Wooing Demons for Dummies

by fuwaaa

Summary:

“I,” she begins, making sure to flash her teeth, “want your firstborn.”

Tartaglia’s eyes narrow. “My firstborn,” he echoes.

“Yes.” She steps closer, until her nose nearly brushes against the steel of his breastplate, and peers up at him. Urgh, human men and their ridiculously tall bodies. “Give me your firstborn child, and I shall cure your brother.”

or

childe has no self-preservation, and falls in love with the demon he summoned. now if only said demon would stop trying to set him up with other women.

Notes:

written for the chilumi minibang! check out this amazing mindblowing art by aitsu i cannot stress enough about how much i love it help

Chapter 1

 

It begins, the first time, in a dark and endless wood. 

It begins in a clearing, with a sigil is painted on the leaf-strewn ground, scarlet-red and browning at the edges. With three figures on their knees and in prayer, while the air thrums with power. It begins with chanting and a sacrifice, whispers in the ancient tongue and forgotten magic, and the howls of distant wolves as the power builds. 

Here: she is Lumine, one of the twin primordial stars. She is Viatrix, feared and renowned, a demon beyond compare. She is unbound and ancient, she is the haunting that does not cease, she is wide-awake and alive and so very hungry. 

A portal opens in the middle of the sigil, and she crosses the barriers between worlds like it is as simple as stepping through a door, diaphanous skirts swirling around her ankles. And with her does the abyss too slip in, darkness creeping over the earth like the smoke-ridden fog, the screeching cries of an unknown creature carving through the air.

The sigil crackles and sputters, crimson sparks bright in the air. At her approach, one of the sorcerers glance up, face paling at the sight of her. He squeaks in fear, falling back onto his behind, the spell on his lips falling into a stuttering gasp and then silence.

Oh, it was good to be here. 

Lumine smiles, slow and sweet, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Which one of you fools decided to summon me?”

On inspection, the first one begins to sob, curling into a fetal position. The second pisses his pants. The last one barely keeps his cool, but he cannot meet her eyes, focused on a point beyond her shoulder. And besides—

“That would be me, demon,” someone says from behind her.

—the blood that they have offered to summon her doesn’t smell like theirs. 

She pivots on one foot, a hand raised and sheathed in energy. It ought to have carved through flesh. But the stranger catches it by the wrist, and before she can lift a finger to smite him where he stands, he steps away, hands raised in surrender.

“Sorry about that,” he murmurs. A calculating gaze peers at her from underneath tousled hair, at odds with the careless grin playing on his lips. Strength wreathed around that lean frame, those broad shoulders and lazy slouch. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You…” she snarls and trails off, eyes narrowing in displeasure.

 He shouldn't have been able to startle her in the first place. 

It seems the mortal world has changed much in her absence. In the sky, the moon is full and silver, cutting through the dark like a freshly sharpened blade. The woods are quiet, save for the heaving gasps of the three sorcerers huddled in the corner, and the leaves rustling in the breeze.

A long time has passed since she has not been weighed by the unyielding grip of her land, a long time since she has tasted power so temptingly rich. The small offering in the blood he has already spilt in the ritual already has her mouth watering—by the Abyss, she wants more.

And she is Lumine, the second star of the House of Viat. What she wants, she gets.

“Tell me, human.” The eyes that meet hers are endless blues, azure depths, still waters. In the back of her mind, something uneasy crawls. “What business do you have, to summon me here tonight?”

“My brother. Save him,” he says, “And I will pay any price.”

“Any?” she asks archly, circling around him. 

“If it is gold you want, I have plenty.” He watches her from the corner of his eyes, relaxed even when she stands behind him and out of his sight. It irks her, somewhat. A human with no fear of her is a rare find. She should just flay him alive and be done with it. “If it is in lives you deal, I offer hundreds to Her Majesty by the day in battle.”

Hm. “No,” she says. “I want more than that.”

“Ask. And I’ll grant it.”

“I,” she begins, making sure to flash her teeth, “want your firstborn.”

Tartaglia’s eyes narrow. “My firstborn,” he echoes.

“Yes.” She steps closer, until her nose nearly brushes against the steel of his breastplate, and peers up at him. Urgh, human men and their ridiculously tall bodies. “Give me your firstborn child, and I shall cure your brother.”

His gaze is dark and unreadable, jaw clenched as he studies her. 

Say yes, she thinks, that ravenous hunger thrashing in her gut. Say yes, and she will feast, the well of her power diminished no more. A bargain made like this—blood for blood, kin for kin—could be matched by no other. 

Say yes, she thinks, very very hard.

But when he smiles again, and for the first time in her long life, something in it makes her want to run.

“Sure, little demon,” he agrees. “You can have my firstborn.”

And thus the covenant is made.

 

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

The second time she materializes after they seal the contract, she she is inches away from eviscerating the mortal fool.

That day, she is alone at home—she’s been alone, ever since Aether began to make his yearly inspection of the Abyss, as it’s Prince. She’d escaped the responsibility by simple virtue of circumstance, and is she ever so glad about it.

Though they are twins, binary stars that revolved around the other, she cannot bear the thought of the same burden. Politics comes naturally to him as awkwardly as it does to her—subtle manipulation and quiet intention. And so does ruling over the cursed people, what these mortals called demonkind—his future had been written in the stars, the day he vowed to sit on the throne.

They are different, yet not. Lumine is the lightning to his thunder, the rain to his sea. They are a part of each other, similar in the way two pots moulded from the same clay are down to the grain. Different shapes, and different kilns, but bones wrought of one stardust. And sure, she may not have the patience for what he does, but she’s not entirely blind to the manipulations of power. 

She has made this pact for a reason, after all.

Power begets power. What she has sunk into this binding, shall be returned thousandfold. As soon as her contractor fulfills his end of the bargain.

Which he better be doing, if he wishes to stay breathing. And now that she thinks about it, it has been a while since she’s heard from him, so she closes her eyes and sinks into her magic, following that thread that binds them.

The world dissolves into nothingness. She breathes. For a moment all she knows is a sea of darkness, where right is left and up is down, and the call to sink into the endless oblivion echoes in her ears—before pain strikes through her, jagged lightning and hellfire, and her cells fall into solid form once more.

The air in the mortal world is always so sweet on her tongue.

Lumine blinks.

A bedroom—warm, wooden slatted floor, rugs of cured sheepskin under her toes. The hearth crackles with a low flame, and the air is thick with incense, the taste of medicinal herbs coating the roof of her mouth. She glances around—there’s a wooden bow, worn and too small for adult hands hanging on the wall, and patterned drapes over the windows. Little figures stacked in the corner, of creatures she has never seen before.

And a bed in the other corner, with a body lying under the covers.

The child’s face is flushed pink, and his chest rises in a rhythmic pattern. Sweat beads at his brows. Hm. Her magic thrums when she reaches out to touch him, seeping through him in search of decay, rot. Signs of illness. 

And a voice speaks then, breath fluttering over the shell of her ear. “My brother’s fine, if you were wondering.” Lumine stiffens, slanting a glance back with a snarl. 

He’s out of his armor this time. Gilded by the warmth of the firelight, his hair is a burnt gold, tousled and falling over his brow. Broad shoulders hidden under a cloak, thick fur at the collar, and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. 

Fear is a foreign notion to a being like her. Mortals are but seconds next to the eons that she lives and breathes. He is nothing but another ant beneath her feet.

Even then, when she meets those dark blues, something ancient in her coils in recognition.

This human smells like death.

“Today was the first time my mother let him play outside in a while. He’s tired himself out.” A low chuckle reverberates through his large frame. This close, his body dwarfs hers, inches between her back and his chest. Pine and seawater prick her nostrils. Something else too, cold and dark and familiar. When he reaches out, she curls her fingers, prepared to rend flesh at his touch.

But he doesn’t touch her. Instead, he pulls the cover higher, tucking it under the boy’s chin. 

In the quiet, the fire crackles, spitting cinders into the air.

“Of course the boy is healthy,” she finally says. Her voice is firm. Indignant. She is no oath breaker and he is still much too close. “I healed him, as our contract demanded.”

“Mm. So you did.” For another second, tension wracks her body, still loosely caged between him and the bed—before he retreats, just barely, leaving a foot of space between them. Too little, Lumine thinks, ire warming her blood. “I would thank you, but something tells me that you wouldn't appreciate it.”

She knows this dance, knows it because she does it too, with her prey—a hunters prowl, a close-bodied chase. Until her fangs sink deep into flesh. But she is no prey and he is no hunter, so she simply snarls in warning, flashing teeth. 

His eyes flicker to the pointed canines. “Such sharp teeth,” he muses. His voice is even and mild when he adds, “It would be best if you kept them away from my brother.”

Is that why he’s been looming over her? Urgh. “I have no interest in the boy,” she replies, twisting in place to face him. She has to crane her head to meet his eyes, to make certain he bears the weight of her warning glare. “There is no pleasure in slaughtering weaklings. You, on the other hand…” 

Something about him awakens the dormant voice inside her. The one that sunk into slumber once she and Aether clawed their way through the abyss, and crowned themself the House of Viat. Voyagers of the dark. Undefeatable. Untouchable.

Scents don't lie. Neither does instinct, honed by centuries of survival. He smells like a mortal does, but not. The ink-black void, a nebulous catastrophe, a distant whale’s mourning cry.

It had taken seven gods to summon her last time. This time, it had taken none.

Then what was he, if not a mortal nor a god?

“I want to kill you,” she says simply.

He stills. A brow rises at the statement, and something shifts in the plane of his face. Animal hunger woken by the suggestion of violence. “Is that so?” he croons. She aches to rake her claws down his face, to cut that mocking grin into ribbons. “You make a tempting offer, little demon.”

Did he think her threat empty? Centuries have passed since she has tread these grounds, and in her absence, it seems that humans have forgotten what it means to dally with her kind. “My name is Lumine,” she hisses, placing a hand on his chest. Her wings extend to their full length and she unfurls her power, letting it seep into the air. “And I will gut you where you stand, feast on your heart, and hang what's left of you by your innards if you continue insulting me, human.”

His chest reverberates underneath her palm as he speaks, her claws pricking dangerously close to his heart. Fearless. “I have a name too, you know.”

“What?”

In the dim room, his pupils have spilt to the edges of the blue. The mortal tilts his head, studying her through the strands falling over his eyes. In the firelight, a jewel as red as blood winks at his ear. “You keep calling me human. Since you’ve made a point of visiting me, you might as well learn my name.”

“I have no need for such trifling things.” Her nails sink into cloth and graze skin. Pinpricks of blood bloom at the tips. “Enough of this. I’m here to collect what I’m due.”

“And what do I owe you, little demon?”

Lumine, she almost hisses, but her rage at the fact that he seems to have forgotten their bargain takes precedence.“I have given you enough time to set your affairs in order.” She pushes him back, and he doesn't resist, finally stepping away from her. Extends her hand, curling slender fingers twice. “Where are they?”

“Where’s who?”

Was he being daft on purpose? “The child. Your child.”

He blinks. Hums. “Ah. That.” 

“Yes, that.”

“Well.” A pause.

“Truth is, I don't have any children—woah!” He dodges her uppercut, retreating backwards. “Come now, you don’t have to look so angry,” the human chides, hands in the air. “I’m not trying to trick you.”

If she could light him on fire with her eyes, she would. “I was told humans have progeny by the dozen.”

“I'm a busy man. Not much time for family.”

“You're lying.” He has to be. Aether had told her that humans bred uncontrollably, and Aether was never wrong. Unless… “Are you impotent?”

A blink. And another. And then he’s tipping his head back, shoulders trembling with the force of his laughter, “Well,” he snorts, shaking his head in amusement. “This is the first time I’ve been accused of something like that. I assure you, little demon,” he adds, voice hoarse with delight. “My parts are all in working order.”

The firelight flickers, casting shadows across the arch of his nose, the curve of his cheek. It’s been so long since she’s been summoned to Teyvat. She’s forgotten that flame can be colors other than frosted blue. 

Warm fires, sweet air, a world that does not try to devour them whole. Mortals have no idea how fortunate they are. 

He’s still watching her. 

Hm. Maybe she should eviscerate him. Just a little. As a treat.

And his gaze is knowing, like can see the thoughts warring in her head. “If I’m dead,” he says, “You won't get my first born.”

She would lose the magic she's sunk in to complete the bargain, and walk away empty handed. A losing deal. “The next time I visit,” she warns, twisting her hand into the fabric of the realm, “I expect you to fulfill your end of the deal, human.”

“The next time you visit,” he replies cheerfully, “Will you call me by my name?”

“No,” She throws him an annoyed glance. The portal opens by her side. “And in case you think you can escape our covenant, remember this: I bear no mercy for oath breakers.”

The last thing she sees as the portal closes is his grin, stretching slow on his lips. “Don't worry, Lumine,” he says, eyes glinting as the spell whisks her away.

 “I’m counting on it.”

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

Two weeks ago:

“Tell me about the contract.”

“Boss?”

The three sorcerers shuffle on their feet. The air still smells of sulphur and smoke, and the freezing cold he has long associated with the Abyss. She disappeared in a smattering of stars, not unlike the constellation she shares names with. Viatrix, twin to Viator, that once had graced the starless sky.

In the woods, the sigil has grown dark, the contract made and sealed.

When his mages first brought up summoning one of the demonkind, Childe had thought it a cruel joke. Summoning was a magic long thought to be lost after the Archon war, before the Fatui had dug it up from the library of Daena. To dabble in summoning was court death—demons had no concept of honor and chivalry. In their cursed land, to be weak was to be devoured, to be strong was to reign. Much like the Snezhnayan court, if he were to be honest, though honesty is not a tool that belongs in a Harbinger’s arsenal.

Here: Teucer’s illness had stumped every healer he had found, until the boy was bones and skin, barely clinging to life. 

He will not survive the summer, my lord.

Demons were cruel and capricious beings. But humans could be too, and so could Childe, if he had need of it. Summon the strongest of them all, he had ordered, standing over his brother’s bed. And wreathe what spell you must to have them do my bidding.

Now he tilts his head, staring where the demon had stood. Even while she’s gone, he can feel the tug of a foreign power in his gut. The touch of the abyss is one he can never forget. “I want to know how binding this is.”

Poirier shuffles forward, stepping gingerly over the blood fed runes. “Demons do not break a contract, my lord. Their magic is tied to the binding. To do so would be to forfeit their magic, which is near fatal to their kind.”

Relief sweeps through him like a tidal wave. Teucer would be fine then. Teucer would live. He would see his eighth year, and his ninth, and many after. Childe sucks in a deep breath, and takes a moment to gather himself, ignoring the lump that has settled in his throat. “And if the contractor refuses to abide by the agreement?” 

Poirier blinks in confusion. “The contractor is bound by nothing but their word. However…”

Alexis steps forward, adjusting his glasses. “As long as the contract remains unfulfilled, the demon can track the contractor. The few recorded cases in which the contractor attempted to flee…” he coughs. “Demons do not take betrayal lightly.”

Leonide’s breaths are shallow. He still smells like sweat and piss. “My lord, are you truly going to sacrifice your firstborn child? To that… to that monster?” 

Their fear is palpable in the air. Childe remembers only a few stories, most of them delivered by his father in his childhood. But even he has heard of Viatrix—summoned only once before to Teyvat, by her twin’s side, five centuries past.

In their wake, Celestia fell, and the Archons warred, and the land burned to ash and dust. They called her brother the Destroyer. They called her a beast that knew no mercy, a calamity in flesh, a harbinger of the apocalypse. She is devastation, they whispered. She is ruin. She is death itself.

She had demanded his blood and flesh in payment, and he had agreed.

(Remember: honesty is not a tool in a Harbinger’s arsenal.)

For a being that instilled such fear, Viatrix was quite… different from what he expected. Smaller. Daintier. Wide golden eyes and slender wings, and a face that was startlingly easy to read. 

If the stories were true, fathomless strength lay hidden within that tiny frame. And while taller tales have rarely been told, this one he believes—Childe could taste the power in the air when she’d stepped closer, tail whipping between layered skirts. She’ll be a force to be reckoned with in combat, he knows. An opponent worth crushing underneath his bloodied heel. 

After all, sacrificing one kin to save another is a losing deal, and Childe is not one to court anything but victory and the thrill of battle. Not even against these odds.

Vicious pleasure curls in his chest at the thought. Unbidden, she flashes in his mind once more—that cold, stubborn gaze, daring him to refuse.

Ah.

He wonders what face she’ll make when he wraps his claws around her throat. 

 

 

Chapter 2

Summary:

By the abyss, she is going to strangle him. Cheeks burning, she stomps around him, slamming her palms onto his desk. “That is not what I meant!”

“Three months,” she hisses, nails digging into polished wood, “And you have no mate. No wife. You don’t take in concubines. You don’t visit the whorehouse. All you do is work and fight. Your bed has been empty every single night since we made the pact!”

“Ah. I see.” He places his pen down. Leans forward. Almost… considering, the way he studies her. Until his lips quirk, into that awful, mocking grin.“So you’ve been watching me in bed, little demon?”

Sputtering, Lumine rears back, “That—shut up!”

Notes:

cough cough HELLO FRIENDS what if I told you there is one more brilliant heart-wreaking showstopping art by aitsu?

A covenant is a give and take.

The contractor pledges a sacrifice, and the demon grants their desire in exchange. The contractor is bestowed what they wish for—eternal life, overflowing riches or other basely desires— and so too is the demon bestowed what they require.

Power.

For the act of receiving something given in itself was a magic that could not be measured, and the more precious what is given, the more power gained. And after centuries tending to mortal whims, Lumine has learnt that there are few things that mortals cherish more than their own.

There is a reason that they demand firstborns in all the stories.

—here, a month later, in a certain office:

“I’ve been watching you,” she declares ominously, materializing behind his chair.

He’s not even surprised, the bastard. “Viatrix,” he greets, bent over a scribbled document. “What brings you here?”

“It’s been three months.” Lumine spits, tail whipping behind her, “Three months since you promised me my due.”

“Ah,” the human chuckles. He tips his head back, finally paying her the attention she deserves. “I don’t know how it works where you're from” he tells her, eyes glittering with mischief, “but us mortals need at least nine to have a child.”

By the abyss, she is going to strangle him. Cheeks burning, she stomps around him, slamming her palms onto his desk. “That is not what I meant!”

“Three months,” she hisses, nails digging into polished wood, “And you have no mate. No wife. You don’t take in concubines. You don’t visit the whorehouse. All you do is work and fight. Your bed has been empty every single night since we made the pact!”

“Ah. I see.” He places his pen down. Leans forward. Almost… considering, the way he studies her. Until his lips quirk, into that awful, mocking grin.“So you’ve been watching me in bed, little demon?”

Sputtering, Lumine rears back, “That—shut up!”

“You don't have to hide, you know,” he continues, amidst her furious protests. Head tipped to the side, lips pressed to conceal a smile that she can still read.  “I wouldn’t mind the company.”

“I'm not hiding.” She's simply choosing to remain concealed. Two completely different things. And even if she were hiding, which she is not, Lumine has no need to spend time with this ridiculous, infuriating mortal.

“Right,” he drawls, tongue curling loosely over the syllable. So very unbelieving. His fingers skate over his papers, stacking them to the side. “Take a seat, Viatrix.”

With another glare, she dislodges her nails and drops onto a chair, delighting in the careful glance he gives the gouge marks she’s left. If he keeps trying to toy with her, Lumine thinks viciously, she’s more than happy to sink her nails into his entrails next.

She’d carve him open from throat to belly, and laugh while he begged for mercy. She’d show him what happens to anyone who dares betray the House of Viat, drag him into the depths of despair and pain and—what was that look on his face?

“Why are you staring at me like that?” she demands.

A sly smile plays at his lips, blues dark and unreadable. He leans his cheek onto an open palm, studying her from across the tabl. “Don't worry about it.”

Urgh. This human made no sense. No fear even when she stands before him, his face as infuriating as ever. She curls her lip in warning.“You better have a good reason for the delay, human.”

“I have plenty,” he answers. "One of them being you.”

Was that so? Ire blooms in her chest, the steady simmering edge of steel under flame. Her vision grows sharp. She’s been too lenient with this ant, if he dares to string her along like some pathetic fool. She is Viatrix, Voyager of the empty skies, the Elysian scourge, the Divine Ruining, Celestia’s downfall.

In her wake, empires had crumbled. Gods had kneeled. When she smiles, demons flee to reaches beyond her gaze. She is damnation and destruction, and he would best remember that.

Humans are not bound to their oath like the rest of her ilk are—the ritual was designed to cater to their desires by the human mages of old. That demons had decided to play along was only because it suited them too, the summonings that gave them power that would otherwise take centuries to gather. If he thought to deny her what she’s owed, it would be the last thought he ever strung. “Say that again,” Lumine says, energy crackling underneath her skin.

If he senses it, he doesn’t show it.“Well,” he amends, lips tilting into another mocking smile.

“Not just you. Mostly you. Summoning you took out my best sorcerers.”

“What?”

“The three of them collapsed after the ritual. Utterly drained. They only woke up a week ago.” He sighs mournfully, hand over his heart. “With them out of commission, there was no one left to maintain the wards. As a result, we now have hordes of monsters knocking at the doors of our villages. In other words…”

A careless shrug. “I’ve been busy."

Oh no, he doesn’t. “That’s what you said last time,” she hisses scathingly.

“It still holds true, little demon—”

“Lumine.”

“—which is why I need your help,” he finishes cheerfully, brushing his hair out of his eyes.”

“You jest.”

“Not even a little.” A quicksilver grin, words delivered in a cajoling cadence. Lumine finds herself calming down quicker than she likes. “I need to replace the Northern ward, and I need someone to keep the monsters at bay while I do it.”

“And why would I do that?”

“You see, the  sooner this is done, the sooner we can wrap up our… deal.” He croons the last word, rising to his feet. Circling the table until he’s by her side, the edges of his cloak brushing against her shoulders. A white one today, stark and pristine. Idly, she wonders how it would look splattered with blood.

“We both want the same thing, Lumine.”

The curtains flutter at the windows, an errant breeze kissing her cheeks. Lumine frowns down at the outstretched hand, long tapered fingers clad in smooth leather, before turning the frown back on him.

“You’re supposed to shake it,” the mortal adds helpfully. “It’s a human custom at the end of an agreement.”

“I sense no magic.” Lumine sniffs the air once more just in case, but all she scents is him again, overwhelming and oppressive. “Is this custom not binding?”

“It’s as binding as your word. What do you say?"

She cocks her head in thought. Would one call this foolishness or not, the attempt to treaty with her once more? How brazen of this ant. “Human,” she begins scathingly, studying the careless slope of his shoulders, the ease with which he crowds her. “Do you know what you ask for?”

And he’s smiling again, that terrible tilt of his lips, the same smile he wore the night of the summoning. Sharp. Taunting. Eyes as dark as when he promised her his kin. "Call me Childe. Since we’re working together now.”

His hand is still outstretched. Lumine chuffs, air between her teeth and takes it. “Childe,” she says, testing the syllables on her tongue. “You want me to help you?”

And then squeezes, ignoring at the creaking of bones within her hands and his visible wince at the strength. “I refuse,” she declares coldly, with a haughty sniff.

And dissolves into wisps of smoke.

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

A long, long time ago, Ajax had walked into the woods.

That gentle night, the wolves had been howling in the distance, and the winter frost had just begun to thaw. Ajax had snuck out with an old sword and a loaf of bread and nothing else, because he was strong, or at least stronger than Papa said he was, and because, of course, he had something to prove.

Later, he will learn that he is indeed strong, stronger than anyone else could believe, and that he will become stronger still. That there is no greater pleasure than that of combat and victory, than his opponents lying defeated and the taste of  blood on his teeth. That the world is vaster than they know, and that darker things sleep in the woods, and someday those darker things too, will be nothing more than a corpse lying beneath his feet.

What his world called demons were just creatures of a different mold and magic. Though humans called them evil, his kind was no better—they killed and betrayed just as well as the denizens of the Abyss did. They were simply better at pretending otherwise.

Demon summonings were abundant before Celestia’s fall. There will be information in the archives. The Library of Daena as well.

Even she will have a weakness. Find it.

“Viatrix,” he says now, raising a brow at the demon half-hidden behind the stable doors. “I thought you weren’t going to help.”

“I’m not,” she answers archly, pupils a narrow slit bisecting luminous gold. She’s not dressed for travel—though whether a demon needed to was an entirely different question—still decked in that gauzy dress, and stockings that end mid-thigh. Far too much skin exposed for a journey through the winterlands. Once again, Childe can’t help how his gaze lingers; at her bare shoulders, already pink from cold; the svelte arms, deceptively fragile; the long, slender line of her neck.

“So you came here to take a look at the horses instead?”

There’s no answer. At least, not immediately. But her eyes have darted away from his, arms now crossed defensively across her chest. Rosebud petal lips pursed in what looks like dismay. It was almost comical, how a creature of the depths had a face as honest as a child's.

“Childe,” she finally says, and oh, isn’t his name a treat from her lips. “These wards… are far from the castle?”

“To the north, at the steppes of the Novuhara mountains.” The Northern Ward had been placed by Her Majesty centuries ago, even before Celestia's fall. She, in her infinite wisdom had known that the Snezhnayan lands were too vast for her people to defend, and had sunk her own magic into a spell that would protect them. The only drawback was that it needed a boost every passing winter.

These past few centuries, with the Tsaritsa’s gradually weakening strength, the Fatui had taken over the maintenance of the three Wards. And as Lord of the Northern Province, the care of this one had fallen into his hands.

Not that the demon looks impressed when he tells her. “I have no interest in your mortal affairs,” she informs him crossly.

“And yet, you still haven’t revealed why you’re here.”

He drops his provisions by a bale of hay, striding across the stables and unlatching a stall. The mare inside huffs, before nosing at his pocket for treats, the smart girl. Unfortunately, he’s not one to bestow rewards unearned. Behind him, the demon is quiet again, though he can almost hear echoes of her fury.

When she speaks again, her voice is even. “You will take me with you.”

Huh. “Will I?

“You would dare deny me?”

Oh, he would. Gladly, if she kept sounding like that—inches away from tearing into his throat, the edge of a threat simmering in her words. He has always loved the bite of a challenge, and doesn’t she offer plenty? But now isn’t the time, so he tucks away that darker impulse, and turns to her with a cheeky grin.

“Of course not,” he says, and moves to fetch two sets of tacks. “Although I would like to know why.”

He can make a guess, if he tries. The day after they made the contract, he had sent his aide to gather all the intel they could find regarding the ritual. The summoning ritual was a clever sort of magic, for all that it was designed by the mages of old—a chance at power immeasurable, but with its own set of consequences.

It’s a precaution, and a fair one. With an active contract, a demon could visit their realm whenever the fancy strikes. Who would stop them from roaming the lands and wreaking havoc at their own whims? Sealing their magic was not an option either, so the mages decided on the next best thing—leashing them to their contractor.

Take responsibility for the choice you’ve made, in simple terms. Especially if the choice is a pretty, murderous. four-foot weapon of mass destruction.

“Viatrix?"

And Childe supposes that a demon of her standing wouldn’t like admitting it either. She glares at him once more. And finally mutters, “I cannot travel too far from you. The magic prohibits me.” A sniff. “And I wish to observe your realm.”

Ah. “So you want to go sight-seeing?”

Her pinched face is absolutely delightful. And having her accompany him serves his purposes, so with a chuckle, Childe gives in, guiding the mare towards her. “The Northern Ward is set up around fifty miles north from here. It’s too far a journey by walk, so we’ll need to ride to get there.”

“Ride?” A quick glance at the mare, before she stares incredulously at Childe. “You will climb on top of these creatures?”

“Have you never—ah.” He pauses. “These are horses. We use them to carry us to far away places, or when we need to get somewhere swiftly.”

Another dubious glance. “And they do not try to slay you?”

“No."

“Or feast on you?”

“Not at all.”

“Or lead you into the the lairs of fiercer predators as tribute—“

“While that sounds pretty entertaining,” he interrupts with a laugh, reaching out to tug her closer by the wrist. “The most devious thing they’ve done so far is steal treats when I’m not watching.Her suspicion is almost adorable, as well as the fact that she lets him pull her forward. Either she doesn’t mind the touch, or she is too distracted by the mare, staring at the horse with wide eyes. Both options ripe with possibilities.

“Before we leave though, I need you to stop scaring the horse first.”

The horse in question is half-wild with terror, nostrils flared and ears pinned. Only Childe’s palm on its flank keeps it in place, though just barely, he notes. It’s not a surprise—animals had a sixth sense for these things. Even when he returned, they had shied away from him, until he learnt how to wrestle his newfound strength into place.

“I’m not doing anything,” she retorts. Her pupils have thinned again, tail waving with agitation behind her. “This is a waste of time.”

It looks like taking two of them is out of the question, from this mare’s reaction, so he steers it back into its stall, feeding it a sugar cube for good measure. When he turns, Lumine hasn’t moved from her spot, arms crossed and cheeks puffed.
Huh, he thinks with amusement. She almost looks disappointed.

“Want to try?” He asks, handing over a sugarcube. She shakes her head. Was that a pout?

“Don’t get upset now. We’ll just have to ride another instead.”

“These beasts recognise a predator when they see one. Their hearts will give out from fear if they carry me.”

“Not this one,” Childe parries, leading out a stallion. His ebony pelt is freshly brushed, mane peppered with braids, and he does nothing but huff noisily at the sight of Lumine. “Maxim here has been tempered by worse things than you.”

“Impossible.”

“Mmm.” He adjusts the saddle, double-checking the buckles and straps, before turning towards her. “Up you go, little demon.”

“Don’t call me that,” she mutters, and then studies the horse. Pauses.

Ah. Maxim is a warhorse, larger than most of its brethren. Her wariness isn’t unfounded—Lumine’s barely half the stallions height—so with a laugh, Childe leans forward, and holds her by the waist. It’s so small that his hands wrap around her and then some, and the realisation of that nearly stops him in place.

Oh.

Interesting.

And the speed at which her head snaps up is admirable. “What are you—ah!”
The things running through his head is not anything Childe would have believed he would ever think about a demon, but well, he’s always been one for unpredictability. She weighs as much as a feather, even with all her extra appendages; it’s barely a struggle to lift her onto Maxim, and settle her on the saddle.

(The real struggle may be keeping his eyes on her, and only her, and not the smooth skin now close to his cheek, those flushed, bare legs clenching in an attempt to keep balance. So close that all he needs is to turn his head, to brush his lips on the plush of her thighs but oh, those are thoughts for a different day.)

“Relax,” Childe tells her, as she freezes on top of the horse, as stiff as a board. “He’s not going to hurt you.”

That does the trick—her shoulders slope back down, tension wicked away, and she bestows upon him an indignant sniff. “I am Viatrix of the Abyss,” she reminds him loftily, like he could ever forget. “No creature on this land can lay a finger on me.”

If she weren’t so obviously inhuman—if it weren’t for those horns curling from her hair, or those wings that hung on her back, six a piece, or her tail—that claim would be hard to believe. Past all that, those slit eyes and unnatural grace, she’d look like any other young woman way out of her depth.

Maybe that’s why he enjoys teasing her.

“What about me?”

“What about you?”

I could lay a hand on you, and I’d make sure you enjoy it, Childe almost says. And then blinks at the thought, at the fierce and sudden heat that curls in his gut.

Fuck. He really does need to get laid.

Not the time, he tells himself, and taps her elbow. “Scoot forward, I need some space.”
She looks at him, and at the saddle, and back. And he’s already mounting onto the horse when she begins to protest, “No! Not with me—”

“Come now, the other horses are afraid of you. I have no choice.” Childe adjusts his seat, and gathers the reins in his palm. Tries not to wince as Lumine’s hand snaps out, sinking her nails into his arm in warning.

Gods, she’s so small in comparison to him. Snug within the cradle of his thighs, her head hardly crosses his breastplate. Childe swallows dryly. Maxim whinnies underneath them, and he reaches out, ignoring how Lumine turns in her seat to glare at him.
“Besides,” he adds mildly, running his hand down the stallion's neck. “Even if I did take another horse, do you know how to ride on your own?”

Silence.

“It won’t take too long.” Slowly, the pressure on his arm eases, and Childe signals the stallion into a walk. Pretends he doesn’t hear her squeak of surprise—she stiffens once again, as the sway of the horse forces her backward against his chest— and leads Maxim out onto the path. “Barely half a night's ride.”

Night  means less traffic on the roads, which meant speedier travel times. It also had the much valued bonus of keeping his little demon out of sight.

“Is this how humans always travel?” she asks a few minutes later, the horse traversing down a back alley. “On top of other weaker creatures?”

“I feel like there's a barb hidden somewhere in there.” The gate is already swung open, as per his earlier instructions, and he urges Maxim into a trot, and straight onto the main road. “Fontaine has some pretty interesting transportation using elemental energy, but here, the terrain limits us to methods like these.”

“These horses must dream of overthrowing your kind, and trampling you underfoot.”

Wasn’t that a thought. Childe snorts, and flicks the reins once more, setting the pace to a canter. “These horses get shelter and food and my kind running to please their every whim, the greedy beasts.” She wouldn’t say the same if she knew how much money went into buying treats for the lot. “Don’t you have any mounts in the Abyss?”

A second's hesitation. She rocks with the moving horse, brows furrowed, a wrinkle over her forehead. “No,” she finally answers. “All the creatures of the Deep hunger for flesh. Even the demons that serve you would betray you for power. You cannot trust any being borne of the Abyss.”

He remembers a narwhal’s cry, a gouged sky, a teacher with whalebones circling her calves. Trust is a nebulous thing, Childe thinks, observing the gentle arch of her back, the dips between her vertebra. A flick of his wrist, and a blade could slide clean through. Though he’s not fool enough to believe he’d be successful.

Not yet, anyway.

“That sounds pretty lonely,” Childe murmurs, steering the horse northwards.

“I’m not alone. I have my brother.”

“And what does your brother say about you touring our realm?” He means it to be teasing, but the flinch she fails to conceal gives her away. An obvious sore spot prodded by his question.

“It doesn't matter what he says.” Firm. Absolute. He makes a note of it, folding it away into the mental box he has of her. “Enough of this conversation. Show me your land, human.”

A pause. And then, “Give me more of this sugarcube as well.”

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

“Tell me about your home.”

Hours have passed since they set off, time blurring the way it does in the mid-night dark. Snow had begun falling half-way through, and she’d muffled a gasp at the first flake that settled on her, a white spot that melted in the span of a breath.

Lumine had never seen snow before.

It’s wet and it’s cold but curiously, not the cold of the Abyss. The Abyss is dessicated ruins and swathes of nothingness, the absence of all that could have been and was. A land that had no sun until she and her twin conjured one, and even then, the it only rose for mere days.

Her home is stars under her feet and a brother who is too busy to stay. Days spent wandering a realm she has built and shed blood for and yet, finds little joy in. Fearful gazes and careful conversation, and an empty house waiting for her.

Her home is nothing like this place. Here there are dainty ice crystals falling from the sky, and horses that carry people and do not eat them, and sugarcubes that taste sweet, like the fruit of her favourite tree. And there are beings that meet her eyes and do not flinch too—but that could be just Childe, and his foolishness, since other mortals have shown more wisdom than he has.

Though he did have some measure of intelligence—he had stopped without argument whenever she demanded it, waiting patiently as she explored every nook and cranny that caught her attention.

On the surface, there didn't seem like there was much to see in the Snezhnayan wilds, but Lumine was very good at looking. She found icicles as long as her arm hanging on branches, climbed a tree to perch between some fluffy, round birds that made hooting noises, and even had a staring contest with a long, squishy creature called a snake—Childe had swore loudly when he first found her, and then dissolved into laughter, picking the snake up and throwing it back into it's burrow.

Snow Lillies bloom only during midwinter, he told her later, when she returned from another smaller excursion, and brought back three ivory-petaled flowers. Legend says that if you leave them by the hearth, your loved ones will find their way back home to you, through both fair and foul weather.

Mortal foolishness again, for there was no magic within these flowers. Nonetheless, she had thought of Aether and tucked them into her inventory. She could leave them by his window for when he returned—he did like flowers.

Now, Childe asks about the home she has almost forgotten, in the middle of all these new, wonderful, curious things, and she jerks in surprise.

Lumine meets Childe’s gaze across the campfire. They had set camp to give Maxim a break, Childe  guiding the stallion to the bank of a gentle stream. And she’d have preferred it if he would have stayed there, by the horses side, instead of returning to sit across her, stare intense and unblinking.

“There is nothing to say about my home,” she replies.

“Come now, I’m sure there’s something. I can barter for it.”

“You have nothing I want, save what you’ve already promised me.”

“You’d be surprised.” Tugging open his pack, he pulls out a canister and two bowls. “Soup,” he answers, to Lumine’s confused glance, and ladles the liquid into the bowl.

“This is… food?”

“Fresh from the kitchens. Or well, as fresh as it can be. It’ll help warm you up.”
But there's no way is she accepting food from a human. “I’m not cold.”
Childe snorts. “You can’t fool me. You’re shivering in those clothes. Eat.”

And the bowl in her hands is warm when he offers, warm enough that she can't refuse. Chunks of cream and brown float in a white liquid, steam wafting from the surface. When she takes a sniff, the scent nearly makes her toes curl.

If he were a demon, accepting the bowl would mean something entirely different. But he isn’t a demon, and she isn’t stupid. With another glance at the bowl, she downs it in one gulp. It burns all the way down her throat, but the tingling heat and answering magic nearly makes her sigh in contentment.

When she looks up, Childe is staring at her, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Is it good?”

“What?”

“The soup. Did you like it?”

She palms the empty bowl. The taste of it still lingers in her mouth, sweet and tart at once. “It is… adequate."

“Tough customer,” he chortles. “What do you usually eat in the Abyss?”

“Nothing,” Lumine admits, placing the bowl on the floor. ““We don't need food. Heat and light are better. As long as we have that, food is just a luxury.”

Food was hard to come by too, in the barren expanse of the Abyss. Mostly hardy grasses and tinier prey. The most precious was fruit—demons would scour miles to locate a single tree. They’d fight for the pleasure of eating it—cracking the hard husk to bite into the sweeter flesh underneath.

They’d fight for the pleasure of giving it too—the rarer the better. Male demons presented food as gifts to females when they wanted to mate or have young. If she ate it, it meant that she thought he was a good sire.

To think humans had food like this everyday…

“Seconds?” he asks.

She nods.

Once they’re done, he packs up camp, leading Maxim to stand beside a fallen trunk. Lumine hoists herself up onto the saddle, and this time, she’s expecting the hard length of his body when he hoists himself behind her.

Although she doesn’t expect this: an arm around her waist, dragging her closer into the curve of his body. “Don’t attack me,” he says pre-emptively, placing his hand on her belly to keep her there, much to her obvious displeasure. His fingers fan across, all the way from one hip to the other. “It’s going to get even colder here on out.”

Oh no, he doesn’t. She twists, teeth bared, but he’s already urging the stallion into a trot, and tucking her into his cloak with his free hand.

And… it is warm, under the fur lined cloak. Terribly, horribly, awfully pleasant. His body too, burning like a bonfire at her back. She freezes, resolve weakening drastically. Lumine ought to turn around and sink her claws into his chest. She should make him bleed all over the snow. But.

The soup has settled in her belly, and it feels like something heavy has slipped within her bones, and now she really, really doesn't want to move.

“Comfortable?”

“I’m going to kill you,” Lumine grumbles in answer. “As soon as you make young and fulfill the contract.”

A laugh rumbles through his chest and into hers, tinged with mischief. “Promises, promises.”

Urgh. This human makes no sense at all.

Notes:

happy valentines everyone!

ur local author has spent the entire day writing this mess kiss her dying brain pls and ty 🙇🏻

lumi and childe are bonding(?), childe is thirsty, lumine is curiosity and wonder and murderousness in a four foot shell. love them so much sob.

anyway, ty so much for reading!!! and a hundred thousand thanks to aitsu, whose art is the lifeline by which this author survives. she draws chilumi, i claw out of deadlines and depression to make them kiss. truly, the world is a vv beautiful place.

xoxoxo

Chapter 3

Summary:

“You do not command me, Childe,” Lumine counters, and her eyes are sharp, shooting daggers above flushed cheeks and a chill-bitten nose. In the shadows of the woods, the somber winter, her hair is an open flame. A candle lit in the dark. Like she would burn to touch.

He wonders why that makes him want to touch her all the more.

(Mama always did say he has no sense of self-preservation.)

“Alright, little demon. I need you to stay still for a while.”

When Childe had asked Lumine to join him on this mission, his intent was clear. Obvious even, to those who have dipped their fingers in strategy and battle. To know the enemy is to win the war, and eight hours later, he knows that the demon hates the cold, has never seen snow and would kill for more helpings of sugar.

(Turns out that they don’t have that or dessert in the Abyss.)

A trip that shouldn’t have taken more than two hours has taken twice as long with her by his side. And he’d have been annoyed about it if it hadn’t been as amusing as it was, watching her scamper about the woods and terrorize the local wildlife. Eyes wide, hair mussed, tailing waving in what he pins as excitement behind her.

A demon as playful as a local feline. Who would have guessed.

But even the numerous pit stops couldn’t drag this journey to forever—when the gate comes into view, dark spots in the distance solidifying into human shapes, he taps her knee and warns her not to move.

“You do not command me, Childe,” Lumine counters, and her eyes are sharp, shooting daggers above flushed cheeks and a chill-bitten nose. In the shadows of the woods, the somber winter, her hair is an open flame. A candle lit in the dark. Like she would burn to touch.

He wonders why that makes him want to touch her all the more.

(Mama always did say he has no sense of self-preservation.)

Not the time, he reminds himself, against the musings of his traitorous mind. Her head knocks against the dip of his collarbones. Her navel is warm under his palm, just within the length of his hand. She’s cute, no doubt, cute in the way man-eating Rishboland tigers were, but there are many mortal men and women out there who could meet his needs. And sure, he could have his pick of vices, but who needs the pleasures of flesh when they could savour the pleasures of battle?

“I don't command you,” Childe agrees. Adjusts himself in his seat. Thinks of everything else, anything else but Lumine, and those eyes glazed with something other than rage.

Like the fact that she is still glaring at him, horns and wings and tail in plain view.

“Look.” The men posted at the gate have drawn to attention at the approaching horse. He only has minutes to convince her. Childe weighs his options, studying the furrow between her brows, that stubborn tilt of her mouth.

Oh well.

In a fluid movement he tugs her again, deeper into his embrace. Leaves not an inch of space between their bodies. She fits so well against him, the little demon. This close he can feel the protrusions of her spine, the feather-light brush of her wings. The tension that sweeps her frame, blanketed from head to toe, save for the tiny feet that peep through at the bottom.

He shushes her when she makes a sound of alarm. And now all that is visible of Viatrix is a set of baleful eyes, staring out accusingly from the centre of his chest.

“I’ll give you something even better than sugar when we return. If you behave,” he offers placatingly, before she makes her disgruntlement known—and nods at the soldiers who’ve sunk into bows, a hand clasped over their heart.

“Lord Tartaglia! We have been expecting you.”

“Commander Ivan. Ensign Alexander.” He nods back, and smothers the wince when he feels something nearly cut, pain radiating through his arm.

Archons. If she squeezed her tail any tighter, she’d hack his arm off.

“Any updates regarding the ward?”

“No changes over the past few hours, my lord.” They rise back to attention, ever the perfectly-trained soldiers, gazes respectful, moustaches slick with oil. And it’s then their eyes catch sight of the interloper, tiny and blonde and undoubtedly female, tucked into the folds of his cloak.

A pause.

Smarter men would have pretended not to see her immediately, and went about their day. They do not avert their eyes quick enough. But neither does the Fatui entertain fools, so the two tear their gazes away the moment Childe leans forward, and rests his chin on her head.

“Good work, men,” he murmurs, and smiles. The soldiers pale. “And regarding other matters...”

“Other—“ the ensign begins to ask, only to be interrupted by a pained gasp as the captain lands an elbow in his stomach.

“We’ve seen nothing, my lord,” he says smoothly. “And we wish you a good hunting,” he finishes, throwing open the gates.

Childe urges the stallion past him without another word.

Barely a minute later, she’s scrambling out of his hold, teeth bared. If he got a mora for every dirty look she threw, he’d be swimming in it by now. “What was that for?”

“You were cold, weren’t you?”

“That’s not it,” she hisses. “You were hiding me.”

“Was I?”

Her agitation makes Maxim uneasy, the horse throwing his head back with a huff. Childe pats the his neck, and hums, soothing the stallion. If only she were as easy to calm down, his demon and her biting temper. Especially with those sharp teeth so close to his throat.

Not that he minds, of course.

(Since when was she his?)

In the distance, ic- blue light flickers, casting shadows within the foliage. Cryo energy. The chill of Her Majesty’s gift. “Look. We’re almost there,” he murmurs, and flicks the reins, sliding into a trot. Leafless trees stretch towards the sky. They’re close. Close enough that he can spy the shine of the Ward.

“See that, little demon?”

A clearing, fifty feet across. Empty, but for a single pillar of ice in the middle. Quiet.

The first time he saw the Northern Ward, he had been by Pulcinella’s side, and fallen silent out of awe. He’d fallen to the Abyss. He’s witnessed the twisted spires of Zapolyarny Palace. And yet there: a pillar that towered so high that it looked like it could scrape the stars, and he could do nothing but look. Nothing but wonder.

“Is that the Ward you spoke of?” Lumine asks now, voice sweet and lilting with curiosity.

She’s easy to distract, for a centuries old creature of the dark. He nods in answer. “There’s a story,” he says, “About the Northern Ward. They say that the Tsaritsa spent five days and five nights in this clearing, on her knees. She had been weakened after the war, and did not have the power she once had. Her tears flowed, out of the pain of failing her people. Those tears froze when they hit the ground, and became the pillar you see now.”

“That sounds ridiculous,” Lumine responds primly. “And a waste of good magical power.”

“Well, those tears protect all of us. And it’s why the people of Snezhnaya have sworn to never shed tears—to honor our goddess who had shed far too many on our behalf.” Childe dismounts swiftly, and offers her a hand. She ignores it and jumps off the horse, landing on her feet with her tail poised.

“So if someone destroys it, your land is doomed?” Lumine slants a glance at him. “Bold of you to reveal your land’s weakness to me.”

“You’d gain nothing from tampering with it.” A careless shrug, and his hand lands on his horses rear. He watches it gallop down the path they took. It’s a routine by now—the gatekeepers know to keep an eye out for Maxim, so he’s not worried. Though he does notice Lumine’s gaze following the animal. Fearsome, heartless demon indeed.

The pillar glimmers, catching moonlight in its fractals. He eats up the distance to it in long strides, studying the glow. The Ward is still active, but the light is dimmer than the last time he saw it. Seems like he’s just in the nick of time.

“It’s going to get messy in a while, so I suggest you hide.”

A poor choice of words—Lumine’s eyes narrow into slits. “I do not hide, human. Not from whatever it is you are summoning.”

“Not a summoning this time. More a…” Childe hums, and traces the letters carved in ice. Her Majesty’s magic sings to him, and the core of magic she gifts her Harbingers sings back. “Trigger, you could say. The minute I boost the wards, every single creature in this woods will know. And they’ll make their displeasure known too.”

“So more fighting.” She sounds… annoyed.

“I thought demons liked battle.” A raven caws from far away, and then another. His babushka used to call them omens. Dark tidings on dark wings. Childe lays his palm on the ice.

“Demons like power. I like power,” she scowls. “And you spend all your time fighting instead of giving me mine.”

Ah. “All in due time. It’s been a while since I let loose,” he confesses. Rolls a shoulder, clenches and unclenches his hand. The air shimmers, and then there is a dagger where once nothing sat, nestled in the crook of his palm. And then he squeezes, pain arcing through his hand, beads of blood rolling down his arm and falling onto the base of the pillar.

Silence sets in.

Once he gets back, he needs to submit a report regarding the Northern Ward, he recalls. Bureaucracy would be the end of him someday. When the Tsaritsa bestowed upon him the the Northern Province, he expected bandits and monster swarms and covert operations. Not meetings on meetings arguing about gunpowder and festivals and the price of wheat—all important certainly, but not his area of expertise.

This is what he lives and breathes—the moments before a clash, the quick spill of adrenaline into his veins. The quiet before a storm, tension seeping through the air. He twists his wrist, and a matching blade forms in the other hand, just as wickedly sharp as the first.

Her voice breaks the silence. In the ink-blank darkness surrounding them, one set of eyes, luminous, blinks open. “You’re smiling.”

He is. “I am,” he agrees. Softly. Slowly.

Her feet are light on the packed ground. Heels leaving imprints as she peers up at him.

She’s looking for something. And then her face hardens with knowledge, the weight of finding the answer.“In my land,” Lumine says, “There is a name for those like you.”

How surprising, that she’s offering the information first. For all she was an open book with her feelings, getting Lumine to open up was like pulling teeth. Stubborn, hard, unyielding teeth. “Let me guess,” he replies. “Handsome? Noble? Dashing?”

She shakes her head. “Banamaðr,” she murmurs. That one set of eyes in the dark has become four, and in a second ten times as much. A slow rumble builds in the air.

“In your language, I suppose you’d say… death-dealer.”

There are more than a hundred eyes now, surrounding the clearing.

Childe grins, wide and vicious.

He likes that name.

“Brace yourself, little demon.”

And all hell breaks loose.

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

Death is a singularity, in the endless Abyss.

Violence is life, to her ilk. To draw blood is to prove you live, that you survive. That you are strong. That you will breathe another day. For the Abyss consumes the weak down to the last bone, and you must fight, to live as more than another meal for the void.

He reminds her of home, she realizes. That unyielding hunger for more.

The way that after a certain point, one begins to enjoy it.

And oh, he certainly does look like he’s enjoying himself.

The clearing that had been pristine hours ago is now coated with ash and mud. The sky tinged crimson and darkened with smoke. Dying screams sever the air; she sniffs as a fireball narrowly misses her dangling foot, hitting the trunk of the tree she's sitting on instead.

And now the tree has caught fire, so she jumps off the branch, narrowly missing the licking flames. Her boot sinks into a lifeless body; another scream sounds; blood splatters over her dress from a fleeing hilichurl.

Urgh.

The human grins when he catches sight of her stomping her way to him. “Little demon,” he crows, swiftly dispatching another hilichurl. His hair is a tousled mess, eyes bright with bloodlust. “Come to join me?”

Just a glimpse of his cheerful face is enough to set her blood boiling. She crosses her arms, and resists the urge to introduce him to her claws. “It’s been hours,” she hisses. “You didn't tell me it would take this long.”

“Wasn't really expecting this much of a swarm,” he replies, tilting his head to cast a gaze across the battlefield. “Looks like the delay in tuning the Ward did have an affect.”

Despite her ire, Lumine isn't unreasonable—she can admit that the hours they've spent here is a consequence of the number of enemies, rather than his rate of disposal. The number of corpses at his feet is rather compelling evidence. Nevertheless, she bites the inside of her cheek and demands, “Be faster.”

“Oh?”

“Maxim has been waiting for you for hours.”

Childe blinks. “Why, it sounds like you're more worried about my horse, rather than me.”

“He’s already proved his worth. All you do is vex me.”

And she cannot understand why he looks delighted at that comment. And how he has the gall to snicker at her, instead of fleeing her wrath like any creature with half a brain. “A mere mortal like me, vexes the great Viatrix?”

Oh, she’s going to wring him like a sack and throw him into the swarm. No wonder he was childless, if he is so infuriating.

“You know exactly why,” she hisses. Lifts a hand. “Now duck.”

Surprisingly he does listen to her, obedient for once. And just in the nick of time, as she summons her sword, swiping it neatly across the neck of a mitachurl.

Her blade glides across flesh with ease.  Feels almost nostalgic, the land and the opponent. The weight of her weapon in hand, the curve of the hilt nestled in her palm. It’s a pity—no one is stupid enough to challenge her these days—and it’s been so long that she's forgotten the thrill of the fight.

And long enough that her edge has dulled, she notes, as the Mitachurl utters a gurgling roar, still clinging to life. Once upon a time, the flick of her sword sent thousands to their deaths. How disappointing.

She reaches out, curling her fingers into hair matted with blood and who knows what else, and yanks.

The Mitachurl’s head comes off of its shoulders with a sickening squelch. With a wrinkle of her nose, she tosses it over her shoulder.

When she turns, the human looks like she’s stabbed him in the gut.

“What?” she snaps, flicking the blood off her sword. “If you die here, I don’t get what I’m owed.”

Something ripples across his face. “That was…”

“What?”

Childe stands and stares.

It’s like he doesn’t see the swarm of monsters surging towards them, the crackling lightning and raised blades. Like he doesn’t care that standing still right now is like standing on Death’s doorstep.

“Human!” she barks.

Behind him, a Lawachurl has begun to march in their direction, floor shaking with every step. Close. Much too close.

“Are you going to stand there all day?”

No answer.

“Childe!”

And he finally moves—nocks an arrow, and shoots it through the monster’s head. It shrieks in pain, before falling to the ground. Dead, she surmises.

(Even while aiming, he hadn't looked away from her.)

“You,” he finally says, blinking slow. Like a cat woken from slumber. Like someone who had woke up to a new, brilliant day. “Want my firstborn.”

Had spending so long fighting shrivelled his brains? “You’re a fool.”

Childe cocks his head. Smiles.

And then he’s stepping forward, and yanking her closer.

A boulder careens past them, exploding into sharp debris only a few feet away. One of the shards arc near his face, and leave a thin, bleeding gash. “You know,” he says, as blood trickles down his cheek. He looks hungry. He looks like a familiar thing, like the void. Like he could devour her. “You’re right. I am a fool. You should stay with me for this battle, just in case. Protect your investment and all that.”

A creature floats towards them, four legged, one headed, and Lumine frowns, peering at its glowing golden edges. No weaknesses as far as she could see. Time to stab it until it died. “No,” she refuses Childe succinctly, and his elated, vicious smile.

And then she’s freeing herself from his hold, and sprinting towards the approaching enemy. It braces itself, spine arching; she dodges slashing claws and swings her blade, shearing the appendage at the joint.

The creature cries. Her sword slides into its centre before it can recover.

And after that, she loses herself.

Parry. Slash. Uppercut. Her sword sings as she weaves between opponents, skirts twirling around her knees. Some of them are familiar, descendants and remnants of armies she’s decimated half a millenia ago. And some are entirely new monsters, creatures of clockwork and elements but oh, oh—

They all die the same.

Once, she battled in the depths of the Abyss, Aether by her side. To be weak is to die. To be strong is to survive. Lumine has been forged by the endless night, whetted and sharpened by centuries of war.

Her sword sings. Her enemies bleed.

“Lumine,” a voice speaks in her ear, firm with command. “Down.”

Lumine listens.

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

She's a blur of black and blue.

She dances between her opponents, blade moving faster than he can keep track. Graceful. Lethal. Childe falls into stillness, breath caught in his throat. The demon annihilates every creature in her path with ease, effortless, as simple as breathing. Sure, he had known Lumine had possessed a strength like no other.

He had known, but he hadn't known.

And now he can't look away.

Here is what Childe sees: A delicate figure. A natural disaster, a raging whirlwind, an unstoppable force. Lumine tilts her hand, sword flashing, and enemies fall. She lunges, scarf fluttering behind her, and takes down another lawachurl with a boot to a knee.

Childe inhales a shuddering breath, liquid fire spilling in his veins.

Oh.

By the time he wrestles his thoughts under control, a duo of Ruin Drakes have ambushed her. She spins with a frown, brows knitted in concentration. Now, her back faces him—those bare shoulder blades, smooth skin, fluttering golden wings.

She’s distracted by her opponents, eyes bright with the thrill of combat, mouth wide in the pleasure of victory. She wouldn't even sense him coming.

It would be easy to slip his blade through her heart.

Too easy.

But.

Childe sprints towards her. Brings his blades together. “Down,” he barks and she listens; his swords become a spear; one sweep and the beasts surrounding her collapse to the ground, blood spraying from their wounds.

You can have my firstborn, he had said, an oath he’d planned to break. His family was his, and no creature, this world or not, would lay a hand on them as long as he breathed. Not even this little demon, who fights like a storm personified, who turns and bares her teeth at him, miffed at the stolen kill.

He owes her his blood and kin, and the magic has bound them.

He thinks about the oath, something he can’t name bubbling in his chest, and looks at her.

Her cheeks are flushed with exertion. Her chest heaves. She glares at him spitefully. Covered in blood and viscera, crimson stains on her skin, she’s—

She’s the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Notes:

ok i think the man is in deep now. someone help him pls. he needs it.

now that childe is a hundred percent sure he wants to fuck the demon, we can begin the shenanigans! accidental proposals, the eleventh trying to woo an oblivious demon, teucer and tonia and the not sus at all pretty girl they find wandering the woods. kisses? kisses. i am so excited to write the next few chapters and im so happy you guys are here <3

next update this coming monday, ty guys for reading!

Chapter 4

Summary:

Lumine cocks her head, listening to the footsteps in the distance, that heart that beats like a rabbit, quick with panic. Humans were beings that feared much—loss, fire, creatures that lurked in the dark. Children were only small humans, yet their fears were so much greater. “Your Tonia is very scared,” she tells Teucer. “Who is this Mr. Cyclops? Is he a monster?”

“Mr. Cyclops isn’t a monster!” the boy cries, just as a girl bursts into the clearing, braids flying behind her. “Mr. Cyclops is a hero!”

There is a tiny gremlin that looks suspiciously like Childe hanging onto her cloak.

The same ginger locks, though this boy’s is flattened underneath a worn sheepskin cap. The near-same blue eyes, but undeniably different, free from the shadows that cling to Childe’s. And chubby cheeks and tiny little fingers, little fingers that dig into the thick wool of her cloak while he stares at her with pleading eyes.

This was not how her walk was supposed to go.

Lumine blinks. Stares back.

Little Not-Childe. Oh. Years ago, Childe too was a little boy. It’s difficult to imagine that infuriating man in any other shape or form, but she could consider him in this one. Tiny and orange and vaguely… cute. Maybe.

In fact, if he ever got to fulfilling their deal, his spawn would look like this. An interesting thought.

“Teucer!” The name echoes.

“Miss,” the mini-childe whispers urgently. In the background, the other voice echoes with the barren woods. Her magic stirs in her chest. Something familiar calling. “You have to help me.”

“Why should I?” she asks bluntly. Reaches out to tap his temple, threads of her power curling at her fingertips. An answer to the siren song crooning within the child's body.

Ah. Like calls to like. Her magic recognizes the remnants in him. The brother. He looks different from when she last caught glimpse of him, Lumine muses. Healthier and rosy-cheeked, no more a skeleton over a bed.

“You have to, miss!” the boy insists. “If you don’t, Tonia will find me and I’ll never get to see Mr. Cyclops!”

Closer now, the voice cries again, distinctly young and sweet. “Teucer, it’s dangerous! Come back here!”

Lumine cocks her head, listening to the footsteps in the distance, that heart that beats like a rabbit, quick with panic. Humans were beings that feared much—loss, fire, creatures that lurked in the dark. Children were only small humans, yet their fears were so much greater. “Your Tonia is very scared,” she tells Teucer. “Who is this Mr. Cyclops? Is he a monster?”

“Mr. Cyclops isn’t a monster!” the boy cries, just as a girl bursts into the clearing, braids flying behind her. “Mr. Cyclops is a hero!”

“Teucer! I can’t believe—” And the girl Lumine pegs as Tonia sutters to a stop, face wan and pale. Her eyes dart from Teucer, hiding behind her skirts to Lumine’s face and back.

Lumine looks back.

Another Childe look-alike. Soft edges and gentle curves, in comparison to her human’s gangly frame. Freckles dusting the apples of her cheeks. Female. A sister?

She didn’t realize that he has a sister. Childe had never mentioned that he had other siblings—not that she had ever asked. It sends her reeling, just a little, the realization.

Children are rare in the Abyss. Siblings even rarer. The twins were a once-in-a-millenia occurence, in their realm—deemed ill-omens by the time the two of them had learnt to crawl. Rumors sprung in plenty about how they would damn the Abyss.

She supposes they did, in the end. The House of Viat had been the thirteenth, the weakest of all the houses. The farthest from the throne. Once.

Now Aether wears the crown. And it must be quite damning to live under Aether’s rule. He nags like nobody else.

The sister—Tonia—sucks in a deep breath. Her shoulders rise and fall, heaving with exertion. She is young too, Lumine notes. Pretty, in a way the Abyss would strive to crush. Wide eyes. Red-gold strands woven into long braids, falling down her shoulders. Her hair reminds her of Childe’s but not—his is a tousled mess, locks sticking up and out, that makes her want to tangle her hands in them and pull. Tonia’s hair is much, much prettier, she decides. Less infuriating.

“Who are you?” Tonia asks.

“Who am I?” Lumine echoes. “I am—”

The Voyager. The Calamity. Viatrix of the endless Depths. A demon, a monster, a maker of ruins—

“She’s my friend!” Teucer interrupts, one foot stomping emphatically into the ground. Lumine blinks in surprise. “And we’re going to see Mr. Cyclops!”

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

Tonia is fourteen years old the day Teucer throws a tantrum and flees into the woods.

Fourteen years was the age mother was when grandmother died, and she had to cook and clean and run the household lest they all go hungry. Fourteen is how old Ajax was, long long ago, those three days he went missing.

And fourteen years have sunk their teeth in her when she meets Lumine for the first time.

She doesn't know that the lady’s name is Lumine at that time, of course. Neither does she know that the lady is not really a lady, more a millenia-old demonic entity summoned by her older brother in exchange for a blood sacrifice. But to be really honest, Tonia knows little then, beyond Mama’s teachings and Ajax’s affections and her books of courtly knights, wicked dukes and dainty princess-maidens.

So Tonia can’t be blamed, not really, that when she sees Lumine, with her little brother hidden behind her, her first thought is that Lumine could have walked right out of one of those books.

She’s lovely, Tonia thinks. Eyes as bright as liquid gold, set in a heart shaped face. Smooth, unblemished skin and a graceful figure, so beautiful she could be an angel. And though her dress is scandalously short (Tonia can spy her knees!), and her hair barely skims her shoulders, and the cloak she wears is ridiculously large for her size, dragging over the floor, Tonia could swear she’s the most perfect person she’s ever seen.

“Who are you?” Tonia asks.

She has to be a princess. Or at least a noble. Tonia had thought she already knew all the noble girls near her age but maybe this one was new? Maybe she just moved to the town, and that’s why she’s here. Took a left turn instead of a right, and ended up in the Woods.

(Of course, perhaps Tonia should have also wondered how a noble girl was wandering the Woods without a chaperone and still alive, and how that was suspicious indeed, but remember, Tonia is only fourteen.)

Teucer is still clinging to the stranger, fists curled into her cloak. Face scrunched in piqued stubborness. He wasn’t always like this—Teucer is sweet, a mama’s boy through and through with only an occasional streak of mischief—but he’s been more adamant the past few weeks. Refuses to yield to good sense, when once a sharp word would keep him out of trouble.

Mama had said that it was because he had come close to death’s door, and that only made him more desperate to taste life. And then Mama became sad and didn’t say anything else, so Tonia had tip toed away.

Mama doesn’t like talking about it, how they had almost lost him. And Papa is even worse, pretending it never happened, though Tonia does catch him sniffling by the window at times. And Ajax gets scarily quiet whenever he remembers, face becoming something cold and unfeeling. Like the Harbinger the rumors speak of.

None handled her little brother’s illness well.

Her once ill little brother who now declares the pretty stranger his friend (that liar) and begins a not-so-convincing spiel about finding Mr. Cyclops.

“Mr Cyclops is the biggest and strongest ever!” Teucer’s eyes are bright, figure animated in a measure Lumine hasn’t seen for a long time. His arms spread out wide for punctuate the telling.

Tonia had spent everyday by his bedside, praying to the gods for a turn to the illness. She’d sworn whatever she had in her name, and then some, eternal loyalty and whatever else the powers that be could ever want, for her baby brother to walk again. For him to jump around instead of lie still, to smile as wide as he does now.

To be healthy, and happy, and alive.

“He shoots missiles out of his eye, and spins very very fast, and takes bad guys down like this—” Teucer leaps forward, mouth twisted in a mock-snarl, “And like this—”

Anthon had cried when Teucer’s eyes fluttered back open. The doctors had called it a miracle when the color bled back into his cheeks, when his withered frame gained strength. Magic. A blessing from the gods.

But he’s okay now. He’s okay.

And once Teucer is done entertaining the nice, pretty lady, she can swear him into secrecy about this little trip, and usher him back within the safety of the manor walls before Ajax gets a wind of this escapade. A shudder snakes down her spine at the thought.

Oh, no matter what happens, she cannot let Ajax know.

Speaking of.

“Not even Big Brother can take him down,” Teucer finishes with aplomb, hands on his hips and chin raised.

The pretty lady looks entranced. “I was unaware that creatures of such strength walked these planes.”

“Big brother is strong,” Teucer tells her, “But not as strong as Mr. Cyclops!”

“Hm.” The lady’s brow rises. “Would this Mr. Cyclops be able to defeat me?”

“Of course,” Teucer tells her solemnly. “But he wouldn’t want to hurt you, because you’re a pretty lady and he’s a hero.”

“I see,” she says, nodding back in careful thought.

In hindsight, Tonia should have known Teucer was up to something the moment she caught him sneaking out of Ajax’s office. Only Teucer could rifle through all that mind-numbing paperwork and find exactly what he’s looking for: trouble. The report of a wandering Ruin guard caught her eye too too late to stop him from leaving, but at least she has him in her grasp now.

Alright Teucer, you’ve had your fun, let’s go home, Tonia thinks, and almost says, except she’s struck into speechlessness alarm as the lady declares, “This Mr. Cyclops seems like a worthy adversary. I wish to meet him in combat.”

Tonja must have heard it wrong. Maybe she said bobcat. Or acrobat. Two other very unlikely choices, but certainly better than say, combat.

“Yay!” Teucer cheers. “Combat!”

Tonia’s mouth falls open.

“Wait!” she cries, nearly tripping over her feet in her haste to move closer. “What do you mean combat?! Wait, where are you—”

“Let’s goooo!” Teucer yells, running past her, arms up in the air. “Faster, Tonia, pretty lady, faster!”

It couldn't be.

Tonia watches in horror as the lady proceeds to follow him, as though hunting down wayward automatons is anything but a death sentence.

Tonia doesn’t even know her name.

The woods are dark and endless. Eerily silent. Teucer is still laughing, waiting ahead in the shade of an ancient ash tree—and gods, what was this mess—while Tonia tries to get her bearings straight.

“Miss,” she starts again, half-sprinting to catch up. The lady doesn't slow down. But she’s tiny, and her steps are just so, so Tonia manages to draw to her side with relative ease. “Thank you for indulging my brother,” she gasps out.“But Ruin guards aren’t as harmless as Teucer says they are.”

“Is your brother lying?”

“No.” Tonia shakes her head. “But he’s a child. He doesn’t know the truth. And we shouldn’t even be here in the woods. It's dangerous.”

Golden eyes turn to study her. “Dangerous?”

Oh. She really doesn't know.

Alright, Tonia thinks. Concludes. She is definitely new to the area, if she hasn’t heard the rumors yet. “It’s why my older brother was assigned to oversee this province in the first place. They say that…” Her voice drops to a whisper, while she casts a wary glance around. “All sorts of monsters and creatures lurk here. That the shadows grow deeper than is natural in these woods. That sometimes the ground cracks open, and an abyss lies at the end of it.”

When Tonia glances at the blonde, she catches something unknown shadow her face. “If you’re worried about those monsters, you shouldn’t be.” The blonde tilts her head, inhaling the air. “They know better.”

Tonia blinks. “Huh?”

The ends of the cloak flutter in the cold breeze. The lady curls into it. Frowns, and then pivots northward. “Here, tiny Childe,” she calls out, beckoning to Teucer with a hand. “I hear movement in this direction. Your Mr. Cyclops must be fearsome indeed, to be still roaming these woods while I am here.”

Teucer believes her without hesitation, sprinting past them in excitement. If Anthon were here, he’d be right beside Teucer, scrambling to keep up. Tonia ought to, instead. But first—

“You really hear the Ruin Guard?”

The stranger cocks her head. “It’s a wonder any of you humans survive past a year. Don’t you hear it too?”

Tonia strains her ears. All she hears is the crunch of leaves beneath their feet and Teucer’s excited chattering.

“You dare doubt me?” the stranger asks, strangely offended. Her eyes gleam under the hood, pupils strangely narrow. “Come, human. I will show you the way.”

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

Barely half an hour later, their journey is interrupted by incomparable tragedy.

Tonia is horrified, hands over her mouth.

So is Teucer, his eyed wide and face pale. “What do you mean?” he cries, like the statement is a grievous affront to polite society. “Everyone knows what a snowman is. It's very very important!”

“Is it another monster?” the pretty lady asks, brows furrowed in thought. Tonia can't help it either—she gasps in sympathy.

“Some things are more important,” Teucer informs Tonia immediately. It almost makes her proud. “We can go find Mr. Cyclops afterwards.”

Which leads to this—an impromptu pause to their hunt for Mr. Cyclops, and piling heaps of snow in the woods.

And Tonia would have been happier if they called off finding Mr. Cyclops all together, but she supposes Teucer is right. Some things are more important.

“This is how you build a snowman,” she tells Lumine now, rolling combing snow into a pile, while Teucer begins packing it into a large ball. “We build few every winter, once everyone comes home for Yuletide.”

“Everyone?”

“Anton, Teucer and I always live at home. But the third week of every month, Big brother Andrei and Big sister Tsvetana and Big brother Ajax return—”

“There are more of you?!”

Tonia giggles, shooting a thumbs up at Teucer when he proudly gestures to the first complete snowball. “We're a big family! Eight, if you include Mama and Papa.”

Lumine looks like she’s been socked in the face. Kind of confused, Tonia thinks. And Tonia could swear she hears her mutter something along the lines of I knew Aether was right, but by then she’s already by Teucer’s side, helping him roll the second snowball for the snowman’s body.

“Are you going to join us, Miss Lumine?”

“My kind does not waste time on such trivial matters,” she declares. And then moves forward to help anyway, like she can't help it.

Tonia can't blame her—who could resist building a snowman? Especially the very first time.

“You have to—wait.” Miss Lumine’s cloak is so large she could trip over it. It’s surprising she hasn't. The cloak looks familiar too, almost like the one Big Brother Ajax wears. Thick and comfortable.“First, let's just…”

They wrangle the cloak to wrap around Miss Lumine’s waist with a messy knot. And then they realize that she’s not wearing gloves, and making a snowman without gloves is begging for frostbite. And since it's Miss Lumine’s first time, so she needs to help out for sure.

They solve the problem by lending her one glove each, Tonia’s periwinkle blue on the right and Teucer's fire- red on the left. And then they talk her through the final part—the best part, Teucer exclaims, of snowman-making—decorating the head.

Scrounging the ground scores them the perfect pebbles to place as eyes, and some daintier ones to make the smile. He looks sort of sad without a nose though, Tonia admits, frowning at the snowman. “We need a carrot for that,” she tells Miss Lumine. “But we’re too far from the manor to fetch one now. A noseless snowman it is.”

Teucer has found some sticks for arms, and propped his sheepskin cap onto the snowman. “Mister Snowman will feel sad if he has nothing to wear. So we usually lend him something of ours.”

Tonia donates her scarf next, a patterned blue that matches her gloves. Why, their noseless snowman looks a bit more handsome now.

On Miss Lumine’s turn, she furrows her brow in thought, and digs underneath her hood. Tonia gasps when she glimpses the flower in the stranger’s hand. “I’ve never seen a flower like that before. It’s beautiful.”

“It’s from my homeland,” Lumine says, tucking it by Teucer's cap. “Here. Is he done now?”

In the end, their snowman isn't one of the best Tonia's made, but it doesn't matter, because it’s filled with heart, which Big Brother Ajax says is the most important thing. And even better—

Miss Lumine is smiling.

The prettiest smile Tonia has ever seen. The kind that brightens up a room. The kind that has people stars—is that a blush on Teucer’s cheeks?

And it’s the first time they’ve seen her smile too, since they’ve met her. Not that it’s been long since they have, but something tells Tonia she doesn't do it often.

“I think this is the best snowman ever,” Teucer says, grinning widely.

Lumine hums. “He doesn't have a nose.”

“And that gives him character,” Tonia declares, setting her hands on her hips. She studies the figure with a critical eye, and proceeds to adjust it’s flowered headwear until it covers an eye. Dashing, she decides. “Maybe Mister Snowman lost his nose in a fierce knife—uh,” Tonia glances at Teucer, and amends, “In a fierce snowball fight.”

“A snowball fight!” Teucer crows.

“A snowball fight?” Lumine asks.

Teucer freezes. Tonia does too, while they both turn in unison to stare at her. And then face each other, face settling into determined masks.

“Some things are more important,” Tonia informs Teucer. Her little brother nods solemnly.

And grabs Miss Lumine’s hands. “Miss Lumine, let’s have a snowball fight!”

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

After giving Big Sister Lumine a thorough introduction to the wonders of battle—ammunition limited to snowballs—and a crash-course in how to make the best snow forts, they return to hunting down Mr. Cyclops.

Sadly, they have to leave Mister Snowman behind, even if Lumine didn’t look pleased about it. “We can always make another one,” Tonia tells her. “And you should come visit home! We have a box of decorations we use for the Tsesaravich Annual Snowman Extravanza. It’ll be fun.”

“You make these men of snow every year?”

“Yeah!” Teucer grins. “It’s a family tradition.”

“Don't you have traditions with your family, Big Sister Lumine?” Tonia slants a glance at the blonde. Teucer has skipped forward, attention caught by a patch of mushrooms sprouting in between the roots of a tree.

And the question wipes the smile off her face. Lumine is quiet now. Oh, shouldn't have asked. Tonia reaches out and twists their fingers together—just because. “I have a brother,”Lumine finally says. “But he travels. My parents passed a long time ago.”

That means that she’s alone too, in an entirely new place. That can't have been easy. “If that’s the case,” Tonia says, “You can spend time with us!”

“Why?”

“We’re friends now, aren't we?”

A pause. Lumine’s steps stutter. When Tonia looks at her, she seems at loss for words. “I don't—cannot have friends.”

“Why not?”

Golden eyes shutter under furrowed brows. “My kind does not entertain such notions. To call another friend is simply to court a knife in your back.”

That just sounds lonely to Tonia.

No family, if what she said is true. No friends either, though Tonia doesn't understand exactly why. She sounds sad.

It reminds her of the time Ajax had first left home to join the Fatui. Papa had been angry and spent all his time out of the house. Mama in her rooms. And Teucer and Anton were too young to understand what was going on.

And Tonia had been all alone, because no one in the village would play with her—Ajax had just beaten up all the boys in a fistfight the last week. That was when Andrei had visited home, fresh from his travels, and gifted her a set of paperbacks.

They’ve gotten pretty popular outside Snezhnaya. An imprint called Yae’s Publishing House makes them by the dozen. Don't let Mama catch you reading it, okay?

Tonia had learnt to find solace in books that year. It had been enough.

(Sometimes she wonders how it would have felt, if she had a friend instead.)

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

“Master Childe.”

“Alexis.” The library is darker than when he entered. It’s been a while, he realises. Allows the book in his hand to fall shut, and greets the mage with a nod. “How was the trip to Sumeru?”

“Fruitful, my lord.” The man hands over a document, and tightly wound package. “We cannot confirm the efficacy, but the three of us think the theory holds merit.”

“I see.” Childe hums, skimming over the page. They’ve been thorough. Just like he commanded.

He thinks of Lumine, cutting through enemies like a knife through butter. The gleam of her sword, the edge of smile. Blood on her cheek and sharp canine teeth.

Childe does not lose. Victory is picking your battlefield wisely, and the battle even wiser. Lumine is a star that does not burn out, a calamity he cannot contain. He may be the Eleventh, but in the end, he is bound by mortal limits. Mostly.

He doesn't like trickery. But a Harbinger does what he must, and that includes evening the odds.

“Alexis,” he begins, when the door slams open, and Ekaterina rushes in.

“Master Childe,” she gasps. Her lips are bloodless and pale. She’s breathing heavily, which means she must have ran to get here. Ekaterina never runs. “Your siblings—”

Childe's blood runs cold.

“Your siblings are missing.”

Notes:

sorry for the delay life absolutely kicked my ass. i'm so tired. i love you all. i may also have another (secret) project. please have confused demon learning the joys of winter.

thank you for reading, and hope you're having a good day!

Chapter 5

Summary:

Because Papa isn’t wrong.

There is something else inside him now, that whispers and croons songs into his ear. Sings of glory and battle and the thrill of challenge. Sings of victory and pleasure and grinding enemies to dust beneath a heel, of standing while everyone else kneels.

It is quiet here. It is safe. It makes him want to run his claws down and walls and rend.

A long time ago:

“You cannot—you are lying, Pyotr. Lying! I do not believe you. He is just a boy!”

“Marya, do not—Marya!” Feet thump heavily on the floor as his father stumbles forward, reaching out. Mama avoids his grasp with a harried sidestep and a dirty look. His father reaches out again, circling one hand around Mama’s arm. “Marya. Please listen to me.”

“I am listening,” his mother hisses. Angry. Ajax has seen Mama angry before—the time that Andrei had set the shed on fire, the time Tsvetana had a sleepover with neighbor boy Karkov, and kept it secret (Mama found out, of course.) But Ajax has never seen his mother like this, face drawn and eyes spitting fire as she stares down Papa. “I am listening, and I say no.”

“Your heart is clouding your sense, my love. Please.”

“And your fear is clouding yours! He is fourteen, Pyotr—” And his Mama’s voice breaks here, a soft little sob that echoes far too loud for the sound that it is. “Fourteen. You cannot do this.”

His heart hurts. It does. He is not entirely a monster—not yet. He is still mortal flesh and mortal bone, despite what has found purchase in his soul. Despite the voice in his headthat laughed as he let go that evening, when those boys challenged him in the alley. Ajax is human enough to see his mother’s tears, and freeze in the shadows of the hall.

“He almost killed someone today,” his father says, voice as rough as wood crackling in fire. “Irina’s boy. The one with the green eyes. They’ve called for horses to take him to the healer in the city.”

“Don’t. Stop it.”

“He is no longer your boy, Marya.”

“He is my son!” she roars.

“He is,” Papa agrees sadly. “And he is something else too, now.”

Mama grows quiet. She keens.

And then Ajax cannot see what happens next, attention caught by the footsteps pattering down the stairs, the little feet clad in woollen socks.

Tonia is rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She stops in place when she meets Childe’s eyes, and sees him raise a finger to her lips. Stays still and quiet as he strides across the landing and scoops her into his arms.

He doesn’t want his parents to know he’s overheard them. Mama is already sad because of him. She would feel worse if she knew.

“What’s wrong, Printsessa?” he asks back at the top of the stairs. She’s left the door to her room open, and her blankets are rumpled on the floor. Anton is out like a light in his crib beside hers. “Bad dreams?”

Tonia nods, digging her face into the crook of ashoulder. Ajax winces and directs her to the other. He’s pretty sure some blood splashed there when he fought those mouthy pests, and he hasn’t had time to visit the bathhouse yet. “Do you want to talk about them?”

She shakes her head. “Scary,” she murmurs, and snuggles into the blanket Ajax pulls over her.

Those little eyes glimmer with tears, the blue of a midsummer sky. She cries rarely, his sister, and only when he teases her too much. “Hush, printsessa.”

If you cry any louder the monsters will find you.

Skirk’s teachings don’t belong here, in this loghouse built at the outskirts of a village. This house is shelter, is home, is sunlight and warmth and laughter. Unlike the darkness of the Abyss, or the endless fall towards it.

It is quiet here. It is safe. It is days of monotony and softness, of blunting his edges and folding the screaming urges inside him in. Of pretending to know nothing when he knows everything now, the screams of the dying and the scent of piss and the spray of blood when you angle a blade just so.

His joints ache, searching for the weight of a phantom hilt.

“Don’t be scared,” Ajax says instead, brushing her hair off her brow. “I’m here. I’m strong. I’ll defeat the nightmares and save you. ”

His sister wrinkles her nose at him. “Mama is stronger.”

“But I’m very very strong now. Even stronger than Mama.”

That was supposed to comfort her, but instead her eyes fill with tears again, “Don’t—” a hiccup, chubby fists digging into his shirt. “I don't want you to disappear.”

Again.

The argument downstairs has quietened. He doesn’t hear sounds from the living room anymore. They’ve stopped fighting, he thinks. Mama must have agreed.

Because Papa isn’t wrong.

There is something else inside him now, that whispers and croons songs into his ear. Sings of glory and battle and the thrill of challenge. Sings of victory and pleasure and grinding enemies to dust beneath a heel, of standing while everyone else kneels.

It is quiet here. It is safe. It makes him want to run his claws down the walls and rend.

But his family is here. His siblings are here.

“I’m your knight, remember?” Ajax smiles, soothing Tonia and tucking her in. “And you’re my printsessa. Nothing is going to happen to me, because I need to protect you.”

“Pinky promise?”

Ajax presses his lips to her brow. “Pinky promise.”

Luckily, she’s so tired she doesn’t argue with his silly reassurance, falling asleep with a pout. He wonders if he was so easy to convince when he was a kid.

The house is quiet. His knuckles ache, to wrap around a hilt and tear through flesh.

Ajax hums, and curls in bed by his sister’s side.

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

Now:

There are tracks, Master Childe. However… Master Teucer and Ms Tonia seem to be accompanied by someone else.

An interloper. This explains things—someone who has taken advantage of his distraction the past week for their own gains. After all, it's unlike Tonia to wander into the woods alone. Teucer perhaps, but not Tonia.

A third person, and a motive.

Now what would they want with the Eleventh Harbinger’s little brother and sister?

Childe flips the knife in his hand, gripping it by the hilt. Once more. Again. This time, he catches it by the blade, and his palm stings, fresh blood welling up.

Once, a long time ago, Ajax wandered into these woods too. He had had returned, three days later. But he didn’t return the same.

Demons were cruel creatures. The Abyss a crueler home. Skirk had let him tag along for entertainment and nothing more, though she did call him a tasty snack on occasion, an interesting pet on others. His master had a way with the rare words she uttered.

His survival was a miracle of circumstance. Sharpened edges and ruthless hunger. The Abyss made him, Ajax, into whatever he is today.

This is not the first time someone has tried to get to him through his siblings. Stupidity runs aplenty in Teyvat, and assassins at his family’s doorsteps were just par for the course. Oh, they had made a passable effort in the beginning. Until rumors spread about the consequences of targeting the Eleventh’s family. Consequences involving heads and spikes on walls.

The attempts petered out after that.

But it is the first time his enemies have gone after them in his own home, while Tonia and Teucer are under his care. An insult and provocation all at once, and this is one challenge Childe does not find pleasureable. Not at all.

Cold rage simmers beneath his sternum. Spills through his bloodstream, until his jaw aches and his muscles burn. Violence is a language he knows intimately, as familiar as the taste of carnage. And those who dare target his family will know it just as well.

“Search the area for clues,” he barks. The cadets behind him fan out at the order. Begin to comb the woods, searching for clues, patterns, tracks; anything that could lead to his siblings.

Meanwhile, Ekaterina steps closer, hands folded behind her. “Master Childe,” she says, slowly.

He knows what she’s going to say. Nevertheless. “Speak.”

“I wish to apologize for the oversight—”

“That’s enough.” Childe smiles, curve sharp and cutting. “I suppose I’ve been slacking off on training, if my people cannot even keep track of two children for few hours.”

Ekaterina pales. Bows her head.

Trust was not something he granted often, especially when it concerned his family. He should have paid more attention. Tonia and Teucer shone as bright as only children could. Innocent. Unknowing of pain. He’s shielded them from the world with his own body, vowed to protect them until they are old enough to learn.

Tonia has begun to figure out few things now—she is smart, smarter than he had been at her age. But Teucer is still young, still naive, still flying on the wings of childhood dreams, and not even near-death had split him from them.

If anything happens to his siblings, if the perpetrator had dared touch a hair on their head—well, death would be a kind end for the lowlife.

Tartaglia certainly wouldn’t be.

“Master Childe!” One of the cadets jogs up to them, and gestures to the side, to a cluster of trees off the path. “We’ve found something.”

Something could mean anything, from blood to corpses or remains of a visceral nature. And something could mean a snowman too, Childe realizes, when he turns the bend and comes to face the creation, noseless and stout, clad in a mismatched set of accessories. Familiar accessories, that he recognizes instantly.

That scarf—he’d bought it himself, in one of the boutiques on the road to the Palace, one that Signora often frequented. She may be a frigid bitch, but she’s a frigid bitch with taste, and the scarf in the window had caught his eye. The designer had sworn on Her Majesty’s name that his sister would adore it. She was right—Tonia did, awing over the fine weave, the color that mimicked the exact shade of her eyes.

The headgear as well, sloppily slanting over the head, he identifies at a glance. His mama had spent a night with it bent by the fire, needle flashing gold in her hands. Teucer wants to dress just like you did, she had murmured fondly. I thought I might as well alter one of your old things.

Most kidnappers didn't stop on the way to let their captives build a snowman. Unless they weren't a kidnapper in the first place, and the children weren’t captives, he muses, studying the flower tucked between the flaps of Teucer’s cap.

Childe reaches out and runs his finger down a petal’s edge.

That demon. She would never cease to amaze him. 

Laughter takes over his body. The sort of laughter that crushes air from his lungs, edged with something unreadable and sharp, that refuses to cease until he’s gasping and his abdomen cramps, and he falls to a crouch in the snow to catch his breath.

Whispers of curiosity and unease spring behind him, but he ignores them all, looping the woollen shawl from around the snowman’s neck. “Ekaterina,” he finally calls, plucking the hat from the figures head as well, and depositing the two items in his secretary’s arms. “Return to the manor.”

“Sir?”

“I don’t require assistance to track my siblings. Take these on your way back. We’ll discuss remedial measures once I return. ”

The flower is left on its lonesome by then, a splash of colour against stark white. He picks it with a gentle hand. Studies it. Soft to touch, cobalt petals hard as steel. A scent that lingers long after she leaves.

He’ll keep this one, he thinks.

Ekaterina barks the order, and the rest of his men file behind her, boots plodding in the snow.

Once he’s alone, Childe inhales the winter air, sinking into practiced stillness. Remembers the shadow and magic that Lumine is, and the darkness in him curls awake, like called to like.

West. They’ve gone west.

And for a millenia-old lethal predator, he thinks, studying three footprints in the snow, moving farther into the woods, Lumine really doesn't know how to cover her tracks.

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

“So this is Mr. Cyclops.”

Lumine observes the large lumbering creature of metal, it’s every step accompanied by heavy thunks and creaks. On it’s centre glows a lone amber eye, while the ends of it's serpentine arms drag across the ground.

After all of Teucer’s descriptions, Mr. Cyclops is rather underwhelming.

The children have drawn to a stop beside her too—the Teucer’s face gilded with excitement, and Tonia’s drawn with tension. She’s worried. She seems like one who worries much.

A heart like hers that would not survive Lumine’s land. It would give out with fright by the end of a day, or swallowed down by one of those infernal mutts—direwolves had a liking for the taste of life. It’s a mercy that Tonia was born here, under the warmth of the Teyvat sun.

Perhaps that is why she is the way she is—warm and trusting, offering friendship with no compunction.

Then again, Tonia does not know who Lumine truly is.

Her musings are cut short when Tonia tugs her hand. Huh. Lumine did not realize that their fingers are still intertwined. “Are you really going to fight that?”

“If what Teucer said is true, then Mr. Cyclops is a worthy opponent.”

Tonia snorts. “You sound like Brother Ajax now.”

“Ajax?”

“Yeah! He’s—oh.” The girl hesitates then, worrying her lip. “He’s my second oldest brother. We’re here to visit him. Teucer and I usually stay with Mama and Pappa and Anton in Morespesok. He…”

Slants a careful glance at Lumine. “You might know him by another name. He’s the lord of this province.”

Lord of the province? So the human is one of many names as well. Lumine’s lip curls. “You mean Childe? I do know him.”

Infuriating bastard of a human. It has been a week since their journey to renew the wards and he still has made no attempt to take a female to bed.

It reeks of something foul.

She’s no fool. She sees him staring at her, like he can't take his eyes off her. Hungry. Like he wants nothing more than to wrap his hands around her throat.

Something has changed after that day in the woods. A shift in his behaviour. Where once he treated her with wise wariness and caution, now he does so no more. Now he leaves her things on the dresser in his bedroom—another dig at her, showing that she's grown predictable—dainty flowers wrapped in colorful bows, tiny bottles of wondrous scents. Plates of warm bread rolls stuffed with spiced meat beside glasses of honeyed milk.

And that smile—the one that he flashes when she nags him to fulfill their deal, that looks like he knows something she doesn't.

His actions are bizzare, and the conclusion obvious.

She’s become complacent, and Childe is taking the chance to rub it in.

It enrages her. It is unacceptable. Even if the flowers are pretty and the perfumes smell good and the rolls quite delectable. This is an offense she cannot let stand—

And Lumine is dragged out of her thoughts when Tonia murmurs, voice full of dread,“You know, he’s going to be so mad.”

“What?”

“Brother Ajax. When he finds out that we came to the Woods on our own. With you.

“Why? You are a grown child.”

”He gets overprotective,” Tonia admits. “He never let’s us do anything if he’s not around. And he doesn’t like us making friends with people he doesn’t know. But don’t worry,” A squeeze of her hand, and brows set in determination. “I’ll protect you, I promise.”

Mortals were truly baffling. Lumine does not need a human child’s protection. The children were the ones who were in danger, with their weak bodies and lack of magic. It made sense that Childe feared for them, the blood of his blood.

Aether feared for her too, sometimes, even though she did not need it. She is capable of demolishing mountains—what should he fear? But sharing blood did that, along with love; turn reason into misguided impulse.

These two children… when they smile and her and share their joy, she can understand why they are loved. Their innocence is bright as fire under the abyss sky. They are kind. And they are as helpless as prey caught between the jaws of a beast.

Childe loves them. For Teucer, he summoned her at a great cost. He offered all his mortal possessions and servitude for this little boy. For Teucers life. 

It is no question: he would be devastated to lose them, wouldn't he?

Ah.

An idea blooms in her mind, born from the seed of vengeance. Perhaps Childe should have thought of the consequences before insulting her.

Lumine squeezes Tonia’s hands back. “Are you certain?”

“Huh?”

“You promised me protection. My people take such vows seriously. I warn you—you cannot break your oath later. Are you certain?”

“Uh…” Tonia blinks. “Yes?”

“Good. What do you say, Teucer? Do you offer vows of protection to me as well?”

Teucer nods distractedly, staring at Mr Cyclops.

”Am I missing something?” Tonia asks.

Oh to be a child and naive. There is no turning back for the two of them now. Lumine smiles, sharper than she means to, and declares. ”I, Viatrix of the endless skies hear your vows, Tonia and Teucer of Morespesok, blood of the summoner. The House of Viat accepts you, and shall not forget.”

The girls face twists in confusion. “Viatrix?”

Lumine nods solemnly. “Tonia.”

Glances back and pauses.

”Teucer?”

Where Teucer stood is now a conspicuously empty patch of snow.

“Oh no,” Tonia gasps in premonition, whipping around. “Teucer!”

And it's at that moment they realize that the clearing is ominously silent.

Mr. Cyclops has creaked to a stop in the centre. At it’s feet is a tiny figure, jumping in place, arms waving in the air.

“Ah,” Lumine says, as Mr. Cyclops prepares to attack, and Tonia erupts into a scream. “There he is.”

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

Later, Tonia will describe it like a dream. Flashes of memory, the in-between indistinct.

Teucer in the shadow of the Ruin Guard, with a metal fist careening at him. His tiny body, barely recovered, jumping in both joy and ignorance.

She should never have indulged him. It’s all her fault. Teucer is going to die because of her.

She squeezes her eyes shut.

When she opens them, Teucer is no longer there.

Notes:

surprise! an update <3

been touching grass, literally and figuratively. the break has done wonders but alas, all good things must come to an end. back to chilumi brainrot it is 💕

here: a little childe background, more lumine and teucer and tonia misadventures, and childe's failed attempts at courting aka when u try to court the love of ur life (incidentally a demon) but she thinks ur issuing a challenge instead.

go childe.

And ofc, my thanks to u all for the love u've been showing this fic! i can barely keep up, u guys have been the Best. literally. manifesting happiness and good vibes for all of u with the power of my single, struggling braincell.

happy reading!

Chapter 6

Summary:

“Hide her!” Tonia hisses, leaping in front of the demon princess like she could conceal her behind her tiny frame. And bless Teucer's heart, he does just that, jumping in front of Lumine and pulling her hood up. Both of them fail at their task miserably—Lumine's tail waves behind them in full sight, with the demon looking terribly confused, one horn sticking out.

Tonia panics, fixing the hood, before whirling around and pasting a wide smile across her face. “Big brother! We’ve been waiting for you.”

Teucer loves stories.

Papa loves stories too. So does Big Brother Ajax—he has some of the best stories of all. But thing is, Teucer loves stories more. Much more. He super duper sure about that. Stories take him away from his room and to the outside, to far off places beyond the view from his window. They take him away from his aching chest and his Tonia’s tears and the little glances Mama gives him when she thinks he won’t see.

Of all the stories, Teucer likes the ones of heroes best. In those, heroes are never sick or tired.  Their mamas don’t force them to stay in bed. They go on adventures and fight with shiny swords and save the entire world.

Teucer wants to be a hero one day. 

Mr Cyclops turns around to look at him. His amber eye blinks bright gold, twice with a little beep. 

Teucer has heard so many cool stories about Mr Cyclops. Papa had told him about them way before, back when Papa would still take him with him to go fishing. A long, long time ago, Mr Cyclops used to walk around Khaenriah and protect people. Bad guys were afraid to attack Khaenriah because Mr Cyclops was strong. Stronger than everybody else.

Teucer wants that too—to be strong, and to protect everyone he loves.

He knows that nobody thinks he’s strong. Mama never lets him go anywhere—Papa had to convince her to let him visit Brother Ajax. Tonia is always worried and running behind him now. She never used to do that before. Just like how Anton treats him nicely and doesn’t fight him for any of the toys anymore.

Everything changed after he got sick. It wasn’t nice being sick. And now it’s not nice being well either—everybody treats him like he’s still sick. Teucer doesn’t like that—they look sad. He wants to make Mama and Papa and his brothers and sisters happy again.

Maybe Mr Cyclops can show him how.

“Mr Cyclops!” he yells, waving a hello.

And Mr Cyclops starts to wave back. 

(In the distance, Teucer thinks he hears Tonia scream.)

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

The boy will die.

He is weak. A mortal body easily crushed. The metal fist hurtles towards him all while he stands unaware, laughter still ringing in the air.

In the endless Abyss, there is no room for mercy. To live is to survive. One eats or is eaten. The abyss devours, and those who rise from its depths return sharper than a forged blade. Those who sink below are lost forever.

Death comes for every mortal. Why should she stand in its way?

Tonia screams, her voice breaking at the end of the boy’s name. Teucer’s laughter lingers.

Before she can think twice, Lumine moves.

(Aether would call her stupid now. Too soft. He would not be wrong.)

Wind whistles in her ears. Teucer is not too far. And the Ruin Guard is slow. Within the span of a breath, she ducks beneath the limb and lunges at the boy, gathering him in her arms. Rolls the both of them away just as the fist slams down, right where Teucer had been standing.

Tremors shake the earth, impact leaving fissures in the ground, crippling force. Had Teucer stayed where he is, he would certainly have been crushed. 

But he is in her arms instead. Eyes large and enraptured, and fixed on top of her head. For a moment, she wonders what he’s looking at. 

Then she looks back, at the Ruin Guard creaking back to standing, and the cloak caught between the metal plates of it's arm. 

The breeze brushes against her ears. Oh.

"Miss Lumine," Teucer whispers. “You have horns."

That is one of the obvious distinctions between her kind and his. She thinks it’s quite a loss for mortals—there’s nothing quite like goring an enemy through with a vicious headbutt. Though she has long outgrown the more gruesome methods of execution. Lumine nods solemnly at the boy. “I do,” she answers, dropping him to his feet, and turns back to the Ruin Guard.

It rumbles forward, swinging  the other arm forward in a vicious sweep. Lumine studies the trajectory of the strike, and hums. With a curl of her fingers, her sword materializes, hilt nestling into the curve of her palm. 

“Stay here,” she tells Teucer, who has not stopped staring at her head before diving back into battle.

A neat arc of her blade knocks the offensive limb off course. The sound of metal against metal rings across the silent clearing. The Ruin Guard is strong, perhaps as strong as Teucer made it sound to be. It matters little though—it's strength may as well be dust in the wind when it faces her. 

Dancing across the hard ground, Lumine leads the Ruin Guard away from the squishy human. Spins out of the way of a few strikes, parries the others. Only when he's safely out of range does she take the Ruin Guard down.

An inhale. Dodges the next attack with a sidestep. Allows the limb to slam onto the ground. And sprints over it, climbing to the top of the creature.

Her wings flare out, buoyed by the rushing air. Lumine cannot fly anymore—she lost that ability a long time ago, in a battle with gods. Flight is a memory now; but sometimes, when she fights, it feels like the same thing. 

Step. Step. Leap. Her body is weightless in the air. Power gathers in her bones. With a breathy snarl, she spins mid-air, and plunges her sword into the top of the Ruin Guards head.

The edge slips through the creatures metal carapace with liquid ease. Satisfaction curls in her gut as the Ruin Guard falls to the floor, knees giving out like it’s strings has been cut, a mechanical groan sounding from it’s body.

Ah, it’s death throes, Lumine thinks. How delightful. 

“Miss Lumine!”

He is a good child—Teucer—has not moved from the spot she left him, waiting patiently. At the edge of her vision she can spy Tonia sprinting forward, panic glazing her eyes again. That rabbit heart; that soft heart; that small heart; always beating out of fear for a loved one. So fast that Lumine expects it to give out soon.

Hm. She doesn’t like the sound of that.

“Teucer.” Lumine makes her way back to the children. Tonia has reached Teucer’s side, patting him down desperately. As though her touch will sense bruises yet to come and broken bones not yet felt. “Are you hurt?”

The boy shakes his head enthusiastically, curled into his sister’s side. Lumine nods. “Good.”

And now Tonia has finished her harried perusal, joining Teucer in staring. Mouth agape with shock. Her eyes are wide too, fixed on something behind Lumine this time. “You have a tail,” she says numbly.

Humans did have a talent for pointing out the obvious. “They are quite useful,” Lumine informs the girl. “You mortals are unfortunate to live without.”

“Well, I think your horns and tails and wings look super cool!” Teucer adds brightly, face flushed with excitement .

His sister, in comparison, looks slightly ill. Lumine wonders whether her heart has finally chose to make it's exhaustion known. Lumine smiles, because mortals like smiles, and asks. “Tonia, you look unwell.” She peers at the girl. “Are you hurt?”

She is not. She answers with a shake of her head. When she speaks, her voice trembles. “Mortals—does that mean—are you—” A long inhale. “You're not mortal?”

Lumine cocks her head. Have they still not figured it out? “No.”

“What—what are you?”

It should be obvious by now. “I’m a demon,” Lumine answers.

The girl pales. 

And Lumine listens to the girl's heart, just to be sure. It thumps in her chest, just as quick as before. Fear. The Ruin Guard is gone now. There is nothing else to be afraid of.

Nothing but her.

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

“Tonia Tonia look at her she’s so cooldoyouseethat—” Teucer had babbled when  Tonia had ran towards him, heart in her throat.

She had, actually. Seen that.

Tonia had blinked. Rubbed her eyes. Blinked again.

That is Lumine, Tonia had known. Except Lumine was sprinting towards the Ruin Guard, a sword flickering into her hand. Out of nothing. Magic.

Magic was a tricky thing in their world. Elemental arts existed—pyro, hydro, geo, dendro, electro, anemo and cryo. The seven elements of the once archons. But magic beyond the seven was lost or forbidden, existing only in myths and stories.

Here: Lumine, the princess they found in the woods, is using magic. 

And now Tonia notices this—the horns, and gods is that wings, and a tail —and Tonia watches, mouth agape, as girl runs up the Ruin Guard’s arm, and leaps.

A flash of her blade. And the Ruin Guard falls.

Teucer has finally become quiet. Did he notice the tail? And the horns? Did he realize that there is something very very different about Lumine?

“Teucer—”

“Big Sister Tonia,” Teucer breathes. His eyes are practically sparkling. “Can I marry Big Sister Lumine?”

“She’s too old for you,” Tonia answers automatically. Pauses. Maybe she should have said that he can't marry a woman with horns and wings and a tail. That would have been a better answer.

She’s finished checking up on Teucer when Lumine returns, shrugging the cloak back onto her shoulders. When she flicks her hand, the blade turns into stardust and air. Tonia now knows that she didn't hallucinate the whole thing. Just as she knows those extra appendages aren't a figment of her imagination.

Neither is this: the fact that first thing Lumine does is ask if Teucer is okay. Then turn and asks if Tonia is ok. And Tonia feels like she’s in another body, like the world has tilted. Looks at that honest smile Lumine grants them, worn on her face like an unfamiliar thing. Her heart twists.

You should be careful in the woods, Tonia. All sorts of monsters roam in it’s dark.

“Tonia,” Lumine says now, peering at her. “You look unwell. Are you hurt?”

Archons, she should have listened to the warnings. They’d been in her face all along. Stupid Tonia. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Hadn't Mama warned her enough? You never doubt, dochka. Your heart will lead you astray. They’d wandered the woods with some other-creature, and talked about family, and invited them home—

“What are you?”

Tonia doesn't know much of the world beyond her books. But she knows these stories—the ones of demons and their hunger, their mercilessness. The epitome of sin and evil. How they grant curses in the guise of blessings. How they bring ruin. How they have once destroyed Teyvat, and will do so again.

A demon should not be walking the land of Teyvat. A demon should not be making snowmen with wonder. A demon should not be looking at them like she’s worried for them.

And that face—what looks like hurt—

A demon should not be wearing that either.

Lumine’s face is naked with feeling for the span of a breath. Before it shutters into nothingness. 

“Are you okay, Miss Lumine?” Teucer asks.

Tonia feels like she’s in a dream when the demon turns to answer her little brother. Her little brother with no sense of self-preservation. “Those flimsy attacks cannot scratch me,” Lumine says with a shrug. “And neither shall they scratch you while I am here.”

This doesn't make sense. Nothing does.

Okay. Tonia thinks.

Lumine is not human. But she’s beautiful, and kind, and sure she says weird things, but Tonia likes her. And Teucer likes her. And so will everyone else—except Big Brother Ajax. Because Big Brother Ajax pretends to be cheerful and easy-going when he’s actually an overprotective—

The demon crouches when Teucer waves her closer. Her tail flicks behind her. The core of the fallen Ruin Guard behind them glows. The demon—

Wait.

And Tonia screams as a missile hurtles towards them. 

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

Childe arrives just in time to watch his demon destroy an opponent ten times her size. 

He’ll never get used to this, he thinks, as he catches sight of her demolishing the automaton. Armed with a single sword and hardly even trying, the rickety Ruin Guard collapsing behind her. She even falls magnificently, the hem of her skirt fluttering over pale thighs as she lands daintily on her feet. 

It didn’t even take her a minute, the pretty thing. 

Childe leans against a mottled trunk at the edge of the clearing. Watches.

Once the realization of where his siblings are had settled in, the teething edges of his rage had receded. That beast in him coiling back into dormancy. They are still in the Woods, of course, somewhere a child should never be. But Lumine’s presence changes everything.

He’d seen it on his way here too, as he hunted the three of them down. The undergrowth silent, the shadows in murky corners still. Now, the Woods are dark, and quiet. Eerily quiet. As though all that dwell here know something far more terrible than them walks through it. 

They are not wrong.

(Whether that something is a Fatui Harbinger or an immortal demon is left to their judgment.)

Unfortunately for the Ruin Guard, it is an anomaly, a forgotten remnant of Khaenriah that lingers. It doesn't know when to flee, nor does it know when to fight, only that it must. Perhaps, had the Alchemists of Khaenriah built it with sense, it too would have been long gone. 

The scouts had reported the presence of the automaton to him last week—it had apparently been lying dormant in the Woods for centuries, and woke up a few days ago for reasons no one could name. Childe had made a note of it in the back of his mind—best to get rid of little trifles like that early on—but who would have thought this would happen?

Not that he’s complaining now. 

Childe watches Lumine—the murderous demon who threatens to disembowel him every three days, the figure of mortal nightmares—crouch and fuss over his siblings. The two of them, both whole and alive and unharmed. Busy playing in the snow and beguiling a demon while the entire manor combed the Woods for them. 

His little brother is all smiles,  grinning up at Lumine with stars in his eyes. When he reaches out to, the demon—Viatrix of the endless skies, scourge of Celestia—allows him, curling her hand around the smaller curve of his. Gentle. She has always been an easy demon to read, with a face that reveals all her throughts—but even so. 

He has never seen her so soft before.

And here, here, here; Childe known for a while that Lumine is not what the stories make her out to be—but it's a different sort of knowing when the first thing she does at Tonia’s scream is not to attack or avoid the projectile, but  to whirl around with a snarl, tucking the children behind her. 

Fuck.

That beast roars back into life in his chest. His heart thumps in his ears. Deafening.

Head in the game. He needs to control himself. The missile hurtles towards them, seconds from explosion. And Lumine could handle it, he knows, but this time, Childe is faster.

One, Two. Boom.

The explosion warms his side, flame licking at his clothes, as he slices the missile into halves. Burns. He flicks hydro over skin. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, drawing the world into focus. There—the Ruin Guard creaks back onto its feet, pauldrons lifted in warning. Not dead yet. His demon had been careless.

Khaenriahn creations were tricky things that clung to life, unlike any other creature. Their field tillers, their dragons, those pesky starry-eyed spies—he’s had his fair share of trouble with what's left of that nation. The trick to deal with them, Childe has learnt, is to hit them hard, and right where it hurts. 

He doesn’t need a bow for this one. With a grunt, Childe pulls an arrow and hurls it at the golden core. Grins as it shatters in a single blow.

Bingo. 

This time when the automaton falls, he’s certain it won’t get back up. 

Dottore would probably find it useful material. But Childe couldn’t care less about him. Especially not when he turns to find himself the object of violent attention, inches away from being slaughtered. Lumine with her mouth curled into a snarl, the children behind her. That aura again, danger in immortal form. Her teeth flash at him in warning.

“Reveal yourself,” she hisses.

Ah. He had forgotten. The mask sits on his face, carnelian metal touched by Her Majesty’s gift. She wouldn’t recognize him when he’s wearing it. In fact, if he left it on she’d probably deem him a threat and try to kill him. The idea is quite tempting.

She’s only a second away from lunging forward. Narrowed eyes, nostrils flared, the glint of sharp canines. Tail waving agitated behind her, barely concealed by the oversized cloak. 

He must have thought this a million times by now. He’ll think it a million times again, he knows. But when she’s like this, bloodthirsty creature,  a hairbreadth away from tearing out his throat, archons help him—

He wants to ruin her. 

That murderous expression only simmers down when he pulls off the mask, tamping down into recognition. He misses it instantly. 

“Childe?”

Lumine, he thinks to reply. Lumine Lumine Lumine. He wants to say her name until it becomes part of him, until those syllables become a part of her too, until she can only hear them  in his voice. Until they can never be pulled apart, and he lingers in every thought of hers. The darkness in his flesh croons, winding around his bones. There she is, the creature that nearly destroyed the world, right in front of him. His beautiful, beautiful girl.

He wants to ruin her. He wants to destroy her. He wants her.

Gods, he wants her.

But a hunter needs to be patient. And there are children here. “There you are,” Childe murmurs. 

“Wait, is that—Ajax?” Tonia’s head pops up from behind the demon.

“Big Brother? Big brother!” Teucer exclaims. 

A pause. 

And oh, it’s amusing how the moment his siblings recognize him, the first thing they do is launch themselves to protect her.

“Hide her!” Tonia hisses, leaping in front of the demon princess like she could conceal her behind her tiny frame. And bless Teucer's heart, he does just that, jumping in front of Lumine and pulling her hood up. Both of them fail at their task miserably—Lumine's tail waves behind them in full sight, with the demon looking terribly confused, one horn sticking out. 

Tonia panics, fixing the hood, before whirling around and pasting a wide smile across her face. “Big brother! We’ve been waiting for you.”

What a liar. Childe raises a brow, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Huh,” he chuckles, glancing pointedly at the very unsuspicious demon behind them. Were they really trying to pull the wool over his ears? “And here I was, wondering where my little brother and sister went. What do you two have to say for yourselves?”

Busy traipsing through the woods, making a snowman and tracking down a dangerous, rogue automaton. And of course, busy trying to cover up his little demon, as if he couldn't see her buried under Teucer and the cloak she stole when he wasn’t looking.

She’s practically drowning in it, the little thing.

“We didn’t mean to,” Tonia insists valiantly, eyes wide and doe-like. “It was an accident. We were going to come back quick.”

“You were missing for three hours.”

“Not on purpose! We just… made a new friend. Who also needs to go home. Just like us. How about we go home now, Big Brother?”

His sister nudges Teucer in the side. Teucer nods enthusiastically.

Scammers, the both of them. Childe tucks the grin threatening to pull on his lips away. “Alright,” he agrees easily. “Let’s go home.”

She’s not expecting him to give in that quick, he can tell. Tonia’s shoulders dip in relief. Until he adds, “After I talk to your friend.”

And there she goes.

Face twisting in indignation. “It’s not her fault!” Tonia cries. “She’s just a pretty lady we met in the woods!”

“Yeah!” Teucer joins in. “She’s cool and pretty and she knocked down Mr Cyclops like bam!”

“That’s not the point, Teucer,” Tonia hisses urgently at Teucer  And then glares at Childe. Lumine continues to stand behind them, utterly bewildered. “Brother! You can’t hurt her.”

Hurt her?

Childe blinks. “What?”

Even Lumine weighs in here. “He can’t hurt me,” she says, with the conviction of a millenia old demon that’s never heard something so absurd.

And Childe would take that as a challenge any other day, but now’s not the time. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you become mad and scare away anyone you don’t like around us. But I like her. And so does Teucer!”

“Yeah!” Teucer agrees.

Oh. 

Standing behind his siblings, something flickers across Lumine’s face. Honest to a fault, for one of her kind. Childe sighs. “I won’t hurt her, Tonia,” he tells his little sister, who has always been too kind for her own good. “I promise.”

“Really?”

“Pinky promise,” he says, and watches her consider it, before the tension finally leaches out of her body. He hasn’t seen his sister so rattled in years. The last time she’d looked like this, she was telling him to make sure there wasn’t a monster under his bed. 

She’s all grown up now. Fourteen years and already trouble, adopting demons in the woods. Childe laughs low, and crosses his arms across his chest. “Although,” he says, “I really do need to talk to your friend.”

Tonia winces. “Please don’t.”

“I think Big Brother would like Miss Lumine,” Teucer points out. His ears have become pink, chilled by the cold. Childe needs to get him back inside soon. “Can’t they become friends?”

“Tonia is worried that I’ll think Lumine is dangerous.” His sister knows how he deals with dangerous things. “She’s not wrong.”

His sister goes pale.  

“Start walking, Tonia,” he orders.

And Lumine, quiet until now, finally speaks. 

“No,” she says, voice sharp and cutting through the clearing.

“What?” 

And his little demon finally slips out of Teucer's grip. Squares her shoulders and pushes the kids back behind her, like he’d ever try to harm his family. And tilts her chin at him, as haughty as ever. “You cannot take them away,” she says. “They are not yours to command.”

Huh. Well, that is something. “The last time I checked, that's my baby brother and sister you’re speaking of.”

“Unfortunately,” Lumine sniffs. “But consider them yours no longer. You may leave, Childe. I shall care for them now.”

“Come now, Lumine. I’m not leaving without them.” Ignores Tonia’s shocked whisper of wait they know each other? 

“You may inform your kin that Teucer and Tonia have found a master to serve.” And Lumine takes a deep breath, golden eyes glinting and smirk victorious as she declares, “My minions stay with me, Childe.”

Childe stops in place.

So does Tonia, mouth agape. And Teucer, brows furrowed in confusion.

Did she just say—

“Minions?” Tonia squeaks.

“Both Tonia and Teucer have vowed to protect me,” Lumine informs Childe seriously. “The House of Viat has accepted them into our folds. To vow to protect is to vow servitude. I shelter those who seek my wing. I hereby decree Tonia and Teucer honorary demons of the Abyss, and my minions.”

It’s a pretty speech. Unfortunately for her, Childe is still stuck on the part where a millenia old demon just adopted his baby brother and sister. “You mean my siblings?”

Her face crumples into an expression of utter disgruntlement. Lumine crosses her arms across her chest, the mismatched gloves stark against the dark cloak. He knows those gloves. He sees the it’s twins on his siblings hands. “I mean, my minions,” Lumine insists.

His heart does a funny little flip.

Gods, he can't keep up with her.

“We’re minions?” Tonia echoes.

“Are minions strong?” Teucer asks.

“Well, my minions are strong,” Lumine declares, and now Childe wonders if he’s walked into an alternate universe sometime while in the Woods. His chest aches so much it almost hurts. The kind of hurt he hasn’t felt in years. Ever since he was fourteen and a child.

It must show on his face. Break his composure enough that even Lumine realizes, peering up at him with a smile of victory. It’s the most vicious thing he’s ever seen, proud and curling on those rosebud lips. So enticing he wants to bite it between his teeth.

Archons.

Childe inhales, and reins in every single instinct that demands he show her what kind of victory he wants. The kind of victory he's been thinking about since she walked into his life. Gods, he needs to get it together.

Right. He has bigger problems to deal with. Namely, Tonia and Teucer, and how they've sworn loyalty to a denizen of the Abyss. 

Childe considers it for a moment.

There are worse things, he supposes, than to be minions to a demon who can be bought off with sugar. 

“Well,” he concedes, fighting a smile.  “Who am I to argue with that?”

“What?” Tonia echoes. “You’re letting her take us?”

“You did make a vow to her,” Childe points out. “Demons take those sorts of things pretty seriously.” Grins as Tonia stares up at him, gobsmacked. Maybe she’d learn not to make promises to strangers in the woods. A learning experience.

“But of course... Before the demon steals away their minions, I'd like to let them know that if they return to the manor, they might find out that lunch is served. With ice-cream for dessert.”

Teucer’s head swivels. “Ice-cream?!”

Lumine blinks. “What is this ice cream?”

The effect is instantaneous.

“Miss Lumine…” Tonia whispers. “You’ve never had ice-cream?”

And Childe watches as his siblings come to an unspoken agreement, marching in the direction of the manor, with the demon pulled behind them. 

"So ice-cream is this really tasty..."

Lumine, though initially baffled, follows the two of them willingly, showing an awful amount of interest in Teucer's monologue about the wonders of frozen dessert. Tonia goes with less haste, but fourteen years and pretending to be too old to be excited for dessert doesn't hide the spring in her step.

“Don't think that I’m not mad,” he tells her when slows down, falling into step beside him. “If Lumine hadn’t been there, you two could have gotten hurt.”

“And you don't think I won't tell Mama,” she replies primly, flipping her braid over her shoulder. “You’ve been hiding things from us. A demon, big brother?”

Oh no, she doesn't. He reaches out and  ruffles his sister’s hair, chuckling as she squeals. “Ajax!”

“Mama will find out in due time. Don't rush it, Tonia.”

“Are you two dating?”

Archons save him from nosy little sisters. “Of all things, that's what you want to know?”

“I have a lot of questions,” Tonia says. “But this is the most important.”

Of course it is.

In the distance, Teucer holds onto Lumine with one hand, the gesturing in the air. He can't hear what his little brother is saying, but it must be riveting, from how Lumine hangs on to every word. Engrossed. Her hood has slipped down, puddling around her neck, revealing mussed hair and a single missing flower.

There’s a scent to her flowers, a familiar sweetness. He slips his hand in his pocket, and caresses the petals. 

When he meets Tonia’s eyes again, her eyes are alight with that vicious sibling delight. Too late, he realizes he’s let his guard down. “No, Tonia,” Childe protests preemptively.

“Oh, you like her, Big Brother.”

Like is a simple word for it. Childe hums. “She and I have a… contract.”

“What kind of contract?”

“The kind that nosy little sisters should stay out of,” he admonishes, pinching her cheek. She shakes him off with a wrinkle of nose. 

“Fine. Keep your secrets then,” Tonia crows, and skips ahead. “And I won't tell Mama. But it's not me you should be worrying about.”

“Oh?”

“Teucer has a big fat crush on Lumine. Good luck keeping him quiet.”

With the parting shot, his sister sprints, giggles ringing behind her, and joins the other two in front. Lumine nods when Tonia joins them, pulling the girl to her side. And glances back.

He could be imagining it. But that look—smug and triumphant—she looks like she’s won. Victorious in a game he didn’t even know they were playing.

Minions.

Childe can’t help the laughter building in his chest. 

Like the stars in the sky; she never ceases to surprise him.

 

Notes:

hello friends! I have returned <3

everyone pls make way for evil demon lumine and her evil minions. childe finds this vv entertaining.

sorry that this update took a while—i've been working on another project that has all my heart. but ofc, this fic was due and update that I couldn't deny 😔

here's hoping you enjoyed the update! thank you so much for reading!

Chapter 7

Summary:

“Those fruits remind me of this pie of apple.”

His laughter is loud and husky and warm, dancing in the air. “I promise this isn’t a trap, Lumine. No monster shall gobble you up if you have a slice of pie,” Childe says. “Or at least, not the kind you’re thinking of.”

It feels like forever since he last sensed her.

(The truth: it’s only been a week.)

Yet, time is subjective, and perhaps, his saving grace.

“You can come out now, Lumine,” he says into the not-empty room, dragging the edge of his dagger against whetstone.

The silence that follows is only broken after a moment's pause, by a huff that manages to contain the sheer and utter indignation of being called out. A figure appears from thin air, shimmering a translucent gold before falling into solidity, narrowed eyes and crossed arms and rosebud mouth pursed into a scowl.

He should be used to the sight of her now. It shouldn’t affect him like this. But he has long understood that the world is more mysterious than it seems, that some facts in the world cannot be understood, and that maybe this is one of them—that everytime he lays his eyes on the demon, those golden eyes and elfin face,  it feels like the very first time.

“How did you know?” Lumine grumbles, a bright flame within the shadows. “Don't tell me you got lucky.”

The answer is that he’s known she's here for a while now. The answer is that the darkness of the abyss calls for its brethren, and that sometimes, three days can be three months, and that when she’s around the monster he’s tucked away croons in recognition.

The answer is that he is lucky, yes, but not for the reasons she thinks he is.

“You're early today,” he notes in lieu of a reply, watching her gravitate closer. The blade in his hand scrapes against the stone, a harsh screech; she flinches, just barely, tail going rod straight before relaxing, but there.

Hm.

Enhanced hearing, check. 

He sets the weapon and the whetstone aside discreetly, and pats the seat next to him in invitation. Tries not to feel too offended when she ignores the obvious gesture and wanders in the opposite direction instead. Patience is one of the many qualities a warrior must cultivate, and Childe has long honed his, in bloody battlefields and ruthless courts and on lakes frozen to ice.

“It is my choice as to when I come and when I go. You have no power to command me.”

“I know, I know.” How could he ever forget? It’s simply one of the many reasons he cannot get rid of her from his thoughts. He’s never enjoyed anything without the bite of challenge. “Although if you’d come a little earlier, you’d have walked in on me changing.”

She whips around to face him. He smiles at her, all innocence. Well, mostly.

“Are you accusing me of spying on you?”

“Who would have thought the great Viatrix, Voyager of the Skies was secretly a pervert? Lurking in a mere mortals bedroom—“

“Stop,”  she hisses, blood rushing to her face. “I have no interest in your naked body, Childe.”

A pity. Although it does make him wonder. 

“Do you have a mate, Lumine?”

The demon gives him a brilliant side-eye, the expression almost breathtakingly human. “What?”

“You know that I have no mate. But I don’t know anything about you.”

“My circumstances are not meant for mortal ears.”

“Humor me.” His cajoling has little effect. She only looks at him unimpressed. “What if your circumstances inspire me?”

“To take a mate?” Her eyes narrow. “I still do not understand why you do not have one.”

“Let's just say I have… particular tastes. Very particular tastes. Most human women cannot meet them.”

His demon (and she is his, though she doesn't know it yet) hums at his answer, and tugs open the curtains completely, revealing a pink-kissed sky, the sun a half-smudge against the horizon.

“Your mortal courting is most confusing,” she tells him, eyes on the horizon. “Us demons are far more straightforward.”

And he’s never seen her while the sun's up, Childe realizes. They’ve always met under the cloak of a moonlit sky, in smog-choked fields and shadowed woods. She belonged to the darkness as much as he does, both creatures of the night—one born and one become.

Yet, when the sunlight kisses her skin, turning her into a creature of spun gold, he could easily believe otherwise.

Lumine leans out, the longer strands of her hair trailing across the window sill. “It’s warm,” she murmurs, head tipping back. Her eyes flutter shut, lashes feathering against the apple of her cheek.

Cute, he thinks, watching her stretch, back arching and hands above her head. A yawn pulls at her mouth, almost kitten-like in nature—sleep clings to her, in that bleary blink and her sloping shoulders, the way her gaze lingers on his bed.

He supposes that he shouldn't be surprised when she toes off her boots and clambers onto the mattress, curling into his sheets like they're her own.

“Are you taking a nap?”

“No.” A breathy, false protest. Her eyes are already falling shut.

“I didn't know that demons needed sleep,” he says.

“Mm.” The sigh of pleasure she makes as she curls her toes into the fur sends him off balance. “We don't need sleep. Not as much as you mortals do.”

“But you do need it,” he probes. Enough to doze off on a strange man's bed.

“Only a little,” she replies. Childe’s pretty sure the only reason she’s admitting to what amounts to a weakness is because she’s already half-asleep, cozy in a patch of golden light. Who would have guessed that all it took to tame a demon was a little sun? “Traveling here takes a lot of—” Another yawn, more drawn out this time, “Of energy.”

Interesting. 

Abyssal magic is a branch he doesn’t understand yet, despite the Thing that lives in him. It makes sense—she is slipping between realms, realms that are divided in both space and time. Undoubtedly a powerful feat not many can do, considering the fact Teyvat hasn’t been overrun by her kind yet.”

“Is that why you joined me on the mission to renew the wards?” He slants his gaze, watching her snuggle into his sheets. The ones he had slept in only a few hours earlier. “Because travelling there on your own would tire you?”

Her face twists; a drowsy frown curls on her lips. “I am Viatrix,” she declares, the usually powerful proclamation softened by creeping slumber. “I do not get tired through mere….”

“Of course you don’t,” he concedes easily, watching in amusement as she trails off, the retort morphing into mumbles, slumber finally winning over the temptation of being contrary.

He’s not thinking when he rises from his seat. No motives wjen draws closer, feet whisper-quiet against the carpet. In the distance, a rooster crows, and in nearer spaces, the chatter of rousing soldiers and servants fills the manor .The noise doesn't seem to bother her though—she only sighs, rolling over and burying her cheek in his pillow, a strand of hair clinging to her mouth.

Childe doesn't bother to resist the urge that takes him, to reach out and tuck that strand away. It's as soft as the feather that dangles beneath her ear, and for a second he pauses, eyes darting to her face. Traveling here must be a lot more strenuous than she let on, he thinks, from how dead to the world she is. She has been visiting him quite often these days.

If someone had told him a few hours ago that Lumine would crawl into his bed without any encouragement, he’d have laughed in disbelief. Yet here she is, within the confines of his bedroom, prone and utterly… defenseless.

Childe rubs the hair between his fingers. Leans down and brushes his lips across the ends.

He wonders what it feels like—to be so certain of your own power that you sleep without fear, mere feet away from a man who has reason to kill you.

Well, it would mean that she never considered him a threat in the first place.

Grinning, Childe pulls back, letting his fingers linger on the apple of her cheek, the curve of her neck.

Not yet, he tells himself. He has time.

Not yet.

 

—  ✦ ✦ ✦  —

 

Lumine has been to the mortal lands before.

Centuries ago, to be more exact, when gods roamed the dust-swept plains, and a snake ruled over islands in the sea. Hardly for a day, long enough to topple false gods. She had seen little then. What little she had saw then too, does not seem to be the same as now.

She has been away for a long time. Enough time it seems, for humans to do so many… interesting things.

Her home is empty once again. A familiar scent lingers in the corners—her brother's bargain must have visited while she was out. The puppet did frequent their abode at Aether’s request, to keep her brother's worries at bay. It is quite foolish, she thinks.

She can take care of herself.

She had told the puppet too, last time he visited. Tell Aether that I am busy and doing well. And to stop fretting. 

Your brother refuses to give me any peace, Scaramouche had scowled back. You weren't here in the morning.

I have a new contract, she had told him, smirking at the rise of his brow. When centuries have passed without a summons, her contract is indeed interesting news. A fool who has agreed to hand over his firstborn. 

Is it that fool’s scent on you?

What?

You reek of a human man. Scaramouche's grin was wicked. Be glad it’s me checking up on you, and not Aether himself.

His scent had been impossible to miss in the beginning. She’s gotten too used to it, that now she doesn't smell it herself. The cloak she left in her room, the one she stole,  suddenly feels like a confession. Leave, Scaramouche. 

He’s always been a pest. Thank the Abyss that he’s Aether’s and not hers. Lumine scowls at the memory and tugs at her magic. 

A blink, and her realm disappears. Another, and it is that air again, sweet on her tongue. Darkness. And his damn scent, the salt and burn, the scent of mortal and lingering death. 

“I wish to visit the town,” she announces, stepping out from behind the tapestry. There’s a woman with Childe, another mortal. She jumps of fright when she glimpses Lumine, eyes wide in fright. It’s delightful. 

She’s quite missed it, that expression. The mortals she dallys with now are too foolish for their own good.

“I have heard that there is a festival in the plaza, Childe. We shall go.”

“Not like that, you aren't,” he replies, slanting an amused glance at her. “You’ll cause a panic in town.”

“Good. It is natural for humans to fear me.” Lumine directs her smile towards the woman, pale and wide-eyed. “Don't you think so too?”

The woman’s shoulders tremble, though she makes a valiant attempt at concealing it. Lumine’s smile sharpens.

And drops.

It is true—she has not seen the human make any effort at finding a mate. He has always been alone when she finds him. Or in the company of several insignificant mortals. Or in midst of battle. This is unusual—a woman lingering particularly close to Childe. Could it be that…

“Are you his mate?” Lumine asks hopefully.

The woman pales even further. 

“I—my lord—” she looks horrified, shaking her head violently. “How could—I can’t—“

“Ekaterina,” Childe interjects with a sigh. “Please call for a carriage. And cancel all my appointments today. ” As Ekaterina flees, he turns to face Lumine, sinking into a courtly bow. “Shall we, my lady?”

—  ✦ ✦ ✦  —

“I was serious about a disguise,” Childe says five minutes later, seated opposite her in the carriage. It had taken some effort to usher the demon to the carriage without blaring her presence to the entire manor—Lumine didn’t exactly blend into the background. And while he could swear his men to secrecy…

It’s an unfortunate truth, that the Fatui were notorious gossips. He might as well let her loose in the town in all her demonic glory.

“You’ll need to wear my cloak,” he tells her, glancing at the horns curling from her head, the wings fluttering behind her. She’s not wearing the one she stole from him. Good thing he has several. She’d drown underneath it again, the little thing she is, but it would get the job done.

“No,” she refuses quickly, the feathers on her ear sweeping through the air as she shakes her head. “I refuse.”

Huh. “You were more than happy to steal it last time.”

“That was before I—” she cuts herself off. Pink dusts her cheeks. “Forget it, human.”

Childe cocks his head. Stubborn demon. Sounds like he’ll have to tackle this at another angle.

“If the townspeople see you, they’ll be terrified. Possibly enough to launch a campaign to depose me as the de-facto ruler of this province, and send me away.” 

“And?” The look on her face screams why should I care , pinched and haughty. Oh, Lumine.

He hasn’t revealed his secret weapon yet.

“And if they do…” Childe sighs dramatically, hand on his heart. “I’ll have to devote myself to quelling the rebellion. Day after day, hour after hour, all my time spent on working. So much time in fact….” He trails off, building suspense. He’s always been good at that. 

“...I won’t have time to find myself a mate.”

Her gasp is a loud, horrified thing.

“You’re exaggerating,” Lumine accuses, as he musters every ounce of control he has not to burst into laughter. “Possibly,” he admits. “Doesn’t mean it's not true.”

When he chances a glance, her expression is pinched, internal conflict warring in those twin golds. Just a little more, he thinks, and gazes at her soulfully, face artfully arranged to sell the act.

“Fine!” she finally grumbles, crossing her arms with a—oh she is, she’s pouting . Plush little lip pushed out, just begging for a nip. He’d be more than happy to oblige. “I’ll disguise myself. But I refuse to wear your cloak. All I need to do is hide my horns, right?”

“Your tail and wings too. Anything that could hint at what you are.”

“Urgh. Close your eyes,” Lumine demands with a baleful glare. “And no peeking.”

 

—  ✦ ✦ ✦  —

There is a reason she does not wield this magic. 

Lumine yelps as the world goes sideways again. Her boots get caught on a raised edge; her arms swing out in an attempt to regain balance; she fails, tipping over to meet the floor, face-flat. 

She’s only saved by a rock-hard arm that wraps around her waist, just in the nick of time. “Careful, now,” Childe chides, the puff of his breath washing hotly over her ear.

Urgh. This is all his fault. Lumine frees herself from his grip, stomping determinedly away from him. Stupid Childe. Tucking her demonic features away is a simple magic, once she could cast in her sleep, but it came with its own set of consequences.

Namely, a staggering lack of balance.

She feels like a child learning to walk again. A weakling. And that too, in front of the worst person she can think of.

“Stop laughing,” she barks, as her contractor stays conspicuously quiet at her side.

He’s been smiling ever since she stepped out of the carriage and immediately tripped over air. Amusement hanging heavy around him. Of course he’d find this funny, the bastard. She’ll show him.

“Laugh at you? Never,”Childe swears, mirth dancing in his eyes. “I wouldn’t dare, Lumine.”

Liar.

He’d stop if he knew how it feels to mold his body to another shape. The teetering edge of wrongness, until they’ve worn it till it’s right. She’s tempted to transfigure him herself, magic sparking at her fingertips, except her thoughts are broken by Childe, who taps her shoulder and redirects her, the alley broadening into an open ground.

“This way, kotenok .”

An unfamiliar phrase. Another language, she thinks, low and rough, not the liquid smoothness of the common tongue. A word she doesn't understand.

She almost asks him what it means, except a medley of colours and sounds barrage her senses at that moment, curtting her thoughts short.

“This is…” Lumine inhales sharply.

The market is a riot of colour, non-stop chatter and clattering goods. Dozens of scents tickle her senses, sweet flowers and tingling spices and other ones she doesn't know. And humans, so many humans. They bustle within the square, crowds ebbing and flowing like tides of the obsidian sea.

There’s so much to see that she can barely keep track, eyes darting to and fro. Hawkers call out their wares, goods laid out in neat rows under scarlet awnings. Glittering jewels and blooming flowers, swathes of silken cloth that shimmer in the sun. Children run under the feet of the older humans, waving colourful implements that spin and giggling in delight.

And there’s music too, two men who pluck at their instruments strings, and sing a song that the forming crowd echoes. The last time she had witnessed a performance had been in the company of the Goddess of Dust, who refused to let Lumine sleep without listening to at least one of her tunes.

Tonia was right. The Market is fascinating.

“What are those children carrying?” 

Childe follows her finger. “Paper windmills,” he answers. “You get them in all sorts of colors, and they spin with a breeze.”

“There are people throwing gold into the fountain.”

“A tradition, for good luck.”

What a waste. “What are those white things everyone eating—”

“Pirozhki. They do smell good, don't they?” Childe’s voice thrums with gentle pride. She doesn't want to agree, loathe to see his smug face. But they do smell good, good enough that the lie would sour her mouth.

She nods. Just barely. 

And then she smells something else, something warm and rich, something decadent.   It roots her to the cobble-stone floor, eyes widening in wonder.

She’s smelled anything so… unusual.

“That,” she breathes, stepping forward and inhaling. “What is that?”

“Hm?”

“That smell.” Her head swivels, as she tries to take it all in, and figure out where that scent is drifting from. Her stomach makes a curious noise, a gentle rumble. “I’ve never—Childe.” She turns to the human and makes her demand. “Tell me what it is.”

Childe cocks his head. Hums and sniffs the air. “Ah,” he finally says, grin broadening. “I think I know what you’re talking about. Come with me.”

She dislikes orders. Especially his. But she is curious, and hunger for something other than power gnaws at her bones. She’s grown too used to mortal indulgences, she laments. Too accustomed to food makes her want more.

She trails a step behind him as he leads her through the plaza. It’s easy to keep him in sight in the beginning, easily the tallest person in the crowd. But the deeper they go, the more people they need to weave through. Soon she is squeezing in between bodies, and struggling to keep up.

Someone knocks into her, a man twice her weight. She could kill them for the insult. But they are mortals ignorant to the being that walks among them, and it would be a waste of her power to destroy them. She is Viatrix, the—

Another mortal slams into her side. A hiss of air slips between her teeth. She curls her hands, close to lunging at the offender—

“There you are.” Long, callused fingers close around her wrist. “Don't tell me you tripped again.”

“You disappeared.” For some reason, there's more space around them now. Like the crowd is parting for them. Him. Ridiculous, that even in mortal ignorance they know to respect him.

“Sorry about that. I forgot how the crowds get here. Let's go.”

He tugs her wrist, and she follows. Blinks at the hand still cuffing her. 

“Release me,” she tells Childe. He only tilts his head and smiles back, trouble brewing in those eyes.

“Just until we're out of here, I promise. Don't want to lose you again. And I definitely don't want to be cleaning up blood off the pavement.”

“I wasn't going to hurt them,” she argues. “Much.”

Childe chuckles. When she pulls at her hand, he lets go. Only to immediately thread his fingers through hers, leaving no space between them. Lumine stares at her hand dwarfed in his, pale skin surrounded by soft leather.

For some reason, she doesn't protest again.

The scent grows stronger. He only drops her hand when they arrive in front of a stall at the edge of the square, greeting the aproned lady behind it. She curls the hand into a fist immediately—the skin feels tight. Cold. Weird. 

The last time she had held someone’s hand was centuries ago. Before Aether rose to the throne.

And she doesn't want to think about it anymore, so she draws her attention to the stall and source of the mouthwatering scent. It lingers on her tongue now, saliva pooling in her mouth.

Golden brown circles sit on a checkered tablecloth. The size of her hand. This food smells so strongly? So bewitching? There must be some sort of magic here.

A curl of her fingers reveals nothing. Impossible. 

“Miss,” the human standing behind the table calls cheerfully. “Would you like an apple pie?”

Apple pie.

Lumine frowns down at this… pie of the apple. It is too small and too… underwhelming, to smell this good. 

“We’ll take two,” Childe says, sliding a few coins across the table and picking up a slice. He hands it over unceremoniously, sinking his teeth into his own pie at the same time, no hesitation in his action.

She looks at the one she holds. Studies the food.

“I warn you. Poison will not work on me.”

“Shh, not so loud.” Childe swallows. “You’ll offend the nice lady.” 

In Lumine’s hands, the slice breaks into neat pieces. Golden-yellow filling oozes from between the crust, thick and syrup. Childe’s lips curl in amusement when she sniffs at the pie of apple. Suspicious.

The scent is still as enticing as it was at the entrance of the market, a heady sweetness that draws the mind. It smells far too tempting to be true. Reminds her of home.

“In the abyss,” she murmurs. “There is a tree.”

The human pauses chewing. Listens. 

“It boughs are heavy with fruit when the second moon rises. The fruits are about this much,” she brings her index and thumb together, making a circle the size of a coin, “and have a scent so sweet and pungent they can be smelled from miles away. Younger demons gather in droves when they catch this scent, tempted by the promised sweetness.”

“Do you?”

She shakes her head. “Once. When I was young.”

“The fruits hang in bunches. Ripe for the taking. And when you try to pluck a fruit, the jaws of—” There is no name in the common tongue, so she says its name in her tongue instead, a low hiss and a curl of her tongue on the roof of her mouth, “—burst from the ground to snap up and swallow you alive.”

Far from what she expects, Childe looks delighted at the prospect. Of course descriptions of the most petrifying creatures of her realm fail to discomfit him.

“Those fruits remind me of this pie of apple.”

His laughter is loud and husky and warm, dancing in the air. “I promise this isn’t a trap, Lumine. No monster shall gobble you up if you have a slice of pie,” Childe says. “Or at least, not the kind you’re thinking of.”

“What?”

“Just a little joke. Pay it no mind.” Mirth dances in his eyes, and it both makes her want to tear his eyeballs out and pull him closer. Pull him closer? She blinks and then scowls, switching her attention back to the pie.

“Go on,” Childe urges. “Help yourself.”

If this is some devilish scheme to ruin her, Lumine muses, the Harbinger, as the humans call him, will dearly pay. 

And then she snaps open her jaw, and takes a bite.

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

Ten minutes later, Childe stares at the empty stall and back at her.

“When I said help yourself,” he can’t help but tease her, far too addicted to the way her nose wrinkles when he needles her, “I didn’t mean you should purchase the baker’s entire stock.”

“I am doing you a favour, Childe,” his demon declares between swallows, cheeks puffed up with her seventh pie, and a basket of more on her arm. Quaintly domestic. “You must invest in your vassals to inspire loyalty.”

Liar. “Since when have you been interested in securing my position?”

“Ever since you said losing your position would affect your search for a mate.” Her voice turns thoughtful. “Perhaps we ought to scour this market for the same. Surely one woman among this crowd would find you acceptable.”

“Just one?”

“Considering how you have no game, even one woman would be an excellent result.”

She leaves him in the dust, casually continuing onwards as though she hasn’t just dropped a bomb in the conversation. Childe takes a few seconds to process her comment, brain stuttering, before jogging to catch up with her. “Did you say I have no game ?”

By then she’s finally finished her pie and decided not to have another, dusting the crumbs off her hands with a satisfied twist of her lips. Hardly paying any attention when he makes his demand. “Huh?”

“What did you say? Who taught you that— Tonia .”

“My minion has been most informative indeed.” Her smile is viciously proud—he’s long realized she’s taken her claim of his siblings as a victory. Hasn’t had the heart to tell her that it’s not as grating to him as she thinks it is. “I demand you train yourself in the manners of courting, Childe, and lure a woman to your bed. Unless you wish to experience my wrath.”

Gods. He doesn’t know where to start with that.

Her minion is his nosy little sister, who is definitely up to no good. He can hear her giggles in the back of her head, the delighted ones she makes when she’s brewing up trouble or pulling a prank. Like this one, where she’s somehow convinced his demon that he doesn’t know how to woo a woman.

He’s no stranger to physical intimacy. Although a serious relationship has been far from his mind since he walked out of the Woods that day. The Thing in him chitters far too much, and no woman innocent to what hides in the shadows deserves to fall asleep next to him every night. 

Oh, but he does know how to lure the fairer sex to his bed. He does know pleasure, to give and to take until the they’re drowned in it. He’d happily demonstrate it too, if she wants it.

Just as he’d happily face her wrath. 

In fact, he’d take both.

But first—

“You have crumbs on your face.”

“What?”

Just a few, over the corner of her mouth. He could just—

He does it slowly, so as not to startle her. She’s like a cat at times—too quick and her hackles rise, metaphorical fur on end. Cups her cheek almost tenderly, velvet soft skin in the curve of his palm. Can feel the hitch of her breath at his touch, see her mouth part in surprise.

Carefully, he runs his thumb over the angle of her lips, brushing off the stray crumbs. Another pass, over her chin. And maybe there aren’t any crumbs left on her face, but there’s no one to point that out when he traces his thumb across the plush of her lower lip, taps at her cupid’s bow, and crosses to the other side.

“There,” he murmurs. Studies her eyes, the slit pupils rounding into pools of obsidian. “All done.”

She blinks at him, slow and languid. Quiet.

His blood feels like liquid fire. Something curls within him. Hungry.

And he doesn’t think she notices the movement, almost unconscious—her head tilting, barely leaning into his touch.

All the blood in his body rushes south.

“You’re right,” Childe murmurs. “I do need to try harder. Much harder.”

It takes everything in him to step back and away from her. 

“Look at that. There’s a dressmaker at the end of this alley,” he chokes out, looking past her and the thronging crowd. “Let’s stop there on the way.”

Thank the gods she is easily distracted. Her gaze turns, and he takes that moment to suck in a shuddering breath, patching up the breaks in his composure.

When she meets his eyes again, he’s tucked away the crooning voice in his mind back into the depths. “Tonia mentioned a play,” she says, licking her lips, and Childe tries not to stare. 

“Did she?”

“She said that it will be a learning experience. I wish to see it.”

The play this year, if he recalls, is a famous production that sent the country into a tizzy. He had overheaed Ekaterina  gushing about it to one of the maids. She always has been a fan of musicals.

And of course Tonia would mention the musical to Lumine.

“Fine then,” Childe concedes. He already knows he’s going to regret this. “We’ll watch that too.”

Two hours, three stores and one play later, when Lumine says, I see human courting involves bursts of song, perhaps that is why no woman wants you, he certainly does.

Notes:

5k words of pure fluff I can't believe it... what have they done to me

sorry no porn no plot this chap is just food for the soul <3 I hope ya'll enjoy reading this chap as much as I did writing it.

let me know if ya'll have any thoughts in the comments or hit me up on twt 🙌

thank you for all the love, and happy reading!

Chapter 8

Summary:

Although this time, perhaps, he wouldn’t mind losing. Provided he gets to keep her here, like this, for as long as she’ll let him. Darker impulses stir in his chest. Longer, even, if he could.

Time and attention. Patience. Fighting, fishing, and hunting all shared the same principles. So did this.

Throw tasty morsels of meat long enough, and even the fiercest of wolves could be tamed.

Time passes, the days ticking into weeks, and into months, autumn turning to winter-cold. 

Childe has never enjoyed the mind-numbing predictability of routine.

Perhaps that is how he always has been, even as a toddler escaping his Mama to chase a wayward stray. Seeking adventure, another challenge. Or perhaps it is something that he has become, wrought of shadows and the remnants of the Abyss. His soul is that which hungers, that feeds, that finds satiety an impossibility.

That which rests beneath his breastbone stirs even now, woken by the thought of carnage. Once, it would sit on his shoulders, beat through his blood, until all he wants is the kiss of adrenaline, and the rush of his blade running through flesh. 

But circumstances change. The darkness chitters inside him at the scent of stars and sulphur, a viscous bitterness that steeps on the tongue, and settles back down. Birds of a feather, blood to blood. Childe grins.

“There you are, little demon. You’re late.”

Lumine scowls at him, barely solid, still aggrieved at how he can sense her. One day, she will realize the truth of him, what sleeps in his bones. But until then, he’ll enjoy this: that face of hers twisted in annoyance, every bit of her attention focused on him. 

Childe does not enjoy routine. But having a curious demon in his life does change things. 

She visits when she wishes and leaves at her own whim. Nags him about taking a wife each time, as though anyone else could compare to her. He smiles and takes her to the sunday markets, to plays and to restaurants and watches her face brighten with every new discovery she makes. Buys her whatever trinkets she looks two seconds longer at. Battle is a pleasure but so is this; Viatrix, the Voyager, so close and in his orbit, and the way she searches for him when he strays too far. 

They had sparred too, once. He’d convinced her to meet his blade, and when she did, it was electrifying. Immortal power within arms reach, a warrior deadlier than any other. After hours of battle his body had finally given in, her foot pinning his chest ti the ground. 

It would have been easy to let the whispers take over, and meet her in battle again. Fun, even. He enjoys it, and knows she does too. But Childe had admitted defeat instead, hand ringing her ankle.

All in due time.

“The children are not in the manor,” she announces now. “Where are they?”

And what he thought of as another of her whims is everything but. Every time they visit, his little siblings are attached to her by the hip, and she to them. Had it been anyone else, he’d be jealous. 

Or rather, he is jealous. Enough to tease when he’d otherwise give in.

“They’re running late this weekend. School’s starting next week. And alas, Mama has decreed that they can only visit once they fell a certain beast.” Childe widens his eyes for emphasis. 

Lumine hisses at the words, tail whipping behind her. “What?”

“Are you worried?”

“They are my minions. And they are weak, squishy things. How dare you send them to battle without consulting me?”

If he didn’t know better, he’d say she doesn’t care, a demon forged by crueler natures. But he does know better. “Don’t fret. They’ve been prepared for this one. Thoroughly prepared, in fact. Now it’s just a matter of persistence.”

“Who is it?” Golden eyes narrow, as bright as the afternoon sun. “What is it?”

Childe stills. Studies that elfin face, the protective fury, rosebud lips parted over pearly fangs and feels his heart warm. And delivers the answer she seeks in the most horrified tone he posesses. 

 “Homework.”

A pause. “Homework,” Lumine echoes with care, in the cadence of a warrior learning of the existence of a new opponent. “What manner of foul beast is that?”

He grins.

“A great, vicious, and terrible one. Come here and I’ll tell you all about it.”

It’s telling that she doesn’t hesitate anymore when he beckons her closer, only crosses the distance with a sniff of disdain. Time does this too, blunts the edges of a prickly demon into something softer, something gentler. Into someone who leans into touch, whose threats carry less teeth. Into someone who settles on his armrest with the ease of having done so many times before, side warm against his arm, bare thigh temptingly in reach.

She reaches out to pluck his pen from his hands and he lets her. Waits patiently as she gives it a sniff, and then draws a line over the back of his palm. After a moment of consideration she hands it back, and moves on to the next thing on his table.

“Have you had lunch yet?” he asks. She’s taken the frame off his desk now, studying the photograph. His parents and little siblings, barely crushed together into a frame. Mama had made them take the photo the week before he enlisted. Forced them all into their Sunday best. It’s the only picture he keeps in view. 

“Hm?”

“Lunch,” he repeats, grabbing her attention with a tap on her knee. Her skin has already grown chilled. Pink too, in the cold, the color of sakura blossoms. It inches all the way up her legs, beneath the hem of her fluttering skirt. A miracle she hasn’t gotten sick yet, dressed in so little. Then again, she is immortal.

These clothes were suitable for the Abyss, neither high nor low in temperature, only nothingness—an absence that burrows into one's bones. No one there requires layers or furs the way Snezhnaya’s people do.

She’ll need her own cloak, he thinks. Longer dresses as well. And until then, he could warm her up himself, curl his hand around the plush of her thighs, heating the flesh in his grasp, and then up and higher—

“But my minions haven’t arrived.”

Her voice shakes him out of his spiraling thoughts. Good timing—his pants had begun to grow uncomfortable. Childe shuts the door to that dangerous trail away and brings his attention back to the waiting demon. “Right,” he murmurs. “I’m sure they’ll forgive us for dining without them.”

“Teucer said he’ll bring me chocolate.”

“I can do you one better. Promise.” He turns to face her, and doesn’t gives in to the urge to tug the longer strand of hair framing her face. She scowls. Archons, he wants to take her lower lip into his mouth and bite, until that bad temper is no more. “Join me for lunch. It’s been a while since it’s been just the two of us.”

Her brows furrow in suspicion. “Are you plotting something? I warn you, human, your poisons have no effect on me.”

Pretty little thing. “I know, I know, you’ve mentioned that before,” he chuckles, and before she can reply, winds his arm around her waist and tugs. She falls into his arms with a feline grace, even as her face contorts in affront. “Can’t I just want the pleasure of your company, little demon?”

A bundle of harmless fury in rumpled silk and leather, who could bring the whole manor down around his ears with a flick of her finger if she wanted to. Instead she’s here, narrowed eyes and burning gaze and miles of bare skin pressed against him. This position is a bad idea. Sadly, Childe has always possessed a fondness for those. 

“You test my patience, Childe. Release me.”

And she could force her way out anytime she wanted. She could have resisted falling in the first place. That she’s still in his lap and he’s still breathing leaves plenty to think about. Childe laughs, and pinches her waist playfully. “I’ll cut you a deal.”

She bats his hand away. “Another one? You fail to fulfill the one you’ve already made. Make young with a willing female, and do it quickly, Childe. Before I intervene.”

“I told you I’m working on that.” Quite hard in fact, if she would care to notice. “Besides, this one is less tricky. If you have lunch with me, I’ll let you choose what’s on the menu.”

It’s a tempting offer to the little glutton. The refusal falters on her tongue as she weighs the pros and cons, finally wrestling her instincts to be contrary into submission. Childe isn’t surprised—he always makes the winning gamble.

Although this time, perhaps, he wouldn’t mind losing. Provided he gets to keep her here in his lap, for as long as she’ll let him. Darker impulses stir in his chest. Longer, even, if he could.

Time and attention. Patience. Fighting, fishing, and hunting all shared the same principles. So did this. 

Throw tasty morsels of meat long enough, and even the fiercest of wolves could be tamed.

“Crab,” Lumine finally decides, crossing her arms. “I want Crab.”

“Oh?”

“The dish last week. The one that was pleasing to chew.”

“Do you mean Golden Crab?” She’d found it delicious enough to eat three servings, if he recalls right.

A second of thought, before she nods in agreement. “If you have Golden Crab for lunch, I shall honor you with my presence.”

As though she hasn’t been dining with them nearly every week the past few months. He doesn’t know who she’s trying to fool. Childe stifles the smile threatening to show, and ensures he looks solemn when he agrees. 

“Very well then. I’ll talk to the chef and see what we can do.”

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

Here’s the thing: Tonia has never had many friends.

Tonia has had books, which are practically the same thing, she’d like the world to note. Who needs real people when they have a family that loves them, a brother-knight that cherishes them, and books to love? Her shelves are filled edge-to-edge with cracked spines (of the literary kind) and textured novels and the shiny new hardbacks Big Brother Andrei brings back for her as a treat. Those have always been plenty for her. 

People hurt you. They pretend to be kind when they are not, and drive a knife into you with words when they are done pretending. They treat you like a disease when they think you are different, and are quick to blame when it is no one’s fault. They made Mama sad and Papa angry and forced them to send Ajax away. And then no one talked to them until Ajax came back, with a scarlet mask on his head and new name. 

Once he did, ignoring them wasn’t an option.

Tonia doesn’t need friends. 

But even so, she has to admit, it is nice to have one. Even if that friend calls her a minion, and may possibly be a demon that ended the world once. What matters is that Lumine listens to her when she rambles, and doesn’t flinch at the sight of Big Brother, and protects them as fiercely as he does.

When they visited the market last week, a sleazy man had tried to feel Tonia up. Lumine had broke his hand, right in the middle of the village square. Nobody touches my minion, Lumine had hissed, in the midst of screams and lunging guards.

The man was a provincial noble, Ekaterina had informed her later. Who went straight to the Eleventh to demand the blonde bitch be put in her place.

Unfortunately for him, Ekaterina told her, all he got was a one-way trip to the basement. 

And Big Sister Lumine? She won’t be punished?

I’m afraid Master Childe is too busy planning the wedding, Ekaterina quipped straight-faced. Tonia laughed then.

Although now that she thinks about it, she’s not sure it’s a joke. The last time she saw them together in a room, her brother stared at Lumine with stars in his eyes. And wore the dopiest smile she’s ever seen on a man. She’s never seen him look at anyone like that before. 

“Tonia,” a voice calls out from the direction of the fireplace.

“Yeah?”

Tonia cranes her neck to peep at the demon splayed over the furs, heels kicking in the air. After the chaos last week, Ekaterina had gently requested that she stay inside for a while. Just until things died down. The aide had looked two sizes smaller and half-dead too, so Tonia felt very sorry and agreed.

She didn’t expect Lumine to stay with her. Neither did she expect the demon to want to read her books too, with a seriousness that made Tonia blush. No one took her books seriously. Especially Mama, who always thought she should be studying instead.

“This… Viscount,” Lumine pronounces carefully, brow furrowed at the pages of the paperback Tonia had tucked into her hands three days ago. “I have questions.”

“What’s wrong?”

“He is a desirable male, yes?”

Tonia peers at Lumine’s book. A handsome man smolders at her from the cover, miles of golden skin and straining muscles barely hidden by his shirt, with a swooning maiden held in his arms. 

“Definitely,” Tonia confirms, slipping a bookmark between the pages of her novel. 

“He is powerful. Wealthy. Many females desire to share his bed. He is also handsome, by the admission of this Lady Ilia who hungers for him.”

“Yes,” Tonia agrees slowly. 

“He also has a stable with many horses.”

“I… see?”

Tonia doesn’t, in all honesty, see anything. Especially doesn’t see this coming either—the demon, with grim eyes set in realization. “This Viscount,”  Lumine says, “Is not unlike your brother.”

Tonia pauses.“What?”

“Except no woman attempts to lie with him.”

Oh. 

Tonia opens her mouth to answer. Shuts it again. 

She doesn’t know where quite to start with that. Big brother Ajax is powerful, she supposes. The Fatui Harbingers are only second to their goddess herself. And Ajax is rich—like Tsvetana used to say, government jobs do pay well. But most importantly—“You think Big Brother is handsome?”

Lumine blinks, before she hisses in response, nose scrunched. “Many demons outclass your brother in looks. That is not my point, Tonia. This tome you have lent me,” And Lumine waves the worn copy of The Viscount and the Lady, “It does not make sense.”

Lumine’s not denying that Ajax is handsome either, but Tonia guesses she can let that slide for now. “What do you find confusing?”

“There is much dancing and talking. They clearly wish to take each other to bed. But they have not.”

“Oh, that’s called a slow burn! Story developments take longer in these. They drive me crazy but it’s worth it in the enf, I think. Something about the suspense and anticipation. I think it makes the moment they finally give in to each other much sweeter.”

Lumine frowns at the page. “Are all humans like this at mating? So slow?”

“Well,” Tonia replies thoughtfully. “Most humans take time to find love. It’s not easy these days. Or at least, that’s what Big Sister Tsvetana says.”

“Ah. That again…” Lumine tchs. “A feeling that causes you to abandon all common sense. Only mortals could come up with such a concept.”

”Surely, your kind falls in love too.”

“We have no such thing.”

“What?!” Tonia nearly falls off the couch in her shock. It’s the first time Lumine’s mentioning this, despite this being her third novel. “Demons don't believe in love?”

The fire crackles, light turning the demon’s hair gold. She rolls over the furs, facing Tonia. The book falls flat on the page. “We have our Houses,” she finally says. “We have our oaths. We have magic.”

But that wasn't even close to the same thing! “What about marriage?!”

Lumine blinks at Tonia’s face. Giggles at the expression, girlish and light. Tonia would have been more proud of herself for making Lumine laugh had she still not been reeling from the revelation. “We do not have this marriage you humans are obsessed with.”

Tonia wonders if Childe knows. It feels like the kind of thing he’d forget to ask about. “What if you find someone you want? Someone who loves you? Someone you could spend the rest of your life with?” Someone like her brother?

“That will not happen.”

“Why?” Tonia insists. Her chest grows cold with distress, the chill climbing up her throat.

In answer, Lumine rises to her knees. and searching Tonia’s face. Whatever she finds convinces her to elaborate. “The Abyss is a dangerous realm. We fight tooth and nail for every day of life. We demons do not believe in love. We believe in strength. You kill or be killed, and you cannot falter. ”

“But demons do have children,” Tonia argues. “You have a brother. You were born. That means you have relationships.”

“We have mates,” Lumine admits. “Passing relationships to fulfill the need for procreation. Very few demons stay mates for long.”

“And you? Did you have a mate?”

“Perhaps.” Lumine smiles, a gentle quirk of her lips, and rises to her feet. “You are very curious, minion.”

It's because Lumine never talks about the Abyss. And because Tonia is invested in Lumine’s romantic life. Or whatever they call it among demonkind. This is very very important to her. 

“And now?”

“Now?”

“What about Big Brother?”

Lumine cocks her head. “What about Childe?”

“Do you not…” Tonia trails off meaningfully at the end of the sentence and stares at Lumine. Thinks of Ajax, who's head over heels and not even trying to hide it. 

Poor Big Brother, Tonia thinks, watching Lumine blink back in confusion. Not even an option in her eyes.

It looks like he has his work cut out for him. Tonia sighs.

Thankfully, she’s always loved slowburns.

"Good luck, Big Brother," she tells him later, passing by in the hallway. "I'm rooting for you."

Ajax looks pretty confused but Tonia's not worried. He'll figure it out someday. 

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

The manor is asleep, when she rolls out of bed.

Anya prefers to bake in the morning, when the sun barely breaks the horizon, and the kitchen is relatively empty. It gives her peace and quiet. Just dough between her hands, cricketsong in the air, and the crackling hearth. Good, solid work.

It’s been a few months since Anya began her new job. She used to scrounge for pennies once, barely getting by. Her pies and tarts and cakes sold, but barely enough to break even. Three growing kids that needed food and clothing could strain even modest purses, so it was no surprise her’s remained lean.

But then one day a couple passed by her stall, and bought out all her apple pies. The next day, a summons came from the Eleventh’s manor.

Everyone knew of the Eleventh. A charming killer with a boyish smile. The Tsaritsa’s beloved weapon. He ruled his province with an iron fist. They said he’s fair. They also said that he hungers for nothing less than death and blood.

She does not make death and blood. Only sweet treats and bread. Nevertheless, that seemed to satisfy the Eleventh, who hired her on the spot.

She does not need to wake early anymore, or spend every other minute of the day doing errands to make ends meet. He pays her richly, and then some. She’s tried to sleep in today too, and had rose from bed an hour later than the norm. But old habits die hard, and she steps into the kitchen when the sun is in the sky, turning deep purples into softer pinks.

There is a girl in the kitchen. 

A woman, Anya corrects herself. Familiar. She’s seen her before. Blonde and slender, with near inhuman grace. 

“You must be the Lady,” Anya guesses, and the hooded woman turns towards her, eyes as bright as gold coins in the sun. Anya has heard the rumors that run among the servants, of course. And she cannot forget the face that devoured her pies like a creature starved, changing Anya’s life.

“You’re the baker,” the woman says. Her steps over the kitchen tiles are soundless. “You’re late today.”

“I am,” Anya answers non-plussed. “Can I help you with something?”

“I’m hungry,” the lady admits after further thought.

Well. That is something Anya can help with.

The Lady hovers while Anya works. Unobtrusive. From what Anya gathers, it is curiosity rather than supervision. She does not chatter but replies when spoken to. And is rather fascinated when Anya teaches her to knead dough.

Anya does not understand how one could become fully-grown without knowing how bread is made, but she has never understood noblewomen. At least this one wants to learn.

“So it was you emptying the first tray,” she mutters in realization, guiding the Lady’s hands to flip the dough. “And here I thought Master Childe liked an early snack before his morning spar.”

“It’s no fault of mine,” the lady says, brows pinched together in concentration. “I would not be forced to come here so often if he would fulfill his end of the deal.”

And neither is it Anya’s place to comment, so she only hums. A few more turns of the palm and the dough grows firm. “That should be enough.”

She slips the the dough into the oven. The Lady is still there when she turns. “You can wait in the drawing room.” Anya says. “I’ll have one of the maids bring it over once done.”

The Lady thinks it over. Shakes her head. “Send it to Childe’s bedroom.”

Anya pauses. Waits just in case the Lady changes her mind.

When she doesn’t, Anya nods and watches the Lady leave the kitchens, ivory cloak fluttering behind her. 

They say the Eleventh has interest in naught but battle. A body sharpened to wound. No woman has shared his bed more than a night, though all the young women in town certainly tried. One could do worse than a Fatui Harbinger.

There had already been rumors, of course, about the Lady. Most insisted they were just that—rumors. Surely Master Childe would not change so easily. Some swore they saw her in the Master’s bedroom, or with his siblings. A few even said she had horns and a tail, though no one really believed that.

Now, any chance of the Lady staying a rumor has been well and truly dashed. “Breakfast won’t make itself,” Anya snaps at the open door. In unison, three heads pop out, two maids and their lone cook gazing guiltily at her.  “Well?”

“We didn’t want to scare her off,” the younger one says.

Anya rolls her eyes and beckons them in. Doesn’t miss their excited whispers and guilt glee. 

If the entire town doesn’t find out by midday, it would be a miracle. Gossipmongers, the lot of them. 

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

“There’s a new maid in your employ.”

“Oh?”

Hmph. He’s not paying attention to her, is he?

Lumine kicks out with a foot, only to be thwarted when the Harbinger catches her ankle. They’re on the couch in his office—she had demanded most of it when she materialized in the morning, squeezing Childe into the corner. And the human had taken the interruption unusually well, placing her feet in his lap with a grin and turning his attention back to whatever he was doing.

Too well, she thinks, pulling the other foot back to deliver another kick, but by then he’s sunk his thumb into the arch of her captive foot and oh, oh—

Lumine glares at him suspiciously.

But Childe is still frowning over paper, even while his hand moves like it knows exactly how, stroking up and down and applying pressure at the right places. It feels nice. It feels very nice. It feels so nice that she huffs and abandons her previous mission, settling both feet firmly back in his lap instead.

“There’s a new maid in your employ,” she repeats tartly, eyes fluttering shut in the face of new-found pleasure. “You ought to know that she’s very pretty.”

“Is she?”

“Mmm.” Lumine stifles a moan that threatens to leave her lips as he starts massaging her calves too. Stupid human and his stupid, talented hands. “Long brown hair, fine features and an excellent taste in pastries.”

“Stealing desserts from my kitchen again, Lumine?”

“It’s not stealing. It's tribute. Take any longer to fulfill your end of the pact and I’ll confiscate your manor too.”

“Greedy little thing,” he chides, and this time he does drag his gaze towards her, a grin playing at his lips. A forefinger circles the prominence of bone at her ankle, calluses catching against her skin. “Have some patience.”

Patience is a virtue, and within those starless skies and endless depths, she’s renown for having neither. “I heard she’s quiet,” Lumine remarks. She widens her eyes meaningfully. “And very good at needlework too.”

“Who?”

“The maid! Keep up, Childe.”

Childe snorts, raising a brow. “Alright. And that matters because…”

“Because human men want quiet and pretty women who sit at home all day and do nothing but needlework, so they can return at any time and tear their clothes off,” Lumine answers, matter of fact.

Childe blinks. 

She’s hit the nail on the head, she knows. All her research has been paying off. The Harbinger is yet to answer her, shocked by her knowledge. Serves him right for thinking her a fool.

When he finally speaks, it’s with a shake of his head and a huff of laughter. Lines crease the corner of his eyes. 

“You really need to stop reading from Tonia’s secret stash.”

Not a chance.

“What secret stash?” she asks innocently.

She may be a demon, but even demons have morals, especially when they’ve made a pinky promise not to tell anyone about said secret stash. 

And Tonia really did have the most fascinating tomes. Shirtless human men, women in satin ballgowns that skirted the toes of decency, pages on pages of unbridled lust and mortal passion. Much more educational than whatever Childe handed over.

In fact, she should probably ask Tonia to bring her another book. She’s almost done with her current read. 

And Childe’s frowning down at her, like he could guess at what she’s thinking. Hmph, like the man can even come close. She is Viatrix, the oldest star in the infernal galaxies, twin to Viator, Prince and Destroyer. She has watched the birth of entire universes, the rise and fall of empires, crumbled mountains to dust with a curl of a finger. Her thoughts are far beyond a mortal’s comprehension—

“That’s it. Tonia is banned from visiting.”

“What—no!”

“She’s corrupting you.”

Lumine gasps, indignant. How insulting, when she’s the immortal demon between the two of them. “I won’t stand for that, Childe,” she hisses. With a glare, she leverages herself up and extending a hand to wrap around Childe’s throat. Curses human genes again, and his size when she barely cover even half, and improvises by pricking her nails into the skin in threat instead.

Even then, Childe raises a brow, unimpressed. His hand glides down the sole of her foot. Bastard. She bares her teeth and snarls, “Tonia is my minion. You cannot seperate her from me. Don’t you dare—nngh!”

Oh.

Oh fuck.

And she’s keening as he digs his thumb into a spot that’s been bothering her for the past century, an embarrassing noise that tumbles out of her mouth without mercy. Spine bowing as pleasure arcs through her nerves, hands falling limply to her sides.

The moan is loud, echoing in the room, and she couldn’t care less, not if he kept doing whatever he is doing. She already knows he’ll take it as ammunition to be even more insufferable, and gods, she’ll knee him in the jaw if he starts laughing at her again—

Except he’s not.

Lumine peers through half-lidded eyes to find Childe… staring. As if that sound has utterly robbed him of his usual, aggressive charm. His mouth pursed tight, body still. Pupils blown so wide the ring of blue is barely visible.

Lumine doesn’t know why, but her breath catches. “…Childe?”

“Hm?”

His gaze is fixed on her mouth. It eerily reminiscent of an archer lining up his shot. Of a hunter tracking prey. But no, that’s not what she needs. Thoughts. Yes. She needs to say something. What did she want to say again?

Lumine barely feels her lips move. “You should ask her to share your bed,” she says breathlessly.

Right. She needs him to sleep with someone.

Childe takes in a shuddering breath. “Are we still talking about the maid?”

“Who else would we talk about?”

His jaw works at her answer, and it draws her eyes to the five o’ clock shadow that’s made itself home on him. He’s been cooped up in his office lately, and it shows. But the stubble suits him. She’s probably one of the very few that’s seen this human like this, she thinks. And she’s struck with the bizarre urge to reach out and cup his cheek, just to know what it feels like against her skin.

She’d have done it too, if he hadn’t met her eyes then, gaze growing even darker at what he finds. Curse words slipping out of him, as he rises to his feet in a fluid move.

“Wait–where are you going?”

“A shower.” Childe pinches the bridge of his nose and shifts uncomfortably. “A long, cold shower,” he amends.

What? She glances out of the window, where a snowstorm rages and rattles the windowpanes. He must be out of his mind.

But it does present a golden opportunity. “You could invite her to join you,” Lumine suggests.

Childe groans, head tipped back. “Stop. That’s enough, Lumine.” Doesn’t even wait for an answer as he shrugs his cloak over his shoulder and starts for the door.

“No,” she snipes. Catches the material of his shirt between her toes. “You’re supposed to agree to bed the maid.”

The Eleventh Harbinger swears.

And then he’s marching back towards her, and leaning over her without warning, looming over her curled figure. Taut muscle underneath strained material, arm caging her against the couch. A line drawn over his forearm, another at his throat.

“You’ll be the death of both of us, little demon. You need to learn when to sheathe that tongue of yours.” 

“Childe—“

“I’m not interested in her,” Childe interrupts, voice low and husky. She watches wide-eyed as he inhales, hand flexing and digging into the soft cushions. “And besides…”

He has pretty hands. Callused and long-fingered, and skilled in battle. Gentle otherwise. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t make a sound when he reaches out, and runs a thumb across her lip.

“I don’t know about other men,” he says slowly. Roughly. “But needlework bears little consequence in whether I want to tear someone’s clothes off.”

Huh?

By the time Lumine regains control over her thoughts, he’s already swept outside the room, crimson scarf fluttering behind him.

She blinks in confusion.

What in the Abyss was that about?

Notes:

I can't believe this fic is eight chapters long already this was supposed to be a oneshot...

anyway chonky chapter for all of u!!! the foot massage scene is one of the first scenes I wrote for this fic I cant believe we're finally here. childe is having a vv difficult time, send prayers.

Tonia is happy to have a friend, and Lumine is learning about human culture from bodice-rippers. things are going to get dicey.

as for updates: next week will be an update to my chlm isekai fic, in which canon lumi gets yeeted to a canon-divergent universe in which she and childe are fucking. two chaps to completion, so we're at the final stretch! mayhaps the week after that shall be the update to this one 🤞🤞🤞

tysm for reading! wishing ya'll a great week ahead hehe

Chapter 9

Summary:

“They say you have begun courting. That you are wooing a female. That you buy her clothes, and feed her sweets, and that you linger here in the manor to remain in her presence.” There is no resistance when she brings up the other knee, clambering on top of him. Only the clench of his hands, fingers digging into the flesh of her thigh in one, and lines of tendons stark on the other.

“And I also know,” she declares, quietly. Deadly. “That the only female in your vicinity is me.”

Sweet. She’s so goddamn sweet.

He could get addicted to this. Gods he already is, every little sigh and moan spilling liquid heat into his blood. He wants to memorize those sounds, he wants to hear her make more, wants to coax them out of her pretty pink lips and drink them all up. Every passing moment makes him feel like he’s burning through his clothes, the monster inside him hungry and clawing and aching. Ravenous. 

Her body fits so snugly within his grasp, her hand reaching backward, clutching his bicep like a lifelines. The greatest demon known to mortal history, keening and gasping against his front, begging, no, demanding more. She’s too proud to beg. At least up front. That needed to be earned but oh, here she is anyway. A pretty little creature at his mercy. 

And she could destroy him if she wanted to, raze him to dust with a flick of her little finger. Incomparable power condensed into that tiny frame, now writhing in his arms. He welcomes it, craves it, this madness. Fuck, he wants to destroy her too. Wants to tame her and take her and ruin her, until she can’t live without him. His demon.

And gods, every part of her fits so perfectly in his hands.  She’s so sensitive, just like he knew she’d be. He runs his mouth down her throat, across smooth, flushed skin. Closes his lips around a stiff peak.

She cries his name, wanton. Needy. A warbling sound. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. 

More. This isn’t enough, is never enough. She’s a drug, divine, absolution and damnation all at once. He groans into her skin as her hands slide over his shoulders, curling around the slope of his neck. Nails pricking flesh. He wants her, he needs her, he just—

More. More, more, more—

And pain blooms through him, sharp and throbbing, as Lumine tears out his throat. 

Childe blinks into the midnight dark, the lingering remnants of sleep loosening their grip. Stares at the slatted ceiling, and tries to ignore the very obvious tent in his blanket.

Fuck.

It’s been a while since he’s had a dream like that. Not since he was a hot-blooded teenager in the throes of puberty. He’d believed he outgrew dreams of a carnal nature long ago. That battle sated his hunger, and bloodshed slaked whatever lust he contained.

If he closes his eyes, he can still see her, writhing under his touch, pink and flushed and wanting—

Damn, Childe thinks, hand drifting south. 

He really does need to get laid.

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

“Are you sure she’s not coming today?”

“She doesn’t exactly keep a schedule with me, Anton,” Childe chortles, ruffling the little rascal's hair. His brother yelps, ducking beneath the offending hand, stare tinged with the indignant dismay only spoiled preteens could wield. “Lumine visits when she feels like it, and disappears pretty much the same way.”

“Like Cookie,” Tonia explains to their brother, fluffing up a downy pillow with care.

Comparing his demon to the cat that lingered around their family home isn't farfetched either. She has the mannerisms of a stray, winding in and out of his life without a care. Pleased and purring when she’s well-fed and distracted by shiny new human things, and a hissing menace courting trouble when she’s not. 

She even yowls when he drags her into his arms, and becomes boneless with the right touch. A kitten down to the bone.

“We need more blankets,” Anton calls out, ducking out from underneath the scarlet canopy. “The ratio of blankets to pillows is off. Teucer?”

“I’ll get it!” Teucer is lightning-fast, sprinting out of the room like a boy posessed. By the door, one of the soldiers meets his gaze and nods, before breaking away to follow the boy. 

His siblings had arrived at the crack of dawn, when the sun was barely crowning the sky. Ambushed him during morning practice, laughing delightedly as they piled on top of him. Anton was really excited to meet Big Sister Lumine, so we woke up really early to visit!

Hey now, he had replied, all mock disappointment, pleasure thrumming in his chest. I’m starting to feel a little neglected here.

“Where is Lumine?” Tonia asks two minutes later, wiggling out from beneath the blanket fort. “I haven't seen her in forever.”

“The two of you set the garden on fire last week.”

“That was an accident,” his sister defends, face twisted in indignation. “Fireworks  aren't supposed to do that."

Childe chuckles, shaking his head. "She said she had some cleaning up to do back home. Won't be back for a while."

"Demons do housework?" Anton interjects in disbelief.

Not the kind he's thinking of, but Childe isn't going to bring that up. And speaking of...

"Say, what do you need her for, Tonia?"

"A furtive and shifty look flashes over his sister’s face. “It’s a secret,” she finally declares, before throwing herself back into construction. 

He has a good guess on what his sister is attempting to hide, but trying to pry  those books out of Lumine’s hands is a losing battle. Unbidden, her moan echoes in her ears, sweet and unrestrained, loud enough to fill the entire room. He hadn’t expected that sound. He hadn’t been prepared for it. Not for the way it snapped nearly every thread of self-control he possessed, and turned him to more beast than man. 

He may be noble in all purposes of the word, land and title granted by the Tsaritsa herself. But there was nothing noble about the thoughts that ran in his head when her mouth shaped around that moan. Nothing beyond how he ached at that sound, how he wanted to hear it again, how he wanted to make her make it again. How he could just lean down and push her into the cushions, latch his mouth over that pouty pink lip and—

Fuck. He shifts uncomfortably, dragging his head back to the moment. His siblings, the blanket fort, and no pretty, powerful demon around. Focus.

Five minutes later, the four siblings stand in front of the blanket fort, a stunning structure draped from scarlet, blacks and greys. “Acceptable,” Tonia declares after a pause, before shuffling her way inside, Teucer and Anton on her heels. 

“Hey now.” He happens to think it’s one of the best forts they’ve made, no bed linens in manor spared. “What’s it missing?”

Teucer’s head pops out of the opening. “It would be better if Miss Lumine was here,” he informs Childe mournfully. “She would have liked making a blanket fort.”

Anton's voice floats in from behind. "It's more fun with new people."

Tonia chimes in next, head emerging above Teucer’s. “And Bug Sister Lumine said that she wouldn't miss it for the world."

Ah. 

An organized attack. Kids grew up so quickly these days.

“You should just ask Miss Lumine to stay over,” Tonia adds before he can figure out how to untangle the mess. “I know you don't mind.”

“She’s a busy person. Just like me." With a grin, he taps her forehead. "Give me some space, kiddo."

“Everyone's heard about her now. You don’t even try to hide her.”

“Ah. But no one knows who she really is."

It had taken a fierce negotiation but he had persevered, and finally managed to secure a semblance of an agreement. A disguise in the manor in exchange for an entire loaf of Snezhnayan apple cake. Desperate times, indeed.

"Big Sister Lumine is nice. And kind. And isn't scary at all," Teucer says, eyes wide and earnest. "Even if she's a demon."

“Oh, don't let her hear that, Teucer," Childe laughs."She'll take offense."

“Mama thinks the same,” Teucer adds, the subtlety of a hammer smashing glass.

Yikes. Carefully, Childe schools his face into an expression of careful interest. “Does she?”

“Uh huh! She said Miss Lumine must be very kind and patient if she’s friends with you.”

"Friends," Tonia echoes. Giggles.

"Something to say, Tonia?"

His sister smiles angelically at him. "I'm glad you're good friends with her, Big Brother."

Somehow, he gets the feeling he's being insulted here.

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

“Have ever you seen her?”

“Twice this week alone,” one of the scullery maids reply, brandishing a dripping mop with finesse. Hair greying at the crown, and lines of mortal aging on her face.  “A beauty beyond compare. It’s no surprise the Eleventh is head over heels for her.”

“Are you sure, Masha? I find it difficult to believe…” 

“Is she a noble?” There’s a soldier with them too, short and stocky. Under his arm is that fangled thing Childe had called a gun. Humans made the most unusual things for their purposes, especially when it came to battle. Creative, vicious creatures. 

“Well,” The second maid takes a quick glance around her, before answering. “None of the noble ladies in the Northern Province match her description. I heard Lady Vanya was most displeased. She’s had her eye on the Eleventh for a while, after all."

“A commoner! With beauty and bearing like that?”

“It’s like a fairytale. The Eleventh Harbinger and a commoner.” 

A third maid joins the conversation, drifting over from the window she had been furiously dusting. “You know that new baker?

“Which one? The lord has hired three in the past month alone, Polina. Ever since…” Another laugh, and raised brows. Confusing. 

“The one that used to have a stall by the fountain. She was hired after the Lady ate fifteen of her sunsettia tarts.”

“He spends more time in the castle now,” The soldier pipes up. “Master Childe used to lead the campaigns himself, but these days he delegates the work.”

The interjection triggers another round of giggles. They laughed quite a lot, these mortals. She doesn’t quite understand why.

The youngest of the three maids, blue ribbon in her braid takes the chance to add her piece. “He’s usually holed up in his office or bedroom. At dawn and dusk, at the sparring grounds. You can hear them sometimes, through the door. He sounds…”

Her cheeks color vividly.

“Sasha!” A quick scolding. The older maid delivers it cuttingly, though her lips still tilt in a smile. “A servant does not spy on her master.”

“Oh, spare her, Masha.” The second maid interrupts. Blonde-haired and green-eyed and gap-toothed. “I, for one, wish to hear more.”

“As do I,” the soldier murmurs.

Sasha smiles, and nudges the other maid. “Tell them what you told me this morning, Polina.”

“Well.” A dramatic pause. “I’m quite good friends with the seamstress in town. Yesterday, she mentioned that Master Childe put in an order for fifty gowns in the latest fashions, no expenses spared.”

Gasps sound from the throng. Sometime during the conversation, other workers have joined—the passing gardener, one of the cooks, another maid and a soldier. All of them entirely fixated on the story.

“It may not be for the lady,” the gardener protests, rubbing his silvered jaw.

Polina grins. “None of them,” she declares, “Are in Lady Tonia’s size.”

Silence reigns.

“Oh dear,” The first maid says, and the second echoes, before all of them burst into giggles.

“It must be love,” the cook declares in confidence. “Only love could drive a man like him to such lengths.”

Love.

The crowd disperses, still tittering with gossip. The corridor grows silent. 

Her back slides down the wall. Lumine tucks her feet underneath the puddling skirts, and wonders.

A demon knew little of love. Their loyalty to their house, and companionship rare. Mates were taken for procreation and nothing more. It's a mortal creation—this love, an emotion that the tomes described as sacred and unshakeable. So powerful it could change the course of destiny.

Oh.

How ridiculous. After all this time…

Heat rushing to her cheeks, Lumine scrambles up and sweeps down the corridor. Up a flight of stairs, following the call of that familiar presence.

She’s learnt a number of things about mortal affairs since she started roaming on this plane. One of them is that they like to talk plenty, and do nothing. Childe complains about these meetings, but Lumine thinks that if he finds them so annoying, he should just behead everyone and be done with it.

It would be most effective. Childe hadn’t disagreed either then, but those meetings continue.

He’s in the middle of one when she slams the doors to the meeting hall open. What humans have to natter on about for so long is beyond her. Regardless, she has much more important things to discuss with the Harbinger, so she casts a haughty look across the room and declares her intentions in the simplest way possible. “Humans. Out.”

At the head of the table, Childe raises a brow.

The room erupts in a buzz of whispers. The twelve humans around the table glance at each other in shock, and followed by a disbelieving glare at her, and a beseeching look at the Harbinger. One of them even starts, wringing his hands “My lord! This is…”

The Harbinger only smiles, chin resting against woven fingers. 

It’s her, Lumine catches in between scandalized comments. A thrum of emotion among the gathering. Is that fear she senses? Good. 

The mortal nearest to Childe’s seat tsks. “This is highly improper, Master Childe. You cannot entertain such behavior.”

“You all heard the lady,” he says in lieu of answer, gaze focused on her. The human’s eyes do something unusual now when they land on her. She hasn’t understood what yet. Just that they look disgustingly soft. It makes her want to stab. “I’d start moving if I were you. ”

“This is preposterous!” Another announces, moustache trembling and cheeks splotchy with indignation. “You cannot entertain such behavior!” Despite the efforts of the person next to him, desperately tugging his sleeve, he doggedly continues, "For a common whore to barge into—“

Thump.

The next minute, the room falls deadly quiet. 

The dagger is still trembling in the wood, embedded next to the speaker's ear. Blood drips down his neck, red against deathly-pale skin. His protests sputter into silence.

Childe's smile is different now. Colder.

“Out,” he echoes.

The room empties within seconds, mortals nearly tripping over each other in their haste to leave. Childe doesn’t even bother to watch them go, shifting his gaze to meet hers.

She’s struck by the thought that this human possesses many types of smiles. That she has seen many of them, as this human so easily grants it. And now he’s looking at her again, and the sharp curve of his lips has lost its edge, settling into something that makes something unnamed ache in her chest.

This must be what the humans call indigestion.

“Are you going to stare at me all day?” 

“I’m not staring,” she responds instinctively. And then remembers why she’s here. Scowls at that infuriating face.

Damn him. Damn his and his schemes, the way he makes her ill, the lines of his frame as he lounges in the chair. Damn the way it makes her insides twist. She’s not going to stand for it. 

“Lumine?” Childe prompts. He’s in shades of gray and red today; the color of polished gravestones, and blood spilt over snow. “What’s the matter?”

The matter is sitting in front her, smug and oblivious. She seethes, baring teeth at the object of her ire. By the abyss, she should sink them into his throat and teach him what it means to earn her wrath—

Focus, Lumine. “I've heard the rumors.”

The human leans back, tilting his head. That damn smile still playing on his lips. “Can’t make a word of what you’re saying from all the way here, Lumine. You know my hearing is terrible in comparison to yours.”

Weak mortals. How they were not already hunted into extinction yet is a mystery. She storms her way up to him, until she’s right by his side, and announces, “Your servants are very chatty.”

“Mm?”

“I have heard the rumors—”

“You have blood on your dress,” he interrupts. 

Lumine blinks. Frowns, glancing down at her skirt. There—a streak of deep purple across the blue folds. She hadn’t noticed before this. “There was a matter I needed my attention. I handled it.”

“I’d have liked to see that.” Childe murmurs, throat bobbing as he swallows. 

She sees the change in him when she looks back up. His eyes have darkened at the hint of a story. A death-dealer to the bone, scenting blood and violence, and craving for a taste. 

His kind were the type to sow and breed chaos, to brew violence and court carnage for the pleasure of it. The kind that would destabilize her brother’s rule and shed blood across the ruins of the Abyss. Had he been a demon, he would have been executed years ago. Head lopped off by her own hand.

Well, perhaps he could have had his uses. The scent of blood still hangs heavy around him. Blunt to her nose. Warriors like him paid their dues eventually—he would have made a useful servant, she thinks. It  is appealing too, the thought—a Childe that bowed his head and begged for her grace. A devoted retainer.

She toys with the idea a breath longer—the image of him on his knees before her, eyes reverent—before remembers why she is here, and scowls again. 

“You would have enjoyed it. They were an enemy House that didn’t know their place.” Brash and foolhardy. “Just like you,” she adds, stabbing a finger to his chest. 

“Quite an accusation, little demon,” he replies, with barely concealed delight thrumming in his voice. A hand curls around the accusing finger, coaxing the straining tendons until the finger curls. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“You—“ she begins, only pausing when he slips his other fingers into the gaps of hers, effectively trapping her palm against his chest. A pointless action—she can kill him one-handed just as well as she can kill him with two. And it would take more effort to untangle them than just let it be. She definitely doesn’t like the feeling, though. 

Not at all. 

“I’ve heard the rumors, human.”

“Mmm.” Childe cocks his head, amusement dances in his eyes. “I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific, little demon. What rumors?”

“Do not play the fool. I know it all. I have heard them from the lips of your very own minions.”

“If it’s about the haunted cookie jar that mysteriously empties within minutes…”

“Not that one,” she snaps. “The other one.”

“Ah,” he says, head bent to brush his lips against her knuckles. “That one.”

He is slow in his movements, almost languid. Irritatingly so. She cannot stand it any longer—this gentleness, distraction, manipulation. He only grins when he meets her gaze, watching her seethe under his attention.

“Little demon,” he murmurs again, and this time it sounds even worse, warm and syrupy with an inflection she cannot identify. Something about it rolls down her spine, softening the gathered muscles at her shoulders, easing the clench of her jaw. She leans against him, finding it convenient to shift herself into the gap between his legs. Easier access to the heart, she tells herself. For stabbing, of course, nothing more.  “Tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

She is Viatrix, unbeholden to mortal command. But the words spill forth before she can wrench them back. “They say you have fallen in love.”

She doesn’t wait for him to reply. “The tomes I have studied on your mortal civilization concur. Just as your servants do. You are utterly besotted.”

“Utterly besotted,” he echoes, mouth tilted in a half-smile. “I wonder.”

“So you admit to it?”

Something else flickers in his gaze, dark and unreadable. The longer she spends with this mortal, the harder he is to understand. It does not make sense that a creature with a handful of years of life can confuse her. She dislikes it. Him. 

The ire returns, stronger now, and it makes her ache, to hurt, to punish. Leads her to tangle her fingers in his hair, tousled copper locks soft to the touch, and yank.

And he accepts it easily, all too easily, eyes half lidded and a pained groan climbing up his throat. A moment later he clutches the back of her knee, pulling it up and over his muscled thigh. Dragging her closer. 

Foolish human. How vulnerable he is here, within her reach. Yet entirely unafraid.

She meets his eyes again. Maw of black, ring of blue. His mouth; tongue sliding out to run over his lips. 

She has a sudden urge to reach out and trace its path. The impulse disappears as soon as it arrives. She cannot get distracted.

“I have never denied it,” he begins, and she’s only half-listening to the lie as she snarls, teeth bared.  Familiar mana rising to the surface, magic crackling at her fingers. 

“Do not play games with me, Childe.”

It had taken her five minutes to climb from the kitchens to the meeting hall. Five minutes of contemplation, of examining every part of the situation and then the whole. Ruminating over every careless word from his minions lips.

 “They say you have begun courting. That you are wooing a female. That you buy her clothes, and feed her sweets, and that you linger here in the manor to remain in her presence.” There is no resistance when she brings up the other knee, clambering on top of him. Only the clench of his hands, fingers digging into the flesh of her thigh in one, and lines of tendons stark on the other. 

“And I also know,” she declares, quietly. Deadly. “That the only female in your vicinity is me.”

Silence cloaks the room. The swell of his throat bobs, stark underneath unblemished skin.

“Lumine,” he murmurs, the syllables of her name threaded with a plea on his tongue. But her mercy will not be gifted. Not now. 

The look in his eyes, the tension in his bones. She is Viatrix of the Endless Night, undying and immortal. Centuries of life behind her, and the wisdom of those years too, buried in her flesh.

Did he believe she would not see through him?

Lumine settles firmly in his lap. Straddles his thighs. Tips his head back and snarls into his ear. “A valiant attempt, but futile. Your trickery has failed, human.”

The planes of his body are still beneath her, confusion flitting across his face. A deceiver, this human, she thinks. It comes so naturally to him. “I’m afraid I don't follow.”

“Very well, then. I’ll speak it plainly. You dangle the possibility of a mate like bait before me. But I know the truth.”

Childe blinks. “What?”

“Your servants are chatty enough that it would seem natural. I would hear these lies and leave you to your own, content that you aim to fulfill your end of the bargain. Unluckily for you, your mortal mind cannot compare to mine. Your plan has failed.”

The emotions on his face cycle too quickly for her to parse them, finally settling onto something blank. His mouth purses, body shaking beneath her. Shaking from fear, perhaps. Good. 

Although, the crinkle of his eyes… that accompanies laughter, usually. Hm. 

“Just to confirm,” he finally says,  trembling. “You think that I made these rumors up to fool you?”

“Of course,” Lumine sniffs. “Had such a female existed, I would come to know of your affections long before your servants did.”

“Right,” he says after a moment's pause. “Of course you would.”

For all his inclinations to violence, he is startlingly easy now to put to heel. She tugs his hair once more, to let it sink in—how his life is within her palm, a flame easily snuffed, and smiles at the dark glance he throws her, body shuddering beneath her. 

“And if ever,” she adds, “you take a mate, or sire a young, and try to conceal her from me—“

“Trust me, Lumine,” he interrupts, low and throaty. Hand flying to her hips in an attempt to dislodge her. For once, she lets him, wondering at the desperation of the move. Fear again, she concludes.

“You’ll be the first to know.”

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

He watches her leave the hall, the hem of her new cloak trailing across the floor, steps light with the thrill of victory. 

The dream comes back to him. So does this—the warmth of her hand in his, the warmth in his blood when she came close, too close, the way it dropped straight to his groin when she straddled his lap. 

Your trickery has failed, Childe.

Laughter finally breaks through him, echoing in the room. His sweet, contrary demon. Childe rises from his seat, shrugging his cloak over his shoulders. He should get her another gift, he supposes. To tend to her ire, and thank her for the entertainment. And also, just because he could. There was nothing quite like the sparkle in her eyes she so badly his when she got something interesting in her hands. 

A horse of her own, perhaps, he muses, making his way to the door. With how often she sneaks into the stables to feed Maxim treats. his horse would be a spoilt beast soon.

But first, he reminds himself, grimacing at the tightness of his pants, and the throbbing ache.

He needs another cold shower. 

Notes:

if ur 18+, and have the urge to see the pure, delicious filth that the first scene is based on, check out this post by aitsu!

anyway, thank you for waiting patiently! at this point we’re playing fast and loose with both chapter count and the rating lol.

the past few chapters can be titles: how much can we torture childe before he snaps. hehehe.

ty for reading as always, and here’s hoping y’all are having a good day <3

Chapter 10

Summary:

Childe brings his attention back to the creature in his arms. She is terribly soft and treacherously warm against him, for a creature crafted of sharp edges. Lines of her body curled, slumped in exhaustion against the nearest vertical surface. Which is him in this case, apparently.

“Hello, little demon,” he soothes, voice slipping into a concerned, rich warmth, fingers brushing her bangs from her hairline. “What have you gotten yourself into now?”

Notes:

STOP RIGHT THERE. AND CLICK HERE FOR GORGEOUS, DELICIOUS DEMON LUMINE ART NOM NOM NOM—

Once upon a time, the Abyss had been different sort of beast.

At least, that's what the elders used to say. Over a deboned carcass, meat still dripping ochre-blood, the demon of House Surtr had spoke of a land of peace and plenty, where the rivers had run clear instead of scarlet, and the now rare patches of Inteyvats cloaked fields as far as one could see. A land where demons did not need to kill to survive, violence was not built into their flesh, and the Abyss did not gnaw on their souls.

Not anymore, thanks to the bloodless beings of Celestia, she had said at the end, studying the chipped end of a rib. The second moon had dipped below the horizon, night growing darker. Good luck surviving the Feast, Scion of Viat.

We do not need your blessings, Skirk.

So you say.

Soon afterwards, the warrior had disappeared, the bones on her skirt clicking against each other in the darkness. Lumine has heard little of her since. Only far fetched rumors—of narwhals and curses and a human pet.

But she digresses.

Those days too, are long gone now. Once, Lumine was a different creature, young and clinging to survival by her fingertips. Forgotten dreams and hazy memory.

She does remember this: The Feast,a gathering of Greater Demons. Thirteen Lords, Thirteen Houses. That Feast, her brother nearly dead, gored through the heart by the Lord of the Third House. Fleeing into the dark with Aether in her arms, and a promise that the Houses would receive their due.

The first thing she did when Aether became Prince was hunt down the Lord of the Third house and return the favour. Painfully.

“Viatrix!" A sharp voice snaps, dragging her sharply back to the moment. "Behind you—"

A displacement of air, a looming shadow. She pivots, grasping the dense spool of magic. Her palm slams through a densely muscled torso, between jutting spikes. With a twist of her fingers, mana sparks, erupting into a pillar of flame and incinerating the impaled demon to ash.

With a sigh, she dusts the charred remains of her hand.

Battle is a pleasure she has known for centuries. The lines between the years have begun blurring, fading into the other. Life in the Abyss is cruel; Life in the Abyss does not change. It is a cycle, this: Her brother rises to rule. She rises to slaughter.

Although no one had ever warned her that stamping out the fires of treason is such tedious, unending work.

Another demon lunges at her. Scrawny, two-winged and twice her size. She smacks it away with a snarl.

This is all because of that Traitorous, slimy little bastard House. She's been hunting them for weeks.

Not only did they take their time to die, they didn't even have the courtesy to do it quietly. Another piercing scream sounds behind her, thunder booming across the cloudless sky. Lumine tosses a glance at her companion of the day, lingering only for a second the charred body at his feet.

"He's already dead," she informs the not-human, quite unnecessarily, she's sure, pointing a single finger at the unmoving corpse. "Stop wasting time and finish up."

Said not-human pauses in his ministrations, indigo eyes narrow. Lips curling into a practiced sneer. "What's the hurry, Viatrix?"

Lumine scowls at him, and marches away.

By all the damned creatures in the Abyss, she can't figure out why they keep the brat around. Her brother is incomprehensible to her sometimes, for all they are mirror-images of the other. And a liar too, to insist that he enjoys the company, when all said company does is spit vitriol and cackle over bloody corpses.

Lumine had thought the puppet a pitiful thing when the Archon had handed him over without protest. Now she knows better, and wishes they had just cancelled the contract and thrown him back to Teyvat instead.

"Where are you running off to? Slow down, Viatrix," Scaramouche jeers, catching up to her just as she summons her blade. The time spent dealing with the first wave had birthed the second, enemies cloaking the field ahead akin to a swarm of insects. "Let me have my fun, won't you?"

"No. You get carried away, and I have better things to do."

"Touchy. Since when do you do anything but rot at home?"

"That's none of your business, Scaramouche."

He rolls his eyes, mouth shaping an answer, one drowned out by the roar of their enemies.

Lumine lunges forward.

Digs her heels into the the foamy slop of blood and mud, blade angling just so. Slides it into a bared throat, and cleaves the head in one strike. Clawtips catch at the end of her hair; she ducks, spins, lightning at her fingertips. The creature meets its end at her boot, it's brethren joining it seconds later. A piles of corpses growing at her feet.

Flashes of purple reveal Scaramouche's location in the swarm. The stench of blood and burnt flesh clings to the air. Something familiar to it—though it always has been. Violence, death, carnage. Her gauntlet, her pleasure, her purpose.

Something new to it too—a shade of burnt red in the reflection of one demon's eyes. Azure flame breathed from another's mouth. The dual blade that shatters underneath her palm, the shape a gentle reminder.

Infuriating human. Plaguing her thoughts even while she's an entire realm away. He's probably celebrating, the idiot. And not made a single attempt to sire a child.

Although she still cannot understand him. Them. Humans and their mating rituals are too foolish for her to make sense of. To think they mated for pleasure—allowed themselves to be vulnerable, to be in reach of death and an easy kill, out of nothing but desire.

It's a miracle they are not all dead yet. Her kind is far more practical.

When she's done culling the bulk of their adversaries, and striding towards the gate, Scaramouche makes his move again.

"You know," he begins inelegantly, falling into step beside her. "You should join us, Viatrix."

"Don't make me introduce you to the other end of my blade, Scaramouche."

He shrugs, electro fizzling at his feet. "Your brother worries. It's downright insufferable. Would be easier to stomach if you're by his side."

"Right now, you're the insufferable one, puppet. I'll gladly watch you leave."

"Ha ha. And pass up the live entertainment?"

She casts him a pointed look, as thunder booms, and the last demon of the swarm falls to the ground.

"Sorry," he replies, unapologetic. "Live no longer, I suppose." Sauntering forward, he cocks his head and adds, "Look. Aren't you supposed to be your Brother's right hand? His shadow, his general, or some other pretentious title. Can't be that you're bored of it already? Or rather…" He trails off. "Jealous?"

She's old enough to not fall for poorly concealed bait. Even if the words are blunt, her eye twitching, hand spasming over the hilt of her blade.

"Shut it."

"Awww, princess, did I touch a nerve?”

“That’s a funny thing to say," Lumine replies. Another group of demons guard the gate. They launch themselves at them, swords and axes raised. She dispatches them with a sharp smack of her heel into the ground, sharp jagged boulders erupting from the ground and piercing them through their gut. “If I crack your body open, what would I find, Scaramouche? Wood and sawdust?”

An answering scowl, the lightning that cleaves through the gathering flashing bright.

Averting her gaze, Lumine sets it on the final guard, a lumbering behemoth waiting at the gates, drool dripping over its maw, clinging to gore-matted fur. A minute later, she leaves it behind her in chunks of charred flesh, striding into the fortress.

Straight, left, right, straight. In the empty hall, their footsteps echo loud and clear. No enemies impeding their way, not even the bastard leader of their House. She can't return until he's dealt with, the bastard. When she finds him—

Her magic hums.

Thick and cloying, the scent of gathered energy on her tongue. Warm here-power-anything-everything.

Ah. So that's what they were hiding.

Lumine reaches out, following the sensation to the depths. Down a descending stone stairway.

It tastes fresh. Magnetic. Like electro under skin.

Power requires sacrifice—mana could not be built from nothing. The Abyss did not allow creation without destruction. All matters in the Abyss follow equivalence.

It is what it is. An eye for an eye, blood price for a slight, a piece of soul for a kingdom. Lumine watched her brother's smile fade and his power grow, the marks spill like inkstains over his side, watched the Abyss sink it's teeth into his flesh.

When he became the Prince, he was no longer simply Viator. No longer her twin.

Instead, he became something more.

"Viatrix—"

"I see it," she murmurs, halting at the entrance to the basement. "Look at what we have here…"

A circle taking up nearly the entire floor. Six feet wide, multiple arrays, and flushed with so much abyssal energy she can feel it in her teeth.

Scaramouche whistles, low and amused. “Ha. There must be a century’s worth of mana in there.”

It's no small amount. And the circle is quite an effort for a House that's faded to obscurity. Lumine frowns, studying the array scraped into stone. "This isn't a working I've seen before."

A powerful circle chock full of energy, and hardly anyone guarding it. Did the demons of the Third House think that mere hundreds could defeat her? Or was she missing something?

The circle thrums again, arcane light washing out the room to a ghostly white.

Pity. Had they held out for another century, they may have had a chance.

“Well? What's it for ?”

“Judging from the base runes and the cardinal glyphs,” she remarks, brows furrowed. "It's an amplification circle."

A curved rune, solitting into three. To gather. Another, straight and double-lined. To give. The last rune took a while to recognize, ancient and nearly forgotten. To trap.

Amplification circles were common among the lesser demons. In principle, they trapped, amplified and returned a greater amount of mana than given. In reality, most demons deemed the extra mana was deemed not worth the cost. She's surprised the Third House wasted mana on one of these in the first place.

Perhaps this modified circle of theirs makes better returns.

"I can't believe they left this here and fled. Cowards." She scowls, disgruntled. "Their Lord wasn't here either."

"Sure he wasn't one among those fools?" Scaramouche asks, thumbing the direction they came from.

"Yes. I wouldn't miss him. The bastard looks just like his father."

The puppet frowns. "Tch. Not even the decency to show up so we can dispose of him." For once, she can agree with him— they've been chasing the bastard for weeks. "Can you dismantle the circle?"

Tilting her head, she takes one last look at the entire array. Her gaze catches once again on the third rune, something sparking in the back of her mind. The position of it, off-centre…

"Viatrix—"

"Give me a second," she grumbles. So impatient. Tosses her hair back, and drags her hand across the circle.“If I just…” A gentle tweak here—

It happens all at once.

Silence. And then not. The beats of a thousand wings. Sparks in the air, violently bright, and—

Scaramouche’s eyes grow wide.

“Lumine, MOVE—”

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

He’s in the middle of a sparring match when he feels it. 

That insidious, creeping energy. Stinging against his nerves, the tasting ripe and cloying over his tongue. A storm-swept wave invisible to the eye. Goosebumps rise over his arms and neck in reaction, the thing in him rearing up with a snarl and drooling mouth. 

There are no screams echoing from the manor. No immediate signs of chaos or disaster. The squad of soldiers he’s been training stare at him in confusion. 

No one else can feel it except him. 

“Resume your drills,” he commands, handing the blade to a waiting servant. The thing in him croons. 

He knows this sensation—it lingers around her, hanging in the air like a stubborn scent. But he has never felt it this acutely, pressing against every nerve, live wire to muscle. It grows stronger as he sweeps through the corridors and up the stairs. Closer.

It's her. He could recognize her blindfolded. He could recognize her miles away. Her voice, floating through wood. Flush with the heat of an argument.

“Lumine?”

Crash.

With a low hiss, Childe slams the door open. 

His bedroom is how he left it—sheets tucked in, bearskin draped over the bed. Stacks of paper on the table, an empty glass of wine on the dresser. Or not, he thinks, taking in the sight of glass shards strewn over the floor, and the demon standing next to it. 

Demons. Plural. The trespasser is a smudge in the dark, one half edgeless in shadow. Dark hair and pale skinned, a slender arm wrapped around a familiar, tiny waist. Struggling, clawing weakly against the hold.

Ah.

The monster in him bleeds into his veins. Hydro sweeps through his waiting palm, solidifying into sharp edges.

Enemy, his mind buzzes. Enemy in his land, in his house, touching her his his his—

Abyssal energy twists in his core, jumps behind his teeth—

“Childe, no!”

Lumine’s voice is loud, a spit-wet growl, but Childe cannot command his fingers to loosen the hold on his blade. Eyes darting to the uninvited visitor, clearer now, a boy draped in Inazuman silks and with his shoulders bunched under her limb. Not threatening, he realizes. Support instead.

Support she needs. On second glance, Lumine looks like she could fall to her knees any second.

Frail, he realizes. She looks weak.

A flushed thing, pink to her roots, eyes glazed and glassy. Gripping the boy like a lifeline, feet stumbling when she tries to step forward. “Don’t pick a fight now," she warns haltingly.

And for once, Childe doesn’t argue, allowing his hydro to dissolve into mist. “Lumine,” he murmurs, ignoring the boy's warning hiss when he draws closer. "What happened to you?"

She’s feverish. Barely lucid. Doesn’t even argue when he reaches out to check, leaning into his palm, mouth shaping a mumbled word.

“Triggered a trap,” the boy supplies instead, studying him from beneath furrowed brows. His nose wrinkles. “Viatrix teleported us here to escape the worst of it—what are you doing?"

Childe ignores the protest, coaxing Lumine into his arms. A strangely docile and willing creature, latching onto him without a word. She feels like a burning coal in his embrace, running temperature that's got him on edge. "Is she in danger?"

"You'll need to ask her." The boy scowls, eyeing him with something like disbelief. A deep breath. A pause. Another breath, deep and long, shoulders rising and eyes growing wide. "She doesn't tell me anything, clearly."

Through a mouthful of fur, her body plastered to his front, Lumine huffs. “Scaramouche, you need to go."

"Ah, so the princess finally speaks—"

"They're after Aether, you dolt—"

“He can handle himself. Unlike you, clearly.”

“Not if he’s ambushed blind, Scaramouche, just go—nngh.”

She’s shivering. Childe is only half-listening to their conversation now, attention caught by her trembling frame. It strikes him that this is the first time he's seen her like this. Vulnerable. 

Sickly and worn out, and the first place she thinks to shelter is by his side. The thought sends a tendril of possession curling in his chest. Fuck, he thinks, staring down at the demon. His hands spasm, lines drawn over dorsal palm, fingers pressed over the flesh of her arm.

She's going to be the death of him. But first.

“Scaramouche, was it?” It's a familiar name. Childe shrugs off his layered cloak, wrapping it around Lumine's shoulders. “You don’t need to worry. I'll take care of her.” 

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” the boy mutters, glaring from beneath the brim of his hat.

"Scaramouche."

“I can’t believe she’s been shacking up with something like you. I knew there was something fishy going on, but you… you reek of—”

“Scara—mouche,” Lumine interrupts again, practically growling. "I swear to Abyss that if you don't leave right now—"

“Alright, fine!” he snaps. whirling on his heel. “I’m leaving, damn it. Stop nagging me.”

"I'll join you once I tide this spell. You need to warn him—"

"Don't be daft. He'll be fine." Indigo eyes dart between the two of them, darkened with suspicion. His body flickers, once, twice.

"You." Before dematerialising, gaze firmly set on Childe, Scaramouche mutters a warning. “If anything happens to her...” 

Childe makes sure to smile as the puppet mimes a slit throat.

“He’s quite the charmer,” the Harbinger remarks to the empty room, air where once the demon stood. Or perhaps not quite a demon, Childe muses. No tail or horns, and startlingly human expressions.

Not that it matters to him now. Childe brings his attention back to the creature in his arms. She is terribly warm and treacherously soft against him, for a creature crafted of sharp edges. Lines of her body curled, slumped in exhaustion against the nearest vertical surface. Which is him in this case, apparently.

“Hello, little demon,” he soothes, voice slipping into a concerned, rich warmth, fingers brushing her bangs from her hairline. “What have you gotten yourself into now?”

“Nothing,” she protests, shuddering when his hand slides around to cup the nape of her neck. Sweat mists her shoulders, skin clammy underneath his palm. 

“Mm. Doesn’t look like it from here.”

It takes a few nudges to prompt a response from her. When he squeezes down, a full body shudder works its way up her spine, muscles going boneless, tail flicking iron-straight before flopping down. “A trap. Mana poisoning.”

“Ah. And how do we cure it?”

A mumbled groan again. Childe waits, thumb tracing her thrumming pulse. Far too rapid for his comfort, but strong. “Lumine.”

“I can… absorb the poison. Need time. ”

“So just rest, huh?” That’s something he can arrange. He takes another look at the demon, the dust and blood over skin and unrecognizable stains on her dress. The decision is easy. “A bath and then bed it is.”

A pause. “No,” she snarls, or tries to, thwarted by her own body’s weakness, voice slipping into a beleaguered whine. His sweet contrary creature.

Oh well. Childe did try. 

“This is faster,” he tells her once he’s wrestled her into the sheets, only the slightest bit apologetic. It’s surprisingly easy to force the demon to bend to his whims in this state.  

The maids had left the room swiftly after bathing the demon, buckets of soiled water in their hands and rumours already building on their lips. No screams had echoed from the bathroom, nor did anyone die, so he guesses she hadn't put much of a fight.

Mana poisoning must be quite debilitating, he muses, when he finally manages to tuck her in, bedsheets pulled to her chin. The glare she’s levying on him only half as murderous as usual. Cute.

“Insolence. I shouldn’t have come here,” she grumbles now. The disgruntled fury has only grown more pronounced when he wipes down her forehead with a handkerchief soaked in hydro. “How utterly demeaning.”

"Why did you then?"

“Anywhere else in the abyss, and my enemies would take the chance to slit my throat. You are at least too weak to defeat me.”

"Right." he concedes easily, amused. "Not because you know I'll take care of you, of course.”

Lumine frowns, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes. “I am two thousand years old. I don't need minding."

Ah, but that isn't denial either.

Warmth slinks through his blood. Careful not to set her off, Childe hums noncommitedly, glancing away. The temptation to pinch her cheek is strong, just to see what face she’d make in retaliation, but he tempers himself. She's sick after all, even if she's trying her hardest not to show it.

“Stay here for a few days," he says, soft and firm at once.

"Mm?" Once narrow pupils so wide they are dark pools in gold. She's barely clinging to coherency, his little demon. A ripe battleground for negotiation.

"Just until you recover, of course. I won't keep you any longer."

"Is this another—" Yawning, she fights to stay conscious, glazed eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Another plot of yours?"

"Could be. What do you think I'm trying to pull, Lumine?"

It's unfair that she has no clue what she does to him. She isn't aware of it—the effect she has. The way his blood sings when she snarls at him, promise of violence and empty threat. The spill of her hair across his pillows, burnished gold under the fire. The long line of her bare throat, pale unmarked skin begging for teeth.

He'd prided himself for his discipline. A warrior's fortitude, cultivated by the darkest lands in existence. But here he is now, into a baser creature, constantly hungry for a taste. A ravenous beast under strained shackles, all because of her.

It's a spell of a different kind, he thinks, as she grows quiet in thought, eyes searching his.

"A debt." Lumine shifts in bed, searching for the right position. Knees up to her chest, hands curled by her cheek. "You wish to extract a boon from me, in exchange for shelter. There is no other—" Another yawn,"—reason for you to assist me."

Childe bites back a smile—had he not known her by now, he might have been hurt. But he does, so the subject of her haughty, willful nature now wroughts him some private amusement. "Little demon, haven't you realized us humans don't need reasons like you do?"

She wrinkles her nose in disdain. "Illogical creatures," she agrees. "Never make any sense."

"Then if it pleases you, you can consider this a deal. A favour owed, in exchange for safe harbour while you recover."

A suspicious glance. "What favour?"

"I'll let you know when I figure it out," he replies, tapping that cute nose playfully. "Will you stay?"

Indecision wars on her face, pinching elfin features. He does not need to try convince her—the victor had been decided the moment she stepped into his bedroom. "Fine," she grumbles, turning away. Attempts to hide her embarrassment rendered futile by the tips of her pink-flusged ears, visible within golden locks.

He has to tamp down the urge to bend over, to take one of those ears in his mouth. Run his tongue over the shell of it, within the curves of cartilage and flesh. Suckle until she's crying his name, begging him to stop, tears rimming those desperate eyes—

“Good girl,” he murmurs. Threads his fingers through hers and reminds himself that she is very sick, and that he's not a bad guy. Mostly. “Tell me what else you need.”

“Nothing.” Her eyelids are already falling shut, mouth widening in a final thready yawn. “Go away,” she orders, and Childe's kind enough not to mention how that would be a difficult endeavor indeed, with how tightly she’s clutching his hand. 

“Whatever you say, little demon.”

“Insolence again,” she mutters. “Another word and I’ll rip out your tongue, human.”

Childe laughs, mirth finally dampening the worry in his chest. If she had the energy to threaten him, this illness couldn’t be too bad. With a soft smile, he squeezes her hand back. “I missed you too, Lumine.”

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

The worst of the sickness doesn’t really hit until later—until she wakes up, or doesnt, half caught in the throes of a fever dream, sweat soaking her dress through and cloth plastered uncomfortably to her skin. Until she’s crying her brother’s name, the phantom image of a golden-haired corpse imprinted on the back of her eyelids, and her mind urges her to run, to flee, to fight, to raze the ground until every bastard that dared breathe his name is reduced to ashes scattered on scarred ground. Except there are more corpses now, russet haired and pale and still. Pain buries itself into her skin, and she's lashing out, fingers clawed, to hurt hurt hurt—

“Shh, Lumine.” Flesh-warmed leather wraps around her wrists, holding her down as she thrashes, tangled in the sheets. “Easy, girl. You’re okay.”

“You can't—can't leave me aI’m going to destroy them—“

“Breathe, Lumine. You’re safe here.” Soothing noises, familiar. Spooked horses and comfort. Except it’s working, the panic clouding her mind easing with the gentle, rumbling cadence of his words. 

“Nngh.” Lumine blinks sluggishly at the young man’s face, cloaked in shadow, all but the unusually bright gaze. Electro-purple one second, murky-blue the next.

Childe. Her human, alive and breathing. Her skin still prickles with phantom terror. He is alive, and so is she. The relief that blossomed cold in her turns swiftly to shame. To wake from sleep like a squalling child—

“Did you have a nightmare?” he asks,

She hesitates. “No.”

“Liar,” he murmurs fondly, sliding his hand up to thumb the corner of an eye. “You’re crying.”

No, she’s not. But her eyes sting with the wet heat of tears, and there’s a terrible, achy lump high in her throat.

And Childe is there, dark-eyed and radiating something gentle. Concern. The bulk of his body encompassing hers, shielding her from the rest of the world. As though his mortal frame could protect her, as weak and breakable as it is. Abruptly, she becomes seized with the knowledge of how large he is—near to him as she has been many times before and yet; a pathetic softness gathering within her ribs as she stares back, arms going slack within his hold.

"Lumine?"

“If you breathe a single word of this over the course of your puny life, I will give you the most painful, gruesome death, firstborn be damned,” she warns him, reaching out blindly in threat. Except fatigue overtakes her, arms turned boneless, that all she does is tug him closer by the fabric clutched in her fist instead. 

Childe smiles, a soft, sweet thing that makes her want to claw his face. Covers her eyes, leather soft against her skin. “I haven’t seen a thing.”

“Why are you blinding me—“

“Hush. Go to sleep, kotenok. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

She’s lost to the world by the time he finishes the sentence. 

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

Voices , drifting through the darkness.

Big Sister Lumine!

Teucer, don't climb on the bed—Big Brother, what happened to her?

More words. Familiar voices. Ah, she knows them. Her minions, those small, bright mortals. And the human. He hasn't left.

He promised he wouldn't. She believes him. She doesn't know why.

She's okay, right, Brother?

I've already administered a cure. She's just catching up on some sleep now. Nothing to worry about, Tonia.

A little hand grasping hers. A squeeze.

We miss you, Big Sister Lumine. Please wake up soon.

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

“I want a story,” she demands minutes-hours-days later, vision bleary and sleep-weighed, body bed-bound and just as grumpy for it.

“A story, little demon?” 

Firelight catches on the shape of his shoulders, the sweep of his cloak. Shadows cupped beneath his eyes, light pooling in the stormy-blues. He is a study of contradictions, this human—a mortal with a taste for bloodshed and violence, with hands versed in slaughter. No stranger to dealing death. Yet in posession of warm affection and gentle touch, the patience to sit vigil beside a demon taken ill. 

Sometimes, she considers it. Throttling the human until his skin colours purple, the life slipping out of his eyes. Erasing all traces of his existence from her memory. It would be a relief. Freedom and release from those traitorous impulses she cannot comprehend, the ones that demand her to step nearer and closer, to feel his skin against hers, to preen under the warmth of his gaze—

“That is what humans do when one can’t sleep, yes?” she retorts, voice rough with sleep and honey-slow. “Tell me a story, Childe.”

“You were asleep just a minute ago.”

“And now I am asleep no longer.”

“Troublesome little thing.” Childe blinks, mouth settling into a familiar shape. Reaches out to trace a line down the swell of her cheek. “What kind of story do you want?”

She pauses. Wonders.

“Tell me a story you’ve never told anyone else.”

His gaze grows thoughtful, head tilting, shadows arching over his cheek. “That’s quite a demand.”

“You would deny me?” she asks.

The crackle of the hearth almost conceals his amused hum. “Have I ever denied you anything, kotenok?”

“Your fistborn,” she points out disgruntedly.

The laughter he responds with sends her heart skittering. Skipping a beat. The mana poisoning has weakened her heart, she thinks with a scowl, studying that terrible, mockingly warm gaze. A knife, she thinks again. Straight through the—. 

“Have you heard of the story of the boy that walked into the woods?”

Distracted by murderous thoughts, she nearly doesn’t catch the words. “Which boy?”

“A little boy,” he answers. “That refused to listen to his parents and ran away.”

“He sounds foolish.”

“He was,” Childe concurs. Fixes her blanket, the hem that had dipped and gathered at her waist. “For you see…”

Somewhere between the boy falling into a long, unending gap between roots, and waking underneath a foreign sky, sleep sinks its fingers back into her. Childe’s voice a gentle rumble in the background, her vision sinking into soothing darkness.

A sigh. The brush of something soft against her brow. Words, sentences, sounds that do not make sense murmured against flesh.

And then she knows nothing at all.

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

When she wakes up again, the sun is back in the sky. 

For a while, she languishes in the light dappling the bed. Curling within the sunshine, enjoying the warmth encased within the sheets . Soft furs and fluffed pillows, the mortal realms sun touching her skin. With a sigh of pleasure, she arches her back, stretching four limbs and four wings and tail across the expanse of the gargantuan bed, before tucking them back under the blanket. 

“You’re awake,” he says. Childe at the door, a fistful of flowers in his hands, hair burnished copper in the sun. “Morning, kotenok.”

Once upon a time, a boy walked into the Woods. 

“Childe,” she replies. “How many days has it been?”

Callused fingers brush through her bangs, before pushing them away from her eyes. “Not long. Just three.” 

Three days. Her brows furrow in confusion. With the amount of poisoned mana that flooded her body, she’d thought she’d be ill for much longer.

As though he can sense her struggling thoughts, Childe hums. "Sometimes, abyssal energy leaks into this realm. Sumeru gets the brunt of it, being the closest to Khaen'riah. They done a lot of research into a cure. Found a herb that helps keep it at bay."

He'd gone all the way to Sumeru? But he'd been here. With her. She felt it. She tells him so. 

His smile looks a bit too pleased. "I'd sent for it a while ago. Just in case."

Her brow furrows. In case of what—

And then she squeaks, breath catching at the sudden proximity. Childe bent, brow pressed against hers. This close, she can see flecks of green among shades of blue in eyes, auburn lashes a gentle shadow over cheekbones. His lips are mere inches away from hers. Inconsequential for a demon. But it reminds her of Tonia’s books, of human kisses, and the way they describe it. A meeting of mouths, tiny points of contact that set the body aflame with pleasure.

For a moment, she wonders what it feels like.

“You’re not burning up anymore.”

She’s not. She feels good. Better than good, as she stares at the human whose broken away from her, restoring the distance between them. Her veins buzz with fresh mana, her lungs feel clear, an errant ray of sunlight kissing her bare shoulder. 

The previous instances she’s woken up are still shrouded in the lingering haze of a dream. Prickling tears, pain skittering through her body, the image of a boy falling endlessly. 

For some reason, the boy has blue eyes.

“Here,” the blue-eyed Harbinger says, tucking the flowers into her hands. “Tonia and Teucer plucked these for you in the morning. ”

Ivory-white petals, full blossoms, dew still clinging to the dips. More Snow Lillies. “As expected of my minions,” she sniffs, leaning back against the headboard. “They deserve a reward for their loyalty.”

“As long as you don't grant Teucer horns again. Mama nearly had a heart-attack last time.”

But the boy had been so happy. “Well, I think he looked quite handsome," she remarks primly.

“Of course you do,” Childe says, mouth curled in a fond curve. "Speaking of the devils, they're chomping at the bit to see you."

She wants to see them too. But part of her is disastorously content like this, coccooned in the sheets with Childe next to her, heat where his thigh is close to hers. Fingertips vibrantly aware of his, just within reach.

And it must be the lingering remnants of the poison—there could be no other reason—that lead that hand to tangle with his, her fingers slipping into the gaps of his. A warrior's hands, rough calluses and scars.

His gaze, wide and surprised. Soft again.

“Childe.”

“Hmm?”

Her mouth moves on its own. “You did not finish the story.”

That story. The boy with a loaf of his mother's bread and his father's axe, lost in an endless land. Weak and foolish. She thinks of a little demon with her brother's dying body on her back. Weak and foolish again.

How curious, she thinks. Traces a thick scar over the base of his thumb. 

"Ah," Childe murmurs. "Well, my sole listener fell asleep in the middle, you see."

"Then you may complete the tale now."

"Another day, little demon." Laughter shaking his shoulders, he brushes a kiss over the line of knuckles. "Let’s save it for the next time you’re poisoned.”

"Childe."

"Lumine," he echoes, azure-blues twinkling. A lopsided grin on his mouth, so pleased with himself. "Are you hungry? I'm famished. The kids will be coming up too—"

"Don't try to distract me—"

(In retrospect, Lumine will think much later, scowling at the pleased bastard. She should have known.)

Notes:

and that's 10 chapters... damn

this chapter is brought to u by tarantaglia's gorgeous sketch may both sides of their pillow is always be cold 💕

here's hoping these two idiots brought ya'll some joy in these trying times. and here's hoping everyone is OK.

next chapter: lumine has had enough of waiting. sneak peek ⬇️

He wakes to flaxen hair silvered under the moon, and a golden gaze, tempest raging.

“Childe,” his demon says, that beautiful, damning creature. “You have spurned every mortal woman I have brought before you. Are you attracted to males?”

“Lumine,” he murmurs back. “It’s three am in the morning.”

 

thank you all for reading!

Chapter 11

Summary:

“Why do you wear this contraption? No other mortal does.”

She’s never seen this on other humans. It resembles a harness, except it’s not on a horse. She tugs the strap, testing the give of the material. Watches it snap back onto him, the widening of his eyes. The way he stiffens when she slips her hands beneath it, across the planes of his chest. The bob of his throat.

“Weapons. Concealed ones,” Childe says, voice unusually tight, hastily capturing her hands in his. “Useful in a pinch.”

A long, long time ago:

"I don’t appreciate uninvited guests," Skirk calls out.

Fire dances in the pit, golden light arcing over sculpted cheekbones, crystal-pink eyes. A gaze narrowed into darker shadows, focusing on a figure Ajax cannot see. 

Yet.

The air shifts with his master’s words. An illusory stillness shaking, the shape of a predator slinking from deep waters. Ajax rolls back onto his heels, fingers scrabbling for his blade. Watches the sillouhette solidify—the curve of a shoulder, the shadow of a hat, the glint of a wide smile. 

“What about a happy coincidence?” the stranger asks. “It is quite lovely to see you, Skirk.”

Ajax blinks at the newcomer. 

She’s a splash of colour against the limitless grey. Hair blonde and to her knees, dressed in the color of fresh roses, wearing a smile foreign to the land bright on her face. 

And no horns.

He bolts to his feet, voice nearly cracking in surprise. It’s been so long since—

“You’re a human!”

“Settle down, disciple,” Skirk says, at the same time the stranger giggles and answers, tapping a manicured finger on her cheek. “Not truly.”

“What do you mean not—oh.”

Peeking through the blonde strands are a pair of pointed, definitely not-human ears. And now that Ajax can see the stranger clearly—she’s moved closer to the fire, despite Skirk’s warning glare—she doesn’t feel human either. Steps too smooth. Gaze too sure. A gait like his master, like the nightmarish Abyss creatures that prowl in their deep lairs, deadly and self-assured with every step.

She’s strong, he realizes, a beat later, fingers twitching around the worn hilt of his sword. Probably stronger than the prey he hunted for this meal. He wonders how she’d react if he just…

“Ajax,” Skirk warns. 

Ajax settles. 

The stranger's been studying him too, while he did her. Eyes too knowing flitting over him, pausing on his tense shoulders. For the barest second, something shifts, a gleam of power thinning around irises. 

“Awww, aren’t you the cutest,” she finally says, stepping forward delicately. Settles on a boulder across the two of them with a sigh. “Nobody told me you took in a child, Skirk. And quite an…” she slants her head, gaze brushing over the bloodstains on his clothes, the decapitated head by rocks, the slab of meat spit-roasting on the fire, “interesting one at that.”

“He’s my disciple,” his master corrects. Pulls herself from the ground where she had been lounging, into the approximation of crossed legs, and narrows her eyes at the stranger. “What are you doing here, witch?”

The witch-stranger laughs, sweet and light. In the abyss it echoes eerily, warped into a twisted sound—Ajax ignores the way it pricks it the skin, watching the woman warily. “How rude, Skirk. I’ve told you to call me Alice, haven’t I?”

“You haven’t answered the question.”

“I’m getting to it,” the witch—Alice—chides, arranging her skirts over her legs. Ajax wonders what she really is; do all witches have pointed ears? Or is she something else too? Is she a sort of demon he hasn’t encountered before? He hasn’t met many others—Master said that this is a part of the Abyss most demons avoided. To come here was to perish, by the claws of creatures more terrible than them. Or something else just as dramatic—he’d been too busy fighting for his life to actually listen to her.

“I have business in the Citadel.”

His Master raises a brow. “You’re taking the long route.”

“Unplanned, I assure you. Barbeloth dropped me on this end of your cursed land for no good reason.” A pause, and Ajax must be imagining the way she glances at at him. “Or at least, that’s what I presumed.”

The Citadel was where most of the other demons were. He remembers Skirk mentioning it in passing. A Court and a Prince. The strongest in the lands, ruling all the demons of the Abyss. Those mountains there, she had pointed,  craggy peaks kissing the horizon behind her. Keep walking beyond it, and you'll arrive there eventually.

Do you think I could beat the Prince?

Maybe once you can force me to use more than two fingers against you. Besides, the Prince has long stopped entertaining demands for duels. His sister fights in his stead now. And she'd leave you in pieces, disciple.

To be honest, he doesn't understand the demons. They had had opponents worth meeting in combat by the dozen here, the chance to sharpen their skills—and instead, they chose to hide in Citadel like rats in a burrow, tails between their legs. 

Pathetic.

And he’s definitely not imagining when he catches Alice eying him again. Poking the meat—still too soft, a few more minutes needed on the fire, he calculates—Ajax frowns in her direction. “What?”

Her shoulders jump in surprise; her mouth widens. All too pleased when she shouldn't be. “Teenagers,” she directs conspiringly to Skirk, and the fond comment unsettles him enough that he’s gaping when she finally speaks to him. “Ajax, was it—Do you like it here? In the Abyss?”

Ajax stares. 

“Well?”

“How do you know my name?”

“I know all the names of both good and naughty children in Snezhnaya,” A wink accompanies the bizarre claim, the arc of a knowing smile. “Helps me choose what presents to slide down their chimney for Yuletide.”

“You’re missing a pot belly and white beard.”

“Father Frost only wishes he had my figure. And don't think I haven't noticed you avoiding the question, young man.”

The unsettling feeling returns, curling in his mind. The solid slant of the words, the undercurrent of warmth—she sounds like Mama, Childe realizes. And that thought is almost cruel, a reminder after so long in the Abyss. Snaps a sharp bite of longing deep in his middle, fangs deep in flesh. 

Home is warmth and his Mama’s embrace, Tonia’s hands braiding his hair, Anton sleeping on his tummy. Papa’s stories in the cold winter air, sun beating on his skin. The taste of sweet cake and fresh bread, the soft furs of his bed, peaceful sleep, unmarred by the terrors of the dark. 

He studies the roasted meat. It is tender to the touch, falling apart easily. Pulling out a clean knife, he skewers a piece of the meat. 

Home is a mirage far from the depths of the Abyss. His muscles ache from exhaustion. The gash over his side throbs underneath the bandages. Pain and bruises, bones that have set wrong.

Home is sweet and safe. Cloying sweetness that numbs the tongue. The Abyss is lethality sunk into the veins of a land, a knife to the jugular. Adrenaline in his blood, the edge of a sharp blade, to kill or be killed. Victory or death. 

Home is a pleasant dream. The Abyss is waking up from sleep, and finally tasting life.

“I do, ma’am,” he says, taking a bite. Charred and smoking, fat dripping over his fingers and soaking the tattered edge of his sleeve. The meat tastes revolting. 

He takes another bite.  

Alice smiles. “Ma’am?” she cooes, eyes creasing in warmth. “Your mummy must have raised you well. I hope that my baby is as well-mannered as you are.”

Her hand drifts to her middle. And he hadn’t noticed before, but now it looks so obvious he wonders how he didn’t. Skirk said that observation was the key to victory. Here’s he is, a terrible student. There’s a swell, round and visible through her clothes.

He spends a moment in shock, though he shouldn’t be. Ajax has seen many pregnancies, after all.

“You’re with child?” Skirk asks, brows rising in surprise. 

“A few months along, yes.” Alice beams, rubbing the bump fondly. “She’s been kicking like a horse ever since we got here. I can already tell she’s going to be quite the handful.”

If the baby is not a demon, it’s not surprising. “That’s because the baby doesn’t like the Abyss. It feels wrong, ” Ajax points out. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“It wasn’t in my travel itinerary, I’ll admit. But sometimes we have little choice, Ajax.” Alice sighs, arms lifted in a stretch. “Oh—that kick was a strong one.”

“Mother’s need strength to have babies.” Ajax knows because he has seen his mother carry three of them, brows furrowed and back bent and ankles swollen. He shears off another chunk of the meat, and rises to his feet. “Here.”

Closer now, he realizes she’s much younger than he thought she was. Or older? Skirk is hundreds of years old, if she was telling the truth.

“How kind of you.” Alice accepts the grilled meat delicately, sinking her teeth into it with another sigh. 

“You need to be quick,” Ajax tells her while she finishes the meal off. “You don’t want to have the baby here.”

“A fair point. The faster I give this to the Prince, the faster I can go home and put my feet up. My brethren are too mean at times—all conveniently on vacation right when I need them.”

And it’s rude to ask, but he’s too curious not to now. “Give what?”

Alice smiles, conspiratorial. “It’s a secret. For now.” A pause as she tilts her head. “Well, mostly. A peek wouldn’t hurt, I suppose.”

She pops open the satchel at her side to show him. A peek of a book, leather clad and sealed with a golden latch. Too quick of a glimpse for him to read the title. 

“You’re going through all this trouble for a book?”

“A very important one. The Hexenzirkel only dabble in matters concerning the fate of the worlds, you see. And fate is a tricky thing to harness. Sometimes it requires… the right book at the right time.”

Ajax blinks disbelievingly. “That sounds like a scam.”

“You’ll understand one day,” Alice laughs, patting him on the shoulder. “Let's just hope for the sake of both Teyvat and Abyss that the Prince remembers this gift when he needs it most.”

“What happens if he doesn’t?”

“Well…” A thoughtful hum. “Terrible decisions, the inevitable march of time, and the descent of a very powerful creature into insanity. The kind of insanity that will destroy all planes of existence.”

That doesn’t sound good. 

Skirk speaks up then. Something about another world and her master. Ajax stops listening, his stomach growling and making itself known. Treading back to his spot by the fire, he takes another strip of meat and eats.

By the time his Master and the witch stop talking, the fire has died down into embers. The second moon has rose in the sky, almost at its peak. Skirk frowns; and then a hiss of breath between teeth. 

“It will grow dangerous soon,” she tells Alice. “It’s almost time for the beasts to wake.”

“Then it is time for me to take my leave,” she says, rising daintily to her feet, hand cupping her belly. “My thanks for the conversation and shelter, Skirk. And to you little one…” 

She’s by his side before he can respond. Faster than his eyes could catch. Surprise stiffens his shoulders as she bends, whispering into his ear. “As gratitude for the meal you graciously shared, I’ll give you a piece of advice.”

“When you see the light, little Ajax. Keep running.”

Three days later, light flashes in the corner of his eyes. Behind him is an enormous beast, nameless as the worst of the monsters in the Abyss are. A creature that chills him to the bone.

He runs; rusted sword in his hand, feet against the ground, heart pounding in his ears. The light grows.

At the end of it, is a dark and familiar woods.

 

—  ✦ ✦ ✦  —

 

Lumine has grown careless. 

So used to finding him in the office or the bedroom, waiting for her with a grin. That infuriatingly soft gaze, the curve of his mouth shaping her name. So complacent, that it takes her a few minutes to collect herself when she returns to Teyvat—walls of tough fabric, a panel of wood hiding her from view.

This isn't the manor. Lumine scowls.

Sounds float from the front. Voices edged with intent. Arguments. Rising with the second, several people talking at once, rough and clumsy, speaking over the other—

Until someone speaks, cold and placid. 

It’s embarrassing, though she cannot explain why, how quickly she can recognize his voice. Even if he never speaks like this to her now.

Lumine peers over the side of the screen.

Another meeting? How ridiculous. 

Humans surrounding a table laden with maps and papers, pins and markers scattered on the surface. Their eyes are hard and faces drawn with exhaustion. They smell of blood and dirt, and the scent that always clings to Childe. The singular scent of violence. 

He’s sprawled on the chair, leg crossed and cheek against a fist. Focus on the discussion that's heating up in front of him. But even then, when she finally at him, he seems to notice; his head swivels, gaze unerringly landing in her direction.

“We should corral their forces at the pass,” one of the humans say. “Take Pyotr’s regiment and—”

“Foolishness! There’s a force of more than two hundred at that pass. Hardly thirty soldiers serve under Pyotr.”

“They are Fatui. If they  cannot handle a paltry mob, then they do not deserve to serve Her Majesty—

“Enough.” Childe’s voice cuts across the space. The group quietens immediately. “Call back Pyotr’s regiment to base. I’ll take care of them.”

“What?”

“My lord—”

“I tire of this endless argument. Ivan is right—the Fatui can handle this easily. And I am Fatui too, after all.” He smiles coldly, and Lumine watches as all the men pale at thefew words. Watching the fear he instills in his men, the respect he commands… her chest feels funny. Again. 

Perhaps some of that poison is still in her system. 

“I’ll send a hawk to them now,” the man closest to the door yelps, leaving the tent. Ah, she can recognize the sight of a weakling fleeing in fear. It does not take long for the rest to join him—when Childe adds mildly.  “The rest of you should consider following.” 

Once the tent empties, the human slants his gaze to the back of the tent. His grin is a horribly warm thing. “I didn’t think I’d see you for a while,” he says. “You scampered off like your house was on fire, little demon.”

How impertinent. The puppet’s laughter when she finally returned to the house echoes in her head. I’m just curious. Why haven’t you killed him yet, Viatrix?

She wonders.

“My house is warded against flame. And I do not scamper,” Lumine argues, stepping out from behind the screen.

Childe laughs, rising to his feet. He is dressed for battle, much like the first time she ever saw him. A carapace of metal as armour, fur-collared cloak over his shoulders, dark stains marring the cloth. She watches at him as he shrugs the cloak off, throwing it over the back of his chair. 

“Then let me decide what I should call it instead.” A sigh, and then he’s moving, slow, predatory grace. “Escaped? Fled? Ran away?” 

With each step he draws closer, until he’s so close that he’s all she can see, body eclipsing hers, arms on either side. “I came back to my room, and you were gone.”

“We agreed that I would stay until I recovered. I recovered.”

He chuckles. “Can’t blame me for trying to keep you longer.” She blinks as he reaches out, grasping a strand of hair. Bends at the waist, brushing his lips against the ends. Another mortal greeting, she guesses. They had too many for her to keep track. 

Or a distraction. He has a habit of trying to slip everything under her nose. Scaramouche’s words linger in his head. It is the fate of lesser beings to worry about betrayal and backstabbing. In the face of the power she holds, no sane mortal would dare to deceive her, not when a death painful beyond comprehension is their certain end.

And yet.

This long and your bargain still unfulfilled? He’s playing you, Viatrix. I just can’t believe you’ve fallen for it. It digs in, the memory growing claws, painful pricks in the back of her head. Summoning fury, slow and simmering, that has her rear back and bare teeth, tail flicking hypnotically behind her. 

“You make no sense, human,” she accuses.

At that, Childe's brows rise in surprise. “On the contrary. If you were in my place, you’d understand.”

“Your place?” she snarls, batting away the hands reaching for her. Ignores the look on his face—brows knit, eyes wide, mouth parted. Wounded, if she didn't know better.

“You’re a general of your goddess’ armies. A powerful warrior. At the top of the hierarchy in this land. You’re supposed to be drinking your mortal wine and bedding women in the manor while your subordinates battle in your stead. Instead here you are…” she takes a deep breath tasting ash and blood in the back of her throat. “At war. Again.”

“Ah.”

“Do not—ah me!”

“Hey, it’s been a while since I’ve had a good workout. Thought I’d take the chance while you’re gone,” he defends, mouth tilting up. “And you shouldn’t believe everything Tonia says—are you upset with me?”

Ducking beneath his arm, she stomps to the other side of the tent. “You think too highly of yourself,” she replies archly.

“Definitely upset.”

 “Mere mortals are too insignificant to—why are you undressing?!”

His fingers continue moving, unbuckling metal clasps and ties, breast plate falling loose. “I just got back from the battlefield. Need to freshen up. How was your visit home?”

At her scathing glare, Childe only laughs, shaking his head in fond exasperation. Sets the piece of armour aside. “I promise I’m not digging for a weakness, kotenok. I don't need to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean—”

 “Is your brother doing well? You were worried about him.”

She scowls back. “He’s fine.”

Their efforts had been for naught. Scaramouche had been late in the end. Not that it mattered—by the time he reached Aether, all that was left of their enemies was dust. 

Lumine needn't have worried. After he ascended the throne, there were few that could match her brother in battle. Even so…

How was it that no one in these realms could give her any peace? Scaramouche and his paranoia, her brother in danger, and Childe…

Childe. She scowls at the human, whose still wearing that damn grin.

Sometime while she’s been quiet, Childe has doffed his armor, left in only a simple shirt and uniform pants. She glances at him quick, head to toe, searching for signs of blood or injury. Not because she cares, of course. 

Her gaze strays over the line of his neck, across the wide shoulders, the arms corded with muscle. Veins drawn over his forearms, the sleeves of his shirt folded back. Doubles back, caught on the strap of leather straining across his torso.

Oh.

She doesn't notice how quickly his grin drops.

“That's—Lumine,” he hisses, voice nearly cracking when she reaches out, slender hands sliding up his front. “What are you—”

“Why do you wear this contraption? No other mortal does.”

She’s never seen this on other humans. It resembles a harness, except it’s not on a horse. She tugs the strap, testing the give of the material. Watches it snap back onto him, the widening of his eyes. The way he stiffens when she slips her hands beneath it, across the planes of his chest. The bob of his throat. 

“Weapons. Concealed ones,” Childe says, voice unusually tight, hastily capturing her hands in his. “Useful in a pinch.”

His ribs expand beneath her palms. His heart pounds, palpable through flesh. Eyes bleeding black. Delirious. 

She feels delirious too. Damn Scaramouche, damn Childe, damn Aether, damn every male in her life that haunts her. “Childe,” she says. Leans in, until he’s the only thing keeping her up. “Where is your firstborn?”

There's a pause. His hands are still gloved, warm leather around hers. “I'm trying my best.”

“Why is it taking so long?”

“Sometimes…” he exhales. “You need to have patience. Wait for your prey to lose it’s guard down, so that your arrow strikes true.”

Cryptic, useless human. Always words and riddles. Why was he speaking of hunting?

“Fine then,” she says. Steps away, thoughts spinning in her head.

He can muster all the patience he has, she decides. 

But hers has finally run out.

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

Ekaterina is walking down a hallway when she’s ambushed.

It begins with a gentle flicker of the sconces. The first time, she does not notice. The second and third flicker draw her out of her thoughts, steps stuttering into stillness as she studies her surroundings.

It is forenoon, when the sun is still high in the sky, and the day is still young. When there is work to be completed—floors to be swept and shelves to be dusted, laundry to be done, windows to be wiped and corridors to be patrolled. And yet. 

The hallway is eerily quiet. No maids or servants or soldiers to be seen.

Ekaterina pauses.

Something grabs her arm. 

Her throat closes before she can scream, a foreign force choking her. The world spins as she’s shoved into a room, vision spotting from the sudden shift, light to dark. One of the unused guestrooms, lit only by a fire lit in the heart, crackling in the corner. 

“Don’t scream,” A voice says. Familiar.

Working under pressure is one of her strengths. Carefully, as the invisible hold around her throat loosens, she sucks in a bracing breath, searching for the instigator of her kidnapping.

The demon lounges sideways on a chair, legs crossed, frowning into the fire. 

“Lady Viatrix,” She finally breathes.

“Ekaterina,” she replies, slanting her gaze at the Fatui. “I have need of you.”

Her mouth has grown desert-dry. She stares, fingers curling into the thick wool of her uniform skirt. At least it isn't an enemy who captured her. Although she doesn't know which option is worse. “Of course.”

“Are you aware of the contract between your master and I?” That sharp gaze swings towards her, demanding nothing but truth. “You must be.”

Of course, Ekaterina knows. All that occurs within the walls of this manor is fated to go across her table. Documentation was the bane of her master’s work, and the body of hers. “I am.”

The demon smiles.

Danger, every instinct built into Ekaterina’s being screams. This is same creature that had nearly destroyed Teyvat once. As powerful as the gods, and twice as cruel, the crook of her finger demolishing mountains and fracturing the sky. 

The same creature her master dotes on, that coddles his siblings and burrows into his bed, that demands sweets and flowers and hot meals.

The very same creature that is distracted by the box underneath Ekaterina’s arm, nose twitching as she sniffs the air.

It is not simply luck that has granted Ekaterina the highest position in the local chain of command, second to only Lord Tartaglia himself. She pulls open the box, presenting it to the demon. “Muffin?”

Five minutes later, the demon returns to her monologue. Viatrix rises to her feet, the lethal grace of a predator wreathing her frame. “Where were we? The contract. Ah, yes. You must have realized that he owes me quite a debt. And my patience…” A flash of teeth, a flash of light as the fire in the hearth roars, “grows thin.”

Ekaterina's nods. Tries not to stare at the crumbs clinging to her cheeks.

When the HR department had transferred her to the newly formed Eleventh Unit, she muses grudgingly, they had definitely not put calming a murder-happy demonic entity in her job description. 

But from the look on Master Childe's face whenever the demon is in the room, this wouldn't be the last time.

Ekaterina coughs lightly, carefully wording her response. “Master Childe may act… brash and foolhardy at times, but he is not unreasonable. I’m certain that you can discuss your displeasure of the current situation directly with him.”

“No,” the demon scowls. “He is a sentimental, illogical fool. This requires a firmer hand. And in that regard…” Golden eyes narrow, pinning Ekaterina in place like nails on a board. 

Ekaterina can feel it already. Years of working with Master Childe has sharpened her instincts to edges that could rival freshly forged blades. She scents trouble in the air, the dangling precipice of a choice that courts chaos, the charging inevitability of stacks of paperwork sliding across her desk. 

“None know a master better than their prized servant.” The demon declares slowly. The darkness hangs heavy in the room, light and shadow dancing underneath the flame. “Tonia has named you as the most devout of the Eleventh Harbinger’s minions.”

“I’m his aide,” Ekaterina feels rather forced to point out, growing faint. Please let it not be what she thinks it is—

“That matters little to me, mortal.” The demon’s tail whips behind her as she prowls across the room, power so thick in the air Ekaterina can almost taste it. “I have summoned you here for one reason, and one reason only. If you deny me, I have no need to permit you to live.”

Ekaterina swallows dryly.

“How may I help you, Lady Viatrix?”

In the dim shadows cast across the room, the demon’s smile is as sharp as a knife. 

“No more waiting. I will personally find your master a mate,” Lumine announces. “And you, minion of Childe, will assist me.”

Notes:

few thoughts to dump:

—we're entering the final half of the fic now—68% done!!!

—lumi has decided to take things into her hands. someone save childe.

—alice cameo! for reasons. im so excited for what she brings to the table

—next update: not really sure, will try one more this month! otherwise, see y'all in 2025 🥰

—if you want to read more from me, do try out my other long fic aere perennius: romance, drama canon!divergent au ft DILF! childe and amnesiac lumi—in which childe finds lumine years after the final battle, with no memories and a child that looks terribly, devastatingly like him

ty for reading, and happy December!

Chapter 12

Summary:

Letting a demon run around without oversight is a recipe for disaster. But the sight of her in his home, feet bare and guard down undoes him. Has him discard the little sense of self-preservation he possessed into the endless abyss. What was certain chaos to the pleasure of finding her draped over his couch, her body a line of feline satisfaction? Or a glimpse of her napping in a patch of sunshine, the flowers he's left for her clutched in a fist? She tucks away the gifts he leaves for her now, when she once spurned them, although she'd blush in fury and deny it if he ever asked.

She's a sweet thing, his demon, and the most troublesome creature he's ever had the pleasure of reeling in.

Childe wakes up, one day, and knows instinctively, in the blood and marrow of his bones, that something is terribly wrong.

It sounds like an exaggeration. But see, it takes more than mere skill to become a Harbinger. It takes ingenuity. Ruthlessness. Hunger; for power, for victory, for glory. Only those who demanded and surpassed the impossible were recognized as potential Harbingers.

And only those who had some measure of perceptiveness survived as one.

So here; Childe wakes at the break of dawn, to early birdsong and dark skies, like he does every other day. Lumine is nowhere to be found—she's been unusually busy the past week, scurrying about the castle like a demon on business. He'd wondered, of course—difficult not to, when her very presence sings to the monster in his bones, keeps it sated and content—but she'd hissed at him the one time he asked what she was up to, so Childe had made the executive decision to let her be.

In hindsight, that should have been the first clue.

Letting a demon run around without oversight is a recipe for disaster. But the sight of her in his home, feet bare and guard down undoes him. Has him discard the little sense of self-preservation he possessed into the endless abyss. What was certain chaos to the pleasure of finding her draped over his couch, her body a line of feline satisfaction? Or a glimpse of her napping in a patch of sunshine, the flowers he's left for her clutched in a fist? She tucks away the gifts he leaves for her now, when she once spurned them, although she'd blush in fury and deny it if he ever asked.

She's a sweet thing, his demon, and the most troublesome creature he's ever had the pleasure of reeling in.

But he digresses. The first instance he tastes blood in the water is when he leaves his room, and the whispers in the hallways cease.

"Master Childe," the servants greet as he passes. Wait for him to turn the corner before they erupt into furious whispers again, gathering like bees around a flower.

Gossip is the lifeblood of their nation. Not much else to do when stuck in a loghouse for weeks with a blizzard rattling the doors. Stories by the fire, gossip in the ears, rumors on the mill—the only sort of grapevine that survives in the winterlands is made of nosy Snezhnayans and loose tongues.

Childe is no exception either—information is power, even dressed up as hearsay, but the one servant he considers asking grows frightfully pale when he meets his eyes, so Childe tucks it away as a task for later.

Only to arrive at the training grounds, and notice the bustling crowd on the stands.

All these years, he thinks, striding towards the drill instructor waiting for him, a heavyset soldier with a penchant for guns, and he has never seen these many spectators for morning training before.

"Master Childe," the instructor greets. Glances indiscreetly at the stands. "Regarding today's training—"

"There is no rule forbidding our own people from watching." And they are all people he knows—noble lords that he has met in balls and meetings, most of whom who avoided him out of pure fear. "They are just simple exercises, after all. Conduct the session as usual."

As far as he is aware, he has not committed any acts that should draw the attention of the provincial nobles. Certainly nothing that has them buzzing around him first thing in the morning, like he's kicked the hornet's nest.

They do not wait long either. When he slings a towel across his shoulders after he's done with his exercises, choosing to retreat from the grounds as dangling bait, there is a thrum of activity among the spectators—arguments, a scuffle, noise as the winner emerges from the crowd. Sure enough, a figure steps onto his path, scalp glinting in the early sun.

"Lord Ivanovich." Cocking his head, Childe studies the balding man. "What brings you here?"

One of the more influential nobles of the area—Childe remembers the first briefings Ekaterina had given him, back when he was just shy of seventeen and freshly titled lord of the north. The Marquis control majority of the trade in the province, including food supply. Earning their ire could cause significant harm.

Although he supposes he'd done just that when he threw a dagger at his head the other day. Hindsight, twenty-twenty.

"Nothing of great import, Lord Tartaglia," the lord chuffs, twisting the end of his oiled moustache. "I merely wished to remind you that you have my support in… all endeavours."

"That is an interesting reminder indeed," he replies, even.

The edge in his voice is audible to even the deaf. Lord Ivanovich promptly backtracks. "You have never lost it, of course. The day Her Majesty assigned you to our province was a fortunate one. We never forget Her blessings."

"Funny. I would have thought you'd be more upset, considering our last encounter."

"Lord Tartaglia." A lengthy pause. "I am a man of many years. If I may be so bold, I too have had many a passionate tryst with beautiful women."

"Lord Ivanovich."

"I know," the man booms, hand over his heart, the picture of earnest concern. "That men have urges they cannot control. It is the fallacy of youth. However, I am pleased that you have acknowledged your duty. Commoners are fun for a roll in the sack or two, but for a family, you must turn to those of finer quality."

There is still a way to go to the manor. Childe wonders which will come to an end first; the conversation or the lord's remarkably risky life.

"I will agree that you have an eye. The Lady, as I have heard your people call her is eye-catching. But I assure you my lord, you can find women like her a mora a million."

"The Lady is quite unlike anyone else," Childe says mildly. 

"You may be skilled in the art of battle, but there is much left for you to learn of society, Lord Tartaglia. Have you heard of my daughter? Vanya is quite known for her mastery of the pianoforte. Beautiful, wise, talented. A credit to her family. Why, I've spent years fighting off several other men vying for her attention."

"You must have a lot of time on your hands."

The marquis coughs. "My daughter is a diamond among pebbles. I will only hand her to someone worthy." Another pause, lengthier than the previous. "Someone like say, a man who has gained Her Majesty's favor."

"Hmm." The backdoor finally materializes in his sights, blurred by the early morning mist. Perhaps the marquis would be spared from an early death yet. "I wish you good luck with your search."

"Of course, I understand that it may be intimidating of a man of your stature to speak of his intentions."

"…What?"

"I understand that you desire my daughter's hand. We are willing to consider your proposal."

At this point, Childe wonders if they are speaking in different languages.

And he has given enough time to this crafty, bumbling fool, time he could have spent in more worthwhile efforts. "Pray tell, Lord Ivanovich," he murmurs, slanting a glance at the man. "Whatever gave you the idea that I was interested?"

Ivanovich's brows furrow. "Why is it not—I mean. You have made it clear, Lord Tartaglia."

Ah. Has he? Perhaps he is not being clear enough. A breath, and his fingers wrap around the bumbling fool's throat.

"Stop wagging that tongue and get to the point, lest I decide to relieve you of it, Ivanovich."

The mans lips wobble in a breathtaking image of a Fontainian hat jellyfish, face bleeding into a remarkable shade of puce. "The rumors, Lord Tartaglia," he cries, scrabbling for purchase. As though those measly noodles could stop a Harbinger. "The rumors!"

Childe pauses. "What rumors?"

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

The rumors that he is in urgent search of a wife, apparently.

They grow more embellished with every iteration he overhears. He is bespelled in one version, forever cursed to hunger for blood until he is sated by the kiss of his wife. Sick and dying in another, and desperate to experience blissful matrimony before it is too late. The most ordinary of them is the one in which he has been ordered by Her Majesty to find a wife, lest she turn him into a statue to decorate her throne room.

The rumors, curiously, sidestep the already existing ones of the Lady who has won his heart. Curious indeed.

War is not only waged on the battlefield. While he does not enjoy it—the play of words, of concealed intentions and daggers in the back—Childe can acknowledge that information is a weapon too, and someone has placed a knife at his throat. What they gain from this move is another matter of consideration.

He'd have spent more time contemplating it, had he not walked into the main hall and experienced another ambush.

"Master Childe," The pastry chef—Anya, if he remembers right—says, looking slightly queasy. "We have a problem."

And here, the second instance.

Traditionally, matters related to the running of a noble household—housekeeping, meal arrangements, the gardens, and the current task, staff management—all fell under the duties of the lady of the household. Which, had he been a noble of blood, would have been his mother, until he was married, and thereafter his wife.

However, Childe isn't a true noble of blood—he is an common as common can be. A fisherman for a father and a mother who'd grown up with seven siblings in a farmhouse. Whatever titles he owns, whatever respect he is shown; all are have been clawed and earned on the battlefield, by serving Her Majesty in both public and the shadows. She granted him the noblest of positions as mark of her favour, and the Northern Province as mark of her trust. A duty he does not take lightly.

He does what he is good at—guards the borders, slays the monsters, protects the people. Matters relating to household affairs had been taken in hand by his existing senior staff. Never him.

Except.

"So you're telling me," Childe repeats to Anya, gaze averted in what looks like guilt as she fists her hands into her skirt. "That I need to conduct this interview myself?"

"Yes, Master Childe."

He's not opposed to it. But again, fish in the market, blood in water. He's always been able to scent trouble; all the better to run straight towards it. "Where is Ekaterina?"

"She has called in sick today, Master Childe." Masha answers, two steps behind Anya, knuckles pale on wringing hands. "The flu."

"And the Head Maid?"

"Also sick," Anya supplies. "With the flu."

Childe's eyebrows rise higher. "The butler?"

"He has gone down to the town to restock on provisions."

"I'm sure he can conduct this interview once he's back."

"Ah, unfortunately," the Masha squeaks. "He'll be late. He caught a terrible ...flu while out in town."

"I see…" Childe hums, leaning back against his chair. "All my trusted servants are coincidentally down with the flu at the same time, am I right?"

"Yes, Master Childe," they speak in unison, faces pale.

"And I cannot cancel this interview because," his gaze draws to the floor, shining and freshly mopped, the gleaming windowpanes, the fresh flowers in the corner vase. "the house is dangerous state of disrepair, and even a single day's delay in recruitment will lead it to fall to ruins?"

The three of them nod enthusiastically.

So be it, he thinks, giving in. Ignores the increasingly suspicious looks they share. "Very well," he says. "I can't ignore such dire circumstances. Send the candidates in."

It takes him a while to clue in, particularly because the first two had been… subtle. Or rather, subtler. A few rote answers regarding working experience and duties. Before things became.. .different. A pen dropped deliberately on the floor, and a low cut neckline that left almost nothing to imagination. Casual mentions of "birthing hips" and "obedience" and "remarkable fertility."

Of course, when the third applicant perches on his table and begins lifting her skirts, Childe had enough of this farce.

"Out," he says, voice dropping to the frigid tones he saves for when his patience has run out.

If nothing else, they know how to obey orders.

At the ring of a bell, the servants that had begun this entire event line up in his office. Childe smiles. Three faces pale in unison.

"Why exactly," he murmurs, "do these applicants believe that I am recruiting concubines?"

 — ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

His minion, as Lumine calls her, confesses later without hesitation.

My apologies, Master Childe, Ekaterina had told him. She is determined to find you a partner. I could not stop her.

You would let a demon wreak havoc in the manor?

I judged it more optimal to assist her and control the damage, over refusing her.

Why didn't you tell me?

She was adamant that you remain unaware. And all her schemes were ultimately harmless. Had I told you, she may have taken more… drastic measures.

And none of this, he'd said, brow raised, is because you enjoy watching me suffer?

Of course not, his aide lied blithely. Working with you is a pleasure, Master Childe.

He could not blame one of his people for folding under demonic duress. And she is right, as she often is. As long as there aren't any more surprises, he'd muttered in response, and failed to notice the wince Ekaterina barely suppressed.

Leading to the third instance: a few hours later, Childe strides into his chamber. Stops in place.

"Ah," Childe says, pausing at the bevy of scantily clad women he definitely did not invite into his bedroom.

Which begged the question of who did, and what motive. In most cases, he'd chalk it up to enemies with a penchant for murder, and associated benefits thereof. There was much to be gained from assassinating the Eleventh—political destabilization, creating a chance to move up the ladder, personal revenge. People had the pick of the lot. 

His suspicions are warranted, he considers, as laughter rings in the room, low and sultry. The most skilled of those in the field don't find clothing or the lack of it a hindrance. One of the three rises from the bed at his entrance, the sheet that had provided some measure of cover pooling at her feet.

Her body—all of theirs—are built of round curves and little muscle. Another observation that proved little; poison killed just as well as a blade. Possible honeytraps, employed dispose of him once his guard is lowered. His enemies have long given up on downing him in battle. He would not put arrangements like this beyond them.

The tallest one speaks first, eyes coyly meeting his over a freckled nose. "There you are, milord," she says, painted lips splitting into a breathtaking smile. "We've been waiting for you."

Next to her, another chimes in, face twisted in heart-breaking concern. This one's build is curvier, head heavy with golden locks cascading down to her waist. "You look exhausted," she breathes. "Haven't you been taking care of yourself?"

"It's alright, Irina," the third one declares. She kicks away the sheets at her feet, swaying towards him with hooded eyes, dark hair curling over her breasts and almost nothing else. "We can take care of him."

He would have expected this to be a trap. Except.

Childe clears his throat. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, ladies."

Perfumed hands reach out, guiding him inside. With a giggle, the darker haired one pushes him flat on the bed, and clamber to sit upon his thighs while the others close in, the heat of their bodies pressed against his nearly dizzying.

"Some men like being at a disadvantage," the woman on top of him murmurs, running a finger up his abdomen, tracing the edge of his shirt. "Are you one of those men, Lord Tartaglia?"

"Not in most cases, no," he admits. "And certainly not this one."

"We could change your mind," the blonde suggests coquettishly, leaning over him. Hair forming a curtain around his head. The wrong shade of blonde. Blue eyes. A smile sweet as honey, and disappointingly blunt teeth. "But of course…"

"If you wish to throw us down and ravish us instead, we won't complain either."

Not assassins, he concludes.

They were something much, much worse.

Laughter tickles his shoulder, svelte fingers grasping his chin. "How long has it been since you have been serviced, my lord? You seem … pent up."

"Don't be rude, Anastasia." The blonde admonishes playfully. "She does not mean to pry, my lord."

Anastasia whispers an apology, cheeks flushed and mouth close to his ear. She's a slight thing, and practiced, he thinks. There's a finesse to the way her hand drags from where they've been playing with his collar, down the planes of his chest. And further still, until they press against the front of his uniform pants, in a movement that should stoke his blood to flame.

Lips press at the junction of his throat, against the curve of his collarbone. Anastasia grinds down on his lap, moaning prettily. The others—Mila the redhead and Tatiana the brunette, he figures out—press against his side, hands wandering over his frame.

The room smells like roses and incense. It makes him dizzy with every breath, clouds his thoughts until they are slow and muggy. Wrong scent, he thinks. Too heavy and cloying, too sweet, when he prefers the scent of those damn abyssian flowers, stars and sulphur, something so uniquely her. And thinking about her is a mistake—with his eyes closed, he could almost pretend that she's here, that it/s her lithe body perched on his lap, that those are her sighs in his ear as he drives her higher and higher, to the precipice of pleasure—

"Enough," he commands. Wrenches his eyes open.

Their movements stutter to a stop. "My lord?"

Faces wreathed in confusion, they watch him push himself to his elbows, shirt straining against the line of his shoulders. "This is a waste of time."

"My lord," Tatiana soothes. "Is there something wrong?" He catches the glances shared, but not in time to anticipate the heel of Anastasia's hand, digging into the front of his pants. The widening of eyes. Understanding. And then, damningly, the pity.

For a moment, he wonders why. And then he comes to an answer, and every cell of his body nearly dies of shame.

"Do not lose heart, milord," Mila says, in what must be reassuring tones. "We have come prepared. Your servants have already informed us of your… difficulties."

Fuck.

Gods, this was just humiliating.

"Stop," he rasps. With a grimace, he tries to lifts the blonde—Anastasia—off of him, surprised when her arms wrap around his neck in response. She persists, bending forward, her chest flattening across his. Asks, incredulous. "Are you saying you don't want to sleep with us?"

"No," he replies shortly.

Any other red-blooded man may have broken. Unfortunately for them, only one person makes him ravenous, and she's not even human.

"For any trouble in this area, my lord," Tatiana continues. "We have potions—"

"I assure you, those potions are unnecessary." He shakes his head, sucking in a bracing breath. "Who hired you three?"

"Does it matter—"

"Two young ladies visited our establishment to procure our services," Mila replies, cutting Anastasia off neatly, a look of warning thrown at the girl. "Demanded the finest our establishment had to offer. We tried to talk them out of it, of course."

"Just one of us costs a pretty penny. Three of us at a time don't come cheap." Mila taps her chin, the strap of her negligee falling artfully down her shoulder. "One of 'em was masked. Fatui, as you know, milord. The other… "

They don't need to elaborate. He should have come to this conclusion a long time ago. There are very few in his life that can cause this much chaos. Fewer even, that possess the guts to do so.

"She did not wear a mask. But her Fatui companion deferred to her. So we assumed that she was one of your servants. She was quite… enthused."

Anastasia snorts. "She insisted that we must ignore all your many shortcomings and lay with you as many times possible."

"Not that you have any, milord," Mila squeaks, surreptitiously elbowing the blonde in her side.

She could say he's as appealing as the rear end of a Sumpterbeast and Childe couldn't care less. Amusement curls bright and impossible inside him, cutting through everything else like a knife through butter. Lumine. Gods, that utterly devious, frustrating demon.

The little menace had snuck whores into his bed.

"Alright." he sighs, repositioning Anastasia onto the bed in a single, swift move. Rebuttons his shirt and threads his belt back through the buckle. "Whatever she's offered to pay you three… I'll double it."

Three voices in unison. "What?"

"As long as your establishment promises to never take a commission in my name again." Childe smiles, plain and unamused. "I don't appreciate being ambushed by strangers, no matter their intentions."

Mila glances at the other two, blinking as though she cannot believe in their good fortune. "Yes, I mean—consider it done, milord—"

"Lord Tartaglia," Tatiana interjects smoothly. "If we may take our leave."

"Please," he says, throwing his arm over his eyes. "And close the door on your way out."

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

It doesn't end there.

He knows he's walking into a trap when Lumine ambushes him in the morning, insisting with bright, schemeing eyes that he should go on a walk in the southern part of the Woods at exactly four in the afternoon, before padding away, wearing the most satisfied air.

And naturally, as a warrior with skills honed by years of battle, he makes the most strategic decision: he walks straight into it.

She's not out to kill him after all.

Instead, he thinks, staring at the bleeding corpses of monsters in front of him while a crowd of women cower behind him, she just wants him to fuck someone.

When Ekaterina materializes out of the shadows, she provides him a prompt explanation. As per a certain someone, and I quote 'I have learnt of what mortals call chivalry. And that mortal women fall in love when they are rescued from predators. Humans are very silly and easily manipulated.' End quote.

He rubs the bridge of his nose. "Prepare them compensation, swear them to secrecy, and send them home."

That last thing he wants is one of his fellow Harbingers, or god forbid, Her Majesty, hearing about this. They would find it far too entertaining.

He doesn't even want to know how she arranged this entire thing.

For a demon who knew little of the human world, she is frighteningly resourceful. By the end of the week, he's found himself locked in a closet with a new soldier and one of their gardeners (one fainted out of fear when he summoned his blades to saw them out, the other didn't even last that long), ambushed by ambitious noblewomen where he least expects to be, say, in his well guarded, definitely off-limits dungeons (his people have also come to the decision not to refuse her) and caught under sprigs of mistletoe that everyone swore hadn't been there before (It is not even near true winter yet.)

Her antics have brought some amusement into the once quiet manor. He wakes up in the mornings wondering what sort of trap will be sprung upon him next. Discovers pictures of young women slipped between paperwork and his aide smiling at his sigh of resignation. Finds his demon in quiet conversation with the maids, the cooks, the soldiers, her face piqued in concentration as she formulates more schemes to squeeze progeny out of him.

It's interesting. She is no stranger to the battlefield or violence. A creature of war and blood, carrying little mercy in her ancient heart. Or so she claimed.

For coaxing a man to sow his seed, he muses, dark possibilities surfacing to his mind, there were several more… effective methods to get things done. His consent isn't truly necessary, after all.

And yet, from the looks of it, that hasn't even crossed his cute little demon's mind.

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

Two weeks in, he wakes to flaxen hair silvered under the moon, and a golden gaze, tempest raging. 

“Childe,” his demon says, that beautiful, damning creature. “You have spurned every mortal woman I have brought before you. There can be no other reason. Are you attracted to males?”

“Lumine,” he murmurs back. “It’s three am in the morning.”

Her hand curls around his throat. “Answer me.”

Childe can’t help it. He tilts his head, bearing his neck, all of himself to her tender mercies. Submission in its most naked form. 

“I couldn’t care less,” he admits. As long it’s you. Every other thought strangled to dust underneath her blazing eyes. “Just come to bed already, moya lyubov.”

She blinks. "What?"

Childe lifts his blanket. “Don’t keep me waiting," he says, voice hoarse with sleep.

His demon stares at him, at the extended arm, the space beneath it against his side. Even only half-awake, he can read the conflict in her eyes. "I'm too weak to harm you," he says, echoing the last time she was in his bed. "And it's cold in here."

Somehow, that's enough to convince her, the contrary creature curling herself into his side, head nestled on his bicep. "If you attack me," she mutters. " I'll carve you open and hang you by your entrails."

"Mmm," he says, watching her with half-lidded eyes. Stays awake until her breath evens out, and the supposedly most dangerous creature in existence is asleep in his arms.

Enough, he decides. As entertaining as it's been, his people can't take much more of this. And he's at the end of his rope.

Tomorrow, he'll let her know exactly who he wants, and put an end to this entire game.

Notes:

Happy 2025, folks! i hope this year is treating y'all well.
as for me, this will be the year i finally wrap this fic up (manifesting). cant believe its been a year and they still havent fucking kissed. no one is more upset about this than me.
but the end is in sight!!!! mayhaps. i have made promises that they will kiss soon, preferably in Q1 of this year so pls stay for when they finally do lol. i need someone to tell me that i'm not dreaming when it finally happens.

thank you for reading!!!

Chapter 13

Summary:

But before he can float the idea, she moves. The words in his mouth dissolve, strangled to dust, thoughts slowing like honey dripping off a spoon when a very warm, very soft body presses against him, hair brushing against his jaw. Fuck, he thinks, throwing himself backward as his demon wrangles herself out of the booth, no care for the very inappropriate position it puts them in, the swell of her chest separated by mere inches from his mouth—

"Stay," she orders, a master to a dog.

By the time he's wrestled himself back to his senses, she's already scurried away into the crowd.

Childe breathes. Tries to think of anything else but the blood rushing south, the urge to chase her across the tavern, pick her up and kiss her senseless—

Archons. She's definitely going to kill him, just not in the way she thinks she will.

Notes:

enjoy hehe :)

Tomorrow, unfortunately, did not arrive.

Or rather it did, but Childe had woken up to find her pleasantly asleep, chest rising and falling in even breaths, fists curled loosely by her cheek. She is wont to sleep well into noon as long as no one wakes her—a fair measure for a creature who claims not to need sleep at all. He theorizes that she's catching up on the centuries without now, and the sight of her so unguarded makes him loathe waking her up, so he leaves her be and departs for a discussion on wheat tariffs over breakfast instead.

By the time he returns, the bed is empty, the jeweled butterfly he left for her on the side table nowhere to be seen.

The whispers tell him of her whereabouts, of course. After the last few weeks, most of the servants have learnt that it is best to inform him of unusual happenings well before he finds out himself.

"The east wing, Master Childe."

Childe glances up from his paperwork. Anya grimaces. The baker seems most privy to his demon's antics, bar Ekaterina—he supposes they both are due for a raise by now, all things considered.

"I thought we closed off that section of the manor."

"So did I," she replies dryly.

It could be that locked doors cannot keep Lumine out. Or that his aide, who has access to most areas of the manor cannot deny her. Childe strides into the ballroom, right into the middle of what resembles a secret meeting he certainly wasnt informed of. The attendants: A demon, his aide and more than three quarters of his servants, who promptly look like they'd rather be anywhere else.

"Childe," Lumine greets, lip curled in distaste. The only one of them who dares to speak, not that she's ever cowered in his presence, "What are you doing here?"

"Moya lyubov," he replies. A hushed stillness falls at the endearment he's uttered out loud—a title of posession, confession, and claim at once. Love and mine, in the language he learnt on his mother's knee, the closest words he has come to home.

His love, brow furrowed, ever the curious creature as he calls her another name she does not understand, mouth curling in a radiant scowl as she works the syllables on her tongue.

"We are not," he says, before she can demand him to explain himself, "having a ball."

And any question she prepares to throw at him falls to the wayside as she practically hisses, tail standing up and eyes slitted. Her temper fills the room like a living, breathing thing, white-hot and sharp-teethed—shame to be on this end of it. Or maybe not; this too is a pleasure he fails to resist.

"Don't look so angry. It’s for good reason, I assure you. I heard that this ball is being hosted," Childe slants a glance at Ekaterina, stone-faced and deliberately averted gaze, "By the Eleventh Harbinger. That is, me. To seek a wife."

"That is not a reason."

"Funny how I never heard about said ball."

His answer only enrages her further, Lumine all but stomping her foot. "Because you would not allow it."

"Says who?"

"My minion."

A blow he cannot parry, because Tonia was right. But.

"Did Tonia tell you why?"

A pause. "No."

"Well," he says, idly leaning over to take her tight fist in his hand, to coax it open before she carves crescents in her own flesh. That jeweled butterfly glints at her wrist. "That's because holding a ball for that purpose would be futile."

"Because you don't plan to take a wife. Or a concubine. Or mistress. Or any of those numerous names you humans use that mean the same thing."

"Because," he repeats patiently, threading his fingers through the gaps between hers, clasping their hands together. Her hands are as small as the rest of her, entire length dwarfed by just his palm. "None of them are the one I'm waiting for."

"What a half-witted excuse. All you need is a willing mate," she mumbles mulishly. "Anyone can give you a child."

What his demon lacks in patience, she makes up in passion. Surprising, for an immortal, one who has lived millennia; although he supposes there is little need to wait when you have the strength to raze and build the world to your whims. Mostly.

And he knows she does not mean it, not when the argument is delivered with none of the bristling fury she usually wields. But a tendril, cold as ice gathers beneath his sternum at the thought. "Is that how it is for you?" he asks quietly.

At his question, the room goes silent. Most of the crowd has slowly begun slinking out, instinctively aware that the safest place to be is far, far away.

"What?"

Childe persists, gaze boring holes into hers. "You would have a child with any demon that demanded it?"

She could have. How would he know? Lumine is not forthcoming of her past—he knows only snippets, gleaned from conversation and careless clues. She has a brother who leaves her alone more often than not. She is powerful, and that too, has isolated her, turned her into a creature starved for touch, though she doesn't realize it. Her eyes are luminous gold when they meet his, strands of hair obscuring parts of them from view. Childe finds himself overwhelmed with the urge to tuck them back. Or mess them up even further.

"None would dare demand anything of me." Her cheeks are splotchy pink with indignation. She snatches her hand away, shoulders stiff with ire. "Do not forget that I am Viatrix, She Who Heralds The End. I will have child with a worthy mate when I will it, and never else."

Never else, and when she wills it. He inhales, taking in the sweet scent she carries, now tinted with the scent of laundry soap and morning dew, uniquely and utterly her, changed by her stay with him. "Ah," he breathes, reaching out slowly to tap her cheek. "Don't I deserve to choose a worthy mate too, little demon?"

Her mouth tilts, petulant. "But you promised me your firstborn."

"And you will have it." There is no doubt about that, not now, not when she is all he sees both asleep and awake.

A crease grows, between her brows. He recognizes it—contrition, soft, and he wants to kiss it away. Childe scrubs the thought as soon as he thinks it.

Instead, he waits patiently for her as the demon chews over his words.

The ire simmers down, just a little bit. "I misspoke," she concedes. "But you have been delaying for so long, and you're human—"

"That doesn't mean I'll bed any woman you throw at me, Lumine."

"Mortal lifespans are but a blink long. For your services rendered to me, the tithes you have offered—I am lending you aid, Childe. These balls are the best hunting grounds for human mates," she states, with a certainty that could only have been born of copious romance novels and demonic logic.

Alright. He needs another angle.

"A hunt, Lumine," he says. "Is only as good as the prey. And like I said, no prey in this hunt is to my taste."

"But there are as many prey as there are stars in this realm's sky," she insists, pointing to a tall stack of files he hadn't noticed earlier, balancing precariously on the cushions of a brocade sofa. One of them has tumbled onto the floor, opening to a page chock-full of text, and a headshot of someone he doesn't recognize.

"Are those files on all the invitees?"

Ekaterina nods.

Childe smiles.

"Then I'll prove it. Ekaterina."

His aide snaps to attention.

"The female I wed, or bed, or whatever on Teyvat she wants," he begins, "will be less than 5 feet tall."

It takes her only a moment to understand his intent. These years together have forged her into an aide of incomparable caliber. With the remarkable swiftness she's honed throughout her tenure, she flips through the stack of files, discarding nearly two-dozen in a span of mere seconds.

"She will be blonde, obviously." The stack shortens by half. "A natural at combat." Another half. "Never would have touched a needle or pincushion in her life."

The pile of discarded files grows higher with every sentence. Lumine's eyes flits between that and him, warring between the urge to shut him up or allowing him to wreck whatever is left of her plans.

"I won't accept anyone who doesn't adore my siblings, nor they her. They will love her, and call her their sister, and she will protect them with the fury of a thousand suns." Ekaterina's hands have paused over the files. That isn't information recorded by the Fatui's extensive information network, after all. But that doesn't matter.

"A sweet tooth," he continues, meeting his demon's gaze without flinching. "Large enough to empty the kitchen of all the desserts we have. And she'll be beautiful, of course. Impossible to look away from, even when she's furious. Especially when she's furious."

Lumine scowls at him. Beautiful, he thinks.

"And every time I see her damning face, it will take every fiber of my being not to sling her over my shoulder and ravish her against the nearest surface."

Several sentences earlier—somewhere along the way, he had lost track—the pile of invitees had diminished to a grand total of zero.

"See?" he says, while Lumine glares at him with the rage of an incendiary pyro blast. It would be so easy to just pin her against the wall, and show her exactly what those eyes do to him. "These are my basic requirements. And alas, it seems that none of these humans meet them. It would have brought great shame upon me indeed, to have walked away from a hunt empty-handed."

"In fact," he adds mournfully, slamming the final nail into the coffin, "the shame would have been so great that no mortal would ever lay with me."

He's already pulled this trick once, but it seems no less effective. All the barely leashed aggression in that tiny frame fades into reluctant acceptance. A diligent consideration of mortal customs she has not yet grasped.

Lumine eyes him, his smile, and frowns.

"If I find you are lying to me…" she warns.

Childe smiles guilelessly in return. "Have I ever?"

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

"Your Master is hiding something from me," she murmurs later, to the most loyal creature she has struck conversation with since she has begun roaming this land.

"If he were a demon, I would have known by now. But humans are so incomprehensible… I cannot put my finger on what he's plotting."

A wet, humid huff on her cheek. 

"You are too fine to be serving a silly human like him," she informs him seriously, patting the side of his neck. Fishes out a handful of sugar cubes from the sack she nabbed off the pantry shelf.

Another huff, flash of blunt white teeth as jaws close over her palm, snapping up the treats with practiced ease.

"It has been three turns of our moons since I struck a contract with your Master," she continues, plucking and tossing a sugar cube into her mouth. The taste is as heady as the first time, sweeter than anything the Abyss has offered. "And he still has not sired a child. I would think that he is trying to escape our deal. Except…"

Her instincts have never steered her wrong. And her instincts say that he will not break faith with her. Not now. He is a strange mortal, young and foolish, hopelessly warm in a cold land. Gentle and affectionate and everything the Abyss would crush in an instant.

Except sometimes, when he is close, he feels like the Abyss too, the gaping maw of the void crawling over his skin—

A wet nose nudges her shoulder.

"More?" She asks. Nods at the harrumphed answer. Sneaks him another handful, and another sugar cube into her own mouth for good measure.

Such a good horse, Maxim, she thinks, petting his mane. Humans really did not know how fortunate they were, to own mounts that did not try to eat them.

And a voice sounds outside the stable doors, words that have her scampering into the shadows.

"Ensign, have you seen Lady Lumine? This week's stockpile of sugar has gone missing again—"

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

The issue isn't, clearly, that he lies.

He doesn't, not to her. Childe has never been one for deception and underhanded schemes—those have always been the playing fields of his colleagues. Battle and conquest are more to his nature, carved into him by the blade and the Abyss, survival by trial. But, dishonesty is a necessity of his trade, so he wields it when he must, if only to fulfill what Her Majesty wishes for.

The issue here, unfortunately, is that he can't bring himself to tell her the truth.

Viatrix, kin to the Prince, the general of his armies, the Downfall of Celestia. The Elysian Scourge, The Divine Ruining, The Ancient Monster that tore down the false sky. His demon, golden eyes unreadable, even as she sets her feet in his lap and curls into his side, a living calamity that has inexplicably chose to linger by him.

He had never thought of himself as coward before.

And yet, when the water is still, boat unrocked, and she is still here, vibrant and within reach, he hesitates. Tomorrow, he thinks. He will tell her. This cannot last forever, not when her magic chafes against a contract unfulfilled. She expects a child born from him and another, and nothing more. She wants power, and once he provides, she will disappear into the depths of the Abyss.

But gods, he… he wants her.

Tomorrow, he thinks. But then she smiles, sharp teeth against rosebud lips, eyes as radiant as the midnight moon. Fuck, he wants to keep that smile, bottle it up for his own consumption, drink from it like a parched man lost in a desert.

Tomorrow, thinks again. And again. And again.

And then, weeks later:

"Come with me."

Ah. A dangerous proposition.

The doors to the Northland bank, where he is supposed to be going, is barely half a mile away. Turning around and meeting her eyes would be a mistake—too late, he thinks, when his body moves on autopilot and does so anyway, because he never can resist the chance to drink in her upturned gaze—but he supposes another mistake would be of little consequence in the long list he has already procured.

"The last time you said that," Childe replies to the demon, standing by his elbow "you threw me into a river."

"I had my reasons."

"And said reasons definitely had nothing to do with how I had no choice but to walk back to the manor shirtless." In full view of a crowd of noblewomen who were coincidentally visiting.

His demon doesn't even deign him with an answer this time, pivoting on her heel and disappearing in the tide of the crowd. Childe sighs, fixing his cloak and following the demon, because at times he is a fool, and those times are usually for her.

Dusk has begun to fall on the town, shadows creeping longer, the sky a painted picture of deep bruise blues and violets. Lanterns flicker once, twice, and then settle into an amber glow, warding the dark from swallowing the town up. The town has only grown louder, the spirit of Yuletide sinking it's fingers into it's people. Effigies of Her Majesty on every sill, musicians at the corners, mistletoe and glittering snowflakes hanging at doors, bundled in threes with crystal bells and delicate stars.

Childe catches up to her with long strides, ducking beneath a wooden beam crowned with holly berries. "Where are you taking me, kotenok?"

"Somewhere we must go."

An answer. Not the best one, but he can make do. "Alright," he says, biting back a laugh when Lumine predictably stutters by the window of a bakery, before squaring her shoulders and trudging on, the very portrait of resolve. "Looking for something in the market?"

"Mortal trinkets or baubles are of no use to me, Childe."

There's a poorly hidden box in his room overflowing with trinkets and baubles that would claim otherwise. But much like a husband wizened by many years of marriage, he chooses not to point that out. "You know, moya lyubov, before you ambushed me, I had very important business at the bank."

"You are a fool, to choose this bank over me—"

"Well, I need that bank to keep you fed."

"—like the time you chose to go on an inspection rather than spar with me. And the time you went to one of those infernal meetings instead of joining me for a hunt. And the— "

Oh. Despite the fact she's facing away, he has a feeling he knows what expression she's wearing now. "Lumine," he cuts in, biting his cheek when she willfully walks faster. Fights the temptation to grab her by the scruff of her cloak and drag her back to his side. "Are you upset that I've been busy?"

"No."

"Liar."

"I do not need to lie," the stubborn demon grouses, walking faster, dodging couples walking hand in hand, a pair of sisters manning a stall of painted dolls, merchants hawking herbal soap in burlap and twine. "If I were upset, you would already be six feet under in the Woods."

"How sweet. You would bury me?"

"My minions are too precious to be distressed by your mangled corpse," she reasons.

She always did resort to death threats when she was piqued. And really, considering how furiously she shielded any and every softer side she had, this is practically a heartfelt confession. Childe reaches out, curling a palm around her arm. "Hey. Look at me."

The glare she throws him is adorably chilling.

"I'm sorry," he says, closing the space between them, the edges of his mouth brushing her ear. "I didn't mean to leave you alone for this long. Forgive me?"

"I wasn't upset," she insists weakly.

His sweet, contrary demon. His heart tumbles, warm and liquid in his chest, so unbearable that he can't help but bury his smile in her hair. "Then lead the way. I'll follow you, wherever you take me, moya lyubov. "

Lumine frowns up at him. "You still haven't told me what that means—"

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

She guides him through winding streets, out of the bustling evening market, to the edge of a seedier part of town. A quiet alley, what looks like a hired guard lingering outside.

“I have been informed that this is where mortals pick up mates this century,” his demon finally says when they arrive, looking awfully pleased with herself.

Oh. "Trying to sell me off, are you?"

“Surely at least one person here will have you," Lumine declares proudly, ignoring his twitching mouth. Sweeps into the tavern.

The stench of stale ale and sweat is heady and thick, hitting them both as they make their way inside, slipping between loose, drunk bodies. A harried waitress yells a quick greeting, waving them further in, and Lumine stiffens with a hiss when they’re forced to press close by a crowd of overeager customers clamoring for drink.

It's in the interest of keeping his people alive, he tells himself, drawing her quick into his arms, her head directly beneath his chin, her hair tickling his nose. Best keep her close for the safety of the townsfolk. Not just because he likes having her in his hold.

(Sometimes, he wonders why he bothers lying to himself in the first place.)

Childe needs to bend in two to speak into her ear. She's so small, he muses, not for the first time. Barely half his size, tiny enough to throw over his shoulder and kidnap kicking and screaming, straight to his bed—

“Go sit,” he murmurs, pointing to an empty table along the back of the room. His demon is forced to peer up at him in the enclosed space—eyes wide, head tilted so far back to accommodate his height that it floods a dizzying rush of possession in his veins—before she nods and slips away.

He eventually manages to snag a cup of fire-water and bowl of steaming fish soup from the bar. Lumine is busy staring unabashedly around the tavern as he sets down the bowl and passes her a chunk of soup-soaked bread, too busy attempting to comprehend the perplexing nature of mortal kind to notice. 

“These humans are so defenseless," she finally mutters. Sinks her front teeth into the bread like a particularly vexed squirrel. "And loud."

Dropping next to her in the booth, he tries to ignore the heat of her thigh, pressed dangerously against his. Slings an arm over the back of the seat, so she's nestled safe in the crook of him, his fingertips brushing against silken locks. "Its Yuletide eve. Everybody from squalling infants to their babushkas are out celebrating tonight."

"I could slaughter everyone here in the blink of an eye," she muses.

"You could slaughter most people in most places without trying, moya lyubov," he laughs, tilting his head back. The music in the tavern swells, escalating to a catchy beat that has a woman at the table near them laugh and drag her partner to the middle of the room, where the tables have been pushed towards the walls, creating enough space for a handful of couples to dance.

"Hm." He expects her to disagree, to rise in fury at the implication that there are some opponents she cannot defeat, but her attention has already been stolen away from him, caught by the cup he brought over. Ah. He has never drank alcohol with her, he realizes. Guess they don't exactly have time for brewing in the Abyss.

"Firewater," he explains. "Best saved for celebrations and mourning."

A delicate sniff, and her nose wrinkles, face curling into an expression of utter distaste. Cute.

"It tastes better than it smells. Promise."

She doesn't look convinced. "I fail to understand my mortals waste the little life they have drinking unappetizing swill."

"Hey now," he murmurs, mouth curving. "Don't knock it till you try it."

"Rather than your firewater," she replies, gaze fixed on a point beyond his shoulders. "Tell me about that."

The couple on the makeshift dance floor has been joined by a few others now. There's a musician seated in the corner, a jar half-filled with coins in front of him, playing a jaunty tune reminiscent of a Monstadtian riff. Laughter in the air, hardly an inch of space between bodies as they moved to the music, mouths wide and eyes glazed with drink. Lumine watches them intently as one man hitches his partner up in his arms, spinning her until they nearly collapse in a heap, cheers erupting around them.

"They're dancing," Childe answers. "It's a… mating ritual, you could say."

"A mating ritual—" Lumine's head swivels, elbow nearly knocking his drink over—and wasn't she supposed to be a graceful, wicked, terror of the darkest depths— gazing at him with wide, expectant eyes. "I know of this dancing."

"Mmm." Gently, he allows the arm slung around the back of the seat to fall, fingers curling over the round of her shoulder. "All kinds of ways to seduce a woman. Dancing is just one of them."

"But all they are doing is swaying." She frowns, doubtful. "This is truly a part of your mating customs?"

"Keeps them close, your partner. It's a.. promise of more. I bet they'll be sharing a bed tonight."

"And you?"

"Hm?"

"Dancing." Lumine eyes are bright as she rises to her feet, and he is already certain of what she's thinking. " You must dance. That's it."

She'd like dancing, he thinks. It's the sort of quaint human act she'd refuse vehemently at first, until he baits her into it. A challenge, perhaps, and he can see her swaying to the beat, mouth set in concentration. Laughter later, maybe—he's sure he can coax it out of her if he tries, once she's loose-limbed and flushed, out of the prickly shell she's made for herself.

But before he can float the idea, she moves. The words in his mouth dissolve, strangled to dust, thoughts slowing like honey dripping off a spoon when a very warm, very soft body presses against him, hair brushing against his jaw. Fuck, he thinks, throwing himself backward as his demon wrangles herself out of the booth, no care for the very inappropriate position it puts them in, the swell of her chest separated by mere inches from his mouth—

"Stay," she orders, a master to a dog.

By the time he's wrestled himself back to his senses, she's already scurried away into the crowd.

Childe breathes. Tries to think of anything else but the blood rushing south, the urge to chase her across the tavern, pick her up and kiss her senseless—

Archons. She's definitely going to kill him, just not in the way she thinks she will.

He should follow her. Make sure she doesn't maim anyone, keep the building standing, the residents of the town blissfully unaware that a creature from their nightmares plots in their midst. And he knows that he promised himself he would nip her attempts in the bud, but how is he supposed to bring himself to when she is like this, all bright resolve and obstinate singlemindedness, every thought in that dangerous head revolving around him? He likes that too, knowing that all these weeks, he's been all she's thinking about. Likes it far too much, the monster that slumbers beneath his skin purring and chittering in pleasure. Likes it so much that he wants to keep her like this, always like this, bind her to him until she can't remember anything but his name—

No. Not now. Blindly grasping for his glass, he takes another sip of firewater, focusing on the searing burn down his throat. Incinerates every thought he cannot have right now out of his mind, spools back the heat bubbling in his center.

Once his breathing is steadier, and he's less inclined to give into impulse, he looks for her.

She's visible through the crowd when it undulates, pictures in snapshots. Speaking to someone by the bar. Shaking her head, vehement. Flitting to a table on the other side of the room. Crossed arms, sharp smile. Another minute, and then she's clutching the cloak of a young woman, arms waving wildly in his direction.

"This human is short," she declares victoriously when she returns, much to the confusion of the two innocents she's corralled here. "And blonde."

"I can see that," he replies, muffling a snort behind an open palm. "Happy Yuletide."

"Is this him?" The blonde asks, accent thick at the curl of the syllables, painted lips stretched in an amused smile.

"Yes," Lumine replies, the very picture of an austere merchant describing their goods. "He has pleasing physical features, as I mentioned earlier."

"Ah."

"He also has an estate in his possession. I am aware that humans are much concerned about the size of their houses. This human has one with many rooms."

A quick glance at him, head to toe, as though weighing the goods. "You say he wants to dance with me?"

Lumine nods vigorously.

The poor woman laughs. "You are adorable, zhopik. Surely, a man like this would not need your help."

Her friend tsks, crossing her arms. "Unless there is something wrong with him."

A moment of hesitance. "He does possess several annoying traits," Lumine concedes. "For one, he refuses to let me sleep in past noon. He also wants to spar everyday, despite the fact that he constantly loses. Keeps trying to—Childe!"

"Sorry, sorry—" he laughs, snaking an arm around her waist. "Continue, moya lyubov."

Poor thing. He wonders if she'll ever realize how doomed this mission is. Low chances, when she doesn't even notice how her quarry gapes at them when he pulls her onto his lap without resistance, all while she extolls his many virtues.

"Is this a joke?" the blonde asks.

Lumine blinks. "What?"

"I'm afraid not," he finally interjects, feathering his hand over her knee. "She's been quite serious this entire time."

”Really?”

Her friend ah's. Shakes her head. "Tch. Look at him. He is enjoying this."

"You are a right bastard," the blonde tells him, nose upturned. "Does she know?"

"What are you talking about—"

"She will," Childe says, interrupting his demons furious question with a nuzzle of her cheek. "Eventually. My thanks for entertaining her."

A long sigh. They share a glance and turn to Lumine. "He is very handsome, like you say," the girl informs her, wearing a pitying smile. "But I'm not interested in a taken man."

Childe watches Lumine stare at them go. Indignance, fury, affront. And then studies her furrowed brow, the lip pushed in a moue, her face morphing into abject confusion as she mutters—

"Taken by what?"

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

Two failed attempts and one crone later—ha, it's been a while since I had a such a pretty boytoy, she had cackled, while Childe exercised all his meager skills of diplomacy to escape—his demon has finally arrived at her wits end.

"How," she grumbles, back in her seat beside him, hood puddling on her shoulders, blonde locks once again in view. Even the dying lanterns cast such a charming light on her, turning the nest of hair into a heap of burnished gold. "Not even one." A pause. "Did you—"

"I didn't plan or scheme anything. Harbinger's honor."

Lumine's face crumples in disgruntlement. "Are you truly so undesirable to mortals?"

"You don't think I am? Undesirable, that is."

Her prim mouth presses into a line. Grudging admission. "You are… kind."

"You once said that kindness is a weakling's trait."

"And you are brave, to not quail in my presence, though that is mostly foolishness."

"What a winning compliment."

"Hush," she orders, twisting to face him. "You protect your House fiercely too, as a warrior should. You would make a good mate, Childe."

A table behind them erupts into shouts, the beginning of a minor brawl. One look from the bartender tempers it, as she whips out her jug in warning. Lumine's head turns, attention caught by the noise, and Childe seizes the chance to study her slanted visage, the rare sight of her face unguarded and honest.

It would be so easy, he thinks again, to just reach out and curl his hand over the nape of her neck—

He shakes his head, bringing the glass to his lips.

This time, when she sees him drink, she pauses. Her gaze zeroes in on the amber liquid, flicking to the bar where patrons clamor for more, and back.

"These humans are quite fond of this firewater. I suppose there may be merits to the mortal swill." Her hand extends.

That look on her face is trouble all right. He reconsiders. Lifts the glass in question. "I wouldn't if I were you—"

With a defiant glare, she snatches the glass out of his hand. Stares at the fingerslength of spirit. Seals her lips over the edge and downs it in one go.

Or tries, at least. Snezhnayan firewater is a bitter, flammable thing, liquid heat that chars flesh. Not for the weak, or those who have never partaken in drink. Certainly not for a demon that has never tasted spirits, like his little demon, who bends over into two and breaks into hacking coughs, eyes watering from the sheer sensation.

He stifles a laugh—no one has ever died from their first sip of the Snezhnayan drink, though they've felt like it—and smoothes his hand down her back, velvet skin over the dips and knobs of her spine. Rubs circles between her shoulder blades where wings usually rest, and whispers as she heaves—

"Take a breath, there you go—you should start with small sips, kotenok—"

"By the Abyss—" she gasps out between breaths, slamming a palm against his torso, face turned into his shoulder. "This is poison, you fool. It burns—"

"Deep breaths. Come now, look at you, sweetheart, I told you to breathe—"

"Gah," she groans, coughs evening out, eyes glassy with tears. He shouldn't enjoy this, not really, but something preens in him at the sight of her unknowingly curled into him for comfort, cheek resting against his collar. Considers handing her another glass, on purpose this time, for the simple pleasure of having her plaster her onto him even more, for another chance to taste her tears.

"Better?"

"It's sickening. And—" she hiccups, blinking blearily. "My head feels strange."

"That's normal in the beginning." Thumbing away the tear, Childe grins. "You're doing better than me. I snuck a gulp when mama wasn't looking and threw up in her prized rose bushes."

"Urgh." She shakes her head. Rises to her feet. Stumbles. "Why do you humans drink this willingly?"

"Like you say. We're foolish, illogical creatures."

"I cannot even think," Lumine mutters. Peers at him. "My thoughts have become nonsense."

"You haven't drunk enough for that—where are you going?"

"Have you forgotten? We are here because you need to sire a child. The next woman I bring shall be your mate," she announces. "I decree it."

The music has shifted again, beats slowing down into something gentle and sedate, the tune lulling into a sweeter cadence. The small crowd of couples lost in each other instead of the music, spinning and rocking, some wildly off-beat, the others not even trying.

And it's barely been a few minutes since she took a swig of his drink, but that telltale pink has already suffused her cheeks, golden eyes glassy. It couldn't be, he thinks, except it is, his demon swaying unsteadily as she peers around the room. Drunk off barely a glass.

Maybe there's a reason that demons don't have alcohol in their realm. Like the fact that they can't handle even half a glass of it.

"Don't." Her wrist is bony and slender. He could wrap his hand around it twice over. "Stay here, hm?"

"But you need to dance—"

"You should dance with me instead."

Her nose wrinkles. She blinks at him, once, twice. "No," she grouses, cheeks puffed. "Not me."

"Why not? I think you'd enjoy it."

One couple is well-past drunk, the man pawing at the woman’s dress while she shrieks with laughter. He buries his face in her neck, sloppy, open mouthed kisses—

“Not like that,” Lumine mumbles, clinging to sobriety enough to point and pass disgruntled judgment on the two.

He chuckles. Of all the things—

“Does that bother you?”

“They are courting. In public. To show affection so openly… you might as well bare your heart to your enemies and hand them a sword. I do not understand how your kind survives—why are you laughing?"

“I'm not."

"You are." Her arms cross. “I’ve not spoken in jest.”

"Little demon," he says, fighting a helpless smile. "Don't you think you're being too harsh?"

“Your mortal mind fails to understand. You humans give into these desires without thought of the consequences. It is one thing to mate for the purpose of procreation but to do so otherwise...”

“Hm."

“We are not controlled by baser instincts like your kind are."

“Uh huh.”

“There is no reason for such acts,” the demon speaks to him slowly, in the manner someone might when explaining something to a very stupid, albeit endearing, pet. “Unless one wants to try conceive a child, of course.”

Unfortunately she says it right when he takes another swig of firewater. The drink manages to get unpleasantly lodged in his windpipe. “Oh.”

Her eyes narrow at the poorly disguised laughter in the wet of his cough; loud even among the noise of the tavern. “Oh—Lumine.”

“What?”

“Are you saying—you mean that you have never—”

Her chin lifts. “Once or twice. When I was young and foolish and wished for a child. Not that it is any of your business.”

"And you didn't enjoy it?"

"Why should I?"

"You should because—don't tell me…"

Her eyes narrow at his voice, tinged with wrath he can hardly keep at bay. He doesn't know which is worse—that someone else had the pleasure of touching her, or that she has never known it as pleasure. Childe pinches the bridge of his nose, staving off a headache. “By the archons. Look at me.”

“As I was saying,” the little demon continues, babbling now, brushing off his incredulity. “My kind is practical. Logical. We mate to continue the legacy of our Houses, and for survival of our people. Our mating rituals are private affairs, not these obscene—”

“Lumine,” he repeats gently. His teeth ache, blood pounding in his ears.

“—hm?”

“Hold still for me, love.”

And for once, the obstinate creature does as she’s told, obedient to his command. Words dying on her tongue as he finally gives into impulse, reaching out. He cups her face in his hands to keep her there, stroking plump cheeks with his thumbs, skin warm and flushed, softer than Liyuean silk. Sighs, brushing his lips over her cheekbone.

And then, before she can protest, Childe leans over, seals his mouth over hers. She’s frozen, at first—shocked—but he kisses her as deeply as he has kissed her in his dreams, as deep as the man across the room kisses his mistress—kisses her until her mind grows liquid and syrupy at the edges, until he feels her succumb, the slow press of her body as she slumps against him, small hands lost in his hair. 

When he stops, it’s is not a moan that leaves her lips—not yet—but it is close.

"Good?" he whispers against her mouth, drawing back just enough to study her half lidded eyes, blinking slowly as though he has poured more firewater in her mouth, rendering her mind hazier than it last was. His thumb rests on the plush curve of her lip, pressed against it as if that could stop him from kissing her again, and again, and again—

"Nnngh," she replies intelligently.

"Good," he murmurs back, and nearly attaches his open mouth to the column of her neck, aching to place sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down to where her pulse beats the strongest, to sink his teeth in and mark her as his. But he resists, painfully, distressingly, skimming his nose over her skin instead. She smells of something sweet, something powerful, something his.

Her pupils are blown wide, gold a thin ring around their maws. The flush on her cheeks spilling down her ears, her throat, creeping under her neckline. How much, he wonders, is the drink? How much of it is because of him?

"Childe," she gasps, fingers curling in his collar. Bleary confusion, and sheer want, one leg hitched over his.

"Did you like that?"

"Nnngh—what are you—"

Fuck. "Lumine," Childe growls, giving in, setting his teeth on her bare shoulder, the curve a pink just begging to be suckled. The idea of such a pretty, vicious creature's submission alone is so heady it makes him ache— "Answer me."

Those edged words bring her back to consciousness. Little hands, knife-sharp nails. Pain blooms in his scalp as she yanks him back by the hair, her fangs flashing in the lamplight. "Do not try to command me."

There she is, his demon. Fuck if that didn't send heat running through his veins.

"That isn't a no, little demon."

A hiss, another yank of his hair because of course she's a vengeful brat. His girl, stumbling off his lap like a newborn fawn, before she's battling through the crowd and straight out of the door.

Childe drops a few hundred mora on the table, and then a few hundreds more as a generous tip, and follows.

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

For someone so small in a battering crowd, she is defyingly quick, a blob of grey among drab colors. He hurries to follow, narrowly dodging a pair of children playing chase and nearly tumbling over his knees.

They're on the path back to the manor, he realizes a few minutes later, though she remains uncharacteristically silent throughout. He speaks once they cross the gate, under moonlight painting the cobblestones in silver. "Lumine."

"No."

"Moya lyubov—"

"Stop that!" she hisses, pivoting with a snarl, a glimpse of teeth. Before she resumes her march upto his room, and gods help him if she hasn't realized where she's leading them. "Stop making that face, and calling me those names, and looking at me like that—"

"Like what, Lumine?"

His bedroom door is closed. She pauses at the threshold. "Like that," she echoes, voice hoarse, and her gaze is dark and on his lips, mouth open and tongue pink as it laves her lips and oh.

Childe swallows, throat dry. "If you want me to kiss you again, Lumine, all you need to do is ask."

Her shoulders tremble. She lifts her chin. "Demon's don't kiss."

"I know," he answers. Waits.

Her eyes could be the void in this light, golden vanishing around the gaping maw of her pupils. Her mouth pinches. 

"Childe," she says. Reaches out and tugs his scarf.

It's not quite a verbal request, but he'll take it.

He can't suppress the growl that leaves him as he slams her against the door, and runs his hands up her sides. All that devastating, world ending power in that body, gasping and straining in arms, tiptoeing to slant her mouth across his. Begging for him to touch her, like another moment without physically hurts.

And he indulges her because he must, because he can't not, the deadly, terrible demon in his arms. Bends down to kiss her sweetly, kiss her senseless, kiss her like he has dreamed of every day since she smiled at him covered in the blood, the most beautiful creature he's ever seen.

"Again," she demands, parting from him for a spell of a moment, mewling into his chest. Tries to draw him back into another kiss, but can't, not without his cooperation. "Childe—"

And he'll give it to her, anything, everything, all of him if she wants, sweeping her into his arms and striding into the room. Kicks the door closed behind him, and throws her onto the bed, crawling over her before she can voice her protests. Sometime in between her magic has unraveled, horns unveiled and tail curling, wings fluttering against the sheets. Fierce fists slam into his back he mouths across the neck of her bodice, finally tasting her, milk-pale perfection begging to be bruised by teeth. His mark etched on her immortal body, as long as it'll keep it.

"Not there—" she orders, wrenching him up. Tugs his shirt, fumbling with the clasps—he threads his fingers through hers, pinning her hands by her head as he steals another kiss, sweet and heady, devouring every little sound of pleasure she makes like a starved man.

He could do this his entire life, he thinks, searing the glimpses of her into his memory. The mewling cries, the swell of her hip, toned thighs wrapped around his waist. Golden hair more precious than mora spilling over his pillows, her back arching on his sheets. He wants to take her every way, everywhere—desires suddenly, to allow his form to grow into another, greater and monstrous, to surround her and fill her and devour her until she is limp with pleasure.

But he has time for that. He has all the time in the world if he has her.

Childe has fought wars, massacred thousands, claimed more lives than the days he has lived. His hands are stained with blood that cannot be forgotten. They are not built for gentleness or sweet affection, but for her—he looks down at her, this creature of nightmares, his precious demon—for her, he will try.

"More." A gasp, as her fingers scrabble in the sheets, her head tilted as she nips at his chin, the feral thing. "Childe—"

"Any more, Lumine," he rasps, hoarse, press his brow against hers. "And I wont be able to restrain myself."

"Don't—"

"You're drunk."

"No, I'm not—"

"You are." He strokes down to her knee, ghosts kisses over her nose. Her eyes are half-lidded, teetering at the edge of unconsciousness. "Our first time won't be when you're barely there and three sheets to the wind. When I take you, love—and I will— " His voice grows wickedly dark with promise, "It'll be while you're in your right mind and begging me to touch you."

She keens, a sweet sound that goes straight to his groin. "Chi—"

He wraps her in his arms and muffles her cry in his chest, self-control a fraying thread he refuses to let snap.

"I know, I know," he soothes, hand gliding down her back. "It aches, doesn't it? I promise I'll make it better. Just wait until morning. I have you."

"You bastard—"

"Shhh. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Go to sleep, love."

Another warbling cry. But her thrashing limbs settle when she realizes he is not going to give in, the tension in her spine unspooling. Soon enough, her shoulders dip, muscles going slack, her breath falling into the cadence of slumber.

It takes him longer to follow. While he waits, he untangles her hair, runs his hands through the silken strands, purses out the knots with careful fingers. Brushes it and weaves it into a braid, like that which Tonia had taught him. But sleep, when it finally comes, is easy and deep. Lumine in his arms, warm and his, and the edge of a dream—laughter and sharp claws, his mouth over her scars, oaths he promises to keep—

And a child, blue-eyed and sharp-toothed smile, tiny horns peeping through her hair.

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

She is warm when she wakes—too warm, sweat plastering the fabric of her dress to her back, and she does not remember the last time she has woken up like this, warm but not sick, warm and safe. Dimly, she is aware of a body next to her, and somewhere in the back of her mind, an alarm blares, not because she isn't alone, but because she isn't alarmed, the instincts that have kept her alive for millennia blissfully silent.

She wonders if she's dreaming when her eyes flutter open, and she sees the blurry picture of her humans face. Eyes closes, lashes steeped auburn and feathered across his cheek. She can't explain why she noses the crook of his neck and breathes him in, pine and salt and the familiar scent of dying stars. A memory at the tip of her fingers.

Rolls over, closer, arching her spine. Her head throbs when a shaft of sunlight flashes over her eyes. Urgh. But the stretch feels good like this, so Lumine sighs, nuzzling her cheek against the warm skin of his bicep. The bond between them quivers, the string binding them taut when she strums it, near habit. She could fall asleep like this again.

And she would have, except he murmurs something like the syllables of her name, and wait, why is she in Childe's bed—

The barrage of memories is like an ancient storm. Unrelenting.

The tavern, the couples, the dancing. His smile against her ear, the fire on her tongue, the fuzzy thoughts touched by drink. His mouth, conquering and unyielding, pleasure skittering up her nerves, aching desire, so painful she would have done anything if he would only touch her—

She breathes. Untangles herself from the arm slung across her, twice as heavy than she thought it would be. He frowns when she slips free, fingers twitching against the blankets, as though searching for the vanishing warmth. To her horror, a part of her wants to soothe him, slip back into his arms and pretend she never left.

Except.

No, she thinks. She can't. She's a demon, Viatrix, and he's…

And Lumine—now conscious, blood pounding in her ears, panic and disbelief and emotions she cannot understand throbbing in her middle—

For the first time in centuries, she runs away.

 

 

Notes:

i love how all the comments on the last chap are just screams for them to kiss. i love y'all <3 we suffer together

me, writing 12 chapters of this fic: for heavens sake just fucking kiss already u two idiots!!!
me, writing ch13: woah woah this fic is sfw, okay, thats enough, stop kissing—wait that is worse nooo, back up back up!!!

but like. FINALLY. progress?

personally, i find it so funny that boy held out for 12 chaps only to lose it when he found out she’s never been treated right LMAO

chonky 8k chapter, so please forgive me for how much i edged y'all... and the delay. just a few more chaps to the finish line :)))

ty for reading!!!

EDIT (16/04/25): THERE'S ART OF THE KISS NOW THIS IS NOT A DRILL I REPEAT THIS IS NOT A DRILL

Chapter 14

Summary:

"Maybe not," she concedes. "But Big Sister Lumine just had her first kiss, and you forced her to confront her feelings for the first time. Good or bad feelings. And Big Sister Lumine's answer to most things involving feelings is to stab the cause until they go away. Except she can't do that with you."

"She's tried to stab me plenty before."

Tonia rolls her eyes. "You're still alive, aren't you?"

"You should visit home."

Straight to the point. A drawling command not even attempting to hide under the guise of suggestion. Which wasn't surprising either, since Scaramouche rarely bothers concealing his impertinence.

Anyone else would be dust in the air right now. Sometimes, like now even, as Scaramouche digs a finger into his back, and Aether slants a glance behind him, he wonders why he keeps the bothersome immortal alive.

But then the moonlight shifts, a streak of silver highlighting indigo eyes, the curve of a delicate cheek, slender collarbones under the neck of his kimono, and a curl of desire wakes within his ribs.

Ah. That's why.

"Hey. You going to open that damn mouth or what?"

Aether thinks it over, dragging his hand over gnarled bark. The trees of the Thousand-Eyed Forest blink back at him, pupils dilating and contracting, leaves angling for the gazes to follow his path.

Time is a liminal thing to an immortal like him. Blink, and it was only days ago that he had departed from the dwelling they called home, bidding farewell to his sister and promising to make haste. But several moons have rose and set since he begun his inspection of the realm, which is long, perhaps, to Scaramouche, whose cloak of immortality has not settled as firmly as Aethers has yet, but not long enough that the puppet ought to be rushing him.

A young bough sighs, bending closer when Aether passes, brushing against his braid. Aether pauses, and touches two fingers to the branch. The mana in him spools out, twining through the ancient tree.

Collectively, the entire forest seems to breathe, foliage rustling in temporary satiety. They must have been starving. Behind him, Aether can sense Scaramouche's disgust, how he makes certain to linger within the safety of Aether's shadow.

Most living things avoid the Forest With A Thousand Eyes. Those who do not and wander in do not lose themselves, at least not in the beginning. They walk out with vines twining in their hair, eyes growing in the webs of their fingers, the curves of their horns. Their mana starts to dip. And when the power in them finally runs dry, their feet take them back to where the forest sings, turning into roots in the bloodfed soil.

Aether does not need to worry—he is the Prince. He has shed blood into the void that is the Abyss and taken it as his own. The trees know him as their sovereign, and as long as the land breathes in him, the trees will not touch him or his people.

"The Eastern Reaches are left. I haven't touched the land with mana for centuries."

"It'll take years for you to finish the ritual." Scaramouche ducks beneath a low-hanging branch, practically shuddering when a leaf nearly catches in his hair. "Putting your feet up a few days won't kill you."

"What are you plotting, Scaramouche?"

"Your opinion of me is always so flattering." He rolls his eyes, folding his arms behind his head. "I just have a sudden longing to see your sister, that's all. You should join me."

Aether can't help turn at that, casting a suspicious eye. "You saw her two nights ago."

"And it was hilarious."

Nothing that made Scaramouche sound that deliriously happy could be good. Aether almost stumbles at it, that sharp peal of laughter gilding the air. The leaves around them rustle.

Alarm creeps up his spine. "What happened?"

"Oh, so now you're interested."

"Scaramouche."

The puppet's lips curl. "Huh. Calm yourself, Prince. She's not dying."

"My patience is not endless."

"Like sister, like brother. Both of you are so adorable when you're angry." Scaramouche crosses his arms behind his head, ambling down the crooked path. A glance at the trees. "Are you coming?"

In the shadows between gnarled roots, something keens, soft and sweet. He gifts another handful of mana in thanks, before following his companion out of the woods, saving his words for when the trees cannot hear them.

They may respect him, but he is not foolish enough to bare his weaknesses under their shade.

"Scaramouche," he says again, when they have crossed enough distance that the eyes are hardly visible, and the sounds of wind in the leaves are no more. "My sister is the strongest in the realm. Don't try to tell me that she has been injured or taken ill. Again."

"You demons are so dense." Scaramouche snorts, shaking his head. "Can't believe I'm the poor sap who has to talk sense into you two."

"The point, Scaramouche. Make it."

"Touchy, touchy," he cackles in reply, and by the abyss, Aether can't decide whether he wants to choke him or kiss him. "She's alive. Healthy. Unless you count lovesickness a disease."

Aether snorts. Like he's falling for that. "What sort of nonsense are you blathering now?"

"Look, wandering around the creepiest places that exist in the Abyss to complete some ancient ritual is not my idea of a good time. If you want to do it for months straight, be my guest. Just don't expect me to keep babysitting your sister for much longer."

And with that, Scaramouche marches in the direction Aether knows home is, violet sparks hissing at his feet.

"At least tell me what's wrong with Lumine!" Aether yells at his back.

"Not a chance." Scaramouche yells back, not even bothering to turn and face him. "Come check up on her and find out yourself."

And fine. While he has usually has little patience for Scaramouche's games, this time, he'll bite.

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

Once upon a time:

When the seven gods first summoned them, the twins of House Viat had crowed in laughter at their request. Their clothes still dyed with the blood of their enemies, fingers dripping ichor, a crown still unwon on the horizon.

"We can't do it on our own," the youngest of the gods had said, resolute in the face of carnage, a wind spirit in the shape of a young male.

Celestia was a pest in both realms it had seemed. The twins had no compuction in joining their cause. Except.

"To tear down this illusion, we need power," his sister said. "Mana."

"Your kind gains mana from contracts, does it not?" The eldest of the gods had rumbled in return, smoke trailing from the corners of his mouth. "Indeed, I too, hold contracts in value. Make one with us."

"For as much power as this will require, you will need a sacrifice of equal measure."

The gods had stood still. Immoveable.

Aether had taken three, and left four to Lumine. From the Dendro Archon, he took the memories of her people, their devotion, and thus her existence forever evaporated from their minds like water in a desert. From the Cryo Archon, he took her heart, made of flesh, and left the god of love unable to love again.

From the electro archon, he took her firstborn child, the only family she had left.

As precious as you can bear to lose, they had said—mercy was not freely given, but to tear down those bastards on the heavenly throne, well, Aether could spare some from his meagre supply.

And in the end, Celestia fell. Just as they vowed it would.

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

"Is my brother inside?"

"Lady Tonia!" Masha exclaims, whirling around in surprise. "When did you arrive?"

"A while ago. I stopped by the kitchens for a treat on the way. Everyone seems…" she pauses, watching the way the maid winces at the trailing sentence. "Upset."

"Well." Masha dusts off her skirt and purses her lips. Tonia knows that look. It's the same one Mama wore when she told Aunt Ivanna that her new Yuletide sweater was stunning, when Tonia knew for a fact that Mama called the most hideous thing she's ever seen the last time they glimpsed it in the boutique window.

"We're just a little tired, Lady Tonia."

"So, my brother is being a problem. Acting unreasonable, I suppose," Tonia surmises.

"No, not at all—"

"You don't have to cover up for him." Tonia smiles up at her, patting her arm. "I know that Big Sister Lumine hasn't visited in a while."

A pause. Masha stares at her, quiet and thrumming, like a dam about to break.

"He is in …a poor temper." A flinch. "A very poor temper. The infirmary has been packed with soldiers the entire week."

Tonia hums. That does sound like her brother. He always threw himself into a fight to feel better. She's actually suprised he isn't on the battlefield already.

"Did he snap at you too? Do the cold, angry voice?"

Masha nods. "Three of the maids couldn't sleep out of fear that night."

Now that wouldn't do. "I'll handle it," Tonia declares, hiking her specially prepared kit up her shoulder. She'd come up with it the last time Big Sister Tsvetana had a crisis of her own. No doubt Big Brother Ajax would need it too.

Ajax is busy scolding a pair of soldiers when Tonia barges in. Arms crossed, leaning against his desk, eyes narrowed as he speaks.

"Considering your abysmal performance in the recent tournament, I wonder if what you lack is… motivation." His voice is silken. Crisp. "Coincidentally, the Ninth Regiment needs new soldiers—" He breaks off at her entrance, that cold gaze melting when it lands on her.

"Tonia?"

“Ajax," she says, just like Mama does when one of her brothers do something stupid. "You’re acting unbearable.”

“What are you doing here?"

"It 's the weekend, big brother." She always visits on the weekends. He's never forgotten before. Things must be worse than she thought if he's lost track—good thing Teucer stayed home this time.

"So it is," he murmurs after a pause. A tilt of his head and the room empties, until they are the only two remaining.

Ever since she was a baby, Big Brother Ajax has been there.

Only till he joined the Fatui, of course. Then he was busy with secret missions and the Tsaritsa's missives, busy bringing glory to her reign. But even then, when Tonia really needed him, sneaking letters into the mailbox when no one was looking, he'd appear like a knight in the stories, prepared to save her from monsters.

One of her earliest memories is a throbbing sadness, lodged beneath her sternum. She'd lost her favourite doll in the woods when playing one day. She remembers crying, and Mama promising that they'd look for it once the sun came up.

She remembers being unable to sleep, tossing and turning in bed. And Big Brother Ajax sneaking through the door, his coat dusted with snow, her doll in his hands.

Her knight. Always.

And that tic in his face, the depths in the blue of his eyes—Tonia watches the mask fall back over her brother's face. Edges he's always tried to conceal from the three of them, even though she's seen through it a long time ago. Her brother has too many identities, she thinks. It must be tiring. He changes now again; From Childe the Harbinger to her big brother, soft and warm and unhurt.

She knows he's hurting.

"Stop that," she says.

"Hm?"

"I'm not eight any more," Tonia informs him. "I can tell when you're upset. Don't hide it from me."

"Princessa, let your big brother be, yeah?

"No! Not now. You used to comfort me when I was scared. Or sad. I want to do that for you too."

"I don't need you to. Or rather, just the sight of your face cheers me up." He reaches out to pinch her nose, chuckling weakly as she yelps. "Have you had lunch yet?"

"I had a snack. But you're changing the subject."

She's not going to fall for that. Big Brother Ajax may be stubborn, but she could be stubborner. If that was a word. She'd make it a word. That's how stubborn she is.

With a deep breath, Tonia crosses her arms, mirroring her brother, and announces, "I'm not going to let you nurse heartbreak alone, Big Brother."

He freezes. Blinks. "I'm not heartbroken."

"Yes you are. You're heartbroken and a big fat liar."

"Am not."

"Are too. Aunt Ivanna came to visit, and told Mama that her friend—” she says, poking his arm. “—heard from her cousin, who'd overheard a maid telling her seamstress, that their housekeeper's brother's best friend mentioned that you’ve been in a terrible mood the past week.”

His brows have risen so high they've disappeared in his hairline.

“And the best friend had heard this from…”

“He works in our stables, Ajax. But that's not important right now." She puffs her cheeks. "Do you want chocolates? Or tissues? We can have a slumber party."

"I appreciate it, Tonia, but—"

"No," she interrupts. Recalls the lessons Lumine had taught her. When you wish to assert dominance, she had said, tilt your head and stare at them like they are a worm beneath your feet. And if they still do not bow to you, you should open them from collar to groin anf splatter their guts over the floor. I shall teach you how to do so, my minion.

They had never gotten to the next part of the lesson, but Tonia supposes that's a good thing.

"You are going to take a break. You're going to come with me to my room, and we're going to talk about your feelings, and you're going to wake up tomorrow feeling less sad. And heartbroken."

"For the last time, I'm not—" A pause as she proceeds to the final step, unleashing her most effective, deadly weapon: puppy eyes.

"Fine," Big Brother Ajax concedes with a sigh, brushing the hair out of his eyes.

Sweet, sweet victory.

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

Fuck, his back hurts.

The years are catching up to him, Childe thinks, shifting in an attempt to get rid of the crick in his back. Carefully done, so that his little sister doesn't notice, except that she still does, shooting him a narrowed glare that practically says stay still.

"You're going to ruin it."

"I think it looks fine, Princessa."

"It's too translucent." With a flourish, she caps the bottle, lifting his hands for perusal. "Shimmer?"

"Not this time." He wiggles his fingers in her direction. "Does this meet your approval, Princess of Morespesok?"

Tonia's eyes gleam. "I actually think it needs another coat of polish, Lord Ajax."

He'd walked right into that one, he muses, letting her bully him into sitting longer.

And yet. Tonia is grinning, painting more gold onto his nails, a bag she'd called her Heart Unbreaker bag by her feet, the hems of her pyjamas three inches above her ankles. She'd hit her growth spurt years ago, and she's still growing—Childe had only got her those pyjamas in spring.

Mama predicts she'd be as tall as Andrei, or even him, in the end. He doesn't like thinking about it, his sister fully grown and out of his protection. He'd keep her there her entire life if he could. Even though he knows he shouldn't.

When she was little, and feeling down, he used to paint her nails and braid her hair. Then they'd sit by the fire, and Ajax would tell her all the stories he knew—the myths Papa told him while ice-fishing, the ones he heard in school, the tales Babushka would spin if you asked her to.

He never thought he'd be on this end of it—hair freshly brushed and scented, hands washed and lotioned, nails now buffed and polished in gold. His sister chattering away, ripe with gossip from their little fishing village.

"—And then Ivan—you know Ivan, the boy who won the village archery competition last year, and only because you weren't there—he had the nerve to say that Agnieszka was in the wrong! Honestly, I think that he deserved that slap. He shouldn't have said such mean things."

"He should have his tongue cut off."

"I know, right? That's what Big Sister Lumine said too—"

Tonia freezes. Inhales.

When she speaks again, it is low and sheepish. "I'm not doing a very good job at this, am I?"

Gods. Childe smiles, ignoring the sinking in his gut. For an hour, she had distracted him, like she had wanted to so. He'd say she'd achieved her mission objective. "You can say her name, Tonia."

"But you'll be sad."

"I know you miss her too. Your her minion, aren't you?"

The reminder startles a laugh out of her.

"That's what she says. I like being her minion. It's like having another sister." She returns to painting his nails, glancing at him from beneath her lashes. "I thought everything was going well between you two. You even went on a date last week.”

“How do you know that?”

“The servants talk, Ajax. Keep up." She hums, pulling back the brush, and studying his painted nails. "Pretty?"

"Mmm." Molten gold, the color of mora, the setting sun, her eyes when they sparkle with mirth. Something sharp lodges in his throat. "Beautiful."

Everything in the damn manor reminds him of her.

A single night in his bed, and every night since he wakes up reaching out. Again and again and again, searching for her warmth, a phantom in his memories.

The sheets still smell like her, her scent burning in his throat. Perisistent. Damning. When the maids tried to put the sheets for laundry, he'd gone incandescent with rage, snapping at them before he could think twice. Pathetic.

The flowers he stumbled upon on his morning walk, drooping ivory bells, the conspicuously dessertless meals, the couch in his office, empty and bereft when he looks up, speaking before he remembers she isn't here, There's a travelling circus in town next week —

All his thoughts lead back to her.

Even when Tonia lifts up a sheet mask and asks him to close his eyes, all he can think about is how excited Lumine would be to try it. A curious mortal custom, she'd say, tilting her head obliging. His curious little demon.

Gods.

Its been weeks, and she's still gone.

"Andrei brought me these on his last trip to Inazuma. They're supposed to be really hydrating."

"Is that so?"

"Mmmhmm. I was saving these up for a special occasion, but I suppose this counts as well. It's not everyday you get your heart broken."

"Now you're making fun of me, aren't you?"

"Never," she swears, and even with his eyes closed he can sense the smile on her face. "Big Sister Lumine is strong and beautiful and amazing, and kind of out of your league, so you don't be upset. Like Mama says, you shouldn't mourn what you've never possessed in the first place."

"And now you're just being cruel, princessa."

She giggles. "You're still the best big brother ever, Ajax. Even if the prettiest demon in the world said no when you asked her out."

"She didn't say no," he admits, before his brain catches up.

And then—

"Wait, what—"

Frantic movement. Her knee against his side, her fingers digging into his shoulder. "Do you mean you're dating—"

"It's not what you're thinking." He shrugs, dragging open his eyes. The wet towellete obscures his vision—he blinks once, twice, thrice, until he can see the slatted wood across the ceiling. "She…"

Her hair spilling over his sheets, flushed skin and swollen lips. The plea in her voice as she keened for him, body arching into his. She wanted him, begged for him, aching to be kissed until she couldn't think. Of that, he was certain.

She doesn't detest him. If she did, she wouldn't have lingered by his side as long as she did, the creeping relent of her body pressed against it. The mornings he woke up to her nudging him awake, a mouthful of demands and threats she never carried out. The tilt of her mouth when she called him a good mate, soft and honest and gentle.

Maybe not love, not yet, perhaps never—whether demons could love remains a mystery. Skirk was all cutting words and short commands. A heart as cold as his queens. Lumine was different—sharp edges on the outside, a softer keening creature within. Just as likely to slit your throat, unless plyed with warmth and sweet treats.

Not love, not yet. But one day, maybe. And Lumine—

Lumine was worth waiting for.

Except she didn't want him the same way.

"Ajax, don't leave me hanging—"

“I kissed her. She didn't like it. That's it, Tonia."

Didn't like it was an understatement. She hated the thought of mating with a human enough to flee without a single word while he was asleep.

Hated it enough that she still isn't back. Might never be.

Fuck.

His sister gasps at the revelation, squirming and poking his shoulder, a physical cue to face her. “And then? What did she say?”

"Say?" There wasn't much talking involved, he thinks ruefully, as Tonia hastens to explain her herself.

Maybe that's what went wrong. Both of them were creatures of instict and action over words, so he thought that this too, would be the same. Thought of the kisses as a confession, rather than something borne of alcohol and impulse. Foolish.

He should have drawn back and asked her if she wanted him the same way, alcohol be damned. But she'd made that little moan in her throat, hand scrabbling over his bicep and he had folded faster than she could say please.

"Yeah!" Tonia giggles, kicking her feet. "After you kissed her. She must have been shocked. You know…" Her voice dips here, thick with a secret. "Big Sister Lumine didn't know what kissing was before. She read about it in The Pirate's Plundered Bride—uh, I mean, one of the encyclopaedias. The boring ones. From your library."

"Mmhmm."

Demons don't kiss, Lumine had said, tiltling her head to his, a sunflower to sun. Hungry, ravenous, eyes so dark they could be the endless deep.

"So? I told her kissing is a romantic gesture, but she didn't believe me. Did you convince her?"

Childe reminds her. "She ran away, Tonia."

"Oh.” Tonia quiets. "You must be a bad kisser, Ajax."

Damn, he does not want to talk about this with his baby sister. "That's it, off to bed you go, kiddo."

"It's not even six pm—"

"I'm sure you can knock yourself out if you try hard enough."

"Meanie. I'll tell Big Sister Lumine on you when she comes back."

"She's not coming back."

Tonia looks at him like he's stupid. "Of course she is."

"What?"

"If she really didn't like the kiss, she would have castrated you for even trying by now. Archons, Big brother.” Tonia sighs. "By the Tsaritsa. If I knew that was all you did, I wouldn't have wasted one of my masks on you."

"Hey now—"

"It's nice that you're giving her space, Ajax. But it's Big Sister Lumine. Remember the time you gifted her new gloves, and she thought you were challenging her to a duel?"

"Mm. I wonder where she heard of that Fontainian tradition," he murmurs pointedly.

"No clue," Tonia lies brilliantly, before forging on. "Look, Big Sister Lumine is amazing, but she's not really good at feelings. She's never had friends or a boyfriend before."

"I don't think demons have boyfriends, Tonia."

"Maybe not," she concedes. "But Big Sister Lumine just had her first kiss, and you forced to confront her feelings for the first time. Good or bad feelings. And Big Sister Lumine's answer to most things involving feelings is to stab the cause until they go away. Except she can't do that with you."

"She's tried to stab me plenty before."

Tonia rolls her eyes. "You're still alive, aren't you?"

Fair point. Childe grins up at her, trying to squash that terrible feeling in his chest. What awfully feels like hope. "What are you trying to tell me, Tonia?"

His little sister stares at him like he's a dumb brother asking the obvious.

"You made me think something was really wrong when all you did was something stupid! I'm surrounded by idiots," she declares, kicking him in the shin.

"Stop moping, Ajax. And bring Big Sister Lumine back home."

 

Notes:

lumine my girl is missing in this chap :( she’ll be back next chap dw

had to split the update since it got too long! which means that next chapter is also mostly done, so expect it next week hehe 🥰

also all your comments are giving me life its so nice to know that everyone wanted them to kiss as much as I did lol. good job friends!!! we did it!!! almost. lmao.

anyway, childe’s love life would be in shambles if not for his 14 yo sister, someone give tonia a kiss for her good work. good job girl.

Chapter 15

Summary:

“So you’re the reason my residence has twenty-seven ducks and counting,” the figure remarks, studying Childe with a frown. “How laughable. She must be out of her mind.”

Childe blinks. “You’re not Lumine."

“Lumine is too busy trying to figure out how to build a—" And here the figure pauses, as if he himself cannot believe the absurdity he's been forced into speaking. "A duck house.”

"… a what?"

In an ideal world—although the drowning depths of the Abyss are far from the concept of ideal—his homecoming would be a sweet affair. His sister would be surprised at first, since he has not, of course, informed her of his impromptu visit. Then joy would limn her face, the little she allows to show, as she finally glimpses her twin after moons apart.

Aether doesn't expect her to run into his arms like she used to when they were younger. But he'd believed she would be pleased, at the least. A beaming smile. A hand against his arm. Words, happy ones, even if Lumine has never been the best at expressing her feelings.

Instead, when the door finally swung open, Lumine had stared at him standing at the threshold. Face blank as still waters. Eyes dazed and a thousand miles away.

She had nodded. Once, twice and again, before promptly turning around and trudging back inside.

And he says trudged, because there is no other way to describe how his sister moved— shoulders slumbed, back bowed, feet heavy on the floor. An incredulous sight, because how is Lumine, one of the most graceful demons to exist, a lethal warrior of legend walking like that—

Suffice to say, Aether, Prince of the Abyss, Viator, is absolutely flummoxed.

That's not my sister, he had almost said aloud, suddenly reminded of the creatures that sleep deep in the pools of Súrrvatn. Only a shape-stealer could do this—wear the skin of his sister and treat him so unlike she usually does. Except sense returns to him in seconds; he is also her twin, the half to a whole, and had that dreadful creature not truly been Lumine, he would have known.

A glance at Scaramouche had also been entirely unhelpful—the puppet had only made that ridiculous face at him, the I-know-something-you-don't he did love wearing often, and ambled off to Abyss knows where.

Something was going on here, Aether had realized. No wonder Scaramoouche had baited him home. And it's something he needed to get to the bottom of immediately, because he cannot return to his travels while Lumine is like… that.

He would make sense of this situation soon enough.

Right?

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

The situation does not make sense.

Nobody knows what has caused this. His investigations have bore little fruit. The lesser demons that were sworn to their House know nothing. The bits and pieces he did manage to gather are confusing: Lumine was not here more than she was. She'd been busy with something she did not speak of. One day she returned, and stayed, and she was… different.

He'd have shook down Scaramouche for answers, but the puppet was having a time of it, vanishing whenever Aether came into sight, and staying only when Lumine was in the room. Aether couldn't coerce the sly bastard with his sister in earshot either, so that avenue of information had remained closed.

And thus, he is at an impasse.

It could be a phase, he considers the first night he spends at home, eyes fixed on the ceiling and sleep ever-elusive. Lumine did descend into moods every once in a while over the centuries, though those never lasted longer than a good fight.

Maybe that's what she needs.

"A spar," Aether announces in the morning, ambushing her in their living room. She's draped over the couch face down, tail drooped, the end of it brushing against the floor. Abyss take him—she looks miserable.

A muffled nngh sounds from her direction.

"A spar," he repeats. Toes her tail slightly, hard enough to convince her to lift her head up to meet his eyes. "Join me."

"Quiet, Aether," she snaps. Even that lacks her usual heat. "I'm not in the mood."

Not in the mood for a fight?

By the dark and devouring depths, he thinks, a chill creeping up his back. This is worse than he expected.

"Come on, Lumine," he says again, almost pleading, leaning over her prone form.

"No."

"A short one won't hurt."

"No."

"We haven't crossed blades in ages—"

"I said no, Aether. No, no, no. Do you not understand the word? You're just as stubborn as that—"

And Lumine chokes.

Her tail draws ramrod straight, wings fluttering, agitated. Aether wisely rears back, recognizing the signs of an iminent explosion. Just in time as sister rolls onto her feet, and hisses in his face, flames singeing her breath, before she stomps away.

Aether stares at her retreating back. Almost misses the knock at the window.

"Well?"

"Is she dying?" Aether asks bluntly.

Scaramouche snorts. "Nope."

He sighs in relief. Well, at least—

Scaramouche smiles sweetly, and adds. "Oh, dear Prince. It's much, much worse than that."

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

Later, Aether finds his sister, crouched on the floor, sniffing a bundle of cloth in her arms.

"Lumine?"

She doesn't hear him—far too engrossed in now cursing at the heap of fabric. He makes out only fool, bastard and idiot from her muffled mumblings. And then a string of curses that promise pain, eternal suffering and death, not necessarily in that order.

He wonders if that cloth is a cursed artifact. It doesn't look like something he's seen before. In fact… it's scent carries in the air, caught in the web of a preservation spell. Barely there, but.

It smells… dangerous.

A foe? Aether considers it, chewing it over in his mind. Did his sister finally meet her match in battle? Is that the cause of her foul mood?

It could be, he thinks, when he finds her in the garden hours later, performing an arcane ritual he does not recognize, the cloth over her shoulders—a cloak, he realizes, nearly three times her size, for some reason—and a poisonous flower in her hands. Muttering to herself as she mutilates the bloom, orange petals falling at her feet one by one. As the final petal hits the floor, her face colors the deepest pink, all the way up to her ears.

Curious, he ponders. If it was a ritual, then he did not sense any magic.

He'd have asked her too, except she proceeds to bury her face into her hands and scream.

"You can't delay it forever," Scaramouche tells him, perched on a branch. "She's scary but she won't hurt you. Much."

Aether throws him a cutting glance. "I do not fear my sister."

Scaramouche laughs. "Then why aren't you confronting her?"

"I'm giving her… space."

"Mmm. Space," Scaramouche echoes. "Is that what demons call it now?"

"Another word, and I'll show you a better use of that mouth, puppet."

Glittering eyes crease in challenge. "How terrifying, Prince. Can you back it up?"

Aether doesn't speak to Lumine that day.

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

Another morning, Aether wakes up with feathers up his nose.

Mana bubbles in him, dark and corrosive, aching to burn whatever moron dared to wake him—except he recognizes the touch of his sister's magic, sweet as the Inteyvats in her hair and his hand stays.

When he finally wrenches his eyes open, he is speechless.

Aether stares at the round and pale and black-eyed abomination, it's gaze eerie and solemn.

What manner of infernal creature was this?

"You…" he breathes. "What are you?"

The creature blinks. Opens its maw, and releases the most hideous sound Aether has heard in his lifetime.

By the Abyss. What has his sister done?

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

There are more of them now.

They are everywhere, watching him with their beady little eyes. Hiding around the corners, waiting to nip the ankles of any unfortunate passerby. Lumine had refused to let him cull them, so Aether had stayed his hand. But that does not mean he trusts them, oh no—he is the Prince of the Abyss, and he knows evil when he sees it.

These creatures… he studies one that has been staring at him since he entered the room. It's orange maw splitting to release a raucous command. Aether hisses back, asserting dominance against the creature. It only stares at him in response before turning around, presenting it's behind.

An insult? Or submission, exposing it's blind side? Aether couldn't tell.

No matter. He has more important things to do. These abominations are a consequence. To get rid of them, he must treat the root cause.

"Your magic has been… temperamental lately,” Aether notes carefully, leaning against the door.

His sister ignores him, brows furrowed in concentration. He watches as she murmurs an incantation, hand glowing gold. A levitation spell.

Except, instead of lifting the chair into the air, the furniture cracks, spilling into a distortion, and leaving another one of those damned creatures in it's place.

Lumine stares at it, almost mournfully. The feathered creature waves its webbed feet in the air, puffing up and demanding release.

"Lumine," he prompts.

“You’re imagining things," she replies. Pure, unflinching denial.

"Am I imagining these feathered monstrosities?"

It had begun yesterday. The bedrooms had suffered her attentions first, followed by the dining hall, and now the living roon. His sister had woke up and decided to redecorate, except that redecoration mostly involved throwing out anything a particular shade of blue. Which would have been fine, had not any attempt of magic on her part summoned another one of these…

"They're called ducks," Scaramouche reminds helpfully from the couch.

Ah, so now he is willing to talk. Aether throws him a glare, only breaking it off when another of the ducks—by the Abyss, there are nine of them in the room already—waddles and sits on Scaramouche's torso.

"It's a minor miscalculation." Lumine crosses her arms, mouth pursed. "It will go away."

"It doesn't look like it." Not with what he's seeing. "This has never happened before. If someone attacks you now, you won't be able to defend yourself."

The primordial magic demons used was versatile. Powerful beyond measure—with a firm understanding of the base workings, almost any thought could be wrought on the world, bar a few base limitations.

But of course, everything came with a price. Equivalent exchange—that which was conjured must be paid in full. The workings needed to be thoroughly studied, lest ithe magic implode in the casters face.

And the caster must always be in control of their emotions.

Without an ironclad disposition and disciplined mind, magic had a tendency to… malfunction. In inexplicable ways.

Like now, for example. Why his sister was summoning these ducks are an unsolved mystery.

"No demon would dare," she hisses in reply, teeth flashing. "And I do not need magic to slaughter them."

"Even so, I cannot let this go on any longer. Explain yourself, sister."

"There is nothing to explain."

“What did you do?” Aether asks bluntly.

“Nothing,” Lumine snaps back.

The duck quacks, baleful.

She sniffs haughtily. Releases the duck, who quacks once again, before waddling to the corner and huddling with the other ducks in attendance, bar the one snuggling with Scaramouche.

"You always say that when there is something."

"Why do you think I did something? Why must I have been the instigator? You seem awfully comfortable in your assumption that it's my fault."

"Aha!" Aether crows and waves his hand, canceling the next spell she casts, one that would have slung the carpet through the window had it landed. Nine ducks are nine ducks too many. "So there is something."

"I never said that."

"Not in so many words. It's been five days since I've returned, and I haven't been away long enough to miss…" He gestures to the huddle of ducks in the corner, the bare windows, the bonfire cheerfully blazing outside. "All this."

Lumine turns her nose. "What this?"

"Are you blind?!"

"Oh, so we're finally talking about it?" Scaramouche pipes up, petting the duck. Languid and artfully careless. "Tell him about the contract, Lumine."

"I told you to shut your mouth, puppet—"

"What contract?" His sister didn't dabble in agreements with demonfolk, not when it was more trouble than it was worth. But wait—some time ago…

Your sister has established a contract on Teyvat.

Teyvat? They ceased summoning us centuries ago. Burnt all their scriptures. Besides, few on that land have the power remaining to summon one of us.

That's what Lumine said, Scaramouche had shrugged. She looked proud about it too. Bet she squeezed something good out of the fool.

"The contract you made with a mortal?"

That contract?

It couldn't be. A mere human affected his sister to this degree? Lumine was not so easily shaken. Did that mortal attempt to betray her? Stab her in the back? Even so, that shouldn't lead to this—his twin is no stranger to dealing with oathbreakers. She would have slaughtered the mortal and forgotten him minutes later, as she was wont to do with fools like those.

"Or rather," Scaramouche adds, merciless now, rolling over and revealing eyes glittering with glee. "You should tell our Prince about the Contractor."

What.

"Scaramouche—" Lumine growls.

"It's been a while, Aether, so you didn't notice." Fuel into the fire, Scaramouche and a cutting smile. "But she used to reek of his scent whenever I visited."

Reek. Of his Scent.

No. No. Scaramouche cannot be insinuating what he thinks he is—

"Oh, I'm going to chop you up and use you as firewood, you useless walking chunk of lumber—"

Abyss' heart, it cannot be. It cannot. He refuses to believe it. "Lumine," Aether says, flicking his fingers. The lanterns grow brighter, shadows deeper, silence deafening the room. "Who is this contractor?"

"No one," Lumine spits, glaring at him, before turning away. "Just another idiot who summoned me for his own ends."

"Assassination? War? Genocide—"

"He can do all that well enough on his own." She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms almost spitefully. "He is a pathetic mortal. Nothing more."

"Whoever he is, he has upset you."

"Do not." The ends of her hair flutter as power seeps into her words. "He is a mere gnat in comparison to my existence. To claim his actions matter is to insult me."

"And yet," Aether replies, just as low and ancient. "Here you are, incinerating my favourite curtains."

Her nose twitches. "Liar. You never liked this color."

"Fine. But our house is swathed in blue because you like it. Until today, when you started ripping off—"

"That's because it's the color of his stupid—graaah!"

Aether flinches as a glass-shattering scream leaves his sister's mouth. Furious gaze, feet leaving divots wherever they meet the stone floor as she paces across the room.

When he meets Scaramouche's gaze, the puppet sends him a sweet, syrupy smile. The mortal's eyes are blue, he mouths helpfully, pointing to his own eyes just in case Aether hadn't caught it, and by the darkest shadows that lurk in the depths of the Abyss, Aether considers slinging him back into Tenshukaku.

Two millennia breathing, and nothing has prepared him for a crisis of this magnitude.

For a mortal to distress his sister so… he cannot let such sin go unpunished.

"Do you wish for me to kill him?"

"What?" She whirls around.

"You may be in a contract with him. But I am not. And I would enjoy crushing him to a pulp."

"No." Lumine's reply is sharp. Mana cracks through the air in warning. "Don't you dare touch him, Aether. He's mine."

A claim, singeing against his skin. Impossible to miss. His sister, inscribing mana, precious and limited into this, of all things.

Born on the same day, two halves of a whole. Mirror images living in tandem. She, who he knew down to the marrow of his bones, every word and action an extension of his own. She who he understood by instinct.

She who never felt beyond his comprehension. Until now.

"By mine… you mean yours to kill."

A pause. "Yes."

Convincing. Except. "You hesitated."

"No, I didn't."

Aether grits his teeth. "Don't tell me you've grown attached to the mortal."

"Of course I haven't," she scoffs. "I absolutely detest the fool."

"Didn't look like that the last time I saw you two," A voice drawls from across the room.

"Shut up, Scaramouche!" Both Aether and Lumine bark in unison. The puppet raises his open palms in surrender. Laughs.

Aether is going to kill him one day. Shaking his head, he returns to the moment, his sister, vibrating with frustration, hands fisted and mouth pursed.

"Lumine," he says. "Is Scaramouche speaking the truth?"

"How would I know what the puppet has prattled on about?"

"You're avoiding the question."

Her mouth twists. "The human is a terrible male," she mutters. "The sole reason I allowed him to live as long as he has is because he is dear to my minions. And provides acceptable foot massages."

Aether blinks.

"That his scent lingered on me is a mere coincidence. Humans are very physical creatures. I allowed him close to blend in, so that I could amuse myself by observing them. Nothing more."

"Sure, you did," Scaramouche chortles.

She snaps her teeth at him.

"Childe is an incorrigible fool. A death-dealer. Far too hungry for blood and battle. That the human has lived as long as he has is a miracle—he would have been devoured alive in our land."

"Lumine."

She is far too incensed to register Aether's call, the words that have built inside her flowing like water from an unleashed dam. "He was supposed to hand over his firstborn and close our contract. Except that he fails in this basic human act. You told me they breed by the dozen, Aether! And I believed you, and waited and waited, and he is still frustratingly bereft of spawn."

"You—"

"Mortal mating customs are long and impractical. Illogical. I refuse to be witness to them any longer. They court in public, and perform acts that make no sense. And even when they have a worthy mate before them they do not recognize them. Childe is pleasingly aesthetic to watch, in both battle and otherwise. He protects his kin. He is wealthy and powerful for a human and warm—"

Wait, Aether thinks, rewinding her last few sentences. Did she just…

"I cannot stand him any longer. Ever since he kissed me in demonstration of his kind's customs, I have been feeling ill. Even before, his presence made me feel abnormally fuzzy. Not even distance spares me—the idiot haunts my every thought. It's awful. I abhor him, Aether. Sometimes I long to slit his throat, or gut him, or punch him in the mouth. With my mouth."

Aether stares in horror.

By the Abyss, he thinks, meeting Scaramouche's amused eyes. Curse that mortal bastard.

His sister has fallen in love.

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

Another time, once, long ago:

"Master," Ajax calls out. Her name echoes within the barren cave, her face lit by a dying fire. "Can I?"

His master nods.

Ajax beams. And then lunges and stabs her leg.

Or rather, Ajax tries, aiming at the top of the thigh where most of his enemies bleed out. But his Master is swifter than he is, air where she once stood, her foot solidly landing into his gut, punching the air out of him in one fell swoop.

"Hm," she hums, towering over his crouched figure as he gasps for breath. "Alive?"

"Nnngh." Ajax groans. When his lungs function again, he rises back to his feet on wobbly legs, tilting his sword into position. "How are you so strong, Master?"

"Practice." Skirk tilts her head. "And hordes of demons attempting to murder me. Again."

The next bout, she throws him over her shoulder and he plants face first into the ground. In the one after that, he misses his mark and nearly fractures his knees on the stone. By the time the fire is mere sparks within charred wood, Ajax becomes a boy made of bruises, fingers heavy with splinters from the wooden sword.

"I want to be as strong as you, Master," he tells her when she finally decides they are done, tossing her sword back into her magical dimension. The ground is hard and cold underneath him, pebbles digging into his spine, dirt coating his mouth.

His master studies him, peony-pink eyes sharp and thoughtful.

"If you survive for three moons," she says, turning away to glide towards the cave entrance. "I will teach you a secret technique of my House."

"Really?"

"It could kill you," she warns. "Most demons of my House could not wield it. And now all that is left of the House is Master and I. It is not meant for mortals."

"I don't care," Ajax says, scrabbling to his feet and to her side. "I'll learn anything if it makes me stronger."

"It is an ancient magic that cannot be undone. A foul curse, and a legacy of our oldest kin. It will devour you if you cannot keep it at bay."

"But if it doesn't?" He tugs at his Master's skirts, the steel-strong silk smooth between his fingers. "How strong will I be, Master?"

Skirk glances back at him.

Smiles.

"Survive, disciple. And we shall find out."

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

Aether would like to say that the situation became unreasonable when the number of ducks grew to a dozen. Or two.

Or when he found his sister devotedly decking the feathered creatures in matching crimson scarves and tiny masks, of all things. The sight left him rubbing his eyes and confirming with magic that he was not hexed or cursed or bespelled, just to be certain twice-over.

They looked cold, his sister had told him. Averted her eyes. Between the two of them, she's always been the terrible liar.

But the truth is, he hits his last limit on another day. Twenty-three scarved and masked ducks in the backyard, his sister casting magic when he has forbidden her from doing so—nothing is going to happen, Aether—

And a crack growing in the sky. In the distance, a long, mournful cry.

Look, Aether can handle most things. But he draws the line at accidentally summoning the fucking All Devouring Narwhal.

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

In his memories, Childe's Master tells him about samsara.

The world consigned to an endless repeats, until the sky falls apart and the heavens come crashing down.

The cyclicity of life, matter and existence. Death unto birth, patterns in a story. All planets followed a circular orbit.

Childe had been surprised to hear of it again later, from the mouth of Sumeru's little goddess. Celestia may not be here anymore, but mortals are creatures of habit, she had giggled. Even you, Mr. Tartaglia.

He wonders if ill-advised summoning rituals can be considered a habit too. Perhaps he should run that by the goddess.

The Woods are dark, long shadows and endless murky spaces. The eerie quiet broken only by harsh chanting. As the noise swells, so does the sky join in—a flash of lightning, unaccompanied by rain, snow or thunder. A warning.

Childe doesn't remember the summoning being so… dramatic.

Sure, his demon has a flair for it, he muses, as a crack leisurely tears in the fabric of the world, revealing miles on miles of sky and stars. Even the first time, she'd been terror-inducing, a creature of wickedness reborn. But she'd been quicker about it too, materializing in the circle in minutes. With less ominous noises.

It's been more than five minutes now. He hopes she is not too upset with him.

Darkness seeps out of the crack, a spill of oil in water. That familiar burn on the roof of his mouth. The taste of stardust and sulphur. In the smoke, there is movement—a petite form. A curl of golden hair, the gentle curve of a shoulder.

Except.

“So you’re the reason my residence has twenty-seven ducks and counting,” the figure remarks, studying Childe with a frown. “How laughable. She must be out of her mind.”

Childe blinks. “You’re not Lumine."

“Lumine is too busy trying to figure out how to build a—" And here the figure pauses, as if he himself cannot believe the absurdity he's been forced into speaking. "A duck house.”

"… a what?"

The demon—and he is a demon, golden wings fluttering, horns curved from his brow—frowns up at him, fangs flashing in the arcane light of the circle. With a huff, he leans on his leg, hand resting on a cocked hip. “Our magical signatures are similar. With a little effort, we can manipulate the summoning spell and take each other’s place.”

The declaration of what must be no easy feat of magic draws dramatic gasps from his summoners. The three of them fall to their knees. “Viator, the Prince! Forgive us for not recognizing you.”

And the pieces click into place in Childe's head. He should have realized it earlier—they share a similar bearing, hair the same pale gold, mana of almost identical taste, though Lumine's is much sweeter. “You’re her brother. Aether.”

“Guilty.” Aether smiles, and bares his teeth. “I'm here because one certain pesky mortal has wronged my twin."

His heart jumps in his throat. Gods, that smile. It's not the same, not really, but it's close enough to it that his entire chest aches, the longing nearly rending him apart. His nails kiss painful crescents into his palm.

"I wouldn't call it wronging," he finally says, studying his little demon's twin. It was supposed to be her standing here. His love, the obstinate creature, glaring at him and throwing insults as he coaxed her to stay.

"Then enlighten me, mortal. What would you call it?"

"Kissing," he admits. Meets the demons blazing gaze. "Seducing. Courting—"

"By the Abyss." Aether rears back, face twisted into an expression of pure, unfiltered disgust. "Are you daft?"

The thing in him wakes then. Just enough to taste the abyssal energy in the air and croon. Interest, but untinged by the desire. Understandable, since the thing was also him. And there is only one demon he wants to devour.

"Where is your sister, Viator?"

"She's not interested."

"She can tell me herself."

"Is that why you summoned her here today? You dared call upon Viatrix, scourge of the endless night, Keeper of the World’s memories, for a mere conversation?”

Childe shrugs. “It’s a very important conversation.”

“And if I say no? What will you do then? Or rather…" The ground under their feet begins to rumble, cracks breaking in the earth. Golden eyes glow. "What can you do, mortal?"

A wave of power slams into them, fracturing the trees bordering the clearing, winds howling around their ears. Instinct rears his head, screaming danger, look out, the thing in him waking and clawing at his skin—

"You stubborn fool. You play with powers greater than your puny mind can grasp. I will burn your world until all that is left is ash. You will witness unspeakable horrors. You will see everyone you love fall, and you will wish you were dead. Your memories will become your torture. They will be a burden over your shoulders as you wade through a sea of blood, and when you emerge, your survival will be a hollow trinket of victory."

Childe smiles, the wide one that Lumine is convinces means he's plotting something, and steps over the fissure at his feet. “What's stopping you?”

"What?"

"Rain of blood, world of ashes and whatnot." He extends his hands to the side, tilting his head to meet the demons gaze. "What's stopping you, Viator?"

"A shred of mercy, human. Believe me, it will not last long. I should do is smite you where you stand."

"You could," Childe agrees. "Except I don't think that's it. I think it's because killing me would upset your sister."

"You think you know how my sister would feel? Idiot. The workings of her mind are beyond your mortal comprehension."

"Oh, I don't doubt that. But I know that your sister is not just what the stories make her out to be. And I know that if she didn't harbor any affection towards me, I'd be a pile of ash already."

The wind grows harsher, nearly cutting. Behind him, the three summoners cry, clutching onto the ground for dear life. Viator's face spasms. He lifts his hand, sparks crackling over skin. A flick, and a dagger flies past his cheek, embedding itself into a tree. Blood drips down his cheek.

Childe doesn't flinch.

"You." Aether snarls. "What are your intentions with my sister?"

"I love her."

The confession is easy, for all he thought it was impossible, the aching desire that could rend him apart too much to fit into simple syllables. But it isn't in the end—Childe loves her. It is a natural thing—his thirst for battle, his joy of challenge, his desire for her. To be hers. To speak it is easy, because it is true. "I want to marry her. Or mate her—whatever you demons do when you find the one you want to spend your life with."

"You love her," Aether echoes with scorn. Scoffs. "Do you have any idea who she is?"

"She's Lumine." Childe replies simply. His little demon, his stubborn creature, his willful, undeniable weakness. "And I wouldn't have her any other way."

"She has twice your strength in the tip of her little finger."

"Perhaps."

"She eats mortals like you for breakfast."

"I happen to know she doesn't like meat first thing in the morning."

"You're delusional," Aether spits. "Us demons do not have these silly mortal notions of love. She will never return your feelings."

"That's not true," Childe says. "She loves you."

"I am her twin. You are merely a breath in the span of our lives. Do not think of yourself as important. You are not."

"That's what she says too." Childe grins, laughter thrumming in his chest. "Did you know your sister is a terrible liar?"

Aether pauses. Decides not to fight a losing battle—not even he can claim that she’s not as bad at dishonesty as she is. "It doesn't matter. A demon and human as mates is unheard of—"

"What, so there's no handy manual lying around? Pity. Doesn't make me any less in love with your sister."

"Stop saying that with your filthy mouth…" Aether trails off.

Childe sees it happen in front of him, that moment of realization. Not that he recognizes it as one at first. The demon's face pales, goes bloodless. A rapid series of emotions flitting across that regal face—disbelief, denial, fury, and then resignation. Disbelief again. And rage, burning like an inferno.

"That crafty, cursed witch!"

"Who?"

"Did you put her up to this—no," Aether shakes his head, pivoting and pacing the clearing. "You would have been a snivelling whelp back then—"

"Uh—"

Lightning strikes the ground, leaving a scorch mark against snow-soaked earth. His summoners scream.

"I should have incinerated it on the spot," Aether snarls.

Clearly, Lumine's brother has something going on. As far as Childe understands, it's matters of a violent nature. Right up his alley. Never too early to make an impression with the in-laws. Even if they hate him. "Well, if you need any help—"

The glare on Aether's face could set glaciers on fire. Childe chooses to rescind his previous offer. At this point, it looks like the demon would rather eat his own magicked, shadowed left arm over talking to Childe.

"Do not think for a moment that I approve."

"I wouldn't dare."

"The second my sister tires of you, your life is forfeit. I'll slaughter you myself."

Childe grins. "I'd be honored."

Aether growls.

After a minute of what clearly resembles a mental crisis, he seems to give in. Grumbles under his breath. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

A wave of his arm. And then he curls his finger, and a portal opens at his side, a yawning gap in the universe that screamed of unholy things and the boundless void. The demon dips his hand in, and with a grunt, pulls what looks like an ancient tome.

Sending the Harbinger a dirty glance, he tosses it in his general direction with a careless flick of his wrist.

“Consider this summoning fulfilled,” Aether declares. “And for Abyss' sake, do it right this time. I cannot deal with that damned overgrown fish again.”

And with that rather ominous statement, and a stern, warning glare, the demon disappears in a wisp of shadow as dramatically as he arrived.

"Is… is he gone?" Leonide asks in a trembling voice, arms covering his head. Poirier elbows his side. "Use your senses, moron! His magic has disappeared."

"Our apologies, boss," Alexis says, scrambling to his feet. "We can perform another summoning…"

"Not yet." Childe glances down at the book. Leather-bound and aging, papers yellowed and fragile, with the title embossed in gold on the cover. Although the font is surprisingly modern. "It seems I have some reading to do first."

Wooing Demons for Dummies glimmers at him from the cover.

Huh. How… suspiciously convenient.

 

 

Notes:

TITLE DROP!!! Evil laughter!!!

I’ve been waiting to do this since 2023 the moment is so sweet [froths at the mouth]

aether and childe finally met, a vv important book has landed in our fave harbingers hands, and lumine remains unaware of the incoming chaos, busy trying to shelter her twenty seven ducktaglias. knock her off her feet, childe 😤

i tried to be funny this chapter, i hope you guys enjoyed it. thank you for reading!!!

Chapter 16

Summary:

"You were sick,” he calls out."Months ago."

"What?"

Inches from the portal, her feet stutter to a stop.

"You were sick, little demon. I tucked you into my bed and held your hand. Nursed you until you recovered. Do you remember that?"

She can hardly deny it—not when it is seared fresh in their minds. She tries, nonetheless, angling in his direction, a medley of emotions crossing over her face—embarrassment most prominent of them all, though she attempts to conceal it under a look of righteous fury. "That was not what happened."

"It was. You promised me a boon then.”

“Don’t you dare—”

“I'm claiming it now."

Even in slumber, the abyss lingers.

Whispers slinking into the haziness of dreams, like iridescent oil slick in water. Between flashes of battle, the moonlight arc of his sister’s blade, the demented puppet’s grin. He ignores them until he can’t, the sounds insistent, too loud to ignore, and Aether wakes up to numbness biting his fingers, and Scaramouche's hair in his mouth.

Through the window, the Frostscion Moon hangs low in the sky, a silver coin against the deepest black.

He tries to fall asleep again. But the comfort of slumber has fled far out of his reach. Scaramouche’s sleeping face twitches at the jostling bed when Aether rolls out, landing on his feet, but he doesn’t wake.

Aether sighs.

Outside, the night is eerily silent, shadows long and empty. Not many creatures would dare tresspass when he is here, so he is not surprised by the quiet.

When he passes the duck house, a string of alarmed quacks greet him.

Well, creatures other than those.

Aether wonders if his sister would notice if he tossed those feathered creatures out and back to Teyvat. Or if he cooked them into a thick stew. But she probably would, and he’d rather not risk angering her when she is already frantic with emotions, of all things, so he shakes his head at the ducks, their beady, disdainful eyes fixed on him, and carries on.

That human had a scarf of a similar color to theirs around his neck too, he remembers.

Aether frowns at that thought, studying it further, like a scholar would a page he does not understand, before setting forward again.

Denial is unbecoming of a demon of his stature. Yet the temptation exists, sweet and enticing, to deny the existence of the damn mortal he’d been unfortunate to meet that day. A mask as red as blood, a mana that tasted wrong, a warning in flesh and bone. Aether had certain when he saw him that he should not allow him to live. That the human is an abomination, a being that should never have come into existance. And yet.

Lumine’s face when she spoke of the mortal had flashed in his mind, just as he called mana to his hand. The eyes creased in unmistakeable softness. The tilt of her mouth. The hazy flush of her cheeks, telling and beyond doubt.

He had to allow the mana, primed to kill, go and glare at the bastard instead.

By the Abyss. Aether shakes his head. The witch must be laughing at him by now.

And he’s at the boundaries of the land his sister claimed, legs dangling over the edge of a cliff, when her voice sounds behind him, displeased and curious and soft, nonetheless. "Aether?"

She's always been adept at finding him when he least desires it. A shrug and Aether tilts his head, studying the frown curling on his sister's face, the sharp curve tinged by worry. "Couldn't sleep,” he admits, patting the ground next to him. “Sit with me?"

He expects a little resistance here—a scowl, a rebuke, a nagging word—not for her to concede without complaint. But whatever restless energy that had posessed her the past few days has mostly settled, worn out and put to rest, and now Aether rues the fact that he knows the root cause of it, after seeing the bastard in the flesh.

It’s not too late to go back to kill him. It would not be painless, since Aether has no contract binding him to Teyvat, no magic that would ease his travel to the mortal realm, but he could, if he tried; tear a portal to where he had last materialized, and hunt the bastard down, to rip his spine through his skin and pull him inside out—

"Aether?" Lumine's elbow knocks into his side. "You're making that face."

Aether blinks, brought back to the present.“What face?”

“The face you make when you plan violent slaughter.”

Ah. he rearranges his expression appropriately, into something less murderous. His mistake.

"Thought of a filthy bug I saw two days ago,” Aether explains when his sister throws him another questioning glance. "I should have crushed it when I had the chance."

“Why didn't you?”

A fair question, and an answer he abhors thinking about.

Frowning, Aether turns his gaze to study the spiraling mist shrouding the land below them, the gaps where earth peeps through, peppered with gnarled trees and ruins. Thoughts run through his head, old memories rising to the forefront. "Lumine,” he mutters. “Do you remember the witch?"

"Mm?"

"She passed through our court years ago. Claimed to come bearing a gift. Incessantly chatty female."

"Ah. The one with child."

Aether nods. "The day she left," he adds, "she told me that the wrong choice would destroy that which I value the most."

"Typical witch." His sister rolls her eyes. "Strange, irritating beings, with a fondess of speaking in riddles. It's beyond me to understand them."

He shrugs at that, the memory of the witch curling heavy in his skull. A voice dire with warning. "I felt the same. But witches are like us, their magic notwithstanding. How do you understand any living creature?"

In his memories, Alice curtsies with a smile.

“You unveil that which they desire the most."

You think I jest, Prince. But would I traverse the Abyss in my condition without good reason?

Your kind does far more demented things for worse.

Why, I cannot argue with that. But this is not one of those delightful circumstances. The Hexenzirkel cannot ignore any threats to the worlds. Accept my gift, Prince.

This is ridiculous.

You and your sister are ridiculous, Prince. The power to raze realms in the hands of two sole individuals? It upsets the balance. It should never have been. Just as He should not be either.

"I wasn't at court the day she visited," Lumine recalls. "You never did tell me what she wanted either."

The same thing he did, more or less, although for far more altruistic reasons. His twin kicks her legs, staring out at the darkness.

Is that a threat, Witch?

Never, Prince. As long as you reign, your kind will prosper. We would never interfere with that.

Then make your point and be done with it.

Take the book, Prince. In the future, you will thank me.

He thinks of that book again, caught in the hands of that cursed mortal. Strings the witch had began pulling years ago. The bastard smelled like blood and death, and the foul odour of Surtalogi's own. The last thing he wants to do is hand his sister over to a bastard like him, grand declarations of love be damned. Even if the words rang sturdy with truth.

He doesn't need any human to interfere with them, Aether thinks grudgingly. He could keep his sister happy. What does this Childe have that he doesn't?

"Aether, you're making the face again—"

"You know, Lumine,” Aether interrupts, crossing his arms.“You should join me in my inspection.”

“What?”

"You should come with me, instead of staying back and tending to affairs here. I'm heading east this time; we could pass through the Ruins of Lament. You liked it there when we were younger."

"That was centuries ago."

"It'll be like old times."

She doesn't answer him, gaze flitting to the arm curled around her shoulder. Lingering on the obsidian-dark skin, tendrils of darkness skimming his elbow, speckled with stars. A hitch in her breath, as though every time she sees the arm, it is the first.

The only visible sign of the Abyss' claim on him. Some called it a curse. Some, the price of the crown. Patterns that grow with every moon, siphoning the mana from his core. One day, the darkness would swallow him whole, and he would never wake again.

Power begets power. Equivalent exchange. Everything has a price in these lands. Even for a prince.

Aether has come to terms with the burden. It is his due and his duty. But Lumine has not. And wasn't that why the witches had meddled, and the world had tilted, and he is here right now, with a twin that looks like she could break apart?

He looks at his sister, the pinched mouth, the stubborn set of her shoulders, and has enough.

"Don't,” he rasps, squeezing her against his side. “You keep doing this to yourself.”

“What?”

“Holding yourself back in some sort of penance… do you think I haven't noticed? You force yourself into roles that you do not want. You never pursue anything for yourself.”

“That’s not true.”

Aether scoffs. “Lumine, you tend to your regrets more than yourself.”

“Hardly—”

“Don't lie to me. I know we never speak of it. But I know when you lie, sister.”

Silence settles between them. He waits.

“It was my fault,” she finally says. “I should have seized the crown. Or I shouldn't have allowed you to wear it. Dont—” she stops him when his mouth opens in reply. “They are not the same thing. That I did not do the first was because I was selfish. That I failed to act on the second was because I was weak. I should have thrown you over my shoulder and fled."

"You know that wouldn't work. The prophecy would have come to pass."

“Does it matter? I wanted to protect you. Prophecies,” she spits, “I tire of them.”

So does he.

Under his palm, her muscles are drawn tight with anger. It’s a blessing, he muses, that he can sense that.

As the darkness crawls over his limb, it grows numb, in gentle increments. He was surprised when he woke up one day and noticed that he couldn't feel the sheets beneath him. That when he reached out to touch Scaramouche's hand later, it seemed though he was touching nothing at all.

And for some reason, thinking of Scaramouche reminds him of the human bastard, the dissapointment that had glazed his face when he saw Aether instead of Lumine. No creature has dared to greet his arrival with disappointment. Fear, terror, hope—yes. But disappointment?

Aether had been tempted to allow his mana to unfurl, to skewer the mortal creature through. A swine that dared to besmirch his sister's name in his mouth, eyes soft and weak. But then he had remembered:

A darkened throne room, a witch, and another prophecy.

"Lumine," Aether murmurs now. Twists to face her. Gently, he curls his pinky over hers.

Once upon a time, the admission would have been unthinkable. He would have scoffed at it—his sister knows that she is irreplaceable, his other half, the twin star. He’s not one to speak such tender sentiments aloud. Neither is she.

But now the night is dark and endless, and they have lived long enough that he had forgotten that not everything in existance is as certain as he thought it would be.

"I need you to remember this. To never forget. Nothing in this realm is more precious to me than your happiness."

Her eyes grow wide with surprise. "Brother." Lumine angles to face him completely, gaze golden under the cover of the Frostscion moon. "Did you partake in human spirits?"

"… What?"

"I know you slipped into the human realm when they tried to summon me."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Those cursed drinks poison your body and mind. You lose control of your tongue under the influence of those concoctions. You say things and do things you would never otherwise. It is awful."

"Are you implying that I must be poisoned to want you to be happy?"

"Well." Lumine scowls. "Perhaps, if only to admit it."

“Hm. Fair,” he concedes. “But I mean it.”

“I know you do—”

"Not like that," he interrupts, rising into a crouch. His sister stares back at him, eyes wide and guileless, ancient and trusting. His other half, the blood of his blood. When he clutches her face within his hands, he cannot feel the warmth of her skin against one.

"I mean it. I want you to be happy. I don’t want you to hold yourself back because of me or anyone or anything else. If there is something—” or someone, “—you want, I’m asking you to claim it.”

"What are you saying—"

“In the beginning, our house was weak. We spent centuries clinging to survival. Then we were not, and the crown became mine, and you’ve spent every century since destroying my enemies and protecting my reign. You’ve been too absorbed by duty and guilt to truly live. Lumine, I want you to live.”

“Aether—”

"Please," he breathes. Presses his brow against hers. His mana sings in his chest, recognizing his sister. As much as the Abyss has sunk it’s claws into his mana, it has not altered this. "Promise me."

"Fine," Lumine bites out, cheeks coloring. "I don't understand what has possessed you, Aether, but fine. I shall be foolish because you asked me to."

The Abyss does not nurture weakness. The Thirteen Houses fight for strength, for power, for survival. There were no appeals to better natures—notions like that got one killed.

Aether should be commanding her to cease visiting Teyvat, to stay by his side, to choose a strong mate among their kind to continue their House.

But he asks Lumine to be foolish—and it is foolishness, to ignore all the lessons their long life has taught them, to forget strength and their oaths and their House—because he is foolish too now, putting his sister first, and that is no burden compared to the others he bears.

Fuck the Abyss and every other creature in the world. And that damn mortal, for good measure, even if he is practically handing his sister over.

He sees the bastard in his mind again, that damn infuriating grin—

“Brother, honestly, who are you thinking about to keep making that face—”

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

"Mondstatians have a saying that the third time's the charm," Ekaterina had informed him shortly earlier in the day, while he busied himself donning his armor, looping the leather strap through the buckle, and fastening the metal breastplate in place.

"You don't sound like you have much confidence in me," he had remarked, raising a brow at his aide.

The woman only blinked guilelessly back at him. "A Liyue proverb also remarks that good things come in threes."

If there was any skill she excelled in more than she did handling paperwork, it was avoiding his questions.

The chilly air settles like ice in his lungs. He breathes in and studies the ground, the runes marked on the floor, the glowing sigil flickering alive with magic.

Nearly a year ago, he had stood in this same spot, ice running in his veins. Desperate and angry, his fury wet with blood. And she had stepped through the veil between worlds then, roiling with the magic he had tasted first in his youth, a creature he had heard of only in history and his master's tales.

She'd been beautiful at first sight. Not that it had mattered in the beginning. All he could think of was Teucer, smaller than he had ever looked, skin and bones in his childhood bed.

Lumine had looked at him, starlight-eyes bright, and extracted a promise from him. At that point, he would have given her Teyvat on a platter to make his brother well again.

And now…

The summoning chants rise to a rousing chorus. The wind picks up, leaves torn off branches and caught in the currents. A stray lightning bolt strikes. The circle glows.

If she does not answer, Leonide had asked him while the other two mages drew the circle, fingers worrying his cloak, what will we do, my lord?

Childe had shrugged. If she doesn't, he had replied. I'll march into the Abyss and drag her out myself.

In the middle of the circle, the edges of reality fracture. Endless stars. A brilliant cosmos. Curling vapours slip through the gap like reaching fingers, dark and opaque.

A slender sillouette, familiar mana scenting the air. When the smoke parts, it is her again, his demon—squared shoulders, narrowed eyes, those elfin features pinched in displeasure.

She looks no different from the last time he saw her, if not more beautiful, her plump lips tilted into a frown, a furrow carved between her brows, her tail whipping behind her. Childe is not prepared for the way his heart jumps to his throat. Or the relief, sweet and heady that floods him at the sight of her piercing gaze, aimed straight at him. As though she could tear him apart with the force of it.

She could, probably, he suspects. If she wanted to.

Gods, he's missed her.

"There you are,” Childe croons, a man parched, drunk on the weight of her attention. “It’s been a while.”

"You." Her irises blaze, the core of an inferno, molten gold that could singe flesh from bone. He'd take that too, allow her to burn him until he’s ashes, as long as she'd let him touch her again. "What do you think you're doing?"

"What does it look like?" With a grin, edging close to giddy laughter, he raises his arms to shoulders-high and announces, "This is a summoning, Viatrix."

"Wasn't once enough? Twice, if you count calling Aether here."

"That visit was your brother's doing, not mine.” He allows his gaze to drift, from the top of her head down her curves, all the way to the tips of her boots, wicked delight curling in him when she colours at the scrutiny. Is she thinking about the last time he looked at her like that? He certainly is. “He wasn't who I wanted to see."

The demon scowls. “Leave me be, Childe.”

"Easier said than done, Lumine. We have unfinished business."

“Of all the puny-brained things to say,” she hisses. Pearly-white fangs flash in his direction. “Do not test my temper. I have wasted enough of my precious time on your nonsense. Clearly, the process of producing child is not as simple as I thought it was. I am returning to the Abyss. You will see me when I come to collect your firstborn, and only then. "

It sounds like a goodbye. And it is one, he realizes when she pivots, presumably to stomp back into her realm. He can't let her do that, thinks to tell her so, but the sight of her bare back, winged with luminous gold nearly undoes him. Weeks ago he had his hands over that same back, spine arching into him as he plyed her with pleasure. Fuck. Fuck.

There's nothing stopping him from marching over there, trapping her in his arms and kissing her. Nothing except the plans he's made, and the certainty that once he has her in his grasp, she wouldn't leave.

Patience, he tempers himself. You’ve waited this long, Ajax.

Childe clears his throat. Swallows the saliva pooling in his mouth. Gods, it almost hurts, the keening ache to taste her skin. "You were sick,” he calls out."Months ago."

"What?"

Inches from the portal, her feet stutter to a stop.

"You were sick, little demon. I tucked you into my bed and held your hand. Nursed you until you recovered. Do you remember that?"

She can hardly deny it—not when it is seared fresh in their minds. She tries, nonetheless, angling in his direction, a medley of emotions crossing over her face—embarrassment most prominent of them all, though she attempts to conceal it under a look of righteous fury. "That was not what happened."

"It was. You promised me a boon then.”

“Don’t you dare—”

“I'm claiming it now."

Mouth dropping open in indignation, pink blotches staining her cheeks. He can see her mind whirring, instinct rearing to deny him and the occurence again, just so she could, the contrary creature. "Now?”

"When else? Stay with me," he says stepping forward, and watches her gape at him incredulously. "For three days."

"What?"

"Stay with me," he repeats, more earnest, stepping closer now that he has her hooked, a fish only waiting to be reeled in. "That's what I want in return."

"You could demand anything within my power. Riches, power, a longer life than a mortal could dream of. And that is all you want?"

"Of course not. Three days is hardly enough. I want you forever," he admits, and watches her choke on air at the spoken words. Not that she has any clue what he’s meant—It’s still cute now, her obliviousness, even if it caused more trouble than it’s worth. "But I doubt you'll agree to that, so I'll make do with this paltry contract instead. Stay here, and don't leave my side until three days are up. No matter what I do."

"You make no sense. You gain nothing from keeping me here." she shakes her head in foregone conclusion, contemptuous. "Are you planning to assassinate me?"

“Nothing so dishonourable, little demon.” He shrugs, and throws her a winning smile. “I just want the pleasure of your company.”

“You’re a lunatic.”

"If I wasn't a little crazy, I'd have never summoned you in the first place. And that would have been a damn shame." Childe grins at her unabashed. "Tell me yes, Viatrix."

"Ask for something else."

"No. It's that, or nothing."

"Stop with your simple-minded stubborness."

Oh, isn't she one to talk. "You promised me anything," he reminds her shamelessly, raising a brow. “Or are you telling me the great Viatrix does not keep her word?”

Maybe this is what finally pushes her over the edge he thinks, as she practically growls at him, hands curled into fists. He smothers the urge to coo at her, the fascimile of a kitten waiting to pounce, on top of the need to. devours her himself.

“Tick-tock, Viatrix—”

"Fine then,” she snarls. “Three days, and I leave. You have your deal."

As she agrees, the circle glows with the power of a new covenant, crimson- bright and final. For a second, she’s washed in the color, and he glimpses her face before she turns away, a flicker of unease crossing her face.

Three days is little in the grand scheme of things, but for his plans, more than enough.

Childe smiles at his demon, studiously looking at anything but him.

Hook, line and sinker.

Notes:

hello everyone it's been a while [head in hands]
honestly this chapter had been written ages ago but i had two scientific conferences back to back and i was clinging to life by my fingertips lol. plus edits were taking too long since i wasn't vibing with the flow of a particular section. a very important section.
but yeah, didn't want to keep y'all waiting for much longer, so i chopped it up and served ya'll the first half! will try my best to finish up the next chapter asap <3

other things I must mention: have you seen this toe-curling art by aitsu yet? and this adorable artwork by katie? please take a look! they make me so giddy with joy im obsessed

tysm for reading, and hope y'all are having a good day!

Chapter 17

Summary:

"Childe—Childe!" That sweet voice goes high pitched with surprise when he plucks her from the ground, thumbs digging divots into the dip of her hips. "Unhand me—"

"Found this funny, really?"

"Hilarious," she snipes, digging a heel into his kidney. Twists and attempts to shimmy from his grip. "You've grown complacent—"

"Gods. Come here, you," he grumbles, half-laughing, half-serious. Leans down and seals his mouth across hers.

 

Perhaps allowing the summoning to take hold had been an ill-fated idea.

Not that she will admit it out loud. Lumine is not won't to committing those pesky little things called mistakes—everyone else is in the wrong, but she never is. The perks of being an all-powerful, immortal entity in posession of the ability to reshape the world at her whims.

But the summons had tugged at her with an insistent, clawing force. And despite the fact that Lumine had decided, quite firmly, that the human did not deserve any more of her time and attention, she’d also been suddenly and furiously seized with the illogical need to see his stupid face again.

To mangle. To carve into tatters. To punish, obviously, and not for any other reason.

And just to make it clear, that she is here, marching up to the manor again, is not her fault, but his. Didn't he say he needed nothing from her? That he sheltered her out of the kindness of his foolish, mortal heart? The conniving liar. She should have known.

And now, when he could have demanded anything from her, all he asks for is…

Lumine scowls.

Childe is a walking shadow against the white snow, the only blot of colour in the monchrome surroundings his unruly hair. The bond between them thrums golden and solid—fleshed with the power of another covenant, like solid manacles around her limbs.

Stay with me for three days. How far could she distance herself until her own magic rebelled? This is what they taught the youngest of demons first; to always take care when making a binding oath, for it claimed your own magic as collateral. To promise the least you could.

They would laugh if they saw her now.

Childe doesn't even bother to look back to see whether she is following, so certain that she is, bound by the oath he had extracted from her. And that thought nearly casts her vision red with fury, that he had played her so thoroughly. The satisfaction reeks off of him. Like he’s already won a battle she’d not noticed they were fighting. The most damning fact being that she’s not aware how he’s won, or what the stakes even are—

“Nice weather we’re having, eh?” One of the sorcerors cough out by her side, a trembling smile on his face. She wonders at the clammy pallor of his skin. Then preens at the fact she hasn't lost her touch. The human has her doubting even that these days. Bastard.

“The cold is quite refreshing,” another adds.

“I prefer the Abyss, where we do not need to insulate ourselves with the skins of dead animals to survive,” Lumine replies.

They all shut up after that.

The night is dark and quiet, a gentle breeze kissing her skin. She will never get used to this cold, she thinks, drawing the cloak one of the summoners had handed her around her closer. Almost a year, and the chill still gnaws on her bones. Not that she'll admit it to anyone.

By the time they pass through the manor gates, it is hours past midnight.

The Harbinger barks orders to the group, the fur of his collar so thick and lush it hides half his face. Barely, for a second, she catches his gaze dart to her, dark, swirling blues. It makes her ill.

That stupid face, those stupid eyes, his damn, infuriating lips—lips that should not curl so invitingly, teasingly, like he's daring her to stomp up ahead and tear it to pieces. And thinking about his lips reminds her of other things, of the way they felt against her skin, the searing heat of his body on hers—

No. No.

By the Abyss. She has spent too much time in this realm. Allowed herself to grow complacent. Weak. Allowed a mere human to rattle her with his games. Hadn't she known since the beginning what he was? A fool who adored the hunt and conquer, nourished in battle and boodspill. He'd made no effort to hide it. Flaunted it, in fact, covered in the gore of his enemies.

How do you understand anyone? You think of what they desire the most.

What does he want?

Lumine hardly notices that he’s moving again. Her feet follow without thought while she examines the possibilities once more. Murder, bloodbaths, unrestricted combat; all fairly tempting options…

"Lumine.”

Somewhere along the way, the other humans have peeled off their group, until they are the only two left. The lanterns flicker on the wall, gilding his features gold and unreadable.

Behind him is his bedroom door, carved wood and solid as a rock.

She knows this because the last time she was near that door, she’d been pinned against it, his lips searing against hers, mind oozing and slow with thoughts, addled by his proximity.

And now he’s looking at her, and the way he looks at her has always made her uneasy, but it is worse now, now that that when she looks back, all that she remembers are the memories she does not want to relive.

Not again. No. No.

“Do you want to come in—”

"I'm going for a walk," Lumine interrupts, and marches far, far away in the opposite direction.

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

You could just take her.

The bedroom door closes behind him, and Childe sags against wall, hand running down his face.

The thing in him cooes, raking claws against his insides.

He could. Demon’s respected that, if nothing else. In the Abyss, the strong take what they want, the weak cobble what is left after. And say, if what you wanted was a demon—and gods, does Childe want—that too, was left for the taking.

She’d be pretty then too, bright and crackling with rage. A cataclysm within the circle of his claws.

Biting back another sigh, he crosses the room. Throws his cloak over a hook, unlatches his armor. Sheds them like a used carapace, piece by piece, until he’s left in only his smallclothes, the winter-cold biting at flesh.

He’d need to wake early tomorrow. Despite his attempts to free his schedule this week, there were still several demands for his time. A massive creature on the loose near the eastern outpost, another meeting at Northland Bank; they demanded his attendance thrice over for the one meeting he’d missed, the crafty old managers. Rumors of a curse at one of the rural settlements that Ekaterina insisted he settle—all their waterf have vanished, and the sorcerors say that it is no mere rumor.

He’d rather have spent all the time he has by her side—not that she’d allow him to, the stubborn creature, he thinks, as movement through the window catches his eye, pale gold within the snow-swept bushes. His demon, actually on a walk of all things, trudging down the garden paths like a storm.

Childe wonders if it’ll ever not feel like this—a punch in the gut, like innards are being scooped out, like the world feels infinitely distant when she’s in view. Pure need coursing in his blood at the mere sight of her as she stretches up in a drawn yawn, the likeness of a cat batting the drowsiness away.

He reaches out, ringing the bell by his bed.

Lumine yawns again, settling beneath the shade of a pine.

She’d been blushing when she left. Bright red up to the tips of her ears. He’d tempered the urge to cage her against the wall and take those ears into his mouth. Felt a wicked satisfaction when he saw her expression; eyes that couldn't hide a lie even if she tried, feelings painted vividly all over her face. Any question of whether she remembered the kiss—whether she wanted more—put to rest.

A voice sounds outside the door. “Master Childe?”

“Prepare one of the rooms in this wing for Lumine,” he says. “And send someone to fetch her from the garden.”

At this rate, she’d fall asleep in the snow, if he let her. Wake up with frostbite and an urge to bite off his head, his vengeful creature. If demons could get frostbite, he supposes. Even without, with the burning gaze she set on him, she’d sink her teeth into him any chance she gets.

On second thought, he’s not really opposed to that.

In the garden, one of the maids rushes towards the demon, practically shooing her back inside. Worried probably, about what looked like a young woman freezing in the snow. Lumine frowns up at her, before begrudgingly rising to her feet. The cloak falling around her parts, revealing the same legs he’d dreamed of last night, soft and pink with cold, wrapped around his hips like a vice.

Heat curls in his gut. Archons, he’s never felt this unhinged in his life.

“You’re really going to be the death of me, aren't you?”

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

She hasn't been gone for that long, honestly. Even if the rest of the manor begs to differ.

"Lady Lumine, you've returned! Oh, thank every star and our Majesty’s grace," Sasha exclaims, gathering her hands into hers. Her fingers are pruned—Lumine hadn't known that mortal flesh could look like wrinkled fruit if submerged in water too long. The first time she had seen Tonia's fingers after a bath, she thought her minion had caught a disease. "We thought you had left for good."

"Sasha!" Polina snaps, elbowing her in the side. "What Sasha means to say is that she never doubted that you would come back.”

"Indeed. It was terrifying here without you."

Terrifying without her? That does not make sense. She is the very manifestation of terror. She tells the same to Sasha, who blinks in confusion.

"What?"

"Your manor is safe, warm and filled with food, with warriors trained to keep monsters at bay. What caused terror in you, human?"

"Oh." The maid blinks again. "That is…"

"It is a long explanation," Another voice interrupts, and Ekaterina makes her way through the parted crowd, fixing her mask daintily. "Master Childe is looking for you, my lady.”

Lumine hisses in response.

The Lord’s aide doesn’t miss a beat. “It will take him ten minutes to wrap up the meeting he is in, and another five to reach the kitchens. I requested Anya prepare some pirozhki for your return. Please have some before you leave."

Oh, pirozhki. “Childe’s minion,” Lumine declares, “You may be my favorite human yet.”

The human shudders. “I beg you not to speak those words in front of Master Childe.”

Two warm and mouthwatering rolls later, the taste of spices lingering in her mouth, Lumine makes her way out of the manor.

Avoiding the human is easier than she thought it would be. His hair is easy to spot from a far-flung distance, and all it takes is some swift maneuvering to stay out of sight. He is a persistent bastard, nevertheless, unerringly turning up wherever she rests—rests, and not hides, because she does not hide—the barracks, the gardens, the library. Almost like he can sense her presence.

A funny thought, that. A creature with no magic tracking her. Lumine huffs, and takes a detour to the stables, once the coast is clear, heading straight to to stall at the end and her favourite waiting beast.

"Maximus," she tells the horse seriously, offering a chunk of bread to the questing mouth. "You must give my suggestion of usurping your master serious consideration. He is not right in the head. He admitted it to me with his own tongue."

Maxim harrumphs.

"Indeed, you are a much finer specimen than he is—"

"So you have been bribing my horse."

Lumine freezes.

His voice is silken and thrumming with mirth behind her. Unmistakable. By what sorcery has Childe found her? She’s been careless, not that it matters, not that he could harm her enough for it to matter; but the scowl grows on her face either way, that he could sneak up on her, that she let him, that he is near her again when she had taken every measure to stay far away from that stupid, intense gaze—

"Go away," she orders, stern.

"When I've finally got a hold of you? You’ve been so busy I barely saw you the entire morning."

“Yes.” Studiously petting Maxim’s brow, she grits out, “I was having a pleasant morning. Without you hovering around me.”

“Huh. You sound angry.”

Idiot human. Her blood pounds loud and hot in her veins. He questions her when he is the one who dragged her here?

“You delude yourself, human. You are not worth my attention, never mind rage.”

“Wow. I haven't seen you this prickly in a while.”

“Keep speaking, and you may never see anything again.”

She feels him move, the change in the air currents, hay cracking underneath heavy boots, his footsteps deawing closer. Every nerve in her body crackling to life at the proximity.

“That would be a shame. I’ve got someone I need to keep an eye on.”

“Then they will be overjoyed when I spare them that torture.”

“I wonder.” Childe laughs, and the sound does something funny to her insides. “Why dont you tell me why you’ve been avoiding me, Lumine?”

Giving him her attention would only delight him. She staunchly sets her gaze forward, patting the mortal idiot’s steed.

If she doesn't look at him, he’s not there.

“Did I do something wrong?”

He’s not there. He’s not there. He’s not there—

Warm, moist breath fans across ear.

“Or did I do something to you?”

Fury, heady and untempered rears its head in her .“Brazen cur,” Lumine hisses, whipping around, a pale sword of light shimmering into existance within her palm. Maxim neighs in surprise behind her. “Has your sense dissolved to air between your ears? Courting my wrath will only lead to your ruin.”

Childe beams at her. Amusement dances across his face. Touches the miniscule scar on his upper lip, the notch in his brow, the nearly invisible spots speckled across the bridge of his nose and curve of his cheeks, all features she’s horrified to realize she’s noticed. Says, “I’ll court your wrath if it means courting you.”

She snarls in response. And then the words sink into her brain, a jumbled collection of syllables that are nonsensical. Must be nonsensical. Because there is no way the human just said what he did—

“What?”

“Have you had lunch yet?” Childe leans against the stall gate, arms crossed over his chest. “The cooks told me that all you’ve had the entire morning are a two bread rolls.”

Lumine shakes her head. She must have misheard him, she decides, focus returning to more important matters. With a twist of her wrist, she lines the sword into place. Sharp point at the soft skin of his throat. A threat.

“Food is not a necessity for my kind,” she reminds him. “Leave.”

“I know,” he replies blithely, ignoring the thinly-veiled threat. “You’ve said that nearly everytime I invite you to a meal.”

“And yet you continue to bother me by asking.”

“Because you like eating. And besides, I like putting food on the table for you.”

Blood rushes to her cheeks. Her hand spasms around the hilt, sword dropping by an inch.

He doesn't know what he’s saying, she tells herself. He doesn't know what offering food to a demon signifies. They’ve already eaten together often. Just because he demonstrated mortal mating customs to her once doesn't change anything—

“I enjoy doing things you like,” Childr continues, head cocked. He wraps his hand around her blade, notching the tip back to the flesh of his throat. His grin widens. “Anything you like. It feels satisfying.”

Unease climbs her throat. She tugs the weapon back. Gentle, or gentle as she can be.

"Did you hate the kiss?"

“Childe, release my sword.”

"Not until you answer my question. When I kissed you that day, you ran away."

“Quiet—”

“I think you liked it. You sounded like you did."

She tries not to dignify that with an answer, blood rushing to her cheeks, but the mortal is too insistent, too stubborn. "That—that is mere conjecture—"

"Are you denying it?"

"There is nothing to deny. Nothing happened."

“Ah.” A huff of laughter, dripping with dark amusement. “Stubborn little thing. Sheathe the sword and come with me, won't you?”

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

Demon mating rituals are deceptively simple, when it comes down to it.

Strong mates bore strong children. It always circled back to strength. Prove yourself a worthy mate, that would protect them. Prove yourself impressive, worthy of surrender.

Prove that you are strong enough to claim them. To keep them.

He'd keep her, he thinks, studying the furrow between her brow, begging to be kissed away. For as long as she'd allow it.

"Childe."

"Mm?"

"Why are we in the kitchens?"

A glance from Childe clears the room, and then it is only the two of them. It's the lull between breakfast and lunch, so the stoves are still empty, meal prep abandoned on the sides of the counters. Lunch would be late today, but that would be a sacrifice he'd have to make.

"Are you cooking?"

He plucks an empty pot from storage, sending her an easy smile. "Thought we could try making something together."

She gapes at him. "You can cook?"

"Of course," he laughs, "My mama refused to let us step out of the house without a minimum of three recipes under our belt."

"And you are a… good cook?"

"Your confidence in me is heartwarming, moya zvezda. I'll have you know I cook better than most people."

Her head tilts, lips pursed in serious consideration. "I have sampled feasts from your finest chefs. Certainly you cannot surpass them."

"Harsh. A man can have many talents, you know. Help me find the sugar."

It's been a while since he's worked in the kitchen. The few meals he's prepared have been on missions and campfires, utilitarian and cobbled from any ingredient they could hunt and forage.

Cooking in a kitchen like this reminds him of home, dough between his fingers and mama's laughter when he’d burnt bread the first few times, the taste of charred meat as his father grins at him over the dining table.

"What are you making?" She asks, lingering by his elbow.

"What do you want me to make?"

"You will make whatever I want?" she parrots, eyes narrowed.

"Just for you," he promises, and grins at the suspicion in her gaze. "Don't you trust me?"

"Honey biscuits,” she replies in lieu of an answer.

Hm. He doesn't know the exact recipe, but how hard could it be? “Coming right up.”

She helps him, despite that he refused her at first. Maybe because he did. She palms a jar of honey out of the cuboard while he dumps flour on the worktable, rolling his sleeves over his elbows.

While he drips water and coaxes the flour into thick dough, he glances to the side and imprints the image into his mind: Viatrix, nose scrunched, tongue caught between teeth, and diligently cracking an egg into the bowl.

It feels like a glimpse of the future. A snapshot of possibility. Lumine by his side, as content as she is obstinate, his own to claim and cherish.

Childe’s insides twist, so wrecked by desire it hurts.

And he wasn't planning on it, not really, but she’s utterly unguarded. Not to mention, her cheek is a perfect canvas, round and pale as milk, and the bowl of batter is right by his elbow…

Quick, as swift as a darting fish, he dips a spoon in the batter and swipes it across her cheek.

"Hm," he says, as Lumine freezes, disbelief gilding her face. "Looks pretty good on you, Viatrix."

"You." Her voice drops low, vicious. Eyes glittering dangerously. She wipes the batter off with the back of her hand. "How dare—"

"And now," he adds, and takes advantage of her distraction to swipe another streak of batter on the other cheek. "You have a matching pair."

“Gah!”

“Too slow,” he crows, dodging a clawing strike. “And if you attack me again, you’ll be forgoing your honey biscuits.”

She draws back, eyes glittering ominously. "You are going to regret this.”

Childe laughs. “All words and no bite, little demon.”

Their first set of biscuits come out of the oven as hard as rocks.

"I knew you couldn't cook," she remarks gleefully, poking a biscuit with her finger.

"I do make a mean curry," Childe defends, picking up one of the biscuits. Could be used as a weapon, he rues, and then drops it back on the plate, leaning back against the counter with a sigh.

"I shall believe it when I witness it myself."

"Do I have any reason to lie, moya lyubov?"

"I don't know," she admits. Childe watches it for a moment, the vulnerability that flickers across Lumine's face, a barely there crack in her armor. It’s subtle. Hardly there, before she tucks it away, but he notices, of course, and wonders.

“Hey," he says, voice softer, "Mora for your thoughts?"

She shakes her head. "Will this batter make any honey biscuits that we can eat?"

That was definitely not what caused that look on her face. But it's still something. "Probably not."

"Good."

She upends the entire bowl of batter on his head.

Childe gapes.

"I told you that you would regret it," she crows, eyes bright, cheek speckled with batter.

And he can't help it, not with her, never with her. He recognizes the feeling settling in his middle, sharp, intimately familiar with it the past few months—desire. Her laughter spilling across the room, sweeter than anything he's heard. He's crossing the room before he can think twice, think you had a plan, you can't spook her now, can't scare her away—

"Childe—Childe!" That sweet voice goes high pitched with surprise when he plucks her from the ground, thumbs digging divots into the dip of her hips. "Unhand me—"

"Found this funny, really?"

"Hilarious," she snipes, digging a heel into his kidney. Twists and attempts to shimmy from his grip. "You've grown complacent—"

"Gods. Come here, you," he grumbles, half-laughing, half-serious. Leans down and seals his mouth across hers.

She tastes of the honey she licked off her fingers earlier, sweet and heady and entirely her. He wants to be gentle, he does; but she makes a little gasp, soft and needy, and then he can't help himself, practically snarling into her mouth, drinking her in, drowning in her. Her fingers are fumbling to grip his shirt, weakly pulling at the fine wool until he finally pulls back.

"What are you—"

"Shhh." He presses his lips to the corner of her mouth. “I’m kissing you.”

Sweeps down to do it again, except she refuses to allow him so easily this time. "I have not had firewater." She says, hand splayed over his mouth. Her hand is warm. Her protest is nonsensical, and he doesn't think even she understands why she said it. He kisses her palm, tugs it away and leans forward again.

"No, you haven't," he agrees, coralling her into another kiss. And she lets him, Gods, the sweet thing, docile once she's been kissed and fed.

None of his dreams could come close—her wet keens, glazed eyes, squeeze of her legs around his waist. Soft, flushed skin, and gods, her taste—

"I'm a demon—" she gasps out, turning away. He grasps her by the chin, and pulls her back to face him, brushing his mouth against hers again.

"Mm. I know."

"Childe," she whimpers against his lips, straining, small and deceptively breakable in his arms. The sound barely loud enough to be heard by mortal ears, but he does, the syllables melting heat in his core. "Enough."

Enough. It was never enough, not the relent of her body against his, the taste of her in his mouth, the damning sounds that she makes. He feels insane with it, head spinning at the thought of devouring more. He strokes his thumb across her proud little chin, below lips already pink and swollen. "Why?"

"Stop kissing me. It's—humans kiss human mates, Childe."

"You seem to be laboring under a misconception, moya lyubov."

She shakes her head. Her hair spills over her shoulders, spun starlight—he wants to tangle the silken strands, take her apart, leave her in tatters from pleasure. "I labor for no one and nothing—"

His mouth twitches. Gods he loves her.

“Be my mate.”

“…What?”

"Be my mate," he repeats, mapping kisses across her shoulder. She shudders at each one, the sensitive thing. It makes him wonder how sensitive she'd be elsewhere, and those thoughts lead only to ruin. "Gods, I've been in love with you for a while. I want to be your mate. I want you as mine."

"Love?" she echoes, voice cracking on the last syllable. "You lie. That can't be—"

"I love you and I'm courting you, Lumine. I've cooked food for you. I've fed you. I've sheltered you from your enemies." He leans closer, nipping the edge of her jaw. "That's how demons court a mate, yeah?"

"Yes but—" She sputters, shocked. Eyes wide. "You're a human!”

"Mm." He scrapes his teeth against the markings at her throat.

"You're not a demon—"

“Doesn't mean I can't want you, moya lyubov."

And he lowers himself to seek the softness of her mouth again. Kisses her again, long and drawn, fingers fanned out beneath her ribs. Until she's unspooled at the edges, pupils blown and head empty of anything but him. A panting, breathless creature that almost follows him when he parts from her.

He could push her down and take her on the kitchen table. She'd let him, he thinks. Just like this, limp with pleasure. Cupping her face in his hands, he turns his head, brushing a kiss across her nose, her cheek, her ear. Licks up the sweat-dampened skin of her throat.

But one tryst on the kitchen counter isn't enough. She deserves better. And he wants, no, needs more.

Childe takes a step back, leaving space between them. "Two more days, little demon."

An ultimatum.

Lumine’s head tilts. Her mouth quivers, and she’s just breathing, calculating, swallowing. Her face is flushed. Her mouth is swollen. She watches him like spooked prey, spine drawn tight. Knuckles pale white.

When she stomps out of the kitchen, her steps are stiff. Short.

Like it's taking everything in her not to run.

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

Notes:

denial was sweet while it lasted. poor lumi.

thank u for reading, and hope y’all had a good weekend!

also note: due to the scrapes for AI training, most particularly the recent AI scrape on Ao3, all my older/complete fics have been set to private! meaning that only registered users can see them. I apologize to any and all guest readers for the inconvenience. if you're interested in reading my other works (and the works of other amazing authors) please do consider registering on Ao3!

Chapter 18

Summary:

“You cannot love me.”

Childe cocks his head. “Why not?”

“Because—because!”

“Because,” he echoes, and the frustration gilding her face makes his heart ache. “Gods, Lumine.”

During a sleepless night of deep contemplation, Lumine comes to the conclusion that she is cursed.

Much to her consternation, a confirmatory spell tries to disabuse her of the notion, no curse reacting to prove her right. But, she’ll have mortalkind know that she will not swayed. It must be that the humans have figured out how to weave subtler workings, one that can escape the notice of even a being like herself.

Else, there is no other fitting explanation to all... that.

Why Lumine felt winged insects in her belly, like Tonia’s tomes spoke of. The overwhelming sensation of want. Her lack of refusal when Childe kissed her not once, but twice. She wouldn't be surprised if kisses were the method of casting—they felt nonsensical enough to be just that.

In fact, most mortals must be under such a curse. It would explain why all of them were so illogical when it came to the propogation of their species.

Lumine informs Ekaterina of this theory in the morning, because while Ekaterina is Childe’s minion, she is also quite a good ear, and Lumine is short out of others. Her minions are apparently unavailable, occupied with an “all expenses paid family vacation”. Which doesn't make sense because Childe is still here, Childe is their beloved family, and she says so, to which Ekaterina lightly coughs and averts her gaze.

Only for it to catch on the third occupant in the room, and really, Ducktaglia the Seventh does not deserve such a look of fascinated horror. Such looks should be reserved for Lumine and Lumine alone.

“Ekaterina,” she prompts, forcing the aide to drag her gaze back to her. She will not be ignored.

Said aide is looking paler by the day. “Perhaps Master Childe simply wished to spend time alone with you, my lady,” She finally says, over another incriminating side-eye aimed towards the fowl, and neatly sidestepping the matter of the curse.

“Ah. Because he cannot curse me in front of my minions. It would set a terrible example.”

“As far as I am aware, Master Childe does not have the ability to cast curses.”

“Of course you are not aware of it,” Lumine replies. “Informing your minions of the full extent of your power is the shortest path to insurrection.”

To this, Ekaterina looks absolutely nonplussed, blinking multiple times, mouth opening and falling shut. And finally—

“Of course,” she echoes. Resignation. “Certainly, none of this is because Master Childe is truly in love with you.”

“Precisely! You are far more intelligent than the rest, Childe’s minion.”

Hm. Ekaterina reminds her awfully like Aether—his face scrunches like that too when staving off a headache.

There’s a monster rampaging the eastern villages, the aide informs her next, watching as the demon wanders away to curl in a patch of sunlight. “The Master will be leaving for it’s subduing. He requests your presence in the dining room.”

Stupid human. She doesn’t want to see him. “I refuse.”

“He said that you might say that.” A cough. The human looks very tired. Lumine doesn't blame her—Childe is exhausting in incomprehensible ways. “And asked me to inform you that if you are too frightened to meet him, it’s alright. He shall allow you to hide. For now.”

What.

“What?”

“If I may take my leave,” Ekaterina squeaks, and flees the room.

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

“You witless buffoon. I shall rip your body into quarters, and throw them into a flaming pyre,” His demon announces, vicious and radiating killing intent, sweeping into the dining room with shadows crawling at her feet.

The very picture of doom and iminent destruction. Not much point hiding her horns and tail if she’s going to keep striking such an ominous figure without. She is dangerous and deadly and gods, Childe can't help but beam at her, drowning in the surge of affection that floods him whenever she’s within ten feet and breathing.

“There you are,” he croons, sugar-sweet veneer over the bone-deep want, the need to abandon all restraint and ravish her over the dining table. The fact that she’s here is a boon—he’d worried that she’d hole herself in the room and refuse to meet him, courtesy of yesterday's confession. “Come over and sit before the food gets cold.”

She doesn't, of course, his stubborn demon. Not all triumphs come easy—though Childe does think that is fun of it. She’d been a challenge from the beginning, teeth to the jugular, and wasn't that the best part? Hair spun gold in the morning sun, hands clawed in fury. And eyes refusing to meet his; not entirely unaffected, it seems.  “Did you not hear me, human?”

“I did, I did. But perhaps death threats should wait until after breakfast.”

“I will not eat your food. Do not attempt to distract me,” she replies in a huff, and firmly ignores his arched brow to return to promising him certain death, which inspires all sorts of fuzzy feelings inside him. If only she knew what doing that did to him; well, knowing her, she’d try to stop, and end up threatening him again anyway. Not that he minds, of course.

And despite her protests against consuming what he’s laid before her, she is trying not to stare at the toast, and he for one knows that the bread is done just the way she likes it, golden-brown, and crispy to the touch. A bowl of creamy butter beside it, a platter of sliced tomatoes and cucumbers and a glass of freshly juiced orange.

“Lumine,” he interrupts, in the middle of a creative spiel detailing the use of his entrails in a convoluted plan of strangulation. “I’m not opposed to a fight. Never, really.” Plucks a slice of bread from the plate and butters it, knife flashing silver in his hand. “Rather, the thought is appealing.”

A disgruntled glance at him from the seat she’s finally decided to plop into. Brows furrowed, pearly fangs glinting over plush lips. Cute. “Of course it is.”

“Aren't demons supposed to like that sort of thing?”

“If we do not slaughter our foes, we die.” She sniffs, waving a fork in his direction. “You fight for the simple pleasure of it. For no reason at all.”

“I have a reason.” Several, in fact. It doesn't escape his notice that she hasn't touched anything on the table. Nor that she refuses to meet his eyes, studying the tablecloth like they are intricate masterpieces instead. “You.”

A hitch in her breath.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

A pause. Denial. “I do not.”

Leaning back to stretch his neck, at an angle that bares his throat, Childe smiles. Honey slow, liquid warmth. “When a demon of strength wishes to mate with another,” he murmurs, “they challenge them to battle. With victory, they claim the other as theirs.”

Burning gold finally deign to meet dark blues. Comprehension flickers across her face. “And if defeated, they are slain. It is an old ritual, common when my kind was many. Few attempt it now.”

“I would.”

She’s gorgeous when she laughs, he thinks. And when she insults him. Or rather, there’s no point in time when he finds her not gorgeous. He may truly be done for. “You are an idiot.”

“Your idiot.” he parries, cheeky. “Your mate.”

Colour climbs high in her cheeks. Pretty girl, his girl, his demon. There aren't any lengths he wouldn't go to keep her with him. What he would do to just take her in his arms and pleasure her until she can't think straight.

“Childe. You have lost your mind. Stop this.” Her throat bobs. That sweet face, so honest, so stubborn. “You do not really love me.”

Gods, if he hadn’t, would he have spent the last few months driven mad by this creature? “You don't get to decide that, moya lyubov.”

“You cannot love me.”

Childe cocks his head. “Why not?”

“Because—because!”

“Because,” he echoes, and the frustration gilding her face makes his heart ache. “Gods, Lumine.”

He reaches out, cups a cheek in his hand. The most damning thing is that she allows him to. Always has been, that she is a calamity made flesh, a thing of nightmares and destruction, and also a creature that chooses to still for him, even if she refuses to admit it. It destroys him, that realization. “When you come up with a good reason, let me know. Or don’t.” Traces a thumb down her cheek, her neck, the black diamonds painted over her throat. “Forget it and be mine.”

Her throat bobs underneath his touch.

“You fool,” she whispers. Something shadows her face. Something soft and unspeakable and unlike her. “You too have been cursed.”

A curse. He wonders what deduction his little demon has thought up now.

Alas, the Harbinger is deflected from further questioning by a knock on the door. “Master Childe, the arrangements for the mission have been completed.”

It’s the first time he’s been so tempted to ignore his responsibilities. But Lumine has been many firsts for him. “Duty calls, little demon.”

“You're leaving now?”

“Hey now, you don't have to look so upset. I'll be back in the evening at the latest.” He hums.

And now she looks more like herself, an expression of indignation clouding that elfin face. "You bid for my time, and now you abandon me to chase mere beasts?"

“Apparently it’s already mowed down half a village.”

“And your pitiful kind has no other decent warriors among you?”

"Ah, what’s this, love.” Amusement thrums in his chest. Eyes narrowed and gods, that pout. How can he not be in love with this infernal creature? “Are you sulking?"

"Sulking? I have never heard of such a ridiculous thing in my lifetime!"

With a laugh, Childe rises to his feet. His fingers dance over her bare shoulders as he walks past. A mistake, now that he’s beset with the urge to walk back and feel more of her skin under his hands. "You're always welcome to join me—"

"I'm not your servant,” she spits back, “to be dragged to and fro by your whims."

"Archons.” At the door, Childe stills for one last glance, a picture for the road. “Is there no winning with you, little demon?”

“Dull, as mortals usually are. Have you only realized it now?” Lumine sniffs haughtily “The victory is always mine, Childe.”

Always hers. He memorizes this moment, the sunrays slanting into her hair, a heap of burnished gold, the floating dust motes, birdsong outside the window. His demon, the arc of her lips, the tilt of her chin, vicious and terrifying and utterly bewitching.

“I’ll give you this one,” Childe agrees, with a tilt of his head. “Though there are some victories I refuse to relinquish.”

“There you go, refusing to speak clearly—”

"Be good while I’m gone, hm?”

That pert little mouth drops open in sheer affront. Begging to be nipped with teeth. "I hope the beast you’re hunting gores you through your throat,” his demon hisses.

“No, you don't,” he parries, finally gathering the resolve to leave—and from the stubborn horror dancing over her face, Childe knows he’s right.

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

Lunch is in an hour, and Anya is elbow’s deep into a vat of flour when the most hideous noise sounds behind her.

The Eleventh’s manor is a manor in only form and name. The truth of it is known to those who reside in the town—amilitary encampment in the guise of a home, nestled at the edge of the Woods to guard the surrounding settlements.

Soldiers in the barracks, servants as adept with a gun as they are with a duster. Rations in the pantry, perishables only for guests—until last year, the head maid had mused.

Many things have changed over the year.

This too, she supposes.

“Anya,” the lady says, a pure-white duck at her feet.

Lady Lumine, she greets, and after confirming that no, she did not visit the kitchens for a snack, and a careful glance at the duck (she does not ask, fearing the answer—Lady Lumine’s last few questionable endeavours in the manor have not yet faded from collective memory) leads the lady to a seat at the kitchen table, dumping a pile of flour on the counter to knead while she tried to figure out the reason for the unexplained visit. Work unfortunately waited for no one, not even their Master’s beloved.

The girls had been swooning on about that over breakfast prep—Masha had apparently snuck a glimpse at the two last night, the little sneak. He kissed her like he would die if he didn't, Anya. Archons, if a man kissed me, no, looked at me like that..

If the master was as attached to the lady as the rest of them said, he ought to sink to one knee and make it official already, in Anya’s opinion. Dragging things out never did bring good tidings. The Tsaritsa is the goddess of love—what offering is greater than prayer and matrimony?

As one of the Tsaritsa’s own, the lord should have tied the knot ages ago. Anya cannot understand what holds him back. It is not a lack of love, as she would have thought once—no man not in love would have let a woman turn the manor upside down like she did.

(Anya had been looking forward to the ball, a little. She’d only just discovered a new recipe for lemon tarts and hankered for an excuse to show off.)

Or perhaps it is no fault of his, she considers, throwing a glance at the woman drawing patterns over the kitchen table, swirls in spilt flour.

“Anya,” Lady Lumine says. The baker checks the oven—another fifteen minutes for the pies—before returning to the lady. “You are mated.”

Anya glances at her quizzically. “Do you mean married, my lady?”

“Yes. That.”

“I suppose I am—gah, not on the table!”

She’d almost forgotten about that duck. A dire mistake, as the fowl ducks beneath the shooing hand, waddling and leaving three pointed footprints over the surface.

Fast. Anya thought her reflexes were sharp, forged by wrangling three mischievous children into obedience over the years, but this bird proves her wrong, leaping over her next attempt and flapping it’s wings brutally into her eyes.

“My lady! I cannot cook with a duck having free reign in my kitchen—”

In a flash, the duck is brought to heel, caught within slender hands. “I sent my brother a message. This was his reply. You are interrupting my interrogation, Ducktaglia the seventh,” the lady scolds, dropping him onto the floor. “Behave.”

And of all the ridiculous things, the duck—Ducktaglia the Seventh, good heavens—listens, quacking in a most beleaguered manner, but staying in place. The lady nods. Another quack, a fluff of his feathers, and the bird patters off underneath the table. Good grief.

Perhaps the lady has a way with creatures. Impossibly, it seemed like the duck understood her. And it would make sense—it takes no ordinary person to catch their lord’s eye.

She thinks they are just that. Rumors. But even then, she can't help but look at the lady, those sharp eyes, and wonder.

Said eyes are brewing with a certain amount of dismay. “My lady?”

“Why?”

“Why what?” Anya asks slowly, trying to recall what the conversation was in the first place. Sprinkles water over the heap of flour, hands falling into familiar motions. From beneath the table, Ducktaglia the Seventh quacks once more.

“Why did you take him as a mate?”

“I fear I don't understand your question, my lady.”

“You once said you work to feed your children. What is he doing?”

“Ah.” The baker huffs a snort of laughter. “My husband cannot hold hold a job to save his life. Though he does try, the poor man.”

“…He does not seem very useful.”

“True. But that did not matter much when we were young and in love.”

“Love,” Lady Lumine echoes. “That again.”

There's a silence then, a pause that sounds deliberating. The pat-pat-pat of hands on dough, a gentle cough. A muffled quack from underneath the counter. “You sound… upset, my lady.”

“I’m not upset.”

“Worried, then.”

“No.” The woman shakes her head in denial, staring at the wood grain like she could light it on flame with her gaze. A certain vindictive displeasure in her eyes. Anya wonders what the table has done to wrong her. “I have a question.”

“Of course, my lady.”

“Love.”

At the answer, or question, not that Anya has understood yet, the pastry chef pauses in her work, glancing at the lady in confusion.

No clarification.

Hm.

“You wish to know what love is?”

“I wish to know nothing,” Lady Lumine denies, staring at her unblinkingly. “Such silly emotions have nothing to do with me.”

“Aye, but you said you had a question—ah.”

Now that she’s finally caught up—not that the lady was asking, though her bearing didn't concur—Anya leans against the counter, patting her hands off on her checkered apron.

What was love? The Goddess’ gift to the world. To love was to offer one’s heart, to worship, to heal, to break. In a winterlands ruled by Her Majesty, there is no greater devotion.

But that is not the answer the lady is looking for. Anya returns her attention to the half-formed dough, searching for the right words.

Greater people than her have tried and failed to describe their Archon’s domain. Anya cannot compare.

“Anya?”

Anya frowns.

“Love is…” she begins. “Working through the night so that you earn enough coin to feed your loved ones the next day. Starving through dinner to fill their plates. Sleepless nights when they do not come home.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“In the end, none of that matters, because we love them enough, and to live without is far worse.”

“It is a curse.”

“Aye.” A chuckles, a shake of her head. They could call it that too, if they wished. “Fools we all are for chasing it.”

“You regret it. Marrying him.”

Anya snorts. “Not at all.”

“That—” the lady blinks. “You cease to be helpful, chef of pastries.”

“It is not as easy to explain. Love takes many forms.” Sending Lumine a quiet smile, she begins to part the dough into smooth balls, lining them into a neat row. “My lady… if you would allow an old woman to be bold.”

“Must I allow you anything?” The lady grumbles, averting her gaze. “You humans do whatever you want without care for the consequences. Foolish creatures.”

Ah.

The rumours persist, despite the improbability. Mortal, human, your kind. The lady’s abject cluelessness at the most commonplace things. Ekaterina’s tight lipped grimace at any questions in that vein.

The whispers of a monster on the second floor, where the master’s rooms were. Horns and tail and shadows.

The lady could not be ordinary. Anya meets those inhuman eyes and forges on.

“If you do not return Master Childe’s feelings, you should say so,” she says. “Rather than allowing him to nurse false hope.”

“As I said once, I do not allow any human anything.”

“Be that it may.” The timer dings, and she bustles over to the oven before the crusts char. “Love is terrible, but it is just as great. And it cannot be ignored—you must face it one day, my lady.”

By the time she turns back to the table, the lady is gone.

Notes:

this chapter was honestly much much longer but I didn't want to keep y'all waiting so chop chop! which means next update will be next week 😘 not too long now

more kisses soon I promise I'm working on it hehe

ty for reading and hope ya'll are having a good day!

Chapter 19

Summary:

“Childe!”

“Mm?”

An infant could not look more innocent than he does now, wide-eyed and guileless. Her mouth drops open in sheer affront.

In response, he chuckles low in his throat. Wielding that terrible patience, an almost-kiss lingering next to her mouth.

“What are you doing?” she hisses.

A breathy laugh warms her skin. “Not kissing you.”

“Master, wait up!”

Skirk slows to a stop, slanting her gaze to watch the little human sprint across the nebulous field, starbursts trailing in his wake. In the distance, shadows move, near-solid and watching, forms half hidden in the thick mist. Not that they would dare to slink closer in her presence, despite the raging beacon that is that firebrand hair, on a child that acts like he's begging to be killed.

“Maste-eeer!”

Loud, colourful and small, she rues, tamping down the instinct to reach out when he stumbles. It’s a miracle that Ajax has lasted as long as he has.

“You’re noisy,” she scolds, flicking the boy on his brow. “What have I told you?”

“You’ve told me many things, Master.”

“Ajax,” she warns.

“Fine. If I don’t learn to move quietly, the monsters will find me,” Ajax repeats dutifully, a finger raised, eyes squeezed in mock contemplation. And then grins, small and bright, peering up at her through one eye. “Which is silly, Master, cause when they do, I’ll use them as fodder to hone my strength and defeat them!”

Strength—once upon a time, she neither possessed it, nor sought it. Neither did this one, lost within the darkness of the realm. A fragile creature caught within the maws of a monster that slept in the deepest void. She’d glimpsed him, and left him be.

Predator eats prey. The strong conquers the week. A natural order reigned in these lands. The child was only bound by it.

Except.

The child had screamed, gaze catching hers, brilliant bright blue.

At the horizon sounded a long, mournful cry.

“Master?”

His voice brings her back to the present. She gestures for him to follow, setting off on the path back to camp.“If you wish to be strong, you must first survive.” So did the Foul forge her, so does she her own disciple, though with much gentler hands. “Endure. Evolve. Only then shall you achieve the pinnacle of power you seek.”

“I know. You’ve told me that before,” Ajax grumbles. A pause."How long did it take for you to become strong?”

Whether she was strong was another question entirely. The Foul’s shadow stretches long before her. But his strength rivalled depths her disciple cannot perceive yet—to attempt to describe it now would be a futile effort. Instead, she reaches out, a wisp of magic flickering at her fingers. The scrape over his elbow heals. “It took me centuries to last five minutes against my Master.”

Ajax purses his lips in thought. Scowls. “I won't take that long.”

“You can't.”

“Because I’m human, and I don't have forever like you.”

He doesn't sound upset at the nature of his mortality. Merely contemplative. Maybe that’s what encourages her to teach him, the only disciple she has taken in her lifetime.“Are you aware that demons used to be human once?”

Ajax nearly trips again in his haste to face her. “Really?”

“Mm.” It had been long before her time. A civilization fractured, and thrown into shadow. Before the Prince took the throne, before two moons crumbled, before the Abyss had a name. “Humans evolved. That is why the High Demons resemble your kind, to a degree they could be mistaken for humans.”

“Huh.” The child skips a few steps ahead, and walks backwards, arms folded behind his head. “They don't teach us that in school.”

“Much of your history has been lost to time. I learned what I know of ours from my Master, and that is what I teach you. Now tell me, what do you think differentiates you from a demon?”

“Uh. The horns?”

“There are creatures with horns on your world too.”

The boy’s face scrunches in thought. “Magic? But we have magic too. Elemental energy.”

“You’re close.”

“Elemental energy feels a lot like Abyssal power. But it’s not, is it? You can wield Elemental energy too.”

She nods. “Abyssal power is not elemental energy, though they share the same roots. Through techniques of my House, I learnt to channel Abyssal power and make it mimic the elemental energy of Teyvat.”

“It’s the Abyss that transformed humans into demons, right? Demons have Abyssal power. Humans don't. Well, most of them.”

Her mouth twitches into a smile for the briefest of seconds. Ajax beams. “If I master Abyssal power, I can defeat any opponent.”

“A human with Abyssal power is as strong as a demon,” she agrees. "But a weak human can only be as powerful as a weak demon.”

“I’m not weak! I’ve mastered all kinds of weapons.”

“Weaponry is just a starting point. Besides your bow work is sloppy. You almost lost an arm to your last foe.”

“I could grow arms like yours.” Ajax raises his arms in emphasis, the baggy sleeves riding down to his elbows. “Then it wouldn’t matter anymore.”

“These arms are made of Abyssal energy. They aren’t meant for you.”

“That’s so mean, Master. Please?”

Foolish child. He needs to return to his world soon, and that world would reject limbs like hers. What point was there in pouting at her?

But he is, arms now crossed at his chest, a stubborn tilt to his lips. Skirk has not entertained mortal whims for centuries, yet here she is, enslaved to this child’s desires. At least he is simple enough to please. “What if we spar instead?”

Eyes lit up, a bounce in his step. “With both hands?”

Skirk shakes her head.

“Aww, c’mon Master, I can take you at full strength!”

In another world, perhaps Skirk would have walked onwards, and allowed the monster to devour this child whole. In this world however, It had woken, and his destiny had unwoven into new threads. That witch would have known, as a Sustainer of the World’s Borders. Recognized the child that had crossed from one world to another.

Here: a spark with the potential to ravage the stars. Too much, and it would fizzle out. Too little, and it would die, muffled under dust. That he has been brought under her wing is a fortunate coincidence.

Or perhaps, she thinks, it was never a coincidence at all.

“Dinner first. And then you can demonstrate how well you’ve mastered the polearm.”

Ajax grins at her, bloodthirsty befitting a demon flitting over his face, gaze fixed beyond her shoulders. “That?”

“They should be edible,” she agrees mildly, and settles to wait as the child tears off into swirling mist.

 

— ✦ ✦ ✦ —

 

The issue, to be clear, is not that she cannot take Childe as a mate.

She’s had mates before. Once, twice, a third—faces blurring together over the centuries. None of them had tried very hard to convince her; none had needed to. Few in the Abyss took mates for long, and she had only granted them the privilege of sharing her bed in a lapse of judgement.

Her first mate had been gentle—as gentle as any demon could be in their land. He had stayed the longest. She tries not to think of him.

The others lasted barely a few moons, thrown out of her bed once they inevitably attempted to kill her.

Those… relationships had been accidents. When the nights stretched long, and her abode empty. When the bed was large and she reached out and found only air. The promise of warmth; if only for a few nights.

The Abyss did not encourage affection, the ravenous creature it was. Eat or be eaten; kill or be killed. A soul for a soul. No creature could walk on those grounds without blood on their hands.

If Childe were to ever venture to the Abyss…

Lumine swallows, studying the winter-grey sky.

In the realm that swallows all that exists, her brethren have sharpened themselves into beings of calamity. She too, is a lifetime of sharp edges and ruthless cruelty. Too jagged to fit against his mortal frame.

Her land would not spare Childe. It would ground him to dust and spit out his bones. And so would she. Not now, maybe. But eventually.

He would not survive her. So few can.

The rest of the day, as much as Lumine hates to admit it, passes almost cruelly slow.

Her head spins with all the thoughts wrestling within. Perhaps doing something will keep her sane, Lumine thinks. She trudges to the stables to meet Maxim, but the steed has been stolen away by Childe for his mission. Thwarted, she visits the library next, and finds only dull contemplations of mortal life by human men. Tedious ramblings.

A walk with Ducktaglia the Seventh does provide some amusement—the fowl apparently finds the stitched insignias appealing targets—but her entertainment is dashed by the maids pleas to cease terrorizing the soldiers in exchange for a number of apple tarts.

Pity. She had quite enjoyed their terrified screams.

An apple tart in hand, she retires to her room and picks up the book Tonia left on her way back.

It’s another diligent study of mortal mating. At this point, Lumine would consider herself an expert, even if she still doesn't understand why they do most of the things they do. Which reminds her of Childe, and his sudden insufferable knowledge—Abyss only knows where he heard of her kinds customs. Not Aether, certainly—he would castrate himself rather than speak of such things, with a human of all creatures. Especially if he knew what that human would use it for. Who that human would ply with his attempts.

Although Aether has been strange recently…

Lumine sniffs, puffs a pillow and settles within her bed.

Alas not even The Cruel Duke—a tome Tonia had described as steamy and toe-curling, much to Lumine’s confusion—distracts her long from her turbulent thoughts. Lumine frowns down at the page where the Duke passionately embraces the main character. The female lead is foolish, she decides. The Duke was only pretending to love her so that she would marry him, and enable him to claim his inheritance. Which was quite intelligent for one of his kind, except she had finally married him a few pages ago, and there is no need for him to continue the charade, and to keep kissing her. And now the kissing has begun to make little sense—The Duke smirked, dragging his lips down the swell of her abdomen, down to her waiting flower, petals open and wet with dew.

Why by all of mortalkind was the author speaking of foliage?

Lumine slams the book shut with a huff, rolling onto her back.

At the foot of her bed, Ducktaglia the Seventh massacres a pillow, fluffy down spilling over the carpet like a morbid scene of murder.

“I like that pillow,” she tells the faithful creature, who cracks opens his maw and trills.

With a sigh, Lumine tosses another pillow to it’s slaughter.

Her anger has abated now, if nothing else, burning down into mere embers. Not that she does not still hold him at fault. Stupid Childe. Dragging her here and then leaving her behind. Perhaps she should have joined him on the hunt. If only staying beside him did not make her unsettled, like waiting for a dagger to the back.

I love you and I'm courting you, Lumine.

No. He cannot love her.

Why not?

Her heart twists, an ache that settles in her bones. She curls in the sheets.

Lumine should just tell him no. She is going to tell him no. No more food, no more kisses, no more gifts and touching and talk of mating. She imagines it now, striding up to him and putting it in words. I will not have you as a mate, Childe. I abhor the notion.

He would smile. He always does, that damn infuriating curve of his lips. But she can see it too, the flicker of hurt that would dance in those dark eyes.

She should have nipped this in the bud long ago, whatever affections this mortal purports to have for her. Stringing him along is cruel. Which honestly, is par for a demon, and shouldn't be any trouble at all for her.

And yet.

For some reason she does not understand, Lumine hesitates.

The eventual realization dawns on her when a sudden clamor drifts through the window. Shouts and furor, the stomping of boots and the rattling of wheels. A hunting party returning home. A voice—his voice— cuts through the din, solid and commanding, and just the distant sound of it quickens her heart.

In the courtyard, the Harbinger stands wreathed in metal, a spot of stillness among chaos. Soldiers and servants mill around him, busy unstrapping something from a wagon. The stench of spilt blood on damp fur, the sting of mortal medicine.

Oh.

As if he senses her eyes on him, Childe looks up and smiles.

Oh.

Here: Lumine doesn't want to be cruel to Childe; she doesn't want to hurt him. The thought gives rise to a strange and unpleasant sensation, as if her breath is being squeezed from her lungs.

“Moya lyubov.”

Or rather, she corrects herself, she doesn't want to hurt him much.

All movement in the courtyard stills at his call. Childe raises his fist, languid, the ease of a performer, and isn't it one when the empty eyes of a beast stare back at her from a head half the size of the man? “I’ve brought you a gift.”

It takes her a moment to process the words. Until she does, and her mouth drops open, fingers gripping the sill. A gift, he says. He’s brought her a head.

He’s gifted her his kill.

Blood rushes to her head, dizzying.

She has to swallow twice, mouth dry, before she can speak. “What is that?”

“Was a bear. Became a coworker’s failed project.” Childe shrugs, and by the abyss, how she was ever blind to it, this gaze of sheer adoration? “Now it’s a gift for the most devastating creature I've met, present corpse included.”

His beaming gaze warms her from within. Every rush of air into her lungs threatens to tear her apart. Breathe. She needs to breathe. She looks at him and forgets how.

The Harbinger. Think. Breathe. Her eyes catch on sanguine streaks over flesh and steal.

“Are you wounded?” she finally asks.

“The blood’s not mine,” Childe answers, and smiles wider. Six feet of bloodthirst and pale, blunt teeth.

By the Abyss.

“Pity,” she says and slams the window shut.

Pulls the curtains closed too, if only to escape the sight of him presenting her his quarry. A beast that would be impressive even by the standards of the Abyss, a beast of a size it would take dozens to down.

And she wants to punish herself for the thought, her body’s betrayal, damning heat curling in her gut. How provincial of her, to be swayed by a single offering, but she can still see him in her mind’s eye, tall, proud and blood-stained, his kill a trophy for her attention.

She is going to torture whoever taught him about her kind’s mating rituals, she decides, as his voice drifts from below.

“Are you coming down?”

“No!” She’s no glutton for punishment. Through the swaying curtains, she glimpses his bemused face as she pointedly stomps away.

Ha. In his stupid, handsome face. He can't court her if she doesn't entertain his attempts. If she just kept to her room, and he stayed out, all his efforts would amount to nothing—

Wait.

“Don't come here!” she cries, rushing back to peer out of the window, hoping to see the armored figure where she left him.

The bastard has already disappeared from view.

With a snarl, she scrambles to the door, planting herself in front of it just as heavy boots echo in the corridor.

“Lumine,” he greets, after a pause, looking at her like the sight of her knocks him in the jaw. She scowls at himand—why does that make him look happy? “Did you like the gift?”

His hands are empty. He must have left the head behind. She wonders whether it could even fit through the door. Not that it matters. “You presume I wanted your gift, human.”

“If you like something, you can just say so, moya lyubov.” A satisfied gleam in his eyes, voice dipping into a purr. “You're blushing.”

She isn't. She is. She can feel the heat on her cheeks, burning like she’s under the sun. Her hands fly up to conceal them from his gaze. “No, I’m not.”

“You are,” he counters, slowly. His gaze drags over her like he’s imprinting it into memory, dark liquid heat. “Don't try to hide it.”

“You dare—”

I like seeing you like this. Barefoot in my house, and flushed all over.”

Her mouth falls open in dheer disbelief. The audacity.

Threats do little to deter him—rather, Childe enjoys those. Violence too, he finds pleasure in. Her fists clench within her skirt as she glares at him, searching for an appropriate rebuttal. He only grins at her.

And then, as though the creature behind her can sense it’s master's displeasure—

A white blur shoots across the threshold and at Childe’s feet. The Harbingers eyes widen.

“Quack!”

“What the—”

“Quack!”

“Is that a duck?”

Lumine blinks as the duck deploys a defense worthy of his master. She mentally pats herself for her wise choice in servants, even if said servant is a feathered fowl and entirely accidental.

“Take heed, Childe,” Lumine informs him haughtily, as Childe narrowly dodges her minions valiant attacks. “My servant loathes my enemies even more than I do. You may expect him to spend the rest of his days orchestrating your demise.”

Childe glances at her, aggrieved, a healthy distance drawn between him and the feathered fiend, though Ducktaglia the Seventh continues to glare at him with beady eyes. “Since when have you had a pet duck?”

“Treat him with respect. And I have twenty-seven.”

Childe blinks. “Right. The duck house,” he says.

She isn't going to ask how he knows. She isn't going to ask him anything. But…

“My gift,” she finally gives in, stubbornly ignoring the delight he exudes at the statement. “Where is the corpse?”

“Hazardous waste disposal. Dump it in the woods once and the next thing you know, there’s a pack of giant mutated bears prancing around. Wait—do you want it? I read that the head is considered the most valuable, so I gave orders to torch the rest—ouch!”

Ducktaglia the Seventh quacks solemnly, before attempting to nip Childe's calves again.

“The head is the proof of victory,” she agrees begrudgingly, as Childe steps away swiftly and nudges the feathered chest with the edge of his boot. “It’s a declaration of strength. And dedication.”

“If I knew that a decapacitated head would turn you that pink, I would have arranged a few a while ago—Archons, I’m trying to have a conversation with my mate, duck.”

“Quack!”

“I’m not your mate.”

“Not yet, you mean—”

“Quack!”

“Don't—Lumine,” he sighs, Ducktaglia the Seventh now secured within his hands, held at an angle that impedes the fowl’s vicious pecks. “Send him away, please.”

“No,” she refuses. Crosses her arms and tips her chin. “He is a useful creature.”

“To herd me away?”

“I am pleased we’ve come to an understanding.”

Childe sighs, sounding pained. At eye-level, the duck screeches, making another valiant attempt to chomp on his nose. Good duck, she praises gleefully, except that Childe‘s gaze has zeroed in on the accessories, the painted mask affixed to its head and length of crimson fabric over its neck.

“Is that my—”

Oh. No. “It’s not what you’re thinking—”

“It is,” he interrupts, with a glance so bemused it sends her blood to boil. “That’s a replica of my mask and scarf.”

“No, that's Ducktaglia the Seventh’s mask and scarf—” she begins, and promptly cuts herself off because now whatever defense she has sounds so much worse. Especially when Childe mouths the name in disbelief, and promptly bursts into peals of laughter, folding into two like he can hardly contain himself.

“Don't—don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m not,” he lies, the absolute liar, still laughing, the reverbations rocking his shoulders. Mouth wide, lips tilted, eyes creased in such delight she wants to launch herself at him and press her mouth against—

By the Abyss. What was she thinking?

While she spends the next minute horrified at herself, his laughter has settled into broken chuckles, a decision made in his eyes. Long legs stride down the hall, just enough distance to pull his arm back and toss the duck over the banister.

Lumine gasps.

“No! Ducktaglia—”

“He’s a duck. He can fly,” Childe reminds her in an exasperated huff, frame crowding her against the door in time to stop her from attempting to maim him. Violently. “He’ll be fine.”

“He is not yours to dismiss—”

“He certainly looks like me.”

“My fowl minions do not look like you!”

“Fine. But he kept attacking me. Surely a man is allowed to defend himself.”

“I don't care if he attacks you—”

"And besides,” he interrupts. “I don't want him watching me kiss you.”

Her hands spasm into claws, a snarl caught in her throat. “Who said you could kiss me?”

Childe tilts his head. “I can't?”

Lumine frowns up at him. “No.”

She denies him. She can. No one can stop her. Not even him, with his damn gaze. She watches them flick from her eyes to her lips and then back. His tongue parts his lips, pink and wet, mouth opening like he makes to argue. She swallows.

Sound echoes in the distance. Chatter. Servants down the corridor. Something shifts in his eyes, and the seed of the argument dies. “Moya lyubov,” he says then, far too honeyed. Coaxing. “Will you let me in?”

No. She frowns up at him shakes her head.

“Please?”

No.

“Only if you vow not to curse me.”

Wait. That isn't what she wanted to say.

“Curse?”

“You cannot kiss me,” she says, her mouth moving before she can wrest control back, tipping her head back to meet his gaze.

Abyss eyes, eyes as dark as the depths of a shadow. “Mm?”

“You can't kiss me,” she repeats, in case the words haven't penetrated his thick skull. “Promise me first.”

“You drive a hard bargain, little demon.”

There's little warning before he sweeps her into his grasp, an arm across the back of her thighs, a palm pressed against the small of her back.

“What are you—unhand me!”

“I don’t want to,” Childe replies, kicking the door closed behind him, and beelining straight for the bed.

“No! Stop—”

“Stop?” He pauses in the middle of the room, glancing up at her when her fist slams into his back.

“Here,” she breathes. “Stay here. Not another step.”

The Harbinger peers up at her. His gaze is warm and he smells of blood and he looks like he could eat her alive. “I missed you,” he says, and the admission is so simple, so silly, and by the darkest creatures that slumber in the shadows it should not make her feel like her brain is melting out of her ears.

“Liar. You saw me mere hours ago.”

“Felt like days,” he chuckles, nestling his chin against her breastbone. “So you liked my gift.”

Did she? Under the setting sun, haloed in dying sunshine and blood, she could have launched herself at him then and there. “I did,” she finally admits, glancing away.

His smile steals across his face, and it makes every muscle in her body turn to slime. “I’m glad,” he says. “I worked hard to find a worthy foe.”

“But why?”

“You know why.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Hm… maybe not,” he murmurs, lines creasing over the corner of his eyes. They only appear when he laughs or smiles, a physical imprint of his damning joy. Unthinkingly, her thumb presses against it, tracing the lines all the way to the edge of his temple.

“You never give me answers,” she accuses.

“I give you the important ones.”

“Is this not important, then?”

Those strange blue eyes blink up at her. “You’re right. The most important.” Capturing a wrist, he meets her eye. Gentle. A thumb traces the prominence of bone. “I love you.”

Her breath hitches.

“Fool,” she says in return, instead, as her heart gallops back into her throat. This stupid male, stupid human, too demanding and here. “Sweet words and curses will not win me over—eek!”

His shoulders shake under her hands with laughter while he adjusts his grip. She aims to gouge his shoulders, trying not to think about the clear, deeply pleasing sound of his laugh, but she fails at both, her hands falling limp and clutching at fabric instead. “Sorry about that,” he chuckles, face now level with hers. “Ekaterina briefed me on the way back. I think its funny how you believe that your feelings for me are a curse.”

The disadvantages of confiding in another person’s minion. Terrible thing, that Ekaterina was loyal. Had she not been, Lumine would have poached her a while ago.“I know it’s a curse.”

“There is no curse,” Childe says, with exaggerated patience. “Those feelings are all you, moya lyubov.”

He really is insane. She closes her mouth, and pats his shoulder in a signal to drop her. He doesn't. “Nonsense. I would never make such foolish decisions. Now let me go. I will not be bespelled again.”

Childe is smiling as he listens to her reasoning, firelight painting gold across his cheeks. “You think that all this is because I kissed you.”

“I know it is.”

It is, of course, the root of the problem. All this started because he did. Everything fell to ruins once he set his mouth on hers. A spark to a fire, a rune to a circle. For every spell, there brews an incantation. For every victor, there exists a loss.

Childe hand flexes at her waist. His gaze flicks over her. Something shifts in his eyes.

“Don’t,” she warns.

“Don't what?”

His stare is a tangible, burning thing, and and it sears through her more painfully than any magic she has known. “Just don't.”

Smoothing a hand up her back, he cradles her face. Moist breath warming her temple. Terribly gentle, for hands proved to savor weapons and war, palm curving around her cheeks, a thumb tracing the bow of her lip. Those nimble fingers brush over the wispy tendrils at her nape. She feels the warrior-made callouses over the pads of his fingers as they cup her neck, stroke up into her hair.

A shuddering breath wracks his frame, and she feels every bit of it, pressed so indecently against him.

The last time he kissed her, she’d been carried away by the vicious delight of victory, and he’d taken advantage, batter dripping down his hair, his laughter sealed against her mouth. She could not be blamed for that oversight. That was different. This is…

“Don't kiss me,” she warns, pressing the ends of her fingers across his mouth.

He doesn't reply instantly, merely watching her with an intensity he usually reserved for combat.

It is like to talking to a wall. A very stubborn, solid, tall wall. Ridiculous, this human, and any other day he would have needed to stoop down to reach her, except today he has hitched her to his front, right where he wants her. His head tilts to hers, crown of disheveled auburn locks tickling her flushed skin. She gasps when he presses his mouth to the curve of her jaw, so briefly she could convince herself she imagined it, could whine, could grab his collar and—

“Nggh—no—”

Lips sweeps over the arch of her cheeks, feather-light and damning, the sensation as delicate as a feather over skin.

“Childe!”

“Mm?”

An infant could not look more innocent than he does now, wide-eyed and guileless. Her mouth drops open in sheer affront.

In response, he chuckles low in his throat. Wielding that terrible patience, an almost-kiss lingering next to her mouth.

“What are you doing?” she hisses.

A breathy laugh warms her skin. “Not kissing you.”

His mouth skims the flushed apples of her cheek, butterfly-light over each inch, until she’s squirming in his arms. Taking his own sweet time. It takes effort, to not make the tilt of her head obvious, the damned instinct to follow. He isn't kissing her. But If he isn't going to kiss her he could stop, instead of whatever maddening game this is, pushing her until she feels like a taut thread about to snap.

She doesn't realize that she’s squeezed her eyes shut. When she does, she wrenches them open, and finds him watching her. Dark gaze locked onto hers, a devouring hunger in it’s depths.

"Lumine." The syllables of her name fall so strangely from his mouth. Throaty, and quiet. Disgustingly tender, in contrast to the way he looks like he could tear her apart.

By the Abyss, she wants to crush him.

And Lumine closes the remaining distance between them before she can think twice.

She kisses him. Tries to kiss him. It is not the same as when he kisses her. Her teeth clack against his. His mouth fits wrong. But then he sighs and tilts his head, nudging her back, and suddenly, it is as pleasurable as the kisses he’s plyed her with before, sweet and syrupy between her ears.

One kiss turns into two, then three… Each one melting into the next, until Lumine can no longer keep count. When his hand fists in her hair, she keens weakly, and he utters something low and guttural that makes her blood quicken. And then, and then—

Heat and desperation, desire hotter than shadow-flame. Childe groans into her mouth, pressing her impossibly closer, as though something tightly wound within him had come undone.

There’s no escaping him, this, the insanity that's taken him. Her nails scrape against his neck; his fingers yank her hair in response. Lumine gasps, and Childe doesn't miss the opening, the bastard, teasing her bottom lip, the silken heat of his tongue meeting hers. Angles his head again, and now Lumine can't think as he takes her in a heady, open-mouthed kiss.

A husky moan rises in his throat, like he cann't get enough—and Lumine squirms, pressed against the wall, as Childe finally parts from her, pried away by the infuriating mortal need for air.

"Little demon,” he rumbles into her collarbone, tracing the curve with his mouth. “You’re going to drive me into an early grave.”

“You—you started it!”

“No, you did. You opened that door, dressed like this, looking like that.”

“But this is what I always wear.”

“I know,” he swears, hand drifting down to tug at the laces on the back roughly. “Have I ever told you how much I love this dress of yours?”

A muscled thigh slides between her legs, pinning her hips to the wall. The stone at her back has freed the other hand, and he wastes no time pawing at her with it, gliding down her leg to play with the hem of her socks.

“The way it hugs your curves… how it frames your pretty little thighs. Everytime you bend over, I have to stop myself from pinning you down and showing you how a mate should really be treated.”

“I’m not your—nnngh!”

And she doesn't know how to feel, not when he snarls and scatters whatever thoughts she’s strung together with a grind of his hips. “Gods, I want to see you. All of you. Drop the disguise, moya lyubov.”

Trails of heat simmer in the wake of his fingers. A distant part of her mind tells her to argue, but the rest of her unspools the magic without thinking, and she squirms, chest pressing into his.

“Beautiful,” Childe whispers, haloed by the golden lantern, head dipping to kiss the base of a horn.

The sensation elicits shivers down her spine, thighs tightening around his waist. A pervasive sense of both wrongness and not. The two of them are too different—she is small and demonic and immortal while he is not; they don't fit. Shouldn't fit. And yet his body slots into hers almost perfectly, distance between them diminished into nothing.

“I want to throw you into my bed and take you. Kiss you everywhere. Your mouth, your neck, your shoulders..." His hands are greedy for the rest of her even as he hunts her mouth with his own. Drawing her into another kiss, and another, each more urgent than the last. Like he’s trying to drown her under before she could break the surface.

Ridiculous, that a human could think to overwhelm her. To trap her, Viatrix, as though he could. It could only happen if she allowed it. And she…

She would. She could. She wants to.

By the abyss, she wants to.

Lumine pulls away. Diaphragm spasming, lungs desperate for air she doesn't really need. Cloudish and dream-like, the endless sky in his eyes, the taste of blood in her mouth.

At the doorway, drifting through solid wood is a loud aggrieved quack.

“No,” Childe says, before she can speak in her minion’s favour, tilting her head back to his to kiss her again.

Her duck. The kiss. Wait. She’s kissing him. She wasn't supposed to. But he’s here and warm and…

She grabs him by the hair again and yanks him away. His mask clatters on the ground. Flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, swollen lips. Does she looks as—as filthy as he does?

“What is it?”

When she doesn't reply, he nips her jaw. "Too much?" he questions, crooning sympathy that fails to hide the feral satisfaction in his eyes. And it makes no sense, that the sight of it makes her want to preen, to dive back in and take his mouth again, wreck him as much as he’s wrecked her.

"What have you done?” she breathes.

His smug gaze is infuriating. "Now you know how I feel everyday," he answers, fingers coming to tip her chin upwards. This feeling, this human, the ghost of his touch. The arc of his mouth, predator-wild.

It’s impossible, illogical—how could these kisses feel this way? How could mortals survive feeling this way? How was this any different from dying?

“How long are you going to run from this, little demon?”

“You said three days,” Lumine whispers back. It’s not an answer. She doesn't have an answer.

He smiles like it’s one anyway.

“You’re right,” Childe croons, and finally drops her to her feet, every inch of him pressed against him on her descent. Something hot, thickened against her navel. Her eyes fly to his in alarm.

“Wake up early tomorrow, hm?” Steadying her as she wobbles, the Harbinger drops a chaste kiss against her cheek. “We’ve got a long day ahead.”

Notes:

im sorry friends i said that this update would be out last week. i lied. like a liar.

but!!! i give u kisses!!! so many kisses! <3

thank u all for staying with me till this chap. one more chap, one epilogue, and we're at the finish line 😌 soon!!!

Notes:

another multichap? yes. no one is more distressed than I am.

anyway I swear this is a....romcom? they are idiots my dear friend and we are the fools that have joined them for the ride.

and as always, thank you so much for reading!

(cough cough come scream at me on twitter!)