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“I’ll be there.” They are the words Orym needs to hear at this moment, the loss and hurt evident in the voice that drifts through the Sending stone.
They are not the only words in Dorian’s heart.
Three more lurk, hiding behind hesitation and doubt. Dorian cups the Sending stone in his palms, watching as the tracery of runes slowly loses its glow as the spell begins to fade. He waits, waits, waits until the last possible moment before he breathes out the other three words, so that they might not even make it through the last vestiges of the spell’s connection.
“I love you.”
He closes his fingers around the stone. If Orym heard his confession, he won’t be able to say anything until the morning anyways, and if he didn’t… well, then nothing will have changed, and he can hold onto those words again, and hope that he’ll find the strength to share them in the future.
But then Keyleth knocks on his door. He has the chance to go now, and, well, fate works in mysterious ways, doesn’t it?
He follows her through a tree to a dry desert landscape, to a military encampment, and to his friends.
By the gods, they look like shit. (Though Dorian knows he can’t look much better, having dragged himself across the continent without rest courtesy of Opal’s spell.)
But though they’re bruised, beaten, haggard and downtrodden, the sight of them lifts his heart in a way he wasn’t sure it ever would again.
They catch sight of him soon after (hard not to, he supposes, especially standing next to Keyleth- neither of them particularly blend in with this landscape). Their expressions are stunned, disbelieving, like they don’t trust that it could possibly be him.
“I heard this party could use a humble bard!” he crows. Maybe the positivity in his voice is a little much, but something’s got to break the ice here. He’s about to say something else when Orym breaks away from the group, sprinting towards him before leaping into the air from twenty feet away. Dorian experiences a split second of astonishment at the leap before he realizes just where Orym is heading for, giving him one more split second to brace himself for the weight of the halfling landing on him, and it’s truly a credit to Dorian that he just stumbles backwards a few paces and two of them don’t go tumbling to the ground.
Orym’s arms are locked around Dorian’s shoulders, his legs are looped (at least as far as they can reach) around Dorian’s waist, and he’s got his head buried in Dorian’s neck. Dorian wraps his arms around Orym, feeling the way he’s shaking just slightly. Some part of him registers that Orym still smells of worn leather and the sweet perfume of flowers, but there’s something else there too. The faint smell of bitter herbs, faded in the background like a sour memory.
There’s a clop-clop-clop approaching and there’s Fearne- sweet, wonderful Fearnie- throwing her arms around him and peppering his face with kisses. She smells of flowers too, though her scent is wilder, like the jungle instead of a garden, and tinged with the smell of smoke.
Amidst the relieved laughter and squeals of joy from the women of the party, he hears Orym’s voice in his ear, high and hoarse.
“Are you here?”
“Yes, I’m really here,” he murmurs back, and feels Orym relax a fraction more into the hug.
Chetney, having apparently not changed a bit, gives him some good natured ribbing before trotting over to add his hug to the pile (or at least to Dorian’s leg).
Eventually, the hugs begin to unfold, and he realizes he’s still holding Orym. Orym pulls back slightly and meets Dorian’s gaze. Dorian realizes this might be the first time Orym has been at his eye level, and he’s never noticed how many shades of green there seem to be in Orym’s eyes, but maybe that’s because now they’re shiny and wet.
“Did you mean it?” Orym says, just for Dorian to hear.
Dorian is glad he doesn't need to breathe, because at the moment he doesn’t think he could get air into his lungs even if he tried.
“I- I’m here, aren’t I?” he says with a weak chuckle, knowing very well which part of his message Orym is referring to.
A small smile pulls at Orym’s lips and his hands move, brushing through Dorian’s hair and coming to rest on his jaw, just under his ears. Orym’s thumbs trace along Dorian’s cheekbones.
“And I’m sure glad you are, because making me wait until morning to return the sentiment over a sending stone would’ve been awfully rude.”
Orym leans in.
Dorian pulls him closer.
And when their lips meet, Dorian swears he’s floating without casting a single spell.
Faintly, he hears Chetney hoot and something along the lines of “Fucking finally" from Ashton, but he and Orym might as well be alone for all they are aware of around them.
When their lips finally part, Orym presses his forehead to Dorian’s. Out of the corner of Dorian’s eye, he can see tiny blooms sprouting across his and Orym’s armor.
“I love you too,” Orym murmurs.
And Dorian thinks, for the first time in weeks, that things could be all right.