Chapter Text
Childe is a terrible liar. Dantalion knew it from the moment he saw him - truth shines through eyes that lack the luster of deceit. The disgust that glittered in his teeth when he smiled at him, the disdain that bloomed in the quirk of his brow every time he pushed out a crystal-clear laugh; Childe hated him.
Dantalion is no stranger to hate. He is an Archon - above humanity because the Divine Principles decree it. It is only fair that heretics have a reason to rebel. Yet, he doesn't find himself angry at Childe for his hatred. No, not after the prince was chosen to be a sacrificial lamb to appease Dantalion, a god who toils over his anvil day and night with the gentleness of a wildfire and the sweetness of charcoal. In fact, Dantalion is aware that he deserves it. Childe should not be the groom of an Archon, confined to his mountainous abode until his inevitable death, forced to lie with a marble beast with veins of magma.
He swallows, his hand thumbing the edge of his champagne flute as he watches Childe sit with his mother, his hand on her shoulder as she mutters something to him and a girl in a dark red dress. Kneeling at her feet with her head in the Tsaritsa's lap, her eyelashes flutter open like pale white moths, revealing two black pearls that gleam in their sockets, boring into Dantalion's face.
"Quite the specimen, wouldn't you say?"
Dantalion turns, his face coloring in shock. Gently peering over his shoulder, a tall, beautiful woman giggles, flashing him a smile through coral-pink lips. She sips at her champagne, her soft, seafoam gaze falling to the girl resting her head in the Tsaritsa's lap.
"Good evening, Beleth." Dantalion bows his head in recognition.
She blinks, her eyes sliding languidly to wash over his face. "My dear Dantalion, how very handsome you are on your wedding day! What a lovely pair you and your husband make."
'Surely' - Dantalion thinks - 'she is drunk, for such praise from the Archon of justice is never granted without sweetening the deal.' But nonetheless, he feels his face warm at the mention of his husband.
"You are too kind, my lady."
She shakes her head, curls spilling over her shoulders in perfect waves. "Nonsense. He is of good breeding. Of course, I am sure you would have preferred the Tsaritsa's chosen gift -"
"My lady, Exalted Beleth," a soft voice interjects, and the girl in the dark red dress curtsies low, looking up through her pale eyelashes at the Hydro Archon. "May I humbly ask for your company on the dancefloor?"
She is delicate - as if carved in porcelain and set in bone china, her skin smooth and unmarred, save for a small mole in the corner of her left eye. Where it sits, piled atop her head with ivory curls dripping like vines laden with heavy blossoms, her hair shines gently, wafting the scent of sweet flowers and old velvet. Pearls coil around her neck, and the dark irises of her eyes seem to swallow the candlelight like starless night skies, her lips painted a deep shade of burgundy.
Beleth smiles down at her, taking the girl's hand. "Why, the pleasure is all mine, Tsarevna Columbina. And, my dear princess, you look simply breathtaking tonight."
"I pale in comparison to you, my lady."
"Nonsense! Come, let me show you off with a dance."
The two melt into the crowd of swirling dancers, leaving Dantalion to watch his husband talk to his mother alone, the music falling on his ears like white noise. All that haunts his mind are thoughts of pity as he thinks of his poor husband, doomed to love a beast for the rest of his life. For that, Dantalion forgives him for all to come.
"You know what to do, my dear boy," his mother says softly, eyes cold and hard as she stares into the middle distance.
Nodding, Childe kisses her hand, rising to his feet. "Of course, mother."
"If not for me," she says, her gaze finding her son's face, "for your sister."
A bottomless pit opens up in Childe's stomach, and he swallows thickly. Peering over his mother's shoulder, he watches Columbina spin around the dancefloor, held in the arms of a greedy temptress of maelstroms and whirlpools, faulty justice glittering in her eyes. He thinks of her tears at the news, of the nights she spent howling in desolation in his arms, eyes red and voice hoarse, and the fear in her trembling form as she gazed up at him with a face of pure terror.
"Of course, mother." He says, jaw clenched and knuckles white as he grips his gloves.
She sighs, her gaze softening as she stares at Childe, reaching to cup his face tenderly. "You will not fail. You are my son for a reason, and you will return to me victorious. Now, go. It is time."
The Tsaritsa rises, her gown shimmering in the candlelight, gossamer and spun crystal draped over her regal silhouette. As she walks, the crowd parts like a tide withdrawing from the shore, all eyes watching her ascend to the podium with a glass in hand. When the Tsaritsa turns, her head is held high, and her stern face reveals a regal smile. A hush falls over the entire chamber - pure silence descends like snow, blanketing a forest, hushing streams and rivers, freezing the murmur of leaves against leaves.
"My esteemed guests," she begins, "my gratitude for your gifts, presence, and jubilation knows no bounds. I thank you, my esteemed guests, from the very bottom of my heart. I thank you for all you have done for my son and his groom.
"I wish them nothing but happiness and bliss for the rest of their lives together. My son truly is blessed; Celestia's favor has given him a magnificent and honorable Archon as a husband, and I know that he will do his utmost best to uphold the pinnacle of graciousness, love, and devotion to Dantalion."
With a serene pause, she lifts her chalice to the sky like a priestess, bathed in light. Then, she tips it down her throat, the wine vanishing between her lips as the crowd does the same, and in the hum of glass clinking, Childe looks to his right. Standing with his chalice in hand, Dantalion is gazing back at him, his wine untouched. He is draped with a melancholy that makes Childe's palms prickle, and he swallows the last dregs of his wine to give his hands something to do.
The image of the god's stony face on the balcony a mere hour ago, his voice devoid of malice, completely unreadable save for the tinge of bitterness beneath his words, is seared into his mind. Childe felt no ill intent, yet the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he thinks about it now, glancing over at Dantalion with increasing trepidation. Has his mission failed before it has even begun? The disappointment he threatens his mother with; he feels as if he holds a knife to her throat, guilt wracking his hands. Vigorously shaking himself of the cold grip of shame, Childe flashes Dantalion a bright smile, extending his hand as he approaches him.
"Come now, husband, shall we not address our guests ourselves?" He says, jovial, masterfully taming the tremors in his voice.
Dantalion mulls this over and places his hand in Childe's, his palm warm and rough. "Very well."
They ascend to stand by the Tsaritsa, who smiles at the two with a glimmer of affection, sending Childe's heart roaring with pride. With new resolve, he turns to face the glittering crowd.
"I can only touch the surface of my heart's gratitude for your blessing and congratulations. I am beyond honored that such a pivotal moment in my life can be witnessed by Teyvat's most refined and powerful. I hope that I may do my mother and my country proud, but, most importantly, that I can honor my husband as much as he deserves." His eyes slide over to Dantalion's, and his smile sparkles like fine champagne. "I shall move the stars and uproot the sky if that is what you desire. I pledge my everything to you, my love, and I trust you with the key to my existence."
Dantalion swallows. A pit opens up in the Archon's stomach, a great, gaping maw that drops into pure nothingness - he feels deep fear. It sends him spiraling, and if there were not a cold hand in his, Dantalion would be reeling from vertigo. To have a mortal trust him with so much is a new breed of terror, and he feels as if he is prey to a beast not even the Abyss could have forged. Nevertheless, he steadies himself, allowing Childe to place a kiss on his hand, his dark blue eyes gazing at him without any feeling.
The festivities carry on late into the night, with deities and mortals dancing, drinking, and laughing together. The palace is shining brightly, and in the middle of it all, Childe watches with bitterness biting at his heels. He is like a thorn in its side, poison leaking into the veins of what is no longer his home but his deathbed. Once he leaves here, Childe will not be himself but an extension of his mother's will. Willingly, he will go as her right hand, her sword to his siblings' scale, but 'willingly' is not joyfully. 'Willingly' is not smiling, it is not happily, and it is not painlessly. He will rip through Dantalion like a serrated knife, tearing away - in true exit wound fashion - more than he took when he entered.
He watches himself in the mirror, the tap running in the bathroom of the east wing. He fled from the party in a mask of smiles and promises of returning soon, only to storm through passages and throw himself up flights of stairs to lock himself in a bathroom far from the noise of laughter and the chiming of glasses. And yet, even with the tap running, and the walls between him and the ballroom, everything still is as loud as it was when he left. It presses into his skin like a brand, and the sheer thought of returning makes his body spasm, the feeling of creeping dread manifesting in twitching hands. He swallows thickly. It is only a matter of time until he must return to Dantalion's mountain abode, make him comfortable, and slit his throat when he least expects it. Of course, that will all be very, very difficult if Dantalion knows what Childe thinks he does.
The pair of scarlet eyes, the wings, the sting of cold air - all mere hours ago, and yet, Childe's heart still hammers with dread. Panic stains his demeanor with heavy breaths, a thudding heart, and prickled palms. Dantalion's voice clamors around his head like a dissonant bell - "You cannot fool me, prince."
How could a mere whisper, so melancholy and defeated, pierce Childe's ego like that? He prides himself in - well, that's the thing: he takes pride in himself. That is one of his most dangerous weapons. His pride is poison on the blades of his swords, and, just like that, it was evaporated by the pure heat of Dantalion's words. But, he remembers, he is not unarmed. Gritting his teeth, Childe grips the sides of the sink, eyes shut, and he thinks of his sister. Of her innocence and what he must do to preserve what she does not want to lose.
"Come on, you fucking idiot." He whispers, his knuckles white against the porcelain. "Kill the bastard, deify mother, and go home. It's simple."
He cranks the tap harshly, and the sound of running water abruptly stops.
The maids flit about Childe like moths, chattering and murmuring sweet compliments, small, glimmering gems of gossip, and little laughs as they adorn him in gold and bone-white linen. Savoring the nostalgia of growing up with these girls, he laughs with them, ignoring the bittersweet pang of loneliness he feels growing in his chest as they prepare him for his wedding night.
"No, no - the gold drops! With the pearls!" Yelena chirps, holding up a pair of exquisite earrings that Childe recieved from Pantalone for his seventeenth birthday.
Shaking her head, Natalia bats her away, offering up an ivory-colored satin ribbon. "Don't be silly, Yelena, nothing too extravagant! We wouldn't want the prince to lose something in the bedsheets. Try this, your highness; it's simple, but so elegant!"
They have dressed him in white silk. A thin, open blouse with mother-of-pearl buttons, laced at the chest with a string of bone-white cord and scented with cinnamon and orange blossom. Paired with his wedding suit slacks, he laughs as Yelena and Natalia bicker, slipping his arms into the crimson overcoat that Sonia places on his shoulders.
"The pearls would match the coat! Look - embroidered with gold and pearls, just like these!" Yelena urges, glancing quickly back at Childe in her attempt to curry favor for the earrings. He bites back a smile.
Natalia shakes her head. "Simplicity, Yelena, simplicity!"
"Look, look," Childe interjects, placating the two girls by raising his hands between them, palms facing up. Sonia quickly slips a gold ring onto his thumb, giggling as he pauses to look at it. "Whatever won't get caught in my hair, I'll take. The ribbon's nice, but I don't want to look as if I've giftwrapped myself."
"Oh, but I would!" Yelena sighs dreamily, her face dusted pink. "Dantalion is such a handsome man. I'm so jealous, your highness. Aren't you just the luckiest thing?"
Before he can reply, Sonia chimes in as well. "Yes, your highness, he really is quite the sight, is he not? Didn't your breath just leave you when you saw him walk down the aisle?"
Childe grits his teeth. Unwittingly, his mind drags him back to the altar, to the softness of the candlelight and of Dantalion's gaze. He wonders, briefly, how something so divine - so above mortality - can look so gentle. How something so perfected, so rigid in its making, can hold such beauty? Not the kind of beauty of, say, a diamond. No, that would be too harsh. Too infallible. Dantalion is freckled, with a mole between his jaw and his jugular, scarred hands, and a knotted brow. What kind of craftmanship would Celestia have had to have perfected to torment Childe with such a human face for a creature so cold? Briefly, he thinks on how his face will look as Childe sits atop him, knife raised over his chest. Perhaps he will look on him with fear. Parted lips, raised eyebrows, eyes filled with something that intoxicates Childe completely. To have a god, vulnerable and prone, at his fingertips. At his beck and call.
He shakes himself from his thoughts, ears burning. "Yes, yes, he was..."
Natalia hangs on his sentence with a grin, expectant. Bitterly, Childe bites back a scowl and forces a bashful look. Thrilled, she squeals, grabbing his hands excitedly. "Your highness, you're just so lucky! I hope my wedding will one day be this auspicious!"
"Yes, yes!" Yelena says, her hands cupping her face as she twirls about the room. "When I marry my sweetheart, we shall have the prettiest dresses."
"Yelena!" Natalia barks, clapping her hands shortly. "The jewelry! Stop going on about the baker's girl!"
She sighs but turns back to the jewelry box nonetheless. Sonia hums as she straightens out the sleeves of the overcoat, then wraps his neck in a matching red scarf. "There, your highness. Keep yourself warm while you're away."
Her voice gets caught in her throat, and she turns away, hiding her freckled face in her hands. As if she tries to trap the sob in her palms, her fingers steeple over her nose, twitching as her countenance contorts sorrowfully. Hushing her softly, Childe turns, drawing her into his chest.
"Oh, no - Sonia, don't cry," he whispers, petting her hair as he did his sister's when she would sob as Sonia does. "There is no need for tears. This is the happiest day of my life, is it not?"
She sniffles, and the other girls gather around, their lips trembling and noses twitching like distressed rabbits. Childe looks up at them - he has known these girls all his life, and now he is to leave them alone in the palace, where Signora will shriek at them or where Dottore will steal one of them away for a horrid experiment. Before he can get too emotional, he steels himself, patting Sonia gently on the head as he draws back.
"I'll take the earrings I wore for the wedding, alright?"