Chapter Text
“The Geo Archon is called Morax,” the Tsaritsa said, demure and cold on her throne of black ice, “But his people refer to him as Rex Lapis.”
Her eyes, a pale, pure silver, peer down impassively at the two men who knelt before her. One had a haphazardly-worn black suit, the blood-red tie loosened to pop open the top buttons of the dark shirt straining over broad shoulders, a living shadow behind a bronze mask1. The other wore an immaculate gray uniform, the deep reds of the cloth draped over his shoulders and the mask pinned neatly to his vibrant hair a stark contrast to the white, crystalline void of the throne room.
The Tsaritsa’s eyes fell on the bowed head of the latter, a burning weight on the young man’s shoulders.
“He is the oldest of the Archons, one of the two remaining original victors of the Archon War. Countless gods and monsters have fallen before him.”
A beat. It was the way of the Tsaritsa to speak in this manner, with simple sentences and moments of silence, as if to let her words settle gently into the minds of her followers. (A remnant of the god she used to be.)
“My Tartaglia, your next task is to bring something of his to me.”
The man of the red mask shifted, his chin lifted slightly in an acknowledgement of her command. Beside him, the man of the bronze mask kept his gaze respectfully lowered, but out of the corner of his eye Tartaglia caught a flicker of a frown.
“Your will is mine, Your Royal Highness.”
The image of the Tsaritsa’s Gnosis lingered in Tartaglia’s mind long after their dismissal from her presence.
“A Gnosis,” the Tsaritsa began, “is the physical manifestation of an Archon’s connection to Celestia. An acknowledgement of the victors of the Archons War, which is passed down to their heirs.”
The Tsaritsa was not the original Cryo Archon. No one alive in Snezhnaya aside from the Tsaritsa remembered them, and the only records of their existence were hidden deep within the Zapolyarny Palace. One of them was the Tsaritsa’s Gnosis, a crystalline chess piece, geometric ice encased in pure steel—a delicate creation, as fragile-looking and illusory as the slender, gloved fingers that held it.
It was a pawn2.
“Tartaglia.”
Tartaglia glanced at his companion, a tall, broad, mean-looking man with a mask of black and bronze and a wild mass of deep blue hair. They had been walking silently down a hallway made entirely of steel and glass, offering them a view of the perpetually snowy Snezhnayan landscape. Behind them, a team of four Fatui Agents followed silently, vigilant gazes hidden behind red masks and one hand on a hidden knife each.
“Yes, Sandrone3?” Tartaglia answered, his tone distracted. One hand fell to his side, a thumb smoothing over the cold surface of his Vision. There was a lot to prepare; Liyue was so different from Snezhnaya, a land of browns and golds rather than silver skies and white fields. Did he have the proper clothes for the warmer weather? He'd also have to write home, have to ensure that his siblings would have a working address for them to send letters to for the duration of his mission.
Sandrone’s exaggerated sigh broke through his thoughts. “Here I am, trying to help my dear junior, but I suppose the Little Prince has more important things to ponder, hm?”
Tartaglia’s mouth twitched in a mix of amusement and irritation at the nickname. As the newest and youngest of the Fatui Harbingers, it was easy to poke fun at his age and disposition. He usually accepted it with grace, but would be a lie to claim that it didn't grate, sometimes. “Dear senior, I’d be more willing to listen if you had something worthwhile to tell me.”
He walked ahead a few more paces before he realized Sandrone had stopped. Tartaglia turned back just as the other Harbinger dismissed their entourage with a flippant wave of his hand.
“Sandrone?”
“About your mission, Little Prince.” Sandrone stared out at the snowstorm that had begun to swirl into being beyond the palace boundaries. His pensive frown looked wrong on his usually smug face. “Don’t fuck it up. It’ll be an annoying mess to clean up if you do.”
Tartaglia barely suppressed a scowl. “I may be only the Eleventh, but I assure you that I'm perfectly capable of carrying out the Tsaritsa’s wishes.”
Sandrone returned his annoyed expression with an eye roll. “Yes, yes, as the young Vanguard of the Fatui, you have displayed remarkable abilities worthy of leading the frontlines, bla bla bla. But you’re still a brat, so I suppose you didn’t notice.”
“Notice what?”
The older Harbinger stepped closer, leaning down to whisper into Tartaglia’s ear. “That the Tsaritsa fears the Geo Archon.”
Tartaglia shot him a sharp glance, one hand flying up to push Sandrone away. “You speak ill of the Tsaritsa in her palace of all places—”
“The Geo Archon is a god well-versed in the art of war,” Sandrone caught Tartaglia’s hand and pulled him closer, voice pitched low, eyes narrowed through that somber mask. “More than that, he is a dragon Adeptus, one that history remembers as a brutal, tempestuous creature whose mercy was restricted solely to his people. People who even then found him a formidable and dangerous shadow lingering on the edge of their existence.”
Tartaglia faltered slightly at his words; Sandrone dropped his hand upon seeing the younger’s perplexed expression. “On paper, La Signora, Pulcinella, or, hell, even I would be a better match for this assignment. A personality like his usually requires a heavier hand. Or a more...sly approach. Instead, La Signora is in the midst of preparations for a Mondstadt unit, Pulcinella is off doing who knows what, and I’ve been moved from Liyue to spying on Mondstadt’s Grand Master.”
“Brute force has never been your way,” Sandrone said, his words fond even as Tartaglia stared at him with a petulant quirk of his lips , “But neither has striking from the shadows. Both of which the Geo Archon far outclasses us in, by the way. So for him, the Tsaritsa chose the Harbinger least likely to offend him with just their presence alone.”
A deep breath escaped Tartaglia before he could stop it. What Sandrone said was true; for a Fatui Harbinger, Tartaglia was by far the most docile. Amicable and mild-mannered, he was likely the only one amongst the Harbingers who could truly carry out the Fatui’s actual diplomatic responsibilities; often he was the only face present in public affairs representing the Harbingers. What truly set Tartaglia aside, however, was his candid disposition, his first approach always being open negotiation. It was only in the most extreme circumstances that he would draw his bow, or even less likely, deign to utilize more manipulative tactics to achieve his goals.
“So you believe the Geo Archon would...retaliate, if any of the others were to be sent in my place?” Tartaglia asked. He adjusted his gloves, peering up at Sandrone with growing understanding. “I suppose a dragon adeptus would be rather easy to anger...”
“And none of the rest have the delicate sense to dance circles around stubborn bastards like you do,” Sandrone finished, his mouth curling downward in irritation. “There’ve been reports of Fatui members running into...trouble after stumbling around some old ruins in Liyue. All of them have requested transfers, and they’ve been annoying to get through. You’d think they’d be competent enough to realize where the Geo Archon draws the line by now, but of course fucking not.”
Sandrone groaned, working out the kinks in his neck as Tartaglia shifted, one hand covering his mouth in thought. “So think about it: if he’s that upset about some crumbling buildings and long-dead memories, how do you think he’d feel about the likes of Scaramouche trying to rip out his Gnosis? Or La Signora, simpering and throwing affectations with a knife behind her back? There’s a reason why the Wrath of the Rock is feared among the Liyuen people, and why their contracts are considered divine law.”
"I...see." Tartaglia shut his eyes, the beginning flutters of anxiety rising in his stomach. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, Sandrone."
Sandrone's mask reflected the last light of the sunset as he sauntered off, yelling over his shoulder, "It's only because it'd be a shame for you to die when you've yet to get a taste of real chaos, Little Prince. Don't let your little sentimental heart get the better of you."
Later, in his private chambers, Tartaglia lounged on soft cotton sheets, wrapped in loose, warm clothes with his Vision glimmering beside him in the dim lighting. It barely took a thought to summon water from the air, and he distracted himself by weaving into being the forms of various weapons: daggers, spears, swords, his preferred bow.
"'A taste of real chaos,' he said," Tartaglia murmured. If only he knew. The kind of trouble Sandrone implied he’d miss out on couldn’t possibly be anything new to Tartaglia. Nothing on the surface could ever inspire the petrifying feeling of helplessness inherent to the lost souls of the Abyss, or the dreams that clawed into his being and haunted his days every so often. He breathed deeply as a flick of his fingers summoned a miniature whale; it swam merrily above his head, leaping through an invisible sea. It did nothing to calm his racing heart. After a moment, Tartaglia sighed, letting the water dissipate back into the air with a half-hearted wave of his hand.
“Morax,” The name was a soft whisper on his lips. “Rex Lapis. The Warrior God. God of Commerce. Prime of the Adepti. The Lord of Geo, the Groundbreaker.”
So many names for a single being. Tartaglia reached out for the book he’d dropped on his bedside table, the Geo sigil shining briefly upon its golden cover. If Rex Incognito was truly based upon actual events, then the Geo Archon had many more titles. It made sense, considering how often the god seemed to roam within his people, and how it was as though every aspect of Liyue had been shaped by him, in one way or another.
Tartaglia very carefully did not think about how the beloved Geo Archon so contrasted the reclusive Tsaritsa, a delicate soul known only by a single alias, and who had supposedly retreated from the world to the hidden heart of Snezhnaya following an unknown disaster centuries prior. Under her rule, Snezhnaya remained a blank canvas void of anything that reflected her spirit aside from the Fatui, who were but a select few that believed in her distant vision of Teyvat. They carried out her will, to the distaste and sometimes outright hatred of the other nations. It was often hard to tell what was more reviled: the Fatui, or the creatures of the Abyss.
His right hand throbbed at the thought, and Tartaglia clenched it into a fist before forcing himself to relax. The Geo Archon may be a formidable opponent, he thought, but unlike those within the Abyss, he can be persuaded.
Another name for the Geo Archon was the God of Contracts. Tartaglia could work with that, but that left one question.
In the eyes of the Geo Archon, what could possibly be traded in exchange for his Gnosis, the symbol of his claim to Liyue?