palcoscenico

by sunshii

Summary:

"do you dream?" childe asks, and you think this could be familiar, if you dare let it. inhale this moment and cradle within your lungs the sharp scent of pine, then something burning, salt. and again, softer now, nearly swallowed by the stars in between you two— "do you dream of me?"

"of course. i dream of drowning."

(or: there is a part in a play you know well, and it goes like this: you rise against childe in a race for the geo archon's gnosis because you hate him, and he hates you.

this is a lie. this is the truth.

this is not contradictory: lie long enough and anything becomes true.)

Chapter 1: sangue nell'acqua

Summary:

"Snezhnaya? You're from a long ways away, then. May I ask which wind blew you here, to our lovely city?"

"The best kind of course!" A good-natured chuckle leaves your lips. You pretend not to notice the way Jean tenses in your peripheral vision. She had regained control of her legs and moved to stand beside her desk where she frowns at the Captain. For his part, he keeps his one good eye stubbornly fixed on you. "Diplomacy."

THE THING ABOUT MONDSTADT is that it never fails—to disappoint, that is. Once upon a time you'd been regaled with tales of a city floating upon a dandelion sea, favored by the gentlest gale. The City of Freedom, the Crown of the North, the Romantic City of Pastorals—a naïve heart had once wished to see such a mystical place, bound by nothing but the limits of one's imagination. Perhaps your younger self had nailed it directly on the head: the people of Mondstadt, forsaken by their god, are wrapped up in the gauze of a dream. They are lazy, foolish, dreamers who are content to watch the clouds meander by and the grass grow. Even the hilichurls of this region are fat with stolen chickens who have flown out of unwatched coops and remain content to sleep and dance meters away from Mondstadt's front gates. 

Peace , you muse, is a double-edged sword . It makes them complacent and ignorant. Vigilance is swayed from its post by reveries and follies disguised as virtues leave the city wide open. 

The only exception to your criticism that you can possibly think of is their wine and music, but then again, this may be because you have not tasted a drop of alcohol nor heard any songs. It can't be helped: all members of the Fatui are unwelcome in any public arena in Mondstadt. Honestly, you cannot walk two paces without anyone staring at you like you just broke into the Mondstadt Cathedral's basement and stole the Holy Lyre der Himmel! 

"I must say, your knights are exceptionally trained." You sweep into the office after a pale-looking guard, smiling with all of the grace and good-will in the world. The man looks nervously to his boss, and is all too happy to retreat out the door once he's allowed to do so. "They're all extremely well-versed in the knight's handbook. I'm almost ashamed to admit that I, as Snezhnaya's appointed representative in Mondstadt, was not aware that my fellow diplomats are to remain locked out of your office as we meet. I do hope you forgive me for my ignorance—a few months away from this city, and I'm practically a stranger again! Although, if I'm not mistaken, Section Two calls for no hostility against foreign guests, no?"

The Dandelion Knight folds her hands and chuckles lightly. 

"And Section Ten states that knights should exercise caution when dealing specifically with diplomats from other nations."

You don't wait for an invitation to settle into a seat before her desk, tapping a finger against your chin. If you see the way her grip on her pen tightens, you certainly don't make any inclination that you do. 

"Ah, but if my memory does not fail me, the instructions were to scrutinize diplomats whose recent, observed activity gives cause for concern regarding the well-being of Mondstadt." You lean forwards, features settling themselves into the picture-perfect vision of calm. Jean is no stranger to your expressions, and the lack thereof. What did this mean again, when your face mirrors the surface of the ocean just before a storm? "Tell me, Acting Grand Master. Are my companions causing any disturbances that I'm not aware of? If so, I'll be sure to put an end to any troubling activities."

Jean Gunnhildr is no fool. She hears the stressed word in her title, hears the smirk laced within your words.

 

Call me out, I dare you. Open your eyes and make an enemy out of the Fatui who have been running rampant in your city's shadowed streets. What, are you too afraid, Miss Temporary Replacement? 

Will your god not protect you?

 

She closes her eyes, pinches her temples. Her exhaled breath leaves her lips in a hiss. The Dandelion Knight is tired, and when she dares to peek out from under her eyelashes she secretly wishes that you would be revealed to be little more than an apparition, a nightmare born from her sleepless mind, the yipping wolves nipping at her heels and driving her onwards to work through the night. To earn the right to her title. 

No such luck. You're still sitting with your arms crossed in front of her, looking every bit as part of the waking world as she had feared. When you see the hesitation in the knight's eyes, your lips begin to tug upwards into an infernal simper. 

"Now, about the shipments of Mondstadt wine." Mercifully (or not. Both of you know that you are not letting go—no, this is simply you wiping your sword of blood and walking away from a fight you know you've won) you change the topic to your official reason for returning and giving Jean another headache. "I've received word that Snezhnayan merchants are being unfairly deprived of their promised stocks, left high and dry at meeting places, and robbed of money through prices equivalent to extortion whenever their Mondstadt counterparts do decide to give them the privilege of seeing their wares. Care to explain?"

Jean stares at you, surprise coloring her face with the coral hues so proudly boasted by Mondstadt's precious windwheel asters. 

She takes it back. There is no mercy within your icy gaze. 

"W-what?"

"How eloquent." She's slipping. Like a shark smelling blood in the water, you dive straight in. "I'll take that as an indication of your ignorance. I honestly thought you would've been more informed, Acting Grand Master." 

It's that title again. 

The Dandelion Knight's position had seemed so golden, so desirable and praise-worthy during the day as she moved about the city. But in your mouth, Acting Grand Master is nothing more than a joke. 

"No matter, I'll just catch you up to speed about the goings-on in the nation outside of this study." You wave off anything she might've said to defend herself with a flippant hand and an airy sigh, your gaze dulling with disinterest. "First, let's clear the air. You agree that for our nations to have a long and fruitful relationship, some sort of co-dependency must exist, yes?"

Jean nods mutely. A chill sets in—and then there's the uncanny feeling of being a child again, sitting quietly in one of her private tutor's lectures. In your eyes, she's just a little girl playing dress-up with a crown ten-sizes too big.

"Excellent. Second, it goes without saying, I'm sure, that trust and the respect of promises made, are also necessary for our successful cooperation. Now, Snezhnaya has made it abundantly clear that our merchants are willing to make space in their inventories for Mondstadt wine. We'd be doing most of the legwork—you know, networking, spreading word and taste of your liquor all over Teyvat, setting up your city in markets reaching beyond Liyue's harbor and whatnot. As a token of gratitude, Mondstadt— you —agreed to the construction of a new branch of the Northland Bank."

"Yes, but—"

Oh Archons above, you're whipping out the original written document and everything. Jean stares her signature in the face and she wonders if the writing is wobbling because of the way you're shaking it in tandem with your words, or because of the lack of sleep she's had over the last month. Or was it a year now, since her head last knew the comfort of a fluffed pillow? 

"I thought I'd bring it along to jog your memory, just in case." The neutral mask breaks for a second to allow a self-satisfied smile to slip through. "It looks as though my intuition hasn't failed me. Anyway, this is the promise, the contract, the agreement—whatever you call it in Mondstadt."

"We speak the same language—"

"Right, right. Forgive me, I entertained a group of Liyuen merchants the other day and you know what they’re like—always going on and on about their 'contracts' given that their god, the god of contracts, is everywhere—" Your voice breaks off, and you look to her with wide, innocent eyes. "—ah, but you wouldn't know about that, having a god around, would you?" 

What is it with all of the other nations and their fixation on the Anemo Archon's decided absence from Mondstadt? It isn't as though the City of Freedom is breaking into pieces without their god's guiding hand. In fact, the very title that Mondstadt boasts is due to the lack of an overbearing deity. Jean presses her lips together. 

"But I digress. The point is that it's all here in writing." You carefully fold up the document. "So, now it's your turn to talk. I'd like to hear an explanation for the resistance on your end of the deal."

The Dandelion Knight takes a deep breath. 

"Lord Scapino, please don't misunderstand. Our merchants are...flighty. Nervous. You must give them some time to get used to working with their Snezhnayan counterparts."

(Oh, dearest Acting Grand Master! Don't place a sword in your enemy's hands with the blade pointed towards yourself— especially not when said enemy can slice your tongue into thin ribbons on their own.)

The chair screeches against the hardwood floor, protesting at the sudden movement. You had abruptly thrown it back, standing with an affronted expression scrawled angrily across your features. 

"Are you saying that the blame is with our men then? We're too imposing, too pushy, too intimidating to do business with, aren't we?" Jean, too, feels the need to stand. She reaches out with a gloved hand, as if to placate your temper, only for you to spin out of reach with an indignant swish of your long coat. "Alright. I see no need for this meeting to continue. Clearly, I must inform Headquarters that our friends in Mondstadt are not satisfied with the quality of our merchants." 

"No—no, Archons above that is not what I meant!"

The blonde's outburst makes you pause. Slowly, you turn to face her again, though from her angle, your facial expression is partially obscured by your hair.  

"Then what did you mean?"

"Look," Jean braces herself on her desk, anchoring herself. She takes little comfort in the fact that your voice is measured. Even. All trace of any offense you'd had is wiped clean—too clean, too fast. Jean is tired of this, of your switching attitudes and strange way of talking circles around her. She may as well be the one to speak straightforwardly. "You know that Mondstadt's merchants do not have a high opinion of anyone or anything related to the Fatui. It's unfortunate, but true. However, I cannot order them to flip their behavior on a mora and suddenly act amiably with your merchants, now can I? The most I can do is make sure they follow through with their goods."

"Fair enough."

You swivel towards the door, apparently deciding that the conversation is over. 

"Wh—" Jean is rendered speechless for the second time that meeting. No resistance? No push back? Where is the avariciousness that you have made no attempt to hide during the course of this tentative relationship? Surely, in the last ten minutes, you hadn't found something akin to kindness in the gaping void where your heart should be. "Really? That's it?"

Her honest surprise is rewarded with an innocently tilting head and a sharp-toothed grin. 

"Were you expecting something more? It's just as you said. You can't control the whims of your people, so you'll understand that neither can I."

"The 'whims of your people'?"

"Of course. You should know that we Snezhnayans have this tricky little thing called pride that we harbor in our chests. I shudder to think of what winter-worn merchants, grizzled from backpacking around frozen peaks and over arctic valleys, can do when they feel thoroughly insulted by a pack of pansies." Oh, Jean's suspicions are proven correct. You're the manifestation of cold cruelty frosting over her options with your creeping ice. She clenches her hands into fists as you tip your head back and bark out a short laugh. "But I value our relationship, so I suppose I can stick my neck out for you. How about you agree to another compromise?"

"Let's hear it first."

"In exchange for the guaranteed safety of your merchants in our territory, I think a cut in the Dawn Winery's profits will do." You're suddenly in front of her desk again, picking up one of her tomes with feigned interest. This new provision slips easily from your mouth like water, as if you had prepared it ahead of time. "Reasonable, no?"

"What? That's preposterous—no, I won't agree." She has let the Fatui overstep their boundaries already. This is just too much. The blonde haired woman tries to maintain her composure, but judging from your stifled laugh, some emotion had gotten away from her and displayed itself all over her face. 

"Oh my, what a fearsome expression! But let's get the facts straight: you won't agree? Or a certain brooding, red-haired gentleman won't agree?" You click your tongue, tut-tutting with mock disapproval. "Please, Lady Gunnhildr. Be rational. You must decide these sorts of things in the best interest of your people, not your heart."

Wildfire (not unlike his pyro Vision, a searing heat just a touch above a comfortable temperature, yet brilliantly magnetic all the same) razes across the hills of her cheekbones and settles on the plains of her cheeks.  

"Just what are you implying?"

"Nothing you don't already know." There's the self-satisfied smirk again. You're enjoying seeing her all flustered and out of character, aren't you? Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play with your food before eating it? The same applies to your prey—at least have the decency of finishing her off painlessly! "Or should I say, nothing your heart doesn't already know. Your pretty little head might still be stubbornly refusing him, but we're both aware that the heart wants what it wants."

"I—!"

"JEAN!" The door opens with a deafening slam. In floats a child-like voice accompanied by a chorus of frenzied, nervous muttering and a light sigh. "That librarian lady said you were overworking yourself again so we brought you an Invigorating Pizza. It's freshly made and smells really really good so you'd better thank Paimon and—omph!" 

The owner of the voice slams into you just as you turn around to see who the newcomers are. They appear to be some sort of...pixie...with a cape made of constellations and a strange halo constructed from a material you'd never seen before. Now this is curious. A product of alchemy? Magic gone wrong? 

You're snapped out of your musings when they—it—starts shrieking like a teakettle left alone on a stove.

"Hey! You'd better watch where you're going—you almost made us drop the pizza on the ground!" You decide not to point out that they had body slammed into you , not the other way around, or the fact that it is their exasperated companion who is carrying the pizza and not them. "Aren't you going to apologize to Paimon?"

"Paimon, really, maybe you should just let it go—"

"What? Lumine, you've got to stick up for yourself sometimes!" The pizza delivery girl's attempt to quiet her peculiar pet is unsuccessful. You watch, amusedly, as the little pixie and their (her??? its???) strong sense of justice begin a long lecture on rudeness and holding culprits accountable. "You can't just let this person trample all over you like that."

"Oh?"

It's rather satisfying how the entire room freezes over when you open your mouth. The guard is long gone, Jean is still standing behind her desk, and—oh, isn't that the Cavalry Captain you'd heard about? What's his name again? Kyle, Kaira—no, wasn't it, uh...Kira? Well, whatever his name is, he's staring at you with a thoughtful expression.

A thinker. 

You make a note to keep an eye on him. 

"Your little friend isn't wrong, you know. Justice must be served to those who deserve it." You smile, lips curling in a manner that isn't particularly kind. The little pixie hurriedly flies back to their pizza-carrying companion. "But I'm in a good mood right now, so I won't press you to apologize to me."

"Apologize to YOU? What? Lumine—"

"You did run into them first, Paimon." The blonde girl chastises the offended pixie, before turning to you. It's the first time you meet her gaze head-on and you can't help but feel that there's something... strange ...about this character. A quick once-over tells you that she doesn't have a Vision, but what is this gale that seems to sweep about her person? The uncanny sensation that she wields a power far beyond anything you've yet seen? 

 

Why haven't I seen you around here before?

 

You reach back into your mental archives, flicking quickly though pages of intel your fellow Fatui had gathered over the course of your absence. There is definitely something there— Stormterror, corrupted dragon, a stranger from a distant land —that will tell you who she is. Danger. There is danger in saccharine honeyed eyes and you intend to find out exactly what is making your skin crawl whenever you look at her. 

"Even if you say that there's no need, I should still apologize on Paimon's behalf." She breaks your musing with a few careful words of concern. "You weren't injured by the weird, uh, poky bit on her head, were you?"

"No, all good." You grin and pat your chest with one hand. "If this body of mine can survive Snezhnaya's winters, it can certainly take a few pokes from a flying fairy."

The slip catches the Cavalry Captain's attention. He'd been silent for the entire exchange, but now he steps forwards and regards you with a pleasant smile. 

"Snezhnaya? You're from a long ways away, then. May I ask which wind blew you here, to our lovely city?"

"The best kind of course!" A good-natured chuckle leaves your lips. You pretend not to notice the way Jean tenses in your peripheral vision. She had regained control of her legs and moved to stand beside her desk where she frowns at the Captain. For his part, he keeps his one good eye stubbornly fixed on you. " Diplomacy ."

Silence. 

The pizza cools in the traveler's arms, and Jean looks as though she wants nothing more than a good tankard of Fire-Water mixed with strong coffee. If this combination won't put her firmly in the grave, then your mere presence should be enough to finish her off. But, as she has a reputation and a city to maintain, she can only resign herself to sighing deeply and rubbing at her aching temples. 

"...Aren't the Fatui the only diplomatic organization currently operating in Mondstadt?" The Paimon whispers to the entire room. 

"You would be correct!" 

Clearly, the little fairy-thing doesn't know the strength of her own voice, for they (again: she? it?) begin to mutter about your freakish hearing and creepy abilities. You pay no attention to the speculation on the sidelines and gesture to yourself theatrically in a way that your predecessor in this region, Dottore, would be proud of. Not that you would ever want to make him proud—but that's another can of worms you do not feel like prying open. 

"Oh, that's right. I haven't introduced myself, have I?"

With a charming smile, you extend your hand in greeting. 

"I am Scapino, a humble Fatui diplomat representing the beautiful nation of Snezhnaya here in Mondstadt. It's a pleasure to meet you, miss...?"

"Lumine. Everyone calls me that, so you can too." She does a marvelous job of smoothing out the tremors in her voice, although, it's to be said that marvelous isn't perfect . You can hear the hesitation swirling through her head as she stares first at you, then down at your still outstretched hand. "You said that you're a member of the Fatui?"

"Yes. I know our reputation is that we're a bloodthirsty, underhanded group of shady individuals, but the truth is that we don't bite." As you say this, the faces of your eleven other colleagues flash through your mind and your mouth twists into a wry grin. What else do you all share but sharpened teeth, blood-stained claws, and a bitter devotion to your Archon? "Well—not all of us, anyway."

It takes an encouraging nod from the eyepatch-wearing Captain for the girl to finally clasp your hand in her own. 

"Well, it's a...pleasure...to meet you, Scapino, but uh, we need to get going now." The pizza is carefully scooted onto the Acting Grand Master's organized yet crowded desk. Lumine turns to address Jean with an apologetic smile even as Paimon tugs her towards the exit. "So sorry we can't stay any longer. Kaeya needs help clearing out some ruins and—okay, yeah, we're leaving. Goodbye." 

The door slams shut behind them— oh! Kaeya, right, that's his name. Kaeya Alberich, adopted son of the Ragnvindr household, and most eligible grandson to all of the older citizens of Mondstadt —and you're left alone with Jean and your whirling thoughts again. 

 

Stormterror. Corrupted dragon. A strange traveler from a distant land. 

Ah. 

 

It hits you like one of Scaramouche's lightning bolts. 

 

She's Mondstadt's honorary knight.

Notes:

sangue nell'acqua: BLOOD IN THE WATER

ya so you have the pleasure of reading this 3.5K word vomit because EMBLEMYSTIX my fellow tartaglia simp is the reason why i have enough willpower to publish this...if you're reading this love you <3

on another note: no mr.more-money-than-sense yet, regrettably. his epic entrance requires a bit of buildup. anyway, i hope you all enjoyed this chapter! thanks for reading lovelies...and if it isn't too much trouble maybe leave a comment so i know how i did...? :S

EDIT [11/27/22]: post Winter Night's Lazzo, a couple of changes: "Colombina" is now "Scapino" and after realizing that "lord" can be gender neutral, this fic has become a gender neutral reader fic! there have also been a couple of minor edits to clear up some dangling plot holes I forgot I set up my first time around lol but nothing major

Chapter 2: brucia come il fuoco

Summary:

"Convenience, coincidence, fate?" His laugh is easy and well-practiced. The smile on your face tightens; you know a tricky fellow when you see one. Kaeya Alberich of the Ragnvindr household is a sly snake in the grass—a fact as certain as the indefinite nature of Snezhnayan frost. "Let's call it luck. Now, the obvious tourist's choice is the Dandelion Wine, but the real treat the locals don't tell you is actually the Death After Noon. How about it?"

Notes:

thank you all for your support so far! ily all <33

YOU LEAVE THE DANDELION KNIGHT alone in her study to brood over more foreboding questions than happy answers. In comparison, you leave the Ordo Favonius headquarters in high spirits. Speaking of which—where is the best place a Fatui Harbinger can get drunk around here, in the city of song and wine? 

"Lyudmila! Mikhail!" 

The man turns with annoyance creasing his brows, a curse ready to fire at the insolent worm who dares to interrupt his scheming. This all melts away once he sees you making your way over to him, a clearly pleased expression quirking the corners of your lips upwards into that strange smile— no, that's not a smile . Mikhail is a man devoted to the art of debauchery and treachery but even he knows that whatever is carved onto your face is anything but a pleasant grin. Somehow, you have managed to twist the universal indicator of happiness into an unsettling shadow of itself. 

He wonders if he ought to applaud you. 

"A-Ah, Lord Scapino. How can I help you?"

"Well, you'd be doing me a huge favor if you could point me in the direction of Mondstadt's most popular tavern. I haven't been around in a while, so I'm not sure if anything has changed since my last visit." You explain when you mistake his bug-eyed expression (or as bug-eyed as you can see. The Fatui masks the two lower-ranking diplomats wear do their jobs and obscure their features. Unfortunately, this means you can't pick apart their expressions as well) for disbelief. Well—okay, he is shocked into disbelief, just not for the reasons you may be thinking of. 

Do Harbingers drink? He wonders as he watches your mouth move. Of course they do, they're still human after all...wait, are they? Yes, they don't seem to possess any sort of strange physical augmentation, but their power is definitely on a different level from us mortals. They have strength on par with gods thanks to the generous blessings from Her Royal Highness the Tsarista, but still—?!  

"...so that's the gist of it."

"I—uh, sure but wh—I mean, I was totally listening, Lord Scapino, but can I ask—"

Lyudmila, clearly embarrassed by her partner's unbecoming floundering, steps in to answer for him. 

"What this idiot is trying to say is—" Mikhail seems to be caught between shooting the woman a dirty look or a grateful one. "—it would be an honor to assist you in your search for an appropriate tavern. The locals seem to flock to the one called Angel's Share as it receives its wine directly from the Dawn Winery. However, if that should not suit your tastes, the next best thing is the Cat's Tail which is located just over there."

"Angel's Share should do. Many thanks to you, Lyudmila." You wave cheerfully behind you as you set off for the tavern she had named. "Keep up the good work comrades!"

Both diplomats return the gesture with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Mikhail, for his part, looks like a malfunctioning, unrefined prototype Ruin Guard. 

"...wait, if Lord Scapino does not know which tavern to go to due to their prolonged absence from their post here in Mondstadt, then how do they know the way there?"

 

---

 

It becomes quickly apparent that the Angel's Share is known more for its alcohol than its patronage. 

The debacle begins before you can even put your gloved hand on the doorknob of the tavern's door. Some fellow—Patter, Potter, whatever—takes one look at you and turns as white as the snow-capped mountains characteristic of your mother's motherland. If the street hadn't been vacated on your walk over, perhaps you could've pretended to be surprised or at least offended at his fright. Mondstadt's citizens have always had a tendency of wearing their hearts on their sleeves. Terror paints itself over every cobblestone in your wake and as you sweep past this poor doorman, he looks as if his life flashed before his eyes. 

"Hello! What can I get y—" The barkeep is halfway through his sentence when his eyes lock with yours. The cloth in his hand stops cleaning a wine glass just as the chatter in the rest of the tavern drops to a hush that you, if you were a bit more delusional, could've described as reverential. 

(It's strange. For a city with no god, Mondstadt loves to press its hands to a rosary and pray, loves to pour its funds into a towering monolith of religious faith, a spire dedicated to an absent ear. You don't understand. Why dedicate yourselves to someone who isn't there? Why reach for a wisp of wind when all you'll ever get is a palmful of emptiness and disappointment?

If you're on a sinking ship, you remember someone telling you, save yourself and let go. )

"A glass of your best wine, please." You flash him what you consider a winning smile and rest an elbow on the countertop. "And I mean, best ."

"If you wanted to sample the choicest fine wines Mondstadt has to offer, you'll have better luck seeking the resident wine connoisseur instead of terrorizing the poor staff." Someone had entered sometime after you and they now lean past you to drop some mora on the counter. "Charles, I'll take my usual, thanks."

Ostentatiously fluffed fur-lined cape, questionable eyepatch, peculiar diamond pupils, and decidedly not-Mondstadian tan skin. 

"I don't suppose that this expert on wine would happen to be you, right?" You shift your attention to the Cavalry Captain's face. "That would be incredibly convenient."

"Convenience, coincidence, fate?" His laugh is easy and well-practiced. The smile on your face tightens; you know a tricky fellow when you see one. Kaeya Alberich is a sly snake in the grass—a fact as certain as the indefinite nature of Snezhnayan frost. "Let's call it luck. Now, the obvious tourist's choice is the Dandelion Wine, but the real treat the locals don't tell you is actually the Death After Noon. How about it?"

You turn to Charles, who has been cleaning the same wine glass the entire time you've been in the tavern. It squeaks embarrassingly loud when he notices that you're speaking to him. 

"I'll take a glass of each." 

"R-right away, Captain Kaeya, miss." He flees into the back, leaving nothing but a bemused twitch of your lips and a wine glass so polished you wonder if you could use it as a mirror. 

"First Cavalry Captain, now a wine connoisseur?" You have no trouble finding an empty seat at a table tucked in the back—your incoming footsteps seem to have the magical property of relocating any patron who isn't passed out drunk to the other side of the room. Kaeya, frustratingly enough, is following right on your heels. "I have to applaud you for wearing so many hats. What other surprises do you have tucked away?"

"My great-great-grandfather was also a fearsome pirate, a terrorizer of the seas." He quips as he drops himself into the seat across from yours. "He's the one that gave this eyepatch to me. It's a precious family heirloom, passed down through the ages to the most worthy son of each generation."

No one can blame you for rolling your eyes. 

"The most worthy son? How is that determined?" You make a big show of looking him up and down. "A fashion show to see who can pull off the flashiest furs in Mondstadt?"

"While I thank you for noticing my alluring looks and all-around charm, no. In my case, it was actually an intellectual battle of wits." He pauses as a paler-than-usual waitress gingerly sets three drinks down on your table, nods to Kaeya once, and flees. "Or to be more specific: a guessing game."

"Ah, yes. I imagine that would take a considerable amount of skill." You drawl, sliding one of your two orders towards yourself. 

The first drink is refreshing and slightly sweet, a light offering to your taste buds. This must be the Dandelion Wine: it seems to be suited for the refined palettes of nobles and not the mildly threatening promise of receiving Death After Noon.  

Kaeya, meanwhile, continues to run his mouth. 

"Don't think I didn't hear that sarcasm, milord ." He reprimands you like a true hypocrite and knocks back a glass of his own drink with the ease of a regular alcoholic. Mondstadt allows its knights to drink on the job? The leniency of this city surpasses your already dismal expectations. One thing is for certain: this is a city of surprises. Just when you think you've hit rock bottom, it pulls out a pickaxe and tunnels beneath that. "I should tell you that the game is harder than you'd think. Would you like to try your hand at playing?"

"Against the winner of his family's eyepatch?" You drain your Dandelion Wine with a sigh. You hate to admit it, but you’ve confirmed it yourself. The Dawn Winery certainly lives up to their name. It’s settled: you’ll need to pay the place a visit tomorrow. "I apologize, but I'll have to turn down your gracious offer. It's generally unpolite of a guest to make one's host cry out of embarrassment, and I do not wish to turn the entirety of Mondstadt against me. Understand that the life of a diplomat is tough enough already."

"Such confidence, and before you've even heard the rules! You Snezhnayans are certainly made of every bit of pride and boldness that I've heard you are."

The waitress returns with four more glasses, setting them down in front of Kaeya. When did he finish two—oh, the other one he drank was yours. The Captain motions for you to help yourself to the restocked beverages with a sheepish smile. 

"Sorry. I was feeling quite parched and took the liberty of polishing off your order as well." He apologizes, not sounding the least bit sorry. His words fly over your head as you scrutinize the sparkling row of alcoholic drinks in front of you. Would Kaeya be bold enough to poison you? "As compensation, the tab of all of your drinks is on me."

"How courteous of you." You drawl. You have what you came here for and unless Kaeya starts handing you intel on a silver platter (something you get the impression he's used to taking, not giving), you're done for the day. Prolonged exposure to Mondstadtians isn't good for your skin. There's just too much wind. "Unfortunately, I'm not much of a drinker so I won't be able to take advantage of your kind gesture."

"Leaving already? You haven't utterly destroyed me at my own game of wits yet, like you said you would." He's smirking, flipping a coin into the air before snatching it up again. Kaeya Alberich promises danger, insufferable attitudes, wounded pride, and alcohol. You slow your exit. "Or was that all just a blustering front for the fragile eggshell of your ego?"

Is his suspiciously persistent goading fate's way of telling you that you shouldn't let this chance to dig for information go? You're nothing if opportunistic, so you let yourself rise to the bait. 

How did Childe look again, that winter day when you called him names and pulled his hair until he let you leave the outdoor training arena and hide from the biting wind? There was something there other than the usual contempt—you still can't put your finger on it, but Scaramouche had sneered and called the constipated look on his nemesis' face a product of his hurt pride, so you roll with it and do your best to recall the eleventh Harbinger's look of offense. 

Narrowed eyes, tense posture. 

You sit back down and cross your legs, tilting your chin up to look down your nose at him. What an image! You look every bit the part of an impulsive, hot-headed egotistically self-important Fatui Harbinger that Kaeya expects of you. Bravo! You'd take a bow but the show's not over just yet. 

"Alright. Let's hear the rules of this guessing game of yours. If it's worth my time I suppose I could indulge you with the honor of my presence for a little while longer." 

"Excellent!" The Captain's eye is shining under the warm glow of the tavern lights, and you're suddenly struck by the way his peculiarly shaped pupil is a bright star twinkling in a twilight sky. The people of Teyvat don't typically have stars for eyes, do they? 

Your brows furrow at this. 

 

Which corner of this Archons- forsaken- blessed world did you crawl out from, Kaeya Alberich?

 

The Captain doesn't seem to notice your probing squint.

"The two players take turns telling the other three statements. Two are lies, and one is the truth. All statements must be personal and have to do with the player themselves—so nothing like 'the sky is blue'—and the truth must be the truth. The aim is to correctly pick out which statement is the truth. After a set number of rounds, the player who has chosen the most truthful statements is the winner." Kaeya regards the untouched Death After Noons sitting innocently between the two of you, and you watch as the corners of his lips curl slowly upwards. "Simple, no? Because of your high intellect, I propose another rule. The loser of each round has to drink one glass of wine."

"Ah, so you've turned an honorable family ritual into a drinking game, have you?" You muse, though your words lack enough acidity to really bite. "What a maverick."

It's clear that the Cavalry Captain isn't insisting that you play out of pure intentions. Does he plan on getting you inebriated to pry Fatui secrets out of your loose lips? That's not a bad plan, but he also runs the risk of getting himself drunk before you are. 

Just how confident is he that he'll win?

"But of course. Rules are made to be broken; they're nothing but crude suggestions for how one should conduct themselves." He traces the rim of a wine glass, seemingly deep in thought. "This is the City of Freedom , after all. It's all in the name."

"Bound to nothing but the whims of the wind." You nod to yourself, considering his preposition. You yourself hadn't done any interrogation work—that was mainly left to Scaramouche, the heartless bastard—but you'd gotten plenty of front row seats to the short Inazuman's work. What's the worst that Kaeya can do? "Alright. I'll agree to three rounds of this game, and then I'm leaving."

"Three's better than none." He flips his coin up in the air again. "I call heads!"

The mora lands in his favor. 

"Lucky!" Kaeya crows. "Aw, don't look so sad. Since this is your first time, I'll go easy on you. Which of these is true? I am the favorite customer of this establishment’s imprudent bother of a boss, is the last thing my father told me the lie that he's leaving me only to go buy grape juice, or do I hail from a royal lineage?"

Diluc Ragnvindr is known to have a bit of a hot-headed streak, as gentlemanly as he is, isn't he? You weren't able to witness his rampage across Teyvat like some of your colleagues had been, so you're sorry to say that you haven't had the honor of formally meeting the man face-to-face. Gossip is as good a news source as any, so you go for it. 

"The Ragnvindr household may not be particularly thrilled to hear you describing their current head like that, but still—is the first statement the truth?"

The man laughs and soon you find yourself chugging a glass of his favorite wine. 

The difference between Dandelion Wine and Death After Noon is day and night. You’re certain that you’ve got fireworks in your mouth, the bold taste wiping clean any trace of the calmer, more subtle undertones of its more famous companion. It's a line of lucky crimson firecrackers pop-popping, crackling, singing through your veins; it's molten gold, and for just a moment you imagine cutting yourself open to find yourself bleeding ichor. 

It burns like fire. 

(You're not an avid lover of alcohol, but even you wouldn't mind drowning your nonexistent sorrows in this ocean. It kills a little bit of you inside, but you have to agree with Kaeya on his choice of favorite drink. Of course, the day you openly—genuinely—admit this to the Captain's face is the day that you renounce your title as the sole heir of the [l/n] mercantile—in other words: over your dead body. ) 

"It's good, isn't it? I almost envy you. Perhaps...just for the taste of an exploding star, I'll lose the next round on purpose." Kaeya rests his chin on his palm and chuckles at your affronted expression. "Aw, don't look so mad! Cool your temper, I only jest."

"Of course you are. Now, aren't you going to tell me which choice is the correct answer?"

"Why would I spill all of my secrets to you? That isn't a part of the rules." 

You hate it, but he's right. Sighing, you graciously accept your circumstances and finish off the rest of your drink. 

"Alright, fine. Keep your secrets." You lick the remaining droplets of wine off of your lips and lean back in your seat, away from the warm circle of lamplight. "Let's see if Lady Luck still smiles upon you."

 

---

 

The Cavalry Captain is in the middle of guessing whether or not your favorite color is red, if you had tea break pancakes for breakfast this morning, or if you've ever traveled outside of Teyvat, when your group expands to become a party of three. 

"What are you doing here."

It's less of a question and more of a statement. Both you and Kaeya glance at each other, before craning your necks to look up at the intruder. 

"Oh! If it isn't Sir Ragnvindr." You raise a glass of Death After Noon in a mock toast, ignoring the way he stiffens at the title you tack onto his name. "I'm simply paying good mora for good alcohol. I must say, the Dawn Winery has not yet disappointed. I may even consider becoming a loyal customer, just like everyone else."

"I want none of your dirty Fatui money." The man scowls in a manner that's sure to come back to bite him in the ass as wrinkles when— if —he gets to the ripe old age of seventy. "And you're not the same as the rest of my patrons. With them, I can at least rest assured that they're simply here to unwind after a long day. You—your presence brings nothing but misfortune and bad tidings. Tell me, Harbinger, what are your true motives for setting foot in Mondstadt?"

"Normally, I'd be flattered that you think of me as different from the rest of the crowd, but the accusing words that come with the compliment make my heart break. I'm just trying to do my part to bridge the gap between both of our wonderful nations. Surely, you can find no harm in me doing my duty as a diplomat?"

"Cut the lies from your tongue, Fatui scum , or I'll cut them out myself—"

"Hey, hey, calm down now. You don't want to burn your tavern down, now do you?" Kaeya stands up quickly to place a placating hand out to stop his adoptive brother from summoning his claymore. You, on the other hand, are sitting serenely in your seat, the perfect image of civility and peace. The juxtaposition between his open hostility and your restrained diplomatic front is almost laughable. 

Ah, what a temper! 

You find it so poetically fitting that Diluc Ragnvindr is the owner of a winery. He's just as fiery as some of his products and his words are just as scalding. His Pyro Vision truly suits him—fit to make mass destruction look beautiful, perfect for letting him let his rage loose without losing the admiration of those around him. 

He sets ablaze flames so mesmerizing no one thinks to look at the forest burning down around him. 

"My, why so high-strung? You look like you could use a drink." In a gesture that you personally think is kind and befitting of the polite society you both (theoretically) belong to, you push a glass of alcohol towards your ill-tempered host. "Be careful about your blood pressure. I have a feeling that Mondstadt won't want its most prominent citizen to drop six feet into an early grave."

The redhead's lip curls in disgust. 

"I detest alcohol."

You stare at him, trying to pick apart his impassive facial features, before turning to Kaeya for help. You find your answer in his crossed arms and scrunched face. The Captain looks equally as disgusted as his brother, but for different reasons. You suppose that for a self-proclaimed wine connoisseur, the idea of feeling anything other than love for booze is the equivalent of sacrilege. 

The universe has a strange sense of humor, shoving an alcohol-detesting man into the wine industry like that. Next you'll learn that Jean hates being a knight and that Childe would rather do anything other than chase down indebted fools and intimidate them into coughing up their entire livelihoods. 

What else is there for you to do but cough awkwardly and reclaim the glass of Death After Noon?

"...ah. Well, forgive me for offering your own source of income to you then." 

Kaeya laughs at your dry monotony. 

"Lord Scapino, you'll find that Mondstadt is filled with surprises. Master Diluc here is just one of the many gems in our lovely city. Now, speaking of surprises—we haven't finished our game yet. Your statements are deceptively hard to pick through, aren't they? If I forfeit and willingly drink, won't you tell me which is the truth? I'm dying to hear if you've ever traveled outside of Teyvat, or if I have to woo you into a... friendship ...with red-dyed tea break pancakes."

"I'm afraid, Captain Kaeya, that I pride myself on picking my associates based on their personality traits and other qualities that do not happen to include their culinary skills." You shake your head. "And Teyvat? Its borders are vast, but the world beyond—"

"You dither on about this and that, and yet you still not have answered my question." Diluc recaptures your attention. His eyes are live coals, seeking to burn you into nothing but a pile of cinders. Wow. Have you ever been hated this much by a practical stranger? "Out with the truth. What nefarious aims do you hope to achieve in Mondstadt?"

"Does trying every alcoholic beverage the city of wine has to offer count?"

One moment you're making bad decisions by infuriating a man that's already at the end of his rope with you, and the next you're watching as Kaeya struggles to keep Mondstadt’s most esteemed bachelor from clobbering you in the face. 

"Kaeya let go —"

"Diluc, you're not going to get anything out of this." The Cavalry Captain reasons. His voice is strung as taut as a bowstring, the tedium of talking to a brick wall crinkling his facial features into a paper ball of exasperation. "Nothing good , anyway—alcohol and fire tend to be pretty combustible when put together, and the civilians are too drunk to make it out on their own." 

 

Theoretically, if the two men were to arm wrestle, who would win? 

 

You eye Kaeya's leaner build and (slightly shaking) grip on his charge and decide that sorry pretty boy , your bet would be on the temperamental redhead. With that in mind, you conclude that it'd be best if you made your exit while you're still unharmed.   

"No, no, I'll get out of your hair. I have enough sense to know when I'm not wanted somewhere." You drop a bag of mora onto the table with a heavy thud. "And Captain, you've repaid your debt in full by saving my face from this fellow’s fist. I'll foot my end of the bill."

"I agree that the Dawn Winery produces excellent high-quality liquors, but they're not outrageously high-end either." Kaeya stares at the 'pocket change' you've casually tossed at him. "A glass of Dandelion Wine and Death After Noon each doesn't cost a small fortune, you know."

You shrug as you make your way to the door. 

"Then consider it payment in advance... 

...for my next visit ."

Notes:

brucia come il fuoco: BURNS LIKE FIRE

place your bets everyone! who would win in an arm-wrestling contest: kaeya or diluc?

okokok before anyone starts throwing tomatoes i KNOW this chapter is kaeya/diluc-centric but while you're still in mondstadt i thought you might enjoy?? playing glorified two truths one lie with kaeya?? and narrowly avoiding getting decked in the face by diluc?? childe will be arriving...when he arrives. this is still childe x reader i swearrrr im just--easily distracted--i still love him very much and have lots of scenes planned with him pls ;-;

....well always, like comment subscribe if you liked this video chapter and for more *high* quality content!

Chapter 3: niente d'oro

Summary:

Childe claims that he's a straight-forwards kind of guy. It's not uncommon to hear him comment on his distaste for 'slinking around in the shadows' like the rest of the Harbingers. Instead, he struts about under the sun to get things done the old fashioned way. You see this as nothing but a testament to his own twisted moral compass. There is nothing golden about his principles—he is a hunter, living as he kills.

Anyway, the point you're trying to make is this: he's a fucking liar.

Notes:

a wild child(e) makes an appearance!

MISPLACED POTENTIAL saddens you more than it should. 

Perhaps your pain at the thought of what could have been is just a hallmark of your boundless empathy, or your pioneering spirit that sees each patch of perilous, unwanted wood as a golden opportunity for novelty and new horizons. If Scaramouche were here he'd flick your forehead and call you a disgusting sap, but you'd prefer to call yourself a model diplomat; you're always on the lookout for something better to exploit for your country and for your Tsarista. 

But today is different. Whatever is responsible for this can do you a favor and stop tugging at your heartstrings, because it's making you sick and spoiling your mood.  If you hadn't spotted the Fatui—the unauthorized Fatui—flag peeking out from a line of foliage, you could've spent your time admiring the beautiful weather. You could've strolled amidst Mondstadt's swaths of greenery, picked a bouquet of calla lilies and windwheel asters and let yourself be embraced by their cloying fragrance, or even spend the better portion of your time marveling at the lithe way fish prance to avoid the frigid invitation of your fingers.

Instead, you're forced to spend your time removing weeds from your garden. 

See, here's the thing—Mondstadt is your assigned domain. Her Majesty the Tsaritsa herself sent you here, to the land of the absent Anemo Archon, to fix and maintain the trainwreck  that your predecessor ( predecessors ? You're loath to admit that La Signora had also been stationed in the city of song and wind before you, what with the brevity of her stay and all) had left behind. The other Harbingers have no reason to traipse about in your designated nation unless they are visiting on some sort of official business mandated by the Tsaritsa's divine word.

Everyone knows this. 

So, this begs the question: which Archonsdamned idiot decided that it would be a good idea to order their troops to set up camp here, in the Windwail Highlands, not even fifty feet away from the Dawn Winery's charming wooden sign? You certainly don't remember sending any of your dearest Fatui friends here to bother the object of your current attentions, not when you're on your way to negotiate a vital contract that you've painstakingly spent the last week crafting. It's as if whoever lacks enough braincells to set up a Fatui camp here is purposefully looking for a fight with the stubborn wine tycoon and leader of the official Fatui hate-club. 

Now that you think about it, if Sir Ragnvindr looks out his window and decides that this is enough grounds to kick you off of his property before you even open your mouth, then you can say bye-bye to all of the progress you've made. 

The mental image of your hard work being flushed down the toilet replays itself over and over again as you stride closer and closer to the offending encampment. Unacceptable . You will see this through to the end even if you have to piss off one of your fellow Harbingers and risk their wrath, however unreasonable it may be. 

With murder on your mind and intimidation written all over your face, you step into the clearing where the Fatui skirmishers are facing off against one familiar blonde. 

"Explain—"

The next few moments seem to happen in slow motion. 

One of the Fatui is knocked backwards by a whirlwind, hat tilted askew in the sudden gale. Their arms pinwheel—a desperate attempt to regain some semblance of balance—boots stumble over a broken soup ladle—one of their comrades is shouting, another is looking on with the sort of sickening sinking feeling one gets in their gut when watching a disaster unfold without having the power to stop it. 

The last one has dropped their weapon to say a quick prayer. Knees buckle, lightning-infused hammer yields to gravity and tosses the skirmisher to one side. Lumine's wide golden eyes get even wider, if possible. 

They tumble/ Watch out! /you turn your head right as—

 

SMACK!

 

The noise level drops six feet below the earth into an early grave. You slowly touch your cheek.

It's stinging.  

 

---

 

Normally, you would have found this scene to be incredibly funny. 

Tall, muscular, glowing-eyed soldiers born and bred in a nation where survival is a luxury and death howls through the streets like a bone-chilling wind are lined up in a sheepish row in front of you, each trying their damnedest to make themselves seem as inconspicuous as possible.  

 "Who wants to explain to me what the situation is? You were causing quite the commotion you know, scaring off the wildlife and all that." You're smiling, but judging from the way it looks more like a vicious snarl than anything else, everyone unceremoniously agrees not to mention the bright red blotch staining your cheek. You turn to Lumine, who is still frozen in a battle stance, and she jolts to attention at the sound of your voice. "I'm terribly sorry about them, Miss Pizza Delivery. You aren't hurt anywhere, are you?"

"My lord, that is—"

Oh, the ignorance of these fools. Do they seriously think you don't know who the traveler is, Mondstadt's Hero of the Skies and Defender of the City? They're either severely underestimating the capabilities of your intelligence, or they're simply unable to extrapolate and use their critical thinking skills. Who's even recruiting these idiots into Her Majesty the Tsarista's army anyway? 

You raise a hand to shush the skirmisher.

"Enough. Pizza deliverer or professional swordswoman, I don't care. This traveler happens to be a personal friend of mine." You clasp the traveler's shoulder with your gloved hand, ignoring the way her muscles tense under your touch. Paimon looks as if she wants to protest, but thinking better of it, decides to keep her mouth shut. "I'll ask again. Who wants to explain why you're here and attacking the innocent passerby like a bunch of brainless brutes?"

The skirmishers exchange glances. The one that hit you is offered as a sacrifice volunteered as tribute.

"My lord, we-we uh, we know that Mondstadt is under your jurisdiction but we have orders to be here." You can't see under their mask, but based on the way that they're fidgeting with their gloves, they're not far from pissing their pants. 

"Then who decided that it would be a good idea to command you to set up a camp here?"

They send a helpless glance back to their comrades. For their efforts, they receive flapping hands and raised shoulders.

"I don't have all day." You kindly remind the group that even your benevolence has limits. Though the first frost is still a long ways away from the gentle plains and fertile soil of Mondstadt, the air gains a distinct chill. 

"R-right. Uh...that would be—I mean, we received orders from Lord Childe, my lord."

Of course. Of course! That esteemed comrade fucking dipshit of yours just likes to meddle in your affairs to watch you crash and burn, doesn't he? He can't help it, you suppose. There's just something so magnetic about your personality that eggs him and his antagonistic hatred for you onwards. You can't blame him—it's your own fault that your radiance stirs the embers of jealousy in that two-faced shriveled up heart of his. But still, will you let this transgression slide?

Ha! What a thought. 

However, now is not the time to envision the many ways that karma can boomerang back to your beloved colleague, not when Paimon squeaks at whatever expression you're making and the Fatui all make a simultaneous effort to shuffle farther away from you. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose and exhale slowly. 

"Alright. Then, as Lord Scapino, may I ask that you pack up and send Lord Childe a message from me?" You're asking a question but everyone in the vicinity knows that it's an order. These skirmishers may not be in your legion, but you still have the authority to boot them back to Snezhnaya whenever you want. "Tell him that while I am flattered by his desire to assist me, I am doing perfectly well on my own. He need not worry about my business, and if he leaves what's mine alone, I'll do the same for his section of the pie."

"But—"

" Is there a problem? " 

The atmosphere plunges below zero. Breaths stick to the inside of throats, frost forms spiderwebs and holds nerves in its icy thrall. Out comes the stone-cold eyes and a voice filled with the crackle of a spark nearing a stick of dynamite.

"N-no, milord. We'll get on that right away."

Satisfied, you relinquish your hold on Lumine (who only sheathes her sword after the skirmishers start to take apart their tent). When you turn to face her, the sun comes out and all traces of winter melt away in its rays. 

"Again, I'm so sorry about them." You're back to being the amiable diplomat the traveler had met that day in Jean's office. "Like I asked before I was rudely interrupted, are you alright? Ah, this incident surely has done it. The name of the Fatui is dragged through the mud forevermore...will you find it in your heart of hearts to forgive them for their insolence?"

"Oh no, don't worry about anything. It—everything's fine, Scapino." The blonde scratches her cheek. "Or should I call you Lord Scapino? I apologize for not using your title. I didn't know you had one."

 

You mean, you didn't know I was a   Harbinger .

 

Neither Paimon nor Lumine seem to have a desire to confront the elephant in the room—well, clearing—so you make no moves to explain yourself. 

"No, please, I'd prefer it if you dropped the title." You gesture for the two to follow you back through the semi-trampled foliage and onto the main road again. "But that's besides the point. What were you doing in a Fatui camp? I wasn't aware that the Good Hunter delivered to the middle of the Windwail Highlands."

(When Lumine sighs it's as if she's an old soul recalling some phantom pain from centuries ago, a faded scar that still aches just enough to remind her that it's there. She's seen some shit, you realize. You suppose that fighting one of the Four Winds constitutes "some shit," but you just can't shake the feeling that this traveler has experienced something equivalent to watching a world bloom into being before withering away a million times over. 

An old soul shoved inside an ageless body. 

Perhaps you've been reading too many fantasy novels.)

"You'd be surprised." She snorts good-humoredly. "I've had to deliver dishes to Brightcrown Canyon before."

"Really? All the way up to that dragon's—what was its name again? Stormterror? Yes, that's the one. You'd venture into the heart of the beast's lair for a food delivery?" You crack a smile, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that causes Paimon to dart behind Lumine's hair. "Color me impressed, Miss Pizza! The allure of mora must really be that strong for you. The only other person I know bold enough to waltz through there is the Hero of Mondstadt themself."

"Is that so?" Oh, she's careful , isn't she? Determinedly, she doesn't meet your eyes as she untangles her pixie companion from her golden locks. "Have you met them?"

"Unfortunately not. I'd like to—they seem like someone that would be a lot of fun to hang around."

There's a few beats of silence. 

"...I think that you might be fun to hang around too."

 

---

 

This is fine. 

It's not like your deal fell apart before your very eyes because someone thought that it would be a good idea to send his men to heckle one unbearably stubborn wine owner who has the ability to tear your progress to shreds; ahahaha, why would you think that ? If anyone asks you're totally not cursing out your esteemed colleague in every language under the sun, no, you're the composed, friendly diplomat that everyone knows you to be. 

You reach one hand up to rub your neck. Damn . Diluc Ragnvindr is truly a man of his word. When he says that he'll put a claymore to your throat, he will do just that. You suppose you should have seen this coming. Given the flame-haired man's predictability, it isn't that hard to deduce that the sight of Fatui encampments polluting the neighboring wood as a poor show of force would light the barrel of explosives known as his temper. 

If anything, Diluc is reliable. 

Now, if only the Eleventh Harbinger could learn from his example. 

"Excuse me?" You're smiling but anyone with half of a braincell knows that animals display their fangs in a show of aggression. You're going back to your roots; these teeth are knives ready to tear into the trembling worker before you. "Childe is where ?"

"L-lord Childe is uh-he's out settling a business deal at the Liuli Pavilion. With the, um, the consultant of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor."

"There. That wasn't so hard, now was it?" You retract yourself from the receptionist's space. What a pain. You dropped everything in Mondstadt to travel all the way to the Liyuen branch of the Northland Bank just to catch up with your fellow Harbinger. Imagine your utter dismay when you discover that he had left his post!

Figures. The young lord makes a mess out of your hard work and still, you must be the one to actively seek an audience with him. Chivalry is dead; despair reigns supreme and as you stride purposefully through Liyue's streets you make a bitter game out of guessing what the little lord will demand of you. 

Liyue is the harbor of stone and contracts, each transaction gridlocked with rules that, when stripped to its bare essentials, is revealed to be the less (explicitly) brutal version of a Snezhnayan pinkie promise.  Having operated for so long in this land governed by exchanges, Childe is sure to have picked up some of these practices. Hopefully, to compensate for forcefully uprooting his men and upturning his orders, you'll have to pay no more than your slapped cheek and wasted time. 

"Welcome to the Liuli Pavilion." The man standing in your way looks as if seeing Fatui Harbingers show up at his establishment is a normal, everyday occurrence. You can't help but stifle an amused chuckle at the stark difference between Liyue and Mondstadt. Here, everyone's expressions are neatly ironed out into perfect ready-made images of hospitality. "Do you have a reservation?"

 "My appointment is already inside. I'm running late for our meeting, so if you could just—"

"Name?"

 

Inhale. Exhale. Forget that this miscreant just cut you off. Inhale. Exhale.

 

"Childe. The Eleventh Fatui Harbinger."  

"Oh? What a coincidence. I'm scheduled to meet him here as well." 

A rich baritone rings through the air to your left. Turning, you're slapped upside the head with the realization that sometime in the last five seconds an incredibly attractive man has managed to walk up beside you without your knowing. 

Magnificent golden eyes peer down at you, each iris shining with the opulent hue of Mount Hulao's finest Cor Lapis ores. He holds you in his gaze; you suddenly understand what it's like to be an ant immortalized in amber resin, a memento of lost time captured in the space between breaths. You're stunned. 

(This is a god amongst men. An idolized marble statue brought to life. An entity born of stars and glaze lilies, built from Liyue's earth and dressed with Celestia's splendor. One thing is for certain: he is not of this mortal plane.)

"...my, Childe certainly has his schedule filled." An eternity passes before you're able to shake yourself awake and get your voice to work again. "First the consultant from the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, and then us. And here I had the audacity to label him a slacker."

Surprise flits across the handsome stranger's face. 

"That's strange. I wasn't aware that...hmmm, I'll have to speak with Director Hu Tao about this." He looks away from you (the weight of a mountain lifts from your chest; you breathe again) to the attendant. "Kind sir. Like this esteemed guest, I too, am running behind schedule. Please let us not keep our host waiting."

The employee seems to recognize your companion's face and immediately steps aside to let the both of you through. 

"Of course. Right away sir." 

 

Is he some high-ranking official? Someone on par with the Liyue Qixing?

 

As he kindly leads you through the establishment, you try not to make your scrutinizing too obvious. The mere fact that he has a meeting scheduled with Childe tells you that he's someone with connections in high places. A quick once-over of his overall appearance solidifies this man in your mind as a wealthy hot-shot—sleek chocolate coats complete with inlaid silver lapels and shining clasps do not come cheap. 

You're still stuck in rumination when he slides open one of the doors. 

"Ah! Just who I was hoping to see—"

You'd recognize that voice anywhere. Half a sentence is all it takes for you to snap out of your musings and the puzzle of the mysterious man's identity is momentarily forgotten. 

You're pushing into the dining room in an instant. 

"Childe! How are you?"

Boy does he look happy to see you. Really, you're going to need him to contain his excitement—it's embarrassing how his eyes spark with surprise for an instant before fizzling out to look positively dead inside. 

"It's good to see that you're keeping yourself busy in Liyue by learning how to use basic eating utensils." You gesture vaguely at the chopsticks that lie uselessly in his hand. No, not chopsticks. In Childe's inept hands they are spears skewering hapless tofu to helpless bits, leaving nothing but carnage on the plate in front of him. Of all of the people you've met over the course of your life, he's only the second one that can make a meal into a grotesque war-torn battlefield, only the second one that brings his bloodlust to a dinner table. "I thought that I'd drop by and catch up with you. It has been so long since the last time we saw each other, hasn’t it?"

The Eleventh Harbinger is not a mere Fatui footsoldier or desk receptionist you can bully into submission. When he sets the chopsticks down on the table and stands to his full height, he has gotten over his initial shock and meets your thinly-veiled snarl with a leer of his own. 

"My apologies, dearest comrade. As you can see, I'm in the middle of a very important meeting. Please come back another time—I assure you, I'll make time for you. Maybe we can even go sightseeing together later!"

You snort. 

" Please . You're in the middle of a meeting? With who?" You jab a thumb back at the gentleman who has been a quiet bystander the entire time. "Him? He just arrived. I suppose you could make the argument that you're meeting with the Wangsheng consultant, but I don't see them anywhere."

Confusion pushes his eyebrows together, then understanding comes to smoothen them out again. Hidden in Childe's ensuing cackling is the twisting feeling of being left out of the loop, of being ignorant of your own ignorance. There's something he knows that you don't. 

You hate it. 

"Don't—don't worry about that." He looks between you and the amber-eyed man before dissolving into another fit of chuckles. "Zhongli, you didn't introduce yourself to my favorite colleague?"

"Hmm? Oh, right, that completely slipped my mind." 'Zhongli' nods to you as an overdue greeting. "Forgive me. You may call me Zhongli."

"And your occupation?" Childe goads. It's like listening to a mother teach her child how to introduce themself. Zhongli has a blank look on his face and after a few beats, realization dawns upon his face. 

"Ah. I'm the consultant to the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor."

 

---

 

Childe stops laughing in your face after fifteen excruciating minutes. 

You manage to convince Zhongli that yes, you're the only consultant to the funeral parlor your boss didn't hire another one and no, Childe doesn't really need to meet with you, he just set up a fake meeting because...reasons...really, it's fine, you can leave after fourteen and spend the last minute staring down your sorry excuse of a coworker from across the table. 

"Okay, okay, you got me." He picks up one of his fallen chopsticks and twirls it around his fingers. The last vestiges of his delight ebb away to leave behind a mellowed version of his usual cheer. "What did you want to talk about? I have to say, your visit is...not unwelcome, no, but unexpected. I'd be flattered if I didn't know you so well."

 

Know me? You? Please tell me you're joking. 

 

"You seriously don't know what I'm here for?" 

"Nope." He pops the 'p' and rests his cheek on his palm. There's an all-knowing grin tugging at the corners of his lips that suggests otherwise. At the moment, it looks as if he's asking for a fist to the face. "Can't say I do."

Childe claims that he's a straight-forwards kind of guy. It's not uncommon to hear him comment on his distaste for 'slinking around in the shadows' like the rest of the Harbingers. Instead, he struts about under the sun to get things done the old fashioned way. You see this as nothing but a testament to his own twisted moral compass. There is nothing golden about his principles—he is a hunter, living as he kills. 

Anyway, the point you're trying to make is this: he's a fucking liar. 

The sheer audacity this man has to stare you in the eyes and declare his innocence! The smugness, the trust he must have in his own abilities to spout such falsities! The ridiculous confidence he possesses in your ignorance and stupidity to possibly think that you could believe, even for a second, that he's not the thorn poking holes in your diplomatic dealings!

Your intelligence is feeling very insulted at this point. 

"I find that very hard to believe." You squint at him from across the table that, you notice, is filled from end to end with a dizzying array of Liyuen dishes. Well damn, it looks like old moneybags is shittier than you thought. Who wastes good food like this? Ah! Focus! "Try reaching back further in that pea-sized brain of yours. Perhaps you'll find a memory that explains the thought process, if any, that went into making the decision to send a camp filled with Fatui to the Dawn Winery?"

"What's the Dawn Winery?"

You can't do this. You have to wrap up the conversation before you get infected with whatever virus is eating his braincells. 

"Childe." You casually poke at a piece of colorful-looking meat before sighing and setting your chopsticks down again. "I know you're going to find this very hard to believe, but even you have a limit to how dumb you can pretend to be."

He tips his head back and laughs. 

"Why, Scapino, I'd say that sounded like a compliment! Are you starting to let go of your obtuse pride to warm up to me?"

"Of course! How could anyone not?" You beam with as much honesty as the businessmen and loan sharks you rub elbows with on a daily basis. "Your fans are as numerous as Snezhnaya's summers are long!"

"...it's always winter there."

"Wow! Who would’ve thought?"

The ginger-haired nightmare man makes an admirable effort to not let his diplomat's smile drop, but ultimately yields to the force of your nastiness. He leans forwards and steeples his hands. A serious light settles in his eyes and for a split second, you falter. 

"Why are you so angry?"

Nevermind. Your temper surges back at full force. 

"Why am I angry? Why am I angry?! " You point one accusatory finger in Childe's face. "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps it's because of the Fatui you ordered to harass Diluc Ragnvindr. Or maybe it's because your orders directly caused the man just enough grief to spit on the deal— which I've painstakingly built for the past few weeks, mind you —and hold a claymore to my neck while threatening to skin me alive if he ever sees me step foot on his property again."

A bitter sound masquerading as mirth cleaves itself painfully from your chest. 

"You didn't have to send your men to Mondstadt." The man opens his mouth and some sort of half-assed excuse falls partway through his lips, only for you to shut him up with a glare. "And don't you dare say that you thought I needed help wrangling a couple of wine-drunk peacekeepers into line. The fact is that you chose to sabotage my work."

" Sabotage ?! Now hold on, don't you think that's a little out of line?" 

"Then tell me, what's your explanation for the metaphorical bomb that just blew up Snezhnaya's diplomatic future in Mondstadt?" You're getting nowhere. The initial plan had been to extract an apology (preferably in the form of a favor) from your infuriating coworker. It turns out that you've expected too much from Childe; apparently, owning up to his actions is a monumental task. All this meeting has brought you is a rising blood pressure. 

The Eleventh Harbinger isn't known for losing his charming façade around just anybody. 

You just happen to be a special case. 

"The best answer to any question is the simplest one." His smile is back, but it's sharpened with the biting edge of exasperation and tinged with anger of his own. How strange. It's not like you've turned Liyue upside down and hindered his diplomatic proceedings. " It's your fault you weren't able to win."

Ahahaha. 

Oh, you really, really want to kill this man.

Notes:

niente d'oro: NOTHING GOLDEN

the girls are fightinnnngggggg
anyway. remember that the tag is ENEMIES to friends to (maybe) lovers, so yeah

Chapter 4: alleato del vetro

Summary:

"You prefer his company over mine?"

The better question is why Childe sounds so shocked. Scaramouche has fallen silent a while ago and now, his gaze switches between you and Childe like he's watching a sparring match. You shrug listlessly and swivel on a heel to fix your gaze in the far off distance, pinning your attention on something worth attending to (read: not him).

"Surprising, I know."

Notes:

early update to manifest xiao. wish me luck guys...

" MAYBE YOU COULD FIGHT HIM. "

"Yeah, and I'll ascend to Celestia while I'm at it." You grumble around a mouthful of ramen. Scaramouche rolls his eyes at your pitiful state and shoves a napkin in your face. What was supposed to wipe a dabble of spicy sauce off of your chin ends up smearing the bright red chili oil all over your cheek instead. "Scara, you know how woefully inept I am in the brutish practice of combat."

"Unfortunately. Also, you look like shit." He grimaces like he's not the reason the lower half of your face reads like a blood-splattered crime scene. "Clean yourself up before someone sees me sitting with the likes of you. I can't have my reputation tarnished because you have the table manners of a toddler."

"Go fuck yourself." You say this as you idly swipe at your cheeks, frowning when the napkin comes away dyed in the scarlet hues of your ramen's condiments. Your words lack the typical finesse with which you wield them, but their crudeness doesn't have enough roughness to hurt. "At least I don't have the height of one."

"Oh, that's a low blow and you know it!"

"Boo hoo, go cry me a river and drown your sorrows in it. I'm the one in pain right now, not you." You jab your chopsticks at the Inazuman. "If you want to complain you can do so after we figure out how we're going to get back at Childe in a way that preferably, doesn't involve any sort of duel to the death." 

You're both lounging in the Goth Grand Hotel where you had retreated after that disastrous dinner confrontation with Childe. Instead of skewering his sad little heart with your chopsticks like you ought to have, you had colored the air with a string of words that would have made a pirate blush and stormed back to Mondstadt. After hearing from a frantic Fatui messenger about your less-than-pleasant mood, the second-most-hated Harbinger sighed and showed up at your doorstep bearing the gifts of your favorite Inazuman dish and his company. 

Strange, no? He is hated by everyone in the organization and it seems as though you aren't too different. You pick on his height and use him as a shield; you send him ahead of you into battle and stand from a distance as he does all of the dirty work. Watching. You're waiting for something, you claim, but he never knows what because you never tell him. 

But the enemy of an enemy is a tentative friend and he is the closest thing to one that you'll never admit having. You prefer terms like allies, like comrades, like colleagues and co-workers. They're professional and impersonal, but Scaramouche has worked alongside you long enough to not take offense to the arms-length treatment. Besides, you both speak the same language of affection: he hears you call him someone you wouldn't stab and responds that he'll never be the reason you end up dead in a ditch. 

Touching, no?

"A duel to the death would actually be the most efficient way to solve your problem, you know. As long as one of you winds up dead at the end, your petty squabbling will be over for good." He shrugs. "I don't see what's wrong with that."

" What's wrong with that? Scara, darling, please take the time to search through the hollow space between your ears and recall the many, many times I've reiterated that my skill lies with my tongue, not my fists! I'm a diplomat, not a scummy mercenary." You pause to drain your bowl of broth. "And also, I don't want to die. Not by his hands, anyway. I'd rather drown than be sent to hell by that churlish ignoramus."

"A bold declaration by someone who tries not to cry every time they're forced onto a boat more than ten feet away from shore."

The bowl clinks against the table. You tuck your hands in your lap; Scaramouche watches as your fingers curl into fists before they bloom again, splaying over your knees. Over, over and over again—it's a cycle of budding and waning. Of breathing. 

You're quiet, but unlike most times, the air doesn't feel stifling without your levity. There is no tension, strangely, but he is hesitant to call whatever lingers in the absence of your words peace .

(And what does he know of peace, anyway? A prince deprived of everything but exile knows no rest. As long as he continues to scrabble for something held just out of reach, the Sixth Harbinger turns away from swaying plains and languid clouds to face a burning, rising sun. Yes, he is a Harbinger—a premonition of what is yet to come. What follows in his wake, what drifts behind him like the smoke rising from the charred flesh of his enemies? The torrential downpour never ceases, and so, neither will the arcing spark of his ambition.

But enough of him. He does not know what he is missing.)   

Perhaps there existed a moment in time when Scaramouche looked at you and saw someone who didn’t belong in this den of monsters; now, he half expects you to shatter the mirage with one bloodied claw. Maybe you'd leap across the table and snatch up a fistful of his shirt with daggers for eyes and curses upon your lips. Maybe you'd whisper hoarsely under your breath, snarling say that again, say that again I dare you and he'll swear later, as he reminisces, that your eyes were glowing. Glowing like twin seelie trapped within glass jars, burning brightly under the low lamplight and maybe you'd be about to slam him into a chokehold that'll leave a bruise as purple as the electro buzzing just beneath his skin. 

You could do all of that (maybe you'd even punch him in the nose and then it'll be his turn to have a face smeared with crimson carnations and the stain of mortality) but he knows you. He knows that you won't. 

You clench your fist (you won't) before slowly smoothing out your palm again (you don't). 

(Maybe he wishes you would. Maybe then he’d get to see what you’re hiding.)

"...well, I get seasick easily. And I'm sure you can imagine what would happen if I threw up in front of everyone else."

Scaramouche pauses, imagines, and snorts. 

"Then you can go and ask Childe for a duel. He'll spare you from the humiliation and end you."

"Mm. I'll keep that in mind." You stare at your hand for a few moments, before turning your gaze to meet his. "Well, enough of that. I suppose that you have no information to give me since you've just returned from running errands god-knows-where, so this conversation is pointless. Let's save our breaths."

"What do you suggest we do then, o mighty Lord Scapino?"

There is a certain drama to the way you stand and pause, mulling over his words, turning them over and over again in your mind. A slow smile spreads over your lips; you've just hit upon something and the puzzle pieces are clicking together in a most satisfactory manner. 

"I hear the Rite of Descension is tomorrow. In the name of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa, don't you think we should pay our respects when we're in the area?"

 

---

 

You've never gone shopping before, let alone gone gift-shopping for an Archon . 

To your understanding, gifts are usually items that the receiver either needs or wants, but what could Rex Lapis, God of War, Prime of the Adepti, possibly need? All of the mora in Teyvat flows like scales from his form and a wave of his hand summons a golden shower of falling stars from Celestia itself. There is nothing in this marketplace that the oldest Archon cannot acquire with a snap of the fingers so you purse your lips and push farther into the rows and rows of stalls. 

"Scara, what do you think Rex Lapis might like?"

Your companion grumbles and hugs his hat closer to his chest. 

"Fuck if I know." He motions to a nearby merchant with a flippant hand. "Y'think he'll appreciate it if you got him rocks?"

How you both haven't gotten thrown out of Liyue yet is a mystery you'll never know. Some of the bolder Liyuens shoot you dirty looks while others make an active effort to veer out of your path. 

"Remind me to never ask you for your opinion ever again."

"Don't ever ask me for my opinion again."

Your lips thin into an irritated line and you choose to display your exasperation with a dramatic eye-roll. Scaramouche is just trying to get a rise out of you, isn't he? You suppose that a ruckus in the marketplace caused by two Fatui Harbingers would make Childe's life exponentially more difficult, but upon further consideration, you decide against it. You represent the Tsaritsa; it would not do to sully Her Majesty's name in broad daylight.

(But under the cover of night? All bets are off, and nothing is too sacred.)

"Archons above, you're making a very good effort to get first place for being the most annoying entity to ever exist in Teyvat." You sigh, surveying the upcoming vendors and their wares. Nothing really catches your eye—it's all the typical trinkets, faux jade, and parcels of sweets that are always aggressively marketed to wide-eyed tourists. "Unfortunately, Childe has you beat—"

"I beat someone? Ooh, tell me more."

Haha, fuck . 

"Scapino, I'd advise against saying that name out loud." Scaramouche, for his credit, ignores your efforts to catch his attention and plows ahead in conversation. His voice is raised a couple volumes above his normal level and ah , it hits you, and you stifle a smile and remember that this is one of the reasons why you two get along so well. "Haven't you heard? It's like a curse. At the mere mention of his name, he shall appear. You know the saying, ' speak of the devil '? It started because of him."

"Really? Hmm, I didn't know that—"

"—hey! Answer me—"

"—but thank you for letting me know. I'll keep that in mind." Somewhere behind you, you hear the sound of boots stomping and a few Snezhnayan curses litter the air. How irresponsible. Doesn't Childe know that his brethren—other children—are present? "Should we come up with some sort of...code name then? You know how he is—he has this uncanny tendency of popping up in conversation." 

"How about Mr. More-Mora-Than-Sense?" 

"What a mouthful. We could shorten that to MMMTS."

"Boring." Scaramouche clicks his tongue and accidentally bites it when he peeks over his shoulder and snorts with barely restrained laughter. What's with that reaction? Your interest is piqued and now you want to see what sort of constipated expression the Eleventh Harbinger is wearing. But, for the sake of your mission, you exercise self-control and dutifully remain facing forwards. "I say we call him Toddler. He's already a child, so—"

" — if I didn't know any better, I'd say that the two of you are purposefully ignoring me. "

One gloved hand clamps down on your shoulder, the other on Scaramouche's.

He's smiling as he always is, but there's a chilling edge to it. Carved out of Snezhnayan ice and tingling with the threat of electricity, his strained grin tells you that the silent treatment had worn his façade down to its core. It doesn't take a genius to deduce that yeah , the young lord is more pissed off at you than usual. 

 "Childe! Sorry, we didn't see you there." Scaramouche brushes off the ginger-haired man's hand with ease and steps forwards into his space. 

The Inazuman is many things: ruthless and cunning, a major asshole and your closest thing to a confidant you have in your line of work, a condensed ball of spite and a bonafide liar...the list goes on. One of the few things you'd be hard pressed to call him is the owner of a pretty smile. You watch as he bares his teeth and one of the children passing by bursts into tears at the sight of his twisted—you don't even know what to call that. A simper? A leer? You rifle through your extensive vocabulary and turn up empty. 

He certainly is a one in a million. 

"Oh? Are you blind?" Childe fires back. Neither of them budge from their spots. "Did you not see this handsome face when you looked back over your shoulder mere moments ago? Shall I tell the Tsaritsa that it's time we let you go, you wizened old man?"

"The irony is killing me! I do my job better than you can do yours!"

"Are you looking for a fight? Because you're seriously ticking me off right now and—"

"Ooh, look at me, I'm sooo scared!" 

"If you're going to beat each other up please do it somewhere else." As much as you love seeing Childe getting picked on by a man who can only reach his armpit, you're not keen on having to report to the Tsaritsa why two of her Harbingers started pulling each other's hair in the middle of Liyue. "I have things to do, so if you could wrap this up and shoo, that'd be amazing."

Scaramouche looks confused for a split second; Childe stops his attempt on putting the Sixth Harbinger into a chokehold and well great, his attention is on you now. 

"What sort of things? I'd be eager to help."

"No, you wouldn't be." You deadpan. "You just tried to strangle Scaramouche and he's coming with me."

"You prefer his company over mine?"

The better question is why Childe sounds so shocked. Scaramouche has fallen silent a while ago and now, his gaze switches between you and Childe like he's watching a sparring match. You shrug listlessly and swivel on a heel to fix your gaze in the far off distance, pinning your attention on something worth attending to (read: not him). 

"Surprising, I know."

Shot right to the heart. The Snezhnayan holds a hand to his chest, staggering slightly as he pretends to keel over and faint. The crowd gives your trio a wide enough berth that he remains untrampled even as he lies pitifully on the ground. 

"Scapino...you're so cold...so cruel..." He cries out. "...what will it take to thaw that iced over heart of yours?"

" Oh for the love of the Tsaritsa —get up, you're embarrassing us." Scaramouche sneers, nudging the fallen man with a toe. "And which aspect of your personality could possibly top mine? I'm clearly the more superior out of the two of us, and Scapino just has good taste."

"Way to kick a man while he's down, shortstack." Childe grumbles and he's up in a flash. Other than the specks of dust and dirt on his clothes, there's no inclination that he was just rolling around on the ground in agony. "But seriously. Like I said, I'll be happy to help you with whatever errand you're running in Liyue. This is my domain, after all. It's my responsibility to help my dearest comrades."

Your neck tingles and you can almost feel the caress of Diluc's claymore against your flesh again. Cool metal just beginning to heat up, a threat—a promise—that follows you even into your dreams. 

"Huh, that's funny." You seethe. Scaramouche looks at you and if he notices the way you're tensing, hands clenching into closed rosebuds (he waits for them to flower open again, to breathe, breathe, breathe), he doesn't say. Childe pauses mid-motion as he straightens out his clothes and stares. "Your responsibility to help? Where was this noble sense of duty when you decided to ruin what would have been the base for the pinnacle of my success in Mondstadt? Don't start playing nice now because we're in Liyue, you fucking hypocrite ."

"Scapino—"

"I hate to say it, but maybe the idiot will know what to get Liyue's god." The roles have swapped and now Scaramouche is the one laying a placating hand on your arm. He may flip his shit every other day of the week (there is a reason why he's assigned to field work, not diplomatic relations) but you're the model of poise and false niceties. It's strange seeing you get all worked up like this; he's just restoring order. "Also, I've heard that story a million times already, so give it a break. You can exact your revenge later, when we're not pressed for time."

(Breathe, breathe, breathe. Your hands slowly unclench after a couple of beats and you breathe.)

"Alright. Fine." You card a hand through your hair and sigh. "I'm looking for a gift to give to Rex Lapis at his Rite of Descension."

"So you need my help to find a proper offering?" 

You glower at the Snezhnayan. 

"Actually, forget it, I don't need your help—"

"—yes you do, we've been wandering through the harbor for hours now." Scaramouche interjects and in hindsight you should've foreseen that the Inazuman would be the type to stab you in the back. Traitor. "I was supposed to report to Pulcinella an hour ago, so each minute you spend grousing over the quality of Cor Lapis amulets and sachets of fragrant herbs increases the chances of me getting an earful of nagging."

"Then why did you agree to come with me?"

"You would've forced me to accompany you either way."

"I—"

Your defense screeches to a dead stop when Childe makes the revolting decision to casually sling his arm around your shoulders. Scaramouche looks upon your misery with barely veiled amusement. Sadist. 

"Leave them in my capable hands and go take care of your own business." You don't have to look to know that there's a smug smirk toying with his lips—the lilt in his voice and your knowledge of his shitty personality are dead giveaways. "I've been around these merchants long enough to know where the best gifts are found—trust me, I'll help Scapino get their shopping done in no time."

You catch Scaramouche's eye and throw your pride to the four winds. 

 

Please, please, please don't leave me alone with him. I'm going to die if you do, whether by his blade or his contagious stupidity and arrogance. Scaramouche, you fucker, my life is in your hands and I swear to Celestia if you abandon me now I'll—

 

"Cool, then I'm leaving."

The little dipshit waves good-bye and effortlessly disappears into the crowd. 

You really need better friends. 

 

---

 

"Scapino, hold this."

You're barely given any time to shift the packets in your arms before another one is dumped right on top of the pile by a certain ginger-haired menace. You stifle a grumble and it takes a few moments, but eventually, you juggle the packages and are able to squeeze through the crowd after the man. In contrast, he is picking his teeth with the wooden skewer left over from his golden shrimp balls snack as he hums an unfamiliar tune. 

How did this happen? You'd dragged Scaramouche to Liyue Harbor for the purpose of gaining intel—power dynamics, shifting alliances, monetary debts, deep-seated rivalries and whatnot—to help you turn Liyue upside down without getting your hands dirty. The Rite of Descension is just an excuse for your sudden arrival, and buying a gift for Rex Lapis was a way to fill out the details in your cover story. 

And now you're going...shopping. With Childe. 

"Hmm...anything catch your eye yet? Like—ooh, that ring looks pretty, doesn't it?"

You follow his line of sight and oh may Celestia purify your eyes —the item in question is fucking ugly. 

It's a garishly cobbled beast of a ring composed of a gargantuan lump of polished amber sitting on top of a silver band. More silver takes on the form of foliage and twines itself around the stone in confusing and wandering patterns which makes the design look like it was inspired by a two-year old's scribbles. The ring looks painful to wear and the blatant lack of aesthetic would kill any social standing the owner once had. 

So no, the ring does not look pretty. But you don't tell him this, schooling a warm smile onto your face and reassuring him that his tastes in jewelry aren't absolute shit. He's the one spending his own pocket money, so who are you to tell him that this ridiculously overpriced hunk of junk is a waste of mora?

Childe looks at you like he doesn't quite believe your sugar-spun lies (he's right: he shouldn't) but you simply cover your tracks with your diplomatic charm. Hours of trailing behind him in a milling sea of Liyuens and tourists alike have, ironically enough, given you enough quiet to reflect on your...outburst back at the Liuli Pavilion. However justified it was, it still mars your memory as a chip in your porcelain, a fleck of paint peeled from your Harbinger's mask.

You reign in the raging typhoons that demand a ginger head on a pike (patience, you whisper to the abyssal deep, patience is a virtue you must have) in between Childe's chatter and the next time you respond it's with pleasantries and idle niceties. 

"I apologize, Childe, but I’m afraid I must cut our excursion short." This, of course, is total bullshit. You're not due back in Mondstadt until something your subordinates can't handle comes up (like, say, the negotiation of a deal between Snezhnaya and Mondstadt pertaining to the wine industry) and you have full confidence that such an event won't be happening anytime soon. "I'll pick one of these gifts and will drop off the rest at the bank."

"Aw, what's the hurry? The Rite of Descension doesn't start until high noon." Childe falls into step beside you with a pout upon his lips. "Are you trying to get rid of me?"

 

Yes, yes I am you inconsiderate ass— 

 

"What? No, how could I?"  If your hands were free, you would've even held one to your chest with an accompanying gasp for the full effect. Alas, your comrade has forced you into the role of pack mule while slaughtering chivalry in one fell swoop. "It's just—what else is there to do?"

"Come now, we haven't chatted in so long." 

"Forgive me if my memory has suddenly begun to fail me, but I believe we saw each other less than two days ago. Remember? I made fun of your aptitude with chopsticks, and you told me that all of my failures were my fault."

"Well, then let's talk about something else." 

On reflex, you let a smile creep over your face like frost; when you turn your head to look at him you find a reflection staring back and my, what a pair you two make! Rice paper dolls playing the same game over, and over, and over again; you're rehearsing the same lines for an empty audience but the show continues, the show continues and when you open your mouth the lines spill forth, unbidden. 

"Yes, let's." Okay, think. Be flexible. It seems as though your original plan to chat up loose-lipped locals at the Rite will sleep with the fishes, but perhaps you can fish out the answers you need from the enemy himself? "How have you been?"

"Same old, same old. None of the merchants in Liyue make for a fun chase." He shrugs. "But today's certainly new. To what purpose do I owe the pleasure of your company here down south at the harbor?"

"Can't a Harbinger take on the role of a tourist every now and then? I've heard many spectacular things about the Rite of Descension and had to see it for myself." A pause. "Merchants? They've been reliably causing trouble with the bank?"

"No more than they usually are." Your inquiry is easily batted away by the casual shrug of his shoulders. "Tell me about your...tourist activities. Is Liyue Harbor providing enough entertainment to keep you around for a little while longer?"

"The call of my duties as a Harbinger will always be stronger than any desire for mere entertainment , Childe."

"And yet, you still came all this way all the same." The shadow of his smile grows long, stretches into something sharp edging on feral. "As a 'tourist .'"

Childe spits the word like it's a curse and knowing him, he probably meant it to be that way. He walks among the light, so he says. He's got nothing to hide; all of his intentions are laid bare right from the start. Why dance around topics and have a verbal spar when he can pummel his enemies with brute force and have an actual spar? Why engage in delicate diplomacy when he can intimidate and threaten the avarice that exists in every human being? Straightforwardness is king when it comes to efficiency, one might argue. After all, the fastest way from point A to point B is a straight line. 

But unfortunately for Childe, you love to take the scenic route. 

"Yes, that's what I said. As a tourist." You're both aware that your intentions in Liyue are far from innocent. Still, you plead innocent, for though the truthful verdict is out, there is no way he can proclaim you guilty. Not now, at least. "Is there something wrong with that?"

His mouth twists. He's losing patience. 

"Look, Scapino. I know you think I'm this dumb, blockheaded ginger but—"

As delightful as it is to finally hear him admit his glaringly obvious shortcomings, your mind is elsewhere. Somewhere between Childe's gift-buying and your implicit squabbling, the hours had slipped away and if the millelith standing nearby is to be trusted— 

"Everyone! The Rite of Descension is starting!"

Notes:

alleato del vetro: ALLY OF GLASS

introducing: Scaramouche! your bestest bud!
yeah, like i said before, early update in the week bc 1.3 patch just dropped ayyyyy imma bout to go broke on primogems AHAHA THIS IS FINE. i was actually going to drop my new *cough* xiao fic *cough* but i didn't finish on time so you guys get this instead.
anyway. i hope you all get good pulls on this banner!
(and also dainsleif?? HE'S HERE?????)

Chapter 5: angelo abissale

Summary:

"You flatter me too much, my comrade. Anyone could say the same for you."

He gestures at you with a grand flourish. The breeze swishes his crimson scarf behind him in a brushstroke brash and bold; a shaft of sunlight kisses his cheeks golden and with that peculiar shine in his eyes you, for a moment, could almost forget that those eyes are not typhoons threatening to drown you in your own follies. But they are—they are the windows trapping your worst enemy behind sapphire-stained glass and when you try to cup your hands around your eyes to peer in, there is nothing there anymore.

L'appel du vide, an abyssal trench calling out your name, demanding a sacrifice of your blood like the glutton it is. Childe harbors a monster of the deep behind those barely shuttered eyes of his and you have to shake yourself to teach yourself to swim again.

Notes:

Sorry for the late update! This chapter was a doozy to figure out, ahaha. Also I've been struggling with Theater Mechanicus,,,please,,,can those samachurls and berserkers chill and slow down for me?? Also frost lawachurls can go suck it. Thanks :D

THE ONLY CONSTANT IN THIS WORLD is the fact that nothing— nothing —is truly constant. Immortality is a fluctuating, fickle mess of tangled years stretching over the horizon (even as it's fraying at the seams), and godhood is given and if you've learned anything over the course of your life, it is that anything that is given can be—will be—taken away. Everything will crumble just as all stones will eventually be ground to dust by a persistent wave; nothing stays forever. Ruin is inevitable, for time is a catalyst and by definition, catalysts are vessels of change. 

The God of Contracts and War is a being from a bygone era, a relic of the past dressed in the sheen of shimmering gold. He built the very bones of Liyue, raised the prosperous nation from nothing and remained there forevermore. Constant. His presence in the harbor is an unwavering constant that is as reliable as the sun rising from the east but today— 

—there's nothing you can do but watch as the sun drops out of the sky. 

(Even the sturdiest of mountains will be worn away by the waves.)

 

---

 

A tidal wave tears through Liyue Harbor after the Exuvia crashes into the mortal realm, his shroud of stars and celestial power stripped to reveal the old bones of a decaying god. 

The packages in your arms press farewell kisses into your skin (cuts bloom in an angry red and it marries with the salt of the harbor, singing in a stinging choir. You grasp onto the familiar sensation like a piece of driftwood on a foreign sea; stability is a precious commodity— Archonsdammit you knew this already , you knew this so the wool should've never been over your eyes because you know all too well what happens when you let yourself drown in the bliss that is ignorance) as you drop them in your haste. It is in times of tumult that a glittering façade crumbles, that the darkest corners of any given target peeks out and for a time, is revealed for the observant to see. Guided by this lesson, you tear yourself from the riptide of the panicked crowd, vault over toppled barricades, and soon you find yourself perched on top of a roof. 

The haze of adrenaline primes your muscles for action, eyes bright with anticipation—

A hand grasps your wrist; your reflexes kick into overdrive and in no time flat you've slammed an elbow back into their gut. A wheeze leaves your attacker's lungs; you don't give them time to breathe and immediately kick out to sweep them off of their feet. Then you're twisting yourself around to pull back one arm for a right hook, still holding that feverish high of energy humming in your every nerve, and—

"Wait–wait, Scapino, it's me!"

You blink. Freeze. 

Ocean blue eyes stare up at you from their owner's position on the roof, lit up with a light that makes your stomach churn. Slowly, you lower your fist and ease back into a nonchalant posture. The naïve hope that he'll drop the topic beats weakly in your heart, fluttering upon lace wings so frail that a single droplet of water could send it hurtling towards its death. 

"...you know, under normal circumstances, I'd be absolutely delighted to exchange blows with you." Of course. The hope is mercilessly crushed into powder and you're a fool for entertaining the thought anyway. This is Childe you're talking about—the ginger-haired adrenaline junkie who probably gets high off of fighting. He picks himself up with a wry smile, all tooth and fang and unspoken curiosities that you'd prayed would stay in their graves. "However, given the fact that we're currently crouching on a roof like a pair of oversized birds, I'm sorry to say that we'll have to reschedule."

"You don't have to make time for me. Just—leave it."

"I can't believe it." He leans closer, scrutinizing you with mock suspicion. "Who are you and what have you done with the Twelfth Harbinger? They’d never pass up an opportunity to punch me in the face."

"I said, leave it ." You eye the millelith swarming the area below, watching as the Tianquan of the Liyue Qixing directs the soldiers to move the Exuvia with one golden claw. When the fallen god is out of your line of sight, you turn to direct a gutting glare at your colleague. "I'm not going to fight you."

"Ah, you're playing hard to get."  He nods contemplatively, one hand resting under his chin. "I understand."

 

Haha, just how delusional is this guy?

 

You're about to politely refute the ridiculous notion that you, a peace-maker by trade, could possibly be itching for a sweaty brawl with your sworn enemy when the distinct clanging of metal reaches your ears. It doesn't take long for both Harbingers to locate the disturbance: a familiar head of blonde is trying to fend off the halberds of a crowd of millelith guards near one of the side entrances. Educating the ignorant is placed on a back burner—Childe tenses, squinting his eyes, before leaping off of the building in a blur of smoke-gray and scarlet. You pause, watching him summon his hydro blades, before melting into the shadows of the fray. 

It doesn't take long for Childe to work his magic. He whisks the startled traveler away from the disoriented millelith in a burst of hydro power, leaving you to wring out the parts of your clothes that were caught in the splash and sigh with the exasperation of a seventy-year old matriarch. Would it really have hurt to figure out a game plan before conducting a dubious rescue mission? 

(Upon later reflection you realize you shouldn't have expected anything less from him. You know him. Childe is a man of action and not words, someone who has flourished amongst two-faced opportunists and pathological liars and joined Her Majesty's rebellion just before you have. His understanding of the weight of words—nothing but spent breath and fading noise—is perhaps the farthest from the truth. 

He does not wait before jumping into the heart of battle with that manic-grin plastered all over his face, nor does he stop to consider the ramifications or consequences that his self-indulgent choices may carry. He is a Harbinger, one who is a herald of things to come, not of those that already came. What does it matter if his ripples crescendo into raging tsunamis as long as he remains dry? 

How selfish. 

You despise people like him.)

The millelith are persistent, stubborn folk with months of rigorous training behind their armored backs. Discipline is one of the first lessons they learn, observation and vigilance are second. There is no way they don't know who is responsible for the disappearance of their number one suspect—ha! As if they need any more reason for kicking the Fatui out of Liyue!

Normally, you would have let Childe ruin himself in a bonfire of his own mistakes without blinking, but when you finally duck into the small side-street where he's chatting up the traveler, you have to restrain the urge to kick him where it hurts. This time, he's going to melt the Fatui's already shaky stronghold in Liyue, a port of potential and opportunity. If the Tsarista loses this nation and she becomes angry because of this ginger-haired idiot you—

You cut yourself short. 

This is a dangerous ramble; you're losing yourself in insignificant what-ifs and tangential soliloquies that do not need exploration. There's no reason for you to dwell on an impossible future event. 

"Scapino?"

You snap to attention, lips reflexively curling into a warm smile. Out of your peripheral vision, you see Childe roll his eyes (like he wasn't trying to coax the blonde into a tentative 'friendship' not a minute before). 

"Miss Pizza! Fancy seeing you in Liyue." You say earnestly. "It's a relief to see that you and Paimon are safe and sound. Did you start delivering for Liyuen restaurants as well?"

"Ah, it's good to hear that your... creative nicknames aren't restricted to me alone." Childe ruins everything (as usual) when he opens his mouth and reminds you that oh right , he's still breathing the same air as you. The man clicks his tongue and sighs. "But 'Miss Pizza'? My, you're not usually this off the mark. Surely, you're aware that this lovely person right here is none other than the Honorary Knight of Favonius and famed Hero of Mondstadt?"

"You know each other?" 

Paimon saves you from having to choose between crushing your own pride and explaining to the traveler your motives for pretending you didn't know her identity; instead, she pushes you out of the pan and straight into the fire. Childe is openly gleeful at the prospect of trampling whatever burgeoning 'friendship' could have blossomed between you and the blonde-haired traveler. Archons above , what is it about destroying other people's chances at success that yanks his chain like this?

You're not one to turn the other cheek; retribution is a familiar friend donning the dove-white cloak of justice that clears your throat and coats your next words in barely veiled poison. 

"Who doesn't know him?" You chuckle darkly, jabbing a thumb in The Nuisance's general direction. "Childe, the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger who serves Her Majesty the Tsaritsa with frighteningly crude yet effective methods. There isn't a single member of the Fatui who hasn't heard of his illuminated name or his crimson-splattered deeds."

"You flatter me too much, my comrade. Anyone could say the same for you."

He gestures at you with a grand flourish. The breeze swishes his crimson scarf behind him in a brushstroke brash and bold; a shaft of sunlight kisses his cheeks golden and with that peculiar shine in his eyes you, for a moment, could almost forget that those eyes are not typhoons threatening to drown you in your own follies. But they are—they are the windows trapping your worst enemy behind sapphire-stained glass and when you try to cup your hands around your eyes to peer in, there is nothing there anymore. 

L'appel du vide , an abyssal trench calling out your name, demanding a sacrifice of your blood like the glutton it is. Childe harbors a monster of the deep behind those barely shuttered eyes of his and you have to shake yourself to teach yourself to swim again.  

(Rumors, of course, are not always to be trusted. Yawning cracks in the earth, scattered, broken stars smothered by a wrathful carmine sky...you had listened to stories of living nightmares and the hollowing of hearts with a heavy dose of suspicion and doubt. But each lurid weed grows from a seed of truth, so maybe...)

"Scapino, the Twelfth Fatui Harbinger who is infamous for their saccharine charm, rumored to be able to talk anyone into a deal!" Childe proclaims. "Riches, family heirlooms, grandmothers' ashes...there is nothing that's safe from their silver tongue or far-reaching hands." 

 "You're a Harbinger too?!" Paimon gasps, scandalized. The spat with Childe’s foot soldiers near Dawn Winery must have not been enough to cement your identity into their heads; this, though, has just erased all doubts from their minds. "Just like La Signora..."

The accusation jolts you to your senses once more. You turn to address the traveler-sprite duo and ignore the fact that Lumine now has a hand tensed on her sword's hilt. 

"While I may be a Harbinger, I am no cold-blooded snake like my senior." You declare. "Childe here is a Harbinger as well, but am I the same blood-thirsty mongrel as him?"

"Uh...maybe—"

"—no, I am not. Far from it, in fact. We are worlds apart and it would relieve me greatly if you could remember that." 

"Aw, don't be such a stranger my dearest golubka [1]!" He wraps an arm around your shoulders and crushes you into his side. "You wound me."

Your words wilt in your throat; you taste the ash of your complaints on your tongue and are left to choke on the smoke of your shock. You're reeling, floundering, scrabbling for purchase on the slippery slope that is your selectively attentive mind. 

 

What...what is he playing at?

There's something here. A trap. He's just joking, he's trying to—what is he trying to do? What does he get out of all of this? 

 

Childe's infernal simper only widens as he observes your stunned expression; Lumine and Paimon are left to fill in the blanks themselves. 

"So...you're friends?" Paimon hazards a guess. 

"The most fated of friends!" Childe cheers, pouring gasoline onto the fire. His gloved fingers dig into your shoulder; your neck is beginning to hurt from your attempts to crane your face away from his. "Our first meeting was even written in the stars and dictated by Celestia itself."

Lumine, previously a watchful bystander, now breaks her vow of silence to sate her curiosity. 

"Written in the stars? Seriously ?" You find a little comfort in her skepticism. "I didn't know you Fatui believed in horoscopes."

"Nah, Childe's just joking." 

 

He's just joking. 

 

As soon as you say this you feel a certainty settling in your gut. The Eleventh Harbinger just wanted to goad you into a reaction, wanted to kick you behind the knees and watch as you crumple to the floor in a downward spiral of short-circuiting shock. By the Seven, now you feel embarrassed for letting yourself fall for such an obvious attempt at breaking your sanity. 

"I am?" 

"You are." You brush his hand off of your shoulder and deftly step out of his space. "Perhaps you should quit being a Harbinger and consider pursuing your fledgling career in the entertainment industry. I hear that the theater is in dire need of a full-time fool in their cast of characters."

A cloud passes in front of the sun; shadows fall over his face. The ginger-haired man's mouth twists imperceptibly and then the skies are clear again. When he turns to address the traveler he does so with his smile placed back on his face. 

"Ignoring my sharp-tongued colleague, how about we take care of your small problem, hm? You're not exactly in a position to find help elsewhere, being a wanted woman in Liyue for the supposed murder of an Archon."

"You don't think Lumine did it?" 

"Of course not!" Childe crows. For some reason, he's watching you with a cryptic expression on his face. "I, for one, have a possible perpetrator in mind already, and I'm happy to say that they're not our darling traveler here. However, I'm sure you know them by now."

You push your way into the conversation with a scoff hidden in a cough. 

" Anyone can figure out that you're not the guilty party. No offense, Miss Pizza, but you don't exactly look like you'd have the power to shoot down a centuries-old deity by yourself. A corrupted dragon is on an entirely different scale from one of the seven Archons of Teyvat." 

"...fair. Then why do you want to help me?" Lumine crosses her arms, golden eyes never stilling in their flight between your face and Childe's. "You Fatui aren't exactly known for your generosity."

"If we weren't standing out on the streets of Liyue, where, may I remind you, you are a fugitive on the run, I would be doing my best to fix your faulty perception of our organization right now." You don't mince words. "Unfortunately, we have the current misfortune of dawdling out in the open. Let's continue this conversation somewhere...safer."

"You know where the Northland Bank is, right?" A nod of affirmation from the traveler earns her a pleased grin from Childe. "Great. Meet us there as soon as you can, alright? As the Fatui's greatest Harbinger, I should be able to come up with a solution to your pesky little conundrum by the time you climb up all of those steps!" 

That arrogance! You fight to keep your lips placidly curved upwards, the perfect picture of calm waters, as you bid the traveler a temporary goodbye. The blonde woman disappears around a corner and that's when you whirl around to—

Huh. 

Why's there a hydro blade at your throat?

 

---

 

"Explain." 

Childe grins with the intensity of the sun and the coldness of a world without it. 

"You're pissed that I called myself the greatest Harbinger out of us twelve, aren't you? Well, now I'm giving you the opportunity to knock me down a few pegs. Prove me wrong."

You pull your lips into a tight line. 

"No. You just want to have a fight."

"Do you always have to read so much into everything?" He scoffs. Despite his clear displeasure, Childe snaps his fingers, his weapon dissolving in a shower of water droplets. "What a spoilsport. You're no fun at all."

"In case you've forgotten, you're the Eleventh Harbinger of the Fatui. You represent Her Majesty the Tsaritsa herself in Liyue, the most prosperous nation in Teyvat and an essential lynchpin in Snezhnaya's success." You hiss, poking his chest to accentuate your words. "Why Her Highness decided that you would be fit to oversee this region is beyond my comprehension, but I've done my best to make peace with that. However, what I can't accept is you tossing away your duties for your own entertainment !"

"I'll have you know that a cheerful attitude and team spirit are integral to any group project." The ginger has the audacity to quip, wearing away years off of your life with that fox-like leer. His voice then drops to a low murmur. "My...how surprisingly bold of you to lecture me . Have some respect."

He's not a loud man by any means—everyone leaves the yelling and pissed-off screaming to Scaramouche and Dottore—but drama, an easy-going nature, and misplaced-jokes are the norm. Now, Childe regards you with flat sapphire eyes and a neutral expression that looks remarkably out of place on his porcelain face. There is nothing there. 

An abyss. 

For all of your knowledge on his mannerisms and pet peeves, you're still left in the dark when he shuts himself down like this. The shadow of something else rises in his persona; a dark, festering being that's strangely devoid of malice. It's just...cold. 

And you're supposed to be the one with the Cryo Vision. 

"Respect?" You scrabble backwards for something familiar and find security in exchanging jabs and insults with your fellow Harbinger.  There's an underlying discomfort when you laugh in his face, but your ruby-tinted tunnel vision does more than make up for it in volatility. "I'll respect you when you earn it, young lord."

" Earn it? Ha! And why should I have to fight for your recognition?" You remember the burn of Snezhnayan frostbite ensnaring your fingertips, that stubborn frost spiraling across your limbs in beautifully dangerous flower patterns, when Childe snaps back. You've been swaddled in the lukewarm embrace of Mondstadt's fair breeze for far too long; here is a piece of your mother's motherland standing in front of you and you're struck by how...foreign it feels. "Your entrance into Zapolyarny Palace may have been unlike any other in years, but that does not mean you can look upon me as though I were nothing but a stain upon your white satin gloves."

"So you are self-aware." You'd sooner get crushed to death by a meteorite than admit that you're the slightest bit intimidated by this jester in Her Majesty's court. If your pride does eventually bring you under cosmic karma's subjugation and a flaming piece of celestial rock, then so be it. It's not like you're headed anywhere but down anyway. "You're close, but I'd equate you to something akin to a persistent itch on my back that just won't go away." 

"...now you're just trying to piss me off on purpose."

You shrug noncommittally. 

"I could say the same thing for you. Golubka isn't exactly something you usually call your most hated adversary."

"Most hated—?" Childe gives you a funny look. At least there's some sort of expression scrawled across his face—ah, now he's snickering at the memory of your embarrassing reaction to his nickname for you. You take it back. He can go back to being the unnerving blank slate that crawled out of the depths of hell. "Aww, my golubka, how could you think such a thing? Don't you know how...important...you are to me?"

 "Yes, important enough for you to wreck everything I've been working toward in Mondstadt." You deadpan. Archons above, how much would it cost for you to hire someone to wring this guy's neck? You could probably ask Scaramouche. Knowing the short Inazuman, he'd pay a handsome fee for the privilege of booting the ginger out of the world of the living. "I'm very touched, Childe."

"Hey, if it makes you feel any better, Liyuens hate me even more because they're sure that I had something to do with their oversized-snake deity dropping out of the sky." The man begins to walk in the direction of the Northland Bank before he pauses and swivels towards you. "Diplomacy may as well be dead here. I'm in a worse position than you are."

You're quiet. Something makes you hesitate to answer him: a gnawing gut instinct, the disconcerting way ocean blue eyes snap to hold you in a chokehold, seemingly searching your face for—for what? 

You turn away from the ginger-haired man. 

"...maybe. You never know when success comes wearing the guise of misfortune."  

(Gears begin to turn, clicking a cacophony of postulations and assumptions. Conclusions spun out of candy floss and as fragile as a butterfly's wingbeat spiral from the machinery of flawed thought and when two pairs of shadowed smiles quirk upwards in a form of understanding, Fate shudders. 

Harbingers are foreshadows of the future, after all.)

 

---

 

When Scaramouche drops in through the Northland Bank's window in the dead of night, he finds you scribbling with the manic energy of, well, a maniac. 

"I heard." He says simply, setting a container of steaming-hot ramen on your lamplit desk. You don't respond, leaving him to let his eyes wander around your temporary residency. It's a room on the second floor of the bank that had evidently been hastily converted from a modest storeroom to your quarters. There's dust on the tops of the shelves and the drapery is faded. Scaramouche wrinkles his nose at the lopsided painting hanging above your desk before turning to scrutinize the rock-solid mattress pretending to be a bed. 

You don't seem to mind the small size or the sharp departure from the plush sitting rooms belonging to the Goth Grand Hotel; it doesn't take a lot of brainpower for the Inazuman to conclude that your lack of complaints has to do with your current preoccupation with...whatever it is you're working on. 

"Hey, I come all this way and you don't even greet me? You ingrate. I even went out of my way to get you your favorite spicy ramen." Scaramouche peeks over your shoulder, cobalt eyes squinting to read your chicken-scratch. "What's so fascinating about...uh...does that say 'genesis'?"

When you finally turn to address him it is with bright eyes burning with flames found only in hell, searing and eternal. He has to take a step back. That thing crawling across your face is the closest thing to a genuine smile he's seen from you, jagged and cross-stitched with real delight and something edging on excitement. Gone is the polished finesse you pride yourself on, gone is the calm and carefully constructed warmth that played a key part in your past diplomatic successes. It's ugly. It's...close to real. 

(It's making him real fucking uncomfortable.) 

"Scara! Perfect timing. I got it!"

"Do I even want to ask?" He says this even as he eases himself onto the corner of your desk, curiosity piqued by your uncharacteristic liveliness. "Did you get your hands on the Jade Chamber's floor plans or something? Oh, let me guess—are we going to blow it up and blame the destruction on Childe?"

(That...might be a good idea to tuck into your back pocket. You quickly scribble this onto the corner of your notebook.)

"Nope. Even better."

"We...we're going to assassinate the Liyue Qixing? If so, I call dibs on the Tianquan. Her nailguards piss me off and she's taller than me."

"Scara, we aren't aiming for a war between Liyue and Snezhnaya." You chide. "We absolutely cannot do anything that will damage Her Majesty's empire."

He groans, pressing his palms against his eyes. 

"See, this is why I don't do diplomacy. So complicated. Honestly, you could've solved your thirst for justice and revenge a while ago if you had just listened to me and challenged Childe to a fight."

"Beasts are not caught by the quickest spear, but the most patient trap. With patience, this plan of mine will come into a more satisfying fruition than your quick-brute-force proposal." You sweep one hand across your desk, spreading the ink-stained papers out in a deadly fan. "You see, Scaramouche...

... I'm going to be the one to bring Rex Lapis's Gnosis to Her Majesty the Tsaritsa ."

Notes:

angelo abissale: ABYSSAL ANGEL

[1] golubka (голубка): a Russian term of endearment meaning dove and/or little darling.

TAR-TAR-TARTAGLIA, SNEZHNAYA'S GREATEST LOVE WAR MACHINE—bless you, Griffin Burns.
Anyway. I wrote this chapter while listening to The Wellerman for 3+ hours on repeat, and now I'm once again asking for Beidou to meet Kaeya so they can swap real and fake pirate stories with each other over tables filled with pints of beer. Venti will be there as well, of course.

(future story? hm.)

As always, thank you for reading/commenting/kudos-ing! Your support makes me commit cry but with tears of happiness <33

Chapter 6: l'oro degli sciocchi

Summary:

"No, I'd never dream of disrespecting you like that. Ah! I've got it. I'll trade you trust for trust, information for information." You hold your bag of takeout containers in one hand and you jab your pointer finger into his chest with the other. "I'll tell you how history could've gone, and you tell me how history will be made. Fair, isn't it?"

Diluc is wary of you—and rightly so. Your uncanny grin edges on something treacherous, and if he stares at you long enough he can recognize the shadow of another falling into place with your own. An eyepatch flickers over your eye, your pupils sharpen into diamonds and then you're the spitting image of the one who is painted in the hues of blue, stygian blue. Diluc blinks twice, and then he's facing you once more.

No wonder he can recognize the easy way you weave words into a tapestry of falsehoods and fool's gold. You are cut out of the same double-sided cloth as the other trickster he knows, the one he once had the audacity to call 'brother.'

Notes:

So sorry for the (very) late update! You all know how school is SOBS

THE ARCHON WAR is a drop of blood staining Teyvat's history in the jarring hues of crimson and ichor. After all, the battle for godhood demands ten times the sacrifice for each pyrrhic victory. Seven victors emerge, each with a chess piece in their possession and the ghosts of undying immortals rattling in their ears: this is the price of divinity. Celestia is cruel, bestowing boons upon those thieves cloaked in death, rewarding the ones who took and took and took with more . 

The long war may be over, but its reverberations still rumble through the soil and sprout as malignant weeds and stubborn blooms—the remains of trauma scores the earth with scars. Some say that careful listeners can still catch battle hymns sung by home-sick warriors on the sighing wind, and others claim of seeing apparitions who are unwilling to let go of their spears. Teyvat remembers. One day, the mighty will reap what they have sowed. 

Your ancestors had the luck of being spared as their neighbors were uprooted and felled like saplings; you pay this good fortune forwards by sticking your neck out onto a chopping block and daring others to hold a meat cleaver and take a swing. 

"I thought I made myself clear last time."

"Yes, yes, you vowed to end my bloodline if I dared show my face to you on your property ever again." You wave off the flame-haired male's unspoken threats with the flippancy attributed to those batting silvery fog away from their face. A lazy grin curls your lips; Diluc swears you look like a satisfied cat who just caught their prey with one hooked claw. "Don't worry, I have a good memory. You do not need to recite your laundry list of promises for me again. Please, save your breath."

He nods in understanding. And then a claymore is materializing into thin air and—

"My, how bold of you. Are you going to behead me in public?"

It's true: the both of you are sitting at a table in front of Good Hunter, your corner deserted by the other patrons. The slow foot traffic at the restaurant should be of no concern to Sara, as you have ordered enough food to cover every inch of your wooden table. Unfortunately, this means you can't steeple your fingers in front of you to achieve the full 'evil-mastermind-plotting-a-brilliant-scheme' aesthetic but you suppose that you'll just have to make that concession in favor of amiability. Not that Diluc would be bought over by plate after plate of gleaming Mondstadt delicacies; he's a man who thinks with his sword and not his stomach. 

He lowers his weapon. You notice that he doesn't loosen his grip on its hilt. 

"Haha! I didn't think that'd actually work." You chuckle, eyeing his claymore with interest, before focusing your gaze on him.

"Of course. I'm no heathen."

"You certainly didn't seem to have any qualms about turning to violence when we were standing in your own abode."

"That was a matter of self-defense." Diluc stares down at you with a haughty glare, arms folded. Defensive, isn't he? His likeness to a puppy that bites anyone who gets too close is uncanny...how intriguing. "What was I supposed to think? First the Fatui set up camp in a clear show of aggression after trespassing on my property, then a Fatui Harbinger kicks down my door and demands that I hand over a chunk of my winery's profits. If you have any problems with my conduct, you can take it up with the Acting Grand Master for all I care."

This again. You crush your fingers inward, digging each digit into the meat of your palm, before releasing them in time with your breaths. Breathe. In, out. Breathe. These small trifles are no match for your diplomatic prowess; you will find a way. You always find a way. 

(Because in a land where each mist-frozen breath could very well be your last and death nips at the heels of common-folk like the howling boreal winds that cleave mountains and shake the skies, there is no mercy for mistakes. The ice is thinner than you think, darling.  

Anyone can fall. )

Accordingly, you clear your throat and don an affronted expression. 

" Kick —?! Sir, that was not a kick. I politely knocked on your door. Then, fully expecting admittance in a timely manner, I strode forward like any functioning human would do. Is it my fault that your maid was a beat too late and that I, with a little more force than intended, toed open your door with my boot?" 

"Enough of your irritatingly incessant chatter." Ooh, someone's temper is flaring. You watch as Diluc slams a fist down on the table (or tries to, anyway. There's no space and he has to nudge a plate out of the way first) with smoldering eyes that scorch your skin with hatred and spite. The silverware rattles from the small quake and the precariously balanced dishes shudder on the precipice between life and certain death. 

 

Brute force. Intimidation. 

So this is how you play? 

 

"Is this your game? To force me into conversation in a place where I cannot harm you so you can get your way?" 

Ah, he's sharp, but clearly not sharp enough to avoid this situation altogether. What use is there for the fish to lament about its fate when its jaw is already punctured by the fisherman's hook? You simply shrug and begin to deconstruct the Sweet Madame sitting in front of you with surgical precision. 

"What, I can't treat a business partner to lunch?"

" Business partner ?" He scoffs. "Don't get too ahead of yourself. You won't be able to lay a single finger on the Dawn Winery—not now, not ever. I guarantee it."

"How obstinate." You hum. Diluc's scarlet irises follow your fork as you twirl it thoughtfully in the air. Silver glints under the sun; it flips around in your hand, an elegant ballerina defying gravity, before you stab it mercilessly into the chicken in front of you. He swears he hears your plate cracking, splintering into ceramic snow, mingling with shards of pearlescent bone until he can't tell where the plate ends and your meal begins. Perhaps it doesn't matter: you've pushed the carnage away from yourself and he has to actively keep the dishes on his side of the table from falling into his lap. 

(He looks up in time to see your hands—or rather, your gloves—retreating, like melting snow in the spring. You pull at them, wiggling your fingers, as if to make yourself more comfortable in your own skin. Diluc suspects he's reading too much into your small habitual fidgets. They're just gloves. He's wearing his own pair as well, and he reflexively adjusts them around his hands in motions mirroring yours. 

How similar they are! One dons a pair of white gloves, the other with a pair of black ones. Both with palms stained in an everlasting hue of scarlet and steeped in the affluence of rubies spilled from slashed open sacks in family fortunes split and split until the family tree is burned, burned on a pyre of the same hue. 

Scarlet. They're both scarlet as the dawn, as the dusk, as the searing, avaricious flames that hunger for nothing but rot and ruin .)

"Sir Ragnvindr. I'll be frank."  You pluck the fork from its grave of wood grain, twisting the utensil this way and that. He watches with a wary glance as you hold it up to your eye level and peek through the slightly-bent prongs to watch him with one eye. "The Dawn Winery isn't as important as I'm making it seem. It is little other than a pawn in the general scheme of things; an expendable piece of a grander puzzle, if you will. Please don't get me wrong—your business is still a rather essential cornerstone to Mondstadt's economy and growth. However, you seem to have been deluded by the notion that you are guarding the only entrance into your beloved nation's inner workings."

"Get to the point."

You set the fork down with a deceptively gentle hand and the smile that creeps over your lips harkens back to a stubborn frost that remains even as spring tromps through pastures of budding flowers and caresses the breeze with an affectionate hand. There is always a cold draft that slips through the cracks and resurfaces year after year; there is always a weed that never truly goes away. 

That is what you are. 

You are an opportunistic weed that quietly bides its time before springing forth and choking out all other life in no time at all, a foreign invader that establishes itself as the one and only beneficiary in the garden plot. 

"Say...what do you think of that Darknight Hero that's been protecting Mondstadt?" Of course you ignore his explicitly irked expression and pursue a completely off-topic conversation that Diluc cannot see the end of. "I hear that the Knights of Favonius are desperately trying to search for their city's guardian of ash and flames. You wouldn't know anything about his identity, would you, Sir Ragnvindr?"

"I don't see what the point of this line of inquiry is."

Diluc's claymore vanishes in a small burst of ember and smoke as he prepares to make his exit.  

"Oh come on, you're not the least bit curious? Surely, this hero has stopped at your fine establishment for a late-night refreshment at some point or another." He is about to push back his chair when something in your voice chills his blood and keeps him rooted to his spot. There's something hidden there—but what? "I hear that he's a dashing young man with striking ruby eyes that pierce even the darkest of nights with his judicious gaze—hence, the moniker given to him by the residents he protects. With a pyro vision hanging by his hip, he rises amid the midnight tolling of the bells, like a phoenix being reborn from ash."

You tap your chin with one finger, head tilted in thought. 

"But surely, this schedule must make even the most vigilant of warriors weary and worn to the bone." And here it is—the claymore cleaving the curtains of mystery and amorphous half-truths clean in two. You lean forwards and fix him with a gaze that knows too much; Diluc regrets not burning that infernal letter to ash as soon as Adelinde delivered it to him with a trembling grasp earlier in the day. "A mortal man such as he can only cover so many of Mondstadt's entrances so quickly. Say...if there were to be a hidden crack in the shield, a passageway through the City of Freedom's supposedly impregnable defense, what then?"

Fine. He'll sing to your tune. Diluc crosses his arms and glares at you from across the table. Your grin widens. 

"If I were this...Darknight Hero...I'd simply find this 'hidden entrance' and carry on."

"Ah, but if he pauses in his efforts to guard the front gates to find this small hole, then wouldn't Mondstadt be left wide open? Surely, he cannot afford to take this risk, not while his countless enemies sharpen their swords and prepare for an endless attack against this oasis of wine and song." You shake your head in mock sympathy, a sigh shaking itself loose from your lips. "What a dilemma. If only there was someone who could funnel all threats to one gate for the Darknight Hero to eliminate."

"I don't suppose you are this 'someone' you speak of." Diluc comments dryly. "That would be awfully convenient."

"Let's just say I am. Would you do the smart thing and take on the remarkably convenient solution to all of your problems? Or would you hold fast onto your pride and hatred and continue to struggle in this riptide of ceaseless torment? The strength of your torch is limited; the vast darkness that descends each night is not."

You pause. 

"Anyone can fall."

 (He closes his eyes and there, seared behind his eyelids, is a rainy night. The air is slick with the copper tang of blood— oh for the love of the Seven, there was so much blood —and rivulets of water track trenches down his face. He cannot tell if they are tears or rain; it is all the same. 

They are all the same. Rotten fruit borne from a rotten tree sinking its rotting roots in the bountiful earth and polluting everything around it. Through a curtain of rain and under the tapestry of night, Diluc loses everything he holds dear because of them . Because of your kind .

And so, a match is lit. Slips. Sets the wick of his heart ablaze and from then on with the moon as his witness he pledges destruction, pledges downfall. Their safety demands sacrifice; he offers up ruination.

Diluc looks at your white gloves and at your palms stained red. His own curls into fists beneath the table.)

"Enough. This conversation is over." The wooden chair scrapes back terribly against cobbled stone as the wine tycoon stands to go. 

"Where's the fire? Stay around a while; I enjoy talking to you."

He scoffs.

"No, you enjoy listening to yourself talk."

"Haha! How very astute of you!" You lean forwards conspiratorially. "Then you should be intelligent enough to follow along with this metaphor: let Mondstadt be represented by, well, Mondstadt. Since you see my diplomatic efforts to join our two nations as an attack on your beloved city, then let my nefarious deeds be represented by the recent abyss mage and hilichurl attacks. The city's main gate is the Dawn Winery, and finally... you can be represented by the Darknight Hero. "

Of course you know. The only question that remains is how . 

Supposedly oblivious to your companion's ruminating, you plow through his silence. 

"Obviously, my proposal puts you in the same situation as the Darknight Hero's dilemma. You're stubbornly shielding your winery but have left the other ports of entry exposed. Think about it: by giving us Fatuus a cut in the winery's profits, you will effectively attach a bell to our necks. You're still in control of how your business operates; we'd be totally reliant on your decisions. As the saying goes, keep your friends close but your enemies closer." You lean back in your seat with a cheshire cat's grin. "All you need to do to protect your city is to agree to my proposition."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Why not?" Diluc drills holes into your skull with his stare, a hawk watching for any sign of deception. You shrug at his scrutinizing and pick off a crumb from a hash brown. "I was honestly insulted by how easily you laid Mondstadt before me. With so many holes, it wouldn't be too hard to reach in, pull a string, and watch everything crumble. As an evil Fatui Harbinger, I thirst for a real challenge. There's no fun in seeing my vile plans come to fruition without a bit of a struggle, without an opportunity to spill blood and crush dreams."

How is this possible? You're giving Kaeya a run for his money as the most annoyingly infuriating bastard in Diluc's book. 

The man's brow crinkles and his lips pull into a taut frown. 

"No. Your real reason."

"This is my real reason." You take a liking to the hash browns and it's between bites of the local speciality that you manage to wear down Diluc's nerves with an astounding efficiency. "Can't I do anything for the sake of being evil?"

If he can deal with Kaeya for what feels like the entirety of his early life, Diluc can most certainly deal with you for the next ten minutes. Maybe. 

"I don't have all day to entertain you. Just—spit it out."

"What, the hash brown? Why would you ask me to waste perfectly good food like that?" You ask innocently, as though you hadn't ruined an entire chicken by tearing it to shreds and mixing the carcass with flakes of ceramic snow within the last hour. 

"You know what I mean."

"What do you mean?"

Oh Barbatos help him , Diluc is just barely hanging onto the threads of civility. His eye twitches. You chomp on another Mondstadt hash brown with gusto and watch the man gather every last shred of calm he owns. 

"Fatui—"

"—Sir Ragnvindr — " You parrot. 

"— shut up —"

"—shutting up, Sir Ragnvindr, sir."

His claymore appears in his hand in a shower of sparks. You shove another hash brown into your mouth and hold up your hands in a surrendering gesture. When you've proven yourself by keeping quiet for more than a minute (you counted), Diluc coughs lightly and rakes a hand through his hair. 

"Fatui scum. What do you want?"

Silence. 

"...you're allowed to speak now."

"Fantastic!" You clap your hands together in a delighted manner. "What I want, you cannot give. But if you could sign the document sitting on your desk right now and get it to me by the end of tomorrow, you would make me very happy."

"How did—" Diluc pauses, before sighing the way a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders would. Archons help him, it's only noon and he's already exhausted by your Kaeya-esque antics. "—you know what, I'm not even going to ask."

"That's what I like to hear." 

The last of the hash browns disappears into your gullet. After directing Sara to transfer the untouched dishes into takeout boxes, you drop a bag of mora onto the slightly ruined table and turn to leave. 

Strange . 

"Why are you still here?"

You had expected the wine tycoon and president of the Fatui hate club to evacuate from the premises as soon as your conversation was over. Instead, you find yourself walking right into his chest. 

"How else would you, as you so succinctly put it, 'reach in, pull a string, and watch everything crumble,' if not by slowly gaining control of Mondstadt's wine industry through the Dawn Winery?" Diluc's eyes burn accusingly. "You really thought me for a fool."

Sharp, but not sharp enough. Your lips bloom into a sweet smile; the flame-haired man looks over his flower bed and glances over the anomaly—the weed posing as a beautiful bud. Ah, Sir Ragnvindr...what a man. So dreadfully straightforward and persistent, mind as straight as an arrow shooting for one designated target. His eyes can pick apart many a petty thief and common threat, but what of the sly, two-faced pirate? Yes, he is the pillar of light in the despair of midnight, but sometimes his brilliance blinds. 

"No, I'd never dream of disrespecting you like that. Ah! I've got it. I'll trade you trust for trust, information for information." You hold your bag of takeout containers in one hand and you jab your pointer finger into his chest with the other. "I'll tell you how history could've gone, and you tell me how history will be made. Fair, isn't it?"

Diluc is wary of you—and rightly so. Your uncanny grin edges on something treacherous, and if he stares at you long enough he can recognize the shadow of another falling into place with your own. An eyepatch flickers over your eye, your pupils sharpen into diamonds and then you're the spitting image of the one who is painted in the hues of blue, stygian blue. Diluc blinks twice, and then he's facing you once more.  

No wonder he can recognize the easy way you weave words into a tapestry of falsehoods and fool's gold. You are cut out of the same double-sided cloth as the other trickster he knows, the one he once had the audacity to call 'brother.'

"Suppose I decide that this information of yours is...satisfactory. What will you demand of me?"

(What use is there for the fish to lament about its fate when its jaw is already punctured by the fisherman's hook?)

Your eyes curve into gleeful crescents and the answer rolls smoothly off of your tongue. 

" Then you'll tell me where Barbatos likes to hide ."

 

---

 

(Meanwhile, in Liyue: under crimson-painted archways and roofs of emerald green, a ginger accosts an Inazuman in a side-street. 

A certain room was left scattered with snowdrifts of tattered papers; the mischievous breeze bursting through an open window was named the culprit of the mess upon the writing desk. Amid the gauze of a fluttering curtain, surprise morphs into panic as the guards outside the door hadn't heard anything the night before— no, milord, Lord Scapino didn't exit in the morning. We didn't let anyone in or out, we swear on our allegiance to the Tsaritsa!

"Where are they? You're usually stuck together at the hip like a twisted pair of conjoined twins." Bright blue eyes drill down into deep cobalt. One man is unsettled, restless. The other stares up with clear amusement. "If you're running around Liyue, you must've seen them."

"Why're you so concerned with Number Twelve's whereabouts? You miss their company that much?"

Childe looks ready to tear Scaramouche's hair out. 

" You little shit —no, I have to track them down to stop them from doing whatever it is they’re planning on doing to get back at me for supposedly ruining their diplomatic house of cards in wind country!" The Eleventh Harbinger slams a fist against the building in frustration before pulling away from his smirking colleague. "And you're most definitely in on it. Ugh. Fuck, of course you are. Why did I even ask you to rat them out anyway?"

Scaramouche laughs, cold and cruel. 

"Well that's easy! It's 'cause you're stupid."

"Oh for the love of the Tsaritsa please grow up— "

"Did I lie though? You tried to lock up a Harbinger in a tiny room and didn't even consider barring the windows or anything." Scaramouche mercilessly dumps saltwater into Childe's open wounds with his words, sneering like the sadistic fiend he is. "Did you seriously think that being on the second floor would stop them from finding a way out?"

The smug bastard's got a point. 

Childe takes a deep breath and pinches his brow. Okay. Okay! He'll just have to multitask. No biggie, that's nothing he, the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger, can't handle. He's taken on multiple foes at once without breaking a sweat. This'll be no different—just replace waves of monsters with one sly Tianquan and his fellow Harbinger. That's right. This is fine. He'll be able to do this blindfolded and with one arm tied behind his back, piece of cake. 

"Might I add that based on Scapino’s level of pettiness, they’ll be determined to do more than knock the wind out of your sails? For all of the grief you've given them over the years, I wouldn't be surprised if they decide to find a way to bomb the Jade Chamber and blame the ensuing destruction all on you." Scaramouche picks at his nails. "I wonder, what'll you do then? You'll be completely, utterly, absolutely ruined by someone who no one has ever seen do so much as pick up a sword."

...okay, so maybe this isn't a piece of cake, but a shitty grain of rice that he can't pick up with his Archonsdamned chopsticks.

He didn't want to do this. Call Childe as dramatic as you want, but know that his pain is real. The ginger-haired man slowly crouches so he's staring straight into the short Inazuman's eyes.

"Tell me what Scapino’s up to and I'll give you anything you want." He coughs up the words like they're cut glass, fish bones that catch on the tender flesh of his throat and rip away covered in the blood of his ego. Scaramouche seems to mull this over, turning over the tantalizing preposition in his mind. His cobalt irises get a strange glint in them; it'll be too late when Childe realizes that these are the embers of mischief that'll set his next few days ablaze with hellfire.   

" Anything ?"

"Mora, jewels, fancy Liyuen food..." Childe fights to keep his tone light. Harbingers are forecasts of the future. Nothing good ever comes when Scaramouche, a remorseless hurricane of catastrophe unto himself, takes up the role of the supposed 'calm before the storm.' But does Childe have a choice? Like the absolute fool he is, he bravely presses onwards. "...a free tour around the harbor...?"

A shrill sound peels itself from Scaramouche's lips, ringing high and discordant through the otherwise peaceful air. It's an ugly, nightmarish rendition of what should have been delight and Childe wonders if his companion needs formal lessons on how to laugh properly. 

" A free tour! Archons, you really are hopeless. Hmm...oh, I know—how about a trade? I'll give you information if you do me favors. Don't worry, I'll be reasonable and fair." Scaramouche holds out his hand for the ginger-haired Harbinger to shake. "For formality's sake, shake on it. Then you can scale a couple of mountains to pick me fifty fresh Qingxin flowers and I'll tell you where Scapino is." 

Childe fights the urge to punt the other Harbinger into the sea.)

 

---

 

"You're a foul demon."

"My, not even a hello or an introduction? How unbelievably cold of you." 

The Archon (Can you even call him that when his Gnosis has been taken from him by a mortal hand? Oh, you've heard of the freedom-loving god of the pastures back when the snowdrifts of Snezhnaya still loomed far above your head, but this delicate, dainty twig is Mondstadt's god? This spirit once stood at the same level of your Tsaritsa? Perhaps he's got some hidden power that felled forests of his enemies like saplings.) disguised as a green-clad bard wasn't hard to find. Amid a sea of cecilias overlooking the coast, you heard his lyre screech a succession of discordant notes when you announced your presence. How disappointing. Your Tsaritsa would have known of your presence the moment you stepped onto Snezhnayan soil. 

When Barbatos glares his eyes turn into pieces of hardened jade.

"What do you want from me, my cruel enemy from across the perilous sea? Surely not to follow in the footsteps of that witch's avaricious hand and rob any more than you already have from this bountiful land."

 "Peace. I do not ask for much." You snap the stem of a cecilia flower, idly rubbing one of the snow-waxen petals between the pads of your fingers. You will admit—these blooms are beautiful. Alas, they are much too fragile to exist anywhere outside of their native highland's mild climate. When you finally return your attention to the less-than-god standing before you, the blossom drops from your hand. "All I need is information. Nothing more, nothing less. In the skin of a timeless bard who deals in song, you are a fountain of word and knowledge, are you not?"

"I have nothing to say to a heartless sculpture of ice like you." The deity's words are vehemently venomous. The afterglow of a past bruise pulses painfully and when he spits it's not at you, but someone else's shadow. You're but a straw dummy for him to hit with his arrows, a stand-in that bears someone else's weight. "Now leave, before this day I'll make you rue."

"What is it with you Mondstadtians and your impatience? Forget it. If you really wish for me to disappear from your presence, I suppose I have no choice but to comply. I have no control over your wishes, just as you have none over mine." 

"...just what are you planning, child of ice and snow? Must you bring your bloodthirsty chaos into this tranquil city before you go? Though one of your number has already hollowed my power, know that for Mondstadt and my people, I will never cower."

You step forwards, heel grinding the delicate petals of a fallen cecilia into the ground as you do so. Barbatos may be the weakest of the seven Archons, but he must have been one of the few victors of the Archon War for a reason. It is with this assumption that you hiked up this grassy cliff to seek an audience with the wind god and dipped your head as you introduced yourself as the Twelfth Harbinger from Her Majesty the Tsaritsa's frozen domain. 

Weak or not, he is still immortal; he is still a being that is freed from the mortal machinations of time that shackle you to this track that leads only to death. So, you play your cards of peace and pleasantries, you offer some ounce of your respect even as he stares up at you with eyes of hard-cut and polished gemstones. 

Ah...but you're really growing tired of the way he looks at you and sees the long shadow of La Signora instead. 

"Why is it that your impression of me is already eclipsed by that of La Signora? I am no winter witch, nor am I nearly as ruthless as my senior. We may be tied together with similar titles, but I like to think that I am one of a kind. Irreplaceable." Another step forward, another crushed flower wilting beneath your boot. Barbatos flinches when he hears the stem folding clean in two and you loom over him with your blank mask of neutrality. "I do not immediately have thoughts of turning Mondstadt upside down when I cross the border into your nation, nor do I have any so-called seeds of 'bloodthirsty chaos' to sow in your happy little village of freedom. Unchain your mind, O Great God of Freedom ."

"Then pray tell, what did you mean when you stated that I have no claim over your wishes? You were clearly insinuating something —I may be flighty, but my intellect does not sleep with the fishes."

"I would never dare to question your mental capacities, Barbatos. Don't worry too much about little ol' me." You say this in a way that screams for him to do the opposite. The green-clad bard clutches his lyre, tensing. "As an ageless wind-spirit, a restriction on the Dawn Winery's production of wine shouldn't be too soul-crushing for you."

Oh. 

Oh.

Notes:

l'oro degli sciocchi: FOOL'S GOLD

...and the wheels of your 10000 IQ plan are starting to turn...meanwhile, your worst enemy and your worst friend do as you do (so proud) and strike a deal of their own, giving me material to work with for the next chapter. Also, you ruin a perfectly good chicken and discover something in Mondstadt that you actually like: hashbrowns! Totally not influenced by my bias towards Razor's puppy-paw hashbrowns that I'll never eat...oh, also, you kind of threaten a god.

n e ways, thanks for reading this chapter! As always, please let me know your thoughts or just,,y'know, tell me what your favorite genshin dish is?? :P

Chapter 7: due lune di giada

Summary:

"I wish for nothing more than knowledge." The immortal huffs; it's a disbelieving sound and you suppose you can't blame him for his suspicion. Still, you press on, making a case for yourself out of his language. "Liyue's novels are many, but few extend back to the eons before pillars of stone were hurled from the heavens, back when heavenly ichor splashed upon the earth, starlight spilled in the name of an insatiable hunger for power."

You pause.

"I want to know about Morax."

Notes:

this chapter was initially intended to come out around hu tao's banner but...well, i ended up working on a new story instead and THAT came out later than it was supposed to SOBS.
anyway, let's just pretend that this chapter was supposed to be published in celebration of the Windblume Festival and patch 1.4 that's coming out tomorrow!!
(AND CHILDE'S GETTING A RERUN WOO HOO GOOD-BYE PRIMOS)

THE WIND IS DIFFERENT HERE. It steals your breath each time you dare open your mouth and scratches at your cheek, digging at porcelain flesh until blood blossoms bloom between the fractured splinters, spiderwebbing under fingers of hoarfrost. Give an inch, it takes a mile. This is a land of avarice and gluttony, pride and envy, a growling, seething mass of sin pulsating at the burning heart of this frozen land. 

You place a palm on the frosted window before you, staring out onto the darkened street below. A shadowy lump moves, incensed by a flashing copper coin that drops in their center. You watch as it explodes into movement—what you had thought was one amorphous mass was really a tangle of street urchins melting into each other. 

Now there is competition. Whoever had just been sharing a stolen coat with you is now your mortal enemy, a thief of your opportunity, the murderer of your future. 

You have a closet filled with fur-lined coats, each sleeker and warmer than the next. Your table is laden with a feast day after day, and you do not scrabble amongst the cobblestones, searching for that flash of gold with frost-bitten fingers too far gone to save. 

(And later, when you're dispatched to a land that calls the wind a blessing, you'll think of the five that sat in seats bought by blood, the five that ate at banquets fit only for the one who sank at sea. Are you any different? You're subject to the same rules, the same grid-locked maxims of survival that no one taught you when you stepped onto the shores of a loveless land for the second time. The only true law is that of the natural cosmos, for before the grandeur of those impersonal stars who are you but an infinitesimally small speck of dust, destined to be forgotten as soon as this eon leaves you behind to rot in a shallow haphazard grave?) 

You close your eyes in vain; you still flinch at the yelps and sickening crunches of trampled matchstick fingers snapped by a desperate heel. As you shrink back from the window, turning you back to the scene in the streets below, you grasp for the comfort that it is beneath you. That life is beneath you, and you trust in the chains that suspend you in a sky of glittering stars, the ties that you bind yourself to with a white-knuckled grip and pray will keep you from falling to the ravenous carnage below. You will never have to live that sort of life when you're protected by floor-to-ceiling windows and doors latched shut with gold.

There's a comfort a younger you found in arrogance, in ignorance. 

(Now you adjust your ruby-palmed gloves and recite a list of self-taught rules you've carved onto the backs of your eyelids. 

Forget your virtues; remember your vices. There is no place for the weak in a tundra stripped to its bare bones. 

Know your place—here among the scraps and scrapes of the bone yard you are no better than the rest of us. If you remember anything, remember this: this world will not give you anything for free. You're living on stolen time; Death will come to collect your debt one day. 

Here in the land governed by a strange wind, learn not how to live, but how not to die.)

 

---

 

The air is thinner up here. 

Childe inhales mist through his nose and cradles the crisp mountain air in his lungs for a few moments, savoring its sharpness and clarity. It's strange how something like air can carry scent: if he closes his eyes he thinks he can discern faint undertones of damp moss, an earthy smell that tickles his nose, and the light fragrance of Qingxin petals themselves. They're both growing to be familiar smells; this is not a surprise considering the length of his stay in this land amongst the monoliths. 

He never thought he'd be spending his day scaling the side of a mountain, but the ginger haired man has always considered adaptability to be one of his strengths. Come rain or shine, he will always be able to roll with the punches and shift with changes in the situation. Whether a merchant decides to be particularly stubborn when collection comes rolling around or a certain comrade of his leaps out the second-floor window of the Northland Bank in the middle of the night to set the gears of their revenge plan into motion, Childe prides himself on thinking on his feet. He'll come out on top, like he always does. 

But that's a thought for later. For now, he has to concentrate on—

"Could you move any slower?" Scaramouche is standing on a ledge not too far above him, clearly enjoying being 'taller' than Childe (for once). "My grandma can climb faster than you, and she's dead."

"Do you ever shut up?" Childe tosses back, lips turned upwards in a smile that, spoiled by his non-existence patience, looks more like a murderous sneer than anything. 

"Oh come on, if you're going to insult me do it right. That was just sad." The Sixth Harbinger turns his gaze towards the distant horizon for a moment, pausing to catch his breath with the view that the climb presents him. He isn't so wrapped up in thoughts of battle and suffering that he doesn't know how to appreciate pretty scenery. 

When the dark-haired man finally resumes his climb, he's less than pleased to find that sometime during his quiet break his annoying clown of a companion had overtaken his lead. Childe hears movement behind him and— for the love of the Seven that'd better not be a self-satisfied smirk that Scaramouche sees on the ginger's stupid face. 

"Aw, you had to take a break? Are the tough, rocky ledges hurting your poor, delicate fingers?" Childe taunts, grunting as he lifts himself up to the next ledge. The Harbinger is slightly out of breath and the sun is merciless in its assault from above, but he'll be damned if he's going to let the other man know that. "Because if so, you can always call it quits." 

Scaramouche glares at the ginger as he hops up to the same level only seconds after the Eleventh Harbinger. 

 "I suggest that you stop pestering me if you know what's good for you," the shorter Harbinger glowers. If looks could kill, a quick backwards glance tells Childe that he would've been struck about a million times by lightning by now. "You're asking a favor from me . I hope you remember that." 

"Or what? You'll hit me with that oversized discus you call a hat? Don't act like you don't have to crane your neck backwards while climbing because of that stupid—" Childe yelps as he saves his precious face from getting certain doom at the mercy of Scaramouche's so-called 'oversized discus'. The rice hat had flown at him like a deadly frisbee, managing to clip his arm in a clattering symphony of pain with its ornaments as it spun past. 

Fate takes pity on the ginger. Instead of breaking Childe's nose like it was supposed to, the murderous hat misses the tip of his nose by a few centimeters before slamming into the rock wall beside him with a deafening crack!

A small shower of pebbles dislodge themselves from the mountain upon impact; fissures spiderweb out from the half-embedded accessory. Scaramouche calmly picks his way up to Childe's right, smoothly plucking his hat from the cliff face. 

"Well damn." The Inazuman drawls. "I thought you were just a punchable nuisance, but it looks like you're psychic too."

 

---

 

"What do you want?"

Arguably, this is one of the most dangerous questions to ask someone who hails from a land of people who have learned how to subsist themselves solely on the devouring of wishes, a land of people wrapped in a numbing chill for so long that a shaft of genuinely warming sun burns like a birth certificate on a pyre. You're no astrologist or sorcerer of the stars, but once upon time you were carefree enough to spend your time strolling through the oaken forest of your father's study. Hidden among obscure charts and the esoteric scratches of either a genius or a madman ( and really, you later reflect, what is the difference between the two? ) you learned of tears in Celestia's cloak, gaping maws of nothing eager to devour everything, an abyssal void crying out for more more more after never having enough.

(Some call it a black hole, a self-destructive star. You know it as a Hunger burrowing past flesh and bone to gnaw at the corners of a frostbitten soul.)

Those who have gotten used to the act of wanting find a faithful friend in avariciousness. In greed, they fall into a simple pattern of taking and taking and taking—until one day, they swallow themselves in their haste. These fools fling themselves headfirst into ruination.

(A life winking miserably as it lives but blooming brilliantly as it implodes. For one moment, it outshines all of the other jewels in the crown of the heavens, and then it fades. 

You're not a fool.

You'll make sure you're always shining for your Tsaritsa.)

"What do I want? Why, I wish for nothing more than to serve Her Majesty to the fullest extent of my abilities. Glory for her kingdom is glory for me. Her success is my own." You shrug nonchalantly, like you hadn't just drawn clear lines in the sand. Here is the god who spits upon your Tsaritsa's name like her divinity is a curse, here is the god who narrows his viridian eyes with something more than cutting hatred and even with a missing Gnosis, could still very well send you spiraling to the lowest levels of Hell. "But you cannot give me that."

"Something drew you here to this high hill. Tell me what it is, and perhaps giving it to you shall not break my will."

You knew that Barbatos wouldn't be an easy fish to catch. Discontent to stay in the ocean, this archon propels himself out of his watery chains and takes to the skies, a fluttering mess of scales and fins transfiguring into feathers and flight. 

If a twisting, winding hook won't work, will the straightforwardness of an arrow do the trick instead?

"I wish for nothing more than knowledge." The immortal huffs; it's a disbelieving sound and you suppose you can't blame him for his suspicion. Still, you press on, making a case for yourself out of his language. "Liyue's novels are many, but few extend back to the eons before pillars of stone were hurled from the heavens, back when heavenly ichor splashed upon the earth, starlight spilled in the name of an insatiable hunger for power."

You pause.

"I want to know about Morax."

A few slow chords chime through the air as Barbatos strums his lyre thoughtfully. A tentative breeze tugs at your clothes. 

"...what sort of information do you seek?"

Like a self-destructive star, Barbatos knows what you're after but asks anyway. He sees the arrow sailing through the air, he sees the fish hook poised to sink into his jaw. And still, he stares you down with eyes of an iridescent hue ( The god's eyes —you blink and see them inlaid with the crest of the anemo element, swinging at the command of those chosen by the divine, by him. Visions are gods' eyes, symbols of the ones marked and claimed by the seven survivors of a lingering war. Your gift burns of frostbite. These Visions are born from violence. ). 

You shiver. 

(If the gaze of an impersonal god is so piercing, then you, a wielder of Her Vision, would surely crumble if your Tsaritsa were to look at you with anything other than grace. In the absence of her warmth and blessing, you will fall prey to the merciless wind that howls, rattling your rib cage with a staccato of death. As long as you do not stray from Her embrace, you will be safe.)

"Liyuens have many traits. Some are less desirable than others, making them woefully tricky to work with. However, their utter devotion to their god is, dare I say, admirable." You tap a finger against a chin, thinking. "The locations in Liyue that the Tianquan of the Liyue Qixing would deem worthy of housing the exalted Exuvia of their beloved archon are few. It must be a place with a strong connection with Morax. The terrain must be easily guarded and easily accessible by the Qixing but not outsiders who would wish harm upon the late Archon. Barbatos, you wouldn't happen to know of someplace that fits the criteria, would you?"

"So I am correct. You're going to steal his Gnosis."

Barbatos says this with the sort of finality that would make you admit to your planned heist even if you weren't initially going to do so. 

"No rhymes? You must be getting serious." You scuff your boot into the ground; another cecilia gets marked by the print of your shoe. "You have no evidence." 

"I have no need for that."

"And your need for wine?" Evidently, even immortals have material comforts. You watch his mouth open, then close again, a guppy torn between a torrent of selfish desire and responsibility; if you look upon this being and mourn his sullying of the Archon title, your fine-tuned facial expressions do an excellent job of not betraying you. Those who double-cross their people and abandon them to the four winds do not deserve your good graces, but you have the decency of feigning politeness. "I heard that Mondstadt's wineries have a favorite green-clad customer who pays not through mora, but through song. At this point, your veins must be run through with more alcohol than ichor."

"I—"

"Barbatos, I respect you. Truly. And I do not mean to put you in such a...difficult position, but you know how it is. If you do not give me the answers that I seek, then I will be forced to take drastic measures against your beloved city."

"So you'll plug the taps and drain Mondstadt's wealth, you've committed yourself to bringing about rot and ruin the same way lovers at an altar vow never to sever their bond in sickness and in health?" Barbatos's knuckles were a snow-capped mountain range jutting over the edge of his lyre but now there's a dawning realization melting the paleness away. The color seeps back into his porcelain skin; the rhyming returns with it. "No—no, you are but a mortal so easily slain. There is no universe where my people have built a city for you to maim."

"Is that so?" Your lips twitch, birds rustling their feathers for flight, before stilling. There is no point in lying to a god. Your intentions are already laid bare—you will gain nothing by holding your tongue now. "And what of the mortal who has taken your godly gift right on the steps of your temple? Hasn't history already proven that immortals are not as untouchable as you may think?"

It's shameless. You know that you're just dressing your words with satin and lace, weaving wax wings onto your sneers and calling it an angel. But you fight dirty, digging your nails in where you know it hurts, kicking opponents when they're down, because that is what works. 

At the end of the day, you're here to get a job done. You're here to succeed. 

Jade moons polished to shine brighter than the celestial body itself narrow into cutting daggers wholly unbefitting of a god reported to have the temperament of the gentlest gale, of the playful breeze that lifts your locks of hair and carries the wishes of his people heavenward. You face not the Barbatos that Mondstadt knows, but the Barbatos that was born from conflict, from the Archon War. Reverberations still carry from the past to the present; the copper tang of blood is a memory not forgotten well enough. 

The wind rises. 

 

---

 

"At the pace you're going at, Scapino’s probably finished with whatever they’re doing in—oh, oops, that was close." Scaramouche sits with his feet dangling over the edge of the mountain outcropping, leaning back on his hands to watch the clouds meander through a pleasant sky. It's a slow day for the Sixth Harbinger; he's had to squash less cockroaches than usual. "I almost gave their location away, didn't I?"

The ginger-haired Harbinger picks another white blossom and contemplates shoving it down his irritable companion's throat. How painful would it be to choke to death? He stops to consider the benefits of committing murder. The short Inazuman is evil. That's all there is to it. Childe scowls at him and decides that death is too kind for the other Harbinger. 

"Careful, you're sitting awfully close to the edge." He examines the Qingxin petals in his grasp before meeting Scaramouche's gaze with forced levity. "You could fall, you know."

Scaramouche tips his head back and does the closest thing to laughing he knows: a careening, raucous cry of delight produced purely at the expense of others' suffering.   

"You wish!" Cobalt flashes under the mid-morning sun, precious gems glinting with malice and unrestrained glee. "You kill me, you'll never find Scapino. Teyvat is grand, and you only have a limited amount of troops you can spare. By the time you finish combing through every nook and cranny— if you finish—Scapino would have already enacted their revenge scheme. Maybe they’ll topple a few kingdoms and pin the ensuing destruction on you. Well, whatever they do, all I know is that you, sir, are going to be in for a world of hurt if they succeed."

(Scaramouche breathes in oxygen and exhales lies. He only knows that you are going to somehow steal the Geo Archon's Gnosis before Childe—the details of your plan are lost on him and he hopes that his bravado and sneering proclamations of ruination are enough to deter Childe from booting him off of the summit of one of the Guyun Stone Forest's rock pillars. 

Well, whatever. Scaramouche knows how to swim if it really comes to that.)

"You're a terrible liar." Childe says flatly. 

"Who says I'm lying?" 

"There's a reason why you're sent on field missions and not on diplomatic errands, you know." Childe picks another Qingxin, snapping its stem clean in two. "If you're going to spout falsehoods, at least go through the trouble of doing it convincingly."

Scaramouche props his chin up with the palm of his hand, watching Childe from the corner of his eye. 

"What, you don't think Scapino has the ability to do it?"

 

---

 

You wouldn't normally mind a stroll through Mondstadt's Windwail Highlands where flora and fauna alike are aplenty and your senses are never bored; birdsong and the petrichor that clings to the shining leaves of dew-laden trees are nearly always present and as a nurturer of bonds yourself, you can appreciate the vibrancy of life the area offers. 

It's unfortunate—the scorn of a god is beyond bitter and you think you're going to choke on the bile that rises whenever you think of jade eyes and a crumpling cecilia bowing in the gale. With your back to the sea and your life hanging in midair, you didn't have many choices (And before an archon, who does? When the power to crush your ribs into nothing but powder lies in their palms, what choice do you have but to comply?) then, and you don't have many now. 

Such is the inconvenience of being able to die. 

Your fists clench and unfurl as you attempt to tame the flare of disappointment and anger; it eats at your chest with ravenous derision and as you kick at a nearby rock it howls with laughter when you realize shit , that was an incredibly stupid decision. 

What are your next moves? You ignore the throbbing pain in your toe and hobble on. 

(How disappointed would your Tsaritsa be in this childish behavior? Get it together, Scapino. Rashness and frustration lead nowhere but into a maze where every turn leads to a mistake. You've learned this blood-bought lesson already in the tundra stripped to its bare bones, where there is no place for the weak, not while Death hungers for those draped in decadence and decay alike. Decay . In truth, you suppose that everyone in that barren land is a skeleton dressed in the flimsy garments of life waiting to be released into the night sky, waiting to take their place in a constellation where they will no longer feel cold. How can they, when they are a burning star so far above the mortal chains of pain?

But you digress. You need to keep moving.)

You suppose you could head back to Liyue and comb the streets for gossip and scraps of information. Though the title of 'the City of Wine and Song' belongs to Mondstadt, you'd heard through the grapevine that Liyuen alcohol is nothing to scoff at either—perhaps you could make a new ally out of rice wine. After all, red-faced drunkards speak the same universal language: truth. 

It's rather unfortunate how something called common sense tells you that the presence of a Harbinger will dry up these wellsprings of information quicker than Scaramouche's lightning can reduce a particularly stubborn merchant's henchmen to writhing tangles of nerves groveling at his sandaled feet.

Damn . 

Does this mean you're stuck in Mondstadt for the time being? None of the other nations are as close to Liyue as this wind-blown city is—it is common knowledge that the paths of the Archons of Anemo and Geo crossed at some point and that since then, they've been close friends. Or, as close as one can get to a god.

You continue on, letting your feet carry you mindlessly through your surroundings. A mistake, you cleverly deduce, when the tip of your boot hits a post of some sort. You look up; a mask—multiple masks—looms not too far away from your face. 

Realization sets in.  

You appear to have wandered into a camp filled with hilichurls and mitachurls. 

Silence strikes a gong; its eerie reverberations ripple through the clearing, ghosting spirals into the wavering blades of grass that are not yet flattened under hooves and claws aching for blood. 

You appraise the horde of monsters before you with a critical eye, pressing your lips into a thin line. 

"Celestia, are you laughing?"

(Childe idly twirls the twelfth Qingxin stem in his gloved hands, looking out into the archipelago of stone spires jutting up out of the sea of mist before them both. He's quiet for a few moments, tidepool eyes looking for something out in the distance, searching, as if he could find his answer scrawled on the back of a passing leaf.

Ocean blue freezes over, glazed with a thin sheen of ice. A faint memory beats beneath the surface—the sharp sting of copper in his nose, a smear of crimson angrily branded across your cheek, a bitterly furious, howling wind and—and when Childe turns to face Scaramouche once again under the tangerine glow of a setting sun he simply tells the Harbinger that no—he thinks Scapino knows more, can do more, than they ever let on . 

There's something else there; a finicky crystalfly winks and Scaramouche will chase after it because your problems are his problems—that's how it's always been—but then again...he watches as Childe crushes Qingxin #12 in his hand.)

And then everything explodes into chaos. 

 

---

 

When Lumine leaps over the toppled watchtower and announces her arrival in an amber shower of stone and corpses, you're kicking one hilichurl into the outstretched weapon of its brethren. She makes quick work of whatever monsters haven't been blasted into oblivion by their own powder kegs or bashed by their own shields; you stand to the side and watch mutely as the traveler weaves in and out between her enemies, a deadly dance of blades occasionally punctuated by the tell-tale amber gleam of a geo-based attack. 

(You recall your second meeting with the traveler. Then, you had been the one to 'rescue' her from an unnecessary confrontation with a couple of Childe's goons—oh, wasn't that also here in the Windwail Highlands? How curious! History repeats itself—well, with a few minute changes. 

Take, for instance, how the blonde doe-eyed anomaly bends the earth to her will when she used to command the wind with the ease of a natural born with power extending far beyond your comprehension. 

How strange indeed...no Archon has laid claim to this Vision-less outlier who wields multiple elements.)

The dust settles and she straightens out to wipe away the sweat beading on her forehead. In comparison, aside from a couple of flyaway strands of hair and the smudges of dirt on your previously pristine person, you don't look as though you were just in a fight.

"Miss Pizza! We meet again!" You laugh easily, looking remarkably out of place amid the carnage at your feet. You're a blot of pure white against a crimson backdrop; when you step towards her Lumine notices how your footprints are dyed in the colors of a bleeding sun. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? Last I heard, Childe sent you off to appease a handful of immortals over in Jueyun Karst. What are you doing in these peaceful pastures?"

"Ah...just here to finish up a few commissions." There's not a hint of falsehood in her facial expression, so you accept her explanation with an inclined head. 

"Haha! I admire your work ethic. Now if only a couple of my foot soldiers could be like you..."

"You may be nice, but you're still Fatui!" Paimon plucks up enough courage to stop hiding behind Lumine's hair. The small pixie points one accusatory finger toward you, all suspicion and stormy doubt. "Something's fishy about you. Harbingers are supposed to be super super strong aren't they? So why're you so weak?"

" Paimon !" To her credit, the blonde frantically tries to get her traveling companion to shut up (to no avail. Oh well. It's the effort that counts, isn't it?). Having failed in this pursuit, she then turns to you and sets about apologizing. "Scapino—oh stars, Scapino, I am so sorry about Paimon. She tends to let her mouth run faster than her mind and, well, you know how that can end."

You wave away her concerns with a flippant hand. 

"Nah, it's all good. That's a legitimate question." You spread your arms as if to invite the traveler for a hug. "As you can see, I don't have a weapon on me. No sword, no claymore, nothing. As a dedicated diplomat, how can I make myself look threatening? That just wouldn't do in my line of work."

"I guess..." Paimon's mouth twists downwards, forehead scrunching. Is this her thinking pose? It looks like she ate a whole lemon instead. "...but you should still carry around something to protect yourself. What if we hadn't seen you on time?"

Amusement curls your lips upwards like the corner of burned parchment; Lumine will look back later and wonder out loud at the many, many ways different liars smile under the guise of verity and genuine warmth. 

But for now, she lets herself get swept up in your charm and the conversation is successfully diverted away from what you call your pacifism. 

"Aww, how sweet! Paimon, are you worried about me?"

Bingo. 

The floating fairy turns into a spluttering mess, hands frantically trying to bat away the preposterous allegations you're cheekily proposing, protests of no you big dummy you're just so stupid someone has to look out for you and go wander into another hilichurl camp, see if we care if you get killed! fly in one ear and out the other. 

(Because this is the thing: the traveler is simply too kind. All soft edges and warm honeyed eyes offering help to people who do not deserve it—in other words, the type of person who would fight off hilichurls for you because you looked like you were in danger, because you looked, for an instant, like someone who needed saving.

Ah...hero types. 

You'll never understand them.)

So, amid the fallen corpses of your enemies and with crimson footprints stamped in the earth behind you, you laugh easily at everything Paimon spits at you, reaching up and pulling at her cheek with what must have been fondness. 

Yes, Lumine is too kind. 

(And you know what happens to people like her when they meet people like you.)

Notes:

due lune di giada: TWO JADE MOONS

yup. that is the title of this chapter. very creative, i know.
anyway, childe and scaramouche (fail to) bond (???) and you...are scheming again. how ominous. a big thanks to my long lost twin aidemint for helping me get through the mountain climbing scene with scara and childe <333 LITERALLY could not have done it without you

as always, thank you for reading!! leave a comment to let me know how i'm doing if you wish <3

Chapter 8: un ricordo in disgelo

Summary:

Scaramouche stares out into the silver sea of mist and shadow, fixed upon some indeterminable point on the distant horizon. The Eleventh Harbinger chases his gaze out from the shores of their rocky outcropping and gives up when he's unable to wade any further out into the fantastic milky shroud.

The Inazuman is clearly somewhere that Childe is not meant to be.  

He considers the curiously absent-minded Harbinger for a moment; with wavering lines of indigo blue, his eyes sketch out the hawkishly raised hackles, the thin wiry muscles draped over a small musculature, the plume of hair swept away from the pale porcelain nape of his neck by a passing gale...Scaramouche is built, Childe realizes, like a bird. But is his senior the type of bird that he's watched plummet out of the air in a bloody blur of arrow feathers, or the silent dappled majesty that had circled overhead on such occasions, a king protected in his own sky-domain by universal reverence? 

 

Shall we test if he can fly...?

Notes:

CHILDE AND ROSARIA CAME HOME WOOOO SO IM POSTINGGGG!!! i may now be broke, but im satisfied.
may the anemo archon barsibato/bartobas bless you with the pulls/artifact drops you want

A MEMORY RISES, UNBIDDEN :

He's striding through the glacial corridors of Zapolyarny Palace, the ornaments hanging from his hat clinking with each step. Scaramouche is pissed—as he usually is, but this time, he senses that there's something different about the anger that boils in his gut—and half-blinded by the searing white-hot rage encroaching on the corners of his vision, the Sixth Harbinger doesn't notice the figure approaching from the other side of the hallway until they're directly in front of him. 

"Well, if it isn't the little skirmisher!" Il Dottore grins down at him, all shark-teeth and smug self-satisfaction. Oh, what he wouldn't give to tackle the other Harbinger to the ground and punch those insultingly self-satisfied incisors out until the floor is strewn with the bloodied fragments of a dentist's nightmare! "I thought over your preposition the other day, and I can confidently tell you my answer now!"

"Great." Scaramouche takes one look at the doctor and immediately knows what the response is. That level of delight couldn't have been provoked by anything other than the opportunity to stomp all over what's left of the Inazuman's shriveled up excuse of a heart, so he doesn't really need to be hearing this right now. All he wants is for rejection to come swiftly so he can go and take out his frustrations on an unlucky squadron of new recruits. 

"Aw, you don't have to be so cold. Is that any way to be talking to the person who is supplying you with resources to last you on your latest conquest of terror in some far off land?"

"Uh huh, go fuck yourself—wait what?" He does a double take, stunned. Is this one of Dottore’s clones? Well, that wouldn’t make a difference: the man is so abhorrent that his clones wouldn't be spared from the curse of Dottore's shitty personality. Anyway. Scaramouche stares at the doctor like he grew a second head. "You...you're agreeing?"

"You heard me. I'm letting you borrow my precious test subjects and lab assistants for your expedition." The dark-haired man waits for the other shoe to drop. Instead, Il Dottore shrugs and turns to slink back into the hellhole he calls his laboratory. "I've got to say...that Harbinger candidate you have under your wing? They’re very persuasive. I wouldn't mind seeing them on my operating table someday."

The Inazuman doesn't bother telling the mad scientist that he's responsible for two candidates because honestly, he gets it. What is that stupidly earnest war-machine compared to you? He could spit into the sea of recruits vying for the opportunity to climb upwards into hell and hit a blood-stained, rib-rattling frankenstein of circumstance and instinct with eyes equally if not more bright with hunger than she; no, it is those like you, those with the breath of the winter wind and claws for hands, chapped and rubbed raw from hours of scalding scrubbing—and he gets it, he does, because oh gods blood is so much brighter and stickier than he'd thought—that are rubies glinting in the dark. 

He feels almost bad for that desperately ravenous girl who is pitted against you in this battle for the twelfth seat at their table: you were already on your way to victory from the moment you stood among your entourage of skeletons in a gown dyed in the horizon of a bleeding sun (and on the night of your arrival, Scaramouche took one look at you and remembered that it really is so much brighter than he'd thought).

When Scaramouche finally blinks out of his stupor, he is left standing in the middle of an empty corridor with the taste of your name upon his tongue.

 

---

 

" FOOD BANK !"

The little pixie's voice cuts through Mondstadt's ever-present hubbub and you turn your head to see a small hand waving frantically at you. You return the gesture— just a minute! I'll be there soon —with a bright smile; it smudges and fades into professionalism when you turn to address the agent hovering uncomfortably in your shadow. 

"Tsk. How inconvenient...can't have one victory without something else spoiling it. I should have asked you to tell me about Lord Ragnvindr and his good sense to uphold his half of the bargain after." You sigh, carding a hand through your slightly tousled hair. There's a forced levity threading through your words and he stiffens when your voice drops it to take a sharp turn into a more authoritative territory. "I'm asking you for the last time: you're absolutely certain? Annodarsi ?"

"Yes, my lord." 

The agent hasn't spent a lot of time in your platoon of loyal soldier-diplomats but from what he's seen and heard from his coworkers, you're a kind soul, a dove in a den of eleven other wolves that miraculously, haven't yet torn you limb from limb. Of course, this is all hearsay. Anyone, he supposes with a faint grimace, would be considered 'kind' once you've gotten used to the cold fist of The Lady and the volatile temper of The Doctor. However...he peeks at your face now, and stills. 

An iced over lake betrays more of its turbulent depths than your facial features (ever) will of your mood. 

Supposedly, to any old passerby, you've sunken into a state of deep contemplation. Under the warm glow of an afternoon sun, there's a peculiar magic cast about your person as you consider his words with pursed lips and a hand lifted to your chin. Golden rays can soften anyone's edges and the balmy breeze casually brushes your hair in your eyes, playfully daring you to reach out and subdue its conquest of these stray strands. But would he dare go so far as to think that this is a moment of peace and serenity? 

Oh Archons, no —

"Send a copy of both the Ragnvindr letter and his letter to me."

—for when you shift your gaze upwards to dismiss him, he swears—there! A skipping glare, a brief flash—the blade of something dangerous catches the light and becomes crushed moments later in a shower of sparks and chilling frost.

You're already turning away but he drops himself to one knee anyway, pressing a hand down to quiet the over-zealous drummer th-thumping away behind the bone prison of his chest. 

"Understood."

(He makes himself scarce in a blur of shadows; yes, the agent may not have spent a lot of time in your platoon of loyal soldier-diplomats, but he has pledged his allegiance to Her Tsaritsa long enough to recognize that there are few kinder than his Archon...

...and there are few crueler than her Harbingers.)

"Sorry, I got caught up in some business." You'd scratch your neck sheepishly if your hands weren't occupied with plates upon plates of freshly cooked dishes. Instead, you stitch apologies across your lips and collect forgiveness with the wells of your eyes. "Did I make you two wait long?"

Paimon is a stubborn little fairy and you think that you like that about her. She squints at you from her position in the air, floating just a tad higher than usual to gain the upper hand in terms of elevation, and then the probing glance is directed to the platters of food you're balancing with all the ease and grace of a professional waitstaff. 

"Yeah you made us wait long! Paimon doesn't appreciate that at all...but seeing the apology food you've given us, Paimon'll let you off the hook this time."

"Let me help you carry those." Lumine jumps up from her seat to relieve you of the trays in your hands. Paimon moves to hover over your shoulder, subtly guiding you to a table of their choosing. "These are heavy. You should've told me that you were going to order so much beforehand; I would've helped you carry them from the beginning."

You wave off her concern with a breezy chuckle.

"No, no, this is nothing! You need to recover from your travel to the land of the adepti, and after you saved my life in that hilichurl camp, treating you two to a warm meal is the least I can do."

At last, all of the dishes are safely arranged on your corner table. When you settle in a seat across from Lumine, you realize that there's a sense of familiarity here. Indeed, you spot small marks in the wood grain of the table where you had speared it with a fork, and where Diluc had been sitting, an angry scorch mark claws at the edge. What a pleasant surprise—Paimon chose the very same table that witnessed that heated stand-down between you and that pyro-wielding winery owner!

"I've heard that beings who've lived for centuries like adepti are especially draining to be around." You venture from between bites of your hash browns. "And not just in a 'stubborn-old-mindset' type of draining, but a 'magic-conflicting-with-our-mortal-bodies' way. Is this true?"

"Mm..."

"We haven't met with the yaksha guy at Wangshu Inn yet, so we don't know if this is the same with him too." Paimon chimes in, polishing off yet another plate of food—it appears to be Mondstadt Grilled Fish this time—and the porcelain clatters as the pixie stacks it on top of her other conquests. "He was so rude! Lumine showed him that yellow slip of paper that worked fine with the other adepti, but all he did was growl at us and jump off the balcony!"

 

What's this? A challenge that Childe's Sigil of Permission can't fix? 

 

"You need to speak with this adeptus of Wangshu Inn, correct? To clear away whatever filth the Liyue Qixing callously used to sully your good name?" You lean back in your chair, eyes tilted upwards as if you were expecting the answers to all be written across the sky. Seconds tick by, measured out by the steady wingbeats of passing birds and skittering leaves. Paimon chews on silence, quieting as it settles in the pit of her stomach; the traveler snaps to attention when you swing your gaze downward to rest on her. "You're in luck, Miss Pizza! With a master of negotiation like me by your side, I don't see how you could possibly fail in your task."

Lumine exchanges a glance with Paimon. 

"We...we'll gladly accept any help you can give us." Paimon nods along with Lumine's words, resuming her campaign of empty plates and polished wooden skewers with gusto. "We're planning on leaving today, if that's alright with you?"

"No problem. In fact—" 

You pause imperceptibly when you notice a flash of red and black in the corner of your vision. It ducks between two buildings, then peeks back out in a bid to catch your attention. As efficient as they are, you grouse, it seems that subtlety is still severely lacking in these new foot soldiers. No matter. That's a worry for another day. You flick your attention back to Lumine, who doesn't appear to have noticed the brief gap in conversation. 

"—we can leave right now if you wish. Paimon finished most of everything already, anyway."

 

---

 

Childe doesn't like Scaramouche. 

This isn't anything surprising—the two Harbingers have been at each other's throats since the moment Childe was introduced to his comrades as the newest commander of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa's army. At this point, their mutual animosity is as natural to those around them as the sun rising; the only one who has ever glanced between differing shades of blue and wondered about a universe where the two men were not enemies but allies is...you. 

The ginger sighs and plucks another flower from the clifftop (Of course you would postulate about an impossible event; you're something of an anomaly yourself and it only makes sense that strange people would have strange thoughts). He snaps the stem cleanly in two, taking care that the thin roots stay buried in the rock crevice. He's here to fulfill his end of a deal, not to draw the ire of gods and adepti...though a battle against one of Liyue's protectors does sound tantalizing to him.  

Eyes of money and an untouchable container, sealed away like a holy artifact. Childe adds another two flowers to the growing bouquet in his arms and entertains the idea of slaying a dragon with eyes of Cor Lapis and a hide of the earth. How long would it take for him to rip into a rippling armor flowing with mora and centuries under the sun, whittling away each shining piece of sunbeam like a shower of scales leaping from a fish—( a wobbling slip of silver tap-dancing across the ice. 

How did this part go again? He turns back to the wriggling tragedy; a knife hovers in an uncertain grasp—this isn't like how dad did it-wait how'd he-why does it look like that-why's there so much blood —a horrible glassy eye big as the moon stares accusingly and instead of steel through flesh, it is a scream that carves cleanly through air. 

"Stop it—stop, you can't do that!"

"Huh? But—"

"No! You're killing it, and dad said killing is bad." Wary eyes peek above an ostentatiously luxurious fur collar—he decides that it must be worth at least ten million chak-chaks [1] from the stingiest baker in all of Morepesok—to squint at the boy. "You're not a bad guy, are you?" )

Childe huffs quietly and unfolds himself from his crouched position. It's as he's smoothing out the creases in his joints that the Harbinger realizes how...quiet it is. 

A quick sweep of the clifftop confirms that Scaramouche hasn't silently tumbled to his death while Childe's back was turned—not that the Snezhnayan would've been sad to see him go, no. Instead of a grotesque mural of mortality cobbled together with pearlescent strings of guts, gore, and a mop of indigo midnight splayed about a shattered egg-shell skull in a crude imitation of a fallen angel's halo, Childe finds a hollow statuette mired in musing. Scaramouche stares out into the silver sea of mist and shadow, fixed upon some indeterminable point on the distant horizon. The Eleventh Harbinger chases his gaze out from the shores of their rocky outcropping and gives up when he's unable to wade any further out into the fantastic milky shroud.

The Inazuman is clearly somewhere that Childe is not meant to be.  

He considers the curiously absent-minded Harbinger for a moment; with wavering lines of indigo blue, his eyes sketch out the hawkishly raised hackles, the thin wiry muscles draped over a small musculature, the plume of hair swept away from the pale porcelain nape of his neck by a passing gale... Scaramouche is built, Childe realizes, like a bird . But is his senior the type of bird that he's watched plummet out of the air in a bloody blur of arrow feathers, or the silent dappled majesty that had circled overhead on such occasions, a king protected in his own sky-domain by universal reverence? 

Shall we test if he can fly...?

( The boy, like all mischievous boys, bares a gap-toothed grin that splits the pale snowscape of his face clean into two—a crack in the ice where barely unfrozen waters peek through.  

"Am I a bad guy...hmm..." Did crystalline sapphire blue always have that undercurrent of the deep dark abyss? Or can a recall of the past be tainted by the crimson staining his present? Whatever the case, a boy wipes the back of his hand against his cheek and leaves behind a crime scene. "Why don't you come over here and see for yourself?"

"On the ice?" Someone draped in more finery than he would've ever dreamed of crosses their arms guardedly. They balance on the horizon where snow yields to ice, toeing the line between his world and theirs. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah, on the ice. Why—too scared?"

Small gloved hands clench together, flex, then clench again, as if grasping for something that's not quite there. 

"Are you stupid? I'm not scared!"

"Uh huh, sure."

"I'm serious! It's just that—this coat is new and if I get it wet my mother's going to skin me alive. And I have to get back to the house before the nanny figures out I snuck out through the window...and if I give my nanny another heart attack dad isn't going to buy me one of those funny dolls-in-a-doll, so—"

"If you aren't scared then prove it." The fish is long forgotten. The boy swivels in his seat, propping up one rosy cheek with one of his palms. "Prove you aren't all talk. Everyone knows that actions say stuff louder than words."

"It's 'actions speak louder than words,' idiot." Their face is blurred—by snowfall, by time—but the boy just knows that they're giving him a spectacular eye-roll. 

"Whateeeeever. Now you're just stalling for time, chicken."

"Am not!"

"Bawk-bAWWWWWWWK BAWK BAWK BAWWWWWK—"

"—f-fine!  I'll do it, you stupid idiotic moronic, um, pig-headed, no-brained, dumb brutish jerk!" They cautiously nudge the ice with one boot, squeaking when a particularly thin patch of ice shudders and groans under the added weight. It's no good: a crack is spotted in the distance—the cavalry retreats with the wind at their backs and the boy is left rolling around in the middle of the fishing pond, cackling at the newcomer's abject terror. 

Embarrassment cultivates bright spots of carmine on their cheeks and a frenzied boot tries to stomp it away on the hard-packed snow. Never before had they been so humiliated in their short, short life and they were quickly learning to dislike this feeling. 

"Shut up! Shut up, or I'll...I'll, um, I'll make you sorry, I swear I will!"

"Yeah? What're you going to do, cry?" Oh, he's a wretched boy with a face that looks infuriatingly beautiful even when he's indulging in his rotten ways; woe be to the newest nourishment sacrificed to his ravenous ego. One day, it'll stretch itself thin and it'll pop with the most fantastically deafening sound and then finally, maybe, the small voice crying out for more-more-more will be silenced. But that day is not today. "If you want to make me pay, you're going to have to get over here first!"

A moment of contemplation passes; somewhere, a hawk's shrill, keening cry pierces through the air and then—

CRA-AACK!

—the next thing he hears is a piercing scream cut short.)

Childe's hand hovers in the air, then drops to his side again. It's just as Scaramouche had said: there's no point in pushing the 6th Harbinger to his death, not when the indigo-haired male is the only compass he has to find you again.

He shakes his head. 

Right. Finish Scaramouche's task. Locate you before you cause any significant property damage and/or a political upheaval in the harbor. Take you down, preferably with an adrenaline-pumping battle that leaves him breathless and victorious.

Anyway, Childe might as well leave his senior alone for the time being. 

He knows how precious memories can be. 

 

---

 

"Leaving so soon? I do hope our unfinished business hasn't slipped from your mind." 

"Captain Alberich! How could I ever forget about your glorified drinking game?" You reply smoothly with all the charm of a cheshire cat. Your party of three comes to a stop before the Cavalry Captain, and as you tuck away a certain cream-colored envelope, you offer the man a cursory smile. "Unfortunately, we'll have to postpone it for a later date."

"Oh please, drop the formalities. Just call me Kaeya—we're all friends here, aren't we?"

You both laugh at this. 

"Ah, what an honor. I suppose I should have recognized our friendship sooner; surely, the esteemed Cavalry Captain of the Knights of Favonius, protectors of peace and freedom, doesn't make a habit out of drinking with those he doesn't trust?"

"But of course! Oh, but what a shame...I did look forward to seeing if you could hold a candle to the winner of the Alberich family eyepatch." One lilac gaze flickers to land on Lumine and Paimon, who is in the middle of eating a couple of chicken and mushroom skewers you'd just bought for the road. "...aaaaand you're leaving with our Honorary Knight as well. If I didn't know you any better, I'd think that you were kidnapping Mondstadt's savior from right under our noses."

"Well, thankfully you do know me."

Even Paimon makes a face at this. 

"Really? Paimon thinks that—"

"—what sort of friend would I be if I didn't?" Kaeya quickly drowns out whatever the pixie had been about to say and, true to his reputation as a smooth-talking menace who would do quite well as a diplomat in foreign nations if he wasn't so tied to Mondstadt, he settles on: 

"That's why I'm concerned about your safety. Say, won't you tell me where you three—" Even with one eye, the man still manages to conjure a brief wink for Paimon, who huffs and pretends to be annoyed. "— lovely travelers are headed so this very fine gentleman won't be losing sleep with worry?"

"It's honestly pretty far and we'll be there for a long time, so even if anything does happen I doubt you'll be able to do much." Lumine quips. "But if you ever need us for anything, we'll be at Wa—"

"—and while your concern warms my heart, I have enough faith in your Honorary Knight to protect me from any and all harm." You place a hand on the hero's shoulder, gently pushing her toward Mondstadt's front gates. For obvious reasons, the less Kaeya knows, the better. "Besides, as a Captain, you must have a very busy itinerary. I wouldn't want to cause any more stress wrinkles than I already have—you have a very pretty face, as I'm sure you know, and Mondstadt would absolutely riot if I marred it by causing you to fret."

Of course you're aware. 

Kaeya supposes that it makes sense that your line of work inspires a certain degree of paranoia and, given your high position, that you'd have a large network of information at your disposal. Discerning that Kaeya is tracking your wayward footsteps shouldn't be difficult for you...the man pinches the bridge of his nose when he realizes that basing his investigation on your words and actions alone would be equal to building a tower out of straw. 

Okay. Okay—what's his next move? You've pranced right out of his jurisdiction with that curious envelope and you aren't going to be returning anytime soon. Sending someone in your wake to "attack" you and steal the information isn't going to end well, not when you have Lumine and Paimon as a shield from harm. Interrogating the Fatui directly is out of the question. He'd have to gain access to someone else who has been involved with your dealings...

"Captain Kaeya! Will you be going to the bar later? I hear that the green-clothed bard's singing at Angel's Share tonight!"

 

Angel's Share. 

A ridiculous amount of mora, casually dropped onto a table; a self-satisfied smirk slipping past an otherwise neutral exterior as someone looks a furious Diluc squarely in the eye. 

"A glass of Dandelion Wine and Death After Noon each doesn't cost a small fortune, you know." He had said as he made sure the decorated head of the Ragnvindr household didn't assault a certain diplomat in public, thus shattering any need for pretenses of faux peace that the Fatui had been keeping. 

They shrug. 

"Then consider it payment in advance...

 

...for my next visit." It clicks. "That's it!"

"Sorry?"

Kaeya glances at the knight and mumbles something along the lines of an answer before running off. Later, passerby would report to have seen Captain Kaeya galloping in the general direction of the Windwail Highlands, a certain frenzy in his one visible eye as he and his steed flew onwards to their mysterious destination. 

That, everyone agreed, is the look of a man hurtling toward the success of his mission at all costs.   

 

---

 

A continuation of his reminiscing begins with Scaramouche kicking down the door to your common room and you staring rather dejectedly at the splintered pieces of wood that now litter the floor of the otherwise pristine space. No matter—he'll make sure to get one of his subordinates to fix the destruction he's left. 

But that's after he gets the answers that he wants. 

"You!"

Your eyes slowly turn from the corpse of the door to settle upon his frame. He's aware of how undignified he looks—his hat is slightly askew, hair mussed, and his face is flushed from his sprint through the Zapolyarny Palace's maze-like halls. Two wrong turns and no less than eight knocked over foot soldiers later (for why should he, a Harbinger, be expected to know his way to the Candidates' Quarters?), he'd burst into the room running on the fumes of his earlier irritation and confusion. 

It's not a good look on him. 

"...me." Oh, that is definitely a laugh he hears in your voice. Fortunately for you, Scaramouche is much too preoccupied with the maelstrom of perplexing conundrums currently swirling in dizzying circles around his head to consider shocking your heart into the ninth circle of hell for your insolence. "To what do I owe the absolute honor of having your presence in these humble quarters, Balladeer sir?"

"How did you do it."

"I'm sorry sir," you say, not sounding very sorry at all. "I don't understand what you're talking about. Would you like to sit and catch your breath first? Have a cup of tea?"

He ignores you and slams his hands down on the woefully empty desk before you. His display of intimidation would have been a lot more effective if he'd been able to, oh he doesn't know, sweep aside a towering stack of papers and shatter one of your favorite mugs into smithereens. Oh well. One of the more displeasing aspects of life is that he can't always be a winner. 

"You know perfectly well what I mean. He screeches whenever someone so much as breathes in the direction of his possessions, so how did you, a snot-nosed weakling, convince that deranged psychopathic bastard to agree?"

"If the 'deranged psychopathic bastard' you're referring to is that neurotic man-child who is, quite frankly, nothing more than a stale waste of space that has the outlandish audacity to call himself a Harbinger, then I must confess that I do not believe I deserve the awed look in your eyes right now." The Harbinger sees you smile for the first time; a devil leers at him from over your shoulder and Scaramouche swears his heart stops beating. "He is but a simpleton. Reframing your expedition as a field test to assess the quality of potential test subjects did the trick."

There's a brief pause. 

"But of course, you didn't hear that from this snot-nosed weakling. For the record, this was a fluke—beginner's luck."

"Beginner's luck?" Scaramouche sneers. "Are you suggesting that you have something—official diplomatic work for the Tsaritsa as a Harbinger, no doubt—to begin?"

"Do I not?"

Do you! At this innocent inquiry he tips his head back, unleashing a thunderclap of shrill, pealing laughter and when he swings himself forward, leaning over the desk to grin wickedly at you, there is lightning sparking in those deep cobalt irises.

"How audacious of you! Know your place, vermin, or I'll exterminate you myself."

You do an admirable job of holding his gaze (not an easy feat—Scaramouche stares swords into your soul and your palms are bleeding, cut on the edges of his coarse attentions) and if he notices the way you waver before pressing on, he doesn't show it. 

"No, you won't."

"I won't?" 

He summons his catalyst in a shower of golden sparks and you both know that this is purely for show. It's not exactly a secret that the Sixth Harbinger needs only his bare hands to end your life before you can cry for karma to drag him to hell with you. 

"The walls say you like working with those that are competent—" Your throat bobs. "—and bold."

The Harbinger stares at you. The seconds tick by, you hold your breath. 

"I could kill you." 

It sounds like a confession. A funny sound escapes your mouth, a small huff of surprised mirth. Instead of begging like a dog for mercy like the rest have, you shrug: you've realized something.  

"You could."

(One week later, you are kneeling before your Tsaritsa's throne. When you rise, Scaramouche is the first to greet you as Scapino, the Twelfth Harbinger.)

Notes:

un ricordo in disgelo: A MEMORY IN THAW

[1] chak-chak: A traditional Russian sweet. Although it is pretty common and eaten rather frequently, it is always served at celebrations. Thus, this humble dessert is often associated with festivities and good times!

sorry for the wait guys,,,
anyway!! more memories thaw from the frozen recesses of time...but whose are they? what secrets from the deep do they bring to the surface? i'd love to hear your thoughts ;)
as always, thank you for reading/leaving kudos/commenting! you guys always make my day ahahaha <33

Chapter 9: happy birthday, ajax

Summary:

"...thank you." He mumbled into their snow-flecked scarf. Maybe it was the hazy glow of the evening that spilled over in his chest, flowing out in golden honey words gentler and kinder than both parties ever thought he could physically say. It's a night of miracles. A birthday night. "Thank you for remembering. Thank you for sneaking out to come see me even when your mom yelled at you last time, thank you for bringing me a present even though I stuck a fish down the back of your coat and make you fall into the lake. And, um...thank you for being my friend. Even though I suck at being a good friend and you'll probably make new ones better than me—"

Their arms squeezed tighter.

"Ajax. Stop that. I'll be your friend forever and ever and ever. You're going to be an old man more wrinkly than a walnut and I'll still stick around. You can't get rid of me that easily!"

Notes:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TODDLER!! lololol ofc HIS birthday is the thing that wheedles an update out of me. ur an awful gremlin but i still simp,,,do me a favor and return my heart please i miss it :(
well anyway. here's a short baby chapter to celebrate him <3 <3

IT'S ON LONELY NIGHTS LIKE THESE THAT CHILDE DOESN'T THINK HE'LL EVER FORGET his fourteenth birthday. It was a happier time, then, back when he had one name instead of three and a veil of innocence still tossed haphazardly about his person. 

Ajax is a simple boy after all, and it really doesn't take much to make him smile from ear to ear, the joy permeating his small home with enough warmth to stave off the Snezhnayan frost spiraling across the windows. His mother need only bring out his favorite dishes and his eyes would light up with glee. The parade of decadent dishes laid out on the table before him was conducted with as much pomp and circumstance as possible: Teucer, Anton, and Tonia had always managed to outdo themselves every successive year. That night specifically, his siblings had managed to get their hands on sparkling tinsel and handfuls of feathers plucked from who knows which neighbor's chicken. With the sheer volume of avian plumage tossed up into the air with gleeful shouts only the Tsaritsa knew how no-one found feathers in their food when everyone finally settled down enough to tuck into the impressive feast.

Call it coincidence. Call it luck. 

Call it a birthday miracle when later, stuffed full with dinner and dessert, Ajax answers the timid knock at the door to find them standing on his stoop. 

They had shuffled their feet. Then they looked at the welcome mat beneath their fur boots, at the lopsided garlands enthusiastically flung over the railing, over Ajax's shoulder at the sight of his family patiently waiting for the birthday boy to come back to the table for a round of present-opening. Really, anywhere but him. 

"Hey." He prodded. "How'd you sneak out this time? Out the chimney?"

A ghost of a smile curled at their lip and Aja—Childe remembers counting that as his win. 

"Nah, laundry chute. Good guess though, I was considering going that way but then I remembered that there's too much soot there." Their cheeks suddenly gained a redder hue. Was it really that cold outside? "I...um...I didn't want to show up at your birthday all dirty like that."

Silence. 

"W-well anyway! Here." They all but shoved a wrapped package into Ajax's arms, quickly taking two steps back. "That's for you. Uh—yeah, that's uh...that's all I came to do. See you."

"Wait!"

Practically tripping over himself, Ajax flung himself at his startled friend, catching them in a last-minute embrace. It's snowing in Snezhnaya even when the rest of the world experiences warmth, but Ajax couldn't help but feel that in this moment, when they brought their arms up to wrap around him in reciprocation, that he was experiencing that thing called 'summer.' 

"...thank you." He mumbled into their snow-flecked scarf. Maybe it was the hazy glow of the evening that spilled over in his chest, flowing out in golden honey words gentler and kinder than both parties ever thought he could physically say. It's a night of miracles. A birthday night. "Thank you for remembering. Thank you for sneaking out to come see me even when your mom yelled at you last time, thank you for bringing me a present even though I stuck a fish down the back of your coat and make you fall into the lake. And, um...thank you for being my friend. Even though I suck at being a good friend and you'll probably make new ones better than me—"

Their arms squeezed tighter. 

"Ajax. Stop that. I'll be your friend forever and ever and ever. You're going to be an old man more wrinkly than a walnut and I'll still stick around. You can't get rid of me that easily!"

They both laughed, filling the frigid night air with a special sort of warmth that Childe, now sitting at a solitary table in the Northland Bank, flexes his fingers to grab. But it's not there for him—it hasn't been for a while. 

"Liar." He whispers into the air. A sudden gust of wind carries his salt-tinged words across the room."You're nothing but—"

"—the best!" Ajax had cheered, newly fourteen and still having learnt next to nothing about the cold and cruel world he was born in. Amidst the carnage of torn narwhal wrapping paper and blindingly sparkly bows, he unearthed the present that they had gifted before leaving to make sure that their mother didn't catch them breaking out of their house arrest. 

(Wait. A gust of wind? What—the window—)

"What's that?" Teucer clambered over Tonia's arm and ignored her shrieks for a better view. 

"It's—"

"—a box filled from top to bottom with the most obnoxiously overpriced but delicious chak-chaks in all of Morepesoke."

Childe stares at the package sitting cheekily on the windowsill, wet with moonlight and a deluge of memories crashing through his skull. Cautiously, he tears open the narwhal patterned wrapping. Lifts the flaps. A familiar scent wafts into his nose. 

"....chak-chaks."

He bites into one. A slow smile spreads across his lips. 

"They still taste exactly the same."

 

 

 

(Later, Childe finds a small note shoved at the bottom of the package. 

 

 

Hey,

Hope you like the treat because it was a pain to get. I can't believe I went through all this trouble for a crazy blockhead like you. But even so...thank you. For that one time. I guess I owe you now...is this sufficient enough to repay my debt? Ah, joking, joking. This favor's on the house but don't get too comfortable. 

...anyway, happy birthday Tartaglia. We all deserve happy birthdays, don't we?

 

P.S: I took up your advice and tried fishing. I did not, as you promised, 'have the time of my life' as I slowly felt myself calcifying into a statue on the riverbank.

 

 

And a spark of that warmth stirs in his chest, flickering to life again. Snezhnaya's winters will follow its denizens wherever they go, but for now, Childe closes his eyes and savors this bit of 'summer' sun.)

Notes:

pew pew shawty guess who?
would it be helpful to know that this chapter is set an indeterminate time a little in the future from where the story currently is at the moment?
anyway, thank you all for reading! the next chapter is giving me an ass kicking so idk when i'll be able to get that up but hopefully its soon... <3 <3

Chapter 10: piccole misericordie

Summary:

You scrutinize Xiao from tip to toe, and it is with one contemplative look arranged on your tilted head that you decide that no, Lumine can think what she wants but you do not trust him one bit. It is useless to escape from supposedly all-seeing eyes, those slim daggers golden with honeyed rat poison and the scalding corona of the sun, when the only thing keeping you from hurtling over the edge of a thin lacquered wood railing is his mercy. How utterly disgusting. 

(Mercies are not permanent, and you have seen the carcass left behind when it all dries up. Bone-dry. Chalky, rubbed away and crumbling. You are standing on someone else's boat and praying that they do not decide to toss you overboard like a fool. Leave. You have to leave, save your own skin and choose how you jump ship yourself. 

Then you can decide to swim.)

Notes:

hello hello, we're back with a doozy! thought i'd gift you all with a longer chapter this time as thanks for being patient and waiting for me to kick my own ass back into gear,,,also tears of themis has me in a chokehold so if anyone wants to scream with me about the walking greek statue that is marius von hagen pls do SOBS

YOU WERE ALWAYS LIKE YOUR FATHER.  

 

Anyone could take one look at his eyes and see the intelligent being rising from beneath the warm pools of his irises; you were never too far behind, always peeking out from behind his legs with your inquisitive stare. We used to joke that you were an excellent judge of character—you never liked the soon-revealed-to-be shady businessmen who would've brought nothing but bad tidings—and then you became our good luck charm. I wonder, are you still picking apart other people with your gaze, systematically flaying flesh from bone and dissecting their every nerve until their skin crawls and their blood runs hot? Your talent never fails to impress...but I do wish that you had never been consumed by your own brilliance.

Take a step back—you must . Do you still remember those warm autumnal afternoons with the sun at your backs, the wind in your hair and a bright sunny smile swinging loose on your lips? Back then, you had cared about nothing more than winning the next game of chess, or about the next adventure you'd orchestrate in town. No shop was spared from your childish glee, no window left unscrutinized by your critical eye. You did always love your souvenirs, and your father did always love your laugh. Oh, you and your old man...

 

...you were his whole world, you know. 

 

It would break his heart to see you like this. 

 

---

 

Here is something that this ancient demon ( glaring, vigilant, a destroying protector ) is not willing to know about you ( a perceived liar, a threat, a pest scuttling in the dark ):

You're still human. Beneath a silken pair of gloves your fingers are painted by paper cuts, little bloody kisses pressed into your skin by a childish whim, a wisp of a want to feel the creamy paper slide between the pad of your thumb and index finger. 

(That you were crossed by a slip of words uttered by a rubbed-out memory is something you think you should have expected—the past has done you no favors, and never will. The knife of nostalgia lurks between each of the scripted lines folded into your pocket, a gift from a cheeky old man with a poorly kept hill of grassy stubble for a chin. Does he still collect ships in bottles and sneak sips of cognac when he thinks no one is watchi—no. No . 

Do you care? )

Do adepti write letters to one another? 

(Tell yourself: you don't )

You're tempted to ask, but the one Lumine addresses as 'Xiao' does not seem like the sort of fellow who would indulge you with facts about himself to anyone, much less to someone like you. Given that you've already found yourself on the end of a jade-winged spear ( Beautiful . It's simply beautiful, and you realize that this weapon is something out of a legend. Though it has been soaked in godly ichor, it still shines as bright as ever. ) you'd have to be utterly braindead not to be fazed by the pure disdain emanating from his youthful face.

"Leave."

The smile stays plastered across your face as you raise your hands as a gesture of good faith. 

(Lumine, standing behind you, sees the pure-white flag of submission. Xiao raises his eyebrows at palms of crimson.)

"Whoa there, we just came and you're already kicking us out? Is this really any way to be treating your guests?" You know that you're digging your own grave, shoveling deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Abyss until the sky is nothing but a distant memory of baby blue. It's nothing new though—you've always been aware that the path you're walking goes straight to hell. You might as well make yourself useful and dig up other gems of information along the way. "Unless I'm mistaken, isn't it Liyuen custom to receive guests warmly with refreshments and invite them to stay as long as they'd like?"

"You're not my guest, much less a welcome guest." 

Lumine takes this chance to uncover the platter of food in her hands, slowly waggling it below the adeptus's nose. Her actions are oddly reminiscent of a child enticing a stray cat with treats, hoping to trade scraps of day-old tuna clenched between frozen-stiff fingers for a fleeting brush through matted fur. 

"Aaaaare we welcome if we give you this ?"The blonde proclaims, proudly presenting the dish with a flourish. Xiao eyes the silky snow cubes, tracks the progress of the glistening syrup as it coats the plate in sweetness, then pulls away with feigned disinterest. 

 

Ah. Playing hard to get?

 

"You're trying to bribe me." He deadpans. "Me. An adeptus . Do you realize how utterly naïve and insulting it is for you to have the audacity to think, for even one instant, that I could be swayed by your mortal trinkets and trickery?"

" Bribery ? You really think we'd stoop that low? What nonsense! Any good guest presents their host with gifts." You cheer. 

"Exactly. Won't you try it? A little bit? An itty-bitty bite?" Lumine pleads, practically shoving the plate in Xiao's face. "It wasn't easy to keep Paimon's hands off of it on the way up here, you know."

Somewhere in the backdrop the little pixie is stomping her little feet in the air and railing against the unjust (yet completely accurate) light with which Lumine has portrayed her. Does she really deserve to be depicted as a total glutton with no regard for the fact that no, Paimon, that is a gift for the adeptus so the day you get to taste-test it is the day that Celestia falls from the sky ?

(Yes, yes, yes. The answer, of course, is yes.)

The three of you ignore her somersaulting rampage (though you have to move out of the way so you don't get kicked in the forehead by her shoe at one point) with relative ease, two pairs of eyes watching the way the third flicker between the innocently shining cubes, wavering on the razor thin edge between resistance and giving in. 

"Hmm, Lumine, are you sure that you have the right dish? Perhaps it isn't as worthy of praise as we thought it would be." Suddenly, you are standing by the balcony railing with the plate held loosely in your palm. Well, the palm that's extended over the edge, to be exact. You frown at the pile of tofu on the plate, tilting your head to one side as if to appraise it for its culinary value. "It could just be trash."

Several things happen at once. 

All that matters though, is that you've won . 

"Fine! I'll eat the dish." Xiao lands back on the lacquered planks of his balcony, plate in hand and nary a tofu cube out of place. There's no indication that they had just been carelessly tossed into oblivion and saved from free-fall a few moments prior. "Do not get me wrong though—I do so for it would be disrespectful to be so wasteful. Are all Snezhnayans so disgraceful and mannerless as to wantonly dispose of the fruits of others' labors and litter another's land?"

You press a gloved hand to your chest and lower your head. 

"No, just the one rude diplomat you see humbly before you, adeptus Xiao. Thank you for teaching me such a valuable lesson; I shall remember it for the rest of my life." 

He scoffs. 

"Stop wasting my time. Speak."

You look back at Lumine. Instead of saying her piece, she inclines her head and extends a hand. 

"You first. You have something to ask him too, don't you?"

How very kind of her. How very...like her it is to let you shrug and clear your throat, catching the attention of the now-busily eating adeptus. 

"Are there any locations in Liyue that are heavily associated with your Lord's name? Like, say, a birthplace, an arena for some significant event in his life..." You pause for a moment. "...or anyplace that springs to mind as a suitable burial ground for the Archon of Geo?"

Somewhere behind you, Paimon gasps. 

"What is the meaning of this?" The yaksha's eyes are sharp. Scalding. Burning gold cuts in a different way from the ice-cold pinpricks of light of your Archon or the sparking, jolting way Scaramouche locks on, electrifies, and restarts a dead heart with a stare. 

(It's different from the way that an abyssal blue gives no chance for struggle. It simply takes takes takes—)

"We're conducting an independent investigation." 

Xiao turns back toward the plate of food in his hands. A new line folds itself in the furrow between his brows and you may be imagining it, but he stabs at the tofu with more force than before. 

"I'm not inclined to answer any of your questions."

"Ah... then I suppose you won't be inclined to help us clear Lumine's name and catch your Lord Rex Lapis's true killer either. Shame."

The adeptus twitches, back now suddenly ramrod straight. You watch as Xiao's muscles grow taut, tighten in a vise to strangle and squash the wave of unbecoming emotion that must be rising into a tsunami in his chest. 

(Dogs will be dogs. 

Collars and chains are not so easily broken.)

"Killer? What blasphemy. How can there be a murderer if Rex Lapis cannot be murdered ?" The fork clinks on an empty plate. "Leave. I will not hear my Lord's name be sullied by lies."

"But it's true! It's all true and if you don't believe us, believe Cloud Retainer, Mountain Shaper, or Moon Carver—" Lumine surges forward, all star-struck hope and eventide glitter hammering back and forth in a bone-cage—a naïve heart beating against the chains of disbelief that this hard-headed yaksha of old has clasped onto her wrists and ankles. 

If she cannot change his mind, then he may as well just brand her a criminal himself...for without one of their number, the other adepti will not follow in her favor. 

But alas! Lumine is jerked backwards by a tug on her scarf and the stubbornness of an ancient bond. She looks back at you (and the grip you have on her clothes) and Paimon (and the way the little pixie is frantically shaking her head). 

"Lumine..." Her companion whispers. "...we don't want to make an enemy out of him. Is there another way?"

"Paimon is right. We don't want to anger a yaksha, let alone an adeptus. Who knows how that god-slayer will dispose of a measly mortal when driven to rage?" 

Your words are a razor-thin pebble clipping the surface of the empty air between you two. Wangshu Inn is elevated above Dihua Marsh, it's true, but the height isn't so great that the air should be this cold. This thin. Your words threaten to droop from where they hang mid-air, bowing with their weight. 

If Lumine were anyone else, then perhaps she would hear reason in your words and that would be that. But the traveler is a vagabond adrift at sea, pushed and pulled by a demanding current that constantly tugs at her star-studded garments, constantly whines for attention to be diverted from the endless chase to which she dedicates herself. It is no wonder that in the moments of peace she greedily snatches for herself a childlike gleam bubbles forth in the form of some innocent part of her not yet crushed on the crag of constant battle. 

This 'innocence' ignites the foolish glimmer of hope shining in her eyes. 

"Xiao doesn't kill mortals." She says this like it's a well-known fact. Is it? You're not too familiar with the lore of Liyue's Guardian Yaksha, but you are aware of his role in the Archon War. The fact that he still breathes bathes him in an ocean of godly ichor, brands him a thief of untold amounts of last-breaths.

(It's kill or be killed. You know this concept well, and when you lay eyes on golden irises you know he does too. Forget the well-practiced grip with which he holds tight onto his primordial spear; forget the warrior's stance and calculating, untrusting gaze.

Those that remain standing carry the coffins.

He looks like someone who bears the weight of enough ghosts to fill a nation.)

"He doesn't ." Lumine repeats firmly. There's a defensive edge to her words, something insistent and certain. "He's a good guy. A bit prickly, yes, but not so much that he'll toss us over the balcony."

You scrutinize Xiao from tip to toe, and it is with one contemplative look arranged on your tilted head that you decide that no, Lumine can think what she wants but you do not trust him one bit . It is useless to escape from supposedly all-seeing eyes, those slim daggers golden with honeyed rat poison and the scalding corona of the sun, when the only thing keeping you from hurtling over the edge of a thin lacquered wood railing is his mercy. How utterly disgusting. 

(Mercies are not permanent, and you have seen the carcass left behind when it all dries up. Bone-dry. Chalky, rubbed away and crumbling. You are standing on someone else's boat and praying that they do not decide to toss you overboard like a fool. Leave . You have to leave, save your own skin and choose how you jump ship yourself. 

Then you can decide to swim.)

"And how will you guarantee this? You can't." 

 "That is true, but remember that you stand in the Land of Contracts. You have nothing but my word, and my word will be enough." Xiao's voice suddenly sounds much closer than before. You whirl around to see that the man had evidently gotten fed up with your and Lumine's side-chat and decided to silently appear directly behind you. Paimon follows soon after, wringing her small hands as she shoots you and Lumine worried glances. " I don't kill mortals . I protect them."

Xiao pauses. Grinds his teeth and clenches his fists. Molten fury erupts in his eyes, shining with a scalding brilliance so searing that you have to steel yourself to not flinch away. 

Paimon squeaks and dives behind Lumine's curtain of golden hair.

"I will continue to protect mortals as I have promised even when they're foolish enough to wrongfully accuse an innocent of murdering Rex Lapis ."

The name seeps from between clenched incisors, silken scarves of smoke coiling from burning incense, tinged with reverence. Titles are names are identities, and identity is precious regardless if you are over a century old or just above twenty. He speaks his lord's name like a prayer even as he is clouded over with anger and the tightness in his throat—the pained disbelief—is pulled taut by the cord of loyalty and servitude. 

You may be working to steal the Gnosis from his beloved god's cooling corpse ( Well , you reason, it's not as if the dragon has a use for it anymore, not while imprisoned by the chains of death ), potentially desecrating the Geo Archon's grave in the process and risking his ire, but a flash of admiration flares up in you. Unlike the constantly changing wind and all of its fickle-hearted natures, you can appreciate the steadfastness of rock. 

"The ruling Qixing...what is their hand in all of this? No matter; I will seek out Moon Carver, Mountain Shaper, and Cloud Retainer." He lets out a gusty sigh. "Though interacting with the mortal realm is distasteful for me, we adepti do not turn on our responsibilities. A promise is a promise. A contract is a contract. I will uphold my contract with Rex Lapis to protect Liyue even as he is reclaimed by dust."

A pause. 

"...if you truly think it would be helpful in this investigation of yours to know of a proper...resting ground...for Rex Lapis, then it may be fruitful to pay a visit to the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. The director may be able to offer some form of assistance."

 

Wangsheng? Now where have I heard that name before...

 

You exchange a glance with Paimon over Lumine's head as she dips her head in thanks. Unfortunately, her act of goodwill goes relatively unnoticed: Xiao seems to be making a point not to look at any of you. 

It's a dismissal. It's an opportunity to slip away before the yaksha changes his mind and decides to skewer you with his spear. 

(Yes, he did say that he doesn't kill mortals, but you've heard the same carnation-covered claim sprout from the mouths of more than one liar. Members of the Fatui have said it moments before twirling their knives and slitting many a merchant's throat. Your fellow Harbingers grin and laugh about it before reaching forward and making their victims wish they were dead. 

La Signora has said it. Scaramouche has said it.)

You take it and run. 

(Strangely enough, the only one who hasn't dirtied their mouth with this bold-faced lie is...Childe. But maybe that's because he never pretends he's not a killer.)

 

---

 

I've heard stories about you. Or—well, the you that exists now. The little child I knew from before...the one that loved to collect mementos from faraway lands and cobble together scrapbooks of days past...you've locked them away behind a wall of ice. 

Will you let me see them again?

Or have you killed them too?

 

---

 

In the end, Childe learns what he has already known. 

Scaramouche is the devil. 

"So you're telling me you don't know where they are either?" Childe seethes, dim blue eyes sparking with a faint flame of fury. He's tired. He's a haphazard collection of dry tinder waiting to catch fire. The realization that he has spent a laughably long time climbing up and down cliffs nonstop to gather fifty of those stupid bundles of waxen petals for nothing more than Scaramouche's sadistically hollow entertainment does nothing to ease the searing anger clawing at his chest. 

The Sixth Harbinger cackles, coating his jeering incisors in a cold malice that spares no feelings (Is Scaramouche physically incapable of having emotions? Childe presses his lips together and cannot blink past the images of a porcelain shell, a lifting bird, shattering glass). He sneers at misfortune, at despair, at anger, at anything he stirs in the inferior hearts of his adversaries. This is where he thrives. 

(This is where he burns.)

"Do I really need to repeat myself? My, the Tsaritsa really knows how to choose her Harbingers. I can't believe she picked up a deaf and mangy dog like you off of the streets and elevated you to my status."

"You lied to me." Childe elects to ignore the other Harbinger's usual tirade of verbal attacks against him. "You broke your promise. "

"That's correct." Scaramouche nods solemnly. "How surprising. What a turn of events. I'm a horrible bastard and you should definitely kill me."

" Why you—! "

The ginger is stopped from doling out due punishment by an ache in his jaw. It is then that he realizes his lips are pulled back, revealing a gleaming row of snarling teeth—the predator begging to snap! around the thin lily-white stalk of neck before him. Sharp claws dig into the meaty flesh of his palms; is that blood rushing in his ears or the thundering of an overdue deluge?

(But the petite man and his ridiculous hat are not prey) 

At the ensuing silence, Scaramouche tips his head the smallest of fractions. Indigo peers up from under the wide brim of his signature accessory. Where is the frenzied madness he had expected? The Inazuman's gaze flits around Childe's person to examine him for cracks. Is the fool broken, perhaps? Does Scaramouche need to give him a couple of thwacks to the head to get this deadly automaton working again?

Finally, Childe sighs. He takes to leaning his weight on one leg, leaving the other foot to tap restlessly on the ground. 

Huh. What an interesting way to start a brawl. 

"Why are you so invested, anyway?"

...ooookay. This is new. 

"I know you and Scapino are friends—" Here, Childe breaks off and wrinkles his nose. "—or, as close to 'friends' as you can get when you're someone like you . But this doesn't explain why you're so willing to spend so much of your time and energy to send me on a wild goose chase for flowers. I know you've just bought them time to do...whatever...but what's in it for you?"

Was that the wrong thing to say? The ginger watches as roiling clouds obscure his companion's face in a thunderclap of lightning before a carefully constructed scoff herds away the storm as quickly as it came. 

"You're just fun to mess around with."

And with that, Scaramouche stalks off. 

(In Inazuma there are tales of a hollow likeness filled with nothing but the vaporous fumes of hatred hurtling, a lightning bolt, from the heavens. A bit of scrap that never should have existed. A mistake, a callous error in judgment and a blight on the continuum of this world. 

It would be foolish to expect anything less than a storm to follow in the wake of such a creature.)

 

---

 

I know I've raved about your matching eyes and the similar way you both take your tea, but something I appeared to have neglected is how you've inherited his stubbornness. Two mules, you both were. He was never one to back down from anything, and you would always cling to his tailcoats, a second shadow. 

Wherever your father went, you followed. 

But please—this time, he has gone someplace none of us can go. There are no shadows, no double reflections or gemini to mirror his warm smiles and crinkling eyes. 

He left. You're still trying to follow. 

Come back. We can talk this out. After all, I've heard that is what you do best. 

 

---

 

Liyue Harbor isn't the worst place in the world to be stationed away from home. It has the same salt-kissed air as Morepesok and sometimes, if Childe squints hard enough, he can hear his siblings' laughter amid the harbor's chatter. The citizens here haggle with seafood merchants too, and children beg their parents for brightly painted toys. But where there would have been fishing rods, there are kites. Where there should have been snow and a biting wind is warm sunshine spilling out in rivers of molten mora that shine on the wooden decks and cobbled paths. 

Yes, Liyue Harbor isn't the worst place in the world to be stationed away from home, but when the times are slow, Childe still gets dreadfully lonely. Perhaps this is why he drinks up commotion so eagerly; this is why he makes a straight bee-line for that head of golden hair when he sees it bobbing up ahead. 

After all, where there are anomalies, there will surely be trouble. 

"Traveler! You didn't tell me you were back from your little trip to the lands of the adepti. How did it go?"

Somewhere behind him Scaramouche is grumbling about being dragged against a current of disgruntled locals. Childe ignores him in favor of clapping one hand down on the golden girl's shoulder. 

While Paimon shrieks about his sudden appearance, Lumine merely smiles and keeps her hand on the hilt of her sword. 

"Smoothly, for the most part. Thanks to your and Scapino’s help I've got the adepti looking into the case for me—"

The grin freezes on Childe's face. Behind him, Scaramouche stiffens. 

"Scapino? They were...with you?"

"Yeah?" One eyebrow goes up on the traveler's face as she observes the stricken look painting the Eleventh Harbinger's face a hue paler than before, if that is even possible. Everyone knows that Snezhnaya isn't the ideal climate for tans. "Ever since we ran into each other in Mondstadt we've been traveling together. We just separated though—I think they said they were going to chase down some other lead at some kind of parlor?"

 

Parlor...parlor...

 

"The Wangsheng Funeral Parlor?"

Lumine's eyes light up with recognition and Childe's heart lifts and soars with the seagulls into the blue sky. He has just won the lottery— ding ding ding! He gets a fancy house and the prevention of his horrible downfall at the hands of one wayward Harbinger!

"Sounds about right. Why? Do you need to find them for something—"

"Thanks girlie, but unfortunately I can't stay to chat long. See you around!" Childe throws up a careless hand as a good-bye and immediately sets off for the funeral parlor. He hasn't visited that place much as the consultant there usually comes out to meet him at one of Liyue's selection of high-end restaurants, but hey, there's a first time for everything isn't there?

 Scaramouche evidently doesn't think so; the petite Inazuman keeps his fearsome scowl painted over his porcelain face in a furious scrawl of ink as he hugs his hat to his chest. Rice hats, while prolific in Liyue as a whole, do not generally do well in the crowded harbor. 

The Sixth Harbinger grumbles to himself as he follows Childe's path through the flow of locals. They're a school of fish and the two Fatui are abnormalities in this stretch of the sea. Though the Liyuens do make a conscious effort to tuck their scampering children into their side when the two foreigners pass by, Scaramouche still finds his path impeded by the occasional limb or turned basket. More annoying still is how he finds his senses snagging on the most inane of things.  

Salt. Freshly caught fish still wet with saltwater and tinged with the tang of blood. The keening cries of wheeling gulls, brightly painted charms and amulets clinking as they are gently lifted by drafts of wind. Hand-woven baskets, sturdy and reliable. Fried street food. Cobblestones slick with humidity, gleaming like pebbles after a cleansing rain. 

Nostalgia...it tugs at something that isn't there—isn't supposed to be there anymore. His chest hurts. It tightens painfully, twisting the unfamiliar occupant that sits behind his ribcage in a most unpleasant way. 

"How unfair." He mutters, half to himself, half to some invisible entity only he can see. His words taste like the world just before it thunders, a crackle of static electricity humming on the horizon, a touch of iron salting the rim of the atmosphere as the skies prepare to hurl judgment. Or maybe it's just the blood from the inside of his bitten cheek. "You threw me out long ago. My ties are severed. It's over. This is...this is gone ."

"What is?"

"Shi—" Scaramouche jumps to the side with his hand clutching at the fabric over his chest. The tall ginger gives him A Look, his mouth curled over a poorly-hidden smirk. "Childe, what the fuck? What's wrong with you?!"

"How rude. Besides, I should be asking you that question. I look back and suddenly you're a statue standing in the middle of the road mumbling stuff to yourself. You finally gone off the deep end or something?"

"You wish."

"Hmm, not really? I mean, you seem like you'd put up a fun fight in the sparring arena, and if you died I'm sure Number Twelve over there would be sad."

Childe jerks a thumb carelessly over his shoulder and sure enough, there, stepping out of the doors of what presumably is the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, is a familiar sight. You're talking to a taller man with striking gold eyes and the smothering presence of someone...not quite human. But before Scaramouche can dwell any further on this curious person's identity, you have turned your head toward them. 

The blood drains from your face. Whatever smile had been dutifully decorating your lips grows stiff, trembles with exertion, before giving up and completely dropping away. 

"...and as I was saying, you are welcome to—"

The words die on your companion's lips when he notices that you are no longer listening. The man follows your gaze to rest upon one grinning ginger and a scowling Inazuman. 

"Golubka!" Childe waves cheerily to your frozen self. You're a deer stunned by sudden lamplight and the Eleventh Harbinger is the hunter on the other end. "You look so happy to see me again! Aww, did you really miss me that much? If so, then maybe you shouldn't have flown through your window and ran away so soon ."

It takes a moment for you to find your voice again. 

"Childe. Scaramouche." Here, you nod at the Inazuman with an opaque look he can't quite unscramble. Is that...thankfulness? Resignation? Or something else? "I...give me one moment. Let's talk somewhere else."

Zhongli takes his cue to exchange farewells with you. Scaramouche and Childe both watch as you try to press something into the man's hands, which he then pushes back to you—a process that ends with a light huff from you and a laugh from him—before he heads back into the Parlor. You stand on the steps for a moment, staring after the man's back, hands clenching and relaxing over and over again in that peculiar way of yours. Then, as if clearing cobwebs from your brain, you shake your head and briskly descend to street level. 

Within moments, you are standing before the other two Harbingers with a very noticeable frown tugging at your features. 

"What do you want from me?"

"Oh, nothing more than your time and a little chat." Childe doesn't seem put off by your icy attitude at all. In contrast, your expression only darkens, and Scaramouche is left staring at two opposites as clear as day and night. "We've got some catching up to do, don't you think?"

 

---

 

Surely, you're not so busy as to not have room for one drink with a scruffy old man? It'll be almost like old times. A glass of wine by the fireside as the rain taps away at its silver keys, conversation and warm company...that is the best medicine for heartache any true doctor can prescribe. 

You, my dear, have lost sight of yourself. 

Do you think working yourself to the bone will help ease your pain? Must you break one bridge to build another? Are you so halted in your past that you have to recycle the legacy that your father left you? 

As your father's business partner. As your father's friend, I entreat you—please, take care of yourself. But who will listen to a stubborn stain from one's past? 

I can only pray the Archons are treating you well wherever you may have flown. 

 

—Mr. Gordian Annodarsi,

Senior Partner of the [L/N]

Mercantile Corp.

Notes:

piccole misericordie: SMALL MERCIES

 

ohoho, new character who dis? wonder how long the poor sap will last ;)
jokes jokes (or is it really?) mr. gordian annodarsi is a nice guy with a cool name. a really cool name.
also!! reunion!! boy will this be fun for everyone involved :D zhongli is wise enough to know when to leave the scene lol, kudos to him at least he isn't so dense as to not notice when the one who'd been conversing pleasantly with him a few moment prior is now dangerously close to flipping a lid heehee

anyway, as always, if you have any theories or thoughts leave them down below! i love reading each and every one of them. any suggests or comments in general that are just keysmashes are welcome as well haha! <3 <3

thank you for reading my sunshines! until next time~

Chapter 11: sfilata di farfalle

Summary:

Your chair clatters on the tiled floor; the glassware has yet to stop rattling from the force of your palms against the table when you have a fistful of wispy, smoke-gray hair in your grip. Icy blue eyes roll languidly to stare you in the face as you haul the pitiful old merchant out of his own sick. 

"Who gave you the right speak of him? You will cease immediately—"

"Or what? You'll kill me?" A laugh rattles in his chest and emerges as a wet gargling splutter. It is the hollowed humor of one who is on death's door; a moment of true freedom unrestrained by the shackles of fear that continues to bind those still squarely in the land of the living. "Frankly, as talented as you are, I doubt that even you can find a way to end the same life twice."

Notes:

i have a twitter acc now!! you can find me at sunshiiiiiiii (8 i's...because sunsh + one i through seven have apparently already been taken??) for behind-the-scenes previews of chapters and general screaming about characters.

THE OLD MAN ISN'T DEAD YET, which is just as commendable as it is inconvenient. You lean back in your seat, folding one leg over the other as you watch him struggle to lift his head from the froth and wine seeping into the wood grain of the table. The pungent fumes of the alcohol nauseates you; you have never been a big fan of the drink that inhibits clear and level-headed processing, but you still keep it close as it is the elixir of truth. Briefly, your mind flashes to the flame-haired Ragnvindr with the cutting scowl affixed to his face and you wonder if he sees the irony in it all too. 

"You've gone quiet. Do you have no more demands or questions to wrest from this feeble old man?" 

You scowl. "Watch yourself. You really have never known when to give up." 

"I've been told that my persistence is one of my better traits." The older man coughs, smiling with lips mottled with blue. "Perhaps the only person more stubborn than me is your fa—"

"Would you stop that?" 

Your chair clatters on the tiled floor; the glassware has yet to stop rattling from the force of your palms against the table when you have a fistful of wispy, smoke-gray hair in your grip. Icy blue eyes roll languidly to stare you in the face as you haul the pitiful old merchant out of his own sick. 

"Who gave you the right to speak of him? You will cease immediately—"

"Or what? You'll kill me?" A laugh rattles in his chest and emerges as a wet gargling splutter. It is the hollowed humor of one who is on death's door; a moment of true freedom unrestrained by the shackles of fear that continues to bind those still squarely in the land of the living. "Frankly, as talented as you are, I doubt that even you can find a way to end the same life twice."

Your eyes narrow. He is not taking you seriously at all—a trait you had, once upon a time, found to be charming and rather comforting. Now, it simply drives a knee into your temple and exacerbates the irritating headache that had been plaguing you ever since you read his letter. 

"Is that a challenge?"

"It is certainly not one that you'll take me up on, however notorious you are for stretching yourself to please the current holder of your leash. You need me ."

Disgusted, you release your grip on his hair. He sways in his seat for a moment; gravity wins over and pins him back down to the wine-soaked wood grain with an unceremonious thunk. 

"A bold claim for a drunk that everyone will say choked to death on his regurgitated dinner." You sneer. "Why don't you enlighten me on this one? What reason do I have to keep you alive when you are the only bridge I haven't burned?"

A spark flashes in his eyes. The man's frenzied battle against his death kicks up one notch as he claws at the table; there had been acceptance in his passing before, but now he clings to life the same way a marooned sailor roots themself to a piece of disintegrating driftwood. 

"Only—not only, no!" He cries, his voice splintering into shards of glass. You're standing too close and when you try to pull away, you find your sleeve being gripped in the sweaty, frenzied fist of a dying man. 

"Unhand m—"

"—I'm not the only one." With a pained groan, he manages to heave himself upright enough for you to see his face. Perspiration beads his forehead. The scarlet web spun across the whites of his eyes electrifies the light ice blue irises that fix you in place; you cannot look away, he doesn't let you. "Foolish child! You cannot burn away your roots—you are forever tied to them; you will live and die with their blood running through you no matter how fiercely you claw at your skin, no matter how much you dye yourself in the colors of another."

You struggle to twist out of his death grip. 

"Cease your incomprehensible ramblings, you old fool !" You snarl. Wisps of your hair slip out from your previously meticulous hairstyle. They fall in your face, jagged obstructions cutting across your vision and slashing the man in front of you to strips of watercolor flesh, a mirage rippling before your eyes. "The poison seeps into your lies and colors the air with its insidious vapor. I won't deign to listen to this madness for a moment longer!" 

"Is that so?"

Thin claws dig into your flesh. A manic energy possesses him—with bone-white knuckles, a pallid corpse rises from its grave of wine-tainted oak. Two pinpricks of ice cut through the withered portraiture and you learn this lesson again: the most scalding fires are the ones that freeze. 

You stumble back as this being from beyond bends toward you, a willow branch bowing to catch the stream snagged in its roots.  

"Have you ever considered that you are the fool, the one that pushes away truth for a convenient lie?" His sour breath fans across your face in the same warm wind of pestilence that picks at orchards of over-ripe fruits heavy with the acrid pulp of a past season. "Tell me something, my dear: what are you running from? A memento from the past that has you longing for what once was? Some sign that you are off the beaten track and deep in the unforgiving woods? No, no, that's not quite right... ah ."

He stills. 

" Guilt ."

And then your world is engulfed in red. 

 

---

 

Five hours earlier, Scaramouche's chopsticks crack through the surface of the lacquered wood table, a mess of splinters and broken edges scraping at his porcelain skin. 

"You're joking."

—is what he says, but when he meets your gaze his stomach drops because he knows that you, the Twelfth Harbinger, do not joke . Every word is carefully considered before you string them together and the poisonous sentence you've assembled corrodes the air around it—it burns a hole in the wall because you want it to. It singes his hair and sparks the glee dancing on Childe's lips because you want it to. It makes the ginger-haired man laugh with startled surprise because you want it to. 

Still, the Inazuman casts you a frustrated look, hoping to fish for reassurance. He's sure you know what you're doing but oh , he just can't let his trepidation go. 

"That's—I can't believe it!" Childe looks ready to leap up onto the table and dance. " My my , someone's attitude has changed. Hey Scaramouche! Is this really Number Twelve?"

"Watch yourself." He hisses, arms folded, eyes shaded. Scaramouche has known you since the beginning. He knows the way you design your plans: obsessively watertight, with rings of back-ups and fail-safes looped one after the other like the meticulously polished nesting dolls sitting on the bookcase behind your desk. That is how you have always been, how you will always be. Deep breaths, Scaramouche. She's not stupid.  

"And why is that, dearest comrade? Someone's awfully protective."

" YOU FU —"

"Mouchie, you're going to leave scars if you dig your nails any deeper into your arms" You break your silence by setting your chopsticks down with considerably less ferocity than Scaramouche, folding your hands in front of you. "And Childe, you can stop fretting over my identity. Don't we all have changes of heart throughout our lives?"

Childe grins, leaning on one elbow as he idly twirls his unused chopsticks between his fingers. It's probably meant to look cool but both you and Scaramouche know that really, the great man-child can't use the local utensil of choice to save his life. Still, neither of you put him out of his misery and order him a fork.

"Some of us more than others, apparently. But walk me through your thought process. What led you to 'partners?'"

"If I told you I offered to be temporarily associated with the likes of you out of the goodness of my heart, would you believe me?" 

"If I told you I'd get on my knees and willingly lick your shoes, would you believe me?"

"Fair." You concede. "It's embarrassing how unprofessional this is, but you're right. I lied. I'd like nothing more than to punt you off a cliff but what Her Majesty says, goes, and unless you'd like to sail back to Snezhnaya to question her orders, we're stuck together now."

"Ri- iiiight , the Tsaritsa would pair us together even though she knows how delighted you are in my company." The Eleventh Harbinger slaps down his chopsticks to lean forward, all sharp edges and gleaming teeth. He's smiling, as he usually is, but there has always been something...wild about him. He is all overgrowth and brambles, a forest stretching its tendrils to the edge of a village, testing. He tests the boundaries and should he find weakness you have no doubt that—well, what does it matter? Childe won't. You'd sooner sink to the ocean's briny depths than give him the pleasure of seeing you crumble.

So when he bares his teeth in a snarling grin, you pull back your hands and cage them in your lap.   

"Believe me or not, the proof speaks for itself. Scaramouche." You pivot your focus onto the Inazuman, who had taken to entertaining himself by carving a small statuette out of food, creating yet another solid piece of evidence that he has not a single artistic bone in his body. Is that a little mask he's stabbing? "Do you remember where I put Her letter?"

 

Letter? What letter?

 

"Of course." Scaramouche feels the edge of an envelope pressed into his hand under the table; he takes it and tosses it onto the table. With the bored glance he bestows upon the small cream-colored thing, no one would think that this is the first time he has seen it. 

 

Thick card, smooth feel. High quality, though the crimson bird crest stamped into the wax seal, curling around a swooping R, looks like an imitation. A very good one, but a false twin nonetheless. 

Color me impressed. Is this what they learn at the Goth Grand Hotel? 

 

He flips it over so that ' To Lord Scapino’ is unspooled across the top in a ribbon of thick, messy curls. 

"You left it on the table, so I thought I'd pick up after your messes and carry it for you. Dumbass. If it wasn't for me, where would you be?"

Your gaze slides away and back to Childe, who raises his eyebrows in a challenging ' so? ' Ginger tailed and with a smile of the devil. Archons , he'll never make anything easy for you. 

"Why don't you read it aloud, so Number Eleven over there can lower his hackles and rest his guard?" You lean back in your chair with easy grace, folding your arms and holding your chin aloft in the air. No one, save for the Tsaritsa and her elusive Pierro, knows what family name you've buried or the lineage you've burned, but Scaramouche had always suspected that you were a blue-blood. "We can't have our dearest comrade doubt my sincerity again. Mistrust breeds mistakes and we can have none of that. Go on. Let's hear Her Majesty's words."

The seal surrenders easily to Scaramouche's nails. 

"Scapino, I have heard of your achievements in Mondstadt." He begins. Childe's grin twitches. "Well done. In light of this success, normally, I'd resign you to a vacation, perhaps recall you back to the palace for a few weeks. However, there is always work to be done. Your comrade stationed in Liyue has taken on a rather high-priority mission. Join him in Liyue Harbor and lend your strength to carry out my will. I know you'll not fail me, and await your good news. The Tsaritsa."

Expectant silence. Then, a sigh. 

"I suppose I have no choice but to relent, then." Childe pushes back his chair and rolls up into a stretch. "I have other matters to attend to. We'll talk tomorrow, at the bank. Seven o'clock sharp—that's not too early for you, is it? Won't ruin your beauty sleep?"

Your lips crack into a smile for the first time that evening. 

"Don't worry about me, Childe."

 

Worry about yourself. 

 

---

 

Two hours before Scaramouche proves that while he may be lacking in the visual arts scene, he may find a place for himself on stage, you leave Lumine to follow a curious hat-wearing girl over the threshold of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. 

"You said you have questions about traditional Liyuen funeral rites? Well, there's no one with more answers than our very own consultant!" She chirps, the red plum blossom on her hat dancing in the air as she skips further into the building. "Please wait one moment! I'll go drag him away from his rock collection."

You're left standing in a reception room, walled in on all four sides by dark mahogany with nothing but the heavy scent of incense hanging in the air, a curtain of earthen silk dropped over you and the ghosts you keep for company. It all reeks of finality. 

Suddenly restless, you pace slowly around the chamber, before you're caught by a painting framed in simple black and gold. It's of butterflies—four of them, in fact, and they're unfurling their wings to embrace the sun. Is it rising or setting? Unbidden, you step closer to that half-orange hanging over the cross-sectioned valley, a slice of the heavens bleeding out a path for those small stained-glass vessels to follow to the sea. Is this an arrival or a departure?

"A masterful painting, isn't it?"

You jolt. The man with the Cor Lapis eyes gazes down at you; again, you've missed his approach. Were you really so immersed into the landscape that you didn't notice him? You must be getting rusty. Complacent in peace. Dulling with lazin—

"Apologies. Not only have I kept you waiting long, but I also seem to have startled you." Zhongli's voice cuts through the fabric of your thoughts. "It also occurs to me that while you may know me from Childe's...introduction, I do not know you. Please, to whom do I have the honor of speaking?"

So he's handsome, refined, kind, and polite. It's settled. He's no mortal, for the number of men who possess all traits at the same time are far and few between and you don't consider yourself lucky enough to make an acquaintance with one twice. The only fault of his you can see is his camaraderie with Childe, but perhaps it is his job that forces him into meetings with that detestable ginger. You can overlook it, so you dip your head in greeting. 

"You may call me Scapino. And please, there is no need to be so formal. A friend of Childe's is a friend of mine." 

"He must be close to you, then."

A wry curl touches your lips.  

"Sure. I suppose you could say that." 

 

We're almost as close as Celestia is to the Abyss.

 

"What do you think of this painting?" He suddenly asks. "I'd be interested to hear what a learned diplomat like you has to say about it."

You're not here for a dissection of a piece of art tacked up onto a wall, but for the sake of rapport, you suppose it wouldn't do any harm to humor him. Besides, who are you to deprive him of your insights? He was the one that asked for them; you're just being a gracious guest. 

With this in mind, you take a few moments to reassess the painting before you. 

"The pigments aren't so saturated that they nauseate the viewer, but they aren't so dimmed that they disappear into shadow either." You remark. "I'd say that the colors aren't located at the extremes of their respective spectrums either. A portrait of mediums, if you will. Yes, everything from the sun to the butterflies are suspended in between—in transit!"

Your chest feels light as air when he nods with your words. You've always been a quick study, an attentive student. It's a relief to know that something hasn't changed. 

"Indeed. And just to elaborate further upon your points: butterflies have many traditional meanings—joy, beauty, freedom, to name a few. But perhaps the most prolific in the world's cultures is that of change. Recall, for a moment, of what a butterfly is most known for."

"Metamorphosis." 

"Correct. Metamorphosis—the transformation as it grows from egg to larvae to pupa in its chrysalis chamber, awaiting the day it can stretch out under the sun once more, a fully-formed adult donning brushstrokes of nature's most majestic colors. It is a sort of rebirth , is it not?"

Rebirth. 

(" I'll not rest until you, too, lie forsaken by the sun. ")

Outside, a cloud passes. The warm splashes of sunlight rippling across the oaken floorboards sink into shadow, leaving behind a vacant coldness that stares you right in the eye. 

"Zhongli xiansheng." Dread grips you the way gravity does in a frozen lake. It sinks from tip to toe and no part of you is spared from its ice-cold chill. "Zhongli xiansheng?"

He doesn't hear you. 

"In fact, the allusions to death and the spiritual afterlife do not end there. Here in Liyue, Scapino, we believe that butterflies are the souls of the dearly departed. Having completed their metamorphosis and found spiritual peace, they brush the cheeks of their loved ones with a final kiss before departing over the border between life and death."

(" With my dying breath, I bestow one last gift upon you pitiless creature. May you see their specters in every mirror. May you hear their footsteps around every corner, may you wait with bated breath for their voices in every conversation's pause. May you be haunted forevermore! ")

The butterflies dance to their ghostly requiem and you're suddenly filled with revulsion. Insects. Pests! They will fly out of the frame if you stare a moment longer—you cannot—they cannot—you'll make sure of it, pin their wings with your nails if you have to. 

"...The earliest texts recording the appearance of butterflies at funeral rites and at burial grounds have cemented its connection to the other realm. Some speculate—"

" Zhongli !" You cry out. He stops mid-tirade, clear concern flashing gold. 

"Scapino, are you alright? You're looking a little...out of sorts. Perhaps some tea will do you some good."

"No, no need for any of that. Please." Oh for the love of the Tsaritsa, you're mortified. Ground yourself in what you can control right now. Focus. You take a deep breath, clenching and unclenching your fists. 

When you look back up at Zhongli, the only sign of your outburst is the way you keep your eyes stubbornly away from the wall. 

"Why don't we attend to the reason for my visit? I have a few questions about burial rites that I think you'll be able to answer."

 

---

 

The next morning at 6:50 am, Childe lounges against the outer wall of the Northland Bank. He's got ten minutes to kill before you have to arrive because he's sure, with your level of pettiness, that you're unlikely to show up any earlier than you have to. So. What can he do in ten minutes?

Read this morning's news, apparently. 

An exasperated Ekaterina had grown tired of watching her boss terrorize her coworkers out of boredom and had taken it upon herself to thrust the Liyue Chronicles under Childe's nose. Surprisingly, it does the trick.

"Commerce...new merchant papers issued...novel competition...hmm..." He flips past a couple of pages. "Rite of Descension clean-up...advertisements for kites...huh. A dead body?"

 

 

MERCHANT FOUND DEAD IN OWN HOME

By Chief Correspondent, Bao Zhi

 

Day breaks upon Fate's Row, and so does the peace of the morning thanks to an ear-splitting shriek.

"It was ghoulish." One neighbor shivers. "We thought someone was getting murdered!" 

Perhaps not murdered, but someone was certainly dead come morning light: the Millelith's timely arrival at the scene managed to secure the premises and preserve the corpse's position as it were when it departed. The deceased, later identified as Mr. Gordian Annodarsi of the [L/N] Mercantile Corp, was found slumped face-down on his dining table with a spilled goblet of wine not far from his hand. 

"I thought it was strange when Annodarsi xiansheng didn't show up for his daily fortune consultation." Yiren, the one who discovered Mr. Annodarsi, says. They fidget nervously with the deck of cards in their hands. "He always gets one before he starts his day, you know? So I went to go check up on him and—well—you know the rest."

The temporarily ruled cause of death appears to be asphyxiation by alcohol-induced vomiting, although the official coroner's report has yet to be finished and collected by the Qixing. The people who knew him are surprised that he left them so soon, but not that he died with alcohol in his hands. 

"Yes, he did like to drink." Ivanovich, a merchant who often did business with Annodarsi, remembers. "[Annodarsi] was never more than ten feet away from his beloved bottle of  Fontaine-imported cognac. We all used to joke that he was married to that thing, too. To think that is what killed him in the end! How ironic is that?" 

"Sometimes I wonder how he kept his position as a senior partner in one of the largest trading companies in this half of Teyvat if he's drunk half the time." Another merchant, Petrovich, remarks. He looks out on the distant sea, as if grasping at a memory. "Then I recall the time he talked circles around me when we were doing a deal and, well, I'm not quite sure how it happened, but I ended up stumbling out of there agreeing to all of his terms! But that man is a humble one. He'd always laugh and say that he learned all of his tricks from a true genius—the young master of his best friend's household. Ah, I wonder how they’re doing now?"

 

 

"So what they say is true: one sneeze travels across the entire Harbor at all hours of the night. Anything interesting happen?"

A voice wrests him from the freshly printed world of ink and parchment; Childe reluctantly lowers his paper to see you standing before him. Is it seven already? Damn. He was just getting to the good part, too. With a barely repressed sigh, the Eleventh Harbinger folds up the paper and hands it off to the nearest Fatui foot soldier with instructions to deliver the item into his faithful receptionist's hands. 

"Oh, you know. Mora. Documents. Death. The usual, in our line of work." He shrugs. "I mean, if you really want to read about how a drunken merchant choked to death on his own vomit in the middle of the night, then be my guest. Where's Mouchie? I thought the two of you were attached at the hip." 

"He left for Inazuma not long after you left us at Liuli Pavilion last night." You fold your arms across your chest. "But back to your newspaper. It sounds like light reading, not like something that would capture your attention for however long you've been slouching in that shady corner. Come on. I'll read about whatever it is at some point today anyway, so there's no point in jealously hiding a good scoop from me."

"Hiding—!" Childe gasps, one hand resting daintily at his collarbone. If he decides to pretend to faint, you're not catching him. He can roll down the stairs however he likes. "Now why would I do something as childish as that?"

"So you are self aware." 

"You're mean, you know that?"

"And for good reason, too." It doesn't look like you're going to wring anything out of that pasty stick of dynamite anytime soon, so you turn to leave. You're about to descend down the stairs when a hand on your wrist twirls you back onto the landing. 

"Do I really disgust you that much? Does the very sight of me sicken you right down to the core?" He steps closer, a willow tree bowing just slightly over a stream so as to trail a leaf in the water. There's something about the way his lashes ( have they always been that golden? ) shade himself that washes the blood staining his cheeks in buttermilk and ambrosia and it looks almost as if there are pearls gathering at the corners of his eyes.

But that is impossible, for Snezhnaya freezes any and all sobs in the chest. 

You scoff, swatting his hand away with enough force that it stings. He can save his crocodile tears for someone with a softer heart.

"Do you even have to ask? You repulse me. I dream of watching you become torn apart by your own mistakes."

"Ah," He smiles a fox's smile, curling up in an imitation of a bloody moon. " So you dream of me. "

Notes:

sfilata di farfalle: BUTTERFLY PARADE

welcome back ;)
twitter saw this first @sunshiiiiiiii (8 i's),,,,along with other miscellaneous tweets about arataki itto's almond magnum ice cream bar claymore,,,,
as always, thank you for reading and for commenting. your keysmashes, theories, and messages always light up by day!
until next time <3 <3

Chapter 12: tigre accovacciata

Summary:

It’s hard to say who turned on the other with a hateful snarl first, but in time, there wasn’t a soul in the Zapolyarny Palace who wasn’t aware of your near-constant head-butting. It was a common sight to see the two of you rip into one another with insults, blackmail, and threats, and your scuffles routinely scattered other recruits from your warpath the same way a rock disturbed a flock of pigeons from pecking about a town square. Strangely enough, the only content your catfights excluded was physical combat. It was a miracle that you had yet to actually engage in any type of fist fight. 

Still, though your squabbles hadn’t stained any of the Zapolyarny Palace’s pristine tiles with filthy recruit blood, they seemed to have caused enough of a disruption to warrant a reassignment…

…which was why one fateful autumn morning, you found yourself resolutely marching ahead of the ginger, refusing to turn your head in a stubborn, desperate attempt to refuse the fact that Archons, the day actually came

Childe, then known simply as “recruit [110124],” was now your partner.

Notes:

*crawls out of grave* guess whos aliiiive and kicking?

i'm really sorry about the lack of food recently--ya girl's been wrapping up this year and dealing with a couple of zines (go follow me on twitter @sunshiiiiiiii if you wanna know which ones hehehe~) so childe and scapino had to sit on the back burner for a while. so, to make up for it, this beastie right here is over 6K! which is longer than usual! yay!

do dig in, and i hope you enjoy <3

IN THE GRAND SCHEME OF THINGS , you know that victory requires sacrifice, that trophies are cast from blood, and that your debt to the frozen heartland is one that has been steeped in the crimson afterglow of a faithless sundown since its very conception. A fat lot of good all of this ‘knowing’ does you—it doesn’t make traveling with your fellow Harbinger any easier. With Scaramouche off on an assignment and Lumine running around with Zhongli, you’re stuck with only Childe for company. 

You swear it’s an innate gift: with each breath he takes, he grates your nerves into shreds so fine that even the world’s tiniest spider would have difficulty weaving them back together again. 

There’s the way he talks, for instance. Childe’s chatter fills the air such that your ears are constantly clogged with the irritating tones of his voice; content-wise, he swings from how-to guides on toy making to factoids about the numerous mercantile businesses that traded their wares in Snezhnaya over a decade ago. You adjust your gloves irritably as he tells you about those proud ships, emblematic coats of arms blazing as they dissipated into the mists beyond. Some came back. Other, less fortunate vessels, wandered into the labyrinthine ice passages stretching around the frozen coast, never to be seen again. 

“And have you ever played Finders Keepers in your youth? You know, the game where you race your friends along the shore to see who can find a rare diamond amidst all of the rotting driftwood? You must have. All Snezhnayan children know how to play Finders Keepers.”

“Not everyone grew up by the coast.” You grumble. A thought occurs to you. Over a decade ago, he said? “I’m curious though. What did you find?”

Clearly, Childe didn’t expect you to actually answer him, much less invite him to talk further about the subject. He chases a surprised expression from his face with a far more quizzical squint. 

“Are you okay? No fever?” He’s about to rest one gloved hand on your forehead when you slap it away with a grimace. It’s unfortunate that you can’t do much about the way his brow creases and his eyes take to tracking your every move—you don’t imagine that the Tsaritsa would be pleased if you plucked out his eyes. “You’ve got to tell me right away if you do. I mean, sure, in a fight I could definitely cover both of our backs, but it would be a downer if you couldn’t participate.”

Normally, you’d point out his barbaric brain and sneer at its pathetic inability to pull itself away from anything other than a brawl , but this is different. This is…important. And uncomfortable. 

“Just answer the question.” You turn away and cross your arms, fingers grasping at the fabric of your sleeves as you curl inward under his stare. “Or don’t. I don’t care, really.”

Mercifully, Childe shifts his gaze away. 

“Ah, well that’s a pity. And here I was, about to carve open my precious memories for you to share. I suppose you won’t get to hear all about the time I nearly got caught in a tidal pool and had to shimmy out of my overcoat to get away from the undertow. Or how I won myself a harpoon-shaped brooch from that great struggle, spying that golden glint just as I escaped inches away from certain doom.”

Your grip tightens. 

There’s got to be a lot of pins out there. It’s not like he was the only one with those kinds of—

“Ma scolded me real good when I got home though. Not for the coat—well, partly—but mainly because she thought I stole some old merchant’s trinket in the fish market.” Ice snakes into your veins, the cold, cold grasp of certainty choking a fiery flood of denial. No. No. No . “You know those bits of shiny metal that they get when they reach a certain level in the merchant-community, a certificate that tells everyone else on the open seas that they’re a real hot-shot?” No . No. No.  “Yeah, well this one had a ruby gemstone on it, which means this guy was one of the high-tiers. So you can understand why my ma freaked , ha ha !”

Other people—there are so many other people on the sea. It couldn’t be his, it can’t. It wasn’t and it won’t, it’ll never be. 

Quickly now, what’s an explanation?

“Well congratulations, for finding the vestiges of one unlucky sailor. One out of what, hundreds? Thousands ? The seafloor is probably littered with those garish pieces of ornamentation.” 

Even as you speak, you can’t find the courage to look Childe in the eyes. He doesn’t seem to notice though, because he laughs like something is fighting to break free from his chest, which would be alarming if you weren’t used to his peculiar brand of cheer. This is the way he is: he pitches forward into each one of his raging emotions and lets them sweep him away in their tide. Despair crushes him just as delight sends him soaring. In Childe’s hands, each becomes their own brand of violence. Like everything else he touches. Like usual. Like something familiar. 

You never thought you’d see the day when you’d associate Childe’s manic grin with a twisted, corrupted shade of comfort. 

“Of course you’d care more about appearances,” he snickers. “You think any of them are still out there, rising from their watery graves and sailing around on ghost ships to hunt down those audacious enough to insult their taste?”

“Remind me, why does this matter?”

He looks at you pityingly. 

“Imagine constantly needing a reason for doing anything. Isn’t it enough that it’s interesting?”

So see, this is the thing about Childe—rarely are you able to see the point of his erratic actions, rarely can you make any sense of the sheer insensibility threaded within his every pose, his every note. He is a cipher with no key, a riddle with no answer. 

Simply put: he is chaos. 

(He is the manifestation of your worst nightmares.)

A diplomat deals in words. A diplomat is supposed to wield truths as a saber and bend them to strike home; truth is rooted in information—in logic—in sense. So, Childe is the antithesis of all you say you stand for. Someone as brutish as him deserves no place in your ordered world where everything happens for a reason. Learn the rules governing this place and you shall crest above the blinded masses with crystalline clarity—or so you’ve always believed. Childe’s carefree existence threatens your careful equilibrium, a destabilizing element encroaching on your constructed peace. 

Every word he speaks, every gesture he makes—he lives on a stage and with true theatrical poise he forces himself into your consciousness, pulls your chin toward him with an accursed magnetism that you fight, you fight, you fight …and you lose. The saturated banner of his scarf streaks across your vision like a war flag. When the fibers of his clothes brush against yours, you swear electro dances; the static in your brain fizzles when he laughs too loudly and you see stars when his metallic ornaments clang too brightly. 

You want to rip that mask right off his head and make him eat it. 

Stupid delusion. Stupid dream. Stupid, stupid nightmare. 

(He is the manifestation of your worst nightmares.)

And the most sickening part of it all? The perpetrator remains none the wiser, ignorant of the fury that builds beneath your skin and demands to be unleashed with the vengeance of a slain god upon his smirking countenance. He wrecks your stability and walks on with a jaunty little gait, picking daisies here, buying small trinkets and souvenirs there. 

It’s all so horribly unfair. While you crumble and curse, he sways and sings. 

“ Баю-баюшки-баю, ” [1] Childe begins to hum. The lilting melody pricks your ears and you can’t help but peel your gaze from the side of the road to the side of his head. “ Не ложися на краю. ”

And there it is again. Familiarity. 

“Придет серенький волчок и укусит за бочок.”[2] Your mouth runs dry as you finish the line, your voice little more than a whisper filtered through the wind. Somehow, Childe hears you. 

“So you are capable of spouting anything aside from threats and jeering mockery,” he muses. “And…you remember.”

You scoff, retreating into the safety of your barbs and stinging bitterness. 

“What, like I could forget. You used to hum that old lullaby every time we were on the road back then. I just can’t believe you’ve kept that up…what, does the old gray wolf still stalk you into your dreams? Do you still need your mother to hold your hand when the nights grow long and stars are still?”

A canine smile is his answer. 

“Your memory is as sharp as ever. I wasn’t sure if I was the only one feeling nostalgic. We’ve been here before, haven’t we?”

Of course you have. This wasn’t the first time you were partners, after all.  

 

---

 

It’s hard to say who turned on the other with a hateful snarl first, but in time, there wasn’t a soul in the Zapolyarny Palace who wasn’t aware of your near-constant headbutting. It was a common sight to see the two of you rip into one another with insults, blackmail, and threats, and your scuffles routinely scattered other recruits from your warpath the same way a rock disturbed a flock of pigeons from pecking about a town square. Strangely enough, the only content your catfights excluded was physical combat. It was a miracle that you had yet to actually engage in any type of fist fight. 

Still, though your squabbles hadn’t stained any of the Zapolyarny Palace’s pristine tiles with filthy recruit blood, they seemed to have caused enough of a disruption to warrant a reassignment…

…which was why one fateful autumn morning, you found yourself resolutely marching ahead of the ginger, refusing to turn your head in a stubborn, desperate attempt to refuse the fact that Archons, the day actually came . 

Childe, then known simply as “recruit [110124],” was now your partner. 

(“Oh man, when you found out about the new teams your face was bright red, and you were trying so hard not to throttle the messenger. It was hilarious!”

“I’m glad that my suffering brought you some sick pleasure.”

“Really? If anything, you were the one that made the missions so much harder than it was supposed to be. Do you remember it? That first excursion, when our time together began?”)

 

The assignment was supposed to be simple. Track down and capture— dead or alive —an unfortunate fool who lacked just enough brains and possessed just enough desperation to run from his debt to the Fatui. So, there you and Childe were, scouring the last place where he had been seen—some sort of second home overlooking Fontaine’s sprawling vistas. 

“Geez…” Childe let out a low whistle as he spun about in a slow circle, eyes drinking in the swooping marble banisters, boots scuffing what looked like an imported jewel-toned carpet from Sumeru. “You’d think that if old Mr. Shu could afford a sweet villa like this, his million mora debt would be pocket change. Hey, why do you think he ran?”

You turned away from a hollow-eyed cherub statuette to scowl at the other teen. 

“Same reasons as most others. Greed. Avarice.”

“Boooring. I personally think that instead of actually being a tea merchant like his papers claim him to be, he’s a member of a drug smuggling ring. He’s on the run because he thinks his boss can protect him from us—hey, if we let him run for a bit, he could lead us to the den! We could bust up a huge cartel—oh, imagine that , [110142]. We’d shoot up the ranks in no time if we absorbed their resources! Hey [110142]—”

Childe’s voice faded to white noise as you peered inside a lacquer box, frowning when all you saw were a couple of cheap necklaces. The chains glittered like fool's gold, nothing more than a jackpot for tricksters and self-deceivers to buy into a fleeting dream. Dropping to a knee to re-examine the fibers of the carpet below your feet, you confirmed your suspicions: Shu was not a wealthy man so drunk on power that he’d dare challenge the Fatui. Instead, the villa was saturated with false indications of prosperity, a cheap imitation of the lifestyle the man wished he had. 

Your nose crinkled. You’d been sent out to hunt down a delusional fool. 

 

What a waste of time. Anyone can do this. When I earn my name then become a Harbinger, I’ll get all of the higher level missions, the ones of utmost priority. I’ll get the ones that only I can do.  

 

Still, there was no need to rush. You were used to biding your time. 

Dusting off your pants, you began to wander around the perimeter of the living room. Between peering up at fake replicas of oil paintings and knocking occasionally against a panel to check if it was hollow, you remember registering that Childe was still talking. Should you have attempted to be cordial, if only to shut him up for a moment? Or would your responses, noncommittal as they were, have only goaded him further along his blabbering spiel? 

Forget it. You decided to ignore him, just until you figured out which sewer system that roach thought it’d be safe to scuttle off to. You didn’t need that carrot-topped murder machine to meddle in your business; you’d prove to your superiors, to your Tsaritsa, that you were precious enough to keep yourself. 

You began to flick through a couple of bookcases which was a mistake, really, because the more you dove into Shu’s reading collection, the more you felt physically ill. Seriously ? If the old fart was going to pretend to be rich, he could at least do his research and not insult the upper class like this. What you beheld was some bankrupt lord’s last ditch attempt to appear posh and well-read, an effort to hide his decaying wallet with the noxious fragrance of out of season flowers and—

"Aww...[110142], that's not very nice of you." 

The latest book you'd been thumbing through was suddenly lifted up and out of your hands, your partner's face appearing to take the place of lines of flowery, vomit-inducing prose. You’d been about to snarl at him to just stay out of your way when the expression on his face curdled the bite on your tongue. 

Flat abyssal eyes stared back at you, grabbing your hair and pulling your face over a disk of deeply entrenched blue. 

One wrong move and he was going to hold you under. 

“I can’t believe it,” he’d said, like the liar he was. “You’re ignoring me when we’re supposed to be working together.”

“Oh, so you’re aware that you’re not here to galavant and play ‘hot-cross buns’ on Mr. Shu’s piano,” you’d sneered, ignoring the way your voice warbled as you wrestled it into something other than terror. You weren’t sure what he was, then, and you’re hesitant to say that you know for sure now, but you’d always suspected that Childe could smell fear. Do not yield. “Marvelous. You’ve already exceeded my expectations. Keep this up and you just might crack the case of the missing merchant.”

“Look, I’m not thrilled about being stuck with you either, but at the very least I’m willing to set aside our differences so we can make it through this stupid assignment without murdering each other first.” A steady flush was working its way up the column of his neck, just beginning to peek over his uniform’s collar. Huh. You weren’t aware that killing machines like him had blood under that prosthetic skin. “I thought you’d be mature enough to be less—less impossible than you usually are, but that seems to be too high of a bar for you to reach.”

“Well, then I suppose I must apologize for being impossible and for impossibly pulling your deadweight in our impossibly trying mission like the impossible impossibility that I am.”

 

(“You’ve always been so foul-mouthed.” Childe remarks, a strange fascination reflected in those eyes you hate so much. It reminds you of the way someone would look at bugs under a piece of warped sea-glass, pinching frail sugar-spun wings and watching iridescent streams ripple across the smooth back of Nature’s tiniest soldiers. You jolt. There it is again—that dissociative, visceral feeling of being upended in a memory, of looking at Childe but seeing the shadow of someone who had belonged to a kinder, simpler time.

“Would it kill you to play nice for once?” they ask you, and you hope they’re joking because they did like to joke at the worst of times—when they made you cry, when you made them cry—but then again, they look like Mama when you accidentally knocked over her nail polish. They look mad. They look…sad.  

You stare out at the sea of swaying reeds. In the distance, the shingled roof of Wangshu Inn peeks between that peculiar tree’s upper boughs. The two of you are nearing your destination. You wonder how long you can keep Childe here. You wonder how long you’ll need. But Lumine has always lived up to your expectations and Childe is still waiting for an answer, so you smile.

“Whatever could you be talking about? I’m always being nice.” 

Childe doesn’t say anything. Perhaps he knows you’re lying. Perhaps he knows you’re telling the truth.)

 

He could’ve snapped at you for provoking him then, and you would’ve welcomed that anger wholeheartedly. Chaos is familiar; that particular ginger-haired, snot-nosed Fatui recruit’s even moreso. But he had always been a cruel, cruel man even before he filled in his lanky teenage frame with muscle and scarred tissue. 

“You’re right. I haven’t found anything, and by the sounds of it, you have. So let’s hear it. Where, oh where, did our dear target slink off to?”

Childe confused you. Why restrain himself? Why cage the wolf you knew him for, why play at being docile and diplomatic when you both knew that he was anything but?

You eyed him warily. 

“Whatever you’re doing—stop that. I’m not going to fall for any of your tricks.”

“Archons, I already told you that I’m trying to cooperate with you!” He tugged feverishly at his hair, backing away from you to pace circles into the carpet. “That’s all! Why do you assume that just because you’re a slimy bastard, everyone else is too?” You remember watching that silhouette track back and forth across your vision, the embers of an old emotion beginning to hiss, crackle, pop in your chest. You were waiting for something. You don’t remember for what though, and the Childe from your memory never gives you the chance to find out because he whirls around to jab one accusatory finger into your chest. “What kind of twisted arrogance do you have to see yourself in every person you come across, friend or foe?” 

You could’ve said any number of responses to the slander spilling from his lips. You could’ve eloquently debated with him about the illegitimacy of his claims. You could’ve been the bigger person and walked away. You could’ve continued to taunt him, to sneer, to gloat, to lash his ego with your silver tongue as you usually did. You were considering all of these options, you were , then Childe just had to open his big fat mouth again and scoff—

“Were you always like this? Considering where you got all of your posh mannerisms and holier-than-thou attitude, your father must’ve given you that rotten self-centeredness too.”

It was odd. You felt…light. Weightless. The sensation was ephemeral in a way you couldn’t describe, a moth’s wing brushing once against your temple and pulling away tethered to your heartbeat. It was a quick skipping beat, singing one, two . 

One. 

Recruit [110124] liked the number one. Being number one meant he was the first; being number one meant he was the best. Strongest, fastest, smartest—he hungered for these accolades the way a wolf more dead than alive slobbered over a bone not for nourishment, but the way marrow scraped against teeth in a clink-clink -clinking deathsong of victory. 

Perhaps this desire to see the view from the top was what drove him to drag his siblings into games rain or shine, sleet or snow. Competition was woven into Snezhayans the same way salt was an unerring companion of the sea. Who could chop wood the fastest. Who could haul more water from the well at once. Who could bring home the biggest fish. Who could sneak into the kitchen and steal the most cookies from the mustard-yellow jar without getting caught by mama’s eagle-eyes. Who could, who could, who could. 

He could. 

He was the fastest, the strongest, the most skillful, the most cunning. He outstripped all of his siblings and the neighborhood children in all of these arenas the same way he blitzed past them in their weekly footraces, nothing more than a ringing laugh and dust kicked into his competitors’ faces. 

Oh, there was no greater sensation than that of sweat cooling from his skin, crystallizing when met with the harsh Snezhnayan air. There was no better sound than pounding footsteps growing softer, quieter, until the world receded so it was reserved solely for him and his heartbeat. And if his triumph was anything, let it be the moment he crossed that line and broke that beautifully unbroken dove-white snow. 

Crossing the line meant victory. Crossing the line meant that whatever was on the other side was reserved for him and him alone. 

There was a different line that day, one drawn not in the purity of freshly-fallen snow, but the crimson carpet belonging to a merchant who would soon find himself begging for death. Recruit [110124], later known as Tartaglia, then Childe, crossed it. 

It was the only line he crossed blind. 

 

 “Why do you assume that just because you’re a slimy bastard, everyone else is too? Your father must’ve given you that rotten self-centeredness.”

 

A victory song whistled through wind by flesh: one, two .

Two.

Pale-white, dove-white. 

It was all he saw before a blur broke the unbroken. Pain— pain , it exploded white-hot. It was shards of porcelain crushed under unforgiving knuckles, crimson on white on crimson; it was bone kissing bone, the briefest beauty out of brutality. Pain: an unearthly howl rattling his skull on impact and then—

 You.

“You’re right. How dare I assume you’re a slimy bastard, when you’re really something much worse.”

Snarling, spitting, blood on your naked knuckles—that was the moment Childe likes to say you bloomed. 

(And so it was with a shattered nose that recruit [110124] thought maybe he could get used to two.)

 

---

 

In the present, you are not snarling, not spitting, and your hands are sheltered in your signature gloves. White on crimson on white—your clothed fingers absent-mindedly tap your folded arms as you loiter on one of Wangshu Inn’s many balconies. Inside, Childe is chatting up the owner at the front desk with a slow smile and easy eyes. He’s pairing it all with his patented ‘nice-guy’ voice to wheedle something out of her—a deal? A better room? Complimentary breakfast tomorrow morning? Well, whatever it is he wants, you pay no mind. 

It’s a pleasant day. The weather is fair, the balmy air blurring the edges between day and night and leaving you to inhale a plum-smoke dusk. The sun cracks itself open on Liyue’s peaks and spills over golden into Liyue’s valleys. You’re sure there are brightly-plumed birds trilling to their little hearts’ content somewhere up in this hotel’s emerald boughs, but alas, whatever concert they may be conducting is outperformed by a delicate cough. 

“Liyue is beautiful, isn’t it?”

You hum. “I suppose you could say that, though every person’s definition of beauty paints the same scene in a different light.” Turning, you see that your companion is a middle-aged bespectacled man dressed in the local garb. You think he’s the scholarly sort—he has certainly got the skittish frailty of an academic, keeping his shoulders bowed and gaze fleeting. “I find beauty etched in the permanence of these mountains; you may find it in the churning current of that river. So, Liyue is beautiful the same way any nation is, if you know where to look.”

The man smiles, teeth and gums. 

“An astute answer fitting of your character. I’ve heard so much about you, Lord Scapino. It’s an honor to finally meet.”

There’s no point in asking what this man has heard. It’s all the same. Skeletons. A night of crimson flowers blooming in the snow. Pierro, carrying a collapsed child into the throne room and the grand doors swinging shut behind him with a quiet click. 

You sigh. The Fatui could stand to be a little more creative. 

“Saves me the need to introduce myself then. Well? What can I call you?”

“ Hong will do for now.” [3] He sweeps into a bow, and when he straightens, a letter has materialized in his hands. “Lord Childe will be back soon, so I’ll make this quick. First—an update from Mondstadt. Congratulations, I hear that the Northland Bank will have a new branch soon, and that we have our foot in the door of the Dawn Winery.” Okay, and? You know of your success—you’re the one that orchestrated all of it, the one that burned all of that midnight oil. You tuck the cream folder into your coat and gesture impatiently for him to continue. This earns you a quirk of the lips and a huffed laugh. “Alright, alright. Second—an ally. I will be stationed here for the next week. My Lord has arranged for my brother, Huang , to be in the harbor.” [4]

“Your Lord?” Great. Another meddlesome colleague of yours. As if fending off Childe with a stick and a falsified decree wasn’t an ordeal already. “Who sent you?”

Hong shakes his head serenely. 

“Patience. Third—a message from the throne.” Your blood chills. White, crimson, white. Your fingers dig themselves into the meat of your palm as he dips toward you and breathes the next words into your ear. “ You need not concern yourself with matters outside your jurisdiction. Do not overstep your boundaries. ”

You still. Then, slowly, you pull out the letter he’d handed you for a second look. Stamped in blood red wax is your unit’s crest, and that’s when you know that the agent sent to deliver the contents to you is surely dead. 

But wait—this letter didn’t come from Mondstadt; you were expecting it from the small squadron you’d secretly stationed in Liyue Harbor. The contents did not detail your triumphant dealings with Jean or Diluc, but the movements of a certain somebody traipsing around Liyue with the funeral consultant.  

 

“My Lord has arranged for my brother, Huang, to be in the harbor.”

 

The pieces begin to click into their macabre portrait.

The ability to intercept confidential documents from your unit. The resources to locate your ever-changing location. The power to be Her Majesty’s direct mouthpiece. 

There is but one Harbinger among twelve who could achieve all of this and more. 

“‘Ally’ my ass,” you hiss. “You’re just another set of eyes. A watchdog.” 

Hong pats your shoulder consolingly. 

“You were always one of the more clever ones. Lord Pierro sends his regards.” 

 

---

 

Hong is long gone by the time Childe jogs up to you. There’s an apology written across his face and something bordering on a boyish bashfulness tinting the tips of his ears the same color as his scarf. 

“Heeeey—um. Hope I haven't been gone too long. Did ya miss me?”

The edge of the newest letter pokes your side as you shift against the balcony railings. Pierro . The magnitude of the situation takes its sweet time with the wind-up but by the time it slams the wind out of you, Archons , you’re weary. The exhaustion of the past few days twists through you and wrings you dry; it’s taking all you have to keep yourself from just draping yourself over the lacquer beams like a washcloth on a clothesline. 

“Hello? Teyvat to Scapino?” Right. Childe. He’s here, standing in front of you right now. You blink, then peer up at him with a noncommittal grunt. A nervous sort of laugh leaves his lungs. “Wow, you look awful.” 

“Thanks.”

“You uhh…you wanna get to our room?” He clearly doesn’t know what to do with you. No snarky come back? No sneer? Childe casts a quick glance around the vicinity for suspicious figures. Were you dosed with something? Swapped out for a more lethargic body double? It can’t be easy to haul a prone Harbinger around an inn without someone else noticing. If he acts fast, he could probably catch the abductor before they leave the premises—

“Wait, wait. Our ?” Even as you’re swaying on your feet, your mind manages to catch onto Childe’s predicament with alarming speed. You narrow your eyes at him, lurching past him toward the inn’s front desk. “What are you playing at? Why didn’t you book us separate rooms?”

“I tried!” Childe, having more energy, is able to skid in front of you and stop you in your tracks. “Why else do you think I stood there arguing with Miss Boss Lady for what, three straight hours? I may be sociable and well-loved by the people, but even I have limits.”

“You tried,” you deadpan. “Sure. Now let the diplomat in the room ‘try.’” Sensing that you’re in one of your more bull-headed moods, Childe dutifully raises his hands in surrender and backs away. 

It’s a transformation in real-time. 

He watches as with each step you take toward the counter, your face pulls itself into the uncanny double you call your diplomat’s mask. The features smiling gently at Verr Goldet are still yours, of course, but Childe can’t help but feel that something is…different about your demeanor. Your expression is more open, eyes softened to welcoming wells from which many have drank comfort and drawn hushed confessions of professed truths that had never before seen the sun. 

But Verr Goldet is a shrewd woman who is clearly more than she says she is. 

“I must sincerely apologize.” She shakes her head. “All of the other rooms are taken for the night. Please understand.”

“The room key hooks behind you are numbered 1 to 20, ten guest rooms for each of two floors, but I can’t help but notice that your inn has a third level. Are there no rooms available up there?”

Verr’s customer-service smile tightens. 

“Again, I’m sorry, but the third floor is simply a storage area. We cannot possibly have a guest stay up there.”

“Ah, but there is a newly renovated balcony up there complete with potted plants. What use would a dusty attic have for decor and freshly cut Cuihua planks?” You lean in a little, tilting your head. “Unless…you’re hiding a secret.” 

Of course, you know exactly what—or rather, who—resides on the topmost floor. You suspect that Verr Goldet is aware that you’ve met her inhuman guest too, but with Childe hovering over your shoulder, she is unable to use Xiao as an excuse. One Harbinger catching onto the secret of the Wangshu Inn throws them all into a precarious situation; two would cause even more damage to their operations. 

Verr Goldet breathes deep. Disturbing the yaksha’s semblance of peace is completely out of the question. Moving one of the merchants from their room to a makeshift lodging in a supply closet is viable, but the thought of doing so for you makes her blood boil. But what else can she do? 

She grimaces. Your grin begins to grow.

“What kind of secret could an ordinary inn like ours have?” Verr picks her words slowly. “Unless you believe in ghosts? We’ve had quite a number of patrons reporting spirit sightings, and that young exorcist boy from Liyue Harbor has paid us several visits already.”

“How interesting! Say, golubka, have you seen a ghost before?” Childe shoulders you away from your spot at the front desk and replaces your triumphant smirk with his forced laugh. “They’re very frightening! The one I saw in Fontaine died of decapitation. Freaky, right?” 

Both you and Verr stare at him, bewildered. 

 

It’s that stupid nickname again.

 

“I think we both need a good night’s rest, so we should stay away from ghosts. Don’t you think so, Miss?” Verr barely has any time to nod before Childe leans over the counter to pluck up the last room key. “Excellent. We should listen to this nice lady. Come on golubka, it's time to rest. You can argue with whoever you want tomorrow morning.”

Then he’s slinging you over his shoulder, potato-sack style, and carrying you down the lantern-lit hallway. 

“Childe,” You’re mortified . If any more blood rushes to your face the rest of your body will lose circulation. “Childe, I demand that you let me—”

“ Shh , there are people sleeping.” He murmurs. His voice is low, a strange octave that blends into the rich Sandbearer-paneled walls and dissipates, smoke-like, into the air. You wouldn’t have caught his words if he hadn’t looked back at you then, blue flashing under burnished bronze. 

Under this light, it looks almost as though his hair were threaded through with gold.  

You blink. Hard. Maybe Verr wasn’t kidding when she said that these hallways were haunted by ghosts. You’re beginning to see things. 

 

 Pull yourself together, Scapino.

 

“Maybe we can come to a compromise.” You suggest, though you haven’t the foggiest idea what it is that Childe wants from you. He has been acting strange ever since he left you to go haggle with Verr about the room situation—you’d catch him staring off into space, mired in thinking, before a sudden flush splashes across his skin. Maybe all of that fighting got him a concussion. “You let me walk on two legs like a normal human being, and I don’t swear vengeance on you and your bloodline. Deal?”

“Sorry, no can do, golubka.” Childe presses on, pausing every so often to check the numbers on each room’s plaques. His shoulders are tight, set in a firm line that suggests unease. Tension. “Knowing you, you were going to curse me and my descendants anyway.” 

“Look, if I promise I won’t argue with Verr Goldet to give me a separate room from you, will you let me have this bit of dignit—wHOA!” 

He drops you. Ignoring your spluttering indignation behind him, Childe uses what looks to be a terrific amount of effort to fit the key into the lock, then even more to turn it, and finally he’s got the door cracked open an inch and—

Childe shuts it again. You swear he’s muttering a prayer. 

“What, is Verr Goldet keeping a tiger in there? Why aren’t you going in?”

“I should’ve expected this when I got one room for us to share.” Childe laughs humorlessly. His shoulders are hiked up to his ears and he doesn’t dare meet your eyes. Strange. If there really were a carnivore in there, wouldn’t his more appropriate response be to charge in there with water swords out and ready for carnage? “Hey Scapino, you despise me, right?”

“I know we’ve already established how utterly stupid you are, but this is a bit much.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Well, there’s really no harm in giving you another reason to hate my guts. There really isn't. There’s no problem here, actually, and I should probably just open the door now and get this done and over with before you look like a tea kettle about to boil over. Like, your face is scrunching up the way it usually does when you’re about to rip into me for my idiocy and I can just hear steam whistling out of your ears. Is your blood pressure high? It looks like your blood pressure is high. You should probably get that checked out before you die of cardiac arrest on one of your missions. That’d kind of suck.” Childe stops, blinks down at you. “What was I going to do again?”

At this point, you’d rather be eaten by a big cat. 

“Move aside.” You don’t wait for him to scramble out of your path before striding forward, narrowly stepping on his toes on your way to the door. You throw it open. “It’s just a room, for fucks sake. I swear, you’re getting weirder and weirder everyda—”

You stop short. 

 A tiger looks you in the eye. It grins. 

“Childe? Why’s there only one bed ?”

Notes:

tigre accovacciata: CROUCHING TIGER

[1]: childe is singing a traditional russian death lullaby, Баюшки-баю (aka: bayu bayushki bayu), which is basically about how a grey wolf will come and drag you away into the forest if you sleep too close to the edge of your bed. fun fact, this is also the huntress's lullaby from dead by daylight!

since sleep was believed to be a sort of "border between worlds," death lullabies were believed to have the power to either "precipitate or prevent the child's death." aside from the more...morbid...explanations for death lullabies (unwanted children, scarce resources + the inability to support an extra mouth, etc), one interpretation of them is that they were also believed to "deceive evil spirits that may harm babies" in a sort of reverse-psychology type of way. you can read more about them here: death lullabies in russian culture

this specific line he's singing here roughly translates to: "hushaby, hushaby, don't lie on the edge of your bed"

[2]: scapino continues the song by singing "otherwise a grey wolf will come and bite your side."

[3]: hong — "red," in chinese

[4]: huang — "yellow," in chinese

 

ohoho~there's a lot to unpack here, hmm? i'd love to know what you think ;))
but if i don't see you down in the comments section, then it's until next time dearest sunshines <3 <3 hope you liked this chapter and if i got anything wrong (esp about the whole death lullaby thing) please don't hesitate to let me know. i don't bite! unlike grey wolves....

Chapter 13: frutto amaro

Summary:

“It sounds like you know a lot about me, Childe.” Your teeth gleam, lips twisting into a taunting sneer. “Why don’t you tell me more, hmm? Tell me how you understand. Tell me how you know me better than I know myself.”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes falling away from your face to trace the rest of you. You watch him as he watches you, watches the way you stand with your arms crossed, head tilted and chin lifted in the perfect image of aristocracy. Perhaps that is what Childe will say: you’re of noble blood, a child from a rich house weaned off of honeyed milk. You certainly look the part, dressing expensively even on your off days, and you act the part too—at least, that is what the walls in the Zapolyarny Palace say whenever you’re summoned by your Archon. The rumors of noble titles and hidden acres of frozen land tire you; if he comes up with something as tasteless and uninspired as that you will be severely—

“You like green apples better than red ones.”

—huh?

Notes:

a lovesong to the inherent mortification of being known.

CHILDE LIKES MAKING LISTS. 

When he strolls through marketplaces he takes stock of souvenirs to buy his siblings: a pretty doll for Tonia, a lucky jade charm for Anton, a hand-painted kite for Teucer. When he goes out at night Ekaterina hands him a list of debts to collect and warehouses to inspect; when he makes the odd trip back to the Palace his schedule is filled with meetings to attend and his mind with all of the things he’ll do once he’s free to breathe in more than frigid, frozen air. 

When he steps into the tiny one-bed guest room, he does a slow turn, taking a deep breath and compiling the things he hears—crickets chirping, leaves rustling, creaking floorboards—then crosses the length of the room, and sinks down onto the bed. He catalogs things he feels—the rough, hewn threads of the coverlet, a slight draft skirting over his face, an ache easing from his calves as he displaces his weight from his feet. 

The consensus?

“It’s comfortable,” Childe announces, a wry smile pulling at his lips. “Practically fit for a queen. Hey, you think the Tsaritsa would deign to stay in a mortal abode such as this?”

You don’t answer. 

“...well, I suppose we’ll have to share the bed.” The mirth slips from his voice. Childe sets his shoulders determinedly as he turns toward you. “Scapino? Scapino. Hey, c’mon now, don’t be like that. This isn’t that bad.”

Your eyes snap to his, one incredulous eyebrow sent soaring. 

“ Not that bad? Are you hearing yourself? You just suggested that we sleep together!”

“Whoa there, you’re making it sound so much worse than it is.” He raises his hands placatingly, jaw clenched as he tries to shape his grit teeth into a smile. “I’m a gentleman you know! I’d have at least waited until after I took you out to dinner.”

“Ha ha, real funny Childe.” 

“Look, at least I’m trying, okay? I’m not the one just standing in the doorway and complaining about everything there is to complain about.” He runs agitated fingers through his already mussed hair. “You’re the one who always says that I need to be more professional. Well, here I am, being professional. It’s just one night on one mattress. Nothing more. If it helps we can even do the thing where you build a pillow wall in between us, just—let’s be mature adults, yeah?”

You wrap your arms around yourself, glowering. 

“I’m not getting in bed with you.” 

“Where are you going to sleep, then? On the ground?” When Childe laughs it’s something cold, something cruel. The notes ring hollow and saturate the air with an uncharacteristically sardonic bitterness. “You won’t. You wouldn’t want to dirty the clothes your Tsaritsa gave you as gifts for your service.”

Oh, how he makes your blood boil! Look at him, speaking so confidently of your character. What does a battle-crazy warrior like him know about a sophisticated intellect like you? 

“Maybe I will,” you say, raising your chin haughtily. “Anything’s better than doing something so uncouth with a stranger.”

“A stranger? Oh, I’m a stranger now? Whatever happened to all those years of fighting side by side, clawing through the ranks together to get to where we are now? We’ve known each other since we were recruits, for Archon’s sake.”

“Have we, though? Have you actually known me since then? You can work alongside someone for decades and still be nothing more than strangers kept at surface-level cordiality.”

“That’s the thing—you’re always so insistent on pushing me away like this! What’s so abhorrent about the thought of being normal comrades? Of being normal comrades with me ?”

A stunned silence. Childe’s face is flushed pink from the sudden outburst, his whole being a palette doused in sunset. You’re certain you’re staring, because he crumples a little, and looks away. 

Then, softer, insistent: “Is it really so horrible, to be understood? Doesn’t it get lonely? ”

An uneasy feeling settles in your bones, a miasma, a dizziness telling you that something is wrong. Off-balance, off-tilt. Childe is a whirlpool; he shreds stability and casts control into oblivion. He, in a fit of passion, in a bout of madness, would toss himself into the sea if only for the chance to fight against the tide. He is manic. He is uncontrollable, unconventional; Dottore once called him an unstable element one nanosecond away from descending into radioactive decay and that was the only time you were inclined to agree with the doctor. 

Indeed, Childe is many things, but he is not soft.

“I have comrades,” you sniff, choosing to ignore the roiling sensation in your gut. Whatever. When was the last time you ate? “Scaramouche. My units in Mondstadt. I’m never alone.” 

He doesn’t say anything. The only indication he’s heard your defense is that he shifts from examining the threads in the bedspread to raising his eyebrows at you. The silence strikes a gong in your ears that reverberates like disbelief. You frown. 

“I’m not lonely.” 

“You’re lying again.” Childe shakes his head, mussed strands of copper falling into his eyes. “You always lie to me like this, you know, with your hands folded into one another. Like you’re praying.”

Your fingers stiffen. Indeed, you appear to have subconsciously knit them together sometime during your conversation, and now you stare down at your digits in muddled befuddlement. 

 

When…?

 

“How observant of you.” It’s unnerving, how you barely feel the pressure of your interlocked fingers. You must have gotten so used to having your hands in this position that it no longer feels unnatural. You pry your hands apart, splaying your fingers on your thighs. “Do you do that a lot? Do you watch other people like specimens with attributes to catalog, or a bug under a magnifying glass?” 

“Only those who need to be.” He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. They’re still thin—knobby in a boyish way harkening back to his days of swinging blunted daggers as a recruit. Childe has always been a bundle of angles and sharp objects wrapped around the piece of twine masquerading as his spine, lean muscle draped over a wire rack; titanium. Scrawny. Scrappy. When you blink you see recruit [110124] scowling at you as you slink past the sparring pits. 

Spars. What a foul-tasting memory. 

“It sounds like you know a lot about me, Childe.” Your teeth gleam, lips twisting into a taunting sneer. “Why don’t you tell me more, hmm? Tell me how you understand. Tell me how you know me better than I know myself.”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes falling away from your face to trace the rest of you. You watch him as he watches you, watches the way you stand with your arms crossed, head tilted and chin lifted in the perfect image of aristocracy. Perhaps that is what Childe will say: you’re of noble blood, a child from a rich house weaned off of honeyed milk. You certainly look the part, dressing expensively even on your off days, and you act the part too—at least, that is what the walls in the Zapolyarny Palace say whenever you’re summoned by your Archon. The rumors of noble titles and hidden acres of frozen land tire you; if he comes up with something as tasteless and uninspired as that you will be severely —

“You like green apples better than red ones.”

—huh?

“You trained yourself to be ambidextrous so you could work on your paperwork two at a time. You like to collect trinkets from your travels abroad, which—judging by the cabinet behind your desk—means that you haven’t been to Natlan yet. You hate cherry-flavored candies. You double-knot your shoelaces. A mug of warm milk after 9 o'clock is like a sedative for you. You like to hum when you think no one’s listening.” Childe lists on his fingers, shrugging when he gets to number eight. “And your favorite gemstone is amber, but I don’t know why.”

The man flips his hands over, hooded eyes tracing the lines creased into his palms, into his fingers. It’s getting harder and harder to tell which ones are scars, and which ones have always been there. Some of the scars look to have always been there. 

“So, I suppose you’re right, as you usually are. I don’t know you as well as I thought I did.”

Your teeth worry away at the flesh of your lower lip. Images flash in your mind’s eye: apples, peeling. Green skin lifting, separating from a yellowed core, chartreuse unspooling in one unbroken spiral. Sorrows spilling sour stains on a white cloth. Clumsy child, someone chides. Do it again. 

A knife flashing silver. One dulled blue eye refracting in the reflection’s serrated edge.

No, you decide, he’s wrong, as he usually is. Childe’s eyes may swallow light but it’s clear to you that he has more moments of stunning crystalline clarity than you wish he had. How much has he seen? How much will he continue to see?

 

A ghost ship. Overturned bowls. A burning mansion. 

 

Your throat feels tight. 

Damn this stifling room. Damn your racing mind. 

There is too much for you to think about: closing the Mondstadt deals— him, too knowing— keeping track of the Traveler—Hong and Huang— him, too close —so you decide not to. You tell yourself that you need fresh air, an open sky. 

You need out. 

“Being ambidextrous means I get double the efficiency,” you mumble. Your heel knocks against the doorframe as you stumble back one step, two. His eyes follow you into the hall. “Cherry candies taste like cough syrup.”

Childe considers this for a moment. 

“And…amber?”

Time stands still. Your mind spins, scrambling, there —one thing to do. 

Run. 

 

---

 

“Scapino left the room.”

“Hmm? Just them?”

“Just them.”

“Ha! Trouble in paradise, you think?”

“I’ll send a message to Huang.”

“My goodness, I always forget how you soldier-types are. No, no need for anything drastic like that yet—just keep your eyes on them; be discreet. A Harbinger is a Harbinger for a reason.”

---

Dihua Marsh is a different place in the moonlight. The late hours melt into a charcoal-softened landscape. You think you could sink into it. Drift away. Indulge, convince yourself that this is all a dream. 

(And if it is, what is this endless darkness? What is this yawning void, this gaping maw, that seeks to fit you between its jaws? What is this bitter taste that swells in the back of your throat? 

Some dream this is. Some desolate dream.)

You shake yourself. 

 

Focus, Scapino. Why are you here?  

 

That’s easy. You’re outside in the dead of night to rearrange your thoughts, to sort everything into neat little boxes, to get ahold of the mess in your head and straighten it all out into something comprehensible, controllable. You’re outside because you couldn’t concentrate on your carefully-laid plan, you were drawing blanks and thinking of nothing productive, you were letting yourself get sidetracked by—

 

Ocean blue eyes with a bottomless depth; a tilting head, the pale of an upturned jaw. The doorframe is a box and you’re trapped within, staring helplessly as he picks some part of you to pieces with little more than your favorite weapons: words.  

“You like green apples better than red ones.”

 

You scrub at your eyes. Walk—one, two, three. Breathe—in, out, in. You stumble along the shoreline in semi-permeable darkness, wandering with a widow’s shroud thrown over your eyes. 

Archons, you’re blind. How could you have not seen him seeing? With his attention to detail, you’re not sure how much more could’ve been compromised. Does he know that this is all a ploy? Does he know of your deceit? 

 

( “Did you see anything? Did you hear?”

“No, nothing, nothing, I know nothing—”

“You liar! You dirty cheat, you scheming brat. Look how guilty you’re behaving, fumbling about with your shifty eyes like that. You’re after the will—you’re after our riches!” )

 

No. You won’t have the past repeat itself, not if you can help it. You’re meant to move on from mistakes and never make them again. Learn quickly, adapt even quicker. Keep on running; don’t look back. 

 

( Keep on running. Don’t look back. )

 

You clap your hands to your cheeks. Alright. So Childe knows some things about you—big deal. In your cohort of recruits, you were far and away the champion when it came to observation. Make a list: what do you know about him?

You think of his bloodthirst, his brutality, the bottomless appetite he has for violence. You think of the opaqueness of his eyes, the stubborn tuft of ginger that springs from his scalp, the lean, lithe build of his body. He has a strange laugh, but that’s not unusual; most Harbingers do. He can’t use chopsticks despite being stationed in Liyue, but that says more about his inexperience than his dexterity since he has proven that he’s quite adept with all manner of weaponry. All things that any simple recruit could tell you. 

Dig further. You’ve read his statistics. He’s an excellent warrior with a mission success rate of 98%, failing only when the brief had told him to capture the target alive, and he brought them back dead. 90% of his work revolves around causing chaos and purging threats,  6% to train recruits. Another 3% is spent lounging around in Liyue and pretending to do paperwork. The last 1% is claimed by the occasional odd job: visiting the orphans in the House of Hearth; surveying mining operations in the Chasm every few months. Thinking up ways to steal Rex Lapis’ Gnosis. All things that any of the Harbingers could tell you. 

What else then? What of hobbies, likes, dislikes, preference for certain types of fruit, subconscious habits that rise every now and again like the sun from the sea? 

Well, he sings. He sings old lullabies more suited for nursery rooms than a long, dusty trek back from another blood-splattered mission or to an inn in a tree. He’s from a village of salt and sand; he grew up harvesting the flotsam and jetsam of the sea. 

He thinks you should be “normal comrades.”

He thinks you’re lonely. 

You kick at a stray pebble, watching it disappear into a clump of reeds. If you weren’t both branded with your Tsaritsa’s cause, your servitude, if you had met in the market of some gentler time, would you have recognized him? Would your eyes catch his as he reaches around you for a packet of fish? Between stalls of beets and barley, would you stop him with a whisper of his name, exclaiming how it’s been so long since we last met, Tartaglia, won’t you sit and chat with me? Here, a gift; have some fruit. I know you like—better than—

Of course not. 

You’re both no more than droplets in a shifting sea of strangers, faces blurred and blending into another, another, another. 

You don’t know him. You don’t know him. 

…do you want to know him?

Agh! You scrub at your face with agitated motions. Here’s the truth: you don’t need to know him. It isn’t a necessity, not when Harbingers have always been solitary actors, not when you’re just fine as you are now. In fact, couldn’t it be said that you’re better not knowing? Accept it. You’re a highly proficient commander, you’re excellent at what you do. You’ve never failed a mission. You’ve never shown weakness. 

And you’re never alone. 

The squadrons of Fatui assigned to your legion are by your side before you snap your fingers to summon them. They move as you do; breathe as you do. They are your second shadow.

Scaramouche never takes his eye off of you—not completely, at least—the same way he never remains ignorant of the movements of all his other Harbinger coworkers. He brings you Inazuman ramen whenever your mood turns sour. He slings himself through your window and shoves his way into your plans like he knows there’s a space left for him to fill. 

So you have your Fatui members. You have Scaramouche. 

You’re never alone. 

 

( Someone taps your nose affectionately; your attention turns from the pretty red brooch on his lapel to the scruff of his beard, to the glimmering moonstones of his eyes. He smells like the sea. 

“Being alone and being lonely are two different beasts, my dear. Though they may be twin sensations of hollowness, of emptiness, one corrodes you from the outside; the other gnaws on you from the inside out, a patient rot. You can be one and not the other. Do you understand?”

You don’t. It’s a warm afternoon. The apple trees in the orchard have begun to ripen; you had a green fruit today and it was tart and sweet— just the way you like it. You tell him this, and he agrees that you should bake an apple pie sometime soon, like tomorrow, or the day after, or for your birthday, but he seems a little sad. You wonder why.  

“When you’re older, then. When I’m not by your side, you will know.” ) 

 

Here’s a truth that most people know: when you were a mere recruit, you were given a single room by yourself. No roommates. No comrades-in-arms, no first friendships forged in the shelter where recruits got the closest thing to rest there was. 

Here’s a truth that few people know: you used to share a room. You were amicable with the company you kept, a pleasant conversationalist always willing to entertain others’ fancies and engage in verbal spars. That was by day. 

Here’s a truth that no one knows: by night, you lay sweating on your bed, blankets kicked off, garments clinging to your back like a second skin, like an unnamed fear. You’d try to sleep—you’d wrestle with it, fight it all through the night, clawing and screaming and begging it to come to you lightly. Instead, it tore through your mental defenses and laid bare all that you’d worked to hide; it twisted out of your grasp and refused to submit to your will. 

Your first roommate told you that you’d been shrieking. Your next one told you that you’d been snarling, spitting curses and hurling threats. The last said, pale face a moon hovering worriedly over yours, that you’d been sobbing. 

So when you were a mere recruit, you were moved into a single room by yourself. 

The night may not have made small talk or saved a seat for you in the lunchroom, but what it offered in everlasting silence was far more precious to you. But tonight, the darkness carries a different kind of weight. You feel restless. Shaken. Adrenaline buzzes in your ears, melding with the crickets in a song that swells every time you look over your shoulder, an event that occurs so frequently it’s as though you were stepping quickly through a darkened hall suspected to be haunted by ghosts. How apt. Behind lies Wangshu Inn and its blazing lights so yes—this place is haunted with all it’s ghosts. All your ghosts. 

From the riverbank, you thought it would’ve looked farther away. 

 

---

 

“Diluc isn’t telling me what’s going on, which is typical of him—thinks us Knights of Favonius aren’t up to par and all that—but what about you? Has he told you anything?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Why? What’s this about? Is Diluc in trouble?”

“He may as well be. The Twelfth Fatui Harbinger paid him a visit a couple weeks ago; recently, I ran into them while they were leaving Mondstadt with Lumine. They were tucking a suspicious envelope into their pocket when I stalled them and I swear I saw a red wax seal with an ‘R’ stamped into it. The Ragnvindr crest.”

“You’ve got one eye; it was fast. Maybe you saw something else?”

“...Jean.”

“I’m sorry Kaeya, I—”

“That most recent meeting you had with the Harbinger. What was that about?”

“Huh? O-oh, standard diplomatic issues between Snezhnaya and Mondstadt: the merchant distribution agreements, the new branch for their Northland Bank. A cut in the Daw—”

“...”

“Oh Lord Barbatos. The winery. ”

 

---

 

The first time you met Childe, you were both just a string of numbers: [110124] and [110142]. Nothing more, nothing less, so you’d both been told. Just another faceless soldier marching in the service of your queen. That was alright with you. You didn’t care if that was alright with him, because that was none of your business, and even if it was, you wouldn’t have wanted it to be. You’d heard things about [110124] before you saw him—horrible things, dastardly things, things that made your brows furrow and lips pinch into a sneer around the declaration that well, that guy sounds crazy, what’s his problem anyway? What a psycho. So it went. 

Anyway—yes. Back to the first time you met Childe. 

You were holding an armful of wooden swords and blunt spears. He was holding a piece of paper, pinching it tight between an index and a thumb, like it was the white wing of a bug, a blankness slicing through the air. You didn’t know he was The Psycho yet, capital letters and all, because there you were, grousing over the possibility of being poked by splinters, and there he was, a sudden apparition standing not more than fifty paces away. A boy. 

It was evening then, the sun dipping toward the horizon and pulling all the warm hues of the sky with it, a blanket to cover it as it prepared to sleep somewhere beneath the ocean waves. It was usually evening when these sorts of accidents happened, actually. Something about the world tipping into darkness, a light switch, flick, flick, flick . The metronome of the universe ticks on, you could say, if you cared for grandiose metaphors—which you don’t, so you don’t—and so of course, it was evening. Flick, flick, flick.  

“Extra training?” He’d asked, nodding toward the felled dummies and scattered weapons littering the dusty sparring arena. 

“No. Cleaning duty.” You dropped the swords into a crate with an unceremonious thunk. Check your skin. Ah, shoot. You were right, there was a splinter. “The last group left a mess. Always has been, lately. Wonder if it has anything to do with the promotion test coming up.” You laughed a little to yourself. “For their sake, I hope it doesn’t.”

The boy pursed his lips. 

“How come?”

You shrugged, then gestured vaguely at the marks in the ground. 

“Well, they’re just not very good.” Then, you seemed to remember that this was a complete stranger you were talking to, and that criticizing others probably didn’t make for a great first impression, so you hastily added that “maybe their strengths lie elsewhere. You can tell that at least one of them has the basic fundamentals down, and most have passable fighting stances. They won’t flunk out , I don’t think.”

He stared at the footsteps marring the earth, the drag marks skidding and tumbling around the arena, then frowned. 

“How’d you tell all of that based on dirt?”

“Distances between prints. How deep each mark is, the momentum evident in each swooping line. Just a couple of observations. Nothing much.”

“ Oooh , you’re good.” He chuckled. “You’re really good. Hey, you’re [110142], aren’t you? The one that everyone says will become the first Harbinger Candidate in our batch—that’s you right? You gotta be.”

You shrugged again, this time with a small self-satisfied grin. 

“Really? That’s what everyone says?” You’d heard the whispers of course, gorged yourself on each jealous gaze and dose of admiration, but for modesty’s sake, you still had to scratch your neck and laugh sheepishly. “Oh wow, I didn’t know the others thought of me like that…but it’s all just silly nonsense. No one knows what the requirements are for nomination.”

“Nah, you can drop that act.”

You faltered, frozen.

“Sorry?”

“I said,” he stepped closer, his paper and purpose for being there long forgotten. “You can drop that act. You definitely know that you’re a cut above the rest. Shame how we’re not in the same sparring group. Then I could…” He trailed off. Then, his gaze wandered to the swords you’d just put away, then to you, and Archons, what were with those eyes? You involuntarily stepped back. “This must be fate. We must’ve been fated to meet here; we must’ve been—we must’ve been fated to spar! Hey, hey, what do you say to a couple of rounds?”

You hadn’t minded his company at first, but at these words, your mouth twisted into something ugly. 

“Are you insane?”

“Kinda, I guess? I’ve been getting that a lot.” He was bouncing on the soles of his feet then, laughing. “What’s that gotta do with sparring though?”

“You don’t just—Archons, who even are you?”

“Recruit [110124], at your service!” He saluted you mockingly, and everything made so much more sense, then, because of course he was recruit [110124], who else was insane enough to demand a fight with a stranger when the sun had set two hours ago and dinner was calling? “Now what do you prefer, swords or polearms? I guess you could also like bows or claymores, but I think those are locked in the other arena, the one for the older guys. We could sneak in there if you really want though?”

“No I—what? No, no, I don’t—”

“That’s fine! We can do swords today then, warm up with that. Oh man, I’m so pumped! I can’t wait to see what you’ve got. You know, I heard that every time it came to sparring, you’d always disappear.”

“I’m not—”

“No one in our squad has seen you actually fight before, so you must be training with the higher leveled recruits right? Don’t worry, you can tell me! I’m really good at keeping secrets.”

“Just—”

“I wonder how long it’ll take me to get to your level. Hey, did you do extra training or something? Or are you just a natural—”

“ JUST STOP! ” Your voice rang in the clearing, an echo that you would continue to hear in your ears, in your head, in your dreams, for the next couple of weeks. You never yelled—yelling was a clear sign of discomposure, of a loss of control, of desperation. How embarrassing. How weak. “Just…stop. I’m not going to fight you. Not now, not ever.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like fighting.” You glared down at your shoes, hands curling into fists, nails pressing new crescent moons into your palms. “It’s gross and sweaty. There’s no elegance or refinement to it at all and it’s ugly. I-it’s animalistic and—well I just don’t like doing it. I don’t like fighting.” There. Done. “You happy now?”

“That’s such a stupid excuse. Just admit it—you’re afraid. You’re a coward.”

You’re certain your mouth dropped open, eyes wide and staring into the face of a boy who would continuously barge into your life, who would always be there, ready and waiting to make your future hell. But you didn’t know that then. 

“What?” 

“I said, you’re a coward .”

Flick, flick, flick. Your world was tipping. But you couldn’t have known that either.  

The rest of the night was a blur in your memories. Blink and you’re stepping into his space, snarling. Blink and then you’re stomping away, vision red, teeth grinding down on teeth with a pressure that made your jaw ache the next morning. Blink once more, and then you’re seeing him everywhere—during the morning jogs, in the cafeteria, in the halls—and so it went, your years of bitter hatred. You clawed your way up. You won yourself a name. 

And through it all, he was always there. A splotch of color in your periphery, a stubborn stain that just wouldn’t go away—Childe has been hovering in the corner of your vision for as long as you can remember, which is a fact as terrifying as it is…comforting. 

Oh Archons. 

Of course he knows you. He knew you from the very beginning. 

 

---

 

“You seem awfully close with the Eleventh Harbinger.”

“That so?”

“Yeah! And Paimon remembers that the Twelfth Harbinger visited you at Wangsheng Funeral Parlor after we split a while ago, didn’t they? What’s up with that?”

“Merely business. They’re important clients of ours, so I’ve had regular interactions with them. Is that strange?”

“No, that…makes a lot of sense. Ah, maybe I’m overthinking this. Forget it.”

“You have something to say. Don’t doubt yourself. Even the lowliest of rocks can hide the most magnificent veins of ore, so take a chance on it. See what you get. You might surprise yourself.”

“...wow, Zhongli always has something wise to say in any situation, huh? If it were Paimon, Paimon would have just said to try, because the worst thing that could happen is still better than going hungry!”

“Thanks Zhongli, and Paimon too. Well—I guess I was just wondering what you thought of them? Because you say that you just have business dealings with the Harbingers, but I can’t help but feel like you know them much better than that. Call it a gut instinct.”

“Hmm…well, there’s not really much to think about them. Childe is a bit of a troublemaker, but mostly harmless. Scapino is more methodical and doesn’t seem to like butterflies very much.

Don’t worry too much about them, traveler. They’re just two lost children trying to find their way home.”

 

---

 

When did you fall asleep there, on the shore?

The air is hazy with midnight residue, a velvety sheen lingering even as the sun stirs behind Liyue’s peaks. Sand falls from your hair in a golden shower when you rake a hand through your tangled strands and Archons, is it in your mouth too? Your clothes must be horribly creased and stained in the hues of the earth…ah, but for some strange reason, your thoughts feel dulled. You can’t find it within yourself to care. 

Well then. Keep moving. 

By the time you drag your weary bones back to the Wangshu Inn, the sky has begun to lighten. One step at a time, you ascend; one step at a time, you bring yourself back to the world of the waking. You’re shuffling slowly across the lobby when you pause for the first time during your monotonous journey, limbs creaking as you sway, then remain rooted. 

You hadn’t noticed it last night, but there—fruit. There’s a basket of fruit perched on the edge of the receptionist’s desk, an innocuous thing so often glazed over in favor of the worker standing behind the counter that day. It occupies space and it is not there at all, really—really, it is a hole. A tear in the wallpaper. And once you notice it is there, idly perhaps, an accidental occurrence, it snags, pulls away a little, peels, and it takes a bit of you away. 

Your fingernails have begun to pick at it before you realize. You drift closer. 

The basket is a little worn, one of the woven reeds poking its head out from its cross-hatched formation to wave good morning to you, dearest guest, how have you been? Fine, you’ve been…fine, you think. Certainly been better, definitely been worse. This is fine. The bent reed nods sagely, because sometimes ‘fine’ is all you can ask for. 

“I did some thinking.” You say, perhaps out loud, perhaps in your head. You’re not too sure but your voice sounds a little raspy. Maybe you really did eat sand. “I thought…a lot.”

You pause. 

You’re grasping for something solid, something coherent. You know what you want to articulate. It’s right there, this groundbreaking conclusion, some sort of emotional lesson you’ve learned while collapsed amidst cattails and mud, but shaping it out of its amorphous state into a single point is like trying to catch a fish with your bare hands. You hover helplessly for a few moments, staring at this fruit basket in the miraculously empty lobby of the Wangshu Inn. 

Ground yourself. 

There’s a basket of fruit. There’s an apple, two, three. Most of them are red but oh! There’s a green one nestled near the bottom, tucked between a slightly-lumpy orange and the curves of a neighboring pear. Focus on that one. Focus on the green, anchor yourself to it, remember the sunny day, when you clambered into a tree and picked a basketful for yourself, for your family, for your loves when you still had time to love. For the pie that was never baked. 

 

(And somehow, he has managed to touch this part of your memory too—

Ocean blue eyes with a bottomless depth; moonlight slanting parallel to his collarbone, the dip where lip meets cheek. Ocean blue eyes and a world, a universe, turning flick-flick-flick in tandem with the tide as it all recedes into a hush.  

“You like green apples better than red ones.” He says. “You’re ambidextrous, you collect trinkets, you hate cherry-flavored candy, you double-knot your laces, you don’t drink warm milk after nine because if you do you’ll fall asleep at your desk, where you hum when you think no one is listening. You like amber. I don’t know why, but trust me, one day I’ll learn. And you like green apples better than red ones.”

You’re a coward. You’re afraid of what this means. What does this mean?

“I know you.” He says. “I’ve known you since then.” )

 

Come back. There’s a basket of fruit, there’s an apple, and it’s green. It’ll be peeled clumsily later, maybe, or perhaps not at all; perhaps it’ll be eaten just as it is, teeth against skin, and cherished nonetheless. You blink. Slowly, gently, you pick one up and hold it up to the thin morning light. 

There’s a small dark spot near your fingertip.

In its own way perhaps, it could be called beautiful. 

 

---

 

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed when you open the door, looking exactly as you had left him, if not for the slightly rumpled sheets and tousled hair springing every which way. You’re reminded a little of bent reeds, a rustling sigh, burnished gold under the sun. There’s an expectant little smile on his face. You think about asking about this, briefly, but when you open your mouth the question sounds more like:

“Hi.”

“Hey.” Childe’s eyes dart to the apple in your hand, then away again to your face. “Ready?”

“I’m a Harbinger.” You say simply. 

“Of course you are.” He laughs, and it's not unkind, which is a strange thought to be having at this strange hour. The sun teeters on the cusp of a new day. The moon doesn’t seem to want to go. He’s looking at you and you rub your eyes with a tired hand, and look back at him. 

On the way out, you stop by the basket of fruit. 

He picks the bumpy orange.

Notes:

frutto amaro: BITTER FRUIT

it's back :)

as i'm sure you're noticed, there's been a couple of changes (also mentioned in the notes in ch. 1 but. here they are again):
- colombina => scapino
- f!reader => gn!reader
- minor details changed in earlier chapters after i realized that i forgot where i was going with those (LMAO)

i was pleasantly surprised when i didn't have to change much for scaramouche's sections, given the new information we now have about our dear wanderer <3 i'll take that win

anyway. i'd like to thank mei yet again for saving my ass with this chapter. you're a genius, you. and thank you all for reading despite me updating once in a blue moon...head in hands. i cant believe inspiration struck when i have papers to write...projects to finish...wanderers to save up for...sob. i don't even need an anemo dps what am i doing.

ah well. until next time, sunshines. i love reading your comments, and thank you for leaving your kudoses(??? what is the plural form). brightens my inbox every time.

Chapter 14: finta polpa

Summary:

In hindsight, this shouldn’t be a revelation. Your Harbinger colleagues come from all walks of life, be they millennia-old witches with candle wicks for bodies or shadowy knights with gaping maws for faces. Tick tick tick. This is a congregation of monsters. That Childe is touched by darkness, by something beyond the mortal realm, is not unreasonable. The brutality is starting to make more sense now. The lust for battle; the maniacal gleam that leaps to his eye whenever he speaks of a new challenge—yes, it all makes sense now. He is, after all, Her Majesty’s favorite weapon.

You shouldn’t be surprised. You shouldn’t let it slip that you are surprised, you shouldn’t be staring at Childe with a stupidly stunned expression and he shouldn’t, by all accounts, be staring right back at you, eyes hazy with—what, what, what?

Xiao’s gaze flickers between the two of you, a blinking firefly in the dusk.

“Oh,” he says. “You did not know.”

Notes:

my excuse is that i am unapologetically addicted to honkai starrail

CHILDE WOULD MAKE A GOOD CADAVER. You think that if you were to ask him to lay down on a dissection table he’d strap himself down with a bright laugh, eyebrows waggling as he let his immaturity get the best of him. He seems to like sharp things, pointy things, things that cut and hurt and carve ribbons out of skins from apples and humans alike. So, if you held his hand with your own and led him down into a morgue he’d let you. He’d make it easy for you because he would think it’s funny when you inevitably throw the scalpel down on tiled linoleum, an echo yelling that you can’t do it, you fucking can’t! Yeah, it is funny, asshole. And now consider the reverse: if you were on the slab he’d filet you before your heart had time to stop. He’s done it already, actually, peering into the sockets of your eyes and rooting around in your brain. You’ve never been to Natlan. You trained yourself to be ambidextrous. You like amber. You’d be a worse corpse than he; you kick, you struggle, you cheat (once, twice) and you’re addicted to the rush of getting away (because let’s make it thrice). 

If only you were better at all the things you say you’re good at. Maybe then, you’d understand why he’s eating his orange like an Archons-damned apple. 

“What?” Childe wipes the juice on his chin with a sleeve, brows teetering when he catches you staring at him. Your gaze slides coolly from him to the mutilated fruit in his hand; he follows, as he’s been prone to doing nowadays, as he’s been prone to doing a long, long time ago, and then something like recognition lights up his features. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t know you wanted some. Here!”

You bat the pulpy mash away from your face.  

“I don’t want any part in your barbaric ways, heathen,” you grimace. “Look at you. You’re no better than a fox, muzzle-deep in fresh carnage and bad manners.”

He shrugs. The next bite pulls more bright flesh and tangy entrails than before. 

“Ish jusht a—”

“—chew, swallow—”

“—it’s just an orange.” 

Childe gulps it down. His Adam’s apple bobs like a fishing lure tossed into a pond, one with frosted over surfaces and a darkened moon carved into the ice. The skin is pale there, like freshly-fallen snow. 

Your fingers twitch. You frown. 

“It has slices for a reason .”

“Why go through all the effort?”

“Propriety?”

“And what about sanitation?”

“What about sanitation?”

It’s his turn to give you an incredulous look, though the new cheek stuffed full of citrus undermines whatever effect he was intending to achieve—unless of course, he was striving to imitate a ridiculously overgrown squirrel.  

“Last I checked, blood and guts are breeding grounds for all sorts of gory diseases. How’s that for fresh carnage?” Childe looks at you pointedly. “Eating it like this, you don’t have to get all handsy with your finicky little slices. Just hold the peel. Less trouble.”

“Why would you have blood and guts on your hands?”

“ Why would you have blood and guts— ” he throws his hands in the air. “We’re Harbingers! Fighting is part of the job, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“It doesn’t need to be.”

Childe quiets. He quiets, but he doesn’t still—not really, not when he’s a bundle of destructive energy, nerves frayed and skin flayed to reveal the jumping current, a spark away from combustion. He’s constantly on the move, restless, hopped up on an unceasing tidal wave of adrenaline surging through his veins. Even now, as he stares at you with wide eyes and a lax stance, he is swaying on the balls of his feet the same way a fighter might in a ring. But he quiets. 

It is a strange quiet. 

“A-anyway,” you cough, “finish playing with your food. We’ll hit an inn before we get to Qingce Village, so we’ll stop there to change. Don’t want to spook the locals with our dress and our…disarray.” 

He picks a leaf out of your hair. Idle eyes examine the small specimen, turning it this way and that in his fingers. He hums. “You mean, your disarray?” 

You’re not sure what expression you’re making right now, because Childe’s gaze flicks to yours for a beat and finds something there. He laughs a little, and lets the leaf flutter to the side. 

“Aww, don’t look at me like that. You’re still pretty, if that’s what you’re worried about! Personally, I think the mud smudges bring out your eyes. The sticks in your hair are cute too—you should wear them more often!”

“Slept on dirt and still woke up prettier than you, who slept in a bed,” you grumble,  scraping up the remains of your pride. Your inability to hold eye contact with him is seriously undermining your goal though. He notices, of course, and that stupid smile on his face only grows. You have half a mind to take a pair of gardening shears to prune that irritating uptick down to size. “Has anyone ever introduced your hair to a brush before?” 

“Nothing’s worked so far.” Childe rakes a hand through the bramble of burnished copper twisting atop his scalp and winces when he hits a tangle of particularly stubborn knots. “What can I say? These bad boys are just too wild for any comb to handle.”

“Sandrone could make something for you, I bet. Want me to put in a commission?”

“ Sandrone ?” He snorts. “Please don’t. I may as well say goodbye to my precious locks. She’d somehow fashion a blowtorch or a chainsaw into something brush-shaped. Something intended to prey on the poor hairdos of unsuspecting Eleventh Harbingers.”

You shrug, then shade your eyes. Lacquer wood beams stretch their limbs from the other side of the next bend, a strange tree that has traded its gingko leaves for golden lantern light and rice paper. The inn. If your agent made it here breathing, you should have a fresh change of clothes and your favorite perfume waiting for you. 

“Nothing wrong with trying something new—you might like having a clear line of sight, for once.” A stray strand of hair falls from behind your ear. “It’d be breezier too.”

“Something new, hmm?” 

He beats you to the door, fingers hooking leisurely around the handle. The gears are turning in his head and then Childe is smiling again. You’re not sure you like that smile, but it is light and it is a blurred watercolor of indistinguishable emotion. It is softened, melting into the curve of his cheek and it is nestled so gently into the beginnings of a dimple that reminds you, eerily, of someone else. Hello, stranger. Where did you come from? You can’t read it; you can’t understand it. 

But it is light. 

“Doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe I’ll try.”

 

---

 

“I’m sorry, but Diluc isn’t here.” Adelinde’s eyes track Jean’s, then Kaeya’s, and decide that they don’t like what they’re seeing. Her brows furrow. Moco scurries in with cups and saucers, then scurries out even faster when she catches a glance of the head maid’s face. Yikes. “Did something happen?”

“Ye—”

“—no.”

She crosses her arms. Kaeya scuffs his boots on the rug, casts his gaze right, and half-expects to see a vase in pieces and a slingshot tucked in his hand. 

“Try again,” Adelinde says. Her voice is even. Her voice is always even, actually, so this doesn’t mean much to them, not when they have heard that same voice scold them for staying too long out in the rain, chilled to the bone and suffering from a misery of their own making. We were busy catching frogs though , Diluc would’ve insisted, a young master filled with spitfire and the sort of never-say-die conviction characteristic of fools, of heroes, and of foolish heroes. Look—this is Sir Ribbington the III.

Sir Ribbington the III may have been a valiant frog prince on a Celestia-decreed quest to find the holy grail of grape juice, but even he was powerless against snotty sniffles and wheezy coughs. Adelinde, armed to the teeth with thermometers and tablespoons of tonic, was not. 

So. Adelinde crosses her arms. Adelinde says “try again,” and Jean and Kaeya look at each other, then at her, and Archons, they do try. 

“Did something happen?”

“No—”

“—yes?”

The old maid’s lips flatten into a terse line, disapproval stark and striking across her face. Kaeya, she expected this from. He’d sooner blame a broken window on a particularly exuberant bird than the slingshot held behind his back. The eldest Gunnhildr daughter though…well, Adelinde had never pegged her to be the lying sort, but for Diluc, she supposes these two would do anything. 

She sighs. 

“You just missed him. He’s in Fontaine on business; won’t be back for three more days. Unless this is urgent, you’ll have to wait.”

It is urgent. They cannot wait, though, but they cannot tell the maid this either. Knowing Adelinde, she’d march over to Fontaine herself and drag Diluc back by the ear—and Diluc doesn’t need that. They can clean this mess for him.  

SCENE: DAWN WINERY, JUST INSIDE THE FOYER

Below: plush carpeting, part of which is now flecked with dirt. Above: an antique crystal chandelier. A polished banister curves up and to the left. The fireplace is quiet. The second window on the far wall has been flung open; a breeze toys with the curtains. Near the doorway, Jean is speaking to Adelinde, the head maid, and Kaeya is looking around for a place to put down his cup and saucer. 

JEAN: Thank you, Adelinde. The papers in my office can wait, but please let me know as soon as he arrives. Kaeya? I’ll be heading back to headquarters now. There’s a certain… document I need to read. 

KAEYA: ( raises two fingers up to his temple before flicking them forward in a mock salute ) Heard, Acting Grandmaster. If it’s alright, I’d like to hang around this old place for a while. It’s been some time since I’ve been back here, and what can I say? Nostalgia’s a fickle mistress. Irresistible. 

Liar. Kaeya’s been fidgeting ever since they came to the winery, eye darting every now and then to the exits. He looks as though he’s itching to crawl out of a window, if not his own skin.

JEAN: ( sighing ) Fine—but stay out of trouble, you hear? Take your time to relax. ( with a pointed look ) Mondstadt isn’t going to crumble in a day. 

Of course it won’t. Not while he’s still breathing. 

Kaeya watches Jean leave, listens for the click of the door, and immediately turns to his old maid. 

“Addie, something’s been bothering Diluc recently. What is it? I want to help him.”

Adelinde looks startled, but the emotion mellows out before long. Honesty is a nice look on Kaeya Alberich, she decides. She just wishes he’d opened with this. 

“He…you know your brother. Private. I must confess I don’t know much, just that he had a pinched look on his face after coming back from a lunch date with someone a couple weeks ago.” She taps her chin a few times. “Well, then there was that strange letter…”

“Letter?”

“Letter. Cream. Thick cardstock, excellent quality. Heavy. You know the type: important.” 

“Sender?” Kaeya asks, even as his mind is already putting the pieces together. Thank Archons people tend to stick to one set of stationary. Dueling with a fellow creature of habit has its perks. 

Adelinde shakes her head slowly. 

“No return address. I saw it on his desk while I was cleaning the study one morning, and when I returned to tidy up the next day, it was gone.”

“Must’ve been urgent business then,” Kaeya notes. A cloudy expression crosses his face, but the next time he looks up at Adelinde, he’s smiling. He hands her the cup and saucer in his hands and they both ignore how it is still heavy with lukewarm tea. “That was a big help. Can’t thank you enough!”

“You can thank me by listening to your Acting Grandmaster. Stay out of trouble .”

Even as she says it and Kaeya laughs, acquiescing with a playful bow, they both know how the men raised under the Ragnvindr house are: headstrong and stubborn to a fault. They save trouble the effort of finding them by going after it themselves. Kaeya Alberich may not carry the name, but he is not very different. 

He finds Elzer next. 

“Good day to you, Elzer!” The poor man jolts when Kaeya leans his weight on one of the precarious stacks of paper in front of him, one visible eye a crinkled moon. “Diluc still working you as hard as before? I heard he went off for a little rendez-vous in Fontaine and left all the books to you.”

The silver-haired man chuckles good-naturedly, sweeping a hand over the pile of ledgers and paperwork scattered about his desk. If Kaeya squints a little at the note squashed under his elbow, he can tell it’s something about wine barrel insurance policies and merchant safety guidelines. Huh. 

“Same old, same old. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Master Kaeya. What brings you to my humble corner of the world?”

“Ah, nothing much. Just poking my nose into dear Diluc’s business again—say, you wouldn’t know anything about a mysterious letter, would you? Cream, expensive-feeling, probably had an obnoxious red wax seal and everything too?” At Elzer’s blank stare, Kaeya tries a different tack. “Alright, nevermind that then. Anything strange going on with the winery’s finances? Has Diluc asked you about shifts in the winery’s profits, new shareholders biting chunks out of his grapes?”

Elzer’s brow creases. 

“No, I haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary in the numbers. Why? Should there be? The young master never said anything about this before he left…”

Before the poor man can tear through his calculations and scrutinize every expense, Kaeya lays a placating hand on his shoulder. 

“Oh, no, no need for that. Pay no heed to my musings, I was just curious. The knights have a responsibility to care for Mondstadt’s businesses; it’s just protocol to ask. Don’t worry about it, I’m sure there’s nothing wrong.”

Right. When Kaeya is done with this, there will be nothing wrong. 

Still, it doesn’t look like your nefarious schemes have been set in motion yet, which means he has a little more breathing room than he’d initially thought. Kaeya steps out of the manor, lips pursed in thought. He could send a message to Vile to have her keep an eye out for suspicious activity, and his network could probably dig something up about the specifics of your plan. Maybe. You run a frustratingly tight ship: any previous attempts to smuggle a mole into your posse were thwarted with frightening speed. Are you vigilant or just plain paranoid?

He sighs and runs a hand over his face. How irritating. He hasn’t had to put this much effort into cracking a case in years . 

“Sir Kaeya, please wait!”

Hillie runs to catch him at the gate, one hand waving wildly in the air, the other dragging a complaining Moco behind her. 

“Moco has something to say to you!” Hillie all but pushes her fellow maid toward Kaeya, and he entertains them with a bemused snort. 

“Oh my, a confession in broad daylight? Moco, you really are bold. I’m flattered but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”

“ A confess—? ” Moco splutters. She’d looked pale when she was setting down tea service in front of Adelinde earlier, but now her cheeks glow with embarrassment. “No! Oh Archons, no, this is about Diluc!”

“You want to confess to Diluc?”

 A noise of utter distress rips from Moco’s throat and, sensing that the situation was swerving out of control, Hillie steps in. 

“Not Moco—poor girl would sooner die of a heart attack, foaming and frothing at the mouth and the like—but, Diluc on the other hand…” She leans forward conspiratorially. “...he may be courting someone!”

Of all the things Kaeya imagined would come out of the maid’s mouth, it was not this. He blinks. 

“Diluc? The guy with the emotional range of a teaspoon and the sociability of a porcupine?”

Hillie huffs. “You don’t believe us, but we have proof!” She turns to her fellow maid again, who has stopped gasping like a fish. “Moco! Tell Sir Kaeya what Donna told you!”

Moco wrings her hands miserably. “Hillie, we shouldn’t be gossiping about Master Diluc like this—”

“Oh psh ! You had no problem blabbing about it earlier. Besides, Sir Kaeya is trustworthy. He wouldn’t tattle.” Hillie fixes him with a stare. Dutifully, Kaeya mimes zipping his lips and tossing away the key. Hillie nods and turns back to the other maid. “See? Now go on. He doesn’t have all day, and neither do we. It’s only a matter of time before Adelinde notices we’re not working.”

It’s fascinating, how the mention of Adelinde is enough to startle something in Moco. The girl squeaks a little and then her speech is a tumbling river, vowels tripping over themselves in their haste to flee. 

“I was in the market shopping—grocery shopping, we ran out of eggs and tomatoes somehow and I’d heard there was a sale for ham or something but anyway—ran into Donna near the flowers, lovely sunflowers, she caught my wrist, asked me if I knew anything about Master Diluc’s lover and I was like ‘ Lover? ’ because we all know that the young master isn’t seeing anyone except apparently, apparently , Donna saw him enter the Goth Grand Hotel with a fancy letter! Must’ve been one of real expensive quality, thick wax seal and calligraphy and the like. He was in a rush, she said, and he’d looked around to see if anyone saw him, except she was hiding behind a flower planter so he didn’t see her. But yeah, Diluc—secret letter—suspicious meeting at the hotel.” Moco takes a breath. “It all adds up.”

“It all adds up,” Hillie echoes. 

Goth Grand Hotel. It does add up, just not in the way the maids (and poor, heartbroken Donna) think. Kaeya bows graciously to the women. 

“Thank you for the invaluable intel. I’ll look into it—and I trust you ladies know the way these things work?”

They nod. 

“We won’t tell if you don’t.”

He straightens up, smiles. 

“Excellent. We won’t have any issues then. Leave this to me, I’ll handle it. Don’t worry about it, 

I’m sure there’s nothing wrong.”

( exit stage right. )

 

---

 

You feel him before you see him. The air shifts a breath; the cloying sweetness of incense flits past your nose. Splitting the sky—bolts of ink, glimmering jade. 

“State your business.”

You should’ve known that earthen tones and local linen wouldn’t be enough to smother the iron tang clinging to your skin (blood is, after all, so much brighter and stickier than anyone thinks it is). Still, you’re not particularly sour about it. Xiao had always been an unwilling part of the equation. 

“Not even a hello, dear Guardian Yaksha?” You tut, not missing the way Childe perks up at the adeptus’s title. “I thought we were more familiar than this cold curtness. You wound me.”

“Do not play word games with me, Harbinger. State your business. ”

Instead of answering, you turn to your companion. One hand gestures to the bristling yaksha, the other tugs at the hem of Childe’s shirt. He curves toward you easily and part of your mind wonders if he was always this pliant, this willing to yield to your touch. 

If you are a gale, he is the flower that bends in your breeze. 

(But now is not the time to think about this strange behavior. Box it away, add it to the growing pile of abnormalities shut away in the corner of your mind reserved for the conundrums you do not have the time to unpack. Reserved, lately, for Childe .)

“You know who he is?” You murmur, eyes pinching into crescent slits. “Alatus, the Golden-Winged King. Last of Rex Lapis’s guardian yakshas, a living relic bathed in the ichor of the great Archon War, a breathing weapon sharpened against the bones of many an ancient god. The slayer of evils, the protector of dreams.” The list rolls smoothly off your tongue, a mantra. A prayer. “So? Want to know who he is? I can introduce you.”

“No need; I’ll do the greetings myself.”

You press your fingers to your lips and watch as Childe pivots smoothly away from you. He waves. Xiao’s scowl only deepens. 

“Hello, Guardian Yaksha! So many names—do you have a preference for which one I use to call you, or should I just pick one?”

Stony silence. 

“He’s called Xiao, now,” you supply helpfully. “Try that one.”

“Xiao?” Childe tests it on his tongue. The syllables must taste sweet, tart, green apple and honey swirled into one rippling name, because he grins so widely his canines are splitting his face (like a gap-toothed grin that cleaves the pale snowscape of a blurry face clean into two—a crack in the ice where barely unfrozen waters peek through). “Xiao! Xiao, Xiao, Xiao—”

You can pinpoint the exact moment the other man’s patience splinters. 

“ ENOUGH !” Xiao hisses, scleras smoldering with vitriol and promising violence, if you can play your cards right. “Such disrespect. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t expunge you from this land within the next heartbeat.”

Okay stop, backpedal. You’re looking for a fight, not an early grave. “Your contract. You took a vow to never raise a hand against a human.”

“Yes. But that one—” A jade-tipped spearpoint hones in on Childe, a compass needle snapping north. “—is no human. At least, not completely.” 

Not…completely?

In hindsight, this shouldn’t be a revelation. Your Harbinger colleagues come from all walks of life, be they millennia-old witches with candle wicks for bodies or shadowy knights with gaping maws for faces. Tick tick tick. This is a congregation of monsters. That Childe is touched by darkness, by something beyond the mortal realm, is not unreasonable. The brutality is starting to make more sense now. The lust for battle; the maniacal gleam that leaps to his eye whenever he speaks of a new challenge—yes, it all makes sense now. He is, after all, Her Majesty’s favorite weapon. 

You shouldn’t be surprised. You shouldn’t let it slip that you are surprised, you shouldn’t be staring at Childe with a stupidly stunned expression and he shouldn’t, by all accounts, be staring right back at you, eyes hazy with—what, what, what ?

Xiao’s gaze flickers between the two of you, a blinking firefly in the dusk. 

“Oh,” he says. “You did not know.”

(The truth is a sour green apple, plucked too early from the tree: there is so much you do not know. You need to do better lest you fall behind in your ignorance, in your incompetence. Understand more. See more. Be more.)

When you shrug, the motion feels mechanical, like your shoulders are being pulled up by strings. Your muscles arrange you into the vision of aloofness, wrapping a shroud of apathy so many times around yourself that the layers render it practically opaque. Take comfort in this suffocation. Take it. 

You clear your throat. 

“We usually operate alone and this sort of thing doesn’t come up in conversation.” You keep your eyes stubbornly fixated on Xiao. “Does this mean you’re going to impale only a portion of my colleague? I suggest doing away with the top half. He likes to talk, and something tells me that you’re a man who values his silence.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Xiao says drily. “Then again, walk away now. Unnecessary slaughter is…unsightly.”

All he gets for his diplomatic ventures is a helpless sigh. “No can do. I have an appointment to keep, a contract to fulfill. You know how it is.” You turn, finally, to fix Childe with a pointed look in your eye. “Sorry. Looks like you’ll have to be the sacrificial lamb.”

Childe laughs, canines gleaming under the sun. 

Click, click, click. This is a congregation of monsters. 

 

---

 

The letter finds him as he’s in the middle of trimming a bonsai tree. 

Hong-ge, it reads in a shaky, juvenile scrawl.  

Everything went just as you said, except there were no letters. They hadn’t had the time to draft it yet. Even better, no? You’ve made it too easy. Too boring. For a squadron trained directly under a Harbinger, their weakness was insulting. 

He can imagine Huang hunched over a desk, one hand reaching for the rusted years of schooling buried in the back of his brain while the other busies itself with a hangnail, fingers ghosting over the dried blood crusting his fingerprints with the identity of a killer. There’s a reason why Huang does the dirty work while Hong sits with a cup of jasmine tea and a half-pruned bonsai tree for company. He blows gently, breath rippling across the liquid surface. 

When the seat is emptied, I’ll make sure our men are actually competent . 

When . Hong likes the sound of that. 

 

---

 

Childe had dreamt, once, of skinning the Archon of this nation alive. You told him in no uncertain terms that he was a horrid man with an even more horrid sense of decor—there is no universe where dragon pelts make good rugs on the floor. There may be an argument to be made regarding Morax’s potential as a taxidermy mantlepiece, but you think stuffing dead animals with the illusion of being alive is trite and as a practice, should die. Scaramouche had agreed. Immortality is not to be given to containers as weak as furs or scales. 

But yes, Childe had once dreamt of killing Morax. 

Now he is sparring Morax’s little lieutenant. 

Pebbles spray into the air when Xiao slams his spear into the ground, the man growling as Childe hops away, heels just barely clipping jade. He twists around; another flurry of attacks has the Harbinger’s water blades up and blocking blow after blow. 

“Humor me,” Childe grunts. “How did you know?”

“You reek of the Abyss.” Xiao snarls, parrying one blade with his spear, then whirling away before the other can strike at his chest. “It eats away at you. You’re no better than a corpse.”

Supernatural senses, then. It explains how you, for all of your hawkish observation, hadn’t known. It explains the flash of honest shock splayed across your face, a raw and open wound that makes you both sickeningly uncomfortable. 

Logically speaking, he hadn’t deceived you about anything. You never asked about his pre-Fatui days, so he never spoke about them. He had no obligation to tell you anything even if you did ask, anyway—it's the simple principle of reciprocity. If you get to clam up and glare whenever he pesters you about your mysterious family, Childe gets to keep quiet about falling into hell.

Still. There’s a feeling gnawing at his gut as he weaves through Xiao’s slashes, his breath becoming shorter and shorter. 

“Does this mean—” Childe swerves around the incoming polearm and returns Xiao’s jab with a lunge. The yaksha hisses at the impact, twists away. “—does this mean you’ll kill me?”

Xiao kicks up from the ground and uses his torso to dip into a pivot; Childe ducks under the sweeping length of the polearm as it whips around but nearly sends his face in the path of a knee. A succession of blows: speartip, flat of the blade, butt of the staff. It’s evident Xiao knows how to utilize all aspects of his weapon, and he utilizes them well; the motions cycle through and double back and if not for the stinging wound singing in his thigh, the ridge of his hip, Childe may have been hypnotized by the fluidity of it all. 

Bite back. Xiao’s eyes flicker down to dirt; Childe’s stance has shifted, weight displaced and footwork dancing into a new territory of—he tastes the sharp metallic clang of weapon on weapon, bright. Dirty though. Childe sweeps his boot through the dry dirt and it's with a new ache in his ribs and dust in his mouth that Xiao takes to his backfoot. Duck, weave, block. Xiao looks for an arbor and remembers that the clearing is flat and an open stage. 

No matter. The sky is kind to him. 

One hop, two—Xiao is airborne again. A bird. Childe is tempted to trade his dual-blades for the bow on his back— its hunting season —but he’s forced to brace himself against a plunging attack before he can. 

Left leg, right shoulder, chest. Childe twists through the blows, picking at what few defensive cracks Xiao has to land a side jab. Pivot, lunge, slash. Polearm swings up, blades crash down. Childe leans into the locked hold, grinning as Xiao strains under the pressure of his and his weapons’ weight. 

“Having fun?”

Xiao grunts. There’s a new cut on the yaksha’s forehead. Ruby is beginning to bead at the edges, little pomegranate seeds winking in the sun. Childe wants to reach out and smudge it. Mess him up a little. 

“You know, you’re just like them.”

Xiao’s eyes narrow. 

“Who?”

“Oh, you-know-who.”

That earns him a scoff. Xiao’s attention shifts away from his face to somewhere to the side. 

“I mean, I can’t believe I didn’t see the similarities sooner. You like making their faces too—all scrunched up like—yes, like that! My! How fearsome!”

“If you know what is good for you,” Xiao says evenly and not-at-all scowling, “you will cease this foolishness immediately.”

“And if I don’t?”

Childe sounds delighted. He leans in a bit further, nearly pitching forward onto his toes with how far his center of gravity has been thrown. Xiao looks at him and thinks, now . 

The yaksha drops away. The Harbinger’s own weight sends the man tumbling to the ground with a yelp and before he can scramble to his feet, a flicked wrist delivers cool gleaming jade to the soft underside of his chin. 

“Yield.”

“Are you going to kill me?” Childe is breathless and—well, not resigned, but—he’s not exactly struggling against the notion of falling in battle. Was it a battle? The spar had obviously devolved beyond the bounds of a ceremonial crossing of blades, and Xiao realizes that he had let it happen. 

Xiao clicks his tongue.

“Of course not. Monstrous as you are, it would be a mercy to kill you.” He glares sharply at the Harbinger lying beneath his blade. “I will not free you from your condemnation.”

“Ah.” Childe relaxes fully into the ground. “So there is no point anymore. I yield.”

“Then you will not mind answering my questions,” Xiao says, though he knows that wily Harbingers are not known for giving up their secrets with the simple threat of words and steel. If need be, Xiao will have to gut the man like a fish. He is defending Liyue. Surely, his lord wouldn’t find fault in that. “Why are you here?” 

“Meeting someone in Qingce Village.” Alright, no fish-gutting today. “Dunno who—they’re one of Scapino’s contacts.” 

“ Scapino —!” Xiao’s head whips around the clearing. Your figure has vanished from the shade where you’d been spectating their brawl behind laced fingers and a careful smile. By the Seven—of course. You’d been using the ginger Harbinger as a diversion so you could sneak away and enact whatever nefarious scheme you had hidden up your sleeves. Of course. 

Silly, how a bit of distance can make everything so clear. 

The yaksha whirls back to face Childe, snatching a fistful of the other man’s shirt. 

“Whoa, round two alrea—”

“Contact them, or you will pay for their mistake.”

“I think there’s some misunderstanding here?”

“You were the distraction. I let the enemy slip through.” Xiao snaps. “ Now talk .”

“Man, you really are just like them.”

If it weren’t for the sheer audacity of that statement, Xiao would’ve noted how Childe had sounded almost…peeved, his own observation coating his tongue with a bitter taste. With Xiao’s momentary lapse in concentration, Childe shakes himself loose from Xiao’s hold. 

“I was joking earlier, but wow, I guess it’s true. Would it kill you to believe that the world won’t end with one mistake?”

Xiao’s scowl darkens. He is the last guardian yaksha of Liyue, the one who must take on the burden of five to keep his nation safe. The ghosts of malevolent gods do not sleep restfully in their graves and the earth is constantly weeping tears of karmic blood. Who is this Harbinger to say that one error will not upend the roots of Morax’s golden land, that one oversight will not send destructive ripples through Guizhong’s silver pond? This is his responsibility and he will be damned if he doesn’t execute this one thing right. 

“I believe I told you to talk.”

“I am talking?” 

“Talk about Scapino.”

“I am talking about Scapino. Didn’t know you were this interested in them, though.” Childe squints a little at him. “Ooh, a forbidden romance huh? I hear that sort of stuff’s all the rage in Inazuma’s bookstores now. The Guardian Yaksha and a Fatui Harbinger—I can see it now. What a pair you’d make.”

Xiao stiffens. The spear in his hand is an immortal weight pressing against the column of Childe’s neck and if the Harbinger gulps too hard, he’ll nick his throat on jade. He laughs anyway. 

“Ah, don’t look so scared. I’m just joking with ya!” Childe’s smile is a mess of bared fang and grinned malice, incisors glinting with spit and venom aimed to kill. Feral. A snarling beast from the Tsaritsa’s menagerie. “The only similarity is that you’re two dogs who’ve thrown your lives away for those masters of yours. If no one is holding the other end of the rope, would you knot it around a tree instead?”

The adeptus’ spine goes ramrod straight. The muscle in his jaw twitches. He looks bleached in the sun, a pale sunbeam kept from flying by weighted jade amulets and censers dedicated to appeasing the dead. And that’s just it, isn’t it? Enter: the dead that don’t stay dead and the living that play pretend at living. You’re two terrible actors sweating under stage lights and fumbling with the collars of your costumes, skinsuits several sizes too small. Suffocation is a strange substitute for an embrace but you are greedy and he is complacent. You take it because you can; he takes it because what else, what else, what else. 

Childe pats the ground next to him. 

“Sit for a bit, little yaksha. Aren’t you tired?”

 

---

 

In an industry where riddles are the native language, it is refreshing to sit across from someone who, frankly, does not give a damn. Qing Shixian[1] is a man who cares about little more than the ink printed on the parchment laid between the two of you, humming to himself as he thumbs a string of beads. In a low, grating voice, he readily agrees to the conditions you’d prepared and keeps quiet about the…peculiarities present in your arrangement. 

 

(A crisp sheet of paper, quarter-filled by a cramped scrawl:

1. The signee agrees to rebrand the entirety of the [L/n] Mercantile Co. such that no allusions or connections are made to the pre-existing company. No fonts, scripts, logos, banners, adverts, packaging, or other graphical/typographical assets belonging to the [L/n] Mercantile Co. may be used. 
2. The signee agrees to fairly treat the workers, previously employed by the [L/n] Mercantile Co., that will be coming under their care. None of the employees within this cohort may be laid off unreasonably (see Section 16.5); only release them from their employment contracts should they choose to leave of their own volition. Each worker must receive fair, livable pay above minimum wage and be required to have a workday of no more than eight hours. Working conditions must be kept safe and, should accidents occur, the company is responsible for swift, attentive medical treatment and appropriate monetary compensation (see Sections 18, 19, 20).  
3. The signee agrees to set the day of the Winter Solstice as a mandatory company holiday. Henceforth, no business shall be conducted on that day. There are no exceptions.

     Violation of these conditions will immediately render this contract null and void.) 

 

You’d been prepared to field questions about your sudden motive to rid yourself of your father’s company; you’d been expecting to wave away the lingering doubts and paranoia that comes when examining a deal too good to be true. But there is none of that here, within this small tea room. There is jasmine tea, sipped out of courtesy more than thirst, cooling on the lacquer tray. There is the faint smell of smoke, a callous on his hand where a pipe may usually lay. There is a golden pocket watch peeking from his breast pocket and a cane carved with a dragon leaning against his chair. 

There is a slight suspicion growing within your mind.

 “Qing- xiansheng , do you have any questions about the terms here? Would you like any explanations or elaborations?”

He looks up at you. One of his eyes, you realize, is milky. 

“None.” The old man seems to sink into thought. “Well, just one.”

You exhale. Leaning back in your chair, you gesture vaguely with one hand, glove sweeping over the cooling refreshments and untouched finger food like a languid breeze. 

“Please, anything.”

“If you insist.” His smile is an obscure little thing, enigmatic, and just as puzzling as it is rapidly becoming troublesome. The ease starts to slip from your shoulders. “May I read your tea leaves?”

“ Tea –I—I beg your pardon, Qing- xiansheng , but I must have heard you wrong. If you want more tea, I can call for a fresh pot?”

“No, your hearing is quite excellent, I’m told.” 

“You’re told —”

“I’d like to read your tea leaves.”

Qing Shixian is a man who does not give a damn about many things—seating etiquette, small talk, the political tensions brewing between Snezhnaya and Liyue, among other things—so when he does, in fact, give a damn about some things, it is common sense that those things are important to him. Special, even. 

Why the elderly man likes to squint at dredges and find futures at the bottom of his teacup is beyond you, but the customer is king. At least he didn’t ask for anything ridiculous, like your first-born or your childhood. Not that you have much of either to give. 

Shrugging, you tip back the contents of your cup. It's bitter and cold on the way down and leaves a bad aftertaste. 

“Why so interested in my future?” You ask as he takes the cup from your hands, nods to you graciously, and peers down into it. One milky eye. “I mean, there’s not much there except paperwork.”

“Oh, don’t undersell yourself. You’re quite an interesting person, my child. I’m sure any author worth their brush could write a gripping story about you.”

“You flatter me.”

“You coddle me.” He taps the cup a few times, nail clinking rhythmically on ceramic. “I know you don’t think that’s a compliment. In reality, you find the idea of a stranger laying your life out on paper, black ink against white canvas, quite distasteful.” Qing looks up at you. “You fear dissection, warm flesh squirming under the cold metal blade. Most shy away from the pain but you…you’re fixated on something else. The concept. The mere concept of a vivisection is enough to shake you.” 

“All this from a couple of tea leaves?” What else is there to say? Indignation at his audacity would only coat his ravings in truth; fleeing is not an option. Only criminals flee from persecution. If you are innocent, sit, brat . Sit and face this old man with the milky eye like the Harbinger you are, bringer of death, herald of destruction, force of nature. So you clap for his little charade and praise his excellent showmanship—has he considered making a career out of this? You’re sure the more superstitious mind would shower him in mora for a second consultation. 

He blinks. 

“Oh? But I am not finished. Are you so eager to move on?”

 

Sit, brat. No— kneel . I am not finished with you yet. Where are you trying to run now?

 

Pain blossoms in the meat of your palms and numbly, you register that you’re digging your nails into your own hand. Your knuckles strain against the white satin of your gloves as you crush your digits into a clenched fist, a sealed rosebud of bone and flesh and a squirming emotion struggling to wrench itself free. 

You stay rooted to your chair, pressing yourself in with the weight of your will. 

“Excellent.” Qing returns to hmm-ing at the leaves. “So you choose not to flee. It is good to see that you’ve tamped down that impulse.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your father was never good at long-distance running—you got that from your mother. Slender. Long-legged. A shuttered silhouette dancing at the horizon’s edge. No wonder that fool was obsessed with catching her.”

“ How dare you! ”

Your chair clatters when you stand, hands braced against the table, eyes blazing. Your heart clatters again when Qing pulls out a brooch and drops it on the lacquer wood between the lotus-crisps and the tofu. Harpoon shaped. Gold. Ruby. 

The air is suddenly very hard to breathe. 

“I’m willing to buy your burden from you, but I’m sure you know how he’d feel if he knew you felt it was a burden to begin with.” The man sighs as he rises much more slowly from his seat. “I heard Gordian tried to talk you out of it. Foolish sap. That certainly turned out well for him. We all know you won’t turn from this path. I know you can’t . Still, a final word, on the off chance it reaches you—”

He may be blind in one eye, but that milky iris latches onto your stunned expression with startling clarity. 

“—you can only burn so many bridges before you start burning yourself too.”

The door slides shut. The brooch gleams mockingly on the table before you. 

 

---

 

The messenger bows and disappears in a puff of smoke. Childe remains prone for a few moments more, before peeling himself from the ground with a sigh. 

“Well, there you have it. Scapino needs some help finishing up a meal. Tuanyuan[2] Teahouse, the reserved room at the very back. You coming?”

Xiao stares. 

“You had them tailed.”

Childe shrugs easily, loosely. “I mean, yeah.” 

I mean, yeah. The weather is nice today. I like oranges. I mean, yeah, I tailed my own partner because I knew they’d sneak off without me, because this was always going to happen and I don’t trust them enough to come back to me. I mean, the weather is nice today. 

If anyone is similar to Scapino, Xiao decides, it is Childe. The Harbingers’ relationship is none of the yaksha’s business, thank Morax, but to call each other ‘comrade’ then turn so easily like this…it makes a mockery out of the very word and Xiao isn’t sure how he feels about that. They, at the very least, know where their companions have stepped, know that their companions still breathe. 

If only they cared. 

Xiao shakes his head. The Harbingers’ relationship is none of his business. Liyue’s safety, however, is. So—

“Hurry up. Follow me.” 

He pivots in the dirt and walks.

Notes:

finta polpa: PULP FICTION

[1] Qing Shixian (青视线): lit. “clear vision.” Specifically though, “青” refers to a clear green-ish color, rather than transparency. Imagine a watered-down version of jade. When taken together with other characters in “青花瓷” (qing hua ci), it refers to porcelain. Anyway, yes, “clear vision.” Never met a Chinese person named so literally. More evidence that I am not creative with names.

[2] Tuanyuan (团圆): “reunion.”

ADDITIONAL NOTES:
> “Master” vs “Sir” Kaeya: will not lie, I haven’t played Genshin recently enough to verify if this is true or not, but I hc that older members of Dawn Winery staff (Adelinde, Elzer) call Kaeya “Master” in reference to his stint as a Ragnvindr son. Newer members (Moco, Hillie) call Kaeya “Sir” in reference to his current position as a Captain of the KoF.

 

Dear lord, that middle portion with Kaeya got away from me—my notes for that were NOT that long, but I guess that’s just the magic of Sir Kaeya Alberich huh? Moco and Hillie are also criminally underused in fics. No idea if they’re in character or not, but I took that one line about Adelinde’s meat dish and ran with it into the sunset.

Also—Xiao! Xiao AND CHILDE!! They’re a funny duo. That would’ve been my favorite section to write if not for the fact that it was also a fight scene. Those aren’t…my strong suits. Ah well. We trudge on.

As always, thank you for reading <3

Chapter 15: sei conigli

Summary:

“Okay, I rescind my statement. You’re being childish.”

“Says the one called ‘Childe.’”

“Fine, then call me Tartaglia.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Can’t I?”

“This doesn’t change anything.”

“Doesn’t it?”

Notes:

whaddup palcoscenico nation, you must be starving.

**IMPORTANT!

TWs FOR THIS CHAPTER

description of injury that is SIMILAR to self-cutting
- clarification: the character did NOT engage in self-cutting. the description states later that the scars are DEFENSIVE SCARS inflicted on them by another. the description of injuries on the character's forearms, however, may trigger some individuals due to the similarities. please take care of yourselves.
- begins a bit after: "Childe reaches forward and pulls off your gloves."
- ends a bit before: "Childe quietly folds your clothes and sets them on a nearby chair. You’ll want them later."

minor gore
- begins a bit after: '"Wait—' But the woman is too late"
- ends a bit before: "A knife. So useful for peeling apples."

ONCE UPON A TIME, you stormed through Liyue Harbor to corner a mongrel of a prince, sweeping through the entirety of a restaurant to extract an explanation for his betrayal. He’d broken your heart when he sent his minions to spoil your victory over the Dawn Winery, and now, he supposes you’ve set out to return the favor. Childe strides toward that familiar event horizon crossed before by the two of you—albeit in reversed positions. The tides pull the moon close, the sun rises in the west. Spring turns her blossom-wreathed head to tug playfully at Summer’s fair hair while the winds exchange currents and blow swallows back to their nests. Childe slams open a door and borrows your sickly sweet diplomatic grin to ask if “ya miss me, darling? It has been so long since the last time we saw each other.” You sit at a table, and stare.

Let’s play spot-the-difference:

1. This is not the opulent Liuli Pavilion, but a humble family restaurant stitched into the skirts of Qingce Village. The proprietor wrings her hands, then the dish towel slung over her shoulder, and wipes the table next door with more vigor.
2. Xiao leans on his jade-tipped spear in a doorway once filled by the golden splendor of a strange funeral parlor consultant. He is shorter, yes, but the otherworldliness sharpening the Cor Lapis in his eyes means he is no less attention-grabbing with his presence. He pulls a little irritably at his collar. Is that almond tofu on the table?
3. That is almond tofu on the table. That is a ruby-red, blood-red brooch on the table. That is a ruby-red, blood-red brooch that had once been on the table and is now being shoved rather hastily into the pocket of a shaken Harbinger. 
4. YOU: (distractedly) You’re here. You missed it. It’s gone. 
5. Those are not your lines.

The serpentine smile slides off, oil on water. Childe steps further into the room, hands uncertain, voice carefully steady. 

“…what did they say?”

Under the light, your eyes are glazed. Seeing and yet unseeing, they flicker over his face. Your tongue wets your lips. 

“He’ll do it—he’ll take it, the burden—no, he’ll be upset if I call it a burden, so, he left a—a gift?” 

Childe exchanges a glance with Xiao, who had, at some point, slipped under his arm to stand by the table. Now, the yaksha turns from one Harbinger to peer at the other. His brow is furrowed. His posture, tense. 

“Who’s going to take…what…?” Xiao asks, gloved hands never leaving his spear. “The Exuvia?”

The Exuvia. 

You jolt, shake yourself. Shit, what were you saying again? Childe and Xiao are both staring at you with strange expressions and you can’t quite read what’s on their minds. You said something. You definitely said something weird, you might’ve said something revealing, oh Archons , you could’ve jeopardized your entire plan and—

Wait. If Childe and Xiao are here, at the teahouse, at the teahouse you never told them about , then you must have been followed. You were watched, tailed, etcetera etcetera, and now who knows what someone else knows. You’re getting sloppy. You’ve been getting sloppy, actually, and soon you will pay the price for your slack. The rope is loose, and it is a long way down. 

And what were you saying again?

“Hey, hey, look at me. Scapino?” The world slides back into focus and Childe is suddenly so much closer than he was before. His head is tilted as his eyes sweep over your features, oceanic blue on blue on blue. If he steps any closer, your foreheads will knock into each other. 

You lean back. He blinks. He tries for another smile. One of his own, this time. 

“It’s nice to have you back with us. Are you…” He pauses, runs something through his mind.  “...nevermind. Oh! You’ve already ordered food for us!” Childe straightens up and twists away to wave at Xiao. “Xiao, come sit. We’d better eat while it’s hot!”

Xiao is still gripping his weapon with both hands, though he now looks unsurely to the platters of food set for two. You don’t have any cups where you are sitting, yet the vacated spot across the table has two perched side by side. One is filled with cold tea. The other is left with only the dredges at the bottom. A pair of chopsticks lies abandoned on the tiles near your feet, and now he quietly sets it back on a napkin. 

“I don’t eat mortal food.” 

“Really? What a shame.” One of Childe’s hands casually finds a perch on the back of your chair. “It must be hard, being immortal and all. You reside in a nation with such a dazzling array of foodstuffs and you can only drink clouds and eat rainbows.”

“I don’t—what? I don’t do that. I don’t eat rainbows.”

“Then what do you eat? It’s important for a warrior to keep a healthy and balanced diet to maintain a healthy and balanced body. That’s what my old man used to say. Take care of your weapon and it’ll take care of you.”

“I imagine a mortal’s advice applies only to mortals. You can keep your father’s words for yourself, thank you.”

“You eat dessert though.” Both men look back at you. You’re sagging in your chair, one hand reaching up to rub at your temples. “Almond tofu from the Wangshu Inn. Maybe try a pear next time—the yellow ones in the receptionist’s basket. I hear they’re as sweet as they are round.”

Xiao doesn’t look like he knows what to say. His mouth opens. Closes. Then it opens again, and he looks to Childe, and Childe shrugs. 

“You heard them. Try the yellow pears next time. They’re sweet. And you must've had red bean buns. Freshly steamed ones are always great for morning strolls along the pier.”

Now Xiao just looks mildly disturbed. 

“...I’ll keep that in mind.” Golden eyes slide over to you. “Are you ill?”

What a funny question. The last time you let yourself be sick was when you were a child and ruby red brooches didn’t feel as heavy and the world was alright. You think you would have started giggling at how absurd the thought is, if Childe didn’t choose that instant to palm your forehead, fingers cool and light against your skin. 

“You’re burning.” The frown returns. 

You bat his hand away. “Look, the concern is cute and all, but stop it. I’m fine.”

“When was the last time you ate something?” All pretense of casual talk drops immediately. Childe doesn’t let up. “And don’t tell me that you ate a full meal in this teahouse, because these plates clearly haven’t been touched. The apple you had on the way here doesn’t count either.”

Another funny question. You humor him though, and cast your mind back to the last few days. Tea. Apple. Ah, that skewer at the Good Hunter, before you left Mondstadt with Paimon and Lumine. Does that count?

“No, not really.” Xiao puts in his two pieces of mora and you’re starting to appreciate the interrogation less and less. “How long did you sleep last night?”

“Don’t answer that.” Childe’s stare is beginning to get stifling, and you shift uncomfortably under the weight. He doesn’t turn his gaze away when he addresses Xiao: “They slept outside in a marsh.”

Xiao makes a choked little sound. “It rained last night.”

Did it? You don’t remember, but sure, your hair might’ve been damp in the morning. Whatever. You’re growing irritated and something is pulsing behind your eyes, pushing at your temples. Whatever . It’s just a few drops of water, and you say so. 

The yaksha doesn’t look convinced, but he has enough decency to shrug his shoulders and acquiesce to your unspoken demand to drop the subject. Your coworker has none of his tact.

“You’re being stubborn,” Childe says. 

“And you’re being an asshole, asshole.”

“Okay, I rescind my statement. You’re being childish .”

 “Says the one called ‘Childe.’”

“Fine, then call me Tartaglia.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Can’t I?”

“This doesn’t change anything.”

“Doesn’t it?”

The whole exchange shakes a startled laugh out of you, something tremulous that rattles in the air the same way your chopsticks clattered to the floor not too long ago. It’s no secret that most denizens of the Zapolyarny Palace call each other not by their titles, but by the monikers gifted unto them by their frosty benefactor. The honor of being your Tsaritsa’s soldier is compressed within the three syllables belonging to “Scapino,” and every fresh-faced recruit joining your squadron knows it. You wouldn’t berate them if they used your full codename, but it’s not hard to pick up on the waves of displeasure radiating from you whenever you’re addressed as such. 

Your Harbinger coworkers have varied opinions about their own names. 

Scaramouche would probably gut you if you called him "The Balladeer” to his face. Addressing Dottore as “The Doctor” is nothing short of mockery, and he knows it. He laughs at it though, releasing an echoing cackle suited to ring out across a sea of sand. La Signora doesn’t mind it at all, but that is because she is “The Fair Lady”—loved, envied, and feared in the same breath. 

You don’t know what Childe thinks of his name, but that is because you don’t care. Childe is and has always been just Childe, the young lord that spends his days in his bloody playpen. You’re content to keep him at a professional distance, careful to not let him grasp your white sleeves with those rust-stained fingers, to not let him catch your eyes with those whirlpools of destruction. Childe is Childe. That is it. That is all. 

“You can’t—you can’t just—” You laugh again, stuffing your mouth with incredulous sound instead of whatever may have come next. 

“Why not? I just did. You like saying ‘Scaramouche’ more than ‘Balladeer,’ so why can’t you do the same with ‘Tartaglia’?”

You never had any reason to. Why should you? You don’t need to. You don’t need to know him. 

(But do you want to know him?)

“Look, Childe—”

“—Tartaglia—”

“— Childe , why are you arguing with me over a name? Point is, I’m fine and you really need to look at the big picture here. There are more important matters.”

“I agree.” Xiao cuts in. Thankfully, he looks completely unaffected by the embarrassingly juvenile argument unfolding in front of him. “State your business in Liyue.”

You look up at Childe, lifting your brows. You left the ginger alone with the yaksha for an extended period of time. Surely, he said something to Xiao. Childe, ever so helpful, only looks down at you and simply raises his eyebrows too. Petty bastard. Fine. 

You clear your throat. 

“Childe didn’t tell you? He’s here because I’m here for a meeting.”

“One of your…contacts?” Xiao says the word carefully, drawing out the syllables with a winding hook. He’s probing for something, but your inductive and deductive processes melt away each time you try to grasp them. You don’t know what he wants. 

Best be on your guard, child.

“You could call them that.” You shrug as noncommittally as possible.

“And who is this ‘contact’ of yours?” 

“An old friend.”

“From Snezhnaya?”

“They’re quite well-traveled. They’d prefer not to be tied down to any one region.”

“A merchant? A diplomat?”

“An upstanding citizen and loyal friend.”

“Right . And what is this citizen’s name?”

“Nobody.” You crack a small grin at the memory of an old maritime story, a true epic of the seas. A mythic war hero’s quest to return home had required some cunning to open his path forward. Though you don’t—won’t—travel by boat, perhaps you could siphon some of that stardust for your own journey.  

Xiao doesn’t share the sentiment. 

“What is their name.” 

The yaksha isn’t letting you go without a fight. Cold sweat beads on the back of your neck. Archons, you should’ve known it would’ve come to this. The wind has blown him to the trail of lies you lead; this hunting dog will catch you sooner or later. Still—

Run, coward. Aren’t you supposed to be good at that?

You stagger to your feet. You were also supposed to be good at controlling others, your situation, but most of all, yourself. How ironic, that the torturous, traitorous heart keeping you alive would also doom you to the traps of your own creation. Who thought it would be a good idea to give a marionette their strings? A fun thought experiment thought up by Dottore, perhaps, but like many creations that have passed under his pale fingers, this too, ends with disastrous consequences. 

Snip . 

The world spins and you’re falling into nothing. 

 

---

 

Xiao is softer than he looks. 

Not more than ten breaths pass between the moment your eyes close and the moment your head falls upon a pillow in Qingce village proper, then ten more between the moment Childe is dipping his head in thanks as Xiao tells him that the village elder has graciously allowed them a place to recover. If the Harbingers so much as breathe at the residents wrong, Xiao will know, and the consequences will be dire. They will regret ever stepping in Liyue, they will wish they were never born, etcetera etcetera, so on and so forth. 

“We owe you,” Childe says earnestly. As a Harbinger, he ought to loathe the very thought of handing anyone an IOU, but as Childe—Tartaglia—he finds that he doesn’t seem to mind giving up a chip for you. 

Xiao’s nose crinkles at this, as if smelling something foul.

“I have no need for any favors from you, Fatui scum . The best thing you can do is—”

“—leave Liyue as soon as humanly possible and stop meddling in your Lord’s affairs, yes, yes.” Childe flaps an errant hand at the yaksha. “Still. Let this Fatui scum do something for you, sometime. Allow us to clear our debt. Give us peace of mind.”

Xiao fidgets with his gloves, pulling, adjusting them on his hands. It’s a little disturbing how much Childe’s words sound like something the yaksha would say, and so Xiao chooses instead to cast his mind out the door, through the swaying cattail marshes, over the plains, and finds an errant group of hilichurls. There are few in number, and the camp is out of the way, but they are a distraction and Xiao is not picky. 

“Sure. Whatever. I must go.”

The curtains sway in the wake of a gale, and Childe is left staring out an open window. He snorts at that. 

“Not even a proper goodbye. What a kid. How impolite—you think so too, right ‘Pino?”

The ginger looks over at where you are sprawled over the sheets, a tangle of limbs and sweaty fabrics. If you were slightly more conscious, you’d be berating him for letting you lay in discomfort for as long as he has. He can see you now: one hand on your hip, the other gesturing animatedly in the air as your mouth runs itself dry. Truly, your incompetence is a marvel! Perhaps we should let Dottore poke around in your brain, peanut-sized as it is. Figure out how you managed to survive for so long. Why did the Tsaritsa pick you up from the streets anyway? 

“Apologies, your highness,” he drawls. “We’ll be changing you into your custom-fitted and hand-embroidered silks now.” 

You say that, but you’re just staring. What? See something you like?

“As if. Just—you’re okay with this? I’m going to have to, ah…take off…your clothes.” Childe clears his throat. “You understand. I wouldn’t be thinking about doing this if I didn’t have to.”

Right. Necessity.

“Necessity.”

Well, get on with it then. 

“Mm hmm. Just a quick swap.”

Any day now. Or are you waiting for me to wake up so I can do it, the same way I do everything else by myself? 

“You’re allowed to shut up, you know.”

You do. 

Childe holds the new change of clothes for a few moments more. Maybe he should do some deep breathing exercises. Wriggle his fingers around a bit to make sure that they don’t cramp. He paces down the length of the bed. Looks down at you again. 

Still just as quiet as you were before.

Well, nothing to it. Gotta rip off the bandage before the wound festers and rots and the limb falls off, a gruesome accusation of incompetency. Childe is not incompetent. Incompetent weapons are useless weapons, rusted over and forgotten in the depths of a silent armory. 

And he is still here, isn’t he?

“Fuck it.”

Childe reaches forward and pulls off your gloves. It’s when he’s peeling away your sleeves that he notices it. A sharp intake of breath—quick check, no, you are still slumped against the pillows, none the wiser—and his eyes trace the knotted flesh rising from your forearms. Ropy scars jut up defiantly, a mountain range of secrets rebelling against your skin. 

It feels invasive, gawking at your wounds like this. He’s aware that he’s laying pieces of old history out in the sun, unwrapping your past while you lie defenseless, burning in your own body. This is probably wrong. This is definitely wrong. He shouldn’t be doing this, really, but—

Childe can’t help but scan the diagonal marks slashing across both your arms. They’re uneven in length but equal in depth. Some skitter off the side, as if originating from a just-barely deflected blow. One looks a bit like a star. 

Ah. He knows what these are. 

Defensive scars. 

Childe quietly folds your clothes and sets them on a nearby chair. You’ll want them later. 

 

---

 

Qingce Village is a place that may as well have grown straight from the side of the mountain. Childe surveys the rice paddies hugging the slopes of the earth, then turns back to watch the local healer rummage through shelves of herbs, ointments, and salves. There is a pungent smell in this cool room, one that washes out in the sun, and it honestly reminds him a little of the Bubu Pharmacy near the harbor. But there is no coconut milk-loving zombie girl here so he must wait for the healer to finish muttering to themselves, their eyes darting away each time they meet his own. 

Qiqi had never been afraid of the Harbinger’s impromptu visits, but perhaps that says more about her than about him. 

“Your friend has a fever. Normally, we’d use qingxin to clear it but we, ah...” The healer fidgets under his gaze. “...we ran out. A-all of our pickers have been relegated to help out in the fields, so we haven’t been able to restock as often as we’d like.” Childe folds his arms and they squeak, shriveling further behind their counter. “Honest!”

He hadn’t been doubting them, but he doesn’t correct them now, either. He rubs his chin in thought. “That really is too bad. Hmm…how about this? How much does the village usually need? To last all of you until the next picking season, I mean.”

“About forty-four.”

“And if we add Scapino’s share to that number?”

“An inflated estimate says fifty. Why?”

“If I get those qingxin flowers for you, will you use some of those to treat my comrade? Let me help you help us. If you want an ulterior motive, here it is: I just want Scapino to recover.” 

In the end, the healer points out their village’s usual climbing routes and marks a few peaks on a map for him to visit. Business concluded, they say that Childe doesn’t need to rush, that he can stay as long as he’d like, dear guest, but he watches them twist their handkerchief into knots and decides that Scapino needs to be checked on, pronto, so sorry but he won’t be able to sit and drink herbal tea for much longer. 

Technically, he isn’t lying. On the stroll back to your temporary quarters, he entertains the thought of finding you mid-vault through a window, coat streaming behind you as you make your grand getaway for the umpteenth time. Would he be able to stop you? If you raced, could he catch you? If you disappeared, could he find you?

To his disappointment, when Childe closes the door behind him, you’re sitting up, watching the scenery outside your window with mild disinterest. You’ve tugged on another robe of some sort, sleeves too long, collar slightly loose. It’s strange to see you out of your form-fitting garb. Your decorative condescension has been replaced by rosy cheeks and softened jaws. A dewy gaze nestles in your eyes and swimming in fabrics as you are, you look younger. Still tired, yes, but more…your age. 

As if hearing his thoughts, you direct a watery glare in his direction. 

“Not a word.”

“No tailor-made clothes out here, huh?” And when has he ever listened to you? You scoff, then cough, and it’s back to burrowing under the blankets for you. He starts to sit on the side of the bed, then thinks better of it and draws up a chair instead. “Anyway, some good news: this village has a dedicated healer. They’re a bit jumpy, but if you stop scowling at them they’re pretty nice.”

“And the bad news?”

“I need to step out for a bit, so I won’t be around to keep you company. Don’t worry though! I’ll be back faster than you can recite the alphabet backwards!”

“Ah, so it's more good news then.”

You don’t ask him where he’s going or what he’s doing. Either the fever is scrambling your brain to a concerning degree, or you’ve turned all your focus inward and decided that it wasn’t worth it to pay any of your miserable attention to him. Maybe both. Childe purses his lips, then makes a mental note to station two of his agents near the inn. 

“Did you need anything before I leave? Tea? A set of bone china? A private bathhouse?”

You grumble a little and sink further into the bed. “Don’t you have someplace to be?”

As if to spite you, he makes it a point to spend extra time puttering about the room. He refills the pitcher by the bed. He gets another washcloth for your forehead, and another, and then another one on standby. He fiddles with the latch on the window, mentally calculating the optimal angle to let in maximum airflow but keep out a cold wind. 

The floorboards creak as his footsteps cross the room, then crosses it again. Strangely, despite all of his fussing and bothersome ministrations, your complaints have ceased. 

Childe pauses by your bed. 

It’s unusual to see you so silent. Not that you are noisy—you err on the side of quietness whenever you’re at Zapolyarny, electing to smile wanly at Pantalone and Dottore’s spats instead of scoffing audibly like Arlecchino or snickering openly like Scaramouche. Still, Childe has always suspected that if he strained his ears enough, he could hear you thinking from across the ballroom. You’ve always had one of those faces. Inquisitive. Full of activity that buzzes just beneath the surface, a staticky hum of trickery and cunning just barely contained by that diplomatic grin of yours. 

So yeah. Your brand of quiet is different.

He hovers, hands twitching by his sides. He itches to reach out and pull the coverlet higher, to tuck the sheets under your chin. A few strands of hair stick to your forehead and curl with perspiration; they’d look better tucked behind your ear. Your glass has already been refilled. He’s just changed the damp towel sliding off your forehead a few minutes ago and the kind old lady outside will change it in a few minutes more. The windows are cracked slightly ajar and the breeze that wanders in touches your cheeks with a touch far gentler than Childe’s. He steps closer. Stops. 

“You’ve been staring a lot. If you’ve got something to say, spit it out.” 

Your voice is edged with raspiness and exasperation. Even with your eyes closed, he’s sure you’re glaring, somehow. Childe laughs a little, passing the lifted hand through his tangled curls instead of yours. 

“Just thinking.” He’s feeling honest today.

“Ooh. Dangerous.”

He flicks your forehead, ignoring your pained yelp. “Still got that attitude, huh? Guess I shouldn’t be worried. And here I was, ready to go and scale a couple adeptal mountain ranges for you.”  

That gets you to crack one eye open. 

“Again?” 

“I still haven’t forgiven you or Scaramouche for that, by the way. If you weren’t sick, I would’ve challenged you to fifty fights to make up for it, one fight per qingxin flower.”

“Mm, how honorable of you.” You’re sinking again. Your voice is weighted and he watches your eye slide closed again, iris retreating to blessed darkness. “If Xiao doesn’t fling you from the clouds for your intrusion, we’ll see if you can get one fight out of me. One for a six-petaled qingxin flower.”

“Six petals? Do those even exist?”

“Your problem. Not mine.” 

He remains standing by your side for a few beats more, listening to the tempo of sleep spread your breath even. It’s strange. Childe finds himself on a familiar path, rising with the sun through the clouds and into the rocky peaks jutting from Liyue’s landscape again, again, again. Repetition breeds discipline, sure, but what are the chances he’d trek across the sky to collect fifty Qingxin flowers for you for a second time? Call it déjà vu, call it fate’s funny trick—

He catches himself. Play spot the difference. 

The bitter taste in his mouth is gone, and so is that wide brim in his peripheral vision. He looks outside your window, up those soaring cliffs, then back down at you. A drop of sun splashes onto your cheek. You shift and tuck your face further into your pillow. 

It’s a beautiful day to go hiking today.   

 

---

 

You’re by the sea, close enough to the waves to hear them sigh as they recede from shore. Before you, an easel sprouts from the sand and bears a canvas. There is already an image blooming there. Look down at your paint-splotched hands and realize that you have been sitting out here for a very, very long time. Then, look up, and see what you’ve been creating. 

A woman holds a child on her lap while a man stands behind them, a protective figure curling around them both. The three of them beam from within the portrait and you swear you can hear the child laughing at something from a moment before—perhaps, the man had told a joke, as he often does, as he often did. You add a daub of paint to the woman’s cheeks and she blushes at her husband’s ministrations; pigment provides a roguish twinkle to the father’s eye. 

“And would my dear like to see a magic trick?” He seems to be saying, and with a flourish, a hat appears in his hand. The child squeals with glee and the man hands the hat to them, winking as he does. “This is for you. Keep it safe, for it contains all that you may ever want, and all that you may ever need. Try it. See what you get!” 

The child immediately turns the hat upside down and gives it a good shake. Toys, treats, fancy clothes—the woman picks up a fur-lined coat and marvels at the silky smooth pelt of its collar. But there! A white rabbit thumps to the ground and immediately takes off running. 

“Rabbit!” 

“Wait—” But the woman is too late; the child has already hopped off of her lap, stumbling over their own feet in their haste. Run. Keep running. The rabbit is just ahead, dear, and you’ve never known when to quit. Its fur is so pure, so pretty; its ears must be so soft, so velvety. Just one pet, please, just a touch—

The child trips over carpet. Hands close around a warm body, then a sickening squelch, the protrusion of bone. 

“Hands off the tablecloth, brat. That’s worth more than you.” 

The corpse clatters onto an empty plate. Rabbits lie, twitching, down the center of the table, and there sits a child dressed in red. The candles are burning low; will you fix this? 

Their sticky, stained hands plunge into the hat—a marble, a skull—again, again—a boat, a brooch—and again, please, again—a vial, a knife. 

A knife. So useful for peeling apples. You’re good at that, aren’t you? You’ve got a few tricks you can do. Teach them how to use it. They will put it to good use. Look at this child trapped within the borders of your canvas, of your frame. Where there is a door, there is someone on the other side. Where there is someone on the other side, there is someone knocking. 

“——!”

The child backs away, as if attempting to press themself into the surrounding dark. A futile effort. You know that hiding will not make the knocking go away. 

“—ger!”

You know what will. 

“Lord Harbinger!”

You bolt upright, hands flying to the nearest weapon you can find—a small statuette, carved from wood, that had been sitting quietly on the bedside table. The village elder doesn’t flinch when this object gets swung in her face, only continuing to peer placidly at your sweaty and disheveled self. 

“Lord Harbinger?”

“A-ah, I was just admiring the craftsmanship of this carving. The polish on this wood is smooth, and uh, the knife marks are very clean. Yes. It’s beautiful.” A silent beat. You clear your throat. “Um—sorry, but did you need anything…?”

“Oh, yes. I nearly forgot.” She says, like someone who has never forgotten anything, ever. “One of us is extremely ill. Nothing we have is effective. Normally we’d never think of disturbing a guest while they’re resting, but we really are out of options. Please, Lord Harbinger, you are well traveled and versed in the knowledge of the world beyond our humble village—could you take a look and see if you recognize the symptoms?”

All thoughts of your undignified conduct disappear from your mind instantly. You’re up and moving before her words have dissipated from the air. 

“Of course. Please, lead the way.”

The village elder is a surprisingly quick lady; she is much too spry for someone with all her years on her back. More often than not, she is the one waiting patiently as you stumble around the terraced paths and over pebbled grounds. Eventually, she directs you to a house sprouting from the border between grove and wood, one guarding the village from the wild stretching farther along the slopes. 

“In here.” Then, to the gathering crowd: “move aside. Let us through.”

The villagers part willingly for their elder, but watch you step through the doorway with hawkish eyes, a vigilance unbecoming of their status as residents of a retirement village. You set your shoulders. The brunt of a gaze is nothing new. 

Forget them. You have a job to do. 

You step into a room that echoes yours, the bed pushed up against the far wall, a nearby window opened as wide as it can for maximum circulation. The village elder leans down to the man on the bed, whispering something rapidly, before standing aside and beckoning you forward. 

“Do not worry if you don’t recognize it,” she murmurs. “We can find other solutions, so just do your best. We are not hoping for a miracle from you.”

You nod politely. It’s very kind of her to say, but niceties are all that is to you. The eyes that followed you in told you a different story, an honest one. 

Who are you to deny them, after they graciously let you sleep in their bed and eat from their plates? You are not so arrogant to forget what thankfulness feels like. So, you get to work. 

You frown, gingerly tilting the villager’s head to the side. The rash is mottled with shades of pink and red, the center of the roiling mess resembling a weeping wound. It itches , he croaks, his hands clawing at the bed sheets as he struggles against the urge to scratch the abomination gnawing away at his neck. 

The poor man can barely speak. You suspect he can barely drink too, judging by the overturned glass on the table and the wet splotches staining his bed. 

“Where is this man’s family?”

A girl trembles as she steps forward, hands held at her sides. Her palms are speckled with the same mottled pattern on her father’s neck, though they are currently awash with a slightly paler hue. 

“I…I just wanted to help my pa. I cleaned it with water a-and, and then—my hands started to feel like they were on fire, or like there were little bugs biting it, and my pa’s neck—i-it—!” She starts wailing, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. “It got worse! I made it worse!”

You stand to your full height again and straighten your robes. Another woman from the village takes it upon herself to comfort the poor girl (thank Archons) as you turn to address the other villagers. 

“Have any of you used the water recently?” The majority of villagers in the room raise their hands. Most of their fingers are also splatter-painted with red. “Is it from the same well as the one used by this family?” You ask. The village elder had been silent during your inspection, but now she shakes her head and sighs. 

“With all due respect, Lord Harbinger, the village’s wells are all connected through an underground tunnel system. Everyone draws from the same source, so if something is amiss with the water, then we all share the same fate.” She pauses. “Our people, our livestock, our crops…and you, too.”

A curse and a boon. You’ll have to resolve this within the day, but at least the origin of the poison is clear. 

Well. Time’s ticking.  

“It’s a Snezhnayan weed. Plachucha Vdova —The Weeping Widow [1]. When touched or consumed, its clear sap will cause itchy rashes that resemble bloody, pulpy wounds after several minutes, exact time depending on how much sap was ingested.” You stop yourself from running a hand through your hair. The last thing you need is for your scalp to break out in hives. “Normally I’d suggest cleaning the affected areas immediately, but with water being the source of contamination, that is obviously out of the question. You should focus on limiting the further spread of sap by covering your rashes with bandages.”

“Is it serious? It looks…” One woman trails off, gesturing vaguely to the shining red of the rash on her arm. 

“Don’t worry. It’s just harmless pigmentation.” For now. Before the sun sets, the village will be a living cemetery—an apocalypse groaning in broad daylight. But there’s no need to cause panic just yet. Best case scenario: you can fix this before the poison progresses to that stage. 

Some of the villagers aren’t as stupid as you thought. “That can’t be it.” One adolescent shouts. “Old Ming was having trouble breathing! You all saw him!”

Well, since he’s so insistent on knowing, you’ll oblige. “Correct. The rash will eventually begin to swell. The swollen area itself is painful and tender to touch, but I suspect Ming-xiansheng drank water and got the sap coated on the inner walls of his throat.”

A murmur ripples through the small crowd. 

“Bottom line: don’t drink the water. Don’t let your animals drink the water. Don’t water your plants if you want to still have a harvest, come the new moon.”

“Pardon me, Lord Harbinger , but in case you haven’t noticed—we do need water to survive.” The youth from before pushes his way to the front. You get the distinct impression that he’s used to acting as some sort of spokesperson for the elders and children behind him, that he’s taken it upon himself to be a shield for the rest of the village. 

Look at this kid. What a hero.  

He marches up to you, stopping just short of jabbing a finger into your chest. 

“Look, let’s cut the crap. You did this, didn’t you? Fatui scum. Knew we shouldn’t have taken you in.”

“Ah-Long!” [2] The village elder scowls, grabbing his arm and tugging him back. “Shame on you! That’s not how we treat guests here.”

“Everyone was thinking it! And you heard them—this sickness is caused by a Snezhnayan weed. Snezhnayan . Don’t you find it suspicious that it started as soon as they arrived too? I bet it was the work of that ginger dog of theirs, sneaking around our wells as soon as our backs are turned. Fifty Qingxin flowers? How ridiculous. No one can collect that many at once.” The kid glares at you. “If anyone should be ashamed, it’s them. I bet you’re going to sell a miracle cure to us next, huh?”

How quaint. Your methods have more class than that.  

“You should be an entrepreneur. I bet Liyue Harbor has plenty of markets waiting for brilliant ideas like yours.” 

“Why you—”

“—but alas,” you drawl, ignoring the way the kid bristles at the interruption. “No, this marvelous quick-get-rich scam is not mine. I will find out who is responsible, though. Then we can see if your theory is correct.”

Deciding that this inane conversation is over, you look to the village elder. She is still gripping the boy’s arm, but she doesn’t make him apologize or bow his head, the way you’d seen so many merchants do in the harbor. The rigidness in her shoulders, then—is that fear, or anger? 

Whatever it is, it is not your problem. The old lady’s inner thoughts are not yours to prod. Drop it. 

“Where—”

“The water source is through the woods behind this house. If you follow the path, you should reach it within the hour.” She says, shortly. “May you find whoever is responsible. Perhaps they will be an entrepreneur in the harbor.”

 

---

 

The next stick snaps along with your nerves. 

“Go home. Isn’t your mommy calling you in for dinner?” 

The brat steps out from behind a nearby tree, scowling. “I don’t trust you. You could be taking this opportunity to reconvene with your accomplices.”

Ooh. Big word. Reconvene . 

“While I commend you for your vigilance, there really is no need.” You’re too tired to keep the exasperation from leaking into your voice. Kids playing dress-up as heroes are only adorable for so long. Then they’re just a liability. “Look. My life is also in danger because of this weed. What motivation could I have to poison myself?”

“Greed?”

“Do you know how wealthy the Fatui are, boy ? If I wanted to line my pockets with mora I need only snap my fingers. Does it really look like I’ve got nothing better to do than scam the elderly?”

The kid actually stops to look you up and down. “...I still don’t trust you.”

“Fine. I won’t stop you. I’m not babysitting you, though. Keep up.” You pause. “And for the love of your Archon, stop stepping on sticks. You’ll be heard all the way in Natlan.”

Even with a pounding headache and off-kilter center of gravity, your shadow nimbly weaves through the wooded path. The boy isn’t terrible either—he clearly grew up in the village, and had spent many youthful afternoons playing hiding from his responsibilities in the trees. He’s making a noticeable effort to quiet his footsteps too. 

It isn’t long before you approach a modest clearing, one scattered with drops of sunshine and forgotten lanterns housing half-melted candle wicks. The well squatting in the center is larger than any of the other ones you’ve seen in the village proper, it’s smooth stones softened by tufts of verdant moss. An empty bucket sits at the lip, the rope slack in its hook, the pulley rusted by the elements. Overall, it is an old site—one that has faced the seasons and provided for this quiet village as a well-worn guardian. 

A familiar back paints itself into the landscape. The deep plum robes are an aberration, a blot of ink bleeding through a Liyuen wall-scroll. Somehow, you can’t find it within yourself to feel surprised that he’s here. 

You glance sharply at the boy. 

“Go. Hide. Don’t come out until I tell you to.”

His scowl doesn’t loosen. “What? Why? Scared I’ll hear the plan you and your conspirator are plotting against us?”

Your patience is so thin that at this point, it is translucent. You can feel the migraine knocking against your skull, a persistent visitor begging to loosen the reins. Hey, hey, listen. You’re tired, aren’t you? End it. “Don’t make me repeat myself. Stay out of sight, or face the consequences of your hubris.”

He stills. Falters a little, but draws himself up nonetheless. 

“And what might those be?”

“Death. The only variability is in how gruesome your end may be and how many of your brethren you drag down with you.” You glance sharply at him. “So listen. Go .”

The fight visibly dims in his eyes. Long melts into the tree line. Still, once prideful, always prideful. “I’ll be watching.” The leaves whisper. “Don’t try anything funny, Lord Harbinger.”

You turn your back to the woods and pace slowly into the clearing. Whatever. At least he’s out of the way. Now it’s time for you to end this yourself. 

“Hong.”

Pierro’s watchdog stills, then turns to face you. A benign smile spreads smoothly across his lips, and he dips his head in a gesture that, under any other circumstance, may have indicated respect. The freshly poisoned well and the open bottle of Weeping Widow in his gloved hands do nothing but taint him with condescension. 

“Ah, Lord Scapino! What a lovely surprise.”

 

MAKE HIM WEEP.

 

You can feel your hands beginning to curl and flex themselves at your sides. You struggle to breathe deep— one, two, th-fuck, it’s not working, it’s not— and your head feels stuffed full of cotton. The drumming at your temples grows louder. 

 

MAKE HIM BLEED. 

 

“My Lord, forgive me for saying this, but you don’t look so good.” Hong sets the bottle down on the well and begins to walk toward you, hands outstretched to either side, empty. You take a hasty step back. “Do you need to sit down? You’re stumbling a little, there. Maybe you should rest.”

 

MAKE HIM PAY. 

 

The bushes rustle behind you. When you pull out your sword, you pray that it was just the wind, and not the boy. 

Notes:

sei conigli: SIX RABBITS

[1] Plachucha Vdova: “the weeping widow,” google translated from Ukrainian. Terribly sorry if this is butchered—if so, please let me know and I’ll fix it!

[2] Long (龙): “dragon.”

 

hello helloooo bet you didn't expect an update from me today. i was surprised too LMAO. truth be told i haven't touched genshin in 10,000 years BUT i'm committed to scapino + childe's story so TRUST IM FINISHING THIS DAMN THING!! IM FINISHING IT!!

cough.

but yeah. i have no idea what's going on in genshin lore atp so if something's inconsistent with what's going on in teyvat and descenders and whatever--yeah. we're going to nod and move on. anyway. thanks for all of your continued support! headpats and airhugs, yall are cool.