Chapter Text
Pierro flees the remainder of Khaenriah at the Tsaritsa's side, scarred and beyond saving from the horrors he was made to witness – those he held dear torn up and bleeding inside out, familiar buildings turned to ash, gods littering the sky with their divine thrones, Khaenriah shallow ruins of the nation it used to be – but not without bringing along one last companion he would not give up to the gods.
"Captain," he calls, looking to his right. The Tsaritsa has retired a few moments ago, no doubt ready to isolate herself in her throne room yet again. It is getting concerning – her distance from everything surrounding her; but it is not Pierro's place to comment. Not when she is still so clearly distraught, and he is just as well off as her.
Now, they remain alone – only he and the Commander of the Black Serpent Knights, seated at the table without a word yet exchanged. capitano's face turns his way, a curious tilt to its movement easily negligible to the naked eye. Pierro cannot see his face – a fact he despises, but will never admit to – but it is clear that he is given the man's full attention.
"I am... troubled." He admits, frustration lacing his words. He knows Capitano to be more considerate than anything, knows that if there is anyone he could possibly trust in this world, it is him. He understands that, he comprehends that on a level he cannot possibly unlearn, no matter how large the distance he attempts to create between them. The commander's pull is far too strong.
Pierro has always known that; had the man not been so incredibly reminiscent of an unstoppable force of attraction, demanding respect and dependence on similar notes, his men would not have been so painfully devoted to him. He is perfect at his job for a good reason, the very reason why Pierro granted him the title "The Captain". Still, this level of reliance is an indulgence he shall not allow himself on a good day.
Capitano hums contemplatively, his voice deep yet not the least bit unsettling. "Is this about the Tsaritsa's sudden distancing from you?" He asks, and although the question sounds innocent enough – Pierro knows it is – it is an accusation to his ears. It is not, it cannot be, for Capitano has always been a straightforward man, never one to go about things roundabout. Yet, in his own head, it rings a reminder of his own betrayal. ("I have come to you," Capitano said, and his voice had been thick with well-suppressed hurt. "I have accompanied you since we met back in Natlan. I have aided you." He sighed, the sound grating to his ears. "And yet you reject me. You refuse my company. You isolate yourself in a manner no human should ever have to live. Why do this to yourself, Pierro?"
The Jester bit back: "Speaking as if you do not do the same. While it might be true that you have your comrades, you keep even them at a distance. What right have you to lecture me?"
"You know my reasons well, Jester," Never did he despise his own title in the way he did then. It was a rare show of defensiveness. "I am a hideous creature. Closeness with me can only create conflict. Naturally, I must keep my distance. But you? You are still the same as I remember you, barely touched by the curse's physical effect. You suffer, but not in a way keeping you far from your own." How Pierro held back the sheer urge to tug the oblivious bastard into his arms was an unknown miracle, but he managed. "You overestimate yourself, Captain," his said instead, voice frigid. "What shall I do with a creature so hideous?"
He could tell that the Captain realized what he was playing at, but he tensed up all the same, the blue behind his mask diminishing as he closed his eyes to register the blow. "Very well." He responded, neutral. Cold. "Apologies for overstepping.")
He swallows at the memory, chest constricting. "Yes," he nods, closing his eyes.
He is old, he does not wish to solve any conflicts anymore. At this point, he should be an old pile of bones sinking into the earth, not running around living through a period of youthful drama. He has a world to fix; a world he cannot mend for as long as the Tsaritsa remains uncooperative. "What shall I do to get her attention back to what truly matters?"
"What distracts her?" The Captain asks instead of giving an answer. "Find out the reason for her absence. Do not be too overbearing; try to ask her worries, gently so. Attempt to understand the core issue to solve the resounding ones." Capitano fixes him with icy blue. "I know you prefer to do things cordially, dynamically. But a listening ear goes a long way."
A pause as Pierro considers the Captain's words. "Would she cooperate if my approach is less rigid?"
Capitano rises from his seat, clearly sensing the end of their conversation. The rift between them has grown hollow. The Captain had been merciful enough to honorably bury a soldier who had once betrayed him, so why not Pierro? He is aware, he understands Capitano better than any living man. He knows the man to be surprisingly gentle-hearted, understanding even when he is at the receiving end of the issue, but decisive enough to solve the situation lest it calls for it.
A perfect leader.
His perfect Harbinger.
And yet, there lies Capitano's weakness. He is too righteous to use any dishonest schemes, far too benevolent to treat Pierro like the man who he trusted with his battered soul only to be rejected so horridly.
The tall man steps away, then turns with the slight jingling of his mask's silver chains, heading to the hall's entrance. "A listening ear goes a long way," he reaffirms as a response. "Not only for the Tsaritsa." He adds, nodding his head, before exiting the hall.
Pierro collapses in his marble chair the moment the gates clink shut, his heart stiffening rapidly from a feeling of guilt as potent as any disease. One he would never rid himself of, for he is a man with a mission who cannot allow for distractions.
Rosaline wanders the Tsaritsa's Palace without any destination in mind.
The cold embraces her burning heat, soothing balm against a sizzling wound. Snowflakes cling to the red fabric of her dress as she exits the balcony, heels clinking against the corridor's rug. Her eyes stare at mere emptiness, head filled with nothing but images of red staining her vision, of a dying man's last breaths.
Her heart no longer lurches like it used to, far too used to the feeling to perceive anything but numbness. Her delusion helps greatly, taming down her raging fury at the darned abyss that took away her lover. She despises it still, wishes to obliterate it from the inside out, but she barely manages not to burn herself in the process.
"Lohefalter," a distinct voice calls her name just as her steps falter in front of the hanged portrait. One of the many scattered around the palace, honoring the martyrs of Khaenriah, the victims of the gods and the abyss alike. A portrait of her darling's mild smiles, his honeydew crescent moons, the darkness of his strands. A sight she beholds at every chance she gets. She does not turn, for the Captain is unforgettable to her. A ghost from the past, a man she'd known, if even in passing; a man her husband had looked up to with so much fervor.
She can barely remember his original appearance – it has been centuries. He'd been tall and as lean as the top-notch swordsman he is. His skin had been marred, calloused. His face had been handsome, eyes of sapphire piercing in their brightness.
She can see none of it under the blackness of his attire.
Is he truly any different from a ghost?
He is still the same as she remembers him, after all. So steady, so firm, so admired by his soldiers. He speaks in similar patterns, and regards her with sympathy he'd always held.
It's disconcerting; his presence.
He occasionally looks after her, ever the responsible one. She knows the reason for that to be his respect for her husband, and the knowledge that not she alone remembers him in this world is a great comfort.
"For how long will you stand so transfixed, gazing at the portrait of one who has been long since gone?" He inquires, with no true animosity to his tone.
"For as long as it takes for the Tsaritsa to help me seek out my revenge," she replies simply, not looking away.
He steps closer, his shadow tall enough to shield her from the light of the candle-holder. "Live your life, Rosaline." He speaks, almost all-knowing that his advice will fall into deaf ears. They've only met again a few months ago, after Pierro recruited her into the Fatui, but he is perceptive. He has always been. "Find a purpose outside of the ring of vengeance. I do not ask of you to abandon it, only not to center your life around it. You are yet young, heal your scars instead of letting them fester."
"You are no better than I," she states unblinkingly, dull. She has yet to fall into a respectable persona: that of the arrogant, crimson witch of flames. Her newly acquired delusion leaves her hollow.
"You're right," he admits easily, ever straightforward, ever genuine. He does not need to act, for he is by nature a respectable man. There is a clear reason why everyone sees in him a figure so deserving of their devotion. She envies him. "The pain yet haunts my days, and I suspect it will continue to for years to come. But I do not cling to the ruins of my fallen nation. I look to what can be saved, rather than what has long ended in destruction."
"You're a lucky man," she says, although what she truly means is 'strong.' Because that is exactly what he has always been: a mighty man. Unlike her, a genius so frail of mind, shattering into pieces at the loss of a lover. "Not everyone is as invincible as you."
He hums, seemingly comprehending the unsaid. "Your path is one of self-destruction," simple, true. "If your flames do not eat you from the inside out, your hate will."
He moves from behind her, grasping her shoulder for a second before he continues on his path in a show of closeness they do not own. An invitation, she can tell. His instincts to shield blooming, clearly enough. "There is more to humanity than mere suffering."
The nocturne of his coat sucks away at the light as he lays it on her shivering shoulders. "You only need to seek it out."
And with that, he leaves.
The cloak is firm upon her shoulders, a reminder that with her new delusion, the heat on her skin is a mere hallucination of a time when her own flames burned at her flesh.
How he could tell is nothing short of a mystery.
"You." Scaramouche greets flatly, raising a silent eyebrow at the black-clad man standing in front of his room's door.
He's rather surprised that he even bothered knock – the red witch quite literally broke the door last time, and she had come to ask him about the crazily irrelevant meeting she had missed while out on a mission she was too inept to complete in time; pathetic, really – let alone stand there and wait for him to open the door.
He's practically half the man's height, and while that is not in and of itself intimidating, everything else about him ticks off all of his alarms. He recognizes powerful people, and this man is most definitely one of said men.
Now, does he think the man in front of him is being purposefully threatening? Absolutely not.
This is by no means their first encounter – he has attended a couple of meetings before, and the Harbinger known as "The Captain" has been present for most of them – and he has seen enough to form a coherent idea of the harbinger.
He stands with a straight back, speaks in formal speech, is the only one who has yet to snap at anyone during any encounters. He seems level-headed enough, an ever-righteous warrior through and through. Definitely nowhere near an annoyance as that fickle witch. Still, those rigid ideals of his never fail to rub Scaramouche off the wrong way. Such a glaring weakness for a man oftentimes referred to as 'nigh-invincible'.
Scaramouche knows better than to trust his own judgement blindly. After all, no one he has met so far in this god-damned palace has been any variation of sane, so he cannot possibly lower his guard. "What do you want?" He asks, keeping an eye out for any sign of aggression. It's always the innocent-seeming ones.
"The meeting is about to start," is the response he gets.
Unimpressed, he huffs. "And they sent the top-ranked Fatui Harbinger to let me know?"
The armoured knight shakes his head. His face is hidden behind the void of the mask, and even then, Scaramouche can easily tell his attitude is not annoying the man near as much as it usually unnerves others. He seems hardly affected at all. "I have been called first, so I offered to take over for the soldier sent to fetch everyone instead."
"He's... Helpful." He remembers La Signora's reluctant words, and snorts. Unbelievable. Who in their right mind owns power comparable to gods only to lower himself to the job of mere servants? He is correct in his doubt, although for the wrong reason: this man is certainly not sane. But alas, such are soldiers, loyal as they are fierce, what does it matter that this man is at the top of the chain? Those who are not corrupt to the core are rare, but they do exist.
His disdain is palpable, yet remains ignored by his superior. "I heard from Pierro," The Captain suddenly addresses him, his eyes wracking through Scaramouche's body. "Of your history, that is."
It is unsettling to be regarded so intensely.
"You are... Incredibly human, from what I see." Scaramouche bristles, a biting remark at the tip of his tongue. The comparison is insulting, a condescending jab. The man is much stronger than he, granted, but to dare make fun of him in such a way – "That is not as much an insult as you think it to be." The other clarifies, as if that makes any sense.
"You may not believe my words, so let me rephrase: there is more to a life than its strength."
"What. Do you want?" He glowers, scowling undoubtedly.
"We might never see eye to eye on what we count to be betrayal," he casually pokes at the puppet's sorest spot, tone still even. "But no amount of power rends you invulnerable to it." He continues, a hanging 'I would know' stilted in the air.
"Come," and just like that, the spell is broken. The Captain's head is raised still, eyeing the decorated ceiling with a still gaze, til he walks away. "I dislike being late to my meetings."
Scaramouche... Doesn't know what to make of the entire encounter.
–
Dottore is busy with his experiments when a wounded solder is brought to his care. "Take him to a healer, then," he says impatiently, not once looking away from his work.
The lights of his laboratory are dim, but the bastard's stricken expression is obvious from ten miles away. Highly predictable too. "But, Doctor –"
"– his situation is critical and no other healer is competent enough to recognize the problem. Yes?" He completes resignedly, far too used to these uncompromising scenarios.
Now, if Dottore wishes to, he can just refuse to help some random, weak human soldier with practically no potential for grandeur. He'd been brought Fatui Agents on the brink of death before – and depending on his mood and motivations, whether he chose to help or not was fairly relative. His job for the Fatui, despite his title, is not healing. It is to pursue his own dream of making gods out of humans. No one could reprimand him or cut off his funding just because he refused to waste his time on trash.
Soldier trash, however...
A completely different matter.
The soldiers themselves are highly irrelevant, to be clear. However, in the cases in which the situation is dire enough for one of them to be sent to his care, there is a guaranteed visitor to make an appearance.
He grins at the chance presenting itself, putting aside his tools with a slight eye-roll. Omega will take care of it in his stead either way.
"You left me waiting," he complains as soon as the Captain makes his presence known, an hour or so later.
"My apologies. I needed to report to the Tsaritsa the result of the expedition." Capitano apologizes smoothly, completely ignoring the simple fact that Dottore is by no means entitled to his presence. It is surprising, really, but while the man's moral ground is frustratingly installed in-place, he has never been stubborn against reason, and despite being a warrior amongst the elite, he is pleasantly not one for much confrontation.
They are the two highest ranked Fatui Harbingers, and thus are more than familiar with each other's antics. The power imbalance is the smallest between the two of them, easily dispelling the factors of cautiousness and fear most others treat them with. That must be why Capitano does not flinch away when Dottore pats his shoulder in passing, the way everyone else does.
It might also be why he does not hesitate to let him see through the armour.
It is an unspoken agreement between the two of them: Dottore does The Captain a favor by saving one of those nobodies he seems to care about so much, and the latter allows him to run an experiment on him as to return the favor – with the condition of keeping it within the boundaries of something not too drastic.
(Not that Dottore will ever take it that far. He will rather not be the first name in Pierro's hit-list.)
In all due honesty, Dottore does not understand why the man finds it so crucial to keep the curse hidden. Well, yes, it is important not to show weakness in front of his followers: a weird notion when it's the Captain they are talking about. Every Fatui Agent looks up to that man like he hung the stars in the sky. A blue and black curse is most definitely not enough to terrify them into mistrust.
It is fascinating, that immortality curse. He traces his fingers against solid, nocturnal marine ribs, admiring the corrosion. It is a perfect show of torture, a method of absolute degradation. Giving a human a decaying body, undying, yet leaving them with the mind of a simple mortal is cruel. Alas, the gods have never been most merciful, not even to men so just.
When he looks up, his eyes meet the chiseled jaw of his subject, half-cursed and the other unblemished. "I will cut a piece of your flesh," he announces, already readying the knife.
"Very well," the answer is monotone, unaffected.
And just as Dottore gets to work, "I will not discuss morals and principles with you – for the end justifies the means has always been your main motivation; that I understand. But still, I beseech you not to get so easily irritated."
Dottore chuckles, non-committed. "Why? Did the Balladeer come crying to you?"
"I hear that you have been experimenting on him as a text subject for a major plan. I have interacted with him a few times, and he seems... snappy. Not exactly the sort of person you like to regularly see, even if the experiment itself is pleasurable to you." Capitano clarifies, not wincing for a second as Dottore digs the knife into his rib.
"Why, are you afraid I will torture him out of spite?"
"Not out of spite, but you will do what you deem necessary to shut him up. I would rather you go easy on him."
"Oh? And why is that?" He wonders out loud, as if he needs any sort of explanation. It is obvious. The puppet is the equivalent of a human teen in Capitano's eyes; there is no doubt he will try to protect something he categorizes as needing any sort of aid.
Sometimes, Dottore truly feels lost as to why he even feels so fond of this man. Just as much as he fails to understand why the other tolerates him at all. They are nothing alike.
Well, maybe idealism lacking naivety is truly an attractive trait.
"Any more demands, Captain?" He teases, carefully setting the sample into a container. He goes to set it on the nearby table, labeling it accordingly in the process.
"Steer clear of the new youngling, Dottore." The Captain says, a bit resigned, as if he knows Dottore might not listen. He is aware of the deals between him and the previous Knave, after all. Although Dottore does not carry out any "dubious" experiment when Capitano is (rarely) around, there is no doubt he has heard. That new knave, Capitano is warming up to her, he thinks. She annoys him a bit with her ridiculous sentimentality, a hypocrite raising children to do the Fatui's bidding playing at moral grounds – though admittedly, her curse is intriguing.
"I shall take my leave, if you are done." The First Harbinger nods, standing up to wear his armour back on.
"I am, in fact, not done with you yet," Dottore stops him, reaching out for the bandages. "You are not leaving until I stitch that injury back up."
"It will heal on its own," Capitano's gruff voice echoes, a bit stilted. Confused, maybe, why Dottore even bothers.
Except he does bother. Capitano is not some random nobody, after all. They have known each other for centuries. Dottore is not especially fond of the idea of not seeing the man around at the aggravation of a simple wound. "It will be an inconvenience." He shoots back. "Wilful stubbornness is not your style, Captain."
The man sighs, sitting back down. "Since you insist."
"That I do."
"You are not evil," Capitano said to him, years ago. He said it as if he was stating a fact. "Merely misguided."
Then – and even now – Dottore disagreed; he has never been misguided. Except that the manner in which the man had so easily looked away from his own morals to evaluate Dottore's using his own...
Well, let us just say he has met very few humans with that ability before.
Columbina leaves her window wide open, unaffected by the bristling cold permeating her room. The candle in front of her flickers against the chilling air, threatening to snuff out at any given moment.
The walls are pale, her chair icy, the table she lays on houses a few snowflakes.
A knock on the wide-open door alerts her to the appearance of the Armour-clad human. One can hardly tell he is one through its thick fabric, but she manages.
"You have yet to report to the Tsaritsa," he observes as he enters the room. Definitely not his reason for visiting, merely a reminder.
"Hm." She mumbles, taking a page from his book. He does that a lot. She eyes him from where her head lays, cushioned by her hands, as he approaches.
"Have you encountered any problems during your last mission?" He is checking on her, she thinks, blinking. He does that, sometimes. It never fails to throw her off-balance.
Everyone here dislike each other one way or another. She wonders why he holds a grudge against no one.
"No." She shakes her head a bit, unblinkingly staring at him still. He doesn't seem discomforted by her unrelenting gaze.
It's... Rare. And nice. Why is he asking?
"Childe." He somehow seems to know exactly what she wants to know. "He mentioned you are... Scarier lately, as he put it. I was wondering whether something has ruined your mood."
She blinks. Once. Twice. "He admitted he's scared of me... In front of you?" It is funny, how creeped out he seems in front of her. She likes to abuse it.
"Not quite," he shakes his head. "I am rather certain he did not notice me there as he complained."
"Well, now that I have assured myself of your health, I will leave you to your devices. Do not forget to report to the Tsaritsa."
She huffs, unwilling to break her meditative streak to report something. The mission is confidential, meaning she cannot send anyone in her stead. It is an annoyace, having to abide to boring protocol.
She moves to reluctantly rise from her seat, when he interrupts her with a raised hand. "Would you rather I do it in your stead?"
She blinks again. Not that he can see it from beyond the lace.
"Why?" She asks again, curious.
"I still have some time before I need to attend to my duties, just enough to report in your stead. As long as the matter is not too confidential, at least." He explains, as if that is what she's asking. It's nothing so confidential that the First-Ranked Fatui Harbinger will not hear of it the next time he sees the Tsaritsa.
What she means, however, is why he's offering. So she tells him as much.
He regards her as if her questioning is bizarre to his ears. "You are clearly reluctant to report to the Tsaritsa, and you already have a chore in mind, while I have time to spare. I do not mind taking over in your stead, so why wouldn't I offer?"
... He's nice. His voice is mostly toneless, she can tell he is not smiling beneath his mask, he is not an easy target. But he is nice. "Hm."
"Ridiculous," Pulcinella mutters, fuming. "What are timings for if no one is going to abide by them? Why do I spend my precious time organizing everything within schedule if you are going to come late anyway?!"
Organizing meetings is unfortunately his job as the Mayor, and could he say not even the paperwork is as terrible to deal with as the atrocity that is meticulously scheduling only for his colleagues to never once show up in time.
Childe looks sheepish, muttering something about forgetting time when fighting – and even then, he has the most decency of all. Everyone else is plain ignoring his nagging, with the exception of Capitano and the Jester, the only individuals responsible enough to care about something as irrelevant as a Meeting in which they are obliged to vote.
Naturally, no one pays him any mind. Do they ever? Absolutely not. Not ever. What is he to them but a damned elf who likes to complain?
How he manages not to throw his hat from sheer frustration at a bored-looking Sandrone is a miracle only possible with the aid of her Majesty the Tsaritsa.
"I am trying to make a point here–"
"Everyone," Capitano speaks, and lo-and-behold, suddenly everyone is giving him the time of the day.
Pulcinella cannot blame them, but he is offended all the same.
"I would beseech you to fix your tardiness. I will have to postpone a mission of my own as a result; and while I do understand each of you has their own issues to deal with, this sort of behavior is highly irresponsible, as well as inappropriate." He utters sternly, nodding towards Pulcinella in understanding. "The way I see it, this event will not occur again, would it?"
Childe looks rightfully reminiscent of a kicked puppy, reprimanded as he was by his biggest inspiration in life (crookedly so, but a fitting description). Columbina finally finds it in herself to grace them with a hum, while Dottore replies with a highly dubious "I will see what I can do."
Pantalone's smile is disgustingly innocent as the words "Very well" leave his lips, as if he wasn't too absorbed in his papers to pay Pulcinella any heed barely moments ago. Arlecchino, just as shamelessly – diplomats – nods with an affirmative: "I have been irresponsible indeed."
Sandrone barely nods, while Scaramouche huffs in reply, finally showing a reaction.
Pulcinella finds himself torn between thanking the Captain for stepping in for his sake and envying the manner in which he commands respect.
His only saving grace during these meetings is the one and only helpful one of all harbingers... As for the ones where Capitano and Pierro are absent?
Those are as painful as being thrown into the abyss.
(Or so muttered Childe, although his reasoning was based more on the fact that he disliked every single one of his colleagues with the exception of Pulcinella – who cannot hold back their insanity – and the Captain who he hopelessly admired.)
Sandrone's robot is acting up. In other words, her day is going delightfully.
Where did said robot decide to start malfunctioning, you ask? In the middle of the corridor, a safe distance from her operation room. There is nothing she could do with no material in hand, especially when both of her legs are as useless as it gets. Trying to walk back all the way to her lab is as well as crawling to her destination.
You see, she will rather die than give any of her fellow harbingers a good laugh at her own expense.
In other words, she is stuck.
She sits there silently, trying to figure out a solution for herself as to fix the damn thing before someone passes and sees her in such a pathetic state –
"Is your robot malfunctioning again?" Capitano's voice comes from behind her and – thank the Tsaritsa.
Maybe her relief is far too soon, her trust not to be humiliated deeply by this man naive. She has known him for years, he has helped her before, the one other time in which her Mechanical invention failed her. She was wary at the time, both when he approached her and after he landed her safely on top of another one of her functioning inventions. Still, it became clear enough that he is, in fact as he seems, as she has not a heard a word of the incident since that day.
Straightforward, genuine, just to a fault, a man of honor.
He is largely tolerable, owning the admirable capability of remaining solid in his ideals as well as not shoving them down Sandrone's throat.
"As you can see," she gestures at herself, blank.
"I will teleport your companion to your laboratory, then carry you back as to not disgruntle you. Does that sound acceptable to you?" He says, an echo of their previous conversation.
"Very well." She nods, allow him to pick her up from her seat. Blue flashes behind her, and just like that, her robot is gone.
He carries her with an arm under her knees, and another by her shoulders, walking steadily through the empty corridors. It is just her luck that her senses – as well his – are sharp enough to detect any passerby and change their trajectory accordingly.
He is cold against her, cooling almost. His chest moving like that of any living human, his hold on her gentle enough not to jostle her. She looks like a kid in comparison. She scowls at the thought.
He misunderstands. "I am aware you would rather not have to rely on me for support, but there is no other option. We will be at your office soon enough."
"I know," she stares up at him. He does not look back.
He doesn't speak much, definitely not any more than needed. Pleasantries are not his thing, nor is senseless small talk, so the trip is blissfully quiet.
She half-expects him to offer to speak to Dottore in her stead like he did last time, before she refused his proposal.
He does not.
She is grateful for that. Being on that man's operation table is not something she ever wishes to live through.
Pantalone detests Mora.
That is precisely why he wishes to destroy the very notion of currency.
He had lived in Liyue everyday of his life, poor as dirt, well-off enough to survive but not nearly enough to fulfill any ambitions. His motivations, his cause of creating equality in a world where there is none buried under his lack of currency.
He hoped, and hoped, and hoped for a day when Celestia smiles upon him and rewards his steadfastness and resolution.
That day never came.
What did come, however, were two strangers.
"You wish to tear down the Mora Morax has created in his ignorance," The Jester told him then. "You wish for a world where ambition is attainable rather than unachievable. You wish for a world where humanity is not chained down by the creations of the gods." As Pantalone – he never felt as hopeful before.
"The Tsaritsa will aid you," The Jester continued. "Mora is power. She will give you all the Mora you possibly need – and thus, all authority on the economy humans so cherish. By the time you finally acquire enough of it, you can rip it all to the ground."
Pantalone agreed.
The creature that accompanied Pierro was a set of armour, its face a mere void. Pantalone had been far too immersed in Pierro's words to care initially, but on their way to Snezhnaya, the intimidating presence became too suffocating to ignore.
When it – he – first spoke, Pantalone almost jumped. "Power comes at a price," he told Pantalone, clawed hand on his shoulder. "Remember this carefully, young man. Everything comes at a price. Choose wisely."
"Are you not with him?" The younger questioned, confused. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Pierro is an old friend, yes, but you are a boy joining a world you have never been part of. It is my duty to guide you. Do not let my appearance deceive you. I am as human as you are, and for that, I have a responsibility to keep an eye out."
That was the kindest thing he was told for years to come as a Harbinger.
Arlecchino leaves Dottore's lab with a resounding bang of the door, intentionally loud out of sheer spite.
Her heels clink harder than they usually would against the ground, a physical manifestation of her wrath. "Send me one of your children," he said, the twisted bastard. What sort of Father did he take her for? Who dares harm the children of her House of hearth?
She is not her Mother, she will not give away a child of hers for experimentation. Never will she sentence them to such a fate.
"Lynette." She calls, expecting to find the obedient girl right where she left her: around the corner.
She is nowhere to be seen.
Realistically speaking, Dottore is an intelligent man, and kidnapping a member of the House of the Hearth is far too troublesome when he can snatch a child off the streets and get away with it with absolutely no consequence. So there is no motive for him to go after her Lynette. He does not derive enjoyment from the suffering of others, she has come to understand, nor does he particularly like to gloat. He wouldn't do it out of spite. That is unlike him.
She still finds herself turning back to his lab instantaneously, scythe drawn and coated in burning flames. Not the most diplomatic response, but knowing that utter wretch –
"Before you do anything you might regret," One of Dottore's clones – she neither knows nor cares what it is named – says brightly, "We don't have your dear little one. I fear she got snatched by another harbinger." Where he appeared from, she cannot tell, nor can she tell where he disappeared.
She strongly despises the man.
She frowns at his words, brain immediately analyzing the information at hand: he could very well be lying, but if it turns out he isn't the one who has her daughter, who would it be? Sandrone has use for a model, Columbina's plans are known to no one but herself, should she need her, would she hesitate to snatch her? Arlecchino doubts it. Childe would not bother, Pierre even less so, Pulcinella might have dragged her to help him with some simple paper work (he did that before), but surely he would have the decency to inform Arlecchino earlier? The Captain has no use –
"Father?" Arlecchino turns to her right at the speed of light, only to be met with the following sight: Lynette, quiet, meek Lynette, clinging to the Captain's coat, her little hands holding on tightly to the fabric in a show of alarming familiarity.
"Where did you go?" Arlecchino blurts out first thing, marching towards the pain. "Lynette. Where did you go?"
"Alpha was dragging her away," Capitano answers in her daughter's stead, pushing her forward with a gentle hand. "I happened to pass by and stopped him on the way. My best guess is that he is trying to get a feel out of you."
His armour is as glorious as ever, his body radiates cold like a block of unforgiving ice, the blue of his eyes as tantalizing as ever.
Yet somehow, he does not look threatening with her daughter in hand.
Interesting.
On the other hand, Dottore, that damned bastard–
"I will speak to him," Capitano mediates. "I give you my word: he will never harm a child of the House of the Hearth or attempt to do so after."
Arlecchino is infinitely curious as to how he plans to achieve that, just as she is murderous.
But at the end of the day, she is a reasonable woman.
"Thank you for your assistance," she thanks him, analyzing Lynette for any injuries and finding none. "I owe you a favor."
"Do not mention it," and just like that, he is leaving. "Take care."
For a man so powerful, he is astonishingly lacking in tyranny. More so in righteousness.
Arlecchino does not share his sense of justice, but she definitely respects its humanity.
"Father," she hums in reply, glancing at the little girl. "He isn't bad for an adult."
Arlecchino smiles faintly, patting her daughter's hair. "Not at all."
–
Childe is hopeless.
He is so infinitely hopeless, he might as well perish.
"One round! Please." He begs, facing the Captain.
It is a pathetic attempt, fairly enough, but the Captain will never know what Childe is made of if he does not even spar with him.
That is unacceptable.
"Another time, Childe," Capitano refuses. "You are injured. I will never take advantage of an opponent at a time of weakness."
"I am not weak! I can prove it!"
"Wait until your injury heals, and then we will discuss it."
"I came to you when I was not injured, and yet you refused me still!"
"I had a troop to lead, Childe. Another time."
Childe is most proficient with a sword, but for the longest time, he thought not even a battle of swords will draw Capitano to him.
He is far too weak to be noticed, an insect in the face of someone of the First Harbinger's level. It was only normal he wouldn't give him the time of the day.
So, imagine his complete surprise when the man called him by name. The Captain remembers him.
He was ecstatic at the time, spirits rising to the sky. And now, months later, he can finally spar with his superior.
Their swords clash once, twice, just enough to leave Childe struggling. He dodges to the side, a double-edged water blade aiming at the Captain's ribs, only for the man to sidestep it as easily as he would any rookie's, hitting the blade with his own ice sword, freezing it then shattering it in the process.
He attacks this time, and the expertise of it is gorgeous, Childe will be transfixed if the Ice Sword wasn't about to pierce his stomach, so he jumps back, throwing a newly formed water-sword only for the man to disperse it mid-air.
He comes at Childe at a terrifying speed, and before his body can respond, there is a sword at his neck, touching skin but never piercing it.
"You lost." The Captain states, "But I must say, your skills are remarkable for you age."
"I am pathetically inferior," Childe mutters bitterly. He knew he was weaker, but to be destroyed like this? This is beyond humiliating.
"Your potential is boundless," the First-Rank comforts. "You will improve."
He helps Childe up with a pat to the bicep. "No need to feel so down. Your learning rate is terrifying."
Childe blinks. "How would you know that?"
"I have been watching from the sidelines."
"Wha– Since when?"
"Since Pulcinella brought you over."
Scratch that. Childe is over the moon.