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You were stuck with me. The words drifted through Tyranny's mind like ebbing shadow, and ever since they were spoken she couldn't get them out of her head. And with the words came an image of Wicander's face, tired and confused and…apologetic. It was so un-Wick-like that she still couldn't believe it actually happened. But, he said it himself, he'd had a rough day.
Unfortunately for all of them, that day wasn't over yet.
They kept to Halandil's house for now, waiting until Azune came back with a way out of the city, and there was a strange feeling in the air. Maybe Tyranny hadn't been in Aramán long enough to recognise it, but the best she could describe it was like if anticipation had a baby and wasn't sure if fear or rage was the father. The time for conversation was done, and everyone was sat in their own corners, glaring at the world outside with fiery determination. She had to respect it.
Though she hardly knew these people—and was a little disappointed she hadn't run into Thaisha again—Tyranny had a good feeling about this group. Combined, there was an excellent balance of strength, charisma, cunning, chaos, and…whatever Wicander brought to the table. Faith, she supposed, but that light was being extinguished faster than she could restore it.
You were stuck with me.
After six months of that prick insisting Tyranny was lucky to be assigned to him, this kind of talk was worrying. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. Instead, wisping smoke seeped from the broken skin. It smelt of the Pit.
Tyranny's shoulders tensed, her tail flicking nervously back and forth beneath her heavy skirts, and she turned to the scion of the Candescent Creed.
He was brooding. Hands buried in his lap, head pointed to the ground: he would've denied it furvently, but he was definitely brooding. Of course, there were about a thousand good excuses he could give. In one evening, he'd learnt his faith was built on nothing but lies and greed, discovered the extent of his family's corruption, saved a random new acquaintance from death at his family's command, and been told he needed to leave the city before sunrise. Even the brightest of lights would dim in such conditions.
But this was Wick. When he was at his lowest, when panic set in, he had his faith to reassure him. Now that was gone, so what comfort did he have left? Only Tyranny.
You were stuck with me.
"Hey," she said, before she could change her mind.
She spoke softly, only to Wicander, and he lifted his head in reply.
The issue with speaking before thinking was that you could never avoid the thinking part for long. She stretched her clawed fingers, as if she could grab the words she sought from thin air.
After a too-long pause, she settled on, "How're you doing, man?"
"Bad."
The lack of hesitation wasn't a good sign. Fuck, it was almost funny.
She nodded, wrinkling her nose, and desperately wished she had a better understanding of human emotions. "Yeah, I could've probably guessed that."
Across the room, Halandil was saying something quiet to Thimble (she was pretty sure that was the fairy's name) and offering a gentle smile. Tyranny knew he was a perfomer, so had a natural way with words, but there was a deeply competitive part of her that burned bright when Thimble gave a small laugh. Whatever he'd said, Tyranny could do better. Wick wouldn't know what hit him.
"Well, you know," she started up, voice definitely too chipper for the moment but that was hardly her problem, "whatever shit we face out there has got to be a thousand times easier to deal with than this fucking mess."
She'd seen Kattigan clap Azune on the back before he'd left, and decided this was the perfect opportunity to mimic the gesture. But maybe she struck Wick too hard, for he grunted in pain and his mouth hung agape.
"Tyranny, how many times do I have to remind you? As followers of the light, we must be modest, demure, restrained. We do not use foul language, and we do not hit people!" He shook his head. "In Embers Fifteen, 'The—'" He stopped, lips still retaining the shape of the word. And slowly, like a star on a futile quest for greatness, his face fell.
There would be no more quoting the Photonic Verses. No more attempts to teach a demon holiness. All of it was gone, and there was no way to bring it back. Frankly, Tyranny wasn't sure if she wanted to. She certainly wouldn't miss those impromptu lessons, or the constant reprimanding. Yet…
She had enjoyed the spark in his eyes when he spoke of the light. Each time she felt a smile tug at her lips and, though she let him imagine it was a sign of her growing belief, she knew it was because his faith was beautiful. She'd never seen something so pure, so good, so full of love. Hells, if she hadn't known the whole bullshit religion was a lie, she might've been convinced to actually follow in his footsteps. She might've sought some of that surety.
If anyone could bring a creature of darkness into the light, it would've been Wicander Halovar.
But now they were both stuck in the shadows.
You were stuck with me.
The silence returned, uncomfortable but unbroken. Until Tyranny released a long, relenting sigh. She wetted her lips, and said, "I never felt stuck."
Once more Wick lifted his head. He blinked once, twice, his eyes narrowing as he tried to understand. "What?"
"You said I was stuck with you?" Tyranny explained. "But I never felt like that. Sure, I didn't exactly have a choice in who I was contracted to, and, sure, that contract essentially placed me in servitude, but…" Words. Fucking words. There were so many of them, and somehow never enough. "The Pit was… I was stuck there. For a long, long time—beyond anything I'm capable of counting. It was infinite and miniscule. We were packed so tightly we almost overlapped, and we were stuck."
Wicander watched silently, listening to her words like they were important. His eyes shone with pity. She couldn't stand it.
Waving a hand dismissively, Tyranny said, "But, you know, that's the Pit. My point is that coming here, meeting you, was a fucking relief. Especially because you were kind."
He made a sound that was almost a snort.
"No, I mean it. You believed I was capable of redemption, and you tried so hard to save me that I almost thought it was possible. That's the kindest thing anyone's ever done for me."
Maybe that was a stupid thing to say, but it felt right. He needed to understand. Whatever else he knew, whatever horrors he'd learnt, he had to know how much he meant to her. And it might've been the contract talking—that infernal promise burning into her bones—but she was certain the only way to repay his attempt to save her, was to actually save him. Save his faith and goodness.
Tyranny smiled that specific grin she reserved for Wick. A hint of mischief, a dollop of sincerity, just the way he liked it. "You're kind of my hero."
It was always a victory when she made him laugh, but this was different. The corners of his eyes creased, a soft chuckle of surprised amusement escaped his lips, lighting the hearth of her heart. Honey-coloured flames glowed within her chest, near enough to warm the skin, yet never threatening to burn. It was perfect.
"Thank you, Tyranny." Wick touched a hand to her shoulder, and fuck. Oh fuck. Her heart was racing. "You are very dear to me, too."
Shit. Fuck. She was staring into his eyes, as if she was diving deep into an icy blue ocean and— Shit, she was writing poetry! No, no, no. This couldn't be happening.
But it was. Wicander drew back his hand, returning it to his lap, and smiled softly. He was beautiful. And Tyranny might just be falling in love with him.
Her tail was swinging like mad behind her, disturbing her gown so wildly she worried someone would notice. But no one was looking at her. No, everyone's eyes moved to the door, like a moth to a flame.
Azune was back. It was time.
Patting Tyranny fondly on the leg, Wick stood and made his way toward the door, toward the future. Tyranny hesitated for a moment, but the contract held them together like magnets—she couldn't stay, even if she wanted to. And she didn't want to.
Because, whatever Wicander believed, when she stood at his side, Tyranny was free.
When he reached the doorway, he looked back at her. The blue of his hair, his robes, and the opalescent markings on his face seemed especially vibrant as candlelight flickered over him. He seemed to have stepped from a painting. If she stepped back from herself, from physical space, Tyranny could almost imagine herself within the composition, standing back in the darkness, luring this vessel of light toward evil. Or perhaps he was luring her.
"Tyranny," he called back. There was no question in his tone, but also no command. Instead, he said her name with unbridled expectation. She would follow. He hadn't even thought to doubt it.
For whatever reason, she was caught between tears and laughter. Emotions were weird.
With a smile, Tyranny replied, "Right behind you, boss."
She followed him into the Wilds without question. She'd follow him anywhere.