Chapter Text
If Scaramouche were human, he might have felt some guilt over Signora’s death. In fact, despite her rotten personality and their inability to have a civil conversation, out of all his fellow Harbingers, he had sympathized with her the most. They were quite similar after all. Their Archons, Beezelbub and Barbatos respectively, had done nothing but throw them and their loved ones to the wolves. Their nations, their families, no one understood them. Or rather, no one was left to understand them. The culmination? A sharp tongue to share and a bitter heart to boot. The Balladeer and The Crimson Witch, The Sixth and The Eighth, together they had forfeit their humanity and kept the rest at arm's length. Their differences existed solely in their desires and philosophies. Where Scaramouche longed to achieve Godhood, Signora resented all that was holy. No matter, as he was now, the gnosis finally in his hold, Scaramouche felt as though some thanks were in order. Poor, incompetent Rosalyne’s sacrifice was quite necessary for him to get this far.
As he roamed the southernmost beaches of Watatsumi island, he thought to thank the entire rotten organization. After all, the Fatui had given him a place of belonging, albeit temporary. Though they had ultimately only served as a means to an end, their relationship had been mutually beneficial while it lasted. They nurtured him when he was at his lowest and turned him into a properly feared man; he took care of their dirty work and he was given a lifetime’s supply of secrets in return. To use and be used—such was the way of life.
Amusement bubbled in his throat. How gullible they had been to think his loyalty unwavering! Did they truly believe him to be so broken that he would blindly follow them for the rest of his days? His goals had merely temporarily aligned with the Tsarista’s. Nothing more, nothing less. He’d kept his enemies close for long enough and their proximity served its purpose. Playing the part of the loyal coworker and follower would only hinder him now.
The moment the Tsaritsa set her eyes upon Inazuma’s Archon, Scaramouche knew his years of dedication had finally paid off. While he’d never been the type to open up about his life’s most intimate details, gossip spread fast. Between his never changing appearance and his strange, nearly ball-jointed anatomy, it didn’t take long for his more curious colleagues to put two-and-two together. No matter, it all worked out for him in the end. As it turned out, being the only Harbinger who hailed from Inazuma, and whose history with its local deity was—more or less—an open secret, came with perks. It didn’t matter where it hailed from: knowledge was a valuable resource. Being tasked with the electro gnosis’s retrieval came as no surprise.
But those fools had severely underestimated him. The gnosis was made for him; he only existed because of it. In what world would he just hand it over? Celestia above— The Archons, the Fatui, and this whole rotten world had already taken their fill of him. It was about time he took back that which rightfully belonged to him. The Tsaritsa had played into the palm of his hand; his nasty attitude kept the other Harbingers at arms length but his compliance to Her Highness made him a trustworthy ally. Or, as trustworthy as a Harbinger could be.
His plan had gone off without a hitch thus far, but he couldn’t risk any complications. It was only a matter of time before Scaramouche’s disappearance was discovered and reported, if it hadn’t been already. Only a couple weeks had passed since Signora’s untimely death, but the news wouldn’t stall the Fatui for long. Until Scaramouche escaped Inazuma, he had to put his plan on hold—the risk of using the gnosis was far too high. He knew his coworkers disliked him. He ensured it even. But the cost of betraying them was steep. He could only imagine how their mouths must be foaming at this opportunity to drag him back to the icy homeland. Only the Tsaritsa may offer him mercy in the form of a quick execution.
Half drunk on the high of his success, Scaramouche welcomed the challenge. What could they possibly hope to achieve by provoking the son of a God, so close to achieving divinity himself? If they were looking for an early death, he could certainly guide them to it. Scaramouche closed his eyes and hummed to himself; a certain low-ranked thorn in his side came to mind. Since Tartaglia’s inauguration, Scaramouche had been subjected to years and years of his nonstop insistence to spar. Perhaps now would be the perfect opportunity to show The Eleventh how weak he truly was. Scaramouche shook his head to rid Tartaglia from his head, the night too beautiful to spend any longer thinking of him.
At last, after finding a quiet place to sit on Watatsumi’s southern shore, Scaramouche peered up at the night sky. The stars and the sea melted into one as they met along the horizon. It didn’t matter if they were fake. They were the closest thing to eternity Teyvat would ever know. He closed his eyes and listened to the lull of the ocean.
As soon as Scaramouche’s fist had closed around the gnosis, he left the delusion factory, that conniving fox, and the Fatui behind. He’d walked for a week. Traveling between the islands while simultaneously avoiding Fatui troops hadn’t exactly been the easiest of tasks, but the payoff was worth it. As he saw it, Watatsumi Island stood as the only place in Inazuma where Scaramouche could afford to let his guard down, even if just a little. Since The Traveler discovered the factory, and its subsequent impact on Sangonomiya's army, the High Priestess banned the use of delusions and expelled the remaining Fatui from the island. Needless to say, any lingering troops or spies were sure to be uncovered and dealt with accordingly.
All in all, it presented itself as the perfect place for him to lay low for a while. He had temporarily discarded his usual outfit for a lighter and—more importantly—discreet kimono and hakama. The locals would have no reason to suspect him as long as he kept a friendly persona and a low profile. Scaramouche let out a breath of air as he adjusted his outfit a little; he pulled the sleeves of his haori up a little higher and hiked his hakama up to his knees. The last thing he wanted was to wash the garment because it got crunchy with salt water.
The sand was soft and the sea water caressed his feet. The wind bit at his cheeks, but Scaramouche felt lighter than ever. He pulled the gnosis from where he had hidden it—tucked snugly beneath his obi—and thumbed it, feeling its power. It felt…warm, almost, as if the electricity that thrummed through it wanted to escape. Scaramouche’s mouth slipped into a small smile as he moved to cradle the gnosis between his hands. Perhaps it recognized its true master.
He clasped his fingers around it—a purple glow leaking through them—and slipped it back into place. He didn’t want to attract any prying, unwanted eyes. He pushed himself onto his feet and brushed the sand from his clothes, then carried his sandals and hakama until he escaped the ocean’s reach.
The cave he’d settled in had obviously been abandoned in a hurry, either by Fatui troops or the local nobushi. Not only were there half buried and abandoned wagons and boats, but crates, tools, and scattered planks of wood littered the sand as well. The cave itself carved deep into the cliff face and ran quite long. Much like the shoreline, it’d been littered with leftover junk. To his displeasure, some lizards also seemed to find the cave a suitable home. It wasn’t the height of luxury—definitely not like his room back at headquarters—but it was suitable. Most importantly, it stood close to Bourou Village.
Near the entrance of the cave lay a pile of wood he gathered earlier in the day. Unfortunately, the planks that scattered the beach had been too waterlogged for a fire, so his day had been spent picking up sticks around the island. He slipped on his shoes, picked the wood up, and brought it deeper into the cave.
Technically, Scaramouche had no need for a fire. He couldn’t get hypothermia and the cold didn’t especially bother him. Still, Scaramouche found the warmth… nice. Watching the flames brought him an odd sort of comfort, one that numbed the mind. Sometimes he would even stick his hand into it to watch the fire lick harmlessly at his fingers. He waited for the day the skin might char. Besides, if someone happened upon him sleeping in this cold, dark, and damp cave, some evidence of a fire having been lit would avoid suspicion or, worse, concern. Scaramouche let a spark of electricity roll off his finger and struck the wood. The sharp heat immediately lit it aflame.
Satisfied, Scaramouche pulled off his haori, folded it, and placed it on the ground before he followed suit, using it as a pillow. It wasn’t comfortable in the slightest, but it would have to do for the time being. Perhaps tomorrow he would go into town to try and find some proper sleepwear, or at least get a blanket to lay on.
Scaramouche’s eyes grew heavy, something he’d never quite understood. He didn’t need to sleep—in fact, he had tested himself before out of curiosity. While exhaustion didn’t affect him in the same way it did humans, he became sluggish if it prolonged too long. Sleeping, though a nuisance, became a natural habit to avoid complications. Scaramouche didn’t try to fight it here. He couldn’t afford to take any chances, no matter how safe Watatsumi was. So, huddled next to the fire, Scaramouche felt his body grow heavier, and heavier, and heavier until…
…
He opened his eyes with some effort, starkly aware of the unnatural heaviness in his body. It was as though a weight had lodged itself in his stomach and pressed him down against the earth. The world around him was dark—too dark, but he couldn’t feel a cloth over his eyes nor did his vision ever adjust to the endless void around him. Moving his body took considerable effort, as if his veins had been filled with lead. Even lifting his finger felt like a tireless battle against a raging river. Blinking, too, took a considerable and concentrated effort.
Could he have been drugged? He felt… groggy. He couldn’t quite tell if he was laying on the ground or suspended in the air. It didn’t help that time passed oddly. Each moment stretched out for entirely too long, only to mold into the next before he could fully register the utter wrongness of it all. His brain lagged, unable to comprehend the situation.
Where was this place? His head spun. Coming up with anything close to a coherent thought proved to be troublesome.
“Have I ascended to Celestia?” He thought to himself, his voice awfully loud in his own head.
Unlikely. He hadn’t achieved anything noteworthy during his unusually long existence. At least, not yet.
“Is this real?”
Scaramouche’s head ached uncomfortably. It certainly felt real.
“Am I…dead?”
The pocket of time he found himself stuck in stretched on and on, sickeningly slow, before its elastic string snapped and catapulted him into the next second.
“Is this eternity?”
No. Scaramouche would shake his head if he could. This was the one truth he knew to be certain: to define eternity is to place a limit on it. It’s inherently impossible. To observe it is just as absurd a notion.
Still, the darkness was unrelenting. It pressed against—and near crushed—his ribcage. His chest heaved as he fought for a breath. Did he even need to breathe? Scaramouche knew the answer, but if he was wrong, he wasn’t confident in his ability to start again should he stop. With considerable effort, he forced his head to roll back—back until his neck popped and he couldn’t push it farther, in some hope that there was something, anything he could see.
And suddenly, there was. As if waiting to be spotted, a pinprick of light punctured the void. Having grown used to the dark, even that needle tip’s width of light blinded him. It looked about the size of a star, but actually distinguishing its proximity proved impossible. It could’ve been a mile away or a breath’s distance from him and Scaramouche never would’ve known the difference. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, it grew. As though someone had tugged on a loose string, the hole grew larger and larger until the void began to unravel around him. Then suddenly, all too suddenly, Scaramouche was left blinking furiously as he lay in a new world of white.
His fingers tingled with static when he tried to move them. It seemed the change in scenery didn’t help the fact that Scaramouche’s bones still rooted themselves down like a dead weight. His stomach coiled and knotted, inching its way up his torso until it settled into his throat. Now that he could actually see, his vision swam and he felt lightheaded. Time continued to pass in a similar manner as before, much to Scaramouche’s displeasure. He found he almost preferred the darkness. Seeing hadn’t helped him discern his location and the probing light only served to burn his retinas. Closing his eyes couldn’t even diminish it completely. This whole situation only gave him a headache.
Another unbearably long second stretched on and on until, without warning, a face appeared over his own. Scaramouche blinked with disbelief and the corners of his mouth pulled down with evident and growing disgust. Every moment that had passed before this one melted into oblivion, as if they had never existed.
“Having trouble, puppet?” Dottore smiled coyly. Scaramouche’s stomach flipped. How did he get here? Why was he here? Was…was he back in the lab? No. No, no, no. No, it wasn’t possible… right?
The Doctor made him uneasy in a way the other Harbingers never did. He was the only one in this world, other than the Tsaritsa, who was privy to knowledge regarding Scaramouche’s… specific design, among other things. He had been crucial to unlocking the blocker placed on his abilities, and was the only person Scaramouche could trust to patch him up on the rare occasion he’d been gravely injured.
Dottore was of the ambitious sort, driven by an all encompassing greed that knew no bounds. They were similar in that way. He was eccentric, willing to disregard even the Tsaritsa’s command if it boiled down to it. He was the kind of man whose exhaustion didn’t dare deter him. The Second could spend countless uninterrupted hours, if not days, or even weeks on a single experiment, content to lose himself in the motion of dissecting and reassembling whatever had piqued his interest. That is, until he found something better.
Their relationship was of the symbiotic variety. Scaramouche didn’t particularly care about Dottore. He found him entirely too psychotic for his liking, and he imagined The Second felt similarly. The Doctor hid behind pleasantries and diplomacy, a mask so carefully crafted that his true intent was often impossible to discern. Perhaps it was thanks to the sheer amount of time they’d spent in each other's proximity, but Scaramouche felt that tight fitting mask had begun to slip from where Dottore had nailed it to his skin. He looked at Scaramouche with an insufferable mix of wonder and contempt; he marveled at Scaramouche’s existence–entranced by the life crudely created by an Archon—savagely desperate to recreate it. Over the years, Dottore had grown increasingly frustrated with his inability to fully replicate the design, even after tirelessly studying Beelzebub’s failed attempt. He regarded the puppet with thinly veiled scorn, unable to justify his feelings of superiority when his own creations were still second-rate next to Scaramouche. They were as civil as they needed to be, purposefully ignorant of the other’s glaring faults, as long as they got what they needed from each other.
Scaramouche, as a creation, as a concept, had fascinated Dottore for years, something The Sixth now found himself quite exasperated by. For better or for worse, the Tsartisa had been much less concerned with Scaramouche’s construction. In other words, so long as The Doctor didn’t kill him, he had free rein over his experiments on The Sixth. Scaramouche had found himself in Dottore’s lab more often than not, subjected to both menial and horrifying experiments alike. He had never sympathized with The Doctor's interest in his origins, nor what made him tick, or how much pressure it took before Scaramouche cracked. A long life wasn’t worthy of envy and Scaramouche anticipated the day Dottore’s sick interest in him died out. He’d long tired of being someone else’s test subject.
With Scaramouche’s sudden departure, their symbiosis had come to an abrupt end, and with it, the usefulness Dottore once served. Now, all he amounted to was an incredibly large thorn in his side.
“So you’re the one behind this?” Scaramouche scowled, voice cracking in his throat due to its extended disuse. The Doctor’s smile never faltered as he knelt down, still hovering above Scaramouche, but annoyingly closer.
“Who’s to say?” He said lightly. “You know, you can’t hide from our Tsaritsa’s gaze forever. How about you let me help you?” With the tip of his finger, he moved Scaramouche’s bangs off his forehead and out of his eyes. The movement was condescending, designed to burn this temporary triumph into his memory. It didn’t matter though, not when Dottore had been foolish enough to let Scaramouche in on a Harbinger grade secret. He could barely contain himself. Dottore’s thinly veiled threat held as much weight as a feather when this place held no basis in the corporeal world.
“And what’s the catch?” Scaramouche was glaring now, fingers twitching as he tried desperately to regain control of his body. Dottore’s grin widened maddeningly.
“You know me so well, don’t you! There’s just one last experiment I’d like to perform with you. That’s all, really.”
Scaramouche would have strangled the other if he could. Of course, he should have guessed as much. Dottore didn’t want him dead, at least not yet. Maybe his obsession with him was going to prove useful yet.
“It’ll be an interesting one, Sixth, I guarantee it.”
Before he could respond, the world around them plunged into darkness once more. The sudden shift in scenery was disorienting. Scaramouche screwed his eyes shut and willed his stomach to settle. Though, the feeling of dread that bloomed throughout his chest didn’t help his nerves. The void’s reemergence disappeared Dottore from sight. Only the echo of his hyena-like laugh pointed to his prolonged existence. That sharp cackling only grew louder as the floor, or whatever it was that kept Scaramouche suspended, disappeared, sending him into a free fall. Startled, he gasped. His limbs flailed uselessly as he plummeted down, down, down. Just as he thought he might smack into the ground that may or may not exist, he jolted upright. He gasped for breath, back in his cave.
He couldn’t see well, the fire having burned out some time ago, but the traces of dawn kissed the pinkening horizon. With forced, shaky breaths, Scaramouche tore his hand away from his chest. A wet warmth trailed down his heated cheeks and Scaramouche reeled. Shame and disgust curled like snakes in the pit of his stomach. Pathetic . Usually he had more control over this… this flaw of his.
He let his head drop to his bent knees as he wrapped his arms around himself. Perhaps it’d just been a nightmare, conjured from the anxiety only a recently escaped fugitive could experience. Still, infiltrating Scaramouche’s mind didn’t seem like an especially impossible feat, especially for Dottore. Either The Doctor implanted something in him during one of their appointments or he’d had a stress dream. Scaramouche groaned. He didn’t know which was worse.
Scaramouche sat in place for a couple moments more, collecting himself before he stood up. He wiped viciously at his tear stained cheeks and forced the ache in his chest to settle. Dottore always had a way of getting under his skin. Of making him feel vulnerable. He didn’t dare fall back asleep. He doubted he could even if he tried. With a bitter taste on his tongue, Scaramouche steeled himself and burned those useless fears of his to ash. They’d only hold him back dare he actually dwell on them. He had better uses of his time–like getting an early start on the day.
So, with a black hole settled snugly in his chest, he adjusted his clothing, made sure everything was straight, and that any wrinkles had been smoothed out. Just because he had slept in his kimono didn’t mean he wanted to look like he did. He then unfolded and shook out his haori, patting off any bits of stubborn earth before pulling it on. By the time he had slipped his sandals on, the sun had completely risen over the sea.
It had been a long, long time since Scaramouche last spent the night outside without so much as a tent to keep him warm. While he wouldn’t say he missed it, he certainly didn’t mind the sudden lack of paperwork. The only orders he had to follow now were his own. He lightly sighed as he ran his fingers through his hair to work out the knots. The sea sloshed lazily against the shore. It served as a soft melody to cut through the silence and keep his mind at bay. He hoped he didn’t look too disgruntled; he wasn’t looking to get pity points from the locals.
Bourou Village wasn’t far, a mere brisk walk away. There, he would collect supplies and begin his task of winning over the residents' trust. If he was lucky, maybe he could even gain some intel on the situation in the capital. The Fatui were bound to scour Inazuma first in their search for him given how difficult getting out was, especially now that he’d lost the privilege of using their connections to escape. Even if he knew Inazuma like the back of his hand, the risk of being discovered grew ever more with each passing day. Watatsumi, while the safest of the islands, couldn’t protect him indefinitely. If found, it wouldn’t take long for Sangonomiya’s army to involve itself too.
Scaramouche walked along the beach in silence. The air was cool and fresh, and the wind carried the scent of daybreak. The waves grew larger and crashed incessantly against the sand, signaling the rising tide. The main road, could it even be called that, wasn’t difficult to find. With the end of the beach came a solid dirt path that sloped down, further inland, and towards a garden. Somewhat curious, Scaramouche followed the edge of the fence until he reached the open gate. The state of the crops seemed… poor. The dirt was light in color and anything that had actually managed to pop up looked rotten or had been eaten by the wildlife. Watatsumi wasn’t particularly known for farming, so Scaramouche wondered what lay in the point of trying. Not like it was his problem, but even he could tell when to give up.
A couple feet away, close to the opposing side of the garden, a pair of men stood over the crops and bemoaned their state. The larger of the men criticized the other for not sticking to fishing while the other defended himself. Amused, Scaramouche watched until he was noticed. The scrawnier of the men, who seemed to be the most beaten up over the failed crops, saw him first. Startled, he jumped to his feet.
“Oh, hello there. Sorry, you gave me a start,” he said, rubbing the back of his head. “I haven’t seen you around here before. You another refugee from the mainland?” he asked awkwardly. The other man turned to look him up and down. Scaramouche dawned a small, perfected smile, looking perfectly humble.
“Sorry to bother you, but yes. I was displaced and heard the resistance was stationed here. I was just on my way to the village when I saw you two here,” Scaramouche said softly with a bow.
“My, no need to be so polite!” The brawnier man exclaimed. His posture loosened as he let out a hearty laugh. “You look like quite the sensible young man. Perhaps this one could learn from you!” He elbowed his offended looking friend in the side. Unamused, Scaramouche fought the urge to scoff. He settled for a bashful smile instead.
“The troops occupy some of the old houses in the village. Just keep goin’ straight down this road and you’ll get there in no time. If one of the soldiers isn’t able to help you out, there’s plenty of nice folks that could set you up.”
Scaramouche nodded his head, “Thank you, I’ll take my leave then.” He offered them a polite wave as he turned back onto the path. The longer he walked, the greener his surroundings became. Soon enough, the dirt path curved and dipped, turning into a short, winding stone stairway before it pushed him out onto an overgrown slope sidelined by a waterfall. Only the scattered remains of a feeble looking fence signified a human presence. After his descent, the dirt path reappeared and guided him towards the village entryway.