Chapter Text
White, and as pure as the snow, Snezhnaya greets him in the morning. Scaramouche, while not necessarily an early bird or a late riser, happens to be one of the first on his feet and prepared for the day. It’s possible that Capitano had beaten him already, but since the First was nowhere to be seen, at least he could pride himself on being the only one up in this area.
A draft permeates through the air, brought on by an open window that he had seen in a hallway. The cold is unwelcome, though the palace is never a warm place to begin with. An agent wouldn’t be that stupid to unlatch a window for whatever purpose, so he already has a good idea on who the perpetrator is.
The harbingers do not have a designated ‘dining hall’, but the more amiable ones (Childe, Signora, Sandrone to an extent…) had laid their claim to a large sitting room, fitted with a central fireplace, couches in shades of red velvety material, and a high raise table and chairs, all in deep colors of red. Why this room was picked, an uncertain thing to ponder, though it might’ve actually been for its unusual color scheme. A majority of the palace was blue, this particular room was red, and thus dragged the more red-coded harbingers in.
One such harbinger not included in that list was Columbina– daintily sitting on a couch with a mug of tea clasped between pale hands. Scaramouche narrowed his eyes at her when he initially walked in, but they had been able to enjoy a few minutes of quiet. Alas, all good things come to an end.
“Rosalyne says there is a new harbinger… is that true?” She doesn’t look in his direction, but he’s able to get the phantom sense of eyes at him all the same. So much for a nice morning, he really can’t get anything done around here without someone bothering him.
“Don’t act like you don’t know,” he says, settling on glaring right back at her. Aloof as she was, the Third wasn’t stupid and gossip in this palace traveled fast.
Columbina sighs, barely a breath spared from her lips but all together, a sigh in the briefest annoyance. “Is the morning really that unpleasant?”
“The fact that you’re hoping to get a glimpse of him through me, is.” Scaramouche knew where this was heading.
Columbina apparently knew as well; she stiffens ever so slightly. “And suppose I simply wish to enjoy the morning with you?”
Haha, yeah, right. “You’d much rather be having tea with Arlecchino, freak.” A little mean? Sure, but she deserved it, trying to trick him into giving all his cards away.
“Why anyone would willingly follow you…” she trails off, contemplative in a tired way. Like she was pondering over what to eat, or how to best avoid having to talk to anyone for the day. Which he’d much rather enjoy, because every time she bothered to open her mouth, it was either nonsense in general or nonsense directed at him. (Or just plain insults. Never snappy, but insulting all the same).
“I can be a delight when I want to be.”
Columbina remains quiet. Scaramouche mouths a swear at her, and with the way she tilts her head back at him, he’s pretty sure she understood. And was possibly swearing right back at him.
Well, then, if she’s going to be like that–
–the scent of cecilias and windwheel asters hit him rather abruptly.
He’s about to chastise Signora, saying that she must’ve gone crazy if she’s already missing Mondstadt, deciding to turn towards their local flowers as a source of comfort– which is odd considering she hates the nation and its stupid flowers– when he turns around and chokes. Soft pale-blond locks spill down silver shoulders, bouncing in lazy curls against his nape. A form-fitting outfit– ironed to perfection– of light grays and deep blues spare everything and nothing. And shining eyes unhidden by long golden lashes that meet Scaramouche’s with such certainty that he feels faint.
“Scaramouche? I hope I didn’t miss anything,” Albedo says, and his voice is feather-light yet calm in a terribly, boldly, attractive way.
“You didn’t miss much,” Columbina offers instead, before he gets the chance to short-circuit and die. (A convincing thing to do, given the current situation!!). The Damselette stands, meeting level with Albedo but not offering the typical handshake. “I believe we’ve met before.”
Something flickers in his eyes, perhaps only the light catching them differently. He responds, nonetheless, to the odd comment, “I believe we have. I am Albedo.”
Columbina smiles thinly, but gives him no other remark. She settles back down on the couch, re-perching her mug in her lap. And then two pairs of eyes are on him and Scaramouche is quick to take action. “I thought you didn’t bring anything to Snezhnaya?”
He’s unable to resist moving closer, playing it off as just a wandering motion, but then uses the excuse to thread his hand through a blond curl, biting his lip in dissatisfaction when the urge to pull strikes through him. Don’t– he shouldn’t do anything brash. In fact, standing this close was already too brash.
“I didn’t. The Fair Lady lent me a few items while I was taking the trial.” Albedo lets him touch, though his gaze is steady and he doesn’t blush the red that Scaramouche expected. (Or didn’t, because expect the unexpected seemed to apply nicely with the alchemist).
“Cecilias are your favorite?” Columbina asks, softly monotone, that makes her question seem like comments instead. But she’s facing their direction, and briefly he, once again, entertains the question about her eyes. He hopes she couldn’t see. Really hopes so. Ahem.
“They are,” Albedo replies, gently, ever so politely.
I should fill the entire ocean with cecilias. “How can you think about flowers,” he snaps, ire dripping in his tone, “when your initiation ceremony is today.”
Columbina ignores him. Albedo doesn’t, but also he doesn’t respond which counts as ignoring, but he’ll give him a pass for now. “Such a beautiful flower,” she says. “It suits you nicely.”
“I appreciate that. I’ve been rather fond of them for a while, though I suppose I only wish I had brought a few with me to Snezhnaya,” Albedo explains, genuine enough that Columbina actually smiles, to which he returns it with a one of equal grace…
…and Scaramouche seethes. “Mm?” He chokes with the desire to remain civil. “You’ve not seen the gardens, yes? There’s plenty of exotic flowers there for you to peruse– come now.” There’s no grace in how he grabs Albedo’s wrist, roughly dragging him away from Columbina, away from distractions, away from the fireplace and how it slants a light just so lovely around the ringlets of blond hair… away from everything!
“I– uh– Scaramouche–” Albedo protests, glancing apologetically at Columbina as he’s forced away. He steadies, recovering his hand back from him once they’re out in the halls again. A flicker of annoyance passes through his features, but he curbs it down to something more curious. A rough pass at kind still. “You could stand to be more polite…? She’s your colleague.”
He scoffs. No. “She’s a parasite and completely crazy. And only interested in herself and her problems.”
“She seems nice,” Albedo says, but mostly to himself as he looks to the side, off into the snowy landscape outside the windows.
“You’ve thought that about everyone.” He eyes him. He knows that he wasn’t just a nice person; nice people don’t have outposts on snowy mountains away from everyone else.
“Perhaps not you.”
Dry snark. Oh, wow. Scaramouche’s expression doesn’t drop, but he grits his teeth with tense motion. “I wasn’t joking about the gardens, but I’ll gladly dump you somewhere else…” he threatens.
Albedo puts his hands up, loosely in a mock surrender. “I relent.”
“Good.”
Presently, there is no breeze in the greenhouse, and there will never truly be one, but there is something charming about the formation of flora, scaling up the walls and crowding over their pots. He tries to think if he remembers there being a Fatui Gardener, but the presence of one evades him. There might be, at least with an eccentric sense of design, or perhaps the plants were laid down and promptly ignored, letting them spiral out of control in a messy way.
“Voilà.” He kicks an overturned pot and it cracks at the contact. Whoops.
Albedo remains silent.
Irritation makes itself known, and he’s tempted to lash out at another pot. Was it the pot that made him quiet? Sheesh, it wasn’t like there were flowers in it, just scraps of seeds and dead stems. “If you hate it just say so– I personally think it’s a waste of space.”
“It’s wonderful.”
Scaramouche pauses, expression falling at the soft tone. He’s… not a loud person, as far as he’s noticed, but this is a noticeable shift. Quiet. Almost reverent. “Hm?”
Albedo coughs, a delicate flush dusting his ears. “It’s wonderful,” he repeats. “Pardon. My partner was– is– a biochemist. She would love to see something like this.”
“Partner?” O-oh, he– he has a partner, well, now, that’s certainly stunning information. (He resists the urge to laugh. A little deranged. He feels dizzy for a split second).
“Assistant, former apprentice… I guess I’m not her professor anymore,” Albedo muses, glancing to the side, apparently not to have seen his little panic.
Scaramouche is relieved. And then frankly horrified at that slew of emotions. “You can keep a greenhouse near your lab if you want.” Anything to switch the conversation at this point. Archon, he’ll even be the one to install it, he needs to move forward in conversation now.
“I can?”
“Of course.” Hook, line, sinker. Or maybe only in allowance, as he doubts the alchemist is that socially inept. Fuck, he totally knew, bastard. “You’ll be a harbinger, anyone ranking below you will have no choice but to follow your whims.”
Albedo’s lips flit up into a smile, bemused. “Your sense of… duty is quite alarming.”
What can he say? Scaramouche shrugs. “I gladly take advantage of my privilege.”
“And are so humble.”
Ah. “Where’s the man who fell into ten feet of snow a month ago? He was very pleasant to be around,” he teases, fondly remembering that moment. (And reminisces that it has been several months since then. Time flies when… when there’s nothing to do, he guesses. Normality makes the days blur).
The alchemist is not one to be deterred easily, and he rebounds back with astounding wit. “Probably haunting the training area he perished in during the trials.”
“Harsh. They weren’t that hard.”
They stare at each other, briefly lapsing into silence. How, dare he say it, lovely. Being surrounded by plants that block out the excess noise and humdrum, hearing how their voices no longer echo in the halls, stopped by leaves and petals, how the delicate timbre of Albedo’s voice could, within no doubt, lull him to a peace he hasn’t felt in years…
“I never did ask,” such a lovely voice indeed, “what kind of being are you–”
The world snaps back into focus, and surprise runs down his spine in an electric pulse. He acts quickly, slapping a hand over the alchemist’s mouth and stunning both of them. Really, he should have better impulse control at this point. “Shut up.” He swivels his head, checking, even though he knows that nobody is in the greenhouse.
Albedo blinks at him, long and obvious.
Scaramouche only stares back.
“Apologies,” the alchemist mutters around his hand, and the words are felt against his skin, as fake as it is, with just the faintest press of lips.
“It’s fine,” he responds, brutishly. Precautions, especially if it was some lowly grunt, were meant to be taken seriously. Maybe not this serious though. He whisks his hand away, roughly shoving it to his side and taking a few steps back. And then some more because he can’t stand to be here any longer, still feeling the phantom sensation of lips against his hand… “Whatever. Come on.”
Back inside, they stumble down hallways, ambling meaninglessly. He can’t force himself to ditch, but he also can’t seem to start up any actual conversation. Albedo doesn’t seem to mind, or hides it well, as he follows Scaramouche, just inches behind him as they keep a steady pace. Quick, as there’s no one else to compare to, but with how the scenery shifts alongside them, he knows they’re not taking any real time.
In fact, it’s Albedo who’s the first to break the silence, and he can imagine him as hesitant, not looking at him, but the reality is much more simple. Hesitant only in imagination. The alchemist is probably staring right at him. “Will I still get to see you after I’m initiated? I am still curious.”
Scaramouche waves vaguely, internally relieved. At the upstart of conversation again and at the wish to see him, to not just become two colleagues in a sea of employees. Not that the harbinger force was large, but still. “Probably. Other than her obsession with the Gnosees, the Tsaritsa doesn’t limit our interactions much.” (He wonders if Albedo still has the Anemo Gnosis. He probably doesn’t, as he hasn’t mentioned it much since the beginning and Capitano was smart enough to take it back from him. But an Anemo delusion would suit the man, he thinks).
They stop in an open hallway, dead-ending at the end with a wide portrait. Red, blue, splotches of darkened color fill the frame, but no one is visible. Scaramouche recognizes it as one of the many portraits of the Tsaritsa. Eccentric and never actually featuring her. Such a whack of a queen.
“Is she your god?”
“Is she–” He stops, pauses and shuts his mouth. Albedo’s looking at the portrait, and though he doubts any connection could really be made without knowing the full story, it certainly is convenient that he mentions that now. “She’s…” She’s what? He’s never thought about this. “She’s nothing to me. She’s an Archon to her people and maybe to some of the other harbingers, but to most of us she is simply our boss and nothing more.”
“Interesting.”
“You say that a lot,” he points out.
“I suppose so.” Albedo relents, tearing his gaze away from the empty painting. “This whole nation is interesting. There’s something so different here compared to Mondstadt.”
Insults are on the tip of his tongue, maybe more like teasing remarks, sass to fill the space… but it doesn’t come out. Refuses to. Maybe he, too, is entranced. “She is only the god of this land.”
He had not meant for the comment to go any further, but Albedo picks it up fluidly, like he was speaking for Scaramouche. “But with the way she frames herself, it’s like she wants more.”
For once they do not look at each other. They don’t have to. There are no windows here, no natural light like in the greenhouse, but the candles flicker, alive all the same.
“Ironically,” Albedo begins again, “I think I miss being around people.”
“Ironically?” Was the outpost comment wrong?
A short, quick laugh. “I considered myself a loner when I was in the Ordo. And possibly before that as well.” He drifts away from the display, not far, but just enough so they’re not directly in front of it anymore. And of course Scaramouche follows.
“You don’t talk enough to be friendly,” he says, bluntly. And gets stared at, perplexed. “What? I’m calling it as I see.” Sheeeeesh, so much for light banter.
If Albedo’s insulted, then he doesn’t fully show it, in fact only the opposite as his eyes squint in a smile. “Do you get along with your peers?” he asks in lieu of a response.
Scaramouche pauses, considers the question, and returns with a crooked grin, sharp of teeth. “What do you think?”
“I think I’m correct, then.”
How wonderful. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out,” he agrees. There’s something so wonderful in the exchange, despite how they’re completely alone and it’s only been a month or so since they’ve met, and really, there are better people to hang around– including just solitude… but how startlingly wonderful, he thinks.
Even if he’s pissed half the time and then drunk on euphoria the other, it’s a dizziness mix of emotions that leaves him breathless both times. Childe annoyed him, yes, and so did Columbina, and Sandrone, and Signora… and about everyone in this damned palace– so why was this different? How was this different–
“Am I interrupting…?” Out of nowhere, a ginger head of hair pops up, or rather, emerges from the dark, bright against dark background and looking entirely uncomfortable. Way too comfortable for someone who should’ve just been arriving…
Scaramouche separates from Albedo (when did they get so close!?) and wills himself not to flush, though his core kicks into a higher setting, faintly whirring in his ear. “Childe–” he’s at a loss for words, uselessly gesturing around, hands spread, looking like a bonafide idiot– “Yes??”
“Uh.” The Eleventh is similarly stunned into a stupor, unable to stop from looking between Albedo and Scaramouche, deep blue eyes wide with a disgruntled sort of surprise. He eventually gets wraps on it though, or at least settles enough to hide it. “Pierro needs you. Just Scara, sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Albedo says, and to Scaramouche’s relief, looks similarly stunned as he flounders for what to do. “I’ll just…”
“You could spar with me?” Childe suggests, for once transcending his ignorant nature to become socially aware. Awards for the ginger in the corner!
“Thank you.” Albedo’s lips part in a sigh, relieved at the given out. And a little horrified, no doubt still sore from the trials and in no ways wanting to, or prepared to, spare with the Eleventh. He glances back at Scaramouche. “Afterwards, do you suppose–”
“–Of course,” he replies quickly. There’s no need to hear the rest of that sentence, he already knows what he’s thinking. Continue their conversation? Yes. Just spend more time together? Yes. “I’ll find you, don’t worry.”
They depart, Albedo and Childe heading one way, and Scaramouche heading the other. He’s not given much time to think, Pierro’s office being the closest to this sector of the palace. Not that he has a lot to think about– lips against his hand– and it has otherwise been a… normal day. A normal day as a harbinger, that is.
He wills his core to calm down, feeling the heat through his shirt and hearing soft whrrs that sound in time with his steps. Getting riled up over nothing was embarrassing, and it would be tenfold more if he was caught freaking out by Pierro. Who was observant enough to hear a fly on the wall sometimes. (The story had been spread by Sandrone, a natural gossip, which makes it hard to trust. But he could see it, if he really tried).
There’s no need to knock, and it wasn’t like the Jester had meetings lined up for the entire day. It would take a miracle for a common agent’s request to get filtered through the system, transferred all the way up the ranks and finally to a harbinger– and that implies that it was a concern that a higher level officer couldn’t answer themselves.
“You never debriefed about your own mission.” The Jester’s voice is quiet, but it contains a sense of authority that Scaramouche doesn’t like. He shuts the door behind him, giving Pierro a wayward glance as he loiters in the middle of the room.
“I assumed it would’ve been voided null since the target now works for us,” he says, and allows himself the smidge of arrogance. It certainly wasn’t everyday that a potential asset became an actual asset through means of their own.
“It is not.”
Ugh, ‘it is not’, how annoying. “What do you want me to say? He certainly acts like a human– though I haven’t exactly asked any questions. Ask him yourself now.” A polite way to say ‘shove off.’ (Do non-humans have a courtesy system? Do hybrids? It’s not like he’s prodded Sandrone, and since she hasn’t come after him, he doubts this genre of people go around poking into others’ business).
Pierro lowers his gaze, his eyes darkening. “Balladeer–”
“Jester,” he interrupts, returning the gaze with equal manner.
“At least answer me one thing.” He relents, motioning for Scaramouche to sit, which he (dis)respectfully declines, but he also allows him to ask. “Is the– is Albedo suitable for the Abyss?”
Scaramouche freezes. A million thoughts run through his head, some less savory than others, but he manages to keep it together, instead only smiling at Pierro. “Oh, you’re promoting me?”
“I thought you’d like someone to join you,” Pierro elaborates, ignoring his jeer. There’s an acute sharpness in the way he inclines his head, half of his face hidden by a mask and the other darkened by the low lighting. His office was a pit, really. “You’re still needed on the missions, though.”
“I know,” he snaps, harshly. “And he’s not, for your information. Tsaritsa, I swear, if you’re planning to send another into those pits–!”
Pierro holds up a hand, silencing him. He allows himself to be silenced, but still seething. “Peace, Scaramouche.” Peace, yeah, right. “I’ll reference Tartaglia when gathering further information, but for a human he has survived with little repercussions. The Abyss holds the necessary resources we need to… succeed. I’m sure you understand the desire to experiment how a homunculus would react to prolonged Abyssal contact.”
Scaramouche can see that, he’s not an idiot, but he can also imagine just as easily the consequences of the Abyss. Notice the light in Childe’s eyes? Yeah, there is none. ‘Little repercussions’, his ass. Losing a harbinger wasn’t a frequent affair, but losing this harbinger? Losing Albedo? “What if it kills him.”
Pierro has the audacity to smile at him. “I didn’t ask for your opinion on that matter.”
Shit. He’s losing this– whatever this is. Argument or professional disagreement. He’s losing it anyways. “If he goes,” Scaramouche jabs a finger at him, “then I go too. No solo missions, Pierro.”
A moment’s hesitation passes over the Jester, sizing him up with narrowed eyes. But the finality in his statement must make an impact, because he exhales, shoulders dropping. “Of course. I’ll be seeing you later then, after the initiation ceremony?”
Scaramouche stands and resists the urge to flip him off. “Sir,” he says, with little grace as he makes sure to slam the door on his way out.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“Do you ever miss your siblings?”
“Oh yeah, definitely,” Childe says, absentmindedly as he continues to swing at the training dummy, which is now headless due to his antics. “All the time, but I do get to see them occasionally. I’ll head back home every couple of months– never at the actual bases.”
“That’s nice…” Albedo admits. He tries to swallow past the words, but instead only feels sicker. Sitting on top of a bin of broken swords and equipment, he’s been watching Childe swing at anything that moves for a while now. Which has given him a lot of time to… think.
The ginger pauses, his sword stuck in the fabric gut of the dummy. Realization dawns in his face, and his eyes soften at the corners. “You… miss your sister.”
“I do,” he replies, tightly. How long has it been? Enough time has passed that the feeling of regret has shifted into loneliness. Of a certain kind, he supposes, because he’s never been truly alone since he arrived in Snezhnaya. But loneliness of missing one’s kin. “I don’t regret coming here, and I don’t regret leaving her…” It was better that she stayed in Mondstadt where he was sure people would take care of her. The knights, the citizens– bringing her to Snezhnaya was never an option. “But I wish I could’ve told her better. I almost wish she never met me,” he concludes with a bitter chuckle.
“Don’t say that!” Childe’s shocked, approaching him with wide eyes, brows knit in worry. He doesn’t sit, but he throws his sword haphazardly to the side, able to look at Albedo without bending down due to the height of the bin. “Trust me, it’s better to have known someone kind than to have never met them at all. Your sister will always love you, despite everything you do.” He’s embarrassed, if the way his cheeks turn a ruddy red is any clue. But he forges ahead regardless.
“I’ve not been the greatest of influences, but I do my best to never share that side with my siblings,” Childe says, and his eyes flit to the side, and his hands bunch up the hem of his shirt in a nervous motion. “I’m the same Ajax they’ve always known, and… I really hope they’ll love me the same.”
Albedo’s surprised as well, not expecting that amount of sincerity from him. It doesn’t give him much hope, knowing that Childe still suffered despite having been doing this for far longer than Albedo, yet it comforts him– in an odd way– to know that someone else suffers all the same. No, shares his worries. “Do you regret leaving them behind?”
“Well, it’s a little different.” Childe makes a back and forth motion with his hand, taking the initiative to plop himself down next to Albedo, and instantly steadying as the bin shifts under his weight. “Joining the Fatui is pretty prestigious for Snezhnayans, so they weren’t all that upset. Sad, of course, to see me leave… but I guess I’ve never really been normal. And they’re proud that I became a Harbinger.”
He can picture it, other ginger children– younger? Older?– smiling and proud of their sibling. “If it means anything, I’m certain that you’re an excellent brother.”
Childe smiles, dimples showing near his cheeks. “It does, thank you. And the same to you, comrade. No matter where you might go, siblings are important. They won’t forget you easily.”
“I hope not,” he murmurs, looking down. His hands, calloused from recent work and training with his sword, bruised at the knuckles in shades of light purple and yellow. Childe’s, next to him, larger and warmer and with scars across most of the skin. He hopes Klee won’t forget him. (But he still wishes that she had never known him).
Ah, but isn’t he forgetting something? “Should I be getting ready for the initiation?”
He’s expecting a flurry of panic, but is met with a nonchalant shrug. “Probably? I wasn’t invited– it’s a mostly private event. But honestly, I think you’re fine. You’ve barely sparred with me.”
“It was mostly an excuse,” he admits, sheepishly.
“Eh, I figured. No offense taken.”
Albedo’s grateful for that, hopping off the bin and gathering his few things, putting away the discarded training sword that Childe had initially gotten out for him, retucking in his shirt and brushing flecks of dust from the knees… He feels lighter, like a weight that had been sitting on his shoulders is finally lifted, or maybe something was built to help with it. A brace, a shift, whatever metaphor he decides to use, he feels better.
“I’ll see you later, Childe?”
The Eleventh nods enthusiastically, shooting him a thumbs up. “You ain’t getting rid of me that quickly!”
And doesn’t that fill him with a sense of contentment. (It does. It really does).
Albedo realizes, halfway through the sprawling landscape of the palace, that he has no clue where he is going. The first few times that he had been through the halls, he had been guided by another harbinger. But Childe hadn’t offered, and he hadn’t asked, and now he was paying that price in full. Being late would not be the impression he wants with the Cryo Archon, or any potential boss at all.
The Grandmaster’s interview had been quick, light and easy and it barely took twenty minutes. Alice had given him a good recommendation, which definitely helped, but the Grandmaster was still set on giving him a series of trial questions to truly test his worth. Taken from a (much younger) Timaeus and then spare questions from an Akademiya test, the little quiz was… easy. Terribly so. He had finished in no time, and had sent the Grandmaster into a panic when he presented the answers in clean, neat script.
It was safe to say he had gotten the job, skipped any apprenticeship, and was given mentor status to Sucrose not even a year later.
“Albedo?”
His heart jumps into his throat but he has enough faculties to not wheel around, or scream. The man approaching him– out of nowhere, his mind helpfully supplies– is stern-looking. A half-mask covers his face, and his hair is a startling white, draping down and over his shoulders. A heavy coat covers a white suit, and he realizes that this man is Pierro.
“You must be the Jester. It’s an honor,” he says, but he doesn’t extend a hand yet.
“The pleasure’s all mine.” Pierro’s words are flat, faux politeness at the bare minimum. His eyes flick down, narrowing ever so slightly before meeting Albedo’s again. “It isn’t every century that I’m able to meet a homunculus. In fact, ever, I should say.”
What? He offers the Jester a thin smile, returning the narrowed look. “I hope I live up to the expectations then.”
“We shall see.” Pierro says, gesturing shortly. “Are you prepared for the initiation? The Tsaritsa is ready to see you.”
He’s never considered himself socially adept, but reading between the lines of formality with the Jester is proving near impossible. “I am, yes. Pardon–” he flusters, wordlessly– “I still haven’t figured my way around the palace in full yet. I would’ve showed up sooner.”
Pierro shakes his head, which doesn’t alleviate his nerves. “You’re not late, and I would assume no less from a new recruit. Harbinger, apologies.”
That’s… is that a threat? Veiled enough, but said in just the right way that makes it questionable tone-wise. He doubts that if Pierro didn’t want him to become a harbinger, there would be nothing to do to stop him. But that hasn’t happened, yet he still vaguely threatens him. Albedo settles awkwardly on a, “lead the way?”
In short time, they make it to a large door. It stands imposing, tall and impossibly elegant and dark. It’s a wonder that he hasn’t noticed it before, with bright sigils carved into the edges, faintly glowing against the backdrop of monotonous halls. He feels small, him and Pierro both, miniscule in the face of such grandness.
“I will receive you when you are finished”
Wasn’t that a little unusual? Alice had sat in for his interview with the Grandmaster, but that had been Alice and this wasn’t an interview. He had already passed the initial trials and tests– and had done a score of paperwork, signing into many deals that he wasn’t so certain he could get out of. (And he had read over them many times, most absolute in what they were requesting, but even so he couldn’t shake the feeling that the Fatui were not ones to let go of harbingers easily).
Albedo opens the door, with great effort as it drags against marble floors, and steps inside.
Dark. It is dark, so dark, that he cannot even see his hand in front of his face. He holds it up anyways, marveling at how no light seeps through. The door behind him is shut, silently, and he’s left alone in the dark room.
There’s no telling how big it is, whether it’s small and compact or spiraling up to the very top of the palace. If this is the Tsaritsa’s audience chamber, then it’s no wonder there are no actual descriptions of her in existence.
“There is no surname on your files, son of the Shade,” a loud voice fills the room, not booming or dominant, but there is no doubt that it belongs there. Full and steady, neither feminine nor masculine. The Tsaritsa.
Albedo turns in a circle, though no matter where he looks there are only inky black shadows. He answers the disembodied voice, “Kreideprinz is how the Ordo addressed me.”
“And what would you like to be addressed by?”
Oh. He’s never thought about that. His master had left the title, Alice had accepted it as a substitute for a surname, and he never never gave it another thought. Until now. Naming things meant giving them purpose, forming an attachment, but what if the thing being named was himself?
He could take Alice and Klee’s surname, ‘Kaslana’ was fine enough. But would that be alright? He had never asked her, nor had she offered, and now that he was so far away from home…
Picking a random name– ‘Weiss’– would also work, but somehow that didn’t feel right. How perplexing, the simple act of naming causing him such distress. The Tsaritsa appears patient though, so he keeps his mouth shut and thinks again.
‘Goldson’. If he wanted to keep traditional to Khaenri’ahn and perhaps even Nod-Kraian standards. And taking from his master’s penname. Essentially, it marked him as being related to a Sinner, one who destroyed Khaenri’ah, and not even in an act against the Gods. No, he didn’t think that would go over well. Perhaps in a different world, if he were a different man.
“Sal-Vindagnyr, your majesty.” Records of a Celestial Nail falling from the heavens, the destruction of a mountain and a people, and an ode to where his only true ‘home’ used to be.
The Tsaritsa sounds pleased, and he can almost imagine her smiling. “Albedo Sal-Vindagnyr, then. Apparent Mondstadter native, yet you hail from no nation.”
Putting it bluntly, yes, that was correct. He’s startled, almost breathless, by the blatant statement, but he doesn’t dare rebuke her. And she’s right. He feels himself nod, and wonders if she could see it.
“It is not something to be ashamed of,” the Tsaritsa continues. “As unique as you are, I am able to recognize potential when it is in my grasp.” (Was there movement to his right? A wisp of cloth, the shine of a silver crown?) “Both the Jester and the Balladeer have spoken on your behalf, so regarding such customs of the Harbingers’ cronyism– and your own personal merit with your success in the trials– the title of Harbinger is yours for the taking.”
“Thank you, your majesty,” is all he says.
She pauses, and he thinks he’s able to hear the sound of an inhale, however quiet it might be. “Apprehension will come from betraying a nation or another one, and I am not unaware of the accusations held against Snezhnaya. They are true.” Rumors spread quickly, and when the officers were quick to go from diplomatic to cold-blooded, they spread even quicker. “We are not a fair nation, and this is not a peaceful organization. We have plans– dreams, as the common man will claim– and I intend to make them a reality. Is that acceptable?”
He doesn’t have a lot of choices as he is, standing audience to the Tsaritsa. “Yes.”
“Do you deny the notions of your previous Archon, or, as your birth indicates, all Archons of the nations you could hold origin from?”
There’s no hesitation this time. “Yes.”
“Do you deny the notions of your former morality, whereas needed in the field?”
Albedo swallows thickly. He finds no one to look to, it is still dark, and he does not answer.
The Tsaritsa doesn’t find a fault in this, and her voice becomes softer as she amends. “I am not asking to raze cities and kill innocents, Sal-Vindagnyr. There is strength in mercy just as much as there is in power. Morality is only a question when it comes to the Gods. Do you deny your morality in the face of the Heavenly Principles?”
“Yes.” If there was anything he was willing to deny, it was kindness to the Gods that had destroyed so much. He had never lived when they acted, but his birth was directly linked to Khaenri’ah, thus making him one of them, if he were to choose a place of origin.
“Then by the power vested in me, in defiance of Celestia herself, I award you the title of Harbinger,” the Tsaritsa says, and he thinks he sees a flash of silver in the corner. “In the interest to not reshape the ranks, given your circumstances, Pierro and I have devised an alternative position– Second Sixth. Your duties are the same as the Sixth Harbinger, and you share a rank as such.”
“Albedo Sal-Vindagnyr, the Fatui’s Second Sixth, and the Kreideprinz,” she carries on, “I honor your steadfastness and expect to see many great things from you. You are dismissed.”
Albedo manages a bow, feeling lightheaded. He finds the handle to the door, right beside him, and twists it. A dizziness overcomes him, and he almost trips, grabbing ahold of the handle to steady himself.
He hadn’t felt this way before, this unusual tenseness, an elevation of his heart rate that he can feel in his throat. Perhaps the air was different, or maybe it was because he had been in the dark for so long. (Distantly, he knows that the feeling is change).
Pierro is still outside, it couldn’t have taken more than five minutes, but his shoulders are down, and he doesn’t look at Albedo when he slips back out. Pierro’s gaze is still pointed at the door, watching the sliver of darkness get cut off by the closing of the metal. “It is… an honor to see her.”
Albedo looks at him, and then back at the door. He removes his hand from the handle hesitantly, almost unwilling to part from it. Doors held no emotion, hunks of metal held together at the seams, he knew the logic behind everything– everything except emotions. But for now he allows himself to get lulled into reverence. “It is.” He pauses, and then to Pierro, “I have regrets, sir. But I am– certain– that I will walk this path.”
The star-filled eye blinks at him, this time not drifting down or to the side, or narrowing with unspoken questions. Appraising, and almost positively. “I am sure you will, Harbinger.” And then he bows, small, just a dip of his head and shoulders.