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The Red Sands beyond the Wall of Samiel are home to harsh conditions. They are not alone in their killer nature: for every mortal who has died of heat stroke, another has perished to the terrifying tsunami that flood Inazuma's inlet villages. For every sandstorm that has decimated a research expedition, entire families have been lost to Natlan's famines. In Fontaine, men are consigned by whim to the guillotine. In Mondstadt, a chain of women might dance themselves to death in a frenzied plague. At the pit of the Chasm lies all the bodies of those who will never be recovered. In Liyue, the thick miasma of vengeful gods tears a person from the inside out.
From the Red Sands comes the lowly scarab. Given a plane of sand, it will ceaselessly roll a ball together, hosting their larvae inside with whatever fecund material it has collected along the way. The scarab's job is never done. Come rain, sandstorm, snow or drought, it will always keep rolling.
The onikabuto of Inazuma dwarfs the scarab in size. Their purple shell might be mistaken for a Lavender Melon, from a distance. Large as they may be, they live in their adult stage for months at best. They spend their days clashing horns with their fellows, impressing the females with displays of aggression. Like the scarab, they mate and they die.
Nahida observes the onikabuto (Crashing Waves) brandish his horn upon the scarab, who ignores him. The scarab patrols the limits of his zen garden, gathering up a ball almost as big as her fist.
With a flick of his finger, Wanderer dashes the ball to nothing.
'Hey!' erupts Itto, climbing to his feet. He puts his hands on his hips and leans down, far down, coming nose-to-nose with Wanderer's disgruntled face. 'What was that for!?'
'This is boring,' answers Wanderer. Itto snorts like a bull; Wanderer's features scrunch up, and then he flicks Itto away, too.
'Agh!' Itto, hands flying over his eyes, stumbles blindly around the room. The tatami floors shift and complain under his heavy feet.
The scarab does not care. Nahida returns her attention to the beetle, and he has simply begun his work all over again.
'Sisyphus,' she murmurs.
'Lord Archon?' Cyno prompts, raising his head. He breaks his silent vigil at the sound of her voice. 'What do you mean?'
'There exists a tale of a man,' Nahida begins, 'Who so angered the gods that he was punished to roll a terrible boulder up an impossible hill. When the boulder reached the tip, it would, inevitably, tumble back down. Sisyphus was consigned to the eternal torment of a task that can never be completed.' When she turns, she sees Wanderer, sitting beside her, wearing a bemused frown. His rage has not dispersed, no; he has only begun to find a direction for it, and he no longer strikes out at her in blind anger. 'Don't you think that would be a good name?'
'For the scarab, Lord Archon?' says Cyno.
She looks at him. Initially, Cyno flees her eyes, watching instead the still body of Crashing Waves as he tries to goad the scarab into battle. Nahida sees him catch Wanderer's gaze by chance, and there is a heavy undercurrent of violence that passes between them. Cyno is a threat, and Wanderer remains unforgiven.
Then, the moment passes. The air clears. Cyno inclines his head. 'If that is what you think appropriate, my Lord.'
'You don't have to keep sucking up to her, do you?' Wanderer mutters, rolling his eyes. 'You're already at the top.'
'I honour the Lord Archon as the General Mahamatra should,' Cyno says.
'Yeah? Well, it makes me sick. Both of you make me sick.'
That's what Wanderer says. Even so, he remains seated, legs folded under him. Cyno assesses him a moment longer. Then, Nahida and Cyno both behold Wanderer reach out a finger to stroke the hull of Crashing Waves' iridescent shell.
'What does it matter?' he continues blithely, a deeper emotion hidden behind his cruel words. 'They're just creatures. Mortals. All mortal things die. If they're not going to worship you, then why pay them any attention?'
'So what would you name the scarab, then?'
Wanderer jolts, his shoulders rising. He turns on Nahida, expression growing sour when she smiles at him. She knows he knows, and he knows she knows exactly what she's doing.
Crashing Waves makes another go at the scarab, thrusting forward his horn. This time, it is he who breaks the growing sand ball apart.
'... I,'
'Scarabmouche!'
All three of them jump when Itto parades back in. He holds his belly, looking awful proud of himself. The red make-up he had smeared during Wanderer's assault has been reapplied and freshened.
'Scarab-mouche. Ya get it? 'cause little guy over here,' Itto begins, indicating Wanderer...
... who growls, 'That is not my name.'
And goes ignored. 'Used to be named Scaramouche, right? And that's a scarab. I think. And look at it this way: they're both stubborn dudes who don't want to play! Scarabmouche! It's perfect.'
Cyno rubs his chin in thought. Wanderer seems as though he might strike Itto with lightning. Itto places his knuckles on his knees, sitting down with a big thunk. His chest meets Wanderer's back.
His muscular arm extends over Wanderer's shoulder and he points at the scarab. 'Look at 'im go! I gotta get one for myself. Make him a member of the Arataki Gang. Shinobu'd love him.'
Nahida beholds the thundercloud of tension that roils through Wanderer. A small smile comes to her lips when she sees him sigh and surrender.
'Scarabmouche... sounds acceptable. Lord Archon?'
To Cyno's question, Nahida shakes her head.
'I'm happy if you're happy.'
'I'm the furthest thing from happy,' hisses Wanderer.
'Hey, come on!' Itto cajoles. 'Sing with me! It'll blow all your worries away!'
Change is hard, but Wanderer is no Sisyphus. He has friends helping him, one last time, roll the boulder up that hill.