Archive of Our Own ^beta

There is no shortage of duels in Clorinde’s life. There are fewer duels which are initiated off-duty, but they are not an uncommon occurrence. There is no one, however, who comes back for a repeat duel by choice, not after she’s done with them.

Well. Not until this guy, at least.

“Morning!” His tone is just as upbeat as it is irritating. “Say, Clorinde, you wouldn’t happen to be free for the next half hour or so?”

Unfortunately, she is. Besides, it’s technically part of her job to practice dueling at every opportunity. Furina might have her head if she were to pass up this opportunity, especially not when he looks like such a story in the making.

“Fine,” she says, dry. “But no serious injuries. I have obligations, unlike you.”

He grins in response. It’s blindingly bright. Clorinde sighs and tries very hard to pretend this is professional. He leads her towards an open, unpopulated square, typically the location of street performances. Clorinde wonders if that’s how he views it, like entertainment. He won’t be entertained after this, she vows.

“Challenge?” she asks.

He nods. “Accepted.” At the very least, he has learned how to properly follow duel etiquette. By his attire, she’d guess he’s Snezhnayan, and as far as she knows, the proper etiquette to begin a duel there is to punch someone in the face.

Clorinde takes her place across from him, one hand on her sword hilt. “On guard.”

He grins, manic. “Do your worst,” he mutters, looking like he truly hopes she will.

Clorinde only draws her sword and waits.

He practically pouts in frustration. But, after a moment, he pulls out his hands and swings at her. Clorinde is no longer baffled by his lack of weapons; she moves away just as his hydro blades materialize in his hands. His smile widens.

Clorinde refuses to initiate. When he fires hydro bullets at her, she slices them, even reflects one back with the flat of her sword. He seems absolutely delighted when it grazes his cheek. For the full half hour, she plays defensive. To be honest, she’s treating it like a work duel, where she barely has to put in effort. It’s just that he’s much too good to be defeated by her defensive tactics.

It’s good he set a time limit, because they get nowhere. Once the half hour is up, she taps her wrist, where a watch might have sat. His blades evaporate along with his fighting stance.

“Clorinde,” he whines, “why won’t you fight me properly?”

She frowns, stern. “I fight criminals. You have done nothing to deserve such treatment.”

“But I am a criminal!” he protests, sounding absolutely petulant. She starts walking towards the arena, and he follows, like always. “I’ve killed hundreds of people. I tried to flood Liyue Harbor a while ago, too. Didn’t really work, but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

Clorinde rolls her eyes. “Right.” No matter how skilled a fighter this guy is, his stories are just too ludicrous.

“I did though. I swear.”

“Right.”

“Ask Morax. He made the contract that told me to do it.”

“Right.”

“You never asked, but I’m Childe, A-K-A Tartaglia, A-K-A the Vanguard, A-K-A the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger.”

“Right.”

“…Same time Thursday?”

He - Childe, apparently - only looks hopeful. That’s the thing: Clorinde has never met someone who enjoys a duel with her, who faces her with such gusto, no matter how many times he’s been denied an offensive. She’s dueled him seven times now in thrice as many days. Each time, without fail, it drives the odd sadness from his eyes, in favor of even odder joy.

“For the Archon’s sake,” she grumbles, but he beams like she’d said she’d like nothing more.

“Bye, then!” And Childe walks off, a trickle of blood on his cheek and a skip in his step.

Clorinde watches him go, and finds herself smiling slightly. What a kid, she thinks. She’s never met anyone like him, and to her horror, he’s kind of growing on her.

***

Navia finds him at a bar by the sewer entrance, staring into his glass like he could drown a nation in it. He looks sad, and lonely, and perhaps distrusting of the government, so she sits down across from him.

“Hello,” she says diplomatically. “I’m Navia, president of Spina di Rosula. How can I help you?”

He glances up, looking baffled. “The fuck?”

“You look sad.” Navia smooths out her skirt, sits up tall and proper. “I am here to help someone in need. So… what’s wrong?”

“I am not sad ,” he scoffs. “That’s ridiculous. I’m an agent of chaos and destruction. I’m a weapon. Weapons don’t get sad.”

Navia nods sagely. “Ah, but they do,” she says. “My very own greatsword got sad just the other day, in fact, and I had to polish and sharpen it. I can’t use it for a few days while the coating dries, but it’ll come out much stronger.”

A long pause. She gets the sense this has hit hard, and does a silent mental fist-pump. Hell yeah! Spina di Rosula president things! She’s totally helping. Maybe this time she’ll even get Silver to crack a smile when she tells him about it.

Eventually, he lifts his eyes from the table, sitting up slightly straighter. “You don’t know me.”

“Well, not yet. What’s your name?”

He stares at her like the request is outlandish. “Does no one here know who I am?” he asks, incredulous.

“The Steambird can only send so many reporters on international trips each year, you know.”

“That’s not-” He sighs. “Okay, well, I’m Childe.”

She beams. “Wonderful! Now we’ve introduced ourselves. And now we are no longer strangers.”

Childe looks at her bizarrely. Then a slight smile crosses his face. “In that case, I guess you can tell me about your organization. I’m not that familiar with Fontaine yet, so… help me out?”

His tone is more than a little sketchy, but frankly, Navia couldn’t care less. Anyone who’s interested in Spina di Rosula gets a free pass. “Of course!” she declares, beaming. “So Spina di Rosula is an organization that helps uphold justice from the side of the people…”

Childe listens to her attentively. Navia feels quite bolstered by the attention, honestly, since no one has glanced in Spina di Rosula’s direction in years, not since her father’s death. He seems on board with their mission, too, and even asks questions about their practical activities and their relationship to the Court. She tells him about the lenient access that Spina di Rosula members are afforded, like opening investigations into old case files and even off-limits crime scenes.

“So if someone were to join,” he says slowly, “theoretically, if they wanted to meet the Court, they could do it legally this way?”

“Of course! I’ve been to the Court several times on official business.”

“And…” Childe hesitates. He takes a sip of his drink. Navia can’t tell what it is, but it sure looks strong. “Does Spina di Rosula check its members' criminal records, or anything?”

“That depends. What crimes have you committed?”

“Basically everything except tax fraud.”

Navia looks straight into his soulless eyes, considers, and decides she doesn’t give a shit. “Welcome to the team.”

Childe grins, and downs the rest of his cup without even flinching.

Well, that settles it. Navia is never going to Snezhnaya, because whatever they put in the water there has got to be much too strong for her.

***

Neuvillette knows that Tartaglia is in his nation and more than likely intending to do harm. Thankfully, he successfully spends nearly two months avoiding any encounters with him. In fact, Tartaglia’s record remains so pristinely clean that Neuvillette begins to wonder whether he is just in Fontaine on holiday, considering the generous tips he’s been reported to leave at various restaurants and bars.

But alas, nothing in Neuvillette’s life can be simple, because humans cannot be simple. He used to be quite frustrated by this, but has reduced it to a minor inconvenience in his mind. It is just a difference. Tartaglia is human. Thus, he is not simple. That is that.

Neuvillette has read the reports on the eleventh harbinger, and considers himself quite familiar with Tartaglia. But when the Gardes drag in a rather scrawny redhead who looks like he’s barely broken twenty-five, he wonders if he’s made a mistake.

“Tartaglia,” he says, tone consciously professional. “You have been charged with responsibility for the serial disappearances, and shall be tried publicly for these offenses. Is this correct?”

The person in the trial booth is just a kid, really, despite the fire raging in his eyes. “My name,” he snarls, “is Childe.”

He has stopped struggling against the Gardes, however, and seems acceptant of his predicament. This surprises Neuvillette even more than his initial resistance; the Harbingers are known for their lack of allegiance, for their rebellious and violent nature, for their lack of regard for legality. Neuvillette had thought, with vindictive satisfaction, that he had finally gotten Tartaglia to show his true colors. But instead, he sits, angry but willing to obey.

“Childe,” repeats Neuvillette. Childe nods. “Do you agree to hold trial?”

He ponders, then brightens with something like delight. “If I defer to a duel, will Clorinde finally stop holding back?”

His grin isn’t exactly bloodthirsty, but… simply entertained. Neuvillette realizes abruptly that while he may have Tartaglia memorized, he has no idea who Childe is.

Thankfully, both he and the scowling duelist by Furina’s mezzanine seat are spared from answering by the intrusion of the president of Spina di Rosula, yet again.

Neuvillette is very close to being sick of her, these days. The only Navia who speaks to him now is Navia, president of Spina di Rosula. He misses Navia, the bright-eyed girl with a mind sharp as his claws. He wishes she’d come see him, from time to time. But even though she makes brilliant deductions in the courtroom below him, even though she finally clears her father’s name and even proves him a hero, Navia does not once look him in the eye.

Outside, the rain drizzles.

“-I’ve got mine, too!”

Ah, Neuvillette thinks, and here is Tartaglia. This is someone he’s familiar with. He watches, unbothered, as he tears through the Gardemeks with electro. They’ll be fine once repaired and recharged.

But Tartaglia’s mask slips, and Neuvillette watches his eyes harden. He appears to go through great pain as something changes him. Neuvillette can feel it, the abyss clinging to him like water to a soaked sweater. And while the Gardemeks are replaceable, reparable, Childe is not. He is, no matter what the abyss tries to convince him, human. Fragile.

Neuvillette does not think. He only does. Childe is out in seconds. He picks him up and carries him out. Furina looks at him strangely, but she can deal. Neuvillette does not care. He takes the unconscious kid to the national hospital’s emergency care.

As he sets him onto a stretcher, Neuvillette wonders who Childe really is. His face is soft, despite everything. He has smile lines at the edges of his eyes, like he has laughed many times. He is not just a Harbinger. He is not just a weapon. He has lived.

Neuvillette wonders if he can say the same of himself. He is a weapon. Has he lived?

Outside the hospital, it pours.

***

It had been bad enough to know there was a Harbinger in his city. But when Lyney hears that said Harbinger has gotten himself chucked into the hospital, he gives up.

Father had warned him, numerous times, that the other Harbingers were not like her, that they were cruel beings who wanted nothing more than to liberate his body from the tyranny of his head. While Lynette had believed her unquestioningly, Lyney was already old enough to distrust anyone and everyone he came across, and had made the firm resolution to build his own image of the other Harbingers. So when he hears that Tartaglia has been hospitalized, he runs.

Weirdly enough, the hospital staff let him in. He flashes his Hearth badge, and the receptionist just pales and directs him there.

Lyney sits in the visitor’s chair, and studies him. He’s unconscious, but there are no medicines being administered to him. It’s as if he’s staying in an extremely expensive hotel. His face is blank, peaceful.

“I wonder if they even know what’s wrong with you,” he muses aloud. He smiles to himself. “I expect they haven’t seen such symptoms before. Delusion overuse?”

Tartaglia doesn’t respond. It might be Lyney’s imagination, but his eyebrow twitches. Despite his peaceful face, Lyney can see purple-black tendrils creeping up his neck, scrunching closer to him, like they’ll take over his soul. He winces. It doesn’t look easy, he thinks, and for once, he’s thankful he’s never been a combatant.

“I’m surprised you’d be so careless as to overuse in the courtroom, of all places,” he says quietly, folding the sheet over Tartaglia’s neck to cover the sickness. “Quite a way to publicize Fatui dealings, don’t you think?”

“Wasn’t- the intention.”

Lyney jumps with a screech.

Tartaglia groans and shrugs off the sheets Lyney had just placed over him. “Uh, hi,” he says. “You don’t look like a doctor.”

Lyney scrambles to bow. He barely manages to catch his hat before it falls on the floor, and curses to himself. “Lord Harbinger,” he says, praying he doesn’t stammer. “I apologize sincerely for my transgressions. I did not mean to intrude on you, especially not in your time of healing. Please accept this servant’s humble apologies.”

Tartaglia stares at him. “What the fuck.”

Lyney winces, knowing better than to make for the exit. He really is as bad as Father said. He will never doubt her again.

“No, no,” Tartaglia says, waving a hand, then cringing in pain at the motion. “Uh, I just meant, who are you? What’s up?”

“Of course,” Lyney stammers, trying not to picture his head rolling on the hospital floor. “I am Lyney, child of the Knave, servant of Her Imperial Majesty the Tsaritsa. At your service, Lord Tartaglia, Vanguard.”

The Lord Harbinger in question blinks. “I think you’re the first person to ever call me by my actual title.”

“Do you prefer something else?”

“Yes, actually.”

Lyney sends a silent prayer. Dear Tsaritsa, he thinks, though he has not been all that faithful, please spare him this horrible fate. He did not mean anything by it.

“Call me Childe.”

Lyney’s brain grinds to a halt. “Lord Harbinger?” he asks.

“No, actually. Just Childe.”

“What?”

“You said your name is Lyney? Are you that magician kid Arlecchino really likes?”

Lyney nearly faints. He hasn’t ever heard Father called that before. The audacity, he thinks, and then recalls this man is of equal rank to his Father and nearly faints again. Dear Tsaritsa. He has made many mistakes.

“…Uh, Teyvat to Lyney? You there, dude?”

He is intending to reply to this with absolute composure. Instead, what comes out is, “Why are you so weird?”

Tar- Childe , he reminds himself, looks at him oddly. Then he laughs, a full-bodied laugh. It’s the laugh of a child, the laugh of a brother, the laugh of a man who cares. Lyney knows it well; he laughs the same way. “I like you,” he says.

Lyney can feel his face flushing wildly warm, but bows his head regardless. “Thank you.”

“No, but, like. You don’t need to do that.”

Lyney frowns. “You are a Lord Harbinger. You outrank me considerably. It’s only natural that I’d show you proper respect.”

Childe shrugs. “Whatever,” he says, flippant. Lyney feels lightheaded. “Anyway, Arlecchino’s hyped you up a lot, and I feel like shit. Got any tricks you can show me?”

There are so many contradictions going on that Lyney could easily pass out with any more surprises. But he has never declined a performance, and never will. So he puts on his performance smile, and takes off his hat with a flourish. “Certainly. Now, shall I show you some of the basics?”

And when Lyney leaves, Childe calls him a friend with a laugh. Lyney is honestly quite overwhelmed by all the attention, but it’s… nice. He hasn’t had a friend in a while, especially not one who understands. Maybe, if Childe doesn’t die of reckless delusion abuse, Lyney could try to make him laugh again.

***

Wriothesley is fucking tired.

This is not a new development. He has been fucking tired for about the last three years, despite Sigewinne’s best efforts. But when the Gardes bring a half-dead Harbinger into his fortress, he can feel the headache beginning before he even stands from his desk.

The Harbinger waves at him. “Hey,” he says.

Wriothesley glares at him. “How did you get here.”

“I dunno. The justice machine thingy said I did some shit.”

Wriothesley is going to take a very, very long nap after this. Hopefully a nap with a blanket made of six feet of dirt.

“I didn’t,” he says, pouting. “Ask Neuvillette. He says I didn’t do it.”

“Fuck off.”

“Gladly. Where’s the key?”

That nap later? He’s going to share the bed with this Harbinger, and he’s going to pull the dirt blanket over both of their heads. “Now, you prefer to be called Childe, correct?”

He nods.

“Good. Okay, so you’re to stay here… until further trials can be implemented?” Wriothesley stares at the paperwork. Neuvillette’s handwriting is shit, as always. “They can do that?”

Childe shrugs. “Told you I didn’t do it.”

“You still have to stay here.”

Childe’s responding sigh is dramatic, but not disheartened. “Yeah, that checks out. Any idea when I can get out, though?”

“No.”

He pouts. Wriothesley is surprised by his cooperation, though. Maybe the dirt blanket will have to wait.

“Oh. As per the laws of Fontaine, you are allowed contact with one person prior to your containment. You may inform them of your situation and…” Wriothesley gives up on reciting the rights and just glances at Childe. “Well, whatever. Do you want to call anyone?”

Childe’s eyes snap to him. “Anyone?” he says, eyes lighting up. He’s cuffed to the chair, but Wriothesley thinks if he wanted to stand up, the chains wouldn’t even slow him down. “Anyone at all?”

Wriothesley had not expected this reaction. Actually, it’s kind of interesting. He takes a sip of his tea, drawing out the suspense, then pretends to ponder. “The call system only works within Fontaine,” he says slowly, “but it can also contact Adventurer’s Guild branches.”

Childe sits up, back rigid. “If I were to call the Liyue Adventurer’s Guild branch, could they put me in touch with someone?”

Oh, Wriothesley is good at this. He should have pursued the courtroom. He would have been a fine actor. This is the most fun he’s had in months. “Perhaps,” he hedges, despite knowing they absolutely can. “I can let you attempt it?”

He has never seen someone nod so quickly. Wriothesley hides his smug smile as he enters the Liyue Guild into the device.

Childe, device held close, waits and waits. After the initial request to be put in contact, he gets nothing. He sits, growing increasingly anxious. Wriothesley is forcibly reminded of a lovesick sailor awaiting their arrival to their home port. He hides his amusement quite well, he thinks, as Childe’s predicament increases.

Then he lights up. Wriothesley is invested now.

“Zhongli?” Childe asks slowly. Then, “Take me back.”

Wriothesley’s jaw drops.

“I know,” says Childe. A pause. “Really? Oh. Well, uh, that’s good to hear… I’d love to, but I’m kind of in the middle of something. Yeah, I’m in the…” He breaks off, glancing at Wriothesley. “What’s this place called?”

He falters, but supplies, “Fortress of Meropide.”

“The Fortress of Meropide,” Childe says. “Fontaine prison.”

Wriothesley hears the faint sounds of alarm in the other person’s voice.

“No!” Childe cries. “Zhongli, what do you take me for? Of course not. It’s all a misunderstanding. But sorry, don’t think I can meet you at Wanmin tonight. My bad. As soon as I’m back, we’ll go out to Yuehai Pavilion. And Xinyue Kiosk. Promise.” A pause. “Well, Xinyue can be lunch, then.”

Wriothesley sits there in utter silence.

“‘Kay,” Childe practically sings, beaming from ear to ear. “Love you! Bye!”

Childe hands the device back. Wriothesley takes it and tries not to start tearing his hair out.

“This ‘Zhongli’,” he says. “Who exactly is he, might I ask?”

“My fiancé!” Childe declares, smiling even wider. “He’s from Liyue. I kinda thought the engagement was off after I tried to drown his whole city, but he says it’s all good! Oh, and he’s Morax.”

What the fuck. Wriothesley takes everything back. He hates it here.

“I probably should have started with that, huh.”

“Will he be representing you in court or providing legal counsel,” Wriothesley deadpans, all his energy evaporated.

“He kinda hasn’t left Liyue in, like, six thousand years.”

“…So that’s a ‘no’, then?”

“Right.” Childe pauses, considering. “Y’know, if I’m already in prison, I bet he wouldn’t mind if I got into a few fights while I’m here.” His smile returns, with a dangerous edge. “Hey, do you happen to know when Neuvillette is free? I’d love a rematch.”

What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck is his life. “You know what,” says Wriothesley. “Why don’t I just lock you in the damn cell already.”

***

“Sigewinne?”

“Yes?”

She looks so hopeful. There is light in her eyes. Wriothesley envies her.

“Please fetch me two cubic meters of dirt, and a hole two meters wide. And maybe a shovel.”