Author's Note

Okay, to preface this, I am writing this under the impression that a common theme amongst the Hydro Vision-holders is their loyalty (Childe to the Tsaritsa, Barbara to her sister/the Church, Xingqiu to his clan, and whatnot).

ALSO, I don't know much of anything in regards to Childe's lore, how Delusions work, the Tsaritsa, so heh, please bear with me!

Ahhh, this wasn't supposed to be this long, but oh, well!

The first few days after he had become a Harbinger, one of the Eleven, Childe had but one question to ask the Tsaritsa.

"Why not you? Why didn't you give me a Vision?"

It was a silly question, he knew, for few people were even blessed to become Vision-holders, and it wasn't really a matter as to who had bequeathed you a Vision or as to why, but simply the fact that you had received one. And if that wasn't enough, bless her, the Tsaritsa had given him a Delusion. There was no higher honor, and thinking back to that day, he never could believe his question had everything to do with Visions.

The Tsaritsa's graciousness knew no bounds, however, and she had pondered his question for a moment before answering, "The Hydro Archon was overpowered by your loyalty to me and thus, granted you her Vision."

His heart had been full then, writhing with heat, pulsating with allegiance.

The Hydro Archon was right.

His loyalty to the Tsaritsa was overpowering.

He could feel it in every kill, every massacre, every order carried out—like a heady perfume, it was pleasantly nauseating.

This level of obedience came with a price, but Childe couldn't imagine bargaining for a lower one: he was the Tsaritsa's weapon, the finest of its kind. It was only proper that such a weapon have an ending as high as the stakes she had put on it.

This had every possibility to be his last battle, he knew. The first time he had fought the Traveler, she had overpowered him, showered him in both the exhilaration of a fight and the realization that he just wasn't strong enough, yet.

But not today, no.

This would have to be their final battle—it was him against her, and he wasn't going to lose.

"You won't win, comrade," he chirped, his voice only revealing a fraction of the excitement bubbling in him, "but let's give each other the fight of our lives, what do you say?"

Their last fight had begun with a betrayed gasp and copious amounts of scowling. This time, the Traveler's eyes glittered with a kind of knowing that bade him be wary. "Let's."

He hated those eyes just then and could feel a stony guardedness placate his writhing, battle-hungry soul. The Traveler would show no mercy this time, he knew, and it gnawed at him when he noticed that today, she carried about her an aura of omniscience, like she was aware of something he wasn't—like she had discovered some kind of hidden weakness that even he himself hadn't registered.

There was no point in doing battle—in giving it his all—if he knew what it was, so he kept his mouth shut and notched an arrow on his bow. Years had passed, and even though he now considered himself an adept in the art of archery, he still lacked the pure fluidity in wielding a bow that he had when swinging a sword or hoisting a spear.

And although the Traveler wielded a sword and only had the range that melee combat afforded her, Childe knew there was no way he could allow distance to determine how dangerous she could be.

For several minutes, their combat was ferocious. Swords struck and arrows flew ad libitum, piercing the air not only with their trajectory but with the thin whistles and clashes that they produced.

He was normally a conversing combatant, commenting every so often with terrifying decrees of power or impressed remarks of his opponent's skill. Today, he could not afford the luxury of dialogue, for his mind was solely concentrated on the Traveler, watching her sword strikes and anticipating her next move.

With the accuracy with which she fought, it appeared that she was doing the same.

His concentration didn't wane for several minutes, and it was still just as ripe and as severe when he felt the first nick of the Traveler's sword on his skin. He didn't register it for a moment, but the stinging of the near-imperceptible wound caught his attention. He wasn't the type to equate the rushing of blood through his skin to ecstasy, but he could feel himself tingle with delight.

It was time for his Delusion.

Using a Delusion was putting yourself in stasis—the longer you used your Delusion, the more suffering you would encounter afterward, and the only way to postpone said suffering was ... to wield the Delusion's power even longer.

Childe knew this, but by the Tsaritsa, wasn't it exhilarating to take upon oneself that level of power? The repercussions were worth his very life, but the second he had felt the Traveler's blade slip past his guard, he knew that more power was necessary.

Electricity crackled from the tips of his fingers, his toes—even the very ends of his hair, too, resounded with a zapping sound.

"You can't stop this," he warned the Traveler through his mask, flexing his daggers.

And yet, she still looked unperturbed. "I know how it ends, Childe."

Something like fear shot through him, faster than he moved, faster than he thought, making his rapid charges at the Traveler feel slow in comparison. He knew he was right and true in his attacks, though, for every one clipped the Traveler, staggering them; he would blink back in with another strike, however, before she could recover.

He only knew fear when he was a boy, but this feeling, this trepidation ... was all this because the Traveler seemed too confident? Even off-balance, she could not hide her knowing gaze.

He had to ask—this time, he could not hold the question back. "You've been getting stronger. Are you that sure you can beat me? Because if so, put your back into it! Let this be a glorious fight, indeed!"

What was that? No response? Not even a dropped gaze, a murmur? No, Childe could see the Traveler's eyes grow no harder, no softer. She only gripped her sword with the appropriate force, came out of her lurching, and returned his volley of swings.

"What are you thinking?" he muttered.

While he hadn't expected this to garner a response, his discomfort only grew when the Traveler slashed back at him, her lips silent and her eyes filled with what he thought was poisonous overconfidence.

His breath always quickened in battle—not as a response to physical stimuli, but as an answer to the sheer euphoria that came with a clash of blades, spears, bows, anything. So it was no surprise, then, when he felt his breath shorten, each one coming out so erratically that a bystander might have wondered if he were sobbing.

Fighting with a Delusion was fighting with a body covered with what felt like an entire exoskeleton of capillaries, all carefully programmed to shoot a deluge of pain throughout his entire being. Each moment was a tick of agony, but Childe could not stop there. He had to know: would that look still be in the Traveler's eyes when he completed his Foul Legacy Transformation?

It only took a moment to find out.

Power surged through him—no, like a current, it swept over him, fueling his body with insurmountable power, while he himself was drawn alongside it, simply a vessel floating upon the current.

But the Traveler remained unmoved once the transformation was complete.

"You've seen all this before," Childe realized, his voice distorted through the new mask. "Don't worry, comrade, I've trained since our last fight—you won't be able to beat me in this form this time!"

This declaration did not have the intended effect. The Traveler only blinked. "I think I can."

He wasn't the type to lose his cool in the heat of battle, and while he was an expert in egging his opponent on to make them stumble, Childe himself could not be provoked. So, it was with a clear head, a disconcerted spirit, and a pained body did he lunge at the Traveler, striking her with what should have been a fatal blow.

Her eyes opened wide for a moment, but they instantly returned to their unbothered state. The strike did not take, but blood seeped from her side like a bright red blot of sealing wax on an envelope. Her sword had fallen out of her hands, and Childe waited for her to pick it back up. He needed this fight to be fair.

But when the Traveler made no move to retrieve her weapon, Childe raised an eyebrow incredulously. "Come on, you're not going to call it quits now? We've barely begun!" He sighed. "Don't tell me you want a truce? Because I told you, this is supposed to be the fight of our lives! I've been waiting a long time for this."

The Traveler stared at him knowingly. "I have been, too." She held out a hand. "Wait here."

As she rushed away, frustration bubbled up inside him. Where could she possibly need to go right now, in the heat of battle? To the bathroom? "Don't you dare run out on me, comrade!"

Several minutes passed and the Traveler did not reappear.

Childe considered himself even-tempered, but a rush of fury exploded in him. This wasn't the Traveler that he remembered! Where was she who had never turned down a request to test his mettle, she who didn't give up mid-fight?

He floated ominously toward the end of the arena where the Traveler had made her exit. However, before he could cross the threshold to go searching for her, a glowing yellow mass materialized in front of him.

He backed away as the mass slowly formed into several corporeal figures. Bile flew up his throat.

"No, no, no," he chanted, his voice quiet, his eyes darkening in horror. "This ... this can't be."

Surrounded by what looked like a jade shield to serve as protection from the harsh elements of the fighting arena, was his mother.

His father.

His older siblings.

Anthon.

Tonia.

Teucer.

"What is this, comrade?" he shouted irritatedly into the arena. "Get them out of here! Your fight is with me—my family's got nothing to do with this!"

They're not supposed to see me like this.

But they were seeing him like this, clad in armor, bristling with electricity and power, masked beyond recognition.

"B—big brother?" Teucer asked, his voice brittle. "Ms. Nice Lady said it was you ... is ... is it really?"

Teucer looked older than when he had visited Liyue all those years ago. He was taller, with a narrower face, and his red hair looked fuller, his eyes older. But somehow, they still retained a fraction of their childlike wonder—a wonder that seemed to dissipate when Childe nodded.

He couldn't speak and his limbs felt frozen in place. He was reduced to a hovering troglodyte, blinking fast behind his mask, hoping with every flutter of his eyelids that the scene before him would melt away. He couldn't meet their eyes, knowing that in them he would only see disgust or worse, fear.

Oh, that Traveler! What was she thinking, bringing his family here into their fight?

Desperate to focus on anything else, Childe's eyes raked the room, hoping to find the Traveler, for he noticed that she hadn't arrived in the jade shield with the rest of the party. She was nowhere to be found, however.

He growled to himself. Was this how she planned to defeat him? By bringing the people who he loved and valued and dedicated himself to the most in a place fraught with danger?

He took a sharp spike of breath. No, that wasn't right—all of that, that, that, that was the Tsaritsa, not ... not his family. It couldn't have been—the Hydro Archon had given him this Vision so he could support the Tsaritsa! At the end of the day, that's where his loyalty had to lie.

And the Tsaritsa had said, earlier that day, "Bring me a subdued Traveler."

Choking back an "I've got to go," he raced to the exit, with every intent to find the Traveler and continue their battle, but when he attempted to go through the opening, he found it sealed by some kind of invisible force. He pressed a hand forward, but it could not move past the force. Even several attempts at bodyslamming into it proved fruitless.

Through this, his family did not speak, only stared quietly. They collectively flinched when he rammed a fist imbued with Electro energy into the wall, letting out a terrifying scream not at the impact, but from the sheer dreadfulness of the situation.

It was his worst nightmare.

His voice was low and muffled as he demanded, keeping his eyes down, "Why are you all here?"

The response he received was nothing more than pin-drop silence. He whirled toward the shield. "Tell me, old man," he growled at his father, "why are you all here?"

No one answered, but Anthon, looking leaner and lankier—and as if the throes of puberty were treating him well—kicked the jade shield, causing the normally-impenetrable mechanism to crumble. The entire group was now exposed to the suffocating heat and staticky air of the arena.

Childe gasped, but even in the heat, the family huddled together, as if they knew that as one, they had no issue in braving this harsh environment.

Only then did he look at the rest of his family.

The older ones already knew of his involvement with the Tsaritsa but never to what degree, and when they saw him then, their eyes were heavy and burdened, like they had never dreamed that their younger brother would ever see such a state. He hadn't seen any of them in so long—when had been the last time he'd been to Snezhnaya? He couldn't remember.

Tonia had been a young teenager when he had left, but now, she was taller, more womanly, with warm eyes that sparkled with tears. A ring was on her finger, and Childe choked. She had gotten married? How had he missed that? Surely, she would've mentioned it in one of her letters! It wouldn't have been as if he could have gone to the wedding, but still, he would've liked to have been notified!

He could feel himself flinch. His stomach felt hollow and sore, as if he had been punched.

How much have I missed?

And Teucer! Was he—was he carrying the same rusty shortsword that Childe himself had carried with him into the Abyss? Was Teucer already of age to begin battle training? He tried to count the years, appalled when he realized that Teucer by now was more than of age to learn proper swordsmanship techniques. Where had the time gone?

His face felt wet, and he knew it was not from the sweat. He swallowed hard. "I'm only going to ask you guys this one more time: why are you all here?" They were supposed to be at home. In Snezhnaya. Where it was safe.

His mother, her eyes so tender, so hopeful, finally spoke. "The Traveler sent word that we were all to come here at once."

"She said," Teucer gulped, "that you were ready to come home."

What?

Whatever had given the Traveler such an idea? He had always told himself that one day, he would be in his father's house again, sitting at the dinner table, exchanging stories and laughs over a bowl of his mother's warm, filling borscht.

But some part of him knew that that day would never come, for the Tsaritsa would always need him! Even once she had procured all the gnoses, he would always be in her service!

The Hydro Archon had seen his loyalty toward her; that was why she had granted him this Vision.

But, looking at the assembled group of people before him, the people he loved before he even loved the Tsaritsa, the people who adored and cared for him more than they adored and cared for themselves, he had to wonder ... was it really his loyalty to the Tsaritsa that had begotten his Hydro Vision?

Or was it—no! He couldn't think like that. He had orders to carry out! He needed to subdue the Traveler and, in the process, roil his blood in the heat of their last battle! Surely, the Tsaritsa would find a dead Traveler equivalent to a subdued one.

"I can't come home," he apologized, not looking back at his family. "Not yet. But save my seat at the dinner table; I'll be back in Snezhnaya before you know it." The last sentence was a lie.

With that, he threw his spear with all his might at one of the walls, hoping the combined force of the Electro energy and his own might would cause the battle-proofed arena to crumble just enough that he could escape through the crags.

It was to no avail, for the spear rebounded off the walls placidly, making no more of a dent than if he had thrown a napkin.

He squeezed his eyes shut. What had the Traveler done to close him off like this? Wasn't there—his thoughts got no further, for just then, he felt his body convulse.

A scream was on his lips in an instant, sounding dastardly through the distortion of his mask. The pain he felt this time was unlike any sensation he had felt before, like tiny blisters swollen with burning fluid that detonated with every heartbeat.

He had stayed in his Foul Legacy form for far too long.

Childe could feel his feet hit the ground as his knees buckled and his legs gave way. Every appendage was soaked in agony, coruscating like a beacon of torment, and his screams only grew louder with each passing moment.

His armor broke off in shards so violent that he felt as if his skin were coming off with it. His head was so light that as he tumbled to the ground, he could barely register how hard he was going to hit it once it made contact with the slick arena floor.

His head never did hit the floor, though, for before even his knees could level the ground, he felt arms around his waist, on his shoulders, gripping his hands. His body ached, but his family's touch was soothing as they gently lowered him to the ground, carefully placing his delicate-feeling head on his mother's lap as she too, rested on the sizzling arena floor.

He looked up at her, his eyes bleary. A choke resounded in his throat as he stared into her warm gaze. Was there ever such a woman who loved him as she did? Painstakingly revolving his neck, he turned to peer at the cluster of siblings and his father who swarmed around him, their countenances so twisted with worry they looked almost deformed. Was there anyone who loved him as they did?

He laughed, for the first time in a long time, with true mirth. What did he know about loyalty, anyway? He may have been the Tsaritsa's servant, but he realized one thing then: The Hydro Archon's gift was not a badge of loyalty to the Tsaritsa, no.

It was to these people, the people that would do everything in their power to pick him up when he fell. The people who would put aside all matters of personal agenda and safety just to be with him. The people who would find a way to break down a protective jade shield and cross oceans and forests, plains and tundra, just to get to him.

At his laugh, his mother smiled and brushed a hair off his forehead. "Welcome back, Ajax."