Chapter Text
He did not expect that when he lay there, bleeding to death, that he would get to see the sky of Snezhnaya one last time.
He always expected that he, Tartaglia, the 11th Harbinger, would die looking at some foreign skies, one he barely got to know.
But no, here he was, watching as the snow fell down. Some landed on his face, but he did not have the strength to wipe them off.
Nor did his body heat melt it as fast as it did before.
He was dying. Bleeding out.
The wound hurt. He had gotten hurt before, many, many times. Yet these wounds hurt more than any he remembered.
Maybe because they would soon be the cause of his death.
Normally, he would have manifested his hydro spears and gotten back up on his feet. But now he did not. It felt like the water would just freeze.
He was cold.
Whatever body heat his body had left melted the snow he laid upon, and as the water seeped into his clothes, no matter how thick they were, he felt more tired.
He had lived a good life.
He had traveled to many places and had provided money for his family. He had been able to watch the way his mother could buy more food for the family, and the way his siblings smiled at the gifts. Their smiles and satisfaction made him happy.
And he had fought many strong people too. His mentor, the first Harbinger, any Harbinger honestly, even gods and the Traveller.
Maybe he won few of those fights. But he did well.
And he was able to see his motherland’s sky one last time before his death.
He had lived a good life.
If he told everyone that, they would probably believe him.
His family, his coworkers, and the few people he saw as friends. Maybe even the Tsarista.
He, Tartaglia, number 11th of the Fatui Harbinger, had lived a good life and did the things he loved.
But what did Ajax think?
He, Ajax, felt like he had some more things to do if he wanted to say that he lived a good life.
He wanted to write a few letters. Yes, he was also good at that. Writing letters.
He would write to his family. One for his parents, thanking them for taking care of him. Maybe one for his older siblings, reminiscing some old memories. And probably one for the little ones, telling them that he was sorry there was no more toy he could send in this state.
He would write to his coworkers, even if he despised doing so. He would recap what happened that led to his death, and tell them all the information he had held up that would be of use.
He would write to his mentor, expressing regret that he, in his short life, was not able to beat her.
He would write to his friends. He would write to Mr.Zhongli, telling him some stories that maybe the man would retell someday. He would write to the friends he had met along the way. Miss Xiyan, Miss Yoimiya,... even the trio in the Fortress of Metropide.
He would write to the Traveller and Paimon, asking them how they were faring, even if he would never get the answer, and sharing his condolences about not being able to meet them again.
And lastly, he would write a letter to his Archon, the Tsaritsa. He would thank her for choosing him, and for providing for his family. And he would express undying his loyalty to her, even when he was dying.
Ajax closed his eyes, too tired to even open them. The snow slowly grew heavy around him.
He recounted, thinking about who else he would want to write letters to. Ajax did not have many people by his side.
He felt his body become heavier as his consciousness slowly faded away.
He wondered what the Tsarista would grant him, or even if his body would be found.
But he did hope that, in whatever form they decided that his memorial would be, he would not be known as Tartaglia, number 11th of the Fatui Harbinger, the war machine that always craves a fight.
He, Ajax, wanted to be known as Ajax at the end of his life.