Chapter Thirty-One: Fools
The deafening blast of the ship's horn as it docks rouses the Eleventh Harbinger from his reverie. His blue eyes harden as he scans the sea of tiny faces aboard the docking ship's bow waving at the cheering crowd below.
What are you doing? He wonders with a scoff. Signora's probably still below deck. She'd never mingle with the rabble.
"Leaving already?" The First Harbinger queries without turning to face him.
"Signora's probably still inside," Tartaglia replies tersely prompting the older man to turn to face him.
"Her name's Rosalyne, you know," the Jester informs him bluntly.
"I'm aware," the Eleventh Harbinger returns with an indifferent shrug.
"You will do well to remember it when you refer to her in public."
Childe turns to level his colleague with a withering glare but stops when he notices a Fatui agent materialize behind him.
"My lords," the underling greets, lowering himself into a deep bow. "Lady Signora requests your immediate attention aboard the ship. There's been a situation."
The Eleventh Harbinger's eyebrows crease as he notes the subtle tremor in the agent's voice. He shifts his gaze to study the agent's back as he turns to lead them aboard the ship and notices the telltale weight of shock and disbelief weighing his broad shoulders.
Whatever had rattled him so must have vexed Signora enough to delay her. While Childe knew he should be intrigued by this new development, his thoughts kept returning to his discussion with Yanfei about tracking down Pulcinella and his co-conspirators before his impending nuptials.
By now his return to Snezhnaya had been common knowledge for some time. And while the official reason had been to give him time to oversee the final preparations for his wedding, the abruptness of his return had drawn considerable attention.
So why hasn't Pulcinella made his move? He wonders. A large part of his decision to abandon his post in Liyue and return to Snezhnaya had been to throw the Fifth Harbinger off and draw his full attention to Snezhnaya, far away from his former lover back in Mondstadt. While he had not expected his conniving colleague to challenge him openly, he had expected some resistance.
But even Yanfei had noted that the agents watching his family had been pulled away almost as soon as he had reached Snezhnayan shores.
By now Pulcinella has more than enough to either know that I have betrayed him to the Tsaritsa or to suspect as much. Childe muses, a contemplative frown creasing his features as he follows the First Harbinger aboard the docked vessel. So why hasn't he done anything? Is it possible that he might have fled? That would certainly be the smart thing to do but still…I expected at least a parting shot from him. Unless…could he have something in store for Barbara? No. He wouldn't risk it. Without the Tsaritsa's protection, it's too dangerous for him to go after Mondstadt's shining idol and risk sparking an international incident. If he's going to make a move it's going to be here, in Snezhnaya.
They crossed the ship's deck and made a beeline for the doorway leading to the now vacant passenger quarters below deck. The agent led them lower and lower towards the ship's cargo hold before stopping before a pair of large metal doors sealing the cargo from the rest of the ship.
"My word, what is that odious stench?!" The First Harbinger blurts, thoroughly repulsed as he reaches to cover his masked nose with a handkerchief for good measure.
Tartaglia's eyes narrow as he recognizes the unpleasantly familiar stench of a rapidly decomposing corpse.
"Whose body did you bring back?" The Eleventh Harbinger asks without turning to face the agent that had been leading them.
The agent's back stiffens at the sudden query but he does not otherwise acknowledge them as he reaches to wrest open the cargo bay door. No amount of familiarity could ever prepare him for the overwhelming wave of putrid air that assaulted them as the cargo bay doors fly open to them. The oppressive humidity and the immense concentration of rotting flesh easily cause his eyes to water.
The agent steps aside, offering them a litany of groveling apologies that do precious little to abate the smell. Childe steels his body as he waits for the initial cloud to dissipate. Beside him, the First Harbinger is doubled over, wheezing and retching uncontrollably. Childe turns to shoot him a sympathetic look but freezes when the familiar clacking of Signora's measured steps fill the cargo bay before them.
"My my, Piero," the Fair Lady tuts mockingly as her frame fills the doorway. "It's been quite some time since I saw you without your mask. This must be quite the occasion."
"Signora," the First Harbinger seethes as the Eleventh Harbinger reaches to steady his reeling frame. "What is the meaning of this?!"
"How many bodies did you stuff in there?" Childe asks with a dry chuckle as he notes the contemptuous smile twisting the Fair Lady's painted lips. Out of respect, he angles his face enough to keep Piero's unmasked countenance from view. While his colleague's features definitely intrigued him, he had no interest in studying them under such circumstances.
Perhaps this is her way of getting back at Piero for making her go along with this farce of a wedding. Tartaglia wonders absent-mindedly.
"Just one," the Eighth Harbinger replies tonelessly.
"Impossible!" the First Harbinger snarls his accusation.
"Trust me, comrade, one body is more than enough to produce this stench," Tartaglia assures him before turning to address their colleague. It was evident from her tone and demeanor that Signora was so familiar with the stench of death that a stink this great did not faze her. "I'm guessing since you lugged it all the way back here it must be someone important."
"It is," Signora acknowledges coyly.
"Who is it?" Piero chokes out from behind his handkerchief.
"Pulcinella," the Fair Lady informs them matter-of-factly. "Or at least what was Pulcinella."
The Eleventh Harbinger blinks slowly at her for several moments as if waiting for the punchline of some sick joke to land. When none came and her expression only hardens, he turns to study the First Harbinger's reaction instead.
"Did you kill him?"
"Of course not," the Eighth Harbinger scoffs.
"Then how?" Piero presses, rising to his full height as he secures his mask over his features. "Impossible…I mean…Outside…fresh…air…now."
Tartaglia and Signora follow the First Harbinger out of the cargo bay, steadily ascending until they reach the blissful fresh saltwater air above deck. By now the majority of the ship's passengers and crew had already alighted, with a few stragglers and harbor workers climbing aboard to clean and prepare the ship for storage.
They find a secure area far out of the workers' earshot where the Jester forges ahead of his colleagues and wrests his mask from his face, inhaling deeply as he regains his composure.
"How long has—? When did he die?" Piero asks without turning back.
"Last week," Signora replies.
"And you didn't think to preserve his body for transport?" Childe seethes crossing his arms.
"I did," Signora shrugs.
"That stench says otherwise," Tartaglia challenges, crossing his arms as he regards her with a disapproving frown.
The faintest frown creases Signora's lips as she shifts to meet his gaze, pale eyes flashing dangerously at his affront.
"Perhaps it is because of this," she says unclenching a gloved palm to reveal a dead pyro vision embedded within a Fontainian frame.
"His vision?" The First Harbinger queries after securing his mask and turning to examine the lifeless vision.
"No, not his," Childe blurts, his eyes flashing with recognition as he reaches to retrieve the vision. "Another's."
The Eighth Harbinger clenches her fist and snatches her arm out of reach at the last moment, prompting him to meet her gaze.
"You've seen this vision before," she accuses, her eyes narrowing into deadly slits now.
"Yes," Tartaglia replies after some thought. "At least I think so."
"Who was its master?" The Jester presses, a note of urgency evident in his voice as he turns to face the youngest harbinger now.
"I don't remember her name," Childe confesses as he closes his eyes. He remembers the starving child he had met in the ruins of a once-great house in a sleepy Fontainian suburb. He racks his thoughts for any memories of her name but does not find any.
Either he had never bothered to learn it, or she had never volunteered it.
"I'm assuming since your paths crossed that she is deceased?" Piero sighs.
"She is," Childe confirms. "I watched her vision die myself."
Did I? I don't remember. Why can't I remember?!
"Why did your paths cross?"
Tartaglia turns away, reeling from the growing realization that despite his best efforts he had been an unwitting pawn in yet another harbinger's game. While he was still struggling to fully comprehend Pulcinella's scheme, his gut told him that he had been played.
I never asked why he wanted me to kill that child. He realizes. Why didn't I ask?! He would have lied but still, there is always some truth hidden within any lie worth telling.
"Childe!" Signora barks. "Snap out of it."
"What's the matter?" Piero asks. "You're shaking."
"The body," Tartaglia blurts out as he turns to face Signora. "I need to see it."
"There's not much left of it," she informs him bluntly.
"Then how did you know it was him?!" The Eleventh Harbinger snaps suddenly beside himself.
"I examined his body the night he died," Signora replies. "I had our agents move and embalm him for immediate transport. This level of decomposition is impossible."
"Improbable, yes but not impossible," Piero corrects, lowering his head into a reflective pose.
The Eighth and Eleventh Harbingers turn to observe the Jester expectantly as he considers his next words carefully.
"How did he die?" The First Harbinger asks suddenly.
"Poisoned dart," Signora surmises. "I found a faint puncture wound beneath his armpit. At the time it seemed fresh, so I had some mirror maidens and cicin mages embalm him."
"You didn't perform an autopsy to confirm?" Tartaglia presses.
"I know a staged suicide when I see one."
"What makes you believe it was staged?" Piero asks.
"In Sumeru, there are many tonics, hexes, and secret techniques capable of inducing what we call a sleeping death. Used correctly it can trick the body into shutting down and appearing dead."
"Why? Why do you suspect that here?"
"It has limited uses for espionage," Signora acknowledges before adding. "As it was originally devised as a way to temporarily prolong a person's life by slowing their bodily functions to retard the progress of a terminal illness or poison. Naturally, artificially delaying death thusly can significantly accelerate the body's decomposition. That explains the smell despite our best efforts to preserve his body for transport."
"That doesn't make any sense," Childe notes. "There are far easier ways to stage a suicide."
"Not when you want to throw any would-be pursuers off your trail," Signora replies with a condescending smirk.
"So is the body fake?" The First Harbinger wonders. "A homunculus perhaps? While uncommon, they can be quite useful decoys."
"No," Childe disagrees, his frown deepening. "That stench belonged to a living being. It is impossible to mistake. Homunculi are not made of the same materials living creatures are. I've killed my fair share of homunculi. Their corpses smell nothing like that. Perhaps he found some other person to use as a decoy."
"Fooling you might be child's play, but I can assure you it would take far more than that to fool me," Signora scoffs, widening her smirk for good measure.
Whatever malice her words had stirred within him barely register as his thoughts return to Barbara back in Mondstadt and his family back at home.
People only fake their deaths when they intend to start over. Without the duties and expectations of his identity and position in the Fatui, he would be free to come and go as he pleases. There'll be no predicting what he'll do until he makes a move. But I can't wait that long. Knowing him, his first strike will be lethal.
"Then whose body did you bring back?"
"I told you already, it's Pulcinella's—at least what used to be Pulcinella's body," the Fair Lady replies with a sigh.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Tartaglia presses, an edge of exasperation creeping into his voice now.
"Mind transference," Piero states suddenly. "Or better yet, consciousness transferal. You are referring to that, aren't you?"
"Indeed," Signora confirms.
"While there are some variations of that ability, I am only familiar with the one developed by the alchemist known as Gold."
"Gold?" Tartaglia repeats. "The alchemist from Khaenri'ah? The one who served the Eclipse Dynasty before the cataclysm?"
The Jester nods.
A shudder runs down Childe's spine as the unease within threatens to overpower him once more. It was a name he was vaguely familiar with, having heard it in the fevered murmurs of the wretched denizens of the Abyss many years ago. While his teacher, Skirk was personally familiar with its bearer, she had refused to acknowledge his repeated queries and had warned him against uttering that name outside her presence while he was still within the Abyss.
During his stint as a lowly fatui agent scouring and raiding ruins for precious artifacts, he had gleaned enough to surmise that the alchemist known as Gold had single-handedly provoked the ire of Celestia, dooming all of Khaenri'ah with him.
All this time? I thought Gold had died during the cataclysm? Why would Celestia go through the trouble of destroying Khaenri'ah without destroying the cause for its destruction?
"Yes, the very same," Piero continues. "I knew them briefly when we both served the Eclipse Dynasty. They were the royal family's most trusted advisor. While they were a particularly sickly individual, they were singularly obsessed with the pursuit of knowledge."
"They?" Signora notes, arching an eyebrow. "You couldn't tell their gender?"
"Alas no, for I did not meet them in their original body and they consistently adopted both male and female vessels seamlessly," Piero explains. "You see their experiments put them in constant contact with highly lethal beings and materials. That much exposure naturally destroyed and degraded their bodies so quickly that they were forced to create new vessels to host their consciousness and conducted the transferals at least once every two years."
"Impossible," Signora gasps. "Are you telling me that Pulcinella might be—"
"That is not an assumption I am comfortable making at this time," the First Harbinger interrupts, cutting her off before continuing.
"But you didn't know Gold that well," the Fair Lady counters. "So, it's possible that they could have assumed a new identity without you knowing."
"It is," the Jester concedes, "however, I would be willing to entertain that possibility should our investigation uncover irrefutable evidence. In the meantime, I hypothesize that the person we know as Pulcinella faked his death and vacated this body for another."
"What makes you so sure?" Childe challenges. "All this sounds like a lot of speculation based on a badly decomposed corpse. In my experience, any number of explanations can readily account for the corpse's state. For starters, the ship's cargo bay did not seem suited for storing human remains."
"For your information, I encased Pulcinella's corpse in a dormant cryo hypostasis," Signora informs him tersely. "The cryo cicin mages and I personally monitored the corpse's state throughout the trip. Everything was going well until our ship drew close to the Snezhnayan harbor. Pulcinella's corpse inexplicably began to burn up and quickly melted the hypostasis before it could rouse to defend itself."
"Hence all the humidity," Piero sighs, pinching the bridge of his mask's nose. "And I'm guessing that was when you noticed the lifeless vision?"
"It was. Which was when I summoned you both aboard."
"Pulcinella," Tartaglia says suddenly as a thought occurs to him. "Several weeks ago, he asked me to assassinate some has-been performer in Fontaine and her child. I thought the singer was the target, but he insisted that I took care of the child as well. I noticed that on the child's body when I was confirming their deaths."
"Is it possible it belonged to her mother?" Signora wonders.
"No," Childe replies. "I was there. I watched them die. The mother died almost an hour after her daughter and that vision faded exactly when the child died."
"Are you sure?" Signora presses.
"It's not something I would forget," Tartaglia assures her through clenched teeth.
"Their bodies—how did you dispose of them?" Piero asks, crossing his arms in evident apprehension.
"I did not. I let the authorities find and take them," Childe replies before elaborating. "Per Pulcinella's instructions, I allowed them to succumb to smoke inhalation but did not let the fire burn their bodies—so that they were easily recognizable."
"Then we must send word to our agents in Fontaine," the First Harbinger declares. "If my suspicions are correct, that child was intended to be Pulcinella's vessel."
"But why would he have me kill her?" Childe challenges, crossing his arms as she turns to face him with a skeptical frown. "Shouldn't consciousness transferal be ideally performed on a living vessel?"
"A living soul actually complicates the process," Signora informs him. "There have been instances throughout history of the target's consciousness displacing the would-be successor's soul. it makes sense for an established soul to hold a significant advantage over an invading one. While some precautions might lessen the risk, they cannot completely eliminate it entirely."
"Transferring an entire being's consciousness requires a herculean investment of time and resources," the Jester informs him. "Most practitioners prefer to create a suitable vessel from scratch. Others spare no expense to thoroughly vet and secure live candidates. Either way, the amount of time and resources required is such that even archons have been known to prepare their would-be vessels centuries in advance. If my theory is correct and Pulcinella is capable of transferring his consciousness to another vessel, then he must have been preparing it right under our noses."
"The child," Tartaglia says, his anxiety swelling he finally voices the very thing that had filled him with so much dread. "She was his biological daughter."
"Then we have all been had," Piero notes with a mirthless chuckle.
"I haven't slept properly since you left Mondstadt, Ajax," the petite Deaconess had once confessed to him at the door of her inn one rainy spring evening. "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."
One more kill, Kroshka.
The Eleventh Harbinger's promise rings hollow as the desperate heaves of his fleeing prey retreat further and further into the night. Shame weighs his broad shoulders as his long legs carry him forward. Blood falls upon the thick white snow in almost black droplets from his bare hands as he tracks his target through the maze of warehouses lining the outskirts of the Snezhnayan harbor.
Against the howl of the blizzard he discerns his target's desperate cries for help but remains unmoved. Marching resolutely forward, his blade dragging along the crunchy path of snow. The port authorities had wisely secured the dock and dismissed the workers for the week in light of the impending winter storm. No aid would be forthcoming.
In time, his target would realize it too.
They all did. Some far earlier than others.
The fortunate few that managed to elude his blade long enough to realize the futility of their circumstances often resorted to bribery. Six were foolish enough to offer money. For their insolence, he had killed them as inhumanely as possible. One had even offered him his very own daughters to defile as he pleased. And yet he had indulged every single one of Pulcinella's accomplices, knowing full well that their words would do precious little to sway him.
Trust and obey. There was no other way. Pulcinella had slipped through his fingers once. The Tsaritsa would tolerate nothing less from him.
Of the many that had willingly offered any secrets that would have spared their lives, only two had actually provided anything of value so far. Two out of one hundred and seventeen.
The first had confirmed their suspicions that Pulcinella had possessed at least one other body prior to occupying the vessel they were familiar with. The second had only helped Pulcinella keep tabs on the former singer and her child in Fontaine but had never bothered to discover the reason for the Fifth Harbinger's continued interest in them.
One hundred and seventeen lives in three months. Ninety-six days of chasing and hunting all end with this.
In a way, it was amazing to consider that a lowly courier had outlasted all the haughty dignitaries and opportunistic bureaucrats that had foolishly conspired against her Majesty.
After this only one remains.
"You know this will go by a lot faster if you just stop running," Childe informs his target calmly as he draws within earshot of his now-wheezing form. "I promise I'll make it quick. Painless even."
"P-pl-please…my…family…don't…me!" When the Eleventh Harbinger begins to lift his blade, the man falls to his knees and lunges forward, sobbing wretchedly as he flops at his feet. "MERCY! PLEASE! I beg you!"
"This is mercy," Tartaglia assures him as he pauses to consider him with a pitying look.
"Please let me go! F-f-for h-h-er s-s-ake!"
The Eleventh Harbinger's frame stills as a spasm of shock wracks through him.
"What did you say?" Tartaglia hisses, his gaze suddenly manic with disbelief. The courier cowers into himself, trembling violently as he shakes his head. "Whose sake?"
"F-for-give m-me, pl-please," the man pleads, his gloved hands catching the hem of the harbinger's coat in desperation. "I didn't mean it. H-h-he to-told m-me t-t-to s-s-ay s-s-o."
"Whose sake?" Childe repeats, his gaze hard and unfocused as his mind strays to the atrocities he is prepared to inflict for any response he deems unsatisfactory. "WHOSE SAKE?!"
"B-B-Ba-Babara's! T-th-the si-singer's sake."
"I thought so," the Eleventh Harbinger states listlessly as he reaches to grab a fistful of his target's hair.
"Please! Mercy!"
"Who told you to mention that name to me?" When the man shuts his eyes firmly in fright, Tartaglia presses the blade of his weapon against his throat with enough force to draw blood. "I asked you a question."
"Merciful archons, I never knew his true name!"
"So, describe him."
"Tall, dark-skinned—works in the K-Knights of F-Fa-Favonius -i-in Mondstadt! W-wears a-an e-e-eye p-p-patch!"
Kaeya Alberich?!
Confusion seizes the harbinger's frame as he releases the blade in his left hand. Stumbling backwards his arms fall to his side as he trips over his own feet and crashes to the ground gracelessly.
He was the one with Barbara when she came to Liyue Harbor to return my donation.
"Explain," Childe prompts the trembling courier through clenched teeth. "And don't lie to me."
"I w-worked w-w-with him b-back in M-Mondst-tadt as an informant—I was a treasure hoarder you see," the man explains, blinking earnestly as he hurries to oblige. "W-when my g-gang was rounded up, he gave me an out if I a-greed to act as h-his liaison for Pulcinella."
"What business did the Cavalry Captain have with the Fifth Harbinger?" Childe presses.
"I'm not sure. H-he n-never to-told me anything and I d-didn't dare r-read th-their le-letters. All I know is that Pulcinella's been feeding him information about the harbingers' movements."
"And what did Pulcinella get out of it?" Tartaglia prompts.
"In-information a-an-d th-the occasional artifact."
"Information about the Knights?"
"I'm not sure." It was evident in the courier's eyes that he did not dare withhold any further information on the subject prompting the Eleventh Harbinger to move on.
"How did Barbara come up?"
"Sh-she d-d-didn't," the courier confesses, squirming visibly as he lowers his gaze. "Actually…I overheard him ta-talking to that nun—the one with the foul t-temper. Th-they were arguing about something back in Liyue Harbor and he said something about B-Ba-h-her being y-your weakness. So, I thought—"
But whatever the informant had thought dies with him as the Eleventh Harbinger retrieves his weapon and cleaves his target's body in two with a dizzying flick of his wrist, spraying blood everywhere.
See? Quick and painless. As promised.
"Kroshka," the word escapes him in a heavy sigh as the exhaustion of his chase threatens to claim him. Mustering every ounce of his remaining strength into his limbs, he wills himself back to his feet and stumbles away from the still-twitching corpse, pausing only to fire a single flare to signal the Fatui agents standing by to clean up after him.
Just one more until it's done. He assures himself despite no discernible end in sight and having no way of tracking down his former colleague.
Head still buzzing from the courier's confession, he returns to his apartment for a much-needed bath. When Signora finds him hours later, he is still sprawled within his bathtub, drifting in and out of consciousness.
"Do you always have to make such a mess?" the Fair Lady scolds as she coaxes him out of the bathtub. "All that blood. Even with the snow, it will take weeks to clean."
"What are you doing here?" He asks groggily as she secures a dressing robe around him.
"Her Majesty has summoned us to Zapolyarny Palace," she replies as they reach his bedroom door. "Have you prepared a report on Pulcinella's whereabouts?"
"I've got nothing to report," he admits with a mirthless chuckle. "Do you?"
"I do, even though Fontaine was an absolute waste of time," Signora seethes, shoving him unto the bed with enough force to disorient him.
"Did you find the girl's body?" He asks, slowly pulling himself to rest his weight against his elbows.
"I found her mother's," the Eighth Harbinger replies with a dry chuckle of her own. "Unfortunately for us you did your work a little too well. The authorities concluded that the fire had been accidental, so they released their bodies to the first person who claimed to be related to the singer and her daughter. But their only living relative was the singer's sister and she claimed that she never laid eyes on her niece's body since the supposed relatives had already cremated it to save on expenses. In other words, it's long gone."
"Did you try testing the remains?"
"Of course, I did. what sort of idiot do you take me for?" the Fair Lady huffs crossing her arms. When he does not reply, she marches towards his closet and digs out a set of clothes for him to change into.
"I had to ask," he remarks quietly as he rises to his feet, pausing briefly to study the clothes she had picked.
Without registering what he had seen, he peels off his robe and allows it to fall to his ankles, exposing himself completely as he prepares to change.
"Not going to ask me to leave?" The Fair Lady taunts, a smirk evident on her lips as she strides into view occupying as much of his personal space as possible without touching him.
When their eyes meet and he still does not acknowledge her she pointedly drops her gaze to examine him. Her smile falls when she finds him maddeningly unaroused and the thin line creasing her painted lips is all the evidence he needs. Without meeting his gaze, she reaches a gloved hand to stroke him.
"I'm tired," he sighs when his body does not respond.
"I think," she pauses briefly to retract her hand as she lifts her gaze to hold his. "We need to address the elephant in the room."
"Alright. If this is going to work, we should agree to be discreet with our lovers," he states matter-of-factly. "Doesn't make much sense for both of us to be miserable."
"That's rich coming from you," the Eighth Harbinger scoffs.
"What's that supposed to mean?" He asks as he slips on a pair of underwear and reaches for the trousers she had laid out.
"Your trollop is pregnant!" She sneers. "I found out the night before I left Mondstadt with Pulcinella's body. By now she will be showing and anyone with an ounce of common sense will remember that little stunt you pulled sending an army of legionnaires marching into that cockroach's Cathedral carrying sacks of mora and connect the dots. Honestly, between that and how shamelessly she threw herself at you back in Liyue Harbor I'm shocked the little minx hasn't come strutting into Zapolyarny Palace demanding to see you."
"She wants nothing to do with me," Childe sighs as he buttons his dress shirt.
"That may be, but we need to contain the situation before it embarrasses the Tsaritsa. We can't afford another scandal with the Pulcinella affair still hanging over our heads."
"What did you have in mind?"
"We take the child off her hands," Signora suggests. "Pass it off as ours."
He allows himself a sharp chuckle at this as he finally turns to face her.
"Is this another one of Balladeer's brilliant ideas?" He jeers, condescension dripping from every syllable as he tilts his head ever so slightly to the side to consider her with a contemptuous smirk. The Fair Lady's features harden as their eyes meet.
"It was mine," she grounds out through clenched teeth.
"Why don't we leave the heavy thinking to Balladeer, hmm?"
"You scum! I—we wouldn't be in this mess if you couldn't keep it in your pants."
"We? What do you mean 'we'?" he scoffs.
The Eighth Harbinger's pale eyes twinkle in surprise and her expression falls Tartaglia slowly but surely discerns the secret he was never meant to learn.
A sudden weight lifted off his shoulders as the missing pieces of the puzzle finally fell into place.
"Control," he mutters almost to himself. "Pulcinella always knew I was a loose cannon, so it stands to reason that her Majesty did too. And yet she made me a harbinger because she respected my abilities. But she did not trust my instincts, so she wanted insurance. No. She needed insurance. You noticed and took it upon yourself to volunteer. That night…in the theatre box…was an audition. You pounced when I was young and inexperienced, trying to mold me by using sex to control me. But it didn't work. You couldn't give up though. Not your style.
"When Lumine came into the picture you panicked. You saw your chance slipping away. Feared that I would be putty in her hands while I rebuffed your advances. That's when the lies started. The Tsaritsa knows nothing of humanity's selfishness, so naturally she took you and Balladeer at your word. A mate would tame me, and you were the only choice. But I wounded your pride when I rebuffed you and insisted on pleading my case directly to the Tsaritsa. So, you ramped up the pressure. Charges would have to be filed. Warrants issued. My family surveilled. All because I would not yield."
"You're crazy if you believe a word of that drivel," Signora scoffs a little too breathlessly. Childe's smirk widens as their eyes meet and this time it is the Fair Lady who is the first to look away.
"The Tsaritsa does not know of Barbara's pregnancy, does she?" He presses quietly. "You've been working overtime to keep it quiet."
"That is preposterous. Why should I care if that trollop's reputation is ruined by her loose legs?"
"Because if she's pregnant then that means you've failed the Tsaritsa at the one thing you promised her you could do," Tartaglia sneers triumphantly. "Control me."
"That doesn't even make any sense. You're a full-grown man—"
"And yet you assured the Tsaritsa that with you holding my leash I would fall in line," Childe retorts with an acerbic chuckle. "And yet here we are. Or did you forget that you were with me in Liyue Harbor when it happened?"
A stillness hangs over the air around them as they study each other carefully. Each determined to discern some weakness to exploit in the other. As much as he enjoyed bullying Signora, Childe knew their stalemate had to end if they were to meet the Tsaritsa soon.
"You're a fool if you believe that I'm going to suffer any blowback for this," the Fair Lady informs him smugly.
"Better a fool than a fraud," he counters as he prepares to move.
"Who are you calling a fraud?" Signora seethes, thoroughly beside herself.
"So, prove it then," he taunts. "Go on, tame me. Show me why the Tsaritsa was right to entrust you with this."
"I have nothing to prove to you," the Fair Lady scoffs as she moves to walk past him. "And even if I did, we'll be late. Are you coming or not?"
As tempting as it was to goad her further, he decides to finish dressing and simply follows her. He boards the waiting car outside and settles into the seat beside her, leaning his head against the cool surface of his backseat window as the car rumbles down the snow-covered streets.
His thoughts return to the courier's confession as he spies the spires of Zapolyarny Palace towering over the bustling city skyline. There was no way the courier could have misunderstood the nature of Pulcinella's dealings with the Knights of Favonius' Cavalry Captain. The Fatui had invested considerable resources into developing reliable contacts within the Knights of Favonius and to a lesser extent, the Church of Favonius as well. So, an arrangement like that did not surprise him. What truly surprised and deeply rattled him was how oblivious the seemingly capable acting Grand Master could have been to her lieutenant's treachery.
What was he doing in Mondstadt? It couldn't have been a coincidence that he turned up there as soon as I returned to Snezhnaya. He had to have been after Barbara. With how close Captain Alberich is to her sister, he could have easily gotten to her. So why did he fake his suicide? Did Signora's presence spook him? Did he think we were onto him when he realized that she was in Mondstadt too?
Anxiety weighs every fiber of the Eleventh Harbinger's lithe frame as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Beside him he feels Signora's gaze trailing him and turns to acknowledge her with a troubled frown.
"Remember our bargain back in Liyue Harbor?" He prompts.
"You wouldn't happen to be referring to the one you broke when you knocked your little trollop up?" She sneers. "Would you?"
"Are we going to have to do this little song and dance every time I need to ask you a favor?" He complains.
"But I thought you loved to dance," the Fair Lady taunts.
"What was Pulcinella doing in Mondstadt, Signora?"
"He was studying Durin's remains in Dragonspine."
"You and I know both know that's not true." Childe retorts with an exasperated sigh. "I know you know what he was doing there. Why won't you tell me?"
"She's here you know?" Signora informs him, stretching her gloved hands before her.
"Who's here?" He asks, a shudder of dread slowly creeping up his spine as he considers his colleague's haughty smirk.
"Your little Kroshka," she chuckles. "She arrived last night while you were skinning Pulcinella's lackeys.
The air flees from his lungs as the world around them spins.
Kroshka? Here? Now?
"Wh-whe-where is she now?"
"At Zapolyarny Palace," Signora replies breezily. "She is her Majesty's most honored guest."
"You're lying," he protests, shaking visibly as he finally turns away. "You're just trying to avoid answering my question."
"What in Celestia are you on about?" the Fair Lady sniffs dismissively as the car finally rolls into a stop. "I already answered your question."
Anxiety weighs the Eleventh Harbinger's lithe frame as he alights at the front steps of Zapolyarny Palace. While every bone in his body yearns to flee, appearances bid him to linger by the chauffeur's side where he extends his arm to the Fair Lady as she emerges after him. Their steps ring hollow in his own ears as his breathing slows considerably.
Arm in arm they march purposefully past throngs of passing bureaucrats and dignitaries without pausing to greet or acknowledge a single one even when they openly follow them with intrigued glances and nervous whispers.
At the Tsaritsa's behest, their wedding had been postponed to allow an appropriate grieving period for their supposedly fallen colleague. Despite the supposed hiatus, Fatui agents had been hard at work spreading news of Pulcinella's demise through the seven great nations like wildfire.
While the official cause of death was never confirmed, their many spies quickly leaked rumors that he had succumbed to some malignant corruption while investigating the remains of the fallen dragon Durin in Dragonspine. Save for the Tsaritsa, Piero, Signora, and Tartaglia, only the Second Harbinger—Colombina—knew of their suspicions regarding Pulcinella and his supposed demise. And only because she possessed invaluable insight.
Like Piero, the Second Harbinger had extensive experience with transferring consciousness between living beings, regularly employing a similar technique by possessing the bodies of stray animals to conceal her identity when meeting her many spies and informants. While she had been generous with her findings and opinions, they were no closer to discovering Pulcinella's true identity or his new vessel.
In the three months since Pulcinella's demise, Tartaglia had tracked down and interrogated every member of Pulcinella's conspiracy both within and without Snezhnaya, personally following up on every lead while simultaneously disposing of every single conspirator no matter how lowly. The Tsaritsa would not tolerate failure and he was loathe to delegate a single assignment.
By now Childe's involvement in the disturbing disappearances was enough of an open secret that the very bureaucrats and politicians that once shunned him now openly lavish him and his family with expensive gifts and hollow praises while going out of their way to engage them in idle conversation. While this deeply intrigued and amused his siblings, his parents were understandably troubled by it.
It was for this reason that a part of him had been all too happy to bury himself into his work. The other and far more troubling reason had been Barbara. By now he had all but confirmed that his hydro vision was in her possession and while he grown accustomed to fighting with it, he had forced himself to do without to avoid having to confront her. While he knew that he would eventually have to face her, he was content to delay it as much as humanly possible.
If he was being honest, he was frightened of being rejected again. The first time had been traumatic enough. And while he completely understood and appreciated her perspective, a part of him had grown to resent her for demanding the impossible of him. If he was content with her maddening insecurities, why could she not tolerate his thirst for violence? Why the atrocities he visited on strangers she had never and would never meet offend her so? Why would she not just have him as he was? He was content with her? Why was she not content with him?
Sharing a child with her would derail everything he had worked his entire life to achieve. He knew that while she would expect him to change for the sake of their child, she would never demand it of him. She had no need to. One way or another he would yield to her. Either he complied with her demands now, or he risked losing both her love and the love of his own child.
While she would never besmirch him, those in her inner circle would not be so kind. Their child would be confronted with every grotesque crime he had ever committed. While a few would know better than to fault them for Tartaglia's sins, the overwhelming majority would not. They would seek solace in Barbara, and she would lovingly console them with the patience of a saint while defending the indefensible and assuring them of Childe's piety. But their child would quickly see their mother's blind love for him for what it was and would reject him completely. In time, the very thought of him will be enough to repulse the very fruit of his loins.
I hope they'll have her eyes. It was the least he could hope for. But it is a hollow thought that does little to quell the disquiet within him. A disquiet caused by a niggling voice in the back of his mind.
It does not have to be this way.
He could go to her. To Mondstadt. Forsake the Tsaritsa and escape the wretched schemes of her merry fools. Why must he familiarize himself with the contents of some bureaucrat's overgrown belly when he would much rather memorize every curve of the Deaconess' petite frame? Why must he pass yet another evening parsing through the lies and shallow schemes of his greedy colleagues when he spend that time prostrate in Barbatos' lofty Cathedral listening to the angelic cadence of his Kroshka's hymns.
Why share a loveless marriage with Signora when he would much rather indulge the songstress' every passing whim?
They'll kill your family.
The doors to the Tsaritsa's throne room flies open and the growing knot in his belly bursts into a spasm of shock that rips through him, threatening to bring him to his knees.
The Tsaritsa is seated upon her throne, watching them expectantly as they lower themselves into reverent bows. From the corner of his eye he spies a vaguely familiar figure standing beside the Tsaritsa's throne but does not dare meet the figure's gaze lest he lose his nerve.
"Ah Childe, Signora, welcome," the Tsaritsa greets pleasantly. "I trust you're familiar with our guest?"
Shit. Perhaps it was too much to have hoped to address his report to the boots at his feet.
"I am your grace," Signora answers dutifully.
Tartaglia traces the navy fur-lined traveling cloak up the figure's decidedly petite frame, pausing to note the visible swell of her midsection before finally settling upon her face. A subtle blush stains the Deaconess' cheeks as their eyes meet and he is so overwhelmed by her presence that he does not notice how her ash blonde hair is now hanging loosely past her shoulders instead of in her signature pigtails.
"And you Childe?" The Cryo Archon presses.
"I am, your Majesty," he admits through the growing lump in his throat.
"She has approached me with a novel proposition," the Tsaritsa informs him tonelessly. "However, before I share it, I believe I should allow you the opportunity to fulfill your vow."
"Y-your g-grace?" The Eleventh Harbinger stutters uncharacteristically.
"The vow, Childe," Piero prompts, emerging from his place at the other side of the Tsaritsa's throne. "The one you made standing in this very room."
"Ah, yes," Tartaglia replies. "C-can I sp-speak to her in private, then?"
"What's wrong with doing it here?" Barbara asks, her voice ringing innocently. The Tsaritsa's grip on her armrest stiffens noticeably at this.
"Kroshka please trust—"
"Proceed!" The Tsaritsa commands.
"Kroshka I—" His thoughts fail him as the songstress calmly approaches him. It takes every ounce of self-restraint his training had ever instilled within him to keep him from seizing her the moment she is within reach.
"Don't worry," she assures him sweetly as she reaches up to stroke his cheeks with the soft palms. "I'll take care of it."
"She's carrying my child," he declares as tears of anguish fill his eyes.
"That is not what we agreed," the Tsaritsa snaps, rising to her feet. "Do as you vowed or suffer the consequences."
But the Eleventh Harbinger sinks to his knees, thoroughly spent and unwilling to follow through on the very vow he had sworn to the Tsaritsa.
"Ajax, please what's going on?"
"I'm so sorry Kroshka," he sobs, pressing his face into her swollen belly as his shoulders heave with the force of his emotions.
"Ajax. Please talk to me. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out."
"Don't you dare breathe another syllable!" The Tsaritsa barks. "I will not have you tip the scales any further than you already have."
"I'm s-so-sorry I-I d-don't u-un-understand."
"He will do as he promised, or you will both suffer for wasting my time!"
"Get up, Childe," Signora sneers. "This instant!"
No. He thinks to himself as the vague memory of Barbara's most desperate love song creeps to the fore.
Blind discipline it's useless
What's the good in being good?
So go ahead, heed desire,
Do what you want to,
Heed desire,
Bleed me slowly,
"Tartaglia!" The Tsaritsa hisses suddenly beside herself as the air around them dips considerably. "Do as you promised!"
Fear spurs him to his feet as he studies Barbara for any signs of pain or discomfort.
"Are you alright?" He asks her. The Deaconess nods sheepishly even as her breaths mist before her very eyes. Assured that she is no immediate danger, he turns to acknowledge the furious archon with a resolute nod. Taking the songstress' gloved hands in his, he leans forward to press a chaste kiss against her knuckles as he finally meets her gaze.
Everything is going to be alright. Her blue eyes assure him.
A sudden calm overtakes him as his finally parts his lips, prepared to commit to his chosen path.
"I love you, Kroshka. I know I shouldn't, but I do."
I love you too. Her smile acknowledges.
"That is why I will not ask you to abandon the safety of the forest. You belong with the trees. Where the sun's rays won't harm you."
"Fools," Signora scoffs. "Wake up! This is not some stage play. Your lives are in danger."
"Peace, Signora," the Tsaritsa sighs as she returns to settle once more upon her throne. "Be still. Tartaglia is this your final answer?"
"I'm afraid it is, your Grace," he replies, turning to face her now. "I'm sorry. I will accept whatever punishment you decide."
"Exile," the archon declares without preamble or hesitation. "And since you will not serve, your brother will atone for your sins."
"No, w-wait you c-can't!—" No sooner had the words left his mouth did the Tsaritsa fly from her throne and drive a frost-covered fist into his midsection, knocking him squarely into the ground.
Barbara screams and falls to his side, moving to shield his body from further abuse with hers.
"You promised you wouldn't hurt him!" The Deaconess sobs.
"He promised me unfailing obedience and has defied me at every turn!"
"Which brother have you chosen?"
"Your brother Stanis volunteered," Piero informs him coolly. "Seemed to relish the thought of using your position to put you in your place. Personally, I doubt he would even last a year. Then another will have to volunteer. I wonder if little Teucer would be gracious enough to oblige."
"THIS ISN'T YOU!" Tartaglia roars at the Tsaritsa as he fights to his feet. "You aren't like this! You wouldn't send innocent children to their deaths just to spite someone!"
"What choice have you left me?! What choice do I have when I am at war with Celestia?!" The Tsaritsa roars back. "I have lost and suffered for you mortals time and time again. I sacrificed not because it was demanded or expect of me, but because it was needed of me. There used to be a time when my very whims were your most treasured commands. But now when I ask something of you, you spare no thought in betraying me and forsaking your vows."
"I was always willing to serve you! I still am!"
"Then fulfill your vow!" The Archon hisses back. "You claim to love me and yet you will not do as I ask!"
"You betrayed me first! I was fifteen when you let Signora—! I forgave you but I could not forget. How could I? Now you ask me to be with her. As if nothing happened? As if my will does not matter."
"Is that why you refuse to obey?"
"I will not obey what I do not trust! And right now, I do not trust you. So, if you think forcing me to kill Barbara will prove my loyalty to you, that is simply not true."
"Then what is true?" The Archon asks, her tone softening considerably.
"That I love you. Always have. I will serve you. But not out of fear. But out of love."
"You love me because I reward you handsomely for indulging in your most depraved desires."
"I love you because you challenge Celestia's cruelty even at the expense of your own peaceful soul. This is not you, your grace." His tone is earnest and pleading now as he rises to his feet. "You've hardened yourself to cruelty because this world demands it of you. But you take no pleasure in inflicting it and while you tolerate it, you certainly do not demand it of those who serve you."
A soft chuckle escapes her as a resigned smile settles upon the Archon's face. Silence settles around them as she tilts her head to study the pattern of stars in the inky night sky visible through the glass ceiling overlooking her majestic throne room.
"You humans lead such fleeting yet impossibly confounding lives," the Tsaritsa observes, displeasure lacing her words as she summons forth her catalyst. "You were more than content to commit atrocities in my name when it served to slake your ever-growing blood lust and now you balk at doing what is commanded of you because it directly conflicts with the very thing you desire."
"If that's the way you see it, then we have nothing further to discuss," Childe sighs as his bow materializes at his side.
"I agree," the Archon affirms before turning to address the other three. "Clear the room."
"Y-y-your g-g-ra-ce," Barbara squeaks as she scurries to Tartaglia's side. "Pl-please c-can't we—?!"
"I haven't forgotten our bargain. But I'm afraid we're well beyond the agreed terms. As enlightening as this entire encounter has been, I must confess some regret that I did not kill you the moment you stepped foot in Snezhnaya. But no matter. Once I'm finished with him, I shall deal with you."
Author's Notes: We got a lot to cover so the chapters will probably be as long as the last two. I want to make sure I tie up any loose ends so I might need another two chapters after this one to wrap things up. We'll see how things go.