Written for Zhongchili Gotcha for Gaza
He hears a disturbance in the grass.
If it had been any other day, he would have assumed that the light from his flames had been spotted, and he would need to make a hasty retreat. Not that he was incapable of combat: it would simply require more flames, and he is not interested in continuing that cycle. However, there is only one person he knows that is capable of this kind of stealth, and who is willing to get this close.
A light wind picks up, rustling the grass and masking the other person’s footsteps, but Zhongli has already heard him. Turning around to look, he can see that the man has changed: apart from the discoloured blindfold, its ribbons fluttering in the breeze, he’s traded his bulky armour for something lighter, accentuated with a bright red scarf that he pushes over his shoulder. His bright red hair is shorn almost to the scalp, and the scars underneath his covered eyes almost make Zhongli turn away.
The man stands with his hands on his hips, legs apart. ‘What’s that you’re cooking?’
The closest flame sputters as the ash pile it has produced is blown away. The man sniffs. ‘Would it kill you to use real fire for once?’
‘If you knew what it was these flames have consumed—’
‘Come on. It’s hardly the worst thing I’ve eaten.’
Zhongli holds back a sigh.
A soft ringing draws his eye. A talisman, its bells swinging with the man’s movement, hangs from his hip. A small carving of a fox, it would be a reassuring sign in the midst of this man’s unsettling air, if not for the fact that it is stained entirely red.
‘You’ve been to the Land of Reeds.’
The sun is beginning to set over Limgrave, the gold sheen of autumn leaves fading with the light. The grace of gold, helpless against the tides of time. But today he is not in the mood for poetry.
‘And so I have,’ says the red-haired man. ‘What, pray tell, is your name?’
The name most know him by is not his. He’d taken it from a traveller from the distant east, in the last message they’d choked out as they fell to the blade of a foe.
‘You can still call me Zhongli.’
He supposes he’s become attached to it.
The man shrugs, as if he’d expected it.
Zhongli stamps out the silvery flames at his feet, scattering their ashes to the wind. ‘And you,’ he says, crushing the ashes into the grass, ‘What new mask have you stolen for yourself?’
‘I’m quite fond of “Childe” myself.’
The dusk sky is a deep, deep blue.
‘Did the grace of gold guide you back home?’ says Zhongli.
‘Grace? Never saw it. Never will.’
The darkness hides his unsettling smile. For one brief, guilt-filled moment, Zhongli relishes in that fact, banishing the thoughts of uncanny half-smiles and heretics without eyes from his mind.
In the silence, Childe speaks.
‘I come here to make with you a promise.’
‘No.’
‘You haven’t even heard it yet.’ Childe steps closer. ‘Let’s sweeten the deal. I’ll take my eyes back.’
Zhongli tenses.
He knows, then; he knows how much the bundle in his pockets, despite the layers and layers of cloth wrapped around it, threatens to sear a mark into his skin. The softness of the bundle against his touch, the way it threatens to burst whenever he attempts to cradle it. Forever a reminder of what he had been, and what he had done.
‘And you,’ says Childe, nudging the ashes at his feet with a toe. ‘You simply have to put your flames to good use.’
‘My answer is the same.’
‘Don’t tell me about your regret.’ Childe tilts his head back, sightless eyes meeting the stars, forever in stasis. ‘Tell me how you can make amends with it.’
‘I can offer you freedom,’ says Zhongli, hating how desperate he sounds. ‘Freedom of another kind, in what remains of this Order.’
Childe laughs, a sound that makes the hair on the back of Zhongli’s neck stand up. ‘I may be blind now, but even I can see that you possess as much of Marika’s grace as I do.’
He holds out a hand. The stars above cast shadows across his face, the loose ends of his blindfold draped across his shoulders.
Wordlessly, almost mechanically, Zhongli reaches into his pockets and withdraws the small cloth bundle. Wrapped in string, its warmth is a stark contrast to the approaching chill of night. Childe takes it with both hands, unwrapping it with a fervour that has been hidden underneath his skin since the fading light of the sun. He hisses when the wrappings fall away, leaving two soft, yellowed marbles in his hand.
‘See?’ Childe holds up the orbs triumphantly. ‘I’ve upheld my end of the deal. Now, whenever you’re ready…’
He rolls one of the orbs between his fingers. Zhongli remembers when they were a deep, sea blue, bright with life, warm with fresh blood, his gloved hands lodged in their sockets.
With a smile, Childe pops one of the orbs into his mouth. Zhongli hears him bite down, bursting it open, the soft moan that accompanies his chewing.
‘So sweet,’ Childe murmurs. ‘Burning… light.’
He tucks the other eye into the pouch at his hip. It is empty, a spot reserved specially for his eyes. For the first time in his life, Zhongli feels something akin to fear.
‘What are you planning?’
Childe swallows.
‘There is a hunt that I have not finished.’
‘You can’t possibly be…’
‘I know. It’s going to kill me. I’m going to kill myself. These flames will consume me and make me their puppet. But the only thing,’ says Childe, ‘The only thing that sends me to sleep at night, is the thought that I can make it down there, and I can put these blades to use once more.’
For the first time in his life, Zhongli finds himself completely speechless.
‘I can see it,’ says Childe. ‘The other light… deep underground.’
‘Let me accompany you,’ says Zhongli. ‘Let me share the burdens of your journey.’
‘Don’t,’ says Childe. The talisman at his hip rings at his movement. ‘But don’t worry your pretty head about it. I think that we will see each other more often than you’d expect.’
He turns to leave.
The evening air is cold on Zhongli’s exposed skin. In the distance, the faint light of torches come to life, the beginning of the night patrol. The firelight, yellowish in the mists, snaps him back to reality like nothing else.
Zhongli takes a step forward. ‘Wait.’
Childe stops.
‘The shortest path you’re taking, through Caelid—it is no longer safe. Neither the Redmanes nor the Rot will grant you mercy.’
Zhongli cannot see him, but he knows Childe is smiling. ‘A challenge, then. Good.’
After all, he will be killing a god.
Zhongli waits for him to disappear into the darkness before leaving as well.
Moonlight shines silver on the grass, a pale reflection of ghostly flames.