‘You failed,’ Tartaglia tells him when Morax brings him to the coast. They had managed to catch one of the last ships leaving in wake of the war, slowly filling up with the sick and elderly who could not travel as efficiently as the rest of their families.
Tartaglia sniffs the air. Wind, salt, and sea, far away from the smoke and decay of war. If Morax closes his eyes, he can almost imagine he is standing on that faraway cliff again, watching Guizhong’s ship leave the harbour, their promises to each other still fresh on their lips.
‘I could not have purged the flame from your flesh with my power alone.’
‘I know that,’ says Tartaglia. The ends of his blindfold sway in the wind as he perches atop a barrel, listening to the distant movement of people across the sands. Morax wishes he had thought of that, now that the sand is slowly trickling into his boots, rough against his feet.
‘Make sure my family is safe, alright?’
‘Are they not leaving as well?’
Tartaglia inhales deeply, then exhales. ‘My grandfather’s homeland is long frozen over. This is our home now.’
Morax leans on his spear, thrust into the sand to keep it upright. ‘To the best of my ability, I will.’
They listen to the ship dock, anchoring itself in deeper waters. Morax begins to count the number of smaller boats lowered over the sides, but loses interest at around six.
Seabirds, gliding around the masts of the ship, cast their plaintive cries across the orange-dyed sands. Near the water, Morax hears the soft cry of a child.
Tartaglia laughs, the sound shaking his thin body. He has regained most of his strength in the week after his eyes had been removed, though each swing of his blades still costs him much more effort than ever before. Needless to say, his days on the battlefield are long over.
‘What is it?’
Tartaglia’s laugh fades off into a sigh. ‘I don’t know. I thought I could keep them safe, but I am now the greatest danger to them.’
Morax wants to speak, but there is nothing that he can say. Not here, not with the melting sunlight and the very edge of the horizon, falling away into fog.
‘I don’t think I ever told you how I became like this,’ says Tartaglia, gesturing to his head. ‘But you knew, right? That night when I asked for them to be relocated. I didn’t trust you enough then.’
‘It is no fault of yours.’
‘That’s sweet of you.’ Morax doesn’t know what Tartaglia means by that. The man swings his legs, listening to the people on the sands pile into the small boats. There are not enough, and so the rest continue to wait on the sands, some sitting cross-legged to take the strain off their legs.
Tartaglia continues, ‘I encountered the flame when I was young. Fourteen, fifteen, I don’t remember very well. An old man on the road, after I ran away from home. He grabbed me, and in his eyes I saw…’
Morax hears Tartaglia’s breath catch.
‘There was fire. And then there was the… my eyes were being pried open, and I did not know what I was seeing. There was the burning behind my eyes, and then there was the pain. I’d dip my hands into freezing water, hoping it would somehow extinguish my flame. And when the pain got too much, I’d try to claw at my skin. Then I’d claw at the skin of the other villagers, hoping to find the same frenzied flame hiding within their flesh.’
‘It was the other village kids at first, the ones who laughed at my family. And then it was their fathers, and the village elders, and a passing mercenary group. My father handed them a bag of coins for them to take me away when I took out one of their eyes.’
Morax feels Tartaglia jump. Too late, he realises that he was holding Tartaglia’s hand. Tartaglia turns to him, blank look on his face, before disentangling their fingers.
‘I told myself I’d learned from this journey, that I was getting stronger because of my battles. But now, Morax, and I don’t know if you’ll ever understand me when I say: I don’t know if I can ever go home without hurting the people I love.’
Morax says, ‘I don’t.’
Tartaglia’s brows move slightly.
‘I don’t think I will ever understand you,’ Morax continues. ‘Nor will I ever understand anyone. The part of me that loves was Guizhong, and she is long dead. Whatever imitation of empathy I can offer will be incomplete.’
‘I don’t think I can tell the difference.’
‘But we will both know. Here.’
Morax pulls his spear out of the sand, throwing his braid over his shoulder. The blade of the weapon is sharp, and the braid comes loose in his hand. It sways in the wind, a dark brown ribbon, burnished gold in the setting sun.
He gives the braid to Tartaglia, who takes it hesitantly.
‘It will not keep you safe. It will only carry my hopes that you, Tartaglia, will find relief from your pain.’
Tartaglia’s mouth falls open, slack.
‘You should go,’ says Morax, glancing in the direction of the boats, now coming back for a second round. ‘They’re almost here.’
Tartaglia nods. He doesn’t turn back once, and Morax is grateful for that.
As he walks, he throws the braid over his shoulder, looping it around his neck like a second scarf.
~~~
It is not Zhongli that finds him this time, but Childe that shows up at the small hut in Liurnia, pushing open the door on Zhongli polishing his spear. Zhongli looks up, surprised.
‘You’re back early.’
‘I need to talk to you.’
Childe closes the door behind him, his boots heavy on the wooden floor. Zhongli puts his weapon down as Childe removes his scarf, looking half his usual size without it. His swords go next, landing on the floor with a resounding clang before being joined by the Fingerslayer Blade. His hands stray to his blindfold before he thinks better of it, instead standing where he is, the slight arch to his spine emphasising his strange posture.
Wildly, Zhongli remembers Guizhong returning from her expeditions, tossing her cloak onto the ground without a care in the world before joining him to sit on the bed.
‘Come here,’ he says, without thinking.
Childe doesn’t move.
‘I don’t know why I’m here,’ he begins. ‘You’ve done nothing but hurt me.’
‘You are kind, yes,’ says Childe, head bowed, voice low. ‘If only to absolve yourself of your guilt.’
Zhongli finds his voice. ‘That, I admit.’
‘I don’t think you understand—I have been a vessel for more than half my life. For the frenzied flame, then you. You deny me my humanity.’
‘I could not let you die.’
Childe inhales, then exhales, his breath shaky as if in an attempt to laugh. ‘You warned me before. But you, —‘ Childe steps forward, stopping in the middle of the room. The fireplace to his left is lit, casting shadows across his hollowed-out face. ‘My body cannot tell the difference. Your hands are so gentle.’
He sways where he stands, as if about to fall over before he catches himself. He sits, cross-legged, leaning away from the fireplace.
Zhongli leaves the bed to join him. Their knees touch when he sits as well, and Zhongli stays where he is, not daring to pull away.
‘I cannot apologise enough.’ The single point of contact between them is fiery hot, though Childe’s greaves are surely enough to insulate his burning skin from the environment. ‘I have been nothing but selfish.’
‘You are,’ says Childe. ‘But I am a coward when it comes to my past, and that is worse.’
‘You have every right to run from me.’
Childe tilts his head. In the firelight, the motion almost makes him look younger. Zhongli uses it as an excuse to move away, unable to stand the proximity.
‘Come here. Lie down with me. I have yet to tell you about my journey in the Land of Reeds.’
As the fire burns lower and lower and the night begins to truly settle in, Zhongli lowers himself to the floor and rests his head on his arms. Here, it feels almost like home. Childe joins soon after, his armour making a terrible cacophony against the wooden floor. He makes a face and his hands fly to his cuirass, looking for the buckle that holds it together.
‘Don’t just look,’ he says, feeling Zhongli squirm away to give him some space. ‘Help me.’
The shirt underneath is stained with dirt, scorch marks peppering its thin cloth. Childe finally lies down as well, legs crossed, arms behind his head as he faces the ceiling.
On the wooden floor, still an arm’s length between them, Childe begins to speak.
‘Hold this,’ he says, unclasping the charm from his belt and handing it to Zhongli. Zhongli takes it, turning the red-soaked fox in his fingers. ‘When I was dying on a battlefield, left behind by the lord who hired me, a young woman saved my life.
‘She said she’d been doing it for years, and I was one of the few she had successfully saved. I stayed with her after I recovered, having nowhere else to go. She had left behind her family and their firework-making business. They would be safe, she said, while she carried out her life’s mission.’
A slight twitch creases Childe’s lips.
‘I remember asking her why. Her land was coated in the madness of blood, and it was in her ability to run from it. She told me, everyone has a destined end, and she knows hers well. Her last moments spent trying to guide others to their destiny, instead of the cruelty of war that takes their future without ceremony.
‘On that day, I made the decision to avenge myself.’
Zhongli watches him speak, hands held up in front of him, gesturing vaguely as he remembers. The fox in his palm is unbearably warm, and so he places it on the floor.
‘If my destiny is to burn,’ says Childe, ‘then let it be for a greater good. And I came back to face my fate, forgetting that you were tangled up in it.
‘You. I cannot understand you.’ Childe’s hands go still and he folds them over his stomach, turning his head so that he faces Zhongli. ‘You used me for your own pleasure, yet you keep turning back. What am I to you? A regret? Your broken promise to her? You said you…’
Childe swallows, and says no more.
Zhongli reaches out, brushing the back of his hand with gloved fingers. Childe doesn’t flinch, instead angling his hand so that Zhongli can slot his fingers in between Childe’s.
Zhongli glances at the red-stained fox for luck.
‘I said I loved you,’ says Zhongli. ‘Yet even I cannot…’
He takes a deep breath.
‘My love, my regret, my selfishness, all too tangled to ever separate. I am afraid I have no clear answer for you.’
Childe lets out a strangled noise, his free hand over the lower half of his face.
Zhongli squeezes his hand. ‘For that, I once again apologise. But if you are willing to give me a second chance, I hope that you will find my semblance of warmth acceptable.’
Childe lets out a strange sound, half-sob, half-chuckle.
‘By Eternal Marika. You never know what to say.’
He rolls over, takes both of Zhongli’s hands in his. The fox clasped in between their intertwined fingers, Childe leans in so that his lips are inches from Zhongli’s ear.
‘But that is fine by me.’
sooo i graduated high school. forgot to update this thing. lots of things happened. watching utena. playing chess. life is good and i'm applying for uni