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His lower back was pressed to the base of a crumbling stone wall, one of the only things left standing in this place. There had been a building here, a few hours ago. A city, too. Now, there was only rubble. If nothing else, he'd accomplished that. But now all he could do was sit here, breathing, with his shoulders hunched over his knees, and let the seconds pass him by.
He heard the sound of footsteps on scorched earth. One of the survivors, come to finish him off? Surely they could already tell it was a waste of time.
"Scaramouche," he heard Tartaglia say, his voice unsettlingly raw.
Not one of the survivors, then. "What, no quaint little nickname?" he said, automatically going on the attack. Tartaglia inspired that in him. "If I'd known this was what it would take for you to show me some damn respect, I'd have—" But before he could finish the thought, he doubled over even further, coughing up blood into his hands.
Tartaglia was next to him in a flash, kneeling in the dirt, his hands hovering, clenching, with no clear objective.
How absurd. There was nothing he'd be able to do if he tried, and he knew it. There were no healers around, certainly none that would help a Fatui Harbinger. Not after the carnage Scaramouche had just left behind.
A worthy death, all told.
Scaramouche lowered trembling hands, wiping them on his shirt. It wasn't as if one bloodstain more or less would make his corpse's attire any less presentable. He took a deep, slow, shaky breath. It would be one of his last ones. He should savor it.
Tartaglia was still there. Didn't he have anything better to do than torment Scaramouche in his final moments? Not that he was even doing anything… or saying anything. No questionably witty repartee. No taunts about Tartaglia being the last one standing, or about how Scaramouche had clearly gotten sloppy. Nothing.
It was irritating in its own way. "I thought you'd be happy," Scaramouche said, to break the silence.
After a beat, Tartaglia burst out, "Why?" He sounded absolutely aghast, as though he had no idea what Scaramouche could possibly mean. How laughable.
Scaramouche tilted his head back, just far enough to see Tartaglia's stricken face. But it wasn't quite stricken enough for him to buy what Tartaglia was selling, to convince him that Tartaglia hadn't yet guessed what he was referring to. There was an understanding in those eyes, sitting next to the darkness that always lived there. Tartaglia knew why.
But, Scaramouche would spell it out if he insisted. He could find enough kindness in him for that.
"One less person to stand in your way," he murmured.
They'd never spoken of it before, not in all the years they'd worked together, but Scaramouche had seen what was hidden behind that smile. And he'd learned to fear it, just as he'd learned to take advantage of it. Being a Fatui Harbinger was just a means to an end for Tartaglia. What he was after was something grander. And, whatever that was, someday he would betray all his oaths in order to achieve it. There'd be no place in the world for anyone who would dare challenge him, then. Scaramouche had known that for a while.
So, the fact that Scaramouche had carved a swathe through the opposition before succumbing to his wounds should have been the cherry on top of a delectable treat, for Tartaglia. Another stepping stone on the way to his ultimate victory. Yet, here he was, looking at Scaramouche with a hangdog expression, like someone had strangled his favorite mutt.
"That's not what I want," Tartaglia insisted with an edge of desperation, an adamant and absolute denial of the premise. His gloved hands darted out to grasp hold of Scaramouche's, clutching tight. "Scaramouche, I—" He swallowed hard.
Scaramouche stared at their intertwined fingers. Did he just mean he didn't want Scaramouche to die—not right now—or… did he mean…?
Well. It was too late for that now. Maybe if he'd known, he'd have…
Well, maybe not. Maybe this had always been where he was headed. Where this little back-and-forth of theirs was always going to end.
He tried to squeeze Tartaglia's hand, but he wasn't sure his fingers even twitched. His vision had gone blurry, and his extremities felt like lead.
"Then… I'm sorry," he said, slowly.
"For what? No, never mind, whatever it is, it's fine, really, just don't—"
Scaramouche's lips quirked up just a little, wryly, as his eyes drifted closed. He heard Tartaglia cut himself off at that, making a noise of protest, but Scaramouche couldn't have kept them open if he tried. Not even to sate his curiosity about whether Tartaglia still looked the way he sounded, when there was no one watching.
"Sorry that… I won't be there," he said, "to stop you."