see that implied sexual content tag? here it comes.
Despite his little excursion, Childe is the one who wakes me up the next morning. I take one look out the window, where the sky is still a dark velvety blue, and almost beg him to give me thirty more minutes.
‘You can stay if you want,’ he says. I hear him rummaging around in his suitcase for clothes. ‘I promised him I’d visit one last time. Knowing him, he probably hasn’t slept the whole night…’
I force myself to roll out of bed.
The village is just now waking up, shopkeepers arranging their storefronts as their children rub their eyes and grumble, though their eyes light up when they see the fresh snowfall. We pass through mostly unnoticed, except for a couple of old ladies on the street who stop to whisper, throwing concerned glances in Childe’s direction. He seems to notice, walking faster to get to the town square.
As soon as he turns the corner, I see him stop dead in his tracks. I am about to ask when I see it too.
Atop the ruined statue in the square, a tall figure stands, perched atop the remnants of the statue’s shoes. An old man walks past, unseeing, sweeping up the fresh snowfall around the statue’s base, muttering darkly.
The figure, a tall humanoid, lifts a finger to where its lips should be. A long red cloak hangs around its frame, shifting and roiling like liquid flames. A sliver of its shadowy, undefined body is revealed when it lifts the same hand, pointing into the woods beyond the village.
I read Childe’s lips. ‘What’s she doing here?’
But as soon as he takes a step towards it, the figure’s cloak unfurls into long, red wings, enveloping its shadowy body as it blinks away.
‘Would I be safe in assuming that was one of your colleagues?’
‘Yeah. The Balemoon… what did that mean? Was that… never mind. I’ll deal with my family first.’
The figure’s appearance, though inconsequential, adds noticeable tension to his footsteps. He walks faster now, and I struggle to keep up. When he does reach the house on the outskirts, I am a good distance away. He waits for me to catch up before knocking on the door.
Tonia opens it. ‘Mama and papa are asleep,’ she says, no sign of sleep in her words.
‘Is Teucer awake?’ asks Childe.
‘He didn’t sleep till six,’ says Tonia. ‘No matter what we tried to tell him, he’s convinced you’re going to leave for another year. You’re not going to, are you?’
I catch on to the subtle threat in those words, and Childe does too, hanging his head. Tonia sighs, her expression visibly softening. ‘Come on in.’
Sunlight filters through the windows into the house, illuminating the dust particles that float in the air with every step we take. Tonia leads us upstairs, her braids swinging behind her. As soon as she reaches the second floor, Childe rushes to the first room, not bothering to knock before entering.
‘Teucer,’ I hear him say.
I physically cannot step closer. This man, who guards his truth underneath layers and layers of skin, is kneeling on the floor before his brother, hands outstretched. I look away when a second, smaller pair of hands take them, feeling like a voyeur.
Tonia closes the door behind them and stands with me, tapping her foot rhythmically. I stand up straight, trying to avoid leaning on the wall, even to soothe the aching in my knees.
‘So,’ says Tonia. She’s looking at me, eyes the same ocean blue as her brother’s. ‘You’re his friend, huh?’
I pause, then nod.
‘Well, that’s a first.’
I lick my lips. ‘I had thought that, with his general demeanour, he would have no trouble finding companionship.’
Tonia huffs. ‘I used to think so too. But he’s so lonely. Like a mirage, you know? Glittering, but hollow. Are you sure you are his friend?’
‘I—yes, I am certain.’
‘Take care of him,’ she says. She has stopped tapping her foot.
‘His father said that to me yesterday.’
‘For good reason. I used to think he was tough, unbreakable even, and when I grew up… well, there are things you start seeing that he can’t hide from you anymore. I’ll never forgive him for that,’ she says, hands clenching around her forearms. ‘How hard can it be to ask for help?’
The door opens then, and Childe steps out. His gaze wanders wildly before settling on Tonia.
‘Tonia,’ he says. ‘Keep an eye on him. Don’t let him go to sleep.’
His hands twitch when I take a step towards him. Tonia sighs deeply behind me, but I am already talking.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Even this dream is not safe,’ he says. ‘Keep him awake for at least another hour. I’m going out. Zhongli, come here.’
‘Can’t you at least explain?’ says Tonia as he brushes past her. I see his left eyelid twitch when he turns to look at her.
‘I can’t put you in danger.’
‘Well, I want to. You’ve always taught me that, didn’t you? Protect your family no matter what?’ Her hands clench, then unclench. ‘Let me protect you too, for once.’
Childe shakes his head, barely hiding the scared animal look in his eyes. I shoot Tonia an apologetic look and follow Childe back downstairs. He’s tugging at his scarf, throwing it at me when he gets it off.
He opens the door. ‘We’re going back to the inn,’ he says. ‘If that old man thinks he can reach my brother through his dreams… he is sadly mistaken.’
~~~
In our room’s bathroom, I watch him fill up a bathtub with water. I find the courage to ask him about it, and he elaborates, ‘It’s a good enough anchor point.’
He kicks off his boots and climbs into the tub, still in his sweater. I shiver in the chill of the room, wrapping my arms around myself. I have a good mind to unlock the door and go outside where the heater is, but Childe had asked me to watch over him.
‘I might not wake up if I go too deep,’ he said. ‘This form is no longer fully within our world. Please, anchor me.’
His eyelids flutter shut. The sound of his slow, deep breathing fills the room as I blow on my hands in a desperate attempt to warm them up. Being a memetic entity does not spare one from freezing temperatures, it seems.
I sit down next to the bathtub, where one of his hands hangs over the edge. I wonder if I should hold it, fulfilling his request to ‘anchor’ him. Or perhaps I should play it safe, avoid the unknown factors that come with his current state of being.
I watch, and I wait, as his fingertips begin to turn blue.
His vessel is human enough, then. I grab his coat off the bathroom floor and wrap it around his hand. The other hand is in the tub, and I reach to grab it, fingertips breaching the surface of the water.
The explosion of pain in them almost makes me stagger. I withdraw my hand, hissing, angry red burns already beginning to show on my fingers. He should be burning alive in that water, but his hand is still awfully pale, its trembling reaching me through the fabric of his coat.
I have to wake him up.
Without hesitation, I reach for his exposed hand and grab it.
My vision turns dark for a moment, almost as if it were nothing but a slow blink. Then, I am standing in front of a fireplace, its flames casting my shadow across a red-carpeted floor. I hear the clink of ceramic and realise that I am not alone.
Behind me, hidden in the shadows, a woman cloaked in shadow sets down her cup. I feel no urge to step closer, even to dispel the uncertainty around her shadowed features, her too-long limbs. Ignorance is bliss, and I step closer to the fireplace, letting my shadow fall over her.
Then she begins to speak.
She speaks in a quiet buzzing, not unlike the static of older television sets. I understand her approximately, though not as well as I do Rex Lapis.
The most I’d heard of her was the terror she inspires, even amongst the children she has sworn to protect. She remains oddly still, and I hear something shift behind her. Something too large to be contained within this room. Flecks of red float across the room, and I recognise them as sparks of flame, tainted with an unnaturally deep red.
I force myself to look her in the eye. Her features swim in front of me, breaking and reforming. ‘What do you want me to tell him?’
She is disappointed, that is evident, though she does not move. Her feet, or approximations of them, do not touch the ground. I almost expect to see her suspended by a myriad of red threads.
She’s expected better from him, that young man who once fought against certain death. I agree with her: nihilism does not suit him. But I do my best to explain.
‘He believes that his path is his doom.’
The buzzing intensifies for a moment, then falls silent. Her form flickers once more and she floats further off the ground, gesturing to herself. So is she, and so are all of them. Yet they do not run.
I stay silent. The heat is rising now, soon to become unbearable. The fireplace behind me crackles as the Balemoon speaks once more.
Her next words are an accusation. Could I have intervened at any point?
‘No—yes.’ I wipe my face with the back of my hand. ‘I don’t know.’
A deep thrumming spreads throughout the room. The ground resonates with it, spreading up through my bones that suddenly feel too fragile.
‘I need to go,’ I say. Her head perks up as crimson wings begin to unfurl, their feathers receding from the floor, the walls, surging forth from the fireplace.
Her flames reach me before the dream shatters, and with the searing heat, I am no more.
~~~
I land in a pile of snow and pine needles. The first thing I notice is the starry sky above, unnervingly bright for the city skyline I am so used to. Waves wash up on a nearby shore, ink-dark.
On the docks, bent over something much larger than himself, Childe chews on a chunk of flesh. He sees me as soon as I notice, the scared look in his eyes quickly giving way to a quiet, deadly calm.
‘I caught him.’ He doesn’t need to raise his voice; the waves still themselves just for him. ‘Thought she’d banished him from the dream, but apparently not.’
This form of his is undoubtedly human, though I find myself stepping closer to double-check. Yes, he looks like this in the waking world, ginger hair tousled in the wind, his forearms stained in a deep red. He seems to pay no mind to his ruined sweater, bending down to take another bite from the… something.
‘Forgive me,’ he says. ‘I am so hungry.’
The thing in front of him twitches, then goes still. I get a good look at it: its bright feathers put me in mind of a large bird, though its size, and the scales adorning the undersides of its wings and tail belies its identity.
‘Generic, don’t you think? Childe says, gripping one of its wings. ‘But he’s always been more glamour than substance. Backstabbing rat bastard he is.’
‘What did he do to you?’
Childe swallows. ‘He was my mentor. Taught me an excellent lesson in trust, that one. Should have taken that lesson to heart later on,’ he adds begrudgingly.
I scour my mind. ‘I do not recall his name. Was it…’
I come up blank. Childe watched me, head tilted with slight amusement.
‘It’s okay. It means I’ve succeeded.’
He smiles at me and goes back to eating, tearing a huge chunk out of the creature’s belly.
Damnatio memoriae. A concept from civilisations more ancient than my origin, though unable to be exacted in its literal manner due to the nature of human memory. Yet here stands destruction, tearing apart those memories between his teeth and swallowing them.
All is flesh, stripped of its meaning.
I watch him eat. The tearing of flesh and bone, accompanied by small noises of pleasure. Is this what he will become, when his strength fails him? Torn to bits by an opponent and removed from recollection?
He is substantial, at least for now. I sit down next to him, tracing my fingers along his forearm. Still warm enough to be human. Warm enough to be kept, even if he abhors the idea of being chained down in any way.
He is looking at me, lips stained red in the moonlight. An urge rises within me, to pounce upon him and eat him before anything else can. I would call it a relic of the creature I was derived from, if I were not tired of my own dishonesty.
He lets me cup his cheek in my hand and pull him in for a kiss.
This one would feel incomplete without the overwhelming taste of blood. Blood of a god, of regret, of white cloth clenched between sharp teeth, a god’s uncomprehending eyes. This time he allows me to deepen the kiss, running my tongue over his teeth. The iron taste makes me understand at last the true depths of his hunger.
‘What do you want from me?’ I ask as we pull away for a brief moment, before his lips meet mine again. I feel him smile against my skin.
‘Stay here. Let me—let me touch you.’
~~~
He lets me touch him only once when he settles over my thighs, shrugging off his shirt and leaning in for another kiss, staining my skin red. He tenses when I run my hands over his arms, but he lets me do it anyway, my fingers encircling his wrists.
His skin is warm, though inconsistently so, as if waves rose and fell beneath his skin, only occasionally contributing their warmth to the surface. Pulsing, coiling. If not for the warmth, I would have likened it to eels, writhing, thrashing. The enormity of desire unable to be contained within his frail human form.
Then he retracts his hands and pushes down, drawing a gasp from the depths of my throat.
He doesn’t keep his eyes open. His hands find my throat, hesitating before he rests them on my shoulders, shoving me further into the docks.
I am grateful for the sound of crashing waves that mask the sounds he draws from me. I have never understood human desire, though I know that this is something far more violent. I watch the web-like scars on his chest rise and fall, wishing I could trace my fingers along those lines, though the crease in his brow, the only flaw in his bliss, stops me from doing so.
His movements are erratic, desperate almost, and as he bites down on my shoulder to muffle his cry, I recognise the thrumming underneath his skin as what it truly is. Repression, I realise, as he collapses on top of me. In the moonlight, the blood staining our skin gleams bright.
And as he breathes deeply, resting his head in the crook of my neck, I find the courage to raise my hand once more, tracing the scars on his chest.
‘What’s this?’
He presses a soft kiss to the side of my neck. ‘That was where she touched me.’
‘The Tsaritsa?’
‘No. She does not harness lightning as well as the ocean.’
We lay there together, breathing. Even beneath the smell of fresh blood, there is an iron tint to his scent, stitched into his skin. I tilt my head to offer him better access to my neck, shivering when he licks up its side to lap up the dried blood.
He runs his tongue over his teeth, then speaks. ‘We should go back.’
I nod.
‘Wouldn’t want to worry my sister.’
‘Wait,’ I say, when he reaches for his clothes.
‘Not another word.’ His expression softens when he pulls his shirt back on. ‘Let’s… let’s not complicate things. I’m sorry if I led you on,’ he says. ‘My brain doesn’t work right half the time. If you want to go home and never think about this again, I understand.’
I sit up. His scarred, pale thighs almost gleam in the faint light. I look away before I answer, ‘I promised you I would see you, in your own words.’
‘Nothing more than that. Please.’
He refuses to meet my eyes, dropping down from the docks and landing in the sea. I watch him retreat further into the water, until his form is swallowed up by the waves.
I lie back down. Nothing more than that.
Oh, it is too late for that.
I turn my head to the left, where the cockatrice lies, its ribs split open. I reach out and touch it, its feathers soft beneath my touch.
I dig my nails into the down, closing around a hanging piece of flesh and bringing it to my mouth.
It does not taste like anything, and does nothing to sate my hunger.
i love arlecchino