Work Text:
Three drops of blood fell into the snow. The red on the white looked so beautiful that she thought to herself, "If only I had a child as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as the wood in this frame."...
1.
Zandik's laboratory was several hundred times larger and more convenient than that little village library back in Sumeru.
The place had been small, never bright enough no matter the hour, and always carried the smell of old paper and mildew. In time, Zandik (or 8?) had learned to accept it.
He used to think it was rather bothersome that he had to borrow children's storybooks as a disguise, only so he could pass with the books he truly wished to read without inviting questions from the librarian. But that was still better than remaining outside under other people’s gazes.
A wolf in sheep's clothing. A devil wearing human skin. A heretic. So the grown-ups whispered in the dingy alleys, believing he was too far away to hear.
He's weird. My parents said I shouldn't play with him. So the children murmured, tugging one another away whenever they caught sight of him near the playground.
At school, he was always given the role of the monster or the witch. Then the princess and the prince would live happily ever after, once the villain was dead.
It was strange. Only yesterday he had been chased out of Sumeru with pitchforks and fire like a monster, and now somehow he was in Snezhnaya. There were others here, and they all wore his face. Some already so far beyond the age he had ever imagined he might live to reach.
Segments. Apparently, he was one of them now. Segment 8.
They gave him a room of his own, and suddenly he could read whatever he wished from the laboratory's shelves without ever needing to hide behind children's stories again.
Segment 45 bundled him into layer after layer of coats until he could barely walk (why was this place so absurdly cold?). Segment 65 brought him stacks of notebooks and pens, then arranged them upon shelves low enough for him to reach without climbing.
Segment 25 delivered meals without speaking a single word. Segment 18 laughed like a bastard when he watched 8 slip on the ice-covered floor. And the original Zandik merely patted him lightly on the head, his expression unreadable.
Even so, 8 noticed the way they talked about themselves. About all other Segments, and even the original.
The Doctor. Il Dottore.
Zandik had lived long enough to become the monster the people of Sumeru had believed he was ever since the day he was born.
***
For a while, he believed they had all accepted that predestined c̶u̶r̶s̶e̶ fate. To become monsters abandoned alike by mankind and by the gods.
But then one day, someone besides the Segments walked into the laboratory. And for one fleeting moment, he thought one of the silly fairy tales he had skimmed through back in Sumeru had somehow come to life, because…
(Skin as white as snow. Lips as red as blood. Hair as black as wood.)
The pale winter light spilling through the narrow window rested upon him like a halo. His robes, woven of black and violet, flowed as smoothly as a waterfall pouring into a hidden ravine. A gentle smile lingered upon his lips, never wavering even once as he inclined his head politely toward 8. As though 8 were no different from any other ordinary child, and not a monster at all. Then he walked past him toward—
Toward Zandik.
Oh.
So even if ‘he’ became the monster he was destined to grow into years later…
‘He’ would still have a ‘princess’ by his side.
2.
The man's name was Pantalone.
That was what 65 told him while pushing a cup of hot cocoa toward him. He had looked for 45 first, intending to ask him instead, but 45 had gone out for yet another meeting. 25 had locked himself away in his room to continue his research (again), and 18 was, in his opinion, entirely unreliable.
So only 65 remained. Aside from the original, of course. But the original had already gone out with Pantalone.
“The Ninth of the Fatui Harbinger, ‘Regrator’,” 65 said. “The patron who funds our research.”
A pause. 65’s gloved fingers rubbed absentmindedly against the porcelain teacup.
“...Also Zandik's lover.”
8 looked down at the marshmallows drifting upon the surface of his cocoa. Some had already begun to melt. One by one, they slowly disappeared beneath the dark liquid until not a trace of them remained. His own reflection floated there instead. Bent, distorted. Ugly.
He took the spoon and pushed the remaining marshmallows beneath the surface as well, like he meant to drown them. It did nothing to make the reflection prettier. And perhaps because his own heart felt just as twisted and just as ugly, he asked without looking up,
“Then isn't Pantalone our lover too, by that logic?”
The Segments were all pieces of Zandik. If every Segment were gathered together again, would they not become one complete Zandik once more? Like balancing both sides of an equation…
Then shouldn't Pantalone belong to all of them as well?
65 remained silent. And he already knew the answer before 65 spoke again, because he was Zandik, and 65 was Zandik too. Among all the things he had ever doubted, he had never doubted his ability to understand another Segment's thoughts.
“No. He's only Zandik's.”
Somehow, he realized that perhaps 65 had once asked himself the very same question.
And that, the first time he found his answer, he had been just as miserable as 8 was now.
***
Pantalone was here again.
8 hid behind one of the great stone pillars, peeking out just enough to watch the single long lock of his hair sway gracefully with each step. His straight legs, wrapped neatly in wrinkleless black trousers, carried him across the lab to Zandik’s side in long strides. Beneath his coat, the graceful line of his waist could still be seen, and the broad shoulders of a man were unmistakable.
He looked nothing like a delicate princess in a flowing gown, but more like one of those eternal marble statues that master craftsmen carved with such care that time itself dared not weather them. Yet when he stood beside Zandik beneath the stained-glass window, listening patiently to the old, wrinkly man rambling on about yet another new project, smiling all the while…
The two of them looked as if they had always belonged together throughout several lifetimes.
8 had never imagined himself as one of the protagonists, for the stories had never seemed logical to him. But maybe that was because fairy tales always told stories about princesses waiting for princes upon white horses, and never about lovers waiting for monsters.
Perhaps the lover of a monster was always meant to look like Pantalone. And he was certain Pantalone was more beautiful than any other princesses, if such figures had truly existed somewhere in the long river of history.
Blessed is he who endures hardship! For once he has been tested, he shall receive the crown of life—
And suddenly he thought of what the missionaries in Sumeru had so often preached. Perhaps all the scorn he had endured had only been so that, one day, he would finally meet someone who would never look at him that way. Perhaps Pantalone was the crown life had hidden away for him. Like buried treasure, waiting faithfully beneath the earth until the day its owner found it.
Then Pantalone turned to leave. Halfway down the corridor, he noticed the little Segment peeking out from behind the pillar. The eyes that were so often gently closed slowly opened, and 8 thought he saw an entire field of Sumeru roses blooming within them.
"I heard from Zandik that you're Segment 8, aren't you?" he smiled. His expression was oh so gentle, like the first flower petal unfolding in spring. "Pleasure to meet you. What should I call you?”
For one moment, 8 wanted to run after him and seize the edge of his cloak. He wanted to tell him, with all the seriousness only a child could have, that I'll marry you when I grow up. But he never would grow up anymore, and if even the older Segments had no right to stand beside Pantalone, then what did he possess besides the appearance of youth? What right did he have to beg for Pantalone's love, like a child stretching out both hands and asking an indulgent grown-up for something that had never belonged to him?
So he swallowed every one of those thoughts and merely gave a small nod.
“...Just call me 8.”
3.
He decided to ask the ones who had never met Pantalone at their own age. Those whose circumstances most closely resembled his own.
Which began with Segment 18.
"Pantalone? Is he here?"
18 immediately looked up from the mountain of papers he had been writing upon the moment the name was spoken. When the question finally caught up with him, he gave a small cough to hide the expectation that had escaped him so carelessly, quickly replacing it with the usual arrogant expression that practically begged to be punched.
"Ah. You're asking about him. He's... decent. Has a good head on his shoulders. Smart enough to understand our experiments and why they matter."
That was what 18 said. But 8 had seen him before.
He had seen 18 walk so quickly toward the corridor whenever Pantalone's footsteps echoed through the lab that it bordered on running. He had seen him proudly present pages upon pages of newly scribbled ideas, then watched Pantalone read them with poorly-hidden nervousness.
He had seen him trail after Pantalone all the way to the lab entrance whenever Zandik happened to be occupied, staring until the last glimpse of that black cloak disappeared from sight. Then he’d continued to linger there long after Pantalone had returned to his own residence.
"But why's a brat like you asking about him?"
18 reached over and thoroughly ruffled 8's hair into something resembling a bird's nest, snickering when 8 slapped his hand away with an irritated glare.
"Go bother someone else."
So 8 left, unwilling to remain within 18's reach for another second.
***
The next person he visited was Segment 25.
"Isn't 45's room across the hall?"
25 opened the door only after 8 knocked for the third time. Since 45 was usually the one he sought out whenever he had questions, 25 had assumed he had mistaken the room.
"My memory works perfectly well," he puffed out his cheeks. "I came to ask about Pantalone."
"...?"
"You've never met him at your age, have you? What do you think about his... character?"
65 had once told him that Zandik had not met Pantalone until he was somewhere in his thirties.
"...Why do you even need to know that?"
"Just answer. Otherwise I'll stand here until you do."
To prove he meant every word, he planted one small foot firmly between the door and its frame.
25 looked down at the tiny shoe lodged there. Then he rubbed between his brows, suppressing a sigh. Even in this youngest Segment, Zandik's stubbornness was annoyingly evident.
"He's more intelligent than the average person. Intelligent enough to be a compatible business partner," 25 pushed up his glasses. "And... he's unusually accepting of our ideas. Of our ideals."
That was what 25 said. But 8 had seen him before, too.
He had seen 25 emerge from the room where he usually remained buried in research from morning until night for no particular reason whenever Pantalone visited the lab. He had seen him watching from a distance while Zandik and Pantalone spoke together. He had seen him run the day Pantalone staggered into the laboratory, his clothes stained by acid after a failed assassination attempt.
He had seen him catch Pantalone before he fell. He had seen 25 stand silently beside Zandik, passing him fresh bandages and painkillers while Pantalone, pale from blood loss, still managed to smile as though nothing had happened at all.
"Very well," he gave a small nod. "Your cooperation is appreciated."
He withdrew his foot and walked away, leaving behind a somewhat confused 25.
The investigation had confirmed his hypothesis. Even the Segments who had never known Pantalone at their own age would one day have no choice but to fall in love with him after meeting him through Zandik.
Wasn't it a curious thing? A rather cruel thing, too. To fall in love with someone who was never meant to appear in your chapter of the tale.
(Someone who would only ever love the version of you waiting somewhere in the future.)
4.
"Have you been going around asking about Pantalone?"
8 whipped his head around so quickly he thought his neck might come loose.
45 was smiling. Perhaps he found his own question amusing, or perhaps the sight of 8 nearly jumping out of his skin had simply been too entertaining to ignore.
"How did you know about that?"
"From 18. Not intentionally, though. He wasn't exactly sober after sacrificing three days' worth of sleep to finish his latest thesis. He muttered something about you being 'curious about Pantalone' and 'whether an underage Segment was capable of adolescence,' then promptly fell face-first into his lunch."
45 shrugged.
"Didn't wake up again until evening."
"...What in Sumeru even is that sequence of events?"
"People do strange things when they're sleep-deprived. Segments too, apparently. Don't follow his example."
"You say that while your room has had its lights on until dawn every day for the past week."
"Oh? And how would you know that, unless you were staying up just as late yourself?"
"..."
45 burst into laughter. He reached over and ruffled 8's hair until it became thoroughly untidy. 8 immediately tried to swat his hand away. Why did all the older Segments enjoy ruining his hair so much?
"I'll let you off this once," 45 finally withdrew his hand, still snickering to himself. "Do refrain from making a habit of it, yes? Wouldn’t do to have you falling asleep into your meals."
8 glared at him with enough intensity to slice through steel, which only made 45 laugh harder.
"If you don't have anything useful to offer, then I'm leaving."
He puffed up his cheeks and turned to go. Before he had taken more than a single step, 45 tugged at one of his hands.
"How about I tell you something important regarding Pantalone instead?"
"..."
"I'll take that as a yes."
45 adjusted his cloak before beginning to walk forward slowly, 8's small hand now enclosed within his own. Behind them, the snow received their footprints. One pair large, one pair small. They wandered through the desolated winter garden aimlessly.
"So," 45 began. His voice remained as light as ever. "From what 18 let slip, I filled in the rest myself. If my guess is correct, you've been asking the Segments who never met Pantalone during their own time what they think of him. Those who are similar to your situation."
He titled his face down.
"Which would be 18 and 25."
"..."
Sometimes, having other versions of himself nearby made 8 feel as though every thought inside his head was read aloud without his consent.
"What conclusion did your little investigation reach?"
8 lowered his eyes to the snowy path.
"That all the Segments who never met Pantalone in their own time," he chewed at his lower lip. "...hold him in very high regard."
He had almost said love. But it was a word whose meaning he himself had yet to fully understand, so he settled for something more neutral instead.
"...High regard."
45 repeated the words. A faint cloud of white breath drifted into the winter air.
"Well, I suppose that's one way of putting it."
His expression was hidden beneath the half-mask. From where 8 stood, he could see only the line of his mouth, no longer smiling, and the sharp curve of his jaw.
"Before I tell you about Pantalone, let me ask you a question. You've already heard what the other Segments think of him. So tell me, what is your theory about what he thinks of us?"
It was not the sort of question an ordinary child could answer. Fortunately or unfortunately, 8 had never been one.
"My assumption is that he sees us Segments the same way he sees... ordinary people."
He remembered the times Pantalone had listened patiently while he talked about ideas that had earned him nothing but scorn back in Sumeru, with the same attention an adult might offer any other child instead of dismissing him as everyone else had.
He remembered Pantalone reading through 18's research papers, nodding thoughtfully at certain theories, even offering suggestions now and then. As though they were simply two scholars exchanging ideas rather than discussing concepts that most people would have considered illegal, or even inhuman.
He remembered Pantalone greeting 25 in the corridor whenever they crossed paths, never once flinching even if someone else's blood still stained 25’s white coat.
Ordinary. It was perhaps the furthest word imaginable to someone like Zandik.
The Segments weren’t even human, but more like pages abruptly torn from the story of Zandik's life. Yet Pantalone had always treated each one of them as though they were just normal people. And wasn't that the strangest kindness of all? One they could neither understand nor stop themselves from craving for.
"Impressive,” 45 hummed. “Then what do you see in the way Pantalone treats Zandik?"
8 didn’t yet understand where the question was leading. Still, he answered.
"They're lovers," and the words tasted like desert sand. Like the wind that had filled his mouth when he was driven from his village and left to wander beneath Sumeru's burning sun. "So Pantalone puts a coat over Zandik's shoulders whenever he forgets to wear one. He holds his arm when they walk. He always makes time to have tea with him every week. He brought him flowers. And, and he kisses him on the temple—"
The words came to an abrupt halt. Only then did 8 realize he had been speaking without once stopping to breathe. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths.
"Then you've already noticed it. The difference in how he treated Zandik versus how he treated us.”
They stopped walking at the same time. As though waiting for that very moment, the snow, which had ceased since early morning, began falling once more.
"In Pantalone's eyes, there are only two kinds of people. One is Zandik, and the other is everyone else."
45 knelt before him. Without a word, he reached up and pulled the hood of 8's winter coat over his little head, shielding him from the snow. Then he lifted both hands and gently cupped 8's cheeks, thumbs lightly brushing the corners of his eyes, which had turned faintly red. Whether from the cold or from something else, 45 didn’t mention it.
"Even though we Segments were created from Zandik himself, it has never made any difference to him. The only person he has ever truly acknowledged has always been Zandik, and Zandik alone."
45 removed his mask. A faint smile rested upon his lips, but there was no trace of laughter within those red eyes.
"That's the information regarding Pantalone that I had promised you. You did remarkably well, almost reaching the answer on your own."
5.
8 had never thought that he would one day experience what people called, for lack of a better word, heartbreak.
He once believed that from the day he was driven out of Sumeru, he had become nothing more than a monster with teeth and claws. But it seemed his heart hadn’t yet turned completely to stone.
For why else did it feel like pitchforks were piercing through his chest whenever Pantalone smiled gently at him, only to turn at once toward the sound of Zandik's voice? Why else did he see his own future whenever 18 came hurrying through the corridors, only to stop just outside the room where Pantalone and Zandik were sharing afternoon tea? Why else did he find himself looking away whenever 25 stood beside the window, watching the two figures strolling through the snow-covered garden below?
His breath caught, bitter and metallic on his tongue. He saw pieces of himself scattered among those older Segments, selves that both repulsed him and wounded him, selves he would surely become had time allowed him.
And something inside him sank. Without another word, he lowered his head and returned to his room. He extinguished the lights, though daylight had not yet faded beyond the windows. Even his breath felt diluted, like his existence had begun dissolving. He curled upon the bed, drawing his knees close against his chest. No matter how tightly he held them, the sadness welling inside him refused to run dry.
It felt like the end of the world had stretched around him into an endless white wasteland. He could no longer remember the warmth of Sumeru's sun. It had become nothing more than a blurred patch of gold somewhere inside his distant childhood. Snezhnaya’s snow seeped into every hollow inside him until there was nothing left that didn’t ache. Even the thick coats 45 gave him could no longer keep him warm.
Maybe this was a punishment for him, for being a monster.
***
"Hey. You're in there, aren't you? Open the door. I know you can hear me."
8 ignored the knocking for as long as he could. He ignored the voice as well. Only when both became too persistent to pretend they didn’t exist did he finally wrench the door open with more force than necessary.
His little face scrunched into a frown.
"What do you want?"
Standing outside was 18. His hand remained suspended halfway through another knock, caught awkwardly in midair.
"I should be asking you that," he frowned back. "Planning to starve to death in your room or something?"
"...And what's that got to do with you? Stay out of my business."
18 looked down at him. For several long moments, he said nothing. Then, as though he had reached the only reasonable conclusion available, he simply grabbed 8 by the back of his collar and started walking away with him.
8 dangled from one arm like an especially disgruntled sack of potatoes.
"Hey!" he flailed indignantly. "Put me down!"
"I've got a job to do, all right?" 18 answered without so much as slowing his pace. "Just cooperate for a while, then you can go your way and I'll go mine."
"What does your job have to do with abducting me?!"
"Well, unfortunately, the old man noticed that you haven't shown up in the dining hall for several days. And because he's either too busy, too old, or dealing with whatever other damned reason I stopped listening to halfway through, he decided I should drag you there."
"Why you?"
"'Because we're the ‘closest in age’."
8 immediately pulled such a disgusted face that it looked as though he had accidentally bitten into a lime. 18 answered with an exaggerated gagging noise.
"Gross."
"My thoughts exactly, brat. Do I look like I suddenly wanted to become your best friend?"
"No thanks."
"Good. Then let's get this over with."
"Put me down first."
"...Fine."
At last, 8's feet returned to the ground. He straightened his rumpled clothes before looking up again. By then, 18 had already walked several paces ahead. Only after reaching the corner did he seem to realize no footsteps followed behind him.
"Tch," he clicked his tongue. "You and those tiny legs. Hurry up. We don't have all day."
He waited where he was. Only after 8 caught up did he begin walking again. This time, however, his pace had slowed just a bit.
"So? What's wrong with you, anyway? Suddenly decided food isn't interesting anymore?"
"..."
"Oh, we're doing the silent treatment now? Fine by me. Not like I was dying to know."
After that, neither of them spoke. Only the sound of two pairs of footsteps echoed through the long corridor. Then, as they passed the tall window at the end of the hallway, they heard laughter.
It was an unfamiliar sound within the laboratory. Both stopped. 8 had to rise onto the tips of his feet to see beyond the windowsill.
Outside, Pantalone was laughing. One of his hands rested lightly around Zandik's arm as the two of them wandered through the snow-covered garden together. Their voices were too distant to make out. Whatever had been said, however, must have been amusing.
Neither Segment moved. They just stood there until the two silhouettes gradually shrank into little more than specks against the white snow as they disappeared toward the forest.
Only then did 18 speak again. His reflection upon the glass revealed nothing of what he was thinking.
"...Come on. Time to go."
He turned away. After several steps, he noticed there were still no footsteps behind him. When he looked back, 8 still remained standing before the window exactly where he had been left, as motionless as one of those children in fairy tales who had been caught beneath a witch's spell and forgotten by time itself.
"Hey."
A hand clasped his shoulder. Only then did 8 finally woke from his trance. When he looked up, 18 was looking down at him with an unreadable expression.
"The cafeteria has hot cocoa today. And chocolate mousse. If we don't hurry, the others will eat it all first."
8 turned for one last look toward the empty garden beyond the glass. Then, little by little, he loosened his fingers from the edge of the windowsill.
"...I'm coming."
***
And when 8 finally sat down to eat his first proper meal in three days, he looked up to find 18 carrying a tray of his own. Then as though nothing were out of the ordinary, 18 sat down directly across from him.
Which was rather strange. After all, only a short while ago, 18 had loudly declared that he would dump 8 at the cafeteria door and immediately return to his room.
"What are you staring at?" 18 picked up his spoon without looking at him. "I suddenly got hungry. That's all."
"..."
"I saw that look. You'd better spend that energy finishing your food instead. Otherwise I'll finish mine first and start stealing yours."
"...!"
8 immediately lowered his head and devoted every bit of his attention to the meal before him. He ate with surprising determination. So determined, in fact, that he never noticed 18 had stopped eating. Instead, the other rested his chin upon one hand and watched 8 with squinted eyes.
"...So that’s why you've been hiding in your room these past few days."
His voice was so small it was almost swallowed by the clatter of dishes around them, so 8 failed to catch them. He merely looked up in confusion, his cheeks puffed full like a hamster busily storing food away for winter. Without realizing it, a streak of sauce had smeared around his mouth.
It looked like a very unfortunate little beard.
"Huh?"
18 stared blankly. Then he pointed at 8's face and laughed hysterically.
6.
After that whole… incident with 18, 8 returned to his usual routine, if only to avoid being bothered again. Apparently, how he had been doing lately was something others had become strangely invested in. So much for wanting some privacy for himself.
Some things changed, however.
For instance, mealtimes now somehow always involve 18. Whenever they happened to meet in the hallway on their way to the cafeteria, 18 would flash him an infuriating smirk and say things like,
“Well, would you look at that? The mushroom finally decided to crawl out from under the log today.”
Or:
“If there’s only one dessert left, whoever reaches the cafeteria first gets it.”
Then he would immediately take off running. Leaving 8 to chase after him while loudly informing him exactly what he thought of such underhanded tactics. And so, 8 ended up eating three proper meals every day, even on the days he had no appetite at all, just because he refused to let 18 win.
Then there was 25. The first time he noticed 8 struggling to reach one of the higher shelves, he took down the books himself and placed them into 8’s arms without a word. Sometimes, when he happened to pass by and found 8 frowning over a concept too complicated, he would stop to explain it. Other times, they just sat at the same enormous table, each reading from a stack of books so tall it resembled a little mountain.
As for 65, after noticing how 8 struggled to carry several notebooks everywhere he went, he handed him a tablet instead.
“So you only have to carry one.”
That was all he said before teaching 8 how to write notes upon it.
Now and then, 65 would also ask him to accompany him on a walk. There was never any particular reason. Only that the snow had stopped falling, or the sky happened to be especially blue that day, or the weather was a little warmer than usual. 8 would hold onto one of 65’s hands while 65 leaned upon his cane, and together they would wander through the garden while 65 recounted little stories from the years of Zandik’s life that had eventually become sixty-five.
And then there was 45. 45 delighted in scooping him up before spinning him around and around until the world became dizzy. Only then would he finally set him back upon the ground, laughing the entire time.
Whenever he returned from a Harbinger meeting, he would complain about how unbearably dull it had been. Then he would promptly steal 8 from whatever he happened to be doing, wrap him snugly inside his great Fatui cloak, and fall asleep. More often than not, 8 ended up drifting off as well. Sleep, it seemed, was contagious.
45 also developed the peculiar habit of buying him random little gifts simply because they reminded him of 8. One of them had been a winter hat with little cat ears. Exactly what that had to do with him remained a mystery.
And Zandik…
Most days, the original remained shut away inside his own laboratory. But on the rare occasions 8 saw him, the old man would pat his head and tell him to eat properly. To sleep enough. To wear warm clothes, because Snezhnaya was nothing like Sumeru. And if there was anything he needed, he only had to write it down and hand the note to Zandik. Or to 65. Or to 45.
Without him realizing when it had happened, the laboratory no longer felt quite so large. Nor quite so cold.
He eventually decided that 18 was rather less of a bastard than he had first believed. 25 was pleasant enough, perhaps a little too quiet. 45 was too noisy for anyone’s good, though still tolerable. 65 preferred his own company most of the time, yet there was something comforting whenever he was around.
And even though Zandik was the only one who possessed Pantalone’s heart, 8 couldn’t truly bring himself to hate him, even if envy engulfed his insides, spreading like poison.
***
And so the days passed in that strange manner of living.
At first, 8 had believed that he and the Segments who had never met Pantalone during their time were the most miserable of them all. But as time went by, he found himself watching 45 and 65 more often, and realized they were no better.
Those two had known the taste of Pantalone's love. They had lived with it for years, only to awaken one day and find themselves severed from the original, and the lover who was in their arms the day before now looked upon them as he would any other stranger.
Which was worse? To have once possessed something priceless only to lose it forever, or to have never possessed it at all? Was it crueler to reach heaven only to be cast down into hell, or to spend one's whole life without ever knowing that clouds existed above?
Then another thought occurred to him. Something was missing. He had been told that Zandik first met Pantalone sometime in his thirties. And if there even existed a Segment who was eight—
Then surely there ought to be one from that age as well.
Taken together, the Segments formed an entire lifetime, each preserving one chapter of Zandik's nearly hundred years upon the earth.
He finally asked 25 during one of the afternoons when the two of them sat reading together. 25 didn’t answer for a long while. The lower half of his face was hidden beneath his mask, the upper half hid behind thin-framed spectacles. Winter light streamed through the window and caught upon the lenses, blurring whatever emotions were there within his eyes.
"...Segment 35. Also called Omega."
He wrote the word Omega upon a sheet of paper, then drew a circle around it before sliding the page across the table.
"The prime of Zandik's life. He spent most of his time in other nations, carrying out the original's ultimate research."
8 lowered his gaze to the circled name.
"What is he like?"
He wanted to know. What had Zandik been like around the age he first met Pantalone? Why did 25 say Segment 35 represented the original's intellect more completely than any of the others?
"You will understand once you meet him."
25 offered no further explanation.
***
For a long while, he found no answer to that question. Then, one afternoon, he wandered to the laboratory shelves to fetch another armful of books. When he returned to the desk where he had been working, however…
His tablet was gone.
He searched through the untidy mountain of books and scattered papers before him, wondering whether he had accidentally buried it beneath the piles himself. Just as he was about to begin searching the floor as well, a voice spoke from his far right side.
"Looking for this?"
8 looked up. Standing there was… another Zandik.
The man resembled 45 at first glance, with the familiar hairstyle and the same half-mask. Yet his clothes were different. So was the air around him.
He was standing where the winter light from the window couldn’t reach. The left half of his figure remained swallowed by shadow, while only the right side caught the pale afternoon sun. In one hand, he casually held up the missing tablet.
"So Zandik made another one. So small, too."
"...Give me back my tablet."
"My. Our first meeting, and that's all I get?"
He gave the tablet a lazy little spin between his fingers.
"A bit of manners would go a long way."
Says the man who stole my tablet, 8 thought. But since his thing still remained in the other's possession, he wisely swallowed the words before they could leave his mouth.
"Segment 8," he folded his arms. "Now give me back my tablet."
"Hmm."
The stranger tilted his head.
"Not quite satisfactory, but it's a beginning. Then I suppose it's my turn to introduce myself."
Then he smiled wide enough for the sharp edges of his teeth to show. Like a wolf unhinging its jaws from the edge of a dark forest.
"Segment 35 at your service,” he gave the faintest, most exaggerated bow. "Though, I would much rather you called me Dottore."
In that very instant, 8 reached an important conclusion. He had thought no version of Zandik could possibly be more insufferable than the one who was eighteen. But he was wrong.
Segment 35, or Omega, was without question, the greatest bastard among them all.
7.
Snow White fled over sharp stones and through thorn bushes until, at dusk, she came upon a little house hidden deep within the forest.
She stepped inside to rest. When night fell, the masters of the house returned. The seven dwarfs found that someone had eaten from their plates, drunk from their cups, and tried each of their little beds. Yet only the seventh dwarf, upon looking at his own bed, discovered Snow White sleeping peacefully there.
There were six Segments and one original. Together, they made seven. Yet of the seven, only Zandik had been chosen by Pantalone to receive his heart. The other six could have torn their own hearts from their chests and offered them with both hands, and it still wouldn’t have changed a single thing.
Segment 35 had known Pantalone during his own time. In that regard, he stood ahead of 8, 18, and 25. Yet he hadn’t remained beside Pantalone for as many years as 45 and 65 had. In that regard, he stood behind them.
He loved Pantalone. Yet at the very same time, he would cast aside everything, even that love itself, if doing so brought him one step closer to his ambitions. He belonged fully to neither side, but stood balanced upon the line between them. Perhaps that was why he represented the prime of Zandik's life more completely than any of the others. For one's brightest years were maybe also the years in which they were the most contradictory.
From the very first moment 8 had met him, Omega had carried the feeling of an ill omen. Like a vulture that could smell death long before anyone else realized it was near.
Time continued onward. The days gathered into weeks. Then, little by little, 8 noticed that Omega appeared within the laboratory more often than usual. Soon afterward, he stopped leaving altogether.
And not long after that, Zandik's time came to its end.
***
Zandik was dead.
He had watched as Omega hovered over Zandik while the old man weakly called out to them for help, then continued watching as those limbs slowly stopped trembling. When Zandik's chest finally went still and Omega reached out to wipe the man's wide-open eyes shut, 8 unconsciously closed his own eyes as well.
When he opened them again, the others had already begun laying out scalpels and dissecting scissors. 65, the only one wearing a full-faced mask, came over and fitted a face mask onto 8 while the others put on their own. 25 spread a fenestrated surgical drape over Zandik's body. Once everything had been prepared, they began cutting the body open without a moment's hesitation.
The Elixir of Immortality needed to be completed. Zandik had no use for it anymore, but Pantalone still did. They didn’t have much time left, for Pantalone was already well into his seventies. So even if Zandik was them and they were Zandik, this was the only chance they would ever have to dissect the "them" who remained the only human among them.
Usually, Pantalone would only come over on the weekends to have tea with Zandik, so they hadn’t locked the door to the room they were in. But today was Zandik's birthday, which meant it was their birthday as well, even if they had abandoned the date's importance and forfeited it long ago. So when Pantalone walked through the door with a bouquet of roses in one hand and a gift box in the other, every one of them stopped what they were doing.
Six pairs of red eyes turned toward him without blinking. None of them belonged to the person he wanted to see. When he caught sight of the pale blue hair peeking out from beneath the drape and the blood staining the white surface, everything slipped from his hands.
The roses struck the floor, their red petals scattering like broken glass. The gift box that no one would ever receive anymore rolled until it stopped beside the wall. His expression emptied. All the blood drained from his face, and his violet pupils reflected nothing except the body lying there.
They tried to explain the situation to him. That this was for a greater goal. That Zandik had already been dying when they found him. But as though he had truly become the statue 8 had once believed him to be, he heard none of it. He said nothing, nor did he see any of them. He just pushed them aside violently and climbed onto the surgical table, holding Zandik's body tightly against his chest, staring with eyes blown wide and unfocused.
They had to tear Pantalone away immediately. Hugging a corpse without any protective gear would expose him to bacteria. Yet he struggled like an animal caught in a trap while they tried to strip away his blood-soaked clothes, reaching desperately toward Zandik's body.
“Zandik, Zandik no—”
In the end, Omega had to inject him with an anesthetic to keep them from hurting him, or him from hurting himself.
The sight of Pantalone crumpled to the floor was like Snow White after biting into the poisoned apple. But the dwarfs had killed one of their own, and so the one destined person was dead.
There was no one left who could ever wake the princess again.
***
One day later, they received notice that, from then on, whatever documents or funding proposals they wished to submit would be delivered through their subordinates. Apparently, "Lord Regrator sent word that the Second Sir needn't trouble himself with such trivial matters," and that they should "simply have the subordinates leave the papers at his residence."
Even beneath the polite wording, the meaning was clear. After the original died, they had lost even the right to see him.
8.
Time passed anyway.
From the snippets about Pantalone that 45 brought back after every Fatui meeting, he had become distant. Pantalone still wore his usual smile whenever it was his turn to speak or negotiate, but only when the matter concerned business. The moment a meeting ended, he would leave without sparing 45 so much as a single glance.
It was as though he had died as the princess then revived as the queen who ordered the hunter to find and kill Snow White, boiling the lungs and liver he brought back with salt, then ate them while believing them to be her stepdaughter’s. The lights in his residence remained lit day and night, and the Northland Bank grew richer than it had ever been as he ruthlessly amassed wealth from every corner of the continent. He would leave on long business trips, return only to bury himself beneath the mountain of paperwork that had accumulated in his absence, then depart again before long.
The vials of immortality elixir they sent over were rewarded in turn with swift approval of every funding proposal, but that was all. Work continued to be processed as usual, leaving neither side with any reason to question the arrangement.
He seemed determined never to see them again. Preferably until the end of his time, whenever that might come.
***
18 no longer appeared much in the hallway leading to the cafeteria. 25 was seen around the library even less often. 45 busied himself with brewing the Elixir of Immortality, then stared at the finished vials for a long while before packaging them up and handing them off to the subordinates. Omega left for other continents once again. And 65 would sit by the window overlooking the snow-covered garden, staring outside with his tea gone cold, untouched.
And even though 8 felt like his insides were rotting (because what they had done wasn't wrong, surely it wasn't, so why had it all turned out like this—), he still pounded on 18's door until the guy emerged from beneath his mountain of research papers, then dragged him all the way to the cafeteria with as much force as his small body could muster, complaining the entire time. He called from outside 25's door until 25 came out, then showed him the more advanced books and asked him to explain them.
He reluctantly put on the cat-ear hat that had been buried at the back of his closet ever since 45 bought it for him, then watched 45 laugh until he nearly folded in half. And he would tug at 65’s coat, asking if they could go for a walk because it wasn’t snowing that day.
Sometimes, when insomnia drove him to wander the hallways at night, he would glimpse Omega through the crack of a half-open door. The man had returned only the day before and would be leaving again the day after, yet there he was, sitting alone at the piano with nothing but the moonlight spilling through the window to see by.
The song he was playing was slow and unbearably somber.
***
Time passed some more.
He had nearly believed this was how eternity would unfold, with them looking toward the residence that had become Pantalone's impenetrable ice fortress. Then one day, one of their subordinates came running.
It was the one who usually carried documents between their lab and Pantalone's residence.
"Sir Ninth has collapsed," he said between shallow breaths. "Her Majesty ordered his subordinates to bring him here and asked for you, my Lord, to examine his condition."
Behind him, several Fatui soldiers bearing the Regrator's insignia stood in a protective circle around something at the center of their formation. 45 had been the one to answer the door, so he immediately called them over.
By the time the stretcher was carried inside, a thin layer of snow had already settled over the white drape. The snowfall was especially heavy that day. 45 lifted the draped Pantalone into his arms (how long had it been since he was last able to do this...?), instructing the soldiers to return and report to Her Majesty that he would take care of everything, then dismiss their own subordinate as well.
The door closed behind him. 8, who had been standing behind a pillar the entire time, immediately hurried off to gather the others.
Fortunately, Pantalone had only collapsed from fever and accumulated exhaustion. He was so worn out that he didn’t even stir when they slid an IV needle into his vein. His blood vessels lay deeply hidden beneath skin and flesh, and it took them a long while of pressing gently along his arm before one finally surfaced. Veins that difficult to find were often a sign that the body was unwell. It wasn’t hard to guess how Pantalone had been treating himself lately.
The others said nothing beyond quietly discussing his condition, yet 8 noticed that none of their eyes ever truly left Pantalone. They were all trying to look at him for just a little longer, before he disappeared from their sight again.
And he, unlike those older men, didn’t bother hiding behind any pretense. He had already climbed onto the edge of the bed where Pantalone lay unconscious, his small face drawn into earnest concentration.
He wanted to believe that if he gave Pantalone a kiss on the cheek, Pantalone would wake up and smile at him, just like in the fairy tales. Instead, while he was carefully wiping that pale face with a damp cloth, Pantalone jolted awake.
“...?”
His eyes were unfocused. Then, as recognition slowly settled over him and he realized where he was, and who surrounded him, he immediately buried his face into the pillow and curled into himself.
The cloth hung awkwardly in 8's small hands. And he felt the ugly lump he called a heart bursted into tiny pieces once again, just like the day stones had struck his body and flames from the villagers' torches had licked at his heels as they chased him to the edge of that little village.
It felt like exile all over again.
9.
But then, somehow, things got better.
Pantalone began to... acknowledge them. Perhaps it was because they had treated him while he was ill. Whenever he happened to cross paths with one of them, he no longer looked away, and sometimes he would even give a small nod. His face held no emotion whatsoever, and those tiny gestures were nothing compared to how he had treated them when Zandik was still alive, but they were miles better than being treated as though they didn’t exist.
And just like that, their greed began to rear its ugly head again.
It didn’t have much room to grow, however, for the main problem remained the same: they had no excuse to approach him and start a conversation. The only reasonable one would have been personally delivering documents and research funding proposals to his residence, but that wasn’t allowed.
And because the older Segments seemed more inclined to analyze the situation and draft possible plans that might convince Pantalone to allow them into his residence without angering him—which, at this rate, would probably take ten years—instead of actually doing something about it (this was already the fifth meeting this month that had required every Segment's participation), 8 decided he would have to take matters into his own hands.
So he threw on the thickest cloak 45 had bought him and headed for Pantalone's residence. The subordinate they had assigned to report on Pantalone's whereabouts had said he would return around noon, so 8 decided to arrive fifteen minutes early and camp in front of the gates.
It was, in his opinion, a good plan. Only, after more than two hours after the estimated time had passed, did Pantalone finally appear.
8 thought he was about to turn into a snowman at this rate. Still, the moment he caught sight of that familiar figure, he gathered what little strength remained in his freezing legs and ran toward him.
"Pantalone!"
Pantalone's footsteps came to a halt. He raised a hand, signaling for the soldiers behind him to return to their posts, then slowly walked forward.
"What are you doing here?"
By the time Pantalone spoke, 8 had just reached him. He was still gasping for breath after running through the cold, dry air. After a moment, he lifted his head and looked up at Pantalone with the utmost seriousness.
"I have a proposal to make."
"And what is that, pray tell?"
"I propose that the other Segments and I personally deliver the papers to your residence from now on," beneath his cloak, his little fingers twisted nervously together. "Without the intermediate that is the subordinates, exchanges would become more time-efficient and productive."
The reason he mentioned the other Segments was because, even if he wanted to hog Pantalone all to himself, there was only so much he could do with the body of a child. It would be ideal if the others were allowed to come as well. That way, should something like Pantalone collapsing ever happen again, someone would be there to tend to him immediately, or carry him back to the lab.
"...Permission to come to my residence, hm?"
A puff of white breath drifted from Pantalone's lips.
His face remained expressionless. His eyes were colder than the snow falling around them. His black cloak billowed softly in the wind, while long, silken strands of hair framed his pale face and swayed with each passing gust.
He looked like death itself descending upon the human world to gather the lives winter had claimed, or a solitary blot of black amid an endless sea of white.
"Correct," 8 replied.
Then, in a much smaller voice—
"...Can we, please?"
And he wanted to ask Pantalone to smile at him the way he once had, too. But that was a luxury he couldn’t ask for now. So he swallowed the words back, even as they lodged inside his throat like a stone.
"You should go back to the laboratory."
Pantalone said only that before stepping away.
And 8 knew he couldn't let things end like this. Now that Pantalone had seen how far he was willing to go just to ask for permission, perhaps next time 8 wouldn’t even be given the chance to see him at all, let alone ask again.
"Wait!"
He reached out and grabbed the edge of Pantalone's cloak just as the man was about to walk past him.
Pantalone stopped. But he remained standing there with his back to 8. And 8 suddenly realized, holding onto Pantalone physically didn’t mean he could reach him, much less touch his soul.
So he lowered his head and stared at his little shoes, feeling nothing but miserable and defeated. Suddenly, every word he had wanted to say seemed meaningless. It was like all the blood had drained from his body.
In the end, the only thing that escaped his lips was,
"...I can come back another day. You don't seem well."
This was one of the rare moments when he was unsure of himself. He didn’t know what to do to make things right.
Because, in the Segments' eyes, dissecting Zandik had been the only reasonable decision to make. But it wasn’t the same for Pantalone. And how could anyone ever bridge that distance between two minds when each was certain they were right, and neither could be persuaded otherwise?
His vision blurred, and he scrunched up his little face. He didn't…
He didn't know anymore.
He tried, and he tried, and he tried. But it seemed none of his efforts would ever amount to anything.
Was it truly so wrong to want to be near the person you loved, even at the cost of everything else?
Was it a sin to love someone as a monster?
"..."
For a long while, neither of them spoke. Then he heard a quiet sigh escape Pantalone.
"Do whatever you want."
***
And when he stumbled back to the lab, still dizzy from the fact that he had somehow succeeded, and told the others what had happened, 45 stared at him for a long moment. Then he scooped 8 up into his arms and laughed like a madman as he spun him around.
After several rounds of that, 8 was promptly knocked out.
10.
After that, things only grew better.
The Segments reached an agreement that they would take turns going to Pantalone's residence. So 8 would wait, never very patiently, for his turn, then dash out the door the moment daylight broke.
He was finally allowed to see Pantalone again. Even if it was only to discuss business, and with a broad wooden desk always stood between them. Even if Pantalone looked at him with nothing but distant eyes, it still made his heart stutter like a bird trapped inside the cage of his ribs.
He came and went, then came and went again. Little by little, he and the other Segments began trying to talk about things unrelated to the documents they brought with them. Sometimes Pantalone indulged them. Sometimes he did not. And so, for a long while afterward, both sides remained locked in the same stalemate, circling an issue neither confronted.
Then, on the anniversary of Zandik's birth (and his death), Pantalone collapsed once again.
No Segments had gone to see him that day. They had all agreed to leave him alone for those twenty-four hours. Perhaps they should have known better.
Grief was a funny thing. It buried every emotion beneath its weight and allowed one to keep living, day after day, as though nothing had changed. Then, without warning, it would drag them beneath the surface all at once. The sun could be shining overhead, yet a person could still drown. For the sea was within them all along, and it merely waited for the full moon to call the storm ashore.
So Pantalone was brought back to their lab once more. He lay upon the white bed looking so lifeless that 25 had to check his pulse, just to make sure his heart was still beating.
And all 8 could think was that, even in death, Zandik still seemed capable of dragging Pantalone after him. He found himself almost calling out to whatever might exist above the heavens or beneath the earth to chain Pantalone here, to let him stay.
When Pantalone finally woke, he spoke to Omega, who was holding his hand, in such a gentle voice that every one of them became convinced he was hallucinating. Only Zandik had ever been capable of drawing that tone from him.
And he… smiled. Oh, how envy turned 8's mouth sour and bitter.
Whatever Pantalone had seen, however, was enough to make him agree to let them take turns looking after his health every day from then on. So a win was still a win, no matter how underhanded its cause had been.
***
And things simply kept getting better.
Better and better and better.
So much better that he had never imagined such a future could exist.
***
Pantalone would sit through 8's presentations about Aranara, then offer his thoughts afterward. Whenever he returned from a business trip, he would bring back clothes and little trinkets for 8. He would let the boy hold onto the edge of his cloak without a word, or even wrap his arms around his waist.
He could feel it. The way Pantalone was, little by little, making room for him within his life.
The thought alone nearly made his heart leap out of his chest.
***
Then one day came when Pantalone finally smiled at him again. Even though sorrow still filled his eyes, 8 felt as though he had finally reached the end of his story.
He had found the crown that life had hidden away from him, even if he had to pry it from another's dead hands with his own claws. The crown was bloodstained and crooked, but it was finally his.
He climbed onto the bed and asked Pantalone to read to him. As he gradually drifted to sleep, listening to that gentle voice tell stories of princesses and monsters while Pantalone's warmth lingered beside him, his final thought was that this must be what Snow White's glass coffin had felt like. The two of them could become white skeletons lying side by side, never to wake again, and it would still be a good ending.
He still didn’t know what Pantalone considered him to be. But that was alright. He had waited until now. He could wait a little longer. As long as the tree eventually bore fruit, then every moment spent watering it and tending to it would have been worthwhile.
From now until eternity, the little monster would never again part from the one destined for him.
Happily ever after, within their cage.