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Anything..
Anything but the Gnosis.
It was the puppet’s plea. It was the puppet’s final words, its final wish. Perhaps it was its only wish.
Anything but the Gnosis— anything but its heart.
It.
The puppet of the Raiden Shogun, the Balladeer of the Fatui, the one who traveled the lands of the great Inuzama, the one self-named Kunikuzushi.
It— He’s lived a life so long. A life once filled with the world’s beautiful wonder. A life that had grown into nothing but deep, dark malice.
His eyes widen in all the pain and hurt he’s endured during his long lived life as he watches her, the Dendro Archon, the God of Wisdom, Buer extract the Gnosis from this flawed mechanical body.
He watches as his heart is pulled so effortlessly away from him, from his chest. He watches how easily it slips away from his figure. How easily he’s lost the one object that matters most to him.
And it reminds him, oh it reminds him of all the losses he’s encountered many years before. Of all the bittersweet betrayals committed by those he loved.
(Of the betrayals he knew were not betrayals at all. Of the betrayals he knows are simply his own defect, his own way of coping his losses.)
“I’ll never.. I’ll never go back!” He shouts the phrase like a plea, like he’s begging. Begging for the God of Wisdom before him to simply listen. For anyone to listen.
But fate is cruel to the puppet with no heart yet with one too many feelings. Fate is cruel to he, to Kunikuzushi, to the Balladeer, to Scaramouche. Fate is cruel, much crueler to those who make attempts to defy it.
He falls forward when he reaches for the electro Gnosis. For the piece of himself, of his mother, and of his aunt. The piece he cherishes more than anything in this wretched world.
He falls, falls, falls. He falls until the life fades from his eyes. Until the life fades from his being.
He doesn’t even feel a thing when his body harshly crashes against the hard and cold floor. It’s no matter. It’s not that he wanted to feel, anyway.
Mn.
That is a lie. And perhaps it is the biggest lie he’s ever thought of, ever spoken of. For Scaramouche had, more than anyone else in all of Teyvat, wanted nothing more than to simply feel .
Oh.
Black engulfs his vision. He slips into his own eternal hell of slumbering darkness. Into a nightmare instead of a dream.
…
None could tell how much time has passed. It is just as how none could tell how much time hasn’t passed. To Scaramouche, it feels like a millennia yet it feels like a single second all the same. No matter, he lies in a dark room. A dark space, realm, and dimension.
It’s quite cold. It’s quite lonely. It’s just the same as he remembers.
It’s that deafening sort of dark and empty reality that he would often dream of when he was first built, first created, first born.
Ah.. What a pity it is..
There’s a swirl of memories that go through his head; a pair of inseparable twin sisters, a pair of gentle twin smiles, a pair of pretty twin sakura petals, one bloodied body, and one single teardrop.
The tragedy of the Electro Archon. The fall of Raiden Makoto and the further falling of Raiden Ei.
The first time he had witnessed such a memory, he had wept. He had wept within this dark realm of sickening loneliness. He had wept the tears of himself, yet also the tears of another.
The memories were too much to bear at the time of his first days of breath. The memories were painful. He had hated it, the lost of the one he had never met.
Then he had hated it even more, being abandoned by the one he wished to comfort the most.
“Raiden.. Ei..” It’s a soft whisper. “..Mother.” It's as soft and as gentle as he once had been.
Ah.
No matter what Scaramouche had said, whether it be in the past, the present, or the future.. He never really had it in himself to speak her name in utter malice. He never really had it in himself to truly hate the one who gave him life, who gave him freedom.
Yet still, he was hurt. He was pained. He was disappointed. Disappointed in the things she had and hadn’t done.
Sure, she let him be. She allowed him to make his own choices in his immortal life. Yet he still yearned for her.
He had always yearned for her.
He yearned for her hand— for her hand to hold and to be of his guidance. For her eyes, for her eyes to bear witness to his growth, to his becoming. For her words, for her sincere teachings of rights and wrongs, of morals, of ideals, of one’s way of living.
He yearned.
He yearned for all that is Raiden Ei.
He yearned.
He yearned for a mother.
And despite the freedom she gave him. Despite the life she gave him. Despite everything she’s done for him, Scaramouche could only feel what he had deemed was a young child’s perception of betrayal.
“From you.. I wanted.. Just one thing.”
The flashing of tainted memories unravel before him once more; The tragedy of the Electro Archon (of the entirety of the Archon War)— the fall of Raiden Makoto and the further falling of Raiden Ei. Then, painfully, the falling, the crashing, the ultimate shattering of Raiden Kunikuzushi.
He closes his eyes. It does nothing to cease the twisted memories. It does nothing to save him from this endless loop of a calamitous dream.
So he weeps. He weeps as he had wept long ago; with hot tears filling to the brim of his eyes, spilling over his face in a way that is so devastatingly beautiful.
Time slips freely, passes freely— or maybe time isn’t passing at all. Maybe time simply does not exist in the first place.
After all.. Hadn’t he said it himself? The world and its stars are a lie.
Ah.
There’s an empty sort of pain in his chest. A pitiful loneliness. A pathetic squeezing. It’s odd.. He doesn’t even have a heart. He isn’t even human.
Yet “human” is the only word that could define how he feels. That could define what he is, what he isn’t, and what he doesn’t, yet wants to be.
Human.
…
His dark dreams are plagued by one of light.
Those vivid memories of the Archon War had strangely disintegrated into a night’s landscape of the lively city of Sumeru.
The sounds of blades clashing and soldiers screaming had been replaced with the sound of the soft breeze of the calming wind. The sounds of broken tears and difficult breathing had been replaced by the faint tunes of the unique Sumerian melodies.
(He would hate to admit it, but his body had grown relaxed. The tense state that it had previously been in had become more at ease.)
When Scaramouche opens his eyes, he sees what he expected.
The God of Wisdom stands before him. She has invaded his dreams, replacing the pain with content, offering him a sense of false gentleness that he does not need.
(That is a lie. He needs it more than anything.)
“Buer.” He begins, voice rough. “To what do I owe the pleasure of having this fine talk between us two Gods?”
She, the Dendro Archon, only takes a few steps forward before taking a seat beside him. Once seated, she stares off into the city, into the beauty that is her land.
Scaramouche notices the way her eyes grow tender, grow fond. The way those green eyes of vast knowledge look into the fake landscape with a sense of endearment.
“It’s fake. It’s all fake. This is just a dream and yet you look at it as if it was real.” Scaramouche spits. His brows are scrunched with his eyes creasing slightly.
He’s angry. He’s angry.
But he doesn’t really know why.
The Archon only hums. It just pisses him off even more.
“Buer.” He speaks, raising his voice higher when she doesn’t respond. “Buer!”
“Actually, I prefer Nahida.” The Archon flashes him a quick and tender gaze before returning her vision to the sight before her. “What about you? What should I call you?”
Scaramouche clicks his tongue. “Why are you here?”
The Archon blinks, slowly, allowing for some moments of wonderful silence to pass between them. She’d take the sweet time to admire the dreamscape of Sumeru before parting her lips to speak, “...I simply wished to come check up on you. Nothing more or less.”
“You came to check on my well being? That’s it?” Scaramouche scoffs, an annoyed expression plastering over his face.
Nahida gives him the softest of smiles. “Yes. That is it.”
“How boring.” The boy huffs, clearly annoyed. Clearly irritated.
It just sounds too fake. Why would she come to check up on him? What was the reason? What is the truth behind it all? What are her intentions? His mind becomes plagued with a million and one thoughts.
Despite such thoughts, he answers her wishes nonetheless;
“If you truly want to know, tender is the night for a broken heart.” He glares at her. “Tender is the night for a wretched puppet . For a mistake to be put to death.”
He puts an emphasis into his words, hammering it into the Archon's mind and into his own shattering chest. It hurt. It did. He sort of hopes his words would hurt her too. He sort of hopes that he could share this wretched pain with another soul.
Nahida takes a deep breath, still staring off into the vast city of this dream of Sumeru. She watches as the winds blow many green leaves down past the crowds of people, whispering its wishes of goodnights and farewells. She watches as the dream reveals to her one of the many truths of the boy who sits beside her.
“Calling yourself a mistake is a sin akin to telling the world and the lives within it that they were not supposed to be made.” Nahida begins. “You are no mistake and you never have been.”
Ah.
Scaramouche bites his tongue but not in malice. Not in malice and not in hatred. No. He bites his tongue in exposure. In vulnerability. Oh how her words.. Make him feel.. A bit of relief.
“It’s been hard, hasn’t it?” Nahida finally shifts her gaze from the city to instead look up at the hypnotic, dreamy illusion that is the night’s sky.
Scaramouche follows her gaze. He looks up at the dreamscape she’s created. At the beautiful set of stars that twinkle before him. Though fake- as fake as the ones in reality, they're quite mesmerizing. They’re quite mesmerizing, indeed.
Nahida continues on talking with her eyes never leaving such enchanting arrays of stars, “It’s been hard for you. Waking up in a world all alone with no guidance. Searching for one being to rely on, but slowly finding that there is no one you could truly have to stay beside you.”
She pauses for just a moment. For just a moment too long.
Too long a moment that Scaramouche had taken in the fact that Nahida had suffered too. That she, the God of Wisdom, had been pained by the tragedy of having been born into his world, being a small part of a greater being. Being, in her own personal way, discarded, abandoned, and unwanted.
Oh.
(Above them, there are two stars that glow the faintest, in the lowest shade of light. It almost looked as if they were not glowing at all.)
“I understand. I understand your feelings, my dearest misconceived God.”
Scaramouche’s eyes waver from the stars above. His head tilts back down to the Archon beside him. His eyes are widened, just slightly, while his lips part in a gasp of both disbelief and surprise.
“You.. You acknowledge me.. As a God?”
Nahida too, shifts her head to face him. Her green eyes of wisdom meet his purple eyes of pure wonder. With that, she offers him a kind smile. “You said it yourself. This is a fine talk between two Gods, no?”
“I.. I..” He finds himself at a loss for words, “…Yes.” A soft, faintly visible smile makes its way to Scaramouche’s lips. He cannot help the swirl of content he feels running along the inside of his chest. “This is a talk between us. Between us Gods.”
(Above them, there’s a quick twinkle in those same two stars. A quick twinkle, a sudden spark.)
“Between us Gods.” Nahida nods. “Then as equals, allow me to share some insight— some of my knowledge with you.”
Equals. The word makes Scaramouche feel.. Overjoyed.
“It has been said once.. How one may stray from the path of righteousness, but it does not mean that one is simply ‘bad.’ No matter how far a being strays from such paths of rectitude, guidance is the only means needed to direct them back again.”
Scaramouche watches as her eyes and hair glow as she talks. It takes his breath away, watching such a scene unfold.
Her eyes and tips of her hair glow a radiant dendro green, a green of virtue, a green of purity, a green of life. How very Archon-like, how very Godlike. How very.. Comforting.
“Oh strayed one,” Nahida reaches forward to place her hands atop his own.
Scaramouche feels warmth where her small palms touch. A type of warmth that he, oh so longingly, yearned for in another. A type of warmth that made him feel.. safe.
“Will you accept my guidance?” Her voice is soft, as soft as sand slipping through the small cracks of an hourglass. Yet her voice is promising, promising like the deep roots of a blessed tree.
Scaramouche looks at her then glances down to her hands on his own. In his eyes, his purple eyes of wavering conflict, of a deeply engraved pain— in his eyes lie the tears of the night and of all its stars.
Nahida takes his hand in hers, flipping it over to expose his palms to her. And he watches. Scaramouche simply watches as the skin on her hands begins to glow, glow, glow.
They glow a beautiful green and gold, emitting a tender feeling onto his own palms. It’s a lovely sensation, a lovely sight.
When she removes her hands from his own, Scaramouche finds a Sumerian anemo vision within his hold.
A breath catches itself in his throat, his eyes begin to widen, and the tears he so desperately held back began to stream down the softness of his flushed cheeks.
“You deserve to be at peace with yourself.” Nahida muses. “You deserve peace, Scaramouche.”
Scaramouche blinks. Once. Twice. A third time. He blinks until his vision clears. Until he could see the beautiful new heart in his hand. Until he could see the figure, the kindest of all Gods before him.
“..Scaramouche..” His voice cracks when he looks at his palm once more. The vision glows, it’s glowing so enchantingly. “That name..”
Nahida tilts her head. “What’s the matter?”
“I..” He begins, voice wavering. “I suppose I do not truly have a name.” He takes a deep breath, running a soft finger against his vision, his newly found heart.
“The Balladeer is simply a title.. And Scaramouche happens to be one as well. Both are things I wish to leave behind.” His eyes avert from his hand, looking over to gaze into the wise and endless greens of the Dendro Archon’s.
“As for Kunikuzushi… it is nothing more than a self given name.” He takes a moment to swallow down an aching breath. “I was given a life, but never a name.”
Ah.
Something within him cracks, then. His voice, his mind, his body, his soul. It cracks. And it hurts.
He begins to cry once more; body shaking, chest squeezing, lungs aching. He cries out all the pain, all the sadness, all the anger, and all the hurt. He cries in a way that reveals just how sensitive, just how emotional he truly is inside. In a way that reveals just how beneath his cold demeanor of mass destruction and utter chaos, he was simply just a boy. And the Dendro Archon, the God of Wisdom, the Lesser Lord Kusanali, Nahida inches forward, placing her hand atop Scara— no, no. Atop the fragile boy’s trembling hand.
“Wanderer.”
She says it in a mere breath. In a heartfelt whisper. And even through the his mist of sobbing and mourning, he hears it. He hears her.
“Wanderer?” He says between soft gasps for air.
Nahida nods. “Wanderer.”
He doesn’t say a word. He only wipes the heartbroken tears that fall from his eyes, rubbing away the sadness, the pain, and everything in between.
“Will you.. Will you accept this name I’ve bestowed upon you?” She speaks slowly, carefully. It was almost as if she was afraid of having crossed such immense boundaries.
But the boy feels nothing but a swirl of emotions that well up in his eyes and chest. It’s an emotion far from gloom, far from despair, far from ache.
It’s an emotion so content. So life-changing.
"Wanderer. Wanderer.” He repeats the name over and over and over again. He says it, he chants it, he cherishes it.
“I will gladly accept this name.”