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The Silken Squall. It’s a difficult place to get access to - a floating tent city, well-guarded, always moving. Home to the infamous Wyvernwind Family, head of a shadowy organization with limbs in every continent. Few outsiders have ever been granted permission to enter, but then, Orym supposes he’s not really an outsider anymore, is he? He’s been on the ground for a while, currying favour, getting himself noticed. This moment has been nearly a year in the making, and it hasn’t been easy.
His arrival at the Silken Palace is surprisingly uneventful. No one pays him much mind, accompanied as he is by another genasi, and he is led directly to the office of the joint heads of the Wyvernwind Family. An air genasi man sits at a beautiful desk, his wife standing at his shoulder. The man sits up, and looks Orym over slowly. Orym does his best not to shuffle in place, standing tall, confident. He belongs here.
“Orym, was it?” Lord Wyvernwind asks. “Hm. A few successful jobs in Tal’Dorei, then Marquet. You prevented the seizure of a big haul there, and saved the life of three of my people in the process.”
“Just doing my job, sir,” Orym says.
“Protecting a person is a very different job from protecting goods.” Wyvernwind looks down at Orym, fingers steepled. “Several of my people think you’re the man for the job. What do you think?”
Orym’s mouth is dry. “It would be an honour, sir. I’m quick on my feet and good with a blade; I can do it.”
“Luckily, ‘quick on your feet’ is just what we’re looking for. Your charge has a tendency towards wandering off,” Lady Wyvernwind cuts in.
“I understand,” Orym nods.
“He should be in his room. My eldest, Cyrus, will bring you to him,” she says.
At her word, the man in question steps up, a broad-shouldered, handsome air genasi in a finely woven cloak. Orym bows to the Wyvernwinds, and follows Cyrus from the room.
“You know, you’re the fifth bodyguard my brother’s had this year,” Cyrus chats as they go. “We’ll have to see if you last longer than the others.”
“What, uh, happened to the others?” Orym asks, uncertain if he wants to know the answer.
“Oh, y’know.” Cyrus waves a dismissive hand. “They just weren’t up to the task of managing my wayward baby brother.”
Orym is pretty sure there are only a couple years between the Wyvernwind brothers, but he nods. “Well. I’ll do my best.”
“Sure, sure. So, here we are.” Cyrus gestures to the door, and hands Orym a keyring. “This’ll let you in and out.”
“Thanks.” Orym takes the keys.
He’s about to knock when Cyrus bursts in the door, announcing as he goes, “Hey Brontë! New babysitter for you! Try not to be so much trouble for this one, huh?”
“Fuck off,” grumbles a voice from inside.
Orym hears the twang of a string on some sort of instrument, and Cyrus’ laughter. “So crude, baby brother!”
The one who must be Brontë heaves a heavy sigh. “What do you want, Cyrus?”
“I told you, I’ve got your new babysitter here for you!”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Well, mom and dad disagree. His name is Orym, he’s a halfling, and he’s apparently very good with a blade.”
Orym is waiting outside, but he can almost hear Cyrus’ wink with those words.
“Unlike you, I don’t try to sleep with all my bodyguards.” Brontë’s voice is downright frosty.
“You’re no fun. Hey, where’d the little guy go?” Cyrus appears near the doorway again, looking for Orym. “You coming in, or what?”
“I wouldn’t want to invade Mr. Brontë’s privacy,” Orym says stiffly.
“Wow, you two are made for each other.” Cyrus rolls his eyes. “Come on, it’s fine.”
Hesitantly, Orym follows Cyrus deeper into Brontë’s room. There, he gets his first glimpse of the genasi man he was hired to protect. Brontë is slighter than his brother, though they are dressed in similar finery. His hair has an ombre tint to it, fading to white at the tips. Where Cyrus is handsome, the only word for Brontë is beautiful. He’s scowling, though, his ice cold gaze turned on Orym.
“I don’t need a keeper,” he insists.
Orym looks Brontë up and down, clocks that for all that he’s willowy, he appears strong. He spots the sword built into the lyre he’s clutching in one hand, too. He nods. “I’m not here to be your keeper,” he says, steady. Calm. “Just to keep you safe, sir.”
“Ugh.” Brontë drips disdain. Orym thinks the prince is lucky he’s pretty and powerful, because so far he sees none of his infamous charm.
“Well!” Cyrus claps his hands, cheerful front still up. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted, then, shall I?” And with that, he sweeps from the room.
“...Hey.” Orym sticks out a hand. Brontë just raises an eyebrow at him, and Orym slowly lowers it again. “Uh. I’m Orym.”
“I know.”
“...Right. Okay.” Orym knows he needs to find some way to connect with Brontë, but he suspects it’s not going to happen as quickly as he hoped. “Well. Shout if you need me? I’ll be by the door.” He gestures awkwardly back in that direction.
“Sure.” Brontë begins ignoring Orym in favour of the tune he’s plucking out on his lute, and Orym steps out of the room, a feeling of dread settling in his stomach. Hopefully tomorrow will go better.
**
Tomorrow does not go better. Brontë is sullen and haughty in turn, with no interest in any of the conversation Orym tries to strike as he accompanies Brontë between meetings and lessons and all of the other things within the Silken Palace that the second son appears to be expected at. He doesn’t give up, though.
“So.. you’re a musician?” Orym tries, on their way to yet another appointment.
“Of course not,” Brontë snaps. “Don’t be ridiculous. That would be un-befitting someone of my station.”
“You play though,” Orym points out gingerly.
“It is good to be skilled in many crafts, but to call myself a musician? No.” Brontë’s voice only grows colder. “Do my parents pay you to prattle on all day, or can you give me a moment’s peace, hm?”
Orym frowns, brow furrowing. “My apologies, my lord,” he says, before falling silent. He doesn’t try again. Instead, he waits until Brontë is in his final appointment for the evening, making sure he’s alone before pulling a small stone out of his pocket with a rune carved on it. He clutches it tight in one fist, concentrating hard on a familiar face.
“I’ve arrived in the Silken Palace,” he whispers.
There’s a moment of silence, and then an answer. “Good. Are you safe?”
It’s a relief to hear Keyleth’s voice, even if it’s only in his head. “I am, my lady,” Orym assures her. “I’ve been sticking close to Brontë Wyvernwind, but he’s been.. Unreceptive, so far, to any attempts to connect.” To put it lightly.
“Is he hostile?” She sounds concerned.
“No, no, not exactly. I mean, I don’t think he’s going to kill me in my sleep or anything, but he’s - I don’t get the impression he has the time to spend on someone like me,” Orym admits. He doesn’t want to fail, can’t fail, but he won’t lie to his leader, either. “I won’t fail you, I’ll figure something out. I mean, I’ve made it this far, after all-”
“Orym.” Her voice is calm, soothing. “It’s been a day. Only a day. Give it time. I’m not expecting any major breakthroughs so quickly.”
Orym takes a deep breath, and then another. “Yes. Alright,” he agrees. She’s making sense, of course she is. She’s right, it’s hardly been any time at all. And he’s been on this case for long enough already, there’s no need to rush now. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for checking in. I’m glad you’re alright. Be careful out there.”
“Yes, my lady,” Orym smiles slightly. He feels better already just having spoken with her.
“Get in touch if you need help, or whenever it’s safe,” Keyleth says.
“I will.”
The voice in Orym’s head falls silent, and Orym pockets the stone once more, taking another deep breath. Keyleth is right, he needs to be patient. He needs to give this time, give Brontë space. He seems concerned that Orym is a keeper, well, he’ll try to back off, let Brontë see Orym is on his side, and maybe, just maybe, it’ll get him somewhere.
**
Orym expected excitement, in the Silken Squall, in the heart of the notorious family’s operations. He expected action, to be busy, for things to step up a notch from just being involved in the Squall’s long-reaching sometimes-criminal enterprise on the ground.
What he finds instead is that it’s boring. At least, it’s boring to be Brontë Second Sun Wyvernwind. He doesn’t leave the Silken Palace - neither does Cyrus, as far as Orym can tell. No, Brontë is just shuffled between appointments and meetings and lessons. He has precious little time to himself, and Orym is beginning to appreciate why Brontë might resent Orym’s early attempts at butting into those moments. Brontë wants for nothing - he has the finest clothes, and food, and things. His life is opulent in a way no one in Zephrah would have dreamed of, not even the Voice of the Tempest herself. And yet, Orym feels sorry for Brontë.
“Unacceptable,” the Wyvernwind patriarch says in the same cool, distant voice Brontë uses. “Why can’t you be more like your brother, hm?”
Orym has been watching Brontë enough to notice the way his jaw clenches ever-so-slightly, the way his fist tightens at his side.
“I shall endeavour to live up to his shining example,” Brontë says, stiff, formal.
“See that you do.” Brontë’s father is dismissive. “You may be only the second son, but you have your own share of responsibilities, you still represent this family. You must not disappoint.”
“Of course, father.” Brontë’s face is somehow clear of any emotion.
“Well, what are you still doing in here? Dismissed.”
Brontë bows ever so slightly and turns on his heel, striding from the room at great speed. Orym keeps pace several steps behind him, jogging to keep up.
He keeps quiet, hovering in the doorway of Brontë’s room, even as Brontë disappears inside.
“Fuck!”
Orym hears the shout come from inside the room, followed by a clatter of something thrown at a wall. He hesitates, and knocks on the doorframe.
“What do you want?” Brontë snaps.
Orym swallows. Hopes he has the measure of the situation right, hopes he’s not setting himself back again. “I thought you might like to spar,” Orym suggests.
There is quiet from within for a long moment. Orym is about to backpedal when Brontë calls out, “Oh, come in here, won’t you? Stop hovering in the doorway.” He sounds less hostile already, and Orym breathes out a sigh of possibly (probably) pre-emptive relief.
“My lord.” Orym offers a shallow bow, one hand on the hilt of his short sword.
“You want to spar?” Brontë sounds disbelieving.
“Of course, if you prefer to continue destroying your possessions..” Orym lets just a little of his sass shine through. “I only thought it might help.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
“I know.” Orym’s heart beats in his throat, thu-thump, thu-thump. “And I’ll go again if you say so, my lord. I only find that it can help me clear my own head, sometimes.” It’s an honest fact, too - the repetition, the forms, the clear purpose, the movement, it all helps Orym when he needs to get out of his own head.
“I’m not really a fighter,” Brontë frowns.
“That’s not entirely true,” Orym disagrees. “I’ve seen you train with a blade. You’re strong.”
“I’ve never been in a real fight,” Brontë points out.
This is new information, though given Brontë’s isolation, it’s hardly a surprise. “This isn’t a real fight either,” Orym shrugs.
Brontë takes a moment to look at Orym, considering him. Orym doesn’t shuffle, doesn’t squirm, just accepts the scrutiny.
“Alright,” he says in the end, much to Orym’s surprise. “Oh, don’t look so shocked.” Dorian draws his scimitar.
“My apologies.” Orym draws his short sword, and dares to flash a brief smile, holding it in a defensive position. “Go on then, my lord. Show me what you can do.”
**
Things aren’t suddenly perfect, after that, or easy, but it opens the gates a crack, enough that sometimes, Orym can get through to Brontë. Enough that Brontë doesn’t keep Orym at such lengths all the time.
“I can’t say I know what it’s like to have those kinds of pressures on me,” Orym admits. “Obviously.”
“It’s just unfair,” Brontë groans. “It’s always ‘look at Cyrus’ this, and ‘be more like your perfect brother’ that. As if he’s not a complete idiot! But no, Cyrus can do no wrong, and I’m..” He sighs, looks past Orym. “Nothing I ever do will be good enough, and none of the things I am good at are of value to them.”
“You’re a fantastic musician,” Orym says quietly. “I love listening to you play.”
“I’m not a musician,” Brontë reminds him. Reminds them both. “I can’t be.”
“Says who?”
“Are you encouraging me to run away and become a bard? Seems like a poor career move for you.” Brontë lifts a perfectly manicured eyebrow at Orym.
“Well.” Orym shrugs a shoulder. “That’s true.”
It becomes a habit. Whenever Brontë has a particularly tense meeting with his parents, they spar for a bit, and then, once they’re exhausted, they talk.
“Things are going well,” Orym whispers into the sending stone to Keyleth, when Brontë is sitting in on court one afternoon. “We’re talking, getting closer. I’m building trust.”
Things are truthfully going a little too well; Orym worries he’s getting too close. Brontë is a pretty good person, at his heart; not the cold, rude man Orym first met, but - softer, somehow. Kind isn’t quite the right word; Brontë is at all times shifty and defensive. But he’s good, caring. He worries about everyone and everything, and Orym sees him crumbling under the pressure to be perfect, to be what’s expected of him, and it hurts. Brontë has no one, no one but Orym.
He doesn’t say this to Keyleth; he doesn’t want to worry her. He can and will do his job; he just regrets how it will hurt someone who, in his opinion, is hurting enough.
“Good.” Keyleth’s voice in his head breaks through his musings. “And Orym, be careful. He’s a charmer, don’t let him get to you.”
“I know.”
“He’s complicit in a very dangerous organization.”
“I know.”
Keyleth is silent for a moment. Orym is about to put the stone away when she speaks one last time. “Stay safe. Keep in touch.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Orym pockets the stone with a heavy heart just in time, as Brontë comes storming out of the room. His upset isn’t obvious to anyone who doesn’t know him well, of course; when Brontë storms out of a room, it looks more like the confident, sweeping pace of someone important, with somewhere else they need to be.
Orym knows better. Though Brontë’s face is still and calm, Orym knows that Brontë wears every emotion plain on his face, and that this perfect mask is rarely a good sign. He rushes to keep up with Brontë’s brisk pace, calculating the day’s schedule in his head. Brontë doesn’t have a break for hours; he’s expected to study the finances this afternoon, followed by a business meeting with a representative from the Clasp over dinner, and then something on the schedule that Orym knows Brontë has to be at, but which Orym himself isn’t allowed to know about.
This is fairly common; Orym might be trusted enough to be here in the Silken Palace, guarding Brontë himself, but there is plenty he still isn’t privy to. The trouble is, Orym needs to find a way into those secret things. He’s been here for weeks now, and he’s made headway into gaining Brontë’s trust, but he feels no closer to wrapping up the mission, to finding the evidence that he needs, that Keyleth needs, to bring the whole smuggling operation down, rather than just taking in the smaller people on the ground.
The operation came to their attention some time ago, when the de Rolos in Whitestone first noticed residuum shipments not quite matching what should be coming and going, the stockpile he found in Emon with the Nameless Ones. Then it was rumours of brumestone in Marquet, and strange shadow monsters. Something big is afoot, and the Silken Squall runs one of the biggest smuggling operations in Exandria, the only one to cross continents, to cover the globe. If all of these things are related, the Silken Squall must have something to do with it.
Hence, Orym’s presence here. Hence, his need to get into these secret meetings.
Right now, though, Orym has to focus on Brontë. Brontë is his in to all of that information, will be the key to the missing puzzle piece. He has to be.
“Are you alright?” They have barely a moment alone, while Brontë prepares for his next lesson.
“I’m fine,” Brontë snaps.
“Alright.” Orym speaks slow, quiet.
Brontë exhales. “Sorry. I don’t mean to snap, it’s not your fault.”
“It’s alright,” Orym says. He finds he means it, even. “You’re under a lot of pressure. I understand.”
“You know, sometimes it even feels like you do,” Brontë replies with a furrowed brow.
Orym just smiles a small, understated smile, and helps Brontë with his cloak fastenings. It brings them close together, and Orym’s heart beats just a little bit faster. This is the true danger, he thinks distantly. He knows his mission. He knows he’s getting too close. The pang of guilt is two-fold - once for letting down Keyleth, twice for Riegel.
“Come on,” Orym says, when Brontë is presentable. “The finances await.”
Brontë groans, and follows Orym out.
“I should just leave.” Brontë is sprawled out on his bed, Orym sitting nearby at Brontë’s desk.
“As your bodyguard, I’m obligated to remind you you’re safest here,” Orym replies, though he tries to sound as sympathetic as he feels. Frankly, if it weren’t for the mission, he’d agree with Brontë wholeheartedly.
“They don’t value me, or anything I can do. And I can’t do anything they would ever value. Even if I could, Cyrus would do it better.” Brontë pushes himself up so he’s sitting cross-legged on the bed.
“They’re fools, not to see your worth,” Orym says, and he means that, too.
Brontë snorts. “Better not let them hear you say that.”
“You’re a good man, Brontë,” Orym says.
“That might be the problem, actually.” Brontë frowns, and flops back down, hair fanned out around him.
They’re both quiet for a moment, because Orym can’t really come up with a good argument for that.
“What if I don’t even want to be what they expect of me?” Brontë finally asks, after nearly a minute of silence between them, voice quiet. He sounds vulnerable - not just complaining, but genuinely asking.
Orym gives the question the consideration it deserves. He doesn’t want to rush into an answer. “I think,” he says eventually, “that it only makes sense to want to forge your own path, especially when everything in your life seems to be so.. Prescribed.”
“I’ve thought about it,” Brontë admits. “If I left, what I would do. Who I could be.” He pauses. “Dorian Storm. That would be my name - my stage name, I suppose. It’s - does it sound too dramatic? I’m worried it sounds silly.”
Dorian Storm. “It suits you. It’s not silly at all.” Orym tips his head. “You’d perform, then? Be a musician?”
“Dorian Storm, travelling bard.” Brontë wiggles his hands in an arc over his head, mimicking stage lights. “It’s silly. It’s impossible. But… I’d rather be Dorian. Dorian would be happier than Brontë.”
“I think I’d like Dorian,” Orym says after a moment. “I like Brontë, too, of course, but.. It would be nice to see you happy.”
Brontë makes a face at that, like he wants to believe it, and can’t quite believe it, and isn’t sure what to make of it. “You’re very good at making me forget you’re paid to do that,” he says eventually.
Orym’s stomach twists, because on the one hand, it’s not like that at all. And on the other… he really is just using Brontë, isn’t he? Guilt turns around and around and around in him, settling like lead.
Brontë must take Orym’s silence as confirmation, because his ensuing laugh is bitter. “The worst part is, you’re still the - the best friend I’ve ever had. Isn’t that pathetic?”
“I really do like you, Brontë,” Orym says, and the awful, horrible thing is that it’s true. Even worse is the way the word ‘friend’ feels like a dagger in Orym’s gut, and the memory of Riegel only feels like that dagger is being twisted, slowly. How can Orym feel like this for someone else - worse still, for a Wyvernwind? “I consider you a friend too.”
“Sure.” Brontë sits up again and pins Orym with a look. “Except - this is always how it goes, isn’t it? I spill my guts, and you - you make me feel better, but you know so much about me, and what do I know about you, hm? If we were really friends, it would go both ways.”
“I had a husband, once,” Orym blurts out. It surprises him as much as it appears to surprise Brontë, who reels back, eyes widening.
“You did?”
“His name was Riegel. We lived in a village in the mountains in Tal’dorei. It was a quiet, peaceful life.” Orym folds his hands in his lap, stares at them.
“What happened?” Brontë is subdued now, no longer confrontational.
“He died. There was an attack on our village, and he - he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I couldn’t get between him and the danger, I was too far away.” Orym can remember it like it was yesterday - can almost hear the sound of fighting in his ears, can feel his sword in his hand, can see shadowy forms passing in front of him, that horrible day playing out before his eyes -
“Orym!” Brontë snaps his fingers right in Orym’s face, and Orym blinks, only to realize that Brontë has come closer, must have been trying to get his attention for some time.
“Sorry.” He blinks again, and takes a few deep breaths.
“No, I’m sorry. I had no idea -”
“I haven’t talked about it,” Orym says, cutting Brontë off. “I haven’t - I just left, ran away from it all, wound up here.”
Brontë is still close. He has a hand on Orym’s knee, and Orym can feel every bit of that contact, warmth radiating from it. Brontë’s blue eyes are wide with concern and sadness. Not pity, Orym doesn’t think. Compassion seems more like it. They’re still so close together, nearly touching. Orym’s heart beats in his throat.
“Do you miss it?” Brontë asks. “That mountain village?”
“Yes,” Orym answers easily. “...And no. I can’t go back. And - there are things to stay here for.” Orym makes eye contact with Brontë and holds it, willing him to understand what Orym is talking about.
“The pay is that good, huh?” Brontë closes off a little, but he leans in. Orym thinks Brontë understands what Orym means, and is just trying to avoid disappointment.
“It’s alright,” Orym says, refusing to look away. “Brontë..” This is a mistake. He knows it’s a mistake. The trouble is, it doesn’t feel like a mistake, not in his bones. And Keyleth is always saying he should trust his instinct. That his gut is good.
“Orym.” Brontë’s eyes go wide. “I..”
Fuck it. Orym leans in, presses his lips to Brontë’s. There’s a tense moment when Brontë freezes, and Orym thinks he’s misread it, that he’s made a terrible mistake, but then Brontë kisses back, and for a brief moment, it doesn’t matter that Brontë is second in line to a global smuggling empire, or that Orym will probably be the reason he gets arrested just for being born to it. It doesn’t matter that Brontë wants nothing more than to run away, that Orym has been running for what feels like forever. There’s just this moment, there’s just them.
“We shouldn’t do this,” Brontë whispers.
“Probably not,” Orym agrees.
Neither of them pull away; rather, Brontë leans in to kiss Orym again, slow, lingering. There’s little finesse to it, it’s not as if Brontë has had ample opportunity to practice, but Orym doesn’t mind, he just puts a hand to Brontë’s cheek and draws him in closer, wishing this moment could spin into an hour, into an eternity.
**
Orym is alone again, Brontë in some secret meeting. He turns the sending stone in his hand, contemplating what to tell Keyleth. He and Brontë have been stealing every moment they can, as if they both know somehow that they’re on borrowed time. Orym supposes they are, that they would be even if it weren’t for Orym’s secrets. So they’ve been stealing kisses in dark corners, and the brushes of fingers as they walk, and private glances across crowded rooms. He doesn’t know how to explain it to Keyleth, doesn’t know how to justify it to himself, except that now that he’s started, he doesn’t want to stop. This is dangerous.
He needs to talk to Keyleth.
“Hey. I’ve got an update,” he whispers. “Well. Sort of.”
“Go ahead.” Keyleth’s voice comes into his mind through the stone.
“Right. So.” He turns the stone over in his hand nervously. “I’ve been - I think I’m making progress,” he says. “And.. I think, if we play things right, I know how we could end this. Brontë has a lot of tension with his family, and he’s talking pretty seriously about wanting out. We could -” He’s been thinking about this, but he doesn’t know how Keyleth will take it. “If we could just promise to help him get out, and stay out, safely, maybe he would help.”
“Does he know enough? You’ve said before his family doesn’t think as highly of him as his brother.”
“I think he must. And his word would count for a lot, wouldn’t it?”
“One man’s word alone isn’t enough.”
Orym knows this, but it doesn’t make it easier to hear. “If we had his word, and some other piece of evidence?”
Keyleth is quiet for a long moment. “You’re in pretty deep, huh?”
Orym grimaces. “He’s useful.” It’s a flimsy lie, one he knows Keyleth will see right through.
“Hm.”
Orym’s stomach twists into knots as she considers.
“You know,” she says, after a moment. “I know a thing or two about loving someone you shouldn’t. About getting attached to someone when it seems doomed.”
“I don’t know if-” Orym begins to protest - he doesn’t think this thing with Brontë is quite the same as her relationship with the Raven Queen’s champion - but she hushes him.
“You know what I learned from all of that? If it’s real, if he matters, don’t waste the time you do have. And - I think Riegel would have wanted you to move on. He wouldn’t want you to live your life all alone, you know?”
The Voice of the Tempest is a wise woman. Orym admires her. It’s the only reason he even lets himself consider her words.
“Stay safe. Be careful.”
“I will, my lady.” Orym heaves a heavy sigh, and pockets the stone once more.
He jumps when he sees Brontë, too close for comfort. Brontë looks the same as ever, though, greeting Orym with a covert kiss on the cheek. “Everything alright? I thought I heard you speaking.” Brontë looks up and down the empty hall.
“Oh, just mumbling to myself to pass the time,” Orym assures him, the lie heavy in his throat.
“Sure, sure.” Brontë nods. “Must be boring, I guess, when you have to wait inside. I promise it’s not really any more exciting inside the doors, though.”
“No?” Orym perks an ear. “It must be something interesting, though, if only certain people are allowed in the room.”
Brontë shrugs an elegant shoulder. “Nah. Just logistical stuff, nothing that exciting.”
He doesn’t give Orym a chance to respond, making a quick turn and heading down the hall. Orym has to jog to catch up.
**
Brontë’s mind spins with the implications of what he’s overheard. His first thought is to blame himself - how could he have been so foolish as to let himself believe that Orym cared? Is Orym even his real name? How much was a lie, how much had been invented just to draw him in, make him vulnerable?
He hadn’t trusted this much of himself with another person since - well, ever, frankly. Since they were boys, he and Cyrus had been pitted against each other, competing for attention and approval and maybe even that distant thing, affection. So his brother had never been anything more than a rival. Guards and tutors had been just that, and nothing more. Until Orym had slithered his way past Brontë’s guard - a damnable weakness. He can just hear his parents’ disdain and disappointment now.
Fuck.
Orym is there, half a step behind him, following him as always. Brontë fights the urge to yell, to lash out and demand an explanation. He cannot, though. He has to decide what to do.
Because despite it all, despite how simple it should be, despite the fact that Brontë is hurt and angry and betrayed.. He knows what will happen to Orym if he turns him in. He knows what happens to traitors and spies and failures. And there is a part of him, one he resents but cannot bring himself to ignore, that cannot bear to see that happen, not to Orym, no matter the betrayal.
Brontë is a coward and a fool. Orym will bring his whole family down, will destroy Brontë’s whole life and home. Orym will ruin everything, and.. It sort of feels like he already has, because Brontë cannot decide what to do.
**
“I’m not sure what’s gone wrong,” Orym whispers into the sending stone three days later. “I - we’d been doing well, but he’s been cold. Distant.” The way he was when Orym first arrived, almost. “He won’t talk to me.”
“Have you been discovered?” Keyleth’s voice asks, in Orym’s head.
“I don’t think so - I mean, if I had, surely I wouldn’t still be alone with him, ever. I wouldn’t still be guarding him. For all that Lord and Lady Wyvernwind are hard on him, they’re also very protective. No, it has to be something else… I’m worried about him,” Orym admits.
“If there’s going to be trouble, your first priority is your own safety, okay?” Keyleth says, and it’s not a question.
“I understand,” Orym agrees, careful not to make any promises he can’t keep.
He pockets the stone, and glances at the door behind which Brontë has disappeared for another secret meeting. They’ve been happening more and more often lately - Orym knows he needs to find something, and fast. Time is running out.
He misses Brontë. It’s a strange thing to think, and a stranger thing to feel. This thing has been complicated from the beginning, but Brontë’s distance hurts more than Orym ever expected it to. He’d known it couldn’t last, had known his lies would end things, had expected it to go wrong. He hadn’t been prepared for it to be like this, though, with no explanation and no real reason, not that he knows anyway, to be suddenly cut off.
It hurts, more than it should, and Orym is getting desperate.
He’s alone, right now. It would be easy, to just sneak off. He’s trusted here, has been for months.
Orym slips away from the conference room door, and down the hall, to the office in which he watched from a distance as Brontë and Cyrus worked on the books the previous day. The brothers had bickered the entire time; Cyrus struggled with sums, and had convinced Brontë to help him, only to take credit for the work completed, and blame Brontë for slowing them down. Orym can recall how Brontë had seethed - fairly so, in his opinion. Brontë hadn’t engaged in Orym’s invitation to spar afterwards, though, a troubling reminder that something was terribly wrong.
The room is about how they left it yesterday, the papers locked back in the desk. Orym knows it’s trapped; he also knows the signet ring disarms it. Orym has had a copy of the signet ring for weeks now, though; he’d stolen it from Brontë when they were sparring, and he feels no small amount of guilt for the trouble Brontë had been in when the loss was discovered. Still, Orym slips the ring onto a finger, and presses it to the spot he’s seen Cyrus do time and time again. The drawer springs open with a quiet click.
He has to be quick; he needs to be back at his post before Brontë’s meeting with his parents and brother ends. Luckily, he doesn’t need to read it all now - Keyleth gave him a wand which will let him create a perfect duplicate of each item. It has six charges in it now; he has to choose the six best things, and replace them quickly.
He’s taking a risk, here, and he knows it. He knows the ring opens the drawer safely, but there’s more to it, something he doesn’t know. It’s been important, before, who actually opens the drawer; Orym assumes that it must somehow know, either by identifying the person with some sort of spell, or by keeping some sort of record. He doesn’t know how it works. Regardless, if somehow, someone checks, and knows that Orym has opened this drawer, Orym will be in a lot of trouble. It’s why he hasn’t just done this sooner; he had been biding his time for an opportunity to pocket something when someone else had opened the drawer. He no longer feels like he has time to waste waiting, though. He taps the wand to the thick notebook he knows contains the ledgers, the day-to-day, and then to a few letters, and then a thinner notebook, one he knows is encoded somehow but which might be valuable all the same if he can get Brontë to read it for him, and hides the originals on his person, in a pouch of holding he keeps on his belt. The copies, he leaves as he found the originals in the desk, as best he can. He closes the drawer again, and slips back out of the room, making sure he’s unwatched as he returns to his post at the meeting room door. His heart is pounding with exhilaration and fear alike, the pouch an imagined weight at his hip. Will they know? Is he ruined? Or will his boldness pay off?
**
The sudden change in Brontë’s schedule comes as a surprise. He’s just had a meeting with his parents behind closed doors yesterday; another so soon is unusual, and Brontë can only drive himself mad wondering what he’s done wrong between then and now. Still, the summons is not one he can ignore.
“Is everything alright?” Orym is the picture of innocence, the asshole, asking as if he cares.
Brontë just scowls at him. “It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with.” He looks down his nose at Orym, as if he could set the halfling to ice with his glance, and then strides through the double doors, leaving him there to wait.
“Mother, Father.” Brontë bows ever so slightly. “How may I assist?”
Brontë sees someone step out from beside the wall, someone he hadn’t noticed before. Someone that makes his heart thunder in his ears, makes him want to cringe away. Indra, his parents’ favoured advisor, mutters something, and Brontë feels the familiar sensation of Zone of Truth settle over the room.
Brontë has never been good at resisting this spell, and he knows better than to try; to have something to hide is automatic guilt. He’s learned that the hard way.
No, it’s better to at least be in trouble for something he did do, even if he hates this, hates the way the spell forces him to give voice to things he doesn’t want to.
Especially now, when he has such a terrible secret. Perhaps his choice is about to be made for him. Part of him is almost relieved.
Brontë knows how this goes. He goes to one knee, head bowed. His long hair falls, not quite obscuring his face.
“You know how I wish this weren’t necessary, Brontë, dear.” Lady Wyvernwind’s voice carries the ever-familiar note of disappointment as she steps closer. Her fingers are strong as she grips Brontë’s chin and jaw, forcing his face up to meet her gaze. Brontë does his best not to blink.
“I do, Mother.” The words come whether Brontë wants them to or not.
“You opened the records drawer yesterday, without our instructions.” Lord Wyvernwind is as stern and unreadable as always. “Why?”
Shit. Brontë hears himself answering, though he doesn’t make the decision to speak. “I wasn’t in that room yesterday.”
Lady Wyvernwind lets go of Brontë’s face and glances at Indra, who nods.
“Interesting.” She walks a slow circle around him. “Your missing ring, then, seems to have found someone new to carry it.” She watches him so closely, looking for any twitch, any sign. “Did you ask someone to open the drawer?”
“No, Mother.” Brontë’s fists clench at his sides, despite his best efforts, and something in his mother’s gaze sharpens.
“But you know who did it,” she surmises, “Don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Who opened the drawer, Brontë?” Her voice is soft, almost gentle. This is her at her most dangerous, Brontë knows.
“It must have been Orym. I don’t know for sure.” It’s a relief almost as much as it makes him feel ill to say it. He should have known it would always come to this.
“The guard?” Lady Wyvernwind locks eyes with her husband. “Why must it have been Orym?”
“He’s a spy. I don’t know who for, but I overheard him speaking to someone.” All Brontë can think is that he’s going to be in so much trouble. So, so much trouble. And that Orym is well and truly fucked.
“How long ago?” Dorian’s father cuts in. His anger is easier to see for what it is.
Brontë looks down again. “Three days.”
“Three days,” Lord Wyvernwind echoes. “Three days. And you said nothing?”
“I told no one,” Brontë is compelled to confirm.
“Why? When this traitor puts your entire family at risk? Are you a traitor too, Brontë?” Lord Wyvernwind’s hand goes to his sword.
“No! No. I love this family, you have my allegiance,” Brontë promises, and he’s almost relieved to know it must be true, if he can say it under this spell. He had worried his loyalties had shifted too far. “I said nothing because I -” This, Brontë doesn’t want to admit to. He can’t.
He must.
“I love him.”
“Oh, Brontë.” Brontë watches his mother sweep towards him again, cradling his cheek. “Love makes fools of us all.”
“This is no small mistake,” Lord Wyvernwind says, standing firm. “No small lapse in judgement. You have allowed a snake in our midst, who knows how much harm he’s done by now.”
Brontë’s mother’s fingers tighten, her manicured nails digging into Brontë’s cheek. He doesn’t wince.
“Are you prepared to stand by your family, Brontë?” his mother asks, voice still soft.
“I am.”
“Even though you know what has to happen to the halfling?”
Brontë wonders which sin is worse - to betray his family, or the one he loves? His gut knows the answer he’s going to give his mother, but the part of him that aches even now for Orym twists and ties itself into knots.
“Yes.”
**
Orym is standing guard at the doors of the audience chamber when they creak open. He recognizes the air genasi who gestures him inside, though he’s never met Indra until this moment. Keyleth briefed him on the key players in the Silken Squall, and he quickly and silently reminds himself of what he knows. Indra is a mage, a wizard, of incredible power. The Wyvernwinds keep him close, a trusted advisor. Those who know his name speak it in whispers, as if he might hear. Indra is dangerous.
Orym follows him into the room. He has never been permitted inside, before. It’s simple, elegant in design. The wealth of the Wyvernwind family is apparent, for all its simplicity - the tapestries are beautiful and ancient, the stone is only the finest. Orym goes to a knee before them - Lord Wyvernwind, and his wife at his side.
Brontë, standing pale but with his jaw set, just behind them. Cyrus, a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder. Brontë looks through Orym, rather than at him, and Orym swallows hard.
“My lord, my lady. How may I serve?”
Orym receives no answer, but he sees Lord Wyvernwind click his fingers. Moments later, two particularly burly ashari step out. Wyvernwind cousins, Orym recognizes; the family members not of the nucleus, but kept close as the top guards, enforcers, lieutenants. By the looks of them, Orym suspects enforcers.
He knows before the first blow lands on him that he’s fucked.
The worst part is that they don’t ask questions. There’s no purpose to this beyond punishment. Orym feels the steel tip of a boot land hard in his stomach and nearly gags, his body convulsing against his will. He curls, just in time to catch the next one in the side instead of in his ribs. He has his sword, but can’t get enough of an opening to reach it and fight back, kept on the defensive. He feels something in his leg crack when one of the enforcers stomps on it, but he grits his teeth and doesn’t shout.
Orym catches Brontë’s eye, just for a brief moment. Brontë is cold, imperious, at his family’s side, and Orym realizes he was wrong. The worst part isn’t the lack of questions - it’s the way Orym’s heart sinks when he realizes that Brontë doesn’t care at all.
**
Brontë watches. He bears witness. If he looks away, it will be a sign of weakness, and then he will be on the floor right alongside the traitor Orym. For once, his brother’s solid presence beside him feels like a blessing, rather than a shadow cast on him.
By the time Orym is being dragged from the room, he’s barely conscious. He’s bleeding and bruised, one eye swollen shut, his leg jutting out at an odd angle. Brontë feels nauseous - this isn’t something he’s had to witness up close and personal before.
He hates himself nearly as much as he tells himself he hates Orym. The traitor deserves it - deserves it for turning on the family, deserves it for using Brontë. Deserves it for his lies, and his manipulations, for the way he made Brontë care.
Brontë hates him.
He hates Orym.
He hates him he hates him he -
He grits his teeth, and shows none of it on his face.
“Make sure he doesn’t die in the cells,” Lady Wyvernwind is instructing her nephews. “Today was just a start, but we do have questions for him, and we need him to survive long enough to get answers.”
“Yes, my lady.” They bow, and follow after the one that dragged Orym out.
She turns to her sons. “Brontë.”
Brontë swallows, and steps forward. She evaluates him with cool eyes. He straightens under her scrutiny, just in time to stumble backwards when she slaps him across the face, hard. Her ring leaves a line of red, a thin cut, across his cheek.
“No weakness. If you are loyal to this family, prove it.”
“Yes, mother. I’ll do better,” Brontë promises. His cheek throbs. He doesn’t flinch when she reaches out to brush a now-gentle hand across that same cheek, healing the cut with a touch.
“Oh, my boy,” she sighs. “First love comes for us all. Just remember who it is that gives you this life, hm? We feed you, house you, clothe you. You have the finest things and the best education. Do you know why that is?”
Brontë is silent. He knows it’s a rhetorical question.
His mother grips his jaw a little tighter before she lets go. “Family comes first, Brontë. Before anything else. The Wyvernwinds are strong because we stand as a unit. That’s how I know you won’t let me down again.”
She tucks a strand of hair which has fallen loose behind his ear. “The halfling is nothing in the face of family. I’m so very glad you know where you belong.”
“Yes, mother.” Brontë bows his head, and bends, taking her hand and kissing the back of it. “I belong here.”
“Good.” She smiles, cold and haughty. “Off with you, then. You have a lot of work in your schedule for the day. You’re both dismissed.”
“So…” Cyrus glances at Brontë once they’re both out of the room, drawing the sound out. “Finally found a guard you actually like, huh?”
“Fuck off,” Brontë snarles. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Hey, hey, easy, brother.” Cyrus raises his hands. “I’m not the one who fell for a spy.”
“Shut up.” Brontë doesn’t even look at Cyrus. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell someone the moment you found out. I guess it’s a little embarrassing he was right under your nose the whole time - ha! Literally, even.” Cyrus pauses. “Get it - because he’s a halfling? He’s little? He’s literally under your nose?”
“I get it, Cyrus.” Brontë’s voice is flat, even. “It’s just not that funny.”
“Ouch! I’m wounded.”
“You know, believe it or not, I meant it when I said I’m not in the mood.” Brontë glares at Cyrus.
“Touchy, touchy. Fine then, be a sourpuss. But being a grump about it doesn’t change anything.” The brothers arrive at Brontë’s bedroom door.
“Just leave me alone, Cyrus.” Brontë lets himself in, and locks the door behind himself.
Finally alone, Brontë lets himself cry.
Time stops for no genasi’s grief, though. As his mother reminded him, there is work to be done. There is plenty for Brontë to keep himself busy with late into the night.
He tries to sleep, of course, but Orym’s warm brown eyes haunt him each time he closes his own. The sounds of steel-toed boots on flesh. The way Orym had grunted, refusing to make any more sound than that.
He spends the next day tired and twitchy, awaiting the inevitable summons back to that room. When it comes, it’s not a relief at all.
The room has been cleaned. All traces of Orym’s blood have been magicked away with prestidigitation. There is just fine marble and gold and silver, and the beautiful thrones upon which the Wyvernwinds sit. Brontë keeps his chin high, and shows no sign of doubt or fear. He is a Wyvernwind, after all, and even if he is the most inadequate of the Wyvernwinds, he can do this. He can be loyal to his family. He owes them that much, at least, for his part in nearly bringing them to ruin.
Orym, when he is brought back in, looks like hell. His wrists are bound behind his back, and his eye is still swollen shut. There is crusted blood on his face. His leg seems to have been fixed, but he walks with a limp. He’s been stripped to his shirt and trousers, shoes and armour taken from him, his belongings taken from him. Still, Orym is proud. He meets the gaze of each Wyvernwind in turn, saving Brontë for last.
Brontë forces himself to meet that gaze. He clenches his jaw, and holds his head high, as a Wyvernwind should, to look down at Orym.
Something flickers in Orym’s expression. Brontë expects anger, fear. He does see sadness, but what makes Brontë truly angry is to see pity. Orym pities him? Orym, who is bound and beaten and about to be questioned, pities Brontë? How dare he. How -
Brontë is the one to crack first, tearing his gaze from Orym’s, and clenching his fists at his side. Fuck him.
The moment is truly ended when an enforcer pushes Orym to his knees with a crack which echoes in this chamber. Indra murmurs the words, and for once, Zone of Truth falls not on Brontë, but on Orym.
Orym grits his teeth visibly, and looks back up, glaring at the wizard. Indra only nods back at Lord and Lady Wyvernwind - the spell has taken.
“Very good. Now, let’s start simple, shall we?” Lord Wyvernwind lounges in his throne. “What is your name?”
“You know my name,” Orym spits. His voice is rough.
“You came under your real name?” Lord Wyvernwind raises an eyebrow. “What is your surname?”
“I don’t use one.”
“You don’t use one, but you have one.” Lord Wyvernwind laughs. It’s a cold, unpleasant sound. “You’re a tricky one, aren’t you? But come, it’s easier to just answer.”
He nods, and an enforcer slaps Orym across the face.
“Your last name, Orym,” Lord Wyvernwind repeats sternly.
Brontë watches Orym debate the merits of speaking, or not. Silently, only to himself, he wills Orym to answer. What’s a last name?
It’s the opportunity to go after his family. Brontë knows that.
Still, he wishes Orym would answer.
Orym’s only answer is a hearty “Fuck you.” With that, he falls silent. He doesn’t make a noise even when both enforcers fall on him with punishing blows. He just takes it, even as his lip splits and he spits blood on the floor.
Brontë wants so badly to look away. Orym has a strength he wants so badly; Brontë knows the feeling of this spell, has never been good at just not answering the way Orym is doing. And Orym is holding his answers close with not just the spell, but people trying to beat answers out of him the old-fashioned way, too.
Brontë understands the theory behind this method; torture alone means the subject will say whatever they think you want to hear to make it stop, it’s unreliable. Add a truth spell into the mix, though, and whatever lies they try to tell will become the truth. Brontë’s parents will get their way one way or another, Brontë knows.
Orym is a traitor, Brontë knows.
He still feels sick, watching.
“Who are you working for?”
Nothing.
“Where are you really from?”
Nothing.
“What have you discovered?”
Nothing. Brontë wants to shout at Orym to just tell them, just end this. He finds himself rising to his feet. He walks over to Orym, and his parents wave a hand to have the enforcers give him space. Brontë crouches in front of the chair, puts a hand ever so gently on Orym’s cheek. “You could stop this,” he says quietly.
Orym looks up, and meets Brontë’s eyes. There’s pain there, unmistakeable, but something in him softens, impossibly. “I won’t,” he replies, and Brontë knows it has to be the gods-honest truth.
“You’ll talk eventually,” Brontë insists. “Everyone does. Don’t draw it out.”
Orym’s brow furrows, and his gaze persists, searching. Brontë doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He doesn’t even know if Orym finds it, because he can’t withstand that piercing gaze for long. He sighs, and stands.
“Fine then. If this is how you want it to be.” He doesn’t look back as the interrogation resumes and he returns to his seat.
It seems to last forever. Orym is dragged back to his cell, to be given enough healing to keep him alive, presumably, only to be dragged from it day after day. He is stubbornly silent, and Brontë finds that the only thing he can feel is angry. Why is Orym being so stubborn?
Anger is all he has. If he isn’t angry, if he isn’t angry with Orym specifically, he’ll feel something else, something he can’t identify and doesn’t want to, something that will make him a traitor too.
“This isn’t working,” Lady Wyvernwind says, short, after the third day of questioning. “We’re wasting too much time on this.”
“Perhaps the entire family need not be here?” Brontë suggests, grasping at the first excuse to run away from this entirely.
His mother’s gaze is piercing, calculating. Judging. “If you would prefer to lead the interrogation yourself,” she says, her voice a clear warning, “By all means.”
She wasn’t going to let Brontë out of this. He recognizes the message loud and clear.
“It’s not my area of expertise,” Brontë says, doing his best to keep the distaste - the horror, really - out of his voice.
“No.” Lady Wyvernwind’s voice drips with disdain. “You’re too soft for these things.” She taps her fingers on a table, a series of echoing thunks in the enormous chamber. “No, perhaps it is time for more drastic measures. Indra, surely you know some spell that will hasten the process?”
“There are some options, my lady,” Indra pipes up. He details a few spells, and Brontë’s stomach turns.
“Surely that’s not necessary.” He finally bursts, he cannot stomach it. “Look, how much damage can he really have done? If he’d found anything, it’s been days, surely something would have happened by now, yes? So let’s stop wasting time, we caught him before he could get into real trouble-”
“We?” Lord Wyvernwind finally speaks. “You caught him, and did nothing. Your mother and I caught him and actually had the balls to act on it. If you haven’t what it takes to be a part of this family, this business, you had better make that clear now. Your weakness cannot put this family in danger again. Do not think for a moment that you are not replaceable should you turn out to be a weak link.”
Brontë has been scolded many times. It is practically the only time his parents speak to him.
This is the first time he has been truly, actually threatened, and his stomach sinks. He should have known - there will never be any coming back from his silence on Orym. His family will never trust him, will never value him. They demand his loyalty, and he has given it, even to the point of watching them torture a man he admitted under a truth spell to loving, and it is not enough.
He will never be enough.
At the same moment, in equal clarity, another understanding - he is as much a monster as them. Fear and concepts of loyalty driven into him from birth have led him here, but he is choosing to stay, is choosing to watch, is willing to sacrifice Orym, who - who yes, betrayed him, used him, but who is also good, to his core, in a way Brontë has never seen in the Silken Squall, in a way he couldn’t quite recognize - he was willing to sacrifice Orym to salvage his place in this.
No more. Perhaps Brontë cannot be redeemed, perhaps he is a monster, doomed to be nothing but.
But he can save Orym. He can do one last good thing.
Brontë’s face settles behind his usual mask. He bows, keeps his gaze down. “I understand. My apologies.”
“Hmph. Take care, Brontë,” Lord Wyvernwind threatens once more, before addressing both sons. “Well. You are both dismissed. We shall reconvene tomorrow, and see if we cannot solve this halfling problem.”
Brontë ignores his brother’s shouting behind him and strides down the hall, locking himself in his room. He packs a bag. He puts his flute axe together, straps his lute to his back over his pack. And then… he waits.
The Silken Palace never truly sleeps, but Brontë knows its ebbs and flows. He has been confined to the walls of the Palace his entire life, and for once, it’s going to pay off. It’s the early hours of the morning when he slips from his room. With his grey cloak, and his hood up, he could be any cousin enforcer, really, as long as no one looks too close. It’s time to do what he’s always wanted to and run away - and he’s going to get Orym free with him.
**
Orym is exhausted. Every inch of him hurts, is bruised and battered. He hasn’t much training in healing, but he knows the grinding sound from his ribs when he breathes is a bad sign. He knows.
There’s nothing he can do about it, though, and even if he could, they’ll only be broken again tomorrow. Orym isn’t the type to give up, of course. It’s been just about the worst four days of his life - rivalled only perhaps by the days immediately following the attack on Zephrah which took his husband from him.
The pain is almost similar, though. The beatings he can take, he’s a soldier, a warrior, a fighter. It hurts, but what’s worse is Brontë.
Orym had thought he had a handle on Brontë, a good read. He remembers telling Keyleth how he wants to help Brontë get out of this life, this place, how Brontë is a good man, despite it all.
Now.. now Brontë has watched Orym be beaten within an inch of his life, impassive. As cold as he was on the very first day they met. Was Orym wrong about Brontë?
He can’t know what’s happening behind the curtains, a traitorous voice whispers in Orym’s head, though. Perhaps Brontë is trying, perhaps Brontë is more impacted by the violence than he seems. Maybe he’s just very good at hiding it because he has to be to survive.
Maybe. There had been something conflicted about his plea, that morning. It had seemed like a breaking of some sort, even if Brontë’s plea for cooperation, his stubborn loyalty to a family that only ever seemed to hurt him, was irrational to Orym.
He does know he can’t count on Brontë to get him out, and Orym himself is weakening with every passing day. He won’t last forever, even if he swears he’ll never speak. He has to break himself out. No big deal - it’s only the most heavily guarded city he’s ever seen. Not a problem. He just… needs a moment to sleep, first.
**
The prison block is surprisingly empty, even for the hour. Brontë counts his blessings, and swipes the keys from the wall. There’s a pair of guards playing dice.
“Wyvernwind business,” Brontë grunts, before they can even ask why he’s there, masking his voice as best he can, and sweeps through as if he can’t imagine someone stopping him.
It seems to work, because he hears one of them call after him, a whispered discussion he can’t make out, and then, after a moment or two of silence, the sound of clattering dice once more. He glances into each cell; there are an assortment of people, being held for an assortment of reasons, but it takes him several minutes to find the cell which contains the slumped figure of a familiar halfling, breathing unevenly in the dark.
“Orym,” he hisses. “Orym, wake up.”
For a moment, nothing happens. He’s about to try again when there’s a low groan, and Orym stirs.
“Brontë..?” His voice is gruff with both sleep and, well, several days of being badly beaten.
“I’m here to get you out, friend,” he whispers.
“...Is that what we are?” Orym rubs weary eyes, and steps up to the bars. He looks smaller, without his armour.
Brontë looks away. “That’s fair,” he mutters, eventually. “Are you coming?”
Orym’s eyes narrow. “Is this a trap?”
His suspicion, though it is well-deserved, stings irrationally. “No trap. You have my word.” Brontë’s heart thunders in his chest.
Orym looks at him. It’s the same piercing, assessing gaze from earlier that day. “Alright,” he says eventually. “Sure. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Brontë flashes the hint of a grin, and unlocks the door. He puts a hand on Orym’s shoulder, puts a little healing into the touch.
As he does, Orym straightens a little, and looks harder at Brontë, before nodding. “Thanks.”
“Very much the absolute least I can do, don’t you think? Come on.” He gestures for Orym to follow and, keeping to the shadows, creeps back down the hallway.
They reach the guards at their table, and Brontë focuses on producing a sound like a clatter further away, and then a shout, with his magic. It seems to work - the pair of guards perk up, listening, and then give chase down the opposite hallway after a muttered exchange Brontë can’t make out.
“Perfect.” Brontë pulls Orym toward the stairs upwards with a hand on his wrist - only to stop short.
“Oh dear.” There, on the stairs, is the worst possible person - Cyrus Wyvernwind himself. “I worried you’d try something stupid tonight, after that display with Mother and Father,” he continues. “I hoped I was wrong, of course, but I had to come down and make sure. I’d hate for you to make a mistake you can’t take back, brother.”
“Stand aside, Cyrus,” Brontë says. “I’m leaving. I swear, neither of us will do anything to jeopardize this family, we’re just going to disappear-”
“I’m sorry, Brontë. But really, this is for the best. What would you even do out there? You’d just get yourself killed. You’re safe here, taken care of. Protected. We have a good life,” Cyrus argues.
“We have a gilded cage, and in case you missed it, Father threatened me today.” Brontë puts Orym behind him with one arm, only for Orym to shove himself free again.
“Oh, come on, he wouldn’t really hurt you,” Cyrus protests. “You shouldn’t rile him up like that, you know.”
“Cyrus, please.” It hurts to say it. “Step aside.”
Cyrus’ face falls. “I can’t do that.” As he speaks, the guards return, and two more at Cyrus’ back. Orym and Brontë are well and truly surrounded.
**
Brontë is not as brave as Orym is, or as strong. He isn’t silent, when his father dispassionately has the enforcers beat him on the very same floor as Orym was only the day before.
It’s a bizarre parallel, too, when he looks up, just for a moment, and catches his brother’s gaze. There is nothing in Cyrus’ eyes - he is shuttered off, unreadable. Untouchable.
Is this how Orym felt, every time he and Brontë caught eyes? Is Cyrus feeling the same conflict that Brontë has this whole time? Or is he as calm and cool as he seems?
Of course, Cyrus is perfect, and Brontë is weak. Cyrus would have no such weakness, no such imperfection, as to feel conflicted about the hurt of a traitor. Cyrus turned them both in, after all. Brontë hadn’t had the stomach to do the same himself.
“Oh, come on, he wouldn’t really hurt you.” That’s what Cyrus said back in the dungeons.
Brontë wonders how Cyrus feels, being wrong for the first time.
It’s the last thing he wonders before a boot finds its way to his temple, and he loses consciousness.
**
Brontë doesn’t know how much time has passed, since he passed out, when he wakes in his room. A glance outside tells him the sun is low in the sky, near sunset. There are bars on his windows, now, though - those are new.
Without much expectation. Brontë makes his way to the door. The knob inside is gone, removed. A peek in the gap shows him it’s locked.
He’s a prisoner in his own room - much more literally, now, than he used to be.
He takes a catalogue of his injuries. He’s been healed more than Orym had seemed in his cell; his bruises and cuts are mostly gone, leaving behind a dull ache in his head and ribs and left shoulder that tell him he was more badly injured there. Overall, he’s sore and hurting, but not anywhere near the rough shape he knows he was in before he lost consciousness.
That task complete, he makes a more thorough check of his room. Most of his things are gone, including his instruments. He’s left with some clothes, a couple of his books, and very little else.
Orym is also missing. Brontë hadn’t expected them to be celled together, of course, so this isn’t a surprise, but it’s still a weight on him. What have they done to Orym in the meantime? Is he even still alive?
He marches back up to his door; surely there’s someone posted there. “Hello?”
No response.
He tries again. “What’s going on? Where is Orym?”
No response, except for the banging of something on the door.
“Someone tell me what’s happening.”
“Shut up in there.” It’s the voice of some cousin Brontë can’t identify.
“Shit.” He retreats, and paces for a while. Checks the bars on his window - they’re secure. Looks for something to loosen them, but there’s nothing. They’ve been thorough in making him a prisoner.
Brontë exhausts what seems to be every option in very little time at all. What few spells he can do are useless, though he has tried them all - all the ones he can do without his instruments, anyway, and even those, he’s attempted with a song, though he’s not a singer, generally. He has no weapons, either. It’s dark when the door slides open; Brontë doesn’t reach it in time before it closes, but in the doorway there is a plate of food.
His stomach rumbles. He wants to refuse the food on principle, but to starve himself for no reason will only make him weaker. It would be foolish. He eats.
He sleeps uneasily that night, kept up by nightmares - his own beating, Orym. His brain conjures awful images of what could be happening. He’d thought watching was awful; not knowing what is happening is somehow worse.
Morning brings no relief. He expects to be dragged off again, to be questioned like Orym, but no. He knows nothing, and clearly they know that. Instead, time drags in rushes and stops. Brontë attempts to read, but cannot focus. Food arrives in the evening once more. He is glad he at least has light from the window to track the passage of time.
Day two goes the same, and day three. Brontë feels he is going mad - he worries about Orym, worries about himself, fears - Orym could be dead already. Brontë may have gotten him killed with his stupid stunt.
Day four.
Day five.
Brontë is alone. Loneliness, frantic loneliness, overtakes fear in his brain. He was not made for isolation.
Day six.
Food doesn’t come on day six.
Brontë almost doesn’t notice, but when he does pay attention again, he realizes two things at once: first, it is very dark out. It’s late, much later than he’s usually delivered his meal for the day. Second, there’s noise. Shouting, swords. A crash of something that sounds like.. Water?
Whatever that sound is, it crashes against his door, and it falls inwards. Water floods into Brontë’s room, and he cautiously steps through it towards his now-demolished door.
There is a woman there, half-elven, with bright red hair and a crown of antlers on her head, her hand raised like she has summoned the water.
“Brontë Wyvernwind?” she asks, upon seeing him.
He can only nod.
“I am Keyleth of the Air Ashari. Are you injured?”
Brontë shakes his head, struck dumb.
“Good. Come with me.” She jogs away, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Brontë is following.
He follows. What else can he do?
“Who are you?” he calls out after her. “What..?”
“I told you! I’m Keyleth.”
“Yes, but-”
She’s distracted by the arrival of a very familiar genasi. “Cyrus. You have Orym?”
“He’s safely with your people,” Cyrus answers.
“What?” Brontë stares. Cyrus is working with this woman? He’s relieved to hear Orym is safe, but -
And then it clicks. This must be whoever sent Orym here. This must be who he’s working for.
And… they’ve won. They must have, or none of this would be happening.
“Cyrus?” Brontë turns to his brother with wide eyes, because all of that is - is something, but Cyrus is working for this woman too? Even after turning Brontë in?
Cyrus grimaces, and turns to face his brother. “I swear I never really believed Father would hurt you,” he says, earnest. “I would never have - if I’d known what he’d do to you, I’d never have turned you in. That’s why I finally - I went to Orym, gave him his weird little rock back so he could call his boss, as long as he promised you and I would be safe.” Cyrus looks briefly ashamed; Brontë understands. What Cyrus has done has almost certainly ruined their family.
He… had had no idea Cyrus cared that much about him. Brontë rushes forward, and pulls his brother into a hug. It must look a little absurd, Brontë crushing his brother in his arms like this. Cyrus is taller, broader, he takes up more space than Brontë has ever allowed himself to. But it feels right.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
Slowly, Cyrus reaches around to tentatively hug Brontë back. “You’re my brother,” Cyrus replies, as if it’s that simple.
Something tugs at Brontë, and he smiles, just a little. “Yeah. Yeah.” He hugs Cyrus tighter for a moment before stepping back and letting go.
“Aww.”
Brontë looks up, startled at the reminder they’re being watched.
“I love a good family reunion, don’t you?” Keyleth clasps her hands together. “Now! I think it’s time to get you both out of here. Where’s the nearest tree?”
**
“You should talk to him,” Cyrus urges.
Brontë - Dorian, he’s going by Dorian now, Dorian Storm, like he always wanted to - have been living in Zephrah for a week and a half now.
“There’s no way he wants to see me,” Dorian shakes his head. They have a little domed hut in the cliffside village. Dorian can see the ancient cherry tree from their sitting room window. It’s beautiful here - high enough, in the air enough, to feel like home, without the stifling formality of it all.
“You can’t know unless you try. And then you’ll know for sure, and either way you can stop pining.” Cyrus is teasing. Dorian can tell, these days, when Cyrus is teasing.
Turns out his older brother isn’t so bad, when they don’t both have the pressure of their parents on their shoulders, forcing them to compete. Go figure.
“I bet he misses you too,” Cyrus continues prodding.
“Ugh. I don’t want to talk about O- about it,” Dorian groans.
“Okayyy,” Cyrus says. “Fine.”
Cyrus insists on using his name, but he’s at least conceded to calling himself Storm instead of Wyvernwind. Their parents have been found guilty of smuggling dangerous magical substances illegally. Now, Whitestone and Alsfarin Union are arguing over who gets to decide what to do with them, while their people track down where the stolen goods have gone, what they’re being used for. Tying up loose ends. Dorian and Cyrus have been doing their best to be helpful. Cyrus is better for this - he knows more, was trusted more. Dorian finds it incredible how easily Cyrus trusts these people; there’s nothing he seems to hesitate to share. He knows his brother is grateful to the Ashari for getting them out, for helping, but once, his brother had been the most steadfastly, mindlessly loyal. Now, he seems just as dedicated to getting them both settled into a decent life here.
Dorian struggles more. Trust doesn’t come so easily; he wants to keep as much as he can close to his chest. He doesn’t hinder their investigations, he shares what he can, but always he wants to just retreat into himself, hide.
The neighbours don’t seem to have any problems with the Wyvernwind-now-Storm siblings. There’s an elderly halfling woman named Rose who’s as nosy as can be, but is always coming by with vegetables from her garden, and a half-elven couple with a young child who’s always playing in Dorian and Cyrus’ yard. It’s just.. Strange.
They can come and go and do as they please, for the most part, too, though they’re not allowed to handle weapons yet. It had taken Dorian nearly a week to venture too far outside his hut, but since then he’s been wandering further and further, taking long walks to nowhere in particular.
It’s more freedom than Dorian has ever had, but he can’t do the one thing he wants most of all: he can’t face Orym.
There’s a knock at the door that draws Cyrus away. Dorian doesn’t quite catch the conversation that happens there, but when Cyrus returns, he’s holding something wrapped in canvas.
“Sooo, I got you something.”
Dorian looks up and blinks in surprise. “With what money?”
Cyrus puffs up in pride. “I’ve been helping old man Havern down the way with some heavy lifting and stuff,” he says. “In return, he helped fix this!” Cyrus whips the canvas away to reveal Dorian’s lute.
Dorian lurches to his feet and takes it tenderly in his hands. There’s a crack on the front, but it’s been expertly repaired. It’s beautiful. He closes his eyes, exhales slowly, and drapes the strap across his shoulder before strumming a simple chord. It’s not quite the same, but something about the imperfection is actually charming. He strums the chord again, and transitions into plucking the counterpoint of a melody from home, and then into a song he’s heard Rose singing while she gardens now and then.
“You’re really good.” Cyrus sounds surprised.
Dorian startles, and opens his eyes again. He supposes Cyrus wouldn’t have had the chance to hear him play before. “...Thanks.” He hadn’t ever done this for an audience, really. Especially not family. “And, you know. Thanks. For getting it fixed, for - how did you even get this?”
“It was with some evidence for a while,” Cyrus shrugs. “Keyleth says it’s not really useful as evidence, so you can have it back. No magic dust ever came near it, I guess.”
“Huh.” Dorian strums a few more notes, and then swings it to rest on his back again. “It’s good to have it back.” He feels more like himself with an instrument in his hands.
“I’m glad you’re happy.” Cyrus pats him on the shoulder and smiles.
“Yeah.” Dorian looks at his hands, and smiles too, just a little. Happy. That’s new.
**
“You should talk to him.”
Orym looks at Keyleth with wide eyes. “Is Brontë not being cooperative?” he asks. “I don’t know if he’ll be more willing to talk to me-”
“He’s calling himself Dorian now,” Keyleth corrects him. “And he’s been plenty helpful, I just think you two should talk! I mean, it seems like you were getting pretty close, before it all..”
“Went to shit?” Orym finishes her sentence with a wry smile. “I thought so, but.. I don’t know. I’m glad he’s feeling comfortable enough to be Dorian Storm, though. I know that was a dream for him.”
It’s bittersweet, being back. He’s healed up, though he’s still under strict instructions to take it easy. He wants nothing more than to rush back out into the world, though. He doesn’t like being idle.
He had, once. A long time ago. A lifetime ago, it seems. Now, stopping is the last thing he wants to do.
“I don’t think he’d want to see me,” Orym shakes his head.
“You know, he told me the same thing.” Keyleth’s tone is shrewd.
“You’ve talked to him about me?” Orym isn’t sure how to feel about that.
“Sure. He wanted to know if you’re alright.” Keyleth considers him for a moment. Orym just waits for her to continue. “You know,” she says eventually. “I think I get it. He’s very pretty.”
Orym splutters. He doesn’t know what he could even say to that.
“And he seems.. Sincere. He keeps a lot to himself, of course, but I don’t know. I get a good vibe.”
“He watched his parents have me beaten for days,” Orym doesn’t say.
“He wrote me a song, once. I never had a chance to hear it. I don’t even know if he finished it,” Orym doesn’t say.
“I don’t know,” Orym does say.
“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Keyleth muses. “When it comes to other people, can we really say we know anything? It’s less about knowing, and more about choosing, I think. It took me too long to figure that out. By the time I chose, I had so little time left with Vax. I’d been so hung up on not knowing how it would go…” She trails off, and glances a little sadly out the window. “Well. It’s not the same, obviously, but you know my advice.”
“Yeah.” Orym has a lot to think about.
“I guess the question really is… can you choose to forgive him? And do you want to try?” Keyleth rises to her feet, and claps a hand on Orym’s shoulder. “He lives on Marigold Lane. Number four. Just in case.” And with that, she’s gone.
**
Number four, Marigold Lane. Orym stands a few homes away, looking. Mustering the resolve. Keyleth is right, after all. He should see Dorian. Talk to him.
If Dorian tells him to fuck off, well, at least Orym will know for sure. He can join the efforts in Whitestone or Marquet, recovering lost residuum and brumestone. There are things he can do to keep busy, and leaving isn’t a bad idea, but he needs to do this first. Get some closure.
One step forward, and then another. One deep breath in, one deep breath out. He reaches the door, and raises a hand to knock, hesitating once more.
His hand is still raised when he hears from behind him, “Orym?”
“Dorian.” He turns, and there, just behind him, is Dorian Storm. He’s dressed in Ashari clothes, but he’s styled them his own way, and it suits him. He looks different here, a lute across his back, his hair up in a messy bun instead of meticulously styled. His posture is different, too - relaxed.
“You’ve uh, you’ve heard about the name, then.” Dorian rubs the back of his neck.
“Yeah. Smart,” Orym nods. “It - it suits you just as well as I hoped it would.”
“I’m not there yet. I mean, I’m not a performer, I’m -”
“You’re out, though. It’s what you said you wanted.” Orym looks him over. He looks alright, but then, it’s been long enough for most injuries to heal, especially with druid magic.
“Yeah. No thanks to myself though, huh.” His laugh is sheepish, held back - like he’s expecting to be chastised, now. “Still needed my older brother to do it better, I guess.”
“Hey.” Orym feels something in himself grow a little warmer, a little gentler. “You were in a tough spot.”
“Yeah. I - god, I’m a terrible host, do you want to come in? I’ve just been keeping you here on the doorstep-”
“Sure. Thanks,” Orym nods, and steps aside.
Dorian lets them both into the hut. It’s sparsely decorated, barely furnished. There’s a basket of vegetables on the table, Orym spies, and a loaf of bread, still steaming. Cyrus is in the kitchen, wearing a flour-covered apron.
“Smells good,” Orym observes.
“I’m learning to make bread,” Cyrus announces. “My first few attempts didn’t pan out, but I think I’ve finally made something edible!”
Dorian narrows his eyes at the bread dubiously, but Orym helps himself to a chunk at Cyrus’ behest. It’s a little tough, a little dense, a little salty, but not bad. “S’good,” he promises.
Cyrus lights up. “Really?”
“Yeah. Keep practicing,” Orym encourages.
Dorian leads them up to his room to talk privately, blushing purple at Cyrus’ wolf whistling.
Orym just laughs. “Your brother is different, here.” He looks Dorian over. “So are you.”
“Turns out he’s not the worst, I guess,” Dorian agrees.
There’s an awkward moment of silence, before Dorian just bites the bullet and continues. “There was a moment - after we were caught trying to run, after I failed to get us out of there, I was dragged off into that audience chamber and - and beaten on that floor, and - I locked eyes with Cyrus, and I thought - this must be how Orym felt.” All of Dorian’s carefully prepared words are out the window. “Looking into the face of someone I cared about, and seeing nothing but ice..”
“Dorian-”
“Let me speak,” Dorian says, because if he stops now he won’t be able to do it again. “I just - I want to say I’m sorry. For not doing something sooner. I - I hated every moment of it, but - I was in so deep, and it’s no excuse, but I was frightened, and - family is - my family is -”
“Dorian.” Orym reaches out, puts a hand on Dorian’s arm. “Dorian, it’s alright. I promise. I mean - it was awful, yes, but I was there for a long time. I saw how your family is, okay? Loyalty is everything there.”
“I should have been loyal to you,” Dorian insists.
“Why? I wasn’t,” Orym says, ever pragmatic.
“I - but - well -” Dorian doesn’t know what to say to that.
“I mean, you mattered to me. I liked you. I - what happened, between us..” Orym remembers quiet moments in secret corners, and smiles to himself. “I meant that, even if I didn’t know even then what it could mean. But I had secrets, I was still fully prepared to do what I went there to do.” He looks Dorian dead in the eyes. “I was there for the express purpose of using you. That you started to mean something to me never changed that. So I’m sorry too - for as much of it as I can be. I should have kept my distance, never let you get that close to me.”
“Do you regret it?” Indifference hides hurt in Dorian’s voice. “Our.. whatever it was?”
“I regret that I let it start under false pretences,” Orym says.
“Past tense,” Dorian observes. “I mattered. You liked me. Not anymore? Not that it wouldn’t be understandable,” he’s quick to add.
“Oh.” Orym glances away. “No. I - present,” he admits. “You matter. I - I like you.”
“We make quite a pair,” Dorian muses. “Betrayal and hurt all around. In the stories, we might make it work. Real life though…”
“Real life is complicated,” Orym agrees. “Messy.”
“Worth it, maybe,” Dorian counters. “Maybe.”
Orym looks up, surprised. “Worth it, maybe,” he agrees.
“No more secrets. No more lying,” Dorian asks. Insists, really.
“No more secrets, no more lying,” Orym agrees.
“We take it slow.”
“So slow,” Orym agrees again.
“And you know, I forgive you,” Dorian says.
“I forgive you too.”
They don’t kiss. It feels too raw, too soon. But they lean in until their foreheads touch and just breathe together, for a moment. It feels like a new beginning.
**
Six months later
They’re in a bar in Jrusar, Dorian and Orym. They’re tracking down rumours of brumestone. Coincidentally, Dorian also has a show. He’s been performing his way across Marquet, dazzling audiences.
The host announces Dorian Storm, and he’s about to head onstage when Orym pulls him back. He presses a kiss to his cheek, and crafts a blue flower from thin air. “For luck.”