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Ekaterina is first assigned to Tartaglia when he is fourteen and freshly minted as a warrior on the track to becoming the youngest Harbinger.
“Just watch him,” she is told, and so she does, spending these years as a glorified babysitter. They are not that different in age. She holds above him a little more in years and a lot more in the ways of the Fatui. At first, she pities him, babies him a little. Fusses over his ornery nature and those hackles raised on the back of his neck. He is a child, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, or how he’s being conditioned. No doubt too young and sweet to understand what the military does to a person, the sorts of people that it breeds.
And then she tags along on an outing disguised as a training mission and sees him brutally slaughter their targets.
Single-handedly. Delights in the rage that spears through him, in the way that their bones crack under his palm, how his fingers slick wet with vermillion. Gone is the child she thought she knew, replaced with a tempest of blood-red hatred, battle lust, and unseeing eyes that seek only violence. The rest of their company stands by, watching with calculated gazes. Mouths set into thin lines and soft, murmured words as they knock their heads together.
“Are you taking notes?” asks Pulcinella. Not unkindly, but his voice is cold all the same, detached, like Cryo slime sliding down the back of her neck. Ekaterina shivers at the words and sets to work, notating every punch and shout. The way that Tartaglia chases the others down to continue on, even when they’re long dead. A flick of his wrist, blood spraying, and then he’s on to the next.
Ekaterina doesn’t feel pity anymore, but she cannot stop staring.
Pulcinella catches her gaze and thumbs his chin. “Are you scared?”
Most would be. Instead, Ekaterina looks at Pulcinella and says with a small bow, “Lord Harbinger, I am thankful to serve such a powerful boy.”
Pulcinella's mouth twitches into a subtle grin that most would have missed.
#
Ekaterina is the only person that Tartaglia invites to see his round of Trials.
The process is simple enough: a candidate is tossed into an arena and chaos is unleashed. If they survive to the end, they are crowned. Many have qualified and only ten have lived to shoulder such a heavy burden.
She isn’t scared for him; she knows the darkness that lurks underneath his skin. Tartaglia has never talked about it, never revealed exactly where he came from, but Ekaterina has seen the push and pull of whatever haunts him. Darkness curdles the air around him and he waves it away, unconcerned.
But, sweat beads his brow, and it isn’t just the anticipation, or the promise of blood. He stands there in the arena, dirt crusting his well-polished boots, cape curling about him as he regards the judges with that damned smile of his.
“You seem confident,” says Pulcinella.
“Am I ever anything but?” He is not. Everyone knows it, is tired of it, even.
“Candidates always are.” The voice is soft, subtle. Icy-cold and dripping with the sort of command that clears the heavy air of a room. Everyone holds a breath as the Tsaritsa speaks from where she sits in the stands on a frost-tipped throne of her making. “But look at where such confidence takes them. There hasn’t been a victor in this arena in over a century.”
The Tsaritsa’s gaze thins, though she smiles. She taps at her mouth, head tilted as she regards Tartaglia with uncharacteristic fondness. The expression is unusual, from what little Ekaterina has seen of their beloved Archon. And it is directed at Tartaglia alone.
“Your boldness is noted,” she continues, “and appreciated.”
The challenge is set to begin. Pulcinella, Il Capitano, and Pierro sit on the panel of judges, all three hand-picked and unbiased.
“Prepare yourself, then,” says Capitano, waving a hand. “We’ll allow you that much.”
Ekaterina doesn’t know what to expect, but it is not to see Tartaglia morph into a hideous beast. Abyssal taint swirls around him so powerfully that even she can feel the way that it thrums in the air, oppressive and heavy, weighing upon her chest, triggering that fight-or-flight in her core. The hair on her neck stands on end when Tartaglia laughs, voice distorted behind a gruesome mask.
It is unexpected. The room is so quiet a pin drop could be heard, and then—
“Halt,” says the Tsaritsa right before they unleash whatever is behind door number one. Her gaze turns cool, discerning, as her gaze shifts onto Tartaglia. She taps her cold fingers against the arm of the throne as she thinks. “We knew, of course. Your little trip into the Abyss is not a secret.”
Even Ekaterina knew, having glimpsed mentions of it in paperwork.
“We did not realize—” Pulcinella cuts himself off as he considers his next words.
“A monster,” says Capitano then. “Perfect.”
It is decided that this fact alone is enough for them. Tartaglia becomes the first Harbinger picked outright, forgoing the trials entirely. Ekaterina wonders just what that smirk on the Tsaritsa’s face is.
Later, that night, Tartglia lies in his bed slick in a cold sweat, moaning as the Abyssal taint leaks through his being. A clear result of using that nasty power that lurks underneath his skin.
It is her first time seeing him like this, so frail, so pale. He groans, breath hitching as he swims in his dreams, half-dozing through nightmares. It is not with pity that she reaches out and presses a damp towel to his forehead, it is with care. Tartaglia is barely a man, still a child dressed to the nines in a uniform that is too big. He swims about in britches that he cannot yet fill.
Panicked, he grabs at her wrist with a grip so tight she’s certain the bone cracks. He jolts awake, eyes wide with fear. Lacking that sinister, empty depth that he’s often associated with. He stares at her, blinking away the confusion. “Katya,” he says quietly, calmly, affectionately.
He has never called her that before.
He continues to do so afterward.
#
Ekaterina is the first subordinate hand-picked by Tartaglia himself, and she is the only one to faithfully stay.
Years pass in what feels like the blink of an eye, and they find themselves with a new missive—settle into Liyue and reign chaos onto its people. To find Morax and steal his Gnosis, bringing a new set of Celestia-gifted power to their Tsaritsa, beloved.
Tartaglia adopts the moniker Childe and sinks into his role with flair and ease. He’s always been friendly, capable, and well-liked. It is only the Fatui that fear him because they’ve seen his moods, his wild and unpredictable bouts. Ekaterina is the only one who knows that all that lurks underneath that Abyssal horror is a boy who’s still scared of the dark.
Of course, she keeps this in confidence.
Time floats by in the form of bank notes, loan-sharking, and too-long lunches spent in the company of one refined funeral consultant. Ekaterina has never seen Tartaglia so distracted, but she is thankful. Mr. Zhongli is a fine man and seemingly, a true friend.
Even if his eyes glow gold, glittering in the night, and he’s clearly an adeptus.
One day, Ekaterina watches as Tartaglia slumps in his chair with a sigh, rubbing at his face, tired and beat. She’s never seen such weariness tug at his bones, not even during their arguably worse missions. Liyue is quiet. Calm, even. Small-fry compared to the other kinds of bidding he’s done in the past.
And yet, he’s more exhausted than he’s ever been before.
She shuffles closer. “Sir? Would you like tea?” He’s opted for a subtler brew lately, than his usual firewater. It is an amusing change, but she likes the way that it’s tempered his demeanor into something calmer, more malleable. Tartaglia grunts softly, waving in agreement.
It is muscle memory for her now. Mr. Zhongli was kind enough to show her the correct way, and ever since she’s gained an appreciation for preparing tea properly. “Your itinerary tomorrow, my lord,” she says to him as she boils the water and pinches the leaves. “Should I clear time for your usual lunch?”
Ekaterina already knows the answer, but she likes the way that Tartaglia’s face softens at the thought of Mr. Zhongli. The other Harbingers do not allow themselves to get swept up in things like feelings. They’ve all but forfeited what little humanity they have left.
The irony is not lost on her.
“Ah, yes,” he says. “Thank you, Katya.”
When she drops the tea before him, she continues with, “Mr. Zhongli gave these leaves to me.”
His expression, then, shifts into something different, something more. She blinks as she regards him. Kindness and affection are elementary things.
It is then that she realizes Tartaglia has fallen in love.
#
Ekaterina has seen Tartaglia in the midst of many moods over her years of service, but nothing quite like this.
He is sullen, angry, hurt, and betrayed. The mere mention of Mr. Zhongli is enough for him to throw a paperweight. Or leave to go crack a few heads. He busies himself late into the night as a distraction, and he lets others beat him bloody because he thinks that he deserves it.
It is tiring to watch, and even more exhausting to clean up his messes, and so, she says something on one such night.
“Talk to him.”
Tartaglia flinches in her grasp, wincing as the needle and thread she uses to stitch up his face pull tight with a stuttering drag. “Katya—”
“Don’t Katya me.” Rarely is she so firm with him. She can count the instances on her hand, but this feels more important than the rest. “The others have had it with your moodiness, but they won’t say anything.” Because they cannot escape Tartaglia’s wrath. Ekaterina can.
Tartaglia snorts. His fingers dig into the fabric of his trousers, clenching. He remains silent as she resumes her neat patch-up job. “Will it leave a scar?” he finally asks. He always asks that, voice lilting in wonder.
“He likes scars,” she says. “He likes your scars.”
He doesn’t refute it. They have never talked about this, not outright. Tartaglia isn’t the sort of man to seek out advice, and Ekaterina does not give it unasked.
And yet, in a rare moment of immense vulnerability, he says, “I miss him. I’m angry, I’m so, so angry, but fuck, I miss him.” His head dips and he presses his forehead against her chest, cheek cradled by the soft kindness of her breast. She stands there, quiet and still. “Katya,” he murmurs, “I love him. How unfair is that?”
Ekaterina knows that it is unfair. Tartaglia is a Harbinger and Harbingers do not love. The only affection they carry is for their beloved Tsaritsa who sits primly on her throne, control and power obsolete. She expects devout loyalty.
Tartaglia offers treason, instead.
She sighs, dropping the needle and thread to his messy desk. She curls her fingers through his hair sweetly, petting through it as though his sister might. “I know,” she says, scratching over his scalp and letting him sob against her. “Oh, honey, I know.”
#
There are a very select few who know of Tartaglia’s true name, a well-kept secret that he keeps close and well-hidden.
Ekaterina knows because she was there before he was ever Tartaglia, Eleventh of the Harbingers, wildest tempest of the bitter-cold Snezhnayan seaside.
And so, it is a surprise to hear Mr. Zhongli say it one afternoon. “Ajax,” he says, turning to him in the market. He utters it quietly. Reverently, even, face turned towards Tartaglia and dipped a little too close.
And Tartaglia— oh, that look on his face. The way that his mouth twitches into a grin, and he laughs softly, reaching out to curl his fingers around Mr. Zhongli’s wrist, thumbing over the dip and curve of the bone there.
She knows they’ve shared a talk. They’ve resumed their lunches, and now share dinners too. She ignored her spies' observations that Tartaglia’s apartment has mostly been untouched as of late, dark at night, entirely sterile. These are not the traits of just friends, which is what all of her carefully penned reports say.
Ekaterina feels as though she is intruding and makes herself scarce.
But, it is not without a smile.
#
It is not Tartaglia’s father that Mr. Zhongli approaches first, it is Ekaterina.
“He is all that I want,” he says to her, that deep voice of his woefully lost in affection. The way that his mouth tilts, how his eyes crinkle when he talks about Tartaglia; Ekaterina can’t help but swoon herself. “I have so little left in this life, but I have him. Miss Ekaterina, do you think that he would marry me? Would you allow me to ask?”
Liyue has always been warm, but there is nothing quite like the heat that settles through her chest as she thinks about it. Tartaglia has never known such kindness, not even with his own family. Not even with her, though she has tried.
Mr. Zhongli’s hand is warm when she takes it, and his smile could quake the earth if he wasn’t so old, so utterly poised and restrained.
“Let us make a plan,” is what she replies.