Chapter Text
The guests had been safely evacuated while the rest of your team had taken care of the insurgents aiming to undermine the Tsaritsa. Making one last sweep of the ballroom and the adjoining guest rooms, you made your way outside to report to your superior.
Barely even a step in and the hairs on your nape stood on end. You had barely been able to avoid your neck getting slit before moving fluidly out of your assailant's reach. With one fluid motion, your blade slid out of your sleeve: a genius creation of Snezhnaya's engineers. It was far too dark to make out who this assailant was, but this person's countenance and posture was embedded into your memory.
"Hmmm... Not bad."
"Thank you, my lord."
Scaramouche was... complicated in a way that he was simple. He had neither Tartaglia's penchant for the thrill of battle, nor La Signora's fixation on beauty. He wanted his orders followed and seen through no matter your concerns or protests. You had spent years in his service and the first mistake most new recruits made under him was to question his orders or, Celestia forbid, offer a suggestion.
Not to say that he did not take suggestions, but if he had any want for it then he will ask for it.
Scaramouche hid the dagger in the folds of his clothing and asked, "And? What do you think you're doing? I remember telling you to fall back and let the others handle this."
He did. His intention had been unmistakeable that there would be no room for misunderstanding. Coincidentally, that was another issue new recruits had with him. "That you did, my lord," you inclined your head and retracted your blade back to its sheath. "I simply thought to be thorough."
He chuckled. "Oh my. Did you perhaps not hear me?" His hand, smelling of burnt flesh and... a flowery scent that you could not quite place, cupped your cheek. "Or maybe..." his eyes darkened dangerously, so much so that it was breath-takingly beautiful.
"Maybe you chose not to listen?"
No amount of weapons or even a Vision could protect you from the storm that was the Sixth Harbinger. His violence and cruelty would make even the Archons green with envy. But years of servitude to him had shown you some sort of logic to that cruelty.
"Yes, my lord. I apologize."
Scaramouche had already known the answer. With a disappointed sigh, he drew away from you, bring his hand to his chin. "Well that's a shame then. Can't be having anyone disobeying on my watch."
He turned back to you, eyes lighter and less deadly as it had been mere moments ago. "Go. I'll take care of any rodents scurrying around."
You bowed, wincing slightly. "As you will, my lord." Turning on your heel, you made for the exit.
Halfway through the hall, you heard him call out your name. "As soon as your injury heals, you'll be drilling the new recruits," he told you with a bright smile. "Punishment for that stunt you pulled tonight, hmm?"
"Of course, my lord." You nodded and bowed. With a wave of his hand, you were dismissed.
He had noticed; of course he had. Your superior, Scaramouche was complicated in a way that he was simple. You had to follow his orders no matter your concerns or protests. Celestia forbid you offer a suggestion without him explicitly asking for it.
At the end of the day, his orders were for achieving the best (for who? The Tsaritsa? Snezhnaya? Himself?). And despite your meager abilities and short comings, he knew where you worked best without getting in his way. Sometimes that meant leagues away from him; other times it meant somewhere so close but yet so far.
Other times it was beside him beneath the beautiful falling stars plaguing Teyvat; a mere hair's breadth separating you.
As you approached the exit, you heard the telltale sounds of his Vision crackling to life, and the scream of someone who was unfortunate enough to taste Scaramouche, the Sixth Harbinger's wrath.