Chapter Text
“Tell me about a complicated man, muse, tell me how he wandered and was lost. When he had wrecked the holy town of Troy, and where he went, and whom he met, the pain he suffered in the storms at sea, and how he worked to save his life and bring his men back home.” ― Emily Wilson, Translation of Homer's Odyssey
In a land of gods and monsters—of contracts and stone, of freedom and wind—one who would have been born royalty had Celestia not rewritten their stars seeks to right an ancient wrong.
We shall call her, the once-princess for once she could have been.
***
("Very clever."
"You think so?"
"Yes, very much.")
***
Her cause is a noble one but doomed. Her people were buried under frost and ice long ago, lost to the impenetrable cold of a mountain turned graveyard for a fallen dragon.
She seeks to coax back what was lost, but the once-princess is destined to die.
***
("Ooo, foreshadowing. I like it."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, bèndàn. Especially when you interrupt me like this."
"–Fuck."
"Hmm, yes."
"Hmph. It was worth a shot.")
***
The once-princess does not know this, however.
***
("Most mortals do not. Know when they will die, that is. Generally speaking."
"Ha. Neither do most gods.")
***
And so the once-princess recruits those that remain of her people, those who wish to see Celestia spurned, and those who simply do not know any better, who wish for quick and easy coin.
***
("You're talking about treasure hoarders, right?"
"Yes. You are familiar with them?"
"Yeah. Archons, I hate them. They're everywhere, like freaking roaches. I've killed my fair share in Liyue. It's a good warm-up when things are getting too quiet."
"That is. . .Quite frankly, that's awful."
"Is it really? Huh. Well, you know, I'm protecting the weak. The people who can't fight back. Surely you can see that."
"You've just admitted to committing murder because of boredom. Forgive me if I don't believe you.
". . .Well, when you put it like that, it sounds bad."
"'It sounds bad,' he says. You terrible, violent man, stop interrupting me.")
***
The once-princess sends them out to retrieve the objects that will accomplish her desire—treasure hoarders who are so far in over their heads, there is no escaping their fate.
They too will be dead soon. In less than a fortnight before the sun's rays touch the earth, and yet, someone somewhere may mourn them for longer. Maybe a mother. A father. A brother or sister.
***
("..."
"Does that bother you?"
"...No."
"Does that bother you?"
"...Yes.")
***
But for a few mortals, none can see their futures, the fates the stars have dictated, and so these ill-fated thieves creep alongside the shadows, slip into the hidden rooms, spaces, and realms where precious treasures lie, and they make quick work of their schemes.
Perhaps if they had questioned her more. Had looked closer at the winged pendant given as a token of good faith, a pale mimicry of Mond's crest.
But they do not.
They do not worry themselves with the possibility of consequences sure to follow.
For who would spill blood, they ask, for a broken lyre; for golden leaves of strange paper; for a memory?
***
("You'd be surprised, my lady."
"Now, who's foreshadowing?"
"You asked for a story, did you not?"
"That I did. Now, tell me.")
Childe — known otherwise as Tartaglia, 11th Harbinger of the Fatui; her majesty, the Tsarista's Vanugaurd; one who once stared into the Abyss and had the Abyss stare back — is having a day.
A bad day, if one can believe it, although, he scarcely can.
Look. Childe simply doesn't have bad days. He beats them back with sticks, his teeth, and whatever living thing happened to be around him at the moment.
He has off days. Days where things don't go as planned. Days where the noise in his head is a bit louder than usual and he has to kill more, hurt more, to quiet it down.
He's fallen into the Abyss, for Archon's sake. He's self-aware enough to recognize that what he's gone through has thoroughly loosened and tightened certain screws in his head. That his definition of a bad day has been pulled to extremes.
For that reason, he can count on one hand the number of bad days he's had in his life, the first being the day little Ajax tripped and fell into darkness incarnate and clawed his way out months — or was it days? Time was. . . slippery there — later, something missing from the jagged pieces left of his soul, something sinuous and sinister filling in the gouges.
***
("Oh. I-I am terribly sorry ."
"Eh. Could've happened to anyone."
"Still."
". . .Still.")
***
Childe would be hard-pressed to pinpoint the exact moment it happened — he remembers so little of his time there except for the nightmares that nip on his heels on bad nights — but who's he to deny the unmistakeable poetry that is "the death of childhood innocence"?
It has a nice ring to it.
Being forced to partner with Signora that one time in Fontaine is definitely second on his list of bad days; although she would, he's sure, claim it was she who had been forced to work with him. He has little patience for the Harbingers' tendency to pull strings from the shadows, to manipulate and lie and scheme, and Signora takes the cake when it comes to the art of deception which only further cements his dislike of her.
That, and she's a raging bitch, and around her, Childe oscillates between the urge to dropkick her off the side of a mountain and restraining himself for the sake of not being impaled by her ridiculous heels.
His hatred of her is only eclipsed by his loathing of Scaramouche, who coincidentally holds the honor of being the perpetrator of his third bad day. The Sixth Harbinger's a minuscule ball of spite, and any assignment Childe has the misfortune of sharing with him helps him gain a new appreciation for the cordial and even friendly relationship he has with his own subordinates.
The Balladeer's underlings are terrified to so much as breathe in the little prick's direction. He can't say he blames them — Scaramouche' vicious.
(Childe, by comparison, can't go a day without Ekaterina finding new ways to call him stupid or question whether or not his brain cells hadn't withered in the humid, harbor air of Liyue, after all. Nadia's far more respectful, and Vlad's a supportive idiot.)
The only thing worse than Signora or Scaramouche is the both of them, and a privilege Childe truly abhors having ever experienced, as made obvious by the entire debacle being the fourth bad day in his life.
The three of them had been charged with subduing a sudden spike in the Frost Hilichurl population on the outskirts of Snezhnaya several years ago, and the less said or remembered about the entire damn thing, the better.
(Nearly three months after the fact, and Childe still can't get the smell of charred and sparking meat out of that particular uniform. He ended up burning the thing.)
His fifth bad day was relatively recent. In the beautiful harbor of Liyue, no less. The disappointment of having failed to anticipate his Tsarista's plan and being blindsided by Signora, of all people. (No, it has nothing to do with the look of betrayal on Aether's face, the decision he made to summon Osial, or the jarring realization that he'd been played by the one person he had come to– )
– Ahem.
– Much like the Hilichurl Incident, Childe decides the entire fiasco is better left in the far recesses of his mind, among the memories and thoughts he prefers not to dwell on. (Unlike the Hilichurl Incident, he finds himself struggling to succeed.)
Pointless musings aside, Childe did not plan on having a sixth bad day — especially one so soon after his fifth — and yet, here he is: standing in the main room of Northland Bank as as increasingly distressing scene pieces itself together before his eyes.
The bank vault's door swung wide open. Several lockboxes opened and overturned, mora, precious stones, and trinkets spilled out across the floor like glitzy debris. The Millelith combing through their files as an increasingly frenzied Andrei answered their questions.
The door behind him slams shut and everyone's heads snap in his direction.
Silence reigns. The Millelith pale, hands tightening around spears, and Andrei swallows audibly.
Distantly, Childe wonders what face he's making.
"Hello." He sounds so very calm, and he pats himself on the back for that even as the temperature in the room dips sharply.
"M-master Childe," Andrei stammers, stumbling forward. "As you can see, the Northland Bank's been robbed by Treasure Hoarders, and the M-milleith–"
"–Were just leaving, yes?" Childe finishes with a deceptively kind smile. "To answer your questions somewhere else, hm? Perhaps over breakfast at Wanmin Restaurant?"
Andrei opens his mouth. Closes it. Reads between the very fine lines, Childe's drawing.
Out. Now.
Andrei bows hastily and herds the Millelith out the double doors, muttering platitudes and assurances that fall on deaf ears.
Once they're gone, Childe lets his mask drop, just a little. Fury roars distantly in the back of his head, but he holds it back. For now.
"Who the hell," he demands, cooly. "Let the Millelith in here?"
The new recruits, still unused to him, shuffle anxiously.
"My apologies, Lord Harbinger." Nadia holds an ice pack to her head, looking more embarrassed than anything and avoiding his gaze. "Andrei kind of . . . freaked out. We couldn't stop him in time."
"With the way, he was screaming you would think he had witnessed a murder." Vlad snorts, arms crossed. The other guardsman's sporting a black eye. "Don't worry, Lord Harbinger. It could be much worse."
Childe smothers the violent urge to strangle him. "How?" He asks, sugar-sweet, teeth clenched. "Considering we have been robbed and the Millelith have been snooping around our premises?"
"Um. Well. You see. Ahem." Vlad looks down at his boots, no doubt sensing his murderous intent. "Lady Ningguang could know."
"Keep talking, and I'm going to give you another black eye," he hisses, and Vlad quickly bows an apology.
"Master Childe, if you have a moment?" Ekaterina calls.
"Everyone start cleaning up." He orders as he joins her in the vault, not bothering to step over the knick-knacks on the ground as he finds some perverse pleasure in the way they crunch underneath his boots. He can almost convince himself it's the sound of bones snapping and that calms him a little.
The receptionist tries and fails to hide her disapproving look. "You're in a bad mood, sir."
"Vlad's an idiot," Childe snarls. "And we've been robbed. I think I'm allowed to be a little perturbed."
Ekaterina hums and lifts the clipboard to her face. "Understandable, sir."
"Dear Ekaterina, do you mind enlightening me on how fumbling Treasure Hoarders, of all people, got the jump on Fatui-trained guardsman?" He makes a mental note to spar with them at some point. Both as punishment and out of slight concern for their apparent weakness. They should consider themselves lucky. Scaramouche would've killed them himself.
"If it's any consolation, sir, the change of the guard is the weakest point of most establishment's security." A sensible remark – the kind that will make sense if Childe dwells on it for too long, so he pointedly ignores it.
Northland Bank is hardly "most establishments."
It's a well-known secret they're associated with Snezhnaya and that a Harbinger's stationed there. Those idiot Treasure Hoarders didn't rob the bank, they robbed him, and Childe's still-healing ego refuses to suffer the insult to injury.
"Anything of importance stolen?" He grumbles, stepping a little further into the vaults. "To us, I mean?" They're going to have to replace everything, he realizes sulkily. His earnings can weather the dent, but that doesn't mean he's happy about it.
When Ekaterina fails to respond, not even a snippy aside, he looks back at her. "What?"
"You're going to be angry." She looks uncharacteristically hesitant, eyes darting to him and away from beneath her mask. "Angrier."
"Too late for that." He laughs bitterly, kicking a pair of delicate pins out of his way. He zeroes in on a comb of delicate noctilucous jade and gleaming quartz. "Out with it, then."
Ekaterina clears her throat. ". . . Several sigils of permission, sir. The duplicates and originals. Seven in total."
Childe's heart drops into his stomach, his boot frozen over the jeweled accessory, and he squeezes his eyes shut before opening them once more.
He sighs heavily, moving his foot away. "Of course, they were. Of fucking course they were."
Ekaterina excuses herself, muttering something about managing the recruits, but Childe can barely hear her over the swelling, humming whirlwind in his head.
Alone, he tries to breathe, to think.
He needs to be making a plan, he knows, for those sigils, lest the other Harbingers find out and gleefully report another one of his failures to the Tsarista. Before Liyue Qixing find out and the people of Liyue turn on him. Again.
But Childe's mind refuses to focus, to latch onto any logical thought as it calls for carnage of any kind, and he's moving before he even realizes it, leaving the vault and striding past his subordinates.
"Sir?" Ekaterina sputters after him, bewildered. "Sir, there are still things we need to–! The Millelith will be back to–! Master Childe! "
"Deal with it, I'm late for a meeting," He throws a wave behind him, pushing the bank doors open. "Don't wait up."
***
The most pathetic part of all this, Childe thinks, maneuvering past the morning crowds and crowing merchants, is that his day had started on the wrong note before he even got out of bed.
After nearly a year of living in Liyue, he had come to welcome the soft, pooling rays of the harbor's sunrise streaming in through the windows of his apartment, the most expensive the landlord had to offer and far cooler than the others.
That morning, caught between the haze of the waking and dreaming world, he had rolled towards the middle of the bed onto his side, absently sweeping his arm out and expecting to find the warmth of another person's skin.
Only . . . he hadn't.
No, instead, he had found cold blankets and the jarring realization that he had somehow forgotten that he slept alone now.
As he had always. Before he came to Liyue. Before, for the briefest of moments, there had been someone there, as well.
All things were as they should be, and yet Childe felt his mood sour the longer he stared at the untouched pillow and unrumpled sheets because it was like his heart was breaking all over again, the pieces crumbling even further.
His fingers had twitched, then, with the need to brutalize something — whether it be a hilichurl, treasure hoarder, or even a rock — anything to curb the humiliating weakness he'd knowingly cultivated in himself.
The mortification was enough to want to bury himself underneath his covers and scream.
Instead, he rose from the bed and bathed, dressing quickly. He had hoped that burying himself underneath piles of paperwork and tracking down those with outstanding debts to the bank would soothe the itch.
For obvious reasons, it hadn't.
"Spar with me."
The teacup pauses on its way to his mouth, and Zhongli blinks at him languidly.
Wansheng Funeral Parlor looks surprisingly lovely that morning, nothing at all like how a place housing death and dead bodies should be and even less so with Zhongli in its midst, clad in the subtle amber, gold, and brown that adorns his suit. He looks like royalty and for the hundredth time since discovering the truth, Childe wonders how in all the world he could have missed what was so clearly in front of him.
"Good morning, Childe."
"Good morning." Childe reiterates, rolling his eyes. "Fight me."
The former archon is spacier than usual, cor lapis eyes distant, but Childe simply waits. They refocus as his words seemingly registered, and he pretends that the sudden skip in his heart is excitement and nothing more. "Pardon?"
Childe refuses to repeat himself, simply raising an expectant eyebrow. Zhongli smiles a little.
". . . Okay."
***
Something about the added risk of falling or worse along the jagged incline of Mt. Tianheng makes fighting to the deat–ahem, sparring all the more exhilarating. Childe lunges forward, water coalescing around his hands in the shape of familiar blades as he attempts to strike at Zhongli's middle.
A polearm intercepts him, jutting out, and he leaps back.
"You are angry this morning," Zhongli observes, aloud, twirling his polearm. "May I ask why?"
"No." He snarls, darting forward.
Zhongli simply hums and gracefully sidesteps him, swinging his polearm around in a maneuver that would've taken his arm off had he not jumped back once more, forced on the defensive.
It almost feels like old times. Before they had become harbinger and archon — Tartaglia and Rex Lapis — and sparring had been an easy pastime for the both of them.
Childe, whose bloodlust is never sated, and Zhongli, whose eyes gleam like a predator lying in wait every time he moves. The man never breaks a sweat, never appears to be anything less than in control.
It's as infuriating as it is deliciously attractive.
Childe's sorely tempted to summon his Foul Legacy transformation, to see if that will make Zhongli struggle, make him try, but he's still healing—from his fight with Aether, from the debacle with Teucer and those damned Ruin Guards. The wound's an ever-present ache, healing at a snail's pace, and he will not risk it for a trivial spar.
"You were late," Zhongli continues. "And upset."
"Nothing to worry your pretty little head over," Childe grunts, swinging his blades in an effort to take said head off. "Fatui stuff. What, did you miss me or something?"
His blades shift, mercurial and ever-changing, into a spear of his own as he launches another attack, three successive strikes to the adeptus' side in hopes to catch him off guard.
Zhongli anticipates him — he always does. Twisting around him, he jams his polearm spear-first into the ground, and swings himself around it, throwing Childe off balance.
He spins around, smiled bladed, blue eyes flinty as he assesses Zhongli's attack pattern. There won't be anything new, per se, but he likes to make sure, all the same.
Cold, yet measured. Powerful, but elegant. Nothing like the impulsive bursts of violence and ferocity with which Childe fights.
Nearly a year since they had met, and he still had yet to land a single hit on the man. Well, Archon. Former Archon.
"Or something." Zhongli agrees, suddenly surging forward and grabbing onto Childe's spear with his own. He tugs hard and Childe stumbles forward in surprise.
For a brief moment, they share the air between them, eyes locked. Zhongli's face is as unreadable as ever. Beautiful, too. So beautiful it hurt.
Childe swallows hard, remembering the empty place in his bed, and in a truly spectacular display of self-loathing asks, "Surely you've missed me on more than the battlefield." He lets his eyes drag up Zhongli's body before purring. "Your bed, perhaps?"
They spring apart, as quickly as they came together, and Childe wastes no time in summoning his bow, pulling arrow after arrow before drawing his blades once more and–
"I do."
–Wait, what?
Childe blinks, taken aback, his anger and frustration forgotten for but a moment. It feels as if his gears have come to a grinding halt, like one of the broken ruin guards he sends Teucer. Zhongli takes the opening, moving serpent-fast, his polearm sweeping underneath his feet and suddenly the sky fills his vision.
It's a pretty sky, all things considered.
His heart beats fast, and he squeezes his eyes shut, unsure if his words or the fall had stolen his breath from him.
"Are you okay?"
He grunts his confirmation, opens his eyes.
Zhongli appears above him, backlit in golden rays and faded divinity, so beyond Childe's reach that it surprises him every time he remembers he used to be able to.
Reach, that is. Touch.
How many of those training bouts had ended like that? With Childe drawing him close, his lust for battle melting into something soft and velvety, and Zhongli indulging him with that little smile, amber eyes glowing.
Childe mises that. Hates that he misses that. Hates Zhongli for lying to him. For making things so complicated.
He hates himself even more.
Zhongli's talking, apparently, "–Wordplay aside, you seemed distracted, and I have something I need to ask of you. Perhaps we can put away our weapons and engage in civil conversation? The Liuli Pavilion, as you may recall, has an excellent brunch menu."
"Sure." Childe rolls his eyes and flips himself back onto his feet. "I could eat."
***
"It is somewhat comforting," Zhongli remarks apropos of nothing because being a literal deity didn't mean you have conversational skills. "That despite all the untruths and facades we dealt in, your inability to wield chopsticks was genuine."
Childe snorts, twirling the dragon-and-phoenix chopsticks around his fingers while the waitress sets down another platter of steaming plates and leaves with a brief bow. Liuli Pavilion hosts a smaller crowd in the mornings, and he appreciates the low smattering of conversation that serves as background noise, relaxing in its own right.
Yes, he's still helpless with these Archons-damned chopsticks, and yes, he should have sold, burned, or threw them back in Zhongli's irritatingly, perfect face when everything went down, but he found that he couldn't.
He tells himself it's because, at the very least, they'll make a good weapon in a jam. 'Death by chopsticks,' sounds simultaneously humiliating for the victim and thrilling for the assailant. Scaramouche will be sick with jealousy the day Childe manages to achieve such a feat, and he simply can't pass up on such a chance.
That, and they cost him 128,000 mora. Pettiness be damned, he's not throwing those things away short of direct orders from the Tsarista.
He spears a jade parcel, and Zhongli gives him a look of such profound distaste that he laughs aloud, tears pearling at the corner of his eyes.
"My, you'd think I'd just summoned an ancient god from the depths of the ocean and attempted to drown a city full of people with that look." Childe teases, teeth bared in what could pass as either a smile or sneer. He takes an obnoxious bite.
"You're incorrigible," Zhongli huffs, bringing a piece of tianshu meat to his lips in what feels like an exaggerated display of chopstick prowess. "Tell me, are all Sneznayan diplomats as boorish as you?"
"Are all Liyuen men incapable of basic financial skills?" Childe snipes back before leaning back in his seat. "At this point, I think you keep me around because the laws of nature might actually splinter into cosmic pieces if you brought out a wallet from those sinful pants of yours."
"That's hardly true, and I don't see what my choice of clothing has to do with any of this."
"Tsk, tsk." Childe chides playfully. "But far be it from me to object to your use of me. I am but a pawn to those Celestia deign to be above me, after all."
The joke — if Childe can even call it that because wow, perhaps he is still a little bitter about everything — falls flatter than the Jade Chamber into the Vortex.
Zhongli's face goes blank. He mechanically brings his teacup to his mouth, and Childe admires their table. It's made of fine, polished ginkgo wood, native only to Liyue, if he remembers correctly. Another random tidbit of knowledge bestowed by Zhongli when they had indulged in each other's company and spent hours engaged in idle chatter.
Childe loves that about him. Had loved that. How the man's just as capable of regaling him an hour long tale about the glaze lilly he found in the mountains one morning as he is explaining the confusion he still sometimes feels when interacting with other humans, the Wansheng Funeral Director, in particular.
Since the Incident — as Childe has taken to calling it because no one actually died and people need to stop acting like they had — the two of them walk on eggshells around each other. Eggshells made of glass, rocks, and nails. . . or something.
Whatever. The fact of the matter was, Childe makes other people uncomfortable — a certain few notwithstanding — and being on the other hand of that, feeling unbalanced and unnerved, is no fun.
(Ekaterina had made a woefully unimpressed look when he had confided in her that one time, careful not to mention the whole secret Archon thing.
"My lord," she had begun, sounding like she was tired already. "This. . . stalemate the consultant and you are in sounds miserable and awkward. You're adults. Why not simply put an end to all this?")
Why indeed?
Easy. Because they're both in the wrong. Because it isn't as simple as a misunderstanding or mixed messages, but a deliberate intent on both of their parts to manipulate the other, and how does one even go about fixing such a mess? When both parties were guilty?
("You've never cared before. What's changed, Tartaglia?" La Signora had said to him in the aftermath, the two of them reconvening in his office at Northland Bank. The gnosis in her hand spun lazily, golden light pulsing faintly, and Childe forced himself to look away, and she smirked. "Aw, don't tell me you've gotten sentimental."
"You bore me," He had sneered, tired of her, the day, everything in the moment. "Are we done here or not?")
Loathe as he is to admit it, Signora's right. This wasn't the first time he's had to betray those he'd befriended in order to further the Tsarista's agenda, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.
So, what made the Liyue assignment different?
In the dark of night, his thoughts too manic to allow him rest, Childe reassures himself that had it come down to it, he would have killed Aether in the Golden House, growing fondness be damned. (Although now, with the Traveler wrapped around Teucer's finger, he can not find it in himself to not feel some relief at the actual outcome of their fight.)
He would have stomached Osial drowning Liyue Harbor and all its citizens, despite their slow, but warm acceptance of him even as the Qixing openly disparaged him.
Childe, Tartaglia, and perhaps, even Ajax, young and naive as he was, is not a kind person. He's never fooled himself into thinking so, but even his cruelty apparently had its limits.
Signora would laugh at his softness. Scaramouche would sneer.
He clears his throat, anything to break the silence that's settled awkwardly between them. "You looked distracted this morning. Before the fight. Something up?"
Zhongli's lips twitch. "I believe that is my line."
"A contract then," Childe balances his chin on his hand, smirking. "Your troubles for mine?"
He's joking, of course, but it flies over Zhongli's exasperatingly handsome head who seems to genuinely consider his words.
"Hmm. . .It is an equal exchange," He nods to himself, and the briefest smile steals across his face, taking Childe's breath alongside it, and he quickly grabs his teacup to hide a sharp intake of breath. "Yes, this contract is acceptable."
Zhongli clears his throat, sits up straighter in his chair, and rumbles, "Thus is the contract sealed, and my word is as solid as stone. Betray the agreement between us, and you taint my blood. May the threat of my Wrath be your guide.”
He can't help but snort. "That really gets you off, huh?"
"I do it enjoy it, yes." The mood shifts. "Yesterday night, something was stolen from an Adepti shrine in Jueyun Karst."
"Oh?" Childe keeps himself deliberately still, hooding his eyes even as his interest sharpens. "What was it?"
"A . . . memory, you could say." A sad smile, eyes dimming as they stare off into the distance. This is nothing new, nothing Childe hasn't witnessed before. Zhongli walks a fine line between the past and present and sometimes he slips too far into the former, the centuries claiming him like hardening magma.
What is it like, Childe often wonders during these quiet moments, to live so long? To carry the weight of centuries of memories, heartaches, and dreams?
***
("Ha. It is. . .It is harder than you could ever imagine."
". . .I'm sorry.")
***
Without thinking, Childe touches his gloved hand, and Zhongli blinks at him, brows drawn in faint confusion before settling his gaze on where they touched.
Childe clears his throat and pulls away, pretending to reach for the dumpling on his plate instead, face warm.
Zhongli shakes his head as if brushing aside cobwebs, "I apologize, I'm being too abstract. Sentimentality, you see. It was a stone dumbbell. A catalyst, if we're being any more concrete."
There's a joke to be made there, about concrete and stone and the Geo Archon, but Childe feels like he's made enough social blunders to last him a lifetime, trying to drown his people and steal his gnosis, notwithstanding.
Two thefts in one night, though. . .
That's weird.
"You can wield a catalyst?" He chooses to ask instead, genuinely curious.
"I can wield most weapons," Zhongli shrugs, and Archons, why is that so hot? "But no, not this particular one. It belonged to an old friend of mine. Unfortunately, I've never been able to open it."
"The immortal kind, I'm assuming?" Childe asks, recognizing the bone-weary sadness that settles on Zhongli for but a brief moment, older than anything he could ever fathom shouldering alone. He blinks and it's gone.
"Yes. Guizhong." The name sounds familiar — no doubt Childe was briefed on her at some point, but he's drawing a blank at the moment — and Zhongli picks up a jade parcel and studies it thoughtfully. "The young adeptus Xiao has taken it upon himself to investigate the theft and return it to Jueyun Karst."
"Oh." Childe blinks, slightly taken aback. "No offense to him or whatever, but isn't this slightly below his paygrade. Fearsome demon slayer and all, as he so helpfully reminds me every time we meet?"
"Yes, but Xiao feels personally responsible for the theft. I assured him that wasn't the case, but . . . " Zhongli sighs, but it's a fond sound, almost parental in nature. "He was close with the original owner of the stone dumbbell, as well. I worry for him, though. My retirement has been . . . difficult for him, and I fear the amendment of our contract has set him adrift."
"Sounds like a mid-life crisis or whatever the immortal equivalent of those is," Childe shrugs. Mid-century crisis, perhaps?
"And you?" Zhongli elaborates further at his questioning look. "Your daybreak troubles."
I woke up alone, and realized I still wasn't over you, Childe imagines saying. I miss the way we used to be. I miss you.
He would rather die. Painfully.
"The Northland Bank was robbed." He confides instead. "Several of our Sigils were taken last night."
Zhongli blinks, eyebrows raising. "How. . .troublesome. Sigils are dangerous in the wrong hands."
Exhibit A.
Childe laughs. "Yeah, no shit."
They sit there, silent for a moment as the pieces of their puzzles come together. The catalyst of a former god and adeptal energy made material. Whoever stole them will be working with near cosmic amounts of divine power and that simply can not be good.
"Childe–" Zhongli begins first.
"–Yeah, we were probably robbed by the same people."
"Yes." Zhongli frowns slightly down at his food. "I cannot leave Liyue. Archon or not, I am the Prime of the Adepti and with Xiao gone, someone must take his place for the time being. It would, perhaps, be fortuitous if another party, one with similar goals, could aid him."
Childe hums, only half listening, stabbing his food forcefully, as he finally allows himself to imagine the blood he will spill against those stupid enough to rob him, and now, he's discovered, Zhongli.
It's like taking candy from a baby. Granted a centuries-old, lecturing history baby with no understanding of money or social cues, but a baby, nevertheless. It's only when he looks and catches Zhongli staring at him does he register the last sentence and sift through the excessive formality to find what Zhongli was truly asking.
He snorts. "I'm sorry, you want me to help Xiao?"
"For lack of a better word, yes."
Childe scoffs. Then chuckles. And finally laughs aloud, sounding slightly unhinged even to himself. Zhongli stares at him evenly. The waitress who'd been approaching slows and turns around with an energy that exudes fuck no.
"Hahaha, yeah, yeah, no."
"Why not?" Zhongli asks, sounding genuinely confused. "We've both come to the conclusion that the thieves who robbed the bank most likely stole the dumbbell. The two of you stand a better chance of finding the missing items together than alone. It is a mutually beneficial agreement as befitting any good contract."
"Yeah, it's all peaches and cream, except for one small, itty bitty, inconsequential fact," he leans forward like he's sharing a secret, and to his amusement, Zhongli leans forward, as well. "Xiao hates me."
"He. . .," Zhongli's brows furrow, lines appearing in his forehead, and Childe swallows the urge to reach up and smooth them away. ". . .may not be particularly fond of you–"
"Oh, my gods." Childe leans back.
"–but he certainly does not hate you."
"He's threatened to impale me. Multiple times. Last week, in fact."
Zhongli pauses, "So, he gently dislikes you–"
"Are you hearing yourself?" Childe laughs, and Zhongli's expression softens to one of fondness, so sudden, so familiar. Childe almost can't bear to look at him.
"Please?"
Childe opens and closes his mouth. He looks down at his food. The chopsticks next to his plate. "Another contract then, Rex Lapis?"
"The Traveler suggested– He, ah, told me that–" Zhongli sounds so uncharacteristically flustered that Childe looks up, surprised to find a faint flush scattered across his cheeks. "How about . . . a favor from one friend to another? The mortal Zhongli and his friend, Childe. No contracts."
It's cute, Childe thinks, to see calm and steady Zhongli hesitating. It would have been cuter had his heart not been attempting to climb out of his chest through his mouth.
"Is that what we are now? Friends?" A stupid question but one he finds himself wondering the more time he spends around him. The more he wakes up without his touch on his skin. Had he lost what they had? Did he even want it back?
"If that is what you desire," Zhongli says, and though his face is as serene as ever, there's an undercurrent of frustration in his voice, a crack of uncertainty.
Childe swallows, unable to answer.
So, he did what he did best lately: he changes the subject.
"Lucky for you, I'm also on the trail of this would-be thief. If I happen to run into Xiao, I'll get it sorted."
Zhongli doesn't look too surprised by his cowardice, if not a little disappointed, but that's par for the course at the moment. "Thank you. And here," he pulls a brown satchel from seemingly nowhere and slides it over. "Please give these Remedium Tertiorum to Xiao on my behalf. It'll serve as proof of my blessing on your involvement. Last I checked, he was in Guili Plains."
"Painkillers? Powerful painkillers," He amends as he pulls the satchel over his shoulder. "What for?"
"That is not my story to tell." Zhongli tilts his head. "But perhaps Xiao will confide in you. You both are. . . very similar in many ways."
Childe snorts. "Not likely," He rises from his chair. "I'll get your memory back and make those sorry bastards pay."
"Please try to keep the violence to a minimum." Zhongli hums, eyes glinting. "And be careful. The both of you. Watch out for each other."
"Until I see you, then." He turns around to leave, even as part of him screams to turn back, to finally break their stalemate.
Instead, when he passes the waiter, he tells her to put Zhongli's meals on his tab for the next few days.
***
Childe hasn't made it too far into the Guili Plains when he finds the camp of treasure hoarders, all of them dead.
"Well, that's unfortunate." He grumbles, placing his hands on his hips. He's not even taken a half-step when a jade-bladed polearm appears at his throat.
"What are you doing here, Fatui dog?" Xiao growls, cat-pupil eyes gleaming with the promise of a long, torturous death as he came into view.
Childe grins and lifts his hands in surrender. "Didn't realize sightseeing was against the law in Liyue. I'm pretty sure murder is though."
"Mortal rules do not bind me." The spear presses closer. "Choose your next words wisely."
The last yaksha made no secret of his hatred of Childe. Then again, neither did most of the Adepti. The only difference is that Xiao, out of them all, would probably go through the trouble of climbing through his window at night and strangling him in his sleep.
(Cloud Retainer, too, actually. Thank the Archons she's a bird because if she had hands, Childe would already be dead.)
Had it not been for Zhongli's request to spare him, Xiao would've struck him down in the aftermath of Osial and the Golden House without batting an eye, and even then, Aether had to plead his case, as well.
Childe doesn't know how to feel about the support or perhaps more accurately, how to deal with the warmth the realization induced.
Xiao inches his blade forward. "Answer me, or I slit your throat."
"Tempting," He grins, eyes curving into crescents. "But Zhongli sent me, so you can't."
"Lies." He hisses.
"Nope. Here." He slides the satchel off his shoulder and holds it out. "One Referendium Ter-whatever. Courtesy of your god. Former god."
Xiao stares at the satchel before snatching it away, quick as a viper. The bag shimmers away into whatever pocket world Adepti has access to and the blade reappears at his throat. "You've done what he's asked of you. Now leave me."
"No can do." Childe rocks back on the balls of his heels. "Zhongli asked me to help."
"No."
"Yes." Childe grins.
"I do not require aid." His eyes narrow. "Especially from a treacherous bastard, like yourself."
"But we're on the same side, you and I, would you believe that." He skirts around the yaksha to examine the bodies. To his surprise, the wounds are cryo-inflicted, no evidence that the yaksha himself had been involved in what was quickly looking to be a massacre. "Whoever stole the adepti's precious stone dumbbell also took from me, and I would very much like to have a nice sit down with them and tell them why they should never have crossed me."
"I don't care." Xiao grounds out. "You would only slow me down."
"You would disobey your archon so easily?" Childe hums, only somewhat teasing. "Granted, he is retired. My respect for him would have faltered, as well."
Xiao sputters, face pinkening. "How dare you question my devotion to Rex Lapis–!"
"I'm just calling it as I see it," Childe shrugs. "If you truly want me gone. . ." He trails off and sees indecision war across the adeptus' face.
They're the same in that regard, Childe will admit to Zhongli: failing their gods was not an option.
"Fine." Xiao sounds like he's agreeing to have his eyelashes pulled off, fist tightening around his polearm until it flickers out of sight. He crosses his arms and looks away. "You may assist me."
"Glad we got that out of the way," Childe claps, smirking. "Now. Any leads?"
"Do you not have eyes as well as brain cells?" Xiao sneers, stalking towards the dying campfire. "Look around, Fatui. I'm sure something will click.
Childe sighs aloud. Zhongli never said this would be easy, but still.
He kneels next to the nearest Treasure Hoarder—the unfortunate man took the brunt of whatever magic had been used against them, his face frozen solid in fear and surprise. There's something clenched in his hand and Childe pries them open with some difficulty, revealing a strange crest.
He plucks it and holds it up to the light. It's a pair of wings.
"Why does this look familiar?" He murmurs, mostly to himself.
Childe nearly jumps when Xiao appears next to him, silent as a shadow. He peers at the token and his shoulders suddenly stiffen, a strange expression stealing across his face before disappearing beneath apathy once more.
"They're Mondstadtian wings. They must have been based there."
Childe frowns. Why come all the way to Liyue then? And who killed them?
"Huh," he comments aloud. "Guess we're going to Mondstadt."
"Fuck." Xiao swears, then again with feeling. "Fuck."
Likewise, Childe thinks.