Chapter Text
Day by day looks like many things.
One day, it looks like standing by each other’s side in Orym’s old kitchen, the countertop recently cleaned for the first time in years, and sniffling over a pot of boiling potatoes together. It’s Dorian’s hand running small circles against Orym’s back and Orym holding Will’s recipe for stew close to his chest. His lingering absence, along with the smell of chopped garlic and rosemary, hangs heavy in the air. But despite the sudden welling of tears, the absence no longer hangs heavy in Orym’s chest. That lightness he once described to Dorian has remained, and it’s a feeling he’s surprised to find he carries without guilt. Still, loss is wont to invite itself in like an unwanted houseguest, and it’s only fitting that it joins them upon their first night in Orym’s old home.
Despite its intrusion, the meal is rich and wonderful. Each bite takes Orym back to a simpler time, the taste of memories offering comfort along with Dorian’s gentle smile. It’s a quiet, somber homecoming, and as painful as it’ll be to make it home again, it’ll be a home for two once again. Whenever they need it to be.
Another day looks like roiling grey clouds and cold, billowing winds as Coriolis climbs through the sky with the two of them on his back. A strong downpour is inevitable, along with the shedding of tears as the Silken Squall comes into view. With the end of the world now far behind them, proper funeral proceedings for Cyrus are finally being put into motion. They ride Coriolis in silence. Dorian sits in front with a white-knuckle grip on the reins. Orym wraps his arms around his chest from behind, tighter than the winds could ever try to pry them apart. It’s a hard day, though there will be closure that follows such a final goodbye. Not much, but it’ll help in the long run. Orym hopes it doesn’t take Dorian as long as it did him to feel it.
They go through the traditional funeral rites of the Squall. Dorian’s parents lead the proceedings, his father stone-faced and his mother weeping. Texts are read, stories shared, and before the rain begins to fall, a pyre is lit with Cyrus’ body laid across it. A magical fire engulfs his form, reducing the young man he once was into a pile of fresh ash. Tradition falls on the head of the family to send the ashes on their way, but Dorian’s father places his hand on his living son’s shoulder with a nod. It’s not the moment to analyze such a gesture, to pull back all the layers laid upon this day by a fraught and tragic history, but the lump in Orym’s throat turns into a pit that falls down to the bottom of his stomach; too soon and too much, in his opinion.
But Dorian steps forward anyway, head held high despite the tears freely flowing down his face. The second son--the only son--holds his hands towards the sky, and with a flick of his wrists and an uttered incantation, the winds swirl around the ashes and carry Cyrus high above the Squall. The smoldering embers streak across the sky like amber stars, lighting a path towards the great beyonds of Exandria. Eventually, the ashes disappear along the horizon and Cyrus is gone.
The following days are just as hard. Dorian doesn’t do much but stare quietly into the distance, and Orym doesn’t do anything that’s not an effort to ground him. Holding his hand, speaking for him when the words won’t come out, politely waving away those condolences are well meaning but are too overwhelming in the moment. All the things Keyleth once did for him, except for the one thing she could never do for him: hold Dorian long into the night and brush away his tears.
Not all days are hard, though. Some are good. Some are wonderful. Some are spent in the company of friends, Crown Keepers and Hells alike. Some are spent apart, connected from across the world by a pair of sending stones. But the best days,of course, are those spent together. Adventuring, discovering, performing (or watching, in Orym’s case), and on occasion, doing a good amount of nothing. Moments shared in bed, sleeping in under the blanket of the early morning sun, are the ones Orym cherishes most of all. Being held once again in the arms of the man who loves him.
Day by day looks like many things. And one day, it looks like Orym freezing in Dorian’s embrace as he realizes, Oh. I want to marry this man.
For obvious reasons, it’s a realization that spurs a wide range of emotions within himself. Shock, in that it comes to him so suddenly. Worry, in that it’s a commitment that Dorian, cherishing his freedom, may not want. Guilt, in that it could put pressure on Dorian to commit anyway because of Orym’s past and what it would mean for him--for both of them. But then there's excitement, the joy of possibility running wild in his heart. And love, so much love, he could burst with it.
And then panic. Marriage requires proposal, and Orym only has experienced being the one who’s asked. Will did an excellent job of it; he asked Orym to spar and faked a knee injury. Only when Orym rushed to his aid, Will slipped a ring out of his pocket and flashed him a cheeky smile. It was a proposal that was so Will, and Orym said yes before the question could even be asked. But if Orym had been the one to ask Will, he would have been much more straightforward: Hey, marry me. And Will would’ve eaten it up.
But Dorian isn’t Will. He weaves his words into wonderful tapestries, the threads colored by his soul. Performance and sentiment and all things that go into making a meaning proposal would come so naturally for him. But he’s the one being asked in this scenario, and Orym is mortified of giving a bard a speech anything less than perfect. Then, one the panic subsides, he remembers who he’s proposing to in the first place. Dorian “Okay, yeah” Storm won’t care how he’s proposed to…but he may still care about what’s being asked.
In his sleep, Dorian mumbles something into Orym’s shoulder. It sounds an awful lot like Pâté, and Orym suspects there’s a visitor in his boyfriend’s dream tonight.
Which gives him an idea, even if it’s a little bit of a cop out.
“How did you propose to Laudna?”
Imogen snorts. “By accident. But it wasn’t really a proposal. I thought we already explained it to y’all?”
“You did. Just wondering if there was any…preamble to it. About what your request to The Matron meant going forward, is all.”
The version of Zephrah in Orym’s dream shifts like a drying oil painting around them, the wind smudging the movement of the trees and tall grass together like overlapping brush strokes. Imogen catches a falling leaf in her hands, its finer details coming into focus as it sits in her grasp. She turns to him with a wry smile. “What are you really askin’ me, Orym?”
He mulls over his response, long enough for her to decide to let the leaf fly on its way. Eventually, he decides there’s no use dancing around the issue. “I want to ask Dorian to marry me.”
Imogen’s eyes go wide. “ Oh. How long have you been thinkin’ about this?”
“A couple weeks now. I just suddenly realized one night that it was what I wanted. But there’s a lot of things to consider, and I want to do it right. But I’m not even sure if it’s something he wants. I’d ask him, but he’s smart enough to piece together why I’d be asking.”
“He might take offense to the use of ‘enough’ there.”
“I say it out of love. You know that.”
She laughs with a grin. “I don’t think there’s a word spoken between you that’s not filled with every ounce of love you have for each other.” His face flushes and she laughs again. “I’m sorry I don’t have real advice to share with you. Well, no…I guess I could say it doesn’t have to be a traditional proposal. Whatever kind of thing you wanna make of it, just make it yours.”
Orym groans.
“Not helpful?”
“No, it’s just much easier being the one proposed to.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” She lays a hand on his shoulder, squeezing down gently on his tattoo. “Orym?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m so happy you’re happy.”
He smiles up at her, and finds they’ve both caught a sudden case of misty-eyes. He lays a hand on top of hers and squeezes back. “And I’m happy you're happy.”
Eventually, Zephrah’s colors fade and the landscape blends together into one, massive brushstroke. As consciousness takes Orym, Imogen fades from his mind with a lingering thought:
“Oh, I forgot to tell you! Laudna’s makin’ jewelry now!”
“Wedding rings?!” Laudna blanches (which is now possible for her). She gestures exasperatedly at her modest jewelry making kit, and the less-modest hoard of beads, wiring, clasps, gems, and other things. “I-I’ve only ever worked on necklaces and earrings, and our friendship bracelets!”
Orym holds up his hand to present the wrist dawning his woven-leather bracelet. There’s tiny ferns and swirling patterns etched into the material, all of which must have taken her eons to finish. Or, in Laudna’s case, one all nighter. “You told me this was your first time working with leather, and it turned out amazing. You’ve got a gift; you can make anything you put your mind to.”
Imogen joins them just in time to swat Laudna’s hands away from tugging at her hair. “He’s right, love. You would have plenty of time to work on them, there’s no rush. But think about how much Dorian would love a ring made by you. Everytime I talk to him, he gushes about his bracelet all over again.”
Laudna flashes a bashful smile. “I would just want it to be perfect. This is such a big deal for the two of you! And the last thing I want Dorian to remember when you ask him is being presented with a ring that looks like Pâté made it.”
From across the living area of the witches’ cottage, swimming in his own pile of beads and doodads, Pâté presents a crude and misshapen…tiara? Bracelet? Though the closest thing Orym could possibly describe it to would be a manacle. “Waz wrong wi’ this’un? It’s shiny, innit?”
Laudna rubs her temples with the tips of her bony fingers. “So much, darling. So much. ”
“You’re learning, dear,” Imogen smiles encouragingly. “Keep at it.”
Pâté chuckles and goes back to knickknack diving.
Orym politely weaves his hands together and sets them on Laudna’s craft table. “I don’t want to burden you with a request you’re uncomfortable taking on. I understand that what I’m asking you could put you under a lot of pressure. But I have no plans of asking Dorian for his hand in marriage anytime soon; you’d have all the time you need to make something you’re proud of. And…”
He takes in the scene before him: Laudna in her crafting apron, a pencil tucked alongside the chisel in her hair, and Imogen in a comfortable day dress gripping onto the back of the chair behind her. A beautifully domestic tableau of two women he’s come to consider family. A lump rises in his throat as he chokes out words that come straight from his heart.
“You both mean so much to Dorian. And to me. It would be an honor to have you play a part in the beginning of this next stage in our life together.”
With a blink, black ichor rains profusely down Laudna’s face. Imogen rushes to hand her a handkerchief. “Aww, sweetie. Good thing you’re wearing your apron.”
Laudna dabs her eyes and blubbers, “I-I-I’ll do it! It’ll take s-some time, so no spontaneous proposals! Or I’ll send my v-void puppet after you!” She sniffs pitifully, and while Orym feels a bit bad for upsetting her so much, she seems to very much be enjoying the little side hug Imogen is giving her. “I won’t have time to make a box, though. Not if it's going to be perfect.”
“Don’t worry,” he smiles. “I know a man for the job.”