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They say that when water freezes over, it turns to snow and ice. So, in that case, Hydro and Cryo could thus be considered sister— or even cousin, to be more accurate— elements. When Lohen had mentioned this magnificent theory of his to Albedo, the alchemist had merely sighed, patted his back, and asked Varka to assign him to the peaks of Dragonspine, where the Fatui were growing in number.
Despite the mild snubbery, though he knows that on his return, there would be many an introductory guide placed on his table by either Albedo or Durin, Lohen remains confident in his observation. If Hydro and Cryo are thus sisters, or cousins, then let me meet family on the mountain tonight.
The first patrol, in which Lohen makes it halfway up the mountain, is unsuccessful in any formal terms, for no Fatui beyond those permitted on the terrain can be found. The second, almost the same, except that it brings to him footprints too organised to be idiotic Treasure Hoarders digging through the ruins of Sal Vindagnyr, and too shapely to be a hilichurls. The third brings blood frozen into the ice.
By the fourth, which happens on a full moon’s night, he finds him.
The Fatui stand in loose disorder near a supply encampment in one of Dragonspine’s caves. The Harbinger, who’d been sighted by some of the knights, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen. “Where is the Vanguard?” Lohen asks loud and clear, his voice carrying over the howl of the icy wind. “I have no interest in the lower ranks of the Fatui.”
“Ah, how rude!” Lohen hears a voice somewhere above him, and he turns to face the stormy sky, where a young man with auburn hair grins at him. “Is this the Mondstadtian hospitality I’ve heard so much about?”
“You’re on Mondstadt’s territory illegally, Lord Harbinger,” Lohen continues. “We have no reason to provide you a warm bed and our finest wines.”
The young man chuckles as he descends, a gentle thump resounding on the snow. Lohen gestures for his accompanying knights to stand down, even as one of the Mirror Maidens on the other side of the battlefield behind him prepares herself for an attack.
“Parasha, stand down.” The Harbinger orders with a slight of his hand, handing off his bow to a Skirmisher who approaches him. “This one’s mine.”
“Oh? Glad to have received the Vanguard’s… personal attention.” Lohen smirks with a lick of his lips, watching his men clear a circle for what was looking like a fight from the corner of his eye. “Very confident, considering the… lack of weapons.”
“I’ll make it worth your while, Captain.” The title, though incorrect, seems both mocking and honourable. Lohen’s not quite sure how to take it. “Name?”
“Lohen.”
“Childe.”
There’s no actual start to the battle— that is, the two of them move when the time is right and introductions have ended, which Lohen is pleased to observe happens at the same time. Childe summons two hydro blades, one in each hand, and moves with a speed that excites Lohen— it’s been so long since he’s had a properly sentient target, after all.
The Harbinger fights as if he’s dancing on the edge of a jagged cliff. Childe advances with a reckless precision, every strike of his designed to test Lohen’s prowess rather than end his life. Lohen, surprisingly, meets him head-on, planting his feet deep and turning the unstable snow into solid frost beneath them both.
“Hah, you turn the snow into sheer ice? That’s new from a Cryo user,” Childe notes mid-pant as he dodges a particularly harsh thrust at his ribs, the hydro blade chipping away at the Favonius-issued spear.
“You have blades made of hydro,” Lohen points out in the same tone. “Not usual for a hydro user.”
As the battle continues, Lohen grows more and more excited, his harsh giggles— if he could call them that— drawing the attention of his troops. Meanwhile, he notices that the same Mirror Maiden (Parasha, as the Harbinger called her?) handing them bowls of soup and a small bottle of…. firewater?
“Master Tartaglia can take a while,” Lohen hears her say, her voice rough and grated. “Better to be full and warm on this mountain than cold and hungry. Hunger will not take you home.” True to the lady’s words, the fight does not end until Childe’s cornered Lohen at a cliff, the hydro blades locked in a cross shape blocking the sharp end of his spear.
When Lohen finally, after finding the tiniest opening imaginable, drives the butt of his spear into Childe’s stomach and sends him stumbling, he presses forward, spear tip hovering at Childe’s throat. “Yield,” he says, though there is no real authority behind it.
Childe’s gloved fingers curl loosely around the shaft of the spear. “Make me,” he murmurs. Lohen’s pulse thunders in his ears. Then Childe twists, knocking the spear aside and surging back to his feet.
Just as they think of resuming the fight, a horn sounds in the distance—reinforcements, likely more Favonius Knights drawn by the commotion. Childe steps back, dismissing his blades in a shimmer of light. “This isn’t over,” he says lightly.
Lohen rolls his shoulder, already anticipating the ache. “It better not be.”
Childe studies him with something almost thoughtful. “I enjoyed this. See you around, Captain.”
“Vice-Captain.” Childe pauses at the reply. “I’m Vice Captain of the 5th Company.”
“Well, then. Reconnaissance is your specialty, isn’t it? Hunt me down before I run away to Snezhnaya again.”
The unspoken promise of another good fight sends a thrill down Lohen’s spine. “Mm. I’ll make sure of that, Lord Harbinger.”