Chapter Text
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You wake.
It is slow, painful and leaves you feeling terribly vulnerable, but nevertheless, you wake.
It has been a long time since you last closed your mind. Longer still since you were *forced* to experience the world through pressing an ear against the skin of another as if you were more parasite than god.
Rarely have you ever hidden yourself, not like this, where you have arrived to the game so late that you must plot your own entrance.
It is humiliating, undoubtedly. But, your continued survival and the favorable conditions you could achieve are worth whatever debasement you’ll receive from conducting yourself in this way.
Reducing yourself to a mere handful of tentative tendrils is frustrating, but it is not nearly as crippling as losing out on information purely because the child that now houses you is *disinterested* in the political happenings that surround them.
Though, it appears to be that they are also, simply painfully oblivious. It seems that you will have your work cut out for you in at least one way. Perhaps it is just the price to pay for your own, few millenniums old failure.
Then again, it has also been just as long since you were delivered directly to such a favorable situation.
You wake, and not only do you have a very promising ember in the child, Hanan you hear them called.
But, there is also Hanan’s father. You don’t know what he is called now but you remember… *something* a flicker of recognition half recalled.
Had he *prayed* to you once? You, Of all things?
Interesting.
A child of knowledge forsaking his own Archon and calling out to the dead thing that was you? How desperate he must have been, how ambitious must he be now, to continue as he is?
You may be sluggish and generally diminished but you can recognize a blasphemy when you see one.
Not that you recall one of metal, though it seems through the handful of minutes you’ve spent around him that he is at least, decently sane. Perhaps this could be useful to you, certainly not all changes are detrimental.
You wake, and now you must *listen*.
Splitting yourself is more taxing than you remember, at the height of your power you could’ve made a dozen almost limitless forms.
Now, there is no time for bitter reminiscing as you split yourself into three pieces, one is barely more than an ear. That, you leave in the room.
Another, the one you leave with the child is larger, enough to speak and feel while they carry out their part of the plan.
The final piece of yourself is more suggestion than substance, a failsafe, spread in a thin line through this manor that reeks of the same charm and ambition as that curious mortal. in case a door opens or, simply, if Hanan fucks up.
Talking with them is…embarrassingly difficult. The strain it takes to speak clearly, especially with part of your hearing left with the two intriguing men, is immense. Though even now, you are capable, concise in instruction and quick to restructure yourself when you feel the temptation of sleep beginning to blur your edges.
The sound returns to you as if you are underwater as you drag fragments and tendrils of yourself quietly and carefully along blissfully warm pipes.
Turning the majority of your attention back to these so called ‘Harbingers’. Of what? you don’t know but the reverence with which they are spoken of in whispers you catch through even sluggish and distracted ears is certainly compelling.
As you slither back into the room you hide most of yourself in dark corners and behind any manner or ornate and unrecognizable trinkets. You leave only a few daring wisps to curl at the masked man’s feet.
Perhaps if you are careful enough you could even manage to sneak some of yourself into his mind.
“So your first proposed experiment is utilizing *this* particular fragment? Ignoring your personal troubles for a moment, tell me why you think this plan would work. Or at least, why you chose this particular fragment.”
The human who owns this manor speaks, his voice is soft and beautiful in tone as it breaks through your musings with a delicate and refreshing edge of cunning that catches your interest almost as much as the would-be devotee you spread yourself around.
Speaking of, now that you have a moment to truly examine the delicate *wrongness* of him, interesting that the- no *his* child only recoiled from him once then.
You yearn for the ability to see into his mind, how fractured it must be to achieve such a stable solution to half of your myriad long problem.
Or, and this must be little more than a fantasy but it is an enticing one nonetheless, perhaps your days of volatile and fast-flaring sorcerers and scientists with broken minds or fledgling, half-formed vampires and other, lesser creatures that are mortal at heart are *over*. You yearn to speak with him so much that for a brief, insignificant moment you almost break your calculated silence and reveal yourself in all your tattered glory.
Luckily, your rational mind returns with only a slight quivering of a tendril to signify your momentary lapse in judgment before you are still and mostly hidden.
Dottore’s reply reaches your ears just as you finish refocusing yourself in time to hear the faint tap of glass against wood as the lightest ripples of heat emanate from the vial your detestable, golden thing is housed in.
How rusty you are, almost forgetting your task again.
“Despite my *numerous* attempts to explain this to you before, I will do so once again. For as long as these god-remains have been utilized we have been beset with more than just human error. Every painstakingly monitored group of test subjects yields only a handful of survivors. And of those that do survive, steep mental or physical declines are so common that I cannot *waste* these resources on the hope that *maybe* this next batch will be the key to a new regiment of soldiers.” The frustration in his voice is intriguing but the results are… unsurprising.
You had already learned from the child’s memories that merely shoving the essence of your superior kind into the bodies of traumatized children with no regard for your own wills has ended poorly.
The baser, more *available* of your kin want for little more than mindless violence. Naturally, when roused they won’t be particularly partial to debasing servitude.
Not that *you* are partial to it yourself, of course. But, the confirmation is something you appreciate. Hanan’s aversions are beginning to be a consistent obstacle in regaining your bearings.
“With these past failures in mind, I propose that with the *adequate* amount of funding, I will be able to turn these divine fragments into something we can truly harness. If not to the same caliber as the Delusions then at least as some- temporary steroid, perhaps? You and your precious statements know that almost anything is an improvement over what we have currently. As for this-“ Dottore’s voice continues softer now, but you pay little mind to his words when you feel the curious pulse of energy as leather meets that flimsy glass.
Briefly, you entertain the thought of smashing it and releasing your counterpart’s essence.
You’ve seen his flames melt flesh and bind to the soul, it is only natural to assume that his very being would do the same.
It is not that you harbor any malice towards the two ambitious men, it is simply a flash of white-hot desire and morbid curiosity. After all, perhaps it would simply fail, that unfamiliar metal may even be strong enough to protect him.
But even *that* would be interesting, for it has been so long since you’ve made any discoveries, no progress or sweet fulfillment has flooded your mind in centuries, no one has made use of your lovingly curated mass of knowledge, and as it seems your craft has all but died out now, with only a weak, barely stable witch of flame that has accrued any renown past your death.
Though naturally, *the others* are still alive and well. Not that you expected anything less but you have not heard anything properly beyond the painfully rare and faint calls to your dying self. That you could not answer, of course. If you could have done so, perhaps the man you observe today would be twice as successful and half as insane.
Watching the practice of your craft wane and wane as the warmth slipped from you was your only companion in what would later be a cold, slumbering death. Some would even say it’s fitting for you.
After all, you *are* that cold, aren’t you? Perhaps in time you will be able to nurture new threads of your craft, to add truly *new* spells to your ever-growing collection, for your memory is perfect and endless. Well, almost perfect at least.
You try not to think about the tattered edges that line this fragment of yourself, they don’t scare you, for that is a ridiculous notion, but logically, they do leave you *vulnerable* and weaker than you should be, even with that child’s foolish mistake. There is something else there… something strange that almost pains you to feel for it.
“This is truthfully, one of our more volatile and comparatively abundant specimens. From what we have gathered and tested *diligently*, this god was known for little beyond a pyro alignment and his physical prowess. Wars and wildfires, mostly. As such, a god with few desires and fewer complexities will be easier to utilize and subdue, if any complications occur.” His continuation is pragmatic, imploring and almost fails to hold back a tide of eagerness.
Theoretically, you should be outraged at the dismissiveness with which your divine counterpart is described. As for all your criticisms of that simple-minded feline, he is still above *this*, this commodification of his essence.
As if he is little more than an unsophisticated, dead thing. A tool for one of those pathetic god’s servants. But, as you ponder his words, and see through the edges of your own incredulity, you find yourself being lulled towards the barest tinges of ambition that seep through his words. It has been ages since you’ve had a disciple competent enough to achieve what this man has without leaving their mind in tatters, longer still since one of your own have tried to reach for the edges of divinity.
You are pulled from your fantasies and musings by something that *surprises* you.
“Furthermore, If we are able to mold the remains of such a creature into stable and tangible weapons, the centuries of research I have invested into enhanced humans, could *finally* benefit our greater goal. How else are we supposed to create a fair exchange if we do not even understand the *corpses* of that which we seek to topple, my lord?” The conclusion to Dottore’s proposal is quite enlightening.
First, it solidifies that whatever projects you have seen glimpses of through Hanan are in no way new or at least, not unconnected ventures.
Secondly, and more interestingly, there is a hint of lustful pleading as he ends his little tangent. It is not *that* surprising. Not with how the pair were speaking to each other earlier but, you can’t deny that it is …*entertaining*. You have been dead for millennia and bottled for years. And, with your counterpart so close and so terribly inert it is only fair that you enjoy it. Just a little.
“You talk so much Doctor, and yet nothing you’ve said, regardless of how many times you say it, will justify the outrageous amount of Mora you are asking me for. You *claim* that if I hand over millions of Mora, it will miraculously absolve you of this issue that has plagued this project *since its inception*. Is playing god with the puppet not enough for you, Zandik? Could you not simply reallocate Mora from within your existing funds?”
The tendrils of yourself that lay half exposed are forced to disperse as Dottore walks through them without hesitation.
“Must you continue *hounding* me-“
Pantalone’s monologue is cut off by what you assume is a hand around his throat. You hear the faint sounds of leather and cloth move as he continues to speak.
“…This is certainly a welcome approach, Doctor.” His voice is thicker, lust beginning to cloud that gentle lilt. Interestingly, you do not hear the creaking of metal, only what sounds like flesh bending gently.
“Perhaps *this* could serve as a stand in for our usual negotiations?”
Dottore murmurs imploringly, his voice curiously soft. You hear, and against your better judgment you *feel* Zandik climb on top of Pantalone. As tentative as your tendrils are, they are still effective.
You feel the Regrator’s back stiffen at the contact. You hear the awkward shuffling of fabric and leather as the Regrator, with a hand still around his neck cautiously moves his own to wrap around the other man’s waist.
“Is that all? I’m not feeling terribly convinced. We have time, dear. You should make use of it.”
The Regrator’s teasing reply holds a confidence that is only betrayed by his body’s utter lack of his usual serene calm.
Dottore hums once and then you hear the curious, enviable sound of teeth against flesh.
Are they real? Or are they as blasphemous as the rest of him? You do not know. But you do feel the Regrator relax at the pain. The soft, almost moan that leaves his lips is delightful.
The dichotomy between his smooth, confident words and the stiff nervousness of his actions is something you find amusing. Beyond your own baser desires for an appropriate devotee, of course. You have had some like him in the past, where that crafted facade is only breakable during these arousal filled moments of vulnerability.
You long for many things, a serviceable body, competent devotees, to remember what you cannot, even that gods damned cat that sits only a few feet from you. But, first and foremost, you long for *visuals*. You despise being denied anything, this amusing information included.
You wait and listen attentively as your frustration builds while the two lords continue to pleasure each other, paying no mind to the more daring of your tendrils.
Until even you must admit that there is perhaps a more productive use of your time. With the only potential threats to you currently occupied with each other, you decide to check on the foolish child you are now bound to.
Reluctantly, you pull away from this delightful scene and coalesce the fragments of yourself around warm pipes. You enjoy both the warmth of heated metal and the solidity of your natural form for a moment before you disperse.
When your head pokes out of Hanan’s pocket you are… disappointed.
A quick assessment of your surroundings reveals that, instead of being inside the Regrator’s study, finding information on this project that puts you, and your counterpart in a very… precarious position.
Instead, you find your newest charge bumbling around like an idiot.
*However*, you are nothing if not resourceful, and with another segment of your precious energy Hanan is finally where you need them to be.
There is a part of you that longs to remain with the child, to search with them. Perhaps you could even see through their eyes, for it has been a very long time since you have been able to do such a thing.
Unfortunately, you know very well that what you desire is simply impractical. Wasting what remains of yourself purely because you are impatient could be devastating to this quaint little lie.
With your plan as underway as it can be when it is placed in someone else’s hands, you slither back to your imprisoned and hilariously diminished counterpart. Settling yourself back into the room, you wait, and continue listening to this curious display.
With a scrap of yourself to remain with Hanan as both warning and blessing, of course.
Later, you hear the two lords finish their encounter through the rustling of cloth and the soft, stilted words of a pleasure cut short. Your warning is triggered quickly, because you are no fool.
You may be no fool, but you *are* quite exhausted. Constrained as you are in death. With your senses beginning to flicker and fade, you let the tendrils of yourself disperse and make their way to Hanan with the faint hope that perhaps this is not the end of your divinity. That one day you will remove yourself from these deplorable chains and return to your former prowess. Perhaps you will even rebuild your library.
But first, that promising child needs your guidance.
***
This proposal begins with a dizzying segment of financials for the project throughout its various stages, which Hanan skips past.
Continuing with an admittedly much shorter list of the project’s successes, Esifr and even Collei being named as such.
It goes on to describe how if Dottore and his team *could* find a way to dilute these remains it would solve all of the aforementioned problems while also making the remains themselves increasingly versatile if the god’s wills and other less than desirable side effects were removed, or lessened to the point of malleability.
This new *project* if it can even be classified as such is certainly… well thought out.
That, they must admit even as the waves of horror begin to creep in. They start slow and cloying as they process just how *effective* it could be. Would be, given the Doctor’s track record.
How easy it would be for them to get dragged into it, with fewer and fewer excuses and ways to weasel out of this… uncomfortable facet of the Fatui.
And that doesn’t take into account their new *friend*.
An asset that Dottore will undoubtedly be very interested in. An asset that is, unfortunately for Hanan, a very convenient excuse to get them back in the lab.
And it won’t be for anything they’d enjoy doing.
Their own calculated and practiced approach ended in smoke, suspicion and-
*Pain*.
Beyond the divine haze and honeyed words of a creature they didn’t understand, it *hurt.*
For them, it was easy. And it was still terrifying.
Spasming limbs, drifting in and out of consciousness and the feeling of a cold, sluggish ichor rolling through their veins press into their mind. Fragmented and unwelcome the memory causes them to shudder. The letter in their hand shakes.
Hanan knows that they were afforded many… leniencies that the unwilling and unprepared test subjects will not receive.
It’s not hard to imagine, the experiments they are forced to assist with being condensed, hastened and expanded into a bloodier, ruthless version of an already… questionable method.
Screams fade to whimpers around the blood that fails to drip onto sterile tile due to their own steady hands. The few droplets that remain on a scalpel shine under fluorescent lighting.
When more blood is spilled will it ripple and hum with a beautiful, terrifying and utterly divine power? Is that what it will take, for their hands to shake, for the growing knot of discomfort to finally snap?
Bones and chemicals, are fine. Messier, and colder bodies are… uncomfortable, but they have done it. Archons, even the bloodier, living experiments are something they can *tolerate.*
But something so rushed and cruel, it can’t be necessary for their grand goal.
Not when it’s so *very* easy to imagine themselves strapped to an operating table, writing in agony with only a few clinical glances and cold touches to accompany the torrent of power.
Will any of the dozen glittering and swirling vials of ichor resemble their own?
How much worse would it have been for them, if they hadn’t been afforded such… *affections*?
Not to mention The Doctor’s increasing cruelties.
That is, unless they manage to stop it.
Moments pass and Hanan’s determination settles into something more resolved as their hands still and their heart calms enough for them to focus their attention back to the dreadful mass of papers.
The letters that contain any mention of the dilution project past its initial proposal are little more than arduous and lengthy affairs where any scrap of actual planning is buried under flattering prose from Dottore.
Complimented by what Hanan can assume were scathing rejections that culminated in pages of pointless back and forth arguing.
Even with only half of the conversation visible to them it’s clear just how new and controversial this proposal is. For all of the Doctor’s endeavors the two harbingers have collaborated on, or at least that the Regrator has funded, none of them have been met with such resistance.
To Hanan’s knowledge, that is.
Admittedly, they do tend to zone out whenever Dottore is complaining about a bureaucratic or financial issue. Though whenever the Regrator is mentioned in a less formal manner their… less than respectful opinions of him are clear enough that the whole topic is typically avoided.
After combing through the mountain of mostly useless letters, they separate the initial proposal and the related letters from the rest of the pile.
They don’t have time to look through his shelves, much less the ability, or the courage to look through any of the locked drawers in his desk. Instead, they decide to rifle through the smaller pile once more to see if they missed anything.
And then, a quick and violent motion sends a shudder down their spine.
“*Child*, return. Now.”
“Fuck. *Fuck.* Are you sure-“
Just as they process the cold, urgent whisper, it vanishes.
Leaving Hanan with little choice but to grab the first few pages of the proposal and, upon noticing the traces of that strange scent, begin to roll them up.
After all, if they do manage to raise some suspicions, sneaking a blunt or two into a semi-professional diplomatic meeting isn’t nearly as big of a deal as stealing a few important documents while attending said meeting.
Probably.
Their heels click against the wooden floor, the only sound against the manufactured, calm silence of the manor. At least their arm is also, blessedly silent.
Maybe it needs to sleep?
It mentioned being tired before, and many of the previous *patients* didn’t have them manifesting constantly.
Though they did willingly choose a god with very little recorded information. But clearly they *had* to, it’s both less impressive and less interesting if they pick a well known, relatively safe specimen.
Perhaps it’s related to the night somehow? That seems to be one of its few surviving motifs.
Unfortunately none of the scraps of information they spent hours gathering could tell them much more than a few, vague fragments about a strange god of the night that people came to in desperation, or in search of something. What that something was has unfortunately been lost to time and local myth, and even that is scarce.
Theorizing and compiling everything Hanan knows about their strange companion is actually, very good at distracting them from the fact that they will soon have to lie to two very observant and powerful people.
Regardless of how much favor Hanan may have with them. Well, most of that is admittedly from their father. And with their main excuse of sorts being something that won’t exactly *improve* Dottore’s perception of them… it’s best for them to not be questioned at all.
Hanan returns to the Regrator’s sitting room just as the second and ninth harbingers exit looking somewhat disheveled.
Hurriedly shoving their hands into their pockets Hanan tries to smooth their expression.
It works. Probably.
Looking annoyed isn’t suspicious, is it?
Not under these circumstances at least, they were open about their reluctance to tag along so of course they’d be annoyed at the prospect of spending the day with the Regrator.
So if they’re questioned, a little guilt ridden admission that they snuck a joint into the manor isn’t completely unbelievable. And wandering around isn’t a *crime*. What else were they supposed to do anyway?
Stand around just outside the door like some chastised kid?
Of course not, especially not when the pair took *that* long to finish up whatever parts of this project they didn’t want Hanan hearing.
Dottore steps apart from his colleague, pocketing the vial of god-remains and donning his mask before approaching Hanan swiftly. Placing a gentle hand on their shoulder he opens his mouth to speak, clearly not paying that much attention to them as he does so.
“You’re leaving now? And you’re leaving me *here*?”
Hanan begins, prematurely cutting Dottore off as their fear is veiled quite conveniently by a very genuine annoyance.
Traces of incredulity begin to show in their expression as they frown, momentarily forgetting that their father’s off putting colleague stands only a few feet away.
“Yes. I have very important projects to work on and I can’t have you distracting me, or worse, interfering.*As I told you before*, I’m leaving you with the ninth for ah- what will likely be the rest of the day.” Dottore replies quickly.
“*Distract you?* I’m not a child and I’m certainly not irresponsible enough that I have to be watched by-“ Hanan counters him immediately, their voice beginning to raise.
Dimly, they note another painful jolt in their arm.
“Watch your tone. You almost killed yourself barely a week ago, only because you thought you knew better than me, and yet you still want to insist that you’re so competent and mature. *Please.*” Dottore starts to scold them immediately, only for derision to contain his anger as he pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation.
“I didn’t even-“ Hanan pauses, letting out a soft, dejected sigh. “I’m sorry. *I’m sorry*. I’ll see you later.” They mumble quickly, averting their gaze for a second or two as they are now very keenly aware of how close Dottore is to the papers they’ve stolen.
“Mhm.” He hums offhandedly before leaning towards
Hanan and lowering his voice.
“I *cannot* afford for you to fuck this up because of your own immaturity. So please- *Wait*. Why do you smell like *weed*?” Dottore questions them urgently.
“It’s not- Archons it was just a little bit. can we *please* have this conversation later?” They begin to plead, shooting a quick glance at Pantalone.
While the pair continue their conversation he looks as serene as ever while he finishes readjusting his outfit and waiting patiently for this goodbye to end.
In the few moments of sharp, strained silence Hanan can only wonder quietly if this, of all things, is what causes their father to snap in public for the first time.
“Are you so petulant that you would-“ Dottore sighs, cutting himself off more roughly now as his voice begins to raise again. “I don’t have time for *any* of this. We will be discussing this later.” He concludes coldly, still visibly displeased. He then steps away from Hanan and walks over to the Regrator, whispering something brisk and apologetic.
It doesn’t take much longer for Dottore to leave the manor. He does so without further comment or delay as they watch him leave with equal parts annoyance and anxiety.
In a way, their lie… deeply upsetting him may have worked in their favor. For the time being, at least.
However, this relief is short-lived when they are reminded of the fact that they are now alone with a man they have never met before and whom they certainly do not trust.
Caught in their own thoughts once again and dealing with a few throbbing remnants of pain in their arm, Hanan doesn’t even notice his approach.
“Well, that was certainly… intense. Though it should blow over in time, as most things do." The Regrator muses softly.
“Huh? Oh- yes. Hopefully it will.” Hanan replies tentatively, stiffening at his words as their fingers curl protectively around the evidence of their earlier crime.
“Follow me, my office is just upstairs. If it helps, I don’t understand why he was so insistent on leaving you here either.” He continues in that same irritatingly unbothered tone, if a bit lighter now.
The Regrator turns on his heel without another word. The only sounds that remain are the soft, rhythmic clicks of a cane hitting the ground. Hanan trails behind him, a reprieve from his disquieting gaze. Soon, a flicker of something raw and agitated seeps into their expression as they stare at the Regrator's back.
“It’s not that I have anything against you. It’s just-“ Hanan begins to speak, a frantic edge lines their tone. Before they are interrupted by the ninth harbinger’s blatantly curious question.
“*Really*? A certain doctor told me a very different story. I understand that most aren’t ah- very knowledgeable about our partnership, so they tend to… *misinterpret* our goals. But you, I’d assume with how close you are to him that you’d have a better chance of understanding.” He inquires, there’s a hint of disappointment in his melodic voice.
“Forgive me, you know how he can be. Is there something he’s leaving out? I won’t tell.” The Regrator adds conspiratorially.
He's… siding with them, And not the Doctor? It must be some kind of trick, why else would he act so friendly with them?
“No. No, I wouldn’t say that. I do understand your goals, my lord.” They amend quickly, trying to divert his attention from Hanan’s opinions of him. “I don’t leave the lab often, and the …less technical side of our organization is not something I’m usually allowed to engage with.”bThey add tentatively, trying to veil their lies with at least some truth.
“Hm. If that *is* true, then why does it seem like you’re uninterested in interacting with *me*? Not leaving the palace often I understand. However, you’ve known plenty of my colleagues for years and still I’ve never met you before.” The Regrator continues, sounding skeptical and overtly amused.
The pair walk amidst a tense cordiality, the only sounds are the steady clicks of the man’s cane hitting the floor as he maintains his usual serene demeanor.
“I- my lord, the fault is all mine. I’m sure my father has mentioned my *unwillingness* to socialize, and naturally you’re quite busy with your own work…” Hanan answers tentatively, their words trailing off pitifully.
For Hanan however, this walk is one long, drawn out and agonizing moment of panic as their steps are retraced back to the scene of their rebellion. It’s almost more painful than having to swallow their own dislike of the man they now trail behind.
His only response is a small, disbelieving hum as he ascends the stairs, with Hanan not far behind.
The walk to the Regrator’s study is short, despite how much their mind races with every possible mistake they must have made in their clumsy retreat.
However, when he reaches the door to the study he opens it immediately and without comment. The only anomalies are the slight tension in his shoulders and a momentary pause as he realizes that the door is in fact, unlocked.
Stepping aside to reveal the remains of Hanan’s investigation, The Regrator begins to survey the room. They feel him note every paper that lays sprawled crooked and *wrong* on his desk. His demeanor softens almost imperceptibly when he notes the untouched urns and still faintly burning incense that lines the alcove.
“I apologize for the mess, the Doctor has a habit of making… hastily scheduled appointments.” He apologizes lightly, chucking quietly for a moment before he continues. “I would bore you with the details but, truthfully none of *this* is very exciting.” He continues in that same light tone as he motions to the mess of papers on his desk. “Nothing that you do not already know about, of course.” He speaks again, but this time an edge of something more… knowing worms its way into his lilting voice.
As the seconds tick by he seems to catalogue every misplaced item as its own, individual slight. A gloved hand lingers over the disheveled pile of letters for a tense moment before he sits down.
But, that is probably little more than a product of their
own anxieties.
“People say the Northland Manor is as cold and unforgiving as its bank, but *I* think it is quite the opposite, wouldn’t you agree?” The Regrator speaks pleasantly, his gloved hands are folded in front of him . His smile returns, twisting his serene features into something much… sharper.
His rings meet the dark wood of the desk with a sharp clack as he motions causally, for Hanan to sit. They almost fail to stop themselves from flinching at the sudden noise.
A violent and terrifying understanding dawns on them as they finally meet his gaze.
The Regrator truly looks at them now, without overlooking them in favor of their father, or seeing them only as a future investment.
It feels as if they are being flayed alive.
It feels as if they are being *dissected*.
But even now, under the painful scrutiny of his stare, their thoughts begin to drift.
Their thoughts wander until they reach the volatile core of their own dislike for the man in front of them.
he is a cruel, unsettling, untrustworthy, dishonest- and very *powerful* man.
Hanan knows at once just how aware he is of their distaste for him. They realize a moment later that their expression is… less neutral than they would’ve liked. His silent and wordless assessment of them has managed to shatter whatever feeble attempt they had made at keeping their features polite.
Underneath the cover of half-moon glasses two eyes of a stunning, swirling gold and amethyst… appraise them.
They shudder slightly at the strange, visceral feeling of being *known* in a way that feels oddly mutual.
For a moment Hanan is taken back to another time. In a bloodier situation, at the edge of a forest, with a very different man, who managed to invoke that same sense of being known.
“*Yes, my lord.*” They answer obediently, a quiet fear lacing their tone as their eyes dart to the wood of his desk. Their brow furrows in an obviously, and mostly genuine chastised expression.
The rolled up letter that sits in their pocket begins to *burn* where it sits clenched between their fingers.
*Does he know what they found?*
“Good.” He replies in a soft, soothing tone despite the clear edge of authority contained in the one word. “After all, I wouldn’t want our first meeting to be tainted by something so *naive.*” The Regrator’s words drip like honey down their throat, sweet, and utterly suffocating. “It would be a shame if I were *forced* to tell anyone about our… misunderstanding. I do hope you understand that.” He adds quietly, his lilting voice becoming dangerously soft.
“Now that we have reached an agreement, I have some actual work to concern myself with. “ the Regrator speaks, his voice taking on its usual serene tone.
Hanan dares a glance at his face only to see that his eyes have closed once again.
“You can… hm. No. I believe it’s best for you to stay close to me.” The Regrator hums absently.
The sound of a pen against parchment is rhythmic and
precise. Although it only serves to strengthen Hanan’s unease as the sounds fill the otherwise silent room.
“I didn’t-“ they begin, panicked and tentative.
The ninth of the Fatui harbingers holds up a hand. As much as Hanan despises the man, they aren’t stupid enough to continue.
“If you would be so good as to keep quiet.” His voice rings out, melodic and sharp against the still air of his study.
Every minute feels agonizingly slow as Hanan waits, silent, terrified, and so very bored. Despite the earlier consequences they almost wish for their new companion to appear, or speak or help them or- well, to do anything really.
Even that cruel, irritating, and creepy *thing* is better than silence.
They glance towards the master of the manor, his black hair falls over his glasses as he continues working. The seemingly endless pile of paperwork is toppled as he works. It looks as if it relaxes him, the Regrator’s hands are steady as he hums quietly, paying no mind to his quite uncomfortable guest.
“I didn’t see you as the type to go wandering where you aren’t allowed. It seems *your father* and I were incorrect.” He muses absently, as his soft voice fills the room. He sounds… almost pleased.
To Hanan, this dangerous, conniving man that they’ve now disrespected, is a complete and terrifying mystery. He appears to be… friendly with them despite him making
it very that he knows what they’ve done.
He must want something from them, right?
“My lord, I am so very sorry for the disrespect I-“ they begin again, pleading and fearful now as the words spill from their lips.
The Regrator turns his head towards them, smiling, faintly amused as a single strand of hair falls further out of place.
“Oh please. Don’t bother with that, dear.” He cuts them off swiftly as he turns back to his work without so much as another glance in their direction.
“If you don’t want an apology, then what *do* you want?” Hanan blurts, a tentative exasperation lines their voice. For a moment they feel the slightest twinge of cold in their arm before it returns to normal.
“I want nothing. Not anything to do with your little… adventure that is. Of course, if this had truly concerned our greater project I would not be so lenient.” The Regrator replies, his voice thick with a soft amusement. It’s almost pleasant enough to hide the unwavering truth in his words. “If I truly cared about what you did we would not be here. As I said before, *I won’t tell.*” He waves a hand dismissively at their attempted apology, almost quietly laughing at their words as he continues.
“While your father’s volatile and… expensive proposal is tangentially tied to bringing a rightful balance to this deplorable world, in truth, I do not care much for it. If the Doctor wishes to conduct such an experiment, he can do so on his own accord. With that being said, I see no reason to interfere in your own *personal affair*.” A slight, indulgent smile crosses his features despite his oddly direct tone.
He almost sounds… tired. As if this room still held the same, shuddering tension from earlier.
The brittle melody of pen and paper stretches into a number of agonizing minutes as Hanan is convinced to hold their aching tongue by his demeanor alone.
“What a strange investment you are. Our dear doctor is not above taking risks, and it so happens that I share his sentiment.” The Ninth harbinger lets out a decidedly *fond* hum.
“Ah- but I do have matters I must attend to. So, if you would try not to meddle with anything *important*, that would be appreciated.” He concludes his… proposal with something much too flippant for Hanan’s frayed nerves to process.
“Yes- I understand.” They finally reply, letting out a quiet, shuddering sigh as they finish speaking, the fragments of tension that remain soon melt into an oddly comforting quiet.
The next few hours pass in a blur of work for the Regrator, and boredom for Hanan.
Though he does hand them a surprisingly good book partway through their stay, it almost feels tailored to their own tastes instead of some offhanded distraction. But even that pleasant coincidence doesn’t entirely quell their nerves. Not at first.
Had Dottore actually talked about them? Was The Regrator being considerate or is this some kind of ploy?
Regardless of the strange man’s motivations, the book is something they’ve begun to enjoy.
Sitting curled up and stiff with only a book and their newly acquired secrets for company is not how they would prefer to spend their day, but even Hanan must admit that it could be worse. For once they might even prefer this slow and silent boredom to the fast-paced and sharp rhythm of their own father.
Eventually, the quiet sounds of ink and paper does seem to soothe something within them. With only the occasional, calm glances the Ninth Harbinger throws their way it becomes peaceful for a time, the serene air of his study and lack of any true expectations is a welcome reprieve from their usual routine, even if they were unaware of such a desire.
They don’t *trust* the Ninth Harbinger, but, some of their dislike for the man before them does… dissipate.
Throughout the remainder of Hanan’s stay at the Northland Manor, there is little more than a few fluttering pulses from their strange companion.
So it *does* need to sleep.
Hanan certainly doesn’t want it to appear now, but even the occasional stirring is enough to awaken their deeper curiosities about this god.
Without the watchful, piercing eyes of their father attempting to discern whatever he can about the creature, they are free to theorize whatever they like. They even manage a few gentle prods to their arm.
Which only earns them a short and distinctly annoyed wave of cold, sluggish ichor. And a very slight clarity to their own thoughts, that they barely recognize.
Unfortunately, their ravenous curiosity soon spirals into the less pleasant possibilities.
The whirlwind of unknowns rage in their mind at every blood soaked and painful possibility of their own failure, meanwhile their curiosity drifts like smoke in between their thoughts. The alluring ideas of what lofty improvements they could create with the aid of this strange god curl around their worries as flashes of the Doctor’s anger are replaced by the rare and treasured warmth of his approval, and his respect.
With little left to ponder their attention slips absently between the book in their hands and their own anxieties for the remaining hours of their stay.
Despite their warring thoughts and clumsily formed secrets that lay heavy on their mind and person, the end of their stay at the Northland Manor comes quickly and uneventfully.
A short but respectful farewell is all they need before they’re climbing into a carriage. The last thing they see is the hazy silhouette of the Regrator amid the falling snow before they’re drifting off to sleep. Entirely insecure of what awaits them in their odd, sterile and comforting section of Her Majesty’s palace.