Chapter Text
The headline is fresh off the press by the next morning. The Steambird publishes the story first, but so sensational is that day’s headline that by the week, the entirety of Teyvat, from the cities of Snezhnaya to the cliffs of Natlan, knows three things:
One: The Eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers, Lord Harbinger Tartaglia, was accused for the infamous, twenty-year-long-unsolved, missing women case;
Two: The boss of the mercantile guild, Marcel, real name Vacher, is the true culprit, and after having been found guilty, was result to the judgement of the gods, and dissolved like his victims;
Three: For some reason, Lord Tartaglia, for the first time in the history of Fontainian law, was still declared guilty by the Oratrice Mecanique d’Analyse Cardinale, against the judgement of the Iudex.
The Steambird’s exclusive morning paper features a photograph of Tartaglia, standing upon the floor of the court, in his hands two blades of pure electro. The camera has somehow managed to catch him in a rare moment facing the audience, and his face is set with a deep, angered glare. His facial features are unmistakable, even rendered in the black-and-white.
—
“Monsieur Arouet! Is it true that a Harbinger was apprehended at your very shop?!” “Monsieur Arouet, are the reports of the Harbinger frequenting your shop true?!” “Monsieur Arouet—”
“Enough!” A deep and imposing voice cuts through the fog of voices. “Leave him alone.”
He’s a big and bulky man, and the monocle on his face does nothing to detract from his stature.
“Clear out. Now. Unless you are buying something, do not impede this good sir’s business.” He declares, a frown set into his face.
The reporters shuffle, but it is only after Rocky roars them away that they scuttle of awkwardly.
“Thank you very much Monsieur…” Arouet trails off.
“Rocky,” the man says, with a tired smile.
“I was afraid they would never leave,” Arouet sighs, “thank you for your assistance.”
“It’s no problem,” Rocky murmurs, “Me and the rest got harassed too— the state of our country! One Harbinger in our country and suddenly it merits harassing civilians for information!”
Arouet shakes his head, wiping sweat away with a handkerchief. “...to think that perfectly stately and charismatic youngster was a Harbinger of all things… I don’t want to think how much I was in danger the whole time.”
“Likely, never,” A voice pipes up from behind the man.
Ah. Due to his huge stature, several people have been concealed from Arouet’s view. The speaking person is a man dressed in typical attire, and he holds the hand of a little girl while a noblewoman trails behind.
“Then you have never seen him in action,” insists a man who wears the sartorials of the now-dysfunct Institute. “If you saw how quickly he discharged top-tier Meka—”
“But did he not do it because you asked?” The little girl insists, her face scrunching up. “That’s not fair at all, you know, Monsieur!”
“The point is that he was a dangerous man, yes,” Rocky hums, pushing up his monocle, “I have seen him in action as well. But he was very respectful about it— our bout was nothing but friendly, and given that he seems to have somehow gained the respect of the little Madame Penny here’s very precocious pets, I think it confirms that he does have a side to him that is not violence.”
Said pets bark and meow in response, and Arouet cranes his neck over the counter to see them.
“Did he not try to fight the verdict?” Arouet murmurs, recalling the newspaper. “Such disrespect of the court…”
The noblewoman speaks up, and her tone is reminiscent of high-class women, but her voice is shaking. “W-well, never has the court been so disrespectful itself! Arresting a man who is not guilty, I think, entitles some sort of struggle, especially since Meropide is no simple prison. There’s a reason we don’t send mere pickpocketers there.”
“He’s a Harbinger!” The scientist bemoans, throwing his hands up. “He isn’t! You know, he’s Tartaglia, and he probably flooded Liyue a couple years back.”
“Look,” the man holding ‘Penny’s’ hand sighs. “Even if he did commit crimes outside of Fontaine, we cannot jail him if the initial verdict with no extra charges, did not warrant him being incarcerated. He may be a man with a bloody reputation, but he has, to my knowledge, done absolutely nothing of the sort barring fighting hilichurls, in our country.”
“Well, now, whatever it is,” Rocky finishes, “we cannot be seen in public, at least for now, without the tabloids harassing us. The reason we came here was to— essentially, offer you a place to stay in for at least a week, while the press cools down. It’s a house just outside the city, and it has multiple rooms to comfortably accommodate all of us. We are already hiding out there, and we were wondering if you’d like to as well, Monsieur.”
“There’s no need,” Arouet sighs. “How else would I make money if I’m not here? I’m an up-and-coming cafe, and I don’t have much staff on hand.”
“Well, you can take our Telefone number, then,” the noblewoman smiles, “if anything happens to harrass you, call, and Rocky here will help you.”
“Thank you very much, all of you,” Arouet says. “It has been a tiring week. How about I treat you all to a cup of coffee and breakfast sandwiches on the house?”
“Can Don Quijano have a sandwich too?” Penny lifts the cat up.
“I’m afraid that it would make him sick,” Arouet hums, “but how would he like raw tuna?”
—
Zhongli wakes from another unsuccessful attempt to reach Childe.
Sighing, he opens his eyes, and yawns a little before padding over to the pot of incense sticks. It’s been such a trying week that he doesn’t bother putting it out properly, instead taking out a Geo-reinforced hand and pinching the ember.
“Childe… what is happening to you?” Zhongli groans, massaging his forehead.
The Dream Trawler ritual, often used to summon a person’s soul into a projection into the real world, also has another use— that is, dreamsharing. A slight modification to the chants and the arrays, and it allows Zhongli to instead join the soul in their dreamspace instead of forming a tether to the real world.
Unfortunately, something is blocking Zhongli from joining Childe’s dreamspace.
And it is not that Childe himself is resisting Zhongli’s attempts to it at all.
Usually, if the recipient is truly averse to having their dream barriers breached, Zhongli will be able to touch the barrier at least, and then he will be launched away, back into the real world.
Right now, though, there is no barrier. Instead, there is only a void, and instead of the sparkling clear waterfall that Zhongli saw on his first and only successful attempt at sharing a dream with Childe, a fog seems to obscure it, and he cannot enter the dream at all.
An external barrier— something is blocking Zhongli from reaching Childe.
Zhongli is not so conceited as to assume he is the only one who can access a dream. The Master of the Night-Wind in Natlan come to mind— able to parse a person’s soul and see into it, and sense the threads of reality around them. Other Archons, too, are capable— though it is not by being an Archon that they are capable, but rather, that they are powerful gods that must have their own methods of communicating with their followers. Buer is the master of the mind and intellect, and dreams are the domain of Sumeru, after all.
What a thought— perhaps the venerable Dendro Archon would be able to ascertain the reason behind this inability to access a dream.
Ah, but that would require revealing himself.
He doesn’t believe in unnecessarily blowing his cover, but considering it is Childe, and Zhongli is greatly, greatly, greatly worried about him…
Zhongli finishes putting on his coat and adjusting his ponytail before stepping down the stairs, from the living quarters at Wangsheng to the actual office space.
“Good morning, old man.” Hutao greets with her usual exuberance. “You have a guest today! He tells me he knows you, but if you don’t, feel free to punt him with a Geo construct!”
“Morning, ‘old man’,” Barbatos— Venti, giggles connivingly, showing off his youthful vessel. “I’ve got some news you might want to know.”
“Is it important?” Zhongli sighs.
Venti’s smile drops.
“Yes, actually,” He hums. “Can we take this somewhere quieter.”
Hutao pushes them into the backrooms. “Go, and be quick! Don’t steal my consultant away for too long… he’s already lost so many work hours to that ginger menace years ago…. But he did pay the parlour…hmm…”
Zhongli shuts the door and looks to Venti. “What is it? What has happened?”
Venti unfurls the copy of Fontaine’s leading newspaper, the Steambird, out.
The headline, and the accompanying picture, roll out.
ORATRICE DECLARES HARBINGER GUILTY IN DISAPPEARANCES CASE
“What.” Zhongli breathes, as he yanks the paper from Venti. “What is this?”
Venti looks grim. “Your Harbinger got locked up in Meropide.”
“No, the disappearances case.” Zhongli paces. “How? That case is infamous even internationally, and from my impeccable memory, Childe would have been barely a toddler when the first woman disappeared. How has Fontaine’s justice failed to account for this?”
Venti hums, pointing to the paper. “The Palais Mermonia revealed from an anonymous, most-likely-Fatui source he was sent to trial as a bait for the true culprit to be drawn into a trial.”
“Yes, but how was he not declared innocent?” Zhongli frets.
“He was,” Venti grimaces. “By their Chief Justice— the Iudex. You know, the one you long suspected to be the reincarnation of the Hydro Sovereign.”
“If their highest authority bar Focalors declared him innocent, then why is he in jail?” Zhongli grips the newspaper.
“Because Focalors declared him guilty.” Venti frowns. “Or rather, her justice machine— you know, the Oratrice Mechanique D’analyse Cardinale, did.”
“And according to Fontaine law, it is the Oratrice that decides the final verdict…” Zhongli murmurs. “How can this be? It has generally judged according to the Iudex.”
“Well this time, it hasn’t. And your Harbinger is now in Meropide.” Venti darkens. “You know where it is situated? If you recall, back when Egeria was alive, and fretting about the Primordial Sea?”
“Meropide… Meropide,” Zhongli frowns, searching his memory for maps of Fontaine. “...you don’t mean…”
“I didn’t really realise it until yesterday, until I saw where it was,” Venti looks up at Zhongli.
“...the Primordial Sea surrounds Meropide. And in these dark days, where the Primordial Sea goes…” Zhongli murmurs.
“The Abyss follows,” Venti finishes grimly.
“It certainly lines up,” Zhongli looks at his old friend. “This paper is written today, but this is the full report of the incident… a week ago… lines up with the day I couldn’t dreamshare with Childe any longer.”
“Oh, Childe,” Zhongli sighs, as Venti hands him a stiff drink in a flask, which he takes, for the first time in his life, gratefully. “What have you gotten yourself into, you rascal?”
—
The dream again.
Neuvillette stands at the bottom of the sea, looking up through indigo-swirled water. A pale lavender light breaks through, and weakly illuminates the unnatural, glittery shimmer, of the water.
He tries to swim upwards, but it seems the sea itself holds him down.
He tries again, only to be pushes down by the currents. His command over Hydro seems to be nonexistent, and as he calls for it, not an inch of water moves to follow.
It is only when he properly squints, and sees the shadow above him, that he realises why.
A giant, crystalline whale, dives down, to where he is, its armoured horn shimmering underneath the glittering light, its body composed of swirling galaxies and its tail fragmented like mirror shards.
What does it want? It doesn’t have any eyes that Neuvillette can see, and it is nothing like any sea creature he has ever seen.
But he knows one thing— it is dangerous. It carries a deep, heavy aura, of something powerful, and with each flip of its tail, the water seems not to just part behind it, but to tear, as if it were solid.
What does it want?
The whale opens its maw— it is not lightless black, like he has been expecting, but instead, it is a universe nestled within the jaw of a beast. It swirls with the light of galaxies, and within it, Neuvillette spots twinkling white lights, like suns, within. It is as if the night sky was held by one creature.
As it opens its maw, Neuvillette feels almost sucked in by it, as if something compels him to be consumed. He fights against it, but it is a struggle.
Slowly, as he succumbs to the blinding dark, he hears a voice, not unlike a deep, resonant whale call.
How can you dare defeat me, when you cannot even command the waters that sustained my power?
He sinks.
Another voice, nothing like the whale’s. It sounds… like…
Like himself.
Cry, little Hydro Dragon, CRY, his doppelganger grins up at him, eyes glowing with malice.
He has never felt like the Hydro Dragon, even when he awoke into this world, with pure water as his body, and consciousness raw.
Is he the Hydro Dragon?
When the mysterious witch told him so, he thought it felt right, that she called him that.
But how could a Hydro Dragon be so weak?
And let your tears flood Fontaine.
Neuvillette
Wakes
Up.
“Monsieur Neuvillette!” A trembling voice shakes him out of the stupor.
He draws himself up, from the long couch in his office, and comes face to face with Focalors, her hands trembling, and her eyes full of fright. A cacophony of sounds from behind the door seem to grow louder and louder.
“Whatever is the matter, Lady Furina?” Neuvillette frowns.
“I tried, I swear, Neuvi, I tried encouraging them away,” Furina frets, “but they just won’t stop coming! I can’t answer any of their questions, and they don’t pick up on my misdirections!”
The crowd behind the door seems to grow more agitated.
“Who?”
“The reporters,” she hisses. “Please, help me, dear Iudex, my longtime companion! I cannot hold them off any longer! They insist on knowing—”
A loud yell pierces through.
Neuvillette stands up, and puts a hand on the Archon’s shoulder. “I will take care of this. Rest up, Lady Furina.”
He sweeps out the office, and steadies himself, before opening the door.
A gaggle of reporters meet him, holding Kameras and notepads and whatnot. Sedene, his lovely Melusine assistant, toddles up to him with a worried look on her face.
“Many apologies, Monsieur Neuvillette,” she says in hushed tones. “The Gardes and I were unsuccessful in dispersing them.”
“Chief Justice Neuvillette, can you tell us how a Harbinger got into Fontaine?” “Chief Justice Neuvillette, can you tell us why the Oratrice disagreed with you?” “Chief Justice Neuvillette—”
“Please settle down,” Neuvillette warns. “I will attempt to answer your questions if you do not make a ruckus.”
Not often does a reporter quiet, but when the order is commanded by a man with such a powerful aura of status and authority, someone who the entire country respects… the crowd, though grumbling, quiets.
“Now,” Neuvillette says. “I will explain some things, and all of you will have to leave after that.”
“The Harbinger, rightfully, as is the right of any traveller, came in via an approved travel visa.” Neuvillette says, folding his arms. “He did not come in diplomatic capacity. We saw no reason to reject it at the time, given we had no evidence of him intending to commit any wrongdoing. As to your question on why we would do so, given the widespread rumours about his reputation, I would caution those of you here to remember that the rumours are not confirmed facts, and that officially, Harbinger Tartaglia does not have any significant crimes on his official record.”
“Secondly, I, as well as the Marechausee Phantom, have been keeping close eye on the Harbingers in this nation,” Neuvillette continues, “naturally, as is tantamount for national security. However, in our findings, Harbinger Tartaglia engaged in the usual vacationing activities of sort, and apart from perfectly legal interactions with his home country’s bank, did not engage in, or be an accomplice to, any illegal acts, as far as we are concerned.”
“Thirdly,” Neuvillette sighs, “We at the Palais Mermonia confirm that, according to a source which would like to be anonymous but that I have personally verified, that Harbinger Tartaglia was indeed not guilty, but rather, performing a public service for Fontaine by opening up a case and drawing the true culprit of the disappearances case to the scene.”
“Fourthly, the Oratrice’s reason for such a judgement is unknown— and we at the Palais Mermonia understand that this has undermined the trust in our judicial system, given that it seems even reasonable cases can be overturned by the Oratrice. Lady Furina and I are working together to look into the cause of the Oratrice’s… malfunction, and we promise that we will update the public on any new findings as immediately as possible.”
Neuvillette sighs. “Now, all of you, please find your way out.”
—
“Thank you so much, Neuvillette!” Furina half-sobs as he closes the office door with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”
This is, of course, the five hundred and sixty-fifth thousand, six hundred and thirty fifth time that Furina has said this over the course of the past five hundred years or so.
Neuvillette shakes his head. “No, indeed, you were right… that crowd truly was persistent. To dare threaten the sanctity of the Palais Mermonia…”
“Our prosecutor's work has been interrupted for over five hours,” Furina bemoans. “I’ve been trying to wake you up since! Whyever did you not wake up!”
“My apologies,” Neuvillette grimaces, sitting back onto his desk chair, and dipping a fountain pen into ink. “I was experiencing… difficulties awakening.”
Furina frowns, and shifts on the settee, to be closer to Neuvillette. “...Is it another nightmare again?”
“Unfortunately,” Neuvillette sighs. “Except it was… different… this time.”
Furina urges him to continue, her bratty facade melting away into one of genuine concern— something she rarely allows anyone to see, guarded as she is. Even as her companion of half a millenium, Neuvillette has only been allowed to see the barest glimpses of the true Furina beneath, the true being of ‘Focalors’, instead of the haughty, authoritative persona she puts on day by day.
It is only in times like these, of difficulty, that she deigns to remove the mask, just to comfort Neuvillette.
This is why Neuvillette has stuck by the Archon for the better part of five hundred years. Most would have left, no bothering to spend their long life stuck to an Archon with a superiority complex. But Neuvillette has seen that Furina genuinely, earnestly, wants to improve Fontaine, wants to perform her duties and serve the nation, but the demands of an Archon, what Fontaine expects of a god, weigh heavy on her, and so she has decided to cater the the people, just to keep her country together. Neuvillette wishes it wasn’t this way, but to change this status quo would be to change Furina herself, and as much as he tries, it is only Furina who can realise that her true power lies within herself, not what people thinks she should be.
It was, after all, Furina, who had haughtily sniffed and rebuked all the nobles, in that long time ago, when they had questioned Neuvillette’s new ruling and the soon-to-be-instated law, enshrining the rights of Melusines into the constitution. The humans, frightful of the new, emerging species, at the time, had demanded Furina to rescind the law. How could monsters be placed on the same level as humans?
But Furina had coughed, lifted her chin, and struck a glare into the nobles, questioning why they were so insistent on preventing a sentient species that had never expressed violence the access to basic rights.
That was the day, early, so very early, in Furina’s reign, that Neuvillette decided she was an Archon worth sticking by.
And so, trusting,
Neuvillette speaks.
Do you know about the legend of the Dragon Sovereigns?
Perhaps, as a new god, you would not know it, and I only found out, when I consulted a mysterious mage who gave me a prophecy.
Still, who am I meant to be? This, I do not know.
All I know is that when the children of Fontaine say to the skies:
Hydro Dragon, don’t cry!
I used to think that the Hydro Dragon should not cry, given that they are a powerful being, callous and cold.
But now, knowing the truth,
facing it has been troubling me.
—
The Melusine nurse— Sigewinne— is patient and careful, and on occasions she reveals a warmth and kind bedside manner. However, Childe can tell that she has cunning, that those needles can, too, hold poison. She makes no secret of that, and Childe can respect that. Besides—
“It’s not like I plan on pissing you off enough that you’re going to try and use those poisons on me,” Childe hums, slurping up Soup of Dubious Origin and Even More Dubious Ingredients. He’s not picky with food, and she clearly doesn’t have bad intentions yet. Upon tasting it, he agrees that it is, actually, despite its neon visage and strange chunks of somethings, quite delicious.
“Try?” Her eyebrow raises as she applies a poultice onto his arm. “You imply I won’t be successful.”
He passes a grin back. “I didn’t just get claws in the Abyss.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t reveal things you’re not ready to share, or you’ll get me excited over nothing!”
“You have to be a level ten friend to unlock my epic transformation,” he deadpans, feeling the cold sludge lather across his cuts. “You can claim immediate unlock when you spar with me.”
She snorts. “I’m pretty adept with the bow, Childe, but unfortunately for you, I have patients to treat, and I doubt His Grace would ever let you fight in the Pankration Ring, given your occupation.”
“Talking about ‘His Grace’,” Childe hums, inspecting the healing slashes on his arm, “has he asked you why exactly I took a week to recover from one magically-induced concussion?”
“The assumption is that Monsieur Neuvillette is simply that powerful,” she chuckles, removing the bandages on his ankles. “Worry not, you don’t need to worry about me telling anyone about your Abyssal ties if you don’t mention how I’ve been brewing cyanide recently.”
“I’m pretty sure he already knows,” Childe laughs. “Though I do have to thank you for hiding me under that mound of bandages when he came in to check. I don’t know how I could have hid the claws.”
Yes— Childe hasn’t been bedridden for the week that the Duke thinks he was. In fact, he could walk, really. The only thing is that whatever the Iudex did in the courtroom messed up his systems and the Abyss had engaged the emergency measures— namely, transforming him partially into Foul Legacy so that the Abyssal energies could heal him.
The cuts are actually, uh, self inflicted— his claws are sharp and the human parts of his body are squishy.
Thankfully, Sigewinne is kind enough not to mention the panic attack he went through upon seeing light of all things, the first time he woke up.
“Okay, I think these have scabbed over well,” Sigewinne murmurs, inspecting them, “So I can declare you a clean bill of health.”
Childe rubs at the nubs of remaining horn hiding in his hair— concealed by the ginger mess, but they are still there— and gives her a questioning look.
“As long as that’s the only augmentation that remains, I think I can let you out now,” she puts her hands on her hips, “You’ve been here too long! It’s time for you to get up and about!”
“Alright, alright,” he placates. “I’ll get out.”
He moves to walk, but she groans and takes his hand to drag him out. “Wait a moment, follow me first. You haven’t talked to His Grace yet, and a high-profile prisoner like you?”
“I told you I didn’t do anything,” Childe grumbles, “...anything provable, that is.”
“I don’t care about that,” she says, “that is for the courts to debate. For now, go and talk to him.”
She raps sharply on the wrought-iron door of the Warden’s office, and calls out for him.
Several sharp footsteps ring against the metal staircase, and the door swings open.
“Hello, ‘Your Grace’,” Childe says, putting on his best smile, “I’m finally not sick.”
“The Harbinger,” The Duke says flatly, “come in, will you?”
—
“Hey, did you see that newbie that got dragged in?” Poirier snickers as he throws down a card, Electro-charging the Raiden Shogun exclusive card that Leonid had been charging stacks to kill Poirier’s Oceanid for. Her meagre two health points are knocked out immediately, much to the frustration of Leonid.
“The guy in the stretcher?” Leonid raises his eyebrow.
“He’s a damn noble,” Alexis comments idly, watching their game while nursing a glass of juice. “Probably some rich papa’s boy who realised that his money can’t get him out of all troubles.”
Poirier scoffs. “Have you heard? He gets the private cell on the empty hallway— you know, the one no one gets! Clearly, the money is still helping him.”
“Well, we’ll show him that no one is above anyone else in Meropide,” Leonid declares, wiping out Poirer’s Oceanid with his Fatui Agent’s skill. “Guys like him— they want to prove themselves, want to show us that they’re the best. We meet him in the Pankration Ring— he won’t be able to resist.”
“Then we show him what,” Alexis nods vigorously.
“Then, we show him what.” Poirier smiles, pulling out another Electrocharged, and shocks the rest of Leonid’s cards dead.
—
“So. It says here that you… were tried not guilty.”
“Yes.”
“And yet you are… here?”
“Technically, Your Grace,” Childe says, sipping through the excellently brewed tea— screw Zhongli for supplanting in his brain a permanent site in which to store tea facts, and thus he knows that this quality is only matched by the expert tea brewers in the teahouses back in Liyue. “I was tried guilty as well.”
“Yes, it says here… guilty, and not guilty. How does that work?” The Duke groans, flipping the file up and down.
“You’ll have to ask your justice machine that,” Childe rolls his eyes. “I don’t know how it happened either. You know, if we were in Snezhnaya, it would be way easier—”
“The Oratrice deemed him guilty.” A familiar sonorous voice sounds from behind. “I did not.”
“The Oratrice… disagreed with you?” The Duke’s voice lilts up in surprise.
“Yes,” Iudex Neuvillette, the man who has rendered Childe stuck hiding in an infirmary unable to leave lest he reveal all his Abyssal features, the bastard, replies, closing the door behind him as quietly as possible. Unfortunately, the door is metal, and it clangs anyway as it hits the frame.
“Hullo, Chief Justice.” Childe mutters bitterly, crossing his arms. “Any updates on getting me out of here?”
“Unfortunately, according to Fontainian law,” the Iudex says, infuriatingly calmly, as he takes a seat, “those declared guilty by the Oratrice must face the sentence. Given that the charges allayed across the deceased Monsieur Vacher also applied to you, thanks to you and the Knave’s little stunt in the courtroom, when you were deemed guilty, Vacher’s sentence, as agreed in accordance with his crimes, which was to be detained in Meropide, also applied.”
“Not even a thank you for removing your country’s worst criminal,” Childe scoffs.
“You and your fellow Harbingers have the tendency to skip bureaucracy, which, given that Focalors and I have crafted and spent many nights drafting those laws for centuries, feels rather insulting.” He replies smoothly, bowing his head as the Duke hands him a cup of steaming water. “Ah, thank you, Wriotheseley, that hits the spot very well. Is this Mondstadian water?”
“Just for you,” the Duke returns a smile, which he has not afforded Childe in the whole time Childe has been in this office. “I know you like it. I have a whole stock back there, you know. You should come by more often.”
Childe uncrosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. “Can the two of you flirt some other time? I’m being accused of a major crime, here.”
“Have you not committed much major ones?” The Duke asks with an amused tint to his voice.
“You can’t prove anything,” Childe waves his hand.
“Flirting?” The Iudex intones.
“I don’t wanna know what goes on between the Warden and the Iudex,” Childe snaps, “just get me out of here. I clearly didn’t commit the crime, I was a toddler when Vacher started kidnapping women for his sick crimes.”
“There’s nothing between us,” Wriotheseley rolls his eyes.
“Not even friendship?” Childe raises his eyebrow again.
“Business relationship,” Wriotheseley amends.
“That’s what I said, and then I got a marriage proposal from a god,” Childe drawls. “But this isn’t about romance. Get back on track. Mister Chief Justice, when will I be able to leave?”
“Until we resolve exactly what malfunction the Oratrice has undergone, unfortunately, you remain here,” Neuvillette says, apologetic.
“The laws of the God of Justice seem pretty unfair,” Childe points out. “Can’t you make this an exception? I’m busy, you know. I have things to do, vacation time to spend…”
“Unfortunately,” the Iudex stresses, “unless we can prove that the Oratrice has malfunctioned, the law holds in place. After all— what if you do have some connection with the case?”
“I was a toddler!” Childe exclaims.
“You could have been involved as an adult,” Wriotheseley suggests, unhelpfully.
“Ah, yes,” Childe says, sarcasm dripping, “between fighting for the position of Harbinger in a bloody test of inheritance amongst dozens of hopefuls, fighting off assassins after being inducted as Harbinger just as I turned eighteen, fulfilling my duties to serve the Tsaritsa by putting down her rebellions, as very openly proven by the many newspaper articles of my duties, and working, full-time, in LIYUE, and not even Chengyu Vale, but the Harbour, allll the way down south… I assisted in kidnapping women. Somehow.”
“Well, if you can prove that your time in Liyue Harbour truly was occupied, it would greatly assist the case,” Neuvillette says.
“Sure,” Childe says, “if you can locate a Zhongli- xiansheng, in the Wangsheng Funeral Parlour, Liyue Harbour, I’m sure he has records of my engagement of his consultation services there.”
Neuvillette, to his credit, notes it down dutifully into a floating scroll, but Childe is far too irritated with his situation to give him too much credit.
“Very well, that is all, Monsieur Tartaglia. I will depart for now, but fear not, I will come when possible to check on your situation, and I will keep up correspondence with the Duke as well.”
Neuvillette turns, just as he approaches the door.
“Ah,” he says, looking apologetic, “due to the circumstances, you are not afforded visitors. You are a high-profile prisoner, after all, and we simply cannot have our laws being broken if you are broken out— when justice is shown to be weak, the social order can be disrupted.”
“Don’t worry, no one’ll come to break me out,” Childe grits his teeth. “Good day, Chief Justice.”
The door, even though gently closed, still makes a clang.
The Duke, surprisingly, is the one to break the silence.
“Look, as long as you don’t cause trouble,” he says, “I won’t attempt to keep you anywhere. No point, anyway— aren’t you a Harbinger?”
“I won’t cause trouble,” Childe promises, “because I’d really like to come out of this prison legally, which would be the fastest and simplest way to get back to my duties. And… my breakfast, lunch, and dinner, are all controlled by you, so why would I even attempt to get on your bad side?”
“That is actually the jurisdiction of Miss Sigewinne,” The Duke hums.
“Talking about her, she mentioned… fighting in a ring?” He grins. “I promise I won’t do any real damage, but if you want me to not buzz with energy that will eventually culminate in me doing something far more troublesome… would you mind letting me fight in there?”
“...Fine,” the Duke accedes. “But I will supervise all your matches.”
“Don’t you have more important, Duke-y things to do, ‘Your Grace’?” Childe grins.
“First of all… don’t call me that, just Wriotheseley is fine,” Wriotheseley says, “and secondly, that is why you are limited to fighting only every second Monday in the Pankration Ring. One hour only. Put it to good use.”
“Better than nothing, I suppose,” Childe shrugs. “Now, where’s the… jail cell I'm supposed to reside in?”
“You’re being put into the empty block— it’s easier for me to access and keep an eye on you, and easy for Sigewinne to attend to you just in case you have any side effects from whatever happened to you.”
“Fine with me,” Childe shrugs. “Privacy is an overrated concept when you have six other siblings.”
—
He’s shown to his room by a tacit guard, who grunts his way to the room.
The guard leaves after passing him the prison schedule, and here it is that Childe is allowed to be settled in.
There’s already a little note on the bedspread: in handwriting, almost like a childish scrawl.
I convinced His Grace to let you into the empty block! Just in case you have any flareups.
—Sigewinne
Well, he supposes even being the rare Melusine with opposable thumbs, it is rather difficult to hold a pen with fingers the size of a child’s.
Safe in the knowledge that bar him causing any audible trouble, the guard will not stay outside the room, rather, standing guard outside the block. There’ll be periods where he will do check-ins, but its all scheduled and regimented, and so Childe has some downtime to… let loose, so to speak.
This allows him to breathe in deeply, and tug on his ever-strengthening link with the Abyss.
“What was that?” He asks, lying on the not-hard, not-soft bed. “At the Opera Epiclese. You said… the Sovereign approaches. Who is that?”
The Sovereigns— the Original Gods of the upper world. Born from our depths, and ascended to be the rulers of your plane.
“Born from your depths? I would have sensed any Abyssal energy…” He frowns.
Not Abyssal— we are the incubator, but we are not their creator. Vishaps… longing to be the Sovereigns. Child, you must know the vishaps, right?
“Vishaps? You’re saying that… whoever they are, they were in the Opera Epiclese?” Childe raises his eyebrows. “I would have noticed a vishap!”
The Sovereign… fresh traces are upon you. Today— you met them again.
“I’ve only met Sigewinne, the Duke, and the Chief today,” Childe says. “You’re saying one of them is a Sovereign?”
“Only… the Iudex, was in the court.” Childe murmurs. “You’re saying Fontaine’s Chief Justice is some sort of ancient god?”
Before the Light Realm, and before the First Visitor, the Sovereigns ruled your realm. The First Visitor subdued many, but recently… one of their souls released themselves from Our realm, and that soul… is the soul of your ‘Chief Justice’.
“Knowing you, ‘recently’ could be anywhere from last year to five hundred years ago,” Childe groans. “Well, I suppose I have to thank you from saving me then, given that I was apparently up against some ancient god and I didn’t know! Again, I guess.”
He shifts in his sheets, and hums. “Well, now that that’s settled— onto something more important. I’m angry as anyone could be, given I’m trapped here, but… I had a dream. And I might have to thank Focalors’ justice machine for malfunctioning, if it’s true.”
He breathes in. “Is there an entrance to the Primordial Sea, here?”
Yes! The Sea, the Sea, is here… your duty calls, child…
“I guess the stars— or well, gears, aligned to bring me here,” Childe murmurs. “Even if I didn’t get Arlecchino’s intel, now at least I’m one step closer to… apparently saving this whole country. And fighting that whale.”
He leans back. “I wonder how it looks like— my dreams are always murky…”
It would be a grand battle, and there, on the mysterious plane the Whale was waiting for him, he would test his mettle against the creature that had been plaguing him ever since he fell into the deep dark.
Gone was his apprehension, gone were his worries, his fears, his apathy.
Now, all he could think of, was the great battle, the adrenaline that would rush between his fingers.
His soul was steeled for the upcoming days.
Now… to figure out how to escape this place.
—
“There goes the nobleman,” Poirier sneers, “do you think he’ll accept our little wager?”
“Look at him, he barely looks like he’s worked a day in his life!” Alexis shakes his head.
“They’re going to sweep him dead in the Ring,” Leonid says analytically.
They head over to the man anyways.
He reeks of privilege— his stature is lithe, and his wrists are thin, like those vain beauties up in the city. His hair is an unnatural shade of brown— almost like fire one time, and then like clay the next— clearly the effects of some popular hair dye bought only by the rich nobility. His skin is pale, as if he’s never seen a day in the sun, though some freckles dot his cheeks.
He’s not going to survive one bout in the Ring.
Good— because in the Fortress, there was no space for haughty nobleman to push them around. It was good for them to break the reality to the daddy’s boy, before he embarrassed himself.
Of course, this was the justification that the scheming trio had in their minds as they approached the new prisoner.
“Oh, hello, comrades,” the nobleman greets, an easy smile playing on his lips. The ruby earring— probably worth thousands of mora— swings from his ear as he turns his head. “What brings you to approach this newbie?”
Poirier smiles sweetly. “Well, since you’re new here, and you probably haven’t earned enough coupons to buy any amusements or fund your hobbies, we were thinking to introduce you to one of the ways we have fun in Meropide.”
“The Pankration Ring is a boxing ring that allows you to spar with other contestants— entertainment for all, and a way to prove yourself. Doesn’t that sound great? I’m sure you’re itching to show your skills,” Leonid offers.
“The Pankration Ring, huh. I’ve been meaning to ask where that is,” the noble grins, an almost sinister smile crawling up. “Lead the way, you three.”
No matter how much tries to ignore it, there’s a feeling of constant fear raising his hackles, and every time he lets his back turn, he feels unsettled.
Poirier walks on anyways.
—
Whoever the new guy is, he is certainly not just a pretty face.
“I’m not going to lie, this has been pretty great exercise,” the man— who only smiles enigmatically when asked his name, and offers a ‘call me whatever’— cackles, “At least now when the Duke asks me why I’m sparring outside the designated days, I can just say it was you guys.”
Poirier tries to get up, but feels his back creak, give way, and he collapses back down onto the ring’s floor. Alexis isn’t doing much better— he’s lying supine, and he has a bruise on his cheek from the time Alexis tried to sneak up on the man to get a hit, and instead got rolled over and bodyslammed into the ground. Leonid, seeing his friends immediately get bodied, had instead declared his surrender smartly, and so he is currently the only one that currently doesn’t have aching muscles.
“Need any help, comrade?” The man smiles, like the sun, Poirier thinks in the haze of pain. An angel from Celestia. His hand is outstretched, and Poirier realises their initial assessment of him being a pretty weak noble was absolutely wrong.
The gloves he wears have ridden up slightly as he drags Poirier up, and he feels callouses on them. In the fight, the jacket the man has been wearing has flapped open more than once, revealing a litany of scars ribbing them, deep and strong, made from beasts and warriors Poirier can only dream of in fright.
And this is the man that is now carrying both Poirier and Alexis down to the infirmary.
It is… rather embarrassing. He is a grown adult! He should be able to walk himself. Yet… he is being carried like a sack of rice by a man who looks two times thinner than him— while also carrying Alexis.
“You… win…” Poirier manages to weakly say, slumping against the man with no shame. There is no more shame to be had, after that embarrassing beatdown. Seriously, why did they think this was a smart idea! The fight barely lasted a minute.
“I don’t think that’s important now, comrade,” the man says kindly. “I don’t really care for prize money, so I told the guy to give it all to you guys.”
What? What saint from Celestia came down and bore upon the Fortress of Meropide?
Perhaps he said that out loud, because the man chuckles, and shifts them. “Not a saint, comrade. Far from it— though I hope it never comes to that. I wouldn’t want you guys to see that.”
“Ah, I suppose these are your victims?” The soft voice of Head Nurse Sigewinne murmurs, like rippling waves, through the air.
“They challenged me first,” the man laughs, heaving Poirier onto a medical cot before doing the same with Alexis. “So don’t go telling the Duke lies.”
“Well, let me take a look at them first.”
There’s a lot of prodding at bruises and asking about pain levels, both of which Poirier is barely lucid enough to answer to. She does the same for Alexis, who, despite having received far rougher treatment compared to Poirier,
“Alright, it seems that there’s not much major damage, but you two might want to take it easy for a while,” she hums. “I’ll add a poultice for the bruising and pills for the pain to your daily requirements.”
“Ah… but what about our work?” Alexis groans from the bed.
“You should have thought about that before challenging random people to fights,” Sigewinne says seriously. “And you three— yes, I am aware of Leonid— have enough coupons to live normally even if you don’t work for a while, so. Take. A. Rest. Got it?”
“Urghhh, fine, thank you, Miss Sigewinne,” Poirier groans.
“See you later, comrades,” the man says, chuckling, and he leaves the infirmary.
What kind of crazy son of a lizard would ever help bring his opponents to the infirmary?
—
Childe is alone, again, in his room.
He’s written a letter to Tonia, already, but it's heavily censored — he doesn’t want her to worry too much, after all.
Now, all he has for company is the Abyss.
Which— given how the Abyss is most times, is pretty okay. Except, now that he’s got nothing to do, the question that has been niggling at his mind ever since he reformed his connection arises once more.
“So, uh,” he tries, fiddling with his gloves, “is there a reason you’re not all evil and shit. Like, don’t get me wrong, I love how parental you are, but… from what I’ve heard about the Abyss… how can something so sentimental like you wage a war in Natlan?”
We are the Abyss, but we are only a small fragment of it.
“What do you mean?” He asks. “I mean, even if you’re not the whole Abyss, there’s no way your personalities could be so drastically different. I mean, you make me bloodthirsty and all, but that’s different from straight up sending creatures to invade Natlan.”
How different are we?
When you were young, we committed many transgressions against you.
Perhaps, when ‘Ajax’ fell into our arms, we were at our cruelest, the true heart of the Abyss.
We were not different. We were a fragment of a whole, but homogeneous mixtures, when separated, remain the same in property.
Perhaps it is when ‘Ajax’ carried love in his heart.
Amongst Our darkness, of the darkness underneath the beds of children, there was a darkness like the night sky, within Ajax. A darkness that comforted, a darkness that was beautiful and kind.
Not light. Never light. But it was nothing like our jagged dark.
We changed you, ‘Ajax’ child.
But you also changed us.
No matter how much We tried to warp you…
Your ideals also warped us.
So much so that when you brought a piece of us back with you,
That piece had already fermented into something different.
Not kinder yet.
But perhaps…
Closer to who We were before the Memories and Resentment corrupted us.
“Ajax, huh,” Childe smiles wryly, “Just another name in my arsenal. I feel no love, no hate for it, not anymore. But…”
“Ajax is who I wish to be when children see me.”
‘Ajax’ is who you are,
For how can you not be Ajax,
When you have been changing us so,
In the mere weeks you are in this land?
—
“Clearly, last week was a fluke! I was merely tired, after all. Today I am at my peak.” The man who challenged him sniffs, as he challenged Childe again.
Childe raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure about that?”
“Absolutely! No way some spoiled brat like you can beat me! I’ll have you know that I’ve been working tough jobs since childhood!”
The Duke, sitting in a shadowed corner of the Ring, nods as Childe asks for approval.
The crowd looks on— is the new challenger an upstart, or will he be the new ‘King’ of the ring?
—
So… perhaps the second round of challenging the man was a mistake.
Or the third.
Or the fourth.
“We should just give up,” Leonid groans, feeling his back. “It’s been weeks! I can’t keep skipping work!”
“Perhaps we should,” Poirier agrees reluctantly. “He is very strong. He’s no pansy for sure…”
“You figured that out only now?” Alexis bemoans. “You truly have the worst ideas…”
“Well, I suppose this man is worthy of some respect,” Poirier grumbles.
“Damn right! Now let’s get to the Production Zone— never thought I’d say it, but I’ll take that any day over the Pankration Ring!” Leonid says.
“He really is crazy strong…” Alexis shakes his head.
They approach the production zone.
“Speak of the devil,” Poirier says as they spot a familiar streak of ginger hair.
“Comrades!” The man says in his usual genial way, even as he slams a hammer down with enough force onto the gadget enough to hit it just once instead of the usual three times like the rest of the workers do. “I haven’t seen you in a while!”
“Whose fault is it?” Leonid grumbles, taking up a hammer. “I’ve not been able to work for weeks!”
“Apologies, comrade,” the man says, hooking the hammer back up to its storage. “Let me make it up to you!”
He shuffles through the pockets of his still-insufferably-expensive jacket, until he procures a wad of Credit Coupons— the currency of Meropide.
Alexis’ jaw falls wide open. “H-how have you managed to save up so much? You’ve only been here a couple weeks!”
“Ah, well,” the man grins bashfully, “other than Pankration, I mostly just work. Helps keep my mind off things.”
“Wait,” Poirier says carefully, “it’s seven-thirty in the morning right now. We wanted to get a headstart— but why are you already here?”
“Oh,” the man chuckles, “I’ve been here since five-thirty. I can’t sleep after that, you see, so I decided to put my hands to work. Have done so for the past few weeks.”
“Now,” he says, pouting, “hurry up and take the coupons! I have more of my own, but I don’t plan on using much.”
“You have more?” Leonid chokes out as Poirier stares at the already-hefty wad of Coupons.
This— this is not a pansy nobleman. This is a man who spends most of his time working hard. He has in fact, been working so hard, that he has made more Credit Coupons in the past few weeks than Leonid, Poirier and Alexis have all saved in a year.
“...Perhaps you aren’t a weakling after all,” Poirier begrudgingly admits.
“How do you work so long? Don’t you get tired?” Alexis wonders.
“Can you teach me how to fight like you?” Leonid gushes with stars in his eyes.
The man is covered in grease and motor oil.
Still, his smile is radiant as he guffaws, and takes the hammer to slam down once again. “Sure. If you can stand hanging around me, I think I can teach you a couple tricks.”
Strong, but also kind. Perhaps delusional-off-pain Poirier was right when he thought the man was a saint from Celestia.
Most people, newly entered into Meropide, are not this gracious.
—
“What you want to do, when you’re trying to gear up for an attack,” the man explains patiently, manoeuvring Alexis’ position, “is open your feet wide to give a strong support before someone knocks you over before you can even start.”
They’ve been at this for the past couple of weeks. True to his word, the man has trained all three of them to be better brawlers, and they all agree that somehow, though their muscles ache, it really is much better to do it to his method. They hit harder, stronger— the training allows them to work harder in the Production Zone, too, leading one of the guards to comment on how surprisingly efficient the trademarked lazy trio have been.
Well— they’re not really lazy anymore.
In Meropide, strength is seen as admirable, and he who is strongest deserves respect.
That is why, after the third week of training, Poirier cracks, and calls the man ‘Boss’ like the rest of his two other idiot friends.
“You don’t need to call me ‘Boss’,” the man had chuckled bashfully, the first time they did it.
“You said to call you ‘whatever’, Boss!” Alexis had replied playfully.
The name stuck. But Poirier really didn’t care that he was calling the man Boss, because he truly deserved it. He was a capable leader, given that he coordinated the trio so well that the first time they entered the Pankration Ring since their embarrassing beatdown, into the group brawls, they won. Previously, the trio were tight friends except in the arena, where their communication would break down and they would lose.
“Alright,” the man pats his legs, dusting his hands off, “that’s it for today. Now how about I treat you guys to some dinner?”
Ah, yes, dinners. Somehow, Boss, and his exuberant charisma, had managed to butter up infamously unmovable chef Wolsey to let him use the kitchen for a little while, on occasions. This was one such occasion, and as usual, Boss slid a wad of Credit Coupons to Wolsey before darting in to take four boxes of food.
“Here you go, seafood special on the house!” Boss laughs, sliding over boxes of mysterious red soup. “I couldn’t get fresh tomatoes down here, not without getting a glare from Wolsey, so I hope chili for the colouring is alright.”
It… is interesting, in its presentation, so to speak. The soup is an alarming red, which sort-of worries Poirier (and his tastebuds), and there are several tentacles of octopus in the soup, floating in watery throes of doom. There’s a couple shrimps in there, and fish meat, but the reigning star is, according to Boss, the octopus.
It looks dubiously violent, in a way only a dish can look, but Poirier’s eaten worse in Meropide, courtesy of Wolsey’s ‘bad luck meals’, where they would pull the bad luck bento for the day.
“Mmm! Boss! This is delicious!” Leonid manages through mouthfuls of soup. Alexis nods vigorously, and Poirier takes a sip.
The soup is…
“Wonderful,” Poirier mutters, as he ravenously scoops more into his mouth.
“I knew you guys would like it,” Boss crows happily. “Archons, am I so glad I can cook this for other people again! I used to have a friend, you know, he would take any other dish of my cooking, but he would never eat this… I never found out why, but it made me pretty sad.”
“Why would they ever turn down this glory of Celestia!” Leonid praises, as he shovels bites of fish into his mouth.
“Glory of Celestia…” Boss snorts— one of his ‘inside’ jokes, meaning, jokes that only he knew, referencing events only he had experienced.
Because despite his airs of open nature, how friendly and kind he was, by all accounts, Boss was an enigmatic man.
He was strong, naturally, but occasionally he would come from his cell with a grimace and bandages wrapped all around his fingers, even when he’d been doing nothing strenuous.
He was a capable fighter, but he never once offered the source of his knowledge, nor the stories behind the ropes of scars that criss-crossed his torso.
He never explained why he was in the Fortress in the first place.
But despite this all, the trio agreed he was a man they could trust, a man they respected, and so no matter what, he was their Boss.
After all, in Meropide, people don’t tend to ask about what got the other person in. Who knows, or wants to know, the crimes people committed? To get into Meropide is to commit a major crime— who wants to know that their friend used to be an axe murderer?
In Meropide, people gained a new life. Titles and jobs meant nothing, and the only thing to prove your worth was strength and usefulness to the community. Repentance allowed you more comforts, and in Meropide, even though it was prison, it had become a second home in which second chances were given, and people learned their mistakes, learned empathy, and felt guilt.
So they didn’t ask. They let Boss handle himself.
After all, he was strong, and he had certainly proven his worth as a fellow member of the makeshift community within Meropide.
—
It is some time in, when Boss reveals a little bit more about himself.
“You know,” Boss says casually, as they sit amongst the abandoned crates stuck in the abandoned pipes the trio-turned-quadrant now ‘hang out’ in frequently. “I’m not going to stay here for long.”
“You’re getting released?” Leonid asks.
“Not exactly,” Boss grinned, teeth like sharks. “Look, I love the Fortress, and I’ve grown to like you all, but I have things to do, outside of Meropide. I can’t stay here for long— something is calling me, and I have to go, you know.”
“There’s no way out of Meropide,” Alexis huffs. “Everyone’s tried everything. Even if you’re a vision holder who can swim in the waters, if the currents don’t get you at this depth, the Duke will.”
“And you’re not a vision holder,” Poirier adds, to which Boss hums.
“I can handle the waters just fine,” Boss says cryptically. “I’m not exactly a normal person. But I do need to get out of here first. As long as I can hit the waters, I can escape.”
“There isn’t any way out of the Fortress in the first place—” Alexis groans, to which he is cut off by Leonid.
“There is one way.”
“That way is dangerous!” Alexis protests. “No one has ever successfully done it.”
“Boss can handle himself!” Leonid says back.
“What is the way, first of all?” Boss asks, stretching back. “Let me assess it and see if it's within my capabilities.”
“You see these pipes?” Poirier says softly. “The water has to go out somewhere, right?”
“Into the sea…” Boss mutters.
“Exactly,” Poirier huffs. “But the only opening big enough to accommodate a human to exit the pipes… is on pipe-cleaning night, after curfew. The guards usually open the entrance so that they can maintain it. That is the only day you can leave.”
“But you have to dodge all the guards,” Leonid points out. “You have to be major sneaky— they’re not very observant, but there’s just enough guards to cover every blind spot.”
“Boss, don’t try…” Alexis says, “it isn’t worth it! What if they put you into a higher-security cell?”
“I can do it.” Boss cuts in.
“How? You’d have to be some sort of elite Snezhnayan soldier to get past all those guards,” Poirier points out.
The man chuckles again— another inside joke? “Trust me— I know much more about sneaking than you realise. I’ve done it before, I can do it again. But I think I’ll need your help to do his, if you are willing. I understand I’m encouraging you to do something… not recommended. I’d understand if you want to claim plausible deniability and leave.”
“No way! We’re sticking with you, Boss!” Alexis pipes up. “Until the end!”
“I can’t let someone who’s helped me rack up so many Coupons suffer alone,” Leonid says.
“We won’t judge,” Poirier sighs, “we’re all criminals here, after all.”
Boss’ mouth perks up.
“So this is how we’re going to do it…”
—
He can feel it— the Whale calls to him every single night, and he’s been waking up with more and more parts transformed into Foul Legacy. Patches of his skin are permanently purple, as the Abyss attempts to protect him against the mental attacks of the Whale. He wakes up one day to find his eyes have an extra membrane underneath the eyelid, like some sort of fucked up lizard.
The witching hour strikes— and Childe pads out of his cell.
The guards patrolling the hallways are easy enough to hide from— Childe, after all, was trained as a Fatui Agent before anything else, and the Abyss was his first battleground, so he knows stealth well. An old companion he rarely uses now— Teyvat is much more forgiving when it comes to survival, and Childe doesn’t need to use every sneaky trick in his arsenal to kill one beast. He prefers fighting head-on, testing his strength against another, now, but when he was younger, it was this: sneaking around, silently moving like shadow, that is familiar to him.
He meets his little trio of musketeers— ah, Childe is so proud of them! Their progress is astounding—in the pipes.
“Are you ready, Boss?” Leonid murmurs, as they hide in a corridor just before the pipes begin.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Childe says into his palm.
“The pipes are right ahead,” Alexis says grimly. “Please, Boss…”
“I have to go,” Childe shakes his head mournfully. “But you three— you have been great company. I’d thought I go crazy before I ever reached this stage. Take care of yourselves, yeah?”
“We survived the Fortress before you came, yeah?” Poirier smiles wryly. “Now… goodbye… Boss.”
“Are you sure?” Alexis asks, one more time.
Childe faces the trio that have accompanied him along the Fortress, and gives them one last smile.
Let their last memory of him be good.
“Something is calling me,” he looks onward, hearing the Whale’s call in his mind, resounding like waves. “I have to go…”
“Goodbye,” they greet, almost tearfully.
There is no meeting without passing, and no one speaks about what happens beneath the waves at Meropide.
This is the last time they will see Childe, except, perhaps, on the headline of a newspaper.
“Time to save Fontaine,” he murmurs to himself, and begins walking.
The path is winding, and filled with one lonely guard patrolling— thanks to the rumours his gang has planted, the guards are apprehensive, now.
He reaches the pipes’ end. The susurration of the sea echoes in his ears and rebounds in his heart.
He jumps into the waters.
The Whale soars in the back of his mind.
Come, come! Let us not be hungry, let us fight until one of us sates!
Childe swims into the Sea.