Work Text:
The Fatui Harbingers of Zapolyarny Palace speak in whispers, milling in the dark corners of the woefully empty conference room. Once, eleven stood around this table. Now, only five remain. Presently, four stand in the room, awaiting the arrival of the fifth. Much has come to pass within the organization, as of late. The rumors have become incessant. Something about an experiment in blasphemy, or so they say.
Childe turns to Arlecchino. "What do you suppose happened?" he asks, careful to not let Pierro or Pulcinella overhear their speculations. They do not approve of these rumors, naturally, and the debrief is imminent. Still, Childe has little expectation that Pantalone will tell the whole truth of what truly came to pass.
Arlecchino waves a dismissive hand. It would seem that she, too, does not care for these mindless speculations. "Who cares?" she says. "Dottore is dead; that's all that matters in my book. And good riddance, too—I would have done him in myself ages ago, if we weren't coworkers."
"Have you seen Pantalone lately?" Childe asks. "He's been strange… well, stranger than usual, that is."
"Hmm…" Arlecchino frowns. "Yes, his behavior has been rather peculiar as of late. It is certainly unlike him to be late to a meeting, in any case."
"He's like a ghost—"
The door to the conference room swings open, and Pantalone takes his place at the table with a smile. "Apologies for the delay," he says. "I must have lost track of the time."
A ghost, indeed.
The other Harbingers take their respective places around the table, and Pierro clears his throat. "The meeting is now in session," he declares. "The topic of today's meeting is in regards to the recent calamity in Sumeru involving The Doctor and the burning of the Irminsul tree. Regrator, you have the floor."
"Thank you, Director." Pantalone clasps his hands together, five rings glinting in the moonlight. His eyes remain closed. His expression reveals nothing. "As you all well know, I was in Sumeru at the same time as our late colleague, with the intent of ensuring that no further damage to our organization's reputation was done. Naturally, this didn't work out as well as I had expected."
"'Didn't work out as well as you had expected?'" Pulcinella scoffs. "Diplomatic tensions between Sumeru and Snezhnaya are at an all-time high. I had to send a message of apology to the Dendro Archon herself!"
"Yes, well, I can assure you, that was never my intention, nor was it Dottore's. Sometimes, matters such as these incur collateral damages."
"'Collateral damages?' Why, you insolent little—!"
"Silence, Rooster," Pierro orders. "Regrator, you may continue."
"Thank you, Director." Pantalone smiles. "As I was saying, my plan did not work out as expected, as Dottore had already found a way to fuse himself with the roots of Irminsul. It was, in his words, 'an experiment in blasphemy'… one which eventually had to come to an end." Pantalone's smile falters imperceptibly as he adds, "At the cost of his life, it would seem."
"That was the last of the segments?" Arlecchino asks, arms folded across her chest.
Pantalone nods. "It was."
"Hm."
Pierro clears his throat. "And what do you have to say regarding the matter of the burning of Irminsul?"
"Ah, yes; that. It was no fault of Dottore's, if that is what you are wondering."
Childe raises an eyebrow. Arlecchino scoffs.
"Who was at fault, then?" asks Pierro.
"The Dendro Archon," Pantalone says. "When it became clear Dottore had the upper hand, she used the Pyro Gnosis to set fire to the tree. Having tied his very essence to Irminsul, its burning was his death sentence."
"And what of the Pyro Gnosis?"
"Presently unaccounted for."
"You conducted a thorough search of the premises?"
"I did."
"And there was nothing?"
"Affirmative."
Pierro lets out a heavy sigh. "Very well. Thank you for your report." He glances down at his notes. "Our next order of business, then, is determining funerary procedures—"
"Is that really necessary?" Arlecchino interjects. "The man was a disgrace to the organization."
"It would be more for optics, than anything."
"Okay," Childe says, "but wouldn't it be bad optics to have a funeral for a man who the organization has basically disowned?"
"Regardless of who he is and what he has done," Pierro says, "Both diplomatic procedure and Her Majesty the Tsaritsa insist on funerary rites for any and all Harbingers who may die while in her service. This includes The Doctor." He turns to Pulcinella. "I trust you can handle this matter?"
"Absolutely not."
Everyone present turns to look at Pantalone. Pierro raises an eyebrow.
"Something to say, Regrator?"
"He's not organizing Dottore's funeral," Pantalone snaps. "He won't—" He won't get it right. No one will. "I will organize the funeral myself."
"Preposterous!" Pulcinella exclaims. He turns to Pierro. "Director, I strongly caution you against this; do you know just how much money this man will spend? All that for a dead man who doesn't even deserve it—"
Within seconds, there is a revolver aimed directly between Pulcinella's eyes. "Say that again." Lilac eyes bore into Pulcinella's skull. Say that again, and I will not hesitate to kill you where you stand.
"Regrator." Pierro's tone cuts through the air like a knife. "Put the gun down."
Reluctantly, Pantalone lowers the revolver. His glare, on the other hand, does not break. Pulcinella scoffs.
"I would expect more decorum from the both of you," Pierro remarks. "But it would appear my expectations are too high." He reaches up to massage his temple. "Regrator, you may organize the funeral, if that is your wish."
"It is, Director." Pantalone brings a cigarette and lighter to his lips. And it will be a grand affair, indeed.
Cigarette smoke hangs acrid in the air outside Pantalone's office, thick and bitter and clouding the lungs of anyone who happens to walk by. The smell has been particularly pungent, as of late.
"He's been smoking a lot more than usual," Childe observes as he and Arlecchino pass by Pantalone's office, the smell noticeable within an instant. He must've just lit a new one. That, or he's already burned through an entire box. Or both—the options are not mutually exclusive.
Arlecchino nods. "I suspect we'll be planning another funeral soon, with Dottore not around anymore to replace his lungs."
Childe sighs. "Honestly, I'm just wondering how long it'll be before he goes postal… after what happened the other day with Pulcinella, I'm thinking it'll be sooner rather than later."
"The man's lost his damn mind," Arlecchino mutters. "The only person that could put up with him is dead, and now he spends his days talking to the walls."
And talk to the walls he does, for in those moments when he's through a pack of cigarettes and half a bottle of wine—which is more often than not, these days—Pantalone sees the face of a dead man in the smoke.
"He talked about you like you're not even human," he murmurs, slumped over his desk with a cigarette halfway to his lips. "Said you don't even deserve a funeral."
And what did you have to say to that? When he's through the entire bottle of wine, Pantalone hears the voice of a dead man, too.
A laugh—one without a trace of humor. "I pulled a gun on him and told him to say it again."
You always did get on like oil and water, I suppose… but still, such an outburst is unlike you. Dottore frowns. You've changed since I left, haven't you?
Pantalone nods. "I don't know what's happening to me."
Tell me your symptoms.
Pantalone draws a shaky breath. "I was in your office earlier," he begins, "looking for a copy of your will. You don't have a will. Did you know that?"
Dottore says nothing. Pantalone takes a drag of his cigarette and continues.
"One of your subordinates came in looking for something. He reeked of antiseptic. I had to send him away."
Because he smelled like antiseptic?
"Because he smelled like you." Pantalone chokes on his own voice. "God, I don't know how long I sat there, on the floor of your office, crying all because of that damned smell..." He laughs. "The others whisper about me when they think I'm not listening. They say I'm losing my mind. And perhaps I am." I am unraveling at the seams. Soon, there will be nothing of me left. Can't you see that? Can't you see how you've ruined me?
Of course you can't. You're dead. How could I ever forget?
Dottore casts a sideways glance at the full ashtray and the empty bottle of wine. He rests a hand in Pantalone's hair. You're tearing yourself apart.
And why shouldn't I, when you're not here to stop me? Drinking wine replaces the warmth of your touch. Smoking a cigarette feels like kissing death. Why shouldn't I tear myself apart, when it brings me closer to you?
Have you been taking your elixir, at least?
Pantalone raises his head ever-slightly to meet Dottore's gaze, even if there isn't really a point. The man's apparition is just as Pantalone remembers him—a mask covering most of his face, hiding any hint of emotion that might be behind his eyes.
"After four hundred years of you," he says, "I find the idea of continuing without you rather difficult to fathom."
Dottore kneels down, then, meeting Pantalone at eye-level as the latter remains slumped over his desk, motionless save for the occasional drag of his cigarette. You cannot stop taking the elixir, he says. It would kill you.
Pantalone laughs, vision blurring with unshed tears. "That's… kind of the idea."
You only have a few more years of the elixir, at best. You will not be alone like this for long.
"I don't want to be alone like this at all."
I know. Dottore smiles—a soft, gentle smile, the kind that had only ever been reserved for Pantalone. But you must.
"I know." Pantalone brings his cigarette to his lips. "I have your funeral to plan."
Financial havoc to wreak.
"Your soul to avenge."
Dottore laughs at that. Oh, Feofan. I never deserved you.
"It doesn't matter what you think you deserve," Pantalone says. "All that matters is what you want, and whether you're willing to put in the work to get it."
Pragmatic as ever, I see.
"Did you get what you wanted, then?"
That's complicated; you know that. Dottore looks at Pantalone and smiles. But, in the end, he says, I suppose I did.
Pantalone reaches out for him, then, his fingers passing through smoke and falling once more against the mahogany wood of his desk. Dottore's image dissipates into the air from which it came, leaving Pantalone questioning whether it was ever really there to begin with. He lights a fresh cigarette.
Perhaps they can be ghosts together, then.
Zapolyarny Palace is quieter than usual. There aren't many left to haunt its halls, anymore. Today, those who remain speak in hushed voices, their conversations hidden away in secret corners away from prying eyes. A man is grieving here, after all. Such grief is volatile, particularly the grief of a man who has lost the only person who ever regarded him with anything but scorn. A strange thing, indeed.
"The funeral is today, isn't it?" Childe says, casting a precursory glance around the corner to ensure no one is listening. One can never be too certain, these days.
Arlecchino nods. "Are you going to be in attendance?"
"Of course not." Childe scoffs. "All Pierro said was that we had to organize a funeral, not that we had to attend. I was friends with the others. I wasn't friends with him."
"Well said."
"I take it you won't be attending, then?"
"I have better things to be doing with my time. I doubt any pretenses of paying my respects are going to fool Pantalone, in any case, and I'd rather not become the object of a bereaved man's ire."
"What—" Childe hesitates. "What exactly were they to each other?"
Arlecchino stares off into the distance for a moment. "I am unsure," she admits. "They were business partners, on paper. In practice, there's clearly something more personal there, but they never explicitly put a name to it. All I know is that Dottore invented immortality for him."
"A match made in hell, if you ask me."
"Perhaps." Arlecchino's expression is indiscernible. "But at least they had each other."
They had each other, when they had nothing else, and now Pantalone is left alone with nothing, in an empty room with an empty casket and some floral arrangements.
"I'm sorry," Pantalone says to the air, choking on the syllables. "I don't know what to say to you."
His words are met with silence. Of course they are.
Pantalone takes a pair of Sumeru roses from one of the floral arrangements and rests them atop the lid of the coffin. "I got your favorite flowers imported for you," he says. "A fortune, by the way—Pulcinella will never let me hear the end of it." He laughs. "I don't care. They were your favorite. You always said they matched my eyes."
Gloved fingers brush over the casket's ornate gold inlay. It's far too beautiful a thing to bury empty. Perhaps there would have been a lab coat or a mask in there, at the very least, had Pantalone been a less selfish man.
As it is, the mask and lab coat are in Pantalone's quarters. The mask rests on a nightstand. The coat hangs in the closet, enveloped by a coat of Pantalone's own. Both smell like antiseptic. Pantalone has not slept a night without crying.
"Was it worth it?" he asks. "Did you get what you wanted, in the end?" Was it worth leaving me here to pick up the pieces of myself, after you shattered me in your wake?
The silence hangs like a conviction. Of course I didn't get what I wanted. Neither of us do. Such is the fate of men like you and me. Pantalone kneels beside the coffin, resting his head against its cold edge.
"You were the only good thing to ever happen to me," he whispers. "And it was the best four hundred years of my life." A soft kiss pressed to cold stone. "I'll see you soon, Zandik." And I'll make sure they put my grave beside yours.
A grand affair, indeed.