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They say that a life's value does not lie in its length, but rather its work.
We do not govern our lifespan, for it runs on time, which is out of our control. On the other hand, we can make our life fulfilling by forging connections and making the most out of our time. To make a life more fulfilling…
If a man who could only live to twenty spent his limited time giving back to others, should his life be labelled as worthwhile?
Similarly, would a man who lived twenty times of that, a four hundred year old monster like Dottore, whose life was spent prying answers from the divine, count as something of value? Pantalone will not insult the memory of Dottore by pretending he was innocent. Yes, his research harmed countless, but it also saved and benefited an infinitely larger amount of people. Pantalone himself reaps the seeds of his hard work, through the Elixir Of Immortality.
Hm. It's hard to say if Dottore's life could be considered rewarding…
Therefore, a life's value does not depend on its length, or fulfillment.
Pantalone lifts the stem of the white lily up, tucking it into the bouquet. He's never been fond of such time wasting hobbies, but not even the most renowned florist of Snezhnaya could not create an arrangement of flowers that satisfied him. So, he took the task into his own hands.
The Regrator, for all that he is, is not by any reasonable account good at this. His first attempt, weeks ago, had come out lopsided, heavier on one side than the other, and he'd stood in his kitchen at two in the morning staring at it blankly. He'd pulled it apart and started again. And again. Until he was happy with how it looked.
Today's attempt goes slowly. Pantalone layers the lilies at the center, and packs greenery in around them. He binds the stems with twine, wrapping it three times around and knotting it the way you'd secure a splint, not a gift. His hands, so precise when totaling a ledger or signing a death warrant, fumbles twice on the knot before it holds.
He thinks- that maybe the deciding factor of the value of a life is the legacy left behind.
Pantalone can't help but let out a soft sigh at the thought. The Fatui had denounced Dottore as a traitor. Burnt his research, and destroyed his life's work. They didn't even hold a funeral for him like they did for Rosalyn. Pantalone had to privately contract a company to erect a gravestone, paying in cash through three different intermediaries so the transaction would trace back to nothing and no one. Furthermore, he was the last, and only, man in Snezhnaya who bothered to bring Dottore flowers-
I don't know if that makes your life worthwhile by any of the measures I've listed. Nevertheless, it's not much of a legacy.
Weighing with such a factor, it also seemed to paint Dottore in a negative light. A man erased so thoroughly that his crimes had outlived his contributions in the official records.
The walk to the graveyard takes forty minutes on foot, and Pantalone could easily have a carriage bring him there, but he never does. He tells himself it's for discretion, the Regrator's carriage idling outside a graveyard would draw exactly the kind of attention he wants to avoid. The truth, which he does not examine too closely, is that he prefers the walk. It gives the visit weight. A destination arrived at should cost something in the getting there, or it isn't worth much once you've reached it.
He does not take the main road to the graveyard, the one lined with the graves of minor nobility, marble angels and gilded lettering catching what little sun the nation allows. He takes the side path instead, unpaved, half-swallowed by snow that nobody bothers to clear. His boots sink to the ankle with every step.
But, if not the length, contributions, or the things left behind… What else gave life value?
Hardship, perhaps?
Our birth and death are not dictated by us, but how we chose to face the challenges in our life is. To savour the process of learning, to dare to dream. It's the process that gives life meaning, not the destination. Hardship gives our life meaning.
In this way, Dottore could even be called a saint in life. Stubborness and resilience come hand in hand, after all.
Pantalone clears the wilted flowers from last week, and sets the fresh bouquet down at the base of the gravestone. It was a plain slab, unmarked by the Fatui's usual ostentation. It was a little unfair, how Rosalyn had a whole piece of land dedicated to her, and Dottore had to settle with a little corner of the graveyard.
He had complained about the fact that Snezhnaya was only allowed one day of mourning for Rosalyn, not knowing that his dear Doctor would have it even worse.
The white lilies look almost absurd against the grey stone. He'd chosen them for their meaning, not their beauty. Purity. Renewed innocence. A joke, really, considering whose grave he was visiting.
From the bouquet of lilies, he takes a singular flower. When it wilts, he will return with fresh flowers. It's a romantic gesture, usually reserved for the living. The kind of thing lovers do for each other, a single stem left as a promise of return.
When the flowers wilt, I will be back to replace them.
Pantalone has no name for what he and Dottore were to each other that would justify the gesture. He does it anyway. There is no one here to see him do it, which is, perhaps, the only reason he allows himself to.
To my dearest Zandik,
You who pursued the most honest form of knowledge, you who survived the blistering desert, you who didn't accept death and instead made a mockery of it four times over-
Your life gave meaning to mine, therefore, it was of value.
Snow is beginning to fall, settling into the grooves of the stone and melting against the warmth still radiating faintly from Pantalone's gloved hand.
He's spent far too much time here.
With that, he stands, brushing the snow from his knees. Hands shoved into his pockets, breath fogging pale in the cold, in a graveyard no one else in the whole of Snezhnaya will ever think to visit. Pantalone turns, and walks back toward a city that has already, mercilessly, forgotten there was ever anything here worth mourning at all.