✦ When they love you, but you were never theirs (part I)
(Pierro, Capitano, Pantalone, Part II to contain the rest of the Harbingers)
Tw: slight mention of stalking, angst, reader is not in a relationship with the Harbinger
✧ Pierro
You were a pristine gem, untouched by Snezhnaya’s eternal frost. They say Her Majesty the Tsaritsa’s court is as cold as her facade, numbing all who come close to her Archonhood. Yet you never faltered. Having worked as a close servant to the Tsaritsa since her youth, your skin and eyes remained a radiant contrast of warmth amongst the glacial splendor of Zapolyarny Palace. Perhaps it’s for this very reason the Tsaritsa favored you. Always tucking you closer, you were her right hand, her dutiful companion to the one who forsaken all love for her people.
In all your silent servitude, your modesty didn’t go unnoticed. The melancholic Jester, the Director of the Fatui, often comes bowing with news to her Majesty. Yet his gaze lingers little on the Archon before the throne. Instead, his head stays low, and his single visible eye stares long at the servant beside her. You spared him little notice, never personally speaking to one another. Besides, he had no business delegating to you; your servitude was with her Majesty, not the Fatui.
Pierro, nonetheless, often lingered. Was it the pretense of important Fatui matters to discuss with the Tsaritsa, or by virtue of his authority as the Director who had the privilege of an audience with the Tsaritsa? The answer was neither. The Khaenri’ahn man bowed not to bask in her Majesty’s glimmer, but to catch a glimpse of your elusive gaze. His formal visits became a frequent excuse to see you, where you stayed quiet by the icy throne.
He sought to approach you, to introduce himself formally. The warmth of your eyes was diverted as the Tsaritsa called you to fetch something. A banquet was once held in the Zapolyarny Palace, and he wished to ask for your hand in a dance. You, alas, were busy with preparation. He once hurried down the stairs to catch up to you, a bouquet of red roses held behind his back. But when he spotted you from afar, you had your arm wrapped around the man waiting to walk you back home – Your fiancé.
The Jester could only gaze with longing. His roses were for a heart that already belonged to another.
One day, a letter found its way into your hands. A premier at the Snezhnayan Grand Theater, a high-end ballet performance is debuting soon, with a singular ticket enclosed in the envelope with your name on it. When you shared the little joy with your fiancé, the two of you struggled to conclude who could’ve sent you such a fancy invitation. The simplest answer must’ve been The Tsaritsa’s court; perhaps for your hard work? Alas, when you asked her Majesty, she only silently regarded the handwriting before stating:
“From a Fool, perhaps… a true Fatuus.”
Unlikely her doing, still, you attended. The grand theater shimmered with marble columns, the halls alive with guests dressed in lavish satin and fur coats. You modestly arrived alone, feeling apprehensive of your simple presence amid such dignitaries. Eventually, when you arrived at your designated seat, you discovered it was a private booth for one. You glanced back and forth, but spotted no one.
The orchestra played forth, and the chandelier lights were dimmed. The audience surrendered themselves to the performance unfolding before them, but only one refused to observe the stage. For Pierro, the work of art was not on the ballet dancers, but on you. Your high-up booth is not much farther from his, but as always, he remained behind. In his seat, he pondered whether he should approach you after the play. Yet each time he saw you in the dim theater, gaze in awe at the Swan Lake play, his thoughts stilled entirely.
Was it the way you held your breath when the dancers pirouetted? Or the soft awe written across your face? The Jester could not know. As such, at the last minute, he decided not to disturb you by approaching; your heart was not for him to behold. The only way he could relish your warmth in this ice-striken nation was by observing you from afar, unreachable, undisturbed.
He regretted not leaving a bouquet of roses at the seat before your arrival. But he hopes your beloved would give you all the flowers he never dared to place in your hands.
✧ Il Capitano
Khaenri’ahn banners soared high up in the air, fluttering atop the ancient court that was your ancestral home. A valiant knight bowed before you, his armoured hand clasping yours as you descended the stairs. Today was a momentous day for you. A beautiful gala was hosted by your household, inviting nobles and royal servants alike to congratulate you on your recent graduation from the Universitas Magistrorum. Yet with any gala hosted by the royal family comes weeks of cumbersome preparation. And who was there to witness it all, than your own personal knight, Thrain.
The knight stood by your side since his youth, training with you in swordplay, shoulder to shoulder. You two come from different backgrounds, you of noble blood befitting of a monarch ruling Khaenri’ah, and he, a righteous young man who rose to the ranks of general, soon to be promoted Sentinel Knight. Be it knight or monarch, what mattered was that you two were inseparable - Both by duty and by heart. You two were raised together; sunlit noons were spent in the court’s garden, where Inteyvats bloomed while you two rested. Perhaps because of this shared childhood, he was appointed as your sworn knight.
He was there when your servants brought tailored outfits to match your form, he was there when your elders discussed the benefits of meeting new suitors, and he was there participating in the ball dance with you, hand in hand. His grasp, ever so reverent, would stay steady by your waist as you two practiced. Thrain followed the cadence of your footsteps, and you smiled, knowing practice was easy when he was your partner.
“Your steps are as light as ever, my dear.” – He whispered as the two of you finished the dance with a final twirl, the fabric of your outfit twirling elegantly. “Yet I sense sadness in your gaze. Is something the matter…?”
You shook your head softly. Perhaps the sheer weight of so many watchful guests threatened to fracture your natural smile. Or possibly, you felt an unexplainable sense of dread. Just as you two exchanged whispered words, the gala continued and announced the arrival of some prominent guests. Nobles bowed in succession, and your elders ushered you forward to greet a figure of particular renown: the Visionary himself, Vedrfolnir.
“The young oracle who was recently appointed to the King’s council,” – you inclined your head at the introduction, offering your hand with practiced grace as befit your class. “My congratulations. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine, your excellency. It is an honor t–”
Just as the noble Khaenri’ahn touched your palm, he froze. Thrain watched from behind you, and the motion made him uneasy. Vedrfolnir went uncharacteristically still, his gaze twitching to what could only be described as horror. As if he were peering into an unseen world. Your gentle hum called him back, and the man hastily donned a smile as though nothing had transpired.
The young knight did not like that.
Ever since then, Vederfolnir and you two became close acquaintances. Or so Thrain told himself, though everyone would say that the Visionary was now at your beck and call. What once were the days spent escorting you through the city of Khaenri’ah were now filled with Thrain walking you to meet Vederfolnir. Each passing rendezvous seemed to tighten the thread binding the two of you closer.
Duty demanded Thrain’s silence, even when he was left in the shadows behind you, while you exchanged charming smiles with the Visionary. He had to suppress his distant frown whenever the man inclined to whisper to you or when you listened so intently. Thrain felt distant, even when he was obligated to bodyguard you.
‘What drew you together so close yet so quickly?’ – Thrain wondered as he remained by the shadows of a pillar. ‘Was it because he was part of the royal court? Close to the King himself?’
Perhaps Thrain’s knighthood was nothing but a lowly status to the likes of nobility who honed their arts in alchemy and stars beyond the fermamnet. Perhaps he must grow stronger or study harder? Such thoughts of self-doubt devoured him at the late hours of the night. When he’d find himself alone, lingering behind the door of your chambers, contemplating whether to ask for your audience. Even when just a door stood between you and him now, he felt as if a chasm was growing between you two.
He wished your parents never introduced you to Vedrfolnir
One evening, at another royal gathering, where Thrain’s arm was expected to be linked with yours, you were absent from his company. This time, you were not here to dance at the ball with him, and long gone are the days of childhood when you two loved to practice waltzing. Has he become so unworthy of your company, of your grasp?
Frustrated, the knight set his complementary drink with a thud and walked around the gala to look for you. Rushing between the guests, his blue eyes could not locate you. Compelled by instinct more than propriety, he strayed beyond the grand hall and crossed into corridors meant for servants, where he caught two voices whispering:
“And you saw… all of it?”
“I told you, it sounds as bewildering as it looked to me. I think this could be destructive. If we inform King Irmi–”
“Are you mad?! No, don’t even contemplate it. That fool of a king would gouge your eyes out the moment these words are uttered.”
“But you don’t understand. I saw it, and you were there–”
Thrain made a turn and spotted you clutching Vederfolinr’s shoulder. The distance between you was perilously small, breath mingling with breath. And with shock etched across your face, one might have mistaken the scene for a stolen tryst between two teenagers. The knight’s heart sank.
“What is the meaning of this?” – Thrain spoke lowly. You shook your head, masking your previous voice of panic with the usual smile. Vedrfolnir timidly hid his flustered countenance.
“Ah, nothing at all. We just… chatted! The gala is dreadfully loud, after all.”
Thrain did not buy such an excuse, and his narrowed gaze clearly portrayed that. With a subtle gesture, he urged you to rise. His hand settled at the small of your back, firm and guiding, steering you away. Thrain cast one final, unforgiving look toward Vedrfolnir before leading you off.
The Visionary didn’t have the opportunity to tell you what he saw, nor what fate awaited the knight who now walked so closely in your shadow.
✧ Pantalone
Along the bustling streets of Liyue, where lamplight shimmered against the red stairs, and ginkgo leaves cascaded upon the winding alleyways, Pantalone stood alone on the side of the street. His gaze, dulled behind glass lenses, reflected neither the merchants nor the pedestrians that ushered to and fro. Instead, his expression remained fixed on a particular building tucked in this street. A modest sanctuary, humble in its purpose: a charity office offering shelter to those in need.
It was an unremarkable place. Orphaned children played at its doorsteps, a small community formed for the residing folk, a warm place for the lone and weary whose world left them without a Mora or a roof to spare. So why would the richest Harbinger in the world, who professed to yearn for nothing, linger at its threshold, refusing to cross its welcome?
Because the Harbinger was waiting, hoping to glimpse one person.
From the main entrance, you stepped out. You were the owner of this charitable organization, working late hours as often as you did. You did not notice the faraway eyes on you; instead, you busied yourself with the daily chores of discarding the garbage bag, cleaning the windows, and checking the mailbox.
He watched silently, never once stepping closer, even when his lips pursed into a line upon seeing you. Each detail was memorized by him, how carefully you toiled, always diligent. How you adjusted the scarf around yourself, shielding from the chill of Liyue autumn. And of course, how you handed out candies to the children who knew you from the shelter. They’d scurry and huddle around you for sweet goodies, a familiar sight he had seen many times before he bore the title of Regrator.
But today, what awaited you in the shelter’s mailbox was a letter from Northland Bank. An official note has arrived with an anonymous donation, its sum so vast it stole the breath from your lungs. At last, this place can buy newer supplies for everyone and have more than enough to spare for plenty of warm meals and warmer beds. Alas, whom can you even thank when the letter bore no name of the sender? You hurried off to tell your colleagues.
Pantalone walked away that night.
Once upon a distant time, the sight of such shelters would’ve been as common as the domineering hunger in his childhood. Rushing through the streets of Liyue, hurrying for any crumbs of food. Except back then, the owner of said shelter wasn’t you, but your father. He was the founder who initiated volunteer programs for the people in poverty, a hard-working man. Even when the shy youth was too timid to ask if they had food to spare, your father would silently hand him a warm mora meat sandwich. And you, a child yourself, had lingered nearby, offering shy smiles behind your father’s legs.
You’d often share candy with him, back then.
Morning comes, and you dress up nicely for a visit to the Northland Bank as appointed. With papers in hand, one must ask to transfer the donation to the shelter’s non-profit funds. Just when you were about to approach the receptionist at the desk, a man stepped in, courteously taking her position at work for today as she wordlessly bowed and left.
“Greeting, how may I be of service today?” – the man looked young, his smile was as polished as his pristine suit. He looked fancier than any of the bank workers today. Unfortunately for you, you did not recognize the founder of Northland Bank himself.
You nodded politely, handing him your papers. “Transfer of funds, please. To a non-profit organization.”
Pantalone regarded your papers with visible satisfaction, not once introducing himself, as he simply took the initiative of being your bank clerk for today. “Ah, to the shelter that provides for the people in need? A worthy cause, and I see the donation is much deserved. Perhaps the change in tides will be very fruitful for your organization.”
“Thank you, sir, it’s just…” You beamed, though you tried to quell your happiness. “I wish I knew who the anonymous donor was. Is there any chance, even anything, I may know whom to thank on behalf of the shelter?”
The glassed man regarded you silently for a long time. Though his smile remained as polished, his gaze harboured a silent melancholy as if he contemplated something. Alas, he cordially shook his head: “I apologize... The bank cannot disclose private information if the client decides it’s an anonymous donation. I’m afraid anonymity must be respected.”
You nodded with understanding; it was an expected answer. Just as your financial matters were settled with such a hefty sum, the man spoke again.
“On the bright side, a word of advice, if I so kindly may. Do not busy yourself with who sent it; think about what you may achieve with your work now that you have much more to spare. Perhaps someone noticed your hard work, and things are paying off as deserved.”
You stared at the courteous man, his tone softer as he handed your documents and checks back. In a fleeting moment of familiarity, you stared at him, pondering if you had seen him somewhere. Yet behind those silver glasses and charming face, you couldn’t put a name, even when he let you gaze at him for far too long.
“Mhm, I… thank you, sir. Have a nice day.”
Thus, with nothing but polite smiles and words, you left. While Pantalone stood behind the marble counter of the bank, never daring to speak up, never daring to voice the cracking of his being when you failed to recognize him. Hence, even in his deafening silence, the Harbinger decided it was better not to voice it; why must he burden you with the past? His real name matters no longer, because now stood The Regrator, not the farmished boy you’d remember. His pride would not let him soil that one untouched part of his past - and that is you.
What mattered now is that everything you or your family ever gave him in times of need can now be repaid in double. A silent debt he vowed to repay once he gathered riches far beyond a mere mortal. Even if it was more than double what he owes, he knew this Mora would be of much better use in your hands, so no child would walk another day hungry or cold in your care. If adoration must remain unrecognized, then let it exist as this: a silent vow, fulfilled in gold and absence alike.
Part I, because I still wish to write the rest for the other Harbingers later (Dottore, Scaramouche, Tartaglia). Don’t worry, I did not forget them; it will be made in the future. I hate how long each segment turned out, but I had this idea for a long while and wanted to write a separate one-shot for Pantalone for a loooong while. Will have to figure out a better way to make it short yet still interesting to read.
