Chapter Text
How long had he been like this? He couldn't remember. He couldn't really remember anything when he tried to think about it. It just... hurt.
So he didn't think about it.
He thought instead about the needle digging into his skin, pumping something warm into his body.
His doctor cared little about the side effects of the drug, he only wanted to light him up.
He didn't care either. The burn felt... good. It felt like he was something real. Pain means you're alive, and right now, he was on a high.
"Count by sevens, down from one-hundred." His Doctor had a monotone voice, uninterested in him past his experiment. The Doctor was so... normal. So blatantly boring, yet entirely unknown. The Doctor was the one thing on this hunk of ice that he could understand, and yet he understood nothing of the Doctor at all.
"Who the fuck knows how to count by sevens?" He snapped. He was angry that his doctor had interrupted his bliss—that's what it was, right?—for something so insane.
"I do. Count by threes then. Surely you can manage that?" The red eyes finally landed on him, and he sighed, letting his own slide closed.
"100, 97, 94, 91, 88..." He listed the numbers on autopilot and resumed his relaxing. Only when he reached the end did he falter. "One—"
The Doctor glanced over at him. "Negative two."
"What?"
"Two less than zero." The Doctor informed him, still mostly ignoring him.
"That's less than nothing." He scoffed. "It doesn't exist."
"You are less than nothing." The Doctor retorted, tapping away at a monitor attached to him. "You exist."
"Come up with something that makes sense or don't come up with anything at all." He snapped. His hand reached for the needle in his arm.
The Doctor caught them with one. "I'm not done."
"Then be done." He jerked his hand free, but he didn't make another move to free himself.
When the doctor had all the information he needed, he removed the needle himself. "It's what I thought. Your energy replenishes itself naturally. Your delusion was feeding off of that source, and as a result, it didn't allow you to recover as quickly."
"Great. So now what? I just bruise easier?" He pulled his clothes back on, relieved to be shielded from the cold of the lab. He moved to clip the delusion to his belt.
"What? You're not keeping that." The Doctor snatched the delusion away from him.
"Why not?" He asked, unreasonably defensive of the small device.
"Because I said so." The Doctor looked back at him and sighed. "I'm not letting you go and get yourself ruined, Scaramouche."
"Whatever." Scaramouche scoffed. He pushed open the heavy metal door, muttering, "I was ruined from the start."
He was making his way down the corridors, going no where to do nothing, when a cicin mage approached him. He knew of her presence before he saw her. Her elctro flies immediately swarmed him, perching on his hat and on his shoulders. He had no idea why the things liked him so much more than the cicin pollen.
She bowed. "My lord, you are needed in the throne room."
"Get these things off me." He muttered.
She laughed, waving a spell in the air to trap them once again in their caging. At some point, the electro mages had been discovered to be the best messengers when concerning the sixth harbinger; their flies could seek him out even in the far reaches of the palace.
And most of the time, they were necessary. He never was one who was easily found.
When he was certain the last stupid bug was off of him, he walked back the way he came, seeking out the servant's passage that would cut through the labyrinth called a castle. Whispers travel fast, and by the time he had made his first turn, the way to the throne room was cleared.
He emerged behind the throne and took up his place, the first spot on the left. He couldn't see the woman on the throne, but he knew her. Her cold seeped through his very bones—or whatever he had. She was so intensely devoid of heat that it burned.
Scaramouche stood on her left. He was the only one besides the First—who stood on her right—who could bear it. He was the only one who never got frostbite from her mere presence.
Oh how he wished she would burn him. She must feel better than the doctor's potions. The Tsaritsa was ice incarniate. How lovely it would be to have his veins frozen from her touch.
But he wasn't so lucky. She had promised him years ago, promised him when she first found him—crumbled and broken on a beach—that one day, she would give him what he wanted. If he obeyed her, helped her achieve her goal, she would destroy him.
He ached for her kiss of death.
But he wasn't so lucky.
Her plans took so much longer than he had thought. It had been years—centuries?—since she found him. She had unleashed something dangerous inside him—something deadly—to achieve her grand plan, but it wasn't enough. She needed more. So he went with her, and the First, looking for more.
Ten of the best scholars, fighters, strategists. Ten soldiers, ten to challenge the heavenly principles.
He had to admit, it stung to be numbered sixth.
But it didn't matter, did it? He only wanted her to destroy him, once and for all, as he should have always been.
Her voice cut through the painful fog that plagued him, cold and crisp like morning mountain wind. "Ajax, Son of Telamon."
Scaramouche watched a red headed boy kneel before the throne.
"You have been trained, tested, and chosen for this honor, to become my Eleventh Harbinger." Her words hung heavy, and Scaramouche spared a glance at the First. He had not been warned of this either. The Fatui Harbingers had not added a seat in at least six years. The two didn't flinch though, not now. "Do you accept?"
"I do." The boy's voice was strained, but earnest. He was in awe, Scaramouche realized. He never thought much about his image, the public view of himself. He only knew he was feared, and that it was rather convenient.
"You, Ajax, will be granted the title of Tartaglia, Eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers, and as such you will shrug off all mortal ambitions beyond my will. You will be my spear, my arrow, lodged into the gates of Celestia. You will grow stronger than any could imagine. Do you accept?"
Scaramouche couldn’t see her face, but he knew what it looked like: the same as it did for him. The lines in the sand were no where near the same as his; he was not mortal. His only ambition was to escape this horrid world and the cursed Heavenly Principles. The last line was the most prominent in his mind: "When we succeed, I shall crush you myself, and free you from our immortal bonds."
Now, his queen spoke differently. She spoke to a recruit who had barely begun his training. She spoke to a dull eyed boy, who couldn't be more than eighteen. She spoke to someone with a life worth keeping.
"I accept." He said solemnly, reverently.
She lifted a hand, and Scaramouche stepped forward. He knew what to do, he had done it before, nine times to be exact. For all the harbingers thus far, except himself. He stood before the orange haired, blue eyed boy, and extended his hand.
Without an explanation, Ajax curiously accepted it. Scaramouche flipped their hands, and when he stepped away, a delusion rested in the boy's palm. It was a simple parlor trick, but it pleased Her, so he performed it every time.
He stepped back into line after a quick bow to the throne.
"Rise, Tartaglia, and claim your place among the gods." She declared to the audience of ten, all standing behind her.
Tartaglia scanned the row before walking forward. He bowed one last time to her and took up a place somewhere behind Scaramouche.
She was quiet for a few long moments before she uttered one last word to them. "Dismissed."
The herd dispersed. None stepped in front of Her. Scaramouche locked eyes with the First, who nodded once before turning away.
He went the other way.
It didn't take long before the boy at his heels caught his nerves. He didn’t turn around to confront him. "What do you want?"
"I... I don't know what to do, exactly." Tartaglia mumbled. Scaramouche knew this look. It was inevitable that the newest member would trail him for a while; they all did. After all, he was the first Harbinger who interacted with them.
"And so you thought stalking was a good choice?" The senior scoffed.
"No! I... I just thought—I mean, you're the one who gave me this—" He held up the delusion on its silver chain. "I don't even know what this is actually."
Scaramouche wanted to snatch it away. He restrained himself. "It's a delusion. Thank the Doctor for the ridiculous name. He insisted."
"A delusion?" The boy looked at the gem with a frown.
"You've heard of Visions, right? The Eyes of God. This,” he paused, “Is the eye of nothing, to no where." Scaramouche tapped the gem, calling upon the electricity inside himself. "This is supposed to be a come-to-god moment, but I'll save you the trouble."
The element was absorbed into the gem, cackling worse than fire. Tartaglia watched it with wide eyes. "What just happened?"
"You'll call upon this when you're at your end." He nodded at it. "Keep it close."
"Where's yours?" The ginger asked innocently.
Scaramouche shrugged. "It killed me."
Tartaglia's eyes went wide, but Scaramouche didn't explain. He didn't tell him that nothing could truly kill him—nothing could keep him dead. Just like the rumored god Osial, he was only ever sedated. No amount of rock could keep him buried, no fire keep him burned. He didn't tell him that he wasn't ranked by power, but by resilience. He didn't tell Tartaglia that he was, for all intents and purposes, a god.
But not quite.
So he turned away, leaving the boy to stare after him.
Let him stare. He wouldn't have much to stare at soon. The end was coming, and Scaramouche was itching to welcome it home.