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1
“Go on, boy. Get on your knees.”
Simple, dismissive, cutting, (thrilling). That’s how the Knave greets Ajax upon their first meeting, within the echoing halls of the Snezhnayan base. The guards had tossed Ajax in and then stood aside, doing some good impressions of flowerpots or dust on the windowsill, while the Knave approached.
Ajax doesn’t want to bow. He for sure doesn’t want to disappear into the scenery like the guards. But they did him a favour: it feels like it’s only him and the Knave, face to face.
Ajax says, “I wanted to meet you. Well, I wanted to meet anyone up top, and you're the only one who answered my invitation.”
Her strange, dark eyes take him in. Ajax’s a teenager, but he's tough, growing fast. He was being forced to train in the snow wearing nothing thicker than leathers, and he doesn’t even feel the chill, not like all those other idiot recruits. No, he’s way better than them. He proved it to his commanding officer first by challenging him, and then by not holding back a damn inch.
Ajax had to be so daring that they wouldn’t simply throw him in the stocks and forget about him. Nah, he needed someone higher up to hear the news.
The Knave says nothing, letting her order hang in the air like a guillotine.
No, thanks. “I’m no grunt,” Ajax says. “I already know that. If you watch me, you’ll know it too.”
“Ah…you think only the lowest of the low need to bow to me.”
“Yeah?”
“You're naive.”
The Knave’s heels clack-clack on the floor as she steps closer, towering over him. She's scary beautiful, not the kind of attractive that people were back home. No soft cheeks or bouncy curls or big goofy smiles, no sir. She’s cut from glass.
She snaps her gloved fingers, the red in her eye flashes, and Ajax is forced down by a red-hot pressure. He fights against it with all he’s got, but even that isn’t worth shit against the Fourth. His knees hit the cold marble.
“You dream of bigger things, and I sense you aren’t afraid to cause havoc to get them. How admirable. But remember, whatever becomes of you, whatever you wish for, whatever you destroy to crawl closer to what you want… It’s not easy to get out from underneath me. So get used to it.”
The Knave slides a gloved finger beneath his chin. She slowly tilts his head up.
She asks, “Do you deserve to be here?”
He doesn't.
Not on his knees , not in a uniform meant for canon fodder, the leather worn out from its previous owner (who died from a spearing if the patch in the back is any indication). He isn't a discard. He's a warrior. He's seen shit in the Abyss that even the Fourth can't dream up.
But his mouth’s gone dry so he doesn't say any of that. He stares at her icy expression while her burning magic whispers along his shoulders and the back of his neck. He orders himself to get it together. Now .
You’ve got to let her know you belong at her side, fighting the worst this world’s got to offer.
He risks a little bit of his new arrogance that drove his dad crazy. “So…not easy to overtake you, but not impossible. How would someone manage it?”
“It's not about what you can learn, how many beasts you kill, how quick your sword is. It's not about how nicely you smile or how much money changes hands. Ajax,” she says, and his heart does a pirouette at his name all strung up in her gravelly, bored-poet voice, “surpassing me depends on who you are. On this matter, you were born too late.”
“I'm not just a–”
“If you really weren't, you wouldn't have to make such a show to prove it.” The Knave flicks his chin up sharply as she releases him. She turns on her blade-thin heels, leaving him behind like he’s nothing more than an inconvenience.
Next thing he knows, the guards are hauling him up. “Had a good chat? It's the last you'll have for a while, after that shit you pulled with your commanding officer.”
Ajax lets them drag him away. He watches the Knave's back.
Now that's someone he wants to be.
2
“You're sending me to Dragonspine ?”
Ajax–now Tartaglia, now Childe, now Eleventh–is tailing Arlecchino through the halls, feeling pretty foolish, but he’s too annoyed to worry about that.
“And? Are you displeased?” Arlecchino sends him a slantwise smile. “I thought you were up for anything.”
“Back when I was clawing up the ranks, yeah. Not anymore.”
“What's so offensive about this mission?”
“It's Dragonspine! Middle of nowhere! It's as if you all scheme to send me as far away as possible…”
She explains, like the issue is that he doesn't understand the spirit of the mission. “We're readying to install research camps in those mountains. Due to the cowardice of Monstadt researchers, we know little about what lurks there. Plenty for you to discover. Plenty for you to fight.”
“Why can't the grunts clear it out?”
Arlecchino stops, studying him in the heated, scrutinizing way that makes his toes tingle and tongue tangle. “I thought the mystery and danger would appeal to you.”
Her voice rarely betrays any emotion, but Tartaglia wants to read some humanity in there, some sign that he can persuade her. “It does appeal to me, honestly. The issue is more…Dragonspine's so empty.”
“Of people, you mean.”
“Yeah.”
“You want people to play games with, is that it?”
“No, not innocents, but–”
“You want an audience to cheer for you.” Her eyes flash with what he swears is…mirth. “You want them to cheer, to praise, to quiver in terror. All for you.”
Tartaglia feels like she's taken out his insides with a dessert spoon. Or with those long, slender, ringed fingers of hers. He thinks of those rumours that slither around the Fatui, about how she's crazy, how she's pure evil underneath all this cordial behaviour. He doesn’t know if he believes it. She seems to really care for her kids.
He teases, “Sure, I’ll do anything I can to boost the Fatui’s reputation.”
“Poor boy,” she sighs, voice heavy like she's reciting old poetry. She crooks a finger under his chin and tilts it up so he can meet her eye. “Poor runt of the litter, always chasing after his own tail.”
“Hey, now.”
“Don't you see how much we trust you by sending you out alone to an uncharted battlefield?” Her mouth is expressionless around her drawled worlds, but there's a smile in her eye. “And still you yearn for love.”
Arlecchino strokes a pointed nail beneath his chin, like you'd pet a cat. He shudders, from his shoulders all the way down to his toes, special, warm attention being paid to the pit of his stomach. Just like…well, like a cat, he leans into it.
It’s unfair, how she knows how to knock him off kilter, and she does it in such a casual way. She doesn't use this kind of teasing tactical warfare on anyone else. In fact, she rarely relaxes at all around anyone else, as far as he knows.
Tartaglia figures it’s a compliment, not condescension–it's a special thing for them. Just them.
Maybe so special that it’s gotten her to understand his point of view…
Like she can read his mind, she shuts him down: “Pack up for Dragonspine. I’ll see you off.”
3
“Your tea, ma'am.”
“Come in.”
Tartaglia shoulders open Arlecchino's office door, arms full with a rattling, high-piled silver tea tray. Her impassive gaze flicks up at him from her desk.
“Your performance in Liyue demoted you to busboy, then?”
He chuckles and sets the tray down on her desk. She's polishing some of her knives. That, combined with her usual deadpan, Tartaglia-only teasing, is almost enough to take his mind off his grievances.
Almost. He asks, “So, you know what happened?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then why weren’t you a part of my welcoming committee?”
“You already think we're close enough to be having tea together. I don't want to encourage anything…untoward.”
Tartaglia smirks ( hmm, Knave, was that flirtation? ) and pulls up a heavy chair to sit across the desk from her. Liyue did something fucked up to him. Like, on a spiritual level . He sinks into the chair, his exhaustion dragging him deep into the plush velvet.
He’s been grandstanding ever since the mission wrapped up, pretending to his superiors that everything’s awesome and fine, pretending to his underlings that he stayed in control the entire trip. Arlecchino’s scarier than the lowest levels of the Abyss, but she’s realistic: he knows by now that she won’t judge him for appearing less than stellar.
However…that doesn’t mean they’re on completely equal footing. He hesitates, looking at the untouched tea set.
Snagging the tray she ordered from the hall servant was a fine excuse to get in the room, but pouring her tea seems too far, too below him. He's a little delicate about that topic right now.
So Arlecchino picks up the teapot and serves them both. Somehow, when she does it, it feels less like an act of service. More like how a mother wolf tears up a bloody meal for her pups. Caring and assertive. Tartaglia takes his cup.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
“I'm done giving my reports to everyone. You're the only Harbinger I haven't seen yet.”
“That's not true.”
Okay, sure…no one above Signora cared enough to talk to him. Even Scaramouche, who Tartaglia could usually rely on for a good verbal dressing-down, gave him nothing more than a sideways glance when they passed each other, grumbling, “Oh, the dog’s made it back alive.”
She sips her tea, not looking at him. Again, on her, that feels like a sign of power, not nerves. He, meanwhile, keeps his gaze fixed on her. “You're seeking advice, aren't you?”
He gives her a little caught me smile.
“Go on, tell me how you feel.”
This must be what it's like for her wards after she's caught them beating up a sibling or crying about their dead parents or whatever. Still, he can set down his ego long enough to admit this : it’s nice to be asked that question.
Tartaglia traces the scalding rim of his teacup with a thumbnail; it's too hot for him to drink, but she's sipping away. “No one likes being made a fool of.”
“Mhmm.”
“I like it less than most, given all…this.” He flicks a finger off the teacup, to the room around them, to the Fatui base and all its weight. “I know that I’ve still got to prove myself to everyone. But when’s it going to be enough?”
“Enough for what, exactly, to happen? For you to be the Tenth, or Eighth? Perhaps even the First? You know it doesn’t work that way. And if it did, you’re a damned fool to think I’d ever let you past Fifth.”
Tartaglia doesn’t mind being a little more vulnerable with Arlecchino, but he doesn’t like spilling his guts regardless. It’s been so long that he’s out of practice. Even when he visits his family, he has to protect them from so much that it feels pointless to try to weave honesty out of threads of lies. So he says nothing.
Arlecchino stands. She circles the desk until they’re on the same side, and then leans back against it, looking down at him–her favourite place to be, it seems, even now that he’s (barely) outgrown her.
Arlecchino hovers her hand over the selection of tea biscuits, appearing to think harder about her snack than her words: “A part of you will always be the little boy on the ice with his father. But you cannot use his rules anymore…rules that say that if you do better, or try harder, you’ll get better presents. You summoned Osial by your own hand, forcing the Qixing to permanently kneecap themselves. By any other metric, this would be incredible. But this will do nothing for you here.”
Calmly, she dunks the biscuit into her tea. “Imagine if I focused all my time on clawing for Third, Second, so on. I wouldn’t have the wherewithal to do what my role is : take care of my children, raise them up to join us, until we have no need for the brainless grunts that you hate so much. Until the Fatui is built, from bones to skin, with only the most clever, the most connected. To ignore this and focus on selfish aspirations would be to neglect my role and reason. Do you understand?”
Tartaglia says, “You give good advice.”
“It suits me to try.”
“I mean it. Thanks.”
She finishes her biscuit and sips her tea. She’s gotta be used to doling out advice on the regular. Her whole story’s a mystery, but she had to have gone through a lot to always have something thoughtful to say. He wants to learn more about her beyond her role in these walls; he wants to offer up bits of himself so she knows that it’s okay to do the same. They’ll never be equal, not really, but whatever they’ve got going on doesn’t have to stop here. Does it?
“When it comes to your role in service of the Tsaritsa,” she says slowly, “you will do nothing more than what you do best, and wait for instructions from your betters.”
“Yes, ma'am. Do you have any instructions for me now?”
“The same I’ve given you since you arrived. Know your place and get comfortable there.”
“Right…my place beneath you.”
He's been slowly gathering tiny tells that let him know when she's teasing him. And here’s another, so close that he can tattoo it on the underside of his eyelids: she sets into her hip, her entire stance loosening like an animal on the prowl.
“Precisely. Although…looking at you, I don’t think you can handle such a task.” she says slowly. She’s got a voice like a hot bath, drowsily wrapping him up with steam. She hooks her foot around the leg of his chair and tugs him closer so she can easily tilt up his chin.
This gesture’s got the same kind of power over him as the sound of an unsheathing sword. Ears pricked, muscles tingling…the heat pooling in his abdomen is a little extra thrill on top of the adrenaline.
Arlecchino says, the edge of her nail tracing along his bottom lip, “How about you do away with trying to impress the other Harbingers. Instead, you try to impress me. Unlike them, I’m in a position to reward you.”
4
The last thing Tartaglia wants is for Arlecchino to see him like this.
But it was thanks to her brains that he got out of Fontaine alive at all, so maybe he owes her a little glance at his humiliation.
Arlecchino slides shut the frosted glass door of his train compartment, stepping inside with him. The metal monstrosity is roaring through the Snezhnayan countryside, bound for the Fatui base, and the trip couldn't be any more agonizing in Tartaglia's opinion. The constant shaking keeps him from sleeping and he's no doctor, but he swears it’s keeping his bones from setting.
What Arlecchino notices, however, is the blanket tucked around him on the bench seat.
“Where,” she drawls, “has that boy who would train in leathers in the snow gone?”
Tartaglia laughs. “Hey, he's only human. The snow doesn't suit him so well after losing that much blood.”
Arlecchino sits beside him. Her dark gaze combs over him, every inch, granting him the rare blessing of her full attention. Poor bastards who she interrogates and tortures. They must not know whether to be scared shitless, awed, or turned on. “Are you well?”
“Let’s just say I'm taking my bedrest and pity while I can, before Dottore gets ahold of me.”
“If you still need these things by the time we're at the base, I'll keep him away from you.”
“Thanks.”
She's shown him more than once, in moments like these, that the Harbingers’ hierarchy can bend when it needs to. When you're a big enough threat to demand it to, at least.
Tartaglia took her words to heart after Liyue. He’d been under the impression that getting a bigger title would give him better opportunities–regular recon trips to the Abyss, being on the frontline of the next faceoff with an Archon, all that stuff–but as he examined their roles more closely, he realized he was mistaken. It was his natural instinct to win, to defeat others, that had him thinking the ranks were a competition.
And, well, what just happened in Fontaine proved to him that he can manage some seriously dangerous shit from his position at the bottom of the ladder if he tries hard enough…and gets in the right messes.
Speaking of. Arlecchino tilts her head at him, giving him a pointed look. He shakes off the blanket to show her his bandaged injuries, his bruises.
“But what’s really gonna hold me back,” he says, “is how Foul Legacy drains me. I’m probably gonna be no use to anyone for a week.”
“That’s your right.” Those unnerving dark eyes hook into his. “What you did was unbelievably brash and more than a little foolish, but you’ve protected Fontaine in a way that few Harbingers would ever bother to do. My House and my children are safe thanks to you.”
The tips of his ears burn. She’s so intense with everything she does, but he’s never received her intense praise before. It makes him squirm. Damn it.
“Don’t try to be prideful, Tartaglia,” Arlecchino says, his name treated well in her mouth. “Aren’t you flattered?”
“Yeah, I–” Tartaglia chuckles, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead and ignoring the twinge in his bruised ribs. “I am. Feels good to hear it. Really good.”
And she smiles at him. Smiles! A tiny smile, but it is for sure not a smirk. He grins back. Really, really good, that’s how he feels.
He teases, “Are you impressed?”
“It’s rude to ask such things. You sound almost desperate.”
“Can you blame me…? After all, I was promised a reward.”
Arlecchino breathes sharply out her nose–a laugh? Was that a laugh ? Who knew that to warm her up, all he had to do was fight a primordial horror beyond his mortal limits. Easy. But hey, he never wanted anyone who was easy.
Arlecchino smooths his coat over his battered chest with the faintest of touches. “Yes, I am. I’m very impressed with all you’ve done.”
“Reward, right?”
She leans closer. He suddenly feels very stupid for asking the teasing question again, because he realizes it’s not so much a tease anymore as a want. And she’s gotta know that, considering how close she is.
And then, there , like always, she crooks a finger beneath his chin and tilts his head up to meet her smouldering eyes. It set his ego on edge when they first met, but he doesn’t mind it so much now. It practically makes him want to purr.
He especially doesn’t mind it when Arlecchino presses a kiss to his forehead. And then between his eyes, feather-light, but no less full of intention.
And then the tip of his nose.
And then…
Tartaglia’s got his eyes crushed shut, heartbeat in his ears, waiting for the big finale, but it doesn’t happen. He opens his eyes. She’s smiling down at him–a real smile, clear as the cold Snezhnayan sun.
“What else are you waiting for?” she asks. “My favour is not so easily won.”
He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Caught like a fish, like a fool, like an upstart who thinks causing a ruckus will get him the Fourth’s favour. Oh, she’s mean. He likes it.
“Can I have that reward once more, then? Just once?” he asks. “After all, I was pretty impressive.”
She kisses his forehead again, firmer this time. She’s warm as a hearth. He cradles the hand under his chin. He’s got to admit, he fantasized about the first time he felt her lips being a little more…vicious than this, but he’s lying if he says it doesn’t make his pulse flutter in the same way.
Then she lets him go, as if trusting him to stay exactly the way she placed him without her guidance.
She smooths the edge of his bandage beneath his coat and—no, come on—takes the few steps to the door.
“Wait,” Tartaglia says.
She looks back at him.
“You know, actually, I’ll be fine once we get back to base. I’ll be able to go anywhere and do anything you want me to, ma’am.”
Her smile has folded back into a smirk, sharp as ever, and comfortably familiar. “I’ll keep that in mind. Rest well, Eleventh.”