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He has never seen a corpse.
He didn't expect to see one at the execution.
Nor did he expect Grandmother's certainty that Thjazi Fang should die. Or his father’s distant promises of learning and understanding in the days to come. He didn't expect his own boldness of requesting that he be the one to deliver the weapon of the deceased to his next of kin.
He is fidgeting, soaking in his own sweat. The closer he gets to the home of Halandil Fang—(You can call me Hal you know)— the higher his anxiety. He keeps seeing the body, the corpse in his mind. Just... hanging there.
It upsets him, of course it does, a corpse isn't of the light. It is a thing, drained of all radiance, but it also… it also.
He walks through the thorn covered threshold of the Fang home.
And helplessly catches Hal's eye.
The older man stills, his tired smile disappears, his face going completely blank.
He turns and instantly retreats.
Wick stares at his back as it retreats up the stairs.
The corpse looks so much like Hal.
He had wanted to help. Of course. He is a priest of light, he is supposed to help people. He is of the Halovar family, he is supposed to have power. His word is supposed to carry weight.
Hal had come to him. Halandil Fang had come to him and asked him for his brother to be spared.
It was such an easy promise to make in the moment. Of course! Of course his brother will be spared! Thjazi is a hero, despite his… flaws, and any brother of Hal's must be at least a little bit touched by the light.
Because Hal is full of light, despite not being of the faith. It's so clear to Wick that if he can be convinced, he might be one of their greatest allies in spreading the word. It was in Hal's music, his words, his gentle smile. He is… he is graced with it so naturally without the tenets (so what could he be if he followed them? If he stood beside Wick and spread the good word? If he looked to Wick for guidance in their shared light, just as he guided Wick?).
So of course he would fulfill the request made by Hal. He would petition for his brother’s life.
And it was so easy. He could see no obstacle. No downside. He spoke to his parents and they agreed with all his points. Thjazi is a hero and Hal is beloved in the city. Sparing Thjazi and finding favour with Hal would do so much for their house and reputation. Shine the light to places it has never reached before. Grandmother is the wisest person he knows. She will see. Hal has power, power that perhaps Wick's family don't understand, but need. Not the power of wealth or status, but the power of the people. Hal is a gentle shepherd in this city where the revolution grew, but he would be so much more with the Creed behind him.
(Wick fantasied a moment for what could have happened. Thjazi spared, and after the cancelled execution, announced by Grandmother to happy cheers, Hal would grin at him and thank him for his good work. Then perhaps he would invite him to this home Wick stands at the threshold of now. Introduce him to his famous brother who would be grateful for the mercy of the light and mend his ways and–).
And the dead body looks like Hal. That's why it sits with him so terribly. It is a fact he can't escape as he watches the bard retreat (at his entrance. Because Wick is here and Wick has failed him. Wick has dimmed that inner spark and that feels like true sacrilege).
Tyranny isn't helping of course. Yes, she is only an aspirant; yes, she has never even been to a funeral before; and yes, he hasn’t exactly told her how to behave beforehand (not completely certain how a funeral of the Old Path is done); but isn't it obvious if one only looks to the Light? It is all in their teachings how they should behave at all times! Getting drunk with Hal's ex partner is not of the teachings! Giving a Light Priest alcohol! Making a complete mess of things! That should be obvious!
It shouldn't surprise him that Hal's daughter has the same perceptiveness as her father, and the kindness to go along with it. The young woman sees the blade, sees the look in his eyes, and leads him to her father. Even thanks him for his effort when no one in the room bellow would have.
He stares at Hal, helplessly.
The grey dusk comes in through the window, the sky lit grey and green and blue. Hal is drinking the awful drink that is flowing like a river downstairs. His face is unguarded for only a moment, the deep well of sadness and heartbreak, before it is hidden from his daughter’s eyes becoming something less raw.
Why do the brothers bear such striking resemblance? They only share a father. He had heard some gossip in the noble box. The two brothers were night and blazing daylight, why do they have the same hair, the same handsome features?
Why does he keep seeing Hal’s body swinging from the noose? Why does it look at him so reproachfully?
Because he had sworn. He had sworn that there was no need to worry. (“It’s done, Hal. I promise you. He will be spared, please be at ease.”).
“Hello Wicander, why don’t you take a seat?”
(Not Wick with the nurturing smile, or the indulgent laughter, or the familiar light in his eyes. It was Wicander now).
Wick sits now, unable to do anything else, his eyes unable to look away from Hal as he takes a long pull of his drink (he tries to warn him, but Hal doesn’t even wince at the taste). Then Hal is approaching him, leaning on the chair he's sitting in, bracketing him in. Hal's so close and anyone else it might be intimidating, but it feels like desperation. Hal holding himself up because maybe he will crumble otherwise.
“Well?” he asks. Desperate for answers that Wick doesn’t have. He feels all his bearing as a priest of light, as a scion of House Halovar crack.
A man such as Halandil Fang should not have such sad eyes.
He can only try to explain it. He expects Hal to curse him. To berate him for his uselessness, his overconfidence. It would be what he deserves, but despite his desperate questions it is Hal that comforts him after his entreaty for understanding.
“I can tell you this, it is against my faith to lie and deceive.” He tries to stop the trembling in his voice, tries to make his earnestness known as Hal stares into his eyes, trying to see into his heart. “And I respect you as a person, as a teacher, and as a performer—” He has never felt closer to the light than he did when he watched Hal perform. “—And I would never do anything to deceive you in any way and—” he desperately wills Hal to understand.
“It’s fine,” Hal says gently, pulling away now, and somehow this is worse. His benevolence is worse!
“It’s not fine! He was killed!” He was killed and he looks so much like you that I ache, and he was hanging there empty of life, and my Grandmother said he needed to die just as I was speaking of our work together, and you are grieving and sad and disappointed in me and that has never—
No one has ever been disappointed in him. Not that he has ever felt. In the grace of his family and the light they worship he has always been forgiven any stumble, but… and they believe in him, but—
Somehow, Hal’s belief in him has always felt different. He has always been told he was special, but with Hal… it’s like Hal also expects it of him. Expects him to live up to being special. Letting him down feels like a dagger to the heart. Hal just gently forgiving him feels unfair, undeserved.
Hal waves away his concern. “You were a failsafe, Wick. A lot of things fell through today…” the Bard explains. His shoulders were hunched as if they bore a heavy weight. Wick does not think of his father, hunched forward and blindfolded, assuring him he would understand in time.
Wick brushes his hurt aside hearing that he was a last resort, an afterthought. What right did he have to be hurt? After all, he failed, so what good was he really? Instead, he’s focused again on Hal. The sadness in his eyes, the dimming of his natural radiant light that is so rare in one outside the Creed.
“I’m so sorry,” he says earnestly. “About your brother.” He tells Hal of the brightening of the universe by those that pass on, but he knows it falls flat. His words didn’t convey the beauty and peace that the cosmic light would bring Thjazi’s lost soul.
He painfully thinks of how Hal could improve his words, his delivery, but this isn't an act, or practicing his skills at public speaking.
Hal accepts his condolences with his usual grace. “It’s a nice notion.”
Hal doesn’t believe (not yet, but someday he would, how could someone so radiant not be drawn to the Creed?). Wick can tell he is being indulged. Because Hal is kind, even when he has the right to be angry or sour.
Hal pours two more little glasses of the awful liquor and hands him one.
“Drink with me, my brother.” Hal lifts his own glass.
“Is this alcoholic?” Wick asks trepidatiously. He knew. He can smell it, as he could smell it on Hal’s breath when he leaned in so close to beg for answers Wick doesn't have.
“His favourite,” Hal confirms immediately. There is something playful deep underneath that sadness which stops Wick from protesting. He takes the foul beverage and chokes it down in toast to the dead man that has so complicated his life.
Dimming his personal light or not, he cannot say no to Hal.
He forgets the sword he set down when entering. He realises as Hal murmurs he must see to his guests. Wick has missed the perfect moment to pass him the blade.
He quickly follows the bard. He has a task here that he must complete! Everything else went bad, this at least must be done correctly.
There are more people downstairs now. Individuals that don't belong in the light of Hal's hearth, but are here to pay their respects to Thjazi. All that do are welcome… at least by Hal.
They descend the stairs and despite the colourful individuals that have gathered his eyes are immediately drawn to Bolarie Lathalia. The curator stands at the side of Thaisha Lloy who quickly pulls Hal into her wake to ask him a question concerning their son(?)
He feels out of sorts standing awkwardly with the blade as he watches a beautiful human and charming young half-orc enter not seconds later. The half-orc has Hal’s dark hair and generous mouth. Hal greets the woman, “Elodie” and the girl who must be his daughter, “Hero.”
It’s strange to see Hal, bracketed by these two women, mothers of his children. He wonders how they could choose to leave Hal’s side when Hal is so open with his love for his family—Wick’s family is—well it is different, but the same sentiment is there of course. His mother and father are still together, and they had done a fabulous job with him after all, and of course all the aspirants of the order they guide.
Then Hal notices Bolaire Lathalia.
Honestly, Wick had just assumed the masked man knew Thjazi as many of the stranger sorts of the city had, but then suddenly the two are pressing close to one another.
Bolaire is so … gentle with Hal. Wick has spoken to the curator on a few occasions. He is an elegant man. A social wit despite the strange mask. Good manners, but there is something cutting in him. He reminds him of some of the aspirants. An untouchable aloofness. A bit cold and removed to the going ons around him.
With Hal, Bolaire is warm, genuine. The two men grip each other, leaning in intimately. Bolaire holds the hand Hal has placed on his shoulder, squeezing it. Hal curls his fingers in bright red curls.
They are close.
Jealousy dims the inner spark, he reminds himself as he stands off to the side, witnessing their greetings. He is not a boy in need of all of Hal's attention (even if he always feels like a sunflower basking in the light of the sun when Hal's gaze is on him, his words encouraging him).
Still, he expects someone like Bolaire to be here for Thajazi, yet the man ignores the corpse laid out and keeps at Hal’s side as if he belongs there, familiar and accepted.
It's such a jarring image. The kind orcish bard in the depths of his grief with the unsettling masked man rubbing his back or squeezing his shoulder. It’s painful seeing the comfort those small touches give Hal.
That pain is ugly, unworthy. Any ease of Hal’s grief should be appreciated, yet he feels nothing but a trembling envy at each little reassurance Bolaire offers.
Wicander holds the sword of Hal’s dead brother. He was so determined to return it after the execution went wrong. To give solace as any good priest should. All he has done is drink terrible alcohol and take his own selfish comfort in Hal’s presence. He has done nothing for Hal that is worth the small caress of Bolaire’s fingers on Hal’s neck.
Jealousy dims the spark. He repeats to himself.
He is the outsider here. He feels that keenly as he stands to the side now. Laughter, and crying, and revelry, and quiet moments, and offered gifts. The Old Path’s traditions that he has no reference for.
He is a priest of light. He should be among them able to pull them in. Able to make them see that he has failed his mission of mercy, but he is good (he is good). That he is here for Hal too, just as Bolaire seems to be, and Elodie, and Thaisha, and so many others.
They should see him as a guiding light to push back the dark grief. Instead, the terrible alcohol has done more to raise spirits than he has.
Tyranny, of course, chooses this moment to make an ass of both of them.
He calls her over, determined to pass the sword over to Hal with the proper decorum and dignity it deserves.
She interrupts before he can make his move, leaning in close, that pungent sharp odour blocking her usual sweet smell. The fumes turn his stomach, bubbling with the shame that has been rising and falling.
“Have you been drinking?” he asks in disbelief. She knows very well it’s forbidden. They discussed it not twenty minutes ago.
The taste of the same liquor burns on his tongue.
With a drunken smirk she quotes the verse of Ember, 151. Cloud not the spark with poison.
Anger rises in him. Everything has gone wrong and now his own aspirant is drunk at Thjazi’s funeral in the home of Wick's… Wick's friend? Is that what they are? He would like to think so, except Hal is surrounded by friends. Friends that he leans against, friends that brush his hair back, or squeezed his hand, or make the grief fade even just a little bit.
Tyranny keeps talking. “—Everyone here is drinking and I just—”
“This is not—” he says quietly. She needs to stop.
“—and so I kinda feel like—”
“This is not the time.” He tries to cut her off.
“—because people don’t really want you here.”
“Tyranny—”
People don’t really want him here.
Hal doesn’t really want him here—
“And so—”
He dips into his well of power, he doesn’t even realize he does it until the house echoes with his rage. “TYRANNY!!!”
The demon flinches.
“Be still,” he adds, sternly.
Miraculously she listens, goes to a corner to read hymns.
But he has also drawn every eye in the room, including Hal’s who whips his head toward him, startled. Bolaire still at his side, the mask morphed into the picture of perplexment.
This is not how a Priest of the Light acts.
“I’m sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he apologizes to the room and then to Hal. Hal feels like half a room away. The orc rubs the back of his neck trying to parse what has happened.
Finally, finally Wick is able to say the words, hand over the blade. The weight of it passes into Hal’s hands.
Hal holds it, staring down at it. It must be familiar to him, his brother’s blade. He holds it with reverence.
“Well, thank you Wick. This is a kindness. I don’t know what to say…”
Wick. Not Wicander. Something in his heart settles a little at the old familiarity coming back between them.
Hal hasn’t stopped looking down at the blade, but despite his formal words, there is gentleness too. “I know your intentions are in the right place, and I am grateful for that.”
Wick promises to pursue answers from his family, but the grief is heavy on Hal again. That rawness only glimpsed at upstairs. He says that can come later.
And thus Wick's task is done.
But it seems the acceptance of the sword and Hal’s gratitude has softened the party toward him some. An old orcish woman approaches, nodding at the sword and asks for a word. He makes his excuses to Hal and his eyes slide to Bolaire.
“It’s so great to see you again,” Wick says, putting on a charming smile. Bolaire’s power is in his connections. It is good to keep on his good side. They already have a rapport, a few in depth chats during the museum’s galas. It will be a slight to just ignore the man (no matter how he might like to right now, and any other day he would be eager, talking to Bolaire was always facinating).
For a mask that can form facial expressions, there is only a faint pull of neutral curiosity as Bolaire claims to not remember him beyond his face.
“You’re very handsome,” the careless complement makes him feel foolish, and also a little flattered.
“You are.” A boarman he has not been introduced to cuts in.
“I mean…” Wick says. Vanity wasn’t exactly forbidden, but it wasn’t looked on favourably…
“You are,” the boarman reiterates.
“Bit young,” Thaisha Lloy says somewhat pointedly toward Bolaire, who shrugs as he takes a sip of his drink. His other hand slides up and down Hal's arm unconsciously.
“Okay, alright,” Wick mutters under his breath, he peeks at Hal who is watching, but his eyes look far away, attention elsewhere.
“Are you and the goat…?”
Wicander startles, eyes going wide. He knows the tenets of the Creed aren't… super well known, but it is strange facing the ignorance. He thinks of how Hal would handle it. Rather than rebuke, Wick explains patiently. This is how the masses will come to understand. With patience and learning.
Except, apparently the boarman isn’t looking to be educated, he’s instead looking for—for romance?
He feels flustered. Tyranny’s sudden eagerness, Boliare and the Boarman’s questions. Tyranny giggles at the attention, and Hal is watching, and then the old orcish woman pulls his attention back to her giving him a convenient escape from such vulgar topics.
He is a priest of the light, Tyranny is an aspirant! Pleasures of the—of the flesh will only dim their inner light.
Although Hal’s own radiance is bright as wildfire, and he has several children so—
Wick tamps down on the thought, mostly because his mind has drifted to how exactly Hal had come to be a father and it mixes strangely with all the sex talk and he is just—he is just stressed. It has been a terrible day.
But he can't help thinking once more of Hal, pressed so close, alcohol on his breath, but smiling eyes instead of despair, heads closer, lips brushing. The fantasy of a world where Thjazi Fang lives and Hal sees Wick not as someone to nurture and indulge, but as an equal. A world where Wick presses in closer and feels the brush of tusks—
Wick forces himself to focus on the orcish woman speaking of her companion. Makes a promise about his hiring. He doesn’t need to ask permission. He is a Lord of Halovar—a Priest of Light. He isn’t a boy anymore, he isn’t someone that can be cast to the side and told that he would understand later. He will find answers now, find them for Hal and for himself.
He joins the main party again just as Hal is being hugged by another gorgeous woman. He bites his lip before realising he knows this lady. This Lady.
She is here for Thjazi, not Hal.
There’s no reason he should feel relief in this fact. None at all, so he brushes it aside to be cordial, their families are allies after all.
She moves out of her embrace with Hal, her eyes catching on Wick.
Honestly, it’s a relief that their interaction goes so well after everything else that’s happened today. Lady Aranessa speaks of how she visited Mother, but was unable to see her—
And then Tyranny splatters vomit all over Hal’s floor.
Panic spikes. Everything had only just settled!
But Lady Aranessa is the height of class, only speaking of their houses’ friendship and even inquiring about the Candecant Creed.
A familiar figure interjects, coming to the Lady’s side and putting a hand on her shoulder, interrupting.
Wick feels gratefulness towards Julien. The Lady is extremely sweet, but Tyranny looks like she might be sick again and the Lady seems to lack an awareness of the social situation she’s in the middle of. He will have to send a kind greeting to her after this is all done, and to Julien for his quick thinking. He uses the pause to make their excuses, although second guesses himself. He really should greet Julien properly, shouldn’t he? Tyranny starts to sing, the alcohol obviously still affecting her badly. They step out the door, the heat and sound of the funeral leave in an instant, both relief and a sudden chill runs through him.
“Well,” Tyranny says, bright as ever. “That was fun. They… really didn’t like you, huh?”
“No—”
The jasmine that was struggling to reassert itself suddenly flourishes, thorns shooting out of their vines.
“Well, perhaps not everyone, but that—that doesn’t matter. We passed on our condolences and delivered the blade to Hal, that is what matters.”
They walk to the carriage. The driver is inside, ducking down with his jacket over his head.
The magpies seem to have made the carriage their target practice.
He stares for a moment at all the bird excrement. It is honestly the least shitty part of a shitty day, so he just ignores it climbing inside.
“Funerals are great. Hal’s friends are rad,” Tyranny pronounces. “And all his exes are hot. Like, fuck man, he has taste.”
Wick turns to her in despair. “Tyranny! Language! And you—you can’t say that about decent people. Hal is a wonderful man. A teacher, a mentor to many. He is not of our Creed, but I feel that he might be guided toward the light with gentle nudges, and his conversion would be… would be very meaningful, not just to me, and to the Light, but the city.”
“Oh,” Tyranny says, mouth twisting. “You want him as your aspirant?”
“What?” He has the ridiculous image of Hal in Tyranny’s ruffled dress for a moment before shaking the thought away (it didn't suit him. Less layers would be better--). “No! He wouldn’t… I doubt that would be his path. I just… he’s a good man,” he says, glancing down at his cane, twisting it in his hand. “Worthy of respect. I respect him, so you should as well.”
Tyranny nods slowly as she considers this. “You like him.”
“Of course,” Wick says, the carriage starting to pull further and further away from the Rookery. “Everyone in the city likes Halandil Fang.”
“No, I mean—”
“Now, enough, we need to pray over your … actions at the house tonight!”
Tyranny shuts her mouth and groans quietly. “I saved you, you don’t even realise it, do you?”
“Saved me? You really are drunk! How many did you have?” The rest of the ride is spent teaching his aspirant of the evils of drink, still tasting the burning sour taste on his tongue. Still smelling it mixed with Hal’s warm cologne, and the smell of parchment dotted with musical notation.
It isn’t hypocrisy.
Or perhaps it is. He’ll pray on it later, for now he must focus on his charge.
Then tomorrow he will get to work. He will find the answers Hal has asked of him.
Because they are friends.
And a Priest of Light should always seek truth in darkness.