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Snow crunched under his boots, though his steps were light as dust, traversing across unending snowy plains of trodden sorrow. Frost touched his cheeks, causing the thinnest layer of ice to form over his skin.
With a sigh, Scaramouche brushed it off, tucking his hands deeper into his coat to avoid getting them frozen by the cold. He couldn’t feel the cold, per se; he only knew it was cold, could feel it against his skin, in the breaths he puffed just to watch them form little clouds, just as he had done many times, long before he had donned the name “Scaramouche”.
His eyes scanned the horizon, tipping his head up a little to peer from beneath his hat. He was nearing his destination: a little village in the corner of Snezhnaya.
The villages here had been evacuated by the Fatui, days before Scaramouche set foot upon the land himself to ensure all had truly left. The houses were empty, as far as he could tell — there was no sign of life, not even the hum of wind to accompany his silent trudge.
Briefly, he stopped at every window to peer in, coming to the same conclusion with each passing house.
The village was empty.
He sighed. Being here was pointless. He should have sent one of the lower ranks to check the place out, but he didn’t trust their stupid heads to not mess up an order as simple as this. Besides, he had time on his hands. He’d just returned from the previous mission, and had been waiting—
There was a cry.
He froze, bells tinkling as his head turned a little to peer over his shoulder. That couldn’t have been a mistake on his part, that was undeniably the cry of a human child.
Another cry, this time quieter and cutting off halfway, not unlike that of someone who may have been suffocated.
His feet brought him in the direction of the sound, the blank within his chest aching at the thought of a youngling left behind by parents. Brows furrowed, he stopped before the door the cry seemed to have originated from, turning the door knob, but it stuck and wouldn’t move.
No, it was more as if someone had locked it from within.
But a baby could not have done that on its own.
Pulling his foot back, he gave the door a swift kick, using much more strength than necessary to break the door down.
There was a frightened scream from within, the door splintering into pieces and falling onto the ground, scattering dust and dirt alike, and Scaramouche lifted his eyes to meet those of a shivering woman’s.
Her eyes were lit in panic, her arms tightening around a bundle within her arms, and oh… that was a baby. A crying baby, whose mouth the woman had her hand clasped over, and Scaramouche watched as tears filled her eyes.
“Please,” she said, “Please don’t hurt us,” before the tears fell, turning to ice on her cheeks. It must hurt, Scaramouche thought, for humanity is so fragile, like the skin that tears so easily and the wounds that rip apart.
And her baby cried, his mournful wail ringing in his ears, just as the woman sobbed pitifully, clasping her child tighter to her chest, hands cradling his head and kissing at his cheeks, forehead, eyes.
Scaramouche did not say a word, watching the performance in unnerving silence.
Scaramouche may have forgotten, but Kunikuzushi remembers.
A lightness to his being, the gift of a mother’s love, of longing, hope, family. That perhaps, he, too, had once deserved all of this love and more.
Never before had he felt the warmth of Her embrace.
“You can stay,” he heard himself saying, like from a faraway land, mouth speaking of its own volition. There were brief moments like this, where Scaramouche was no longer in sight, where the ghost of his past stepped forth and acted on his behalf.
Kunikuzushi took his woolen coat off, stepping forward and draping it onto the clutter of boxes next to the pair. It was not the signature Harbinger uniform, nor was it the Fatui’s, but it seemed the lady recognised him all the same.
Her fear stricken eyes trailed his every move, though she seemed to relax the slightest bit upon seeing that he had no ill intention.
“Thank you,” she babbled, crying as though she hadn’t thought to stop, “T-Thank you, thank you, my liege, for sparing my son. Her Majesty smiles down upon you for your kindness.”
The Tsaritsa is the one who sent me here, he thought, but didn’t speak aloud. He turned away.
The smile of the Cryo Archon was not the one he sought.
He stepped back out through the hole where the door had once been, though he turned one last time to gaze upon the kneeling figure with a babe cradled to her bosom. She had wrapped her child in the woolen coat, not unlike back when he had first received the veil from his mother, who had placed it upon his head with such a look in Her eyes.
He tucked his hat back on, sparing her one last glance, violet eyes hard. “Don’t let me catch you here again,” he warned, before he left the son and his mother free.
He trekked back the way he came, frost biting into the shell of his being, now lacking the protection his coat had given him. But in spite of the harsh weather… he does not feel cold. He does not feel warmth.
Scaramouche does not cry.