Work Text:
It was all a lie. One big rouse, a joke from the gods themselves.
Scaramouche turned his attention to the night sky about him, his purple eyes roving over it as he looked from star to star looking for some sign. Some small crack, a tear, anything that would tell him that what he’d seen had been real.
He trusts his own mind, of course, he trusts himself more than anyone but he'd be lying if some small part of him wasn’t hoping that it was a lie.
That what the meteor shard had shown him had been a trick, an illusion, something, anything that would keep his world as he knew it from crumbling around him.
Scaramouche isn’t someone who prays. Not anymore at least, having learned far too long ago that there was no point in crying and screaming to gods, when, instead of uselessly waiting for a salvation that would never come, he could in that same time he’d be wasting make his own form of salvation.
Besides when you were someone made in a God’s image only to be cast aside, the list of higher powers you could pray to were too minuscule to even consider.
Scaramouche slowly turns his gaze away from the sky before turning his head to look at his subordinates that were being as boisterous and annoying as usual. Normally he’d be snapping at them, telling them to shut their mouths, that their voices were grating, that they were all nothing more than worthless cattle meant to be used at his discretion.
But right now he wasn’t angry, he didn’t feel sad, he didn’t feel anything truthfully. White static filled his ears as he found his hand reaching up to fiddle with the electro emblem on his chest.
It was a habit he’d picked up during his time wandering Inazuma all those years ago, most of which was nothing but a faint hazy collection of memories, Kunikuzushi always had a habit of pawing at his own chest when anxious, frequently clutching it. And while Scaramouche’s memory of that time was faint, the body always remembers even if the mind does not.
The longer he blankly stares at his subordinates, the more a singular question circles his mind. What point was there anymore? If the sky was false and he was truly confined to this world being used as a cage with no way out, what truly was the point anymore?
He continues blankly staring at the subordinates' faces from where he sat a little ways away, their carefree smiles, lively chatter beginning to irk him more bit by bit. Didn’t they know of the danger lurking right above their very heads like a beast that could devour them at a moment's notice?
If not then why him? Why was Scaramouche the only one who got a glimpse at the world beyond the bars of the cage surrounding them? Why was he the only one given the chance to peek beneath the veil?
Almost absentmindedly Scaramouche finds himself reaching up his fingers gently ghosting across his cheek, right below his eye. Eyes that reminded him of the god who’d cast him aside like worthless trash.
Faint memories of a long bygone era long turned fuzzy begin to take form albeit slowly. For years he’d wandered a land he could scarcely call his own home, having to grow and learn from the world around him.
The few humans who would stay, who would offer their company if only for a moment. Their life span as fleeting as ever, always passing in the blink of an eye to Scaramouche. And yet for lives so short they often did their best to strive and make the most of what tiny amount of time they’d had left.
But when they were gone, it was for good and he would be alone once more abandoned, bordering the worlds of the mortal and immortal without truly ever belonging to either.
And at some point he’d found it difficult to mourn them anymore, his tears quickly running dry as they didn’t do anyone any good. A silent prayer said once they were gone, then the memories were shoved to the side and locked away for him to ignore. For him to try his best to forget.
Scaramouche scowls, shaking his head slightly as his grip on the metallic emblem on his chest tightens a bit. Why were these memories surfacing now? Why were they so tangible at this moment and yet when he’d joined the Fatui they’d been nothing but foggy fragments?
And yet no matter how much Scaramouche tries to clear his mind he can’t, more memories begin to take shape. A face, its features indistinguishable, nothing but a smeared blur, and yet a name still wriggles free from some deep corner of his mind.
Katsuragi .
A cold, almost violent chill crawls across Scaramouche’s skin as he freezes. A strong ringing noise seems to fill his ears, gradually drowning out the world around him.
He blinks and for a brief second the world changes. He can see a tatami mat splattered in glistening red, the familiar slightly heavy weight of a sword hilt in his hand, the familiar tingling hum of electro caressing his skin.
Scaramouche blinks rapidly, shaking his head quickly almost frantically, trying to clear those memories, to force them back behind that carefully locked door. It’d been closed this long, locked and buried never meant to be opened again, so why?
He finds himself gripping his chest even tighter as his breathing grows harsh. He can feel the electro emblem digging tightly into his hand but it doesn’t hurt, and even if it does it doesn’t matter. Nothing does.
He just needed to force them back, but no matter what he does, no matter how much he breathes or tries to focus it doesn’t help.
He can feel it, the weight of the sword in his hand, the scent of iron, blood filling his nose and coating his fingers in a quickly cooling warmth. The slippery texture makes it hard to grasp anything. But what had been holding at that time?
Scaramouche doesn’t feel his hand slowly slip from his face, blindly grasping around as if searching for the answer to his burning question.
He knew it’d been something warm, soft, and with a decent weight. Heavier than the sword he’d been welding.
Another name wedges itself free from the hazy cloud of memories shifting and writhing in his mind.
Mikoshi Nagamasa .
The name is familiar but at the same time not, and yet it still has Scaramouche gritting his teeth as those flames of rage bloomed to life in an instant but with it also comes an almost cathartic refreshing sense of relief or happiness.
Now he remembered right, he’d been holding that bastard Mikoshi Nagamasa’s head in his hand, gripping the severed appendage by the hair. But why?
Scaramouche often dealt out punishment and death to his subordinates just for his own amusement. Yet the feeling that welled up inside of him at that memory, that name…was an intense sadness and cathartic almost soothing relief.
The image of that person that seemed so familiar to him, the one whose features were so indistinguishable in his memories floated to the forefront of his mind, and with it came a soft voice, light yet gentle like a cool spring breeze.
At that moment a singular word comes forth cutting through the ring in his ears and silencing it with a startling clarity as Scaramouche speaks.
“Kunikuzushi…”
And the lock that had held tight, growing stronger and stronger over the course of 500 or so odd years shatters like glass in an instant.
The world around him crackles to life in his ears, the frantic voices of his subordinates, but they seem to barely register in his mind as it does it best to process so many memories filling his thoughts.
His eyes feel strangely warm and he finds himself slowly reaching up instinctively, jolting slightly in shock when his hand comes away wet with tears.
Crying, he was crying. As he stares at the tears on his hand he feels strangely numb.
When had been the last time he’d cried, not feigning tears to manipulate those when he needed them to remain unaware, but a genuine display of emotion.
And even with all the memories now at his disposal, he finds that he doesn’t know the answer. Long ago before he even had become Scaramouche he’d given up crying.
He’d allowed other emotions to take its place, ones that would be more useful to him in this cruel world than the sympathy and empathy others would so readily take advantage of and destroy.
Maybe that’s why after all these years of conditioning, of wearing that mask is why when he finally raises his head and looks at his subordinates, all of them looking at him with expressions that are a mix of pity, shock, and fear it has that sensation of shame and rage flaring to life within him.
“L-Lord Scaramouche-“ A Cicin mage begins, seemingly the only soul brave enough to step forward.
Scaramouche’s eyes turn to her, the way he remains utterly still, his face expressionless as those indigo eyes slowly move to look at her, is eerie. Inhuman. It has a blanket of cold dread and fear covering her as she takes a step back, her words dying in her throat.
There’s an ancient knowledge and wisdom behind those eyes that as a human, a mortal she can’t even begin to fathom its weight crushing and terrifying. There’s hatred behind those eyes as well, not the normal anger Scaramouche frequently got that often wore off.
No, there is a pure, icy, ages-old hatred lurking behind his gaze, one that can’t just be extinguished with time.
Everyone falls silent as if frozen in place, that blanket of fear, of dread, the horror of the unknown and all-powerful covering them.
While Scaramouche was one of the more brutal, abrasive, and standoffish Harbingers he was always with reach and touchable in the sense that he still felt human .
Now though as his subordinates gazed upon his form, his expression neutral yet his demeanor cold than the frigid winds of Dragonspine it was as though he was a being that belonged to a different world entirely. Something old, long beyond human comprehension or understanding.
Scaramouche moved, slowly getting to his feet and his subordinates wished they could take a step back, but the fear coating their bodies has them frozen in place like ice.
Scaramouche’s moments seem fluid to him, normal, but to his subordinates, they’re strangely stilted, not clumsy but almost as if someone were puppeteering a doll putting them on edge in a way they can’t describe and yet their minds scream danger, that something is wrong.
That death is approaching.
Scaramouche takes a deep breath closing his eyes for a moment, he’s experiencing a medley of emotions all too much, and yet at the same time not enough, they thrash in his chest coiling and writhing as if looking for an escape.
Opening his eyes again Scaramouche looks at the sky, it truthfully is a beautiful night and yet it feels as if it’s taunting him. Especially with the knowledge he had obtained from the meteor.
Sighing, Scaramouche turns back to his subordinates, his eyes briefly roving over their pale terrified faces, and yet he feels no amusement in seeing such expressions right now.
“Do as you please,” Scaramouche murmured as he turned around to face the rolling valleys of Mondstadt.
The lush green grass gently rustling as a soft sweet breeze carries the scent of cecilia and windwheel asters. It was incredibly peaceful here in Mondstadt, barring Dragonspine it seemed as if it was honestly the calmest nation in Teyvat.
Even StormTerror’s domain seemed relatively calm nowadays, no doubt due to the actions of the Traveler.
Scaramouche begins walking away from the Fatui base camp, with no one making an attempt to stop him.
As he gets further and further away from the camp before his form vanishes altogether, a wave of complete and utter overwhelming relief washes over every one of the subordinates, some falling to their knees trembling and all realizing they’d just escaped a hell more terrifying abyss.
None of them know why, maybe Lord Scaramouche, no that thing that seemed to be wearing his skin like clothing was bored. Maybe he just ignored them.
Or maybe, just maybe to him, their existences had been so minuscule, so insignificant that it would have been a waste of time, like a human needlessly hunting down ants in the dirt.
Either way, they’re more than grateful to be alive.
~~~
Scaramouche isn’t sure how far or how long he walks, the soft gentle night breeze caressing his skin. The faint sound of rustling grass as he takes steps. And yet his brain barely registers the scenery around him, only being able to pick out the numerous shades of green around him, a blurred collection of grassy fields and clustered trees.
He finds his mind turning to the Traveler, it was a rumor but rumors spread like wildfire, but some people had spoken of them not being from Teyvat at all. The strange clothes, elemental abilities yet the fact that they had no vision and were neither an Archon nor the vessel for one.
They’d been shocked however when Scaramouche delivered the news of the fake sky to them. But Scaramouche knows better than anyone just how good of an actor someone can be when they truly wish to.
The other person on his thoughts was the reason Scaramouche had found himself out here investigating these meteors in the first place. The first Harbinger Pierro.
No one truly knew where Pierro was from, with the man often saying that he was merely a jester, looking to keep the world turning and entertaining no matter what it took.
He was the oldest member of the Harbingers in not only rank but age as well. Often speaking as if he were wise beyond his years, having experienced so many lifetimes while plucking knowledge from each until it was all amassed in the form he currently held.
Scaramouche had been curious once, because something about Pierro made him uneasy so he’d found himself attempting to look beneath the veil. To see Pierro’s true nature but the moment he tried he found something stopping him, a wall in a sense that had a feeling of unease flaring to life, and right beside it was fear.
Scaramouche still remembers the calm smile Pierro gave him at the time. His mouth seemed to stretch too far to look natural on a human face, his eyes empty yet still piercing as if he was looking right through Scaramouche.
Scaramouche had ended up quickly looking away, realizing in that moment that perhaps it was best not to trifle with Pierro. At least not now anyhow.
So when Pierro had sent him out here in the first place to investigate the meteors, his words strangely encouraging as if it were a suggestion instead of an order Scaramouche had truly been on edge and yet curious.
Now though, he doesn’t even know if he wished he could’ve stayed in blissful ignorance or if he’s grateful to have this knowledge, this advantage.
Scaramouche pauses as he finds himself drawn to the enormous tree in Mondstadt, its dark brown branches stretching high into the sky while its lush green leaves clustered densely together.
He feels numb as he stumbles past the Statue of the Seven belonging to the Anemo Archon Barbatos. Surprisingly the Archon had not made an appearance despite the strange occurrences in his land, then again considering La Signora had taken his gnosis that may have been why.
Scaramouche stumbles his way to the front of the tree, stopping before it and closing his eyes. He rests his forehead and hand on the trunk of the tree, the bark cold and slightly rough against his skin.
And yet it feels strange soothing somehow, something he needed more than ever at the moment. His brain is numb and his thoughts a jumbled collection of familiar sounds and sensations as the past and present clashed struggling for stability.
His mind felt as if it were teetering on the edge seconds from hurtling over it. Scaramouche squeezes his eyes shut and unconsciously digs his fingers into the tree trunk, his inhuman strength leaving indentations.
His mind is flooded with so many images, memories of faces belonging to people long passed, people he never had the chance to grieve for because his emotions had long run thin and his mind had become drained. Faces that meant nothing to Scaramouche and their mere presence annoyed him.
But to Kunikuzushi they meant the world, people who he’d befriended, who kept him company. People who'd accepted him into their small group of outcasts, as a part of their family.
People who’d taught him humanity, made him feel whole, complete. And people who when they died he lost a bit of his humanity and himself each time. Until finally with the death of the last person he held dear, he was returned to the husk he had been in the beginning.
With a name but without a purpose, just aimlessly wandering Inazuma not knowing what to do with himself.
Scaramouche grits his teeth when he feels his eyes stinging, irritation, and anger welling up alongside the sadness and pity that had no place in him. That he no longer had a need for.
“Fucking stop it… I don’t…I’m me. I don’t need…” Scaramouche mumbles to himself as he tries to force back the tears threatening to well up in his eyes.
He didn’t cry, crying was useless to him, a bygone relic he did his damndest to cast away. It had no use for Scaramouche in this world, it wasn’t a strength but a crippling weakness that needed to be buried.
Scaramouche had no need for it. But Kunikuzushi does .
His mind feels as if it’s trying to rend itself in two, split between the past and present with no hope of merging.
“That…stupid fucking meteor…” he growled under his breath.
The meteor had shown him the truth of the world, but for a price like some horrible monkey's paw. All knowledge came with a price and in this case for Scaramouche that price was his sense of identity, the one he’d struggled to build, clawing himself up from the bottom trampling whoever he needed to in the process.
He realized long ago that the world wouldn’t allow him to live the life he wanted, that fate would deny him at every turn, so he decided to grab the threads of fate in his hands and burn them to ash, replacing them with ones he’d crafted for himself.
And here it was being ripped away from him with such ease.
He didn’t bother stopping the humorless laugh that bubbled out of him, tears streaming down his face but there was no point in stopping them.
“What a joke,” he whispered. “Are you happy? Ignorance is bliss after all.” As he spoke he wasn’t sure if he were talking to himself, Kunikuzushi, Pierro, his creator, or even the Heavens themselves.
Still, it doesn’t matter because there is one thing that both Scaramouche and Kunikuzushi know well. No one will answer their prayers.
Scaramouche’s legs give beneath him and he falls to his knees, making no move to stand his forehead still resting on the tree trunk.
A strange sense of clarity formed in his muddled frantic thoughts. That this was it, everything he’d done, the people he trampled on, the people who’d hurt, all the sacrifices he made to get this far.
None mattered when he was locked in a birdcage, losing what made him, himself.
A soft sound drifts into Scaramouche’s ear, a gentle melody, the careful strum of a lyre. Scaramouche doesn’t lift his head to look in the direction of the sound.
Not because he’s too exhausted and just doesn’t care anymore, but also because he’s afraid.
He’s afraid that the gentle warm melody caressing his skin, soothing his fractured soul and muddled mind will disappear. That it’s an illusion and the second he notices no one’s there this comforting feeling that puts him at ease and soothes him will be gone.
Closing his eyes the tension bleeds from Scaramouche’s body as he just listens. The sound of the lyre is gentle, light much like the very breeze brushing his skin smelling of cecilia.
It wraps around him as if swaddling him in a blanket but with the warmth and comfort comes intense exhaustion.
He can’t fight it anymore, and at the moment he doesn’t want to truthfully so he relaxes, taking a deep breath in and sighing as he allows his consciousness to fade.
If by some miracle he was still himself when he woke up then maybe just maybe Scaramouche would consider offering a prayer to Celestia.
~~~
Scaramouche gives a soft groan as he opens his eyes, it was warm as if he were being wrapped in a hug. The world crackles to life around him, the soft sound of a running stream, the gentle breeze flowing through the air carrying with it the scent of cecilia.
Scaramouche shifts slightly frowning, his thoughts are still a bit muddled but nothing like the whirlwind they were last night. He feels more put together, not yet completely whole with the fractures and cracks in his identity threatening to spread and collapse.
“That’s good you’re awake.”
Scaramouche’s eyes widen when he suddenly hears a voice, the voice is light, soft, and playful almost. It’s melodic. It’s clearly speaking to him and he can hear it using his ears, but at the same time, it feels as if it’s echoing in his mind, a soft hum brushing along the inside of his skull.
Still a bit dazed, Scaramouche looks in the direction of the voice and instantly freezes. A sense of unease settling over him, alarms blaring in his mind like a warning.
A humanoid figure stands before him holding a brown wooden lyre resembling a children’s toy in its hands. Its body seemed to be made of this pure ethereal white light, veins of swirling light green shifting and moving beneath its skin as if it were a living thing.
Large white bird-like wings extended from the back of the figure.
Where its face should’ve been was instead a pitch-black void, and in that void indistinguishable and unfamiliar human faces churned and swirled, bubbling like a cauldron. Each face was a mere blur, the features scuttling into different positions and rearranging themselves as if the being didn’t know what a human face was truly supposed to look like.
Scaramouche’s eyes widened in an instant, every part of his body screaming danger, to run, to fight, and to give up.
He yelps scrambling back frantically keeping his eyes on the being, the air humming with electro energy as he quickly draws it to him.
The being’s body jolts slightly as if surprised and an eye appears in the black void, this one more defined, the iris an aqua green reminding Scaramouche of the numerous valleys in Mondstadt and the bright blue of the morning sky.
Peace and dread mingling together.
“Ah,” the being said, the voice echoing in Scaramouche’s mind once more as the eye in the void widened seemingly in surprise.
Scaramouche blinks for the briefest of seconds but when he does and opens his eyes the veil is closed once more.
The Anemo Archon stands before him, a concerned look on his fair face, his head tilted to the side slightly allowing the two braids framing his face to dangle slightly. His aqua green eyes stared at Scaramouche.
Barbatos was clad in green and white, his attire fitting with Mondstadt’s more traditional clothing. He was holding that same brown lyre in his hands. On his hip hung what appeared to be an Anemo vision, and Scaramouche can’t help the small scoff he gives when seeing the replica.
“Sorry about that, please don’t be too startled. I figured it would be best to approach you in a form that didn’t startle you,” Barbatos said sheepishly.
Scaramouche gives a soft snort, his body relaxing slightly not completely, however. “Startle me? Who do you think you are?”
Instead of rising to his clearly agitated tone and insults Venti chuckled, a calm smile spreading across his face as he absentmindedly strummed his lyre. He doesn’t miss the way Scaramouche’s eyes followed his fingers as he strummed, the way the other relaxed a bit more.
“You can clearly handle yourself, especially considering you’re a Fatui harbinger. Not to mention that we’re very alike in certain aspects.” As Barbatos spoke the gentle breeze caressing Scaramouche’s skin grew just a bit harsh, a soft glow illuminating Barbatos’s eyes and the tips of his braids.
For the briefest moment, his form seems to blur slightly before Scaramouche’s eyes but a quick shake of his head and a blink fixes that, for Scaramouche rather quickly.
“Stop that you weird asshole,” he grumbled, wanting nothing to do with any gods. Especially after what he knew, what he was experiencing.
He instinctively reaches up fidgeting with the electro emblem on his chest, his thoughts are still muddled. Unable to meld together, clashing even in his dreams.
He sees faces he doesn’t recognize in his thoughts, each one bringing a feeling of irritation and annoyance alongside the sadness. The emotions writhing painfully in his chest.
Barbatos chuckles softly, a noise more akin to a tiny giggle and Scaramouche can’t but notice that the noise helps ease his muddled fractured thoughts every so slightly. It doesn’t piece them together of course but it does soothe them.
“Truthfully I go by Venti at the moment, but call me as you wish. You called for me after all,” Venti told him with a smile.
Immediately Scaramouche glared, was he serious with all this bullshit happening to him? With his mind trying to rend itself to mush. “What?”
Venti chuckled again and gestured to the large tree Scaramouche was leaning against. “This tree is essentially my home in a sense. You made a prayer to Celestia, a plea rather and I knew that they would not answer so I chose to instead. Celestia is not kind to those who know too much nor those they can neither manipulate nor use.”
Scaramouche snorts again, rolling his eyes but freezing when he gets a sight of the blue sky above him. It’s beautiful, not a cloud in sight and the sun shining brightly, the equivalent of painting over a corpse with rainbows in an attempt to hide it in Scaramouches eyes at least.
“The price for such knowledge is great, I found you here. Your soul trying to fracture, shatter into pieces and your mind trying to tear itself in two,” Venti continued his voice taking on a softer tone, the same way a doctor would gently reveal horrific news to a patient. “It is not something I can fix by any means, but I am able to suppress and soothe it for now.”
Scaramouche frowned as he looked back at Venti, the realization hitting him with fierce clarity and his eyes widening. For once he has no snide remarks, no insults, no aggression, he can simply stare in shock.
A god had answered his prayers. For the first time in 500 or so odd years, he’d screamed into the void and got a response back. Someone came to help him when he needed it most.
Scaramouche feels his eyes stinging slightly as warm tears well up in them, but he makes no move to wipe them, finding that all he can do is stare at Venti. Scaramouche isn’t truly sure what he’s feeling, admiration? Awe? Fascination?
“Ahhh, why are you crying? Are you alright,” Venti said as he approached Scaramouche quickly.
Now that Venti was a lot closer he could see just how much Scaramouche did and didn’t resemble them. Ei and Makoto. When he’d first noticed Scaramouche he’d wondered if something horrific had happened to Ei. It wasn’t uncommon for an Archon to change forms or even vessels but all had a preferred form and a natural form.
Instead, he’d found Scaramouche teetering on the precipice of madness, his powers nearly uncontrollable.
“Thank you,” Scaramouche said quickly and barely audibly. As if he was afraid of Venti actually hearing him. He doesn’t meet Venti’s gaze, more out of shame than anything after all Scaramouche was still himself.
Venti giggles and Scaramouche finds himself forcing back a small smile when the noise seems to wrap his body in a warm blanket. “I’m not quite sure I heard you. Can you please speak up,” Venti teased knowing full well that he heard everything carried by the wind.
This time Scaramouche gives a huff and meets Venti’s gaze, his eyes narrowed. “I said thank you,” he practically shouted. Then he shakes his head, a look of disgust twisting at his face. “I don’t want to be indebted to something like you .”
At that Venti sighs but doesn’t seem insulted in the least. A moment later he laughs and that blanket of warmth spreads further around Scaramouche. “I’m an upstanding Mondstadt citizen I’ll have you know.”
Scaramouche merely rolled his eyes but said nothing as he fiddled with the electro symbol on his chest. He wants to say something, to ask a question but truthfully the possible answer terrifies Scaramouche to his very core.
Words like irreversible, permanent, and erased, circling through his mind. Scaramouche is sure that if he doesn’t get the answer he wishes to then he will die today more than likely.
He would rather die as himself by his own hand than have his identity purged like useless trash.
Taking a deep breath Scaramouche speaks, “You said you fixed me, healed me. Is there any way to stop this from happening permanently?” Scaramouche’s words are direct, with no hidden meanings and his tone serious, almost pleading.
But with such a threat to himself on the horizon, once more he will cast away what dignity he may have, he will smother his pride. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d done such things. But surprisingly in this instance it doesn’t make his skin crawl with utter disgust, he doesn’t feel the urge to snap the neck of the person he’s pleading with if only so they’d stop looking down on him.
He didn’t need pity, he needed answers, a solution. He ignores the thing, Kunikuzushi clinging to his mind and thoughts like a parasite. The way sadness wells up inside of him, the aching need for someone to just hold him and tell him everything would be alright.
Venti is quiet for a few moments and Scaramouche simply waits, his patience infinite in such a moment.
Eventually Venti nods slowly, a strange expression on his face that Scaramouche can’t truly read. “There is a way, the only one I can think of. A gnosis. They contain many of an archon’s memories and experiences so that when passed on the next archon will be able to adjust naturally.”
Scowling, Venti sighs, shaking his head. “In your case, however, it would allow the fractures in your soul to heal, your current self and your past self to fuse neatly together allowing you to remain well you.”
Scaramouche gives a humorless small snort. Of course, it came back to that thing. The electro gnosis. It was the celestial gift that had awakened him, given life, a consciousness and awareness instead of being a useless empty shell much like a doll.
It was also the same gift that had so swiftly resulted in him being so cruelly cast aside and abandoned.
If it would be his salvation then so be it, at this point it didn’t matter. Remaining himself was the most important thing, and he’d fight tooth and nail to keep his identity.
There was the small issue of the Fatui trying to collect all the gnosis, but that was fine. It just made it easier for him to get his hands on it.
He’d joined them to amuse himself. If he grew bored he’d just leave. He needed what they wanted and Scaramouche didn’t care if he wound up needing to cut the throat of the Tsaritsa herself, he would have that electro gnosis.
He finds himself looking up again when Venti begins strumming the lyre, seemingly playing a tune from memory. For a moment Scaramouche can’t help but stare.
He finds himself watching the way Venti’s slender fingers moved nimbly across the lyre, his motions fluid clearly practiced which considering how old Barbatos was Scaramouche isn’t surprised that he’s had time to perfect it.
And yet there’s nothing artificial about the way Venti plays the lyre, his movements controlled and fluid but clearly loving and thoughtful as he strums each note.
Next Scaramouche finds his eyes being drawn to Venti’s face, the warm soft smile on his face, the excitement filling his gaze making it seem as if they were glowing despite Venti not using his powers.
Scaramouche finds himself completely entranced and fascinated, the gentle almost lullaby-like tune feels as though it brushes across his skin. It eases the tension from his body as if it were some type of massage.
As Scaramouche listens he finds that the fuzziness in his mind lessens significantly, allowing clarity to flood in bit by bit. The faces he doesn’t know that had been dominating his memories become fuzzy and indistinguishable, the sadness, the guilt, the pity, it all lessens becoming much more manageable.
When Venti stops strumming on the lyre it jolts Scaramouche out of his thoughts. And as he looks up at Venti he sees the other giggling as he stares at Scaramouche with a familiar yet strange intensity.
“So that’s what you really look like…” Venti murmured. “How adorable.”
Scaramouche narrowed his eyes before looking away fidgeting slightly, the faintest hint of blush rushing to his cheeks. He feels as if he’s just been stripped naked and put on display in a sense now that Venti had peeked beneath the veil.
Giving a soft huff Scaramouche rolled his eyes. “I had no idea that the Anemo Archon was such a perverted old man,” he mumbled under his breath although there’s no anger, malice, or irritation in his voice.
Venti gives a grin in response. “You’ve seen mine so it’s only fair.”
Scaramouche rolls his eyes but says nothing. He glances at the sky, unable to shake that sensation of dread that looms over him when he does.
Around this time he should be giving out orders to his subordinates on their next plan. And yet he could care less about that.
“Do you need to leave,” Venti asked, noticing the look on Scaramouche’s face. “If so you can always return if you feel out of sorts and I’ll help you.”
Scaramouche shakes his head, a frown on his face. “No, besides even I did it doesn’t matter,” he murmured his gaze on the ground. Then he looks at Venti, indigo meeting green.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather you just keep playing the lyre,” Scaramouche told him softly as if he were afraid of Venti actually hearing him.
Venti is quiet for a moment, his expression neutral, then a rather warm smile spreads across his face. He nods, raising his fingers to his lyre once more and begins playing one of the songs from his memory.