Guizhong returns early from her expedition, ash on her clothes and fury on her face.
‘The nomads,’ she says. ‘They passed through days ago. We could have helped.’
The servants stay at the edge of the courtyard, too scared to intervene as she storms to the double doors where Morax is waiting. He wants to ask her what is wrong, but luckily he has enough context to piece together the puzzle.
‘We could not have guessed,’ says Morax. ‘A charge of heresy is not so easily given, most of the time.’
‘Well now they are.’ Guizhong tugs off her cloak. ‘How are you so calm about this?’
He doesn’t know how to respond, not with the burning rage in her eyes, her fists clenching and unclenching.
‘You haven’t heard? Tartaglia went with them.’
That gives him pause. ‘He… followed them?’
‘More like he was locked in the same tomb,’ says Guizhong. ‘He vouched for their innocence, and that was heresy enough.’
Morax nods. He could never keep his mouth shut, that one.
He doesn’t realise he’s said it out loud until Guizhong stared at him, long and accusing, before wordlessly entering the keep, leaving the door open behind her.
She doesn’t show up for dinner, and her study remains empty, though Morax has to snuff out a candle balanced precariously on a stack of books. He eyes their titles, all of them about the flame of frenzy.
Fortunately, she is in their room when the sky is completely dark. A plain white paper lantern rests in her lap as she sews in the final details, a custom she’d picked up from her travels. He watches her wordlessly as she sets a candle in the centre and sets it on the windowsill.
She makes sure it is secure, then turns to him.
‘I saw the books you were reading,’ he begins, then mentally kicks himself for it.
‘Only to confirm my suspicions,’ Guizhong says. ‘There was always a glimmer of flame in his eyes. But not the fire of life I thought I was seeing.’
Morax approaches. Rests a hand on her shoulder and hesitates, thinking about whether it would be appropriate to kiss her. ‘I will share your grief, if you wish.’
The corners of Guizhong’s mouth perk up in a half-smile. ‘You talk like he’s already dead. But at this point,’ she says, caressing Morax’s face with a hand, ‘we can’t do anything. Not without risking everything we’ve ever built.’
‘We will free him. All of them sealed underground for a heresy they did not commit,’ says Morax. ‘My promise to you holds true.’
Guizhong leans in. He freezes up at the touch of her lips on his. The ghost of a chuckle graces his mouth, and when she pulls away she is smiling.
‘I hope we won’t be too late,’ she says.
‘It is almost done. Gold will no longer reign supreme.’ He turns away, hoping the steadiness of his words will mask the strange warmth in his chest. ‘Your compassion will be a welcome change.’
‘And yours as well.’
There is a small part of him that wishes she isn’t joking.
~~~
‘I found this thing,’ says Childe. The scimitar glitters in the light of dawn, its starry blue sheen reminding him of an insect’s wing. ‘You can have it.’
Zhongli is ready to refuse, but something has him automatically reaching out for the weapon, a word of gratitude on his lips. Childe sighs and leans against a root, protruding out between the broken cobblestones of Leyndell’s roads.
‘Have you ever tried to burn this thing?’ he asks.
Zhongli licks his lips, dry from the hours he has been sat here, his hands stained with charcoal. ‘No,’ he says.
‘Pity. With your bloodline, you’d be perfectly capable of becoming a god.’
Not a chance. But he keeps that thought to himself.
‘What are you drawing that tree for anyway?’
‘Someone else will burn it, sooner or later.’
‘Hm. Guess that’s fair. I ran into this guy the other week, said he was going to look for some special flame on a mountain—complete nutcase. Thought he might be one of those Tarnished until he walked off a cliff and fell to his death.’
Zhongli erases a stray line on his parchment.
‘Clumsiness has never disqualified one from becoming a lord. I encountered another Tarnished once, a mage with a penchant for running away.’ Zhongli dusts off his drawing and tucks it into his bag. He wishes he had a better angle on the Erdtree, but the capital is overrun with its knights who would not take kindly to a stranger drawing on his own, out in the open.
‘Unfortunately, she had picked up one of my daggers, and I desperately needed it back. She screamed and fell over her own feet the whole time, which instilled in me the impression that I was dealing with an easy target. That was until she got her hands onto her bell.’
Zhongli can still feel the phantom bite marks in his calf from a shambling dog spirit that should not have been able to run so fast, and the scarlet rot slowly spreading through his blood. If not for his sufficient preparation, he would be missing that leg now.
There is a pressure on his thigh, and Childe is resting his chin on his lap. Zhongli sets down his charcoal.
‘Keep telling,’ says Childe. Now, Zhongli realises how heavy his voice is with sleep.
‘When is the last time you slept?’
‘Mmm… I don’t recall.’ He turns his head, letting the ribbons on his blindfold rest on Zhongli’s knees. ‘Just… one nap. And then I’ll be gone.’
‘One nap.’
He lets Childe curl up in the space between his legs and his seat. His body is feverishly warm as always, a welcome contrast to the cold that plagues him. Zhongli checks his surroundings: secluded, far away from any of the main paths.
A pile of ash lies next to him, thoroughly stoked. No spirit as well, though he can safely assume it is his fault this time. He doubts that his rough, unpolished movements would be able to invoke any kind of spirit to want to rise from the ashes.
The pile of ash sits there, unmoving still.
Perhaps he can afford a rest as well.
He joins Childe on the ground, wrapping his arms around the man’s shoulders. Childe responds in kind, squeezing Zhongli’s arms as they curl in closer to each other, until they can feel each other’s breaths on their faces.
Zhongli closes his eyes, the warmth draped over him a welcome weight.
‘You still feel so cold,’ Childe murmurs.
‘There is not much I can do about it.’
‘’Tis nice.’ Childe settles into a more comfortable position. ‘Feels… less painful.’
Zhongli wishes he could say the same.
don't be alarmed about the fast updates. this fic is almost completely done and is sitting in my gdocs with three more chapters ready to post. the ending is proving somewhat challenging though... best not to write after 12am