Tartaglia dreams of fire.
Glorious flames, towering over him, dancing and swaying in a non-existent breeze. He watches them for a while, their tips fading to pale yellow as they continue their gentle swaying.
The closest flame, the smallest one, bends down to him.
‘Come play,’ it says. Tartaglia has heard that voice before, in a small stone hut, huddled underneath a bed to escape from an older brother. ‘It won’t hurt so much then.’
Tartaglia reaches out. Little tendrils extend from the flame, meeting his hand and seizing it in their grasp. Tartaglia grins. He hasn’t seen his siblings in a while.
The smallest tendril winds up, stops, and drives itself into his skin.
Tartaglia doesn’t scream, not anymore. Not when it burrows down into his flesh and starts from his bones, slowly burning them to ash.
He fights as he always does, closing his eyes and curling in onto himself. You will not take me, he says again and again to the flames. Your promised oblivion is not for me.
Ah, but you deserve it, says the flame. His teeth crack and crumble under the clench of his jaw, the pain becoming unbearable once more. You’ve endured for so long.
And he will endure for many years more. This body may be a vessel, but it will not be a failure of one. Tartaglia fights against the cracking of his skin as it burns and falls off, the sound of bubbling fat filling his ears. His bones, hollow, knock against each other in a mockery of musical pipes. But he does not collapse, standing where he is with the fire in his flesh, holding him together just as it is tearing him apart.
He closes his eyes just before the burning reaches them.
~~~
The sheets underneath him are soft, irritating against his skin. He is burning hot, the ever-present fire in his bones.
Something is wound tight around him.
Usually he would be strong enough to struggle, to push off this intruder and grab a weapon to defend himself. Now his hands tremble, and all the effort in the world is barely enough to twitch a finger.
How long has he been underground for?
The bindings around him wind tighter still. Tartaglia opens his mouth but no sound comes out, his voice dying as a whisper in his throat.
His lungs, already weak, wrack his body with coughs.
Instantly, the bindings around him shift. Tartaglia feels their texture, silky in some parts and leathery in others. At last, when he is no longer being crushed, something brushes against his arms, bare for the first time in years. Something that feels like a hand, cold as ice.
Before he can react, a pale light suffuses the room. Not like the blinding gold of the Erdtree, its spells searing his skin as its sentinels subdued him. Gashes across his cuirass, his spear snapped in half. They had killed anyone who dared resist, except for him.
This light is gentle, soft on his dark-adjusted eyes. Yet it does not seem to bring clarity: even with his constant blinking, the source of the light is blurred around the edges.
The light grows brighter. Tartaglia inhales sharply as he takes in the sight before him.
He is lying in a large bed, obviously made for two. The sheets are soft and well-cared for, and though he cannot make out the bedposts, he knows that they are carved out of quality wood.
The features of the person next to him are blurred, but Tartaglia has seen the way his braid drapes over his shoulder enough times to recognise him.
Tartaglia kicks his lips, attempts to speak.
‘Morax.’
The sound is barely audible, but Morax’s shoulders slump in response. In all his years of employment, Tartaglia had never seen him look so defeated.
‘Why—‘ Coughs shake his body. With cold hands, Morax pulls him up into a sitting position, leaning him against the headboard. A waterskin is held to his lips, and he drinks.
Morax watches. Even with his limited vision, Tartaglia sees the way his eyes glitter in the light. Gold.
And then it all clicks.
To think that a minor lord would have such a vested interest in replacing the Golden Order, with nothing but his ambition as a driving force… Tartaglia should have seen this.
He thinks back to when they were connected, winding around each other like snakes in their mating rituals. A demigod, Morax, had touched his hollow, burning body and found it fit to embrace.
The flames in Morax’s palm burn cold.
Morax speaks first.
‘I apologise. That was indecent of me.’
Tartaglia reaches out a hand. Trails it along his back, to his slumped shoulders. Morax is no stranger to defeat, but Tartaglia knows despair, kin to the hollowness in his cellmates’ eyes as they called for the flame of frenzy to cleanse this world of everything.
He had refused to chant with them, digging his nails into his arms as the fire in his head burned hotter and hotter with each word.
For Morax to be this defeated…
‘Where is… she?’
Morax’s flames flicker.
Tartaglia knows the answer then.
Resentment bubbles up in him. They knew that he was taken away, and where he was taken to. Yet it is grief that drives Morax to save him, to absolve himself of his guilt. Tartaglia the weapon, the hollow vessel. First for the flame, now for this man’s desires.
Yet he cannot find it in himself to be angry.
He spreads his arms, letting Morax lean in and rest his head on Tartaglia’s shoulder. Morax must have done this with her for years and years, his ever-lovely and compassionate lady, his strength and his comfort.
‘I must apologise as well,’ says Tartaglia. ‘I only have this facsimile of warmth to give you.’
Yet Morax doesn’t let go.
Tartaglia closes his eyes, feeling the fire burning behind them.
~~~
The sheets underneath him are soft. Irritating to his skin, already burned raw. Childe sits up and immediately cries out from the pain in his skull, ricocheting and leaving trails of fire in its wake.
The faint whisper is still there, calling him to oblivion. ‘Shut up,’ he hisses, and reaches for his belt. The curved blade, many-branched, is still there. He lets out a sigh of relief. Morax is not shameless enough to touch him, at least.
Shrill screams split the air. Childe flinches at the sound, willing himself to get off the bed. Wood beneath his feet. He must be in a structure of some sort.
The screams ring on, incessant. Childe’s head throbs, whispers and eyes and fire eating away at his brain. They had never screamed in his head, but they never did use to whisper either.
The door to his room is open. Childe steps out, feeling the wind on his face and the smell of smoke in the air. From the temperature, it looks to be mid-morning. Childe rubs his arms, bare for the first time in years, willing the sun to stop burning what is already burnt.
He can hear Morax, those sure, heavy footsteps on the grass. Clinking glass containers being shoved hastily into a bag.
The screams, weaker now, die away. Childe grits his teeth against their echoes ringing in his ears.
Something heavy dropping to the ground, making a hollow noise as individual pieces collide with each other. Childe knows it to be bone: he has witnessed his fair share of funeral pyres.
‘What are you doing, Morax?’
He hears Morax poke at the ground with a long stick, probing left and right, as if looking for something. Morax growls in disappointment, and that does surprise Childe. Morax’s anger has never been this loud, and certainly not in front of another.
The wind on Childe’s skin becomes more of an irritant. Surely his skin cannot be healed, raw and aching that it is, but a quick touch confirms the opposite.
‘Fight me.’
The words leave his mouth before he can stop himself. He supposed it is second nature, the wandering swordsman who moves and moves and moves to stop the burning beneath his skin, the writhing inside his head.
And in this moment, red, raw hatred for the man before him drives him as well.
‘I must refuse.’ Morax takes a step back. ‘You will hurt yourself.’
Childe clenches his hands. They are bandaged neatly, bindings not too tight. He wants to tear them off and scream.
‘Who are you to decide if I must live or die?’ says Childe through gritted teeth.
Morax pauses.
‘I love you.’
‘Then you were right!’ Childe tears at the bandages around his hand. With pain comes clarity, and he continues, ‘You were right when you said you were selfish. You and your mother, deciding the when and how of our deaths.’
Morax inhales sharply. Childe spins around wildly, knowing that he must look like a cornered animal. ‘Where are my swords?’
‘Tartaglia, please.’
‘Give me my swords and let me die.’
‘There is a chance that you might live,’ says Morax. ‘Purge that accursed flame from your flesh.’
‘I forget that you’re not mortal.’ Childe hears Morax set something down on the grass before him and immediately seizes it, hands settling around the familiar hilts of his blades. ‘I tire of this constant battle.’
‘You cannot let it win.’
‘You know nothing of love, Morax.’
Childe picks up his swords.
‘I left your gauntlets in the house,’ says Morax. ‘If you wish for me to assist you…’
His voice is soft, forlorn, and that is more awful than anything else. Childe slips his blades into his belt, hoping that his face betrays nothing.
‘You may.’
When Morax fetches his gauntlets he doesn’t touch Childe, not directly, his hands gentle and reverent as they slip Childe’s gauntlets back on, fixing every digit with care. Wildly, Childe thinks if Morax will get on his knees and beg for him to stay.
Morax lets go of his hands. Silent, waiting.
Say something. But Childe swallows his words and turns on his heel, following the singular thread of frenzied flame he has seen for more than half his life now.
The grass underfoot is soft, swaying in the breeze that feels almost like a caress.
Childe bites back a scream and starts to run.
guess who's back? exams are over so i can finish this thing up soon. ah zhongchi i can never stop writing about you