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Bolaire loved Hal’s home. Every detail of it that was picked up and placed by him or his family. The objects on display, proud, well loved. The ones shoved to one side, or half hidden.
The things a person kept, and how they kept them said so much.
Would he keep him?
He mentally sighed. No, no, he was thinking about it incorrectly, he wasn’t a thing to be kept. Not anymore.
“Copper for your thoughts?”
He looked up. Hal smiled down at him, handing him a mug of coffee.
His host's heartbeat picked up.
The mug was a little lumpy, handmade. A rainbow of colours and childish drawings fading, but still perfectly visible. Shadia’s work and all the more perfect for it. Made with love and well cared for. A precious memory of Hal’s daughter, and he entrusted it to Bolaire to drink coffee from.
The first god he ever saw he killed. He had never experienced miracles, but he decided that they must feel like this.
He gazed at Hal who sat down across from him, his own mug didn’t match his own, but was still its pair. It was crafted the same day by the hands of Alogar. Its construction was better, but its colour palette was more muted.
“I was admiring your decor," he answered Hal honestly.
“Not to your tastes?” Hal chuckled. “I’m not really surprised."
“Tch. The judgement! It’s to your tastes, that's why I like it,” Bolaire countered.
Bolaire felt an ache in himself. Hal’s clever fingers wrapped around the mug, holding the warmth, a bittersweet reminder the son distant, but adored.
And he grinned. "You're too kind."
"You know that I am not."
"You're just the right amount of kind."
"That isn't true either, but I'll take it," Bolaire quipped. He took a sip of the coffee.
“It’s not coffee from the Slayer’s Bake,” Hal apologised in amusement.
“You will not hear me complain, especially when the company is so good,” Bolaire smiled. A smile that would make most mortals wince or flinch away. A smile that was almost painful with how vulnerable it made him feel. Because it was so very genuine. Something like him was not made to be genuine. He was a prop.
Before, drinking and eating was a part of the act of being the Museum Curator. The Museum Curator was a man with a body. He would enjoy fine foods and drinks and so that was what Bolaire consumed. Only the finest things. Only the best. That’s what the part required.
But now, through his link to the body he smelled the darkness of the bean’s roast. A more expensive blend that Hal would have gone out of his way to procure. He prefers lighter, sweeter things, and doesn’t balk at cheapness, used to making his gold stretch for his little family earlier in his life.
So, this coffee was bought with Bolaire in mind.
To have him in his home, and share this drink with him.
It was thought, and intention, and kindness, and affection. It would not be mentioned, or foreshadowed. It would not be metaphor. It just was. A little act, but not an act at all.
It was something true. Something real.
Hal made him this coffee because they were friends. Because this was what Hal’s friend would prefer, and Hal enjoyed treating his friends well.
So how could the Museum Curator be an act? How could it be false when this coffee from a friend, an orc named Halandil, was for him?
“I like this a lot,” Bolaire said truthfully because what did taste matter to him? It could be rancid filth and he would still be moved by the sentiment behind it.
“Got it on Elodie's recommendation last time she was over with Hero. She said it was for those of a discerning taste. Seems she was right.”
Hal looked pleased and Bolaire felt content.
No, Hal would not keep him. He wasn’t a thing to Hal. Hal would listen to him, and understand.
It wouldn’t be easy, but Hal put great effort into the things he cared about, and Bolaire was starting to understand that he was one of those things—
One of those people.
There was no knock at the door.
It opened.
Disaster in its wake, although he didn’t know it then.
“Hal! You home?”
Surprise lit across Hal’s face, and then a delighted smile. He quickly stood, squeezing Bolaire’s shoulder as he passed and made his way to the entrance hall.
“My brother home at last! Oh!" His voice dropped, concerned. "Thjazi, what happened? Are you alright?”
“The usual scrapes of life on the road, you know me. Come here. You’re getting more white in your hair, old man.”
Bolaire would often wonder, if he didn’t leave the kitchen, if he had stayed, would there have been some way to avoid it? This meeting?
Or was it some cue from the universe? Thjazi Fang enters, stage right.
Bolaire stood. Hal’s little brother who he often spoke of, was a little taller and brawnier. Tusks a bit bigger, eyes gold instead of turquoise. The resemblance wasn’t uncanny, but obvious.
Thjazi was hugging Hal tightly, thumping him on the back. He caught Bolaire out of the corner of his eye. He startled.
“Oh shit," he started apologetically. "I didn’t realised you have… company.”
Oh.
Oh no.
Bolaire knew that face.
It had always been an unremarkable blur. When you are a tool you’re more interested in the intentions of the hands that wielded you, not the face that wore you, nor the ones that stood beside you.
But seeing it again, he knew he knew this face.
And this face knew him.
Knew him.
Hal’s brother’s eyes were not like Hal’s in any way. They were not kind. They were not warm. Hard and cold and assessing. Taking stock of the situation. Threat assesment.
He pulled away from his brother. Moved to place himself in between them.
Hal was unaware of the shift. He was an observant man, but Thjazi also placed himself so that Hal couldn't see his face. He kept his body loose and relaxed.
So Hal only continued with introductions.
“Yes, I’ve told you about him before, this is Bolaire Lathalia, the Curator of the Lloy Wing and our patron who has set us up in the Arcanade until better accommodations can be found. Bolaire, this is my brother, Thjazi. All the stories I've told you are true, don't let him fool you.”
Thjazi approached, eyes never leaving his. He smiled, his voice was friendly.
“Your dashing patron. Yes, you have mentioned him. How long have you two known each other? A year or two after the Rebellion you met, right? I think that's when you first mentioned him.”
Oh.
This was an act.
For Hal.
And Bolaire, well, he couldn’t help but play along.
“Yes, about a year after.” He took Thjazi’s offered hand and they shook. Thjazi didn’t let go right away. He put his other hand on top of his.
A little pixie (she had been there too, hadn’t she?) sat on Thjazi’s shoulder. She looked unsure, worried. She looked back at Hal, then to Thjazi, but her face was so small Bolaire doubt Hal noticed.
He was starting to need glasses, but refused to wear them, Bolaire thought. Why was his heart breaking? Why was…
Thjazi let go. A decision was made. He turned back to his brother.
Hal looked happy, relieved, a little worried his eyes skimming over the bandages on Thjazi’s neck. They caught on the pixie.
"Oh, sorry, didn't see you, and this is-" Hal began.
“I”m sorry about interrupting,” Thjazi said slowly, cutting his brother off. He glanced back at Bolaire, “And I know I’m a prick for asking, but it’s been months since I’ve seen my brother.”
Bolaire took that in. Hal was obviously surprised.
The bard tilted his head. “We were just having coffee, there’s enough for two more, especially when the second cup is a ‘thimble’ worth.”
The pixie’s laugh at what was obviously supposed to be a friendly joke wasn’t at all convincing.
“Of course!” Thjazi said quickly, “Next time, for sure, but I need to talk to you. I saw Thaisha and—”
And that was all it took. The apology wasn’t even on Hal’s lips yet, but Bolaire knew it would come presently. There was no better way to pull Hal's attention than to mention the mother of his children.
Something sour filled him, but he let that go. Hal's love for people, for his family was something Bolaire admired and it was not something he would let be tainted by envy.
Never-the-less, he saw the way the wind was blowing.
Thjazi knew who he was.
What he was.
Who he was.
And it was clear he was trying to shield Hal from that knowledge.
And also clear he wanted Bolaire out of the house immediately.
This was not the way to do this. Not with so many unknowns. Not without control. He wanted Hal to know the truth, but not like this.
“Say no more,” Bolaire said, waving his hand like it was only a minor inconvenience. “We’ll do brunch next week at the usual place, Hal. Thjazi, a pleasure. If there is anything you require, please don’t hesitate.”
He gave a pompous little bow.
"I might take you up on that," Thjazi said mildly. He was so focused on Bolaire he wasn't able to catch Hal as he moved past him to go to Bolaire's side.
Hal caught him by the shoulder. Earnest, apologetic.
Lovely, lovely man.
Hal's back to Thjazi so he couldn’t see the fear, the anger, the way his hand moved to his sword.
It confused Bolaire for a moment. Deeply.
The reaction was a familiar one, but not one that belonged in the house of Halandil Fang.
And then it finally occurred to him that Thjazi thought he was a danger.
A danger to Hal.
And stupidly.
So stupidly...
As Hal gave him a hug goodbye, over his shoulder he mouthed to Thjazi Fang:
“He’s my friend.”
Confusion, anger, more fear, and then cold assessment.
Thjazi gave a single nod of acknowledgement, but jerked his head toward the door, his message clear.
Acknowledged. Now leave.
And he did.
He had to wait a week before the shoe finally dropped. He had made the best of it, spending as much time as Hal's and his own busy schedules would allow.
It didn't feel like enough.
The pixie was small. He could probably slap his hands together and end her if he was quick enough. He didn’t try. She stood straight and to her full height. A letter was folded at her side.
“Listen,” she said, voice brisk, but obviously at least a little nervous the way she fidgeted. “We looked into you.”
“You already know who I am,” he said carefully.
“Yeah, well, you’ve been here years and you’re…” she shifted, angry and frustrated. “What the hell are you playing at with Hal? What do you want from him? You’ve taken others—”
Shit. They worked fast these two.
“—So what could you possibly want with—” she cut herself off. This wasn’t part of her script. She was going off-book.
“He’s my friend,” Bolaire said.
She looked at him in disbelief. “That’s what Thjazi said you said. I didn’t… I don’t believe that. Why the fuck would you want to be friends with anyone? You're a creepy haunted mask!”
Bolaire didn’t know how to answer that. Didn’t know how to make her understand how stupid that question was. Didn’t know how to tell her the difference a friend in his life had made. How the thought of living without him...
“He sees me,” Bolaire finally said. Utterly inadequate. He though of Hal, how he could probably write a sonnet that would perfectly describe all that Bolaire was feeling. How with a pluck of his lyre he could give form to the emotion inside him.
And yet, the pixie froze at those words.
“I’m his friend,” Bolaire said. Still inadequate.
And yet, she understood.
Her stance softened, just a little bit.
“Oh,” she said. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“That’s… Thjazi always said Hal could charm a wall… I guess he wasn’t so far off…”
“I’d like to think I’m a bit more sophisticated than a wall, but… I understand why you think I’m a danger. I get it. And I am. I’m dangerous, but not to him. Never to him. Please, you must understand. I am not trying to hurt him. I would never.”
Now the Pixie looked… guilty.
“Yeah… yeah I get it,” she said. “I get it… well… just…” she didn’t know what to say. She had intended to threaten him, cajole him into leaving Hal alone. Off script, against orders?
She took the letter folded up carefully at her side and put it in front of him.
“Thjazi says you need to read this. That it isn’t a threat, it’s a promise. If you do not follow the terms laid out… and that… if you tell Hal, he will pull you off that stolen face and you will be locked up somewhere so remote that Hal will have died of old age before someone finds you to put you back on.”
Oh.
Now the pixie looked ashamed.
“What’s your name?”
“Thimble.”
A thimble worth of coffee. It was a cute joke.
He stared at her helplessly.
“I can assure you, Miss Thimble—”
“Just Thimble. Just… just Thimble, okay? Look. Just… just read the note. It isn’t… it isn’t about Hal. Just… Thjazi thinks you won’t hurt him. He said you had too much time for it to be about making him put you on.”
Bolaire opened the letter.
It didn’t make sense at first, what was being asked. He knew Hal’s brother was an ex-revolutionary. He knew that he was an adventurer. That Hal pressed his lips together sometimes, insinuating that his brother might not be entirely on the level, but he knew very little about that side of things. Had enemies that Hal and his family were sheltered from.
This was.
Fuck.
Thjazi Fang was dangerous if these were the things he wanted.
He looked down at Thimble in disbelief.
She had squared up again.
“It’ll be a mutually beneficial arrangement.” Her words echoed the letter. Not her words. Back on script.
And let me be clear, this will be a mutually beneficial arrangement. I will give you items that something like you will find of interest. You will acquire things for me that I find of interest. The position you find yourself in means you are more useful to me if no one knows what you are. If you step out of line I imagine they’ll display you right next to the Pariah Blades.
One last thing. You will not tell Hal. You will not tell him of our business and you will not tell him what you are. There’s no way for me to extract you from his life without losing you as a resource. Make no mistake. I care about my brother a lot, so this fact pains me a great deal.
Know that I will find the deepest darkest pit in the world to throw you into if you bring harm to him and his children in any way. That includes the knowledge that he has been taken in by a thing.
We’ll be in touch.
-TF
Taken in by a thing.
Taken in by a thing.
Hatred and resentment curled inside him.
It was the first time there was no dithering. The first time there was no hesitation.
The first time he knew automatically, down to his soul that he was not a thing.
He was Bolaire Lathalia, Curator of the Lloy Collection. Patron of the Arts. He loved find foods, and dark coffee. The best coffee was served in a lumpy mug made by a child’s hand. He had a friend who thought of him when his ex recommended fancy coffee. Who invited him to his home when their usual meeting place was under renovation.
Who took care of his things.
And even better care of his loved ones.
And Bolaire also knew, because he was not a character, or a part, or a weapon, or a prop, that he would do anything in his power to keep this life that was his. He would do anything to hold that lumpy mug again and hear one of Hal’s cute little jokes.
Fuck. He had so much to live for. He had so much to live for.
But how do you beg for your life when the person that held power over you saw you as a thing?
He was a mask. He could not cry.
He simply folded the note and nodded.
“Very well, Thimble, tell your boss—”
“He’s not my boss.”
“Tell your friend, that I think we can do business together.”