Archive of Our Own

(She meets the boy on a cloudless night. He’s standing at the mouth of the world -- or the mouth of the abyss, depending on which way one looked through it -- a rusty dagger in one hand and blood running down his face and clothes. A shadow shifts across his face, like an ink stain on the white snow and then he smiles at her. “Oh! Are you lost? Me too, maybe together we can find the way back.” His tone is gentle, as if she’s a child and not in the appearance of a grown woman. As if she’s not a god in her own right, as worn as she may be. “I seem to have taken a wrong turn, but I’m not lost.” She replies. He laughs, carefree, as if she cannot see the bruises that line his cheekbones and any exposed skin, as if the blood isn’t a wet layer on already older rust. “Would you mind telling me the way back, then? I think my family might be worried.”

Of course, she agrees, kneels down in front of him and wipes the blood from his face. There’s nothing to be done about the blood on his clothes, ice is simply not a tool for cleansing. He’s impatient as only a child trying to behave can be, until she gives him a nod of approval -- one she’s learned from watching her people, old mothers and grandmothers wiping dirt from their children’s faces -- and tells him the way back.)

The boy is still a boy when he starts to work for the Fatui. She isn’t sure how he got there, and even those in the ranks seem confused about the fresh faced teenager that’s appeared in their midst. They are no longer confused when he declares that he’ll fight each and every one of them to earn his place before the Tsaritsa. He wins. Of course. Every single fight. None of the Harbingers participate, all ten of them more keen on watching than trying to make some ridiculous proclamation of strength.

“Hello again.” He says to her, bouncing on his heels as if he’s simply taken a walk, not fought over a hundred Fatui members and guards.

“You found your way home.” She replies.

That day he is crowned 11th of the Eleven Harbingers, Tartaglia. He takes the name easily, and when asked how he feels about discarding his other identity -- at least, in public as there is no reason to be a Harbinger without having your name well-known. Even the Harbingers who most work in the shadows had their names whispered with suspicion or fear. “Names are important, I get it. I’m happy to wear yours with pride.”

And, she never asks him to discard his name at home or abandon the family he clearly loves so much.

The borders of Snezhnaya are messy. While some countries are bordered by mountains or oceans, Snezhnaya has open plains or easy pathways through the frozen cliffs. It is far too easy to invade Snezhnaya, and it is not an accident that its people prefer to leave their reputation as frigid as the weather. A frigid country like Snezhnaya can only do so much with its own exports, maintaining diplomatic relations -- both forged on friendship and those forged in fear -- is what keeps Snezhnaya alive.

In the past, perhaps, the Tsaritsa had a reputation for a different kind of god. But now there are those who speak of her as one without love for her people, and there are those who live within her borders that have no love for her. Some think the endless winter is her doing, that snow only comes because she bade it and the ice that strangles what might have been farmland is her will. Any of the Fatui, her brigade of fools, who share such opinions keep them to themselves, if they fear her then they wish to serve her so when her wrath comes, they will be spared.

Her inner circle, they know differently. Though, the opinion is hardly uniform. Signora acts as if she knows the most, smug and secure in her actions and decisions. Columbina acts with care, as if the Tsaritsa is more than a god, or something sharp to be treasured and handled with care. The others all have their way -- and Tartaglia simply treats her as any soldier would their master.

Snezhnaya’s neighbor to the east is Fontaine. The relations are strained, to say the least. Tartaglia has done his homework -- despite disliking long hours reading over papers and plans, he has a mind for it when he wants to. The information is all neatly filed away in his head. Fontaine likes to play nice with Snezhnaya, there’s no way the Hydro Archon can stand against the Tsaritsa, after all. (Which, Tartaglia has to think is honestly just because the Hydro Archon isn’t applying enough effort, from experience he can easily say that water can beat ice, if the wielder is strong enough.)

The Fatui have set up domain in a machine warehouse. While Fontaine has produced weapons of war, they are more known for transportation. Some are powered by a Vision and some others utilize steam and water to move. It’s all very interesting if one was a mechanic or something, but Tartaglia doesn’t even have a passing interest. The base of operations hums with machinery, with low voices going over plans for shipments and money. If he wants to, he could surely involve himself, but it’s not like the factory will even be standing, when he’s done.

He is not invited to the town hall. None of the Fatui are, but that doesn’t mean that they won’t come. Tartaglia shows up late, he can see some of the other agents have already claimed seats of visibility -- making sure the people of the city know that they’re there for a reason. It’s made everyone uneasy.

Of course, Tartaglia does nothing to help those fears when he strolls in, interrupting the speaker.

“Wow! What a cozy meeting this is.” He walks up towards the podium. There are guards of course, but anyone with two eyes can tell he’s Fatui. Perhaps if there weren’t other agents in the room they might have tried to ‘deal’ with him. It’s a shame, really. “I wasn’t invited? Really? They say Snezhnaya gives people the cold shoulder. . .”

“Ah -- Comte,” the representative starts, “We simply didn’t think it would interest you. . .”

Tartaglia nods a few times, crosses his arms and looks deep in thought. A few years into the Fatui and he still hasn’t lost any boyish charm. “Ah, ah, I see. Well, it turns out I’m super interested!”

“. . . but it seems we’re wrapping up now. . .”

“Listen, this isn’t normally my thing, you know? But since you’ve been such good sports about everything, you get a bonus! You get a warning.”

He doesn’t say what kind of warning, but they know. The shift of power on the Snezhnaya and Fontaine border, even the subtlest and smallest one, is to be taken note of. Fontaine is well behind Snezhnaya in terms of technology, but their production is on another level. And, with Fontaine between Snezhnaya and the sea, it merely complicates things.

Economics and exports aren’t really his thing anyway.

“Thank. . . you. . .”

Tartaglia waves a hand. He leans on the podium, giving the room of assembled Fontaine citizens a wolfish grin. “I’m glad we came to an understanding! I know you said your meeting will be over soon, but I’ll leave you to it.” He waits a moment, daring anyone to speak up or move. He wants them to. It would be all the easier to have to ‘oh no accidentally retaliate’ but no one does. They even all seem to stop breathing, so he sighs and straightens up. “Have a nice night.”

For once, he’s not disappointed.

Many places bend under the suggestion that the Fatui are displeased, some do not. Tartaglia is sent to those who might not and those who definitely will not. More than once his presence alone acts as a deterrent. Not now, not here.

The people of the city have backbone, or they have desperation, either way they provide Tartaglia with a little entertainment. They burn down the factory, a clear message that they want the Fatui gone from their city. While he has very strict orders not to skip diplomatic relations (and he’s already hedging those, to be honest) once a hand has been raised against the Tsaritsa, he has a carte blanche on his answer.

It isn’t Snezhnaya’s way to raze a city, so he doesn’t. It isn’t his way to drag people from their slumber or to poison the well or to hold little executions. He lets them gather, the soldiers of the small city and even a few from neighboring cities. Fontaine isn’t a country of war, but it is not completely without militia. Lets them burn down the factory, they think it’s some victory against the Snezhnayan infection in their city without realizing that now there’s nothing to curry favor from the Fatui. (Not that Tartaglia would listen, now. Their refusal to comply and fall in line has to have consequences).

“You must wonder, how you can make up for causing such a scene.” Tartaglia offers, to the first militia man who meets his eyes. The entire group of militia are armed, they’re waiting, they seem unsure about him his entourage of Fatui agents sent home. The Fatui who work with him didn’t want to get caught up in this slaughter.

“We won’t take this just laying down, you Fatui might think you can just waltz into every city and take what you wish. But we’ve been preparing too.”

Tartaglia takes that piece of information and examines it. Surely there must be some proof of scheme or further plot to fight against the Tsaritsa. The line of Vision users among the militia certainly speaks to a larger plan.

“Thanks for the tip, I’ll pass it along to someone. Now, let’s go right to the best bit.” He’ll pass it on to Signora or something. He’s been waiting for an entire day already for this. Five, ten, twenty-two. Twenty- two people, for him? They really have no idea. “Now, I recommend you all come at once, or this won’t even be a warm up.”

It isn’t a warm up. It’s barely a light snack, even when Tartaglia decides to only use his right hand -- he was born left-handed, but became ambidextrous anyway -- it’s pathetic. These people think they can raise a revolt?

It becomes infamous, one of the first instances of Tartaglia that spreads across the world. A Harbinger that unlike others, must not be faced in the sunlight.

He is the oldest child in the house, and not a child anymore. It’s only through practice (one sibling on his shoulders, then there became two and then there were three) that he’s learned how to cook with one hand, the other captive of his sister. He likes to say that since she’s the only girl he spoils her rotten, lets her commandeer his time -- his hair if she wants to try out any barrettes or hairbands, his hands if she wants to paint his nails. The truth is, he spoils them all rotten.

“Big brother, big brother, I want strawberry syrup!” Teucer cheers from his perch on Ajax’s shoulders.

“Caramel!” Tonia interjects.

“Strawberry!”

“Caramel!”

The two faux-argue about it, everyone knows in the end Ajax will make both. Anthon sets the table. Breakfast is always slightly late, especially when the eldest son is home. Their mother works late nights and breakfast is her final meal of the day and one of the few times they all are at home. Soon, Anthon will be heading to schooling which will mean he has less time for breakfast but he’s debating just being chronically late. He hasn’t mentioned it to his older brother yet, knowing full well the strings that a Fatui Harbinger can pull.

“And you, Anthon?” No sibling is ever left out of decisions that Ajax makes.

“Both.” Comes the quick reply.

“You guys. . .” But it’s a teasing exasperation. “All right, all right. Watch your brother in action.”

It’s a small matter. One pan for strawberries, water and sugar. Another for just sugar, cream on standby. Combat had always come easily to him but it had taken years of practice to ensure that a meal was perfect -- pancakes warm and fluffy, syrup and caramel just off the stove but not hot enough to burn mouths and butter soft enough to spread even for the smallest of his siblings.

The table is set the exact same moment their mother walks in. She hangs up her coat and collapses into a chair at the kitchen table, cheeks still red from the outside. “Teucer, you can’t have breakfast from your big brother’s shoulders, you’ll drip syrup in his hair.” She admonishes.

“But I wanna!”

“What’s the harm? I’ll still have time to get cleaned up before I head out.”

“Ah, so not staying for very long then?”

Everyone takes on a solemn silence. Teucer because his brother never stays home long, anymore. Often coming in the night and leaving the next day, whatever small breaks could be caught between ventures. Tonia, because she’s heard at school, rumors that the Tsaritsa is a difficult archon to work for and while she knows her brother is the best ever, it still seems unfair he has to work so much.

Anthon, and their mother, know the most. They know about the reputation that proceeds the eldest son. The first time Anthon found out, he had cried and hid under the bed until his brother had coaxed him out with some hot chocolate and a polar bear plush. There are things only your big brother can do, you know? But Anthon had heard from people in the city, from kids his own age, he’d heard a lot about the Fatui Harbingers. He had even heard of the name his brother wears, and how someone had compared ‘Tartaglia’ to a bloody boogieman, killing disobedient citizens with impunity.

Their mother mostly fears her son will never come home. Either he will die or the face that appears at the doorway will be nothing more than the blood red mask he wears as a Harbinger.

“Here, hold on!” Ajax somehow contorts his wrist in such a way he can offer a bite of pancake slathered in strawberry syrup up to Tecuer who is still perched on his shoulders. “Ahh, shoot. I didn’t make anything special for you, mom, any requests?”

“Stay for a day or two next time.”

“Haha! You’re always the hardest one to please, well, I’ll do my best.”

Natlan is hot. Tartaglia doesn’t mind the cold and in some ways, he doesn’t mind the heat. A fighter can’t be picky about conditions, whether it be rain, sleet, a volcano erupting. It’s good there’s no diplomacy he needs to make this time, he’s not sure he could stand to boil alive in his own clothes and make empty words to empty faces. No, it’s just war this time. A truly rotten war, one that’s hardly official and only waged in shadows.

(The truth of the matter is, the Tsaritsa desires her border with Natlan to be pushed back, expanded, to let her snow and ice kingdom have a zone where Natlan’s heat bears fertile soil. It isn’t her earth to make, but she will claim it nonetheless.)

It’s always odd, how fights break out. In an orderly war, where two sides march towards each other on a battlefield there’s orders given and careful maneuvering of troops. But the skirmish fights in Natlan (in Fontaine, in Sumeru even within the boundaries of Snezhnaya) start unevenly. A punch, a slash, someone even just crying out in fear. Then chaos explodes. He didn’t start the fight, though he knows what did. A dead body, some present from a certain meddling bird that ignited the powder keg in Natlan.

(The truth of the matter is, he hasn’t yet become bored of the endless fighting that comes with being the vanguard of a nation at war. He has still yet to see every weapon, every Vision, every kind of warrior the world has to throw at him.)

Most of the Natlan soldiers may as well be meat at the market. Even their armor does nothing to save their bodies from his blades of water. The Natlan defenses even have large golems, unfortunately they’re made of hard clay and straw. Almost indestructible when faced by many elements, but with a simple gesture, Tartaglia can thread water between the golem’s inner and outer seams and then split them. Like skinning any animal, the armored shell splits away from the clay body.

Stripping armor off of people would be just as easy, but why would he need to do that? He’ll let other people have their protections, let them keep their weapons and Visions even though it would be child’s play to use his water and rip them to pieces.
Then, there is Macaria, a warrior. A leader. Some would hope she was a savior. He’s been waiting for her, and he isn’t disappointed. The moment she arrives in the fight, the air sizzles with fire, the already scorched earth burns hotter. When he inhales his lungs feel like he’s swallowed sparks. Her Vision hangs from her neck, dangling right above her heart, and even with the fire that gathers around her body, the Vision shines brighter. Her weapon of choice, he knows because he did his research but also because she bares them in front of her, is paired swords. Chains of fire dangle from the blades, leaving heat trails in the air.

“Harbinger.” She hates him. They’ve never met but she knows of the Fatui Harbingers and she can see what he’s done to her people.

He’s glad she hates him. He hopes it won’t make her too careless, he wants a good fight. Hate can help with that, especially in countries which aren’t at continuous struggle or war. Hatred can replace a hard life, when it comes to sharpening a blade.

“Hey~ if you were any later, everyone would be dead instead of just most of them.” He waves his dagger, the water reflecting the sun, no trace of blood on the blades even if it is all over his clothes.

She doesn’t spend time bantering, he’s glad. Instead she moves forward, as fluid as any stream. He raises his water blades to parry her fire ones, steam hisses from where the two weapons touch, but not fast enough for him to miss the slight shift of the muscles in her neck. He knows what follows from there, the rest of her body taking the momentum, her right leg raising, uncurling to slam into him.

Tartaglia has known more battlefields than he’s had years on this planet. Twisting away from Macaria’s kick is easy. He does not anticipate the lick of fire that travels down her leg, her bare foot alight as it scrapes his shirt. It’s so easy for her to set him on fire, and just as easy for him to extinguish it.

“Cool trick.” He says.

To Tartaglia, most Vision users fall into two categories. Those who utilize elements to augment their fighting, coating their blades in ice or fire. Perhaps it’s due to learning to fight one way first and then gain a Vision. The second are those who use it as more of magic trick -- that’s unfavorable of him to think, but mystics and mages rarely provide any challenge. Then, there’s the rare third type. Of course he counts himself among their number, but those who use their Vision that fulfills any whim, that of violence included.

For Tartaglia, creating shapes of water to entrance his younger siblings or using it to make blades is all the same as breathing. It seems this Macaria is the same. The fire snakes from her limbs, runs down the earth and her blades. It seems she is truly the guardian of this area and burns as brightly as any kissed by an archon can be.

“C’mon, c’mon! Is this all you’ve got?” He taunts and she says nothing. Her fire burns the air, and he can feel the moisture in his skin evaporate. It’s as if she knows she can’t beat him in a fair fight, and so she’ll try to take away his weapon, first. A pretty good idea, especially since his water is extinguishing her fire rather quickly. The scorch marks on the ground become smears of mud and her heated blades become nothing more than metal. When it comes to a duel between water and fire, the more skilled combatant -- or the one with the stronger will -- is the victor.

He lets her pull his water from the air, lets his blades crumble to nothing but salt left over from the sweat of their exertions. He draws true knives, now. The actual metal knives he keeps strapped to the inside of his jacket won’t dissipate under her heat, however. They’re forged from Snezhnayan iron, a secret that has never been given to the rest of Teyvet. They wouldn’t melt even if thrown into the sun, he’s certain.

“Don’t get too cocky.” He says, cockily to her. The fight begins in earnest. While before they had danced around each other, fire and water clashing and leaving steam and vapor trails behind, this is the clash of metal against metal. She forces his movements to be more exacting, his grandstanding become more like a warrior’s stance by the second. It’s clear she doesn’t expect him -- with his teasing, wasted movements and previous weapons of water -- to be as much of a fighter as she.

“Stopped fucking around, did you?” She snarls.

“Aren’t you flattered? Not everyone gets to see this!”

“No one wants to see any of your kind here.”

‘Your kind’ could refer to the Harbingers, to the Fatui in general or even simply a person from Snezhnaya. Playing the villain can be so tedious sometimes. If he was still playing around, he might sigh or tsk, make a loose wristed gesture of annoyance. Instead he doesn’t reply, skittering back to create space between them again. His side aches where her blade cut and then burned him and he’s only narrowly avoided fight ending slashes to his leg and shoulder. Both on the left side, however. She’s yet to land a single blow on his right.

She closes distance almost immediately, and while her lunge at him would normally have left her wide open, the air splits and burns, sparks covering her weaknesses. She wants to end the fight now.

His heart jumps, his pupils dilate and a short laugh escapes him. Her blades are hot, and the ambient heat must be burning her too, he can feel even the metal of the Snezhnayan knives start to warp.

“I’m taking your life.” She doesn’t even sound excited. He can only barely hear her over his own heartbeat in his ears. It’s a bit of a nasty trick, to pull the power from his delusion, but fighters are to use any and everything to their advantage. Just as she uses her Vision to deprive him of his water, he lets electricity run through his hands, to where their swords are locked together. He knows the resulting explosion is coming, his legs already pushing forward. She does not. They tumble and whatever elegant blade movements they both had are lost to feral blows. His palms are fried, fabric of his gloves sticking to burned flesh, when he drops his knives he can feel a part of what remains of his skin go with them. Her hands are also bleeding, the conduction point having been the hilt of her blades.

“That’s my line.” His voice is only slightly louder than hers. His voice is rough, words spat out between harsh gasps as they roll across the ground. She kicks at him, he tries to strangle her. Her elbow finds his stomach but his fingertips find what he’s searching for -- the wet slick redness of her bleeding hand.

Blood has more impurities than water, but the blade he makes from it is as sharp as any other. It’s disappointing, in a way, how it only takes one smooth stroke, drawing his hand from hers to across her neck, that ends the fight. He’ll remember her, though, because of the scars she left behind, especially the one along the bottom of his jaw that she gifts him as she bleeds out.

There isn’t any real need to shovel the snow. When Ajax is off on missions, a Fatui agent will sheepishly come to the family home and clear the walkway every other day. It’s something that his family finds both funny and a bit odd, not nearly as odd as whenever Ajax is home, he shovels the snow. Shoveling snow is an endless task, as well. It falls more frequently than any other weather, and even when it does not fall, the winds of Snezhnaya can cover a field+ instantly.

But still, their family walkway is always clear within days.

“Keeps me busy.” He says, wiggling his fingers, and heading out with a shovel.

“Does that boy ever stop?” His mother sighs, wiping frost and condensation from the inside of the windows with a tea towel. Her son always arrives home dressed in work clothes, but if he’s staying for more than half a day he’ll change into something nostalgic. This time, it’s a horrifically ugly sweater that his older siblings got him as a prank gift but he wears with absolutely zero shame.

“I’m going to help!”

“Me too!”

“Wait for me!”

The three younger children all dip out of the house after their older brother. Only to have two of them (Anton and Teucer) immediately sent back in so their mother can help them put on gloves and hats. Tonia sticks her tongue out at her brothers through the window because this means she’s gotten first dibs on priority time with her often absent older brother.

“Being hardworking isn’t a detriment.” The father of the household looks up from the diary he’s scrawling in. More of a storybook than a diary, a combined account of old myths and his own life. It’s meant for older audiences, chronically the rise and fall of any heroic figure, the lies the grand gods may have told and how he lost three fingers on his left hand to the raging cold of their country. “You know how he gets when he doesn’t have something to burn his energy on, anyway.”

“You two think too much alike.” She shakes her head. “That’s where he gets his determination from.”

“You really can’t be thinking that isn’t from your side.”

“Is that an accusation of stubbornness?” Outside, the siblings have cleared the walkway in record time and are working on probably the strangest snowman yet. So far they’ve stacked eight balls of differing sizes on top of each other.

“You? Stubborn dear? Never.”

She lingers at the window, lets her husband return to his writing. It isn’t a snowman that they’re working on, but rather high raised thrones. One for each of the younger siblings, so that when they’re done Ajax can knee before each of them and swear fealty before they all go back inside to take shelter from the cold.

“You can only bury bodies once a year, in Snezhnaya.” Childe remarks, as he enters the funeral parlor. It isn’t anything like the large funeral parlors back home. Rather, he was mostly certain it wasn’t. All of the funeral parlors in Snezhnaya were connected to vast underground areas where bodies could be stored for those who wish to be buried. It’s far more common nowadays to be cremated, but some still prefer seeing their loved one lowered into the only time Snezhnaya ever sees fertile soil.

“Hello, you must be the newest Fatui envoy. . .?” The man is seated at the desk in the corner says. Despite him barely raising his voice, his words are easy to understand even across the room.

“Is that what they said. . .well, close enough. Tartaglia, though you can also call me Childe.”

The silence is a bit awkward. Childe scratches the back of his neck before putting his hands in his pockets and striding forward. “Are you an undertaker?”

“No, a consultant.”

“Hehhh, really? I heard funerals in Liyue had a lot of ritual to them, but like I said. . . in Snezhnaya we need to be pretty efficient about it.” There’s no judgment in his words, nor bitterness or angst.

“Funeral rites have varied throughout the years, but it is not uncommon to seek a special way to remember a loved one. If you’re curious I can provide more information, but I would hate to derail you from something important.”

“Oh no way. Go on. I know almost nothing about Liyue, and you know, a good way to get to know a place is to know about their dead.” It sounds like a joke, but neither of them laugh. Childe’s smile broadens a little and he grabs a chair, turning it around so he can sit and rest his chin on the high chairback while still look at the consultant’s face. “Ah, but let’s do proper introductions first!”

“Did you have something more to add to yours. . . Childe?”

“There’s no point in hiding it, especially since I’ll be the one running things at the Northland Bank for a while as well. So full title’s got ‘Harbinger’ in it as well.”

“Ah, yes. It’s been some time since a Harbinger has been stationed in Liyue.”

“Wow, you even know that!”

“It was a bit of a guess, on my part.”

“It’s really a shame, you know? It seems like Liyue has a lot to offer. . . hm, Mr. . .?”

“You can call me Zhongli.”

While Childe’s posture is bad, and no one had ever dared sit in a chair in front of Zhongli like that before -- for a funeral parlor is not the place for such casual behaviour, a home is no place of disrespect and neither is before a god -- he is paying rapt attention. Every fact Zhongli rattles off seems to get absorbed. A cheerful almost dreamy smile sits on Childe’s face as he listens to Zhongli talk about casket wood, perfume, incense and grave sites.

“Oh wow, it’s really late.” Childe interjects Zhongli’s speech about the history of how the mourning period has varied throughout the years. The sun is slanting through the windows, intense orange instead of the buttery yellow of the afternoon. “I should be me apologizing for taking up your time, good thing it’s kind of ‘dead’ in here today, huh?”

Childe laughs at his own joke. Zhongli dips his head gracefully.

“Yes, it seems so.” His blunt acknowledgement makes Childe laugh harder.

“Well, I have work to attend to later this evening, but before that I thought I’d grab something to eat. Any recommendations?”

“I’m not certain what’s to your tastes.”

“Anything! Everything!” Childe stands up, and despite how carelessly he had been with sitting, the chair was carefully put back in its proper pace. Even the small corner of the rug he accidentally scuffed up was gently patted down back into place. “I’m not a picky eater, and I think I’d rather learn more about Liyue’s cuisine than try to find something similar to Snezhnaya. Besides, nothing ever beats a homecooked meal.”

“Nothing? While I can’t speak for how it is in Snezhnaya, I believe I know of a few places that might rival other food you’ve had.”

“That sounds like a challenge, lead on, I love it.”

Zhongli finds himself talking more than he has in years. Many, many years. Childe doesn’t have the reverence of a worshipper of Rex Lapis, but he’s careful and considerate. He speaks too loud at the restaurant but takes notice of how Zhongli eats and asks if there’s any cultural protocol he’s crossed the line on. He asks if he should be the one pouring Zhongli a drink from their shared bottle of wine, I read it in a pamphlet it’s good manners. I believe you’re my senior as well, so I’m supposed to take care of it, right?

“Thanks for making my landing in Liyue. I was told you’re a trusted associate, so I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other. Have a nice night, Mr. Zhongli.”

“And you as well, Childe.”

(The boy isn’t very good at arithmetic. He isn’t naturally gifted with words for all he knows how to quote some of the most iconic lines in all of history. She can’t bring herself to scold him too badly, despite the occasional huff of annoyance from one or another of her Harbingers. But even they can’t fault the boy his determination. No matter what task he’s given, be it conquest, documentation or acquisition he’ll see it done, just occasionally with conequences that others would prefer to not deal with.

She thinks: it must scare them sometimes. Few would admit it, and it is only Signora who will speak candidly about the boy’s strengths. But for all that Signora is the eighth among them, she is the most shrewd. He may be your favored sword, but every blade is weakest where it joins with the hilt. And the Tsaritsa had laughed, traced the curve of Signora’s lips and agreed. Then let us wield him with no handguard.)

Childe doesn’t do ‘days off’ Zhongli has come to realize. While the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is hardly busy he has enough to keep him occupied a little each day. However, after his duties are done, Zhongli has ample time to wander among the people of Liyue. He can spend entire afternoons staring at the sun as it sets, wondering about the hand other than his that crafted the world. Zhongli encounters him at the bank (if there are transactions to be done on behalf of the funeral parlor), encounters him down by the shores occasionally directing Fatui agents, encounters Childe at a restaurant eating while pouring over paperwork.

Perhaps more odd than any of those occasions are when Zhongli walks into the mountains and finds Childe there. Sometimes it’s to clear out monsters, to train new recruits, things he would expect. But sometimes, it’s as mundane as Childe picking bamboo shoots, gathering a rare ore or unusual flower. It seems the only times Childe isn’t moving with some goal is when he’s listening to Zhongli spin some tale in the late afternoon, but even those moments are often cut short by Childe rushing off to some other task. Outside of their first meeting, conversations where nothing else is happening is limited.

“I didn’t take you as a gardener or a delivery boy.” Zhongli says simply, watching Childe carefully pull the flower from the dirt. A crystalline blossom with pale pink stamen visible through ghostly petals.

“Ah? Me?” Childe blinks up at him from where he’s crouched and then he laughs. “Oh, no, you know. . . what’s the saying? A favor can only be as good as a favor in turn, or something?”

“Yes, or something.”

“I don’t mind paying for special orders, but sometimes people here barter or have other desires.” Childe doesn’t stuff the flower into his pocket but cups it in his hands, looking a bit confused for a moment. Zhongli’s eyes drop to the flower and then back to Childe’s face. The expression Childe wears is somewhere between annoyed and thoughtful before he sighs. “I don’t really know a lot about these things, but one of the women said if I could get one of these for her she’ll make something for me in return.”

“They’re rare, sometimes called Skeleton Blossoms.”

“She mentioned that. So, what’s their deal?” As always, Childe’s attention shifts fully to Zhongli.

“The flowers are almost aqueous, preferring damn soil or even marsh water. They are a favorite food of fish and birds, and even a little too much light can cause their petals to dry and break.” At that, Childe puts his free hand over the flower, to shield it from the sun.

“Jeez, I think she expected me to fail.” He laughs.

“Beyond that, there is a legend that accompanies the flower. In the past, it’s said that these were flowers that existed only in the rain. Blossoms that came from a land far away. Their seeds settled in the Liyue mountains and rivers and when it rained, they would bloom and float into the clouds.”

“Did . . . summer get too hot?” Childe asks, nudging soil back into the hole he made with his boot.

Zhongli feels his lips quirking, a little, “No. Rex Lapis disallowed them to fly.”

“Huh. I guess that’s most Archons for you.” Childe sighs. “Well, I best get going. Apparently there’s some big something or other shipment coming in. Can’t believe how valuable rocks are to some people.”

Zhongli clears his throat at that. Childe looks almost sheepish.

“In Liyue, most rocks are more than simply ‘rocks’, I’m sure even Snezhnaya also has a fondness for gemstones. It also goes without saying that the history of the worn earth and its mountains also has meaning.”

“Sorry, sorry. I forgot! You know, there might be more rocks than I know of in Snezhnaya, but everything is usually covered in ice or snow. It’s cold enough even fire can’t melt the ice, so they may as well be rocks, huh?” Childe waves both his hands and for a moment Zhongli thinks it must be raining. The skeleton flower is suspended in a bubble of water, bobbing delicately next to Childe’s shoulder. “There’s no way I was going to get back down the mountain carrying it, even if I went the fast route.” Childe says, by way of explanation.

It is most definitely a trap. Treasure hoarders are dishonest at best and they have a deep distaste of the Fatui. It is certainly not something that needs his personal attention, however. The treasure hoarders rarely have their own Visions, occasionally they carry tonics or potions that mimic elemental effects, but their fighting is very crude. Sometimes, that’s the best kind of fight.

He waves off his underlings, and while there’s a mountain of documents that need his attention, he’ll just do them later. Sleep comes uneasily in Liyue with its humidity and heat, he rarely falls asleep before the late hours so he may as well be productive then.

The treasure hoarders can’t identify him by appearance, only that he’s Fatui. That suits him just fine, besides it’s pretty troublesome to go around introducing himself by title when he has no intention of letting any cowards turn tail and run. While it’s his preference to only fight the strong, true debt collection doesn’t let a single drop of blood free if it’s been requested for by the Tsaritsa. (And all actions of the Fatui are under her blessing, of course.)

Tartaglia walks into the treasure hoarder camp, he kicks one of the tent poles, cheerfully calling out, “Your interest has gotten rather high! It seems you should only take out as much money as you can pay back.” The weapon he carries in his left hand is a single sword, just a trinket he picked up from the blacksmith on his way out. Its weight is unfamiliar and he could tell just from hefting it once that it’s poorly made, the kind of sword a tourist might buy.

“Those moneybags from Snezhnaya sent you?”

“Do I not look like a proper debt collector?” Tartaglia asks, eyes wide, as if the thought had never occurred to him. It’s funny, in a way, because if he hadn’t been told outright, he really would never have understood it. To him, a fight is a fight, the opponent can’t simply be judged on if they look frail or strong, if they’re a girl or a boy or neither. Action is what matters, in the end.

“Tch. You look like someone who gets waited on, not someone who dishes out punishment.”

Tartaglia turns the puns over in his head. It’s not very creative, if he’s being honest, nor is it very threatening.

“Mmmm. . . well, I guess it doesn’t matter because you’re not getting a second chance to extend the loan anyway. Ah, this won’t even be a snack.” The treasure hoarders don’t get to respond to his insulting assessment of them. While the poorly made sword is unevenly balanced, it doesn’t matter. Tartaglia’s skill is beyond simple muscle memory, but a physical understanding of the best way to utilize any weapon or combat situation.

The abyss has swallowed countless warriors, and each memory of their historied combat lays in Tartaglia’s bones.

Most of him relishes a fight, so when it’s like this, no real fight, only slaughter, he bores of it. But there is a small nasty dark part of him that revels in the cooling blood on his face and clothes. A coldness that is only warmed by the death of others. He lets it out, in moments like this. It will be a long time before he heads back to Snezhnaya, but he always ensures the dark is packed tightly away in a box, pressed deep into the furthest parts of his mind, before he does.

Zhongli is not expecting Childe to slide into the funeral parlor and shut the door behind him with a somewhat bashful grin. The Harbinger takes his normal chair (always, dragging it over to Zhongli’s desk, and always when he leaves he places it back across the room where it belongs). And he is definitely not expecting, “Ah, can I ask for a favor?”

“You do know the saying about Liyue and contracts, don’t you?”

“I think you’re teasing, but it’s hard to tell sometimes.”

“I am teasing, yes.”

“I’ll pay you back anyway,” Childe grins. “Anyway, I know you have an old book in here about uhh. . .vessels?”

There is in fact a book that Zhongli keeps, a written record about the flesh vessels of spirits, archons, adepti and ghosts. It is more or less fabrication, but there are nuggets of truth embedded in the words.

“And you wish to borrow it?”

“No, no, you wouldn’t want that to get lost at the bank. My office definitely resembles a war crime right now.” Childe laughs. Zhongli does not believe that for a second, given how meticulous Childe is as so many things, but he lets the comment slide. “I brought some paper with me, let me hang out and copy some things down?”

“You’re welcome to. I have some matters to attend to, but surely you’ll not mind being left alone.”

“Ahh, I was hoping for one of Mr. Zhongli’s impressive stories,” Childe practically chirps, but nods, “No, I’m here on business today, so I don’t mind at all.”

“Great, I’ll treat you to dinner later then, if you’re free. . .?”

“Yes, this shouldn’t take more than the afternoon.” Zhongli inclines his head. And after a moment, stands. “ . . . sorry, let me get that book for you.”

“I somehow think you wouldn’t want me to rummage around in your things, but if you like I can make an attempt.”

“It would most likely be a waste of both of our times.”

Zhongli returns with the book and settles it in front of Childe. The Harbinger pulls some folded paper out of his pocket, contemplates for a moment and then stands, holding the paper with his mouth, book in hand hand, chair in the other and moves across the room. Zhongli watches as the chair is carefully pushed back into place and Childe sits in the large windowsill, back pressing against the wall. “Just pretend I’m not here.”

And Zhongli does, more or less. He goes about the rest of his work, only occasionally studying the Harbinger. Childe, who’s confidence honestly borders on insanity, is quite different when he’s hunched over a book, copying down notes. He looks quite ill at ease with the task, brows furrowing and nose wrinkling several times. Zhongli says nothing, when he leaves as well. It’s simply a quick trip to a family preparing a funeral, to hear their requests and, unfortunately, tell them the price of services.

When he returns, Childe is still in the same windowsill, even though the light has almost faded. The book is still in his lap, but the notes are scattered on the floor. It’s a brief moment, because as soon as Zhongli opened the door, Childe must have begun to wake up. The stretch and yawn seem so natural, but Zhongli has lived long enough to know that a relaxed pose means nothing of one’s ability to fight immediately after waking.

“Ah, your triumphant return. Sorry, sorry, the bank is so noisy I can never sneak in an afternoon nap.” Childe collects his notes. Somehow, Zhongli does not believe Childe meant to fall asleep here.

“I hope you found what you were looking for?” Zhongli holds his hand out for the book.

“Not really, but it’s better than nothing.” Childe settles the book in Zhongli’s hands and bounces on his heels. “Well, I did promise you dinner as payment, didn’t I? Take your pick of the town.”

Zhongli takes Childe to a house, it’s just barely within the city limits. An old woman sells dumplings scooped hot off of a giant metal pan that’s longer than Zhongli’s arm is. Her daughter and son stuff and fold dumplings while the woman both tends to the fire and the cooking food. Zhongli’s attention turns to the view of the harbor as he eats the dumplings. It’s easy to imagine the passage of time, the difference of weather and years carved into the rock. He’s been to this place many times, as a warrior, as a mourner and as he is.

It’s easy to get lost in the memories, trying to find patterns of meaning in actions long past. He wonders, what will become of this place? Mortals come and go, this old woman will die before Liyue and her children may decide to move. Businesses come and go. Contracts are unyielding but commerce is always changing.

“Hey, Zhongli --” Childe’s voice breaks his thoughts like waves on a rock. “What do you think of these?”

And the ugliest dumplings Zhongli has ever seen land on his plate. The woman and her children are sharing impish grins, but nothing compares to Childe’s completely shameless laugh. “Horrible, I know. But with enough practice, I know I can master this too~”

“We’re closing up for the night, young man.” The woman says, patting Childe’s shoulder. He laughs again, ducks his head. Childe is comfortable in this setting, Zhongli realizes. The family business that makes dumplings and sells them in their backyard. While the Harbinger looks completely out of place, his eagerness and charm must have wooed the family.

“Right, right. Thanks for the lesson.” With all the care of someone putting down 100 mora, Childe drops a bag that must contain over 60,000 mora on the table. The woman gapes a little, but before she can say anything, Childe’s already up and heading out.

“It’s a gift, thank you for the meal.” Zhongli attempts to explain. He’s not even sure he can as he doesn’t really understand it either. Money isn’t a strange concept to him, it couldn’t be, but there is a gap between him and understanding the situation. Payment for the food is expected, as would be payment for teaching, he supposes. Childe has more money than he could ever hope to spend, most likely, not even counting the Fatui money that Childe has access to.

And yet that simple transaction feels like a puzzle Zhongli can’t quite find the solution to.

“I’m surprised you invited me, I’ll say.”

Zhongli knows that voice. He looks down the spiraling staircase of the Jade Chamber to see Tartaglia walking through the front doors. He’s flanked by two agents, and there’s something atrociously stiff about his posture.

“You are an important guest in Liyue.” Ningguang is as polite as ever. She’s as polite as when she invited Zhongli to the Jade Chamber, and her words give away nothing, as ever. The most cunning (and rich) woman in Liyue invited a Harbinger into her most prized location.

“Ehh. . . “ Zhongli recognizes the trail off, he would expect Tartaglia to give some kind of lighthearted response, but instead: “I appreciate the gesture, but if you’re asking for visiting rights to some of equal value, I can’t give that permission. I know it’s not the way of Liyue to have such an unequal exchange, but in Snezhnaya we operate a little differently.”

“So I’ve heard. While in Liyue a debt is a contract, in Snezhnaya you say. . .”

“Debt is a weakness owed to the strong.”

Zhongli had not heard that saying in quite some time. It rolls off of Tartaglia’s lips as easily as any laugh, but the tone is deadly serious.

“Of course. I respect the differences in our countries, but you must forgive any assumptions I’ve made.” Ningguang inclines her head and soon they leave Zhongli’s view, but the voices still carry. Ningguang must have designed her Jade Chamber this way, to allow sound to carry to any faithful servant so no information will be missed.

And of course, he knows why she invited him and allowed him to stay and wander. He is a question in her plans, someone who knows too much, who has the ear of the Fatui but has no stake or action in the current going ons of the world.

“I suspect you didn’t invite me for tea.”

“No, and excuse me for being blunt, I doubt you’re in Liyue as an assistant bank teller.”

That gets a laugh out of Tartaglia, short and light but the blade it covers is easily known.

“You’re right, so if I may be so blunt in return, the Fatui have no intention of letting the Qixing bully us.”

“Bully?” Zhongli can imagine Ningguang’s arched eyebrow, her perfect poise, “Hardly. It’s a well known fact that Northland Bank exists as a symbol of the agreement between Liyue and Snezhnaya.”

Tartaglia sighs. Zhongli sees the gesture in his mind, overly dramatic, perhaps a tilt of the head.

“That’s more than rude, I’m sensing a threat, Lady Ningguang. I’m not really fond of these kind of meetings, as I’m sure you’ve heard. But it’s difficult to uproot an economic institution, don’t you think? On the other hand, the Qixing isn’t immune to turmoil either.”

“Yes, I’ve heard quite a lot about your strengths, Tartaglia of the Fatui Harbingers.”

“Saying the full title like that sounds like you want to scold me. . .”

Ningguang’s laugh is as warm as polished jade, holding only a bit of sunlight, “No, I would never. But I am hoping we can come to an agreement, or perhaps, an addendum to our current situation.”

“Aha, well, if that’s the case, I would prefer to have such conversations where there are fewer ears.”

It’s impossible for Tartaglia to know Zhongli is listening in, but equally impossible that the Harbinger didn’t notice how sound carries in the Jade Chamber. Ningguang laughs, this time real warmth in her voice.

“I’m pleased to hear so, now, next meeting will be a place of your choosing.”

Farewells are brief and businesslike. Zhongli waits for Ningguang to ascend the stairs to where she knows he will be. She’s blatantly studying his face, as if that would pry secrets out of him. She offers him tea, he declines. He leaves her with more questions, no answers, but he’s confident she’ll figure it out in time. There’s a reason why she leads the Qixing and why he’s marked her to lead Liyue into the future.

Childe pretends he is drunk so he can steal a kiss from Zhongli.

He plans it from the start, from the beginning of their dinner out -- honestly, before that even. There’s a warm kind of comfort he gets from their time together, and he’s grown embarrassingly fond of the other man. But he’s not used to rejection and while his confidence is nigh unshakable, there’s something so solid and unyielding about Zhongli despite his gentle voice and almost dream-like approach to the world.

One of Zhongli’s best traits, Childe thinks, is how much he seems to love Liyue. At times the delivery is dry, or Zhongli’s face doesn’t show the joy that one might expect, but no one who knows this much about the country would hate it. Zhongli speaks of Liyue’s history and legend with the reverence one reserves for heroic myths, but lacks the worship an innocent might have when retelling the tales.

(He writes in a letter to Tonia, jokingly, that he might have found someone to be his equal and if he’s rejected he’ll mope for weeks. He knows his sister loves hearing about things like that -- at times he exaggerates about women he’s met, calling them princesses or fine ladies. He even wrote to her about Ningguang and how elegant she is. Equally, when he writes home about men they are kings or lords, gallant and handsome.)

“Aha, sorry.” Childe laughs, after the quick kiss, leaning back in his chair. The room is private, once their food had been brought the employees had vacated. “Too much wine, I think.” But even as he says so, he raises the glass to his mouth again.

“I’ve been a solitary man for some time.” Is what Zhongli says in response.

Childe laughs, head thrown back, seemingly honest in his mirth. “I can tell! I can’t believe it though, surely the girls must be clamoring at your doorstep for nifty parlor tricks.”

“Somehow, mixing business with pleasure rarely ends well.”

Childe’s lips press into a line for a moment. He may have gotten too comfortable in Liyue, but it’s really not in his nature to worry about that kind of thing either. If push comes down to shove then he’ll simply shove harder.

“I thought life in Liyue was business! It’s certainly why Liyue and the Fatui can get along.” Childe jests.

He does not try to kiss Zhongli again that night.

(The boy knows a lot about ████. That’s part of why the Tsaritsa wanted him close to her. There’s a word that’s like passion but softer, like longing but sweeter and the boy knows much of it. He’s a bleeding heart.

Water freezes solid instantly, when met with cold Snezhnaya air. The same could be said of blood. And yet, the boy she’s blessed with her dreams is both water and blood, free and warm.

The boy knows a lot of death. Something is carved into his soul, a hand not her own and not his family’s, a sharp crevice even she can’t take hold of.)

Tartaglia likes the Traveler. They don’t speak much but he can tell that they’ve seen vast corners of the world. They’re funny, they try to keep Zhongli on task when it comes to things Zhongli himself is trying to do. They have a kind of ‘older sibling’ air about them, with how they tease Paimon but carry responsibility.

He likes the Traveler, it’s really a shame that he thinks they will not like him after this. Tartaglia isn’t one to take a fight personally -- win or lose, if it’s a good fight then it’s fine. He’s not naive enough to imagine the Traveler will be the same, not with how they seem so invested in Liyue. Perhaps they’re always that kind of person, caring about the place they stay in a little too much.

It’s not something he understands.

Tartaglia likes Liyue, but it doesn’t fit him. He misses the chill of Snezhnaya, the laughter of his siblings playing in the snow and the way a hot drink warms the whole body from the inside out, no matter how cold the wind blows. The only thing close to that is time with Zhongli and really, is it the same without the harshness of Snezhnaya’s weather to balance it?

The Traveler doesn’t have a vision, but he’s seen them use air as a weapon before. It’s unmistakable, the whirlwinds that they send out. So he expects it. Even so, he starts with his bow, his real goal isn’t a fight -- as satisfying as that would be -- but the Exuvia propped up in the glass case like some kind of museum artifact. In a way, perhaps it is. But that doesn’t mean he can’t have fun.

Has the Traveler always been so quick on their feet? Or do they gather small puffs of air under them, speeding them out of the way of his rain of arrows. No matter. Tartaglia pulls the mask down over his face and lets his Delusion cloud his Vision. Even as fast as they are, the Traveler can’t escape his speed, the electricity zipping down his muscles and pushing them faster and faster. The bow is discarded for a spear, for double swords, for any weapon that comes to mind.

Tartaglia is a warrior, but so is the Traveler. Electricity doesn’t stick to their skin or burn the air to ozone. He understands why when ripples of earth slide up under the Traveler’s foot. Clever. They’d grounded his lightning all along.

“Seems like you’ve got a trick or two.”

It’s easy enough to vault through smoke raised to the air through electricity and rock crumbling. Everything goes according to his painstakingly boring plan, up until Tartaglia pulls his empty hand from the body of the dragon. No gnosis rests there. Irritation washes over him. Everything had been carefully mapped out, more or less including the Traveler being an opponent. But this.

“You. . . when did you take it?” He can’t help but snarl, more than the annoyance of a plan gone awry (since really, who cared if plans fell through as long as the goal was achieved) is that the Traveler deceived him of their strength. Irritating. Tartaglia isn’t known for losing his temper, and he wouldn’t even call this his temper but some dark annoyance. An abyssal condescension that bubbles up in the back of his mind.

Foul Legacy is really like slipping on a glove. Where his Delusion is a pleasant hum of electricity through his body, the Foul Legacy is a surging river with a livewire in it. His muscles ache and feel as if they are splitting and the power is unimaginable. It’s only the involuntary twitch he feels spasm in his left hand, after a few moments, that tells him his time limit is nearing. The Traveler looks as worn as he feels, and clarity comes with the arrhythmia of his heart.

“Ah, there’s no way you got to it before me.” He simply says, releases the Foul Legacy and collapses on the floor.

дорогая сестра,
It’s been some time since I wrote, sorry about that. To make up for it, I’ve included a few extra gifts. One of the sweets is made from Hawthorn, I’ve heard it’s very popular. The rest are surprises, since it’s near the holidays, try opening a package a day -- it’ll make every day special.

Liyue winter is coming, but there’s hardly been a change in the air. When it snows I’ll find a painter to do a landscape -- I might have to go up into the mountains to capture it. I’m sure you’ll find it funny.

If you hear that there’s been any trouble in Liyue, please don’t worry about it. People really like to exaggerate, and all is well. There was a bit of trouble with a sea monster, and when I return home, I’ll tell you the whole story.

Don’t cause too much trouble, with much love, your faithful knight.

Liyue has a long history of spear fishing. It isn’t practiced much in the harbor proper, but in some of the villages out where the rivers are deep, men walk alongside the riverbank with spears twice as long as their body, three prongs fastened to the end. Zhongli told Childe about it, weeks ago, and Childe had said: Maybe I’ll try it, sometime.

The boat Signora took back to Snezhnaya has long gone and the entourage at Northland Bank has decreased. Snezhnaya -- the Fatui -- have agreed to reduce their numbers in exchange for continuing business. While it’s an uneven trade that favors Snezhnaya, Zhongli knows that Ningguang is leaning on them in the shadows.

Childe is not at the bank, nor did he take a boat back, yet. He discreetly asks one of the tellers if Childe has been in and she gives him a long look. He’s unsure if it’s because he has been counted as a ‘trusted associate’ and thus should know, or if because something has changed behind the scenes. Perhaps Childe has revoked any of Zhongli’s permissions among the Fatui in Liyue.

Her answer is a simple no. She adds that as far as she knows, Master Childe will be departing Liyue in two days time.

Zhongli doesn’t get to meet Teucer, though he hears about the boy from the Traveler. It’s time for the Traveler to move on soon as well and they seem awfully determined to leave him with a laundry list of things to try. Dandelion wine (without cheating sobriety as he can do), gliding off the highest peak and then plunging into the water below, fresh sweet madame from the Good Hunter, the feel of a new jacket, finding new companions. It continues on and on with Paimon interjecting about more food and places to visit. He thanks them both.

It is by chance that he meets with Childe before the other leaves for Snezhnaya. Melancholy sends him to look at the glaze lilies in Qingce Village. He seems torn between walking forward and staying still. Glaze lilies have already changed and evolved, as Liyue has, but they still remain, just barely. Once he leaves Liyue, as the Traveler suggests, there will be so many unfamiliar things.

Childe is standing in the middle of one of the deeper rivers, his feet aren’t touching the bottom, he’s either standing on a rock or using his Vision to platform the water under him. His jacket and shirt are discarded to the side, neatly folded with his scarf and bow, his pants are rolled up to his knees, which still gets them wet but only from the spray.

Zhongli watches Childe lightly heft the long spear, he holds it for a long time, eyes intent on the water, before releasing it. The bamboo slides through Childe’s bare hands and deftly he flicks the spear up, a fish impaled on the end. Childe laughs, pleased with himself. His laughter cuts off quickly, and Zhongli surmises he’s been spotted.

“Ah, an audience, good thing you weren’t here when I was learning. These things are unwieldy.” Despite him saying so, Childe easily plucks the fish off the end of the spear and then leans on it.

“I can hardly imagine it.” Zhongli inclines his head slightly.

They stand there, silent both of them, before Childe sighs, and walks through the water to the shore of the river. “Don’t let me hold you up. I wanted to try this before I left, you know?”

“And your evaluation?”

Despite his time spent in the Liyue sun -- and Zhongli had seen Childe out and about -- Childe’s not gained any amount of tan, nor had he burned. He wonders if the dusting of freckles across Childe’s back were brought on by the sun, or if the way the white scarring has been made more prominent by the weather in Liyue.

“Not bad. It’s probably more fun on the open ocean, or perhaps during a storm.” There’s another silence, before Childe deliberately turns his back to Zhongli, stepping into his boots. “Don’t mind me, were you heading somewhere important?” The taunt is there in his voice, but tired.

“Ah. I wanted to have a word with you, before you went.”

“Hmmm? I hope it’s not out of guilt or anything, you’re not even as clever as half my coworkers, you know?” Childe inhales and then exhales in a louder sigh. The scars on his back shift with his muscles, and Zhongli’s eyes land on one in particular, a purposeful one, the emblem that the Fatui bear. “Besides, like you said before, I believe, mixing business and pleasure isn’t ideal.”

“Even still, I imagine some kind of apology is warranted.”

“For what? For not telling me what I didn’t ask? Or making a deal with Signora? I mean, that I could see, but it only stands to reason two boring people would prefer each others’ company.”

“Boring.” Zhongli finds himself echoing as Childe puts on his shirt and jacket. He doesn’t fasten it though, so it hangs loose around his shoulders, open, when he turns back to Zhongli. His expression is wry.

“Boring. I was pretty excited to fight a real god, you know?”

“Then, I apologize for robbing you of that.”

“The Traveler talked about you.” Childe shakes his head a bit, starts breaking his bamboo spear down, tossing the smaller pieces of bamboo back into the wild, keeping the pronged blades. “And, given the contract you made, I can make a few guesses myself. The Tsaritsa is grateful for your cooperation and understanding.”

“Is it your goal to deprive me of a proper apology?”

Childe’s grin is all teeth. “You never broke any promises, since we never made any, either.”

“Then, I wish we can part on a note of gratitude, not penance.”

“Thanks for teaching me about Liyue, it really helped when I tried to drop it into the ocean under an ancient evil god.” Childe somehow manages to say with an absolutely straight face.

“And thank you, for your time. I enjoyed it.” Zhongli’s reply is much softer, less mocking.

Childe hesitates, before he digs into his pocket with one hand. He pulls out a crumpled piece of paper and offers it to Zhongli. “If you ever end up in the area, this should help you get through some of the tougher customs officers in Snezhnaya. Think of it as my version of a Sigil of Permission.”

It’s a joke they can both laugh at, despite the dark irony.

(The boy brings her the heads of her enemies, if she asks for them. He’ll wade into battle and come out carrying the enemies flag he’s ripped from their standard bearers. If she asks for the smallest finger of every corrupt aristocrat she knows of, the boy will dutifully bring her them.

She doesn’t bother to rein him in, Snezhnaya -- and all of Teyvet -- need more blades than shields, now. It’s like watching ivy strangle a garden, how quickly he grows and how much he learns. No matter how much blood he spills for her, he seems unchanging.

He’s broken, Columbina said. Why else would he cause such a ruckus. She’s annoyed, of course, because the boy had done more than ‘cause a ruckus’ but left an entire castle smoldering, bodies and blood amongst the rubble. He had been a blunt hammer to the problem Columbina had wanted to massage to perfection.

The Tsaritsa cannot hide her own tired smile. It’s true, that the shape of him is wrong. Too soft, too much like the flowing water he can control, that which isn’t seen in Snezhnaya. Too much like the feeling ████ that she can no longer name.

It’s Signora who laughs at that, bright like ice but harsh. There’s no love lost between the two, even if neither would dare start a fight in front of the Tsaritsa. I believe, it might be the opposite. Is how Signora responds.

Columbina frowns, lips twisting pettily. She doesn’t understand the joke, and few do. But the Tsaritsa does, Signora does and perhaps, the boy himself does as well.)

The Snezhnayan guards detain him, briefly, at the border. Zhongli is glad that even without his title of Archon or divine power he still has his Adeptus skill and power, as even sitting inside feels frigid. He keeps warmth tucked into his jacket and gloves, observing the small guard house and its occupants. Many of them shed their coats when inside, and none seem to be bothered by the cold.

Snezhnaya is a country that is somehow both behind all others in agriculture and natural resources, but far ahead in others. He listens to one of the guards talk rapidly, syllables alien to him even though he understands the words well enough. Eventually he hears what he expects must be the ‘answer’ to the problem that the small piece of paper he provided the guard, given that the guard’s voice drops low and almost afraid.

It’s only moments later that a Fatui agent ushering a young woman with red hair and freckles comes by. He can see the similarity in her face that must run in the family. She has an easy going smile and ignores the agent with her entirely.

“Mr. Zhongli?” She asks.

“Yes, that is me. I apologize for the inconvenience, I was unaware that you would be called here.”

She laughs. “To be honest, they thought it was a fake! But brother gave them a talking to, I think he’s been wanting to do something like this for a while.” She can’t be that much older than Childe, if at all.

“Oh?”

“He says it’s fair game, to give other people trouble who give you trouble.” She says it with the air of an adult who knows exactly how petty that is. “Now, come on. You’re actually in luck, he’s due back for a little vacation soon.”

It feels twice as cold when they walk back into the frigid air. Her name is Annika and she’s older than Childe by a year and a half. Ajax, she calls him, wrinkles her nose at his confusion and says with distaste ‘Tartaglia’. But that’s all she’ll say about Childe and his work, instead she tells Zhongli about the family. Mother, father, Olezka, herself, Ajax, Anton, Tonia and then Teucer. Quite a large family. The entire way back to the family home, the Fatui agent tails them but as soon as they get to the gate, the agent disappears.

“Brother always makes some poor agent do things like this.” Annika shakes her head, “I guess you could have been some random person pretending to be a certain Mr. Zhongli with a note from him, but that would just be too weird and specific.”

“He worries greatly for your safety.” Zhongli guesses.

“Maybe. Sometimes I think it’s just his way of showing off.” She pauses at the front door, and gives Zhongli a grin that truly reminds him of Childe, “I hope you’re ready.”

The door opens to warmth, the smell of bread, the excited yelling of at least two different children and some kind of music. Zhongli steps into a world entirely different from the cold grey of Snezhnaya. It takes at least ten minutes for everyone to introduce themselves, he’s a bit at a loss by how quickly they all welcome him. Before he’s even removed his coat, Teucer and Tonia both plead with him to tell any stories about giant eagles from Liyue -- they say their brother wrote home about them, but also that he wasn’t as good at telling the story as Mr. Zhongli.

He’s surprised to find that the family home has several spare bedrooms, and it seems the family is used to guests appearing on short notice. Annika, who seems to have taken on the role of ‘family translator’ explains to Zhongli that her brother Ajax didn’t actually have a bedroom anymore, so when he stayed one of the younger siblings would beg him to stay with them or he’d use a guest room. Beyond that, there were times when the snow or ice was too much and it’s easier to offer shelter to a friend or traveler than to see them disappear into the icy arms of Snezhnaya.

Zhongli spends most of the afternoon telling stories. The younger children are entranced by each one, and they constantly have questions -- how tall is the tallest mountain? Even taller than a whale is long? Can you touch the stars in Liyue? Are all noodles really just one long noodle? Did an ancient princess of Liyue get carried off by a kite? He answers each the best he can, but can tell some answers disappoint while others are so beyond what a child can understand.

The atmosphere of the house begins to calm down only for it to explode again when Childe comes home. As soon as he strides through the door the children are yelling, there’s cheers and hugs and it’s overwhelming to watch. Perhaps, many, many years ago, Zhongli had known a scene like that, but it was so long ago he’s not sure he would remember how to react if ever caught up in it.

“Oh, Zhongli.” Childe calls out, once, waves and then is tugged off past the kitchen by his mother. Zhongli only just waves back before Childe disappears.

He hadn’t expected this at all. He had known about Childe’s family and had assumed an amount of welcome, but the way everyone moved around him as if he had been there all along was alien. He certainly had also not expected Childe to treat him with the familiarity of a friend, before whisking around with an almost manic energy to each of his family members.

“Do you play chess?” Childe’s father carefully, but firmly, frees Zhongli from the endless questions of the children. “If you let them walk all over you, you’ll never get your life back.” The board is set and Zhongli opts to play black.

“Thank you for your assistance. They’re quite formidable children.” Zhongli starts, waiting for his turn.

“Ha! Very kind. I’m proud of them, though.”

“It seems that they’re happy.”

“Family’s important.” Childe’s father hums, leaning back after Zhongli’s move, as if to think hard on it. Given that it’s so early in the game, Zhongli does not believe that to be the case. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you have such good timing?”

Zhongli’s eyes drift to the kitchen, that he can just barely see past Childe’s father. It’s too crowded there, definitely. Childe, his mother, two younger siblings and older brother are all jostling for space. Well, mostly it’s the older members of the family, the children seem to be doing their best to be tripped upon.

“I’m a believer in serendipity, but also I’ve been trying to become more spontaneous in my later years.” Zhongli answers. He watches the pieces on the board, knows that the game will be over quickly unless he chooses to play poorly. “In truth, I didn’t expect him to also be visiting.”

“He did write of you, somewhat.”

“Ah. Did he.”

Childe’s father laughs, and it’s easy to see where Childe gets his own joyous laughter from. “Oh, nothing terrible, I promise. But he mentioned your hospitality in Liyue was unrivaled and he would hate to have a debt hanging over his head, so if you ever come by to invite you in.”

It’s entirely incongruent with how he left Childe, in Liyue, and also at odds with who Zhongli is -- was -- as well as who Childe is. A Fatui Harbinger who openly invites an enemy god into his home. Zhongli does not let Childe’s father win the chess game, but he draws it out, watches for any shadows of Childe’s expressions in the man’s face.

Dinner is just as chaotic as greeting, as cooking, as cleaning will be. Zhongli watches Childe balance conversation, passing the bread -- black bread, Annika supplies even though the bread is brown, telling stories to his younger siblings and speaking more of business to his older ones. He’s reminded of how Childe was always working in Liyue, the only moments of inaction the hours he carved out listening to Zhongli tell stories. They barely exchange two words themselves, Zhongli finds himself watching Childe talk to his family and making smaller conversation with Annika, mostly.

Cleaning up after dinner is full of children ‘helping’, a dish breaking, leftovers being packed away. While the whole family gets involved, it’s Childe who moves through everything at lightning speed, checking on Teucer after the dropped plate, helping Olezka wash dishes, helping his mother put them away, ending with helping his father put out the fire and clean the hearth.

It’s been dark for hours by the time the family starts splitting off. The children go to bed -- Childe goes to read each of them a bedtime story. Both parents retire early, to which Annika laughs and says ‘We can all only hope to marry someone we love that much for so long’, before she also excuses herself. She’s a student and has lessons to work on.

“So.” Olezka does not resemble Childe. They share the same blue eyes, but Olezka has dark hair, a square jaw and the build of a wrestler. “The infamous Mr. Zhongli.”

“I was not aware I was infamous.” Zhongli can’t quite tell of Olezka is attempting to be intimidating or not. The young man doesn’t carry any real threat presence, and his expression is friendly enough.

That reply makes Olezka laugh, however.

“Not everyone gets a place in our brother’s letters, you know. And you have quite the number of pages dedicated to you.”

That surprises him. Zhongli pours over his memory, in earnest he had assumed that Childe had wanted to engage in conversation with him for much of the same reasons Ningguang had. The money Childe had used for any of their outings or to pay for anything Zhongli had forgotten mora for seemed to simply be a transaction.

In truth, Zhongli had not had many friends in recent years and certainly far fewer mortal friends. The Adepti had their own way of doing things and while many would come to his beck and call, it would have been preposterous to imagine them doing any of Childe’s actions.

The machinations of mortals, he had thought.

“He hasn’t told me what he put in the letters,” Zhongli muses. Olezka cuts him off with another hearty laugh.

“No, I imagine not. He probably wrote half of them while the sun rose after a long shift at the bank.” Zhongli chooses not to say anything to that. Childe’s older brother claps him on the shoulder. “He doesn’t seem the type, but he’s really private about some things and takes a lot of stuff really seriously.”

But Zhongli could have guessed that. Instead of saying so he just says: “I see. I think I understand him better now.”

Then Olezka re-shows him where the guest room he can use is -- Zhongli hadn’t forgotten it, but is told that not everyone has such fortitude when under assault of the entire family being so energetic around them.

Then, Zhongli is left in the quiet. The house stays warm, even with the hearth put out and even as he can hear the wind outside pick up, whistling through trees and valleys. Even the stone floors carry warmth that he can feel when he slides his shoes off. It’s not a fancy house, but it’s been decorated in things that obviously cost money -- if Zhongli looked at every part of the house he would most likely be able to trace the family’s history. It would be obvious when Childe’s Fatui paycheck began to flood in, as well.

He doesn’t try to dig into the history of the house, however. He sits on the bed, closes his eyes and tries to exist in the moment. The Traveler had told him: sometimes, it’s less about where you’re from or where you’re going, but where you are in the moment. A strange thing for someone to say who was on the constant search for their sibling, but also one that makes sense, with how vivacious the Traveler can be.

“Meditating?” Childe’s voice is soft, as if he doesn’t want to interrupt Zhongli.

“Simply. . . existing.” Zhongli replies. That gets a small huff of laughter out of Childe. He sits on the floor, back against the bed that Zhongli sits on. The height inequality feels awkward, but Zhongli is uncertain if moving to sit on the floor as well would make it even more awkward.

“You’ve been doing well, I’ve heard.” Childe muses. “I kind of thought you might end up out on the street in a week.”

“I am more than equipped to deal with that.”

“Ah yes, so you know exactly how much mora we spent in Liyue, then?” Childe shakes his head, “It isn’t an insult, you know. You just reminded me a lot of someone, and if there’s anyone who can make a leap of faith have a softer landing, it’s my family.”

“A leap of faith? I would hardly have said that.” He can’t help but argue. Zhongli had carefully planned and replanned and executed his plan.

“Hm.” Childe is noncommittal. “You remind me a lot of her.”

“Childe --”

“I didn’t plan to trap you here, but the weather might be bad for a few days.” Childe sounds sheepish, “Though, I guess if you wanted to go it wouldn’t be an issue for someone like you.”

“I appreciate the invitation into your home. I admit that I was feeling. . . somewhat adrift.” The words feel unusual in his mouth, like swallowing rocks and sea water.

“It’s weird to take a break, isn’t it?” Zhongli can’t see his face, but Childe’s closed his eyes. “Signora made a bunch of jokes about you retiring. Ahhh, it’s so irritating that we never got a good fight, though.”

“If you would like, I can oblige you at any time.”

“You know that’s not the same, right?”

“I’m aware.”

Silence falls between them again. Zhongli finds that he’s thinking about what to do with his hands, not something that happens to him often. The body is a presence, and not knowing what to do with various parts of it is not something he suffered as a god, nor does he often suffer as a man.

“You should stay a while.” Childe speaks up after a moment.

“It would be somewhat odd to stay longer than you.”

“It’ll be good for them, mom always says the house is too quiet when I’m gone. She has to be lying though, I’m not sure who has a better set of lungs, Teucer or Anton.”

“They’re both very lively.”

“Understatement, but they’re good kids.”

Zhongli lets his hand move as it wants, gently threading through Childe’s hair, where the ever present red mask had sat for his entire time in Liyue. It is nowhere to be seen in this house.

“I’ll consider it.” Zhongli says, evenly. They both know he won’t, really. Just as there’s no way Childe will settle in this house, live here for years and years.

“If you make a promise, I’ll hold you to it.” Childe stands, Zhongli’s hand falling from his hair, and looks at Zhongli properly. “For people like us, it’s better to either be all in the lie or the truth, you know?”

“The truth, it will last longer than the lie.” Zhongli is not one to break his promises, either. But as the former god of contracts, he does know how to word things carefully.

“Actions don’t lie.” Childe replies and leans down to kiss Zhongli. It isn’t like the night when he was drunk, sloppy and hurried, but instead soft and tentative. It isn’t a brief kiss, but Childe doesn’t linger either, straightening up slowly. “Good night.”

“Good night.” Is all Zhongli says in response.

They end up traveling together -- Childe is no longer stationed in Liyue, he has cities upon cities to visit. Zhongli will go to the border of each and every city with him, and then they part ways, only to meet again when Childe’s work is done. They don’t speak of work and there are times that Zhongli sees a new scar or Childe has left a splotch of blood on his clothes and the truth stretches between them harsh and unyielding.

But the most important thing of a world without gods, or a god without divinity is learning the transience of the moment. Each kiss they share and each time they part, Zhongli understands a little more.