Childe stands at the top of Mt. Tianheng and thinks of a week prior.
A picnic, held just south of Mingyun Village, near the sandy shore of the Yaoguang Shoal. A thick, woolen blanket spread wide. A veritable array of delicious eats and carefully brewed tea. The slap of the ocean tide creeping closer and closer as the day wore on. Toes, buried in soft sand. The blue sky above as the clouds rolled by.
He is a Harbinger, the Eleventh of his title, and though young and wily and rapscallion, he is not stupid. Childe does not have moments of happiness, he has moments of opportunity, close encounters meant to glean information.
And yet—
Soft words and laughter. Knees knocking together. Hair, soft like cornsilk, framing a pale and sun-freckled face.
Childe is a Harbinger but he is also a fool. His time here in Liyue has softened his edges and lulled him into a false sense of comfort. The friends that he has made, the warm weather, and the really good tea that he's come to prefer over the harsh sting of firewater—
Lunches, dinners, and stolen kisses underneath the arched walkways when no one is looking. The soft rise of a cheekbone smoothed underneath his hand.
"Tell me, Childe," asked Aether that day, on the beach, "Would you rather stay here? You seem happy."
Childe is stupid to think that he is allowed even a shred of happiness.
A Harbinger only has one job and that is to be the hands of the Tsaritsa, unwavering in her will until the bitter end. A Harbinger has only one fate, and that is to die by that loyalty, his Archon's name falling from his lips as the light within him dims.
Childe wonders when he started thinking of Aether instead.
#
Childe feels ill at the sight of Aether before the Exuvia. He is supposed to be gone, he's supposed to be far, far from here, so he doesn't have to—
He swallows thickly. Do whatever it is that he has to do. Which Childe will. His obligations weigh heavier than these warm feelings that clench his heart tightly. This is his fault, he let this ruse go on for far too long.
This day was nice. I look forward to another.
It isn't a ruse, not anymore. Still.
"You've already filled your tasks as guides, so why do you linger here?" Childe hardens his voice into something unfeeling, wearing it like the Fatui mask that adorns his head. Anything to scare Aether off, because Childe doesn't want to do this.
Aether looks confused at the sight of him. "Childe—"
"You're nothing but dross—and you're in my way." In for a Mora, in for a stone; Childe has a part to play, and he might as well be harsh with it.
Aether's face twists then, smarting in anger. "Childe."
And oh, Childe's chest hurts, aching with the sting of betrayal. He hates this, he hates this, he hates this—
"So that's it, then," says Aether once Childe's explanation is over. "You've been planning to take the Gnosis this entire time? Childe, how can you… haven't we—"
Childe waves dismissively. "Don't take it personally. As the Eleventh Harbinger, I must see the will of the Tsaritsa fulfilled."
Aether does take it personally, Childe can tell by the way his face twists. "I won't let you."
"The time for diplomacy has passed. I must do as the Tsaritsa sees fit."
"Must?" Aether scoffs. "Have you so easily forgotten?"
No, thinks Childe. He'll never, he can't. Childe is good at pushing others away, though. Aether is no different. "Have you? Comrade, I've always been an enemy to this nation."
"I'll stop you." Aether's eyes are narrowed. Childe believes that he'll at least try.
Childe laughs, then smirks. "Fighting talk! I love it. Now, let's see you live up to it."
Aether moves first, quick on his feet. Childe knows that he's good—he must be, considering the accolades that he carries around. There's a huge part of him that has looked forward to this. The rest of Childe is filled with existential dread.
Aether is limber and agile. Childe circles the edge of the space in the Golden House, one eye on Aether at all times. Aether is relentless in his hits, back and forth, hitting hard and heavy. Childe calls up splash after splash of Hydro to deflect the best that he can, but he needs to put as much space between the two of them as possible.
His Vision glows, he calls to the moisture in the air, and condenses it. A slick bow of Hydro coalesces between his hands, and he goes, boots skittering across the wet and slick floor. Childe draws upon the humidity in the room once more, thinning it into a rod. There is a flash as he nocks the arrow, pulls the watery bowstring taut, and looses it.
The arrow flies, cutting through the air, hardened like a jagged icicle.
Aether ducks, flinging himself to the ground. Childe laughs maniacally as he materializes arrow after arrow. It's rinse and repeat: nock the arrow, let it fly; nock the arrow, let it fly. The bowstring may be made of water, but Childe grunts every time it cuts into his knuckles, grimacing.
They come to a pause. Aether stands opposite, heaving slightly, but he isn't beaten yet, not by a long shot. He stands at the ready, his sword held aloft, ready to dart at a moment's notice.
"Not bad, Comrade!"
"Childe!" Aether wipes at his face, no doubt drenched. "Stop this!"
Oh, he wants to. Childe wants and wants and wants nothing but to, now that he's found some semblance of peace in this seaside harbor. But he's a Harbinger, and Harbingers don't get happy endings, they only get pain and early retirement.
Childe isn't that desperate yet, but he needs to kick it up a notch. The air wets with Hydro, swirling around his fingertips. And then—The Riptide Mark. Aether has seen it, he knows exactly what it does, but it's too late. It's already settled deep into his skin, igniting.
Aether yelps, bending over at the gut.
"Yeah, burns, right? Feel the tightness in your gut?
"Childe, just listen to me—"
"You shouldn't let your guard down. Brace yourself, this is going to hurt."
Childe shoots a barrage of arrows before Aether can reply. His fingers are clipped by the harsh line of the bowstring, thinning welts that Childe will have to nurse later.
Aether jumps, rolling out of the way. When he stands, it's on wobbly feet, wincing as the effects of the Riptide Mark hit him full force. "You…"
Childe hesitates. Doesn't respond. He feels bad, he doesn't want this—
He hardens all those pesky feelings into something else, and the Delusion at his waist crackles with Electro.
Not yet, he thinks. No need for drastic measures.
But despite the Riptide Mark, and the never-ending rainfall of arrows, Aether still manages to push back, his sword flashing. Childe barely dodges it, the blade nicking his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.
They pause again, and Childe wipes at his cheek, his fingers coming away vermillion. He laughs—he laughs. Feels the thrill of the battle rage in his veins. He knew that Aether would be good, Childe knew that he'd enjoy this, even if he doesn't want to. He can't resist the heat that poisons him.
"Amazing!" yells Childe, feeling his cheeks flush pink. "I knew that you'd give me a good fight."
"Childe," says Aether, "stop this nonsense and listen to me—"
Childe grabs his mask and twists it to cover his face. His bow disappears as his Delusion flares to life. The air crackles until it burns, the smell of ozone filling the arena. "I didn't think it would get to this point, but maybe I was a fool to underestimate you."
"Childe!"
"Is that all you can say? My name? It's getting pretty old, Aether. Come on, let's go—man-to-man. You want the Gnosis? Fight me for it."
Aether's face turns sour at that. "I want nothing of the sort. The fight, or the Gnosis—"
"That won't work on me, you know. I'm smart, Aether. I know better and I know now not to underestimate you."
Childe drags Electro through the air, working it into a lance that solidifies as it takes shape. He twirls it with an expert touch, and Aether watches him warily from across the room.
"I don't want to do this," says Aether as the Riptide Mark fades. He breathes a sigh of relief and resets his stance, sword held out, ready for a second go.
And so they start again. Hack and slash, dodge and dart; there is a pattern, and the both of them dance around each other as though it's familiar to them. Childe delights in it; both in the rush, and the way that Aether's face is flush with exertion. The grace with which he moves and his calculated attacks.
It's so easy to love another person when they embody exactly what you strive for—Childe still craves godhood, but he also craves Aether who is so handsome in the unearthly way that he fights.
It doesn't last long. Aether is too good, and Childe sinks too deep. With every edge that Aether gains, the Abyss creeps closer and closer to Childe's core. It tugs at him, starting to seep from his pores. Childe's skin itches, and it takes everything within him to keep from clawing at his skin.
He should—
He should not. No, no, no, not his foulest of legacies, the one single thing that just might bring Aether's doom.
"Bait and switch," murmurs Childe, instead. "Distract him." Anything to ignore the searing agony of the Abyss that taints his veins.
Childe lunges for Aether in a last-ditch effort to catch him off guard. Not to hurt or maim, but to throw his attention elsewhere. One second, he thinks. Just one second, that's all I need.
They meet in a burst of elemental rage and when the dust clears, Childe is on the opposite end of the room.
Aether's eyes widen as Childe stands before the Exuvia. "You—"
"You have some mighty useful cards hidden up your sleeve, don't you?"
Aether growls, an aggressive sound that Childe has never heard from him. "Was everything we shared all just to get close to the Exuvia?"
No, of course not, he'd felt it too. Childe blinks, his head cocked to the side. "You've seen this world," he says, mustering all the cruelty into his tone that he can manage. "You should have seen this coming."
Now or never.
Childe shoves his hand into the Exuvia, Electro cutting through the scales and skin as though it is only paper—
It is fake. Childe's arm sinks into the dragon to the elbow with no resistance. There is no viscera, no flesh and bone, or guts—there is nothing.
Absurd. Childe feels the rage that builds in his being, and he tries to put the fire out before it spreads wide. But he's too weak, too tired, too angry—he's been angry since the very beginning, sent to this place with a mission that seems nigh impossible.
The Abyss poisons him, staining his skin and blood as it bleeds forth. He drowns, choking in the miasma that thickens the air and clings to his skin. He is caught behind his mask. He cannot breathe, cannot think, there is only darkness, rage, and the instinctual urge to end another life.
"My precious Eleventh Harbinger," said the Tsaritsa once to him. "Truly the foulest of all my legacies."
Aether watches in horror as Childe's body shifts and changes. He roars in pain. Bones and sinew are ripped apart and put back together, leaving nothing but a creature of the dark. This is Childe too; this creature that always lurks just beneath his skin, eager to be released and wreak the havoc that it breeds.
Childe hoped that Aether would never see this, never have to fight it. It isn't fair that it's come to this. But Childe can't help it, his instincts taking over, and he flexes newborn claws, standing heads above his normal height.
Fights in this form do not last long.
Childe barely has a grip on himself, let alone the tax that his body pays to morph into such a beast. Aether is smaller but quicker. He dodges everything that Childe throws at him. The words slung are easily ignored, Childe focusing only on the blood rushing in his ears, and the anger that drenches his being.
Desperation starts when he calls the Whale, hand held high as he summons a drowning wave. It crashes into the ground, flooding the Golden House—and yet, Aether still hangs on.
"Hah," laughs Childe, defeat staring him in the face.
"End this now," yells Aether, unwilling to deliver a final blow.
Childe calls another Whale, and another, and another—
Aether tackles him to the ground, sword pressed against his throat.
Childe is too tired to even raise a hand, the Foul Legacy having drained him of everything. He wheezes wet and rasping breaths. He whines, head falling against the ground, face drenched in sweat as he pulls away his monstrous mask, tossing it aside.
Aether is angry. Aether is distraught. His sword whisks away and he falls to Childe's side. Never has Childe wished for happiness and peace more than he does at this moment.
He can imagine it, he thinks. Aether's mouth curled into a smile instead. Warm touches and soft words whispered into his ear. The drag of fingers across his forearm before curling around his elbow, and tugging gently. The ease of it all, the warmth that floods his core at the mere taste of it.
He wonders if this is happiness. Thinks that perhaps he can taste it on his tongue, like the warm sunshine on a summer day.
"Why is she so cruel?" he asks, voice hoarse and shot as he lies against the ground drenched sopping wet, crackling with Electro. Abyssal taint still tugs at him, still threatens to drag him deep into the ground, and bury him entirely.
Aether leans over him, worried. "Childe," he says, shaking him. "Who? The Tsaritsa?"
Childe laughs, and then groans. Pain blooms in his side, and he whines, hissing as his eyes squeeze shut. He's had worse, but he can't stand to look at Aether's pitying glance, not when it's Childe's fault in the first place.
"Celestia," he wheezes. "Damn it. Why—why let me get a taste of it? Happiness, I mean. A taste of something I can never have. How freakin' cruel."
Aether's gaze softens then. He cups Childe's face between his hands. "Hey, don't think about that now, just focus on keeping awake."
Childe's head is foggy, and he floats in his pain. He groans again, this time softer. "Your hands," he murmurs. "Rough. I always forget. They look soft, but—"
Aether snorts at that, he can't help it. "Not unlike yours, you know." A pause and another shake. "Childe?"
He is so tired. Childe slips closer to that edge that threatens to tip him over. "Hey, did you know that—" Childe stops, his tongue thick in his mouth. "Aether, I…"
Childe doesn't finish. He goes limp, instead, the darkness taking him just like the Abyss did all those years ago.
#
It takes a week for Childe to be able to get out of bed.
He's busted and barely standing, but he manages. He waits at the top of Mt. Tianheng, staring down at Liyue Harbor with dead and dull eyes. Even his ribs have more life, throbbing and pulsing in pain with every step that he takes.
"I didn't expect that you'd help me up here."
Aether doesn't immediately respond. He just stands to the side at a respectful distance, watching Childe instead of the city. Eventually, he says, "I don't hold grudges, you know. That's all Paimon."
Childe laughs bitterly. "I find that hard to believe."
"You didn't have a choice, right?"
No. Childe hasn't had a choice in over a decade. The moment he fell into the Abyss, his future was set for him. A solid deal, done up and neatly packaged for the Tsaritsa to open like a pretty little prize.
"Her Royal Highness is a gentle soul," he says, but the words taste like ash in his mouth because it's the sort of lie that he's just grown accustomed to reciting.
Aether is too smart to believe it. Childe shouldn't have even tried, knowing full well that over these last months, Aether has come to read him better than anyone.
Fingers against his hand, curling gently as they trace the lines of his palm; soft laughter as they walk the beach; drinks shared late into the night under the soft glow of red lanterns strung up in the streets—
"Why is she so cruel?" asks Childe quietly.
"That's what you asked that night when you were delirious in my lap."
A tight grip, shaking him, calling his name; fingers combing through his hair with a gentleness that he doesn't deserve; dangerously soft words on the tip of his fat, tied tongue—
"That old lizard." The pain of Zhongli's lie stings too, not because of betrayal, but because Childe thought they were friends, he thought there was trust there. He is a damned fool. "I never had a chance. I was sent here on a wild goose chase and for what?"
Childe yells, a frustrated thing that echoes from the top of the mountain. It was for nothing—nothing. And why? Childe has always been the most loyal of the Tsaritsa's brood.
Until recently.
Laughter and kisses and shared picnics on the beach. Peace, a moment of respite where Childe doesn't have to think of his broken and busted bones, and dislocated joints. His thoughts are full of cornsilk hair, and—
"Do you feel better?"
No, he feels worse.
Childe swallows thickly. "I didn't want to," he says quietly. "I didn't want to fight you, or to hurt you, or to—"
"Childe, I know—"
"No! You don't—you don't." Childe grunts, dragging a hand through his hair. "I shouldn't have… I've…" He swallows again, feeling like he's about to choke on his tongue. The air is gone, he feels hot and cold, he wants to be anywhere else but here.
There is a soft touch on his palm. Aether's hand is cool against his own as he takes it. "Childe," he says quietly, "I know."
Childe is not a man who cries, yet a sob bubbles up from his throat. Everything that he knows, he now wonders about, and he stands there on a mountain, a broken and bleeding man. He has no idea how to pick up the pieces of himself. He has no idea where to go from there.
But Aether's hand is warmth incarnate as he slips his fingers through Childe's and squeezes.
Childe stares at their joined hands, and his heart lurches. Then he looks at Aether's face, and dammit he wants to kiss him. Instead, Childe says, "I don't want to go home. I'm tired of this. I want—" Childe pauses. "I don't know what I want."
"Freedom," says Aether. It isn't a question.
Childe stares at him, watching through tired eyes. "Archons, wouldn't that be something."
"You are your own man."
"I haven't been my own person since I was fourteen, Aether. I miss that boy, you know. I miss him." Life was so much simpler when the only thing Childe had to think about was bundling up to ice fish.
Aether's gaze is calm and serene. "If you had the choice, what would you do?"
Childe sighs. "I'd live for myself. Make a selfish decision or two."
They fall quiet again. Liyue Harbor burns brightly below them, and Childe tries to sear the warmth of it in his brain, a memory that will make for good company on bitter-cold nights in Snezhnaya.
Eventually, Aether speaks again. "I know that Tartaglia is a code name. Mr. Zhongli told me that Childe is a title. Which would you rather be?"
Childe chuckles, a smile spreading across his face as he thinks. It is a rare thing, to capture the heart of a Harbinger but even rarer to hold onto it. Childe yearns for this peace to last forever and a day. That is his selfish wish—it is one of the future and it shines brightly like the stars in the sky.
Their fingers are still linked, Aether's grip tight around his own. Childe tugs his hand up, thumbs over his knuckles, and says, "I'd rather be Ajax."
His voice is so soft that he barely hears himself. But Aether hears it, a soft confession, the carefully guarded secret that he's just been gifted.
Aether smiles when Childe kisses his hand.