Archive of Our Own

In the end, this world will never give you what you want.

It will always dangle that feather in front of you, atop of your outstretched palms, so close you could sink your teeth into it—but even when you do, it will never be yours.

It will always drift away.

It will always die.

You will never be given what you want.

.

.

.

The morning begins with her untangling herself from Scaramouche’s body, wiggling out of his hold with a wince, prying his hand from her waist, finger by finger.

And like a clock running on "Lumine" time, as soon as she yawns and stretches her arms over her head, he cracks open his eyes, peeking at her from under his lashes. The sunlight falls over him in slivered rays that cut through the seams of the curtains, clawing over his face. His expression is undecipherable, murky river waters; on the edge of discontent, she decides, from being disturbed out of his dreams.

"You woke up late," Scaramouche says lazily. "It’s already noon."

Lumine laughs as she falls down on her back onto the mattress, rolling around to meet him, their faces mere inches apart. "Don’t say that when you woke up later than me," she says, rapping him on the forehead with her knuckle.

"Hm." Scaramouche doesn’t say much in response, just settles his head into the crook of her neck, a quiet inhale. His hand is back on her waist again, less severe but making themselves known nonetheless, cool as they are. The soft ends of his hair settle over her collarbones, a gentle tickle; Lumine shivers, and feels his lips twitch against her skin.

"Are you going to let me up?" she says. "There’s commissions to be done."

"No." He doesn’t even take the time to consider.

Lumine suppresses another laugh. Her fault for phrasing it as a question, then.

"Well, I’m going to get up anyways," she says. "You’re welcome to accompany me or not."

Scaramouche wraps his finger around her hair, sunlight slipping off of the golden strands. "When do I not accompany you for these tedious things?" he muses. "It’s so troublesome, this occupation of mine."

"No one ever forced you to follow me," she reminds him, closing her eyes to bask in the sunlight a little longer, before the outside world calls. "I certainly didn’t."

"No," he murmurs in agreement. "You did not."

"Yet, here you are."

"I have a debt to pay."

"That was so long ago," Lumine says. She squirms out of his hold again, ignoring the click of his tongue. "You’re the only one holding onto that memory."

At that, Scaramouche falls silent. Lumine gets out of bed and dresses for the day, grunting as she pulls her black top over her head, the motion leaving her hair mussed. He’ll take his time later, when she’s making breakfast, to put on his own clothes. And that ridiculously large hat of his too, of course.

But for now, he just gazes at her from the bed, head propped up by his elbow. Eyes trailing down her bare body as she slips on her white dress, catching on the hem of the skirt. "Did you sleep well, then?"

"Next to you?" Lumine looks up from tying the lace of her dress, and beams. "Of course, Scaramouche."

.

.

.

By the time she’s finished plating the dishes, Scaramouche is already seated by the kitchen table, hat and all. Lumine looks at the casual way he’s leaning back in his chair, and can’t help but pluck his hat off to ruffle his hair. His hair is as silky as it looks, smooth beneath her fingers. Shorter than she’d expected, too, at first glance.

“Every single time.” Scaramouche gives a long-suffering sigh, but doesn’t bat her hand away, too used to the indignity to muster up protest. He pats his hair down later when she retreats for the rest of the dishes in the kitchen, putting his hat over his head again with one hand. The hanging ornaments sway gently, soundless. The veils droop to the floor, gauzy grey parted slightly like curtains teased open by delicate wind.

Breakfast is a tepid affair, fisherman’s toast and fried eggs and waffles and pancakes. Lumine samples a little of everything, and makes a noise of quiet contentment at the sweet fluffiness of the pancakes.

"Don’t look so satisfied at your own cooking," Scaramouche says.

"What, are you going to cook for me next time?" Lumine teases.

"You never know."

"I think I’d be more worried than anything else, if that ever happens. My stove doesn’t deserve that kind of abuse."

Lumine continues eating, ignoring his scoff. She sets down her fork after she’s done, and stands up to gather the plates.

"You didn’t eat much today," she says. "Are you feeling okay?"

"You made a lot," he says simply, taking the plates from her. "Don’t cook so many dishes next time."

Lumine gives an absentminded noise of assent, mind already far away with plans of how the rest of their day will go. Scaramouche does the dishes, and when Lumine checks, they’re sparkling clean.

"Good job," she says, patting him on the shoulder.

"It’s washing plates," he deadpans, flicking his wet hand at her. Lumine yelps, makes a face at the flung water droplets sliding down her nose. "Why is it always that you believe I require praise for every little thing I do?"

"But it’s such a rare occurrence for you to take the initiative! And I thought you liked it when I praised you? You always look so pleased, after all," Lumine muses as she skims her fingers down the side of his veil, thumbing the translucent gauze. It’s a curious texture. Foreign. "Should I stop?"

Scaramouche takes a moment, considers her proposal. "Nevermind," he settles on. "Do as you like."

.

.

.

The commissions they receive from Katheryne are the same old, same old. Take care of this hilichurl horde to help that apothecary, it’s nothing new to Lumine. Scaramouche too, only follows along with a sigh. Lumine has to be the one that talks to everyone today, Scaramouche reticent compared his normal self, satisfied enough to lurk behind her as she hears out the apothecary.

"Who is this, then?" the haggard apothecary says after their greetings, glancing at Scaramouche apologetically. "I don’t believe we’ve met."

Scaramouche purses his lips, doesn’t bother with a reply as he stands behind Lumine, arms crossed. He sure is irritable, today. Looks like he’s about to bite the man’s head off.

"My little helper," Lumine brushes aside. "Now then, just to make sure, could you tell me where the problem is?"

Apparently, some hilichurls were blocking the road to the forest where he usually picked his herbs. So they set out from Sumeru City, Lumine preparing herself for a fight.

But the hilichurl problem is solved in record time with Scaramouche’s help.

Stay here, he’d told her. They’re mine to take care of. A little surprising, considering that it’s Lumine who’s always fighting, but since he insisted, she decided why not. 

And today, his bored expression turns deranged in battle. Dances his way through the hilichurl crowd, tearing through them with arcs of violet lightning. His laughter too… Echoing, as though they were in a grand, empty hall rather than out in the open field.

The hilichurls crumple to the ground like wet paper, then disperse in fine, black mist. She hadn’t even needed to lift a finger.

Scaramouche returns to her, placid look again. But his eyes are a little too bright, too wild, compared to his usual self. He looks almost… manic. Lumine tries not to let that bother her.

"You’re excitable today," she says.

Scaramouche examines her. "Do I scare you?"

Lumine raises an eyebrow. "Have you ever?"

His face shifts, contemplative. Lumine waits.

"No," he finally says. His voice is cold, a far cry from the unhinged laughter she’d heard moments ago. "But things change."

"I’m hard to scare," Lumine says. She tilts his hat up, fingers finding his forehead to tidy the messy fringes of his hair. "And you’re not very scary, are you? More… cute, I’d think."

"Not many people would agree with that statement."

"Well, if you want me to change my mind, you’ll have to try harder. That glare isn’t working."

Lumine runs her hand down the line of his jaw, sweeping back stray strands. Scaramouche closes his eyes. Submits himself quietly to her affections.

.

.

.

Later, after they’ve delivered the good news to the apothecary, the man almost having broken down in tears in his thanks, they sit down on a bench near the outskirts of the city to rest. Scaramouche says offhandedly, "Was it really such a big deal?"

"The commission?" At his nod, Lumine theorizes, "He must have been quite stressed. Knowledge can’t cure people without the right supplies."

"The way that these people act," Scaramouche says, "you’d think hilichurls were as powerful as Archons."

"To them, it’s all the same," Lumine says. "Insurmountable obstacles."

"Hilichurls?" His disbelief is tinged with a sneer.

"A hill can be a mountain, given the right perspective."

"Even then, shouldn’t they at least try?"

"An apothecary who can’t fight, facing the hilichurls head-on? That would work—if he was looking to die," Lumine says.

"Poison them, then. That knowledge he has for curing patients can be repurposed, surely."

"You’re asking for too much," Lumine says, stretching her arms. There’s a kink at the back of her neck from the strange sleeping position she’d woken up with. "Better to delegate appropriately—as he’d done."

"Humans are so powerless," Scaramouche mutters. "Useless. How they could surmount to anything, I will never understand."

He sure is in a philosophizing mood, Lumine thinks with no small amount of amusement. When had he picked up the habit? But she’ll bite; it isn’t so bad, to talk about these things every once in a while. "Power isn’t everything," she says.

"Power is power," he says. "As long as you have enough, you can do anything. Make reality whatever you wish. Bend the world to your will."

"You’ve seen the gods though, through our travels," Lumine says. "Not all of them have been happy, despite the powers they wield."

"The Archons are weak," Scaramouche sneers. "And if we’re thinking about the same Archon, doubly so."

"Inazuma had definitely been less than welcoming, but Ei is a friend now," she says. "I thought you’d already let go of the grudge. I certainly have."

Scaramouche stiffens, eyes narrowed. "As you say," he says.

"Imagine then: you as a god," Lumine continues. It’s a little funny, imagining him as tall as a mountain, looming over her with those dark eyes. She almost chuckles. "You’d have all the Mora you could ever spend, all the food you could ever eat, all the power you could ever have—but no one by your side. Would you be happy then, Scaramouche?"

Scaramouche gets a strange look on his face, as though Lumine had forced him to swallow a particularly large pebble. "…No," he says. "But only because I lack the strength to do anything about it."

"Not everything can be gained through force," Lumine says. "Love, for example."

Scaramouche smiles an unkind smile. "It depends on how you force it," he says, as though lecturing a child. "Ply enough pressure at the appropriate weakness, and you can make anything bend—minds included."

"I don’t think fear is a good way to gain love," Lumine says.

"I’m not talking about fear," Scaramouche says lightly. "But let’s agree to disagree."

"You were the one to first bring the topic up," she says.

"And you were the one to indulge me."

"So this is what I get for trying. Guess it won’t happen again," Lumine mutters, and pinches his elbow just for the sake of it. Scaramouche gives her a disapproving look, but Lumine only smiles and darts out of his reach to avoid potential retaliation—only to have him move so quick that she couldn’t even follow the motion, could only startle when he tugs her toward him by the waist, nails an insistent dig at her hip.

"Don’t stray too far," Scaramouche says.

"It was ten steps," Lumine says, amused. He’s so close she can feel the rise of his chest with each breath. His arm guard presses hard against her side; she shifts in discomfort, but he doesn’t budge. "You can stand to be at least ten paces away from me, can’t you?"

It’s funny, how he’s actually pausing to think about the answer to what was supposed to be a rhetorical question. He’s taking her too seriously today.

"No," Scaramouche decides. "Ten paces is too many."

"Clingy," Lumine accuses.

"Only because you…" Scaramouche trails off, then scowls. "Whatever," he says, finally letting her go. "Let’s leave for the cave, already. Otherwise it’ll be too late."

"I didn’t even tell you what we’d be doing," Lumine says. "How do you know we’re headed to a cave?"

"The cave on your treasure map," he says. "You mentioned it before."

"Only in passing. And it’s been a while," Lumine says. She gives him a smile, pleased. "Sweet of you to remember, though. I didn’t know you hung onto my words so closely."

"Tch." Scaramouche looks away, folding his arms. "Are we going or not?"

"Going, going," Lumine says, suppressing a laugh as she pulls out the old map. He’s impatient as always, it seems. For some reason, the familiarity comforts her.

.

.

.

It doesn’t take long to reach their destination, nor does it take long to explore either. Whoever designed the mechanism protecting their treasures simply hadn’t taken into account Scaramouche’s brain, it seems; before Lumine had even a chance to finish reading the hints to solving the mechanisms, he’s already opened them. From cavern to cavern, he’s dragged her through the entire maze carved inside the mountain in what seemed like no time at all.

"Are you going to take it or not?" Scaramouche asks, carelessly kicking the glittering treasure chest.

"How’d you do that?" Luminea asks, far too astonished to even pay attention to the reward she’d been anticipating.

"Experience," Scaramouche says, folding his arms. The Lumenspar Adjuvant at her side casts a sickly blue glow over his face, severe shadows cutting under his eyes. "That, and because I’m smarter than you."

"I wouldn’t exactly call myself stupid," Lumine says as she flips open the chest. Books, Mora, a couple of gems. Valuable, especially with the right seller. She’d have to make a trip to Dori, perhaps—or make sure to avoid Dori, if she ponders over it a little longer.

"Be faster next time, then," Scaramouche says. His expression doesn’t change when Lumine holds up a jewel, closing an eye. Through the translucent gem, his face splinters and refracts, pale skin and violet eyes cut up into a thousand pieces, soaked in blood red ruby. 

"Are you done looking?" Scaramouche says.

Lumine almost drops the gem. Catches herself just in time, and tucks it away in her dimensional pocket. Her stomach knots itself, hunger pangs from the dinner they didn’t have yet.

"What can I say," she says. "You look so adorable, I lost track of time."

Scaramouche’s lashes flutter in his—adorable—confusion, and his face twists in an unforgiving scowl. "Hurry up. I want to go home," he demands.

"Tired?" Lumine says. She looks at the chest again, and it’s all empty. Satisfied with her thorough pilfering, Lumine hacks her sword through the exit hidden by the hanging vines. Scaramouche is, as always, only one step behind. Staring a hole into her back, too.

"Not fatigue. Just done with this whole matter," Scaramouche says. "It’s nothing I haven’t seen before."

"I guess looting our way across Teyvat has made you into some sort of veteran treasure hunter," Lumine says, shielding her eyes as sunlight rains down over them. She takes a deep breath, taking in the fresh air. Finally, it doesn’t smell like damp mildew and overgrown mushrooms. Just crisp, sunset air, soft breeze carding through her hair like a child’s fingers.

"Not exactly right," Scaramouche allows, "but not exactly wrong, either."

"What, want to retire from treasure hunting now?" Lumine says, putting away the Lumenspar Adjuvant. It’s of no use outside the cave, so they’ll have to hurry and make their way home before the sun completely sets. "And here I thought you’d appreciate the Mora."

"It’s not Mora I want."

"Huh. That’s news to me," Lumine says, and when she looks up, Scaramouche has that strange look on his face again, like she’d notched an arrow, aimed it right at his chest.

"It’s not Mora I want," he repeats, voice low.

"Then what?" Lumine says simply.

"Nothing you’ll ever give me." With that, Scaramouche walks past her, veils cloaking his back. Gossamer glides against gossamer, and the split symbol fuses to rustle in a mocking whisper, Evil.

Lumine doesn’t move from where she’s standing. Counts the steps instead, one, two, three, four. At exactly nine paces, he turns around. Lumine squints, but it’s hard to make out his expression against the backdrop of the setting sun. Sweeps of violet and yellow paints the sky in broad strokes, catching him in hazy shadows, transforming him into a phantom mirage seen only at dusk.

"Ten paces, I said," Scaramouche says. "Did you think I was joking?"

.

.

.

Halfway across the city, Lumine stops walking. Scaramouche stops too. He appraises her. "You look like you want me dead," he says.

"Don’t even joke about that," Lumine says.

"I wasn’t," he says humorlessly.

There’s a stray strand of hair over her eye, and before she has the chance to sweep it aside, Scaramouche does it for her. He’s acting odd today, because his fingers are gentle as he tucks it behind her ear, even if his words hadn’t been; the dichotomy gives her whiplash, trying to decipher which facet of him is true, so she brushes it aside.

"I was just thinking," Lumine says.

"About?"

Lumine sighs. Around her is the chatter of merchants haggling during one last surge of the markets, people rushing to buy supplies before everything closes for the day. 

"What to cook for dinner," Lumine admits. "Whether we’d have to buy more spices for it."

"And here I thought you were having a crisis," Scaramouche says. "Turns out it was over something as trivial as a dinner menu."

"Food is very important," Lumine says, almost offended. "I thought you’d feel the same."

"Food is food," Scaramouche brushes off. "It serves the same purpose, at the end of the day. How it tastes doesn’t matter."

"That’s definitely not what you acted like before," Lumine says, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "And besides…" She puts her palm on his cheek, thumb balanced delicately on his nose, and the way that he almost goes cross-eyed makes her fond. "…I want to cook something you’d enjoy."

Scaramouche doesn’t look pleased, unlike what she’d expected. "Is this because you’re hung up over what I’d said?"

"A little," Lumine says honestly. "It bothers me, that I’m not meeting your needs. And since Mora isn’t so shiny anymore…"

"There’s an easy solution," Scaramouche says. "Rather than Mora or food, there’s something else that could appease me—for now."

"Is it something I can do?"

"Only you," he says, voice low with intent.

"What is it?" she says easily, and Scaramouche laughs.

"You always say that. No matter how many times, you ask like it’s so simple—as if just by saying it aloud, you’d fulfill it," he says scathingly, and despite that, holds out his hand.

Lumine stares at it. "Am I supposed to give you something?" she says. "Are you that hungry, right now?" She pats the bag at her waist. "I think I have some candy lying around…"

Scaramouche’s face twists. "Your hand," he hisses, and it’s so low that Lumine almost didn’t catch it with the incessant chitter-chatter around them. The crowd gives them a wide berth, parting for them like a flock of birds split by the trunk of a tree. They must make a ridiculous looking pair, a man holding his hand out, a woman staring blankly back.

Lumine can’t help it—she bursts into laughter.

"What are you—"

"—you could have just said so," Lumine interrupts, taking his hand before he could withdraw it in his embarrassment. An interesting expression he has on, to be sure, but she’s not interested in seeing it worsen. He’s cool to the touch, but not cold enough to be uncomfortable. "That you wanted to hold hands," Lumine clarifies. "You could have just said so. It’s not like you to be so quiet about what you need."

"There’s a lot you don’t know about me," Scaramouche says.

He closes his hand around her, and rather than holding hands, it’s more like he’s trying to strangle the circulation in her fingers instead. Scaramouche grips onto her as though she’s his last hope, like a poor man holding onto his last coin: clenched in a fist, afraid to let go.

"You never say anything," Lumine says.

"You never ask."

"What’s past is past," Lumine says, giving his hand a squeeze. "I’m only interested in knowing if you’re interested in telling."

The past isn’t the present. There is only forward for her, in her search for Aether. And if Scaramouche has the decency to leave her history alone, then she could do the same. It’s how it is, between them. It’s how their companionship works: ears when you’re feeling overwhelmed, hands when you’re feeling lonely, embraces when you’re mourning the loss of a twin brother who has abandoned you.

Scaramouche’s steps don't falter, constant next to her, but his footsteps are silenced by the crowd. She peeks at him, and his expression is cold, unmoving, even as the world around them remains in perpetual motion.

"You shouldn’t need to ask," Scaramouche says eventually.

"I can’t read your mind, Scaramouche," she says, a flit of a smile.

"You don’t need to," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"You should already know my story," Scaramouche says. "I’ve shown you every piece of me, in every era."

"Huh?"

"Just that you’ve forgotten."

Lumine frowns. "I’m not that forgetful," she says. "But I can’t recall what you’re talking about."

"Never mind it," Scaramouche dismisses.

The curl of his lips tells Lumine she shouldn’t push. She can wait until he’s ready. They have the rest of Teyvat to figure this out, Fontaine to Natlan to Snezhnaya. "Sure," says Lumine.

Even that seems to tick Scaramouche off. "You always agree so easily."

"Yes, I know I spoil you," Lumine says.

"You say that, and yet."

"Don’t I?"

"You don’t."

Lumine raises her arm, shows the link between them. "I’m holding your hand, aren’t I? Just like you wanted."

"Trust me," Scaramouche says. "You’ve never given me anything I truly want."

Scaramouche gives a tight squeeze of her fingers. They walk home like that, hand in hand, fingers interlaced. The flesh of his palm feels like chalk, dry and brittle. Lumine looks over wares from the occasional merchant stalls, brushing her fingers over luxurious silks, picking up bottles of spices to examine them under the dying sun; despite what Scaramouche said, he never lets go.

.

.

.

It’s only when they get home that Scaramouche allows her to tug her hand away. She flexes her fingers, joints stiff with being held in place for so long, and starts to hum as she chops the vegetables. Scaramouche isn’t far, a touch of her hair here, a touch of her hips there. Quietly insistent, as though to make sure she hasn’t forgotten his existence.

Despite her asking Scaramouche for his preferences for dinner, he dismisses her concerns. Whatever you feel like, he said, so they have butter chicken for dinner, charcoal-baked ajilenakh cake for dessert. 

Scaramouche doesn’t complain. Doesn’t compliment either. Doesn’t say much of anything, again, fallen into a contemplative mood. There’s leftovers again, and his portion of the cake sits untouched, to her surprise, but at least he’s eating. That by itself is enough to satisfy Lumine.

Scaramouche is the one to wash the dishes again, not quite offering in any sense of the word, but taking away the plates in her hand without saying anything.

"You can just say you want to wash the dishes."

"But I don’t," Scaramouche says, and Lumine doesn’t really know what to say to that, except, "I’m grateful, then."

"It takes so little to please you," he murmurs.

"I’ve had to make do with less," Lumine says, resting her chin over his shoulder. His hat, at least, has been hung up, leaving her fingers free to stroke through the clipped strands of his hair. She watches as he rinses the soapy plates with water, fingers pale like shattered white porcelain, like ripped white sheets, like broken strips of the lonely sky covered in aimless clouds, no sun in sight.

From out of nowhere, she gets the feeling that he’s lonely. A little lost, even though she’s right by his side. Strange, considering that they’ve been together for so long, and he’s never given reason for her to feel this way.

When he’s done, she pads off to bed and he follows. Changing into her nightwear is an efficient affair, scarf unwound and tossed over a chair, dress peeled off of her hips and thrown over the scarf. Scaramouche glances over at her as she pulls the black camisole over her head, and begins to slowly take off his own things. The hat, placed on the dressing table. The veils and ornament hang over the edge, balanced precariously. The metal cylinder slung at his waist, too, placed over the table. Lumine flings herself into bed, the mattress creaking to meet her sudden weight. From the bed, she waits for him to finish.

Scaramouche undresses as though it’s meant to be a show, much to Lumine’s amusement, swirls of red and indigo drifting delicately to the floor. Like a blooming flower past its flowering season, petals wilting with each layer he takes off.

When their eyes meet, Scaramouche smiles.

"Who are you entertaining?" Lumine calls out.

"Who do you think?" he says mildly as he unclips his arm guards. Beneath the violet joints, his forearm is pale flesh. Slight dip of grey winding around his wrist, angular patterns of faded ink. Lumine blinks, not sure what she’d expected.

And when Scaramouche is done, he stands at the foot of the bed in only a bodysuit, pale skin and grey fabric like a ghost standing vigil in a cemetery. Almost uncertain of himself, surprisingly—Lumine doesn’t know what he’s unsure about, it’s another normal night.

"Enough theatrics," she says, holding out her arms, fingers wiggling. "I wanna sleep."

Placated by that, he crawls into the bed. When Scaramouche settles in her embrace, he’s— "Cold," she says, pressing her cheek to his.

"It’s summer," he says wryly.

"So you’re finally coming into your use as an ice pack," she jokes. "Maybe I won’t have to worry so much about keeping you fed, now, since you can serve another purpose."

"As if you’ve ever worried about me," Scaramouche murmurs, but turns his face to meet her. His irises are indigo, dark like fading bruises; feverishly bright, though, under the gauzy moonlight that’s seeping from their window—but there’s something missing. The glimmer of stars, maybe. The comfort of space, with its suns and stars and planets she used to be privy to, once upon a time.

"Hey. I worry about you all the time," Lumine says. She brushes her hand over his forehead, palm flattened to feel the coolness of his skin. Thumb carefully stroking over the curve of his eyebrow.

"Huh," she says.

"What?" He hasn’t blinked, this whole time.

"Your eyes—they’re lined with red," Lumine says, smoothing the pad of her thumb over his eyelid. He closes his eyes, letting her do as she wants. There’s a streak of red above his lashes, and it doesn’t come off on her finger in a crimson dust like she’d been expecting. Just delicate, thin skin, as though the red has been tattooed on. "I don’t know how I didn’t notice before."

"There’s a lot of things you don’t notice," says Scaramouche. "You’re just that careless with what’s yours, I suppose."

"Is it 'insult Lumine' day or something? Or is it that I managed to offend the Great Scaramouche somehow?" Lumine says.

Scaramouche doesn’t rise to the bait, just presses closer, one hand at her hips. "Sleep," he says. "Otherwise, I’m going to assume that you want to stay up doing other things."

"Like what?" she says amusedly.

"Other things," Scaramouche says, but doesn’t explain.

"Pillow fight?" Lumine suggests.

"If a fight is what you want," Scaramouche whispers, "you’ll get one—but I don’t think you’re prepared for the type of fight you’ll get."

There’s a message underlying his careful words, but the meaning is lost on her. Lumine shifts, but his grip is iron tight. And his body is tense, way too stressed for what’s supposed to be just a night together in bed. "You’re so strange today," she says.

"You’re overthinking it."

"Maybe," Lumine agrees, eyelids drooping. She yawns. Rests her head over his arm, clutches onto him like a safety blanket. "But I don’t know. I keep thinking… that you seem a little different from you usually do."

"You’re mumbling," Scaramouche says. "What you need is less thinking, and more sleeping."

"Hang on," she says, trying to suppress another yawn. "What day is it? I’ll have to go to the markets on Sunday to catch the weekend deals, don’t forget."

"As if you don’t have enough Mora to spare," Scaramouche scoffs.

She relaxes into his side, murmuring into his shoulder, "I didn’t think you’d pass on a chance to save Mora."

"…Today is today," Scaramouche says. "Tomorrow is tomorrow. That is all you need to know, Traveller."

"Lumine," she says sleepily. There’s a glimmer of green at the peripheral of her vision, winking at her. "It’s Lumine, remember? Feels weird when you don’t call me by name…"

And then her eyes fall shut. The boat of consciousness tips, leaving her to sink in the void.

.

.

.

When she wakes up the next day, Scaramouche is at her side, clinging onto her elbow with curled fingers. At least his hands aren’t fisted in her hair—on those days, she always woke up with a sore scalp. Lumine grins, taking her time to untangle her limbs from him again. She pokes his cheek, says, "I know you’re awake. Stop pretending to sleep and get off me. I have to make breakfast."

Scaramouche opens his eyes slowly. "You figured it out," he says.

"Was it supposed to be difficult?" Lumine teases.

"I’ll make breakfast today," Scaramouche says.

Lumine blinks. This is new. She sits up. "Are you sure?"

"I won’t repeat myself twice."

Lumine considers it. "Should I get an extra bucket of water from the well, then?"

"For what?"

"The fire," she explains. "I don’t want it to spread from the kitchen to the rest of the house."

Scaramouche gives her a look of disgust. "Help me set the table instead," he orders.

So she does, letting him mess around in the kitchen as she sets out the bowls and utensils, quietly calculating the distance from the kitchen to the well. How fast she could run there and back, how many buckets of water it would take.

But to Lumine’s surprise, he doesn’t set the kitchen on fire. In fact, everything is so contained, that there’s barely any smoke. The food doesn’t burn. The salmon, perfectly seared. The rice too, fluffy with the perfect amount of stickiness.

Today, breakfast is another quiet affair. Lumine cuts through the salmon with her chopsticks, chews on it for a while. It’s delicious, but there’s an oddity to the taste, old memories blooming on her tongue of messed up attempts at breakfast. Either because he’d let the fire get too high, or messed up the salt with the sugar. It’s strange, because Lumine feels acutely that the food should taste burnt, or at least ten times as salty as normal—but it doesn’t. It tastes fine. Great, even.

Lumine picks through her breakfast, finishing everything with a muted astonishment. Scaramouche too, eats more than he did yesterday, actually finishing his portion today.

When they’re done and the dishes are cleared—Lumine doing the washing, this time—Lumine finds him outside of their home, sitting idly under the adhigama tree, a cup of tea in hand. The branches droop gently over him, covering the table and chairs in a caressing shade. He looks a little out of place, dark violet against the viridescent backdrop of Sumeru, like shifting shadows in bright daylight.

"When’d you get so good at cooking?" Lumine says, brushing aside the loose leaves on her chair before sitting down. 

Scaramouche pours her a cup of tea, offers it with a careless hand. She accepts it, the clay warm when she wraps her fingers around it.

"Practice," says Scaramouche, taking a sip.

"With who?" Lumine says. "Certainly not with me."

"Does it matter? You enjoyed it, regardless."

"Fair," she concedes. When she takes a sip of the tea, it’s bitter. Green tea, slightly roasted. Lumine takes another sip, and it’s still bitter. Yet another sip, and it’s—

Scaramouche sets down his cup. "You keep staring," he says.

"You’re okay with drinking this?" Lumine says. "No need for any sugar or honey?"

Scaramouche tilts his head, eyes dark as though she’d insulted him. Lumine gets the feeling that she’s made him angry, but finds herself lost on the reason. He’s never been this hard to read before, usually so honest with his expression. "Finish your tea," he says. "We’ve spent enough time here."

.

.

.

There’s another commission today, an Abyss mage this time, performing some sort of ritual on a hill overlooking Port Ormos. The merchant who brought in the report looks worried, wringing his wrist and muttering about how it might be the wrath of the gods.

"As if an Abyss mage could equate to such a thing," Scaramouche says in disdain. "When the gods actually pass judgement upon you sorry, pathetic humans, you’ll know."

"Don’t be rude," Lumine says.

"And who might you be?" the merchant says hesitantly.

Scaramouche’s lips curve in a humorless smile. "The Traveller’s little helper," he says blandly.

"Annnnd we’ll be going," Lumine says, putting her hand at Scaramouche’s back, pushing him away. "The Abyss mage problem will be taken care of, don’t worry."

When they’re at an appropriate distance from the Adventurer’s Guild, and the merchant can no longer be seen, Lumine huffs. "You’re being obstinate," she says.

"You say that like it’s a bad thing," Scaramouche says slyly. His eyes are sharp, arrogant, glinting with an edge that could cut, if one stared too deeply. Despite their similar height, his chin is tilted up, gaze downward in a way that whittles her down to size.

Lumine frowns, wanting to say more but not knowing what. "Scaramouche…"

"Don’t look so troubled when you say my name," Scaramouche says.

And when he holds out his hand in offering, she takes it.

.

.

.

It doesn’t take long to locate the Abyss mage. The roaring bonfire on the hilltop, for one. The loud chanting of the hilichurls dancing around it, another. Lumine shares a glance with him at the foot of the hill.

"Wait here," Scaramouche says, releasing her hand in favour of gathering a ball of electricity. There’s an anticipation in his voice, low and roiling. "It’s of no trouble for me."

Lumine shakes her head. "I’ll go too," she says. "It doesn’t feel right, leaving everything to you when I’m stronger. I should be protecting you, right?"

At the hesitance in her voice, Scaramouche falls silent. "Don’t get in my way," he says eventually.

"I should be saying that to you," Lumine says, already summoning her sword. "You take care of the hilichurls, I’ll go for the Abyss mage."

She’d chosen the Abyss mage because it’s a little more difficult than your average hilichurl. The Pyro shield is hard to break, but with her Electro powers, she manages. The crackle of overload means the Abyss mage is shrieking before long, and its cries are finally cut off with a stab of her sword through its body.

Wiping the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand, Lumine turns around, readying herself to help Scaramouche. It doesn’t seem like he needs it though; he’s laughing, in fact, hissing "Cry louder!" and "Bow your head, unsightly vermin!"

There’s something dizzying in the way he fights, a familiar blur of movements that has her narrowing her eyes. It’s when he has his fingers wrapped around the last hilichurl’s neck, choking the life out of the creature, that Lumine stalks forward.

"Stop it," she says softly, putting a hand on his shoulder.

He whirls around, dropping the hilichurl to the ground, "You would dare—!"

His irises are glowing, untamed electricity dancing with their depths. The world closes in around her, greenery transformed to gloomy, indigo walls. There’s a giant god looming over her, and at the apex of its body, someone staring down, one hand stretched out, balancing her atop his open palm before closing shut—

Lumine flinches.

Her hand falls away from Scaramouche’s shoulder, and when she opens her eyes again, there’s only the soft green of Sumeru. Scaramouche staring at her, arms crossed. "Are you done daydreaming?" he says, raising an eyebrow.

Lumine tilts her head, feeling as though she’d just passed through a rainless thunderstorm, crackling static still stuck to her skin. She rubs the back of her neck, smoothing down the prickles of fine hair standing on their ends. "Huh?"

"We’re done here," Scaramouche says, an idle wave of his hand. Lumine looks around her, and he’s right, the bonfire has been put out, the only sign of the Abyss mage having been there being the smoldering ember of the pit. No sign of hilichurls either, just a couple of broken arrowheads signifying their defeat. "I don’t know why you’re still just standing there like an idiot."

"Got lost in thought," Lumine says sheepishly. "Let’s get going, then."

The whole way back, Lumine keeps touching her neck. There’s something there, a phantom crick. Invisible fingers, wrapped around her neck, creeping along her jaw, an unseen force keeping her from turning her head. But by the time they get to the Adventurer’s Guild, it’s gone. Lumine’s already put it out of her mind, forgetting all about it in favour of speaking with Katheryne for their reward.

After reporting back on their mission, Lumine says to Scaramouche, "Are you hungry?"

"Only if you are," Scaramouche says, and the answer doesn’t quite feel right, abnormal in its surety. Or he’s lying. Trying to be considerate of her own feelings.

Lumine glances at Scaramouche, and his expression doesn’t shift. She laces her fingers together, stretches her arms, and smiles. "You’re letting me choose?"

"You have a brain in there somewhere,’ Scaramouche says flatly. “Use it."

"Then let’s go get lunch," she says.

Sumeru City has many, many places to eat. They choose a little restaurant tucked away in one of the less busy streets, near the Grand Bazaar. Surprisingly, it’s Mondstadt-styled, offering apple stew and bolognese and steak—rarely seen dishes in Sumeru.

"I miss Mondstadt," Lumine says.

Scaramouche doesn’t even blink. "Then go see it."

"It was just a passing thought," Lumine says, taking the last bite of her bolognese before pushing the empty plate away. "I can’t visit for no reason."

"Who said?" Scaramouche has his chin rested on one hand, watching her idly. He’d finished his veggie soup long ago. "If you miss it, why not visit? It’s not as if you’re lacking the time.”

Lumine hums. "It feels… frivolous, somehow," she says, "if there’s nothing to call me back."

"You’re free to do as you like," Scaramouche says. And then he leans forward, a challenge: "Or is the moniker 'Traveller' just a farce?"

Up this close, she can see his lashes. His hair too, how the violet strands fall down so elegantly, framing his delicate cheekbones. Lumine jumps at the opportunity. She plucks his hat off his head, and then goes about patting his head roughly, making sure to leave the tresses as messy as possible. Scaramouche sighs, defeated.

"I should have known," he says flatly, aiming a glare at her.

"You should have known," she agrees cheekily, putting his hat back on his mussed hair. Flags down a waiter while watching him trying to fix his hair, trying to suppress a giggle at the clear ire on his face. It’s so mundane, somehow, watching him trying to put the strands back to their regular place.

When the waiter comes around, she orders an apple pie.

"An entire pie?" Scaramouche says.

"Is that not enough for you?" Lumine asks.

Scaramouche clicks his tongue. "More than enough," he says.

The pie comes soon enough, warm and fresh out of the oven. Apple-scented and golden and flaking, Lumine feels a sudden gust of nostalgia hit her. But when she glances at him, he’s glaring at it like it’s a challenge to be conquered. The disdain on his face...

"That’s weird." Lumine frowns. She puts a hand to her head, slightly dizzy. "I could have sworn…"

"I’ll eat it," Scaramouche snaps. "Stop it with that stupid expression on your face. It’s messing with my appetite. Cut it, already."

Lumine looks down at the pie and nods, dazed. She cuts a slice of it out, and scoops up a forkful. When Lumine holds it out to Scaramouche, he pauses for a second before eating it. Chews slowly, swallows. "It’s good," he says simply.

“Do you want more?”

“Feed it to me.”

Lumine bites back a laugh, but does as he asks, until the slice is gone. Scaramouche doesn’t look so angry, now; just resigned. 

"Scaramouche," Lumine says. "Let’s go to Mondstadt."

"I was the one who suggested it first," Scaramouche says dryly. "Why are you speaking as if it’s a revelation from nowhere?"

"Well, at least now you know where we’re headed," Lumine says. And then she shoves a forkful of the apple pie in her own mouth. The sugar is enough to blank her brain out for a few blissful seconds, and all of her worries drip away like melted sugar.

.

.

.

By the time they exit the restaurant, the sun is at its apex in the sky. Even the pavement feels hot, despite the Divine Tree being there to cover them from the glare of sunlight.

Lumine presses close to Scaramouche, linking her arm with his, sighing at the contact. Scaramouche glances at her. "You’re cool," she says defensively. "And your hat is wide enough to fit both of us, so don’t give me that look."

Scaramouche snorts, but doesn’t shake her off. "Where to next?" he says.

"Nowhere," Lumine says. "Time to go home. It’s too hot for anything else."

"The mighty hero of Teyvat, defeated by a few, pesky rays of sunlight," Scaramouche says. "I expected better."

"Getting heat stroke is not my cup of tea, unfortunately," Lumine says. "Besides, you wouldn’t be saying that if you weren’t so…"

Lumine trails off. Why was he so cool to the touch, anyway? Just the characteristic of him being him?

"What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?" Scaramouche taunts.

"No, but it sure needs to get yours," Lumine flings back. "You’re talking way too much."

They bicker the whole way home, no real heat behind their words. His tongue is sharper than she remembers, and by the time they get home, she’s so exasperated that she has to slap her hand over his mouth, just to stop hearing his voice.

"No more talking," she says firmly.

Scaramouche looks at her, pupils a little dilated, but nods slowly. But when she releases him, he smirks. "You did that because you knew you were losing," he says.

"Maybe," Lumine allows, and ignores it when he snickers.

The rest of the day, Lumine spends on her miscellaneous matters that would have to get done, before they leave for their impromptu trip to Mondstadt. Polish her sword, pack the spices, check their supplies. Thankfully, there’s no need to hit up the markets again; the way to Mondstadt should have plenty of places to stock up, Liyue being the commerce nation that it is.

Scaramouche doesn’t do much to help, much to her chagrin, just sits lazily at the table while she labours the afternoon away. Well, she’s used to it, but not the way that his eyes keep following her, as though every brief motion she makes was earth-shattering. A phenomenon worthy of being observed.

By the time she finishes, it’s dusk again. Dinner is simple rice porridge and stir-fry, though she takes care to make less than she would normally. The actual meal itself consists of her adding pieces of meat and vegetables to his rice bowl—though he’d just opened his mouth eventually, when she tried, and had her feed him piece by piece.

"You’re taking advantage of my kindness," she says.

"And that’s different from normal, how?" Scaramouche says.

"Fair enough," Lumine concedes, and shoves a chili pepper between his teeth, laughing. 

After cleaning up the remnants of their meals—no leftovers, this time—they take a stroll around the vicinity of their house, enjoying the cool, evening breeze that’s stolen over the city with the approach of night. By the time they’re making their way home, the skies are already dark, stars stippled with a reckless painter’s brush, the moon gloriously bright. Lumine stretches her arm. Tilts her head to look up, and the sky ripples for a second, clouds billowing like dust specks shaken off a traveller’s cloak, the moon wobbling like a stirred reflection in still waters.

"No dessert," Scaramouche mentions.

It takes her a second to understand what he means. She tears her gaze away from the sky to him, raising an eyebrow.

"You already ate the pie," Lumine says. "Can’t have too many sweet things in life at a time; it’ll rot your teeth."

"Not the point," Scaramouche says. "Though people who have to hold themselves back like that are idiots."

"How so?" she says noncommittally.

"When you want something," Scaramouche says slowly, and his finger twirls around a loose strand of her hair as he finishes, "you take it."

"Or it’s that they have a better control over themselves. They know to take their time enjoying the finer things in life. Savour it when it’s supposed to be savoured."

When she glances at him, his lips are curled in a sneer. Lumine sighs, shaking her head.

"You’re in a bad mood these days," Lumine says.

"Maybe I have cause to be," Scaramouche says.

"With me next to you?" Lumine says, raising his hat to peer at his face.

"Perhaps you’re the cause," Scaramouche says. "Have you thought of that, Lumine?"

Lumine leans forward. Puts a finger at the corner of his frown, and says softly, "How have I wronged you, Scaramouche?" When he remains silent, she prompts, "I won’t know unless you say something. Tell me, so I can fix it."

The anger on his face fades, replaced by cool indifference. Scaramouche grabs onto her wrist, fingers as stiff as steel. "Forget it," he says, pulling her hand away. "I’m used to it."

"...Keep your secrets, then."

"I will," Scaramouche says. "You’ll regret it, otherwise."

"You can’t decide for me," Lumine points out.

"You will." His voice is unyielding.

Lumine sighs. No point in pulling at a thread that refuses to unravel. "The day’s been hot," she says, tugging at his sleeve as she opens the front door. "I want to take a bath."

.

.

.

Scaramouche follows her to the bathroom when she pulls him along, but doesn’t immediately start to undress like she’d expected. Lumine checks the temperature of the water in the tub as it fills up, makes sure there’s robes and towels waiting for them on the rack. The room begins to steam up, making everything a little hazy. He’s standing at the doorway, looking at her oddly.

"You want me to get in with you," Scaramouche says.

Lumine tilts her head. "Yes?"

"Fine," he bites out. "Since you asked for it."

"What’s wrong?" Lumine says, already pulling off her dress. She shakes her head, loosening the curl of her hair before taking the flowers and feathers out. "We always take a bath together, don’t we?"

"I know. It surprises me though, every time."

Lumine laughs as she sinks her body into the warm waters, steam breathing over her neck. "What a silly thing to be surprised about," she marvels. "Shouldn’t you be used to this, by now?"

"For you, maybe," Scaramouche mutters. The waters rise to her collarbone when he sits down and faces her. He’s at the other end, as far away from her as possible; but despite the distance between them, she can still feel the press of his toes against her calves. Lumine squirms as she pulls her knees into her; it’s a little bit of a tight squeeze, even though it’s never been a problem before. Maybe he’s grown. 

"Do you want me to wash your hair for you?" Lumine says.

"I’m not stupid," he scoffs. "I know how to wash my own hair."

"Uh huh," Lumine says as she runs her fingers through her own tresses. Dampened by the water, the usual pale gold has turned yellow-brownish instead. She washes her hair, pours water over her head when the suds are enough, and sighs at how the water flows over her neck.

When Lumine looks up, Scaramouche’s gaze is pinned at her ear, following the drops of the water as they slide down to her collarbone.

"Did I not get all the soap out?" Lumine prompts.

At the confusion in her voice, Scaramouche immediately looks away. "You still have a little," Scaramouche says roughly, furiously lathering at his scalp with his hands, his cheeks turned ruddy by the heat of the steam.

"Oh." Lumine sighs, and takes a deep breath before dunking her entire head under. Easiest way to get at wherever it is that he’s talking about, she figures.

"Watch it!" Scaramouche hisses when she suddenly raises her head to resurface, flyaway locks whipping water everywhere.

"No need to be scared," Lumine teases as she runs her hand through her hair, wringing the water out. "The tub isn’t that deep. Besides, I’ll be here to save you, if anything."

Instead of an answer, she receives a sudden splash as Scaramouche flicks his hand at her. "Hey!" she complains.

"No need to be scared," he mocks. "Isn’t that right?"

 "Oh, you little—" Lumine can’t take the offense lying down, of course, and what has been wrought upon her must be returned tenfold, so Scaramouche receives a face full of water for his troubles. When Lumine laughs, he wipes the back of his hand across his face, and then tackles for her. They wrestle for a bit in the tub, water spilling over the bathtub.

"Stop, stop," Lumine breathes when he dances his finger along her side, breaking out in uncontrollable laughter. The air feels like it’s being squeezed from her lungs. "I’m—ticklish there—"

"I know," Scaramouche says smugly. "I haven’t forgotten."

She kicks a leg out, but he catches her by the ankle. And then the palm at her waist is gone. Lumine heaves for breath, her stomach hurting from laughing so hard. But there’s no accompanying chuckle like she’d expected—just muffled sloshing of water, calming from the bout of excitement they’d just had. Lumine pushes herself up, unnerved by the sudden silence. Looks at him, and his gaze is thoughtful.

"What’s wrong?" Lumine prompts.

"Wondering," Scaramouche says, "how far I could push you."

Scaramouche is no longer at the other side of the tub, drawn closer now from their little fight, close enough that he looms over her slouched body. His thumb strokes along the delicate skin of her ankle, a light itch that makes her toes curl. She can see his bare chest, markings running along his in grey patches of skin like a faded painting, as though someone’s dipped a scroll in water right after writing on it.

Lumine presses a hand to the markings, stroking along the edges. They’re over his chest, around his arms, down his hips. Scaramouche doesn’t protest, just watches her patiently with owlish eyes, dilated pupils. When she touches his neck, trails her hand down the slope of his shoulders, past the flex of muscles at his arm, landing on his wrist, he trembles. Violently, as though a small earthquake has struck him, sent him close to crumpling.

"Are you done?" he rasps.

"Turn around," Lumine decides. "I’ll wash your back."

He lets go of her foot, does exactly as she asks, strangely obedient. Doesn’t even flinch when she suddenly grabs onto his shoulders, a sudden noise of surprise from her throat. 

There’s lines on his back, circular scars. Sealed now, but she winces when she sees them. "When did you get these?" she says, narrowing her eyes. "I don’t remember you getting hurt so badly—especially on the back."

"It’s a long story. You wouldn’t want to know."

He’s right. There’s a story here. A story that she doesn’t know.

But.

"Wanting to know or not is up to me," Lumine says, thumb rubbing the scars in soothing circles.

Scaramouche laughs, and his entire body shakes. "It is," he agrees. "Which is why I said what I said."

And Lumine knows that the sound coming from his mouth is laughter. Can hear it too, how it echoes in the bathroom. But from this angle, with only his back presented to her, Lumine could almost believe that he was sobbing, instead.

Lumine lays her forehead over the slick, wet skin of his back. He tenses, ridges of spinal discs shifting beneath her like the desperate, creaking movements of a half-alive corpse trying to claw out of a sealed coffin.

"Don’t be sad," Lumine murmurs.

"I’m not," Scaramouche says. "I’m not."

Lumine presses her lips to the middle of a ringed scar. Then another, to the one besides it. Gentle, tender, everything that the scars’ history was not.

With each kiss, the tension in his body disappears. He droops, like a puppet cut slack from its strings, one by one until he’s slumped over. Still shaking, and when he whispers, "Please," it almost sounds like he’s begging for her to put him out of his misery.

Only—she doesn’t.

.

.

.

Scaramouche has calmed down by the time they finish their bath. Silent, but no longer trembling at the very least, when Lumine holds his hand to leave for their bedroom.

The air outside the bathroom is cool against her wet skin, a blessed reprieve against the summer heat, and his hand has been heated by the waters, warm against her fingers.

Lumine uses the dim moonlight to find her way toward the oil lamp, leaving Scaramouche to stand at the doorway. She strikes a match, holding the flame to the oil lamp. The room is suffused with an orange-yellow glow, and when Lumine inspects Scaramouche’s face in the lamplight, there are no tear streaks like she’d expected—but the flickering shadows under his eyes seem like ancient bruises, fading only to reform again, deep set as though he hadn’t slept well in centuries.

"I’ll dry your hair," Lumine says simply, leading him by the hand to sit down on one of the two stools beside her dresser. Lumine sits down in front of Scaramouche, drapes the towel in her arms over his hair, working her way through the damp strands with a careful hand.

After being silent for so long, it startles her when he begins speaking. "Your name," Scaramouche says, "who gave it to you?"

Lumine muses over the question. "I’m not sure," she says. "It was just given to me at my birth, by the people of my homeland."

"You didn’t have parents that named you?"

"If I did, I don’t remember them," Lumine says.

There’s an ensuing quiet as she keeps drying his hair, until Scaramouche finally asks, "You won’t ask me about mine?"

Lumine hums. "I figured you’d tell me when you want to tell me."

"I used to have a parent," Scaramouche says acidly. "A mother—if she deserves the title."

"She was the one to give you your name?" Lumine says. “What an eclectic taste.” 

"No," Scaramouche says harshly. "She didn’t name me at all."

"Oh." Lumine stops moving. Carefully observes him. It is not the lamplight that’s set alight the flare of anger in his violet eyes. "But you have a name now."

"I came into it," Scaramouche says. "As I have with many others. Some that are still attached to me, some that have long been discarded. Some inherited, some given. Kabukimono, Kunikuzushi, the Balladeer, Scaramouche, Shouki no Kami."

Lumine repeats them aloud, the syllables resting on her tongue in such a familiar way, it makes her skin crawl. She bites the inside of her cheek. "Which one would you like me to use, then?"

"Whichever you prefer," Scaramouche says. "They don’t matter much to me."

"Which one are you fondest of?"

"None of them," he admits. "They’re all distasteful to hear."

"Quite a conundrum you’ve got there," Lumine says, patting his hair with the towel before tossing it onto the dresser table. Using the other clean towel she’d brought, she dries her own wet hair, tossing the tresses carelessly through the dry towel. "What should I call you then, if you’re unsatisfied with all of them?"

"It doesn’t matter. Whatever you feel like."

Lumine sets down her towel. Stares at him earnestly. "How can a name not matter? There’s a history behind each of them, isn’t there?"

"Only reminders of my own failures," he says.

"Even so. If you’re unhappy with the ones you’ve been given, you can come up with your own."

"Is it so important?"

"A name is a definition," Lumine says. "A moniker, a birth name, words to be known by. Whatever it is. There has to be something, at least, to serve as proof of your existence."

"Maybe I don’t want to exist," he says humorlessly.

Lumine hesitates. "Is that really what you want?" she says quietly, staring into his eyes. "For nothing to matter? You truly have no desire for a name?"

He tilts his head, this lost shade in her home. "Would you like to give me one?" he says. "It would matter, then."

The intensity of his stare tells her that he’s not fooling around. "That’s a tall order," Lumine jokes. "I’d prefer to just stick to Scaramouche, if that’s the case."

"If you’d like," he scoffs. "At least it’ll serve some purpose then, instead of being left to rot."

"You…" Lumine can’t help but sigh. "I hope," she says, taking his face into her hands, "that you don’t feel like you’re being left to rot, when you’re with me."

Scaramouche—whatever it is that he calls himself within his mind—smiles then, unkind as ever. "When I’m with you, I feel it acutely," he says, "what it feels like, to be lower than even the worms that crawl in the mud of the Abyss."

"Don’t be mean," Lumine says, pinching his cheek.

"It’s only right," Scaramouche says mildly, "when you torture me so."

"At least now I know you’re joking—"

"Do you pity me?" Scaramouche asks suddenly.

Overwhelming affection surges through her, a rush of heated blood. He’s delicate in her hands this warm summer evening, and it makes her want to be so, so careful with him.

"Of course not," Lumine says fondly. "You’re my best friend.”

“So?”

“So you’re dear to me."

Scaramouche stares at her, pupils blown wide. She shines in the reflection of his eyes, golden and bright.

"I don’t pity you. Nothing of the sort." Lumine presses the final kiss of the night to his forehead, and says gently, "I love you, Scaramouche."

"Then what do you feel," Scaramouche says, "when you look at me?" He reaches up to take her by the wrist, iron manacles circling her, a harsh press of his thumb against her pulse. "Who do you see when you really look at me, Traveller?"

"I see… I see…"

Suddenly, she can’t breathe.

It flits over her, then, what suffering must look like, when under diffused candle flames: knife-sharp lines carving out sunken face and dark eyes, a sullen shadow of a sullen man, a lost shadow of a lost shadow, doll-shaped and perfect and meaningless without a hand to guide its puppet strings, without a voice to speak it into existence. Her vision flickers, and it’s not really him, is it, not when it’s supposed to be—

.

.

.

Shh. Stop thinking. Just stop.

I’ll make it better.

I’ll make it all better.

It’s okay, Traveller. I have you.

Because you’re mine.

.

.

.

Lumine wakes up the next morning, glimmers of green behind her eyelids and a crick in her neck. When she blinks awake though, the green is gone, replaced by violet. Scaramouche is curled next to her, fingers poised delicately at her nape. Eyes staring right into her, sharp and piercing and unblinking.

"If I didn’t know any better," Lumine quips, "I’d have guessed that you stared at me the whole night."

"Hm." He buries his head into the crook of her neck, takes a deep breath.

"Are you going to let me go?" Lumine says.

"No," Scaramouche says, muffled vibrations against her skin.

This again. Lumine laughs softly, stretches her limbs the best she can within his tight embrace, and then spends the next few minutes trying to wiggle out of his hold.

It doesn’t work this time. 

Exasperated, Lumine pokes his neck. When that doesn’t work, she tugs on his ear. "I’m hungry," Lumine says.

"And I’m tired," Scaramouche says. "This whole trip to Mondstadt was longer than what you’d promised me."

Lumine blinks. She raises her head, takes in her surroundings, and it’s the hotel room she always rents while she’s in Mondstadt. Lumine lays her head back down, and breathes in the morning breeze that’s fluttering at the curtains. A hint of fresh pine needles, sweet apples. Crisp. 

Scaramouche is right. The trip had taken longer than it should have, hadn’t it? There were treasure hunters and hilichurls and Fatui agents; nuisances taken care of easily enough, but a pain when there’s so many. It was funny, how quickly she’d forgotten the entire journey. Like it happened with the snap of a finger, almost dream-like.

"Won’t we be late to the Weinlesefest festival, if we keep staying in bed?" Lumine frets.

"What festival?" Scaramouche says. "Weren’t we just visiting on a whim?"

Lumine blinks. "Oh. Right. Sorry."

"Just be quiet," Scaramouche says. "Let me enjoy the peace a little longer."

"Alright, alright," she says, exasperated.

Lumine strokes her hand along his hair, musing at how the indigo is just shy of blue under the crack of light that’s seeping through the curtains.

 A little longer turned out to be a few hours, at least, by the time they’re stepping through the front gates of Mondstadt. After making the customary greetings to Katheryne—Scaramouche lurking in the background as always—Lumine finds them a place at Sara’s Hunter. They have an easy brunch there, surrounded by the easy chatter of a summer city at the height of activity.

Just as they’re about to leave though, Lumine spots a familiar blue hat in the crowd, moving toward the town square. She squints her eyes, and the hat ripples like a mirage, spots of viridescence in a desert—but then solidifies.

Scaramouche is in front of her in a second. "What are you looking at?" he says, the grey veils behind him blocking her vision.

"It’s Mona," Lumine says, craning her head to the right of him. "Hey! Look here, Mona!"

At Lumine’s call, Mona turns around. Her eyes widen. Ignoring Scaramouche’s grumble, Lumine waves at Mona as she approaches.

"Traveller," Mona says. "You’re here?"

"I’m here," Lumine says.

Mona’s eyes slide toward Scaramouche, who scowls and puts his hand at Lumine’s waist, fingers pressed hard against the flesh. "And your friend, too," she says dryly.

"And my friend," Lumine says with a smile.

"I’m a little busy right now, finishing up the next article for my column," Mona says, "but would you like to meet up again, later?"

"Sure," Lumine agrees easily, at the same time that Scaramouche says, "No."

Mona glances at Scaramouche, raising an eyebrow. "Do you have a problem with me?"

"He doesn’t," Lumine cuts in, making a shooing motion at Scaramouche. "Here at six, maybe? I’ll treat you."

"You really don’t have to—" Mona’s stomach chooses that exact moment to gurgle, and Mona tilts her hat over her face. It’s too late, though, because Lumine catches a perfect glance of her flushed cheeks, red as apples.

"You were saying?" Lumine says amusedly.

"At six then," Mona coughs. "Don’t be late." Then, right as she passes Lumine for the road to her house, she whispers, "And don’t bring your friend here, either. He looks about to murder me."

When Mona’s out of earshot, Scaramouche says idly, "I won’t kill her."

Lumine pauses. "Good to hear, I suppose?"

"I won’t kill her," Scaramouche says. "Not unless you want me to."

"Did I give the impression that I want you to?" Lumine says lightly.

"You won’t bring me with you, then?" Scaramouche demands. "Even after what I told you?"

Lumine rolls her eyes. So that’s what this is about.

"I’ll think about it," she deflects, Scaramouche scowling at the answer. But there’s a better way to distract him, which is by grabbing onto his hand, tugging him along to wherever else her feet feel like taking her. 

Though it’s a little odd, how she can’t find the people she’d been wanting to see. The city’s busy, yes, but there’s no sight of the people she’s close to. Angel’s Share lacks a Diluc, Cat’s Tail lacks a Diona, and not even Noelle appears when Lumine calls her name.

"Strange," Lumine says.

"Only as strange as your mind makes it," Scaramouche points out. "They’re busy people."

"But all of them at once?" Lumine says. "At least there’s Mona."

"At least," Scaramouche mutters, crowding even closer to her. So close that his hat almost bumps into her. He’s been sticking a lot closer today, snapping at every little thing that’s crossed his path.

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," Lumine says.

"I woke up by your side," Scaramouche snarls. "How is that the wrong side?"

Lumine winces. The way that he’s gripping onto her hand, she wouldn’t be surprised if he snaps a bone soon. "It’s just a saying," Lumine soothes. "If the city isn’t interesting to you, should we take a walk outside the city instead?"

"I suppose," he allows. Lumine smiles at him, and his hold on her loosens slightly. Enough for her to consider it a victory, at least.

They make their way to Windrise, and the tree is magnificent as ever, sweeping broad strokes of its branches against the sky. Venti’s figure stands as still as ever, his figure balanced over the Statue of the Seven. "Pretty," Lumine says.

"The tree, or the statue?"

"Both," Lumine decides, just in case Venti’s around here, eavesdropping. At Scaramouche’s disgruntled expression, she tacks on, "You’re prettier, though."

"You always say that," Scaramouche mutters, but at least he doesn’t look as angry as he did before.

"Must be because it’s true," Lumine says, beaming at him. "Pretty, cute, adorable, endearing—you’re all of them and more."

"Sure," he says. "You think that now."

"I don’t think my mind will change," Lumine says.

"But it will," Scaramouche says, stepping forward to press a hand to the Statue of the Seven. He trails a hand down, nail digging into a crack running along the base of the statue. "Minds are so easy to tamper with. As long as memories exist, as long as you find a weak point, you can burrow your way inside. Rot the entire structure from the inside out, until it collapses until the weight of its own corrupted memories."

"I wouldn’t know," Lumine says. She walks forward, puts her own hand on top of the statue, letting the Anemo resonate within her. "I’ve never tried."

Scaramouche tilts his head. "Do you want to try? I could teach you."

The tone is innocent enough, like a child wanting to show off its shiny new toy. The question, though… "Not really," Lumine says lightly.

"It’s easy, once you learn," Scaramouche continues, as though she hadn’t said anything at all. There’s a gleam in his eyes, fanatic, wild. "Memories can’t be erased or added so cleanly in the beginning—not without damaging someone irreparably—but you can change them so, so easily. Modify them to be within the realm of possibility. Shift things around, take away some time here to add to the time there, manipulate the mind to implement a new reality."

"Seems like a dream, more than anything else."

"Dreams, reality," he scoffs, "is there a difference?"

"Dreams can never compare to reality," Lumine says. "There’s always a boundary, isn’t there?"

"Not if you become very, very good at hiding the boundary. What if you never find the borders of your dream? Like the skies above you."

Lumine tilts her head up. "Then one day, I’ll fly above it," she says.

"Spoken like the hero that you are," Scaramouche says. "Always so obstinate."

"You say that like it’s a bad thing," Lumine quips.

Scaramouche doesn’t laugh. "I dreamt a lot, you know," Scaramouche murmurs, "before I became what I became."

"Were they good dreams, then?"

"Have I ever dreamt good dreams?" Scaramouche says, a cool, sardonic smile. Lumine shivers at the sudden wind, a winter’s breeze in summer. "The gods have never blessed me with such foolishness."

Lumine frowns. "What dreams did you have then?"

"Memories of the past," Scaramouche dismisses. "Nothing of importance. Like you said: what’s past is past."

"What’s past is past," Lumine says, "but I don’t think you know what this means."

"Explain then," Scaramouche says. "Humour me."

"It doesn’t mean that your past is unimportant. It is. You wouldn’t be who you are today without them," Lumine says. "Every mistake, every victory, every time you fall back down but get back up again."

Lumine looks toward the distance, at the river trickling around the tree, how it winds like a blue ribbon against lush green. If there’s ever a river of forgetfulness, she wonders if she’d be tempted. Lumine turns to look at Scaramouche, and he’s focused solely on her. There’s something so honest, in the desperation in his eyes, how tight he grips onto the statue. It’s like she’s seeing past the gauze, past the lies, past the veils. 

"You carry the past with you," Lumine says, “but you don’t let it sink you. You root in mud, but you bloom in light. You rise above it, Scaramouche."

Lumine reaches up to remove his hat. A brush of her hand against his hair, but she doesn’t disturb it like she usually does. She puts the hat on herself, feels the weight of centuries in the hanging ornaments, the gossamer veils, how they drape beside her, how they wrap around her, a whisper at her neck, Evil.

"You’re too late," Scaramouche says softly, touching his hand to her neck. His nail touches her throat, drawing a line across like the slash of a sword. Lumine doesn’t flinch. "If you’d shown me this, oh, maybe four centuries ago, maybe I’d have listened. Maybe we wouldn’t be where we are today, you and I."

"It’s never too late," Lumine says.

"It is," Scaramouche says, leaning close. His breath is warm against her cheek, brushing against her earlobe, and the weight of his hat disappears as he takes it from her. "Don’t you see what time it is? It’s about to hit six, Traveller."

And like a clock striking the hour, there’s a bell in the distance. Strange; did Mondstadt always have their bells ring at six o’clock? The sky above, too, suddenly grey with the threat of thunderstorm. Lumine takes a step back from Scaramouche, chilled by a sudden, cold unease.

The hat is back on Scaramouche’s head. Ornaments sway, veils part. Scaramouche smirks, before placing his hand at that crack in the Archon statue again. Fingers digging into the stone, clawed.

Lumine chokes out, "What are you…"

And right before her eyes, the Archon statue crumbles into dust. Dissipates, like burnt ashes. But when she rubs her eyes, it’s right there, perfectly whole. Scaramouche beneath it. Staring at her with those dark eyes of his, dark as a bruise, dark as the unforgiving shadow of a giant palm slamming over her body.

He looks…

"Don’t look so sad," Lumine whispers. "It makes me sad when you’re sad."

"Then you’ll be sad for a while," Scaramouche says. At least he hadn’t denied it, this time. But when Lumine glances toward the Cider Lake, Mondstadt City cradled over it like an egg in a nest, the toll of the bells a prayer call, he says, "Don’t go."

"I’m…"

Scaramouche reaches for Lumine then. Holds onto her wrist so hard she winces, but doesn’t let go.

"Don’t go," Scaramouche says softly. "Choose me."

"Just once," Lumine promises. "Mona’s waiting for me."

"You always say that," Scaramouche says. "And you never keep your word."

"I will," Lumine says, prying his fingers from her wrist, trying not to wince at the tender, raw skin left behind by his touch, red already fading into a greenish-purple. "I’ll return before you know it."

"You won’t," Scaramouche says. He’s trembling. "It won’t be you who returns."

"Don’t be silly," Lumine says. She touches his face, trails the back of her hand over his cheek. "Wait for me. I’ll come find you."

And when she turns toward the city proper, her heart hammering in her chest, Scaramouche says behind her, "Ten paces, Traveller. I hadn’t been lying. You can run, but I’ll always be right beside you. A mere thought away."

He says something, but by then, Lumine can’t hear clearly. Only a few garbled syllables that make goosebumps prick at her neck, the unintelligible words a sinister omen crawling along her skin.

.

.

.

Sprinting through the gates of Mondstadt feels like thunderstorm clouds parting before her, heaven’s light seeping through. Everything feels normal, familiar scents, voices, and faces in the city she’s come to love. All the thoughts she’d carried with her to the gates are worn away by the crisp air, until Lumine can’t even remember what she’d been so worried about. Lumine’s sweating by the time she arrives, sliding into her seat across from Mona as she heaves for breath, an apology on the tip of her tongue.

Mona holds up her hand. "No need for any apologies," she says. "Especially since you’ve so generously decided to host this dinner."

"If you say so," Lumine says sheepishly.

They make their orders, Lumine just a salad for herself. Mona insisted on the same for her, but Lumine added dishes for her, knowing Mona’s pride. Crab, ham and veggie bake, along with the calla lily seafood soup.

"If you don’t eat them, they’ll go to waste," Lumine points out.

Mona looks conflicted. "Then I suppose I’ll have to help you out," she declares.

The food is as delicious as Lumine remembered when it comes, and she chats with Mona about her adventures, the nations outside of Mondstadt’s border. Mona, in exchange, catches her up to speed about Mondstadt, what new fortunes she’d told, what new disasters she’s experienced.

"One thing I won’t complain about Mondstadt though," Mona says, "is the weather. When I went south to Liyue, it was absolutely boiling. I was so desperate to stay cool, I had to splash water on my face with my own Vision."

"It’s not any better in Sumeru," Lumine says with a grimace. "Between the rainforest and the desert… It’s either you get flayed by the sun or you get sauna’d to death. Though Sumeru City itself isn’t bad."

"Oh? How so? I’d have expected the same, since it’s close to the rainforests."

"Sumeru City is wrapped around the trunk of the Divine Tree. Higher elevation, but there’s less humidity compared to the heavy air of the rainforests. And there’s no crowded rainforests in the city itself, just the Divine Tree. It’s not so bad, honestly."

Mona makes a face. "Even so," she says, "I don’t know how you sleep at night with the heat."

"It gets cooler at night timer, the same as here," Lumine reassures. "Besides, Scaramouche’s temperature runs kind of low…" Lumine hums, sure how to put it. "…so he’s kinda helpful in bed."

Mona chokes on her soup. "In bed? You’re sleeping next to this guy?"

"Of course? Where else would he sleep?" Lumine questions. "We only have one bed at home."

Mona leans forward, eyes sparkling at potential gossip. "Are you dating him?"

"What?" Lumine says absentmindedly, picking at her salad. And then she blinks, finally processing through Mona’s question. Lumine shakes her head, confused at why this line of questioning was suddenly brought up. "Of course not," Lumine says. "He’s not a lover, Mona. We’re just sleeping together because it’s convenient."

"He’s a man."

"And you’re a woman."

Mona muses over the statement. "True," she says, as though it were a debate competition and Lumine has just won one point in her favour.

"You see?" Lumine stabs her fork through a tomato.

"What I don’t understand is why he’s following you around so adamantly."

"Some ridiculous idea of owing a debt to me," Lumine says. She furrows her brows, trying to dredge up the memory. Blue, rippling lake. The splash of water on her cheek as she tugged and tugged and tugged at a reel. "I saved his life once. Fished him out of the waters. He was drowning."

"What a fantastical story," Mona says dryly. "You can’t be serious."

“I am,” Lumine says.

"So what would you call him then? You travel around with him, and you let him into your bed."

"He’s my… companion."

"Your companion?"

"My travelling companion, yes," Lumine says, more sure of herself with each word. "My guide through Teyvat."

"You can’t be serious."

"You keep saying that," Lumine says, "but I’m telling you the truth."

"Ḷ̸̋͘Ũ̵͓̔ͅM̵͖̚I̸̳͋̽Ń̷̤E̶̜͒͌." Mona’s expression turns grave. "Are you sure you’re telling the truth?"

"I… am?" The fork clinks as it drops from her hand. Lumine stares at Mona, and instead of steel-grey eyes, they’re glowing a bright green, the colour of…

“Ḷ̸̋͘Ũ̵͓̔ͅM̵͖̚I̸̳͋̽Ń̷̤E̶̜͒͌,” Mona says, and it’s not Mona’s haughty voice, but a child’s instead. Soft and gentle, despite its urgency. "Do you know where you are?"

"I-I don’t know," Lumine stutters. "I think I’m in Mondstadt, but you’re here, and I remember travelling here, but it’s overlapping with another set of memories, and there’s supposed to be a festival here, isn’t there—"

"Ḷ̸̋͘Ũ̵͓̔ͅM̵͖̚I̸̳͋̽Ń̷̤E̶̜͒͌," Nahida says firmly. "W̸͙͑̽ͅH̶̠͂Ồ̷͖̭ I̸̹̯͆S̸̯̮̊̓ Y̴͔̔̉͜O̴̗̎̕Ǘ̶̦Ȑ̷̨̃ C̶̱̺͛Ơ̵̠̇ͅM̷̘͑̄P̵͚̜͗Ä̷̭N̶̙͊̅Ị̸̢̋Ō̷͕Ń̷͚̪̓? "

Nahida leans forward, and when Lumine blinks, she catches a flicker of a child’s body in place of Mona’s, small fingers brushing over Lumine’s face. A thumb presses against the the middle of her forehead, and suddenly, it burns, it hurts, it’s tearing through her mind, her body is convulsing, she wants to weep, cry, scream, at the injustice of it all—

"—Is it that man you call S̴͓̄Ć̶̯͒A̶̦̖͌̚R̷̥͇̄́A̵͓̓͠M̵̦͐̚Ỏ̴̺U̸̩͆͠Ç̶̌̓H̸̯̺̉̓E̴̦͕͆͝? Or is it—"

The world turns dark, glimmers of green diffusing from Mona’s eyes. Everything around her condenses to the black of her pupils. Then all of sudden, it snaps back, the scattered, coloured pieces of the world flung right back to recreate the world around her. The bustle of Sara’s Hunter at dinnertime. The mild salt of the seafood soup. The purpling skies, dipped in the orange rays of a setting sun.

"—maybe you should consider what this man’s intentions are," Mona lectures, "before you let him crawl into your bed. He looks like trouble, Lumine, don’t be dazzled by his appearance—"

"I have to go," Lumine chokes out. Her throat feels closed up, like someone’s wrapped their hand around her throat, squeezing out all the air. Her entire body feels about to crumple, cut from its strings. "I have to go!"

"Ah, wait—"

Ignoring Mona’s voice behind her, ignoring the urge that’s telling her to close her eyes, Lumine runs for the gates. She stares at the world, eyes wide. Unblinking.

Something fractures then, above her. A black seam, like an egg being cracked. Darkness pouring out, dribbling opaque ink across painted sky. Lumine follows the direction of the crack, how it runs jagged across the heavens. It points toward Windrise, toward…

You can run, but I’ll always be right beside you. A mere thought away.

Taking a deep breath, Lumine grits her teeth. Clenches her fists so tight it draws blood—

—and then she runs.

.

.

.

.

.

.

W̷͖̄Ä̵̡́͗K̴̳̫̀E̸͎͌͘ U̸͓̤͒P̸̧̆̉ L̴̖̒̾Ṷ̴̬̎M̷̨̘̌Ì̵̦͍̄N̵͎͊̑E̴̜͋͐.

̵̛͓̺͘Y̶̘̭͒̓O̸͇͊U̸̠̎̽ H̸͔͕̊͛A̷͂̚ͅV̵̛̺͕͌E̴̲͂̄ T̴̩̀͌Ô̶͉̚

̵̟̽W̷̡͓͌Ä̸͔ͅK̸̡͙̎̏Ę̵͋

̷̺͇̈̑U̴͉̇̈́P̴̰̙̽̕.

.

.

.

T̴̼̯̉͌R̷̩̘̀A̸̩̍V̵̭̚E̴͓̯͠L̸̗͋̕L̵͍̈͜E̶̱̩̐R̶̙̠̽̓

̴̡̏H̷̭̊A̸̯͑V̵̋ͅE̵͎̋ ̵͖͠Ÿ̶̱̳́̀O̵͙͑̅U̵͍̓̓ ̶̧͖͂̀Ŕ̷͓̲͂Ę̷͗̚M̷̩̍͜͝E̵̝̜͐͛M̶͔̩͋̄B̴̦̄̕Ę̶̜̄Ṙ̵̝̹̓E̷͐̇͜D̴͉́ ̷̫̤͒Ẁ̵̢͆H̶̘͝Ō̴͍̝̽ ̸̲͖̂Ĩ̷̘̣̎ ̶͖̦́͊Ȃ̵̟M̴͔̜̓?

.

.

.

.

.

.

There’s a cliff Lumine remembers, overlooking Falcon Coast. She’d walked along the edges that day, before meeting Mona and Fischl. The sea breeze could be felt even from there, high as it was, and she’d looked into the horizon toward Musk Reef, wondering how far the world stretched here. Wondering whether her brother had seen the same sight, whether he’d be waiting for her at the boundary where sky met sea.

Hope is just a river leading into a delta of hurt, she’d soon learn, when Aether abandoned her in favour of loftier ambitions.

And it cuts into her again, this lesson she should have already learned, because he is standing at the centre of the stone ruins, harsh outline against hazy dreamscape, the scar along the sky weeping destruction. No longer a mirage, but a nightmare instead, a shadowed rift, an evil that seeped into her mind, feeding on her kindness like an overgrown weed.

His face is the same as she’d remembered, that fake smile, that crease to the his eyes, that nonchalance to his crossed arms as though he’s only watching a puppet show instead of watching the very fabric of her being unravel—

Scaramouche laughs when she lunges herself at him, bringing up an arm to meet her furious strike. His armguard clangs against the force of her sword, parrying her easily.

"You look like you want me dead," Scaramouche says.

"Maybe I do," she hisses. She slashes again with her sword, arm aching with the intensity of it all, the false memories, the false affections, the spun lies she’d been trapped in. The web he’s weaved, cut through with each swing of her sword—but he dodges her sword with unnatural ease, eyes flickering with amusement.

"Am I still as cute as you remember?"

"You’re one sick bastard,” she spits.

Scaramouche clicks his tongue. "Now, now," he says, "is that an attitude you should have toward your best friend, Traveller?"

"You’re not!" She spins, strands of hair flying, painting chaotic lines against the dark sky, threads of gold sunlight pooling against his face when she catches him below her in her attack. Scaramouche’s palm is wrapped around her sword, and their face is close enough for her to see the crimson of his half-hooded eyelids, white of his eyes.

He looks like the remnants of a childhood nightmare, crafted with care, breathed life.

"As if you could ever be anything but a monster," she says, seething.

"I’m hurt. And here I’d thought we were close. We even shared meals together," he says with an indulgent smile. "Slept together. Bathed together. You didn’t seem to mind when you were washing my back."

Red. All she can see is red, the pool of rusty blood in her mouth when she bites hard enough to break skin. Lumine lashes out with her sword, every inch of her skin crawling with hatred so molten hot, she’s dripping with it. "Don’t you dare—"

Whatever she’d been about to say is cut off by Scaramouche sharp laughter, and it rings around her like the banging of a bronze plate, a call to let open the gates of war. The sword drops from Lumine’s hand, every muscle in her body suddenly going slack, and Scaramouche pounces at the situation.

The stone floor hits the back of her skull, pinging dizziness across her vision. Scaramouche is looming above her, pinning her hands above her with one wrist.

"What did you do to me?" Lumine croaks.

And next thing Lumine knows, he has his hand on her jaw, tilting her chin up. His fingers placed beneath her ears, the force keeping her in place hard enough to crush stars.

She can’t move. There’s an invisible fist curled around her body, locking her in place. Lumine can only lie there on her back. She stares at him, then moves past to gaze at the grey skies behind him, the pure black void that’s spreading through the sky like poisonous mold chewing its way through rotted wood.

"Don’t look away from me," Scaramouche demands. Tilts her face until she’s caught in his eyes, deep pools of violet. Laced with an emotion she can’t identify, only that it makes his eyes hazy.

Or perhaps it’s only her vision, blurred as it is by her own tears.

"I was careless," Scaramouche says, "being so honest with you. Asking questions I shouldn’t have." The hand at her jaw slackens, and the hand at her wrist retreats. But she still can’t move, still subjugated to the threateningly light drag of his fingers along her cheek. "It won’t happen again."

Who do you see when you really look at me, Traveller?

What had he been chasing, asking that even though he already knew the answer? It feels like a mockery now, spitting in the face of her affections. And how it curdles now, that affection, in her chest. Like spilt milk, puddled beneath a kitchen table, left to its own devices with no one to mop it up. Spoiled and rancid.

"You call that honesty?" Lumine says, hot tears pooling at the corner of her eyes. "Don’t speak of honesty to me, Balladeer."

"You and Buer both," Scaramouche sighs as he leans toward her. His breath lands softly on her cheek, cool and cruel. "So sentimental. So beholden to your emotions."

"Don’t say that so confidently," she snaps. "Like you’re any different." Lumine tries to shift to break out of his hold, but her nerves are not functioning and his legs wrapped tight around her hips and he has her pinned beneath him like a specimen he’s about to gut.

"Do you remember when you met me here, that day?" Scaramouche says, a conversation with no one willing to listen, a conversation with a madman. "How close I was then, to having you in the palm of my hand? I was just about to kill you, you know. Then that mage vanished you away right in front of my eyes, and now… Here we are."

Scaramouche’s hand brushes against the fringes of her hair. Dips down her face, taps over the scarf above her neck, rubs soft circles into her bare shoulder, almost loving—if she didn’t know any better.

And she knows better.

"Isn’t it ironic, that the same woman who’d saved you from me before," he muses, "is the same woman whose form Buer chose to take on? Poor little Buer, pushing herself ragged to reach you."

"I’ll kill you," Lumine says. "I swear it."

There’s a sadistic pleasure that steals over his face at hearing her vow. Scaramouche laughs again, high and breathy. "You’ve had your chance to kill me," he says. "And you failed. Buer must have thought herself so, so clever, walking into my domain with such confidence, trapping me in her little samsara—"

His expression turns twisted.

"—but little does she know," he says, "I’m good at waking myself up."

"So wake up," Lumine says harshly.

The anger fades, replaced by mocking innocence. "But this isn’t my dream, Traveller," Scaramouche says, a curl of his fingers around a strand of her hair. "The one who has to wake up is…"

Scaramouche looks at her meaningfully. 

"Don’t lie to me,” Lumine says.

"Clever," Scaramouche says, smiling. He doesn’t look surprised. "I’ve always appreciated that about you. Among other things." His eyes trails her over, down the slope of her neck, her collarbone. Her skin crawls with mortification, goosebumps pricking at her arms, the back of her neck.

"You don’t remember," Scaramouche says softly, "but I know your body as well as I do mine. It’s always broken you too fast when I took you like that, because it doesn’t map correctly to your mind. But I remember, Traveller. I remember enough for the both of us. Would you like a taste?"

"Go to hell."

"And I’ll take you with me," Scaramouche says, "when that time comes."

The fury on her face only serves to make him smile even wider. He traces her collarbone with his finger like the tip of a knife. His touch is tender, as though trying to map her out, every curve, every divot, every line that defines her. Lumine breaks.

"What was the point," she says, "fooling me into thinking you were someone you weren’t supposed to be? What was the point, crawling into my bed? What was the point of everything?"

Lumine hates how desperate she sounds. Hates the trail of tears leaking from the corner of her eyes. She misses her friends. She misses Paimon. She misses her brother. She misses and she misses and she misses, twin rivers of longing carved along the side of her cheek, soaking into her hair. There is no saviour here, no hero of her own. Salted water could never let anything bloom.

"Because it was fun," Scaramouche says.

"Because it was fun."

"Yes," Scaramouche says dreamily. His eyes are hazy, privileged to memories she doesn’t know—can’t recall. His finger stops moving, palm pressed flat to her chest, right over the beat of her heart. "Shifting your worldview. Manipulating your mind. Watching you walk through the world so carefree, not knowing that I’ve crept in and carved a little piece of myself in your heart. You loved me, then, didn’t you?"

And the Scaramouche scowls, looking down at her as though just realizing where they are. "But then you found out. You always do."

"Did you think I wouldn’t?" Lumine says flatly.

"You keep being so difficult." Scaramouche sighs, putting his hands over her jaws like that night, when she’d held his face and told him she loved him. Disappointed, as though she were a wayward child in need of chastisement and punishment, lest they stray from the path that’s been set out for them. "I suppose it was too much to expect otherwise."

Above Lumine, the sky has been swallowed by the void. There is no world except them, no glimmer of green left to save her, pull her out of this eternal suffering. No wind, no sun, no sky, no earth. Just the two of them, floating in negative space, Scaramouche on top of her, weighing her down like a stone tied to her waist. 

It’s a slow, suffocating execution.

"I was crafted from the Irminsul, you know. And when I woke from Buer’s samsara, I found myself at that very Irminsul, silvery branches writing the world’s history," Scaramouche says. "I tell you this because you won’t remember, but I wonder if you can guess what happens, when a puppet is absorbed back into the tree it came from? Does it dream, or does it die?"

"Wake up," Lumine begs. "Wake up, Balladeer."

"Why should I? Everything I’ve ever wanted… And you ask me to leave it behind. For what? Buer to strike me down, the world to close its eyes to me? For you to discard me, abandon me?"

It dawns on her then, that she hasn’t been the only one who’s been affected by the dream. Twined so tight around her, he could not have remained unchanged.

"What you have here, it’s not real,” Lumine says. "Is it worth it?’ 

"Ah, but if the dreams of the humans in Sumeru City extend to the edge of the city, how far do you think a god’s dream will extend?" Scaramouche muses. "Where do you think the boundaries of mine lie, when coupled with yours, Traveller? Is a cage really a cage when it’s infinitely vast? Is a dream really a dream when it’s without a border, an end?"

"I won’t let you do as you wish."

"Try me." Scaramouche laughs, a maniac’s laugh, eyes sparking with cracks of lightning. Wild, overgrown weeds, no one around to unroot him.

Lumine closes her eyes. The pressure of the void crowds around her, too many possibilities extinguished too fast. And she knows better than to hope, because hope is a knife of a river, a poisonous antidote to despair—but still, she hopes. She hopes, because she remembers the trembling of his shoulders when she’d kissed the scars on his back, the desperation in his eyes when she’d told him she loved him. The shadow clinging onto her shadow at sunset, his hand intertwined around hers, the tips of their fingers kissing.

Where is the lie? Where is the truth? Could it be both, this dream?

When she opens her eyes again, Scaramouche is staring down at her. His eyes are glowing white, silver pools of dripping pity. "Do I scare you?"

"Never." It’s not fear. It’s lament, for him and her, in this wheel that never will stop spinning, not unless he stops dreaming.

And what scares her, is the idea that he will never stop dreaming.

"You loved me," Scaramouche says.

"I did."

"An illusion of me, but you loved me nonetheless."

"Yes. Does it bear repeating?" 

Of course she loved the illusion of him; she loves Paimon, so she had to love him too.

Lumine laughs, bitter, defeated, and Scaramouche’s face twists. 

"You’ve never loved me enough to keep your eyes closed," Scaramouche says harshly, gripping her by the shoulders, "but that can change. I’ll make it so."

Said so fiercely, and yet he trembles like a newborn, left to die in the cold. Lumine smiles sadly as his palm glides over her eyelids.

Darkness floats her away, away, away, a̵̡̛̼̯̦̞̭͓͛ͅŵ̵͈͔̪͐̒́͌̎͘ą̸̻̱͚̅̍́ẙ̴̨.

.

.

.

She’s standing at the shore of a river, foot of a bridge.

And over the bridge, there’s a lost shadow, offering a hand.

Without knowing why, only that she must, she takes it.

.

.

.

.

.

.

C̸Y̵C̷L̷E̶ ̷N̶O̸. ̸1̷6̸7̶ ̵E̵N̴D̶E̶D̵.

̶A̴R̸C̴H̴I̴V̸I̸N̴G̸ ̸M̷E̷M̶O̷R̶Y̷.

.̷

̵.

̸.

̸M̵E̴M̸O̸R̵Y̵ ̵A̵R̴C̴H̷I̸V̴E̸D̴.

̶R̷E̶S̴T̸O̸R̴I̶N̵G̸ ̷B̷A̸C̵K̴U̵P̸.

.̸͕̕

.̷

.̷

̶B̷A̵C̸K̴U̸P̸ ̶R̶E̶S̵T̶O̸R̶E̶D̴.

̷W̵O̷U̸L̴D̷ ̷Y̴O̴U̶ ̵L̴I̷K̴E̴ ̴T̶O̷ ̷S̸T̴A̶R̷T̸ ̵A̸G̶A̸I̶N̵?

.̷

.̷

̶.

̴C̴Y̴C̷L̸E̴ ̶N̴O̷.̴ ̸1̶6̵8̸ ̸I̵N̷I̴T̶I̴A̴T̶E̴D̴.

̶B̵E̵G̴I̸N̶N̶I̴N̴G̸ ̸C̵Y̴C̶L̴E̶ ̷N̸O̴. ̷1̶6̷8̴…

.

.

.

.

.

.

In the end, this world will never give you what you want.

.

.

.

So you will have to just take it.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The morning begins with her untangling herself from Scaramouche’s body, wiggling out of his hold with a wince, prying his hand from her waist, finger by finger.

And like a clock running on "Lumine" time, as soon as she yawns and stretches her arms over her head, he cracks open his eyes, peeking at her from under his lashes. The sunlight falls over his face in slivered rays cutting through the seams of the curtains, clawing over his face. His expression is undecipherable, murky river waters; on the edge of discontent, she decides, from being disturbed out of his dreams.

"You woke up late," Scaramouche says lazily. "It’s already noon."