Work Text:
One way to memorise your schedules is to repeat them along a certain rhythm of your choice.
Childe opted for that rhythm to be the sound of his own footsteps, intently focusing on the light thud of every step against the smooth stone.
His foot met the ground once.
He has to see her majesty; She ordered him to come to her first thing in the morning.
His other foot followed suit.
He was assigned to the new batch of recruits; he'll need to train them right after.
Another soft thud.
He will make sure to eat something, probably not have it delivered to his room though. He could just pass by the kitchens himself for more discretion.
The next thud wasn't as soft.
Walking all the way to Il Dottore's lab was his second least favourite activity, his first was being in the doctor's presence.
The loud sound of his foot meeting the marble floor almost makes him lose his concentration.
Disappearing to “Tsaritsa knows where” in Pulcinella's words.
Another tap of his boot against the floor echoes in the large chamber.
Debt collection with the recruits, their second round of training for the day.
A softer tap of his foot as he stops in the middle of the foyer. He put his hand in one of the pockets on the inside of his jacket, rubbing his thumb on a folded piece of paper.
Write a letter to his sister, Princess of Morespoke.
_________
Her Majesty's throne room is rather spacious, delicate crystal carvings lining the walls, gathering mostly at the baseboards and cornices of the room.
Though the elegant ice-themed carvings are nothing short of splendid, the one feature that actually captures the attention of anyone who enters the room is the cold sensation that crawls over their skin.
If Tartaglia was a weaker man, he would've froze in his place upon entering the room, or fell to his knees only to meet the harsh frozen floor, covered entirely in a thin cruel layer of ice that spreads all across the floor and crawls on top of the carvings that form the baseboards, but shows its most vicious form as it crawls upon the altar and consequently the centrepiece of the room, The throne.
But Tartaglia isn't Ajax weak and therefore isn't so fragile as to succumb to the oppressive nature of the space around him, even when his throat flares up in pain with every breath of hiemal air taken.
The Queen sits upon her throne, but doesn't hold her head lazily upon her hand like those portraits of kings comfortably warmly laying in luxury.
She sits as a soldier does, arms laid on the armrests as if they were carved of solid ice, head held high, and eyes numbly staring at her weapon visitor.
He walks till he reaches the centre point between the doors and the throne then kneels, head bowed down.
“Her Majesty wished to see her eleventh, and upon her command he has come.”
The Queen smiles. She merely sharpens her gaze at him.
“Indeed you have.”
She lowers her head to fully look at him.
He pretends to not hear the way the ice between her head and throne crack, or the unnerving sound of her neck cracking from its frozen position.
“You are to pay a visit to a certain indebted person today, is that right?”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
“Well I believe that simple visit shall be changed to an even simpler talk. Understood?”
“Don't bother threatening him or merely taking his precious belongings, kill him.”
“Understood your Majesty.”
“He won't see the light of day again.”
When he walks out of the throne room, he has one step less to count.
_________
He walks off to the door leading to the east wing and is met with fresh air.
It's past dawn by now, he's not sure if it's closer to sunrise or noon though. He doesn't think it matters and keeps his eyes straight ahead of him.
The small courtyard—or a rather large one if you ask a commoner—is surrounded from afar by the palace from all sides save for a three metre wall on the east side with a black metal gate in the middle.
His head tilts to the side slightly towards the faint noise.
He could see some guards patrolling through the metal gate along with a horse being led by a groom, presumably towards the stables.
He turns his head back attempting to drown out the distractions.
Tartaglia walks along the diagonal stone path till he reaches the door leading to the east wing and heads inside.
The air changes from fresh to warm, a vast difference from the main structure with its shuddering cold atmosphere.
He could know that he's nearing the training hall with the sound alone. Excited recruits, new recruits specifically.
The old ones—the veterans—know to abandon such emotions.
He pushes the grand doors open and walks inside, letting them snap shut with a loud thud that has the recruits snapping their heads towards him. The room falls silent in seconds.
Almost silent. One recruit- no, one idiot was out of his head enough to whisper “Holy shit, it's the Vanguard!”.
Nevermind, he'll have that problem solved by the end of this round.
_________
Once he's done with the recruits, Childe moves on inside again and heads towards the kitchens utilising the servant corridors to avoid any unpleasant interactions with his fellow harbingers.
The smell of cooking wafts in the air, making its way through the narrow corridor as he nears the kitchens.
When he enters one of the kitchen rooms, no one seems alarmed at the sight of the harbinger.
It may or may not have been a result of his recurrent visits and it could also be possibly influenced by his strangely docile behaviour around this specific faction of the staff.
One of the cooks—Mila, he thinks that's her name—smiles warmly at him.
Her kind gestures don't do much to disguise the sudden paleness on her face.
She begins to ladle something—probably stew from the smell—into a bowl that was already set out on the counter. She speaks without looking back at him.
“You look ah, how do I say this respectfully? Hm, you look something along the lines of ‘dishevelled’ sir. Rumour has it among the staff that you've taken to training the new recruits, I assume you just came back from that?”
Childe accepts the bowl she hands over to him with a small nod of his head. He would've preferred to thank her, but the words didn't quite make it out of his mouth.
“Ah yes, the new ones are a handful, no wonder no one else wants to train them.”
No one else does because they're worth more than mere recruit trainers.
He takes the spoon handed to him and begins eating.
The stew tastes good, it even has his favourite fish diced up in it. Mila really knows what he likes. Only because he likes to scurry down here like a rat instead of dining like the others.
It doesn't take long for him to finish eating—with the way he scarfs down food at a concerning rate—and he pretends not to notice how early Mila had left him. He sets the bowl back on the counter and heads towards the door.
No matter how nice he is, he's still a harbinger. People like her know better than to let their guard down around him.
Tartaglia doesn't bother saying anything to the rest of the staff before leaving; he has better things to do.
The kitchen was already empty before he took his third bite.
_________
Tartaglia walks out of one servant corridor and then back again to an uncomfortable narrow one, but a lot less warm—uncomfortably cold actually and definitely not used by servants—before he's met with a metal door.
A small glowing red thing sits in the middle of the door, like a small eye.
Its gaze falls upon his face, a “body scanning device” as the second harbinger calls it.
“Eye Torture Device” Childe calls it, though Tartaglia may never say that outloud.
A red flash of light passes up and down his body then disappears before the metal door opens up on its own accord.
He ignores the odd thrum of energy in his stomach and proceeds inside.
The second his other foot goes past the door frame it shuts behind him with a loud clang. He sighs and takes in his surroundings.
He's met with a much wider space, there's nothing of importance in it, however, save for a singular door across the room with yet another one of those horrid eye torture devices this time placed next to the door.
The thrumming feeling climbs up a little higher in his body.
He lets the “eye-scanner” blind one of his eyes before he's let inside the laboratory.
It's a rather large space, with most of it hidden behind shadows—save for the occasional mysterious glow at one of the darker areas—as only a few stations seem to be illuminated.
The stench of antiseptic and whatever other chemicals Tartaglia doesn't bother to know the name of fills the space, forcing him to scrunch his nose.
His gaze finally falls upon his acquaintance for the next thirty minutes—or so he hopes, he wouldn't like to spend more than that down here with him.
After a few steps towards the station—and a few “Dottore! DOTTORE!”—the man seems to finally take notice of his visitor. How said man manages to not get murdered by intruders while in this state of hyperfocus is beyond him.
He's about to start talking when Dottore smiles—the feeling drops back to Childe's stomach and he almost gags.
“You're on time.”
Tartaglia keeps his distance from the doctor, staying silent with an unamused expression on his face.
The man takes off the set of gloves he was wearing and throws them on the table which seems to be littered with a mixture of mechanical, and concerningly enough what looks to be…organic parts. He puts on a fresh set of gloves and walks towards a dimly lit wall.
“Remember my little experiment from our last meeting?”
Childe sighs, letting the tension roll off him while Dottore isn't looking before responding.
“The…screaming Sumerian plant?”
The doctor who has his back to Childe sighs with a drop of his shoulders.
“No, Eleven, not the screaming Sumerian plant,” he unlocks a small compartment in the wall and reaches into it with both hands, “I'm talking about the other experiment, I believe you could help me out with this one.”
Ajax Childe furrows his brows ever so slightly, his expression turning into a scowl.
He knew the doctor wouldn't give up on something like that easily, even if it were a mere fantasy a few weeks ago.
“Go on.”
Dottore turned to smile at him,something about the way he did it always felt wrong, a small black cube cradled in his hands. He would've appreciated the sheen and smoothness of it if he didn't know that whatever it was—or whatever was inside it—wouldn't lead to anything pleasant.
“Hm, you're a lot more compliant than I expected you to be, well not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth am I?”
The man turned to walk farther into the darkness, and Tartaglia took it as a sign to follow him.
The tension began to coil into his chest again.
With no ability to see his surroundings, Childe resorted to the one thing he could.
He took one step on the metallic floor that echoed throughout the laboratory.
Finish whatever the fuck Dottore needed him for at the moment.
Another step followed.
Get as far as conveniently possible from Zapolyarny Palace for an hour or so.
His foot caught on a wire that would've tripped him if it weren't for his reflexes kicking in.
Debt collection with the recruits, as fast as fucking possible.
A much more confident step followed, with a particularly loud thud from the metal below.
Write a letter to his precious sister, Princess of Morespoke.
Another step followed by another with the thoughts rotating in his head. Just rinse and repeat.
Finally the sound of footsteps before him halted.
Something clicked and a light turned on to which Childe squinted his eyes before adjusting and taking in the place in front of him.
Dottore was standing with his back to him in front of a metallic double door.
Above the door was the light that had assaulted his eyes a few seconds ago and next to it on the wall, was a padlock along with a scanner perched on top of it.
“This scanner will only recognise me, so you better not drag your feet lest you're left outside.”
At that, Tartaglia stepped forward towards the doors.
The doctor entered some sort of code into the padlock and a few seconds later was scanned by the device above it.
The doors slid open and Dottore immediately walked inside, leaving Childe staring dumbfounded at the foreign mechanics of the doors.
“Don't just stand there, Eleven.”
Tartaglia huffed and followed.
Soon enough, both men were inside, the odd door contraptions closing shut behind them.
With each step inside, some sort of dread washed over him.
Dread?
…Dread?
A large glass window stood in front of him, spanning all the way up into the darkness above, but only a few metres wide.
He had to stop his hydro blades from forming in his hands when he saw what was behind the glass.
Childe took a step back.
The sickening feeling found its way to his heart, and it hu-
Dottore didn't seem focused on whatever Tartaglia's reaction was—or maybe he did and simply didn't care—keeping his back to the younger man.
“This over here, is a prototype, I acquired the specimen from a merchant in Sumeru so you don't have to worry about your dear Morespoke, but speaking of coastal villages,” the doctor looked over his shoulder, “I would like to request that you collect samples for me from the specific Snezhnayan coastal towns and villages. Don't worry, Morespoke is not on the list per your request.”
What stood behind the glass was a hunched figure. Its hands, feet, and calves were deformed, larger than they should be in comparison to the body, eyes an unseeing sickly white colour. Where a mouth and nose should be was an enlarged snout made of stretched bruised skin.
“This one was quite promising, it had met a lot of qualifications for a mere prototype, with its heightened ability to smell and track…”
The words faded as a ringing began to take over his hearing, the room in front of him becoming smaller, becoming less real.
The feeling was everywhere.
Ajax couldn't breathe.
_________
It was following him, running faster than he could, his only saviour being the twists and turns he took, the smaller places he squeezed himself into before it brought them crashing down in pursuit of him.
Tension coiled in his stomach, in his head, in his heart.
He ran despite the flaring pain in his legs, his still fractured bone—or was it broken? Archons, what would he do if it was broken?—making his eyes water as he bit his lips.
Ajax couldn't breathe.
He tried, but it felt like nothing was coming in, it felt like he was already dead, a hollow carcass with nothing left for any bird or animal which existed above to have fed on.
A harsh step that sent pain along his entire leg.
Get away from it.
A step that almost had his foot slipping.
Find shelter.
Step.
Food.
Just one more.
Water.
One more.
He needs-
He stumbled, fell, and got up.
He needs to go hom-
_________
He walks quickly, but the steps feel like they bear no end.
Get out get out get away from that fucking lab and those insane bastards in this deranged pala-
He needed out now he-
He fell to his knees.
Childe couldn't feel the harsh bite of the snow through his clothes, he couldn't feel how the wind bit at his face or exposed neck.
He just stayed there, out in the snow, out in this blizzard.
He didn't need to do anything here.
Here, he was just Childe.
He didn't have to be Tartaglia.
He was no longer Ajax.
He was just,
him.
Here he could picture Liyue, could almost feel its warmth seeping through him. He could remember the light breeze and golden sun on afternoons where the markets and harbour felt both lively and peacefully quiet at the same time. He could look next to him and see a brilliant smile adorned on a warm face, one that grounded him. He could look into those amber eyes and feel…
He could almost feel…
Human.
_________
By the time he's back in the east wing, all of the recruits were gathered either in the barracks or in the outside arena.
He walked out to the arena, immediately capturing the attention of the recruits, causing them all to freeze at once.
It took them a painfully long few seconds to hastily right themselves and salute him respectfully—it seems their earlier lessons had borne its fruits, albeit slowly.
He heard the shuffling sound of footsteps behind him and guessed that it was the rest of the recruits.
They made quick work of walking up to their peers and seamlessly blending in—Tartaglia had to stop himself from smiling at his proficiency in training.
“This evening, you will all be sent on your first debt collection. This simple mission is meant to be your first field work training. I will be guiding you all through it,” his gaze fell on a certain recruit from the earlier session, “so I expect you to be on your best behaviour, understood?”
The recruits simultaneously responded with a “Yes, sir!” and a quick salute, and Tartaglia may have smiled a little, though from the looks of it, that smile was definitely going to be the subject of some of the recruits' nightmares for the next few months.
By the time the sun had started to dip below the horizon, Tartaglia had a neat formation of young soldiers walking with him towards a building of respectable size.
Once they reached the main door—Tartaglia was never a man for discretion—the two sets of recruits on either side of him marched forward, two on each side opening the doors without bothering to knock.
There was an unpleasant smokey smell, likely this odd plant-based thing that Mondtsadters supposedly “invented”.
A few middle-aged men—who were definitely a sight to cause sore eyes—were sitting in what seemed to be the reception area of the building and upon seeing the fatui soldiers they all began to look at each other with frowns on their faces.
The establishment had once been a fine one, offering only the most luxurious services to the wealthiest of the Snezhnayan high society, but after a few careless miscalculations on the owner's part, it quickly descended into an undignified place, giving out cheap “services”.
Well, luxurious or dirt poor, he was never a fan of brothels anyway.
Tartaglia took the initiative to speak.
“As per the contract between the Fatui and the establishment of Vladimirka, all of the establishment's assets will be seized, and the property inhibited due to a failure to repay the debt owed to the Fatui.”
The second the last syllable left his mouth, all of the recruits that were walking behind him entered the building and began filing into the various doors past the reception.
A few of his men began to restrain the “receptionists” and started the monotonous process of reiterating the consequences of resisting arrest.
Soon enough, the head of the establishment was brought to him, cuffed up and red-faced with anger.
Upon seeing the harbinger, however, the man's expression shifted, his face palling at the sight of the harbinger.
What should have been young cerulean eyes gazed back at the man. The blue almost looked closer to harsh Snezhnayan waters at night, drowning entire vessels without hesitation.
The man was right of course, the harbinger did not hesitate to show his soldiers how a job was done, or how to dispose of a corpse.
_________
On his way back, he could not feel the ache in his legs from spending the entire day on his feet nor the biting cold of the night against the tip of his nose.
All Childe could feel was the soft thump of his feet against the snow-covered stone below him.
One, just one last step to take.
Then he could end this day.
_________
As soon as he entered his living quarters he locked the door and started hastily taking off his clothes, throwing them haphazardly as he walked through the small parlour. One of the only articles of clothing saved from his wrath was his jacket as he gently searched its inner pocket for the folded piece of paper before violently throwing the bloodied jacket aside.
When he reached his room, the only clothing he had on was a pair of pants and his fatui mask still attached to the side of his head.
He put aside his vision and delusion along with the mask, doing so with a lot more care than with the rest of his garments.
Childe rummaged through his closet, pulling out some simple loungewear which he threw over his shoulder before disappearing into his bathroom.
One shower later, he emerged with the new set of clothes on and double-checked that he'd locked his bedroom door.
He took one step at a time, slowly breathing in and out with only one thing in mind as he sat down at his desk.
The self-inking pen—the only thing he returned with from Liyue, even if its gifter had left a sour feeling in his soul—sat heavy in his hand.
The fine paper in front of him lay on his desk, awaiting his next move.
Childe breathed in—tapping his foot once against the floor—and breathed out.
He lowered the pen, the words flowing out of his mind and onto the paper. Even when he began to feel hesitance crawling its way up his mind, he didn't let it show on the paper.
_________
My dear Princess of Morespoke,
I apologise for not writing to you sooner, I was quite busy with work and all. However, I realise there is no such excuse for a knight to abandon his Princess for so long, so I write to you in hopes that you'd forgive this one for his carelessness.
I read your previous letter (I even kept it on my person at all times, but shhh don't tell anyone. I fear it might tarnish this knight's reputation!) and I must say that I'm more than happy for you. I'm glad Anthon and Teucer are doing well. Same goes for mama and papa, I trust you to relay that message to them.
As for me? Well to answer the question in your letter, I have been doing quite well myself, I was even assigned to train a whole batch of freshly recruited soldiers! Though it seems quite boring to me…
I've been assigned with another mission a few months from now, which means I'll be visiting a new country and youuuu guessed it! You'll be receiving some new gifts!
That is all for now, I hope to hear from you soon. Please take care of Anthon and (especially) Teucer.
With much love,
your loyal knight.