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Halandil wakes.
He doesn’t want to get out of bed. Not after the events just hours—it’s only been hours—before.
Shadia probably is awake. He needs to be there for his daughter. He wants to be there for his daughter, wants to be there for his friends.
But his bones are heavy, fingers unfeeling; dark hair is uncomfortably plastered to his forehead, tusks almost feeling like too much against his upper lips, green eyes unfocused on the ceiling of his room.
There’s a mirror in his room.
He nearly broke it last night.
Halandil knows he’s his own person. He spent time knowing he’s his own person, especially against his brother, especially once he left.
Yet all he can see is Thjazi in the mirror.
He may be missing the toothy grin, the mischievous shine in his eyes, scars on his fingers compared to the callouses on his own.
Yet all there is in the mirror is Thjazi.
His rebellious brother who could always get out of anything.
Except for execution it seems.
Somehow.
How? is the word that had been on his mind since the floor dropped beneath them all. Thjazi was supposed to live. Any second Halandil expects for his brother’s corpse to sit up with a smile, and proclaim that everything was false, just another step in the plan, that he has a new target, that he has a new plan, that—
Halandil just wants to hear another word from his brother’s lips.
He remembers, when he was much younger, when all he wanted for the words to stop coming out, for his brother to stop giving him shit for everything he’d do. There are ripped up shreds of old lyrics in his heart, before Thjazi slightly matured and before Halandil began to take his craft seriously.
Thjazi always was a rambunctious child. His father never completely liked it, considering the amount of arguments he had to break up.
Halandil wishes his father were there, just for a moment, to tell him to suck things up and that he’s not his brother.
His father would’ve broken the mirror to prove a point.
But Halandil is weak. He cannot. He cannot forget his role in this failure, even if he isn’t completely sure what that role is.
He’s still in bed. His fingers are almost as restless as Thjazi i—was. In times of hurt, he tends towards his instruments and writings, notes and lyrics as an outlet. They are restless, but the rest of him isn’t.
Perhaps if he stays, he’ll be as dead as he feels. He can join Thjazi again.
But he knows he can’t. Not when his children are around. And honestly, Thjazi and Thaisha would never forgive him, and Halandil isn’t sure he can handle that right now. They could accept if he let himself bleed, but not death. Not this soon.
Thaisha had drowned her grief in alcohol last night, and he did somewhat of the same to no effect, outside of the headache that throbs. There’s a small hint of anger that courses through him.
That was his brother! His daughter’s uncle! Why did they have to accommodate others?! Or how his brother may be ruining everything he’s worked towards?!
Not to mention Wicander showing up! Halandil still isn’t sure how to feel about that, or how to feel about the man in general.
His fingers are still restless, and his eyes shift towards paper on his desk.
He has a stage now. He may not have one for long.
It shouldn’t be hard to do what a proper bard does, but even opening his mouth takes energy, and all that comes out is a quiet groan. His eyes sting.
Halandil doesn’t want to look at his eyes right now, not when they remind of the Thjazi.
He wants to bleed, to numb this emotional pain with physical pain.
He wishes his skin could be flayed off.
He wishes his eyes would be gouged out.
He wishes his tusks would be filed down.
He wishes his fingers would be severed.
He wishes the mirror was broken.
He wishes he could be like Thjazi and his father, who would go on and break the mirror and get into clean clothes and go on. Despite their quarrels, they both shared the restlessness his fingers have. Maybe that was their way of handling their emotions, instead of rotting in bed and being more useless than a corpse.
Thjazi is more useful than him right now.
He isn’t sure how he’ll be able to eat at the table, knowing his brother lay there. Perhaps the stench that will forever refuse to leave will attract flies, rot the food before it can ever reach his mouth, not that it shouldn’t reach his mouth as punishment.
There’s a knock at the door.
He doesn’t answer.
The door opens anyway.
Thaisha stands there, almost looking sober.
She looks at him, with those nearly gentle, understanding eyes that she has often. He almost wishes she never showed up in the first place. He doesn’t deserve that small comfort.
He doesn’t deserve her as she walks over wordlessly, and shifts the blanket to take a seat on the bed.
Halandil allows her to maneuver his corpse, lets her still his fingers.
Her fingers are warm, heavy on his own.
His head is on her thighs.
Thaisha would do this, occasionally, when his thoughts and body and just everything was too much.
He wishes that this wasn't a comfort for him. Not her quiet humming. Not with the way her fingers stroke through his hair. Not with the way the stinging allows for tears to form.
“Is there anything you would like me to do, Hal?” she asks, in that voice that’s so understanding that he doesn’t deserve.
“...I don’t want to look at myself,” he eventually rasps out, slower than a snail.
“Would you like me to break the mirror?” Thaisha always was good at guessing what he’s thinking.
There’s a small hum from him.
Her fingers still stroke through Halandil’s hair as he feels the sheer weight of her druidic magic.
And hears the shatter of the mirror.