#laurellore

"He’s our bag of dicks.”

When they saw him in the scry for those few seconds, that was the last time he set eyes on Dorian. That was days and battles and actual continents ago and now their friend, their Fearne, is crying. She's crying and all Orym can think is this never would have happened if Dorian were here. 

Weeks and cities ago, they were all at a pub for the first time. Orym barely felt a common thread with that aimless row of ducklings, all counting on the next one to take the lead. Orym had worried about Dorian then. 

Orym had liked him immediately. He was funny but never when he was trying to. Dorian was full of surprises, when he would be terrible at all the things he should have already known then somehow twist into rewriting reality with his cunning hand. He underestimated himself over and over and there was where Orym’s worry stirred up the strongest.

He’d worried and judged and spoke harsher than someone so new needed to hear. All the anger in this room could be worry. He hopes. People are just worried, worried they could have died, that Ashton could have taken them all with him, worried why, worried how. Worried they won't learn from any of this.

Dorian made similar mistakes with those disguised temptations that would have only led to danger, wrestling with the lure of power that could protect their group.

Because Dorian had a glint in his eye, a sudden surety that his risk could sweep everyone else out of peril. His spark of recklessness was beneath that graceful exterior. Ashton’s is a constant gleam, shining right on top of their volatile surface. Orym is nowhere near knowing what is in their head but he feels certain Dorian could have seen the shadows looming. He could have stepped between their fractured resolve before everything went so terribly here. They wouldn’t be here burning and hollow and so deeply frightened. If Dorian were here– 

Here. Now. (Not there. Not before)

He can not think about Dorian. He can, because he has to.

Orym lifts his head. He releases the breath weighed in his leanden chest. He parses out those distinct gaits of Bells Hells’ as they span farther and farther apart from each other.

Soon they'll want to know why he waited a day to speak up. Why it seems all he's done on this stunning day is splinter off their groups and push through his exercises again, again, again, like he is rushing across this strife into some type of victory record. 

Staying still would be unbearable. Standing alone would mean he reaches for that stone heavy in his pocket. The first stone. The stone he would never mistake for that trinket from the wayward wizard. This stone he carries, so close, fits in the palm of his slight hand with one divot in a simple arc. It’s been smoothed over the many times Orym strokes his thumb from side to side. 

Tomorrow he'll find the words and sit close enough to nudge the ones who need a nudge. Tomorrow.

Today, he thinks of Dorian.