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The Palace was always freezing, and it had been for as long as history could remember. Not that Tartaglia felt it, of course. The chill of the Abyss had stuck with him for so long that he couldn’t remember what it felt like to feel anything but cold. It wasn’t even the type of cold that nipped at exposed ears and noses. No amount of bundling up could protect one from the Abyss’ cold.
But tonight, warmth enveloped the Palace as mighty Harbingers and lowly skirmishers alike lit candles and fireplaces. A memorial of sorts, as it had been only a month since the untimely death of one of their most majestic leaders. Tartaglia had never been fond of Signora himself, but he couldn’t deny the ache that settled in his bones when he heard word of her death. Her death and Scaramouche’s betrayal.
Nothing could prepare him for the way the latter made him feel. Scaramouche had never been particularly fond of him – Hell, the only ones who ever seemed to care for him were Pulcinella and Arlecchino (Though the latter may have only been due to him being perceived a child). It wasn’t uncommon for Tartaglia and Scaramouche to be found in a room somewhere, yelling at one another until their throats went hoarse and they lost their voices.
Other times, their yelling matches would end with mouths pressed together and far too little clothing between them to excuse the session as a simple ‘meeting’.
It didn’t matter anymore, though. Tartaglia had been chosen for the job of hunting Scaramouche down and yet, he found himself located at the Palace for Signora’s memorial. The memorial of yet another Harbinger he wasn’t fond of. Except this one had never expressed the same distaste Scaramouche held for him, the same disgusting desire to meet in a clotheless battle.
As he stood atop a balcony, Sandrone on one side of him and Pantalone directly beside her, he realized he could feel a little blossom of sadness forming in his stomach. Tartaglia leaned forwards enough to rest his arms against the balcony’s railing, peering over the edge at the land before them.
Across from him, Tartaglia spotted Pierro, Capitano and Colombina on another balcony. Capitano was leaning on the railing like he was, Pierro only slightly covered by various shadows surrounding the three of them. Colombina, far smaller than the other two, seemed incapable of keeping her gaze off of Arlecchino – who was located on the balcony she formerly shared with Signora.
Gatherings like this weren’t uncommon among the Harbingers, though it hadn’t happened since Tartaglia’s ascension ceremony. Even then, he’d been located down on the ground below with Pierro and the Tsaritsa herself before him. He could still remember the excitement and nervousness that practically drove a stake through him as he recalled that night.
“My Harbingers,” Tartaglia’s heart leapt in the air as his ears caught the song that was the Tsaritsa’s voice, “we gather here tonight to honour a warrior’s death, exactly one month ago.”
The Tsaritsa was a beautiful thing, she always has been. Though not very tall or menacing – more akin to a gentle girl than an archon who supposedly had no love left for her people – her presence still carried far aross the court. Tartaglia knew very well that those nimble hands had many centuries’ worth of blood on them, and his chest tightened with the weight of being unable to protect her from such a tragedy.
Except tonight, that was not his focus, so he forced his attention from her body and back to her voice. A beautiful voice indeed, like the song of a thousand icicles falling from the ceiling.
She had never really stood up, instead choosing to float like an extraterrestrial being. This time, however, the Tsaritsa had her bare feet on the snowy ground, head dipped so her hair fell and shielded her face. Tartaglia didn’t need to be see it to know the icy tears that fell from her eyes and slid down her cheeks. He could feel her pain.
“Signora’s death was something none of us expected.” If there was a tremble in Pierro’s voice as he spoke for his archon, no one pointed it out. “It came suddenly and messily, but we will not let it leave so quickly.”
Tartaglia stole a quick glance to Pierro’s balcony only to notice how his gaze was on the Tsaritsa personally instead of the rest of them. His eye seemed to share a deep, painful knowledge with her, sadness pooling in his blue iris as if rainwater to a pond. It didn’t take much to know how painful this had to be for the two of them personally – everyone knew of the night Pierro stumbled through the Tsaritsa’s doors with a dying Signora and begged for the Archon to save her.
That was the night of the Fatui’s beginning, after all. Pierro and Signora had ruled together since then, recruiting the rest of them one by one until it branched outwards and the numbers went from 2 to 11.
“If I may,” Dottore’s voice surprised Tartaglia, but he refused to let it show on his face, “I request that we mourn the loss of Scaramouche as well.”
The second the others began to protest, Dottore lifted one hand in the air and continued to speak. “None of you have appreciated him for what he was worth. I understand his attitude is nasty, though it doesn’t make him any less a valuable asset that we have lost the same night. I do not expect tears and dread, but rather some simple respect from the lot of you.”
In only a second after Dottore finished, Capitano had fixed a piercing glare onto Dottore. “You’re asking us to mourn the loss of a traitor. I surely hope you do not wish to forget Signora in the process as well.”
Dottore’s returning look was perfectly calm, a mask of ease. “I would have to be blind to forget someone such as Signora. Her presence remains here even now, weeks after her death. But it is like Scaramouche has been forgotten in the process, and I am very aware that I am not the only one wishing otherwise.”
The gaze focused on Tartaglia made him uncomfortable, but he knew better than to show weakness by looking away. Everyone else followed Dottore’s gaze and he was well aware all eyes were on him now. But he’d been taught by Pulcinella himself to refuse to give into that pressure, the desire to look away and hide. The Harbingers would only back him into a corner then.
From beside him, Tartaglia could hear Pantalone murmur the quietest little “I see”. He very badly wanted to ask – no, demand for elaboration, but forced himself to keep his mouth shut.
Before Capitano could reply to Dottore, the Tsaritsa had begun to speak up again. “Then every month for a year we will gather here to remember both Signora and Scaramouche. Though not honourable warriors, they were valued and respected nonetheless, and deserve that tradition carried after their losses.”
Pleased with himself, Dottore settled back into his spot and watched. Tartaglia couldn’t help but think he almost looked sad.
Which was very unusual for a man like Dottore, claiming to be honest yet hiding behind a thousand different masks.
“If the day comes where either of them return to their rankings, we shall determine what we do then. For now, however, let us have a moment of silence to keep from tarnishing their memories with our words.”
Tartaglia dipped his head alongside 11 – no, 8 – other people. His lips pressed together, warmed by the lantern above his head, and he let his eyes slip closed.
Oh, how he wished Scaramouche was here to mourn with him.