for Dorian (makingmyway) - Prince Dorian /Palace Guard Orym AU

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym spends too much time watching the prince. In fairness, it is his job to do exactly that, but it's gone so far beyond just the act of guarding a young noble. Of course it has.

When he'd first been assigned to this position -- the personal guard to Prince Brontë, a promotion really, after he'd managed to be in the right place at the right time to thwart an unexpected assassination attempt against the King and Queen -- he hadn't known much about the younger Prince Wyvernwind, save what he could tell from afar -- that he was beautiful, fair-faced and strong-shouldered, that he always managed to look the part of dutiful and perfect prince.

As he got to know him though, he'd seen more. So much more.

The prince is genuinely kind, not only for show in public. He's gentle and soft spoken, surprisingly down to earth for a young royal who's been sheltered in his kingdom all his life. He's funny too, clever and quick-witted once opened up. It took some time, really, but they've both let their guards down around each other. Orym has to remind himself again and again that he's nothing more than bodyguard, here to keep the Prince safe. Not to keep him company.

But oh he likes his company, has come to look forward to hearing that musical laugh, come to treasure when he's managed to convince Brontë to play or sing for him. There's a warmth in his chest when the Prince confides in him, when he's given glimpses into those surprising insecurities, his hopes and dreams.

It's several months into spending day after day with the Prince that he realizes he's fallen for him. It's foolish. It's utterly foolish and it can never be anything. So he wraps those feelings away and pushes them down as deep as he can.

Today they're in the palace courtyards. The sun shines bright from a sky that is a perfect shade of blue interrupted only by a few white clouds. Orym is rolling his wrist to let his sword dip and then rise, the familiar heft and weight of the blade comfortable in his hand.]

You know, you're good with a blade. I've seen it. But I could probably teach you a few tricks, if you'd be interested.

Comments

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[He doesn't want this to be the end, doesn't want it to be the last time he's in Brontë's arms. He clings to him, trying to memorize everything about the moment, to take in the feeling of him and the scent of him, the way it feels to be held.]

You will always have my heart. It's yours. It will always be yours, no matter where I am. Until my last breath.

[He lifts his chin to meet that kiss, a desperation in it, as if he can't bear the thought of it ending.]

[makingmyway]

[ He shivers a little as Orym returns the kiss, feeling that urgency in return, and he holds the kiss for as long as he can, until it hurts too much and he finally draws back, resting his forehead against Orym's. ]

Thank you... Thank you for everything. This time we spent together has meant so much to me. My only regret is that you were nearly killed for it.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

I don't regret anything. You are worth any price, I...

[He would die for him. He'd give anything to stay by his side, but this is goodbye. He reaches a hand up to touch along Brontë's cheek, the light catching on the ring on his finger. He'll wear it forever. And later when he reads the inscription, he'll weep again.]

I will always love you.

[makingmyway]

[ Closing his eyes, he leans into Orym's touch, releasing a shuddering breath. ]

I will always love you too. [ Resting his hand over Orym's he presses it to his cheek as he opens his eyes again, once again filled with tears. ] But promise me you'll take care? The only way I'll be able to get through this is knowing you're out there, alive and well.

I know it's selfish of me to ask... but you'll live for me, won't you?

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym doesn't trust his voice not to break. Everything feels like it is crashing down around him. How is he supposed to live without his heart, he wonders? But Brontë has asked this of him, and the halfling can't imagine denying the man he loves anything.

So he nods. He'll do his best. Even if he can't imagine life without him.

He moves tow rap his arms around Brontë once more, holding tightly.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë breathes out a shaky breath, holding Orym in a tight embrace again. ]

Thank you…

[ It won’t be easy, living without the man he loves, the one who holds his heart. But knowing Orym was still alive would be enough to get him through.

After another moment, he places his hands on Orym’s shoulders and draws back, pressing a kiss to the halfling’s forehead. ]

We don’t have too much time left. Once we leave here, one of the guards is going to bring you back to your room to gather your things, and then to a carriage that will take you to the next town over. From there you’ll meet some other soldiers who will travel with you to the town you’re reassigned to.

[ It seems the king was in quite the hurry to send Orym as far away as possible. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[He knows he has to let go. He does know that, but even as Brontë draws back he wants to hold tighter. The halfling forces himself not to though, eyes shutting as those lips find his forehead. Remember this. He tells himself. Remember everything about this moment.

It's the last moment they'd have together. The last moment he could ever imagine mattering. A slow nod.]

I understand.

[Whisked away, and it doesn't matter where. It won't be here. It won't be at Brontë's side.]

[makingmyway]

[ Cupping Orym’s cheek, he manages a small smile, even as tears well in his eyes once again. ]

I know you’ll be all right. You’re strong and courageous, and the town you’re going to will be in good hands with you protecting them.

[ He presses another kiss, this time to Orym’s lips, lingering there for a moment while he can. ]

I love you…I love you so much. Always. Never forget that.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

I'll never forget it. Or you.

[He murmurs the words to his lips before forcing himself to step back.]

And you. Please be all right. I want you to find a way to be happy... You deserve to be happy.

[He deserves so much better than being married off for political reasons, to be trapped in this life. Orym hates all of this.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë is able to hold his smile, even as his expression saddens a bit. ]

As long as you’re alive, I’ll be fine.

[ He has no illusions about what kind of arrangement he’s stepping into. Even without knowing who his father is planning to set him up with, he knows that it will be someone with wealth and power, and it will be a difficult relationship at best.

But as long as Orym is all right, he’ll be able to weather through it.

Releasing another breath, he finally rises to his feet and offers his hand to Orym. Once they step outside they’ll be separated forever, but for now they had this last moment.

To hold each other, even just their hands, for the last time. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Fine is not happy, but they both know that. Gods they both know it too well in this moment. Maybe they'd both survive, but could it be anymore than that? For Brontë's sake, Orym hopes so.

He takes that offered hand, holding tighter than he intends to. A last touch. A last moment to hold each other.

It still feels like his heart has given up the will to beat, nothing more than a dead weight in his chest.

Orym takes a deep breath, and a small vine winds its way around Brontë's wrist, blossoming into a little bracelet of blue flowers, winding up his hand and around his ring finger. Orym doesn't have a ring to offer in return, so this will have to do.]

[makingmyway]

[ A moment of surprise as the vines wind around his wrist, but then as they wind around his ring finger and bloom with blue flowers, Brontë gives him a watery smile, giving Orym’s hand a gentle squeeze.

It’s a short walk from the cell to the dungeon entrance, but it somehow seems to take forever and yet no time at all. As they step out, the guards that accompanied Brontë are still there waiting for them, and one of them escorts Orym to his chambers while the other escorts Brontë back to his father, a flimsy excuse of going over potential suitors in order to keep them separated for this much longer.

With one las look to Orym, his eyes saying the goodbye that he couldn’t say out loud, Brontë turns to leave with his guard, and only once the halfling is out of sight does he allow himself to cry the tears that he’s been holding back. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym does not cry, not then. There will be nights upon nights for that.

Or maybe there won't. He feels so numb, like everything that matters has been drained straight from him, a ghost walking around with breath in his lungs and blood in his veins but all the light drained from his eyes.

He's silent as he gathers his things. Silent as he's set on transport for the next town and then farther and farther away from the man he left his heart with.]

[makingmyway]

[ The town that Orym is reassigned to is a small, quiet one, just along the outskirts of the kingdom on the border of dense wilds.

But it’s a mostly peaceful place, the kind where everyone knows everyone else who lives. Most of the town’s profits come from travelers passing through it, those coming in or out of the kingdom - a last rest stop before entering the wilds, or a welcome respite after traveling for so long.

The biggest threats come from the creatures in the wilds that occasionally try to attack the town, which is what the soldiers’ presence is largely to protect from. But the town is far enough away that none of the royal family has never visited the town themselves, and the few soldiers assigned there have not been back to the capital in many years. Any news that comes from the capital is mainly from new soldiers that have been assigned to replace those who have been lost or - in some cases - abandoned their post, but mostly news comes in the form of rumors that are passed along by the travelers who visit.

Which is how, many months after Orym has been stationed in this place, the news comes on the lips of those passing through that the royal family’s youngest son, Brontë Wyvernwind, had been killed by bandits. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym lives. That is certainly what he does. There isn't much else one could really call it. He'd promised Brontë that he would live, and he will keep his word on that. It's the last thing he promised him. He can't break that. But there's not a lot of life in that living. He goes through the motions. He protects the town. Maybe he takes risks he shouldn't, gets a bit reckless. Maybe he bears the scars of a few of those worse decisions. But he still lives, as a ghost of himself.

There's a numbness in it all, nights spent half afraid to sleep for knowing how often he dreams of Brontë. He loves and hates those dreams, though the hate is because he knows that dreams have to end, and waking to find himself alone again.

When the news reaches him, when it finally makes its way to this far flung town, the numbness disappears and instead everything is pain.

No.

He can't. He can't be dead. Brontë can't be. Orym should have been there. Should have been there to keep him safe, to protect him. But he wasn't. He was here, and now Brontë is...

The recklessness only gets worse from there. What's the point of this world anymore if Brontë is no longer in it? He doesn't even know why he bothers to take each breath, but he's still alive. And every day feels darker and colder than the last.]

[makingmyway]

[ The news of the young prince's death shocks the town, and is a hot topic of gossip for a while. But as far away as they are from the capital, the royal family is almost like a myth to them, a story that does not affect them personally. And so life goes on, and eventually the rumors and stories fade and are forgotten, except for the occasional traveler that comes through town who brings a bit more news of what happened, though it's difficult to say just how accurate any of the tellings are.

Amongst the many travelers that pass though the small town, it is not unusual to see bards in the street, on their way into or leaving the kingdom, sharing stories and songs of their travels and earning a bit of coin before heading on their way. And so happens on one such day, around midday, when a bard along with a small group arrives into town. While the rest of the party goes to find lodgings at the local inn, the bard sets himself in the town square, and a crowd begins to gather as his music fills the streets like a passing breeze.

Many of the songs are meant to entertain, but eventually as he winds down he begins to sing a personal, if somewhat familiar song about two star-crossed lovers, deeply in love but driven apart due to circumstance. But the song itself is hopeful, with a wish that the lovers will one day be able to meet again. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym pays little attention to the comings and goings in the town, save for the pieces of them that impact his duties, his missions. He's developed a bit of a reputation among the other guards, for being more than a bit of a loner, not quite a loose canon but verging on that certainly. He heads out into the wilds beyond the town on his own, facing down the more violent things that wait in the woods and threaten the safety of the local populace.

It's on his return from one of these forays that he hears the soft sound of music from the center of town. The songs are lovely, but Orym barely notices, making his way to the small cabin that he calls home.

Or at least, he barely notices until the music changes. Something in it catches his attention and before he consciously realizes it, his footsteps are bringing him in that direction. He's a sight -- covered in dirt and blood from the battles of the day, most of it not his, though some of it certainly is -- but he can't bring himself to caring about that.

The tune is pulling at him, the words a familiar tragedy and the voice. It's his mind playing tricks on him, certainly, but it sounds achingly familiar. Tears are in his eyes and falling down his cheeks before he knows how hard it's struck him.

It's hard to see through the crowd that's gathered (he's a halfling; this is always his lot in life) and he's almost afraid to look, to know the way his heart will break when he sees the singer isn't who he desperately wishes it could -- but knows it cannot possibly -- be.]

[makingmyway]

[ The song continues for a while, the hopeful message echoing in the air even as the music itself comes to an end. There's an applause from the crowd, some placing a few coins in the pouch that the bard has on the ground in front of him, then begin to disperse as when they townfolks realize that the bard has ended his performance for the day.

And as the people begin to drift away, Orym will see the Air Genasi bard gathering his things, a light breeze around him and sending his loose ombre hair and cape fluttering, a peek of the sunrise lining visible as it dances around him. His clothes are simple - if a bit fancier than most for a bard - and a bit worn from travel, but despite having just arrived into town he seems to be in good spirits.

And more than anything, he will certainly seem quite, painfully familiar. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[The crowd leaves, but Orym remains frozen to the spot. The music ends, and he knows he should turn to continue his way back to the place that he calls home -- even if it's empty enough that it feels like a mockery of the word. But he stays rooted where he is, desperate to catch a glimpse of the bard.

Then he does. That flash of blue, the long hair caught in the wind that moves around him like it loves him. No.

It can't be. He's seeing what he desperately wants to see, impossible things, ghosts. That's what Orym tells himself as he tries to will his legs to move. They fail him instead, and he drops to his knees right where he is, still staring, like he's seeing some phantom in front of him. And he has never felt quite so small in his life in the shadow of the foolish rush of hope that he is so desperately trying to fight before it consumes him. He won't survive that hope shattering. He won't. He's so broken already.]

[makingmyway]

[ As he's gathering the money that the crowd had given him, he catches movement from the corner of his eye, and turns to see the halfling guard on his knees on the ground. That, plus the blood across his skin, has his eyes widening, and grabbing the rest of his things he hurries to the fallen guard, kneeling down in front of him. ]

Orym...! Oh no, are you hurt?

[ There had been so many ways he had imagined this reunion going, what he would say or do. But all of those fly out of his head at the haggard sight of the halfling, as he can't help cupping Orym's cheek. But despite the worry and concern in his eyes, there is also an overwhelming relief, as he feels his own heart coming alive for the first in so long.

Because Orym is here. He's still here, just as he hoped he would be. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[It's the sound of his name that is the thing that breaks him in the end. He looks up in time to see the bard kneeling before him and gods he knows that face. It's the face he sees in his dreams every time exhaustion pulls him down into the sleep that he tries so hard to resist. Those eyes and that voice and Orym can't breathe. His lungs refuse to work, his heart forgetting anything about how to hold a rhythm.

He chokes on a sob before he finds his voice, barely a whisper, strained and shaking and almost afraid to be any louder for fear of sending this moment scattering into illusion.]

Brontë..?

[He leans into that touch, the hand warm and solid against his face. Is this real? Is Brontë truly here?

All at once he decides he doesn't care. Let it be a dream. He'll just never allow himself to wake again. With a sob he flings himself at the other man, arms winding around his neck.]

Is it really you?

[makingmyway]

[ He manages a faint smile of his own, tears welling in his eyes as he gently strokes Orym's cheek. And while he isn't quite prepared for the embrace, he still wraps his arms around him, holding him close as if he had no intention of letting him go. ]

It's me, Orym...I'm here.

[ He releases a shaky breath, his chest tight with the surge of emotions that threaten to overwhelm him as he holds his love in his arms, like he had wanted to do for so long. ]

I've missed you so much.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Brontë will find himself with an armful of sobbing halfling now, small body shaking with the force of the emotion that's coursing through him. Relief and joy and confusion and the echoing ache of these months of pain and grief and believing...]

You were dead. They said you were dead.

[His arms tighten around him as if even speaking the words might remind the universe that they're true, that fate will snatch this moment away from him. There's still strength in those arms, though Brontë will find Orym leaner than when he knew him, still all wiry muscle, but thinner, harder somehow, as if the world has been wearing him down to his sharpest, barest parts.]

[makingmyway]

[ He makes an unhappy noise in the back of his throat, gently cradling the back of Orym's head. He can feel that the halfling is even slimmer than before, and it worries him a moment. But the words he speaks has things falling into place. ]

I'm sorry... I had hoped to reach you before the rumors did.

[ Then he hesitates, glancing around at the square. Most of the crowd has long since moved on, but a few people are watching them curiously, their attention drawn to the strange sight.

Gently, slowly, he draws back a bit, brushing some of the tears from Orym's face. ]

Is there somewhere we can talk in private?

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[He's really here. It's Brontë and he's here and he's alive and Orym's heart starts to remember how to beat. He reluctantly releases the other man as he draws back, remembering himself where they are, the scene that they must be making.

Right. Yes. He finds himself leaning into that touch without consciously meaning to, but he nods at the question.]

I have a place. It's not far.

[He climbs back to his feet, unable to tear his eyes away from Brontë as if he is still afraid he'll vanish if he looks away for an instant.]