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First came the revenge, then came the regret.
The dark sea was a body of water beyond Teyvat and the dominion of the Seven. It was a place where nothing lasted except chaos, nothing eternal but hate.
Tartaglia had fallen under its spell of darkness, floating down, down, down into the dark depths where the sun did not shine.
The Sustainer of Heavenly Principles was now dead. Tartaglia himself had made sure of that. Because ever since the real story of the Cataclysm had come to light, Tartaglia had never forgotten the sheer horror on Aether’s face when he pieced all the story fragments into one.
Looking back on it now, he could see how it all fit together.
The siblings being separated. Lumine becoming Princess Of the Abyss. The Archons cutting off all ties with Celestia, and finally, the Tsaritsa’s rebellion against the divine.
Tartaglia let the waves bury him.
Time seemed to be suspended in the dark sea, for in the absence of light, there was also the absence of one’s senses.
He never again wanted to fight an endless war.
His vision was darkened, so much so that he couldn’t see himself at all, couldn’t see his own blood spreading all around him like a crimson nebula overshadowed by the shadows themselves. What would he say if he saw you like this?
Even after a myriad of years, the memory of a man with violet eyes and an insufferable smirk on his face still stung like frostbite in his chest, turning his heart black.
The name of the man eluded him still, because Tartaglia was afraid that even uttering the Balladeer’s name would break the fragile spell of forgetting he’d managed to put on himself.
It was easier to forget. That way, he wouldn’t suffer so much, wouldn’t have to face all those demons living inside of his heart that tainted his every emotion. It was the only way Tartaglia could live on, the way a certain vagrant from Inazuma would have wanted him to.
The inky blackness of the sea clouded his vision. There were so many regrets he harboured, too many unsaid words he carried on his shoulders like titans carried the sky.
And now, Tartaglia would never be able to tell them in person.
He would never see the light again, doomed to die alone in the murky depths of this hateful sea. He’d pushed Aether aside in battle so the Sustainer’s blows would hit him instead, sending him hurtling into the black sea.
Tartaglia gave what remained of his future for Aether’s, and did not regret it a single bit. Before he landed into the clutches of the sea, he witnessed Aether landing the final blow on that arrogant god, liberating Khaenri’ah and saving them once and for all.
Tartaglia was at peace with all that happened, with everything that’s brought him here, to this moment.
And yet, there were still so many things he’d left unsaid, messages that would never get sent. In the moments before his death, it was all he could think about.
I was granted a second chance at life because you invited me into your party, he should’ve told Aether before the battle. Thank you, comrade.
I’m sorry for never telling you the truth, he should’ve said to his family. I owed you honesty, but all you got were lies.
One by one, Tartaglia left his last letters to the people of this world, hoping against hope that it would reach them somehow.
To his best comrade and sparring partner, Arataki Itto: Our fights were some of the best memories I’ve ever made. Thank you for all the laughter we shared when I needed it most. Thank you, comrade. He gave a weak smile in the midst of darkness. Don’t mourn me for too long. I hope you and Kujou Sara find your way back to each other.
To his other best comrade and the strategist of their party, Kaeya: Perhaps every word that came out of your mouth was a lie, Tartaglia chuckled slightly in the silence, but nonetheless, thank you for the fun banter. I hope you and your brother’s reconciliation is still going well.
To his precious little brother, Teucer: Thank you for being in my life, I was truly blessed to be able to call myself your big brother. When I was with you, even if for just a few moments, I could allow myself to become a child again.
The memory of a violet-eyed vagrant was clear in his mind now, filling his heartspace with peace and lighting his hearth with flickering flames once more.
Tartaglia finally closed his eyes for the last time, holding on to that last memory of the Balladeer like a candlelight in the darkness.
But it was at that moment when he felt the black sea stir around him in discomfort, as if unused to seeing such displays of love and fondness within its angry, hateful depths. And in between the resigned silence, it seemed that even this dark, twisted sea had something it wished to say.
‘After all this time?’, it asked him in disbelief.
He smiled faintly, never needing to think twice about his answer.
‘Always’, Tartaglia said.
Always and forever, his heart echoed.
The dark sea recoiled, as if even the glow from a candle’s flame was too much light for it to handle.
And in its place, a lone Seelie came and embraced him in his last moments, the last remaining descendants of a bygone age.
Is there still something you wish to say to your beloved?, it asked him in a tranquil tone.
Of course, he replied. I could never say enough.
He felt the Seelie glow warmly against his chest. Say it now, and he will hear it.
Tartaglia felt like he could trust this mysterious being, if only for the warmth emanating from it that prevailed even in depths of this heady darkness.
And so, with his mind holding the pen and his heart writing the letter, he left a final message to the one he loved most, even after all this time:
I still see the shine of your eyes in snowflakes, the violet of your hair in purple blossoms, and the hints of your smile in every crescent moon.
Because of you, I wish I could stay in this world just to see them once more.
I think that says a lot about how much you always meant to me.
In this lifetime, he’d fought wars and strife, monsters and men, and even the unknown gods beyond the mortal realms.
Because of you, I had a future where I could choose to put my fighting to good use, to help the people of this world instead of harm them.
Because of you, I had a chance to help Aether save the world.
Because of you, my life meant something.
He’d suffered much in this world, but it was all worth it, in the end. Every piece of his broken heart, every fragment of his soul that he’d slowly had to put back together piece by piece, was worth it.
It was all worth it, because it meant the life Scaramouche had sacrificed for him was not for nothing.
Because now, he would finally be able to die in peace.
Because now, he would at last be able to meet the one person he’d wanted to see most for all this time.
Tartaglia let his grip on this life loosen, and fell down, down, down to the bottom of the dark sea like he was drifting into an endless slumber.
The corner of Tartaglia’s lips turned up in his last attempt at a smile. I still think the moon is beautiful, and it’s all because of you.
Thus, his last thought was of violet sunsets, a husk of opulent dreams, and confessions about the moon.
He let himself drift into whatever place he was going next. He’d said what he needed to say, done what he had to do, so there was nothing else he had to accomplish here and nothing more he needed to fulfill.
Tartaglia’s mission in this life was complete.
And so, he let go of every burden he carried from this world, every sensation fading into oblivion and beyond.
For Tartaglia, the most important thing he would leave in this world wasn’t anything tangible. It couldn’t ever be. Instead, it was all the memories he’d made with his dear comrades and the remnants of himself he would leave with them that counted the most.
Because his memories would live on through his comrades, even if he himself couldn’t make any more.
For in this old world, Tartaglia would never wake up again.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
For a while, he drifted through the darkness in between realms, feeling like he was everywhere and nowhere all at once.
The butterfly fights its way out of the cocoon. The cocoon is the world.
Tartaglia’s eyelids fluttered open like a butterfly’s wings, breaking out of the old world and into the new.
The light was impossibly bright. He’d been in the dark for so long that he no longer remembered what light was like, or how it used to feel on his skin.
Tartaglia stood up, then looked around. He was surrounded by a crystalline palace, with ornate fountains, seraphs’ statues, and golden gateways seemingly leading to other worlds.
It was the hall of the angels.
So it’s real, he thought in awe. It was a place beyond Celestia, the in-between of worlds, and the birthplace and home of all souls. Even the gods would ascend here someday after their own essences eventually eroded into dust, and they would return here to be reborn once more.
Tartaglia was surrounded by a myriad of other souls, all searching for their next destination in the timeline of their existence. They took the forms of everything from animals to monsters, gods to men, all with light around their auras and a burning desire in their hearts that lit up their souls.
A beautiful humanoid being approached him from behind, with eyes like the moon he so loved. Her voice was a lilting cadence, the ending of a song, the fall of something that was once great but now long gone.
Tartaglia recognized her as one of the Seelie goddesses from ancient legend, one of the three moon sisters who were the ancestors of the Seelies. Two of the sisters were slain in a great calamity long ago, leaving the corpse of the third one alone in the night sky, the pale moon he looked up to every night.
The goddess in front of him must be one of the former two who died.
She smiled at him kindly. My name is Sonnet, little one. What is yours? Her voice was a comforting melody in his mind, a tune from his childhood.
“Aja—Tartaglia,” he told her, voice softening to match her tone. “My name is Tartaglia.”
Sonnet nodded, humming softly. You may know me as one of the three moons that rested in the night sky, once upon a time.
Her presence felt so familiar to him. “Are you the Seelie who was with me when I— died?” Tartaglia asked, chest tightening on that last word, for his own death was still a strange thing for him to acknowledge.
Sonnet gave him a knowing smile. No, but the Seelie you knew is one of my brethren, among the last descendants of that age. I hope that she has treated you well.
Tartaglia let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. So it was real, after all. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
Sonnet smiled again, then continued. I, too, have once lost something precious of mine, and died with a splinter in my heart and soul.
It took a moment for her words to fully register in Tartaglia’s mind, giving him a sudden chill. ‘I, too.' Those two words alone held so much. Does she know…?
Sonnet gazed into his eyes, the moon landing upon the sea. The stars foretold his fate, but the moon knew all his secrets. I see all your stories, and my heart breaks for you. Do you wish to meet him again?
Tartaglia’s heart felt like it was being shattered into pieces again.
But perhaps this time, they could be put back together in a way that would last much longer.
Perfect the breaking was really the re-arranging. Like cutting apart a piece of art, only to put it back together in a different way.
Sonnet waited patiently for his thoughts to collect themselves. Tartaglia stuttered, nearly doubling over in his haste to speak. “Of—of course,” he said shakily, “I mean, I—I don’t know if he’ll remember me at all, you see, but if I can—I mean, I would like to see him.” And I would like him to see me.
Nothing could ever come close to encompassing the enormity of everything he felt in that moment, because for his whole life ever since he’d met Scaramouche, Tartaglia’s life has been accompanied by the most stirring kind of nostalgia, the kind that sustained itself through lifetimes because it was ingrained into your soul. His heart knew it by memory, and so his mind would follow suit.
And he wouldn’t stop at reaching for the stars this time. No, he would reach for the moon and every constellation beyond if it meant being able to hold Scaramouche in his arms again.
Perhaps love would be kinder to them this time.
Tartaglia couldn’t find any other words for what he was feeling at the moment, but somehow, he knew Sonnet understood anyway.
“Where can I find him?” he asked her, voice as fragile as his heart.
Sonnet gave him a comforting glance, then gestured towards a golden portal on their right. It was illuminated with dancing iridescent particles, a promise of the world inside.
“Will he—will he even remember me?” Tartaglia asked, unsteady. “I don’t—” he looked at the ground, voice growing soft, “I just don’t want to get my hopes up, and I don’t want to, to—” to walk into a world where he isn’t there, a world without the same moon we saw, a world where—
His thoughts were cut off when Sonnet gave him a brilliant smile. But my dear harbinger, he’s already there waiting for you.
Tartaglia was at once overcome by emotion, ocean waves in his chest that felt like a flood. He sat down once more, hiding his head in his hands to block out the world while he took a second for himself.
How many times had he dreamt of this precise moment in his last life, only to wake up and find no one beside him? How many times had he imagined this same exact scenario looping endlessly in his mind, the kind of pain that brought him comfort yet never really satiated his needs?
Sonnet’s voice grew serious when she spoke again, bringing him back to the world around him. A love that calls to you without fear is never something to be lost so easily. No matter what, you will always find your way back to each other.
She held out a hand, which Tartaglia gratefully took. Do not fear, for this time, you will never let him go.
Tartaglia stood, following her. Left leads towards the past, and right leads towards the future. Sonnet let him towards the third golden portal on the right. She had a hand on his shoulder, steadying him more than she could ever know. This is your rite of passage.
Tartaglia took a deep breath, nodding.
He stepped forwards and left her embrace, murmuring thanks for all her guidance and warmth.
Now go, and don’t look back.
Tartaglia walked through the portal, a doorway that brimmed with a promise of eternal waking. Maybe it was because souls were always waking up to something new in each life, always regaining a part of themselves.
Scara, do you still remember the moon we saw? The moon that meant so much to us?
The light enveloped him completely.
Well, I do. Because it reminds me of you.
Tartaglia closed his eyes.
I’ll see you soon.
And when I do, I’ll tell you all about it.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Tartaglia awoke in an infant’s body, blanketed in a hospital’s crib.
His new parents had named him Ajax, and he knew it was a gift from Sonnet.
Tartaglia looked at his small hands, smaller even than the Balladeer’s.
He couldn’t do much at the moment, but that was okay.
This is okay, he thought, as long as it’s worth it in the end. And it always is.
He fisted his hands determinedly in midair.
With luck, he would have been born near Scaramouche, and would find him sooner than he thought.
─── . • ☽ • . ───
He was not, in fact, born anywhere near Scaramouche.
Instead, he was born in a country called Russia, which was almost parallel to his old home of Snezhnaya.
When he was only one week old, he started to research the maps of this new world.
Earth, it was called.
Canada, Nigeria, India, Saudi Arabia, and China, the countries were called.
If there were more parallel places between this new world and his old one, then Inazuma’s parallel was where he would find Scaramouche.
So when he was three, Tartaglia picked up a world traditions textbook in order to find a country whose culture was similar to Inazuma’s.
His fingers trailed over the page title in bold letters, Japan .
They trailed down. ‘A national symbol of Japan is the cherry blossom flower. The chrysanthemum is also a…’
Tartaglia’s eyes widened. Japan. That must be it.
For there was an unmistakable image of Inazuman flowers underneath the text, familiar and unmistakable to Tartaglia’s eyes because he spent years picking those flowers for Scaramouche’s grave.
And so Tartaglia took a Japanese textbook from his father’s shelf, and began to study.
─── . • ☽ • . ───
When Tartaglia was fifteen, he finally had an opportunity to travel outside of Russia via an exchange student program to France.
When he brought his luggage to the airport, a flicker of hope danced around in his heart. Maybe, just maybe…?
But they visited the Palace of Versailles, walked through the Louvre, and watched the sunset from the Eiffel Tower, yet the one he was looking for still wasn’t there.
The flame in Tartaglia’s heart flickered, then died.
(Maybe his luck would come in a different way, someday.)
─── . • ☽ • . ───
When Tartaglia was nineteen, he set out on his journey across the world after taking a year to himself.
First, a year at Toronto University. Then, a year in Japan with an exchange student program at Kyoto University. After that, probably Moscow State Uni so the familiarity of home would comfort his aching soul and bleeding heart when, inevitably, he didn’t find who he was looking for.
Tartaglia packed his luggage, then went to the airport at 4:00 AM sharp.
He found a seat at his terminal, then took a moment to look around at all the restaurants, stores, and facilities around him. Not for the first time, he marveled at the wonders of advanced technology. If only Teucer could see this place.
But upon hearing dulcet piano notes floating around the air, Tartaglia’s head snapped up. It was a melody so painful, he’d almost forgotten it, and a song so beautiful, he’d never allowed himself to hear it ever again.
Because some things were so beautiful, they made you feel everything, even when it was hard.
Tartaglia abandoned everything and ran towards the hauntingly beautiful song like nothing else mattered. Where, where, where is it? He thought frantically.
He saw a piano peek out from behind the corner of a wall. There.
Tartaglia ran over, but stayed at the back of the crowd. He felt vulnerable and stripped to the core, like an old wound had been reopened. This song was so special to him and so intimate, it made him feel out of his depth to have others hear it, too.
For once upon a time, a glaze lily had sung it to him lovingly during the deepest depths of his grief.
‘This song belongs to Guizhong’, the lily had whispered to him.
‘Thank you’, he’d whispered back.
Listening to the ending notes now, it dawned on him slowly that it was the same song that played for him in the hall of the angels. Perhaps each soul had their own tune.
Tartaglia listened to the melody, letting its familiarity and nostalgia wash over him like the tide.
Because the lullaby didn’t have any words, it could express all of his words.
Only one person could know the meaning of that song in the same way he did.
But as the crowd eventually parted and slowly disappeared, Tartaglia still could not move. He turned his head away, wondering if this was a dream, and he, the naive dreamer.
“Tartaglia.” The voice cut through him like lightning.
No one had called him by that name in over a decade.
He forced himself to turn back, expecting to see a ghost. His lips quivered, long-time suppressed emotions finally threatening to break free. “Scara.” He still couldn't bring himself to meet the other man’s eyes because he feared that if he did, the illusion would finally shatter, and he would be alone again.
Tartaglia felt his heart break a little more when he heard light footsteps running in his direction. No, don’t give me hope. Not after all these years.
But his despair fell apart when he felt a smaller body crash against him, embracing him tightly like he was the only thing in the world that mattered, the only thing that would ever matter.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Scaramouche murmured against his chest, dulcet voice more beautiful than any song, more comforting than any lullaby. He looked up into Tartaglia’s eyes, violet sunsets meeting an ocean of blue.
His eyes were the exact same shade of violet he’d yearned for all this time. Just like the moon, his own orange hair, and Scaramouche’s eyes, some things never changed, and some things never will.
Tartaglia looked up, almost as if to pray to Celestia for one last time.
So he’s real, after all. He’s real. He’s real. He’s real. The words were like a mantra, the only thing anchoring him down to Earth.
Tartaglia sighed in pure bliss, running a hand through Scaramouche’s violet hair. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ Scaramouche had said. Tartaglia smiled. “And I, you.”
The two stayed like that for a while, content to simply exist in the same world as each other.
It was like a reverie, until Tartaglia suddenly became conscious of Scaramouche’s arms around his waist, hands gripping tightly onto his shirt.
The warmth was so comforting, so understanding, that the trance broke and Tartaglia began to cry.
It wasn’t the sort of crying one saw in dramas, where touching music would play and the actors always looked ethereal.
No, this was the real, raw kind, where the dam holding back their emotions was finally allowed to break and they didn’t have to pretend to be strong anymore. Gasping sobs, struggling for more air, constantly feeling for the other’s touch to make sure they were still there, never taking their eyes off the other to make sure they didn’t disappear like an illusion being shattered, a utopia that became a dystopia.
Tartaglia couldn’t believe it. It’s been so long, and yet some things never felt old. Some things never died, and some things just never changed.
His shirt felt damp against his skin, and he knew Scaramouche was crying, too.
None of them could move for a while. It was like the world had stilled around them, allowing them both as much time was they wanted in the other’s presence.
Tartaglia held onto Scaramouche like a lifeline, and this time, he wouldn’t let go. Not like last time.
Because in their last lives, all their time was stolen away from them, swept from under their feet as they were forced to watch it go.
But this time, they would have the rest of their lives to figure things out.
Tartaglia sighed in relief again, feeling a little calmer after internalizing the fact that this time, Scaramouche wasn’t going anywhere. He would stay in his arms, alive this time.
Scaramouche shuffled around in his arms, breaking the silence in between them. “Of course it was Russia,” the smaller man mumbled in frustration. “Of course.”
Tartaglia chuckled, warmth spreading throughout his body and lighting up the hearth within. “It wasn’t the first place you thought of? I’m surprised.”
Scaramouche made a ‘hmph’ noise. “It was, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up. It just seemed like it was too easy, too good to be true.”
Tartaglia hummed in agreement. How well I know that feeling. “Do you—“ he started, then stopped. He cleared his throat, then started again. “Do you want to go see the sunset with me?” he asked, a question long overdue.
Scaramouche took his hand, leading him towards the gateways. “Is that even a question? Come on, let’s go.”
Tartaglia followed him outside, grinning lopsidedly like a toddler finding a best friend.
He left his passport behind, because he'd already found what he was looking for.
He didn't think he'd smiled like this since he was a child.
─── . • ☽ • . ───
The sun bled into the horizon, painting it in hues of violet, orange, and pink.
Scaramouche feels like every second after meeting Tartaglia again has been nothing short of a miracle. His eyes with the watery depths of the ocean, blue like forget-me-nots. The way he sometimes looked back at Scaramouche like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, like he was real, and not a ghost.
He wonders how many ghosts Tartaglia has seen.
As they stood outside, gazing up at the crescent moon, Tartaglia turned to him. “How old are you now?” he asked. How long did you wait?
Scaramouche shrugged. “I’m 21. Around the same age as you.” Not too long. But it still felt like too much.
Tartaglia let out a little sigh in relief.
He stepped closer to the orange-haired man, wanting to make up for lost time. In his last life, Scaramouche never reached for the ocean for fear that he would drown. But in this life, he’d swim to the deepest depths and even the seabed if it meant finding more pieces of Tartaglia.
It was a full moon the night the Balladeer died.
It is a crescent moon the night Scaramouche feels alive again.
This time, he would make a different choice. Scaramouche pointed to the moon. “Look. The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?”
Tartaglia’s eyes widened like the sun. When the sun loves the moon, their eclipse is the most beautiful thing ever known to mankind. “Yes,” he breathed out, smiling broader than a galaxy, letting out a little laugh like it didn’t make Scaramouche’s entire world go still. “Yes, it is. I can die happy now.”
Scaramouche hid a smile behind his hand. It’s the first time he doesn’t want to stop smiling, because he was a hollow husk who’d found a real heart that would last longer than any false heart ever could. False hearts would die, but this one would not, for his newfound heart was something more emotional than physical, something not born with but gained through trial.
Tartaglia reached out and gently pried Scaramouche’s hand away from covering his mouth, gazing at him intensely.
There was beat where neither of them said anything, simply watching and waiting.
Scaramouche tilted his head at him. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
Tartaglia laughed again, making him dizzy with affection. And when he suddenly pulled Scaramouche close to him, the dizziness only got worse.
The orange-haired man leaned in, face an inch from his own. “Last chance for any take-backs,” he breathed out. “You’re stuck with me forever after this.”
Scaramouche crossed his arms, impatient. “I don’t remember a past life for just anyone, you moron. I don’t die for just anyone, so will you please get on with it already?”
Tartaglia laughed like the sun again. “Okay, just making sure.”
And as their shadows on the ground met each other, the sun and moon eclipsing, they became one.
It was the end of something old, and the beginning of everything new.
They kissed, this time with the sun rising behind them.
He is half of my soul, as the poets say.
Because if souls are eternal, then I hope yours will stay with me forever.
(Some things are meant to be timeless, and perhaps we are one of them.)