Work Text:
Your name is Bolaire Lathalia. It’s a fine name, you think, but of course you would think that. You chose it. As a curator and antiquarian, you believe strongly in the power of names. If you wish to imbue an object with power, give it a name.
And that is what you are, isn’t it? An object imbued with power.
The one thing you remember, the one thing you always have to remember, is that you are not a person. You are a thing. You were created for one purpose, and one purpose only: killing a god. Once your purpose was fulfilled, you slept until someone woke you to fulfill your purpose once more.
That has been something you’ve tried to work on, lately. Your purpose. Technically, it is to take life, but you can’t help but believe that there is something more out there for you. Killing and slumbering cannot be the only thing you’re good for.
There has to be something more.
You decide to visit the Hallowed Round. You’re in the district, and you need a distraction. What better than the theater? You know all about acting. The irony almost makes you laugh. Almost, but not quite.
You wear a heavy, dark cloak in an attempt to disguise yourself, and you sit in the very back of the theater. You don’t think you’ll be recognized, or stand out, but you can never be too sure. You are a very distinctive presence.
The lights dim, and the performer takes the stage. You perk up, interested. You can’t see him very well, but you can see he’s an orcish man dressed in an elaborate costume. He begins to soliloquize, and oh.
The bard’s voice flows like honey through the room, pulling you in, getting you stuck in it. You catch more flies with honey, and you catch more people with it, too. He weaves a tale of love, of heartbreak, of battle, of friendship, of joy and of life and of death. His words bring you to the edge of your seat, and you suddenly, deeply wish that you were sitting closer to the stage. You wish you could see him more clearly. You wish you knew him. You get the feeling that he knows you. Maybe it’s the wine you downed before this talking, but he knows you. Your head is buzzing. This. This is what you’ve been missing. This is what you’ve been waiting for.
You can hear your nonexistent heartbeat in your ears. Your mouth is dry, and you didn’t even know that could happen to you. This is the only thing that matters now. This is what life was made for. What it means.
You shift. Your cloak is suddenly too heavy, too hot. You need to be rid of it. You need to speak to this bard. You need so many things at this moment, but you will not do anything. You sit and you watch, awestruck, as the bard spins his tale.
Far too soon, it is over. The crowd bursts into raucous applause, standing and cheering for this performer. He bows deeply, and you can see the grin splitting his face from here. He is clearly right where he belongs.
You wonder what that’s like.
As the crowd begins to thin, you push your way towards the stage. By the grace of the dead gods, you manage to make it there before the bard leaves, and you manage to stop him. You manage to speak to him.
Your hood has fallen, exposing your riotous red curls, and you nearly vault onto the stage in an attempt to get closer to him. No need, though, as he sees you approaching and comes to you.
“Hello,” he greets, smiling wide. “My name is Hal. Did you enjoy tonight’s performance?”
You struggle to find the words for a moment. “Yes,” is all you manage, gazing up at Hal. “Very much so.”
“Good, good. That’s what I love to hear.”
Once again, your words stick in your throat. You have no idea why. Generally, you are a very well-spoken person. This bard, Hal, however, seems to have an adverse effect on your mental capabilities. Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. You need to speak to him, need to keep him in your life somehow. You don’t know why, you’ve never met this man before, but he will change your life. You know he will.
You manage to muster the courage to begin asking. Something, anything. You just need to speak to him.
“Would you like to meet me for coffee?”
——
You were correct. Halandil Fang has completely, irrevocably changed your life.
Asking him to meet you for coffee was, quite possibly, the best decision you have ever made. You look forward to your weekly meetings, where you discuss art, and theatre, and anything you can think of. These conversations are a welcome distraction from the stress of your job, and being around Hal always improves your mood.
You have been searching for a meaning to your life for so long, and now, finally, you believe you have found it. Hal brings a light and a joy that you weren’t aware of until him. When you’re with him, you feel almost…human.
Enough that you’ve started to forget that you are simply a thing. When you are with Hal, you feel almost like a person. Enough that you forget to act like one. You find yourself sitting too still for too long, forgetting to breathe, staring off into the distance. Hal doesn’t seem to mind, though you still worry about putting him off.
You asked him about it once. “Halandil, do I disturb you?” you asked, looking at him, hoping he says no, but also hoping he is honest with you.
He considers you, eyes tracking over your face. He thinks for so long that you lock up, completely still, not even daring to breathe until he answers.
“No, Bolaire,” he replies, finally, voice affectionate and warm. The way Hal talks about you reminds you of the way you talk about your favorite artifacts. Fond. Like you are valuable. “You could not disturb me even if you tried.”
You smile.
You are in attendance at the Hallowed Round nearly every week now. Anything to see Hal so completely in his element, so caught up in the art he is creating. It is beautiful, and you cannot get enough of it.
This is what you have been searching for. This is what life was meant for. Art, and appreciation, and love.
People were built to love, and you are no different.