Chapter Text
It seemed Zhongli’s duties as Geo Archon were never quite finished.
He’d been enjoying some wine in one of Mondstadt’s local taverns—a cosy little place, if a tad dusty, with a thick aroma of alcohol that he supposed was to be expected in such a place—when he’d been faced with quite the conundrum: that being the rather strangely-dressed Fatui Harbinger that was currently attempting to steal the gnosis of the Anemo Archon right in front of Zhongli’s eyes.
Really, it was unfortunate for the Harbinger that Zhongli had happened to be there. If he weren’t, he might easily have gotten away with it. The Anemo Archon was easily the weakest Archon after all, hardly even a ghost of the powerful ruler of Mondstadt that he had once been. His lackadaisical nature, another Archon had once said, had been his downfall, and Zhongli couldn’t help but agree. So it was rather convenient for the man in question that Zhongli had happened to be there to catch the wrist of the Harbinger before he had managed to plunge it into an unsuspecting Venti’s chest.
A look of mild shock coloured the Harbinger’s face until it contorted into a devilish grin. Anyone other than Zhongli might have been intimidated. “And you are?”
“Just a traveller passing by.” His answer was practised, and typically believable in any other situation, but it was only after Zhongli said it that he realised it might not quite be a sufficient answer in such circumstances. “You’re one of the eleven, yes?”
“That I am. You’ve got quite the perceptive brain on you.” The compliment was strangely genuine, if not a little teasing. “I don’t believe for a moment that you’re just a traveller, but I suspect that prying in this situation wouldn’t get much out of you.”
Zhongli took a moment to observe the man. He stood out quite a bit in the musty atmosphere of the bar: a shock of short ginger hair and dark-lashed blue eyes contrasted almost deceptively delicate features. About six feet tall, maybe a little more, enough to meet Zhongli eye-to-eye. There was a mask attached to his head, red and pointed. His jacket parted at the waist to reveal a hydro vision attached to his belt.
The man chanced a glance at Venti, who, in his drunken stupor, seemed completely oblivious to the conflict going on around him. “It seems I have failed my mission.” He paused, then turned his gaze back to Zhongli, cracking another grin. “Although, it seems he didn’t even notice what I was trying to do. If it weren’t for you, I might just have succeeded.”
“Will you give up, now, then?” Zhongli asked, tone wary. He knew, deep down, that a Harbinger wouldn’t forfeit a task like this so easily, but he allowed himself a smidgen of optimism.
“’Course not,” the Harbinger responded, as if it were obvious—well, Zhongli supposed it was. “What kind of Fatui Harbinger would I be if I did?”
What Zhongli didn’t expect was for him to tie that sentence together with another grab at Venti. He responded with lightning speed, of course, geo structures shaping into handcuffs and snapping the Harbinger’s hands together at the small of his back. He visibly tested them, eyebrows raising in impressed surprise when he found himself unable to break free from his restraints.
“Handcuffs, huh? Wild.” Even in this situation, he was surprisingly calm. Zhongli supposed that was to be expected from a Harbinger. “I suspected you might be a vision wielder. It seems I was right.”
Zhongli stared at him. “You’re quite lucky I have chosen to be kind today. Yield.”
The other held his gaze through dark lashes, a mischievous glint in his eyes. A luck-pusher. Zhongli knew many of the type: they danced on the edge of danger, gambling and betting and never quite knowing when to relent; snatching small victories and fleeting joys. “And if I didn’t?”
“Are you sure you want to test your luck?”
The tension was quite abruptly broken when a cough sounded from nearby. Both of them turned to the source of the sound. It was the bartender, a darkly dressed man with a mane of red hair and a less than pleased expression. “Gentlemen. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” His eyes wandered to the Geo bindings, and he raised his eyebrows. “If handcuffing people in taverns is what you’re into, I’ll have to kindly ask you to do it somewhere else.”
The Harbinger clicked his tongue. “What a killjoy, am I right? Shall we take this outside, my friend?” The informal tone irked Zhongli, but he said nothing.
Taking a glance at Venti—he, blissfully oblivious to his situation, was singing now, slurring his words to some vaguely recognisable melody—Zhongli decided it might be better to do what the Harbinger said. Getting further away from Venti meant he wouldn’t have to protect him as closely. He couldn’t help but wonder what the Harbinger was plotting, however. The Fatui were known as the vermin of Teyvat for a reason; that being their tendencies to sneak and slip around like rats. They weren’t, Zhongli knew, below lies and tricks if it meant they’d achieve their goals.
When Zhongli spoke, his words were calculated. “Yes. I think that would be best.”
He didn’t uncuff the man’s hands; he seemed perfectly capable of moving despite it, if a little awkwardly. They left the tavern under the watchful gaze of the bartender. The mild March air was pleasant on Zhongli’s skin, and he took a moment to appreciate the blackening of the early-night sky as he waited for the Harbinger to follow him out.
“Oh, yes,” the Harbinger said, once the both of them were outside, “we’re long past introductions, I think. My official name is Tartaglia, but you can call me Childe. You?” He spoke with a light tone; one that might be expected of a friend. As if they were simply exchanging pleasantries.
“I do not intend to exchange such information with a Fatui Harbinger such as yourself.”
Tartaglia laughed softly. He must have been used to these sorts of exchanges. “I’m simply trying to be pleasant. You’re well-dressed, high class perhaps? You must be no stranger to such formalities.” He looked Zhongli briefly up and down, flashing him another practised smile. Faux politeness. An effort to gain his trust, perhaps.
“We are not in fitting circumstances for such pleasantries,” Zhongli said curtly. “Perhaps your intentions are honourable, born out of loyalty to your master, but our interests clash nevertheless. I do not feel the need to introduce myself to you.”
“So uptight,” mumbled Tartaglia. “I guess I’ll just have to work out who you are myself.”
“You needn’t do such a thing. I’m simply here to inquire as to why you wish to steal Barbatos’ gnosis.”
“You’re too knowledgeable and…well, let’s say highly-strung to just be the traveller you say you are,” said Tartaglia, completely ignoring him. Zhongli pursed his lips. “Perhaps a knight? No, I don’t reckon you’re from around here…”
“Tartaglia.”
“Call me Childe.”
“No. I wish to inquire about the gnosis.”
A pause, and a disappointed sigh. “I think you and I both know I can’t tell you anything about that,” Tartaglia said, voice dropping low. “I’m not sure why you’re so bothered about Fatui business, anyway.”
“You were about to steal a gnosis from the Anemo Archon. I will not sit idly by and watch conflict arise while doing nothing.” A fragment of truth he would allow the man in front of him.
“Ah, but you see…” Tartaglia paused his speaking to seat himself on a chair in the outside section of the tavern, crossing his legs. Black boots tapped rhythmically against the table leg. “…doing what you have done now will only procure more conflict. The Tsaritsa does not like to be denied her will.” He stopped his tapping to lean forward, eyes trained on Zhongli as if he were seeking out some sort of reaction. “And by stopping me from achieving my goal, you’ve just gotten yourself into something you might not so easily be able to get out of.”
Zhongli must have been the picture of weariness, he thought; amber eyes once alight with the fire of war had long since dulled with exhaustion of the conflict Tartaglia spoke of. “I know.”
“These handcuffs are getting sore. How did you make them so strong?” Like the flick of a switch, Tartaglia was back to that cheery tone from before, his question laced with an unsettlingly genuine undertone of wonder and admiration. Zhongli wondered if he normally changed moods on a dime, or if this was a strange intimidation tactic of his. A deliberate choice intended to confuse. “I know for sure you can’t be just a knight now. Although, I’m sure they’d love to have you on their team.”
“The Knights of Favonius and I are not associated. I rarely spend time in Mondstadt like this—I am simply here to sample the local specialties.” He didn’t know why he was telling Tartaglia this, but he supposed it couldn’t hurt to stall for a little while he thought of a succinct way to deal with him. “I do not have an organisation to follow and orders to complete as you do.”
“I have to say, I’m a tad jealous,” Tartaglia said. “I don’t regret devoting myself to the Tsaritsa, but sometimes I wish I was as free as the rest of you all seem to be.” A bittersweet chuckle. “These handcuffs are really starting to hurt…wouldn’t you loosen them a little?” Did he think Zhongli was stupid?
“Tartaglia.”
Tartaglia sighed. “I’m sure I told you to call me Childe.”
“I am not interested in adopting nicknames for you.”
A huff. “And here I was, trying to get along…”
Deciding it would be best to ignore him, Zhongli seated himself on a seat at the table adjacent to Tartaglia’s. “I have not yet decided what I shall do with you.”
“Will you not pass me on to the Knights? Surely, this is their job to take care of, rather than a…mere traveller such as yourself.”
“No,” Zhongli murmured, staring absentmindedly at where the grey stone bricks of the tavern wall met the ground. “I must say, I never have had too much trust in the Knights. They may be strong—I’ll give them that. But their way of going about things is not in a fashion I personally would approve of.” ‘I also don’t trust them to handle you’ was best left unsaid, he thought.
Tartaglia grinned. “We can agree on something there, at least. I reckon I could beat about ninety percent of those guys in a fight. Although, if their handcuffs are half as strong as these things…” He tugged at the cuffs. “What did you even do to make these so efficient? Is it the rock composition? How do Geo Visions even work?”
It’s a gnosis. “Like any other.”
Tartaglia rolled his eyes, and tugged on his restraints again. “You know, I’m surprised you haven’t cuffed my ankles yet. I could just get up and run.” He uncrossed his legs as if for emphasis, kicking the ground with his heel.
“I’d have thought you’d have been smarter than to give your enemy ideas.”
The wind picked up for a second as he said that, cold in the strands of his hair and on the skin of his face, a reminder of where they were. City of wind and song. That was what Venti had called it, with unbridled affection in his voice. The wind whistled through Tartaglia’s hair too, blowing the strands to the side, wind-caught ginger locks falling over dark-lashed eyes. He shook it back into place.
“I don’t think much I say at this point will have an effect on your decisions, really,” said Tartaglia, a sigh bubbling up beneath his words. “Let’s just hope you’re not too harsh on me, eh?”
More wind. Zhongli, even in this form, was not subject to the weather’s consequences as a mortal would be; that did not mean he did not feel the stings of cold that pricked his skin, the breeze that nipped through his hair and clothes. If he had considered vulnerability to be within his scope of emotions, Mother Nature would be the closest thing to making him feel it.
“Are you not cold?” Tartaglia’s apparent penchant for patronisation was an infuriating one. “In Snezhnaya, we consider this warm, but I know the rest of the world are less accustomed.”
Zhongli did not respond.
“In fact, before I came here, I thought Mondstadt would be a lot colder than it is. Not as cold as Snezhnaya, of course, I expected as much; but it’s definitely very different. I can’t say I dislike it. It’s nice being able to sit outside comfortably without worrying about getting pneumonia. Although, I do miss my home, of course. You can’t beat Snezhnaya’s pure white winters.”
Zhongli stood up from his chair. It scraped across the stone unpleasantly as he pushed it back under the table. Tartaglia trailed off where he was babbling on about Snezhnaya. “I have decided what I shall do with you.”
Tartaglia’s lips curled up in a cattish smile. “Go on, tell me. I’ll rate your plan out of ten.”
“I think I’d have preferred being tortured for info.”
Zhongli, who was crouching on his haunches to observe the grass, said nothing in return. He’d practically dragged Tartaglia, complaining and musing about how Zhongli was wasting his time, with him to the Whispering Woods, where he began his search for pinecones. At some point, he’d removed the handcuffs, much to Tartaglia’s relief.
“Why do you even need pinecones? I can’t think of a single good use for them.” Tartaglia was sat on a boulder, leaning his chin into his hand, kicking at the ground with his heel – much like a child throwing a temper tantrum, Zhongli had thought.
“Mondstadt Hashbrowns are a local speciality, and I wish to try my hand at cooking them. The inclusion of pinecones has been stressed as important in most variants of its recipe.” Zhongli stood up. It seemed, he thought bemusedly, that pinecones were all over the place when one didn’t need them, and a rare asset when they were searched for. “Sampling the local recipes was one of my aims when I travelled to Mondstadt, and I am not diverting my course in order to please you. I cannot leave you unguarded. If this means bringing you with me on my journey, I am willing to do what is necessary.”
Tartaglia grumbled and hopped up from the boulder. Zhongli side-eyed him wearily. “Can’t we at least go and kill some hilichurls?”
Sighing, Zhongli brushed some invisible dust off his gloves. “Perhaps later. If, that is, you stop with your attempts at attacking me.” Over the past few hours, Tartaglia had been periodically switching between trying to surprise-attack him and trying his luck at making a run for it. He had actually managed to get a scrape in on Zhongli’s cheekbone at one point, a line of dark-red blooded-specks for his efforts. Zhongli traced it now with a gloved hand, his touch ginger. “You’re making this all rather difficult for yourself.”
“Where we going now? Anywhere interesting?”
“I’d quite like to see the views Starsnatch Cliff has to offer,” Zhongli explained. “I have been here before, long ago with an old friend, but the memories are a little faded. I’d quite like to rejuvenate them.” Being as old as he was, Zhongli had many, many memories stowed away in the corners of his mind, and the thing he most regretted about them was that he did not devote more time to remembering them more distinctly. “Although, she took me here during the day; I am yet to see it at night.”
The corners of Tartaglia’s mouth tipped up in a small smile. “She? A girlfriend of yours?”
Zhongli was quiet for a moment before he said, “I suppose you could have called her as such. Those days are, however, long since passed.”
Tartaglia was, to Zhongli’s slight annoyance, very good at asking questions and getting answers. He supposed it was par for the course for a Harbinger, but it was still irritating how good he was at prying out information that Zhongli didn’t even realise he’d revealed until the words had left his mouth.
Or, perhaps, that was just Zhongli being far too willing to talk about the past.
“Bad breakup?”
However, these questions seemed more harmless than anything, strangely. Knowing about Zhongli’s past relationships couldn’t possibly have been helping him in his quest for Venti’s gnosis. Perhaps there was some form of ulterior motive at work.
“Not so much a breakup as her passing.”
Tartaglia’s face morphed into an expression of mild surprise, then back to a state of neutrality. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Do not worry. It was a long time ago. I carry many fond memories of her to look back on.” Zhongli craned his neck to observe the moon’s presence in the sky. It had reached its crescendo now, and was slowly inching down back towards the horizon, a clear indication that the night was growing older by the minute. For thousands of years, he had used the sun and moon to tell him of the time – an old habit that he’d never quite slipped out of, even with the invention of pocket-watches. “Let us go to the cliffside. I would quite like to see what it looks like in the night.”
The base of the hill leading to the cliff took less time to reach than Zhongli had predicted it would, mainly because of Tartaglia ushering him along and insisting on taking the shorter routes. Mortals tended to rush through life like so; Zhongli supposed he couldn’t blame them. Their lives were short. They did not have the time to sit a hundred years and think or read.
“Weren’t you the one who said you want to reach Starsnatch before sunrise?” Ah, he was teasing again. Zhongli did not understand the ability to banter and joke with those one had only met a few hours ago, or to fraternise with those who should be considered enemies. Perhaps his years of battle had made him put up a tougher guard than he’d realised. “Come on. I’m growing old waiting for you over here.”
“We have time, Tartaglia.”
“You’re so lame.”
The cliff jutted out over the sea, sharp and tapered like the edge of a spearhead. Perching atop it so precariously was exhilarating in itself, even for a god; Zhongli could tell Tartaglia felt the same way.
“This would be the perfect place for a fight.” Tartaglia, Zhongli had learned over the course of the night, thought half with his brain and half with his sword.
“I must disagree. The risk of falling is far too high.” Falling at a height such as this would practically be a death sentence for a mortal. “There’s no space for proper techniques, either.”
Tartaglia’s grin was all but wolfish. “The risk is the best part.”
Zhongli’s face took on a frown. “I do not understand you.”
Instead of responding, Tartaglia’s smile tinged a little sheepish, and he crouched down to settle himself on the ground, swinging his legs over the edge of the cliff. He threw himself back, lying down on the grass. His legs swung slightly, in a manner that was almost childlike. Zhongli had long since lost the childish mannerisms from his younger days, but he noticed them many a time in mortals, especially the ones who were forced to grow up too fast. He wondered how old Tartaglia was.
“The stars are even more beautiful here.” Tartaglia’s voice was adrift with admiration. “Everything looks so much better from up high. It’s like the world opens up to you.”
Zhongli had spent a long, long time in this world, and he had to admit that nothing could bring his appreciation for it bubbling up quite like admiring a sky of stars. He’d sat and admired them with Guizhong many a time before, night after night of watching the sheen of the sky move slowly by, watching the moon rise and fall a million times over, yet it never got any less beautiful. He’d tried to count the stars before, countless times over his lifespan, but he’d never managed it. He supposed there were some things that pushed against his limitations, even as an Archon.
More silence: somehow, the night sky seemed to have calmed the other man, because he did not speak for a minute or so. Zhongli supposed the tranquillity of night could tame even the wildest beasts.
“I could push you off this cliff.”
Ah.
Really, Zhongli wasn’t sure what he had expected.
“It was stupid of you to take me up here, really.”
Zhongli was quiet for a moment before he said, “I would not have brought you with me here if I did not think I could handle your powers.”
Tartaglia stood up, brushing off the back of his clothes, and gave Zhongli a devious grin. “Oh, I never doubted that. What I was really asking was if you could handle me.”
In hindsight, Zhongli supposed he should have taken that as a warning, but something in his mind dismissed it as Tartaglia just being himself. Distinguishing between jokes and threats with him, he’d learnt over the past few hours, was anyone’s game.
But perhaps he underestimated just how far he would go to achieve his goals.
Because that was the last thing Tartaglia said before he threw himself off the edge of the cliff.