Chapter Text
“Mr. Talcydimir,” Wick says, “might I speak to you?”
Wick watches as the tall man rolls his eyes and snorts humorously. “Yes, Mr. Halovar?”
Wick swallows. “Just Wick– Wicander, mister…Cyd.”
“Yes?” Cyd draws the word out.
“You are rather friendly with Thimble,” Wick says nervously. “And she and I, well– me and her aren't exactly on the nicest terms.”
“No shit.”
Heat pools in Wick's cheeks. He fiddles with his staff as sweat gathers under his arms and down his spine. Grandmother always told Wick to be gracious and kind, and that would lead to strong bonds and respect from those around him. Unfortunately any attempt at graciousness or kindness with Thimble just digs Wick into a deeper hole filled with her resentment and dislike of him.
“While we're here,” Wick says, “at the Golden Orchard, I was wondering if you knew of anything that I could– could acquire for Thimble.”
Cyd cocks his head. “Are you trying to buy Thimble's affection?”
“No!” Wick says quickly. “No, I would never presume that, well–”
“Well?” Cyd presses.
“There are those whose loyalty can be bought,” Wick says, not looking at Cyd's (rather handsome) face while he thinks about Grandmother's “allies”. “And Thimble is not the type to put a price tag on those matters. I apologize if that was how it sounded. I simply want to, um– I want her to know that I respect her, and her people.”
Cyd looks at him curiously. “Isn't your grandmother telling your church to not feed the fae folk?”
“I've abandoned my faith,” Wick says, “and Grandmother. Still, I wear the mark of the Creed, and I know how that looks. I simply wish to find a way to show Thimble that I am…trying to be better.”
“Be better,” Cyd says plainly.
“That isn't working,” Wick says petulantly. “It's just, ugh! I am here, at the Golden Orchard, and I want to show Thimble that I am better. I want to, well, do something for her. As a pixie. As someone who I trust and respect. I just don't want to make her hate me more.”
Cyd claps a giant paw on Wick's hunched shoulder. “You look so pathetic,” Cyd chuckles deeply, “so how can I not help you?”
“Tyranny says the same thing,” Wick grumbles.
“There used to be an old poem,” Cyd says, steering Wick to stroll along the gardens of Lady Royce’s estate. “It has been many years since I heard it in full, so forgive me if I miss anything.”
“A poem?” Wick asks.
“Something about–” Cyd gestures vaguely, “--providing a good bed and good bread if you want them–”
“To be your friend!” Wick finishes excitedly.
Cyd pauses. “Let's go with that one.”
“There are quite a few pixie markets here,” Wick says. “I'm bound to find something for Thimble among them."
Cyd shakes his head, laughing softly as he looks at Wick. “Just don't overdo it.”
The Golden Orchard has been…an experience for Wicander. He feels phantom threads of giddiness in his blood, threatening to puppeteer his mouth into a permanent smile as he laughs. He hasn't felt the need to fasten his shirt all the way to his chin, and the warm, floral breeze from the Orchard drifts across his exposed collarbone as he sits on the balcony of Lady Royce's manor.
“How was Cyd?” Tyranny asks.
She's also different. She's a little less chaotic, speaking to Lady Royce in a calm, even lull. She's polite to Sir Julien and even more polite to Occtis Tachonis, treating them with the grace their stations would ask for and doing so with a lovely smile.
Wick almost misses her chaos. Lady Royce has given them access to her many closets, and Tyranny is dressed in a short sleeved white linen blouse tucked into a black skirt with layers and layers of fabric beneath. It's the fashion of the Orchard; displayed arms and full skirts that end just under the knees, and Tyranny's hooves wriggle comfortably as she sits next to Wick.
“Fine,” Wick says. “Will you come with me tomorrow? I think a woman's touch might help me in the market.”
A strange look passes over Tyranny's face. Wick assumes it's the energy of the Orchard, especially with how quickly it disappears. She clears her throat and nods.
“Yeah,” Tyranny says, voice dry. “I'd love to help you find something for Thimble.”
“We match,” Wick tries to tease.
It’s that damned giddiness; it's even more amplified next to Tyranny. But he's not wrong; he's wearing borrowed black trousers and a soft white shirt, also barefoot as they sit on the balcony. Strange how Lady Royce managed to have a closet full of clothes that miraculously could accommodate Tyranny's tail or that fit Wick like they were tailored just for his build.
“I like it here,” Tyranny sighs, looking at the skies.
It's almost evening, and the skies are painted gold and orange and pink, with lilac clouds tinted sky blue. This place suits Tyranny, dressed in Orchard fashions and watching as the golds and oranges and pinks shift into purples and blues and indigos. Her tail swishes absentmindedly, hands folded in her skirted lap, and she watches the sky for several lengthy heartbeats. Someone braided her hair, and the thick coil of white hair drapes over her shoulder as she rubs her upper arms.
“Chilly,” she offers. “I should go back inside.”
“Goodnight, Tyranny,” Wick says distractedly.
“Goodnight, Wicander.”
Tyranny's shawl is a deep, forest green. It's wrapped around her torso and folded carefully into her skirt. With her braid undone, her white hair holds loose curls that fall like snow into the earthen green of her shawl.
She's– Wick doesn't know what she is. She glows, almost like Wick can see the halo of fae magic illuminated around her. She bleats playfully at a goat pulling a cart, making the tall pixie driving it laugh when the goat bleats back.
“She says she prefers ice water,” Tyranny winks at the pixie.
The market caters to fae folk of all types, but Wick does feel foolish when he crouches to talk to a shopkeeper who can't be more than 6 inches tall. She sells chocolates, delicacies that would be nothing more than a crumb for Wick but a heavy handful filled with caramels or liqueurs for Thimble.
“Can't be for her,” the shopkeeper chortles, pointing her chin in Tyranny's direction. “‘less you think you got somethin’ special with a pixie.”
“I'm trying,” Wick says. “She– I like her quite a lot. I'm hoping to have her see me in a new light.”
The shopkeeper’s fluttering bronze wings pause, wrapping around her body. “Well. Wouldn't be the first time I've seen a big man tryin’ to get on the good side of a fairy he quite liked.”
Wick smiles, feeling like the shopkeeper understands him. “Precisely! Thimble deserves the best that I can give her.”
He pays handsomely for a box of various truffles and bonbons, accepting the humorously undersized bag from the shopkeeper with another smile. On instinct, he immediately passes it to Tyranny, watching as she dangles the handle from her sharp nail. He looks around, seeing what else he could grab, but quickly becomes overwhelmed and feels foolish.
“Shall we?” Wick asks, smoothing his hair back.
“Sure.” Tyranny smiles but somehow her yellow eyes seem dim and humorless. “I bet she'll love these.”
“Hopefully she does,” Wick says nervously as they walk back to Lady Royce's estate.
“I know I would,” Tyranny offers. “In my little nightie, eating truffles in bed.”
“You're not supposed to eat in bed, Tyranny,” Wick scolds lightly. “It's bad for digestion.”
Wick finds Thimble in one of the many gardens, easily spotting the spring green glow of her wings. She's lounging on the heavy leaf of a blossomed magnolia, needle and sword still at her side as she watches the early afternoon skies.
“Can I help you?”
Wick crouches again. He's grateful for these dark pants from Lady Royce, not worried about visible mud or dirt stains like he would've been with his Candescent robes. He's half tempted to ask Tyranny to burn them, after he's checked with the Lady that perhaps they could lighten up her many closets.
“Hello, Thimble,” Wick says, clearing his throat twice. “I brought you a gift.”
Thimble stands, stepping towards the edge of the magnolia leaf. She's frowning, brow creased and lips turned downwards, and she folds her arms as she looks at him. Her wings snap and flutter and the movement reminds Wick of a snake about to strike.
“I heard a poem, about befriending a fairy such as yourself,” Wick explains. “Please accept this as a token of my appreciation, Thimble.”
She's still frowning when she accepts the bag from Wick's fingers. It's even oversized compared to her small body, but she doesn't take her eyes off of him as she pulls the fine wooden box out. Her wrist sags as she struggles to hold it with just one hand, but she does hand the bag back to Wick.
“What is it?” Thimble asks, holding the box with two hands. Her wings are still curled around her body and Wick starts to sweat at her obvious disdain.
“Just a gift,” Wick says dumbly.
“It's chocolate,” Thimble snickers as she finally opens the box. “Really good chocolate.”
“I apologize if you don't like chocolate,” Wick says softly. “I brought Tyranny with me and she suggested it.”
“Tyranny?”
Wick nods. “She told me that, essentially, these are for enjoying while you wear your pajamas and lay about in bed.”
Thimble…smiles. She's smiling! That's great! This is working! Oh, he's got to thank Cyd for this!
“Tyranny,” Thimble repeats, closing the box and setting it at her feet. “Well, Wicander, I think you should go buy Tyranny a box of chocolates. For me, to show my appreciation for her.”
Wick pauses. “I suppose that would be a lovely gift for her.”
Thimble sits, crossing her legs and opening the box to sift through the confections within. “Hey, who told you about that poem?”
“Cyd,” Wick says.
Thimble freezes. “Of course he did.”
“Hmm?”
“It's nothing,” Thimble waves. “Go get Tyranny something nice for me.”