Heartlines

SUMMARY

Childe gets lost in the Chasm and makes an unlikely friend.

Written for Tartaglia TM: A +18 Transmasc Childe Zine.

NOTES

Thank you to Riya and mods for having me!

Check out everyone else's work in the AO3 collection here: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TartagliaTM

Download the free zine here: https://tartagliatm.carrd.co

There’s nothing like being underground—pitch black darkness, no sky to be seen—that knocks the wind out of you. The Chasm is exactly that: a rift, a yawning abyss bordering Liyue and Sumeru. Several Fatui cells had been stationed here under Signora, and now, under Tartaglia. If the Traveler hadn’t told him about those soldiers, he would not have even known about them at all.

Tartaglia hates it, every step of cleaning up after Signora’s mess, hates the cavern walls of the Chasm looming infinitely high over him. But he swallows it down, the fear of it all closing in on him, because if anything else, his soldiers had endured so much more. He can’t imagine being trapped down here, hearing nothing of their superior, no instructions at all. Lost, aimless, but still ever so obedient.

But he doesn’t know where to start. The Chasm, decidedly, is not just a rift. It is much bigger than he’d expected, a vast expanse of mining scaffolding, glowing mushrooms, ruins of abandoned temples. A lost civilization, almost.

Memories flash behind his eyes, unbidden. Darkness. Monsters. Temples housing nothing but eldritch beings. A child with his wooden sword, fear and determination in his eyes, and beside him, a young woman, stern and fierce. His chest tightens, and his binder does not ease the anxiety coiling around him like a snake, ready to strike with its venom.

As if bitten, Tartaglia falls to his knees and folds over double. He gasps for air, as if water were flooding his lungs, as if the Chasm’s viscous black goo were blocking his throat. It has been ten years since, but the memories still grip him like a vice, refusing to let go.

“This isn’t the Abyss,” he says to himself, breathless. “It’s the Chasm, not the Abyss. Not the Abyss.” He repeats the words like a mantra, words to ground himself in the present. All the while, his heart is pounding hard, his throat is closing in. He looks up, expecting to see the bright cerulean sky but sees nothing, only the stalactites from the dark expanse of the ceiling, and it does absolutely nothing to reassure him and his safety.

A Fatui Harbinger has entered the Chasm. Yelan had spotted him miles away, meandering around the entrance, as if indecisive about going in. She follows him, of course. It’s her job to follow suspicious people around, particularly if that suspicious person works for the Fatui, and is a Harbinger too, no less.

Now, inside, he moved with apparent purpose until he began to meander in circles near one of the abandoned temples. Yelan narrows her eyes. Is he trying to lose her? She’s sure she didn’t leave tracks, and she’s far enough that he can’t possibly know that he’s tailing her.

Or is he just… lost?

She stays still from behind a pillar of rock, studying him. He seems to have trouble breathing, doubling over and falling to his knees, elbows scraping the rocky ground. A distraction, she thinks, to lure her out. She’s seen this act before: a call for help, and the next thing you know, they have robbed you dry.

But what she hasn’t seen before is the panicked breathing, the fist over chest, and she realizes: this is real.

Yelan dashes over to the man, still wary, her hand at the quiver of arrows at her hip. She lays a hand on his shoulder, and he suddenly snaps upright, a pair of Hydro blades conjured in each hand.

“Nice try,” she murmurs, and in the blink of an eye, she summons her Hydro lifeline, wrapping him around her finger, literally.

The constricting thread triggers something feral in him, an incredible fear in his eyes, a terror beyond what should be warranted. A violet flash lights up his eyes, and before Yelan could react, Electro energy zaps her, breaking the lifeline thread tied around him. She chastises herself; she should have anticipated the Delusion.

“Stand down, Harbinger!” she yells, but her words find no purchase in the emptiness of his gaze. Yelan puts distance between them, dodging his erratic onslaught of attacks. At the back of her mind, she wonders why a Harbinger would merely flail around wildly during a fight. It’s hardly the most effective way to fight. Yet, she recognizes that terror, that haunted look. One she knows all too well.

Yelan pulls out her lifeline thread and once again ties it around to restrain him. It’s not the ideal way to handle a panicked person, but he has given her no choice. As a last resort, she throws her die, infusing her arrows with three Hydro blades, and shoots it, piercing the Harbinger square in his shoulder.

He falls back, and to her surprise, he stops fighting. Yelan remains cautious, of course; it could simply be a trap still, but the Harbinger has fallen to his knees once again, his Delusion now dormant. A brief struggle ensues beneath her restraints, and then she notices the distress—he can’t breathe. Slowly, she releases him from her hold, but he’s still hyperventilating, his eyes distant and unfocused.

This is a dangerous man, she thinks, but that doesn’t stop her from saying the words: “Look at me. Breathe.”

The Harbinger gazes up at her with mild shock on his face, as though seeing her for the first time. “How do I get out? I need to get out.” He mutters the words repeatedly with an increasing sense of urgency.

“It’s okay. I can get you out. But first, I’m going to need you to focus and breathe. Focus on me.”

Tartaglia studies her, this woman who came out of the shadows, attacking him. She kneels in front of her now, offering comforting words, and he’s not sure if he trusts it. She has been watching him from afar ever since he got in the Chasm’s vicinity—an adversary at best—yet he follows her word, focusing on her and slowing her breathing.

The arrow is still lodged in his shoulder, a persistent, dull pain radiating from the wound. The woman reaches, and he flinches back—a reflex. He’s not afraid that he’ll hurt her, no, but the wariness comes somewhere else still. Despite his apprehension, Tartaglia eases back and lets her do whatever she needs. She takes hold of the arrow’s shaft and snaps it in two, close to the wound.

“Your shirt is in the way,” she says, taking out a dagger from behind her back. The sight of the blade stills him. She brings it to his shirt, poised to cut, but he catches her wrist and stops her.

“Don’t,” he says, gritting his teeth. The last thing he needs is a stranger undressing him.

The woman’s eyes flit between him and his chest. Her eyebrows furrow a fraction, piecing the information together. He can almost see the gears turning in her head as the realization dawns on her, but she only gives an annoyed huff.

“Believe me, I know what it’s like,” she says, gesturing to herself. “But would you rather get an infection?” The woman doesn’t wait for an answer and starts cutting into the fabric. He freezes, watching her hands work, and finds relief flooding into him when she only cuts a hole around the wound. Not actually cutting his shirt loose. The thick strap of binder peeks through, but she makes no further comment on it. Thankfully.

“The arrow is in too deep,” she says. “I’ll have to push it through the other side. Bite down.” Without warning, the woman shoves the cut-off cloth into his mouth. She does as she’d said, pushing the arrowhead through the other side. A piercing pain sears through him, nothing he’s not already used to, but agonizing all the same. He bites down, the cloth muffling his scream.

Amid all this, she asks, “Now, what’s a Fatui Harbinger doing down here?”

He raises an eyebrow, as if to say, Really?, if only he wasn’t preoccupied with enduring the pain she’s giving him. It suddenly occurs to him that this may be an interrogation tactic. Too late for all that now. The arrowhead has passed through, finally, and Yelan’s hands are still on him, wrapping a bandage around his shoulder.

With the pain slowly ebbing away, Tartaglia finally gets a good look at her. Everything about her is sharp. Short dark hair frames her face in acute angles, black strands graded into a saturated blue. Her teal-colored irises, designed to pierce, are as whetted as her arrows. That wicked smile, as if she knows all your secrets even before you begin to utter them. And of course, that snowy fur-lined jacket she wears on her shoulders. Tartaglia recognizes her from classified documents he’d seen in passing—one detailing her thievery from Pantalone, of all people. Her name on file: Yelan [REDACTED]. Looking at the culprit now, he realizes the document’s description does her beauty no justice.

“Well? Are you going to answer my question?” she says.

Tartaglia considers lying, but his track record in deception is quite abysmal. On file, she has her own track record in various forms of interrogation, ones that he’s not really in the mood to be on the receiving end of. Well, not right now, anyway.

“I’m here to check on my subordinates.” Technically, not his; they were Signora’s. He hadn’t even known they were down here at all; nevertheless, he feels that gnawing guilt at leaving them behind.

“Ah,” is all she says, and nothing more.

“Will I find anything?”

“No.”

Tartaglia’s heart drops. He was too late, after all.

“I am sorry,” she offers.

“Did you know? That they were down there?”

Yelan does not say anything.

“Why… why didn’t you…” Tartaglia cannot bring himself to finish his sentence. The Fatui underlings’ fate is one all too familiar to him—discarded and forgotten, left to suffer alone. His fury simmers, aimed at Signora and the Electro Archon who felled her. In the end, he sighs in resignation. This is the norm. It is why he does his best to take care of his people, to train them to be strong, strong enough to survive and carry out the Tsaritsa’s cause. Unfortunately, not everyone shares his conviction. For the other Harbingers, their underlings are just that—expendable. Mere pawns in a dangerous game they created.

“I am sorry,” Yelan repeats, much softer this time. Her hand lies atop his, and she squeezes.

“I understand,” he says, squeezing her hand back. It’s not her responsibility. It’s not his responsibility, either, but still. He could’ve done something. He should’ve done something.

“Listen,” Yelan begins, “I’m sure they appreciate you coming here.”

He stays silent, his jaw clenched.

“I’ve seen countless things go on inside the Chasm, some… unexplainable phenomena, really, and if it offers you consolation, quite a lot of adventurers and miners suffered the same fate, too.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I know. I—”

“Have you lost anyone, Yelan?” The words spill out of him with a more accusatory tone than he’d intended, but she doesn’t take offense.

“It comes in my line of work,” she says, nodding. “It never gets easier to hear and see the death of others.”

“I could’ve…” Tartaglia starts, “If I’d arrived earlier, or if I knew somehow, I could’ve—”

“It’s not your fault,” Yelan interrupts, laying a hand on his shoulder. “What’s important is you came here for them. Sometimes, that’s the best you can do. In this case, it’s all you can do.”

He heaves a resigned sigh.

“I’m sure they’re grateful,” she says.

Silent punctuates her sentence, with nothing but the stillness of the Chasm enveloping them.

“…I can’t help but wonder,” Yelan starts, but trails off.

“What is it?”

She gestures to him vaguely. “Your little… thing.”

“What thing?”

Yelan flails her arms wildly. “Your panic attack.”

“My little panic attack?”

She shrugs. “Never seen that from a Harbinger before.”

“Never seen someone stay alive after stealing from a Harbinger before, Yelan,” he shoots back.

Her lips curve into a smile, head tilting back in amusement. “Ah, so you have heard of me. What an honor.” She wraps the fur-lined coat closer to herself, preening. “In my defense, it’s quite the beautiful coat. Isn’t it just?”

“Can’t say I disagree. You wear it well.”

Yelan’s eyebrow quirks up in expectation.

He chuckles. “Right. I’m Tartaglia, by the way. I’d shake your hand, but—” he gestures to his shoulder injury. “Hold on, have you not heard of me?”

“On the contrary,” she leans back, crossing her arms, still the easy smile on her face. “How can I not have heard of you? Young, dashing man who sought to destroy Liyue. Summoned an ancient god, and all that.” She barks out a laugh. “I admire the chutzpah.”

“I am… honored?” he says, grinning at the memory. “Not my best work, I’ll admit.”

Yelan leans closer. “And is this part of your work?”

The shift in her tone catches Tartaglia off guard. She’s good.

“It’s not,” he says. “Not official orders, anyway. Still, they are—were—my people.”

“Interesting,” she says, humming an affirmation. “And is ‘Tartaglia’ your real name, or is that your Harbinger title? I can never tell with you people.”

He studies her, mentally choosing which details are safe to disclose. She is still the Fatui’s enemy, after all. “Nice try, Yelan. But that information is strictly confidential.”

“Oh?” Yelan leans closer, her eyes narrowing in intrigue. “Is that a challenge?”

Tartaglia smiles. “A challenge, yes. Perhaps an invitation to a rematch, even. You caught me off-guard, after all.”

She laughs, tapping a playful finger on the tip of his nose. “Cheeky. At least buy me dinner first before calling for a rematch.” The low timber of her voice sends a lingering thrill down his spine. Whether it’s the residual adrenaline from the battle or something else, he finds himself surprisingly receptive to her advances. The allure of her curled, inviting lips only adds to his apparent lack of inhibitions.

Despite himself, Tartaglia laughs, wincing from the pain in his shoulder. “You don’t waste time, do you?” he says, standing up. “As much as I’d like to right now, I still need to find my associates… or at least anything they left behind. For their families.”

Yelan follows, standing up. “Shall I accompany you, then?”

“Even if I say no, you’ll still be lurking around, anyway.”

“Guilty as charged,” she says, holding her hands up in mock surrender.

“I get it. Fatui,” he shrugs, gesturing to himself.

“To be fair, you might get another little panic attack. I should definitely stay close.”

“How thoughtful of you,” he says, his eyes shifting away as a faint smile plays on his lips. “But you’re not getting any more information out of me that easily.”

Yelan sidles up to him, playfully bumping his shoulder. “No? Not even your real name, O Mysterious Harbinger?”

Tartaglia hums thoughtfully. “How about this? If you win the rematch, I’ll tell you what you want to know. Nothing work-related, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And if I win, I get to take that coat back to Her Majesty.”

“Ha! I’d like to see you try,” Yelan laughs, incredulous.

They continue onwards, with Yelan leading him to where Tartaglia’s subordinates were last found, in a small niche cavern next to an abandoned temple. He gathers their belongings—various journals, satchels, and little trinkets and accessories. His chest twinges with a guilty ache at the sight of an old wrinkled family photo, faces unknown to him but precious to someone else. With great care, he gathers it all in a leather pack he brought.

With Yelan at his side, traversing the Chasm feels easier, safer. Even with her constant needling for information, Yelan’s presence eases Tartaglia’s anxiety of being underground. He doesn’t know when he’d started holding her hand, or when she’d gotten so close to him—perhaps another ploy to extract information out of him—but at this point, the reason matters less and less. Not a single panic attack occurs when he’s with her in this gods-forsaken place, and that’s good enough for him.

The only time his heart rate spikes again is when they finally emerge back into the surface. Cool evening breeze hits his face, and Tartaglia’s never been happier to see the sky.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Yelan says, playfully tilting up his chin with a finger. “You owe me dinner, remember?”

“Of course,” says Tartaglia, suddenly breathless. She’s only taller than him by an inch, but her presence is truly commanding that he finds himself rooted in place.

Yelan steps closer, the finger on his chin tracing up to his jaw, and he can feel her hand cradling his face. Tartaglia closes his eyes in anticipation, her warm breath on his lips, their foreheads almost touching. He waits for it, his heart pounding in his chest.

“And I,” she whispers. Tartaglia opens his eyes and sees her sharp teal eyes staring back at him. “I owe you a rematch, don’t I?”

He nods. As he inches closer, Yelan moves back in equal distance—so close yet so far—and she smiles before finally, finally, her lips are on his. Her cool lips shock him, sending a chill down his spine, but it only makes him want more. Tartaglia bites at her lower lip, and when Yelan squeezes his shoulder, that’s when he knows he has her. And so, he pulls away from the kiss, grinning when Yelan chases his lips for half a second before she realizes what she’s doing.

“Good,” says Tartaglia. “Let’s settle our debts, then.”

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