Work Text:
It is a lonely thing to hate a beloved man.
And Bolaire did hate Thjazi, even if the feeling wasn't mutual. Thjazi’s cruelty was a distant, casual thing–as unintentional as one might be when kicking aside a pebble while on a walk. There was no thought or intent behind the way Bolaire was treated. There was no concern when he was given exceedingly dangerous artifacts to pass along to even more dangerous people. There was no regard for Bolaire’s schedule, so Bolaire could not have a schedule, lest he be thought of by his peers as flippant and unreliable. The letters he received were callous at best and profoundly hurtful at worst. What few in-person meetings they had were some of the most uncomfortable moments of Bolaire's long (but perhaps in some ways it could be called short, as he'd been in control so comparatively little) life.
During those meetings, Thjazi felt no need to put on the airs of social niceties, and he voiced his inner thoughts with no filter. These thoughts were not always about Bolaire, for Thjazi thought about Bolaire very little beyond his use. The candid openness might have been seen as a show of trust, were it between two equals. Bolaire recognized it for what it was, though; a man venting his most morbid and hateful inclinations to something that wouldn't, couldn't betray him.
Because, again, it was a lonely thing to hate a beloved man. Thjazi knew that Bolaire had no means to escape their deal.
After all, who could Bolaire go to? He couldn't tell Hal, his dearest and only friend. For all their differences and disagreements, Halandil and Thjazi loved each other. Bolaire was certain that Hal cared for him, too. You don't spend countless hours talking and laughing with someone if you don't like them. But, surely he loved his own brother more. Surely he wouldn't take Bolaire's word, and even if he did (which he wouldn't), Thjazi would ruin him if he found out.
Aside from Hal, Bolaire had…nobody. He adored Hal’s bright, brilliant children, but he would rather Thjazi cast him into the ocean than burden their young lives with his messy reality. His archivists were the best of the best, handpicked by Bolaire himself, but they were his subordinates, not his friends. They trusted him, and he could not risk dragging them into a conflict they had not signed up for.
Thimble was the closest thing he had to a confidant when it came to these matters. Even with her, though, he had to watch his tongue. Thimble sympathized with his plight and treated him with kindness, but she made it explicitly clear her loyalty was first and foremost to Thjazi. So, Bolaire could complain lightly about certain acceptable topics–the lack of appropriate notice, or the especially shady individuals he had to meet–and Thimble would nod along and offer her own minor grievances about the man.
Bolaire could not speak to Thimble about the casual death threats, or the jeers about his corpse-flesh, or the jokes about mounting him on a wall as a display in the museum. When Thimble vented about how Thjazi would teasingly mess up her hair with his fingertips, Bolaire bit back the urge to tell her of the time when Thjazi had tried to yank the wig from his head, how he had laughed at the way Bolaire recoiled and flinched from him for the remainder of the meeting.
Maybe she would understand, if he worked up the nerve to tell her just how bad things really were. Maybe she could sympathize. She had been given to Thjazi. Surely, surely she had to realize that her and Thjazi’s relationship wasn't truly equal? …Or, perhaps it was. Perhaps, in a horrible and selfish way, he only wished that Thimble was simply blind to her mistreatment, and that it wasn't just that Thjazi truly was kind to her. Because that would be just one more piece of evidence that, in the eyes of this beloved man, Bolaire’s personhood really meant nothing at all.
In hindsight, Bolaire was glad that he was alone when Thjazi Fang met his end at the hangman's noose. Bolaire had to press both gloved hands to his mouth to muffle the shrill, startled laughter that escaped him, and he was certain that if he had company, his reaction would not be appreciated. Regardless of what the nearby nobles thought of the man, it was not especially appropriate to giggle at an execution.
He was gone. Thjazi was dead. He felt nearly lightheaded as a weight lifted from his shoulders. He returned to his office in something of a daze as he dressed for a funeral he hadn't planned on existing.
Fuck. He'd really thought there would be some sort of grand escape, but–another hysterical burst of laughter escaped him. Serves you right, he thought viciously. I hope it hurt. I hope you were afraid.
And then, the laughter died, and he suddenly felt painfully, crushingly guilty. Because yes, he was free, and he was happy, and Thjazi deserved to die. But, Hal, oh Hal, he had to be devastated. Shadia and Hero, too. Had the children even experienced the death of a loved one, yet? The prior giddiness clashing with the nauseating guilt he now wrestled with was a nearly overwhelming sensation.
Well! It wasn't his fault. He had done nothing wrong. It wasn't a crime for him to wish someone ill. Thjazi had ruined his life. Why should he feel bad about cheering on the man's death?
…Oh, but he had done more than wish Thjazi ill, hadn't he? There was an ancient elven warrior still prowling the streets whom he had been hoping with the faintest of hope would be the answer he'd been dreaming of. That was going to come back to bite him, wasn't it? Careless. Sloppy. He should have used an intermediary, a disguise, a fake name, anything! He'd just been so desperate…
There was no point in fussing over something that had not yet happened. He couldn't think of himself now. He had to go to Hal, to be there for him and the children.
Even so, he couldn't resist dressing just a little more ostentatiously than usual, keeping his cloak tossed over his arm. Even if this was a funeral, for him, it was a private celebration.
He did not tell Thjazi to rot in whatever passed for an afterlife in this godless existence. Bolaire was wiser than the hotheaded Sir Julien Davinos, who now had a curse clinging to his shadow, the poor fool. In fact, Bolaire did not approach the body at all. He couldn't risk it.
He did not, after all, want to laugh at the funeral of a beloved man.