Chapter Three: Kroshka
Tartaglia's heart skips as he awakens to the sight of yet another unfamiliar ceiling in a brightly lit room. Spasms of pain shoot through his weary form as the Eleventh Harbinger forces himself into a sitting position. He had survived enough attempts on his life to have developed a mental checklist for orienting himself and trusted it to see him through.
Hmm. I hear water nearby but it's faint. Judging from the view I must be pretty high up so that would explain it. He muses tensing slightly as he finally notices the binds securing his wrist to the bed.
The knot on his wrist was rather sturdy suggesting that his captor was an experienced hunter. However, given their decision to secure him in a large brightly lit room at the heart of a bustling city they were either inexperienced kidnappers or had severely underestimated his abilities.
Nothing irked the Harbinger more than being overlooked and Tartaglia had every intention of making it his captor's last mistake.
Judging from the sounds of the traffic below it doesn't seem like I'm in Liyue Harbor anymore. And are those…church bells?
He strains his ears and listens intently to the melodic chime of majestic church bells ringing from a nearby tower.
Is it possible…could they have brought me to Mondstadt? That would explain the lack of sea salt in the air. Now that I think about it this room's furnished in the Mondstadtian style. But how did I get here? Did La Signora…
His eyes widen as he recalls the Fair Lady's most recent visit. Forcing his eyes closed, he desperately racks his brain for any detailed memories of that encounter. But his mind is far too groggy to properly function, and his thoughts inevitably return to appreciating the soothing comfort of his sleeping quarters.
I smell antiseptic. But I don't taste anything. Tartaglia muses as his eyelids grow heavy with sleep.
At that moment the door to his room opens and he immediately tenses up when he hears the steady footfalls approaching him. Fighting back sleep, he trains his eyes on the newcomer as he desperately scans the room for something within reach to use as a weapon.
"Oh, my you're already awake?!" The blonde gasps when she notices him watching her. "I could have sworn I gave you enough to knock you out for at least six hours."
"What did you give me? Who are you?" The Harbinger slurs slightly as he secretly tugs at the knot binding his wrist to test its strength. When the knot holds, he decides to study his captor to distract himself as his mind desperately tries to discern an escape route.
She is quite petite with long blonde hair styled into a pair of childish pigtails. From her attire and mannerisms, he learns that she is of noble birth and closely affiliated with the Church of Favonius.
Perhaps a volunteer? He wonders.
"My name is Barbara Pegg. I'm a deaconess at the Church of Favonius," she replies somewhat nervously as her gaze shifts to the awkward angle of his bound wrist.
"Ish tha where ah yam?" Tartaglia garbles incoherently.
"Um, y-yes," the Deaconess stutters uncertainly before adding. "How do you feel?"
"You're pretty," he blurts grinning foolishly up at her. "Like really, really, really—"
"Oh dear, I think you need to lie down," the girl notes clicking her tongue slightly as she approaches to check his temperature.
"What happened to me?" He wonders closing his eyes as her palm rests on his clammy forehead.
"You were poisoned," she informs him distractedly before making a note of his condition in a small notepad she carried on her person. "I managed to flush most of it out of your system. The rest is up to your body, so you need lots of fluids and rest."
"My clothes," he sighs as he slowly moves to lift his leaden frame up. "Where are they?"
"N-no p-please you don't understand!" Barbara cries out alarmed. "You need to remain in bed until your body recovers!"
"I'll be fine," Tartaglia scoffs as he stumbles forward. "See? Tis nuffin'."
The Deaconess hurries to his side when his bound wrist jerks his body sharply, causing him to sway unsteadily on his feet. The Harbinger flails his free arm slightly to balance himself until she tucks it over her shoulders to support him.
"Sir, please I need you to stop—"
"'Sir?' Why do you keep calling me sir?" The Harbinger muses as he turns to give her a bemused look. When she blinks back at him, he smiles and leans closer to inspect her features. "Or are you a sleeper Fatui agent?"
"Oh dear! I mean oh no—I mean why would you—?!"
The Eleventh Harbinger smacks her shoulder affectionately as he doubles over in laughter, shaking his head and pointing weakly at her expression.
"Relax, Kroshka. I'm only kidding," he chuckles as she guides him back unto his bed.
"K-krushna?" The blonde repeats perplexed.
"No, Kroshka," the Harbinger corrects pleasantly. "Means 'crumb' or 'little one' in Snezhnayan."
"L-little one?! W-ell i-it's not funny!" She snaps crossing her arms indignantly and stomping her foot for good measure. The gesture reminds him of how his younger sister Irina used to sulk and moan whenever she didn't get her way. "I—I'm still growing you know!"
"Adorable," he mutters to himself.
"I beg your pardon?" The Deaconess asks.
"You actually believe that and that's adorable."
"Hmph! Well, I believe it because it's true," Barbara snaps uncrossing her arms. "M-my father and big sister are quite tall so why wouldn't I be tall too?"
"Hmm well is your mother tall too?" The Harbinger muses already guessing the answer. The Deaconess' cheeks flush deeply and her hands fly behind her back as she averts his gaze suddenly self-conscious.
"Well, uh, no. Not really."
"Well, that settles it then."
"No, it doesn't!" she shoots back suddenly indignant. "Honestly, just because one of my parents isn't that tall doesn't mean that I'll be stuck at this height."
"It does if you're over eighteen," he states with a flippant shrug. This only distresses the Deaconess even more and it is all she can do to not storm off.
"Well, still…you shouldn't tease people about things they can't change," she mumbles quietly. "It's not nice!"
"Noted," he sighs before nodding towards his hand. "Do you know how to untie this?"
"Um yes," she replies before adding carefully. "But I-I'm not going to."
"Eh?" He blinks. "Come on, don't be that way. Help a guy out, would ya? I need to return to my post stat or my colleagues will come looking for me."
"There's a Fatui agent that hangs around the cathedral," the Deaconess muses tapping her chin distractedly. "I could ask him to—"
"No!" Tartaglia blurts shaking his head as he manages a nervous chuckle. "No need to get anyone else involved. I just need to get back to Liyue Har—"
"No way!" Barbara scolds standing at akimbo. "You're going to stay in bed for the next two days until I see some improvement. You're as white as a sheet and as weak as a child in your condition. You're really not in any shape to be traveling anywhere."
"But I—"
"No! No 'buts'," she snaps as she moves to coax him back beneath the covers. "You're not leaving this room until you get better!"
"Not even to relieve myself?" He asks with a wicked smirk. The blonde flushes darkly, her blue eyes widen and dart around nervously, intent on avoiding his gaze as she wills the floor to open up and swallow her whole.
"I suppose that wouldn't be so bad," she mutters bashfully, her voice a barely audible whisper now.
"And what about bathing?" he asks reaching out with his free hand to stroke the side of her arm. His blue eyes watching her attentively as his long, calloused fingers glide across the soft fabric of her sleeve. "Am I allowed to leave for that?"
As intended the Deaconess squeals like a wounded child and leaps away from him, stumbling badly as she desperately tries to put as much distance between them. Predicting the awkward angle of her fall, Tartaglia's reflexes spur him forward and he catches her by her waist, holding her in place. The move strains his bound wrist painfully and he grimaces visibly, biting back an anguished groan as a spasm of pain shoots through his bound arm.
While he was reckless to a fault, he was no fool and knew that it would be some time before his body would fully recover. However, time was not a luxury he could afford. By now his would-be assassin would have learned of his disappearance and was undoubtedly scouring Liyue Harbor for him. It was only a matter of time before they would begin to look elsewhere.
While laying low in Mondstadt was ideal, he knew from experience that there was no telling the havoc a desperate assassin would wreak searching for him. Such outside interference would only invite unwanted scrutiny and derail the Fatui's operations in Liyue potentially crippling its agents all over Teyvat. With the Millelith and Liyue Qixing looking for any excuse to expel Snezhnayans from Liyue, he was loath to hand them an opportunity on a silver platter.
No. He would find his assassin and deal with them swiftly.
"Eeeep! I'm so sorry! So very sorry!" The Deaconess squeaks covering her face with her hands when she notices his pained expression.
"I'm fine," he lies, chuckling lightly. "Just twisted my arm a bit."
"Your shoulder!" She cries out pointing wildly at his bound arm. "It's dislocated!"
"Huh," he hums distractedly after examining it briefly. "I suppose it is."
"Oh dear! Oh dear, oh dear, oh—"
"Relax, Kroshka," he chuckles softly. "Calm down. I'm fine. I barely even felt anything."
"But still, it's all my fault! I'm so sorry!" She insists as her small hands deftly untie him. He opens his mouth as if to speak but falls silent when she gasps at the sight of a particularly nasty scar stretching from his armpit and disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers. Her eyes shine suddenly with tears and her lips tremble as her fingers gently trail the scarred flesh.
"Hey, don't go crying on me now," he teases nervously. The blonde shakes her head as her tears pour freely prompting her to bury her face in her hands once more. "I'm the one who got poisoned. Besides, this happened ages ago. I barely remember what it felt like."
"Still," she murmurs. "It must have been awful." He scratches the back of his head with his good arm nervously and is about to shrug when he notices the pitying look in her eyes and stiffens.
The expression made his skin crawl as it reminds him of his mother's gentle gaze every time she had rescued him from his older brothers' clutches.
"I'm all better now," he assures her with a kind smile. "Really."
Without thinking he releases her waist and reaches between them to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The blonde's eyes widen in alarm and she flees with a deafening squeal, slamming the door firmly behind her. Tartaglia blinks at the spot she had occupied moments earlier in bemusement before trailing his gaze to the bedroom door. He smiles as he notices the door handle lying at an angle and pictures her small hands clasping it firmly on the other side.
Grimacing slightly, he scans the room for his clothes and quickly finds them folded neatly atop a nearby drawer. Judging by their appearance, the Deaconess had gone out of her way to wash and press them for him. Making a mental note to thank her later, he quietly slips into his clothes and scans the room for the rest of his personal effects. Thankfully he doesn't have to search long for them as Barbara had placed them in the drawer of his bedside table. Once he is done, he stumbles towards the balcony but stops when his vision begins to blur.
Guess jumping out is out of the question in this state. He muses as he slowly but surely approaches the bedroom door.
Pressing his ears against it, he listens intently for any sign of the Deaconess and is relieved when he hears none. A gasp escapes him as he tries the handle but finds it resistant to his touch.
"I-I m-mean it!" Barbara calls defiantly from the other side. "Y-you're not leaving that room u-until you're all better!"
"Kroshka," he calls back doing his best to keep his tone even as his head begins to spin. "I need you to open the door."
"I'm sorry sir but I can't—"
"Ajax. My name is Ajax, okay?" He informs her with a small sigh. "Now please open the door."
"A-Ajax, please. Try to understand," she implores earnestly. "Your body isn't done flushing the poison out. If you strain yourself, you could die."
"Barbara, please," he says softly. "I need to get out. Please. My family's in danger."
The Deaconess unlocks the door and opens it to fix him with a disapproving frown.
"You're lying," she states matter-of-factly.
"No, no you see—" but before he can even finish his sentence the world around him fades to black and he feels his body fall weightlessly to the ground.
The gentle humming of a sweet but unfamiliar tune rouses him and he awakens to find himself back in bed listening to the pleasant crackle of a roaring hearth. It is nighttime now and his once bound arm is secured in a loose sling.
All is still in the large high-ceilinged room and he quickly spots Barbara seated in the armchair beside his bed. She is humming distractedly while scribbling something into her journal. When she notices him staring, she closes her journal and turns to examine him once more.
"How do you feel?" She greets smiling softly.
He parts his mouth to respond but can only manage a weak groan as he turns to fix her with a confused look.
"Sorry," she mutters flushing slightly. "A-after you passed out, I felt so bad about tying you up before. S-so I decided to increase the dose of sedatives to help you sleep longer. You must be hungry. Wait here while I go get some food."
Tartaglia watches mutely as the medic quietly exits the room leaving the door slightly open to facilitate her return. From his bed he spies a simple but stately apartment with muted pastel wallpapers adorned with symmetrical patterns and linings. While he typically found such designs tedious and downright garish, her apartment décor felt rather feminine and unsettlingly intimate. It felt as if he was intruding on an inner sanctum many longed to glimpse but only few were afforded the opportunity.
She had propped him into a somewhat upright position with the help of a generous collection of pillows and cushions each somehow softer than the next. Someone had changed him out of his clothes and into a plain blue dressing robe bearing the insignia of the Mondstadter branch of the adventurer's guild.
He shifts to watch her as she returns with a heavy tray of steaming food. A twinge of guilt spurs him to his feet as he tries to relieve her of her load. She dances out of his reach and sets the tray carefully unto a nearby table before turning to coax him back into bed. When he obliges, she dishes out some stew and approaches his side with a spoon. She ignores his hands as they reach out expectantly to accept the meal and settles down to feed him when he parts his lips to protest.
He tries to swallow his food hastily to speak but is quickly overwhelmed by the delectable explosion of flavors on his tongue. She smiles as she watches him savor his mouthful with an appreciative sigh and offers a second spoonful once he is done. Far too distracted by his meal, he obediently parts his lips and leans forward, hungrily slurping down spoonful after spoonful. They continue this way for several long moments with his host rising to refill his bowl and pausing every so often to patiently dab at the corners of his mouth with a clean napkin.
When she is done, she offers him a glass of chilled water which he downs in a single gulp.
"That was fantastic!" He declares as she moves to clear up. "What was that?"
"Oh, it was my special spicy stew recipe. I-I normally serve my patients cream stew, but I decided to try my special spicy stew recipe for that much-needed energy boost."
"Well, you'll have to teach me how to make it sometime because it was sublime," the Harbinger informs her effusively. "I mean it, Kroshka! You would make a fortune if you ever opened up a restaurant selling just that!"
"Oh, no please!" She squeaks flushing deeply as she cowers behind her tray. "You—you're too kind. It's actually not that special."
His expression hardens at this and he leans forward to fix her with a stern frown, holding her gaze carefully as he studies her features.
"None of that now, Kroshka," he huffs. "I'm not quite familiar with Mondstadter culture but false flattery is something we Snezhnayans do not bother with. When a Snezhnayan gives you a compliment, you take it."
The blonde flushes deeply and begins to squeak out a response but stops when he begins to pull his bedsheets off.
"W-what—wait! What are you doing?!" The Deaconess cries out thoroughly dismayed.
"I'm leaving, Kroshka," Tartaglia informs her pleasantly.
"W-was it because of what I said?!" She squeaks incredulously. "I take it back! I take it back! T-thank you for the compliment!" He chuckles lightly at this as he rises to his feet and crosses the room to approach the drawer where he had retrieved his clothes earlier.
"No, Kroshka," he says pulling out the top drawer and inspecting it briefly before moving on to the next when he did not see his clothes. "I told you before. I can't stay here. I need to get back to Liyue Harbor before anyone notices that I'm gone. If they haven't already."
"But you've not fully recovered yet!" Barbara protests as she sets down the tray and hurries to his side.
"I'm strong enough to walk. That stew of yours really did the trick," he insists turning to give her a wide smile. "You have my sincerest gratitude, Kroshka. I know nursing me can't have been easy for you given my occupation."
"P-please, Ajax don't go," she implores earnestly. Something in her tone stays his hand and he briefly considers giving her a reassuring hug before remembering her reaction earlier and deciding against it.
"I'm sorry, Kroshka," he explains as he turns to face her. "But I have to. I can't just sit here twiddling my thumbs while my assassin is lurking out there."
"You're going to kill him, aren't you?" The Deaconess asks quietly. A shadow falls over her features when he doesn't reply and she carefully backs away from him. "Mr. Albedo was right. You are dangerous!"
"I am," he admits. "But I am also a lot of other things too. For one thing, I truly am grateful to you for saving my life. I mean it Kroshka. I will make it up to you some day."
"Then stay, Ajax," she presses softly. "Let it go. Forget about revenge and live your life."
"I'm sorry but that is simply something I cannot do."
Author's Note: according to a quick Google search, Kroshka means "crumb" or "little one" in Russian and is used as a term of endearment for a female romantic interest. I know they're not romantically involved—yet—I thought it sounded cute and can totally picture Childe using it on Barbara to throw her off.