Work Text:
Tartaglia, Eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers.
Vanguard of the Tsaritsa.
Pride of Snezhnaya.
A name spoken with reverence at home and suspicion everywhere else.
On the battlefield, they call him Childe—the bloodthirsty warrior from the North, laughing as blades meet flesh. A weapon honed by war, by the Abyss, by the teachings of a master named Skirk who taught a boy how to survive by becoming something monstrous.
But long before Childe, before Tartaglia, there was Ajax.
A boy who fell.
A boy who came back wrong.
Three names, three faces, all lodged deep in a heart that never truly healed.
Tartaglia was for contracts, diplomacy, official smiles sharpened like knives.
Childe was for chaos— for battlefields slick with blood and laughter that rang too loud.
Ajax was the one he buried deepest.
Ajax was weak.
Ajax was innocent.
Ajax remembered what it felt like to trust.
He hated Ajax.
And yet— somehow— over the years, a mere consultant had found a way to reach that buried place. Tugged at it gently. Carelessly. As if it were safe to touch.
How foolish.
Now Ajax stood frozen inside him, staring at the aftermath of a performance he hadn’t known was a performance at all.
The Rite.
The deception.
The roles assigned long before he ever stepped onto the stage.
Orchestrated by the Tsaritsa.
Approved by La Signora.
Executed by him.
What a joke.
It hurt.
Not Childe— he was used to pain.
Not Tartaglia— he was accustomed to being a pawn.
It hurt Ajax.
If he could just become Childe, this would be easier. If he could just put on Tartaglia’s smile, this wouldn’t ache so badly.
“…I don’t regret my actions, Childe.”
Ah.
So he was still here.
Signora had already departed, returning to report to Her Majesty. The Traveler was gone as well, chasing their own answers. All that remained was silence— and Morax, standing calmly before him as if nothing irreversible had been broken.
“…the time we spent together—”
Childe lifted a hand.
Morax stopped.
“It's fine, comrade.” Tartaglia’s voice was light, easy, practiced. “I understand. Truly. No need to explain everything, alright?”
A lie.
Inside him, Ajax screamed.
It’s not fine. I don’t understand. Please— just tell me why.
But no one explained anything to monsters.
Morax smiled then— soft, genuine, the same smile that once made something warm bloom in Childe’s chest.
Now it only hollowed him out.
“Well then,” Childe said briskly, already turning away. “See you.”
A hand reached out— warm, steady— closing around his arm.
Too slow.
Childe was already gone.
Zhongli watched his retreating back, his hand falling uselessly to his side. He had planned to invite him to dinner at Wanmin. Quiet food. Familiar company.
He supposed he could always write a letter.
He would soon learn how wrong he was.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Zhongli.”
Miss Ekaterina’s smile was polite. Professional.
“Mr. Tartaglia is busy at the moment. He’s handling matters involving the Qixing.” A pause. “Given your closeness to him, he asked me to relay this. Please refrain from seeking him out. It may… tarnish your reputation.”
That word lingered.
“Did Childe tell you this?” Zhongli asked evenly.
Ekaterina blinked, surprised, then nodded. “Yes. His exact words were: Do not allow Mr. Zhongli near Northland Bank. The contract is settled. It is best to remain dormant.”
Dormant.
Zhongli inclined his head. “I see. Thank you for informing me.”
Something cold brushed against his ribs, a sensation he had not felt in centuries. Still, he maintained his composure.
“If you see him,” Zhongli added, “please let him know I came looking for him.”
“I’m afraid I cannot,” Ekaterina replied. “My duties concern the bank alone.”
Zhongli’s fist clenched— only briefly.
“Then I shall wait outside,” he said calmly. “For my friend.”
He left before she could respond.
Moments later, Ekaterina instructed the guards.
“The consultant from Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is no longer permitted entry to Northland Bank. This is per Mr. Tartaglia’s orders.”
The words tasted bitter as she said them.
Inside the bank, she caught sight of a familiar silhouette— orange hair, broad shoulders, posture rigid as if holding himself together by force alone.
He looked… lost.
Fragile.
She said nothing.
She never would.
Because somewhere deep inside that Harbinger, Ajax was crying— soundless, unseen—trapped in a darkness that no one seemed willing to enter.
And the sun, once warm against his face, quietly slipped away.