Chapter Text
Childe’s stint in Fontaine as an undercover operative at Fontaine University’s School of Arts for her Majesty the Tsaritsa, Queen of Snezhnaya, starts with a meeting, as these things often do.
The School of Arts’ main building is very grand; high, arched ceilings soar upwards as they enter through the massive, double front doors, and Childe’s footsteps, along with his guide’s, echo in the emptiness. Light floods in from all sides through great stained-glass windows, depicting images of fairy-like creatures of the water, and the recurring figure of a woman robed in blue and white. “This building used to be a place of worship,” his guide explains, gesturing to the windows and also to a series of murals along the far wall, not slowing down. “After the fall of our first archon, may She rest in peace, Her Divine Honour the God of Justice took the throne and converted this cathedral into a centre for learning. The reception of such a change was… divided, to say the least, but the priestesses and nuns were allowed to remain, tasked with the honourable job of archiving all known sources depicting their patron. Please, this way.”
Childe follows his guide through a heavy wooden door on the left, leading to a long corridor with more doors on one side and floor to ceiling windows on the other, looking out onto a small courtyard that backs onto yet another set of windows. “Lighting here is great,” he comments, and the guide smiles.
“Isn’t it just? Her Divine Honour made it very clear that an environment for learning ought to be as comfortable as possible for both students and professors. We are very pleased to be able to boast wonderfully designed facilities, as well as fully catered room and board for all of our attendees. Master Childe, you will be escorted to your own room after your meeting today, after which you are free to get settled in and familiarise yourself with the campus.”
Childe smiles politely back at him, and the guide leads him to the very end of the corridor, where they stop. The guide raps sharply on the dark, wooden door in front of them, and from inside, Childe hears a man’s voice respond, “Enter!”
With the go-ahead, Childe’s guide twists the doorknob and pushes, leading them into a decently sized office, which Childe takes the chance to survey quickly. An empty fireplace on the right-hand side of the room sits under a mantlepiece, above which an impressive, gilded mirror hangs on the wall. On the left, a built-in bookshelf seems to groan with the weight of what looks to be hundreds of books, and Childe can’t help but eye it appraisingly. He wonders if any information that he had been sent to gather for the Tsaritsa stands on those shelves. Something to consider for later.
In the centre, a comfortable looking pair of armchairs flank a small coffee table, and near the back of the room, a desk has been pushed out of the way to make room for what looks to be an easel draped in cloth. Piles of paper are dotted around, some on the desk, some on the floor, and in the middle of it all stands a harried-looking man, frantically trying to clean up the mess around him. He must be some kind of artist, Childe thinks, judging by the easel and the paintbrushes tucked into the front of his faded apron, and also by the general disorganised manner about him.
“I am,” the man begins, starting to make his way over to the pair of them at his door, before he interrupts himself by tripping over one of the document piles on the carpet. “Ah! Oh, this is so embarrassing.” He picks himself up from the floor, hastily stacking the papers again and putting them back down where he found them, no doubt for him to trip over again in a few moments’ time. “I am so sorry, I wasn’t expecting Master Childe’s arrival so soon! Arthur, I thought he wasn’t getting here until tomorrow!”
“No, Master Friedrich,” the guide, or Arthur, responds, looking amused. “It seems that you have lost track of time again. Master Childe, in case that slipped past you, this is Master Friedrich. He is the head of the School of Arts here at Fontaine University, and an accomplished painter in his own right.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Childe offers his hand, and Friedrich takes it firmly in his own.
“So wonderful to have you here, Master Childe,” he gushes, shaking his hand vigorously. “It has been quite some time since we have had a Snezhnayan resident here at the university! Please, do come sit down. Ah, mind the papers, I wouldn’t want you to trip…”
“I will take my leave then,” Arthur announces, bowing. “Master Friedrich, Master Childe.”
“Oh, yes, Arthur,” Friedrich says distractedly, trying to clear the coffee table. “If you could—Master Childe, do you take coffee?”
“Hm? Oh, yes. Black, no sugar.”
“Send to the kitchens for a pot of coffee, won’t you Arthur? There’s a good lad.”
Arthur bows once more, and then he’s closing the door to the office behind him, leaving Childe and Friedrich alone.
“Please, Master Childe, sit!” Friedrich, having gathered all the loose papers scattered over the table and chairs, bustles around finding places for them. “We have much to discuss, and I do not wish to keep you for longer than necessary. I understand that you are a busy man!”
“You could certainly say that,” Childe agrees, sitting down in the chair on the right and getting himself comfortable. “I am here on a research project sponsored by Her Majesty the Tsaritsa herself, so I don’t exactly have much time to waste.”
This is, technically, the truth.
“Of course, of course.” Apparently satisfied with his clean-up, Friedrich settles himself into the chair opposite Childe. “Actually, I’m afraid I haven’t been briefed on what your research project entails—if you don’t mind, perhaps you could give me a quick run-down of what exactly it is that you plan on doing here. Not,” he adds, sensing that he may have just put his foot in his mouth. “That I think you have some kind of nefarious plan or anything! As the head of this department, I endeavour to know what everyone within it is doing with their time, whether they be teachers, students, or resident researchers such as yourself.”
Childe laughs. “Please, no need to explain yourself, I understand.” A knock on the door interrupts them, and a young woman steps in with a tray.
“Ah, Marie,” Friedrich says, waving her over. “Just put that down on the table. Yes, thank you, my dear. Lovely. Send my thanks to the kitchens.” He waits for the door to close behind her, before gesturing for Childe to continue. “You were saying?”
“My project,” Childe begins, watching as Friedrich pours coffee into two ceramic mugs. “Is on the depiction of archonhood in art.”
“Oh?” Friedrich passes him one of the mugs, and Childe nods in thanks. “How interesting! Well, you have certainly come to the right place for it. Her Divine Honour has ordered that all depictions of both herself and her predecessor, may She rest in peace, be fastidiously archived and catalogued here. It could perhaps be said that, barring Sumeru Academia, we have the largest collection of written folklore in all of Teyvat. I say written, as it is known that Natlan has an incredible tradition of oral storytelling that has survived countless millennia, and it is likely that the number of stories—”
“Yes, well,” Childe interrupts, impatient. “Unfortunately, Natlan’s storytelling traditions aren’t of much use to me when I myself am not actually in Natlan.”
“Ah, yes, of course, my apologies.” Friedrich takes a sip from his coffee, wincing as he realises that it’s still too hot. “Well, our libraries are open to you, but most of the information of interest to your research is not freely available to the public without a booking. We will have to arrange with the nuns for you to gain access to these archives on your own, and unfortunately, as you are a new resident, they may be unwilling to let you do so without their supervision.”
“If it’s compensation that they’re after,” Childe says. “Then money isn’t an issue.”
Friedrich laughs. “Oh, Master Childe,” he replies. “You are such a funny man.”
Childe had not been joking, but he laughs along anyway.
Childe is led to his accommodation by another guide, this one going by the name Martin. He doesn’t talk nearly as much as Arthur had, which Childe is halfway relieved by, silently walking ahead of him and only speaking when offering directions. “Our kitchen and dining hall are in this building,” he offers, as he ushers Childe out of a back door at the end of the main hall, past a scattered handful of desks and chairs occupied by students chatting among themselves. “But the cathedral wasn’t built with lodgings in mind, so an extra set of accommodations were constructed. They’re this way.”
“Oh?” Childe follows him out onto a nicely paved cobblestone path, framed on both sides by flowerbeds. “Were there not rooms for the nuns?”
“There were,” Martin acquiesces, leading him towards what looks to be a quaint little village. “But they were all underground, in the basement where our library and archives now are. Her Divine Honour insisted that living without windows to the outside world would be a cruelty, so this was our solution.”
“Huh.” Privately, Childe doesn’t think that any god cares all that much about the comfort of humans, but he keeps that to himself.
The ‘quaint little village’ that Childe had noticed earlier actually turns out to be deceptively large. Taking the time to catalogue his surroundings, Childe can surmise that what had initially been a simple row of five houses on each side of the cobblestone path had expanded outwards exponentially. Little dirt paths snake off the side of the pavement to other lodgings dotted haphazardly around, making what look to be little circles of residences on the outskirts. Some are quite large; the ones on the main street look like they could house at least ten students each fairly comfortably, but others are smaller. The one that Martin leads Childe towards is on the smaller side, smoke drifting up from its chimney and potted plants lining its doorstep. It’s homey, Childe surmises, and Martin leads him to the front door.
“This is where you’ll be staying, Master Childe,” he says. “There are currently two other resident researchers also living here; they’re also not from Fontaine. Her Divine Honour likes to keep all of our international researchers together so that they may get to know each other better.”
Yeah, I bet she does, Childe doesn’t say. “Thank you very much, Martin,” he responds with instead.
“Here is your key.” Martin offers him a keychain with a little replica of a Cryo vision at the end of it. “Personalised for your country of origin. There is actually a little clip here that you can use to attach it to your belt—it’s very useful.”
A little trinket to show everybody that I am an outsider, Childe thinks sardonically. How lovely.
“I’ll be going now,” Martin says after Childe pockets the keys, pointedly not clipping it to his belt like his guide had suggested. “It’s getting into the evening—dinner is served from six until nine in the dining hall, but the house has a kitchenette should you decide you would like to make your own meals. I and all the other staff here at the university sincerely hope that you enjoy your time with us.”
“Thank you, Marvin,” Childe responds, reaching a hand out. “It’s been a pleasure.”
“It’s Martin,” the man says, shaking Childe’s proffered hand firmly. “And the pleasure is all mine.”
“My apologies.” He turns, patting around for his new keys. “These Fontainian names are so interesting. Good evening to you, Markin.”
“It’s Martin,” Martin calls, but Childe is already shutting the door to his new residence behind him.
The first thing Childe notices about his new, semi-permanent home is how clean it is. It’s almost impressive—the lacquered wooden floors practically shine, and with the neatly lined rows of shoes on the shoe-rack, Childe is already pleased with his luck with regards to his housemates. Unless, of course, this is the work of a cleaner, but somehow, he doubts it. He doesn’t think that someone hired to tidy would pay so much attention to detail—whoever cleans this house evidently cares about it.
Just because the space is tidy doesn’t mean that it’s devoid of personal effects—scrolls and books in an orderly pile on the kitchen table to the right, a hand-painted tea set on the low coffee table in the living room to the left. Two bookshelves pressed against the far-left wall are stacked with books and records, and the mantlepiece above the fireplace at the back is cluttered with trinkets: crystals and watercolour cards and an expensive-looking timepiece. Yes, Childe surmises. Whoever lives here cares very much about it, indeed.
Ahead of him, a carpeted staircase leads up to the second floor, which he assumes is where the bedrooms are. Childe thinks he remembers someone mentioning that his luggage had already been brought into the house, but he can’t see it anywhere on this floor, so it must be upstairs.
Toeing his shoes off, he wonders if he’ll get a chance to meet his housemates this evening. If they’re in lectures or are otherwise at the university’s main building, they’ll probably be back soon, given the way the light of sunset is pouring steadily into the kitchen. That is, unless they’re anything like him, in which case they probably won’t be back until midnight at the earliest.
Childe doesn’t think so, though. He doubts that the house would be so well cared for if at least one of the inhabitants didn’t spend a significant amount of time in it.
With that in mind, he strides into the kitchen to take a look at the books that had been left on the table. The scrolls are inscrutable to him—they don’t seem to have any labelling that he can discern, and are probably from the closely-guarded archives, which is definitely interesting. One of his housemates must be on good terms with the nuns, he thinks to himself, to be able to carry these obviously precious documents out of the underground libraries. That could be useful. Childe needs to get into the archives, and one of his housemates is evidently walking in and out with little scrutiny.
The books, however, are labelled. Traditional Folklore of Rural Northern Fontaine Vol. 1, one title has been penned in the Fontainian script, and Childe feels a smile creep onto his lips, unbidden, as he skims his fingers over the cover. Oh, yes. This was very fortuitous, indeed.
Instead of writing the progress report he had initially planned to this evening, he spends the next hour and a half absorbed in volume one of Traditional Folklore of Rural Fontaine, taking notes in his pocketbook of words he’s still a little unsure of. All Harbingers must be proficient in the eight main languages of Teyvat, including the common tongue, but Childe hasn’t been a Harbinger for that long, really, and academic works are quite inscrutable even to native speakers. This is what he’s reasoning to himself, at least, when he hears the tell-tale sound of the front door being unlocked.
Jumping to his feet, he slams the book shut and hastens to make himself look busy with something else. Despite his reputation among his colleagues as someone rather brash and foolhardy, there have been a number of lessons that he has had to learn throughout his time as the Tsaritsa’s vanguard, and her most trusted spy. In fact, the first lesson he ever learned was exactly this: do not, under any circumstances, let people catch you snooping around.
While when he was younger, he saw no issue with being caught rifling through somebody’s belongings, as he could simply threaten, or even kill them if they became a problem, he understands, now, that spy work often requires a little more tact. One can’t simply kill everything in their way if they wish to get what they want—people become suspicious if their privacy is invaded, and people becoming suspicious can jeopardise a mission and render a target unreachable. The first time Childe had made this mistake had also been the last—the Tsaritsa had him removed from the mission, shipped straight back to Snezhnaya, and punished accordingly. The memory of it still aches in the scars criss-crossing his shoulders.
So, by the time the newcomer is removing their shoes at the entrance, the books and scrolls are back exactly where they had been found, and Childe is busying himself at the stove with what appears to be the communal kettle. “Hiya,” he calls out cheerfully. “I’m in the kitchen!”
Soft footfalls pad into the room, and Childe glances over his shoulder to find a man setting his bag down on the kitchen table. “Good evening,” he says, voice smooth and velvety. “You are…?”
“Name’s Childe,” Childe says, turning around fully and leaning back against the kitchen counter. “Apparently, I live here now!”
“You must be our new housemate,” the man replies, the corners of his lips quirking upwards in a smile. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Childe. You may call me Zhongli.”
The first thing Childe had noticed was that Zhongli is tall. Standing at a height just a little greater than Childe’s own, he carries himself with an air of gravitas; back straight, shoulders squared, hands clasped behind his back as he bows shallowly in greeting. Childe can’t pinpoint exactly how old he is, with very few visual indicators to clue him in, but his manner of dress and speaking has Childe placing Zhongli somewhere within five to ten years of himself—mid thirties, at the very oldest. His hands are gloved as they unbutton his outer coat, a brown woollen thing suited to the weather in Fontaine at this time of year, and of a popular style among Fontainian high society, which he carefully drapes over the back of a kitchen chair. His dress shirt has evidently been pressed, with hardly any rumples in it considering that he has, presumably, been wearing it all day, and his slacks, too, are crisply creased in all the right places. Not a wrinkle in sight. Childe has half a mind to be impressed by it.
As for his face, well. Childe is not so insecure as to be unable to admit that Zhongli is really quite handsome, strikingly so, in fact. Strong jawline, high cheekbones, and a straight-sloped nose, leading to a well-defined cupid’s bow and a pair of petal pink lips. A streak of red eyeliner frames the underside of each of his sharp eyes, contrasting with the liquid gold of his irises, and his brow is artfully shaded by the sweep of a dark, feathery fringe. The rest of his long hair is clasped back at the nape of his neck into a ponytail, which lies draped around his shoulder and falls onto his chest.
And of course, all of that has nothing on the vision gleaming at his hip, evidence of being blessed by the Geo Archon, Morax. Or, the former Geo Archon, that is. Childe knows that the Tsaritsa had a hand in that, just like the thievery of Barbatos’ gnosis in Mondstadt and the acquisition of the Raiden Shogun’s in Inazuma, but while those two operations had been on the more clandestine side of things, Morax’s demise had been something of a public affair. Murdered, the people say, by an age-old foe in a moment of weakness as he descended to bless his people. Childe knows better, though; while he is unaware of the details, the smug letter from La Signora informing him that his presence in Liyue was no longer necessary had told him all he needed to know. Morax’s gnosis had been secured without the need for the Tsaritsa’s vanguard, and the Fair Lady had no reservations about rubbing his face in it.
No matter. Tartaglia’s success here would be more than enough to keep him in the Tsaritsa’s good graces for a long, long while, and unlike La Signora, he would never be so foolish as to get himself killed. Really, he had thought to himself, when the news of her death and Scaramouche’s desertion had arrived at the palace, why in Celestia’s name are we at all surprised by this?
All Childe has to do now is find the God of Justice, and he’ll be on the first boat back home. A simple, two-step plan. The only thing that needs to be worked on is the fine tuning. But in the meantime…
“Well, Mister Zhongli,” Childe chirps. “I was just about to put a pot of tea on. Care for any?”
Zhongli, Childe quickly learns, is quite the eccentric. He had accepted Childe’s offer of tea amicably, and directed him to where the teapot and tea leaves are kept, before settling himself onto one of the kitchen chairs and retrieving one of the books from the pile on the table (so it was Zhongli who had taken them from the archives; something to keep in mind). He looks at home, here, Childe thinks, as he scoops tea into the pot. He wonders if Zhongli is the one who loves this house so much, filling it with trinkets and polishing its floorboards.
They make easy conversation as the tea steeps. Zhongli, Childe learns, is from Liyue, though that could have been guessed from his name, and when he isn’t at the university, he works as a consultant for a variety of businesses.
“I have an interest in folklore and anthropology,” he explains when Childe asks what, exactly, it is that he does. “I am often hired to be of assistance in the more cultural aspects of things. As such, I tend to do work for funeral parlours, event organisers, and festival arrangers. Although,” he admits, seeming a little sheepish. “While away from Liyue, I’ve been taking a number of advertising jobs.”
“No shame in that,” Childe reassures him. “We all need to make our money somehow.” Besides, he doesn’t say, there aren’t many professions more looked down upon than spy work—he is hardly in any position to judge.
They continue talking as Zhongli takes the liberty of pouring them a cup of tea each.
“What brings you to Fontaine, then?” Childe asks, trying not to stare at the way Zhongli’s hands curl around the teapot gently. “Not enough culture to satisfy you back home?”
Zhongli laughs. “Not exactly,” he replies, setting the tea back down. “Perhaps even the opposite. Liyue has so much history, it’s almost refreshing to be somewhere so young. Not,” he hastens to add. “That Fontaine’s history isn’t fascinating, of course. What I mean to say is—”
“It’s okay, Mister Zhongli.” Childe waves it off. “There are no Fontainians here to be offended. Please, speak your mind!”
“Really, that wasn’t what I meant at all—"
“Relax, Mister Zhongli! I’m only teasing!”
Zhongli tells them more about the university as they drink. “The archives are a wonderful resource,” he says, when Childe asks about the books and scrolls he’d left lying around. “Truthfully, I meant to return all of these today, but it slipped my mind this morning and I hadn’t the time to come back and fetch them. I hope it hasn’t inconvenienced the nuns too much. I would hate to cause them any trouble.”
Bingo. Childe leans in, resting his chin on his hand. “You visit the archives a lot, then?”
“Oh, yes,” Zhongli affirms. “Due to the nature of my job, it is quite important that I have uninhibited access to sources on Fontainian culture, much of which is directly related to their former Archon. I am very lucky that the nuns have been so accommodating of my needs. They are lovely women, and fantastic scholars.”
That’s somewhat at odds, Childe thinks, with the information he had been supplied by Master Friedrich, but for now he just files the information away. Time to change the subject, before Zhongli decides he’s a little too interested in the archives. “Say, are there a lot of researchers like us here at the university? As in, researchers from abroad who aren’t strictly students.”
Zhongli hums. “I can’t say that there are,” he admits. “Although, our other housemate, Miss Kujou Sara, is also a foreign researcher—from Inazuma, here on behalf of the High Priestess of the Narukami Shrine as part of a cultural exchange between Inazuma and Fontaine. A very sharp young lady, most polite and a pleasure to be around. I feel that you two may have a lot in common.”
Childe can’t stop himself from preening at the implicit praise of his character. “You think so?” he asks, a little flustered. “Well, if she has your approval, Mister Zhongli, I simply cannot wait to meet her.”
Zhongli smiles, amused. “Quite.”
Just as they’ve lapsed into a comfortable silence, watching as the sun finally disappears below the horizon, the sound of the front door causes Childe to nearly jump out of his skin for a second time this evening. This time around, though, there’s nothing for him to hide, and he simply cranes his neck curiously to see if he can catch a glimpse of whoever it is.
“I’m home,” a woman’s voice calls out, and Zhongli brightens at the sound.
“That would be Miss Kujou,” he informs Childe. “She often returns a little later than I. Excuse me while I put the kettle back on. I expect she will want some tea, as well.”
Later, Childe will admit to himself that he had expected someone a little like Zhongli. Smart, well-dressed, handsome. Not without their quirks, and maybe a little absent-minded. He’ll tell himself that this was why he’d been so surprised, the moment he first saw her; that he had preconceived notions of what a woman held in such high regard by Zhongli would look like, talk like, act like. Another scholar with their head in the clouds, trusting enough for him to pull the wool over their eyes.
The woman who rounds the corner into the kitchen is nothing of the sort.
She is both well-dressed and handsome, Childe will give her that much. Dark hair cut in a blunt, uneven bob that frames her severe features well, eyes a shade of gold not dissimilar to Zhongli’s, and a slim physique, accentuated by the fitted blouse tucked into a high-waisted, A-line skirt. She must have already removed her coat at the door.
Clever, he thinks, using her long skirt to conceal the knives strapped to her left thigh, certainly more inconspicuous than if she had been wearing trousers, and the poison capsule embedded into the ring on her right hand is certainly well-crafted enough to fool the average civilian— but Childe has been trained to spot these things. There’s no doubt about it.
Kujou Sara is a spy.