Chapter Text
The people of Snezhnaya tell many stories. For one who can easily tune out when others are talking, that fact is of little use, but Dottore has always loved a good story. They say that five hundred years ago, when the great disaster befell Teyvat, the Archon of Cryo with her kind heart could not stand idly while people suffered. Descending from the heavens, she cloaked the land in a bitter cold, stifling the onslaught of the great alchemist’s monsters. What lovely creations they were, yet doomed to be slain.
In the wake of this, the Tsarevna cast her gaze across the lands. She saw a new flower blooming in Sumeru from the remains of her once beloved friend. She saw the mountains of Dragonspine covered in dark blood not of this world. She saw Khaenri’ah, the epicenter of the cataclysm, razed to the ground without mercy. The Archon of Dendro had fallen. The Archon of Anemo returned to his slumber. The rest of her fellows throughout the lands averted their eyes and dared not look at the wrath of Celestia.
The Archon’s tears flowed on their own, they rained down with such intensity that the surviving people of the northland and all who took refuge in it thought another cataclysm had come. Her tears were crystals of pure ice that concentrated upon the earth, forming what became known as Zapolyarny Palace. The Tsarevna took upon herself a cloak of bitter cold and sat upon her throne. She was crowned the Tsaritsa that day, an Archon who would no longer dance with the northern lights and fly with the winds. One who will remain enthroned in ice for however long it takes to thaw this unjust world’s shell.
If one mourns the past for too long, they will lose sight of the future. The Snezhnaya of today was built on a burning wish, and the ice stood strong enough to withstand it, as did the people. Love is what made the land bloom anew beneath the snow, an Archon’s steadfast love for her people, and their love in turn. In the end, love is everything. The message is one that doesn’t bear being heard many times, though the man in question doesn’t mind. Covertly, he might even agree, but love is known to cloud one’s judgement.
“Lost in thought again?” Clear as a bell, a voice he doubts he’ll ever get tired of hearing rings out behind him.
Pantalone stands as magnificent as ever, black hair and apparel framing a presence that would make even the Enchantress of the Night’s enrapturing guiles seem inadequate in comparison. The sum of his finery and jewelry could sustain a small town, but Dottore loses that train of thought and any bitterness that might ensue caught up in how well it all fits his form.
“I’m just admiring the view.” His eyes shift focus to their surroundings with moderate effort.
The great hall of the palace is wreathed in dancing lights and ice constructs, awoken from its usually solemn atmosphere by a special occasion. In the steadily growing number of years he’s spent up north, Dottore had learned to weather all seasons but one; ball season.
For a place wrought from ice, the atmosphere is hot and suffocating, the air heavy with the stench of high society. A gaggle of partygoers in every corner leaves barely any space for him to retreat, chased by his own repute as a Harbinger to the ends of the room. Luckily for everyone involved, Pantalone is the only one who hasn’t given up in his pursuit of him tonight.
An inaudible snap of gloved fingers in front of his face brings his gaze back to the man beside him.
“What?” Dottore fails to hold back a chuckle when Pantalone clearly has nothing to say, either having lost his thought or never having one in the first place. “Do you want my attention so badly?”
“Every day you should be grateful to have mine.” He retorts, but his voice reveals no offense taken nor directed.
“Well, what is it? Have you danced your fill?” Dottore hopes that the words carry across his implicit plea, “Can we leave now?”
A man of Pantalone’s station is propositioned at every turn ahead of an event like this, so his dances were understandably booked. Dottore himself had been subject to the same requests up until he truly managed to convey his disinterest. As one who would rather be sweating his gloves off in the laboratory than on the dance floor, he bears no jealousy towards Pantalone nor his dancing partners.
“I still have a few more left that I’ve promised. But you know I’ve saved the mazurka for you.”
And yet, each time around that man manages to coax a dance out of him.
“I’ll be waiting for you, then. I could use a drink first.”
As the music swells again, Pantalone departs with an elegant spin on his heel, but not before shooting him a look that would be scandalous if it wasn’t par the course for him.
Dottore, now fully embodying the spirit of a field agent moving fearlessly across enemy territory, crosses over to the neighboring side of the hall that holds an appetizing yet all the more sickening display of food and drink in abundance. Drawing out such muddled feelings from him is not a strictly Snezhnayan specialty, but they certainly know how to accomplish it.
He picks up a glass of fire-water from a passerby server, then another one for good measure. Downing the first one unflinchingly leaves him with flame in his chest and a free hand to take a whole tray of chocolates from the table for himself. Few would dare contest a Harbinger’s will, and his fellows of equal footing couldn’t care less.
Not too far off, something tumultuous is brewing between the Captain and the Balladeer. To duel at a ball would be in poor taste, which must be why all these upper-crusters enjoy it so much. A little spectacle for when the fighting arena is off season, whatever sates their thirst. He’s content to be on the sidelines with his drink, paying no mind to the patter of conversations around him, though he could certainly gather useful droplets if he wanted to.
Signora is as resplendent as ever, listening to a suitor’s tall tale with a curious intent, sparing not even a glance to the middle of the hall, where Pantalone moves light on his feet alongside his partner. He catches Dottore’s wandering gaze and gives him a smile brighter than the chandelier reflecting on his midnight black mask.
Before he knows it, his glass is empty and the chocolates are no more. A handful of his fellow Harbingers gathered, with Capitano and Scaramouche now on their best behavior, call for a toast. To what, Dottore knows not, so it’s hardly important. Something worth celebrating, unlike "his" fruitless endeavors in Mondstadt. Well, he simply has to take a break from success sometimes. Another drink is in order.
Tonight the Harbingers are all full of splendor, including himself in a brand new suit that took him far too long to get fitted for, but none are more distinguished than the Tsaritsa herself. For all the beauty in this world, from the metal sheen of his creations to the dark jewel of his lover’s eyes, little can compare to his Tsaritsa’s presence. Seated upon her throne and surveying the sea of subjects before her, she glows across the distance, a cold ember in the candlelit hall.
When his eyes meet hers, disinterest shrouds her face ever more heavily, and for a moment he can fool himself into thinking that he knows an Archon’s heart. He wonders in that delightfully blasphemous moment, about the carefree spirit of the land she once was. Did the dark waterfall that now lies frozen over her regalia once billow around her as she danced in the tundra? The answers to his musings lay lost in the bygone ages.
With the music fading out, his instincts again drive him to the far-flung reaches of the hall, almost pressing against the silver-clad wall. He dares not risk having to socialize with any of the momentarily unoccupied guests. Well, any but one at least, whom he can see making his way towards him across the room. An unsurprised witness of Dottore scuttling back into his corner, Pantalone heaves a sigh that with its subtlety may as well be for his eyes only.
“Have you forgotten our dance, Doctor?” He asks when he arrives within arm’s reach, offering one of his own with signature grace. “It’s about to begin.”
“Worry not, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Glove in glove, white in black, he accepts Pantalone’s hand and lets him take the lead.
“Do you recall the first time we danced?” His partner drawls in a tone sticky with reminiscence.
“I could barely stand you.”
“And I couldn’t bear standing.” Pantalone’s hearty laugh bounces off every crystal in the hall.
Kicking his feet to the lively music hardly feels like a chore with an encouraging hand on the small of his back, the smile on his partner’s face a reminder of why he’s yet to regret sharing a dance with him. Yet the feeling of his insides spinning like a ruin guard’s core soon reveals its true nature, the consequences of his earlier refreshment washing over him in a wave of nausea.
He looks upward, owing it to some unexplainable impulse to divert at least his gaze from the movement, and is met with the grand chandelier. What must be thousands of icy crystals that form it each peer back into his eyes. Unfortunately, the momentary liberation from sight only heightens the rest of his senses.
The gentle stoke of Pantalone’s fingers upon his unmasked cheek threatens a complete malfunction of the circuit in his chest. Dottore’s grip on the other man’s hand wavers, and he feels his already flushed face warm up further.
“Huh?” Is all he can muster, increasingly aware of his growing inability to keep up with the tempo. The legacy of a faulty sleep schedule weighs on him ever heavier.
“Are you feeling alright?” The worry in Pantalone’s voice increases with every syllable, and Dottore wants to groan at his doting side rearing its head almost as much as he revels in being cared for.
“Not exactly.” He yawns, but before he can eloquently describe his feeling as sick and tired, the other man brings their dance to a halt, pulling them aside with an elegant save.
“Let me guess, wine and chocolates again?”
“You know me.” What escapes his lips is almost a wheeze, and the hand that’s not still being held moves over his stomach. It’s not that bad, merely the affliction of a human body, so inherently deficient. He’s uncertain if he’d rather be nauseous or inebriated, but from the looks of it he won’t have to choose.
“Yes, with a buffet at hand I’d be surprised if you didn’t overdo it,” Pantalone tuts, but Dottore knows well that they share a streak of hedonism. “I suppose that’s it for our dance.”
“And what do you suppose we do now?” While still a bit early for respectable high society folk, his dream of leaving is within reach.
“How about we step outside and look at the sky to clear our heads?” He doubts Pantalone’s head needs clearing, but he does find his way of putting it endearing. “Tonight the moon reminds me of you.”
“You say that all the time.” Dottore leans on him, holding his arm in the crook of his own. “For everything.”
“I cannot help it,” said with a chuckle, is stirred into the groggy substance of his consciousness.
Dottore doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he just takes it as a fact of the matter when he finds himself beneath fresh and unfamiliar sheets, throat achingly dry. He pulls himself into an upright sitting position and looks around what’s certainly a room in Pantalone’s house, though not his main bedroom. Before he’s forced to take desperate measures and get up, the wooden door slides open to reveal the man himself, followed by a maid pushing a food tray. The burning question on Dottore’s mind finds its way out after downing half a jug of water when it rolls into arm’s reach.
“What did I do to get banished to a guest room?”
“Good morning to you as well.” Pantalone allows the maid to depart, even holding out the door for her, then crosses his arms. “And you weren’t banished, I was just too tired myself to carry you any further.”
That combination of words certainly does a number on him, and for a few moments his mind is occupied by the thought of Pantalone carrying him. Only after that buoyant fantasy has sailed its course does he wonder why he had to be carried in the first place.
“Did I… pass out at last night’s ball?” The current of very mild embarrassment arising in him is halted by the dismissive wave of Pantalone’s hand.
“Had you done that, I would never let you live it down,” Pantalone snickers. “That’s a little joke, of course. No, we both agreed upon leaving promptly and you ended up falling asleep in the carriage. To be precise, you fell asleep on me.”
“That’s nothing unusual. I’ve fallen asleep in stranger places,” he takes a second to acknowledge each time Pantalone must’ve attempted to pry him off a desk, gave up, and covered him with his coat for some warmth at least. But the thought of having just rolled like a log onto Pantalone’s lap on the ride home amuses him to no end. “I know well that you’re comfortable to lay on, I thought you didn’t mind it.”
“I never said I minded it. On the contrary.” He picks up a plate with a rather large omelet, presenting it to Dottore along with his overly expensive cutlery. “Now, eat up.”
“I’m guessing I have that young lady to thank for the breakfast?”
“She did bring it in, but actually, I made it myself.”
“Then I daresay I’m a bit afraid of eating it.”
“What for?” Pantalone’s offense seems genuine, and he places his hands on his hips for emphasis.
His first bite is uneasy, but the bulk of nausea has long since worn off and the egg offsets last night’s bitter aftertaste well enough. The texture is pleasantly heavy, a bit too salty, but it manages to win him over even as he prefers sweet to savory breakfast.
“Mhm…” Dottore mumbles around the forkful in his mouth, “I spoke too soon, this is good.”
“Ha! Of course it is.”
“Is this the part where you tell me you didn’t make it?”
“You’re horrible,” Pantalone proclaims with an airy laugh, “I wanted to do something in return for all the times you’ve made me breakfast. It’s a simple dish.”
“Thank you.” The other man’s face softens further at that simple phrase. To be frank, Dottore wouldn’t remember to eat breakfast as regularly had he not taken up cooking for him.
“Drink this while you’re at it.” He reaches down yet again and hands Dottore an ornate teacup supported by a gilded plate.
“It better not be fire-water.” Pantalone folds over in laughter for a moment, then straightens up to fix his spectacles back in place. The drink is, more reasonably, a rather pungent tea, the leaves originating from Liyue but grown in his own garden.
“I’m guessing you didn’t have anything scheduled for this afternoon… are you even following a schedule?”
“Less than I’d like to.” He shrugs, finishing his tea, and Pantalone lets out a pliant sigh. Even after all the work he went through to help Dottore make one, it’s hard to simply take the plunge into a new habit.
“Well, I’m all booked for the day. Actually, I’m already running late for my next appointment, but it’s not like they can say anything to me.” Dottore takes the occasion to silently admit he’s come to enjoy the man’s smugness when it’s not targeted at himself.
“Speaking of books, I’ll probably head to the library before departing.” He doesn’t intend to linger there for too long, only looking to pick up a few things for research, to accompany him through the late hours.
“Sounds like a plan.” Pantalone, unbecoming of a man who has places to be, seats himself on his bedside and leans in for a kiss, taking Dottore’s overenthusiasm in stride, emboldened by the trail of sharp teeth upon his lips.
“I shouldn’t keep you any longer.” He reminds himself that it’s a goodbye kiss, and retracts his hand from where it ended up entwined in his lover’s dark hair.
“The sooner I leave, the sooner I’ll come back,” Pantalone muses, “I’ll be off, then.”
Having gathered enough determination to roll out of bed, Dottore finds that a maid or Pantalone himself had neatly folded his suit pieces on the nearby cabinet, with his mask and earring lain atop of it. They even provided a change of clothes that he puts on after washing up. Being from Pantalone’s own wardrobe, the sweet perfume he puts on all his clothes still lingers.
Between this and being the one who must’ve helped Dottore change into a nightshirt while hanging from the edge of sleep, knowing that the other man worked rather hard for him is both amusing and endearing. Though he’s grateful to the staff for their work every day, Pantalone simply seemed to take it for granted, having fallen into the life of a wealthy man. Perhaps he cannot be blamed, but Dottore himself, despite the bitterness that arose in him with every memory, made sure to never forget where he came from.
Pantalone’s house, one of his houses to be exact but the one he usually calls home, can be seen as Dottore’s own home at this point. When he’s not in one of his laboratories, he spends more time in it than his own house, which he sometimes forgets he owns. This one’s advantages are holding some of his favorite things in Snezhnaya, like Pantalone’s grand library, just as grand botanical garden and of course the man himself. The staff have gotten used to him, and from that he can even engage them in a chat when he’s feeling sociable. Right now he is not.
The library is needlessly extravagant, with gilded accents and flowers where they hardly fit, but he’s not exactly an expert on interior design himself, only a man of simpler tastes. Its pleasant atmosphere makes up for it, the floral scent easing the mind of one who comes here whether for research or respite. Though it often makes him recall memories of the library from his childhood, for better or worse.
The urge to reminisce on the days gone by is hard to fight. Dottore isn’t exactly known for having a sharp memory by his peers, a reputation based on his little troubles in the short term, but when he sets out to, he can evoke something long-buried with ease.
As a child, he was somewhat of a troublemaker, though it felt as if trouble came to him more oft than he sought it. One sunny day he had borrowed a rather ancient book, one of his favorites from the library’s collection, and brought it along to the waterfront with his friends. While they would fish, skip rocks or play duels, he tended to slink off after a while, easily bored and looking for something else to do. When he first started telling this story to Pantalone he got very rudely interrupted by the other man wanting to guess what happened next. In no great credit to his intelligence, he did so correctly.
When the young boy returned to the library with the book damp and caked in dirt, already downcast from damaging something dear to him, he first got an earful from the grouchy old librarian for “destroying a historical artifact” that “should never have left the library in the first place” then a lifelong ban. A most cruel thing to do to a knowledge-hungry child, practically a death sentence. The sad story could have ended there, had that boy not grown into a celebrated researcher at the Sumeru Academia and gained access to more ancient books than his young mind could have ever conjured. From this came a valuable life lesson, that he always has the last laugh.
As for the book itself, he cherishes it still. Through the decades of his life he’s come across invaluable texts by many great minds, visionaries and inventors, but few have struck him as much as the writings of one from such a dark age did. While there’s no use in thanking the dead, in his lifelong research he’s received a lot from them. At least in learning from their demise, the living can forge their own path more securely and remove obstacles on the way. The untimely fall of Khaenri’ah will not happen again when the new dawn of humanity awaits beyond a war against the heavens.
So it dawns on him that one of the books he’s looking for is a now-mysterious tome penned by a descendant of Khaenri’ah before the cataclysm, something that holds the secrets of their engineering. Remnants of their culture still linger, especially in Snezhnaya, from technology to theatre, but first-hand sources have become harder and harder to find over the centuries. Discounting their own comrade, so-called leader who had never been most keen on talking about something that remained an open wound.
Though he’d somehow never mentioned it before, on that clear evening when Pantalone claimed to own a piece of the ancients’ legacy, it was no small thing. Standing on a balcony overlooking endless fields of frost, he sparked a conversation about Dottore’s interest in the ruined civilization to bring his mood up. He didn’t get the chance to look for it earlier as before he knew it, another formal invitation was in order.
Of course, if Pantalone really has a book that may contain innumerable techniques lost to the ages, he is a profound idiot for not sharing it with the world earlier. If it’s in the nature of a rich man to covet everything for himself, to buy real estate that will proceed not to see any human presence, to forget about the priceless valuables he owns, then yes, he can certainly imagine Pantalone owning this book. And if Dottore can find it, he’s confident in his own knowledge of Khaenri’ahn to read and interpret it.
He gets to searching with at least a vague lead, soon to meet the wall that is Pantalone’s bizarre way of organization. Though he more often picks and chooses spontaneously, for more specific things he’s grown too dependent on the illustrious host pointing him in the right direction or even fetching books for him if he’s feeling generous. A weaker personality would throw in the towel there, but a scientist who prides himself on always being one step ahead simply cannot.
Title, publishing date, length and genre are all out of question, he concludes upon inspection, as if it would be that simple. Having resigned to storming through the shelves one by one, he trawls the rows of books. Many of them are poetry or storybooks, dear to an old romantic who had interspersed tedious economic texts between them. The collection of some famed Snezhnayan poet is entertaining enough to read through, and he can see why Pantalone is fond of the fellow.
He places everything that catches his interest on the nearest table, determined to sort through it later. Many of the books he’s already familiar with, but it’s as good a time as ever to revisit the history of metalwork in Natlan. The land that lies southward boasts some of the finest artisans of the present day. A blacksmith from Natlan could forge a weapon with the power to kill a god, and the Fatui’s efforts abroad will bring great rewards when the time comes.
A familiar clicking sound stirs him from his machinations atop the ladder he made the unwise decision to rest on. He almost falls off when he sees it truly is Pantalone entering the library, announced by his overly loud shoes.
“You’re still here?” Dottore balks at him, jumping off the ladder and to his own surprise landing fairly decently.
“Still here? I’ve just returned home, and this is how you greet me?”
“I don’t think we’re on the same track.” He scratches his head, unwilling to admit to himself the time that seems to have passed.
“Well, I’ve been gone for quite a while. But if the time passed quickly to you, it must mean you had fun!”
“I wouldn’t say I had a lot of fun… but certainly some frustration.”
“Over finding books?” Pantalone straightens his spectacles and looks around. “Just wait for me next time, silly.”
“Are you calling the pursuit of knowledge silly? Small wonder why you hadn't received a Vision.” He wonders if he’s gone too far even in jest, but with himself bereft of a Vision, the angle of such a comment is reason enough for Pantalone to shrug it off.
“No, just you for being silly. You know we can easily be more effective together.” The whiplash of those statements following one-another is enough to figuratively break his neck, but it only leaves him warm in the face.
“Since you’re feeling so helpful, how in the world do you find anything in here?”
“Ah… I thought I’d explained it already.” He motions for Dottore to pass him the book in his hand. “They’re ordered by numerological value of the titles. This one is-“
“Overly complicated,” Dottore interrupts him, albeit by accident, having spoken his thoughts out loud. Well, now that he’s said it… “Do you calculate it in your head every time you need to find something?”
“It’s logical, really, and felt the most right at the time with my interest in Sumeran numerology.” Pantalone hums, and Dottore feels like a proper fool. “And no, at this point I can remember where everything belongs. What were you looking for?”
“I don’t recall the title, but you brought it up a while ago. Khaenri’ahn engineering.”
“Oh, that old thing. Give me a moment.” As if a particularly effective automaton, he moves towards a specific, rather high shelf. Dottore follows suit and catches the dusty tome in his hands.
The work is Khaenri’ahn for sure, and peeking in reveals a provided translation to Snezhnayan, tucked in crumbly pieces of paper rather than a part of the book. The opening is an ode to subterranean life and the engines that roar deep within the heart of the earth. Stanzas upon stanzas of it, but no matter how many pages he turns, what he thought to be an introduction never ends.
“It’s poetry.”
“Yes? What did you expect?” Pantalone descends from the ladder gracefully, as much as one can when leaping down. “And here I got all excited that you were getting interested in it.”
“Well, one of us misremembered something.” Likely himself, Dottore thinks. The idea he conjured up out of hope was only a bit too fanciful. “Or I simply ran ahead of myself.”
As a youth, he would’ve killed for something like this as he was studying the ancient language with limited resources. Pantalone’s statement of this inspiring Snezhnayan research and development is something he can make peace with. Not a few inventions started from a distant dream, like that of a man who longed to fly.
“Could I interest you in this, as well?” Pantalone reaches out to the shelf behind him and holds up a finely bound book with ornamental flowers.
“Customs of Liyue? Sure. I’m not sure if I’ve read that one.”
“I’m traveling there soon, as it’s the season of festivities.” Pantalone fiddles around with his gloves, slipping them on and off. “So I wished to invite you to see the Lantern Rite with me.”
“You know I’m not one for such things,” he starts, though that statement isn’t the most truthful. Over the years he grew into a reclusive person, but the festivities of his youth had brought him great joy once. Travelling is a bother that he mostly delegates to "himself" when possible, but...
“That’s understandable, you’ve still got a lot of work to do... I’m going regardless, but if you come along you won’t have to worry about attending any more balls.”
“I was going to join you either way!” Pantalone chuckles at that, as if thinking his decision just reversed. “It’s not just that I don’t care for the parties here, I want to spend time with you.”
“I’m happy to hear that.” The warm smile on his face makes Dottore long to meet it with his lips. “Well, it’s not only a leisure trip. I’ve pursued my investments in Liyue’s economy for many years now, with agents on the ground in business circles, and annually it returns more and more.”
“Anything big?” Sometimes he gets lucky enough to forget that the man he unintendedly chose to walk beside in life holds the Snezhnayan economy in his own two hands.
He thinks about how in Pantalone’s own words, Dottore, ever a man of contradictions proclaims his disdain towards everything he stands for, then kisses him awake in the morning with a plate of strawberry pancakes on his lap, and Pantalone showers his foolish, addled man in the Mora he curses yet gladly takes to further his experiments. Dottore wishes he could argue with those statements.
“Yes, I believe this will be the year my Northland Bank branches out further. In my father’s name, I will give something to Liyue. From Snezhnaya with love.” He flashes a smile that holds unreachable depths even for Dottore. “And in my lady’s name, I will indebt Liyue... I’d dare say, even its Archon.”
“Now that’s a lofty goal.” In truth, Dottore loves seeing him like this, barely hiding his competitive streak. He’s come to miss seeing that side of him, almost covered by the overgrowth of Pantalone’s fondness for him. “I hope we can achieve it. As you’ve just said, we’ll be more effective together.”
“Of course. But you needn’t hope, my Doctor, for something that’s all but certain.” He holds out his free hand, and Dottore readily takes it, skin on skin.
“I’ll trust your foresight then.”