Chapter Text
Wicander Halovar is six years old.
We are goodness, his mother says, we are light. She shows him the stained glass on the walls, and the way the light falls across their faces is beautiful. He wants to be beautiful, he thinks. He wants to be light.
Tyranny of the Pit is six years old.
We are evil, her sisters whisper, we are the dark. Tyranny sees the suffering, and the torment, and the flames across her skin, and she knows they are right. They must be evil, because this torture requires concentrated malice. She must be evil, or else she wouldn't deserve this.
Wicander Halovar is twelve years old.
I am good, he thinks. I am light. We preach and we spread the faith and we save the souls of the unworthy. I live for something beyond this. He knows it in his bones and his books and the glow of his tattoos. He is beautiful with these tattoos, he is light. They will protect him from sin, and he will honor them by refusing any temptation. He will not disobey the light, because he must live up to them. He must deserve them.
(Why would you do that, he will cry out to a faceless god, years later. How could you? I was twelve, and I wanted to be beautiful, and you put the blood of a dead, mad thing in my face. And he will tear at the light until raw, red, human blood drips down into his eyes, but he will not be able to stop himself from being beautiful.)
Tyranny of the Pit is twenty years old.
I am evil, she thinks, I am the dark. The words come like breathing now, just as painful in the sulfurous air, scraping in her lungs. There is no chorus of sisters to remind her anymore, as she serves her family in penitence. There is no need for one. She knows what she deserves.
(And she will dress herself up in pretty things, blues and bells and bindings, and she will say she is just looking the part. It will be a lie. She will spend six months wanting to tear, wanting to scream, wanting to tell him to stop saying she can be saved. And when the truth is out, he will, and she will pretend she doesn't care. And she will dress herself up in pretty things, because she only wants to feel the ache of looking so close to what she can never be, and she does not call herself beautiful.)
Wicander Halovar is twenty-five years old.
I am good, he tells himself, I am light. He does not acknowledge the edge of desperation in his voice as he repeats it in the mirror every morning, I must be good. I must be light. Another prayer, another reminder that this is what he lives for, this is the life he must try to deserve.
At night, when it is quiet, when there's no light but his own tattoos forever shining, he wants to escape this place.
Tyranny of the Pit is one hundred and fifteen years old.
Time loses its meaning, somewhere in there. All that matters now is the tap of her hooves as she does the labor of the house, making a beat for her to chant, I am evil. I am dark. Like an endless dirge, a cascade of inescapable truth. She must be evil, because she is a demon, and it is in her nature. She must be evil, because she must deserve this voice in her head, this torture.
When she rests, she dreams of light, and she dreams of beauty, and she wants to escape this place.
Wicander Halovar is thirty-four years old.
The second time his Aspirant speaks to him, it is to ask him if it's hard to sleep when his face is glowing all the time.
We all make sacrifices to serve the light, he says, because the honest answer is that he hasn't gotten a full night of sleep since he was twelve years old - he always was a light sleeper, and his mind refuses to acclimate to the light.
Hmm, she says, I'll get some bandages to cover them tonight, that'll help.
He's astounded, and offended. To purposely obscure Filament is- it's- well, I'm sure it breaks some kind of commandment.
She smiles at him, all teeth. Well, you try to figure out what rule I'm breaking. I'll be back.
He does not stop her, though he should. He lets her cover up his tattoos with a long strip of cloth. He lets her laugh, and curse, and drink, and she does all three in the space of one evening. He lays in the dark, and he can't tell if he wants to leave this place more or less. He gets the best night of sleep he's had in over twenty years.
And the next morning, as she unwinds the cloth for him (though he insists he can do it alone), he says, you know, you doing this without my request really shows that you're on the path to goodness already.
And she says nothing at all.
Tyranny of the Pit is one hundred and forty seven, or two days old, depending on your point of view.
She is grateful for two things: first, that it does not smell of brimstone here, and second, that most of her duties as Aspirant are the same as what she does in the Pit. She is less grateful for the poor, naïve soul she has to follow around, but at least he's amusing.
She tries not to be charmed when he blunders introductions. She tries not to think it's sweet when he tells a man with a knife in an alley, you can still be saved by the light. She tries not to care when he goes to her for company, when he admits late at night, I think my family is doing a lot of things I don't understand. She tries not to feel the sting of guilt when she lies. She tries not to flinch when he says, you will be saved, like an ice cold dagger between her ribs. She tries not to want anything more than she has.
She fails.
She is charmed. She thinks it's sweet. She cares. She is stung. She flinches.
And she wants, and she wants, and she wants.
The thing about the mortal world, she thinks, is that it's more of a hell than the place she was born. It makes you think that something can be different. But she is evil, and she is darkness, and she can only be one thing.
Wicander Halovar is thirty-five years old.
He watches an angel gnash at its bindings, indifferent iron and cold steel, and it's only his grandmother's stone-cold pragmatism and his Aspirant’s horrified - but not surprised - open mouth that make him sure this is not a horrible nightmare.
Tyranny of the Pit is six months old.
She says, you can not save me, and he pretends to argue.
Wicander Halovar is thirty-five years old.
He screams into his pillow and she pretends not to hear.