Chapter Text
In the few brief heartbeats before his current body collapsed beneath him, Bolaire hoped he would dream of Hal.
He'd never dreamt before in his “sleep” between wearers, at least not that he remembered after waking, but what had there been to dream of? Nothing but war and death and the same story he was crafted for playing out over and over and over. He had lived now. He had things worth dreaming about.
It would be a long sleep, he knew that. There was no one around likely to pick up the mask in greed, and he'd had no chance to form any other contingency plan for the death of his body. No one was likely to stumble across him in ignorant curiosity, either; if he were left lying there to be found, it would mean his allies had lost, and Hal—
It wouldn't happen. When the rest of them mopped things up, they'd have to decide what to do with him, and they wouldn't leave him behind. Out of friendship and out of responsibility towards whatever unwitting soul might fall victim to him if they did.
Hal was a good man. Azune, too, from everything Bolaire knew of him. Murray didn't qualify on either count, and he wasn't entirely certain where she would fall on the issue, but she would be outnumbered regardless. They wouldn't force Bolaire onto someone. No matter how much Hal might care about Bolaire as a friend, there were lines he wouldn't cross. Shouldn't cross.
So, a dream… Maybe if he kept Hal in his mind as this body faded, he would be able to hold onto that when the darkness engulfed him.
Maybe Hal would hang him on the wall of the theater. (Secured away from the curious hands of any of Hal's theater troupe, of course.) Somewhere his empty eye sockets would have a view of the stage, and the music and the sounds of the theater could wash over him. Maybe some echo of them would even trickle into the dreams he hoped for.
Or perhaps tuck him away somewhere in Hal's home, within earshot of his children's voices.
Realistically, practically, they should probably hide him away deep in the museum, or turn him over to Murray and her own arcane arts, but he could hope.
Bolaire awoke to the sight of Hal's worried face, and Murray's less-worried and more speculative face peering up from below. Confused, he looked down at the new body he was wearing, clad in the armor of an Arcane Marshal.
Azune.
“Hal, what have you done?”
His—no, Azune's—hands reached for the mask, fingers sliding under the clinging edges. It went against every survival instinct he'd ever had, but doing nothing would be worse. They—Hal—had been remarkably understanding when they learned what he was, but Hal would never forgive him, never forgive himself, if Bolaire took Azune.
Hal's hands closed around his—Azune's—wrists. “Bolaire.”
Bolaire flinched and stepped back, ineffectually trying to shove Hal away with one hand as the fingers of the other still scrabbled for purchase under the mask's edge. It shouldn't have been difficult; Azune was far stronger than Hal, but Bolaire was, as always, clumsy in a new body. His (Azune's) back hit a wall, and Hal pressed forward, pinning him there gently, hands still encircling both wrists. “Bolaire,” he repeated, louder.
Murray ambled after them with an eerie, calm curiosity, watching their struggle without trying to intervene. A patch of red in the periphery of Bolaire's vision—red curls, red suit, in a pool of red liquid—showed where his previous body lay collapsed and lifeless, like a puppet with its strings cut.
Hal apparently gave up on getting a response from Bolaire. “Azune? Can you hear me?”
This is going well, he thought, wryly.
Bolaire made another unsuccessful attempt to break free. His fingers had lost their purchase on the mask's edge, and Azune's arms responded sluggishly. Whether that was because Azune, too, was wounded, or because he was fighting Bolaire's control, Bolaire couldn't tell at the moment. There were too many competing sensations to begin to separate the two.
Murray squinted at him silently, watching with folded arms, and an icy shiver poured down Bolaire's spine.
Azune was dying.
Murray would never have stood by and allowed Bolaire to take over Azune's body unless he'd had no other hope of survival. She and Hal must have hoped against hope that Bolaire would keep him going beyond the limits of Hal's healing, but that's not how the masks worked. Bolaire could not sustain bodies; he consumed and burned through them before their time. Azune's already racing heartbeat accelerated in what could only be its death throes.
This is a little hurtful, he thought, quite mildly considering the tightness in his (Azune's) chest that was already starting to make his head swim.
He—
What?
I thought my body was decent. Is it so bad that you'd rather be asleep?
Bolaire froze, Azune's heart still hammering away at a far-too-rapid pace.
Oh, good, said the mental voice that, Bolaire belatedly realized, sounded like Azune. I'm not just talking to myself in here. I was starting to wonder, and with you not listening to Hal, either, which I was counting on, this plan was starting to go seriously off the rails. Murray would never have let me forget it. Are you OK?