives into the effects of his herb-laced tea. Opal’s slack jaw and Baernie’s shit-eating grin are the last things he sees.

When Dorian comes to, he’s no longer lounging in one of the sitting room chairs but curled up in bed. His eyelids still weigh more than they should, but he manages to blink them open and finds the world is no longer swaying around him. He’s slipped out of his pleasant buzz into a sluggish sobriety, but at least the soreness in his leg is much more bearable now.

And his darling boyfriend is sitting patiently by his side. Tenderly, Orym brushes stray hair away from Dorian’s face. “Morning.”

Dorian runs his tongue along the back of his teeth. His mouth tastes stale. “Hmph…I slept that long?”

“You worked out hard,” Orym reminds him proudly. Then less proudly adds, “And Baernie knocked you out harder.”

“She didn’t know I tend to have a low tolerance towards…most things. Anyway, how was your session? Feeling good? Feeling…less than good?”

Orym waves his hand in a so-so motion. “It was productive, but productive can be…a lot.”

Not long after Dorian started walking with a cane, the dam inside Orym broke and consequently, his boyfriend broke down over dinner one night. It was an outpouring of emotions so sudden and so raw that once the dust had settled and Orym could collect his thoughts, he had made the brave decision to start seeing a therapist. Unsurprisingly, the past several years left marks deeper than the scars, vines, and tattoo; saving the world and avenging one’s family can only do so much to relegate the damage. So, once a week, Orym heads into town and meets with a lovely woman who brews him (normal) tea and peels back the layers of the past.

It’s too soon to tell what impact the sessions will have overtime, but in the short term, Dorian notices the weight slowly slipping off Orym’s shoulders. There’s less tension in the way he carries himself; his shoulders hang looser, his stride no longer hastened, and the shadows beneath his eyes are the lightest they’ve ever been.

Dorian pats the space beside him. “Come rest with me?”

Orym huffs with a laugh. “I actually just got up.”

“And did a million pull ups and took a bath. So you’d be ready to come back to bed with me.”

“Well, that wasn’t the plan. But…”

All Dorian has to do is flash Orym his trademark smile and open up the covers before the halfling is kicking off his shoes. Minutes later, Orym’s back is flush to Dorian’s chest with their hands intertwined. Dorian plants sleepy kisses to the back of Orym’s neck and basks in the scent of honeydew soap. Locks of curly brown hair tickle his nose but thankfully, he manages to hold back a sneeze. He wouldn’t dare ruin the tranquility of this moment, even if his nostrils continue to sting.

There’s something he’s forgetting about. Something possibly important, or maybe just worth keeping note of. What was it? Perhaps something he said? To whom, though? Orym? Opal and Baernie?

Orym hums against him, sending a pleasant rumble through Dorian’s chest. Oh well. If he already forgot about it, then it probably wasn’t that important.