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"Fight me, Captain."
The phrase fell on deaf ears— had done so for centuries. Too many had uttered it, be it challengers drawn by ambition and sheer arrogance, or those seeking vengeance, each hoping to match his caliber albeit failing horribly. Capitano ceased to care about those words, nor did it matter who spoke them. Five hundred years were too long to endure the same refrain, too long to pretend the words still held meaning. Over those years, he had forfeited much of himself, his pride, his past self, and the fractured remnants of his homeland in the hopes of survival.
Neither title nor strength could extinguish the searing, gruesome memories that plagued him— the darkened skies, flames devouring the horizon, the anguished cries spiraling into the heavens, and Khaenri’ah crumbling to ash under the weight of divine wrath. Even now as the years between blurred those final moments played over and over in his mind, vivid details of despair. That moment of failure remained raw within him. they had failed to protect it. He had failed. And that truth hung over him, suffocating, inescapable.
In the beginning, his rage was unyielding. He had unleashed his fury on the abyssal hordes, striking down the creatures that rose from Khaenri’ah's ruin. But rage, like fire, burned out quickly, leaving nothing behind but emptiness.
Once, the call to fight had stirred something within him— duty, pride, perhaps even justice. He had fought for his country, for his people. Every blow struck was a promise. Every victory a shield for those he had sworn to protect.
But time eroded even the sharpest of convictions. The battles blurred together, faces of the fallen replaced by many more, names he could no longer recall. Each clash of steel became less a cause and more a compulsion. Even that had grown fragile. One by one, his comrades fell, each loss carving away another piece of him until all that remained was a hollow shell of the man he once was.
And yet, the words persisted.
"Fight me, Captain."
"I've come for you, Captain."
Swords drawn upon meeting.
And eyes blazing with desperation.
Every voice carried the same hunger for recognition, the same desperate fire. And he met them all with cold detachment. He fought not because he wanted to, but because he had to. The destruction of Khaenri’ah had stripped battles of meaning. The weight of that loss had never lifted, it had merely reshaped itself into a grim purpose. To protect, to preserve what little remained.
In his travels to escape Khaenri’ah’s ruin, Natlan’s ashes had reminded him of his own. The despair in their cries echoed those of his people, long silenced after the rubble had settled but no less haunting. He had seen what came after despair that endless futile cycle of rebuilding and breaking.
It was not justice that drove him now, nor glory. It was necessity— a desperate effort to hold together the fragile fragments of a world that threatened to scatter.
But those who sought him— what did they hope to find in him? Validation? Glory? He was no longer hailed as hero. Perhaps had never been.
Battles became routine, each victory as hollow as the last. He no longer knew why he fought— or perhaps he did, and the knowledge was more damning than ignorance. Stopping meant acknowledging the truth that all that he endured could not fill the void left by what he had failed to protect.
It meant admitting that he would never avenge the one thing he stayed alive for, the one thing he had sacrificed everything to protect.
So he kept going. Kept fighting when needed. Kept pretending it mattered. Because if he stopped, the emptiness would consume him whole.
And he wasn’t ready to face that yet.
"Fight me, Capitano."
Capitano did not turn around to those words, but his stride halted, hands fisted at his sides from exasperation, his frame remained unmoved as the cold bite of the wind swished his cape. It was habit now to dismiss such calls, a ritual of indifference to the countless challengers who thought themselves worthy. Another voice. Another fool. All the same.
His lips thinned as the present faded, overtaken by a winter long past— to the first time he had seen the man who now dared to utter those words in his presence.
The courtyard of Zapolyarny Palace stretched before him, silent and desolate, save for the dull thud of three bodies collapsing onto the frost. He stood at its edge, an unseen observer, stumbling upon a scene he had not been meant to witness.
Three shadows lay sprawled across the snow, their forms broken, their lifeblood seeping into the icy ground. Crimson streaks bloomed like grotesque flowers against the whiteness— a macabre contrast to the purity of the snow.
At the heart of the carnage stood a figure, young, deadly, and utterly still.
The boy exhaled, his breath curling into the frigid air, a fleeting wisp of white against the slate gray sky. His posture seemed to loosen, tension dissolving as though violence merely a workout. The hydro turned polearm hung at his side— not in carelessness, but in certainty. Capitano recognized it instantly, the ease of someone who had come to accept that death would never claim them, even when it circled close with its claws wrapped around ones neck.
Then, he tilted his head back.
Capitano had expected arrogance— a smirk, a boast, the fire of youthful pride. But the boy’s gaze instead lifted to the sky, his cheeks flushed pink from the cold, his expression untroubled, serene, as though the blood staining the snow red beneath his feet was no more significant than the wind brushing his skin.
No triumph. No vanity. Just stillness, as though the battle had never mattered at all.
For a moment, Capitano stood transfixed. The boy—no, the child—was a piece of work. Precision marked his strikes, efficiency in his movements, the mark of a soldier trained to kill without hesitation. And yet, he was a boy still, young enough to belong to the carefree laughter of children, not the cold lifeless silence of a battlefield.
Amidst the blood soaked snow and suffocating quiet was when Capitano saw it for the first time, the emptiness in the boy’s eyes.
A vast void, colder than the frost bitting the edges of their limbs. It was the silence of a soul that had long surrendered, of someone who fought not for glory nor duty, but because there was nothing left to do but fight.
Capitano’s chest tightened as he stared at the child standing in the ruin of his enemies. Trained assassins, handpicked to eliminate him before he could rise to the rank of the eleventh harbinger— fallen, all of them, and yet the boy made no note of his achievement.
It made him wonder what it had taken to extinguish the light in a boy so young.
The next time Capitano saw him, the boy was kneeling before the Tsaritsa in the grand hall of the Zapolyarny Palace, bathed in the ethereal glow of frost light that emanated from its icy walls. The room was silent apart from the faint hiss of snow drifting against the glass windows, melting on contact with the stone floor in the hallways and leaving ghostly trails of water in its wake.
All of the harbingers were called for the ceremony, and Capitano stood at the forefront. At the center of the hall, the boy knelt with his head bowed low, unruly ginger locks spilling across his face like a curtain, obscuring all but the faintest shadow of his expression. Despite the deference of his posture, there was no fear.
His hands were outstretched, waiting.
The Tsaritsa descended from her throne, each step a movement of impossible grace, the delusion in her hands caught the light, scattering refracted glimmers as she approached. The temperature plummeted with each step she took.
Capitano’s gaze remained fixed, his mask obscuring any glimpse of his thoughts. The boy was young— too young to bear the weight of a harbinger’s title, yet he had proven himself in the eyes of their queen.
There was no place for sentiment here, nor would he allow it to surface. Yet, as he watched the boy—so young, so hollow—reach for the delusion, he felt something stir within him. He could not help wondering, did the boy truly understand the weight of what he was accepting? The lives he would take, the burdens he would carry? He doubted it, and yet... there he knelt.
The Tsaritsa’s voice rang out, her words sharp though Capitano barely registered them. When the delusion finally settled into the boy’s outstretched hands, the boy’s fingers closed around it. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet the Tsaritsa’s, his expression betraying no triumph— only that same emptiness.
The title came next as the Tsaritsa proclaimed him the eleventh harbinger, Tartaglia.
Over the years, Childe grew into his title, his strength seemingly growing with each passing day. Capitano found himself pulled into missions alongside the younger harbinger on occasion, but their paths rarely crossed outside of necessity. That was, until Childe began pestering him after seeing him in the midst of battle.
“Fight me, Captain!”
He would appear unannounced, his grin wide and eyes alight with reckless eagerness. Capitano dismissed him at first, a curt wave of his hand, sometimes silence or a cold, “You’re not ready.”
But Childe was nothing if not persistent.
“Fight me!” he demanded, his voice ringing through training halls, missions, even formal gatherings. And each time, Capitano refused utterly devastating the younger.
“The gap between us is an abyss,” Capitano stated once. “You would not survive the first blow.”
Childe’s pout deepened into an expression so exaggerated, so boyishly absurd, it felt entirely at odds with his title. He whined, a hand on his hip, muttering complaints under his breath. Capitano almost laughed— almost. Instead, he shook his head and walked away, the faintest flicker of amusement warming the edges of his thoughts.
There were times when Capitano’s refusals were quieter, less dismissive. He would pause, considering the earnest determination in Childe’s gaze, before simply stating, “No.” The directness often left Childe sputtering, scrambling for a new argument.
And then there were the rare occasions when Capitano simply walked away without a word, leaving Childe staring after him while frustrated.
And yet, over time Capitano found himself less irritated and more... well, bemused.
There was something absurdly endearing about Childe’s persistence, and his boyish pout did nothing to diminish his battle skills, it only made it harder for Capitano to refuse him outright.
But he never relented.
And Childe, he still persisted.
Perhaps it was the way Childe’s enthusiasm reminded Capitano of a time long gone, a time before the weight of centuries had settled on his shoulders. Or perhaps it was simply the boy’s audacity— the sheer nerve to challenge him, again and again, without fear or hesitation.
Whatever it was, Capitano couldn’t bring himself to fight him. Not because he doubted Childe’s strength or resolve, but because… it was him.
Childe was different. He was someone Capitano didn’t have to fight. Someone he didn’t want to fight. Childe’s fire, his determination, his stubborn refusal to back down— it was something to protect, not extinguish. And so, Capitano continued to refuse, continued to walk away, even as a strange warmth stirred within him each time Childe smiled while asking him for a fight.
Fighting him would mean risking that fire, that spark of determination that refused to die despite the weight Childe carried, despite the void within him. And Capitano wasn’t ready to snuff it out.
Because Childe wasn’t just another soldier.
He was a boy who had been forced to wield strength but didn’t deserve the emptiness that shadowed his gaze.
And Capitano would not be the one to add to it.
The wind howled through the desolate courtyard, a relentless wail that carried the weight of the silence stretching too long between the two harbingers. Capitano stood unmoving, his broad frame a towering shadow against the glow of the glassed hallway, his cape snapping sharply in the cold air. Behind him, Childe’s voice still hung in the frosted void.
“Fight me, Capitano.”
As always, Capitano refused. His voice rumbled low, a deep frustration to the persistent phrase. He turned to face the eleventh harbinger. “Why do you keep asking, Tartaglia?” The words were not sharp, but gravely. “You know it will never happen. Why do you persist in this charade?”
Childe tilted his head, his lips curving into a pout. The expression was all boyish charm, but Capitano knew better. “You never give me a good answer,” Childe replied, his tone carrying a teasing edge. “What’s the harm in asking? one day, you might surprise me.”
Capitano said nothing. His only reply was a low, guttural huff, more beast than man— like a wolf’s growl warning off a persistent pup. His gaze drifted to the horizon, its boundless emptiness seemingly more deserving of his attention, or perhaps it was a refuge from the persistence he refused to indulge.
Childe’s grin widened, misinterpreting Capitano’s silence as hesitation. He leaned forward, his movement exaggerated, his breath curling into the frozen air like the faintest whisper of warmth. There was a glint of mirth in his eyes, but Capitano saw it— the faint crack in the façade, the vulnerability buried beneath the mask.
“Come on, Captain,” Childe coaxed, the grin never faltering, though his hands curled into fists at his sides. The tremor in them was subtle, but Capitano caught it— whether from the biting cold or something far else, he couldn’t be sure. “You can’t keep hiding behind that ‘I’m too strong for you’ excuse. What if I like the challenge, hmm?”
Childe’s cheeks were flushed pink from the cold. He was every bit the reckless fighter Capitano had come to know, his spirit unrelenting even now.
Capitano moved without thought.
In a single stride, he closed the space between them. His towering presence loomed over Childe, his shadow swallowing the younger harbinger whole. Before Childe could react, Capitano’s gauntleted hand reached out, cold steel pressing lightly against Childe’s cheek.
Childe froze, his grin faltered, surprise flashing briefly across his features. His breath hitched, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Childe was silent.
“You don’t need to prove yourself to me,” Capitano murmured, voice lower than usual, almost could be mistaken as tender. The wind carried the words, barely audible over the howling gale. “And I won’t give you the fight you’re searching for. Not because you’re unworthy.” His voice faltered briefly, heavy with truths left unsaid. Slowly, his gauntleted thumb brushed against Childe’s cheekbone— gentle, entirely at odds with the cold steel that had always defined him.
“But because you are,” Capitano continued, his voice firm now, though not unkind. “And I refuse to be the one who pushes you further into that darkness.”
Childe’s lips parted, but no words came. His expression wavered, caught somewhere between defiance and a vulnerability that seemed foreign on his face. Capitano recognized it too well— it was the look of someone teetering on the edge, torn between the need to fight and the quiet hope that someone might hold them back.
For a long moment, they remained like that, the only sound the mournful whistle of the wind and the distant creak of snow under its weight.
Slowly, Capitano withdrew his hand, letting it fall back to his side. His gaze lingered on Childe for a heartbeat longer before he turned away.
Behind him, Childe stood frozen in place, his hand rising slowly, instinctively, to touch the lingering warmth on his cheek.
“Captain…” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the wind.
But Capitano did not look back.
And Childe did not call after him.
After that day, Childe never asked Capitano for a fight again. At first, Capitano told himself it was for the best. He had refused him enough times after all, and Childe didn’t need his constant rejection— perhaps it would even help the younger harbinger focus on his troops or training instead of constantly chasing after Capitano.
And yet, the quiet that followed was… unexpected. It wasn’t the kind of silence Capitano thought he wouldn't enjoy. He found himself missing the reckless enthusiasm Childe carried into every encounter, the way he’d approach with that devil-may-care grin, eyes big with challenge, as though daring the world to keep up with him. Capitano didn’t think he’d grown accustomed to it until it was gone.
Childe had stopped, yes— stopped trailing after him with the same persistence. Instead, he seemed to accept the distance Capitano had placed between them. And yet, that space felt oddly colder than the snowfall of Snezhnaya.
Capitano noticed it most during their meetings. Childe no longer sought his gaze. He would glance up, almost nervously, then immediately look away, his face betraying a flush that seemed entirely out of place for someone usually so bold. Capitano didn’t miss the way Childe’s shoulders tensed whenever Capitano spoke. It was, to say the least, unlike him— this hesitance, and the unfamiliarity of it left Capitano uneasy in a way he couldn’t quite define.
One day, during training Capitano found Childe practicing on the field with his bow. His movements were precise as always, but there was a dissonance in them— a stiffness, like a melody played out of tune. Capitano didn’t think before stepping forward.
“Your stance is off,” he spoke, a hint of his usual authority slipping in.
Childe froze mid-draw, the string of his bow trembling faintly before he lowered it. He turned, his wide eyes meeting Capitano’s. For a brief startling moment Capitano saw something raw there— something vulnerable. Childe’s face flushed, the red blooming across his cheeks in a way that was impossible to ignore. It spread to his neck and the tip of his ears.
“C-Capitano,” Childe stammered, his usual confidence absent.
Capitano stepped closer. “Your feet,” he said, his tone softening. He spread childe's legs apart a bit using his boot, adjusting Childe’s stance carefully, his fingers brushing lightly against Childe’s arm. The contact was fleeting, but it lingered long after the moment had passed. He heard the sharp intake of Childe’s breath, saw the way he stiffened under the touch.
“Thanks,” Childe muttered quietly, staring downward unable to bear the embarrassment. Capitano’s hand fell back to his side as he stepped away, watching as Childe let the arrow go seconds after per his instructions, and it hit the moving target.
After that, the tension between them only grew. Meetings, training sessions, even passing each other in the corridors— it was always there, a hesitance that had never existed before. Childe’s gaze would flicker toward Capitano, only to dart away just as quickly, his cheeks tinged with the telltale blush. Capitano noticed it every time, and each time, he found himself equally unsure of how to address it.
Capitano hadn’t spoken those words to drive Childe away, nor to steal the lightness from his laughter or the ceaseless chatter that once filled every silence between them. And yet, that was exactly what he had done. Their interactions now felt like cold, and unsettlingly quiet. The spark that once Chile brought had dimmed, replaced by a silence Capitano loathed more than he would ever admit.
He despised the space that had crept in, how Childe no longer trailed after him with that infuriatingly teasing grin playing on his lips, daring Capitano to yet another fight. The absence of it was suffocating, a hollowness that echoed in every empty corridor and lingered long after Childe was gone. It was a silence not born of peace, but of something broken, something that gnawed at Capitano’s resolve with a relentless ache.
He longed to hear that laughter again. He wanted to see Childe smile, unguarded and wide like he used to do in Capitano's presence. But now, Capitano could only stare at the distance he had created.
He didn’t know how to close it. Words failed him in a way they never did on the battlefield. This silence—this unbearable, suffocating quiet—had to be undone. Whatever it took, Capitano would find a way to bring that spark back.
The courtyard lay silent under a blanket of snow, the silence broken only by the soft whispers of the wind. Childe stood at its center, his back to the entrance, his gaze lifted to the sky as snowflakes drifted lazily around. Capitano stood at the edge, his dark eyes lingering on the younger man.
There was something hauntingly vivid about the image before him— Childe standing alone, snowflakes tangled in his auburn hair. It stirred an unshakable memory, pulled him back to the first time he’d laid eyes on the boy. Back to when blood pooled from the three corpses discarded beneath Childe's boots. It was a scene Capitano could still see.
He approached slowly, the crunch of his boots against the snow muffled by the wind. Childe didn’t look away from the sky, but Capitano saw the tension in his posture the closer he'd gotten.
“You’ve been out here too long,” Capitano started.
Childe lowered his gaze but didn’t turn to look at him. “And you’ve come to drag me back inside? how noble of you.” the younger rolled his eyes, but there was something subdued in the way he spoke, it lacked his usual teasing lilt.
Capitano stopped beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. “I am not.” he remarked.
Childe let out a breath, his gloved fingers brushing a stray snowflake from his sleeve. “Then why are you here?” His voice was quieter now. “You’ve always been good at keeping your distance. I thought that’s how you preferred it.”
Capitano’s jaw tightened, almost bracing himself. “Perhaps,” he began, “I’ve realized what it costs to keep things that way.”
The response caught Childe off guard, his expression faltered, the mask he tried to upkeep slipping just enough for Capitano to catch the uncertainty that flickered across his face. “So what, you’re worried about me now?”
Capitano turned, dropping his gaze to lock with Childe's. “I’ve always been aware of you.”
That seemed to make the words hung in the air between them. Childe blinked, his mouth opening as if to respond, but no sound came.
“You always make things seem so simple,” he hesitated, his cape thrashing around along with the sudden movement of his hand.
“Things often are,” Capitano replied. “It’s people who complicate them.”
Childe huffed a soft laugh as he dropped his eyes that seemed to be staring at the void filling Capitano's helmet. “Then you must think I’m the most complicated of them all.”
Capitano hesitated, the faintest pause before he moved. His gloved hand reached out, his touch gentle as he tilted Childe’s chin upward. The younger man froze, his breath catching as Capitano leaned in slightly, their faces close enough that Childe could see what he thought is the silhouette of Capitano's face.
“You are,” Capitano murmured, almost tenderly. “But not so much that I cannot understand you.”
Childe’s eyes widened at that, lips parting as Capitano’s thumb brushed against his bottom lip, a featherlight touch that belied the strength of the man. Childe’s breath stuttered, a faint tremor that revealed just how deeply the touch was affecting him.
"Why do you always make it so hard to keep my distance from you.” Childe muttered, voice barely audible that it seemed he's speaking to himself. There was no malice in his tone, only exasperation.
Capitano didn’t respond— not with words. Instead, he leaned down, pressing his helmet against Childe's cheek almost as if pressing a kiss to it. The gesture was brief, fleeting even, but it lingered against the younger's skin.
When Capitano pulled back, Childe stared at him in disbelief. His face flushed that the cold wouldn't be entirely to blame for.
Capitano’s hand lingered for a moment longer before falling away. “you are not as unreadable as you pretend to be.”