Chapter Text
He's meandering through the market stalls, looking for something for Shadia's birthday when he spies Castep, peering in delight at some kid's attempt at pottery.
He laughs quietly. As true to form as ever, that man.
He goes to call out to the man, before he remembers.
He'd held his own, and he'd held it well, had Castep.
So who the fuck does this bastard think they are, mocking the memory of one of Thjazi Fang's dear friends?
So he follows them.
It's clear they knew Castep, well and truly knew him, and the thought burns, because for all Castep talked, he never said much, unless you prodded. Pried. Gently ribbed. Quietly and softly nursed something that wasn't made up on the spot out of the man like a flickering candle.
He wants to charge in, all righteous fury and broken heart.
Castep would have laughed. Called it foolish heroism. Would have cautioned him to wait. To watch. To let them tie their own noose, before you tighten the rope.
Because righteous fury was all well and good right up until you ran out of people to be righteous at.
And so, for the man he was most of the way in love with, he waits. He watches.
He lets the thing playing at Castep tie its own noose. And then he sets out to strangle it with it.
He ropes Thimble in. If anyone will know if he's overreacting, it will be Thimble.
They corner the thing at a café it goes to regularly. It thinks itself a curator, it does.
Castep once said, for his ears alone, that if he could have done anything, been anyone, he'd have wanted to work with artifacts.
"No-one ever considers what they wanted to do," he gestures wildly, nearly hitting him with his arm.
"The... artifacts?" He hazards. They're both awfully drunk.
Castep nods rapidly, his wavy hair, delightful to plait, swishing across his
face with the force of his movement.
Thjazi notes, with that particular flavour of fondness reserved for 'Nessa, that his roots are growing out again. It's remarkably difficult to acquire hair dye in the middle of a civil war, but by all the
dead gods does Castep fairly consistently manage it.
He quietly resolves to have a talk with his wife and his friend, once they all get out of this alive.
And they will all get out of this alive.
They never did get to have that conversation.
They corner it at the café. It looks startled at their presence. There's a flash of some other emotion, but it's there and gone again so quickly that Thjazi can't tell what it is.
"So," Thimble begins. Thjazi gratefully lets her take the lead.
"So," the thing echoes softly, some quiet amusement on its face.
Thjazi wants to break its nose.
Thimble bristles at the supposed insult. "We're not stupid," she hisses. "We know what you are, what you did."
The shoulders that the clay face have stolen somehow manage to stiffen and
relax at the same time. It blows out a slow breath.
"Ah." It sounds like Castep.
It sounds like Castep.
It's still talking. "I suppose you're hounding me like brutes because you're after answers, then," it grumbles as Castep would have, but Thjazi can hardly hear it.
He's too busy trying not to smash in the face of an innocent man because the thing wearing him has the godsforsaken audacity to sound like Castep, even now.
Oh, dead gods- Did he ever really know Castep? Did he not notice, as this thing killed him? Was it an act, the whole time? Was he - oh, dead gods - was Castep constantly one wrong move away from being killed? Is that why he never said much of anything at all?
Thjazi feels sick.
The thing tilts its stolen head at him, exactly like Castep would have.
He's going to kill it. Slowly. Painfully. He is going to make it regret ever existing at all.
He leans forward in his chair. So does it.
"Now then, Master Lathalia," he murmurs, "if you want to keep your cushy job, and your precious life you've built, you're going to do some work for us."
Something in its face shutters. A door that he didn't realise was open has been slammed shut and promptly welded closed from the inside.
Thjazi Fang cannot shake the feeling that he has fucked up.
Which is bullshit, obviously.
She hates it.
For what it did to Thjazi. For what it did to Castep.
She hates it. She hates that they need it, that they need its aid, but Cyd won't be any less of a statue if she doesn't use it.
So she takes the rest of their merry band of soldiers to the curator of the Lloy Wing.
She hates it.
She hates that she can see Castep in its motions, its movements, its wisdom, its grin, its voice, its charm.
She hates it.
There's a reason that she left it to Thjazi. She'd thought she'd be okay. And then it tilted its head just so and she'd had to find somewhere else to be before she broke down screaming and crying because she hates what it did to Castep and she hates that she still sees him in it and most of all she hates that she will never be able to tell where Castep ended and it began.
"What fucking mess have you left me with?" It demands, impressively high pitched. "Where have you been? What has been going on! Why did you leave that letter?!"
She flutters in silence, feeling like it punched her in the gut. She can't do this. She has never been able to do this because WHERE DID CASTEP END-?
She scoffs at it, hovers close enough to shove a finger in its face. Tells it what it will be doing.
And then she flutters over to sit on Teor's shoulder. She feels shaky.
It's interrogating Tyranny and Wick, entirely done with their shenanigans, and Thimble cannot breathe because that expression is pure Castep; she's going to start crying.
Kattigan is watching Bolaire from the floor, a pained look in his eyes. Old grief. Where did Castep end and it begin?
If any of the others spent as much time together as her and Thaz, then it was Cas and Katt, with Azune a close second, always at Cas' heels.
She's going to throw up.
She hates it. She hates it, because the alternative will kill her.
Because something was shuttered off from them that day. Some warm fondness she hadn't noticed until it wasn't there. Because of what they said to it.
Because if she really, truly thinks about it, she knows exactly where Castep ended and Bolaire begins, and it makes her sick to her stomach.
Because if Castep was never there, then it was all Bolaire. Because if it was all Bolaire, then she has no right to hold onto the button that she keeps on her even now.
Castep had given it to her with a conspiratorial grin. "For such an honourable warrior of the Orchard, my lady," he'd winked at her. "A calling card, announcing her honourable heart and dirty tricks to the world!"
She's held on to that button for years. Some days, its all she manages to console herself with, that Cas believed in her, that he was so proud of her honourable heart and dirty tactics.
But if Bolaire is all that there ever was, then she has no right. No right to any of it. She's not honourable, she's a coward! She couldn't even look him in the eyes because of how much he reminded her of Castep! Why did she never say anything!
Our Thjazi has a rather bad habit of treating his people like things first and foremost, Castep - Bolaire - whispers to her across the years. And it's our job to keep an eye on that for him, darling.
No. No, no no. She is a warrior of the Orchard. Her dear friend was so proud of her honourable heart and dirty tactics. She is fine.
She hates it, because the alternative will kill her.