Upstairs, in a room at the end of a corridor, Zhongli sets up censers.
Childe watches from his corner, making as little noise as possible. As Zhongli works, a change seems to come over him. His posture becomes more steady, colour returns to his pale skin. When the fourth and final burner is set up, he breathes a sigh of relief, golden eyes bright one more as he nods at Childe.
‘I owe you an explanation.’
Childe nods.
‘Here.’ He rummages through a cupboard, finally pulling a teapot off the top shelf. ‘No one will overhear us.’
Childe feels as though he should step closer. Zhongli grabs his hand once more and presses Childe’s hand to the surface of the teapot.
The floor is swept out from underneath his feet, and he is falling into a void. Cold panic rises within him, and he closes his eyes in an attempt to quell it. Zhongli squeezes his hand, as if sensing something is wrong, and before he can return the gesture, the floor is back.
He blinks. He is standing in the middle of an ornate room, ink paintings adorning every bare inch of the walls. A porcelain vase stands in the corner, a branch of wilting blossoms drooping over its edges. A table stands in the middle of the polished wood floor, a tea set on its surface.
Zhongli heads to the table, gesturing for Childe to join him. His gloved hands are restless even when they are seated, and Childe is reminded of Teucer and his twiddling thumbs.
‘I promised I would tell you the truth.’
That is true. Childe nods.
‘But first and foremost, you are my guest.’ He reaches for the tea set and drops a handful of tea leaves into the teapot, which is inexplicably full of boiling water. Childe decides to not question it. ‘It would reflect poorly on my manners if I were to subject you to such a lengthy explanation without offering you the basest comforts.’
‘Thank you.’
Zhongli nods in reply. ‘This will take a while.’
The seconds tick by. Zhongli sits abnormally still, gaze fixed on the teapot.
The seconds become minutes. Zhongli still does not move. Childe stands up to quell the itching in his feet.
There is only one furnished room in this entire space. No prizes for guessing whose bedroom this is. The silk sheets on the large bed are rumpled, and one pillow is on the ground. Childe steps in, thinking that he should maybe take off his shoes before stepping on the ornate carpet. A desk sits in the corner, piled high with papers and several glowing green capsules.
Against his better judgement, he shucks off his shoes and proceeds to the desk. The papers are written in a language he does not recognise, but he knows that he should. He sees something in his peripheral vision and turns to look at it directly.
Above the desk, taped to the wall, is a portrait of Childe. Yet it isn't. He knows he doesn’t look like that, with those dead, empty eyes and unsettling smile, but the features, painstakingly painted in ink with a steady hand, are his.
He shelves it away, planning to bring it up later.
The wallpaper has an interesting pattern. Flowers? Or simply patterns that his mind is determined to categorise into something familiar? He leans closer, then recoils.
The smell of sweet rot is embedded into this room, reaching out wispy tendrils to grab him. He takes a step back, trying to stay on his feet. He needs to leave this room now.
He staggers out of the room, slamming the door behind him. He hopes he looks natural enough when he walks back into the main room where Zhongli is waiting.
The man still hasn’t moved, his fingers intertwined, but his eyes are closed. Childe takes a tentative step closer and taps him on the shoulder.
The man is beautiful, or rather he was beautiful once. The pallor of his skin and the tiredness under his eyes take away from his fine features.
He is still wearing his winter coat. Doesn’t he ever get cold? Childe tugs at the collar of his coat and tries again to wake him up, this time tapping him on the cheek, ignoring the electricity in his arm at the feeling of skin on bare skin.
Zhongli doesn’t respond. Childe pushes down the uncomfortably hot feeling in his chest and makes for the front door.
~~~
The house has a courtyard, or more accurately, it stands in the middle of a floating island, one of many that are visible through a faint fog. There is a singular stone table next to the house, and that is where he sits, staring off into the distance.
And then, like clockwork, the claws in his spine come back to life.
He is cold. When was the last time he felt anything apart from agitation at a human touch? He shakes his head. He should go back in, warm up, think of a way to deal with this—
He stops himself.
He cannot enter the house without seeing Zhongli, and he cannot see Zhongli without wanting to get closer and—
He takes a deep breath. He is here to seek answers, not let the creature in his mind pilot him.
He breathes again and makes for the next island, connected by a spindly rope bridge. The whole place is nothing but grasslands, sometimes broken up by small copses of trees. The mists that cover the landscape seem to push against him the further he goes.
He winces when the claws scratch at him from the inside of his head. ‘Get it together,’ he mutters to himself. It pauses, then continues scratching.
He needs to get away. He needs to do something. He needs to fight, to tear something apart with his hands—
‘This isn’t you,’ he tells himself. But to be honest, he doesn’t know if that is true. What does he have except the remnants of someone else?
Why is he even fighting this? What else does he have?
He takes a look around. Thankfully, there is nothing around. He doesn’t know what he would have done if there was something to fight.
Swish.
He turns his head towards the sound. It’s close to the bridge, and he knows it is made by a polearm. The possibility of a fight sends a shiver up his spine.
His hands curl into fists, around the memory of water blades. He lets out an involuntary noise of frustration when his hands remain empty. No matter. He is capable of fighting unarmed. He approaches, his feet silent on the grass. He sees her now, a woman with a long braid and flowing sleeves, slashing through the air with practised skill.
He pounces.
The blade of her polearm slashes at him, but he is already dodging, going for the weak point that is her legs. A grave miscalculation, and she slams the end of her weapon into his side, sending him flying.
He lands on the edge of one of the islands. This isn’t over yet. He can still stand, and she is far enough away—
He stands up to meet the blade of her polearm, aimed at his throat.
‘Welcome back.’
Her voice is low and smooth, and he is reminded of someone else with the same purple tinge in his hair. But this woman and her piercing eyes feel actively dangerous, and he takes extra care to not move.
Then her head tilts, and her voice changes.
‘He succeeded, I see? That would give him some peace of mind.’
She sounds lighter, happier, though her lips do not move an inch. He can’t say anything apart from a choked ‘um’.
She notices and sets her weapon back on the ground. ‘Tartaglia, Eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers, heretic against Celestia. I can’t say that I welcome your return with open arms, but there is someone else in this realm who would.’
His brain is working again. Now, he has a name for the thing sharing his mind. Slowly, he nods.
‘What are you doing so far away from the house? He never let you roam this far before.’
‘I—I think I got lost. Went on a walk to clear my head, and…’
Her eyes roam over the empty plains and the house clearly visible in the distance, the sharpness back in her gaze. ‘I see.’ She brightens. ‘I’ll lead the way. He’ll be thrilled to find out, the poor man…’
The way back seems longer, though the mists part around him as long as he sticks close to this strange woman. His fingers twitch. He still longs to fight her, but she is more valuable to him alive.
‘Who are you?’
She tuts at his tone but replies anyway. ‘I am an old friend of his. He requested my assistance with a project of his, and I, understanding his predicament, agreed.’
‘The project…’
‘He wanted to fulfil a promise to you.’ She lets him go first on the suspension bridge. ‘Unfortunately, however…’
She stops, as if unsure whether to continue. Childe clears his throat.
‘You can continue. I know I’m supposed to be dead.’
‘Oh. All right,’ she says. ‘You need to be alive for him to fulfil that promise. Death is not a rule many are willing to break, but the fulfilment of contracts is more important to him than anything. Though, I do wish he had let me craft the vessel. His handiwork is not unskilled, but it is… crude.’
That makes two, he thinks to himself. He can feel her curious eyes on the back of his neck.
‘I do wish this wasn’t the only way,’ she says. They have made it back to the island where the house stands, silent and imposing in the mist. ‘I told him when your vessel was first created, that puppets have a will of their own that may not necessarily line up with that of his… friend.’ That makes him scratch his neck. ‘Oh. That’s you.
‘Yet it seems he was right. Your will to live did force you to find a compromise.’
His mouth feels dry.
‘It’s a delicate balance. Not one suitable for a Harbinger with an ego enough to challenge that of gods. And yet,’ She opens the door for him. ‘I understand. I would have used any method to try and bring her back to me, no matter the risk.’ She sighs. ‘Miko was right. Grief never leaves you.’
She steps in first. Childe makes to follow, then a spike of pain spears through his head.
‘Is anything the matter?’
She’s still holding the door open. He bites down on his tongue, letting the faint taste of blood in his mouth distract him from the pressure in his head. ‘I’m fine. I’ll be there in a while.’
The pain is worse than ever before, and he knows exactly what is causing it. He will have to find an excuse through this awful haze, find a way to hide in one of the rooms without seeing—
From the main room, the sound of a vase shattering, and a faint exclamation in a language he doesn’t understand.
Gritting his teeth, he drags his heavy body forward.
Zhongli is still at the table, his fingers intertwined, his eyes closed. Except now there are flowers, large and pale, threaded through his hair, growing over his coat, their vines encasing his hands in their grip.
Childe is forced to take a deep breath as the pain forces him to his knees.
The smell of sweet rot greets him, like it had never left in the first place.