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“My my! The Doctor has always been prone to outbursts, but, I must say-” Columbina stops to let out an airy giggle, her voice echoing throughout the vast chamber in which the remaining Harbingers were gathered in. Some shoot quick looks amongst themselves, but none speak up. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him quite so upset!” She concludes languidly.
“How else should he have reacted?” Childe asks bitterly.
The eyes of the other Harbingers— save for Columbina, who has now resumed her humming, that unnerving song echoing through the otherwise silent room— fall onto the Eleventh. Tartaglia had not been in the habit of speaking up during Harbinger meetings when the situation did not call for it, but The Regrator had been the closest thing he had to a friend in the upper ranks of the Fatui, and it had not felt right to simply sit idly by and say nothing as the others mock his memory. The only other Harbinger who would’ve spoken up had stormed out mere minutes ago.
The relationship between The Doctor and The Regrator had perhaps been the worst kept secret amongst the Harbingers, if it could even be called that still with the Doctor’s grand and oftentimes grotesque declarations of love towards his banker happening more frequently than anyone had cared for.
“Hmph, so quick to jump to the defence of a madman. If only you had said half as much for Rosalyne when our ‘comrades’ had commented on her death.” The Knave’s voice cutting through the room like a fine blade. “If you ask me, our dear banker had it long coming. He was never going to last long.”
Childe had narrowed his eyes at the comment, but it was The Captain who spoke next. “The Regrator was not an honourable man— you and I both can agree on that, but it is unbecoming to speak ill of him in such a manner so soon after his passing. He was still one of our own and his death remains a great pity.”
“He was heartless long before he had it torn out of him. I don’t see anything pitiable about it, it’s a fitting end for a man like him.” The Knave quips, scorn dripping from her every word.
“Ironic, coming from you.” Muttered Childe under his breath; if Pantalone had been there he would’ve given him a chuckle. As it stands, no chuckle ever came, only those icy dagger-like stares from the Knave.
“Now, now, we mustn’t fight, especially not at a time like this. Wouldn’t you agree, Pierro?”
Arlecchino rolls her eyes at the comment, Pulcinella had always been so quick to save his boy. The Jester finally emerges from the shadows, having withdrawn from the conversation long ago.
“Indeed, the death of a Harbinger is a great pity and I should hope that you are able keep your personal views of his character to yourselves.” Neither The Captain nor The Knave reacted to the pointed look towards their direction. “Division amongst our ranks will only lead to our ruin. Behave yourselves, everyone is dismissed.”
The eerie silence of The Doctor’s lab as of late was a matter of great concern to the Harbingers. Il Dottore had never been fond of leaving his lab, save for when he’s in Pantalone’s office, or bed for that matter, but it had been a long few months since anyone had seen him. Usually Pantalone would’ve been sent to check up upon the hermit Doctor, but the current circumstances meant that it was now a problem for the rest of the Harbingers to deal with.
There had been attempts by the others to check in on him, to see if he was toiling away in his experiments to neglect his emotions once again. It’s what he’s always done for the 500-some-years that the older Harbingers had known him for, but what they had found was simply a haunting silence that permeated the air, stifling all life that had come across it. It had sent chills down even The Captain’s spine, and The Damselette, too, had refused to return to the lab after her visit along with The Knave. According to Arlecchino, they had not been allowed in, and Columbina, upset, had thrown a tantrum over it, crying that she would no longer be on speaking terms with the ‘boring, no fun Doctor’.
Tartaglia had never been to The Doctor’s lab, nor had he ever planned to (none of the Harbingers, save for Pantalone and occasionally Columbina, who enjoyed the tortured screams that would echo through the walls, had ever enjoyed visiting The Doctor’s lab, and the Eleventh had not been eager to find out why), but with the failure of the other Harbingers, he had been sent somewhat as a last resort to simply try his luck, though he could not imagine that much hope had been placed on him.
Pantalone’s body was there, in the lab, for The Doctor refused to have it be kept anywhere else before the sepulchre he had commissioned for the banker was completed. Childe would not have blamed The Doctor if he had gone mad from that alone, the toll of keeping your lover’s rotting corpse would weigh even those with the strongest of wills; he tries to imagine how he’d feel having to see Mr Zhongli lying there cold on a slab…he supposes that one of the perks of loving a God was that such a day would never come, but Pantalone was not a God. He was so painfully human, and now he was dead.
The corridor which leads to the lab was colder than most places in the palace. Childe is not entirely sure whether it came from his own imagination or if The Doctor simply preferred it to be colder, though recalling Pantalone mentioning The Doctor’s roots from Sumeru, that had not seemed likely. Perhaps, Childe thinks, it is simply due to the air of despondency that lingers in the place, it feels as though the very air was suffocating, punishing anyone who dares enter the mad Doctor’s domain.
As he reaches towards the end of the corridor he finds himself facing a spiral stairway leading down to the lab, and to what he can only assume were the very pits of hell itself. From the top it looks as though it went on forever, and if there were the means one would be inclined to throw a stone or some similar object down just to make sure that there was indeed a bottom that awaited them. He can see why no one, well almost no one, likes coming here. This place feels desolate, empty, wrong. It was unnerving, like a scene from some gothic tale that Pantalone had so adored in his life. Perhaps that is why he had found such comfort in coming to the lab so often, other than his obvious fondness for the creature which resided below.
After a rather dizzying trip down the downward spiral staircase, an iron door, the design of which could very well be considered lacklustre, especially contrasted with the rest of the intricately designed Zapolyarny Palace, awaited him at the bottom. The simplicity of the door was not unappealing in the slightest, in fact it was perfectly suited for such a place, sticking out immediately with such an air of intrigue that would lead even the least curious of people to be drawn to it and lead them directly into the Dottore’s clutches, like flies to a spider’s web. The only thing saving the wide-eyed recruits of the Fatui was that it was so deep down in the Palace, in some forlorn wing, where no one could simply stumble upon it by accident— no doubt the work of Pierro attempting to keep the numbers of the Fatui from dwindling just because they had happened to wander into The Doctor’s domain.
Knocking upon the door, Childe had not really expected a response. Everyone else had been ignored after all. “Doctor?” He calls out, knocking a second time, still scarcely expecting it to do much. To his surprise, a tired voice replies from within, telling him to come in.
Gingerly, he pushes the door open. It was heavy, heavier than expected even by its design. Of course Childe is not, by any means, weak and he pushes it open without so much as breaking a sweat. Still, he wonders how Pantalone fared with the door (he presumes that The Doctor must’ve held it open for the Ninth whenever he came to visit). Inside, Il Dottore is sat, hunching over Pantalone’s corpse, fingers running through the raven locks. His mask is off, allowing Tartaglia to see The Doctor’s bloodshot eyes. It is the most human he has ever seen of The Doctor. They say that he is more machine than man now; Pantalone had not believed it, and seeing him like this right now, Childe could not believe it either. After all, what machine could feel grief?
Taking a moment to observe his surroundings, he finds The Doctor’s lab to be not at all what he had imagined. For one, he had not thought that there’d be any sort of decor, let alone decor of a distinctly Fontainian style. Il Dottore himself was Sumerian yet his Fontanian sense of fashion and furnishing suggested that he’s abandoned that part of himself. Though he dares not ask, Childe silently wonders why.
“He looks quite peaceful like that.” Childe comments, making his way to the ornate casket in which Pantalone’s body lay. It’s beautiful, made of rare ores and shining gold. Larger than a casket ought to be, too, leave it to Pantalone to make a burial so extravagant. Evidently Dottore has spared no expense, though he supposes that the funds must’ve come from Pantalone himself, now that he no longer had a need for them.
The Doctor’s eyes remain fixated on his love and he lets the silence hang for a while before he replies.
“Indeed he does,” The Doctor pauses, before muttering “Thank Heavens…the crisis— the danger is past…and the lingering illness is over at last…and the fever called ‘living’ is conquered at last…”. Chide recognises the words, Pantalone had recited it once, a long time ago, some poem from some foreign land. It had celebrated death in a way that Pantalone himself had not. He had been afraid of dying, Pantalone. Not that he had ever said it. He had a way of hiding all of his vulnerabilities, see, but Childe is much more observant than he lets on and much smarter than people think him to be. Had he been afraid in his final moments? Had he recited this then for solace?
“Who sent you here, Tartaglia? Pierro, I presume?” Childe nods, and The Doctor closes his eyes in what he could only assume was deep contemplation. “And what does he expect you to do?”
“I’m not entirely sure myself,” Childe admits, shrugging, “I don’t think he expected you to let me in at all. You hadn’t even let Columbina in.” The Doctor grumbles incoherently before finally looking up at Childe. He tilts his head curiously as though he were analysing the young Harbinger. He probably was, to be fair, thinking of ways to dissect him or something.
“I hadn’t the mind to. Not at first at least, but Pantalone had liked you. You know that, don’t you? How fond of you he was. We’ve never talked much, have we, Tartaglia? I wanted to see for myself what it was about you that made him so fond of you, I suppose.”
“I had my uses.” Childe says with a small smile plastered on his face. Others would not have been so cheerful at the notion of being used, but Childe and Pantalone had been cut from the same pragmatic cloth, “He didn’t like me too much, I hope? I hear you’re quite the jealous type.”
“Oh? I wasn’t aware of the rumours.” Dottore mumbles under his breath.
“No, not rumours, though I’ve heard plenty of those. Pantalone had a habit of oversharing his personal life when he’s talking about those grandiose plans of his. Your…jealous tendencies came up quite a bit.”
“I see.” He grumbles. “Honestly, I had wanted to run some experiments on you once, your little ability is so very interesting after all. The only thing that stopped me was Pantalone’s insistence that I leave you alone. He never did like it when others tried to play with his toys. Greedy little thing, isn’t he?”
“I’m hardly his toy. I wouldn’t dare dream of taking on such a title. Not from you, Doctor.” Childe replies, making a little moue. The Doctor lets out a snort, Tartaglia was certainly Pantalone’s star pupil, even his retorts sound like him.
“Let’s change the subject.” The Doctor says. A frown appears on his face and Childe is about to ask what was wrong when Dottore asks him— “Tell me, Tartaglia, do you know how he died?”
His eyes betrayed his ignorance. “Not the details, no, I only knew of some details when Arlecchino had said that his heart…well, no one’s told me anything. I asked of course, but well, you know how well Pulcinella is at deflecting questions, of course…Where are you going with this?” Childe questions, brows furrowed.
The Doctor averts his eyes.
“I’ve wronged him.” The Doctor confesses with a pensive look, turning his attention back to Pantalone, fingers stroking his cheek, ever so gently. The confession catches Childe off-guard.
“What do you mean?”
“I killed him. Ha, do you hear me, my dear? I’ve killed you.” The Doctor says, taking Pantalone’s hand in his and kissing the delicate fingers of the corpse that laid there so beautifully, without any sign of rot (the work of The Doctor no doubt), as though he were simply asleep in some eternal slumber, waiting to be woken up.
“Oh.” Whatever Childe had expected him to say, it had not been that. He was right, he supposes, in his initial belief that The Doctor went mad over having been confined in a room with the corpse of his love for so long, for The Doctor has certainly gone mad, madder than usual even. Il Dottore had not killed Pantalone. He’s sure of that much. Now, he has never been close with The Doctor, but he had been with Pantalone and he knows that whoever… whatever had killed him could never have been Il Dottore. He stood there, waiting for the elaboration from The Doctor. It never comes.
“Come haunt me then, love.” The Doctor whispers instead. The corpse gives no reply. He could beg and plead, but no reply will ever come, no touch reciprocated, and no ghost will appear. Not to Dottore. The Gods would never allow it. “Yes…the gods who sit upon their lonely thrones, so high and mighty above, yet they’ve lost all their love! And so now they’ve come envying you and I…yes, it’s their fault that you’re gone, my dear.”
He holds Pantalone’s palm towards his cheek to feel the warmth of his love once more. Pantalone’s hands have always been warm, a nice contrast to The Doctor whose blood ran cold, but now there was no warmth to be found. Not anymore.
“Dottore-” Childe starts, he doesn’t really know what to say, he’s a little concerned for The Doctor honestly. “Self-pity is hardly a good look on you, Doctor.”
Il Dottore looks at Childe with those bloodshot eyes of his, frowning as his hands grasp Pantalone’s own, now holding it to his chest. “No one should have handed Pantalone a child he could mould in his own image. You’re too much like him sometimes, underneath that brash, cavalier exterior of yours.” He says and Childe feels almost uneasy with the unnerving way The Doctor stared.
“Am I?” Certainly no one had ever said that about him before. He and Pantalone seem two worlds apart, and yet here Dottore was, saying that they were too alike.
“You are.” He says with a slight disdain, and Childe wonders if he has made some sort of mistake. “You talk like him sometimes. I hear you parrot his philosophies often. He was very proud of that fact. He was very proud of you.”
Childe’s cheeks flush a soft pink. It was stupid to be happy over Pantalone being proud of him, since the man was likely prouder of his influence rather than of Childe himself, but Pantalone had been so important to Childe.
The Doctor continues to hold onto Pantalone’s hand tightly, squeezing it in his embrace. It’s obvious he did not want to ever let go. Childe gently removes Pantalone’s hand from The Doctor’s grasp, who, surprisingly, lets him without any pretence of a fight, and places it upon Pantalone’s chest. His eyes widen in shock as he feels a heartbeat, and his hand flies back as he stares at The Doctor in abject horror. “What have you done, Dottore?” He asks.
Finally after half a minute of silence– “He gave me his heart and I gave him mine, it’s as simple as that.” The Doctor replies in a melancholic tone.
“Why- no, how is it beating? Does that…does that mean you’ll bring him back?” Childe asks, voice betraying his optimism. The other Harbingers would have berated him for his naivety, but he could not help it. He finds that he cares so deeply for Pantalone still. Their friendship, odd as it may be, was still so very dear to him.
Death was not something unfamiliar to Childe, he understands it far better than most, but for a moment he indulges in the hope that death may be cheated, reversed, however impossible that notion may seem. After all, Il Dottore has defied the impossible before. He was born mortal and without the help of the gods he has achieved immortality on his own. Why couldn’t he bring Pantalone back?
For the first time since becoming a Harbinger, Childe sees The Doctor smile. It was not one of his maniacal grins or arrogant smirks that appeared often, but a true, genuine smile that he’s certain only Pantalone had seen before. “My heart operates differently, shall we say. It is not entirely human. It hasn’t been for a while now, and I know what you’re thinking but in the end I am but a man of Science. Necromancy is frankly, above my current abilities, but I promise you, Tartaglia, I shall bring him back, one way or another. I do not care how or what I have to do, I’d bring down Celestia on my own if that’s what it takes. For neither the Gods in Celestia above nor creatures of the Abyss could ever dissever my soul from that of his.”
The Doctor kisses the tips of his fingers and presses it onto Pantalone’s lips, and Childe for his part feels as though he’s been intruding in these intimate moments for far too long.
“You care about him, don’t you?”
It was a ridiculous question to ask. Despite Dottore’s claims that Childe was similar to Pantalone, Childe was not nearly as averse to showing his true feelings like Pantalone had been.
“He’ll have to forgive me for my transgression I’m afraid. As will you, I hope.” Childe replies simply.
“He would’ve been happy to know that.” The Doctor says instead.
“He would’ve said I was being ridiculous.” Childe says with a fond smile. He knew The Doctor was telling the truth, of course, though he also knew Pantalone would never admit it.
“He would’ve, but two things can be true.” Dottore replied and he’s glad, really, to know that Pantalone who had so surely believed himself to be unlovable was loved so deeply. Once upon a time, he would’ve wanted to be the only one in Pantalone’s life, the only one he could turn to, to be dependent on. He would’ve wanted Pantalone to be his, fully. He was so terribly afraid of his banker leaving him, he would’ve done anything to keep Pantalone by his side. He still would.
“You’re less annoying than I had expected. Especially compared to that…” who was Dottore thinking of again? The other Harbingers, but it feels like he had meant someone specifically, “of the other Harbingers.”
“You’re more human than they say.”
“You know I wouldn’t take that as a compliment.” He says with narrowed eyes and a grimace. Il Dottore hasn’t been human for a very long time now.
“I know, but Pantalone had believed it with all his heart and soul. He would’ve liked being right.”
“He’s not.” The Doctor says with a frown. Had Pantalone believed that of him? He wasn’t aware of that at least, his dearest Regrator was never exactly one to say what he’s thinking out loud after all.
“Isn’t he?” Silence.
“You should head back, it’s a long way up. Take care of yourself, Tartaglia.” The Doctor says after a while. Childe does a little bow as he makes his way to the door, the same one Pantalone would always do, and Dottore frowns again.
As he’s about to open the door, Childe suddenly asks, “What did you mean, by the way? That you killed him…”
The Doctor pauses, putting on his mask that had been cast away for a while now. “Hm. I figured you’d assume those to be the ravings of a madman.”
“Were they? It felt like something more.” Childe asks and Dottore falters. “You should tell me, I think, or well if not me, someone at least, Columbina maybe? You’re close with her, aren’t you? Though, I mean I suppose she isn’t the best person to go to for these things. Still, you should tell someone, otherwise the guilt just might eat you alive…I want to know though, I won’t press if you decide not to tell me, but I do want to know. No one else will tell me anything, the only person who ever did was Pantalone and now he’s gone and…I want to know how…and I want to why.”
Dottore is quiet for a moment, Childe’s about to leave when he speaks up, “The gods have never been kind to him. After the life he’s had, the least they could do was grant him a vision, but they couldn’t even do that. I wonder, what does your delusion mean to you, Tartaglia?”
“My delusion? It makes me stronger, of course. Other than that, it’s a reminder of my oath to Her Majesty, The Tsaritsa.”
“And what do you think it means to him?” Dottore asks and Childe falls into silent contemplation. “It’s alright, take your time. I haven’t anything else to do anyway.”
Pantalone had treasured his delusion dearly, that much Childe knew. It brought him great comfort having it by his side, but at the same time, he was never particularly happy with it. Pantalone’s delusion was different from everyone else’s, Dottore had gone to great lengths to indulge Pantalone’s frivolous demands. He had only ever wanted to make Pantalone happy, satisfied, but Pantalone could never be either.
“It’s a reminder of the acceptance he’ll never receive from the gods. He always seemed so upset when I showed him new moves I learnt to use with my vision in combat, so much so that I stopped altogether.” Childe says and Dottore nods.
“His delusion was everything he wanted, everything he couldn’t have. I created it specially for him. It’s never encountered issues before, I made sure it was perfectly safe to use before handing it to him, but that day... I don’t know who or what had killed him. Prime is looking into it under my orders, of course, whoever did it will have hell to pay, but I do know that his delusion had malfunctioned… I don’t know how it happened, but if it had not, if—” Dottore takes a sharp intake of breath, he does not finish his sentence, he doesn’t need to.
Childe’s gaze is fixated on Pantalone. The Doctor stares at the young Harbinger before telling him, “You should go, Tartaglia. Like I said, it’s a long way up and it’s getting late.” Childe pauses, seeming as though he wants to say something, but turns and opens the door.
He’s already out the door when he turns towards The Doctor, “Pantalone would have forgiven you, you know. In his final moments, he would have forgiven you. I hope you’ll forgive yourself, and,” a pause, “I’m sorry.” He says, closing the door behind him, leaving The Doctor alone with his lover once again, he’s intruded for long enough.
The lab once again returns to that state of haunting silence. Sighing, Dottore takes off his mask, standing, hand reaching into the casket and holding Pantalone’s. “What am I to do without you, my dear? My darling, my darling— my life who has died?” He whispers. What was the saying again? That it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? It was a lie, a beautiful lie, certainly, to mask the ugliness of the truth, a romanticised lie. That’s what tragedies were, in essence, he supposes.
Leaning down, he imparts upon his darling’s brow— one final kiss to last.
Months passed and the Regrator was laid to rest upon the completion of the sepulchre by the Snezhnayan coast. Pantalone had been fond of the sea. When he was alive, he’d often have Childe accompany him as he strolled along the beach, all the while going on with those boring spiels on the economy, Childe only half-listening as he collected shells which had washed upon the shore. It was fitting then, for him to be buried here.
Il Dottore, the original, had not been present during the burial. In his stead was his remaining segment— the segment at the prime of his life. His usual prideful self had been unusually sombre during the event. The other Doctor had not been half as respectful at the funeral of The Fair Lady. This fact had not been lost on The Knave, and yet surprisingly enough, she had only paid her respect towards The Regrator, and extended condolences towards the Eleventh, standing by him during the ceremony with Columbina by her side, naturally (though this courtesy had not, Childe noted, been extended to Dottore, segment or not).
When asked upon the whereabouts of his creator, he had answered merely in riddles. It had raised concerns amongst some, but the assumption had been that The Doctor simply refused to see The Regrator be buried. It’s a childish thing, really, but Dottore could be particularly childish at times.
He would not be seen again.
The last time anyone had seen him, the original him, had been that conversation between him and the Eleventh all those months ago. The Jester had questioned him over The Doctor’s behaviour (Pulcinella had been there too, gently assuring his boy that this was not an interrogation), and the segment, too, had been questioned (though this, Pulcinella had assured, had indeed been an interrogation). In the end it was simply accepted that Dottore in a fit of habitual madness had simply done something drastic and would not be returning. Life went on as usual. The segment at the Prime of his life had gotten work done, and The Doctor’s disappearance was forgotten.
The truth of the matter was that The First Harbinger had not gotten along with The Second; The Third was still throwing a tantrum over not having been let in those months ago to notice his disappearance; The Fourth had despised the man from the very start; The Fifth did not take on missions such as these, nor did he particularly care; The Seventh certainly could not be bothered; and The Ninth was gone. All that remained was The Eleventh, and he had known perfectly well where The Doctor was.
He visits the sepulchre often, replacing wilted flowers with fresh blossoms (he would get them from Arlecchino who helped pluck them from Columbina’s gardens in the Zapolyarny Palace)— the only Harbinger who does. He sees the segment there often too, though they do not speak to each other. A silent understanding was enough. The segment leaves a single bloom each time, a rare and exquisite flower found only in the Doctor’s personal synthetic garden, a flower that had long gone extinct centuries ago, brought back to life by The Doctor as a gift to his dear banker. They had been Pantalone’s favourite from the moment he had received them. With both The Doctor and Regrator gone, Childe supposes that it must’ve been the segment taking care of them. He supposes it came as no surprise, that no matter which Dottore it was, he would always adore Pantalone above all.
And so the monster loved a man, the monster whom no one but the man had believed to be human himself. And so the monster would follow this man to the ends of the earth and to the depths of hell. And so all the night-tide, he lies down by the side of his darling, his darling— his life with whom he hides, inside the sepulchre there by the sea, in their tomb by the sounding sea.