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He's never seen this.
He's never had to see this, because the last time they were all together, so many intervals ago, none of them had been this injured.
This shattered.
He'd come running when Hal had called. Of course he had.
Ran into a room with a choice.
The kind of choice only he could make.
Because the tragedy of it all was this.
His friend and his sibling were dying. And Bolaire Lathalia could only save one of them.
The Rage was clawing itself back together, as best it could. But really, it needed an actor. And Thaisha had so helpfully, so foolishly, all but offered herself up.
It wasn't anything intentional, and it certainly wasn't conscious, but it was how they'd been made.
The Rage of the Panto was piecing itself back together. And in the process, it was killing Thaisha.
Bolaire knows, he knows, down to the pigment carved into him, that if The Rage fails to fix itself here, it will be forever lost to The Panto.
And so, Bolaire Lathalia has a choice to make. He is, in fact, one of very few people who could ever make it.
By his action, or his inaction, he would be killing someone today.
He could kill his sibling with his own stolen hands. Or, he could do nothing, and so kill Hal's dear friend.
And. Well.
Life's been good recently, for The Tragedy of The Panto.
So why is his actor crying, whispering apologies, as he gently, gently, so very gently kills his own sibling and lets it crumble to dust in his hands?
He was built for tragedy, after all.
Halandil Fang doesn't know what to do, as the shattered pieces of clay slowly piece themselves back together, draining Thaisha of her life as they do.
Hal doesn't know what to do, and so he does what he always does; he calls for Bolaire.
The curator will know what to do, how to get the mask off her without harming her further, he is certain.
Bolaire Lathalia darts into the room and stops, just as suddenly.
He stares at Thaisha, stricken.
Perhaps, Hal considers belatedly, calling in the guy with a cursed mask stuck to his face to stop a cursed mask from killing their friend wasn't the best idea Halandil Fang has ever had.
His breath is shaking, as close to crying as Hal has ever heard it.
He drops to his knees to brush a shaking hand over Thaisha's cheek. There are shattered parts of the mask there, slowly, slowly fixing themselves, but just as slowly killing Thaisha.
He's sobbing, underneath the mask.
"Don't make me do this," he begs- the universe, maybe.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He whispers. "Forgive me. Forgive- you can't even hear me. You can't even hear me." He sounds gutted.
Hal has two hands, he can hold Bolaire's as well.
"I'll make it quick," he promises. "You won't even feel it." He assures her, as he pries the shattered mask off of Thaisha's unconscious face with shaking hands.
The pieces crumble to dust as he does, even as he continues his whispered apologies, slipping, here and there, into Halfling, as he holds the remnants of the mask, sightlessly.
Colour returns to Thaisha's face, as Bolaire cradles the remnants of the mask and continues his quiet litany of apologies.
Halandil Fang is beginning to get the feeling that he may be missing some context.
And then Bolaire begins to laugh.
It isn't the usual, slightly creepy giggling. This is full on, hollow laughter. "You were made for this," he sing-songs to himself. "So why does it hurt?"
All Hal can think to do is grip Bolaire's hand again, and squeeze it tight. He worries, for the first time in a very long time, what having a cursed mask strapped to your face 24/7 might do to a man's mind. Is it aware enough? To realise that another just crumbled to dust in front of it? What would that do, to the man underneath it?
Bolaire is still rambling to himself, apparently having come to an epiphany.
"Because it can't be a tragedy," he muses. "Without pain."
It's about then that Thimble and friends rock up.
She makes her way upstairs to Hal, but pauses at the sight before her.
"You, uh. Got the box, then," she says, lamely.
Bolaire, slowly, slowly, turns to her.
Thimble does not flinch. Because she is a warrior of the Orchard, because she is the fae companion of Thjazi Fang, and because, she reminds herself, he would not do anything to her here. Not with Hal watching.
She rapidly reassesses that notion when he launches his stolen body at hers. Misses, but he definitely doesn't care about his little play pretend with her mortal's brother anymore.
"What the fuck-?" She demands, but he interrupts her, something wild and pained and god killing in his tone.
"What was this, huh?" He snarls, gesturing at the open box. "A threat? A promise? A gift? A message?" He gasps, and if she did not know better she would say he is drowning in grief. But she does know better. He is an actor, down to the jewels they set in his face.
"I don't fucking know!" she snaps anyway, because Hal looks like he's about to start asking questions, and Thjazi worked so hard to keep him out of it. "I don't know what went on in Thaz's head! But I'd sure call it a threat!"
Hal is very, very quiet. Dangerously quiet.
But Bolaire cuts in before he can say anything.
"Well," he begins, in a tone that she would call faint with rage, if he were anything but what he is, "I just had to kill my own fucking sibling to save my friend's life, so message fucking received, Thimble."
She- falters slightly, at that, but. No. He's just leaning into the role he had been built into. There's nothing real there, Thaz had said so! He'd promised her!
And Thaz couldn't have been wrong! Because if he was! Well! If he was! Then! What about her! What if they were he same! What if they were the same and Thaz had been wrong about Bolaire and maybe he had been wrong about her and and and Thaz was dead he was dead he was gone and she was alone!
"You were always the better one, Thimble. But that doesn't make you good," Bolaire snarls.
And! And! What if they were the same! What if they were the same! But Thaz had been so horrified at her treatment! And if they were the same then! Then!
Then why hadn't he been horrified by Bolaire's?
Thaisha has no idea what's going on anymore.
She remembers the mask. She remembers nudging it back together. She does not remember much else.
She comes too to a pounding headache and to Bolaire, launching himself at Thimble in... rage? Pain? Loss? She does not know.
She isn't sure he does, either.
He calls the mask sibling, calls it dead, and it makes a horrible, horrible kind of sense.
When she had been a girl, she had wished for the Pariah Blades to be sentient - to whisper to her of their triumph, of the way they had carved into those tyrants her grandparents called gods.
Then she grew older, and, for their sake, she was glad that they were not.
What kind of awful would it be? To have completed the purpose you were built for and to still be around? What kind of person would that turn you into?
Apparently, the kind that adores your children, that adores your friend, that drags you home when you're drunk and waxes poetic with you about Halandil Fang when you aren't.
Slowly, she pushes herself to her knees, quietly gathers together the dust of her dear friend's sibling.
It isn't unheard of, for a funeral of the Old Path to use ashes instead of the body itself.