Chapter Text
Childe is bored.
Not that border rotations were not important, but honestly, he thought he would have been at least a couple of battle skirmishes by now. When he told his father about becoming a soldier this was not what he had in mind. He had assumed originally he didnt want to fight in the blaze of battle and return with countless military accomplishments, but at least he thought he would do something. The standstill between the nations was not resolving, and determination waned.
The war had lasted eight long years. What had begun as mere disputes over mining rights for gold had escalated into a brutal conflict that led to the full-on declaration of war. Snezhnaya was drained of resources and manpower, struggling under the weight of their Tsar’s adamant refusal to yield. They were on the verge of being stretched thin already, but there was no end to the war in sight.
Liyue’s continuous attacks were at least consistently held back from the shore. At least, the climate in Snezhnaya was not welcoming to visitors, with its biting winds and constant snow. Not that the climate of Liyue was welcoming to Snezhnayan’s either. The difference in the neighbouring nation was like night and day, maybe another indication of their constant enmity.
Liyue was hot, temperatures blazing and the sun raw and golden as it rained down on Liyue. Sneznayans couldn’t hope to invade, as the temperature change as they landed on Liyuean shores was so drastic. Snezhnayan ships were no match for Liyuen ships, which Liyue used constantly for trade south of the country. Invasion was out of the question.
The cannons were their biggest saviours, which Childe had appealed to his father for four days to cast and place on the shores. Since he had started border patrol 18 moons before, they were the only thing that would stop the enemy ships before they breached their shores.
Lieutenant of a guard platoon was maybe the preferred role of most Snezhnayan soldiers, given Liyue’s god-king rumoured to command eleven immortals within his lands, but honestly. Was wanting to fight a war for his country insane? Was simply holding back the enemy the best they could do? Sooner or later there would be a breach, and though there were troops on every inch of Snezhnayan sand, there wouldn’t be enough to hold back all of Liyue, God-King and all.
In the midst of it all, Childe stood watch over the frozen shorelines, the biting winds of Snezhnaya tearing at his cloak. He was tasked with a small squadron to monitor and report enemy movement. His eyes scan the horizon again, looking for any enemy ships that may be approaching. It's hard to see with the fog over the shore, but there are other soldiers posted at lighthouse stands with better vantage points.
He threads along the shore, careful not to step in the water for fear of the icy waters soaking through the seams of his boots. The slivers of sunlight peaked from the horizon, sun now in it’s rise. Even though it was cold near the strait, it was nothing compared to the numbing cold on the mountains. Every exhale would be visible, every inch of skin covered for fear of being frosted.
Not in any way comparable to the balmy air near the sea. Childe exhales, trying to see the cloud before the whipping wind pulls it away. It barely stands as a small cloud before being swept off.
At least the task gives him something to do, trying to catch his breaths before being carried off.
No one had mentioned war to be this boring. He had known in the meeting rooms of the castle that old men would argue over mundane specifics, but he had no idea the field would be this way. He would rather fight and get it over with, get this war done once and for all, than eat another ration of pickled carrots and pass the time playing dice with soldiers who were longing to go back home to their families. He himself would go back….at least his younger siblings would fill the boredom of his days with their antics. In fact, in all of this, his family was the only thing he could think of to endure it.
He was watching the icy exhale of breath when his vision catches something- not on the horizon. But rather…the shore? He steadies his grip on his spear as he moves closer, the dark yellows and blacks of Liyue’s soldiers' uniform becoming apparent.
The man appeared unconscious, but this could be a staged attack, his eyes glide along the horizon again and in the thin mist, he sees nothing, not a boat, a ship or another human. These waters would be too cold for a son of Liyue, so he doubt the soldier had gone for a swim.
Defected, perhaps? Or just an unlucky soldier. He poises his weapon as he moves closer, pressing the man’s should none too gently with the sole of his booth. The man shakes limply at the motion, and Childe does it again. When the man doesn't stir, he looks around again. He’s out of sight of the closest towers, but just as he reaches for his horn to alert the other men the stranger shakes and coughs violently, pushing himself off slightly and falling onto his back.
He sees the man better now, golden eyes and lips tinged blue from the cold. He watches childe without the alarm he would expect from a man laying eyes on the enemy.
He steels himself and points his weapon at him, ready to do his duty.
“State your name and purpose, soldier. You are on Sneznayan land.”
The man blinks in confusion. “Snezhnaya..?” he says, his voice a deep rich timbre.
Childe scoffs, “Your enemy nation. Or have you forgotten the place Liyue has waged war on for eight years?”
Dark thick bows forrow, the man slowly pushing himself up to sit. Childe steps back, but doesn't lower his spear.
“A war..?” the man says, shivering as he asks. The soldier blinked, trying to remember. “I can’t… I don’t remember…”
It's Childe’s turn to be confused, though not enough to lower his guard.
“Do you know nothing of what's going on right now?”
The man stares blankly up at him.
“Do you even know your name?”
The man stares back. Well. What was he to do now? Standard procedure would call for taking the man hostage regardless, but then—
There is a silence as the man seems to try to recall, then resolutely shakes his head. Childe raises an eyebrow. “You don't recall anything, not even your name. What do you recall then?”
The dull brown of dark irises seemed to flash gold at that moment, as if some thought had finally crossed his mind. Childe tenses at that, ready to strike.
“It’s…col—” the man says, and that's when Childe notices the blue tint to his lips, the pale cast of his skin. On the metal of his armour, thin crystals of ice had begun to form. His breathing was ragged, grating in his ears in the silence of the dawn.
Childe’s instincts screamed at him to be wary—this could be a trap. But something about the man’s ragged breathing, the way his fingers twitched in the snow, made Childe hesitate. Liyueans were not accustomed to the cold. He would not last long if left out here.
“Damn it,” Childe mutters, hauling the man onto his shoulder and making his way back to the camp. His squadron would have questions, but he would deal with them later.
His tent is the best option, both in distance and privacy, and Childe briefly scans the man for weapons before hauling him upright.
“Can you walk?” A shudder is his answer as the man sags against him. Childe huffs and assists him back to his tent, the damp cold seeping through where the man leans against him. He sheds his coat and mourns the warmth, allowing the enemy soldier to pull it around his trembling form.
“Zhong…..zhongli..”
“What?”
“My name,” the man says, quietly through his nonstop trembling. It sounds foreign to him even as he repeats it. “You speak the common tongue? Most Liyueans don’t.”
Zhongli doesn’t answer, only burrowing further into Childe’s foxfur coat. It doesn’t seem to be helping, and Childe can see the frost on his eyelashes.
“We’re close,” he tells him, grateful for the early morning and the lack of prying stares as they make their way through the camp. He guides Zhongli into his tent and the man drops next to the fireside as Childe starts the fire. The Liyuean is staring at his shaking hands; like he can’t understand why they won't stop shaking. Childe snorts and the sound draws Zhongli’s attention.
“Why won’t it stop?” he asks, scooting closer to the fire.
“Your body still thinks you’re dying,” he responds. “...Dying?” he repeats, eyes still on his hands.
“From the cold,” Childe explains, and Zhongli lunges forward to throw his hands into the fire.
“What are you doing,” he mutters, pulling Zhongli’s hands back. His fingers are still as cold as ice. “You’ll burn yourself,” Childe feels as if he’s scolding Teucer. “Take off your robes, you have to get warmer gradually .”
“My robes,” he repeats his word again, eyes fluttering as he curls into himself. “Yes,” he says, turning to get his kettle to set over the fire. Some tea would do the man well.
“Zhongli?” he calls when he hears no response. He turns to see the man slumped over by the fire, body exhausted from trying to keep him warm. He wonders how long he was out in the cold before he washed up on their shore. Setting the kettle over the fire, he sighs and pulls this stranger, this enemy soldier who doesn’t even deserve his kindness, away from the flame and sets him into his bed.
++++
Childe takes advantage of the man’s sleeping to inform his squadron of the defector, speaking on his behalf confidently despite barely knowing if Zhongli was a spy or assassin sent into his camp. No matter, he thinks, as he makes preparations for the day’s tasks. If this Zhongli was hostile he would just have him dragged further inland and thrown into a lake, where the elements would deal with him, if his reaction to the cold was any indication.
Childe has guards stationed outside his tent as he makes his way back, just in case. He does his paperwork in his tent as he observes Zhongli.
When the man finally wakes, wrapped in layers of fur, his golden eyes flicker open with slow recognition. It’s already well past noon, and the temperature is as warm as it would ever get in Snezhnaya. Childe meets his gaze and speaks first.
“You’re lucky I found you before the cold did.”
The man takes a moment to respond. “I suppose I am.” His voice was smooth, calculated. Childe could tell he was measuring his surroundings, his captor. “You are Snezhnayan.”
“And you’re Liyuean,” Childe replies. “That makes us enemies.”
“Does it?” The man sat up, furs falling to his waist. “Then why did you save me?”
Childe doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t know.
“Did you undress me?” Zhongli asks, noticing his plain underobes and his absence of armour that would have been the only thing between him and whatever weapon Childe would probably aim at him if he decided to kill him.
Childe doesn’t answer. “You told me before you passed out that you were defecting from Liyue.”
Zhongli gives him a measured look, eyes looking like molten gold in the firelight.
“My people do not wish for war,” Zhongli replies watching the fire crackle between them. “But the advisors to Rex Lapis crave power. They believe expansion is the only way to ensure prosperity.”
Childe listens, sceptical, but there was no mistaking the bitterness in Zhongli’s voice. He had seen firsthand what the war had done to his own people—families sending their last sons to the front just for a chance at survival.
“I will need you to say it,” Childe says, rising from where he’s seated to approach the bed. HIs hand is on his sword, but he doesn’t pull it out. Zhongli looks at his hand on his hilt, then back up at him.
“Will you kill me if I don’t?” he asks quietly. There is a hint of a Liyuean accent in his words,, and Childe is reminded that there is little mercy in war. “Yes,” he replies.
Zhongli nods, and Childe waits until he speaks. When it seems like the man wouldn’t say a word, he rises, fist curled over his chest and stands right in front of Childe. “I am Zhongli, of the Guili plains, soldier of the 12th Battalion, 31st Infantry Regiment. I have defected from Liyue and no longer serve their Leader, Morax.”
Childe is both amused and impressed, “Do you wish to serve Snezhnaya and its Tsar?”
“I wish this war would end,” Zhongli replies, and Childe can see in his eyes it's the truth. He finally lowers his hand from his sword, glancing down at the dishevelled state of Zhongli’s robes, which have slipped off his shoulders.
“I will send someone to fetch you rations and suitable clothes,” he tells him.
++++
Even dressed in a soldier’s uniform Zhongli still shivers, though nowhere as bad as the tremors when Childe found him. After giving ZHongli enough layers to retain warmth on his lithe form, Childe introduces Zhongli to his squadron, claiming him as a defector. The soldiers were not convinced, shooting him some looks and whispering amongst themselves.
“I know you think that Liyue is the enemy,” Zhongli breaks the tension, speaking in the common tongue, “But we are men just like you are, who are tired of war that only those in power wage. Most of us don’t wish to fight, but we must do so regardless.” every eye is on him, but Zhongli doesn’t falter from the attention. “I thank you for extending your kindness to an enemy.”
Childe raises a brow, as one soldier asks, “Who’s side are you on?”
Zhongli, rubbing his hands together answers, “I know Liyue attacked first. You have every right not to trust me, but I give you my word, I took my escape from them as soon as I saw it.”
Childe sees them murmur, deciding whether to believe him or not. “Alright men,” he says, “there is still much to be done. To your drills and your watches.”
They reluctantly disperse, leaving Zhongli and Childe to their respective positions.
“What now?” Zhongli asks, rubbing his nose with his gloves.
“What do you mean soldier?” he grins, jesting. “You should join the rest of men for drills, after all, you’re one of us now.”
“Drills?” Zhongli mutters, but Childe catches it. “If you wanted a vacation, Mr. Zhongli, you should have defected to Mondstat. In Snezhnaya, every man fights.” With that he leaves him to find his way, with his own duties to attend to.
++++
In his brief moments of privacy, Childe writes to his family. To his father and brother about the war, about the troops that have been deployed to Liyue and how they fare, to his mother and sisters that yes, he is fine, no, there isn't any reason to worry, and hopefully, he will be home soon. He writes this time to his brother, about the defected Liyuean soldier. Zhongli is his name, of the Gulli plains, soldier of the 12th Battalion, 31st Infantry Regiment. He is undecided about what this means for the war, and wonders if he should kill him. He sends the letter by eagle, as he does with most of his personal correspondence that need no military distribution.
Zhongli sleeps in the barracks with the other men, who are beginning to warm up to him. He tells them stories of Liyue, what it is like, and things he misses from childhood. Childe heard some men discussing it nearly a week into Zhongli joining their camp, how everyone goes quiet when Zhongli returns and begs him to tell them about Liyue.
“Listening to bedtime stories to fall asleep, Ivan?” he jokes to one of his men, a man who stood hardened at the age of fifty-something.
“You forget you have not seen most of this war Lieutenant,” Ivan says back, not angrily. “Some of us have fought for nearly a decade, including the skirmishes before war was officially declared. Some of us don't mind a story or two.”
That night, he lingers outside the barracks, listening to Zhongli’s rich timbre and accented words tell the men of his favourite legend, of the Yakshas that served the first Iteration of Rex Lapis, and their conquests throughout Liyue. He unwillingly finds himself listening with rapt attention.
“Liyue is moulded by war, it has always been,” Zhongli finishes, sadness in his voice.
“Do you miss it?” a soldier asks.
“Who among us doesn’t miss home,” someone else says.
Zhongli chuckles his agreement, “I think we all miss home, but I don’t think Liyue has been my home for a long time.”
“If Liyue has so many soldiers, why do you guys never riot and overthrow the King? Is he really a god as they say?”
Childe perks up at the information, listening attentively.
“Rex Lapis is truly a god in all manners. Every year, he descends to remind his people who they serve. Liyue has never been without their god. He can destroy an army of a thousand men in just a few seconds.”
“Snezhnaya has no chance against such a foe,” Childe hears someone else say, “Unless the Tsar is secretly a God-King too.”
“This war was waged by men,” Zhongli says, “Rex Lapis would exterminate those who threaten Liyue, I have seen it before with my own eyes. But this is not his war.”
“Those in power are all like that. Our own Tsar killed his own brother for the throne, did you know?”
The conversation takes a turn to gossip, but instead of scolding his men he let’s them be, thinking of what Ivan had told him earlier. Instead, the eagle he sent catches his attention, and he returns to his tent to find her perched and waiting, tiny parchment tied to her leg. He offers her some dried meat from his pouch for her journey which she eagerly takes.
He sits and unfurls the parchment, his brother’s script clear and precise.
Our informants have no information about a Zhongli of Guilli. From his title, he should matter too little to be of any importance. You need not kill him, inform me if he has any information.
So, it seems that Zhongli truly was defecting from Liyue indeed. He must have been lucky to escape, but not lucky enough to end up on the enemy shore.
++++
Childe, though being the leader of his squadron does not shirk his duties, preferring to eat, train and spar with his men. Despite being young, which was most of his men’s quarrel with him when he was recently appointed, he still tries to command his men from a position of understanding. There had been rumours that he got the position from being from a high-ranking family (he was) or from having someone in a superior military position get him the job (he did). If he wanted to simply wield power over people, he would have stayed in the mountains, in the snowy palace of Zapolyarny where he could comfortably do so. He came here to help, to learn, and most importantly help in defending his homeland. He wasn’t going to waste his time doing anything that didnt lead toward that goal, as mundane as it was, as much as he itched to have the manpower to take Liyue in a head to head battle that they would emerge the victor.
But Snezhnaya would not have a favourable outcome, and reality was reality as he learned very early on in his post. He had not thought it exceedingly glamorous, but it still thrust him into a world he was not fully prepared for. He had since gotten used to the bed lice and pickled carrots, but like everyone else, he was simply weary.
It was his turn on drills today, and he chose his weapon for practice from the racks. He wasn't exactly proficient at the bow and arrow, but he wasn't terrible either. The men gathered at the shore, throwing empty barrels and letting the ocean pulled them father and father in. This was how they usually practised their shot, fighting the fog for vision as most of their opponents came on ships.
He fitted his bow, focusing on his target and aiming. Long black hair caught his vision from the corner of his eye and he released too early, attention waning. “Shit,” he cursed, watching the arrow land a few meters short of the barrel he was aiming for. He turned to the side to see Zhongli next to him, poised firmly as he took his shot. His shoulders were wide and rigid, eyes narrowed in concentration. Snezhnayan uniforms looked good on him, he noted, swallowing. But then again, Zhongli looked like he would look good in any attire, especially with his long dark hair that was typical of Liyuean’s and his amber-coloured eyes that seemed nearly liquid in the light. Childe wasnt sure if that was a feature of most Liyueans, but it was definitely the most captivating of them.
Zhongli lands his arrow into the barrel some distance from the one Childe was aiming for and smiles slightly, turning to Childe with a raised brow. A challenge perhaps?
“Something to say, Mr. Zhongli?” He asks, restringing his bow.
“Nothing to say,” the man replies, “Just wondering why a Lieutenant is such a lousy shot.”
“Ha!” Childe barks, in good humour despite the clear jab. “I am training, as we all are.”
He shoots a closer barrel this time and lands the shot. It's less than impressive, but at least he didnt miss.
“I’ve heard rumors,” Zhongli hums, landing a shot on his barrel a second time. “You did not get your position based on your own merits. There are others in your battalion more skilled in combat.”
“Is that so?” Childe says, stringing his arrow again. He takes aim for the first barrel he targeted.
“Is battle skill all it takes to be a commander in Liyue?”
“Among other things,” Zhongli replies.
“I suppose my men have other things as well, and I do not?”
“I didnt say that,” Zhongli replies.
Childe grunts and takes the shot, missing again. He’s slightly pissed off the wind does not want to cooperate with him today.
Zhongli silently put another arrow into his bow, taking the shot and landing it where Childe could not. It's a blatant provocation. “Shall I teach you, lieutenant?”
“I don’t need your instruction.” He strings another arrow, aiming slightly left so the arrow bears right in the wind. He misses.
Zhongli’s voice now is amused, “Are you certain? Liyueans always know their targets, and never miss.”
Childe wouldn’t normally back down from a challenge, but the bow has always been his worst weapon. “I will practice my spear instead,” he announces. Zhongli smirks back, “By all means.”
“Why don't you join me, Mr. Zhongli? How about a spar?” Childe is fairly confident in his technique. This would be quite fun.
Zhongli tilts his head as he releases his next arrow, hitting a barrel that had floated out further than the rest. Through the fog, you could barely see the arrow, but the barrel bobs wildly, meaning the arrow landed it’s target. “I suppose my guandao could use some practice.” He agrees, meeting Childe’s eyes. The colour of his eyes looks like Sumeru imported honey from the palace, and Childe whips his head away as he makes his way to the sparring field.
Childe discards his cloak- cumbersome when fighting, and glanced at Zhongli as he chose his weapon. He pulled out a spear, testing the weight in his hands. Just heavy enough for his needs. Zhongli finally chose his weapon and strode to meet him, stance firm and ready.
Their eyes meet, and Childe attributed the warmth in his veins to the anticipation of the upcoming battle. The air between them was electric, the frost-laced wind doing little to cool the heat on his skin. Childe rolled his shoulders, tightening his grip on the shaft of his spear, a taunting grin cutting sharp against the cold. Across from him, Zhongli stood with measured stillness, twirling his weapon once in a lazy arc, golden eyes half-lidded in something that looked almost like amusement.
"You’re stalling," Childe taunted, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. "What, afraid I’ll knock you on your ass?"
Zhongli tilted his head slightly, tapping the blunt end of his spear against the frozen ground. "Confidence is admirable," he murmured. "Recklessness, however—"
Childe didn’t let him finish. He lunged forward in a blur of movement, his spear slicing through the air with vicious intent. Zhongli deflected the strike with ease, the clash of their weapons ringing out over the snowy terrain. Childe pressed on, relentless in his assault—thrust, feint, spin—each movement precise, yet reckless in its aggression.
But Zhongli did not falter.
He moved like flowing water, absorbing every strike, redirecting force rather than meeting it head-on. His gaze never wavered, watching, analyzing, waiting. Childe grits his teeth, twisting his body mid-air for a downward strike, only for Zhongli to pivot just enough for the attack to skim harmlessly past.
"You’re fast," Zhongli observes, voice maddeningly calm. "But predictable."
Childe huffs a laugh, sweat beginning to bead at his temple despite the cold. "Is that so?" He adjusts his grip, lowering his stance. "Guess I’ll just have to surprise you."
With a sudden shift, Childe spun his spear behind him and lunged low, sweeping toward Zhongli’s legs. It was a move designed to force an opponent off balance, but Zhongli anticipates it, stepping back at the last second. But Childe wasn’t done.
At the last possible moment, Childe reverses his momentum, using the blunt end of his weapon to propel himself upward. His knee nearly connects with Zhongli’s chest, but Zhongli, ever unshakable, twisted his spear with impossible precision, catching Childe’s weapon in a lock and wrenching him mid-air.
Before Childe could recover, Zhongli hooks his foot behind Childe’s ankle and sends him sprawling onto his back.
The world spun. The snow beneath him felt colder than it should have.
Then, warmth—
Zhongli’s knee presses firmly against Childe’s thigh, the tip of his spear hovering just beneath his chin. His free hand is braced against the ground beside Childe’s head, golden eyes flickering with quiet victory.
Childe lay there for a moment, breathless, gaze caught in the sharp intensity of Zhongli’s own. A surprised grin curls at his lips. "I must say, I wasn’t expecting you to best me so easily."
Zhongli merely hummed, his voice dangerously smooth. "I take no pleasure in unnecessary violence. But in matters of discipline…" He pressed his spear just slightly closer, the sharp edge barely grazing the line of Childe’s jaw. "One must be thorough."
Childe exhaled a slow breath, his pulse thrumming in his throat. "Is that so?" His grin widened. "What sort of discipline did you have in mind, Mr Zhongli?"
,Zhongli seems to hesitate. Not in uncertainty, but in contemplation.
Then, he smirks. The bastard.
In one smooth motion, he pushes off of Childe and stands, twirling his spear once before planting it into the frozen ground. "I believe I’ve had enough training for today. Wouldn’t you agree, Lieutenant?"
Childe lays still sprawled in the snow, blood still rushing. A defeat that still somehow felt like a victory. How interesting.
Zhongli returns his weapon and begins walking away.
Childe props himself up on his elbows, watching the older man retreat with a gleam in his eye. "I’ll win next time," he promises.
Zhongli doesn’t look back, but there’s a smile in his voice as he replies, "I look forward to it."
Sparring becomes common between them, and Childe enjoys every second of it. Zhongli taunts him with the skill to back it up, and he feels the unrivalled motivation to best him. No matter the craft, Zhongli is adept. Sparring with swords, spears or broadswords, and an excellent shot with a bow. Childe eventually relents and lets Zhongli instruct him, teaching him how to aim and test the wind before releasing an arrow.
The Liyuean is extremely skilled, and Childe feels a sense of pride as he demonstrates Liyuean spear styles and the best counters to his soldiers. Zhongli was strong in ways Childe had never seen before—measured, patient, devastatingly precise. He didn’t just fight; he wove his attacks with the elegance of an artist painting strokes upon a battlefield. Every move had purpose, each step calculated as if he already knew the outcome of the fight. It was awe-inspiring, and, if Childe was being honest with himself, just a little bit intoxicating.
How could someone be this composed, this untouchable, and still look like Zhongli did? Battle never seems to ruffle him, his golden eyes flickered like embers even in the coldest nights, his movements like poetry in motion. And his voice—deep, rich, velvety smooth—held the weight of something that Childe could never quite decipher.
There was a thrill in being around Zhongli, a raw, maddening urge to provoke, to challenge, to force a crack in that perfect composure. Childe longed to see him falter, to break the serenity with something reckless and real. And yet, at the same time, he wanted to bask in the calm Zhongli carried, the effortless grace he seemed to embody.
++++
Childe receives an eagle one night from his brother.
There has not been a sighting in over a week from any direction. They are planning something.
Childe mulls this over, summoning Zhongli over to his tent. The hour is late, and Zhongli enters with open interest. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Lieutenant?”
Childe is beguiled but asks him to sit before he continues. “I need you to tell me what Liyue is planning.”
Zhongli’s face darkens at the request, but his expression remains unguarded. “An attack, larger than before. But I truly don’t know what kind, I was not privy to the details.”
Childe nods, he did not expect that Zhongli would be. “Then we increase patrols,” he decides, “I will send for extra weapons and as many men as we can—”
Childe is interrupted by the sounds of shouting and explosions. The first explosion shattered the quiet of the night, turning the cold air thick with heat and smoke. The barracks were under attack.
Childe was on his feet in an instant, barking orders as the chaos unfolded around them.
“Sound the signals! “ he yells, the signal horns going off right after. There’s immediate movement, yelling of being under attack and the flurry of resting soldiers from their tents to grab weapons at the alert.
In the distance, Childe could see a party of Liyuans approaching. The enemy soldiers wore blue and grey uniforms, moving like shadows in the snow, lobbing hand bombs that sent plumes of fire and debris into the sky. The barracks were alight, wooden structures crackling under the sudden assault.
"Hold the line!" Childe shouted, voice carrying over the battlefield. "We fight to the last!"
Zhongli was already beside him, spear in hand, golden eyes gleaming in the firelight. “Whos’s side are you on, now?” he asks. This was it, if there was a time that Zhongli had to prove his loyalty. Zhongli hoists his spear closer, “Ours, of course.” Together, they waded into the fray, cutting down enemies with lethal efficiency. Childe fought with ferocity, spinning through the battlefield like a whirlwind, his movements driven by instinct and honed skill. Zhongli, by contrast, was measured and precise, every strike placed with unwavering certainty.
They fought back to back, their movements synchronizing in a deadly dance of steel. Childe lunged at a soldier, knocking the man’s weapon aside before driving his spear through his chest. Another came from behind, but Zhongli was there first, his spear cutting through the air in a graceful arc, dispatching the attacker before he could reach Childe.
"You’re getting slow," Zhongli murmured, barely out of breath.
Childe grinned through the blood and smoke. "Or maybe you’re finally catching up."
Then—
A sudden burst of smoke filled his vision, thick and choking. Coughing, Childe swung blindly, barely catching the shape of an enemy soldier moving through the haze. A sharp pain exploded through his shoulder as the weapon struck true. His vision blurred, the warmth of blood soaking through his coat.
With a snarl, he pushed through the pain, twisting his spear and driving it into his attacker’s gut. The soldier gasped, a gurgling sound, before crumpling to the ground. Childe staggered back, gripping his shoulder as his vision swam.
Zhongli was there in an instant, shielding him as another enemy rushed forward. A single, powerful thrust of his spear sent the man sprawling, and in the dim firelight, Zhongli’s face was unreadable.
"You’re hurt," he stated, voice low.
Childe shook his head, forcing himself to stand straighter. "Not enough to stop."
Zhongli’s eyes flickered over him, assessing, before he nodded. "Then let’s end this."
The two fought on, side by side, until the enemy forces finally retreated, the battlefield littered with bodies and the last embers of destruction fading into the snow.
This wasn’t a fair fight, it was a sneak attack and Childe was burning with rage. He’s had battles and injuries of course but this is the first time he has experienced loss . Half his squadron is down, some with fatal injuries. About a quarter more have been hurt, him among them. The medic team is slowly making their way through the men with the more serious injuries, but the supplies are not enough .
He seethes through a letter requesting more, more bandages, more weapons and more men, as well as a detailed report of the attack and requests for reports of outposts nearby who did not respond. He denies the medic, directing him to a soldier with part of a leg missing, and retreats to his tent. It was mostly unscathed, being further away from the front line and his stomach flips when he thinks of why, of all the men that lost their lives by simply being unlucky.
He attempts to peel his clothes off his wound, blood dried and hardened around the wound but still oozing. Childe mumbles a curse as he forcibly rips the fabric of where it scabs. The burning only momentarily dulls the ache, he cannot even move his left shoulder without sharp pangs of pain.
“Allow me,” Zhongli stands at the entrance of the tent, bandages and ointment in his hands. Childe hesitates, but Zhongli marches forward anyway, sitting next to him and preparing the ointment for the wound. Child hisses as it touches the ripped flesh, jerking away and immediately regretting it as his shoulder throbs.
Zhongli waits patiently as he adjusts, and goes back to applying ointment.
“You proved yourself today,” Childe tells him. Zhongli looks at him evenly before setting the ointment down and reaching for the bandages. “I did not realise there was something to prove.”
“You are still from the enemy nation, forgive me for being overly cautious,” Childe grouses.
As Zhongli bandages the wound, his touch is careful, almost reverent. “I regret that you were hurt.”
“It’s not your fault,” Childe murmured, watching the way Zhongli’s fingers lingered over the wound.
Zhongli was silent for a moment before speaking. “I do not like killing.”
Childe blinks. He recalled the battle, how Zhongli had incapacitated soldiers more than he had killed. It was rare to find a soldier who fought like that.
“A shame. You’d be so good at it,” Childe says. “Snezhnayans…we lack precision. But we fight because we must. There is no art to it.”
“Maybe,” Zhongli begins, hand still resting on his wound, “I should return to Liyue.”
“Why would you go now? You’ve already forged your bonds here.”
“No bonds can keep me where I don’t belong. I fear your men will look unfavourably on me now, after this attack claimed their kinsmen.”
“You showed that you are loyal to Sneznaya in this battle, you don't need to worry.”
“But I'm not loyal to Snezhnaya. I haven't sworn my allegiance to you Tsar, I have no allies. I have no place here.”
“You have me. I will vouch on your behalf,” Childe assures, reaching for Zhongli’s hand with his. Zhongli’s eyes search his, before falling to his wound. “How can you guarantee that?” Zhongli asked.
Childe hesitates, then decides. “The rumours you have heard are true. I did get placed here because of my position, but I am not a commander’s son. I am Tartaglia, the fourth prince of Snezhnaya.”
Zhongli’s eyes flick back up to his face, golden and surprised, “Then why are you not in your palace in the mountains?”
Childe sighs, “Because my brother is next in line for the throne. If I want to help my people, this is the only way. No one is open to a diplomatic negotiation, we have tried.”
Zhongli’s gaze softened. He reached out, fingers brushing against Childe’s bandaged shoulder.
“Tartaglia, is that your name?” Zhongli whispers lowly, his fingers trailing his injured arm. Childe shakes his head, “That is my title. My name is Ajax.”
“Ajax,” Zhongli repeats, much like Childe did when trying to remember Zhongli’s name. He feels fingers lift his chin, lifting his eyes until they meet that molten gaze. As Zhongli moves closer, he’s careful not to jostle his shoulder. Their lips meet in a rush of heat, Childe gripping Zhongli to pull him closer. Zhongli’s arms wrap around him carefully, steady and warm. For the first time since the war began, Childe let himself lean into the warmth.
Days later, caravans came with more supplies, and more men, if they could be called that. Young men, barely passed their teenage years reported to Childe for their assignments. When he checked his correspondence, the reason was apparent. These are all the men we have left. Most outposts in your area were attacked simultaneously, no camp could spare men more than you could. These new soldiers were even younger than him, and even less ready.
He says this to Zhongli on the shore one morning, as the other accompanies him on patrol.
“They are barely men, they should be home with their families. This war can't continue any longer,” he confides. Zhongli looks concerned, but they both know there is no solution.
Suddenly, the horns sound. He scans the horizon, but doesn’t see anything. “There!” Zhongli points, a Liyeuan ship approaches fast, men already on boats heading to the shore.
“We’re on the frontlines this time,” Childe says, shouting instructions as soldiers come running. He and Zhongli take the end where the ship is heading. He gowns as the new recruits appear, having to enter the fray.
“Your shoulder hasn’t healed,” Zhongli reminds him. “I’ll write Rex Lapis a letter and ask him to wait until it heals then.” Zhongli reluctantly laughs as they prepare for the men approaching the shore.
“Keep them in the water as much as possible,” Childe instructs, “The further in they get the more damage they can cause.”
Their numbers look pathetic by comparison, but this is all they have. As the first soldiers approach they fall into a familiar dance. Stab, parry, block, stab. The soldiers keep coming but they hold them off, keeping them from advancing past the shore. At some point, Childe’s wound tears open again. He curses as the warm blood leaks down his chest, contrasting the cold of the water at his feet. His left arm is more or less useless, but he uses it as a shield by charging into an enemy soldier before striking him with his sword.
“Look out!” Zhongli calls. He spins, in an attempt to locate the attacker, but its too late as an arrow buries itself in his stomach. He groans, stumbling back as another soldier charges at him, seeing an opening. This time, Zhongli placed himself in front of him, blocking a fatal strike. The Liyuean soldier who had attacked froze, eyes widening as he registered Zhongli’s face.
Words were exchanged in Liyuean. And then, before Childe could react, Zhongli was seized, dragged towards a retreating boat by four men.
Childe looks around, realising the bodies that were littered around him, both Liyuean and Snezhnayan alike. There is barely anyone left, except a few on the shore holding off enemy soldiers. Weakened from blood loss, he stumbles forward reaching for Zhongli even as darkness threatens to consume his vision.
Zhongli flails, attempting to shake off the soldiers. He manages to turn turned back, calling out. “Ajax, go back! ”
The last thing Childe saw before he collapsed was the frozen waves swallowing the retreating ship, taking Zhongli away with them.