Chapter Text
It is an easy decision. This is not a friendly place for the Candescent Creed. Wick has overheard several conversations about what the Creed has purportedly done here and has palpably felt the widespread anger, resentment and fear. He does not blame them. He hides his face and his robes and does his best to buy what they need before they all move on out of here.
This is not a friendly place for fairies either. While shopping, Wick has tried his best not to shudder at the number of different fairy traps he has seen for sale. And now, someone is trying to capture Thimble. There are nets and one of those alarming traps that is half filled with honey and that seems to involve a lit candle.
There is a frenzy to capture her and the rest of their group’s efforts to hamper this hunt has gotten them unfortunate attention. Kattigan has been pinned down and is being beaten, Wulferic is nowhere to be seen or heard which is extremely alarming, Teor is roaring somewhere, and Tyranny is managing to trip people and be a perfect nuisance without anyone realising yet that the sweet-looking young lady in the simple pink dress is in fact a Disguised Demon and part of the same group that many villagers currently seem to be trying their best to hurt, and possibly kill.
So it is an easy decision. Wick doesn’t hesitate. He throws off his cloak, revealing his teal and white clothing, and his glowing face. He uses Thurmaturgy to shout, “What is happening here? Put down those creatures at once.”
There’s barely a moment of shocked silence, he sees Tyranny’s eyes bulge with shock, her mouth open, then Wick is tackled to the ground, the air knocked out of him. He fights back, playing the outraged Light-Priest, but he is overwhelmed extremely easily. He thinks, fleetingly, that this must mean the others are free. He is sure he would hear them if they weren’t. He thinks he faintly hears Wulferic howl and tries not to smile with relief. They are free, they are running, thank the Light.
He is subdued of course, a bag is thrown over his head, and he is bodily taken somewhere, possibly underground, due to how dark it is when he is able to see again. After that, all he knows is pain.
They take turns beating him. He can barely breathe after they attack his ribs. They break his fingers to stop him from casting any spells. One day, they spend hours trying to dig the face tattoos out of his skin. They use sparse healing potions on him now and then to ensure that he doesn’t die so that they can continue to beat him,
Despite this, he is certain he will die here.
The pain he is in is overwhelming, there is little respite. At night, he does not sleep well, trembling in pain and worrying that he will be dragged from his pallet suddenly for another beating. His dreams are memories interspersed with the agony he suffers during the day, the physical pain and their anger, which is sourced in the land taken by the Creed for its own purposes, daughters and sons married off for reasons never shared except that the Light wills it. He thinks of things he has said at his Grandmother’s will, things he has done, people he has hurt through his actions while believing it is righteous, because it is for the Light. He doesn’t know now.
He learns not to apologise for it all, until he forgets he learned that. Then he’s beaten for forgetting.
Everything starts to feel like a dream. He loses hours or days or more. He shakes from the cold, he is forced to eat and drink. It seems like one moment he is staring at a wall and then he must fall asleep because suddenly he is somewhere else and someone is shouting at him, furious and grieving, and they are hurting him. Time is bewildering him, he is losing track of more and more each day. And he can’t seem to catch hold of his thoughts much anymore. They are liquid, a river that runs away from him almost every day. He fades in and out, but he never loses the pain.
He tries to hold onto thoughts of Tyranny. He tries to think of how she encourages him and tells him how much good he can do, he tries to think of her filthy words and how full of life she is, borrowed body or not. She glows with excitement and enjoyment. He thinks about the feeling of her body when she curls up to sleep against him or on him and how much he looks forward to it, and how much he enjoys spending time with her. She is…she is very important to him. It is a feeling he wraps around himself in the most painful moments, a feeling as warm and powerful as the sun. He clings to it, desperate not to lose it.
It is not the only feeling he holds tight to. He thinks of Teor and his incredible Light magic, how handsome he is, and how impressive. Wick has wondered how it would feel to be close to Teor and to be touched by those powerful paw-like hands. Then he would blush and refuse to answer Tyranny’s teasing. He even thinks about Kattigan who has teased him about his purity and has offered to help him explore physical pleasure, claiming he would make sure that Wick enjoyed himself. It has never felt threatening, overwhelming, yes, and embarrassing, because Wick doesn’t know where to even begin, but never threatening. Tyranny has whispered to him that she’s sure Kattigan would give him a good time and has admired Kattigan’s leathered form herself without shame.
He hasn’t said anything of course, he doesn’t know how one might begin any conversation about such notions or if he even should. He doesn’t want to get it wrong and offend, especially these people, not when he already angers Thimble every time he opens his mouth.
What matters most is that the others are safe from his captors, in fact, his captors haven’t even asked about them. They are focused on Wick, he thanks the Light every morning, he thinks he does. He hopes he does, murmuring that if this is the day he dies, he prays that his friends, the people who matter to him in ways he cannot put names to yet, stay safe to avenge Thjazi Fang and to hopefully undo the pain the Creed has wrought. He thinks they will do it far better than he could, he is doing a good thing here, paying for what he has been part of, giving his friends time to run without pursuit. He will not see them again, he is sure. That brings him a different kind of pain. But he has been blessed with feelings and thoughts about them which have given him solace and escape in this excruciating but necessary time. That will be enough. He clings to them as hard as he can. Too much else is drifting away.
One evening, he is fitfully sleeping on a thin pallet in his locked room. His body is a mass of pain, he can barely open either eye. He is in and out of dreams, trying to think of more memories of his friends, the more he thinks of, maybe the less he can lose. He is thinking about the lessons he was given in how to use his surroundings to get the advantage in a fight. He remembers Kattigan’s laugh and his instructions on quicker more sudden movements, he remembers Teor’s warm paw touching his arm, adjusting his stance to help him get a better impact. He remembers Tyranny-
There are loud shouts, those aren’t part of the memory. The memory starts to unravel, it’s disappearing. He flinches, trying to catch hold of it, then whimpers from the pain of movement. Memories can only save him from so much. There’s the sounds of fighting, getting nearer. Is this another dream? Are others who hate the Creed taking over here? Or is the Creed itself here, stamping out this rebellion? Wick can’t open his eyes, let alone move. He whimpers, his broken fingers twitching. He can’t even shuffle closer to the wall. All he can do is pray. He’s doing that, for minutes, or for hours, when the door is slammed open without warning, he gasps in fright, and then moans in pain again. There’s the familiar patter of animal feet and then, impossibly, Wulferic is pushing up against him, warm, furred and so very welcome, whining and surprisingly gentle. Even with his eyes swollen shut, Wick recognises him.
“Wulefric,” Wick whispers, still unable to move, but clinging as best he can to what must be a dream. “Wulferic, are you okay?”
There’s heavier steps now.
“Fucking hells,” rasps a familiar voice. “Pretty boy, I can’t believe you’re…can you move?”
“Kattigan.”
Wick’s hands twitch helplessly, he tries to open his eyes but he can’t. He wants to desperately though. The movement hurts but he can’t stop. His heart thumps wildly. This is a new dream, of impossible futures, a rescue, instead of his usual dreams of treasured memories. Callused palms touch him gently, it is the gentlest touch he has experienced in days, or in weeks? He wishes he had had this dream before. He starts when the hands move away, oh no, no.
“No,” Wick gasps, trying to catch the dream. “Stay-.”
“Are you sure? You’re really fucked up.”
Tears gather in Wick’s eyes wordlessly, he tries to blink them away, despite the pain. To hear someone concerned for him, that is definitely not a memory. Only his mother has ever granted him that. This is a wonderful dream.
“Please,” is all he manages.
“Okay, I’ve got you, darlin’. We're getting out of here.”
The unexpected pet name lights Wick up from the inside in a way he’s never experienced before. The next thing he is aware of is being carried, he’s in Kattigan’s arms and the Ranger is walking quickly. He makes an adjustment and Wick cries out, the pain flaring up.
“Sorry, sorry,” he babbles,
“You can’t see and you’re apologising. That doesn’t make sense,” Kattigan tells him. “You just sit back and enjoy the ride, okay? I’ve got you.”
Wick imagines Tyranny’s giggle in that moment, her elbow in his ribs as her eyebrows lift. Wick would have blushed and said what he says now, a fragile, grateful, “Thank you.”
He turns his head and finds he is resting against Kattigan’s chest. There is an ache in his neck, like he has been cradling himself there for some time. How long has it been? He can feel the contrast between leather and skin and feel how warm Kattigan is. He turns his face towards that. He hasn’t managed to sleep this well since before he was brought here. He never wants it to end.
He presses closer, his face shifting against Kattigan. He is startled when he feels Kattigan nuzzle him.
“I can be very comfortable, darlin’, can’t I? Glad you’ve noticed. You get comfortable there.”
Wick blushes hard but Kattigan nuzzles him again and keeps walking. Thank the Light this is a dream. Wick will make great use out of it, it will be a wonderful escape when his captors wake him up. He misses Kattigan’s teasing and how comfortable and intuitive he is beyond city walls. It had been very reassuring. Wick misses that voice and how warm it sometimes makes him feel. He’ll miss it again when he wakes up.
There’s cold air suddenly and then he’s being placed on something wooden. There’s the smell of Tyranny, sulphur mixed with the bite of salt that is uniquely her. Then there’s the familiar touch of Tyranny’s hands on his arms, his shoulders, his face. Wick gasps, he tries to reach to touch her hands but pain gasps out of his mouth instead.
“I can’t believe you’re alive,” she tells him, her words jagged with emotion. “I can’t believe it. They’re all dead, don’t worry, I’ve eaten a lot of fingers today.”
Her hands are now folded carefully around his, Wick wants to keep this dream very close.
“This is the best dream,” he murmurs. “Oh, I need this. It will be a true blessing.”
“Wick, you’re not dreaming,” Tyranny insists, still close. “We’ve got you, you’re safe.”
But Wick is carefully settling back, having found a wooden support behind him. He tries to tug on Tyranny’s hands, “Could you join me please, Tyranny? I want to remind myself of how it feels to sleep near you. It’s a very good memory.”
There’s shuffling and then Wick feels Tyranny close to his right side. Her hands are stroking his arm and shoulder now, her cheek touches his shoulder but doesn’t press weight there. Wick savours the moment, how warm she is, how full of care. It’s nice to have something new and powerful to hold onto.
“Thank you, this is lovely,” he tells her. “I have missed this tremendously.”
“Wick,” The single word seems to crack in the middle somehow, it’s very unlike Tyranny but this seems to be a very different dream. “Wick, I swear, you’re safe. We’re really here, you’re not gonna get hurt like that again, those guys aren’t gonna touch you.”
Wick huffs a little laugh, he’s learned how to make the least amount of sound so that he doesn’t hurt himself, “Now, now, I’m the one who’s here. I know how this works. You’re safe, and I am where I should be.”
“What do you-?”
Her words slide away in silence, Wick thinks about how far away Tyranny must be by now. He wonders how many fights the group have encountered in his absence, how many people Thimble has ended. He presses a little closer to Tyranny, and feels the brush of her hair against his forehead. She is always so warm, he drinks that in. It will be a good feeling to recall when he wakes up in the cold locked room again.
There is somebody behind him now. He can feel that the body is large and solid and also soft somehow. He thinks he recognises the sounds as the body shifts slightly. There are people whispering around him, Tyranny is still beside him on his other side, there is still the wood beneath him and behind him. This is such a strange dream, but he doesn’t want it to end. He needs to know more, so that he can remember it.
“Who-?” he croaks.
“It is good to see you, Your Radiance,” Teor’s deep accent rumbles marvellously behind him. “Even in such a state. Clearly, we killed them all far too slowly.”
“Very clearly,” agrees Tyranny emphatically.
Wick feels a rush of gladness at Teor’s presence and tries to lean towards him, feeling the soft thick fur. This may be his mind’s version of it but it feels as soft as he thought it would. It is a lovely comforting feeling to keep hold of.
“Teor,” he murmurs, happy but grimacing from the pain of moving himself.
He feels a large warm paw rest at his hip, supporting him. It feels wonderful. He sighs, “That is good. I wish I could see you too, but this will all be wonderful to remember. I didn’t think to remember your strength like this, it will help a lot.”
“How will it help?”
“When my captors come to talk to me again, or when I can’t sleep properly afterwards. I think there will be a few wonderful applications,” Wick wonders to himself a moment. “I’ve never had a dream like this before.”
“It’s not a-.”
“How is this one different?” Teor cuts Tyranny off.
“Usually, my dreams are memories of the journey we all shared together,” Wick replies promptly. “They help me sleep, because the pain makes it so difficult, and they help during the day for the same reason. I’ve found they are the most helpful things to focus on. They have a wonderful power to them.”
He feels the brush of Teor’s jaw against his ear and takes a deep breath. Tyranny is stroking his arms again, then one of her warm hands cups his jaw. He leans into her touch and feels one of her horns at his temple. He couldn’t ask for a better dream, representing so beautifully the feelings that have been such a comfort to him. They have been a solace, just as this dream will be. He frowns slightly, realising that someone is missing.
“Kattigan?”
“He’s driving the cart,” Tyranny tells him. “You can touch him later, if your dreams about him are helpful too?”
Wick relaxes thankfully and realises belatedly that he must indeed be sitting in some sort of wooden cart and that it is moving. This really is a brand new dream. He wonders why it has formed on this night in particular. He definitely hasn’t dreamed of any kind of rescue before.
“They are,” he confirms to Tyranny. “He carried me here, I think. I’ve never dreamed that before. No one’s ever carried me like that. No one’s ever called me darling before either.”
Tyranny laughs in delight, Wick is very glad to hear that particular sound again.
“He called you darling, huh? Did you like it?” Tyranny teases, another familiar sound. “Did you like how he carried you too?”
Wick blushes, “I don’t know how to talk about that, Tyranny, or if I should.”
“Hey, finding stuff you like, stuff that you weren’t taught to like, is awesome, and it’s important, especially in this new life we’re both living and making happen.”
“You said this dream will be wonderful to remember,” Teor reminds him, his hand still at Wick’s hip. “That sounds like enjoyment.”
That is true. Wick is definitely enjoying this dream. He nods in agreement, wincing at the pain, but there are soft murmurs and soft touches and he finds his thoughts going again. He thinks about Kattigan carrying him, Tyranny’s hand on his face, Teor’s soft thick fur. He sighs into what feels like sleep but it can’t be. He’s already sleeping.