Chapter Text
The day had become windy and cloudy by the time Scaramouche reached the harbour. Seawater was stilled and waveless, and the colour was a dull shade of deep blue. It created an illusion like it was housing a secret under the murky surface. Because of the scarce sunlight and the eerie silence, the port appeared to be much gloomier and depressing. He could not recall with perfect accuracy for it had been more months than he could count, but the last time he was here, it was still bustling with business and people, and ships coming in and going out of the harbour. Knowing the Raiden Shogun’s domineering nature, the news of the Vision Hunt Decree and the closing of the entrance to Inazuma were not at all surprising. He was a little surprised, however, about how solemn the atmosphere had become. Picturing the severity of the situation had somewhat helped, but it was not sufficient to prepare him for the real thing.
The smell of salt assaulted his sense the moment he stepped into the dock. Even though he had grown used to the cold weather of Snezhnaya, he shivered as the chill air of Inazuma creeped into the layers of his fair skin, prickling him with a needle-like sensation. The few armoured men watching and waiting for him a few feet away were definitely ones of Baal’s faithful dogs, the Inazuma Bakufu, and the Kanjobugyo, the ones responsible for the lookout of the border. From the way they dressed, they seemed to be officials with certain position. Scaramouche clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes under the veil of his hat. ‘Damn Raijin. Can’t leave me alone the minute I got into her territory,’ he thought bitterly. He could not simply sneak away now that those men had taken noticed of him. It was very likely they were there in the first place because they were anticipating his arrival.
‘Well, business comes first.’ Scaramouche redirected his attention to the task at hand and deterred any stray thoughts—particularly of an old friend he had grown to…miss, perhaps, at some point in his journey as a wanderer of the mortal realm. It was a certain whitehead male with a strip of red on his hair, who was probably resting and nodding off under a shady tree by the shrine or busying himself with his kami duty or going off somewhere with Mimi.
One of the men came forward and greeted him. “Fujin-sama. We have prepared accommodation for your stay. But the Raiden Shogun—”
Scaramouche cut him off sharply, “Yes, the Tsaritsa sent me here with a decree. I expect Baal already received the news…seeing that you are here.”
“Yes, Fujin-sama. She requested to see you immediately.”
Scaramouche was glad that the man had at least been straight with him. He despised empty talk and propriety, especially in regard to work and things he held no interests in.
The Harbinger’s belongings were swiftly taken care of as the officials escorted him to meet Raijin. Considering how the Raiden Shogun intended to maintain the diplomatic ties between herself and the Tsaritsa, she would not take any drastic measures that could turn their relationship sour. The reason she insisted his presence was likely due to the decree itself, and her trying to assert back as much control as she could into it. Her singular focus in sustaining her influence and ideals of ‘eternity’ had made her a feared but predicted ruler. She may be cautious and calculative, but the bottom line of her concerns would be those surrounding herself. That was what made her vulnerable.
Scaramouche thought it was for that reason, too, that the Raiden Shogun shall fall.
*
(The meeting did not take long. He had just briefly informed her about the orders from the Tsaritsa when she interrupted and diverted the flow of the rather dry conversation.
“What is the purpose of your return?” she asked, arms crossed and gaze wary. The air around her seemed to have shifted; she was like a predator watching and waiting for potential harms upon its territory to make themselves known.
She looked as spiteful as he had remembered.
“And why is that any of your concern?” he replied, meeting her eyes, and daring her to bare her fangs to him.
But after a moment of silence, she simply said, “Don’t push your luck, Fujin.”
Scaramouche scoffed. “Luck, huh?”
‘What a laughable thing’, he thought.
Luck was never on my side to begin with. One day, you shall fall, and it was with my will you shall be judged.)
*
After that, Scaramouche did not go to the inn he should be staying, instead he had taken a long detour to reach his next destination; a shinto shrine by the foot of the mountain. The weather was still windy and cloudy, but he knew it would not be raining anytime soon. The street he took was deserted and bleak, where the only things could be heard were the desolate whistle of the wind and the echo of his lone footsteps. Shortly, he came across what appeared to be a gathering of some old ladies and housewives, but they were too far away and too quiet for him to note anything of significant. A few minutes later, Scaramouche caught a tinkling sound of laughter. He observed as a group of local children, not older than ten, emerged into view, playing with each other in the mud and getting themselves dirty with nature. It was the first actual sign of life he encountered in this godforsaken place he used to call home. Although, it was a pity that these kids would probably grow up not being able to visit the beach—where most kids spent their playtime—where the wave had become the sole witness to the coming and the passing of generations of Inazuman.
The rest of his journey was uneventful. He came across some more people, who had stared at him with peculiar fascination, but did not bother to pursue him. He made haste when he saw the familiar entrance to the shrine. His mood was considerably better as his mind started drifting to the shore of memories. Standing before the moss-covered stairway, Scaramouche breathed in the sight and the scent of nostalgic greenery. It no longer gave him the same sense of belonging—but a piece of himself always found a way to cling to this past—to the recollections he knew intimately to have belonged to his younger self and Kazuha.
Kazuha.
The last time he had seen the kami, they had been in a fight. It was muddled but he knew it happened. There was hurt and anger, harsh whispers spoken to each other, and defeated sighs. No matter how much Scaramouche tried, he could never recall the incident with clarity, nor the reason that had led to it. It was like one of those times in his childhood, when he had scooped seawater into the small of his palms and all that was left soon was nothing but traces of it, the water and the sand having slipped through his clumsy fingers. The fight did happen, but with the passing of time, so did the memory wane.
There was only longing that he felt—of how much he had missed Kazuha. Although, he would certainly not admit to this openly.
He took the stairs and noted the longstanding structure of the shrine, constant and unchanging from what he could remember, and the ancient tree by its side which he supposed should have died long ago but still alive. The shrine was well-kept, despite the obvious lack of visitors who came to offer their prayers. The reinforcement of new laws during the Raiden Shogun’s ruling for the past few years had not only affected the politics and economics of Inazuma but disrupted the very convention of society. By limiting access to the local shrines, the number of people who dedicated their time to the worshipping of minor deities had decreased. He also believed this was due to disillusionment—the crushing realisation that there was no panacea to the hopeless situation.
The figure of his childhood friend slowly materialised into view. Scaramouche took off his veiled hat and saw Kazuha staring off into the space, sitting at the bench and worrying his unruly hair upon the blow of the wind, alone. He felt a tug at his heartstring, faint but persistently made itself known. Kazuha was donning his usual attire, but perhaps because of the absence of sunlight, even the flaming red motifs seemed dull. Scaramouche’s gaze landed on his messily bandaged right hand, covering an old wound that recorded an event of the past. He could vividly remember the image of blood and Kazuha’s pained smile as his friend reassured him (“it’s okay, I’m here,” he said), and the angry shouts directed not at the kami but at him. It was an evanescent but pervasive vision—his young self used to recoil at the memory.
The wind gusted, like a tell-tale sign of his presence, and Kazuha turned to see him. His face immediately morphed into a series of different expressions, varied and ephemeral, as if he were unsure about what to feel.
“Futen…You. You’re back. What are you doing here?” He finally asked, rising to his feet. But the kami did not seem happy.
Scaramouche felt himself faltering. “Visiting you, of course.”
“I mean what’re you doing here, at Inazuma?” He insisted, body and expression poised.
It was true that Scaramouche had not had much thought when he decided to make this visit, but he had at least expected Kazuha to welcome him with anything but this.
Despite the growing confusion, he went along with the flow. “I’m working for the Tsaritsa now. I’m here for work.”
There was a long silence that followed this utterance. Kazuha was wordless, his eyes were looking at somewhere behind him, face devoid of emotion and unreadable. Scaramouche felt his fingers twitched by his side, wanting to close the distance between them and touched the male before him. Perhaps he yearned for the gentleness that lived beneath Kazuha’s skin more than he would like to acknowledge.
“Are the people giving you a hard time?” Scaramouche asked, breaking the stale air between them.
“That’s not important,” the kami said, sighing. “Just get your work done and…don’t show your face around this place.”
“What?”
Could it be that their last fight had been a really bad one? Even if that were the case, it was not like Kazuha to be so outrightly detached and cold towards him. This whole situation, with the way Kazuha treated him, the curt speech, and the aloofness; completely baffled him. Scaramouche felt like he was being kept in the dark, and his irritation started budding that whatever tender affection he had upon this reunion had to be pushed aside for the moment.
“Look at me and say that again.”
He stepped forward into Kazuha’s space. As the male finally look at him, he realised just how much time had passed since the last time he had watched Kazuha as closely. Scaramouche took note of the pale glow of his skin, the soft red dash on his eyelids that matched the spectrum of colours in his eyes, and the transient light in his orbs. Bewitched, Scaramouche wished he could commit the image into his memory—so he could never forget how Kazuha had looked that afternoon even after he had left.
“I said you leave, and don’t come back.”
Scaramouche felt a twinge of hurt at the firmness of Kazuha’s tone. More than dejection, however, there was a pressing frustration about Kazuha’s coldness—of not knowing why the kami was acting this way towards him, and the awful realisation that the other could possibly have not missed him like he had.
When Scaramouche said this next, he could not stop anger from bleeding into his voice.
“Don’t bullshit me now. I know you don’t mean that.”
“…”
“This is so stupid. I do whatever I want and I’m not leaving just because you said so. You’re not telling me something, aren’t you?”
“…”
“Say something. What. You don’t miss me?”
Kazuha flinched upon hearing that. His face softened a little.
“You can’t stay, Futen.” Scaramouche saw the way his colour became a shade paler. “Listen to me. You have to get away and don’t return.”
“You’re being difficult, Kazuha. You’re clearly hiding something from me. Don’t be stubborn.”
Sighing, Kazuha pulled at his hand and led him to the back of the shrine, where the area was more secluded. The gesture created a ripple in the pool of memory—a remembrance of the warmth and the kindness of the other’s touch—and it appeased his anger a bit. It made him feel like he was young, like he was Futen all over again.
Kazuha turned to him with a frown. “It’s not safe. I don’t know the details, but the Raiden Shogun has started suspecting you some time ago…”
Scaramouche’s lips curled into a smirk. A part of him was pleased that Raijin was intimidated by her supposed lesser sibling. It was no wonder that she was during their meeting. But another part of him was glad that his friend had been thinking about him; that Kazuha had been concerned about his well-being.
“So, what? I know the risk of her finding out. And I simply don’t care, Kazuha. Neither mortal nor god, nor fate itself, is qualified to be my judge. What makes you think she can do anything to me?”
“Something could happen. You know she won’t back down if she’s already set her mind to eliminate you.”
“Like I said, Raijin cannot hurt me.”
“No. You don’t understand…”
He was mostly impassive, but Scaramouche recognised the stiffening of his shoulders and the slight twitch of his brows, which the male knew intimately to have been Kazuha’s silent way of expressing his upset.
“You could have—”
“Died?” Scaramouche finished for him. Upon seeing the dread on Kazuha’s face, he took pity of the kami and said, “I won’t die that easily. You know what I’ve gone through and I’m still here, alive and breathing.”
There was a brief flash of sadness in his eyes before Kazuha drew a shuddering breath. As he enveloped the other into the warmth of his embrace, the kami whispered weakly, “I know. But anything could happen, and I would have lost you.”
Being smaller in statue, Scaramouche felt himself being shrouded with Kazuha—with his tenderness, his smell, his flesh, his everything. The male huffed and rolled his eyes, but returned the hug. He had missed this too.
“You’re making a big deal out of nothing, Kazuha. But fine… Since you’re so worried, I promise I’ll leave as soon as I can and won’t return here until things are better, alright. Just…let me stay here with you a bit longer for now.”
Kazuha allowed himself to smile this time, albeit a little bitterly. They might not have a lot of time, but time would come and reward them one day. And when that day came, there would be no fear and no sorrow, because they would be together, and time would be endless.
The tension in the air slowly ebbed. The sun was beginning to shine again. Its brilliant hue could be seen amidst the ruffles of white and greyish clouds. As if the passing of weather was a departing of the worries and anguishes, Kazuha greeted him anew.
“Welcome back, Futen. I miss you.”
He felt the kami’s grip on him tightened. The heat of Kazuha’s body spread into the rest of his being, like a water current that ran ever so deep and gentle under his skin, filling him entirely. Scaramouche squeezed him back.
Me too, Kazuha. I miss you too.
“I’m back, Kazuha.”