Chapter Text
Four people stand; three are clustered at one side, and one stands alone. They are separated by a river. The river may be an ocean, or a galaxy, or the entire goddamn universe; it didn’t matter, for they each saw no one.
On a cliff, a traveler watches.
Ajax was, to describe it in a rather indelicate way, utterly fucked.
It was one thing for his kingdom, his beloved kingdom, to go to war. He had been content with the peace in recent times; even if it meant he spent his days filling out paperwork instead of feeling his daggers cleanly slice through an enemy’s flesh in a dance on a battlefield, his family was safe. His family would not be safe if – when – catapults fling flaming boulders into innocent civilians’ homes. Ajax would never wish such a fate on anyone. He knows the piercing fear in that stranger’s bloodied face all too well.
Ah, but how Ajax reveled in his blood-stained reputation known at Tartaglia. He felt almost giddy at even the thought of adrenaline pumping through his veins at the hypnotizing sound of an arrow hitting its target. “Tartaglia” was a feared title, and Ajax reveled in every look of terror sent his way on the frontline.
“Tartaglia isn’t human,” they declared over empty pints of beer and dusty figures of splintered wood. Ajax prayed that it was true. After all, he didn’t need the burden of sentiency in this line of work.
They talked of others too – of a Balladeer that moved like a puppet, and of a beautiful woman with a glare that could slice you in half. The Tartaglia in Ajax longed to fight them, just for the thrill of winning (or, perhaps, learning).
But when Tartaglia finally did meet them, he did not fight them. The Balladeer was just Scaramouche, and behind his purposefully sadistic exterior, he was just a boy. A tired boy, who had been sick of being left in the dust one too many times. And when he wasn’t off abusing his power somewhere, Scaramouche would play games of chess with Tartaglia. Those were quiet times in the midst of a war, and they would silently grieve their fallen comrades together as they moved the pieces.
Once, Tartaglia had asked Scaramouche for a song; he was, after all, the Balladeer. Scaramouche had retorted with a petty stab at how Tartaglia’s name meant to stutter over one’s words. Yet, that very same night, after one too many drinks and loud, bold encouragement, the Balladeer had gifted the Stammerer a fraction of a song.
Something’s gone horribly wrong
I’ve known all along we were doomed
Our hearts are hung at half-mast
With all that is past
Why don’t we surrender?
It was a haunting tune, and in a way, it seemed to resonate with Scaramouche, the boy behind the title. The lyrics spoke of a destiny that could only be described as ironically nostalgic. Scaramouche, even in his drunken state, was a cryptic and calculating person; he surely chose this melody for a reason. In the days past, Tartaglia would often find himself humming it to himself.
Signora, on the other hand…well. To say that Tartaglia didn’t get along with her would be a wild understatement. She was even crueler than Scaramouche pretended to be. Ajax swore on every bone in his body that she had never seen an ounce of joy in her life. But, during winter days, when the cold was too harsh for even the Tsaritsa to bear, Signora would bring warmth, and Tartaglia knew that she had a heart.
The Tsaritsa and Tartaglia always had a pleasant relationship. Somehow, her reputation had been warped to be that of a monster’s, especially during wartimes. During nights of solemn regret and bitter guilt, she had told him of her mind, of the sleepless hours of darkness spent wondering of the why of everything that had happened. So, Tartaglia was convinced that even the Tsaritsa, rumored to be a demon on a throne of icy betrayals, had a heart.
However, that meant Tartaglia was all the more surprised when she assigned him to be a spy. A spy, of all roles. He still remembered the evenings he’d spent with Scaramouche taunting the very thing he was set to become. After all, spies were at the very bottom of the reputation ladder; no one wanted to be seen as a fake, as someone who pretended to be a traitor, even if it was all a mere act. Patriotism was strong in Snezhnaya, and defectors were spat on.
Skirk had taught Tartaglia about traitors. Skirk had taught him most of everything he knew now; she hid these deeper teachings behind years of endless training, her shrewd words muffled by the clanging of sword against sword and will against wisdom. He would hardly pay attention to her words, ones that his teenage mind deemed useless, as they gradually mastered an arsenal of weapons. During those early days of his childhood, Tartaglia would spend any free time he had complaining to his family, strangers on the street, anyone who would listen about the monotonous and tedious coaching. Now, Tartaglia found that he could only muster up appreciation for his mysterious teacher.
One day, on the morning of Tartaglia’s eighteenth birthday, he asked her if they could rest, just for today. He asked if they could play, and in all his glorious eighteen years of living, he had never felt so young. Needless to say, he was startled that he even had the resolve to ask such a thing from his teacher, who had, in all their four years together, never let him rest. “Better to suffer now than suffer later,” she had said, every time he asked. He never really understood what she meant.
So, he was even more startled when she agreed.
Between idle chatter and a few laughs here and there, they walked along an unseen path to a shallow stream in the forest. Wading in, the cold water bit at Ajax’s bare feet – even in mid-July, Snezhnaya was never truly warm enough for summer activities. He swore he could see a hint of a smile on the stoic woman’s face when he splashed water at her. When she splashed back, she moved with such grace that it was like she never even touched the water at all. As to be expected of his skillful teacher.
The next day, he had found only a box at the clearing in which he trained. In the box was a magnificent bow, silver weaving together with blue the color of his eyes. With it, there was a note that said “I have business today. We start training with a bow tomorrow.” He almost missed the small “Happy Birthday” scrawled on the back.
She never returned.
He never was quite as adept with a bow.
Still, he would use this bow, this magnificent bow, the last gift his wise, wise teacher had bestowed upon him. So, when she came back, she would recognize her student as the one with the silver-and-blue bow and know that he was still waiting for her. After all, they haven’t finished their lessons yet.
But, for now, Tartaglia was decidedly Skirk-less as he unwillingly accepted his condemning to the city of Liyue, where he would pose as a diplomat from neutral land, working alongside Master Morax himself. Over the course of a month, Tartaglia was to become Childe (yet another name to embody) and record and send back any and all information on the Archon Alliance, formed between three nation-states for the sole purpose of defeating Snezhnaya in the war.
So, as previously stated, he was fucked. Not Tartaglia, of course; Tartaglia was a soldier, practically made to be this. Tartaglia was a machine that could barrel head-first into any obstacle for the sole purpose of the ride of experience. No, it was Ajax – the man who had a family to protect, the boy who wanted to play another round of chess with Scaramouche – who would be having problems. The idea of a month of precious time spent beguiling the enemy disgusted Ajax. Even more, it scared him; the territory of real people with real emotions and real incentives was a no-man’s land to him.
And yet, not a week after the news had been heartbreakingly broken to him, Ajax found himself on a ship to Liyue harbor, with a bag packed with a month’s worth of supplies. There was something about being on a ship again for the first time in years, the rhythmic swaying of the waves and the sea breeze dragging salt against his hair, that reminded him of a simpler time, when his worries were but of catching a bigger fish than his father.
Liyue was known as the City of Gold, and when Ajax’s ship docked at the harbor, he understood why. It was a nation stubbornly built amidst mountains – resilient in every definition of the word. The harbor was sparsely populated, but everyone seemed occupied with their work, and no one noticed an unsuspecting traveler disembarking his ship alone. Even at sunset, the port was bathed in a harsh, golden glow that waved the air in heat. Ajax let himself soak in the solitude of the situation for a moment before hoisting his luggage onto his back and looking for a woman with telltale lavender hair.
She found him first. She was easily recognizable, even in the lively port; she had a personal ambiance about her that demanded respect. She carried herself like she knew of her own irreplaceability in the management of the affluent Liyue, despite her young age. Childe respected that; it was exactly the type of mindset he wished he could effortlessly slip into.
“Hello,” she said, “You must be Childe. You may know me as the Yuheng, head economics advisor to Master Morax. However, seeing that we will be working together, you may call me Keqing.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Keqing,” Childe replied, forcing a smile that he had spent hours perfecting in his home’s mirror.
“Please come this way,” she continued, leading Childe away from the harbor and into the connecting city. “It is quite a shame you were not able to stay at our famous Wangshu Inn, but I find that you will find Master Morax’s place of residency quite comfortable. He is, after all, the one who looks after our city, so it would make sense that-”
“Wait, wait, hold on,” Childe interrupted, “sorry for stopping you, but if I heard you correctly, did you say that I would be staying with Master Morax?”
“Well, yes,” Keqing said, slowing down at the foot of a gilded mansion, so elegant it almost looked like a castle. Its delicate arabesques, stoic in the barely-noticeable breeze, was heartachingly similar to another grand building – somewhere different, somewhere Ajax could almost call a second home. Keqing’s words wrenched his heart back into reality: “Liyue harbor doesn’t have an inn of its own, Master Morax has plenty of empty guest bedrooms, and you will be working closely with him anyway. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
The Yuheng, in all her sensibility, was undoubtedly right. Of course it wasn’t a problem; the Childe in him knew that, yet Ajax couldn’t ignore the frantic pulsing of his heart as he answered, “Yeah, sure.”
And so, that was how Ajax ended up in a guest room with a bed larger than his old room back home, draping curtains that likely cost more money than he’ll ever make in his life, and lush carpeting paired with enormous tapestries that covered the walls.
“This room shall be yours for the duration of your stay. Please feel free to change it to fit your own needs,” Keqing had said, even as Ajax stood in the doorway, attempting not to gawk at how extravagant a meaningless guest room is.
It was pointless, really, just how much money this Morax guy had. Ajax had heard of him, read about him – he knew of his nicknames as the “Emperor of Mora” and the “King of Wealth” – but never quite understood just how bathed in prosperity he was. His bank must be laden with enough gold to feed his entire village for a week.
Then Ajax remembered that Liyue’s Northland Bank was actually controlled by Snezhnayan spies and couldn’t help but scoff to himself. It’s ridiculous how much of Liyue is under the Tsaritsa’s influence; they could overrun the city at any moment, and nobody would notice. Ajax found the situation laughable.
Ajax didn’t need much to be Childe; he had only brought a large satchel of clothes, a Kamera, and his journal. After setting the items down, he found a scribbled note on a small, ripped sheet of parchment that read, Meet me in front of Northland Bank at 9 PM. - Scaramouche
He looked at the unnecessarily large clock hanging on the wall. It was nearly 10:45. Well, would you look at that, Ajax was, once again, fucked.
Hurriedly rushing out of his room and into the labyrinth of hallways that was Morax’s mansion, Ajax thanked the archons for his above-average memory. He was able to navigate to the front door without too much trouble (a few Millelith guards eyed him with suspicion, but none bothered to stop him). He was halfway across Liyue, halfway to the Bank when he heard voice call out,
“Childe? Where are you going at this time of night?”
Tartaglia whipped around, muscles taunt, already fumbling for an arrow that wasn’t there. Even when he saw that it was but Keqing, looking like she had simply spotted him from a nearby merchant’s stall, he was still tense, ever-ready to jump to the need to vanquish a threat.
“Just walking around. You know, sightseeing,” Childe casually replied after a beat, meticulously controlling his voice so as to not give away his cautious edginess.
“Ah, of course. Please do enjoy yourself.” With that, Keqing turned back to the merchant, and nothing more was said. Ajax slowly let out a breath, before continuing on his way. He still needed to meet with Scaramouche before dwelling on the possibility of getting caught.
Childe turned around abruptly to face an absolutely furious Scaramouche. “I have been waiting,” Scaramouche said, stepping closer to Childe, his face an image of indescribable rage, “for two hours.”
“Right,” Ajax said hurriedly, “and I am so, so sorry about that. It was, you know, a long day, I just moved, and I’m overall just extremely tired; you know, it was great of me to even come see you in the first place, after you snooped through my bag to put that note in-”
Scaramouche scowled, and that was when Ajax knew that he had fucked up.
“Unless you want to be brutally torn apart, limb by limb, until you’re but a bleeding mess strewn apart on the ground, barely conscious, I suggest you get on your knees and beg for mercy, and maybe I’ll consider sparing you,” Scaramouche hissed, somehow threatening in all his intimidating 5’4” glory.
Before Ajax could get down on his knees, an all-too familiar voice interrupted, “Childe, is this man threatening you?” (Oh no.) “Your clothing doesn’t look to be from these parts. Why are you here at this hour?” Keqing demanded, eyeing Scaramouche.
Childe was not going to let Scaramouche ruin his relations with the Liyue superiors on the first day he’s here. Not even letting the Balladeer open his mouth, Childe said, “Ah, this here is my good friend, uh, Fandango. He’s a merchant from my hometown, and he just happened to pass by the harbor to ship some cargo.”
What an excellent save.
“Oh, I see,” Keqing said, the suspicion visibly leaving her posture. “I’ll leave you two to it then.” She vanished just as quickly as she had appeared, and Ajax swore he saw a few violet sparks where she just stood.
“Fandango? Really?” Scaramouche spat. “I am so done with you. I don’t fucking care if you get the intel or not; I’ll just tell the Tsaritsa you were murdered. If you so blatantly do not take this job seriously, then neither will I.”
Then, Scaramouche vanished, leaving only the faint scent of aconites behind. Did everyone except Ajax have an uncanny ability of disappearing suddenly?
There was no way Ajax could simply walk back to his temporary hotel and fall asleep after such a traumatic experience. He had seen a hundred warriors rise and fall, one by one, yet a few minutes of adrenaline-pumping (not the good kind) interaction left him jittery. So, instead of going home like any sane person would do at midnight, Ajax explores.
The humid air stuck to his skin as he ambled leisurely along the darkened street, the local stores having closed for the day. The faint sounds of crickets and frogs accompanied Ajax’s humming, a familiar song from a particular night at a particular tavern with a particular person. It was only right that, before long, Ajax found himself in front of a Liyuean tavern, its bright lights illuminating the otherwise dim road. It was, after all, the middle of the night.
On impulse, Ajax pushes open the heavy wooden door, and is met with intense illuminance and loud chattering and laughter, drowning out the gentle sounds of nature. After his eyes adjusted, he realized that there were much fewer people than he’d originally imagined.
He immediately strode over to the bar and asked for three shots of vodka.
“You should try the Osmanthus wine,” Ajax heard. He looked to his left to see a man – he hadn’t noticed anyone at the bar earlier – practically collapsed on the counter, his face a flush of red. The man continued, “That is what my old friends and I used to drink. It makes me think of the days before the war.” Even in his drunken state, the man spoke eloquently. Ajax couldn’t help but ask the name of such a person.
“Zhongli,” he said wistfully. “I am Zhongli.”
Ajax downed his three shots of vodka and asked for six more. He hadn’t expected Liyuean alcohol to taste this fine; then again, Mondstadt, famous for its distinctive liquor, was but a trade route away for this nation.
It took three more shots for Ajax to move closer to the mysterious-looking man. Not bothering to hide his lidded state, Ajax hypnotized himself in the gold of Zhongli’s bloodshot eyes and the mesmerizing sharpness of his jawline. Running on the intoxicating feeling of adrenaline, it took three more shots for Ajax to kiss Zhongli.
Tantalizing shivers surged up his spine as Ajax matched the push and pull of Zhongli, cupping his sculpted jaw. Diplomacy and negotiations were out of Ajax’s niche, but this -- this, Ajax was experienced in.
Nimble, practiced hands traveled across skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Zhongli let out a quiet, shameful sound, and Ajax’s heart absolutely burst. He felt cool fingers grasp his lower back, under his shirt, and he willed himself to pull away slightly, panting. Zhongli’s lips were red and swollen, his hair was falling out of his ponytail, and he looked gorgeous. But his eyes were glossy, as they had been when they met, and Ajax knew he would regret this if they continued.
Ever so gently, Ajax pushed a confused Zhongli away, muttering a lame excuse about the time. Inelegantly, Ajax stumbled out of the tavern into the damp night air, only worsening the dull ache that had begun to form at the bottom of his skull. Miraculously, he made it back to Morax’s manor and into his room (albeit with the help of a horrified maid that was sworn to secrecy).
Even with the layers of lush comforters and heavy duvets, Ajax found that his mind would only rest on Zhongli: the way hands easily run through his long, dark hair, the way smooth skin glided over his own in a flawless rhythm.
And Ajax fell asleep thinking about the man who had recommended Osmanthus wine.
Ajax dreamt of a storm.
He was standing on a land of never-ending ice, the same thick ice that covered Snezhnaya when his siblings pulled on their homemade skates to spend a few hard-earned hours being the children they were meant to be.
For once, though, Ajax was glad they weren’t there because underneath the meter of ice was a roaring whirlwind of darkness, as if a once-glorious god was writhing in eternal pain.
Then, as Ajax carefully kneeled to inspect the clear (why was it so clear?) ice, brushing its surface (it wasn’t as cold as it should’ve been) gingerly beneath his fingertips, the diamond below him cracked and sent him barreling into the storm below. He was falling, falling, and all he could see was a golden glow above him that suddenly pierced through his aching chest.
He woke up bathed in sunlight and cold sweat, yet “I will have order!” still echoed in his mind.