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Chapter Text

Tartaglia

     The weight of the limp body slung over his shoulder feels... wrong.

     The Knave, fourth Fatui Harbinger, has always had a heavy, controlling presence, the gravity of her demeanor unmovable and unshakable. But right now, she feels almost eerily light as he hauls her through the knee-deep snow.

      The blood trailing down his body doesn't have time to reach the ground before it freezes against his skin. His footprints almost instantly vanish behind him as the boreal wind blows all traces of their presence away. He would be grateful for the lack of a trail left behind, if he could feel anything besides the numbing chill pervading his being and the primal, deep-rooted instinct to keep on moving.

     What feels like an eternity passes before the forest around him finally begins to look familiar, and it takes another eternity for the snow below his feet to turn to the wooden steps of a home he had long since consigned to his memories.

     The front door of the cabin opens just a crack, the golden glow from inside so startlingly warm compared to the endless sea of frost he's emerged from. A bright blue eye peeks through with suspicion, before cycling through a flurry of emotions far too quickly for him to catch. The door is ever-so-slowly pushed open.

     The boy in front of him looks older than he remembers, but there's nothing in or beyond this world that could ever make him forget that face.

     "Teucer.."

     The voice that emerges from his lips is cracked and frail, raspy from yet another brush with death.

     There's fear in his brother's eyes, and for a moment he thinks Teucer might simply slam the door in his face. Eventually, though, his brother takes a step inside and gestures for him to follow, and the tight, tangled knot in his chest unravels just a bit.

     He's led to a sofa, and he collapses onto it as soon as he's set his colleague down safely beside him.

     "Stay here. I'll be right back."

     As Teucer heads into the kitchen, he thinks of a time from years past with a young, innocent stowaway and a 'Mr. Cyclops' factory. When that kid's voice was tinged with excitement and happiness instead of distrust.

     It hadn't hurt so much when the people of Snezhnaya had spurned him- they'd always hidden their fear of him behind a thinly veiled farce of respect, anyways- but for his own little brother to be so uncomfortable with his presence...

     ...

     This... was bound to have happened sooner or later. Though, he can only wish that things had gone down differently.

     He is so absorbed in his thoughts that he doesn't notice the conspicuously long time it takes for Teucer to return with a cup of tea. His brother gingerly places it on the table in front of him, staying just out of arms' reach of him.

     He hovers his hands near the cup, not quite making contact, but absorbing the heat radiating off of it. Even so, his frost-nipped skin feels as though it's being boiled from the drastic change in temperature.

     "Where are the others?" he rasps out, and watches as his brother tenses up, his gaze hardening as he looks off to the side.

     "...They're away from home right now," Teucer eventually manages to respond.

     "...Teucer, I'm-"

     "Don't say you're sorry," his brother hisses, cutting him off, a hurt resentment and something akin to regret bleeding into his voice, "We both know you aren't."

     He shuts his mouth. Teucer clenches his fists by his side, a smoldering fury slowly seeping into his expression. The silence stretches on for another few moments before Teucer is finally unable to hold his words in any longer.

     "You know, Alexei was in the Capitol when that- thing destroyed it!" Teucer snaps, "They always made the Harbingers look like saints in school, but they're really- you're all just... just villains!" his brother's voice takes on a desperate, almost hysterical note as Teucer's tear-stained gaze finally meets his own. "You- You're... you're really one of them."

     Teucer's eyes flit towards Arlecchino, lifeless and caked with blood. 

     "Alexei tried to warn me about you. He said to stay away from you, and that you're dangerous. Now he's dead and it's- it's your fault."

      Once upon a time, he would've been furious at his elder brother for putting Teucer's innocence at risk. Now, he wonders if Alexei might've been right to warn him.

     "Things weren't supposed to turn out this way," he says, but the words ring hollow and empty like some robotic, state-sanctioned response.

     "Well, they did."

     Something flits across his brother's face- helplessness, or... perhaps it's resignation?

     A sense of unease begins to creep into the back of his mind as all of the small 'off' details about the situation begin to add up. The finality of his brother's statement; The way Teucer shifts uneasily, as if waiting for something; How the seat he's been guided to faces away from all the entrances to the house.

     Finally, that lingering, indecipherable look in Teucer's eyes clicks into place as its name becomes known to him.

     Guilt.

     Tartaglia barely manages to dodge the arrow flying straight towards his head.

     Shouts, commotion, chaos, panic- Staples of an exposed ambush. This is not new to him. It takes less than a second for him to catalogue the five intruders in the kitchen, the seven at the front door behind him, and the archer holding position at the now-shattered window to his left- Likely more reinforcements waiting outside. Before the archer can loose another arrow, a slash of hydro carves a red crescent shape across her neck; She crumples to the floor as a spurt of blood sends specks of crimson through the air.

     Instantly, he's seized with a searing cold pain in his chest that makes his muscles spasm and steals the breath from his lungs. His vision blinks in and out before he manages to get a hold of himself. Barely a moment has passed- but in battle, a moment of incapacitation is an invitation for a swift and merciless death.

     He curses internally. Though he's sure the Tsaritsa never intended her oath to backfire in this manner, he can't supress the bitter feeling welling up in back of his throat.

     All Harbingers, upon their ascension to the position, take a blood oath to the Tsaritsa to never intentionally inflict harm upon innocent civilians of Snezhnaya. This oath is not merely ceremonial, however; It is bound and enforced by the Cryo Archon's authority, a permanent condition that- should it be broken- will dole out a 'punishment' to the offender. The first offense will not kill the offender, and neither will it leave permanent, lasting damage. But this will not hold true for long upon subsequent violations.

     In the past, he would have had no issue retaliating against attackers. A Harbinger, after all, was an untouchable figure of the nation, and to attack one would amount to committing sacrilege. But the people of Snezhnaya have now ousted him and his colleagues as traitors, and to attack a traitor of the state is an innocent act. 

     He whips around at the thunk of metal embedding itself in wood. A kitchen knife is stuck in the floor near the Knave. Clearly some idiot tried to hurl it at her, and discovered that blades which aren't balanced for throwing are (surprise, surprise!) not great for throwing. In one fluid motion, Tartaglia pulls the knife free from the floorboards and, with a wet crunch, pushes it through the foot of the attacker, pinning him to the floor. He barely has time to scream before he's knocked out by an elbow to the top of his head.

     Tartaglia braces for the shock to come, but is only met with a chill in his bones. Uncomfortable, yet far from unbearable. Huh.

     It would be somewhat 'un-Tartaglia-like' of him, but perhaps...

     The group of would-be asassins is caught off-guard when he dashes straight up to an enemy and- instead of sticking a blade in his foe's gut- simply socks him haymaker-hard in the face.

     The chill deepens, but he finds himself otherwise unaffected. A delighted grin begins to snake its way across his face.

     As he sweeps through the rebels like a hurricane, he learns more about the oath's 'conditions'. Firstly, that the backlash from every injury he inflicts still compounds upon the effect of the last, despite him using non-lethal force. Also, that the severity of the injury corresponds to that of the backlash. He learns this the hard way when he immobilizes one target by snapping their legs and is deftly hit with the punishment of the worst headache he's ever experienced, like repeatingly taking an ice pick to the face. Black spots dance in his vision and he feels himself stagger as his attacks grow more and more sluggish.

     When all is said and done, though, Tartaglia stands alone above piles of incapacitated enemies, the buzz of adrenaline almost enough to drown out the pain wracking his battered body. There's a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he's forgotten something important, but he's so consumed by the rush of victory that everything else seems to fade away.

     That is, until his eyes catch upon a figure trembling in the corner. Teucer presses himself even further against the wall upon noticing his gaze.

     A single casualty in battle is a drop in a sea of red for Tartaglia, the ghost of a memory that would be swept away by the countless others of its kind. But for his little brother, this one casualty is one more brutal, violent death than he's ever seen in his life. And to see his big brother, who he'd once looked at like he'd hung the very stars in the sky, surrounded by swathes of bloody and beaten bodies with a gleeful smile upon his face...

     A horrified whisper is pulled from his brother's lips.

     "What.. are you?"

     Tartaglia very well knows who led those intruders here, and yet he feels no resentment, no sting of betrayal. This was sooner his own fault than it was Teucer's. His little brother can't be blamed for reacting like this. He could never blame him.

     His bravado melts away, leaving only a bone-deep exhaustion in its place. He softens his voice, trying to be comforting, but it's tinged with sadness; as though he already knows the attempt is futile.

     "Teucer..."

     His brother flinches, eyes wide with unbridled terror as he locks gazes with him unblinkingly. Teucer's demeanor is that of an animal paralyzed in fear, trapped by some manner of ferocious beast. Scared to look away for fear of being pounced upon.

     He forces himself to tear his eyes away from his brother, looking towards the ground as his heart clenches in his chest. "I'm Ajax of Morepesok," he answers quietly, but his voice is unsteady with the hesitance of someone who doesn't quite believe what they're saying. "I'm Ajax just as much as I'm Tartaglia.

     "Please..." Teucer pleads, "Please go away..."

     "I-"

     "Get AWAY!!" Teucer screams, ragged, and this finally breaks him. 

     He may be a foolish sinner with too much blood on his hands, a heartless weapon who's now lost its wielder- but he refuses to further torment his little brother by overstaying his welcome.

     Ajax says a silent last goodbye as he slings Arlecchino's arm over his shoulder and stumbles to the doorway. Once again, an endless expanse of snow lies ahead of him. The forest is buried under layers upon layers of ice, and he wonders if he ought to be, too.

     He does not look back. He doesn't think he'll be able to leave again if he did.

Chapter Text

Arlecchino

     The first thing the Knave registers is the familiar flickering warmth of a fire. She has a passing temptation to give into the illusion of the hearth back home as the chatter of children rings in her ears, but delusion, like sorrow or anger, does nothing but cloud judgement and foster weakness. 

     She opens her eyes and wills those shadows of the past away, before taking in her surroundings. 

     Her body has been propped up in a seated position, her back pressed against a tree's trunk. Cold creeps up her body, her clothes- damp from the snow- beginning to freeze solid. The forest around her is dark, with only the dancing flames and the false stars above cutting through the night. Something breathes heavily nearby; asleep, by the sound of it.

     She directs her limbs to stand up, but her movements are too sluggish, her strength sapped. Ice and dried blood alike crack as she forces her legs to bend, shifting her weight onto them despite their protests. Slowly, she brings herself to her feet, her arm braced against the tree trunk.

     Now, she gets a clearer view of the area around her. The once-pristine snow is marred by a trail of footprints, dirt, and splatters of blood. A body, which she quickly identifies to be that of her colleague Tartaglia, is sprawled prone on the ground, a hunting knife still clenched tightly in hand. It is clear that he had intended to keep watch, before succumbing to his injuries. 

     Arlecchino finds him to be one of the more tolerable among their number, though his penchant for trouble often brings misfortune to those who associate too closely with him. Even so, his motivations can be trusted. 

     When he had stayed a few days at the House of the Hearth in Fontaine some years ago, he had treated the children well.

     Thinking about it, Fontaine would not be a poor choice of destination; there was no point in staying in Snezhnaya any longer, after all. 

     She makes her way over towards Childe, analyzing the familiar blistered gashes that adorn his body, identical to the injuries inflicted by her scythe. Her memory is foggy, and her lips crease ever so slightly downwards as she attempts to recall when and why they came to be. These, in specific, appear to be the result of an attempt to restrain a combatant while trying to minimize damage- Though, unfortunately, it seems that it took much more to incapacitate him than it does her children, which has left him in a considerably worse state than what is typical.

     She slips off her jacket, but pauses as her eyes catch upon an unfamiliar sight. The taint of her curse has climbed much farther up her arms, the black coloring reaching up to her shoulders. 

     She only hesitates for a moment. This is a rather... pressing issue, but it will need to be addressed later. She peels her attention away from the distraction and back towards the task at hand, tearing a strip of fabric from the jacket and tying it around her colleague's arm to staunch the bleeding. She allows her mind to drift as she repeats the action, gradually dressing his many wounds.

     The rate at which her curse has suddenly progressed suggests the actions of some outside influence. The hazy recollection of a needle and a fiery, searing pain surfaces from the jumbled sea of her memories. 

     Tch. This must be the fruit borne of Dottore's research. That this was his doing comes as no surprise; she had known the Doctor would experiment with her power from the very moment they began development on Bottled Flames. It was a price she had been willing to pay to give her children the "freedom to choose".

    After she finishes tending to Childe, Arlecchino uses a couple of leftover strips of fabric to address the relatively minor scrapes and cuts she herself sports. The destruction of her jacket is somewhat unfortunate, but she can have a replacement made in due time.

     The whistling of the wind through the trees catches her attention for a moment, compelling her to look back up towards the forest. A warning of danger prickles at the back of her mind. There is something off-putting about this place, though its exact nature remains unclear. Staying stagnant should be avoided when possible.

     It is a long ways away to Fontaine. Interferences from the other Harbingers may hinder their journey, and, despite their help during the nation's crisis, their diplomatic ties are still tentative, at best- and that is without taking into consideration the current 'situation'.

     She begins to formulate the skeleton of a plan in her mind, but, as things stand, it cannot be put into action right away. In the meantime, while she waits for Tartaglia to awake, she attempts to make sense of her memories. 

     Her thoughts start out foggy and disorganized, but gradually grow clearer until she can eventually piece together a semi-coherent series of events. It had started- or rather, ended- with Celestia's casting of a Nail down upon the Capitol City. Zapolyarny, of course, had been the ground zero of the impact, the epicenter of the ensuing disaster. The Tsaritsa used up much of her remaining power to shield the palace against the blast, but due to the sudden and nigh unprecedented nature of Celestia's retaliation, was unable to guarantee the safety of the surrounding citizens. 

     The lucky ones had been vaporized instantly upon impact. But it didn't take long for the rest to come staggering towards the only thing left untouched amidst the surrounding destruction.

     In the first hour, the empty shells of what had once been people began to crawl their way towards the gates, their bodies destroyed beyond recognition and beyond saving. They were walking corpses, doomed to a fate of existing in agony for a few more hours before their bodies would finally give out. They clawed at the walls of ice with what was left of their feeble strength before falling limp, like puppets cut from their strings.

     By the third hour, the people from farther away from the blast trickled in. Homes destroyed, loved ones lost, and sporting injuries of their own, many of them would not have had the energy to even stand were it not for the mix of adrenaline and fury coursing through their veins. They were the ones who shouted and cried and cursed in the Harbingers' direction, whose bodies functioned just enough for them to eventually take up the pitchforks and torches.

     As the most public figure, and the one with the highest chance to succeed in calming the people, it had been the Rooster to come out and make a statement. His speech's reception, however, had not been an amiable one. It had begun simply enough, with an object hurled towards him that he easily deflected- But this first small action inspired more and more serious attacks, escalating the crowd into a frenzy. Though not the most combative of the Harbingers, he still would've been able to handle this without any issue, and it seemed as though he had been preparing to do so- But when the mob finally surged forwards, it was an electro-laced torrent that cut through them.

     Arlecchino had always thought their youngest colleague's disposition unsuited to the role of a Harbinger, not only because he was too trusting and adverse to schemes, but also because of his volatile and unstable grip on his emotions. The stress of recent events, along with an especially adverse reaction to Celestia's purifying energy, she suspects, had pushed him to the edge of his senses. These factors together, along with his loyalty to Pulcinella, were what led to his 'snap'.

     With the metallic stench of blood and the lingering touch of the Abyss in the air, she moved to put a stop to this before it could escalate any further. But just as her scythe had managed to halt his blades from their path towards more civilians, she felt a piercing pain in her back. Almost instantly, a searing sensation spread throughout her limbs, and her body had grown feverish, her mind sluggish. From here on, her memories become clouded and fragmented, snippets of a fight interspersed among the chaos. The last thing she can recall is dragging an unconscious Tartaglia towards the abandoned outskirts of the city.

     It's rather ironic, that he has just now done the same for her. Should the curse reach her heart, she may need him to be the one to put an end to her. At least that way, the children may be spared from having to carry out the task.

     Arlecchino glances up as something cold brushes against her skin. Small flurries of snow dance through the night, illuminated by the northern lights' gentle glow. 

     Despite everything, she thinks that she will miss this sight.

Chapter Text

Tartaglia

     He's struck with a twinge of bittersweet nostalgia as he runs his fingers over the coarse fabric.

     The clothes are a far cry from the ludicrously expensive, tailor-made garments he'd worn as a Harbinger, or even the standard-issue uniform he had donned as a footsoldier. No, this well-worn, practical outfit was something reminiscent of what he'd had as a kid, something ubiquitous to small countryside villages like the one he was raised in: Working clothes designed to last, sturdy enough to survive even the Abyss.

     He tugs the faded scarf tighter around his face and adjusts his hood before he steps onto the main street in the marketplace, blending into the crowd. Most people could never even imagine a Harbinger to step foot in a place like this, so it was unlikely that he'd be recognized... but still.

     Tartaglia slips out of the city, making his way back to the temporary camp he and his colleague have set up in an old abandoned loggers' cabin. It's dusty and practically falling apart, but it'll do for the night- still a far better option than staying out in the snow.

     The Knave is already looking towards him as he creaks open the door. He tosses the bundle of clothes he'd acquired at her as he steps over the threshold.

     "If we leave early, we should be able to reach the next town over before sundown tomorrow," he supplies as he scans the room for firewood, picking up the scraps he finds. "There's a small port there; We might be able to catch a boat out of Snezhnaya if the water hasn't frozen over yet."

     She acknowledges him with a silent nod, and for a moment she almost reminds him of his Master. They both share that same distant, detached demeanor. But perhaps Arlecchino is less... lonesome. More grounded, and not so disconnected from the world.

     He ponders this as he stacks the kindling with expert hands, his motions guided by the muscle memory his father had drilled into him as a kid. He steps back, looking towards his traveling companion in a silent request, and she flicks her hand, setting the tinder ablaze.

     Finally, as he clears a spot in the rubble and sits down, a sigh escapes his lips.

     He feels... hollow. Like there is an empty, gaping hole in him where his ambition used to be. He is aimless in a way he has never been before, set adrift in a wide, open ocean with no lighthouse to guide him to shore.

     In the Before, he had a dream to follow. He'd rejected a simple village life in favor of adventure. His dream was an irresistible guiding star- tantalizing, blinding, and yet he couldn't look away.

     In the Abyss, he could only ever care about one thing: making it back home. It became obsessive, a need greater than even his own survival, even his own dream. Even his devotion to his Master's teachings was ultimately just a mechanism to achieve this goal. And it'd worked.

     In the After, his childhood dream was smothered. His restlessness had led his father to abandon him to the Fatui; he was a child sent off to die a faceless soldier in a foreign land. To climb the ranks had been the only way to survive, to have a chance to see his little siblings again. And so climb them he did.

     When he finally became a Harbinger, he took on the Tsaritsa's dream as his own. It became his goal, his marching orders. He knew nothing else than to do as he was commanded. He would do as she said to build a better world for his siblings, to keep them safe, to give his Archon everything he could.

     And now... 

     ...Now, it is all gone.

     His god, that true warrior he would follow to the edges of the world and beyond, is dead. Slaughtered by the very oppressors she had tried to overturn. And her mission had died with her. 

     For the first time, there is nothing left to fuel him. What do strength or ambition matter, when his little brother looks at him with terror in his eyes? Adventure, loyalty, revenge- None of it matters without a family to return to afterwards. 

     He's adrift. He follows the Knave, sights set on Fontaine, because he wouldn't know what to do otherwise. He has nothing else to drive him, but at least with a set goal he can have something to work towards, even if it isn't anything real.

     He gazes off into the distance, fatigue tugging at the edges of his consciousness even while the afternoon sun beats down on the snow outside the window. He hasn't slept for a while, having kept watch all last night and traveled all of yesterday.

     "Rest, Childe. I will keep watch for you."

     Oh. Arlecchino must have noticed. He nods gratefully and lies down, folding up his cloak into a makeshift pillow.

     He feels the lull of sleep overtake him as soon as he closes his eyes.