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When he was fourteen he forgot how to be afraid. The feeling is a distant memory, something that belongs with running away, the ice and frozen brush tearing at his trouser legs, the sound of a large animal behind him. He doesn’t recognize it anymore, like looking at an old photograph and finding his face smudged and distorted beyond belief. His past self trembles at a bear’s teeth, a wolf’s howl, the ideal of dying alone in a bitterly cold landscape.
His current self sees a set of sharp teeth and grins. The cold doesn’t bother him, the prickling of sweat turning to ice on his skin excites him. When he stares into the dark of the night, the Snezhnaya landscape that hides horrors amongst the jagged rocks, his heart leaps in his throat because he wants to run out there and face it.
Since he doesn’t notice the change within himself -- he doesn’t have those epiphanies and moments of clarity saying: this is who I was, this is who I am; instead, he lives in the moment, and so those around him also don’t notice the change. His family finds him as agreeable as ever and every motion he goes through is the same. A meal made, a room tidied, carrying a sibling on his shoulders and giving cheers of encouragement. Lacking fear and looking for a good fight never interferes with that, of course.
“Are you afraid of the kind of person you’re going to become?” He doesn’t remember who asked him that. It was a pretty funny question, and at the time he’d found it just as humorous, laughing and waving a hand.
“Why would I be afraid of that?”
“Don’t you think someone who can kill without remorse is frightening?”
Frightening. . .?
He doesn’t remember his answer to that, but something about the question stuck with him, like a fishbone in the back of his throat. Don’t you think someone who can kill without remorse is frightening? It occurs to him, one day, as the question bounces around in his head as he slogs back home with heavy fish over one shoulder, he isn’t quite sure. Remorse isn’t something he feels and neither is fear. He wonders if they go hand in hand, that fear feeds remorse, or maybe remorse feeds fear.
Like most things that he doesn’t grasp immediately, he wants to conquer it, but to conquer it, he needs to seek it out.
Betrayal doesn’t make him feel bad. It isn’t that he’s some snake in the grass, discarding names and identities the same way one might old and worn clothes. He just follows what excites him, or what duty is given to him and it directs him. A debt collected here, a fight there, the inevitable disappointment when enemies fall too easily.
But betrayal doesn’t make him feel bad. To see someone’s face while they ask ‘why’ or their surprise when he reveals his goal. It’s quite odd. So he stops with the pretenses. He introduces himself as Tartaglia, lets people call him what they want. He dresses like any other agent, only more careless, the only real sign of his position of authority.
“Yup! I’m a Fatui Harbinger,” he found himself agreeing when people asked and their voices quaked with fear or shook with anger. It doesn’t feel any different than when he was pretending to be someone else, subverting their expectations of them and ‘betraying’ them.
Maybe remorse wasn’t real after all.
Fear doesn’t exist except as a memory. The ‘before’ him, perhaps. And the impression -- not quite a memory, not a dream, but the understanding that something large and dark lurked under the world -- existed. But he could never capture what he thought it must be like. He doesn’t cry or beg if a fight gets tough, he doesn’t run from anything, there’s no reason to. Nothing makes his body tense and tremble.
He’s tried going into battle with weapons he has no idea how to use -- the first time he took a bow it became more of a staff or cane after he broke the string, the arrows became awkward knives.
He’s gone into the caves of any monster he’s heard of, let it snap jaws at his hands and only found himself skewering it. Even standing under the spray of blood, ankle deep in bile and guts, there’s nothing.
He ended up walking straight up to the first Fatui Harbinger he ever meets and punches her in the face. It had been, perhaps, a little ill-advised but also the most fund he’s had in years. It also, it turns out, had been a great job application.
Childe’s been debating if he should shoot arrows at the Jade Chamber in the sky. From the roof of the Northland Bank where he’s laying, he can make it out easily -- all of Liyue can -- and he’s fairly certain with enough oomf the Qixing will be forced to deal with him. He is aware that a soldier (a fighter, a warrior, a Harbinger) follows orders and while he has absolutely no qualms with that, he’s bored. The warm sun across his face coupling with the warm of the roof tiles under his back makes him itch with the need to move. One of the agents who works on balancing the books told him once that the warm Liyue afternoon had the perfect atmosphere for a nap. It’s easy to imagine children finding solace in the nice weather, or even adults drifting away to sleep.
He can only take the still warmth for so long before he rolls off the roof. It’s too easy to drop down, grasp a wooden railing with one hand and land on his feet in the middle of the road. He hadn’t looked before he lept and while crushing a Liyuen citizen because he preferred falling to walking down the stairs would certainly be some kind of political disaster he would always admit that seeing his fellow Harbingers get tied up in a hissy fit over silly things like politics to be pretty funny.
“Ah.” It turns out he missed landing on someone by scant centimeters.
Childe flashes his most winning smile -- it isn’t a lie, he feels an actual low hum of amusement -- “Sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“. . . is the Northland Bank closed today?” The man Childe almost landed on asks with a deliberate tilt of his head. Somehow it’s both a thoughtless statement and an accusation, Childe thinks. A man with eyes that sharp has no business sounding so contemplative.
“Nah, it’s open as normal. Did you come to make a transaction? I can show you to one of our agents.” Childe sweeps an arm towards the bank. “Oh, by the way. I’m Tartaglia, Fatui Harbinger, Northland Bank overseer, you know that kind of thing. You can call me ‘Childe’ if you like though, it’s probably easier on your tongue.” He traces the Liyuen characters in the air. He has been told several times by various merchants and customers at the bank that the translation of ‘Childe’ from the characters is hamhanded at best, but there’s no reason to change it now.
“Zhongli, Consultant for the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. ‘Childe’, that’s a very archaic transliteration --”
“I know, I know! The Liyuen classes in Snezhnaya really left me out to dry.” Childe laughs.
“It’s possible to use your proper name, if you so wish. I have no issue pronouncing it.” And Zhongli traces several characters in the air that Childe cannot follow at all. There are far too many strokes and he thinks one might be ‘tower’ and one might be ‘profit’ but that’s way more of a pain to write out than ‘Childe’.
“Please, playing the part of ignorant foreigner suits me. Besides, I’ve been here for several months and still can’t write a real sentence in Liyuen.”
“Would you like to learn?” Zhongli asks, even though Childe had just said he’s being an ignorant foreigner.
“Didn’t you have a transaction to make?”
“Ah, that’s right. . .”
It turns out Zhongli is both easy to distract and terribly difficult to direct. He drops the subject when Childe moves them into the bank. His transactions are all relatively simple, if not massive. More money than Childe is certain a funeral parlor can have, but all of the ledgers are correct and if they aren’t well it isn’t his business to deal with. (Technically, it might be, but he really only cares if a debt needs to be collected from a troublesome borrower, not whether or not the borrower made the mistake in the first place).
Childe offers to take Zhongli to dinner, because why not. He’s been listening to the man talk about money and history and funerals with the slow deliberation of a man with confidence for the better part of the afternoon. The only men who are that confident are warriors, kings or the old fishermen who have seen the depths of the ocean and walked on black ice in the night.
Childe hopes it’s the former, of course.
Instead, Zhongli tells him about violetgrass, he tells him about the differences between heron meat and the plump meat of the chickadees. There’s conversation on the mountains in Liyue, the hexagonal rocks forged from laval boiling up from the sea and the legends of the various adepti.
Childe finds his attention wandering. All of the information filters into the pockets in his brain he reserves for gathering info. He’s great at parroting information back to any of his superiors who ask for it, it’s more automatic than anything. For someone who has only a mind for fighting, he’s actually a great storage device, one of his fellow Harbingers had once said. Unfortunately, he has zero quality filter, bringing about much despair amongst his fellows as well.
So his brain ferrets away the information Zhongli tells him while he eyes take in other details. Callouses on Zhongli’s hands. The languid movements of a large predator, even when he’s taking dainty sips of wine or bites from the stir fry. The pristine suit is hardly meant for battle, but Zhongli has no wasted movements, no small distractions of muscle. Zhongli’s eyes don’t flit around in worry, don’t wander the same way a thoughtless merchant’s might.
Childe wonders if wooden chopsticks can kill a man. He’s killed people before with sticks, staves, arrow shafts. Surely, chopsticks could also do such a thing.
“Ah, you’re holding them wrong.” Zhongli stops his tangent on pottery (particularly relating to the dishes they’re eating out of) and reaches out to adjust Childe’s grip on the chopsticks. Turns out holding them like a knife isn’t great for eating food.
“Thanks! These things are difficult for me. I’ve got to practice.” He beams at Zhongli.
“Hey, Mr. Consultant.” Childe doesn’t need to be here. There’s no business that Northland Bank has with the Wangsheng funeral parlor. Technically, and Childe has only learned it recently, they have a relationship. The Fatui and the funeral parlor are on good terms, more or less.
Be generous.
Do not try to fight the consultant.
Keep your eyes and ears open for any news.
Three simple rules. Which is why Childe is exactly not fighting Zhongli, why Childe has open purse strings for Zhongli and exactly why he’s chosen to come in and sit on Zhongli’s desk, peering down at the paperwork the man is working on.
“Hm?” Zhongli doesn’t raise his eyes to Childe, instead he continues writing precise characters.
“Does Liyue have any good places to fish.”
The question seems to surprise Zhongli, his brush stopping in the middle of the paper and his brows come together slightly. It’s the look someone wears when they’re trying to remember some long forgotten detail. For all Zhongli has an encyclopedic knowledge of Liyue he has his certain blindspots.
“Are you looking for. . . perch?” Zhongli asks, after a longer than normal pause.
“Perch.” Childe echoes.
“Technically, there are two kinds of Liyuen perch, the yellow and blue. Only found in freshwater, they both evolved from a singular fish that used to frequent the mingling sea and freshwater deltas.”
“No way.” Childe interjects. “You have to know of somewhere with something bigger. Doesn’t Liyue have sea monsters?”
Zhongli sets his brush down and finally looks at Childe. For once, his normally serene face has a note of derision in it. Childe smiles as brightly as he can.
“No.” And for once Zhongli has a one word answer.
Hey, Mr. Consultant, do you know a good place to go rock climbing?
Hey, Consultant, tell me about the hottest chilis in Liyue.
Hey, Mr. Zhongli, what’s up with the ruin guardians?
Hey, Zhongli
Childe finds himself bothering Zhongli more and more often. He stops having a reason to, spending lazy warm afternoons poking around the funeral parlor instead of sprawled out on the bank roof. The parlor is full of medicines, scrolls, history books and the odd rock or two. It’s just as boring as the bank roof, but in a weird way, the company is better.
He does not ask Zhongli about that part, but it’s on his mind most afternoons. How exactly is ‘good company’ good company? Zhongli is not nearly as boring as some. Zhongli can go from silent and poised to dreamy and rambling without notice. But, and after several weeks, Childe decides, it’s a bit like running a marathon. At the end he isn’t sure he sought the feeling, but there’s a tightness in his chest and satisfied exhaustion at the back of his mind. That, at least, is as close as he can get to understanding the feeling.
Zhongli doesn’t have any paperwork on his desk, when Childe appears almost on schedule at the funeral parlor. Instead he has a leather bag and is standing, not sitting behind the desk. Childe wonders how long Zhongli has been standing there.
“Is there a severed head in there?” Childe asks. He knows there isn’t, probably, but it would be pretty funny.
“No, it’s empty.” Zhongli even turns the bag and shows Childe the inside. “You’ve inquired about fishing before and while this isn’t. . . fishing.” Somehow he manages to put extra disdain in ‘fishing’, “I could use your assistance with an errand.”
“Did you run out of bodies to bury?”
“No, this is a favor for a friend.”
Somehow the favor turns out to be collecting round devices from ruin guardians. For some reason, Zhongli tags along, commentating the landscape and locations as they went -- even going as far as to relate a ghost story or two. Childe listens, as he always does, remembers that some people are afraid of ghosts and tries to will himself to be afraid. It doesn’t work.
Ruin guardians are pretty easy prey, so Childe decides to try and only down them with arrows to their ‘eyes’. It isn’t very efficient, as each guardian downs and then without a melee weapon it takes an astoundingly long amount of time to shatter their armor. Arrows really weren’t meant for this kind of thing. In the end, he sits on the ground and shoots an arrow. Waits for the guardian to fall. Shoots more arrows. Zhongli sits down beside him, says nothing but waits patiently for all of the ruin guardians to be killed.
“. . . would you like assistance.” Zhongli asks, when there are just two guardians remaining.
Childe feels his face contort into an excited expression. He’s not sure why it happens sometimes, there’s the normal amusement, normal interest and then the kind that takes him by surprise. Perhaps, he doesn’t know himself very well but really what is self-knowledge going to do for him anyway.
“Want to try?” Childe offers his bow.
Zhongli stands, dusts himself off (not that he needs to, the earth and dust doesn’t seem to stick to him, even though he wears dark clothes). “No, I’ll use my own weapon.”
“Hoh, I hope you throw coffins.”
Zhongli does not throw coffins. Instead from the ground a spear of stone eagerly slides up and into Zhongli’s hands. It is practically an extension of his body, not only does Zhongli hold it deftly, but every swing is precise. Childe finds himself unable to look away. Zhongli is not like his fellow Harbingers, he’s beyond them. Even Harbingers have their limits and Childe is always pursuing his -- but Zhongli moves like he’s limitless. As if being less than divine had never crossed the man’s mind. The ruin guardians, of course, don’t stand a chance and it’s most likely overkill to have Zhongli’s spear even touch them. One swipe per guardian.
He doesn’t think about it, but as soon as Zhongli has dispatched the last guardian Childe is on his feet. His bow is drawn, water swirling around the shaft as he trains the arrow on the other man.
Something grabs at Childe’s heart as Zhongli looks at him. It’s a simple gaze, and the man doesn’t even level his weapon at Childe. It’s simply the same limitless confidence -- not even confidence, simply an existence that in this arena of combat, there is no doubt. It’s like looking into the dark abyss of an endless cave with only a few traces of light being reflected in the cor lapis buried in the stone.
Like this, I’ll lose. He realizes. If he fires the arrow, if he stays armed with a bow, he’ll absolutely lose to Zhongli’s spear. But if he banishes the bow, calls up daggers or a spear, it’s hard to say.
He doesn’t move, however. He doesn’t banish the bow. He doesn’t release the arrow. The back of his neck feels stiff and he realizes: Zhongli has a presence greater than any monster he’s ever fought. It’s akin to the entirety of Snezhnaya -- like looking over the vast tundra knowing men have died amongst the snow. Only it’s more akin to looking across a plateau and seeing bones and blood spread out under the warm Liyue sun.
Childe lowers the bow, and laughs. “You’re full of surprises, Zhongli.”
“As are you, Childe.”
He skips out on meeting with Zhongli. Instead he retreats to the bank rooftop and calls up the bow. Calls up the arrow. Crafts any number of weapons out of water but abandons them all. He isn’t sure he’d win that fight at all. He wonders what his own blood looks like smeared on Liyuen stone. But if he closes his eyes, he can also imagine what Zhongli looks like, broken on the same stones but his blood will run thinner, diluted by water.
It’s with a fantasy of a fight that Childe kisses Zhongli. It isn’t that he hasn’t had sexual relations, it’s not something he’s against overall, but everyone is just passing entertainment, a rush of heat that comes and goes faster than the Snezhnayan summer. Sex is not at all as fulfilling as a good fight, and nothing has ever left him languid and boneless like almost bleeding out on the ground has.
But they had been walking down the road at night, after dinner and drinks, close to parting ways. The moonlight illuminates Zhongli’s eyes in just the right way, the amber turning pale and sharp, reflecting the light sharply. It’s the epitome of ‘if looks could kill.’
Zhongli doesn’t react like a fighter. Childe’s hands wrap around his neck easily. But it’s that confidence, the complete lack of fear and placid expression like a deep lake that attracts Childe in the first place. Zhongli barely reacts at all, his head inclining to the side. Just that small gesture makes him seem taller, makes him seem like he’s looking down at Childe from a mountaintop.
And his gaze seems to ask ‘and now what?’ As if Childe couldn’t snap his neck, strangle him, dig his fingers in and leave bruises.
And, Childe is struck with the thought -- can he not? Is he unable to mar, bruise and beat Zhongli? That feeling comes again, sitting in his chest like a tight hand around the bottom of his lungs. Every breath feels lopsided and wrong. He decides in that moment, it must be fear, and pulls Zhongli closer for a kiss. Zhongli’s lips are surprisingly soft and warm. He expects something cold, or rough like the weather hewn stone of the mountains. Or, he expects teeth, sharp as spearheads. His hands won’t tighten their grip, they won’t strangle Zhongli and his breath catches.
“Tartaglia.” Zhongli says, and it’s the shape of his name pressed back into his own mouth that breaks something inside.
It’s far too difficult to step back, raise his hands up in mock surrender, but he manages to anyway. Childe laughs and shakes his head, flicking his bangs in and out of his eyes. It’s easier to breathe, a step away and he shoves his hands into his pockets.
“Interested in a bit of relaxation, Zhongli?” He doesn’t need to lace his words with enough innuendo to drown a fish, but he does anyway.
“Perhaps another time, I believe we both have other business to attend to.”
Then they part for the night, and yet another feeling blossoms in Childe’s chest. It isn’t the same as before, there’s no heat or shortness of breath. It’s a discomforting coldness instead, like ice running down his spine but without the familiarity of ice being from his homeland.
The Traveler is running late.
Childe listens to torrents rise and crash against Liyue Harbour, the people scrambling and running, the thrum of magic as adepti and other forces in Liyue struggle to hold the city together. He expected the Traveler to show earlier, to wear a determined face and bring a sword up in front of them. It would be a fun fight, at least.
Instead, he’s left waiting for far too long.
Instead, it’s Zhongli who approaches him.
“Ah, what a surprise.” Childe smiles. “Are you here in place of the Traveler? Or were you merely in a rush to meet your end?”
“Some wish to burn away the old world, but doing so would leave nothing in balance, there will be no order. Change is coming and I am not one to hold it back, but your methods are also not beyond reproach.” Zhongli’s spear doesn’t point at Childe, just yet, instead he holds it one-handed, and Childe can see his weight shift. Not a sprint then, but an at the ready position instead.
A little disappointing, if he had to be honest.
“Is such chaos against your will? Hey, why don’t you show me your version of order? Sounds like a good time, if it’s a lesson from the god of war!” And so, Childe takes the initiative.
He does not use the bow. There’s no contest if he does, Zhongli is far too skilled for that. He meets the earth spear with one of his own crafted from water. Because both of their weapons are shaped from visions there isn’t the reverberating through his arms that wood and metal weapons have, instead the water in his hands bends and absorbs the impact. He lets Zhongli’s spear cleave through, after some resistance, the spear splitting into twin daggers.
A lesser man would have been cut to ribbons immediately. It’s something Childe’s done to enemy after enemy. Closing distance, letting the advantage slide, twisting the daggers with their trails of water right through the abdomen of an opponent. Skin, ribs, muscle, it all is easy for him to cut. But Zhongli isn’t a lesser man. His water daggers find the very air unyielding, a crystalline shield making his daggers splash and unform in his hands. Without losing a beat, Childe turns -- lets his back pass in front of Zhongli, a feint of sorts while he calls up another weapon.
As any warrior would, Zhongli’s spear strikes towards his unprotected back. The water that shimmers around Childe’s shoulders and down the trailing red of his scarf spreads and catches the spear’s strike, easily deflecting it. In the seconds it takes for the spear to rebound off of the water, Childe thrusts with a remade spear of his own.
They are not evenly matched in strength. Within two strikes, Childe easily understands that. Humanity is only so close to divinity. Zhongli’s spear breaks every weapon he calls up, even the ones Childe does not allow to dissolve can not hold up to the stone spear. He can already feel bruises, even though his water dissipates most of the damage, there’s no escape the raw strength of Zhongli’s thrusts.
“Are you only going to defend?” Despite being in the advantage, Zhongli does not attack unless Childe attacks him first. “C’mon, Mr. Consultant~ you can do better than that.” Childe wants to see Zhongli do something other than perfect strikes and deliberate combat. Lightning doesn’t conduct through stone, but it can travel through flesh. The next strike of Zhongli’s, Childe doesn’t parry or block, he lets the spear sink into his side. For the first time, Zhongli seems surprised, and that’s when Childe reaches forward, one hand wet with water and the other crackling with electricity.
The force of the lightning racing across Zhongli’s wet clothes throws them apart. The air smells of ozone and burnt clothes.The hole Zhongli’s spear left behind seeps blood with every breath. Childe doesn’t allow himself rest, pushing himself up. A little trick he learned years ago was to slot a bubble of water into or across an injury. It only worked for so long, but he could keep from bleeding out at least for a while.
“I see. This is the shadow you carry.” Zhongli’s voice is even, but he’s a little slower than Childe to stand. His eyes flit to the wound his spear left behind -- that Childe had allowed to hit him -- and the way the water bubble resting there becomes more and more saturated with blood. “Those who unwittingly make contracts are never bound by them.”
“You’re always talking too much, but this really goes beyond that.” Childe shakes his head, and calls up a spear of water in one hand and one of lightning in the other. Both are shorter than Zhongli’s earth spear, but he needs to win on speed, not strength.
It’s easier to fight harder the more his body threatens to collapse. Something about the heady rush of feeling his life drain into torn flesh makes him move faster. Zhongli’s defenses become more disheveled and it’s not long before Childe’s broken another crystalline shield, the spear of water piercing directly into Zhongli’s shoulder. It’s Zhongli’s hand, not his spear that slams into this side, they both tumble to the ground. Both of Childe’s weapons dissolve, fingers grasping at the air for daggers to reform. One solidifies in time for him to raise it between his face and Zhongli’s fist. The water breaks, splashing down across Childe and Zhongli’s punch only barely interrupted hits him hard enough that his skull bounces against the ground.
He loses the focus to hold the water in his side, and it gushes, bringing blood with it. Childe feels his chest heave, feels the texture of blood and spittle at the corners of his mouth. He’s never feared death and he isn’t sure it’s death he fears now, but Zhongli’s calm amber eyes looking down at him seem to take root at the base of his soul.
Ah, what is that feeling?
The smile he’s wearing is too honest. Everything falls into place with the same crushing weight his rib cage has on his lungs. He’s found it. A feeling he hasn’t been able to grasp for years. Electrifying terror that keeps his heart beating even as the corners of his vision darken.
Pain is never unwelcome in his world, but for once, Childe doesn’t want to open his eyes. Any kind of momentum he’s had for most of his life has abandoned him. The routine of waking, dressing, walking amongst the world as the 11th Harbinger seems exhausting. His body is exhausted, but his heart feels like he’s run a marathon and it beats with an ache he wants to hold on.
If he fully wakes up, the feeling might fade. It’s better to hold onto the dream where he’s earned another set of battle scars, another page of his history is etched on his skin and for once there’s no yearning or absence sitting in his chest.
“Change doesn’t vanish simply because you’re awake once more.” As if reading his thoughts, Zhongli’s voice as gentle as the afternoon sun pushes through his stubborn consciousness.
“Huh. Go figure.” Childe replies, and it encompasses everything.
Zhongli’s own response is to snort, a short laugh easily swallowed by another soft statement, “You’re recovering well, I’m not surprised.”
“You really should have aimed for the throat.”
“Oh, should I have.”
“I’ve always wanted a cool neck scar to show off.”
Zhongli’s hand settles lightly on Childe’s neck. The bed dips as Zhongli sits, as prim as ever -- as composed as ever, as if he and Childe didn’t recently have a fight almost to the death. As if Childe is not Tartaglia, eleventh of the eleven Harbingers. His thumb strokes across Childe’s pulse and then back again, finding home in the indentation just above his collarbone.
“I’m afraid I won’t be giving you that gift.”
“That implies you’ll be giving me another one.” Childe tilts his head up, a little, to show more of his neck. He wants to dare Zhongli to grow fangs and sink them into his flesh. But he also doesn’t want to. The conflict of fear and remorse tangle together with his battle satisfaction.
“I have one, if you wish to accept it.”
“Well, lay it on me. I’m guessing it won’t be an execution, so what could be better?”
“A chance to find more of what you seek.” Zhongli leans closer to Childe. The motion is so effortless, as is how he holds the uncomfortable pose, unwavering. In his current state, Childe knows he’d be unable to do such a thing, the tear in his side would make that impossible. “And, a name that’s easier to write than ‘Tartaglia’.”
Hesitation is also new to him, but it’s obscene how easily his body is getting used to Zhongli’s hand over his skin. How easy it is to imagine the knot of feelings he didn’t know how to name for the longest time dissolving. It’s ridiculous to imagine a want like this, but somehow it’s enough to make his mouth go dry. He can’t blame it entirely on the blood loss, either.
“Yeah, let’s try it out.” He finally says.