Second Archon War: Comoedia Glacialis 11

Comoedia Glacialis 11:  The Thief’s Jealous Aside 

Not long ago, Chongjin had been the third largest city in the former People’s Republic of Korea. Now, that country no longer existed, and Chongjin wasn’t even in the top ten largest cities in the Unified Republic of Korea. It had still swollen in size, having become an important entry point into the ravaged north, where Pyongyang had been annihilated in its own nuclear fire. 

The city had modernized in the last year, especially as it was now the site of a Thunder Sakura tree. This tree now provided power to the 800,000 people who called Chongjin home, as well as the burgeoning industries that employed many of the low-skill peasants from the north. Like most rapidly expanding cities, Chongjin was a contrast of modern urbanity and decaying slums. The newly enriched, most of them southern capitalists, were happy to exploit their northern cousins' poverty. 

It was in this city that Kenichi found himself, fresh off a boat. He was dressed in a simple purple robe of a shinto priest of the modern era. On his feet were thick boots made of rubber and leather, the sort that would last for many miles of walking. He had only a small satchel with enough rice and dried fish for three days. Despite the Princess’ offer, he had no money, no contacts, and no plan. 

Ami had thought he wanted his mission to be as dramatic as possible, so as to awe those he would minister to. The actual reason was far simpler and much more banal: Kenichi did not actually wish to succeed. 

He looked around at the dock workers around him, his nose wrinkling. Docks the world over were not known for their perfumed odors, and even in the chill of winter Chongjin’s waterfront stank of dead fish, motor oil, and unwashed bodies. That alone, however, did not fully account for Kenichi’s disgust. He reserved that for the people. 

To most observers, the difference in appearance between Kenichi and the Korean dock workers who now surrounded him was mostly down to the clothing he wore and the station that allowed him to have gone through life with soft hands and a face unweathered by wind and sun. 

To Kenichi, however, they were uncivilized barbarians, untouched by the grace of the Raiden Shogun’s Eternity. 

“Truly, I must have displeased my lady,” Kenichi muttered to himself. 

“Eh, what’s that?” one of the Koreans asked. 

To Kenichi’s horror, he found he could perfectly understand the man, though his ears could tell it was Korean and not Japanese, his mind easily comprehended it. Apparently, this was a part of the curse he was under now. 

 “I said repent, and turn towards Eternity! Embrace the Raiden Shogun’s Eternity, or you will be left to the icy mercy of the Cryo Archon, and doomed to death and servitude!” Kenichi snarled, raising his hands above his head, his sleeves billowing out dramatically. 

To his surprise, the dockworkers around him seemed to understand what he had said. “What’s this?” one of them asked. 

Kenichi leveled a finger at the questioner and sneered. “The Cryo Archon, the god of the Russians, comes for you. The Raiden Shogun was too tender-hearted towards your sinful lot. She provided you with power, food, and medicine, and what thanks have you given to the Narukami Ogosho? What shrines have you built for her, what offerings have you given her? She is the God of Eternity, yet you have not honored her as such! Since you rejected her, you will be given over to the Tsaritsa and her Russian hordes!” 

The workers were taken aback by the harangue, and feeling slightly better, Kenichi stomped off up the docks. Every half a kilometer or so, he would stand atop a pile of crates, a truck bed, or even climb up on a roof, and shout down at those below him, scolding them and prophesying of the doom that the Tsaritsa or Russia would send down upon those below him. Then, restlessly, Kenichi would move on again, not stopping to answer any questions or argue with anyone who called him mad. 

He kept it up all day, slowly making his way out of the city. For the night, he slept in the hovel of a confused and terrified family. He arose before the dawn and continued his trek southwards. Sometimes he would catch a ride on a truck or train, other times he simply walked. By the end of the third day, his robes were filthy, and his beard was growing out, giving him a wild appearance. But he stopped at every town he could, going out of his way to visit each hamlet and deliver the same predictions of death and destruction, along with rebuke for not honoring the Shogun. 

To Kenichi’s mind, he was successfully delivering the Shogun’s message, and ensuring that the filthy Koreans would never seek to follow her. She was the God of Japan. No other nation was worthy of her. 

Kenichi would have done well to have read the story of the Prophet Jonah.

It had taken a month, but Mordovia had been transformed. The city was now coated in ice, and not just the natural sort. Gleaming crystalline factories formed from the essence of Cryo itself now clustered in the newly rebuilt section of the city. Once a half-ruined near slum, now it was a bustling hub of industry. The people who had once slunk about the streets with bent shoulders and stooped backs now strode with heads held high and cold resolve in their hearts. 

They did not smile, one did not often smile during a Russian winter, but their faces shone with pride and determination. 

And above all, their hearts beat with love. Love of their new God. The Tsaritsa. 

Already, towns and villages had begun to pledge themselves to the Tsaritsa, even beyond the border of Mordovia. The Government in Saint Petersburg was silent on the subject, as were the various other governments of the rump states that claimed sovereignty over Russia. 

That, however, was about to change. 

The Red Gauntlet had come to parley. 

They arrived not in helicopters, but under their own power. Vasili Kuznetsov, the Gauntlet himself, flew on wings of steel crafted by his own hand. He was famous as a Tinker who specialized in propulsion technology, from jet packs like the one he wears now, to powerful rockets and hovercraft. Such devices were, of course, easily weaponized, as pointing a jet engine at someone was a sure way to slay them. He’d leveraged his ability to create weapons and vehicles to build the most powerful mercenary force in Eurasia, arming the Red Gauntlet with his creations. 

Flying beside him were his two lieutenants: Ruvim Rasputine, the Red Ghost, and Agata Voronina, the Crow. Ruvim’s powers allowed him to turn completely intangible, as well as fly and hover. He also had mild telekinetic abilities that allowed him to manipulate objects even while he had gone ghost. He was most dangerous as an infiltrator and assassin and had a reputation as the Red Gauntlet’s invisible hand. Rumors placed him in dozens of places at once, which was a reputation the Red Ghost cultivated. 

The lone woman in the trio, Agata the Crow, was a fairly conventional flying blaster cape. Her power manifested in the form of a dark wind that trailed after her with a vaguely avian appearance, and shot out razor-sharp shards of black crystal that resembled feathers. The simplicity of her powerset belied its power: she could wrap herself in the black crystal and become nigh invulnerable, and her projectiles traveled at hypersonic velocities with the penetrating power of a tank round. 

They were not alone, of course. Half a dozen transport craft followed, all custom jobs crafted by the Gauntlet, looking like something out of a sci-fi movie. None were identical, but all were bristling with weapons, and loaded with a mixture of capes and mundane troops. Against most forces, it would have been an intimidating display. 

Against the Tsaritsa, it looked like a scale model collection.

At the center of the stage, the Tsaritsa sat upon her throne in her full regalia for the first time. Her gown was a pale blue, embroidered with sapphires and seed pearls, with a long trailing cape of ermine. It was cut in a somewhat revealing fashion that displayed her graceful curves, but no elegance was lost. Upon her head, she had ‘somehow’ found the crown of the Romanovs, though she had removed the cross upon the peak and replaced it with her own sigil. She had a scepter in her hands surmounted with a glowing blue chess piece, which she referred to as her “gnosis.” She radiated calm dignity and icy control, and frost bloomed in her wake. 

To her left stood The Witch, Yelizaveta Mirova. She wore a white military greatcoat with a black fur mantle, and purple uniform underneath. On her head was perched a purple witch’s cap, with an icy blue rose tucked into the brim. Her eyes changed, with one green, and the other an icy blue iris in the shape of an apple. She stood at attention but was smiling bemusedly up at the approaching Red Gauntlet. 

To the Tsaritsa’s right stood Sleeper, also dressed in a similar military greatcoat. He now bore a sword at his waist, a cavalry saber with gold cord wrapped about the hilt. His too-perfect features were grim and stern, hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his greatcoat half thrown back over one shoulder so that he could more easily draw his weapon. Everyone gave him a wide berth, for Prince or Sleeper, he remained one of the most feared capes on the continent. 

Beside Yelizaveta, Anatoly stood, doing his best to look as imposing as possible. He was dressed in the same uniform as the others, though he wore a black domino mask that did little to conceal his identity. He had his vision on a chain at his breast, but he felt as though he was a mere afterthought. Even though he had been there from the first, he had been cast aside in favor of the Witch and the Prince. 

All around them were hundreds of men and women dressed in black uniforms with masks of varying colors to denote their rank. They were all young and strong, as well as fervently loyal. The Tsaritsa had put food in their bellies, money in their pockets, and a warm roof over their heads. Not to mention giving them purpose and hope once more. 

“Old Vasili is feeling a bit inadequate these days I hear,” Yelizaveta commented as if to the open air. “He always did like having the biggest sword to swing around. Not many men take kindly to having the smaller member.”

Anatoly bristled at that, but tried not to let it show.

He was apparently unsuccessful, as Yelizaveta tittered and stroked his arm. “Oh, not you, cutie. I’m sure yours is very big.”

Jerking his arm away, he scowled at her under his mask. “We have guests. Try to behave yourself, at least for her Majesty’s sake.”

The three leaders of the Red Gauntlet swooped down, landing at the front of the designated area, as the transports touched down. The Red Gauntlet troops immediately disembarked and formed up in orderly ranks. The capes all had unique uniforms, but they were all in a similar style that made it clear that they were a part of a singular unit, all of them with red and gray tones. 

As for the foot soldiers, they were dressed in red uniforms with the raised red fist emblem on them, all bedecked in the latest military hardware. Anatoly should know, as he had sold a great deal of it to them. They had a large amount of Tinker tech, and most of it wasn’t even made by the Gauntlet’s own Tinkers, of which Vasili was by far the strongest. Everything from Tinkertech comms to motion trackers, to weapons modified with Elemental Energy bullets. 

It was interesting, seeing the several scores of soldiers armed with the best weapons of the modern world, contrasted with the soldiers of the Tsaritsa, who were armed with what looked like an array of fantasy weapons. Swords, daggers, armored fists, odd sprayers, and a few ornate rifles. Still, it wasn’t like the ordinary footsoldiers would matter a damn if it came to fighting. The Tsaritsa had given out weapons infused with elemental energy yes, but Anatoly doubted that would matter against powerful capes like the Red Gauntlet had. 

Vasili took off his iron helmet and tucked it under his arm, his two lieutenants following after him. He came to a halt just below the stage the Tsaritsa reclined upon, watching dispassionately as they approached. 

The Sleeper stepped forward, and in a sonorous voice declared, “You are in the presence of Her Most Divine Imperial Eminence, Bronislava Cocolievna Snezhnaya, God of Love, the Cryo Archon, Empress of All the Russias! THE TSARITSA!” 

The entire assembled force stomped their feet, pressed a hand to their hearts, and fell to their knees in obeisance before their goddess. Vasili pursed his lips, looking around at the kneeling soldiers, then up at the Tsaritsa. “I am Vasili Kuznetsov. Some call me Gauntlet.”

Anatoly’s lip curled at the introduction. So, the man thought to awe them with his humility? Did he think that would impress the Tsaritsa?

Smiling, the Tsaritsa leaned forward. “Come now, General, you have claim to more titles than that, and justly earned. There is no need to be so modest.”

“If you say so…Majesty,” Vasili said after a long pause. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know the Tsaritsa’s preferred mode of address. Yelizaveta had met with Grigory Lipovsky and carefully discussed what the meeting would entail, from what both parties would bring, to modes of address, and even what would be expected. 

Which meant that Gauntlet was very deliberately ignoring something he had been informed was entirely necessary for things to go properly. He had yet to kneel.

“I have met men like you before, General,” the Tsaritsa drawled, a small smile forming on her lips. “You are proud, but cautious. You wish to see if We are going to throw a fit of pique because you do not pay Us homage. Very well. If you wish to be rude, it will lessen you in Our eyes, but you have proven yourself capable enough that We shall allow you a degree of rudeness. But do not try Our patience over much. You have not proven yourself to Us yet.”

Vasili chewed the inside of his cheek for a few moments, then slowly sank to one knee. Behind him, his officers and soldiers did the same. “My mother always did teach me to have good manners.”

The Tsaritsa laughed, sitting up in her seat. “Oh, very good. Now, all of you, please rise. We would not wish to be the ones with poor manners. 

Everyone stood, and the Tsaritsa gestured. “These are Our fatui, Our faithful fools upon the stage of the worlds. You have already met Our Witch, Yelizaveta Mirova, who for now is the Second of Our Harbingers. And of course, you know of Ivan Petrov, once known as the Sleeper, who is Our Prince, and First of the Fatui Harbingers. And you will have met Anatoly Kamisarov, the Thief, Third of Our Harbingers.”

Anatoly blinked, and tried not to show his surprise or irritation. Harbingers? Fatui? He hadn’t heard these names before. And why was he Third? Should he not be the First? He had been the first! 

A slight grin tugged at the corner of Vasili’s face as he clambered to his feet. “Fools, eh? An interesting name to give those most…devoted…to you.”

“Are not all mortal men but fools upon the stage heaven has laid for them?” the Tsaritsa asked. She held out a hand, and the Prince hastily took it, helping her to her feet. “Come. Let us decamp to our meeting hall. Your men will be cared for, Vasili. But food and drink await you and my other honored guests.”

Anatoly turned aside to his own underlings, muttering last-minute instructions. The Red Gauntlet men were led to a hall where they would be given a hot meal of hearty soup, good bread, and strong tea. While some might wish for vodka, Anatoly had strictly forbidden drinking on duty, and already had several idiots beaten severely for doing so. Plying the Red Gauntlet’s men with drink might help them talk, but it was more likely to cause fights. 

Vasili was joined by both Agata and Ruvim, as well as Grigory and several lesser capes and officers. Unlike the others, Grigory was dressed in a business suit with his spectacles, the only sign of his affiliation a pin on his lapel and a small embroidered gauntlet on his black hat.

 They were all led to an elaborate dining hall, at the center of which was a long great table. The entire place had been created by the Tsaritsa, grown from Cryo Energy. It glowed faintly blue, and was icy cold to sit in, though roaring fires were set inside large fireplaces at either end of the hall. 

The walls were decorated with a great mural, which showed an alien scene of a strange land. What exactly it depicted, Anatoly wasn’t entirely sure. He recognized that it was of Teyvat, and likely of the land the Tsaritsa referred to as Snezhnaya. He saw people toiling in fields of grain and flowers, working at forges, fishing in streams, and fighting strange monsters like the slimes and whopper flowers that had started showing up shortly after the Archons had. 

There was only one recognizable figure, which was the Tsaritsa herself, though she looked slightly odd. She appeared older and more matronly, though the entire thing was so stylized that it was hard to tell if that was merely an artistic affectation, or she had truly held a different form once. But by the glowing chess piece at her breast, and the Cryo sigil, along with the throne she reclined upon, it could be no other. 

The Tsaritsa took her place at the head of the table, while Vasili sat to her left, and the Prince to her right. Anatoly had been placed all the way down at the foot of  the table, and he couldn’t decide if he was being honored, or relegated to the shadows. He was seated across from Grigory, of all things. Normally, Anatoly would have thought that Vasili would have wanted his best Thinker by his side during his conversation with the Tsaritsa, but perhaps he wished to exploit their old relationship more. 

“Quite the accomplishment, I must say,” Grigory said, looking around the feasting hall. “She built all this alone, didn’t she?”

“In less than an hour, though Her Majesty fussed with the details for some time,” Anatoly confirmed. No use lying to the Secretary. He always knew the answer, no matter how you tried to hide it. 

“It seems women are fickle, be they mortal or divine,” Grigory chuckled. He picked up his spoon, sliding it into the soup on his plate. He took a small slurp, then let out an involuntary groan. “Oh, that is good. I must ask, where did you get your chef?”

“It is simple borscht, though the recipe is one the Tsaritsa brought with her,” Anatoly said. “She made this batch herself, believe it or not.”

“Ah. So, you think she really is from this Teyvat,” Grigory commented, nodding to the mural. 

“Can you explain it any other way?” Anatoly asked with a shrug. “I take it you do not believe her claims of divinity then.”

“Well, I suppose that entirely depends on how one defines divinity, does it not?” Grigory asked philosophically, taking more small bites of ice cream from the small bowl before him. “Though I must say, this is quite divine, even if simple in appearance.”

“We were both raised as communists, Grischa. I have little use for the gods of this world. But her? She has real power. And grants it as well,” Anatoly said, fingering his Vision. 

Grigory nodded “True, I suppose I am a natural skeptic, Tolney. But the word does have a certain meaning. She is certainly not as the Trinity of the Church would say God should be.”

“Nor does she claim to be as such. But she is still my god, and I will serve her,” Anatoly said with a shrug.

“I suppose. Ah, a salad for the next course, excellent,” Grigory said with a smile. 

They made small talk, probing at one another and dancing around what they truly wanted to say. At the head of the table, the Tsaritsa and Vasili both let others do most of the talking, Vasili plying his food like a man who had not seen supper in days, and the Tsaritsa sipping at a cup of wine. The atmosphere was not tense, however, with most relaxing as course after course came out, and wine and spirits flowed freely. 

“Such a bounty, is she a harvest god as well?” Grigory chuckled as a steaming suckling pig with a bed of roasted potatoes and onions was set before them, along with half a dozen other such platters along the table. 

“Her domain is Love, and her Authority is Cryo,” Anatoly stated. “She cares for all who serve her.”

“Well, at least we shall not need to worry about her bringing back mammoths and sabertooth tigers to compete with the dinosaurs Nahida Saeed has resurrected,” Grigory chuckled as he reached out to cut a large slice of ham, which he offered to Anatoly. 

Accepting the offering graciously, Anatoly took a bite, savoring the flavor. It had been expertly cooked, and the sweet juices of the pork mingled with the sauce it had been basted with. He considered his response, then said, “She will resurrect our nation and people. I think that is a miracle enough.”

“Hmm.” Grigory took his own bite of ham, closing his eyes as he chewed and smiling. After a moment, he opened his eyes. “And do you think that is what is best for you, or for Russia?” 

“Does it matter? She will rule Russia one way or another,” Anatoly said with a snort. “Or have you not noticed what Archons tend to do? You can be on her side, or against her, but one way or another, she will rule.”

For a moment so brief he nearly missed it, Grigory hesitated. Perhaps it was his Vision, but Anatoly thought he sensed concern and surprise from the Thinker. “I suppose that is one way to look at it. And one does not rise to our position in the world without knowing which way the wind blows.”

Anatoly leaned across the table, staring Grigory in the eye. “You always calculate the winning side. Tell me, which side do you think will win? The one with the Sleeper and a god on it, or those fools in Saint Petersburg or Vladivostok? How much did they pay you? It can’t possibly be enough.”

“When was the last time you spoke with your sister?” Grigory demanded testily, looking irritated that he’d been caught so wrongfooted. 

It was Anatoly’s turn to lean back in consternation. “We speak regularly, I talked to her just this morning. I know you spoke with her two weeks ago, why?” 

“It was twenty days. And I did speak with her. And your man, Thoma,” Grigory said, his spectacles glinting in the firelight as he tilted his head. 

Anatoly’s blood ran cold, and his body tensed up. He’d had nightmares of this. Suspicions. Grigory was simply trying to throw him off balance. Thoma wouldn’t dare. He was loyal. Anastasia was loyal. His sister. His. 

Forcing himself to smile, Anatoly continued the polite conversation through the desert course. Once the meal had concluded, he made his excuses and went to his private rooms, where he hastily pulled out his cellphone and dialed Anastasia’s number. To his frustration, she didn’t answer. He debated what to do next, then dialed Elena’s number. After a few rings, she picked up. 

“Tolney? Don’t you have that big meeting today? Is everything alright?” Elena asked, sounding somewhat breathless. 

“It’s fine, I just wanted to call and say I love you,” Anatoly said, forcing himself to stay calm. 

Elena laughed at that, which only stoked Anatoly’s rage. But he forced his rage down once more. “Well thank you, it was worth it to interrupt practice to hear from you. Though I do wonder why you called Anastasia first.”

That soothed Anatoly slightly. “Ah, you are together? That’s good. Something Grigory said worried me.” 

“Yes, we’re both at the studio, practicing for the next ballet you commissioned. Tolney? Is…is something wrong? Should I get Thoma?” Elena asked, her voice tinging towards panic. 

“No, no, nothing like that. Is he with both of you as well?” Anatoly asked, his tone casual. 

“No, he’s working somewhere, as I said, we’re at the studio,” Elena said, still with a hint of worry in her voice. “We have a couple of men to guard us outside, but I thought the Red Gauntlet was coming over to our side.”

“Perhaps. Vasili is a stubborn one. And it seems Liza’s information was correct: multiple governments are bribing him. But I think he will do the intelligent thing and come over to the right side,” Anatoly said. He hesitated a moment, then asked, “Elena, you know I trust you, right?”

“I- yes, of course. Grigory did not approach me, I would have told you,” she assured him. 

“Yes, yes. But, Anastasia and Thoma…”

“They told you he talked to them, right? I do not think they would…oh.” Elena trailed off, and Anatoly saw red. Had they actually betrayed him to the Gauntlet?

“It’s not about the Secretary, or the Gauntlet, is it? You know,” Elena asked quietly. 

“Tell me everything,” Anatoly said coldly, opening and closing his left hand around his Vision. 

“I…I only suspect. I would have told you if I had seen anything, I promise! They are very discreet. But…they spend more time together now. The way they look at one another…I have thought Nastya had a crush on Thoma for some time, but she was just a girl and he ignored her. But lately…well, she isn’t a little girl any longer.”

So they had betrayed him. His sister, and the man he trusted like a brother. Of course. It was inevitable. You had to hold what you loved close, or it would turn on you. 

“Say nothing. I will come home as soon as I can. Then, I will set my house in order,” Anatoly said, frost filling his voice and heart. 

“Yes, Tolney, of course. I…I love you,” Elena whispered, her voice full of terror. 

“Of course you do,” Anatoly said, then hung up. He tucked the phone back into his pocket, and turned towards the building where the negotiations would take place. He was the Thief, was he? Time to steal back what was rightfully his. From his position at the Tsaritsa’s right side, to the heart of his little sister.

It would all be his. He would make it all perfect. 

Author's Note:

Sorry for the delayed update. I was hit by Hurricane Hone, and there's several more major storms on the way. Updates will still happen, but there's a lot for me to do IRL to take care of things.