Work Text:
It takes one day for Hal to wish he’d smuggled his family out of the city immediately after opening night, two to organise their exodus, and three to regret staying himself. Two long, miserable weeks later, stowed like contraband in an Arcane Marshall safehouse, far from the Creed’s vengeful light, Hal finally has time to ruminate on every painful word he never said to his brother.
I mourned you.
I missed you.
How could you?
Please, please, come home.
So when Azune clanks through the door one evening, the worry-dent between his brows a scant millimetre shallower than usual, and announces – “They’re back.”
The first thing Hal says is: “Is Thjazi alright?”
Azune’s mouth does a funny thing that, for all Hal’s fluency in the language of faces, he cannot quite decipher. “Yes,” he says – at which point Murray galumphs into Hal's miserable shack in the Tanners and shakes her cloak off onto his floor. He doesn't protest; the floorboards are rotten enough that another coating of rain hardly matters.
“Bastard’s still stuck in Julien’s shadow,” she tells Hal. “Either that, or Thimble cracked and was talking to herself. Which, considering some of the stories they’ve been telling, wouldn’t surprise me. Sounds like it’s been a time.”
Hal nods. That sums up their side of things, too. It's dangerous to dabble at the fringes of House favour, yet markedly more dangerous when those Houses mark you as their enemy. While the Einfassen consider Azune a trusted liaison, their aegis never extended to Hal, much less his family. Elodie’s merchant connections were their saviour; she smuggled herself, Shadia and Hero out of the city, aboard a millers' barge bound for Timmony. Hal has missed them every hour since – like he misses his big, cheery house in the Rookery; and the warm press of Thaisha’s body against his at night; and the scent of hibiscus tea and the brush of gloved hands over his and the play of the light through loose red ringlets.
But he’d rather be overcautious than under. He’s lost too much family already.
“Don’t take my word for it,” says Murray, hustling him for the door. Hal barely manages to grab his raincoat and his Disguise Person spell glyph on the way. “If we head to the Corialis, they can tell you for yourself before they head out.”
“A short stop then?” asks Hal, breaking the glyph and donning his new face; that of an older, muttonchopped human; just in time to pass the threshold.
“They’re on a retrieval mission for the Professor,” Azune says. He ushers them into a waiting carriage and slips a silver piece – far too much, for the journey – into the driver’s hand. “They’re staying the night, then heading back out for the Halfling barrowdell.”
“Spell components,” says Murray, flumping on the seat beside Hal. “I can help with that.” She nudges Hal, grin a glitter of gemstones. “Ain’t this grand? Schemers table, back together again!”
“Everyone will be back together again,” says Hal.
Azune casts him a sidelong glance as the carriage picks up speed, rattling across the stinking, mud-slimed cobbles. Murray isn’t so subtle – “Yeah, but I don’t care about everyone. I meant Bolaire! Our weird li’l guy!” She pats Hal so enthusiastically on the knee that it might leave a bruise. “He's your closest friend, right? You gotta be excited to see him!”
“Yes,” says Hal, after too long of a pause. “Well, obviously.”
Azune averts his attention out the window, ostensibly to check they aren’t being followed. Murray sucks her teeth. “Eesh. You’ve been rotting in that mouldy apartment for too long. You’ve forgotten how to socialise. But hey – nothing a pint of Yargrahz and good company can’t fix.”
Hal manages a weak laugh, buffeted against her as the carriage turns a corner. He turns his head in the opposite direction - to Azune, gazing out over his city’s bleak, rain-drenched silhouette - and pretends to be lost in thought until Murray gives up on sparking conversation, grumbles something about tall people under her breath, and suffers the rest of the carriage ride in silence.
Thjazi wasn’t the only one who left before Hal could draw him aside for an overdue talk. But unlike his brother, two weeks haven’t nearly been long enough for Hal to piece together everything he needs to say to Bolaire.
The Coriolis is larger than the Seven Stars, and fancier. Julien’s recommendation, Hal suspects.
It makes sense to vary their meeting points. Still, he can't stop the rise in his hackles as they approach, shoulders tensing under the heavy folds of his raincoat. He knows the Seven Stars like the back of his hand. It was his and Bolaire’s haunt for years, and their echoes are trapped in the furnishings: here the table, where a worried Shadia once found them so embroiled in a disagreement over the merits of Kumi’s Dal Vonic when weighed against Elvish tragicomic canon that they hadn't realised it was past three in the morning; there the tankards they clanked together after a successful opening night, Hal pausing mid-gulp to ensure that Bolaire wasn’t just pretending to drink.
The Coriolis holds none of the same memories. Still, the atmosphere is pleasant. Soft candlelight, polished oak. The air smells of rich gravy and richer wine; and smoke from the crackling hearth tickles Hal's throat, a scratchy, pine-scented burr. Music filters down from the upper storey – someone is tapping at a harpsichord with little skill and less self-awareness, though they seem to be having fun. Shiny-faced humans have monopolised the bar, sipping top shelf liquor and laughing a touch too loud. Financiers, by the upmarket cut of their clothes and their greased-back hair. Hopefully, they're too busy celebrating the close of another week on the inter-city stock market to notice the bartender catch Azune's eye and wave them for the stairs. A magpie pin is half-hidden beneath the straps of her apron, noticeable only if you squint.
Raised voices jumble through the floorboards. Each step brings greater clarity to the noise. Hal hears Thimble first, shrieking at Julien – no, no, don’t you dare bring up that rug! That was your fault, and you know it! Then Julien’s answering rumble: My fault? I was on the other side of the tower! Followed by Thimble’s hiss of That was the problem! and Vaelus’s quiet laugh.
By the time he opens the door, he’s almost arranged a coherent narrative: Thimble, struggling with the scale of her new ability, had slipped on a rug, fumbling a stealth mission in the process, while Julien was too far away to offer assistance. He doesn't have chance to confirm his theory, however - for as soon as he enters, everyone shuts up.
Hal blinks. Then remembers, and dismisses Disguise Self. "Sorry, sorry..."
Oddly, the tension doesn't dissipate. Kattigan slurps noisily at the last of three empty flagons lined up on the table, while Occtis shuffles his feet.
“Did I interrupt?” Hal asks.
Thimble is first to find her smile. It’s bright and chirpy and very almost genuine. “Of course not! Come in!”
Hal answers with a far more convincing beam – see, that’s how it’s done - and bounds forwards, throwing open his arms. He hugs Occtis first, then extends a finger for Thimble to koala around before moving to clap Kattigan’s shoulder with his unoccupied hand and nod to Vaelus. “It’s good to see you all safe. I just wish I had better tidings of the city. I presume Murray and Azune filled you in?”
“Extensively,” says the falcon, perched on the back of Vaelus’s chair. Mara. Hal still doesn’t know what to think of her – this figure who was so instrumental to Thjazi’s life, yet left scant impression on his own. But she fought beside his brother. That earns her a little trust. “Sounds like shit’s been splatting into the fan at a steady rate, ever since we left.”
Murray grins. “Damn, lady. You got a way with words.”
As the two Sunset Mountainers make light conversation – Mara asking what the hell they’ve been doing, other than shovelling fuel onto an already burning fire; Murray replying that at least they haven’t come full circle with nothing to show for it other than a team bonding roadtrip – Hal pauses before Julien. His hand hovers above his shoulder, giving Julien the opportunity to pull away. When Julien merely scowls, Hal squeezes, tight and warm, making sure his smile reaches the crinkles at the edges of his eyes.
“Thank you,” he says. “For everything.”
“I don't do it for you," mutters Julien. "Nor for him.”
“Still. I’m grateful.” The shadow lies on the floor, perfectly innocuous, aping Julien's movement. You'd never guess that it hides a renegade soul. Here, in Dol Makjar’s pulsing heart, the Tenebral Reaches are but a distant memory. Thjazi might be inches away, yet he somehow feels further than ever.
Hal can’t imagine what it’s like to be trapped in such a way, utterly dependent on another. But those thoughts push his mind closer to another topic he doesn’t wish to brush up against, so he simply pokes his brother with his toe, as he did a thousand times when they were children, and longs for Thjazi's response: an aggrieved huff and a retaliatory kick. “How’s your cohabitation going? Hope the old rogue hasn't given you too much hassle.”
Julien’s expression goes tight and pinched, which is expected. Less expected is how he scoffs – “Of course, you ask about him first.”
Thimble, perched on Occtis’s shoulder, heaves a sigh too big for her. “Julien – “
“Bah.” Julien waves her off with his gauntleted hand. He stomps to the furthest seat from Hal, in the room's gloomiest corner, where his shadow is sure to be swallowed like he's walking through the Endless Night. He takes his wineglass with him, and - by some genetic blood-magic gift of the Davinos - manages not to spill a drop.
“Who pissed in his chalice?” Hal jokes.
Thimble doesn’t laugh. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed, Hal."
“Noticed what?”
“Who isn’t here.”
Right. Being seen colluding with the Creed’s new public enemy would be damaging for the Halovar heir and his Aspirant. “A pity. I’m sure Wick would’ve liked to see you again. He’s grown quite marvellously, over these past few weeks – “
“I’m not talking about Wick!” snaps Thimble, sharp as her sword. Hal jolts back as if pricked.
“I…”
“Seriously?” Thimble flutters up before him and wags a tiny finger in his face. “You’re not gonna ask at all?”
“Ask what?”
Vaelus speaks at last, folding her long, elegant legs beneath her. “Enough, Thimble. It’s fine.”
“It isn’t! It really, really isn’t!”
“Maybe,” says Occtis, under his breath, “this was a bad idea from the start.”
“Testing people tends to be,” is Kattigan’s mild reply, from where, having finished his cup, he has slumped against Wulfric, a furry heap before the hearth. They look exhausted – Kattigan darker about the eyes than usual; Wulfric panting with a lolling tongue. Hal wonders what they fought through to return here; foes physical, mental, or both. “Doesn't get you anything but disappointment."
“I could’ve told you that an hour ago,” drawls Vaelus. “In fact, I did tell you all. Repeatedly. But Thimble insisted -"
“Yeah, because you didn’t want to see what all of us could!” snaps Thimble – at which point Vaelus’s eyes harden like the amethysts in Murray’s teeth.
“Going to tell me about not wanting to see what’s in front of you, are you?”
“What? I – “ Thimble splutters, wings a furore, a butterfly trying to whip up a hurricane. “That’s not what I meant! You stop that!”
“Stop what?” Vaelus tips her head, pale hair cascading over her shoulder. Something flickers, almost indistinguishable from the chain links of her veil, like there’s a streak of tears on her cheekbone. Or a coating of strange, liquid glass. When Hal looks, it’s gone – but a sickening certainty swirls through him, winding tighter for every word to drip from those hidden, violet lips. This isn't Vaelus. “Speaking truths you don’t wish to hear? Please. If you want silence, darling, I’m afraid you must make it an order.”
Thimble jerks mid-air, like she’s been grabbed by an invisible hand. She dips several inches, face red as a cherry. But as Occtis pulls a face and Julien sips moodily at his wine, and Azune tenses, sunset eyes flicking between Hal and Vaelus (who is not Vaelus at all - )
Bolaire blows out a steadying breath. His expression – what little of it can be seen beneath Vaelus’s veil – smooths into a shape more contrite.
“That was… ungraceful,” he mutters. “Apologies.”
“Ugh!” Thimble puffs out her cheeks. Flitting over, she tugs at Vaelus’s nose like she’s trying to yank it off. “C’mere, you big idiot. Have a go in my driver’s seat. Then you’ll know I’m sorry, too.”
“Sweet of you." Bolaire fends off Thimble's grabby-hands, gentle so as not to swat her from the sky. “Though the 'big' factor remains a problem. Unless you fancy a size-up as well as a switcheroo?”
“Nah, this place’s crowded enough. I’d have to sit on Vaelus’s lap.”
“She says not to threaten her with a good time.”
“Or, well, technically you’d have to sit on her lap, because you’d be me – “
“Well, now Vaelus and I are in agreement.”
Thimble sniggers and Occtis snorts and Kattigan booms a laugh that’s filthy as the rest of him; while Julien scoffs into his wineglass in a way that sounds almost amused. And Hal? Hal tugs at his collar and forces his smile a little wider.
So many bodies in such a small space, with the extra heat and smoke of the fire – it’s stifling. Anyone would be struggling to breathe.
"Sounds like you lot finally learnt to get along,” he says.
It’s meant to be lighthearted. But Bolaire ducks Vaelus’s head, her hair falling between them, curtains at the end of a play. That veil didn’t hide his smirk at Thimble’s antics, and equally, it doesn’t hide when that expression fades.
Hal wishes otherwise. He pretends not to see.
“Is she alright?” he asks, nodding to Vaelus.
Julien sets his wineglass down with a loud clack.
“Careful,” squawks Murray. “That’s genuine Sunset Mountains quartz – “
By Julien’s stormy expression, he couldn’t give less of a shit. He makes to rise, only for Azune to step up behind him and press firmly on his shoulder.
“I’m sure Vaelus is fine,” he says. “Isn’t that right, Bolaire?”
Bolaire stares at his lap, where his stolen fingers wind together like violet worms. “Here, I’ll – I’ll let you see. She’s perfectly hale – “
“No, you don’t need to,” Thimble starts, but the mask has already loosened. It slithers off of Vaelus’s features, reclaiming its shape as it falls, lifeless, to her knees. Those hollow eye sockets; that sharp nose. Those expressive lips, frozen in a tragedy mask’s silent wail. No spark glints in the empty eye holes. Like a thing fresh-dead, at Hal’s command.
Hal’s fingers twitch, wishing for a shot of Yargrahz. He’s never fled so far from his problems that he's run down the neck of a bottle, yet in this moment, he suffers a sharp, empathetic pang for Kattigan.
Vaelus blinks at the mask, then up at the gathered group. “I wasn’t done napping,” she says, and –
Well, she picks Bolaire up and slaps him back on.
“Napping?” asks Murray, into the baffled silence that follows.
The mask twitches, then shifts, turning from simple clay to a mobile, living face. Bolaire doesn’t slip into Vaelus’s shape this time, maintaining his own steep angles and deep-set eyes, blue fire flaring in the stygian depths.
He still won’t look at Hal.
“Stop hogging him, Vaelus,” says Occtis. “It’s been three days since my last turn.”
“Nice to be wanted,” mutters Bolaire.
Occtis pokes him in the forehead. It's an unexpected gesture from the standoffish boy Thaisha welcomed into Hal's home. Less than a month ago, Occtis was all suspicious glares and accusations, as if Bolaire might weasel his way not just into his life, but his body. Hal hadn’t defended Bolaire at the time - mostly because he feared Occtis's paranoia was warranted.
Bolaire had lied about so much. Why not his intentions with Occtis, too?
Hal wets his lips. The revelation of Bolaire's nature had devastated him far more than he had acknowledged to anyone, even himself. It was hardly a surprise - for he shared his friends with Bolaire, his plays, his family. Why, those final weeks before the execution, as Hal stood in the shadow of a tidal wave of terror, his smile kept bright for Shadia and Hero until it felt more of a mask than Bolaire’s own; Bolaire was the one to intervene. He had taken one look, shaken his head, and dragged Hal to the Seven Stars for dinner. Once the meal had arrived, accompanied by a tankard of the darkest, hoppiest ale, more bread than booze, Bolaire motioned for both to be set before Hal, then commanded:
"Eat, drink, and cry, Halandil Fang. Not necessarily in that order."
"If only it were so easy," Hal had croaked. His belly was a shrivelled stone. While he could summon tears for an audience, since the day Thjazi had been dragged to the gaol in the city’s heart, Hal’s eyes had remained treacherously dry (impossible though this seemed when he could feel those tears within him, rising higher and higher with no release, pressure bulging at the underside of his skin…)
Bolaire had grasped his wrist. "Try," he had said, simply. "For me."
For him.
And what do you know? Once Hal took his first, shaking bite; his first, dry-mouthed swig; once he let that first tear trickle over his cheek… he couldn't stop.
He had snivelled, he had wailed, he had stuffed his face until his belt strained. And once he could eat and drink and cry no more, his head had sunk to rest on Bolaire's shoulder and soft, gloved hands had threaded through his hair.
"There," Bolaire had murmured. "Isn’t that better?"
No. His brother had been awaiting death, and there was nothing Hal could do to stop it. Yet as he snuffled against Bolaire’s freckled throat (how had he not noticed the shifting of those umber constellations, the subtle variations in skintone? How had he been fooled for so long? Because Bolaire was just that good of a liar - or because Hal hadn't wanted to see?) he could almost be forgiven for thinking otherwise.
Bolaire had stroked his hair and patted his back and crooned sweet little nothings in his ear. And then he had smuggled Vaelus into the city in the hopes she would kill Thjazi, should the Houses fail.
“Don’t get cocky,” says Occtis, back in the present, before Hal can follow that spiral down. “You’re just the closest she and I get to a good night’s sleep.”
“Gracious!” Bolaire feigns heartbreak. “Is that all I am to you? Your sleep-aid? Your knock-out drug?”
“You do good uppers too,” offers Julien.
"Ah, Julien. I knew you loved me really. Deep down.”
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
"Deep, deep down..."
Occtis chuckles. It's no louder than usual - his laughter always sounds strangled to Hal, like Occtis is making himself smaller. But the difference lies in his posture: back straight and chin raised, no longer cowering from an unseen blow. He's grown. They all have. All but Hal - who spent the last fourteen nights tossing on his miserable pallet bed, splinters scraping his spine, fretting about everything and everyone who'd left him.
Sending Julien off with his precious cargo was dangerous enough, but adding Bolaire to their company was like lighting up a dwarvish cheroot in a warehouse full of blackpowder. Hal had lambasted himself after they left, wishing he'd spoken up sooner. He had dreaded the day the Seekers would roll back to Dol Makjar in a tangle of cusses and fists, bonds splintered, the shadow at Julien’s heels snipped to tatters.
Instead… here the Seekers sit, chattering over drinks like old friends. And, if he can read their insinuations – they’ve been… wearing Bolaire? Together? Swapping him between them, like shared spit in kisses?
Something new burns in Hal, hateful and hot. Bolaire gave himself to Tyranny, who he barely knows. Misha wore him, in Hal’s own home. It was Azune who Bolaire asked to accompany him after they parted ways; Azune who pressed him to his face and slid into all his innermost secrets, who wore him and allowed himself to be worn –
Hal squeezes his eyes shut. Draws a heavy breath.
He feels a little sick.
“Let me take him, Vaelus,” Occtis repeats.
Vaelus sighs, yet lifts the mask away with a delicate hand. “I’m fine,” she says, gaze pinning Hal beneath the weight of nine-hundred some years. “He doesn’t hurt friends.”
Hal can’t help it. He laughs.
This time Kattigan joins Azune as they prevent Julien from springing to his feet. “Cool it,” he says, mildly, pressing on the back of Julien's neck. Then, to Hal – “You too. Li’l Teacup has been quite the pal to keep in your back pocket.”
“Yeah, you loooove having a guy ride in your back pocket,” says Thimble, with a lascivious and utterly unnecessary roll of her hips.
“I didn’t mean it like – fuck’s sake. You’re impossible, y’know.”
“What our roughspun companion is trying to say,” growls Julien, “is that things have changed.” He doesn't make to stand again, and his fists stay far from his sword - but his eyes thin like knives turned on their sides, held up to Hal's throat. “The mask fights beside me, Fang. You don’t. Therefore, it would be wise to restrain yourself from making such disparaging remarks in my presence.”
"Damn, Bo," whispers Thimble. "He really does love you."
Julien's glare snaps to her - not that it matters. Bolaire, lying empty on Vaelus's lap, cannot hear.
Hal barely registers Julien's words, beyond two that stick in his craw like a swallowed briar. "Disparaging remarks? I've heard enough of those for a lifetime, Julien. Not all were from you."
"Yet all," says Julien, "were justified."
"Some," Thimble corrects. "Some were justified." But that's far more than she was willing to concede when she was last in the city, and she glances at Julien's shadow with a bitten lip and sorrowful eyes.
Bolaire lies on Vaelus's lap, a fragile curve of clay. "I've heard enough lies from him," Hal tries, but Julien rolls his eyes.
"You hear lies everywhere, if you listen for them. It certainly makes it easier to avoid listening to anything else."
Kattigan smirks into his fourth beer of the night. He must've snatched it from Azune while he was distracted with the ongoing conversation - Azune notices, sighs, and makes no move to reclaim it. "Damn, when did Prettyboy become a philosopher?"
"I thought I was Prettyboy," says Occtis, then frowns, as if hearing himself. "Not that I care."
"Prettyboy protests too much, I doth think," says Thimble. "Hey, Hal, isn't that a quote? What does 'doth' even mean?"
Hal can't reply. He can't focus on Thimble's weak attempt to defuse the tension, any more than on Julien's smouldering glare. His mind slides back to the evening their conspirators broke apart; to Bolaire's wretched, trembling voice, insisting that Hal couldn’t love Thjazi, trust Thjazi, and not see him as an object to be owned and used.
Hal had shoved him down on his couch, snarling in his face - This is not a thing.
And Bolaire had answered 'I will leave in the morning,' three times over, like a fairy's binding oath.
He had left. Just as he promised. And it had fixed nothing. Certainly not the ache behind Hal's sternum, which has been gnawing away ever since.
Hal's jaw tightens until it twinges. Vaelus watches with the preternatural calm of a woman older than Empire. She runs an idle finger over the back of Bolaire's mask, caressing the glyphs. The touch is undeniably intimate - especially with Bolaire so vulnerable - and Hal's stomach lurches with acidic envy. He has written about such intensities of emotion - how it is possible to want someone so badly that it repulses you; to love, so close to hate. But he's never before suffered it in person.
“I didn’t mean to offend,” he says, once he can control what falls from his lips. “Any of you, or – or Bolaire. You need not worry on that front. He and I have been friends for years, longer than I’ve known any of you, besides my brother. I've just been… worried. About who among you, if any, might make the return journey."
"Yes, yes," mutters Julien, into his wineglass. "You fear for Thjazi's safety, with such vultures as Bolaire and I about. Well, you needn't worry. Wherever Thimble hid the shears, I have yet to find them, and Bolaire hasn't looked."
“Julien,” cautions Thimble. She shoots Hal an uneasy smile before fluttering to Occtis and Vaelus and the lifeless, empty mask.
(And what does Julien mean, that Bolaire didn't look? He'd jabbed the shears into Thjazi as soon as anyone so much as suspected he might dwell in Julien's shadow. No, Hal decides; he must be mistaken.)
Thimble rests her tiny palm on Bolaire’s cheek, over the slice of a tear. “Put him on, Occtis. Let's not talk without him. It doesn't feel right."
"You can do that?" Hal asks. "Wear him, without being governed?"
He feels exceedingly foolish when Thimble squints, as if to say you didn't know? "Occtis doesn't have a soul, remember? But even for the rest of us, Bo only takes control if we ask him to. The rest of the time, he's just watching."
Kattigan burps, wiping froth from his top lip. "Surprisingly courteous housemate, our Teacup."
"Backseat driver, more like," grumbles Julien. "Far too many opinions." He turns his sneer on Kattigan. "And what would you know of courtesy, wild man? After that last fight?"
Bolaire's mask seals over Occtis's face. The eyes blink blue, flitting to Hal, before Occtis speaks through that grey-painted mouth in his own voice: "Are we talking about that battle with the skeletons? When Kattigan tossed Julien over his shoulders like a bag of rice?"
Julien flushes red as his wine. "I was not tossed!"
"He was totally tossed," confides Thimble to Azune, who makes the stifled noise that Hal has come to recognise as his laugh.
"I was manhandled," says Julien, prim. "Which is not the point. The point is, I have yet to get the stench out of my cloak."
"Stench?" Kattigan brings his flagon down hard on the table. "This here’s musk! Some folks would consider themselves mighty lucky to get a whuff!"
"Me, me," says Murray, cheerfully, munching a handful of peanuts she's pulled from Shapers-know-where. "I volunteer."
"See?" Kattigan grins, white teeth a sharp contrast to the grime on his face. He looks dirtier than ever, and not for the first time, Hal wonders how much of this drunken persona he cultivates for himself is grief, and how much self-punishment. "Not that I expect you to know anything about how a real man, smells, rich boy. Anyway, what was I meant to do? Leave you for skeleton food?"
“Please,” says Occtis - no, Bolaire. There's no mistaking the sudden shift in body language - the contrapposto slide in the chair, the flamboyant flick as he crosses his legs - much less that amused drawl. "They'd choke on all that hair."
"At least mine's natural," says Julien (after informing Kattigan firstly, that he could've fought his way out fine, fuck you very much; and secondly that he’s a soldier and he knows damn well what BO and booze-sweat smell like). "Maybe I wouldn't have been caught by the skeletons in the first place, if I hadn't been lugging around your godawful wig - "
"My wig's good," comes a tiny voice from around the region of Bolaire's forehead.
Bolaire pats distractedly at the little blobs of paint that crawls over the edge of his mask, one chameleon, one rendering of himself in miniature. "Yes, yes, darling. Julien's just jealous."
Julien isn't the only one. It's ridiculous. The Seekers have solidified their bonds with Bolaire, and Hal should be glad - but instead, his memory is a cup overflowing. Bolaire, asking if Azune would come with him once he left Misha. Reassuring Hal that his Master of Dramatis Arcana would be left hale. Apologising, before sliding, lifeless and vulnerable, into Azune's hands –
Azune's. Not Hal's.
On Bolaire’s request.
Hal sinks into the chair opposite Bolaire. His mood seems contagious - while the other Seekers banter, roping in Murray and Azune, Bolaire droops into silence, contemplating the table between him and Hal with intense fascination.
“Occtis is fine,” he mutters.
Thimble interrupts her description of how Mara had flown in and pecked out the eyes of a Saramai knight ("It was sick! Literally - Kattigan spewed chunks!" "Eh? That had nothing to do with the eyegore. I've seen worse." "Ha! So, you admit you chundered because you've been drinking wayyyyy too much since we left the city?" "Still not enough for this conversation...") to deliver an operatic groan. “Bolaaaaaaire, you don’t need to say that every time. We all know – “
"Do we?" asks Julien, tilting his head to Hal.
Hal forces a smile. He has every right to be concerned. Occtis was Thaisha’s charge, and they still share enough, him and her, that she would trust Hal with his safety in her absence.
“Thank you,” he says, focusing only on the man before him - or the mask, wearing him.
Bolaire nods, stiff. What is Occtis seeing? Is he - how did Julien describe it - a 'backseat driver'? Or is he enjoying the rare opportunity to sleep, which his Hollowed nature denies him?
Perhaps he's seeing something else entirely. Something otherworldly, spectacular. A show like no other -
It was wonderful, Misha had said, his old eyes alight with stars…
Hal chews his cheek bloody and tries not to imagine.
“I missed you,” he says, reaching over the table. This invitation has been extended so often that he has come to anticipate its answer like the fall after a jump, the exhale after a breath. But Bolaire doesn’t lay Occtis’s hand on his. Just leans a little closer, sigh shivering from borrowed lungs.
“And I you.”
“It’s only been two weeks, yet it feels too long. We were meeting every night at the Seven Stars.”
“Then perhaps it’s a good thing we stopped,” says Bolaire. “If only for Murray’s remaining sanity."
"I'd like to see you cope with seeing into ten different alternate dimensions every time you blink, Bolaire!" calls Murray, from across the room. "I had it under control!"
"Ah - control. Is that what you were demonstrating when you backchatted Primus Tachonis? The bastard who killed Hannan with a single spell?”
“More controlled than you, trying to kick Lady fucking Cormoray down the stairs!”
“…I panicked! She was scary!”
“Scarier now,” Azune observes.
Mirth fades from Bolaire’s smile. “Yes,” he says. “She certainly is.”
Even without the reminder of Termina, it’s close to what the four of them shared at the start of their collusion: Hal and Azune and Murray and Bolaire, heads bowed close together, hunkered over their table at the Seven Stars with elbows knocking and plots colliding. Nostalgia blooms in Hal’s chest.
“I miss those days,” he murmurs.
“Jeez,” complains Murray. “You talk like you’re an old man.”
But Bolaire glances at Hal, vestiges of that fading smile still clinging to his mask. “I don’t,” he says.
Hal frowns. Surely, things were better back then: before everything grew so complicated, and Bolaire dug his snide barbs into the tender meat of Hal’s grief. Before he offered Hal the hilt of a sword and full governance of his life; before he hissed those words at Thimble, one trembling finger outflung for Hal, never even looking at him –
If I don’t belong to you, I must belong to his brother.
No, Hal realises, staring into the holes of Bolaire’s mask. Things were better for him. Bolaire has the Seekers now. Why would he think fondly of the past?
Because it’s our past, wails a foolish little voice in his head. There’s a door in him, the lock of which he thought long-since rusted shut - but every minute that Bolaire spends in his company eroded a little more of that oxidised grime. Hal holds the key. It would be so very easy to turn it. All that stops him is the fear of what lays beyond, an overwhelming tide of emotion, locked away under such pressure that, once that door opens, he will never again be able to wrestle it shut…
Life is but a play, the world a stage, and certainly, Hal is always acting. But the intensity of what wells up inside him is too devastating for his usual affable smiles to contain.
The Seekers watch him, wary. Julien, Kattigan, Vaelus, Thimble… Even Occtis, he's sure, buried in the endless abyss behind Bolaire's eyes, is waiting on his reaction. Hal swallows, returning much-needed moisture to his throat.
"I - Bolaire?"
"Yes?"
“Perhaps we should take this conversation more private."
Julien drains his glass. “I think not, Fang. We're here for business, not pleasure.”
"Julien's right," says Thimble. "We should find those components for the Professor.”
“Eh, I can grab them anytime,” says Murray. “This is way more entertaining.”
At Thimble's glare, she shrugs and offers a handful of nuts to Kattigan - who slings himself down beside her, one arm tossed over her broad shoulders (to Murray’s red-flushed delight) and starts to noisily munch, spitting shells to clatter off the tiled floor. A literal fucking peanut gallery. Just what Hal needs.
He finds a mirror of his amused smile on Bolaire’s face – for a single heartbeat, before Bolaire averts his gaze. And - fuck, Hal hates this.
"It's good to see that you've made new friends," he tries. Hand still resting, inviting, on the table. “Though I hope you still have time for an old one."
Bolaire tips Occtis's head so feathers of black hair fall across the mask. “You still think of me that way?”
“You know I do. I told you, didn’t I? You were sent to save us. But you’re still one of us, here in the moment.”
Bolaire fidgets with Occtis’s cuffs: one of those fussy, fastidious motions that is so undeniably him, no matter who he wears, pulling the froth of lace over his wrists like he wants to cover more skin. “You’ve told me a lot,” he says, eventually. “Little of which gave me such an impression.”
“I told you that you were an icon. That you were just as real as we were – “
“You have no tongue,” Bolaire recites, and this time, he doesn’t fix his eyes elsewhere. He stares at Hal, dead on. “And you kept everything from me.”
Hal grimaces. When the mask struck the theatre wall, shards had scattered across the floor like porcelain hail. The only thing worse than Bolaire's flinch had been Hal's slow spread of satisfaction, like he had downed a cup of icewater, cold percolating his blood.
“In my defence," he says, "you did.”
“Only because I was forced to.”
Thjazi's shadow is lost to the darkness at the room's margins. Lapping blackly, blackly, at Julien’s feet.
Hal shuts his eyes. “I know," he whispers. "Bolaire, I know.”
“Do you?”
Hal cannot answer. He loves his brother. He always has done; he always will. And right now, Thjazi is unable to utter a word in his own defence. It reminds Hal of that sham trial, the Houses overriding the protests of the people, calling for his little brother's death.
Hal is a master of the stage. Charisma comes like the music to his fingertips when he plucks on the lyre. It’s a gift - yet sometimes, it feels far too much like a temptation. Here and now, staring at those tiny blue motes cowering in the back of Bolaire’s eye sockets, Hal realises that he could twist this narrative with a few words and a smile. A baffled laugh, a shake of his head at such melodrama. He could remind his friends that he’s the wronged party here; that Bolaire mocked his dead brother in Hal’s own house; and he owes the Fang family each of his many apologies (I'm sorry, Hal. I'm so sorry, for everything…) and much more besides.
If the others believe that… Maybe they would believe that Bolaire’s words against Thjazi were as twisted as the rest of him.
No sooner has Hal considered this possibility than the thought of it sickens him. He clutches the arms of his chair. Thjazi was always capable of kindness as well as cruelty. He fought for the freedom of all people - but what if Bolaire hadn't fit his definition of personhood? What if he saw Bolaire as a dangerous artefact - a monster, stealing other's freedom to further his survival?
It's entirely within the realms of possibility that he could've done everything Bolaire claimed, and worse. He might even have thought he was doing the world a favour.
Fearing Bolaire was understandable - but does that justify returning him to the objectified existence he escaped from? Giving him orders, to be obeyed without question? Calling him an it? Hal can't quite convince himself.
“I didn't mean what I said,” he starts - then shakes his head. “I didn’t mean all of it. And what I did mean… Bolaire, I was angry.”
“Of that much, we're aware,” is Vaelus’s unasked for opinion – but when Bolaire makes a bitten-off noise in the back of his throat and shakes his head, she returns to her judgemental silence. She’s scarily good at it. Nine hundred years of practice, and all.
Hal plucks at his collar. Sweat is a wet tongue, dragging down his spine.
“I was hurt,” he whispers.
Bolaire rests his hand on the table, not quite close enough for their fingers can brush. “I know.”
“I was grieving.”
“I know.”
“I was scared of you. As Thjazi was, I think.”
Thimble hisses through her teeth, but Bolaire doesn't bristle. He lets the tips of Occtis's fingers ghost Hal's own.
“You don’t need to be, darling. I'd never hurt you."
Hal catches a shuddering breath – and Julien groans, smacking noisily at his own leg. “Dammit, Mask. Do you have any self-respect?”
“Leave the Teacup alone,” burbles Kattigan around a mouthful of nuts. “This here’s premium.”
“It’s painful to watch!”
“Eh. Teacup can make his own damn decisions.”
“But they’re stupid decisions,” Julien insists. “We talked about this – “
“Thank you,” Bolaire cuts in, “for caring, Julien. You know I appreciate it, silly boy though you might be.”
Julien turns bright red and glares at his wineglass. Bolaire shoots Hal a conspiratorial smile. For a moment, it’s just the two of them, giggling together in the back of a gala about how Bolaire swindled fresh funding out of Lord so-and-so with nothing more than an insinuation and a smile. Only – no. This is different. Julien’s ears might be burning, but he isn’t actually fuming, and the tick of his crossed legs is more frustration than genuine rage. He’s… concerned. All of them are. Because they like Bolaire. They’re protecting him. And they think Hal is someone he needs protection from.
Hal can’t exactly blame them.
You have no tongue and you kept everything from me.
At some point, you’re going to have to get over this, Bolaire.
I’m sorry, Hal. I’m so sorry for everything –
When Bolaire pulls back his hand, Hal can’t bear it. He lurches forward so their fingertips drag over each other, desperate for that one final contact, as if it might be their last. Bolaire doesn’t jerk away. But he doesn’t hold on, either. He tucks his molested hand into the pocket of Occtis’s coat and scoots back his chair.
“Maybe we should talk somewhere quieter, after all.”
“Bagsy your drinks,” says Kattigan, over the chorus of disapproving groans from Seekers and Schemers alike. “What? Not like Teacup or Dead-boy need 'em.”
“Occtis says you’re right," says Bolaire, "but just for that he’s donating it to Thimble.”
“What’s she gonna do? Swim in it?”
“Ew, no.” Thimble scrunches her nose. “My wings’d get sticky. You know I hate sticky wings.”
Bolaire laughs. It's raspy yet oddly sweet, a sound that carries a thousand memories: bickering over whether or not Lash has the gravitas to deliver such powerful lines, a shoulder at the perfect height for Hal to curl over, pinkies bumping as they reach for their teacups. Hal burns behind his breastbone, when he recognises that warmth in Bolaire's eyes – a warmth which, before today, had only ever been directed at him and his family.
Kattigan snags Hal's untouched drink, studying Bolaire over the depleting foamy head. “You sure this is a good idea, Teacup?”
Bolaire shrugs. “Probably not, but I’m going to do it anyway.”
"Your choice," says Kattigan, and the expression that twists across Bolaire's face is complex, equal parts gratitude and relief.
Vaelus rises, effortlessly elegant. Hal is drawn to face her as if she’s cast a spell. How timeless she looks, silent amidst the chaos of their convergence, wise far beyond his own years. He sees why Thaisha likes her.
“You will be careful with him,” she says. It’s not a request.
"Yes," Hal croaks. "I will."
"Or I'll stab ya!" calls Thimble, accompanied by Mara and Murray's throaty laughs.
Hal nods. He needs to pull Thimble aside at some point, ask her how she has married the Thjazi they knew and loved with the man who hurt their friend. But judging by the way she flits between their group, alighting everywhere, chattering to everyone, but no longer including the shadow at Julien's feet… Maybe she's still figuring it out.
As they leave, Bolaire walks ahead, piloting Occtis with a grace that can only come from practice. Hal feels a whole way about it, then feels guilty about feeling a whole way about it, then gives in and resigns himself to jealousy. They descend the stairs and cross the bustling bar, where the constant hum of voices and the crash of slopping flagons provides white noise. Hal fears Bolaire might stop there, swinging onto one of the stools as if he needs eyes on them, even an audience of strangers, in order to feel safe - but Bolaire guides him to the balcony overseeing the street. Out here, it's just them and the drizzle, which slicks Hal's coat to his back and Occtis's hair to the mask.
A cart jounces off the flagstones. Behind the curtained windows of the opposite terrace, silhouettes bend and shift, the citizens of Dol Makjar going about their nightly routines, each trapped in a bubble of candlelight, separate from the rest. Unaware of the flimsy walls between them.
Hal leans his elbows on the balcony's damp metal rail. It seems strange, from a distance, how each little shadow can think themselves the heart of the universe, no concern spared for their neighbour. But Hal understands. If he watched himself, a distant actor on a stage, he doesn't know how he'd feel. He might be moved by the plight of his sorrow - or, equally, might shake his head at the fool who chose the memory of a brother over a friend. Always, it is easier to impart judgement from a distance.
I'm sorry. Those words sit between them, unspoken. Bolaire has repeated them too many times, which surely makes it Hal's turn - yet he cannot, lest this is precisely what Bolaire is waiting for, in order to forgive him.
Hal doesn't deserve that. Not yet.
As Hal stews in silence, Bolaire rests Occtis's spine against the rail, back turned on the city. Those blue wisps glimmer, deep in the caverns of his eyes. They remind Hal of something small and furtively nocturnal, both predator and prey. A cat hiding in the dark.
"My little friends are here," he murmurs. "They like hitching a ride under my mask. But Occtis isn't watching. This performance is for you alone, Hal."
"I don't want a performance."
"You always want a performance."
"I want the truth."
Bolaire's gaze crosses with Hal's like a glass rapier on the Liar’s Blade. "I told you the truth, Hal, as soon as I could. It wasn't soon enough, and for that, I apologise - "
Hal holds up a hand. "I've heard too many apologies. No more, my friend, I beg."
"- But you were the one who killed my body, in the sewers. You were the one who chose to put me on our prisoner, rather than packing me away in a box."
Occtis's narrow shoulders are tight, as if Bolaire expects a denial. Hal has none to give. "Yes," he says. "I did."
This emboldens Bolaire. He steps closer until his coat brushes Hal's, only cold, grey rain between them. "I told you that Thjazi threatened me into keeping my secrets," he hisses. "I told you I never wanted to let such untruths fester between us. And - and you smashed a mask on the wall of your theatre, and you said I was a tongueless liar, and - and - fuck…"
He presses a hand over his mask. Shuddering, all the way down Occtis's bony back.
The Bolaire Hal knows is catty and witty and eloquent. Far from this petulent rush of words, hurled at him like stones in a lapidation. But Hal knows better than anyone, how heartbreak makes the tongue a weapon both clumsy and cruel. He waits.
Bolaire glances up at Hal through Occtis's wet, dark fringe. "Why didn't you put me away forever?" he whispers. "If you hate me so fucking much?"
Sorrow fills Hal until he might choke on it. "I don't hate you."
Bolaire wheezes a laugh. He mops the heel of Occtis's hands over the eyeholes of his mask. The tears that slip off his fingertips aren't quite saline - more like molten beads of glass. It might baffle Hal that he could cry, had he not already seen it: Bolaire, curled in the corner of Hal's living room, staring at his tiny, beautiful creations.
I thought I had family, he'd said, before Vaelus gave him the box. But I don't.
Hal hadn't thought anything of that declaration at the time. So many revelations had been flung at him on that last, calamitous day: Mara, the Cloak, the risk Thjazi took in the Hallowed Round, his brother's final, crazy gambit with Julien's shadow. He wonders what Bolaire must've felt, watching him celebrate Thjazi's return so soon after his own sister tried to kill him - and moreover, how it felt to sit before a party of those who loved Thjazi and bite out those damning words: What did he used to say? Thimble, please tell it what to do?
Only for Hal to dismiss him, just like everyone else.
At some point, Bolaire, you're going to have to get over this.
How could Hal have said that to his oldest friend? Knowing everything he did; knowing his daughters called him Uncle?
That word must've left their lips as often in reference to Bolaire as to Thjazi. Maybe more. Because Bolaire has been in and out of the Fang house like a stray cat these past few years, devouring Hal's entire library and quizzing him enthusiastically about its contents, helping Hero with her homework, burning the dinner so badly the one and only time he tried to cook that Shadia and Hal had escorted him, laughing, from the kitchen, while he muttered excuses - 'It’s hardly my fault that your aga wasn't up to the task', and 'I don’t understand all the fuss; it’s only a small scorch on the ceiling' - everything smelling of char and the blackened tips of his wig...
Fuck.
Hal tangles his knuckles together so tightly that they burn. "Earlier, you mentioned the doodles. They've kept you company on your adventures?"
Bolaire nods, stiff.
"I'm Bolaire," says a tiny voice from somewhere in the region of the mask's chin. They must be scuttling about on the underside, unseen. "Hal is my friend. A good friend. I'm Bolaire."
Hal tries for a smile. "Doesn't that track get tiresome?"
"No," snaps Bolaire. But then his expression gentles, and he strokes the edge of his mask, Occtis's fingers dragging over the clay. "They're sweet creatures. They can't help it, if they were poorly made."
"I didn't mean - " Hal cuts himself off. "I think they're wonderful. Just a little repetitive, is all."
Bolaire's dips Hal a concillitory nod. "They are wonderful. Did you know Figment snores?"
"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me."
"A paint bubble blows out of his nose. Thimble has declared it, and I quote, 'illegally cute'."
"Did you hear that?" whispers the chameleon. "We're illegally cute!"
"We're illegally cute!" agrees the miniature Bolaire. And they chorus together - "We're cute, we're cute, we're cute…"
Hal chuckles. To Bolaire - the original - he says, "Have you considered giving the little one a different name? This is confusing."
"Then be confused," says Bolaire. He rubs the side of his mask like he's enticing the duo out into the light. They peep onto the obverse of his cheek, watching Hal with painted, blobby eyes.
Hal might be starting to understand. "Bolaire is Bolaire is Bolaire," he murmurs. "He knows who he is, and he asserts himself in the face of a world that declares him nothing. If that confuses anyone, then so be it."
"I'm not confusing," declares the tiny, painted mask. "I'm Bolaire."
Hal smiles. "Indeed."
The larger Bolaire, however, gives a wry laugh. "I'm afraid that in this, my other self has me beaten. These past few weeks have shown me how little I know myself."
"You and I both." They're so close. If Bolaire was in his preferred shape, the sodden red curls of his wig might drag across Hal's chest, along the open collar of his shirt, clinging like they never want to let go. Tangling them up like spiderwebs. Hal tries not to stare at the mask's dark, smooth lips as he says - "I wish you had told me how Thjazi treated you earlier."
"How could I have? Hal -"
"I know. I - I wouldn't have listened, so fresh in my grief. I would've thought you were shaming his memory, your bitterness twisting your words. I just…" He shakes his head. "I wish otherwise. A silly fantasy, I suppose."
"You know I've always liked your fantasies," says Bolaire. His dark eyes are unreadable. "But you wouldn't have been wrong. I am a bitter, twisted thing. That much is true." When Hal makes to protest, Bolaire cuts him off, grabbing his hand. "But I was still your friend." It’s not quite the first time they’ve touched, skin on skin, but thanks to Bolaire’s propensity for mummifying his bodies in layers of silk and velvet, it’s close. Hal's nerves burn. Bolaire stares into his eyes at point-blank range. "Fuck, Hal. I was yours."
If I don't belong to you, Thimble, I belong to his brother...
Hal winces at the memory - but Bolaire is swift to amend himself. "I was yours before Thjazi ever sunk claws into me. From the day I saw that play, fourteen long years ago. I realised, for the first time since I was made, that I had a choice. That's what you mean to me, Hal. Your art gave me freedom. It made me alive."
It's nothing Hal didn't already know, yet jarring all the same. Fourteen years? That might've felt long to Bolaire, glutted on liberty, yet it remains a tragically short time to have walked this world under one's own command, especially when many of those years were tarnished by Thjazi. For the first time, Hal lets himself feel something other than love and fear and frustration for his brother: the fury he would hold towards anyone who hurt his family, even if they're family themselves. How could Thjazi have taken a fresh-freed person and taught them how to hate?
"I still can't believe that Rauwyn and the Goatherd brought you to life," he croaks, letting Bolaire drag his palm up to cup his cool clay cheek. "Not my finest work."
"It's a charming, rustic comedy with overtones of redemption-through-love," Bolaire insists. "A classical trope, if a little overdone. You pulled it off splendidly, Hal, and I won't hear otherwise - "
Hal laughs. "Dead Gods," he says, wiping his eyes. "I love you."
He should be grateful that Occtis is already deceased. Judging by Bolaire's shellshocked expression, he just forgot how to breathe.
Hal has never been ashamed to express himself. He loves like a firework – big and glorious, its echoes spreading far across the sky; leaving blinking motes on your vision, even after it fades. Thaisha, Elodie, every lover between… what he felt for them burnt bright and true and beautiful. He could never bear to tie it down, lest he lose something ineffable in the process.
There was a time when he thought he might’ve learnt to love a different way, for a different man. That man was a lie - but, Hal discovers, tracing the coquettish glints of firelight as they dance across the glaze on Bolaire’ lips, that didn’t lessen what he felt. For all he’s tried to deny it.
Bolaire manages a laugh of his own. "Some confession," he says, like Hal is joking.
"Take it however you want. But it's true, Bolaire. I swear it."
Bolaire's eyes glow. He looks at Hal like he hung the stars. But then that hopeful shine dies, and he shakes his head. "I… I don't know what I want, anymore."
Hal should've expected that. He nods, mouth terribly dry. But when he turns to trudge back into the bar, Bolaire catches his arm.
"I don't know what I want," he repeats, nails digging in, scoring pine-green crescents in Hal's flesh. "But I have always, always wanted you. From the day I knew what want was. That's not going to change any time soon."
Those words should've buoyed Hal's sinking heart. Oddly, they only make it heavier. "Your friends think it should."
"Our friends."
"More yours now. And I'm glad for it. You need people in your corner. Especially when…" Hal hangs his head. "When I haven't been. Truthfully, Bolaire? A part of me thinks the others are right. You shouldn't want me. I - I have been anything but good to you, of late."
"Hal -"
"And I deserve none of your idolisation. Whatever force created your consciousness - whatever broke your bonds and granted you freedom… My play might've been a conduit. But it wasn't me."
Bolaire’s mouth tightens. "Don't say that - "
But Hal can't not. "You owe me nothing, Bolaire," he snaps, wrenching his arm to freedom. "And - and you're not mine. Not in the way Thjazi told you, or how you're telling yourself, or -"
"Not even if I want to be?" Bolaire demands.
To that, Hal has no answer. His mouth slides shut.
Bolaire leans close enough that Hal might feel his breath on his lips, if Occtis's lungs weren't empty. Earlier, Hal couldn't look at him, but now - oh, how impossible it is, to drag his eyes away. If Occtis wasn’t in there… By the Old Path, he doesn’t know what he’d do.
"There's more than one way to belong to someone," says Bolaire, soft. "You gave me freedom. Your brother took it. But all along, Hal - all along, the only thing I hated him for more than what he did to me, was choosing death. Because that hurt you."
Hal's pulse is thunder, rumbling through his ears. "I don't deserve this," he whispers. "I don't deserve you."
"Well, you have me. For as long as you need."
There he goes again - putting his life in Hal’s hands. He made a proper ceremony of it, down in the sewers, those putrid tunnels that squirm beneath Dol Makjar like worms under skin. Quite different to when he gifted himself to Tyranny. Hal had presumed this meant Bolaire's overtures in the sewers were nought but manipulation: a grand gesture to regain his trust, hollow as everything else about him. How could that have any meaning, if Bolaire had handed himself over to Tyranny not one week later, like it meant nothing? Like he meant nothing?
Now, he thinks of smashed masks and screams, and wonders if he had told Bolaire, without so many words, that he was worthless.
Bolaire had offered himself to Mara, too; agreeing to become a component in whatever arcane ritual Thjazi and the Cloak were piecing together. Horror clogs Hal’s throat, so thick he might choke. When Bolaire was apologising to him, promising to leave... Had he ever expected to return?
"Shit," he whispers. "Shit."
Bolaire frowns. "What?"
Had he really intended to leave things as they were when they parted? To walk to his death with Hal hating him? Hal can't bear it.
"Don't let my brother's ritual destroy you," he says. "Bolaire, please."
Bolaire steps back. Fists clenching and opening again, like he's grasping for something invisible. For the first time in this entire conversation, he looks rattled, like Hal peered too deep into the bottomless shadows of his eye sockets. Then he shakes his head, turning for the balcony door and the warm thrum of music and laughter beyond. Murray’s distinctive twang floats through an upper window, guiding Kattigan and Thimble through a dwarven folk song: something about rocks and sunsets and slapping tall-men in the balls that her students take to with great enthusiasm. "I - I'd best head back to the others. We'll be on our way at first light. It was good seeing you, Hal - Hal?"
Hal thuds into him from behind. Arms locking around him. Choking on a sob.
Occtis is slight, close to Bolaire’s preferred body type. He fits so easily in Hal’s arms (Hal’s big hand crushing over his ribs, scrunching his velvet overcoat; Hal’s head burrowing into his shoulder, where it belongs).
"Don't go where I can't follow," he gasps. "Bolaire - please."
For a moment there is silence, but for his wet, heavy breaths. Then Bolaire says -
"Even if it's what Thjazi intended?"
"Yes!"
"Even if it's for the greater good?" A lifeless chuckle. "My, Hal. How selfish."
"Then I am selfish!"
Hal spins Bolaire in his embrace, needing to see his face, and - shit. More glass tears bud at the corners of Bolaire's eyes, spilling molten down the runnels carved into his cheeks. Hal's ribs seize tightly at the sight - for Thjazi might've taught Bolaire to hate, but Hal couldn't bear it if he was the one who taught him to cry.
"What reason have I," whispers Bolaire, "to stay?"
Occtis remains silent, as do the painted oddities on Bolaire's mask. This question is for Hal alone. He clasps Bolaire’s face between his palms and leans in - not to kiss, but a contact that is equally profound, pressing their foreheads together in that old Rungjani symbol of trust. The mask is cool. Rain slick. They are surrounded by the mist of Hal's sigh, just briefly, before it dissipates back into Dol Makjar's night. His hands could slide downwards and cup Bolaire’s waist, sway him to the lilt of music - but that would be… disturbing, with Occtis involved. For now, Hal keeps his touches on the mask, thumbs sweeping over it, learning the contour of forehead to nose, the precise angle of the tear tracks cut in Bolaire's cheeks.
"I can't keep you here," he murmurs. "I'm not good at holding onto people. But I will be selfish, Bolaire, and ask that you come back to me. I'll be waiting, at the Seven Stars, with a tea you won't drink and an opinion about the staging of Margrav's Rennickor that you will despise. I can't wait for you to tell me so."
Bolaire relaxes, just subtly, and settles a death-cold palm over Hal's knuckles. He neither confirms nor denies Hal's request. They linger together for a timeless duration, seconds or minutes, though to Hal it will never be long enough. When Bolaire tugs for freedom, Hal releases him, and he walks back inside without a word.
Hal doesn't know if he reached him - just like he doesn't know if it's possible to unlock the Halfling afterlife without destroying Bolaire in the process. But he isn't his brother. He won't take Bolaire's choices from him, even if his heart screams that he must - not to save the world, but to save him.
It seems he has given himself more regrets to mull over tonight, and every night that will follow. Hal stays outside, face upturned to the downpour, letting it wash away his tears. He’s always had a soft spot for Tragedy - yet he prays to the world and all the dark, dead places trapped within it, that once, just this once, there will be a happy ending.