you and Childe being old friends, with a favorite childhood song. it's an old Snezhnayan lullaby, something simple but sweet and slightly melancholy, and it makes both of you think of home when you hear it.
Childe, or Ajax, as you know him, went on to become a Harbinger, but you preferred to stay in Snezhnaya, wishing him the best of luck and saying you'll write to him, wherever he is. and write you do, letter after letter; some long, some short, some with photos. you try to keep topics away from sadness and strife, because you know how much stress he has to deal with already. and Ajax responds, his familiar handwriting penned across sheets of paper, all signed "Ajax" and not "Tartaglia".
but recently he's been silent. you write your letters, but receive no response, no indicator that he's alright and alive. and you worry, the feeling sinking deep into your bones. you want to go looking for him, but who has the funds to go from your little town all the way to Liyue, his last place of operation? not you, and you do nothing but sit and worry and hum absentmindedly, that faint memory of a song that you both loved so much.
until a letter finally arrives for you in the mail. it's from the Harbor, on elegant paper and smelling of some unfamiliar flower, but it's penned by a different hand and signed by someone called "Zhongli, Funeral Parlor Attendant".
your blood runs cold. Ajax... couldn't have... no, you refuse to think about it. the letter urges you to come to the Harbor right away, as it's been shipped with a reasonable sum of money, and no one ignores a letter from Liyue.
Zhongli taps his foot, frowning thoughtfully. Childe certainly kept the knowledge of your existence under wraps, which was fair given his position- it was only when he had broken through the speechless Abyssal monster he currently was in his sleep to whisper your name, that Zhongli had gotten a clue. you must be able to help if you're that important- or at least improve Childe's condition so he's not cowering in the corner of the room and screeching in fear.
it's peculiar, Zhongli muses, how Childe only brightened once, when the Attendant's hand had brushed over an antique Zither he had purchased. it was only one note, but still Childe had lifted and tilted his horned head, listening for more with his one eye shining. and when nothing more came, he'd let out a mournful whine, full of longing and pain, like he was expecting someone else to be there.
