Archive of Our Own

i.

“Father’s in terrible shape, Ajax. You have to be ready.”

“Do you think I’m not used to death?” Childe asks Ivan, annoyed. He’s been a Harbinger for a year, a Fatuus for longer, and Ivan still insists on acting like Childe has never seen death. Childe sees more death in a week than Ivan will in the entirety of his life. “Let me—”

“Ajax.” Ivan puts his hand on Childe’s shoulder.

They stand just outside of Ma and Pa’s bedroom, far enough down the hall from the living room where the rest of the family is gathered that no one can overhear them.

“You don’t understand. He might not make it through the solstice.”

“I’ll be fine.” Knocking Ivan’s hand aside, Childe pushes open the door to their parents’ bedroom and steps inside.

A cheerful fire smolders in the small hearth at the foot of the bed, illuminating the room with reddish yellow light. But even that isn’t enough to warm their father’s waxen face, drawn with pain even in his sleep.

Childe crosses the stale room on silent feet. Settles on the edge of the bed. He reaches out and brushes his knuckles across Pa’s sweat-slick forehead, hot with fever. Pa’s labored breath crackles in his chest, is rancid on the air. Beneath the weight of his bedsheets, he trembles like the last leaf of fall, weak. Fragile.

“Pa,” Childe says, withdrawing his hand.

Pa’s eyes creak open. “Ajax?” He wheezes. “Why are you—?” That wheeze turns into a wet, wracking cough, and he turns away, hacking into his closed fist.

“I’m home for the solstice,” Childe says, laying a hand on Pa’s shoulder—only for Pa to shrug it off and continue coughing.

Blood spatters on his fist.

Whatever’s killing him, it’s in his lungs, too.

“Let me get you some water,” Childe says, turning. There’s a pitcher on the nightstand, and he pours a generous amount into a nearby cup. He helps his father sit, pressing the cup into his hand as his coughing subsides.

Pa takes it. His hand trembles as he lifts the cup to his lips. Takes a shallow sip. Making a face, he puts the cup aside. “Laudanum,” he spits.

“It’ll help you rest,” Childe says, but he understands.

Finally, Pa turns his face toward Childe’s, and the rictus of pain morphs into displeasure. “How long?”

“Just the week,” Childe says.

“Good.” Pa harumphs. “Less time for something to go wrong.”

He means there’s less time for Childe to do something wrong, to pick a fight, to hurt someone. Never mind that Childe has those instincts under control now. Has had them under control for years.

The implication cuts, but Childe forces a tight smile to his lips. “Wouldn’t want anyone to be inconvenienced.”

Pa turns rheumy eyes on him. “Don’t you go ruining your sister’s chances at a good match.”

“Don’t worry,” Childe says. “I won’t be here long enough for it.” And Ivan’s right: Pa might not be, either. There’s a yellow cast to his skin that has nothing to do with the firelight and everything to do with a failing liver. His eyes are bloodshot and just as jaundiced as his flesh. Blood speckles his lips.

Pa is dying.

And if Pa dies, there’s a good chance the rest of the family will, too. Ivan and his wife will be fine. Their other older siblings will survive. But Ma? Tonia? Anthon and Teucer? They won’t. They still rely on Pa. Childe’s pay as a Harbinger will help, and he has Pulcinella’s promise, but—

But Childe isn’t willing to rely on Pulcinella’s kindness.

“I’ll let you rest,” he says, rising from the bed.

Pa sinks down into the covers once more.

Ivan meets Childe just outside the bedroom, a drawn expression on his face. “You saw.”

“Yeah,” Childe says, shutting the door as quietly as he possibly can. “I did. The medicine I’m sending isn’t working?”

Ivan shakes his head. “The apothecary says we need ice flower root to make the herbs as potent as they should be, but ice flowers—” Ivan breaks off, a crease between his brows.

“Are almost extinct,” Childe offers. He shrugs, spreading his arms wide. “Where can you find those?” But he knows. Everyone in Morepesok knows the old rhyme.

A monster gowned in red in castle black makes a grave of your bed.

“There’s the old palace north of the town. The ruins,” Ivan says. “Ice flowers grow there year-round. I’ll go.”

“You’ll die.”

“Maybe. But if I don’t try, Father certainly will.”

Childe’s hands curl into loose fists. “If you go, you will die.”

“Then come with me.” Ivan flinches even as he says it, even as he holds out his hand. He’s no fighter; just another fisherman eking out a meager living on the edge of the tundra. He needs Childe’s help.

Childe has ached for this for so long. For someone in his family to see his value.

“You’re a killer,” Ivan says, and the aching acceptance blossoming in Childe’s chest shrivels up and dies.

That doesn’t stop him from grabbing Ivan’s hand—rough, hard, his own grip clasping far too tight. He bares his teeth in an expression that might pass for a smile in the darkness. “That’s why you need me,” Childe says.

They lie.

Well, Childe lies, doing Ivan’s dirty work. He tells Ma and the rest of the family that he and Ivan are going out for firewood while Ivan shrugs into his jacket and says nothing. But it doesn’t matter; he’s used to this. Used to people using him. This is all he is: a tool, a weapon to accomplish someone else’s goal. At least in the Tsaritsa’s hand, he has purpose.

There’s purpose here, too, he reminds himself. Without Pa, Ma and his younger siblings will suffer. Doesn’t matter that Ivan is a prick. Doesn’t matter that Ivan is using him. Doesn’t matter that Ivan will absolutely take all the credit for the ice flowers when they return. None of that matters as long as Pa survives.

And maybe if he does—

Childe cuts that thought off as he and Ivan trudge through the snow together, huddled deep in their coats, braced against the frozen chill. In summer, when the snow finally melts and the ground thaws for three days, this trip takes maybe twenty minutes. Now, with drifts up to their waists, the journey north of Morepesok to the old palace takes closer to an hour.

They don’t talk.

Childe leads because he doesn’t trust Ivan to keep his eyes open, because Ivan doesn’t know what dangers to look for in the woods. And it’s not as if Ivan trusts Childe at his back. Childe tries not to let that annoy him.

This is for Pa.

For Ma. For Tonia, Anthon, and Teucer. To protect them, to keep them safe. For them.

Those two words become a mantra. With every step, he thinks of them, of their faces, of their need. Remembers Pa’s cold words. Don’t you go ruining your sister’s chances at a good match. If Tonia can make a good match, maybe she’ll escape Morepesok like Anfisa. Maybe she won’t be trapped like the rest of the family.

A bitterly cold wind sweeps over them from the west, and Childe pauses to assess their progress. With the dark, cloudy sky, they have only the line of trees at the edge of the overgrown northern road to guide them. He tilts his head to the side, listening, too, for any sounds of hungry animals awoken from their hibernation out in search of prey. For any sounds of human animals hunting for hapless travelers.

Aside from the howling of the wind, there is silence.

Ivan claps him on the shoulder from behind, and Childe glances back. Ivan gives him a nod. Frosty snow sticks to his eyebrows.

It’s cold. Too cold. They need to keep moving, to get the ice flowers and then get back.

Childe drags himself across the half-frozen snow, plodding ever further north, Ivan close on his heels.

It is a relief when the palace comes into view, breaking through the trees with a sweeping green roof and crumbling statues. There’s no snow on the building itself in spite of the tall drifts all but consuming the surrounding trees. And even though the statues on the roof are worn and weathered and breaking to pieces, the palace itself remains in good shape. It’s not falling in on itself. Yet.

Together, they approach the wrought iron fence that surrounds the entire palace, separating them from a lawn covered by a thick blanket of snow. Here and there, the blue petals of an ice flower puncture the snow’s surface, little triangles like so many crowns.

“Look!” Ivan cries out excitedly, flinging himself against the gate.

Childe approaches with more caution.

The monster in the palace isn’t a legend. Every generation, some idiot kids dare each other to climb the gate and try to knock on the palace door. Every generation, one idiot kid dies, torn to shreds by the beast that makes its home inside those palace walls, a gruesome reminder of reality.

But Ivan is already halfway up the fence, clambering toward the top, as if he’s forgotten the kid who died a year before Childe… got lost. Maybe he has.

“Hey!” Childe hisses. If anyone should be going over the gate, it’s him.

Ivan swings a leg over the top, mindful of the vicious points of the fence caps, and looks down. “Hurry up. We’ve got to be quick.”

Dragging a hand down his face, Childe takes a running jump for the fence. Grabs the top of it. Hoists himself over. He drops down on the other side all before Ivan has a chance to move, and Ivan stares down at him.

“Guess being with the Fatui has done you some good,” Ivan finally says.

“Guess so,” Childe says, going for ambivalent but landing somewhere between annoyed and embittered.

Ivan clambers the rest of the way over the fence, inelegant and graceless, as Childe turns to survey the length of the drive.

Electricity snaps in the stagnant air, flooding his mouth with the taste of ozone. He swallows, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. Oppressive silence hammers down on him. Everything from the fall of his feet to his own breathing is muffled.

An aura of wrongness suffuses the lawn—but that wrongness isn’t alien. It’s vaguely familiar, an itch he can’t scratch, like a childhood scent he can’t place. Disquieting.

He doesn’t like it, and he flexes his fingers, summoning blades of Hydro to his gloved hands.

Ivan drops from the fence into a pile of snow.

A roar pierces the silence, violent and infuriated, distant but no less threatening.

Childe whirls.

Ivan’s barely visible eyes are open wide with fear. “It’s—It’s real. It’s—”

Childe has no patience for this. “Go!” he snaps. “Quickly, dig up as many ice flower roots as you can!”

Ivan lurches into motion, stumbling toward the nearest patch of visible petals. He digs deep into the snow, tearing the ice flowers up from their roots. As Ivan works, Childe raises his blades and surveys their surroundings. Tense. Watchful.

Wherever the monster is, it has to come from the palace. Has to come from in front of them. Can’t surprise them from behind, not with the fence there.

The sound of splintering glass fills the air. Childe whirls. The space between him and the fence fractures. Splits. Shatters wide open. And the thing that darts out—

Huge.

Humanoid.

Lunging for his brother.

Childe reacts immediately, throwing himself between the monstrosity and Ivan. He takes in everything all at once—the incredible size of it, its reach, the blade of light in its hands, armor like clouds over a midnight moon, a mane of fur around its throat and a billowing scarf with twin tails that sparkle with starlight. Elemental energy crackles around its head in a halo, smears of color representing each type. Impossible, but Childe is a realist.

Whatever it is, this thing can wield more than one type of elemental energy.

A grin splits his face.

Finally. A real challenge.

He lunges forward, meeting the blade of light with his own Hydro blades. Steam hisses, rising from their clashing weapons, blazing hot.

The creature parries, sweeping its empty hand forward. Thorny vines explode from the snow-covered ground, forcing Childe back. He dodges the whip-like attacks, twisting out of the way.

With a laugh, Childe advances on the creature. Steles of Geo burst forth from the earth in a ring around him, and his heart starts pounding as realization crashes over him. It doesn’t care about him. It’s mad about Ivan.

Childe pushes through the tiny space in the densely packed steles and throws himself forward, twisting his Hydro blades into a spear of electricity as he draws on his Delusion. He intercepts the beast a bare second before it descends on a screaming, cowering Ivan.

They clash, throwing off sparks, his spear against the monster’s claws. It shrieks at him, the violet mask covering its face splitting open to reveal a lolling tongue. Disgusting. Familiar, but disgusting—and exhilarating.

“Yeah,” Childe says with a grin. “I can use more than one element, too.” He throws a look over his shoulder.

Ivan is on his ass on the ground, eyes wide with terror.

“Get up! Get out of here!” Childe jerks his chin toward the gate. “I’ll hold it off. Take the roots and go.”

Ivan scrambles to his feet and bolts—and the monster abandons Childe to give chase.

Not a fucking chance.

Childe snaps his wrist forward, his spear transforming into a whip. Electro energy wraps the monster’s ankle, and he yanks hard, utilizing all his strength to pull back. The creature isn’t quite as heavy as he expects it to be, and it crashes to the ground, howling.

“Don’t you dare turn your back on me!” Childe snarls.

Flipping to its back, the monster jerks its leg forward suddenly, violently, pulling Childe off balance. As he stumbles, it leaps to its feet. Childe throws himself forward, turning a tumble to the ground into a smooth roll, and hurls a blade of Hydro.

The blade cuts through the beast’s scarf and lodges deep in the hard ground, pinning it, and Childe darts in front of it, once more interposing himself between the creature and his brother. Ivan is half over the fence, and the beast roars with fury, so loud that Childe’s ears ache with pain.

Tearing free of Childe’s Hydro blade, at last the monster turns on him. It lunges, balls of Pyro forming in the air around its halo of elemental energy. The flaming orbs streak toward Childe.

Fuck, but this is fun.

Childe nimbly twists between the burning streaks of Pyro, slicing one in half, dodging the rest. He creates another Hydro blade in his offhand, meeting the creature when it clashes with him once more, bringing its blade of light to bear on him.

They dance across the lawn, trampling snow and flowers beneath their boots. The staticky taste of Electro fills Childe’s mouth as exhilaration courses through him. He hasn’t felt this energized in months. This is elating, thrilling—a challenge worthy of his skill. Sinking into the back and forth, he dances on the knife-edge of death with the beast and holds his own.

Laughter spills out of him as he plants one foot to spin around the monster with the intention of delivering a devastating blow to its back.

He realizes his miscalculation a second too late.

The beast whirls, slicing downward with its blade of light, cutting deep into his thigh.

Childe lets out a cry, staggering to one knee as pain blinds him. He’s taken so many rough injuries before, but this one—this one is bad. Deep. Dangerously close to his femoral artery. But he can’t let it slow him down.

Blood pours down his leg as he forces himself up, lifting his Hydro blades.

The monster balks. It stumbles back with a warbling sound of—distress? No, that can’t be right. But then it leaps back, the air behind it shattering open, and it falls into the portal.

And Childe realizes where he’s seen portals like that before.

In the Abyss. His master could open similar portals.

That thing looks like—

“Ajax!”

Childe sags, pressing his glove to the deep gouge in his leg as he turns toward Ivan. Ivan is on the other side of the fence, clasping the pickets.

There’s no way he’s climbing that fence with this wound. There’s no way he’s making it back to the house. He can’t trudge for an hour through the snow bleeding like he is. He could tourniquet the wound—maybe—he’s not sure—hasn’t gotten a good enough look at it—but that would require taking off his snowpants and exposing himself to the cold. And probably result in him permanently fucking up his leg.

He bites out a bitter laugh.

How does he want to go, huh? The cold or the blood loss? What a choice.

“Go,” he says to Ivan, stumbling a step closer to the fence. His leg gives out, and he falls to his knees in the snow, pain screaming through him, cutting like a knife into his groin and belly. “Go!”

Ivan looks at him. Shifts his gaze to the palace behind him. And he goes.

Maybe that hurts more than the wound in Childe’s leg, the way Ivan doesn’t even hesitate. The way Ivan just—goes.

Childe watches his brother throw himself down the snowy road, running through their recent footprints. He doesn’t even look back.

When Childe can’t see Ivan anymore, he finally looks down at his blood-soaked snowpants. Pulling the fabric back carefully, he inspects the wound.

“Fuck.” Childe presses his hand to the bleeding slice and staggers to his feet. “Fuck.” If only he could teleport the way the Abyssal monster can, the way his master can. But he can’t, not even in his Foul Legacy form, and it’s not like he’s about to risk that transformation anyway.

So.

It’s the blood loss or the cold.

Shaking, he limps through the snow toward the palace’s sweeping entrance. If he’s going to die—and he’s pretty sure he’s going to die—he may as well do so comfortably. He’d rather go from the blood loss than the cold.

It takes a small eternity to reach the three broad stairs that lead to the door. By the time he gets there, his leg is numb. Blood continues to pour from the wound, but he can barely feel it anymore.

Not good.

But better than freezing to death.

Lifting his bloody hand from the wound, he grabs at the front door. Turns the knob. Pulls it open. The door gives way with a loud creak, and Childe stumbles inside, barely able to close it behind him.

He collapses on the marble floor, panting, slick with sweat. But it’s warmer in the palace.

Laughter spills out of him, hysterical and reedy and thin.

That monster. Of course the monster would be able to kill him.

After all, it looked like a more lithe version of his Foul Legacy.

ii.

Metallic footsteps clang against marble floors, drawing close.

Childe  doesn’t have the energy to so much as lift his head. He can turn, though, and he does.

The monster catches itself in one of the archways off the foyer. Ducks behind an ornate pillar. Like it’s… shy.

Well, that’s dumb.

Whoever heard of a shy monster?

“Come to finish the job?” Childe asks with a rasping laugh. “That’s fine.” He dredges up the last of his energy, finding what little he has left to push himself up. “Let’s go, beastie.” He summons a Hydro blade to hand.

If the monster is going to finish him, he won’t lay on his back and take it.

But instead of leaping from the shadows to tear him apart, the monster creeps forward, holding something in its hands.

Childe’s eyes narrow. His vision swims. There’s two of the monster, and in its hands—a box? Why is it holding—?

It shuffles up to him, stopping just out of reach, and places the box on the ground. It’s some kind of woven basket, and whatever’s inside it sticks out at odd angles. Childe squints, trying to focus his eyes. His double-vision resolves slowly.

A skein of bandages. Scissors.

With a groan, he clambers to his knees. His feet. He staggers forward, trying to keep off his injured leg as best he can, and then sinks down in front of the box. Medical supplies. He pulls off his gloves to root through the items. Beneath the bandages and the scissors, thread and surgical needles in sterile packaging.

He looks to the monster, where it crouches in the archway, its long, sharp claws curled around the pillar. It watches him, too. Or, at least, the mask on its face is turned to him. A violet slit crosses the mask at the level of its eyes, hiding its gaze—much like how his Foul Legacy has a single, violet eye directly in the center.

The similarities are eerie.

He doesn’t want to think about them. Doesn’t have the brain space to think about them.

Since the monster isn’t trying to murder him, Childe digs into the box of supplies. He finds a bottle of antiseptic and grimaces. “Fuck me,” he mutters, yanking at his snowpants and shoving them down his legs to reveal the full extent of his injury.

Deep. It’s really deep. This is going to take two layers of stitches, and it’s going to hurt like a wicked bitch.

Hesitating, Childe glances at the monster.

It continues to crouch in the archway, just watching him.

“You better not attack me while I’m doing this,” he tells it.

It says nothing, does nothing.

Childe yanks the cap off the bottle of antiseptic. He shoves one of his gloves between his teeth and pours the antiseptic into the wound.

Blinding pain. Slicing agony. He screams into the glove as much because of the pain as for the cathartic release.

When the pain subsides, he reaches trembling hands for the needle and thread. Digging his teeth deep into the leather of his glove, he threads one of the needles and looks down at his thigh. No point in delaying the inevitable.

The first prick of the needle is almost pleasant compared to the excruciating burn of the antiseptic. Childe works quickly, pulling rent muscle together with stitches that aren’t particularly neat but are more than effective.

He’s sweating by the time he finishes the first layer of stitches, his leg throbbing.

Shrugging out of his jacket, he rests his bloody hands on the marble, suddenly grateful for the cold kiss of the floor beneath him.

Forcing himself back to the task at hand, he threads a fresh needle. Pinches his skin together. Bites down hard on his glove and starts to stitch that, too. The pain is sharper, and the slide of thread through flesh is, as always, deeply unsettling. He wraps a bandage around the wound after stitching it, tying it off with a jerk.

When he finishes, he collapses onto the floor, staring up at the ceiling.

He lays on the floor until the cold begins to seep into his bones, until he begins to shiver. Groaning, he pushes himself up. He can’t stay on the floor in the chilly foyer, not if he wants to survive—and he does want to survive.

Glancing toward the archway, he finds the monster still there, still watching him.

He watches back, taking it in again now that it’s not trying to kill him.

It really does resemble his own Foul Legacy transformation. The horned mask, the fur mantle, the starry scarf, the clawed gauntlet, the black armor. It’s just a little smaller with more rounded curves and fewer sharp edges.

“Are you a person under that mask?” he asks.

The monster shuffles further into the deepening shadows of the archway, like it’s—like it’s cowering. This monstrously powerful thing now hides in the shadows, scrunched in on itself.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, gesturing to his leg. “But if you come at me again, I will defend myself.”

It slinks deeper into the shadows with a plaintive sound.

“Really?” he asks it. “You tried to kill me, and now you’re hiding?”

It warbles, the sound accusatory.

If the monster is like him, if it’s human under that mask, then it can understand him. “Sure, I guess we did steal from you.” And even though it repaid that theft with a violent injury done to him, it also hasn’t killed him. Even though it clearly could. “I’d be pissed off if someone stole from me, too.” He chuckles dryly and heaves himself up, mindful of his stitches.

Putting all his weight on his good leg, he groans. Walking is going to be miserable.

There’s a scrabbling in the archway, and the monster vanishes down the dark hallway. Its heavy footsteps echo behind it, fading with distance.

“Alright, then,” Childe says, raking a hand through his hair. He gathers the medical supplies, leaving his jacket on the floor, and shuffles awkwardly, painfully toward the nearest wall. By the time he gets there, he’s once again soaked with sweat and trembling. But the deeper he moves into the palace, the warmer it gets.

Thank the Tsaritsa for small blessings.

Leaning heavily on the plaster wall, Childe drags himself along.

Tattered, moth-eaten tapestries hang from the walls. Cobwebs spin between ornate pillars. Darkness closes around him, but ahead there is flickering light from an open door. Firelight.

Maybe the monster has made a home of that room. Maybe he’ll die if he goes in there. But he’ll die of cold if he stays in the foyer, so. Limited choices. He’d rather die warm.

His leg burns, throbs, aches, but he tells himself he’s had worse pain. That one time his Delusion misfired, leaving him with a Lichtenberg scar over his right shoulder. Or that time he didn’t dodge a mitachurl and took an axe to his ribs. That had been pretty bad. Probably worse than this.

Definitely worse than this.

With a ragged laugh, he stumbles down the hallway, only to draw up short at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Dropping the medical supplies, he summons his Hydro blades to hand and lowers into something that only vaguely resembles a defensive posture. His leg screams at him, so brutally painful that his vision clouds over.

Alright, so none of that.

He shifts out of his defensive stance but keeps his blades lifted.

The monster doesn’t emerge from the firelit room. Instead, it comes around a barely visible corner at the end of the hallway, something in its massive, gauntleted hands.

Childe doesn’t move. Still, silent, he watches, wary.

Shuffling forward, the monster hunches in on itself as it approaches, as though trying to make itself smaller. Since it’s nearly nine feet tall, it doesn’t succeed. But Childe slowly lowers his blade.

This isn’t a mindless beast. It’s not trying to kill him again.

It shuffles closer to him. As before, with the medical supplies, it places what it carries on the floor and then scuttles back.

When Childe doesn’t immediately move forward, it gestures toward the shadowed object on the floor.

Carefully, Childe peels away from the wall and approaches.

And finds a cane of polished wood on the ground.

No. This definitely isn’t a mindless beast.

Bending awkwardly, Childe scoops up the cane. He settles heavily against it, letting it bear his weight, and he peers through the darkness toward the monster.

“Thanks,” he says, raising his voice to make it obvious he’s talking to it and not himself.

The monster gives a happy little warble and then breaks away to duck into the open door. A second later, it emerges again, beckoning to Childe, and Childe, with nothing else to do with himself and desperate for the warmth the firelight promises, follows.

The sitting room is warm, illuminated by a roaring fire in a massive hearth. Furniture several centuries out of date crowds the room. Navigating far too many ancient curio tables to the safety of a faded armchair, Childe keeps one eye on the monster. But it remains crouched in the far corner of the room, twisting its claws together as it measures his progress.

When Childe reaches the chair, he lowers himself slowly, carefully into it, even though all he wants to do is collapse gracelessly in its embrace. He knows better. Doesn’t want to tear open his stitches.

Fuck, but he’s a mess. Sweat-soaked clothes cling to his shaking body. His leg still burns. His pants are bright red from his blood.

He really should change out of the pants.

Instead, he sinks deep into the overstuffed armchair and looks at the monster.

“So,” he says. “We’re good, you and me?”

It nods, emerging from the darkest shadows. It shuffles across the floor in an awkward crouch, pausing in the firelight, and Childe gets a much better look at it. Svelte, lithe, with feminine curves. Wheat-blonde hair falls from behind its mask, laying over its furred mantle. There’s more to its armor than just black; intricate runes in gold and violet spread across its chest plate. It wears a battle skirt of chain and fabric, equally detailed in runes that Childe recognizes.

“You fell into the Abyss, too, huh?” he asks.

The monster—person. There’s a person under all that armor and Abyssal taint. The person goes preternaturally still. They open their mouth, the mask pulling down, and warble solemnly.

“And now you’re stuck like that?” Childe asks.

They warble again, nodding.

Childe rakes a bloody hand through his hair, heaving out a sigh. “I had a hard time turning back at first, too.” He pauses, comprehension coming slowly.

Kids dying every generation for centuries.

“Shit. You’ve been stuck like that for hundreds of years?”

A sad croon, their head drooping. Then they scoot forward, reaching tentatively toward him. Childe stiffens, and they recoil.

Human they might be, but Childe knows what’s going on in their head. He fights the Abyss’s whispers every time he uses Foul Legacy. Tear, rend. Give in to the violence, glory in the slaughter. Foul Legacy empowers him but at a great cost. Every minute, every second in that form is a fight for his sanity.

“Did you come at me and my brother because you couldn’t control yourself?” he asks.

They shake their head. Clambering onto their knees, they mime plucking something from the ground—plucking flowers, Childe realizes.

He grimaces. “Yeah. We did steal from you. And I guess if you were already upset about that, it’s easy to give into the monster, isn’t it?”

They nod, sinking back into themself and wringing their hands. They look—forlorn. Lost.

Childe knows that feeling. Remembers how adrift he felt, lost in his own mind, the first time his master taught him the Foul Legacy. Remembers how terrible it was to claw himself back, even with her help.

“Hey,” he says gently. “It’s pretty impressive that you’ve got any sense of yourself, you know that, right?”

They duck their head and then make a curious sound, pointing at him.

“What about me?”

Moving slowly, they rise to their feet. Again, they point at him. Then, they gesture to their body.

“Ah.” Childe gives a shaky laugh. “Yeah, I’m like you. I fell into the Abyss. Spent three months there.” He doesn’t mention his master. Doesn’t think that’ll go over well. He had help; this creature clearly doesn’t. “I’ve got my own transformation. Looks a lot like yours. So I understand.” He scrubs at his face. Drops his hand. “How about this,” he says, leaning forward as much as he can manage. “The way I see it, I owe you.” He gestures to his leg. “For this and because my brother and I stole from you. While I’m healing, I’ll help you find your humanity again.”

Somehow, in spite of the mask, they manage to look surprised. Maybe it’s in the way they jerk back. Maybe it’s in the cant of their head.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Childe says. “I’ll repay the debt I owe. Do you have a name?”

They nod.

“Do you think you can tell me?”

They open their mouth, but only an inhuman croaking sound spills out. They try again, and the same sound comes out. With a snarl of frustration, they try a third time but only manage an abbreviated roar.

Hunching into themself, they look away from him.

“Hey, it’s alright. Sometimes, I can’t really talk in my Foul Legacy form, either. How about I give you a nickname?” He pulls his thumb over his chin, thoughtful. Feminine, yeah, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Still, gotta start somewhere. “Are you a girl?”

They nod emphatically.

“Alright, then. Princess.” He grins.

Princess stares at him but doesn’t make any sound to protest the nickname. Instead, she reaches her hand toward her billowing, wheat-blonde hair, ducking her head as if she’s shy.

His grin widens. “Princess it is. I’m—” There’s no chance she has any idea who the Harbingers are. Still. “—Childe.” He holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Princess.”

She takes his hand in her massive gauntlet and shrieks directly into his face. He thinks she means well.

iii.

Princess helps him to a frigid bedroom. She conjures a fire in the hearth with Pyro and, once it’s warm, leaves him to himself.

Childe hobbles to the door, pressing his ear against it. When her heavy footsteps fade, he locks the door—not that it’ll keep her out. She might be docile now, but he’s not an idiot; you don’t sleep easy with an Abyssal creature at your back. But he’s exhausted, and he needs the rest if his leg is going to recover.

Easing carefully onto the bed, Childe sprawls. His leg remains on fire. Exhaustion claws through him. Between the pain and Princess, he’s certain he’s not going to sleep.

He blinks.

Morning sunlight spills across the room.

Blinking blearily, he rubs at his eyes and sits up. Grimaces as pain shoots through him. He doesn’t really feel rested, but he survived the night, his injury, and Princess. A good start to his day.

Stiff, he shifts out of bed. Grabs the cane. Goes to investigate the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom. One steaming hot shower later (he wonders if Princess is powering a furnace somewhere in the palace), he hobbles out and roots through the wardrobe for clothes. Finds pants that are a little too long and a shirt that’s a little too big. He pulls on both and then a moth-eaten sweater that sags around him.

Leaving his room, he goes in search of Princess and finds her in the same sitting room they occupied the previous night.

“Please tell me you have food,” he says to her.

She scrambles out of the room, blowing by him. A second later he hears a door slam in the distance.

“Well, then,” he says to himself.

With no idea where she’s gone or when she’ll return, he decides to locate the kitchen. This proves far more difficult than anticipated. He’s stiff and still in pain, and his leg, even with the cane, doesn’t appreciate how much he’s using it. By the time he reaches the end of the hall, the pain in his leg is so unbearable that he turns around and returns to the sitting room.

Which is where Princess finds him nearly an hour later, a dead deer slung over her shoulder.

Childe stares at her.

She makes a happy, chortling sound, patting the deer’s head.

There’s blood on her mask.

“Did you tear out its throat?” he asks.

She nods.

He… Well. He gets it. He’s done the same. But. “If you want to undo your transformation, maybe don’t… you know.” He gestures to his mouth. “Step one of becoming human again is acting the part. Thinking the part.” At least, that works for him.

She croons in what he assumes is agreement.

He eyes the deer. “I guess you know where the kitchen is?”

She nods vigorously and croaks out a sound that vaguely resembles a yes.

“Is it a long walk?”

She cocks her head to the side, considering, and then gives another nod, slower this time. A sad warble accompanies the gesture.

“I’ll manage,” he says, hauling himself to his feet. This is just one more challenge to overcome. He won’t be beaten by his own leg.

His leg beats him. He slumps against the wall on their trek to the kitchen, staring at a flight of stairs. There’s no way he can manage those.

Princess croons softly from the landing halfway down the stairs, beckoning to him.

“I know, I know,” he sighs. “Give me some time. I’ll figure it out.”

She shuffles from one foot to the next before ducking around the corner and vanishing with the deer.

Childe, meanwhile, considers the stairs, certain there’s a way to beat them. If he had a pillow, he could slide down—but he doesn’t, and he’s not going back to the sitting room to get one. Maybe if he hops on one leg? But if he missteps, he’s fucked.

“How many battles, and you’re beaten by a flight of stairs,” he mutters, putting his cane on the first step, grabbing the railing, and hoisting himself forward. Anxiety spikes through him, the thrill of a different kind of battle. He ignores it, focusing.

He hits the first step hard enough to jar his leg, but he sticks the landing just fine. Exhaling with relief, he braces his cane on the next step and hops down again. Another success. Confidence building, he takes the next step. The one after that is just as easy: place the cane, slide his hand, hop, land.

His heel catches the edge of the next step, and he falls, his stomach lodging itself somewhere in the vicinity of his throat as he hurtles down the stairs.

Time slows down, much like it does in combat, and Childe considers that the stairs may have bested him.

And then Princess is there. She grabs him beneath his arms, catching him before he splatters himself against the landing. He falls against her chest plate, the metal warm beneath his cheek.

Recovering quickly, he grins up at her. “That was excellent timing, Princess.”

She hums with obvious pleasure.

“Go ahead and—Hey!”

Instead of setting him down, she carefully scoops him up. She’s gentle, mindful of his leg, and settles him in a princess carry in her arms.

He fights the urge to panic. It’s not her clawed gauntlets pricking through his sweater, it’s relying on someone, anyone, other than himself. Weakness. He can’t show weakness. Can’t—

With a satisfied trill, she takes the rest of the stairs with a smooth, even gait. And even though he’s not a fan of being in her arms—she smells like deer and blood—he has to admit this is a lot faster than him dragging himself down the hall and nearly killing himself.

She carries him to a broad archway that leads into a spacious kitchen that’s five hundred years out of date. It looks like a relic, ancient bricks blackened from use, not a modern convenience in sight. There’s already a Pyro fire burning beneath the stovetop, and the deer is on an island countertop.

“You can put me down,” he tells her, trying to moderate the mix of consternation, embarrassment, and impotence churning in his gut. He’s never been particularly good at being injured.

Princess gives a questioning croon.

“I’ll be fine.” He waves the cane clutched in his hand.

That seems to be enough. She tips him carefully out of her arms, her hands lingering as he finds his balance and gets the cane settled.

By some miracle, a handful of pots, pans, and cooking utensils have survived the centuries, but not any knives large enough to dress the deer. In the end, he and Princess take the deer into what remains of a kitchen garden and he talks her through field dressing using her claws. He also talks her out of slurping up deer guts.

“Humans don’t eat that raw,” he tells her, pinching the bridge of his nose and not thinking at all about how he ate much worse when Skirk wasn’t paying attention. Princess doesn’t need to know that. And this isn’t the Abyss.

He finds several spice jars tucked away in the kitchen’s pantry, sealed so tight even his formidable strength can’t open them. Princess cracks the jars open for him. Literally.

So, he’s able to season the meat before slapping it in a slightly warped skillet and frying it up for them both. Since only broken plates remain, they eat directly out of the skillet after Princess swirls Cryo around it to cool it off—at his direction. Her control doesn’t surprise him; she wielded the elements with wicked ease in their fight.

They eat with their fingers, Princess clearly taking her cues from him. And when they’re done and he bemoans the difficulty of getting back to the sitting room, she sweeps him into her arms once more.

Childe sleeps most of that first day and much of the second, even though he doesn’t want to. He dozes off in the sitting room only to jerk awake, eyes jumping to Princess, but she remains crouched in her corner, just watching him.

On the third day, she carries him through the palace on a tour, taking him from room to dilapidated room. The place might not be caving in, but it’s certainly decaying. Furniture lays in splintered piles throughout many rooms. Most of it is otherwise boring—until they get to the armory. There, she sets him down and lets him go from one weapon rack to the next, examining blades centuries old, crafted by forgotten techniques. He wants nothing more than to test the weapons but knows better. The last thing he needs to do is open up his leg wound by playing around, no matter how much he wants to.

He points down a darkened hallway as they exit the armory. “What’s down there?” he asks.

Princess growls softly and shakes her head.

“Out of bounds?” he asks, and she nods with another growl. That, of course, only piques his curiosity. The entire east wing is behind that hallway. But he’s not about to risk her anger or his leg exploring it.

Yet.

The fourth day, Princess takes him to a massive set of double doors.

She mimes covering her eyes with her hands, drops them, and then gestures encouragingly toward him.

They’ve only been together for four days, and she did maim him, but she hasn’t touched him when he’s passed out in the armchair in the sitting room. No, she’s left him alone except to cover him with a dingy old blanket a time or two.

Whatever set her off that day, she has shown no further inclination toward violence. He and Ivan did steal from her.

So he covers his eyes with his free hand, leaning more heavily on his cane with the other.

He jumps when her claws touch the small of his back, but when she does nothing further, he relaxes. She’s not going to attack him. She’s not going to puncture his skin and tear out his kidneys from behind.

Though what an incredible way to go if she did.

Gently, she guides him forward several steps. With a soft grunt, she taps on his elbow, encouraging him to lower his hand, and he does.

His eyes widen, and he whistles.

The library is incredible. Two levels of books with a pair of lazily spiraling staircases leading from one to the next. Golden light filtering through stained-glass windows. Shelves stretching from the floor to an impossibly tall cathedral ceiling, with ornate, heavily carved gilded columns of white marble.

Childe’s not one for books (that’s Tonia’s domain), but the way Princess holds her hands and turns her head from him to the books and back again tells him how important this place is to her.

“Incredible,” he says—and he’s not lying. He doesn’t care for books, but the whole place is breathtaking in its majesty. There’s no dust, there are fires in the hearths, the balustrades are polished and gleaming—and he realizes all at once that she’s been taking care of this room. The others are in disrepair, but this one? “You really love this place, don’t you?”

She trills and nods and then bounds away, taking the stairs five at a time.

Just watching her makes Childe’s leg hurt.

He limps to a nearby table—the wood polished to a high shine—and sinks into one of the chairs beside it, watching her.

Princess goes directly to one of the shelves. Reaches for a book as if she knows exactly what she’s looking for. Carries the tome back to him. She vibrates with excited energy as she kneels beside the table and places the book on it. Pushes it toward him.

He looks at her and then at the book.

“Grimme Fairytales for Children,” he reads, running his fingers over the faded, debossed title.

Princess trills, clacks her claws against the table, and shimmies closer to him with eager anticipation.

He lifts a brow. “You want me… to read to you?”

She looks from him to the book and back again, shifting her weight from one knee to the other.

Yeah. She wants him to read to her. Briefly, he wonders why she hasn’t bothered trying to read on her own. Then he considers those clicking claws and the massive size of her hands. Foul Legacy isn’t built for anything but combat. She’s much the same.

He clears his throat. “You have to say ‘please’ first.”

She stops tapping her nails on the table and turns her mask to him.

He gets the distinct impression that she is very unimpressed. “Too bad,” he says. “Try it. Say ‘please.’”

Groaning, she sits back on her heels. She growls at him, gesturing broadly, emphatically.

He crosses his arms. “You want to be human again, right?”

She gives him a reluctant nod, as if to say, “Yes, but not if I have to talk to you.”

Laughing, he taps the cover of the book. “Then say ‘please,’ Princess.”

Huffing, she looks away from him.

Silence stretches between them, expectant. It makes him itch. He hates just sitting around, waiting for action. But it’s important she do this, that she try. So, he waits.

Finally, she turns back to him, her mouth opening. The p sound is probably impossible for her with that metal mask married to her jaw, but she tries. With a wheezing breath, she says, “Ease.” Her voice creaks and breaks, the sound croaking and raw. She swallows hard. Tries again. “Leeeease.”

A smile breaks across his face. “Hey, good job,” he tells her. “It’s important to do human things, yeah? To remember what it’s like. That’s the key to changing back. Remembering what it really means to be human.”

She points at him, cocking her head to the side. “Yooooooou?” she asks, voice still rough and grating.

“Me? You mean, what do I remember to be human?”

She nods emphatically.

And he softens, giving her a smile and placing his palm on the cover of the book. “I have a little sister. Tonia. She’s old enough that Ma and Pa are looking for a match for her—a husband. I remember—her. She writes me letters every week when I’m away from home.” He waves her away before she can ask too much more. “But you did it. Let’s read, yeah?”

He opens the book, flipping through the fragile pages. A few corners are punctured and torn, and something in his chest aches. She’s tried to read this book.

All at once, the reality of her situation crashes over him. Five hundred years alone in the palace, unable to so much as read a treasured book.

Shit. Shit.

She warbles, inquiring. “Yoooou?”

“Hah, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about me, Princess. Alright, the first story.” Childe smooths his hand over the paper.

He isn’t a great reader, and he struggles all the more with the unfamiliar, archaic Snezhnayan words. His tongue twists around the strange syllables, but Princess offers no judgment or censure. She sits still beside him, her head canted to one side, her mask facing slightly away from him, and she listens. She doesn’t interrupt. She doesn’t make fun of him when he stumbles over the words. She just—listens.

And when he’s done, she leans forward and taps the edge of the book. “More?”

Childe turns the page and reads the next story and the next, and the one after that, too. Only when his throat grows dry and his leg aches from sitting in a hard chair does he suggest they stop.

“Do you have any other favorites?” he asks, tapping the cover of the book.

“Yes!” Princess hops to her feet and rushes back to the shelves. But when she pulls the next book from its place, her touch is slow, careful, methodical. She removes two books from two separate shelves, cradling them close as she bounds back over to him—and she reminds him of Tonia. Books are expensive. The ones that Tonia owns were hard won, the result of bitter arguments between him and Pa. She cherishes them, is gentle with them, just like Princess.

“Do you celebrate the solstice?” Childe asks Princess the day of.

She cocks her head to the side. “No,” she says. Her voice has improved over the last few days. Less raspy. Firmer. “How celebrate?”

Childe scratches his chin as he sits in his armchair. “We light fires in the cemeteries to keep our loved ones warm and leave bread at their graves to keep their spirits fed.” He drops his hand. “I don’t suppose there’s a cemetery here?”

She shakes her head.

“Well. We can still have a feast.”

She laughs, the sound like metal grinding on metal. “More deer.”

“More deer,” he agrees. “But maybe there’s something buried under the snow in the kitchen gardens.”

Princess takes that as an invitation, scooping him into her arms, and he doesn’t protest. He’s grown comfortable with this over the past few days, and while he’s not exactly thrilled about being carried around like a child, it’s better for his leg. He suffers the indignity—and weakness—in relative silence.

“I bet I could take the stairs,” he says as she plods down them.

Snorting, she shakes her head. “No.”

“Could, too,” he mutters, petulant.

In the garden, he directs her to dig around the edges of the building, and they eventually find several patches of winter tubers and root vegetables. Princess carries their treasures into the kitchen, depositing them on the counter.

Childe considers what they’ve found and then looks at Princess with a lopsided grin. “We should dress up, too. Make a whole evening of it.” There are wardrobes full of clothes in the rooms, many of them decaying, but plenty enough that remain wearable.

Princess trills. “Wear a dress?” she asks.

“I’ll help you into one,” he promises her.

She looks at what they’ve gathered. “Spoil?”

“It’ll keep. Let’s get dressed first.”

Princess picks him up and hurries up the steps. Beneath his body, she vibrates with barely restrained excitement.

She carries him up not just the stairs to the kitchen but several more. He thought she was on the same floor as him, but she’s not—she’s not even in the same wing. His room is in the west wing; hers is in the north. She takes him almost to the end of the hall, stopping in front of a double door.

Curiosity coils through him as she sets him down and then opens the door.

Her room isn’t pristine, but it’s in much better shape than much of the rest of the palace—and it’s a whole suite.

He shoots her a look. “You could’ve told me there were apartments.”

With a grating laugh, she lopes through the sitting room to another door.

He takes his time because he has to, limping slowly after her and taking in the sitting room as he goes. All the furniture is lightly patterned in white and gold fabric. The curling wallpaper ivory with cream damask patterning, the wall panels trimmed with gilt. Everything is faded and grungy, yes, but it’s held up rather well over the centuries.

Through the door to the bedroom, Childe finds a large bed with a canopy of delicate, white lace and gauzy curtains. Here, too, the furniture is painted white and edged with gilt.

Princess is in one of the wardrobes, rooting through it and tossing gowns over her shoulder. Childe settles on the bed, running his hands over the pulled fabric of the comforter. The whole room feels expensive. Royal. Like the palace’s actual princess might’ve slept here.

Finally, Princess turns to him, holding up a gown that most people would consider a sack. It’s shapeless and red with far too many flounces and frills in a painfully bright yellow that the years haven’t dulled.

“You sure you want to wear that one?” he asks her.

“Will fit,” she says, and that’s true, it will. The other dresses she discarded are all far too slim for her gargantuan frame. “Help?” She extends the dress toward him.

Childe takes it, flipping it around to the back. He’s helped Tonia with her dresses a few times, so he makes quick work of the buttons that run down it. There’s no way he’s going to be able to do them up once this dress is on her, and he grimaces at the thought of pulling it over her broad shoulders. But this is what she wants.

“Alright, let’s give this a shot. Crouch down and we’ll… pull it over your head?”

She crouches, he guides the dress over her head, and, well, it doesn’t work great, but they do make it work. By tearing the neckline of the dress wide. It hangs around her waist, caught on her boney hips, and she looks at him.

He looks back at her.

And he bursts into laughter. She, thankfully, echoes his laughter a second later. Tears stream out of his eyes as he sags against the bed, clutching at his belly. She looks absolutely ridiculous, but she seems fully aware of that—and she embraces it. She grabs two of the dresses that definitely won’t fit over her shoulders and ties one in a knot around her wrist.

“Pretty,” she declares, and he laughs harder.

“You’re the belle of our ball,” he promises her, wiping his tears from his eyes. “Here, let’s tie some more of the dresses on your arms.”

In the end, she wears dresses knotted around her arms and shoulders like a tasseled cloak. It’s absurd. But she’s happy, turning in circles in front of a floor-length mirror as her dresses stream behind her.

She looks over her shoulder at him. “Pretty?” This time, it’s a question.

Childe sets his chin on his hand, taking in the sight of her. Her mask doesn’t let her smile, but there’s a pull at the corner of her lips as if she is. And there’s a fragility to her, too, a tension as she twists her fingers together. She’s made for bloodshed and murder in this form, and she looks ludicrous, but there’s also something ephemeral about the moment, something delicate and beautiful.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “Pretty.”

She spins back to the mirror, and he gets the feeling he’s made her entire night, feast or no.

Clearing his throat, he slides off the bed. “Alright, alright. Let me find a suit or something in one of the other rooms.”

She scoops him up, carrying him back to the wing where his own rooms are, and together they hunt through the wardrobes until they find dress slacks that mostly fit and a burgundy jacket that’s too tight to button but will do for the night.

In their search for Childe’s outfit, they find an old music box, and they bring it to the great hall before they retreat to the kitchen to prepare their stew. It’s thin and watery, but it’s better than nothing, and it’ll keep them well-fed and warm on this cold and darkest of nights.

They drink their stew from chipped bowls while the music box plays, and every time the song finishes, Childe winds it back up. He regales Princess with stories of previous winter solstices spent with his family, of adventures in the snow of Anthon and Teucer, of hunts with Pa and Ivan, of cozy evenings curled up by the fire while Ma knitted and Pa whittled and he played board games with his siblings.

He trails into silence.

“Ivan and I came here to help Pa,” he says quietly. “Ivan… didn’t think Pa would make it through the solstice without ice flower root. That’s why we came here.” And he doesn’t even know if Pa is alive right now.

What hurts the most is that he isn’t sure how much he cares about Pa. Everyone else, the fallout? Yeah, he cares about that. A lot. But Pa?

“You miss them?” Princess asks, setting her bowl down.

Childe goes still, a forced smile frozen on his face. “I—” He looks down at the bowl. Anyone else, he’d lie to without a second thought. But Princess? “It’s complicated. You know how I told you I have a form like yours? How I fell into the Abyss?”

She nods.

He looks everywhere but at her. “When I came out, it’d been three months for me but only three days for my family. And I was—different. The Abyss taught me how to survive, gave me a taste of power, and I wanted more. There wasn’t much to go around in a tiny town like Morepesok. But I took it wherever I could find it. Got in plenty of fights and made plenty of trouble for my family.” He grimaces, looking down.

Now, with hindsight, he’s embarrassed by his own lack of self-control when he came back from the Abyss. But for three months, he’d been focused on nothing but survival, on becoming strong so that he wasn’t prey.

“Eventually, it got so bad that my Pa took me to the Fatui.” Now, he glances at her. Nothing about her posture has changed, nothing indicates she has any idea what the Fatui are. “He gave me to them.” He shrugs. “So, I climbed the ranks, clawing away power for myself, taking as much as I could, and, eventually, I was named Tartaglia, the Tsaritsa’s Eleventh Harbinger.” He grows more animated, now, gesturing broadly, touching his shoulder where his insignia usually rests.

And then he sobers.

The music box winds down.

“But even with all that… I’m not the person I was before the Abyss. Ma, Pa, my older siblings? They all resent that.” He forces a dry laugh. “What about you, Princess? How did you fall into the Abyss?”

She shakes her head. “Didn’t fall,” she says. “Taken.”

iv.

A week passes. Childe’s leg continues healing nicely. Walking gets easier, though Princess insists on carrying him up and down every flight of stairs. Thankfully, they only use the kitchen stairs regularly, so his pride doesn’t take too many hits.

They fall into an easy rhythm, eating venison and drinking melted snow for all their meals—he makes them sit at the counter in the kitchen and pretend they’re at a fancy table—and reading through the mornings. In the afternoons, Childe puts the book of fairytales in front of Princess and makes her read to him.

It’s painfully slow going. She struggles even more than he does, growing frustrated quickly.

He expects her to lash out.

She does, but not at him.

The first time reading gets too hard, she storms out of the room. A minute later, he hears the sound of wood shattering, then a heartbreaking roar of frustration.

“It’s okay, you know,” he says when she comes back.

She snarls, but he’s no longer afraid she’s going to lash out at him.

“The frustration’s okay,” he says again. “I lose myself, too, when the fight is too good and the danger too high. It takes everything I am to pull back.” He looks down at his clenched fist. “It’s power, but there’s a cost.” A grin splits his face. “I guess we’re similar, because we’re both willing to pay that cost, huh?”

She hisses, and his grin falls.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s not entirely the same for you,” he agrees.

Warbling, Princess crouches beside his armchair and he, after a moment’s hesitation, strokes his hand down her billowing blonde hair. Something warm spreads through him, not like what he feels for his family, but damn close. Something soft. Tender.

He withdraws his hand. Pauses. Reaches for her again, settling his hand on her furry mantle.

“You’ll get there,” he tells her. “I did. You can, too.”

Princess’s appearance begins changing. He doesn’t notice it at first, but by the second week, he’s sure of it. The harsh planes of her mask smooth out and soften, the single line of violet slashing across it where her eyes should be separates and becomes two ovular shapes. Her claws turn blunt. She shrinks. Where before she towered over him, at the end of the second week, she’s only a head taller than he is.

And he’s improved, too. He can walk on his own well enough now, and she no longer carries him everywhere—which is a relief.

Relying on her has been strange. Childe hasn’t relied on anyone else since Skirk taught him how to survive the Abyss. Hasn’t been able to. He’s not a complete idiot; the Harbingers are all out for themselves. There’s no relying on them. And his family… They’re a poor fishing family, and Pa made it quite clear what he thought of Childe when he dumped him on the Fatui. It was the best thing Pa could’ve done for him, and Childe has loved every minute with the Fatui, has loved challenging himself, growing stronger—one day, he’ll challenge the very gods—but he knows he can’t depend on anyone else for his victories. Only himself.

And yet here he is, relying on someone else for the victory of his health.

It’s uncomfortable but not wholly unpleasant.

As Princess improves, becoming ever more human, he does, too, his leg healing. He still needs the cane, but he gets around easier and without tiring as fast. There’s no indication of infection, no persistent ache unless he overuses the healing muscles, and he figures he’ll be out of the palace in another month or two.

He doesn’t think about the fact that no one from Morepesok has come to check on him. Doesn’t think about the fact that the Tsaritsa hasn’t sent anyone to investigate. The former likely think him dead; the latter know he can take care of himself.

He’s still bored. He can’t exercise, can’t practice with weapons without risking reopening his wound. So he takes to wandering the palace when he and Princess aren’t reading, investigating all its nooks and crannies. Though he keeps away from the east wing, his curiosity grows each day.

What’s there, he wonders, that Princess won’t ever go down that hallway? What’s in the east wing that upsets a—well. She’s not a monster. But what could unnerve someone as powerful as her? He wants to know. Needs to know, especially if it’s a threat.

So, with Princess out searching for a new deer or some other meal for them, he hobbles to the hallway leading to the east wing.

There’s a rankness to the air, a stale mustiness that chokes him. He pushes forward, ignoring how the hairs on the back of his neck lift.

Part of him is certain he shouldn’t be doing this, that he’s somehow invading something private. The rest of him needs to know what’s here. Needs to be able to assess the danger.

Disquieting energy hums in the air around him. Tension lines his limbs. Anticipation churns in his belly as he limps down the hallway and opens the first door he comes across.

The room inside is a mess of splintered wood. So is the next room and the room after that. In the fourth room, he finds a tacky, black-purple residue on the floor and walls, and he recoils. Abyssal. That residue is Abyssal in nature.

What the fuck is it doing inside the palace?

He stumbles out of the room, reeling.

Flinging open another door, he finds more residue, thicker. The deeper he goes into the east wing, the thicker the residue left on the ruined walls, the destroyed furniture. Blast marks scorch the ceilings, the floors. Bones. Small, tiny bones. Children who ventured too close?

Heart pounding, he sags against one threshold, staring at a carpet thick with Abyssal residue, clumpy and vile and exuding a malevolent aura. For these rooms to be drenched with such residue, someone—Princess?—has to be opening portals to the Abyss frequently, has to be letting in that rot on a regular basis.

Princess doesn’t reek of the Abyss, not like this. She can’t be the one doing this. But that means something—someone—else is in the palace, tearing open holes to the Abyss.

Who?

How?

He hasn’t noticed. In the weeks he’s been here, he hasn’t sensed anything. And Princess has been recovering, her form shifting, becoming more human. She can’t possibly be the one bringing this taint from the Abyss to the surface of Teyvat.

Shoving away from the door, Childe stumbles deeper down the hallway, as if there are answers there. All he finds are more shattered rooms, dripping in Abyssal residue and, at the very end of the hall, heavy curtains thrown over—

A crashing comes from behind him.

He turns, dropping his cane, letting it clatter to the floor, and conjures his Hydro blades, waiting.

Princess comes tearing down the hallway, her form hulking. She snarls, rushing toward him, and Childe braces himself for a fight. It’s going to be a fast one; his leg isn’t recovered enough. If he and Princess go head to head, she’s going to win. She’s going to eviscerate him.

Was that, he wonders, her original intention? Had she wanted to cut open his belly and missed, hitting his thigh instead?

But instead of attacking him, she skitters to a halt. She looks not at him but the heavy curtains behind him. Only when she has reassured herself that they’re still in place over whatever they’re hiding does she turn to him.

“Bad place,” she says, reaching for him.

He lifts his blades and shifts back a step, hissing as he puts his weight on his injured leg.

“Not safe.”

“No shit, Princess. You want to tell me why your palace is full of Abyssal taint?”

She warbles, shrinking into herself. Small, she looks so small again. Almost fragile.

And he wonders who she was—who she might still be—under that armor.

Slowly, she lowers herself into a crouch, huddling on the floor in front of him. “Is for me,” she says, her voice soft. Most of the rough edge is gone, though there’s still a strange resonance when she speaks, a reverberation of sound. “They—” She looks at the floor, lacing her fingers together. “They come.”

His hands tighten on his blades.

“Who?”

She hisses. “Abyss.”

“Yeah, I figured that much, comrade,” he spits.

She flinches away from him, but he hardens himself, refusing to pity her, to feel bad for her, to feel anything at all even though he does. Fuck, but he does. Because she can’t be the cause for the taint. If she was, it’d be pouring off of her, too, and it’s not.

If not the cause then—

Then maybe the reason.

“The Abyss comes here,” he says. “Why?”

Another soft, unhappy warble. She shuffles forward, still in that awkward crouch, and gestures to the curtains hanging heavy behind him. “See,” she says, slowly uncoiling herself.

Childe steps to the side but doesn’t dismiss his blades. He clutches them in his hands as she straightens and tugs carefully at the curtains, as she pulls them aside to reveal a painting. It’s sloppy and old, the color faded. Here and there, the paint flakes off the canvas, revealing another painting entirely beneath it.

Childe stares.

A canvas littered with pinprick holes, clearly the result of puncturing claws. Two people, blonde-haired and golden-eyed. One male, with a long braid. One female, with long strands of hair framing her face and twin flowers in her hair. A shocking resemblance in their features, for all the painting is amateurish and clumsy.

He swears.

Because even though the faces are poorly rendered, he recognizes one of the two.

“How do you know the Traveler?” he demands.

Her whole posture changes. She trills with excitement, rounding on him, but she holds herself back. Doesn’t touch him. “You know?” she asks, pointing at the young man in the painting.

“I asked first, Princess,” he says, wary, shifting into a defensive stance once more.

She keens, gesturing to the young woman beside the Traveler in the painting and then to herself.  

“You,” he breathes, lowering his blades. “You’re—”

The air behind them shatters like glass.

Princess and Childe both turn, Childe dropping once more into a defensive posture as a long, lithe form floats through the portal, resolving itself from a swirl of murky, purple-black miasma.

“Well,” the Abyss Lector says. “Isn’t this a shame. How many times have I told you, Lumine, that you’re not allowed to bring home strays?”

v.

Childe isn’t the greatest at math generally, but he is exceptional at battlefield math. The pulsing of Abyssal power from countless rooms. One narrow hallway. Two combatants—him and Princess—against a single Abyss Lector. Which would be great odds if Childe wasn’t injured and Princess wasn’t shrinking into herself once more.

Alright, then. He’ll do what he has to do.

He throws himself at the Abyss Lector, the stitches in his leg pulling.

The Abyss Lector casually backhands him into a wall and everything goes black.

Raw and inhuman screaming wakes him—not his own. Dull pain aches in his leg.

Childe peels himself off the floor, reaching for his pounding head. Realizes Princess isn’t in the hallway. Realizes the Abyss Lector isn’t, either.

Abyssal energy presses down around him, a smothering blanket of it, and Childe reacts without thinking, battlefield instincts taking over.

Surging to his feet, he rushes down the hallway in the direction of the screams, ignoring the searing pain in his leg. He’s going to fuck himself up again, but that doesn’t matter. Not when Princess’s pained screams cut through him.

He catches the frame of an open door and throws himself into a sitting room.

The Abyss Lector stands over Princess with a virulently purple crystal in its hand. Rancid light emanates from it, twisted and wrong. That same light halos Princess, who continues screaming as she convulses on the floor, her body grotesquely twisted to its very limits. Abyssal residue collects around her, stretching over her arms, her legs, pinning her down as it pulses and hums with a life of its own.

Fuck this.

Childe embraces the power of the Abyss that has its hooks deep in him. It surges through him, altering him, transforming him, a deluge rushing through him. In its wake, he is a monster just like Princess. Massive and hulking, with claws that rend and a body built for carnage.

The Lector looks at him.

“Oh,” it says with a heavy sigh.

Childe lunges, ignoring the burning ache in his leg.

Abruptly, Princess’s screams cease.

He and the Lector meet in a clash of Abyssal energy, Childe’s Electro polearm crashing into the Lector’s shield of steaming Pyro.

“Do you even know what you’re fighting for, beast?” the Lector asks, flinging its hand at Childe.

Flame streaks from its palm, and Childe twists away, dodging those burning ribbons. He leaps over a pooling morass of ooze, unwilling to let himself touch it—but its insidious tendrils reach for his mind anyway.

Beast, you’re a beast, and you’re fighting for a beast.

Shaking off the whispers in his mind, Childe throws himself at the Lector again, only for it to hold him at bay with a wall of flame.

“You are an unnecessary interruption, boy,” the Lector says.

Through the flames, Childe watches him turn back to Princess, raising the purple crystal once more.

Not a fucking chance.

Childe zips through the flames, moving with the speed of a lightning strike. He brandishes a Hydro blade with a flourish, striking out at the Lector’s exposed back—and he connects with the Lector’s shoulder as the thing turns, as it attempts to evade him.

The crystal drops from its hand. “You dare—”

Childe throws a punch at the Lector’s face. Helmet. Mask. Whatever. His fist connects, and the Lector staggers backwards.

While the Lector recovers, Childe grabs for the crystal.

A boot slams onto his wrist. Pain vibrates through him, sharper than the ache throbbing in his leg. His fingers fumble the crystal, and the Lector kicks it away from him. It lifts its hand, a mace of flame coalescing within its grasp.

Fuck.

Childe twists to the side, dodging the burning weapon as the Lector brings it crashing down in the space his head once occupied.

Surging upward, Childe drives his fist into the Lector’s gut. He has no idea if Lectors need to breathe—not all of the Abyss’s creatures do—but the strike serves its purpose. The Lector stumbles back, wheezing, and Childe scrambles after the crystal. He doesn’t know what that crystal does, but it was hurting Princess, and that’s enough for him. It needs to go.

The Lector gives chase.

They dance around each other, trading blows as each attempts to grab hold of the crystal. Sizzling flame lashes across Childe’s armored arms, his chest. Fireballs burn holes in his cloak, searing the floor and ceiling—and he distantly wonders if confrontations between Princess and the Lector created those scorch marks.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Childe demands as they slam into each other, grappling to try to gain the upper hand. “You’re the one who killed the kids who came here from Morepesok.”

The Lector laughs. “What are a few children who came too close to the Princess of the Abyss?”

Snarling, Childe shoves the Lector back. In the space he creates, he conjures a polearm, slicing it across the Lector’s belly. He cuts through fabric, but whatever’s beneath cloth isn’t flesh. Doesn’t bleed. Just oozes putrid ichor.

Princess of the Abyss, it said. How apt his nickname was. How she must have hated it all these weeks.

“What are you making her into?” Childe demands.

“What she is meant to be.” The eyes in the Lector’s helmet glow—fervid, fervent, fanatical. “The salvation of the world—”

“You leave her alone!” Childe finds an opening and drives his polearm straight through the Lector’s chest. It spits black bile from its mouth, gasping.

Abandoning it, Childe darts for the crystal. Turning it over in his hands, he searches for any chip, any crack, any sign of weakness at all—but does not find one.

Fine.

He’ll make one.

He drops the crystal to the ground and drives his heel hard into it. When that doesn’t work, he conjures his polearm again and spears the crystal straight through. It shatters.

“No!” the Lector roars.

Pyro blasts him.

Dropping to the ground, howling with pain, Childe rolls and bats at his body. The armor protects him from the worst of the damage, yes, but when he rises from the tacky floor, smoke curls off him, and his neck burns with pain. His leg is screaming at him, hurt even in this form, and he knows he’s ruining it.

He glances at Princess, prone on the floor.

What a glorious way to destroy himself.

In an instant, he’s in the Abyss Lector’s space, grabbing at the creature’s throat. It bats him aside with a surge of Pyro.

“You fool,” it snarls. “You are undoing five hundred years of careful work.”

“Fuck your work,” Childe snaps back, pressing the Lector away from Princess—but he’s flagging. Pain throbs in his neck, his leg. Foul Legacy always takes a lot out of him even at his best, and he’s definitely not at his best.

There’s a limit to how much more he can do, and he’s rapidly approaching it as the Lector throws Pyro not just at him but at Princess, too.

“So much for her being valuable to you,” Childe says, taunting, but he’d do the same thing. Force his opponent to fight for his life while defending another. An excellent way to weaken someone who’s already struggling.

“Do not speak of what you do not know.”

Flames burn throughout the room, and the Lector transforms them into blazing walls. He sandwiches Childe between them, forcing him back—but not too far back. Sweat drips down Childe’s back beneath his armor, and he groans, dropping to one knee.

“Shit,” he breathes, catching himself on a Hydro blade and wishing he had the space to summon the narwhal. But in this tiny room, he’d do more harm to himself and Princess than damage to the Lector.

There’s got to be a better way, but Childe, exhausted, can’t see it.

He forces himself to his feet as those flame walls press tighter, and summons as strong a wave of Hydro as he can. Water meets flame, putting it out and filling the room with scalding steam.

Fuck. Not his best idea.

Through the steam, the Lector comes for him bearing a flaming sword. In swirling arcs, it pushes Childe back, pressing him toward the sitting room’s smoldering walls, separating him from Princess. It slices through his armor, cutting burning wounds into his chest, his arms, his face. It cracks through his mask, slicing along his jaw, and the pain is blinding. Childe can barely keep up, can barely defend himself.

“You will not ruin this for us, mortal,” the Lector spits, caging Childe against a scorched plaster wall. “Salvation will—”

A blade of light pieces the Lector’s gut.

Behind his mask, Childe’s eyes go wide.

Princess looms behind the Lector and, with a mighty cry, she wrenches her blade upward, cleaving the Lector in two. As its severed halves fall to either side, it dissipates into flickering embers.

Gasping, Childe drops to the ground, releasing his hold on his transformation. His bare hands and clothed knees sink into Abyssal ooze as he pants with exhaustion, as pain screams through him.

But he’s not so far gone that he can’t thank his savior.

Princess is on her knees, too, reaching for him, keening urgently. Her clawed gauntlets brush over his face, cutting through his skin.

“It’s alright,” he gasps out, reaching for her, too. They fall into each other’s arms, clinging. “It’s fine now. It’s gone, it’s—” Childe reels back, cupping Princess’s masked face in his hands. “You saved me. You—”

Princess warbles, her gauntlets deep in Childe’s hair as she clings to him.

And he sags forward, pressing his mouth against her mask. “Lumine,” he breathes.

Golden light blasts through the room.

Childe reels back, falling onto his ass. The pain blazing down his leg is secondary to the blinding light emanating from Princess’s—from Lumine’s body. He lifts one hand to shield his eyes, squinting against the glare.

The ooze beneath him burns away.

Elemental energy swirls through the room. It rushes over him, and where he expects violence, he finds only kindness. Like a cool kiss, the power heals the burns on his neck. It sinks into his leg, knitting torn flesh back together. And though he is stunned by his healing, he is more shocked by the way that Lumine’s monstrous form lifts off the ground.

She twists in the air, but where before, under the Lector’s hand, she writhed in agony, she moves now with a liquid grace. Elegant like a dancer, she extends her arms, and they—change. The armor shatters just like that crystal, disappearing into a scintillating rainbow of gossamer light. The mask fractures, revealing a form emanating luminous gold.

Shrinking in on herself, she transforms. The billowing scarf shortens to a much more reasonable length. The skirt of chain becomes one of fabric. And when the light fades, in place of the creature that so resembled his Foul Legacy is a young woman with bright, golden eyes and sunlight hair.

Beautiful. She is beautiful.

“Lumine,” he says, stunned, reaching for her.

Her face breaks into a smile more radiant than all that light, than the sun itself. “Childe,” she replies, and she falls into his arms, sobbing with relief. “You saved me.” She cups his face in her hands, pressing her forehead to his. “You saved me.”

Then she kisses him, soft and sweet, and nothing has ever felt so good.

They do not stay in the palace. No, they take only as much time as they need to change into clothes warm enough to brave a Snezhnayan winter, and then they flee.

Lumine hesitates at the gate. “The curse,” she says, “prevented me from leaving. I couldn’t ever—”

Childe slides his gloved hand into hers. “Let’s go together.”

They do. They walk through the front gate side by side, in perfect step, and nothing stops them from going. Nothing, no curse, holds them back.

Laughter, bright and excited, spills from Lumine. She hops forward and then, releasing Childe’s hand, breaks into a run, her arms spread wide, her laughter a song in the wind.

For a long moment, Childe watches her, drinking in the sight of her joy, her unfettered freedom. There is so much to do. He’ll need to contact Aether. He’ll need to tell the Tsaritsa. He’ll—

“Childe!” she calls, turning back to him, her smile radiant.

A soft smile curves his lips. “It’s Ajax,” he corrects her.

Her smile grows impossibly brighter. “Ajax! Ajax, let’s go!”

This isn’t happily ever after, he thinks. But it is a start.

He runs toward his future.