Chapter Text
Do you really think that this was going to work?
You’ve thought a few different variations of that question since the idea first popped into your head. Mostly with a vague tone of hysteria, admittedly, but that’s what happens when you decide that you are going to take out a loan from the Northland Bank with the only collateral you happen to own. It wasn’t as though you had any choice in the matter. If you had any friends to borrow money from to try and pay for the repairs to your house, you would ask them. If you had any family to ask, you would do the same, but what family you have either doesn’t have the money or doesn’t speak to you. You can’t get an advance on your wages, nor did you have anything that you are willing to sell for the meager coins you could get for it. There was one solution, and one solution only - to talk to the Bank.
You gathered up what little valuables you had, wrapping them in brown paper and tucking them securely into the thickest coat you owned. Wrapping yourself in thick winter clothes, you then trekked your way through the snow to the cold marble building. It was always bustling with activity - Fatui walking in and out, along with other Snezhnayan citizens on their business - and you took a moment to stand outside the building and talk yourself through your plan again. Request a loan. Offer your valuables as collateral. If necessary, ask to speak to the bank’s director to plead your case. Do whatever you can to make sure you have a roof over your head. The only issue - your success depends on which director is in there. If it is one of the strict bureaucrats that is employed by the bank, then you are going to have a much harder time. If it is a very tired and worn out bureaucrat, then you might have a chance.
If, by some horrifying chance, the head of the bank is there…
Well, then you’re fucked.
With that in mind, you walk up to the front door of the bank, breath puffing up in front of you, and push the door open. The wall of heat immediately hits you in the face, fogging up the goggles you wear to keep the cold wind out of your eyes, and you take a breath of relief. Warm. It’s been at least a day since you felt warm with all of your fireplace’s heat sneaking out of the cracks in your roof. It isn’t too much like loitering if you move over to the side and take just a bit longer than usual to take off your thick winter clothes and put them in a storage cabinet for later, just so you can feel the heat make its way into your bones.
“Feels good, doesn't it?” A Fatuus mage asks as she does the same, hanging her glowing lantern on a hook and leaving her ever-present mask in place.
“It does,” you say with a smile. “Actually, perhaps you would know, comrade. Where would I find the loan desk?”
“Ah, that would be under Lending, Acquisitions, and Investment,” the woman points with her clawed glove towards a desk to the north. “You’ll want the line on the left, the one without the merchants in it.”
“Thank you very much,” you give her a nervous grin. “Wish me luck.”
“My pleasure, and the best of luck, comrade.”
With that, you clutch your package to your chest and make your way over. Your winter boots thump against the marble title, echoing in the large resplendent room, and you take a slow breath for courage. The line isn’t long, only one person in front of you, a wealthy man arguing with the teller over one of his investments, so you use the opportunity to think it over again. You can do this. This may not be your forte - you’re a miner, not a merchant or financial genius - but you can do it.
Request a loan. Offer collateral. Ask to speak to the bank’s manager to plead your case. Do whatever you have to to get it.
There is a crash of a chair on the floor and around you, the bank goes silent as the man in front of you jumps to his feet. His gloved finger stabs at the teller as he shouts, “How dare you mistreat me? I am a loyal paying customer and I am demanding your assistance!”
To her credit, the teller holds steady. “Sir, what you are requesting I do with your assets is not only against Northland Bank policy, but it is ill-advised and not possible.”
“Are you telling me what to do with my money?”
“That is not the case, sir-”
“Yes, you are, I heard you, the entire bank heard you!”
“And can hear you,” you mutter softly. Her Benevolence herself could probably hear you.
“Sir, you are asking me to process your investment under a different set of criteria, which would render it invalid. I cannot help you with this process, as this is something I am not allowed to do,” the teller says patiently. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, I want you to do this! I’ll make a fortune!”
“Sir, I am unable to help you with this, as it goes against bank policy.”
“Then I demand I speak to someone who will!” The man’s fist slams against the counter, and reflexively, you grip onto your package tighter. “Or I will take my business elsewhere!”
“Will you now?”
Three words. All it takes is three words, and the comforting warmth that you felt upon walking into the bank disappears, as if all of the fires went out. Nothing has changed, of course, other than a door shutting from the second floor. The words echo from the top of the stairs, and every head in the bank turns to look as a cloaked figure makes their way down the stairs. Their boots click on the marble, echoing in the dead silent room, and even if you are not in trouble…you still feel like you’ve done something bad. As for the offender, well…he looks like he’s about to shit himself, and it’s all you can do to not crack a smile.
“And what other institution in great Snezhnaya is there in competition with the Northland Bank?” The voice continues, as its owner descends the stairs. “Perhaps my intelligence is out of date and requires correction, unless you have some other information, comrade.”
The man fumbles desperately. “My Lord Pantalone, I humbly beg your pardon.”
“Yes, you should.”
So speaks the Ninth Harbinger.
You have never had the blessing (or perhaps curse) of meeting one of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers. The emissaries of her Benevolence the Tsaritsa, they are so far above you that you would be lucky to spot them in a parade, if ever. You know, of course, that it is an honour to serve them and thereby serve the will of the Tsaritsa, and for one to decide that you are worthy is truly a sign of your capabilities. But to view one up close and feel the aura of power that they radiate? To see the strength that they wear like a cloak? To see the teeth behind their smiles? Never. To see one now so close nearly took your breath away.
Pantalone. The Ninth of the Harbingers, Economic Advisor to the Tsaritsa, Head of Northland Bank. The reason that the saying went ‘The Northland Bank’s true currencies are blood and tears.’ He is beautiful and cold, like ice, sharp blue eyes, long dark hair, elegant clothing that fits him perfectly, glasses catching the faint glow of candlelight. As he steps forward to stop before you, you feel the need to step away, just to give him the space he rightfully deserves.
The offending rich idiot proceeds to fall to his knees. “I…I did not know that you were away from the palace, my lord. I would not have spoken thus had I known.”
“Ah, so you would have abused my staff only without my presence, I see,” Lord Pantalone’s voice is cold.
“My lord, I-”
Lord Pantalone raises a hand to silence the groveling fool. “Laima, what was it that he was requesting?”
The teller gathers herself in a moment and places several documents on the table. “Comrade Relkoff has several investment accounts tied into trade with Liyue industries, and requested that I modify his account under the rules for accounts from Sumeru as to levy the lower tariff rates and boost the value of his investment, my lord.”
“And you informed him that not only is that not possible but it is against bank policy?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Did you inform him that it was so because it is illegal? ”
You would not think that such a thing would be a stickler for a Harbinger, but perhaps it is different on home soil. The rich man’s face blanches as the teller says, “I was not able to explain this to him, my lord. He would not let me speak.”
“I see, so this…Comrade Relkoff believes he knows better of what to do with his money than the Northland Bank?”
“It would appear so, my lord,” the teller says, clearly trying to battle back a smile. “He is also dealing with me, my lord, because he made the previous teller cry.”
“I see ,” Lord Pantalone’s facial expression has not changed, but you would swear that the room dropped several degrees. “ And has this teller been taken care of?”
“She is resting in the back room, my lord.”
“Good. Send her to my office when her shift has ended, I will speak to her then.” The Harbinger then turns his eyes back to the customer. “Attempting to intimidate one of my employees into an illegal activity. I do believe that that fits the requirements. Laima, please remove all of Comrade Relkoff’s funds from his account, confiscate 50% for damages and fines, and give the rest back to him.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The man’s jaw drops. “My lord, you can’t-”
“Can’t I?” The Harbinger’s voice drops an octave in irritation. “I am letting you leave my establishment alive, unharmed, with some of your money, with only a ban. Am I not being generous?”
“You most certainly are, my lord! But-”
“I would take what I am offered, Comrade Relkoff, and depart before you incur any more fines.” Several guards in full armour approach, their elemental weapons buzzing with Anemo and Electro, and when the man goes pale and silent, the Harbinger smiles. “I am pleased to see us come to an agreement.”
You watch as the man gathers his money and barely manages to haul on his coat before racing out of the building. Lord Pantalone looks towards one of the guards and says, “Inform the guards that he should be detained for potential fraud.” When the guard says a firm ‘Yes, my lord’ and departs, he turns to the rest of the bank. “I apologize, my good comrades, for this interruption in your daily service. I did not think such a thing would occur on one of my private visits to the bank. Rest assured, you will be compensated for the loss of your time.”
Every eye in the room widens and a chorus of thank yous, including your own, are offered to the Harbinger. He places his hand on his chest and bows slightly to everyone in gratitude. Then, you can feel your stomach drop as he turns to look at you. “You would have been Laima’s next client, yes?”
It takes every ounce of calm you have not to trip over your words. “Yes, my lord.”
“I will take you. I will have her begin investigating that idiot’s accounts for any other fraud attempts,” he snaps his fingers and one of the Electro guards approaches. “Take them to my office.”
“Yes, my lord.”
This cannot be happening.
The guard approaches you, hammer held in parade position, and gestures with a hand before him. “This way, comrade.”
Apparently, it fucking is.
“Thank you, my lord,” you call over to the Harbinger’s back as he discusses whatever plan he has with the teller. He does not answer, and instead you just…walk up the stairs towards the office of one of the wealthiest men in the country, possibly the world. It feels like the longest flight of stairs you have ever climbed, your steps muffled by the red carpet (did he purposefully walk down the sides of the carpet just so his boots echoed?), but you finally get to the top, following the guard down the hallway. He stops at a very large wooden door, made of dark wood and detailed with good, and opens it for you.
“You will wait here for Lord Pantalone. Do not touch anything.”
“Of course. Thank you, comrade.”
The guard says nothing as he leaves you inside the office, and you take a long moment to just…stare at the room. His office is the size of your entire house - marble floor, intricately carved wooden panels on the wall, rugs so well-made that you feel uncomfortable setting foot on them lest you make a dirty boot print on the design, artwork that probably costs more than your entire life, sculptures, golden scales…the room drips with wealth. Slowly, you make your way to one of the chairs by the desk and sit, gripping your package of items on your lap for courage. A small fountain is the only sound in the room and you cannot help staring at the marvel of technology - a little pump that makes water fall down rocks and then brings it up to the top to do it again. It is such a peaceful sound, and you would touch it if it was anywhere but the office of a Harbinger.
You are unclear how much time passes before the door opens again. You turn in surprise to see Lord Pantalone enter, closing the door, and he moves to sit at his paper-covered desk. “Now, I appreciate your patience, but I am also a very busy man. So - what was it that you were here for?”
Alright. No fucking up. You cannot fuck up. You take a deep breath and begin. “Thank you, Lord Pantalone. I was here to request a loan for house reconstruction, and I have brought collateral.”
The Harbinger raises an eyebrow ever so slightly. “House reconstruction?”
“Yes, my lord. A tree fell over in the last storm on it, cracking the wall, and heat no longer stays within,” you explain quickly, raising the package slightly. “I have exhausted all other personal avenues, and so I turned to the Northland Bank.”
“A wise decision,” the Harbinger holds out a gloved hand and you place the package in it. “And do you think I, the embodiment of the Northland Bank, will accept this collateral?”
This is a very, very dangerous question. “I confess not to know your mind, my lord, but should you not accept it, I fear you will laugh me out of your office,” you say quietly.
“Oh, and why would that be?” He asks, raising an eyebrow. His confidence practically oozes off of him, and for a brief moment, you forget that he is a Harbinger. He is just a beautiful man, waiting for you to answer, and it takes all of the restraint you have not to say something quippy in response.
“The items in question are of extreme sentimental value, though not of great monetary value,” you manage quietly. “I am from a mining family, my lord, and we did not have much.”
His jaw tightens slightly as he moves some of his papers aside and sets the package on the now bare desk. Peeling back the paper, you watch his sharp blue eyes take in the contents: a golden locket that, when it is opened, reveals a small etching of a person; and a small birch box with several wedding rings inside. You watch as this Harbinger carefully handles them all, his finger poking through the wedding rings, before he looks back up at you over his glasses. “You are correct. These items are not of great monetary value. You could sell them, but it would not cover the cost of any significant house repair. It would barely cover food for two days.”
You hold back your surprise. How does he know the cost of food that I could afford on a miner’s salary? “Your appraisal skills are well-known, my lord,” you say hesitantly, “as is your knowledge of the market. I trust in your judgment.”
As if they were made of glass, he lays every item back down with care in the paper. “As these items would not match the value of a loan for construction materials, they will not make sufficient collateral, even with their sentimental value,” he says instead, his voice cold. “You would be best suited, comrade, to sell the locket for a blanket to cover up any cracks, and the rings for nails to secure it in place.”
You swallow, staring at the table, feeling your stomach clench. “They’re all I have left,” you say quietly, forgetting the honorific. “I…I can’t.”
Paper rustles, and there is a moment of silence. “You were not a child of the House of Hearth, but you were considered.”
“Yes, my lord,” you say softly. “My parents passed away when I was a teenager.”
“My condolences,” he says without putting any emotions into the words. Then the papers rattle on the table, as if he stacks them into place, and he sets them back down. “Look at me.”
Your eyes snap up to meet the gaze of the Ninth Harbinger. He examines you with the same intensity a jeweler would a diamond, checking it for flaws and imperfections. Finally, he speaks. “What would you offer, then?”
“Pardon, my lord?”
“I do not like to repeat myself. If you knew that these items were not of sufficient monetary value to offer as collateral, this suggests that you had something else to offer as a supplement,” the Harbinger holds your attention, and while he does not touch you, Lord Pantalone’s gaze is just as firm in holding you there. “With that in mind…what were you offering?”
You swallow, gripping your hands into your trousers. “I…all I have is myself, my lord,” you say hesitantly. “I was prepared to offer labour, perhaps to negotiate a short-term indenture contract?”
He laughs, a cruel bitter thing that makes you flinch. “My, my. So protective of assets but not of yourself. You would put yourself in the hands of the Northland Bank entirely, for the sake of your house and belongings?”
No turning back now. “Yes, my lord. That was what I was prepared to offer.”
There is silence for a moment, only the sound of the little fountain in the background, before Lord Pantalone taps your desk. “Stand.”
You do so, nearly leaping to your feet.
He sits back in his chair, taking you in, and makes a spinning gesture with his finger. Unsure of what to expect, you raise your arms slightly and spin in a circle for his perusal. When you are able to look at him again, Lord Pantalone is assessing you again. “You are a miner and labourer.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And would you consider yourself strong?”
You decide to answer that in a more practical fashion. “I am able to carry heavy loads without assistance, my lord.”
He hums thoughtfully. “One month of additional labour to your mining duties,” he says firmly. “Three hours each day, including your days off, devoted to what tasks I lay before you. This will include hard labour. Do you understand?”
Wait, he’s considering it? You open your mouth to ask him if he’s serious before you remember his words about repeating himself, and that stops you. Again, deep breath, and you nod. “Yes, my lord. Thank you so much for this, I will not let you down.”
“As for any other possible duties, should you finish your tasks…” he taps a finger against the desk. “You offered yourself. To clarify such ambiguous words, what were you prepared to offer?”
No.
No.
There is no fucking way he is asking me what I think he’s asking me.
You allow yourself exactly five seconds to think about the answer. Are you offering that? No matter how shameful it might be that you would essentially whore yourself out for construction materials…is that something you are prepared to do? Especially to the wealthiest man in Snezhnaya? You think of the cold waiting for you back in your house. You think of actually being able to walk around without all of your winter clothes on, of a fire that fills the room, of not requiring double the firewood just to keep your house at a comfortable temperature. You think of who you are making this offer to - a man whose smile is friendly but eyes are cold, who has money galore but money that drips in blood, who views all of life (you suspect) as a transaction and those around him as either buyers or products. A stupidly attractive man, but nevertheless - Harbingers are not kind people. For all of the good that they do in the Tsaritsa’s name…they are not kind. This may be rough. He may take advantage of you, pushing the limits of your contract as far as he can make it, and you may not make it out of his without injuries. But is it worth it?
…fuck it.
“If it did not cause irrevocable harm to me, physically or mentally,” you say quietly, “I am prepared to do anything, my lord. I offered myself, in the full sense of the phrase.”
You could not explain how his expression changes, but you think that something about it becomes…sharper. He makes a gesture with his finger, flipping it upward, and when you decipher it, you instantly start to blush. Still, you oblige. Gripping the bottom of your sweater, you haul it off, folding it neatly over the arm of the chair, and for extra measure, you add your overshirt to the pile.
Lord Pantalone rises from his chair in one smooth motion and moves towards you slowly, hands behind his back. For a moment, you feel as if you are being circled by a wild animal, one considering if you are worthy prey. He does not touch you - no, why would he touch you when he hasn’t made that kind of offer, when there is definitely ore dust and dirt all over your cleanest clothes, when he doesn’t need to touch you to fill you with anticipation, when he could tease and toy with you without ever having to lay a finger on you - but you can feel his eyes. His eyes take you in, looking at you from all angles, and although you can’t make out the expression on his face…you can tell that he’s thinking. A few circles of you, and he finally returns to his desk to sit. “It will take you, at an optimal pace, thirteen days to complete the manual labour I will lay out for you,” he says instead. “We will find more tasks for you for the remaining eighteen.”
You can feel how you blush at that. Still, you try to keep it together as he pulls out a template and begins filling it out. “Your conditions were for no irrevocable physical or mental harm, correct?” He asks.
“Yes, my lord,” you answer, voice shaking a little. “And that nothing should be done without my consent.”
“Of course, that is unspoken, I am not a savage.” He appears to have already been in the middle of writing that down. “I will provide you with bathing facilities to clean yourself up, and that time will not be taken out of the amount allotted to your services. I will allow you, out of good grace, to clean your clothes during this time as well.”
Well, pardon me, my lord Harbinger, but I am definitely doing laundry in your bathroom.
“I thank you, my lord.”
“You will also be seen by my personal physician prior to intimate services, to ensure that you are not carrying any diseases.” He frowns firmly. “To your knowledge, are you?”
You shake your head viciously. “No, my lord, but I accept the condition.” Maybe the doctor can also explain what is happening with your knee.
He makes several notes and pauses, his pen hovering over the parchment. “I will add a clause that, should I find your services acceptable, you may make this offer again.”
Holy fucking shit if I do a good job I can ask him again. “That is incredibly generous, my lord.” Part of you does wonder if this happens often, given that he has a template ready, but instead, you watch as he fills out the last of the contract and passes it over for you to read. Immediately, you start reading it slowly, raking it through, not letting a single clause slip past you. It’s not as complicated as you imagine Liyue contracts to be, but it is thorough. Servitude for one month for labour and any other services Lord Pantalone requires, up to and including consensual sexual activities without any physical or mental damage; a checkup by a doctor prior to said consensual sexual activities; and the use of bathing facilities for cleanliness. It all seems agreeable, and finally, you sign your name on the dotted line.
Lord Pantalone takes the contract back, signs his name, and as he wraps your valuables back up, he adds the rolled-up contract into the string. He writes two notes in quick succession, stamping them with his seal, and offers it to you. “You will present this to the teller at the front to receive the loan paperwork and the loan itself. The second you will present to your foreman when you arrive at work tomorrow to ensure that you are not late. You will come to my estate beside the palace as soon as you are able, and a carriage will be waiting for you. Do you understand?”
You nod so frantically you think your head just might fall off.
“Good. Then our business has concluded, and I have other business to attend to.”
“Thank you, my Lord,” you bow deeply, grabbing your sweater and shirt to drape over your arm, the note carefully folded into your pocket. “I will not disappoint you.”
“No, you will not.” The words should sound like a threat. Truly, they should, and perhaps that is what Lord Pantalone means by them. However, when you lift your head from your bow to look at him, he is looking at you over the top of his glasses. Ice blue eyes stare at you with the same intensity of a predatory eying his prey, and this time, he looks…
Hungry.
“No, I will not,” you manage to say, feeling your cheeks burst into flame.
He nods, expression going back to its placid normal, and makes a waving gesture with his hand. “Shut the door behind you.”
As you make your way out of the office, you stare at the note in your hands, the only tangible reminder of what you have just agreed to do. You…met a Harbinger. You didn’t die. He did business with you directly. He agreed to a weird out-of-the-ordinary contract with you. He agreed to fuck you in exchange for money to fix your house.
… Archons above, how did I really think this was going to work?
And now am I really going to do this?
As you give Lord Pantalone’s note to the teller and you receive more money for house repairs than you have held at one time in your entire life…you decide that you are going to do the best bloody job you can. You will do whatever manual labour you are being assigned-
And you are going to fuck a Harbinger.