Chapter Text
Despite the perpetual winter that defines the land of Snezhnaya, the Tsaritsa’s biennial masquerade ball is renowned across Tevyat. Invitations are much coveted, by the curious as much as the opportunistic, and although the attendance list is very much curated by the needs of her majesty’s plans, there is enough leeway that not a single ball is ever the same as another, the mood and outcome of the night of festivities as unpredictable as one’s chances of survival in the heart of a blizzard.
The unpredictability is one of the reasons why Tartaglia doesn’t quite mind his recall back to Snezhnaya, the harbingers’ participation this year non-negotiable.
(the last time they were recalled in full was to attend Signora’s funeral and to discuss the ever unfilled position of the Sixth. They’d laid Signora’s coffin – empty, not a trace of her remaining after the Raiden Shogun’s judgement – to rest in frigid, embalming ice, and somehow the topic of the Sixth was curiously never resolved, the seventh to eleventh harbingers remaining in their respective ranks).
Now, the vaunted halls of the Tsaritsa’s winter palace are filled with hundreds of milling persons – dignitaries and diplomats to craftsmen and scientists and even an astrologist or two. There are businessmen aplenty and no doubt many are warriors in their own right; everyone wears a mask of some sort, per the dress code of the masquerade ball, but Tartaglia picks out the hints from their gaits, their assessing gazes, the gentle glint of a vision peeking out from their finery, or the unfathomable but entirely recognizable aura that those with power exude under their genteel appearances.
Tartaglia – and it’s always Tartaglia when he has the delusion on, the Tsaritsa’s personal mark of esteem practically tailor made for such events – doesn’t necessarily enjoy schmoozing, but he knows how to play the role. He can work the room if he puts his mind to it, but at present there are other harbingers better suited to it, and so he stays in the fringes of the crowd, his delusion and the furred grand cloak announcing his status as her majesty’s vanguard, an unsubtle threat against any and all who might wish to disturb the Tsaritsa’s peace.
He eyes the representatives from Mondstadt and Liyue, not a single head of state or diplomat amongst them, a reflection of their rather strained ties with Snezhnaya. Inazuman representation is even sparser, although that’s almost to be expected considering their archon had pointedly sent back the shattered fragments of Signora’s delusion, still sparking with latent Electro energy.
It's probably no surprise that Tartaglia’s delusion is Electro-based, or that he’s snuck into Inazuma more than once since Signora’s demise. He likes the people of Inazuma well enough, but he’d likely be in a world of trouble if the Shogunate ever catches him on their lands, both from Inazuma for the trespass and from his fellow harbingers for the borderline insubordination.
Which is precisely the kind of trouble Tartaglia likes – after all, it’s not the first time an entire nation is out for his head, and the other harbingers are powerful enough to be worth testing his mettle against.
Tartaglia lets his gaze sweep across the crowd, subconsciously picking out the people from Fontaine and Natlan, the scholars and academics from Sumeru. All their guests are overtly accompanied or subtly shadowed by Fatui members, and Tartaglia confirms that all is running smoothly on that front before he finally turns his attention to his fellow harbingers.
Except—
He feels it like a subtle chime in the air, calling out to him, and Tartaglia turns in its direction before he can stop himself. The subtle thrum of power is familiar although Tartaglia can't quite place the feeling, and he maneuvers as discreetly as he can through the crowd until he comes up along the edge of the dance floor.
He notices Arlecchino first, because her deigning to dance with anyone is a surprise. His distaste for the Knave aside, Tartaglia knows she is cunning and opportunistic to her last bone. Her partner must be someone worth noting indeed.
Although most who Arlecchino associates with end up fumbling in her wake, dominated by her presence, the man she is dancing with neither seems harried nor impressed. At first glance, his clothing appears far more down-to-earth than all the finery around them, but as they dance, embroidery in subtle patterns shimmers under the ballroom lights, every inch of the man’s outfit speaking of exquisite workmanship and taste. The man’s movements as he leads the dance are graceful and precise, and although he and Arlechinno match each other perfectly, never falling out of step, it is clear that he is the one in control of the dance.
The music – and hence the dance – finally comes to an end with a smattering of applause. Rather than the usual courtly bow or kiss on the back of her hand, the man simply gives Arlecchino a nod of acknowledgment. Then he turns, amber eyes unerringly catching Childe’s gaze.
—and it is Childe now, because he’s Childe whenever he’s with Zhongli, and Childe knows those eyes—
And yet, he’s never seen Zhongli like this before. Not with his long hair bound in an intricate knot at the back of his head before cascading down in its usual long tail, adorned with a seacliff hawk’s feather and flowers of glistening minerals, a resplendent mask of basalt and gold framing his eyes and upper face. And although the shade of those eyes is the same as ever, there is something cold about them now: the difference between gilded gingko leaves, bright and alive, and hard, unfeeling cor lapis.
For all that he has given away his gnosis, this is the Lord of Geo, Childe realizes.
(there is a warring hydra of emotions in the pit of his stomach – a snarling need to challenge an opponent with such visible strength; a sinking, out of place sense of loss; and the sour burn of furious jealousy, because why is Zhongli here , in the heart of the Tsaritsa’s domain where Childe should be free from all reminders of Liyue and its former archon, and why is he with Arlecchino of all people—)
Childe takes a step back. His delusion is sparking without his conscious decision, the crackle of electricity building under his fingertips and the air around him becoming charged from the combination of Electro and his own natural Hydro element. The last thing the Tsaritsa needs is for Childe – for Tartaglia – to lose control over nothing of consequence; the harbingers have no qualms about ending things, but being the aggressor at a function that their archon is hosting would be a gross breach of decorum.
As much as he hates backing away from any fight, her majesty’s will comes first.
Always.
He almost makes it. He tears his gaze from those amber eyes, and even manages to turn to slip back into the crowd. But before he can take a single step away, a resonant voice that carries across the dance floor and reverberates in his ears freezes him in his tracks.
"Tartaglia."
It’s infuriating. That calm tone, the choice of names, everything. But Tartaglia is not the youngest harbinger to join her majesty’s ranks for nothing. He can hardly turn tail now that Zhongli has called him out, and abruptly, Tartaglia doesn’t want to. He draws himself up straight and calms his breathing, forcibly dispelling the gathered Electro and Hydro energies, and walks towards Zhongli and Arlecchino.
This time, the air of danger he exudes sends attendees scattering in his wake.
Arlecchino is worth considering, if only so he doesn’t catch a knife in the back, but she doesn’t deserve his respect, so Tartaglia doesn’t give her any. He eyes Zhongli instead, and since he doesn’t know this person, who most certainly is not acting as the Wangsheng funeral parlour’s consultant today, decides not to address him by name or title at all.
“Well, aren’t you a long way from home.”
Zhongli has never been the most expressive of people, but over the year of his Liyue posting Tartaglia has learned to read the signs. This time, however, the gilded mask hides the crinkles around the eyes and the subtle furrows of the brows, so Tartaglia focuses on those amber eyes, on the minute hum of Geo energy thrumming in the air around them.
“I am,” Zhongli says (the familiarity of his calm voice, gone unheard for a year and some months, makes something in Childe ache. Tartaglia, however, just ruthlessly crushes the feeling down).
Before he can muster up a response, Arlecchino cuts in, her voice grating on Tartaglia’s nerves.
“He’s here at the personal invitation of the Tsaritsa,” she says, her voice edged with diamonds, hard and cutting. “If you didn’t even know that, then you’re hardly worthy to stand here. Step away, Tartaglia.”
So, he’s been left out of the loop again. Tartaglia smothers a snarl behind his teeth, and if his eyes are narrowed under the shadows of his delusion, well, who can tell?
If it were Signora, Tartaglia could accept it. As much as it rankled to be manipulated by her, at the end of the day they both operated under her majesty’s orders, and Signora was good at her job. She’d claimed both Barbatos’s and Morax’s gnoses, all in the Tsaritsa’s name.
But Arlecchino? She who has no stake in Liyue, whom possesses not a sane bone in her body, a snake in their midst who would betray the Tsaritsa in a heartbeat if the opportunity arises?
Tartaglia would kill her first.
In the Northland Bank, in the aftermath of Osial, he had sulked, because Liyue had wormed its way under his skin until the persona of Childe had become him as much as Tartaglia and Ajax are. Childe could afford to laugh in the sunlight and pout without needing to hide his expressions under a mask. Here, in the heart of Snezhnaya, Tartaglia's smile is cold, and the way he turns his head away, completely ignoring Arlecchino’s comment, will cut sharper than any verbal riposte he can give.
The pressure drops in their immediate vicinity; dark spots bloom in Tartaglia’s vision. Tartaglia just lifts his chin in Zhongli’s direction and says, “May I have the pleasure of your next dance?”
“Eleventh.”
It’s a surprise that Arlecchino even bothers with words, dangerously low and lethal though it comes out. Tartaglia doesn’t wait to see if the Tsaritsa’s influence is enough to stay the Knave’s hand or if this is just a prelude to Arlecchino slicing an elementally charged knife across his throat – he holds an insistent hand out and demands of Zhongli, never breaking eye contact, “Dance with me.”
There’s a beat, that infinite space before a myriad of possibilities coalesces into a single decisive choice.
Then, Zhongli takes his outstretched hand. Triumph flares through Tartaglia’s chest, all-encompassing and heady.
“It would be rude of me to refuse an offer to dance,” Zhongli says to Arlecchino, stately and serene, as if he isn’t standing at ground zero of an imminent confrontation between harbingers. Tartaglia pulls immediately at his hand, intent on dragging him away. “Please excuse me.”
And then they are disappearing into the crowd, into the swell of rising music – Zhongli’s hand warm in Tartaglia’s grasp, leaving Arlecchino far, far behind.