#ah yeah so i wrote this under the impression dott was from fontaine i am almost certain

[boundinparchment]

Deus In Absentia - VIII

The first time was a coincidence. The second time was a fluke. But the third time? You were starting to think it was fate. Or, more likely, a calculated trap. Reposted from my previous blog, @/zhonglis-empty-wallet AO3

He was softest in the darkest hours of the morning, you discovered; when his mind and hands needed a reprieve and yearned for you instead of his precious creations.  Some nights, the title of lover lingered in your mind.  Those moments were glimpses at the person that, in a different, kinder world, he might have been.

“Everything has improved with you here,” he mumbled into your shoulder.  “So much easier, so much better.”

You enhanced him, his work.  You. 

Your name on his lips was probably the closest he ever came to uttering a prayer.

You weren’t a proper Archivist, certainly not by Akademiya standards, yet he found something of value in the quality of your work. In the comfort of your presence.  In you.

The Great Work kept you busy, long before the erosion of professionalism.  So much needed to be properly archived and preserved; a good chunk of it required transcribing because of centuries in a previous environment, one that was often a dank, moldy cavern.  Delegating only did so much.

Winter made everything harder.  You endured a broken radiator in your study, under the impression that maybe it just took a little time to turn on every unit (or perhaps Pantalone simply needed to be reminded that the cost was worth it).  A week passed before Dottore stormed in, muttering something about your notes being illegible.  You assured him you were well, suppressing a shiver all the while, but there was no hiding how cold your hands were when he pressed your palm to the corner of his mouth.

“No wonder your notes are sloppy,” he mumbled, eyes falling from you to the silent radiator in the corner.

Dottore gave the heater a swift kick, the device silent, without so much as a creak or click in response.

“Gather your things and use my office,” were his final words on the matter.

The next morning, you found a new radiator installed and a beautiful (too beautiful for the likes of the lab) coat draped on the back of your chair.  Soft, well-crafted, and warm.  Too expensive to accept, but you couldn’t not be without a coat in a Snezhnayan winter, either.

It was a statement, one more subtle than his usual boisterous behavior.  Then again, his scheming was never straight-forward.  While you were respected among the other Fatui when you spent time in the Palace above (or as respected as someone under a Harbinger could be), people talked. 

It was a delicate balance.

One Dottore cared little for.  Social convention meant almost nothing; what use did he have for it outside of diplomacy? 

He was particularly proud of the marks on your neck, his handiwork on display.

“Let them see,” he growled when you attempted to cover up the blatant teeth tracks on your neck one morning.  “I care not for the opinions or thoughts of those who could never understand.  Anyone who talks knows they’ll end up on my table anyway.”

That fear kept eyes from lingering too long, from whispers dying out as you approached.  It was especially noticeable when you joined Dottore for important dinner parties or other affairs, wherever he needed to be.  You were only ever introduced in your role but a silent undercurrent that you were close to Dottore ran through each interaction, each moment.  Every party was more lavish than the last, the status of a Harbinger extended to you in the form of fine clothing, finer wine, and exposure to the world you only ever heard of in storybooks.

It was clear that Dottore didn’t enjoy these things the way other Harbingers did.  He played the role he needed to, for the Tsaritsa, for the cause, but his mouth twitched in a frown for most of the events.  Useless wastes of time, he often muttered, before taking your hand and stealing you away as soon as convenient.

Not that you could really complain.  You had even less in common with your hosts, with fellow guests.  Dottore was simply sparing you the awkward moments, you rationalized.

Both of you worked together in a rhythm that no one else could follow or comprehend.

And even if they could, they wouldn’t, you knew. 

The world would never be that kind.

But that wasn’t a world you wanted to be part of.  Not anymore.

____________________________

He sang sometimes, when he thought no one was around, when he thought you weren’t listening.  One song was from Fontaine, you could tell by the rhythm; another from Sumeru, the cadence quicker, more jovial.  

Until one day, he told you to stay behind after receiving a missive from the Tsaritsa.  He returned with a blank expression, much like the one he wore in Mondstadt, and went back to work in his private study as if nothing happened, slamming the door behind him.

A crash.  A bang.  Something shattering.  Shouts.

Not an unusual occurrence, really.  Or perhaps you were just used to his mercurial nature.  He tended to cease his raging fairly quickly, or at least cool off just enough to form a plan of action and articulate it before trailing off into incomprehensible mutterings.  Usually, his tirades lasted all of ten minutes, often less.

This time, however…

The arm of the clock was long past the usual ten-minute mark.

And you could still make out shouts from below, no longer in familiar Sneznhayan.  The lab assistants were restless, no one brave enough to dip their head into your office and ask , but constantly walking past your door in an attempt to look busy.

Your connection to the Harbinger wasn’t exactly a mystery or a secret down here.  If Dottore could be heard ranting and raving, you were certain other things were heard as well.

Just when you thought he was finally finished and silence fell over Haeresys, you heard your title shouted at the top of the Harbinger’s lungs.

The trek down to his private study felt like a lifetime.  You entered after knocking and, once the door shut behind you, you came face to face with the results of Dottore’s wrath.  

Ink dripped down the wall where he’d thrown an almost-full bottle of the substance, staining the stone and everything else in its path.  Papers were strewn about, books dented and boxed from the force at which they were thrown (you tried not to wince at the way some of the spines were snapped and pages were bent).  Shards of porcelain and glass glittered along the floor and his desk, remnants of drinks and food among the remains.  A white coat was thrown haphazardly and laid alongside broken vials and test samples, most of which would have to be done again.

The man himself was slumped over the back of his chair from behind, as though he were looking over another’s shoulder.  His eyes were locked on the desk but they were glazed over with memory, lacking their usual sharp clarity.

You were used to his scars by now.  The map of his previous life laid bare.  

Harbingers were meant to abandon their former selves.

It felt sacrilegious, if such a thing applied, and yet a privilege all at once.

Something cracked underfoot as you took a single step forward; his mask, thrown with abandon, forgotten.  Dottore looked up, the fog of memory finally lifting from his gaze, crimson eyes as cold as blood-stained snow.

“Failure.  Complete and absolute failure.” 

He tacked on your name at the end of his sentence, dropping all pretense of titles.  After all, what power did they hold any longer in these four walls?  You knew each other as only lovers could, there was little left to hide.  

You knelt down and picked up the mask, brushing it off.  Upon inspection, the crack was only surface-level, repairable, a vein running across from the left eye, down the nose, and ending near the upper lip.  You laid it carefully upon the desk but the Harbinger made no attempt to reach for it.

“Inazuma was all but guaranteed, wasn’t it?” you asked, ignoring the will to mentally note what, exactly, would need to be reproduced now that most of his notes were ruined.

Dottore let out a derisive laugh, teeth bared.

“That’s just it, isn’t it?  It should have been.  And then some insolent Traveler snatched everything out from under us.”

He stood up and pulled his shoulders back, folding his arms behind his back as he began pacing.

“But perhaps it really isn’t that simple,” he muttered.  “Sending the Balladeer back to his homeland was a gamble, one I insisted upon.  Imagine, if you would, Archivist, a husk once intended for an Archon obtaining a Gnosis.  A puppet cast aside, too imperfect for such a divine device, defying the stars.  I was so close to finding the missing piece…”

Dottore brought his hands up and ran his fingers through his hair, tugging on the teal locks, his hands flexing as he sought his next train of thought.  He spoke quickly, trying to both process and come up with a solution, as if the latter was buried within the former.

“The Crimson Witch, defeated by an Outlander who controls elements without any kind of assistance.  Kunikuzushi is running around with a Gnosis and the capacity to become an Archon, assuming he managed to figure out how.  Years and years of carefully made plans, enacted with precision…only for betrayal and death to follow in their wake…there is no room for such imperfection…”

The weight of his words made your stomach drop.

La Signora…centuries snuffed out in an instant…

“Do be sure to cover her history, Archivist.  Rosalyne and I have… had …our differences but she was formidable and dedicated.  One did not think this day would come…least of all for the Crimson Witch of Flame.”

You stepped tentatively towards the Harbinger, careful to avoid glass and questionable substances.  His mind was elsewhere again.

“The only saving grace from Inazuma was the stock of fresh test subjects Pierro sent over.  The rest was fucking waste of time and resources.”

When you reached him, you pressed a tentative hand to his scarred cheek, not knowing what else to do or say.  The loss of two Harbingers, even if they all bickered and fought amongst themselves, was still a loss.  But there was no room for grief, to mourn.  Above all, the Gnoses must be collected.  Plans must remain in play.  That Dottore was absolutely pissed was understandable.

He leaned into the touch, posture sagging and arms falling to his sides.  For now, his rage had passed.  

“The plans for Sumeru and Fontaine cannot be anything other than absolute perfection, Archivist.”

“And they will be,” you reassured him.  “After all, aren’t failures simply prototypes for better versions?”

“One such as myself does not deserve your kindness, nor that of Nasha Tsaritsa,” Dottore whispered, his eyes locking onto yours as he cupped your hand and pressed his lips to your palm.  “Nothing lasts, Archivist.  But I am inherently selfish.  I want nothing more than to take these moments before they, too, vanish.”