As The Sun Gazes Upon The Moon [Zhongchili]

Chapter 12 - Child of Winter

Childe is summoned to the throne room.

He dresses in his ceremonial uniform; over a solid black waistcoat he wears a coat a white as snow, black fur lining the neck. The coat is decorated with adornments of silver and a single, red crystal hangs from the right lapel, matching the one Childe wears on his left ear.

Zhongli watches from the shadows of the upper balcony as Childe kneels before his Archon. The Tsaritsa stands to greet him. Head lowered, Childe doesn't raise his eyes to meet her gaze, silent and still, although his throat bobs and his fingers twitch as he waits to be addressed.

"My child." The Tsaritsa steps forward, the hem of her gown brushing the toe of his boot. "You understand why I have called you here, I trust?"

Childe licks his lips. "I apologise for the inconvenience I've caused, Your Majesty."

Quiet and subservient, this is hardly the Childe that Zhongli knows, but it is natural for a weapon to follow the will of its master, to feel most comfortable with its hilt in a warm palm and set upon those who would threaten its wielder. But how shall the weapon react to being discarded and cast aside, deemed too broken to be considered safe for use?

However Childe takes this news, Zhongli will be there to pick up what remains.

"I do not doubt your apology to be sincere, Tartaglia, yet there are times one must consider the risks of wielding that which threatens to turn upon them, and if the necessary accommodations to do so can continue to be spared."

Childe says nothing, and there is a light squeak of leather against marble as he adjusts his footing.

"This is not a dishonourable dismissal," continues the Tsaritsa. "Your name is neither tarnished, nor thought poorly of in this home, yet I have come to accept that there is precious little that shall change should we continue as we have been. What say you?"

Zhongli waits for the explosion, the pleading, the anger, a dagger aimed at the Tsaritsa's face. Instead, Childe seems to shrink to a quarter of his usual size.

"So it's a dismissal, as I suspected," he says evenly. "Then tell me: if my role is to be forfeit, is my name also?"

"Dear Tartaglia, this is no dismissal." The Tsaritsa crouches and places a slender finger under Childe's chin. "Look at me, my child, you need not lower your eyes to me today."

When Childe looks up, Zhongli could break.

Those eyes, usually so full of life—be it passion, anger, excitement—hold nothing. Expressionless, blank, a man who floats adrift.

"This is a suspension of duty, child. When the time is right, there shall be a place awaiting you here."

"And now?" Childe lowers his eyes, his voice uncharacteristically small.

"That is no longer up to me. There is another to whom I have bestowed that which has long been held in my trust. I assume you understand what—and who—I mean?" She looks to where Zhongli watches on and Childe follows her gaze.

Childe nods slowly. "I do."

Zhongli had expected to see some relief, some joy as Childe is told that he has not been forsaken, or anger at being displaced from his position, some bite as he beseeches the Tsaritsa to reconsider, but Childe is a ghost behind his own features, unreadable and distant. Zhongli had been half ready to pull Childe from the room, crackling with electro energy or drowning them both in hydro, but he would prefer that to this quiet, dead, acceptance.

"Then may I take my leave?" Childe asks with that same, lifeless tone.

The Tsaritsa sighs and removes her hand from Childe's chin to straighten a badge on his inner jacket, adjusting it as a mother might her child's clothing on their first day of school. "Yes, my child. But there is no hurry for you to leave this place, for it shall remain your home no matter how far you travel from its walls. Speak to him, make your arrangements, for they are no longer mine to determine."