Chapter Text
The dawn of the morning that the Tsaritsa receives word of Il Capitano’s sacrifice is much like any other in Snezhnaya. Barest hints of golden hues peek through wispy grey clouds to dance over snow-laden trees and frosted windows, the presumed blue of the sky above obscured by a promise of further snowfall. A biting chill typical of the early hour lingers over Zapolyarny Palace, even as the first stretches of daylight touch upon the rooftops of the capital city.
However, the dramatic plunge in temperature that follows the Tsaritsa’s receival of this missive falls far below the usual seasonal frigidity.
Out of a sense of obligation, or perhaps simply respect, the Pyro Archon has sent a letter detailing The Captain’s role in securing the safety of her nation against the forces of the Abyss. Mavuika thanks the Tsaritsa for his sacrifice in plain words, lauding his honor and virtues, despite, no doubt, being very aware of his original purpose in Natlan.
There is no comment from the Tsaritsa on his failure to obtain the Pyro Gnosis; in fact, she does not speak on his fate at all. Instead, once she quietly dismisses the messenger and passes the letter to Pierro, she secludes herself in an icy fortress of grief within her throne room. All of Zapolyarny Palace feels the sting of her sorrow in the cold winds that whip through the city. And so, even before Pierro gathers the Harbingers together to give an official statement, they are aware that their brother in arms has fallen.
There is a solemnity in the ranks of the Harbingers during Il Capitano’s memorial. Capitano has garnered much respect and favor from his peers, built on both the merit of his strength and his loyalty to the Tsaritsa’s cause over the centuries. It is a much different atmosphere than that of Signora’s service, though none are tactless enough to point this out. To lose a pillar of the Harbingers such as he is a devastating blow to not only their cause, but to the morale of the Fatui as a whole.
One Harbinger in particular eyes his mentor from his peripheral, somewhat bemused that even The Rooster is respectfully quiet during the proceedings.
Pulcinella’s sharp gaze darts to the side to catch Childe’s eyes, and his brow furrows. “Whyever are you staring at me?” he chastises beneath his breath, as Pierro drones on in the front of the cathedral. “Pay attention.”
Despite the tension, Childe huffs an amused laugh, but dutifully reorients his gaze to their director. “Just wondering if we will take half-day of work this time, as well,” he whispers with feigned nonchalance.
Childe winces when the bottom of Pulcinella’s cane meets his shin, coupled with a hissed “Insolent boy!”, then hides his smile in the red scarf wrapped around his throat. He falls silent, after that, and the ceremony carries on without further interruption.
It isn’t as though Childe has no empathy for the loss of Capitano. In fact, he quite admired the Harbinger. There is disappointment, of course, that he can no longer aspire to duel the man, and he feels deeply for the anguish of Her Majesty. Though, Childe has never been one for pointless posthumous platitudes and drawn out services, never mind the unfavorable company, so he mostly tunes out until the memorial draws to a close. None of the Harbingers care to throw verbal daggers at one another at the moment, and are all able to disperse fairly quickly, with a promise from Pierro that their deployment statuses will all be reviewed shortly in the wake of all that has transpired.
This serves to offer Childe a little excitement. While he’s been enjoying his relative free time by honing his skills wherever and however he pleases, he wouldn’t mind a reassignment for something more substantial to really get his blood pumping. Ever since his ‘Fontanian vacation’ , he has been kept on light work—though the Tsaritsa has not said as much directly to Childe. She is, he knows, caring to a fault in that frozen heart of hers, even if others may not understand her love.
In any case, for the time being, he and the other Harbingers are expected to stay within the bounds of Zapolyarny Palace until their assignments have been confirmed or changed. It’s not exactly pleasant to keep their company, and so Childe devotes his free time to training Fatui recruits on the exercise grounds when he isn’t writing to his family or ice fishing on the outskirts of the city.
Occasionally, he pesters his co-workers. It is mostly Pulcinella who takes the brunt of this, bombarded with Childe’s questions on the status of his family while he’s been away. Arlecchino now also receives a fair share of visits from Childe when he finds himself wandering aimlessly. He checks in on the kids in the House of the Hearth, and asks for advice with his own siblings. Though she never seems particularly thrilled by his presence, she has never asked him to leave and always responds to his inane hypotheticals.
It is ten days after Il Capitano’s memorial service when Childe makes an observation.
“It’s nearly warm outside today,” he says, squinting at the sunlight glinting off of snow-covered roofs outside of Pulcinella’s office window within the Palace. “I wonder what’s got her in such a good mood.”
“Her Majesty is expecting a visitor,” Pulcinella replies without looking up from his newspaper.
Immediately intrigued, Childe turns away from the window and focuses his full attention on Pulcinella. “A visitor? Of what sort?”
“An important sort, one would presume,” Pulcinella responds dryly.
Childe drums his fingers against the sill of the window behind him and frowns. “And what, you don’t know any more than that? It’s only been forty days.”
They both understand the weight of that statement. After Signora’s passing, Her Majesty had refused all visitors for the following three months. For her to even consider a visitor this soon after Il Capitano, something or someone of great importance must be involved.
Pulcinella sighs, and finally rests his newspaper in his lap to fix Childe with his stare. “Despite what you may think, not even I am privy to all of Her Majesty’s affairs. Though, yes,” he allows, glancing away from Childe thoughtfully, “it is…intriguing.”
Childe doesn’t believe intriguing begins to cover it. It is unprecedented, and it makes him antsy— just who, or what could cause Her Majesty to receive them so warmly?
“Intriguing, he says,” Childe repeats with some exasperation, the rhythm of his gloved fingers quickening against the windowsill, and Pulcinella looks back at him over the rim of his spectacles with obvious judgment.
“It is hardly my place to stick my nose into her business—” Childe restrains himself from pointing out that everyone else’s business seems fair game. “—as curious as I may be. If it pertains to us, we will surely find out sooner rather than later.” Then, under his breath, “Besides, the mouths within these walls run faster than a pack of Rifthounds. Once the maids know, we all will.”
With that, Pulcinella acts as though the matter is settled, and shakes out his newspaper with a flourish to continue reading.
Childe pouts, thoroughly ignored. He finally pulls away from the windowsill to flop dramatically into one of Pulcinella’s settees, the force of the action causing its legs to make an unpleasant scraping sound against the marble floor. “Perhaps it’s the Pyro Archon? Come personally to present her Gnosis as a gift of thanks for Capitano’s heroism?” he ponders out loud, staring up at the high arched ceiling of Pulcinella’s office.
Pulcinella says nothing, but when Childe casts his eyes to the side, he can see the twitch of one of those bushy grey eyebrows.
“Or,” Childe drawls, flipping over onto his side on the settee, supporting his head on one hand, “perhaps the Archon of the Land of War has come to challenge Her Majesty to a duel for the Gnosis.” Despite the fact that his guesses are intentionally outlandish, Childe feels his adrenaline kick up just thinking about such a scenario. “It would be glorious, Pulcinella! Imagine, seeing Her Majesty in all her glory on the battlefield? I can’t imagine a better sight.” Childe sighs dreamily.
“Tartaglia.”
It’s Childe’s turn to ignore the other man. “Unless, of course, she allows me to fight in her stead and defend Snezhnaya’s honor,” he adds thoughtfully. “It would be a real treat to test my skill against an Archon, finally, and—”
“Tartaglia,” Pulcinella repeats with force, newspaper crinkling in his grip. “My patience wears thin, and I have duties to attend to. I know that ceaselessly pestering me is one of your hobbies, but please, feel free to relieve me of your presence and engage in something productive.”
Childe snorts, a crooked grin stretching over his face, but he relents and eases himself up from the settee as Pulcinella pinches at the bridge of his nose. “Fine, fine. Maybe I can find some recruits that don’t shake at the sight of me yet and do some more training.”
Pulcinella only shakes his head. “I’ll see you at dinner, I’m sure.”
Childe strides towards the door to the office, waving a hand casually in goodbye. “Of course,” he chirps. “We have a reservation at that fancy new Fontainian place in town at eight. Don’t forget!”
As the heavy wooden door closes behind Childe, he can hear Pulcinella’s muttered, “impertinent boy”, and his smile stretches more widely across his face.
It has been something to do, to try out the buzzing food establishments that have cropped up in Snezhnograd in the time he’s been away. There are always new cuisine trends that fascinate him, and it’s been a self-imposed challenge of his to experiment with learning one dish from each new restaurant he tries. It isn’t always a success, but nothing worthwhile ever comes easily. And, though he can’t leave the Palace at the moment to visit his family, he’ll be delighted to cook for them and impress them with the new dishes.
As Childe strolls merrily down the frozen arched halls of Her Majesty’s palace, he can already picture it in his mind’s eye. His darling little siblings, eyes bright and warm, creased in the corners from their enjoyment of the treats he’ll make them, cheeks stuffed adorably full. His parents, a more muted affection to be sure, but he would likely get a kiss on the cheek from his mother and a grumble of approval from his father for his efforts. His elder siblings…ah, well, there’s no telling if any of them would be home anyway, so he’s hardly bothered how they might like his cooking–
A monochrome blur passes in front of him and catches Childe’s attention, pulling him from his musings.
He blinks and a fluttering wisp of silvery hair is the last he sees of Arlecchino before she disappears down the hall perpendicular to his own, the clicking of her heeled shoes against the marble floors the only other indication he hasn’t simply seen a ghost. Childe cocks his head curiously and increases his pace, turning the corner to follow along behind her. The Knave never particularly rushes anywhere, though her current stride can only be described as quick, even with Childe’s long legs.
Conveniently, she stops in her tracks when Childe is just a few steps past the corner. She peers over her shoulder at him, the bottom half of her face obscured by the black furred line of her hood.
Crystalline sunlight filters in from the curved stained-glass roof above them, reflecting in colorful diamond-shaped patterns along the carved ice and marble architecture of the palace hall. The light stings when it hits Childe’s eyes as he moves toward her, though the slight caress of warmth against his skin is pleasant enough.
“We might as well walk together,” is what Arlecchino says when Childe reaches her side.
The two are alone in the hall, for the time being. This close to the throne room, it is odd not to see palace staff scurrying around, though they have likely been dispatched to the guest wing and accompanying sections in order to prepare for Her Majesty’s anticipated guest. Which leads to Arlecchino’s assertion.
“Oh?” Childe needles, falling into step with the Knave but unable to help teasing her just a bit. “Are we going to the same place?”
Arlecchino only scoffs as if such a question doesn’t deserve an answer, and Childe supposes that’s fair. They’re both curious, clearly, about the esteemed guest that has prompted Her Majesty to emerge from her mournful seclusion. Although…
“No updates from the kids?” he prompts. The intelligence network of the House of the Hearth is second to none, and if not even Arlecchino knows anything about the guest yet, then the mystery grows ever more fascinating.
Arlecchino hums for a moment, clearly mulling over her words while they walk. “Lyney has taken the children to attend a performance in Snezhnograd,” she says, finally. “They deserved a reward for their diligent work.”
Ah, so her intelligence network is currently offline. Pity.
“But, there is a carriage on the way to Zapolyarny Palace through Snezhnograd now. Presumably having come from the port town twenty miles east.”
Oh. Perhaps not.
“Accompanied by a Fatui escort, of course. So one can only presume.”
“They’re on the way now? ” Childe blurts, brows raising incredulously.
His companion eyes him. “Were you preparing to stand vigil at the throne room until someone arrived? I thought perhaps you knew this, at least.”
No, he did not! And really, he’d had no concrete plans—maybe wheedle some information out of a maid, or some other staff, if he could catch one around the throne room or guest wing. Childe did not expect the guest to be arriving quite so soon with so little preparation. Not only surprising, but honestly, inconsiderate as well.
“Must be someone special indeed, for Her Majesty to be so pleased with such a sudden arrival.” Childe grumbles, instead of acknowledging Arlecchino’s question.
“We hardly know what type of correspondence was exchanged or for how long,” Arlecchino points out.
Childe frowns. Her Majesty had not been accepting any correspondence at all from regular post during her seclusion. So, does this esteemed guest have some private way of contacting her? Perhaps his theory about the visitor being the Pyro Archon is not so far-fetched after all. In fact, that would be quite forgivable, if she were to offer the Tsaritsa her Gnosis and perhaps depart with a farewell spar against Snezhnaya’s finest…that would be the only respectable sort of send-off for a warrior of Natlan, right?
Ah, but Childe is getting ahead of himself once more.
By this point, he and Arlecchino have made their way through the labyrinthine hallways leading to the atrium before the throne room. The atrium is dazzling and magnificent much like the rest of Zapolyarny Palace, though perhaps even more so as it is where the Tsaritsa receives her guests before they enter her throne room. The entire dome is made of sheer ice, translucent enough to resemble glass, but sturdy enough to be as strong as diamonds. And like diamonds, the ice shimmers and refracts the light, making the space feel bright and warm despite the frigid weather beyond.
A set of grand doors sit within the center of the atrium, guarded by two agents who monitor the comings and goings of the throne room. The doors themselves are thick slabs of carved ice, opaque and beautiful in their designs depicting the Snezhnayan winterscape. A few feet away on either side of the doors are alcoves that hide spiral staircases leading up to the balcony overlooking the main atrium floor. The balcony curves in a half-circle opposite the throne room, and offers seating for dignitaries that are awaiting their meetings with the Tsaritsa or Harbingers.
It is from the overlook of this balcony that Arlecchino and Childe wordlessly agree to await the arrival of Her Majesty’s mysterious guest. From here, they are granted an advantageous viewpoint of the city of Snezhnograd beneath Zapolyarny Palace that is both breathtaking and strategic. Outside the high stone walls of the Palace, the city bustles with activity.
Blue eyes track the quick strides of people huddled in their thick winter jackets, attending to their daily routines in the brisk chill of the midday winds; nearly specs in the distance from the Palace. Various carriages and sleighs rumble over the cobblestone streets, dodging citizens and other vehicles alike—though none bear the Tsaritsa’s insignia, nor head for the Palace gates.
Childe sighs, leaning his weight onto one foot and taps the other impatiently on the balcony floor. He opens his mouth to question Arlecchino’s sources, when a loud scuffing noise from below startles him and makes him swivel his head to the side.
On the opposite side of the atrium’s first floor, a housekeeper sheepishly pushes one of the large potted plants back into position, their broom and dustpan fallen to the floor beside them. Another housekeeper scolds them in hissed whispers for the ruckus, and then urges them with frantic movements to clear out of the atrium entirely and toward the guest wing. Childe watches with some amusement, leaning slightly over the banister of the balcony as they depart in quick strides.
“There.”
Childe blinks, turning to Arlecchino with some confusion, before he follows her gaze fixated on the streets beyond the dome. Eyes widening, he straightens up and darts to her side, eagerly scanning the city below. Sure enough, steadily approaching the palace gates there is a large and appropriately ostentatious carriage bearing the Tsaritsa’s insignia, as well as a handful of Fatui agents surrounding the carriage as escort.
One of the agents moves forward to speak to the Palace guards at the gate, and the carriage stops until the guards give the clearance for them to continue through. The entourage proceeds up the winding road to Zapolyarny Palace.
The two Harbingers watch the progress of the carriage silently, only losing sight of it when the Palace road winds around the entrance’s sculpture garden. On the first floor of the atrium, the guards seem to have caught wind of the carriage’s arrival. Four of them appear from further within the halls to assist the agents stationed outside the Palace doors, while six more circle the circumference of the atrium. It’s a show, more than anything, since on a regular day the Tsaritsa does not bother to station more than four guards around the throne room, and even then, only for propriety’s sake.
But Childe does not let that distract him, as the real entertainment sits within the carriage rolling to a stop outside of the Palace entrance. The driver hefts the mound of furred blankets from his lap to jump down from his seat and greet the guards at the entrance, alongside one of his escorts. There’s a brief discussion that Childe cannot parse through the barrier of the ice before him, but the agents are quick and soon enough the driver is knocking upon the carriage door to alert their passenger that they may exit. At the same time, a runner darts inside towards the doors to the throne room to alert the inner guards that Her Majesty’s guest has officially arrived. One of the guards disappears within the throne room, though Childe’s eyes stay fixed on the carriage.
The passenger door opens slowly, and it feels nearly like a tease, as Childe watches with bated breath. From his vantage point above, the top of the carriage obscures the upper half of the body that begins to emerge. What he can see, though, is an elegant sway of a gloved hand that dismisses the agents offering help. Dark leather disappears into the thick sleeves of an elegant umber toned coat, the cuffs of which are lined in silky black fur. The coat drapes around the person in such a way that their black boots only become visible when they step down from the carriage, only to be swallowed once more by the sway of the long fabric. The hem of the coat, too, is lined in that same black fur–and, frustratingly enough, it appears that their hood is as well. Their hood, which, as they step fully away from the carriage, continues to obscure their face.
Childe huffs, eyebrows furrowed, as he watches the guards fall into step beside the cloaked figure and approach the doors to the Palace. If he were on the first floor instead, he would have been granted a more advantageous angle to see beneath the hood. Perhaps he can leap over the balcony railing without drawing too much undue attention…
“Patience,” Arlecchino says quietly from beside him, as though sensing his rising agitation.
Childe sighs. She is right. Instead, he clenches and unclenches his fists, dispelling some of his pent-up energy. As the guest passes through the atrium doors, the Harbingers shift over to the railing of the balcony. Childe watches the movements of the mystery guest, picking up on some things.
Most likely, with their height and build, they are male. The way that he moves is not rushed nor anxious, and he appears to politely greet the guards he passes, who nod at him in turn. His clothes are elegantly tailored, speaking to some measure of wealth. There’s something that prickles at the back of Childe’s mind, something that seems nearly familiar about the faceless man’s gait and the way he carries himself—
But then the sound of heavy ice sliding over marble diverts Childe’s attention as the large doors of the throne room begin to swing inwards, and a frigid gust of air fills the atrium as they part. Tiny flakes of snow dance along the breeze, catching the refracted light as they spin and flutter to find a home within eyelashes and upon coats lined in fur. Childe smiles softly at the playful demonstration, tenderly swiping one of the frozen flakes from his fringe to watch it dissolve on his gloved finger, eyeing its intricate icy design. A pity, that the Tsaritsa’s art should be so gorgeous and yet so fleeting.
Childe glances back to the Tsaritsa’s guest. He has paused, finally, in his confident stride—not out of reverence, no, and certainly not from fear. Instead, the man is holding one of his gloved hands before his face, presumably having caught a snowflake, his other arm folded neatly behind his back. From Childe’s vantage point, poor as it is, he cannot see the man’s expression.
However there’s something in the line of his posture, or the curious tilt to his upper body as he leans closer to his hand that speaks of amusement. Childe isn’t sure if he imagines a staccato lift of the shoulders that would suggest a quiet laugh, but the interlude is brief, and within another moment, the man is moving forward once more.
It isn’t until a hand touches his shoulder that Childe tunes back into the world around him, and he realizes that the doors to the throne room have closed once more. Blinking in quick succession, eyes dry, he turns to see Arlecchino gazing at him, her hand falling away from his coat.
While her expression is placid, in the time he’s come to know her more closely, he has learned how to read the subtleties in the depths of her eyes. There’s concern in the questioning look she gives him, and truthfully, he isn’t sure of what to say. The man that just walked into the throne room intrigues him, not to even touch on Childe’s vague sense of familiarity, but it doesn’t quite make any sense.
“Seems like an odd fellow,” Childe says for lack of anything more substantial.
The concern fades from Arlecchino’s eyes, and instead she raises a brow with a soft hum. “Could the same not be said for most of Her Majesty’s company?”
It’s a clear tease at both themselves and the other Harbingers, so Childe laughs, and with his laugh, much of the stiffness leaves his posture. “I suppose you’d be right.” He sighs, then, crossing his arms over his chest. “Still, it’s a shame we haven’t learned anything.”
“Haven’t we?” Arlecchino suggests, tapping manicured nails against the carved ice of the banister.
“Hm?” Childe tilts his head, frowning slightly.
“Come, now,” she chides. “I know your deduction skills are better than you’ll admit to.”
He isn’t sure if he’s being praised or chastised, and so Childe's frown simply deepens. “Sure.”
“You have concluded it’s a man,” she prompts. “Most likely someone of high importance. And yet, to come here unaccompanied…”
“It would suggest confidence and great strength.”
“Hm.” Arlecchino’s lips quirk up in the barest hint of a smile as she looks toward the throne room.
“But not the Pyro Archon.” Childe can’t help the somewhat petulant tone to his voice.
“You sound disappointed.”
“Of course I am,” he sighs, turning to lean his back against the banister, head angled towards Arlecchino. “My odds of being permitted to battle this guest have significantly decreased.” He pauses, thoughtfully. “Unless, I suppose, he offends Her Majesty in some way.”
Arlecchino huffs. “Always one thing on the mind.” Her tone is amused, though, and not mocking in the way most other Harbingers would be.
Childe’s lips quirk up. “But of course. I am Her Majesty’s Vanguard, after all. This is what she expects of me.”
There’re a few moments of companionable silence, only the sound of the wind outside and the occasional shifting of the guards below to break the quiet.
“Though I can only wonder at the nature of this guest’s visit, if not pertaining to the Pyro Gnosis.” Childe glances outside, to the glimmering sphere of the bright sun in a pale blue sky, disconcerting for how it is typically hidden behind layers of thick snow-laden clouds. “Her Majesty seems quite pleased by it all.”
“While it is not our place to speculate, I have confidence she will inform her Harbingers, should it involve us or her goals.”
“Hmm, said as though you aren’t curious at all,” Childe teases.
Arlecchino’s mouth tilts into the suggestion of a smirk. “Would I be here, were I not?”
Before Childe can respond, her red-cross eyes flicker from his to something over his shoulder.
“It looks like we may receive answers soon, after all,” she murmurs. Childe pushes off the banister, turning to find what she sees. He is greeted by the sight of a dove made of Cryo gliding serenely in the air towards them from the direction of the throne room.
The dove, a common form of summons from Her Majesty, loops a few times in the air leaving a glittering trail of Cryo dust in its wake before circling over Childe’s head and settling on his shoulder. It coos, soundlessly, and ruffles its wings. Childe can feel a cool brush of Cryo against his cheek. His eyebrows raise as he looks from the construct back to Arlecchino, who has a contemplative look in her eyes.
“Huh. Well, I suppose I shouldn’t keep her waiting.”
“No,” Arlecchino replies softly, but her brow pinches just slightly, and she fixes Childe with an odd stare. “May the grace of the northern winds be with you, Tartaglia.”
“Ah, thanks,” Childe replies, somewhat perplexed by the sudden change in mood. Regardless, he has a Queen to attend to, and an insatiable curiosity bubbling beneath his skin to catch a glimpse of this mysterious guest. He pays Arlecchino’s demeanor no mind as he turns away and jogs down the spiral staircase two steps at a time.
The throne room doors glide open as he approaches, the dove still perched upon his shoulder. The guards stationed outside the room nod to him. Again, a brisk chill pushes out into the atrium from the room beyond, and Childe closes his eyes to appreciate the caress of cold air against his cheeks in greeting. He takes a step forward through the threshold at the same time he re-opens his eyes, and his breath hitches in his throat with the sight that greets him, stopping him in his tracks.
“Childe.” A familiar baritone addresses him, eyes of molten gold fixing onto him as Zhongli steps around Childe to exit the throne room, brushing by him with that murmur of his name and a nod.
Those few seconds pass like eons to Childe, whose pulse thunders in his ears.
Zhongli.
Zhongli, that conniving old lizard.
What in the Abyss is Zhongli doing in Snezhnaya, talking to Her Majesty? Childe hasn’t seen the man since his time in Liyue, and—no matter. It isn’t the time. Childe isn’t going to stand slack-jawed in Her Majesty’s throne room over seeing an old frie—acquaintance.
Shaking himself out of his stupor, Childe strides further into the throne room, the heavy doors sealing shut behind him. He sucks in a deep breath of air, immersing himself in the permeating chill of Her Majesty’s presence. The cold steadies him, centers him. The frigid touch of Her Majesty’s aura is familiar and exhilarating, and Childe can feel himself relaxing with each step he takes towards the dais, the fluttering of his heart only due to the excitement of being within her presence.
She paints a regal scene, as she always does, lounging upon her throne like a statue of the purest marble. Her beauty is striking, much like her element, and though Childe has been before her an innumerable amount of times within her service, never does he feel any less awe in her presence. Diamond dust of crystalline ice dances around her, glittering in the light cast upon her from the dome above. Her expression is serene, a small smile upon her lips and a soft glimmer in her eyes as she watches Childe approach.
He stops at the front of the dais, dropping gracefully into a kneeled bow. “Your Majesty.”
“My eleventh,” she says, fondness curling around the syllables in her melodic voice, “you may rise.”
Childe does so, straightening up with his hands clasped behind his back, meeting her smile with one of his own. Something flickers in her expression, then, when she meets his gaze—fleeting, but undeniable—something that looks pensive and perhaps a little concerned. It is gone as soon as Childe blinks, and then she speaks once more.
“Tartaglia, you are being reassigned.”
Excitement pumps through Childe’s veins as the words are uttered, his casual smile widening into an ecstatic grin. For the Tsaritsa to pass a mission along to him directly rather than Pierro…it must be high-stakes. Perhaps the Gnosis in Natlan after all? Oh, the thought makes his adrenaline spike, and he has to chase away the fantasies of facing the Pyro Archon in combat in order to focus on Her Majesty.
“It would be an honor to serve you wherever you see fit, Your Majesty,” he says diplomatically, though he’s under no misgivings that she doesn’t sense his eagerness.
“Hmm,” she hums thoughtfully, and again, Childe thinks he can sense a sort of reluctance about her. His lips twitch into a neutral expression, brows furrowed, waiting as she seems to consider her next words.
The Tsaritsa beckons him closer with an extended palm. Quick to obey, Childe climbs the stairs of the dais until he is standing directly before her throne. Like this, they are eye to eye, and he shivers, her sharp gaze feeling as though it can pierce his very soul. Still, he takes her extended hand. Even through his glove, the touch is startlingly cold, as though it leeches the very warmth from his body.
“My child,” she says, her voice determined though soft. “You recall that among my many names, there are those who refer to me as the Goddess of Love, yes?”
Bemused by the non-sequitur, though trying not to let it show, Childe nods. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Of course he is aware. It is a tradition for young girls and boys of Snezhnaya alike to invoke the Tsaritsa’s name in an attempt to sway the heart of their chosen, to offer her gifts if only they could receive their love’s attention in recompense. Most learn by the time they reach adulthood, that such prayers will remain unanswered. Then they will say that Her Majesty’s heart is frozen, that she cares not for the plights of her people.
That is far from the truth. She loves more fiercely than anyone Childe has ever known. Her love is not smoldering embers, something so easily snuffed out—it is a winter’s breeze, cutting and sharp, carrying her ambition to destroy the old world in order to create a new dawn for humanity. That is Her Majesty’s love, and that is why Childe has followed her all of these years.
Regardless, that does not explain why she has brought this up.
“There was a time,” she continues, her gaze somewhat unfocused, “when that title carried more weight. Of course, this was long ago, before our goals were conceptualized and took priority over frivolities.”
A time before her vision took shape? Childe drinks in her every word, paying no mind to the numbness encroaching over his fingers within her grasp.
“It is due to my capacity as such that negotiations with Rex Lapis went as well as they did all those years ago.”
Childe cannot help the way his body stiffens at the mention of Rex Lapis, and he knows that Her Majesty notices, as her eyes refocus on him instantly.
“While that title has long since meant very little, Rex Lapis remembers.” Her lips quirk up at the side. “And, as I am sure you are familiar with, Rex Lapis can be very stubborn about his ideas once he has his mind to them.”
Voice frozen, Childe can only stare at her uncomprehending, wondering where this is leading. There are very few things Childe would wish to talk about less than Zhongli, but he will hardly voice that opinion to his queen.
“Perhaps it is a remnant of my title, or perhaps just a personal flaw, but all of my chosen Harbingers share one similar trait—ability to love fiercely.”
Love? Childe balks at the thought. He can hardly picture the Harbingers as a loving bunch, the idea itself laughable. But Her Majesty does not laugh, she only holds his gaze with a serious expression.
“You, especially, have within you such…” She releases his hand, and traces her fingers lightly over his chest where his heart beats beneath his heavy winter coat, “Such an endless capacity for it.”
Her eyes become a little lost once more, staring at the place where her fingers brush over his coat. Then, she drops her hand with a quiet sigh, and meets Childe’s eyes again. “Rex Lapis wishes to experience mortal love."
What?
“We have arranged for the two of you to enter a courtship, per the terms of our contract.”
What?
“The courtship period will be the length of one calendar year, after whi–”
“What?! ”
The word blurts out of Childe’s lips before he can contain himself. With a startled inhale, he clenches his jaw shut once more. Childe has never interrupted Her Majesty before, and shame claws up the back of his throat, warring with the shock and confusion that cloud his brain and make him feel dizzy.
However, the Tsaritsa shows enduring patience, not lashing out or even appearing to be annoyed with him, as would be her right.
“You will be going to Liyue,” she says calmly, “to enter a courtship with Rex Lapis.”
Childe swallows harshly, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth. He attempts to speak, anyway.
“Your Majesty, I believe there may be a misunderstanding.” More like an impossibly large oversight to this whole plan. “Rex Lapis and I…we are not on the best of terms, at the moment.” That’s putting it lightly, though saying the words aloud to his Queen feels immensely childish, and shame surely paints his face a burning red hue. “I do not think he would be pleased to receive me.”
Her expression does not change, and she only answers him with more patience. “On the contrary, he has specifically requested you.”
At that, Childe’s jaw falls open, but he thankfully holds himself back from any further hysterics.
Her Majesty elaborates. “It is true. To be fully transparent, he requested your hand in legal matrimony. Due to the parameters of our agreement, Rex Lapis is well within his rights to request the hand of any one of my people, including those of my Harbingers.”
Zhongli has requested him for a political marriage? Is this because he is the easiest person Zhongli has access to through his contract with Her Majesty? Or because they are familiar with one another, perhaps Zhongli figures Childe would remain an obedient pawn for him to manipulate?
All that talk of retirement, and he is still playing these games. Childe’s blood boils in his veins, his thoughts spiraling unhelpfully.
“I have, however, been able to negotiate with that stubborn old rock, and he has magnanimously agreed to a courtship period instead.”
Her Majesty’s casual insult is jarring enough to halt Childe’s racing mind, and he refocuses on their conversation. “Courtship period?” he prompts, in an attempt to show that he is listening.
“Yes,” she says. “For the length of one calendar year, you two will enter a courtship, the bounds and specifications of which have already been decided. Rex Lapis should present the contract detailing such to you at a later date. At the end of this courtship period, Rex Lapis and I will enter a discussion about moving forward with a marriage, or nullifying the arrangement entirely.”
Childe feels some relief start to cool the fire in his nerves. If he can prove to Zhongli there’s no point in attempting to use him as a political pawn, he'll likely want to end the arrangement and try some other unlucky sap. Fine. Easy enough. He doubts it will take a full year for Zhongli to be sick of him, anyway. It had taken less time than that to pretend to befriend Childe and then pull the rug out from beneath him, after all.
“Do you agree to this arrangement?”
Childe knows his choice in the matter is negligible. The question is simply performative. If the Tsaritsa is oath-bound, then there is little to be done even if he were to refuse, and he would never wish to place her in that position anyway. She has done him a kindness, already, by negotiating the bounds of the contract so that he isn’t trapped in Liyue in perpetuity.
“It would be an honor, Your Majesty.” Childe dips forward into an informal bow.
“Very good,” she says, and he catches her gaze when he straightens once more. “You will have one week’s time to get your affairs in order.”
One week. Barely enough time to see his family before another year of separation.
“Your travel arrangements will be sent to you the day prior to boarding. Once in Liyue, you are to be reinstated as the Harbinger overseeing the Northland Bank branch in the harbor. Any further tasks I or Pierro have for you will be delivered to the bank accordingly.”
At least that answers one of his more pressing questions. He won’t be stripped of his Harbinger duties while tending to this farce. That much is a small mercy. Childe shudders to think of any span of time during which he is expected to sheath his claws entirely and play the part of a political consort. The thought is repulsive. He isn’t sure what Zhongli will expect of him, but he supposes he can find out from the man himself—if he bothers to explain anything to Childe. They don’t have a very strong history of such.
Childe shakes his head to clear his thoughts of their unhelpful turn, and responds to his Queen as she expects. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Then you are dismissed, Tartaglia.” He nods, and as he turns to step down from the dais, she continues, her tone softer. “Remember, my Eleventh, that no matter what comes of the next year, you are the Vanguard of Snezhnaya, and this land will always welcome you with open arms.”
Childe freezes, glancing over his shoulder at her. He assumes this must be a reassurance that even if he and Zhongli’s political courtship fails, she will not hold such against him. And yet…her expression appears less comforting, and more melancholy, which he does not understand. He nods once more.
“Thank you, your Majesty.” Then, feeling as though that’s a paltry response, he tacks on, “Glory to Snezhnaya.”
“Glory to Snezhnaya,” the Tsaritsa returns.
With that, Childe finally heads towards the doors of the throne room. He feels as though his body is on autopilot, his mind buzzing, eyes staring straight ahead though paying attention to nothing he passes.
Once he draws near enough, the doors begin to swing open on their own, permitting him to exit. Childe draws in a deep breath, attempting to compose himself before stepping through the threshold. For all he knows, Arlecchino is still watching from the atrium balcony, and he needs to be in a state to accompany Pulcinella to dinner anyway.
Inhale, exhale.
He takes a step into the atrium, the temperature difference encouraging his body to instinctively release some of its tension with the modicum of warmth.
Inhale, exhale.
This is fine, in fact it’s far from some of the worst missions he’s handled before. He is likely overreacting, as Pulcinella is fond of accusing him of doing. Perhaps he can discuss his assignment with the man at dinner tonight, and—
“Childe.”
Inhale, exhale. He can just keep walking. Should, probably. Pretend he never heard—
“Childe!” Zhongli’s voice is louder this time, enough to echo over the panes of ice in the atrium.
Childe can’t possibly ignore him now without it being blatant. Which, were there no other agents and Harbingers around, he wouldn’t necessarily mind.
Inhale. Exhale.
Fine. He’ll greet the Tsaritsa’s guest, like any respectable Harbinger should, and then he can go about his night. Childe turns, a plastic smile upon his lips. “Zhongli—”
A gloved hand lands softly on his shoulder. Zhongli has apparently drawn closer during his internal predicament, and Childe can feel the heavy press of those fingers even through his thick layers. Zhongli smiles, warmly, as though greeting an old friend. Childe’s patience, along with his plan, snaps.
“I apologize for not being able to greet you properly earlier. It is good to see y—”
Childe smacks the hand away from his shoulder, feeling his face contort into an involuntary snarl. Forget not making a scene. Arlecchino can reprimand him for lack of control over his emotions later. “Why this? Why now? Why me?”
Zhongli blinks and drops his hand, as though surprised by the outburst. “What do you—”
“Don’t you dare ask me what I mean,” Childe bites, feeling his anger mount. The slurry of conflicting emotions he’s been feeling since the Tsaritsa informed him of his new assignment, along with his confusion, and not yet having the chance to even parse his own thoughts gathers into a quick, hot fury. “I played a role for you in Liyue already, what more could you want from me? Was it not enough to humiliate me once? Have you grown bored in your retirement?”
This isn’t how Childe envisioned approaching Zhongli about their situation. He pictured a much more diplomatic discussion over a meal, perhaps, but the words tear themselves from his throat.
Concern creases the line of Zhongli’s brow; rather than any reciprocal anger, he looks perplexed. “I believe there must have been some misunderstanding. What did she—” Zhongli interrupts himself suddenly, golden eyes darting around the atrium before meeting Childe’s glare again. “We should take this somewhere more private.”
Childe knows the suggestion makes sense, but still, he scoffs. “I thought you liked me best on a stage?”
Brows furrow into consternation. “Please, Childe. I will answer any questions you may have. Privately.”
While Childe hardly believes Zhongli will be fully honest with him, he knows the man is unlikely to outright lie either, and he does have plenty of burning questions. Clenching his jaw, Childe extends a stiff arm outward, indicating the hallway to their left that leads towards the guest wing. “Fine.”
When Childe turns toward the hallway to guide them, he catches the flash of silver from the balcony above, indicating Arlecchino taking her leave. He doesn’t allow himself to think of her, or what she might have thought of that display, instead focusing on leading Zhongli to a vacant area.
It’s a few minutes of heavy silence as they walk down the hall, with only the clicking of their soles against the marble floors to fill the air, until Childe stops before an innocuous wooden door and pushes it open. He doesn’t hold the door for Zhongli, but steps in and off to the side of the doorway as the man follows quietly behind him. They’ve entered one of the Palace’s many strategy rooms, though one that is rarely used due to its small size and farther distance from the throne room.
There are windows along the far wall that allow in enough light to see. Childe sees no point in lighting the fireplace for a conversation that will likely be anything but comfortable.
Zhongli gently closes the door, and faces Childe with that same concerned twist to his brows as earlier.
Childe finds that he has little patience for it, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well?” he prompts, impatience clear.
Zhongli is not riled by the harsh tone. “I have attempted to write to you multiple times since your departure from Liyue,” he says. “However, all of my letters have been returned unopened. I would have discussed this with you earlier, had I been granted the opportunity.”
“You wanted to discuss, what? Marriage? To me? After everything we have done to one another?” Childe barks out an incredulous laugh. “Yeah, forgive me if I don’t buy that, Zhongli. Our business was concluded the moment you gave Signora the Geo Gnosis. We had no reason to remain in contact after.”
The words hurt as Childe says them, despite everything. He’s had years to reconcile his feelings about Zhongli’s betrayal, however even old scars can reopen into fresh wounds when prodded enough. Zhongli’s use of his contract with Her Majesty is simply further salt in a re-opened wound.
Zhongli sighs. “I had anticipated you may not be receptive to this conversation, though perhaps I underestimated the extent of your reluctance. I had hoped that your conversation with the Tsaritsa might ease your misgivings.”
Is this man truly so obtuse? Perhaps this is simply a privilege of godhood, this ignorance to the effects they have on the mortals they use.
“My misgivings?” Childe can’t quite help the raised pitch to his voice. “Pray tell, what am I misguided about? That you’ve cashed in on your contract with the Tsaritsa to try and buy me?”
Zhongli’s expression cracks into something pitiful. “That isn’t–”
“I don’t want to hear excuses about it, I want you to tell me honestly, for once, what it is you’re after with this.”
“What I’m after?” Zhongli has the gall to look confused at the accusation. “What do you mean?”
Childe raises a brow. “Why else would you request a political courtship? There’s got to be something you’re getting out of it.”
Golden eyes widen and Zhongli’s face slackens with realization. “I see. So she didn’t tell you.”
Great. More that he’s been left out of the loop on. Childe’s jaw clenches. “Tell me what, Zhongli? Don’t try to pin this on her, either. This was your scheme.”
“No, I don’t mean to imply any of this is the Tsaritsa’s fault. What I desire from all of this—” Zhongli pauses, finally dropping his gaze from Childe and redirecting it to the windows instead. “I do not think you would believe me if I told you. Nor would you appreciate it.”
“I think you can try.”
With a hum, Zhongli looks back at Childe, head tilted in consideration. “Ultimately, you could say that I desire the full mortal experience, and all the entanglements therein.”
“Such as marriage?”
“Partially.”
Hah. And Zhongli thinks that cornering Childe into this arrangement will grant him the true mortal experience of romance? He is either painfully optimistic, or delusionally naive, if he’s even telling the truth at all. Childe can’t help letting out another humorless laugh. Of all the ridiculous schemes to be drawn into, to be a god’s plaything while he makes a mockery of mortal love. And for Zhongli to specifically choose Childe as his partner in this performance—hilarious, truly.
He wonders if their song-and-dance of friendship prior to the exchange of the Geo Gnosis made Zhongli think he could continue to twist Childe’s emotions even further.
Childe, who hadn’t believed such close relationships to be something within his grasp. Childe, who naively believed Zhongli when he extended the prospect of a friendship. Childe, who had genuinely begun to believe that he’d found a true companion in Zhongli; someone who might be able to accept him despite everything. Childe, who felt his heart shatter when he watched Zhongli trade his own to the Tsaritsa without so much as a glance in his direction.
Inhaling, Childe pushes his anger down, along with his wounded pride. It’s his own fault that he allowed himself to be drawn in by a few pretty words by a pretty man as a Harbinger, and he knows better now. He exhales, and in the simmering embers of his vexation, he finds a kernel of pity for the other man.
If Zhongli is to be believed, then it is pitiable for a god as revered as Rex Lapis to stoop to such levels in order to try and mimic a human relationship. Childe can admit this, even as he is frustrated at being the puppet for such machinations once again.
“Right, well, sorry to disappoint, but you’ve really chosen the wrong person. You know, most mortals marry someone that they love, or at least care for. Political marriages aren’t really the way to go about that.”
Zhongli eyes him, something unspoken in his gaze. “I see. I will keep that in mind.”
Resignation. “You have no intention of rescinding this ridiculous farce.”
“I do hope you will forgive me, Childe.” So, no. “I understand that given our history, I have much to make right between us, and among other things, this agreement has granted me the opportunity to try.”
Childe releases a tired sigh. This conversation isn’t going anywhere helpful, and he doubts Zhongli has given him the entire truth. Typical, but headache inducing, and now that the initial tide of his anger has receded, Childe just wants to be away from him.
“Whatever. I would say that in order to earn forgiveness for playing someone, you probably shouldn’t play them again, but clearly the words would be wasted. I’ll be stuck with you for a year, a week from now, so I hope you don’t mind if I excuse myself from your presence until then.”
That pitiful expression has returned to Zhongli’s face, but Childe ignores it to brush past the man and head for the door.
“Of course,” Zhongli says from behind him, voice contemplative. “Enjoy your evening, Childe.”
Childe lets the door slam shut behind him.