Everything has come down to this.
Childe stands opposite his target, cloak rippling in the breeze. Liyue is a calm planet, so unlike the chaos he's been led to expect. The adeptus known as Morax stands only paces away, watching him back placidly with eyes as golden as the sunset.
This man is dangerous, he's been told his entire life.
"He left the Order an eon ago, taking with him valuable secrets," said the Tsaritsa to him, "The search was long and arduous, but we have finally found Morax—and you, my youngest, will go and take care of him."
An old Jedi Master who left for reasons only known to him. To think that he didn't go far, settling on the small moon of Liyue, a stone's throw away from Celestia.
"Tell me, boy, who is your Master?" Childe opens his mouth, but Morax holds up a hand to silence him. "Wait—your cloak. I see the symbol. It seems as though my old friend is now recruiting those far too young to be her lap dogs." Morax's eyes flash in disapproval, the word friend dripping like poison from his mouth.
"You know that Padawans are—"
"A Padawan is not a Harbinger." He tuts then, shaking his head. "I find myself disappointed."
Childe feels the rage that burns through him, even though he knows that he shouldn't. Jedis are peaceful, even in tasks like this—but Childe has never been like the others in the Order. He's different. Unique.
Morax watches him with cool calculation. "I wonder—what were you like as a boy?" The question catches Childe off guard. "You lack the quiet discipline of most Jedi Knights I have met."
Cold, thinks Childe. His boyhood was a cold and dreary wasteland full of snow, ice-fishing, and winters with too little food. And then darkness, after he fell into the ice—only it wasn't ice, it was a hole in which he tumbled deep into the earth.
"I've been sent here to handle you," says Childe, unhooking his lightsaber from the holster on his hip.
Morax says nothing at first, his eyes flickering to Childe's palm. And then he laughs, an absurd sound as he throws his head back and just about loses his gut.
Childe fails to see what is funny. He takes a step closer, but doesn't get far—Morax raises a section of the earth right before his feet, stopping him in his tracks.
"Surely you realize that you are severely outmatched."
"I'm—she sent me here because she believes in me."
Morax's face turns then, looking regretful. "The only person that the Tsaritsa trusts is herself."
Childe lunges then, taking the lull in the conversation as his opportunity.
Morax draws his lightsaber in enough time to just barely catch it. "You're quick," he murmurs, pushing him back, but Childe presses in, and sparks fly between them.
"You've made a mistake in thinking I'm like the others."
"Clearly, I was wrong." Morax darts to the left, grunting. His lightsaber flashes, arcing through the air in a golden blaze.
And thus begins their dance at the top of Mt. Tianheng. Morax hits surprisingly hard for someone rumored to be six thousand years old. Childe knows nothing about the adepti; Morax is the first that he's met—but he looks forward to seeing exactly what makes the man tick.
Childe pushes himself faster, twirling his lightsaber around with ease, but Morax meets every hit with a well-timed block. He makes it look effortless, which only fuels the rage that builds in Childe's veins.
He cries out, lunging with his lightsaber, aiming to slice at Morax's side. Grazes his click instead, clipping the fabric. Morax pauses, dragging a hand down his front.
"Don't quit now," says Childe, "and don't get distracted." He takes the opportunity to get up close and personal, wedging himself right into Morax's face. "Hey there, old man," he says with a delightful grin, nose-to-nose with the ancient Jedi Master.
Morax's hand strikes, fingers curling around Childe's forearm in an iron-clad grip. Childe cries out, wincing, bones creaking under the pressure. His lightsaber skitters across the ground. Morax is strong enough to break bone with barely a try, Childe can tell by the way that he grips at him.
"Boy," he snaps, those golden eyes flashing—
And then he lets go, pushing Childe away. Morax rubs at his face, nostrils flaring. "What are you?" he hisses, suddenly wary.
Childe grins, predatory. The Force ripples at his fingertips, washing over his skin as he calls to it. "Didn't I tell you that I'm not like the others? You've made a mistake, underestimating me." He throws The Force at Morax and it hits him like a boulder.
But they say that Morax is one with the stone itself, and despite the weighted power, he barely skids across the ground a few inches.
Childe tries something different, using the Force to call upon the Moisture in the air. He summons a Whale and drops it, flooding the ground with thousands of tons of water—
And right in the middle of it all stands Morax behind a glittering gold shield.
Rage burns in Childe's veins, a tangible thing that can almost be tasted in the air. Morax's eyes narrow as he watches him back. "Boy," he starts, "that's…"
The pull of The Force sours in Childe's grip, turning black and bleak as it swirls about. Morax is quicker, though, launching himself at Childe and knocking him to the ground, palm cutting into his neck. Childe chokes slightly as he tries to suck in air.
"Even with the Dark Side of The Force, you still are no match for me," says Morax, his voice deathly calm. He leans into Childe, heavy against him.
"It's not—what do you mean the Dark Side?" Childe would never—he'd never. He is a Jedi Knight, a Harbinger, for Galaxy's sake. He'd never risk being poisoned by such a thing.
Morax's gaze shifts and the pressure on his neck eases. "You…" He leans closer, pressing his nose to Childe's ear. "The Abyss," he murmurs. "You stink of The Abyss, filthy and rotten. You seem to have no idea."
"Rude," snaps Childe, struggling against him to no avail. Even when he barely holds him, Morax is like an unmovable boulder.
"What was it exactly that the Tsaritsa tasked you with?"
Morax is an old and stubborn fool, unwilling to embrace new ideas. Too ancient to welcome the fresh and the new. Squash him like a bug.
Childe doesn't know why, but he tells Morax just that, the words compelled right from his mouth—Childe realizes he's just been influenced by a masterful control of The Force and didn't even notice. Morax was right—he's entirely outmatched.
The Tsaritsa would know if they trained together. But if she knew, why was he sent here?
Morax looks at him piteously. "So you've realized then, why you're here."
"She…I thought she…"
"Trusted you? Of course not. Perhaps she saw you more like a dog, but in the end, you couldn't be trained to her liking."
Childe swallows thickly, thinking of the chaos that follows him on every mission he's sent. He's an unusual Jedi Knight, a well-known fact through the ranks of the Order. In reality, they barely tolerate him. The Tsaritsa was the only Master who ever threw him a bone.
He expects Morax to ask about the darkness that creeps through him next. He does not. "Tell me, boy—did you want to become a Jedi? Or did they pluck you from some planet without a choice in the matter?"
His father looks regretful as a few pitiful coins are passed into his hands. Teucer cries as the Fatui hold him back, and Tonia's face seethes with anger. His mother wouldn't have let this happen, but his mother isn't there anymore because starvation is the diet of choice on cold and bitter Snezhnaya.
"I see," says Morax quietly. "Did you ever have a Master? Or did they give you a few books and show you the basics?"
The question feels rhetorical, as though Morax has plucked those memories right from his head.
Childe running drills until he vomited, lungs burning with the strain. Flimsy control of The Force due to his basic, entry-level knowledge. Weapons, he is good with. His lightsaber is his trusted friend that shares his pillowcase deep into the night.
Morax's fingers are warm against his chin as he lifts Childe's face, tilting it from side to side, appraising him as though he is livestock. "You have potential. I feel it. The Force clings to you despite The Abyss that threatens to swallow you whole."
"Wonderful," says Childe bitterly.
"I can teach you," says Morax unexpectedly. "If you go back to her, she'll only send you to your death, over and over again."
Childe is wild and unpredictable, the worst kind of liability. His beloved Tsaritsa sent him to Morax with the hopes he'd never come back. And now, Morax is offering him something different.
"Why would you be my Master?"
"Do you want to die?" Of course not. But he knows what Morax means. Every day he feels the way that the Abyss pulls him deeper and deeper. "I have spent eons trying to find a reason. I think that perhaps you are it."
Childe lays there on the ground, underneath this earthly and handsome man, his breath caught in his throat. He doesn't know what to say.
"Your first lesson," says Morax kindly. Listen to The Force, boy. What is it telling you?"
Take his hand. Childe feels it in his bones.
So he does.