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The hour was late when Signora returned to the icy halls of Zapolyarny Palace. She had been out for hours, overseeing her diplomats in training before heading down to the majestic glass greenhouses, where she picked out a red rose to rest in her hair and a white one to give to the Tsaritsa. It will look pretty against the chestnut of her hair , she reasoned. Pristine and flawless like the snow . Dottore grew purple artificial flowers down in his dungeons, but they never wilted and smelled of acid, and they could never compare.
A tapestry of stars pinpricked the night sky, and over the mountains, the green hues of an aurora borealis dizzied with their beauty. Even as an outlander, Signora had seen it countless times. She wasn't surprised by it anymore.
Her enhanced moth vision made her practically immune to the dark of the hallway, and she could see the square of light at the very end of it. Still, two steps in, the end of her heel caught in something soft.
Frowning, she pushed it to feel the crumple of fabric over flesh. Some of Dottore’s clones had the infuriating habit of laying down in hallways with the sole intent of tripping whoever was unfortunate enough to stumble upon them. She would send the bastard screeching and sprinting back to the labs in terror.
This, however, was not a clone. She leaned down to feel warmth and the rising and falling of a chest, and soft snores indicated the presence of a real human. Her eyes finally focused to make out the black outline of a fur coat and – of course, she should have known – unruly auburn locks cut with a knife into a shapeless mess. On his face and clothes, dark patches bloomed, as if he'd been dipped into a barrel of blood headfirst.
Their youngest Harbinger insisted on being fifteen human years old, but to her, anyone under a hundred was a child either way. It had only been months since he became one of the Eleven, and in that time, Signora was reminded of the long list of reasons why she hated children.
When he first arrived at the palace — terrified, too small for his age, and with a bandage over his face to hide the hideous wounds that had left him blind — she understood two things. One, the Abyss had lodged its claws deep in the boy’s body and mind. Two, she despised him, this child who would do nothing but whine and cry and bother her once peaceful days.
The little brat possessed powers that no human, regardless of age, should be allowed to possess. Something dark always swirled around him, an aura that only she could see and feel. Thick as smoke, laced with whispers from a forgotten realm.
In those months, her annoyance with him never ceased. Dottore had made custom prostheses for the boy’s eyes and Pulcinella had enabled his inner thirst for battle so that he clung to his fellow Harbingers, itching for a spar. (He always lost but came back the next day, bruised and battered but ready to go until his knees gave out.) Everywhere he went, he brought noise, terrible jokes and unnecessarily weapons snuck into every part of his uniform.
She considered just leaving him there to his own devices, drenched in old blood and sinking in the coat that hadn't been tailored to fit him. She had other things to attend to. She should just —
She was alone in the woods, having left behind a city she gave everything to protect that rejected her every innocent effort.
She fought fervently until every last creature of the abyss had fallen and she stood alone in a field of ash, blood dripping and sizzling on the flames of her whip.
She lay alone and plagued by nightmares in her quarters, barely lit by a flickering light, as Columbina watched like a shadow through a crack in the door.
…
Well then.
She knelt down next to him, shaking his lanky shoulder. Before she knew it, Tartaglia had jolted up, the knife aimed at her face. His eyes were blown wide, hand held steady. She noticed a tremor wracking his body that he was clearly trying to hide.
“Oh,” he said tensely, recognizing her, and lowered the knife an inch. She pushed it aside with a finger on the edge of the blade. “I thought that was someone else.”
“Like who?” She didn't care. She didn't . His nightmares were his own. Right?
“None of your business.”
Their dislike was mutual. Tartaglia found her rigid, irritating and far too stoic for his uninhibited mannerisms. She sighed, watching as he stuffed the knife behind his thick leather belt.
“You shouldn't sleep out here. What if Dottore found you instead?”
“Eh. I'd be fine, that asshole never leaves his lab.”
“His clones do.”
“I'm sorry, do you really think I couldn't beat these stupid robot things with noodles for arms? That's offensive.”
“You couldn't. They eat and experiment on children like you.”
Childe scoffed. “Did you read too many fairy tales or something? I’m not a child anymore. There's far worse things out there than a mad scientist’s clones.”
Signora frowned. That much was true, they had both bore witness to the horrors that the world had to offer. But from the boy’s scrunched-up face and the knife he held in a painful grip, she knew all his bravado was just a mask (befitting a Harbinger). Beneath the childish arrogance and feigned maturity was a boy traumatized beyond repair, scared of the Doctor and his needles, scared of being ambushed in his sleep. He hated being here.
In some ways, she could relate.
She sighed and offered him a hand, ignoring both her own revulsion and the dried splatters of brown all over his mittens. “Come. I’ll clean you up a bit.”
“That's not–” he groaned as she pulled him up, “–Necessary. I can take care of myself.”
“Just let me do it. You've been alone for long enough.”
What was she saying? The kid was still green. He had yet to learn to fend for himself in a circle of colleagues only waiting for a moment of weakness to sink in their teeth and claws. A certain banker had his eye out for potential clients to forever indebt; a doctor, for subjects to cut up as he pleased. Nevertheless, leaving the boy to deal with their antics alone seemed a little too cruel, no matter her annoyance.
She snapped back to a silent reality. Walking to her side, Ajax stared at her in disbelief. “You care?”
“Don't delude yourself, I’m just being nice.”
“You're never nice, though,” he pointed out, not entirely wrong. She was known as one of the snappier Harbingers, compared to the smooth-talking Pantalone or calm and collected Pierro.
“We all have our moments. What were you doing out here anyway?”
Ajax scratched his head, the bangs slick with dried blood. “I don't remember very well… I got back from a mission and I guess I was too tired to find my way back. I'm not used to the palace yet.”
“It takes some time. You’ll learn.”
She shrugged and held open the door to his quarters. From the looks of it, the boy wasn't used to a space this big all to himself. The unmade bed was sectioned off, a plushie sitting on top of the pillows. He had only a few pieces of clothing, all tossed in a modest pile in a single corner, and far more weapons littering the floor. The rest of the quarters stood empty, like he wasn't sure what to do with it.
Ajax wiggled out of his coat and tossed it onto the pile. “I’ll just have it washed later. Pantalone gave me a whole maid. It's so weird, to have all this when I don't even need it.”
“Just get used to it. I had to as well,” Signora said, wetting a white towel she found hanging around. “Sit tight. You’ve got it all over your face.”
'Sit tight’ was an impossible task for Tartaglia, who wiggled in place and kicked his feet as she held his chin in a grip that was warmer than he expected. She swiped the cloth across the smears on his face, rubbing hard where the blood had dried out the most.
“What did you do this time?” She asked casually as she wiped his freckled cheek clean. It was a little gaunt, not chubby like kids his age should have.
“Eh…” He flinched as she rubbed the cloth against his cheekbone. “Pulcinella had me chase a few robbers outside the capital. They stole some bags of Mora from a messenger by the city hall. Nothing too crazy.”
The way he spoke so casually of murder was strange coming from the lips of a fifteen-year-old. Signora didn't let the thought slip. “You're a strange child.”
“I told you I’m not a child . I’m a Harbinger. The Tsaritsa’s vanguard.”
“Titles or not, you are a child to me.” She patted his cheek. “There, finally. You look presentable at least. Now go to bed, it's late.”
Ajax blinked at her, still clutching the armrests of his chair. “No, genuinely, why are you being so nice today? It's not my birthday or anything… You're always a huge bitch.”
Signora made a mental note to find out his birthday. She figured, even if she disliked celebrating her own, giving Ajax a present would make his somewhat brighter.
“I guess I hit a nice streak today. Don't get used to this. And please stop sleeping in hallways. I really don't feel like fighting for your life down in those labs.” (She realized as she spoke that she'd fight the Doctor ten times if he dared.)
“Fine,” he huffed. “No promises.”
Scruffy and small like a sparrow stuck in the cold, he climbed into bed as he was, only kicking off his fur-lined boots. Signora held the plushie in her arms until he had settled in bed, pulling the checkered duvet so high it covered most of his face.
“Sleep well,” she instructed on instinct, not quite believing what she was saying. The words were simple, but to people like her – and Ajax – they meant the whole universe. In the gloom, she saw his eyes well before he rubbed them furiously with the back of his hand, already rough with scars and burns. The nausea of recognition hit her again. Perhaps she and this freak of a boy were more similar than she'd thought. Unloved, rejected, and faced with a war they were not yet ready to take on.
“Yeah,” he grumbled, suppressing a sniffle. “Thanks.”
He was out like a light, clutching the plushie to his chest. Snores permeated the silence once more.
Signora watched for a long moment before stepping out as quietly as she could.