Archive of Our Own

The air was cool when Pantalone waited outside of the Tsaritsa’s hall, waiting for the doors to open to invite him in for what was probably the very last time. He tried to keep up his usual light smile and calm demeanor while going through every possible outcome in his head. None of them ended particularly well for him.

The Tsaritsa would not appreciate his involvement in Sumeru. Not long after the burning of Irminsul, she had summoned him back to the Zapolyarny Palace to discuss the “incident.” There was no escaping the consequences now. He had known the risks the moment he chose to involve himself in Dottore’s plans, had understood perfectly well that the Tsaritsa would consider continued loyalty to him dangerous.

Relationships between the Harbingers had always been complicated. They were permitted to pursue their own ambitions and desires so long as they remained useful to the Tsaritsa and did not turn their weapons upon one another. Dottore killing Sandrone in Nod-Krai had shattered that understanding entirely and Pantalone had still chosen his side.

The heavy doors finally opened, cold candlelight spilling lighting his way. Guards stepped aside in silence as Pantalone walked forward before hesitation could root him in place. The throne room felt larger than ever and every footstep echoed loudly as he moved forward. At the end of the hall sat the Tsaritsa. The cold surrounding her was not the ordinary chill of Snezhnaya’s winter but the ancient iciness of a god that settled into bone. It pressed against his lungs with every breath, carrying the terrible weight of divinity. Even from across the hall, Pantalone could feel her gaze on him.

She didn’t seem angry. She never did. If anything, quiet disappointment wrapped itself around him, choking out any air he was holding. For the first time in centuries and with the gaze of a god on him, Pantalone found smiling hard. He stopped before the throne and lowered his head.

--

Pantalone hurried down the corridor, the click of his heels echoed through the walls. His jaw ached from how tightly he held it clenched, fingers curled into fists at his side despite every effort to relax them. Something was wrong. He was familiar with this feeling and it had settled in his stomach days ago and refused to leave.

The guards stationed outside Dottore's laboratory took one look at him before stepping aside without question. Pantalone doubted they had ever seen him moving this quickly through the palace. The heavy door swung open and he scanned the room for his partner in crime.

As much as he despised the gods, there were moments when he wondered whether one of them had cursed him with this particular gift. Or blessed him. For as long as he could remember, there had been a feeling somewhere beneath logic and reason, quietly warning him when disaster approached. Most of the time it manifested as little more than unease. Occasionally, when the feeling became truly bad, it made him physically ill.

A few nights ago, when Dottore had explained to him his plans for Nod-Krai over coffee and scattered research notes, that familiar dread had appeared in his gut. Back then, he had ignored it. He had told himself that Dottore was conducting yet another ambitious experiment, that whatever he hoped to achieve would likely end in failure before it became a problem. That was usually the case.

Then news had arrived that the Traveler was heading for Nod-Krai. Since then, the feeling had only grown worse. A crushing sense of inevitability lingered over him as though he was standing on a mountain, waiting for an avalanche to happen. Even his cigarettes had offered little to no relief. Anxiety kept gnawing at his thoughts.

Dottore knew about these instincts, of course. Over the centuries, the topic has surfaced occasionally. The Doctor never mocked him for it outright, but neither had he ever seemed particularly impressed. Dottore believed many strange things were possible, however, if something could not be measured, observed, dissected, and/or replicated, his interest was limited.

The Doctor sat near the far end of the laboratory; one leg crossed over the other as he read a book. At the sound of the door, he glanced up.

"Pantalone." His grin slipped into his voice as he closed the book and set it aside. "I did not expect you today. What brings you here, dear partner?"

"Dottore." Pantalone approached the desk, forcing his expression into composure. He rested one hand against its edge. "When are you leaving for Nod-Krai?"

The question made Dottore’s head tilt.

"Tomorrow night."

His fingers tapped once against the cover of the book.

"Did any issues appear?"

Financial issues, presumably. That was usually why Pantalone sought him out before an expedition. Budget disputes, resource allocations or requests to scale down an experiment that had become absurdly expensive, even for his liking. This time the issue had nothing to do with Mora.

"I'm not certain I would call it an issue," Pantalone admitted.

The Doctor shifted impatiently in his seat, then rose from his chair and leaned forward slightly. Beneath the mask, Pantalone could tell that his attention sharpened. Pantalone could practically feel those crimson eyes studying him, picking apart every detail of his expression.

"Dottore,“ he attempted.

"Pantalone," the Doctor interrupted.

The amusement had vanished from his voice. "You know better than to waste my time. If something is troubling you, me, or the experiment, then I suggest you communicate it now."

After hundreds of years spent together, there was little point in attempting to hide anything. If something was off, Dottore would notice eventually. Pantalone let out a slow breath through his nose and adjusted his glasses.

"This has nothing to do with funding."

Dottore's fingers stopped tapping.

"I had a feeling about Nod-Krai."

Silence. The Doctor remained motionless, studying him. Pantalone almost laughed at how ridiculous this all was. Anyone else would have dismissed the statement immediately. Yet Dottore had known him for far too long to do that.

A memory flashed before his eyes.

--
Months ago, he had been sitting in one of the many rooms of the palace, drinking a glass of wine while Columbina occupied the seat opposite him. Dottore had dropped by for only a short minute, handing him a few small glass bottles of immortality serum. After that, Columbina had surpringly been the one to pick up a conversation.

"It is interesting to watch you two."

Pantalone had glanced over the rim of his glass. "Us two?"

"You and Dottore." Her smile had widened. "You act like a fox and a wolf."

"Oh?" Pantalone leaned back in his chair. "Is that so? And who might be who?"

"Isn't it boring if I tell you?"

He had immediately regretted asking. Sandrone had infected Columbina with that infuriating habit of answering questions with more cheeky questions. Columbina, as a goddess, was already someone whose mere existence irritated Pantalone slightly. She didn’t need to pick up any more annoying habits.

"Well, well." He swirled the wine in his glass. "If I had to guess, I would say we are both foxes. Although I am curious about your interpretation, Columbina."

A soft giggle escaped her.

"Funny." Something in her tone had made him wary. "Did you know? I asked Dottore the same thing."

Pantalone raised an eyebrow.

"He said you are both wolves."

That answer had surprised him. If he had to choose an animal to describe himself, it would always have been a fox. Cleverness over strength and adaptability over brute force. A creature that survived through wit rather than violence.

A fox knew when to retreat, hide and remain unnoticed until the perfect opportunity presented itself. Not unlike himself, especially when it came to his job as a banker. People generally connotate negative meanings to the word “opportunist” but was it really that controversial to want the best for yourself?

Dottore, however, was unlike a fox in certain ways. Not because he wasn't intelligent, quite the opposite, he could never reach the intellect of that man, but because Dottore had never felt the need to conceal what he was. He did not sneak around like he did. He walked as confidently as a tornado, ready to rearrange any place to his will as he liked it.

Still, he couldn’t quite deny that even though he practically wore a sign that spelled DANGER, Dottore was a cunning person that always managed to outwit and manipulate his enemies as he wanted.
Wolves?

After he had talked with Columbina, he had wondered what Dottore could have meant for a while. Wolves…wolves…wolves. They weren’t stupid animals but not known for their intellect. What was Dottore’s thought process?

Wolves are territorial, relentless and possessive. Not unlike either of them, but that didn’t seem to be the answer.

Pantalone frowned. The more he thought about it, the less satisfying the distinction became.

Foxes were solitary creatures. They survived by avoiding conflict whenever possible. Dottore did not avoid conflict and neither did Pantalone if he had to be honest. Not anymore. He had spent centuries clawing his way upward from nothing. He had built an empire with his own hands and defended it against gods, nobles, merchants, and Harbingers alike. Anyone foolish enough to threaten what belonged to him quickly learned what the raw power of Mora meant.

Maybe that was what Dottore had seen. Maybe it was not about the methods they preferred but the nature beneath them.

Wolves recognized other wolves.

Pantalone knew exactly how dangerous Dottore was. He knew the extent of his cruelty and capacity for destruction. Most people spent a few moments in the Doctor's presence and instinctively stepped back. Most Harbingers did not mess with his business and avoided contact.

Pantalone never had.

Likewise, Dottore knew him well enough by now to understand that beneath the polished image was a man who could be every bit as ruthless. There was something strangely intimate about that. That was why their relationship had evolved into what it was now. A relationship that could only be forged after centuries spent watching someone at their absolute worst and choosing to remain anyway.

Pantalone saw foxes because he focused on survival and outer appearance.

Dottore saw wolves because he focused on what they were deep inside.

His stomach twisted. Did Columbina come to the same conclusion, even after only knowing them for such a short time?

And if that was true, then perhaps that was why Pantalone found himself standing in this laboratory despite every instinct telling him that Dottore would ignore his warning. A fox would protect itself and walk away.

Pantalone met Dottore's gaze.

"I cannot explain it rationally, and I know how much you appreciate that. But when you told me about this experiment, I felt something was wrong."

One corner of Dottore's mouth twitched. He wasn’t sure if it was amusement or irritation.

"I heard the Traveler has arrived in Nod-Krai. My gut feeling has become a lot worse."

Pantalone folded his arms while Dottore took a step back and sighed. Then, with one quick move, he removed his mask and finally really looked at Pantalone. He put his hand on Pantalone’s hand, which has been resting on Dottore’s desk.

"Your intuition has warned you before. In all this time I have known you, it has rarely been incorrect.” For a second Pantalone felt hopeful, until Dottore continued. “However, this is not an experiment I can stop based on intuition.”

Pantalone groaned in frustration and softly slapped his hand away to fold his arms by his chest.

“Feofan. Are you certain you are not feeling this way because my experiment may result in me becoming a god?”

He sounded almost worried now, which was rather annoying because Pantalone was almost sure the Doctor wasn’t capable of real worry anymore. It sounded like he was trying to mock him. Besides, it was not the reason at all and Dottore should know that by now. He had tried to make a person a god before in Sumeru, and it had not bothered Pantalone either. The thought of spiting the Heavenly principles with this heresy was more amusing than irritating.

“You accuse me of getting emotional over your experiments? Oh, almost makes me wonder if you know me at all,” Pantalone said, then took his hand to directly point his finger at Dottore’s chest, touching his chest with the tip of his gloved finger. “You should know by now that I would not stop your insane experiments on a whim like that.”

Dottore laughed quietly and took Pantalone's hand and held it up by his wrist. “I did not mean to offend you. Tell me, what do you think will happen in Nod-Krai?”

This time, Dottore sounded much less amused and his eyes gleamed with curiosity. He seemed as calculating as ever, as though he was attempting to fit an impossible variable into an equation that had already been solved.

Pantalone hesitated for a moment because now he had to be honest with himself and Dottore.

“Your demise.”

Dottore smiled softly at that and before Pantalone had the time to react, he was pushed with force against the wall. “And who might you be worrying for? Me, your money or yourself?”

“You insult me. Centuries of friendship and you still think so lowly of me?” Pantalone asked half-jokingly.

Reality was that he could not care less about the money. Dottore could spend an excessive of Mora on whatever he wanted, and Pantalone would still not feel it. The only thing he would feel are the annoying complaints of his fellow subordinates.

Now if he worried about himself or Dottore more, that was up for debate. Without Dottore, his own life would cease to exist soon. With all the elixir he had right now he could maybe make it for another 100 to 120 years? Now, those would be plenty for any normal human, but for a man who reached for immortality, a day or a hundred years barely made a difference. All he knew, is that that was not the immortality he so desired.

And Dottore… Pantalone looked down to the mask the Doctor had put down. Dottore did not belong in any calculation that ended with an acceptable loss. He was indispensable, for Pantalone’s own existence and as a friend he’s known for centuries.

Pantalone’s jaw tightened.

“You are not someone I can afford to lose,” he said at last, voice quieter now but still trying to sound as neutral as possible and he looked over his glasses to hold Dottore’s gaze. The pressure on his wrist got tighter. Dottore studied him for a long moment, as if he was a specimen in a glass.

Then he let out a low hum and a finger slipped beneath Pantalone’s glove. Sexual tension rose quickly between them when things seemed heated, but Pantalone wasn’t feeling that way right now. With one powerful move, he forced his hand away and took a determined step away from the wall. Dottore didn’t protest and moved to the side.

“Pantalone,” Dottore said, sounding almost amused. “You know our contract well enough to recite it like a poem. You know what my death means, don't you?”

Pantalone sighed. “It is merely one possible conclusion to an experiment,” he answered. “And every conclusion provides data for the next attempt.”

“Precisely.” He hated when Dottore looked so pleased, even though Pantalone started feeling desperate.

The banker turned toward him again. The Doctor had moved away from the desk and now stood against the wall, arms crossed, looking entirely too relaxed for someone discussing his own mortality.

“It is almost as though you are trying to challenge the natural cycle of life itself,” Pantalone continued. “Tell me, Zandik, how exactly do you intend to accomplish that?”

A smile slowly spread across Dottore's face and he uncrossed his arms.

“But I, no, we are already challenging the natural cycle of life. We both should be long dead, my friend. How many of your organs have I replaced over the centuries? How many diseases have I cured? How many times have you consumed my elixirs to prolong a life that should have ended hundreds of years ago?”

Pantalone opened his mouth to respond but Dottore wasn’t finished.

“You have lived for over four centuries. Your body has failed repeatedly. Your heart, liver, kidneys, and your lungs… especially your nasty lungs. Each has been rebuilt. And you still greed for more.”

Yes, he did. Greed is the precise thing that made Pantalone Pantalone. One may call greed a sin but greed is what had dragged a moraless mortal from the gutters of Snezhnaya up to the top of the world and transformed him into the richest man in Teyvat. Feofan would have been horrified by what he had become. Pantalone was not.

“You know, dear Zandik,” he said lightly. “I could always withdraw funding from this little venture of yours.”

At that, Dottore scoffed. “Would you?”

“No.” Pantalone answered quicker than he would’ve liked.

“Exactly.” Dottore's smile widened. “I believe we've both grown beyond empty threats.”

Pantalone hated that he was right. Dottore was his most valuable partner by every conceivable metric. The man had extended his life beyond what nature intended. Expanded his influence. Enabled projects that would have been impossible otherwise. And beyond the practical concerns were the emotional ones…

He stopped his thoughts. Pantalone disliked examining that too closely. Their relationship had become too intertwined and complex to describe accurately long ago.

Business partners. Co-conspirators. Friends. Something else. Whatever the answer was, it ensured that Dottore occupied a place in his life that no one else ever had and ever will.

Precisely that made this conversation profoundly irritating. Pantalone stepped forward until barely an arm's length separated them.

“Then indulge me. Tell me about your contingency.”

Genuine excitement flickered across Dottore's expression. The look he wore whenever discussing a discovery.

“You are familiar with Irminsul.”

“Of course.”

“Most people misunderstand, or rather, underestimate what it truly is.” Dottore pushed away from the wall and began pacing. “It is not merely a repository of memories. It is a system. The world remembers itself through Irminsul. What exists in Irminsul will never cease to exist. Therefore, if I create a connection from my mind to Irminsul…”

Pantalone felt a knot form in his stomach. He knew that look. It was the same one Dottore wore immediately before explaining something catastrophically dangerous.

“You wish to store your consciousness inside it.” It was a mere guess, but when Dottore’s eyes lit up, he readjusted his glasses, as if he didn’t see right. Well, then.

“Not store. Integrate.”

The distinction did not reassure him.

“What follows if my experiment in Nod-Krai fails, is that portions of my mind will be encoded within Irminsul itself.”

Pantalone stared while Dottore continued as though he was discussing the weather.

“You must know by now that the human body is highly inefficient and extremely vulnerable. A consciousness, however, is merely information. Information can be preserved. Think of it like a caterpillar shedding it’s old form.”

“And when your body dies?”

“Death ceases to be a meaningful obstacle when the mind can simply be reconstructed.”

Pantalone suddenly understood why his instincts had been screaming louder and louder since he started talking with Dottore here. Dottore no longer considered death relevant and that realization chilled him far more than any prediction of disaster he had.

“You intend to replace yourself.”

Dottore looked genuinely confused. “Not quite.”

“You just described replacing yourself.”

“I described continuity.”

“Through a tree.” Now, Pantalone always believed himself to be a smart person. An idiot would have never accomplished the things he did. But sometimes, Dottore was extremely hard to follow. Maybe it was his persistence to objectivity under any circumstances. What some considered common sense, suddenly sounded stupid when talking with this man.

“Through me. If every memory remains intact, if every thought process remains identical, then what meaningful distinction exists?”

Pantalone's expression darkened and he sighed. Slowly and with heavy heart Pantalone came to the realization of not being able to stop Dottore. He would go to Nod-Krai and he would die.

“There is no practical difference,” Dottore said finally.

“Perhaps not to you.” Their eyes met and suddenly Pantalone regretted speaking this quickly. For the first time in the conversation, Dottore looked at him not as a collaborator and partner in crime, but as though he had discovered something unexpected and interesting.

“Ah,” Dottore said softly.

Pantalone immediately looked away but he could feel the Doctor’s hand on his arm again, almost as if he was trying to calm his mind. His other hand touched Pantalone’s waist, as if trying to ground him. What a gentle gesture for a cruel man like Dottore.

“Now I understand your concern.” Dottore had always been dangerous when he became interested in something. His greatest talent had always been observation. Once he noticed something, he dissected it relentlessly until nothing remained hidden.

“Tell me something,” Dottore said. “Would you object if I underwent the same procedure tomorrow?”

Pantalone's expression hardened. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it is reckless.”

“There is no real recklessness in science,” Dottore corrected and smiled.

“Dangerous, then. You may not survive.”

“Everything worthwhile is dangerous and we have already established that yes, I will survive technically speaking.”

“No, you cannot be sure.” Pantalone sounded sharper than he had intended. Pantalone felt frustration rising in his chest.

For centuries, he had tolerated Dottore’s endless habit of reducing everything to logic. Admittedly, it is what made their relationship work as well as it did. Emotions would only hinder both of their goals.

“You keep speaking as though continuity and survival are identical concepts.”

“They are.”

“They are not.”

“Explain the difference.”

Pantalone opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The problem was that he could not explain, at least not in objective and neutral terms Dottore would accept. The silence stretched between them and Dottore watched him patiently with the same look in his eyes as ever. He was observing and studying him the same way he studied everything. It was irritating, infuriating even. Dottore genuinely did not understand or couldn’t consider the emotional consequences of death.

“Damn you,” Pantalone muttered.

Dottore raised an eyebrow. “How eloquent.”

Something in Pantalone snapped. It was anger, for one, but it was mostly exhaustion. Four hundred years of conversations that eventually always seemed to circle the same impossible point. Four hundred years of watching Dottore throw himself into danger because he viewed his own physical existence as a problem to solve rather than something worth preserving. Four hundred years of never finding the right words to get through to Dottore.

Before he could think better of it, Pantalone grabbed the front of Dottore's coat and pulled him forward.

The kiss was brief and impulsive. Over almost as quickly as it happened.

The laboratory fell silent; one could hear a pin drop. Pantalone released him immediately and he had absolutely no idea what to say. Dottore stared at him with slightly raised eyebrows. He didn’t seem shocked. After centuries of messing around and having sex, a kiss was still something they had only shared once before and that was centuries ago. There was no real reason for them not to kiss, after all the other unholy things they had done together but perhaps it was a line that had felt too intimate to cross.

Then Dottore tilted his head.

“How surprising.”

Pantalone closed his eyes. “Please don't.”

“It is unlike you to become so emotional.”

Pantalone laughed quietly. It was an entirely humorless laugh. “Emotional?”

“Of course.” Then, to Pantalone's immense annoyance, the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “This tasted of desperation.”

Of course that would be his conclusion. But at least Pantalone knew him well enough to recognize what lay beneath the analysis. Dottore seemed to take whatever just happened seriously.

“You're insufferable sometimes.”

“Frequently,” Dottore corrected. “Dear friend, I do not share your concerns. I remain confident in my calculations.”

He paused for a moment. Dottore's expression grew more slightly thoughtful and serious.

“I would be foolish to entirely dismiss your gut feeling, which has proven accurate for centuries. I will consider your concerns when making decisions.”

Pantalone exhaled slowly. This was no victory, but at least he has been heard.

“For what it is worth,” Dottore added. “I have no desire to die.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“I simply don’t see a reason to fear it. Heaven knows how many times I, that is all the Zandiks, have died already. How many of me have given their life. My supposed death would be nothing more than a mere transformation.”

Their eyes met again and Dottore sighed.

“I still do not wish for you to stop me.”

Pantalone smiled faintly. “There was never any danger of that.”

Dottore frowned. “No?”

“Never.” Pantalone stepped forward once more, adjusting a crease in the Doctor's coat that he himself had caused. “Our relationship is built on trust, after all.”

A strange look crossed Dottore's face. They didn’t usually use that word, not because they didn’t like it or because it was pretense. It was because trust was a concept naturally assumed between them now, forged through centuries of secrets, failures, arguments and impossible ambitions.

The Doctor finally laughed.

“You continue to surprise me, Feofan.”

“Likewise, Zandik.”

“Then I suppose I shall make every effort to survive and to make myself a god. Maybe a few prayers would help the cause,” Dottore joked.

Pantalone rolled his eyes and sighed.

Neither of them had realized at this moment that it would be the last promise Zandik ever made to Feofan.

--
The Tsaritsa sat upon her throne, unmoving as carved ice. The cold of judgement crept across the floors and walls, while Pantalone remained where he stood before the throne, head lowered and waiting for the words of the Tsaritsa. At last, her clear voice echoed through the hall.

"You understand why you have been summoned." It was not a question.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

A lesser person might have attempted to explain themselves, but Pantalone knew better. Excuses only waste time and make one seem anxious.

"You accompanied Dottore to Sumeru." The words carried no anger. Her accusation, if one could even call it so, was entirely neutral sounding. "You concealed your identity as a Harbinger and acted under his authority."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"You provided resources."

"Yes."

"You provided funding and logistical support."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Pantalone swallowed. Each admission felt like another nail being hammered into a coffin. The Tsaritsa's cold gaze remained fixed upon him.

"Despite knowing his actions violated the principles upon which the Fatui stand, you chose to assist him. Why?"

The question should have been simple. Instead, he found himself remembering a laboratory in Zapolyarny Palace, where Dottore had ignored his warning and promised him something he could’ve never fulfilled. Where he had talked to the man who had smiled and walked willingly toward his own death. Pantalone closed his eyes briefly.

"Because I believed in his work."

The answer was not entirely truthful, and the Tsaritsa must have noticed. Pantalone felt his stomach twist.

"You believed in him."

“Indeed.”

The admission was met with deafening silence as no defense followed, because truly, explaining his loyalty to Dottore required more than mere words. The Tsaritsa rose from her throne. She had a rather small stature but still, the entire room seemed to shift around it. Pantalone had negotiated with monsters before and stared down powerful men and watched them break. None of them compared to standing before the ruler of Snezhnaya and feeling her disappointment firsthand.

"You were fortunate."

Pantalone frowned and opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but there was no need to, as she continued quickly.

"You appeared in Sumeru as Dottore's subordinate and not as the Ninth Harbinger. Fortunately for you, the relationship between Sumeru and Snezhnaya are barely effected due to that fact."

Had he acted openly under the title of Regrator... He was well aware of the consequences. This conversation would have ended very differently. The Tsaritsa descended the steps of her throne slowly.

"I tolerate the ambitions of my Harbingers because they serve a purpose." Her voice remained calm. "Ambition drives progress. Curiosity drives discovery and most important of all, sacrifice drives change. I respect all of my Harbingers for these reasons."

She stopped several paces away from Pantalone.

"But loyalty must always remain with Snezhnaya and me."

"I understand."

"No," For the first time, there was something sharp beneath her voice. "You do not. You chose a man over your duty."

Pantalone lowered his gaze. Denial would be pointless.

"Dottore is dead."

The statement echoed through the hall. Despite being there when Dottore died, it still hurt. He hadn’t even considered genuine hurt over his death at the laboratory back then. The Tsaritsa watched him carefully. Perhaps she was wondering whether he would flinch at this statement. Maybe she hoped that he would deny it or break under the weight of his loss. But Pantalone did neither because the years had taught him better.

"His actions endangered everything we have built and, I don’t think I need to mention this, but your financial support has enabled his behavior to a degree that is hard to estimate." She paused for a second, then continued. "Your scheming with Dottore has bordered on treason. Your punishment is as follows."

Pantalone straightened his back. He would not receive his sentencing while looking scared for his life. He put on his usual smile and awaited judgment.

"All remaining stores of Dottore's elixirs of immortality are to be confiscated immediately."

His composure cracked slightly and he blinked at the revelation of his punishment. He stopped himself from laughing out loud. Not Mora, his titles or authority but the one thing he would never be able to replace because it was something only Dottore had ever understood. It was his lifeline.

"Naturally, you may not receive any additional treatments anymore such as receiving replacement organs."

Pantalone stared ahead. Somehow, this seemed crueler than executing him right here on the spot, which is what he had originally expected. He remained motionless and stared ahead into nothingness. Only his heartbeat betrayed him.

The Tsaritsa was too merciful to order his execution but too disappointed to forgive him. So, instead, she had chosen this.

"You have lived beyond the lifespan intended for you." She sounded almost regretful, which stung particularly. "Whatever years remain to you shall be the years you have earned yourself."

It was a death sentence. Not immediate, but a death sentence all the same. Pantalone bowed his head. He should at least look grateful that he wasn’t killed on the spot here.

"As you command, Your Majesty."

The Tsaritsa looked at him for a few more seconds before finally turning away. His audience was over.

Pantalone remained for not much longer after the Tsaritsa returned to her throne. When he finally left the throne room his instincts took over and he practically ran to Dottore’s laboratory, which now stood empty and colder than usual. He could desperately try to search for anything that might have been left here, but he knew it was in vain.

He sat down at the same table where Dottore had assured him he would be careful in Nod-Krai and after taking off his glasses, he leaned his head on his hands, hiding his face, trying to calm himself.
For centuries he had feared poverty and later, only death itself. Now, as the reality of his punishment settled over him, he found that none of those frightened him as much as a far simpler thought.

Dottore had been wrong. Death was not irrelevant and neither was it just a transformation. Most frightening of all, Pantalone could hear it approaching now. Or rather, his train of life finally started moving again, slowly but surely towards a black abyss.

He laughed quietly into his palms. Perhaps this was right and perhaps, this was justice. After all, what right did he have to complain? The Tsaritsa had spared him. Her Majesty had merely taken away the thing that never truly belonged to him in the first place.

Time.

Pantalone sighed loudly. Maybe he had lost the right to live the moment Dottore died. The thought should have horrified him but instead, the thought settled deep inside his chest with surprising ease. Soon, the banks would continue without him. So would Snezhnaya and the Fatui too. As desperately as he had tried to live forever, the crueler it felt that history will eventually forget him too. Everything ended, even men foolish enough to believe themselves immortal or capable of creating a god.

A smile slowly appeared on his lips. Dottore would hate this line of reasoning. It was too absolute for a scientist like him. The Doctor would immediately begin arguing about probability and continuity and spend hours constructing some absurd lecture proving that death itself was an outdated concept.

Pantalone could practically hear it. Then, the man steadied himself again and looked up from his hands.

"Well."

Slowly, Pantalone rose to his feet. His joints ached. When had they started doing that? Perhaps they always had, he just had stopped paying attention to his body a few hundred years ago. He felt a pack of cigarettes in his coat and as much as he wanted to light one, he abstained.

Dottore was gone.

Pantalone closed his eyes. The grief of losing his friend had felt...odd. He had not expected to feel as strongly about it as he did. When Dottore disappeared as Irminsul burned, he didn’t feel anything. Then, when he got home to Snezhnaya and found Dottore’s traces everywhere, his knees got weak and he wept alone, angrily for hours, until he had to get ready to meet the Tsaritsa.

The grief would likely remain until the day he died, like a wound that refused to heal.

"Wait for me, Zandik."

His words were barely louder than a whisper.

"I doubt that the place we meet again will be pleasant."

A quiet chuckle escaped him. Then he started walking towards the door again and he pushed stepped back into the cold halls of the palace.
Suddenly now, the thought of his own end no longer felt lonely. And if there truly was a hell waiting for men like them, then Pantalone supposed he would see his partner again soon enough.