Chapter Eight: Plea
No matter how hard she practiced or how many times she rehearsed that niggling doubt never fails to return as the moment to perform draws nigh.
Are you really going to sing that song?The voice in her head mocks. With your warbling voice?
Yes. She tries to assure herself clenching her fists to her chest. I can do it.
Whatever. Just don't blame me when your throat gives out and you embarrass yourself.
And so, she had swapped out the setlist she had intended to debut for the tried-and-true version with songs and notes she could perform half asleep.
The crowd of adoring fans had been screaming and flailing so wildly that they hadn't noticed her distress. They had barely batted an eye when the doubt had hobbled her on stage leaving her wheezing and gasping against the crushing weight of impossible expectations on her tiny chest.
When her voice eventually gave out, the crowd had assumed that she had paused for dramatic effect and was all too happy to screech back her lyrics to fill in the void of her silent pleas. But the Seneschal had noticed his youngest child's distress and had desperately tried to whisk her away.
But Fredericka Gunnhildr was a proud and fearless woman who sought to instill her family's virtues in both of her precious daughters. When the true reason for Barbara's withdrawal from the stage eventually came to light, she was less than pleased.
"She's not a child, Seamus!" Lady Gunnhildr had snarled one afternoon when she believed Barbara was safely away at a friend's birthday tea party. "How is she supposed to learn and grow when you keep coddling her."
"I'm not coddling her, Freddie," the Cardinal of Daybreak had shot back barely holding back his own exasperation. "I'm protecting her!"
"You can't protect her forever, Seamus," the Gunnhildr matriarch had shot back. "How can she serve Mondstadt when she's afraid of her own shadow?!"
"You're out of your mind if you think I'm going to let you destroy her childhood like you did Jeanie's!" Her father had hissed back.
Barbara had slapped her tiny hands over her ears as she sank to the floor, desperately willing her parents to stop hurling such nasty words at each other. But their argument had continued until a passing maid had noticed finally her some hours later and whisked her away to the greenhouse.
"Remember Barbara," that maid had once told her sweetly. "You are capable of miracles."
"No, I'm not," Barbara had lamented sobbing into her quivering bleeding knees. She had fallen badly earlier that afternoon while fencing with Jean and her mother much to Lady Gunnhildr's dismay. "I can't hold a sword properly and I can barely swing it to save my life."
"None of that now. You're a Gunnhildr. The blood of your forebearer runs through your very veins. Or have you forgotten how her allegiance alone was enough to help Barbatos overcome the wicked Decarabian?"
Those very words had remained with Barbara long after that kind maid retired and returned to Springvale to raise her grandsons. They often resurfaced whenever the Deaconess found herself cornered and overwhelmed.
"You mean you came all this way to reject my donation for no reason?" The Eleventh Harbinger asks, leaning back in his seat, his features taut and bemused.
"Pl-please," Barbara murmurs as she desperately wills her voice to hold firm. "Try to understand."
"It's kinda hard to when you're not answering my question," Tartaglia informs her bluntly.
"Cut it out Childe," Lumine scolds. "She doesn't owe you any explanation."
"She saved my life," the Harbinger replies turning to face the Outlander and her floating companion. "I was just trying to repay her."
"Well, now she's telling you that you don't have to," Captain Kaeya replies crossing his arms. "You can't force her to accept your 'gift', you know?"
Childe shifts in his seat as he regards the Cavalry Captain with a mixture of intrigue and exasperation.
"But the Knights can force her to reject it?"
"Nobody forced her to reject anything," Captain Kaeya chuckles dryly. "She made that decision on her own."
"Well forgive me if I don't exactly believe you," Tartaglia scoffs shaking his head as he prepares to rise from his seat.
Barbara reaches out and grabs the sleeve of the Eleventh Harbinger's jacket catching him off guard as her fingers brush against his skin. He stiffens slightly at the touch but does not otherwise react as he turns mutely to meet her gaze.
He's upset. I can see it in his eyes. I have to convince him somehow. Make him see reason.
"C-can we talk?" She mutters quietly. "I-in private?"
At first, Tartaglia doesn't move and merely blinks down at her uncertain if he had heard her correctly. The rest of their party turn to regard her in stunned silence forcing the Deaconess to retreat into her shell.
"You're a Gunnhildr. The blood of your forebearer runs through your very veins."
I can do this. I can make him see reason.
"Please?" She adds quietly as she holds his gaze.
"Well, Childe?" Signora calls from her table as she observes her colleague over the rim of her teacup. "What'll it be?"
While her displeasure was evident in the subtle frown lining her thin lips, it was clear that the blonde harbinger was content to merely observe the proceedings for the time being.
"A-alright," Tartaglia sighs with a shrug, digging his hands into his pockets.
The Deaconess pauses to shoot her chaperone an assuring smile before excusing herself from the table and leading the way. Tartaglia follows her down the steps leading away from the rooftop tea house. When she reaches the foot of the stairs, she pauses to orient herself before turning to shoot the tall youth a nervous smile.
"This way," he offers, jerking his head slightly to the side before moving to lead the way.
She follows him quietly until they reach the entrance of an upscale restaurant. The entrance attendants greet them with matching bows before holding the doors open for them to pass through.
"Wh-where are we?" The Deaconess asks as they follow a kindly waiter into a private dining area.
"Liuli Pavilion," Tartaglia replies simply. "I'm starving and thought we might as well grab a bite while we talk."
When he reaches the table, he pulls out a chair for Barbara which she reluctantly occupies before he moves to settle into his own seat. They order quickly after considering the menu prompting the waiter to excuse himself from the room.
"So, what's going on?" He asks drumming his long fingers along the edge of the table.
"T-the—y-your donation was too large," she mumbles sheepishly stroking the beautiful patterns of her lacquered chopsticks.
"You saved my life," he chuckles breezily. "What else did you expect?"
"I-I didn't expect y-you to send th-that much," she admits eying him nervously. "And did you really have to send over so many legionnaires?"
"What? Those bums looked like they could use the exercise," he snorts, deeply amused by some private joke.
"D-did they carry it from—"
"Liyue Harbor to Mondstadt? Yep. Yep, they did."
"Oh, dear!" The Deaconess laments. "No wonder they looked so exhausted. It's not funny you know?"
"Sorry, it's just—well never mind," he smiles shaking his head. "I hope you didn't get into too much trouble with the other sisters."
"I-it's fine, you just gave everyone a fright," Barbara replies shyly tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear as the waiter returns with their meal. "T-the knights had to move it all down to the cathedral basement to keep the treasure hoarders from trying to break in and steal it."
"I see. Is that why you don't want it?" He asks watching her carefully now.
The Deaconess shrinks visibly at the question and manages to shake her head slowly as she rolls her chopsticks on the table quietly.
"I-it's just," she begins, lifting her head to meet his gaze. Whatever resolve she had built up quickly evaporates at the sight of his steely blue eyes watching her attentively.
Oh no! I can't do it. I can't tell him the reason. Not when he's here watching me so closely.
"What's wrong? Are you worried that I'll get mad or something?" he wonders tilting his head slightly to the side as he watches her.
"C-could y-you l-look over there for a m-moment?" She mutters pointing towards an ornately carved table in the far corner.
"Why? Is something—"
"Pl-please?!"
The Eleventh Harbinger merely shakes his head at this as he lowers his chopsticks. At first, it seems like he will not comply until he slowly but surely angles his body to face the area she had indicated.
"Like this?"
"Y-yes," the Deaconess sighs, relief washing over her petite frame now that she didn't have to explain herself to those piercing blue eyes. "I need—you don't have to thank me for saving your life. I'm just happy that you're alright now."
"Kroshka, I," he pauses to bite back a sigh of exasperation, tapping his longs fingers impatiently on the table as he tries to continue his sentence. "You barely knew me and yet you took care of me and were so upset when I insisted on leaving. It's been a long time since anyone outside my family ever showed that much concern and affection for me."
"Ajax," she says pausing to lick her lips. At the sound of his name, the Eleventh Harbinger shifts to face her, blue eyes twinkling earnestly. "The real reason I can't accept your money is the same reason I didn't want you to return here."
"Because it's dangerous?" Childe wonders.
"Yes," Barbara nods.
"I didn't steal the money if that's what you're concerned of," the Harbinger chuckles.
"But it's blood money. After all, you earned it by killing and destroying so many lives, didn't you?"
Tartaglia begins to protest before deciding against it and falling silent. Encouraged, the Deaconess reaches to touch his gloved knuckles and feels her breath leave her when he shifts his wrist at the last moment causing her fingers to slip into the space between his index and thumb. Barbara inhales sharply as the Harbinger lowers his gaze to watch his thumb gently stroke her tiny fingers.
"I'm not ashamed of what I do," he informs her quietly. "I know it's not what you want to hear but it's the truth."
"I know," Barbara admits softly. "And that's what worries me."
"Why?" He scoffs. "I'm good at my job. There isn't a person alive who could defeat me in combat."
"Lumine told me about Teucer," the Deaconess informs him. "About how you—"
"Don't," he hisses sharply through grit teeth as he forces a small smile.
"I'm sorry," Barbara replies shaking her head as she abruptly rises to her feet. Tears of frustration stinging her eyes as the last ounces of her resolve finally abandon her. "I have to go."
"So, just so we're clear, the Church of Favonius refuses a substantial donation from a Harbinger expressing gratitude because it believes, without evidence, that the Fatui traffic in blood money?"
"Ajax please, don't look at it like—"
"If you're going to insult me then I would prefer you addressed me by my call sign," the Eleventh Harbinger snaps his tone hardening as he regards her frostily.
"M-mr. Tartag—"
"Tartaglia will suffice."
"T-tartaglia, m-my apologies," Barbara mutters, flushing badly now. "Please don't take it that way."
"How else am I supposed to take it?" He shoots back tapping the table with his finger distractedly. "What a joke. You judge and lecture me for fighting and killing for my beliefs but turn me away when I actually try to do something nice for a change."
"I-if you want to be nice then be nice!" Barbara shoots back clenching her quivering fists to her chest as she shoots him a withering glare. "No one's stopping you. You don't need an invitation or excuse to be kind and you certainly don't need to make a spectacle of yourself to do it!"
Sometime during their argument, her tears of frustration had transformed into tears of anger as her small shoulders shook with the force of her indignation. She couldn't remember the last time she had ever gotten this angry, but his words had snapped something deep within her.
"I made a spectacle of myself?!"
"Yes, you did. Did you honestly expect me to rejoice at the sight of your legionnaires traipsing into Lord Barbatos' church carrying your filthy blood money?!"
"I was only trying to—"
"I don't care what you think you were trying to do. You defiled Lord Barbatos' sacred house," the Deaconess snaps jabbing a finger at his chest.
"I didn't know—"
"How could you know when you never stop to consider anyone else's needs but your own?"
"Hey, now that's not fair!"
"I mean do you even have any idea how worried I have been since you left?!" She shrieks as her shoulders quiver violently. "Do you even care about your own wellbeing?"
The Eleventh Harbinger watches the fuming blonde glowering up at him through puffy tear-streaked eyes. He manages an awkward chuckle when a pair of waiters poke their heads into the room to check on them.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles sheepishly rubbing the nape of his neck. "I didn't know."
"I have to go," the Deaconess mumbles quietly after taking several deep steadying breaths to compose herself.
"Alright," the Harbinger replies. "Let me walk you back."
Barbara is far too worn out to protest or refuse as she leaves the table. Tartaglia follows after her, pausing to settle the bill with the waitstaff before joining her outside.
It has started to drizzle and a waiter by the door hands him a large umbrella which he holds up for Barbara. She mutely falls into step beside him and they walk in awkward silence for several moments until they reach the entrance of her inn.
"I'm sorry," the petite songstress mumbles meekly as he prepares to leave. "I shouldn't have—"
"No, it's fine. I was totally out of line back there," Tartaglia replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. When the Deaconess doesn't offer any response, he allows himself an awkward chuckle as he recalls the sound of her screaming at him. "Are you alright? It sounded like you burst a blood vessel back there yelling at me."
"Yes," the blonde smiles sheepishly stroking her neck. "I'm fine right now."
"Man, I can't remember the last time anyone's screamed at me like that," the Harbinger chuckles shaking his head fondly.
"I shouldn't have done that," Barbara moans quietly, concern knotting her eyebrows now.
"Does your neck hurt or something?" Tartaglia asks squinting down at her in confusion.
"No, not yet. But it will tomorrow," she sighs before explaining. "Screaming really strains my vocal cords."
"Vocal cords huh? Do you sing, or something?" The Deaconess nods quietly. "That's amazing. You must be very good."
"Oh, I'm alright," Barbara flushes slightly. "M-my father's mother used to be a famous opera singer in Fontaine. I hear some antique shops back there still sell her concert posters and promotional portraits."
"That's amazing!" Tartaglia informs her, blue eyes twinkling in amazement. "Seriously! The only person in my family to ever get famous was my granduncle and he was sort of the town pariah for destroying a priceless sculpture at the train station by crashing his sled into it."
"Oh dear," Barbara chuckles before catching herself. "I mean I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," the Harbinger smiles. "My brothers and I all thought it was the funniest thing when we first heard about it. Still do actually."
"Well, it is kind of funny," the petite songstress opines shyly. "D-do you still see him back home?"
"No," Childe sighs. "He died when I was around five years old. He was on his way to deliver my sister Tonia's birthday present when he got lost in a snowstorm. He lived about four hours away but always went out of his way to personally deliver our birthday presents for us. Said the trip was an adventure he looked forward to."
"I'm so sorry, Ajax," Barbara mumbles gently. Without thinking, she reaches forward to place a hand on his elbow as she watches him sadly.
With his head bowed, his sapphire eyes seem to have lost their usual sparkle and his youthful features sag and droop in ways befitting a man six times his age. The shadows clinging to his face only highlighted the deep anguish reflected within. His were the eyes of eternal sorrow for they were privy to so many atrocities both by his hands and by the hands of others. And still, Barbara recognizes the faintest glimmer of hope flickering within, desperately seeking a path to salvation.
Oh, Ajax. She sighs inwardly.
"You know, he never did live down that drunken mishap at the train station. No matter how hard he tried it was all anyone ever remembered him for. Not his toys or the many clocks he restored. Not even when he restored a nobleman's pocket watch. So, I said to myself there is no way I am ever going to die like that. I'm gonna be great. Greater than anyone who ever lived. People are going to remember me forever. Mark my words, Kroshka."
"Ajax, please don't—"
"Don't look at me like that, Kroshka. I'm stronger than any man you've ever met."
"I just don't want you to get hurt. This life…it's…there's so much violence in what you do," Barbara fusses clutching her hands to her chest.
"You don't think I'm strong enough, Kroshka?" Tartaglia asks throwing his head back with a barking chuckle.
"I don't think you're cruel enough," the Deaconess admits reaching to wipe the tears forming in her eyes.
No. Not now. Please. Why am I crying now?
"Powerful men don't have to be cruel," the Eleventh Harbinger informs her bluntly.
"But they often are," she counters.
"That's life, Kroshka," he shrugs. "I don't know what else to tell you."
"Then I'm sorry," she says after a long pause. "But this will have to be goodbye."
"Don't be that way, Kroshka," Tartaglia chuckles nervously. "I really enjoy our little chats."
"I'm sorry," the Deaconess mumbles once more avoiding his gaze.
"Come on, you still haven't shown me how to make your delicious stew. And as I recall, I still owe you a delicious meal."
"I'll send you the recipe tomorrow and we can just call it even," the blonde replies listlessly.
"Yeah, but I still haven't repaid you for saving my life," he presses grabbing her shoulders before catching himself and hastily releasing her. "S-sorry."
"G-0-good night, Ajax."
"W-wait!" He blurts grabbing her suddenly by the sleeve. She turns to watch him hopefully as he bites his lower lip, lost in thought. "I know you can't accept the donation to the church but what if I donated the money in your name to some orphanage in Mondstadt?"
"I don't—it would still be the same thing."
"You're not making this easy on me, Kroshka."
"I told you before, you don't have to repay me, Ajax."
"But I want to repay you."
"Why?" She presses quietly.
"I just want to, alright?"
"Then leave the Fatui," she states firmly now.
"How would that make you feel better?"
"I haven't slept properly since you left Mondstadt, Ajax," she informs him quietly staring down at her hands. "How can I when I know that because of me, you're out there killing and maiming in the name of the Fatui. Don't you understand? Every life you take. Every limb you maim. Every land you raze. It all comes back to me."