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Hal worried about him, sometimes.
It was never a conclusion Azune would have come to on his own. He had his subterfuge for Thjazi, sure. Sneaking into Commander’s offices to sneak glimpses of the patrol schedule, bargaining with coworkers to be on patrol at just the right time to ignore some smugglers– it wasn’t risk-free, exactly. Neither was his “regular” job, technically. Azune wasn’t often in a situation he wasn’t sure he could get out of, but people using magic for purposes outside the law didn’t often take kindly to being interrupted.
Logically, Azune knew he was sometimes in danger. But– he was just so safe. He wasn’t starving. He was rarely injured beyond minor cuts and bruises and the occasional gash. It was the safest he had been.
The absolute safest he had been. It itched at him sometimes, actually. Made him check and double check his door and windows, scour his apartment for traps, because it felt like a lulling. A false peace before something just under his feet blew up. It was hard to believe just how incredibly calm things were in his life sometimes now, years after the war.
So in a rare in-person meeting with Thjazi, going over the habits and weaknesses of the marshalls that usually patrolled the marketplace (he didn’t ask why. He never did), when Thjazi dropped his chin in his hand and said, like he expected Azune to know what he was talking about, “Hal worries about you sometimes,” Azune looked at him and said, “...why?”
“He thinks you’ve never really had the chance to have a life.”
Thjazi’s face is turned towards the window. His voice is casual. This is how Thjazi approaches frightening things and frightened things, Azune knows from long practice. A rebellion. A new recruit. He acts as if something is casual or inevitable or deeply, deeply wanted until he makes it so. Bends the world in his shape.
Azune can’t quite track the bend here. He can’t figure out if Thjazi thinks he’s frightened or frightening. He wouldn’t call himself either, but he’s been wrong before.
Slowly, tasting the truth as it as it comes out, Azune says, “The Falconer’s Rebellion is my life.”
“Mine as well,” Thjazi says, absentmindedly. The twist at the corner of his mouth means unhappiness. Upset. Azune knows Thjazi’s expressions better than his own.
Azune shrugs. “Then so long as the Falcon cries, my life continues.”
Thjazi shifts to look at him. Worry settles into a face made for smiling.
“What if it didn’t?”
“What?”
“Cry. The Falcon. Or if you had never heard it. What would you be, in a world without the Falconer’s Rebellion? What would you do?”
Azune stills. There must be sound, filtering up from the street. His heart must beat. But it doesn’t, it must not, under the paralysis that hits him like a lightning bolt.
What would you be without the Falconer’s Rebellion?
Dead. Or– non-existent, in any way that matters. The Falconer’s Rebellion is home, family, and who he is in one disparate, shattered group. He lives for them. He’d die for them. The Azune without the Falconer’s Rebellion–
He comes up against a Blank. A Void. A Nothingness.
That Azune does not exist.
He can’t convey the immensity, bubbling under his skin, beneath his throat, at the thought. So he just says, “I wouldn’t. I just… wouldn’t.”
There's silence for a moment. Thjazi’s jaw is tight, before he abruptly relaxes.
“Yeah, I know, soldier.” Thjazi reaches out and ruffles his hair, very, very gently. He’s smiling, but the edges are wrong.
Bittersweet, Azune thinks.
It’s difficult to make someone happy when the right answer is also the worst one. Azune’s seen that many times, lying for Thjazi.
He doesn’t lie to Thjazi, not intentionally. Well, not often. Usually only for the sake of Thjazi’s wellbeing. This might have qualified, but he doesn’t know. He doesn’t think this conversation would have gone better if he lied.
Azune knows Hal worries about him. He wishes he would stop.