He’d always been partial to wine, and it appears that Tartaglia shares the same taste in the beverage. The bottle that sits between them is, according to Tartaglia, the strongest blend from his homeland. Home-brewed as well, by yours truly, says the mercenary, chest puffed out with pride.
Despite his twitchiness that night, Tartaglia had quickly regained his usual carefree composure, barging into the keep at dusk, covered in dirt and ash while triumphantly brandishing a sizeable bottle. ‘A gift for my lord, for his generosity,’ he explained to a disgruntled Xiao.
Now against the setting dusk, the two of them find a spot atop the castle walls, away from the bustling staff making dinner. Morax may be fond of them, but his tolerance must be replenished every once in a while.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Guizhong in the courtyard, writing notes onto her wrist with a paintbrush as two of her aides struggle to reload a ballista. Even from here, he can feel her frown, calculations slightly off again.
Next to him, perched atop the castle wall, Tartaglia swings his legs as he takes another swig of his wine.
‘Your lady is truly exceptional,’ he says. There is a slight flush to his cheeks, though the dusk’s orange glow offers it sufficient camouflage. ‘It took the scholars at Raya Lucaria several months to build something that functions half as well.’
Glintstone and mechanics, two things that mix poorly most of the time. Morax stands straight-backed as always, holding out a hand to take Tartaglia’s bottle from him.
The drink is warm, full-bodied, enough to quell the building cold in his stomach, even temporarily. Idly, he fidgets with a loose lace at his waist. ‘Raya Lucaria, my alma mater. Pity I was never a good student.’
Tartaglia chuckles. ‘It’s hard to imagine.’
It is, for most people except Guizhong. She, with her years of experience as a traveller and skills as a diplomat. Yes, he is forever grateful for her existence, and he tells Tartaglia that.
‘Ah, you truly are the perfect match!’
They are more than that, but Morax says nothing as he hands the bottle back to Tartaglia. ‘She is everything I could ever hope for,’ he says. But she deserves something more grand, so he adds, ‘She is the one line between my tyranny and the rest of the world.’
Tartaglia pauses, bottle resting on his thigh. ‘You are no tyrant, my lord.’
‘I must confess,’ says Morax, ‘I am a leader with no love for the living.’
Tartaglia tilts his head, confused.
‘No matter how much I may have hidden my true nature,’ says Morax, looking into the distance. That glorious golden tree, forever a blemish on the skyline. ‘I am still cruel, uncaring. Whatever you may have mistaken for kindness is more than likely self-serving. If I may disappoint you, Tartaglia.’ The mercenary’s scarf flaps in the soft breeze as he sets down his bottle, no longer interested in the drink. ‘I am war and diplomacy, nothing more.’
‘Once our plans fully come into fruition,’ says Morax, tucking his braid into his cloak to keep it safe from the wind, ‘You will see that her compassion is a more vital part of our order than myself.’
Tartaglia pauses. Stares off into the distance as well, fingers tapping a rhythm against the castle walls.
‘Don’t doom yourself with that pretty speech,’ he says finally. ‘It’s not like you can’t change. Our lives are just long enough for a few more new leaves.’
Easy to say, for a human. Ah, he will find out eventually. Let it be known that Morax has given sufficient warning.
‘Or at least I hope it’s true, what I said.’ Tartaglia leaps down from his perch, landing unsteadily next to Morax. He straightens, the flush on his cheeks now fully visible. ‘Oh, look at that. I was wondering why we were talking so much about things that didn’t matter.’
‘Do you need assistance walking downstairs, Tartaglia?’
He waves a lazy hand. ‘No need. I hope you found my gift satisfactory, my lord.’
In fact, he barely remembers what it tastes like. Attempts at recalling only conjure up the light breeze, the orange tint of dawn, and his target on the horizon as always.
He should tell Guizhong about this strange conversation, if he can even recall it after the drunkenness has passed.
~~~
The dim lights of Nokron prove to be an unexpected obstacle. Yet, as he examines each bearded statue, the same bowl in each of their identical stone hands, he thinks that he probably isn’t missing out on much.
The finished sketch goes back into his pack, and he continues on his way.
Guizhong would laugh at him now, warlike and boneheaded warrior turned scholar. Yet, he thinks idly, is it not natural to examine each downfall of every Eternal empire, turn their pasts over and over in his hands, and wonder if he would have taken those same paths had he persisted past his grief?
The most honest answer he can muster is: yes. After all, Her mistakes are ingrained so deeply into his very soul, a cold that creeps up his ribs and settles in his stomach.
His silvery flames dance at his fingertips, wishing for another death to reclaim. The one silver tear he had burned had clearly not been enough, and as he poked around in the ashes, the absence of any wandering spirits was clearly no mistake of his own.
The rest of his path will be treacherous, but Zhongli continues on. The truce period after the festival would only last so long, before wandering soldiers and bandits find their way in for anything to stuff their pockets with. He’s running low on parchment; his drawings will need to take up less space.
He stops at a gazebo nearby as soon as he can hear the sound of running water. An aqueduct then, always an interesting study.
Zhongli takes in the sight of the stars above, moving again, and breathes a deep sigh of relief.
So far, apart from the one he sought out, the silver tears on his path have given him no trouble, turning around in confusion when he ran past them, not wishing to engage in combat. His return trip will be nowhere near as easy, however, not with them now alerted to his presence.
In the middle of the gazebo, illuminating the space, is a small golden stump, emitting a soft golden glow.
And beside it, holding his hands up as if to warm them, is someone he knows.
‘Childe.’
The man nods in acknowledgement.
‘Pray tell, what brings you here?’
Childe stays unusually still, not even a twitch of a finger as he remains in his statue-like position.
‘Fingers,’ he begins. Zhongli winces at how raspy his voice sounds. ‘The Greater Will and its damned protection. But you knew that, didn’t you?’
Zhongli can only stay silent.
‘Yet you let me go on a wild goose chase, talking to people who wish me dead, only to find out that I needed to come here and look for something.’
‘A blade,’ Zhongli supplies.
‘A blade that I might not even be able to wield. But that was part of your plan, right? Send me running around, knowing in the end I’d have to come back to you.’ Childe finally moves his head slightly, turning it in Zhongli’s general direction.
‘I was hoping,’ says Zhongli. ‘That you, without your isolation, would grow to value your own life more.’
Childe lets out a sharp bark of laughter. ‘I lost that value years ago, Morax. Hollowed out vessel for other wills. You taught me that, remember?’
Zhongli takes a deep breath. ‘There is nothing I can do that will reverse my mistake.’
‘I’m glad you see that.’
Nokron’s stars are pale and cold, far removed from the golden light he is used to aboveground. Deep below the earth, with only the stars as witness, a confession is tugged from a thin, wounded chest.
‘Zhongli,’ says Childe. He lets his hands fall to the ground. ‘I’m so tired.’
Zhongli sits down next to him, keeping a distance that he will allow Childe to close later.
‘My path is as clear as ever,’ he says. ‘Yet every moment I am alive, those accursed grapes… they writhe inside my head. Their pain, or my pain, it doesn’t end. The flame eats me and eats me and… I can’t fight it forever.’
As if in slow motion, Zhongli watches Childe lean in his direction, resting his head on his shoulder. Childe brings up a hand to flick at the laces at Zhongli’s waist. ‘Does it never hurt you to wear this thing all the time?’
‘Old habits are hard to break,’ says Zhongli, watching Childe tug at the laces of the corset. The truth: his bones can only withstand so much unending cold.
If Childe realises he is lying, he doesn’t point it out. The two of them stay where they are, faces turned skywards, where newly freed stars make their way across the tapestry of the Eternal City’s night.
‘If you wish,’ says Zhongli. ‘I can fight in your stead.’
‘That’s kind of you,’ says Childe, his breath warm across the fabric of Zhongli’s cloak. ‘But this grudge is mine to settle.’
With a new spurt of energy, Childe springs to his feet, leaving Zhongli’s shoulder cold and empty. ‘I have to get going. If anything that half-naked bastard says can be trusted…’
‘Safe travels,’ says Zhongli. Childe turns away, but the smile on his face is easy to catch.
‘Maybe I’ll let you come with me later,’ he says. ‘Who knows, maybe you’ll have quite the challenge on your hands with the Three Fingers and their chosen Lord. I’m just saying.’ He waves his hands in a reassuring gesture.
‘I do not believe you will give in so easily,’ says Zhongli, watching Childe gather up his twin swords.
‘Well, it’s bound to happen one day. Promise me,’ he says, turning to Zhongli. ‘You’ll take my ashes with you, alright?’
The lump in his throat prevents him from responding. With a final wave, Childe continues on his way, leaping down out of sight within seconds.
Zhongli stays where he is, watching the stars with his hands crossed on his lap.
The golden light suffusing the gazebo does nothing to quell the growing cold in his throat and chest.
gaming laptops are expensive apparently...
also i did consider giving childe scarlet rot instead but i think in the end the nihilism of the frenzied flame fits this story better. as for zhongli, well. i feel like it's kind of obvious what he is