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The sun was dipping low on the horizon by the time Ifa finally made it back to the cottage he shared with Ororon. The golden-red light of dusk spread across the sky in a thousand brilliant strokes, bathing the trees, the stony footpath, and the thatch rooftops in an otherworldly glow. The crisp smell of pine and damp soil clung to the evening air subtle scents that normally calmed Ifa’s mind after a long day.
But today, nothing could soothe him. Not the beauty of the mountains, not the gentle hush of nightfall, and certainly not the empty silhouette of their quaint little home. Instead of peace, he felt a roiling swirl of emotions fear, anger, bitterness, worry locking his chest in a vise until he could barely breathe.
He reached the wooden gate leading into the small garden in front of the cottage. There were neat rows of vegetables that Ororon had insisted on planting: radishes, carrots, and lettuce, mostly, though a patch of bright pink wildflowers had taken up residence near the fence. Ifa paused there. He recalled how Ororon had laughed at him only a month prior, telling him to water the plants more gently, because “They won't grow if they don't feel welcome, Ifa.” The memory sparked momentary warmth in Ifa’s chest just for an instant before reality came crashing back in.
His heart lurched at the thought of how Ororon had disappeared for weeks. The battles against the Abyss were over now. The moment Ifa had discovered Ororon’s name on the volunteer he had nearly lost all composure. It was reckless; it was dangerous; it was so typical of Ororon, always so ready to jump into the thick of things for any cause he felt was just. And also so typical of him to keep secrets about it, to vanish without so much as a note.
The hinge of the gate creaked as Ifa pushed it open. A swirl of wind rustled through the wildflowers, and a sense of dread clung to him with every step he took, until he stood at the threshold of their front door.
In the hush of twilight, the cottage looked almost unfamiliar. The cheery wreath of dried herbs Ororon had woven months ago still hung from the door, though now it was drooping and neglected. Ifa ran his fingers over it. Dried thyme and lavender crumbled under his touch, releasing a faint, comforting perfume. The faint smell made him think of simpler times days spent cooking together, laughter in the kitchen while Ororon teased him about burning the stew, nights curled up in front of the fireplace with Ororon leaning on his shoulder, dozing off like a baby bat.
And now… Now, Ifa’s mind was on the brink of breaking. He had heard reports whispers, rumours, murmurs from passersby in the villages he scoured stories of the warriors returning battered, broken, or not at all. The very words “not at all” caused his stomach to twist each time he recalled them. He had pressed random strangers for descriptions of those who had fallen in battle, and listened desperately to accounts of final stands against the horrors from the Abyss.
And day by day, the question burned louder and louder in his skull:
What if Ororon was among the fallen?
What if he was hurt?
If he was gone I ?
Ifa swallowed thickly, put his hand on the doorknob, and pushed into the house.
Inside, the evening light had shrunken to small rectangles of dusk through the windows. The fireplace was unlit, and the shadows stretched across the dusty wooden floor. He blinked, adjusting to the lack of light. For a moment, he thought the house was empty. Then, from the far corner by the armchair, he heard a soft cough.
Ororon
He was there alive though leaning back against the chair, hands folded in his lap, and wearing the same deep teal cloak he used for travelling. He was exhausted. There were faint circles under his eyes, which were half-lidded with weariness, and his posture gave away the pain he must have been in. Yet, he was smiling that trademark, slightly awkward smile, as though he’d just been momentarily inconvenienced while napping.
Ifa felt relief so powerful it nearly knocked him to his knees. He might have cried, had a wave of anger and heartbreak not quickly replaced that feeling. He shut the door firmly behind him, letting the latch snap.
“You ” Ifa began, his voice shaking from equal parts fury and relief. “Do you have any idea how worried where have you how ?”
He could not even finish the sentence. It all came out in a rush: so many scattered words that not one sounded coherent. He trembled, still frozen halfway between the door and the place where Ororon sat, his fists clenched.
Ororon cleared his throat and tried to stand. “I’m sorry, Ifa” he said softly.
“Don’t even start apologizing. Gosh, I am at a loss for words.” The dam of Ifa’s composure broke. He gave a brittle, strangled laugh. “You vanished. You fought in a war against the Abyss, Ororon! Do you know what that means for someone with… with your health condition?”
Ororon’s eyes darted to the floor. His health had always been frail, a vulnerability that might have broken most people long ago. Too many nights spent tending him through fevers or hacking coughs that threatened to tear his lungs apart still burned in Ifa’s memory. He had no illusions about how close Ororon had come to death on multiple occasions, because of injuries or even something as simple as the flu that lingered in his system.
“I had to,” Ororon whispered, still not quite meeting Ifa’s eyes. “They needed people, so I volunteered.”
Ifa lifted his hand to silence him, feelling his blood pounding in his ears. “I searched. For you. For weeks. I thought I thought you’d ” He gulped, fighting the tears threatening to spill over. He did not want to show weakness, not after all the worry he had endured, not when he was boiling with fury, but it was impossible to keep it all in. “They told me just how many of the warriors died where you were last seen. They said the Abyss took them all in one hideous sweep.”
Ororon nodded, a flash of pain crossing his features. He slowly lowered himself back into the armchair, resting one hand over his chest. His gaze darkened with remembered horror. “I’m sorry you had to hear that. Ifa, I I never wanted to worry you.”
Anguish burst from Ifa in a single strangled exhale. “You worried me so much it felt like my heart was being ripped out, day by day. I was losing my mind trying to find you.” He advanced closer, dropping his travelling pack in the middle of the living room floor with a heavy thud. “What were you thinking, volunteering for this? You could have died!”
”I I promised myself I wouldn’t let you get hurt, I wouldn’t let you die in some foolish way.” A sob caught in his throat. “But look at you. You put yourself right on the front lines, just like like your life means nothing!”
Ifa’s voice cracked on the last word. An avalanche of anxiety and anger, bottled for weeks, all came rushing to the surface. He had always been the reliable one, the caretaker, the person who quietly took on burdens to ensure Ororon could continue living, albeit precariously, in peace. He thought about the countless nights when he crouched by Ororon’s bedside, wiping sweat from his brow, telling him stories to distract him from the pain, and once even holding him while he coughed up blood. Ifa’s love for Ororon was as fierce as it was protective. To see Ororon risk it all needlessly, it felt made him nearly frantic with anger.
Ororon tried to stand again, a trembling hand extended as if to reach for Ifa. His voice remained calm, even gentle, in spite of Ifa’s outburst. “I didn’t volunteer because my life means nothing. I volunteered because it was right to do so.”
He took a step forward and then bent over in a fit of coughing. The harsh sound stabbed at Ifa’s heart. He rushed forward to steady Ororon, guiding him gently back into the seat before he collapsed. A wave of guilt and anguish coursed through him as he crouched by Ororon’s side, gripping his forearms to keep him upright.
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Ifa said, voice trembling. “You think you can endure anything. And it terrifies me, Ororon.”
The coughing subsided, and Ororon exhaled shakily. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. His apology was plain, unadorned, and broken with sincerity. “I don’t want to leave you alone. I swear it.”
They stared at one another in the gloom. Ifa could barely see Ororon’s features now, his expression partially swallowed by the shadow of night, but in his eyes, faintly reflecting the last of the sunset, Ifa saw sorrow.
“I don’t know if I can handle this ever again. I thought I’d lost you. Do you have any idea what it’s like to look at the faces of the dead and wonder if the next one is the person you love? Do you know how terrifying it was to search them, to look closely at them, praying you wouldn’t recognize the face?”
Ororon flinched, tears edging at the corners of his eyes, making them glisten in the dimness. “I’m so sorry, Ifa.”
The apology, that quiet sorrow, only made Ifa’s tears finally, helplessly spill forth. “Stop apologizing,” he muttered, voice thick with emotion. “Just just don’t do it again. Don’t throw yourself into any other danger, not without me.”
He felt the burn of tears as he sank to his knees again, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders quaked with the release of panic and heartbreak he’d bottled for too long. His entire body slumped with exhaustion. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept properly. His search for Ororon had driven him across miles of devastated landscape, from outpost to outpost, from rumour to rumour.
For a tense moment, the only sounds were the night wind outside and Ifa’s ragged breathing. Then, Ororon mustered the strength to slide off the armchair and kneel beside him. Ifa felt a gentle, albeit awkward, pat on his head. That alone made him sob harder. This was Ororon’s style of comfort: uncertain, clumsy, yet always brimming with genuine care.
Eventually, Ifa looked up. Their gazes locked, and Ororon’s expression was soft with concern. In the flickering gloom, Ororon leaned forward, arms trembling slightly as he tried to hold Ifa in a comforting embrace. The hesitant contact felt uncertain at first like two puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit but Ifa allowed himself to relax into it. Despite the swirling anger, heartbreak, and guilt, Ororon was safe here in front of him.
“We can talk about how reckless it was,” Ororon said, his voice barely above a whisper, “and how to handle this war. But… maybe we should do it after you’ve had a hot meal and after you’ve had some rest?”
Ifa murmured. “I almost lost you ”
“You didn’t,” Ororon reminded him, pressing his forehead against Ifa’s. “I’m here. I promise I’m here.”
The awkward hug, the soft warmth of Ororon’s breath, and the lull of reassurance made Ifa’s breathing slow. He was still furious, of course, he was. But there was a relief, an unspoken gratitude, that the war had not swallowed Ororon entirely.
They stayed like that, arms half around each other, until Ifa finally mumbled, “How are your injuries? Don’t even dare telling me you came back unscathed.”
Ororon exhaled. “Bruises mostly. A few nasty cuts from a creature’s claws, but… I’ll recover. Grandma Citlali used a healing salve on me. I’m sure you’ll fuss over them if you see them, though.”
“Of course I will fuss,” Ifa shot back, his voice involuntarily sharpening.
Silence settled. Outside, the wind rustled through the pine trees, and the night insects began their soft chorus. Ororon shifted his weight, perhaps to pull away, but Ifa clutched him tighter, unwilling to let him move just yet. The fear of losing him again was still too raw.
Eventually, Ororon said, with a hint of an awkward grin, “You know… Grandma Citlali reads a lot of books. She told me when two boys fight, they can solve it by kissing.”
Ifa blinked, uncertain he heard Ororon correctly. He furrowed his brow. “What ?”
Then, with surprising spontaneity, Ororon leaned in, pressing a delicate, tentative kiss to Ifa’s lips. The contact was gentle as a feather, yet Ifa felt every nerve electrify, his heart leaping to his throat. It was so unexpected that he nearly pulled away out of reflex, but the softness of Ororon’s mouth, the mixture of apology and love behind it, made him melt in place.
When Ororon withdrew, he wore a tiny, uncertain smile. “Was that was that okay? I… I’ve never tried that before as an apology, but… Citlali told me it helps calm things down.”
A stunned silence followed. Ifa was sure his cheeks were burning hot, but he was also sure that tension in his chest had softened, replaced by the flutter of something sweet and comforting. Then, a chuckle bubbled in his throat, and he couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward to bump his forehead gently against Ororon’s, letting out a half-laugh that cut through the suffocating heaviness of the moment.
“You listened to Grandma Citlali’s advice, of all things?” Ifa asked, amusement mixing with lingering tears.
Ororon shrugged, looking a bit shy. “Well, she has a lot of books. I couldn’t find anything about illusions for fighting the Abyss in them. But I just tried to follow some of the instructions.” A faint flush colored his cheeks.
Ifa couldn’t help but smile now, though it was a trembling smile that reflected the complexity of his emotions love, anger, relief, exhaustion. “It was a terrible plan,” he teased, “but it worked better than I expected.”
Ororon blushed deeper. “I I’m still sorry,” he said. “I can’t promise I won’t have to fight again, because I ”
“Don’t,” Ifa cut in. “We’ll discuss that later... You don’t get to run off alone anymore. And if you ever do that again without telling me, I swear ”
He didn’t finish the sentence, because Ororon pressed closer, a silent reassurance. A wave of exhaustion overtook Ifa. He realized how much adrenaline had carried him through these last weeks. Now that he had found Ororon alive, his body felt like it was made of lead. His eyelids drooped, and he wobbled slightly from his kneeling position.
Ororon, too, looked unsteady, as though gravity weighed heavily on his frail body. He took a deep breath. “Come on,” he murmured, voice gentle. “Let’s not stay on the floor.”
He helped Ifa stand, guiding him by the elbow. Ifa let out a weary sigh. The next moments came in slow, halting steps, as both of them made their way across the cottage’s living room. Ororon paused every few steps, sometimes from dizziness, sometimes from the twinge of pain in his side, sometimes simply because Ifa refused to move without making sure Ororon was all right. Eventually, they reached the low couch near the fireplace.
“I’ll start a fire,” Ororon offered, though he sounded uncertain, as though even that might be too big a task for his battered body.
“I’ll do it,” Ifa insisted. He gestured for Ororon to sit. “You rest.”
For a few minutes, Ifa busied himself with dry kindling and logs, making a neat pile in the hearth. He struck a flint, and soon, a timid flame began licking at the wood. Warmth and light spread through the small space, dancing across the walls, illuminating Ororon’s pale face where he sat. Ifa nodded in approval, feeding the fire carefully until it blazed with a steady glow.
Satisfied, Ifa slumped onto the couch next to Ororon. The silence between them no longer felt so fraught. Tension lingered, yes, but it was overshadowed by the closeness, the tangible relief that they were both here in one piece physically, at least.
Ororon reached for Ifa’s hand. Hesitantly, he entwined their fingers. Ifa squeezed back, remembering with crystal clarity how many times he had held Ororon’s hand during fevers that threatened to carry him away. The memory sparked a renewed swirl of anger at whoever thought sending Ororon into battle was a good idea, but he forced it aside for now, focusing on the warmth of his partner’s palm.
“I missed you,” Ororon said softly. “It kept me going, knowing I’d be able to come back to you.”
“You had better,” Ifa answered.
They stayed like thatfor a moment, the crackling flames in the fireplace providing the only sound. Ifa’s breathing slowed as he gazed at Ororon, taking in the subtle lines of exhaustion bracketing his eyes, the slight bruises peeking from under his collar, the dryness of his lips.
Eventually, Ororon broke the silence. “You’re going to be angry again tomorrow?” he asked.
“Probably,” Ifa replied with an exasperated shrug. “This isn’t something that’ll go away overnight. What you did it was reckless, it was unbelievably dangerous. I… I hate that you faced the Abyss on that battlefield. I hate that you nearly got yourself killed.”
Ororon nodded, a small, sad smile curving his mouth. “I should probably hide for tomorrow then.”
“Yoy better not,” Ifa whispered, though the words carried tenderness. With care, he slid his hand from Ororon’s cheek down to his shoulder, guiding him to lie back against the couch cushions. Ifa lifted his own legs, stretching them out alongside Ororon’s. “Lie down. You look dead on your feet.”
Ororon obliged, settling in so his head rested near Ifa’s chest. When he coughed, Ifa automatically reached out to rub small circles into his back, a motion perfected over years of nursing him. Little by little, Ifa felt Ororon’s muscles relax. The day’s tension melted from them both, replaced by the comforting hush of proximity.
Moments passed, and Ifa recalled that one fleeting, startling kiss. It had been so unexpected, so raw. While the anger still simmered, a new sense of closeness glimmered in his chest. He placed a light hand on Ororon’s hair, stroking the fine strands.
“You kissed me,” he said quietly.
Ororon turned his face slightly, looking up at Ifa with half-lidded eyes. “You seemed upset… I wanted to fix it…”
Silence again, but this time it felt warmer. Ifa stared into the fire, letting the heat soak into his bones. Hours ago, he had been scouring the countryside, frantic to glean any hint of Ororon’s whereabouts, half-expecting to find him among the casualties. Now, here they were together. Not unscathed, not unburdened, but alive. And that was enough for this moment.
Eventually, Ororon dozed off, lulled by exhaustion and relief. His breathing was steady now, though every so often it caught with a slight rasp. Ifa didn’t mind; he was used to it. For a while longer, Ifa watched him sleep, chest tight with conflicting emotions.
Yet a calmness overtook him. He realized that even though he was rightfully upset, the love he felt for Ororon eclipsed the anger in his chest at least for the time being. He would do anything for his stubborn, warmhearted man.
In the glow of the fading fire, Ifa eventually succumbed to his own weariness. He let his head rest against the back of the couch, arms protectively around Ororon, letting the dancing shadows of the flames lull him. In that half-sleeping state, he thought of all the times he’d done this before, watching over Ororon in a quiet hush, making sure each breath came, wave after wave, always hoping for one more minute, one more hour, one more day with him.
They drifted that way until the fire turned to embers. The night wind rattled the shutters. By then, the world outside was silent, neither of them stirring much. Ifa occasionally blinked awake, leaning to press a hesitant kiss to Ororon’s brow feeling the warmth, reminding himself Ororon was no ghost, no memory. Reassured by the softness of Ororon’s hair, he let himself doze again.