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For the last thirty years, Halandil Fang had traded his sword for words.
If there’s one thing that books, stage experience, and The Applause confirmed again and again is that a sharp tongue cuts through the heart of giants and through the egos of gods.
Dramaturgy is a dexterous flourish based in centuries of tearing down empires with the right stories told through heavy silences. It’s not just about what you say, but how you say it. A loud accusation will bounce off the shield of tyrants, while the whispered hope on the winds of revolution will wrap around their neck in a hangman’s knot.
Hal awkwardly makes a note to himself to adapt his “drama-workshop” in the aftermath of his brother’s passing. It wouldn’t do to outrage young, impressionable actors on the first day of a new gig.
As the bard-turned-insurgent looks back at the day’s events through the lens of his craft, the parallel with his premiere in a week is not lost on him. The whole city as an audience but with different protagonists.
The betrayal of Murzat. A failed rebellion against Azgra. The betrayal of his trust by Bolaire, and an attempt at redemption to prevent this new rebellion from failing. The first step to redemption is atonement. Atonement is such a powerful mechanic in theater. It is action-driven, a constant apology without seeking immediate forgiveness.
The atonement of Bolaire makes him feel so… real that Hal finds himself forgetting all that happened in the last two days. He finds himself back in *their* room, talking about art for 200 hours. Bolaire had made him feel special in a way that only special people can make you feel.
A sip of wine.
A hand on a padded shoulder.
A gaze along Bolaire’s patch of exposed flesh above his high collar.
An embrace at the end of an evening full of discussion, where Hal catches the hint of a spicy perfume on Bolaire’s curls.
On his walk back home, Hal had fantasized about masked lovers and blindfolded trysts.
* * * * * *
Surprise
In Dramaturgy, surprise defines the moment where the veil is finally lifted from the audience’s eyes. Intentions are laid bare and secret plans are finally revealed. Audible gasps, judgmental murmurs, or some exclamations of “no!” or “finally!”, sending shivers down the director’s spine as a reward for a masterful execution.
Nothing had been masterful in the “confession scene” in the bowels of the museum two days ago. It had been a messy reveal, with too many actors on stage, and the plot was not resolving fast enough. Too many interruptions and distractions and Hal had wanted to rewrite all of it.
But he couldn’t, because it wouldn’t do justice to Bolaire’s words.
I'm an object created to kill a god. I am a thing. I am a mask that can be worn. I'm a mask that wears other people.
I am as old as the war itself. When I'm not worn, I sleep. Minutes after the death of the Trickster, I slept until the next war where I was worn and used. And then I slept and then I was worn and used, and I slept through battle after battle.
And then one day, during the Falconer's Rebellion, I suddenly had the first thought that hadn't been put in my head when I was created. I had realized that the play I was written for was long over. I was a character whose play had ended and I had just been left there, waiting, just running through the motions, and I suddenly knew there must be more.
And so I ran away. I saw an opportunity. I took the body that was holding me and I left. And I found my way here. I know these things. I have seen all these things. This was something I was good at. This was something I could do that is not what I was made for.
And I went through the motions and I didn't change really. I was just another character. And then one day, I saw one of your plays and for the first time, theater was more.
And oh my god, Hal, everything you write changes everything. Knowing you has made me bigger. Watching your talent has made me capable of wanting to be more.
And I don't know how to express what it is because you are the only friend I've ever had. I was ready to tell you everything before your brother, and instead he poisoned it.
And you are genuinely all I have beyond this. He's ruined my career. He's poisoned the only friendship that ever mattered to me and I will do anything to make this work, to make this better because this is the most important thing I've ever known.
This theater is so important. You are so important. Your children are so important.
Anger, pain, sadness, empathy, affection.
Being an audience to a heartfelt confession.
And in the hours and days that followed, atonement.
* * * * * *
Tension
In Dramaturgy, tension is created through uncertainty and waiting. Both the audience and the characters are filled with questions and expectations.
Hal had been on guard about Bolaire for the last 48 hours as he saw him walk over, he gave in, leaned onto him and even rested his head on his shoulder.
Bolaire: You give a little bit of your soul, but in return, you get the boy.
Halandil: I haven’t taken a men’s life in almost 30 years.
Bolaire: I… cannot relate. I haven’t been in this situation in many years. It hasn’t felt like war in many years. Just survival. This is war. It is exhausting. We saved the boy. (Hal echoes this.) And in a moment, I’m going to have to do something, ugh, uncomfortable. I’m gonna need a bit of help. (To that, Hal raises his head and turns to Bolaire.) And it doesn’t have to be you, but it is imperative that I ask you first because I owe it to you. I don’t think it’s healthy and I don’t think you’ll like it but it’s not a secret I can keep from you. If you want to see the worst of me (Hal growls at that); you can wait (Bolaire smirks knowingly).
Halandil: In for a copper, in for a pound.
Bolaire: Well, this is somewhat terrifying for me as well.
Scene change.
Hal rests against a wall and observes silently as Bolaire undresses and dresses up in the rogue’s clothes and picks up a sword from the ground.
“Do you want to do the honors?”, Bolaire asks him, handing the short sword expectantly in front of him.
“Excuse me?”, asks Hal, with a slightly broken voice.
“I am going to need to die. And then I’m going to need you to take my face and put it on our friend over there. But we are going to need to make this body look like it died in a battle. They won’t recognize him.”
In that moment, Hal thinks of how everything in this city and in his life has flipped upside down in two weeks. He wonders where his children are in this city and abroad, and Elodie. He wonders where Thaisha is and if she’s all right. He thinks of his brother, his body waiting to be interred somewhere in the city. But that all takes place in just a second or two. And he stares this mask back in its face and takes the blade from its hands.
“Whatever you do, end with a stab to the chest so that I can fall into the corner. If you decide not to put me on that body for any reason, just don’t leave me here to be found. My life is in your hands. I don’t know what else I could do”, Bolaire ends on a high note, with a hint of hope and implicit trust.
Hal backs up a step or two, and not much of a fighter anymore —
“Just do —“ Bolaire starts, to encourage him.
— Hal flourishes the blade after years of practice and then just stabs forward. Bolaire grabs the blade in his hands and let them cut into the blade to break them and Hal starts to actually wedge and hammer down to make it a messier wound as Bolaire takes as many fingers off as humanly possible as it goes.
The mask’s face doesn’t wince.
Hal shoves his foot against his chest and kicks him off and widens the wound even further to leave him a gory mess on the ground.
Coup de grâce.
Dramaturgy teaches you that the point of highest tension in a piece is the climax.
As the blade drops from his grasp and clatters on the stone, some of Bolaire’s last words echo in his mind.
“My life is in your hands.”
And
“Well, this is somewhat terrifying for me as well.”
And
“This theater is so important. You are so important. Your children are so important.”
And as he carefully spins the now blind theater mask in his hands, in the silence of this stone chamber, the discrepancy between the wholeness of his friend and this dead weight of an object makes his stomach churn uneasily.
* * * * * *
Suspense
In Dramaturgy, suspense is the opposite of surprise. Suspense is the audience seeing the blades peeking through capes behind an oblivious Murzat’s back. The audience wants to warn him against his impending betrayal and the century of Azgra’s wrath that followed.
Suspense is a powerful stage mechanic. Like in the KoTher’ai, a betrayal known to the audience before the protagonist, or a conspiracy, a test of loyalty, or a temptation.
The alarm bells that an invisible audience would have in this silent stone chamber as Hal inches the mask closer to his face in an attempt to read the small writing under the eyes, are deafening.
Hal ignores Murray and Azune as they enter the room and the Arcane Marshal’s inquiry.
Hal reads the words ‘Your thoughts unravel.’, and hears applause so uproarious that it might also be the noise of the world cracking apart at the core.
Intoxicating.
Hal thinks about the booming voices of his now-masked choir and how their melody would harmonize so well with this irresistible sound.
He thinks about Azgra’s hunger and appetite. About his teachings to the orcs about living recklessly and rejecting peace in favor of a dream.
Irresistible.
He sees himself at the Hallowed Round the night of the KoTher’ai Premiere, standing on a stage littered with roses thrown at the cast’s and his feet by adoring fans.
Looking down at the front row, center stage, he sees a well-dressed lean figure, clapping gloved hands, crimson hair, white-faced and glowing eyes fixed on him.
Unraveling.
“My life is in your hands.”
The glowing eyes are fixed on him again but this time much closer, with only a blade’s length between them.
Something boils in his orcish blood. Violence. An adrenaline rush.
“Well, this is somewhat terrifying for me as well.”
It hits him. This is not just a show of trust and atonement. This is an invitation.
This realization, a cold shower coupled with thoughts of his family and cast just moments ago, knock enough sense back into him to finally push the mask away and put it on its new home.
He helps Bolaire to his feet and realizes he is hungry for contact. His hands seek out his friends, as if giving them a reassuring squeeze but it’s the touch of a man desperate to grasp reality.
“Get dressed and let’s get out of here.”
As Hal walks past them all through the door, he thinks of a parallel world where, little over two weeks ago, this is also a sentence he would have maybe told Bolaire in a very different context.