Daylite

This time it was an older male. He was still in a tuxedo from whatever businessman-y type things he was up to before Feitan took him. Feitan didn’t glance to look at you, but you knew he saw. Pretty little you, a cat hybrid or similar, with feline ears and a tail. Feitan worked, spilling blood and asking questions.

The man screamed and begged. The surprisingly shrill sound ached in your feline ears, making them twitch slightly. An involuntary movement, but one he noticed.

“What?” Feitan immediately said, you knew he caught everything. No matter how slight the movement.

Quietly, you lowered yourself deeper into the blanket you were curled up on. “Loud…”

Feitan immediately turned back to the shrieking victim, grabbing him by the throat. In his focus, it allowed you to close your eyes for the half second it took him to silence his screaming into a small, gasping wheeze.

You opened your eyes before he could realize you closed them. A small part of hou flickered with guilt over causing the punishment. The rest of you were just numb. It was significantly less loud now anyways.

“Thank you.” You whispered.

He didn’t respond, resuming his interrogation session.

You continued to lounge quietly for the rest of it. It was a normal routine for the two of you at this point. If not for the screaming, blood, and crack of bone, it might even be considered quality time. And, after so long of doing this with him, you started to pick up on the little things; how close the victim was to breaking, Fietan’s mood, the general level of transgression his victim performed.

This man was most likely just a lackey for another, bigger problem that Fietan and the troupe needed to deal with. There wasn't an edge of gleeful retribution, not much personal information mentioned in Feitan’s mocking. Nope, just a lackey that doesn't mean much.

You yawned, opening your mouth wide, sharp canines glinting in the dim basement light. A small signal to Feitan his session was cutting into dinner time. You usually cooked, if only to save the both of you from

Feitan turned his head slightly to the side to acknowledge you. “Done soon. Patient kitty.”

Being Capitano’s someone-of-significance had him deciding to dump you into a remote manor somewhere in Snezhnaya, leaving with a quick kiss and a promise to return home after his meeting with the Tsaritsa.

He dragged you all the way to Snezhnaya, and didn’t even let you go with him to the palace.

Angrily—and yes, it was anger. Not loneliness or longing or any other emotion the young maids would describe it as, accented by dreamy sighs as they theorized about you and his’ beautiful courtship—you tore the page of sheet music from the book propped in front of you.

Music was too hard and it made your fingers hurt.

You’d spent the better parts of two weeks in the manor, and it was boring. You were out of your depths, the maids knowing more about noble and elite life than you ever imagined anyone could know.

One of the maids said it herself not long after your arrival. “You’re nothing like what I imagined Capitano’s fiancé would be. Of course, none of us really know his preferences. But if not a warrior, I’d thought you may have been a noblewoman, knowledgeable about music or literature, or perhaps cooking. I once served a noblewoman who made very exquisite cuisine.”

“We’re not engaged.” You’d said, a bit breathless as she tightened the corset.

The other maids who’d been fluttering about shushed her a bit too aggressively for you to consider it noble.

You’d ignored them, until one of the shier ones spoke up. “If I may ask, my lady… how did you two meet?”

“I was a healer in Natlan working for a group of bandits. He won me by right of combat, and eventually we began… well.” You waved your hand, summing up the obvious physical and emotional relations with proper censorship but no denial. “I’m not quite sure what to call the two of us.”

The maids were stunned, and you remembered that such things as that weren’t normal in other nations. You opened your mouth, hoping to amend their opinions of you, but one of them spoke first—

“Oh so he saved you! How romantic!”

The session devolved into a series of awws. They giggled and tousled your hair as they fixed it up, rambling aloud about the romantic scenario.

It took everything in you to not take it personally. To remember that these were the daughters of affluent families who could not afford to marry off another daughters, but could land them a cushy spot working under a harbinger in a non-combatant role. Who probably spent their youths reading fairy tales instead of fighting or healing the way you had.

You rolled your eyes, letting the girls have their fun. These young women were your only friends in this new place after all. There was little point to complain.

~~~

It was clear Capitano would be coming home soon.

There was a certain buzz among the staff. Tasks that were once laxly carried out only when there was time for it were now being performed rigorously and thoroughly. Floors once mopped were now being scrubbed by servants on their hands and knees. Libraries lightly dusted once or twice a week were practically being done by the hour.

There was a buzz among your hand maids as well. They became very, very particular about your appearance. Every day your hair was to be done up in what you can only assume are traditional northern styles. The soft comfortable outfits you’d taken preference to gently batted aside and replaced with expensive tailored dresses, with beaded bodices and tulle that reached partway down your legs.

Refusing such things also made your hand maids very nervous. A lot of ‘are you sure’-s and ‘but my lady!’-s.

From this, you quickly figured out that he’d be back any day now.

So, when you spotted a horse drawn carriage trotting up the path to your manor from a window, you knew what expectations they had.

Greet him at the door, preferably warmly, probably with a kiss, and then follow him around like a lost puppy.

You rolled your eyes before going back to failing to play the violin.

“Um, miss?” One of your handmaids said softly. “Your… Lord Harbinger Capitano seems to be arriving.”

“Mm.” The violin screeched at you as you clumsily played it.

“I… alright. Miss.”

It wasn’t that you hated Capitano. Or that you didn’t want to see him. You were a bird in a golden cage, yes, but Capitano never bothered to close the door, and you never bothered flying out. It was just—

He didn’t even write to you.

The violin made quite an annoying sound as you pressed a bit too hard on the bow, its wavering screech the perfect sound to accompany the grind of your teeth.

Sure, he was undoubtedly busy, but that didn’t erase the embarrassment you’d experience every time you had to ask if any mail for you—any letters from him—came through, only to be told not so much as a word had come from his lord. Didn’t erase the feeling of being some discarded housewife while your lover galivants around the country without you—

The violin had picked up a sharp, angry tune as you played the song through all your little mistakes, not stopping even as you played incorrect notes or lost your place, you could hardly hear it through the rant in your head.

“I see you’ve picked up the violin.” Him.

Immediately, your song stopped. You hadn’t realized he’d entered, hadn’t realized you missed his voice.

“L-Lord Harbinger!” You maid squeaked, bowing. Capitano must have made some motion to her, as she left the room quickly after.

He stayed silent for a moment, and you stayed turned towards the window. “… why are you upset with me?”

“I’m not.”

“Why are you upset with me.” He repeated again, and you suddenly noticed how much closer he was to you. You didn’t hear the footsteps as he loomed over your shoulder.

“I…”

“Has the accommodations been insufficient? Was the staff unpleasant? I’ll have them dead in an instant if they were who upset you against me.” His hand, gloved, tilted your head back by the chin so you had to look up at him. Into the dark maw of his uniform.

“No Captain…”

“Then why? Why have you refused me the right to be greeted home by my woman? The right to see you as I’ve longed to? There must be something wrong, considering you haven't so much as responded to a single letter-”

“You wrote me?” You said all too quickly when you heard the words come from the man over you. Distantly, you chastised yourself for the almost desperate way you asked it. Like a woman starved for water.

He stilled, putting together the pieces easily. “Ah, so that’s what it is. Yes, I wrote to you many times, my healer.”

“I didn’t receive any.”

The hand that was lifting your face up shifted to the side, idly messing with a lock of your hair before cradling the crux of where your jaw met your neck. “I am realizing that now.”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk to me.”

“I did, greatly.”

You paused a moment, the small sparks of spite that once had you melted away partially, leaving you feeling a bit silly. “I…”

“Don’t apologize. This is someone else’s fault, I’ll deal with them later.” He said, moving around you to your front, and kneeling down before you.

The hand cradling your pulse slipped to the back of your neck, lightly pulling you into him. You kissed him through the gaping maw of his mask. It was rough, as though it was the single thing he’d been wanting for weeks. His hand tightened, pulling your hair by the roots to expose your neck. You gasped when you felt his lips on your jaw, traveling down to your throat.

It was a while before he pulled back, satisfied at the aggravated red skin his attention left. Most likely so that the staff could see it and know.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling quickly, but not scared. He seemed happy, or perhaps, at peace, as he stared back.

A polite, quiet knock on the door finally brought his gaze away from you. He spoke, loud and clear, “Yes?”

“Dinner is set for you the Lord and his Lady.”

He rose, standing to his full height before extending a hand to you. “You’ll be joining me I hope?”

“… yes, my lord.” You took it.

~~~~~

Try to kill the Tsaritsa? If you get pretty close, proving yourself a real contender, he’ll kill you, seeing you as too great a threat. If you don't stand a chance, he’ll send you to the dungeons and spend a few, very pathetic, months mulling over what to do with you.

If you succeed in killing the Tsaritsa, he will kill you, or he will die by your hand. There is no chance for redemption, no heart strings you can pull. He does not exhibit the petulance or immaturity of some of his co-workers. His will is as icy as her Majesty’s. He won’t even cry as either of you die. He’s so cold about it, it almost feels more like betrayal to you, than to him.

Capitano

Try and kill him? He has you pinned down in seconds, whatever weapon you were planning to use sent flying to the other side of the room. Whether you got close, or did little more than a bug biting at his skin, he’s pissed. He keeps you there for a second, breaths labored.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He growls, hand shoving your head harder against whatever surface he has you against. It doesn’t matter what you say—you can hardly speak after all—he’s pissed.

If you two were deployed at the time, a group of his finest drag you back to whatever mansion his rank as harbinger has earned him. You thought it merciful at first, and easy to escape. Until an icy blizzard encases the large mansion, making escape impossible without death. Waiting it out doesn’t work, the storm is constant. You are forced to grit your teeth, pacing your new prison like a caged animal.

The blizzard, created at his request by the Tsaritsa, only breaks when he returns from the expedition, and encases the home once more as he steps inside. You are truly, pitifully, trapped with him. As his.

He grabs your chin harshly, “Behave, brat.” Lifting your head and tilting it to the side, he plants a kiss on your neck.

Try to kill the Tsaritsa? Unlike Scaramouche, he doesn’t accept any pitying promises or begging for mercy. His patron, goddess of love, being attacked by his own lover? He is more worried about her response than about what is to be done about you. This is a personal failure in his eyes. He picked a lover, and endangered her Majesty due to his own blindness. He leaves you to her will to be dealt with.

You will feel no warmth from him as you die, but you will crave it as the cold pricks turn to knives—crave his inhuman arms. He always ran hot, even in the northernmost tempests.

If you do kill the Tsaritsa it’s much the same. A merciless end. The only difference is he’s quicker, a bit afraid of you; of you you killed the goddess of love.

Pantalone

Try to kill him? Unlike his coworkers, he is not combatively attuned. In the “safety” of his bedchambers, where only you and him are allowed, you stand a much greater chance.

When he gets away from you, from your blade, his Fatui guards breaking through the ornate doors and restraining you, you see the flash of raw, human fear in his eyes. The mortality that he hardly shows. You aren’t alone with him for a while after that. Hardly seen without the diamond studded muzzle he commissions for you. His silent payback for your stunt.

Try to kill the Tsaritsa? Chances are he’s not there when it happens, and even if he is, he’s not the one to intervene. You get shipped back to him in chains, some other harbinger throwing you to the floor in Pantalone’s office. Their voice is sharp as they say “I hope this does not become an issue again.”

He regards them back with sharper eyes. “It will not.”

You are not allowed in the Tsaritsa’s palace again after that. You stay in his private manor, many, many miles away. The air is tense even as Pantalone never mentions the issue again.

You’d been isolated, for the most part. Trying to escape the cabin in the snowy wilderness was not a good idea. Partially because, well, snow. And partially because it was easy to track people in the snow.

When he—inevitably—did catch you, he was upset. You knew the risk of punishment when you made the choice, but what he did was different to what you expected.

Your wrists, ankles, and neck all ached badly. For over a week you were locked up and shackled. And not the kind of locked up you were before the attempt. No, there wasn’t a warm cabin, a fireplace, or Tartaglia’s sloppy attempts at keeping you happy. A fucking closet. No light, windows. Ajax didn’t even speak to you when he left you food.

It was so different to everything you’d ever known, growing up in the free rolling hills of Mondstadt. You already struggled in the confines of the cabin, but kept silent and still in such a small space?

A week of that, and now he decided you were good. That you’d probably learnt your lessons. But that morning, when he went to let you out, to welcome you back with a teasing ‘I hope you learnt your lesson’ and a patronizing hug, he found you… in a less than desirable state.

Shivering not from cold, throat raspy and raw, eyes trained on the ground. You didn’t even notice him at first. Not as he spoke, each shackle falling off with a click. Not as his mood shifted as the light from the hallway illuminated your skin.

You’d been clawing at it, to the point of bleeding, stretching your limited dexterity in order to anxiously and unconsciously hurt yourself. Like a caged bird plucking it’s own feathers from stress. You’d only been brought to reality when he picked you up, jerking away from him as tears sprung to your eyes again.

He said something you didn’t process as you tried to stand up, stumbling like a doe on new legs, vision gray around the edges.

You weren’t sure how it all went down. But somehow you two ended up on the couch, settled between his thighs, your back to his chest as you shaked and begged and tried to get away, only partially aware. “No no no no—Ajax please.”

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, I got you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He repeated, letting you claw at his forearms instead of your own skin. “Breath, breath little dove. It’s okay, It's all over baby. I’m sorry, it was too much, wasn’t it? You’re too fragile for me to be mean like that.”

You continued your quick, flighty, panicked breaths as he gently tried to get you back to reality. Eventually, you’d slowed down, settling against his chest, eyes still wide and breaths still quick. Like a live rabbit in the hands of a trapper.

“You with me, baby?” He asked gently. As your chest struggled to rise and fall again, you gave a quick nod, not looking up at him. Your eyes were trained on some far off spot, pretending to be anywhere else other than that damn closet. You weren’t sure you even realized—truly realized—you’d left. “There we go. There. That’s better darling. See? Everything’s alright now.”

“E-everything's alright…” you repeated, nodding to yourself.

“Yeah. See? Not too bad. I’m sorry for your punishment, I got all caught up in my emotions. I should have known you wouldn’t do that well alone, without me.” He laid his cheek on the top of your head, voice taking on something fond. A content sigh sounded above you. “You’re so soft. I need to be careful not to break you. But you need to be careful too, baby.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment, before squeaking out a soft, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, no more escape attempts. Okay?” He said, and you nodded. He ran his fingers through your hair, having let go of your wrists when you weren’t paying attention. His blunt nails, worn from hard work, scratched gently at your scalp. “That’s right.”

It continued for some amount of time. It was hard to tell, really. You were on the edge of freaking out but somehow also falling asleep. Everything ached, from your ribs to your wrists.

At some point, he grabbed them again. Gentler this time. He lifted one, holding it gently as his thumb rubbed at your self inflicted injuries.

You felt like a caged bird, bars too tight and owner too inexperienced to keep you from plucking your own feathers from stress.

He sighed above you, and you turned your head away so as to not look at him. “Poor thing.” The condescending words felt strangely genuine as he laid his cheek on the top of your head. “It’s okay, I’ll take the week off and we can fix this, okay baby?”

He quieted for a moment, and belatedly you realized he wanted a response. You made a small, hollow noise of acknowledgement, which came out raspy from your throat.

He sighed again, as if this was so hard on him. It was hard to find the energy to be angry though. So you just stayed silent as he dropped your wrist and dragged you closer to him. He was cold to the touch, but even his love was warmer than isolation.

~

“Creation, as we’ve found, is a hard task. After making a world, said creator often must rest for millennia. This gave Celestia time to attach to our world—to you—like a parasite. You should have awoken long ago. The archons were all expecting you to descend a few hundred years back. When you didn’t, the Tsaritsa’s war against Celestia began.”

“Ah.” Okay… sure. You’d accept that as fact for now. “What happens now that I’ve descended? Is this war against Celestia over then?”

“Hm? Oh, of course not. The Tsaritsa will personally drag Celestia down from their stolen thrones and gut them in your name, before returning their power to you.”

A violent, gleeful edge tinted his tone, then. Under his mask, a sharp smile spread as the thought crossed his mind. You paid it no attention, it was just the way he was.

“How are you so sure I’m the Creator? Others thought me to be an imposter of sorts.”

“How wouldn’t we?” Dottore laughed. “Your blood is gold, your deaths left the world weeping, the stars in your eyes shift to the constellation of whatever person you look at, and you know so much about each of us. Not to mention, we were the ones who awoke you.”

Your eyes immediately tore away from the syringe he was drawing blood with, shooting to him. “What?”

Dottore smiled, lips curling back to bare sharp teeth. “Oh, they didn’t tell you?”

“You couldn’t have awoken me.” You whispered, brow creasing. “I first appeared in Inazuma, where Kujou Sara killed me.”

The arrow was swift. After hours of wandering across familiar landscapes, the soft buzz of electro on your skin, wonder bright in your eyes. All that was cut short when the tengu woman shot you without hesitation. As you faded away, you heard her mangled scream as you bled gold.

“Awakened, not summoned. We could not control where you descended once your body awoke.”

You nodded. No wonder they were so… prepared to retrieve you, then. Brought back to the Tsaritsa’s palace, you were met with staff, a personal chamber, and every harbinger present to receive you. Even the Tsaritsa herself lowered herself from her icy throne to meet you.

You were very relieved that you met their unknown expectations for this ‘Creator’ you were expected to be.

You felt fingers on your chin, cold, the skin to skin contact separated by his sanitary gloves. He tilted your face up, locking eyes with yours, even if they were hidden by his mask.

He let out a soft, utterly enchanted sigh. “My creator.”

You brought your hand up, cupping his face in turn. Immediately, he slumped into it, like a cat, mumbling again; “My creator… my creator.”

You wondered if his eyes fluttering closed at your touch, if the slump of his shoulders, almost purring sigh, was due to your rank as creator. Was your very touch ecstasy?

His eyes remained closed when he next spoke. “The tsaritsa wishes for your presence, once you are medically cleared. It will be a little bit though. I guess you’ll just have to spend some time within my laboratory. Your health will be observed by me, of course.”

The way he said it, slightly cheeky, made you question if you actually were still sick. Alas, you were out of your depth, for now.

So, you drew back your hand, watching curiously as Dottore’s content look shifted to that of a small frown, lifting his head curiously. At his look of slight disgruntlement, you laughed a bit. “I’ll stay here, just for a few days.”

After all, you needed time to prepare to meet the Tsaritsa.

~~~