Chapter Text
The domain is pitch-black and silent as a tomb — all is as it should be, if everything went according to plan. Which, of course, is exactly how Scaramouche knows that something is horribly, terribly wrong.
If he had his usual team with him, a dark, silent domain would be a good sign. It’d mean they’d pulled off their mission without a hitch: gone into the domain the Traveler was supposed to be exploring and subdued them with no fuss. Right now, they’d have that annoying outlander tied up somewhere, just waiting for him to come drag them to Snezhnaya for the glory of the Tsaritsa. Yes, a dark silent space would be a good sign indeed; it’d mean he’d be on a boat headed home within the hour, and back in the comfortable confines of Zapolyarny Palace within a few weeks at most.
Unfortunately for him, however, the Tsaritsa still has his usual team deployed to Liyue, all tied up resolving some diplomatic incident Tartaglia caused. (Why is it always Tartaglia?) And since she’d politely suggested he leave for his mission in Mondstadt early and he’d been unable to persuade her otherwise, he’s here with a team of imbecilic rookies who can’t tell a Delusion from a Dendro Slime. He’s estimating their chances at having flawlessly completed their mission at something rapidly approaching zero; he’d fully been expecting to have to bail them out when the Traveler proved too much for them, which is why he’d followed them into the domain in the first place. He figured he’d at least give them a chance to complete their mission themselves, but hadn’t had much hope for their success. So when they’d entered into one of the domain’s deeper chambers and not come back out for a discouragingly long time, he’d sighed and followed them in — and ended up where he is now, in a room as still and silent as death.
He takes a cautious step forward, light on his feet, making as little noise as he can.
Another pair of footsteps echoes his. Whoever they belong to isn’t even attempting to conceal their presence, though — and they’re headed straight for him. His Delusion flickers to life as he thrusts his hands forward, the pages of his catalyst flipping wildly as he shapes his power using the words contained within; the dark silent peace of this place shatters with a wild crackle of lightning, arcing through the air towards whatever unknown enemy is advancing on him. When the unforgiving light of his power illuminates the room and Scaramouche sees that his adversary is a lone figure who is most certainly not the mysterious Traveler, he’s filled with a curious mix of resentment and relief. There go his hopes of at least salvaging some part of this mission; the target he came here for is officially nowhere to be found. But, on the bright side — with the notable exception of the Traveler, no lone Mondstadter should be enough to hold a candle to him in battle.
He’ll teach this idiot the might of a Harbinger. All he has to do is watch the lightning catch them, and they’ll —
And they’ll —
And they’ll stumble backwards a step, shake their head, set their shoulders, and keep advancing, as if enough electric charge to kill ten men is no more serious than a bit of static.
Scaramouche takes a step backwards himself. Once, then twice, then three times. Then he’s turned around, all regard for keeping his eyes on the enemy forgotten, and started running for the door to the chamber. It's a heedless scramble, guided by nothing more than a desperate need to get away. There’s something strange and black and foreign filling his chest, flooding his lungs, freezing his heart — if he didn’t know better, he’d say he was feeling something very much like fear.
Then the stone door creaks closed with a heavy finality, and even Scaramouche cannot deny that he is afraid. (Perhaps this place is a tomb. Perhaps it has just been sealed.)
He whirls around to run the other way, only to see the figure turn away from some mechanism (had that been what closed the door?) and return its focus to him. He throws up a shield — if his electric current won’t hurt whatever this thing is, maybe it can at least keep it away from him. “Not one step further,” he says, wincing as he hears how he sounds; he’d hoped to imbue the words with all his usual authority, but instead, his voice shakes.
No, for once, he isn’t intimidating — and the thing coming for him isn’t intimidated. It just keeps moving. “Put down the shield,” it says, voice a monotone. It’s almost as if it’s bored.
Nothing about this situation makes Scaramouche want to obey. He doubles down instead, pours a million more volts into the shields, makes the very air around him so electric nothing but him should be able to survive it. If he can’t win, he’ll at least force this thing to call it a stalemate.
Something pinned at the figure’s neck flickers yellow. The wall of golden crystal is rushing towards him before he can even register that the object must be a Geo Vision. All he can do is thrust his shield outward in the hopes of pushing it back — launching himself backwards in the process.
The electricity meets the crystal wall, and it shatters like glass. A triumphant grin crosses his face in the split second before he slams into the door behind him, head cracking painfully against the stone.
He scrambles to get up, but he knows the fight is over; by the time he’s gotten to his feet, the thing is in front of him, a blade pressed to his throat. “The Traveler was never here, were they?” Scaramouche asks.
The figure shakes its head. “No.”
The pieces fall into place. “...And now I’ll be taken back to Mondstadt, where my attempt at kidnapping the Honorary Knight will give you an excuse to detain me, yes?”
This time, the thing nods. “Afraid so.”
Scaramouche scowls. He should’ve known. This place was never a tomb — it was a trap.
***
Albedo had thought he was thoroughly done with the Sixth Harbinger. It seems he’d been wrong.
According to Jean, Scaramouche has been nothing but a headache since Albedo dragged him back from the Forsaken Rift three weeks ago. He’s refusing to talk to anyone, spouting off threatening monologues about how the Tsaritsa will freeze the very blood in their veins if they don’t release him this instant, attempting to escape every other day — and, apparently, in between all of this, he’s been demanding to speak with Albedo. Constantly.
Albedo’s not sure what he wants, but he knows it can’t be anything good; he’d have outright refused Jean’s request to talk to him if she hadn’t seemed so desperate. Captain Kaeya had managed to wring a promise of good behavior out of Scaramouche, so long as he got his conversation with the Chief Alchemist — and while Jean didn’t really expect him to keep it for long, even a moment’s peace would be a sorely needed relief right now. He couldn’t very well turn her down when he could see firsthand how exhausted she looked. (Not to mention that the commotion in the Knights’ Headquarters has been making it impossible to concentrate on his own work, too, but that’s beside the point. Definitely.)
So here he is, in a dark and dingy room with a dangerous Harbinger who would surely like nothing more than to see him dead. It’s as dark as midnight in the Mare Jivari, as silent as an ancient tomb — only the second time, but it’s already becoming an uncomfortably familiar feeling.
Scaramouche is slumped against one of the cell’s walls, staring off into space; when he sees Albedo, though, his face lights up with a victorious grin, and Albedo’s apprehensions about this meeting increase by a factor of ten. He draws himself up to his feet, chin up, shoulders set, hands clasped behind his back — like a commander surveying his troops, or a king surveying his subjects. Albedo turns to look at the door behind him just to make sure he’s still on the right side of the bars.
“It certainly took you long enough,” says Scaramouche imperiously.
Ugh, Albedo wonders absently. Who died and made you king? “If you can’t be civil, I’ll be taking my leave —”
“No, you won’t.” Scaramouche interrupts him in that same confident tone. “Actually, you’re going to listen very carefully to everything I say from here on out.”
He knew this was a bad idea. Albedo turns on his heel and makes for the door.
“Rhinedottir,” Scaramouche says.
Albedo freezes midstep.
“Gold.”
Albedo’s hands ball into fists.
“Khaenri’ah —”
Albedo whirls around, usual composure broken. “Stop.”
Scaramouche’s grin has become downright triumphant — he knows he’s won. “I know what you are, Albedo. Did you think we Fatui don’t have extensive notes on ancient Khaenri’ahn alchemical experimentation? Now, we didn’t know they’d ever succeeded in homunculus creation, but did you think I wouldn’t put the pieces together? Did you take me for a fool —”
“Stop.”
Scaramouche shakes his head, clearly savoring the fear that Albedo can’t quite keep out of his voice. “If you want me to stop, you’ll listen very carefully to what I have to say next.”
“And if I don’t?” Albedo asks, even though he already knows the answer.
“Then I’m afraid I’ll have to tell everyone what Abyss you crawled out of, Kreideprinz.”
Albedo lets out a breath — and then doesn’t take another one in for a moment that’s just a little too long. The one advantage of someone knowing his secret, he supposes, is not having to pretend. Soon enough, though, he pulls in a breath, much calmer than before; he’s got something to say, something that will make Scaramouche shut his damned mouth and leave Albedo alone for good. “And who would believe you, Harbinger?”
But Scaramouche only laughs. “Perhaps no one,” he concedes. “Ah, but the rumor would be planted, and those are ever so difficult to weed out. Someone will ask you to prove yourself one day, and when you can’t, well …” Another sad shake of his head. “Do you really think Mondstadt’s going to keep you around?”
Archons damn it all — as loathe as he is to admit it, Scaramouche is right. Despite their generally high opinion of him, most Mondstadters already think their Chief Alchemist is a little bit odd; all it would take is one unfavorable rumor to bring everything he has here crashing down like a house of cards, leaving Jean and Kaeya and Mona and Amber and Klee and everyone else who ever supported him all trapped in the rubble. Gods, he wishes it were just him who’d face the consequences. That wouldn’t matter. But Klee…
Albedo sighs, defeated. “Fine. What do you want?”
“You,” declares Scaramouche, and Albedo’s confusion reaches its peak — which must show on his face, because the Harbinger continues before he even has a chance to ask. “We’ve been trying to figure out how to create homunculi for years, but the Khaenri’ahn notes we’ve recovered are… patchy at best. With a living specimen at our fingertips, though, it should be a much faster process.”
Albedo’s started edging backwards towards the door, and evidently, Scaramouche hasn’t missed it. “We’re not going to dismantle you for parts, Albedo. I’m not that cruel.” A beat passes. “Well, that’s a lie. I am that cruel. But I’m not lying about keeping you alive. For one, killing you would defeat the point of this whole little endeavor — my keeping your secret or not wouldn’t matter if your other option was death — and for two, we’re genuinely interested in how that mind of yours works. We’ll run a few tests, yes, but no physical harm will come to you.”
Another long, silent moment stretches out between them. “So, what do you say? Once her Majesty the Tsaritsa has me released from this hellhole, would you rather be chased out of Mondstadt by an angry mob, or accompany me back to the Winter Palace as an esteemed guest of the Snezhnayan crown? Personally, I know which option I’d pick.”
He doesn’t want to do this. Truly, really, he doesn’t want to do any of this — he doesn’t want to go anywhere with a Harbinger, and he especially doesn’t want to go around revealing any more of his vulnerabilities to someone who already seems to know far too many of them. But there’s one thing he has to ask; the words are out before he’s even had time to consider stopping them. “Can you promise me one small thing? In exchange for my full cooperation, without complaint.”
“That depends on what it is, of course. You’re not in much of a position to negotiate here.”
Albedo fixes him with a glare, and despite actively blackmailing him, Scaramouche somehow seems taken aback by his anger. “All I want is for you to promise me one person's safety. Klee — the little girl. You've probably seen her pass through here before." (Always getting sent to solitary, that sister of his.)
“Done,” Scaramouche says with a shrug. He’d clearly expected a more difficult request; Albedo almost wishes he’d demanded more, but as it is, he’s just relieved to have gotten a yes.
Here he is, in a dark and dingy room with a dangerous Harbinger who apparently would like something more than to see him dead — something Albedo’s not sure isn’t worse. It’s as dark as midnight in the Mare Jivari and as silent as an ancient tomb, except … except this place was never a tomb. It was a trap.
“It’s settled, then. I’ll go with you to Snezhnaya.”