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There's a folktale they tell the children in Snezhnaya, about a lonely soul-eating monster who steals younglings, to keep them from straying too far away from the village during winters, the worst of blizzards being the thief instead and the only things lost are fingers and toes to the cold.
Scaramouche had thought it made complete sense. Tartaglia had always had this reckless streak, it would make complete sense for him to not heed to those tales, always too smart to know when someone's lying yet too naive to prepare beforehand for other dangers. Like the cold. Luckily, he didn't lose a toe. Unluckily, he met a soul-eating monster. Or a form of it. If the form of a monster was a place.
Scaramouche didn't like to think about it much. About Tartaglia's soulless eyes. Or about the abyss in general. He's had enough of that stretching nothingness. There are scars on him to show for it, the ones he deliberately stopped Dottore from mending because he needs to remember and remind himself that this is what he went through.
But there Tartaglia is, years after Scaramouche no longer calls himself Scaramouche, still staring when he thinks he isn't being watched, those dead eyes intent. And curious.
"Lord Harbinger," the wanderer says, "I don't believe I am captivating enough for that scrutinizing a gaze. Or do you think me suspicious?"
"I know you," Tartaglia says quietly, as if convincing himself.
The wanderer knows better than to expect an actual recognition. It happens sometimes. Some people from his past have had asked him if they met before. Memories are weird, even if one's mind doesn't remember, it's like some part of the body reminds one of what the world has forgotten. And of what the world has changed.
"You don't," the wanderer assures him. You did, once, the wanderer thinks, not anymore though.
Later when Tartaglia refuses to call him by his title of wanderer, insisting a name is more important than a designation could ever be, the wanderer is reminded of Snezhnaya and cold mornings, a younger Tartaglia on the practice ground, accepting every new name and title that comes his way as he rises through the ranks of the fatui, two decades younger than most of others in the frontline yet already on his way to become a harbinger. And tainted by the abyss. Just like Scaramouche had been. The puppet had felt the pull to talk to him, someone who went through something he did too. Not many people had experienced the abyss, it was a terror like no other, and Dottore had told him nobody would ever understand his pain. But for a moment, Scaramouche had hoped that maybe Tartaglia would.
Tartaglia's name is Ajax. And he holds that name dear. Always said it was a good part of his identity. Even after the Tsaritsa bestowed him with his Harbinger title. Scaramouche had hated him for it. Scaramouche had been nameless for as long as he remembered, unnamed and discarded, unlike Ajax who his parents had lovingly named. Dottore had, once again, been right. Nobody would understand his pain.
But Snezhnaya is cold, and some nights the warmth of his bedroom isn't enought to keep the cold seeping under his skin and resting against his bones. The Tsaritsa sits on her throne of ice, forlorn as always, with something akin to great burden sitting atop her brows. She holds an air of elegance and her throne room hums with ancient magic, and yet even her kindest words seldom lift the storm raging outside her palace. So Scaramouche had looked for comfort elsewhere.
The harbingers were a funny bunch, Scaramouche liked observing them. Their foolishness made him feel superior and kept him mildly entertained, and yet even the fever of watching the rest of the fools humiliate themselves over and over again did not compare to joys watching their youngest, the eleventh Lord Harbinger. Tartaglia. He was naive to a fault, liked to bleed and stupidly flashed his teeth grinning throughout the palace infecting the atmosphere with such unwelcome glee. Scaramouche supposed the Tsaritsa liked him because of how human he was. Scaramouche knew for a fact that Pantalone secretly gave the orange dimwit more allowance than he was supposed to and that Sandrone too had a secret soft spot for the man. Pulcinella didn't even bother to hide his partiality.
Such a favourite, Scaramouche had scoffed to himself then. And naive Tartaglia was either blind to it or accepted it without a question of what people wanted in return.
Scaramouche would be lying if he had said he didn't harbor some affection either. The deal with Liyue Harbor had been a source of laughter for him for several months and Scaramouche liked being entertained. But perhaps more than that, it was because Scaramouche had respected him. One couldn't easily break his spirit, and Tartaglia had shown more than enough times that no matter what happened he would come back stronger. Scaramouche's creator had been a warrior and had built in traits of a warrior into him, and as a warrior perhaps he couldn't help but respect another.
Maybe he had resented Tartaglia too. The orange haired man would boast around the palace of his loyalty and devotion to the Tasritsa as if it was his proudest achievement. It was unendingly irritating to the puppet's mechanical ears, and yet he had wondered what if his creator and his god would have been kinder to him - would he have been that devoted too?
Dottore had promised to make him a god instead, so he pushed such stupid questions out of his head.
And yet now, after everything, here Tartaglia is, not a trace of memory of the Balladeer left in him, asking him for his name.
"Call me anything you want," the wanderer says, "the wind blows no matter what you call it."
Tartaglia apologises when he realises he doesn't actually keep a name and agrees to call him wanderer. And it disappoints him for some reason. Maybe he wanted Tartaglia to give him a name after all.
"Call me Childe," he says later, tired of the wanderer calling him Lord Harbinger.
Scaramouche would have laughed at his face, but the wanderer amiably agrees.
They're supposed to look for remnants of the seelie civilization in the ruins of Snezhnaya. The wanderer is supposed to be an envoy from Sumeru, Lesser Lord Kusanali's personal researcher. Tartaglia is here because he has nothing else to do. And also because Pierro is suspicious. Typical, the wanderer thinks but keeps it to himself. Pierro is always suspicious and Tartaglia, more often than not, just runs the harbingers' left over errands.
It's difficult acting a guest when somehow the wanderer feels home. He detests the place, the cold and the ever piling snow. The wanderer technically has no home, yet in a memory that's erased, this was the place he called home the longest. From a distance, he can see the beacons that guide through storms.
"Say, Childe, how long do you think four hundred years are?" It's a stupid question to ask a mortal and he expects no real answer and yet Tartaglia entertains him.
"Long for what?"
"A place you hate to become home."
He gives it a thought for a minute. "Long enough."
In a distance, the beacons still glows. The wanderer is taken back to when he was still sent on expeditions to the abyss and would sigh in relieve as he reached back up to the cold land blanketed in quiet white, and when the fog would make it impossible to find his way back home - to the little corner he called his own in Zapolyarny palace, the beacons would give his anxious and tired heart peace.
Here, he'd never be lost like he was in Inazuma before Katsuragi found him, he had thought to himself then.
What a joke, instead he had been lost the entire time he was here.
And yet, the cold he hates brings comfort to his bones. It clings well onto him.
"You don't look too bad in the snow," Tartaglia comments, "The Hydro Archon's envoy last summer turned blue in his face."
He's walking before the wanderer. The wanderer watched his footprints in the snow, and is struck by how this isn't the first time they've been out like this.
They had done this years ago. In one of Tartaglia's first missions as a harbinger. Pierro had wanted Scaramouche to follow an abyss lector and Pulcinella had convinced him to send Tartaglia along, for experience. All the wanderer remembered of that trip was how much Tartaglia had talked.
But now, with the sense of dejavu, the wanderer is sure that Tartaglia had walked before him then too and he had watched Tartaglia's footprints then too.
Unconsciously, the wanderer begins stepping onto the footprints, following the marks left by the youngest Lord Harbinger.
"I know you," Tartaglia says again later, as they're sipping firewater together at the camp they've set up.
"You don't," the wanderer says again, "I'm not easy to forget. If you've known me before, you would've remembered."
"I surely would. But we've done this before," Tartaglia insists, "we've had firewater together before."
The wanderer's eyes widens. Tartaglia can't remember that. Tartaglia shouldn't remember that. All memories of the Kabukimono and the Balladeer are erased from this world. Unless,
"Pray tell," the wanderer begins, adjusting his tone as to sound dismissive, as if he's only humoring Tartaglia, "who was I in that particular memory of yours?"
"A friend." And he doesn't elaborate any more. They finish the firewater in silence.
Tartaglia had always been naive. Unendingly naive.
The research material that the Lesser Lord has asked for is collected within a matter of days.
Tartaglia stands in the corner brooding the entire time the wanderer does his work. The same dead eyes, void of any light.
"Did the soul-eating monster catch you?" the wanderer wants to joke. But he can't bring himself to because he knows exactly which soul-eating monster took away the light in his eyes. And that monster isn't kind.
On their journey back, Tartaglia makes one last attempt at convincing himself about his lost memories.
Tartaglia remembers too much. The wanderer will have to speak to the Lesser Lord about this. This isn't normal.
"I remember you in darker clothes like the color of your hair," and it's so scarily specific the wanderer doesn't have the ability to hide his curiosity any more.
So he asks, "And what else do you remember?"
"That I had thought you were beautiful," the wind howls, like it always does in Snezhnaya. The snow sticks to Tartaglia's nose, his cheeks are red and he looks like a lost child bundled up in his fatui overcoat and red mufflers.
He looks younger like this.
Young enough, that the wanderer remembers clearly the last time they had stood before each other like this.
Tartaglia had been just been the right amount of stupid and naive enough to get himself wrapped around the puppet's finger, Snezhnaya was cold and with its silent encompassing serenity, Zapolyarny palace could get lonely.
Tartaglia talked a lot, and beamed at every compliment you gave him. And he found Scaramouche pretty, he had said so himself. Nobody could expect love amidst Tsaritsa’s big dreams and Pierro's schemes, but warmth - nobody could stop Scaramouche from seeking out some warmth. And Tartaglia was warm, his mouth soft and pliant, his burning hands almost feverish against Scaramouche's mechanical parts.
But of course, the dumb ginger headed fool with his head full of clouds had given more and wanted more. And hoped that Scaramouche did too. Unfortunately, Scaramouche couldn't afford feelings.
The last time they stood like this, Scaramouche had told him so.
And the wanderer wonders if he can afford them now.
"And I don't remember who you are, but I remember that I loved you. And you broke my heart."
"It wasn't love. You had just convinced yourself it was." Maybe the wanderer can't afford love either, certainly not with a harbinger. Tsaritsa has big dreams and the sky above is watching, there's a big calamity to come. By the end of this, there will be either no Tartaglia or wanderer left, or if they're lucky, maybe both of them will make it to the other side before the world becomes too hard to live in.
The wanderer has seen most of this world already, but Tartaglia is a mortal. As he watches a confused Tartaglia trying to take in his words, he wonders if Tartaglia wants to grow old. If he wants a family. And children.
A shame.
"I remember kissing you," Tartaglia says instead.
I do, too, the wanderer wants to say.
But he doesn't need to seek out warmth from Tartaglia's arms anymore, keep up with his exploits to entertain himself anymore, stare at those dead eyes to get comforted knowing he isn't alone in his pain anymore.
He isn't haunted by the loneliness and unsympathetic chill of Zapolyarny palace anymore.
Perhaps Sumeru is hot and humid, and doesn't quite feel like home yet. Maybe it'll take a couple decades. But it's safe, and he knows he means something to a lot of people there. And that's something.
He doesn't want to be cruel but that's all he can offer to Tartaglia here.
"Maybe you're thinking of someone else."
Later, after a short visit to the palace, the wanderer travels down to Sumeru alone. He passes a small fishing village by the name of Morepesok on the way, and he tries to steady his trembling hands as he remembers a particularly chatty ginger headed youth telling him about his family and of the folktale of the soul-eating monster that steals children.
They never did talk about the abyss.
But sometimes, as they sat by the hearth in Scaramouche's room, Tartaglia would talk about the cold hands of the soul-eating monster who stole him away. Never much else. Just about how cold they were. And Scaramouche had understood.
The wanderer’s eyes are dry when he crosses the border and he doesn't turn back to look at the quiet white expanse. Instead he promises to never step foot into the country again. It's such a shame it's always cold in Snezhnaya. The wanderer had never been quiet fond of the chill after all.