Deer Anon

He leaned in just slightly — not close enough to cross any lines, but just enough for his voice to drop a little, teasing and warm.

“I probably should get going,” he said, his fingers brushing briefly against her temple before dropping. “If I hang around too long, Capitano might scold me for slacking off. Or worse, Misha might actually try to kill me.”

Y/N opened her mouth to say something — she wasn’t sure what — but nothing quite made it out. Her brain was still catching up.

Childe smiled.

He didn’t push the moment. Just watched her reaction with that same unreadable glint in his eyes, clearly amused. Clearly entertained.

learly thinking how cute she was.

Then he turned, grabbing his coat from where it hung over the chair. He slung it over his shoulder with one smooth motion and shot her one last grin over it.

“See you around, solnishko.”

And just like that, he slipped out the door — leaving Y/N still sitting on the couch, heart beating just a little faster than it had a moment ago.

The days that followed passed in a strange rhythm — a blend of tense investigation and unexpected calm.

Capitano, Misha, and Varka buried themselves in work, the three of them constantly moving between maps, reports, and fragmented leyline data retrieved from the ravine. Whatever had happened out there, it wasn’t just a failed ritual. Something larger was at play — something calculated. And the signs were becoming harder to ignore.

Misha spent long hours reviewing recordings from the device he'd recovered, rarely speaking unless it was to point out anomalies or press for more answers. His presence grew quieter, heavier — like a storm held just beneath the surface.

Varka kept things grounded, half strategist, half mediator. He often dragged the other two into the war room before they could spiral too deep into their own obsessions.

Meanwhile, Childe… took a very different approach to his time.

Somehow, between brief meetings and occasional “assignments,” he managed to linger around Y/N more than anyone expected — including her.

He didn’t push anything, didn’t cross any lines, but he was present. A quiet cup of tea in the early afternoon. Sparring matches that turned more playful than serious. Small talk that led into deeper conversations when the sun dipped low.

There was an ease to it — to him — that made her lower her guard, even when she knew she probably shouldn’t.

And he seemed to enjoy her reactions far too much.

By the end of the third day, they’d settled into a rhythm of their own, one that neither fully acknowledged, but neither stepped away from either.

The nightmare clung to him like smoke.

In the background, the tension kept building — like something waiting to break.

_______________________________________

Childe shot awake, chest heaving, a thin layer of sweat chilling against his skin despite the cold air of the outpost. His sheets were tangled around his legs like vines, and his hands were trembling — slow, rhythmic, like the aftershocks of a distant quake.

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, letting his breath steady.

Just a dream.

Except it never felt like just a dream. Not when it always pulled him back into the Abyss. Back into that twisted, howling dark.

With a quiet sigh, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and scrubbed a hand down his face. There was no point trying to sleep again. He knew how this went.

Minutes later, he was sliding his coat on and lacing up his boots. Moving silently, out of habit more than necessity, he eased the door open and stepped into the frozen silence outside.

Snow stretched out endlessly, silver and blue under the moonlight. The cold bit at his cheeks immediately, but it was welcome — sharp and real and far away from the choking warmth of that dream.

He walked with no real direction, hands shoved in his pockets, boots crunching through the snow. A familiar weight sat on his shoulders — not his weapon, but something heavier. Lonelier.

Then he saw movement.

He stopped.

Across the clearing, a figure was tiptoeing out of the side hall, carefully easing the door shut behind her like a guilty thief.

Childe tilted his head.

Even bundled in a cloak, he recognized the silhouette. The awkward way she adjusted her scarf. The determined little scowl as she tried not to trip over a snowdrift.

Y/N.

His first instinct was to call out — but then he noticed how seriously she was taking this mission of stealth. And it was… honestly too cute.

So he went quiet.

He followed her carefully, years of Fatui training finally being used for the noble cause of mischief.

She didn’t hear him. Not when she paused to glare at the snow like it personally offended her. Not when she muttered something under her breath about “stupid frozen forests” and “why is everything wet and crunchy?!”

He crept up behind her like a ghost. Close now.

Then—

He grabbed her gently and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Don’t scream,” he whispered, lips right by her ear. “It’s just me.”

Y/N screamed anyway — muffled into his hand — before instinctively elbowing him right in the ribs.

“Ow! Okay—ow, I guess i deserved that,” Childe laughed, backing off and raising both hands in surrender. “Guess you’re not as defenseless as you look.”

Y/N spun around, wide-eyed and flushed. “Are you insane?! You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“You’re the one sneaking around like a suspicious little snow thief,” he teased. “What was I supposed to think? That you were out here stealing pinecones?”

“I wasn’t sneaking!” she snapped, still trying to catch her breath. “I was… quietly stepping.”

Childe arched an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “You were sneaking. I watched the whole thing.”

She rolled her eyes and pulled her scarf up over her mouth, probably to hide how red her face was. “I couldn’t sleep. Too much on my mind.”

“Fair,” he said simply.

She narrowed her eyes. “And what about you? Why are you sneaking around at—” she checked the moonlight, “—whatever-ungodly-hour this is?”

“I couldn’t sleep either,” he said, and left it at that.

Something in his voice made her expression soften.

He quickly changed the subject. “So… what’s the plan then, oh stealthy one? Running away from the outpost? Joining a rogue band of snow hares?”

“I just wanted fresh air,” she muttered. “Not that there’s anything fresh out here. Just cold. And wind. And stupid snow.

Y/N huffed, tugging her cloak tighter. “Everywhere I look, it’s just snow, snow, more snow… frozen trees… and—oh, look! More snow. The north is just a scam.”

Childe chuckled, that warm, low sound that always seemed too comfortable for how cold the night was. “There’s more than just stupid snow,” he said with a glint in his eye.

“Oh yeah?” she muttered, eyes narrowed. “Show me, expert of the great frozen wilderness.”

He raised a brow at her theatrics but didn’t argue. Instead, he held out a gloved hand toward her. “Come on.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Trust me,” he said with a slight smile. “I know how to sneak past the guards.”

She hesitated for a second, then slid her hand into his. His fingers closed around hers in a warm, firm grip, and without another word, he turned and led her through the snow, guiding her down the slope behind the outpost wall.

True to his word, they moved unseen, his steps so light they barely left prints. Y/N did her best to copy him, muffling her laughter when he had to catch her after a near slip on a patch of ice.

“You are terrible at sneaking,” he whispered, grinning.

“I didn’t come up here expecting to be trained by a rogue gremlin in the snow,” she whispered back, half laughing.

They reached a low ridge that curled upward into a hill, overlooking the valley below. From there, the world stretched open — wide, vast, and quiet. The stars seemed closer up here.

Y/N was about to speak when Childe gently tugged her to a stop.

“Look,” he murmured, his voice softer now, reverent.

She followed his gaze—and her breath caught.

Above them, ribbons of emerald, violet, and soft gold unfurled across the sky. The aurora shimmered like silk suspended in the stars, trailing across the heavens with lazy, glowing grace.

Y/N’s mouth fell slightly open. “Oh…”

He didn’t say anything. Just watched her face instead.

The awe in her expression. The light dancing in her eyes. The way she forgot the cold for a moment as she took a slow, amazed step forward, like the sky itself might vanish if she blinked.

She looked enchanted.

Childe swallowed.

There was something achingly innocent about it — how wonder softened her whole expression, like she hadn’t been weighed down yet by the same darkness he carried.

He’d seen the northern lights a dozen times. But suddenly, they looked different. Better.

“I’ve never seen them before,” she said softly. “They’re… it doesn’t even look real.”

“They’re not always this clear,” he said, stepping beside her. “You got lucky tonight.”

She shivered slightly, pulling her arms tighter around herself as the cold wind picked up again.

Without a word, Childe stepped closer behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, drawing her into his warmth. She stiffened for a second — then eased into the contact, leaning back slightly against him.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured by her ear.

“Well, it is cold,” she muttered, voice muffled. “Also you dragged me out here in the middle of the night, might I remind you.”

He chuckled, breath warm against her temple. “You followed me, remember?”

she smiled, but didn’t move.

They stood like that for a long moment, quiet in the snow, wrapped in each other’s warmth, while the aurora danced above them like a secret meant just for two.

And for once, neither of them felt quite so alone.

The sun had just begun its slow crawl across the horizon, casting a pale gold hue over the icy ridges and scattered trees. The morning was still and quiet — except for the soft crunch of snow beneath Childe’s and Y/N’s boots as they made their way down the hill, distant from the outpost but not quite lost in the wilderness.

Y/N rubbed her gloved hands together for warmth, cheeks still pink from the cold and the lingering memory of being wrapped in Childe’s arms just moments ago. The aurora shimmered faintly behind them, fading as the dawn took hold.

They hadn’t gone far when a familiar, towering presence stepped into view on the trail ahead.

Capitano.

Two Fatui soldiers flanked him, fully geared and silent, carrying field packs and lanterns that flickered against the trees.

Childe didn’t falter. He lifted a hand in greeting with that same relaxed confidence he wore like a second coat.

“Morning, captain,” he said smoothly. “Didn’t expect company this far from base.”

Capitano’s head turned slightly, acknowledging them with that heavy silence of his. “Nor did I.”

As he approached, his gaze fell briefly on Y/N. Not openly — just a glance — but a knowing one. The strange glow of her eyes hadn’t escaped him. Faint, but unmistakable. The kind of eyes seen in those whose blood once belonged to Khaenri’ah.

He said nothing of it. Yet.

“What brings you both so far from the outpost before sunrise?” he asked flatly, voice echoing just slightly in the open cold.

Childe gestured behind them casually. “We couldn’t sleep. Decided to make the most of it. Watched the aurora.”

Capitano looked at Childe, then let his gaze return to Y/N. His mask revealed nothing, but he was clearly observing her — studying not just her posture, but the way she responded to him. The way she kept just behind Childe, not entirely at ease.

Childe raised a brow lightly, then countered, “And you? Out before dawn with armed escort. I’d say that’s a bit early even for you.”

“We’re scouting the ravine,” Capitano replied. “There’ve been faint residual signs of leyline disturbance. The same place the Herald attempted his ritual.”

At that, Y/N subtly perked up — her head tilted slightly, brows furrowed in faint confusion. No one had told her there were still echoes lingering at the ravine.

Capitano noticed.

He held her gaze a moment longer, then said, as if responding to a question she hadn’t asked aloud, “The destruction was extensive. More than anything the Herald left behind. The Wraith — your… guardian — obliterated most traces in the aftermath.”

Y/N blinked. “I didn’t know,” she said softly.

“The Herald knew,” Capitano continued. “About the what happened with your family. He used that knowledge to strike at the Wraith’s defenses. Mentally, not just physically.”

Y/N’s breath caught, something clicking into place.

That’s why Misha had been so withdrawn lately. Why he’d avoided certain conversations. The weight in his eyes, the distant edge to his voice.

“He blames himself,” she murmured, almost to herself. “What happened… it’s still a wound for him. A deep one.”

Capitano inclined his head slightly. “It’s not a wound that will close easily. Not when it was torn open by someone who knew where to aim.”

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the slow rise of the sun behind the trees and the distant groan of cold-bent pines.

Childe glanced at Y/N, the mood shifted now, quieter. Deeper.

Capitano turned again toward his men. “We won’t linger. If anything stirs again in that ravine, we need to be ready before it does.”

Without another word, he and the soldiers continued down the trail, disappearing between the trees.

Y/N stood still a moment longer, snow crunching softly beneath her boots. Her hands trembled slightly, though not from the cold this time.

Childe looked at her sideways.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded, slowly. “I just… I didn’t know how much it still haunted him.”

“You do now.”

Another pause, before Childe added quietly, “He’s not the only one carrying ghosts.”

They began walking again — slower now, thoughtful — the outpost still some distance ahead, framed by the first rays of a new day.

By the time Y/N and Childe returned to the outpost, the snow had begun to glisten under the growing light of morning. The cold bit a little less harshly now, though it did little to ease the heaviness in Y/N’s chest.

As they approached, Varka stood near the gates, issuing commands to a few knights preparing for an early patrol. He spotted them immediately. A knowing smirk pulled at his lips — amused, expectant, like he was ready to tease them for returning together at such an hour.

“Well, well,” he drawled with a grin. “Out enjoying the dawn, were you?”

Childe returned the smirk. “Northern lights,” he said casually. “Didn’t want her to miss the show.”

Varka chuckled, but when his eyes flicked to Y/N, his expression shifted. He saw it right away — the way her shoulders were slightly hunched, the distant look in her eyes. Something was bothering her. Deeply.

His tone gentled. “What’s wrong, lass?”

Y/N hesitated for a moment, as if weighing the question. Then she asked softly, “Did you know Misha is still… that affected by what happened to them? To our family?”

Varka’s smile faded.

He looked at her, really looked, then let out a long, quiet sigh.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s talk inside.”

Inside the outpost, they sat around one of the long wooden tables near the hearth. The warmth from the flames slowly chased the chill from their skin. Varka returned from the kitchen with three steaming mugs and set them down.

“Hot chocolate,” he said, half a smile returning. “Always helps when the heart’s heavy.”

Y/N took the mug with both hands, her fingers curling tightly around it. She didn’t speak. Childe stayed beside her, unusually quiet.

Varka settled in, his gaze fixed on the fire as he spoke.

“You asked if I knew,” he said, voice low. “About Misha.”

A beat passed.

“I was there,” he continued. “Not at the final moment. But afterward. I saw what was left.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around her mug.

“He wasn’t always like this,” Varka went on. “Misha was fierce, yes. But steady. Disciplined. The kind of warrior who carried the weight of the world like it was nothing. He bore it all without complaint, because he thought he had to. Thought that’s what it meant to protect.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table.

“When the Abyss started to move, he was the first to notice. Tracked the leylines, studied the patterns, warned us. He worked himself half to death trying to prepare. Never let himself rest.”

Varka’s voice dropped.

“But we saw it. Saw how thin he was stretched. Eventually, we convinced him — just once — to step back. To let us take a mission without him. He hesitantly agreed, and he stayed back to watch over you.”

Y/N looked up at that, her brows drawing together.

“You were so small then. Couldn’t have been more than three. But you clung to him like he was your entire world.”

Varka stared into the fire, eyes distant.

“And then it happened. The Abyss descended on them. Fast. Brutal. Precise. When Misha arrived at the scene… it was too late.”

He paused. And when he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“I’ve never seen him like that before. Or since.”

Y/N felt her breath catch.

“He didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Just dropped to his knees in the snow,” Varka said. “Right in the middle of what was left of your family. His cloak soaked in blood that wasn’t his. And he just— he didn’t move. For hours.”

Y/N’s eyes stung, her chest tight.

“He buried them himself,” Varka continued. “One by one. Refused help. Didn’t say a word for three days. And when he finally did…”

He trailed off, looking over at her.

“He swore an oath. Said if the gods wouldn’t protect what was left of his blood, then he’d do it himself. Even if it meant going against Celestia itself.”

The room was utterly still.

“That’s why he is the way he is,” Varka said gently. “Why he keeps you away from the front lines. Why he watches your every move. Because you’re all that’s left. And he lives with the weight of not being there when the rest were taken.”

Y/N felt something break loose in her chest. A quiet, aching kind of grief that had been buried under years of not asking.

“I thought he just didn’t trust me enough,” she whispered.

Varka shook his head slowly. “No, girl. It’s not that. He doesn’t trust the world to keep you safe. And maybe he’s wrong to try and shield you from it completely. But it comes from a place of pain, not doubt.”

Childe hadn’t spoken through the entire explanation, but even he looked more solemn now, his easy charm set aside.

Varka reached across the table and gently placed a hand over Y/N’s.

“He’s not good at saying things, that one. But he loves you more than he knows how to show.”

Y/N looked down at her hands, her voice quiet.

“…he shouldn't carry this on his own.”

Varka smiled faintly. “That might be a true but you know how stubborn he is.”

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, filling the silence between them with a low warmth. Y/N stared into her mug, thoughts spinning, heart heavier than before. For a long moment, no one said anything.

Then, softly, she asked, “Where is he?”

Varka’s smile faded again. He leaned back, running a hand through his beard with a slow sigh.

“He left a few hours ago,” he said. “Didn’t tell anyone where exactly, but I’ve got a good guess, probably retracing the trail alone.”

Y/N looked up, brows drawn. “By himself?”

Varka nodded. “Aye. He’s working harder than ever now. I think… I think he feels guilty. For destroying the evidence. For losing his temper, for letting the Herald get under his skin. He hasn’t said it, but I can see it in him.”

He looked toward the window, where the sun was just barely touching the snowy peaks with a soft golden light.

“But he’s not focused right now. Not fully. He’s going through the motions, but his head’s elsewhere. His heart’s still back there… with them.”

Before either of them could respond, a knight appeared at the doorway, calling for Varka. Something about a supply delay and frost wolves near the southern ridge.

Varka grunted, stood, and gave Y/N’s shoulder a squeeze. “You’ll know what to do when the time’s right,” he said gently. Then he nodded to Childe and left.

The silence that followed felt heavier than before.

Y/N didn’t look up. She kept her gaze down, fingers laced tightly around the half-empty mug, jaw clenched. Her thoughts were loud. Too loud.

Then she felt a gentle pressure — Childe’s arm around her shoulders, steady and warm. He didn’t speak right away. Just pulled her into him slowly, carefully, as if she might break.

“I get it,” he said after a moment. His voice was quieter than usual. Steady, but softer than she’d heard before. “The way he acts. I understand.”

She looked up at him, surprised.

“I’d do anything to protect my siblings,” Childe went on. “I’ve seen things… been places… that I never want them to even hear about. Let alone face.” He gave a faint, dry chuckle. “They think I sell toys, you know that? All of them. That’s the story I told them. Their big brother, the smiling merchant who travels all over awesome places and brings back plushies and candy.”

Y/N blinked, heart tugging at the truth behind his words.

“They don’t know about the Fatui,” he said. “Or the Abyss. Or what I had to survive in it. I want to keep it that way. I want them to stay in that little, safe world as long as possible.”

There was a tired look in his eyes now — the kind that only came from long-standing pain buried under too many layers of smiles.

Y/N looked down again, voice quiet. “But I’m not a child anymore. Misha doesn’t have to carry all of this alone. I can help. I want to.”

Childe nodded, resting his chin lightly against the side of her head. “I know. But that’s not how it works. To someone like him — like me — it doesn’t matter how old you are. You’ll always be the one we’d burn the world for. You’ll always be… the reason we fight.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “But who protects them?”

Childe didn’t answer right away. His arms stayed firm around her, like he didn’t have to say it out loud.

Maybe that’s why he was still here.

Maybe it was time she found a way to be his reason, too.

Misha sat in the quiet space he had created —isolated by his own power. The snowstorm that raged just outside this self-made bubble barely reached him, its cold bite held back by the barriers he’d conjured. Inside, the temperature was warm, almost painfully so. But it didn’t matter.

He wasn’t here to be comfortable.

He sat cross-legged in the center, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths, trying to ignore the stabbing pain that surged in his skull. Memories — they always came uninvited, always with sharp edges and broken pieces.

Snow falling gently. The smell of smoke on the air. The silence of a family that was no more. And then the sight of their bodies. Their bodies.

The vision slammed into him again. His family, their bodies twisted in unnatural ways, faces frozen in terror. He could still see the way the snow had stained red, the deep, bloodied footprints left in the wake of their destruction. The way their eyes… their eyes had been wide open, staring at him as if asking, “Why weren’t you there to protect us?”

His breathing hitched, his pulse quickening. Misha’s hands clenched into fists, the knuckles white against the sharp pain growing in his chest. His vision blurred with the ghosts of the past. The curse — the curse that bound his blood, a curse he could not outrun — flared in his veins.

It hurt. It always hurt.

But he would never scream. Never cry. That wasn’t who he was anymore.

The pain twisted deeper, spreading through his ribcage like ice, clawing at the hollow inside of him where the warmth of his family used to live. It made his body tremble, sweat forming on his brow, dripping down his face. He clenched his teeth, trying to force the memories to fade, to push away the icy grip of the past.

But they wouldn’t leave. They never left.

The agony flared as his curse surged. His breath came faster, ragged. His hand shot out to steady himself, pressing into the cold earth beneath him. The air around him shimmered with energy, his power flickering erratically as he fought to keep his composure.

You don’t have the right to break, Misha.

You’re supposed to be the one who protects everyone.

He shut his eyes tighter, willing himself to quiet the rising tide of regret, the gnawing ache in his chest that threatened to consume him.

And still, the memory of their faces haunted him. His failure, sharp and unforgiving.

For a long moment, he sat in the silence, focusing on the slow, steady breaths he was trying to take. The curse didn’t let up, not entirely. But he could manage it, just barely. He could endure it. For a while longer.

He wasn’t going to let anyone see him like this.

Not now. Not ever again.

The wind howled faintly beyond the thin veil of space he’d carved out — a barrier that kept the world at bay but did little to quiet the storm inside him.

Misha sat hunched forward, forearms braced against his knees, fingers curled tight into trembling fists. The sweat that clung to his brow had gone cold. His breathing had calmed to a dull, steady rhythm, but it was strained — like every inhale fought against something pressing down on his ribs.

He wasn’t thinking about the battlefield anymore. Not the shattered snow, not the Abyssal corruption that clung like rot to the edge of the ravine.

He was thinking about her.

Y/N.

His little niece, no longer a child, no longer hidden away in some quiet corner of the world. She was here. In Nod-krai.

Too close to the storm he had spent years trying to shield her from.

He ran a hand over his face, dragging it down with a shaky exhale, the faint pulse of his curse flickering beneath his skin like a second heartbeat — a painful one. It throbbed harder the longer he thought about it.

About Capitano.

Or rather, Thrain.

His brother-in-law. Elyra’s husband. A man whose path had diverged from his own so long ago it felt like another life entirely. The man who had once fought by his side in a war neither of them wanted — and who now stood high within the ranks of the Fatui, veiled behind the cold, faceless mask of the Harbingers.

The irony was bitter on Misha’s tongue.

The same Fatui their father had helped build in the ashes of Khaenri’ah’s fall — alongside the Cryo Archon, the Tsaritsa herself — all in the name of a vision he had never believed in. A vision that had consumed everything.

And now, Thrain was here. Not as family. Not as the man Elyra had once loved. But as Capitano — as an observer, as a commander, and possibly, if the wrong truths came to light… as a threat.

Misha’s eyes flickered open slowly, dimly glowing with the remnants of his suppressed power.

If he finds out who she is…

It wasn’t just about her bloodline. Not anymore.

It was what ran through her veins.

She had inherited the family’s powers. The signs were faint still, but unmistakable — the way the leylines shifted around her, the flickers of ancient energy that resonated when she was distressed. She carried the same blood that once stood at the heart of Khaenri’ah's magical elite — the same magic that had once challenged the gods themselves.

If the Fatui found out… they wouldn’t just watch her.

They’d try to use her.

And if the Abyss found out…

They’d try to claim her.

Misha gritted his teeth, the flare of pain behind his sternum returning, sharper now. His curse reacted not just to memory, but to fear. Real fear. The kind that couldn’t be fought off with a blade.

He couldn’t protect her from both sides at once — from the abyssal cult that had already stolen everything from him once, and from the empire his family had helped build, which now walked a knife’s edge between protection and exploitation.

She didn’t even realize yet how dangerous it made her. How valuable. How utterly alone she could become in the wrong hands.

And she was caught between them — with him standing in the middle, alone.

He leaned back slightly, tipping his head toward the sky, toward the starlight beyond the cracked illusion of his little safe space. His jaw tightened.

I promised Elyra I would protect her.

Even if it meant becoming the monster they all feared.

Even if it meant going against everything our family built.

Because unlike them… he hadn’t forgotten what it meant to love someone more than yourself.

And if anyone — anyone — tried to take Y/N from him, be it His father, Thrain, the Tsaritsa, or the Abyss itself…