Chapter Text
Just a few weeks earlier, immediately after Zhongli relinquished his gnosis as per his contract with the Tsaritsa, Childe was still sorely bitter about the whole ordeal.
The betrayal was a part of it. He chose not to dwell on it for too long, given that he was essentially planning on doing the same―biding his time in Liyue, waiting for the perfect opportunity to steal from the Exuvia. They were both doing what was necessary to fulfill their respective duties, and he hadn’t minded all that much being used to that end. He had also felt a degree of annoyance with how Zhongli had essentially ridiculed him in front of the Traveler and a fellow Harbinger (La Signora, of all people).
Of course, there was also the fact that he was now unable to have a genuine brawl with Zhongli, not as a mortal, but as Rex Lapis, God of Contracts, and God of War.
But more than anything, he had begun to feel a great unease around Zhongli. Whenever he happened to run into the ex-Archon thereafter, the feeling ate at him from the inside. Suddenly, peering into piercing Cor Lapis eyes that he had once found warmth in would leave him feeling bare and vulnerable. When Zhongli would call out to him in a crowd, a false name rolling over his tongue in a smooth, velvety timbre, he wondered just how much of the time he and Zhongli spent together was genuine. How many times had he been deceived, falling victim to the Archon’s honeyed words? What was Zhongli motive in befriending him?
What did he really feel towards him, if anything?
All his grievances were laid to rest not too long after, when Zhongli showed up at the door of his suite, his clothes and hair dripping wet from the rain, streaks of scarlet smudged around his eyes and an apology forming on his lips. Before Childe had even realized what was happening, he found himself resting against fine cotton sheets and down, flushed and panting as his fingers twisted into strands of silken dark brown hair, and he met desperate, piercing eyes between his legs.
(“I was unsure of the best way for me to convey my sincerest apologies to you,” Zhongli had said as they lay in each others’ arms after the fact, his voice slightly hoarse.)
And after none too many times of feeling his back crash against dirt, the pointed tip of a spear pressed to his neck, he had also learned that he was no match for Zhongli in combat, even without the gnosis.
After that (and several more spars, all of which ended in Childe's loss), they quickly fell back into step with each other. It wasn’t too unlike their previous relationship, with Zhongli leading him through the harbor streets to finance his indulgent habits, enjoying a lavish meal together at Wanmin Restaurant, or walking along Yaoguang Shoal beside starconches dipped in sand and clear waters.
There were just some minute differences, here and there―eyes that lingered for longer than usual, hands clasped together, fingers interlocking, goodbyes no longer necessary at the door of Childe’s suite―but otherwise, things had generally returned to normal.
Today they choose to dine at Liuli Pavilion, seated around a modestly-sized dark oak table, perfectly appropriate for a party of two. A floral, earthy scent wafts through the restaurant, and the sound of other patrons chatting over their meals melts into white noise.
"I have been considering stepping down."
Zhongli's voice is a near whisper, and it barely reaches Childe’s ears above the ambient noise. Childe hardly strays from his meal in the midst of stuffing his face full with a calla lily seafood soup. He attempts to speak through his mouthful with a bit of crab leg peeking out from the corner of his mouth. "Mmrhfph?"
He fully expects Zhongli to frown and chastise him for his poor table manners for the thousandth time, to which he would typically respond with a flippant wave and a laugh. When he is instead met with no response at all, he draws his full attention to the consultant sitting across from him.
Zhongli is perched upright in his chair, head tilted towards the window and eyes gazing off to some imperceivable distance. His hands are neatly folded on the wooden table between them, fingers loosely intertwined. His meal, a steaming hot bamboo shoot soup, remains untouched in the bowl resting beside his hands. He looks as poised as ever, a practiced stoic expression painted across his face.
By this point, Childe knows Zhongli often takes time to choose his words carefully when talking (“I want to be certain I can adequately express my thoughts,” he had said) , and waits patiently for him to continue. For some time, the sounds of other diners around them chatting, the sizzle of vegetables frying on a scorchingly hot wok, and the clinking of wooden chopsticks to ceramic blends into the space between them.
When it’s clear that Zhongli has no intention of elaborating further, not even having moved since speaking last, Childe quickly gulps down his mouthful of food before trying to speak again.
"Stepping down from what? You’re already retired."
He’s no stranger to pockets of silence in his time spent with Zhongli―while it’s true Zhongli is notorious for talking for hours on end about the history and origin of… literally everything they happen to encounter, he just as often sits quietly with Childe as they simply relish each others company, basking in small moments of tranquility.
But right now, the prolonged silence that engulfs them is stifling, and the air feels unusually heavy.
"...From your job at the funeral? Being Hu Tao's babysitter? Xiao's? Being the designated party to make sure Barbatos isn’t drinking himself to death?" Childe says with a chuckle, hoping to lighten the mood. "I've told you this before―it's not really retirement if you drop one responsibility only to pick up two or three more," he says.
For a moment, Zhongli makes no indication that he had even heard what Childe said, and simply continues to stare out the window, presumably at the people roaming about the bustling harbor. But after a lull, he closes his eyes. He tightens his grip on his fingers ever so slightly, and starts to run his left thumb over the ring resting on his right.
It's at times like these that Childe becomes painfully aware of his own mortality. Zhongli feels so... distant, as if he's reliving a moment frozen in time long past, drifting from the present like a fading mirage.
That thought sends a rush of panic rushing his veins, and before he knows it, Childe has his right hand clasped over Zhongli's across the table, having nearly knocked over both their bowls in his haste. At the touch, Zhongli turns his head to face Childe―their eyes finally meet for the first time since they sat down, stormy blue locking with crystallized amber.
In golden eyes that are usually so focused, piercing, and glowing with something that can only be attributed to divinity, Childe finds there’s something clouding their gaze that he can’t quite place. He tries to ignore the pit settling in his stomach.
“Zhongli.” Childe grimaces at the slight edge that has found its way into his voice, and gently squeezes Zhongli’s hand. “What’s wrong?”
Zhongli blinks slowly. “...Childe,” he starts.
A sense of relief washes over him just hearing Zhongli finally speak again, and even through their gloves, he can feel the warmth of Zhongli’s hands seeping through his palm to his fingertips.
“What do you believe awaits us after death?”
Zhongli’s voice is as steady as ever, and that warmth retracts as quickly as it came.
A wave of silence drowns out the surrounding noise. “What’s this, all of a sudden?” Childe tries to laugh casually, but it comes out strained and thin. “If this is some sort of weird adeptus pick up line, I have to say it’s a bit morbid, even for my tastes.”
“―Please indulge me, just for this moment,” Zhongli says far too quickly, nearly interrupting him.
There’s a tinge of urgency and desperation there that doesn’t belong in the voice of a man who once claimed the title of god, and it only serves to exacerbate the anxiety he feels. As Childe stares at him, mouth slightly agape, he finds Zhongli’s eyes are boring into his own, searching.
Childe sucks in a breath through his teeth and quickly averts his eyes. A part of him wants to say something lighthearted or witty―anything to dispel the feeling of dread pooling in his gut―and purely out of habit, he nearly does. He wants so badly to make a little quip, something along the lines of, “Why don’t you enlighten me instead, o mighty Morax?” and wait for Zhongli to purse his lips, trying his best to appear unamused, even as his eyes glow with mirth. Their usual banter.
But he knows that’s not what Zhongli is looking for.
He knows that Zhongli has seen many pass before him, having lived for far too long. He knows that Zhongli is more than just closely acquainted with death, and has walked in step with it as his sole companion for millennia. He knows that Zhongli has buried countless bodies under earth and tides, those of humans, adepti, and even gods, and has seen even more simply fade into nonexistence. (Childe remembers standing together with him in the ruins of Guili Plains, hands tightly wound together. “There was nothing left of her. She merely floated into dust, the winds ruthlessly scattering her remains,” he had said, voice hauntingly unfeeling.) He knows that Zhongli often wakes hours before dawn, chest heaving and body paralyzed by vivid memories he painstakingly burns into his mind.
He knows that on nights he returns home battered in cuts and bruises, when their bodies are pressed flush against each other, harsh breaths ghosting over low whimpers escaping bruised lips, Zhongli digs his nails into his back just a little harder―pulls him a little closer―trembles and shudders underneath him in the throes of ecstasy, whispering his birth name into his ear over and over like an incantation, like a prayer.
What do you believe?
“...In Snezhnaya, people generally tend to avoid the subject. When we’re constantly surrounded by raging winter storms that stamp out many forms of life, why would we spend our waking moments contemplating death? Or that’s how the majority seems to think of it, anyhow. But many do believe in some form of reincarnation, or a life after death,” Childe says carefully, eyes drawn to the floor.
“But personally? I don’t know. I’m not sure if I believe in the concept of an afterlife, or if I can even guess what role Celestia has in it all. If the afterlife is ruled by gods, I can’t imagine it being very otherworldly, with what I know of the Archons. The Tsaritsa wishes to topple it, while you and Barbatos easily walk among us, indulging in earthly pleasures.” He chuckles a little at this. “Who’s to say that the deceased, long departed from the mortal world, are even allowed a claim in the island in the skies?” A slight bitterness creeps into his voice.
“I think that it’s overly hopeful to expect much of anything after death. Maybe there is an afterlife. Or maybe there’s absolutely nothing―like just a complete emptiness that can’t even be felt.” Childe carefully tests each word as it leaves his mouth. “But once you’re dead, you’re gone for good.”
He looks at Zhongli now almost expectantly, trying to gauge his reaction. Zhongli is contemplative, as if he is still processing the words in his mind, weighing the meaning of each and every word. His expression is blank, not even a hint of the tumult present just moments earlier.
“I see,” he says after a brief pause. “Thank you, Childe. Feel free to return to your meal. It is getting cold,” Zhongli says, eyes and voice betraying nothing of his inner thoughts.
“Okay, now it’s my turn.”
Zhongli tilts his head, eyebrows furrowing. “Your turn? To what are you referring?”
“I answered your question, right? I think it’s only fair that I get to ask you one too,” he replies smoothly.
Zhongli seems to take quite some time to seriously consider his proposition, lost in a period of indecision, and his eyes close in thought. When he finally speaks, there is a sliver of reluctance strung through his voice.
“...Very well. If it would please you, I suppose it is only just that I return the favor,” Zhongli murmurs cooly, nodding once, then twice. “What is your question?”
“Tell me why you asked me that.”
He frowns. “That is a demand, not a question.”
“Zhongli.” Childe snaps, eyes darkening, and there is a graveness to his tone that he knows doesn’t go unnoticed.
Unfazed, Zhongli merely looks back at him, gaze frigid and unyielding. His eyes are almost glowing with an unspoken challenge. Like this, Childe can imagine how this man, as Morax, once toppled gods to arise as a victor of the Archon War―he can imagine how people once kneeled at his feet, unable to do anything but obey and submit under the sheer weight of his penetrating gaze.
Unfortunately, the man before him today isn’t Morax, God of Contracts, but just Zhongli, consultant of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor.
For a while, neither of them say anything. Zhongli takes a deep breath and chooses instead to return to looking out the window. He squeezes his fingers together tighter, so tight that Childe thinks they might just crumble under the pressure.
The space between them seems to grow larger still.
Wordlessly, Childe breaks the distance, reaching out to Zhongli with his left hand now joining his right. His gloved fingers gingerly brush over Zhongli’s knuckles and firmly interlocked fingers, as if asking for permission.
Zhongli loosens his grip slowly, revealing crescent-shaped imprints in the fabric of the glove where his fingernails dug into the back of his hands. Childe gently pries his hands apart, unraveling the digits. He takes each of Zhongli’s hands into his own, tenderly kneading his palms with his thumbs, something he would often do for his siblings when they would feel anxious or scared. Zhongli merely follows the small movements with his eyes passively, expression steeled and unreadable.
“...Zhongli. Please,” he tries again, and now it’s his turn to sound desperate, voice softer and hushed in a whisper.
There is a pregnant pause. The bustle of the restaurant has long faded into the background, deafening ambient sounds until they’ve devolved into white static. Their bowls of food, no longer steaming hot, lay still on the table between them, its oak grain twisting like tangled yarn just unraveled. They sit across from each other linked only by their hands, but Childe’s request hangs heavily in the air.
Zhongli opens his mouth to say something―halts―and seems to try again several more times before he sighs, his eyes fluttering shut.
Zhongli speaks under his breath, as if he is merely thinking aloud. “...There are many accounts of a philosopher by the name of Zhuang Zhou, more colloquially known as Zhuangzi. A quote often attributed to him comes to mind: ‘Life comes from the earth, and returns to the earth.’”
He pauses for a second, seemingly hesitant. Childe nods his head, motioning for him to keep going, and then remembers that Zhongli still has his eyes closed and can’t see him. He hums in acknowledgement instead.
“In many ways, his words ring true. When Rex Lapis shaped what is now Liyue, he moved heaven and earth to ensure that his life would be able to thrive. The fertile soil of Qingce provides humans and most other creatures with sustenance, and encourages the growth of a large variety of flora. The peaks of Mount Tianheng shelters the harbor, protecting it from antagonistic forces, amongst other things," he says smoothly. "But it is just as true that while the earth lies at the core of all life, it also serves as its universal coffin. When creatures’ lives are extinguished, their bodies deteriorate as they are broken down into organic material to be reabsorbed into the earth, sowing seeds for the next cycle of life.”
Zhongli slowly opens his eyes, the same faraway look from earlier clouding his irises.
“Throughout Liyue’s extensive history it has been said that what constitutes a being lies in the mind, body and spirit, and finding the delicate harmonic balance is the key to life. But that begs the question―if their minds and bodies are laid to eternal rest, what of their spirits? Even I cannot definitively know the answer. Are they also pulled into the depths of the earth, until they, too, are recycled as fodder?”
As Zhongli turns his head back to fully face him, he gently squeezes Childe’s hands, the ex-Archon’s slender fingers splayed over his own scarred knuckles and calloused palms hidden in leather gloves.
“...There are some that have come to believe that when mortals meet their ends, they become stars in the night sky. I am not so brazen as to take a formal position on whether I believe that notion is true or false. After all, gods are not all knowing, omniscient beings―even I cannot do much but observe death from afar, powerless to ward it away, let alone have an inkling of where it takes the souls of the deceased,” he says wistfully, with something akin to a tone of resignation.
“But while I cannot say for certain what follows, I can understand how that concept may have developed. I feel the idea of people’s spirits living on in the stars, long after all remnants of their mortal bodies have been eradicated, is somewhat… romantic, in a way.”
“Romantic,” Childe parrots numbly. Zhongli nods his head.
“Yes. 'In Teyvat, the stars in the sky will always have a place for you,'" Zhongli recites carefully. “At birth, we―Archons and humans alike―all have our own respective constellation painted in the stars meant to guide us through life, not at all dissimilar to how travelers or hikers that venture into the wilderness often follow the stars to orient themselves,” he says, watching lantern lights flicker past the window.
“But what I find especially compelling is that as the people of Teyvat mature, their constellations begin to link with other celestial bodies, spanning larger distances and growing with them. Their individual essences are reflected in the brilliance of the nebula, and each day they are alive and maturing, they are etching proof of their existences into the sky above them, to shine for all eternity.”
“―Zhongli,” Childe’s cuts in almost assertively. “Why are you telling me all of this?”
Sundown leaks low, orange hues through the window pane, refracting to blanket the space around them. The restaurant has quieted down, and their meals have long gone cold. The last vestiges of sunlight fall over Zhongli’s features, and Childe notices the slight downturn of his eyebrows, the way his eyelids have a heaviness to them. Zhongli gives him a small smile, and he looks so worn, so tired. Childe tries to ignore the ache he feels in his chest.
“Childe,” he says, eyes softening. “I have long thought about what place I have in this world. For much of my life, my place was predestined, and out of my control―after all, gods do not choose to become gods. But as Rex Lapis, guiding Liyue was a role I believe I had fulfilled dutifully. Now, the age of the adepti is coming to an end, and Rex Lapis is no longer needed.
"Which is why you decided to step down as the God of Contracts and give your gnosis to the Tsaritsa,” he posits. Zhongli nods.
"Yes, but in truth, that was only part of it. Although it was selfish of me, I had grown weary of simply playing observer as ever-increasing graves piled at my feet. Liyue, and the world, as beautiful as they are, had started to lose its luster. And if Morax had now become obsolete, if there was nothing left for him to do or see, it is only fitting that his last task be to cease delaying the inevitable, and end his term.”
Childe tightens his grip on Zhongli’s hands, which have started to tremble ever so slightly.
“I had thought that if I played the role of a mortal, I would be able to discover something that I had not been able to see in the past. Perhaps then, I could finally understand why, across millennia, humans continued to make the same mistakes, over and over again, why humans incessantly chose to love, to trust, to hurt, and to condemn. I had thought that maybe if I could learn to be more... human, I would... be able to see what acquaintances long gone so desperately wished for me to see all those years ago.”
Zhongli pauses and he swallows thickly. Childe brushes his own thumbs across Zhongli’s with feather-like strokes. As a mortal, there is nothing he can say. He doesn’t dare try to placate the consultant with false reassurances.“I'll wait,” he instead yearns to convey, through the touch of leather to leather.
“But now, as I walk on earth as Zhongli, I find myself ever uncertain. I had believed that renouncing my claim to Celestia would lift the burden of responsibility off my shoulders and allow me to view the world from a new perspective. Certainly, I have been liberated from the responsibilities of an Archon. As Zhongli, I have no predetermined path chosen for me. I have no inherent responsibilities tied to my name." Zhongli states, as a simple matter of fact.
"But it is in that fact that I am met with a new predicament. When I permanently assumed the role of Zhongli, a deep sense of emptiness began festering within me, consuming my thoughts. I was struck with the realization that I do not know how to exist without a role guiding my path. I had existed as Rex Lapis for so long, living bound by contracts that span many lifetimes. Being without for the first time made me feel as though I lacked... purpose, in a way.” He furrows his eyebrows, pensive.
“...I am no longer an Archon. Nor am I mortal. The freedom I had from casting off the title of Rex Lapis was just that―derived only in name. Although I had abandoned my title as God of Contracts, I continue to remain saddled with the weight of the past. I carry the wishes of long lost companions that I fear will disappear from history entirely if not preserved in my memories. Although my vessel certainly has the appearance of a mortal body, I remain an unaging being, still forced to live through countless cycles of life and death. Whether it be the heavens or earth, there exists no place for someone such as myself.”
“Zhongli,” Childe says quietly, his voice thick, words stuck in his throat as the weight of the words washes over him.
Childe feels his blood boil under his skin.
Zhongli’s eyes blink shut, lashes fluttering. “Rex Lapis ceased to exist because he had become obsolete and was no longer needed. If I have no purpose as Zhongli, for what reason do I continue? How am I to earn my keep if I find myself unable to move forward, trapped as a shell of an antiquated god frozen in a lost time while the world around me is in perpetual motion?”
Zhongli exhales slowly, and his eyes open again, head lowering to look down at the hands connecting them as he smiles. Childe’s breath hitches in his throat.
“If Zhongli, trapped between the confines of mortality and divinity, now has no role or place in this world, it follows that he, too, should end his term. If all that rises from earth eventually returns, perhaps... it is my time as well,” Zhongli mutters.
He feels tidal waves crashing into him pulling him under, sinking in raging hot waters eroding his flesh and bones.
“When my life is extinguished, when my vessel is broken down to create new life and there remains no physical evidence of my existence, will my spirit at least be able to find a place to which it belongs carved into the stars in the company of others passed?”
―Gasps for air. Scalding water is flooding into his lungs.
“Zhongli, that's enough.” Childe snaps in a hoarse whisper.
Zhongli’s voice trails off at the end as he grows quiet, once again lost in thought. "Perhaps that is all I can hope for," he whispers. The instant the words leave his mouth, it's almost as if a switch is flipped―the expression painted across his features is neutral once more. He straightens his back in his chair with lithe composure, as if the conversation had never even taken place.
Childe closes his eyes and he is lost in the woods, slipping between cracks in the earth’s surface, falling deeper and deeper, the snow white of Snezhnaya swallowed by the darkness of the Abyss. He is thrust into red. The air is suffocating, and he feels like he’s falling―sinking―his body being pulled under a wave of overwhelming numbness, with only the rush of adrenaline keeping him afloat.
“...I apologize. It was not my intention to burden you with my thoughts.” Zhongli murmurs, and moves to pull his hands away from where they’re linked―
At the sensation of warmth leaving his fingertips, Childe rips himself out of the murky haze and opens his eyes. With a jolt, he seizes Zhongli’s wrists, clutching them in his grip.
Childe is trembling, a mess of indiscernible emotions manifesting as a deep rage swirling through him. His heart is rattling in his chest, and his skin has taken on a light sheen of sweat. The sound of waves crashing against his ears is replaced with a deathly silence, and as he sucks in deep, heavy, breaths, his lungs swell with humid air. The world is falling back into place around him in pieces, and a floral, earthy scent tickles his nose, and he sees black cross into gold before him, the wooden oak surface separating them. As he blinks Zhongli’s face comes back into focus, a hint of alarm and concern flashing across amber eyes.
“Chil―”
“―Zhongli, I...” Childe releases a shuddering breath, heartbeat ringing in his ears.
Calmly. He is no longer a child, and he is no longer in the Abyss. He is Tartaglia, Tsaritsa’s Eleventh Harbinger, and he will act the part.
He pauses for a beat longer, loosens his grip on Zhongli's wrists, and then smiles sheepishly. “Sorry. Let’s get some fresh air, shall we? I know the perfect place.”