Dimly, he can hear whispers.
The Shattering. The final catalyst he had been hoping for, the pandemonium that would benefit him and his smaller forces. Marika in her grief and despair, after her golden son’s immortal soul had been stripped from his body.
He had marched then, empowered with the shard he now bears, fully intent on seizing the power he needed. That she needed, for the sake of all that was good in the world.
‘Do you think he’s going to wake up?’ Followed by a sharp shush from his commander.
He had left her behind, intending to keep her safe.
‘Let my lord rest. He has done enough for us.’
Goddess of Dust indeed. She crumbled to dust in his arms, when he tried to remove the dagger deep in her neck, knowing even then that all was lost.
Even with his eyes closed, there is still red. Sticking to his hands, gathering in clumps in the dust that remains of her.
With all his strength, he forces his eyes open.
He is lying in his bed. The first thing he notices is the numbness in his hands. That drives him to action, springing out of bed to grab the flint that lies on the mantelpiece.
The fire in the hearth offers little relief. He is so, so cold. He grinds his hands into the ground in an effort to soothe the pins and needles. That they still have feeling in them is a good sign.
He wishes he could say the same for his sides. He knows the buttons on his shirt and coat are beyond saving when he tears them off to get to skin. Cold, too cold, but short of throwing himself into the fire, there is not much he can do.
The skin on his waist is tough and waxy. He crawls out of the rest of his clothes, getting as close as he possibly can to the fire.
His sides remain numb. His fingers trace the waxy patched, creeping up his ribs and stopping right under his heart. If he had woken up any later…
If he split himself open with a knife would his insides have the same black, rubbery texture? Would he have to watch them die and peel off as well, a doll that is exactly the sum of its parts?
Morax lets out a long, shaky breath.
‘Mother.’ The word feels foreign on his tongue. ‘Marika.’
The flickering flames do not respond.
‘Marika the Eternal. Guizhong said that you tired of your godhood,’ says Morax, nails digging into his palms. ‘Must you drag us—drag her, the only part of me not afflicted with this accursed cold—down with you?’
‘Ah, but you were never one to suffer alone. Every one of us has paid the price now for your sins. Even your golden boy.’
Morax spits into the fire.
‘If this is the price I must pay to be a lord, then I would rather be nothing at all.’
Pain blooms along his ribs. He gasps, grabbing at the blistering skin.
‘My lord?’
A thin strip of light falls across the room and onto his back. Xiao immediately takes a step back, his shadow no longer silhouetted against the floor.
‘Commander,’ says Morax. ‘When dawn breaks, I want you to leave.’
‘But, my lord. The campaign…’
‘Lordship means nothing without her. I have no love for the living.’
‘I do not think that is true, Lord Morax.’
‘I thought about killing you,’ says Morax.
Outside the room, Xiao pauses.
‘If I thought that you had betrayed me, I would have killed you myself. You, my loyal vassal. Any realm under my reign would be one of tyranny.’
Xiao is silent. Morax is hoping that he has left when he speaks again, ‘Give me one last command, my lord.’
‘Hm?’
‘I will not have your last command to me to be one of abandonment.’
Morax almost laughs at that, but his teeth are gritted against the pain. Blisters burst along his torso, dripping down his ribs to gather at his thighs, the viscosity unpleasant against his skin.
There is nothing anyone else can do for him.
Except he had promised her, that night before everything started falling apart.
‘Get me my spear,’ says Morax. ‘And my armour.’
It has been months since that fatal decree, when a bright-eyed young man was sealed beneath the ground for a crime that was in no way his fault.
She may be gone, but their contract still holds.
He had let Tartaglia rot for long enough now, all in the name of the greater good.
Perhaps this, then, is selfishness.
~~~
His spear is a fearsome weapon, taller even than he, a crescent blade mounted atop the heavy shaft. After all these years, its catalytic properties remain intact, and Zhongli finds himself thinking through every spell he has ever learned with varying degrees of success.
After all, he was never a good student, not when it came to the intricacies of Carian sorceries.
The sewers are dark, and so he lights a lantern next to him. He watches its oil burn up slowly as he waits and waits, rolling his weapon in his hands, shifting uneasily atop his perch right next to the heavy double doors.
And then, in the distance, the sound of something heavy dropping onto the ground.
Zhongli’s lantern goes out. He stays still, as if afraid even the slightest movement will disturb this oppressive dark.
The warrior’s footsteps are light as he times them with the sound of dripping water. Zhongli readies himself as he approaches, spear in hand.
The warrior stops. Sniffs the air with a force that implies contempt.
‘I don’t know what I expected,’ says Childe. ‘But very well.’
The hiss of twin blades. Zhongli channels his will, and a faint orb of blue light floats atop his weapon, casting its light onto the man before him, blindfolded, blades drawn. In the cold blue light, he looks sickly pale.
Zhongli stands.
‘I hope you will believe me when I say,’ he almost whispers, ‘that I do not think of myself as a saviour.’
‘Self-righteous prick.’
‘You want to live, Tartaglia.’ Childe’s lips curl into a snarl at the name. ‘You want the sun and the wind on your skin. You seek to salvage purpose from the remnants of your former life.’
‘My patience runs thin, Morax.’
‘My offer holds. If you are weary and wish to rest, I will always offer you sanctuary.’
‘And yet you brought your spear,’ says Childe. ‘Why, am I such a threat?’
Zhongli stands firm, between Childe and the heavy doors. ‘I will fulfil your wish by force if necessary.’
With a growl, Childe pounces.
Zhongli is familiar with this style of fighting, having watched Tartaglia the mercenary while he was in his lord’s service. But this flurry of strikes is faster, harder than he has ever seen, honed by years of travel and training.
Or perhaps Zhongli is getting rusty.
A blade whistles through the air, and Zhongli blocks it right before it lands on his shoulder. Childe doesn’t push it, instead withdrawing and trying again.
The orb of light, now clutched in Zhongli’s hand, flickers. If it were to go out, Childe would gain a huge advantage, blind that he was. He has to end this fight fast.
Sidestepping a jab from Childe’s blade, Zhongli continues his retreat, giving himself whatever little space he can in this claustrophobic place. That does throw Childe off a little, and he swivels on the spot, looking for his opponent.
Zhongli gives him no time to react. The incantation leaves his mouth, sparks of purple flying around his spear as he lifts it into the air. The first rock he throws out Childe barely dodges, but the second, hurled in quick succession, hits him in the stomach.
Childe stumbles backwards, winded and panting, but no less determined. In the rapidly fading light, Zhongli catches sight of what might have been a smile before Childe lunges once more, dodging the third projectile.
Zhongli parries again, feeling his left foot slip and land in water. Childe takes advantage of it, immediately following up with another flurry of slashes. One of them grazes Zhongli’s cheek as he lets himself fall backwards, and from the heat that spreads from the cut, he knows that the wound will not heal anytime soon.
‘Rusty, aren’t you,’ says Childe, glee barely contained. He stands where he is, still in a fighting stance. Though half his face is in shadow, Zhongli can recognise excitement when he sees it.
A shadow of a younger warrior, lost in the joy of battle, flashes in his mind.
Childe waits for Zhongli to get up. Always too honourable for his own good. Teeth gritted, weapon back in hand, Zhongli allows the light to go out.
I will grant you no quarter.
Sparks illuminate the darkness as bits of stone fly to Zhongli’s spear. In closed quarters, Zhongli will need every advantage he has, the greatest of which is the range of his weapon. Feeling it grow heavy with the assistance of long-unused sorceries, Zhongli steps forward and swings his weapon.
Childe can only dodge the swing. His swords, made for offence rather than defence, offer no protection against an opponent that outranges him. Though without light, Zhongli is relying more on the screech of sabatons on stone to identify Childe’s position, swinging in his general direction with all the strength and skill he can recall.
Something whistles past him: one of Childe’s swords, missing him by a hair’s breadth. This desperate, he must be out of options.
One strike will suffice.
Summoning all his strength, he recalls the orb of light, enough for him to take in the situation: Childe’s back against the wall, remaining sword in hand. With a final rush, Zhongli thrusts his spear forward.
Childe cries out, the sound piteous in the darkness of the sewer. His sword clatters to the ground, hand now pinned to the wall by Zhongli’s spear. He reaches out with his other hand, intending to free himself, but Zhongli is there, pinning his free hand against the wall.
Childe snarls, attempting to kick him, but Zhongli’s body is pressed against his, hips to hips to prevent any further movement. So close, Zhongli can only rest his head on Childe’s shoulder, lips next to his ear.
‘I must ask of you to submit,’ says Zhongli. Childe struggles in his grip, even going as far as to try and bite him on his armoured shoulder.
‘Let me go.’
‘I will not abandon you a second time.’
Childe’s breathing hitches.
With the sound of running water, and the softer sounds of Childe’s struggling, it takes a while for Zhongli to realise that Childe is crying.
Zhongli turns to his right, where his spear is still lodged into the wall, Childe’s hand pinned beneath it. With a grunt he frees the weapons, letting it fall to the ground with a resounding clatter.
Childe’s body goes limp. Zhongli catches him, lowering him to the ground with as much gentleness as he can muster.
Between sobs, Childe speaks.
‘Is it so hard,’ he whispers, ‘is it so hard to leave me to my fate?
‘There is more than one path for you to take.’
‘There are none!’ The effort for the half-yell makes Childe double over, coughs wracking his thin frame. ‘I was kindling from the moment it entered me.’
In the dark, Zhongli just holds him, letting him continue.
‘I don’t need your pity,’ says Childe when Zhongli gently massages between his shoulder blades.
‘It is unfair.’
‘It hurts so much.’ Blood seeps into Zhongli’s cloak as Childe grips his shoulders. ‘It hurts.’
His breathing is shallow.
Zhongli holds him until the incessant sobs quiet down, until Childe’s arms lose their strength and go limp. His breathing is deep and even, his body sparing him the pain of consciousness.
Gently, Zhongli cradles the body in his arms. Here, with no one but him as witness, he can fool himself into thinking there was nothing between them but their clothes.
However, he is not one to delude himself.
Carefully balancing his spear in the crook of his arm, he summons the small light once more to light their way home.
this is not the worst thing that will happen to them. morally questionable characters my beloved