Work Text:
When Bolaire is contacted by the Archenade for an “urgent issue”, he’s expecting more paperwork.
He is not necessarily expecting to see Oghash Dahak sprinting out of the Archenade’s doors like a bat out of the hells. But unexpected needn’t translate directly to panic-inducing, so Bolaire continues approaching at an even pace until he can catch Oghash by the upper arm. “Young man, what has gotten into you?”
Oghash is sweating, dark hair clinging to the sides of his face. The rich Orcish green of his skin has desaturated into something frightened and nauseous. “There- there’s a- inside- th-there was a- a- a-”
“Spit it out!”
“An axe!” Oghash exclaims, pupils constricting with fear. He sucks in a sharp breath and points back towards the Archenade. “Th-there was something taken out of the archives f-for a rotating display, an axe, a-and Torin picked it up and, and he- he just- he went mad, Bolaire! He just started swinging!”
Bolaire decides to overlook Oghash’s moment of overfamiliarity; he does not consider himself on a first-name basis with most of his fellow Archivists at this point in time, much less with this young man who was hired not four months ago. But the boy can hardly get a single word out, much less a proper title. “This wouldn’t happen to be the Axe of Murzat, would it?”
“Yes! Torin, he-”
Bolaire releases Oghash’s upper arm and strides towards the Archenade’s grand doors with speed. That’s all the information he needs.
The doors open into a large, echoing foyer. A long desk stretches along one wall for visitors to pay for their ticket, hand over their coats, and inquire about new exhibits. Opposite that desk, two hallways open to various wings, as do the stairs at the far end of the foyer. Bolaire’s sharp footsteps bounce off the walls as he strides towards the Shapers’ Wing.
It does not take long for the sounds of shouting to reach his ears. Bolaire rounds a corner, glass blade manifesting in hand, and is met by quite the interesting sight.
Dear old Archivist Torin Stone, Curator of the Shapers’ Wing, stands opposite a long, low podium that supports a fragmented section of a pre-War temple column. Torin is panting heavily. His shirt is crinkled and his tie is undone, and his spectacles are nowhere to be found. There is a manic look in the old man’s eyes. The Axe of Murzat is clutched in his right hand, blood wet upon its cutting edge.
“Where is it?” Torin snarls. “Where is the blade?”
Across the podium is Darha- no, Archivist Aze, as she insists on being called. Bolaire can respect that demand, and that is all he respects about this vain, self-important woman. She is panting too, and her hands are shaking as she spreads them in a placating gesture. “Please, calm down! There’s no need for violence! Just release Curator Stone, and we can find a proper home for you here-”
“Archivist Aze, what utter nonsense are you spouting now?”
Torin’s head snaps towards Bolaire. Gone is the kindly old man who oversaw Bolaire’s training when he was first hired. This possessed figure looks towards him with a warrior’s bloodlust in his eyes. Someone with a singular goal, someone willing to destroy whatever stands in the way of him and that goal. It is a feeling Bolaire knows well.
Darha grits her teeth, fists clenching as she looks towards Bolaire as well- his sword, first, and then his face. “Back down, Lathalia, I’ve got this!”
Bolaire ignores her instruction as he steps forward, arcing his blade to point down and diagonal in a defensive stance. “Do you? Is that why I see Curator Barallot cowering under the table, hm?”
“They tried to take the Axe, and Torin-”
“This isn’t Torin anymore.”
The Axe now gives Bolaire its full attention using Torin’s eyes. The old man stalks towards Bolaire and levels the weapon in his direction. “You. Tell me where the blade is.”
Bolaire can see Darha’s brow furrows as she tries to comprehend this request. For someone who spends her life around artifacts, she has a remarkably weak understanding of how they all relate to one another within the larger tapestry of history. She sees individual marks upon a canvas, not a full painting. This had become readily apparent on their first day of work together, along with a great deal of other judgments, including her assertion that the Archenade should have never hired someone foolish enough to get a cursed mask stuck to their face. That desperate superiority sours her expression now as she tries to reclaim control of the situation, snapping, “Torin- Torin, don’t!”
The old man is already charging for Bolaire, axe swinging through the air in a massive overhead arc. It’s a foolishly telegraphed strike, one Bolaire parries easily with a flash of his blade. Metal screeches against glass, making Darha wince. So sensitive, and so very foolish.
“Do you really still think you’re talking with Torin, dear?” Bolaire snipes as he takes a half-step to his left, forcing the Axe to counter on his right. “No. I know what you are.”
Torin’s face scowls. His grasp on the axe tightens. Something deep, guttural, and distinctly unnatural rips itself from his vocal chords as he lunges forward.
The whistle of razor-sharp metal through air is followed by a roar of frustration as Bolaire dodges, deft on his feet and quick to take advantage of the exposed side of Torin’s ribcage. Raw-edged glass slices easily through work attire and old skin, and the body of Torin shudders in pain as red starts blooming across his vest, a handful of inches beneath his armpit.
It’s not a deep cut- Bolaire has no intentions to fell this poor old man, merely to keep his jailor’s attention solely on him- not on the injured Curator Ballarot hiding but a dozen feet away beneath an info desk, clutching their bloodied upper arm, nor on the air-headed fool who insists on interrupting the conversation once more.
“It- the axe! It’s possessed, isn’t it? With the spirit of Azgra’s worshipers! Or- no- Murzat themself!” Darha looks quite pleased with herself for reaching this conclusion.
Those are certainly the two most popular theories as to the cursed nature of Murzat’s Axe. It was a weapon used in Murzat’s failed insurrection against Azgra. While it did carve a bloody trench through a number of Azgra’s finest and most zealous warriors, it didn’t make a dent in the Shaper himself. Such a weapon would not be created until the Lloys smithed the Pariah Blades, and so Murzat themself was brought low by the people of Dol-Rungja. Legend has it they live on in that very axe, ready to possess whatever fool dares pick it up so they may continue their conquest against Azgra. Others say the joint spirits of Azgra’s fallen worshipers inhabit the weapon, hungry for vengeance.
Popular is the most applicable word to describe those theories. They’re nowhere near accurate.
The other employees of the Archenade think Bolaire strange, or a fool. Perhaps even a strange fool. And he is happy to let them share in that delusion, for he knows he is so much more.
“Dear Archivist,” Bolaire simpers, “What interest would Murzat have in Shay’s Blade?”
Darha’s expression crumples. She gawps uselessly, trying to come up with an answer, but Bolaire has already moved his attention back to the possessed old man coming towards him with another swing. He moves with a speed and strength unnatural to a man of his age and build; it is the axe which empowers him, the axe which drives his fury.
It is not Murzat, no, nor followers of Azgra. It is a holy piece of Azgra himself.
“Heretic,” Torin’s mouth snarls, spittle dripping from his lips. The next swing very nearly connects with Bolaire, but he manages to deflect with the edge of his blade. “You are a repulsive thing, a tool to be used by the ignorant and ungrateful-”
Bolaire hisses and twirls his blade about. The tip finds Torin’s knuckles, spraying blood across the ground as it cuts a gash across all four fingers curled around the axe’s shaft.
With his grip weakened, Torin’s body stumbles back a step. His lower back collides with the low podium displaying stone ruins, and Bolaire closes the distance with unnatural speed. His off-hand grasps Torin’s wrist and squeezes, threatening to break the delicate bones within.
“Come now,” Bolaire whispers, leaning in close. The deep-set blue pinpricks of his eyes glow bright. “You know I am so much more than that.”
Gone are the days of being a dormant relic, waiting for the next brainless bystander to lift him from a dusty crate. Gone are the days of being a tool or weapon for somebody else’s use. The power instilled within Bolaire upon his creation was enough to fell a god; he will not bend now to some little divine fragment that refuses to accept that it is dead.
Torin’s hand opens, and the axe clatters to the ground.
Bolaire bends to retrieve the relic before any of these idiots can lay another finger on it. He can feel the bloodlust and anger of Azgra raging within- it attempts to overtake him much the way it overtook Torin, but Bolaire regards it with all the attention of a mountain regarding a breeze. His sword vanishes, and he holds the axe primly in both hands, blade lying flat against his open palm.
“Archivist Aze, please tend to Curator Ballarot and Curator Stone. I need to clean this artifact and return it to its proper resting place.”
Darha, predictably, just stares at Bolaire, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Finally she splutters out, “Wh- how did you- what?”
Bolaire sighs and repeats, “Please tend to your coworkers, I must put this very dangerous and misunderstood artifact away, where it will not be poked, prodded, or pilfered by misunderstanding hands. Am I being clear, Archivist Aze?”
Finally, she snaps her jaw shut and nods. Darha rushes around the pedestal to crouch beside Torin. The old man is dazed, but not injured badly. Bolaire has no doubt that he will recover with some rest. Darha seems to conclude as much herself as she looks him over.
Just before Bolaire steps away, she looks up at him with newfound respect and fear in her eyes. “How did you know what that thing was? You- your face is a cursed artifact, how did you know to…?” she asks, voice barely louder than a whisper.
Bolaire chuckles. “My dear, I’m much more than just a pretty face. You’d do well to remember that.”
With that, he turns on his heel and walks towards the staircase that spirals down into the archives.