Chapter Text
Before his heart had the chance to slow and his breaths had time to steady, before the last drops of the Primordial Sea receded, before Lyney even had time to be thankful for his life in the wake of the Fontaine disaster, Father had already put him back to work.
The House of the Hearth never really did rest after all. Fontaine was in dire need of reconstruction, and Father had made it clear that they were to have a hand in it all. Though to the rest of Fontaine her attitude would come off as patriotism, Lyney knew better– Father wanted the nation in the Fatui’s debt, and rebuilding Fontaine from the ground up was a surefire way to get there. It was calculated and logical, and if the people believed her to be kind, well, Father wasn’t going to stop them.
The situation was desperate and it was all hands on deck, working with the Spina to comfort the bereaved and construct new homes for those impacted by the worst of the floods. The other children of the Hearth snuck coffee and Fonta to their assignments, counting on the sugar high and caffeine to carry them through long, long days and the even longer nights.
Clearly they needed all the help they could get– which was why Lyney was shocked to find that Father intended to send him away from it all, effective immediately.
“I’m sorry– forgive my rudeness, Father– you want me to go to Snezhnaya?”
Arlecchino raised an eyebrow at him. Immediately, Lyney inclined his head in respect, but she motioned for him to relax. “You may speak freely, Lyney. What are your reservations?”
He chewed his lip anxiously. “It’s just– there is so much work to be done in Fontaine. What business could possibly require me to travel so far when I could be of use here?”
She hummed as she set down her pen, directing her attention away from the paperwork before her (“Budgeting”, she’d explained before, a task she found as loathsome as it was necessary) and looked Lyney directly in the eye, expression neutral but gaze ever-sharp, piercing.
“I’m sure you understand my intentions for your future in the House. What responsibilities you will be expected to uphold, and what role I hope for you to secure in the future.” She let the subtext hang unsaid in the air: Lyney was to be the next Knave.
He nodded. “Yes, Father.”
“Therefore I’m sure you understand this entails being knowledgeable of, and cooperating with, the other right hands of the Tsaritsa.”
“I… do,” he assented warily, afraid he was missing her true meaning.
“Then you will realize why I’m appointing you to return this to its rightful owner.” Arlecchino reached into her pocket, revealing a dull Hydro vision, framed in the pointed silver of the Fatui. She held it out for him to examine, and Lyney took it into his gloved hands, thumb tracing the hard gem. “Childe suffered grievous injuries in his service to this nation, and has been sent home to recover. It was only after he was on his way that the Traveler informed me that his vision was in their possession, and requested I return it. Of course, I myself have matters to attend to here. I expect you’ll understand why I’m entrusting this task to you.”
“I see,” he said, the pieces falling into place at last. He closed his hand around the vision and bowed solemnly to Father. “I’ll gather what I need for the journey and leave at once.”
—
Lyney knew three things about the eleventh Harbinger.
First was this: None of the other Harbingers seemed fond of him. Father appeared to take most kindly to him, save for the Rooster, and even then, she could be described as ambivalent at best. She took care to remain neutral in her opinions of the other Harbingers (at least in front of the children), but Lyney did not miss the way she pressed her lips tightly together upon hearing the news of Childe’s arrest– nor did he miss the glint of pride in her eyes when it came out that Childe was the one who bought so much time for the nation, single handedly holding back the whale for weeks on end.
He wondered briefly if, in slightly different circumstances, Childe might have been sent to the House instead of being scouted as a “feral teenager”, as he’d heard La Signora call him, on one of her visits before she passed (her gifts to the children remained scattered about the House, and they missed her more for these than because of any real love they had for her).
Second– on a somewhat related note– Childe was the youngest of the Harbingers, hardly a few years older than Lyney himself. It was unfathomable that someone of his age could ascend to such a high rank on battle prowess alone. Or so Lyney had thought– he'd known Childe was powerful, but seeing him in his Foul Legacy transformation even after weeks of vigorous fighting and still having the cheek to give Neuvillette a thumbs down of all gestures before sinking back into the abyss? It had cleared any shadow of a doubt Lyney held about the Harbinger's abilities.
The final thing Lyney knew for certain about the youngest Harbinger was that he was a restless, agitated thing, moreso since he arrived in Fontaine.
“The Tsaritsa’s rabid dog,” one of the older children had whispered, sticking his chin out in defiance when Lyney had given him a reprimanding glare.
“What? It’s true. He’d fight the whole damn country with his bare hands if it didn’t risk starting an international conflict.”
“Yeah,” his sister had piped up. “That’s why she sends him to do all the dirty work. When was the last time you saw any of the other Harbingers brushing knuckles with street rats and thieves?”
“Hush now,” Lyney had silenced them sharply. “Or do you want Father to hear about your insolence?” Neither child took the threat seriously. Lyney wondered, not for the first time, if his heart was too soft to become the Father in the eyes of the House.
—
The journey to Morespoke is three days in fair weather, meaning it took Lyney a week. Snezhnaya was plagued by snowstorms, the likes of which dwarf those of any other nation. Still, they came and went depending on the season. Lyney simply had the misfortune of traveling during a late northern downdraft, or so the locals in a tavern three days back had told him. Archons forbid he ever encounter a full blown blizzard.
Morespoke’s lone inn was a rickety thing on the edge of town, but easy to find with its lanterns still flaring long into the night. The barkeep raised an eyebrow at him when he set down his bags and requested a coffee, before handing him the most bitter blend he’d ever had the misfortune of tasting. Still, she stared him down, challenging him; Lyney flashes his trademarked winning grin, before downing the bitter sludge, eyes watering with the effort of maintaining the false pleasantry.
“Give the poor kid a break, Telma.” The door to the inn swung open and swept a chill in along with the new patron. “Or his face will fracture with the effort of trying to win your good graces.”
Telma’s eyes softened. “Ajax!” She called, already reaching beneath the counter for a beverage. “How’re you healin’ up? Leg still giving you trouble?”
The man took the stool beside Lyney, accepting the drink before pulling down his muffler and winking at Lyney. Clear blue eyes and a tuft of orange hair barely poked out from beneath his hood, but Lyney recognized them in an instant.
“...Rough since the wagon accident,” Childe was saying, removing his coat and gloves to expose a worn, cable knit sweater. Lyney glanced sidelong at him and the deep abrasions creeping out onto his hands and neck beneath his clothes. That’s the story, is it? “But you know me. I’ll be up and at ‘em in no time,” he finished.
“Scared us all half to death when you got here, y’know. Your poor ma is lucky that baby brother of yours wasn’t around to see you.”
Childe visibly cringed but recovered swiftly. “Nothing to worry about, like I said. What I do have to worry about is the sort of coffee you’ve given my friend here.”
“Nonsense,” Lyney said lightly. If he’d had a real hat instead of this stupid woolen one meant to stave off the snow, he’d have tipped it at her. Instead, he took another polite sip of the coffee-adjacent sludge and sputtered out, “It’s wonderful. Lovely as yourself, I’ve gotta say.”
Telma looked nothing short of offended. Childe, on the other hand, couldn’t contain his laughter.
“Can you get another drink for my friend? Same one as mine,” he said finally, taking a swig of his own beverage. A flush covered his cheeks, perhaps from the warmth of the drink or the roaring heat in the hearth, and he ran a clumsy hand through his hair, sweeping it back from his brow, boyish and full of firelight.
Telma poured a short glass and slid it across the counter. “On the house. But only because I’m fond of Ajax.” She gave him a final, hard look before stepping aside to attend to other guests.
Finally, finally it was just him and the Harbinger. Lyney wasted no time picking up his glass and raising it to Childe.
“Well, if it isn’t the savior of Fontaine,” Lyney smiled theatrically, still careful to keep his voice low. “I must admit, I’m flattered to be called the friend of…” His voice trailed off into an awkward laugh.
“Ajax,” Childe prompted, reaching out to shake Lyney’s hand.
“Lyney,” he returned, gloved hand clasping Ajax’s bare one.
“Of course– one of the great magicians. I saw your performance in the Opera Epiclese.”
“Oh? I seem to remember you putting on quite a show for us there as well,” Lyney smiled slyly, leaning into the short back of the barstool. “Monsieur Neuvillette found your gesture quite amusing.” Childe flushed in embarrassment and Lyney felt his tension ease, back in his element. He hadn’t quite expected to run into Childe so soon– at the very least he thought he’d have a decent night’s rest before going to his home– but he found he didn’t mind. After a week in the blinding Snezhnayan landscape, the comfort of a warm room, a drink, and surprisingly good company were more than he could ask for. He reached for the cup, taking a sip that immediately caused his eyes to start watering. It burned the whole way down his throat and he could feel the fire in his stomach, unpleasantly acidic with the coffee. The pain must have shown on his face, because Childe burst into laughter once more.
“You hold your liquor well, especially for someone not from Snezhnaya,” he grinned. Lyney tried to discreetly swipe at the tears forming, but Childe took a napkin from the counter and held it out in offering. “Most tourists are eager to try, but end up spitting it out all over the counter. That’s why Telma hates everyone who isn’t a regular.”
“Is that so?” Lyney coughed.
“Yep. If you can down the whole glass without hurling, I bet you’ll win her respect.”
The thought frankly made Lyney quite nauseous.
“Maybe you should eat something, though,” Childe continued. “Wouldn’t want to burn a hole through your stomach.”
He was right, of course. But the extended journey had been taxing on his wallet, and Lyney still needed funds to spend the night at the inn– not to mention eat on the way back. He was resourceful (nimble fingered, he thought) but despised using his talents for petty thievery. He smiled politely at Childe, and took another burning sip of his drink, imagining the warmth bleeding into the frozen corners of his body.
“I’ll have to pass on that. In fact, I should get ready to turn in. But, before I do–” Lyney flicked his wrist, a simple maneuver he normally used for card tricks, and held Childe’s vision between his fingers “–I can’t forget to give you this.”
Childe’s eyes lit up, and for a moment Lyney tried to imagine what it’d be like to be away from his own vision for so many weeks. Immediately, the thought made him uncomfortable; he’d heard horror stories from Inazuman tourists describing the dead-eyed stare of those who’d had their visions taken, the motionless, hollowed-out husks of people they were said to become.
Childe didn’t fall apart, though. I wonder why?
Not that he had time to worry about it. Childe was looking at him aglow with happiness at getting his vision back– or so Lyney thought.
“How did you do that?” He asked, not even reaching for his vision.
“What?”
“How did you just make it appear? Can you do it again?” It was childish, but endearing. Lyney indulged him, repeating the trick with embellishments this time, twirling it between his fingers and making it vanish and reappear again before their very eyes. Childe marvelled, watching with intense focus but clearly unable to follow.
“How?” he breathed.
Lyney flicked his fingers one last time, depositing the vision in Childe’s lap.
“Spend some more time with me, and you may just learn my secrets,” he winked.
—
Despite his protests, Childe insisted that Lyney stay at his home during the night.
“You travelled all this way because of me. It doesn’t feel right that you stay alone in the inn and immediately head back. Besides,” he smiled cheekily. “I’d love for my brother to see your tricks.”
They had hardly made it two steps into the house, windswept and rosy-cheeked, before the brother in question raced across the foyer and leapt into Childe’s arms, clinging to him more tightly than a Beryl conch in Fontaine’s seas. With his red hair and sparkling blue eyes, he bore a striking resemblance to his older brother, and clear fondness radiated from Childe in return– his face brightened and for the briefest moment, Lyney glimpsed the moment Childe set down his troubles in the light of his brother’s joy.
Not for the first time since he set out for Snezhnaya, the dull ache of homesickness settled in his bones.
“Where’d you go, big brother? Mama’s real mad, ‘cause you were s’posed to be resting. She said–” he pulled away to make a comically stern face– “‘When that no good rascal sets foot in my home again I’ll–’”
Childe clamped a hand over the boy’s mouth and glanced at Lyney apologetically. “Don’t worry about that. Now Teucer, don’t you see we have a guest? Come on, be polite now. This is big brother Lyney.”
Teucer scrambled down and looked at him with wide eyes, soaking in his attire. “Are you a toy salesman too?”
“I’m sorry– ouch!” A sharp elbow dug into his side. “I mean, yes!” Lyney amended hurriedly. “I travel all across Teyvat to… sell toys.”
“That’s how Lyney and I met.”
Teucer frowned and stepped back, looking Lyney up and down. Finding something lacking, he crossed his arms and huffed. “You don’t look like a toy salesman. You look nothing like big brother Ajax.”
Childe sputtered but Lyney took it in stride, kneeling down to Teucer’s height. He lowered his voice in a dramatic whisper. “Well, Teucer. It’s because I’ve got a secret. My main job is being a magician.”
“Magic isn’t real, stupid.”
“Teucer!”
Lyney laughed and waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll have to prove it to you sometime. In the meantime, why don’t you run along and play with this.” Reaching into his coat, Lyney retrieved a small metal action figure in the shape of a ruin guard.
“Mr. Cyclops? Where did you get that?” Teucer glanced back to the floor where he’d left it, before snatching it up and cradling it close.
Lyney winked. “Magic.”
—
Despite Teucer’s relayed threats, Childe’s mother wasn’t awake to scold him when he and Lyney tiptoed into the living room. Perhaps in the light of day she’d been furious, just as Teucer had said; right now, though, in the dwindling flame of the hearth, she just seemed exhausted. Seeing her hunched in the rocking chair, the orange hue of the embers camouflaging her gray hairs, the lines on her face smoothed from sleep– Lyney got the uncanny feeling that he was looking into a vision of Childe’s future.
He was being ridiculous, of course. It was already jarring enough that the most violent of the Harbingers had come from a place so domestic.
Childe held a finger to his lips as he reached for Lyney’s wrist, motioning for silence. They tip-toed past his old, sleeping mother into the kitchen, and Lyney couldn’t help but glance between the pair, searching for the rift that invariably opens between mothers and sons, eager to swallow them whole.
—
Childe’s kitchen was warm, and the soup pressed into his hands soothed the burning in Lyney’s belly. It was a hearty thing, full of dried meat and herbs swimming in thick broth. He couldn’t help but savor it, the first homemade thing he’d had after days on the road and weeks scraping by on rations and Meropide meals.
“Is my cooking really that good?” Lyney belatedly realized he’d closed his eyes, and blinked them open to see Childe seated on the counter, leaning against the cabinets, lips turned up in a teasing half-grin.
Lyney laughed, perhaps a touch too loud, performer's mask snapping back into place with the sting of elastic on skin. Right. He was company, and reeking of aching homesickness would make him decidedly bad company.
“You made this yourself?” He asked, hoping that he wasn’t laying the theatrical tone on too thick. “It’s divine. Soothing for the soul itself, I’d say.”
“I’m glad,” Childe said in return, but his eyes were searching Lyney’s face as though he’d lost something. “When I’m home, I like to help Ma with the cooking.”
“What’s on the menu for tomorrow?”
“That depends. What do you like to eat?”
Lyney waved a hand as he drank the last of his soup. “I couldn’t possibly impose on you any longer–”
“And I couldn’t let you leave my home empty-handed.” He glanced at the door to the living room, where Lyney could still hear the creak of the old rocking chair. Almost sheepishly, Childe shrank back slightly, cheeks turning the faintest pink. “Ma will have my hide if I let a guest leave without food for the journey. She has enough to worry about without thinking that the military made me into an ill-mannered brat.”
Lyney leaned back, scanning Childe up and down for the trick, the tell, the giveaway that he was being fooled and this was all an elaborate joke. This was the bloodthirstiest Harbinger? The Tsaritsa’s sword, her rabid dog? Childe’s eyes bore into him earnestly despite their dull, jaded sheen, and he tensed ever so slightly, fingers gripping the counter as if to keep them from fidgeting. Sweat beaded at his neck– he’d shed his sweaters and his shirt had one button undone, hinting at the bruising and bandages beneath, but his skin was still meticulously covered; he was dressed far too warmly to be working by the stove. With a start, it occurred to Lyney that he was hiding the damage from his family even now, when the kids had long ago been sent to sleep.
For all the cockiness at his trial, for the brazenness with which he’d defied Neuvillette, for the energy and joy and resilience he’d shown against the Abyssal whale– the Childe before him seemed so small. Simple, even. He, like Lyney himself, was barely a man with boyhood clinging to him in tattered scraps, like clothes he’d grown out of too quickly.
He loved his Ma. He cared for his siblings. There was no trick to it Lyney could see, with his trained magician’s eyes, nor was there one he could feel, with his own desperate heart.
“All right,” Lyney said, and the tension escaped Childe with a silent sigh. “I’m partial to anything with fish.”
It was perfect, too perfect with Morespoke being a fishing town, but if Childe noticed, he didn’t care. Besides, it was the truth.
“I know just what we’ll do.”
—
Childe’s bed was small– just right for Lyney, but he struggled to imagine how Childe lay in it without his feet dangling off the edge.
“I don’t use it so much anymore,” he’d explained in a low whisper, tiptoeing over his brothers curled up on pallets on the floor. “Teucer and Anthon took turns ever since I joined the Fatui, but Ma insists I sleep in it while I heal up. You can use it for tonight. Believe me, I fit better on the floor anyway.”
It wasn’t like Lyney had long to think about it anyway. Between the heavy quilt and the twin-sized mattress and the boyish smell and the traveler’s fatigue seeping into his bones, Lyney sank into sleep faster than a stone in the Fontaine sea.