Chapter Text
Tartaglia often dreamed of fighting on a battlefield. Every time it happened, he woke drenched in cold sweat and spent several minutes lying in bed, trying to calm his frantically pounding heart. The nightmare felt so convincing that it took him a moment to understand where he was—in reality, in his own bed, or still asleep, surrounded by a hundred shadows in which one could barely make out human figures. Darkness pressed in from all sides, and it seemed as though one wrong step would drag him into the void along with the endless stream of enemies, a place from which he would never return. And so, this time too, Tartaglia found himself in the middle of a raging battle.
Chaos reigned around him. Untiring, the shadows attacked one another again and again, clashing and parting in an endless fight; only the flashes of elemental explosions distinguished one combatant from another. Tartaglia did not hesitate for even a second: his blades cut through the air with a whistle as he threw himself into the thick of the battle, scattering everyone in his path. Strike, strike, strike! The chaos of the fighting swiftly intoxicated him, and the thirst for blood drove him to madness, compelling him to bury his blades into his opponents with ever-greater force—invisible, intangible, faceless. He could not tell who he was fighting, could not distinguish where he was striking, yet he knew: he had to destroy them all, or else…
At that moment, a gust of icy wind wrenched Tartaglia free from the grip of the nightmare.
He drew a sharp breath and opened his eyes. The frosty air immediately filled his lungs, chasing away the remnants of sleep. The details of the dream dissolved in his memory like snow, leaving behind a feeling of hollowness and inexplicable dread. Gulping air like a drowning man, Tartaglia sat up in bed and tried to steady himself. He always felt battered after a hard fight, yet now it seemed as though a herd of mitachurls had trampled him. His body ached as if he had truly battled someone through the entire night. Gradually, the fear that had seized him in sleep receded, replaced by relief: this was merely another nightmare. He was home, in Snezhnaya—safe.
He was still alive.
That thought cleared his mind a little, and Tartaglia became aware of how bitterly cold the room was: in the time he had spent sitting there trying to catch his breath, his skin had already prickled with goosebumps. He rose slowly from the bed and crossed to the window. Through a thin crack in the shutters, wind crept into the room, making him shiver even beneath the blanket he had draped over his shoulders; he had to shift from foot to foot to keep his bare heels from going numb. Tartaglia quickly swept a fistful of snow from the windowsill and pulled the shutters closed: he was accustomed to the constant cold of his home region, but he had no wish to catch a chill. To warm himself at least a little, he moved to the fireplace, whose undying flame gave off a dismally meager heat—but then, what else could one expect from a fire kindled by the Cryo Archon? Even so, that little warmth felt like a sip of life after the long sleep where there had been nothing but cold and darkness. Only then could he say he was fully awake.
Tonight was his last night in Snezhnaya before he set out on his mission to Liyue. In truth, he should have left several days ago, but, as luck would have it, a blizzard had struck: snow had buried all the roads of the capital, preventing carriages from passing, and the drifts reached almost to the windows of the ground floors, trapping people inside. In weather like this, it was the custom in Snezhnaya to gather with one's family around the hearth and eat warming tomato soup, but Tartaglia could not afford such a luxury. In the Zapolyarny Palace, where he was staying, there was neither warmth nor anyone dear to him—only ice, boredom, and endless solitude.
He had left for the capital the moment he received the Tsaritsa's letter—simply because he could no longer sit idle, whiling away the time with endless drills that had no purpose without a real opponent. Tartaglia had been tormented by a hunger for battle, a hunger to do something useful for his Archon; now, at last, he had a chance to prove himself in action. He knew: wherever the Tsaritsa sent him, he would certainly be able to find a worthy rival—after all, that was why he had become a Harbinger.
The moment he entered the palace, Tartaglia felt the breath of absolute cold wrap around his body, immobilizing him instantly. Everything was coated in such a thick layer of ice that it seemed as though he had found himself in a cave somewhere in the mountains of Snezhnaya, rather than in the Archon's residence. Behind that thickness of ice, it was impossible to make out the frescoes that had once adorned the walls. Tartaglia involuntarily slowed his pace: when he had first entered the Tsaritsa's service, he had studied every one of those paintings with care, missing no detail. The frescoes did not merely recount the history of Snezhnaya—they proclaimed the Tsaritsa's greatness, setting the course of her reign for years to come. Now they were gone: dissolved into the ice along with the stories they had held. That same ice covered the massive doors of the throne room. Before Tartaglia could knock, they swung open on their own, shattering the ice that sealed them with a crack. He had no choice—shivering with cold, he slowly stepped inside.
The Tsaritsa was waiting for him in the throne room—as cold and empty as the rest of the palace. She sat so motionless that she resembled her own statue, gazing indifferently down from a height upon all who entered. A shiver ran through Tartaglia, but this time not from the cold: her mere presence stirred in him a blend of fear and awe. Against her, even the tallest mortal would inevitably feel insignificant—a pitiful ant beneath the feet of the Cryo Archon. Unchangingly majestic, she waited patiently as Tartaglia drew closer. All the while he crossed the frozen floor, barely daring to breathe, her attentive eyes—colorless as shards of ice—never left him. At journey's end his legs gave way, and Tartaglia, bowing his head, sank to his knees before the steps of the throne.
"Child. Here you are at last. As ever, you have not kept me waiting."
Her voice betrayed no emotion. It seemed as though nothing in the world could move her, yet Tartaglia knew: that was an illusion—most of those who had witnessed the Tsaritsa in anger were either dead or whiling away their days in one of Snezhnaya's prisons. The Cryo Archon knew how to be merciless toward those who defied her will—and, conversely, how to reward generously those who served her faithfully.
"I have called you here to remind you of our mission. Surely you have not forgotten why I accepted you into my service? The time has come to prove your worth and fulfill the oath of a Harbinger. You must travel to Liyue and obtain the Gnosis of the Geo Archon."
In surprise, Tartaglia lifted his head and, forgetting himself, looked directly at the Tsaritsa.
"The Gnosis of the Geo Archon? But, Your Majesty, is it even possible—to take an Archon's Gnosis?"
Her eyes flashed dangerously.
"Of course it is. It is merely a trinket, a relic of the past that must be disposed of. I would not give you this mission if I were not certain you could carry it out. You will not disappoint me, Child?"
Tartaglia trembled so violently that he had to clench his fists tightly to hide the excitement that had overtaken him. How long he had waited for this: the Tsaritsa herself had entrusted him with a mission! Not some other Harbinger, but him, Tartaglia!
"Your Majesty, I will do everything in my power."
"I am counting on it. This time, we cannot afford to fail."
Tartaglia had no idea what defeat the Tsaritsa was referring to, but he respectfully bowed his head all the same.
"Should you encounter difficulties, you may always turn to our people. Liyue has a branch of the Northland Bank—they will help you settle in and provide funds for any incidental expenses. I will inform them of your arrival. Now go—the nearest ship departs at dawn, and until then a room is at your disposal. May the blizzard not stand in your way!"
"And may the stars guide us to victory!"
Tartaglia quickly rose; from the long kneeling on the frozen floor his legs had gone numb, and he stumbled slightly as he headed toward the exit. Without looking back, he walked down the corridor, past the countless rooms in which there was not a soul, past arches and doorways, toward the room he remembered had been set aside for him. In earlier days he might have asked one of the servants to show him the way, but lately the Tsaritsa had turned her palace into an impregnable fortress, admission to which was reserved for Harbingers and the generals of the Fatui who were closest to her—those whom she could trust with the secrets kept within these walls. One such as the Tsaritsa required no guards: no one in Snezhnaya would dare oppose her might. Right now, judging by the deafening silence of the frozen rooms, there was no one in the palace but Tartaglia—everyone had dispersed on their respective assignments. All the better: he could prepare for the journey in peace. Ordinarily, the moment he heard anyone's voices, Tartaglia would duck into the nearest passage—he had no desire to exchange the same official pleasantries with people he could barely stand.
After several minutes of wandering through identical corridors, Tartaglia finally noticed a familiar symbol on one of the doors: the Whale of the Sky—his emblem. This was the room where he always stayed when he came to the palace. It differed from the neighboring rooms only in the view from its window; in every other respect, its furnishings exactly replicated those of the other Harbingers' quarters. The room held a writing desk, a fireplace, a washstand, a wardrobe, and a narrow bed in the corner—nothing in the way of entertainment save for the view of the snow-covered capital. And so that was how Tartaglia had passed the time, effectively imprisoned in the thoroughly frozen room, waiting for the blizzard to end. Now and then he ventured to the deserted kitchen to cobble together something resembling soup from the few provisions stored there—the taste hardly mattered. If he had had his way, Tartaglia would gladly have rented a room in any inn in the city, even the cheapest, but his rank as a Harbinger obliged him to maintain appearances: after all, not every mortal is granted the honor of visiting the Zapolyarny Palace, let alone receiving a private room there. For that alone he ought to be forever grateful to the Tsaritsa and her grace.
Pulled from his recollections, Tartaglia warmed his hands by the fire one last time, then pulled the blanket more tightly around himself and returned to bed. Of course, he felt a little sad to be leaving Snezhnaya—he had grown used to its icy expanses and conifer forests, its never-freezing lakes and snow-buried villages. In the end, this was his homeland: cold, cheerless, but a homeland nonetheless. He had already gone three months without seeing his family, living constantly in the Fatui encampment and drilling recruits—who knew how long this journey would last? Still, he had never yet let the Tsaritsa down, which meant the Gnosis of the Geo Archon would eventually be in his hands—it was only a matter of time. Tartaglia was already picturing how proudly he would stride into the throne room to present the Gnosis to the Tsaritsa in person; and if he should happen to face the Geo Archon himself in battle…
With such thoughts, Tartaglia drifted off to sleep—and when he woke in the morning, he was pleased to find bright rays of sunlight pressing through the shutters, bathing his cheerless room in light. Looking out the window, he saw that the drifts covering the streets had at last melted away, and carts and carriages had once again begun to move through the city.
He wasted not a moment: after washing his face with water left over from the previous evening—so cold that his skin immediately tightened from the chill—Tartaglia wrapped himself in his fur coat, wound a long scarf around his neck and shoulders, and hurried out of the frozen palace he had come to loathe during those days of solitude and unrelenting tedium. The longing that had gnawed at his soul the night before now felt distant and almost imperceptible, replaced by confidence in what lay ahead: he would fulfill the Tsaritsa's mission—there could be no other outcome. Tartaglia would not have been himself if he had allowed something as trifling as bad weather to knock him off course. And so, resolved to victory, he hailed a passing carriage, handed the driver a pouch of Mora, and asked to be taken to the harbor.
When he reached the docks and checked the ship schedules, he discovered that the only passenger vessel bound for Liyue had just departed, but a small barge was being readied to sail—merchants from Snezhnaya used it to carry their wares. Had another Harbinger been in Tartaglia's place, he would surely have made a scene: traveling in a plain, fish-reeking cabin like some ordinary sailor—what could be more humiliating? Tartaglia, however, was not particular: what did it matter what the ship looked like, as long as it got him to Liyue? Besides, it was hardly wise to draw attention to himself by parading in a Harbinger's uniform before ordinary people. To the people of Liyue he was just one of the Fatui, come to strengthen ties with the region—let nothing shatter that image.
While the sailors finished their preparations, Tartaglia had just enough time to take a last stroll along the shore, as if saying farewell to it, and to eat at a dockside tavern: a fish chowder filled him up and gave him strength enough to endure the long voyage to the other end of the continent. He then boarded the ship, and when it set off he watched the snow-covered wharf receding, slowly turning into a white stripe on the horizon.
Tartaglia spent almost the entire journey on deck: admiring the passing scenery, breathing in the salty sea air, watching the azure waves crash against the stern. Water had always calmed him—it reminded him of his home village and of childhood fishing trips to the lake with his father. From those distant days only the feeling of boundless calm and peace remained: emotions Tartaglia had not experienced since he became a Harbinger. Watching the ship move through the waves with such assurance, he could not help but feel a surge of strength: nothing would stop him on his way to his goal.
The farther they sailed from Snezhnaya, the warmer the air became; the clouds that had recently covered the sky cleared at last, and the sun shone so brightly that Tartaglia, unaccustomed to such a climate, longed to find shelter from its scorching rays. He had to go below decks to leave his fur coat and change into lighter clothing. By the time he returned to the upper deck, the rocky shores of Liyue had already appeared in the distance.
Tartaglia pressed against the rail and stared, transfixed, at the unfamiliar land slowly rising from beyond the horizon. He had heard much about the region, about its countless mountains and ruins, but he could never have imagined that Liyue would turn out to be so lush: instead of bare rock, rolling green cliffs stretched before him. If Snezhnaya's dominant color was undeniably white, here Tartaglia saw the full range of the palette: golden sands along the coast, vivid orange treetops, emerald grass on the clifftops, and the piercing blue of the waves—nothing like the scenery he was used to! Even Mondstadt, whose shores they had recently passed, had nothing like this abundance of color: just rock and sand.
When the ship entered the harbor, Tartaglia was surprised to count at least three other vessels flying familiar flags, belonging to various minor merchants from Snezhnaya. He vaguely recalled something he had once heard about Liyue: the city had always attracted those who dreamed of making a bit of money. But did these people truly love the Tsaritsa? Tartaglia doubted that anything troubled them beyond profit—and for that reason he despised from the bottom of his heart those who left Snezhnaya for the illusory chance of getting rich. He would never have traded service to the Tsaritsa for such base ideals.
The ship finally docked, and Tartaglia, briefly thanking the captain on behalf of the Harbingers and asking the sailors to take his belongings to the bank, stepped onto the pier. The very instant he took his first step on the wet planks of the wharf, he suddenly sensed someone's intent gaze upon him. Like a chill creeping over his skin, an inexplicable premonition made Tartaglia spin around sharply—a shadow flickered in the crowd and immediately dissolved among the harbor workers hurrying to and fro, as if it had never been. For several seconds Tartaglia stared tensely into the crowd, though he himself could not entirely explain who he was trying to spot. His heart beat so fast it seemed about to burst from his chest. No, he could not have imagined it—someone was definitely watching him. His hunter's instinct was too well developed: it was always useful to sense one's enemy and know whether that enemy might try to strike from behind. But how was this possible? Only the ship's crew and the bank employees knew of his arrival in Liyue; had the representatives wished to meet him, they would not have skulked cowardly behind others.
Suppressing with difficulty the urge to draw his blades and immediately give chase, Tartaglia scanned the pier one more time, but noticed nothing suspicious: the dock workers moved between the berths as before, carrying crates and cargo, while the sailors readied their ships to sail—in all that bustle, no one paid any attention to a Harbinger standing motionless in the middle of the wharf.
Who, then, had been watching him? And, most importantly—why?
He decided for now not to dwell on that question. In the course of his life he had been through many battles and knew: if an enemy had wanted to strike, he would have done so at the first opportunity. As long as an adversary remained in the shadows, there was nothing to fear—and in open combat, Tartaglia had no equal.
With that thought to fortify him, he walked confidently up to a sailor standing nearby and asked:
"Excuse me, could you tell me how to get to the bank?"