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Tartaglia felt the energy within the Vision at his waist slosh weakly, mirroring his disappointment as the Melusine staff escorted him from Mousier Neuvillette’s office and back towards the entrance of the Palais Mermonia. As he exited the building, the pink Melusine nods to him in farewell. She had a sympathetic look on her tiny face.
“Do come again if you have any other questions or concerns. The Iudex very much appreciates all that you did for Fontaine and apologizes for your detainment earlier in the year.” She pauses before adding, “I hope you find whoever you’re looking for.”
“Thanks.” Tartaglia replies with a wave, trying to swallow the disheartenment in his voice.
He steps out into the busy plaza. It was sunny, and the sun was exceptionally bright today. He puts his hands in his pockets and begins walking. He was constantly reminded of how cruel fate can be. The opportunity to see his master again had presented itself in his lap, and he happened to be out cold when she finally appeared again. He didn’t even get to finish off that massive narwhal. He felt himself sigh before entering the waterway lift, heading down to the lowest level of the Court of Fontaine.
As he steps off, a large figure catches his eye over by the fountain. He recognizes the dark, billowing coat over the man’s shoulders: the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide himself. The man was shielding his eyes from the sun, his face scrunched in discomfort as he attempted to read the newspaper in his other hand.
“Not much sun down there where you’re from.” Tartaglia remarks as approaches him.
The man looks around before his squinted eyes land on the ginger, his scrunched expression softens as his eyebrows lift in recognition.
“Well, if it isn’t the runaway Harbinger. Didn’t think we’d see you back so soon. Here to finish your sentence?” A smirk draws across his lips as Tartaglia’s body stiffened. “I’m just teasing. I’m well aware of the absolution of your charges. But what about your buddies down there?”
“Buddies?” The ginger pauses to think before his eyes grew wide upon remembering the three prisoners that had helped him escape. “Oh, those blokes!” He couldn’t help but smile. “Don’t tell me they’re still waiting for me to come back!”
The Duke nods.
“You left quite the impression on them.” He chuckles. “But people like them tend to flock towards the strong.”
Strong. The word lingered in Tartaglia’s ears. He felt his voice grow quiet as he replied,
“Not strong enough…”
“Hm?” The Duke raises his eyebrow curiously.
“You said people like them flock towards the strong.” He chuckles facetiously. “I’m…nowhere near that.”
The Duke watches younger man, taking in his forlorn demeanor. He rubs his chin with an unoccupied hand.
“Huh. I don’t know why I clocked you as the arrogant type that didn’t care what others thought or said about you. I think it was pretty ballsy to take on that enormous monster all by yourself.”
Tartaglia shakes his head dismissively. He didn’t defeat that monstrosity. The beast that haunted his dreams since he was young. It got away. Because he wasn’t strong enough to finish it. The Duke pipes up once more,
“Not many people to get survive and retell such encounters.”
“Cowards run away and survive. Warriors fight ‘til the very last shard of bone and drop of blood.”
He hears the large man sigh and glances at him. He was folding up the papers in his hands as he shook his head tiredly.
“You’re starting to sound like me from back in the day. It wasn’t worthwhile unless I had a new bruise or welt on my body. Quite the miraculous that either of us have survived for this long.” His voice had a hint of thoughtfulness underneath its nonchalant tone.
“I knew we were cut from the same cloth, your Grace.”
The Duke waves his hand with an embarrassed smile.
“Please. Just Wriothesley. None of that ‘your Grace’ stuff up here.”
“You’ve earned the title, right? I heard the rumors. You’re incredibly strong, so why not use it as an acknowledgement of that?” As he asks that, he watches Wriothesley’s nose wrinkle.
“Does anyone outside of your underlings call you ‘Lord Harbinger’?”
Tartaglia pauses. He himself found the title goofy, but it struck fear into the lower ranking members of the Fatui. It was merely…
“A tool. It has no meaning past that.”
“Exactly. Perception of strength and actual strength can be difficult to tell apart. But it’s pretty distinct.”
“Alright, then, what’s actual strength to you?” Tartaglia asks.
Wriothesley had begun to pick at a sticker he had found on the underside of his coat sleeve. His brow was furrowed in concentration, though Tartaglia couldn’t tell if it were for the sticker or his question.
“Hm…” The Duke muses as he successfully peels off the sticker. “I suppose…the strong make people dream.”
“Dream?” The ginger echoes.
He could’ve sworn he heard the strum of a guitar in the back of his mind and the crackling of a small fire.
“Yeah,” Wriothsley replies. “I wouldn’t call it ‘hope’; that’s more for the heroes like Neuvillette and our Traveler friend. Hope is a type of dream, I suppose. But most people go about their lives forgetting how to dream. ‘Be more realistic,’ everyone says. The impossible stays impossible for them…until they see it happen right before their eyes. That’s when people begin to dream again.”
“Hm.” Tartaglia hums.
What else am I supposed to do? He remembered asking years ago, not knowing how to go forward. He hadn’t even been sure if there was anything further beyond. Not until she said it was so. So, intangible…he could do nothing else but dream.
Had he been so caught up in life that he himself had forgotten how to? He felt his hand clench into a fist. How pathetic…
He lifts his head to look at Wriothesley, his eyes glinting in a new determination.
“Help me get stronger.” He clears his throat. “Please.”
The dark-haired man blinks at him a few times, seemingly processing the demand, before breaking out in laughter. Tartaglia pouts.
“H-hey, I’m serious!”
Wriothesley holds up his hand apologetically as he takes a couple of breaths to compose himself.
“I know. Sorry, I was just taken off guard. I mean, a member of the Fatui asking me to help them get stronger? Come on, you have to acknowledge how unorthodox that sounds.” He clears his throat. “What do you need my help for anyway? Don’t you have the likes of the Knave at your disposal?”
“She would never give me the light of day…besides…you made me realize that having power doesn’t necessarily make you strong.”
A smile draws across Wriothesley’s face as he gives a satisfied hum.
“You sure learn quickly.”
“That doesn’t mean that I’ve given up on power!” Tartaglia adds indignantly.
“Of course not.” Wriothesley gives a huff. “Alright. ‘suppose I have time…” He cracks his knuckles. “How about a quick a sparring match to gauge where you’re at?”
He begins leading Tartaglia back towards the lift which the latter follows close behind with eager and newfound determination.
“Hope you don’t plan on holding back like your Champion Duelist.”
“Are you talking about Clorinde?” The Duke chuckles. “She has a reputation to uphold. Can’t afford to get on the Fatui’s bad side if something were to happen to you. I don’t have such PR obligations. Besides, I was never good at pulling my punches.”
The two step onto the lift together. The disappointment Tartaglia had felt earlier had surged into a new resolve. He’d see his master again. He just had to hold onto the dreams she had given him and never lose sight of them again.