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“Faking your own death, huh? That’s cute.”
The two of them are standing on the cliff overlooking Liyue Harbor, Zhongli’s form illuminated by the soft periwinkle moonlight and crystal glow of glaze lilies blooming, aching for the stars. Childe almost finds the sight worthy of the divinity bestowed to Zhongli, the blue of night cradling his face like a halo as Zhongli turns to look upon him.
“You knew.”
Childe laughs. “Of course I did.”
“And?”
“And nothing,” Childe says, counting the seconds. It wasn’t everyday where you stood next to a god and lived for it. He’s lucky, he supposes, that Zhongli is so forgiving, as they look at the city of his creation below. Liyue Harbor — Childe wonders how long it took for Zhongli to mold such a beautiful, grand place with only the touch of his hand. How long it will take to bring it all crashing down in ice.
“Come now,” Zhongli says simply. “It’s late.”
The two of them are partners, in a way. The Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is an establishment that coincided intimately with debt collection. Zhongli provides a list of clients for Childe to seek out: given how large Liyue is, Zhongli’s connections to every business and family in the city is a blessing for Childe’s own business ventures in Liyue. After all, Childe is foreign here. In the land of mountains and fortune, the presence of a man hailing from Snezhnaya feels a bit like an intrusion of sorts.
At the same time, Childe can’t help but think that the everwinter suits the mountains nicely, and in the distance he can see the snowy slopes of Qingyun Peak.
“Why are you here?” Aether asks. They’re on the deck of the harbor, the bustle of merchants and fishermen like white noise around them. Aether looks curious, wide-eyed under a hardened skepticism, as if he can’t decide to trust Childe or not. He can’t feel a little bit offended by that, even if it’s justified — Childe did give Aether a Sigil of Permission, albeit for his own ends. Still, those things weren’t exactly easy to come by.
“I’m with the bank, here,” Childe half-lies cheerfully. “The Fatui does business with Liyue often.”
“Okay,” Aether says. “But you know way too much about what’s going on. Rex Lapis’s death. The adepti.”
“Oh, please. I can be more specific. I collect debts. It’s impossible not to be informed when you’re in an industry like that.”
“So you’re not working for La Signora?”
“Lighten up,” Childe dismisses brightly. “Do you really go around being so paranoid to everyone all the time? One might think you’re being discriminatory, you know. Of course I don’t work for La Signora.”
At least that much was true. Childe isn’t working for La Signora, just with her.
“She took something from Venti,” Aether continues, relaxing slightly. “A gnosis, I think. Do you think the gnosis from Rex Lapis is gone?”
“No,” Childe says truthfully. After all, Childe hasn’t taken it yet.
In Snezhnaya, he sheds his aliases like second skin revealing his core: Tartaglia. In a past life, Childe’s name might have been one of flowing water and clear lakes belying impossible depths; but in this one, Childe’s true name was lost to the winds as a child born to an unknown woman. Sometimes he imagines who his mother might have been. A noble lady birthing out of an illicit affair, perhaps, or a street whore looking for a place warm to stay from the unforgiving cold of the everwinter. As it is, Childe wanders Teyvat donning different faces, but his favorite is Tartaglia. It’s the one that brings him wealth.
“I know who you are,” Zhongli reveals quietly over a lunch of soup buns and braised pork. They’re going over the list of clients this week at the teahouse, which Zhongli insists they do over a meal. It seems to be Liyue tradition to invite business partners out to dine no matter the occasion. Childe pays, of course, since Zhongli has a penchant of never bringing mora to their weekly outings. After all, there’s no reason why Morax would ever be so concerned with paying for frivolous meals.
“Oh?” Childe says through a mouthful of food. He swallows and wears a smile. “Do you?”
“Yes,” Zhongli replies. “You are Tartaglia. Eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers. The youngest of the lieutenants, feared for your viciousness in battle and trickster cunning.”
It’s been a while since he’s been called his full title. It never fails to send a little shiver down his spine. Childe leans in, examining Zhongli’s face for any cracks. The vulnerability of a god. “Are you scared?”
Zhongli’s eyes are soft, liquid amber. “No.”
Childe barks out a laugh. “No?”
“No,” Zhongli repeats. “You have done nothing to make me doubt you, Childe.”
“Maybe not, but you must be aware of what happened to the Anemo Archon, don’t you?”
Zhongli’s eyes remained unchanged, like some sort of otherworldly statue, perfectly carved. “Is that a threat?”
“No,” Childe says with the brightest smile he could muster. “It’s a promise.”
Zhongli leans in. Reaches out a hand towards his face, his fingers lifting Childe’s chin gently yet firmly. “You keep your promises, Childe. You have a duty to fulfill to your own Archon.”
Childe narrows his eyes, heat bubbling up in his stomach and leaking out of his throat as he hisses, “Are you giving me permission to take your gnosis?”
Zhongli’s eyes are still soft. “I am the god of contracts, after all. It would be hypocritical of me to tell you to break yours.”
He can’t help but laugh, then. The audacity of it all, how poised Zhongli sits in front of his nemesis. Childe, whose destiny is to seize Zhongli’s divinity and steal it for his own. Yet Zhongli touches him with such gentleness that Childe feels as if he is being blessed by the one he is meant to wound. Childe could kill him as he reaches for Zhongli’s heart and rips out what makes him so holy. It would be such a beautiful, shameful sight.
Childe grabs Zhongli’s wrist and grips it hard. “You are one ballsy motherfucker, Zhongli.”
Things change after that. Childe sends his men to the lunches to fetch the lists for the debts. There’s something unsettling about a god telling you that you can kill him, Childe thinks, and it shakes some unwoken part of his heart that he hasn’t thought about in years.
One day, a Fatui soldier returns with his list and asks him, “Sir, if I may, when are you going to pursue the gnosis?”
“When the time is apt,” Childe says vaguely. “Not yet.”
“But sir, the funeral—”
“I will act when it is right," Childe hisses. “And that time is not now.”
“Yes, sir,” the soldier says, slinking away into the shadow and out of Childe’s sight.
Childe sinks back into his chair and shuts his eyes, reaching for the bottle of rice wine that Zhongli had gifted him months ago. The taste on his tongue is sickly sweet as it travels down his throat and settles in his gut. Somehow, Childe knows that this is the exact drink that Zhongli loves: smooth and gentle, yet bold.
“Fucking hell,” Childe mutters to himself, knocking back another shot.
“You are avoiding me,” Zhongli says.
Childe whips around, hands instinctively reaching for his twin daggers at his belt. He stares at Zhongli for a moment, bewildered. Never did he think that the Geo Archon would pay him a visit at the Northland Bank of all places. The people of Liyue tend to stay far from Fatui establishments unless it was absolutely necessary.
Then again, he supposes that Zhongli wasn’t just any citizen of Liyue.
“Paying me a visit?” Childe chirps, forcing his shoulders to relax, arms dropping by his side. “To what do I deserve the pleasure?”
“I’m sorry if I startled you,” Zhongli says politely. “I wanted to speak to you.”
“Sure,” Childe says. “I’ll take you to a room.”
The two of them make way towards a private room towards the back of the bank primarily reserved for high-profile clients wishing to conduct business in a secluded area. Zhongli takes a seat as he enters at the table and waits for Childe to get settled.
“Childe, I did not wish to demean your duty in any way,” Zhongli declares, cutting right to the chase. “I did not mean to scare you away from me.”
Childe splutters internally for a second before recollecting himself, breathing deeply. “I’ve just been busy at the moment. Fatui matters, you understand.”
“I understand,” Zhongli says solemnly, nodding, before reaching into his coat pocket to fish out a vial. “So I’ve prepared this for you.”
It’s silver with incredibly detailed craftsmanship, metal vines curling around the glass with a small crown adorning its top. The vial is full of a golden liquid that shimmers with the light.
Zhongli places it quietly on top of the desk as Childe gapes at it. The blood of Geo, imbued with the essence of power, has been unceremoniously presented right in front of him like a present under a Christmas tree, ready for the taking.
“You,” Childe breathes, “are insane.”
“No,” Zhongli murmurs, “it is time. The people of Liyue are itching for an era without archons and adepti. They wish for independence from my oversight. It would be cruel not to grant it to them, so I am giving this to you. I hoped it would save you some trouble.”
“You understand what this means?” Childe blurts. “That’s one more step for the Tsartisa to rule over Teyvat. This world will crumble into ice.”
“I only ask that Liyue retain its vitality. We have conducted business with you for so long, after all. It is only befitting of our contract.”
“So this is what this is? A contract?”
“No,” Zhongli says. “It is a gift.”
Childe takes the gnosis and holds it up to the light. The essence swirls around in the vial, glowing amber, and he holds it tightly before tucking it into his own pocket. Then, in a fit of an uncontrollable emotion that Childe doesn’t know, he absolutely loses it, cackling so hard that his abdomen begins to throb.
Zhongli merely watches.
“Damn you, Zhongli,” Childe heaves between laughs, “for always defying my expectations.”
“I only ask for the gift of your friendship,” Zhongli says quietly.
“I don’t do friends,” Childe says, chuckling. “I’m fucking Fatui. We are not going to be friends.”
“Then we can be whatever you would like.”
Childe freezes. Stares. “What?”
“You are charming, Childe,” Zhongli says, as if that explains anything. “I find you enjoyable to be around. When you are not… busy with your Fatui matters, I think we get along quite well. Do you disagree?”
“That’s because I pay for your dimsum,” Childe points out.
Zhongli’s expression turns a bit sheepish. “Yes, well.”
Childe stares at him. Somewhere, at some point, Childe did exactly what he was meant to. He tugged at Zhongli’s ankles and brought him down from the sky, where the gods lived above humans, ever celestial. Only part was that Childe apparently never realized as he did; it must have been the weekly lunches, or how Zhongli keeps coming back to him for mora, or how Zhongli asks him relentlessly about the winters in Snezhnaya, or the books, or the music, or the food. Unknowingly, unthinkingly, Zhongli has peeled himself back bare for Childe to witness, and Childe has done the same: the times they have spent over the past months has made this god vulnerable. Has made him vulnerable, too.
“Insane,” Childe repeats. Something thrums in his blood, something in him stirs. Wakes up, as if rising from a long slumber, blossoming in his chest. The gnosis feels heavy in his pocket, and as Childe looks back to Zhongli, all he can find is gentleness. “You are fucking insane.”
“I have spent eons being a god,” Zhongli replies. Then, with a soft, forgiving smile, “Teach me how to be human.”
The glaze lilies of Liyue croon open with the moonlight and flutter close at dawn: Childe, too, feels the bloom, the glow of sunrise.