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It’s 7 AM, and only one person has checked in on Scaramouche so far. When the Dendro Archon had just detained him, there were guards constantly rotating their spots in his home–The Sanctuary of Surasthana, her old home. The worst thing was, they would treat him like he was a human. They gave him food, proper clothing that he’d reluctantly (read: been forced to) pick himself, defended him from accusing or curious citizens, and the benefit of the largest doubt known to humankind or divinity.
“Hello.” The Traveller begins, a halo glinting behind him from the rising sun. “How are you doing?”
“Fuck off.” He doesn't even have enough energy to give them the finger, but Scaramouche tries his best to sound as menacing as possible. Instead, his raspy voice just comes off as annoying to his own ears. He hisses as compensation.
The Traveller raises both hands in a placating manner. “I will, I will. Someone else is here to visit you.”
Scaramouche expects a runty little Archon to walk through with her company of small Aranara that run up to him and clamber all over him, nuzzling his cheek, as she usually does on her visits. She claims it’s for his own good; that they will cheer him up and at least make him less tense in his own home. Or maybe it’s that stupidly stubborn Faruzan girl—the only one he’s managed to even slightly make good conversation with. And if it’s anyone else, he will actually muster up all the energy he can, and flip them a proper finger.
What he does not expect, however, is to see his very own mother walk in.
Electro blossoms in the air between them. His feather sparks brightly, as if attuned to her presence. Scaramouche does not have a heart or even a shell of one, but if he did, it would be beating out of his chest right now.
“I’m not ready for this.” He says as calmly as he can, trying to hold the Traveller's gaze. Why the fuck?
“Yes, I think you are.” They quip back, just as calmly. “You two need to have a talk.”
“She would never agree to come,” Scaramouche huffs. “This must be her puppet. Raiden Shogun, was it?”
Even as he says it, he knows it’s not true. The true Archon—Beelzebul— if he remembered correctly, has bright eyes the color of a million thunder sakura. The puppet—Raiden Shogun—has dull, listless eyes just like him, because they are simply the same product of a different time. One was born in a war, the other was born with none of its predecessor's flaws.
“Dismiss the guards, if you will.” The woman says to the Traveller, her voice still the same as all those years ago, but infused with kindness, with friendliness. He hates her. He hates her with a burning passion, so much that he would slit his own throat to avoid looking at her if only the Dendro Archon hadn’t removed all possible weapons besides his catalyst book on his body and in this Sanctuary.
“Sit, Wanderer.” She waves to the ground below his feet, pulsing with the calming Anemo meditation mist Faruzan had concocted just for him.
He sits.
The door behind her clicks shut with a soft whoomph .
“I hate you.” He starts off, nice and simple.
“I am aware.” She smiles. “The hard part today will not be telling you the truth, but getting you to believe it.”
“The truth is, you dropped me down three thousand stories from Tenshukaku to Tatarasuna. I broke my artificial back on a domain roof and all you did was give me a feather .”
Ei stares at him.
“A feather that cursed everyone around me and gave me hell.”
“You look wonderfully vibrant.” She’s eyeing his clothes with raptured interest. “Did Buer give these garments to you?”
“Shut up!” He screams, grabbing his catalyst book as if to throw it at her. Horrified at the thought that she could revoke the feather, he then sits down once more.
She waits until he’s calmed down. “Did you know, Kunikuzushi, you woke up from your sleep in my realm crying?”
He’s really tempted to slap her. “That was old history, Beelzebul. I don’t know how to cry anymore.”
“You cried when Kaedehara Kazuha came to visit you.”
“You were spying on me?”
“No.” She declines. “Nothing of the sort. I could smell your teardrops on his clothing when I ordered him to my throne for an audience.”
Scaramouche tries the breathing method Faruzan has prescribed him. In, two three. Out, four, five, six. It doesn’t work. Each tick of his inner clock makes him more irritated than the last one.
The Inazuman ruler shakes her head—in exasperation or disappointment, he can’t tell. “The Traveller suggested I tell you the truth. I did not abandon you, Kunikuzushi.”
“And the Fatui still likes me.” He laughs, short and sharp. “You’ve always been an excellent liar, Beelzebul. To Lady Makoto and to yourself.”
She recoils. Recoils . A twisted sense of elation rushes through him, morphing momentarily into something else he doesn’t have the heart to address. Perhaps Scaramouche is not so different from his Creator.
“I did not abandon you,” She insists after that moment of shock. “Because you shed tears as you slept, I did not want to tamper with your emotions by shutting them off completely. I could not. Do you blame me?”
“No.” He sneers. “It’s all my fault. I wasn’t good enough for the job. You saw fit to throw me down to the filth of this mortal world.”
“And what of your godhood?” She retorts. “Has it done any wonders for you or your soul, Kunikuzushi?”
He goes still. Absolutely, utterly still.
“It has not, has it?” She crosses her arms, sakura eyes flickering, on the verge of exploding. “I did not want you to tamper with divinity. I set you free with my protection and allowed you to roam with your emotions as you see fit. Now do you see the errors of wanting something not meant for you, my foolish little son?”
Goosebumps prick his arm. Foolish. Little. Son. How dare. How dare she.
“I hate you.” He spits at her. He is all three of those things but none in his mind.
“Do not hate. You must live. Wander. Cry. Laugh. Be angry. Feel pain. Us gods cannot do so of our own free will.”
Silence.
“Take it from me.” She says. “You do not want to be a god, little one. I do not want to see you in ruins because of a false purpose.”
He considers it. Her eyes are alight with a type of regret that even he can’t deny. In them, he sees years of pain, of emotional turmoil, and the suppression of emotion that had caused her to shut off her entire nation.
“No.” He turns around quietly. “You have a point.”
“Tell me, have you made any new companions?”
“Are you purposely trying to embarrass me?”
The corners of her lips curve upward. “I don’t suppose the wandering ronin is your only friend.”
“He isn’t,” Scaramouche contends. “There’s this girl. She goes by at night sometimes, when everyone’s asleep, and tells me stories.”
“Stories?” Ei’s eyebrows raise–and if not for the agonizingly tragic history between them—he would’ve classified that eyebrow raise as motherly. Who would’ve thought she’d be capable of such a human expression?
And yet, here he is, with a working body and a working mind. He is still alive, despite being broken. Some things change over time, and he is no exception.
The doors to the Sanctuary slam open with a strong gust of Anemo.
“Not funny, Scaramouche!” Faruzan’s thick Sumerian accent echoes throughout the silent chamber. For a moment, panic shoots through him. Did she hear what he had said?
“If visitors come, you need to alert me with that talisman Lesser Lord Kusanali gave you!” She marches right up to the corner of his little blue-green meditation globe, poking it with her long fingers. “What if they’re dangerous? Or here to kill you?”
“Faruzan.” He says. “She is the Raiden Shogun.”
All the color instantly bleaches out of the girl’s face. She turns, comically slow, to look at the woman standing at the side.
Ei waves.
Faruzan falls.
“Oh,” Ei holds out a hand, as if to help the girl up, but that only makes Faruzan scramble further away from her. “Are you alright, young one?”
“Um-ah-uh,” Faruzan stutters, an appropriately typical response for someone in her situation.
“Beelzebul.” Scaramouche turns to his Creator after a moment. “I think it’s time you leave.”
Ei’s eyes glow once more. She inclines her head in silent acknowledgement. “I would like to have a word with Faruzan, please, if you will.”
Embarrassment tickles his cheeks. Scaramouche bluffs it off, praying his Creator won't say something stupid. “Who you talk to is not my problem. Ask her yourself.”
Three minutes later, Faruzan returns without Ei, face still pale as a sheet of paper as the door closes behind her.
“She didn’t threaten you, did she?” Scaramouche says dryly.
“No.” Her voice is tinged with awe. “But she did tell me that your favorite food was Onikabuto. Isn’t that the bug? Like, those things with…oh, I don’t even want to ask.”
Not this again. Oh, Archons.
“Sit down.” Scaramouche waves her over, promising to himself that he’d destroy Raiden if he saw her again. “I think it’s high time I debunk a false myth.”