Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"I've been hellbent, baby
Hellbent on makin' you love me, too
Even though not what I'm supposed to do
I don't give a damn"

 There's a gentle breeze in the air, green leaves trembling in the winds when the wind catches them. The day is warm, you think as a green leaf passes through an open window leading to the infirmary you resided in. You felt at peace for the very first time in months. You gaze up at the endless azure sky, eyes softening at the sight of it. You had woken up just a couple hours ago upon a restful four days of sleep. Apparently, your body had a rough time recovering, despite the professional prowess of your headquarters' dendro and hydro healing nurses. It was the lack of blood that ran through your body which made the process slower, and perhaps your terrible wellbeing towards sleep.

 The plus side of it all was that you at least got to sleep well, and despite feeling a little weary, overall, you felt well rested. You let out a small content smile as another breeze blows in from the outside. It felt nice being off duty, albeit it messed up it was to say that in your current state. Your chest feels light with every breath you take. Breaks like these were nice, you were always so caught up with work that you never quite had time for yourself. 

 Working for the Fatui meant your schedule was always packed, especially in your position as a squadron leader. The Tsaritsa required a lot from you as you were, and this led you to always wonder how the Fatui Harbingers' workload was like. 

 You sit up in your bed, head craning upwards as you exhale, stretching your limbs momentarily as you let your mind wander. The only other Harbinger you had the honor of meeting was Tartaglia, and that had only been for a brief couple of weeks when your leader had Il Dottore order him to visit Liyue. Tartaglia was always buried in paperwork, and when he wasn't, he was either eating at a fancy restaurant or looking for enemies to fight. During that time, Tartaglia and yourself had bonded a little over fishing, and then eventually, family. He was pleasant to talk to, overall, despite his odd chagrins of twistedness occasionally.

 Meanwhile, Scaramouche when he wasn't doing paperwork, he was off doing diplomatic exploration, or running into you during your expeditions. That's the most you ever see him do anyway, as you spend all your time avoiding him.

  You hear a sudden rattling noise from your right and you turn your head in hopes of seeing one of the nurses. Your blood stills and your features visibly stiffen when you realize it's not.

 Speak of the devil, and he shall come. The Balladeer had opened the door, his gaze immediately catching yours, lips pulling to a coy smile. You shuddered at his reaction, hands tightening into balls of fists and gripping at your bedsheets as if you were a prey trapped in a corner by some predator. Your mind raced, flashbacks upon flashbacks dawning on you as you remember your last interaction during your fight with the electro beast. You had been feeling mouthier at that moment, having defeated such a strong opponent while lying on death's doorstep. You were drunk with carelessness and confidence. Now that you were sobered up completely, you felt fear and nausea. 

 "You're awake," Scaramouche says, eyes narrowing as he entered the blandly decorated room you were in, closing the door behind him, "it's been a couple of days. You gave me quite a fright."

 You want to tell him to leave, but something tells you that you shouldn't. You listen to that gut feeling, and instead, watch with your guards up as he approaches a chaise beside your bed. Ignoring the sound of your heartbeats getting louder, you try to focus on Scaramouche's next words. You feel your hands becoming clammy.

 His indigo eyes are unforgiving, not even looking away from you once, although you aren't sure what you had expected. He always stares at you every chance he gets, and it was no secret to any Fatui in the Inazuma region. It had gotten to the point where your fellow members had thought you were seeing each other romantically. Your stomach sours at the thought. 

 Scaramouche raises an eyebrow, "Not so talkative now, are we?" He questions as he crosses his arms, leaning back in his seat. 

 You fiddle with the bedsheets a little before turning your gaze to the floor. Perhaps you should apologize for how you acted. You never tried to cross boundaries with Scaramouche, it was always him pushing into yours until it became unbearable. You find yourself nervously tucking loose strands behind your ear, feeling suddenly more anxious from the knowledge that your butterfly pin was gone, cast away by the same man sitting in front of you. Your sense of comfort felt thoroughly attacked. This was something he was good at.

 Scaramouche watches your fingers brush past your ear, noticing the slight panic in your blank expression. He sighs, almost rolling his eyes at her distress. "I told you," he begins, waiting to make sure he has her full attention, "what would happen if you kept chasing silly dreams, right?" There's a hidden malice in his voice, one that's expertly shrouded in his friendly tone. He was truly trying to be patient with you these past few months, seeing as you made more attempts to avoid him more than usual, or rather, would give up your training schedule over more time to rest in bed. However, moments like these tested him. He didn't like repeating himself.

 "You're wrong!" You quickly interject, perhaps a little too energetically much to your terror. You feel a familiar tension building up between the both of you, and his expression visibly darkens. His eyes look like they're not looking at you, but rather through you, and into you. The blue haired man's lips peel back into a firm frown. You choose to continue, praying the situation would only get better from here, "It was more than a token for a dream," you confess. "It was a gift from my parents. It was a childhood memento," you frustratedly explain, grasping for words when his facial features harden some more, "and it gave me comfort." 

 His hardened face does not seem fazed by this information, it remains the same. A quick moment passes, and he seems to ponder something for a second. Scaramouche hums, unfolding his arms. There's a hint of confusion written on your face. He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a paper wrapped item. Slowly, he outstretches his hand towards you, beckoning you silently with that  gesture to take the wrapped item.

 Unsure, you gingerly take it from him, eyes trained onto his face and measuring for any type of negative or unwanted emotion. Instead, he remains passive, although slightly annoyed, eyes narrowed at the item in your hand.

 "Um," you mumble, confused about what to make of this. Had he just given you a gift?

 Scaramouche is still glaring at the item in your hand, "It's a present from your team," he replies somewhat coldly.

 You raise an eyebrow at him before defaulting back to your expressionless face. They had gotten you something? Curiosity floods you as you slowly peel away the paper wrapping, letting it collect on your lap as you unveil your present. Your eyes widen, feeling your heart momentarily pause as a mixture of emotions fight in you.

 It was another hairpin decorated with a red butterfly. It was expensive looking and you felt like it was made with delicacy. You eye the ridges of the butterfly pin, taking note of the small ruby pieces embedded to create the illusion of a glowing butterfly. It was crafted professionally, without a doubt. This wasn't a piece you'd just find about anywhere. You dare say, it was better looking than the one your parents had given you. You swallowed your saliva, feeling a sense of dread wash over you.

 You felt strange looking at it, and you weren't quite sure why. Your distant dream, something Scaramouche himself had thrown away, had found itself landing in your hands again. It was supposed to be a meaningful memento, but this felt wrong. Maybe it was because it isn't the same, you think, but your gut feeling tells you that thought is wrong, too. You blinked. You should be happy to receive a gift from your team, but you didn't. It was an odd feeling. A part of you believed this was a genuine present, meant to be a respectful gift, however, deep inside the recesses of your mind, an alarm had gone off. This felt less like a good hearted gift and more like… a bait.

  A dream finding itself on your lap again, and the price of it all, you think, and the words seem to echo as you run your thumb over the details. It was clearly expensive. Your eyes find Scaramouche's indigo irises, staring at the present. Too expensive.

 "Hmm?" Scaramouche narrows his eyes as he meets your gaze, and you feel small again. "You don't look too happy," he speaks with a light sense of boredom. Suddenly he smiles, his smile vicious, eyes keeping a steady gaze into your own, "Why, did we bring up some unpleasant memories?"

 What a bastard, you think before you whip your head away. That look on his face made you feel like all the blood had drained from your body. You purse your lips, looking at the butterfly pin one more time. You don't feel good holding it. Keeping your expression blank, you open your mouth, "I don't want it." You say it with a soft voice, almost scared to reject the gift.

 A dead silence fills the room, and you feel a surge of electricity build up in the air. You try not to let it get to you despite your heart rate building up, a great fear hammering at your chest.

 He looks at you with a dark expression, lips pulled to a frown, eyes looking cold. Suddenly, he gets up from his seat and leans towards you, lifting a knee onto your bed. Your heart stops as terror seeps from your body, your muscles stiffening and your breathing coming to a halt. You had no choice but to look at him. The air feels akin to miasma, feeling suddenly poisonous and thick, like a storm was brewing inside the room. Not even the bountiful winds carried in by the summer day outside can blow the miasma away. 

 His eyes seem to dissect you like a hawk, scrutinizing your face and drinking up every expression that passes through your eyes. You were paralyzed by fear, feeling his hand raise towards your face. You let out your breath when your brain feels like it can't handle the tension anymore. You clench your hands into fists as a result of the discomfort overwhelming you.

 When he cups your face, he doesn't do so violently. He pretends to do so gently, although you know by the flickering of the light above you that he means nothing but trouble. His frown deepens as he uses his free hand to take the pin from your hand, and you gasp as you feel his hand run along your wrist, his long digits prying your clenched fingers and eventually meeting the pin you had gripped onto. 

 Feeling anxious, you look down at the bedsheets, no longer wanting to meet his gaze. He is seeing too much of you, and you were seeing too much of him. You dislike it. It was as if he was a snake, every movement he made was fluid with the intent of ensnaring you. You don't notice the edges of his lips lift up to a knowing smile.

 "You don't want it?" He begins. You know he is testing you. Your eyes flit over to the side, looking at the chaise next to you. You don't know how to respond, and he clearly doesn't enjoy that. 

 He tilts your head up, forcing you to look at him. This is how it should be, he thinks as he drinks up the terror written on your face as you find yourself locked into his eyes. "You're being ungrateful," he chuckles as he places the hand holding the pin by the side of your head, "I didn't accept this from their dirty hands to get it rejected by you," he says in a low growl before letting out a scoff. He leans in just a little closer to your face and you feel your breath hitch. He places the pin into your hair and your body cringes as you feel the metal scrape against the side of your head, your eyes shutting when you feel him smooth your hair back into place. 

 "I was letting you have it easy a few days ago," he says slowly in a low voice, eyes trailing across your face before landing on your lips, "because I myself was feeling kind," he brushes a thumb across your lips, feeling his skin meet the slight dryness of your own. His eyes find his way back up to your eyes and are displeased to seem still shut. With the hand behind your head, he tugs on your hair, a small pained gasp leaving you as your mind continues to crumble away. You couldn't breathe in his vicinity, especially when he was this close to you.

 You should push him off, you think as you gather the energy in your body to do so. This was becoming too much, and you felt as though the boundaries you had set down with him were being pushed so far back that you weren't sure if you had any room for opinions left. They were all being forcibly taken away from you. The air around you buzzes as he growls.

 "Look. At. Me," he emphasizes each word separately, and out of fear you oblige. Your eyes fly open to look at him, and suddenly you remember the nightmare you had a while ago, with your reflection in his eyes being a caught butterfly. Your eyes meet his and every inch of your shaking body stills. He tilts his head, looking bored, the darkness in his face never leaving him, "Should I punish you?" He wonders out loud, "You've been so disobedient lately. Even though you know you're powerless against me," he whispers maliciously. There's an energy flowing to the back of your head and you feel it. You want to cry.

 Your body was still aching and sore from everything you’ve been through, your mental being was so worn out. You just wish he’d leave you alone, you wish he’d die off somewhere out of your sight. You hadn’t done anything wrong in all your years knowing him, you were a good dog for the Tsaritsa, and even towards him. You let him touch your face and sometimes let him reach for your hands, not thinking too much about it. You were focused on the future, on what lay ahead of you, hence you worked day and night like a dog. What did he want from you? Your face is crestfallen and empty all at once.

 “What do you want from me…” You manage to whisper out, the question sounding more like a desperate plea. You see a glitter of something in his eyes, but it passed by too quick for you to recognize. His hand tangled in your hair tightens, your head pulls back. The pain doesn’t faze you. “I’ve been good,” you whisper again, your voice hoarse, lower lip trembling as he moves the hand on your face down, until it’s just his fingertips touching your face.

 He looked like he pitied you for a moment, and for just a second, he looked like he was head over heels in love with you. The heaviness of the atmosphere, paired with his face… you weren’t sure what to make of it. You weren’t sure what to make of him.

 “You’ve been terrible, ” he chuckles with a genuinely light hearted tone, it takes you aback, “but I’m somewhat disappointed you have to ask that. Is it really a good question?” He inquires, his hand leaving the back of your head to sink lower as he uses his other hand to take his hat off, placing it gently on the chaise to your right. There’s a brief look of conflict on your face before it dissipates. When you don’t speak, he wraps his other arm around you, pulling you in for a hug. He laughs, his hair tickling the side of your neck. You would’ve found this comforting, had it not been from him. “You’re so naïve, it kills me,” He surmises, his chuckles fading as his grip around you tightens.

 “I don’t know what you mean,” you mumble, arms falling limp to the side of your body as he further indulges in the warmth of your neck, your eyes facing the white wall in front of you hoping that a void would randomly form just swallow you whole. Your energy was being drained from you. 

 The electricity in the air is almost all gone, his anger seemingly evaporating. Scaramouche tilts his head towards your ear, and you feel the edge of his lips pressed into his smile against your lobe, “I’ll save you from your own stupidity,” he begins, “won’t you be mine?”

 You blink as you fight the reaction to push him off your body, the paralysis of the fear instilled into your body still very much in effect. I would rather die than be yours, you answer internally. You open your mouth to say something, but before you can say anything, he replies.

 “I want you to be mine,” he declares again, a hand rising from its place on your back up to your neck, and you shiver as his skin meets yours, “and by that, I mean I want everything from you. You will be with me everywhere I go and all your possessions will be mine.” He pulls away from your neck to gauge your expression, and is not surprised by the remaining deadpan on your face.

 You hated him, you thought bitterly. Always selfish and annoying, like a parasite trying to make itself into your system. He was poisonous, terrible, like an army of rats and snakes in one body.

 “And,” you start slowly, masking your disgust and hatred with kindness, eyes slowly meeting his own again, “what if I say no?” You ask, your voice tentative in its release, not wanting to enrage him. It’s like speaking to a child, you think. 

 There’s a sense of eeriness in his smile as he speaks again, “Would you like to find out?” He questions, as if teasing you, although you know it’s far deeper than that. You understand the poison in his words, they’ve seeped into your bones too many times to the point where you can almost taste the viciousness on your tongue. “I’ll give you a hint, since you’re so incapable of forming proper thought,” he hums, and then his voice drops a few octaves, falling on your ears like a deadly whisper, "you don’t want to say ‘no’.” He grips onto your shoulders, his hands claw like, digging deep into your skin, causing you to flinch in pain as your aching muscles are gripped roughly.

 Your brain blanks out as he continues to smile at you, his eyes narrowing as the promise of a threat rings in your ears, echoing. Your eyes are wide as you try to think of something to say, your thoughts whirring in your brain, doubling at the stress of this situation. You really couldn’t say no. He wouldn’t take it for an answer, and it’s clearer to you now than ever, if you had ever forgotten in the first place. Then you realized something. It hits you like a rock, like something falling into place. A piece to a puzzle. His acts towards you, and the proposition of everyone in the Fatui thinking you and Scaramouche were dating. Your lips open to ask him a question that you hoped didn’t have an answer, “Do you love me, Scaramouche?”

 At the sound of his name leaving your mouth, he relaxes his hold on you, eyes widening slightly as he looks at you, all emotion from his face disappearing. You hold your breath, waiting for an answer you hope never comes. The feeling of regret floods your veins, wondering if it was stupid of you to even ask, but you keep your eyes on his. He looks almost shocked, mouth dropping to a thin line. You feel an anxiety build in your stomach, something disturbing. 

 A breeze from the window breathes life into the room, another stray leaf floating into the room you were held in, landing not too far from your side. Scaramouche’s lips curve at the end, forming a smirk as the muscles on his cheeks push his smile upwards. He supposed this was love. Love was a word so distant from him, the meaning so detached. He remembers his creation, light flooding his body, mixtures of white and purple blending, eventually creating his body, makeshift and humanlike in its structure. But he’s far from human, he’s divine. Superior, amazing in all its senses, made for people to bow down to, to praise, to pray to, to worship, to offer towards. Yet, despite this, abandoned he was, and gone was his position to be God of Inazuma. 

 He was never loved, not even by his creator. His experiences of love were more like fascination-- the sounds of people screaming for him, begging him to stop when he electrocuted them-- , and focus, something he put in his work as a Fatui Harbinger, earning him his prized spot. But, when people talked of love in the streets he would pass by, he always listened, although he pretended not to. He yearned for such a thing, having never received it himself. He looked up and down for something, someone to call his own. People always talked about love so fondly, about mora, about pets, toys, people, legends about the red string of fate, and to his creator, eternity.

 There were so many different meanings for it, he had created his own. A severe fascination. Something beautiful to him, something eternal, a smell that tastes so sweet he can’t get enough of, a melody strong enough to make him feel… alive . An addiction.

 The closest thing he could find to love was power . But even then, it just wasn’t enough. He wanted more from it.

 His eyes narrowed at your pin, lifting the hand resting on your shoulder closest to the pin up, fingers tracing over the object. He admired the rubies, brushing over the deep reds with his thumb. Then he looked at you, and with a face so twisted he replied: “I love you.”

 Yes, he loves you. Love was you. And he had finally found you. If it wasn’t you, then in all his years living, he didn’t know what was.

  So it had to be you. If it wasn’t you, he’d make it you.

 Your face pales, disbelief settling in, eyebrows furrowing upwards in terror as your throat runs dry. Shock fills your system at his confession. Your shoulders scrunch as you let out a shaky breath, eyes leaving his own to look down, finding your fingers. You didn’t want to believe it, such a thing. This, you thought in incredulity, was not love. Love was like the flowers blooming during spring, or the taste of watermelons during summer. Your mind clambered upwards, synchronizing with your heart and soul in wish to leave your body as your brain was sent to overdrive.

 You imagined your parents when you were younger, buying you that red pin you had treasured so much, the scent of wagashi your mother had made, reminiscing that stupid floorboard in your poor home that would always creak that you’d always step on to scare your dad. Then, you remembered the day you had left your family for the Fatui, their cheers when you lied to them about having an overseas job, and their tearful goodbyes when you left. And now, their letters they send you monthly, signed carefully under your parent’s names, stamped delicately with your family’s crest. You wrote back to them, of course, occasionally adding a pressed and dried silk flower from Liyue if you couldn’t find a present to buy them.

 That was love. 

 With a sudden burst of energy, you raise your hands. You softly push Scaramouche’s hands off and away from you, your touch gentle on his wrists as you pull him away from you. Your eyes meet his indigo eyes, and for a second, you pity him. Your face softens ever so slightly as his twisted expression slowly falls.

 “This isn’t love,” your voice is as soft as it could ever get with the hatred you held for him, “this is an obsession.” A part of you that was buried deep inside your head did pity him. He was confusing the two words, blurring them together to make them one, but with such selfish requests he made of you, you couldn’t forgive him. He was old enough to understand. It wasn’t your job to make him understand, and it wasn’t your fault that he was incapable of differentiating them.

 Your voice, despite its softness, grates his ears. His lips fell into a tight line. His eyes wide at your rejection, a strange feeling building up from within him. Your words echo in his ears: “This isn’t love”. 

 He snaps.

 You gasp when he suddenly maneuvers his wrists out of your grasp, expertly rolling them before catching your own and pushing them against the bed frame behind you. The anxiety in your stomach makes itself apparent in your facial features when he suddenly straddles you, placing both legs on the bed and pushing you against the wall. You yelped and shut your eyes at how tight his grip was on your wrists. Any tighter, and maybe he would break them.

  Maybe he wanted to break them.

 Your eyes snap open in mortification as you feel a familiar feeling of electricity focus around you, piling into his hands and you look at him in fear. His eyes are animalistic, sharp, eyebrows furrowed in anger. His lips were curved in a devilish smile, the bangs framing his face in a mess. Your brain is a mess, unable to catch up in time to notice the electricity that he was passing on from his veins into yours. Your mouth flies open as you are suddenly aware of what he was going to do, “Please sto--!” Your plea is cut short when pain tears through your body, and it feels like you’re physically going to shatter. 

 Your frame shakes from below him and convulses as your eyes screw themselves shut, mouth open as screams escape your throat. It was as if your body was on fire from the inside, and every scar on your body ached as electricity travelled throughout your system. “Please,” you forcefully cry out as he sends another wave of electricity through your veins, even though it’s so painful it feels like your heart was going to leap right out of your mouth, “stop!”

 “Shut up!” Scaramouche yells, as he tightens his grip on your wrists, “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” He growls as he shakes his head, eyes closing before he reopens them, focusing on your tortured face. The Balladeer grins with animosity, at your begging, rage filling him and flooding out of him.

 He pauses his electrocution so that you can hear with whatever will you had left, “You’re so fucking ungrateful,” he spits, eyes finding yours as tears welled up on your lash line, threatening to fall, “I’m so kind to you, I give you special treatment,” he continues, the savage look in his eyes never leaving, “I even touch you!” He says it as if it were something you should’ve been grateful for. The unwanted touch of a man you hate, of a man who tortures you, hurts you, and now, claims to love you.

 “Yet what do you give me? ” His eyes are dark, his grin turning into a scowl, “You offer me your avoidance,” his hands leave your wrists, your arms falling limp by your sides as you recover, tears streaming down from your face. The miasma from before reappears and thickens, the air so heavy it’s hard for you to breathe. He holds his hands now at your throat, and you let out a cry, “You give me your hatred,” he continues, his hands pressing on the sides of your neck, blocking your windpipes, and you begin to choke, “you give me your disgust! You give me nothing good at all, and I don’t even fucking complain!” He yells as he threatens to press down further on your neck. Scaramouche notices that your eyes are slowly rolling back, eyelids faltering to hold up as your breath leaves you.

  Good. You should be dead, that’s what you get for being so insolent and naïve, he thinks, but then he releases his hold on your throat. He couldn’t have you dying, just close enough so that you’d realize his strength overpowered yours. He was to be respected, not besmirched. He wanted you to understand that, and you were simply too dumb to comprehend it, so he’d have to teach you the hard way. You gasp, letting air rush into your lungs as your body aches all over, still finding ways to stay alive upon reaching a stage near death. “That’s it,” he begins as he watches your body heave, life drawing itself back into your eyes as tears continue to fall like rhinestones down your face, “just like that.”

 He would kill you again, just to bring you back to life. He would be your god. You were his. Forever. He'd make sure of that.

 He watches your mouth pry open upon catching your breath, and he awaits your response.

 You were tired. So tired, exhausted, you didn’t even care about anything anymore. You were just done with this, done with him, done with everything life had given you for the past six years as a Fatui. 

 “I never asked for any of that,” you reply, voice breathless. There’s a crackle and spark in the air, a recognizable tell-tale sign of his antics. You look at him, his face turning dark with rage, his scowl furthering into a grimace.

  “You ungrateful little bitch--!”

 The door swings open and Scaramouche visibly flinches at the noise. You give him an empty, mocking smile as his features grow weary. The nurse at the door feels the atmosphere is heavy, but she thinks it’s due to a different reason. She eyes Scaramouche, then her patient and gasps when she remembers that the both of you had been supposedly dating.

 “I’m sorry,” the nurse apologizes, feeling embarrassed of herself, “did I disturb something?”

 Scaramouche blanks, looking down at you as you regain your breath, your face red as you continue to pant, allowing your body to reregulate itself. Your hair is strewn all over the place, a piece stuck to the drool coming out of your mouth. “Not at all,” his tone is polite and friendly, as if he wasn’t just about to murder you for being mischievous.

 He gets up and off of you, reaching for his hat, sending you one last final glare as you smile, laughing breathlessly, knowing that you were saved by this goddess of a nurse. 

 He whispers, only loud enough for you to hear, “You will pay for this dearly,” he says, and you know it was a promise. Scaramouche begins to quickly walk out of the room, anger still in his step as he brushes past the nurse, passing through the door. You look at the nurse standing by the door. She looks confused. Perhaps you’d buy her chocolates or something, anything really, since she had just saved your life. You thanked the Raiden Shogun, thinking that by her grace, your life was saved.

 Funnily enough, by her grace, you were almost killed, although you didn’t know that.

Chapter Text

 On the day you are released, you find out upon talking to a few Fatui officers that you are on rest for the next couple of days. Then they apologize to you, as if they had done something wrong. You brush it off, thinking perhaps they’ve noticed your workaholic attitude and are sorry for the loss of your work. When you try to catch up with them, the air is awkward, almost unbearable, so when they tell you they have to get to work, you let them go.

 As you pass by them, you notice their odd stares on the side of your face, and naturally you go on with your journey. Although it irked you, you chose not to speak about it. 

 The day was covered in clouds, rain threatening to pour in hefty amounts from ashen grey clouds. The air was bitter, almost acrid. You cringe your nose, feeling as though you could taste the acidity. Your hand rose from your side as you ambled down the hallway, hand brushing by your ear only to remember there was no hair to brush. There’s a faint emotion of happiness that washes over you, feeling thankful that your team had thought about you during your absence, enough to purchase you a pin. It looked and felt quite expensive, you think with a frown. Even if they had split the gift with their paychecks, it would still have been fairly pricey. Somewhere, deep in your gut, you had an off feeling. You pause in your steps and brush against your pin, slowly, as if tracing each detail with your finger and memorizing it. You felt your mind grow distant, eyes staring afar. In the back of your head, something nagged at you.

 To keep yourself sane, you push that feeling further into the depths of your mind, lingering, but out of sight. As an image stained in hues of blacks, reds and purples begins to fog in your head, you redirect your thoughts to your teammates. 

 You race to the cafeteria in hopes to meet them, feeling embarrassed as you stand behind large doors. Perhaps you should walk in purposely facing the side, so that they can see as clear as day that you’re wearing their gift to you? Or maybe… saying ‘thank you’ was enough. Clearing your throat and composing yourself, you open the cafeteria doors, listening to the buzz of people as you walk through with confidence in your every step, directing yourself to the table they would usually sit at. You stare at the table.

 Nobody was there.

 Perhaps they were off to a mission today, you think. There’s a burning feeling in your stomach and it sends shivers down your spine. Everyone around you had quieted, and were now staring at you, stopping mid bite when eating. You shifted uncomfortably, seating yourself at the table to make yourself less conspicuous, an array of voices whispering around you. You feel at your wrists, feeling the bruises the Balladeer had put onto you earlier. They were healing, but not quick enough. They were patchy on your skin. You return your focus from your wrists to a voice not too far from yourself and are disturbed by what you hear.

  “Hey, that’s her, isn’t that the commander of that one troop? I heard she was dating our leader, the Balladeer…”

 “I bet she seduced him or something,” you overhear someone say, and you feel heat rising to your face as your teeth clenched, feeling insulted, “I heard she’s pretty strong. It’s a shame she wasn’t there with her squadron…”  You blink. The burning feeling in your stomach grows stronger. “I heard they got wiped out, no bodies, just... nothing.”

 “Poor girl…”

 You take a sharp breath of air as you remember the blue haired harbinger’s words. “You will pay for this dearly,” his words echo, the vicious promise of pain. Your eyes blew wide as you shot up from your table, fists clenching and digging into your hands. He wouldn’t, would he? Fear and hatred bloom in your stomach. You saunter off towards the cafeteria exit, ignoring the voices behind your back, faintly noticing that they were voices of pity. Your nails created crescents on your palm, digging almost deep enough to draw blood. Once you got past the cafeteria doors, your hasty walk bursted into a sprint, not caring of the many gazes on your back of people you brushed past as a terror grips your heart. You race down the corridors and find yourself by the male dorms, finding their rooms with ease. You decide to go through them one by one, the pyroslinger’s room being first.

 Your face pales as blood drains from your face, your hands running cold, even with your heart rate doubling from the run and your anxiety. Your mind goes blank.

 There was not one thing left in the room, just boxes. Boxes filled to the brim with pieces of metal, and if you hadn’t known any better, you would think they were all just junk. In a hurry, pushing your legs to move as dread spreads throughout your body like an illness, turning your motions sluggish as you go to another room. And then another. And another. And another, and by the end of it all, you’re faced with an inevitable truth. You stand at the door of a room, peering into it soullessly. You stand there for what feels like an eternity as the realizations of the situation drown you quickly, like a harsh wave crashing against a small boat trying to stay afloat amidst a storm. You desperately wish to get out of your body, your mind only briefly escaping reality, only to be pulled back down at the pain of a physical feeling.

 Something inside you claws at your throat, and a weak, pained breath is all you manage to get out, feeling your legs give way as you crash to the floor, kneeling. You cover your mouth as your mind goes into a panic. Your head flings forward and your free arm catches your sudden shift in weight, and you glare down at the tatami mat below you. Your hand is shaking, or so you notice through a blurry vision. There was a burning in your stomach, and it felt like acid. You wanted to vomit, small memories you shared with your team, the only people you talked to decently enough to call friends. Six years, you thought, they’d known you for your entire time here. From the moment you had joined and until three years ago, when you were promoted to be a squadron leader.

 Your lungs constrict from the anxiety swirling throughout your body, and as a result, you’re thrown into a fit of violent coughs. You cover your mouth as tears threaten to fall from your eyes. You hated crying, you hated it so much, but with this nervousness in your chest, it was hard to breathe. It was hard to think, it was hard to move. Your thoughts remained solely focused on the tatami mat, your brain wandering off, slowly being brought back down to earth with an emotion so strong, it fuels you.

 Rage.

 Focusing on this feeling, you find strength to stand up, hands clenched into fists as you pant, and you shut your eyes, eyebrows furrowing in anger. Scaramouche. His name rings in your ears. Scaramouche. You wipe the tears from your eyes, a tempest blooming in their place.

 Turning on your heel and closing the door behind you, you walk towards the Balladeer’s office. You felt your pyro vision on your side glint, sensing your anger, processing your surge of violent emotion.

 When you find yourself at his office doors, his guards are standing by them. 

 “Miss,” the one standing to your right begins, and you turn your cold, calculative gaze towards him. He freezes, feeling as though you had a knife at his throat, despite your obvious distance and lack of weapon.

 “Our lord is busy right now, he specifically said not to disturb him,” the male to your left continues, seemingly unfazed by your interaction with his fellow guard mate. You clench your teeth.

 “I want to see him now, ” you say with your strongest voice, hatred flooding through your veins and venom seeping from your tone. You scowl at the man to your left, wishing nothing more but to punch him for holding you back. 

 He once again does not seem fazed. He responds with less courtesy than before, “I understand that, however Lord Scaramouche is busy,” he says with a firmness to his tone that would usually cut through your selfish resolve. However, today was not a regular day. You offer a bitter smile, not hiding your irritation.

 Perhaps it’s time to make use of rumors.

 “I’m his girlfriend and I might be pregnant with his child ,” you hissed, lying through your teeth at the expense of your own pride, and it almost physically burned you to say that. You watch as they both immediately straighten up, both looking flustered.

 “R-Right,” one of them stutters as you brush past them both, opening the heavy, large double doors before you in haste. Your pyro vision is burning, its warmth radiating from your left side.

 The room that welcomes you is unnecessarily big, a library of books ranging from dark colors to vibrant reds on your right, and on your left, a set of alchemic items are stacked neatly on a shelf, row by row. You find your gaze correcting itself, looking at the short stature in front of you, a couple long strides away, inspecting what seems to be paperwork.

 At your intrusion, the Balladeer swivels around, veil flowing gracefully while the bells attached to the golden ring of his hat jingles. You don’t find it necessary to fight the urge to kill him when you amble your way towards him, closing the gap swiftly, only for sparks in the air to flicker at your movement. You stop just a couple feet in front of him, and he stares at you with a mixture of annoyance and boredom.

 “I was wondering what the commotion was outside,” he tentatively begins, eyes registering the hatred on your face. He immediately scowls, looking disinterested, “What makes you think you can just barge in here?”

 You take a deep breath in, trying to calm yourself, wanting to stay emotionless in front of him even though a rage and urge to kill burned so greatly within you. Your tear streaked face was a dead give away, however, of the tumultuous emotions raging inside you. “What did you do to them,” you ask, your tone aggressive, uncaring of the disrespect you directly showed him. Your mind was racing, despite your attempt to calm yourself. The burning feeling in your body was too strong to ignore.

 He looks at you and then releases a long sigh, his posture changing to a one of mild relaxation as he leans on his table, crossing his arms, “That’s why you’re here? Did they mean that much to you? ” He questions you, disbelief apparent in his voice as if this conversation wasn’t even worthy of his time. You bristle at his voice, clenching your teeth and holding in your anger. He seems to sense your distress, his eyes flickering towards your pyro vision for a moment, and he offers you a simple answer, “I sent them out on a simple mission to clear a path for our shipment. The electro beast you had from last time apparently had children,” he scoffs, “so I had your unit take care of them.”

  “Why,” you inquire in the most patient voice you can muster, although there’s a clear sense of despair in your voice, “why would you do that? Knowing I was the only one left last time to beat it,” you search his eyes for any sign of remorse. You find none.

 His expression is unamused, void of any emotion. There’s a darkness gathering in his eyes, and you can tell by the sudden weight in the air, he is displeased. “They are Fatui, ” he chuckles cynically, “ we trained them to be strong. If they can’t do it,” he clicks his tongue, leaning off of his table, uncrossing his arms as he saunters his way around you, “then they simply are too weak to be in the Fatui. It’s a good thing for us, really, we pick off the weak and the strong stay.”

 Us? There was no us. He’s heartless, you know that, but it doesn’t change the fact that what he said pissed you off, “You did this on purpose,” you hiss, anger no longer being able to be contained. “You knew they couldn’t handle it, but you sent them there anyway!” You snap at him.

 Scaramouche pauses when he finds himself in front of the alchemy table, not turning his head to face you when he speaks, “Doubting your team, are we? That’s not like you,” he muses with a chide tone. “The Tsaritsa was tired of waiting for the late shipments to come in, we have to hurry,” he replies halfheartedly, “I’m sure you’ve heard. Tartaglia has reportedly met the Traveler, so now we must make haste.” 

 “That doesn’t excuse anything you did--!” Your complaint is cut off by a brief crackle of electricity cutting through the air in front of you. You don’t flinch, you stand your ground as you fight the emotion of sorrow in you, tears start to well in your eyes once again. You didn’t want to cry in front of him again, but there was such an overwhelming feeling of… everything building up in your body. You haven’t caught a break. You were so much more used to the mind numbing tasks of expeditions, staying focused on work and training. That was your life, you had decided, a dog for the Tsaritsa. Truthfully, your mind has been shut off and locked away for a long time. It was the fate of becoming a Fatui that had caused you to sever such emotions, and emotions had become something that was reserved to your family. None of this emotional weight carried on you so heavily until recently.

 Indigo irises meet yours when he moves to face you, scowl clear on his face as he glares at you, “Why should I have to let you, a commander, excuse my actions as the harbinger overseeing the district of Inazuma,” he spits, venom in his tone, “in fact, why are you in here in the first place? What do you want me to do,” he growls, “apologize? It’s their fault for being weak,” his eyes are flashing, with anger and annoyance, “if you want someone to blame, then blame yourself.”

  The moment those words leave his mouth, you can’t stop yourself from rushing to meet him with your fist ready to meet his face, tears running down your face as you let your emotions get the best of you. He doesn’t flinch when your fist comes flying at his face, he just catches your fist with his hand. You find that you’re unable to retract your fist, rather he keeps a tight grip on it. There’s a familiar sense of electricity that feels like it’s flowing through you at his touch. You resist the temptation to flinch from oncoming danger, keeping your eyes on his face, watching for any emotion to pass.

 He sighs, “I had no clue you were such a brat,” he admits with dissatisfaction, “you listen to orders so well.”

 You swallow your pride. “I’m a dog for the Tsaritsa,” you reply in a hiss, and his eyes narrow, looking intently into your own. 

 “Then by order, you’ll be a dog for me as well,” his eyes glint dangerously as his grip on your fist tightens. Your face twitches in pain in response to his actions. “Good and obedient,” he muses before bitterly adding on, “have you not learned your lesson yet? My patience with you is wearing thinner by the day.” His tone is mocking, but there’s an edge of seriousness that almost makes you shiver. Then he smiles twistedly, electricity passing through your fist connected with his hand, not enough to be painful, but enough to make you jolt, “Or are you a masochistic idiot?” 

 Your blood boils, your teeth showing when you hiss at the electricity passing through your body, looking at him from your teary eyes. He clenches his jaw at the look on your face and he stops the electric current from running through any further. He releases a soft sigh.

 “I don’t want to hurt you right now,” he states, his voice low in octaves, his mocking smile disappearing into a scowl. In truth, Scaramouche truly was busy today, as much as he loved to play around with you, he just had a couple orders to forgo that needed immediate action.

 “You don’t want to hurt me,” you say incredulously, your voice emphasizing each word as if this was the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard him say, “you have electrocuted me, threatened to tear my limbs off my body if I run away from you, and you draw the line now, at all times?” Your brain just couldn’t wrap itself around his words. He must be joking, and if he was, this was his funniest joke yet. In truth, you’d rather he fought you. You’d get all this stress out of your system.

 His eyes narrow at your words, scowl further deepening as his eyes flashed a brighter purple, “Those are punishments you deserve when you’re being an imbecile,” he responds, “ right now,” he says slowly, seething, as his grip on your wrist tightens, the pressure of him pressing on healing bruises causing you to flinch in pain, “I am trying exercise my understanding of your anger .” 

 Your face floods with even more disbelief. As if you weren’t already on the brink of losing whatever parts of your mind you had left, this man now wants to try and understand you? Was he even capable of that? You rip your arm out of his grip, body swaying backwards from the violence of your pull, and your eyes meet his own in a glare.

 You look at him pointedly, tears sliding down your face, “I know you did something to them. Do not play me for a fool, their bodies weren’t found, ” you hiss vehemently as the faces of your teammates cross your mind.

 He holds your gaze, his eyes turning empty, expression unreadable. “Why would you blame me for their own weakness? It’s not my fault they’re unable to handle a couple of rabid dogs in the woods, and perhaps they were eaten by them.” Scaramouche scoffs, seemingly offended by your accusation, and then a sinister look quickly brushes past his face before disappearing. He tilted his head upwards, veil behind him billowing slightly at the action, “Besides, isn’t this your fault?”

 You look taken aback, mouth flying open as you shake your head, “ No, no,” you say in dismay as tears well in your eyes, “you are not going to put this on me.”

 “Why shouldn’t I?” He questions with a roll of his eyes, a huff leaving his mouth, “You aren’t innocent,” he growls, eyes narrowing, indigo irises staring deeply into yours, as if he knew something you didn’t. You don’t want to hear whatever he’s going to say next. You take a step back, knowing full well all he would do from hereon was make you feel guilty. He takes a step forward, and his step feels like it echoes throughout the room. Scaramouche’s eyes seem to smile along with his lips when he notices an emotion pass by behind your eyes. You feel intimidated, the gleam of his eyes feeling threatening. You clench your teeth and prepare yourself. He wasn’t willing to back down, he had you cornered. He loved it when you were cornered. Just you and him, the perfect time to express how strongly he dominated you. 

 “Don’t lie to yourself,” Scaramouche begins, voice silky, though you taste the venom laced within them, “you know what you did wrong.” You take a moment, racking your brain for something, anything that would possibly support his cause, despite your detriment. “If you hadn’t been injured, you could’ve been a more competent leader,” he says in a matter of fact tone.

 You take another step back.

 He takes another step forward.

 “Stop,” your voice comes out in a whisper and less like a warning, unknown to yourself. You’re on a full defensive, as if prepared for him to lunge and attack at any point, arms up in a protective stance.

 He doesn’t listen. He continues his barrage on your mental state, taking advantage of you in your tears as his smile drops, voice following suit as he speaks again, “That day, I bore witness to you fighting against that electro beast,” he begins with a eerily calm tone, eyes narrowing at you as he leans in, continuing steps forward as you attempt to further your distance from him, walking backwards, deeper into Scaramouche’s office room. “You let yourself get hit by the blast of your own pyro explosion, ” he proceeds, voice quieting slightly, “you. A Fatui officer, distracted,” he hummed derisively, “you slipped up, because you weren’t being careful. ” The Balladeer’s eyes are cold and calculative. He puts his hands behind his back, pausing his steps and standing still as you continue to move backwards, focused solely on having distance between the two of you. 

 Something cold and hard presses against your back. You grimace and turn your head ever so slightly just enough for your peripherals to catch that you are currently pressed up against a wall.

 “Just like that.”

 You panic, pressing yourself completely against the wall when you hear thundering footsteps on the marbled floor, crossing the room towards you at an alarming pace, and when you blink for a split second, you find indigo irises looking deep into your own. You freeze, blood running cold as you feel Scaramouche’s warm breath hit your face. You hated having him this close to you. It felt wrong, disgusting even. Like his aura was merging with yours, intermingling and invading yours. His body is hovering mere inches from your own, and you find your hands flying up to meet his chest, hands placed delicately on the sides of his emblem but just firm enough so that he doesn’t take any more steps closer.

 His eyes trail downwards, the shade of his hat following him, and you flinch downwards as it almost hits your head. He keeps his gaze on your hands before moving up to meet yours once again. There’s a sick sense of glee in his eyes as he smiles quizzically at your expression. He nudges himself impossibly closer, and you let out an undignified noise as your hands are now pushing at him trying to get him away from you, both terrified and nervous with the implications of his words still weighing deeply in your brain.

 With a mysterious smile on his face, danger lurking underneath, he says with a low voice, “You should be more careful.” Your eyes widen and your knees begin to feel weak, legs shaking as his words burdened you. Your mind feels like it’s about to break. You look down at your feet, trying to clear your mind from your excess of thoughts. You try to comfort yourself. It wasn’t your fault, it was a strong beast, it had wiped out your entire team in a matter of minutes, and even you had been downed by the end of the fight. What he was saying wasn’t true.

  But there was some truth to it, wasn’t there?

 Your breath leaves your mouth, shakily, almost like a whimper as your brain continues to run miles in circles around your head. The hands pressed on Scaramouche’s chest twitch and lighten, threatening to pull back so that you may comfort yourself by holding yourself.

  In reality, at that moment, that blissful moment, you were hoping for just a split second that you would die. That you would be liberated, free from the Fatui and Scaramouche. You let yourself get cornered, you hadn’t planned your attack out that well at all. And that was your job as a leader. Three months of little to no sleep was all it took. You couldn’t do it for them, your teammates of six years.

 You couldn’t do it.

 In your mind, there’s a huge chunk of glass that seems to break off from a cracked mirror, and you listen to it crash, watching it shatter into pieces.

  Your body starts to shake. Maybe Scaramouche was right. You had grown weak. 

 Tears flood your vision as you let out a soft whimper. Your bottom lip shakes, your eyes wide with realization and terror. You hear a voice in your head telling yourself, “He’s manipulating you!” The voice is screaming in terror at your own psyche shattering. Your eyes focus on Scaramouche’s own eyes, and the voice quiets. A static buzz whirrs in your ears, and it drowns any sense of rationality in your defense, the feeling of pandemonium flourishing in your brain. His gaze is intense.

  Scaramouche’s smile grows further and he sees you slowly sink downwards, your irises leaving his own to find comfort in the floor beneath you. He watches your every move. Perhaps it was worth entertaining you, he thinks. He loved this moment so much, he wanted to keep it framed in his head. Your submissiveness, your idiocy, and his love for it all. He caught you mid fall, hands placing themselves gently on your waist, securing you as he admired your expression in terror.

 Though you hated it, you couldn’t deny the fact that his hold on you made you feel grounded and comforted. Refusing to look up, you find your hand feeling for your hair pin, and upon finding it, you swiftly remove it, locks of hair falling messily down the side of your face. You bring the red pin down to your line of sight, and you brush your fingers over the details once more. You couldn’t even thank them for their services, they were gone, bodies missing.

  You had failed them .

 Your body shakes as another wave of sobs escape your mouth, tears falling from your face and landing like raindrops on your arms and feet. You gripped the pin tightly, as if your life depended on it.

 Scaramouche watches you wordlessly and thinks with bemusement, and knowing you couldn’t see him, a smile grows on his face, manic in all its senses, and twisted with happiness. 

  He spent a fortune on that pin.

 He took your dreams from you, he knew that. But he had missed seeing the red in your hair, and he had missed the hellfire in your eyes when you left for expeditions, so he’d allow it. A new dream with his name written all over it. So he lured you in. And you took the bait. And now, you treasure it.

 He presses on your waist a little tighter and pulls you in, tucking you under his chin, but you don’t notice. The voices of disappointment in your head talk too loud.

 After that fiasco, upon retreating to your room for emotional comfort. You're exhausted, eyes puffy and almost lifeless. The sight that you find before your eyes doesn't give you an inch of comfort. You find that it’s much similar to your former teammates' rooms. Filled with shipment boxes, otherwise empty. Your stomach dropped, thinking they had made a mistake and perhaps believed you were dead too. Immediately, you search for your remaining belongings, and find nothing. Not even the letters to your parents. You cringe, wondering if they have burnt them in the fires of the incinerators. You let out a soft disappointed sigh, unsure of what to do, and as if to answer your prayers, the goddess of a nurse that had been taking care of you during your duration at the infirmary appears.

 “Hi,” she greets you kindly, her smile warm and tender upon finding your own staring back up at her. “I stopped by earlier, but you were somewhere,” she giggled with a knowing look in her eyes as she continued to gaze at you.

 You can’t help the wave of relief, and you offer a sad smile back, waving to her.

 “I don’t think they’ve told you this,” she looks oddly excited, eyes narrowing into a smile as her lips stretch, “so I’ll be the first!” She pats at her skirt before straightening her back, smiling gleaming so brightly that you feel like you have to close your eyes at the sight of it being present on her face. The nurse clears her throat gently before announcing: “Congratulations! Lord Scaramouche has approved of your request to live in the same room as him!”

 Her words grate your ears as you stare at her in shock, your face paling.

 “Young love,” she sighs happily, “to be living with your boyfriend before marriage, and in Inazuma nonetheless, how scandalous! You two must be so happy!” She squealed in excitement, “Although I’m not too sure, it is uncommon in Inazuma to lay together in bed before marriage, right my dear?”

 Her words don’t register in your brain. You are still lingering on the first words of her sentences. You had so many questions in your brain, and you were honestly too tired to answer any of them by yourself. “What request, exactly,” you inquire as politely as you can, holding respect for the woman before you.

 She beams at you once more, looking kind of nervous, “Have you forgotten? You requested  it last week! Lord Scaramouche personally approved it,” the nurse folds her hands on her chest as if clutching her heart, “all your stuff has been transferred over there. How romantic! Ah, and to think I disturbed the both of you in the infirmary.”

 Your hand twitches at the mention of the moment in the infirmary, the phantom pain of electricity running through your arm once again as your healing bruises burned. She is not thinking correctly, or so you’re convinced. “With all due respect,” you begin tentatively, waiting for her to look up as you wish to explain yourself, however she’s off in her own world.

 “Perhaps it’s time for me to look for someone myself!”

 It’s hopeless, you think as a familiar frustration wells up from within you. Looks like you’d have to meet him again, you sighed at the thought. Seeing him twice in one day was too much, but you supposed you had no choice. It wasn’t like he left you with any, anyway, as usual.

 With that, you rush to meet him.

Chapter Text

 When you find yourself at the door of his room, you're hesitant to enter. You knew he wasn't inside quite yet, it was still early at night, but it felt inappropriate of you. The implications of a woman entering a man's room at night... although, you figured, the rumors have already been spread decently wide and far. This was probably hardly a shock to anybody at this point. With a reluctant and exhausted sigh, you open the door leading to his room, almost shocked at how brightly lit the room was. You supposed he kept the lights on constantly, considering the room was lit prior to your entry, despite the lack of presence of anybody inside. A sudden thought hit your mind. It was also a possibility that he had known you were coming, and had left them on for you. 

  He's a creep, you bitterly remind yourself, although you wonder if you had ever forgotten. Moments like these reminded you of how he seemed to always think about you despite the mountains of paperwork he had piled up in his office room. You disliked it, really. The Balladeer always found a way to keep an eye on you, you couldn't even send your letters to your family in peace due to his control over the mail couriers. He kept an eye on everything, you’d supposed. 

 You slowly amble deeper into the room, walking in and drawing yourself to the black bed, embroidered with what looked like an electro symbol in front of you just a couple strides away. You felt as though perhaps his sadistic and mentally deranged self had placed traps for you, although the reality of that idea was far. You observe the room carefully, marveling at the beautiful Inazuman paneling of the room. The room in itself was large, perhaps being able to fit an army of people. It was unnecessarily large, and due to the somewhat lack in furnishing, it felt empty. Aside from a couple of tables, stacked with papers and decorations, scrolls, and ornaments hanging from here and there, the room was mostly empty. The windows leading to the outside were circular, showcasing an exterior of a small, empty field. 

 As you stroll past the windows, one scroll in particular caught your eye, the inking and brush strokes being a little bit more precise than the others. The scroll still seemed fairly new, the ink still clean and dark. The beauty of calligraphy in it accompanied by the miniature inked butterflies, and the word scrawled onto it: Eternity. You shuddered, remembering his slight obsession with things everlasting. If you had to be honest with yourself, you disliked the thought of "eternity". Something eternal, felt to you, was like an unattainable dream. Something impossible. A brief image flashes before your eyes, a red butterfly, off to the distance in a dark night, its luminescent light gradually fading as it flutters further away from you. 

 You frowned, halting your steps as you closed your eyes, wishing to embrace the glimpse of red in your mind. A feeling of dread settles in your stomach, and suddenly you feel panicky, watching the butterfly's red fade off completely when you hear an echoing clap in your distant memories. You remember the feeling of electricity crawling along your skin, and then a dark promise of a familiar voice says, "If you think of chasing them again, I’ll cut off your limbs.” The memory makes you freeze up, a headache following suit as a sour feeling burns in your throat.

 You find your nails digging into your thighs before you know it, and you cringe, the pain bringing you back into the present. This odd sense of harm you brought to yourself was like a pinch you'd give to wake yourself up from a bad dream. Something you've learned in order to protect what sanity you had left post nightmares. Your gaze fixes itself on a table by the side of the bed in front of you. You found your items organized by a vanity area consisting of dark wood adorned with intricate woodwork.

 On top lay loose papers, books, some lotions you had bought to care for your scars and skin, and a couple of other personal care items that your mother had gifted you. You didn't have much, you admit with slight boredom, especially with the items splayed out before you on just one table. You checked for your clothes, walking around to the left side of the room by a long foldable screen. A change room, you had supposed, thankfully placed at the corner of the room. Just behind the thick panels was room to change, and an ornate wooden dresser. Pulling on the metal hinges, you find your clothes, neatly folded and arranged by drawers. You'd have to rearrange them , you thought as you slid it back closed. You were too tired. Grabbing what spare blankets you could find in your drawers, you wrapped yourself and sat in your changeroom's corner, just between the panelling and the edge of the desk, leaning on a wall.

 You slid your pin off from your hair and let the strands fall loose, splaying out onto your shoulders as you hold your pin tightly, gazing upon it with a forlorn feeling. As you close your eyes, tucking your feet into the warmth of the blankets as you sit in a fetal position, you hear a distant joyous laughter in the back of your mind. The laughter sparks an image of your teammates, and it brings a comforting smile onto your face. The visualization before you was a distant memory from before you had become their commander. You had surprised them with little hand painted daruma dolls meant to look like them. They had been so shocked with your lack of artistic talent despite knowing your bloodline was filled with graceful wagashi makers. You remember how embarrassed you felt as you watched them all burst into laughter one by one, feeling small surrounded by a group of tall grown men. This memory has etched itself into your brain, a fragment of something so beautiful in the recesses of your mind.

 The air was much more kind back then, the breeze gentle and the winds singing softly to you. The world was much brighter, maybe brighter than you had remembered, especially since lately it seems all the colors have slowly been vanishing. In those days, there was no torturous electric static amidst the wind, and there were no red lined indigo eyes to watch you so constantly from afar. You could breathe, you could smile, you could live. You replay the memory in your head before it fades, rewinding it and allowing it to start over again as you allowed yourself to relive the memory so precious to you. You find yourself slowly lulling to sleep, the memory like a broken record, continuously rewinding to play its same beautiful tune once again

 On a cold moonless night, you relish in the sunshine of your mind. Quietly, and desperately, you wish to never wake from your blissful dream.

 The footsteps that echo throughout the chamber cause you to slightly stir awake, the sound of wooden sandals against tatami mats making themselves known to your alert ears. You grip onto your red pin once again, making yourself impossibly smaller against the wall and wooden cabinet frame. Was it already that time of night? You felt nervous, all in all, because you had never quite encountered Scaramouche so late at night. During late night patrols, you had observed his schedule, making sure to know around what time he leaves his office chambers post paperwork production so that you could avoid him. When you were off night shift duty, by now, you were in your own room thrashing in your bed. Now that all of that personal privacy was gone, you’d have no choice but to come face to face with the physical walking nightmare this late at night.

 His footsteps draw closer, the sound of a soft sigh falling from his lips as he mumbles something under his breath. You keep your eyes shut, hoping to embrace what little you had left of your sleepiness, continuing to revel in the sunshine of your repeating memory. You focus on thinking about your teammates, their faces, their smiles, the sound of their laughter. You hear his feet turn and shuffle towards your direction, and dread falls at the pit of your stomach. Suddenly, in your mind’s eye, the vibrant imagery is gone. The background melts into black, and when you look to find your teammates, you see their mangled and bleeding bodies on the floor where they once stood.

  “Ah,”   you think to yourself as a visceral permafrost shadows the remaining warmth of your heart. This scene was one you had known and seen before. Just on the day you downed the electro beast. Everyone had tried so hard, putting their shields up, protecting each other and attacking the large monstrosity of a beast. In the end, you were the only one left standing. Just like now, your own internal voice sounds distant. You wonder if it is even yours to begin with. That’s right, they’re all gone. You had left them to fight for themselves against the business you yourself had left unfinished, and with no proper team leader… of course… they would…  

 You don’t hear Scaramouche squatting down in front of you until he clicks his tongue, waking you up from your temporary stupor. Immediately, with your free hand, you pull a dagger out and aim it at him, eyes wide as alertness overtakes you, your breath halting to a quick stop. You blink, recognizing his face, noticing his hat was amiss, and then you glare at him.

 “What are you,” he snickers, swatting your dagger away with a gloved hand in annoyance, “a homeless person or a rabid cat, directing your useless claws out at me?” His voice is sharp and cold, though you do hear that there is a slight tiredness in it.

 You glower at him, not saying a word. No, no, it was never your fault. He sent them out on purpose, to get them killed as a petty revenge. You release a steady breath, attempting to internally recollect your scattered thoughts. Your teammates were dead. It was his fault. It was his fault.

 It was his fault, wasn’t it? 

 Or was it yours?

Noticing your mental absence despite your aggressive stance, he snaps his fingers. The sound causes you to flinch, and when you dismiss your thoughts, you find yourself twirling the dagger in between your fingers, turning them inwards so you don’t accidentally hurt him. “Why am I here?” You question him, your brain still catching up from its sleepy state.

 “Why are you here,” he raises an eyebrow, lifting a hand closer to your face. Instinctively, you flinch away, glare remaining focused on his eyes. He hums, seeming somewhat amused by your antics, “Perhaps you are more like a dog,” he muses before forcefully grabbing your chin to face him. With much reluctance, you are involuntarily made to look at him fully, face heating with slight anger when his touch rests on your face firmly. 

 His eyes soften, his expression unreadable. With a tone of authority, he says, “Come to bed. I have to speak to you.”

 You cringe, shoulders scrunching together as you attempt to pull yourself away from him, “I wouldn’t dare rest on the same bed as you,” you hiss, and he returns your glare. At his glare, you snicker, fixing your tone slightly out of spite, “I am but a Fatui officer, after all,” you say with a straight face, “I could never live knowing I’ve dirtied my own Lordship’s bed.”

 He leans closer to your face and keeps his hand taut on your chin, electricity crackling and pulsing from his touch on your face, causing you to clench your teeth. He smiles, indigo irises dark as he gazes deep into your own. “Don’t you know who spread the rumors of us dating in the first place?” His words cause the blood coursing through your veins to freeze. He laughs at the emotion that flickers in your eyes, hand holding the dagger threatening to press against his nape as a maleficent look crosses his face.

  “You are the only one who doesn’t think we are dating,” his smile is terrifying, his voice quiet and sinister, “everyone else believes we are. In fact, they cheer, ” he brushes his thumb across the side of your cheek as he leans closer, the warmth of his body evidently weighing on yours with every inch forward. You can’t move back any further, you’re trapped again. His other arm wraps around the small of your back, forcing you to arch into him. You let out a displeased noise when you feel his smile on an ear, “They cheer because they think we’re perfect for each other. Electric fire , strong, dedicated members of the Fatui, so in love, ” he chuckles, “always finding ways to meet each other during expeditions.”

 You want to scream at him, but instead, grip onto the items in your hands tighter. You could stab him, you think. Suddenly, the implications of his words crash onto you like violent tidal waves against a cliff. Every step he took was calculated. For the past six years of him knowing of your existence, every run in during expeditions, every second you were in his presence, all those touches and small gestures, it was all deliberate. Your eyes widen as you remember the nightmare you had several nights ago. Looking into his eyes, seeing the red butterfly trapped wrapped in a web. Your grip loosened. That’s right. This was his way of ‘loving’ someone. Manipulating them, destroying them, making it so that they were unable to do anything, whether that meant tearing their limbs off, or promising evil to those around them. But you hadn’t thought his ambition was as far as to web everyone else into it, too.

 You inhaled as your mind flickered, jumping from scenario to scenario, screaming at you to do something. There’s a distant sound of something in your head, like a muffled shatter, then a plethora of screams resound in your head, and before you know it, you react. You wrap your arms around his frame. You hear his breath stop as the blanket loosens from around you, your mind hazy, yet clear in its decisions as you press him against you, the tip of your dagger resting dangerously on your skin as you think to stick it into his neck. You let out a shaky breath, your eyes zeroing in on a part of the changeroom screen in front of you. One by one, you process your own thoughts. I’m tired, when will this end, I hate him.

 I want to kill him.

 But, this wasn’t the right time. The Fatui knew where your parents lived. They regularly delivered medicine to them upon your request. Aside from that, they could kill you for turning on them. Perhaps when there is a moment where everyone is looking away, a moment you could create. Your body releases its tension, relaxing your hold on him as you rested your dagger.

 “ Leave me be ,” you choose to say weakly, retracting your hands from his back and pressing onto his chest, pushing him away from you. Exhaustion was eating at you.

 When he regains his balance, he looks disturbingly happy, his eyes smiling as an eerie smile split on his face. Your eyes, now, were clearer than he has ever seen them, the hellfire he wished to see blazing from within. Your tone in itself wasn’t strong, however the emotion in your eyes told him otherwise. “What will you do,” he says, his voice low and indicating a challenge, “will you tell everyone we’re not dating?” He laughs condescendingly as he pulls himself up, turning to leave, “They wouldn’t believe you. Six years of me slowly spreading my poison,” he sounds as though he was proud of himself, “and they’re all intoxicated now. Completely,” you watch as he begins to walk forward before he comes to a halt. “Perhaps,” he says slowly, looking behind his shoulder to give you a dark smile, “I’ll let your parents know, too.”

 You shoot up from your spot immediately, eyes narrowing dangerously. “Say anything to them, and you will find my blades in your skull,” you hiss venomously. If he dared to put a finger on your family, you would set him ablaze.

 “My,” he heaves a breath, “ how scary.” He fakes a sad voice as he leaves you to your own accord, his footsteps receding towards the bed as you follow behind him, quickly putting your pin back in your hair as you pick up your blanket, dagger still in the other. He turns around and smiles when he notices you are behind him, eyes flickering towards the knife in your hand. “What do you plan on doing with that knife?” His voice is lighthearted.

 “It’s just a precaution,” you reply as you throw your blanket onto the bed, eyes never leaving his own. You don’t wait for a response from him, speaking again before he does, “Now, why do I have my things here? I certainly did not put a request in to sleep in the same chambers as you,” your voice is heavily strung together by annoyance and anger, your expression no longer hiding your disgust from him.

 He pauses, analyzing your expression as his facial features flickered, his voice deepening slightly when he responds, with a small huff, “If you want a fake yet honest confession,” he begins with a devilish smile, “we required your room for extra shipments, because truthfully, we’re lacking in space right now. Because of those electro beasts blocking our paths, we haven’t had much of a chance to clear out of useless inventory,” he claims as he turns around to sit on his bed. You watch him like a hawk, playing with the dagger you had in one hand as your pyro vision gleamed.

 “As for the truth,” he turns his head slightly, just enough for you to see the mocking look in his eyes, “I’m sure you already know why. You aren’t that stupid, right?” You bristle in response, thinking that perhaps it was a mistake not to kill him after all.

 “Psychopath,” you hiss, your pyro flames igniting onto your dagger, embedded firmly with your sense of anger. 

 He hums in disapproval, his gaze turning sinister at the object imbued with fire in your hand, “Don’t test me,” he says, as if reminding you to stay in your lane despite having crashed all over yours, “you know full well what happens if you do. Watch your tone, and watch your words with me.”

 The patchy welts on your wrists seem to ache at his words, and reluctantly, you release the flames from your dagger, not wanting to endure any more pain in your body from him. He  was dangerous, you knew that, his moodiness triggered quickly. Right now, you couldn’t afford to let him hurt you anymore than he already has. You would have to rebuild your strength and find the prime time to execute him, despite the amount of followers he had at his feet, watching him.

 At your obedience, he turns his body towards you, facial expression turning devious as the corner of his lips curled into a smirk. “Good girl,” he muses, and you feel your stomach sour at the back handed compliment. He treated you like a dog more than he did like a human, you thought as you sat on your side of the bed, falling on the cushioned bed with a soft thump. “Now that you’re all settled,” he starts, holding your gaze, his eyes turning narrow as a tone of importance edged his voice, “I have to talk to you about something.”

 You were mildly curious, you had to admit, but knowing him, whatever it was he wanted to talk about would be nothing good.

 “I’m sure you were raised with knowledge about Inazuman traditions,” his tone is terrifying with how serious it was, and you swallowed air, knowing full well where he was heading.

 “ No.” You immediately reply, turning your head away, not wanting to hear the rest of his words. There’s a loud crackle next to you, and your hairs raise at the sense of a threat, feeling electricity gather around you. You internally sighed. You really did hate him. 

 “You will listen,” his growls in annoyance, “ now look at me. ” 

 You tear your gaze away from the round window you had been staring at, refocusing your eyes back onto his own. Just listen for a little longer, you convince yourself as you fight every cell in your body to lunge at him. Be obedient, you’ve trained yourself for this. 

 When he sees your eyes are on him, he starts again, “Traditionally, it is not acceptable for a man and wife to sleep together before they are wed, ” the dread in your stomach swirls. You want to puke, “Certainly you know what that means,” his voice is stern, “we are no exception among the Inazuman traditions, and I believe we both agree,” he leans a little closer to you, you make no movement to move away, “we both have a high reputation on the line.”

 You stare at him blankly, unsure of what to say. You’re too focused on how badly you want to hurl at his words.

 “Let’s get married.” His indigo eyes are staring deep into your own, searching for any reaction within them.

 You don’t give him the pleasure of it. You train your stare to remain blank, and you tell him once again, your voice softer and quieter, “No.”

 An emotion flits on his face, and you almost recognize it to be discomfort, and maybe even hurt. However, rejection of his advances was nothing new from you. His eyes darkened as he grabbed your wrist, pressing hard on the bruises that were there, eliciting a pained hiss from your clenched teeth. You glare at him, not wanting to back down. 

 Marriage was a very big deal, especially in Inazuman tradition. It wasn’t something to take lightly, it was highly valued in society that every woman by the age of twenty should get married. Of course, you, being a Fatui member, had opted against those very traditions. You wanted to live your life as you wanted to, and perhaps one day, you’d get settled down with a tall, handsome man that you loved. A man who would treat your family with hospitality, who would go an extra mile for them and yourself. To you, marriage was always something your parents have wanted from you.

 They respected your wishes enough to not force you into a marriage, however, it was a constant thing they would bring up in their letters with you. The most they had done was suggest suitors to you, all of which you would make a measly excuse to decline, saying you had high standards. It wasn’t entirely a lie, you were waiting for the right person to sweep you off your feet, and you didn’t mind waiting for the right person to come, if that meant you’d be happy for the rest of your life. 

 None of those factors pertained to Scaramouche.

 In Inazuma, there were hardly any divorces, and divorces would be gossiped about from village to village, travelling from sales merchant to another. Divorcing would also decrease one’s chances of being married again. 

 With a firm resolve, you tell him once more, “No,”   your fists are clenched, prepared for a surge of electricity, and for any punishment that would come. 

 Much to your surprise, he lets go of your wrist, dark blue hair shifting as he tilts his head, his expression dark as he threatens you, “Even if I tell your parents that you’re a Fatui? ”

 Rage builds in your system, and you slam your hands down onto the bed, glaring at him, “You are so fucking petty,”  you curse as he keeps a steady eye on you, “you’ve been reading my letters too?”  You withhold a shriek, and prepare to lunge yourself at him, a coy smile growing on his face. 

 “Today I did,” he replies calmly, “ I’ve read the ones you’ve kept. I know everything about you and your little family. I know how sick your father is, I know your love for sweets, I know how badly your family wants you to marry into a rich family so that you could live luxuriously as a lovely housewife, ” he continues to smile at your enraged expression. He whispers when he leans just close enough for you to hear him speak, “What if I tell them that as of today, you’ll be sleeping with a Fatui harbinger?”

 You yell as you launch yourself at him, “Leave them out of this!” He grabs your wrists mid launch and you grit your teeth, fighting to land a hit on him despite the clear exhaustion and weakness in your body. He easily turns you over, throwing you onto the bed with little effort. To quell your anger, Scaramouche allows a little bit of his electricity to pass through towards you, sending you just enough to weaken you. When you attempt to get up, you find that your limbs refuse to move. Instead, you lay gasping for air, hands reaching for anything, vision blurring as exhaustion overtakes you. You find yourself too tired to cry, too tired to yell, too tired to be mad, and knowing him, he would really give you no option. 

 “You never learn your lesson,” he sounds tired, almost disinterested in your behavior.

 You think for a moment, allowing yourself to catch your breath as he shifts on the bed, looking at you with a bored expression as you gaze up at the ceiling. You admire the ceiling in that minute you spare yourself, tracing over the details of the wooden structure with your eyes, observing them as if they were the inner workings of your mind. In that briefness, you find a conclusion. You used what energy you had left to reply to him.

 “Three months ,” you finally manage to retort. You would figure something out in that time. Maybe you could run away somewhere far away, out of Inazuma, change your name, change your looks. Leave the Fatui for good. You had nothing left to stay for, you had money saved up by now that you could give to your family. And if you found a meager job, you’d give your all to support them. You could start anew, and… your teammates…

 Their deceased selves pass by your head again.

 You had unfinished business here. Your pyro vision glints in your favor.

 “I won’t run away,” you declare as you raise an arm to cover your face, “give me three months. That’s all,” There is shame in your downtrodden heart as you sacrifice another several dreams at the hands of Scaramouche, and you bitterly add on, biting the inside of your cheek as a harsh coldness rushes through your system, “please.”

 Seemingly satisfied by your response, he grazes a gloved hand on your cheek, brushing it with an affection you find so revolting, you wish to die. His lips pull to a frown, “One month,” he hums, “that’s all the kindness you can get from me after all the stunts you pulled over the past week. Besides, I’m already sacrificing my reputation by choosing to be with you. I can’t wait longer than a month, or else,” he sighs, “it’d look bad on the Fatui, and for the both of us."  

 You wish he’d rot. You couldn’t wait to see the day in which his wounds would fester.

 “Now, what do you say?”

 You clench your teeth.

 “Thank you.”

 You are restless that night, sleeping in a bed with Scaramouche resting not too far from you. Despite your lack of energy, thoughts continuously fueled your anxiety, running laps in your mind. You tried counting your breaths, peering out a window not too far from where you lay, keeping your calm by training your eyes on parts of the green field outside, imagining what it would be like to be there at this moment, as opposed to being in bed with an obsessive stalker, and murderer. You don’t allow your mind to wander further into the depths of your mind.

 When your mind wanders, it brings you back to memories of your teammates, and you are constantly reminded of how they were gone from reality, only alive in your dreams, although you weren’t sure if you had many of those left. There is a constant fear gripping onto your heart, wrapping around it like a dark shadow. Nightmares replace your pleasant dreams. You are afraid of losing anything else, unable to say goodbye to those that really mattered to you.

 You find you cannot rest, so you slowly rise from your resting position. You sit up in the bed, trying to be as careful as you could so you wouldn’t wake Scaramouche’s sleeping body next to you. You place your feet on the floor, standing up and walking over to your change station. 

 Swiftly, you change clothes, returning to your regular Fatui attire. When you step out of the changing zone, eyebags prevalent underneath your eyes, you pause when you hear the Balladeer speak.

 “Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is surprisingly weary, and less harsh than he probably intended to put out.

 You answer in a whisper voice out of respect, not turning to look at him, “I’ll just be in the field outside,” you meekly reply, moving your way towards the patio screen nestled in the center of the room. When he doesn’t respond, you exit out onto the wooden patio. You immediately find focus in your surroundings, the fresh night air greeting your lungs as you escape your suffocating thoughts, and before you get what you’re doing, you are picking up broken branches off the yard. You find yourself creating five separate mounds, putting sticks on each mound and sitting in front of them.

 The wind nips at your skin, your fingers freezing in the cold of the night. Your gaze is empty when you look at the five mounds before you, feeling numb as you kneel, back slouched. You close your eyes, and hold this moment close to you. You think about your teammates, and all the recent suffering you’ve had to forgo. 

 You frown as despair chokes you, a sense of sadness falling onto as your heart falls. You pray deep in your heart, hoping that they have passed on peacefully. You thank them, and sit there in the bitter cold for what feels like forever. The frostiness of the night breeze feels almost painful, but you felt like it was something you were okay with. This was your way of atoning, for being unable to be there for them when they passed. You peel the red butterfly hairpin from your hair, thumb tracing over the details and memorizing them as your heart panged with guilt.

  A team with no leader, you thought as you shivered. You had always scorned other leaders for leaving their team behind, and yet here you were. Sitting in front of home made graves, not knowing where their bodies were. You felt as though a large chunk of you had fallen away and disappeared into dust without you even noticing it. In fact, you still felt that this was all surreal. Maybe it was because you hadn’t witnessed their deaths before your eyes, that fact accompanied with the fact that nothing had come back from them, not even a shred of clothing. Perhaps they were alive.

 You remember the boxes in their rooms.

 You fold your hands, playing with your hairpin as you tilt your head downwards.

 At this point, there was nothing wrong with lying to yourself to believe in something, right?

 You feel as though you were being watched. You ignored the feeling.

  Right now, you want peace.

Chapter Text

 Three days since you found yourself in bed with Scaramouche, you received notice that you had a new team prepared to go. They were made of rookies, and during training, one of the men in the group had questioned you because of how you kindly made sure that they wouldn’t handle anything wrong on their next mission. You babied them in fear that they would die like the rest of your team had. 

 “Ma’am,” the recruit begins, bringing your attention towards his figure. You eye him, vaguely remembering his name.

 “Iori,” you say in response, “what is it?” You place a hand on your hip, weighing down on one leg as you peered at him with tired eyes. 

 “…You’re very kind,” Iori speaks with a sense of slowness, and for once, you are thankful. For the past couple days, you had found yourself with such a terrible attention span and you felt that you had become slower in processing words. You grimace at his confession, unsure of what he meant. “You are really detailed in your plans, and you warn us which places to avoid,” he continued, bowing his head, “pardon my intrusiveness, but I’ve heard from my colleagues that other commanding officers don’t bother making plans in great detail like you—!”

 “How foolish,” you say coldly, blurry images of your previous team passing through your mind as you sighed, looking away. “Speaking about my fellow officers like that in front of me,” you walk to his side, noticing that he had frozen up on the spot, “watch what you say. I’m a little more lenient, but if anyone else had heard you, your tongue would be cut off,” your tone is one of warning as opposed to a threat.

 “My apologies, ma’am,” the new recruit says, stumbling over his own words slightly as he remains in his bowing position.

 You keep a firm gaze on him, eyes darkening slightly, “Besides,” you begin, walking close enough to him just so that you were an arm’s length away from him, “it’s not that I’m kind. I’m prepared,” you explain with an edge of solemnness falling into your tone, “I’ve lost people before. I’m not willing to take another gamble and risk the lives of my squadron,” you pause, looking up as you hear a bell ringing from afar. Your eyes harden at the sight of Scaramouche trudging past the training area. He walks past wooden columns on the patio, eyes set onto the sight in front of him with each dutiful stride. Then you notice that his pace considerably slows, and he lifts a gloved hand up onto his hat. There’s a burning in your heart when you see the red of his eyeliner under his eyes as he tilts his head to face you. 

 A frown is evident on his face when his gaze meets yours.

 You want to gouge his eyes out of their sockets. You want to poison his drink, and then incinerate his body with your flames. You want to kill him.

 You balk at intrusive and sudden violence of your own thoughts, and as he turns away, walking through a sliding door leading to the interior of the Fatui headquarters, you think to yourself. When have you ever started wanting to do these things? Your brain was rewiring itself, or maybe, you were just having a bad week. That’s all it must be… right? Concluding your thoughts, you open your mouth again, the burning feeling in your heart travelling to your stomach at your own realization.

 “Also, you’ve mistaken something,” you turn your head to face your recruit, now standing up firmly as he looks at you with a sense of fear. Your eyes narrow, lips pulling to a thin frown, “I’ve never been a kind person,” you say with a tone of voice that feels alien to you, so foreign you wonder if it’s truly your voice anymore, “working for the Fatui, you cannot be ‘kind’. Perhaps you aren’t too acquainted with the work we do,” you profess as the many dead faces of people, human beings you’ve killed flash before your eyes.

 Maybe you weren’t so different from Scaramouche after all. At the end, you were a murderer, just under the false protection and justice of a professional system. Sacrifice the lives of people for the Tsaritsa, and more importantly, for your family, so that they may live easier lives.

 The thought reminds you why your face is stony, little to no expression passing by in front of comrades and friends alike. You used to smile much more, laughing in joy at the smallest things. Now, when you truly felt your feelings, it was hardly ever happy. It was usually rage, fear, sadness, the primal instincts of survival, nothing more. Hardly love, hardly happiness. Just a hungry darkness, swallowing you whole, an abyss that dwells deep inside your mind and body, devouring everything. Scaramouche was just hastening the process, you suppose. 

 “We don't just kill beasts. We have to kill innocent people sometimes, sometimes even children,” you admit with an empty tone, eyes lacking sympathy as you look into the recruit’s own eyes, and your voice drips with dread, “we do anything for the Tsaritsa, in the name of the Tsaritsa, and by the Tsaritsa’s orders.” Yeah, you think bitterly, we are all dogs at the end of the day, barking and fighting, even killing for our owner. When the recruit is overcome with a look of fear, his body shaking, a foreign feeling overcomes you. 

 You smile, tilting your head slightly as your shoulders relax.

 “If I had to be trapped in a room with all of you, my recruits and my fellow colleagues,” you want to stop speaking, but there’s a loud ringing in your head that drowns out any logic, “if we had to kill each other to survive,” your eyes never leave his, even when he visibly flinches at your words, “then, without hesitation…” Your body feels cold, and your eyes are glassy, “I’d kill all of you.”

 Every day for a week, you find yourself repeating the same routine. You wake up earlier than the Balladeer, then you start your day off with training, and when you sleep, you try your best to come when he’s already asleep. Oddly enough, despite living in the same room as him, this schedule made it feel like you hardly saw him at all.

 For training, you go to the shooting range and throw daggers at their targets, and to you, it was almost like meditation. You thought of nothing but the moment, and you never allowed your mind to stray further than the thought of accepting your current feelings. For breakfast, sometimes you wouldn’t eat. Lunch and dinner meals had reduced to a bite out of an apple. 

 Truthfully, you were unsure of how you were alive. You kept yourself just far enough from death so that you wouldn’t starve or become dehydrated, and you were meeting the minimum requirements of sleep. You took short naps midday in peaceful places, away from prying eyes and away from people. Whenever you could, for your expeditions, you aimed to go far, towards the Kujou area of Inazuma, and whenever Kujou Sara was available, you would trade small conversations with her. Pertaining to work, of course. Nothing past that, although you do realize that the both of you were close enough to make small complaints about work. Perhaps this was your attempt of finding friendship amidst the disasters of your life, having lost people dear to you. Maybe you were feeling lonely. Or maybe you were just avoiding Scaramouche. You didn’t know, you could barely think coherently when it came to stringing your own thoughts together.

 You had barely slept, and all in all the amount of sleep you got was so little that you could count the numbers on your fingers. You were exhausted in your day to day life, and lately, you haven’t been checking the time and keeping a strict handle on yourself. You were becoming more sluggish, more careless, and when it came to writing your mother and father a letter in response to their own, you felt like you just couldn’t do it. Just thinking about picking up a pen and writing tired you out, and sometimes you wonder why your mind quit before your body did anything yet. Perhaps, your body had quit a long time ago, and now you were simply conceding.

 Yet here you were.

 There’s a dull thunk when you throw your knife at the target block, the knife sinking deep into the wood just centimeters away from the red circular center of the target. You frown as you play with a dagger, repositioning your weight to one side as you admire the silver of the dagger, your mind drifting as you thought about how your skills were becoming less sharp.

 Quickly, an ache forms in your head, causing you to flinch as you face the crescent moon of the night, feeling the ocean water’s chill drift onto the land and brush against your body. The moon’s gaze lacked warmth, and surprisingly, you were okay with it. The moon was your company when nobody was there, at least. The headache grows worse, and you think it’s time to draw yourself inwards, back into the room you shared and loathed so much. Before you go, you allow a weak pyro flame to imbue into your dagger, admiring the red of the flames as it rises on your blade and warms you up with its heat. 

 You close your eyes and think about the Frostflake Heron, the beautiful Kamisato Princess. You had the honor of seeing her before, when she was descending a pair of stairs in her typical get up. She was a beautiful girl, dignified, elegant from the ends of her hair to her fingernails, and the look in her eyes reflected a never ending kindness. Something you admired, and something  that made you wonder what you looked like in someone else’s eyes. 

 There was a pang of envy in your chest as you opened your eyes again. A beautiful heron, a crane with the ability to soar through the skies. Your eyes find the abstract shapes of red and orange rising from the tip of your dagger to meet the skies as you lift your blade towards the moon. Briefly, the fire coming off and fluttering towards the skies on your dagger had reminded you of the precious red butterflies by the shrine. 

 You wonder as you keep your eyes trained on the tip of your blade, watching the flames form makeshift butterflies as they flutter to the sky, smiling thankfully that you had been gifted these flames by the Pyro Goddess, Murata. Embracing the blade as close as you could without hurting yourself, you speak quietly.

  “To a heron drifting high in the heavens, what is a butterfly with clipped wings to do but to crawl like an insect on the hell we call earth.”

  You wonder. If someone were to see you right now, what would they see? What do you look like?

 The chamber is silent when you step in, the moonlight filtering through the windows and spilling across the floor with its incandescent light. You follow the trails the moonlight makes, and find yourself gazing upon a black clothed figure on the bed ahead of you, laying under covers, unmoving. You take off your shoes before you take any more steps, not wanting to disturb his slumber both out of respect and out of fear he would talk to you. You put your shoes together in one hand and begin to amble forward, your hair dripping with water and falling onto the floor in small droplets. You had come from the female’s shower room, and you had never once decided to use the bathroom connected to the bedroom. The room was already filled with his scent, and it made you want to hurl. It wasn’t that he smelled terrible, but… you just hated him. Everything about him, to a childish extent in which if you found out he liked the same fruit you did, you would probably stop eating it. You couldn’t imagine what the bathroom would smell like with his own personal care products in it.

 Your amble towards the bed was slow, and your eyes never left his form once. If he did as little as twitch, you would probably step out onto the private patio a little longer. When you make it to the edge of the bed, you place your indoor shoes down, and then you move to tuck yourself in bed. You slide under the covers, adjusting your pillow with as little movement as you could and folding yourself into a fetal position, body facing your change room. Your mind whirred with thoughts as you felt a soft breeze of air enter from an open window brush against your hand. You focused your mind as sharply as you could despite your dulled mental state, and pointed your gaze at the intricate wood marbling of the screen in front of you. 

 Had you ever decided to let go of even this much focus, your mind would skip and start to think about the dead faces of your teammates in your head. You tried not to let yourself fall asleep, fearing that you would have a nightmare. You couldn’t afford to have a nightmare in front of Scaramouche, knowing it would give him another upper hand at something more private in your life. Your reactions to waking up to any nightmare would show a sign of weakness, and truthfully, you found that you were already full of holes and less complete than you had originally thought, especially with these recent events. You couldn’t take any more than this. You clench your fists as you fight to stay awake a little longer, eyes threatening to shut as you dug crescents into the palms of your hands.

 Any more than this--  the lack of sleep, lack of healthiness in your overall current lifestyle, and having to deal with Scaramouche, any further than this, you would truly crack. You were fighting the inevitable, you knew it deep in your heart, but to you, fighting was better than nothing at all. You were a warrior at heart, getting into fights with bullies at a young age and always running around, ready for adventure. Nothing would break this resolve, and you would make sure of it.

 You find yourself struggling to make sense of your thoughts as more minutes pass, your mind blanking out as your eyes flicker from being opened to closed. You don’t hear the sound of shuffling behind you, and you only recognize things to be happening when you feel a shift of weight next to you. Your eyes widen as you feel an arm wrap around your waist, the hold light and gentle.

 Rage floods you. Had he been waiting for the right time to take advantage of you in your weakness? Was he awake the whole time, knowing you were trying to be as stealthy as you could so that he could rest? What was he going to do now, why was he touching you so casually like this again? What was his plan? You grit your teeth. Why was he doing this?

 You swiftly rise, ripping his hold off of you as you turn to glare at him using your arm closest to him as support when you lift your upper body up, teeth clenched. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing,” you hiss at him, eyes meeting his own. Your eyes widen when you see an odd expression on his face. Your breathing halts.

 You weren’t sure if you were looking at Scaramouche. The person before you looked so different. 

 His hair was a mess, face softer, much more amiable, his eyes narrowed slightly from tiredness. His lips were pulled to a line with downward curved edges, eyebrows raised at your sudden movement. 

 He looked handsome, and innocent, gazing at you so tenderly, as if you were made of glass so fragile, you could break in one touch.

  Your blood feels like it’s on fire, a rage glowing in your eyes as a scowl grows on your face, teeth still clenched and face feeling hot with fury. 

 How could he?  How could he dare to look at you like that, knowing he has made your life a living hell, knowing he had done nothing for the past six years but betray your expectations over and over again. This was the same man who electrocuted you, who killed your teammates, who blamed everything on you, the same man who took your room from you, who read through private letters without your permission, who threatened to tell your parents about a secret you’ve withheld from them for so long.

 In your mind’s eye, you see a terrifying memory. Scaramouche with his arms around you, and then him burning the red butterfly you treasured to dust.

Something inside you snaps, and before you could recollect yourself, you find yourself above him, legs on each side of his body as you sit on his stomach, hands on his throat as you shake with a rage so overwhelming, your mind starts to melt. Your face is hot, so hot that you don’t even notice the tears falling down your cheeks until it lands on his black yukata. Your eyes zero into his face as you release a shaky sob.

 He looks at you, unamused, face almost serene despite his position. His hands rest at his sides, and he does nothing to move you away from him. 

 It only serves to infuriate you more.

 You slightly press down on his throat and tears race down your face, “Why?”  You cry as your hair falls over your face, “Do something!”  You exclaim, your voice cracking as the mental exhaustion settles in and controls you, “Fight back,”  your grip around his neck weakens as your hands fall onto his shoulders, pressing him down onto the bed. You shake his body, and he seems to let you, his eyes still trained onto your face as if he was just observing you, trying to take into account every emotion that passed on your face. You freeze up when you feel his hands on your thighs, placed carefully, almost as if he was testing something.

 You look at him, lower lip trembling as a shiver runs down your spine. When he speaks, his voice falls onto your ears like gentle raindrops.

 “I'm trying to understand you," he replies, "you're acting out right now. You haven’t been sleeping well, you shiver so much that it reverberates on the bed,” he tentatively begins, gauging your expression, mixed with fear and anger, and he frowns before continuing, “I thought I could help you sleep better.”

 Your eyes are locked with his as your blood freezes over.

  No.  

  No, no, no, no-- no. Something wasn’t right. This wasn’t right-- he wasn’t right. 

 His palms are now firm on your thighs, as if keeping you steady, grounded. Here. Yet for some reason, he didn't look so scary.

 You retracted your arms and sat on his stomach, staring down at him in disbelief as his words registered in your brain. You sharply inhale. Those were the words of someone who had the ability to care for someone. Those words were tender, like the warmth of sunshine. It was a kindness that you didn’t think you wanted to hear, a kindness that you found in an unexpected place from an unsuspecting person. Tears continued to race down your face as despair flooded your mind. Scaramouche wasn’t like that. He wasn’t kind, he was barely human, he was more like the devil. He was a cold hearted murderer with a mastermind for manipulation. Oh!  That’s right, maybe he was manipulating you! Relief floods through your veins at your own realization, until he opens his mouth again.

 “I suppose though,” his hands find their way to your waist, and you freeze at the touch, “I was worried for nothing, considering how eager you are to kill me. I should expect better,” he lets out a small, halfhearted chuckle, “it is you that we are talking about.”

 You stare at him blankly, eyes wide. 

 You couldn’t understand him. You see him as a heartless monster. He hurts you, he takes everything away from you, not stopping at physical things, he kills your dreams, ruins your life, forces you to dance a waltz with him despite the crumbling walls around you. Sometimes, he holds your hand, touches you lightly, holds you, and does things like these to show… something. You hear his distant voice, echoing from a memory that happened not too long ago.

  “I love you.”

 You relaxed your shoulders, noticing that he had resorted to playing with the edges of your shirt, eyes still narrowed from sleepiness as his eyes traveled downwards to the dried tears on your face. Oh, so that was it, you think as you find a sense of clarity amidst your chaotic thoughts. He did love you. His love wasn't normal, it wasn't exchanged the same way you had seen it to be, between hugs, conversations and kisses. You had never expected to meet someone who could love strangely like this. His love was just fucked up, a mess all around, scattered, obsessive, unhealthy and very desperate, but it was love. For you.  

 For a moment, there was an odd sensation in your heart. You frowned.

  If this was love, your gaze is icy, then you didn’t want it.

 In your mind, another piece of glass falls off a broken mirror.

 “Won’t you die for me,” you whisper, “since you love me so much?” 

 Scaramouche is taken aback when he finds the warmth of your hand on his own, your whisper not reaching his ears. He watches as you lift his hand up from the edge of your shirt, tugging it off gently as you lean forward, his breath catching when you bring his hand up to your face, cradling the weight of your head gently. His heartbeat quickened. His mouth flew open before he could stop himself, “Do you…” His voice is strange, even to himself, “do you love me ?”

 He sounds desperate. Like he was so close to reaching something he had never had, like a child wondering if this was right or not. You don't understand it, not completely anyway. There’s a pregnant pause in the air, and you both stare at each other in shock. You aren’t sure what makes you do it, whether it was the exhaustion built up over the course of months of suffering, the lack of sleep that had settled in, or if it was simply the fact that your hatred for him was ever-growing, but a smile appears on your face. 

 Indigo eyes look at you, eyes wide as the moonlight hits your body in an angle that makes your hair shine white, almost like a halo forming around your head. The smile on your face is deranged when you pull his hand away from your face, and suddenly, you explode into maniacal laughter. Scaramouche clenched his teeth, a darkness settling in his mind as a feeling of regret creeps up on him. The ends of your lips curl at the dark expression on his face as an awful feeling sits in your stomach.

 “How could I ever love someone like you,” you say with honeyed voice, poison lacing your tone, “ all you’ve ever done was bring pain to me. ” You know your words are harsh, and a part of you doesn’t want to say anything more, but with one more look to his face, you feel a sentiment of sadness in your stomach. His expression is mostly blank, but you see behind his eyes lingered the pain of rejection and hurt, and for a moment, you think that maybe you should look at him more often. You always avoided staring at him whenever you could, whenever you deemed it wasn’t necessary. You were scared of him, of the spider web behind those indigo eyes that you might get trapped in, but times like these showed you parts of him you wished to never find, but they were important to you all the same. He did feel pain. He just never showed it.

 You trace your hands over his own again, brushing over them with a featherweight touch. Another thing you had come to realize, though, was that due to the rotten love he had for you, he allowed you to enter his world a little. A flicker of rage lights up in you at your previous thoughts. You would burn him from the inside out. Just like he does to you.

 With little doubt, you open your mouth again, and Scaramouche’s hands find their way to yours. He grips them violently, with a bruising strength, his eyes scorching with anger and betrayal. With just that look, he reminds you to remember who you are speaking to before you continue. You smile.

 “How could anybody love you like this?”

 Your words elicit a vicious reaction from him, and he throws you over to his side, flipping you over and repositioning himself above you. His eyes are sharp, pupils almost like slits, and you swallow as you keep your smile on your face, knowing what punishment is to come. 

  Truthfully, you’d rather see him like this. Spiteful and cruel as opposed to kind and caring. You couldn’t afford to see him as anything more than a monster. You knew of the many pains it took to change people to make them horrible-- you had gone through something similar yourself. And you knew as of today from that one look on his face that not everything about him was bad. You were scared that if you humanized him even a little bit, that the good in you might find a way to forgive him and excuse an ounce of his actions.

 A part of you was sorry, and hurting that you had to hurt someone else’s feelings like this. However, you didn’t get to where you were now as a Fatui officer by listening to those feelings. When you killed people ‘for the Tsaritsa’ , you did your best to hold no remorse. This isn't much different. You were just destroying whatever innocence this man had left inside him, killing whatever kindness he had left to offer to you.

 At the expense of your own health, and for whatever you had left of your sanity, you would hurt him. If it meant you would survive, you would make sure he would never give you such a kind and loving look again, even if a part of you longed for love like that.  

 This wasn’t love like that.

 This would never be love like that.

 So you would rather he hurt you, and remind you that it would never be like that.

 The smile that blooms on your face is so beautiful, it makes Scaramouche hesitate for a moment, his anger mixing with confusion as he pins you down with a scowl, eyebrows furrowing as he glares down at you. A part of him wondered what was going on in your head at this moment, enough to make you smile so genuinely like this, but a stronger, more dominating force overtook him. Suddenly, his lips pull upwards into a condescending smile, his eyes dark with rage as he leans down, pressing so tightly on your wrists that you think the bruises he had left there would probably reappear from the weight. He lets out a villainous chuckle.

 “I’ll figure out a way to make you love me,” his voice is icy and sharp, “but for now, you’re going to regret what you said.”

 Your face contorted with pain as all your efforts to not have him harm you go down the drain. His electricity pulses through your veins. You shut your eyes and smile sadly as you allowed yourself to subject to his torture again. This was for the better, you think as the first wave of shocks that night go through your veins.

Chapter Text

 For another week, you find yourself regaining strength with each training routine you go over, your appetite slowly coming back after each workout. You were in charge of training your new subordinates, and despite this not being your usual job, you had taken it upon yourself with Scaramouche’s approval to do so. Although you were tired through and through, you still somehow had enough strength in you to fight, and perhaps it had become a little too much energy for Scaramouche. As of late, he had been drowned with paperwork and ostensibly avoiding you, much to your pleasure. Things were getting busier, especially since the Traveler had downed Osial, a god that Lord Tartaglia had summoned. The Traveler worked quickly, and to make up for it, the devil, Scaramouche had to work quicker. You saw him less and less as days went on, although on nights you arrive at your shared chamber with him early, he does seem to be awake enough to remind you ever so often about his proposition of marriage.

  “Don’t forget,” his voice rings throughout your head as you fling another dagger at a target, the hit landing dead center on the bullseye point. His tone every time he said that was laced with a silent threat. Your teeth clench as you toss a dagger in your hand, eye bags under your eyes still very much prevalent due to the lack of sleep you’ve had for months now. You let out a frustrated sigh and sheathe your dagger, walking up to the target with quick steps as you reach to reclaim your other blade. Time was ticking, you knew that, and truth be told, you still had no proper plan formulated to avoid the upcoming doom. Due to the Traveler's haste, your schedule in itself had become busier, leaving you with little time to plan for any escape.

 If anything, you had stock piled a plethora of sharp objects in a vase by your bed not too long ago, in hopes he wouldn’t find out, adding more and more blades per day. However, as you have noticed ever since your latest attempt to add on to the morbid collection, he had noticed. He had, in fact, taken the whole vase away as a result, much to your chagrin. The Balladeer was growing tired of your antics, you could tell. Tired enough to not lecture you, and tired enough to leave you be momentarily it seemed. 

 You didn’t mind, all in all, it was more time for yourself, and less time feeling watched. You felt as though despite the tension of the workplace, everyone bustling back and forth in preparation for the Tsaritsa’s new orders, you finally had some form of peace. Two days earlier, you had made time to visit your teammates' official gravestones during your expedition towards the Kujou Encampment in the Kannazuka region. Seeing their gravestones, giving them flowers and returning their painted, burnt daruma dolls you had fought to get, now in their respective places... it soothed your pain just a little. Even though their bodies were never found, you had found solace in knowing that their souls had somewhere to return to, as opposed to wandering around and about on earth.

 Shaking off the rest of your thoughts, you find yourself back in your chambers after a nice shower, a little earlier than intended. Night had fallen over Inazuma already, the skies lit with the opalescent moonlight, stars dusting across the midnight blues above. Scaramouche was thankfully nowhere to be seen, and for a moment, you wonder just how early you are. Upon changing clothes and sitting on the bed, you felt a sudden feeling of anxiety overwhelm you, realizing that since Scaramouche was nowhere to be seen, he had to be coming fairly soon. 

 “I should sleep,” you decide promptly, and just as you decide to change your clothes, your eyes find the edges of white on your vanity table. You shoot up immediately, knowing what the item in question was, and you reach to grab it with a sense of worry mixed with excitement, knowing you hadn’t written anything to your parents in the past few weeks. Then, something odd about the sight strikes you, and you only notice when you hold the envelope in your hands. You slide your thumb across the white paper, only to reveal another letter signed and stamped with an unfamiliar signature. Your eyes widen when you realize who it’s from.

  Tartaglia?

 Tartaglia was in charge of the Fatui soldiers in Liyue. Earlier in the year, you had given him portions of your paycheck for the Fatui to deliver medicine from Bubu Pharmacy to your parents. Panic flushes throughout your system as the cogwheels of your mind begin to whirr. You place your parent’s letter down on your lap and immediately tear up Tartaglia’s letter, knowing that this could only mean that negotiations had gone wrong somewhere, or something terrible had happened.

 You read the letter, heart falling and blood draining from your face when your eyes land on the first two sentences of the message.

  Hello comrade,

 I will get to the point immediately. Due to unforeseen circumstances, your father and mother are being moved to Liyue as his medicine is failing him.

 In your head, a voice screams in pain. Your grip on the letter loosens as disbelief settles in, and you fight every single cell in your body to not break into a sob. Your heart wrenched as your breathing quickened, your mind kicking into a state of overwork as you continued to read the rest of the letter, eyes wide with terror as you do so.

 When you receive this letter, write back to me and send it to this address. I know you want to see your family, so I will personally see to it that you have safe passage to Liyue. Your father unfortunately does not have much time left. I have provided them a private residence to stay in, and I will have money prepared for your arrival. First I require your official written permission to have you documented as my guest for your permit. 

 Your body shakes. Tartaglia promised Bubu Pharmacy had the best medicine, so what had happened to make your father’s condition worsen so suddenly? Did his cancer get worse? Did treatment just stop working?

 Your mind raced with questions, all left without answers. When was this signed? You find a date stamp at the corner of the paper, and you count back how many days ago since this was written. Four days ago, and it took two days to get to Liyue from where you were. That means your parents were already there. Quickly, you shuffle your hands, tearing open the letter that your parents had sent to you and skimming over it briefly, eyes catching only the words that truly mattered to you at that moment.

 The treatment had stopped working, and his condition was rapidly getting worse. Your mother speculates that his body had gotten used to the medicine, considering he had been feeling quite odd over the past month.

 The letter falls onto your lap as your mind threatens to shut itself down.

 There was no way this was happening.

 You shake your head slowly, denial settling in as tears form in your eyes, clouding your vision. You couldn’t keep doing this, you couldn’t afford to keep losing more and more from your life, you practically had nothing left if your parents were gone. You didn’t want to lose anything anymore. You worked hard for the Tsaritsa, as a Fatui, a title you and your family despised. You did this for money, all for your parents to live luxuriously. If your father passes away, then all your hard work, all your suffering, what was to become of it? Your mother couldn’t live by herself, she could barely walk around lately. Your breath hitches as your eyes darken with fear.

 If your father passes, what is next to come? 

 The sound of the chamber door rattling open brings your attention back to reality, and you immediately move to hide Tartaglia’s letter for precautionary purposes. Your glassy eyes turn to face Scaramouche as he shuts the door behind him, bells jingling as he looks up with a blank expression, eyes meeting your own. Your eyes narrow as tears slide down your cheeks, uncaring if he saw them or not. Emotion flooded you as your clammy hands reached for your mother’s letter, carrying it with you as you made quick strides towards him, eyes remaining on his own. There’s a flicker of bemusement in his eyes, although his face shows no such emotion.

 “You’re here early,” he replies, not willing to make a comment on your teary eyes. His tone is a matter of fact, little to no feeling residing within them as he finds your body an arm’s length away from his own. He tilts his head at your closeness, raising an eyebrow at you as you continue to gaze at him with what looks like a hopeless expression. The corners of his lips turn upwards slightly, “What do you want?”

 You don’t know what to say to him, you find that your brain is wracked with so many panic filled questions and answers.

 “Speak your mind,” his voice is smooth and silky, “if it’s another denial of some sort towards me, I will have to enforce punishment,” despite the evident meaning of a threat, he sounds bored, “ again.” He bitterly adds on.

 Your shoulders slump, face crestfallen as your eyes find his golden electro insignia on his chest, tracing over the highlights of the gold in the light of the room. You find one of his gloved hands and give him the slightly crumpled letter from your hands. Your voice comes out like a whisper, voice hoarse when you speak, “ Please let me go to Liyue,” you request. Scaramouche looks at his hand with the letter from your parents in it, acknowledging the softness of your tone with a hum as he raises the letter to eye level, turning away from you slightly. 

 Your gaze doesn’t meet his, even when he brings the letter down and away from his face, his indigo eyes keeping their focus on your dejected expression as you stand in front of him, motionless, and shaking all at once. You wait for his answer, and he shifts away from you before replying.

"No." His voice is stern, and his cold rejection pains you. You stare up at him, eyes wide as tears form once again, your body feeling cold despite the heated tension forming between the both of you.

 "Why?" You whisper. Scaramouche's eyes narrow at you, disliking the weakness in your tone, "Please, my father is going to die. I have to at least see him off," the dread in your tone is enough to make Scaramouche pause, your reaction causing him to lift a hand to hold his chin. 

 "Still," he heaves a sigh, "I can't let you go. In two weeks, the crimson wench will be here. We have orders," his eyes are sharp, his tone brutal and unforgiving, "and as a member of the Fatui, you should've known when you signed your contract for your position exactly what it means to be where you are right now." He looks angry, eyes wide at your ignorance, "I don't care who dies off, we have to maintain the status quo, and it’s my job as your superior to keep you in line."

 You look defeated, eyes still wide as tears race down your cheeks. You lean in closer to him and grab him by his shoulders, "How are you so heartless?" Your voice breaks into a sob halfway as anxiety welled in your chest, your breathing uneven, "You know how important my family is to me," the voice of reason in your mind vanishes when his glare sharpens, his hands latching onto your wrists and pushing you away.

 You look down at your feet, pressing a hand on your wrist as you rub it, feeling overwhelmed with your emotions. "You can do something about this, can't you?" You don't sound like yourself, you figure as you continue to speak. Where a hint of confidence and anger usually lay in your tone of voice, an empty crater sits. There are a plethora of voices screaming in your head. "You are a harbinger, surely there's something you can do," Tartaglia was willing to help you, and he had already made preparations for such things. Surely, Scaramouche could too.

 That's what you thought anyway, until you hear a chuckle void of emotion leave his throat.

 "Why should I do anything for you, " he hisses, and you flinch as the weight of his words fall on you. You move back as you bring your hands up to your chest, getting a sense of deja vu when he steps forward, unwilling to let you get away from him. Despair clenches at your heart, your mind blurring as the effects of hyperventilation become more prevalent. "What have you done for me? " Scaramouche sounds furious as he takes another step before his arms reach out to grip your hands, letter falling from his grasp and into a crumpled mess below when he steps on it.

 The violence of his grip elicits a gasp and you squirm as you try to pull away from him, your attempts futile as you face him again, eyes zeroing into his own. There is an unbridled rage lingering in his gaze as he speaks again, ignoring the whimper of pain that leaves your mouth as you slump, your legs shaking as he pulls you towards him.

 "Do you really think you have the authority to use me?" You swallow when he lets out a growl that sends shivers down your spine, "Did you really somehow think," his grip on your wrists tighten as his voice drops dangerously low, "that you could just spit on me, and use me after everything you've done?" His violet irises widen, an intensity radiating from them is so bright, they look as though they were glowing, "I won't let you."

 You are at a loss for words. You want to fight back, but when you search for the energy inside you to do so, you don't find it. How was this fair? You understood that he was right, you were never kind to him. You never treated him as anything more than a wicked person, a persistent parasite that was always latching onto you,  but had he ever treated you as anything more than a plaything? It wasn't fair to either of you. Despite your realization, you mutter out an apology, "I'm sorry," your voice is quiet and shaky, almost incohesive. The apology tasted acrid falling from your lips, and the tears that you taste when you lick your lips adds onto the bitterness.

 He scoffs. In the air around you, electricity forms in crackles. You bite your lip expectantly. "You're sorry? " He muses, freeing one of his hands so that he can cup your face. Scaramouche's touch is violent, and unkind. You feel as though the electricity pulsating from the tips of his fingers is growing stronger by the second. You don't attempt to mitigate the damage. Instead, you lock your gaze with his. "Sorry for what, pray tell?" His voice is condescending, eyes mocking you with spite, "Sorry for being a fool? Sorry for being a bitch?" He snickers at the flicker of fire in your eyes, a deep frown settling on his lips as he continues, "Look at you. You're not sorry at all."

 Your mind is hazy, and you barely recognize that you're falling when he pushes you back. When you catch your fall, elbows slamming the ground, you hiss in pain. The impact elicits a throbbing sensation in your head, and you make no moves to placate it. You continue to lock gazes with him, emotion leaving your face when you feel a part of yourself give up from the despair you felt in the situation. Weakly, you open your mouth, letting words tumble out of your lips, "Don't you understand my pain? Don't you have parents of your own?"

 You've always wondered what kind of parents he must've had for him to become such a terrible person, and your questions are answered when a dark look passes over his face, his eyes hardening in the process. Your lips fall to a frown. He must've hated them.

 "I don't remember being close enough with you to share this type of information," he says as he walks past you, angrily heading towards his side of the bed. You want to laugh. The audacity of this man had always exceeded his height. He dares to pry on your information, and not ever share an inkling of his own personal life. 

 With whatever strength you had left, you manage to pull yourself back up, standing still as you weigh your options, hearing the bells of his hat ring when he goes to hang it. You swallow the build up of saliva in your mouth, and with a much more firm voice, you start, “Come with me.” You hear him pause whatever he’s doing, and a beat of silence passes. There’s a swish of clothes.

 “And why would I do that? Did you even listen to me?” He sounds impatient, voice edging the bouts of annoyance.

 You turn around to face him, your hands clenched as you let out a deep breath you didn’t know you were holding in. You find him immediately, eyes settling on his form as he removes the upper layer of his garments, exposing his pale arms completely as he slides out of his robe, golden emblem glinting when it catches light from above. His eyes remain on you, staring deeply into your own, flickering with amusement when your breath catches.

 Your eyes sweep over to the right side of the room, not wanting to implore the heat rising to your face. Despite your embarrassment, you continue anyway, “I’ll marry you,” you say, disliking the words that fall out of your mouth, “I’ll introduce you to my parents… as my  fiancé.” You dig your nails into your palms. The pain distracted you from the shame of saying those words, but as per usual, you had no other cards to pull, no options left to take.

 Indigo irises look at you, an unreadable look rendering onto his face, as he stands, motionless, eyes tracing over your features. Then he snickers, a smirk forming on the edge of his lip, curling devilishly as he tilts his head, putting his weight to one side of his body when he speaks, “So that’s the route you’re gonna take, huh? ” There is amusement in his voice, and when you respond with a feisty glare, he lets out a laugh. His laughter quickly dissipates when a stern frown replaces his smile. “You’re stupid,” he sighs, sitting down on the edge of the bed, cradling his head with a hand, “you’ve got no choice but to marry me anyway. You forget, it’s my graciousness that’s allowing you to have spare time before we get married. In the end,” he turns to glare at you once more, “you never learn your lesson. You still decide to try and manipulate me with a dumb demand.”

 You clench your teeth and with a heavy heart, you turn away, your head swirling with emotions as you press forwards towards the chair by your vanity table, eyes gluing to the reflection of yourself as you walk. You sit down and stare at your own reflection, seeing the emotion in your own eyes. It was as though there was a tempest in your eyes, dried tear stain trails running down on the sides of your face, and you couldn’t help but feel sad looking at yourself. It’s been a while since you had really looked at yourself. You wondered, staring at the reflection, if there was any happiness left in those eyes of yours. You didn’t look like yourself, you looked… strange . As you find yourself lost in your thoughts, the sound of Scaramouche’s voice brings you back to the present moment.

 “If you won’t be a good dog for me, then you should at least be a good dog for the Tsaritsa,” his voice is unpleasant, and you hear him shifting in his spot, probably to face you. You continue to stare at your own reflection, watching as the muscles of your eyebrows softened, and as your eyes narrowed ever so slightly. You looked dead. You wondered if your insides were dead, too. Your tone is flat when you reply, almost sounding defeated, “Okay,” you agree.

 Your words take him by surprise, and he raises an eyebrow at you. He scoffs, “You? Agreeing?” Scaramouche lets out a small ‘ha’, watching as you turn to face him, eyes meeting his own. “What,” he snickers, a smirk on his lips, rising from his seat as he ambles his way towards you, “are you finally done playing games?” When he gets close enough to you, you face the mirror again, staring at his reflection as he bends down to your level, wrapping his arms around your body as he puts his chin on your shoulder. His indigo eyes are bright, and you find yourself relaxing at his touch, despite the lack of comfort you got from it. 

 With a meek voice, you reply, “Not for the Tsaritsa,” you lick your lips, and his eyes seem to trail on that, “I’ll be good for you, too,” there’s a burning feeling in your stomach, and accompanied with the storm in your mind, you can’t help but frown. Amidst the tempest, you feel a small flame ignite inside you. Your pyro vision burns at your side, a sign of your ambition.

 Scaramouche leans forward, turning his gaze from the mirror to the side of your face as he smiles. His smile is terrifying, because it was almost as though he knew something was up. You refuse to let anything show on your face, instead you courageously look at him. “Really, now?” His smile widens, growing sinister, “You know, I haven’t quite grown tired of your games yet, not completely anyway,” he admits, “but for you to listen to me?” He clicks his tongue in amusement, “That’s new, especially as of late,” his eyes narrow, a darkness rising from within them. You don’t look away, you will yourself forward. 

 His smile drops at your lack of expression, and his voice lowers a few octaves, “Really, now?”

  A familiar fear flutters in your heart at the emotion on his facial features. You nod, preventing your own body from shivering when his hands trail up your body from their positions, running across the expanse of your arms. “I’ll be good,” you repeat once more, a burning feeling growing in your throat.

 His gaze never leaves yours, a mysterious shadow of a smile writing itself on his lips, “Then, it’s a promise,” his voice is disgustingly sweet, when he lifts his right hand up, clenching all his fingers but his pinky. He looks at you expectantly, and the fear in your heart pounds at you. You ignore it, raising your own hand, extending your pinky finger to meet his. He hums a tune, and you recognize it to be makeshift of the yubikiri rhyme. 

 “Then,” he whispers as he unlaces his pinky finger from yours, a grin splitting on his face, “it’s a promise. If I ever find that you’re lying, perhaps we could have you swallow a thousand needles then. ” 

  He doesn’t notice that you had childishly used your free hand, hidden behind your back, to make an x shape using your index and middle finger.

 Scaramouche pats your head, like a owner would to a dog who had done well, and he moves to leave to the bathroom, where he could change undisturbed. The moment you hear the door click closed, you shoot up, the fire you had been holding back now bright in your eyes. You grab the letter from Tartaglia you had hidden from under the bedsheets.

 It was time to get to work.

 You rummage your desk in search of an item, and when you find a boxed up, empty conch shell, you grin. You had collected the shell during your expedition from Liyue, knowing that it could capture people’s voices from within them as Tartaglia had taught you during an interesting meal with him. You knew it would come handy one day. Your eyes were lit with an unending fire as you remembered his words. He had thought you were playing games. So a game, you would play then.

 When you hear the bathtub fill, you begin to speak into it, knowing just how dangerous of a game you were playing. You tell him just enough to have him understand your situation with the Balladeer, and concerning the trip to Liyue. With your free hand, you find paper and write messily, a short reply to Tartaglia, asking him to respond as soon as possible.

 You ask for one thing in specific, asking him to send you a dried glaze lily if he understood everything. You find that your writing was akin to scribbles, your words hardly sensible in form due to your brain rattling itself for all the energy you could possibly find. You fold the letter and slide it into an empty envelope, signing the envelope under a fake name. You had to be careful, knowing Scaramouche’s power had spread far and wide, even into the mail couriers.

 Upon completion, listening for the tub draining in the bathroom, you hastily put your items away in your clothing dresser, burying everything underneath whatever spare blankets you had left. You quickly change into your robes, and when you are done, you slide yourself underneath the silken sheets of the bed, placing yourself on the edge of the bed.

 The bathroom door opens, and a disgustingly familiar scent of shampoo wafts through the room. You shut your eyes, willing away the burning hatred in your heart. You feel a shift of weight on the bed, and you hear shuffling behind you. Your breath hitches when you feel him move closer, the warmth of his body and scent of shampoo overwhelming you as he presses himself closer. You feel him wrap his arms around your body, and you let out an indignant noise when he gives you a yank, pulling you backwards and near his own body. He presses his chest against your back, and you can tell from the sound of his voice, he is smiling.

  “My pretty little red butterfly,” he says with a voice that is almost taunting you, and it feels as though his choice of words haunt you. A memory of a red butterfly, turning into ashes, flickers in your mind. Any further than this, he’d probably do the same to you, like he did with that butterfly. He finds your right hand and laces your fingers together, his palm resting on the back of your own as he flexes his fingers. You clench your teeth. He knows you’re awake. He’s testing you yet again. Your body tenses, and you feel a flame violently ignite from within you. His fingers grip onto your hand a little tighter, with more emphasis on your pinky, and you exhale as you’re forced to put a lid on the heated rage. His action was a threat, a reminder of your promise.

 You open your eyes, and your irises find your intertwined hands just next to your face. Your mind is empty, blank and tired from the whirlwind of emotion that surged throughout your body. A singular question makes itself known in your mind, and you find your mouth opening before you could stop yourself.

 “What would you do if I died,” you say with a voice surprisingly soft, filled with genuine wonder. Your mind between images of your dead teammates, followed by images of those you’ve killed with your own hands. You morbidly imagine what their dead bodies would look like, and with each dead body on the floor, you replace them with your own. Every dead face you see, you replace with your own. When you blink, you realize he had been quiet, silence flooding the room. You twitch your fingers in his hold, thinking that perhaps he had fallen asleep somehow. 

 His fingers clench, and you grimace, when his knuckles press against your own. Then, his hold suddenly relaxes, his grip on your hand tightening when he laces your fingers together again.

 “I wouldn’t let you,” there is a hint of annoyance in his voice, “but, I’ll entertain your thoughts,” he admits, his voice suddenly softening. “Then those red butterflies you love so much,” his voice is odd, sounding almost scared, and when he continues to finish the rest of his sentence, his tone drips with dread, “I’ll burn their wings off.”

 You remain quiet, the sound of his voice thundering in your mind. You slump your shoulders together, afraid. He senses your fear, and continues anyway. “If by any chance, the rumors of those butterflies are true, and those red butterflies are truly souls of those who have passed, desperately trying to reach the heavens,” he slowly begins, feeling your body tense, “then surely, you’d be amongst them. To keep you here, with me, in this world, I’d make sure to tear off all their wings, one by one.” He grabs at your body possessively, pressing you impossibly closer to him. Your breath hitches as you feel yourself starting to sweat, your eyes still focused on his hand that had held your own so tightly, “That way, you won’t ever leave me.”

 You close your eyes, gauging your emotions. You frown. “You are always so cruel,” you whisper, “not even in death you’ll let me escape you.”

 Scaramouche smiles. “Don’t forget,” he reminds you of your multiple promises, the multiple contracts you’ve been forced to make with him, all for the price of your freedom and life. He’s like a grim reaper, your mind recycles a similar thought you had from what feels like an eternity ago. He will keep you alive when you’re about to die, and he’ll let you live enough so that you are just enough to be considered ‘alive’ , despite the shackles he had tied down to you. You supposed that only he could truly decide when you were allowed to die. You shut your eyes tightly and quietly hope that sleep overtakes you soon.

 “You’re mine, forever.”

 When morning comes, you wake up, alone. You get ready for the rest of your day, a plan set in your mind. You place the conch shell in an unused box, and wrap it with Inazuman silk and attach the letter to it. When you find yourself at the post office and send it off, you feel as though a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. All you had to do now was be obedient and wait.

 And a week later, on one of the several days you visit the post office, the man who works there gives you your mail. When you open it, you find a dried glaze flower, a letter with a date and number engraved on it, and an oddly familiar purple diamond shaped husk of an item.

 You smile when you realize what it is. Your pyro vision glints.

 The ball has been set in motion.

Chapter Text

 When Scaramouche has his eyes turned away from you, you take a hike to Kujou Encampment, using the excuse of an expedition as a way to visit Sara Kujou. When you see her, just at the top of the hill where the Kujou base lies, you offer her a friendly smile. 

 She raises a thin eyebrow at you, honey colored eyes narrowing at your nearing form. Sara notices that there is an oddity about you today, an giddiness that seems to escape you with every step towards her. You gait in itself seemed to have a bounce, your eyes glittering with a hellfire blooming so deep in you. A smirk forms on her pink lips, disappearing quickly when she composes herself and faces you. “You’re acting suspicious today,” she comments when you finally find yourself just a couple feet away from her.

 “Well,” you give her a half smile, nodding your head, “today happens to be an eventful day for me.” You admit, heaving a small sigh as you relax your body from the small hike up the hill.

 Sara doesn’t pry any further. Instead, she turns around and ushers you with a small movement of her head to come with her. You enjoy that about her, she always kept to herself, and was only truly ever passionate when it came to protecting the Raiden Shogun’s plan. At least it didn’t cause you unnecessary stress. When she leads you to a troop commander, you raise an eyebrow. Oh, you think as she turns to face you, arms crossed, waiting for you to say something to him expectantly. She probably thinks I’m on collective information duty today, you think with your lips pulled to a line. Your eyes flicker over to the soldier in front of you, and you pretend to perform your duties of checking in on signs of the Traveler. 

 Upon completing your task, Sara turns around once again, pressing forward and further into the base. When you get just far away enough to be out of ear shot from any passerby soldiers, you call out her name. 

 “Kujou,” you begin, your voice light as Sara turns around once more, tengu mask catching the sunlight when the sun peaks out of dark clouds, “I have a request.”

 Sara looks at you impassively in silence, waiting for you to ask away.

 Your eyes are firmly trained onto her honey irises, “I need to borrow one of your outfits.”

 She gauges you, looking at your expression and body language carefully. Your pyro vision is glowing, and although it’s out of ordinary, no part of you comes off as aggressive. When she’s done examining you, she replies with a small hum, “Sure,” she says before she walks off to another direction, beckoning you once more to follow her.

 When Sara gives you spare clothes, you thank her, and as you turn to leave, you hear her speak once again.

 “You look lively today,” Sara’s voice is less deadpan, and more amused, as if she is seeing something interesting bloom before her eyes, “it’s a good look on you.” You turn your head and toss her a small smile, but Sara is already walking off somewhere, perhaps to perform her regular duties as leader of the Tenryou Commission’s forces. You snicker. She doesn’t even care to wait for you to say ‘thank you’.

 When the night rolls in, you’re quick to prepare everything in advance. You come into the bedroom early, knowing Scaramouche wouldn’t be there. You prepare the spare outfit Sara gave you and place it in your drawers, coupled with a stack of clean and sharpened daggers. The purple, diamond shaped husk that Tartaglia has given you is tucked in a corner of the closet. You couldn’t have any type of energy near it in fear of possibly destroying it. Your thigh holster is already on your leg when you go to bed, and you wrap yourself carefully, hiding the holster with your other leg and with the silk sheet tucked in at the side around your leg. There’s a fear that grips your heart when you check the time and close your eyes, your heartbeat increasing rapidly from both excitement and fear.

 You’re scared of being found out immediately. You were a trained assassin, a leader amongst leaders in the commander range of the Fatui. You knew how to cover your tracks and you knew how to hide your own intent, but it just so happened that your most dangerous foe has taken an obsession towards you, and knows every single detail of how you react to things. Hell, he even sleeps next to you, a cursed life you live. Tonight was your biggest challenge yet. Having to outsmart him, having to hide your anxiety, and hide your true intentions-- these were all feats you have attempted at before, but were never quite successful with. Scaramouche knew you. He knew which buttons to press to get you to act a certain way.

 You clench your fists when you hear the door open, relaxing your body and steadying your breaths. 

  But two could play at a game, you think as Scaramouche enters the room.

 When Scaramouche doesn’t hold you when he falls asleep, the room falling to a deafening silence, only filled with the breaths of air you both let out, you feel like something is terribly wrong. It wasn’t the first night he hasn’t held you while sleeping, but the timing just felt jarring. Despite this, you remember the number and date stamped on Tartaglia’s letter.

 Cargo number twenty-eight. Four in the morning.

  You judge the time by how the crescent moon outside is passing through the windows. You let out a small, shaky breath.

 It was time to get moving.

 You carefully slide out of the bed, not wanting to wake Scaramouche with even the slightest shift of weight. You tiptoe to the dresser, and you grab everything from your drawer, wrapping the delicate purple husk in the clothes Sara had given to you. Above them, you place a pair of wooden sandals. You strap your daggers onto your thigh holster, leaving your usual twin blades behind in the sheathes as you make your way out towards the door in your white tabi socks.

  This was the most horrifying part of it all, you must admit. Having to tiptoe on the tatami mats, careful to not make the slightest creak. You had practiced this before, as pathetic as it might’ve sounded. You had ambled across the room and taken note of which floorboards were less stabilized than the others. The only issue now was that it was very dark, and it was the actual time to get out without making a noise. You balance your steps, successfully nanba walking as you trace your path with your eyes, pupils honing in on each panel of tatami mats as you do so. 

 You hear a shift from behind you, followed by a small low groan.

 Your nanba walking breaks, and you step on a creaky part of the mats.

  Oh, you think as you halt your breathing, quickly shifting your weight to the right side of your body, placing all of it on one foot as opposed to the other, and you maintain your balance. How badly you wished to die.

 There are a few beats of silence, and you wait for what feels like an eternity before you realize the moon is dawning quicker than you had expected. You had to go.

 When you hear no sound, you continue to press forward, your nanba walking near perfection when you find your way to the door. Opening the door and closing it was easier than you had thought, and when you hear the door click to indicate its closed position, you bolt down the hallway and head for the exit, avoiding each member you see with expertise. You had worked night shifts long enough to know which routes to take, and which ones to avoid.

 As you run down the corridor, your eyes trail upwards towards the moon. You didn’t have a lot of time left. You’d have to be quick. You bolt down a hallway with a Fatui member you recognize as one of Scaramouche’s favorite pets. You make eye contact with him and smile when his eyes widen.

  Well. Now you have even more reason to quicken your pace.

 An hour and a half into the start of your plan, you find yourself at the docks. There are ships coming in and out in the night, and you recognize many of them to be item transport vehicles. You are dressed in Sara’s uniform, treading carefully despite the lack of stares you are being given. It was a lot more common to see Sara’s troops around here, wandering about at this time. They kept everything in check, helping the Fatui with their procedures. Everything seemed to be functioning as per usual, and it seemed that nobody even spared a glance at you. You drift around in search for a specific cargo boat, frowning when the moon seems to disappear completely as dark clouds cover it.

 Perhaps the Raiden Shogun was angry tonight, or so you surmised. The weather felt finicky.

 With no way to tell the time, you find your way to a more empty area with the dock filled with large ships, all filled with shipping containers and barrels alike. You furrow your eyebrows, knowing that the boat labelled twenty-eight must be among one of these boats. They were all headed to Liyue, however only one in particular was suited specifically to smuggle you across the violent storms surrounding Inazuma.

 You stop when your instincts tell you to, and your eyes look at the ground below you as a rapid feeling of danger approaches you, the ends of your hair standing as a prickly feeling surges through your body. Your breath hitches. 

 Just in time, you throw yourself to the side, dodging a lightning bolt coming from above. When you compose yourself, body in fight mode as you take a dagger out from your thigh holster, fire automatically imbuing itself into the blade and swirling around it in flickers, you find yourself surrounded by Fatui members. You clench your teeth, eyes widening as you place your hands on the floor, allowing the pyro flames from your vision to surge around you in a ring of fire. The nearby Fatui let out shocked voices as they stumbled backwards and away from the ring of fire.

 “Now what do we have here,” you hear an all too familiar voice speak. Your eyes flit above you, looking up at the figure above the stone staircase a couple meters away from you. At the very top stood Scaramouche, eyes glowing ominously in the dark of the night, the shadow of the clouds dark around him as he glares down at you, a vicious smile on his face. Behind him is the pet you recognized down the hallway, and a group of other Fatui members you vaguely recognized. “Breaking promises already?” Scaramouche fakes a forlorn voice, “You wound me, really, ” his voice drops a few octaves as he moves to stand at the edge of the staircase, “with how much of an idiot you can be.”

 You don’t say anything. Instead, you focus on your surroundings, counting how many Fatui members you had to take care of. This is troublesome, you think as you swallow a build up of saliva. You didn’t even know where the boat was yet, and he had already found you.

 “And now you’re ignoring me?”  Scaramouche sounds pissed , and it makes a part of you happy. He lets out a frustrated sigh when you bite down on the handle of a dagger, smiling up at him daringly as you lower yourself, legs bending behind you when you back up as you reach for another dagger with your right hand. Your wooden sandals grate on the cobblestoned floor. When you hear the snap of his fingers, your eyes train themselves on the movement in front of you, ears ringing with the noises of many feet moving forwards.

 The circle of fire bends towards you, and they disperse and reattach themselves to the dagger you hold in your right hand. This was child’s play, you think as they all lunge at you, and you throw yourself back once again, kicking off into a high jump when all your weight presses at the soles of your feet. You throw the dagger below you while you are suspended in midair, and allow the explosion below you to propel you off to the side. When you catch yourself, you hear a familiar buzz and you expertly dodge a focused bolt of electro energy coming your way. You glare at Scaramouche, the hellfire of determination blooming in your eyes, meeting his scornful, rage filled indigo irises.

 Never mind him, you redirect your attention elsewhere, looking at the boats on the dock, searching for their numbers. You had to follow through with the plan, despite this momentary hold back. You race towards the left end of the dock, eyes searching for numbers on the ships, and when you only find large numbers ranging from the hundreds, you curse. This was harder than you had thought, and you were unfamiliar with the dock and how it worked. All your business was inland, and little to no efforts were placed by the docks.

 You nearly get hit by an onslaught of arrowheads flying at your face, not noticing the Fatui by Scaramouche had been aiming at you. When none of them hit, Scaramouche lets out an impatient growl. He lifts a hand, a ball of electricity forming atop of it as his fingers turn clawlike around it. The Balladeer’s eyes are focused solely on your own, and you look at the ground around you, looking for any light spots in case he decides to hit you from above.

 He scoffs and smirks at you. Smart girl, he thinks as he closes his raised hand, forming a tight fist. Your eyes widen when a string of lightning passes through the archers behind him, a brilliant haze of white and purple in the form of a crescent blowing through them, and then several rays of lightning bolts strike down at them from above. A multitude of groans and shouts come from behind the Balladeer as the archers’ bodies collapse in unison. You stare at him in disbelief, and then sweat begins to form at your temples upon realization. 

“You’re all so useless,” Scaramouche says as he puts his hands behind his back, eyes never leaving yours, watching as you prepare yourself for another attack, “fine. I’ll take matters into my own hands.” He lifts a leg and presses it down on the first stair of the stony staircase. The bells on his kasa hat jingle. “I suppose I should’ve expected them to be this incompetent,” he smiles at you, a scary look in his eyes as he continues to take steps down, making his way towards you, “it is you, that we are talking about.” He laughs at your confused expression, “You should be grateful, really,” he laughs, and his tone grating your ears, “I take interest in you for many reasons, and your strength is just one of them.”

 “Let me go,” you reply, ignoring his words as you drop the dagger in your mouth and catch it with your left hand, and unsheathe another dagger with your right. “I have to see my father,” you hissed, furrowing your eyebrows angrily as you watched him descend the steps, nearing you with each step. Your heart was pounding. You have never fought Scaramouche, and you’ve only ever seen him use his abilities in battle a handful of times over the past six years. He was a crafty man, he hardly had to lift a finger sometimes with the way he worked around things.

 “I don’t remember giving you permission to see your father,” Scaramouche’s eyes trail towards the red butterfly hairpin in your hair, “but I do remember you promising to be good for me.” Fury flooded his body and excreted from him in small sparks of electric energy at the sight of red in your hair. Oh, if you had dared to become one of those red butterflies, leaving earth, leaving him. His eyes narrow at the sight of you preparing to bolt the other direction. Perhaps today was going to be the day you would have no limbs left to run with.

 You fling yourself the other direction, panic settling in you despite your prowess in the battlefield. This was new. Too new.  

  “I won’t let you!”  Scaramouche’s voice is raised to a yell, and with one swing of his hand, a row of lightning bolts block your path, and you are forced to flinch backwards. You notice that he is walking towards you calmly when he reaches the bottom of the stairs, and it fuels your anger. His anger and impatience, his cool and casual stroll.

  He didn’t even have to try to get you. He just knew. He knew he was stronger than you. High and mighty, that’s who he was. Powerful, deceitful, intelligent, and everything always seemed to fall right in his lap. A monster who devoured everything he set his eyes on, voracious in all its senses.

 You gulp, clenching your teeth as your pyro vision burns with your passion as you see him from your peripherals. He intimidated you, you had to acknowledge.

 Your eyes scour for an escape route as more pools of white light form around you, anxiety wrenching at you as moonlight begins to peek through stormy clouds. You think you’ve lost all hope, and then you see it.

 A boat adorned with gold and yellow lanterns, telltale signs of Liyue aesthetics, and the number twenty-eight in golden plating.

 Scaramouche notices the new sense of hope that lights in your eyes and growls. Lightning strikes around you, and you are unable to move forward. If worse comes to worse, you'd have to get hit by electro somehow. Getting hit by these bolts would knock you out. You had to find a subtler way, but just strong enough for your plan to work. Your lower lip trembles as you refocus yourself, ignoring the fear in your heart. You know what you have to do.

  When the lightning dissipates, you rush yourself and dodge oncoming bolts of lightning, dancing around them as you think about the crane-like princess. When you lose your footing, you are near the ship. You flinch as your ankle rolls oddly, grimacing and letting out a pained breath. You are nothing like the graceful heron, you think when you roll away from a bolt of lightning coming from above, panting as you attempt to reclaim your breath. Your vision blurred with your strands of hair skewed across your face. The bells on the boat with yellow lanterns toll as moonlight shines down on you, signaling that it was time to part from the harbor.

  Just a little further, you weakly think as you reach an arm out towards the light of the boat. You press down with your outstretched hand and crawl forwards, eyes dead set on the vision ahead of you, not hearing the sounds of wooden sandals nearing you. You let out a pained gasp, shutting your eyes when you feel a hand tangle itself on the ends of your hair, pulling you, and forcing you to sit up in an upright position.

 “I caught you,” Scaramouche smiles, tugging at your hair in victory as though he were playing some sort of silly game. His tone turns malevolent, pupils turning into slits when he pulls your hair up higher, listening to your pained shout as you keep your eyes focused on the boat pulling its anchor just in front of you, just a couple meters away. Your heart thrums with terror when you hear him speak again. “Did you honestly think that this pathetic attempt to run away would actually work?” He chuckles, eyes lighting up at your expression of fright. “You really do think nothing of me,” his indigo irises narrow, his voice lowering into a growl as he pulls your hair towards him, “don’t you!?”

 When you see the boat begin to move, a serene look is on your face. Ah, you think as your head throbs in pain from Scaramouche’s grip and constant pulling. It was leaving. 

 It was leaving. And you weren’t on it.

  “Look at me!” He shouts at you, your ears ringing from how loud his voice is as it resounds in your ears.

 You disobey him, keeping your eyes forward. Your expression turns dark as the hatred you hold from him within you begins to spill out, “Why should I?”  You spit at the floor, your tone laced in venom, “You’re an eyesore, anyway.” You exhale when you feel electricity travel through your body, building up from the back of your head.

 Scaramouche bristles in anger, his face heating with rage as he clenches his teeth, “You bitch,” he hisses as he lets his electro energy run through your body. You feel the energy course through your veins, and you let out a scream as your body shakes from the feeling of being electrocuted, tears escaping from your eyes as you watch the boat slowly leave with a shaky vision.

 When he’s done, you fall limp in his grasp, his hand still tangled on the ends of your hair, barely lifting you up from the ground now. His lips are pulled to a tight frown, crackles of electricity flooding the air with a dangerous miasma. 

 You open your eyes, panting and gasping for air as you keep your eyes firmly on the boat. The edges of your lips form a smile as you watch the waters part, the boat passing by the end of the wooden bridge in front of you. You let out a laugh as strings of hair fall onto your face. By Inazuman tradition, you had kept your hair fairly long, and now it was your downfall. For Inazuman women, keeping your hair healthy and well kept meant you held status.

 The sound of the pleasant noise leaving your mouth elicits an odd look from Scaramouche. He smiles back at you when you look at him. Perhaps you had finally snapped. 

 “You,” your voice is light, almost happy when you turn your face to look at him, a deranged smile wide on your face, “you never disappoint me.” 

 Indigo eyes examine the joyous look on your face, and an odd feeling pangs at his heart. Scaramouche’s breath hitches as he feels the warmth of your pyro flames by his feet. He was distracted.

 “Your excellency--!” One of the Fatui members standing not too far from the both of you starts in a sign of warning, but it’s too late.

 You rip your gaze away from Scaramouche as you quickly stance yourself and launch yourself forward, the blade in your right hand passing through your thick strands of hair with ease as the pyro flames imbued in your dagger singes them. Scaramouche watches with wide eyes as he watches the strings of your hair come loose in his grip, the weight of yourself detaching from the strands of hair that was left bunched in his fingers. The split second you realize you are free, you break into a run.

 You were never a woman of tradition anyway.

 You scream as you race down the wooden bridge as your body thrums with leftover electricity from Scaramouche. You pull out the diamond shaped husk, now glowing with electro infused power that the Balladeer had unknowingly imbued in it, and with all your strength, you throw it at the tail end of the boat. 

  You were more than an Inazuman woman, you think as you watch the purple diamond glow in the sky, the moonlight reflecting off of it as you race to the end of the wooden bridge, you were an assassin. A master with the art of daggers, and your aim was precise.

 Your body glows in hues of purple when you jump off the bridge, a loud buzzing coming from your ears as you shut your eyes and feel yourself get pulled towards the boat, and when your feet land, you land on wooden floorboards. Your eyes meet the floor, where an empty broken husk lay. A gentle bell greets your ears not too far from you, followed by the soft sounds of ocean waves. Quickly, you examine your surroundings. You’re on the boat. Emotion floods you as you let out a gasp of realization, happiness flooding your body as you clench your fists.

 You did it. 

 You did it.

 You did it.

 Scaramouche looks at the locks of hair in his hand, listening to your footsteps pitter and patter away as shock overtakes him. The look on your face was engraved in his head. You looked at him as though he was a bug. As if he was an annoyance, as if he was nothing.

  She’s getting away, his internal voice reminds him as his mind catches up, looking up and ahead of him. His gaze naturally fixates on your running form, and a mixture of feelings well up within him. “No,” he says softly as he lets go of your strands of hair, throwing the locks he had grabbed off to the side as he uses his other hand to reach out to your fleeing form. “No,” his voice is weak, even to his own ears. His eyebrows furrow upwards, a look of fear gleaming in his eyes.

  She’s leaving you. She’s running away. She’s abandoning you. Like the other woman did.

Rage floods his body and his eyebrows curl downwards, his eyes shining brightly when he sees your body teleport from one end to the other. How dare you leave him behind? The memory of a burning red butterfly flashes in his mind.

  She’s getting away.

“No,” Scaramouche growls, as the hand reaching out to you turns claw like in form. The storm clouds rage from afar. Scaramouche focuses all his energy on the spot on the boat he saw you land in, watching as your body rises above the wooden railings of the boat. He will kill you. He will kill you and bring you back to life. He smiles happily at the thought. You could never leave him. He would never let you.

 Your body turns around.

 Scaramouche’s breath hitches, stopping at his throat and choking him as his electro energy stutters. He watches as you throw your hands up and jump, a victorious smile crossing your face as your gaze meets his. Your hair, unevenly cut, fluttered from the breeze of the night as the boat continued to sail through. 

 He clenches his teeth as his electro power weakens at the sight, eyes wide with shock as all his violent thoughts disappear from his mind. Oh, he thinks as his heartbeat makes itself known to his ears.

  Fuck.

 Your genuine smile was a sight to behold, illuminated by the moonlight above you. This was the most elated he had ever seen you, he thinks. You shone brighter than the moon, like a sun burning in the darkest of nights. You were beautiful, and even that word was an understatement. He realizes when he can’t bring himself in that moment to stop you from leaving just how moonstruck he was.

 “My lord!” A Fatui member from behind Scaramouche says, bringing his attention back to the present and out of his mind. Scaramouche is about to lower his arm when the Fatui archery troops race to the front of him, lining up in front of him and aiming their arrows at the sky as they pull their bowstrings taut.

 Scaramouche’s eyes widen and he refocuses the energy of his lightning to his forefront, summoning a crescent shaped electro infused light to strike down the troops in front of him. “What the fuck do you think you’re all doing?” Anger floods his tone as he steps forward, stepping over an archer’s arm as he glares down at them, the veil of his hat swaying with every move he makes as he walks over to the end of the wooden bridge. He brings his attention back to you as you slowly get further away.

 Your eyes stay on his. Sometimes, you forget he was like this. Determined, like you. Never one to give up so easily. You don’t bother to hide the emotion written on your face. You would let him see this side of you, you supposed. You knew him like he knew you. He would come for you no matter what, no matter how far you were, no matter how miniscule you wanted to be. That’s how far his wretched love for you went, you understood that because he always made it so clear.

 Scaramouche grins at you, his eyes burning with a look of challenge. You were so interesting. So beautiful. So fun. He could never get enough of you. He supposed he’d let you have this win, just this once because you showed him such a charming view.

 “Forget it,” he yells, loud enough for you to hear, and you perk up at his sudden voice, echoing throughout the distance between the both of you. “No more fun and games for me today,” Scaramouche’s grin widens, turning eerie, “I’ll come for you when I’m good and ready.”

 Your smile vanishes from your lips at his declaration. At the end of the day, you still hated his guts. You furrow your eyebrows and smirk, feeling bold. “I’ll see you later,” you say under your breath as you turn your back against him. You walk further into the boat, your sights set on the storm ahead of you. This was your win. You had done it with the help of Tartaglia’s teleporting crystal, and now… You clench your fists, prepared for the tempest ahead of you. To Liyue you go.

 When Scaramouche reaches the bedroom, the sun is already starting to filter through the windows. Regardless, he kicks off his indoor sandals and flops onto your side of the bed, tossing his hat over to his side as he does so. He embraces your pillow and thinks about you. You had disobeyed him, betrayed your promise. He smirks at the duality of his thoughts. You were an intelligent creature, despite your idiocy. You had taunted him to electrocute you so you could use the teleportation crystal. A part of him was enraged, feeling used by your antics, but he couldn’t help but feel proud. You were his woman. His woman, and you managed to outsmart him. Of course, he expected nothing less. But he also wasn’t expecting this much more fun.

 His eyes shut as he inhales your pillow, the scent of your hair still prevalent and lingering on the pillows as he replays the memory of you jumping in happiness, elated expression on your face as you smile at him.

 Scaramouche’s face warms as his heart beats in his chest, pounding against his ribcage. If letting you go from time to time meant he could see you like that, then maybe he would do it occasionally. Let the butterfly spread its wings so that it doesn’t grow boring to look at.

 Scaramouche hums as he lets himself drift off to sleep, knowing he had many things to do today. He’d assign some paperwork to his secretaries, and then he’d finish up some leftover work. Then, he would be off on the next boat to Liyue. He smiles. He couldn’t let you go after all. After all, he loves you.

Chapter Text

  Liyue is bustling with people, citizens running back and forth, vendors lively and selling. The weather is sunny and clear, no clouds in sight, and the wind is fresh. There’s a wondrous scent in the air, flooding the streets of Liyue, and despite the happy faces you pass by as you amble towards Northland Bank, bright and early in the morning, you can’t bring yourself to smile. Even though you have won a tough gamble in Inazuma against Scaramouche, there were no promises of what was to come next. The looming doom that lay ahead of you grew heavier with each step, and the weariness from having just come off the boat didn’t help your situation. 

 People kept staring at you, scanning your Inazuman outfit up and down, and pausing when they saw the emptiness in your face. You heard them whisper amongst themselves, and you couldn’t help the small sardonic smile on your lips. Inazuma and Liyue weren’t all too different, when they were seeing people from different lands. They judged you all the same, whispered amongst themselves, stared at you oddly. You couldn’t blame them. It was probably their first time seeing an outfit of this style out here.

 Your focus is scattered as you walk up the stairs to the bank, desperately reminding yourself that you had to state your name to the person at the front desk while your eyes and mind favored themselves with other things, like memorizing the intricate, pretty details of clothes on citizens that passed by you. You were just exhausted, and you understood that perhaps your lack of sleep on the boat played into your emotions as well. You shook your head as you stood in front of the bank, closing your eyes for just a moment and feeling an overwhelming dizziness take over you when you do so.

 You’d have none of this, you decided as you passed by two Fatui agents guarding the door, ignoring their stares as you walked in. You had a mission, you needed to focus, and it was now or never. Your father was much more important than your wellbeing. Compared to him, you were nowhere near dying just yet.

 When you enter the bank, you are momentarily relieved by the warm colors that fill the inside of the bank. It was pleasing to look at, the warm tones of brown, red and gold with the occasional verdant green accent. The bank is surprisingly mostly empty, save for a couple people talking to your right and a masked worker at the front.

 “Hello,” she smiles at you from afar, and you offer no response. You gaze at her plainly and amble towards her. “My name is Ekaterina, how may I help you today?” Her introduction is friendly, but you can tell from what you can see of her eyes that she is gathering what information she could of you with just your appearances. You smile. She’s a good worker, you think as you open your mouth to reply.

 “Lord Tartaglia has sent me,” you speak, your voice quiet and tone clearly drowsy. You give her your name, and her eyes widen with realization. Whatever off disposition she had measuring you up earlier is gone, and she nods her head.

 “Understood,” she moves away from the desk for a moment, grabbing a small red colored knapsack from underneath the table to her right and then sliding it over to you. You open it to inspect what’s inside, and what greets you is a pile of mora. It was a lot, but it wasn’t quite worth a life’s amount. You notice a yellowed parchment slip inside with an address written down on it, however you are too bothered by the amount of mora you see in the bag. You don’t look back up at her, your eyes remain downcast. If this was payment for making an ill mistake of believing in Bubu Pharmacy, then perhaps you’d kill him, uncaring for his position as Harbinger.

 Ekaterina clears her throat, noticing your downtrodden expression, “Lord Tartaglia requests you visit him when you can,” her voice is firm, “although he isn’t available today…” Ekaterina withholds a scared gasp when your head snaps up to glare at her, “He should be available starting tomorrow.”

 “Is he?” Your tone is venomous, and you don’t make any attempts to hide it from her. You can see a dislike grow in her eyes from your tone, and you scowl, “If you get a chance to see him, please let him know,” your smile is threatening, eyes burning as you stare into her own from behind her mask, “I require an explanation. For everything.”  

 The brunette smiles back at you, returning the iciness as she replies, “Of course,” she nods once more, “please be safe in your travels.” 

 You tighten the ropes on the pouch, the opening shutting upon your force, and wrap it around your hand. When you leave, you do so wordlessly, and when you open the door, a fear swells inside you. You could only hope your father was okay. Your brain is scrambled as an unsettling feeling of anxiety brews in your stomach.

 Upon asking for directions and following a few local people’s instructions, you find yourself in an unfamiliar village north of Liyue. The home you were in search of was hidden away past a stony path, located by a stream of river water. Upon seeing the petite wooden home, you suddenly freeze in your steps. Your anxiety had grown so steadily you hadn't noticed your shaking hands until you attempted to regain focus by looking at them. Thoughts raced in your mind, voices talking over one another. 

 You haven't seen them in years, and to add on top of that, you had constantly been lying to them about your whereabouts and your occupation. They didn't know that their precious little daughter had turned into a cold blooded killer, and not to mention an officer among the ranks of the Fatui. How would you go about seeing them? How should you say 'hello'? You were still dressed in Sara's uniform, wouldn't they question you? Your heart shattered as you took a breath of air inwards. How many more lies did you have to spin to them, your own flesh and blood, your own kin?

 Before you know it, you find yourself standing in front of a wooden door with an arm raised in preparation to knock. You swallowed excess saliva as a sour feeling built up in your stomach. 

 Would they look any different? How would they sound like now? What expression should you have on your face? Would they still love you if they found out about your lies?

 The door before you opens before you can do anything, and you stiffen completely, as if you were a deer caught in the headlights. Your eyes are wide as sweat begins to form on your palms. Your mother doesn’t look like how you had remembered.

 When her eyes meet yours, they’re equally as tired, and equally as shocked to see you. For a second, you think you are looking into a mirror, remembering the torn expression on your face when you had last looked in one. Your mother is first to break the deafening silence.

 “Dear?” Her voice sounded itchy, as though she had just finished crying and screaming, and it’s a painful thing to hear. Your breath hitches as you remember the last time you spoke to her. She was happier six years ago, yet now…

 You manage a hurt smile, eyebrows furrowing upwards when you respond, “I’m home.”

 You are pulled into a warm embrace, and it takes every inch of your emotional temperance to not break down in her arms then and there. Finally, you think as you melt into your mother’s embrace, listening as sobs begin to escape her, wracking her body as she pulls you in tighter. This was a touch that felt familiar, and felt welcomed. You felt warm, and you could feel your heart beating softly in your ribcage… You feel tears sting at your own eyes.

  “Welcome home.”

 Thankfully, your mother doesn’t question your attire. She allows you to settle in and with a renewed sense of life and energy, she excitedly prepares tea and snacks for you. However, you don’t let her serve you quite yet. You had more pressing questions that loomed over you like heavy rain clouds, dampening your mood with each second that passed without an answer.

 Your voice is quiet when you smile at her, trying to give her the softest expression you can muster when you speak to her, “Mom, where’s dad?”

 She stops her ministrations just as she is about to fill the kettle, grey hair falling loosely from the bun on her head when she slowly turns herself to face you. It seemed as though all life left her at your words, and you almost regret saying anything. You keep a firm gaze on her, smile unwavering in an attempt to show her whatever sort of kindness you still had left in your heart. 

 “Your father is in bed,” mother smiles kindly at you, returning your gesture, albeit much weaker and tired than yours, “did you want to go see him?”

 You nod your head in reply, feeling fear grip up onto you. 

 When you set your gaze on him, you feel the feeling of fear grow exponentially. His body is thin, almost skeletal, eyes sunken in as he sleeps. His lips are pale, a color you don’t ever remember seeing in the memories of your healthy father from years ago. He was a woodworker, always lumbering away, and he had decent muscles due to his hard labor. Seeing him like this light, in this room only lit by sunlight that filtered through thick tree leaves from outside and with his body limp and unmoving, clearly sickly… It was like a nightmare coming to life. You’d have mistaken him for a dead body, had his chest not been heaving with every slight breath he took.

 You couldn’t say anything. You couldn’t even bring yourself to cry. Everything felt… unreal. 

 “He’s just resting right now,” your mother begins, feeling the fear emanate from your body, leaking out of you like an overflowing dam, “he had a hard time earlier just going to the washroom. I’m sorry you have to see him like this, dear,” your mother sighs out, noticing your shoulders slump, “the medicine just… suddenly stopped working. Earlier, it had seemed as though everything was going so well,” mother’s voice quiets as she continues, “but something just went wrong. The doctor that comes in thinks that his body has adapted to it.”

  It was just your luck, really, you think bitterly as you watch your father’s husk of a body shift with each breath of air he takes. Wordlessly, you turn around and head back to the kitchen portion of the small house, seating yourself on a chair, staring into the empty space in front of you. Your mother followed you quietly, continuing her previous actions as though nothing had ever happened. She was good at that, hiding her feelings by keeping herself busy with work. Maybe that’s where you had inherited such a trait.

 Mother seats herself in front of you, pouring you a cup of tea as she glances up at your face, examining your expression. “You’ve gotten older,” her tone leads you to think that she had expected for you to look the same as you had six years ago, “you look tired now, dear.”

 You smile at her, but your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. “Just a long trip to get here, mom,” you reply with a false lighthearted laugh. You pause when she speaks once again.

 “Your hair,” your mother leans towards you, lifting a hand up to touch your hair, and you almost flinch at action, briefly recalling unpleasant memories in your mind when she does so. Your smile falters. “It’s very choppy,” the older woman lets out a soft giggle, “did you cut it yourself?”

 Thinking about the events of a few days ago, you play with the ends of your hair, feeling a little embarrassed as you look down, face flushing slightly. “Yeah,” you admit. You felt silly, being unable to come up with any better excuse as to why your hair was now cut oddly, the ends singed from the pyro flames of your vision.

 “Do you want me to cut it for you?” 

 An oddly happy feeling grows in your chest. You nod, smiling shyly, and when your mother returns the sweet look, your heart swells with affection. You had missed your mother. You had missed this feeling, and you find yourself wondering if you were even allowed to feel such emotions after everything you have done, but those thoughts leave you when you hear laughter bubble out of her mouth. You gaze into her warm eyes, realizing with slight pain when you see a pure love from them. Your smile grows weak.

 You are sitting down in a chair relaxing as you close your eyes, until your mother lets out a small gasp of shock.

 “That’s a different pin,” mother hums with a sense of mysteriousness, leaning in towards you to get a better look at it. Your breathing stops, and your face noticeably hardens at her realization. You clench your hands into fists, digging into your uniform’s skirt as you manage a small nod, not wanting to think about your teammates, or the accursed hand that had given them to you. “What happened to the previous butterfly pin, dear?” She inquires as she brings a pair of scissors towards you, snipping away at the singed ends, wanting to keep your hair long despite the sheer difference of lengths of hair on your head.

 You grit your teeth as an unwanted memory busts through your mind, and it was almost as though a dam had broken in your mind. You remember the flashes of red butterflies, fluttering gracefully in the air, then you remember a cold embrace, followed by the feeling of electricity and then suddenly, a loud crackle pops in your ears. You jump at the sound, feeling panicked for a moment, and you quickly turn to your mother in shock.

 She looks at you, confused at your panicked expression, holding the scissors away from you. “Sorry,” she apologizes, worry clear in her tone, “was that too close to your ear?”

  Oh, you think as your anxiety settles in a pit in your stomach. Was that what it was? “No,” you shake your head, “I was just in deep thought, I was just startled,” you manage to laugh awkwardly, putting on the softest expression you could muster. You turn your head again, quickly thinking of a lie to respond to her question, and you reply with a firm tone, “I accidentally broke it when it fell out of my hair.” In your mind, you remember Scaramouche’s gloved hand tossing the red pin into a dark abyss below your feet. You keep a smile on your face as you will those memories away, ignoring the pain in your mind that grows at the recalling of the memory.

 “How clumsy of you,” your mother replies with a chide tone, not noticing your lie spoken through clenched teeth. You hum in response. “Then,” she begins once again, her tone light, “how is work?”

  What a terrible question, you inwardly think as you find yourself recalling recent events over the past few months. Your smile turns acrid. “It’s wonderful,” you say enthusiastically, “I’m always really busy, but because of that job, I’m able to make such good money to support my lovely parents!” In all honesty, you don’t remember if you were ever this enthused when talking to your parents. You don’t remember too many of your mannerisms around them anymore, probably because you were so detached from that side of yourself. To act like who you were to them, you had to dig up graves you had buried so deeply in your mind. Working as a Fatui meant burying things you held dear to you, and your emotions were one of them.

 “And how about friends?” 

 A cold feeling shadows over you, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say. “I have some,” you tentatively say, “we aren’t that close anymore because of a recent fight,” you weakly laugh, “but I still care for them very dearly. I try to visit them when I can,” your voice slowly fades into silence, and your mother takes note of it. You hope she doesn’t ask you any more questions. You were hardly holding onto what sanity you had left. If she kept reminding you, and asking you so many questions like these, you wouldn’t know what would be of you. Her questions are all like knives aimed at you, and you were doing your best to dodge them with whatever excuse your mind could make while leaving some truths into the conclusion.

 “Good,” your mother laughs lightheartedly, causing you to sigh in relief, “my daughter is still the same! Always so kind and helpful even after a disagreement,” your mother snips away at some more strands of your hair, brushing into place what she needed and cutting off excess with every snip. There’s an odd pregnant silence that grows between the both of you for a moment, and you could tell that she was holding another question from you. You braced yourself knowingly. “Then,” her voice is plain, almost as if she was being careful and gauging around your reaction towards her next words, “how about a boyfriend?”

 Your eyes widen at her words, shoulders scrunching with discomfort as you play with the edges of your skirt. You think about Scaramouche, his vibrant eyes in the back of your mind, staring at you. An anger seeped throughout your system at the thought of him. You hadn’t seen him in a few days, however you felt as though his image, the feeling of his electricity, and his touch were just burnt permanently into your brain, and there was nothing you could do to get rid of his existence in your head. You thought about his confession, and then his proposition for marriage, cringing outwardly when you reply to your mother, “I… don’t have anything like that,” your voice is strained, eyes closing as you continue to face forward.

 Your mother clicks her tongue in disappointment, a sound you have gotten used to, “Darling,” her tone is exasperated, “you’ve always been stubborn about love.” You don’t make a comment, instead you remain with your lips shut tight, and she proceeds, “You know…” A small and forlorn sigh falls from her thin lips, “It’s not right for a girl your age to be without a husband yet. By now you should be a proper housewife,” she sounds very discontent with your response, “I had been married already just two years younger than you, and yet you still haven’t even found a boyfriend. You should go along with one of the suitors we ask for you,” mother pauses her snipping to dust some hair off of your shoulders.

 Your thoughts remain on Scaramouche, and his proposal. You clench your teeth, unsure of what to say. Your parents surely knew nothing of Scaramouche, you had avoided mentioning him in all your letters, save for a couple of complaints aimed towards him under the title of your ‘boss’. “I don’t… want to get married, mom,” you manage to sigh out, preparing for her rebuttal. Arguing against her was always useless, but it didn’t deter you from trying anyway. It was true, you didn’t want to. Not with Scaramouche, anyway, and truthfully, it’s not like you had a chance to say ‘no’. The thought of being with him for the rest of your life, locked away in a steel cage while he kept an eye on you, being his toy forever, it revolted you. 

 Your mother lightly slaps your shoulder and you flinch. “Don’t ever say that,” she sighs, “you know how hard it is for us right now.” Here it comes, you think as you mentally prepare yourself for her next words. “You know, this is something your dad and I… we need you to marry soon, please,” her plea catches you off guard, and her tone falls into something much more depressing as she continues, “we are always worried for you, thinking about you and how you’re doing, working so far from us. It would be so reassuring for you to marry, because only then would we know that you are being fed, being housed, and being cared for without us.”

 Her explanation causes you to balk, and you momentarily think if you were always seen as unreliable to the point where your parents think you need someone else to do these things for you. Not wanting to argue with her, with the ill figure of your father in your mind, you nod.

 “I know,” you respond despondently, eyes reopening and fixing themselves on your lap as a cold feeling washed over you. 

 “If you understand, then--!” Her voice is cut off by a sudden surge of coughs, and you turn your head to look at her, afraid that she might fall sickly like your father has. “I’m okay,” she reassures you before you manage to say anything, “I’m just… stressed. ” 

 You look at her face, tracing over the wrinkles on her skin, then taking note of the sunspots on her face from old age. Her eye bags were heavy, and it looked as though she hadn’t slept in months. Perhaps it was just old age, but her appearance unlocked a side of you that felt much more vulnerable, and you couldn’t help the small frown on your face. Your mother notices, and she looks up at you. Then, she smiles.

 “There she is,” she coos, patting your head with her free hand, “our beloved butterfly,” her words warmed your heart and comforted you to no end. However, the lingering, bitter taste of lies on your lips was still very much evident. The venom on your lips poisoned your thoughts, turning pure thoughts into dark ones as you looked up at her, gazing up at her angelic expression. You return her smile, however the light of it never reaches your eyes. You wondered bitterly, if she had found out about your real occupation, could she still give you such a beautiful gaze?

 After your haircut is done, you and your mother are alerted by the sound of bells coming from the other room. Your eyes lit up with hope as you and your mother ambled towards him. When you arrive at the room, your father is awake, eyes wide when he sees you, clear excitement building in his weak eyes. A toothy grin grows on his face as he attempts to lift his arms up towards you in semblance of a hug, however his strength fails him. You notice, and immediately, you fall towards him, wrapping your arms around him as gently as possible, afraid of the condition his body was in. 

 “Dad,” you whisper as you hold him, your body turning into a shaking mess with him in your arms, tears threatening to form and fall from your eyes as you wrap your arms around his body. He feels foreign to you, you remember feeling muscle where there was now, nothing, and briefly, you wonder when everything had gone wrong.

 “My butterfly,” he coos, “she’s home now,” his voice is feeble, the weakness from his body emphasized by his tone. You say nothing, allowing yourself to melt in his embrace, wishing only to remember this moment.

 When you pull away, your father looks into your eyes, holding an affection so strong for you that you almost want to tear yourself away from the moment. It had been so long since you’ve felt love like this, nothing toxic or poisonous, just love in its purest sense, it almost didn’t feel right.

 And that’s when you realized. 

 Your smile weakens. 

  It didn’t feel right. Your eyes flit from your mother, then back to your father, and a daunting thought presses at your mind. Their smiles were so beautiful, their gazes so warm, it felt wrong to be receiving them. You didn’t belong here, you realized as a dark feeling settled in your stomach. You were a murderer, you were a Fatui, you didn’t belong under the sunshine of their euphoric light. In your mind, a distant memory of your former teammates flies by. The memory burns away, falling away like pieces of paper from a photograph. For a moment, you smell blood all around you, and in the distance, you hear screams. You see a mixture of blacks, reds and golds on a figure from the recesses of your mind. As you let out a shaky breath, your heart falls. A bitter smile grows on your lips when you look back up at your family. Broken glass falls from what’s left of a shattered mirror. 

 This was your home, but nothing felt right. You felt foreign, like an alien in another country. Your father’s voice snaps you out of your momentary daydream.

 “How have you been, my dear?” His voice is raspy, his breath bated when he speaks to you. Your heart tears at the sound of his voice.

 “I’m…” You hesitate for a moment, eyes flickering with a darkness that goes unnoticed by your family members, “I’m doing well!” You give your dad a grin, closing your eyes when you hear laughter erupt from his throat. Hearing his pleased reaction, you find yourself with a silent internal agreement.

 You’d lie to them, and keep lying to them if it meant keeping them happy. If it meant that for the rest of their lives, they would live comfortably and without a hitch, you would keep lying until your lips rot. 

 After some time catching up with your father, reusing the same answers you had given to your mother when she was asking you similar questions early, you remember that you haven’t eaten since you had gotten off the boat. Your stomach growls, causing all of you to pause your chatter. Your face flushes in embarrassment, and you give your parents a small shy smile, and they laugh at your reaction. 

 Your mother, upon realizing that there were little to no ingredients left, sends you off to the market. Of course, you oblige. You step out into the unfamiliar village and go to nearby vendors, taking ingredients for homemade curry in mild excitement, purchasing a few apples along the way as they were your mother’s secret ingredient to making the curry taste good. It had been so long since you’ve been doing menial daily tasks like this, and breathing in the fresh air of Liyue improved your emotional well being, and all those pleasant feelings disappear when you come across a familiar face on your way home.

 The Balladeer in all his glory stands before you with his infamous unamused expression, veil billowing from a surge of wind, blowing his dark bangs away from his face as he peers at you with his indigo irises. The vibrant red under his eyes brings you to remember his words months ago when he had thrown away your butterfly pin. “I had thought this would tie us together,” the memory in your head plays as you raise your hand to touch the butterfly pin in your hair, fingers pressing against the gems that created the red of the butterfly in your hair. Perhaps it was all fate. Or maybe he was just overly obsessive.

 An idea strikes down at you at the sight of him, the thought causing your breath to hitch as the realization of the thought swells within you.

 Your shoulders slump when you stop moving towards him, stopping at just a couple strides away, eyes on his as his own flit towards your hand that reached out to touch your pin. His eyes narrow, a knowing smile on his lips, looking devilish as he tilts his head ever so slightly. The happiness in your heart evaporates at the sight, but oddly enough, you feel somewhat comforted by his familiar appearance in a land of unfamiliar things. Adjusting the basket on the crease of your arm, you continue to walk once again, eyes leaving his own as you still the fear and anxiety in your heart. You had broken a promise with him, and you knew he wouldn’t take it lightly. Despite this, you smile sadly when you come face to face with him, holding a hand out towards him.

 Scaramouche looks at you quizzically. 

 “Come with me,” your voice is soft, yet it holds an iciness to it that makes Scaramouche’s eyes narrow. Your heart is torn into shreds already, or so you think as you continue to smile at him. Whatever was left could suffer at the expense of your life, you conclude as you speak once again, “From today onwards, I recognize you as my fiancé.”

 The expression on his face darkens, and he scoffs. “Look at you,” he sneers condescendingly at your odd smile, “no remorse, no greeting,” his eyes glitter with anger, a tempest brewing within his eyes when he continues, “you’re just so eager to try and manipulate me, aren’t you?”

 Your smile doesn’t falter. Instead, you grab hold of his hand forcibly, your grip on his cold fingers tight causing his glare on you to strengthen significantly. “You will use me,” your voice is soft, and it causes his features to physically cringe for a moment. Gently, you pull his hands towards your waist, placing his hand there as you lift your free hand to cup a side of his face. There is a sense of enchantment in his eyes when he gazes down at you, drinking in every second of your hold on him as you continue, “And I will use you.”

 An emotion burns strongly in his eyes and clashes with the emotion in your own eyes. He scowls at you, a familiar concentrated feeling focusing itself from around you, “You forget your place,” he growls as he presses on your waist uncomfortably, pressing you closer to him, “don’t forget,” he hisses as he leans towards you, your breath hitching when your foreheads are pressed together, “ you have betrayed me. There will be punishment.”

 You gulp, and he smiles wickedly at the fear that builds in your eyes. You clench your teeth, biting your lip. “I am willing to face it,” you say with a defeated sigh, eyes focused into his own despite the closeness of the both of you giving you anxiety. You deserved it, you understood that. You knew that your childish antics of finger crossing during a promise wouldn’t suffice his ego. 

 Scaramouche sneers at you, “I’ll make it hurt ,” his voice is a promise of a threat, his voice dropping in octaves when he says the last word. You shut your eyes, your hand still on his cheek as you brush a thumb over his soft skin, causing him to freeze momentarily. You nod, eyes reopening as you focus on the afternoon light hitting your legs. He lets out a low chuckle at your obedience, sounding sinister in your ears as his hand leaves your waist to hold your hand, intertwining them together. “You’ve caused me a great deal of trouble,” he chides you with a tone unfamiliar to you.

 “And you’re here anyway,” you comment emptily, an angry spitefulness hiding underneath your tone.

 “Yes,” he agrees, as he pulls you along with him down the stony road, “I’ve come to take you home. Can’t have any chance of you running away, now can I?”

 “I wouldn’t,” you bitterly admit, acknowledging his power over you and your family. 

 Scaramouche hums, “I don’t believe in liars,” he chuckles darkly, “perhaps if you prove yourself worthy of my trust then I’ll loosen my hold on you. Don’t take me as a fool, I know better than to expect straight laced obedience from you, but you should know by now as well,” you keep your gaze downwards on the golden stony path beneath you as you walk with him, you hand clammy in his own, “your actions have consequences. Make one wrong move, and I will retaliate,” he surmises in a low tone, “so from now on, if you know what’s good for you, tread carefully. ” A sinister expression passes by his face, “You should be grateful, really. I’m giving you all these extra chances. I’m going to be taking care of you and seeing to it that you live your life easily.” You can’t help the snicker that escapes your lips, and he pauses for a moment, halting his movements. He glares at you, “Did you not hear me?” Scaramouche’s voice drips with an edge that feels as though it would cut you.

 “I heard you,” you respond, your eyes still on the floor despite the heated glare you felt on your face, “I just don’t believe you.”

 He scoffs at your remark, gripping your hand with a sense of anger, “Well that makes the two of us.” With a tug at your hand, you turn your head towards him. His indigo eyes remain clear.

  “Tread. Carefully.”

 When you find yourself at the door to your temporary home, you let out a soft sigh, hand still intertwined with Scaramouche’s own. This was going to be absolute hell, you figured, but at least you were able to satiate your parent’s expectations with this much, right? “I’m nervous,” you admit with reluctance to Scaramouche, tightening your grip on his hand. This was your first time introducing a possible ‘romantic’ partner to your parents. You didn’t know how they would react, or if they would even approve of it.

 He raises an eyebrow at you, looking mildly annoyed. “Just get this over with,” he sighs, “I need to bring you home as soon as possible. Preparations are already underway for the crimson wench’s visit.”

 You toss him an irritated look. Just how insensitive could he get? You grit your teeth, as you open the door, pulling him in harshly, unable to completely contain the anger that rushed through your veins when you did so. Scaramouche notices your small childish outburst, and grimaces. When he is about to say something, he hears footsteps pitter and patter towards the both of you.

 “I’m home,” you say loudly, allowing yourself in and sliding off your wooden sandals, ushering Scaramouche to do the same with an impatient look. He glares at you, and then freezes slightly when he feels a new set of eyes on him. When he turns his head, he sees an elderly woman standing completely still just ahead of him. His indigo eyes turn wide for a moment, mirroring the elderly woman’s expression.

 Wearily, you turn to her and smile, "Mother, I would like to introduce you to my fiancé."

 Your mother chokes.

Chapter Text

 "My," your mother weakly laughs, "sorry about that!" She looks at Scaramouche with an apologetic smile as she sets down fresh new cups of teas for both you and Scaramouche. "I was so shocked! My daughter has never mentioned you in her letters."

 You were now all sitting at a wooden table clothed with only a square shaped, green and thin fabric. The open window beside you allows in some life, breathing in fresh air to help dissipate the awkward atmosphere around you. Your palms were sweating, your smile extremely pointed and nervous as you sat next to Scaramouche, who seemed to gaze at the elderly woman before him in wonder.

 You look at Scaramouche, your eyes pleading him to be kind when he responds to her, knowing how spiteful he could be sometimes to innocent bystanders despite his false friendliness. Scaramouche ignores your stare, and bows his head, a bright smile on his face when he looks back up at her, "That's no problem!" His voice is friendly, and you let out a small relieved sigh, closing your eyes as you nervously fiddle with your hands on your lap. "Besides," he hums, "she's quite shy and all about us still," you don't have to open your eyes to know that he is peering down at you. You can hear the condescending smile in his voice, “Isn’t that right, darling?”

 You gulp, resisting the urge to let out a long sigh, your mind struggling on which expression to show, deciding on whether or not you should physically cringe or just smile. You opt for the latter, a small smile playing on your lips as you lift your right hand up, and with much force than intended, you slap his shoulder.

 Your mother gasps at the sound of the hit, and you let out an embarrassed, choked laugh. You were nervous. Too nervous. You tried to compose yourself. You were a good liar, you thought in an attempt to convince yourself, an amazing liar, you lied for years about working  in a government position far off somewhere for years. You trained as an assassin, you've been on undercover missions before. "That's right," you laugh, stuttering as your face begins to heat up, feeling the stares of Scaramouche and your mother on your face. "Y-you know," you apologetically rub Scaramouche's shoulder, hoping he wouldn't kill you for that later, “he’s my fiance... My first… fiance…” your voice trails off, turning distant and devoid of any happiness. Your mother balks at your dejected expression.

 You were losing it. Your composure was failing you.

 Scaramouche leans forward slightly, deadpanning at the redness in your face, his eyes sharp and dangerous when he looks at you. He snickers, causing you to flinch. He lets out a laughter that sounds so genuine, it scares you. It brings you to wonder just how much of a good liar he was to let out a laugh like that. “Oh,” he muses as he turns to face your mother, a bright smile on his face as he moves a hand onto your, causing your breath to hitch, “she’s so shy, isn’t she?” He squeezes your thigh, and you can tell from the light feeling of electricity you felt surge through it, he was warning you.

 Your mother lets out an awkward laugh, “Um, yes,” she agrees softly, eyes crinkling at their ends as she nods, “she wasn’t always like this though! When she was younger, she was a lot more rambunctious, and she was quite the bully actually! I was worried she wouldn’t get a boyfriend.”

 “Is that so ?” Scaramouche raises an eyebrow in interest.

 “ Mother,” you voice in protest, your tone low and embarrassed. You did not want him knowing more than he should. He already knew a lot about you as you were now, you couldn’t have her exposing more information about yourself.

 Mother giggles at your heated expression, and at the distant sound of a bell, she claps her hands in realization. “That’s right,” she hums, “we have to introduce you to my husband! Sorry,” she apologizes as she sits up, “he’s bedridden right now, so it’s better if I introduce you to him in the room, if that’s alright with you?” Mother hums for a second, remembering that she didn’t quite know his name yet. “Your name was..?” She tentatively begins, waiting for him to respond.

 Your face pales. What do you say? Scaramouche? The sixth harbinger of the Fatui? You swallow your spit. There was a chance she’s heard of his name before, considering all her life was spent in Inazuma along with you.

 Scaramouche is first to break the silence. He looks towards you for a moment, humming in deep thought before he turns his gaze away and peers at your mother. You notice a mysterious smile on his face.

 “Kunikuzushi,” he says with a smile.

 You feel a shiver run down your spine at the look on his face, and when you register his words, you pause. You blink. What?

 Your mother seems to take a moment to process the information. There’s a momentary distant look in her eyes, and then there’s a look of fondness that overcomes her expression, and she smiles and nods at him, bowing slightly as she responds, “Nice to meet you, Kunikuzushi, ” she laughs lightheartedly before ushering the both of you to the next room.

 You are still stuck, cogwheels in your mind whirring as you keep a firm gaze on him, even when he swivels his body around to look at you. He smirks at your dumbfounded expression, his tone playful as he stands up and reaches a gloved hand towards you, “Shall we go?” He queries you politely, and you almost don’t understand what he’s saying.

 When your mother tosses you a smile and moves to the other room, you manage to finally talk, the voice leaving your mouth serious despite your confusion. “What was that,” you say as you take his hand, feeling uncomfortable when his skin meets yours. He pulls you up from your seat gently, a look of amusement passing by his eyes when he sees the bewilderment written all over your face.

 “My name,” he replies in a whisper, his smile pulling wider, ” my real name.”

 You raise your eyebrow at him. 

 “Consider yourself blessed,” he muses as he pulls you along with him. “Only a select few know my name,” he admits with a sense of haziness that’s lost on you.

 “Right,” you say slowly as you nod, feeling strange when you repeat the name in your head. Kunikuzushi. Such an odd name. 

 Now, seated in front of your father and mother, you felt even more nervous than earlier. Your father, despite his tired state, seemed to be sizing Scaramouche up and down while the Balladeer sipped at his tea. 

 “Father,” you begin slowly, anxiety seeping into your smile when he turns to look at you for just a moment before glancing back at Scaramouche. “This is my partner,” you look over at Scaramouche, and he turns his gaze back towards you, meeting you halfway with a sly smile, “Kunikuzushi.”

 “My,” your mother dramatically raises a hand at your words, “don’t refer to your fiancé as your partner! It sounds so distant,” she laughs as your father chokes on air.

 “Fiancé?” Your father chokes before attempting to regain his breath. You flinch at the sound of his raised voice, not used to it. Your face flushed red and you looked downwards, the heat flooding your face giving you an unsettling feeling. You had buried these feelings so deeply, yet your family for some reason just had an odd chagrin to bring them out so easily. Typically, you wouldn’t mind, however with Scaramouche around you, you didn’t want to reveal much more of yourself. Knowing him, he would take anything into account as your weakness, and perhaps he would exploit them.

 Scaramouche hummed at your reaction, turning his attention back to your father before him as he smiles, eyes narrowing at the terror in your father’s eyes. “Nice to meet you, father,” his voice was friendly, but you knew that he had purposely meant to push at his buttons.

 “You--!” Your father’s voice was raised to a yell and you leapt up from your seat immediately, slamming your hands down roughly down on the table. Everyone at the table is startled, minus Scaramouche. He looks at you with a smirk that infuriates you, and you turn your gaze upwards, looking at your mother and father. You allow an irate smile on your face. It baffled you that your father would suddenly become so lively despite his hollow composure.

 “Father,” your voice is eerily calm, “I do believe it is best if you don’t raise your voice like that,” you say as you lower yourself back down onto your seat, smile steady on your face as you keep your eyes on your father’s expression, “it would be bad for your health.” 

 Your father clicked his tongue, glaring at Scaramouche who continued to smile with a false, honeyed friendliness. You wish you could hit him. He could be such a brat sometimes, really.

 Mother clears her throat and beams back towards the both of you, “Well, I had a question, actually,” she begins, Scaramouche noticing that she habitually lifts a hand to tuck loose strands of silver hair behind her ear, much like you do, “earlier, my dear,” she directs her gaze towards you, and you catch it, “you said you don’t have a boyfriend or anything of that sort. What was that about then?”

 Internally you curse at your mother for having a decent memory, feeling a spark of electricity by your leg when you don’t respond. You give her an awkward smile, feeling Scaramouche’s heated glare on the side of your face. 

 “Oh,” Scaramouche begins, “she said that?” He chuckles, his eyes narrowing when he looks at you. You scrunch your shoulders and fiddle with the edges of your dress. When you feel a tug at your skirt, you look up and face him, your eyes meeting indigo ones. He smiles at you, and underneath the façade of kindness, you can tell that he felt annoyed with you. 

 With some hesitance, you begin to speak, refocusing your gaze onto your mother’s own as you smile, “Sorry,” you apologize, “we were having a little fight earlier, but now it’s all okay,” you shortly explain.

  “Liar,” you hear Scaramouche whisper under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear as his indigo irises remain on your face, smirking when he notices your sharp intake of breath.

 Your mother giggles, “So that’s why you said you didn’t want to get married!”

 There’s a spark of electricity that makes a loud popping noise in the room, and everyone but Scaramouche jumps at the sound of it. Uh oh, you think as you fiddle with your hands on your lap. Talking to your parents with Scaramouche here was like sitting next to a ticking time bomb. You knew he could contain himself better than this, but perhaps this was just a part of your punishment.

 “It was just a complaint,” you laugh falsely, hoping they would stop inquiring about you and Scaramouche. Much to your chagrin, they ask further.

 “When did you two first meet then,” your father speaks with a tone of suspicion, scrutinizing you under his gaze, causing you to shift in discomfort.

 You couldn’t completely admit you were prepared for these types of conversations with your family, you thought as you focused in on the green hued tea in your cup. You entertained your father’s question in your head, the sound of your father’s coughing growing distant as you think about the first time you and Scaramouche had met. “It’s been six years,” you reply softly, and everyone turns their attention towards you. Your eyes stay focused on the green contents of the cup, sitting flatly on the table, “I met him six years ago, when I first started working.” You raise your eyes up slightly, tracing the rim of the ceramic mug, “He’s my colleague. He’s been very helpful.”

 You don’t try to speak too much, you intend to give them just enough information for them to be satisfied. You lied enough to them, you didn’t want to lie any more than you have.

 Your mother nods in acknowledgement, seemingly accepting your answer. “Then, Kunikuzushi,” she begins with a chirp. Scaramouche turns his eyes towards your mother, keeping a friendly smile on his face as he does so. “I do believe you’ve been taking good care of my daughter,” she hums, pleased, “and I do hope that you continue to do so.”

 You wanted to laugh. How wrong she was. He’s brought nothing but pain and suffering to you, yet he always expected more in return. Always taking things from you, not giving anything but himself back.

 “Of course,” Scaramouche’s tone is smooth and saccharine, “I plan to keep doing so forever.”

 Forever.

 Your heart dropped to your stomach as you reached out towards the cup of tea before you. Eternity was such a horrible thing. An eternity with Scaramouche would kill you many times over. You wouldn’t have a say in it, however, it seems the deal was sealed. Your mother looks pleased with the outcome, and your father looks as though he was slowly accepting the truth of it all. You hide your distaste. It looks like he had spun them around his web now, too.

 “Good for you,” your mother laughs lightheartedly, aiming her comment towards you. You look at her, unsure of what she meant. “Such a handsome young man, well kept and all,” she giggles and sighs at the disgruntled expression on your face, “I can’t wait to have wonderful, gorgeous grandkids.”

 Your eyes blow wide and you jump in your seat, face flushing red with both anger and embarrassment at her words, “Mom!” You yell in a whisper, terrified when you hear Scaramouche chuckle from beside you.

 Your father’s eyes are still narrowed down on Scaramouche, as if picking apart pieces of him to see what was truly hidden underneath. Scaramouche notices this, and smiles at him knowingly. Scaramouche would let your father stare and pick him apart as much as he wanted, he supposed, because in the end, nothing would change. The outcomes were all favored towards him. He’d make sure of it.

 Talking and catching up seemed to take up most of the hours that flew by, and it had gotten to the point where you completely forgot about your hunger until dinner time came rolling around. Your mother was already in the midst of preparing dinner, and she had allowed you to use her room while Scaramouche used the spare room. Your mother planned to sleep with your father for tonight, it seemed. You bump into the Balladeer when you are about to see your father, resting in bed, and you can’t help but sigh,  “Don’t you have your own place to stay?” 

 He glowers at you, “Is that something you really want to say to your future husband?” His tone is filled with annoyance, and it brings you an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion. “We’ll have to fix that sharp tongue of yours,” he chides you, narrowing his eyes at the tired expression on your face, “I’ve let you go too long with that runny mouth of yours.”

 You let out an undignified low hum in response, not willing to spare anymore of your energy on him. You brush past him, and he catches your wrist when you do so, gripping on it tightly, pulling you back as you walk forwards.

 “ Don’t forget your place, ” his voice is dark and stern, a reminder of what’s to come in the future. Your gaze turns distant at his words. The happiness, despite how bitter and wrong it felt, was always only going to be a temporary feeling for you. It would always be, for as long as you had this curse of a human by your side. You tear your wrist out of his grip and make your way towards your father. 

 “I’ll try not to,” you respond harshly.

 Scaramouche’s gaze lingers on your disappearing form before he continues to walk, wanting to take a breather. Being with your family was much like being at a political meeting, he had to expend a lot of energy on pretending to be someone he wasn’t. It made him tired. As he passes by the kitchen, he hears your mother call his name, her tone is sweet, unlike yours. Scaramouche turns his head at the sound of his name.

 Your mother waves him to come in. Putting a friendly mask on, he enters the kitchen, a smile planted firmly on his face, “Hello,” he greets her kindly with a small bow, showing her that he had respected her.

 The corners of her eyes crinkle as she lifts up the pot cooking the chicken curry, the aroma wafting throughout the room. Scaramouche feels his taste buds water from the smell. “I’d like you to try some,” her voice is happy, although there’s an underlying sense of emotion to it that Scaramouche can’t quite put his finger on. 

 Despite this knowledge, he nods, “Sure thing,” he reaches out to the spoonful of curry she gives to him and takes a bite out of it. He hums, a smile forming on his face at the taste, “It’s good,” he comments appreciatively. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s had a home cooked meal. Briefly, he thought you must’ve been fortunate, being raised with a mother who could cook so well and with a father that seems protective of you. He quickly brushes the thoughts away when he returns the spoon back down onto the edge of a plate, tipping it upside down.

 “It’s good, right?” Mother smiles and laughs lightheartedly before reaching out to hold one of Scaramouche’s hands. Scaramouche’s eyebrows furrow, his eyes narrowing at the unwarranted contact, before he recomposes a friendly smile on his face. “I plan to give this recipe to my daughter,” she says with an odd look in her eyes as she presses down on Scaramouche’s palm, “it’s a recipe that’s been long running in our family alongside a couple of wagashi.”

 Scaramouche keeps his smile, looking at her intently before closing his eyes, “Is that so? This curry must be special then.” Scaramouche entertains her momentarily before her grip turns unnecessarily rough on his hand. He prevents the electricity threatening to surge from his veins. He had to stay civilized. He had no plans for your mother to dislike him, especially not after the hard effort he had put in earlier today to change her attitude towards him to his favor.

 “You will take care of her,” your mother’s voice is light, despite the clear threat implied in her tone of voice, “right, Kunikuzushi?”

  This old hag, he inwardly snickers, reopening his eyes to look at her, his smile growing ever so slightly on his face. He understood where the rebellious side of you came from now. “Do you want me to be honest with you?” Scaramouche leans close to her, eyes flickering with an emotion that your mother finds terrifying. Nevertheless, she was intrigued. She nodded, allowing him to continue, and when he continued, she felt a shiver run down her spine, “If you’re concerned with other people touching her, you don’t have to worry about that,” Scaramouche says, his tone still imitating friendliness as he speaks, “if someone puts a finger on her, I’ll rip them apart myself.”

 There is a deadly promise in his words, and your mother, when she fixes her gaze back up at him as he pulls back, isn’t sure what to make of his words. She felt that he was serious, but she wasn’t sure just how far he was going to take that sense of seriousness. Your mother tosses him a worried smile, deciding that he was just trying to emphasize on the fact that he cared for you so much. “Then, I’m worried for nothing,” she laughs light heartedly, giving him a small bow, “I’ll leave her in your care then. I hope to see a wedding invitation soon,” she smiles gleefully, “it would make my life to see her as a bride.”

 Scaramouche’s beaming smile never leaves him. He feels a lot lighter, letting out a piece of his true self in the guise of something meant to help your situation with him. “Expect one shortly, mother,” he chuckles at her naivety. It reminded him of a certain someone.

 Talking to your dad again was pleasant, it reminded you of your distant memories back in Inazuma, during the sweet and chaste childhood days, everyday filled sunshine, even on cold harsh winter days. As usual, despite his physical weakness, he would laugh at small dumb jokes you would make, and he knew how to make you smile. It was something your father had prided himself on, making the people around him laugh during rough times.

 Today was one of them, he had supposed, seeing that despite your laughter there was a severe evident pain in your eyes that caused him to double back sometimes. It was a look he was never used to seeing on you, because you were such a beautiful and happy child when you were younger. Father takes one of your hands in his own and smiles dearly at you, keeping himself up on his bed by using pillows as leverage.

“My dear butterfly,” he begins with an endearing tone, affection swelling in his eyes when he looks into your own, “I hope you have learned to take care of yourself over the past few years. Your mom and I have missed you, you know?” He sighs, thinking about the countless days he would sometimes spend with your mother, just worrying over you and wondering if you were doing okay. Letters sufficed momentarily, however there were times where he just missed you. There were those occasional, heart wrenching moments in which he would see something in town which would remind him of you. 

 His mind flits off to the mysterious dark haired male, and his heart sinks. There was something about that man that wasn’t right, he figured. He was a male himself, and he could tell by his gaze that behind it lay some sort of sense of twistedness, something that was tangible, yet so unknown to him. However, he pauses as he gauges your face, noticing how you were closely paying attention to every single thing he did and said. Your father smiles at you. You were the same girl he had nurtured, it seemed, despite the vast differences in your height and overall features now.

 “Does that man,” your father hums with curiosity, keeping his eyes trained on your face, watching for any type of negative expression, “does he make you happy?” When your father notices a momentarily dark look pass through your eyes, he frowns. “I want you to be careful around him,” he warns you quietly, whispering as though he was scared that Scaramouche would hear. It was wise of him to do so, if you had to be honest. Scaramouche always seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere, even when you didn’t think he was looking, he always found a way to keep track of you.

 “He…” You begin with hesitancy, looking at your father with wide eyes, wanting nothing more than to be held by him as you thought about all the terrible things Scaramouche had done to you, however you knew you couldn’t afford any sympathy from your father. Knowing he had little time left in this world, you couldn’t afford to let him know about your horrible mishaps. Although it killed whatever was left of you inside, you didn’t want to have to let your father suffer. You’d rather have your father live the rest of his life ignorant to your horrid situation, at least maybe he could rest better, especially now knowing you’d end up being married. You hoped you could take a load off of your parents shoulders by following through with the marriage, despite it being against your true wishes. “He and I have our off days,” you admit, thinking about those days he’d electrocute you for being disobedient, “like any other couple I suppose,” you laugh genially, masking any sense of dread that threatens to leak through your tone with a false happiness, “but we mostly get along.” 

 Your father doesn’t seem to be impressed with your act, and you almost let out a sigh as you continue once again.

 “He loves me very much,” you say with a genuine tone, remembering the night he had shown you a more vulnerable side of yourself. Your heart seems to beat a little louder in the wake of its memory, and you ignore it, “Maybe sometimes, a little too much that it can be overbearing,” you laugh as your father smiles at you, rubbing his thumb over the top of your hand in an attempt to comfort you. “He makes me happy,” you say with as much emotion you can, your heart freezing over when you say it.

 Your father looks into your eyes in search of something, and when he doesn’t find it, he seems genuinely surprised. He smiles at you, and your heart swelters at the sight. You wanted to cry so badly, but you wanted to stay strong in front of him. You always did your best for your parents.

 “Daughter?”

 There’s a strange, forlorn emotion embedded deeply into his voice, and it’s enough to make you pull yourself out of your mind. “Yes, dad?” You reply with genuine curiosity, brushing over the heaviness in your heart as your shattered mind quakes.

 “I am very proud of you, my butterfly,” your father’s smile is warm when he speaks, his tone sounding like glimmers of light to your ears. His voice resonates in your heart, and you almost break in front of him. With whatever emotional strength is left in you, you tie your minds loose ends together. You continue to stare up at him with a dumbfounded expression, memorizing each crease and wrinkle on his face, from the deep creases on his forehead to the wrinkles in his smile and eyes. You wanted to burn this very image into your mind. You wanted to hold onto this moment forever, although you knew deep in your heart that he truly didn’t know you the way he wished he could. Knowing that hurt you, but despite it, you bite back tears with a smile. 

 You lean in towards him and hold his fragile body in a hug. You feel his bones under your touch, and you lean in a little closer. When you close your eyes, your happiness is swallowed up by an infinite well of darkness, engrained so deep in your mind. The seedling of madness that grows within you is sprouting, or so you think as you feel all your hopes slowly disappear, one by one. There is a bleakness that lies ahead of you in your future, murky waters that make you so insecure and unsure of yourself. You don’t say anything when he wraps his feeble arms around you. You just simply enjoy the moment.

 When you pull away, you manage a weak and soft whisper. “Thank you, dad,” your voice is breathy as you hold his hand, noticing that he seemed to have a strange look in his eyes as he spoke to you again.

 “I love you,” his tone is quiet, and it strains you to hear him. You watch as tears build in his eyes, and a lump forms in your throat at the sorrowful sight, “I love you with all my heart, and I will always be proud of you and here for you.” Your father grips your hand a little tighter, and your heart wavers. You feel tears stinging at your own eyes, and you give him the sweetest smile you could muster. 

 “I love you too, dad,” you laugh as a tear rolls down your cheek, feeling as though your heart was about to burst from your chest. He kisses your hand tenderly.

 Dinner is mostly quiet, not many exchanges being given. You sit in front of your mother, and Scaramouche is seated next to you. Your father lies, resting in the other room. He was suddenly feeling very tired after talking to you, so you had let him rest. You continue to stare at your curry and rice with a distant gaze, remembering your father’s words of love and encouragement towards you earlier. You didn’t want to be here right now, you wanted to be alone somewhere, and if you had to be honest to yourself, you knew that if you had taken one bite out of the curry in front of you, you were going to burst out in tears. The smell of the curry was so heavenly to you, and so familiar , you knew your heart couldn’t handle taking a small bite out of it. You would break into sobs before you knew it.

 You didn’t want to do that, not in front of all these people trying to peacefully eat their dinner, and certainly not around Scaramouche. You wish he wasn’t here at all. Your parents and familial life was extremely private to you, the only person who knew how close you were to them was Tartaglia, and even then, the both of you had only exchanged enough to understand that the two of you shared a common goal of doing anything and everything you could for your families.

 “Is something wrong with the curry?” Your mother sounds genuinely concerned, and it gives you a feeling or relief.

 “Not at all, mom,” you laugh shallowly, “I think I’m just really tired from the trip.” It wasn’t a complete lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Scaramouche’s eyes narrow over to you, peering at you from behind thick lashes as he takes note of your overall demeanor. You stand up from your seat, and with a small sigh, you send an apologetic look towards your mother, “Sorry mom, I think I’m going to head to bed for a little,” you say as you push your chair in where it stands, turning your gaze to Scaramouche. Remembering you have to play pretend with him, you give him a small polite nod, “Then, I’ll see you tomorrow,” you think about saying his name, but can’t bring yourself to fully commit to the thought.

 When you turn around and head to your mother’s chambers, you hear your mother reply in a loud voice, “I’ll wrap it up for you, so eat it later when you’re feeling better, dear!”

 Upon reaching her bedroom, you immediately turn the lights off and crash onto the pillows. Many anxieties flooded your mind. Scaramouche was here, did he perhaps plan to do anything to your parents? He wouldn’t dare, would he? Perhaps you were just overthinking. You remember his reminder from earlier, “Don’t forget… you have betrayed me, there will be punishment,” the severity of his tone ringing in your ears makes you want to disappear.

 Your stomach growled, and you groaned in response. You were starving, but you just didn’t want to cry in front of your mother like that. Perhaps now was a good time to release some tears, you think as you bury your head into a pillow, allowing all your negative thoughts to seep from your mind. Feeling felt terrible, to say the least. Giving yourself this moment to process your thoughts and feelings, despite it being overwhelming, for some reason, didn’t make you cry, although you desperately wanted to.

 Amidst your overthinking and prayers to process your emotions,  you find your eyelids fluttering shut, your eyes spiraling as you quickly fall asleep.

 You find yourself in a dark room when you come to, and you immediately search for a semblance of anything other than yourself. The room is pitch black, and despite this, you find that you can see yourself in perfect color. After what feels like an eternity of looking around, you find a bunch of shattered pieces of glass on the floor, all scattered and around a lone, tall mirror. Picking up the pieces, you gaze into the shards, noticing that within them were not complete reflections of you, but rather, memories centered around you. The pieces glow with a warm light around them, and it strangely feels similar to the feeling of your pyro vision when activated. You smile as you collect the pieces, staring into all the joyful memories that you’ve bunched up into one area.

 Suddenly, the shards stop reflecting memories, and start reflecting yourself. You stare at your own reflection from the shards, noticing that the cracks on the shards of glass seemed much more evident now that the memories were detached. You frown and lift a hand to pick a shard up, and gasp when it cuts your finger. The blood that falls from your finger falls, staining the pieces in hues of red, and like a disease, you watch as one shard turns red, followed by another.

 In panic, you reach your hands out to grasp at the remaining untainted slivers, gripping them in your hands despite the clear pain they gave you. When you open your hands to look at the pieces, you scream. Your hands were stained with a darkness akin to ink falling on paper. It spreads throughout the expanse of your hands, and in fear, you desperately attempt to brush it off. The ink fans out further, spreading to your upper arms. You scream in terror. You wanted it off, you wanted it off, you wanted it off--

 You awake from your dream in cold sweat, your heartbeat racing as a crescent moon smiles down from above you, the pale moonlight filtering through the window from beyond the luscious green trees outside. You quickly sit up where you are, shivering as you let out shaky breaths. You were alone in your mother’s room, if you had last remembered. Then perhaps you had fallen asleep somewhere along the way. You halt at your own thoughts.

  Alone?

 The term that usually comforted you for some reason didn’t bode so well with your current state, anxiety swelling in the pits of your stomach. No, no, no, you couldn’t bear being alone right now. Upon finding the strength within yourself, you leave your mother’s room and amble down the corridor, finding yourself in front of your father’s room. You feel a relieved smile appear on your face as you reach for the handle, and then suddenly you stop. 

 Your stomach flips as visions from your nightmare haunted you, the sight of your own hand scaring you. You immediately retract it, pressing your arms close to you and wrapping them around you, holding yourself in a tight embrace as dark thoughts flooded your mind. You back away from their door and press yourself against a wall, securing yourself as you slide down on the wall, your mind racing as you remembered the image of earlier today, when your father and mother had both been looking at you, smiling so warmly while you felt out of place.

 You didn’t belong here. They were so beautiful, so pristine. You weren’t like them, you were filthy-- you were soiled, your hands have been covered in blood more times than you would like to remember. You were a liar, you didn’t belong in a place so bright, so honest, but even then, a part of you was still screaming to be held by them. At long last, after six years of being separated, perhaps you could spend some of your lost time with them in their ethereal embrace, like you always had many years ago. You imagine yourself reaching towards them as you let out a pained breath. Your parents are surrounded in a white light, so bright, so enchanting. You mentally pull yourself away from the idea.

 Much like rotten apples in a batch of good ones cause the others to rot, you thought of yourself as something similar. People you have gotten close to would die or disappear, you’ve noticed. Perhaps there was a pattern, and maybe it was your fault. Maybe you had truly gotten so weak over the past couple months, you couldn’t protect anybody anymore. You want to scream at your useless resolve, you think as you wrap your hands around your mouth, holding in any sobs that threaten to escape your mouth. 

 You were disgusting, wanting to hold innocent people close to you despite your constant lies towards them. You lied to your parents about your love life, your friendships, your job, your everything. Everything they knew about you up to this moment was a lie, even your attempt to be happy was a lie.

 Standing up, you find yourself walking down the hallway once more, heading to the opposite end. You carry yourself with no sense of grace, uncaring as you take slow, dragged out steps towards the other end of the hallway. Your eyes were empty, thoughts fighting over one another, and before you realize where you are, you open the door leading to a bedroom.

 Scaramouche grumbles at the sound of the door opening, his robe shifting when he moves to reposition himself, clearly startled by your intrusion. Your gaze meets his own, and he lets out an annoyed sigh. You don’t respond, you simply let yourself in and close the door behind you. 

 “What do you want,” his voice is groggy, and is heavily laced with irritation at your invasion. When you don’t reply, he clicks his tongue, furrowing his dark eyebrows downwards as his lips pull into a firm scowl, “Are you just going to stand there?” Suddenly, and hastily you move towards him and allow yourself to fall next to him in the plush bed. He gawks at you, confused by your actions. You turn your head to face him, your body remaining still as you manage to weakly talk to him.

 “Let me sleep here for the night,” your tone is defeated.

 Scaramouche raises an eyebrow at you despite his clear irritation. He scoffs, “That’s a first,” he replies wittily before turning his body towards you, pulling the covers off himself as his stare turns into a glare. “Get out of my bed,” he growls impatiently, “you reek of the sun.”

 His anger bubbles when he hears you mumble a ‘whatever’ before turning away from him. Taking in a deep breath, Scaramouche recomposes himself, ceding his anger as he harshly tugs at your clothes. “Change your clothes at least,” he sighs, “and then come talk to me. Get this shit over with, because you are not the only one tired from your voyage.” His impatience is clear in his tone, and you can’t help but listen to his words. 

 You just didn’t want to be alone tonight. You’d sleep next to a bloodthirsty lion if you had to, and of course, Scaramouche was willing to take advantage of that.

 You reluctantly get up from your resting position and realign yourself, rubbing the sleep away from your eyes as you get off the bed and leave the room.

 When you return, you’re wearing old clothes you found in your mother’s closet, and Scaramouche is sitting up, arms crossed as he stares at you expectantly. “And? What brings this about,” he begins, watching your form as you make your way towards the bed, “because we both know you wouldn’t just do this.”

 You crawl next to him, sliding underneath the covers as you turn your body away from him. “Nothing,” you mutter quietly in response. There’s a familiar feeling of electricity gathering from behind you, and when you twist your body to get a better look, Scaramouche is glaring down at you. There’s a faint spark that sets off in the air, and you toss him an incredulous look. 

 His indigo eyes burn into your own.

 You find yourself speaking to him, knowing that you couldn’t deny him any more than you already have, “I felt wrong,” you admit quietly. When he doesn’t say anything, you understand he plans to listen intently, thus, you continue. “I just… don’t belong here,” there’s a clear pain in your voice that refuses to hide itself, “it’s horrifying to think about, but I’m probably closer to you than I am to my own family now. They don’t know my true occupation, they don’t know what I’m truly capable of doing,” you laugh sardonically. “I’m rotten inside,” you finally comment as you press the back of your hand to your forehead, staring up at the ceiling with the vision that wasn’t obscured by your hand.

 A beat of silence passes, and you wonder if he’s even willing to remark on your thoughts.

 When he snickers, you feel a slight tingle of anger bubble in you. Of course he would mock you, you didn’t know what you were expecting.

 “Have you just come to realize that?” His voice is eerily calm with an odd edge to it, and it elicits you to take in a deep breath, holding it in your lungs as he continues, “How surprising,” he muses, “I’d thought you’d have known yourself a little better, but perhaps you’ve been taking all your chances to run away from this conclusion,” his dark bangs shift to the side as he tilts his head to face you, “haven’t you?”

 You let out a bated breath, refusing to look at him, feeling a contingent feeling of shame creep up on you. You don’t say anything, instead, you keep your eyes trained on the wooden boards that made the ceiling. He was right. You didn’t want to admit it, but he was painfully correct.

 Scaramouche’s gaze on you is firm, his indigo eyes looking at whatever he could see of your eyes, “You’re filthy,” he says, watching as your hand resting on your head flexes slightly, a flicker of fire in your eyes passing and disappearing as quickly as it came at his words. “You should have understood that when you signed up to be a Fatui, knowing completely well what we do,” he chuckles, his tone caustic, “you knew you’d have to kill people, you knew you’d have to lie, yet here you are, coming face to face with your consequences, feeling sad for yourself?” There’s a malicious emotion that passes through Scaramouche’s eyes, his tone flooding with impatience as his lips pull into a taut scowl, “Make it make sense.”

 You click your tongue, gritting your teeth at his words as a well of emotions inside you roar at his honest insult. He was right, you couldn’t say anything back, but it still hurt to hear. A desolate feeling settled in your heart as you weakly lowered the hand resting on your head back down to the plush pillow beneath you, allowing Scaramouche to see your complete face. Not wanting to exploit your feelings further, you go to your nearest escape, “My punishment,” you begin as void ate at your insides, “what is it?”

 Scaramouche hums in approval, seemingly pleased that you were obedient enough to remember his plans for you. He shifts in the bed, and he moves to lean towards you, his exposed leg brushing against the expanse of your thigh. You flinch away from the contact before he hovers above you, the shadow cast from the moonlight hitting his figure over you almost startling you. Your eyes find his own, and are terrified to notice the sadistic sense that emanates from within them. Your heart sinks, and you find that before him, you feel as though you have no choice but to comply.

 You relax your body in defeat, closing your eyes as you figure you have no way out of this. It was something you had deserved, and truthfully, a part of you, despite it being repulsive to think about, wanted to be punished. You wanted to hurt. You thought about your parents' smiling faces, the ends of your lips twitching downwards when you come to realize the fact that the day in which you could hold them without facing any emotional backlash would never come. Scaramouche was right. You had made your choices a long time ago, and you’ve been on that path of carnage for six years. You’ve discarded so many parts of yourself, changed so many happy little aspects. You wondered briefly if those graveyards of emotions in your head, locked away and buried deep below the imaginary soil that made your mind, were all the remnants you had left of yourself from the golden days, the warm hued memories of years ago.

 Preparing for whatever pain might come, you scowl, eyes shut tightly as Scaramouche lifts your left hand up towards him, holding it near his face.

 “Look at me.” This was no request, it was a command. Something you’d have to oblige to. 

 You open your eyes and your breath hitches at the sight. He was so handsome, lit by the moonlight like this, his skin seemed to glow under the luminescence. His dark hair gleamed in bright mixtures of blues and purples, his indigo eyes narrowed and trained firmly on your face, watching for your expression. It was unfair , you thought as you furrowed your eyebrows at the sight. He was naturally so beautiful, as if he were something crafted by the gods themselves. When he presses his cheek to your hand, your heart pulses, his eyes never leaving yours. You were petrified when you saw a familiar emotion pass through his eyes. You recognized it to be a sick and twisted rendition of affection for you, and it made you want to wretch, your stomach churning from within at the notion. Your body begins to shake with a nervousness that Scaramouche seems to sense. 

  Please don’t show me this side of you, not anymore, and never again, you beg internally, feeling your heart thrum against your ribcage. Sometimes, you forget that he was just a man, in love with a woman who couldn’t afford such a luxury.

 Scaramouche separates his cheek from your hand and uses his cold fingers to feel at each of your fingers, stopping at your ring finger, his eyes leaving yours and staring at the finger, scanning it and memorizing each crease and admiring the shape of your fingernails. A mysterious smile forms on his lips, “You don’t have to worry about being rotten with me,” his voice is low, and it makes your heart race just a little faster, “because I already knew how corrupt you were when I set my eyes on you.” His lips curl into a devilish smirk, eyes narrowing as he brushes over the expanse of your ring finger with his thumb, “Perhaps I know you better than you know yourself, just how far you have decomposed inside.”

 You flinch away when you feel a hint of electricity grow at the ends of his fingertips, a fear rising within you at the understanding of his words. You had almost forgotten, you think as you start to shake once again, eyes wide when they settle on him, watching as he brings your hand to his mouth, opening it and allowing your ring finger to pass through. When he bites down harshly on your finger, you almost let out a scream, and your free hand immediately flies to your mouth to cover it. 

 You had been distracted by his appearance, you had almost forgotten that he was more like a beast than a beauty. His nose was keen, he could smell if blood fell off of someone far away. Scaramouche’s eyes were sharp, reminding you of a cat that was on the prowl. He was more like a predator than a prey, despite his lean figure. He could bring down anything at his hands with his destructive nature.

 When his teeth press down further into your skin, tearing through it as he manipulates your hand to twist the other direction, you let out a haphazard wail, tears forming in your eyes when he finally lets go. He smiled at your pained face, a dark look on his own as his grip on your hand tightened, “ Shut up and take it, will you?” He sneered as he allowed a harsh volt of electricity flow through his veins, focusing them onto your hand. 

 You try hard to comply, tears shedding from your eyes at the pain of bleeding and having so much electricity run through one particular area of your body. You withhold screams and let out whimpers, your hand pressing firmly onto your mouth as he continues his ministrations until he’s satisfied.

 Scaramouche hums in appeasement when he’s done, eying your ring finger in delight as you relax your body, tears rolling down the sides of your face as your free hand falls limp to your side. As you catch your breath, you notice there’s some blood that tries to fall off the red and purple scar from your finger. Scaramouche presses his lips on your ring finger, kissing it as your blood stained his lips. He tosses you a winning grin, bringing your hand closer to you so you could inspect the damage he has done to it. 

 Your eyes trace the damage, and you let out a shaky breath when you realize exactly what he had done. There was an ugly, jagged makeshift ring on your finger, your skin thinning out by your knuckles in blotches of purples and reds. You want to die, you think as you see the proud look on his face.

 “This is your punishment,” Scaramouche’s voice is a matter of fact as he gazes at you through your fingers, “and as you admitted earlier, from today onwards,” he snickers at the terror in your face, “ you are my fiancée.” A sinister smile grows on his face and a petrifying chuckle escapes his throat, sounding deranged and dire, all at once, “ Mine.” His eyes gleam with an ominous excitement, “There will be no more running from me,” he hisses as he pulls your hand towards him again, allowing himself a better look at your face, “there will be no one else that you will look at, you will just be a good and obedient wife.” His smile grows at the anger that burns in your eyes, your face stiffening as tears stop falling from your eyes, “Because from now on, there will be no you without me,” he laughs at your enraged expression, eyes staring down at your mockingly as he pushes your hand downwards, trapping your beneath him. 

 You don’t fight back against his weight on you, however you maintain a steady glare, dried tear stains on your face as you grit your teeth and glower at him, eyebrows furrowing. 

 He laughs maniacally once again, leering down at you, “Don’t you worry about missing out on things in this world when you’re stuck with me,” his eyes glint with a maliciousness that arises a dread from within you, “because I’ll make sure we spend this life time stretched for eternity.” 

 You clench your fists in his hold, but don’t allow yourself any more than that. You shut your eyes and throw your head to the side, not wanting to look at him. The burn on your left hand’s ring finger was constantly reminding you of where you were, despite your attempts to mentally escape. Scaramouche’s eyes narrow at your actions, feeling slightly irked. Was this your attempt to reject him again?

 He leans down a little further, loving the tension that builds in your shoulders when he does so as his grip on your hands tighten. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t love me,” he says, a slight disappointment in his tone, though you don’t seem to notice, “it doesn’t change a thing. You are mine.”

 “I…” You suddenly find yourself speaking, your mind racing as your mouth runs itself, “I was prepared,” you press your lips into a firm line, feeling him readjust himself. His breath seems to pause for a moment, and you take it as a chance to continue with whatever your melted mind wanted to say, “I came to terms with the fact that perhaps I couldn’t find love,” you don't understand why you’re saying these things, seeing as though they will have no merit for you. These were dead thoughts that were rising from their disturbed graves, you had supposed, since earlier you had been so desperately rummaging through them. “I was prepared to marry a commoner, and maybe,” you hesitate to continue for a moment, eyes reopening as you turn your head to meet indigo irises. “Maybe I could retire from the Fatui and live as a housewife for someone I could learn to love,” your voice is soft, and a part of Scaramouche bathes in the sound of it.

 A breath of air hits your face, and you look at him quizzically. He had scoffed, his indigo eyes narrowing as he throws himself to one side of the bed, pulling your intertwined hands with him and meeting in the space between the both of you. “Then,” his voice is light, “if not me, then who? ”

 You gaze at him, confused as you let out a small chuckle, earning a glare, ”Anybody but you would do,” you say gently in a matter of fact tone.

 His eyes turn blank, his expression unreadable, and then he smiles. You hold your breath, bracing yourself for some backlash.

 “That’s not true though,” his voice is sickeningly sweet, “now is it?” His indigo eyes seem to laugh at you in your clear confusion, and you clench your fists.

 “What do you mean?” You implore him as you furrow your eyebrows, feeling insulted by his accusation.

 Scaramouche clicks his tongue and lifts a hand up, freeing one of your hands in the process and cupping your chin in case you decide to turn away from him, keeping your face firm and still. Underneath the violet of his eyes, you start to feel small. He looked as though he was analyzing you, and when he finds his conclusion, he smiles condescendingly.

 Your heart drops.

 “You?” He smirks, “a murderer, a Fatui officer getting together with what,” he pretends to ponder for a moment, “let’s say, a fisherman. Could such a lifestyle really suit you?” He laughs as he tilts his head closer to you, eyes gleaming, “You said it yourself, you know you’re tainted, filthy and rotten inside. You have scars littered all around your body, you can’t possibly think someone would want damaged goods.”

 His last two words stick in your brain. Damaged goods? Is that how people saw you? A chill runs down your spine at the realization that he wasn’t completely wrong. Battle scars that couldn’t heal completely were found all around your body, mostly by the expanse of your stomach and a few just on your arms. You rejected the urge to feel at them, wanting to hide them in front of him. You felt insecure. No sane man would want to marry an ex Fatui member, and you couldn’t even be a viable housewife. You only knew enough to handle yourself, not someone else. Your eyes widen as Scaramouche’s indigo eyes burn into yours.

 “So, let me ask you again. If not me, then who?”

 You were dumbstruck. 

 As condescending as his words were, there was a ringing of truth to them. And if you had to be honest with who you were, and how you acted, you couldn’t imagine yourself being a traditional housewife. The idea of settling down in a nice, loving home with kids and a husband felt so far to you, it was merely a daydream. The memory of your nightmare pangs at your mind, and you remember the feeling of being unable to hold your parents out of fear you would somehow bring ruin to them, just like you did with your teammates. Perhaps, if you hadn’t joined the Fatui, your fate would be much more different. Maybe if you had settled in a normal day to day job, working for a measly amount of money, maybe you would have sufficed with that. If you married one of your parent’s suggested suitors, then maybe you would have enough money to support your family. What were you thinking, joining the Fatui, really, but Scaramouche was right. You knew the consequences, yet you joined the Fatui anyway. 

 You frown.

 You were never a kind person. You’d hurt someone if it meant that you would live to see another day, you’d hurt someone if it meant that your family would reap the benefits of your blood money. A small, depressed smile makes itself known on your lips as you close your eyes, feeling hurt swell from within you, encroaching every corner of your mind. That’s right. You could only wish to be a good person. You could only wish to wash your hands off of numerous people’s blood. You could only fantasize of being a wonderful daughter. That’s all it would ever be.

 And Scaramouche knew that. He took advantage of it, he loved every second of your internal turmoil. 

 “That’s right,” you find yourself saying, your voice quiet, “I suppose there is nobody else, is there?” You sound lost, and the despair in your tone makes your own heart break. You shut your eyes, and allow yourself to drift into a solemn slumber.

 Scaramouche smiles and brushes his thumb over your cheek lovingly, knowing he was the one to cause you so much lament and hurt. It was fine, he had concluded, because the end product of it all, seeing you like this, admitting that there was no one else but him for you and  with the jagged marks on your ring finger signifying that you were his…

 It was all so marvelous.

 When you awake to a hoarse scream echoing through the halls of your temporary home, eyelids flying open to meet Scaramouche’s indigo eyes, looking peeved, you know exactly just what has happened.

 Your eyes turn glassy as you hear sorrowful wails resound throughout the hallway, your face turning dim. You remember your father’s last words to you as you let out a shaky sob. Your hand, still entangled with Scaramouche’s own trembles.

 “I love you with all my heart, and I will always be proud of you and here for you.”

  You break into tears.

Chapter Text

 When you see your father’s lifeless body in front of you, you feel nothing. A void in you grows with each passing second as you watch your mother sob, her whole body shaking as pained wails tear out of her mouth, one after the other. Scaramouche stands next to you, motionless, eyes set on the scene unfolding before him. Your eyes are dark, eye bags heavier than usual and eyes swollen from your constant crying. Your lips were dry, skin feeling cakey. You had no water in your body left, or so you thought. You had cried them all out, and now all you could do was stare as the scene burned itself into your eyes. 

 You want to hug your mother, but you hate the idea of possibly ruining her life too. Father was supposed to pass away soon, you knew he had less than a month left, but you couldn’t help but think, with the lingering trail of carnage and bloodshed that followed your every step, that perhaps this was your fault. Maybe it’s because you had held him earlier yesterday. Perhaps you had become a grim reaper, much like Scaramouche, taking everything dear to yourself with just a touch of your hands, and you couldn’t help but wonder if your mother was next to pass. 

 Scaramouche notices your turmoil. He tugs on the edge of your black shirt.

 You don’t blink. You remain still, your mother’s cries echoing in your ears. With your tainted hands, darkness itself stitched so tightly into your skin and soul, you wish you could have been the one to die instead. This was your fault, you thought. Just like your teammate’s death, just like the butterfly that burned away just inches away from you. If you had listened, if you had been more obedient, if you just remained a puppet, then perhaps the outcome would be different. You let out a shaky sigh, eying the sickly pale that overwhelmed your father’s skin.

 Was it so bad that you were jealous of his current state?

 “Let’s stay just a few more days,” you tell Scaramouche when he enters his room, watching as he stiffens at the sound of your voice. He hadn’t expected you to be in his room, and he hadn’t expected the dullness of your tone when you spoke to him, the hellfire that had once persisted in your tone gone without a trace. He turns to look at you, sitting in his bed, indigo eyes narrowed, and when he opens his mouth to speak, you cut him off. “Father is going to be cremated tomorrow,” your voice is soft, eyes not completely focused on him, but rather you looked as though you could see through him, staring at the wooden door behind him. “After that, we can go home,” you detested that word, ‘home’. Anywhere with Scaramouche was torture, it was hell, but at this point, hell was where you had found comfort.

 Scaramouche looks at you, observing your dead features, noticing the lifelessness in your eyes. He lets out a scoff, and then scowls at you, disliking the lack of anything in them. He pats off his clothes and ambles his way towards his bed, sitting on the edge as he briefly ponders your offer. “You’ve already cost me a great deal of trouble,” he sighs as he turns his head upwards, staring boredly at the roof, “we aren’t supposed to stay for much longer, you do understand that don’t you?” His tone isn’t angry, but rather, a matter of fact when he speaks to you.

 You remain quiet for a moment, eyes still on the door where he had stood a minute ago, expression blank. You open your mouth, searching for a voice of reason within you to protest, because your family was important to you. They had meant the world to you. “I’m sorry,” you find yourself apologizing before you had known it, body giving up whatever strength it had left. You hadn’t eaten yet, and you could feel the acid in your stomach fester and feed upon the lining of your stomach. You couldn’t care less. To you, this was a personal punishment, for failing your parents. For failing yourself, for failing everything you had stood for. For allowing and trusting a Fatui harbinger to take care of medication in Liyue for your dad to take. You had prided yourself so dearly on these things, lived your life for your family, yet you brought them ruin. 

 Scaramouche doesn’t say anything, but you could tell from the aura that exhumed from his body, he was irritated with you. Irritated enough to crawl his way towards you, his hands placed at both sides of your head as he glared down at you, an odd emotion swirling in his eyes as he did so. “Get a grip, will you?” His voice is low, almost dangerous, eyes focused on your face, and for a moment, you meet his gaze. You can’t find the energy to say anything back, but you turn your head away slightly, a long breath leaving your nose as you gazed at a wall to your side. Annoyed, he cups the sides of your face with one hand, forcefully turning your head to face him. “We can’t stay much longer,” he says much more adamantly this time, gauging your expression as you stare into his eyes. When he finds a hint of disappointment in your eyes, he almost lets out a relieved sigh. It was better than seeing nothing, he had supposed, and he was getting quite tired of your lack of expression.

 “Then so be it,” your voice is plain and lazy, arms relaxed at your sides as you allow him to maneuver your face from side to side, as if inspecting for something. “When would you prefer to leave,” you scoff at his heartlessness, eyes hardened and cold when you stare deep into his irises, “ my dear fiancé?” Your voice is taunting, feeling an anger seep through your tone. 

 His eyes narrow, and his hand travels from your cheek and down to your neck, pressing it just firm enough to let you know that he had control over the situation. “Watch your tone,” he speaks in a whisper, his eyes gleaming with an unfiltered displeasure at your response.

 You let out a sardonic laugh, eyes leaving his own when he presses a little tighter around your neck, and the words that leave you next feel something akin to your truest, and most visceral feelings. “Do it,” you hoarsely whisper through your cracked lips, “just do it already.” 

 When his breath hitches, you quickly swivel your head towards him, feeling as though your heart was about to burst from your chest with how rapidly it was beating, and it was as though a dam had broken within you when your frown turns into an angered scowl, your eyebrows furrowing as your tone became much more sharp, like an edge of a blade. You glare at him, not caring for the slightly taken aback expression on his face as you hiss, “If you want to kill me so bad then fucking do it,”   you snap, your strength momentarily returning to you as your left hand flies over to feel at his own, gripping your neck. You press down on his hand, teeth clenching slightly as you feel your own weight double onto his, and you feel him flinch at the reaction. “Kill me,” you growl, and a part of you doesn’t understand where this sudden surge of emotion comes from, but you do understand that it feels good to let it out, this untamed response.

 “If you won’t even let me grieve the loss of my own father, knowing how important my parents are to me,” you hiss, fury seething out of you, “then kill me.”

 Scaramouche’s eyes are wide, eyebrows furrowed as he glares down at you, and suddenly, his angered expression relaxes. He thinks about his own creator, the woman of much power who seals herself away deep in an eternal lock inside her mind. Your anger reminds him of the days he spent rummaging for safety in a careless world, and it takes him aback for a moment. You look at him, confused when he curves his hand around your throat and wraps it around the back of your head. He holds your gaze for a moment, observing as your face melted into one of bewilderment. Then he abruptly dips down, throwing his body off to the side, pulling you with him as his free arm wraps around you.

 Your heart halts.

 His hand on the back of your head presses you forward slightly, forcing you closer as he tucks you in under his chin. He lets out a soft breath, seemingly contented by this position.

 What was he doing? 

 Your mind swirled with complex emotions, the perplexity of your interaction with him knocking at your head despite your lack of understanding of the situation. You were merely frozen in his arms, the warmth of his body bringing you slight discomfort. “What the hell are you doing,” you manage to whisper despite the confusion in your head.

 “Shut up,” he replies, which only further engages the complexity of emotions in your mind. What kind of response was this?

 “Let go of me,” you stiffly reply, attempting to gather what was left of your burst of strength towards your arms, and ultimately failing against his firm grip around you,

 “Shut up,” Scaramouche’s voice sounds increasingly annoyed due to your attempt to wriggle out of his grasp, “just stay still, and let me think.”

 You let out a small frustrated huff. Scaramouche was a real piece of work, you thought as you allowed him to momentarily distract you from the darkness of your thoughts, listening to the breaths that left his body as you shift your weight comfortably on the bed. What was he even thinking about, you thought as a wave of silence passed the both of you. The silence is almost enough to bring you back to your mind, however he pulls you out before you could drift into it completely.

 “..You owe me,” he reluctantly says, his tone stiff when he speaks to you as he uses the hand on your head to brush your hair, “for being so troublesome.” Despite the stiffness of his tone, there was a sense of relaxation. “We can’t stay longer than two more days,” he admits with a quiet voice, “the preparations I had made coming here do not suffice for any longer than that, and the crimson wench will probably be there by the time we arrive back to Inazuma,” his voice is soft for the first time in forever, you think as you continue to listen to him. “After your father is cremated, we’ll have to say our goodbyes to your mother,” he explains further, pausing for a moment before pressing onwards, “then we have to pay my junior, Tartaglia,” he seems to seethe at his name, “a little visit.”

 Truthfully, his plan sounded beautiful to your ears. It was better than just having to leave immediately, first thing in the morning, and in all honesty, despite your wish to spend more time with your mother, there was still hell to pay on the way home, and some business to settle with a certain orange haired harbinger. You replayed his words in your mind, pondering for a moment before replying, “I owe you,” you agree as a feeling of enjoyment tinkles from within your heart. His offer was a lot more than it seemed, you understood that, despite him only being only able to sacrifice two days. Work was important to the both of you, and with such major plans to happen in Inazuma, you knew that two days in itself was a big enough delay, especially considering the travel time from Liyue to Inazuma. It would be busy when you both arrived home.

 Despite your chagrin, you still held respect towards his decisions. He had held you in mind, though you supposed it was nothing out of the ordinary. “ Thank you ,” you say softly. The words leaving your lips feel strange, especially when they’re aimed towards Scaramouche. Everything that left your mouth that was meant for him usually ended up bitter, and filled with resentment, however, this felt… strange. It felt genuine.

 A hum reverberates from his throat, a sign of approval. 

 A part of you thought, tiredly, that he must be up to something. Your thumb traces over your left hand’s ring finger, feeling at the abused, blotchy red patches of skin that marred the area. There was no chance of him allowing you to have a moment without any form of payment, and something like this could surmount to a large sum in the future. You owed him, but you wondered exactly how much, especially for delays like these. You shut your eyes as you feel his long digits pass through your hair, twirling them at the ends as if he were bored, playing with the strands without tugging at your hair. You supposed you would have to keep those thoughts in the back of your head as the days went on. For now, you would selfishly allow yourself his admittance. 

 Your mother returns home, tired in the early morning with an urn, filled with the ashes of your father, brought forth from a parlor in Liyue that had prepared ahead of time, and willingly cremated him. The urn is black, painted with golden intricate designs, notably of a butterfly that you were so familiar with. You allowed a small, sad smile on your face as your mother brushes past you, placing his urn on an altar that you had set up earlier. 

 “He was so happy to see you,” your mother begins, her voice calm, mismatching her demeanor from yesterday’s, “do you know that, my dear?”

 You turn to face her, eyes catching her gaze as she gives you a sad, wrinkly smile. Her eyes are warm, much to your terror, and you almost don’t know what to say in response. You wish her gaze was cold, you were afraid of the warmth in her eyes. Your mind flits back to her words, and you remember the expression on your father’s face when he told you he had loved you. You nod in response, smile not reaching your eyes as you cast your eyes downwards, bringing your gaze to her feet.

 There’s a soft sigh that escapes your mother’s mouth, and she ambles towards you in her yukata, tabis soft on the wooden floor, and when she is in front of you, she places a hand on your chin and forces you to look up at her. A smile is still planted firmly on her face, and it seems to grow when she observes the signs of weariness on your face, eyes tracing the cracks on your lips, noticing how pale they had become. “You still haven’t eaten,” she lightly scolded you, brushing a thumb over your cheek lovingly. You lean into the touch unconsciously, eyes staring into her own. “The curry is still in the fridge,” your mother’s voice is tender when it falls from her mouth, “nobody has touched it. Come,” she ushers you, nodding towards Scaramouche who stands somewhat distantly from behind you, asking him to follow her lead as well.

 Moments later, you find yourself sitting down at the dining table, empty eyes finding the plate of curry before you as your stomach gurgles at the delicious smell. Scaramouche sits next to you, and your mother is before you, watching you patiently. She lets out a soft sigh as she extends an arm out towards you, sensing your hesitancy to eat despite how hungry and malnourished you had become.

 Your eyes find her arm, ears keening into the soft brushing of her yukata’s sleeve against the cotton fabric put over the table. Mother holds her hand out to you, and gradually, you reach for it, the fear of possibly bringing her ruin blatant in your mind as you do so. When your fingertips meet the flesh of her palm, you suddenly are overcome with the need to feel more. You wrap your fingers around her old, aging ones, thumb brushing against the skin of her knuckles as you let out a breath you had unexpectedly been holding. 

 “What are you afraid of?”

 Your mother’s question causes you to flinch, and you pause your ministrations for a moment, recollecting yourself to answer the question, searching for anything within you that didn’t sound too depressing to hear. “I don’t know,” you decide to lie, eyes casting downwards onto the plate of curry before you, your eyes retaining their emptiness when the understanding of her old age settles deep in your mind. A dark, cloudy thought passes through your mind, and you acknowledge it. She might die soon, too , you admit to yourself internally, a ball forming at your throat at the thought of it.

 Her hum brings you out of your thoughts, and a twinkle sparkles in her eyes when you look back up at her. “Do you think it’s your fault?” Mother begins, and chuckles when she notices your body freeze up. When you relax your body at her touch, she continues, “It isn’t your fault,” her voice is clear when she speaks to you, and she presses against your fingers as though she truly wanted you to listen to her next words, “it’s nobody’s fault.”

 Her words cause you to double back for a moment, eyes wide as a scowl overcomes your face. Thoughts fire in your mind, throwing back and forth between the threshold of your brain. She’s wrong, you think, it is your fault. You failed them, you had failed your family.

 As though she could read your mind, she starts again, “It’s nobody's fault,” she repeats once more, her voice much more firm, despite how gentle her tone was. You begin to shake. “Your father has been feeling sickly for some time, and we foolishly ignored it,” she sighs, grey hairs falling to the sides of her face as she leans downwards, eyes leaving yours for a moment, “we should’ve known better than to just ignore something like that. But your father, he died happy,” mother lets out a soft laugh, and it sounds like twinkles of light to your ears, “he got to see you again. That was his only wish before he passed away, and I think, to be honest, that he held out this long because he wanted to see you so badly.” 

 You let out a soft whimper at her words, heat building up and onto your face, as a ray of light shines through the dark of your mind, tears welling up in your tear ducts. You grip onto her hand tightly as she continues to speak, feeling Scaramouche’s gaze on the side of your face as tears begin to escape your eyes, falling soundlessly down the sides of your cheeks.

 “Don’t blame yourself for being unable to be here,” mother smiles at you warmly as you lift a hand up to rub your eyes, the sleeves of your borrowed yukata slowly drenching with your tears, “you have been busy. We knew that, we understood that, we didn’t want to bother you so much especially with all the hard work you’ve put into sending us money and medicine. We both missed you,” mother confesses, listening to your sobs gradually get louder, “we always thought about you, day and night, and you are always in our prayers. Besides,” her eyes turn to Scaramouche, and she gives him a charitable smile when she notices how his gaze is severely trained onto your sobbing form. “It seems we can finally rest easy, knowing our precious daughter will be married off to a responsible man like Kunikuzushi,” with his name being spoken, Scaramouche finally meets your mother’s watchful gaze.

 Scaramouche gives her a respectful nod before agreeing, “I will take care of her to my utmost abilities,” his voice is sure, despite his gaze landing on the burn mark on your finger as you wipe away at your tears. Mother doesn’t seem to notice, thankfully, and she lets out a small grateful laugh at his words.

 “Mom, I…” Your voice trails off as a warm feeling floods your heart, echoing throughout your body when the feeling of light spreads in your veins, “I’m so sorry,” you apologize as another wave of sobs rack your body, your voice turning loud as you lament freely, uncaring of Scaramouche’s softening gaze on you.

 “You have no reason to apologize my dear,” mother laughs breathily, as if unsurprised by your apology, “you’ve always had the tendency to make other people’s burdens your own, despite knowing you could never carry the weight of it all, so I knew you’d try to blame yourself for this. You were always our dear butterfly, the light of our family, crossing our burdens off to the high heavens for us when we couldn’t go anywhere.” There is an adoration and longing in your mother’s voice that causes you to crumble completely as you cover your mouth, intertwining your cold fingers with the warmth of her own. You feel as though, maybe, just… maybe, you weren’t as bad as you thought you were. Perhaps, parts of you were still living, somewhere deep inside you. A feeling of hope grew like a lotus flower, blooming in the mud of your feelings.

 Scaramouche gazes at the butterfly pin in your hair, eyes tracing over the bright red as he memorizes her words. A smile crawls onto his face as your mother’s words register in his mind. You were something like that to him too, a light he had caught for himself, something close to heaven, something near to him and far all at once. Something about you was just so  fascinating, so intriguing he could simply not let go. And now you were his, the red in your hair belonged to him, the red welt on your ring finger was a symbol for the promise of eternity between the both of you. It seemed that the red butterfly was, after all, most fitting for the darling you. He watches as you break in front of him, sobbing as you retract your hand from your mother’s grasp to brush away the tears falling from your eyes. You were beautiful, even like this.

 When there is space to calm down, your mother speaks, “Eat, my dear,” she says, pointing at the curry that has lost its steam, being left out in the open for so long, “regain your energy. Kunikuzushi has already told me about your endeavors today, and it’s sad to say goodbye so soon, but it’s not forever,” her eyes flit up to meet yours, and she smiles when she sees light in your eyes.

 Impatiently, you snatch the wooden spoon sitting inches away from your plate, eliciting a giggle from your mother as you begin to dig in. At the familiar, almost long forgotten taste of homemade curry in your mouth, you begin to tear up once more. “It’s good,” you mumble with a full mouth, “it’s really good.”

 Your mother lightly taps at the table with her finger, causing you to look up at her. She smiles at you, looking at your fiancé next to you before returning your gaze, “Don’t speak with your mouth full, my dear,” she kindly reminds you.

 Scaramouche smirks when he senses life back in your body, your actions turning energetic as you reach for more spoonfuls of curry and rice.

 Later that afternoon, you are back in Kujou Sara’s outfit, prepared to head out with whatever mora you had left over for yourself upon giving your mother the rest of the share. Your daggers are hidden under the skirt of your garment, thigh straps firm and taut against your skin to keep them there. When you exit your room, you meet with Scaramouche, leaning ever so casually against a wall just outside of your room, waiting patiently for you. His eyes are closed, and for a brief moment, you think he looks peaceful, facial structure relaxed. He cranks one eye open upon hearing your door close, and he leans off of the wall, standing before you silently. 

 Wordlessly, you outstretch a hand out towards him.

 His indigo irises watch the gesture in amusement, a smirk stretching on one corner of his lips as he meets your hand, intertwining your fingers together as he pulls you towards him. He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a small praise, and you narrow your eyes at him in disgust. Scaramouche snickers. It’s been some time since he has seen this side of you, and he had honestly begun to miss it as opposed to the constant downtrodden expression you had since you left Inazuma. Although, he must admit, he thinks as you pull him down the hallway, leading him to your father’s shrine, he has seen many sides of you with this recent trip, and yearned to see more.

 You meet your mother at his shrine, and you bow before the image of your father. Your mother hands you his urn when you’re done paying respects with Scaramouche at your side, and you feel Scaramouche’s gaze on you as you take off the lid and pull apart the mora pouch that Ekaterina had given you at the start of your trip. With no hesitancy, you reach into the urn and pull out the ashes, dumping portions into your mora bag. Scaramouche narrows his eyes questioningly, looking to your mother for an explanation as to what you were doing.

 Mother notices his gaze and smiles, “You see, Kunikuzushi,” her tone is soft, “with the travel ban on Inazuma, and with my sickly self by my husband’s side, he could never really travel the world as he wished to do when he was younger. Our butterfly is simply carrying his wishes with her,” your mother’s gaze turns towards you as you pull at the ropes of the mora pouch, tightening it securely. Your eyes meet your mother’s own pair, and she wraps her arms around you lovingly. You attempt to do the same, being conscious of the hand you used to touch the ashes, making sure it didn’t dirty her yukata. “I love you, my dear butterfly,” your mother whispers in your ear as she wraps her arms around you tightly, causing your breath to stutter when she does it so tight, you could barely breathe.

 “Love you too,” you manage to weakly heave, patting her back as she squeezes the air out of you. You’re surprised, honestly, with how much strength she has in her body despite her clear fragility in her bones and aging self. When her embrace slackens, you come face to face with the adoration in her eyes, and you feel your heart soften. You return her loving smile and plant a kiss on her cheek. You hold this moment close to your heart, wanting to memorize these final moments you spent with your mother before you are off to the heart of Liyue.

 You wrap the pouch around your wrist, preparing to set off as you reach the door. Scaramouche follows you, only to be halted by your mother. He turns around, face quizzical until your mother surprises him, pulling him into a hug. Shock floods his body when her frail arms wrap around him, encasing his arms and trapping him. The noise Scaramouche lets out makes you want to giggle. It was such an odd noise, coming from him.

 Scaramouche barely computes your mother’s quiet voice in his ears. “Have you found what you were looking for?” Mother’s voice is audible enough only for him to hear. When she pulls away, looking up at him fondly, an odd familiarity settling in her eyes as she gazes into indigo irises, Scaramouche feels an odd itch in his brain. He doesn’t reply to her, unsure of what to say to her words as he gives her a reassuring smile. Your mother seems to notice the hesitation in his eyes, and she pulls away completely, arms unwrapping themselves from his lean figure. “Take care of her for me, Kunikuzushi,” your mother beams at him, eyes closing and smiling as her cheeks rise from the width of her smile.

 Scaramouche feels a pang of something in his chest, but he isn’t entirely sure where it comes from, or why it’s there. He returns her gaze and bows his head, “You won’t have to worry,” he retorts, his tone confident.

 You watch their interaction from afar, feeling somewhat thankful that Scaramouche had done such a good job with all this pretentious kindness. At least now, your mother wasn’t so worried about your future, and perhaps, she could finally stop pestering you about your love life. When Scaramouche slides on his wooden slippers in preparation to leave, the both of you give your mother one last final bow, which she returns gracefully.

 “I’ll see you later,” you smile, a light burning into your heart, scraping off the darkness that aches at you when you say your farewells. Your mother grins at you, her face looking youthful.

 “Have a safe trip,” she bows once more, sending the both of you off to your journey, and when the door closes behind your figures, she falls to her knees. Unbeknownst to you, she sobs as you trot down the golden pathway leading to Liyue. She would miss you, time and time again, but for now, she would wait to see you at your marriage ceremony.

 On the way to Liyue Harbor, you search for a cliff along the shorelines, eyes observing the gorgeous scenery of Liyue. It was truly a fresh breath of air, and it helped that the day was sunny after the downpour yesterday. You took a moment, pausing in your steps to close your eyes as you allowed yourself to feel your environment. Scaramouche stops just a few strides away, looking at you with a raised brow at your antics. You remembered your mother’s words of forgiveness and allowed the next wind to take some of your guilt away, inhaling the breeze and holding it deep in your lungs before allowing it to leave your body, imagining that scraps of darkness left your body with that breath. And then, suddenly everything just felt inexplicably… right.

  When you reopen your eyes, there’s a firm resolve that burns in your eyes that makes Scaramouche smile knowingly. He remembered that fire, and he loved it, that emotion that burned so brightly that your pyro vision would glow at the sense of it.

 You let out a soft hum as you turn your gaze towards a cliff perched to your left side. You amble towards it, mentally preparing yourself as you pace your steps towards it, the jingle of the bells on Scaramouche’s hat soft as he tails your figure. With a focused heart, you slide a dagger out from its sheath, a wave of clarity overcoming you as you thought about the beautiful Shirasagi princess back in Inazuma. You wanted to be as beautiful as she was, as graceful when you send our father off to the high heavens. If your parents truly saw you as a ray of light, casting their burdens to the heavens, then you would be one. You would send your father off as elegantly as those red butterflies do. 

 Scaramouche’s gaze remains trained onto your form as you press the dagger to your lips, whispering something to it before kissing the tip of it. You allow your pyro flames to imbue into the dagger, remembering your training from weeks ago as you focus your flames to create small images of red butterflies, flittering off the ends of your blade. Scaramouche watches the small red butterflies escaping the flames of your blade with a sense of wonder. He crosses his arms, deciding this was something he would want to watch as you have reeled his interest in.

 You feel the warmth of your fire by your face, and with the kindest emotions you could muster in your state, you imbue the blade further, the strength of the pyro flames growing as it surrounds your blade, engulfing it completely in the heat of its flames. You take the pouch off your wrist and throw it far over the cliff, eyes measuring the distance as you change the momentum of your body to throw in your pyro infused dagger. Before the dagger is thrown to meet the pouch during its apex height, you pray, “May Barbatos’ winds guide you through the world, father.”

 The pouch burns when the fire from the blades hit it, and you watch as the ashes begin to scatter. The wind suddenly surges, a gust picking up the ashes of your father in the wind, carrying it off into the distance. Your heart swells at the sight, a relaxed and relieved smile pulling at the edges of your lips. With a sensation of gratefulness towards the anemo archon, you turn to face Scaramouche, eyes brushing over his figure and drinking in the sight of him staring up at you, seemingly enchanted. His indigo irises find yours, dark bangs brushing across his face as the sun peeks through his hat, highlighting his sharp jawline. He tosses a smirk at you, an arm outstretched towards you, patiently waiting for you to grasp his hand.

 You stare at the hand, feeling that this was no longer necessary now that you were out of the house, but upon meeting his gaze again, you decide to take it. Your fingers interlock with his own as he pulls you down from the perch, bringing you back to the grassy hillside, and down to the golden path that leads to Liyue Harbor. You owed him this much, you thought as you felt his grip tighten on your hand. The burn on your ring finger tingles when you feel the warmth of his hand emanate, heat mixing with yours. With no longer any hesitation left in your step, you walk with a better mindset, quelling your hatred for your worst nightmare and partner next to you as you do so.

 The both of you arrive at Liyue Harbor when the sun falls, settling into Northland Bank despite the numerous amount of stares you receive, your hand no longer in Scaramouche’s own out of shyness. The moment you entered Liyue Harbor, your strange attire attracted the gaze of many, and it grew even worse with Scaramouche’s annoyingly large kasa hat, decorated with bells and veils. You couldn’t help but make a stupid excuse to let go of his hand, complaining that your hand felt clammy from being held onto for too long and that it  was now time to give it a rest, however you could tell from the look on Scaramouche’s face when you had said that, that he knew what you truly meant.

 Northland Bank was a little busier at night, Fatui members rushing back and forth, as if preparing for something, and upon realizing who Scaramouche was, they bowed their heads in respect, greeting him and making sure he was comfortable. You took this moment to distance yourself away from him, allowing yourself a relieved sigh when you get a few feet away from him before you hear a familiar voice echo from the stairway by Ekaterina’s position.

 “Comrade,” a voice begins, tone lighthearted and amused, “it’s been quite some time!”

 Peeved, you turn your head to face Tartaglia, anger quickly flooding you as the thoughts of his failure weighs on your mind. He descends the stairs, his tall form nearing you as his deep blue eyes remain on your figure, assessing your aggression with a little laugh as he puts his hands up in front of him. “Tartaglia,” you hiss, as you move towards him, rage flooding your veins, “ we need to talk.”

 “She’s right,” Scaramouche’s voice suddenly booms from your right side, and he nears the both of you, his arms crossed as a glare settled on his features, rolling his eyes at Tartaglia’s friendly façade, “ we need to talk.”

 Tartaglia’s eyes narrowed at his fellow harbinger, an unreadable emotion passing through his eyes quickly upon seeing his form, “Well, well!” He cheerily says, putting his hands on his hips as he grins, “If it isn’t my senior harbinger, Scaramouche, ” despite the exuberance in his tone, you could tell that there was some venom not so properly hidden behind his words, “to what must I owe such a grand visit!”

 Your eyes switch from Tartaglia over to Scaramouche, who looks as though he wanted to split the orange haired man in half. A serious look overwhelms Scaramouche’s features, an anger glittering in his eyes that feels great to look at, especially knowing that it wasn’t towards you, “You’re about to find out,” Scaramouche replies coldly, his voice dropping a couple octaves, “let’s talk. In private.”

 Truthfully, you had no clue why Scaramouche was so pissed, although you did have an inkling that he was probably mad because Tartaglia had helped smuggle you across the Inazuman oceans.

 Tartaglia’s smile grows, and a laugh escapes his throat, his eyes closing as he turns to neutrally face the space between the both of you, eyes fluttering open to look into your own fiery ones, “Truth is, both of you are just in time for dinner,” Tartaglia eyes the both of you, a grin on his face as he continues, “what do you say? Let’s talk over a friendly meal, shall we?”

 And before you know it, you’re seated in an expensive establishment, Scaramouche seated next to you while Tartaglia sits in front of you. You shift uncomfortably at the tension in the air, feeling an electricity buzz beside you when Tartaglia comfortably rests his hand on his cheek, leaning on the table for support.

 You internally sigh. This was going to be a rough night.

Chapter Text

 The first few minutes of settling down is awkward and uncomfortable, and is somehow worsened by Tartaglia’s chuckle when he is settled comfortably, sitting casually with a hand on his cheek, arm propped onto the table as all of you wait for food. Scaramouche doesn’t hide his disdain. He takes off his hat with an annoyed sigh, and delicately places it down on a chair, the veils folding haphazardly with his surprising lack of care. He presumes a friendly facade, causing you to shiver with how quickly he just does it. Indigo eyes glare up at Tartaglia from across the table, and Tartaglia pretends not to notice. Tartaglia is focused on you, facing you as though Scaramouche didn’t exist.

 “So,” Tartaglia begins, breaking the silence, and you suck in a breath of air, “how was your trip, comrade?”

 You clench your teeth, feeling your pyro vision glint as you refrain from the urge to pull one of the few daggers left in your thigh holster. Instead, you relax yourself, rolling your shoulders as you put on your sweetest smile, staring back up at Tartaglia, “My father just got cremated earlier this morning,” your tone is honeyed, laced with a bitter venom that almost causes Tartaglia to flinch, “thanks to a certain someone’s failure with upholding their end of the bargain.”

 At that accusation Tartaglia’s gaze turns serious, his eyes darkening. He purses lips and pulls away from the comfort of having his weight on the table, leaning back a little as he stares at you. “We’ll talk about that when we’re in a more private place,” Tartaglia whispers, eying his surroundings with a small smile, “there are many eyes and ears that linger here and there, and especially after my screw up with the Traveler, they’ve been glued onto me lately.”

 You don’t respond, however you do assess your surroundings. You notice that every waitress that passes by saves your booth a long glance, eyes lingering just a few seconds longer than one would usually glance for. You quell your anger with this information, wanting to keep business professional as you return your gaze back to Tartaglia, and you give him a nod, keeping your head down for a moment as you absorb the rage that slipped out of you. Your arms are on the table, elbows firm as you press your weight down, settling yourself. Tartaglia smiles at your decision, eyes trailing downwards from your face to an uneven patch of skin around your ring finger that is glaringly obvious with how recent the scar tissue was. His eyes flicker over to Scaramouche, acknowledging him, blue eyes meeting a faded, bright indigo pair.

 “I have business with you too,” Scaramouche begins, crossing his arms as he leans back on his cushioned wooden chair, eyes narrowing at Tartaglia as he does so, “however, that matter is between you and I.”

 Tartaglia hums pleasantly, a chuckle rolling out of his mouth at Scaramouche’s words, “Of course,” he grins in return, “we wouldn’t want to spoil our appetite with anything distasteful, ” his voice suddenly turns deep, and he turns his head to face you, watching as you relax into your seat, “isn’t that right, comrade?”

 You raise an eyebrow, unsure what he was getting at with the mention of you.

 And suddenly, Tartaglia’s face breaks into a cheery grin as a waitress approaches the three of you with a large, clear bottle of yellowish tint in hand, the label unreadable to you as it was written in the common script that Liyue used. Another waitress is behind her, carrying three small rounded cups, and dread overcomes you.

 “That’s why,” Tartaglia smirks, taking the see-through bottle from the waitress’ hands, “I have something a little sweet for us to drink!”

 You furrow your eyebrows, not enjoying where this was going. The other waitress circles around the three of you, placing down the cups before bowing to leave with her fellow coworker.

  Tartaglia’s orange hair sways as he uncaps the bottle. His grin remains large on his face, stretching his cheeks as he stares at your face of terror. He begins to pour into his own cup upon Scaramouche’s quick gesture of rejection of having his cup being filled. “Have any of you tried some osmanthus wine before?” Tartaglia queries as his grin lessens into an impish smile, blue eyes deep with an amusement when you shake your head in refusal. “Then, would you like to have a drink with me, miss?” The laugh that leaves his throat is bubbly and playful, and you can’t help but balk in return. You make a strange noise and quickly turn your head to face Scaramouche, who returns your gaze with anger, causing you to flinch away and look back at Tartaglia.

 Your face starts to flush when he leans closer in an attempt to pour into your cup. You pull the cup away from him, feeling embarrassed by his actions as you nervously toss a smile at Tartaglia, who looks confused by your rejection, his expression mimicking one of a kicked puppy. “You know,” Tartaglia begins coyly, eyes lighting with mischievousness when he speaks to you, “it’s pretty disrespectful to turn down your senior, and not to mention a harbinger at that!” You feel Scaramouche’s heated glare on the side of your face when you let out an anxious laugh in response to his words, unsure of what to say. Perhaps he wasn’t aware of the Inazuman customs, concerning men offering drinks to women like this.

 You offer to change his mindset with a meek voice, “Lord Tartaglia,” you start, trying not to stutter as you feel more heat rise to your face. You clench your fists and continue on, “are you unaware of where I am from?”

 Tartaglia’s face turns blank. He raises an eyebrow at you as he seats himself, the smell of fresh food wafting into the room as waitresses start to bring in his orders, quickly placing down a variety of meats and vegetable platters before exiting the room. You would love to dig in, you think as you shift in your seat, a hand lifting to play with the ends of your short hair as you turn your gaze downwards. Eating would have to wait, you had much more pressing matters to attend to. Your face was on fire. “Inazuma, right?” Tartaglia sounds genuinely confused, and your face further brightens, the tips of your ears feeling hot when your hand moves to touch it. What on earth was Tartaglia suggesting?

 “What about it,” Tartaglia raises an eyebrow at your small figure, seemingly shrinking as you scrunch your shoulders in discomfort. He turns his head to Scaramouche, who gives him a disgusted glare, followed by an irked hiss.

 Anxiety swells in you, followed by multiple thoughts at Tartaglia’s suggestion, and you decide to help yourself and clear the air, looking back up at him with a small shy smile. “L-Lord Tartaglia,” you are unable to help your stutter. Tartaglia grins at you and lets out a soft chuckle at your surprisingly meek advances.

 “Childe is fine! Tartaglia makes us sound so distant, right comrade?” The orange haired male chimes in with a sing-song tone, much to your detriment. The suggestion of using his nickname, implying the both of you had closer relations than just a soldier and harbinger, did not help the mood. A crackle sparks in the air, and you flinch, knowing that this electricity was certainly not Tartaglia’s delusion. Scaramouche is seething beside you, barely being able to hold back his electro currents, and you feel the electricity building in the air around you.

  “Fucking moron,” Scaramouche hisses under his breath, and truthfully, you weren’t sure if he had aimed his hateful words towards you or Tartaglia. When the Balladeer speaks again, it’s in a louder voice, “In Inazuma, it’s common for a man to suggest a drink with a woman who he means to fuck, especially in this setting. ”

 His choice of words cause you to look at him in shock, disbelief settling in your system as embarrassment mixes with the emotion. It wasn’t often that he chose to be so crude in front of people, however, given his infuriated expression, you concluded that he didn’t give a damn at the moment.

 When Scaramouche turns his head slightly to gauge your current expression, you cast your gaze downwards, settling onto your lap. Situations like these were something you were not used to, and it was something you were not trained for in all your six years of working with the Fatui.

 Tartaglia’s voice shatters the pregnant silence, falling dull with an ‘oh’ that slips from his lips in realization. Tartaglia scratches his head apologetically, glancing over at Scaramouche, and then back at you as a small smile tugged at the ends of his lips. You lift your head up to meet his gaze when you find that you have enough confidence to, the redness in your face slowly vanishing as you recompose yourself. “Sorry about that,” Tartaglia says with a soft tone, “where I’m from, in Snezhnaya, it’s common to drink with people you respect as your allies. Actually,” he clears his throat, placing the wine bottle down momentarily before continuing on, observing your curious expression, “we have a practice in which one would share a drink with another fellow soldier as a sign of respect for each other.”

 You hum, your embarrassment alleviated upon hearing his perspective. You allow a smile on your lips as you find yourself admiring the Snezhnayan culture. “How interesting,” you reply in a light voice, eyes glittering with amusement as you bow your head, “then I do believe I shall take you on your offer!” You say somewhat triumphantly, feeling encouraged now that you realize that perhaps Tartaglia was offering you a drink because he knew you were amazing on the battlefield. Being offered a drink by a harbinger, nonetheless, was an honor, and a sign of respect. He was acknowledging your prowess as a fighter. You find there is still some bitterness that lies within you, remembering that your father’s medication failed him due to Tartaglia’s insistence to go to Bubu Pharmacy, however, you wish to keep things professional. Besides, you had been through quite a long day, a depressing journey if anything, so a little alcohol surely wouldn’t hurt, right?

 Scaramouche watches Tartaglia’s face, his glare so hot it would’ve burned holes through Tartaglia’s head had stares been able to do that. Scaramouche huffs and begins to pick some food off of the warm platters, wanting to fill his stomach before he decides to kill somebody. Tartaglia smiles carefully, and he pours some of the wine into your cup. You take it from his outstretched hand with a small nod, showing your thanks wordlessly. You brought the cup to eye level, staring into the shimmering yellow liquids inside the cup, swirling it momentarily to smell the sweet pungency of the wine, unsure of how strong it was.

 You weren’t much of a drinker, you surmised as a recollection of Fatui events flashed in your mind. The most you could drink was two cups of hot sake, before you would start to feel a little woozy. You internally shrug, and with a smile, you bring the cups to your lips, unaware of the mischievous smile on the twelfth harbinger’s lips as he repositions himself to lean forward on the table, a fine eyebrow raised at you.

 “But, I don’t mind the Inazuman suggestion of drinking. How about it?” 

 Before any liquid passes through your lips, you pull the cup away from your lips, shocked, feeling heat rise to your face quickly as Tartaglia’s words register in your head. You stare at him, bewildered. Tartaglia’s smile is impish, and his eyes gleam with a certain fire of amusement to them.

 A gloved hand snatches the cup from your hand, and you fix your gaze towards Scaramouche as he throws his head back, gulping the wine all in one go, and when he sets the cup down, he gives Tartaglia a menacing glare that was meant to kill. All friendliness be damned, he supposed. His lips stretched into a maleficent smile, and you could only watch in terror as a scene unfolded before you.

 “I’ll fucking murder you,” Scaramouche hisses as electricity crackles violently in the air, and you gulp, feeling thankful that the booth doors were closed, meaning no one could look into what was happening. “You must really want to die,” Scaramouche grins wolfishly at Tartaglia, who returns his threat with a smile, “you do understand that she is my fiancee, correct?” His eyes are burning with a violence that spells murder, “You shrimp colored hair bastard,” he growls. His insult was colorful, you mused internally. You quickly spoon some fried rice onto your plate, pretending that you were unsure of everything that was going on. You take a silver spoon and allow yourself a mouthful of fried rice, chewing on the delicious mixture of rice, vegetables and egg, the flavors dancing on your tastebuds despite your hairs standing at the ends from the build of electricity in the room.

 Tartaglia grins at Scaramouche’s angry outburst before responding, “Funny, coming from a shrimp sized creature like yourself,” Tartaglia snickers, a triumphant smirk forming on his lips as you choke on your food at his reply. You were unprepared for such a feisty come back, considering everyone in Inazuma, and most of the Fatui were terrified of Scaramouche. You hear Scaramouche yell something back at him in spite, but you are far too focused on preventing yourself from dying. You reach for your glass of water before realizing you hadn’t poured anything in the first place. Coughs roll out of you one by one as they continue to bicker back and forth, your breath slowly returning as you continue to cough out the rest of the food in your mouth onto a napkin. Tartaglia notices your suffering and pours your cup full, holding it out towards you with an apologetic smile, and without hesitation, you take it, wishing to cleanse your throat of any lingering substances. 

 The dark haired male from beside you tears it out of your hand, and you watch him in disbelief as he gulps the liquid down again in just a few gulps, a tear threatening to fall from your eye as your brain rattles with each cough that falls from your lips. “Why?” You weakly complain as Tartaglia offers you another glass, and this time Scaramouche seems to let you take it without a fuss.

 Indigo eyes burn brightly at the sound of your voice, a darkness looming over his face as his expression shifts into one visceral with anger. “Huh?” He growls out, causing an anxiety to rise in your chest at his response as you drink the water from the glass offered to you. Scaramouche’s gaze never leaves yours, even as he points at the cup he had placed down on the table. You manage to take a quick glance at the cup, and the edges of your mouth pull into a thin line when you notice it’s another cup meant for alcohol. You look at Tartaglia in disbelief and terror, to which he smiles at you lazily, a grin wide spread on his face. He was having fun. “Did you want to sleep with him,” Scaramouche’s tone of voice is not questioning, but rather a statement embedded with rage.

 “No!” You quickly respond, taken aback by how immediate your response was, “It’s… It’s not like that,” you say somewhat shyly, unsure why you had to prove yourself to him despite your embarrassment. Your shyness turns into confidence and slight anger as you speak again, “I wanted to drink that,” you huff, annoyed, and he sneers at you in disgust, “because it was a sign of Tartaglia acknowledging my efforts on the battlefield.”

 “Did you not hear what he said?” Scaramouche hisses, “Did losing your father make you deaf and stupid?” He scoffs, leaning in towards you, indigo eyes blazing as he stares into your own. You bristle at the mention of your father’s death, a menacing feeling swelling within you at the sudden mention. “Let me repeat what he said to you,” Scaramouche’s eyes are wide, the bangs framing his face shifting when he tilts his head slightly, “he said he wouldn’t mind the Inazuman suggestion of drinking between a man and woman.”

 You hiss, glowering at him as your pyro vision flares, sensing your anger, “That was obviously a joke,” you reply with a small condescending snicker, “can’t take one, can you? Look at you, getting all worked up over nothing.” You remember his words from months ago, and throw it back at his face childishly, feeling pissed off with his lack of delicacy towards the passing of your father. An eerie grin splits on his face, a vein threatening to pop on his head at your response as he cups your cheeks with a tight grip. You find that you can’t speak, but your glare is still fierce.

 Scaramouche forcefully tilts your head a little, his eyes narrowing at your angered expression as he lets out small ‘ha’, clearly amused and enraged by your words, “You forget your place,” his voice is deep, coming out like a dark whisper from the depths of the abyss, “we really need to work on that pretty mouth of yours,” he is so close to the point where your foreheads might touch, “or I might just take it upon myself to sew it shut.”

 Your nose twitches in annoyance, feeling yourself bristle at his challenge. You lift a hand up slowly and latch it onto the wrist of his hand that had firmly gripped your face, attempting to rip his hand off of you.

 Tartaglia watches the both of you, whistling at the sight. You roll your eyes over to him, feeling Scaramouche’s grip lessen gradually when Tartaglia begins to talk again, “Wow, ” he laughs heartily, amused with the scene before him, eyes flitting between the both of you, “you two get along so well!” The lack of sarcasm in his tone concerns you, and when Scaramouche’s grip completely lacks on you, you turn to face him, your eyes still burning with rage. Tartaglia hums, taking a jade parcel into his mouth as he observes Scaramouche’s reaction towards you, noticing that Scaramouche’s eyes never left the side of your face. Seeing Scaramouche getting worked up over someone like this didn’t happen often, especially not outside of the Fatui Harbinger interactions. He had a great tendency to brush people off like they were bugs, although it seemed for you, he treated you with enough importance to pay attention to how your expression changes.

 “Are you serious?” You query genuinely, pulling away from Scaramouche to look back at Tartaglia. 

 Tartaglia hums, swallowing the rest of his food, “More or less!” He hums, eying Scaramouche’s thoroughly annoyed expression from his peripherals, “Want another drink?” He cheerily grins.

 Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, although the anger was definitely dissipating, “I don’t mind,” you say as softly as you can, ignoring Scaramouche’s small huff from beside you, “but someone else might.”

 “Do whatever the hell you want,” Scaramouche dismissively, picking up some food with his chopsticks and shovelling it into his mouth with little grace, attempting to quell his anger. He can’t afford to lose his temper anymore with you in front of Tartaglia, even if you kept running your mouth.

 You roll your eyes at the childish tone of his response, “I’ll have just one cup,” you smile, facing Tartaglia again with a stiff face, not wanting to say anything more in fear that you might re-engage uninvited anger. 

 When Tartaglia is done pouring your cup, you decide to enjoy the wine in sips, cringing with how the alcohol tasted upon the initial gulp. With that, the rest of the dinner continues, mostly with you and Tartaglia chatting it up. Scaramouche is quiet, watching the interaction between the two of you or finding interest in the dirt under his fingernails. When Tartaglia and you burst into laughter, Scaramouche leans on the table with one hand pressed against his cheek, his elbow on the table for support. His eyes are glued to your happy expression, feeling an emotion burn at his stomach, causing his own spit to taste acrid in his mouth. He taps his fingers in a rhythmic beat as if impatient, or being tested. 

 “I did most the household chores in my house,” Tartaglia admits with a gleam of nostalgia in his eyes, a soft smile growing on his face at the mention of his home, clearly reminiscing as he combed through his memories during his younger days, “I hunted with my father, chopped up wood when we needed it during long winters, and I did the cooking and cleaning most days when my mother was busy sewing things together.”

 You grow interested in the conversation, eyes widening with shock at the many capabilities of Tartaglia, “You’re very talented, aren’t you?” You muse, finding a new sense of admiration for him. You thought about his capabilities, wanting to be more like him. You wanted to be able to hold yourself accountable with menial things like daily tasks as well, not that you were horrible at them, but you could tell by the way Tartaglia continued to talk that he really knew his stuff. 

 “Preparation for battle comes in many ways,” Tartaglia explains with a lopsided smirk, “you can count cleaning duties, official management duties like paperwork, and cooking as ways to broaden your horizons in battle. That way, you can be successful in many things, and be prepared for any kind of challenge in those areas,” he hums pleasantly, looking at the serious expression on your face before laughing. “You don’t have to take this all in so seriously, although,” his eyes are lightless, but twinkle with a sense of satisfaction, “I do appreciate a good listener.”

 “Of course!” You huff, feeling the effects of alcohol begin to settle within you as your hands ball into fists, “If my senior has any word of advice to offer to me, then it’s common sense to receive it and pick apart the pieces of your advice so I can apply it to my own life,” you think about your mother. She had taught you to be less rambunctious when you were younger through her personal teachings in life, in which she had forcefully attempted to change your attitude through them. “I see,” you take a moment, leaning back in your seat, pondering about his duties when he was younger. You scan Tartaglia up and down, examining his sharp features, and then realizing how tall he was despite sitting down. Then, an idea slowly formulates in your mind. 

 Actually, wasn’t Tartaglia a perfect husband? He was tall, good looking, and he could handle himself. Not to mention he was rich, sending mora to his family constantly, and a family caretaker at that. Essentially, when you thought about it, he was everything you wanted. The perfect person. “You can cook and clean, you say?” You repeat slowly, turning your head to face Scaramouche who looks bothered by your unwarranted stare. Before you know it, you’re scrutinizing Scaramouche under your gaze, scanning him up and down as Tartaglia pours him his fifth cup of osmanthus wine. 

 Scaramouche could handle himself to an extent, but his mental state was definitely out of whack. Physically speaking, he was flawless, his pale skin had no scars that you’ve ever noticed, and in terms of richness, he probably had enough to retire for the rest of his life. A feeling of disappointment settles in your stomach when you scan him, noticing his shortness, not to mention he was probably a typical Inazuman male, who wanted a housewife to take care of everything for him.

 As if sensing your disdain, Scaramouche’s eyes narrow at you, keeping eye contact with you even as he chugged down another cup of a wine, his face slightly flushing, signaling that he had enough alcohol in his system to rest for the night. “Do you have something you want to say?” Scaramouche is clearly annoyed by your continuous stare, and you shake your head, turning your gaze away from him.

 Tartaglia notices the disappointment in your eyes and bursts into another fit of joyous laughter, “ Well, comrade,” he starts with a smirk, “comparing is never a good thing!” His remark elicits an infuriated look from Scaramouche, and you turn away, feeling the heat of his glare on the side of your face.

 “Are you being ungrateful, my dear fiancé?” Scaramouche sounds thoroughly peeved.

 Your voice is deadpan when you respond, "Me? With you? Ungrateful?" You fake a laugh, "I don't see why I would say anything so true to you, especially when it displeases you, my lord." You were feeling oddly bold, and you thought it was perhaps the effect of the alcohol in your system that was kicking at you. Scaramouche bristles at your tone of voice, about to toss you a threat until he pauses, taking a look at Tartaglia, who smiled at him oh so innocently. With an indigent huff, Scaramouche lifts the cup of alcohol to his mouth and takes a large swig. 

 "Such a mouth you have," Tartaglia says, calming down from his outburst, "you'd definitely do well in business with Snezhnaya." His smile turns impish, and his following words bring you to understand why he smiles like that, “Would you like to come with me one day, comrade?” 

 You shut your eyes, refraining an eye roll as Scaramouche clicks his tongue. You didn’t enjoy his flirtatiousness, even though you knew it was a joke. Every joke he made had put you one step closer to dying by your fiancé's hands.

 “I’ve had just about enough listening to the both of you casually flirting in front of me,” Scaramouche hisses, anger clear as day in his tone, “ enough now. She is taken, and I certainly know you aren’t stupid enough not to get that through that thick skull of of yours,” his eyes are glinting with a rage that threatens to spill in the middle of the restaurant, however with the continuous thought of the Fatui in Liyue being under serious surveillance, he quells himself, keeping his composure as cool as he could, despite how hot headed he felt having watched you two interact among each other for the past hour.

 Tartaglia briefly looks at him, his expression unreadable for a split second before a grin splits onto his face, “My apologies, Scaramouche,” he says Scaramouche’s name in such a honeyed way that could only be taken as sarcastic, “perhaps I’ve played around a little too much.”

 “I expect nothing more from a fool like yourself,” Scaramouche harshly replies, folding his arms as he leans back in his chair, turning his gaze towards you, observing you before speaking once more, “when are we going to have the private conversation?” His voice is stiff, and briefly makes you wonder what it is that has him at a chokehold to make him sound like that.

 “Shortly,” Tartaglia surmises, giving you a short gaze, “do you think you can excuse yourself for a moment, comrade? You can come back in about five minutes, I don’t think this’ll take long.”

 You hum, stretching as you get up from your seat, “I needed a walk anyway,” you say, feeling weariness settle in your bones, “I’ll just go to the washroom then,” you excuse yourself, ignoring the stares that remain on your back when you exit the booth.

 When Tartaglia and Scaramouche are finally alone, Tartaglia pours himself another drink, pouring Scaramouche one more while he is at it.

 “What was it you wanted to talk about then,” Tartaglia begins with a knowing smile, his eyes turning dark at Scaramouche’s expression.

 “To get straight to the point,” Scaramouche sighs, folding his arms after taking a sip from the wine, allowing himself this final cup of alcohol before he would stop for the night, “I want you to stop contacting my woman.”

 Tartaglia raises an eyebrow and lets out a soft chuckle, “Did I really go that far and deep into your nerves?” His eyes are calculative, watching for any aggression in Scaramouche’s actions.

 Scaramouche’s eyes narrow and darken, his bangs falling towards the center of his face when he readjusts himself, “You could only wish you were anything of that significance to me, Tartaglia,” Scaramouche scoffs, a smile growing on the edges of his lips as he tosses his fellow harbinger a cold look, “I will be marrying her in a week, time. It would cause me a great deal of trouble if someone were to find out you were mailing her private letters, you,” his indigo eyes narrow, “ a harbinger, to someone of her position. I don’t want to be involved in rumored scandals.” Scaramouche lifts a gloved hand and slides it in between his layers of clothes, pulling out an old envelope signed intricately with Tartaglia’s signature on it, and tossing it at the orange haired male.

 Tartaglia’s eyes narrow, lifting the envelope with a soft hum before pocketing it. So Scaramouche had been keeping track of their occasional letters. He smirks, remembering the odd mark on your ring finger as disgust floods him, “I understand what you’re trying to say,” a chuckle erupts from Tartaglia’s mouth, but it’s devoid of happiness or emotion, “but even without me, what makes you so sure she won’t run away from a monster like you?”

 A buzz of electricity hums in the room at his words, and Scaramouche’s eyes grow wide, a scowl forming on his face as he glares down at Tartaglia. “Continue,” Scaramouche begins with a hiss, “ I dare you.” His intent was clear in his threat.

 Nevertheless, Tartaglia doesn’t back down from a chance to go head to head with an opponent, and his lips curl downwards into a frown, “ I saw that mark on her. Truthfully speaking, this is all not my business, but...” Tartaglia replies back in a low voice. There's a glow in Scaramouche’s eyes that tells him to stop talking, but he continues anyway at the thought of the red mark on your ring finger, “Do you even actually love her?”

 A heavy atmosphere builds in the room at his question, and Scaramouche’s eyes are vibrant with contempt, “ Of course I do, ” he responds coldly, “and what is she to you?” Scaramouche’s voice quiets as his voice drops a few octaves, “Why do you take care of her family, as if she were important to you?” There’s a loud crackle in the room that makes Tartaglia narrow his eyes, noticing that Scaramouche was becoming more and more unhinged with each question he asked, “Why do you talk to her so familiarly?” He doesn’t wait for the orange haired male to reply, he immediately lays down his boundaries, “ Do not send her any more letters.”

 Scaramouche readjusts himself at Tartaglia’s contemplative silence, allowing himself a deep breath, regaining what was lost of his composure as he holds his head, feeling a little dizzy from the alcohol. He continues his onslaught onto Tartaglia, a smirk on his face when he speaks again, “Surely you know your place as a Fatui harbinger, and take responsibility in the fact that you shouldn’t be in contact with her in the first place,” he says, his tone a lot calmer than before upon releasing the deep breath, “we have rules around here. Stick to them, or,” his gaze turns pointed when he looks back at the orange haired male, whose expression has considerably darkened, “what, you said you wanted to be the strongest? You’ll never rise to the top at this rate.”

 Tartaglia scoffs at his words, his eyes flitting with anger at his words, “Oh?” He says, straightening himself out on his chair, “Are you belittling me? I always have room for some extra exercise after a heavy meal like this, if you’re looking for a skirmish.”

 “I’m simply reminding you of your place,” Scaramouche’s reply is smooth and rolls off his tongue like butter, settling himself back in his seat with a contending smile on his face, “save me the trouble and never contact her again, and if you do, it has to be through me.”

 “Or what?” Tartaglia’s mind was flashing with anger at his words, knowing that Scaramouche had no room to talk, being the one to forcefully insert himself in her life, based on the information from her conch shell recording. 

 Scaramouche’s smile turns malicious, “Or I’ll kill you myself.”

 When you return to the booth, there’s a sense of dread and awkwardness in the air that wasn’t there before, and Scaramouche seems to be satisfied, leaning on his chair as if he finally got something that he really wanted out. You feel uneasy, but you seat yourself anyway, looking between the both of them with hesitancy. Did something happen while you were out? Tartaglia is the first person to address your concerns, and he grins at you lopsidedly, albeit a little weaker and more forced than earlier.

 “Is your bladder feeling a little empty?” He jokingly says, opening another bottle of fresh osmanthus wine, a grin wide on his face. You stare at him disbelievingly.

 “How are you not even tipsy?” You scoff in disbelief, brushing off the static air in the room. He had practically half the bottle, and Scaramouche had the other half. Scaramouche looked like the alcohol was getting to him, even though he pretended to act cool and casual about it. 

 Tartaglia lowers the bottle and pours himself another cup, humming as if thinking about your words, his eyes looking distant for a moment. “I usually drink with a close friend,” he chuckles, although it sounds a little sad to your ears, “however, lately, I haven’t had much of a chance to do so. So,” he grins, holding his cup towards you, “I’ll celebrate with the both of you instead. As Fatui members, we should be allowed to celebrate after a long journey, no?”

 You shake your head when he attempts to pour you a cup. You wouldn’t dare to have another cup, considering just one already made you a little loose. “I couldn’t possibly have more,” you laugh lightheartedly, eyes firm on Tartaglia’s own.

 “Then,” he smirks, looking over at the Balladeer, “I’ll pour one for my senior harbinger,” at the mention of his title, Scaramouche turns his face, glaring at the orange haired male before him, “for gracing me with his company today!”

 Scaramouche rolls his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, drop the formalities, I’m sick of playing charades,” he growls, irritation seeping through his tone. “I’ve had enough of the wine,” Scaramouche moves his hand and presses at one of his temples, “I can already feel a headache coming on.”

 You see a chance, and you take it. You smile, turning to face Scaramouche, “My,” you fake a look of shock, and he turns to you, his eyes narrowing at your antics. There’s a fire in your eyes, a lingering feeling of revenge trailing behind your words as you turn your head to Tartaglia, “I suppose his alcohol tolerance is just weaker than yours,” you sigh, feeling Scaramouche’s glare on the side of your face as you meet Tartaglia’s eyes. He notices the fire in your eyes, and smiles. “I apologize on my  fiancé's behalf,” you look down, looking at the alcohol bottle Tartaglia held in his hands, “he’s going to have to turn your request down, even at the honor of being your senior, the number sixth harbinger, the Balladeer--!”

 Scaramouche cuts you off mid sentence, “ You bitch,” he curses under his breath, “what do you think you’re doing?” The rage is evident in his tone, however, you feign innocence. You turn to face Scaramouche, a smile on your face as you take Tartaglia’s bottle with one hand and take Scaramouche’s cup with the other, and begin to pour. 

 “But you can’t possibly turn down such a thing as your  fiancée,” your words are sweet like honey, but have the after taste of poison, “pouring you a drink, right,” you tilt your head and bring the full cup by his lips, “ o, great Balladeer?”

 He isn’t fazed by your attempt to charm him, but rather narrows his eyes, glancing at Tartaglia’s smiling face and back to yours. Your eyes hold his gaze, and he notices the everlasting flame that burns within them. He wordlessly takes the cup from your hand and throws his head back, treating the liquid within the cup as if it were a shot of something strong and drinking it whole. He places the cup down on the table with a rather harsh slam, and he leans towards you, causing you to recoil in shock. When his lips are right next to your ear, he whispers, “Fuck you.”

 A winning smirk crawls onto your lips, and you take his cup again, filling it with some more alcohol, your smirk widening into a full blown smile when he retracts himself. Noticing your actions, he looks at you with contempt in his eyes. You don’t understand where the boldness comes from, or where you find the strength to do so in your tired body, but when he’s an arm length away from you, you grab the gold on his neck and tug him forward, leaning him closer to you. His breath hitches. Your smile remains frozen onto your face. “ Fuck you too,” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear.

 And when he takes the cup from your grasp with a scowl, you let go of the gold ring around his neck.

 When the night is over, Tartaglia gives you the keys to two private bedrooms in a rather luxurious hotel that was commonplace for Fatui to stay in. Tartaglia shows you the way there and says he’s one floor below the both of you. Much to your chagrin, your room and Scaramouche’s were right next to each other, seeing as the keys were for 301 and 302. When you amble down the hallway, yawning from the exhaustion you were put through, Scaramouche groans behind you, a strange hiccup leaving him as you continue to move forward.

 “Slow down,” Scaramouche manages to groan out, and when you turn around, you see his mess of a body, kasa hat lopsided as he uses an arm to balance him, pushing him away from the wall. His face red, eyes half lidded as he glares at your form not too far from him.

 You turned away, hiding your triumphant grin as you pretended not to hear anything, advancing your steps for just a little further until you heard his low growl behind you. Suddenly, a buildup of electricity surrounds you, and you prepare for something, feeling that Scaramouche’s irritation was catching onto his electric waves, and when the lights above you flicker for a few moments before halting completely, your breath hitches. You bite your lip in an attempt to hold your laughter, but can’t help it when it escapes your mouth. 

 “We should be careful,” you laugh, feeling abdomen convulsing from the roughness of your laughter, “there might be a power out at this rate.” You turn your head to face Scaramouche, unable to hide the smile on your face when he hiccups.

 The hand holding the wall next to him in order to keep him stabilized and standing morphs into a fist and he slams it against the wall brashly, his indigo eyes hazy when they glare into your own, “Shut up,” he growls, “my head is fucking driving me insane,” he pretends not to hear your sarcastic snicker, “and it’s all because I decided to spoil you a little bit.” His free hand reaches up to grip at the side of his head, a headache forming as an aftereffect of the alcohol he drank. His words make you pause for a minute, your gaze remaining on his weakened state. He managed to finish one entire bottle by himself, with your coercion. You thought about yourself, remembering that you had only managed to finish one cup before feeling a little dizzy, and here Scaramouche was, clinging onto a wall for support as a result of your antics.

 With a soft sigh, you brush off dust off your shoulders and approach him. His indigo eyes trail your every movement despite how it felt like the world is spinning around him, and when he feels you wrap his arm around your neck, helping him stay steady, he hums, almost surprised that you were helping him. His heart beat a little faster when you huff and tread forward, dragging him with you while his eyes remained on the side of your face. Scaramouche allows a small smirk to appear on his face, eyes narrowing when he thinks that all his efforts to bring you closer to him were gradually working.

 You let out another sigh, “Can you please stop staring at me?” You huff as you make it to one of the rooms, unlocking it with the key in your free hand before trudging through, not caring to admire the room as you were a little too tired tonight. With your foot, you shut the door behind you, “It’s really creepy,” you admit, as you pull him towards the bed, listening to his small hiccup as the smell of alcohol overwhelmed his breath, “I hope you know that.” 

 Scaramouche doesn’t seem to care about your words, he’s far too focused on memorizing the side of your face so close to him. Suddenly, all his body weight falls off of you, and he’s lying on the bed, his legs dangling off the edge while you stand above him, your eyes glaring down into his own. He wonders where his kasa hat is, and realizes it had knocked off of him during his fall, flopping over to the floor, the veils folding atop each other in a mess. He hears you briefly mutter an apology, although he thinks that it is more towards the actual hat as opposed to something meant for him. His eyes are hazy, a long sigh leaving his lips when he relaxes onto the bed, and when he finds your figure standing before him again, he scowls. He shrugs off his upper garment, allowing his bare arms to be exposed, shaking off his wooden sandals without care for where they land.

 A dark thought passes in your mind as you look down at him, your pyro glinting at your side as you remember that your thigh belt still has three daggers holstered into them. You stare down at him, your eyes half lidded as you see his body beneath you. “It would be so easy to kill you right now,” you say softly, your voice akin to a whisper as you near him, stepping close enough to just be directly across from him, your legs close enough to touch his own. 

 It would be perfect, you think as you indulge in the thought. You could kill him, slit his throat, run away with your mother in Liyue to somewhere far away, like Fontaine, or maybe you’d take Tartaglia up on his joking offer and go to Snezhnaya. You’d be hunted down for the rest of your life as this was obviously an act of treason, but being far from Scaramouche, knowing he didn’t exist anymore, knowing he wasn’t physically there to always haunt you-- the idea of it just gave you so much happiness. Scaramouche’s hiccup brings you back to reality.

 You clench your teeth and feel at your thigh, leaning down and pressing a hand against one of the handles of your blades. You could do it, you thought as you pressed a knee down on the bed, nearly straddling him as he maintained your gaze, his eyes still half lidded as drowsiness overwhelmed his senses. You could kill him right now, you think as your breath hitches, your heart pounding with the thought, the sound of blood rushing throughout your body ringing in your ears. You feel one of his hands wrap around the revealed expanse of thigh, his hand gentle when it travels up your thigh. You flinch from the touch, shocked with how ticklish the touch felt on your thigh, your eyes flitting over to his hand which was now suspended in air since you had flinched so far away from it.

 You shift your body, adjusting yourself so that you are facing him, and the emotion in his eyes kills the feeling of bloodlust in your heart, then suddenly, you’re scared. It was that same look you had tried to kill so many nights ago, that same softness, that same humane, non monstrous gaze. The look of someone so lost, yet so in love, and you clench your teeth tightly together when you understand that his gaze was towards you. You swallow a build up of saliva in your throat, your body starting to shake as a response to the fear that dwelled in your stomach. “Stop,” you whisper under your breath as the hand on one of the holstered blades buckles forward, tugging the blade almost completely out of its sheath. 

 Scaramouche doesn’t seem to register your voice, the softness and quietness of it falling deaf on his ears as he begins to speak, “You know,” he whispers, his voice sounding strange, “my love for you is getting dangerous. Even for me,” he softly admits, his eyes trailing downwards, finding both his hands rising to rest on your waist. A chuckle escapes his lips, sounding like a dark melody in the night, “I already planned on never letting you go,” he starts again, his throat suddenly feeling parched when he looks up at you from where you are frozen, “but if you tell me you love me,” his eyes are dark with an emotion intangible to you, but it’s enough to make you want to shrivel up and die at his touch, “I might just burn the world for you.”

 He feels you shaking in his touch, and you can tell when his grip on your waist becomes more firm that he’s trying to help you stop. You feel your mind skipping, your eyes turning wide as you find yourself letting go of your dagger, a mixture of multiple emotions swelling deep within you. You smile sardonically, “You’re drunk,” you reply dryly to his confession, still shaking when a charming smile replaces the scowl on his face. You were horrified. The red mark on your ring finger burned, and it stung. You felt it in your heart, the horrid feeling of being burned. Anxiety rises within you when his grip suddenly tightens, preventing you from moving away.

 Scaramouche beams up at you, his grin wide when he speaks, “You say it as though my haphazardness is to blame for my words,” he chuckles, “when you know that my feelings wouldn’t change for you even if I was sober.” Your shoulders scrunch together in fear, your eyes blowing wide as you attempt to get away from him, realizing that you can’t. Or, it’s more like he wouldn’t let you. His hold on your waist was firm, not tight enough to hurt you, but just enough to let you know that he was still strong despite his abashed appearance. You clench your teeth, feeling heat make its way up to your face as he gazes up at you.

 “You suddenly have strength to hold me down,” you hiss, annoyed, “so all that earlier was a charade? Pretending to need my help,” you growl, placing your hands on his arms, trying to pull them apart and away from you.

 “I never asked for your help, did I?” Scaramouche slurs some of his words together, his face still bright and red. Hiccups still escape his throat, his eyes are glowing in the light of the moon, “I asked for you to slow down.”

 You grimace, fists clenching, and you raise your right arm up, prepared to punch him. “You bastard,” you seethe, a fire blooming in your eyes as rage flooded your system. He scoffs at you, a smirk playing on the corner of his lips as he raises his eyebrows, amused by your anger. As you strike down, he shifts all his weight over to you, using the momentum of your swing and effectively flipping you over so that you are below him. Your face heats up further as you grasp at the sheets below you in a desperate attempt to get away from him. Scaramouche chuckles as though this was nothing but a game to him, and he clicks his tongue at you, momentarily flinching as a headache on the left side of his head throbbed at him, and suddenly, all his strength gives way. His body crashes onto yours, his face landing above your shoulder, just next to your own, and you resist the urge to yelp. 

 Scaramouche hums, finding no strength in his body to lift himself up and off of you, despite your constant thrashing below him. “Looks like I drank too much after all,” he admits with a soft sigh, his warm breath against your cheek as he finds his eyes slowly shutting. Your warm body was so comforting, he thought as he felt himself drift away.

 “Get off of me,” you groan, feeling exhaustion hit you in a wave when he suddenly falls lax on you, “you’re heavy!”

 “How rude,” he comments, his tone lacking any emotion as he uses whatever strength he could muster left to snake his arms around your body, closing around you completely as he shifts his weight more to his right side. “Stupid woman,” he mutters under his breath, his voice quiet as he tangles his legs with yours, purposely, making sure you couldn’t escape his hold.

 “Excuse me?” You huff, annoyed, and promptly you shut up when his lips are just on the shell of your ear. You are startled when Scaramouche speaks again, his voice sounding louder than usual with how close it was to your ears.

 “Let’s spend the day together tomorrow,” he whispers weakly, clearly tired, “let's spend the day in Liyue before work kills the both of us.” Scaramouche hums, feeling somewhat content with his current position.

 You are genuinely taken aback, and you pause, thinking about Liyue. A day in Liyue? You’ve always wanted a day to just enjoy Liyue’s beauty and aesthetics, but with Scaramouche? You scrunch your face in terror. Tomorrow would either be a wonderful day, or a nightmare, you surmise as you try again to move him off of your body so you could go to your own room and shower, but his limbs are so entangled with yours, you find it hard to even move. When you hiss and tell him to get off again, you realize that he is already completely asleep, his breath catching in strands of your hair and causing it to flutter away from him. You cringed, smelling the alcohol from his breath, feeling that everything about the situation you were stuck in was wrong . In his arms, however, you feel your body begin to shut down. You fight your sleep in hopes you could wait just a little longer so you could snake yourself out of his grip, but as time went on, you felt at peace.

 Scaramouche’s body against yours felt warm, and you felt his heartbeat pulse from your side. You closed your eyes and listened to the rhythm, finding yourself slowly entranced at the sound and the feeling of warmth that surrounded you. You think for a moment, reminiscing all the other times the both of you have slept together, and you realized that perhaps out of all of those nights, tonight was the most intimate the both of you have ever been. Limbs tangled, chests touching, being close enough to hear his heartbeat. It felt surprisingly nice, although you would never admit it out loud. You hated Scaramouche, but at times like these, you felt most vulnerable with him. 

 Moments of vulnerability like this were hard to come by lately, especially now that you were forced to sleep with Scaramouche glued to your side. When he was asleep, you could truly allow yourself to feel, so you embraced those moments. And now again, as you drift off to sleep, unconsciously placing a hand on his forearm, you find yourself embracing the moment. You embrace the warmth of his body around you, and find yourself enjoying it, knowing that in the morning, all of these feelings would sink to the depths of your mind, never to see the light of day. It was screwed up, finding comfort like this, in someone that hurt you so much. However, it was one of the only things that life offered you during these dark and trying years. So you took it.

 Selfishly, you allow yourself to relax completely in his embrace, thinking that if there were chances like this again in the future, you’d keep taking them. The seedling of madness implanted in your mind, months ago, begins to sprout.

Chapter Text

  Sunlight bursts through unopened paper windows. The morning is oddly warm, heat spreading throughout your body as you let out a small hum, attempting to turn yourself only to be locked down by a pair of pale arms. You cracked your eyes open, shutting them tightly when the sun caught in them for just a moment before turning your head. You feel a warm breath on the side of your head, and when you open your eyes, you see an annoyingly familiar face next to yours. Scaramouche is still sleeping, his eyes shut as quiet, long breaths escaping his throat, and only then do you start to recollect the events from last night. You gauge yourself, withholding a groan when you realize that his arms are still snaked around your body, clipping you into place, although you find that as you shift away, the hold becomes much more loose. When you manage to detangle your limbs from his, you pull away, rubbing your eyes as he lets out a soft sigh at the loss of warmth in his arms.

 You stare at him lazily, tilting your head to get a better look at his sleeping face. He looked so harmless like this, it truly bothered you that someone of this beauty could end up being such a prick. You noticed that the red eyeliner under his eyes wasn’t off yet, and then you remember that you haven’t showered yet. With an audible yawn, you rise from the bed, taking his upper robes that he had haphazardly peeled off his body earlier and throwing it over top of him. You weren’t completely heartless, you thought as you turned around, making your way out of the room and feeling for the key to your room. Well, you think, remembering your thoughts from last night about wanting to kill him during his vulnerable state, not completely heartless yet, anyway, you conclude as you exit his room.

 When you find yourself in your room next door, you immediately get to work. You check outside the window and gauge the time by how high the sun was in the sky, and when you figure that it was your usual body clock waking you up for your schedule as a Fatui, you let out an annoyed groan. You were finally on a day off, and what, your body was betraying you. With a loud sigh, you enter the bathroom.

 Upon finishing your shower, feeling nice and clean, you find a change of clothes in a wooden closet just in the corner of your room. You hummed in disappointment, the clothes were definitely meant for just lounging in the hotel. You take a glance at Kujou Sara’s clothes, folded neatly on your bed, gazing at it wearily. You couldn’t afford to wear those dirty clothes again, especially after sleeping in them, and with that in mind you swiftly change into the lounging pajamas. There’s a knock at your door, and you go to open it without hesitation, bringing a dagger from your holster just in case and placing it in your dominant hand, hiding it behind you.

 You’re surprised to see Tartaglia, all in his glory with a box in his hands, a smile on his face when he comes face to face with you. You raise an eyebrow before returning a friendly smile, “Up so early, Lord Tartaglia?” 

 He chuckles, eyes closing when he does so, “I thought I told you to call me Childe!” His tone is teasing, and when he takes a step towards the door, you take it as a sign to allow him in. You immediately apologize, feeling bad that he has to see you like this as opposed to wearing your work clothes, and he dismisses your apology, waving it off as he sets the box down on a small drawer just beside the doorway. You close the door behind you, and cross your arms expectantly, looking up at him as his face suddenly turns serious.

 “I need to talk to you,” Tartaglia begins, “about your father.” You remain quiet, the cogwheels in your brain turning quickly, all the morning grogginess leaving you at the impertinence of his tone. Your arms are still crossed as you amble away from the door, walking towards a mahogany colored chair in the room by the windows and sitting down on it. Tartaglia follows you, making himself comfortable and seating himself just across from you, casually leaning on the table with his arms as he leans forward.

 “To be completely honest,” his eyes narrow as his brows furrow towards the center of his face, “I don’t exactly know what happened to your father.” You feel irritation build in you at his words, and before you can speak, he continues, “When I asked the pharmacists about your father’s medicine, they said that it had worked for ninety-nine percent of their customers, and they said it wasn’t a cure-all, as you should already know,” his eyes remain on yours, and you scan his eyes for any sort of conflicting emotion.

 When you find none, you nod for him to continue.

 “However, your father’s case wasn’t too bad, compared to other customers they’ve had, meaning he should’ve had a couple more years to live,” Tartaglia’s voice is low, as if he was still contemplating in his mind, “when I brought up to them what may have happened, they said there was a chance of him getting used to the medicine.”

 “That doesn’t,” you interject, feeling a mixture of emotions swell in your body, your tone edging towards anger when you speak to him, “ make too much sense though.”

 Tartaglia gauges your expression and nods, crossing his arms as he leans back in his seat, “I completely agree,” he hums in acknowledgement, “especially since they’ve been gradually lowering his dosage because he was doing so well. His body reacted negatively to nothing in those pills . Your father was in the clear,” Tartaglia scoffs bitterly, feeling like something quite didn’t add up, “the doctors agreed to that as well. So, with that being said,'' his voice is brought down to a whisper as he readjusts himself to lean closer to you, “comrade, I believe there’s something going on behind the scenes,” he whispers, eyes gleaming with a burning emotion that you felt in your stomach. You felt your body stiffen at his words. "We've had a couple of Fatui go rogue since Osial's fall, perhaps due to unrest. We've been taking care of them and executing them, however… There may still be some among our ranks," He confesses.

 “Bubu Pharmacy is well known across these lands, and I’m sure that you’ve heard of some of their treatments making way into Inazuma as well,” Tartaglia says with a tone so confident, “and I swore to you I’d never make the mistake of choosing a horrible place for medicine. You of all people understand how important my family is to me, just as they are to you.”

 He purses his lips for a moment, eyes scanning the paper window to the side of both of you before adding on, “I don’t know what’s happening yet, but I plan to launch a full investigation on your father’s death,” his words bring hope to you, and you nod in response. “I promise you comrade,” he brings his left arm up, holding his pinky out to you, “I will figure out what’s going on and  report back to you immediately,” a familiar emotion of resolve is burning in his eyes, “I never go back on my promises.”

 You stare at his pinky, vaguely remembering your broken promise to Scaramouche. Reluctantly, you left your left hand up and linked your pinkies together, “It’s a promise then,” you say with a firm voice, your eyes meeting his blue ones.

 His eyes darken considerably and his pinky’s grip tightens on yours, feeling almost painful, “I will shed blood if I have to,” he whispers with a sinister voice, “mark my words comrade. This is on my name, and title as harbinger.”

 “If I ever find you break your promise,” your voice mirrors his own, demented and sinister as you lean towards him, releasing his pinky from your own, “I will take it upon myself to kill you.”

 Tartaglia’s eyes widen for a moment, his eyes scanning the emotion in yours before he bursts out into laughter. Unsure what he found so funny about your statement, you glare at him, to which responds with an explanation, “Sorry,” he apologizes, “I don’t mean to belittle you at all, although I am always getting stronger,” he smirks, almost sarcastically refuting his previous words, “but I just thought that look in your eyes is so similar to someone else’s.”

 You raise your eyebrows at his words, “Who’s?” You tentatively ask, curiosity getting the best of you. His smile stiffens for a moment, his eyes looking distant as his gaze turns to your ring finger, eyes tracing the red mark on it. 

 “You’d be mad if I told you,” he chuckles, although there was no joy in his laughter. It sounded bitter, almost disappointed, and you narrowed your eyes at him, still searching for an answer to appease you. His blue eyes trail downwards, his gaze finding the table and seemingly, he takes a moment to admire the woodwork on the table, “Scaramouche,” he begins, pausing for a moment before continuing, “I can tell from last night that the both of you have a strange relationship.”

 You lean back in your chair, fiddling with your fingers a little nervously as his words register in your mind. You take a second to ponder, realizing that this toxicity between the both of you had started to feel somewhat ‘normal’ because of how used to it you were, although clearly, it wasn’t the same for others who viewed your relationship with him. “Yeah,” you awkwardly say, nodding in agreement, your eyes finding interest in the red mark around your ring finger, “I guess that’s one way to put it.”

 Tartaglia notices the strange look in your eyes, the smile on your face empty as you press on the healing welt around your finger. He lets out an annoyed sigh, feeling frustrated, knowing how the Balladeer was. He couldn’t imagine anybody being in a relationship with him, really, and here you were, about to marry him in a week, albeit forced, no doubt. Tartaglia scans your expression once more as an angry feeling swelled within him. You were still young, perhaps around his age, and he could tell from the look in your eyes that there were so many dead parts inside you, waiting to come to life again. He hated that look, it reminded him of himself when he looked in the mirror. The abyss had corrupted him, but it took a mere shitty person to take so much life out of you.

 “I want you to listen very carefully,” Tartaglia begins once more, his tone firm as he speaks to you, a glint of seriousness in his eyes as he speaks, your eyes meeting his own, "be very careful around that shrimp,” his voice is quiet, a solemnity embedded so deep into his tone it almost causes you to shiver, “if anything ever goes wrong, you know which ship to get on,” he whispers, “number twenty-eight. If you need any help, I am willing to help you out, okay?” Tartaglia waits for you to respond, and when you give him a slow nod, he continues, “He talked to me yesterday,” he continues, “he doesn’t want us in contact anymore.”

 You can’t help but roll your eyes, relaxing back into your seat. Of course that psychopath didn’t want you talking to other people, seeing how obsessive and possessive he is over you. “Go on,” you urge him to speak further, brushing off the annoyance of your thoughts.

 “So that’s going to make it a little bit harder to make things less obvious when we talk to each other,” he concedes to your wishes, “but there is a way. Address it to Ekaterina, my associate, I trust her enough with your information and make sure to capitalize the letter ‘t’ in her name so she knows it’s not just for her,” Tartaglia gauges your expression once more, watching for any confusion.

 “Okay,” you nod, letting out a breath of relief. Having Tartaglia as one of your contacts made your quality of life a lot better, concerning there was nobody who actually knew about what your relationship with Scaramouche was, other than him. If you could talk to him about anything Scaramouche did, then you would be okay. At least, you had a sure way out if you needed to escape.

 “Good,” Tartaglia smiles, rolling his shoulders and stretching before getting up from his seat, “and one last thing before we end this conversation,” he turns to face you once more, his expression falling serious once more, “come to me if you need any help. ”

 You raise an eyebrow, confused for a moment before smiling, “You said that already, yes,” you slowly start before he continues on.

 “Don’t do anything stupid by yourself,” he shakes his head, “the last thing you’d ever want to do is lose your cool in the heat of a battle. That’s how you lose your life.” You nod once more, slowly, wondering why he was telling you all that in the first place. This was like common sense to you, he was just retelling the obvious. When he notices your strange look, he gives you a lighthearted smile, “With that aside,” he starts again, “any plans today, comrade?”

 As you’re taking your time brushing makeup onto your face, eyes focused solely on the large vanity mirror before you as you enjoy the rather feminine feeling that grows in you with each brush stroke onto your face, you hear a soft groan from behind you, almost startling you. When you turn around, you come face to face with a rather sleepy Scaramouche, his indigo eyes automatically finding yours and locking into them. You hum and tilt your head, observing his expression as his eyes suddenly turn wide. He lifts himself up from bed and grimaces when he feels a pounding at his head. You snicker, remembering how much you had forced him to drink last night. 

 “Careful,” you warn him as you turn to the mirror again, focusing on making yourself look prettier for the day, feeling excited knowing that you’d be spending the whole day in Liyue without a care for your duties.

 Scaramouche grumbles something out in response, but it falls deaf on your ears with how audible it sounds. From the mirror, you see him sitting up on the bed, feet on the floor now as he watches you put makeup on your face. His eyes suddenly narrow, as if realizing something, and you pause your actions, waiting for him to speak.

 “Who gave you all that,” Scaramouche says in a low voice, sounding akin to a growl because truthfully, he already knows the answer.

 You smirk at his dissatisfied look, “Why Childe, of course,” you use Tartaglia’s nickname to spite Scaramouche, and it seems to work. He’s seething behind you, but you choose not to care. You were going to have a good day today, with or without Scaramouche being a nuisance.

 “That idiot dares,” Scaramouche sighs out, holding onto his head before looking back up at your satisfied expression. Annoyed, he gets up from his bed with a rather harsh stomp, “I’m going to shower,” he says before walking towards the bathroom. 

 “Wait,” you halt him, remembering that Tartaglia had something for him too. You reach for the items wrapped in yellow paper not too far from you, getting up from your seat and walking over to Scaramouche. At your appearance, his indigo eyes go wide, scanning you from head to toe. You weren’t dressed in your usual Inazuman styled outfit. You were dressed in Liyue styled clothes, in pure white with accents of red. The dress was long, reaching just a couple inches above your ankles, with two slits on each side, showing off your legs. The sleeves of your dress were made of intricate white lace, and just from that, Scaramouche could tell the dress was expensive.

 It takes you a moment to realize why he was staring at you so intently, scanning you up and down. Feeling a little shy, you back away, extending your arm with the wrapped items out toward him, “Childe brought you a change of clothes as well,” you slowly begin, watching as his eyes make their way back up to your face, “we have to be a little bit more discreet today, considering we’ll be out most of the day anyways. Can’t have the Qixing giving more trouble to Childe, can we?”

 Scaramouche’s stare is blank, however his eyes are burning with so many emotions, your mind can’t register them. When he speaks, it’s almost as if he hasn’t heard a word you’ve said for the past minute. “Take off your clothes,” his voice was demanding, like an order as opposed to a request, and you flinched.

 You withhold a sigh, anger welling within you as you clench your free hand into a fist. “And why should I do that, my Lord?” You try to say in the friendliest voice you can muster, trying to hold onto whatever pleasantries the future holds for you despite this horrid start.

 “Do I have to answer you?” Scaramouche raises an eyebrow, taking a step forward closer to you as his eyes narrow at you, eyebrows furrowing. “Change them. Now,” his tone is sharp, and almost painful to hear.

 You let out a long drawn sigh, an irritated smile growing on your face, “I’m afraid I can’t do that, otherwise I’ll have no other clothes to wear, because my clothes are currently being washed.” You explain to him, feeling extremely agitated. What was wrong with your clothes now? You’d thought you looked pretty. Suddenly, realization dawned on you. In all your months with Scaramouche, you had slowly started to understand parts of his mind, especially when it came to his more childish aspects. “Don’t tell me,” you pause, gauging his expression, “you dislike how it fits on me?”

 Scaramouche lets out a huff, tearing the wrapped clothes from your hands and walking over to the bathroom before giving you one last dirty look. You raised an eyebrow at him as he promptly shut the door, letting out another tired sigh. He was so exhausting to be around, and you honestly had no clue how you would manage today if he kept this type of behavior up.

 By the time Scaramouche leaves the shower, you’re mostly prepared for the day, touching up spots around your eyes when you realize your lack of sleep is still pretty visible despite your attempts to hide it. When you hear him behind you, you look in the mirror, seeing him in all black, looking truly like a grim reaper behind you. He crosses his arms, staring at you, still looking a little tired. Perhaps it was a hangover, you thought as you picked up a pigmented red from the new makeup Tartaglia had provided you, watching it fade into a lighter color when you tap it into your face. When you think you’re done, you suddenly find Scaramouche right next to you. Startled, you flinch away from him, turning your head to meet his gaze.

 “Let me try something,” his voice is earnest, his eyes somewhat distant despite staring directly at you, as though he was deep in thought. You don’t reply, you simply allow him to take the thin brush from your hand. Scaramouche dips the brush in red and leans closer to you, eyes studying the area around your eyes intently as he raises the brush to your face, using his free hand to hold your chin so that you move less. You avert your eyes, feeling a little anxious with him staring at you so intensely, and you resist the urge to close your eyes when you feel the red brush along your lower lash line. Upon completion, he sets himself back a little, hand still on your chin as he examines his work, the corner of his lips pulled to a small smile. 

 When he lets go of your chin, you turn towards the mirror, surprised by the hint of red under your eyes. It didn’t look bad, but it did remind you of a certain someone. You turn your head to glare at him, and he returns your glare with a raised eyebrow.

 “Dislike it?” He scoffs, his indigo eyes glittering with amusement at your reaction. You feel as though he’s teasing you, using the same words you had thrown back at him earlier. You clench your teeth, thinking that he was just so petty. In return, you bring tug at the black rope keeping his collar together, pulling him down to meet you as you take the brush from his hand before he could say anything, you copy his previous movements, holding his chin with one hand while brushing under his right eye carefully, not wanting to stab his eye out of fear that you would disintegrate before stepping out the door of his bedroom. “You’re getting a little too comfortable with just grabbing me, aren’t you?” Scaramouche queries you, feeling bothered by how slowly your brush was going against his skin. 

 “You do the same thing all the time,” you reply caustically, uncaring for whatever attitude he would give you in response. When he’s silent, his eyes focused somewhere on the mirror to his side, you’re surprised. You pause for a moment, absorbing his expression. He looked as though he was in deep thought, as though he was remembering something rather unpleasant when your brush passed around his eyes. Scaramouche has an odd forlorn look in his eyes, a look that was almost indecipherable to you, especially when placed on his usually grim face. You can’t help but scoff, thinking about all the torment he’s brought you. You wonder if he ever thinks about the pain he puts you through, and you briefly ponder on the fact that maybe this was what you looked like when someone talked about your family. “Yeah,” you hum, watching as his senses are slowly brought back to the present, ”I hope it sucks, whatever you’re thinking about.” Thankfully, by the time you choose to say those bold words, you’re done. 

 He immediately returns his gaze back on to your face, his indigo eyes burning with a fury that almost causes you to clench your teeth out of regret. A perplexed feeling settles in your stomach when the fury is somehow quickly quelled, replaced with another emotion that feels dark in how it lingers in his eyes. You let go of his chin, his demeanor noticeably changing when you do so. As you retract your hand holding the brush, he grabs onto it, staring into your eyes as though he was looking for something. Your breath hitches when he brings you closer to him, body freezing completely when his other hand presses on your left thigh, settling itself comfortably around the side of it. The intimacy makes you want to hurl, despite you being used to it, however his words pull you out of your momentary daze.

 “I’ve noticed that you’ve been enjoying pressing my buttons lately,” the voice that leaves him comes out like a whisper, and his tone is a matter of fact, “and I can’t help but think you must truly enjoy the sentiment of being punished.” Scaramouche’s eyes glow with a sense of authority that makes you feel intimidated enough to try and distance yourself from him as he draws closer to your face.

 At his words, you feel heat rise to your face, your pyro vision glinting, sensing the anger that builds within you, “Or maybe,” you begin, halting your movements completely, not wanting to back down from him, “I’m just learning not to be afraid of you anymore.”

 Scaramouche scoffs at your words, a flash of lightning tearing through his eyes at your voice of challenge, “Getting cocky because I’m being a little kind to you,” he begins, his voice dropping low when he proceeds, “ don’t make my generosity leave so quickly,” he whispers, boring holes into your eyes with his own, “or you might just regret it. I might have to sew your mouth shut after all, since it seems my punishments have been too light for you.”

 Your laugh is hollow when you respond, your eyes burning scornfully as you gaze at his darkening features. This was a familiar expression, the same one he used to threaten you when you were ‘misbehaving’ , however, as of late, you felt as though you couldn’t care less what would happen to you. He threatens to hurt you, threatens to kill you, but he loves you. You wanted to test just how far you could go in his boundaries, just as he has constantly done to you. What had he left to kill, when your insides were already rotten, when your mind was already in pieces. “You could never hurt me like that,” you laugh emptily, feeling a cold sensation wash over your body as he steadies you, his indigo eyes still trained onto yours, “after all, you would hate for me to shut up.” There’s a flicker of his emotion in his eyes, then his grip begins to tighten. You ignore it, “Like how you say you want to chop my limbs off if I run,” you start again, your tone laced with a void that threatens to swallow you whole as you speak, “you could never do those things to me.”

 Scaramouche feels enraged, your words grate his ears and he scowls at you, clenching his teeth, “Didn’t I tell you to tread carefully?” He hisses as he threateningly allows some electricity from his veins pass into yours. 

 “But I’m not wrong,” you smile as you put your face closer to his, “tell me, Scaramouche,” you say his name plainly, and add some venom to your following words, “you keep me next to you despite everything I do, and it’s because you’re so bored of your daily life,” this wasn’t a gamble, you think as you speak, this was the truth that you have noticed among your days with him, “I keep you interested.”

 His breath hitches for a moment, and his gaze turns distant, as though your words had struck a chord in him, and when he backs away from you, laughing as he lets go of your arm and thigh, you feel an odd buzz between the both of you. “I suppose you aren’t entirely wrong,” the smile on Scaramouche’s face is unsettling, it grows from ear to ear, “but I can do without your sarcastic remarks,” his tone turns dark, his voice coming out like a growl as his eyes narrow at you.

 You slump your shoulders, your eyes flitting away from him the moment you hear a knock at the door. You allow a tired smile on your face, thinking that you were saved from further conversing with him, however Scaramouche doesn’t look like he’s done with you quite yet, despite hearing the knocks come again. While you’re distracted, he cups your face with his hands, causing you to recoil in shock, your eyes wide when you look at him again, not expecting him to get so close to you so quickly, “So be it,” he whispers, his eyes are bright, gazing into your wide ones, “I should remind you that you’ll be with me forever,” his tone drips with an eeriness, “so when you choose to be annoying, I ask you to question yourself,” his forehead is pressed onto yours. You feel fear grab at your chest when you see a vision of a butterfly, now wrapped in coils of thread, the spider weaving around it so thoroughly to make it stop moving before it decides to eat it alive, “Do you prefer a harsh path, or an easier one?”

 His threat brings a sense of harshness in your system. There’s a burning sensation around your throat, and on your ring finger, as if reminding you that he had you at every breath, at every word, and at every motion of your being. Just as you feel a familiar despair creeping up on you, you hear a voice shout from just outside.

 “Hey,” Tartaglia’s voice is muffled, but distinct, “anyone in here?”

 When Scaramouche pulls away, gently letting go of your face as he backs away, a knowing smile on his face as he sees you frozen in place. He was terrible, you think as you swallow a build up of saliva in your mouth, swallowing it bitterly as though you had eaten something bad. Your eyes remain on Scaramouche’s own, and when he turns around to answer the door, your eyes find his back. You feel as though there’s a weight on your wrists, heavy, keeping you bound, and when you find the strength to stand up, your own body feels heavy.

 Your lips pull into a thin line.

 He truly was the worst of the worst.

 “Look at the both of you,” Tartaglia muses, hands on his hips as he presses his weight unevenly on one side of his body, “matching makeup and all.”

 You shut your eyes, letting out a long breath from your lungs before weakly smiling up at Tartaglia, “I guess so,” you admit reluctantly. You shift your gaze to Scaramouche, his back just in front of you as he begins to walk down the hallway. Scaramouche had taken his hat off for the rest of the day, looking much like a well dressed commoner as opposed to the usual Inazuman styled get up. Tartaglia is quick to follow Scaramouche’s suit, walking ahead of him and conversing with the Balladeer.

 “Why are you here?” Scaramouche says with a sigh.

 Tartaglia responds with a smile, “I’m your guide today, I’ll show the both of you around Liyue!” He feigns hurt at Scaramouche’s crass response, and before you know it, they are bickering at each other. You touch the red butterfly pin in your hair, feeling at it, searching for comfort as you tail behind the both of them. Your heels were not the most comfortable, although Tartaglia did provide you with some thicker heeled ones to help you with your balance. Scaramouche seems to notice you are lagging behind him, and momentarily slows down to your pace, not wanting to be next to the orange haired harbinger. Tartaglia notices the lack of presence next to him and shifts to move to your other side, tossing you a playful look which you return with a horrified one. You hear Scaramouche click his tongue from your right, clearly disliking his junior harbinger’s actions. Tartaglia, being the person he is, begins to talk to you, much to Scaramouche’s chagrin, and Scaramouche knew with one look at Tartaglia that he was only talking to you to piss him off.

 Rage builds in Scaramouche as he turns his heated glare towards the side of your face, which you don’t seem to notice with how engrossed you are in the conversation with Tartaglia. There was a burning feeling in his stomach, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on the emotion, he was rather unfamiliar with it, but he hated it more than anything. Scaramouche crosses his arms, diverting his attention off to his side as all of you make it down the elevator, back to the ground floor. You find as you make your way out of the Fatui infested building that a feeling of embarrassment grows in you, especially when Scaramouche reaches to hold your hand. Tartaglia had taken to walking ahead of all of you, addressing his superiority through his walk as people stopped and greeted him. 

 You felt eyes on yourself, and normally, you wouldn’t mind, however, this Liyue styled dress hugged your body around the chest, down to your hips, leaving little to nothing for imagination. You find amidst the crowd, a tall, built man ogling you, staring at you as though you were not human, but rather an object. Disgusted, you shut your eyes as you pass them. In your usual attire, people didn’t give you such lustful gazes, perhaps because they knew who you were, and knew the position you held in the Fatui, however, you weren’t in Inazuma. You think to readjust the thigh belt holstering your few blades on your dress. You had angled your belt to hide your blades from underneath your dress, but perhaps that was a mistake. Suddenly, Scaramouche’s grip on your hand completely vanishes, and as you take another step forward, you hear a loud crackle, followed by a pained and horrified scream. Your eyes fly open as you feel a familiar tension in the air, electricity flooding your surroundings. Tartaglia and you turn around in shock, and your eyes widen in terror at the view. 

 Scaramouche had used his electro currents to electrocute the man that had been ogling you. Scaramouche walks up to him, seemingly unsatisfied by the outcome as he moves to grab a fistful of the man’s hair, lifting the soldier’s head up despite his larger physique in comparison to Scaramouche’s own.

 You gawk at him, feeling a rise of anxiety swell within you at the sudden commotion, listening to the whispers all around you as you feel a wave of overwhelming anger from behind you. You take a step forward and begin to speak in an attempt to stop him, “Lord Scaramouche--!” You pause, halting your motion completely as your hands turn clammy. Scaramouche looked at you, an unbridled fury in his eyes as he smiled at you dangerously. You stopped like a deer caught in headlights, feeling fear echo throughout every bone of your body at the look on his face.

 “What,” Tartaglia’s voice is stiff, a hidden threat lingering in his tone as he steps forward, his eyes darkening with every word, “do you think you’re doing?”

 Scaramouche averts his gaze from yours, looking unamused as he shifts his eyes to look at Tartaglia, “You have such terrible leadership skills,” Scaramouche begins with a condescending tone, pressing his free hand over his nose, as if not wanting to smell something bad, “take this from your senior, won’t you? If you don’t teach your subordinates properly, they start acting like animals, like this pig over here, he didn’t know when to stop looking at other people’s belongings.” Scaramouche sends another shock throughout the man’s body. The man shrieks, and Scaramouche scoffs, “He even squeals like one.” The color in your face drains completely when you feel Tartaglia’s rising anger, and when he takes another step forward, clearly agitated, Scaramouche tuts at him. “Take another step,” Scaramouche’s eyes are wide, a scowl on his face as he continues, “and I’ll take it as a challenge over my authority as the sixth harbinger.”

 Tartaglia freezes in his steps, clenching his fists and teeth at Scaramouche’s words. He halted, looking back at you for a moment and seeing the lifelessness in your face.

 All the excitement for today died in you, your eyes mirrored that.

 Not wanting to make things harder from you, Tartaglia opts to reply to Scaramouche, pretending to shrug it all off as he smiles in false pretense, hands unclenching as a laugh erupts from his mouth, “Was your plan just to teach me a lesson?” he laughs, ”What’s with this unnecessary tension?”

 Scaramouche looks unfazed by his falsities, eyes dark when they look into Tartaglia’s own eyes. His eyes shift over to yours, and you almost flinch at the intensity, however you hold your place, willing yourself to maintain his gaze. Scaramouche smiles, releasing the male’s head before shifting his body away from the body on the floor. “I just thought it was a perfect opportunity to show you,” Scaramouche’s voice is steady as he walks towards the both of you again, and you fight the feeling to back away from the strength of his presence, “ what would happen to your subordinates if you didn’t try to keep them in line.” Scaramouche eyes meet Tartaglia’s own, a glint of rage blooming in Tartaglia’s heart when he realizes that Scaramouche wasn’t only taking this moment to make an example out of the Fatui member on the floor, but also inferring to Tartaglia’s constant intrusion of boundaries between the three of you.

 Scaramouche was making a threat, Tartaglia thinks as he gazes at his subordinate, now surrounded by fellow Fatui members tending to him, crowding around him. Tartaglia supposed that Scaramouche implied that the body on the floor could be his instead. When Tartaglia turns around, he sees that you and Scaramouche are walking hand in hand, your steps trailing just a little off from his own, as if you desperately wanted to part from him. This was very dangerous, Tartaglia thought, as Scaramouche's actions weighed on his mind, watching as you reluctantly maintained your pace just behind Scaramouche as he trudged forward and out of the building.

Chapter Text

 After all that happened, you can’t bring yourself to eat, despite how hungry you were. You stare at the crystal shrimp dumplings before you, still in its bamboo woven basket. Tartaglia seems to notice your distress, and immediately scolds you, telling you that you should eat, and that as a warrior, you couldn’t be picky no matter what. With a heavy heart, you choose to eat, listening to Tartaglia. You should make do with your day, despite Scaramouche’s existence bothering you to no end. It wasn’t as though he would just disappear anyway, although you really wished for him to.

 The afternoon is filled with much more festivities. The three of you make careful attempts to avoid the Millelith, although it was mostly for Tartaglia’s sake than your own and Scaramouche’s. The walk around town is super interesting to you, and you admire the architecture, thinking that it was somewhat similar to Inazuma, but also vastly different in how they were designed. When you come across a wooden bridge, surrounded by two large trees with red leaves, you take a moment and absorb everything around you. Just ahead of you were two large buildings, connected together by a red bridge that allowed onlookers to gaze at you from below. You feel amazed, feeling your heart swell at the sight of red leaves falling from the tree, scattering when the wind picks up. Liyue was truly beautiful. 

 Scaramouche had been complaining about the sun, disliking the heat and how it hit his face without his hat, so Tartaglia finds a parasol stand and purchases a purple parasol for him, to which he gladly uses. Tartaglia is off talking about the many stories of the Liyue’s adepti and archon, and you listen intently as you find the three of you ambling up a pair of red stairs, leading to what seemed like a resting area. While they seat themselves, you stand up, propping yourself up on the crimson colored fence and sit down on it as you gaze down into the vast ocean, eying the several ships that came and left the harbor with a fond smile on your face. Unbeknownst to you, Tartaglia had taken out an odd device, focusing in on you through the lens of the device before taking a photo. 

 You turn your head at the sound of a strange click, foreign to your ears. When you notice the odd device in the orange haired male’s hands, you raise an eyebrow, curious. Tartaglia introduces it to you as a ‘ kamera’, an item created by Fontaine to capture a moment as though it was a painting, although the inking and paints occur instantaneously and accurately. Your eyes are wide with shock when you see yourself in the photo printed from the kamera. That was you?   You looked pretty, you had to admit, gazing off to the distance with such a content smile on your face. You feel heat rise to your face when Tartaglia tosses you a lopsided grin, and then suddenly, he turns the kamera towards the both of you, grinning as he takes another photo.

 When you look at the photo printout, you can’t help but feel embarrassed. Your cheeks were a little warmer in the photo, despite the blush, you could tell from the emotion in your eyes that you were having fun. You couldn’t help but smile, feeling that perhaps today would be good after all with Tartaglia around to distract you from the unease of your mind. Tartaglia teaches you how to use it, unbearably close to you as he teaches you what button to press. Scaramouche notices this, and upon Tartaglia’s short departure to move towards the red fence, he snakes up from behind you, leaning over your shoulder with a bored expression, despite the churning in his stomach. When you don’t seem to care, he presses his hands at your hips, causing you to stiffen just as you’re going to take a photo. Tartaglia scoffs before erupting into laughter at the sight of the both of you, and when you see this, you smile, gazing through the lens as you take a photo. 

 You pull the kamera away from you, looking at the film that came out of it with a small smile as you realize you’ve captured the essence of Tartaglia you wanted to capture, albeit a little blurry due to your anxiety with Scaramouche hovering so close to you. You give the photo to Tartaglia before thinking it was a perfect time to get Scaramouche away from you. Tartaglia examines the photo as you usher Scaramouche to stand where Tartaglia had earlier, telling him to make himself look presentable, although it seems he didn’t need to try. 

 Tartaglia watches as you take a photo of Scaramouche, who was leaning so casually on the red fence, looking perfect in the photo that rolls out from the slit on the device you held. The orange haired harbinger and you look at the photo plainly, expressions unamused. He just looked great naturally, the both of you had supposed with a bitter sentiment. “Yay,” you unenthusiastically say, causing Scaramouche to glare at you and eliciting a snicker from the harbinger behind you. 

 “What was that?” Scaramouche scowls, eyebrows furrowing as he crosses his arms to look at the both of you. 

 “One more, one more,” you quickly say, not wanting your moment of happiness to be ruined by him once again, and when he takes to his position, you quickly snap another photo, not waiting for him to be settled. When the image comes out, you clench your teeth, taking a sharp inhale of air. You pick it up with one hand when it completely leaves the kamera and nudge at Tartaglia with your elbow, who turns to look at the image before letting out a choked noise. You bite your lip, halting your breaths as Tartaglia covers his mouth and coughs, hiding his laughter before completely exploding. Unable to keep it in, you follow suit, your laughter causing Scaramouche to narrow his eyes at the both of you in anger.

 You show Scaramouche the photo, as you bite hard on your lower lip, attempting to keep a cool composure when in front of him, and you could’ve sworn you saw a vein burst on his head as he tears it out of your grasp. The picture of him was a little blurry, but what was clear was that he was in the middle of blinking when you took the photo, one eye opened further than the other. He growls and throws it across the fence, trailing the photo with his outstretched hand and sending a small bolt of electricity towards it. When it catches fire and withers away, Tartaglia laughs even louder, turning himself around to sit at the table so that he could manage himself without falling over. You find yourself crouching, arm holding onto a part of the red fence that was to your left with dear life as giggles escaped your mouth. When you find Scaramouche standing before you, his footsteps louder than usual, you know you are going to die today. 

 Your eyes look up to meet his own, and he glares at you with an animosity that would usually instill fear in you. You uncover your mouth and you give him a smile, eyes closing as another wave of laughs erupt from your mouth. “I-I’m sorry,” you manage to apologize through your laughter, finding whatever strength you had left in your body and putting them to your legs, allowing yourself to stand up. When you meet Scaramouche’s gaze again, he looks at you with a considerably softer expression.

 “No more playing around with that stupid device,” Scaramouche replies coldly, huffing grabs onto one of your hands, noticing that you were less reluctant to intertwine them together now.

 Tartaglia, having recovered from his outburst, approaches the both of you with a joyous grin, “Don’t be like that, Balladeer,” he chided playfully as he takes the kamera from your other hand, “we’ll be using this throughout the entire day, to make memories, you know?” He points the camera up at the both of you, and you gaze at him curiously. Upon snapping a photo, he gives the image to you, having you examine it with Scaramouche next to you. “See?” Tartaglia hums.

 The photo captured you and Scaramouche, hands linked together as both of you look at Tartaglia. Your gaze, more curious and Scaramouche’s looking as though he wanted to kill the photographer. Despite this, Scaramouche takes the photo from your hand and pockets it, looking away from you as he pulls you a little closer to him. You raise an eyebrow at his actions, confused. Was this his way of expressing happiness?

 From there, the three of you make it down to the harbor and explore the small vendors selling fish and jewels. The three of you find yourselves tasting street food upon crossing another bridge, although you do notice that some people are giving Tartaglia nasty glares as he walks past them, although he doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest. Despite your wish to address it, you choose not to, thinking it might dampen his currently chipper mood. Time passes quickly, by the hour the sun begins to fall, Tartaglia excuses himself, saying that he had toured the both of you enough already and now he had to get back to work. When he leaves, there’s an awkward silence that falls over you and Scaramouche. Truth be told, neither of you had interacted much at all that day, you had mostly spent time talking with Tartaglia because he always had something interesting to say.

 Scaramouche tugs at your hand as you watch the orange haired male’s figure disappear from up a pair of stairs leading back to Northland bank. You turn your head to face him, feeling your smile slowly disappear as you realize it’s just the two of you now.

 “Let’s go somewhere,” he says, his indigo eyes soft on your own as he pulls you towards him, his hand firm in yours. 

 “Right,” you tentatively say, nodding slowly, your steps stuttering as he pulls you down towards the harbor once again, the sunset almost blinding you as you walk underneath a large red bridge, meters above your head. Scaramouche’s parasol almost hits you, and you end up walking just a little ahead of him, matching his pace as the both of you descend down the stairs. The ocean waves crash along the harbor walls, and when you reach the bottom of the stairs, you breathe in your surroundings, absorbing the scenery before you. The sunset’s light illuminated off the ocean, sparkling and glittering like pieces of glass, scattered all over the ocean, gleaming when the light bounces off it. Scaramouche gazes at you, noticing your eyes were distant and far, staring at the ocean waves. 

 “Come,” he ushers you with a tug once more, nearing the edge of the dock. Your paces slow as you approach it, and you lean forwards, gauging the height of the dock you were on, down to the level at which the waves sat by. There are two tower-like structures ahead of you, and you stare in between them, gazing at the mountain, and then trailing your eyes back to the reflection of the sunset in the waters. The skies are dyed in hues of oranges and purples, the sun setting just off the left side of you. Everything around you is rose colored, peachy looking in tone. Even the blue ocean looks almost purple. Scaramouche’s voice pulls you back to the moment, “Do you enjoy it here?” He asks, his eyes staring off into the distance, admiring the glimmers of light that touched at the waves. 

 You stare at him, noticing how his features softened against the light of the sun. “I do,” you reply softly, and as a gust of wind passes, a feeling of nostalgia hits you. You look off into the distance again, leaning on the wooden rails as you think about your father. You wondered  how he was doing, his ashes travelling the world, carried by Barbatos’ winds. Remembering his passing yesterday, remembering that your mother was probably alone back at the temporary home somewhere north of Liyue, it all made you feel a little sad. When you let out a breath, you inwardly pray that with every crash of the waves against the shoreline walls, your pain drifts away far away from you. Your throat is suddenly feeling a little tight, thinking about your father, and you pull away from the ledge with a soft sigh. As Scaramouche is about to speak, you hear a voice of a young lady ushering you from your right side.

 “Excuse me, miss!” The female calls out you, and you turn your body to face her, examining her features with a scrutinizing look on your face. She was unfamiliar, a complete stranger, yet she grinned at you, sitting down on a chair behind a table. She seemed to be a vendor, and perhaps she wanted you to check out whatever wares she had, but you find that there is nothing except a deck of white colored cards on the table. Scaramouche raises an eyebrow at her, unfamiliar with her appearance. He puts on his friendliest face as you begin to approach her, heeding your call.

 “Did you want to play a little game with your boyfriend?” The brunette smiles at you expectantly, a hopeful look in her eyes as she glances between the both of you.

 You almost flinch at her words. Boyfriend?  You thought inwardly, momentarily forgetting that you were holding his hand in the first place, and that he was your fiancé. “Um,” you start, unsure as a small smile crawls onto your face, “what is the game about?”

 The woman grins at you, clapping her hands together before cheerily replying, “The cards will tell me if you two are meant to be together!”

 Immediately, you recoil, your smile stiffening at her words, although it seems that Scaramouche is suddenly interested. He lifts his free hand up, placing it under his chin, seemingly pondering it for a moment, and as if something clicks in his mind, he smirks, his eyes narrowing as he shifts his gaze towards you. “Interesting,” he muses, “mere cards are to tell us if we are bound by fate?” He pulls you towards the stall, much to your chagrin, and you almost sigh.

 “Yes,” the lady responds with a smile, flipping over the cards and turning them over to reveal two cards, “if I pull out a circle, that means the both of you are meant to be. If I pull out a cross,” she pulls out a card with an ‘x’ shape marked at the center, “then both of you aren’t meant to be. Simple, isn’t it?”

 “I don’t believe in that sort of stuff,” you mutter under your breath with a slight feeling of disdain. Especially if fate was real, you figured it could damn itself for setting you up for failure, putting you together with this menace of a man next to you.

 “Easy enough,” Scaramouche raises an eyebrow, letting go of your hand as he seats himself on one of the chairs before you. He looks up to you, a smirk playing on his lips as he does so, “Surely you wouldn’t mind, right, darling?”

 At the use of a pet name, you scrunch your shoulders, feeling uncomfortable. You seat yourself beside him. You supposed you’d have no choice but to entertain him, besides, this would be an experience. A look of determination overwhelmed you as you slid out a bag of mora that Tartaglia had given you. You look at her, and offer it under the table. This would be an experience to bring Scaramouche’s hopes down, you thought with confidence burning in your eyes as you pretended to be relaxing on one side of your body, nudging her with your foot as you offered her the bag of mora. When she looks at you, seemingly surprised, you cross your middle and index finger, creating an ‘x’ shape. She smiles at you, letting out a soft laugh as she puts her hands out in defeat.

 “Young lady,” she begins with a soft, playful voice, “no matter how much mora you give me, I only read what fate gives me.”

 You clench your teeth when you feel Scaramouche’s heated glare on the side of your face, and your face slowly starts to turn red with embarrassment. Did she really throw you out like that? A shiver trickles down your spine as you slowly drop the bag of mora, trying to avoid making any noise, however at the sound of clinking hitting the floor, you shut your eyes, feeling defeated. 

 Scaramouche scoffs at you, “How dirty,” his tone is of strong dislike, and you pretend not to hear it, your eyes focused on glaring daggers at the lady before you. You smile at her emptily, wishing she changes things in your favor anyway.

 The lady returns the smile, her beam wide as she gives you a look meant to reassure you. The look only furthers your discomfort. She turns her gaze over to Scaramouche and his eyes light up at her sudden motions. “No amount of mora you have can--!” She begins, only to be cut off by a loud slam that startles the both of you. You flinch at the sound, and you turn to face Scaramouche with a look of disbelief as he gives the lady an evil smile, accompanied by a venom laced voice.

 “If you know what’s good for you,” his voice is tepid, borderline terrifying, and you feel bad for the lady who seems to be shaken by his tone, “don’t finish that sentence.”

 You blink at him, and he shifts his indigo eyes over to you, meeting your glance. Then, you quickly duck your head under the table, peering at his other hand, which had held a noticeably larger bag of mora in comparison to the one you had set down. Anger bubbles in your stomach, and when you jump back into your regular position, you glare at him, his eyes automatically finding yours, his eyebrows furrowing, knowing he had been caught. Scaramouche looks as though he was daring you to say something to him. You clench your teeth and offer him a cold hearted smile, eyes never leaving his own as you lean on the table, using your left arm for leverage as you tilt your head towards him. As much as you didn’t want to put the stress of the relationship between the both of you onto the lady, you couldn’t help but express your annoyance.

 “My, how filthy,” you say, your tone lowering when you say the last word. His expression sparks with rage, all hints of friendliness vanishing when he replies to you.

 “What did you say to me?” He queries, his tone dark and filled with dread.

 The young lady before the both of you lightheartedly laughs, her palms clammy from anxiety as she gauges the tension between the both of you, and when the both of you turn your heads to face her, your glares settling on her face, she lets out a strange, strangled noise. “R-right!” She laughs, brown hair swaying when she shifts her hands so that she’s shuffling the deck. The both of you waited in quiet anticipation, your gaze focused on her hands while Scaramouche kept giving her a menacing smile. When she’s done, she flips the card at the bottom of the deck over, and your heart falls in despair at the sight of the circle. You face the Balladeer, who dons a satisfied smile on his face as he hums with approval at the outcome. You want to punch him.

 “This is rigged,” your tone is flat with denial, speaking in a matter of fact as you cross your arms. 

 “T-That not true,” she hesitantly says, thinking that perhaps it was the wrong choice to invite the both of you over, “I simply read what’s written in the cards!” When you balk at her, a disbelieving look on your face, she adds on, “Look, I can do other means of divination too,” she begins, retracting her cards before listing a few common methods she’s practiced, “I can read palms, tell you what your fate is through your facial features, or even do some astrology!”

 “I don’t care,” you reply dismissively, your eyes narrowed when you look at her. 

 Scaramouche seems thoroughly amused by your haughty expression, “No use getting worked up over symbols on paper,” he muses, keeping an eye on you even as you quickly toss him a displeased look.

 “Fine,” you huff before returning your attention back to the fortune teller before you, “what was your name, miss?” You query, waiting for her reply before continuing.

 “It’s Qiming, young lady,” she replies with a small smile.

 “Qiming,” you test the name, humming, thinking that names that originated from this country were intonated differently compared to Inazuman dialect, “read my face then.” 

 Qiming holds a sigh, looking at the bag of mora you bring up before smiling. “Of course,” she smiles and with a nod, and with that, she observes your features.

 “I don’t get it,” you sigh exasperatedly as you throw your arms up in the air in defeat, exhaustion settling within your bones as you do so. Scaramouche paces behind you, raising an eyebrow at your excessive gesture, “How did she know so much,” your tone is strange as you walk up the mountain, being careful in your heels to step on the stone paths, “I didn’t even tell her anything.”

 Scaramouche is quiet, he seems to be deep in thought. He trails behind you, has parasol shut, feeling the chill of the night on his skin as he trudges up the mountain. 

 “She got most things right about me,” you huff when you finally find a flat space at the top of the mountain. You seat yourself being careful not to step on the expensive silk of your dress as you do so. You wrap your arms around your legs, keeping them together as you gaze down at the beauty of Liyue harbor. You piece together the remaining pieces of your thoughts and when Scaramouche seats himself next to you, keeping close to you, you continue, “But she couldn’t figure out anything about you,” you whisper under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear. Scaramouche’s gaze turns distant, almost mysterious looking when you turn your head to look at him, “I wonder what makes us so different?”

 Despite your gaze on his face, he’s looking up at the sky, observing the hues of blues, purples, dusted with beautiful stars. A firm frown pulls at the edges of his lips, “Many things make you and I different from each other,” he replies with a tired tone.

 You wait for him to continue, and when he doesn’t, you simply lay down, extending your legs, being wary of whatever skin you were exposing on your legs. You gaze up at the night sky, admiring the midnight blue and the jewels that adorned them, glittering and shining above you. The moon above you was bright, passing slowly over your form with the clouds. You wondered what time it was, as you were starting to feel drowsy from how hectic your day had been. It’d been quite the roller coaster ride, but it felt just right. It was refreshing, it was new, and it helped you escape your thoughts, and perhaps by now, this was what you needed the most. A way to escape your thoughts.

 You rest your arms on the sides of your head, feeling relaxed at this moment. Scaramouche is oddly quiet, as though he was thinking deeply about several unnamed things. You close your eyes, exhaling soft breaths as you find yourself thinking about your distant dreams, of red butterflies flying to the moon, ascending to the heavens. This felt just right, you thought as you watched a bird fly just over head of you. Usually, you couldn’t stand being so close to Scaramouche, but something about tonight had completely enchanted you. Maybe it was the fresh air in Liyue, or perhaps it was knowing that tomorrow morning, you’d be on your way back to Inazuma, back to work.

 Your eyes flutter shut as you simply let yourself breath, focusing on the crisp air that entered your lungs, exhaling softly when your lungs were full. You quietly wished that if eternity would exist, it would be here, surrounded by qingxin flowers, under the blue of the sky, in this moment of peace. There’s many beats of silences that pass, and maybe for about ten minutes, it’s quiet. You pull yourself back up, pulling out your photos from earlier today, you look through them, remembering that the kamera Tartaglia had lent you was still in a separate pouch you had left to your side. You spread the photos out on the floor, remembering each and every single one of them. Most of them were just you and Tartaglia, enjoying the warmth of the sun, and of a free day by playing around, although there were occasional photos of Scaramouche. You realized he looked uncomfortable in most of them, and if not uncomfortable, he seemed indifferent. You turn your gaze up at him, curious, but when you notice the distant look on his face, you choose not to say anything about the photos, but opt to ask him about his thoughts instead.

 “What are you thinking about,” you ask, your tone falling softly on his ears, and he’s almost shocked to hear it. You can tell by the way he swivels his head, his indigo eyes peering over his shoulders and over to you. 

 Scaramouche is quiet for a moment, and you wonder if he’s even going to respond. He breaks your thoughts, “My creator,” he says flatly.

 You raise an eyebrow at his words. Creator?   Not mother, or father, but creator? Perhaps his relationship with his family was a lot worse than you had thought. You think about your family, their loving warmth, and think about your father, who passed away. Your heart feels a little heavy at the thought, but you smile, remembering his tender love for you and the kindness of his words. He lives in your heart, you supposed as you turn your body to face Scaramouche. “What are they like,” you decide not to ask him about his choice of words, although it does intrigue you.

 There’s another small pause, and when he looks at you, his eyes hold a strange, broken affection. He responds with a mysterious smile, “Her kindness makes her cruel,” he says with a soft sigh and he leans backwards, resting on his elbows as his gaze meets the sky once more, “she knows how painful and lonely eternity is, yet she lets me roam free on this earth.” You aren’t entirely sure what he means, his words sounding almost cryptic to you. Scaramouche looks at you once more, and for a second, you forget who he is. Right now, he just looks like a man, plain in a Liyue style outfit, sitting underneath the moon with you. There’s a look so foreign in his eyes, you can’t quite put your finger on the emotion that lingers beneath the lovely indigos. “Why are you interested?” He inquires with a gentility that causes you to tilt your head. 

 Your gaze wanders away from him, looking at the jagged scar on your ring finger. “It’s unfair,” you retort, looking at your ring finger as though it were the answer to all your problems, “you know so much about me, about my family,” you explain, as you lift your other hand up to feel at the scar, “we’re going to be married soon,” there’s a fragility in your tone that strikes Scaramouche as unfamiliar. “I don’t know anything about you, other than the fact that you’re horribly obsessed with me, and that you love to hurt me,” you laugh caustically, a ball forming at your throat as you remember the pain he’s given you. You think about your  teammates, and your shoulders droop, a sense of disassociation settling within you, “ I don’t know anything about you.”

 The way your voice sounds right now, Scaramouche wishes he could embrace this moment. This new sense of vulnerability, this beautiful side of you that was only for him to see. He was peeling layers of you back, and if this was what was hidden underneath all of those layers, then perhaps every single thing he had gone through to get to this moment was worth it. He smiles. He loves you in despair, he loves it when you’re lost like this, because he could give you light and shine a way for you. Build a path meant for you to walk on, side by side with his own, crafted by his own hands, his pretty butterfly trapped in a cage. 

 “Tell me about yourself,” you say, your eyes meeting his, and just as he thinks he has you in his grasp, he freezes up. His heart beats oddly in his chest, and it feels as though he is melting underneath your gaze. There was a strong feeling that burned in his chest at the look in your eyes, and in the back of his head, he eternalized the moment, memorizing every single detail. Scaramouche exhales, his face feeling oddly heated.

 He chooses to speak to you, allowing you to know bits and pieces of himself, “I was aimless before, going anywhere the wind took me,” he begins, “always looking for something to keep me permanently entertained. After some time, the Fatui had found me, and I joined the Fatui because I thought they were fun,” you huff at his words, disconcerted by the fact he would just join the Fatui because of the entertainment it brought. You briefly wondered how far gone he must’ve been, to come to such a decision. You didn’t believe people were naturally born evil, no, everyone had something they were working towards at the end of the day, and they had their own reasons for it. You of all people understood that, having joined the Fatui to take care of your family.

 “What about your… creator,” you borrow his words, feeling unsure of yourself. 

 Scaramouche’s eyes glow brightly, and you don’t know if it’s because of the moon shining down into them, or if it’s just his natural eye color in this light, but they look almost… inhuman. He lets out a chuckle, “She’s cruel because she let me live,” his tone is lost on you, you don’t completely understand it, “because she feels she owes me something. I’m something meant to be more than I am now.” There’s a lot that goes unanswered in his words, and you’re almost afraid to ask what his relationship with his mother was like, however if there’s one thing you understood, it was that his mother was distant with him. “There’s an order I need to restore in this world,” he says, his eyes looking afar, as though he were looking through you, at something larger behind you, “it’s my job to reclaim that order, because she let me live. Everything I do is her fault, because she betrayed me. Naturally, I’ll take my place and live to my true purpose as someone greater than everyone else.”

 You don’t compute what he’s saying, none of it makes sense to you, other than the fact that he didn’t hold his mother to a high regard. No matter how much sense you try to make of it in your head, it all ends up a jumbled mess. Exactly what did he need to restore? What purpose was he talking about? It just sounded narcissistic, to your ears, and truthfully you doubt that it would be anything more than his narcissism. He sounded as though he were something divine, something unlike anybody else. Scaramouche’s voice cuts through once more, “Do you understand what eternity is?” 

 “I do,” you say, thinking about it for a moment, “and I hate it,” you admit, looking up at the moon. “It doesn’t make sense to me,” you start, “it’s like an unattainable dream. Something so far yet so close, and for something to last forever simply… doesn’t exist,” a sigh escapes your lips. The moon is cold, but it’s pleasant. You bathe in its luminescence, “I believe everything comes to an end, we will all die one day, so will the world around us. It’ll all crumble with time.”

 “Eternity doesn’t end,” there’s an enigmatic tone that lies underneath his words, “it stretches things out from seconds to millennia.”

 “Millenniums are bound to end,” you demur, turning your gaze back onto his, “everything goes back to zero at some point.”

 Scaramouche’s eyes narrow onto yours at your challenging tone before responding, “Are you against the Raiden Shogun’s wishes then?” You pause for a moment, a smile growing on your face at the seriousness in his eyes.

 “I just don’t see the charm in eternity,” you say with a smile, picking up the photographs in your hand and handing it over to Scaramouche. He tentatively takes it, examining them one by one as you continue, “I think moments are only important to us because they don’t last forever, so as humans, we have no choice but to embrace every second of every moment. Immortalizing a moment, like these photos,” you point at the photographs in his hand, “feel precious, do they not?”

 Scaramouche scans over the photos, eventually stopping when he comes to see a photo of himself, looking away into the distance with a strange look on his face. He looks at it deeply, trying to think of what he was feeling at that moment to make such an expression. He scoffs, eventually tossing it to the floor when he finds no answers coming to mind, “What value could these possibly have to me?”

 “Then,” you begin, your smile turning wide as you point at his short’s pocket, “how about the photo you kept in there?”

 Scaramouche narrows his eyes at you in annoyance, unsure of what you’re talking about until he reaches for his pocket. He pulls out a photo of yourself and him, holding hands, both with different expressions written on your faces. 

 “Is it precious to you?”

 Your words cause his breath to halt, and his mind momentarily shifts gears, slowing down for a moment as he registers your words. “... No,” he replies after some time, “it’s not precious to me. It’s just ink on paper,” he finds that his own words sound distant to him, and it feels even stranger when he pockets it again, wanting to keep it. When Scaramouche’s eyes find yours, he glares at you, looking bothered with how intrusive you were being, however you return his glare with a smile that causes his breath to hitch. You were so beautiful in this light, he almost wanted to reach for the kamera to take a photo of you, and he had to fight off every urge not to.

 “Kunikuzushi,” when his name leaves your lips, his head perks upwards, and when you laugh, he feels as though a lightning inside him strikes at his heart, “such a strange name. It’s from kuni and kuzusu, right?” You hum, waiting for his response, and when you find that he has nothing to offer to you, smirk at him, “How about I call you Kuzu, spelled like garbage?” 

 Where you sit, you feel a wave of electricity send your way from Scaramouche’s direction, and you clench your teeth. You were feeling comfortable, thinking that it was okay to joke around. Maybe you were being too comfortable. “It was a joke!” You immediately exclaim before his rage further ensues chaos. 

 Scaramouche scowls at you, furrowing his eyebrows, “That was not a joke,” he hisses as he shifts closer to you. Remembering the events of earlier this morning, you gulp nervously, a smile on your face even as he nears you. 

 “It was, I promise,” you lie, hoping it would suffice, however he’s quick to catch on.

 “You broke your last promise, remember?” You avert your eyes in response to his comment, feeling nervous now that he is inches away from you, your fingertips on the cold stone floor nearly touching his own. “So I was right about you pressing buttons more often than usual,” he muses, his voice dripping with a sense of coldness.

 “Okay,” you admit with a sigh, “I apologize,” you say it lightly, seeing that his anger could not be quelled, “I’m trying to get more comfortable with you, seeing as you’re going to be my,” you almost choke the last word out when you find out his face is nearing yours rapidly, “ husband.”

 He pauses, indigo eyes searching for something in your eyes. You sit still, confused as a gust of wind brushes past the both of you. You brush back loose strands of your hair behind your ear, realizing that perhaps the red butterfly clip had become a little loose ever since the last time you had adjusted it, and when you are about to take it out, Scaramouche lifts a hand, placing it on the clip and removing it completely. You tilt your head, allowing him better access to see in the moonlight.

 You think you’ve gotten used to this sense of intimacy, having slept next to him, holding his hand and even in public now. A part of you accepted him as a partner already, due to the amount of times your boundaries with him have been harassed, and with the thought that you had sought comfort from him during your stay at your parent’s temporary house up north. You hated to admit it, because there was a guilt that came along with the feeling, but he had helped you somewhat, distracting you, letting you have a day off like today. You were grateful for that much at least, despite knowing you still ‘owed’ him for this trip.

 Scaramouche brushes strands of your hair back, sliding the ornate clip back into place with a small hum. Whatever loose strands are left, he tucks behind your ear gently, and when you turn your gaze back up to look at him, he gets a strong urge. He purses his lips for a moment, staring back at you as he places his hand underneath your chin. “We get married soon,” he says slowly, watching as you blink in confusion to his words,  “we’ll officially be labelled a couple.”

 You get a feeling of deja vu, and you attempt to back away from him, the moonlight catching the blue of his hair and illuminating it as you try to do so. You don’t get very far in your movements, his hand is firm on your chin. Last time he tried to do this, he had proposed that you two should marry. 

 “Let’s practice things that couples do,” you clench your teeth at his words, your eyes turning wide as the indigo of his eyes haunt you, burning into your very being this moment, “past holding hands. I want to kiss you,” you wish to cease existing upon hearing his words, and he pulls you closer to him, a part of you wishes to die, or maybe it’s simply the feeling of melting in his arms. 

 “I…” You look at him with wide eyes, searching for an escape, searching for anything that would let you run free from being trapped. His eyes aren’t on yours, but are resting on your lips, gazing at them with an expression akin to someone who hasn’t eaten in forever. Your mind is sent into a panic when he comes closer, the sound of your heartbeat rushing to your ears becoming more prevalent with each passing millisecond. Scaramouche’s lips are centimeters from your when you lift your left hand to block the oncoming kiss, your face feeling like it was on fire when you feel his lips on your hand. Everything feels like it’s crashing down at you all at once. The heat from your face spreads throughout your body as you whisper his name once more, “ Kunikuzushi,” you say softly, bringing his attention back to you, a flitting emotion in his eyes that your mind registers as something similar to annoyance at your rejection, “not yet,” your voice is so quiet, he almost couldn’t hear it.

 The dark bangs of his hair shift, his eyes gleaming with a brightness that startles you, and for a moment, you think that perhaps he isn’t human. He pulls away, tugging your hand away roughly with a scowl, and you continue before he could do anything else, “Until we get married,” you feel the heat in your face overwhelming your body. You haven’t had your first kiss yet, because it was always something your mother told you was important as a female in Inazuma, and it wasn’t like you were in any relationship with anyone else beforehand. “Please,” your plea causes him to raise an eyebrow as he gauges the redness of your face under his shadow, and a ghost of a smile rests on his face, “wait until we get married.”

 Dissatisfied, Scaramouche clicks his tongue, “I have to wait for everything with you, don’t I?” He says it with a matter of fact tone, and it causes you to realize that despite his impatience, he did give you some leeway. “I hope you understand that I’m going to want more than just a kiss when we are officiated,” he pauses, gauging your expression, observing your every change of emotion and drinking it in. When your face turns bright red at his remark, he smirks, delighted. There were so many sides of you he was getting to see ever since the trip to Liyue, no matter how short. He decided waiting was worth it, if it meant he got to explore all these different sides of you while he waited.

 “More--!” You shoot up, covering your mouth as you realize his implications. He was right. Officiating a marriage, customarily… You want to shrivel up and die, you think as you allow your weight to press you onto the floor, both hands rising to cover your face. “Can’t we skip all those things?” You whisper, detesting the embarrassment you were openly showing to him. You tried to think of everything, anything that would make you feel less embarrassed. Your thoughts wandered from the horrific events of earlier today, then to the passing of your father, and to the constant torture you endure to put up with him. Something inside you clicks, and you halt completely.

 In your desolate mind, there’s a dark branch that sprouts from the ground, and it asks you, “Why is it that you don’t let yourself experience these emotions anymore?” The seedling of madness speaks to you as if it were your own thoughts, and you pause completely, feeling a sense of dread overwhelm you. The world around you begins to spin, and you think that sky above you is going to swallow you whole with how it expands so largely above you. Because it isn’t right, you internally think, to which it responds, eerily sounding like your own voice, “When was the last time you let yourself go like this?” You don’t know how to answer it. Your mind flashes back to your teammates, their smiles on that distant summer day years ago, daruma dolls in their hands as they laughed at you. But those were memories of forever ago, were they not? You feel like you're going insane, having such an intense internal monologue during this embarrassing moment.

 At your abrupt silence, Scaramouche frowns, attempting to gauge your expression through the cracks of your hands. When he decides he can’t see enough, he splits them apart, pulling them at either side of your face, and he notices that your eyes are wide, staring off somewhere far away. It reminded him of the photo of himself, the one he had disliked so much, and it leads him to think that whatever you were thinking of was enough to pull you out of the moment with him. With an annoyed sigh, he wraps his arms around you, lifting you towards him and embracing you, indulging into the warmth of your neck as he breathes in your scent. “You and I can create an eternity,” he says as he thinks about the red butterfly pin he had given you, “together. You can despise it all you want. I don’t care, as long as you’re with me.” He finds himself thinking about all those years he had spent, turning the world upside down in search of something that he had found so easily in the red in your hair.

 His words pull you out of your stupor, and your eyes blow even wider if possible when you gaze into the sparkling ocean of Liyue, the city lights reflecting off of it and meeting your eyes in glimmers. You felt something in you shatter, and for a second, you think that he’s stabbed you. There’s a feeling that echoes within you, and your heart swells when you remember where you are, away and out of the darkness of your own mind. Just like those times you’d cry, he’d hold you, and keep you where you were, with him, he’d ground you when you went too far in your mind. It comforted you, the more and more you thought about it. You feel your lower lip tremble, feeling warm in his embrace. 

 Something inside you was wrong, you knew that a couple weeks ago, if you had been in this position, you’d be fighting tooth and nail to get out, however, lately you’ve found comfort in it. Perhaps it was because you knew nobody else would hold you the way he did. Your mother was far away from you, constantly. Your father was dead. Your teammates were long gone, and you held nobody else close to you like this. Although, the lack of physical touch never bothered you initially from all your years of working as a Fatui, you felt that the recent events have unearthed so much of you. Too much of you , you think as you wrap your arms around him in return, and perhaps Scaramouche was the only one who could help you carry the burden of it all when you felt like you couldn’t anymore. He was right, nobody wanted you the way you were, the dreams you had wanted were so far from your reach especially with the decisions you’ve made that led up to this very moment.

  This was so terribly wrong, everything was so wrong , you think as a sad smile crawls onto your face. You gaze up at the moon, thinking that it was oddly beautiful tonight. Wistfully, bitterly, and with a sense of fondness, you think as you melt into his embrace.

  I’ve lost myself.

Chapter Text

 Scaramouche and yourself leave bright and early in the morning. Tartaglia meets you at the docks in Liyue Harbor, and you return the kamera to him along with some commemorative photos. Before you leave, with Scaramouche’s back turned towards the both of you, Tartaglia reminds you, leaning in to whisper, “Be careful around the shrimp,” he says, his blue eyes focused on the Balladeer’s back, observing as he steps foot onto the ship. When Scaramouche notices your lack of presence, he turns around to face Tartaglia with a glare, the quick jingling of the bells tied to his hat signaling that he was now facing you. You nod your head, take a few steps away from Tartaglia, and give him a bow of gratitude. Scaramouche raises an eyebrow at your actions before scoffing, boarding the ship without further ado when you trail behind him. The parting is bittersweet, and as you leave Liyue, you think about your short and memorable journey. 

 Despite the boats rapid motions, you keep your eyes trained on the orange haired male’s figure, slowly disappearing along with the docks. You think about his warning, thinking it was dumb of him to remind you. You of all people knew to be careful around Scaramouche, his entire being was made of danger and warning signs, but still, you knew better than to think that the twelfth harbinger was just repeating the same words. Perhaps he knew something you didn’t . Footsteps approach you from behind, stopping short just an arms length away from you, as if watching your actions. You don’t bother moving, knowing who it was, the faint jingling being a dead giveaway.

 Scaramouche speaks, sounding bitter when he speaks to you, “Perhaps I should also gouge your eyes out,” his tone is matter of fact, his indigo eyes focused on the distant city. You turn to face him, clearly annoyed by his reaction, your eyebrows furrowing downwards, and when you meet his gaze, you can’t help but reply.

 “For what,” you hiss, “saying goodbye to my friend?” You press away from the wooden rails of the ship, feeling the warmth of the sun grace you when it begins to peek through heavy clouds.

 Your fiancé seems unamused by your response, his eyes narrowing onto yours before retorting, his tone sarcastic, “Because saying ‘goodbye’ means your eyes are glued to his for eight minutes.”

 Scaramouche’s response causes you to give him a deadpan stare. Deciding not to speak any further, feeling an irritable sensation bubble in your stomach, you move away from him. You supposed everything was back to normal now, much to your chagrin. When the sun finally breaks through a row of clouds, lightening the ocean waters up with its brilliance, a gust of wind reminds you of your father, and you briefly wonder how he was faring. Perhaps the anemo archon had been carrying him far and wide, spreading his ashes in every corner of the world, or perhaps the anemo archon had finished all that and carried him home. You watch as the clouds above begin to shift away at a quick pace, a shiver running down your spine as you hear a distant roaring of thunder.  You think about what awaits you at home. Your work, your discarded dreams, the graves of your teammates, the bedroom you share with Scaramouche. Darker hued clouds shift inwards towards your line of sight, and your smile dims.

 Inazuma was getting closer.

 Upon arrival to Inazuma, Scaramouche and yourself are greeted by a flock of Fatui, bowing their heads down when Scaramouche steps off the ship, careful when he treads down the wooden ramp, your hand in his, much to your embarrassment. You clench your teeth, keeping your face concentrated on the scenery before you as you amble a step behind him. Scaramouche had no need to bring you with him like this, you thought as your cheeks threatened to light in a shade of crimson. The Fatui of Inazuma were already aware for a long time, and neither of you had truly shown much physical intimacy despite their knowledge. You supposed that this was some sort of habit he had formed in Liyue, though you can't help but think this was something he's always been wanting to do because of how tightly he grips onto your hand.

 "Now if it isn't the tiny rodent harbinger," an unfamiliar voice speaks up. You turn your head upwards, initially unsure of where the voice had originated from until your eyes land on a foreign, ladylike figure approaching the both of you with careful steps. Half her face was obscured by a black mask, a flimsy smile on her face when she comes face to face with Scaramouche. Her arms are crossed, and she stands tall in front of both of you. She was most certainly a beautiful woman, despite the clear disdain on her icy features. Her pale almost greyish blue eyes flick over to you, scanning you up and down before humming with curiosity at the sight of you holding hands with the Balladeer.

 You flinch, noticing her piercing gaze, and close your eyes, bowing your head, unable to bow properly to La Signora. "The rodent harbinger and..." La Signora slowly begins, ambling closer to you, watching with interest when Scaramouche places a foot in front of her path, a wide fake smile on his face as he scrutinizes her.

 "Careful now, old hag," Scaramouche says with a light tone, despite the clear malice that burns in his eyes when he meets her gaze, "I don't want my future wife to be near such a venomous creature like yourself."

 At his comment, La Signora bristles, disliking his insult. She gauges your expression, halting the rage that built in her nerves. She lets out a snicker before laughing as his statement was the funniest thing she's heard in months, her eyes flickering down towards the obvious discomfort in your body language. Her laugh was condescending, and you were forced to swallow your pride when you turned your head away ever so slightly, "Your future wife?" La Signora muses, admiring your expression before concluding, "She doesn't look too happy holding your hand. Are you sure she isn't your hostage?"

 Scaramouche lets out his own caustic laughter, his grip on your hand tightening, eliciting a pained noise to leave your throat, "Don't say such harsh words, La Signora," he chuckles, his voice dropping in octaves when he continues, his eyes bright as he takes a step forward, "she's merely seasick from our long voyage, and seeing filth stand before her doesn't help her composure in the slightest."

 La Signora scowls, her thin eyebrows narrowing as she glares at him. As she is about to snap, a Fatui member coughs from behind her, causing her to clear her throat as she tosses her blonde hair back, fixing it with a hand as she takes a deep breath in. When she exhales, she owns a different type of air, professionalism surrounding her as she focuses her gaze on Scaramouche. "Enough small talk," she begins, her tone cold as she moves to turn around, "come on now. I'll brief you along the way," her gait is perfect and ladylike, or so you think.

 You admire her as she walks away. She felt somewhat familiar, you think as you and Scaramouche begin to follow her. Her aura exhumed power, and you could tell her every motion, even her walk, was driven by an unsatiated rage, hidden under layers of beauty and finesse. It was a tragic sense of beauty she held, but one you admire deeply, especially since she had the gall to talk back to Scaramouche.

 The three of you arrive at headquarters, and much to your exhaustion, everyone is bustling, people travelling from your left and right to their destinations in a hurried fashion. Just watching them took energy out of you, and a part of you thought that perhaps you should just bail back to Liyue tonight. Scaramouche's hand holding yours tightens, reminding you exactly how far your fantasy was from even happening. Scaramouche sends you off to your shared room, which you gladly go to, finally sighing in relief when you find that you are by yourself. Upon entering the chambers, you hum, a happy smile flitting onto your face when you see your personal clothes folded neatly by the foot of Scaramouche's bed. You had missed your own clothes.

 You unpack quickly, making sure to be delicate with Kujou Sara's extra uniform and Tartaglia's expensive silk gift. You tuck them away in your drawer, inwardly arranging another day to meet with Kujou Sara, perhaps when you were free. And since you were there to return her uniform, then perhaps you should invite her to the wedding as well.

 You pause. Your blood freezes in your veins at your own thoughts, your hand firm on the drawer cabinet as you stare down at Sara's outfit. What had you just been thinking about, so casually mentioned as well. An anxiety builds within you when you notice for the umptieth time this week that something was wrong with you. Inviting Sara so casually to your wedding with your worst nightmare? You slam the drawer shut, pretending to throw your useless thoughts into it when you slam it. The ring handles on the dresser shake at the sudden impact, and you pull away, turning your head to face the vanity mirror. You pass the paper partition and your eyes gaze into the reflection of yourself in the mirror.

 Upon gauging yourself, you notice something. A strange absence of the strict, guarded look on your face. You looked more human , if anything, and when you pull your lips to a smile, it genuinely terrifies you just how well you manage to do it. A part of you was rejoicing, since it seemed that unearthing those feelings within you allowed more expression to shine through, however you knew that deep inside you, something was horribly wrong with all this. Although you could express yourself better, you knew that there was a downside somewhere , and when you took a deep breath, you hoped that the seedling of madness would speak again.

 With the many beats of silence you give yourself, you find that the growing madness within you is quiet.

 You scoff.

 Perhaps you were truly losing your mind.

 Scaramouche isn't surprised to see you walking around in your regular attire, a new set of daggers attached to your once, nearly empty thigh belt as you amble around the Fatui headquarters. He noticed that there was something odd with you, and it seemed he wasn't the only one to notice. Many other Fatui members were tossing you glances as well when you walked past them. There was a liveliness in you that burned into the sway of your hair, the gait of your walk, your everything. He raises an eyebrow, thinking that you seemed similar to La Signora in a way. You seem to pointedly ignore him when you walk by him,  your gaze affixed onto the hallway ahead of you as your pyro vision gleamed.

 He doesn't stop you when you walk past him, however he does turn around to watch you. Scaramouche hums, a smirk crawling onto his lips when he mutters to himself bemusedly, "She's back to work, as usual."

 And when your form disappears at the end of the hallway, he turns around, pressing a hand onto his kasa hat as he readjusts it. His expression turns stern when he walks towards his office. He supposed he should get back to work now, too, considering the several rumors of the Traveler's voyage to Inazuma was soon to begin. Besides, the marriage between the both of you was just around the corner. If he wanted to have fun, he'd have to get work done quickly.

 Settling in the night is easier than you think. You find yourself still timing your sleep schedule away from him until he sleeps now that you're back in Inazuma, although you begin to wonder if such a thing was still necessary considering the amount of time the two of you have spent together. You do it for precautionary purposes, you think as you look at the burn mark on your ring finger with stern eyes. You hoped to enjoy your freedom with whatever you could, until you were truly bound by words to stick with him. Scaramouche probably thought the same thing, considering he was surprisingly comfortable with you staying away from him all day today.

 You stretch, feeling the cold breeze on your arms as you retreat indoors from the training field. When you walk in, you see two familiar Fatui officers, staring at you with wide eyes before giving you a nervous smile. You toss a halfhearted smile back at them, the corners of your lips tilting upwards despite the lifeless look in your eyes when you see the familiar male figure who had ratted you out to Scaramouche before you had left for Liyue.

 Ah, yes, you think. This man would have been the sole purpose of your plan failing, had Tartaglia not given you the electro teleportation crystal. This man almost let your father die without seeing you. You hold an arm up and wave back at them, turning your body to completely face them and smiling wider when the two officers back away, seemingly afraid.

  This was interesting, you hummed, enjoying the feeling of power you held over them. As you walk towards them, your every step careful as you watch them like a hawk, you think to yourself that maybe-- just maybe, you had been hanging around with Scaramouche too much, seeing as you enjoyed this feeling. When you’re close enough, you start, “Hello,” you greet them, stopping dead in front of them with your hands behind your back, hiding the dagger you had snuck behind you as you turned to face them. 

 “Officer,” the male begins, and your eyes automatically flit over to him, anger dwelling within you, threatening to burst, “I um,” he pauses, laughing nervously, “how was your trip?”

 “Wonderful,” you reply with a honeyed tone. Yeah, you inwardly think as you smile, perhaps you’ve taken one too many pointers from Scaramouche. “How did missing your target feel?” You retort, thinking back to when he had fired an arrow when your back had been turned, missing along with his fellow bowmen. He looks flabbergasted at your response. You blink when he doesn’t respond, turning to the woman next to him, who immediately averts her eyes at your gaze. You sigh softly before moving to the right, patting his shoulder firmly a few times before giving the Fatui member one last look.

 “I don’t blame you,” you admit, thinking that he was just following orders. You would’ve told Scaramouche that you were running away, too, if you were in his position.

  But you weren’t.

 You were the runner.

  “And I don't mean to make this personal, but it doesn’t make me less angry,” you tighten your hold on his shoulder, causing him to stiffen. Feeling his motions, you look back at him, an innocent look on your face despite the hellfire that raged within your eyes, “Perhaps if you and I cross paths in an emptier area, you would be less lucky.” You let go of him, leaving him to think about your words as you pass him, brushing your shoulder against his purposely. You return the knife into its sheathe,  thinking that this was unnecessary of you to pull out such a thing.

 Or so you think.

 “Making such empty threats,” the male from behind you begins, causing you to halt in your steps, “to a fellow officer is against our code as Fatui,” his tone is certain, despite the fact that his body was shaking when you turned around to look at him. You feel hot, you think as your pyro vision glints. Your hand was threatening to pull the dagger out from its sheathe once more, the fires of rage licking at your very soul as you held every cell of your body back from attacking him. You should kill him for saying such words, you think as you remember the day you almost failed your plan by the shorelines, however, with your mind elsewhere, your body reacts. 

 You don’t move, no, but rather, a laugh erupts from your mouth. You don’t understand where it comes from, and if anything, your own actions confuse you. “It’s a promise,” you find yourself replying, your mind lagging behind as you struggle to understand the nature of your emotions. There was a distinct sense of insanity with the rage, you felt it deep inside your bones, and it’s reflected in your words when you continue, “Besides, I’ll be doing the Tsaritsa and Lord Scaramouche a favor, picking off the weak who can’t even hit a single target from that range.” You turn your head to glare at him watching as he turns to face you as well, the woman behind him staring at you in shock before responding. You note that your words and implications feel strangely borrowed, as if they weren't yours in the first place. You don't bother to think on it. You're too angry to do so.

 “He’s right,” the woman defends him, and you scowl in disgust.

 “ I’ll kill you too, then,” you reply in a dark voice, hatred building from within you at the sight of both of them. They both freeze completely at your crass response. You were stronger than them, you knew that much. You were known for your skill in combat, and it was something even Scaramouche had come to acknowledge. Before they can say anything more, you walk off before you actually snap, your hands balling into fists as you make your way to Scaramouche’s bedroom.

 When you enter the bedroom, fresh from your shower, you’re surprised to see Scaramouche awake, laying upright with his arms folded. The lights are on, despite his eyes being closed, a blanket pulled to cover his waist, his dark yukata covering the rest of his body. You don’t greet him when he opens his eyes, you merely avoid his gaze, feeling heated from your previous interaction with the two Fatui officers in the hallway. You make your way towards your side of the bed, tousling your damp hair with a flick of your wrist, forgetting how short your hair had fallen compared to your previous cut.

 You wonder if you should sit outside until he falls asleep, although clearly, he was waiting for you. You decide to sit down by your vanity mirror, feeling him eye you from your right side as you rearrange the table out of pure boredom, not wanting to lay yourself down right next to him just yet in your current state of emotions.

 “What’s happened now?” Scaramouche’s voice grates your ears, and the clear annoyance in his tone makes it less pleasant to hear.

 “Just talking to a few colleagues,” you reply halfheartedly, not entirely willing to tell him the details since the whole situation was solely out of your spite. You brush your hair with a tooth comb, being careful not to pull too roughly despite the rage that burns throughout your body, scorching within your veins, threatening to spill. You’re surprised when you hear an audible snap, and you pull the comb away for a moment to observe it. When you notice one of the combs teeth have snapped, you let out a small hum of discomfort. A sign of bad luck, you supposed from the many Inazuman superstitions you had known of. Perfect, you bitterly thought. Tartaglia had offered you to spar when you were in Liyue, and you felt like you needed that right now.

 Scaramouche notices your hesitation to speak, and he huffs, disgruntled by the aura you gave off as he sinks further into the bed, shifting downwards so that he could rest better. “Get in bed soon,” you hear him grumble as he moves to his side, facing away from you. You raise an eyebrow at him, turning your torso to get a better look at him, staring at the two odd light streaks in his hair upon noticing them. You hummed, thinking it reminded you of someone, but you couldn’t quite put your tongue on the face of the person in mind. When you bring your attention back to reality, you narrow your eyes at him, putting your toothed comb down onto the table.

 “Did you want to talk to me about something?” You query, confused. He must’ve stayed up and waited for you for a reason, considering it was late into the night. The nights were getting longer, due to the change in season soon approaching, however in just a few more hours, sun would break over the horizon.

 Scaramouche is quiet for a moment, and nothing in the room moves. You wait patiently for his answer, finding a calm in the stillness of the atmosphere. “The wedding ceremony will be held in private in a week,” he begins, and you freeze up. You hadn’t expected him to bring up the wedding at all. “We’ll be officiated by guuji, Yae Miko, since she has taken interest in our particular marriage,” there’s a hidden tone of resentment in Scaramouche’s tone, and you briefly wonder exactly what Yae Miko had done to him.

 You pause.

 “Yae… Miko?” You take a moment, your breath hitching when you realize who she is. “ The Yae Miko?” You inquire once again, surprised. She hardly partook in mundane ceremonies such as this.

 Scaramouche turns over to you, his gaze tired, yet pointed, “ Did I happen to stutter?” His tone reflects the sharpness of his gaze, and you can’t help but give him a deadpan face before sighing, moving your body off of the cushioned wooden seat and towards the bed.

 You seat yourself on your side, shifting your body so that you could still see him through your peripherals. “I’m just surprised is all,” you comment with a low voice, intrigue laying deep within your tone. He doesn’t bother to inquire, since it seems like there’s some information he would prefer to be withheld from you. You hum for a moment, deep in thought as you think about the several possibilities to happen only days from now. You knew you weren’t prepared for such a heavy, matrimonious thing, however you knew you had no choice. You promised yourself to him as of Liyue, for as long as your parents remained content with their own lives. “I see,” you finally surmise, your eyes blank as you lower yourself down onto your plush pillows, adjusting the pillow with your arms as you relax into the bed. 

 You look over to the table that held your several letters from your parents in its drawers, thinking with a downcast expression that those letters held more value to you now, seeing as your father had passed. Perhaps you would write to her tomorrow, and tell her you’ve arrived safely back in Inazuma, and that your marriage was happening sooner than expected. You inwardly pray she wouldn’t come to the ceremony. You were practically signing your life away to a man of destruction and chaos, something you weren’t all too keen on doing. You let out a soft sigh, turning your body away from Scaramouche’s own as you continued to dwell on thoughts of your parents.

 You wanted to rip your heart out, really. Knowing your father wouldn’t be there to witness you, knowing you wouldn’t be marrying the man of your dreams, knowing what life would befall you upon exchanging rings with Scaramouche… You thought you were numb to it all, the pain, the sensation of hurt, but lately, the gate to your hearts have been broken in. You remembered how you looked in the mirror earlier today, that odd sense of life that you had hidden so deeply within the crevices in your mind, appearing forefront now in your features. It was one of your dreams to get married to a good husband, someone who could take care of your family and to support you whenever you needed it. You didn’t mind, in all honesty, if you had become a housewife like your mother had wanted of you. You’d learn to be a perfect, wonderful housewife for someone who deserved it. You even fantasized about having a few children, teaching them to be fine people when they had grown up. Those dreams were precious to you. 

 Pain swelled from the bottom of your heart, rising when you shut your eyes forcefully, your hands clenched into fists as you push back the negative burst of emotions that welled within you. The pain reverberated loud enough throughout your mind and body that it made your want to cry, so you clung onto whatever thoughts gave you positivity at that moment. You thought about the day you had spent with Scaramouche and Tartaglia in Liyue, welcoming that day as a day where you saw other, positive aspects of Scaramouche.

 Perhaps everything wouldn’t be too bad, you pray as you pull the blanket over your shoulders, knowing the falsities that lay within your thoughts. You continue to hope anyway. There was no harm in hoping, especially when there was truly hardly anything left to believe in. Even so, you wanted to believe in yourself. You wanted to believe in the hopes and dreams your parents embedded within you, you wanted to see your days get brighter from here. You wanted to believe in what you had left, tired of lingering on the failures of beliefs you had earlier, before they had all been crushed and torn from their seams. You feel Scaramouche wrap his arms around you, moving closer to you as he pulls you back, flush against his chest. 

 His actions suddenly remind you of the events of a few nights ago, where he had held you so comfortingly under the night sky, promising an eternity with you. It would’ve been romantic, you thought, relaxing your body in his hold as a depraved part of you comes forward. In your mind, there’s a shattered mirror, and now, you were simply picking up the pieces and gluing them together with whatever you could find. Your right hand lifts to carefully press on Scaramouche’s own, your touch gentle. Once again, you found yourself being comforted by him.

 A quiet resentment towards yourself rages within you. You fought it until you fell asleep, wishing only for your own peace and happiness.

 In the morning, you make your way to visit Sara back at Tenryou Commission, laying in Inazuma City. Upon crossing her guards, they send you towards her, noting the small bag you had carried with you. You promptly thank them before entering through the gates of the residency, your eyes immediately landing on Sara’s form not too far from your left side. Sara had been talking to another soldier before laying eyes on you, and when she sees you, she immediately halts her conversation. She dismisses the fellow soldier as you near her, a small smile on your lips despite the irate expression on her face.

 You bow your head respectfully, “Good morning,” you greet her, your tone careful as you lift your head back up, “Kujou.”

 “Good morning,” she replies, her tone stern as her honey colored eyes remain focused on you, “a few days ago, I heard a fight had broken out by the docks a few days ago, with someone wearing a uniform exactly like mine.” The seriousness in her tone almost causes you to break sweat. Was she mad with you? You had hoped she hadn’t heard of anything like this, however you did recall seeing many of her troops around that area. “That couldn’t have been you, could it?” You back away from her slightly as she takes a step forward, feeling oddly nervous. You let out a soft laugh, which almost takes Sara aback, however she was much too focused on her mission to find out who had created such a disruption by the docks.

 You smile at her, and when she doesn’t seem to budge, you let out a sigh. “I’m sorry,” you apologize, bowing once more as you hold the bag in front of you, “I really needed it,” your voice is genuine, and even then, she doesn’t seem to be moved in the slightest.

 “You,” Sara begins before eying your bowing figure, looking around herself and noticing the many stares of her fellow soldiers. She clears her throat, causing you to straighten yourself back up, and you meet her gaze once more. “What were you thinking,” Sara sighs, leaning her weight to one side of her body and crossing her arms, her tengu mask gleaming when the sunlight hits it. 

 You clarify to her that your situation was very difficult to explain, however, she seems to be patient enough to hear you out. Feeling as though you could trust her, you mention that you and the Balladeer have been recently engaged, and that due to the business of work in Fatui, he didn’t want you to leave Inazuma just yet, despite your father being on his deathbed. Sara raises her eyebrow at the new information, eyes searching your own for any telltale sign of a lie. When she finds none, she hums, her interest piquing at your story. You mention your father’s passing in Liyue, and explain to her one last time how grateful you were towards her for allowing you to wear her spare uniform. Without it, you wouldn’t have escaped so easily.

 “I am truly sorry for your loss,” Sara bows her head, closing her eyes as she thought about her own family, “I hope you give yourself time to grieve properly.” 

 You smile softly at her, albeit your smile being a little downtrodden at the mention of your father. “I suppose I’m not doing that,” you laugh bitterly, feeling a burning sensation in your stomach as you admit to her, “I’m finding as many distractions as I can.” 

 She frowns at your response, and from just her look alone, you understand what she’s trying to say.

 “I understand,” you tentatively begin, as though you were grasping at your own logic, “there are better ways to go about this, however I…” You trail off for a moment, allowing yourself a second as you thought about your relationship with Sara. You had no more friends, you thought as you remembered your teammates' graveyards. You supposed that Sara would be the closest thing, other than Tartaglia, that you had as a friend. With this in mind, you continue, “I am going to be the Balladeer’s wife,” you say with a tone that sounds alien to you in how oddly you say the word ‘wife’, “in just a few more days. I have to look my best, or at least pretend like nothing is bothering me.”

 Sara’s black hair sways when she tilts your head at your resolve, her honey colored eyes finding their way down the side of your body and landing on the sight of your pyro vision. “I understand why you were given such a vision,” Sara muses, “considering how determined you are despite all your lows.”

 You want to laugh. At least somebody thought you were put together in these trying times. “I guess so,” you reply stiffly, an empty smile crawling onto your face as you gaze at her face, “but before this all goes off topic, I wanted to thank you and return these clothes to you. I’m sorry for any trouble I’ve brought to you,” you apologize once more before bowing yet again, emphasizing your apology.

 Sara is quiet for a moment, her gaze lingering on your bowing form before she lets out a small sigh. “I apologize too,” she begins as her eyes harden, “the Tenryou Commission is being put at blame for your actions. As such, I cannot allow you to leave these premises without a punishment,” her tone is stern, her eyes turning cold as you pick yourself back up from your position.

 Your lips turn downwards at their corners, your teeth clenching as you withhold a sigh. What had you expected? Of course you were to be punished for your actions, you had put Tenryou Commission’s high regard at risk. “I’ll take any punishment that befits my behavior,” you reply, closing your eyes to hide the negative emotions that swirled within them. With how you’ve been letting yourself go lately, you couldn’t have anyone as elite and amazing like Sara see you in such a pathetic state. Whatever was left of your pride wouldn’t let you, especially to someone as admirable as Sara.

 Sara pauses for a moment. “Stay like that,” her tone is cool and commanding, such was expected of her stature, “and be still.” You don’t understand what she’s getting at, but you respect her wishes, leaving your eyes closed as a feeling of dread overwhelms you. You felt a little traumatized, thinking that maybe she’d electrocute you in the same way Scaramouche had when you were misbehaving under his conduct. However, when you feel a hard flick at your forehead, you yelp in a small voice, surprised as you pull back and feel at your forehead with your free hand.

 Your eyes fly open as you stare at her from where you stand, eyes wide as you see a sense of nervousness in her own poise. Sara quickly clears her throat, crossing her arms once more before recomposing herself to look at you. “That’s all,” she infers with her lips pulled into a straight line.

 You balk at her. “That’s all?”   You repeat her words, unsure of what she meant. This couldn’t have been a deserving punishment for your actions, and even then, this was too lighthearted. Was this her attempt at a joke?

 “Yes,” Sara nods, her dark hair bobbing as her eyes peer into your own. You notice that there was an odd look in them, and you couldn’t help but continue to stare at her, dumbfounded. “This is a strange look on you, officer,” she comments at your awkward stance. When you don’t reply, she opts to tell you her reasoning behind such a weird choice of punishment, “That view was only witnessed by a few people, since it was by an emptier side of the docks. The blame being put on us is by the usual fishermen who always aim to fight the Tenryou Commission whenever they can. However, had there been a crowd, I might’ve exacted a harsher punishment on you. As it is now, it doesn’t even twist our arm.”

 Her reply doesn’t help your dumbfounded expression. This truly was Sara’s attempt at making a lighthearted joke, flicking your forehead as punishment. Although, you must admit, you were feeling rather giddy as opposed to confused. You had never thought of Sara as one to open up in such a way, or to open up to you a little in general, yet here the both of you stood. You let out a light laugh, all darkness that had begun to well at the pits of your stomach disappearing at her actions. You give her a genuine smile, your eyes narrowing at her actions as you hold the bag out towards her. Sara gladly takes it, the corner of her lips threatening to tilt upwards into a smile at your successful reaction.

 “I see,” you begin as you feel a thankfulness towards her surge within you, “thank you, then.”

 Sara hums, dismissing you and taking her leave with the bag in her hands, and as you walk away, you can’t help but think that maybe your future wasn’t all too bad. You were making improvements, expanding your horizons with friends, and the two you considered to be friends truly seemed to want to help you. With a stronger sense of determination, you head back towards the Fatui headquarters to prepare for the rest of the day.

 During those days, you were essentially forced to read up on what your duties were during the marriage ceremony. Upon writing an invitation letter to your mother and Sara, you almost forget about your marriage completely, enjoying the rest of your days as ‘free’ as you could possibly be. Although, you had to admit, many Fatui soldiers were eying you like a hawk, and with Scaramouche constantly trying to see you whenever he could, the awkward gazes on you have considerably worsened. More and more rumors were spreading around and about, like how you were only ‘using’ Scaramouche as a way to climb up in the Fatui ranks. You didn’t care about them in the slightest, considering they didn’t understand your situation like you did. They didn’t know Scaramouche was obsessive and insane to this extent of webbing them all into a lie that had caught you in the dead center. You couldn’t blame them.

 Night and days pass, and before you know it, the ceremony day arrives.

 You wake up particularly cold, Scaramouche being out of the bed sooner than you were, and when you remember why, you think about straight back to Liyue. Anxiety bloomed in your chest. It was really here. The day you’ve waited for your whole life, all with the wrong person. You were going to get married. Despite the anxiety in your chest, your headspace felt eerily calm, as if you had somewhat expected for this day to come.

 When you hear a knock at your door, you know it’s time to get up. You walk over towards your vanity table and reach for the butterfly pin, your thumb grazing over the rubies that created the red of the butterfly before kissing it. You wished yourself luck as you slid it into your hair, looking into the mirror.

 Today, you were going to sacrifice many aspects of yourself. All for a man who only knew how to ruin you. You think about the graveyard of emotions within your mind, and as you gaze down at the mark on your ring finger, you bury every emotion spilling out back into their spaces. With a deep breath, you turn around, just as another pair of knocks at your door arrive.

 It was time.

The sun rose later than usual that day, the night lingering over the world a little longer. Crows gather from afar, alarming one another. The wheel of fortune was turning.

Chapter Text

 The day is bright when it arrives, greeting the skies with bright sapphire hued blues as the sun beams down through light puffs of clouds. You stand still as women around you fix your attire, adding layers upon layers of clothes to wrap around your body. Momentarily, you admire the reflection of yourself in the mirror, thinking for just a moment that you felt a glimmer of happiness resound throughout your system. You looked gorgeous, your makeup having been a little lighter than you would have thought. Your lips were still pale, although they had been smoothed out by lip balm earlier. You had been waiting for your mother to arrive now, so she could paint your lips red with all her thoughts and blessings towards you. You supposed you’d take her wishes to the altar with you.

 You smooth out the braids that held pieces of your hair back, your hand brushing against your butterfly pin that you had begged them not to remove, as it was an item of severe importance to you. You wouldn’t remove that pin, not even for a special occasion such as today, as it had meant so much to you. You had prayed to it earlier, hoping that the deceased souls of your teammates and father would be watching over you as you signed your life away to the devil today, and with that you had felt a lot more reassured to meet him by the Narukami shrine.

 When the ladies around you are done with your shiromuku, you feel as though you were going to fall flat. The attire was so heavy, and so hot, not to mention how the cords wrapped around your stomach felt as though they were restricting your airway, however when you take one look in the mirror, you gasp. Was that you?   The reflection of a maiden, wrapped in white stared back at you, all brushed up and clean. When you move your body slightly, the reflection follows you, and you feel a sudden wave of serenity when you smile at your own image. This truly was your wedding day. It still felt all so unreal. You had imagined you would be feeling a lot different had your husband been someone you have loved for years, as opposed to someone you despised from the bottom of your heart. You pause, thinking about Scaramouche for a brief moment. 

  How did he feel, considering he had supposedly loved you all this time?

 Your thoughts come to an abrupt stop before you could explore them any more when the sliding screen behind you slams open, revealing your mother who had been looking out of breath. You swivel around immediately, your heart lighting up with joy as your smile widened into a grin. “Mom!” You exclaim, throwing your arms up in the air as you carefully and quickly waddle towards her, your garment restricting the comfort of your movement.

 “My dear!” Your mother replies back, giving you the same, excited and happy energy as she throws her arms around you. The women who set you up bow respectfully before exiting the room, allowing the both of you to talk in private. Many moments pass, and you cling onto your mother, afraid to let go of her, and you are relieved to find that she seems to be just as afraid of letting go as you. “I missed you so much,” your mother coos as she cradles you, your heart swelling with affection as tears threaten to rise to your eyes. You blink rapidly as you follow the sway of her motions, not wanting to ruin your intricate makeup as you press against her fragile body.

 “I’m so happy you could make it, mom,” you reply softly, pulling away as you allow her to look at your expression completely. Your mother seems to melt from the warmth you hold in your eyes, one of her hands reaching up to press lightly against the side of your face.

 “I could never miss my only daughter’s wedding,” your mother muses, tapping your face with one of her fingers, causing you to giggle from the familiar feeling, “I mean look at you! You are beautiful,” your mother pulls away completely, scanning your outfit up and down as she lets out a small gasp, absorbing every detail of your dress and features before gripping onto your shoulders and shaking you, “oh, well done, well done!”

 You’re surprised by the amount of strength her fragile body holds, and you can’t help but laugh when she begins to tear up at the sight of you, whimpering momentarily as she begins to talk about how she has always dreamed of this day to come. You can only give her a small sad smile, thinking about your father and how he would have loved to see you like this with your mother in tow. You had dreamed about this moment a little differently, with your father and mother embracing you, wishing you your best as they send you off to marry the man worthy of your love and care. Your mother notices your sad expression and pats your back as she pulls you into another hug. “Don’t be sad, my dear,” your mother’s tone is croaky when she starts, as if she herself is choking back tears, and a part of you wonders if the rest of her words are meant to apply to herself, too, “he’s with us. He’s always going to be with us,” your mother pulls away, her nose turning red as she smiles wearily up at you.

 You return her smile with a nod, thinking about how you had sent his ashes off into the winds.

 Your mother pulls out a little pouch from her side, one you had assumed to be carrying her small daily necessities. You almost scream in terror when she reveals a pile of ashes in the bag, “Mom! What on earth --what!?” You find yourself struggling to find the proper words as she smiles up at you, “Are you crazy?” Your voice was unintentionally louder, unable to hold back the shock in your tone as she let out a small laugh.

 “I didn’t know what else to do,” your mother sighs, tightening the pouch once more and pressing a hand to her face, a thoughtful look overcoming her, “I didn’t want your father to be left alone in the urn like that, so I took a little bit with me so that his soul could follow me and watch your wedding!”

 You balk, eying her innocent expression before clenching your teeth. So this was where you got your bits of insanity and naivety from. You could only laugh nervously, hoping that such a thing wasn’t hereditary.

 When your mother and yourself realize it’s time to head towards the altar, the ladies who had taken care of you earlier knock at the door, announcing from outside that in five minutes, the photographer will arrive to take photos of your mother and yourself outside.

 “Mom,” you begin, a tender smile on your face as you look at her, admiring every wrinkle on her face as you give her a small container of red lipstick and a brush, “if you would please do the honors,” you bow your head respectfully.

 Your mother stares at you, eying you up and down before allowing a small smile to play on her lips. You shut your eyes. She takes the container and brush from your hands, and when you raise yourself from your bowing position, she is careful. She dips the brush in the red and with all the affection and endearment she has held for you over the years, she begins to paint your lips. “I pray that the kitsune prance freely today,” mother’s voice is soft, and it sounds like starlights shining in the night sky, like twinkles from afar, “I believe in you, my daughter, to be strong, to carry onwards into this world as a renewed woman. My beloved red butterfly, carrying the hopes of everyone around you,” when she completes the application of lipstick, you reopen your eyes, a beautiful smile on your face as you meet her loving gaze, “I wish you a long life and an eternity of sunshine. May Narukami bless you.”

 You accept her blessings, feeling a wave of warmth spread throughout your body. An overwhelming feeling of gratitude floods within your veins, and when you tell her, “I love you,” you mean it with all your heart.

 Mother returns your loving gesture, replying back, “I love you too.”

 The shrine is quiet, having been only reserved for your wedding ceremony as you move up the stairs, cherry blossoms falling all around you and decorating the stony steps you walk onto as you press forwards. You take a moment as you’re walking up the stairs, admiring the view from high above the mountain as you climb. From this height, you could see all of Inazuma city and several other islands. You thought as you halted for a moment, stopping at a lamp post by a torii gate, that perhaps if you had held your hand out, it would seem as though you were holding the city in your hands. You smile at the silly thought, thinking that it would perhaps be disrespectful for someone like you to hold a sacred piece of the Raiden Shogun’s world in your bloodstained hands. You could never be divine, you think as you turn your head away, passing through the torii gates with a calm and collected façade taped onto your expression. You feel a familiar presence drawing closer with every step, and when you find a looming shadow ahead of you, the shadow long and cast by the sun as it passes over the form just in front of you, you halt your steps, turning your gaze upwards.

 Scaramouche stands, his posture firm as he gazes down at you from the thick of his eyelashes, his indigo eyes seeming bright despite the shadow cast onto his features from the sun being directly behind him. He looks something like a god, you think with amusement as you absorb him in all his glory, standing in front of the sun, creating an odd halo around his form. You admire his kuro montsuki, noticing the kamon of the mitsudomoe , looking oddly similar to the gold symbol he typically wore on his chest just at the sides of his chest. You meet his eyes once more, and you notice he’s drinking in your very being, burning your image into his brain as you slowly approach him. You don’t know what to say, you think as you approach him. When you’re an arms length away from him, he holds a hand out to you, his facial expression unmoving, cool and composed. 

 A grim reaper , you think once more as you reach a hand out to hold his own, almost flinching away as you are about to make contact with his hand. A grim reaper taking everything away from you, and as you place your hand in his, your eyes affixed onto his indigo eyes, you watch as a slow smile grows on his features. This was the point of no return, you thought as you closed your eyes, allowing him to pull you up towards him. If the torii gates symbolized the passing from the mundane to the divine realm, then perhaps you would be turning away from the warm embrace of life, and into the cold hands of death. When he pulls you next to him, embracing you tightly, as though he had finally achieved something at long last, you let out a deep breath. 

 Death and sacrifice shouldn’t feel so comforting like this, you think as you lean your head on his shoulder. Your fates were intertwined, locked together in a macabre dance, and today, you would seal the deal.

 At the top of the stairs lay await Yae Miko, her pink hair swaying in the gentle breeze that passes through as she smiles down at you and your soon to be husband. A couple meters away from her are the crew to escort the both of you towards the shrine entrance. The gold in her hair and earrings catch the sunlight, glinting off of the pieces as they shift along with the wind. Miko looks directly as Scaramouche, her eyes narrowing at the sight of him, her smile widening ever so slightly, “It’s been a while,” she begins with a wondrous tone, as though she were counting the years since they had last met.

 You raise your eyebrows at the familiarity, and when Scaramouche scoffs, his hold on your hand tightening as he walks forward a little further, the bangs on the sides of his face obscuring your vision from seeing him completely. “Yae Miko,” he pauses, humming in contempt when you both stop a few feet away from her, “don’t forget , you’re only here for one job.”

 “So guarded,” Miko sighs, waving a hand in dismissal as she presses her weight to one side of her body, her posture becoming lax. Her lilac colored eyes find your gaze, and a look of realization hits her when she looks at you. You freeze, feeling as though she was doing a lot more than just looking at you, you felt as though she was looking within you, rummaging through your mind by observing from the outside, through the mirror of your eyes. “And you must be the special bride,” she sounds thoroughly pleased, though you hear a hint of another emotion that lies underneath it that you don’t quite understand.

 You bow your head anyways out of respect, “It’s a great pleasure to finally meet you, Yae Miko,” you comment, returning to your regular position as you hold her gaze. 

 Miko beams at your reaction, “Such well manners, this one,” she begins before turning to face Scaramouche once more, who looks at her with a straight face, “how fortunate of you to have someone like herself.”

 “I believe that it’s the opposite,” he replies with a bitter tone, “she’s fortunate to have me.”

 You glance up at Yae Miko, looking towards her with a plain look as you allow a small smile to grace your features at his response. Miko laughs lightheartedly, “I suppose so, little Balladeer,” the endearment in his name was strange to you, and it caught you off guard. It led you to be almost suspicious of her since the familiarity was clear in her tone. 

 Scaramouche seems to be holding many things back, and it’s clear in his tone when he retorts, “I trust in your prowess as the chief priest that it’s fine to leave ourselves in your care today,” there’s a sense of anger that enriched his tone, and his glare on her seems to intensify when she smiles back, a knowing smile on her lips.

 “Of course,” Miko’s smile is amiable yet mysterious, her eyes calculative as she gauges the discomfort in his body language, “I am guuji of the Grand Narukami Shrine. I suppose we should catch up a little later,” her eyes shift towards you, her smile widening. You understood immediately from that one look that your presence wasn’t wanted for whatever conversation they would have in the future. You didn’t mind, all in all, despite your curiosity. You were still respectful, wanting to keep everything at a distance for as long as were safe and well. “We have something important to celebrate right now, do we not?” With that, Miko urges the both of you to tail behind her as she walks in front of the crew holding a large paper umbrella.

 You clench your teeth, ignoring the anxiety that was slowly building in your stomach as you look up, seeing the front of the shrine, two shrine maidens waiting by the entrance. You continue to press forward nonetheless, you wataboshi keeping most of your face hidden as you approach the shrine. The sound of flutes resound throughout the air, the melody peaceful when it hits your ears.

 Upon entry, you note the small crowd, noticing La Signora’s odd presence among the mix of Fatui members that you assume Scaramouche had invited for witness purposes, followed by Kujou Sara and your mother sitting next to each other in their own separate little row. You search for signs of Scaramouche’s mother, and when you don’t find her, you’re unsurprised. With knowledge of what he had told you, it was likely that you were never to see her at this rate. The shrine bells ring.

 You take a deep breath. You hear Scaramouche do the same from next to you.

 The ceremony was now commencing.

 The ceremony is quicker than you expect, or so you think. Perhaps it was how nervous you were, or perhaps it was the fact that you felt like you weren’t quite living in this moment just yet. You oddly felt as though you were watching yourself do it, and it isn’t until the sankon-no-gi phase of the procession that you realize just how real everything was. As a shrine maiden pours sake into your cup, you stare at it, looking at the strange reflection of yourself through it. Slowly, you take the three sips required until the cup is empty. Scaramouche watches you from the corner of his eyes, and you almost let out a sigh. It seemed that even at your own wedding, you couldn’t go without supervision under his watch.

 After the next few steps, you find yourself listening to Scaramouche as he reads out the scripted vows on the paper he had held out before the both of you. It feels meaningless, you think as you listen to him continue reading, as it was mostly untrue, a simple façade to glaze over the fact that you had been electrocuted by him several times before, and threatened many other times before that. A false play of love you put in front of your friends and family , you think as you look towards Sara and your mother with a smile.

 Your mother looked so proud of you.

 Your smile was stiff. Oh, how you wish she knew.

 With slight hesitancy, you place the tamagushi offering down at the foot of the altar along with Scaramouche, the two of you harmonizing your actions as you both bow twice, clapping together on the same beat. The two of you back away before facing each other. You want to look away, feeling awkward and embarrassed as he reaches for your left hand. You relax your hand in his, and when you feel the smooth metal slide onto your ring finger, you feel as though the world is going to end. Your eyes scrutinize the ring, admiring the silver band before noticing the purple engravings that surround a red butterfly at the center. Your heart throbs with rage, warmth flooding throughout your veins. You clench your teeth, feeling somewhat enraged at the sight. “ You have bad taste,” you whisper under your breath, just loud enough for Scaramouche to hear as he leans closer to listen to you, “ how cruel of you.” You laugh without humor. He dared to make your symbol, the dream he had burnt and picked apart, as a sign of his fucked up promise.

 Scaramouche’s light scoff brings your attention back towards him, his indigo eyes peering in through your own as he smirks, a storm brewing from within his eyes as he replies, “ And here I thought I was doing you a favor,” he replies in a whisper, “though what do I expect from someone usually ungrateful, such as yourself.” His words cause a flame to ignite in you, your resolve burning within your eyes as he leans closer. His lips are inches away from yours, his hand reaching for your face and cradling it as he pulls you closer. “Until death do us part, my wife,”   he chuckles. 

 You shut your eyes. Until death do us part, you internally think as you lean in to meet him halfway to a kiss, your soft, painted lips meeting his own. The kiss is poison, you think as the both of you remain like that for a few seconds, and when he pulls away, you notice a strange, new flame that ignites behind his eyes. You reach up, with your right hand, pressing at your lips as you felt heat rise to your face. He would be the death of you.

 Post marriage, there’s a small celebration, although you realize that Scaramouche and Yae Miko are off somewhere, talking outside the shrine. You immediately rush to greet your mother and Sara, pulling your mother into a tight embrace which she automatically returns with a sweet sounding laugh.

 Sara smiles at you, and as you pull away, you bow towards her, “Thank you for coming today,” you say with a warm smile.

 She nods in return, crossing her arms before responding, “Thank you for inviting me, although I must admit,” she pauses with a small sigh, “I must get going now. Unfortunately there are dire circumstances surrounding the Tenryou Commission as of right now,” you look at her in shock at her apologetic expression before scoffing.

 “It’s no problem,” you reply with a smile, “thank you for taking time out of your schedule for an event such as this.” 

 Sara shakes her head, backing away towards the doorway, “It’s of no problem,” she retorts, her honey colored irises focused on yours. 

 Your mother watches the interaction between the both of you oddly, and you notice her odd expression. “Sara, wait!” You yell her name as she’s about to leave, and when she flinches at the usage of her first name, she turns back to you, shocked. You’re just as surprised, a flush flooding your features as you turn your mother around to face her. You hoped she wouldn’t mind, using her first name so casually without permission like that, “This is my mother,” you introduce your mother, who waves at her with a kind smile, wrinkles protruding from her features as she lifts her cheeks with her smile. Sara looks confused for a moment, until you continue, “Mother, that’s Kujou Sara of Tenryou Commission,” your mother gasps at the familiarity of the name, “she’s my friend.”

 Sara pauses. She freezes completely in her spot, unable to move, her eyes wide at your words. You toss her a shy smile, “I hope to train with you one of these days,” you say with a soft voice. Sara feels pleasant emotion wash over her as she returns you a smile, albeit a little awkward, she was definitely trying. 

 “Yeah, we can set that up,” Sara smiles before waving at you and your mother, “it was nice to meet you,” she points her gaze towards your mother, bowing slightly. Your mother returns the gesture, and with that, she turns to leave.

 When Sara disappears from your line of sight, your mother hums in an amused tone. “Kujou Sara,” she begins, her tone flooded with curiosity, “the leader of many Tenryou Commission forces,” there’s a sense of mysteriousness in your mother’s tone, and when she looks up at you, her eyes wide, you feel your blood freeze in your veins, “How is that you’re friends with someone like herself, my dear?” 

 You pretend as though you aren’t afraid of her perceptive eyes, “I have many connections mother,” you laugh light heartedly as she swivels her body to face you completely.

 “Just like that lady over there,” your mother looks towards La Signora, her eyes narrowed, “she looks rather important. Do you know her too?”

 Your reply is short, perhaps too short for your liking, although you remembered that you must keep your profession and relations as obscure as possible when it came to talking with your family, “She’s Kunikuzushi’s friend,” your voice is stern, and your mother doesn’t dare to pry any further. You hide the fear that grows in your stomach when your mother smiles at your expression. You could only hope that she wasn’t as smart as you made her to be in your head.

 Scaramouche joins you shortly after that, and everyone makes their rounds in congratulating you. Surprisingly enough, even La Signora finds herself congratulating the both of you, although you can tell there were undertones of spite when she speaks. Scaramouche replies with the same amount of venom, and you supposed this was normal for the both of them. You leave the two of them, excusing yourself so that you may get some fresh air, your shiromuku heating you up with how cramped the shrine space was.

 The cawing of several crows outside brings your attention to the view of the sun, slowly lowering itself closer and closer to the horizon as people around you eat post festivity. Cherry blossoms fell from the sacred tree, illuminating the area in flurries of deep pinks as the sky began to change into a duller blue color. You are almost far too enamored in the view to hear Yae Miko approaching from your left side, her heeled shoes clacking against the wooden floorboards. “Like I thought,” Miko sighs as she closes her eyes, listening to the crows caw from the distance as she presses a hand to her chin, “even my cleansing ritual cannot change the course of fate.”

 Upon hearing her words, you turn to face her, a quizzical expression on your face as you look at her. Miko opens her eyes, feeling your stare, her ears slightly twitching as she tosses you a small, apologetic smile, “Be careful around that puppet, ” she laughs when you give her a flabbergasted look. Puppet?   You hum in confusion as you think about it a little longer, and when you implore her with a single look, she shakes her head, refusing to reply.

 “Nothing,” she hums as she begins to walk away from you, noticing the figure standing not too far behind you as she ambles towards the back of the shrine, “I was simply speaking to myself.”

  “Damned vixen,” a familiar voice from behind you hisses, and you stiffen as you feel him approach you from behind. You clench your hands into fists, disliking the feeling of metal on your ring finger as you twist it with your right hand. That’s right, you thought as you look up at the cherry blossoms falling from the sky, feeling Scaramouche to your left as you gaze upwards, this was it now. You were officially bound by a contract, bound by words and witnessed by the gods, your marriage to this hellish male. “Did she say anything to you?” Scaramouche’s tone is tight, and sharp, as though he were afraid you’d find out about something you weren’t supposed to.

 “No,” you don’t think you’re completely lying to him. She did say something, but you had no clue what it had even meant in the first place. When he wraps his arm around your waist, you say nothing. You make no noise, you let him do it. You admire the pieces of the sky you see through the thick cherry blossom bushes. You briefly remember the kiss you shared at the altar, and suddenly stiffen in his hold.

 You shift to move away from him, feeling embarrassed at the thought, although he doesn’t allow you to stray much further. Frustrated you huff, blowing away small strands of hair from your face as you do so. Scaramouche hums next to you, his indigo irises staring into the deep blue of the sky, following your gaze. “You won’t be able to run from me anymore,” his voice sounds distant when he speaks, and you almost tremble when you register his words, “everywhere you go, I’ll find you with ease.” There’s a lingering darkness in his tone, his voice lowering a few octaves at his last few words.

 Your lips pull into a scowl, your heart growing cold at his words as you listen to the crows cawing from afar once more, “I know.”

 When the ceremony finishes, you bid everyone farewell, telling your mother with a hug that you’ll see her again one of these days, now that she is back in Inazuma. You had avoided her constantly for years, purposely avoiding the areas of your secluded home in Inazuma. Your childhood home was settled behind a grove of trees within Chinju forest. It wasn’t hard to bypass that area, considering most of your work was in the outskirts of Inazuma city, eliminating beasts and clearing pathways for shipment to come through. Now that you had a better excuse to see her, with Scaramouche in tow, there would be a higher chance of you seeing her again.

 You switch out of your shiromuku, changing into your regular clothes post shower after your arrival to the room that had been rented out for the makeup artists and yourself to use. Returning to the Fatui base was relatively tiring. Scaramouche had beat you to your room, you supposed as you entered with the lights on. You let out a soft sigh, feeling exhausted with the previous events that occurred throughout the day, not noticing Scaramouche’s strange expression when he looks at you as you amble forwards. 

 “You couldn’t have forgotten, could you?” His voice is accusing, almost bordering amused when he stares at you in his yukata, a devilish smirk on his face as he eyes you. Far too tired to play along with him, you merely set your hair pin down on the vanity table, adjusting your yukata as you finally sit on the bed. Scaramouche raises an eyebrow at your derelict expression when you lay down next to him, and he continues to stare at you even as you make yourself comfortable. 

 “What is it,” you manage to grumble as you pull the blanket up over your chest, your eyes meeting his own. He doesn’t respond, he only continues to stare at you, amusement clear in his eyes when you begin to realize the implications of his words. “W-Wait,” you begin, backing away from his form as you feel your heart drop, “didn’t I already give you a kiss?”

 “Have you always been this forgetful?” Scaramouche sighs, grabbing your arm before you can completely pull away and forcing you to stay in place. His bangs sway with every motion, his lips curving into a smile as he notices the anxiety that shows on your face, “I said I’d want more, didn’t I?”

 You purse your lips together, staring up at him as he shifts to move above you, his eyes never leaving yours. He lets out a low chuckle, his eyes narrowing as you attempt to flinch away from his touch when he puts his hand on your left arm’s wrist. Scaramouche raises your arm up slowly, and you feel heat swell within you. You clench your teeth when he kisses the ring on your finger. “Do we… have to?” Your voice is smaller than you’d wish it to be. You wanted to sound stronger, much more firm in your response, but the abruptness of the situation had your mind running in circles.

 Scaramouche scoffs, a small ‘ha’ leaving his mouth as an unsatiated emotion builds in the dark of his eyes, looking somewhat akin to the fire that you had seen light up during your kiss with him. “We’re consummating our marriage,” he smoothly retorts, “unless,” his tone darkens, a storm raging within his eyes as he continues, “you were waiting to do such a thing with someone else?”

 You gawk at him, confused. His jealousy was unreasonable, you thought you let out a shaky breath, attempting to be calm as you remind yourself of the emotions you had buried earlier today, threatening to rise back up due to the gravity of the situation. You turn your head away from him, momentarily staring at the butterfly pin laying on your vanity table, thinking about how the red of that pin now rested on your very finger as well. You do what you can do to stabilize your heart rate, despite the quickening pace as he continues to observe your expression from above you. Your lower lip trembles when you speak, “..Fine,” you submit to him, swallowing what was left of your pride down your throat, thinking about the price of your dreams and what it has all led to. 

 When he cradles your face with a hand, moving your face to kiss you, you shut your eyes, feeling a mixture of hatred and embarrassment burning within you, lighting your heart ablaze when his lips move against yours. The kiss is surprisingly tender, his motions slow, as though he were trying to make every single second count, and at that notion, you feel as though something is wrong within you once again. In your mind's eye, you see something beautiful growing. In the graveyard of your mind, filled with your buried feelings, there’s a feeling that blooms in the desolate space, taking the form of a red camellia flower. 

 You gauge that feeling for a moment, the emotion it gives birth to thrumming throughout your veins, sending alarms racing within your system. Your ears ring with the sound of your heart hammering at your chest, and when Scaramouche reaches for your waist using the hand that he has used to cradle your face, pulling away for just a moment before kissing you again, you find yourself kissing back. You deepen the kiss, his right hand, grabbing onto your wrist and pressing you down at your action. The hatred you feel in your heart melds with something foreign, and the feeling sends shivers down your spine. You wished for the moment to be over, yet you wish for it to last forever.

 Your heart pounds as you lift your free arm up, delicately wrapping your arm around Scaramouche’s neck, pulling him closer, and you feel him smile onto your lips. He pulls away abruptly,  observing your glazed over expression as his hand travels along your sides, his breath warm on your face as he lets out a chuckle. Your face is flushed, your breathing uneven with how desperately you try to grasp at air, and you glare at him. There’s a fire burning in his eyes that seems to only grow when his wandering hand settles by your upper thigh. 

 The flower that blooms in your mind’s graveyard feels desecrating. You should pluck it out, you think as you feel his tongue lick at your bottom lip. You should tear it out where it is right now, because it wasn’t right. You knew it, this was one of your worst ideas yet. Yet you yearned to be held like this, yearned to be caressed, yearned to be cared for. You think about the makeshift graveyards just outside of the room, you think about your dead teammates, your father, your dreams, but every thought dies in your throat when you open your mouth, feeling him grab at your body needily as he coerces your tongue to dance with his own. 

 The flower should die, you think as you feel heat rise within you, and you feel yourself into the kiss, tangling your hand into his hair, pressing him closer to you, his chest crashing onto yours as he traps you beneath him. But the feeling was so beautiful, the flower was so pretty in such a desolate space. For once in the past six years as a Fatui, you feel like you were just an ordinary woman, newly wed now, the weight of the metal heavy on your ring finger. 

 Scaramouche pulls away, a sickening grin raising onto his lips at the emotion in your eyes. It was something he had desperately searched for, something he had longed for years on end. “It seems like you’ve come to your senses,” he muses as he lowers himself beside your neck, pressing a kiss just beneath your jawline and your breath hitches, your body lighting on fire from just that one notion.

 You want to laugh. Come to your senses? You felt like a mess. You were a mess.  

 “Just get this over with,” your voice sounds distant and fragile, and it tastes suspiciously like a lie on your lips. You’re in denial, you think as you think of the red camellia flower, decorating the graveyard of your mind. You should pluck it out, rip it from its roots, but in truth, you want to be selfish for once. You want to indulge in this beautiful feeling, no matter how rotten you feel. You were finally just human in his arms, and you bitterly enjoyed it. His teeth graze the conjunction between your neck and shoulder, and he bites into your skin. It was just another reminder that you belonged to him.

 And during the night, when you scrape your nails down his back, his lower lip red and bleeding from the bite you return to him, you remind Scaramouche who he belonged to, too.

 His face is red, grin on his face when he stares down at you when you’re both done. You manage a weak glare as you reclaim your breath. “ This is a good look on you,” he muses, looking at the several of marks he had left, adorning your neck and collarbones. He presses a hand just above your breast, feeling at your heartbeat.

 “Shut up,” you mumble, annoyed as you remove his hand from your chest, and when he intertwines them, you don’t speak. You simply look away, glaring at the wall to your left as you clench your teeth. It was exhausting and disgusting , this selfish, hateful love.

Chapter Text

 As weeks pass, you find yourself unable to forget how Scaramouche held you, unable to forget the fingertips that graze at your skin, lighting fires in their wake as he feels at you. Sleeping next to him is somewhat of a discomfort, and you find that some nights, the both of you are restless, despite the exhaustion of the constant work the two of you were forced to hull around. As autumn weaves itself into the atmosphere, you plan for days to train with Sara. She would practice her archery, while you would practice your throwing aim next to her, until it becomes some sort of routine.

 Your mind is oddly comfortable with the pacing the world has set for you, as it seems that Scaramouche had given up on hurting you ever since your marriage. Then again, you have been a bit more obedient, heeding his orders as per usual, and fighting him less. Sometimes, he’d even join you when you went outside at night as opposed to sleeping, and the both of you would just sit in the comfort of stillness, watching the sky shift as the world rotated. Just like the night you had in Liyue with him. It was as though the both of you truly wished to stay in that moment in Liyue eternally, constantly replaying the same scene over and over again whenever you were both available. You would bathe under the light of the sky with your husband.

 It was a strange turn out of events, although you had to admit, a part of you didn’t mind it.

  Another part of you resented yourself. The mounds outside your room lay in the cold, damp darkness as a reminder of past events. The scar on your ring finger still burns, and the pyro vision on your side doesn’t seem to gleam as brightly. The warnings your father, Tartaglia, and Miko had given you fade into the crevices of your mind, buried deep as you let the ghosts of your feelings roam freely.

 You choose to ignore all those sentiments. You were finally content for once. Your inner voice was right, you had no real reason to not let yourself feel happiness. 

 The days you see your mother, occasionally bringing Scaramouche with you, she is happy. Your father’s urn sits atop an altar, incense always burning, offerings always fresh. You suppose he was happy, too. You were all happy. Nothing was wrong with that.

  Yet a feeling inside you burned, the resolve you had tried over and over to bury in hopes that it would just die and rot away like the rest of yourself was still very much alive. It seemed that no matter how small the flame, it would never let itself become extinguished, despite your desperate attempts to put it out. You knew you had become terribly wrong, so fucked up to the point where you had allowed yourself to simply be as opposed to fighting back. The logical part of you understood that it was a mistake to let the camellia flower in your mind bloom. It was a mistake to not pluck it out from its roots the moment you had seen it. It was a mistake to let the heat of the moment get the best of you, and like dominos, one after the other, you found that your resolve had become weakened.

 And instead of fixing that, you simply smile and watch yourself fall through.

 It was another conscious mistake you willingly made.

 A few months pass after your wedding, and everything seems to be going flawlessly. Despite this, you pass by the post office every morning after training with Kujou Sara, and you look for any mail sent to you before Scaramouche picks up on it. You felt that in the cold, frigid winter air, something was bound to go wrong, especially how right everything had been feeling for the past couple of months. Your original instinct was still somewhat intact, due to its constant use on the battlefield, and for a long while now, you’ve been feeling an ominous feeling at your back. You had chosen to ignore it previously, however, when you return back to headquarters one day, your hands freezing, nearly blistering from the icy air outside, you find that there had finally been a letter to arrive addressed to you.

 Your heart halts, and you feel as though reality is crashing down on you all at once again. You frown, dread building within you as you notice that it’s a letter from Ekaterina, with the letter ‘T’ being capitalized. 

 Before you know it, you find yourself in your bedroom once again. Scaramouche was long gone, off to forgo ongoing duties as the sixth harbinger, leaving you to an empty room. You attempt to refrain from panicking, feeling your heartbeat quicken when you slam the door behind you as you enter the room, immediately pressing your back to it as you eye the letter in front of you with wide eyes. You kept staring at Ekaterina’s name in hopes that maybe it would change if you stared at it long enough. You knew a letter from Tartaglia under these circumstances only meant one thing, they had either caught the perpetrator or had a name in check. You were tearing yourself up from the inside, your breath uneven as you realize the weight of your actions.

 If you had opened the letter, you would know who it was. You could kill them, bring peace to yourself. Or maybe, you could move on, pretend that nothing has happened, continue to live blind and idly in the warm light of a false sunshine. Even if you found out what had happened to your father, would it change a thing? It wasn’t like he would come back to life and thank you. Nothing would change.

  Nothing would change.

 Your father’s face flashes before your eyes, and you feel your heart ache as you remember his words: “I love you with all my heart, and I will always be proud of you and here for you.”  

 The memory of his voice rattles you, and you immediately shake your head, feeling the resolve you had tried to keep hidden under your consciousness of your mind slowly rising to the top once more as you slide a dagger out from your thigh belt. You walk towards your vanity table, seating yourself on the cushioned chair as your hands threaten to shake with anticipation. You tear the letter open with your knife, breaking the golden seal they had used to stamp it down. You clench your teeth and open the letter, fingertips feeling cold as you press on the paper, unfolding it with your index fingers as you brace yourself to read the contents on the page.

  Hello comrade,

 Among my endeavors in search of your father’s killer, I have received a report about two of my Fatui soldiers. Upon further inspection, I have found out that the two soldiers I had ordered to deliver your father’s medicine were killed several months ago. They were killed in secret, and their bodies were found by Yaoguang Shoal recently, decayed and with little to no identification left on their body to tell who they were.

 The two replacement soldiers that have been delivering in their stead were working under my nose without my knowledge, and when I had given them heavy punishment, they confessed to swapping out the drugs assigned to your father with regular, tasteless pills. The Fatui members in question are not from here, either. Their names are affiliated with the Inazuman Fatui branch.

 You blink.

 Then you blink again.

 What?

 Your mind begins to race at the new understanding. The Inazuman Fatui branch? So to say, where you had worked? In the back of your mind, you see a haze of blacks, purples and golds with hints of red.

 Your heart falls from its place at the vision, and you shake your head. You blood freezes as you continue to read, however your hands were shaking so much to the point where you could hardly read the ink properly. You drop the page onto the table, holding yourself, pressing your cold hands on your shoulders as you scrunch them with discomfort. You feel your stomach ache, anxiety from within swelling over you, flooding every inch of your veins as you start to shake. You urge yourself to continue, the sour feeling in the pits of your stomach making your own saliva taste like poison. The scar on your ring finger burned, and you desperately tried to ignore it as you will yourself to keep reading.

  Comrade, I will be clear in my intentions and state that I believe it is the Balladeer who orchestrated this entire fiasco. Their names are registered under Scaramouche’s affiliation.

 You can’t breathe. There’s air stuck in your throat, and you could only find the strength to stare at the page. Your body felt like ice, despite the rapid beating of your heart. You could only focus on the one name written on the paper, Scaramouche.

 There’s a click behind you, signaling the door to your room has opened.

 You don’t care for it. You stare at the name.

 Scaramouche.

 Scaramouche.

 Please remember, number twenty-eight. Be careful around him, and don’t do anything stupid alone. Talk to me, I'll help you through it.

 “There you are,” there’s a growl in the voice that comes from behind you, seemingly frustrated with you as you sit still, unmoving, your eyes glued to the paper as you continue to hold your breath, “I’ve been looking for you.” 

 Your eyes are wide. You look at the abandoned knife resting on the vanity table, and then you meet his gaze in the reflection of the mirror. You apologize to Tartaglia internally.

 Scaramouche ignores your mortified expression, chalking it up as shock, possibly from waking you up from a nap, “Are you listening to me? The Traveler is here.”

 You snap.

 In one swift motion, you swivel around, your right hand raised as you expertly grab the knife from the table, rolling your wrist so that the sharp edge was turned to face the forward direction you had propelled yourself towards. Scaramouche’s eyes are wide, although he makes no movements to protect himself from your sudden lunge. He allows you to push him back with your arm at his throat, falling over top of him when he trips and falls backwards, landing on his bottom. The impact causes his kasa hat to roll off to the side, and he thinks to reach it before he notices the rage in your eyes. He remains impassive, his eyes darkening at your actions as you hold your knife by his throat, just above your arm.

 There’s a crazed look in your eyes, a swirl of negative emotion within them as you let out small gasps of breath, as though you were attempting to catch whatever air had left your body from this exchange. Your body is cold, and you feel a ball forming at your throat as you glare down at him, feeling pain swell within your chest.

 “What,” Scaramouche begins, his expression darkening as he observes the storm that brews behind your eyes, “do you think you’re doing?” His tone is perilous, and you would have scoffed, had you not been engorged in the hellfire of your mind. You feel tears forming in your eyes, heat rising to your face as your grip on the knife falters, and with clenched teeth, you force yourself to reply.

 “Kunikuzushi,” your voice is small, sounding fragile, reflecting your mental state. You had been using his real name more often when it was just the two of you, out of familiarity. A desperate attempt to find comfort in the man who you knew would only manipulate you in the end. You feel hot liquid race down your eyes, landing in droplets on his chest as you glare down at him weakly, your lower lip trembling as you continue, “You killed my father.” Your tone is not questioning, you say it as if it were a matter of fact. When he doesn’t reply, silence overcomes the space between you as a fire within you burns, threatening to swallow you whole as you let your tears spill from your eyes. Only then do you know that it was indeed true.

 Scaramouche’s eyes are dark, filled with a mixture of rage and another emotion that you couldn’t quite put your finger to. “That bastard Tartaglia,” there’s a thrum of electricity in the air, causing the hairs on your arm to stand at their ends, “I should’ve killed him when I had the chance!” His voice heightens as he pushes you off of him, and you fall, the grip on your knife loosening as you fall back from the sudden strength he gains. “So what,” Scaramouche’s reply was acrid to hear. You stare at him with wide eyes, disbelief flooding you, although deep inside you, you already knew something like this would happen. 

 Happiness was too much to ask for in your life, you understood that at a young age when you watched your father get spit on by his coworkers for marrying to a lowly wife. You understood that better when you joined the Fatui, knowing your parents were unable to rest well without the surplus of money you’d receive from killing people, from slaughtering beasts, from risking your life. You understood that when Scaramouche threw your prized butterfly pin into the abyss during your visit to the butterfly shrine, and it finally cemented when you realize that every single little thing he had been doing for the past six years had been with catching you in mind. A red butterfly, caught in the center of a spider’s web.

  “Why…” Your voice is soft, your body trembling as you keep your gaze on him, your eyes wide as you feel the onslaught of his betrayal weigh completely on you, “you knew how important my family was to me from the start. You knew they were all I had left. You knew I was working all my life for their happiness, killing for their happiness, bathing in the blood of innocent children for their happiness…” Your voice breaks off, as an overwhelming sadness floods you.

 “How could you do that to me,” you whisper, looking down at the floor for a moment before ripping your gaze back upwards, finding his indigo colored irises, “you tell me you love me, yet  you hurt me, you take everything from me-- how could you!?” You scream in a louder voice, sobs escaping your throat as a mixture of feelings fall on you. It felt like your world had turned upside down. 

 Scaramouche stares at you as though you were the stupidest person to exist on earth. “Isn’t it obvious?” He scoffs, a deranged smile growing on his face as he begins to laugh, a hand reaching up to his face, grasping at his head as he tilts his head back, “I thought I made it so clear for your stupid little brain!” He replies sardonically, his pupils akin to slits when he yells at you, moving to sit in a more comfortable position, “You wouldn’t love me!”

 Ah.

 That’s right. The image of him under the deep blue night sky in Liyue shatters.

 This is who he really was. An overgrown child, a ruthless manipulator, and shitty human being. 

 Your mind shatters. Pieces break into shards, and shards fall away into dust. The months of hard work of regaining your mental state, the struggles you constantly went through to avoid any further painful circumstances. The months of you agreeing to every single little thing he wanted you to do, the days you let him take you in bed despite your exhaustion. Everything was useless in the end. It was all for naught, all worthless . “For such a stupid childish reason,” you begin, your tears never ending as you tighten the grip on your knife once more as he continues to speak.

 “You wouldn’t love me, so I did what I could do, and I kept my promise to make you love me,” his eyes are wide, a clear insanity within them as a grin splits his face in half, “and it worked, didn’t it, darling?”

 His words make you want to vomit. There’s a sharp pain in your stomach, and it makes you want to die.

  “You love me now, don’t you?”

 In your mind, you hold the shards of whatever is left in your mind. You stare into them, looking at the reflections of yourself. Your stomach drops, and a thousand voices speak to you all at once, and you sit there, trembling as you gaze up at Scaramouche, registering the laughter that erupts from his mouth at your reaction. You think of the red butterfly on the night of the butterfly festival, the one that had landed on your hand, the one that Scaramouche had trapped in front of you and burnt into ashes with this electricity. You think about the original butterfly pin you had, the one your parents had given you as a childhood memento, the one he had discarded into the abyss. You remember the first time someone other than your parents tells you they love you, and you remember the horrific feeling of being choked nearly to death when they wring their hands around your neck for not returning the feeling. You think about your friendships, and then the sorrow and anger you felt from your father passing.

 You remember your first night with Scaramouche during the day of your marriage, the red camellia that blooms in the desecrated graveyard of your mind. You should have torn it out. You should have torn it out. You stare at your hands, letting go of the knife, feeling a wildfire explode within you as you let out a breath. Your hands fly to your face as all the directions meld into one, your eyes wide when you peek through the cracks of your fingers, your nails digging deep into your head, clawing at the skin of your forehead.

 And then you look at the man before you through your hazy vision, still smiling at you, his indigo irises glowing with madness. The ring on your left hand burns you, and the scar aches.

 The world around you stops and breaks into a million pieces.

 A shrill scream tears from your throat as your pyro vision sputters with flames, heating up your side as you throw your head back, your eyes facing the ceiling as you scream, dragging your nails down your face, uncaring of the pain that shoots through your system at your actions. You feel the flames of your vision spread throughout your body like a wildfire, and it felt as though you were melting. Scaramouche’s grin disappears when he notices your pyro vision sputtering flames, your hands exploding with fire, burning the sides of your face as they fall from your face, your eyes wide as tears fall like waterfalls from them.

 Your body feels as if it’s melting from the inside, and when you see a haze of purple and white  above you, you find yourself unable to move to dodge the oncoming attack. When the bolt of electricity strikes directly through you, everything fades into black.

 La Signora was attracted to the infirmary room due to all the sudden rush of commotion despite the rush of work, and she’s not surprised to find Scaramouche standing outside of the room, a grim look on his face as she approaches him.

 “Ugh,” Scaramouche scowls at the sight of La Signora, “you again? Listen,” he sighs, annoyance flooding his tone, “I don’t have time to deal with you right now.” There’s an anger evident in his eyes when he gazes at her, and she returns the gaze with a firm glare. 

 “I’m not here for you,” La Signora hisses under her breath as she approaches the infirmary room, making way for a nurse when they rush out of the room. “I’m wondering what’s happening in there. ”

 Scaramouche narrows his eyes at the blonde haired female, his teeth clenching as he retorts, "That's still none of your goddamn business, now is it?”

 At his response, La Signora raises an eyebrow, her interest piquing further as she smirks, and when she moves to enter the doorway, Scaramouche blocks her from entering. He glares up at her, a wave of electricity buzzing throughout the room, causing the lights to flicker and malfunction abruptly. “Is everyone around me fucking deaf?” Scaramouche hisses, his eyes darkening with rage at her actions, “I’ll repeat myself one more time. What’s happening in there is none of your fucking business.”

 La Signora is unfazed by his insult, her gaze rising beyond him, staring at your figure, wrapped in bandages as dendro and hydro healers worked on your body. Her eyes narrow, turning her gaze downwards, returning Scaramouche’s glare. La Signora snickers, a half smile crawling onto her face, “What did you do to your poor wife that has you feeling this guilty to stand in front of her door like this.”

 When Scaramouche doesn’t respond, La Signora takes the initiative to ask the next nurse that leaves the room in a hurry, halting them as she crosses her arms, “Stop,” her voice is stern, and it causes the nurse to stop. The nurse turns around to face her. Ignoring Scaramouche’s disconcerted expression, she continues, “What’s happened to her?”

 The nurse chokes for a moment, looking back and forth between the two harbingers nervously, shifting back and forth in their spot before replying, “Her pyro vision began to eat her up from the inside,” the nurse begins tentatively before stuttering, “a-and to be honest, we don’t know if she’s going to make it--!”

 “What!?” Scaramouche slams his fist against the wall, rage exuding from his body as he glares at the nurse.

 La Signora hums, her eyes flitting over to your sad form, lying lifelessly on the table. The thought of being eaten up by flames reminded her a lot about herself from years ago, and it almost pained her to think about it again. She was thankful for her cryo delusion, as it was enough to sustain her current form. The Tsaritsa was generous in giving La Signora her delusion, although she doubted that the Tsaritsa would be just as kind to you. 

 When the nurse apologizes profusely, Scaramouche feels a heavy feeling grow in his stomach. He was starting to panic, and he couldn’t afford to look so pathetic in front of La Signora. He clenched his fists, racking his brain for answers before eventually finding a feasible one.

“Il Dottore.”

Chapter Text

 As requested by Scaramouche, Il Dottore dispatches to Inazuma at the promise of having a new test subject. Scaramouche had to quite literally beg Il Dottore to do remotely anything, as Dottore saw little to no value in your person. However, his likeliness seemed to increase at the mention of your body’s current condition, considering it was akin to Signora’s own previous injuries from hundreds of years ago. Scaramouche looks at your body, laying still, wrapped in bandages in a simple white dress while he awaits for Dottore’s arrival. It had been almost a week since you were unconscious, and the only things keeping you alive were the iv attached to your arm, and the constant work of hydro and dendro healers working on your body from morning to late afternoon.

 You had been injected by the latest invention of Dottore, the elemental deterrent, which suppressed your pyro for six hours a day. They had only injected it whenever your body temperature rose above average, out of fear that your deterioration process would quicken had your vision unconsciously acted up. It seemed your emotions played a big part with the control over your vision.

 Scaramouche stares outside at the snowfall, cursing the weather for the delays it caused. He needed Dottore here as soon as possible. There was a constant gnawing in his mind ever since you had blacked out, and it was driving him insane, almost leading him to kill some beasts for fun in his spare time, however he held himself back. He understood that he had a job to see through. The traveler was making themself scarce underneath the Fatui radar, though he figured it was only a matter of time before they showed up again. Meanwhile, he had to prepare the delusion factory. Suddenly, an idea hits him.

 He looks at you once more, admiring your sleeping face. Scaramouche presses a hand at the gauze pad resting on the right side of your face, thinking that the burn mark should heal soon with all the efforts being poured into you. He pauses and gauges your condition. Perhaps he should give you a delusion. A hydro one, or a cryo one. Either would momentarily halt your decaying status whenever you got too rowdy for your own good. Maybe he could have Dottore change your body to meld with the delusion, that way you were capable of handling two without much backlash.

 “You should be thankful,” Scaramouche begins at the thought of Il Dottore, “I had to plead that quack to do anything.” You remain unresponsive, and he scoffs, “I don’t provide these services to just anybody, you know?” He glares at you, analyzing your face for any reaction. “I treat you so specially, yet you go ahead and ruin yourself like this?”

 Your crying, pained face flashes before his eyes, and for some reason, his heart clenches. Your scream echoes in his ears, haunting him now, and even at the dead of night when he sleeps alone. He frowns, “It was your fault that all this happened,” he sighs, “because you never learned your lesson. And I told you,” he thinks about the day you gave him your very first genuine smile despite knowing what punishment was to come from speaking out of line, “I told you I’d figure out a way to make you love me.”

 When you let out a particularly long breath, Scaramouche is hopeful that you wake up. He presses his hand on your cheek, tilting your head slightly towards him. Much to his chagrin, you make no following motions. Scaramouche clenched his teeth, the hand on your cheek shaking as he held in his anger. Maybe if he shocked you enough, you’d wake from your slumber.

 He shook away the severity of his irrational thoughts, yanking his hand away from your face as he directed his anger elsewhere, his eyes darkening as electricity buzzed in the air, following suit with his rage when he thought about Tartaglia. It was his fault. If Tartaglia hadn’t been so nosy , if Tartaglia listened to his warning, and had minded his own damn business, you wouldn’t have known. You were fine not knowing, he thinks as he remembers the smile that had been more frequent on your face lately. You were better not knowing.

 There’s a heavy darkness that looms over Scaramouche as he raises your hand, holding it tenderly and kissing your palm. In deep thought now, he fantasizes. He could kill Tartaglia. He could find the time to murder him, and maybe Scaramouche would start with his family first. He could start by killing his dearest siblings, and then make his parents watch. After that, he would go to Liyue and kill Tartaglia himself with the souvenirs of all his family’s index fingers, and while they were fighting, the oh-so calm and collected Tartaglia would go insane as he mentioned how Tartaglia’s parents suffered watching their children die one by one at his hands. He would describe their pained expressions, then he would rejoice over Tartaglia’s battle cries as he loses himself to the full extent of his delusion.

 That’s right, Scaramouche smiles at the thought, closing his eyes as he caresses your limp hand, holding it to his face, pretending as though you were cupping his cheek. He would make Tartaglia suffer and exhaust him to his maximum capacity by forcing him to use his delusion. And then he’d go insane, and he’d rot and die.

 And then there would be no more nuisances. No more nosy people, no more people getting in the way of his plans for you and him. The both of you would be happy together, smiling while having tea with your mother, talking about having grandchildren, talking about old memories from your past.

 However...

 Scaramouche’s eyelids flutter open as he gazes at you, his smile fading as the reality of the situation settles within his mind. Every second felt as though it was chipping his brain, bit by bit, every second gradually worse than the other since you weren’t awake. For his plan to continue, he needed you awake first. “Wake up,” Scaramouche begins, his voice soft, and then slowly turning aggressive as he continues, “wake up,” he scowls, his shoulders tensed as he glares at you, “ wake. Up. Glare at me, yell at me, annoy me, do something, ” he hisses, hating the way you lay limp. He missed your fire. Missed your anger, missed you, and the thought of losing you was… 

 He shudders. 

  It was way too much.

 “I don’t care,” Scaramouche begins again, his voice resounding in the soundlessness of the room, “I don’t care if you avoid me again. I have you now, and you will always be mine. Don’t you dare leave me by myself again, not after everything I’ve done to look for someone like you,” his mind is racing, he’s thinking about the day from many decades ago, a girl tells him that love is something red, like an apple. He thinks about the strings of fate that he heard several stories of. He remembers yearning it, and he looks back at you, his eyes wide as he feels something chipping away at his mind. “Come back to me,” his voice is stiff, sounding almost like an order, although his tone is laced with a foreign emotion. His heart is beating erratically, almost uncontrollable.

 The something that chips at his brain gets stronger when you don’t respond, and the electricity within the room buzzes. The lightbulbs flicker, and it’s not until you let out a soft sigh from your lips that everything halts.

 Scaramouche purses his lips, staring down at you once more, admiring your features, brushing your hair, now a little longer than its previous length since you had been so bold to cut it.

 And when a pair of knocks come at the door, he smiles. You will be fixed soon.

 “Come in.”

 By the time Il Dottore is done with you, another week has passed. Scaramouche had been hounding him constantly to be working on you, especially when Dottore had gotten bored and started slacking off, admiring Inazuma’s winter scenery instead of doing work. Scaramouche would rush his work in order to visit your vicinity. He had come in a few times to see Dottore clearly up to no good, at some point having parts of a mitachurl’s stomach in his hands, pressing it on your body as if gauging the size to see if it would fit within you and act as a counterfeit stomach.

 Many parts of your insides were salvageable, due to Scaramouche’s quick reaction time on stopping the meltdown process, however, it seemed Scaramouche had something else in mind, despite Dottore’s offer to simply fix you up. The process would have taken a full two days, however, Scaramouche saw this moment as a perfect time to make adjustments to your physical aspects to house your vision better, and of course, Dottore was more than delighted to make his ideas a reality, though regrettably, your body wouldn’t work well with a delusion in the mess of a condition you were in.

 Scaramouche scowls at the information, though another idea hits him.

 When you wake up from what feels like a good slumber, you feel great. Your bed is warm and comfortable, and when you finally find the strength to open your eyes, you find that you're in the infirmary room of the Fatui headquarters. You take a moment to absorb your surroundings, groggily eying every corner of the room, examining the dust that lay on the table to your right, taking note of the darkness outside of the window. Was it late at night already? Had you slept in?

 You struggle as you hastily rise from your seat, remembering that the Fatui were busy preparing for the traveler’s quick approach, and then you pause at a sharp pain in your stomach. You pause, assessing your well being, holding your hand up in front of you and noticing the long length of your nails before pressing a hand down at your stomach. You flinch, hissing and clenching your teeth as you furrow your brows, releasing the pressure off your stomach and allowing your hand to settle back onto the thick white blankets.

 Why were you here anyways? Did you get hit while you were on the battlefield? You peel the iv from its injection site, ignoring the small rivulets of blood that appear when you pull it out too quickly. You sigh, holding a hand to your head, cradling it as you wracked your memory for any recent events. 

 There’s a knock at your door. Then it flings open. 

 You turn your head, your eyes coming face to face with your husband. His eyes mirror yours, wide as his mouth slightly falls open at the sight of you. You are about to greet him until a surge of memories hit you all at once, merging within one another, blending over each other, and your hand flies to your mouth. You want to puke.

 Your eyes grow wider as your heart drops to your stomach, your veins running cold as you remember Tartaglia’s letter and its contents. When Scaramouche takes a step forward from the doorway, you immediately yell. “Don’t!” You shout, your voice hoarse, still muffled as your mouth is covered by your hand. Heat rises to your face as a mixture of emotions swell within you. You want to cry, you think, feeling a ball form in the back of your throat as you hold your tears back, “Don’t come any closer.” You make sure your voice remains firm, despite the dryness of your throat. You look for water, searching the table next to you, only finding your signature butterfly pin, polished on the countertop.

 Scaramouche ignores you. He continues to step closer, a solemn expression on his features as he takes ambles his way towards you. His indigo irises are glued onto your form, and you recognize that there’s a thankfulness within them that’s completely lost on you. You want to kill him, you want to rip him apart, you want to hurt him like he hurt you, so many times before. Like he hurts you, now, standing impassively in front of you as you clench your hands into fists, a look of rage plastered onto your face.

 You instinctively reach for a dagger when he stands inches away from you, the bells on his kasa hat jingling as he tilts his head downwards to face you. You’re surprised when you don’t feel your thigh belt on you. What had you expected, you were in the infirmary room. You scowl at him, shifting away from him when he sits down on the chair next to your bed. “What do you want,” you hiss, “you snake.”

 Scaramouche’s eyes glint in anger at your words, however he contains himself, “You’re finally awake,” he sighs, leaning forward in his chair, extending an arm to reach out for you, and you freeze up when his hand meets the side of your face. “I’ve been waiting for you,” the softness of his voice disgusts you to no end, and you show your distaste when you slap his arm away from your face, your scowl deepening as you maintain your glare. You observe the momentary look of hurt that passes through his eyes, though you find he’s quick to hide it with the same solemnity that rested within them earlier.

 “What the fuck do you mean,” you scoff, feeling rage build within you as you clench your hands once more, your nose crinkling as you scrunch your face, “ you’ve been waiting for me. What type of bullshit are you pulling now,” you laugh sardonically, “did you forget you killed my fucking father?” You realize you’re about to fly off the hooks, and you don’t mind it. You don’t care what ‘punishment’ he had for you for talking back. You refused to play these games with him any longer.

 You let him take your hand in marriage, let him control you over the past few months so that you could take it easy. Easy didn’t cut it. Scaramouche’s constant betrayals to you made that clear. “Why haven’t you died somewhere yet?” You hiss, cursing him openly as tears begin to well in your eyes, “Just leave me alone and die already,” your voice is cracking, and you attempt to firm yourself by clenching your teeth, closing your eyes as you grimace away from him, “ I don’t want to be with you.”

 Your words strike a chord in him, and it almost shatters what resolve he has left inside him. His eyes are wide, rage building within him as his face begins to heat up, “It doesn’t matter if you don’t want to be with me,” he finds himself saying, though within his mind, he thinks about your smiling face in Liyue, gazing at him kindly with warm eyes. The moment he had wished to take a photo of. “It doesn’t matter because in the end,” he chuckles as the image tears in half, fading into dust as he faces your disapproving features, “you’re still mine. Forever.” He emphasizes the last words, leaning in towards you with a scowl on his face.

 You raise a hand to punch him, and he stops it immediately, holding it in place. You didn’t have a lot of strength in your body, and when you moved, the pain in your stomach worsened. “Fuck you,” you spit as Scaramouche stands up, looking down at you from above, “fuck you and your shitty obsession with eternity,” you sob, feeling your mind hurt as you remembered the scroll in his bedroom marked in fine calligraphy. You remember the butterfly in fresh ink, added to the bottom of the scroll, and it leads you to remember a chain of horrible events that’s happened to you, all from his doing. “I never asked for any of this,” there’s a evident, heartbreaking pain in your voice when you speak, and Scaramouche can’t help but clench his teeth at the sound of it.

 Scaramouche turns to look at your butterfly pin, resting neatly on the table countertop, and he reaches for it, and you don’t seem to notice. You’re staring at the white of the blanket, watching the tears fall from your face, landing on your hand in warm droplets as your body shakes. You fight between the boundaries of sorrow and anger, heat rising within your body gradually as Scaramouche begins to speak, “This is your fate,” his voice sounds almost robotic, lacking emotion as he places the butterfly pin in your line of sight, “with me.”

 “If that’s how you see it,” you are so tired of all this, and you grab at the butterfly pin with your right hand, gripping onto it painfully as you turn your head to face the front of your body, “then I don’t need any of these shitty dreams!” You throw the butterfly pin out of your hand, and clatters when it falls to the floor, sliding across the clean, pale colored floors. Scaramouche clicks his tongue as though your words meant nothing to him, as though he were merely watching a child having a tantrum. He leaves your side to go pick it up, a thrum of electricity building within the room as he attempts to quell himself.

 You watch him as he approaches you, and you attempt to find the strength within you to push him away so you could run away, however when he sits on the bed, you feel your blood freeze. Your eyes are wide as you remember the feeling of his electricity flowing through your veins at the odd sense of deja vu. Your heart hurts, it palpitates and you find yourself struggling to breathe when you meet his indigo irises. His lips are pulled to a frown, his eyes cold when he stares at you. 

 Scaramouche smiles, “You’ve been so well these past couple months, darling. You have to learn to behave again , or else,” his voice drops a couple octaves as he slides the pin onto the side of your head, and at this point, you feel as though the butterfly pin held such an important role, that if you wore it, you’d have to act a certain way. “I’ll have to kill your mother too,” something inside you snaps at his words. You don’t understand how he could have so little empathy towards your mother, considering how she had only been nothing but kind to him.

 A laugh escapes your lips, coming out small at first. And then it turns maniacal as he pulls away from you. You don’t understand yourself anymore, why you were reacting like this, why you were going to say what you were about to say. However, there was one thing that made itself understood in your mind. You didn’t care anymore. You couldn’t care anymore. You always thought you couldn’t afford to feel a certain way, that you couldn’t afford to feel your feelings, but as his words weigh on your mind, you realize the truth of it all. You were tired of trying. You glare at him as you come down from your laughter, your eyes bright as he stares at you with wide eyes. In your mind, you’re holding glass shards, and instead of crying about what’s lost, you decide to embrace it.

 You find yourself looking into a dark abyss, and instead of fighting against it, you let go and fall through. You’re sick of it, sick of holding onto everything, sick of trying your best, sick of the burdens people put on you, sick of the expectations Scaramouche holds of you. Sick of the punishments, sick of this sadness, so you would embrace this pain and this anger you held. In your mind, you hold the broken shards of your mind in your hands, and let yourself bleed.

 A small, relieved smile crawls onto your lips, your eyes narrowing as you tilt your head to face him, “You’re a lot worse than a demon,” you calmly say, venom lacing your every word as you continue, your eyes never leaving his, “it’s no wonder why your mother abandoned you.”

 Suddenly, there’s a sharp sting on your cheek, and you find yourself facing the darkness of the window outside. You stare at your own reflection for a moment as the shock of the pain settles within you, observing the unfamiliar look in your eyes, observing the smile that grew on your face despite the fiery pain of the slap. “That’s right,” you say with a hoarse voice, your tone unfamiliar to you now, and you wonder if you’ve always sounded like this, “hit me.” You turn to face him, your smile only serving to enrage him further as he lunges towards you, pressing his hands on your shoulder, pushing you back against the bed as electricity surges throughout the room, his teeth clenching visibly as his eyes narrowed at you, his pupils turning into slits. Like this, you thought, he really looked like a demon.  

 “Hit me,” you repeat, the strength in your voice unfaltering, “this is who you really are.” Your smile lessens into a smirk when you feel his hands shake, electricity threatening to pulse through your veins as you continue, “when you can’t take it, you hurt people. You’d even hurt your own wife,” you bitterly add, and he seems to flinch at the mention of your official title as his partner. Good, you thought with wide eyes as you continued to glare at him, he should hurt. “Don’t ever tell me you love me again,” you hiss, “because you don’t. You’ve loved the thought of being in love so much that you fantasized it and put it on your own fucking subordinate,” you chuckle before continuing your verbal onslaught, “someone at a place of power forcing their own ideals onto someone else of lower position. You are disgusting, Scaramouche.”

 You jolt and yelp as he electrocutes you, although you find yourself beaming up at him through the pain, knowing that this was all he ever was, nothing more than a shitty human being who loved to cause pain to people around them. You feel the electricity burn specifically within your stomach, and you scream at the pain, howling as tears escape your eyes. You deserved this , you found yourself thinking. You swallow that pitiful thought into the pits of your abyssal mind. You growl and feel heat rise within your writhing body, and your pyro vision clatters from within the wooden table to your right. Your hands rise to his throat, heat building within them, and he pauses his ministrations at the feeling of heat so close to him. 

 Scaramouche quickly readjusts his position, towering over you as he pulls your hands to your sides, glaring down at you before vehemently speaking, “Don’t even try to use your pyro on me, and don’t pretend like you fucking know me, my dear wife, ” he hisses through his teeth, his indigo eyes gleaming, turning almost into a bright shade of violet as he glowers at you, “because you really don’t know shit about me.”

 “I don’t need to know you to understand that you’ve never received love,” you reply caustically, grinning when his grip on your wrists tighten bruisingly, “at the end of the day, you’re just a narcissistic lost child.”

 His eyes are brimming with unbridled fury, “Say that again for me, why don’t you!?”

 “A lost fucking child,” you gladly spit back at him, “looking for love because you were never given the attention you wanted from your mother! And now you’re looking for that same love and attention from me!”   You laugh when his scowl grows further. 

 “You’ve crossed the line too far,” he sends another shockwave through you and for an odd reason, the pain feels less than earlier. “Your family and teammates have died because of you! Because you’re unable to learn your fucking lesson, you stupid bitch!” Scaramouche shouts, his anger reverberating throughout your body with the shock he sends you, “Because you don’t listen, because you are so disobedient--!”

 “They’re dead because you’re so incapable of processing your own shitty feelings,” you say in a hoarse voice as tears race down the sides of your face, feeling your stomach burn with more and more pain as heat welled within you, threatening to light your body on fire, and when it becomes too much, you suddenly panic, your eyes wide as your survival instincts kick in. His electric waves don’t help you.

 Noticing the sudden change of expression on your face, Scaramouche grins, thinking he’s won, until he feels heat rising to your wrists, your forehead suddenly beading with sweat. He realizes he’s gone too far, and he immediately lets go of you, letting you breathe as he allows the weight of your words to sit in his mind. You take deep breaths below him, your breathing uneven as you pat his shoulders, ushering him off of you. He hisses at the heat of your touch, feeling as though you had burned him through his clothes, and he doesn’t miss the amused smile that crawls onto your lips when he flinches away.

 You scowl and groan, yelping as you feel your stomach, your eyes shutting in pain. Scaramouche’s eyes focus onto your stomach and clench his teeth. “I was foolish, ” he admits as he remembers that there were still stitches there, “though I suppose you can’t completely blame me for doing what you asked.” He hisses as he glares at you, his indigo eyes finding your own eyes when you reopen them. “Take this moment to reflect on your actions,” he coldly comments, remembering your previous comments, thinking that they had left a sour feeling in his stomach, “be thankful you’re my wife, and that I’m willing to overlook your actions today out of grace because you’ve just woken up from your nearly month long slumber.”

 Your mind halts at his words. “What?” You wipe the dried tear stains from your cheeks, the shock settling within your system. A month of you just sleeping? It made sense in your mind, since you hardly had the strength in your body from lethargy, and with the length of your nails from earlier. You recollect the events that led you here, and are almost afraid when you look at your hands again, eying them, waiting for any signs of flames to appear. 

 Scaramouche notices your disconcerted emotions, “You don’t have to worry about it anymore,” Scaramouche begins, thinking bitterly that he had received the short end of the stick today, “I had Il Dottore fix your body up, and you’ll be receiving elemental deterrent injections for whenever your body can’t handle it. For now,” his eyes are cold, his hands clenching as he stands up from his seat, swiveling his body to face you completely, “I suggest you practice thankfulness towards me if you want to avoid worsening your situation.” You understand from the tone of his voice that he implies your current condition now in your bed ridden state, as well as your situation knowing that he had the ability to kill your mother as well.

 Your glower at him, your eyes swirling with dark emotion at his implications. “ Touch a hair on her body, and I will slit your throat. ” You feel rage build within you again, and when he scoffs, you almost explode.

 “Perhaps you should learn to keep that pretty mouth of yours shut then,” he replies with a hiss as he turns around, “if it’s easier for you to pretend, then pretend that you don’t know the things you know,” with that, he leaves the room.

 You feel the butterfly pin attached to the side of your hair, and you rip it out, holding it tight in your hand in hopes it would break. When it doesn’t, you look at your own reflection within the red gems, thinking that it was almost as though you were looking through a kaleidoscope. You gauge your shattered mind, feeling how loose you had felt with a smile, feeling good that you managed to say what there was to say. Your smile widens further as you realize a fatal mistake he had created, pulling away from you within your moment of pain when it became overwhelming. It seemed he had grown soft for you, after all. Perfect. That little crack of weakness was all you needed to make his life a living hell. 

 A pair of knocks come at the door, and you allow them in, watching with a small fake smile as a familiar nurse greets you at the door.

 You couldn’t wait to kill Scaramouche.

Chapter Text

 The following days are filled without a sense of time. Sometimes you stay up all night in your bed, staring outside the window, watching with tired, lifeless eyes as you are left alone to ponder. Every second is torture, your thoughts are constantly filled with dread and violence. Your mind ping pongs between thinking about Scaramouche and his offset of negative impacts within your life.

 As days pass, you eat less and less food, and the friendly 'goddess' nurse, or so you had dubbed her since her first time saving you from Scaramouche’s wrath, becomes more and more concerned over your wellbeing. In truth, you weren't sure what to make of life anymore. Everything was spiraling around you, spinning into itself in swirls of black and red.

 You were married, had fornicated, and had spent countless days sleeping next to the man who had murdered your father. The same man who had held you, comforted you, supposedly loved you. You felt torn on equal sides, one side wanting to seek more comfort from him, while the other understood that he wanted nothing more than to bring further ruin to you. It drove you so far up a wall, that sleepless nights became more frequent than you had hoped for. Sleep brought nightmares to you, horrible dreams of your father and mother hating you for everything you've done, for sleeping with a murderer, for being a Fatui member, and when you woke from them, you would feel the same day-to-day emptiness.

 Scaramouche hadn't visited you since that day you had woken up, and you start to wonder if you dislike this fact or like it. You wanted to see him again, you had so much to say to him, you wanted to yell at him and shout at him until your voice was gone. Another part of you didn't want anything to do with him anymore, since he had betrayed you any chance he could. The Tsaritsa was keeping him busy, as per usual, and with the Traveler out and about in hiding, efforts have doubled. 

 You wonder briefly, if you joined sides with the Traveler, took Scaramouche down, and helped them with their cause… would that absolve you of all your sins? Were your bloodstained hands something you could wash off? You remember the darkness that had covered your arms months ago, the rotting from within seeping out of you and coloring your hands and arms in a color of an indescribable darkness; like a void growing from within you. A black hole swallowing you up from the inside. And within that darkness, a voice speaks to you. 

 It tells you that perhaps you didn't need to be absolved of your sins. Perhaps they were all yours to bear, like the burdens that lay on the red butterflies, carrying souls from one life to the next during the butterfly festival. Perhaps you were to carry out vengeance, this shadow side of you yearned for such a thing. It yearned to become voracious, to eat everything in its path until it was satisfied, much like the same person you had so much hated.

 With the listless nights, you’re brought to ask yourself many questions, and it always ends up with your logic and reason fighting each other. You longed for so many things, and if you had to bitterly admit to yourself, you preferred not knowing what was written in the letter. You wished you had kept your eyes shut, life would have been much easier without knowing the things you knew now. 

 By the time you are allowed to be let out of your infirmary room, your body feels well adjusted to your medicines. The pain in your stomach is mostly gone, only replaced with a dull ache. You felt, however, that your mind was absent, or rather, you had given up relaying information between both sides of your brain. You felt your inner conflict had taken a large portion of your daily energy out of you, and to preserve yourself, you ultimately stopped caring. The few days that led up to your day of dismissal from the infirmary room, you found yourself only eating things that Kujou Sara would typically disapprove of, eating only the sweetest of sweets. You thought of your mother while eating the sweets, hoping that once you would meet her again, she would give you some of her infamous sakura wagashi. 

 Reminiscing in your thoughts, you almost flinch when a sting of pain brings you back to life. You were staring blankly at a wall, your face lacking emotion as the friendly nurse injected you with an elemental deterrent. “How are you feeling?” She inquires politely, her eyes warm and beaming as she notices that your plate of food from breakfast earlier had been touched. 

 “I’m…” You begin, trailing off, gauging your own thoughts and emotions before a lackadaisical smile appears on your features, “just, feeling.” The nurse doesn’t seem too happy with your response, but offers you a comforting grin nonetheless. She hums before nodding, cleaning the syringe and setting it aside as she stands up, putting both hands on her hips as she begins to speak once again.

 “Well,” she beams at you, “I believe you’re all good to go! Please take it easy,” when you turn to look at her, you briefly wonder if the tone of voice she was using was honeyed or genuine, “I know that Lord Scaramouche and you don’t have the sweetest of relationships, but I’m sure the both of you will come to understand each other.”

 You stare at her, and in your mind, she’s drowning in coal colored tar. The rest of her words are muffled, though it sounds like she seemed to be positively reinforcing your relationship with your husband. You smile at her, your eyes dark and empty as you reply, “That’s right,” there’s a tone of eeriness to your voice that makes her freeze in place for a moment, “I suppose we will come to understand each other.”

 When the nurse cheers delightedly and turns to leave, you stop her. “Excuse me,” you say with a politeness that feels almost foreign to you, in the violence of your mindset. The nurse turns around to look at you, a quizzical look on her face. You flick a piece of your hair, brushing it away from your face as you smile at her, “The elemental blockers,” you make sure to keep your tone steady and sweet, “where might I find them? I think it’d be troublesome for all the staff, considering I must’ve overworked all of you for the past month, if I keep going back and forth for injections.” You explain, although she finds your tone of voice a little too friendly, “I’m capable of injecting myself with the shots now,” to emphasize your words, you flex one arm, laughing lightly.

 The nurse, looking baffled by your actions, bursts into a fit of giggles before responding, “Don’t worry,” her eyes gleam with an appreciation for you that you pity, “I’ll prepare a box just for you. You can’t tell anyone though,” she hums as she turns to leave, “it’s not really meant for public use after all.”

 You bow your head and thank her as she exits the room, and when it’s just you, you turn your head to face the view outside with a scowl. The snow was slowly melting away, rain falling in torrents as a distant storm roared onwards.

 The first thing you do when you get up is meet Kujou Sara back at Tenryou Commission. When she sees you, she’s shocked, her eyes slightly widening at the sight of your weakened state. She immediately goes on a tirade and scolds you for not taking care of yourself, before asking what happened.

 You can’t help but laugh at her thought process. She reminded you of your own mother, if you had to speak honestly. You tell her that you’ve gotten into a work related incident, a complete far cry from the truth, but she believes it. Kujou Sara asks you when you’ll be available next, since she wanted to train with you and put you back together as soon as possible, and when you tell her you’re free now, she immediately turns around and beckons you to follow her to the training grounds. 

 Her servants fetch hot tea for the both of you, as it was still cold outside, and you marvel at her precise archery skills despite the freezing cold. The icy weather did nothing to hinder her. When she let out a breath of air for every shot she took, you could see in her eyes that she was simply focused on her task, and with every arrow to leave her grasp, she marks with such precision the bullseye of every straw target.

 On the other hand, your aim has become quite off due to your lack of practice. Your muscles were a little sore from the lack of warm up before training, and Sara scolds you for not warming up ahead of time. The rest of the training regime goes as per usual, with Sara giving you occasional pointers and for a moment, it feels as though nothing is wrong in the world. Sara’s ambience allows you to forget your worries, and it’s peaceful. You allow yourself to bask in her presence, until you realize what you have to do.

 “Sara?” Your voice is strange when it comes out, and it halts even Sara mid stance as she’s about to fire off her arrow. She positions her bow downwards and turns to look at you. When you meet her gaze, her honey colored irises are firm, a softness within them that doesn’t go unnoticed by you. You smile at her, hoping to bring whatever happiness you had left in you as you speak, “Thank you.”

 Your words cause her to narrow your eyes at you. “What ever for?” Sara inquires as she raises her bow back up, preparing to launch an arrow once more, steadying her aim as she waits for your response. You choose to test your flames to see if they would work, and of course, with the elemental deterrent still working against your favors, nothing appears.

 You hum, and with a small smile, you let out a soft breath. “You’re an amazing friend, and a wonderful person. I hope to see you rise higher than where you are now,” you say, and when Sara’s arrow misses its target, you can’t help but laugh.

 “After hearing such a weird corny remark,” Sara glares at you, her face flushing slightly, “ of course I’d miss.” You simply toss her a grin, which she returns with an embarrassed smile of her own.

 You dread your return back to the headquarters at night. When you enter your room, Scaramouche is waiting for you, tapping his feet and pacing around the room as if he had been impatiently waiting for your return. “And where were you off to?” His tone suggests that you were much like a dog to him, unable to go anywhere without his supervision and permission. He’s dressed in his typical yukata, and he eyes your clothes, noticing that you haven’t changed for bed yet.

 “Out,” you coldly reply, holding his gaze as you shut the door behind you. Your eyes flicker towards the door that leads to the private yard for a moment, thinking that you desperately wished to escape from him. However, when you allow yourself a small breath, you refocus your thoughts and glare at him. You amble towards him, and he looks as though he’s expecting something, until you casually brush past him. 

 “Stop,” Scaramouche’s tone is meant to imply an order, and when you listen, you halt your steps, not turning back to look at him. You wait for him to say something, anything to fill the dreadful silence, and you can almost hear him thinking his next words to you in his head before he speaks, “I went to visit you today,” he begins, and you let out an annoyed sigh as you swivel around to face him. His indigo eyes search for an emotion in your eyes that you’re unsure you even have anymore, and his lips press into a frown when he finds nothing of the sort. “You must’ve forgotten to report back to me,” he walks a little closer to you, and you choose to fight every instinct to back away. 

 Choosing your words carefully, you reply with a fake smile, “How horrible of me,” you start, unable to hide the sarcasm in your voice, “how could I forget to tell my father’s murderer that I’m now good to send back to the field.”

 His eyes narrow at your tone of voice, a scowl on his face as he inches closer to you once more, “You misinterpret my actions. Did you really think I'd let you say such crass things to my face without a feasible punishment?” Scaramouche's irises gaze deep into your own, and you feel a cold feeling wash over you at his words.

 “Was taking someone’s life considered feasible to you?” You observe as his glare intensifies on you, and you refuse to flinch away. 

 “With someone as disobedient as you, ” he scoffs, his indigo eyes gleaming, catching the moonlight from through the windows as the room is illuminated in the luminescence of the moon, “this is the least I can do.”

 Upon hearing his words, you let out your own scoff, turning away from him as you concreted your heart. You would not be needing such a thing around him, you supposed. Not after everything he’s done to you. “Like I thought,” you mutter as you hide behind the safety of the partition, “everything you do is in bad taste.” You replace your worn daggers with new ones, thinking to sharpen the rest whenever you have time, then you begin to walk towards the doors leading outside.

 “Look,” he voice is exasperated, a clear sense of frustration in his tone as he continues, “I’m simply making you pay your debts.” You ignore him, not wishing to further speak to him. Your elemental deterrent was falling off slowly, and you felt it when heat began to rise within you once more at his words. You should kill him now, where he stands. Have him bleed out until he cries, but you couldn’t risk anything quite yet. Much like you “had to pay” your debts towards him, you had to harvest some debts from him as well. “Where are you going now?” Scaramouche sounds exhausted, an unusual hidden tone lying underneath it, though you don’t care enough to weave your thoughts any further than that basic observation. 

 You reply just before you shut the door behind you, “Out.”

 For the rest of the night, you choose not to sleep in your bed with Scaramouche, although it seems from the pair of indigo eyes you see at the round window from behind you, he has no interest in resting without you as well. In the silence of your mind, you think about your many losses, and with a heavy heart, and with a new sense of darkness rising within you, you realize what you have to do. When you look towards the moon, you think of your beautiful days in Liyue, spending time with your family, the last remnants of memories of your father like glimmers of light in your mind.

 Then you think of Scaramouche, and that night he holds you so dearly in his arms underneath the moonlight, and you could’ve sworn you felt the warmth of his body still wrapped around you at the thought. You attempt to prevent the surge of thoughts that follow that memory, the images of Scaramouche holding you, giving you kisses during your several nights together. Your shoulders slump as a feeling with no name burns within you, and for a moment, you feel so weak you think you might fall to your knees. You shake at the memories, and it takes you to bite your lip so hard until it bleeds to snap you out of your reverie.

 When your heart swells with warmth and beats, you imagine yourself ripping it out. You couldn’t afford such a thing with someone like him. Never. 

 In the early morning, when Scaramouche leaves, you visit the nurse at the health bay. She hands you a small box of syringes with a small smile, and when you bow your head and leave, you feel a sense of dread overwhelm you. Your head hurts as you walk back to your shared room, so dizzying that it almost causes you to fall off balance. When your headache passes, you find that your body feels lighter, it’s somehow much easier to move. You figured that Il Dottore’s edits on your body had been giving you strange side effects, though you feel much stronger and lighter now. You briefly wonder exactly what he has done to your body, however you chalk it up to a sense of carelessness when you think further.

 It didn’t matter what he had changed, what he had done with you. What mattered was your body was stronger now, and was now meant to hold more capabilities than your original body. Any chance at becoming stronger, you think as you remember the day Scaramouche sends bolts of lightning around you, encircling you as he calmly paces towards you, would mean to you that you had a higher chance of beating him in a battle. 

 Hiding the box in your room, you think with an empty smile that perhaps it was time to test how much he had truly loved you. There’s a screaming in your head that begs you to stop behind a sealed coffin, buried deep in the graveyard of your mind. The voice sounds much like your own. You ignore the pain in your chest, and with a shaky breath, recollect yourself.

 You had work to do.

 You meet Kujou Sara a couple minutes before your training starts, and your appearance unsettles her greatly. You were dressed in clothes not meant for winter, wearing your usual Inazuman styled Fatui wear meant for summer. She almost doesn’t recognize you, the look in your eyes strange as you smile softly at her, one head tilted to the side as you awkwardly stand, holding your left arm’s elbow with your right hand as you gaze upon her. Sara knows something is wrong.

 “Officer--,” Sara begins, motioning towards you until your voice cuts her off.

 “Kujou Sara,” your voice is cool and hazy, as though masking several many emotions. You watch her pause in her steps, her honey colored irises boring into your own as she stares at you, her warm breath creating puffs in the frosty winter air. You let out a soft sigh, feeling the heat of your pyro vision emanate from your side, “Let’s stop being friends.”

 Sara’s breath hitches, her eyes widening at your sudden announcement. She opens her mouth to say something, but quickly shuts it, her teeth visibly clenching along with her fists as she pulls herself back. You could tell from the look on her face that she was reminding herself not to overstep her boundaries. You continued to smile at her, understanding the conflicting emotions that flickered through her eyes before she solidified her resolve. Sara was a kind person, despite her brutal honesty. Her eyes reflected that. 

 “...Why so abruptly?” Sara asks, sounding a little defensive, a hint of desperacy in her tone that she hides so well behind the hardness of her eyes. She gauges your expression for a moment when you don’t respond, as you are deep in thought, thinking about what possible excuse you could give. Sara scrutinizes you, her eyes peering into your own, and for a moment, her eyes widen. “You…” Sara begins slowly, taking a step forward as she struggles to find the words in her mind.

 You look back at her, your smile faltering when you see a despairing look on her face. 

 “I… won’t pry any further,” Sara finally says, conceding to your wishes as she straightens her posture, her gaze firm on yours as a serious look overwhelms her features, “however, I must ask you as someone familiar of that look in your eyes,” her voice deepens as she narrows her eyes, crossing her arms, “you need to snap out of it. That emotion, if you hold onto it long enough, it will lead you nowhere but sadness.” Her words cause you to tilt your head in slight confusion, “The joy you find is temporary, but the carnage is permanent. It’s best if you remember that.”

 You stare at her blankly, unsure of what she means. You avert your eyes for a moment, thinking about the image of you from long ago, “What do I look like right now, Sara?” You inquire with a genuine sense of curiosity. Last time you had looked in the mirror, you vaguely remember the expression of life that hid under layers of walls that you could then clearly see. 

 Sara does not hesitate when she responds, “You have the eyes of an angry beast.”

 You take a moment to absorb what she says. You were not a butterfly, nothing like the beautiful white heron princess, but a beast.

 “Many of my fellow soldiers have that look in their eyes,” there’s a firm resolve in Sara’s eyes as she holds an arm out to her side, “and it has all led them to death. It would be wise if you chose to throw that emotion away if you could.” Sara takes a moment, eying your form once more, a sadness creeping onto her expression as she continues, “It would be a shame to lose a magnificent warrior such as yourself…” 

 You keep your lips pursed in a tight line, your eyes empty as you return your gaze back towards her figure. “I see,” you slowly say, unsure of how to respond to her. You understood what she was saying. The hatred that resided within you raged onwards, unable to be quelled, and when you smiled at her, bowing your head, you said with a genuine self disappointment, “I’m sorry. Please don’t associate yourself with me anymore.”

 With that, you turn around and leave. You didn’t want her to get in trouble, someone as amazing as herself. It would only ruin her reputation, being acquainted with you.

 Everyday after that goodbye feels emptier than usual. You still choose not to sleep with Scaramouche, you opt to sleep outside instead, wrapped in blankets some days when snow falls, and if it gets too uncomfortable, you resort to sleeping in the women’s washroom, with the door closed in front you as you put the toilet seat down and wrap your arms around yourself. Scaramouche sometimes seems to search for you in the middle of the day, although you have gotten better at hiding yourself. 

 Bit by bit, as time goes on, you find that you are losing more and more of yourself, being eaten away by this hatred, by this rage, and instead of injecting yourself with your suppressants, you let yourself burn. Your body could handle it better now, in fact you felt stronger than before. You had to get used to it, so you forced your body to push its limits.

 Your expeditions are as harsh as ever, with your team on your back, and with you rushing in to relieve your stress. Killing things is easier, you find that you don’t have much of a conscience anymore when it comes to survival. As long as you were alive at the end of the day, you were okay. 

 You choose not to write back to Tartaglia. You had already messed up, you didn’t listen to what he had said. You went ahead and snapped on Scaramouche, you lost your cool. What help could he possibly give you after that? Not to mention Scaramouche definitely already knew your plans. He had definitely read the letter, and it wasn’t as though Tartaglia could just leave Liyue, considering his heavy failures with Osial and Liyue. You understand there’s a boat waiting for you, but if you left for Liyue, who would stop Scaramouche from killing your mother? The world around you is already in pieces as it is. You only wished for one thing at this point. To give back to Scaramouche what he had done to you. You were simply waiting for the right time to execute your plans.

 Weeks pass, and the location of the traveler is revealed. It seems they have taken to siding with Kamisato Ayaka, and the Sangonomiya Resistance. How heroic, you think as you pass by your vanity mirror. You gaze at the image of yourself, smiling, though the smile doesn’t meet your eyes. The reflection looks much like a husk, a former being of someone they once were.

 You don’t recognize the person who stares back at you.

 Your heart almost shatters at the sight of yourself. Kujou Sara was right, you supposed. These emotions only lead you to sadness, and as you pick up a needle from the box you had hidden so deeply under piles of clothes, you can’t help but stare at the liquid within it. The vial shines with an almost clear liquid. You frown, cementing your heart once more as you leave for a fairly rough expedition today. You take a deep breath and focus.

 A voice screamed inside your mind, begging you to stop once again, and this time, instead of burying it, you killed it without mercy.

 You wondered how your parents would look at you now. You wondered how you from months ago would look at yourself now.

 Your pyro vision burns at your side.

Chapter Text

 The afternoon is cloudy, the wind is furious and blowing on you and your troop relentlessly. The air bites at your skin where it’s exposed, while the rest of the Fatui members following you seem to be comfortable in the warmth of their clothes. Heat emanates from your side, warming you with the everlasting flame that the pyro goddess had gifted you many years ago. The electro beasts that halted shipment just lay ahead. Despite you leading the frontline, your squadron was keen on protecting you.

 It slightly angered you, being protected like this. You were strong, and stronger now than ever, though you supposed you couldn’t lament on that. You couldn’t blame them, considering they were just looking out for you. With clenched teeth, you turn around and give your new squadron one last look, with a heavy heart. You want to apologize to them, you hope to tell them they could make it, but there were no promises to be made, when they were only to be broken at the end. There’s a brunette haired male in particular that sticks closer to you than the rest of them, the same male who had called you a kind hearted person several months ago. You had come to admire his naivety, thinking of it as something that was cute despite how dumb it looked. It reminded you much like yourself during your first few years as a Fatui. 

 “Brace yourselves,” you say with a stern voice, your eyes peering at your squadron and making sure each one of them was prepared, and once they all gave you a fighting expression, you nod. “We shall flank from the back,” you turn around and pull your twin daggers out. 

 It was time to get rid of them once and for all.

 The fight is longer than you expect it to be. Your teammates are lasting longer than you had thought, and you couldn’t help but be proud of them and yourself for teaching them in a much more organized fashion. The you from months ago, in this state of mind, would have never won against such strong beasts. The dead images of your teammates cross your mind as you adeptly dodge an oncoming strike from a beast that teleports behind you. You bite your lip when you kill the beast, clenching your teeth as you feel your heart sink to your stomach. You could only beg for yourself to remain strong for the rest of the day.

 When you tear into the next beast that attacks you, you think of discarding what’s left of your consciousness. There are several screams around you, and you think it’s about time to get started. You don’t let the beast die, you injure it badly enough for it to momentarily retreat back, snarling at you as you glare at it. You rush over to the brown haired male, noticing that there’s a look of fear in his eyes as he watches his teammates slowly fall down, one by one.

 You snap him out of it with a firm shake, your eyes peering into his own, wide blue ones. “Get a grip,” you scowl as you shake him, and when his eyes are focused onto yours, you continue, “get back up. Now,” you hiss as you push him away from the battlefield, “there’s signs of a Pyro Regisvine nearby and we can’t handle it with the way our troops are now!”

 He looks at you in disbelief, “A Pyro Regisvine?” He repeats tentatively as he backs away from the scene, the situation dawning on him completely as he swivels around and runs the other direction.

 When he’s completely gone, you will yourself and ignore the various voices shouting in your mind. You shake off all the anxiety that exhumes from every cell within your body as you spin your daggers in front of you and hold them out to the electro beast. When you narrow your eyes and lower yourself in preparation to launch, you feel a familiar heat creep up your body, watching as swirls of fire tangle themselves around your blade, lighting them up completely.

 Then, you attack. 

 You leap at the large beast before you and manage to land a hit as it swipes at the spot where you had once stood. When it disappears, you throw one of your daggers into the air as flames encircle it, and you immediately dash away from your spot when you hear a growl behind you. In mid air, the ring of fire around the dagger explodes into a larger circle, engulfing everything within it in flames, effectively killing the beast in one go. So your assumptions had been correct , you muse as you watch the beast's body fall limp before fading away into ashes from within your ring of fire. Il Dottore’s edits to your body have indeed increased your ability to handle your pyro flames without much resistance, and with little pain.

 With this in mind, you help the rest of your teammates finish off the next two other beasts to appear. You had supposed this area was a nesting area for the beasts, though it would seem that your teammates and yourself have gotten rid of the nest completely now. When all is quiet, and rain begins to fall, your teammates let out cheers of success. You smile at them, thinking that they had deserved this moment at least, since these beasts were exceptionally hard to get rid of, especially since they were fairly new to these types of creatures.

 Their cheers silence when they notice your pyro flames growing on your blades, the light rain sizzling when it hits the heat of your blades. Your lips pull into a thin line as you stare at them, your heart unmoving as you cement your mind. You had to stay strong.

 “Officer,” one of them begins, a girl with a typical Fatui mask on, slowly approaches you. Her voice is hesitant, sounding extremely unsure of herself as she ambles towards you, “I thought you weren’t supposed to use your pyro flames quite yet.”

 You give her an empty smile, “I’m not.” She was right, you weren’t allowed to. Not officially anyway, but you had eventually built a tolerance for the heat of your flames, and with this new body, you could handle your pyro vision better. As her face brightens, your own expression darkens. She approaches you excitedly, chattering about, and in your ears, her voice drowns out. You avert your eyes away off to the side, letting out a discordant sigh as you push the rest of your feelings down.

 When the Fatui member approaches you too closely, you manage to whisper before turning your gaze towards her, causing her to gasp at the look in your eyes. The grip on your blade tightens as you imbue it in the strongest pyro flames you can muster.

 “I’m sorry.”

 Your teammate is a second too late to realize your intentions, and by the time you have impaled your dagger into her chest, it’s too late. The group surrounding you let out horrified shrieks and gasps alike as you twist the blade, allowing your flames to further pass through your veins and into her body. In seconds, her body incinerates into ashes. The screams around you are loud, though you find that the screaming in your mind is louder. When you turn your gaze back up, you find that they are all now looking at you as though you were some kind of beast, much like the electro beasts you had managed to take down with them earlier.

 Your eyes are lifeless, as you imbue your other dagger with violent torrents of flames. The rain begins to pour harder, though it seems that they are no match in comparison to your flames. When they launch at you, you swiftly move.

 In a macabre dance, you sway from left to right, being careful to dodge their attacks despite your mind shutting itself off. Their cries were distant to you, their blood splattering all over your clothes and staining you in crimson colors, and you find that you hardly care for it. Or rather, you had disassociated so far, you didn’t feel like you were in your own body anymore. You were simply watching yourself in pure terror at what you’ve become.

It isn’t until a pained shout comes from behind you that you realize and remember where you are. Standing over a dead body, with your dagger so deep into your teammate’s chest, you stare with wide eyes and as a familiar voice sobs from behind you.

 “Miss..!” The female voice cries, and the familiarity of the voice causes you to freeze up. You swivel around in slow motion, your breath quickening as panic settles within you, the weight of your own actions dawning on you completely when you see a familiar nurse standing behind you, crouched over in the mud. “What’s gotten into you?” The once friendly face of the nurse was now contorted in agony, her eyes wide as you pulled the dagger out from your teammate's body.

 You don’t know how to respond. You simply stare at her with wide eyes before trailing your gaze downwards at your own hands. Blood splattered all over your arms, gently being washed away by the rain, though your clothes seemed to be permanently stained. You look behind you and observe the corpses, the pungent smell of burnt flesh burning into your mind. You almost vomit. When you turn to face her again, she’s running away, and before you know it, you’re behind her, catching up to her.

  No, a voice sobs inside your mind as you reach an arm forward and pull her back. There’s a thousand screams and cries that echo in your mind when she falls limp, sputtering blood from her mouth when she coughs. You let go of your blade when you realize your hand was close enough to her torso to feel the warmth of her body, flinching away from the feeling of heat as your breaths quicken once more. You can’t make out half of the words she’s saying, but you understand one word in her sentence.

  Why?

  Why? You ask yourself the same question as her eyes turn dim. She had done nothing but help you. So had the rest of your teammates. You want to scream, you want to cry, you want to tear yourself apart. Why have you done this? 

  Scaramouche, your mind answers for you. Because you hated Scaramouche. Because you wanted to see him fall where he stood, like he had done to you. Because red suited his person, because he loved the red in your hair, so maybe he’d learn to hate the red that surrounded him when you were done with all this. 

 When the light inside the nurse’s eyes fades, you open your mouth to scream.

 Nothing comes out.

 When the moment passes, and nothing but rainfall and smoke remains, you inject yourself with the elemental suppressants, letting out a small gasp as the needle pierced through your veins. You gaze up at the stormy sky above with glassy eyes, watching as streaks of white stream through the clouds. You feel the rot within you fester, and you think that one day, you might just disappear entirely.

 A huge plume of smoke comes out from the forest you exit as small fires spread from within it. Carnage blooms from your every step. Your vision is blurry from the rain, droplets stacking on your eyelashes. Your clothes are wet as you trudge through mud carelessly, listening to the sound of thunder crashing from afar, mixed with the heavy rainfall. 

 You don’t feel the slightest bit relaxed with the ambience that accompanies the rainfall. Your mind and soul are torn, your heart ripped from its place, but the thought of vengeance is ever present in your thoughts. A smile appears on your features as you notice that the blood from your hands were disappearing, drained from the rain, leaving only the iciness of the rain on your skin. The rain felt as though it was cleaning you, getting rid of all your sins, it felt blissful. 

 You trudge onwards back to the Fatui headquarters, your eyes hazy as you look up from the path as you hear a distant call.

 “Officer!”

 Ah, it seems that your junior was back. When you focus your gaze up ahead, you notice two familiar silhouettes, and your blood freezes at the sight of the gold rims on the kasa hat. The Fatui member you had sent out to receive back up had gotten Scaramouche. You didn’t think this would happen, though you figured Scaramouche always found a way to stay close to you. When your gaze meets his, you realize you haven’t truly seen him face to face in days. His indigo colored irises narrow at the sight of you, and when he notices the puffs of dark smoke in the forest behind you, he scowls.

 Scaramouche had hurried at the notion of a Pyro Regisvine somehow blooming in the outskirts of Inazuma, knowing that no such thing was to exist here, and when he sees your figure, covered in blood, he pauses. “I see no beast, nor a flower,” he says under his breath, clicking his tongue as you begin to approach the both of them, your movements steady and calculated, “but I do see a desperate butterfly .”

 You continue to walk towards the both of them, your lips spreading into a firm frown as you stare at your junior. “Officer,” he smiles at you softly, albeit nervously at your form, “you’re safe! How is everyone else? Did the nurse tend to them fine? ” He asks you, and when he notices you don’t stop at an arm’s length away from him, his expression turns confused. You raise a clean hand and pat his shoulder, your eyes veering in on his own as you begin to speak. You remember the nurse, having helped you through so much, and then her eyes of terror that gaze at you as you slaughter your own teammates. Your gaze switches from your junior’s eyes to Scaramouche’s own, meeting his gaze halfway.

 Scaramouche scowled at you, glaring at you without completely turning his face to look at you. You suppress your negative emotions in front of Scaramouche and smile, “I didn’t think he’d come to get you .” You had expected another nearby team to approach. What had you expected, your husband was your number one stalker after all. You had expected to do a little more damage than just this, though you supposed showing him straight would work just as well.

 As thunder roars closer towards the three of you, the junior looks between the both of you, noticing the tension that settles where he stands. He smiles and laughs, unsure of what to make of the situation before turning his gaze back towards you, “Officer, how is everyone doing?”

 His words cause you to slowly avert your eyes back at him, focusing onto the blue of his eyes. Your smile falters for a brief moment, and then you remind him of something you had said long ago, “Do you remember what I told you?” His azure eyes narrow with confusion, and abruptly widen when you plunge your dagger through his back. He gasps and clenches his teeth, his motions stuttering as he attempts to pull away from you. Your eyes are emotionless when you pull your blade out from his body, watching as he falls limp at your feet. “If I had to choose between all of you,” you begin as you watch him writhe on the floor, blood spewing around his body as you continue, “I’d choose myself. Every chance I could.”

 Scaramouche glares at you, turning to face you as electricity hummed around you, lightning striking closer to the three of you now, as thunder roars from above. “What is all this,” Scaramouche hisses as he shifts his body towards you, “a weak act of rebellion? ”

 “I don’t know what you mean,” you respond with a blank tone, a frown on your face as you meet indigo irises, burning with irritation and anger at your tone. 

 “Don’t fuck with me,” Scaramouche glowers as he swiftly grabs you by tugging at your arm, forcefully putting you closer with him, and as you stumble towards him, a slow smile grows on your face. It felt good, you thought, making him angry. He deserved it. Seeing him enraged brought such a beautiful feeling to bloom in your chest. You wanted to sigh, you embraced every second of this hatred. Rain pelted away at his kasa hat, his clothes soaking, though you figure the bloody mess you were in wasn’t much better. 

 “I know you'll stay with me regardless,” you whisper, the heaviness of the rain almost silencing your voice, though you understand Scaramouche can hear it. It showed from the look in his eyes, his pupils sharpening into slits as he glared at you, his teeth clenched. The smile on your face is fragile, looking almost forced with how pained your cheeks stretched from side to side, but in your eyes, a sickening happiness flourished, “Even if I do all these things,” your tone softens, sounding honeyed, though it’s thoroughly laced with venom, “even if I kill all these people, you love me anyway, don’t you?”

 Scaramouche feels his blood freeze in his veins, his breath hitching as he absorbs the depraved expression on your face, his grip bruising on your arm. His eyes are wide as they gazes into your own, finding that they were much like an abyss, sucking him in.

 “You still love me, don’t you?” You tilt your head as you hold his gaze, feeling his grip on your arm falter for just a moment. Disgust flooded Scaramouche as he growled at you, his eyebrows furrowing angrily as his eyes gleamed with a familiar hue of violet. You continued to smile at him, your tone lowering as you continued to speak, “I’m going to return your love,” you admit, watching as a look of confusion passes through his eyes, “I’ll return the same love you gave me. I’ll make your life a living hell , take everything away from you bit by bit,” you hiss, feeling your pyro vision warm the side of your body, despite your elemental suppressants kicking in, “ you don’t mind, do you ?”

 Lightning strikes in the distance, illuminating your body and casting a ghostly haze over your figure, and thunder booms throughout the surroundings. Scaramouche stares at you with wide eyes, his grip slackening as he clicks his tongue.

 He pushes you away from him, and you fall to the muddy path below you. You stare down at the mud, mixed with blood from the body that lies next to you, looking at your own dirtied reflection. “Perhaps all those changes to your body have made you become less human,” Scaramouche surmises, sounding perplexed over your being, and when you glance back up at him, you find his indigo eyes still glaring down at you, “you look filthy, covered in mud. It looks like the rot from your insides is finally coming out. I shouldn’t take my chances with your despicable behavior anymore, I should lock you up now that you’ve completely lost it.”

 You glare back up at him, your smile widens, “This is what you wanted, is it not?” You shift yourself to stand up from your position, your tone harsh as you reply, “This is how you showed your ‘love’ towards me. So I’m simply mirroring it back at you,” the rainfall becomes exceptionally heavier, electricity buzzing in the air as you maintain your gaze on him, “and what better a chance to bring you down with me than to soil your reputation as harbinger, and make you look incapable of choosing the correct people to send off to missions.” You point your dagger up at him and attempt to will your fire forth.

 When nothing happens, you take a step back and shrug, smiling at him knowingly, “I suppose you can’t lock me up when I’ve gotten rid of the beasts in the forest. I did my best with what I could,” your voice trails off for a moment, “seeing as I still am unable to use my pyro vision properly anymore.”

 Scaramouche’s voice drops a few octaves, his expression dark as he glares at you, “Let me tell you something,” he hisses, “a loss such as this will do little to affect me. Your threats are nothing to me. Did you forget who I am? ” He scoffs, momentarily walking around you, circling you as if he were a vulture, “I’m the Balladeer, the sixth Fatui harbinger, and I don’t require permission to lock you up,” he growls as a surge of electricity pulses within his hands, “ darling.”

 You hum, thinking about his words briefly as you sheathe your daggers, your eyes meeting the sky above you. You embrace the cold rain that refuses to comfort you, “Well? What will you do then?” Your voice isn’t taunting, no, but rather implied a genuine question, “Could you bear it? Locking me up.”

 Scaramouche pauses, halting just behind you as he raises a hand. He reaches the bottom strands of your hair, tugging at them slightly as a devilish smile crawls onto his face. “You’ve been oddly daring, considering I still have your mother in my hands,” he begins, and when you stiffen, his smile grows, “surely, you haven’t forgotten about such an important thing, no?”

 “How could I?” You respond boldly, clenching your fists at your sides, refusing to turn around and look at him.

 “Then,” he hisses as he tugs at your hair harder, entangling his fingers in between your locks, eliciting a sharp gasp from your mouth, “ you should know better not to act this stupid. Don’t forget your place, you might try your luck and get an upper hand with me, but I’ll never let you have it. ” You are just about to unsheathe your daggers once more until he stops you with his free hand, “Uh-uh, ” he chuckles darkly as he tugs you closer to him, pulling you backwards and underneath the shade of his hat. You clench your teeth, desperately wishing that your pyro vision could somehow break through this moment, wishing that you could just turn him into cinders where he stood. “I’m tired of your little games,” Scaramouche hisses into your ear as another clap of lightning passes, “ you’ve passed the line of decency on me.”

  “I never fucking cared,” you hiss back, furrowing your eyebrows as you raise a foot at stomp on his own. Your actions cause him to loosen his grip momentarily, and you use that moment to back away from him, swiftly taking a dagger out from its sheath as you reposition yourself to prepare for an attack.

 Instead, he glares down at you, his eyes wide as a dark chuckle leaves his mouth. “You’ve truly lost your mind, haven’t you? I believe I’ll have to reteach you your place.” He laughs as his eyes gleam a violet color, and when his laughter suddenly halts, he raises a hand up, focusing energy into it before clenching his hand into a fist. 

 When a sudden bolt of lightning crashes through you, catching you off guard, you fall to your knees. The electricity thrums throughout your system, and your ears ring as you attempt to regain yourself, unable to hear the quick approaching footsteps before you. When you come to, you find Scaramouche’s shadow towering above you. You turn your gaze upwards, feeling strange when your eyes meet his own. He just stands and observes you for a moment, and then a smile stretches onto his lips.

 “I suppose it’s been some time since I’ve last seen you like this,” he begins as he crouches down to your level, and you find yourself unable to move, with the electricity still coursing through your veins, the rain falling from above not helping your circumstance. You focus on composing yourself before him, watching as he raises a hand, extending his index and middle finger to your chin, lifting your head up further as you gaze at him. 

 Scaramouche hums, satisfied, his smile growing as a swirl of an emotion unknown to you buzzes within his eyes. “This is just right , isn’t it? You looking up at me like this,” he hums. A feeling of rage boils within you, and you wish to tear him apart where he stands. You struggle to find the energy to do so. He seems to notice this, and he scoffs at your poor form before continuing, “Alright then, you don’t care? ” He starts again, mimicking you until his tone turning malicious, “We’ll see about that. Let’s start with your mother.” When he notices a familiar glint of anger burn through your eyes, he pulls away, straightening his posture as he glares down at you.

 Lightning strikes from behind him, illuminating his body momentarily as he turns around, leaving you in the mud to wallow and think about your actions. Unable to speak, you hiss through your clenched teeth, hoping that one day your vision grants you flames harsh enough to burn through his body. 

 You fantasize about killing him, ripping him limb from limb and bathing in his blood. The violence of your thoughts shakes you momentarily, and you see the lives you took in the forest flashing like shards of memories within your mind. In your mind, a pile of dead bodies stack up. You want to vomit. Still, you were filled with rage. Anger boils in every cell of your body as you hear the faint jingling of his bells disappearing into the distance. Your body shakes as the wave of electricity passes, and you finally let out a pained gasp as you let yourself fall into the muddied floor, landing face first on your cheek as rain pelts down on you. 

 You want to scream, you want to cry, you feel nauseated with yourself. You let out broken whimpers through clenched teeth, your eyes shut as you focus on the rage that burned within the pits of your stomach as opposed to the damage and sorrow that threatened to break through your mental walls. 

 “Why…” You hear a torn voice say weakly from your side. You open your eyes, gazing at the direction the voice came from as you continued to shake in the iciness of the rain, your vision no longer warming you as a mixture of mournful emotions swelled within your chest. You recognize the voice to be your junior, and it briefly amazes you that he’s still alive. When he continues, you find yourself freezing up completely.

  “Did you kill the rest of them too?”

 The smell of burning bodies lingers in your mind, and you stop breathing for a few seconds, hoping that the moment would come to pass as the Fatui member proceeds to speak, “Why?” His voice isn’t sorrowful, it’s filled with a bitter resentment that pains you to hear. A sob breaks from your throat as a hollowness begins to spiral within you. “ You’re crying? Why? The both of you are so selfish...” You hear his voice slowly fading with each word he forces through his dried throat, “What did we do to deserve being in the center of the hell you and him created? Why do we have to die for your mistakes?”

 You think about your short memories with your teammates, and a sudden pain shoots from within your brain, shattering whatever wall you had up to keep yourself from feeling. Memories race within your mind, and you see the daruma dolls you created for your previous teammates. Your hands fly to your head as you feel a burning sensation within you, flaring from your brain, spreading throughout your veins and ending at the tips of your fingers as you let out a shrill scream. You claw at your scalp as tears fall from your eyes.

 A clap of thunder drowns out your pained shouts as you begin to roll in the mud, your face staring up at the darkness of the sky above you as you choke on your own screams, “Die!” You shout into the nothingness of the sky, “Just die, die, die!” You don’t know who you’re speaking to. You figure it doesn’t matter, and you continue to let yourself shout, “Everything doesn't matter, everything is unfair! I just…” You pause, as you bring pieces of your hair to your face, attempting to shield yourself from the world as you felt that the sky would swallow you whole where you stood. You think about Scaramouche, and your heart burns as you think that you should truly just tear it out where it is. “I just…” You begin once more, cutting yourself off as you remember the night in Liyue, where he holds you under the moonlight, when the sky threatened to swallow you the same way it did now. That was the day you truly lost yourself.

 This was just the aftereffect of it all.

 Scaramouche -- you hated him -- wasn’t here to hold you as you cried anymore. You think about the several nights you spent, holding each other, enjoying the silence under the moonlight. Scaramouche wasn’t here to keep you still, to keep you grounded, he wasn’t here, he wasn’t here, he wasn’t here -- he wasn’t. Here.

 You hated him. The burning feeling in your heart, it was because you hated him. He killed your father. You hated him.

 Right?

  The red camellia flower in the graveyard of your mind remains untouched. You can’t bring yourself to rip it out. You hate yourself for it. You were disgusting, rotten inside.

 The weight of the ring on your finger is heavy, and you think that because of it, you can’t stand up from where you are now. You feel cold, you feel sick, you feel everything all at once. “I just wanted to be happy… I wanted to be a good daughter, I wanted to love … I wanted to be held ,” you sob quietly as you allow the back of your hands to press onto your closed eyelids. You think of your father. Would he still love you? Would your parents still call you their butterfly, or would they see the reflection of a beast? The earth is shattering , you think as the sound of rain begins to flood your ears. You hoped the earth would close up around you and swallow you into its abyss, and another part of you hopes to hear the faint jingling of bells to return, for the man you saw as a grim reaper to hold you, and take you to the other side.

 You think in the silence of your mind, that if you were to die, you would love to be reborn as a normal girl, living a regular life. Maybe you would find a normal man to love, and settle with him. Maybe you’d become the housewife your mother always thought you’d be, and maybe you’d give her the grandchildren she wished for. She would be happy. She could die happy.

 Bitterly, you remember Scaramouche’s threat to see your mother.

 As thunder roars in the distance, you think that perhaps you’d beat him to it.

Chapter Text

 Despite Scaramouche’s threat, the Tsaritsa keeps him on a firm leash, continuously having him work like a dog, now that the Delusion Factory had been completely created. Sending troops out to lend them to other soldiers in different factions within Inazuma meant micromanaging, something Scaramouche was good at.

 For the next week, you avoid all contact with Scaramouche, even when he demands your presence. You’re always off on a mission, and when you do see him, it’s only in the hallways during the afternoon. At night, he seems to make desperate attempts to see you. He enters as early as he can, sometimes leaving leftover work from yesterday to carry onto tomorrow, though when you figured out his pattern, you simply lugged around extra garments in a knapsack. You didn’t want to see him for a plethora of reasons, though you find that the strongest reason you find relates to your hatred towards him. Not seeing him meant you wouldn’t feel anything further than hatred for him.

 You were aware of the red camellia that bloomed steadily in your mind. 

 If Scaramouche’s existence was like water to that camellia, then perhaps it was better you didn’t see him at all. You’d water it so little, it would have no choice but to wither and die. And the days you hardly saw him, you would wallow in your resentment, bathe in your anger towards him and feed that fire within you, because at this point, you felt like it was the only thing keeping you going. He had covered up for your massacre earlier, knowing it would leave a stain on his name, although as a result of your actions, you were officially demoted.  You weren’t sure if it was his soft spot for you that he hadn’t ratted out on you completely, or if it were the fact that he simply needed no extra work to do, considering he was busy enough as it was.

 Either way, rumors had broken out throughout headquarters. Rumors of pyro elemental residue in the forest, rumors of corpses scattered with wound marks much like common Fatui-made daggers. La Signora gains a further interest towards you, and you understand that when she occasionally saunters over to you to make small talk, though you find yourself hardly responding with anything more than singular worded responses.

 More and more people were avoiding you, especially now, noting the fact that Scaramouche had demoted you back to a regular Fatui troop, even officers had a hard time ordering you around. It had gotten so bad to the point where you couldn’t even eat comfortably with all the stares you had received, thus you opted on eating in the least cold, most peaceful place you could find. The Fatui storage room.

 As days passed, a few curious Fatui members would approach you and ask you about your missing ring. You would simply reply that you had somehow forgotten to wear it today, though the truth was, you had left it on the vanity table openly for him to see on your first night back after the bloodbath you had created. It was your silent rebellion that had perhaps led him to search for you more frequently when he had even a minute of time. His actions were restless, and then again, so were yours.

 You had been practicing your emotions in front of a mirror whenever you could for when you were to see your mother again. You wanted the execution of your next visit to her to be flawless, so that she wouldn’t see the dread in your eyes.

 When the day to visit her arrives, you are prepared. The needle you had pocketed in your knapsack for when you went to visit her was no longer meant to contain your pyro flames for whenever they became too strong, no, you were in control of them now. It was an excuse, for what you could possibly do when you got there.

 Entering Scaramouche's bedroom, you find he's already gone and where he usually lay were a stack of books written in Khaen'riah's native language, something you were ill versed with. The stack of books makes you briefly wonder what he had been up to with such an odd choice of literature. You figured that perhaps he could read them. You thought about where he had learned such skill from since there were no teachings of the language within Inazuma, for as far as you knew anyway. The Fatui Harbingers were in a league of their own, perhaps they had their own different regime to follow.

 You change your clothes, taking your time to slide into a thicker, elegant kimono that Scaramouche had purchased for you a few months earlier. You shut your eyes as you reminisce the pleasant feelings that come into your mind tied to the memories of when you had received the kimono. Reaching your vanity table, you set your eyes on the metal ring, unmoved from its place since you had last put it down. You slide the ring back over your scarred ring finger, the cool steel calming against the warmth of your skin. You seat yourself in front of the mirror and stare at your own reflection from the glass.

 You weren't sure who was staring back at you, despite knowing it was your own reflection staring back at you. You tried to think about what you looked like months ago, and find that you can't. The memories are covered in a thick film of fog, much like ink spilling on paper, obscuring the formatting that was there. With an exasperated sigh, you pick up makeup and desperately pray that if you had painted on the canvas of your face some sort of semblance of yourself from months ago, it would help you remind you who you were.

 You trek up the road to Chinju forest after sneaking out in a formal kimono and your wedding band, wanting to keep your guise of being a happily wedded woman for your mother’s final moments. You were sure that if you kept this guise up until her last second, she would be happy. She would pass away merrily, knowing her daughter was happy, knowing that everything in the world was well, and if your mother asked you where Scaramouche was today, you’d simply tell her that he was busy with work. It wasn’t a lie.

 Scaramouche was busy at the Delusion Factory today, laying low, in wait for the Traveler’s appearance. You smile as you find yourself on a familiar path, and your smile grows eerie when you think morbidly about how badly you wished for the Traveler to cut Scaramouche down where he was. The Traveler was strong, they had beaten the god, Osial, and had apparently beaten the fierce dragon within the Mondstadt region. Surely, this puny silhouette of a man would be much like beating a fly down.

 Upon approaching the doors to your home within a clearing in the forest, a wave of nostalgia crashes down onto you, and it almost brings you to your knees, your heart rate pulsing as one memory after another resurfaces from the deepest parts of your brain. You see glimpses of your childhood self, running around the front yard with your father, climbing small trees and getting in trouble, and pressing on the wooden floorboard of your home that seemed to creak obnoxiously loud with the weight of your body on it.

 Feeling the chill of the morning on your skin, you snap out of it, letting out a soft sigh as you put a hand to your heart, gauging your heartbeats as you recompose yourself. You couldn’t allow yourself to break. Not after everything you have done. Not after everything you were about to do. 

 With a practiced smile, you knock at the front door. The door opens after a few beats of silence, and one look at your mother’s face has your resolution immediately wavering. With clenched teeth, you immediately wrap your arms around her, not wanting to see her face out of fear of having your weaknesses brought out of you once again. You worked hard to bury each and every single thing that had made you ‘weak’ in your mind, from the things you had sought for, to the things you had loved and had given you the will to live.

 When your mother wraps her arms around you and sobs, you realize then that you’ve neglected her monthly letters to you. You realize your hatred has eaten you up so much that you hadn’t even given a single thought to just visit her as her daughter, despite all your woes. When she lets out an audible ‘ I love you’, you wonder, as tears begin to brim the rims of your eyes, just when everything had gone so terribly wrong to bring you here, with a dagger hidden under your layers of clothes in preparation to do something so unspeakable to your own mother. The weight of the needle in your bag is heavy, despite its featherweight.

 You relax into her embrace as you inhale the smell of your old home, your mouth opening to say something as you feel her body shake from all her sobbing. No noise leaves your throat. You simply let her hold you.

 After paying respects to your father's shrine, your mother is quick to offer you plates of food and tea when you enter the house and seat yourself at the kotatsu, embracing the warmth it gave you as you adjust the butterfly pin in your hair, the weight of metal on your ring finger clashing with the metal of your pin serving as a bitter reminder that you still very much had to act as though you were in love with Scaramouche. You choose not to eat, saying that you were full from the breakfast you had this morning. You were lying, of course. All morning upon noticing Scaramouche’s lack of presence, you realized today would be the official day to see your mother. You were much too nervous to eat, and much too nervous to do anything other than prepare yourself. Your face was much heavier with makeup today, as you had wanted to create an illusion to show to your mother that you were perfectly fine.

 Mother hums when you refuse to eat, eying you for a moment before leaving to the kitchen. When she returns, she carries a plate of apples, all cut similarly with the pattern of what looks like rabbit ears on them. Your heart immediately warms at the sight. “Your favorite,” your mother grins happily at you as she sets the platter down before you, admiring the look of surprise on your face, “since you were a child you’ve always loved usagi ringo.” She pauses for a moment, seating herself down in front of you as she gives you a wrinkly smile, “Do you remember the first time I made these for you?”

 Her question catches you off guard momentarily, and you ponder for a moment, only to find that there was nothing in your mind other than a black hole that threatened to swallow any source of light into it. “No,” you reply honestly as you look down at your lap, feeling somewhat dejected when you feel the void within you grow from the lack of memories you remember.

 “Really now?” Your mother laughs lightheartedly before moving the plate towards you, ushering you to eat it with that small gesture, “You had lost your first beetle hunt against your father, and you were so depressed about it you refused to enter the house,” she responds with a joy that feels lost on you. “Do you remember that?” Your mother inquires once more, and a part of you wishes that she would stop asking altogether. You were doing your best to repress any sort of reaction that could crack you. It was crucial to kill all your feelings.

 With a bitter smile, you shake your head. You turn your gaze back up to look at her, "I don't remember any of that," your tone is icy, much like the weather outside of the house. Along with the coldness of your voice, comes a sense of foreignness that your mother easily picked up on. Your mother's gaze turns worried. Immediately, you regret your decisions and gulp as you prepare yourself to be questioned.

 "What's wrong dear?" Your mother frowns, reaching for your hand over the table. Flinching away from her grasp, you play with loose strands of hair framing your face, unsure what to say before reluctantly lying.

 "Kunikuzushi and I just got into a little argument is all," you sigh. Yes , you internally roll your eyes at your own words, an argument large enough to kill each other. "I don't know how to make it up to him, because I was in the wrong," you speak once more, the edges of your lips downturned when you gaze into her eyes.

 Your mother hesitates to reply for a moment, a look of reassurance washing over her expression as she gives you a small, appreciative smile. "Oh," your mother muses as she retracts her hand from your side of the table, "a simple lovers spat, I see." You could only wish it was as simple as she thought it was. "I suppose there's nothing a little kiss won't fix," your mother replies as she lets out a hearty laugh, her eyes gleaming with a sense of mysteriousness when she notices that there's a strange look in your eyes.

 "I suppose so," you smile at her, ignoring the clenching in your heart as you reach for a toothpick to eat the apple slices. As though your words were magic, your mother began to babble about how much she had missed you. She begins to catch you up on small creatures she meets in the forest when she walks around, and then talks about more mundane things about new wagashi recipes she has been creating. 

 As mother speaks, you find your brain floating away, as though purposely separating itself from the moment. You don't bother retrieving it, knowing it was leaving you for a good reason. You couldn't afford to bring it back to you as it would only bring you more pain than not.

  When your mother purses her lips and smiles at you wearily, her eyes narrowing considerably as she observes your expression once more, she speaks once more. "That was all a lie," her voice is soft, no sign of animosity in her voice as she tilts her head, watching as your eyes widen in surprise at her words. "I haven't made any new wagashi recipes," she begins once more, and you feel your heart sink to the floor as she continues, "I haven't seen anything new. I haven't been cleaning properly, I haven't cooked myself a good meal in a long while," mother pauses, her eyes trailing downwards to the remaining two apple slices on the plate before you, "I haven't been doing well since your father has passed."

 You clench your teeth, hands firm against your lap as you maintain her gaze on you, a pinprick of guilt beginning to seep through your consciousness at the thought of your father. You had neglected your mother's wellbeing ever since your mental breakdown, your mother also didn't know that your father's death had been planned by your husband. The pained look in her eyes makes you wish your pyro flames went berserk. You hoped you would drown in its flames.

 "Your husband and yourself have been my only joy lately, don't you know that?" Your mother's voice is shaky, sounding as though she were only holding onto her sanity by strings, sounding much like yourself, like the voice in your mind. "And it pains me to know that you've been suffering too," her words cause your blood to freeze. You push some loose strands of hair back, tucking them behind your ear as you think nervously about what your mother had meant. Had you screwed up? If so, was it something you said? Did your mother catch on already?

Your mother gives you a pitiful look before pressing on, "You've been lying to me, haven't you?"

 The voice that you thought you had killed in your mind feels as though it's starting to revive. "No," you shake your head, though your expression doesn't reflect your words, "I'm not lying."

 Your mother looks down at the leftover apple slices, her gaze turning distant as she focuses on the red of the apple, "But you are," she begins slowly, and you see a flicker of forlornness in her eyes, “you’re a Fatui, aren’t you?” 

 You stop breathing, and it feels as though the world around you is slipping away with every passing second. You stare at her with wide eyes and clenched teeth, your hands clammy from the buildup of anxiety you were feeling. You attempt to shake your head, but find your body is far too stiff to create such fluid motions. 

 Mother lets out a heavy sigh before pursing her lips, her eyes narrowed as she tosses you a weak smile, “I thought as much,” your mother solemnly admits before shutting her eyes, her gaze turning downwards as she continues, “there was no way you would be giving us this much money to import expensive medicine from Liyue, to support our family, to house us and yourself with just a regular job at hand. Even as a government official, it would be hard to do everything you did for us.” Mother laughs, her laughter sounding acrid when it leaves her mouth, “I thought it was strange. We got smuggled across the waters towards Liyue with unfamiliar business permits, signed by a person named Tartaglia. And then there were those rumors I overheard while in Liyue, about a man working with the Fatui with a similar name who had almost ruined the entire city.”

 You remember your mother was always much smarter than your father, and you think that perhaps you were too obvious with how you went about your so called ‘innocuous job’. Tartaglia’s signed permits were just a cherry on the top.

 Your mother awaits for your response, though you find yourself unable to speak. There’s a lump in your throat that refuses to leave, and a panic in your head that has forced you to settle physically to keep what’s left of you together.

 This was it. The cat was out of the bag, she knew. Your mother knew you had been siding with the Fatui. She has had her suspicions, and now, she must see you as a monster of some sort. You suppose her thoughts wouldn’t be wrong, you had changed significantly from six years ago. You avert your gaze and stare at the familiar paper paneling of your home, eyes searching for something to fixate on as you refuse to speak. Your lack of response proved to be enough to your mother, however. Mother offers you a torn smile as she begins to speak again.

 “I’m sorry,” her sudden apology causes your brain to halt for a moment. What? You slowly swivel your head back towards your mother, your eyebrows furrowing at her words. You observe her downtrodden expression, confusion overwhelming you as you gaze at her. “I’m sorry, dear,” your mother sounds broken. She sounds as though she had been the one going behind your back and betraying you, she sounds as though she were the problem. Her voice scratches at your heart, and rips through your very soul with such a force that immediately causes you to speak.

 “Why are you sorry?”

 There’s a scathing emptiness that blossoms within you, and you feel as though it would swallow you up. You continue to stare at her despite the swirl of chaotic emotions within you.

 Mother takes a moment, letting out a shaky breath as she attempts to recompose herself, tears slowly welling within her eyes. “... We must’ve forced you to get to this position,” her words are so heavy in your mind, it feels as though the world would fall through, “it’s because your dad and I were weak, because we couldn’t take care of ourselves, right?” You don’t say anything. You keep staring at her, flabbergasted by her words. “You wouldn’t have chosen to be a part of the Fatui, not willingly anyway, unless…” Her voice trails off into a dead silence, and her following words cause your heart to shatter, “I suppose we have failed you, as your parents.”

 “No,” you quickly say in response to her depressing admittal, “no, no, it’s not like that.” Your mind is everywhere, a plethora of questions firing within your mind as you continue to speak, “You two haven’t failed me, I failed me.” You smile at the sadness of your own words, “I failed me, I couldn’t think of any other way to make lots of money in so little time to support the both of you, I couldn’t--!” Everything you’ve been holding back begins to overwhelm you, and you want to scream at the flood of emotions rising within you.

 Tears flood your eyes as you bite your lip in frustration, your shoulders slumping in defeat as you let out a shaky sob, “I couldn’t think of any other way. I couldn’t let myself just date a rich man with all the money in the world, I couldn’t just sit still and wait for the right opportunity, I just,” the empty laugh that leaves you echoes throughout the room, your gaze distant as you look at the sliced apples before you, “I just wanted to repay all of you while being able to rely on myself, so I selfishly chose to kill people . I chose to bring ruin to others for my own sake,” you turn your head to face your mother better, tears streaming down the sides of your face as you give her a smile, “all I ever did was take.”

 Your own words cause you to think for a brief moment, as you see an image of Scaramouche flash in your mind, that perhaps the two of you deserved each other. He was your punishment, and you were his. For every single thing you took from people, every ounce of happiness and life that had been killed by your own hands, Scaramouche had equally terrible punishments for you. And likewise, for every horrible thing he had done in his lifetime that had been left without punishment, you existed to serve as a cruel reminder, the antinomy of what he had wished for. A love he desperately vied for, yet could never truly receive.

 At your thoughts, you feel something within you settle, and you smile. What a cruel fate for the both of you.

 You feel exposed before your mother, allowing her to see your true colors for the first time in years as you smile at her wearily. In your mind, thoughts swirl and form violent threads of sentences, stringing along one onto another in a spiral of unease at her loud silence. Mother continues to stare at you, her eyes wide as her lips part slightly, gaping at you. You can see her mind whirring from where she sits, she’s thinking of what to say. You wish she wouldn’t say anything. The silence would be better than whatever she would have to offer next, you think as you shift your weight to one side of your body, angling yourself to grab your dagger with as little movement as possible.

 You had screwed up. She knew everything, you let her know everything. It was too late.

 You had to do it, while your mind was still busy with thinking of the many possibilities of what she would say. You had to do it while you were still distracted, while you were still out of it-- that way, just maybe, the weight of your sins would feel less burdensome. Now, or never.

 With your mind running in circles, you feel the tip of your handle against your index finger, your smile slowly fading as you feel your mind shatter. And then your mother speaks.

 “You did your best.”

 Her words cause you to stiffen once more, and your breath stops at your throat. Your mind veers to a halt, and it feels as though everything around you is happening in slow motion. You turn your gaze upwards to look at your mother, your eyes wide as the fragments of glass within your mind recollect sluggishly, and suddenly, everything feels… real.  

 Mother’s eyes are glassy when she looks at you, tears falling, like stars in the night sky when she gazes at you with an expression you could only think of was love. The love you had known so well, the love you had grown accustomed to. The type of love that Scaramouche never received, the kind that was so hard for him to grasp. Your mother’s face was written with everything love ever could be, with the understanding that you, her daughter, were a killer. That you, her daughter, had fallen so low. That you were still her daughter at the end of it all.

 “I’m sorry if we put such a pressure on you,” mother’s voice is soft, her tone like a warm embrace, and the darkness within you doesn’t disappear, but it stops creeping up against you like a parasite. The moment your eyes meet hers, you feel bliss. “Perhaps we have been too hard on you, our own beloved daughter,” she laughs as though nothing were ever wrong in the world, as though she didn’t just hear what you had said, “it must’ve been hard, doing all these things for us.”

 Your heart is loud against your ribcage. The world feels like it's opening up to you. You continue to look at her as she smiles warmly at you. “What a strange expression, my sweet butterfly,” she laughs, wiping her tears away, “it’s hard for mother to understand if you’re sad or happy right now.” In truth, you couldn’t answer her. There was a strange warmth that built in you at her words, and it felt fulfilling. As though this were something you were waiting for your whole life, and you didn’t even know about it.

 “Mom,” you begin tentatively, your throat feeling itchy when you speak, “ I have killed people. I have done so many horrible things,” tears continue to run down your face, crossing over the bumps of your lips as you chew on your lower lips anxiously, holding back whimpers as you let your posture relax, “I’m not the same as who I was so many years ago.” Your voice fades near the end of your sentence, as you break into sobs, your hands clenched into fists. Your nails dig into the skin of your palms, miniature crescents forming where the shell of your nails press. “I’m horrible, I’m rotten, I’m disgusting…” You don’t know why you’re saying all these things. It feels as though every single emotion you had worked so hard to bury within you was rising up, as though the gates to a dam you had built had fallen wide open.

 “I suppose that makes the three of us,” mother smiles bitterly as she reaches across the table, offering one of her shaky hands for you to hold, “your father and I have failed you. You have failed yourself,” her tone is tender when it falls on your ears, “at least, in the end, we fail as a family.”

 Laughter erupts from your mouth at the absurdity of her words, and it bubbles out from your throat in a pleasantness filled with despair. Mother’s way of comforting you was strange, though you figured she was probably coping in her own way as well.

 The cogwheels within your mind turn, and you feel strange. There’s a slight feeling of fear that builds in your stomach, a feeling of loss that swells within you and leaves a scorching feeling. You realize when you look at your mother’s torn face, that perhaps you weren’t the only one through the years bending and breaking, and the notion is surprisingly comforting to you. Unconsciously, you reach for her hand, outstretched on the table, linking your hand with hers in search of consolation amidst the chaos.

 “Well,” your mother begins, despite the constant spinning of your thoughts, “I suppose it’s safe to say Kunikuzushi is a Fatui member as well?” You don’t want to respond to her question, instead, you remain still, your features unmoving as your eyes admire the wrinkles of her fingers on yours. When she squeezes your hand, you understand that she’s waiting for your reply.

 You bite the inside of your cheek, feeling a sourness in your stomach as you start, “He’s a… Fatui harbinger,” you sigh, feeling your mother’s touch freeze up against your hand at your words, “he goes by the alias ‘Scaramouche’. Or, the Balladeer.”

 When your mother doesn’t respond for a long while, you slowly turn your gaze upwards, your eyes meeting her own as she stares at you in disbelief. The disbelief in her eyes dances with a sense of eeriness when her smile slowly falls, “That makes a lot more sense. I suppose I knew that too…”

 You pause at her words. “What?” The incredulity is clear in your tone, and quickly, your tone turns dangerous, “You knew?” You sound equally just as lost as you were in disbelief. The scar on your ring finger burns underneath the metal of the ring.

 Mother notices the change in your tone and looks hesitant for a moment before continuing, “I had my suspicions, but I was thinking that perhaps it was my senile mind making things up,” she slowly begins, eying you carefully and watching as your expression changes, your eyes falling dark as you stare at her. “I had heard stories of Kunikuzushi in rumors around Inazuma. I suppose that I had met him when I was a lot younger, maybe around the age of ten, when my parents sent me out to my first grocery store run.”

  That didn’t sound right, you think as you ponder on her words momentarily. They had met when your mother was ten? There had been rumors of Scaramouche previously, as well?

 Unknowing of your confusion, your mother continued, “I had bumped into Kunikuzushi, and all the apples had fallen out of my bag. I didn’t know who he was, of course, though I distinctly remember him asking me what I believed ‘love’ was when I was picking everything back up, and you know,” your mother laughs airily, “I loved apples at that age. I told him love was probably something red like an apple, or perhaps, red like the string of fate.”

 You clench your teeth as a familiar feeling of despair builds within you. Despite how familiar the story sounded, you refused to believe it was him. “There’s no way that was Kunikuzushi, mother,” you say with a tone that’s foreign to you in how cruel it is when you speak to her. You thought that maybe this was some sort of sick joke , something to lighten the mood. It was something your mother always tried to do when she was caught in a corner of a bad situation, something you over your years, had learned was one of her many flaws. “Kunikuzushi couldn’t have been alive for that long,” you scoff, “or else he’d be older than you.”

 Mother’s eyes narrow at your words, a small smile replacing the firm line on her lips, “I only knew him by the name of ‘Scaramouche’ at that time when I bumped into him, because I remember his name was much too outlandish to be in Inazuma,” her voice feels tepid, her eyes distant as though she were looking at something you couldn’t see, “I knew when I met him in Liyue, when he walked in with you, he looked oddly familiar. ”

 “Mom,” you say once again, feeling annoyed by the fact she was still going on with this farce, “please, keep this serious.” You beg. You don’t understand her words, and you don’t understand where she is getting at. “I’m sure you’re mistaken mother,” you say with confidence. Nothing she said made any sense to you. 

 She seems to ignore your plea. Instead, she starts once more, “The tales of Kunikuzushi were well known among children in Inazuma, though many believed they were just old tales of lost adventurers. The character, Kunikuzushi, was always in search of something in all his  hundreds of years, roaming. All accounts of the rumors describe the same physical features, dark hair, pale skin, with eyes colored like a bolt of lightning.” Your patience begins to wear thin at her constant and rambling, and you feel as though she is testing you. 

 “Please get to the point, mom,” you scowl, still unsure of where she was getting at. It wasn’t uncommon to name your children after fun tales.

 Mother suddenly grips your hand, forcing you to gaze directly into her eyes, “I’m trying to say that that man you’re married to isn’t human. He’s been alive longer than I have,” there’s a sense of urgency in your mother’s tone that brings you out of your impatience, “ he’s immortal.”

  You take a moment to completely absorb what she’s saying, and when you don’t reply, your mother lets out a soft sigh.

 “Listen clearly, my dear,” mother’s voice is stern, her eyes hardening as she presses her hand against yours, the tears on her face drying, “there have been several rumors on his name alone. In particular, there’s one rumor that became the last tale of them all,” her tone is dripping with a seriousness that was usually hard to find in your mother’s voice, “One day, Kunikuzushi vanished . The last anybody had heard of him, there was a strange rumor going around about how he had been taken away by the Fatui as an experiment.”

 You raise an eyebrow, and with some hesitance, decide to play into your mother’s theories, “And why would they experiment on him? For his immortality?”

 Your mother shakes her head, “Some have said that it’s due to the fact that he may have an important link with the Raiden Shogun herself,” her words weigh on your mind heavily, and you find yourself thinking about the night in Liyue Scaramouche had opened up slightly to you. His mother -- his creator, as he would say it, having abandoned him, and then you remember something he had said.

 “ After some time, the Fatui had found me, and I joined the Fatui because I thought they were fun.”

 Your blood runs dry as your eyes widen. A wave of iciness overcomes you as you realize that your mother’s theories perhaps weren’t all too far from the truth after all. Your hand lifts to touch the butterfly pin in your hair, your thumb brushing over the rubies embedded into the pin as you think about your mothers words. Immortal.

 Your husband, your worst enemy, your nightmare, if your mother was correct, then he was immortal, and had possible links to the Raiden Shogun.

 You could only assume, from the information you had gathered of him in Liyue, that he was something like a son to her.

 You scoff before bursting into a fit of laughter, your laugh sounding deranged as you throw your head back, your eyes meeting the wooden ceiling above you. Your laugh is heavily laced with frustration, your mother figures as you feel at the pin in your hair before ripping it out. Some strands of hair rip from your scalp, though you don’t care. You glare at the pin, clenching your teeth as you recover from your bout of maniacal laughter, eyes firmly settled onto the red of the pin.

 And if your mother was right, then he must’ve taken your mother’s definition of ‘love’ to heart.

  Something red, like an apple. The string of fate, the red scar on your ring finger hidden underneath a ring of steel, symbolizing his possessiveness over you. The gleam of your pyro vision, and at last, the red of the butterfly pin you had prized so much.

 It was ironic. Something you had loved so dearly , something you treasured since childhood had somehow chained you down to a man so ill . It was funny, too, the other strange coincidence of him possibly having met your mother, and for your mother to weave such an innocent thought, about how red must’ve been important in the guise of love, through his mind with such a simple encounter. And as a result of it all, you were married to him, sworn and fated to be with him eternally under the eyes of Narukami. Your ring was merely a symbol of how deep your ties with Scaramouche ran.

 You scoff. Maybe this was all fate. Cruel, and bitter.

 You think of the pile of corpses in the forest, the death of your father at Scaramouche’s hands, the death of your teammates and the death of you, when you had signed yourself off to marriage with him at the altar.

 And amidst your thoughts, you realize what you have to do. Everything unsettled in your mind simultaneously falls into place, like pieces of a puzzle. When you turn to your mother with a harsh smile, your eyes flooding with emotion as your heart pangs with pain at your understanding, you think to yourself:

  What a horrible fate this was.

 With a calmer mind, and with a heart less in shambles, you smile at your mother. “Mom,” you begin as you feel the dry tear stains running down your face, letting go of your mother’s hand in the process, “I believe it’s time to tell you the truth.”

 Talking to your mother was far easier than expected. She registered all the information you had told her without a hitch, although you do notice anger rise within her features when she realizes the amount of torment Scaramouche had put you through. Mother was barely able to contain herself when you had told her that Scaramouche had plotted to kill your father, disguising it as an innocent accident. When you had told her that, she gave you a strangely familiar look. You could only frown as you noticed the rage that boiled underneath her skin, showing so fervently in her eyes when she held your gaze.

 “That man is sick in the head,” mother hisses, “had I known, I would’ve poisoned his food! Or at least, made his curry extremely salty when I fed him last time,” her aging hands are clenched into fists, and you can’t help but feel relief at the look on her face. For once, you didn’t have to put an act up in front of her, and she accepted all your true feelings completely, without complaint. It was reassuring, it was something you hadn’t foreseen.

 “I know,” your voice is surprisingly soft when you reply to her, and it brings your mother to halt her actions completely, her eyes scrutinizing your form before keeping hold on the emotion in your eyes, “he’s absolutely abhorrent.”

  There’s a moment of silence that passes between the both of you, and your mother is first to break it.

 “But my dear,” mother’s voice is quiet, and you have to strain your ears to hear her, despite the lack of noise in the room, “do you think that you have fallen for him?”

 You flinch. You hadn’t expected such a question from your mother, especially after everything you had just confessed to her. However, when you try to deny her, you find yourself unable to speak. The red camellia in your mind isn’t completely withered yet, and you realize that when you are suddenly brought to think about the several quiet moments that pass between you and Scaramouche at night, where the both of you just gaze up at the moon. Then, you think about the gifts he’d occasionally leave on your side of the bed for when you returned from long missions, such as this expensive kimono you had been wearing. One thought leads to another, and finally, you are drawn to the memories of your marriage, and moments in Liyue in which he had brought you comfort.

 You didn’t love him. You didn’t want to love him.

 But you knew, deep inside you, that whatever he had tried to do for years had slowly stuck onto you. Like a parasite, he had succeeded in taking partial control over you. You understood that. You’ve known, but you let yourself fall anyway. And you hated yourself for it. You clench your teeth, quelling the fire of self hatred that blooms in your heart at the thought of your self sabotage.

 Your silence was enough to answer your mother’s question, and you let out a crestfallen sigh as you bring a hand up to press onto your shoulder, gripping yourself firmly as though to remind yourself that you were still in the present, sitting with your mother as opposed to dwelling within your mind.

 Mother is silent for a moment, unsure of what to say, now that she had known everything Scaramouche had put you through. The moment passes, and she lets out a frustrated sigh, “That man is irritating!” She scowls, her tone tired and venomous. You turn your head to look at her, noticing the hesitance in her features as you observe her. Mother quickly recomposes herself, not wanting to seem hot headed in front of you as she purses her lips, “Dear,” she begins tentatively, “the root of those feelings…” Mother trails off, her lips falling open as she waits for any sign reaction from you.

  “I know,” you whisper under your breath as the feeling of disgust swells within you. Your chest burned. “It’s not right,” your voice is so quiet, mother has to strain her ears to hear you, “still,” you take a deep breath, biting the inside of your cheek as you trail your gaze downwards, onto the patterning of her yukata.

 “I selfishly enjoyed it,” your voice breaks, and suddenly you find yourself holding back more tears, “those moments with him,” you laugh sardonically, gripping onto yourself tightly as the images of intimate occasions between Scaramouche and yourself pass within your mind, “they… made me weak, and I hate myself for letting it happen.” you hiss as you harshly wipe a tear from an eye. You shut your eyes completely, willing yourself to stay strong in front of her.

 Mother is quick to respond, “You didn’t let it happen,” she responds with a chiding tone, “you did your best to fight against it. He stripped every piece of you he could get a hand on to make you vulnerable. He’s manipulated you into having feelings for him. You tried and tried again, there’s no reason to hate yourself for something you weren’t allowed to fight against. If you did, and when you did, he’d hurt you, wouldn’t he?” Her words bring a sense of understanding to yourself, and despite this, you still feel uneasy, though your eyes dry.

 “You might’ve loved him, and that’s okay. He’d wrapped you around his web so well, you couldn’t break free, but it’s different now, isn’t it? You’re free because you’re aware of what’s happening to you ,” you think that her choice of words strike you particularly. She was right, it had felt like you had been stuck in a rut for a long time, at a point of no return, and so far down a hole, you could never climb up. “What matters is you’re alive and you are aware of your own feelings. Sometimes, things in life don’t go the way you want them to,” her voice turns soft, and you are reminded that she is your mother, and that to her, you are just her daughter. Not a merciless killer, not a Fatui member, just her daughter. Her words warm your heart, and you briefly wonder how blessed you really were to have someone as wonderful as her in your life.

And perhaps she was right , you think as you see a faint glow of red fluttering within your mind. You were free now.  

 Scaramouche’s threat to kill your mother resounds within your mind, and then suddenly, a memory resurfaces. You feel your hopeful thoughts halt, and as though you had invisible strings latched onto you, you feel yourself being pulled back into the recesses of your mind.

 You remember Scaramouche first promises to keep you by his side forever, the night of the “Red Butterfly” event, in which souls were said to take on forms of butterflies before ascending to the heavens. You remember vividly, standing across from the Butterfly Shrine, the rift that separated yourself from the sacred place deep and ominous. You think of a crimson butterfly landing on your finger, before Scaramouche captures it and burns it into ashes.

 His abhorrent promise repeats in your mind at the thoughts.

  “You are mine, and always will be mine. I will chain you down to this plane so you may never escape, so don’t you ever think you can run away from me.”

 An overwhelming feeling of dread swallows you whole. You aren’t free. Scaramouche was still alive, your mother’s life was still easily at his hands, and so were you.

 The realization you had from earlier falls into your mind once more, like a glimmer of hope in the darkness that had swallowed you whole. Your throat feels dry as you stare at your mother with wide eyes, a sense of emptiness echoing within them as you understand what you must do. The broken shards of your mind are left alone, in pieces, though a familiar glint of red is reflected in them. Your lips part, and you feel your teeth chatter lightly as you attempt to speak. The glint of light in your mind illuminates the darkness, and suddenly, your conscience clears. In that second, you think that everything has fallen into place. You calm yourself as you let out a shaky breath, a resolve burning within your eyes as you give your mother a small, knowing smile. 

 You weren’t free.

  Not yet, anyway.

 “Mom,” you begin as you reach for a piece of the apple slices on the plate before you, “I need you to do me a favor.”

 Mother tilts her head, her face softening at the sight of a familiar fire within your eyes. You looked a lot better like this, despite your post-crying state. You looked… alive. “What is it, my dear?” She replies with a tone so kind, you can’t help but embrace it. You love your mother, you love your family. And you would do anything to make sure that at least one of them would make it out of the hellfire that you had unknowingly created. You would make up for your faults, your mother trusted in that much for you, so you had to believe in yourself.

 Your vision glints and warms your side as though it could sense your ambition.

 “Run away.” You say simply with a smile as her face falls into one of confusion, her gaze remaining on your features, “Please run away from this place,” you plead once more, moving away from the comfort of the table as you grovel, your head pressed nearly nearly to the ground as loose strands of hair fall over your eyes. You close your eyes, “Please leave to Liyue,” you beg, desperacy heavily laced within your tone as you continue, “I don’t want him to hurt you like he hurt dad,” you bitterly admit, your stomach grinding at the flitting image of your father within your mind. 

 Mother opens her mouth to say something, but before she could, you quickly cut her off.

  “I’m begging you, mom,” you speak with a certainty that causes your mother’s resolution to falter, and when you straighten yourself up to face her, all sense of dispute abandons her. Mother’s eyes are wide as she stares at you while you continue to speak, “This is all I’ll ever ask for as your daughter, so please, run away from this place…” Your voice trails off, your eyes hardening as you continue to sit straight, refusing to back down as she proceeds to gape at you.

 When her eyes soften in return, you know she has conceded. A feeling of thankfulness swells within you as you reposition yourself with comfort at the kotatsu.

 Mother listens to your instructions carefully as you map out a short plan for her. You tell her to board a cargo numbered twenty-eight for safe passage across the Inazuman seas. You had complete trust in Tartaglia, and in knowing that he still had the cargo ship secured for you in case you had decided to run away. When you tell her to pack her things, you tell her to pack only the most important things since the two of you were relocating.

 You give her time to pack her things as you write a letter to Tartaglia, thinking with a sense of forlornness that this would perhaps be the last letter you’d ever send back to him. You write down a little memo for your mother encased in the letter, and you allow him permission to the full rights of your bank account for as long as he would give her most of the share. You made sure to write your thankfulness towards him, as he had done so much for you, from helping your family out to finding out your father’s murderer. He had all your gratitude and more, and if fate would give you another chance, then perhaps you’d like to pay him back one day, if another day would ever come.

 By the time she’s completed packing, the sun is already an hour away from falling completely at the horizon. A distant storm rages as dark clouds shape the sky above in hints of purples and midnight blues. You exit the home with your mother and stand at the very front of it, admiring the aging wood against the colors of the forest behind it. When your mother tugs at your kimono’s sleeve, you turn to embrace her, cherishing the warmth of her hold around you as your heart warms.

 “You’re coming with me, right?”

 You hold her tightly as the smile on your face stiffens. “Of course,” you laugh airily, “though I might be a few days late. I still have to pack my things back at the headquarters,” your response is smooth, and your mother notices an underlying emotion that threatens to peek from the fragility of your tone. She decides not to question it, despite the itch in her mind.

 Mother pulls away from you before tossing you a concerned look, “I can wait for you, dear,” her voice is sweet, and you find yourself grinning at her. 

 “Wait for me in Liyue,” you raise a hand and grip onto one of her hands, pressing your hand firmly against her own to emphasize your words, “I promise I’ll be there. Now go, mom,” you jokingly push her away with a laugh that you force, despite the sadness that builds within you as you watch her smile worriedly at you.

 Mother picks up father’s urn with an arm and tugs along a wrapped knapsack behind her before turning her back towards you. You wave at her amiably as she walks away, masking the fear that grew in you as you watch her retreat towards Chinju Forest. When she turns around to look at you once more, it takes you all your strength to not run towards her.

 “I love you! Come home safely!” Your mother hollers, and immediately, your throat constricts. Your body freezes up momentarily, and when she turns around to walk again, your mind screams for her to stop in her tracks. 

  No, you think as you force a smile on your face, tears surfacing to your eyes as you bite the inside of your cheek, your teeth pressing down almost harshly as you hold whimpers back, please don’t go mom. Your eyes are firm on her back as she retreats away into the forest.

 When your mother’s form is gone, you fall to your knees, uncaring for the dirt that collected on your kimono as a result. You cover your mouth as sobs escape you, your brave facade shattering completely. Tears escape your eyes as you choke on your sobs, your body trembling at the feeling of loneliness slowly overcoming you, threatening to engulf you completely when you whisper to yourself, “I love you too, mom. I’m sorry,” the weight of your own words crack down on you as you fall apart, “I can’t keep that promise to be there with you.”

 At the end of the day, you were still a liar. 

 Mother’s words resound in your ears, “I can wait for you.”

 You couldn’t have that, or else she would be waiting forever, for a day that would never come.

 Your cries feel deafening, your wails, despite how muffled they had come out, were still loud to your ears. Thunder cracks violently, and loudly from a distance.

 By the time you’re done crying, an hour has passed, and the sun has hit the horizon already, though you can’t see it from where you are in the forest. You could only guess by the darkness that surrounded you that the sun had almost left completely. 

 With a sense of acceptance of the void that had grown within you, you take a blade out from its holster, sliding it out from beneath your now, messy and loose kimono with little struggle. Your eyes land on the glint of the metal, looking at the sliver of your own reflection without a care as to how others would perceive you. Nothing mattered anymore, you had decided as you allowed the flames from your pyro vision to slowly slither around your blade. Your eyes trail upwards to the tip of the blade, a fond smile unconsciously crawling onto your face as you watch flecks of red flutter away from the blade, reminiscent of red butterflies.

 A distant look grows in your eyes as you watch the butterfly-like shapes fly upwards, disappearing into miniature specks of crimson dust when they stray too far from the heat of your blade. Your flames, to you, at this moment, were less discordant, and more comforting.

 You loved your vision, and you loved the feeling of fire it gave you.

 You aim your gaze towards your childhood home, your smile never lessening as you understand what you must do. Surely, it was about time for your husband to come looking for you, especially with your abrupt disappearance, and what better way than to give him a large source of light to find you?

 Planting a kiss to the tip of the blade, you allow the blade to be completely encompassed in the heat of your pyro before you delicately throw your dagger towards the door of your childhood home. With a satisfying ‘thunk’ , you watch as the flames from your dagger slowly spread off to the aging wood around it.

 You watch with a sentiment of frigidity as the flames of your vision eat away at your childhood home, the creaks and groans from the wood weakening echoing throughout the emptiness of the forest. You find yourself reaching for your elemental suppressant in your knapsack, grabbing at it before attaching it to a free slot in your thigh holster, replacing the spot where the dagger you had thrown into the fire had been in earlier.

 When the fire is larger, you step away, feeling the warmth of the flames against your skin as you watch parts of the wood that had created your home splinter and fall apart. You reminisce about your memories at the house, thinking about days in which your mother created delectable wagashi, and in happier days where your father had played around with you. All those memories, all within this house, now burned away by you. Those days of happiness, sadness, all those days of frustrations and celebrations, they are all gone now. You were just cementing that.

 While lamenting over your memories, you wait with utmost patience.

 And at the sign of faint jingling bells approaching from within the forest behind you, you take a deep breath.

Chapter Text

 Scaramouche stares at your disheveled appearance illuminated by the bright fires beyond you with a scornful glare. When he meets your gaze, he halts in his steps. He scoffed in disinterest at the hellfire that bloomed in your eyes, feeling strange as he thinks to himself that he hasn’t seen that look in your eyes in months. Nonetheless, he approaches you calmly, his composure sly as he keeps his indigo colored irises trained on your body, smirking when he notices you’re wearing the kimono he had gifted you.

 “Don’t tell me you’ve killed your own mother, ” Scaramouche muses loudly, “you’ve truly lost it,” Scaramouche laughs as he trails his eyes over to the side, admiring the fire that engulfs the home. “I’m surprised, I have to admit,” when he narrows his eyes and grins at you, he acknowledges the small, mysterious smile on your face. He raises an eyebrow, “Or am I jumping too quickly in my conclusions?”

 Your response is simple, and cold, “Would you like to join her?”

 Scaramouche laughs gleefully at your response as he stops only a few inches away from you, a strange feeling flooding the air as thrums of electricity echo through the particles around you, “For a woman who’s been purposely avoiding me lately,” he begins, his tone nearing dangerous, despite how happy he was just hearing your voice, “you sure do enjoy to test your grounds, my darling wife. Should I remind you, since you find it hard to get into that pretty head of yours, that you are only on my patience by a hair?”

 You don’t respond, you opt to stay quiet as you turn away from him, your hand finding the butterfly pin in your hair before tugging on it, feeling the coolness of the metal on your skin as you trail your gaze downwards. You give it one last good look, eying the details of the ornate pin and thumbing over the places where the metal melds. Scaramouche eyes you in wonder, a smile growing on his face and quickly disappearing when you flick your hand away, sending the pin into the fiery pits of the remnants of your home.

 You think about the day Scaramouche threw your prized butterfly pin into the abyss of the rift, the same day he promises to chain you next to him. “I suppose you were right,” your voice brings him out of his temporary shock as irritation bubbles from his stomach, “dreams like the ones attached to that pin are useless.” Your tone is demure, a sense of boredom underlying your tone as you continue, “They only dull my mind,” you hum before swiveling your body around to face him, allowing pieces of your hair to obscure your face as wind billows through the space between you two. 

 Before he could say anything, you immediately start again, "Kunikuzushi," the sound of his name leaving your mouth causes him to grimace, his eyes narrowing down on you as he clenches his teeth in annoyance, feeling as though you had defied him. Despite his expression, you choose to proceed, sliding the ring off your finger and holding it in a hand for him to see. You tenderly reach for his hand, eyes remaining on his face as you place the silver band in his hand, "Let's break up."

 Scaramouche blinks. Something within him grows angrier by each passing second at the serene look on your face when you say this, and just as he explodes, you turn away from him, moving to make your way further into the forest. "What are you saying now," he growls in distaste as he quickly takes a step forward, his free hand snatching your arm with a bruising grip as you begin to amble towards the forest. You swivel your head, your eyes meeting his own, in alarm. When the flames crackle to your side, you relax. His indigo eyes gleam with a rage that brings you a dull sentiment of happiness. 

 You keep your lips pressed into a firm line, your face taking a passive look as you let out a soft sigh at his stubbornness, his grip on your arm so painful you think it would break. You shake your head, “Isn’t it obvious?” You start, your voice surprisingly soft, “I can’t take it anymore.”

 Scaramouche hisses, unsatisfied by your response as he pulls you towards him, causing you to stumble, “It’s not about whether or not you can take it, for as long as I decide there’s still value in this relationship, you are not leaving me. You don’t get to choose.” There's a feeling of desperacy that runs so deep in his tone, you don't recognize it. In his mind, he feels as though he was about to lose something so important to him. He remembers the image of you lying limp, unmoving on a bed, pale and lifeless. He remembers the days he spends wondering when you would wake up, and the moments he laments in the solace of several nights alone. Then, he feels the same feeling he had felt during those days.

 Instability begins to chip at him slowly as you continue to trudge your arm out of his grasp, uncaring for his words as you shift away from him, and when you succeed in yanking your arm out of his grip, you stumble forward. “I can’t have the weight of that ring on me,” you softly admit as you stare at the dense forest beyond you, admiring the greenish blue hue of the leaves despite the vibrant fiery blaze not too far from the forest, “being your wife… is hard.” You turn around to look at him, placing a hand on your chest as you smile wearily, “I mean, look at me,” you laugh humorlessly, dread lacing your every word, “what do I look like?”

 Scaramouche sighs in frustration, rolling his eyes before examining your tattered kimono, haphazardly hanging onto your body. Your hair was a mess, your expression worn, and tired, makeup imperfect, and despite that, he thought you were something to admire. But with how you were acting towards him, no, you didn’t deserve a compliment. Not in his eyes, anyway. “How filthy you are right now is due to your own fault,” he replies caustically, his eyes glowing hazily, looking almost violet with how the red of the fire affected his eyes. 

 You shut your eyes at his response, tilting your head away from him, “It’s because you’re like this, always blaming things on me that I can’t take it. You made me like this,” you scowl at him, your tone dripping with venom as you back away from him slowly, and in response, he lets out an annoyed groan.

  “Listen,” he snaps, his eyebrows furrowing as he glares at you, his veils billowing in the wind as a chilly gust of wind passes, “I don’t have time for this bullshit, I need you to come with me. Now.” Scaramouche leaves you with no room to rebut. You refuse to take it, ignoring the buzz of electricity that crackles around you as a distant thunder roars.

  “If this is bullshit to you, then go ahead and leave without me, why don’t you?” You know he can’t. He could never leave you. That was the perk of having a ‘soft spot’ from such a sick person like himself.

 Scaramouche’s thread of patience snaps completely at the harshness of your words, and before you know it, lightning slams to your side with much more power than you had seen him use before, and it momentarily inflicts fear within you.

 His expression is savage, his eyes wide with his lips pressed to a firm scowl as he glares down at you, “You are not going anywhere without me. You. Are. Mine,” he seethes through clenched teeth as he takes your moment of shock to grab one of your left wrist, pulling your hand up to eye level as he pushes your hand against you. He forces you to stare at the ugly scar on your ring finger, and your teeth chatter as your eyes widen when you’re compelled to examine the scar.

 “ This ,” he whispers, “is not just for show, darling. This is proof,” a wicked smile slowly grows at the edges of his lips as he watches your face contort with horror, “the ring is just a courtesy.” With that, he tosses the ring off behind him, the clinking of the metal falling across the floor inaudible as the flames from your side eat away at the wood, causing the structure to collapse.

 As a wave of hot air fans towards the both of you from the impact, you are reminded of why you stood before him in the first place. Your look of fear turns into one of cold anger, your eyes darkening visibly as you purse your lips before responding, “I said it’s over.”

 “And I said, ” he pulls you so close to him that your foreheads are nearly touching, “ you don’t get to choose.” There’s a thrum of electricity that he sends through you, and it doesn’t hurt you, but you do understand that it was a warning.

 You don’t care. You’ve made your decision already. The hellfire that blooms within your eyes only grows stronger. You press an arm against him, humming as you feel the electricity resonate throughout your system, “The Raiden Shogun abandoned you,” at the frigid look that appears in his eyes, a strange smile becomes present on your lips, “and I suppose that means you have no choice but to cling to me.” When the pulsing electro that runs through your veins suddenly stops, you understand that your mother was right.

 Scaramouche pulls away from you slowly, his eyes narrowing as he his lips fall open, his eyebrows scrunching at your words. “ Where did you learn of this?” His voice sounds odd, almost confused when he asks you. There was hardly any way for you to find out, though he realizes that since you have this knowledge, it would be a lot easier to explain to you what he had attained today during his meeting with the traveler, and what he could do with it.

 “You’re quite famous in tales from the older generations,” you smile as his eyes glint with a sense of knowingness. Your mother , he had supposed, had heard about him through stories from ages ago. “That connection explains your obsession with eternity,” you whisper as you press against his chest, pushing him away from you, “and I believe that also means you retain the same ideologies.” Scaramouche feels a burning sensation run throughout his veins at the hellfire that that scorched so brightly in your eyes.

 “You wish for an eternity with me, and I seek to challenge that,” you prod on, distancing yourself away from him as the both of you begin to circle each other, like hungry sharks. The realization of your words slowly dawns on Scaramouche, and his expression darkens with a sinister interest as you slide out a dagger that you had hidden underneath the sleeves of your kimono, “Eternity is a must for you and the Shogun, no? If you are anything divine like the Raiden Shogun,” your tone is edged with an unbreakability that shows in the fires that lay behind your eyes, “then show me divine punishment.”

 You roll your wrist and reposition your blade with the edge facing him as you resume a fighting stance, your eyes trained firmly onto his form as you scowl, “Duel me.”

 “You wish to perform such a ritualistic suicide?” Scaramouche eyes your unwavering form in disbelief, “Just how stupid are you? You do understand that I am immortal, correct?” His eyes gleam violet as he gathers electric energy in his right hand. You lower yourself in preparation for an attack, eyes quickly surveying the area around you before refocusing onto him. “You’re making a  mistake,” the thunder that roars from afar comes closer as the energy that gathers in his hand becomes more saturated, “it would be a pity to have to teach you the hard way that this is a misstep, after everything we’ve been through together.”

 “You would be surprised,” you muse, as you allow your pyro flames to entangle itself around the blade of your dagger, “what someone could do when they have nothing to lose.”

 Scaramouche hisses, his eyes wide as he glares at you, “What a waste of my time,” he scoffs before smirking, “fine. I’ll entertain you,” he growls as he draws away from the flames, nearing you in a calm amble as the earth around him seemingly quakes at the pressure of him drawing in his electro energy, “ you’d be surprised too, what someone like me can do when my everything is at risk.”

 You tilt your head slightly as you internally align him perfectly for a straight shot to his head, “Suit yourself.”

 The thunderbolt that crashes behind you forces you to flinch forward, and you launch yourself towards Scaramouche with your blazing blade at hand, your eyes focused on him as you release flames into your blade, ignoring the sputters of heat that grazes the skin of your arm when the air hisses past you from the speed of your actions. 

 Scaramouche isn’t fazed in the slightest by your determination, his eyes darkening ever so slightly as you rapidly draw closer to him with each passing second. With sharp eyes, he grabs your oncoming arm, the edge of the blade missing his pale skin by mere centimeters as he uses the momentum of your movement to pull you to the ground. Scaramouche allows a wave of electricity to course through his veins, passing through his arms and into the tips of his fingers, before finally flowing through your body as he throws you to the ground. He slams his elbow against the side of your head as you yelp from the jolt of electricity followed by the oncoming pain he sends to you.

 Uncaring of the damage you would sustain, you twist your body out of his grasp, gritting your teeth when you feel a bone shift out of its socket as you turn yourself towards him with a violent force. In one motion, you swiftly toss the handle of your dagger towards your free hand, and strike once more, managing only to hit the sleeves of his garments and cutting into the fabric as he pulls away.

 Scaramouche and yourself instinctively leap away from one another, creating distance as the heat of the fire floods the surrounding air around you. The full moon gazes down at both of you the luminescence of the orb creating a halo of pale white within the dark, night skies, bringing out pretty cool toned hues from the forest that Scaramouche stands in front of. 

 Scaramouche glares at you, his eyes gleaming with interest as a slow smile crawls onto his face, “You’ll deserve a little worse punishment for ripping my clothes up like that,” he begins snarkily, watching as you huff in pain at the dislocation of your shoulder.

 “I plan to do a lot worse than that ,” you retort, as you grit your teeth, gripping onto your dislocated shoulder as you fight the right angle to push it back into its socket. Pain shoots throughout your arm and body as you reattach the bone to its socket, letting out a soft whimper as discomfort swells within you. However, your eyes never lose track of Scaramouche’s form, standing a few meters away from you.

 The Balladeer hums, his eyes narrowing as he raises a hand up, focusing all his elemental energy into it once more as his smile turns into a maniac grin, “I’d love to see you try,” he quips. His eyes are bright with a fervor that you understand to be a sentiment of bloodlust. You steel yourself as you rush towards him once more. If he wanted blood, you’d let him have it.

 Scaramouche chuckles as you attempt to get close to him, running around him and throwing daggers at him whenever you could to even graze just an inch of his skin. He sends out bolts of lightning from above, and you dance around them, though you find that with every bolt you are only getting further away from him with how he strikes in such a pattern that’s meant to push you away from him.

 You clench your teeth as his chuckles turn into full blown laughter, as though he were finding amusement from your desperate attempts. “This is fun, too,” he laughs, “fighting like this gets rid of all the excess energy I had from today.” You ignore him, biting a sarcastic response back at his insanity as you carefully throw another dagger aimed towards his face. He dodges it expertly, a smile on his face as he does so, “Actually, I have a little present to show you,” with a wave of his hand, you’re forced to dodge the crescent like haze of purple and white that is sent towards you.

 You find yourself barely being able to dodge it, the tip of the crescent slicing through the side of your arm, passing with ease through the fabric of your kimono. You let out a hiss as blood begins to pour from the wound, biting your lip as you feel rage burn from the pits of your stomach. Your pyro vision glints as you borrow more flames from it, allowing it to wrap around the blade of your dagger as you dash towards him with your free arm bent to prepare yourself for oncoming damage.

 “Would you like to see it?” Scaramouche’s tone is teasing, and it enrages you even more. A pale round haze appears from below you, and expectantly, you dodge it as a silver bolt strikes where you would’ve been. Scaramouche’s eyes widen as he narrowly dodges an oncoming dagger, the dagger managing to break the skin as it slices through the skin of his cheek. When the dagger lands with an audible ‘thunk’ on the tree log behind him, he hums. 

 You had thrown the dagger without your flames being attached to it, and had tossed it immediately after the lightning bolt he had sent descended. You had timed it with perfection so that the blinding light of the bolt would hide the silver of the metal as it sped towards him.

 He scowls.

 It seems you were learning.

  “You’re really ,” he laughs harshly as he opens one of his hands, creating a clawlike shape as sparks of electricity gather within it, “pissing me off,” his eyebrows are furrowed, his expression demonic in features as he hisses at you, “I think it’s about time I make you sit down.”

 Your eyes fly wide open as a short ray of lightning shoots from above you, and you find yourself caught in it. You gasp in pain as the bolt disappears, only to be replaced with another one, striking you at a different angle, and his pattern repeats as you are forced to stand your ground, enduring the pain through screams as electricity thrums at every inch of your body. You almost don’t notice him walking towards you, and when you do, you force your creaking body to be flung backwards.

 Scaramouche stares at you with a firm scowl, his eyes half lidded as he gazes at your fallen figure not too far from where he stands. He would show you no mercy for this type of insolence, no matter how fun it appeared to be. You never learned your lessons, even after all the lives he had taken, and all the damage he had done to you. You were still a beautiful red butterfly, attempting to fly away from him. So perhaps, he thinks as he smiles, “I suppose it’s time to tear your wings out, dear butterfly,” his voice drips with an evil that causes dread to bloom in your stomach. He outstretches a hand towards you, an orb of purple, blacks and whites encircling each other growing at the palm of his hand as he aims at your legs.

 When he releases the withheld bolts of electricity gathered in his palm, you let out a shrill scream, your eyes wide as your legs feel the brunt of the impact. You felt where the electricity had danced upon your skin, burns began to form, and when the feeling spread throughout your body, you felt as though you’re dying from the inside. Screams tear out of your throat one by one as you writhe on the floor, and suddenly, your pyro vision explodes with fire. You gasp as you feel a new sense of fire within you, and when you grit your teeth, turning your eyes towards him as you furrow your eyebrows and glare at him, you force a grin.

 Scaramouche’s eyes widen as a feeling of deja vu hits him, thinking that this expression that you were making was much like the one you had given him several months ago during your escape to Liyue. “Let’s burn to death,” you hiss as you watch the daggers you had previously thrown at him set ablaze, having absorbed the pyro elements from the fire behind you. Scaramouche quickly turns around and gapes at the large fires that blaze towards him in the form of a large red butterfly. When its wings flap, waves of fires are sent towards the both of you.

 You smile hopelessly as the heat of the flames envelop the space around you, closing your eyes in defeat as you hear Scaramouche shift away from his position. You couldn’t move, not this quickly, after the electric shock he had given you.

 When Scaramouche embraces you, as if to protect you from the heat of your own flames, your heart shatters. You don't understand him. Not in the slightest. His arms wrap around you and he hisses as he forces you down, avoiding the oncoming fire that is pushed towards the both of you. Fire singes at the tips of his veils, burning the edges as it passes over the both of you, his hold on you tight. The wave of hot air that surges forth after the blaze overhead, blows off his kasa hat, knocking it over to the side as your hands feel limp, the scorching heat bringing a burning sensation to the ends of your fingers at your sides.

 After a few moments pass, the structure of the house completely falls into itself, the remains of a strong foundation breaking from the heat of the air and flames of your pyro vision, and the cool, night air billows in. The iciness soothes the sores on your bodies as Scaramouche, lets out an indignant huff beside your ear, his breath shaky as he feels his back burn beneath the layers of his clothes.

 In your mind, there’s conflict between two sides of yourself. You stare blankly at the full moon above you, feeling a pang of something foreign at your heart as you realize this moment feels exactly like the night from Liyue, where had held you so tightly, just like now. You concede to one side of your hellish emotions.

 The moon is certainly beautiful tonight.

 You smile.

 “Kunikuzushi,” the red camellia in your mind blooms as you the emotions you had rejected so much to show on face as your hand feels at your thigh, pressing at the syringe that you had kept as safely as possible underneath the wraps of your thigh holster. Scaramouche pulls away, his eyes wide with anger at the sound of his name leaving your lips, allowing electricity to build into one of his hands placed firmly on your back. His breath hitches at the expression on your face.

 The warm hues of the fire cast a heavenly glow on your face as you gaze up at him, peering intently without any sort of guard into his indigo irises. Your cheeks were rosy, your painted lips forming into a sweet smile as you tug at the syringe.

 The sudden motion disrupts his tunnel vision on you as he notices movement from his peripheral vision. He grits his teeth, turning his eyes away from you as he notices the glint of a dagger by his left side, and just as he is about to pull electricity through your body once more, you speak.

 “I love you.”

 His body freezes, and when he turns to look at you, his eyes wide, you quickly take the opportunity to latch the needle to his neck, your thumb pressing down on the plunger of the syringe, allowing the elemental blocker to flow through his system. Where the electricity is supposed to hit you, at his fingertips, there is nothing but a soft thrum and buzz. His indigo eyes never leave your face despite this, he was engorged in how you had looked, memorizing every single crease and detail of your beautiful expression, and it’s only when it’s too late that he finally lets out a gasp. Your left hand, having gripped onto your dagger, plunges through his stomach.

 Scaramouche’s eyes widen in shock, a choked noise escaping him as you force the dagger to dig in deeper. You observe the emotions in his eyes, a look of love mixing with betrayal, and then morphing into anger, and then fear all at once. With a soft groan, he falls to his side, hissing as the dagger embedded into his stomach follows his motions, the blade cutting deep into his abdomen. The shadow he had created over you disappears as he falls to the side, and you’re left to look at nothing but the open skies above you, your eyes wide as your heart pounds. You focus on breathing for a few moments, hoping to regain strength back into your body with every bated breath, and when you finally can, you lift yourself up into an upright position. 

 You look at Scaramouche.

 He's doubled over, his eyes wide with shock and fear as he pressed a hand to his stomach, feeling the warm blood pouring out of it as he watched your form rise from its resting position. Your eyes meet his, and your lower lip falls open as you crawl closer to him, your legs feeling numb from the jolts of electricity he had sent to them earlier.

 You raise a hand and tenderly place it on his cheek, a mixture of emotions blending within you, happiness and sadness melding into one as you brush his cheek.

 Scaramouche lets out uneven breaths, attempting to maintain himself as he speaks, his eyes still wide despite your attempts to comfort him, “ Y-You, ” he hisses through clenched teeth, “you’ve done nothing but betray me. ” You don’t speak. His words ring throughout your head. “I’ve been harsh to you, I agree,” he growls as he reaches a hand shakily up towards you. A part of you wants to cut it off. You don’t listen to it. “But have you ever thought you were always cruel to me,” he continues, “always staring at me from a distance as though I were nothing but a bug, even throughout all these years.”

 You realize there’s a ring of truth to his words. He was right, you think as you keep your eyes on his withering form. Six years, and never had you once liked him, outside of external appearances.

 He was always approaching you, finding ways to create intimate moments between the both of you, constantly looking for you, making ways to meet during missions. Maybe he just liked you. But even so, you think with a small frown as your hand leaves his cheek, this obsession with you was bound to be nothing more than a fixation.

  Your mouth flies open before you can stop yourself, “You should’ve known,” your voice is soft as a gust of wind passes through the both of you, carrying a sense of bitterness to it as you narrow your eyes at him, “you would never find love from someone like me. Perhaps,” you pause, halting to think for a moment as your body begins to shake, the force of the electricity causing your muscles to be sore, beginning to take a toll on you, “perhaps you could’ve found someone else. Someone who could tolerate your actions, someone easier to bend, and easier to break, but it certainly couldn’t be me in the end.” 

 Scaramouche’s indigo eyes swirl with an emotion you don’t recognize, and he spits blood out as he scoffs, “I don’t think you understand,” he starts with a low tone, “I’ve searched for eons,” he glowers at you, his eyes burning with a fierceness that you almost don’t understand, “if that someone wasn’t you, it wouldn’t have mattered. It has to be you.”

 His words strike a chord in you, the red camellia in your heart blossoming, before petals begin to fall and rot away. The fire in his eyes warms you, despite your tired body aching as cold air begins to surround the both of you.

 You sigh, closing your eyes as you allow your chaotic emotions to take control of you. You lean forward, pressing a hand at his cheek as you plant a soft kiss at the edge of his lips, feeling him freeze at the sudden contact. You press your free hand at the dagger, still embedded in his stomach, and when he feels the weight of your hand at the handle, his hisses. “Even so,” you whisper next to his ear, your eyes bright despite the smile of unease on your lips, “I couldn’t forgive you after everything you’ve done.”

 You harshly pull the dagger out of his body, and he shouts in pain as you retract the blade, his eyes squeezing shut for a second, rendering the agony that shot through him before reopening them and glaring at you. His vision is a little blurry, though he recognizes that you are finding the strength to stand up, and when you finally do, you give him a relieved smile.

 “Goodbye,” the weight of your words felt heavy on yourself. You felt as though the chains on you had finally disappeared, you felt… free. Looking down at him, however, you felt strange. You should be happy, yet staring at his writhing form, his bangs sprawled over his face, sticking to the cold sweat that beads at his forehead at the pain of his wound, you felt your stomach ache.

 His indigo eyes widen at the sound of your goodbye, and immediately he attempts to move from his spot, scrunching his face in discomfort when he feels the pain from the stab wound echo throughout his system as he tries to get up. Scaramouche’s body collapses completely, and you shake your head.

 “You won’t be able to make it with that wound,” you say softly as you feel your own legs begin to give way. Taking the lack of strength within you as a sign, you turn away, forcefully tearing your gaze away from him as you amble towards the forest and to your final destination.

  “No,” you hear him groan from behind you as you walk away, “ don’t go.” He sounds suspiciously like the voice in your head when your mother had left you not too long ago. Your steps falter, though you don’t concede to his wishes. You press onwards.

 Scaramouche watches your form fade into the distance through his blurry vision as he clenches his teeth. “You said you loved me,” he whispers to himself quietly as your figure vanishes behind the tree line. Something within him clicks, and he grits his teeth.

 Weakly, and with many stumbles, you walk upwards, on the highest cliff by the edge of Chinju forest, listening with a sense of listlessness as the sounds of waves crashing against the cliffs you were heading to echoes throughout your ears. You had walked far , enough to expend most of your energy just keeping you up. 

 You huff, gripping at the cut on your arm from earlier, feeling the dried blood crack as new blood spills forth from the cut, causing you to hiss in pain. You trudge forwards, admiring the night view of the endless ocean beyond you, illuminated by the light of the moon.

 There were distant storm clouds, signs of the Raiden Shogun’s will to keep Inazuma encroached in her plan revolving eternity, lightning bolts scattering from afar as thunderous claps resound.

 You amble up towards the cliff, feeling for your butterfly pin for reassurance, before realizing you had thrown it into the fire. Your eyes grow wide at the understanding, your lips parting as a gust of wind flutters by you, causing your dirty kimono to billow backwards along with your hair as the vibrant, gloomy scenery welcomes you. Your exposed legs feel cold, and you shiver as you readjust the center parting of your kimono, your eyes settling on the raging storms ahead of you. 

 A ghost of a smile appears on your features as your brush strands of hair back, your mind empty as you take in the scenery before you, and for what feels like ten minutes, you just stand still, staring into the distance. You give yourself time to accept everything, to embrace all your faults within your life, to embrace the pain you had endured, and to embrace the bliss of freedom in your last moments before you would take your own life.

 You felt at peace for the first time in forever, truly free, without anything but yourself now, to lose.

 You smile as you lift the last dagger from your thigh holster, admiring the silver of the blade when it gleams as moonlight showers onto it, coating it in a sheen of white as you stare at your reflection. Your pyro vision next to you sputters out flames, and you use those flames to cover the blade in a blaze of fire.  You think for a moment, that you don’t have to do this. Your mother was alive and well, and nobody but maybe Tartaglia would know it. You could do your best to escape another day, when you had strength in your body to travel far and wide.

 But you supposed you wouldn’t get too far. Killing a harbinger was punishable by death, or by death through torture, and the truth was, you didn’t want anybody else hurting you anymore. So you’d take matters into your own hands.

You focus the last of your energy into making butterfly-like shapes using the flickers of fire at the end of the blade, thinking that if you were to die, perhaps you’d finally become like one of these precious butterflies.

 Maybe in this year’s row of butterflies, during the ceremony, you and your father would go to heaven together.

 You laugh sardonically at your own wishful thinking, your mind darkening as you come to terms with a more realistic train of thought. Heaven to you, was a luxury you couldn’t afford. Not after everything you had done, not after everything you had been through. The gates of hell were wide open for you, and with little regret, you’d step into it with the blood of all those you’ve killed staining your every step.

 As you brush over the tip of your blade with your finger, feeling the steel cut through your finger as you trail against it, you wonder what life after death would be like. Would it be peaceful? Would your soul return to your mother’s side? You watch a trail of blood fall from your cut, and allow it to fall onto your kimono, further dirtying the expensive fabric as you smile. 

 You decided it wouldn’t matter. In the end, death was all the same. Death was still, just death, the notion of ceasing to exist forever.

 Suddenly, there’s movement from the side of your peripherals, an image of a familiar person emerging from the brushes by the forest you had come out of earlier. You swivel your body slowly, eying Scaramouche’s tired form, resting along a tree as he pushes himself against it for support. His eyes gleam with a concrete conviction, one that you find is amusing to look at. He pants as he moves towards you, holding onto his stomach as his indigo irises glare up at you from where you stand.

 You smile at him kindly, “If you had enough energy to come get me,” you begin as you slowly back away towards the sharp edge of the cliff, “you could’ve gone to get help instead, you know that?” Your tone holds a sense of warmth that Scaramouche finds himself wanting more of, and when he swallows a mixture of blood and saliva down his throat, he begins to speak.

 “I said you couldn’t leave anywhere without me,” his voice is stern, his eyes wide as he glares at you, his hand against his stomach clenching as he pushes himself away from a sturdy tree, stumbling towards you, “I said that you were mine.”

 His words are strange when they fall on your ears. You glare at him, a scowl replacing the smile on your face as you look at him, “You’re still going on with unpleasant things such as that, I see,” you hum in mild disappointment. “You’re going to die here,” you slowly say as you raise the knife to one side of your neck, holding onto the dagger with both hands as you place the edge of the blade carefully on your neck, “with me, though I don’t think you mind.”

 Scaramouche’s eyes widen as he grips onto something with his other hand, his eyes gleaming inhumanly bright as you back away by the ocean once more. He grits his teeth when the ground beneath you shifts ever so slightly, though you don’t seem fazed by it in the slightest. His eyes glue onto your serene expression, his heart clenching at the sight of it.

 “... And you’ve finally told me you loved me, did you really think you could stop me?” Scaramouche’s voice is surprisingly soft when he says this, though the softness abruptly falls through into something more malevolent as proceeds once more, “did you really think you could love me and leave me to die?” In his mind, the image of you turning your back towards him while he bleeds away, and he lifts his bloodied hand up from his stomach to press it against his mouth.

 A broken chuckle escaped his lips as he gazed up at you, a strange, sick look in his eyes when they met yours once more. You keep your lips into a firm line as you observe his features, realizing just how torn up his personality was from his actions.

  “You can’t expect me to let you go now,” he takes a step forward towards you, and in reaction, you press the blade closer on the skin of your neck, feeling as though a strange air had settled between the both of you. You put your guards up, a wave of discomfort flowing through you as particles of air around you buzzed and thrummed. The storm clouds were nearing. “I’ve told you before,” Scaramouche hums as he takes another step forward, watching as you take another step back, “what would happen if you told me you loved me. I said I’d burn the world for you.” You barely register his words, you’re too surprised with the fact he was moving so easily with that wound on his stomach. 

 The inhuman shade of violet that glows hauntingly in the dark of the night attracts your gaze back towards him. You notice his free hand is tightly wrapped around something. You remember earlier, during your fight, that he had been talking about a gift he had wanted to show you.

 Dread swells within you. You had to decide now, before it was too late. 

 Noticing the panic in your eyes as you focus your sights on him, he immediately yells.

 "No!" Scaramouche suddenly shouts from his position, eyes wide when he stares at you, and you are able to barely pierce the skin of your neck, when suddenly, everything turns into a flash of white around you. You gasp as you feel a surge of electricity enter your body. The dagger in your hands flies out when your grip slackens on it, and it falls away from your body.

 It seemed that the elemental blocker wasn't strong enough for the likes of him.

 It feels as though everything was happening in slow motion, you felt your body toss up in the air while harsh, stormy winds licked at bits of your exposed skin, your vision slowly turning black at the edges as your gaze turned upwards to the sky. The full moon was bright above you, shining down upon your form as you were flung off the precipice from the sudden bolt of lightning.

 A ghost of a smile lifts itself onto your lips as you open your arms, embracing the moment in which death would surely come. Despite the horrific event, you felt at peace. You felt your body shutting down from the inside from the shock of the bolt entering you, and leaving at the soles of your feet. This was just right, you thought. A perfect ending for someone as miserable and undeserving of the world as you. Your mind flutters from one memory to the other, jumping in between the crevices of your mind, and you briefly wonder if this was what people had meant when they said their life flashed before their eyes, because you were seeing just that.

 You hear an audible frustrated shout, and you watch as the point of the cliff you once stood on appears in your line of sight. The sky is in front of you now.

There's another flash of lightning, followed by a thunder that roars in your ears and suddenly, a Scaramouche is before you, his dark hair swaying as wind rushes past him. His blood soaked, gloved hands reach out for you with a look of despair on his face.

 What an idiot, you think as you slowly shut your eyes, narrowing your eyes as you absorbed the look on his face. He had another chance to possibly live, yet he dove for you, you think as the panicked look in his eyes quickly shifts into one of seriousness and confidence.

  He manages to grip onto your upper back, bringing you closer to him. One hand is outstretched behind him, and it catches your gaze when it glows in hues of spiraling bright whites, spun together with vibrant purples. You think oddly, that he really was like a grim reaper, showing up at your time of death. He'd put an end to you , you supposed, as you break through a thick puff of mist, the sound of the ocean below you rushing towards your earshot as you near it at a rapid pace. There are several whispers of words you can’t make out that leave Scaramouche’s mouth as he peers at you with bright eyes, his expression lacking the madness it had held earlier, flooded now only with confidence.

 Scaramouche pulls his hand towards your chest, where your heart lies, and your eyes widen when you feel a warm energy breathe life into your body, surging within you. A blaze of pure white surrounds you as you fall. The energy spreads from cell to cell, passing through your bones and you feel as though your ears ring from the pressure that swells within you. The sensation spreads quickly throughout your body, and just as you close your eyes, you could've sworn you saw Scaramouche's eyes glow inhumanly in a shade of lavender. 

And with a crash, everything turns cold and black.

Chapter Text

 Dragging you out of the ocean was a hassle, Scaramouche thinks as he lays on the edge of a stony beach, catching his breath as he gazes at the distant moon high above the both of you. He admires the false sky, and with a hidden smile, turns his gaze down towards your resting figure, curled up on your side by the rocks next to him. Your chest heaves up and down as you let out small breaths, having coughed out water earlier. You had been knocked out, and no matter what Scaramouche had done in an attempt to wake you up, you simply wouldn’t come to full consciousness, although your body seemed to physically react just fine.

 Scaramouche feels the dampness of his clothes on his skin, the icy, frigid air, cool on his skin as discordant winds blow. Nevertheless, he smiles, playing with the hardened piece in his hand as he twirls the gnosis. The wound on his stomach had healed completely, he had surmised earlier as he reached for you on the precipice of the mountain the both of you had struggled desperately to climb.

 And now, with this gnosis, he was able to breathe some life into you as well.

 “Celestia be damned,” he chuckles, feeling pride swell within him as he eyes your slouched form, his eyes twinkling with a sense of knowingness. Much to his detriment, a pulsing headache throbbed at him, causing him to momentarily grunt as he held his head with his free hand, entangling his fingers into his hair as Scaramouche hisses in pain. 

 When the moment of pain passes, Scaramouche looks at the gnosis in his hand, scowling as he realizes that his body was still not used to the power the gnosis had passed through him. He had grown exhausted from using so much so quickly, especially with something as large as tying his lifeline to yours in just an instance. This was nothing short of his sight, however, he had predicted this much of an outcome while he had been studying all those Khaenri’ahn ancient texts, night and day long during the days you had been missing.

 He had to thank Dottore one of these days, he thinks fondly as he tosses the gnosis up before catching it once more. Perhaps he’d give him an easier death than the several other harbingers before him. Dottore had given you an appropriate body to match with Scaramouche’s energy, much to Scaramouche’s liking, and Dottore also had fixed his own body up to beyond perfect standards. A merciful death, Scaramouche would bring to him.

 On the topic of death, Scaramouche thinks as he slowly gets up from his seat to be closer to you, he supposed Tartaglia’s family would be the first to die with his new unbound powers. Scaramouche turns your body to face him, holding your healed shoulder tenderly as he smiles down at your sleeping form. He places the gnosis into one of his pockets, making sure it was deep enough so that it wouldn’t fall if he had begun walking.

 Carefully, he wraps a hand underneath your neck, using his free arm to hook around your body as he lifts you up into his arms, readjusting the hand on his neck to wrap around your upper torso, carrying you bridal style with little struggle. Noticing your head had fallen limp, he adjusted his position so that your head would roll comfortably towards his chest.

  “I love you.”  

 Your words ring throughout his ears like a gentle melody, and a feeling burns within him. He didn’t care if you had meant to say that to bring him to weakness, he knew you better than yourself if you had ever tried to deny that it was anything less than what you had implied.  He loved you too. But you knew that already, didn’t you? He places a soft kiss at the top of your head as he smiles eerily down at you, his eyes gleaming brightly as electricity thrums around him. “You should be grateful yet again, darling,” he says as he trudges his way off the pebbly beach, “you’ll be spending an eternity with something a little greater than a god.”

 He halts in his steps momentarily, humming, before smirking as a thought falls into his mind.

  “Perhaps I’ll bring her to that place.”

 Tartaglia looks at the old woman who stands before him with a torn expression. He reads the letter you had written for him, and finds that there is a rage that builds within him at the sight of you not being next to your mother. 

 He thinks for a moment, that your letter is written suspiciously like a goodbye, and when the thought registers, he clenches his teeth, withholding a choked noise as anger floods within him.

 When your mother asks what’s written, Tartaglia only says with a bright, sunny smile that you would probably be coming a little later than usual, because of work.

  You couldn’t have taken your life, could you?

  When he finds time alone, later that day after settling your mother in a home in Liyue, he kills a couple of mobs to quell his anger, though he realizes after his fourteenth mob hunt, that it wasn’t enough to calm his rage.

  Why didn’t you listen to him? He could’ve helped you.

 And now, that short bastard had gone missing with the gnosis, La Signora was dead, and you were gone without a trace.

  Distant screams echo in your mind as familiar scenes pass by, painting over one another as you sit idly, watching as moments play in a scattered fashion around you. Tired of hearing the screams, you attempt to cover your ears, falling backwards as you cradle yourself amidst your loud thoughts. Different voices say different things, strange occurrences happen all around you, none of which you wish to be a part of.

 Pain shoots up your legs from your feet when you step on sharp, broken pieces of glass below you, and you look down at them, unsure of what to make of the strange images that lie within the shards. It was as though someone had shattered a kaleidoscope, and now you were simply witnessing the aftermath.

 A shard colored in red attracts your gaze, as it seems brighter than the rest, and when you pick it up, you find yourself in a different place entirely. Everything around you is colored in a deep crimson, and fear pounds at your heart. You stand up, walking backwards as you attempt to get a better grasp of your surroundings, trying to see just how far the red around you truly went.

 A pair of pale arms wrap around you, pulling you into a tight embrace, and in their arms, you feel sick. You scream.

 You wake up, startled by your own dream. You take a few moments just breathing, the white bed sheets below you being first to greet your eyes when you open them for what feels like the first time in forever.

 The second thing you notice is the length of your hair, now a little longer than you had last remembered, flowing past your shoulders as you shift in your bed, with a strange feeling in your mind. You look at your hands, noticing the manicured length of your fingernails. You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes at the sight as you remember vaguely that perhaps, not too long ago, this was something uncommon for your person.

 You sit up and look around you, noticing the emptiness of the large room you were in, taking into account that nothing felt familiar to you. The colors of the room vaguely reminded you of a certain someone, a someone with a name you couldn’t remember. 

 You stand up, searching for your vanity table, only to find that there was only a small one with no mirror attached. However, there was a large rounded mirror that  had been propped up against a wall. You stretch a little, feeling relieved that you had taken such a good nap, though you figure the nap must’ve been a little too good. Your mind is hazy, and it doesn’t help that your own reflection weirds you out.

  Something isn’t right , you think as you gaze at yourself. You examine your body, lifting your plain dress up to look at a few scars on your legs, then you feel at your shoulders, finding occasional bumps at the healed scars that rested on your skin. You feel your face, touching the area around your eyes and before running your fingers down your cheeks and finally, landing at your lips.

  No, you think as you stare at your own reflection, nothing was wrong there.

 And that’s when you notice an odd strand of hair that’s visibly lighter than the rest of your hair, hanging off to the left side of your head. You scrutinize it, unaware of the soft pattering of wooden sandals across the tatami flooring as you lift the strands up delicately, a look of discomfort on your features as you examine it. 

 A pale hand reaches over your shoulder, pressing on your arm, and it elicits a sharp gasp from you. Naturally, you flinch away from the touch, swiveling your body around as you furrow your brows angrily at the person who stood before you. The man stood still, his complexion pale as his indigo eyes twinkle with a sense of joy upon seeing your face. He smiles at you, “You’re finally awake,” his smile makes you uncomfortable, and you find little to no warmth in it, despite his clear attempts to show a happy expression. “I was worried Dottore’s works on you had failed ,” he laughs, “you had given me quite a fright , if I had to be honest with myself.” You don’t understand his words. You think he looks familiar, though you decide not to let your guard down.

  “Who are you?” You question with a stern voice, and you find yourself assuming a position that feels most natural to you in your defensive mode, “Who is Dottore, or what is it?”

 The man, just a little taller than you, gazes at you with an odd expression, looking as though at a loss for words at your response. There’s a flicker of something dark that passes through his eyes as his lips fall open, his jawline tightening as he casts his gaze a little downwards while maintaining his eyes on yours. His bangs cast a shadow over his face that makes his eyes a little brighter, seemingly glowing violet. You hold your stance, unsure of what to make of this sudden encounter.

 And then, he chuckles. You watch as he explodes into a fit of laughter, tilting his head as he throws his head back, “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten who I am, darling,” the use of a nickname causes you to flinch, your shoulders tensing as you rack your mind. After he calms down from his laughter, he looks at you quizzically, a smile on his face as his eyes gleamed with interest, and something that you find to be a little bit… sinister. “I’m your husband,” he nears you once more, and you allow him to hold your left hand up to your face. There lies a gorgeous silver ring, embedded with a simple design of a butterfly with purple etchings surrounding it.

 Your thoughts halt.

  You were married!?

 Your face flushes with embarrassment as you immediately relax, your gaze focusing in on your ring as you search for answers within your brain. Nothing, you think. As if your mind had become a blank slate, you found nothing, not a single answer to be found, though you did find several more questions. There’s an itch in your brain that you attempt to zero in on, and after a few seconds of trying to focus on it, you give up entirely. You realize that his hand in yours didn’t feel uncomfortable, something you understood was perhaps a telltale sign that you were comfortable with this level of intimacy with this person. Tentatively, you bite your lower lip, “I suppose my brain is a little out of it,” you speak with uncertainty. 

 The man before you lets out a small noise of acknowledgement before pulling you towards him, wrapping you into a tight embrace. His lips brush against your ear, and you feel yourself slowly flush from embarrassment once more, “That’s okay,” he whispers, “I just missed you is all.”

  He had missed you?  

 “You were asleep for a couple of months,” he explains as he pulls away, his features soft when he looks at you, holding both of your hands in his own as he gazes deeply into your eyes, “you got into an accident, remember?”

 You pause. Something inside you was screaming ‘no’, though you decided to ignore it, seeing as you hardly had a recollection of anything around you, even your own husband.  

 “We had a doctor fix you up, his name was Dottore,” he continues to explain, and you watch his reaction for any telltale signs of lying. You find nothing of the sort, so you nod as you let him continue, “you should be thankful.” His words don’t sit quite right with you, the pads of his fingers pressing a little uncomfortably tight around your hands, and he stands still, a placated smile on his face as he looks at you expectantly.

 You are still for a moment, unsure of what to say, before reluctantly giving into his wishes. You nod and smile at him, thinking that he had perhaps done a lot for you while you were comatose, “Thank you, and… your name was again?” Before he says anything, you find your brain already able to piece it together as you peer into his eyes. 

 A flicker of emotion passes through his eyes, all too quickly for you to understand, “ Kunikuzushi,” he replies with an amiable tone, “I suppose you’ve forgotten that, too.”

 “Right,” you nervously laugh, “my apologies, I might’ve forgotten a lot during my comatose state, my dear,” you hum as you turn your gaze towards the mirror, noticing the light that had begun to shine through the windows that showed an endless ocean beyond. “It’s already morning,” you say in a quiet voice, not noticing the slight tilt in his head when you use a term of endearment for him, followed by the sick smile that grows on his face when it registers.

 “Come,” Kunikuzushi says with a serene smile, holding your hand and tugging you towards the door with him, “we’ll find something to eat, shall we?”

 You smile at him, thinking that you were glad to have someone waiting for you while you woke up, and so you give him a peck on the lips as a sign of gratefulness. When you pull away, he looks shocked, his eyes wide as he ghosts his free hand over his lips. You chalk his reaction up to the fact that perhaps you haven’t kissed him in forever, and when you begin to walk, you suddenly stop in your steps.

  Something was missing.

  Yeah, you think as you calmly brush back strands of your hair, tucking them behind your ear. Something was missing. You let go of Kunikuzushi’s hand and turn around, walking towards the small vanity table just beside your large bed. “Ah,” you say as your eyes land on a familiar, ornate piece on your vanity table, “I had almost forgotten about this,” your voice is timid as you reach for the red butterfly pin resting on the table, noticing that it looked a little aged, or damaged than the last time you had remembered. 

 Kunikuzushi gazes at you, his eyes wide as his lips grow into a slow smile.

 Your eyes are glued to the rubies on the pin, your thumb brushing over the intricate jewels with a sense of comfort and familiarity. You turn towards the mirror, placing a careful hand on the side of your face, holding strands of hair back as you slowly place the pin by the side of your head. As you do so, thoughts fire in your mind, shards of memories flooding by all too quickly for you to process. Your eyes grow wide as a wide array of emotions flood your mind, finding it hard to remember all those memories, however, your stomach settles with a horrible feeling. 

 And when you look in the mirror, seeing Kunikuzushi's smile turn deranged, his eyes filled with an emotion you could only describe as an unhinged happiness, you think that those suspicious emotions you had seen in him earlier were all real.

 As you look at him, an image forms within your mind's eye. Your smile slowly disappears as a feeling of dread overwhelms you. You can see a red butterfly, wrapped in a spider's web at the look in his eyes.

 Inside you, within the deepest recesses of your mind, a flame reignites, and somewhere, in the ocean, a discarded pyro vision reawakens from its slumber.

 Scaramouche laughs, as your body stiffens, your eyes wide as you pull your hands slowly away from your face,

 "Welcome back, my beloved wife."