Chapter Text
CHAPTER ONE: rudini tunawangojeni
It all begins with the Captain. That is to say, it all begins with the Captain sending out one of his prized lieutenants to do a survey of Natlan prior to his departure.
“Very well, sir,” Lieutenant Alexander had said, after bowing deeply. “By the time you arrive in Natlan, we will have a comprehensive report waiting for you of the variations in concentration of Abyssal corrosion by geography.”
He departed from Zapolyarny with a small squadron of assorted researchers borrowed from a hesitant Il Dottore — (“Honestly, Captain, you know I’m stretched thin as is with Bu’er’s demand. Haven’t you got enough researchers already?”)— accompanied each by a Fatui Agent guarding the researchers from prying eyes, too-observant orphan boys and of course, the Abyss they must enter into.
Unfortunately, this is exactly why the Fatui Harbingers are gathered today.
“We embark to Natlan in a week,” the Captain explains slowly, in that deep, measured voice. “However, I have just received an unfortunate notice: my lieutenant has been infected with Abyssal Corrosion Syndrome. He is important to my plans, and I am lacking in a suitable replacement of similar talent and ability.”
“Tartaglia is needed for Project Stuzha,” The Rooster argues, shaking his head vigorously: the long feather pinned to his hat trembles along. “I am willing to lend any one of my competent lieutenants to you.”
“None of your lieutenants would suffice,” the Captain sounds out, as if exasperated, “my lieutenants have been specifically trained to fulfil both the administrative as well as the combat capabilities I require of my squadron. Your agents do not sufficiently fulfil both categories simultaneously.”
“Tartaglia is over-qualified, no?” The Regrator says languidly, a spindly hand emerging from beneath his coat to push up the shining platinum-plated spectacles perched on his thin nose. “Your lieutenants are very competent, yes, but Tartaglia is a Harbinger and is better suited for larger, grander projects than being relegated to the position of replacement for your lieutenant. He will not be satisfied by such a small position.”
“Perhaps we should ask him himself,” the Captain replies just as easily, and in a second, all eyes in the room have turned to their youngest, who has been very valiantly attempting to keep awake through the proceedings.
Tartaglia just manages to save himself from falling asleep when he realises the attention has invariably turned towards him.
“Uh.” Tartaglia says, very inelegantly. In his defense— the way these meetings usually go is that he is chosen for some task or other and by virtue of their seniority he is not technically allowed to refuse.
“Project Stuzha would be much better for your health, boy, especially after Fontaine,” Pulcinella says, his voice kindly but laced with hard expectation. His beady eyes squint towards Tartaglia’s new… additions: namely, the horns slightly jutting from beneath the rat’s nest of ginger hair, and the inky-purple, slightly shimmering scar beneath his eye.
“Natlan does not take kindly to Abyssal manifestations,” Pantalone adds primly, “and besides, you will receive a great opportunity to improve on your lacking education.”
Tartaglia wrinkles his nose. He hasn’t been to school in a decade and he’s not eager to cover for it with the Regrator of all people.
“Why did you say that!” He hears Pulcinella hiss under his breath to Pantalone. “He’s never been one for education.”
The Captain turns towards Tartaglia.
“I cannot promise that Natlan will not be perilous, especially given the sensitive and volatile nature of the projects we shall be entertaining,” the Captain murmurs, “however, I can promise that you will be able to sate your hunger for battle on the many Abyssal manifestations that we will be facing.”
Fontaine was definitely tiring, and despite the major leaps and bounds he had made in his skill, he was— well, weary. Yet he had long dreamt of battling alongside the Captain: ever since he was fifteen and laid eyes upon the man commanding his troops in battle, one hand on a frozen claymore and the other pointed outwards, his commanding voice resounding in the air.
He had just reunited with Zhongli, and he didn’t want to tell his boyfriend that he was going off to get himself killed again.
But the Captain!
“Give me… some time to think?” Tartaglia murmurs.
“Very well,” Pierro says, emerging from the shadows from where he has been overseeing the discussion. “You have three days, Tartaglia, before we automatically place you to work on Project Stuzha. Decide by then. Meeting dismissed.”
They shuffle out of the meeting room— Pulcinella hovers close to him, the diminutive man by his side. “You might want Project Stuzha, boy, we don’t want you to get arrested like in Fontaine again.”
“I’ll think about it, ‘Nella.” Tartaglia smiles awkwardly, fiddling with his fingers behind the protective shield of the white Harbinger-issue coat.
“You still have a family to get back to,” Pulcinella says sagely, placing his small hand on Tartaglia’s shoulder. With his height, it looks awkward. “The children have been clamouring to see you more, ever since they visited you in the Palace when you were recovering from Fontaine.”
“I know,” Tartaglia sighs, “but it probably isn’t a good idea to visit for now, especially with Mama…”
He shakes his head. “Nevermind. I’ll give my answer when I think a little more. I need some solitude.”
He slips off to his suites without a word more.
—
There is something to be said about the push-and-pull nature of waiting.
Zhongli’s boat back to Liyue pulls into the harbour without fanfare. Sitting in his small room in the brig, shared with two other merchants who spent much of the night speaking on economics and the burgeoning Sumeru-Liyue silk trade, he had pressed his palm to the small round window up above, and felt the glass turn from freezing in the cold arctic waters of Snezhnaya to the muggy warmth of Liyue.
When he steps from the gangway to the cobblestone of the Harbour proper, Hu Tao is there to tap her foot impatiently, an exaggerated curdled expression on her face.
‘Young man!” She declares. “You have been away for too long! Leaving me to manage the Parlour all alone!”
“Director,” He replies smoothly, urging her away from causing a commotion, though he smothers a chuckle of amusement. “I wrote my request for my leave of absence.”
“Underneath a pile of more work!” Hu Tao huffs. “An all you told me in person was ‘goodbye Hu Tao I have a very urgent situation in Snezhnaya’, and then you’re disappearing on a boat to some snowy tundra for three months!. Three months!”
“My apologies, Director.” Zhongli murmurs. “Though, I did conduct my work from Snezhnaya. Did you not receive my letters when you required my consultant work?”
“Yes, but it's all about work , and nothing about fun !” She grins. “For this, I’m punishing you! Go distribute our newest flyers for the day!”
Zhongli’s eyes widen. “Oh, Director, it seems that I have—”
“No,” Hu Tao says, stuffing into his hands a pile of flyers. “Just do this. Then you’re free for the day! Also, Xingqiu and Chongyun want all the deets about your sordid romance with that Harbinger, so be at Wanmin by seven. Bye!”
Zhongli is left, mouth gaping, as a lone flyer drifts off the pile, floating in the warm Harbour air, and it lands upon a passerby, a lady dressed in elegant robes, who screams as she looks at the morbid text calligraphied atop.
Death waits for no one! Pre-book a coffin today, half-price off!
—
Zhongli finishes handing off the flyers just shy of six-fifty. He is not one to slack, and admittedly, he did owe Hu Tao a great deal to simply let one of her prized workers off for three months on a whim. Still, it is difficult to hand out flyers with such… macabre leanings.
The superstitious folk of Liyue shy away, and it is difficult to give them out to elderly, they might consider it an insult. Young folk take them more easily, a novelty than anything else, but even then such flyers only seem to them like a scam. Another group are the ones who give him a look, as if to say, look, its Zhongli-xiansheng, whose esteem in Liyue is greater than the Tianquan’s, yet here he is, handing out flyers for a funeral parlour.
Still, Zhongli is old, and he easily ignores such looks. As one who has seen the Parlour grow from a group of ragtag exorcists cleansing bodies infected with karma and plague, to a Parlour with dedicated Directors and strong ties with the other exorcist families, he does not hold any such aspersions towards the Parlour. In fact, he sees it as his paramount duty, as one who wishes to see Liyue prosperous, to equip mortals with the means to defend themselves.
At six-fifty-five, he manages his way to Wanmin, where the round table outside the streetside restaurant has been colonised by a familiar group of youngsters.
“Zhongli- xiansheng!” Xiangling is the first to call out, a tray with two bowls of noodles precariously balancing a top in her hands. Guoba holds onto her legs to stabilise her.
“So, the man of the hour has arrived!” Xingqiu muses, raising his drink up.
“Zhongli- xiansheng, it's good to see you around the Harbour again,” Chongyun says.
“My consultant!” Hu Tao’s eyes glimmer. “I see you have managed to hand out the flyers!”
“Barely, Director,” Zhongli replies, as he takes a seat. “Now, what is the occasion for this dinner?”
“Catching up,” Hu Tao grins, baring her teeth. “You, telling us about Snezhnaya. And your, very hopefully, according to what A-yun and A-qiu have told me, new boyfriend.”
Xiangling is busy attending to the other customers, slipping in and out of the kitchen, taking orders, cleaning dishes. Yet, she manages to slip by and hum in agreement. “Yes, Zhongli- xiansheng, isn’t Snezhnaya where Childe went?”
“I suppose the cat is out of the bag,” Zhongli sighs fondly. “Indeed, I went to Snezhnaya to visit Childe. And yes… we did enter a relationship.”
Zhongli cannot help but feel his lips curl into a smile at the thought. After years of longing, of cold bedsides and a too-empty apartment, the thought of someone to be by his side fills his heart with warmth.
Ajax, his sweet, lovely, darling Ajax.
“And that’s the lovestruck look that tells you he isn’t lying,” Xingqiu smirks. “Classic light novel trope!”
“Aiya, that love is what lost me a consultant for three months.” Hu Tao points out.
“Yes,” Chongyun hums, “three months is a long time to be in the coldest nation in Teyvat.”
“Ah,” Zhongli murmurs. “That is because I was helping Childe recuperate. As you must all know, from the news, months ago, he saved Fontaine from an invasion of a great enemy. It left him quite injured, and I thought it would be prudent to ensure his safety before sailing back to Liyue. I do not want to lose him just as I’ve been able to get together with him, after all.”
“Oh, did you wipe his forehead gently and feed him chicken soup?” Xingqiu asks dreamily, doubtlessly weaving in his robust imagination the plots of many light novels aggregated.
“Mostly,” Zhongli chuckles, “I also assisted in his ‘physiotherapy’, so to speak. He was eager to be able to fight the moment he stopped feeling pain when he moved, and I was there to encourage him to take baby steps instead of bursting out of his suite and going off into the tundra to fight a Lawachurl.”
“To be fair, to a Harbinger, ‘physiotherapy’ might as well be fighting to the death.” Hu Tao notes. “Hmm… do you think he would accept a deal with the Parlour? Fifty-percent off for the funeral expenses and we get some publicity to host a Harbinger’s funeral!”
“Not this again, Hu Tao,” Chongyun chuckles.
“Hey! When the Eighth Harbinger was executed in Inazuma, all I heard from the international funeral parlours grapevine was that the coffin was made by some uppity marble carver that famously extorts and exploits everyone for his funerals! If they chose Wangsheng—”
“—I am pretty sure that no one would dare swindle the Harbingers , Hu Tao,” Xingqiu cackles.
“Surprisingly,” Zhongli smiles, inclining his head slightly to the Qixing offices in the upper terraces, “there has been one who has managed the feat in recent memory.”
“Did your new Harbinger boyfriend get swindled by you?” Hu Tao giggles. “I saw the invoices for the Rite of Parting, you know?”
“I have improved my financial awareness,” Zhongli says, feeling a flush rise to his cheeks. “I swear by the Wrath of the Rock.”
“The Wrath of the Rock? No one but old men use it nowadays for such silly things,” Hu Tao cackles. “I have a consultant with a face so youthful no one believes me when I say he is not twenty but rather has raised me for until I was twenty!”
“I have a rather effective skincare regimen,” Zhongli says quickly.
“I mean, that’s probably the most reasonable cause,” Chongyun says.
“But it's still quite amusing to imagine that Zhongli- xiansheng looks so young because he’s secretly an adeptus!” Xingqiu says, to which Zhongli smiles awkwardly. “I mean, have you heard the Harbour rumours? They’re saying either Zhongli -xiansheng is secretly on adeptus, or that he’s Rex Lapis’,” (here Zhongli swallowed wondering if his cover was to be blown in such a casual conversation) “child!”
…He did not anticipate this rumour.
“Well,” Hu Tao hums, lifting a finger up to her chin. “Yeye number two here does have a Geo Vision.”
“ Yeye number two?” Zhongli repeats hollowly, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, you took care of me, so you’re honorary Yeye, but not as good as Yeye, still.” Hu Tao smirks. “For one, you almost billed three million mora for incense for the Rite of Parting to the Parlour, if not for your boyfriend stepping in, you would have put us in the red!”
“Oh,” Zhongli says, amusement flickering in his eyes, “I seem to recall a time with you, fifteen years old, and imported Snezhnayan pine wood that cost—”
They spend the night merry, Xingqiu and Chongyun and Hu Tao, and him, with Xiangling occasionally popping in, discussing matters of life with light hearts and laughter.
It is good to be back, in the Harbour. And, with the warm knowledge that even across the seas, there is someone who shares his affection, too, makes Zhongli believe wholeheartedly that no matter what he was born as, no matter how he was placed in this world… he made the right decision to live amongst mortals, to live as ‘Zhongli’.
There is no need for ‘Morax’ the false dragon, nor any need for the warrior and ruler ‘Rex Lapis’. No, now, he is free to enjoy the fruits of his labour, the salted air of the Harbour, the bustling tourists amongst the warm lights.
—
That night, before Zhongli slips into his bed, he arrays incense into a familiar pattern, breathes in the wafting smoke, and shuts his eyes.
He falls into a whirl of gold easily, and the surroundings of his little apartment in the Harbour melt away into the vast expanses of fields, golden mountains, and ahead in the distance, the little pagoda, where he spots a head of ginger hair.
“Zhongli,” Ajax greets, setting down a cup. It is purely a matter of imagination for Zhongli to summon his own as he sits down. In their three months helping Ajax recuperate in Snezhnaya, he had spent much time sharing a dreamscape with his lover, partially to prevent him from attempting to run out of his wing of the Palace before his legs were due to catch up with the drive for movement that coursed through him. Allowing Ajax to use his legs in the neverending dreamscape, where fatigue was nil, prevented much grumbling.
“Ajax,” Zhongli replies fondly, reaching forward to cradle his lover’s cheek in his palm. Ajax leans into it, humming. Oh so comfortable. It's a fragile thing, this comfort. He had almost lost it completely, in the aftermath of the flood. Now, for it to be given freely, he feels oh so greedy, and he cannot help but offer his own comfort, his own love, back to the other, as he deserves. “Have you received your new missive? I remember you were eager to enter the field once more.”
Ajax’s expressions falls, into one of weariness. “...That’s the thing I had to speak with you about.”
His claws scratch lightly into the stone table, and his eyes dart to the left and right before settling nervously to gaze in Zhongli’s eyes.
“I’ve received an offer to join the Captain on his campaign to Natlan,” Ajax says guiltily, claws still scraping at the table in anxiety. “And I know you’re already prepared for me to throw myself into a battle, but this is bigger than a couple of ruin guards and Lawachurls and human armies. Most likely… I’ll have to fight against the Abyss again, for long periods of time.”
A thousand thoughts swirl and barrage Zhongli’s mind. Ajax taps his claws in anticipation. Waits with bated breath.
“Will you be alright?” Zhongli manages, cupping his hands around Ajax’s. “You’ve just recovered from the Primordial Sea…”
A little gasp. A huff. The forming of a smile on the corner of Ajax’s lips. “...I won’t go if you don’t want me to.”
“You’ve lived this way for almost a decade,” Zhongli hums. “I would be remiss to prevent you from going. It is your choice.”
Ajax sighs. “I… want to go. I can’t sit still for too long. It’s just… it was easier to run off into battles forgetting that I had someone to go back home to.”
Ah. That is the issue at hand here. For so long, he had lived semi-detached from his loved ones, believing that prolonging his stay would only exacerbate their grievances against him. To enter battle was easy because he thought his only value was material. Yet now, newly reconnected to those he thought he was not loved by, there was all the more to lose.
“You won’t be in danger,” Zhongli finds himself saying.
“You can’t exactly go to Natlan with me, Zhongli,” Ajax laughs. “I’m afraid consultants from Liyue aren’t allowed to come along to Fatui missions.”
“No, you are right,” Zhongli nods, "You've survived long without me… but for a little assurance…”
In his hands, he forms a familiar sigil. Golden threads pull from the world to form into a golden starconch. He presses it into Ajax’s awaiting hands.
“For your safety, in the most dire of moments,” Zhongli shuts his eyes. “This one differs slightly from the first, though. It also allows you to call on me when you are at your most desperate, and need my presence.”
“Zhongli,” Ajax says, taking the conch reverently. “Is this your approval?”
“Go with my blessings,” Zhongli murmurs, and closer, to Ajax’s ear, away from the prying eyes of Celestia, he leans in, and whispers: “And tell the Abyss to behave.”
Ajax chuckles. “Don’t worry. No matter what, the Abyss that has lodged in me seems to like me more than helping out the Order’s freaks, and it also seems to be much more friendly than the rest of its ‘self’ in Natlan. But… thank you.”
“I wish you all the best,” Zhongli brushes his hand against Ajax. “I love you, dearest.”
“And I, you,” Ajax shuts his eyes with a smile. “Now go to sleep, lizard.”
—
Tartaglia awakes, and extricates himself easily from the wide expanse of a bed that he fell in wearily last night.
Yes, with Zhongli’s blessings, he has newfound hope that he can handle Natlan. And after all, a chance to meet the Abyss could also be a chance to find any traces of his Master, and to train harder. A warrior must never slack, and always reach for newer heights to improve to.
After a brief shower, he pulls on the layers of innerwear, throws on his uniform jacket, and slings the white Harbinger’s cloak upon his shoulders. Pinning his mask to the side of his head, as is customary, finishes his routine for the morning, and he strides out of his suites at six-thirty sharp. As one sharpened by the Fatui, nothing can beat him out of the military regimen he was subjected to for the better half of his life.
He makes his way through winding glacial halls, through the carpeted ways, past the panels of floor-to-ceiling glass revealing an unobstructed view of the capital outside the gates of Zapolyarny, until he reaches the dark, twisted walkways of the Director’s wing of the Palace. As is usual for the Director, who keeps an intentional air of mystique, the halls are dimly lit with oil lamps flickering quietly, no windows, at all, sparse decorations, where the only way to know where one was going was to know, for, as Tartaglia knows, the guards’ rotations are set in such a way that any intruder or poor attendant attempting to get anything to the Director would be hopelessly lost, attempting to follow the guards as markers. Tartaglia has a personal hypothesis that this points to the Director being a severe introvert, but he could just be reticent because he looks down on everyone else.
Nonetheless, he puts all silly recruits’ theories about the Director out of his mind as he reaches the large double-doors, the emblem of a star carved against the branching lines of a snowflake. Two guards stand silently next to it, the brim of their caps shadowing their faces, the half-masks obscuring even more.
“Lord Harbinger Tartaglia,” they bow in unison. “How may we serve you today?”
“Tell the Director I’ve made my decision,” Tartaglia murmurs.
The double doors swing open slowly, of their own accord. The Director emerges from the shadows, a gaunt face half-covered by a gnarly mask that only barely manages to obscure the branching, twisted lines of the Khaenriahn curse. His thin, white hair is slicked back from his forehead, falling into rivulets upon his shoulders like a wraith, and his mouth is pressed into a thin line.
“Oh?” The Director says slowly, his voice rough as usual. The one visible eye widens, the star pattern more evident in the pupils. “So, young Tartaglia?”
He juts his chin up, and stares right back. “I’m going to Natlan with the Captain.”
The Director does not respond in a way that belies any surprise. He simply blinks once, blinks twice, and looks upon with amusement in a slight twitch of his lower eyelid.
“I see,” the Director says. His eyes flicker down to the little horn nubs nestled into Tartaglia’s hair, still quite covered, to the gloves that obscure his hands which have become all the more important considering that they still inadvertently become claws at inopportune times, to the Abyssal scent that probably wafts off him. Nothing escapes the scrutiny of the stars in his eyes, the expert assessment of a Khaenriahn mage. “Well then, the Captain is set to leave for his expedition in a week. I expect you to inform him yourself, as well as the others who have a stake in your departure from the early stages of Project Stuzha, I have many other matters to attend to.”
And so he sweeps back into the room, the whites of his cloak slowly swallowed up by the darkness of the office, where the two guards close the doors behind him.
All in all, not bad for an encounter with the Director.
—
The next ones to inform are naturally, the two most opposed to the plan.
First, Pulcinella. The Mayor has always been more amicable to him, being the one to scout him out in a backwater town beating half the Fatui into the dirt, being his sponsor and mentor, and the one to recommend him to the position he sits in today amongst the prestigious Eleven (Though, considering the Eighth’s passing, the empty Tenth and Sixth seats, wouldn’t it make them the Eight, instead? Should he receive a promotion in rank? He finds it rather insulting that nonexistent people have higher ranks than him.)
Pulcinella’s wing, while well-guarded, has none of the theatrics of the Director. It is instead the pinnacle of drab bureaucracy, where white walls meet Agents dressed not in fieldwear, but the state-standard suit and tie, with clipboards in their hands and a harried look about them. His office is right in the middle of the atrium of his wing, and so he finds it easily as he grips the handle and pulls it open to enter.
“My boy!” Pulcinella exclaims, the furry moustache under his nose twitching like a mole rat sniffing for food. “I suppose you’ve made a decision? Oh, the things that you will do for Project Stuzha—”
“I’m going to Natlan with the Captain,” Tartaglia grins.
“What? I’m sorry, my boy, these old ears, you know?” Pulcinella squints. It’s a tactic as old as time. He had always given Ajax a chance to backtrack. But he was and would never be the type.
“I’m afraid it’s already confirmed with the Director, ‘Nella,” Tartaglia says, pouting in his most convincingly innocent expression.
“Well.” Pulcinella begins, the moustache under his nose twitching under the force of the heavy breaths he is now exhaling. “I suppose you’ve made your mind up. Stay safe, Ajax.”
The ever diplomatic Mayor, Tartaglia thinks. Even when losing a potential leash he does not lose the unflappable demeanor.
“I’d say, in the den of wolves that is the Capital’s politics,” Tartaglia returns, “I might be safer on the battlefield, ‘Nella!”
“That it is, my boy, that it is,” he replies, massaging the spot in between his brows. “Now, I’m off to go oversee another disaster of a cabinet meeting. Write frequently to me, alright, boy? I’d rather not find out—and have to tell your family—that you’ve gone and almost killed yourself again.”
That is the end of it, and they part ways there.
Next up, the man who he’d be subordinate to for the next campaign (which the thought of has something humming in his veins excitedly).
The reticent Captain.
—
He finds the man in the training fields, where he watches over the palace guards for the bi-monthly retraining as usual. He cuts an imposing figure against the dry, yellowing grass of the training fields, with a stiff black cloak that falls from his broad shoulders, and long, inky hair billowing in the arctic winds.
“Tartaglia,” the Captain says, in a low voice that remains unobtrusive to the training soldiers, yet commanding as always. “I assume you have made your decision.”
He lets a smile pull at his face as he lumbers over to the Captain. “You’ll be having me in Natlan, Captain. Or should it be Lord Harbinger? I am standing in for your lieutenant.”
“You are a Harbinger in your own right,” the Captain replies, inclining his head slightly to face Tartaglia. The sunlight glints off the metal helm of his helmet. The depths behind the helmet obscure his face nonetheless. Some heretic contraption, no doubt. “There is no need. I trust that you are not one to lead the troops to doom, so if you see fit, you may relay instructions in my stead, if I were to be absent.”
“Fair warning, Captain,” he replies wryly, his eyes flicking over to the rows of troops, going through their drills, the several dozens in the back, going through their assorted weapon retraining. “I’ve never quite been a team player.”
“I am aware,” the Captain says, in a way that makes electricity ring through his bones, a surprise, that the Captain is seeing him. A proof that he is getting stronger. Better. “Your very existence in the Fatui began with rebellion, after all.”
“Aha, did the Rooster tell you about that?” He laughs it off. “Well… it all worked out in the end, didn’t it? Here I am, the Tsaritsa’s weapon of war, pointed in any direction ready to fire. And when I’m off duty, I get to direct my own life. It’s perhaps the best way this could all go.”
“You are not merely a weapon, Tartaglia.” The Captain replies easily. “Take it from one fellow soldier to another.”
“I was not aware you began in the Fatui barracks, sir.” He peers up at the man.
“That is because I began in the Khaenriahn ones.” The Captain chuckles. It reverberates through the metal mask into something tinny. “And if I may… it seems your swordplay originated from the very same as well.”
“Good eye, Captain,” Tartaglia wraps his arms behind his back. “I know little about the nation the style originated from, but my Master’s master— the Grandmaster— I heard he was once Khaenriahn. What other knowledge about him is not known to me, unfortunately.”
“Then perhaps…” The Captain says, turning his body fully to face him. The metal chain swinging from his cloak glimmers along with the gauntlets along his arms. “...you would like for me to give you some pointers to improve your form?”
A grin finds its way across Tartaglia’s face. He feels his Vision warm at his hip, the water swirling around his hands, a familiarity that he had missed in his time in the Primordial Sea. His blades are firm under his grip, yet fluid and completely Hydro, even in the freezing wind of Her Majesty’s ice.
The Captain responds by coalescing a sword of black ice into his palm, long and heavy. Perfectly weighted, sharp and wicked.
“Bring it on, Captain,” he says, giddy with exhilaration.
Oh, this was such a good idea.
—
“So, Natlan, huh?” Dehya says, as the Sumpter beasts carry them ever forward. Their heavy hooves kick up sand as they lumber onward, and Dehya pulls a faded maroon cotton scarf tighter around her neck and head, fanning away the dust.
“We wonder how they’re like,” Paimon says, “since we haven’t seen a single one in our travels! Are they shy people?”
Dehya bursts into laughter, slapping the Sumpter beast inadvertently. The beast moos in complain. “Oh, they’re anything but shy. I’d say, even the smallest child in Natlan has the blood of a fighter in them.”
“Are they all fighting against each other?” Paimon shrieks, shrill. “Paimon doesn’t want to get involved in another civil war! Rations are not enough for Paimon’s stomach!”
“You might not want to tell Kokomi that,” Aether says amusedly.
“Not a civil war,” Dehya shakes her head. “A greater war. One against the Abyss. There, the Abyss’ roots are the strongest in Teyvat, and every warrior in Natlan must stand strict vigil over the lands. They are our frontlines. If Natlan falls, Teyvat does.”
“And no one from other nations can help?” Aether inclines his head over to the distance, where even through the billowing sands, the sun warming up the air in waves, he can see red-clay cliffs on the horizon, and stretching green trees.
“We try, but…” Dehya sighs. “Natlan’s Leylines are… special. And most of us foreigners would like our souls intact, to meet a better life in a new one.”
“It must be pretty hard, knowing that you can’t ever relax,” Paimon murmurs. “If Paimon didn’t get to nap at least twice a day, Paimon would get so frustrated!”
“It’s not a fullscale war like you’re thinking, rather, the Abyss fights a war of attrition, minor skirmishes here and there,“ Dehya assures. “They can have fun, too. In fact, among us Eremites who wander the desert, Natlan is a popular tourist destination for one reason: the hot springs.”
She hums, closing her eyes, even as she tugs the Sumpter beast onwards. “Ah, Traveller, you’ll love the feeling of hot spring water on your weary bones! I’ve went once, when I was escorting a merchant caravan through the desert, and it was the most relaxing place I’d ever been.”
“Natlan…” Aether says, trailing off. “Everywhere I go, there always seems to be some old friends who end up in the same place. Do you think it’d be the same?”
“Oh, Traveller,” Paimon says, fluttering over. “There’s always one person who we’ll find anywhere! Mister More Money Than Sense!”
“Ah, yes,” Aether says, a smile curling on his lips. “ Tartaglia.”
“The Nation of War,” Paimon ruminates, “it does seem pretty fitting if we end up bumping into him there!”
—
Deep in the throes of darkness, a sliver of the tamed Abyss shudders in a boy’s heart.
For it is time to face what it came from, and what it no longer was. The wild Abyss that had sent a shard of itself to corrupt a boy, only for it to be soothed and eroded by the cooling waters of the boy’s heart until it became a wolf that happily laid at the boy’s side without hostility nor reprehension.
Yet it was merely a sliver. And what it came from was much stronger, much more present. Seeping into every corner of the world, coalescing into the heart of Natlan.
A war was to begin, on all sides.
Even in the realm of the inconceivable.
For how does a thing fight against itself?