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Your grace is wasted in your face
Your boldness stands alone among the wreck
Now learn from your mother, or else
Spend your days biting your own neck - Mumford & Sons, Little Lion Man
The wooden lion head was heavy in his hands, as was his own heart. Wicander wasn't sure how long he stared at the wooden figure in disbelief on the balcony of the Vila Aurora.
No.
No, that couldn't be—
He was Teor. Only Teor could be Teor; he could win anything.
But Wicander had felt light. True light, not from the Candescent Creed, filled him. Its energy was divine and true, like the fables he read of his own religion. He never did understand Teors' magic, but with warmth was undoubtedly his. It melted inside Wicander with a tingling sensation, filament tattoos glowing to match this new essence. There, he knew with utmost certainty that Teor Pridesires' last breath of this world was directed towards Wicander himself as a gift.
Why me?
He couldn't breathe.
Why not Thimble? Or Kattigan? Azune? Hal even? They all knew each other more than Wicander ever did. They were much better, experienced fighters than Wic was.
The wooden lion's eyes began to fade, and a faint growl in the wind, quiet enough one could mistake it for thunder, echoed around Wicander. He looked out into the city's night, eyes desperately searching for Obrimus Manor in the dark city. If Teor fell, what fate awaited the others there?
Teor was a great warrior, Wic knew this much. He wouldn't have gone down without a fight. Light above...he didn't have anything to do with this....did he? No, no, it would be too soon for his grandmother to find and kill him. It was one of the Tachonis's. The hand he used to shake Lord Primus felt rotted. Did that man know? Did he have one of his children, or skeleton—constructs murder Teor all while gallivanting with the other houses?
Wicander felt sick and inexplicably felt his chest tighten up on the balcony before his knees collapsed onto the ground, tears blurring his sight.
He really couldn't breathe.
Wicander tugged at his collar, gasping for air as the events of the day slammed into him. He wasn't aware how much his body had been running on autopilot, spilling out lies that some part of him believed, but it all came crashing down at once.
Below him, a crowd was focused on the broken figure of Lux Adora. He should have felt guilt for her death, a part of him did, but also knew that her being alive would cause more trouble than it was worth.
Gods. He really was the perfect figure for the Creed, wasn't he? So why did Teor pick him?
Whenever Wicander had one of these fits, Tyranny would be by his side. Though her words of encouragement raised some questions, he'd never been alone. He could never be alone.
But no one was coming.
He wanted to hurl the wooden head out, casting this responsibility, on top of the newfound Candescent Creed, one he had but couldn't bring himself to do so. It was humorous, really. He'd only known Teor for not even two weeks, and yet the grief was more profound than learning that his grandmother had almost died. Did die? Even if it was faked.
A life for a life.
A deed for a deed.
Choked sobs ripped through him, and he squeezed the lion closer instead as if he hoped it would beat like the lion's heart. What did he say to Teor last? Wicander couldn't remember. Did he even look in his direction as they all parted ways? Teor was meant to stay in the theater, Wicander remembered that much. But something in the plans changed, and he went instead of Thasha.
He had vowed his life to Wicander whenever he freed him from The Mercanaud Couturier, saving his soul, and once more whenever Wic was battered on the ground against death's doorstep in Castle Sloak, giving more of his essence for Teor to keep fighting even if it meant his death. Teor's oath was soul-bound. His debt should have ended long ago, but nothing in this world seemed to fulfil it. Expect death, it seemed.
The more Wicander sobbed out in silence for his fallen friend, the more the grief inside of him curled and twisted around his soul as he swallowed back his tears. The light was supposed to mean something. It should mean something. Wicander made it something real.
The flame, the spark, the prism, and the shadow. The four lights that constituted his faith. He had gracefully walked as the spark in ignorance, his world shifting into a new view with the prism where he entered the shadows, but now the spark he started had turned into a flame that could never be snuffed out.
Twelve years ago, the Sundered Houses fought against the Torn Banner in Falcon Rebellion. Wicander was a naive child then, and in some ways, he still felt naive to the world around him, but he wasn't afraid. Now, a new rebellion awoke with members growing by the day, of the lost and forgotten, the ones tired of being kicked around, waiting on death's door. Wings spread out in a new winged rebellion. He gripped onto the wooden lion and stood up. He would live up to what Teor saw inside him. Whether he walked the old path or stepped inside the light that formed the Nabba's magic, Wic hoped he was at peace now.
Wicander wasn't the scared boy anymore. He was an assmair, descended from a celestial, the fucking Light Priest, soon to be Scion of the Candescent Creed. He was done with having people brush him off. They will listen to him. He will make them listen. Wicander wiped his tears away from his eyes, still taking shuddering breaths, but with a goal now in mind. Wicander will not let Teor die in vain.
"Thank you, friend," Wicander muttered to the wind, placing a hand on his chest before beckoning it out. He looked up into the night sky, eyes flickering to two stars in particular that seemed to shine twice as bright.