Chapter Text
Morepesok is always beautiful in that transitional period between autumn and winter. Light snow dusts the ground like frosting on a cake, but not quite thickly enough to conceal the rich brownish-red shade of the earth.
When Ajax was young, his father had told him that this special moist, clumpy earth was unique to Morepesok. It is formed by rich deposits of minerals and good soil aeration year-round – gifts from the salty waves lapping constantly at Morepesok’s shores. Further inland, the landscape is peppered with little ponds and lakes that were only just beginning to freeze over. When winter deepens and brittle winds howl, that is when these little bodies of water will be ready for ice-fishing. A languid afternoon, a little pickaxe, a crude setup of a rod and metal hook, and that was all Ajax needed to fill a metal bucket with live, wriggling fish.
But the woods are quiet, too quiet. He remembers them to be teeming with wildlife, especially at this time of the year – fat grey squirrels with molten mid-transition pelts stocking up on acorns, migratory birds flying low over the sky, sleek red deer enjoying their last bit of fresh greens. This time, there is nothing, not even the slightest rustle of leaves that indicate their presence.
It is just him, the lake, and the surrounding flora.
He looks at his hands. He is holding a thin wooden rod, not unlike the one his father gifted to him years ago. Back when he was still residing in Morepesok. Before the Abyss. Before the Fatui. Before everything. The rod trembles slightly in his hands.
It is starting again. Ever since his re-emergence from the Abyss, the panic attacks never stopped haunting him. He gets them nearly every night, be it in his cot at home, in the bunks of the Fatui barracks, or on a bedroll in the middle of the wilderness.
It isn’t as though they have never abated. Ever since stepping foot in Liyue, the nightmares have visited him only a few times. Childe had only just begun to believe that the warmer, milder climate was warding them off, but no.
His old friend, his little companion, is here like clockwork to remind him whence his powers come.
He barks an uncomfortable laugh that rings through the woods and reverberates off the cold water. This is his punishment. Celestia had looked at that puny little boy with the same flames of vigour on his head burning in his heart and decided that he was in fact going to get what he wanted – what better way to accelerate his growth than by allowing the Abyss to swallow him?
So now Ajax, no, Childe, Tartaglia, carries with him that curse. His hands shake more vehemently now, and he lets it happen. There is no way to stop the tremors once they start.
The surroundings blur and melt away into more sinister things. False trees dripping with venom leer at him. A distance away – but not quite far enough for his comfort – a monster growls. He knows everything is made-up because he can hear humanoid voices somewhere above him, high up in the heavens: his parents’ worried shouts, his siblings’ cries, human feet stomping against the ground as they search for him.
See? An unknown voice purrs. Look at how much they loved you, before they found out.
Found out what? Ajax whispers back. The tremors have invaded his voice now. He hates it so much he wants to rip his throat out.
What kind of person you truly are. The Abyss crooned, phantom fingers stroking his chin. A bloodthirsty little monster. Can you really say you fell into the Abyss, Ajax? You had merely come home. Why do you always run away from us? Why do you seek to avoid us? Don’t you want to become stronger?
Lies, Ajax countered feebly, trying to resist the voice. You lie to me.
Don’t you crave power? We can give you everything.
The scene changes again. This time, he is somewhere deep underground, the air stale and suffocating around him. Squinting, he manages to identify the place – the Chasm, where he had been sent to investigate the Celestial Nail a few months prior to his deployment in Liyue. The atmosphere here thrums with Abyssal energy, and the voice grows a little more solid, a little more substantial.
Look over there, it hisses joyfully, and something forces Ajax’s head to turn to the left.
He sees a cavern of carnage. Bodies strewn haphazardly on the ground. What he assumes are the survivors are streaming in and out of the entrance, mouthing orders. Somehow, everything in this dream is silent – the only explanation behind the absence of pained whimpers. Then, in the midst of it all, he sees himself, standing over the pile of bodies with an appraising eye.
His ears abruptly flood with sound. Now he can hear laboured breathing, screams, footsteps, rocks crumbling. He watches as a subordinate – Elena? Olga? He is ashamed to admit he does not remember her name – scrambles up to Childe to give her report.
‘Lord Tartaglia, permission to report strength, Sir. Total strength: a hundred and forty, current strength: four. We suffered hundred and eight dead, six injured and twelve missing. There are two search teams of five men each currently deployed in the Main Mining Area. Permission to carry on, Sir.’
‘Have you submitted your incident report?’ Tartaglia asks, almost lazily, as he nudges at a limp hand with the toe of his boot.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Well? Any read back?’
‘Lord Pantalone’s instructions are to retreat immediately and halt all search operations for the missing personnel, Sir.’
‘Is that so,’ Tartaglia drawls, turning to face the woman. She swallows nervously. ‘Did he say anything about the dead?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘How very Pantalone, conveniently leaving the dead for the Millelith,’ Tartaglia sneers. ‘But, very well – we will defer to his expert opinion. Call back the search teams and task them with escorting the wounded out of here. To depend on Pantalone for backup is sheer folly. You, meanwhile, will find a suitable burial site for our comrades. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ the woman breathes.
Tartaglia watches her scurry away, that same cold indifference plastered across his features.
See? The Abyssal voice is back again. This is what power looks like.
It isn’t, Ajax protests quietly.
Oh? But Tartaglia loves it. Look at him. Isn’t he majestic?
And Tartaglia is majestic. Majestic beyond words – especially when he has just returned to humanoid form after exerting his Foul Legacy, when he is still a few inches taller than normal, his limbs still tainted that sparkly, inky shade, his face flushed with adrenaline and thrill and when the after-effects of the Abyss has not quite hit him yet. Ajax watches, numbly, as at last Tartaglia begins to move, striding purposefully towards his tent.
He knows what comes next. Tartaglia will sit on the floor, massage his limbs, wait for the blood to drain from his face, and then groan as the ghastly pains of the Abyss take over him. Tartaglia will shrink, shrink, back into Ajax; and then Ajax will silently endure the worst of the pain before he puts on a smile again and morphs back into Childe.
How noble, huh? Activating your Foul Legacy to save your comrades. Never forget who gives you this power, Childe. Shouldn’t you be grovelling at our feet now, thanking us?
Ajax wants to vomit. He wants to open his mouth and shout profanities at this disembodied voice in his head. Instead, all he could say was, There is nothing noble about your power.
Why not? The feigned surprise is laid on thickly. But don’t you use it to do noble things, Childe? Oh, right, I forget – you don’t even believe yourself, do you? Deep down, you and I both know there is nothing glorious about being a Harbinger…
Ajax lowers his gaze.
Everything comes with a cost, Ajax manages with difficulty. His legs have given out, and he kneels on the floor in defeat, fists planted firmly on the ground for support. I don’t want it – I didn’t ask for it –
Really? But Childe is delighted with it.
No, he isn’t! I’m not – I’m not Chi –
‘Childe? Childe, are you alright?’ He hears a familiar voice.
Ah. So he is returning to consciousness. The hallucinations seem to be slipping away at last, but the shaking of his limbs does not let up. He shivers miserably, slowly registering everything. There is soft linen balled up in his fists – a blanket, he realises. He is resting on his side, on something soft – a bed. Zhongli’s bed.
Oh, right. He agreed to stay over at Zhongli’s after one of their dinners had dragged on late into the night. He thought it would be okay, seeing as how it had been a whole week (a record!) since the nightmares had visited.
I guess not.
‘Childe! Can you hear me? …Heavens, you’re shaking so much…’ Warm hands press into his, and when he gives no response, they begin gently rolling him onto his back. ‘Childe?’
Zhongli’s voice grows more concerned by the second. Childe finally gathers the courage to look him in the eye. The magnificent man is hunched over him, large hands firmly gripping his shoulders in a grounding fashion, amber eyes shining with worry. At least the worst of the shaking is over, though the tips of his fingers still quiver.
‘Mm,’ Childe hums, his facial features reflexively curving into a comforting smile. He’s done this many times over, to his younger siblings, to other recruits, to worried staff. ‘I’m alright.’ The words come easy, practiced as he is.
‘Are you certain about that?’ Zhongli frowns. ‘You were whimpering and shaking in your sleep, and I could not rouse you for a long while.’
The Abyssal voice laughs at him at the back of his mind, and Childe tries to chase it off by vigorously shaking his head.
‘I am being serious,’ Zhongli intones evenly, misunderstanding him. ‘It was quite a serious case of a panic attack, if I may say so myself.’
‘You’ve seen other cases of panic attacks, Zhongli?’ He tries to deflect.
‘That is not the point here, Childe,’ Zhongli scowls, carefully prying the scrunched-up linen out of Childe’s hands. The way the older man says his name, loving yet admonishing, has Childe’s mind whirring again, the sinewy voice of the Abyss creeping back into his mind…
Hah, Childe… A young nobleman… and since when have you been noble?
I – I am not – I am not Childe –
Wait till he finds out, Ajax. He will abandon you just like the others. Just wait till he finds out who hides behind this charming, competitive and dashing persona, just who the real Childe is...
He wouldn’t – I’m not – I’m not him –
I must say, the silken voice continues, that the world is terrible at naming you. What about Ajax, then? Young hero? And is there a heroic bone in your –
Stop! Stop! – Ajax tries to fight back, he really does, he claws and kicks violently at his invisible enemy, but it does not relinquish its grasp on him that it had only just wrested back.
The only way to heroics is through power. Childe understands that. Tartaglia craves it. Do you?
I am not Childe, I am not Childe, I am not –
Then, poor lost lamb, who are you?
‘Ajax,’ Ajax whispers, tears clouding his eyes. ‘I am Ajax.’
‘What?’ Zhongli’s confused voice floats into his consciousness. ‘Childe, what…? What are you…’
‘Call me Ajax,’ Ajax whispers, begging, as Zhongli’s porcelain-like face flits into his view again. He reaches upward to pull Zhongli closer, clinging onto him for comfort. ‘M-my real name is Ajax. Call me Ajax.’
‘Ajax,’ Zhongli obliges as he leans forward to engulf Ajax in an embrace. The name rests lightly on the tip of his tongue. He repeats it a few more times, testing the sound. ‘Ajax. That is your birth name?’
‘Yes,’ Ajax breathes, curling into Zhongli’s shoulder, one arm slung around Zhongli’s neck. ‘My father… my father gave me that name.’
‘A good choice, then,’ Zhongli praises as he rolls both of them onto their sides. One large hand comes up to card through Ajax’s hair. ‘Do you know its meaning?’
‘Let’s… let’s not talk about it,’ Ajax murmurs, uncertainly, into Zhongli’s shoulder. The Abyssal voice cackles and the ginger-haired man tries to ground himself by taking deep breaths into Zhongli’s shoulder. He smells like wet, mineral-rich earth. A little bit like Morepesok’s earth after a heavy spring shower. That special, brownish-red soil.
It smells good, and the Abyssal presence retreats.
He inspects Zhongli’s shirt. The man likes a flat, earthy palette, decorated only with bits of resplendent gold and oranges, if he felt especially festive that particular day. In bed, however, Zhongli usually wears a plain brown shirt and long black pants that flow loosely around his long legs. It is no different today, and Ajax fixates on a little wet spot on the older man’s shirt – no doubt caused by his tears.
‘We can talk about it another day, then.’ Above him, Zhongli was nuzzling into his hair, one hand still firmly lodged in his locks while the other drew comforting circles on his back. ‘You fight your panic so bravely, Ajax.’
‘...You…think so?’ Against all reason, Ajax allows himself to hope, to preen at Zhongli’s praise, and he shoves whatever self-doubt back to the recesses of his mind. ‘Really?’ His words are beginning to slur as he feels sleepiness crowd his mind.
‘Rest assured, I speak only the truth,’ Zhongli offers, sincerely, his breath a warm puff on Ajax’s scalp. ‘Well, but we shall shelve this discussion for another time, yes? …Ch- Ajax?’
Shielded by Zhongli, with the weight of him all but crushing the accursed Abyssal influence, Ajax had quietly drifted off to sleep, head tucked tightly into Zhongli’s shoulder. Chuckling, Zhongli watches the young man for a while before closing his eyes as well.
The questions running through his mind can wait until tomorrow morning.