Chapter Text
“I’m sorry,” the general says with a grimace, “but your performance really hasn’t been satisfactory these last few weeks. Lord Pierro insisted on disciplinary action.”
Dmitri blinks, distracted by the multicoloured curtains hanging behind the other man. He wonders how much Mora he spent on furnishing his office. Thousands, probably. Maybe even hundreds. Anyway.
“No he didn’t,” he replies, eyes fixed on a portrait of the Tsaritsa to his left. Because why would Pierro, the first of the Fatui harbingers, care? He was too busy being sad and looking cool while being sad, as he always did. Perhaps the general was imagining things.
At his response, his superior’s frown lines deepen. Dima can’t possibly fathom why. “I’m serious, Vasiliev,” he growls, tone as hard and unyielding as the crack of a whip. “As of today, Lord Pierro is assigning you to serve as Lord Balladeer’s personal bodyguard and assistant. Perhaps a month or two under his tutelage will remind you to pull your socks up.” Before he decided Dima’s socks would be taken from him altogether, but that went unsaid.
The general’s words seem to yank the rug out from under Dima’s feet. He can’t be serious. He’s heard horror stories from the soldiers who used to work under the Balladeer, and it is not something he is keen to gain firsthand experience in. What the freak. Why couldn’t he just be put on toilet duty again or something normal like that?
Then again, he had fallen asleep last time he was put on toilet duty and splattered dirty water all over the stall. He supposes that might be partly why…but it seems unlikely.
“He’s already waiting for you outside,” the general intones, a smile twisting his lips. It’s a cruel and unusual expression on him. One of Dima’s pointed ears twitches.
“Alright,” he replies, remembering to bow in a way he doesn’t mean before he walks, almost lazy in his drawn-out stride, to the door. It swings open before his hand even touches the polished handle, and a stone-faced Fatui agent looms over him.
“Captain Dmitri,” he says, and Dima nods reflexively despite being unused to the formality. Most people don’t respect him enough to address him as such. “Please come with me. Lord Balladeer is waiting in the gardens.”
In the what.
The general said he was waiting just outside. Well, he supposes that was a stupid idea. Why would a harbinger stand outside the general’s office while he yelled at him? He tries to picture the Balladeer, fiddling awkwardly with his fingers and rocking back and forth on his heels like a child as he waits for a low-ranked soldier, and fails. He doesn’t know what the Balladeer looks like, for one. That’s usually something you need when you’re picturing someone.
The hallways are long and winding, and Dima’s feet are aching by the time the agent leads him through a door that opens onto a sweeping frozen rose garden. He doesn’t shiver – the thick white hair that curls around the nape of his neck ensures that – but his breath clouds in the chilly air and he sees the agent bring his arms up around him for warmth.
When he glances down, scanning for any sign of the harbinger, he spots a lone figure stood just before the entrance to the maze-like floral arrangements. They’re planted in concentric circles around a cast stone fountain. Dima has no clue why it’s even there, given Snezhnaya exists in perpetual winter. He guesses the abstract shape the frozen water has taken might count as an avant-garde sculpture…if you were into that kind of thing. Which he isn’t, so it isn’t doing anything for him.
Snow crunches underfoot as he approaches the figure, who still hasn’t turned around to face him. Most Kätzlein make no sound at all when they move, but Dima figures it would be rude to sneak up on him; and getting on his bad side before he even opened his mouth would be a new low.
“Hello,” the figure speaks, when he’s only a few feet away. He still hasn’t turned around, but at this distance Dima can make out short violet hair, cut straight and precise as if with a blade rather than scissors, topped with a wide-brimmed hat. The dark veil that hangs from that hat obscures the rest of him from view. Hmm…
The Balladeer is shorter than he expected.
Dima kneels so the harbinger doesn’t have to look up to speak to him.
“Captain Dmitri, is that right?” the Balladeer continues, completely unhurried. He seems to be observing the frost sugared over the hedges. Dima hesitates before answering; the snow is cold pressed against his knee, but the harbinger is clad in a thick white coat, with a fluffy black collar that dwarfs his stature. It’s a coat made for someone years older – or inches taller. One of the two. He feels a sudden, irrational urge to reach up and snatch it off him. Tsaritsa only knows he is freezing his knees off here, and the Balladeer seems content to take his time.
“That’s me,” he responds – then immediately kicks himself for the informality, dipping his head so low it nearly brushes the ground. “And I greet the Lord Balladeer, sixth of the Fatui harbingers.” Saved it – !
Then an incredulous scoff meets his ears, and as he flinches, he contemplates once again whether or not he should quit his job.
(Like, c’mon. They didn’t even have dental. Even the rundown bakery in his hometown offered dental. When he left, he was gonna leave them the world's shittiest Icedoor review.)
“Is that all you have to say?” he snaps, although Dima is fairly sure he would’ve reacted poorly even if he had explained why he was here. He probably would’ve been all like, ‘well, duh!’ and handed him a toilet brush. “Pathetic. Pierro’s brightest, and you can’t even offer me an explanation for why you’ve just been shoved on me.”
Dima only just prevents a confused ‘uh?’ from slipping out of his mouth. Does the Balladeer really not know the reason? He knows the guy isn’t well-liked, but would they have gone so far as to transfer a Fatui member to his personal guard without explaining why? Surely he can’t be that clueless. He’s considered the worst punishment a misbehaving soldier could face — that isn’t for no reason.
Somehow, Dima feels that admitting how much he’s slacked off these past few months would not paint the brightest picture of him to his new boss. Not that it was his fault he had felt that compelling urge to stand idly in the same place and repeat the same line for hours on end. But what else can he say?
“I bit someone.”
That. He can say that.
“...sir. I bit someone, sir. As punishment, Lord Pierro instated me as your personal bodyguard.”
Whatever the Balladeer had been expecting, it wasn’t that. He can almost hear the disbelief in his voice when he repeats, “You bit someone.” The words dry of emotion. Dima wets his lips and only succeeds in chilling them further.
“...Yes?” he responds like a question, testing the waters. Daring to raise his eyes to gauge the reaction, he thinks he spots the corner of the Balladeer’s lips curl into a bemused smile before he drops his gaze once more.
Is something funny? Dima has never been able to pick up on those kinds of things. When he does, it’s usually because they got to such heinous extremes that even he would be hard-pressed to miss them – hence the immediate biting response, he thinks.
As if this is an adequate answer for the Balladeer, he turns on his heel swiftly: tossing his veil over his shoulder. Dima only stares at the hem of his coat, which nearly sweeps the ground, urging himself to stay still, and silent, and – oh, Archons, he hopes the harbinger assumes he’s only trembling from the cold when he releases a short laugh. The sound is beautiful and quiet, and not at all what he had been expecting. Like silver chimes in the wind. Shouldn’t someone like him cackle villainously? At least caterwaul. A decent ‘muahaha —' might be appro -
“You know what,” he declares brightly, “I’ve changed my mind. I think this arrangement is going to turn out just fine, Demetrios.”
“Uhm,” Dima starts, “Actually, it’s Dmi –”
“Whatever. Get to your feet. Or do you plan to guard me while on the ground?” He snorts, and Dima isn’t sure if he’s serious, but he gets up and dusts himself off anyway. Oh no, he really is taller than the Balladeer. He looks at the snow-covered earth to avoid accidentally looking down on him. (Private Ivanka, otherwise known as ‘the Mountain of Estrov’, had once done just that. Her seven-foot-long infirmary bed had been sufficient enough to make sure none of the Fatui ever made the same mistake.)
And as the other man makes his way back up the hill, struggling to take the staggering steps required in his plush coat, Dima follows in his footsteps.