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He was Ajax first.
When mornings meant getting up -slowly and reluctantly- after his mother’s third time knocking, and eating breakfast hurriedly as he was shoved out the door to catch up to his siblings on their way to school. When afternoons were spent helping in the kitchen and waiting patiently for everyone to come home.
When evenings meant the entire family gathering around the fireplace exchanging stories, and fighting over who gets the warmest blanket to chase away the bite in the air. When nights were not sleepless and haunted by memories of torn flesh and the smell of blood.
He was Ajax then.
*****
He was ‘boy’ second.
When he was surrounded in nothing but darkness and an unnatural chill. When he’d go to sleep numb in his limbs from the long hours of training. When blood and rotting flesh were the only scents his nose could recognize for days(weeks?months?)
When he only felt alive tearing into something; to feel his blood pumping, to remind himself that he was still there. When he’d spent so long silent, he’d forgotten the sound of his own voice. When he recognized the silhouette of the monsters better than his own.
When eating around the fire with another person no longer meant comfort and letting his guard down, but heightening his senses to their limits so he wouldn’t be caught unaware. When food lost its taste and water burned his throat. When hydro first came under his command, and he finally saw the face of his master under the Vision’s dim glow.
He was ‘boy’ then.
*****
He was Cadet 473 later.
When his mother could no longer bear looking him in the eye, and his father would avoid his presence at all costs. When his older sister started calling him a monster in a trembling voice, and his older brothers scowled as he entered a room. When dinners were no longer by the warm fireplace but under the covers in his dark room, eaten in silence as he pretended not to flinch at the slightest sounds.
When the lust for battle grew and festered in him, until it overflowed and exploded, resulting in a crimson pool that slowly infected the plains of pure white surrounding them, and an offer-an offer to get away. So, he did.
When his name hadn’t been uttered for so long, responding to the commander’s whistles would’ve been more natural to him. When he fought so endlessly and relentlessly the other cadets would refuse speaking to him, and his superior officers would glare if their eyes found him. When meals were replaced by stale bread and tough meat.
(He was also big brother by then. He would receive letters full of meaningless scribbles and adorable well-wishes. Signed by three out of his six siblings, and no trace of his parents in them. But that was alright-because he wasn’t only Cadet 473, he was a big brother, too)
*****
Becoming Tartaglia, Vanguard and Eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers didn’t come too long after.
He’d become more refined, and his reputation amongst their ranks grew tremendously. Enough that Her Majesty the Tsarista acknowledged his talents and granted him a position amongst her strongest. His title as Tartaglia came at a time when the pain in his chest was no longer a blaring siren in his head, but a dull ache in the back of his mind.
When being called a comrade (and a big brother) had become more common than scathing remarks and disdainful stares. When his pursuit of strength was no longer self-destructive and all consuming, born out of a need to survive, but an enjoyable journey that thrilled him to the very core. He became Tartaglia when thinking of the years ahead of him didn’t lead to puking his guts out.
He became Tartaglia when the weight on his shoulders began to lighten, and the knots in his chest loosened.
*****
Childe was a joke, at first. A mockery, even.
His fellow harbingers were older (much, much older), they were stronger and harsher. The idea of him joining their ranks was hilarious in their heads, to the point where his title wasn’t acknowledged by them. The Fair Lady-especially- despised him, and started calling him Childe demeaningly. He would give it to her-it was a clever way to undermine both his age and position.
It spread amongst his coworkers, and he was exclusively referred to as such by them. It was never official, though. Not until Her Majesty joined.
(“My beloved Tartaglia,” she’d addressed him softly, “do you wish for a name alongside your title?” he didn’t have to think about it. “Anything Your Majesty chooses to bestow upon me is a gift I shall treasure forever,” he’d replied, his head bowed respectfully. The Archon then smiled, as gentle as the snowfall outside the palace walls. “Then you shall be Childe, my Eleventh. Our youngest, and our anchor to this mortal world. May it prosper with you.” From then after, any bitter feelings he had about the name dissipated)
Over time, the name stopped sounding mocking as it rolled off their tongues. It was just a name. And sometimes-very rare times- he thinks he hears a tone fondness laced with it. His interactions with the harbingers (well, most of them) stopped being hurtful and ridiculing. He would never understand them, and could not claim to even like most of them-not then-but, they got along well enough.
He welcomed Childe when he felt himself getting confident in his ability to be Tartaglia, when the palace walls stopped feeling oppressive and constricting, when missions given to him stopped feeling like a punishment and more of an acknowledgment.
*****
He was Childe for a long time.
He’d been Childe in Liyue-before he became Fatui scum. The kids in the harbor would shout out the name to greet him, and the merchants would utter it reverently in hopes of gaining his patronage. The old ladies would say it fondly and the young girls would stutter it bashfully. The bank employees would say it exasperatedly as they dragged him around, and the city officials would drag it out gritted teeth.
He’d been Childe in Inazuma, where the resentment towards him was so thick he could taste it as he walked down the streets. Where the only people who spoke the name were the young kids and a vibrant young lady whose kindness was so bright it’d been blinding.
He’d been Childe in Fontaine-where all his demons finally caught up to him. Where the name was in every newspaper and on every tongue. Where his bones finally recalled what true exhaustion felt like, and his world dimmed to a degree it hadn’t in years. Where he saw his only companion in that soul crushing darkness for the first time-fully visible. Where wounds that ran much deeper than his flesh were prodded.
He’d been Childe in Snezhnaya- where he was esteemed and respected, where his actual title could get him anything, yet terrified all who spoke to him much too extremely. Where his fellow harbingers would invite him to their weird little gatherings, and Her Majesty would commend him on a job well done softly. Where his soul ached the most, where it healed the most.
He’d been Childe for a long time.
*****
He was Ajax last.
He was Ajax when stepping into his old house no longer felt like vines were coiled around his neck obscuring his breath. When, instead of stilted silence filling any room he walked into, excited shouts and giggles greeted him. When dinners stopped being the same-because they never will be- but were warm again nonetheless.
When mornings were spent coaxing three little rascals out of bed, and afternoons pretending he needed help in the kitchen. When evenings meant those same rascals would huddle to his side under the covers in his no longer dark room. When nights became a time they sought comfort in him, because the ghosts that haunted him can always wait until he made sure the kids were safe.
When Tartaglia and Childe quieted and allowed him to remember.
He was Ajax last.