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1.) Oblivious
Ajax.
It was a name that held little to no meaning to him these days. He was generally good about reminding himself whose name it was whenever he received letters from his family, (mainly his younger siblings, his older siblings were pics long-since broken off of his sugar-coated memory) but even so, it never registered as his name. Because it wasn't. That wasn't him. Not anymore.
Nowadays, he's friendly. He was disgustingly rich, (he was certainly good at his job) he was overwhelmingly powerful, (and, boy, did he let it go to his head) he was undeniably handsome, he was sweet, funny, approachable, innocent, and so very stupid.
Once he was put to a job, he completed it easily- it was so easy. Find the target and obliterate them. Collect debt by any means necessary. Clear out treasure hoarders.
All tasks he was given, he carried them out with no delay, hesitation, or objections; the best part? He was praised for it (and handsomely compensated) endlessly. They praised him for a job well done, they needed him, the revered him, they loved him. So he would obey, obey, obey, so as long as he did not fail, he would be loved.
He was a tall child - Childe - who paid too much attention and not enough at the same time.
Simply put, Childe was utterly and blissfully oblivious.
2.) Reality
But the reality of it all was that while Childe's entire personality was cherry-picked and hand-crafted by Tartaglia himself, he was anything but stupid. Stupidly obident, surely.
"Rise. Show me your true face." The Tsaritsa had once asked of him. He complied without a second of hesitation, his new-born wonder and wide-eyed innocence slipping away instantly, sliding down his face with viscous fluidity, revealing Ajax. Again.
This Ajax was much different from even the one Tuecer, Tonia, or Anthon knew. Much different from the one the Traveler, or the other Harbinger's, or even Morax knew.
This Ajax belonged to the Tsaritsa. Her loyal mutt who was all furious and brutal even to himself. She was the one who saw beauty in him, or so he believed, but he knew what it was. Ajax knew what The Tsaritsa saw reflected in the black muck of his blood pooled beneath him, seeping out from the jarring chasm in his torso (The Tsaritsa would fix that too. She would fix everything- make him whole, as she always did) and what she saw was her own wild, incorrigible determination to torch the world around her, bring salvation with her pale flames of divinity.
The Tsaritsa was his savior, the Abyss his trial by fire, and Teyvat his canvas to paint red, red, red. When he conquered this nation he would move on to the next- even rising above the Tsaritsa herself and becoming god on this whole plane.
That was his rightful place. Ajax knew that.
However, he had a long way to go. Ajax knew that.
He knew.
He was always the last to know. After all, this was his reality.
3.) Sacrifice
Ajax, who'd long been stripped of all that made him human, had abandoned his own sense of self. He'd done it to survive. He rejected the deep-set principle of morality fused to his heart (he would've just thrown his entire heart out if he had to), because he had to survive.
The scars weren't proof enough, only receipts left from Ajax paying his dues to time's toll. And time in the Abyss only took what he no longer needed and gave what he did. Took his mind because he didn't need to think. Stole his language off his tongue (combat was the only way to communicate) and replaced it with desperate cries of anguish and rage alike. Carved out the core within his person and left him with an abyssal hunger; a hunger for war and a hunger for battle, for the summits he couldn't yet reach; murdered Ajax, murdered him brutally until his will was like still water- a typhoon on its way.
Through the ruthless muck of Teyvat's shadow, Tartaglia was found.
His memories of the Abyss came amidst the settling dust of twilight until the swirling winds of the birthing dawn whisked them far away from him. And the air would hug him close, and the sun would kiss his face(not his true face; he no longer had the rights to it), and another morning would rise in Liyue. Another morning to conquer.
And Tartaglia would conquer it all, he was forbidden from failing. No matter what the sacrifice
4.) Burn Out
The time spent waiting for The Tsaritsa’s next command for him felt longer than Tartaglia expected. Felt like trudging through miles of pure clay towered high up to his chest; constricting- persistent. Defeat left a taste in his mouth that was nothing but thick and painful. Whether it was the devastation of being bested in the only thing he felt confident no one could do better than he or the open wounds and heavy ache as a result of his Foul Legacy, Tartaglia didn't know. What he did know was agony.
It was equal parts refreshing to hurt so dreadfully; reminded him of being human, it reminded him of when he himself was a child. Kicked down over and over again until his bones hardened out of nothing but willpower and frustration, that adrenaline of being on death's door is what fueled his body thus far.
Far he went; farther he would not go.
However, the oceanic size of his ambition would come in tides, crashing down on him one day and his bones would dissolve into sand on the shore- waves crawling in and out, in and out. Tartaglia, though, is not scared of the pain. He's not afraid to break himself, grind his own bones into sand and melt it into tempered glass again, a crudely crafted glass to hold the abyssal sea of greatness he hungered for. He kept himself on fire long enough to boil out the impurities, never once anticipating that glass to crack one day. And underneath the nervous fractures something crackles within him, electric and alive, thrashing around like a live wire he would try to taper down again and again in hopes it would die down-- Tartaglia found himself unable to cope once it did(but he did try, nothing stopped him from grabbing handfuls of the shattered glass pieces and shoving them back together, blood and all). Tartaglia can’t fix himself; not at all as he tries.
So he stops trying. The electricity ringing within him is livid yet dying. He cannot keep this up, but he keeps at it because this is what being a Harbinger is about. Carrying out the fire of the Tsaritsa until it burns this whole world away; until his flame burns out.