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I know the ep got posted a small while ago but the decision by Liam O'Brien to use the phrase "defang our play" just has so many layers
There's a top three
Firstly, just the phrase itself is incredible- the way the candescent creed is trying to disarm the minds of dol makjar by taking the fangs out of a play and molding it to their story
Secondly, the fact that Hal's last name is Fang ties in so well to how the candescent creed's "notes" gutted his story like a fish and completely got rid of the heritage that he has as a Runjani
Thirdly, the way it also shows the other Fang, Thjazi, and his rebellion and personality being erased with what was probably a big historical source of hope for him as well as the ways that his story and murder were mirrored in the play being taken out, completing the half of the defanging with his brother just goes down so smooth
The choice to portray both the attempted suppression of Halandil Fang's history and also the effort to take away the tools for rebellion by using a play on words like defang is just so
Sometime in the early parts of the year 64 in the Age of Mortals, at an older apartment, one we the audience are not yet familiar with as it's his first home within the city, Bolaire woke to the sensation of hands harshly gripping his face.Â
“Back!” Bolaire commanded as his eyes lit and sight flooded back to him.
Before Bolaire processed anything more than the magic taking hold and the fact someone had attempted to touch him- No, had touched him in his sleep, and this wasn't a dream or hallucination, he called his glass rapier and extended it towards the sound of feet shuffling back a few steps.
“You should not have-” Bolaire began, voice dark and with a tone of warning, but abruptly cut himself off as he recognized the orc past the tip of his blade. “Hal?”
“Bolaire?” Hal spoke hesitantly, scanning Bolaire intently.
“Well, who else, darling? You're in my bedroom.” Bolaire huffed in annoyance, but Hal's hesitance broke and gave way to relief.
“You're alive!” Hal exclaimed, rushing forward as the magic that compelled him away faded.
“What? I- Of course, I am, I-” Bolaire looked down at his pale necrotizing skin, realizing the body that was normally very covered in layer after layer of finely woven and perfumed silk was very much exposed, with nothing but a thin linen sheet to hide it. “Fuck. Shit.”
“I came in and you weren't responsive even when I shook you, I- I was sure that-” Hal stammered, hands hovering above Bolaire as though he were scared to touch him again. He probably was.
“No, Hal, that's-” Bolaire quickly dismissed the rapier, and almost extended the hand for Hal to take, but faltered seeing his hesitance to touch the admittedly unusual skin. “I wouldn't call it normal or good but it- This is fine.”
“But- You- Are you sick?” Hal asked, sorrow at the prospect already bleeding into his voice.
“No, I-” Bolaire hesitated. Hal was upset and Bolaire owed him the truth, but he was still reeling from the misunderstanding himself. Could Bolaire tell Hal or was Hal only pretending to not know? Bolaire knew Hal had thousands of opportunities and would have many more of he were pretending to be clueless, so how much could Bolaire trust Hal now? “Fuck, how do I explain this, I-”
“Are you cursed?”
“No, Halandil, I'm fine.” Which was nearly not true for Hal, Bolaire realized belatedly. Everyone who had come into contact with the mask whose time in the world had passed before he or his wearers cut it short slowly eventually died anyway. Castep's friend had said even just a short time was havoc on the body, and Hal had touched him. It was Hal that they should be worrying about.Â
“But you- You look-”
“It's just- a side effect from- the mask…” Bolaire trailed off before he could tell Hal just that, that it should be Hal they should worry about, as he realized Hal had touched him. And not just his body, but the mask. Bolaire's hand lifted to his face and fingers brushed against where he could still feel the phantom touch. The insistent and harsh but not painful pat to the face that had shaken him from his torpor, and the hand that had, as he now understood, steadied his face so that Bolaire's neck wasn't hurt had been Hal's hand as well. His bare hands had both touched Bolaire's face. “You touched my mask.”
“I'm sorry, was that- I didn't think, I just- You weren't waking up, and I panicked-” Hal stammered.
“I'm alright, darling.” Bolaire reassured him, reeling at the fact that Hal seemed to be alright as well.
Someone kind had touched him and they weren't hurt. They had hovered over him in fear and cupped his face in desperation and that hadn't hurt them like Castep and his friends had implied it would. Bolaire wanted to take Hal's hands and press them back onto the clay and see just how long he could be held- But that kind person's eyes were still trained on Bolaire, filled with confusion and concern, waiting for some explanation.Â
“The mask… numbs the body. Especially when I sleep. I only just realized that's how you woke me, I thought- Well, I suppose it's quite clear what I thought.” Bolaire sighed, thinking back to how quickly he had jumped into action. “I'm sorry about the- Well, the sword to your throat.”
“I get it, you woke with a start and didn't hurt me before recognizing me, you just-" Hal took a deep steadying breath, finally having a reasonable explanation for Bolaire's unresponsiveness. “I suppose you… served?”
Bolaire relaxed at the excuse. It wasn't exactly a misunderstanding, the instinct was born from the memories of being torn away from consciousness, sometimes held down first during his time being passed between those awful mercenaries, the instinct just wasn't necessarily only useful in the war. But again, Bolaire couldn't just tell him that now. Bolaire could consider it, but for now… For now, enough of the truth would do.Â
“In many a war, long before I became one of the Masters of the Archanade. Most recently I fought for the Falconer's Rebellion.”
“For the Falconer's?” Hal asked, surprised.Â
“Yes, darling. Though I've never had the pleasure of meeting your brother. I was always assigned to very clandestine missions. Your brother was far too notorious for he and I to have any reason to be in contact with each other, no matter how stealthy he could be.” Bolaire wondered belatedly if Thjazi would have ever known Castep, though he doubted it. The Torn Banner had been far too notorious compared to the little band that had gotten their hands on him. “Though that's a life I've tried to leave behind me.”
“Are you in pain? Because of… your condition?” Hal asked carefully, changing the topic back, less frantic and more intrigued now. “Is that why you're numb?”
“Yes and no. Pain is a response to damage to the body. The mask- I feel the mask not my body, so no, I'm not in pain. But the strain on my body…” Bolaire sighed and looked down at the body that would undoubtedly die the second he cast it off. He'd come to terms with what he was, but that didn't make the gore of it any less horrific. “The boons of the mask don't exactly help me not break it further now, do they?”
“I understand.”
Bolaire's gaze snapped back up to Hal. “You do?”
Hal nodded slowly. “I didn't mean to be invasive, I just- I knew your place was just around the corner and I've never been to this place so I didn't want to get lost, and I figured that if you were running late then we could walk together, so I… You didn't lock your door either, so I… I thought the worst.”
“Hal… I'm alright.” Bolaire finally stretched out his hand and rested it on Hal's sleeve, squeezing Hal's arm comfortingly without forcing the skin to skin contact that Hal seemed to be avoiding. “And my condition isn't technically a terminal illness despite its aggression, nor is it contagious, before you worry yourself even further. More of a… permanently reoccurring injury really.”
“That's a relief. Though that caveat of technically dampens it.” Hal sighed, taking Bolaire's hand in his. Hal carefully threaded their fingers together, his eyes roaming Bolaire's exposed skin to ensure he was gentle enough to not tear the visibly fragile tissue. “I didn't realize just how bad some of the curators' injuries could get.”
“My condition is the worst by far. I can lose mobility at times until someone finds me and carries me to where I can be- treated, I suppose. That's why I'm so careful with my aides and wear my protective gloves wherever I go. I don't want any more unpredictable accidents.”Â
“You need to be carried?” Hal gasped, looking back up to meet Bolaire's gaze.
“It has been six years since I've become so incapacitated that I need to be carried. I only meant to communicate its extremes if unmanaged.”
“What item in the collection did this to you?”
He'd always wanted to tell Hal about his family. Though not quite like this. He wanted Hal to be able to turn away. To react truthfully rather than out of obligation. The right moment maybe would never come, but this Bolaire knew was the wrong one and Bolaire selfishly didn't want to ruin it. So for now, a truth wrapped in a lie.
“I'm afraid it's not in the collection. There was- a massive explosion, and it took a while before I committed myself to the curation of the Lloy Wing after the- original mask was- destroyed.”
“Did you know the name of that mask?”
“Yes. I did…” Bolaire thought of a dozen names he could give Termina instead of exposing himself, but he had learned now that they had been given so little. A purpose that would soon expire, a face, and a name. And it had been so long since he heard his sister's true name, that he couldn't bring himself to tell a lie. Not when her purpose and face were long dead and only her name yet lived. “I'm sorry, I'd rather not speak of that day so early in the morning. And I should get dressed.”Â
“Right, of course. Um… Your wig.” Hal let go of Bolaire and stood. Almost as though on autopilot, and grabbed it from the dressing table and tossed it to Bolaire.
“Thank you, darling.” Bolaire said, quickly throwing the red curls over his head. With the wig back on, Bolaire started to relax, feeling once again like his honest self. Looking up at Hal though, he seemed shellshocked. Unable to look away from the discoloration that mottled Bolaire's skin. “The visual extent of my condition might be a bit alarming. You should probably wait in the kitchen.”
“Right.” Hal nodded, backing towards the door. “Got it.”
“I'll be right out.” Bolaire tried to smile encouragingly at Hal, and he supposed partially succeeded as Hal turned and ducked out of the room.
Bolaire hurried but was careful to not overly rush as he got dressed. Less washing and perfuming was done as Hal was painfully aware of the state of Bolaire's body at this point in time. Instead the effort was mostly put into making sure Hal could tell Bolaire was still capable of caring for himself. Bolaire had been incredibly moved by the concern, but the pinched look tugged on Bolaire's nonexistent heartstrings and Bolaire hoped it would be smoothed away once Bolaire was put together.Â
Bolaire hesitated as he went to pick up the gloves. Hal hadn't truly been scared to take his hand once Bolaire had reassured him that he could, even without, but there would be others. And it's not as though Bolaire could really feel Hal's skin anyway. With that decided, he picked up and slipped the gloves on easily, and Bolaire slipped out into the other room.
“Good as new.” Bolaire joked weakly, startling Hal.
Once Hal settled again, he nodded slowly, clearly at a loss for words. He scanned Bolaire, lingering on the spaces where bits of skin peeked out. Bolaire kept his expression steady as he watched Hal notice that perhaps Bolaire's condition hadn't been so totally hidden after all. The neck was largely exposed and there were times when the hair would part enough for Hal to see his ears, and Hal had seen Bolaire shed a glove or two to lend to a friend before, but to Hal's credit, that was all, and Bolaire was careful to still have a tall collar and his hair cascading around his neck. But Hal was noticing that he still could see what looked from afar to be a bruise, maybe even a lovebite. Probably Hal realized that there had to have been signs like that that Hal had overlooked.
“I hope you made yourself at home.” Bolaire spoke, hoping to break Hal from his clearly spiraling thoughts.
“I guess I did…” Hal started. “I, uh… I cleaned out your old fruit for you. You're basically clean out of good food.”
“Yes, I- I've been working late at the Archanade and picking up what I can on the way to and fro…” Bolaire sighed. “I'm sorry you had to see me like that.”
“I know I came out here, but- I can handle that. I'm a veteran too. I just didn't want to argue to see you naked like that.” Hal clarified.
“Still. The extent comes and goes. I'm used to it, but it can grow alarming, for even myself. There are things that can be done to- address it but those are magically and often ethically complicated to manage, and so I try to only do so when absolutely necessary, but- It is getting to the point where it will have to be dealt with to remain animated, but I can manage it myself.” Bolaire turned and grabbed his cloak and flung it out and around his shoulders and pulled the hood up, to shield the mask slightly, as he always did, throwing shadows over any discoloration that someone on the street might otherwise passively notice. “Anyways, we're already running late. I was just caught up in a dream, I suppose.”
Bolaire hadn't expected that. He'd expected another question, something about the mask, not some sort of reassurance back.
Hal nodded dutifully and fell in behind Bolaire as he led them out of his apartment and locked the door. He remained quiet, and fidgeted with the strap of his messenger bag as they stepped out onto the street. For the first couple of minutes the walk was completely silent between them. Bolaire could see Hal working himself up to say something and left the space between them empty until Hal eventually broke. “If you want to tell me about that day too, you can. I'll listen. But you don't have to.”
“Thank you, Hal. Truly, you don't know how much that means to me.”Â
“Really, I- I know you said you can do it yourself, but- you don't have to. I want to help, if I can. However I can.” Hal continued.
“You have helped. You do help. The mask and dealing with my condition-” Bolaire stumbled over his words. He wanted it to be completely honest, but he was too scared. And so he leaned back into his most practiced lie. “No one's ever- No one alive has touched my face. At least not since it's been what I call The Curator's Mask.”
“The Curator?”
Bolaire couldn't help but smile at Hal's curiosity being focused on the mask, even though Bolaire knew he couldn't tell Hal the whole truth on the busy street. “Well… It's an ancient theatre mask. Based on a long gone theatre from the time of the Shapers. At this theatre they used to hold one of the few theatre competitions not presided over by the Goddess herself, or a projection of her aspect like one imagines would stand over Dol-Makjar and the other shield cities, but rather, it was officially judged by one of the celestials.”
“Do you know which celestial?”
“Not yet, I'm hoping to learn more about it in my studies of what exactly destroyed the holy theatres in Hargood. But this celestial was said to have loved poetry and story so much that she would weep at every one, and so she chose a disciple to act as Curator. The Curator was supposed to narrow down the entries to those she could enjoy and weep as long as she wished. The legend says that The Curator eventually became the sole judge of the competition because she would weep so long it created the river Thalia, where my family name comes from, and she would only finish wiping her tears by the next year's finale. In that sense, it was the first theatre for the people to decide the stories they wanted to tell rather than the Goddess.”
“Is that what the tear lines are for? To represent the rivers of her tears?” Hal asked, gesturing to the dark lines of the mask.
“I believe so.” Bolaire nodded. “The river itself is quite deep into a valley, so the black may represent the depth of darkness on the surface of the river, or the depth at which the stories touched the celestial of the Thalia.”
“And was Thalia the name of the Celestial as well?”
“That is the question of the hour. The river is said to predate the celestial as a valley that was carved by one of the winds, and thalia is an old celestial word for poetry and song, so we don't know if Thalia, the name, is a reference to the story, or an older story where perhaps there were singing stones that whistled and the cries of the celestial are based on the wailing winds, or, as you said, simply the celestial's name.”
“Ah, so it's a double entendre. A Curator of Artifact, and a Curator of Story.” Hal grinned, gesturing first to Bolaire's body and then to his mask.
“Well, they are one and the same, darling. Most of these objects are incapable of speech, after all. Even the magical.” Bolaire pointed out, and pointed to the corner of the building with the public entrance as the Nest and Natter came within sight. “Your interest in history and mine in story are natural by-products of our different passions. I must curate the story of history that you might curate history into story, and I learn the most from the different interpretations of what stories I can find. It's rather a sort of chicken and egg conundrum.”
“That makes me feel better about how enlightening I find our little salons. I worry at times that I'm the only one getting anything out of it.” Hal chuckled self consciously, stopping Bolaire in his tracks just before they reached the corner. Hal stopped too and turned as soon as Bolaire fell behind. "What? What is it?"
“Nothing could be further from the truth.” Bolaire said emphatically. “Believe me, Hal… I don't know if anyone has had a more profound impact on my life than you have. Even just this morning, it- It has been years since I've literally felt anything other than pain. Not many are as understanding as you are.”
“About a mask you didn't choose to wear?”
“Well, the problem is that I do choose to wear it. It has the ability to be hidden and I don't use it because this is my face. And if I don't have my face and I don't have my name, who am I?”
“Is it so bad to just be a member of the chorus?” Hal asked back eventually. “You don't need to have an important role to be of worth, Bolaire. You're a part of this world and that's enough.”
“Even so, I think you know I would rather die than blend in with the chorus, darling.” Bolaire mentally shook himself of the thought and started walking again. “But enough about me. Let's get inside and discuss this new play of yours. What is it about?”
“Tragedy or comedy?”
“Two young romantics." Hal answered, falling in line. "They both are trying to find love, and they both write about love and who they hope to be with and be themselves when they finally marry. In letters, diaries, poetry, and slowly the audience realizes that they're writing about each other, even if they might not know it yet.”
“Hard to tell. I think by the end you're still left with the question.”
“Well, what are you thinking of calling it?”
“You know, I was going to ask if you had an idea for a name, but I think I have it now.”
“And?”
“That'll have to be a surprise.” Hal grinned mischievously, pulling open the door of the tavern. “After you.”
~~~~~
“When he took himself off, there were- There were some bags that I delivered with him to our friends in Tintazi, but there was this too.”Â
Azune nervously presented Hal with a thick inter-departmental envelope from the Archanade, with a string wrapping around two pins to hold it shut. Written on the line for the curators to assign the department a memo was headed to and what the envelope contained were just four words.
For Hal, With Love
“Did he tell you anything?” Hal asked, and began to unwind the string.
“Not about this.” Azune answered quietly. “I know it- I know those were the words on the note on the crates.”
“Yeah, well… He did always love a- reprise…” Hal's voice trailed off as he immediately recognized the thin booklet, that in truth was little more than a folded piece of paper.
Hal could feel the pages had been crumpled before. He'd seen Bolaire doing archival work on paper before, and he could see where Bolaire must have spent hours restoring each page after Bolaire or whoever had the copy before him had balled it up and caused the damage. Something told Hal it had been Bolaire though. The conflicting efforts evident in the simple artifact told its own story. One that maybe Hal misunderstood, but, in the end, still didn't know whether to laugh or cry at.
Even setting aside the matter of Bolaire, Halandil Fang has a long-standing pattern of ignoring or compartmentalizing the problematic behavior of people close to him.
It started about twenty years ago, when Thjazi was about to marry the Lady Aranessa Royce. Hal was with Thjazi and Aranessa before the wedding, when Aranessa offered up Thimble as a gift to Thjazi. Thjazi is immediately and justifiably disturbed by his soon-to-be wife giving him an entire person as a gift. "Sorry, the fairy's a gift? I don't agree with any of this." After Thjazi's repeated objections to what Aranessa has done, what does Halandil Fang have to say?
"Just shut up and say thank you."
Thjazi is willing to believe that Aranessa can be wrong and make choices he can't ethically accept. Indeed, it was only a year after this wedding that he left Aranessa because he couldn't accept her choices and those of House Royce. But Hal does not want to believe this about Aranessa. He wants to smile and say thank you and not disturb the peace by making a fuss about whether it's ethical to give Thimble as a gift or not.
Fast-forward to the end of the Falconer's Rebellion, when Azune shows up on Hal's doorstep with a plea from Thjazi to look after him. As mentally unwell as Azune is in the present day, I can scarcely imagine how fucked up he must have been as a sixteen year old war veteran with his home and family forever lost to him. As he spent time in Hal's home, his behavior and reactions must have made it clear that Azune was severely traumatized by his time as a child soldier in the Rebellion. What any foster parent ought to start thinking in this situation is: "Did this child's previous guardian do right by him? Or did he fail him?"
Except that Azune's previous guardian was Thjazi, and nothing indicates that Hal ever took Thjazi to task for letting a child fight for him on the front lines, or for the mindset that his guardianship created in Azune, that he is a thing, a weapon, only worthy of care if it is bought and paid for. Just like Hal liked Aranessa and didn't want to believe she might have crossed a line with Thimble, and would rather have just kept the peace, Hal didn't want to disturb the peace with Thjazi by suggesting that he might have crossed a line with Azune.
As @everroth and others have noted, Hal's biggest character flaw is complacency, wanting a peaceful, untroubled life without having to be reminded of the cost of maintaining that peace. Is it, then, any surprise that Hal has, once again, ignored and compartmentalized the fact that someone close to him might have hurt somebody else close to him, for the sake of his own peace of mind?
luis’ performance in episode 19 actually made me start crying i’m going to throw up. i forget these people are professional actors sometimes because like what the fuck was that dude
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What breaks my heart is that Hal seems to make peace with his own death long before anyone else does. After returning from the sewers and speaking with Elodie, he quietly begins preparing for a future where his children will have to live without him. Then comes the play, the speech that turns him into the face of the revolution, and the miracle unfolding before his eyes. For the first time, he sees everything he spent more than thirty years building finally come to life. History is remembered. People are united. Hope returns. In that moment, he thinks, "I could die tomorrow and it would all have been worth it." It doesn't feel like despair. It feels like a man who believes he has already given everything he had to give. That's what makes it so tragic: just as the whole city begins to see a symbol, Halandil Fang has already begun letting go of the man behind it. He fights for the city, for his family, for his beloved ones for an better world where he doesn't exists.
Do you have any headcanons for Hal's old man habits? They've gotta come up at least once in a while. He's a good 15 years older than the next oldest of his boys.
-rookery
I actually think Hal has mellowed a lot in the past decade. He's become very confident in who he is and what he wants, and learned from to let go of a lot. Raising three intelligent and independent kids will do that to you.
I think he doesn't stress getting places on time, unless it's production related. I think he values relationships and also likes to help lift people up, even if their goals are not the same as his own.
I think he loves deeply, but has learned to keep the consequences of that to himself. He likewise hurts very deeply, the two go hand in hand, but again he takes that as the price paid for that love, and does not bother people with it. He's oddly almost solitary for all that he surrounds himself with family, friends and loved ones.
He does like his comforts, his chair by the fire that no one else dares take, his slippers, and sometimes he finds himself slipping away to bed before the others.
