Chapter Text
Fischl is used to departing from Mondstadt alone. Her track record for solo missions is only second to Bennett: a fact that would have been impressive, if not pitiable. Her goodbyes had been short and unsentimental. Adventurer guildmates don’t ask many questions; they know that expeditions could sometimes take them out of the region, for months at a time. A transfer of branch was nothing to bat an eye at. Oz doesn’t like it- but he has disagreed with her many a time. He will still follow her into hellfire.
She’s not alone this time.
As the jostling cart rolls further into Northern Mondstadt, Fischl sneaks a peek at the woman shadowed by the brim of a conical hat. Mona has a constipated look on her face, more than she usually does. Silent and surly as her company is- and as temporary- Fischl appreciates it.
She hadn’t expected the Knights of Favonius to be involved. As usual, her gut was correct. Despite the fact that the Spark knight was ostensibly a child, the Acting Grandmaster’s stance on true child endangerment was unshakable. It was one of the reasons she preferred the guild- with risk came greater freedom. No matter how Mona might see it, Fischl might be young, but she wasn’t a child. Officially, it’s not a Favonius delegation.
Youth go missing all the time. Runaways, recruitments, kidnappings- The Mondstadt underground intelligence network knows better, especially if the Fatui are involved. Only 2 years prior was the Black Fire Incident, leaving two dead, and the truth hidden from the public. Rumors of human experimentation involving the residue of fallen gods, cybernetically enhanced soldiers, and an underground Fatui fighting ring called Haeresys. Investigations into these have been ongoing for years, but this- this is the riskiest operation yet. Because no-one’s insane enough to walk into the lion’s den itself.
“Ellin’s missing,” Kaeya had said. “We suspect Fatui involvement, despite the lack of evidence tracing back to them.”
“They’re sending you?!” Rosaria had scoffed, appearing late at her doorstep one night.
“I beg you. Please find my daughter,” Herman had begged, and that had been the tipping point.
Her mother and father had said nothing at all. They were out of town, on an expedition for the next month out to Fontaine. She had briefly considered sending a letter- but decides, No, they will find out when it suits them. Either way, it had been Mona who had helped her carry her bags northward, helped her gather her things at the border, waited with her for the train that will take her to the Snezhnayan capital.
It’s not winter, not yet, but it will be soon. It’s already cold enough that their breath is visible, pouring from their mouths like steam from a kettle. Fischl shivers, pulling the coat Mona has lent her tighter, and huddles against the woman’s shoulder. Her hands ache- she’d burned them a few weeks earlier being careless, and they were yet to be fully healed. Mona is unusually silent, no doubt in one of her sporadic spells of contemplation.
“You don’t have to do this,” Mona says. Maybe if there had been something in her vision Fischl would have considered it. Fischl’s only response is to shake her head.
“Do not fret, Lady Magistus! Not one among my retinue is better suited to infiltration than I. I beseech you to have faith in both your Prinzessin, and the utterance of fated reunions.”
“This isn’t a joke, Fischl!” Mona’s voice is trembling with something other than anger. “You have no idea what that organization is capable of.”
Fischl’s not dressed in her royal garments, but rather a simple Mondstadt style dress, hair adorned with one of Fischl’s black ribbons she couldn’t bare to part with. Once on that train, she will be playing the part of ‘Amy’, not Fischl. That nobility with be with her in spirit only. She wishes she could summon Oz, if only to quell the bout of the nervousness that seeps up from within and to answer in her stead, but Oz is too distinctive here. And besides, it is high time she stopped relying so much on him.
Amy says, “Quit your mother-Henning. If I don’t go, someone…someone else will have to.”
She knows why it must be her. She has both the eyes and the mobility to glean the most from the city, and the ability to travel by sky if she needs to flee. Oz’s form is difficult to confine. Call it arrogance, or self-entitlement, but she’s glad it’s her. There’s a part that needs its role to be filled, and while she is far from the strongest Mondstadt has to offer, this mission doesn’t need a warrior.
Mona’s lower jaw trembles, fists clenching the fabric of her woolen cloak. She surges forwards suddenly to wrap her in a hug. Fischl returns it, equally fierce. The harsh whistle of an engine sounds into the evening, but they do not pull away. Only when the conductor calls out to the loose crowd of gathered bodies, and the final call to board is heralded, do they part.
Fischl takes her two suitcases and steels her back. They contain only a few spare changes of clothing, a few thin volumes of her favorite novels, a hefty pouch of mora, and a thick vial of a violet liquid for the ‘worst case scenario.’ Not a poison, she’s sure, but something that will amplify electro abilities to the point that it might as well be. 10 times the usual strength of what Timaeus usually made.
If all goes well, she will never have to use it. She is not here to draw attention, nor instigate anything that could be detrimental to Mondstadt’s safety. Ellin’s disappearance, harsh as it may be, was not of utmost priority. With the Abyss order only growing stronger and the tenuous agreement with the Fatui becoming strained, it was clear why it would be favorable for the Knights to delegate this to a third party. And if it turned out that Ellin had joined the Fatui of her own accord- then there is nothing to be done.
When Mona is but a silhouette in the distance, Fischl drops her bags in the aisle seat and sinks into the cushion near the window. She’s taking the whole booth this way, but that’s on purpose.
When an older gentleman, near twice her age, attempts to brush into the seat opposite her, she sticks out a heel and gives her best poisonous glare. A young lady, travelling alone- she knows what he’s thinking- she doesn’t need to be an investigator to know that. A spark runs down her leg, and he jumps back as if stung. He tips his hat over greying hair, perhaps a shade blue at one point, and hurries away.
Fischl’s left alone after that. She occupies herself with the sight of the Snezhnayan tundra outside the window, and the last remnants of sunlight disappearing over the horizon. When she gets sick of that, she takes out one of her novels and begins to read.
She wonders if she should have prayed to the statue of Barbatos before she left.
---
Coviello, Coviello, sitting in a tree.
Coviello, Coviello, counting to three.
One for the spinster
Two for the moor.
Three for the haberdasher, who will be four?
Peck peck peck, there goes your sight!
Ol Coviello is feasting tonight.
- A collection Shneznayan nursery rhymes for children, Vol. IV
---
The first dining cart rolls by shortly after midnight. This compartment is by no means first class, so Fischl is greeted by a shambling, squeaking little thing, laden with a pitcher of clouded water, and a few dark bottles of an unidentified liquid. The aged cart-pusher glares at her out of one, glaucomic eye, liver spotted hands resting on the steel bar.
“Refreshments?” he grunts. Fischl shakes her head, wordless. She guesses they must be at least halfway across the continent by now, a few more hours until the capital. She only has her pouch of mora to sustain her entire trip, there was no point in wasting it here.
The Cart-pusher gives her a disgruntled look, and continues onward. Before he can, the compartment door bursts open and in stumbles a gaggle of woman. They are Fatui, judging by their uniforms. She and Oz have faced some of their type before- although considerably more put together. Purple robes in disarray, masks partway off- they are clearly intoxicated beyond belief. The first of the pack near falls into the seat across from her, smiling against the window as her friend all but tumbles into her lap.
“Another round!” she crows to the cart-pusher, who shakes his head in disgust. He begins pouring out something from the brown bottles, clear liquid sloshing into short, thick-based glasses.
The other one, pressed into the window, squints at Fischl, as if just noticing their booth was just occupied. Her long coat is open, revealing the skin tight blue bodice hugging her curves. Her hat was left dangling by a cord around her neck. Fischl looks away quickly.
“Huuuh?! You’re pretty cute, love, where you from?” she slurs, as the shot glasses are set on the table before them.
“Stupid Lushka, we’re on a train headed from Mondstadt,” her friend giggles leaning against her shoulder. “Ask for her name.”
“Oh right.”
“Amy,” she says quickly, smiling tightly, “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Patova.” She’s dressed in emerald green, black hair pulled back in a simple high ponytail. Sitting on the top of her head is a grey eye mask, edges lined with red. By design? Or from something else? Patova grabs a glass from the table and swirls its contents. Fischl edges back as her space is invaded yet again by a small girl in a purple hood, who pushes her suitcase off the seat to perch in the seat beside her.
“Anya! Rude!” Patova exclaims, but the small girl is already picking up two glasses, and shoves one into Fischl’s lap.
“Drink with us, friend,” Anya giggles, putting an arm around Fischl’s shoulders. It’s all happening very quickly, and Fischl is beginning to feel overwhelmed. The word Friend sets off a warm buzz in the back of her neck, and despite it coming from complete strangers, it’s a pleasant feeling. She grips the glass with both hands. It’s definitely something alcoholic. The Fatui women are watching her, almost expectantly.
The Prinzessin der Verurteilung doesn’t fear anything. She downs the shot in one quick gulp.
The Vodka burns. Her throat feels raw without relief, and she chokes a few seconds later to the sound of raucous laughter. It’s not mocking, however, and she takes comfort in that. Anya slaps her back as she splutters.
“I like her,” Anya says. “Let’s invite her.”
“Are you sure? That’s suppose to be Fatui only. She’s not even a recruit.”
“So? Don’t be a party pooper Lushka.”
A Fatui only event? Fischl wasn’t even in the capital and an ‘in’ had already fallen into her lap. There was no formal instructions she had been given- she had been free to pursue leads on Ellin any way she wished- but it was all but implied that she would not get very far outside of the Fatui ranks. The simplest, and easiest way to find the missing woman’s whereabouts was too, well- join the Fatui itself.
Fischl was aware of how dangerous an organization it was. She had heard of their exploits, whispers of the horrors that were traced back to them. A turmor spreading over Tevat.
A Harbinger stole Barbatos’ gnosis.
A Harbinger unleashed an ancient God upon Liyue.
Did you hear? They were behind the vision hunt decree.
Fischl’s hatred of them is not as personal as some of her fellow citizens, her friends, her people. Archon forbid if a new Fatui stationed in Mondstadt wandered into the Angels’ share. Her hatred is more abstract, like one might hate a natural disaster, or an unfortunate draw of fate. So when she meets Anya’s unfocused gaze, a buzz beginning to spread to her fingertips, her mask is perfect.
“Not a recruit… yet,” she finishes with a flourish, folding her arms against her chest. The squeals she gets in response are instantaneous, and the little thrill she gets in the pit of her stomach is genuine. It’s nice… to be included in this hubbub of drinks and laughter and ‘girl talk’ she is soon dragged into. It’s very different than spending time with Bennett and Razor. Sure, there had been Mona- but Mona was far more studious and reserved than her apparel suggested. Fischl had never been in a group like this, girls that would comment on her cute hairstyle and suggest to take her shopping in the capitol, and invite her out to places she probably shouldn’t be going to.
Dawn finds them as the Snezhnayan capital appears in the distance. The first beams of sunlight illuminate their booth, revealing the aftermath of spilt drinks and slumbering bodies. Fischl wakes first, blacking out at some point in the last few hours, to see the still sleeping bodies of Patova, Anya, and Lushka on the seats around her. Hands stealing into her coat pocket, she slips past Anya’s mumbling form into the aisle, heading to the back of the compartment. She slides the door shut behind her, swaying from the movement, and grasps the railing of the gangplank.
She vomits.
“Mein Fräulein, I suggest you watch your drinking habits in the future,” Oz says, naught but a violet orb hanging before her. “Mondstadt has enough alcoholics as it is.”
“Oh, shut it. You know I couldn’t refuse,” Fischl groans, wiping her mouth. “So? What’s the gossip?”
There was a reason she had risen through the ranks of Adventure guild despite joining so young. For all the snide comments that “Daddy and Mommy” had helped her get ahead, she had gotten the last laugh when her coworkers came crawling to her for reports.
“The current topic of interest is the post of the eight Harbinger. It appears her funeral was held recently. A gentleman in the first compartment is of the belief that the Tsaritsa is currently searching for suitable candidates, as well as replacements to fill out the platoons lost in Inazuma.”
That was quick. La Signora- supposed, the word of the day was that she had been originally from Mondstadt, back when nobility still ruled over the rest like cattle. A traitor, Mother had told her, with more grit than she had expected. Not a ballad had been written about her, not a book of her exploits lay in the Mondstadt library. Any request had been met by a cold stare and a tense smile.
“That’s not someone you should be looking up to, dear,” Lisa had said, as if she were but another legend Fischl wanted to incorporate into her roleplaying. Perhaps she should have been insulted, but it only added to her curiosity.
Fatui recruitment, according to intel, was an ongoing process. The organization pulled most of its recruits from Snezhnaya, but foreign recruits were not uncommon. With the incident in Inazuma proving disastrous thanks to a certain intervention, there was likely large vacancies needing to be filled within their ranks. Perhaps the standards would be less rigorous as a result.
“An auspicious turn of the wheel,” Fischl murmurs, thinking. “Perhaps fate smiles on my venture here.”
“Or perhaps the timing is too convenient,” Oz notes. Ellin might have realized the same thing. It is a perfect time to join.”
“My faith remains in the loyalty of the wayward knight-to-be. Abandon the city of the winds? Not when her nation cries out in the coming calamity.”
“Perhaps,” is Oz’s reply, before he disappears.
Fischl takes in the morning air, enjoying the wind on her cheeks. It’s good to slip into familiar speech patterns, like wearing an old pair of home-bound pants. It helps take some of the lingering nerves as the train begins to slow, slipping into the capital station. Amy will have to re-enter the compartment, gather her things, and greet the Fatui in her booth when they wake. It’s funny, how “Fischl” is both the culmination of her parts she hates most, and a shield to take on the world. It is her, undeniably- as Oz has enlightened her. Amy has always been the girl beneath the mask.
Now, it seems like their roles will reverse.
---
Patova, Anya, and Lushka are the best protection Fischl could ask for. Snezhnaya’s dangerous in a far more insidious way than a simply harsh wilderness or climate. When the train pulls into the stop, it’s immediately boarded by Fatui officers, demanding to see the travel papers of everyone on board. Fischl has hers, of course, given to her by the Adventurer’s guild. It doesn’t make it any less nerve wracking when she hears the protest of a nearby passenger who’s failed to produce the necessary documents. He’s immediately seized, physical dragged off the train and into custody.
Thanks to the Fatui by her side, she’s off the train with little resistance. The officer barely glances over her papers. Her gut tells her it would be a much different story if she was trying to leave.
She picks a hotel at the edges of the city, trading comfort for safety and affordability. After setting down her things and taking a quick shower, the three woman accompany her to the downtown proper.
It's nothing like Mondstadt.
She’s heard many a time about the technologies of Fontaine and Shneznaya, but there is nothing quite like seeing it with her own eyes. The buildings are as tall as windmills, the streets are greyer and crisscrossed with tracks, much like the one she had just been on, but held smaller, lighter cars that rose into the air on bridges. Everything is sleek and metallic and seems built to last a firestorm of bombs.
The people here are different too. They keep their heads down and their greetings to a minimum, a far cry from the bubble of shouts and cheers that were slung through the streets of Mondstadt daily. Their was a distinct lack of warmth in their demeanor, a warmth that had been sucked from the entire city as a whole. In Mondstadt, if she keeled over in the street right now, she had no doubt that she would wake up in someone’s bed, cared for, the next morning. Looking at the expressions of the passersby, she wasn’t sure if that was the case here.
Despite it all, there’s a quiet beauty to it; the way the barren trees arch into points, the tall iron lampposts that illuminate long streets. As she is lead through the streets, she is sees the building here are different, less utilitarian and preserved likely for historical reasons: arched roofs and brown brick, countless number of windows lining their sides, until it leads to the centerpiece of the city.
The palace sits on a tiered slope. The roofs sitting atop its many staggered towers are shaped like gumdrops, painted in greens and reds and golds, a pattern that extends down the sides to mingle with white windowsills and turquoise archways. Colored fountains spruce up the foreground, sparking water falling into mesmerizing rings. It’s a masterpiece of architecture.
“Same reaction,” Patova says, as Fischl promptly snaps her hanging jaw close. “Never gets old.”
“You like the Tsarista’s palace?” Anya giggles.
Like seems too paltry a word to express. It’s magnificent. Still, Fischl gushes what she hopes is the appropriate amount of praise. It’s a palace fit for the Prinzessin herself.
“Don’t get your hopes up on seeing the inside though,” Patova says. “Only Lord Harbingers and their closest subordinates get to enter, let alone be graced by the Tsarita’s presence.”
“Have you seen the inside?” Amy asks.
“Aie,” Patova pulls a face. “No. The Doctor barely knows my name. Arrogant b-”
“Patova,” Luchka hisses. “You want to be shipped off to camp?”
Patova pouts, but lowers her tone. On the way to what she assumes is a quieter street, she resumes the conversation.
“It’s a shame. I was gunning for the 11th, but so is the way the ice cracks.”
“The 11th?” Amy must have a particular bewildered expression on her face, because the three-woman burst out in giggles.
“The cute one!” Anya catches her breath, “You know, the ginger?”
“Word is he’s the best to work under,” Luchka sighs, borderline dreamily. “For more reason than one.”
Patova takes her by her shoulders, and with more seriousness Fischl could have imagined, says. “Amy. If you are assigned to Tartaglia’s division after basic training, we will kill you.”
Fischl’s sure the woman isn’t being serious, but it sends a shiver down her nonetheless. “Right…”
The concern is smothered by laugher and slung shoulders as Fischl now stands before a small, shady looking building. Shady is most apt word to describe it- a grimy awning shadows it front tables, and there are black curtains pulled over the front window. A bell past its prime chimes in the crook of the door as they enter.
Inside, bodies thrum to the sound of music. Glasses clinks against each other, and Fischl ducks as a platter full of them sweeps over her head. It’s a bar, and there’s a celebration going on. If there was one thing she was going to take away from this whole excursion, is that Mondstadt might have competition for the drinking capitol of Teyvat.
If this were her back in Mondstadt, Fischl would be sitting in a corner at the back, sipping some variation of drink that had left the bartender’s eyes rolling. Alone, most likely. ‘Amy’ was too stilted for large gatherings, and while Fischl’s confidence was in surplus, she too dined alone on most nights. A lifetime of anxiety was hard to break, even after years had gone by. But Amy, this Amy, needs to read the room. Ties mattered here- their entire mojo was based on comradery. No one liked a wet blanket.
Amy needed to blend in- and part of that was knowing when to cut loose. She accepts the drinks she’s been given, feeling a pleasant rush swell in her fingertips. Fischl might have likened it to altering the weave of fate with one’s fingertips, the feeling of the unimaginable arcane potential granted by her cup of sinner’s tears…
Several glasses later, she stamps a foot on the table and points down to a nearby Fatui scout.
“Hark! I am the Princess of the darts, vagrant of Mondstadt,” she asserts. Anya, Lushka, and Patova, crow with delight. “Will one of you Snezhnayan dogs prove a worthy challenge?”
A chorus of jeers rise from his compatriots. There’s no way for the young man to back down without a blow to his pride, so he must accept.
A board is set up on the other side of the room. It’s farther than the usual distance, but it’s unsurprising that they would do anything half-baked. They are given three darts each. Archaic manners aside, she lets the gentleman go first. He’s not a bad shot, all considering, and manages to rack up a respectable number of points with his attempts. A clear crowd has gathered, with Fischl and the young man at its center. She has a feeling these sorts of challenges are not uncommon.
The thing with darts, and with all projectiles, is a matter of aim. Throwing weapons use a different skill set than bows- a skillset Fischl is considerably less trained in, but the matter of aim remains the same. The breath, the steady hand, the release in her mind’s eye- that remained consistent no matter the weapon. She sucks in a breath, plants her feet, and releases the dart.
It’s perfect, landing straight in the upper quadrant. There’s a hushed intake from the crowd that has gathered. Another, sticks into cork. Another. All three, aimed true.
When Fischl turns, the bar is in silence. Only, the crowd isn’t looking at her, but at the man in the doorway.
The first thing she notices is his height. He’s tall, almost freakishly so, with a long white coat trimmed with black fur around its neck. A silver chain dangles from each shoulder, looping around the front to tie the piece closed. His hair is light blue, styled back against his skull, save for two curling pieces that dangle onto sharp, pale cheekbones. A mask, like a crow’s beak, is tilted downwards to cover the upper half of his face and nose.
He surveys the hushed bar with near disinterest, until his head turns, and settles, to Fischl.
“L..Lord Harbinger,” Patova squeaks. “Apologies. We were not aware you would be gracing us with your presence.”
All of the previously rowdy crowd has gone still, and are now bending over one knee. Fear has induced sobriety like no other. Lushka, nearest to the door, hurries to bend her neck infront of the Harbinger, dulcet tone steady. The Harbinger slips of his gloves. On the back of one hand, Fischl can see a black Fatui emblem.
“Please, we await your co-”
The slap comes so suddenly, so violently, Fischl can feel the flinch all the way from here. Luchka drops onto the hardwood floor, holding her cheek, as she crawls out of the way. The man doesn’t even look at her, strolling past her cowering form like she was a bust in a gallery. He’s eyes are solely focused on…her.
He stops in front of Fischl, staring down. In the shadows, Fischl thinks she can see a spot of crimson.
“Who are you?” he asks. It’s conversational, devoid of threat or malice. Fischl swallows. Even in her state, she’s run her character though perfectly.
“Amy,” she says, then adds to her better judgment, “My Lord.”
“Amy,” he hums, then turns to the dartboard. “And these are your results? Interesting. Show me.”
She assumes he means that she is to re-throw her hand, but when she steps to retrieve her darts, she feels a firm hand descend on her shoulder.
“No, I want to see the whole thing. Re-enact it from the beginning, every detail.”
Fischl looks back at the Fatui scout, almost incredulously. The young man is pale, a near imperceptible shake in his hands. There is no way he’s going to throw the same way as before, surrounded by a more comfortable company. Still, there is no way she can disobey. Fischl gathers her grit, and leaps onto a nearby table, stomps her foot, and points to the petrified Fatui scout.
“Hark! I am the Princess of the darts, vagrant of Mondstadt,” she asserts, cheeks reddening. It was different, when proclaiming to a silent crowd. She glances to Anya, Lushka, and Patova, but they stay quiet. She wills her voice not to falter. “Will one of you Shneznayan dogs prove a worthy challenge?”
The Fatui scout’s lips tremble, but he repeats what he had said to her, as if reading from a script. The bartender gathers the darts, and hand them to their hands. It’s exactly the same before, only there is a Harbinger watching intently from the sidelines.
She was right in her deduction. The young man, who had proved an admirable challenge before, did not throw as well with trembling hands. One dart doesn’t even make it to the board, instead embedding itself into the wood panelling of the wall. When he has finished, he stares down at his empty hands in horror.
It’s her turn next. The new attention affects her too, but Fischl has her pride. She’s had to aim when staring down barreling enemies one to many a time. Forced to snipe a ruin guard’s eye before it blasts her to pieces. A dart game in a dingy bar isn’t going to be where she falters. Two of her throws are perfect, the third is off mark, and hits farther down the board. Still, it’s a far cry better than her opponents showing.
Fischl finishes to the sound of clapping. The sole pair of hands echoes in the space as the Harbinger stands, coming before the two of them.
“I was taking notes,” he informs them both, almost proudly. “See, I’ve noticed that Amy here squints one eye shut when she throws- perhaps out of habit. And while both eyes are usually required to perceive depth, I wonder…”
The man turns the Fatui scout. “You, on the other hand are an abject embarrassment. I wonder if you have sight at all, with the results you produced.”
“S-sir, my deepest apolog-”
“Quiet.” The Harbinger puts a hand to his chin. Slowly, a toothy grin spreads onto his face, and it’s something Fischl will be seeing in her nightmares.
“Let’s do a quick experiment,” he says. “I want to see if there is some merit to Amy’s technique. If there is…well, I’m sure you will see rapid improvement.”
Quick as lighting, the man draws silver from his coat and slashes out. The Fatui scout is falling before Fischl even realizes what has happened, clutching a hand over his bloodied right eye. He howls, falling to the ground. The Harbinger wipes the knife on his sleeve before tucking it back into his coat.
Fischl can’t move, even as the young man’s cries shorten to whimpers as a desperately stuffs a glove into his mouth. His friends look like they want nothing better but to help him, but the same terror that roots her to the spot is afflicting them too.
“I’m glad you are all getting out and having fun,” the Harbinger says, in that same, conversational tone earlier. “Rest and relaxation is important for the human body. Just be sure not to overdo it!”
He laughs, cheery to no-one but himself. Before he strolls out the bar, he stops at the door and turns to Fischl.
“And a good evening to you, Princess,” he says, mock tipping a hat.
The old bell jangles into thick, oppressive silent, punctuated only by the occasion mumble of pain.
“Are- are you okay?” the words stumble out of Fischl’s mouth in an inelegant manner. She extends and unsure hand the young man’s direction. “I…I’m so sorry.”
“Fine,” he says curtly, wincing.
The stares she is receiving now are far different from the kind she had been graced with earlier. These are colder, like sizing down prey. In a matter of minutes, the joyous atmosphere of the bar has disappeared, replaced by an insidious, intense dislike. Anya and Luchka, who had regarded her, if not kindly, at least favorable, were now staring at her as if she were akin to gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe.
“I think you should be going now,” Patova says, cold.
Fischl nods, and leaves quickly to escape that burning sensation behind her lids.
Dottore- the Doctor, a 2nd of the Fatui Harbingers. A man known for his blatant disregard of human life, his sickening experiments on children, and his unimaginable shrewdness. A genius. A terrible genius. Fischl must be exceedingly careful of her comportment around him.
When the terror fades, back in the safety of her room, and Fischl has a chance to gather her thoughts, she feels nothing but spite towards the Harbinger. In one fell swoop, he had singled her out, lost whatever rapport she had been gathering among his subordinates. She could only hope that his action had not painted a target on her back that would follow her forwards.
After showing her pillow who was boss, Fischl slumped back against the bedding, blowing a piece of hair out of her face. Oz, fully formed, sat on the extra pillow beside her.
“What a bastard,” she says. “Stupid, conniving bastard.”
“A tart, poisonous face that sours the finest of wines, unfit for any place but the abyss,” Oz agrees.
They both laugh, relieving some of the remnants of tension that wracked her frame and made it difficult to fall asleep. She’s glad for Oz’s stable presence through out her life- she credits him for half of Fischl strength, internally and externally. She drifts off to that familiar hum of electro beside her head, to dreamless sleep.
---
Oz had burst into her life in a flutter of violet feathers shortly before her 14th birthday. Her parents had given her yet another of those ‘becoming a big girl’ lectures on maturity and responsibility, and she’s simply had enough. They were concerned, Fischl knew- concerned that the only people in her life were them and the librarian she occasionally spoke to. She was becoming that age where it was important to decided on a future career, and “shut-in fantasy nerd” did not seem to be an option on that list.
They had tried to coax her towards something- anything. She had been hunting with a simple bow from the moment she could walk, much like the other children of Mondstadt, and had proved a talent with it. Perhaps she might aspire to be a knight, they suggested, like the hardworking maid around town. It wasn’t entirely their fault, she knew, that she still acted and spoke this way. But it was hard not to blame them.
Mostly, though, Fischl was tired, and very, very lonely.
She had been sitting at her desk, trying not to stain the wood grain, when Oz appeared.
“My my,” A deep voice had exclaimed. “Royal blood shed upon this day, and so liberally? Why does my Prinzessin weep so?”
Amy was not used to the voices of grown men appearing in her bedroom, had grabbed a lamp with aching forearms, and armed herself with the harshest words she had heard thus far.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Language, Mein Fräulein! Is that any way to address your most loyal retainer?” the construction replied, almost snidely.
That night was the night she made her very first friend. She remembered it with both fondness and incredible bitterness- both at her parents, for not intervening before then, and at herself, for being incredibly stupid. She had quickly learned that Oz was more than willing to “play along” with her Fischl-ing, but actively encouraged it. It was strange, to have such ardent support after years without it. Somewhere deep down, she knew that it probably wasn’t the most responsible thing Oz could have done, but that unfailing support- she needed that. She really did.
(Fischl hates herself much less now. Amy’s getting there.)
From then forth, her rise though the Adventure guild was near mindboggling. A vision holder, first in the family, her parents had told her. The power was nice, of course, but greatest boon Fischl thought, was Oz.
Oz had been the catalyst. Her confidence, her backbone, her assuredness in her abilities. Scout, partner-in-crime, friend. While along came others, he was her first, and would follow her to the dreadful, bitter end.
---
The next morning, there is a dead raven outside the hotel room door.
It’s a limp, leathery thing. A cat? What size of cat can even take down that size of a bird?! Its chest is torn wide open, so it leaks bits of red flesh that blub out of the opening. Oz couldn’t see this, was her next thought, or he might be terribly frightened. But what if it wasn’t a cat? A peculiar nervousness washes over her, and she has the sudden urge to check her room over.
I locked the door, Amy thinks, I locked it tight and put the key under my pillow; she goes and checks it anyways. A sudden chill in doorway makes her turn. The hallway had not been this cold when she had last left it, and investigating further, it was no wonder. The window at the end had been left open.
She treads over to it. It has not been greased in a long time, and with great effort, it squeaks shut. She then turns to her room door. It is sealed shut. Of course I locked it, Amy reassures herself, See there, it is locked.
The elderly receptionist who had checked her in the night prior is behind the counter with a newspaper when Amy descends downstairs. There is coffee in the pot, filling the room with its fragrance. Amy stands on the bottom stair. The crinkle of the newspaper turning interrupts the silence.
“Did you sleep well?” she asks, not looking up from her reading material. Amy makes a non-committed grunt. She turns another page without another comment.
“There was a dead raven outside my door,” Amy tells her.
“Must have been the cat,” the woman says.
Amy turns without another word, mounting the steps once more. Her lungs feel like they are closing in on her. This small, unassuming hotel on the outskirts of the city- would she need to abandon it? Where would she go? Anything further in, and the rooms got more expensive. There was also food to consider. If she ran out of mora, what would she do? The streets- sure, that seemed safe?
The world is spiralling inwards. She can’t breathe. They know. They know.
“Fischl!”
Oz flutters by her head. Her familiar must have sensed her distress. She attempts to block the view of the dead raven, but its too late. Oz lets out a hiss.
“Someone knows who you are,” he says. “Mein Fraulein, I believe you could be in danger. I suggest we return to Mondstadt immediately-”
“No,” Fischl cuts him off. It’s strange, but seeing Oz’s tittering and paranoid ways only calms her down. It’s the pattern. Comforting. “It’s too early.”
“This is not a place to be stubborn.”
Oz’s presence allows her to think. She’s an adventurer, Mora wouldn’t be an issue. She could accept commissions, stay as long as it took. She didn’t have to resort do desperate measures.
“Think about it, Ozzie,” Fischl says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “So, mine true form hath been uncovered, that my royal engagements be unearthed. So, the name Prinzessin der Verurteilung be uttered on the lips of the scoundrels that dare call upon a sinner’s name. So what?”
“The Kaiser and Kaiserin...”
“Are denizens in a realm of the un-followable and un-knowing,” Fischl continues. “And my retinue are all blessed with the eye of heaven, not to mention the honorable Knights, and those that prowl beyond the twilight. Danger may lurk, but they are well protected.”
“Except you,” Oz points out.
“Yet a single lead has yet to be uncovered,” Fischl says. “How can her Majesty fail one of her people so miserably?”
That statement quiets Oz considerably. The Prinzessin was to be a paragon to those around her, noble of heart, and steadfast in the face of injustice. There was no way she could abandon one of her own so readily. For all Oz’s advice, the decision ultimately rested with her. She would stay.
---
After a light, uneventful breakfast, she makes her way to the Shneznayan branch of the Adventurer’s guild. The Katheryne behind the desk is a welcome sight in this foreign land, and Fischl cannot help but beam up at her. She’s probably seen this face more than anyone else at this point. The Katheryne, after a pause, smiles back, albeit much smaller and more politely.
As it is the headquarters, the small counter had been traded for a long, rectangular one, inside a rather modestly kept building. There were others besides Katheryne that worked behind the desks, their jobs- Fischl wasn’t sure.
Changing her guild registration to Shneznaya was easy enough. At least she wouldn’t starve.
With that, she set off to the public branch of the Fatui, where potential recruits were directed to go. She doubted it was little more than a front- no meeting would ever take place their. It was hardly more than an office building.
The front lobby isn’t empty. It’s mostly youth, pulled from the Shneznayan general populace. Farmers, fisherfolk, Stone workers, blacksmiths: people from families that struggled enough to merit trading their lives to serve a militant organization. Fischl could see it in the gauntness of their eyes, the way their clothes were run ragged before they were ever replaced. It was foolish to look down on poverty- she, who was far from true nobility, and never knowing true hunger. There’s a hungriness to these folk, too, but it’s not the usual kind.
These people want to devote themselves to the Tsaritsa’s cause.
It’s not love, fueling their actions either. Something deeper, and far more primal. Fear.
In her distracted state, a door swings open, and a sharply dressed woman emerges from the back. Her hair is pulled back into a painfully tight bun, naught a hair out of place. Her shoulders are all sharp lines and grey cut cloth, pulled into an officer’s uniform that does little to accentuate her form.
“Recruits!” she all but shouts, and the room stiffens. “You may address me as Madame only. If anyone of you louts has a hint of reconsideration to what your about to do, then I suggest you speak now. Leave, return to your soft beds and doting mothers, and do not stain our presence!”
No-one spoke. Madame seemed contented by this.
“Very well. Then all that remains here are future comrades. Look around you! These brothers and sisters will not forsake you, even if the world shall betray you.”
Her eyes snap to another. “Even if your dreams find no acceptance. Even if you have been burned by falsehood and discontent, you are welcome under this banner. Even if the gods do not look upon you favorably, do not grant you their boons or blessings, have faith, you are welcome here.”
“And those, who will walk with us towards the polestar of the white night, come! We shall not abandon you.”
"You who will walk with us into the land of darkness, come! We shall create a new world together. Let our boots march as one, and shake this earth like thunder!"
The outcry at her final words sets the room into uproarious agreement, and for a moment, Fischl’s chest blooms with something inviting. It’s a dangerous feeling, to be in this storm of united ambition, dazzling as a scintillating northern star.
---
Sectioned off into groups of six, Fischl ends the day in what will be her new home for the next four weeks. The small cabin beyond the edges of the city is hardly befitting a for a princess. It’s cramped and worn and dirty, filled by three rackety old bunk beds with sheets that smell like they haven’t been washed in years. Still, the mattresses are far more comfortable than a tent outside- an accommodation she had when out on adventures. Maybe this sense of unease is coming not from the furnishings, but the people occupying them.
Then girls in the other beds are all around Fischl’s age. They had briefly exchanged names when they had been assigned to the same bunk.
For all of her bravado, Fischl wishes that some of it had stuck around a bit longer. She doesn’t think she can leave, at this point, unless she wants to bear a long, arduous trek out in complete darkness.
They had been loaded up onto trucks, taken deep into the roads of rural Sneznaya. The farmland here was frozen half of the year beneath the depth of a shovel. Only the scraggle of grass can push its way out of the tundra, like facial hair on a boy not yet a man. Only a few settlements grace each mile, likely woodworkers and lumberjacks judging from the pock nicked trees and stumps littering the surrounding area.
Fischl listens to the inhales and exhales of the other girls in the shack, unable to find sleep herself. It seems she’s not the only one, as a quiet voice whispers from the bunk below.
“Amy? Are you awake?”
Tonia, the girl said her name had been. She was the youngest among them, probably no more than fifteen. The fact that she had been accepted in the first place was evident enough of the Fatui’s standards.
She could pretend to be asleep, but that would be cruel.
“What is it?”
“Oh good, I hope I didn’t wake you.” The relief in the girl’s voice is palpable. “Are you having trouble sleeping too?”
‘Yes,” Amy admitted. “I’m not used to this many people.”
“Hearing them breathe?” Tonia giggles. “Yeah, it can be a little annoying. At least none of them snore as badly as Anton.”
“Anton?”
“My little brother. We used to not have many rooms, so when I was younger, all the kids would sleep in one of them.”
Not having your own room? No thanks. But Fischl knows it isn’t out of choice.
“But don’t worry, it’s better now. We’re living a lot more comfortably now.”
“That’s good,” Amy replies mindlessly. “I’ll be going going to sleep now.”
“Oh…okay.”
Fischl had lied, she still couldn’t sleep, but she doesn’t want to risk waking another girl in the cabin. She’s already on a few Fatui members shit-lists, she didn’t need to be put on another. She wishes she could bring out Oz, but she can’t risk exposing herself as a vision wielder. Not with that kind of sentiment the recruits had expressed.
The night passes, somehow, and she doesn’t feel well rested. It’s not a good outlook, when the first thing sends them on is a 10 kilometer run before an inkling of breakfast. Fischl’s not the only one who has slept poorly. All around her are bruised under eyes and faces of slow drawing regret.
Madame doesn’t even spare a glance at her as she finishes a respectable sixth, out of the 25 candidates. Fischl collapses, already exhausted, onto the mud. The sun is barely above the horizon. Madame forces them all to wait until the rest of the group has finished before breakfast. Perhaps its their way of instilling comradery, but Fischl can’t but help feel a hint of resentment. She’s not alone in the sentiment, as her fellow recruits begin to grow restless.
Finally the last pack of straggles come into view. She sees the glint of ginger hair in the distance as Tonia stumbles, wheezing, into a face full of mud. As she pickes herself up to continue, all feelings of resentment fade. Tonia finishes, collapsing onto her back, as Madame clicks a dial on the stopwatch in her hand.
“Pathetic,” Madame says, lip curling. “Not even worth training for bait.”
Tonia doesn’t even seem to hear her, arms covering her face. Fischl comes to her side, pulling her to her feet.
“Water,” Tonia gasps.
Fischl guides her to the breakfast tent, where the others have already begun to form groups to eat. Fischl nabs a bottle of water from the table, and the girl downs it in a near single gulp.
The day is far from over. After the run comes the true training. Obstacle courses, designed to run the body sore and ragged. There were walls, too tall to be climbed without help. Ropes. Tires. Wires that forced them to crawl, face down in putrid, stinking mud. Narrow trenches filled with frigid, cloudy, brown to wade through.
Tonia collapses twice more. On the second, Fischl grabs the girl’s arms and pulls her onto her back. They cross the final line together, muscles screaming, and Fischl no longer has the self control to temper the poisonous glance she sends Madame’s way. To her surprise, Madame only smiles.
As the days pass, Fischl begins to realize the true purpose of these exercises. Sure, there was to test their physical and mental limits, but their was something else at play here. She realizes it late at night, when she and Tonia fall into their usual late night chats, and she feels a pleasant rush at Tonia’s giggle. She misses Oz, but his silence could be made up for bit by bit.
Comradery. The sort of comradery that was gained through putting a group of people through hell. Nothing else could build a bond this quickly or efficiently. And once she understands this, and begins to lean into those bonds, the next weeks become bearable.
They settle into a routine. Every morning, they are awoken before dawn, and sent on their morning run. After breakfast, the obstacle course follows. Then it’s weapons training, everything from firearms to staffs, to knives. No bows, to Fischl’s disappointment, but why would they, when they had a much faster, and less skill based alternative.
Tonia’s remarkably deft with a pair of duel cleavers.
“My brother showed me a trick or two,” she says impishly when Amy asks.
On some days, they forgo the training to assist a nearby village, assisting in everything from chopping wood to playing with children at the nearby school house. It reminds Fischl of commission work. She wished there was more she could do than play-pretend and go on mini adventures with them, a mere distraction from their lives. Somewhat alleviating, they seemed happy and well cared for, despite the conditions of their village.
On the final week, Madame lines them up shoulder to shoulder. There’s a wooden box in her hands, with a beautifully carved lid. She opens it, and Fischl sees it contains something far more useful than gems.
She was aware of what delusions were. Powerful, vision mimics that traded safety for power, granting its user to wield the elements at a terrible cost. How the effects of one would cause skin to wilt like week old flowers, and cause the body to age rapidly. Technology that was either incorporated into weaponry, or used much like the vision it was based on.
“These were sent directly from Headquarters,” Madame says. “But don’t get your little hopes up. Not all of you will be given one. It fact, maybe none of you will. For now, though we wish to test your compatibility.”
Fischl can almost taste the eagerness radiating off some of the other recruits. Some of them had no doubt joined for power- power above all else. She suspects that there’s a reason Madame is introducing this now. It’s to give them a hook, a taste of what they could wield before it was taken away, and they were left wanting more. It’s a cruel strategy, but it fits.
Fischl waits, still as can be, as Madame begins to dole out the delusions. When Madame stops in front of her, she frowns, cupping the golden orb she was about to drop into her waiting hands.
“Amy, was it? I was told about you,” she says, fishing around the box for another. She pulls out a ruby gem, and drops it into Fischl’s hands. “Someone’s got an eye on you.”
Her heart sinks. A recruit beside her congratulates her, saying something about impressing the hire-ups and moving up in the world, but all Fischl can think about is that dammed, dead raven.
Tonia is in front of her, beaming as she holds up her own, a lovely shade of blue that matches her eyes. “Ooh, pyro? I hear pyro and hydro are pretty powerful together.”
It is, a combination Fischl’s seen used for a number of powerful enemies. It doesn’t distract her from her own thoughts, even as they spend the rest of the afternoon playing around with their new ‘toys’. By evening, they are returned to Madame, safe in their box. Tonia must have noticed her state, as she brings in up come nighttime.
“Hey Amy? Is everything okay?”
Fischl stares at the ceiling from the top bunk, mind racing.
“Just homesick, I guess.”
“Oh, that makes sense! Me too,” Tonia sighs. “I miss Mom’s cooking, and Dad’s jokes, and even Teucer’s annoying face. But I want to make all of them proud, so I can’t go just yet.”
“Why’d you join the Fatui, Tonia?”
“Oh, an Uncle of mine suggested it! Well, he’s not really my uncle, but since he looks out for us, it’s like he’s part of the family.”
“He’s in the Fatui too?”
Fischl hears shuffling from below, and is spooked when two luminous eyes peek over the edge of her bed. Tonia climbs up to sit on her mattress.
“Sorry, I don’t want the others to hear,” she whispers, and gestures Fischl to come closer. She does.
“He’s actually a Harbinger. I didn’t want to bring it up, since it seems a little like bragging, but they call him Pucinella.”
“Your uncle is a Harbinger?!” Amy whispers back.
“Brother too.”
Fischl blinks at her in the dark. So Tonia’s had been wrapped up in this business before she was out of her crib.
Tartaglia, the 11th. Aside from Patova’s mention of him, Fischl had heard he was responsible for the incident in Liyue.
“Teucer’s the only one who doesn’t know,” Tonia admits, staring down at her hands. They twist in her lap. “There’s a lot of stuff, he’s kept from us. I can see it bearing down on him when he visits. I just…I just want to relieve some of that burden, but I don’t know how.” A tear dots the corner of her eye. “It’s hard, here. I don’t like fighting, or violence, but I must help.”
Tonia wipes at an eye, and turns to climb down to her own bed. Before she can, she is stopped as Fischl lays a tentative arm around her shoulders. Tonia accepts it easily, relaxing as she returns the embrace.
“What a brave soul art thou,” Fischl whispers to her. “Keep courage, and know that the darkest night shall not be burdened on your shoulders alone.”
“That’s a strange phrase,” Tonia giggles. “But I think I get what you mean.”
---
The boot camp draws to a close on the final day of the week. All of the recruits are battered, ragged, and tired to the bone, but there’s a sense of triumph in the air. All that remains is the final test, then it is up to Madame’s reports that will determine their placement in the ranks. Mirror maiden, skirmisher, cicin, agent- they have been watched on a daily, with whatever metric Madame used, that would adjust her recommendations.
Madame surveys the gathered group with a satisfied glint and steely gaze.
“You’ve all come far in our short weeks together. A more sentimental me might even be proud. Thus begins your final challenge.” She clears her throat.
“As you may know, your comrades will be some of the most important people in your life. But as you are now, you do not know how to tell if your comrades are truly people you can trust.”
She spits.
“Or dirty, cowardly, traitors.”
Madame regards them all with a cool gaze. “You all are aware of the Balladeer?”
The sixth Harbinger. He had seemed pleasant enough at first glance. Only later had Mona told her what they had escaped.
The recruits nod in unison.
“Well?”
“A traitor,” a bold voice offers, and Madame smiles.
“Correct. Even in the ranks above us, comradery is not a given. So, this is my final lesson to you all. Keep a close eye on your enemies, but that knife in your back? That will not come from them.”
As the recruits scatter out in different directions, a cold wind swirls over the tundra. The first snow had fallen the week prior, and the first blanket was beginning to cover the earth.
Fischl crouches in the burrow, feeling the dirt-clung roots brush her scalp as she shifts. Tonia’s breath is slient, but is seems unbearably loud as she waits in the brush beside her. She hopes she has done a good enough job of hiding their boot tracks. Fischl’s not an experienced hunter, not like those in Springvale, so she doesn’t know every sign to cover.
The final challenge was deceptively simple. The twelve that remained standing after the four hours would pass. Those that were not would still pass, but with considerably less colors. A rumor had began to quickly spread about ‘skirmishers’ and ‘body modifications’. Not appealing stuff.
After assessing their options, the two girls quickly came to the conclusion that their best bet was to hide, and wait the four hour period out. If it had been a longer period, it might have been difficult to keep warm, but if it was only four hours, rubbing appendages would suffice.
On the plus side, spreading away from the others meant Fischl was under less scrutiny. It was easy to send Oz out, keeping to the treeline, to watch the surroundings.
She gets word of movement shortly into the second hour. Six people, picking their way through the brush towards their little burrow. Oz tells her they aren’t dressed like recruits. Full dressed soldiers, he says, with their tailored outfits and shiny insignias. A full platoon of agents and skirmishers. Fischl can’t wrap her head around it. Why would soldiers be patrolling here? This was a training compound, surely they knew that.
It doesn’t matter. They’re heading straight towards them, and they’re going to make contact in a few minutes. Fischl’s not worried about her escape- worst comes to worst, she’ll fly with Oz. It’s Tonia.
Fischl grabs the girl by the arm, and pulls her into a sprint. There’s no time to be cautious. The snow crunches beneath feet, a sure broadcast for their location. She heads straight towards where Oz had pinpointed human civilization: a small hunter’s shack at the edge of the forest. It’s on its last legs, roof beginning to fold in and moss covering its sides, but the door holds when Fischl slams it open, and pulls Tonia with her.
“Amy?” Fischl shakes her head, putting a finger to her lips. The girl quiets. Her eyes are saucer wide, dilated with fear. Together, they push a nearby shelf across the door.
As fate would have it, there are a bows on the rack against the wall. Their strings are worn and lack elasticity, but a few adjustments later have them functional. She tests their draw, feeling the string catch into the familiar groove of calloses.
There are no arrows in the cabin. If Tonia’s confused, she doesn’t say so.
The first shot from the skirmisher breaks the window. It flies, shattering glass, to hit the damp far wall. With the recent rain, there’s no chance the shed will catch on fire. In the broken remnants, a mask appears, covering the whole face. Without a jaw, it’s difficult to see their humanity. He raises the rifle again, but Fischl already drawn.
The sliver of violet sinks into his face. The impact sends him backwards, dropping into his comrade behind.
“A vision?” Tonia breaths, as something slams against the door to the shack. She runs to push her back against the shells, wincing as clay pots and interesting rocks rain from the shelves above. It’s not going to hold for long. Fischl makes a decision, and leaps through the window, ignoring the shards that try and prevent her exit. Oz comes at her fingers tips by sheer habit, wings crackling through the air.
It’s over in seconds. When Tonia pokes her head out the window, there are only limp, slightly blackened bodies lying the snow. A faint ozone scent pervades the air. Fischl stands at the center of it all, fingers loose on the wooden bow. She drops it a second later, extending a hand to help Tonia through the window. They run.
It must be nearly time now. Fischl’s lungs burn as she swats the low branches in her path. The smell of pine and cold air gives much needed alertness to her mind.
“You can’t tell anyone,” she says to Tonia. If someone like Madame found out, her vision would surely be taken away. And that meant Oz.
Tonia is silent for a beat too long. When she speaks, it’s a mutter, “Why do you have one?”
Fischl stops, and grabs the girl by her shoulders. They’re both panting, still recovering from their quick escape. “Tonia, please. This is important to me.”
Tonia eyes her. Then she straightens up, and seems to pull the most serious expression her young face could muster. It doesn’t fit- it felt like she was imitating an adult. “I understand. I won’t say anything. Promise.”
She seems to mull something over, then adds, “Pinkie promise.”
They make it back to base camp a near just shy of the four-hour mark. Fischl quickly totals the number left, including she and Tonia. Sixteen. It would devolve into combat at the very last second. The recruits are spaced out in group of two to three, all glaring at each other warily. They wait for the other to make the first move. She and Tonia wait at the edge, taking purchase on an overturned wagon by the roadside.
No-one moves. Madame stands with her arms folded impatiently, and she’s not alone. There was another reason Fischl had no desire to close the distance with the rest. Dottore is beside her, almost her shadow. If it makes the woman nervous, she’s adept at not showing it.
Maybe it was the angle, but Dottore didn’t seem so tall. His build slighter, his hair was styled differently, and his mask was different too. It encompassed the entire face, leaving a hole for a singular eye and a cut out for the side of mouth. Black, white, and- red, as an eye flicked to her. A corner of his mouth creases.
Fischl wonders if she should do something, break this tension, when-
“Times up!” Madame calls out. “Congratulations. You all pass.”
The recruits stare at her warily. A boy, the bold one from before, speaks up. “But there are sixteen of us.”
Madame snaps her pocketwatch shut. “I lied. The final test was to test your bonds with respect to a direct order. Like I said, even in the ranks above us, comradery is not a given. Your superiors are to be respected, but make no mistake- they are not there to be your friends.”
“How harsh,” Dottore pouts from behind her. He seems different from when she met him at the bar- less mature, more…erratic. Madame’s eyes narrow, but she wisely doesn’t say anything.
What followed was a final ceremony, short, and to the point. Lined up in neat rows, Madame stops in front of them one by one, shaking their hands and presenting them with a shiny insignia. A fatui emblem. She pins each to their left breast. When she steps back, there is something akin to pride in her face.
Fischl tries to enjoy the moment, but it’s spoiled by the presence of the harbinger behind her. He’s looking at them like they were specimens in an exhibit, and from what she’s heard, its probably not far off. Every so often, those eyes will flick back to her, and linger. She schools her face into a neutral expression, hoping its enough for her to blend with the rest.
It’s not. As soon as the medal ceremony is over, Dottore approaches her amid the jubilant recruits. They part, slightly dazed from both the excitement of passing and the fear of being in a Harbingers presence, to allow Dottore to stop in front of her. Tonia, who was nattering on about something by her ear, cuts off abruptly, pale.
“Amy,” he says. “Take a walk with me!”
It’s not a question. Amy spares Tonia a desperate glance over her shoulder before she is led away from the group, falling into step beside the Harbinger. She’s taken down road, back towards the city. The dying farmland and muddy ridges of the surrounding area don’t make for scenic conversation. Dottore forces it, nonetheless.
“Cold?” Dottore asks. Amy shakes her head. In a practiced movement, Dottore slips his overcoat from broad shoulders, exposing a black turtleneck with a cable pattern. He draps it over her shoulders. It feels a like a weight, pinning her in place.
“I’ll be honest with you, my dear. I’ve had my eye on you for a while, now.”
Amy, carefully, doesn’t react. “I guess I made an impression at the bar.”
“Oh no,” Dottore chuckles. “Princess, I’ve found you fascinating long before that.”
She steps back, but she’s too slow. Dottore’s hand shoots out to grab her wrist. She’s dragged in close, her nose nearly brushing the smooth mask.
“Fischl, is it? Whatever you go by, doesn’t matter. It’s just the material I’ve been given.” His eye widens. “I’m going to make you into something greater.”
Ah- I’m such a fool. Her heart flutters with shame. To get only this in her sacred mission, and not a single piece of useful information to report back: she is a disappointment of the highest magnitude. She had promised her friends she would get home safely. To break that promise…
There’s a burst of feathers, and Dottore is suddenly recoiling. Oz- stupidly loyal Ozvaldo von Hrafnavins, is in between her and the Harbinger, wings beating furiously. She can feel his fear, almost better than her own.
“Mein Fräulein does not need your assistance. She is perfectly fine as she is,” he says, cold, “Begone.”
“Oz!”
Dottore seems curious, rather than malicious. “Your bird seems to have a mind of its own. How curious.” It’s a frightening curiosity, made only more so by the slow spreading smile. “I wonder…”
“What do you want from me?” Fischl hurriedly interjects.
Dottore is smiling at her intently. She’s gotten good at reading people, she thinks- but this man’s thoughts elude her. All she knows is that she is trapped, like a little bird in the claws of cat. The nails are beginning to close in. Her rib-cage begins to squeeze.
“You’ll be joining my ranks,” he says. “Not as a fresh recruit, but something a little higher. Doesn’t that sound fun! I’ll even let you roam free to do as you will- provided you check up with me once in a while.” He lets out a childish cackle. “Isn’t that nice? I’ll even let you keep your vision.”
Fischl’s mouth feels dry. “What’s the catch?”
The Doctor’s hand slips into his pocket, pulling out something sharp, grinning. A syringe. “Easy! Fischl must die!”
---
The irony is, Mona doesn’t see it coming.
For a genius that lives and dies by the wisdom of the stars, it’s unthinkable. She has been all too aware of the hardest part about being an astrologer: the powerlessness that came from knowing too much and lacking the ability to do anything about it. The ire she’s accumulated from reading fortunes-from those that came to regret it-could have cursed her for a lifetime. It’s part of the business. She’s adapted.
Mona is only an observer. She knows this at heart, truer that the astrological theory she’s memorized by rote or the set course of the planets. Just because she can see the weft of fate, sometimes, it doesn’t make her an archon. She’s mortal; her eyes can be fooled like any other. Even she were divine, it’s not like they too were immune to falsehood.
She finds out like any other resident of Mondstadt, when she sees a crowd has gathered in front of the cathedral.
Mona pushes her way up those steps, intuition bringing dread, heavy, into the pit of her stomach- because she doesn’t need a goddamn scryglass to know something has happened. Someone beside her is sniffling, and it quickly breaks into sobbing. There are whispers, hushed and furious. An encore of murmurs. Everyone is looking up.
Hanging from the stone hands of Barbatos is a body. It’s charred beyond recognition, but Mona recognizes the cut of the dress, the two trailing wings of cloth. The ash blonde hair, sections pulled into pigtails. The sightless green eyes. It rocks gently in the breeze that passes.
Mona often keeps tabs on the people she cares about. When Fischl had left for Shneznaya, she had checked Corvus near daily, ready to jump on a train if the constellation but shifted. Her Vision feels like a weight against her thigh. The future had been her domain, her responsibility. Eye of God. Were they watching? Her eyes harden at the statue. Was he watching?
It’s down by mid morning, before the rest of Mondstadt will return. It’s a small mercy that Bennett, Razor, - Klee, were out traveling together. They shouldn’t see this. The deaconess had not been so fortunate. Her cries are muffled into her sister’s jacket. The Dandelion knight has a light hand on her shoulder, but she does not look away from the stature. She probably believes it is her burden, to not tear her gaze away from one of her people.
Mona barely notices when someone takes her arm, gentling guiding her through the streets to a familiar office building. Only when she realizes she is in the Knights of Favonius Headquarters does she realize it's Kaeya. She stares at the room in a daze, as Jean closes softly closes the door behind her. Lisa leans on the desk before her, face shadowed by the brim of her hat.
As soon as Kaeya releases her arm, she raises it to strike him across the cheek. He doesn’t move, even though he probably could. He simply holds it, and regards her coolly.
“You know who’s responsible for this act of- only the devil could have conceived,” Mona splutters. “What are you waiting for?!”
“Monstadt is currently in a treaty with the Fatui,” Lisa says in a low voice. “We can’t risk open confrontation without putting the city in danger.”
“Mona Megistus,” Jean says, too gently, and Mona turns her furious gaze to her. Jean looks exhausted. “Please. I know it’s difficult, but the matter we need to address is who…who is up there.”
Of course, the Knights would look for any other possibilities before settling on the obvious. Mona supposed it was only standard protocol. She would have done the same, but- Mona’s a realist. Seek the truth as she may, she knows that the simplest answer is the most correct. If she can delay that truth, to refuse to check- then maybe, maybe she can pretend a little longer. Pretending- she laughs. Perhaps Fischl’s rubbed off on her too much.
Mona whips out her scryglass. The faint blue mirage of the night sky lights up the cramped interior of the office, scattering fragments of light onto plaster walls. They’re not as stable as they should be, because Mona’s hands are trembling. She centers in on Corvus.
Mona Megistus prides herself on her acceptance of fate, but this time, she’s afraid of what she is going to see.
“She’s-”