Chapter Text
One of the first things that the Fatui gave Childe was a mask.
Both the one dangling on the strands of his hair, damp with sweat and barely on its last breath, and the one he used masterfully to cover the shattering of his heart the moment the gnosis fell into Signora’s stupidly sharp-manicured fingers. She resembled a predator at that moment, more than ever, really - the glint of her polished nails like claws and a smirk fit for a champion, hiding the rows and rows of shark teeth beneath the red lipgloss.
Against Zhongli, she also looked of divine nature; it did not help Childe’s mind that was stirring frantically within his skull. The pawns had been discarded and the queen made her final move. The king has fallen. Checkmate.
Childe held back maniacal laughter, as it resonated in his bones and came back as hollow aching in his internal organs. It was an unpleasant leftover from the performance the Foul Legacy had upheld. But the play was over, and Childe felt like throwing up violently behind the velvety curtain. Just the word used, performance, made him feel sick and dizzy. He would say it made him feel ‘heartbroken’ but Harbingers didn’t get the luxury of breaking.
And creations of Abyss didn’t possess a heart.
Yet, despite it, something did fracture in him. Some sort of living, breathing thing, made of blood and sinew, and now he felt like it was an inch away from evicting its remains from his body through his throat. Childe held himself quite bravely. His spine was dead straight as he stepped out of the building, not even swaying in a drunken haze, even though his knees felt like they were about to snap in half and scatter across a sidewalk.
It’s shock, Childe told himself, as he struggled against the most vivid desire to fall onto the first wall that would be willing to hold him up. Barely a scratch or two, he claimed, as the rising ache in his bones made it so very hard to continue walking. A simple hindrance, the consequences of him being human. Or a consequence of his body being human, some long time ago, back when the light in his eyes was never extinguished.
And yet there was humanity inside of him, apparently, enough of it for it to die bloody. Something human that preserved in him, something that mirrored Zhongli’s smiles and struggled with chopsticks and fell asleep with Zhongli’s name on its lips, just withered and perished in him, and if Childe was supposed to feel relief, he didn’t.
The only thing resonating in his chest was fizzling numbness and an echo of grief that belonged to someone already nonexistent.
Childe knew it was his own fault for letting his guard down. He’d gladly blame it on divinity. Hell, he’d pile it all up on Zhongli, no, Morax , claim that it was all his deed, that the old dragon confused him and used his heart like a plaything to toy with, and maybe to a degree, he did blame it on him. But the truth was that it was his decision to forego the only thing he was taught as a Harbinger that stood unwavering.
Shall your heart be a no man’s land.
Childe knew what he was swearing for. He stood there, knelt, in the land of love and promised his entire soul and body to only be loyal to the woman above him, whose heart knew love no longer. He knew what he was doing when he preached for the boundless ice of his homeland, forging his mind to be unbreakable and his ambition to be relentless and for his heart to be as merciless as winter itself.
It only took one hand that feeds for that oath to be broken, and now he learnt that it was also the hand that holds the blade.
He wasn’t blind to the weary stares either. While it wasn’t common knowledge that this city, glistening with golds and browns, was almost wiped off the map because of his little shenanigans, the speed of rumour was just below the speed of light. Especially when you have such a convenient, barely tolerable scapegoat prancing around, flailing the crispy clean Fatui uniform and a star map of battle scars.
Childe wasn’t stupid at all, despite what Signora and Zhongli and Tsaritsa herself apparently thought. He knew there was no better puppet to plaster the chaos on top of. Even those who didn’t somehow figure out that he was a Harbinger, quite a violent one too, would still hesitate to turn their back.
Abyss has its own stench, it’s hard to describe and it’s barely really a smell - otherwise, the obscene amount of perfume he used would make it better. No, it was something like animals smelling danger, a certain vibration in the air that made people’s nape hair rise in terror. Childe long learned to relish in it, in the way people instinctually shivered as he passed by, revolted by Abyss rolling off his skin in tangible cold waves.
Sometimes, Childe wondered what it was like to swim through the sea of people without it parting. To be a drop in an ocean, inconspicuous, insignificant. He caught a glimpse of it just now, but it was different. Even as a pawn, his blood betrayed him as a hero of a story. Or maybe a villain to some.
The point was that his life was never going to be a peaceful one, it was the kind of life that ends up under a cover of a book. The greatest kind of life, but also the loneliest. Zhongli’s pristine disguise, an oddity within the bounds of normalcy, had captivated him. And even after being broken, part of Childe still yearned for that picturesque illusion - of sharing that quiet retirement life by Zhongli’s side.
So, no, Childe didn’t blame Morax. After all, if he could, if he knew how, if there was a place for him in the world of men, he’d embrace that peace without hesitation.
Childe sludged through the Liyue streets, body heavy in his very bones, and he thought that maybe it wasn’t just his humanity catching up to him. The injuries that Foul Legacy left on him ran deep, and no eye could see them on his skin or under his ruffled clothing. But they were wounds nevertheless, and the slow, dull pulse of ache grew louder than the blood rushing in his ears. And yet if Childe was good at anything, it was pretending.
The show wasn’t over. It was bound to continue until he was back in his rented apartment in the attic room, where he would slam the windows closed and finally let himself fall apart in silence, where not even Morax himself could hear him weep.
So he continued his slow route. Though, by the time his mind caught up on him, he had already long passed the turn towards his home and instead was heading for the outskirts of the city, into the succumbing twilight above his head. Well, maybe taking a walk would clear his mind, melt away the scraps of feelings rattling about his skull and leave it a clean slate. The air was pleasantly cool to his skin, and it was getting chilly.
Or was he running a fever? For all he knew, his face could be blistering red in colour. At least, it sure felt like it. He tried to catch his reflection in a puddle or a stray window, but his vision was far too blurry and his eyes felt dryer than the deserts of Sumeru.
“Ugh,” Childe’s voice felt raspier than usual. He could use some water right now. Too bad that hydro his vision produced wasn’t drinkable. Actually, it’s been a while since he could stomach a full meal too.
Since the last time he laughed with his whole chest into a pile of very carefully crafted dumplings in front of Zhongli’s disapproving but fond face.
No vendor in their sane mind would even talk to him, especially in this state. After the battle with the Traveller, his uniform was ruffled and torn, scraps of it still hanging by threads on his hips and ankles. There were strings of bloody traces all over - the blood wasn’t his, as the injuries of delusion would never show themselves to the naked eye. No, those were the absolute worst kind, silent and deadly. Though he’d know if he was unwell.
Well, he wasn’t necessarily peachy right now but he’d seen worse. Much worse really.
He had been beaten into a pulp with most of his bones broken both by his colleagues and his enemies, he had spit blood all over the training ground back at the time of his recruitship, he had been maimed and violated in all ways possible, he had crawled half-dead from the monsters most people have only seen in legends just to stand back up and keep fighting.
So what if he was running a little hot and dehydrated, and maybe his limbs felt like slobs of molten bronze, and maybe he could barely speak or breathe? It was just shock, an inconvenience at best, and it would be soon gone, right after he swallows the tingling tears at the back of his throat and stuff them back into the Abyss of his soul where they belonged.
Nothing could ever truly hurt him, except for his own mind and his own Abyssal practices, apparently.
Briefly, he noted the way his thoughts ran rampant, struggling to stick to one topic, and instead crashed into one another, skittering across his brain like little spiders.
Huh. He was much worse than anticipated.
It was a little humiliating to admit, but Childe didn’t know how to treat his Abyssal injuries. They were invisible, and besides, they never got to the stage where he couldn’t hold himself up anymore and where even simple movements resonated with nausea so severe he struggled to continue breathing. At best, he had a few broken ribs or a bright purple constellation of bruises along his stomach. Childe never had to exert himself this much in Foul Legacy, not even speaking of staying in it for longer than half a minute.
Traveller really has gotten to him - in more ways than either of them expected.
Childe stumbled through the grass and stepped onto a rock platform of some kind. His eyes still refused to work, but he did see a structure of sorts right in front of him. It was smooth and cool to touch, and for a moment of weakness, he slouched against the stone, letting it sing against the feverish heat of his skin. He could barely breathe and, oh… He was going to be sick.
As on a cue, suddenly a violent spasm ran through his body. Childe flinched, a powerful impulse of nausea keeling him over into the grass, retching painfully, bile burning his already scratched throat. He latched for support only to shockingly realise that he was holding onto the Statue of the Seven. Childe couldn’t help but cackle.
He was throwing up directly under Morax’s visage. Maybe he deserved it.
It was a childish thought, revenge was unbefitting of a Harbinger. Or if it was, then it should have been something raw and bloody, something animalistic and carnal, a battle or a war. Not struggling to stand after your body rejects three nights' worth of dinners just below a commemoration of a god’s might.
And what a commemoration it was - beautiful, disarming, or maybe his heart was a still stubborn thing, butchering his loyalties in favour of beautiful men who smile at him even after seeing him thrive in the carnage, even after tenderly cleansing his wounds with a steady hand. Childe swallowed a bitter taste in his mouth. How could he ever, even for a moment, forget what he was?
How could he ever play along with the spectacle of him being loved?
Now that he thought of it, it was hilarious how he didn’t notice. Zhongli’s literal shirtless replications were manspreading all over Liyue, the marble-carved cloth of the hood barely covering the familiar jawline and the unmistakable aura of authority that he so often found himself entranced by. How could he possibly not even consider the possibility? Or maybe he did but denied it so fervently, drunk on the pretty image of one part of his life that wasn’t painted bloody?
Regardless, now it painted him as a fool as well. A smitten fool that only proved that love is blind.
The ache returned with double the conviction, and Childe forced himself back on both legs, though seemingly it was useless - even if he was standing up, his entire body swayed from the weakest wind. A single push could have probably sent him crumbling, and he thanked the Celestia (mostly sarcastically, of course) that there was no one to see him like this. He tried to access his state, but his vision was flooded by black and red spots, and as soon as he even attempted to touch anywhere near his abdomen and ribs the dull aching flourished into a brilliant explosion of sharp pain.
If Childe was less sane or sceptical, he’d think an invisible spear of Rex Lapis himself just went right through his guts and twirled itself a couple of times for good measure.
So he was dying then. Unfortunate.
Childe’s chest heaved, as his heartbeat pulsed through his ears. He sat right beneath, drying blood crumbling on his fingers. He knew exactly how dangerous the silent wounds of Abyss were, and yet he ignored them in favour of mourning the part of him that could still be in love with handsome consultants with golden eyes.
It would be unfitting for him to die under the feet of a foreign god, in a foreign land, without a blade in his hands. But that was what fate had chosen for him.
Maybe that was how he would pay for his heart’s treason.
“Hey, Rex Lapis,” he wheezed, feeling his lungs constrict in protest. “I hope you enjoyed the spectacle. A shame that it was my last.”
The statue, obviously, didn’t respond. Not that stone monuments were capable of speech, or stone gods made of cor lapis and divinity itself were capable of loving an Abyssal wretch. Childe felt disgust creep up his throat at the very thought, he should get himself together, he was no longer a teenager to cry his heart out. Unfortunately, his body collapsing didn’t agree with his ideas.
Childe retched again, and when in the bile red streaks were blossoming into bloody spirals, that’s when it really hit him. He didn’t get to see his family again. He didn’t get to watch Celestia fall from its throne under Tsaritsa’s heel. He didn’t get to beat the shit out of Signora’s annoying face.
He didn’t get to scream at Zhongli in rage until his throat was raw. He didn’t even get to say goodbye.
“Did you enjoy the show?” he continued rambling. It’s not like Zhongli could actually hear him, nor did he care, nor did it matter. It’s much easier to say shit you think when your clock is ticking down by minutes. “Either way, fuck you. Fuck you, Rex Lapis. I hope Abyss itself swallows you whole.”
And where he couldn’t find space for grief in his heart, anger gladly took the position. In the moments of his last consciousness, it’s wrath that thrummed under his dying skin, calling out for the gods to come down and look at him dragging Morax into hell personally. Childe cracked a weak smile, it was so in character for him to spend his last breath wishing the worst on his enemies.
Was Zhongli his enemy?
He thought he saw him, right before the heavy darkness he was fighting off for the longest time finally caught up to him and embraced him like an old friend. Childe almost believed that the horror-stricken glow of the eyes made of molten gold and the sun itself was not a beautiful dream he dared to fall asleep to. He almost tricked himself into thinking he heard his voice - not Morax, Rex Lapis, God of Contracts and betrayals but Zhongli.
“...jax! Ajax!”
Ah, right. He told Zhongli his name, his old name that died with the child that fell down the Abyss and whose corpse his family was trying so hard to sustain. The name he promised to keep away from all under Tsaritsa’s benevolence as proof of his unyielding loyalty. He was fucked regardless.
Dying felt like a gentle caress, a little like being carried away by a lover. In his mind, the hallucination of death itself smelled like glaze lilies, silk flowers and tea, and it had Zhongli’s face. It was a little poetic, how Zhongli was the death of him and it was he who embodied his travel to another side. Childe felt a hand creep across his abdomen and up to where his heart would be if he had any.
Now, that was curious.
Childe heard a whisper, a lingering resonating sound, and he only took a moment too long to realise where he heard that sound in the past before he suddenly regained the last scrap of his consciousness for his entire body to go slack in pure, unadulterated rage. He knew that damn sound because it was the one that accompanied his heart breaking.
It was a sound of a contract snapping into place.
Zhongli was not an embodiment of death. He was there, doing archons know what with his barely living body, and Childe didn’t even get to die in peace before being used as a plaything by him over and over.
“I hope you forgive me for this transgression, baobei.”
Childe couldn’t help himself - he rasped out the only curse that came to his mind in a delirious whisper. “I hope you fucking die, Morax .”
There was a soft gasp that Childe almost mistook for a hurt, guilty mutter as Zhongli retrieved his hand from his chest.
Amen, Childe thought. And with that, he finally diligently passed out.