Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They wait at the docks of Port Ormos. 

The overhead clouds block the sun’s warm glow, casting shadows over the hustle and bustle of moving ships and cargo. For all the noise, their place on the dock is very quiet. 

He stands with Nahida, surrounded by members of the Matra and the Forest Rangers, who had insisted they accompany their Archon in releasing him to the custody of the Raiden Shogun. 

He can feel the glares of the crimson-eyed General Mahamatra and the fennec-eared Forest Ranger standing next to him boring into the back of his head. He thinks that might be the one he struck with lightning at the Palace of Alcazarzaray, defending Haypasia in exchange for her loyalty. He can’t find it in himself to regret his actions. 

They’ve watched him the entire journey here, always tensing if he did anything other than walk in a straight line. 

He wants to laugh. They’re worried about Nahida, he knows, and he can appreciate the sentiment. But he will not hurt her. He would kill anyone who tries. 

Nahida had asked them for peace, informing them the Balladeer was not dangerous. They had bowed their heads in acquiesce, but had not relaxed in the slightest. 

Ha. He wouldn’t believe her either.

The General Mahamatra’s white-knuckled grip on his polearm never once loosened. 

He doesn’t care what they think of him, but he bristles at the tension coiling their forms. He knows it’s hypocritical, because the only reason they think he’s a threat at all is because he actually did try to kill their Archon. 

It doesn’t change his irritation at being perceived as a threat to Nahida now. They have no idea who he is, how he’s changed. 

Despite her placating words, he knows they will not hesitate to use force on him. 

Nahida had stumbled over a loose root on the journey here, and he had instinctively reached forwards to steady her before she could fall. Before he could even make contact, he had been violently hit in the chest with the butt of the General’s weapon, sending him to the ground with the breath knocked from his lungs. He had glared up at the man through reflexive tears as he choked, sharp curls of elemental energy beginning to spin in the air, Vision glowing aqua-bright where it hung on his chest. 

The General had braced himself for a fight, lighting sparking up his arms, and the sight only served to anger him more—it reminded him of where they were escorting him in the first place. 

Nahida had pushed from behind the Forest Ranger to stand between them, ordering them both to calm down. The General had argued for a moment, telling her he was not going to let her be harmed by the ‘deplorable offender,’ that he was a threat to her safety. 

He himself had lost his will to fight at this, staring out into the trees as Nahida gently but firmly calmed the Matra and told them they were to walk ten feet back if they couldn’t control themselves. Despite the initial protests, they did as she asked, and it had been relatively peaceful, if not tense, the rest of the journey. 

He can see his mother’s fleet in the distance approaching the port. The royal purple sails and dark oak wood fashioned with her golden sigil do nothing for the dread rolling in his stomach. 

“Are you alright?” 

Nahida peers up at him through the gentle rain, Dendro energy keeping the droplets from soaking into her clothes. He gazes down at her, large-brimmed hat chiming from the movement where the fabric and metal tap together. 

Nahida had seen his reluctance in Sumeru City to don the purple clothing representing his birth-nation, and so had taken the Inazuman-styled clothing and left, returning moments later with a bundle of white, blue, and black cloth. 

She had made them for him as a gift, she said, after seeing the style of clothing he preferred to wear. She had intended to give them to him as a parting gift on the dock. 

The colors contrast nicely with his hair, which had paled a bit after he received his Vision. He hadn’t noticed, hadn’t really paid much attention to his appearance, but when she pointed it out he saw she was correct. 

His hair was now a different hue of purple, verging on dark blue and replacing the stunning violet it had been before. It was no longer a perfect copy of the Raiden Shogun’s, and this had initially pleased him immensely. The pleasure had warmed his stomach for the entire day and most of the night, before abruptly morphing into disappointment and unease. It was just one less tie he now had to her. He knows that's what he's been wanting, but seeing it happen in real time had been disorienting.

Despite his tumulus feelings, however, he actually isn't very eager to try and change it back to it's original color. He takes some comfort in his acceptance of his new appearance, grips it as tight as he can as to not let the feeling fade away. 

That had not been the only change to his body gaining the Vision instigated. During his healing process, they had discovered he now bore faint markings on his neck, chest, and arms.  

The academics and healers had been intrigued when Nahida mentioned the markings hadn't been there before, and even more interested when they discovered the marks glowed teal during use of his elemental energy. 

The brand on his nape glowed blue as well, rather than the neon violet of its usual color. The consensus had been that his vessel—created to house the power of Electro—was unused to other elemental energy and thus allowed it to bleed through his skin. 

They believed the markings to be a physical replication of the channels in his body created to hold Electro energy running through his system during occupation by the Archon or the Gnosis. Everyone had seemed absolutely fascinated with this aspect of his vessel, at the innovative craftsmanship of the Raiden Shogun. It was like being with Dottore all over again—sans the debilitating pain—and he had roughly pulled his tunic back over his head in the middle of this examination and refused to let them observe any more. 

He wonders what his mother will think of the changes to his vessel, or if she will even notice at all. Probably not, if he were to guess. 

He gives a slight nod in response to Nahida’s question, unwilling to show weakness in the face of both his mother’s presence and Nahida’s ‘protectors’ situated around them. 

As the fleet grows nearer, he can make out his mother's figure, as familiar to him as his own, standing at the forefront of the ship. 

His lips curl in a snarl as he spots Yae Miko standing beside her. Of course they would both be coming; Yae no doubt wants to observe how he has weakened due to the failed experiment and loss of the Gnosis. And probably to gloat a little—she had always wanted him gone. 

Oh, and he’s not looking forward to witnessing that thing she has going on with his mother once again. 

Their relationship better not be any fucking weirder than it was when he left—he swears to the Seven he will jump off the boat and turn himself over to the Tsaritsa himself. Whatever she does to him would be preferable to witnessing Yae hang all over his mother. Talk about punishment. 

Thinking about the Gnosis once again, he startles when he realizes his mother may be angry at Nahida, for she is the one who allowed both the Dendro and Electro Gnosis’ to fall into the Fatui’s hands. Alarm shoots through his body, making his hands shake, and he abruptly turns to her. 

He faintly registers the shift of the Mahamatra and Forest Watcher as his sudden movement startles them into defense. 

“Her Gnosis. It–” His voice is tight, betraying his conflict. He’s not even sure what he’s trying to say. 

“You–” He cuts off again. 

Nahida must sense his unasked question, or maybe his sudden worry, because she reaches out and takes his hand. 

“The Raiden Shogun and I have already spoken about the Gnosis and my part in its loss. We have agreed the loss of them both is not worth any further conflict between our nations.” 

The words calm him, somewhat. He doesn’t know what he’d do if his mother held resentment for Nahida over the lost Gnosis. Technically, he is the responsible party. He nods once at her, and can’t help the squeeze of his hand. 

The General Mahamatra immediately steps forward and commands, "Release her." His voice is very cold. 

"Cyno," Nahida warns, "It's alright." 

He glares vitriol at ‘Cyno' when he takes another threatening step forward, shaking off the Forest Ranger's appeasing hand on his bicep. The General looks pissed.

He's not trying to be an instigator, but he physically cannot stop the small smirk forming on his face. This expression is bound to make the silver-haired man even angrier, but it has been so long since he has had the chance to blow off any steam and the General is honestly just asking for it at this point—

Any conflict about to take place is interrupted by the low, ringing bell of his mother’s ship announcing her arrival to port. It's almost comical, really, how quickly his anger is doused and replaced with trepidation. Bile rises in his throat despite his empty stomach. 

“Balladeer.” 

Nahida captures his attention once again, lightly tugging on his hand. She presses a shape to his palm. 

“If you need to contact me, about anything, this will allow you to do so.” 

It’s an Akasha terminal, and he’s momentarily confused, because the Doctor had mentioned they were both inoperable outside Sumeru City and charged with the power of the Dendro Gnosis—neither of which would allow it to work presently, much less in Inazuma.  

Besides, didn’t she destroy them?

Nahida’s eyes sparkle with peculiar light that appears when she has solved a particularly complex problem. He recognizes this look from Dottore, but on her face it is much less unsettling. He tamps down the reflexive annoyance thinking of his ex-colleague incites. 

“Perhaps the Gnosis was needed to power the Akasha, but the Gnosis is not the only source of Dendro energy this nation has,” She taps her ear, and an Akasha glows to life, vines curling around her head. It looks different than the ones he had seen before. 

“I have fashioned these terminals by channeling my own elemental power through the dead system, disabling the information function and creating a separate channel for two way communication. Since you yourself hold elemental energy and remnants of my own elemental power, these two terminals will be able to connect over long distances. Even all the way in Inazuma.” 

He’s momentarily blinded by the implication. 

He knew that his body, the vessel for an Archon, is extremely proficient in holding and storing the potent elemental energy archons produce. The theory that his body would be unable to hold another archon’s energy had not been tested by Dottore or himself, as he had personally never even considered the possibility or cared enough to investigate. 

However, as Nahida assisted in healing him over these last weeks, they had collectively discovered his body had been absorbing bits of her power. It was not enough to do anything with, and he was unable to utilize the power of Dendro, but in this case…

“We can speak together through these terminals. It may not be completely stable, because this is a relatively new concept, but I have been working with the Sages after I realized I could make a way to speak with you, and we have concluded that the old terminals’ system can be reconfigured—” 

He tunes out the rest of her words, used to random tangents of information Nahida is prone to getting distracted by, always forgetting what she had originally been talking about. He doesn’t particularly care about (or understand) half of what she says but he realizes she did this for him and his chest tightens. 

He curls his fingers around the metal, before slipping it into the fold of an inner pocket just inside his clothing. Right over his heart, where his Vision rests. 

Where the carefully folded image of a boy drawn by his new family is kept safe. 

“Thank you.” 

Nahida pauses at his words, before a brilliant grin blooms on her face. 

“You’re welcome, Balladeer.” 

He hesitates for only a brief second, deciding to voice something he hadn’t wanted to address the entire time he’s been here. 

His name. 

"Scaramouche." 

Confessing this is embarrassing for some inexplicable reason. She deserves—no. He wants her to address him by his chosen name, the name he has decided he will take and reclaim from any stigma attached to it. It's the name he finds the least offensive of his many titles. 

He wants her to know before he leaves, because he doesn't know how else he can thank her for everything she's done for him. 

Nahida squeezes his hand once more, and he braves a glance at her expression. 

It's the most beautiful smile he's ever seen. 

"You're welcome, Scaramouche." 

—

Rather than just their little area, the entire port seems to quiet as the Raiden Shogun steps off of her ship. 

The hushed atmosphere intensifies the low hum of electricity faintly buzzing in the air. He thinks it must be an unsettling sensation for anyone who has never been to Inazuma. 

While the Electro Archon had opened up Inazuma’s borders and apologized to her people for her past actions and the Vision Hunt Decree, the memories and rumors of her absolute, authoritarian control over the nation still reside very clearly in everyone’s minds. 

His mother's calm expression and relaxed body language do nothing to dampen her frightening image and intimidating aura. She may not be a very old archon compared to some of the others, but her presence demands respect and she practically drips with power. 

This contrasts sharply with Nahida, who is no less powerful, but radiates a rather inviting aura that attracts her people and encourages them to approach her. He wonders how Nahida feels with this Archon in her lands. 

“My goodness, what do we have here?” 

Guuji Yae, because of course she addresses him first, passes her Archon and comes to a graceful stop in front of him. He levels her with his best scathing glare—he has a specific one he uses just for her that he's been practicing in preparation for their reunion.

She slips into the Inazuman tongue, saving her words for him and his mother’s ears only; although he has no doubt there are many people in the land of knowledge and wisdom who can understand the language of their nation. 

“Now now, such animosity,” She chuckles, bringing her hand to her lips, “I would have expected a warm regard, or perhaps even some gratitude for coming all this way to retrieve you.”  

As he’s trying to decide what the best response would be to piss her off the most, Nahida steps forwards to greet the Shogun in the common tongue. 

“Welcome to Sumeru. I hope you have found your travels to be safe and pleasant.” She bows her head slightly in welcoming, but not enough to show deference to the other Archon. This is her domain, after all. 

The height difference between the two does nothing to reduce Nahida's effortless control of the situation. She looks every bit the Archon that saved her country not even two months ago.  

The Shogun gives her own polite bow, lower than Nahida’s, in respect for her peaceful allowance on Sumeran grounds. 

“Thank you for receiving us.” 

To his own annoyance, relief blooms in his chest as he hears her speak. Her tone is melodious and calm. He hates that he has missed her voice, that something within him settles at hearing it after all these years. Like a child who missed his mother, he can’t help but viciously compare. He doesn't consider for even a moment that might be what he is. 

“We honor your invitation, and your understanding of Kunikuzushi’s situation.” 

Gritting his teeth at the use of his chosen name, he ignores the various looks drifting his way. Nahida doesn’t react at all to the title. She probably already knew it.  

His mother continues, “Please accept these gifts as a token of our gratitude.” 

People begin debarking the ship, all carrying carefully wrapped boxes and ceramic items. 

If he didn't know any better, he would claim that actual excitement colors her next words, “These are traditional gifts and delicacies from our country. I have also included a product of my own personal enjoyment: I call it ‘Dango Milk’.” 

There’s a beat as they all stare at the gray, clumpy liquid swirling in the glass bottle she’s holding. 

…What the fuck is that? 

He side-eyes the bottle with thinly veiled disgust as his mother offers it to Nahida. 

A brief look at Yae’s expression reveals her politely suppressed grimace as well. Perhaps it’s good he left Inazuma when he did. His mother never had a talent for cooking, and he briefly feels pity for the people of his home country if she’s been endorsing ‘delicacies’ for them. 

He makes a mental note not to accept any drinks from her. 

“Of course. I humbly thank you for your gifts and kind words.” Nahida smiles at his mother, “I am glad he was able to endure a safe recovery. I hope he is able to further heal in Inazuma and feel more at ease in his home-nation.” 

Nahida says this with a perfectly cordial tone, but he swears he hears a threat in her words. He wonders if he’s the only one who caught it—the faint shifting behind him would suggest not. 

If his mother notices, she does not react. 

Instead, she turns and looks straight at Scaramouche. 

He locks eyes with the Raiden Shogun for the first time in almost five centuries. Perhaps nothing to a god, but many lifetimes for a human. They both apply to him. 

It is as electrifyingly intense as he remembers, as if she can see down to his very core, every atom of his being laid bare for her judgment.

It is silent for one long moment.

And then Scaramouche sees red. 

The pure fury that clouds his mind in that instant is so sudden and overwhelming he can do nothing but stare at her. He feels frozen to the spot, a tremble of rage traveling up his spine and down his arms. There are so many things he wants to yell, to scream at her—attack her and rip her chest apart with his bare hands and laugh in her face as he does so, so she might feel even a fraction of the pain and suffering she has caused him. Scaramouche had envisioned this moment many times in the dark of the night, considered what he should say, what he could do to hurt her the most—he has been thinking about this for centuries of how he can hurt her but now—

But now she's standing front of him, and everything seems to disappear. 

It's just Scaramouche and his mother, and he doesn't even know what he wants anymore because the emotions inside him will not calm down and he cannot calm down and it hurts so badly how could she have ever done this to him does she even care how he is dead inside and it's her fault—

He will not cry right now. He cannot cry right now. 

His nails dig bloody crescents into his palms, dripping ruby down his fingers and onto the wooden dock. It's washed away by the rain. 

Their eyes are identical; one pair shining with wet anger, the other with an emotion Scaramouche doesn't know how to name. What does she see in him? In her own eyes staring back at her? The eyes that she gave him? 

Violet electricity arcs in the sky and sparks across his Vision. In response to his own intense emotion, her presence, or maybe something else, he doesn’t know. He feels a sliver of vicious victory that his vessel still carries remnants of the Gnosis' power inside him. 

He was made in her image. Scaramouche may no longer wield the power of Electro, but he is still the Electro Archon’s son. 

He is invulnerable to the pain of her element. 

His mother switches languages, speaking in their shared tongue, looking solely at Scaramouche but no doubt addressing him and Nahida both. She notices how he seethes, how could she not, but what happens next flips his world upside down and shocks him cold. 

The look on her face—it’s barely there. Invisible, to anyone else. Anyone who isn’t him. So faint he could have imagined it altogether. 

A smile. And it is kind.

Oh, how the gods are playing with him now.

“I am pleased we are finally able to bring him home.” 

Scaramouche exhales. It feels like anger. It feels like relief. Perhaps it's both. 

Something tight begins to uncoil in his chest, and he cannot tell if it is good.

Lightning strikes somewhere in the distance. 

Inazuma awaits. 

Chapter Text

As Scaramouche turns his back on Nahida and storms towards the ship, it takes every fiber of his being not to simply turn around, go back to Sumeru City, and lock himself away in the Sanctuary of Surasthana until his mother and Yae Miko are on the other side of Teyvat. 

He knows he’s not painting the best image of the ‘rehabilitated war criminal who-is-actually-a-victim-of-abuse,’ (not his words), that people are saying he is, but he can’t find it in himself to care at the moment. 

Or care ever, actually. He hasn’t changed that much. 

Unfortunately, Scaramouche has not had much practice using his vision. He basically got his ass handed to him by Nahida and the Traveler, woke up in said Sanctuary with said vision, was moved to the Akademiya for rehabilitation and observation, and is now currently getting shipped off to Inazuma. 

It shouldn’t be the worst experience he’s been through in his long life, all things considered. Scaramouche was a Fatui Harbinger—and one in the higher ranks at that. 

He has done terrible things and has had terrible things done to him in return. He is not a stranger to battle, abuse, or dealing with people, as much as he is loath to do. His body has been experimented on and observed and broken to pieces only to be rebuilt again.

So all that’s happened in the last few hours—it should be considered nothing in the grand scheme of his bloodstained life. 

But apparently, Scaramouche has been severely overestimating himself, because interacting with his creator in any capacity is proving impossible due to the overwhelming force of his own temper. It’s barely been ten minutes and he is practically thirsting for blood—her blood, specifically. 

What a shame he no longer has incompetent subordinates; they were always a good outlet for his rage. 

So, Scaramouche cannot be blamed when the fury he’s feeling inadvertently activates his vision and sends a blade of air across the water, cutting cleanly through the sail and into the mast of the neighboring ship—when it connects, the air condenses for just a second, shredding the surrounding cloth and wood before disappearing. 

It’s over as quickly as it started, but the damage is extensive. 

The people on the boat yell in surprise that swiftly turns to outrage as they survey the demolished canvas pieces gently floating in the breeze left behind. The deep crevice in the mast is now a safety hazard, surely. There’s no way that would survive even a moderate storm at sea. 

Scaramouche is legitimately so impressed that one wave of wind he wasn’t even trying to produce caused that much damage—what could it do to a human body, he wonders—that his fury temporarily takes a backseat and he doesn’t register the commotion on the dock his little outburst causes. 

“Tighnari, I told you he couldn’t be trusted—” 

“It looked like an accident, Cyno—”

“Wait, what boat was that I’m expecting a package—” 

“Why is he even using Anemo, the Shogun is the electro archon—” 

Yae Miko materializes behind him, voice dripping with false concern. “You’re not planning on destroying every ship the moment you get fussy, are you? That would be quite an inconvenience for us in Inazuma.” 

Her smile is so condescending he’s tempted to find out right here what his wind can do to a body—it doesn’t even have to be human. 

“Boats don’t grow on trees, you know,” Yae continues, softly smiling in that absolutely infuriating way of hers. 

“Do you ever shut your mouth?” Scaramouche hisses, “What the hell are you doing here anyway, don’t you have shitty children’s books to be editing—” 

She smirks. “Oh, someone is grouchy. Why might that be, I wonder? We were under the impression you have been all but absolved of your crimes—quite a mercy, considering what you have done in this land.” 

He snarls, but Yae beats him to the next insult. 

“And losing the precious Gnosis, how disappointing. Was it worth it, Kunikuzushi? ”

Is she being fucking serious? 

“And who’s fault was that, exactly? ” Scaramouche grits out, “Were you not the catalyst to Dottore’s experiment? You gave it to me in the first place!” 

“Come now, don’t blame me for your failure. Take responsibility for your actions—” 

“Oh, I’ll take responsibility as soon as I—” 

“Enough.” 

The Raiden Shogun’s command slices through the air, and both of them fall silent. 

Scaramouche realizes he and Yae Miko have been arguing in the middle of the boarding point, blocking anyone from embarking and drawing the attention of everyone present. The owners of the boat he destroyed are now standing angrily near Nahida. 

He flushes with anger and embarrassment at his own display—Yae can get under his skin so easily, and nothing has changed since he saw her last. 

He doesn’t dare look at the Dendro Archon. It’s not as if she hasn’t seen Scaramouche at his literal worst, but he has been (relatively) non-confrontational during his rehabilitation. She must be disappointed to see how quickly he retrogressed; how easily he still acts in anger before he thinks. 

The scene he caused just minutes ago surely doesn’t help—the reason for the elemental accident in the first place. 

In his defense, what was his mother thinking? That Scaramouche would just move past everything and run straight into her arms? 

He’s still twitching in rage from her earlier words. 

“I am pleased we can finally bring him home.” 

How dare she say that to his fucking face. Is she insane?

So, Scaramouche asked her that exact question. He did have the forethought to switch languages, at least, in an effort for some privacy. 

“You must be fucking joking.” 

His mother’s brows slightly furrow. 

“Kunik—” 

“Don’t call me that. Don’t call me anything. How dare you say something like that to me, after what you’ve done.” 

She looks…he’s not even sure, because her face has fallen back into the blank mask that conceals every thought, every emotion, as if they never existed to begin with. What a joke. 

It infuriates him, because she considers emotion to be beneath her, yet created him with so many of them he had been born with tears in his eyes. 

And then she had discarded him for it. 

“It was never my intention—”

“I don't care what your intentions were! You–you must be insane—"  

Nahida lightly touches his arm at this, sensing his desperation, and something inside him cracks. 

Everything is too much. Scaramouche yanks his arm away from her touch and stalks towards the ship, unaware of his Anemo vision glowing, and that's when—

“The kid destroyed our ship!” 

Right. 

Wait. 

KID?

“Sir, please calm down, it was an accident—” Nahida tries to appease the furious man, but he looks like he could care less if Scaramouche was trying to break his shitty boat or not. 

“Perhaps he should pay for its repair,” a tall man with ash-gray hair and two toned eyes finally speaks up in a bored drawl. He had appeared out of thin air upon their arrival in Port Ormos, and had looked Scaramouche up and down blankly before leading them to the dock. 

Alhaitham, the Forest Watcher had called him. 

“Or,” Alhaitham continues, “rebuild it himself in apology. Perhaps Lady Yae is correct—has the Balladeer been punished for his transgressions against both Sumeru and its Archon, Lord Kusunali?”

Scaramouche glares, because he is certain he and Yae had not been speaking in the common tongue. Fuck the scholars, honestly. 

“He attempted to usurp your position and murder you, one of the highest offenses one can commit towards a divine figure.”

Surprisingly, it is his mother, not Nahida, who responds to this accusation. 

“Kunikuzushi is my responsibility, and mine alone. He will not be punished in these lands. I apologize sincerely for his actions—and any harm that was wrought on your city.” 

The Archon turns her attention to the boat’s captain and his small crew, “And, of course, you will be compensated two-fold for the damage to your vessel.” 

The Captain nods hesitantly, unnerved at being addressed by Inazuma’s ex-tyrant. 

The Archon’s words do not appease the Matra or the Forest Rangers, however, as mumbled complaints and protests begin growing louder in the small crowd. Everyone is still angry with Scaramouche, it would seem, and not fine with him just leaving. 

Who would have thought. 

Alhaitham narrows his eyes. “You cannot expect us—” 

His mother evidently reaches the end of her patience at this further objection. “Actually, I can. The right to punish Inazumans for their crimes is mine alone.” 

A very faint hint of warning laces her tone, practically indiscernible from the polite way she has been speaking thus far. But, it’s there nonetheless. 

“You do not possess all of the information about this situation—” She holds up her hand when the man looks to object to this, “and are therefore unable to make any claim for what should be done. This… issue lies between the nation of Inazuma and your Archon, who was directly involved. She has already decided on a course of action—are you objecting to her will, Scribe of Sumeru?” 

Alhaitham, wisely, does not continue further and simply eyes his mother for a moment before looking away. Scaramouche bristles at the man’s audacity—that is an Archon he is disrespecting. 

The irony of this grievance is not lost on him. 

Nahida turns toward the crowd, addressing them as one. 

“I know many of you are angry, and many hurt. It is my greatest regret that I was too weak to prevent Sumeru from falling into the hands of those who would take advantage of our lands.” 

Scaramouche’s heart clenches. He does not like this—but then Nahida continues. 

“But please, do not hold anger in your heart for those who do not deserve its wrath. The situation is much more complex than it seems, and one person is not to blame for everything.” 

She turns to make brief eye-contact with Scaramouche, and some of the tension in his chest loosens. 

“I have made my decision about what course of action is best for Sumeru, our people, and myself. I am not asking you to simply abandon your anger or brush off the pain in your hearts, but I am asking for your trust in my decision to release the Balladeer into the custody of the Raiden Shogun.” 

As she stands before her people, Scaramouche sees, for the first time, what a true archon should look like. Nahida’s people look at her as if she hung the stars and the sun. This is the voice of an archon who doesn’t chase their own dream, but holds the dream of her people closest to her heart. 

Clutching the Anemo vision to his chest, he absently wonders what Barbados is like. Signora had described him as weak and pathetic, a sorry excuse for a God, but…

Aren’t his ideals much like the god that stands before him now? 

“Will you place your faith in me, as your Archon?” Her voice grows soft towards the end of this question, and Scaramouche can tell she genuinely believes they might say no. 

As if she does not have a place in every Sumeran citizen’s heart. 

Her face is bright when she turns back to him, and despite everything, despite the anger-coated fear inside him, Scaramouche gives her a small smile of his own. 

Just a small one. 

—

The ship deck is dead fucking silent and suffocated in tension. 

The crew doesn’t speak other then required for their jobs, and Scaramouche can sense their dark moods clouding in the air. He just knows they’ve realized they’re in the open ocean with: a) no escape, and b) arguably the three most powerful individuals Inazuma has produced—one of which is visibly angry. 

Scaramouche does not exactly have the best reputation—especially among certain ancient Inazuman clans—but he thinks the apprehension is a bit overkill. 

He’s not going to just start attacking people who piss him off. 

“This is so nostalgic. Doesn’t it just remind you of better days, Kuni?” 

Scratch that, the crew should be worried. He’s going to kill the fox. 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Why? Is that not the name you chose for yourself?” 

Scaramouche decides to ignore this line of questioning. It is true, he chose that name. But that period of his life…

He doesn’t wish to think about it. The pain and grief he had been suffering—there is a reason he had not used that name during his time in the Fatui. Granted, his mind had been clouded with betrayal, rage, and revenge, but the point stands. 

Scaramouche wishes to abandon that title altogether—but he will never forget it. 

That was one thing he and Nahida had… worked on, he supposes. Accepting the past and acknowledging where it led you today. He has an issue with the first part. He simply will not accept the past, but he can acknowledge it. 

His life has followed a terrible path that was started by his mother and Yae, so listening to either of them refer to him as Kunikuzushi leaves a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Even if Yae Miko had not abandoned him directly, she had wanted his creator to kill him outright. 

Sometimes Scaramouche wished his mother had just killed him all those years ago. It was a fleeting thought that popped up sometimes, especially during his days before his alliance with the Fatui. He wouldn’t consider himself suicidal, but there have been some instances in which he didn’t try too hard to escape death. 

Unfortunately, nothing has been able to kill him yet. Even fire hadn’t…

Scaramouche roughly shakes his head to rid himself of those thoughts. He doesn't need to be reminded of that now, and here of all places. 

However, thinking of the Fatui brings him back around to thinking of the second Harbinger. The boards of the ships’ railing groan beneath his fingertips as he remembers how easily the Doctor abandoned the experiment and returned to Snezhnaya with the Gnosis. No doubt going to pretend as if he had never defected in the first place. 

Scaramouche is roughly jerked out of the pleasant scenario he was imagining of Dottore being shred to death underneath one of those balls of air he produced earlier, as Yae continues the conversation. She mockingly asks,  “What, cat got your tongue?” 

He swings his fist out on instinct, intending to bash her pretty face in, but his arm is caught in a strong grip before it can go far. 

His mother stands between the two, and he has no idea when she approached them but his stomach lurches at the touch and he pulls his arm back as quickly as he can. Well, he tries to, but the Archon doesn’t release him. 

“Don’t—” He begins angrily, intending to scream at her if not for her swiftly interrupting. 

“Listen to me closely. I will not tolerate this… behavior from either of you.” Ei shoots Yae Miko a quick look, who only tilts her head with false surprise. “This is a long journey, and—” 

Scaramouche manages to rip his arm away from her, holding the place she touched as if burned. He interrupts her reprimanding speech with a snarl of loathing. 

“Whatever. Not like we’ll be able to speak anymore when you lock me up—” 

The Shogun frowns at this comment, not angry in the slightest that he spoke over her. This fills him with annoyance. 

“You will not be incarcerated in Inazuma.” 

Scaramouche stares at her in surprise. Nahida had said he would not be imprisoned, but he had not thought her reassurances to be anything but that—reassurances. 

His mother turns to gaze out at the sea. “This does not mean you’re completely free, however.” 

The tiny granule of hope that he could just leave after docking in Inazuma vanishes. 

“Rather, you will be under house-arrest.” 

“What?”  he screeches, fuming once again. That’s literally the exact same thing. He says as much.

Ei turns back to look at him.

“This is not a punishment, Kunikuzushi. This is a procedure all Inazumans' must adhere by if they are deported back to Inazuma for a crime abroad. Given Inazuma’s circumstances, it’s a relatively new procedure—” 

“How is that not a punishment?” Scaramouche bites, “How long is this for?” 

Her gaze turns hard, and she replies, “Until we are certain you are no longer a threat to Inazuma or any other nation.” 

He scoffs and turns to walk away, but is stopped with a hand on his shoulder. Scaramouche snaps, “Don’t touch me!” 

“I wish to make a deal with you,” His mother continues, ignoring his outburst but retracting her hand all the same. “Inazuma’s newly open borders have created new problems that I am ill-equipped to manage, as I have been allowing the Shogun to manage trivial day-to-day activities.” 

He…hadn’t known that. His mother had not even been ruling her own nation—she’d left it all to the puppet? He’d thought she’d at least be involved in the process. 

“Additionally, I am unused to such human interaction. You yourself witnessed how the Dendro Archon was involved with her people. I wish to rule the same way. The way that—” She uncharacteristically hesitates for a second, before continuing, voice subdued. “The way that my predecessor, Makoto, used to rule. In return, I would—” 

Scaramouche cannot believe his fucking ears. “Are you asking me to help you?” 

She nods, and he starts laughing incredulously. What did—what did she expect him to say? Scaramouche takes vicious joy from his next words. 

“Why would you think, even for a moment, that I would ever help you?” Scaramouche bares his teeth. “It’s pathetic, how little you can do for yourself. Stooping so low as to ask your faulty puppet for help—you may as well just continue letting my replacement rule.” 

He turns his back to her, fury simmering in his veins. “Don’t bother asking me for anything again. You deserve nothing. You may as well go back into the Plane of Euthymia—if that’s where you were hiding, like a coward—I doubt the citizens will even notice.” 

With that, he stalks to the other side of the ship, intending to stay as far away from both of them as possible for the remainder of the journey. He ignores Yae Miko’s wry, “Touchy, isn’t he?” as he goes. 

—

It’s sunrise when he spots Inazuma on the horizon. It’s beautiful, even from here. 

Scaramouche is perched on top of the tallest mast, clothes blowing in the salty wind behind him. It’s the perfect place to observe his surroundings while also keeping his distance from everyone below—the birds, on the other hand, rather like his company. They keep trying to land on his wide-brimmed hat, ignoring his expletives with an astounding perseverance. 

Just another two hours or so, and he will be back in his home-lands. Scaramouche thinks of the people there; he doesn’t know anyone, anymore, as it has been so long. 

His mother’s request floats at the back of his mind, as it has been for the last couple days they have been on the water. Scaramouche is angry at himself for even considering it, because there is absolutely nothing to consider. He owes her nothing, she deserves nothing—in fact, she deserves less than nothing. 

She should touch her head to the dirt and beg for his forgiveness. 

Scaramouche grits his teeth. She hasn’t apologized, but why would she? His mother thought she was doing him a service, abandoning him as she did. She doesn’t think she did anything wrong. 

He’s so terribly angry, but that doesn’t stop the thoughts of her request from circling around his head. Not to help her, no, but Scaramouche has no idea what he’s supposed to be doing on ‘house-arrest’, or how long it will even be. 

If he can find a way to grit his teeth and play the part of the returning ex-Fatui-trying-to-better-himself, helping his mother might just be the easiest way to get back into Inazuma’s good graces and end his house-arrest sooner rather than later. Scaramouche wants to leave and never return—not that he has anywhere to go. 

He clutches the Akasha terminal to his chest. 

Nahida did say he would always have a home in Sumeru, but it is much too early to go back. Cyno would probably have his head on a stake. 

Scaramouche had, unfortunately, felt the familiar burn of tears during their departure from Sumeru. Not for the country specifically…but for their Archon. His family. 

They had not hugged, hadn’t really even had a long goodbye. Nahida had told him to have a safe journey, and she subtly hinted that he should use the Akasha terminal as much as he needed too—from her expression, he knew she would always pick up, no matter the time or place. 

He could do nothing but nod at her, throat too tight to do anything else. Scaramouche had panicked, wanting to say something, but knowing that any noise he made would simply devolve into crying—which was unacceptable in every circumstance. 

Perhaps she knew this—she always knew, and it was something he loved about her—because she had simply squeezed his hand, given him a wide, teary grin, and stepped back into the circle of her protectors. 

Oddly enough, Scaramouche had found himself leaning closer to Cyno, who had given him a withering glare, and snapping, “If anything happens to her, I’ll kill you.” He had then turned and walked towards the ship without looking back, but saw enough to know neither Cyno nor the Forest Watcher had expected that threat. Their eyes had been wide and confused: Cyno with indignant, bewildered rage, and the Watcher with a sort of knowing air about him. 

Nahida had just looked at him fondly. He had boarded the boat before he could be tempted to say anything else, avoiding looking towards his mother or Yae, who were both looking at him. 

Scaramouche had stood at the end of the boat for a long time, watching Nahida until Sumeru was nothing but a speck in the distance. 

Since they’re closer to port now, Scaramouche slides off the top of the mast and uses air to slow his descent to the deck. He’s gotten better at using his vision, and can make himself hover over the ground if he tries hard enough. It’s absolutely exhausting, but the freedom fills his chest with elation. 

The ship’s crew are darting back and forth, readying themselves to dock. He stays near the back, hoping he can just escort himself to the Tenshukaku alone, and maybe slip off undetected—

“Scaramouche,” the Raiden Shogun beckons him to her side, where Yae Miko is also waiting. He considers ignoring her, but figures the sooner they debark the sooner he can be alone. 

His mother had started calling him by this name after witnessing his negative reaction to the first one, and he briefly considered changing it again out of pure spite. Perhaps he could go by a title instead and forego a name altogether. 

The Wanderer rolls off the tongue nicely, he thinks. Maybe when he leaves Inazuma he will adopt it. 

“We’re nearly there, Shogun,” the captain calls, then to the crew, “Prepare for entry!” 

Scaramouche can see the procession on the docks waiting for their Archon to arrive. He doesn’t recognize any of them. 

“It looks like your return was highly anticipated,” Yae comments from Ei’s other side, “It seems their Archon was missed.” 

His mother says nothing. 

Once on the deck, their little group is swiftly approached by a woman wearing the uniform of a special officer under the Shogun’s direct command. Scaramouche can feel the gazes of the citizens and soldiers on him. He wonders if they know who he is, or if word has spread from Sumeru. 

“Shogun, I hope the journey was enjoyable. Please, allow me to escort you and Lady Yae—” 

“No need,” Yae interrupts, “I must return to Guuji Shrine. Who knows what the shrine maidens have gotten up to in my absence. I will return to Inazuma City to check up on you both in a couple days—try not to kill each other in the meantime, mh?” 

Scaramouche glowers at her but doesn’t comment. 

“Of course, Miko,” is his mother’s only response. It’s so annoying how nothing seems to phase her. No jab or insult or disrespect—from her own people, that is. 

“Kunikuzushi,” the uniformed woman addresses him, “I am Kujou Sara. The Shogun has informed me of your unique circumstances. Do tell me if you need anything.” 

The woman says the word ‘circumstances’ as if she has tasted something rotten on her tongue—she obviously knows who he is, and does not consider him an ally. Oddly, Scaramouche finds this pleasing. 

All the fake pleasantries were starting to make him ill. 

“Please allow me to escort the Shogun and her charge to the Tenshukaku. The Head of the Yashiro Commission, Kamisato Ayato, has requested your presence immediately. I informed him you might be tired but he insisted—“ 

“I see,” his mother says, “That is acceptable. Is he waiting for an audience there now?” 

“Yes, Shogun.” 

“In that case, please escort Scaramouche to his rooms. I will go to the center hall immediately. Thank you, Sara.” 

His mother walks away, not glancing at Scaramouche for a moment. Cold seeps through his veins. It feels suspiciously like… abandonment. 

But it’s not, because he doesn’t care. 

Scaramouche is the one who told her himself to leave him alone, so why is feeling like this inside the minute they step foot in Inazuma—

“Scaramouche?” 

He looks up and realizes that he’s been standing in the middle of the dock, Kujou Sara and his mother both having begun walking without him. 

The Shogun is looking back at him now, but her face is cold and emotionless once more. He glares for lack of something better to do about the weird feelings in his chest, and turns to follow Kujou Sara to his new jail cell. 

—

The Tenshukaku sits at the very top of Inazuma City, overlooking the sprawling landscape and glittering ocean. 

Scaramouche had always admired the view. That he can admit to himself. Many a day and night he would scale the courtyard walls to sit on the tiled roof, as high as he could get. He remembers vividly how the city would glow silver or gold depending on whether the moon or sun was casting their light across the buildings. 

Overlooking the city had once made him feel powerful; it had made him feel untouchable and safe because it was his home. 

He had always been partial to the landscape blanketed in snow specifically; he likes how gently it settles, and how it blankets everything in fluffy white. Although Scaramouche doesn’t believe there’s necessarily much of a difference between rain and snow, the winter days are a peaceful existence. 

However. 

The view from his portion of the castle is not doing anything for him now. 

Kujou Sara had led Scaramouche on a familiar path through the Tenshukaku, and the dread in his stomach had intensified every moment that led up to the confirmation that yes: he was being taken back to his original rooms. The rooms his mother had led him to only hours after he was created. 

He doesn’t know what had expected them to look like, but everything is the exact same, exactly as he left it. 

This is both surprising and not surprising in the slightest. Scaramouche had never given much thought to what his mother had done with the abandoned space—he supposes he half-expected her to simply remove everything that wasn’t useful. After all, that’s what she had done with him when his usefulness had expired. 

However, he’s also not shocked she didn’t bother doing anything at all. 

Why would the Shogun have spared Scaramouche any thought after his abandonment and following defection?

He has a sudden, violent urge to simply trash the room and make them move him somewhere else, but by the time he looks up, Kujou Sara is gone. Scaramouche hadn’t heard her say any departing words, but figures she didn’t seem like the type to do so. 

Surveying the room, Scaramouche crosses the tatami to the floor desk set in front of the sliding doors open to the courtyard.

The desk is covered in paper, brushes, and dried ink stone. Scaramouche had once desired to learn the art of calligraphy after witnessing his mother write her own characters. They were perfect. Her handwriting was beautiful, and at the time, he had wanted to do anything to share something with her. His eager attempts at calligraphy are immortalized on the parchment—sitting just as they were five-hundred years ago.

Looking back on it now, Scaramouche wants to laugh at himself. Or maybe throttle himself for his naivety. 

His mother never cared what he did. Never asked about him or what he was doing. He saw the attendants more often than her, and they are the ones who praised his practice and taught him characters. But that was never what Scaramouche really wanted. 

In the end, he had achieved his goal. His calligraphy is now like his mothers. Absolutely perfect. That’s what he had desired after his abandonment, after all: perfection, in all forms. 

Picking up one of the papers, Scaramouche channels elemental energy down his arm and shreds the sheet into fine strips. They flutter down and rest on the other ink-stained papers. 

Abruptly, Scaramouche notices that there’s no dust on anything. It’s been five centuries—surely his mother had not ordered his empty, unused rooms be dusted, but not organized? That seems like a complete waste of time. 

It’s also almost more infuriating than her forgetting about him altogether—she acknowledged he was gone and was…what? 

Unsure if she would want him in the future and keeping the space prepared? Or—

Oh. 

Dust. 

Scaramouche clenches the papers underneath his fists, laughing. Of course. 

Dust signifies the passage of time. Time. The one thing his mother hates the most. Or, hated. Whatever. 

Scaramouche knows for a fact that’s the reason—dust doesn’t exist in eternity. It would ideally need to be spotless everywhere, at all times. 

Slamming the sliding doors open and stalking onto the engawa, he leans against one of the wooden pillars and times his breathing in an attempt to calm down. Everything about this place, this city—he had no idea how terrible it would be back, and how everything reminded him of her, of them together. 

The sun is high in the sky. It’s almost midday. The sunlight is bouncing off the water in the distance, sending blue light against the rocks across the divide between Inazuma City and—

Grand Narukami Shrine. Sitting directly in front of his window, glowing brightly even against the sun's rays. A mocking reminder of his least favorite person in this country. 

He had never noticed before but it completely ruins the view and he suddenly feels like punching something. 

There’s a knock from the hallway. 

“My Lord, the Shogun requests a luncheon with you—“ 

Scaramouche’s charged fist cracks the pillar in two. 

—

He refuses to leave his rooms for a week. 

Scaramouche doesn’t care who asks for him, what’s happening, what his mother wants—he refuses to leave. He had considered continuing his hunger strike, but the Inazuman food has proved too delicious to resist. 

Of all the things he hates about Inazuma, the food is not one of them. 

For a single week, Scaramouche sequesters himself away, determined to live through his entire confinement with as little contact with his creator as possible. 

He tries to have no interest in anything at all. To be as empty as the vessel he was created to be. 

For just a week. 

Then the Shogun comes to see him personally, and drags Scaramouche out of confinement. 

Chapter Text

As the stars begin to fade with the lightening of the sky, Scaramouche feels what might be described as peace for the first time in weeks. As much peace as he can achieve considering his circumstances, that is. 

He sits on the engawa, sipping hot tea as the sun makes its way over the horizon. The birds are just stirring, and he can hear them starting their morning songs from his place in the shadows. 

Scaramouche still hasn’t been sleeping very much. He tries, genuinely, hoping it will make the time pass faster, but he can never seem to fully slip into oblivion. He’s taken to training in the courtyard during the night, hoping to tire himself out. If nothing else, at least it keeps him in shape. 

If he’s going to be awake, he may as well practice using his vision. 

He spends the quiet hours teaching himself how to control his new element. He can hover in the air for much longer now, and he’s begun to add simultaneous offensive attacks while airborne. His stamina is, unfortunately, not very high. Scaramouche has fallen many, many times during this experiment, but the repetition is proving to be effective. 

If only he had a real person to practice on—but he highly doubts there is anyone who would want to train with him. 

He’s wearing a simple gray yukata, one that he found amongst similar clothing neatly folded in his drawers. Even though it’s chilly in Inazuma, Scaramouche has never been bothered by colder weather. 

The attendants have come twice during the week he’s been here. They replace his bedding and take his laundry—not that he has much of it. The only clothing that he had found upon his initial exploration had been the collection of simple purple and gray loungewear, and various traditional clothing he had worn with his mother centuries ago. All white and purple, the clothes had been a symbol of his position as the Shogun’s ward. The accompanying sheer-violet veils are folded neatly next to them. 

Scaramouche was tempted to set them all on fire. In his early life, he wore nothing aside from those clothes; they now have upsetting memories tied to them. However, he finds he can do nothing to harm them. In the end, Scaramouche had simply closed those particular drawers and tried to forget they existed. 

Unwilling to wear anything else, he had decided that if he needed to leave for whatever reason, he would have to re-wear the clothes Nahida had gifted him. 

Those clothes are neatly folded and had been placed under his desk. Scaramouche had forbidden the attendants to take them away, lest they destroy them, or something. He knows deep down that this is completely irrational, and he has no way to clean them himself, but the idea of parting with the clothing is uncomfortable. 

He supposes it doesn't even matter, as he has no current plan to leave. Scaramouche hasn’t seen his mother since he arrived, and nobody else had come looking for him, either. He isn’t exactly sure how this isolation is ‘fixing’ him, but he is almost positive that Ei has either forgotten about him, or decided now that he’s back, he isn’t worth her attention. 

Scaramouche bristles at his own thoughts. He wonders how long it would take for her to notice if he climbed over the wall and just…left. 

The attendants would know within hours, probably. He assumes they have orders to physically lay eyes on him every time they deliver his meals, rather than just leave them outside the door like he had initially demanded. The woman had been scared stiff when he had slammed open the door the first time, but eventually a routine developed. He thinks there might be a mutual understanding between himself and the three attendants who are assigned to his portion of the castle. 

They won’t try to talk to him, and he won’t give them trouble. 

He had gotten…upset, he hates to remember, at the attendant who had the unfortunate job of interacting with him so soon after his return. 

Scaramouche had still been brimming with rage, and he basically exploded on the girl. He honestly regrets it, thinking back. And then he is annoyed that he regrets it at all, because they’re the ones keeping him here. 

But they’re not, that infuriating voice in his head reminds him, you know where you can go. 

Absolutely not, he snaps back at himself. He doesn’t care how crazy he’s driven in isolation; Scaramouche has survived much, much worse and has already decided that he isn't going to interact with her any more than he has to. 

That first day, he had told whoever it was that relayed the Shogun’s lunch invitation that they could, respectfully, fuck off. 

Scaramouche is certain his response did not return to his mother verbatim, but he assumes she got the general idea because she hasn’t sent anyone for him since. 

If not for his almost obsessive track of the time, he could almost guess he’s been here for several weeks—that’s how restless he is, and it hasn’t even been a full seven days since their return from Sumeru. Scaramouche had considered using the Akasha gifted by Nahida, but he hasn’t exactly felt ready to speak with her yet. 

He knows she wouldn’t pry into anything he doesn’t wish to speak about, but the turmoil and anxiety from this entire experience hasn’t fully settled in his system. Perhaps it will never calm, and this is his new normal. He should perish the thought. 

Scaramouche takes a large mouthful of his now lukewarm tea to calm his rising anxiety. It’s not working as well as he would have hoped. 

The early morning sunlight catches the edge of the Akasha on his desk, drawing his attention and glinting innocently. He frowns at it before looking away. 

Maybe tonight he’ll consider contacting her. It’s not like he has much on the agenda, and he’s going to have to either learn to ignore these emotions, or suppress them to the point of forgetting about them altogether. 

Knocking at the door signals his breakfast has arrived, so he absently slides on a thicker robe as he passes through the bedroom and into the entry room. Scaramouche doesn’t even register the early hour of this delivery compared to the others, and slides open the door without hesitation, arm already outstretched to accept the tray of food. 

A cool breeze flows in from the courtyard and through his rooms where he’d left the doors open. The soft chime of the hand-painted furin is the only sound that fills the silence as he and his mother stare at each other. 

Scaramouche moves to slam the door shut on instinct, but Ei has evidently predicted this because she has a hand on the frame before he can move it. 

He sneers at her in lieu of a greeting and crosses his arms defensively. 

His mother takes this in stride and a serene smile brightens her features. Anger flares in his gut. 

“Good morning, Kuni—” she blinks before quickly correcting herself, not even giving him time to process the mistake, “Apologies, Scaramouche.”  

He stands in silence, glaring her down. When she makes no move to continue and just stands there, he huffs angrily and snaps a quick, “What?” 

Unfazed with his attitude, she motions behind her, where an unfamiliar attendant is waiting with a tray of food. Food…for two.

Absolutely not. 

“I was hoping you would join me for a morning meal,” she motions for the attendant to step forwards, “I wish to speak with you.” 

“No.”

“I apologize, but I must insist. I do need to monitor your behavior, and I think it would be nice to—” 

“What behavior?” Scaramouche grits out, shifting in place. “I literally have done nothing but sit here, alone, for the entire week.” 

Ei nods in understanding. 

“That is my point. In order to ensure the house-arrest is beneficial, I need to interact with you in some capacity. I thought we would start with a meal?” 

She phrases this as another suggestion, but he can hear the finality in her voice. He knows she’s not going to leave, but he stays silent and continues glaring at her. She simply stands, and waits. 

After a full minute of complete silence, Scaramouche’s palatable rage filling the space with every passing second, the attendant behind his mother starts shifting uncomfortably. Rolling his eyes, he relents and stiffly turns around and moves back through the rooms, not bothering to invite them in. 

There’s a small seating area underneath the large maple in the courtyard outside, so he stalks across the stone pathway over to it. He doesn’t usually take his meals here, but he doesn’t want to be sitting in his own rooms with his mother for what will undoubtedly be the most uncomfortable meal of his life. 

Once they’re settled, the attendant gives a quick bow and hurries to leave. Scaramouche abruptly raises his glare from the table to the man’s back, noticing the attendant’s mistake. 

“Hey,” he snaps, and the man freezes in place, “Bow properly.” 

Scaramouche can see Ei’s raised brow from the corner of his eye but doesn't take his eyes off the attendant, who practically runs back over to them. He normally doesn’t care one way or another about how he’s treated, and he certainly doesn’t expect any of Tenshukaku’s caretakers to defer to him—Scaramouche is still largely unsure if they even know his what actual relation with their Archon is, despite the clue of their similar appearance. 

But, seriously, does his mother not expect basic respect from these idiots? She’s their Shogun and Archon — the disrespectful behavior is infuriating. 

The man stutters out an apology and bows deeply—correctly, this time—before fleeing the courtyard. 

Scaramouche grimly turns back to his unpleasant company, only to be faced with a soft, endearing smile. He stiffens, much like the man had seconds ago, and is hit with the realization that he had basically just defended his mother and gotten offended himself on her behalf. 

He scowls and turns away to hide the angry flush that creeps up his cheeks. Scaramouche has never seen that expression on her face before and he has no idea what to make of it—he violently buries the hint of warmth that darts through his chest. It’s soon replaced by his usual annoyance, anyway. 

It’s silent for a long moment before his mother gently picks up her chopsticks, prompting him to reluctantly do the same. He looks over the light breakfast of grilled fish and soup as she prepares to speak. 

“Well,” she begins, picking up a bowl of white rice, “How are you faring?” 

Scaramouche gives her the most scathing glare he can produce at that moment. “How do you think I’m doing?” 

“I’ve been informed you haven’t left your wing. Is something wrong?” 

“Where, exactly, do you expect me to go?” 

She pauses, thinking, and takes a small bite of the grilled fish before continuing. “I was hoping you would begin joining me for regular meals.” 

His brows pull together, mildly surprised, but not for the reason he expected. “You eat every day?” 

Ei tilts her head. “Of course, don’t you? I’ve been told you return empty dishes quite often.” 

Annoyance rears its head at this comment, but Scaramouche decides not to address it. Why she cares about his eating habits, he doesn’t want to know. 

“I guess I assumed you consider food to be,” he searches for the correct word, “Irrelevant, or something equally as inconsequential. Besides,” Scaramouche continues darkly, “You’re still inhabiting the puppet. It doesn’t need sustenance.” 

She hums thoughtfully and cups a warm ceramic teacup in her hands. “You’re right, of course, but I’ve recently begun enjoying the habit. I enjoy sampling dishes I haven’t had the chance to try in isolation.” 

He has no comment for this, and she continues, “And, I suppose my predecessor regularly ate meals. It was somewhat of a…tradition we would share together. I often find myself missing it.” 

Scaramouche scoffs. 

“So, what? You want to eat with someone?” and then he puts it together, “Are you implying you wish to continue this… tradition, or whatever, with me?”  

“If you would be amicable, yes.” 

“I refuse.” 

She says nothing, and uncomfortable silence settles. 

Scaramouche shifts in place, growing more agitated as time passes. 

How can they just sit here, speaking to each other like this? As if there aren’t lifetimes of unmentioned torture she’s indirectly subjected him to? Does she even care?

Tension builds in his chest, and he suffocates under the pressure. When she makes no move to continue, Scaramouche decides to confront her. Anger colors his words but he can’t filter it out. 

“Why are you even here?” 

His mother frowns. “I told you, I wish to—” 

“No,” Scaramouche interrupts, snapping, “Why are you really here? You cannot possibly care about me enough to–to ‘check in,’ or whatever this is. Why not just leave me alone?” 

“As per the law, I must observe your behavior,” she starts, but Scaramouche doesn’t let her finish. Her answer curls in his gut—he was right, she doesn’t care about him. 

“Why did you come for me in the first place?” 

She puts her chopsticks down, and he can see the confusion that fills her eyes. “I’m not sure I understand.” 

Incensed, he jumps up and slams his hands on the table, leaning forward to snarl right in her face. 

“I’m asking you,” and he’s trembling with emotion now. His palm slips against the stone and his cup of tea shatters against the ground, darkening the sand. “Why—after all these years, why did you retrieve me from Sumeru? Why did you bring me back here?”  

Because this…this is the question that’s been haunting him. The question that he’s been terrified to ask, in fear she would realize her mistake…

All at once, Scaramouche is hit with his own realization, and he physically rears back as if slapped. His chest freezes and the breath rushes from his lungs. His ears ring, and Scaramouche can’t make out her reply—if she replies at all. 

He realizes that his primary emotion, the emotion that’s been driving him since his arrival at Tenshukaku, is not anger but fear. He does not lack anger, of course—he can always feel white hot rage lingering in his chest. But this fear, on the other hand…

Scaramouche is not afraid of her, or the consequences of his own actions. He does not fear the damage to his reputation his destruction has caused, or the punishment he could recieve. He’s not afraid of anyone in Sumeru, and he’s certainly not afraid of the other Archons or the Fatui. 

The red maple casts shadows from the morning sun above them, leaves fluttering down on a gentle breeze. It’s beautiful. 

He thinks he may collapse beneath it .  

At this table, standing in front of his mother, he finally labels the bitter, sickening emotion that has been a constant weight shackled to his every movement. His every thought. 

Fear of abandonment. 

Like someone flips a switch, Scaramouche is suddenly aware that he is afraid his mother is going to discard him a second time; that he’s so damaged she’ll deem him irrelevant again. 

This fear— this infuriating, debasing, humiliating fear— is something he did not even know existed until this very moment. Scaramouche had been vaguely recognizing the feeling, but thought it to be natural turmoil anyone in his situation would experience. His anger is justified, his distress not without cause. 

But this specific fear is something he has not experienced before. That is not to say he has not feared abandonment in his life, because he has. Scaramouche vividly remembers how he felt meeting the child, still raw from the pain of his friend’s demise. He remembers he would have done anything to keep the child from leaving him too. 

But that fear, Scaramouche realizes, is nothing compared to this feeling now. 

He had never truly considered how a mother’s abandonment could make the pain of all others pale in comparison. 

He hadn’t seen the first betrayal coming, and it had nearly destroyed him. He had sobbed inconsolably for days outside that domain where his mother left him, desperately waiting for her to return. And when she never did, Scaramouche had been forced to pick himself up and continue on. 

He had been so young, then. So innocent. He’s much more jaded now. He’s used to pain. If she abandons him again, it should not be as excruciating. In fact, the pain should be expected . 

Scaramouche should be absolutely fine, because he has endured things so much worse than this…this childish fear. 

Right? 

He should have known it would never be that simple, and it could never be that easy. 

Staring at his mother, here and now, Scaramouche feels his heart—the heart that Nahida tended to and grew back all on her own—completely shatter at the realization that if Ei betrays him again, he will not recover. 

It will completely destroy him in a way that nothing else, not even the first abandonment, had managed. 

His breath catches, and he struggles to breathe over a mess of panic, fear, rage, and—

Something gentle brushes his cheek, and he jerks away on instinct. Scaramouche looks up into his mother’s blurred face, now standing before him with her hand raised as if to—

Her voice is soft when she speaks, and it makes him shake with something that’s decidedly not anger. 

“Why are you crying?” 

The words hang suspended in the air, heavy in his stomach; they pierce through his chest and poison his blood. She did this to him. 

She created him. 

She abandoned him.

She completely ruined his life.

And somehow, after everything, Scaramouche still loves her. 

He loves her like any child, like any person in this world loves their mother. Apparently, it doesn’t matter what she does to him. And that is what infuriates him the most. 

He is so disappointingly weak. 

Love and hate shouldn’t be able to exist like this, he thinks. His hatred is poisoning the love she doesn’t deserve that he’s giving anyway, and his love is preventing him from moving forward to a life without her. He can’t move on. 

Because at the end of the day, one eternal fact will remain despite any circumstance: Scaramouche is her creation—her son. 

Ei is his mother. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever addressed her as such. He’s always been afraid to say it. Perhaps he knows, deep down, what her reaction will be. But he makes the decision anyway. 

Scaramouche glares up at Ei, a searing combination of hatred, love, and despair twisting his face in a snarl and pushing tears from his eyes. 

“I hate you, Mother.” 

—

Mother, she thinks, staring in wonder at the fascinating boy before her. 

Mother?

—

Scaramouche immediately regrets it. 

He knows he is weak, he knows his emotions and sentimentality are the reasons he was not suitable to be her vessel, he knows he knows he knows. 

He suspected—no, he expected that his mother would not see him the same way he sees her; that she does consider him to be her child.

In her chase for eternity, he knows nothing matters.

But…is he not an immortal too? Had she not created him to be one? 

And she had a twin. A sister. Scaramouche knows that his mother loves the original Electro Archon. 

Makoto. 

As these thoughts scramble through his mind, he searchingly stares into her face as she registers his words. 

He hopes—

—

Something bright and warm takes root in her chest.

This boy, her creation, considers her to be his mother.

An emotion she has not felt since Makoto passed curls through her, settling right around her heart.

She barely has a second to bask in its light before it's swiftly extinguished by the crushing realization of what this signifies.

The full extent of what she’s done.

—

Scaramouche watches as his mother’s face falls into what can only be described as horror.

And disgust. 

Something breaks, and he suddenly feels nothing at all.

—

She’s disgusted with herself. 

The boy’s absolute hatred for her suddenly makes sense. How had she not known?

She had not named him, had not treated him like a human, all because she didn’t consider him to be anything but a prototype.

In her grief, she had not wanted anything besides eternity, and she had stopped at nothing to achieve it. 

In her haste, not wanting to destroy her creation filled with more emotion than she could handle, who reminded her so much of the one person she was trying to forget, she had left him. 

She had considered it mercy.

Makoto would be so disappointed in her.

—

The tears don’t stop, but he is numb. 

Scaramouche can’t think over the buzzing in his ears. Pure emotion sweeps him away and drowns him under its intensity. It’s so powerful and overwhelming he just shuts down completely. 

Without another word, he turns from the Raiden Shogun and walks away. 

—

The title rings around in her head, connecting seamlessly to her own creation—placing the final piece to a puzzle she didn’t know she was trying to solve.

She finds something she hadn’t realized she lacked to begin with. How completely ignorant had she been? How had she not known?

As she watches him flee towards his rooms, fighting to suppress his weeping, she contemplates. She imagines.

She tries a word, and thinks it is beautiful.

Son.

She needs to speak with Miko.

—

He slams the doors to his rooms closed. They are barely locked before he’s falling to his knees, head cradled in his hands. 

Why— why does it have to be like this? Why is he like this—what had he wanted?

He can hardly breathe around the sobs building in his throat. Scaramouche roughly covers his mouth with his hand to keep the noises in. The last thing he wants is his mother overhearing this weakness. He locked her in the courtyard, but he doesn’t really care. 

She’s an archon, she can figure it out. 

He’s too busy falling apart.

Scaramouche trembles on his knees for a long time, trying to calm his breathing as the sun rises higher and higher in the sky. It’s a beautiful day. He wishes it wasn’t.

Blood drips down his arm from where he’d bitten into his hand to quiet himself, and he watches as it stains the tatami. He wonders how much blood loss it would take to kill him. It’s a pity Dottore never found out. 

His breath hitches as his already fragile state of mind is assaulted with images from his past. More tears spill, and he unexpectedly craves something with such an intensity it sends him fully to the floor. 

He wants—

He rests his forehead against the tatami paneling and squeezes his eyes shut. 

Scaramouche knows what he wants, but can hardly think the words, even in the privacy of his own mind. 

He has never been held before. 

Even after his creation, his creator had not pressed him close like a mother would. In fact, she had hardly touched him at all. His one, singular attempt at an embrace had been met with cold indifference, and it was enough to prevent him from ever repeating the action. That should have been his first sign that she did not love him in any capacity.

Nahida had never held him, either, and as much as he loves her, he had not strictly desired for her to do so. In fact, he hadn’t once craved the touch of another since…he frowns to himself, before his face twists in despair and the tears continue. 

He has not desired to be held since he was abandoned and still grieving his first betrayal. He had shied away from every new and unfamiliar touch. And then he had met two people who made him feel love again, but he hadn’t needed to be touched then, either. It was nice, of course, the familial touches between his friend and the boy, but he had been simply content with their love alone. Scaramouche hadn’t needed anything more.

And then all desire for comfort and love had vanished when he entered the Fatui. His time with Dottore was truly torture in the purest form, and Scaramouche had genuinely believed he may never touch anyone again.

It was rekindled a bit, afterwards, with Nahida’s persistent care, but even then he hadn’t wanted to be embraced.

A whimper escapes his throat, and Scaramouche digs his fingernails into his arm so hard that more blood drips and adds to the mess. They’ll have to replace every tatami mat at this rate.

How pathetic he is. Crying on the floor, desiring to be held like a child by his creator. The creator who does not love him at all.

Scaramouche shakily moves to his futon and buries himself under the heavy blankets, as if it could somehow replicate the warmth he so desperately wants. He’s so cold all the time—has been that way since he sat in a burning building wishing he would die. 

Burying his face in his pillow, he finally allows himself to break down and openly cry. All he wants, all he’s ever wanted, was to be loved. It’s unfortunate he wants it most from the one person who should love him, but cannot. 

He had never called her ‘mother’ to her face; Scaramouche never even used the title while speaking to Miko, but it’s likely that woman had known anyway. Yae had implied as much in the past, after all. She must have never brought it up with her Archon. It had existed entirely unaddressed until today, and Scaramouche wishes he could turn back time. Is it better that he knows her feelings now? 

Ei hadn't even tried to hide what she felt. 

He cries harder at the memory of her expression, muffling it in the pillow. 

Scaramouche had always, always thought of Ei as his mother. The very second he learned the word he began thinking of her as such. She was the first person he laid eyes on upon waking from his birth, and her presence had warmed his insides and filled his heart with happiness until he could do nothing but shed tears from the overwhelming emotions. He remembers she had moved away from the table he was resting on, and he had reached out to her very quickly, almost toppling off the table in his haste. 

She had turned back to him, a puzzled frown on her face—but he wouldn’t understand her emotions until much later. All he had known at that moment was that she was the most important thing in his life, and he felt absolute panic at the thought of her leaving him alone.

Scaramouche had begun referring to her as his mother when he learned the word, but he had considered her his mother the moment he met her.

This dynamic had always existed for him. He had no reason to believe that she wouldn’t feel any emotion towards him at all. 

But there had been reasons. 

Scaramouche had a million reasons to be suspicious, but always played ignorant in the hopes that those reasons were false. He would tell himself that she loves him, and that she cares for him. He would repeatedly tell himself these things because deep down, in a place he keeps most hidden, Scaramouche had always known his mother doesn’t see him the way he sees her. Perhaps if he didn’t address it, if he covered the truth with lies upon lies, their relationship could be real. 

It’s not. They’re not a family. 

This is his primary flaw—these emotions, this desperation, this anger and sadness are things that do not exist for his mother. Scaramouche thought she might be different now, after the Traveler’s influence, but he was wrong. She is the same Archon who discarded him; the Archon who hadn’t even given him his own name. Anyone would look at their relationship and declare Scaramouche insane for truly considering her to be his mother. 

He’s so fucking stupid— he screams into his bedsheets, and it’s a scream of desperation, of pain, of suffering…because after everything, after all this, even her reaction—

He still loves her.  

And he is beside himself with fury. 

Blind with rage, Scaramouche throws off the blankets and grabs the first thing he can lay his hands on—a long wooden box—and throws it across the room as hard as he can. It both breaks the box and leaves a hole in the wall, sending the contents flying and the frame landing in a heap on the ground. He hardly pays mind to it as he grabs another item and throws it: an ink jar, which shatters against the wood paneling and splatters dark ink across his desk and wall. 

Just as Scaramouche is reaching for his calligraphy book, a displaced paper falls from the desk's surface and flutters to his feet. Breath catching, he abandons the book and bends to pick up the ink-covered paper, cursing himself for what he’s done. Scaramouche tastes iron as he bites his through his lip hard enough to draw blood. Fresh tears drip down and further stain his most precious gift.

Nahida’s drawing, destroyed in his outburst. 

He didn’t know it was possible to feel worse than he already does, but he achieves it.

Scaramouche doesn’t know how long he sits there, crying silently into the paper. It could have been ten minutes, it could have been an hour, even more. 

All he knows is that at some point, a soft melody had begun to fill the room. He doesn’t register it at first, sinuses blocked from tears, but the noise eventually grows loud enough to catch his attention. 

The Akasha sitting on his desk, now covered in ink, is glowing a soft green. He stares at it uncomprehendingly for a moment before moving closer. Hesitantly picking it up, Scaramouche raises it to his ear and squeezes his eyes shut. The ringing stops, and he feels cool vines curl around his head. 

He waits, hearing nothing but silence, before a soft, “Scaramouche?” 

He tries to prevent it, he does, but a tiny sob escapes before he can clap his hand back over his mouth. 

“Scaramouche,” Nahida repeats gently, voice only slightly modified through the connection. He’s so glad to hear her voice, and wonders why he was so afraid to call her. All his reasons feel irrelevant, now. 

“It’s okay,” she comforts, providing what he needs without asking. He wonders if this call is a coincidence or if she knows something has happened. Another hitched sob.

He clenches the destroyed drawing between his fingers and whispers, “I ruined it.” 

She doesn't hesitate. “It’s alright; you’re okay. It can be fixed.” 

“It’s not—it can’t,” his voice breaks and he can’t control his own breathing. It’s erratic now, “You gave it to me and I spilled ink—now it’s ruined—” 

“Are you talking about my illustration?” 

He can do nothing but cry, and he knows it’s not just about the drawing. Scaramouche knows Nahida would send a hundred of her illustrations if he asked. But everything is too much right now and the picture was the final straw. Nahida must understand, because she doesn’t press further.

“Do you want to take some deep breaths with me?” 

Uncaring that he feels like a child, Scaramouche shakily follows Nahida’s instructions until they breathe in sync over the Akasha’s connection and his lungs don’t spasm with every breath. 

They sit in silence for a while, and Scaramouche takes what comfort he can with just her presence. When he feels ready to talk, he whispers a weakness he hadn’t wanted to speak into reality.

“I don’t think I can do this.” 

This, meaning everything. 

“You can.” 

“I can’t,” he insists, voice wavering dangerously, “Today she…I—” 

Biting through his cheek once more, he fights to keep a grip on his crumbling composure while Nahida whispers soft reassurances from the other side. When he continues, he does so with closed eyes, trying saying as much as he can before he cracks. 

“I said—I called her ‘mother,’ and she…” he shudders, more tears slipping free. “She was disgusted with it. With me.” 

Nahida is silent for a moment, before she says, “That’s not true.” 

An ugly, vicious laugh rips from his throat, morphing into a sneer before he can think twice. “Don’t tell me that,” he spits, “you weren’t there, Nahida. You have no idea how she looked.” 

As soon as harsh words leave his lips Scaramouche feels guilty—Gods, he needs to shut his mouth forever and never speak again. Look at what his words are doing for him today. 

“I’m sorry,” he anxiously starts, “I didn’t mean—”

“Shh, it’s alright,” she hushes him. “You don’t have to apologize. You've done nothing wrong.” 

Her voice is like a balm that soothes over his ragged emotions and calms his anger. “I would like you to consider something for a moment, if that’s alright?” 

Scaramouche nods before mumbling an agreement when he realizes she can’t see the gesture. 

“The Raiden Shogun of today has just removed herself from isolation, and now struggles to adjust back into humanity,” Nahida begins gently. “And when she wasn’t in isolation, before your birth…she had just lost someone she held very dear. Her other half.” 

He doesn’t know where she’s going with this, but then she asks a seemingly random question he had never put much thought into.

“Have you ever wondered why Raiden Ei gave you a male form?” 

Surprised, Scaramouche considers it for a moment but doesn’t have an answer—he thinks it’s a good question, though. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand there was a difference, for he was obviously made in Ei’s image and not of her image like the current puppet is, but the difference in their gender had never occurred to him as something strange. They were vessels created to house a celestial object; who cares what the physical form looks like? Trivial things like appearance are beneath his mother…or so he had thought. 

After a potential answer occurs to him, it makes him even more upset. 

“...I was just her test subject,” he guesses, shivering at the familiar words. He was always somebody’s test subject, in the end. 

“She never considered me as a candidate for the Gnosis,” he continues, and he hates that it makes sense when he considers the facts. Why would his creator want to rule through the body of a young male, possessing a form completely opposite from herself? There’s no other explanation—

“No. That’s incorrect,” Nahida softly replies, and he scowls. 

“What other explanation exists?” 

“Raiden Ei was grieving her twin sister. Perhaps…she could not bear to create someone of her own image, because her image is that of Raiden Makoto’s,” Nahida speculates, and Scaramouche works to understand. 

She continues, “If you were creating a vessel for yourself under these circumstances, what do you think you would do?” 

“...Create the opposite.” 

“Exactly. But, this vessel would still, theoretically, need to be the face of Inazuma. Raiden’s people are important to her, despite what her past actions may have suggested. We now know Raiden Ei was working for the good of her country the entire time.”  

Scaramouche exhales in disagreement but stays silent. 

“Too much unfamiliarity could cause mass panic; an exchange of power at that level needs to be either unnoticeable or widely accepted,” she explains, “The solution that causes as little disruption as possible would be to create a being in her image—male, and therefore different from her sister, but identical to herself in all the ways that count. A being who could be explained as a relative, a brother, or a son.” 

His eyes burn at the last word. 

“But she made me weak,” he whispers. “I don’t know what my appearance has to do with any of this—with my dismissal.”  

“You are a work of art, Scaramouche; Raiden Ei the artist. All artists, regardless of media, regardless of intent, leave a piece of themselves in their work,” Scaramouche can hear the smile in her voice; can imagine it perfectly as the fond one she uses so often with him. 

“Do you know what piece she left of herself, creating you?” 

He doesn’t want to voice it, doesn’t want to say it out loud. Scaramouche knows what his mother gave him, and he had always assumed it was his biggest weakness. He had never wondered why it was put there in the first place. 

“Emotion,” he admits, and it’s like he can breathe a little easier with this admission, oddly enough. “She gave me her emotions, didn’t she? Sadness, anger, grief…emotions that inhibit her precious eternity.” 

“And?” Nahida encourages.

“No,” he denies, knowing what she wants him to say. “She didn’t give me that.” 

“She did. And when she realized what you had, she knew you did not deserve to carry the burden she held.” 

“She didn’t have any love to give,” Scaramouche snaps. “If she did, I wouldn’t be like—like this.” 

“You are not flawed in the slightest, despite your own beliefs.” 

A single tear rolls down his cheek, one of anger, this time. “If she is capable of love, of—of love for me, why did she leave me?” 

Nahida gathers her thoughts before replying, and if he wasn’t already broken, Scaramouche would have fallen apart completely with her next words. 

“I know Raiden Ei is capable of loving you, because I see more love in you than anyone I’ve ever met.” 

He opens his mouth to object, because he is not—he cannot—

“You have spent centuries searching for your own heart, Scaramouche. In your search, did you ever consider the possibility Raiden Ei made you hers?”

It’s with this question floating through his mind, around his tears, into his heart, that he sees it. For the first time in centuries, completely forgotten in the dramatic tragedy of his own life, the brilliant feather made of pure gold. 

It lies in the carnage of his anger, fallen from the demolished wooden box. Glinting in a beam of sunlight falling through the window, the delicately crafted talisman brings forth memories Scaramouche can hardly believe he had forgotten. 

His mother, brushing the hair from his crown. 

His mother, pressing a golden gift to his palm. 

Proof of your existence, she had said, proof of creation by my hand. 

Scaramouche had hardly dared to touch it when it was given, terrified he would destroy a gift so intricate it must have taken days to complete. He had kept it safe in a velvet lined box, as protected as he could achieve until he was sure he would be able to handle it gently. His strength was very volatile; elemental emissions sporadic. 

Then his abandonment had left him so inconsolable the gift had never crossed his mind again, until eventually, the memory disappeared completely. But now that he remembers it, he wonders. 

Was it simply proof of his creation? Or could it also have been a gift of…of love— he thinks the word viciously—from an unknowing mother?

Scaramouche realizes he’s been silent for a long time, but Nahida seems content to let him work through his emotions as long as he needs. 

“Even if what you say is possible,” he says slowly, mind a complete mess, “Even if she does—if she can,” Scaramouche can hardly say the words. “Even if she loves me, I don’t know if I can forgive her for what she’s done.” 

He feels like the fight has completely drained out of him, leaning back against the wall in defeat. He’s still staring at the feather. 

“She hasn’t apologized,” Scaramouche informs her quietly, “I wasn’t expecting it, because I don’t think it’s possible—I didn’t think she cared.” 

“Is that still how you feel?”

“Yes,” he brings his knees to his chest, “Maybe. I don’t know.” 

“She has not asked for your forgiveness, but even if she had—if she does,” Nahida’s voice is strong and sure, and Scaramouche feels like it’s the only thing keeping his head above water. “You are not obligated to give her your forgiveness. In fact, I hope you do not for as long as you think she may not deserve it.” 

“However,” she softly adds, letting him sit with her statement for a moment, “If any part of you, even the tiniest piece, desires to have a relationship with her, I think it is worth pursuing. Living apart from the ones we love, no matter how buried, may be one of the worst tortures we can inflict on ourselves.”  

“But I don’t want to have a relationship with her,” he admits, frustrated beyond belief. Not with Nahida, but with his own desires. “I want her to—I want her to want to have one with me.” 

Scaramouche’s agitation rises, because that isn’t really correct either, but he can’t seem to string his thoughts together in a way that makes sense. “I don’t want to see her at all. She makes me so angry, and all I can think about when I look at her is everything that’s happened, because my life is so, so—everything is her fault.” 

Is it? It must be. How could it not be? 

“I don’t know how to explain this,” he finally hisses, groaning in frustration.

“I think I understand you, Scaramouche,” Nahida replies, “I hope I do, because I care about you very much.” 

As if he hasn’t cried enough today, his tears threaten to fall once more. 

“I would never intend to invalidate your emotions, I promise,” she says, “They are an important part of you, and, as long as I am with you, they will not go unaddressed. Not by anyone, if that's what you wish.” 

He’s silent, letting her continue.

“Archons are not, despite what they would have you believe, a symbol of perfection. All of us,” she says, emphasizing the words, “will make mistakes. Raiden Ei has made many; many of which she can not undo. She was forced into her position with little-to-no warning amidst the deadliest war our history has ever seen. She had struggled for a long time.” 

Scaramouche registers a knock at his door, but is too focused on Nahida’s words to respond in any manner. The knock doesn’t repeat. 

“Now, this fact does not excuse her actions. Despite her circumstances, she is still the Archon. She still created you, and knew the potential consequences of doing so before she began. But, and this is truly just my own theory,” Nahida explains, “perhaps she doesn’t know how to make amends because she doesn’t realize she needs to address your past with you in order to do so.” 

“You’re suggesting I go to her first, aren’t you?” he asks quietly. 

“I don’t want you to force yourself. If I am to be quite candid, I don’t think she deserves it,” Nahida says, and Scaramouche can almost imagine actual malice in her words. The corners of his lips lift in response. 

“I wish to tell you something, Scaramouche,” and her voice is back to gentle. “And I don’t want you to let this influence any decision you make.” 

He hums, a bit wetly, in agreement. 

“During our…altercation,” she says, and his stomach twists at the reminder, “I witnessed something that I didn’t understand then, but I think I understand now.” 

“About me?” 

“Yes. I don’t wish for this to be an unpleasant reminder, and I hope you can forgive me for my transgression,” Nahida’s voice wavers just a little, and Scaramouche wants to crush whatever it is that’s bothering her. 

“When I took the Electro Gnosis from you—” and, oh, that’s what she’s worried about; but he has long moved past any anger he once held. He cannot remember if he even harbored any to begin with. He thinks he should tell her that, when she is finished speaking. 

“When I took the Gnosis, you seemed distraught in a way I had not previously seen in a human before. I was confused, because your face—it…” Nahida uncharacteristically stumbles over her words, and Scaramouche is more surprised by this than anything, despite the uncomfortable twinge in his chest. 

“It was like you weren’t looking at me, or the Gnosis I was taking. It almost seemed like you were looking past us, at something else,” she hesitates, and then drives home her point. “At someone else.” 

Scaramouche drops his head back on the wall he’s leaning against, eyes closed and breathing calm. Nahida’s assumption is not entirely accurate. He is almost positive that he had not been reaching for his mother specifically in that moment, but the thing he had been reaching for was a symbol of her. 

His heart, the Gnosis, his victory, her acknowledgement. It’s all the same at the very root of everything.

Her.

“I want you to be happy,” Nahida whispers, mistaking his exhausted silence for indignation, “I hate seeing you in pain.” 

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he insists, a bit gruffly, “I’ll…I’ll be alright. Just take care of yourself.” 

Considering something for half a second, Scaramouche interrupts whatever Nahida was about to say with his own questions. “You’re okay, right? Those infuriating scholars haven’t given you any trouble, have they?” 

Her surprised laugh over his abrupt change in topic chimes over their connection. 

“Don’t worry, they’ve been perfectly agreeable,” she relays, “I haven’t had any problems at all.” 

Scaramouche hums noncommittally, his own turmoil temporarily forgotten in response to the imagined threat to her safety. 

“You would tell me if there were any issues, right?” he presses, and then, quieter, “I’m…I’m sorry I haven't contacted you yet. I wanted to, I was going to, but I just felt—” 

“Overwhelmed?” she finishes for him, and he can still hear her smile, “Apologies are not necessary; I figured as much. I wasn’t going to contact you myself until I was sure you were ready, but…” she trails off a little in thought, “Today I felt like I needed to. It was quite an interesting urge—I just followed my intuition. I hope I did not make things worse.” 

“No” he reassures immediately, “You didn’t. I’m–I’m glad you contacted me first.” 

“I’m happy, then,” she responds, “And, to answer your first question, yes, I would tell you if I was in danger.”

“Or if there are any problems,” he reminds her. 

“Any at all. I promise.” 

Scaramouche shifts uncomfortably, wanting to tell her how he feels, but extremely embarrassed to do so. Anger is such an easy emotion to live with. It fuels his actions in a way that leaves him uncaring of the people he hurts. Positive emotions, on the other hand, are much more difficult for him to outwardly emote. He wonders if that will ever change. 

“I miss you,” Scaramouche finally grumbles under his breath, falling sideways across his bed somewhat pathetically. His hair fans across the pillow and over his eyes, closed against the golden sun. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed; how late in the day it is, now. Almost afternoon. Complete meltdowns can make you lose time, he supposes. 

“I miss you too!” Nahdia exclaims happily, bringing him back to the present, “I hope we can meet soon. Perhaps I’ll visit Inazuma.” 

The idea startles a small laugh out of him. 

“As long as you don’t bring that angry general with you.” 

She laughs too, “You mean Cyno? Or Tighnari?” 

“Both of them. They don’t need to come, I can protect you.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” she says, fondly.  

As their bantering fades, they sit in silence once again. But it is comfortable now. Scaramouche feels settled. As settled as he can, at least. Nahida is the one to gently break it. 

“How do you feel?” 

He tells her the truth, “I’m still upset.” 

She hums, encouraging him to continue. 

“I feel,” he sighs. “I feel angry with her. But…I want to consider your thoughts, as well.” 

“Don’t take my explanation as the complete truth; I don’t want you to,” she says a bit too quickly, “I don’t want you to take my words as fact and then, when I’m wrong, be hurt—” 

“Are you implying I shouldn’t listen to the Archon of Wisdom, Nahida?” Scaramouche teases. 

Her silence is charged with something he can’t put his finger on, and Scaramouche sits up in alarm when he thinks it might be distress. 

“Nahida, I know you can’t be sure of everything. Even for a God, that’s impossible.” Gentler, he says, “I would never blame you for anything.” 

She sighs quietly, and it sounds a bit wet. But she also sounds relieved. 

“I know,” she says, and then after his skeptical hum confirms, “I do.” 

“Fine.” 

Silence. It’s afternoon now. Scaramouche notices he hasn’t received his second meal, but if the attendants had overheard his earlier anger and resulting…well, his episode, maybe they wanted to steer clear. It’s then that he recalls the knock on his door from earlier. He frowns, starting to rise from his seated position when Nahida calls for him. 

“Scaramouche?” 

“What?” He pauses, now standing. 

“Promise me something.” 

This feels like a goodbye, and he already hates it, even though he knows he can use the Akasha whenever he wants. 

“We’re making a lot of promises today, huh.” He mumbles under his breath, not unkindly. 

“I want you to promise me you’ll only focus on your own happiness for now.” 

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know if confronting Ei would bring him happiness—hours ago he would have vehemently denied it. Scaramouche doesn’t even really know what he’s searching for right now in the first place. But Nahida has never asked something of him that she didn’t believe he could do. After everything she’s done for him today, this is a promise he can try to keep.

He tells Nahida as much. 

She laughs softly,”Thank you. But I enjoy speaking with you. You don’t need to promise me anything in return. I want you to do this for you.”  

He takes a deep, calming breath.

“Thank you, Nahida.” 

“You’re welcome, Scaramouche.” 

“We can speak again soon, right?” He quickly asks, not wanting to hang up and deal with his own reality. But he knows she wants him to think about what she said, and as much as he hates to admit it, Scaramouche agrees that he needs to.

“Of course,” she confirms, “We can speak whenever you’d like. I’ll always be here.” 

His lips turn up, and he can practically feel Nahida’s grin, even thousands of miles away. 

“Okay,” he whispers. 

—

It’s after they’ve cut the Askasha’s connection and Scaramouche has done what he can to clean the mess he’s made that he goes to investigate the door. 

He listens for the sound of any footsteps or the rustle of clothing, just to ensure he won’t be seen when he opens it. Despite his talk with Nahida, while he is calmer now, he still feels like he’s been gutted and flayed open. He’s still raw, and doesn’t know if he can handle human interaction. 

Scaramouche cracks open the door. After a moment of hesitation, he slides it open enough to stick his head out and look around. At first, he sees nothing. Then he looks down and slides the door open the rest of the way to inspect the tray sitting in front of his door. As soon as he crouches down, he hears a voice echo from further in Tenshukaku. He quickly takes the tray inside, sliding his door shut as not to be seen. 

His first inspection leaves him confused and mostly unimpressed. It’s a pot of tea, but it doesn’t smell like his usual blend. Or rather, it doesn’t smell like the blend he’s been served thus far alongside his daily meals. 

The tea set is beautiful, he notices, a deep indigo inlaid with both silver and purple stone. The light reflects off the ceramic, and the color almost looks like it ripples in place; a galaxy that comes to life. Scaramouche is surprised that the tea is still hot, because it’s been a while since he heard that knock, but he spots the talisman responsible and almost drops the whole tray. 

It’s a simple heating talisman, commonly used for this purpose exactly—keeping food and drinks hot—but it’s the characters that make the room go cold. They’re simple, drawn with precision. The talisman is perfect. 

That’s the problem. 

He recognizes that perfect handwriting. It looks just like his. 

Scaramouche almost— almost— throws the entire tea tray out the window. If he had not just finished speaking to Nahida not even twenty minutes prior, he probably would have failed to stop himself.  But because he’s trying to be better, ugh, he simply sets the tray down and stares at it. Opening the single dessert dish reveals colorful dango, and he openly cringes in disgust. He hates sweets, especially chewy ones that stick to his teeth. 

Pathetic, he thinks to himself. Why did his mother—his creator , if that’s what he’s going to call her now—put this together? Trying to get on his good side once more? Please. And it can’t possibly be an apology. 

For lack of anything else to do, Scaramouche pours himself a cup, mentally preparing to poison himself with pure sugar. He smells it first, and is surprised to find that it smells…good, actually. He begrudgingly takes a sip, and then can’t stop himself from draining the cup. 

Scaramouche looks down in complete shock at the empty cup afterwards—this might be the best tea he’s ever tasted in his life. He absolutely loves bitter tea, but usually has a hard time finding ones that are bitter enough for his tastes. It’s not the initial flavor he’s picky about, exactly, but what remains afterwards. 

Bitter teas always have the most interesting after-tastes. 

This tea is the most bitter he’s ever had, and Scaramouche resolves to find out what blend this is in order to make it for himself. It doesn’t smell very familiar, but he will memorize it. He stops to think about who he’d have to ask, and his grip on the cup tightens. 

Scaramouche has a decision to make, and he hates it. Hates himself for even considering it. Remembering today’s events stokes the fire in his stomach and fills him with rage, but he had made a promise to Nahida. 

Doesn't he consider Nahida to be his mother, too? He had once claimed he loved her as such. Scaramouche wonders what Nahida would think if he told her about that. Her reaction would definitely be more positive than Ei’s, he’s sure. 

He should at least internalize her advice.

Kneeling in front of his messy desk, Scaramouche gazes at the objects touched by rays of sunlight stretching through his window. Three objects sparkle. He feels too much emotion. 

He’s angry. He’s upset. He’s scared. 

As Scaramouche watches golden light shine over his feather, the Akasha, and the steaming pot of tea, he makes a decision. He can't decide if it's his worst one yet.

Chapter Text

Raiden Ei has always approached new problems with a level head. Logic is the most important aspect of her decision-making process; this is the way it has always been, and this is the way it will always be. 

Or so she believes—well, had believed, until roughly four hours ago. 

Rarely does Ei need a second opinion, for her judgment is absolute. But on the rare occasion she does seek another’s viewpoint, there’s only one person she trusts to be honest. Yae Miko has never lied to her to her own knowledge—withholding and twisting information has consistently been Miko’s greatest disrespect. 

Though Ei knows Miko is not unbiased, and she is prone to influencing situations in order to fit her own agenda, Ei trusts her. 

Ei believes this situation is a delicate one. And based on her encounter, she did not handle it very well. She has absolutely no experience in this arena, so Miko’s advice is practically her only source of information—Ei will simply have to filter out the manipulation if the need to do so arises.

Currently, she’s watching her closest friend devolve into hysterical laughter and considering which course of action she should take. There are a considerable number of directions in which this situation can go, but she knows she only has one chance to lead it on the right path. While this may not be the most difficult issue she’s ever been faced with, Ei feels tension unlike anything she’s ever experienced. Is this what being a mother is? She had always assumed there would be more positive emotion involved.

Obtaining possession of a child is certainly no laughing matter, as much as Yae Miko is currently trying to disprove. 

Despite how infectious her familiar’s laugh is, Ei feels no humor. 

Ei takes a deep breath and sips her sake while she waits for Miko to calm herself. Ei can practically feel the Shogun’s judgmental presence radiating from the back of her mind—whether its cause is the alcohol or the boisterous woman before her, Ei does not know. The Shogun is likely feeling displeasure for the entire situation.

Grand Murakami Shrine is devoid of life; the other Shrine Maidens are nowhere to be found now, despite the busy atmosphere Ei had interrupted with her arrival. They’re getting ready for some sort of festival, it would seem, and Ei frowns, wondering if she has forgotten another annual event. It would not be the first time. She cannot count the number of her country’s celebrations she has missed entirely during her isolation. 

Lost in thought about Inazuma’s scheduled festivities, Ei only realizes Miko has calmed enough to speak when the Shogun pushes her consciousness to the forefront. 

Ei briefly wonders if she will ever grow familiar with the voice inside her head. The Shogun has not been particularly agreeable in the time since Ei’s own return to the physical plane of existence. The current circumstances are not aiding their fragile truce. 

However, Ei is the Archon. The Shogun must simply ‘deal.’ That is what Miko had insisted, though Ei does not entirely understand what one does to ‘deal.’ 

Raising her own eyes to lock with Miko’s mirthful ones, they simply look at each other for a moment. There’s a quiet fondness in Miko’s gaze, one that is almost indiscernible beneath her viciously playful exterior. Ei adores seeing that emotion, no matter how buried. She looks for it every time they meet. 

However, if she’s pinned beneath that stare for too long, Ei finds herself agitated. She thinks agitated is too negative a word for the emotion, but she has yet to label a more appropriate one to the warm, flinchy feeling that grows inside her when she looks at the woman. 

That emotion used to be her only unknown, but in light of the day’s events, a new emotion has joined. The emotion Ei feels when she looks at Scaramouche. 

“Well,” Miko finally starts, distracting Ei from her rumination. Dabbing the corner of her eye with a handkerchief, she continues, “I must say, I am a little surprised it took you this long to realize the nature of the puppet’s perceived relationship with you. How very unobservant. It’s rather unlike you.” 

She laughs again, cheeks lightly flushed with both mirth and alcohol. Perhaps their choice of drink is not appropriate considering the subject matter. 

Ei frowns at her words. “You knew all along?” 

“Of course I knew. That prototype’s simpering dependence could signify nothing else. I’m simply surprised you never realized yourself.” 

Ei brushes off Miko’s unflattering word choice regarding her boy’s emotions towards herself. “You never mentioned it.” 

Miko hums noncommittally, pouring another bowl of drink. “It was never relevant.”

“He has considered me his mother his entire life, Miko. Relevancy is irrelevant. If I had known—” 

Miko raises a brow, unabashedly interrupting her Archon, “What would you have done, had you known? Raised him? Coddled him?” Her tone suggests these ideas are laughable. “He is a failed prototype, Ei. This is what you considered him. Nothing more.”

Miko’s expression hardens as she sets down the porcelain dish. Rarely does Ei witness her so serious. “You were in no state to care for a child at the time. You were hardly caring for yourself.” 

Ei shifts in her seat, slightly uncomfortable but composed enough to only allow a slight furrow to her brow displaying her displeasure. Miko does not speak falsely, Ei can admit that to herself. Grief had led her down the path to prototype creation, and Scaramouche had been unlucky enough to enter the world at the height of Ei’s emotional breakdown. She had created the boy in an act of desperation—and the resulting puppet had been perfect in all areas but one. 

It was an unfortunate coincidence the one condition her puppet failed to embody was the very condition Ei was looking to erase in the first place. She had wanted eternity, but so much deeper than that and much more intensely, she had wanted her sister to return. And when the desperation threatened to drown her completely, Ei had wanted to lock away the emotion that grieved for her family. There had been only one place to put it, and she had not even realized she had done so until it was too late. 

She still cannot remember the full process of Scaramouche’s creation, but Ei knows it was her own turmoil that had allowed the mistake to exist at all. 

By the time the Shogun had been created, Ei had learned. She had meditated for weeks before building the Shogun’s consciousness, and her methods worked. The new puppet had been completely emotionless. 

Ei dislikes this thought. She has always known it was her own error that led to Scaramouche’s vessel being unfit to rule—it could be nothing else. It certainly was not his own fault he was created. 

The word mistake rings in Ei’s mind, and she is suddenly hit with a revulsion to the word that is so intense the small porcelain dish cracks in her grip. Alcohol drips to the tablecloth. She can sense Miko’s questioning gaze, but cold has already begun spreading through her chest. Indignation and fury at herself and her own actions rise inside her. Ei doesn’t intend for her next words to be so sharp, but a hint of steel laces her tone beyond her control. 

“I was not indisposed, Miko. It would not have been beyond my ability to handle the boy.” 

“A child is not something you can just deal with, Ei,” Miko replies, raising a brow. “Are you forgetting the actions you took immediately upon completion of the Shogun’s vessel? If you need a reminder—” 

“I do not need a reminder,” Ei sighs, “But perhaps—” 

“No,” Miko interrupts again, and Ei can only feel wry fondness for the repeated disrespect. Her anger fades, and Ei feels a thick layer of passivity calm her mind once more. She is working to break through the apathetic wall she had built around herself in isolation, but it is a slow process, and she will retreat behind it seemingly at random beyond her own control. When the emptiness rises within her, she feels nothing, and it is hard to maintain her human facade when her features freeze into indifference and her voice falls flat and monotone. 

Ei would have believed she had begun to switch with the Shogun without realizing, had she not known better. This is her own mental block, one that she created to dull the jagged edges of despair that had lived for so long inside her. Ei doesn’t know if this is something she can fix. When her emotions do break through the barrier and she is expressive, it is often an unpleasant one.  

Around Miko, however, Ei feels the impenetrable barrier become thin. She never feels warmer than when she’s with her friend. 

The Shogun bristles in the back of her mind, an antithesis for Ei’s own emotion. The Shogun is not pleased with Miko’s interruptive behavior, and Ei is abruptly reminded of Scaramouche’s own indignation on her behalf, berating that attendant who had been too fearful to remember himself in the wake of his Archon. 

Ei’s lips slightly lift at the memory before she can stop them. This does not go unnoticed by her friend, despite how faint Ei’s smile might be. 

“There is no perhaps, Ei,” Miko is saying, “You were unfit to care for a child. And, honestly, how do you think his dependence on you would have been received by yourself? In your search for eternity, you hardly ever listened to me, let alone a discarded puppet. You were very single minded.” 

Ei considers her words. Recalling her past always leaves an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach, and she hates the sensation. The fear of feeling unsure in both herself and her morals had been the primary reason she created these puppets to begin with. Naturally, Ei supposes, her hastily made decisions would come back around and inconvenience her. Such is the way of life. 

Not that she considers her boy an inconvenience. Son, Ei reminds herself. She must familiarize herself with the word.

“I understand,” Ei says, watching sakura petals swirl through the air. One drifts to rest on Miko’s ear, and Ei softly smiles again when the pink appendage flicks the petal away. Her smile falls as she accepts her accusation. “I know you speak the truth regarding my behavior.” 

“Hardly a surprise,” Miko starts to smile, but Ei narrows her eyes.

“I can’t help but recall that despite your own apparent clarity of the situation at the time, you had still suggested I dispose of the boy. Permanently.” 

Miko does not look chastised at this accusation in the slightest. Her grin seems to grow, if possible, displaying sharp white canines. “Perhaps it is a blessing, then, that you did not take my advice. We can leave that in the past—” 

“Miko,” Ei’s voice is harder. She is suddenly tense with an emotion she doesn’t understand. “You do not hold any schemes of his… disposal,”  Ei’s fist clenches in her lap at the word, at how uncomfortable she feels saying it, “presently, do you?” 

“I do not. I don’t hate the boy, if that’s what you’re getting at.” 

“I did not assume you held any emotion for him at all.” 

Miko accepts this statement and gazes into the distance, mulling over a reply. When she turns back to Ei, her eyes appear softer. Ei cannot tell if it’s a trick of the light. 

“I often wonder if I did the right thing, all those years ago,” she admits. “Letting him leave Tenshukaku alive. Even months ago, when I gave him the Gnosis—afterwards I had wondered if I should have simply disposed of him then and there.” 

Ei startles at this admission and sits straighter, the foreign and uncomfortable emotion coiling inside her unbidden. She doesn’t know what it is, but the idea that Miko harbors any desire to kill the boy makes it stronger. Before Ei can speak, Miko continues. 

“This is not because I dislike the boy. You had considered it a mercy to let him go—to let him have ‘free will’ and wander uncontrolled. You mentioned you felt as if you owed him something, didn’t you?” 

Ei nods, frowning. “I did, at the time. I still partially see it this way. In truth, I do not know what went wrong. The boy despises me, despite the freedom I gave. If he did truly consider me his caretaker, why did he not return to me?” 

Miko snorts out a laugh, and the inelegant sound shocks them both. She gently coughs and smooths over her robes. “Pardon. But, Ei, if the boy truly considers you his mother, ‘letting him go’ is basically abandonment in his eyes. Your intentions, which may have been benevolent, do not matter.” 

Disgust with herself, similar to how Ei felt during the boy’s confession, rears inside once again. 

Miko rests her face on a palm and absently runs a sharp pink fingernail around the rim of the sake bowl. “I know how my own past actions appear, but you witnessed the prototype’s turmoil. You witnessed his anger. You were the cause, Ei. Don’t you think putting him out of his misery could also be considered a mercy?” 

Ei purses her lips and uncharacteristically runs her fingers along her temple in agitation, staying silent. 

“I do not want to make accusations, but—” Miko says, “I was the one who spoke with him during his return to Inazuma. He did not seem of sound mind. I had hoped that acquiring the Gnosis would mend his mental state, but it only seemed to drive him closer to insanity. Truthfully, I wouldn’t be surprised if his entire plan had simply been an elaborate attempt to end his own life.” 

Ei stands and begins pacing, an unfortunate habit she cannot seem to break. She rejects this hypothesis completely—she hardly gives herself time to consider the possibility. 

“You believe he may wish to cease existing? Even now?” And this…no. No. This cannot—Ei will not let that happen. The severity of these feelings are unexpected enough to halt her in her tracks. 

“Perhaps not presently. I feel if the boy wanted to erase himself, he would have done so already. However, I would assume your rather explosive interaction earlier today did not aid in mending his fragile state of mind.”

Ei resumes her pacing, frustrated. “I do not know how to address that.” 

“Apologizing, perhaps?” Miko says, tracking Ei’s movements with her eyes, “Although, he may wonder why you haven’t also addressed your past actions and behavior towards him.” 

Ei starts to speak but stops as Miko suddenly straightens and pins her with the sharpest stare yet. 

“Ei,” she says, voice hesitant. Ei frowns at the shift in her attitude. 

“Yes?”

“You have not yet told me of your own intentions.” 

“That is what I came here to ask for your assistance with,” Ei says.

“You misunderstand me—the boy considers you his mother. Do you intend to adopt him and consider him as your son?” Miko asks, expression unreadable. Ei is taken aback, as she truly cannot tell what the woman is thinking. 

She considers the question. The answer is yes, of course. Ei knew that immediately. The second Scaramouche had called her ‘mother’ she had known. In that instant, the world as she knew it had been irrevocably changed. 

But Ei knows she must truly ask herself if she’s ready and able to follow through with such a bold claim. She doesn’t remember much of her own mother, memories faded with time, but she does recall an overwhelming feeling of safety and security. Her most vivid memory is mostly sensation, but she recalls pure contentment and peace wrapped with her twin in the arms of their mother. Ei wonders if she could ever be such a figure to Scaramouche, now. 

Can she replicate these emotions in the boy? How does he see her? He had explicitly said he hated her in the same sentence he had called her ‘mother,’ which, by default, is someone who you do not hate. Ei closes her eyes against the headache of the contradiction.

“Yes, Miko. I intend to call him my son.” Ei speaks clearly and firmly, unwavering in this decision despite her uncertainty with herself. She realizes that this is the first time she’s said the word aloud. It makes it real. This is deeply pleasing for her. 

Miko says nothing for a long while, eyes distant and expression detached. Ei would be worried, if not for her own habit of thinking so deeply one might disassociate. Miko had always let Ei work through her thoughts in peace, so Ei offers the same courtesy. Her chest feels tight as she waits for her friend’s reaction, and it's an unfamiliar sensation. She wonders where this anxiety is borne from. Surely not from Miko’s opinion on Ei’s own decision. 

Finally, Miko smiles, and unlike her usual mirthful grins, this one is small and private. “Of course you do, Ei,” she says, and Ei can sense nothing but warmth. “I would expect nothing less from you. Perhaps I should send the Traveler a gift.” 

Ei blinks, wondering if she had missed part of their conversation.

“Whatever for?” 

Miko laughs. “For bringing you back to me, of course. You were lost for a long time, beyond my reach and influence. I am happy you have returned to me.” 

Ei feels heat bloom in her cheeks, much to Miko’s enjoyment. She should have never given the Shogun such a reactive sympathetic nervous system. The idea was to keep her vessel as human as possible to appease her citizens, but around Miko, it’s as if she has no control over it at all. The restless urge to begin pacing in front of the table once more is swiftly internalized and suppressed. 

“You will help me with him, then?” Ei asks. 

“Of course I will.” 

“And you will advise me on what to do next?” 

Miko hums, and raises the sake dish. She peers at her Archon, who she thinks rather fetchingly resembles a frazzled parent. Miko smiles.

“I have some ideas, but I think we may need more alcohol…”

—

Scaramouche paces in front of his bedroom door. He’s going to wear the path of his anxiety into the tatami if this continues. 

It has been three days since he saw the Raiden Shogun. She had not come for him again, and had not sent any messages either. Besides the tea that had been delivered three nights ago, which he can only assume was some sort of placating offering, he has had absolutely no contact with her. Scaramouche had been relieved, at first, for the distance. He had expected it and used it to compose himself. The memory of his inability to control his tears still flushes heat across his cheeks. 

But as the second and third day passed, he realized that she wasn’t going to come at all. And, yes, perhaps he should have expected that. It doesn’t make it hurt any less, though. And it certainly does not prove Nahida’s claim that the Shogun feels something for him. 

Scaramouche knows that if he is going to speak with her, he needs to be the one to seek her out. It’s completely terrible because he doesn’t want to see her and the idea of initiating an interaction is practically more upsetting than stubbornly sitting in this room until he dies. 

However, he had made a promise to Nahida to chase his own happiness. He doesn’t really know what that is at the moment but a promise is a promise and he would rather shatter his body into a million pieces then break one he made to her. 

Over the course of the last seventy-two hours, Scaramouche had done a lot of inner–searching. Did he find an answer? No. Did he frustrate himself further? Yes. Did he start crying again? 

Maybe. 

But he must digress. 

He spoke with Nahida a couple more times, and it was helpful, he supposes. Scaramouche knows she can’t make these situational decisions for him, though, so he hasn’t engaged her in much discussion regarding his confrontational plan. She seems content to let him work his way through it on his own as well, which is rather frustrating but necessary. 

It’s not going to be easy, he knows. It’s more likely than not his emotions are going to interfere with anything he does, and it’s even more possible that the object of his ire is going to be more hindrance than help. He will probably fight with his mother again. However, Nahida is convinced Scaramouche only has one single angle of the picture and is missing an entire part. Namely, his creator’s view of the situation. 

Scaramouche is going to find out the woman’s true feelings even if it kills him. He’s not doing this for her, he stresses, but for himself. It was like pulling teeth, to admit that to himself. And this time, when it’s over, it will be over. There will be no more turmoil, no more chasing after her, no more trying to prove himself. No matter what he is given, he will take it as it is. He will accept it. This will be the last time he tries. 

Scaramouche has decidedly not thought about what he will do when it is confirmed Ei does not care about him. He’s afraid he already knows. He’s afraid he’s already resigned. The emptiness within him is too deep for him to survive on his own. And when the time comes, Nahida can never find out. She would blame herself. Scaramouche does not know what he’s supposed to do to prevent that. He loves her with everything in his body. He would do anything for her. 

Scaramouche has never once thought that Nahida does not have the ability to understand something. He would simply be wrong. She is the Archon of Wisdom, the true Archon of Wisdom. She is likely the most intelligent being in Teyvat, with more knowledge at her disposal than the human mind can physically comprehend. She is practically omnipotent, and omniscient.  But privately, just to himself, Scaramouche wonders if she really knows the extent of his suffering. Because he is not a God. Created by one, yes, with divine abilities and a purpose to serve one. But Dottore was not successful in making him a real one—he can’t be a real one. 

Scaramouche wonders, sometimes, if there is anyone who can truly understand him. Surely not the other puppet. Are they the only two of their kind in the world? Who else would have the capacity for acknowledgment? 

And Nahida… is a God. And Gods—though they look human, though they act human, they are separated by power in a way that makes them untouchable. Scaramouche thinks that even Nahida, who is so young and new to her position, does not realize the difference in which she sees the world. It’s not possible for her to see the world like him, because even when she had no power at all, she had still been borne from the remnants of the previous God, who had been one of the most powerful in existence. 

He remembers, all those months ago, the moments in which her human facade would slip, and her eyes would glow with a power so otherworldly something within him shied away on instinct. 

It had never been like that with his mother, when he would feel echoes of her power. Perhaps because it was her own celestia-given power that had created him. Whatever the reason why Scaramouche feels Nahida’s aura stronger, those moments would only emphasize the difference in their levels; the difference between a real God and a false one. 

And Scaramouche has been alive for much, much longer than Nahida. The current version of her, anyway. The emptiness within him has been growing for longer than many human life cycles. This is why he fears that she won’t understand his reasoning for doing something drastic. Because it’s not about her, it’s about him. 

He’s been suffering for so long. 

So, yeah. He’s been searching for his own happiness. Conditional happiness, but it’s the only one he knows.

A knock at the door rips him from his dark thoughts. 

Breakfast. 

Scaramouche does not feel ready. This is what he’s been waiting for all last night and this morning, after he made the decision, but he really wants to do nothing less than open that door. 

However, he has not survived this long from shying away from every potentially damaging situation he comes across. So, he shakes off the foul mood that he had sunk himself into, and before he can make a tactical retreat with his tail between his legs, Scaramouche grits his teeth and sets his face into the expression he knows used to frighten his subordinates the most. He slams the door open.

“Take me to the Raiden Shogun.” 

Silence. 

Yae Miko smiles innocently at him. 

…Really?

Scaramouche is going to scream. This is the worst deja vu ever—why do they even have attendants in Tenshukaku if they are not going to use them?

As if the universe is really just trying to fuck with him, he spots the same attendant from three days ago nervously shifting behind Yae, looking significantly more afraid of her than he had of his mother. 

Scaramouche can only emphasize with that for a split-second before his mind catches up with the situation and he goes for the door, snarling when Miko slams a hand on it at the same time he does. Like his mother, she is preventing the door from being closed, but unlike his mother, her smile is predatory instead of serene. 

Despite how hard he tries, the door does not budge in her grip. Curse these women. 

Scaramouche had not tried to rip the door from his mother’s hold when she had come for him, not seeing any point in it, but if he had, he would have given up the moment he realized she was stronger than him. However, unlike in that situation, Scaramouche is absolutely not against using violence to force the door closed now.  Miko definitely knows Scaramouche has simply been waiting for the chance to go at her, because before he can even reach for his elemental energy she's holding his vision in her hand.

He blinks, staring at her for a moment, before looking down at his empty chest in delayed shock. When he looks up, prepared to switch to physical violence, he barely catches the graceful edge of her robe flitting around the corner down the hall. 

Time seems to stand still for a moment as Scaramouche and the attendant stare down the empty hallway after her. The moment is broken when the man slowly turns to face Scaramouche, horror drawn into every line of his face. He’s not even holding a breakfast tray. 

Scaramouche isn’t sure what his own face looks like, but it’s enough to immediately send the man to his knees in fear. Before he’s even fully on the ground Scaramouche is gone, abandoning all decorum and bolting down the hall, giving chase to the infuriating woman.

“Hey!”

—

The man kneels outside the empty room for a while, until he’s sure that neither the frightening child nor the dangerous pink priestess are coming back.  

He collapses, laying sprawled on the wooden floorboards. 

The Raiden family is terrifying. He doesn’t get paid enough for this. 

Chapter Text

Scaramouche flies down the hall, chasing after Yae Miko. She took his vision— his vision, the only proof he has of his rebirth. It’s proof of everything he’s endured, all the sacrifices he’s made, and everyone he’s lost. But most importantly, it’s proof that he’s more than just a puppet. 

His face twists with rage. She can’t possibly have any idea of what it means to him. Nobody, nobody will know the full extent of his emotions towards this. And she just—

He runs a little faster. Every time he turns a corner, it seems as if she’s already flitting around the next one. He would be terribly confused if he couldn’t practically taste the electricity in the air. What a cheater, Scaramouche can’t help but think, but then almost smacks himself for it, because this is not a game. 

“Come back here!”

His demand’s intensity is slightly lessened with a yelp of surprise as he skids too sharply around a corner and loses his footing. Expletives fly out of his mouth as he stumbles straight into a decorative katana display. The wooden stand topples over, and he barely registers the searing pain as the razor sharp weapon slices through his clothing and carves into the meat of his arm. 

He’ll heal. He always does. 

He doesn’t question why such a weapon was sitting out in the open for anyone to accidentally kill themselves with, because—well, he definitely would have done the same thing in his own home. Hardly delayed, Scaramouche pushes up from the ground and continues his chase. He hasn’t been paying attention to his surroundings, which, in hindsight, was not his smartest move, because the twisting hallway suddenly ends in a grand set of double doors. 

He barely has the time to register his location before he slams into the room, catching the attention of everyone present. Coming to an abrupt stop, he braces himself on his knees for a moment, dizzy with adrenaline. A flash of vibrant pink catches his eye, and Scaramouche makes an aborted move to dart over to the woman, before his mind catches up with him and he pauses, taking in the room. 

As always, his gaze gravitates towards his mother first. Just minutes ago, he had been demanding her presence, but now—

Their eyes meet, for just a second, before he’s forced to look away. Scaramouche thinks about Nahida, he thinks about the Traveler, he tries to think about anyone other than the woman in front of him. It’s been three days, and he’s still raw. His eyes burn. 

Ei had been standing near the head of the table—and, oh, he thinks, surprise cutting through his growing hysteria. There’s actually a real dining room here; he had never known one existed. He had not eaten regular meals until after his abandonment. In fact, he had never eaten at all, discounting the single dish his mother had prepared for him to test the functionality of his digestive system. He often wonders why she had given him taste buds if he was not going to use them. 

He’s thankful for them now, of course, as he had taken cooking as a hobby quite some time ago…but nobody needs to know that. 

His mother starts to cross the room towards him from her place next to Miko, where she had been previously frowning at something in her hand. Frowning is perhaps too harsh a word, Scaramouche thinks, because one wouldn’t notice the downturned lips or narrowed eyes unless they had been studying her expressions for years. Even then, it would be almost impossible. 

He isn’t sure if he is pleased or furious at his effortless ability to read the woman. 

Scaramouche forces his attention back to Yae Miko, who is leaning on one of the high-backed chairs. She smiles at him, and he swears he can see the glittering hue of her kitsune tail swishing back and forth behind her—pleased, as if the fox has caught her prey. Hating how cornered he feels, Scaramouche’s lips pull into a snarl and he is about to begin yelling when he’s rudely interrupted. 

“Oh Gods!” an attendant gasps, and Scaramouche realizes he has a bigger audience than he previously thought. 

The small group of people seem to have been in the middle of preparing the dining room for a meal, disturbed by Scaramouche’s abrupt entrance. 

A girl he doesn’t recognize practically teleports to his side, hands outstretched as if to catch him should he fall. Scaramouche genuinely has no idea what prompted that response so he just stands, unmoving, and glares at her from the corner of his eye. 

She ignores his attitude and frantically asks, “Are you alright?” 

At this point, the other attendants have come closer, circling around him and blocking access further into the room. His skin crawls. 

“What do you think you’re doing—” he snaps, taking a step back, but someone yells over him, “Kyouka, get the bandages!” 

“Please,” another woman placates, gently taking his arm, “come have a seat. You’re bleeding—” 

Scaramouche rips his arm away from her and looks down to see what all the fuss is about. He’s confused for a moment, wondering where all the blood is coming from—and now that he’s thinking about it, he does feel the throbbing ache of his arm, feels the liquid run warm and tacky along his limb and down to the floor. There’s a sizable puddle of it there next to him, but the sight does little to inspire fear. It surely looks worse than it is. He can feel the wound clotting already. 

No wonder they had all looked scandalized at his entrance. 

One of the women returns with white rolls of bandages in her arms, but Scaramouche doesn’t want or need their help, so he takes another step backwards. 

“Don’t,” he warns, practically baring his teeth as his back comes close to hitting the door. 

He’s starting to feel claustrophobic, and he's not bothered by the blood, he’s not, but images of sharp silver tools, blinding lights, and cold metal assault his memory unbidden. In a sudden, fierce desperation to lock those memories back up in that dark corner of his mind, Scaramouche grips his injured bicep and squeezes, digging his fingers into the wound and using the burning pain to ground himself. 

“Oh, please don’t!” an attendant cries, pulling his wrist in an attempt to remove his hand. She doesn’t register his harsh flinch, and moves closer. “You’ll make it worse!” 

Seconds before Scaramouche’s palm meets her chest in an instinctual reaction to escape touch while he’s in pain, he’s saved. Relatively, at least. 

“Move aside.” 

The attendants freeze at the sound of their Shogun’s voice cutting through the distressed clamor. They don’t look at her, reluctant to leave Scaramouche bleeding, but his mother begins slowly advancing. Her eyes flash a dangerous violet when the attendants don’t move. 

“I will not ask again.” 

They’re gone so fast Scaramouche almost has the mind to be impressed. Perhaps they were all blessed by the wind, he muses to himself. However, that thought reminds him of why he’s here in the first place, and all his fury comes straight back. 

Scaramouche whips to face Miko, and snarls, “Where is it?” 

“Scaramouche,” his mother starts, and he is as reluctant as the attendants to look her in the face. Her voice is even, but not flat. “You’re hurt.” 

“It’s nothing,” he grumbles after a beat of tense silence, still glaring daggers at Yae Miko. He searches her figure but doesn’t see his vision anywhere. This is distressing, because he can sense it nearby. 

“Allow me to look—” Ei insists, moving towards his arm as if to lift the sleeve, but he steps back, hits the door, and slides sideways along the wall to escape her touch. 

“I said it’s nothing,” he defensively snaps, “I didn’t even notice it.” 

“You did not?” Ei questions, sounding surprised. “You should have. Your nervous system is flawless.” 

Scaramouche sneers as his face heats at the unexpected compliment. Is that even a compliment? Is he really going to take anything remotely praise-like from his mother and clutch it close to his chest?

“Like you would know,” he spits without thinking, trying to suppress his flush. 

His mother frowns, barely, eyes still trained on his dark red sleeve. The bleeding is still sluggish from where he had previously disturbed the clotting wound. 

“I would know,” she says, either not catching the bite in his tone or simply completely ignoring it, “I am the one who created you.”

He chokes on nothing, face flaming. His eyes are burning again. Scaramouche is overwhelmed, now, and instinctively pulls at the thread of power lacing through his body. He needs to channel this emotion somewhere else or he’s going to begin trembling, he knows it.  

His vision glows to life in his mother’s hand, and his anxiety-ridden anger swiftly turns to apprehension. He tries not to feel the cold bite of fear take hold in his stomach, but he’s not very successful. 

“What are you doing with that?” he haltingly questions, practically forcing the words through his teeth. He still refuses to meet her eyes. Had she ordered Miko to steal it from him so she could take it away herself? Is she angry about his outburst? Is she—

Bile rises in his throat as an image of being stripped from his power and sliced in two with Musou no Hitachi plays behind his eyes. Has she finally decided it would be easier to rid herself of him, permanently? 

“Oh,” Ei says, seemingly snapping out of whatever trance she had been in looking at his arm. “Miko handed this to me. I was not sure what she was doing with it—she had gone to invite you to dinner tonight.” 

His mouth drops open. 

“Did someone… cut you?” His mother questions. She narrows her eyes as if this possibility is simply unbelievable to her. 

He barely listens to her, staring at the vision, and misses the subtle tensing in her shoulders and static that fills the room. She offers him his vision when he continues to eye it, and he snatches it from her hand the moment it’s offered. The cool metal immediately soothes some of the fire in his blood as his power returns to him. 

He ignores the electricity that scatters across his knuckles. 

When her question registers, he scoffs, slightly placated with his returned vision. “Of course not.” 

“What happened, then?” 

Scaramouche really, really takes a moment to consider what the probability would be for a successful escape from this situation. The result is not so pleasing, so he braces himself and admits, “The katana in the hallway.” 

Miko raises her hand to her mouth in a poorly-concealed laugh. He wants to sink into the floor. 

“I see,” his mother says. “How did the blade injure you to begin with?” 

Scaramouche finally looks up in frustration. 

“Why do you care?”

Silence drags on and on as Ei just looks at him, expression completely blank. With each passing second, Scaramouche comes closer and closer to snapping completely. Why was he seeking her out again? Why does he always return to her, when these emotions, the same, vile ones he is filled to the brim with now, are always drawn up by her? 

Finally, Ei presses her lips together and folds her hands at her waist. 

“Please allow someone to tend to the wound,” she asks, continuing over his protesting noise, “It does not have to be me. Have one of the attendants see to it. It would not do well to let an injury like that sit. I will have glass put over the display cases—that would be for the best.” 

As she continues on, ignoring his question, Scaramouche asks himself if he’s finally found the answer he’s been searching for. With each word that falls from her lips, he’s more and more convinced that he has. Dark, cold resignation plants a seed in his stomach. 

“And then,” she continues, voice brightening. “We will have dinner.” 

He’s too cold to care, anymore.

His eyes do not burn. 

—

It’s much later when it happens. 

Scaramouche had sat through his wound being stitched, still as a statue. He had not flinched when the gentle woman administered the numbing injection, and answered honestly when she asked if it had hurt. 

“Yes,” he said, gazing into the distance. He’s wondering what he should do about Nahida. 

“Many people hate the medicine more than anything—you have a very high pain tolerance.” 

“I was tortured. Pain doesn’t bother me.” 

Scaramouche’s words only catch up to him when the tugging of the threaded-needle stops completely. He jolts a little, coming back to himself and turning to stare wide-eyed at the woman, who is staring horrified back at him. 

He had never admitted that to anyone aloud before. He blinks when he feels nothing, where he should have felt something. He supposes it doesn’t matter. 

There’s a moment of silence, before tears well in the woman’s eyes and she moves away to compose herself. He’s a little annoyed, sitting there with a half-sown gash in his arm, but knows that admission might be a lot to dump on a person. Emotionally. 

She turns back to him, face set and determined. Her eyes are red-rimmed. “I’m terribly sorry,” she shakily says, gently taking hold of his arm once more. “I hope they’re dead.” 

Scaramouche barks out a laugh before he can stop it, staring incredulously at the gentle woman who can hardly be older than the Traveler. It is not often he meets people who can say things like that and actually mean it. 

“What’s your name?” he asks, unexpectedly amused. 

“Azumi,” she replies with a small, teary smile, and he smiles back dryly at the irony. Safe residence. Something that’s always just out of reach. 

“What’s yours?” she hesitantly asks after a moment, when it’s obvious he isn’t going to say anything more. 

“Scaramouche.” 

“Oh,” she nods, most of her focus back on his arm where she is tying off the thread. As she begins to wrap the bandage, he can see her staring at the mark on his neck, previously hidden with the high cut of his clothing, now revealed. Scaramouche knows it looks metallic purple under the light. 

“Are you,” she stops, and seems unsure if she’s allowed to ask whatever it is she wants to know. 

Unwilling to patiently wait for her to get over herself, Scaramouche raises an eyebrow, prompting her to speak. He doesn’t want to be here anymore. 

“Are you…related to the Shogun?” 

He stares at her, expressionless, emotionless, and he knows without looking that he’s never resembled Ei more than he does now. 

“No,” he says, watching as Azumi expertly knots the bandage in place, already discolored with blood. “I’m not.” 

And for the first time, he thinks he means it.

—

It’s much later when it happens. 

Scaramouche sits through the most awkward and uncomfortable dinner of his long, long life. It’s the three of them: him, his mother, and Yae Miko. He spends about half the time glaring at her and the other half pushing food around his place and glaring at that instead. 

He absolutely does not engage with his mother, who seems to be trying, for once, to engage with him. 

If she is annoyed with his icy exterior and clipped responses, she does not show it. 

Meaningless talk passes around the table. Perhaps he would actually be interested in the affairs of Inazuma’s budding engagement with Liyue and Mondstat, if he were in quite possibly any other circumstance. He doesn’t think it will matter much to him anymore. 

“You already sent a request for his services?” Miko is asking incredulously, raising a brow at his—at Ei. 

“I did,” she replies, “Is something the matter? I thought we already discussed this.” 

Perhaps if he had been paying more attention, he would have seen it coming. 

“There’s nothing wrong with that—he’s very talented, of course,” Miko replies, placing a calming hand on her Archon’s. “I recall his work during the Irodori Festival. However, perhaps it was simply a little—” she glances at Scaramouche, who is ignoring them and does not notice. “A little preemptive.” 

Ei hums, glancing at the sulking boy as well. She has no idea what he’s upset about, but she assumes it won’t matter for long. “It will be alright.” 

—

When it happens, he is unprepared. 

“You were blessed by the Anemo God.” 

They’re sitting in the highest receiving room at the top of Tenshukaku, having relocated in a more intimate setting for their final course and tea. Scaramouche had followed along blindly, uncaring of where they took him. His foul mood had soured and rotted away not so long ago, and he absently thinks the emptiness might feel worse than the cold had. The grain of the tatami bites into his knees where he sits, but he hardly feels it. 

Numb. 

Miko had left them alone, citing some project she had to attend to. He hardly noticed. 

“I guess,” he dully replies to her statement. 

“I’ve met him many times,” she admits. “He’s an interesting character. I was surprised when I was told you received his blessing.”

Ei doesn’t sound pleased, exactly. She purses her lips and gazes out the window overlooking the ocean. The open walls allow red and gold light to make patterns on the floor through the decorative wooden shapes carved into the walls. He stares at those instead of her.

“Is that a problem?” he can’t help but ask. He doesn’t even know why he bothers, at this point. Just one more thing to disappoint her.

“No, of course not. I just—” she blinks as his head snaps up. She sounds hesitant, of all things, and it is this that re-ignites the fire within him. How dare she be the one questioning him, questioning the Gods. Fury begins to flow through his veins again, and he is just so tired.  

“I had assumed—I had anticipated that if you were to receive a vision, it would have been of my own element.” 

“I guess Celestia didn’t deem me worthy enough for it,” he scathingly retorts, glaring. “And just who is the God of Electro? Apparently, I was not chosen by her either.” 

His voice is beginning to rise, and this might be it. The final confrontation he wasn’t sure he had the strength for. But he did not live this long, through this much, to go out without a fight. 

Ei frowns and looks towards the sky, oblivious to the mounting anger of the boy beside her. “There are many factors that aid in granting a vision. It is not the Archon themselves, but rather their— my own ambition reflected in chosen holders that decides their fate.” 

“And what’s yours, then?” he sneers, hands trembling where they rest beneath the small table. “What are you so ambitious about?” 

She looks back at him, and her gaze is soft. It immediately kills the anger within him and replaces it with trepidation. She should not be looking like that, he can’t help but think, because why is she looking like that? 

“To be candid, I am not completely sure, anymore. Building somewhere safe, perhaps. For the people I care about.” 

His breath catches in his throat. She’s still looking at him like that. But, no, it’s not. It can’t, because he is not doing this again. 

Scaramouche abruptly shifts to leave, not intending to listen to another word of this, to be tempted and betrayed again—he can’t. 

And then, it happens, and with a single sentence, life as he knows it ends. 

“I simply find it strange,” she continues, gazing at him strangely, almost as if—almost like—

“I find it strange that my own child was not granted the power of Electro.” 

Scaramouche’s entire world stops, and then it ends, and then it starts again. 

The most amusing part, Scaramouche will think much later, is that he enters this new world crying. Perhaps some things will simply never change. 

He cannot draw breath. 

“I misunderstood your emotions completely. I had not previously realized how you saw me—as a parental figure,” his mother says, reaching across the space between them to gently brush the hair from his temple. “I had not realized what it was I created. A child. My child.” 

She cups his cheek in her hand. 

He doesn’t realize silent tears are slipping down his face until she wipes one away. His throat tightens around the breath he can’t seem to catch. 

“Now that I know, I want—” she begins, hesitating, lifting her other hand up to hold his wet face in the cradle of her palms. Scaramouche feels as if all the strings holding his fragile being together have been severed. He cannot pull his thoughts together, can not think past the disbeliefdenialpainangerhurtrelief love —

“I am your mother,” Ei says, brushing the tears from his eyes. His voice cracks as a sob pushes itself from his chest. Her face is soft, it is kind, it is not creased in any intense emotion but Scaramouche has always been able to read her expressions and it makes him shake, what he sees there now. 

He blindly reaches up to desperately clutch at her wrists. 

“Is this how you still see me, Scaramouche?” she asks gently.

“I—” his voice breaks on a sob, “I don’t know, I don’t—you—” 

Scaramouche can barely force words through his trembling lips, through the heave of his chest. He thinks he might be panicking, might be shattering, just like he thought he would, but he doesn’t know how that’s possible when he feels torn apart already and so…

Warm. 

His mother smiles softly at him. Her face blurs with his uncontrollable tears. Scaramouche bites through his cheek in an effort to stifle his sobs, whimpering when his mouth fills with blood and his sobbing is most definitely not stifled. 

“That’s alright,” Ei comforts, placing a gentle hand on the back of his neck. The symbol on his nape glows to life, sending warmth down his spine. She brings him close to her heart like one would a child. He goes willingly, feeling weak and weightless. Ei’s movements are a bit stiff, unfamiliar, as if this is the first time she has completed these actions. Unbidden, his heart swells. 

“I would ask something of you, Scaramouche.” 

He hiccups into her shoulder, tears falling from his eyes and staining the lilac fabric. Scaramouche wants to leave. She has not apologized to him at all—for anything. She has done more than just misunderstand. Ei still does not fully grasp what she did to him, how she was the catalyst for the horrors of his excruciating life. 

“You do not have to agree, and you do not have to answer now.” 

Ei runs a light hand down his back, soothing his trembling form and encouraging the breath he can’t seem to catch. Scaramouche wants to stay. This is everything, everything he has ever wanted. This feels like a dream, it feels like a nightmare, because he cannot imagine experiencing this and then waking up to a world in which she doesn’t even remember his name.

Scaramouche would do anything to never wake up.  

“I ask that you take your place here, with me, in Inazuma. That you stay as my child,” 

Please, he thinks. 

Please let this be real. 

“That you stay as my son.” 

He takes a breath. And then he breaks. 

Scaramouche buries his face in her neck, sobbing, a comfort he had never admitted to himself he wanted. 

It feels like anger, he had thought, mere weeks ago on the docs of Sumeru, it feels like relief. 

It is both. But it had also been something more. Something that had been there the whole time, something that he had tried again and again to cut away. 

Scaramouche has spent his existence holding his breath. Always in anticipation, always moments away from falling apart. He has never known peace.

Here, held close to his mother’s chest, for the first time in his entire life, Scaramouche breathes.

He knows that their relationship is not mended, that their conflict is not resolved. He knows he will look back at this memory and flush crimson with embarrassment. 

He knows he is not healed. 

But in this moment, in his mother’s arms, he has never felt safer. 

And for now, that’s enough. 

Chapter Text

“So,” Yae Miko begins, grinning ear to ear, “I take it the two of you had the chance to talk?” 

Scaramouche doesn’t raise his head from the table where it’s buried in the fold of his arms. From Miko’s amused tone, he knows his ears must be crimson, still visible after his mother had tucked it behind his ears during…

Yeah, he knew it. He’s absolutely horrified now. 

Yae had sauntered into the sitting room towards the end of his completely rational emotional breakdown. Scaramouche has no idea how long he sat there wrapped in Ei’s embrace, but it had been long enough for the sun to completely set and for his weeping to calm to infrequent sniffles. 

Ei had patiently held him the entire time, staying completely still and silent but for the hand she used to draw shapes over his back with the tips of her fingers. He had almost fallen asleep from the soothing action—he may actually have, if not for their interruption. 

He wants to sink into the floor. Yae is still making amused sounds from her place between them. Scaramouche had practically launched himself away from his mother when he had snapped out of his…he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to call it. 

“Miko, don’t tease the boy,” Ei says. Scaramouche can hear the small smile in her voice. 

“Apologies, apologies,” Miko replies warmly. “Is everything settled, then?” 

His mother doesn’t reply, and neither does Scaramouche. 

Because yes, she had admitted she misunderstood him, and yes, she had accepted him as her—her—

He bites his lip in an effort to keep his composure. If Scaramouche raises his head from the table, he knows his flushed face and swollen eyes will display clear evidence of his weakness. His eyes well with new tears when he thinks back to Ei’s question. 

I ask that you stay here, with me, as my son.

He lets out a shaky breath and turns his head to stare out into the ocean beyond the balcony. The moon has risen, and the silver light shines brightly on the water. A cool breeze sweeps through the room from the open walls, soothing over his hot face. 

Miko makes a questioning noise at the prolonged silence, query hanging unanswered in the air. 

Taking a deep, calming breath, Scaramouche raises his head to observe the women. Yae is looking between the two, resting her chin on her palm and idly twisting a sake bowl. 

Scaramouche blinks. Has there been sake at this table the entire time? He doesn’t recall. 

He shifts a little, eyes flitting towards his mother, who is also staring back at him. She is expressionless, but her eyes are bright. Focused. She’s waiting for Scaramouche to answer the question. 

What is his answer to her question? He already knows, but something within him pauses. But—there can be no other answer. Scaramouche may never get this chance again. This is it, the only future he’s ever wanted. The only one that had ever mattered to him. 

Right? 

“Ask me again,” he whispers, barely audible—perhaps not audible at all, to anyone who is not Ei.

Ei does not hesitate; knows exactly what he wants. 

“Will you stay with me and accept your position as my son, Scaramouche?” 

Yes, he thinks. I will. 

Joy curls inside him, warming his stomach from the inside out. She means it, she really, actually means it. Scaramouche could have never— would have never imagined this happening. Not in his lifetime, not in a million lifetimes. There’s not a doubt in his mind that this is exactly what he wants. 

Scaramouche opens his mouth, committed, prepared to accept the title he never dreamed he could have. His lips form the word—

“No.” 

…

Ei blinks. 

Scaramouche blinks. 

Miko drops the sake bowl.

Wait, what?

Ei looks caught off guard, which is something Scaramouche doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. She hadn’t even looked like that when he had called her ‘mother’ the first time. 

Yae looks dumbfounded as well, but Scaramouche is willing to bet actual Mora that nobody in this room is more shocked than himself. 

He is not lying when he claims he had opened his mouth with the full intention to say yes.

“No?” his mother tentatively questions. 

“No?” Miko demands incredulously. 

“No,” Scaramouche denies, raising a hand defensively, “wait—”

“You do not wish for me to be your Mother?” Ei asks, face pinched in confusion. 

“What?” Scaramouche cries, because what is she talking about—that is all he’s ever wanted.  “No!” 

“What do you mean, no?” Miko sharply questions, narrowing her eyes at him. “Is that not what you have been desiring this entire time? Are you telling me you have been acting like a child, all for nothing—” 

“Not ‘no’ as in, no, I do not want her to be my Mother,” Scaramouche snarls back at her, interrupting that—accurate, but he won’t admit it—insulting accusation. 

“No, as in—” he’s forced to cut himself off when he doesn't even have an answer. 

“Scaramouche,” his mother begins, and his heart twists in his chest when she looks disappointed, “you must not force yourself to accept this. That is not what I want for you—” 

“No—Mother,” Scaramouche interrupts, desperately trying to salvage this situation, “that is not what I meant—” 

 “Then what did you mean?” Miko grits out at him. 

“I don’t know!” Scaramouche yells back, tangling his fingers through his hair in distress. He can’t think, because he honestly has no idea why—

Promise me something, Nahida asks, voice thick with emotion. Promise me you’ll focus on your own happiness, for now. 

Scaramouche’s eyes well with tears again, but he is too overwhelmed to care. The two women before him have seen him in every state possible—he has no shame to fear from them. Not anymore. 

“Being your son is all I’ve ever wanted,” Scaramouche quietly admits into the tense silence, staring at the table because he cannot look either of them in the eyes. What if he had messed this up completely, what if he has lost his chance? 

He has never said this out loud before. Admitting it feels strange—feels like the end of something. 

But, what happens when something ends? 

“If this is true, then why—” 

Miko's frustrated question is interrupted with whatever look his mother sends her. Scaramouche can sense rather than see the small shake of his mother’s head, asking her familiar to let him speak. He has never seen Yae Miko this agitated before, and if he wasn’t dealing with his own inner turmoil, Scaramouche would be basking in the glow of contentedness that he is the one to cause the break in her composure. 

“You do not have to be afraid to speak your mind,” his mother gently reassures, reaching across the short distance between the two to touch his hair, before seeming to remember herself and retracting her hand. 

Scaramouche grabs her wrist anyway and pulls her hand back, needing her to understand, and angry with himself for letting this drag on as long as it has. 

He is the one in the right here—they can not be angry or upset about this. Because Scaramouche is the one who has been hurt and broken beyond all repair, not Ei and certainly not Yae Miko, who seems to be awfully offended on his mother’s behalf. 

“Listen,” he starts, glaring off to the side in embarrassment and agitation, “you—you’ve always been my mother,” his mouth forms awkwardly around the word, at saying it directly to her face.

“That’s never going to change,” he adds lamely when she doesn’t speak. Her fingers twitch between them where he still has a hold of her wrist. He studies her painted nails, studies the fabric stretched across her hand, studies the golden ring around her middle finger, all so he doesn’t have to look at her face. 

“Then, why?” she asks. Scaramouche slowly shakes his head, suddenly furious, and upset, and definitely going to cry again. 

“I can’t do this again,” he admits, ignoring the lone tear that slides down his cheek. He didn’t know it was possible to produce this many tears. 

“How do I know that I can trust you, after what you did to me?” his voice breaks in the middle of that question, but he asks it in whole. His fingers tighten around her arm, pressed into her pulse-point, where he would have felt the heartbeat on anyone else. But she does not have a pulse—she does not have a heart. 

Did you ever consider the possibility that Raiden Ei made you hers? 

He takes a breath. He looks up; looks her in the face. 

“How do I know you’ve actually changed? That…you want me?” he asks, still crying but voice strong. “How?” 

Ei does not respond for a long moment, deep in thought. 

Then she gently twists her wrist in his grip, taking hold of his hand and pressing her thumb to the center of his palm. His fingers curl around the digit immediately, completely out of his control. He doesn't notice, but even if he did, he doesn’t have the mind to care. 

“Will you allow me to prove it to you? That I am being honest, and that I want you to stay by my side?” she asks, staring into his eyes. 

“How will you do that?” he whispers, barely keeping desperation from coloring his voice. The fact that she is offering this is already—it really does say a lot, because he is certain not even months ago she would have considered this an inconvenience, if anything at all. 

This is the Traveler’s doing, he knows. The absurd streak of jealousy that shoots through him is a welcome distraction to his overwhelming anger-pain-sadness-joy. 

“I am not sure, yet.” she replies. Scaramouche starts to nod slowly in an emotion he thinks might be close to understanding. They're getting somewhere, he thinks. Slowly, but somewhere.

“But I will find a way," Ei continues. "Will you stay with me while I try?” 

And this time, when he speaks, the word comes out as it’s meant to. 

Because, yes, he can do that. 

—

“If you ever take my vision again, I swear to the Seven, I am going to—” 

Miko laughs, interrupting his snarled threat. “What will you do to me, hm? I do wonder what you think you can do—but, in this scenario, do you or do you not have the vision?” 

“Well, actually,” she continues on before he can speak, “I suppose it does not matter. The result would be the same in either case.” 

He bares his teeth at her mocking grin, and she laughs harder. 

They’re attracting all sorts of stares. Everyone on the street is able to recognize Yae Miko, respectfully bowing their heads to the Grand Priestess, only to then fall into a complete ninety-degree bow once they spot the Shogun walking behind Yae and Scaramouche. 

Scaramouche himself is attracting some attention, but most, if not all, look at him with confusion and interest. Nothing more. 

“Do you even have a weapon?” Miko can’t help but needle at him. He glares, yet dutifully follows where she leads him. They’re taking him somewhere, but he had been too distracted in his bantering with Yae, while still saving half his focus for his mother walking behind them, to ask for any details. 

There is no escort with them, and Scaramouche knows, of course, that these two women are more powerful than any outside threat could be—and he himself, despite all the drama and emotion this little claim is causing, is the Shogun’s actual son. Like, in the literal sense. While certainly not as powerful as his mother—he’s not going to think about Miko, because he can’t bear the thought that he is probably weaker—he is still fearsome in his own right. 

But still, despite all that, it makes him skittish that she had requested the escorting guards to stay behind. This is also mildly confusing, because he had not experienced this with Nahida—although she, alternatively, could not actually convince her guards to stay away. So he supposes there’s a difference, but Nahida had not enacted a Vision Hunt Decree and killed innocents and forced her country into years of isolation and—

Well. The point has been made. 

Nahida does not have enemies, and if his mother does not have enemies, he will genuinely be surprised. 

He’s not sure if anyone would dare attack the trio in broad daylight like this, in the middle of her own city, but humans can be unpredictable. So he’s keeping a wary eye out just in case. 

If anyone happens to attack Miko alone, though, he’s going to stand by and watch that with a smile. A real smirk escapes his mind to form on his lips, and Miko narrows her eyes at him. 

“Here we are,” Ei states from behind the pair. 

Scaramouche snaps out of his moment and looks up. 

Ogura Textiles and Kimonos.

He raises a brow, and spares a downward glance to his current and only outfit acceptable for walking around in public. The blue and white clothing that Nahida had made him. Scaramouche doesn’t know if the women know what this outfit is, or what it means to him, but he looks at them and sends a quick prayer to the Gods that his vulnerability is not reflected on his face. 

His mother sends him a small, reassuring smile. Two passing merchants drop the crates they’re holding in surprise. Scaramouche snaps his head to the side and glares at them for not minding their own business. 

“Oh!” the Kimono shop owner gasps in surprise once she spots their little group. There are three ladies inside: the owner herself, and two other women browsing through fabrics. A small boy and a small girl clutch at their mothers’ robes, hiding behind their legs. 

“Shogun,” the shop owner, who must be Ogura, quickly says, glancing at the other women. “Please allow me a moment to finish up here—” 

“It’s alright,” his mother replies, “We are in no rush. We did not make an appointment, so please take your time and complete your current task. We will wait.” 

Ogura flushes at the attention—the women in the stall whisper to themselves behind their hands, staring wide eyed at his mother. Miko steps forward and bends to address the children, who hesitantly peek out from behind their own mothers. 

“What do we have here?” she asks, “Perhaps a name-day celebration?” 

The the mother of the child in question makes an aborted attempt to reply, but her child beats her to it. 

“Yeah!” the little girl exclaims, stepping out from behind her mother, “we’re turning six!” She holds up six fingers with a proud smile on her face, turning to her friend. “Right, Kei?” 

She continues speaking before the boy can reply, “We’re having a party!” 

Scaramouche watches Miko happily converse with the children while the adults tentatively continue with their business. 

He turns to Ei. 

“Why are we here?” 

She gives him a quick glance, impassive gaze also trained on the group before them. 

“I noticed you did not bring much with you from Sumeru. I thought you might want new clothing.” 

He presses his lips together, eyeing the colorful patterns and Kimonos displayed around the stall. 

“Am I incorrect?” Ei questions in his silence. 

“Uh—” he eloquently starts, “Well, no, but—” 

Ei continues staring at him blankly. Frustration makes itself known within him, because how is he supposed to convey that he does need new clothing, but he does not wish to dress the way his mother dresses him—the ceremonial clothing in his closet flashes behind his eyes and he clenches his fists. He had promised himself he wasn’t going to wear those, and he intends to keep that promise. 

He decides to be honest, and grates out, “I do not want to be dressed as I have in—in the past…” 

He wonders if she will find this insulting. “I don’t like my old clothing.” 

He waits for her reply, watching her face closely. She frowns, and he’s abruptly angry about it until she speaks, and then he relaxes and is frustrated with himself all over again for making it a big deal to begin with. 

“Oh,” she says, “You mean the clothing I used to dress you in? I see—that style is very outdated. I had assumed you would speak with Ogura Mio and decide together.” 

“Right,” he mumbles, turning back towards the group finishing up. He considers his options. If he can wear whatever he wants, then…

Hm. Besides the outfit he wore during his time in the Fatui—which he hadn’t really designed, either—he had always just worn whatever he had been given. 

“Bye-bye!” the little girl calls, waving at Yae Miko as the little group finishes and steps out to leave. 

Ogura hurries over to the Raiden pair, noting immediately the likeness between the two. Shock thrums through her body as she wonders when their Shogun had a son, and how Inazuma’s population had never noticed. Can Archons even have children? Perhaps she is mistaken, and the boy is simply…well, she doesn’t know what else he could be. It is not her place to make assumptions, and it is best not to anger the woman before her, considering how the last couple years have fared. 

She wonders how she can help them, and quickly locks her awe and slight fear behind her wall of professionalism. This is her stall, they are her customers, and she will strive to create the best high-quality pieces they can be proud of. It is not often the Shogun comes into Inazuma City personally, after all! 

Scaramouche raises an eyebrow as a multitude of emotions flash across the shop-keeper’s face, settling on determination. He’s a little creeped out at the eager glint in her eye. 

“Shogun,” the woman begins, performing a flawless bow, raising a hand to her chest, “I am honored you have sought out my services. My name is Ogura Mio. How may I assist you?” 

“Yes, I know who you are” his mother says, placing a hand on Scaramouche’s shoulder that he restrains himself from shaking off on instinct. The woman twitches at the Archon’s apparent knowledge of her name. “I am here for my son.” 

Scaramouche chokes, the woman’s mouth drops open, and Miko chuckles from her place next to them. 

He thought they were waiting to announce that! Scaramouche sends a glare over his shoulder, annoyance and embarrassment sparking heat across his cheeks. They aren’t—he hasn’t—

She hasn’t apologized to him, not really, and he is still angry about that whenever he is reminded as such. And it then reminds him of the tension that stretches between them, and wonders if his mother feels that at all, or if he is the only one with unspoken turmoil and grievances. Scaramouche has assumed—expected, really, that he will have to be the one to bring up his unaddressed hurt and anger, but he has been trying not to think about it recently, with this fresh bridge fragile and newly-built between them. 

“I–I see,” the woman stammers, glancing between the pair with wide eyes. She composes herself very quickly. “Of course, Shogun, and…” 

She trails off, clearly waiting for someone to provide her with his name, and he almost snaps out his usual answer before pausing and actually thinking. 

Right, so, his current title is the one he adopted during those unmentionable years. Scaramouche narrows his eyes in thought, grateful that his mother and Yae are staying silent as well, letting him introduce himself for himself. 

He had wanted to retake that name for lack of a better one, despising all his titles equally but hating that one the least, but here in Inazuma, he is suddenly not sure if that is the wisest name to spread around. 

He had already introduced himself to a number of people as such, but has heard the whispers in the halls about the growing threat of the Fatui—and this name, unfortunately, is not so easily brushed off. It does not take a genius to connect the dots and figure out where he had adopted it from, despite his more infamous title of The Balladeer. 

This is conflicting, because this is the name Scaramouche is most used to referring to himself as—well, that and Kunikuzushi, which is equally as bad, considering the origin of that decision. 

The silence is becoming a bit tense as the trio of women wait for his response, Scaramouche decides, ears absolutely burning, to give a shortened, temporary version of a name that is not that suspicious on its own. 

“Kuni,” he forces out, glaring at the wall behind the woman. Its meaning is not all that interesting, simply ‘country,’ but…

It’s just completely humiliating, because to anyone who knows his full name, this is most obviously a nickname. And in Inazuma, nicknames are considered extremely intimate—shared with family, close friends, and lovers. But of course, the shop keeper does not know his real name. 

Naturally, the bane of his existence jumps at this opportunity.

“Yes,” Miko glides over, wrapping an elegant arm around his shoulders, tightening her grip when he attempts to shake it off, “Kuni-kun here needs new clothing. As you can see, these Sumeran ones are not appropriate for his position—” 

He sneers at Miko, elbowing her in the side to shut her up, and she doesn't even flinch. He would never admit it but that impresses him a little. His mother steps forward and lays a light hand over his nape, effectively stopping his increasingly-violent attempts to dislodge the woman with an iron grip on his shoulders. 

Scaramouche is angry, because they had not discussed his station in Inazuma, and he had not yet agreed to being publicly announced as Ei’s son. He had not even—

His stomach twists. He had not even told Nahida of what had happened, and his face heats once more with shame, because she is the one who made this possible for him. She is the one who accepted him before anyone else, she is the one who healed him and cared for him and gave him an actual reason to continue—she is the reason he left Sumeru alive. 

If she had not spoken to his mother, if she had not reassured him that he would be okay, if she had not shown him that there was still a future for him, he has no idea where he would be. 

And these thoughts make him tremble, because mere days ago he had truly been prepared to end his life. He owes her so much more than an explanation. He owes her his biggest apology, because she had been right about his mother, right about everything. 

What if she thinks that—that now he has what he wants, he’ll want nothing more to do with her? That thought is exponentially more horrifying than anything else he could have imagined. 

“Of course,” Ogura is responding to whatever Yae Miko is saying. “I will humbly do my very best. Thank you again for allowing me this opportunity.” 

She turns to Scaramouche and Ei. 

“Raiden-sama, please follow me to the consultation room.” 

Scaramouche tries to pull himself together from his abrupt plunge into despair, waiting for his mother to start following the woman. While minutes earlier he had been anxious to design his own clothing, now he finds he doesn’t even care if his mother does it. That is probably just his agitation talking, and his anxiety about unintentionally hiding all this information from Nahida—Gods, how is she going to feel when she finds out he had not told her for days—

“Raiden-sama?” Ogura asks again, anxiously shifting. 

“She’s speaking to you,” Ei says quietly, leaning close to Scaramouche’s ear and snapping him out of his thoughts. 

“What?” he asks without thinking, looking up into Ogura’s face where she is beckoning him towards her. 

“I–apologies, I had assumed since you are—” she stammers, glancing between him and his mother, “Shall I call you by another name?” 

Raiden? 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Elation streaks through his chest before he can even feel the shame of being pleased about being referred to with Ei’s title. Because to his knowledge, the only people who have been addressed as such were Raiden Makoto and Raiden Ei herself. 

For such a small thing to inspire so much joy within him—it is a little pathetic, honestly. But this is something he had never considered: the act of taking her name himself. And she hadn’t even objected to it; she had not reacted if it was anything strange at all. 

His anger of remaining unasked about this reveal is still simmering in his stomach, and his irrational fear and anxiety in telling Nahida about these developments still sit heavy on his chest, but he is warm, again, with the heat of his mother’s hand over the symbol on his neck and his new title freshly spoken into the air. 

“No,” he replies, hoping his voice is even, and not betraying any of his emotion, “that is acceptable.” 

—

Scaramouche follows Ogura to the back of her shop alone. He had not requested the other women to stay behind, but neither his mother nor Miko had made the move to follow them. Just before they had left, his mother had asked Ogura to keep the news of Scaramouche's identity to herself, for now. She had immediately agreed, promising to guard the secret, and that had calmed Scaramouche just a little. 

“It is nice to meet you, Raiden-sama,” Ogura says, gesturing for him to take a seat in front of a table covered in loose papers. “Please excuse the mess—I have been very busy with orders from Liyue due to the Lantern—” 

“It’s fine,” he interrupts, face still warm from how she is addressing him. He wants to get this over with. 

Ogura hesitantly smiles before taking a seat across from him, pulling an empty sketchbook towards herself and pinning Scaramouche with a calculating look. He blinks at the abrupt change in disposition. 

“Now, is there a specific style you desire for your clothing?” she asks, eyes raking over the clothing he wears now. “Lady Guuji informed me you need an entire wardrobe.” 

“I don’t think that will be necessary—” he starts, face creased. Perhaps he should have been paying more attention to their conversation. 

“Nonsense,” Ogura states, beginning to scribble notes. “The son of our Shogun should only have the best,” her head snaps up to stare at him in the eyes, and he barely restrains himself from jumping. Barely. 

“And that, I will provide. My family has been designing the clothing for the Imperial Palace for centuries, you know. We also serve high-noble families in Inazuma, such as the Kamado Family—” Ogura is frantically writing at this point, looking up periodically to study his figure while she rambles. He stares at her, dumbfounded and wondering where the timid woman from earlier had gone to die. 

“I already have some ideas for you, based on the Shogun’s own favored attire. Naturally, of course, you will need to choose the textiles, the coloring, the accent pieces—” she says, beginning to count a list on her fingers. 

“And—oh! We just imported new textiles from Fontaine, now that the borders have been reopened, and we are expecting a shipment of Liyue silk—” 

“Okay, wait,” he interrupts, holding up a hand. She immediately quiets and pauses in her writing. 

“I don’t really care what you make,” he starts, ignoring how her face slightly falls. “I’ll—I will trust your judgment. Just design whatever you want.” 

She blinks, and then her face breaks into a grin. 

“Full creative control?” she questions brightly, glint sparking back to life in her eyes. 

“Yeah,” he replies, “But I have some conditions.” 

“Anything.” 

“I don’t want to be covered in Inazuman colors.” 

She starts to object to this, but he talks over her. “I’m not telling you not to use them, but I want a majority of these clothes to be in neutral colors. White,” he starts listing examples, and she hurries to jot down what he says. “Blue, black. Silver. Just—just don’t make them all obnoxiously purple.” 

“And absolutely no white traditional,” he makes sure to specify, ignoring her questioning look at this oddly specific demand. 

“Got it,” she says. “Is there a specific piece or style you’d prefer me to model off of?” 

He thinks, immediately, to the beautiful wide-brimmed hat Nahida had made him. He’s not wearing it, but…

“Yes, actually. Give me a piece of paper.” 

—

When the clothes arrive at Tenshukaku mere days later, a time-frame which seems quite impossible due to the sheer number of boxes that arrive, Scaramouche pulls on one of the outfits in the privacy of his rooms and promptly bursts into tears. 

They fit perfectly, since she had had him undress and taken his measurements. While in his undressed state, she had noticed the faint markings on his body. Scaramouche had told her what they were—leaving out the part about him being an artificial being, of course. 

When she had eagerly asked to see them glow, he reluctantly complied, not really having a reason to say no and simply thankful she had left the questioning there. 

Well, it seems she had memorized the placements of his markings, as the fine material stretches across his chest and down his arms, allowing the glow of elemental energy to shine brightly through it. He flushes to find the same material stretching over his hip-bones, where the markings on his lower body reside. 

The clothing is not entirely different from the outfit Nahida had made him—which is still folded carefully with his other clothing. While those clothes had been blaringly Sumeran, however, these pieces all look like they belong in Inazuma. 

If not for the ridiculously expensive quality that marks him as a noble, one may not even take a second glance at him on the street. 

Variations of white, blue, gold, lilac—there are many colors, but the intricate drawing he had given Ogura of his hat seems to have been put to good use. Each clothing article flawlessly fits with the style of his gifted accessory. 

Scaramouche runs his fingers over the clothing, lips parting in shock as he realizes where he’s seen these designs before. They are not perfect copies, of course, and they are completely different colors, but the hanging sleeves and folded fabric of his outer layers are stitched with lines and abstract shapes, completed with carefully hand-sewn flowers—flowers identical to the ones embroidered on his mother’s clothing. 

He also realizes he’s been given golden rings to fasten the sheer cloth down his arms and around his middle fingers, also a perfect imitation of his mother’s. Ogura has evidently used his mother’s wardrobe as inspiration, and paired with the influence from Nahida’s own design, it’s the perfect combination of both. 

This makes him emotional, of course, but he is distracted when his fingers touch something that is so smooth and flowing it feels like water. 

Scaramouche pulls the regal, royal purple robes from the bottom of the box, and this is the only outfit that immediately gives him pause. The purple cloth shimmers in the light from his open windows, thick and heavy in his hands and stitched with golden thread depicting mountains, flowers, and sakura trees. 

Scaramouche is not sure what these robes are supposed to be used for, since they are far too elaborate and formal for any situation that he can think of. An idea takes root in his mind for why Ogura would have given him such an outfit, but he smothers it before it can fully form. He’s not going to think about what instructions had been given to her regarding its creation. 

Scaramouche also pulls a heavy package from one of the smaller boxes. Unwrapping the thick brown paper reveals a golden talisman, designed perfectly to sit on his chest and display his vision. There’s a small hole at the end for him to fasten another charm, should he wish. An idea comes to mind, and he’s already crossed the room and retrieved the wooden box before he can think twice. He pulls out his golden feather, and notices that yes, there’s a small clip attached to the top of the charm. 

It’s as if the feather had been created to hang there, beneath his Sumeran vision, a reminder of the two women he loves most. 

It hangs directly over his heart. 

None of these are the reasons he cries, however. He cries, because looking at himself in the mirror wearing the completed outfit, Scaramouche really does notice how much he has changed. How much he has grown. Wearing this outfit, he looks whole.

For the first time in his entire life, he feels more than just a puppet. More than just an object, an experiment, a threat. 

For the first time in his life, he feels like a person. 

Chapter Text

Scaramouche anxiously bites at his lip, worrying the torn skin with his teeth as he waits for Nahida to answer. He faintly tastes blood. A disgusting habit, he knows, but one that he has never managed to break. 

It feels like an eternity has passed before the Akasha pressed to his ear grows warmer, and he hears the gentle thrum of energy pause, a voice taking its place. His chest constricts. 

“Hello?” Nahida asks, voice cheery over the connection. “Scaramouche! I’ve been wondering about you.” 

It takes him a moment to make sound, opening and closing his mouth in hesitation. 

“Nahida,” he finally says, voice strained, “How are you?” 

There’s a brief pause over the line, and Scaramouche is positive he’s not getting away with any misdirection tonight. 

“Are you alright?” she asks him, voice firm and booking no room for evasiveness. 

Scaramouche raises a brow even though he knows she can’t see him, stubbornness hardening his own voice, “I believe I asked you a question first.” 

She sighs in exasperation (he swears it sounds fond) and replies, “I have been perfectly fine, thank you. There was a small insurgence with a group of scholars, but—” she talks louder over his spitting demand for names, “—but, it was dealt with swiftly and easily by the Mahamatra. No harm done, in any case.” 

Scaramouche hums and hopes she hears the skepticism loud and clear. 

“How are you?” she fires back the question. “Have you spoken with Raiden Ei?” 

Scaramouche allows himself a moment to take some slow and deep breaths, staring up into the inky sky at the glittering stars above. He’s sitting on the tiled roof—he had used Anemo to lift himself up here, and the pride in his chest over his control was promptly used as courage to call Nahida. 

He decides it’s probably best for both he and Nahida—and his lack of emotional stability—to just rip off the metaphorical bandage. Quick and easy. 

It ends up being neither quick nor easy; he has got to stop telling himself that. He keeps setting himself up for disaster. 

“I did speak with her…” he starts, fidgeting and shifting where he sits. He has the overwhelming urge to pace around to rid himself of all this excess anxiety, but knows he probably doesn’t have the mind to save himself should he fall off the edge of the roof. 

Nahida makes an encouraging noise over the Akasha.

“I—” he pauses, and then just blurts it out because the tension in his chest will not abate. 

“She asked me to stay,” he practically yells at her, elation and anxiety and fear about Nahida’s reaction making his head spin. “She asked me to be her son—I think, publicly, but I don’t know—” 

Scaramouche continues a quick recount of everything that’s happened, stumbling over the events, his mouth running miles ahead of his mind. With each word he releases into the space between them, miraculously, he feels lighter. Almost as if…

Almost as if he was afraid that speaking the truth into reality would destroy it; almost as if showing that he cares about what has happened would make the events vanish into thin air. But no, because he’s telling Nahida—he’s telling her about what his mother wants because it’s real and his mother actually wants this . 

“—and I said no, accidentally—” he gasps, barely breathing in his rush to get it all out, “I said no because I was still so angry, but I didn’t really mean ‘no! I just, it just came out—I was thinking about you, Nahida. So—so now we’re—” 

Scaramouche cuts himself off, realizing she hasn’t made a sound since he began speaking. It’s completely silent on the other end. His eyes stare unseeingly over the water beyond Tenshukaku. Does Nahida believe Scaramouche is going to move on forever, now that he’s finally achieved his most ambitious and desperate goal? Does she think he’ll just cast her aside, exactly like his mother had him? 

Does Nahida still love him, now that he has—now that his mother—

“Nahida?” he whispers, raising his hand to clutch at the Akasha where it sits curled around his ear. 

A quiet, delicate sniffle rings over the connection, tearing through his mind and settling heavily in his stomach. She’s crying. His heart breaks. 

Scaramouche opens his mouth to say something, to say anything, self-loathing tearing his mind to pieces. 

Anything he could possibly say is swiftly swept away in a crashing wave of confusion as a gleeful laugh chimes over their connection, briefly interrupted with a small hiccup. As quickly as it comes, his anxiety leaves, replaced by pure relief and happiness and…just a bit of confusion. 

“Oh, Scaramouche,” she cries, voice full of warmth and teary joy, “I am so incredibly happy for you!” 

He falls into a low crouch on the edge of the roof as the tension leaves his body, pressing his fingertips into the cold tile, unaware of when he had even stood up. A small, hoarse laugh escapes him, and Scaramouche breathes out shakily as Nahida continues to exclaim in excitement. 

“This is amazing—I’m so happy you were able to speak together and tell her how you feel—oh!” she says, “please, tell me everything! You mentioned you said no at first…how are you feeling now?” 

She falls into an expectant silence, urging him to speak, and he briefly clears his throat and hopes his voice isn’t as thick as it feels when he finally opens his mouth. 

“Yeah,” he says, and wants to smack himself when there’s a faint tremble in it. Maybe he should invite Dottore back here to run experiments on why he’s so quick to cry at the drop of a hat. 

“Yes,” he says, firmer this time, “When she asked me, I said no. Because–I mean, she hasn’t actually apologized to me, but—” 

Uncharacteristically, Nahida interrupts him. 

“Do I need to come down there and speak to her?” she asks, and his mouth pops open. “I will, Scaramouche, just say the word—” 

His abrupt peal of laughter interrupts her threat, and he almost tips over from the imagery of his mother being berated by an incensed Nahida. Scaramouche slaps a hand over his mouth, aware it’s very late into the evening and he’s not exactly in a private area, but he can’t muffle his amused disbelief. 

How idiotic—had he really thought so negatively of her? Of course she wouldn’t assume anything about him. She had seen him at his lowest, and never judged him for a moment. 

Scaramouche feels a pure, genuine smile pull at his lips, neither mocking or sarcastic in the slightest, as his smiles usually are. 

“I miss you,” he interrupts her now, “I wish you could come here. But you don’t have to worry—I am going to…” 

His face twists, “—I’m going to discuss it with her.” He is not looking forward to that conversation, but knows the burn of anger in his chest will never go away unless his mother actually knows how angry he still is. 

It comes and goes, that anger, at moments when he least suspects it. He’ll be washing his face, or folding his clothing, or reading one of the hundreds of books he has stashed away in his room, and the anger will come quick and lethal and heat his chest with burning fury. It will usually calm after a moment, but it never really goes away. Not completely. 

Scaramouche thinks he’ll need to bring it up sooner rather than later. 

“Why were you thinking of me?” Nahida asks at random, and Scaramouche frowns. 

“What?” 

“You said before that you denied the Shogun because you were thinking about me,” she repeats. “What were you thinking about?” 

“Oh,” he says. He had said that. 

“Scaramouche,” she says, and his ‘Nahida-in-Distress’ alarm starts ringing at the tone in her voice, “I would never assume for you to believe I don’t want you and your mother—” 

“That’s—no,” he rushes to reassure, “that’s not what I meant. I know that's not how you feel.” 

“Okay. I just wanted to make sure—” 

“Yeah, I meant—” he pauses when he accidentally speaks over her, letting her continue. “Sorry.” 

“No, please,” she encourages. 

“When I said ‘no,’” he starts after a brief moment, speaking slowly to gather his thoughts, “I was thinking about how you told me to find my own happiness. At that moment I wasn’t sure if…if she was being sincere.” 

Nahida hums. 

“I wasn’t sure if she was just saying that to–to calm me, or something, or because she felt like she had some responsibility for me,” he tries to explain. “Because she didn’t address the abandonment—” his voice wavers over that word, “—and she didn’t apologize either.” 

“I see,” Nahida says quietly. 

“I still said yes, in the end,” he finishes, voice subdued. “In a way. She told me she was going to ‘convince me.’ Whatever that means.” 

“She’s trying.” Nahida whispers back. He can sense her smile.

“I guess,” he replies. 

“No matter the outcome, as I said before, you’ll always have a place with me. Just say the word, and I will come get you.” 

A soft smile fights its way onto his face, and he can’t believe he ever doubted her for a second. 

“I know.” 

—

“Would you like to spar with me?” 

Scaramouche chokes on his tea, sputtering into his cup. Miko reaches over to pat him on the back, but he smacks her hand away with the back of his own. 

“What?” he asks, coughing. 

His mother repeats the question, looking completely unfazed.

“Would you like to spar with me?” 

Scaramouche narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Why?” he demands. 

She tilts her head to the side, “Haven’t you been practicing with your vision? I thought you might like to use it in simulated combat.” 

He raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “That’s it?” 

“I am also curious about your current skill level.” 

“Right,” Scaramouche dryly replies, “Well, no. I don’t have a weapon.” 

“Really?” Miko chimes in, and his eye twitches on principle. “Why not?” 

He turns away from her, refusing to answer. They had taken any possible weapons from him in Sumeru. Nahida had offered new ones to him before he had left, but Scaramouche had barely been using physical weapons to begin with—always preferring to use raw power instead. 

He’s certainly proficient in handling quite the variety—he is biased towards the katana (he can make them, after all…), but has also frequently used polearms in the past. 

Scaramouche briefly considers what a catalyst may do for him, now that he possesses a vision. That had always been the one weapon he found difficult to operate, with his electro power sealed within him and difficult to harness. 

“We have many weapons available for you,” his mother says, “I think it’s important you carry one you are comfortable with.” 

Scaramouche laughs. Sarcastically, he asks, “Why? You believe someone would attack me here? If so, perhaps the Shogunate’s army is not as big of a threat as I had previously imagined.” 

Ei raises her own eyebrow, this time, frowning. “Not here, no, but in Inazuma. It is to my understanding that you are still ‘wanted’ under order of the Fatui Harbingers.” 

Scaramouche scoffs, waving a hand dismissively. “What, they’re going to find me under house-arrest? Please.” 

“Oh, yes. I did mean to inform you about that. Your house-arrest was lifted days ago. You may roam as you please.” 

“What?” he exclaims, slamming an agitated hand on the table. The dishes rattle, but the two women don’t bat an eye. “Why didn’t you tell me that when you decided?” 

She shrugs, and it’s so obviously mimicked from a human both he and Miko snort at the same time, immediately shooting each other looks: glaring on his end, and wry on hers.

“I thought you knew,” Ei simply says, pouring another cup of tea. 

“So I can just leave?” Scaramouche states disbelievingly.

“If you wish,” his mother replies. 

Scaramouche immediately moves to stand up, but freezes when his mother actually fumbles her next words. 

“But,” she says, too quickly, and both Scaramouche and Miko practically snap their necks with the speed they turn to her. “I hope you—I hope you will not…venture…far.” 

They stare at her in complete shock, watching as she makes a weird expression—well, weird for her, anyway, and probably indiscernible to anyone else—and then turns to Scaramouche and gives him a small, if not slightly strained, smile. She looks as if she doesn’t know how to make these expressions with her face. She probably doesn’t. 

“Never do that again,” he commands flatly after a beat of silence, before rising the rest of the way and making for the door.

“Be back before curfew, darling!” Miko sarcastically calls from behind him, and Scaramouche raises his middle finger without looking back. 

“They grow up so fast,” he hears her say before the doors slam behind him. 

—

Scaramouche exits Tenshukaku through a side door, squinting as he peers through the afternoon sun. He’s not about to waltz outside through the front entrance like they had the first time they left the castle. He’s not sure what information has spread through Inazuma since then, as his mother had not actually announced his existence to anyone else after his reveal to Ogura (he assumes that was planned, though, so she would design his clothing accordingly), but he remembers the stares and whispers that followed them the short distance to the clothing stall. 

He flits around the guards, using Anemo to lighten his footsteps. He knows he has no reason to be sneaking around like a common criminal, but it’s practically a habit, at this point. Soon, he stands on the cobbled road of Inazuma City. 

He can see the large gray statue of their archon—of his mother, looming ominously at his side. The indentations where stolen visions used to reside are still glaringly obvious around the base and across the enormous wings. Scaramouche narrows his eyes. 

Now that he has his own vision, he thinks he understands how angry and fearful his mother’s citizens must have been under the Vision Hunt Decree. When he had returned to Inazuma during that period, he had not given much thought to it. Scaramouche had witnessed the despair and desperation, had practically tasted it, but was too consumed in his own desires to give a single fuck about the politics of his home country. He had even used the mess for his own ambitions. 

Had given life-draining Delusions to people so desperate for their visions that they wouldn’t care about what it did to their bodies before it was too late. 

Scaramouche thinks, now, that if somebody were to try and take his vision— really take it, with absolutely no intent to return it (because he had known, deep down, that Miko wasn’t going to do shit with his vision), he would slit their throats with no hesitation. 

And he has only had his vision for a couple months at best. And yet, Inazuma had forgiven his mother. They still stand beside her, still honor her as both their Archon and their leader. Scaramouche has no idea how she earned that loyalty. 

He shakes himself from his thoughts and picks a random direction to walk in. Scaramouche hasn’t stepped foot in this city for centuries—it’s time to re-familiarize himself with it, he thinks. The thought of why he might need to know, as if he is staying long-term…he doesn’t dwell on that for long. 

As expected, he doesn’t recognize very much. The layout is much the same, and the people look more or less the same as well, but…

He pauses, frowning. The conversations he’s hearing—they’re practically in a foreign language. Scaramouche winds down another road, stopping outside a notice board and eavesdropping on the conversation three kids are having next to him. 

They’re speaking quickly—very quickly—and while Scaramouche can understand the general topic of conversation well enough, what he doesn’t understand are these random, seemingly meaningless words that are somehow furthering the conversation along. 

“That’s what I told her!” one of the boys chatters excitedly, “She didn’t—” something “—but it was so—” something else. 

The second boy yells something at the other two children, which makes the girl burst into laughter. They’re holding strange masks in their hands. 

“The Oni—and then the others—Chinju Forest—ghosts!” 

“Scary!” the first boy screams. 

They all laugh, and begin chanting a phrase he eventually parses out as “Test of Courage.” 

“Interesting, isn’t it?” 

Scaramouche would never admit it but he jumps at the sudden, soft voice. He spins, locking eyes with an old man who’s somehow approached Scaramouche and been observing the children without him noticing. 

Scaramouche frowns. Maybe he should take Ei up on that offer, if his reflexes have become this bad. 

“What?” he asks, when the man says nothing more. 

“All these new words the younger generations use—I’ve never been able to keep up with the lingo, either. It changes so often,” his voice is full of quiet humor. Scaramouche thinks he may blow away on the wind, he looks so frail. 

“I—” Scaramouche blinks at his comprehension, before narrowing his eyes, “How did you know that I—” 

The man chuckles softly, “I recognized that expression on your face. It doesn’t matter how young you look,” he taps his temple with a gnarled finger. “The eyes never lie.” 

Any retort Scaramouche could make is interrupted with the children noticing the pair, and rushing over to them. They jump around the old man, excitedly greeting him. 

“Ojii-chan!” 

The man laughs, patting two of them on the head. Scaramouche feels a tug on his sleeve and glares down at one of the boys examining the metal attachment at the end of the patterned-fabric. 

“Stop it,” Scaramouche snaps, yanking it away from the kid. The child grins up at him, not chastised in the slightest. 

“You’re pretty!” the child exclaims, staring at Scaramouche with wide-eyes, “Are you rich?” 

Scaramouche feels his burn red in embarrassment. He glares at the kid. “Excuse me?” 

He says something illegible in reply, and the girl rushes over next. They chatter to each other and to him, but Scaramouche cannot follow their conversation. He had no idea that slang had changed so much—but Inazuma had been locked down, he supposes. He had not noticed, for his mother, Yae, and everyone else had been speaking relatively formally to him. 

The man laughs. “You’ll need to speak to him as you speak to me.” 

“Oh,” the girl says, wrinkling her nose and staring up at Scaramouche in confusion. “You’re old?” 

“You don’t look old,” the other boy comments. 

“I’m not old,” Scaramouche hisses.

“How old are you, then?” the third boy demands with his hands on his hips.  

“I’m—“ he starts, but his jaw snaps shut. That’s a good question, actually—how old had his mother designed this body to look? He can’t comment on his real age, after all. He looks like a youth, but he isn’t a child…

“ You don’t know!” the girl yells, and they all burst out laughing. “We should call you Ojii-chan too!” 

“Oi—“ he starts, intending to tell them off, but is startled when one of the boys grabs his hand and the other one abruptly jumps and tries to hang off his neck. Scaramouche catches the boy on instinct, lest they both tip off balance and crash to the ground, and the girl yells, “Come play with us, Ojii-chan!” 

Scaramouche glares at the old man, baring his teeth and trying to shake the children off him, but the man simply laughs along with the children. 

“I’m not old!” he yells as they drag him away. 

—

Scaramouche huffs as he walks back down the street, brushing Sakura petals off his clothing and trying to smooth out the creases. 

It’s past dinner now. The sun had set some time ago, and the streets are softly lit with lanterns. The shops and restaurants around him glow merrily in the night, still as busy as ever. 

A smile irritatingly tugs on his lips. As much as he’s trying to convince himself the kids were annoying little shits, with no sense of boundaries or respect, he admits he may have had…fun.  Scaramouche was annoyed, of course, and when they had pulled him to the field on the outskirts of the city, where all the Sakura Blooms drifted above the ground. Initially, he had started yelling at them. 

He should never have underestimated the tenacity of children. They did not care in the slightest that he was resisting or angry. 

Scaramouche could have turned around and walked away—he was about to, in fact. That was before they had pulled him into a Sakura Bloom, and he felt electro buzz pleasantly in the air and across his skin.  It took no effort at all to brush against the transparent bloom and send the smallest pulse of electro; it was practically all he could manage, but the Bloom had condensed and solidified all the same. 

The children had screamed in joy and awe, and he was reluctant to admit it had warmed his chest just a little. 

“You can use Electro, Ojii-chan?” the boy exclaimed. 

In response to the annoying nickname, Scaramouche had sent a sharp gust of Anemo at the boy, scattering the Sakura Bloom around the kids and pickling their skin with electricity.

They had practically collapsed with laughter, and the game had begun. 

Scaramouche kept blowing Sakura Blooms at them, watching as they ran away, and before he knew it, he was laughing along with them. 

His cheeks heat at the memory. He’s sure he looked absolutely idiotic to anyone who had cared to look out into the field, but oddly enough, he can’t muster up the energy to care. 

Scaramouche winds through Inazuma City once more, and stops in front of a building that seems livelier than the ones around it. He’s relatively close to Tenshukaku, and it’s not that late, so he decides: what the hell. He could use a drink. 

Uyuu Izakaya is intimate and dark, but that doesn’t take away from the joyful environment. Scaramouche drifts to the back of the room near the end of the bar, intent to observe and listen in—he apparently needs a refresher in his own native language. That’s extremely annoying because he hadn’t even known that his language was becoming outdated. 

Scaramouche flags the owner down, ordering sake simply for something to busy himself with, and that’s when he hears it. 

There’s a small group of Shogunate soldiers crowded in a tight circle at the very end of the long bar. They seem to be off-duty—they had better be, because he’s almost positive at least two of the four are intoxicated. 

Scaramouche’s hearing has always been excellent. He was made to be perfect, after all. Perhaps this is why he is able to overhear their conversation over the loud din of the space. 

“Are you sure it’s safe to do it tonight? What if somebody caught onto us—” the man closest to Scaramouche hisses at his companions. 

“Will you shut up, Ryo?” another snaps, glancing around inconspicuously to see if they’ve been overheard, “you’re the one that’s gonna blow the whole thing with your loud mouth!” 

“It’s fine. General Kujou is as oblivious as they come.” 

“It’s not the general I’m worried about—if word reaches the Shogun—“ the man, Ryo, hisses back. 

The three of his companions all burst out laughing. 

“Is that what you’re worried about? Please.” 

“Yeah,” his friend sneers, beady eyes shark-like under the dim light of the lanterns. “The Shogun is practically useless now that the Vision Hunt Decree has been abolished. The Shogunate hardly does anything.”

Beady flashes the Pyro Vision pinned to his belt. “Some Shogun—it’s pathetic how easy it was to hide this from the officers.” 

“Didn’t some no-name knock her on her ass, too?” the third man leers. “I heard it from a couple officers—the kid apparently had two visions. I thought Archons were supposed to be stronger than that—” 

Scaramouche clenches the sake bowl in his fist, glaring at the table in an effort to calm himself. He needs to know what they’re talking about, because obviously they’re planning something nefarious and these are members of the Shogunate, his mother’s own army. How are they getting away with this?

“Well,” the fourth man says, “You’ve seen the Shogun, haven’t you?” He bares his teeth in a lecherous grin. “With an ass like that, I’m sure all she’s good for is a nice fuck—” 

The bowl in Scaramouche’s hand shatters, sending shards of porcelain across the bar and alcohol over his hand. Everyone around him falls quiet, including the circle of soldiers. He can feel their stares, but can hardly think past the pure, unadulterated fury that clouds his mind. 

He’s seconds away from tearing their heads from their bodies. Scaramouche should rip off their genitalia and force them to eat it for that vile, repulsive comment. He’s shaking with white-hot rage. How dare they—

Mechanically, Scaramouche opens his fist one finger at a time. Bloody shards fall to the polished wood with a clink, and he stares impassively at the red mess in his hand. Blood drips warm and viscous down his fingers. The bartender rushes over with a towel, apologizing furiously to Scaramouche, but his attention is fully on the group returning warily to their hushed conversation. 

“Gods, Takeo,” Ryo hisses under his breath as the murmuring resumes around them, “you can’t just say shit like that—” 

“C’mon,” Beady interrupts, shooting suspicious glances Scaramouche’s way. Smart. “We gotta go. The kid’s waiting.” 

They throw coins on the table as they file to leave, passing behind Scaramouche’s seat. He doesn’t know if it’s instinctual or because he’s projecting raging bloodlust, but the men give him a wider berth than is completely necessary. 

Scaramouche watches them leave through the reflection of the window behind the bar, committing their faces to memory. 

If there was one thing Scaramouche took away from his time in the Fatui, it was the art of excruciating torture. He thinks he might be dusting off those skills soon enough. 

—

Scaramouche waits two minutes and fourteen seconds before he gets up and follows the men out of the Izakaya. He doesn’t have a real plan in mind, but the rage clouding his vision is making his hands tremble where they’re clenched into fists at his sides. 

The street outside has emptied out, many shops packed up and closed due to the late hour. Scaramouche activates his elemental sight, effortlessly following Beady’s footsteps—as the only one with a vision, the dumbass is leaving an elemental trail bright enough to outshine the damn streetlights. Scaramouche isn’t sure if he’s really just that fucking stupid, or if he is so over-confident that he’s convinced nobody would think to track him down—much less attack him. 

Scaramouche grins to himself as he follows along, spotting their pathetic group ahead. His smile is feral, enraged, and sharp enough to kill. He is going to savor every single second of their pain. He doesn’t care if his mother locks him away forever—not that she’ll ever find out. Scaramouche, for one, has always been excellent at getting rid of evidence. Numerous assassination assignments from his time as a Harbinger had seen to that. 

Soldiers die all the time in Inazuma. Four incompetent ones shouldn’t raise any serious alarm. 

The men wind further into the city, taking paths less frequently traveled. They’re going to the outskirts, Scaramouche knows, which is perfectly fine by him. Less chance for a witness. 

The men abruptly turn down a barren alleyway between two storage buildings, and don’t emerge. The closest streetlight is yards away, dousing the entire street in darkness. 

There’s no life in this part of the city. It’s almost eerily empty—this area looks to be used for shipping storage. They’re relatively close to a dock, and Scaramouche narrows his eyes, crouching behind a large crate. 

Just as he’s debating over what he should use as a weapon—he snarls as he realizes his mother was right about that—he’s distracted by movement out of the corner of his eye. A kid, probably not much older than the children he was playing with today, is anxiously sneaking down the street. He’s clutching a large bag to his chest, and looks seconds from bursting into tears as he edges towards the alley. 

Scaramouche stops breathing. Fuck. He can’t involve a fucking child in this—what is he even doing? 

Delivering something from the dock, by the looks of it. The kid is dressed in threadbare clothing, shivering in the chilled air, and Scaramouche has never been more sure in his life that someone had paid the kid good money to deliver whatever illegal materials are in that bag directly into these mens’ hands. He wouldn’t be crying over a job he did not want to do if that were not the case. 

The boy disappears into the mouth of the alley, and Scaramouche fights with himself. Indecision curls in his gut—should he stop them now? Wait until the child exits? Yes, he thinks, glaring across the street, he needs to wait until he’s sure he won’t harm the child. 

When the child doesn’t exit after a full minute, Scaramouche silently moves further into the street, stopping at the edge of the building. He’s cast in shadow, and so carefully peeks around the corner into the darkness. He can make out their hushed voices, now: the low, amused tones of the men, and the frightened one of the boy. 

“Please,” the boy pleads, and Scaramouche can make out his trembling form standing in front of the small group. “I-I was promised t-two-thousand—”   

“Shut your mouth, brat,” Walking-Corpse #1 spits, rifling through the contents of the bag. Whatever’s in there is casting a faint green and red glow over his pointed face. “Or you’ll get nothing.” 

“Scram,” Corpse #3 demands, throwing a couple coins at the boy. He winces as they hit his skin and fall to the ground at his feet. Scaramouches’s teeth break the skin of his cheek. “Before we make you.” 

“But,” the boy stutters, wringing his hands, “but—” 

Corpse #2 snarls and stalks over to the kid, kicking him in the stomach before Scaramouche has time to react. The kid collapses, retching, and the man raises his boot to kick him again. 

Scaramouche isn’t really sure how it happens. One minute, he’s standing at the edge of the alley, and the next, he’s standing in front of the kid, holding the corpse’s booted foot in his hand.  It’s still for a single moment before the man jerks back, falling off balance.

“What the fuck—” 

With a twist of his wrist, Scaramouche breaks his ankle. 

The crack of bone and cartilage is so satisfying that it slightly calms the rush in his head. The man’s scream of pain is like music to his ears, and Scaramouche takes delight in twisting the broken foot in a circle. The man, now on his back, howls in agony and makes an aborted move to kick Scaramouche with his other leg.  Scaramouche brushes the attack away, and in the same movement, pivots on his heel and shatters the man’s knee with his foot. 

The man screams. 

This all happens in the span of about thirty seconds , and the other three men seem to be frozen in surprise at the other end of the alley. Scaramouche carelessly drops his captured limb, slowly raising his eyes to the group in front of him. 

Teal light flashes off the stone on either side of him. Scaramouche can feel his elemental power coiling at his back—he can see it, in his peripheral, taking some sort of shape behind him. He’s too enraged to care. 

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” one of the men finally stutters, staring at his colleague’s limp body. It seems he’s passed out—what a shame. 

Beady bares his teeth at Scaramouche, shouldering in front of the other two. His Pyro vision flares at his waist, and a katana materializes in his grip. Yellow flame licks up the side of the blade. 

“Turn around and walk away, boy,” Beady sneers at Scaramouche, advancing in a manner he probably thinks is threatening. “I’m an understanding man—I know how powerful you must feel with a new vision.” 

Scaramouche raises an unimpressed eyebrow. 

The man takes a step closer, narrowing his eyes, “I’ve been doin’ this a lot longer than you. So I suggest you turn tail and run home to mommy before—” 

He doesn’t get to finish the rest of his threat. Scaramouche has crossed the small distance between them, disarming the man before he can react and sending him crashing to his knees. Fire flares up Scaramouche’s arm, harmless against his synthetic skin.  Scaramouche rips the man’s head back, holding the burning katana to the man’s throat. He presses his lips to the man’s ear. 

“If you say one more word about my mother,” Scaramouche whispers, voice steady, calm, and dangerous, “I will carve out your tongue and present it to her on a bed made from your intestines.” 

The man is completely still beneath Scaramouche’s hand, frozen beneath the weight of his power. The man doesn’t know—he can’t know—who Scaramouche is, but something within him must recognize that Scaramouche is capable of making good on that threat because he’s hardly breathing. 

“You little shit—” one of the men standing in front of them snarls, snapping out of the tense atmosphere that had briefly suffocated the area and advancing towards the pair. Scaramouche doesn’t wait to hear what that threat is; quick as the lighting he was borne from, Scaramouche snatches the bag from Corpse #4’s hands, darts over and grabs the frozen child, and launches himself from the ground in a burst of elemental energy. 

The men capable of yelling attempt to chase him, but they cannot fly like Scaramouche can. Within seconds, he and the child are soaring above the tiled buildings, practically invisible to anyone below. Scaramouche can feel himself losing speed as the child’s weight drains his energy quicker than he’s used to, but Scaramouche manages to direct them to a tall roof many blocks away, much closer to the center of the city. 

Using the final dregs of his power, he lands somewhat-gently on the wooden roof, immediately collapsing to his knees. The child sits next to him where he was dropped, staring at Scaramouche with wide, frightened eyes. 

He hasn’t made a sound since Scaramouche saved his ass. 

“Are you okay?” Scaramouche gruffly questions after a moment of tense silence. 

“T-That—” the kid’s breath hitches, and his face screws up, looking seconds away from sobbing, and Scaramouche braces himself for the waterworks—

“That was so cool!” the kid practically screams, ignoring Scaramouche hissed demand to be quiet. He’s grinning from ear-to-ear, and Scaramouche takes a moment to wonder if isolation had simply drove every Inazuman citizen completely insane.  

“Where do you live?” Scaramouche snaps, reaching the end of his patience with this entire night. 

The boy’s face immediately falls. He looks off to the side, suddenly solemn and quiet once more. He mumbles something, so faint and hesitant that even Scaramouche can’t parse the words. 

“Speak up,” he commands, “I’ll bring you—” 

“I don’t have one,” the kid snaps back, surprising Scaramouche with its intensity. They both stare at each other, an awkward silence filling the space. Scaramouche internally sighs when real tears, this time, fill the boy’s eyes. 

It’s very late, Scaramouche has a bag of illegal contraband to deal with, and four—or perhaps three, considering he doesn’t know when that fourth man will be healed enough to walk—members of his mother’s army to deal with in the morning. 

There’s only one thing to do. Scaramouche pretends that his heart isn’t twisting in his chest when he brings the boy back to Tenshukaku. Back to his home. The situation is the same as before, simply backwards.

Mirror images, centuries apart. 

Chapter Text

“No— wait!” the child cries. Daisuke, apparently, as Scaramouche had gathered from the kid’s offhanded introduction during his incessant chattering all the way here. 

“What now?” Scaramouche hisses back. 

“Why are you taking me there? I don’t want to go!” 

Tenshukaku looms in front of them, silhouette dark against the night sky. Scaramouche isn’t completely sure why the sight seems to be scaring the kid, and he also can’t be bothered to care. 

“That’s where I live,” he blandly informs the child, reaching back and dragging Daisuke forward by the back of his collar like one would a stray cat. “You’ll just spend the night here until I can figure out what to do with you.” 

“But—” Daisuke whines, resisting by planting his feet so Scaramouche can’t pull him forward. Scaramouche is this close to knocking him out and carrying his unconscious body inside, but he did not save the kid to then turn around and harm him. He also does not think that would paint a very good image for himself. 

Instead, Scaramouche pins the boy with a withering look, silently demanding the reason for his crying. 

“That’s where she lives…” the kid shakily whispers, fear quieting his voice. “The Shogun.” 

“And?” Scaramouche snaps at a normal volume, trying to suppress as much of the bite in his tone as he can. It’s been a very long day, and he’s still coming down from the rage and bloodlust that had clouded his mind not even half-an-hour ago. 

He’s just a kid, stay calm. 

Daisuke gnaws on his bottom lip, turning wide eyes on the castle. They haven’t even crossed the threshold yet, and the guards stationed outside are regarding them with poorly-concealed interest. They probably aren’t used to passerby at this hour, with the moon now high in the sky. 

“She scares me,” the kid admits, “I don’t want to see her.” 

“I doubt you will,” Scaramouche flatly replies. He resumes his stride into the castle, forcing the kid to follow him. “She wouldn’t care about you either way. Stop worrying, it’s annoying.” 

“I still don’t want to go!” Daisuke yells, apparently abandoning his whispering, pulling once more against the grip Scaramouche has on the back of his shirt. 

Scaramouche growls under his breath and whips around, patience completely expended. 

“Listen to me,” he orders, bending down and forcing the kid to look at him. Daisuke winces as Scaramouche’s fingers dig into his shoulders, but Scaramouche ignores it. “The Shogun isn’t going to do anything to you. She’s probably not even here. Now, you can either stay out here and freeze, or come with me into Tenshukaku.” 

Scaramouche releases him and crosses his arms over his chest, pinning the sniffling kid with a glare. “Decide, now.” 

Daisuke casts a tearful gaze over his shoulder into the dark city, and then another more reproachful one to the castle before them. 

“Promise?” Daisuke asks, edging closer to Scaramouche, who tries not to be too obvious about inching away from the clingy child. 

“Yes,” he hisses back, finally walking forwards onto the grounds with the kid following close behind on his own volition. Gods. Children are so tiresome. Why is he the one dealing with Inazuma’s youngest population? 

The pair cross the short bridge and start up the stairs towards the main entrance, as Scaramouche had not seen the need for sneaking back in at this hour. He is also too tense to give much thought to stealth—and besides, he’s hoping he’ll be able to hand the boy off to an attendant or two once they enter the building. He hasn't given much thought as to what he's supposed to do with the kid now. which seems short-sighted on his end. 

As far as he’s concerned, though, he’s done his part in saving the kid. Scaramouche makes a mental note to speak to someone about the needy population. Children should not be living on the streets, in any case. 

There's a small idea forming in his mind, one that he shelves and reminds himself to return to for later consideration. 

When they reach the top, Scaramouche walks straight up to the doors and pushes them open, not allowing the guards time to open them for him. Yellow light cuts across the dark wood, but Scaramouche doesn’t pause to wonder why the hall is lit this late in the evening. He ushers the kid inside impatiently, already searching for someone to leave him with so he can finally inspect the contents of the stolen bag tied to his belt. 

He’d asked the kid for details during the walk here, but all he received was a short recount of a man dressed in strange clothing offering the boy more mora than he could refuse to deliver the bag to a specified location. Daisuke said he hadn’t looked in the bag, and Scaramouche had decided not to investigate until he was alone. He can’t sense anything malicious through the rough material, but there could still be something dangerous inside. 

The relief of being back somewhere familiar, paired with his own anticipation to look at the hidden contents, is distracting Scaramouche enough that he lets guard down and completely misses Daisuke’s sharp gasp and abrupt halt from his place in front of him. Scaramouche hisses under his breath when he runs into the kid, curse ready on the tip of his tongue, but a glance into the brightly lit entry hall stills his movements. 

Scaramouche swallows the curse and stares blankly at Ei, who’s apparently doing paperwork, or something, at a desk placed in the middle of the entry hall. It looks almost comically out of place in the large, empty room. Scaramouche certainly does not remember it being there before. 

“Scaramouche,” Ei says, looking up. Before she can continue, her eyes fall to the boy between them. “Who is this?” 

As Daisuke bursts into tears, Scaramouche drops his head to his chest and groans.

“Mother,” he says tiredly, speaking over the wailing child. “What are you doing?” 

His mother ignores his question, staring in confusion at the kid who is now hiding behind Scaramouche’s sleeve and staining it with his tears and snot. Scaramouche only has one sleeve at the moment, the other burned to ash from the flame of that samurai’s sword, so he doesn’t even care at this point. The cloth is unsalvageable. 

“Is he alright?” she questions. 

“Probably.” 

“Is he injured?” 

Scaramouche nearly rolls his eyes in exasperation. He doesn’t, but it’s a close thing. 

“He’s fine,” he snaps back, looking around for an attendant. He spots two who have poked their heads from either side of the hallway, likely lured in from the out-of-place noises of a distressed child. Scaramouche waves them over with the arm not being sobbed into. 

“Can you deal with him? Take him to bed or something—I don’t care,” he orders one of them, unflinchingly prying the kid from his arm and pushing him towards the concerned woman. 

“Um…” the woman starts, looking back and forth between Scaramouche, the child, and his mother. 

The other attendant, Azumi, Scaramouche notices, seems to understand the situation and crouches next to the shaking kid to speak to him on his level. 

“Hi!” She greets. “It’s alright—there, there,” she soothes, brushing a light hand through his hair, “You’re okay. Come, let’s get you something to eat…” 

Scaramouche watches with disinterest as they manage to lead the child away, Daisuke looking all too eager to put as much distance as possible between him and Scaramouche’s mother. Scaramouche, honestly, wants to do the same. 

Scaramouche shoots a glare at the mother in question, noticing that she silently stood and crossed the room to him. He makes a mental note to check on the child later—he didn’t anticipate that he would be practically leading the kid straight to his worst nightmare. 

“What are you doing out here at this time?” he demands, exhausted and irritated from the night’s events. 

“I was waiting for you,” she replies. Her face is blank, but Scaramouche can see her searching eyes scanning over his mutilated robes and suspiciously shaped pouch. 

“I—” Scaramouche starts, becoming flustered, before her statement fully registers. Then he frowns. “Why?” 

Once more, she doesn’t answer, simply staring impassively. He twitches under her scrutinization. 

“What were you doing?” she returns his own question, tilting her head. 

He grows annoyed at the repeated deference. “Why do you care?” 

“You didn’t return for quite some time.” 

“Well,” he mumbles, turning away from her, “I’m here now. You don’t have to wait up for me.” 

Without another word, Scaramouche starts the long trek back to his chambers, oddly uncomfortable and agitated with the interaction. What reason would she have to wait for him to return? As if she was worried, or something—but no. What would she possibly be worried about? If anything, he should be the one worried—

Scaramouche halts as the memories of the night’s events flash across his vision, the reason he was late to begin with, and all his rage comes rushing back. Now’s the perfect time to question her. Scaramouche spins back around and meets Ei’s eyes once more, noticing that she had simply remained in place and continued to watch his retreat. 

“When and where do the Shogunate train?” he practically spits the question, trying not to appear frustrated at her but probably failing. 

“Which commission?” She’s largely unfazed with his sudden and seemingly random burst of anger. 

“Whichever one works directly under your command.” 

“Kujou Sara oversees the training of members in the Tenryou Commission. They begin at dawn in the Commission’s training-yard just outside Tenshukaku,” she informs him. “There, they are given briefings and have the opportunity to relay any important—” 

“I don’t care,” he interrupts. “They all meet there every single morning?” 

“Yes,” Ei responds. “Why the sudden interest?” 

Scaramouche purses his lips, eyeing the woman in consideration. On one hand, what he witnessed tonight is extremely important information of which Ei should be informed. Dissent and corruption within the Shogunate is practically asking for some sort of treason or, gods forbid, revolt against the Shogun—and as their commander, ruler, and Archon, Scaramouche practically has no choice. 

But on the other hand…

He knows his mother would unflinchingly weed every single guilty person out of her ranks and dispose of them immediately—that, or have the Shogun do it for her. Scaramouche doesn’t want that though, because he never got to truly enact the punishment he had wanted for their transgressions. And if Scaramouche comes clean, he’s not sure how he would weasel out of telling his mother what had prompted him to follow them in the first place—and he would genuinely rather die than repeat those vile words to her face. 

So, yes, he selfishly wants to do it himself, because he also knows he probably won’t get the chance if she finds out first. 

“Scaramouche,” Ei says suddenly, interrupting his contemplation. Her voice is cold. “What is that?” 

She’s staring at the bag against his hip, and Scaramouche instinctually turns away a little to hide it—a tactic which does absolutely nothing. Before he can properly react—or just run away—his mother strides up to his side and deftly severs the bag’s strings from his belt. He makes an aborted attempt to grab it back, yelling at her in outrage, but is restrained with a hand to the chest. 

“Stop,” she orders, sending a sharp look his way before turning back to the bag. With the strings cut, the mouth of it falls open in her hold, and the gentle red and green glow Scaramouche had spotted before shines against their faces. 

“The fuck is that?” he demands without thinking, pushing against her arm for a better look. 

Ei frowns, before releasing him and crossing towards the previously-abandoned desk. He follows right behind her, curiosity overpowering the indignation lacing through his chest. 

His mother none-too-gently overturns the bag, allowing the glowing contents to roll out. As they settle on the desk, Scaramouche takes a sharp step backwards. He can feel the blood drain from his face as panic slices through his system and sends him reeling before he can stop the reaction. 

Knowledge capsules. 

“Knowledge capsules,” the Doctor states, pacing a slow, even circle around the examination table. 

Scaramouche works his hands against the thick leather binding him to the cold surface. The restraints hold firm, biting into his wrists and ankles. He will not be able to break them. Dottore has seen to that. 

“I still don’t understand why this is necessary,” Scaramouche complains, flexing his arms. “Untie me—” 

Dottore comes to a stop behind him, bracing his hands on either side of Scaramouche’s head and bending to face him upside-down. Scaramouche’s lip curls in a reflexive snarl. He absolutely despises this man, but he’s the only one currently capable of giving Scaramouche what he wants. 

He can always murder him after his ascension. 

“I assure you,” Dottore says quietly, “the restraints are most necessary.” 

“Why?” Scaramouche demands, “You haven’t told me what we’re doing yet.” 

Dottore laughs and crosses the room to retrieve something, returning to hold a strange device in front of Scaramouche’s face. 

“This is a knowledge capsule,” Dottore informs him, voice taking on that infuriating tone that precedes a confusing lecture. “Often referred to as ‘canned knowledge'. When used, it deposits pre-uploaded—and previously unknown—information directly into the user’s brain via an Akasha terminal.” 

“This process,” Dottore continues, running gloved fingers up the side reverently, “is one of the methods we are going to use to give you the qualities you seek. Qualities a real god is born with.” 

Scaramouche grits his teeth. “That doesn’t explain why I have to be bound,” he snaps at the man. He’s growing anxious, and furiously uses rage as a mask against his hesitance. “This isn’t—this does not sound physical—” 

Dottore throws back his head and laughs. “Incorrect,” he smiles, “this is purely physical, Scaramouche. You will have absorbed thousands of these capsules before we are finished. Your utility ensures you are the only one capable of surviving the absorption necessary to become the God of Wisdom.” 

Scaramouche narrows his eyes at the man, hatred and anger and need all fighting for dominance within him. He tries to focus himself. He will become a god, in the end, and that’s all that matters. He doesn’t care what it takes to do so. 

“Fine,” Scaramouche relents after a moment, “I’ve had enough of your incessant blabbering. Begin, if you’re finally prepared. I grow tired of waiting.” 

A sharp grin cuts Dottore’s face in two, teeth glinting in the harsh white light overhead. He reaches behind him for another object, and this time, Scaramouche can feel the malicious energy radiating off of it in waves. If he was physically able, he would have recoiled back. 

“If you are prepared, we will start with this,” Dottore brings the glowing red capsule over. “When there is a data malfunction, or if the capsule has been tampered with, a system corruption occurs. It infects the entire capsule, destroying it from the inside out, much like a parasitic disease. The knowledge within is therefore…changed. Malicious. Absorbing such a capsule is…not recommended. It will distort your mind and tear it apart. Or so I’ve witnessed during my trials—but your mind will likely stay intact.” 

Dottore smiles again, and Scaramouche focuses on his breathing to suppress the rising fear and panic pushing its way up into his chest. He can’t—he won’t die. This is not the first experiment Dottore has run on him. Scaramouche’s vessel is practically indestructible. 

Even if it wasn’t, Dottore would not get rid of such a precious test subject—

No. Scaramouche bites his tongue and breathes deeply. Or, perhaps he stops breathing entirely. It makes no difference. He’s not afraid. He’s never been afraid, here. And he doesn’t plan to start now. 

“Now then,” the Doctor drawls, gloved fingers attaching a device to Scaramouches head. A sharp pain shoots through his ear, and he grunts as he tries to adjust to the foreign feeling. It’s invasive and cold. The Doctor lowers the glowing red capsule to Scaramouche’s temple, messing with something Scaramouche can’t see. 

“Shall we begin?” 

In the instance before Scaramouche’s mind is pierced and ripped to pieces, and blood-curdling screams tear his throat apart, Scaramouche fleetingly wonders…

Is this worth it? 

“They’re corrupt.” Ei states as if they both aren’t watching the ominous red glow pulse against the metal. Scaramouche remains silent and blinks against the reflexive haze of pain and rage that clouds his mind. He breathes out, long and slow. It’s in the past. He survived. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about how many he made you—

Ei reaches out to pick one of the capsules up, and Scaramouche moves before he consciously decides to do so. He moves to keep her away from it before he can even rationalize with himself that his mother is God, and unlikely to be harmed by a corrupted capsule so weak he had not felt the energy through the bag while he was carrying it. These capsules are nothing compared to the ones Dottore had forced into his system. 

“Don’t touch it!” he hisses, snatching her wrist before she makes contact and pulling it away. Although he would not be able to move her arm should she not wish it, the limb follows his guidance easily. 

“It’s alright,” she says, eyeing him impassively. “Physical touch should have no adverse reaction.” 

He shakes his head once, gritting his teeth and holding the arm away. He knows he’s being irrational but he can’t stop himself. 

“Just—just don’t.” 

She nods after a moment, and he drops her hand when he’s sure she’s going to listen to him. If she’s confused by his behavior, she doesn’t show it. 

“Where did you get these?” She asks. “They are illegal—they should not have even crossed the border into Inazuma.” 

“I—” Scaramouche searches for an answer he can give her. “I found them in—” 

“Before you continue,” she interrupts, gaze hardening on him, “I highly suggest you do not attempt to lie to me. I will know, and based on your state of undress, you did not just stumble upon them.” She gives him a brief up-and-down, and he’s offended on principle.

“I am in no mood for games.” 

Scaramouche scowls, the quickly-assembled lie dissolving on his tongue. “Fine. I saw a couple of Shogunates trying to smuggle the bag into the city.” He should leave Daisuke out of this, and technically that’s not really a lie. “It looked suspicious so I investigated.” 

She narrows her eyes, and he can tell she knows he’s being as vague as possible. “And how did you come into possession of the bag?” 

He looks away, refusing to answer. 

“Scaramouche,” His mother warns. 

“I took it from them,” he hisses defensively. “Obviously. What do you want me to say?” 

Ei eyes him for a moment, clearly unconvinced, but says nothing more. Scaramouche glares at the side of her head, frustrated over how much control he has lost over the situation. Ei gazes at the knowledge capsules for a moment more, before waving a hand over the devices. Without physical touch, they slide back into the sack and the drawstring snaps shut. As soon as the red glow disappears, tension Scaramouche doesn’t realize he had drains out of his system. 

“Tomorrow morning, you and I will address the Shogunate,” Ei informs him without fanfare. “You will identify the individuals you accosted, and they will be interrogated accordingly. Then, we will contact Lord Kusunali.” 

Scaramouche thinks his teeth may crack from the pressure of his clenched jaw. This is the exact opposite of what he had wanted to happen. Granted, he hadn’t actually had a solid plan himself, but he feels as if he’s been removed from the entire situation, despite being the one who uncovered the entire situation. 

“May I graciously refuse?” he grits through his teeth with his attempt at a polite smile. He doesn’t succeed. 

Ei’s gaze is cold. “You may not.” 

Scaramouche scoffs and turns to stalk away. Before he reaches the door, Ei speaks again. 

“You will accompany me at dawn, Scaramouche. If you do not come yourself, I will come to retrieve you.”

Scaramouche turns to send her a glare, but her attention is back on the bag. When she finally does look at him, there is no familiarity. She seems like a completely different person than the one he had been living with thus far. Scaramouche is abruptly reminded of her impassiveness with him—of the emotionless shell that had created him. His chest clenches. 

“Do not make this difficult for yourself,” she orders him softly. Her face is stone, but he sees the tiniest hint of something in her eyes. She hadn’t retreated behind the Shogun, at least. Small mercies, because interacting with his replacement would just be the icing on the cake of this terrible night.  

Scaramouche does not deign that order with an answer, slamming the entry-hall door as he leaves. 

—

It’s still dark outside the next morning. The sun has not yet risen, and the sky is a deep, dusty blue. 

Scaramouche doesn’t know if he should be calling this his next morning, since he had not slept in the time between his furious exit last night and his petulant arrival back at the entry hall mere hours later. 

They’re standing on the long wooden platform wrapped around the hole-riddled statue of their archon. Kujou Sara and the Raiden Shogun cut an intimidating figure in the dim light escaping from above the clouds. They’re overlooking as the Shogunate officers somberly file each soldier into the crowd. 

Thunder slowly rumbles across the sky above them, and the tension in the area thickens. Their archon is not pleased. 

What seems to be every member of the Shogunate in this city stands before the three of them, lined up in close, neat rows. They look like toy soldiers from up here, Scaramouche can’t help but wryly compare. They all look confused, and many cannot hide their wariness of the situation. There is not a single whisper in the crowd. 

Scaramouche hadn’t known it, of course, but this specific setting was all-too-familiar for members of Inazuma. The Vision Hunt Decree still weighs heavy on every vision-holder’s mind, and the Shogun had not called a gathering like this since the Decree had been abolished. The soldiers cower under her piercing gaze. 

Once the final soldier is in place, Kujou Sara turns to his mother. 

“That is everyone, Your Excellency.” 

“Thank you, Sara.” 

Ei takes a step forward, and Scaramouche swears he hears the air still as people stop breathing. He raises his brow in disgust, wondering how these people can get anything done at all if they’re going to piss themselves under his mother’s attention. 

“I have been informed,” Ei begins, surveying the crowd before her, “that there is a security issue within the Tenryou Commission.” 

Scaramouche can see how pale every individual has suddenly become. Ei holds up Scaramouche’s confiscated bag, before reaching in and taking out one of the capsules before Scaramouche can stop her. He hisses under his breath, but stills when nothing happens. The red glow doesn’t even change—these truly are nothing compared to the ones Dottore had acquired. 

“Four of you plotted to smuggle corrupted knowledge capsules into Inazuma City. These devices are extremely volatile, and dangerous to those possessing elemental energy. They are completely lethal to those who do not,” Ei states blankly. “Every single member of each Commission is briefed on illegal materials. I will not take this lightly. I am severely disappointed in the Shogunate today.” 

The crowd begins shifting anxiously, many casting suspicious looks to their neighbors. Nobody in their right mind would defy the Shogun so openly, and nobody wants to be associated with the culprits. 

Ei’s next command rings through the early morning. “The four individuals who would defy my authority in this way, step forward. Now.” 

Complete and total silence. Scaramouche does not attempt to mask the roll of his eyes. What did she expect, honestly? That they would raise their hands? 

He himself is looking for the culprits in the crowd—has managed to spot three of them looking worse for wear and terrified out of their minds, but cannot spot the fourth. He’s probably in a hospital bed somewhere, if Scaramouche were to guess. A pleased smile curls against his lips, but it falters as he makes eye-contact with one of the men he fought. The man is glaring at him with such vehemence Scaramouche almost has the mind to be impressed. He can’t stop the smirk, and almost fully grins as the man bares his teeth. 

“I will give but one more chance to step forward.” Ei orders evenly, “I assure you, the consequences will be worse if you do not come willingly.” 

Scaramouche eyes the three men from his place behind the two women. The other two look like they’re about to pass out. And yet. 

“I see.” The Shogun’s voice is quiet, and very calm. Every single person in the line-up flinches. She turns to Scaramouche, motioning for him to step forward. As soon as the men lay eyes on him, Scaramouche can practically taste the desperation that fills the air. 

Vicious joy and vindictive anger war for dominance within him. 

A sudden crash draws all attention towards the back of the large group—one of three rats has actually passed out cold. Scaramouche raises a brow, unimpressed. He turns to Ei. 

“That’s one of them,” he tells his mother. “And those two,” he points towards the other men individually, and although his voice is likely not carrying, they seem to know he’s snitched because the last one immediately drops to the ground and prostrates himself. A large circle forms around the area Scaramouche is pointing at, everybody shying from their gazes. 

“Where is the fourth?” Ei asks. 

Scaramouche purses his lips. “Well—” 

“Pardon, Your Excellency,” Sara, who has been silently observing thus far, interrupts, and Scaramouche shoots her an irritated look. “There is a single soldier, Suzuki Keizo, who is currently in the intensive care unit. Every bone in his leg had been either fractured or shattered. I was not able to extract information on such short notice,” Sara casts a quick glance at Scaramouche from the corner of her eye, “but might this be the soldier responsible?” 

Ei pins Scaramouche with a blank look, and his face falls flat.

“This is your doing, I presume?” His mother questions. 

Scaramouche crosses his arms defensively. Yes, it was, and he would do it again. “Evidently.” 

“Sara, take them into custody. Bring them into Tenshukaku. I’ll question them personally.” Ei orders, already turning to leave the platform. Sara immediately turns and begins barking orders at her officers, who drag the men—both unconscious and not—from the ground. 

Scaramouche surveys the rest of the group coolly, aware almost every pair of eyes is staring at him in confusion and apprehension. Without another word, he turns and follows his mother back into the castle. 

The blinking flash of lighting follows them inside. 

—

Scaramouche surveys the room they’re in with a critical eye and a scrunched nose. It’s bare and unassuming, tatami and dark wood lining the floors and walls. Just like every other room in the castle, but for the weapons lined along one wall and the simple table positioned in the center. 

As Kujou Sara makes the men kneel before their Archon, Scaramouche crosses and picks up one of the polearms. He twirls it around his hand, likes the weight of it and the balance in his grip. 

Kujou Sara’s command cuts through the settling silence.

“Speak.” 

Their faces shine with sweat. 

“We weren’t even doing anything,” one of them snaps after a tense moment, “we’re innocent! He’s lying!” 

Scaramouche whips around, snarling. “Excuse me?” 

“Bite your tongue,” Sara commands the man. “Lying will be of no help to you here.” 

Rather than cowering, this only seems to make him angrier. 

“You have been accused of defying the Shogun’s direct orders,” Sara snaps, eyes dark with fury. “This could be considered treason against Inazuma—”

“Treason— this is defamation! What right does that kid have to make these claims against us—where is the proof—!“ 

“Your friend in the hospital should be proof enough,” Scaramouche says. 

The man whips his head around, red with rage. “Shut your mouth, if you know what’s good for you—” 

Yae Miko chooses this exact moment to enter the room, an attendant gently sliding the door shut behind her. 

“I would advise against insulting Inazuma’s crown prince in front of the Shogun,” Miko admonishes, coming to a graceful stop next Ei. Scaramouche turns crimson, sending a scathing glare towards the woman. 

“Don’t call me that,” he spits venomously. 

Miko smiles, ignoring him completely. “Now, what is this I hear of treason?” 

“Listen,” one of the quieter men tries to defend, casting a wary glance at his seething comrade, “I—we didn’t know what the job was, just that we had to deliver it somewhere. Please, Your Excellency…have mercy.” 

“Oh?” Ei speaks for the first time, turning her direct attention to the man. He trembles. “And what would this location be?” 

“A Fatui—” the man hesitantly starts, but the other man interrupts. 

“Will you shut the fuck up?” 

Sara moves to silence the man, but Ei holds up a hand to halt her. “Scaramouche,” she says slowly, “why did you intercept these individuals? Where were you, and what were they doing?” 

Scaramouche tells-tale immediately, assuming she’s tired of receiving half-assed answers. “They were disrespecting you as their Archon, and as their Shogun. I overheard it in a bar—that’s why I followed them. They weren’t with anyone else, initially.” 

Ei turns to him with interest. “What was the spoken offense?” 

Scaramouche freezes, blinking owlishly, and curses himself, forcing his face into one he hopes is nonchalant. This was the one thing he wasn’t supposed to do. However…two of the men are staring at him, practically pleading with their eyes. Scaramouche is positive that they remember what they said perfectly. How ironic, that they would become no better than crying children in fear of the very person they had been calling useless to begin with. He sends them a glare so intense they physically recoil. 

Scaramouche takes a breath, trying to calm the anger that spikes when he says his next words. “They called their Shogun… useless,” he spits, jaw working around the disgusting insults. “They made vile comments about the gender of your preferred vessel.” 

“Be specific,” his mother orders, raising a brow. She actually looks minorly intrigued now, which is not good for him. “What comments?” 

Scaramouche stares at her incredulously, before narrowing his eyes. “I will not repeat them. Have you lost your mind?” 

“I am simply curious what comments would send you into such a rage that you would permanently cripple a mortal.” 

His teeth grind together. “If you want to know so badly, make them tell you. I’m sure they recall perfectly well.” 

Ei turns towards the men expectantly, two who immediately begin shaking their heads, fresh tears spilling down their faces. The third openly glares. Scaramouche frowns in disgust. 

“P-Please,” the silent one sobs, “Have mercy. It was a mistake—we never meant it—” 

“I do not care what you did or did not mean to say,” Ei states emotionlessly. She looks as if she hardly cares to be here at all, if not for the glint in her eye that betrays her interest. “Tell me what insults were made.” 

Scaramouche wonders if she’s ever been so openly defied before—the Traveler and himself excluded. And, of course, the entire resistance on Watatsumi Island. 

The two men remain silent, fear carved into every line in their faces. The trembling man sitting between them, however, shoots a vicious glare at both Scaramouche and his mother. Scaramouche absently notices he’s trembling in rage rather than in fear. 

“You want to know so badly? Fine,” he snarls, spit flying from his mouth from the force of his words. “Since you’re going to kill us no matter what information we give you—we called you a whore because you’ve done nothing for this country except destroy it.” 

Ei’s expression does not change, but Scaramouche’s does. Fury fills his body so quickly and so completely that whatever expression he was wearing is swept away and replaced with blankness—blankness, because he’s only one second away from snapping completely. 

The man’s voice rises in pitch and fervor, and he grins wickedly, twisted glee filling his eyes at whatever he sees in the people standing before him. He has lost all his composure. From the corner of his eye, Scaramouche sees Kujou Sara shaking, knuckles white against her bow, but held silent and still by her Archon’s command. The man continues, and that’s when multiple things happen at once. 

“We said the only thing you’re good for is being bent over a table so every soldier in your army can fuck that—” 

A loud crack and a wet squelch simultaneously interrupt the man’s insult. Scaramouche blinks, confused, as the heinous words abruptly cut off and screaming fills the air around him. He’s not processing the current situation, with that familiar burn of anger flushing through his system.  Sara’s sharp intake of breath, oddly enough, is what snaps Scaramouche out of his stupor. His brain takes a moment to process the scene before him. Scaramouche has his hands on either side of the man’s head. He frowns, wondering when he had gotten behind the man, because he’s looking at the dark sheen of the man’s hair. 

It takes a moment for him to realize he hadn’t teleported behind the man at all. Scaramouche stares down at the front of the man’s chest, where a delicate hand has clawed its way straight through the armored uniform and into the man’s back, breaking through the skin of his chest. 

The heart clenched between clawed fingers gives a steady beat, as if still believing it’s attached to the body it grew in. Scaramouche locks eyes with Yae Miko over the man’s shoulder as she pulls her arm back through his body. Blood erupts like a fountain, pooling on the tatami where Scaramouche kneels before the offender. He releases the man’s head from where he had snapped it in a full one-eighty. It limply falls towards Yae Miko, who looks down at it in distaste. 

As Scaramouche slowly rises to his feet, Yae circles to stand next to his mother. Ei is wearing no disconcernable expression, but Yae looks moderately pleased with herself. Scaramouche glares at the other two men, daring them to continue the dead man’s thought. He doesn’t care if Celestia's representative descends from the heavens themselves and commands the men to relay further comments. If they know what’s good for them, they’ll keep their mouths shut. 

But they have gone completely white, and remain silent.  

Yae licks the blood from her fingers, staining her lips glossy red. 

Wind carves through the room, tearing against hair and whipping around clothes. One of the men flinches as it slices against his cheek. It’s unintentional but Scaramouche cannot stop it. His vision glows bright against his chest, reacting to the gently receding anger in his chest. 

“I wouldn’t recommend continuing that thought,” Yae smirks at last, eyes flashing dangerously. 

“Keep it to yourselves next time,” Scaramouche hisses, contradictory to the Shogun’s own order but completely uncaring. 

Neither Scaramouche, nor Yae Miko, catch it from their place in front of Ei, but Sara does. The men pale as a cold smirk cuts across the Raiden Shogun’s face, and through the commotion, Sara briefly wonders: had the boy truly received his vicious tendencies from the Fatui, or had he inherited them from the being who created him? 

Whatever the case, Sara can only hope his presence here doesn’t make Inazuma’s tumultuous attempts at peace fall to ruins. And, at the very least, it’s refreshing to see the Shogun with individuals on her side. Especially ones who would kill for her. 

Chapter Text

“For the last time, I don’t know. Stop asking me.” 

“I understand you were a Harbinger for quite a number of years. I apologize if I find this difficult to believe.” 

“Are you accusing me of lying? You must be fucking joking.” 

Sara frowns at him. Scaramouche thinks her expression may be edging closer to a glare, but he can’t be completely sure.

“I am not implying that I believe—” 

“Shut up,” he snaps back, and her expression darkens even more. “You literally just implied it five seconds ago.” 

“Calm down. Both of you,” Ei orders. “Arguing about the issue is pointless. Sara, have you sent reinforcements to the drop-off locations we received?"

Scaramouche bristles at the accusations and glares into the side of Sara’s head as she replies yes your excellency of course I did blah blah blah. 

The two remaining men involved in the knowledge capsule plot had, unsurprisingly, spilled every last detail they could remember once Ei had the dead soldier’s body taken from the room. Then, the hospitalized man had been questioned—an interrogation of which Scaramouche had not been informed was taking place—which yielded the same results: they knew nothing. Scaramouche had scoffed, and perhaps the women’s faces had not been pleased either because the men had practically begged for mercy with their heads on the ground, claiming that they were telling the truth. 

If Scaramouche were to recall the confession verbatim, there would be an extraordinary amount of deference and flowery word play dancing around the truth of the matter. The officers met two Fatui members in the plains while off duty, and had been bribed into doing them a favor. When Sara questioned their reasoning behind this decision and put their loyalty to Ei in question, they didn’t have an answer for her. They just trembled on the ground, sobbing their apologies and assurances that they were loyal, and they hadn’t even known what was in the package to begin with. 

“We a-assumed since the job was so easy,” one sobbed, “and they didn’t seem worried about getting caught—they commissioned a kid, for Archon’s sake—it–it couldn’t have been anything life threatening…” 

Ei’s eyes flicked to Scaramouche at the mention of the child. He knew avoiding her gaze would portray nothing but guilt, but he did it anyway. 

“We honestly thought it would be drugs, or something—” the other joined in. 

“If you actually believed that, you’re both even more idiotic than I had originally taken you for,” Scaramouche interrupted. “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you both right now, if you’re so quick to abandon your country and trust that business with the fucking Fatui could be anything but trouble.” 

Miko smiled at him, and he could practically read the word ‘hypocrite’ written in the air above her head.  “You would know, wouldn’t you?” 

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped. 

“I see,” Ei acknowledged, “You will tell Sara the details of the location and give physical descriptions of the Fatui you spoke with. I will defer both your punishments to her—I trust you understand you are being stripped of your titles and position. You are no longer a member of the Shogunate, and I hesitate to even tolerate your presence in Inazuma city.” 

They blanched at this, but spoke no words in opposition. Which was for the best, because Scaramouche had still been flinchy. 

“However, I will allow her to make the final decision. Miko, Scaramouche, come.” And then they left. 

With that, Scaramouche thought his involvement in the issue would be more or less over, since anything to do with the Fatui was, respectfully, not his problem anymore. 

He had been very wrong. 

“I will need time to consider an appropriate punishment for you.” 

The statement had not even registered until she stopped walking and turned to look at him for acknowledgement. 

He blinked. “Excuse me?” 

“I will need time—” 

“I heard what you said,” he snapped, “what the hell are you talking about?” 

“When I lifted your house arrest, that was not an invitation to begin picking fights. I thought you understood what I expected of you, but the behavior you exhibited—” 

“Picking fig—are you fucking kidding me? I was not picking fights—!” 

“Scaramouche,” Ei warned, “I will not argue with you about this. I understand your intentions, and I can follow your thought process throughout this situation. I thank you for bringing this to my attention, because your actions may have saved lives. But that does not excuse the fact that you put a citizen of Inazuma in critical condition and directly disobeyed my orders on your first night released from your house arrest. In addition, you lied to me about that child’s involvement.” 

“You care what I did to the traitor, rather than what they were doing to the child you were permitting to live on the streets?” he questioned through his teeth. “They are both citizens of Inazuma. I was protecting the kid—that’s why I fought them in the first place.” 

Ei hardly reacted to this statement, and that angered Scaramouche even more. 

“The technicalities do not matter to me. I admit, your concern for the child’s safety is commendable. However, you and I both know you could have ended that fight before it started, without drawing blood.” 

Scaramouche’s mouth dropped open at her audacity. He was being lectured, by Inazuma’s tyrant, about fairness in battle? 

“You are not a human, Scaramouche,” she continued, gaze pinning his feet to the floor. “You hold an extreme advantage over mortals, and you did not stop to consider the physical repercussions your actions would have on a human, trained or not. You must exercise control.” 

Scaramouche genuinely had no words, and just stood there, staring at her. Indignation and anger and disbelief swirled in his chest, because he had done this for her, he had been defending her against insults and disloyalty by her own people and now he was being punished for it. The unfairness of it made him livid. 

And the irony—oh, the fucking irony of it all made him almost burst out in mocking laughter. Did she not see how ironic it is, that she is here, lecturing him about practicing restraint and the importance of not holding power over humans weaker than them? Miko was so quick to imply he was a hypocrite, when the biggest one in the entire country is the woman before them.  His stomach clenched at the thought of the Priestess. He’s sure she’s getting a fucking kick out of this, and he wanted to snarl in fury. Scaramouche can never do anything right, it seems.

His eyes darted over to the woman before he could stop them, already knowing and despising the expression that would be on her face, because she was—she…

Yae Miko was not smiling. At all. She was not even looking at him. 

The surprise from that simple fact alone had practically extinguished Scaramouche's rage completely. It hadn’t, in the end, but the buzzing anger in his head had settled just a little. Just enough for him to question why Miko was looking at his mother like that, with a blank face, devoid of any mocking or humor. Scaramouche had never seen that face before. Not during the early years of his creation, not during their interactions over the Gnosis, and not in any of the weeks he’d been at Tenshukaku. 

She’d looked at Ei with something that he was unfamiliar with. Something so faint, he thought he may have been hallucinating altogether, because it couldn’t be real. Miko would never take Scaramouche's side. Why would she? She had hated him from the beginning. She had avidly argued for his death. On multiple occasions, even. 

So, why did there appear to be disapproval in her eyes?

Miko had sensed Scaramouche’s gaze, and turned towards him. That foreign, outrageously impossible emotion disappeared, but nothing had replaced it. She just looked at him, and he suddenly wished she had been mocking, because he didn’t know how to deal with whatever this was and the tension in his chest only wound tighter when he looked back at his mother.  

Ei’s eyes softened, and perhaps she could see the anger and shock and hurt written all over his face because she stepped forwards and reached out to touch him. “This is not meant to hurt you, Scaramouche. I need you to understand—” 

He slapped her hand away before she could make contact, and roughly turned to hide how quickly the tumultuous emotions made his eyes sting. He was angry, he was furious, he was surprised and disbelieving and upset and he felt like he just got pushed off the edge of a cliff and out into open air. Scaramouche grasped for control over the situation, and bit through his cheek when he didn’t find any. 

“Oh, I understand perfectly. Fine, you don’t want me ‘picking fights?’ Consider it done—that’s the last time I’m coming to your defense.” 

He was proud when his voice came out as harsh and cutting as he intended, and even more so when he steadily marched directly to his room, ignoring his name, and didn’t allow his emotion to shame him any more than he already had been. 

Scaramouche had stewed alone, silently, for a while, trying to process his emotions, until he was called for dinner. He considered skipping it completely because he knew how Ei liked to have dinner in-person, and he hadn’t taken his meal in his room for quite some time now. However, despite everything, he ended up skulking down the hall like a phantom and moodily taking his seat. Not at his usual place, though, on Ei’s immediate left and across from Miko, but one chair down. Which isn’t all that different in the grand scheme of things but he had hoped it drove home that he did not intend to speak to her.  

Scaramouche's mood did not improve when he sat down and came face-to-face with Kujou Sara, who was occupying the seat on Miko’s other side. He frowned at her. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“She’s here to discuss what further actions need to be taken in regards to the Fatui,” his mother answered for Sara, and Scaramouche resolutely did not look at her. 

The conversation had quickly turned from Ei questioning Sara, to Sara questioning Scaramouche about his incriminating past for the duration of their main course. Scaramouche narrowed his eyes, wondering who the fuck told her his life story, because he was under the impression she hardly knew anything about him—but no. Apparently, she was very well informed, and Scaramouche threw Miko a customary glare on instinct during his questioning because obviously it was her. 

Whatever emotion had possessed Miko in the hallway had disappeared, and she was back to how Scaramouche was used to her: smiling and teasing and overall just irritating in general. Scaramouche wondered if what he saw hours earlier had been a trick of the light, had been his desperation for justice clouding his mind. 

That brings them to the present. As he pushes the remainder of his dessert around his plate, Scaramouche silently mourns the fact that any sane person would keep treasonous, terrorism-group related bullshit off the dinner table. But of course, Ei feels no need to do that, nor stop Sara from throwing accusations around. He guesses someone can only care so much about etiquette. 

Sara finishes relaying the dispatch report, and Ei nods in approval. Five groups of four Shogunate each had been sent to investigate the location of the meeting, the planned retrieval location, and three other locations in the surrounding areas. 

“You will need to question the child, as well. I’ll have the attendants bring him to the interrogation—” 

“No.” 

Silence draws on after Scaramouche’s snapped interruption. He looks up, and glares at a spot on Ei’s cheek to avoid her eyes. 

“I’ll question him myself. Just let me do it.” 

She’s silent for a moment. Scaramouche moves his eyes to the wall, waiting for the rejection. 

“Alright. Please do so as soon as possible, and report back to Sara. Preferably before the day's end.” 

He gives a single nod. Ei turns back to Sara. 

“Inform me immediately when you receive word from each unit. That will be all.” 

“Yes, Your Excellency.” 

It was an obvious dismissal. Sara didn’t need any more prompting, and quietly bowed her head before excusing herself. As if instructed by some invisible signal, the attendants began clearing the table. 

Scaramouche’s mood still had not improved in the slightest. He had been stewing in his anger, and the burning need to confront Ei to alleviate the molten ball of displeasure in his chest was so demanding he had been practically shaking in his chair. Scaramouche knows, he knows that any confrontation is going to end one of two ways, and both of them are not in his favor. He needs to calm down before he speaks to Ei about her unjust reasoning behind his ‘punishment,’ but he doesn’t know how to do that when his anger is still making him sick to his stomach. 

It’s not the threat of punishment that he’s so upset about. He couldn’t care less about that. It’s how blatantly she expressed that she does not trust him. It’s the fact she is ignoring what his actions were for and focusing on what his actions were. It’s the fact that he had not intervened until Daisuke’s life was in danger. Scaramouche had not started it. Perhaps he would have, if Daisuke had not been there. He remembers the rage, remembers feeling no concern over the thought of being locked up for their deaths, because he very well may have killed them all. 

But he didn’t, because Daisuke had been there. 

It’s the fact that Ei is guilty of all the crimes she is accusing him of, and shows no empathy for him at all. 

Miko stands to leave, and Scaramouche takes that as his cue. He thinks for a moment that he’s going to make it out without any issues, but he’s not so lucky. 

“Scaramouche, stay for a moment.” 

Scaramouche freezes but doesn’t turn around, and notices Miko hesitate at the door as well. 

“I’d like to speak to you. Alone, please.” 

That last part was clearly directed at everyone else, because the attendants file out and Miko gives him nothing but a brief glance before departing as well. The door shuts behind them, and silence prevails.

“You are angry with me,” Ei comments, and he twitches. It is not a question, and she doesn’t phrase it as one. 

Scaramouche debates just walking away and ignoring her completely. He doesn’t anticipate this going well, because he is angry. He’s always angry, and he doesn’t know if his anger with her about his punishment is going to mix into the burning fury he harbors about his abandonment. Because, yes, that anger has been stewing for weeks, unaddressed, but he is so afraid to bring it up and destroy this tentative peace existing between them. He’s so afraid she’s going to change her mind about her decision to keep him.

And yet, this situation has brought it to the forefront of his mind, and he's finding it increasingly difficult to ignore. He—Scaramouche had disappointed her. The last time that had happened...

Before Scaramouche can decide whether to leave or stay, touch ghosts across his shoulders, and he jumps in surprise. He hadn’t even heard her move. 

Ei gazes at him for a moment, searching, before opening her mouth. Scaramouche beats her to it with the question he’s been biting back from the moment she declared she was displeased with him. 

“I thought you were trying to prove to me that you—” he blurts out, then hesitates, because speaking back to that conversation is as humiliating as it is uncomfortable. 

“That you want this,” he finishes, voice quieter, but no less harsh. He hopes she knows what he’s really asking, because he will not actually ask it. That you still want me. 

“I am,” she says, frowning. “I am trying.” 

He scoffs around the brief spike of relief in his chest, irritation flaring before he can push it back. “You have an interesting way of showing it.” 

“Scaramouche, I do not take joy in this. I am not trying to punish you for—” 

“You said I was being punished,” he interrupts. “For the crime of–of protecting Inazuma. For protecting—” 

For protecting you. He purses his lips together, unwilling to voice that aloud. She obviously does not want that. Maybe she wants to try for peace with him, but doesn’t want to receive anything in return. After all, why would she? 

Ei is silent for a long moment, before settling and pulling back her shoulders. He prepares himself for a dismissal, or his actual punishment, since he still does not know what that will be. Instead, he gets something else. 

“I am trying to prevent you from making the same mistakes that I did.” 

The comment is unexpected, and extremely confusing. Scaramouche almost laughs at the absurdity of it, at how outlandish it is. Does she even know what he’s done? He mockingly smiles to himself.

She abandoned him? Yes. She was a tyrant? Unfortunately. But Scaramouche? Scaramouche is a murderer— and not just of that man today. It's not as if Ei and Miko are not murderers in their own right, but he is different. Scaramouche was neither kind, nor benevolent, nor merciful at any point that he was called the sixth Harbinger. Ei is certainly not a saint—but even he knows that at the root of it all she was doing it for her people.

Scaramouche had killed for fun. For pleasure. He had liked it, all the power he held over the humans unlucky enough to be assigned to him.  Ei took her despair and turned it into violence she used for Inazuma and, despite the harm, for her people. Scaramouche had taken his despair and turned it into violence he used for revenge. 

So, no. She cannot prevent him from making her mistakes, because he has already made them. And the mistakes he made were so, so much worse. And despite that, he feels no remorse for any of it. He is not trying to improve like she is.

Perhaps some of these thoughts are breaking through his carefully constructed mask, because Ei looks down, and something akin to sadness colors her voice. “It is no secret that I used my position in a way that was unfavorable for my citizens. I am trying to atone for those mistakes. For all the mistakes I’ve made since…” 

She looks at him, and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t shake it off, because he wants to know where this is going; if she speaks about his abandonment, perhaps the weight in his chest will alleviate, at least partially. He’s not sure whether to feel relieved or furious when she continues. 

“...since my predecessor died, and I was forced to take her position. I know I was not there for you in the past, Scaramouche, but I can prevent you from making these mistakes now. You have tentatively accepted a place with me in Inazuma, and that comes with responsibilities. I want to prevent you from destroying your image, like I did.” 

She doesn’t bring it up. Scaramouche smiles, and it is not kind. 

“It is far, far too late for that,” he says. “You cannot protect me from what I am.” And then, because he can’t help it, “From what you made me. I am not inherently good.” 

Scaramouche expected her to shut down, to end the argument, or perhaps to even ignore him completely. He would have even expected a flinch before he expected what came next. 

She looks at him hard, and says, “You are wrong. I can protect you, and I will,” And then, as if that wasn’t shocking enough, “Is that not what mothers do?” 

Scaramouche’s mouth floods with blood as his teeth sink into his cheek. He rips his gaze away, cannot even look at her as the implication of that sentence shakes him to his core. They have not discussed it, the mantle she decided to take that night all those days ago. For him.  Yes, he calls her mother. And yes, they have begun doing things together, having meals and hesitant conversations that don’t end in outbursts of rage or tears. But she has had yet to speak the word herself, to acknowledge what she decided to be to him. And she has yet to speak about the very thing that tore them apart. 

So he says nothing, because what is he expected to say to that? Yes, punish me unfairly because you’re my mother and discipline comes as part of the package? Or, no, you’re my mother but this is not what you’re supposed to do because you’re wrong?  

Scaramouche swallows, mouth full of cotton, and decides to just try and explain himself. In reality, it’s not as if he knows any better than her what normal disciplinary action is between a child and their parent, but he doesn’t imagine it’s this.  

“I didn’t start the fight. The man I injured—he was going to hurt the kid. Had already struck him. Yes, I broke the offending limb, but then they attacked me, not the other way around.” 

“What did you do to his leg?” Ei asks him quietly. 

Scaramouche glares at the ground. “You already know what I did.” 

“Yes. But I want to know what your intentions were in that moment. Did you know the true extent of the damage? Were you trying to cripple him, or were you simply trying to incapacitate him?” 

Scaramouche doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t necessarily have one. Ei takes his silence as a confirmation. She slides her hands down his biceps, brushes her thumbs over the soft skin below his sleeve. He’s still staring at the ground. 

“I am not punishing you for protecting the child. I am not punishing you for coming to my defense. I am not even punishing you for hurting that man,” she says. “I am punishing you for taking advantage of, and using your strength against unassuming members of Inazuma city, who don’t know who you are. When I know you could have settled it in a way that did not permanently inhibit his life. Because, despite his actions, he is still one of our citizens.” 

His anger surges at the pity she feels for this man. “You didn’t hear what they said,” he snaps back at her. “He should have died for those comments, just like the other one.” 

She actually smiles a little at that, and he grits his teeth. “Why did you even give me this strength, then," he questions, "if I am prohibited from using it?”

“You cannot control the words of your people,” Ei starts. There’s a bit of wry humor in her tone, and he bristles. “If everyone who spoke ill of me, or of the Shogunate, was killed, Inazuma’s population would be considerably smaller.” 

Scaramouche harshly sighs, exasperated in the face of her amusement. But, slowly, he’s calming down. 

“And,” she continues on to his question, gently squeezing his arms, “I built your vessel to endure eternity. It must be able to weather erosion and violence.” 

Scaramouche purses his lips, but nods in understanding. He supposes that makes sense…it’s not as if he was unaware of his original purpose. But to be punished for using this strength in Inazuma’s name—in Ei’s name—he’s still unconvinced. 

Ei gently smiles at him, and then the careful understanding that they were moving towards abruptly shatters into a million pieces. 

“Weakness was never an option.” 

Scaramouche rears back as if physically struck. He jerks out of Ei’s gentle hold, panic and ice slicing through his chest. He stares at her, dumbstruck, in absolute disbelief that she just said that to his face. It’s as good as a confession, in his eyes, and the use of past tense does not alleviate any of his hurt, any of his fear. 

It appears as if she suddenly realizes what she said, because Ei reaches for him again, brows creasing. “Wait. That is not what I—” 

A hysterical laugh breaks through his silence, practically ripped from his throat. 

“Right,” Scaramouche says, emotion strangling his voice, “because you didn’t abandon me for my weakness?” 

The second the words leave his lips, he wants to take it back. Because, there. He said it. It’s out in the open, now. The issue they have not even begun to address. Five hundred years of pain and suffering, all caused by her, with no apology. 

Scaramouche feels raw, with the way she’s looking at him, his biggest source of anguish open to the air. The scabbing wound broken and bleeding. 

Ei looks startled. She looks confused. And then she looks like nothing, because her face smooths out completely and goes blank. 

It’s this, he thinks, that pushes the first tear of frustration from his eye. 

“Ah, yes,” she says slowly, as if choosing her words carefully, tasting them on her tongue before speaking them into the air. “Miko had informed me you believed I ‘abandoned’ you.” 

Shock freezes him to the spot. Scaramouche, really, truly, has nothing to say to that for a good fifteen seconds. 

“‘Believed,’” he finally breathes, just as slow as her. Quietly. It’s not a question. “Miko told you I ‘believed’ it to be true.”

“Yes,” Ei confirms, nodding. She looks very calm. Composed. 

And Scaramouche trembles with rage. 

But this rage is silent. It is not white hot or blinding. He does not intend to snap at, yell, or scream at her. This rage is so unbelievably encompassing and unexpected he feels his eyes stop burning and an inexplicable smile break across his face. He feels as if his shape has been chipped from ice. 

“Why do you say that?” he asks, voice even, almost amicable. Scaramouche could be asking about the weather, for how steady his tone is. This must ring some sort of internal alarm because Ei frowns, barely, and tilts her head to the side, studying him. She reaches out, again, for him, and this momentarily rips through the thin veil of his composure. 

“Don’t touch me,” he snarls, before the rip is sealed and the eerie calmness of his fury blankets his mind once again. 

“Answer the question,” he orders after a moment. She had retreated at his raging command, and now regards him with some unreadable emotion. Scaramouche has not thought her emotions unreadable for quite some time, and his lip curls against his teeth.  

“Why are you saying this?” he asks again, when she says nothing. “Why are you using that word?” 

“I admit,” she says at last, eyes tracing over his expression, “I am confused. What other word should I use? I am using the word ‘believe,’ because that is what you assumed happened.” 

“Then you are implying that I am wrong?” he questions through gritted teeth. Later, Scaramouche will wonder how it was he kept himself from destroying the entire room in his fury, in his debilitating pain. He will question how they escaped this situation in any way that wasn’t relationship-ending. 

He will wonder how they ever recovered from this. 

“You imply that you did not abandon me?”

Ei hesitates for a second, just barely pauses long enough for him to catch, but nods in agreement. Scaramouche silently seethes. Air escapes him, and his frantically assembled composure begins to crack. He doesn’t know how to react to this—this is not something he ever imagined having to deal with—

Her avoidance? Her unwillingness? Her ignorance? Yes, sure, perhaps he expected that. But complete denial? Conviction that she didn’t do that to him, that he’s misremembering? 

“You are wrong,” she confirms, as if she isn’t dismissing the worst moment of his life as a simple misunderstanding. “I did not abandon you.”

The tears return, and flood his eyes as the full weight of her statement washes over him in one painful wave. Scaramouche harshly runs his tongue along the back of his teeth as he glares unseeingly to the side, warring with himself for just a single moment more of composure before he completely loses it. Fury and pain rip apart his insides, clawing for a way out—whether that be through his throat, or through actions, he doesn’t know. 

Scaramouche takes a slow, deep breath, and closes his eyes, uncaring for the tears that slip down his cheeks. Scaramouche feels Ei brush them away with her fingers, and wonders why, why does she feel the need to touch him now, of all times? Can she not see what she is doing to him? The pain that he feels from her words?  Scaramouche knows if he moves anything but his mouth, but his eyes, that he’s going to do something he will always regret. So he stays very still, waits until her hand leaves his face before looking at her. 

“What would you call it, then?” he asks, as more tears threaten to escape. It is now more difficult to keep his tone steady, than anything else. His throat burns with the effort of holding back this emotion. 

She stares at him, as if confused why he does not understand. 

“I gave you freedom.” 

Scaramouche just stares at her, stares and stares and stares. He stares silently, and for so long, that Ei reaches for him again. This time, he does not allow it. 

Between one blink and the next, Scaramouche goes from staring up into her face to down into her eyes. Ei blinks from the floor, and Scaramouche quickly steps back, pulling his arms back to his chest as if burned. He actually…

He actually pushed her to the ground. Her. His mother. The Archon. To the ground. 

Scaramouche chokes on a gasp, on an apology. Ei does not attempt to stand up. She just looks at him, from his feet, and he backs up even more, profusely uncomfortable with this image and borderline hysterical with the weight of words that are building in his chest. They’re choking him, have been choking him from the moment Nahida told him his mother was sailing to Sumeru, from the moment he locked eyes with her on a rainy Sumeran dock. 

Scaramouche doesn’t know how much longer he can survive with the words closing around his neck like a noose, threatening to hang him at any given moment. But they are his deepest secrets. His most shameful weaknesses. So, when he opens his mouth, it’s for an apology. It’s for a dismissal, so he can just leave. 

What escapes instead is a stream of wounded confessions, each more damning than the last. And he almost sobs from the relief of it. 

“I loved you,” Scaramouche whispers, face twisting in agony at the mere memory of it, “so much that it hurt.” 

His voice is hoarse with the emotion he’s barely holding back. “I loved you, do you even understand? You cannot even conceptualize how much I loved you—love, even now, and yet—” his voice breaks, “—and yet, you barely spared me a glance after you created me. I was an object to you, a mistake, useless, and weak, and—” 

Scaramouche sucks in a breath, and this is so much worse than he imagined it would be. Ei has not moved to stand, has not moved at all, in fact, frozen against the ground and staring at him as if she has never seen him before. But once he started, now he cannot stop, and his voice begins to rise with his anger. 

“You never even cared!” he borderline shouts at her. “You never cared about me, and the first chance you got—the second you were able—you took me to that fucking domain and discarded me like trash!” 

Scaramouche abruptly sinks to his knees before her, unwilling and unable to stand, and chokes out, “Because that’s all I was to you. You admitted it yourself—weakness was not an option. And I was such a disappointment that you couldn’t stand to look at me. I don't care what you say now, what you said before—how am I supposed to believe anything, after that?" 

Ei’s chest moves with breath. She doesn’t need to breathe. Scaramouche doesn’t know why he focuses on this, but he does. 

“I trusted you,” he whispers, looking up, and straight into her eyes, into whatever emotions are brewing behind them. 

“I trusted you, as my mother, to protect me. And what you did—do you know what happened to me after you left me there? Do you even know what happened to me in all those years that came after? Do you even care?” 

“Yes,” Ei breathes, speaking for the first time. “I—”

“No,” he snaps, furious with himself, with her, with the world. 

“I loved you so overwhelmingly that I could do nothing but cry,” he snarls, spitting and practically baring his teeth, “and the minute you saw those tears, that expression of my love, you decided I was worthless. You created me to feel those things and then left me to die.” 

A little, mocking laugh cuts through the space between them. “And I couldn't even do that. Now, here, after everything, you expect me to believe that you were trying to give me freedom all along? That you cared enough about me to save me from—from what? From Inazuma? From yourself?”

“Scaramouche,” Ei says, and it sounds…not completely composed, which is as good as strangled, when it comes to Ei. “I was trying to give you something more than what you had—more than I could give you. I owed you that. I wanted you to find happiness —” 

“I was happy with you!” 

Scaramouche’s scream rings through the air, bounces off the walls of the large, empty room. There’s no sound, then, for a while, nothing to break the silence but for Scaramouche's harsh breathing. 

“I am sorry,” Ei says at last, staring at him so intensely, staring at him as if she’s hurting. “Scaramouche, I—” 

He shakes his head, a mocking, tearful smile distorting his face. “That’s not my name. I don’t have one, remember? You never gave me one.” 

Ei’s mouth snaps shut, and she closes her eyes. 

When she opens them, Scaramouche is gone.

Chapter Text

Scaramouche runs, and runs, and runs out the doors and into the cool air, far, far away from her. 

Agony pierces his chest. Scaramouche bites back the demanding sobs clawing up his throat as he rushes to escape, hardly caring if anyone sees and pleading with the universe that nobody follows. 

His vessel doesn’t need to breathe. It doesn’t need food, water, or sleep. Scaramouche pretends to do these things, takes part in the human acts of breathing and eating and existing because it’s something he can control. The simple rituals that humans conduct daily without even being aware of it have always fascinated him and angered him in equal measure because he can only pretend. Because if he simply did nothing at all, he would continue to survive in all defiance of nature. 

Unnatural. 

So Scaramouche does these human things. Perhaps, at first, it was to appear normal. To pacify the humans around him, to keep them from sensing the strange otherness that follows and cloaks Scaramouche in unsettling beauty. 

But as the years weathered on, he slowly became accustomed to human actions. Scaramouche finds himself breathing on instinct, now, and needing to manually stop his own breathing rather than start it, as he used to. And hunger—despite not physically needing it, he genuinely craves the food that he used to dismiss as useless. 

Scaramouche sometimes forgets that he doesn’t actually need any of this, doesn’t need to breathe, blink, eat… But he remembers, now, thinks back to the agonizing feeling of being unable to catch his breath, thinks back to the painful sensation of trembling through his sobs and wonders, why didn’t he just stop breathing completely? 

And why doesn’t he do so now? 

As he runs, darting through the darkened streets of Inazuma City and out across the wide plains of emerald grass, further and further away from Tenshukaku, Scaramouche’s unnatural speed and the impossible silence of his actions remind him of what he is. 

Or rather, what he is not. 

Because as divine as he is, as seraphic and ethereal as he was made to be, Scaramouche is disgustingly human. 

In emotion, in thought, and perhaps in soul. But his body is one of divinity, one of power. Scaramouche wants to claw through his chest because he never noticed how incomplete his entire person is. He can feel the ragged seam where his humanity and his divinity are desperately stitched together, that he has been trying for five-hundred years to mend into one seamless entity. 

Ei must have seen this in him, this is what she must have seen, how defective and wrong he is—and hiding behind the claim of freedom and happiness as if she had ever, for a single moment, convinced herself that she cared—

Scaramouche stumbles over nothing, crashes to the ground without a sound, scraping his knees and palms raw on the jagged stone path of Chinju Forest. 

He hadn’t noticed when he crossed the barrier between emerald and indigo, but he clenches the unusually dark grass poking out between the stones in his fists as another wave of misery shudders through his frame, as the memory of her face swims behind his eyelids, rejecting his emotion and claiming that he was wrong—

Scaramouche flinches as icy water suddenly drips down the back of his neck, as the pitch-darkness of the forest before him lights up violet with a crash of lighting. It’s very dark now, but Scaramouche has hardly noticed, eyes gleaming with artificial light. 

It begins so quickly, it could be anything but natural—a rain so cold and heavy he’s drenched in seconds, the towering trees above his kneeling frame shielding him from nothing under the painful onslaught. 

Cold water drips over his face, falls from his eyelashes, and the only proof he has of his anguish are the burning tears that seem to track fire down his face, indiscernible from the rain if not for the scalding temperature. 

The darkness is pierced with another blinding flash of lighting, and the thunder claps so near and loud that Scaramouche almost expects to be hit by the bolt itself. He wonders, absently, if his body would absorb it. If it would feel good. 

Or if he would feel it at all, for numbness has spread her aching fingers through his limbs and his lip trembles where he has it held bloody between his teeth. 

No name, no presence, no heart. 

Scaramouche is nothing, has been rejected, again, by the only person he’s ever loved immediately and unconditionally. 

The pure heartbreak that thought brings with it restarts his weeping anew. The sadness he had felt upon his abandonment, the torture he had endured under Dottore’s knife, all the agonizing turmoil the last few weeks had brought him…it pales in comparison to the acidic misery that envelopes him now. The misery of being proven right about her, when everything in his life was assuring him that he was wrong. That she had changed, that she does care, that it was a mistake. 

As another sob breaks from his chest, the sound muted under the heavy curtain of rain, Scaramouche drags himself off the ground and deeper into the forest, climbing through tori gates that remind him so much of the only god he ever loved. Scaramouche hadn’t thought it possible to be in this much anguish over a few words. He doesn’t know why this rejection—and it’s not even a rejection of him, it’s of his emotion, of an event that happened centuries ago—is making him feel like this. 

He thinks, suddenly, that this is what death must feel like. This is what men must fear, seconds away from being cut down by his mother’s blade; Scaramouche had thought he had experienced all the agony a life could possibly experience. 

He had thought wrong, apparently, because as their conversation replays in his head, as he remembers the words she said so definitely, so absolutely…

Scaramouche begins weeping in earnest. He has never cried like this. And his thoughts are not helping, they’re only making this worse, because why in the Seven is he thinking about how it felt to relax into her arms, why is he desperately wishing that she would appear and make this better ?  

Scaramouche has loved with his entire being. Given his love to more people than he would readily admit. Katsuragi, he thinks immediately, who had eased the pain of his abandonment, had soothed over Scaramouche’s wounded heart with his care. Scaramouche had given him his love without a thought. Had not yet known this action would be one of the first to destroy him. 

The boy, who had earned his love through his innocence, through his own wholehearted happiness that he readily shared with Scaramuche. Scaramouche had seen himself in the boy and decided yes, it was okay, surely this time. 

He had been wrong once again. 

The Traveler had been unexpected. Scaramouche had not had any intention to care about them, but found himself warily returning their sentiments as if he was not broken inside. 

And Nahida. 

Oh, Nahida. 

Whom Scaramouche had not even known he loved more than anything, who had touched a place so deeply buried within himself that he had forgotten of its existence altogether. Who had become someone he cherished so intently he could do nothing but accept it once he realized the truth. 

But these…these had all been conditional. Maybe not so obviously, maybe not so intently, but one way or another, they had earned their place in Scaramouche’s heart. Would have never existed there if circumstances had changed, if he had not gotten to know them. 

Ei had been different. Was different. Is still different, after everything. 

This is something Scaramouche has always known. He’s thought about this already, has had these exact thoughts repeat through his head multiple times, how she had been the center of his universe and the object of his most unconditional love since the very first moment of his life. 

He knows this, is fucking exhausted from being reminded of it, but of course his treacherous brain chooses right-fucking-now to page through the memories he tries so hard to lock away, sending anger, and sadness, and desperation so intensely through his system that he stumbles and clutches the rough, wet bark of a tree to steady himself as he doubles over with sobbing so intense his stomach cramps with it. 

Because she had told him she would try. Ei had assured him she wanted him. But when push came to shove, and he confronted her about the deepest scar he carried, carved there by herself, she had rejected him in all but words. All Scaramouche had wanted was an apology. Not even that—a simple acknowledgement of the agony that she caused by that single action, this he would have settled with. 

Instead, he had received complete denial. She had not paused for a moment to consider his words. Ei had immediately told him that she had done it for him , when Scaramouche had spent his entire life wondering what he could have done differently to change the outcome. 

Scaramouche settles against the mountainside at the far edge of the forest, hardly remembering how he got here to begin with. There, beneath the black, pouring rain and booming thunder, Scaramouche pulls his knees to his chest, and weeps. 

—

It could be seconds. It could be minutes. It could have been hours, for all he knows. 

Not days, though, because no light had emerged from behind the clouds, and the rain had not ceased its incessant barrage. It was still coming down in freezing sheets, plastering his hair to his forehead and his clothing to his skin. 

Scaramouche had stopped crying, at some point, and now stares unseeing into the thundering darkness of the ocean, wishing he could sink into the tumultuous waves and disappear. He is still and silent, the only occasional hitching spasm of his chest evidence that he had been crying at all. His thoughts, however, still rage as violent as the storm blanketing Inazuma. Scaramouche doesn’t know what to do. Going back is not an option. Surely, if she wanted to see him, she would have sought him out. He’s sure if she wanted to find him, she could follow his elemental trail. 

But nobody had come for him. Nobody had passed by at all, in fact, with it surely being the latest hours of the evening, and with such a steady storm raging overhead. 

Scaramouche thinks about leaving, stowing away on the first boat he sees and never looking back. He digs his fingers into the muddy earth below every time that thought crosses his mind, because as desperate as he is to leave, an equally violent part of him is demanding he stay. 

Stay for what, he doesn’t know. Not for the first time, he wishes he had brought the Akasha with him. Nahida would know what he should do. Maybe she would even come get him, if that’s what he desired. But Scaramouche doesn’t know how she would take him from here without his mother…

Scaramouche shudders, throat going tight and that all-too familiar burn lacing up his esophagus. He clenches his eyes tight, counts to ten in every language he knows to keep his composure and the emotion at bay. Perhaps this is why he doesn’t sense the human until they are above him. Perhaps he is focusing too intently, too completely, on not breaking back down, to hear the soft wet sound of grass crushed beneath a wooden shoe. 

Scaramouche dials back into reality when the harsh rain abruptly ceases, eyes blinking open in confusion, because the sound of it continues, bouncing off the stones and streaming off the trees around him. Scaramouche startles, backing into the cool rock, and looks up into a softly concerned face. Pearly white hair streams over this person’s shoulder, shining gently in the pale bit of moonlight that breaks through the tiniest of spaces of the stormy clouds. Clear, gray eyes seem to glow in the dark, but not with internal light like Scaramouche’s do. 

This person, this girl, bends over him slightly, shields him from the rain with a pale rose-pink umbrella. She gazes at him questioningly, in concern, and when she speaks her voice is soft and her words extremely polite. The very picture of grace. 

“Are you alright?” she asks, carefully keeping a respectful distance between them in an attempt not to loom, but still trying to cover him completely from the pouring onslaught. Scaramouche notices as the rain begins to stain the back of her skirt, soaking into the cloth and surely sending a chill down her spine. 

A family seal embellished in gold shines proudly on her chest. 

Scaramouche tries to put a name to it, the flower that is somehow familiar but just out of reach. He only realizes that seconds of silence have passed when she shifts slightly, face not displaying any impatience. Rather, she shifts to lower herself further, gracefully tucking her skirt beneath her knees, uncaring how the mud and rain stick against her bare legs. 

“You must be cold,” she says softly, some sort of understanding passing through her expression. Scaramouche isn’t sure what is happening right now. Offhandedly, it occurs to him that this girl must think him human, probably assuming he is the same age as herself. A lost boy, hopeless. 

Scaramouche wonders what picture he paints, here, drenched in the rain and sitting alone in the darkness of Chinju Forest. He wonders if his face displays evidence of his crying. 

He just stares at her, silently, wondering why she is here and when she will go away. When she does nothing but patiently look at him, he turns back to the distant ocean. She shifts next to him, settling in as well. Scaramouche’s emotions have been rubbed raw, and he feels as if his fuse—already short—has been reduced to nothing. As she silently sits next to him and holds her umbrella over them both, annoyance flares abnormally hot in his gut. 

“You’ll catch a fever out here,” she comments quietly, again, and she’s so polite about it. Scaramouche is unused to being addressed like this, and it dampens his anger, so when she continues, he does not snap. “My residence is just up the hill. Perhaps you would consider drying off there?” 

“Leave me alone,” he orders without any heat, still staring out into the horizon. Lighting crashes somewhere near them, the storm still as violent and angry as it had been hours—probably—earlier. 

The girl next to him hums to herself, gazing out into the storm, appearing to ignore his order completely. 

“Her Excellency must be displeased.” 

Scaramouche snarls at the mention of Ei, dormant rage spiking as the girl’s words take shape in his head. 

“Good,” he can’t help but spit venomously. He hadn’t thought about it for more than a moment until she mentioned it, but the storm had started quite suddenly and continued uninterrupted, which is so, so strange, even for Inazuma. 

Scaramouche takes pleasure in the thought that Ei is upset, even if he doesn’t know for sure that her emotions are tied to the weather—how much influence does she have over this country, now that she does not possess the gnosis? 

Scaramouche is also familiar with this specific pattern of phrasing, the idioms that humans are fond of using when alluding to certain elemental—or just uncontrollable—forces that are synonymous with one of the Seven. Barbados, with the wind, Morax, with the economy. He remembers the whispers in Snezhnaya, about the never ending winter and its connection with the Tsaritsa. 

So, perhaps the girl’s comment was just that. But Scaramouche thinks there is too much knowing in her eyes, too much calm acceptance for it to be anything but knowledge of the truth. Scaramouche wonders if Inazuma had often suffered storms during their isolation, if the environmental manifestation of the Shogun’s anger had become their new normal. 

She does not appear to be surprised by his outburst, nor does she shy away from his anger like anyone else would. He looks back at her, displeased, wondering why she’s still here. 

“The Balladeer,” she says softly. Scaramouche doesn’t move, doesn’t show any emotion to that title, despite the shock of her knowing it. Knowing him, even just in rumor.  

No judgment or fear mars her face. She doesn’t accuse him of this title, simply states it, like one would a name. When he says nothing in return, not moving, not breathing, waiting for furious anger to spike and the urge to lash out to take control of his body, she smiles warmly. 

“You look like her,” the girl offers, lips lifting in a soft smile, “your eyes, especially.” 

“Who are you?” he asks, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. He knows he and Ei look so, so similar, and knows rumors must have spread about his existence, a boy that looks too much like their archon following the woman around. 

And yet, something about this girl is different. Her gaze…it’s too knowing. He doesn’t like it. 

“Oh!” she exclaims, bringing her hand to her chest in genuine surprise, face creasing in sincere apology. “I do apologize—how rude of me, not to introduce myself in the beginning. My name is Kamisato Ayaka.” 

Kamisato. The name is familiar to him, but he can’t place it. She must sense this, for she offers up the information immediately, like it’s nothing. Perhaps it is nothing. 

“My family leads the Yashiro Commission,” she informs him, and that is familiar. “My brother, Ayato, is the head of our family. I believe he now works closely with the Shogun—” 

Any further information she is about to give him is interrupted with a sneeze. Ayaka blinks in surprise and covers her mouth, as if the action startled her. Scaramouche scowls, rolling his eyes and looking back out towards the water. Perhaps he should just leave—but he was here first. She is surely going to get sick. 

“If you know who I am,” he sneers, voice coming out dry and lifeless, “then you should know to leave me be. I told you to go away.” 

“It would be ill-mannered of me not to invite you inside,” she comments again, and Scaramouche can practically see the streak of stubbornness flare within her. 

Fine, if she wants to play that game. 

“You know who I am,” he repeats, pinning her with a vicious glare. “Surely, you know what I’ve done. How do you know it’s safe?” 

Scaramouche injects some of his anger in his tone, scowls at her like she’s one of his subordinates. Usually, this look works, sending men and women of all ages and status running from his immediate vicinity. 

This Kamisato Ayaka gives another warm smile, and Scaramouche’s face falls into frustrated confusion at the sight of it. 

“You’re our Shogun’s family, are you not?” she asks, and his mouth drops open at the bold claim she seemed to pull from absolutely nowhere. How the actual fuck would she know that? How do people keep guessing this? 

She apparently takes his silence as an invitation to keep going. “Surely, if you intended to hurt me, you would have already done so.” 

She hesitates, then, and looks back over her shoulder to the winding path that leads through Chinju forest and out into the plains. 

“I must admit,” she confesses, turning back to him with a faint blush rising across her nose. Scaramouche can barely see this in the darkness, and it’s only because of what he is that he recognizes this sign of…what? Embarrassment? 

“I spotted you quite some time ago as I was returning from Inazuma City, due to the storm—” 

Scaramouche freezes against the rock, and wonders when she saw him, how much she saw, if it’s even possible that human eyes would have been able to see him in the darkness—

“...well, to be more specific,” she is saying, seemingly oblivious to his agitation, “I spotted your vision, and waited to see if you were going to continue—” 

Scaramouche relaxes fractionally, glancing down to where his vision is indeed lit brightly against his chest. It’s not a lie that it would be noticeable in the darkness, especially to other vision users. Scaramouche glances to the girl’s side, where icy elemental energy is gently pulsing from behind her. He had parsed that she must be a cryo user, if the white glow reflecting off the grass is any indication. 

“...once I saw you weren’t moving, I thought perhaps…” she trails off, frowning. “I thought you might be hurt. I do apologize for intruding like this, but it is very cold.” 

“As you can clearly see,” he drawls, tone biting, “I’m fine. So if you would—” 

Electricity thrums in the air between them, and Scaramouche barely has time to react as Ayaka's hair begins to rise. It’s the only warning they receive before lightning strikes less than a meter away from them, so close to the edge of the forest they both jump in surprise. He feels Ayaka flinch at the roaring thunder that echoes overhead. He can’t be completely sure, but it’s as if the storm has worsened with time, as if the rain pounds harder on Ayaka’s thin umbrella. Scaramouche sees her wrist flex beneath the new weight of it, trying to keep it balanced over their heads. 

A warm hand gently touches his arm. 

“Please,” Ayaka says, looking more drenched by the minute as the wind pushes the rain into their little sanctuary. Her soft voice is hardly audible. Scaramouche wonders, if this truly is his mother’s doing, what in Teyvat has her so upset? 

Again, Scaramouche tastes electricity behind his teeth, shudders as a wave of it sparks through the air. He feels it behind his eyes, has absolutely no control over its manifestation over his irises. He glances at Ayaka as the next strike hits somewhere close by, and sees the glowing reflection of his own in them, vibrant purple cast across her face. Scaramouche doesn’t know why the energy is affecting him like this. 

Ayaka breathes something into the air, so quick and quiet he would have missed it, had he been anyone else. 

Raiden, she mouths softly, absently. 

Agitated, Scaramouche stands up quickly, practically dislodging the girl and her umbrella. She steadies herself, rising with him, catching the pole of the umbrella with both hands as the wind threatens to sweep it away. Without a word, he turns in the opposite direction and stalks away, further into the forest and away from both the girl and the Kamisato compound. To his relief, Ayaka does not follow him. 

Scaramouche doesn’t have a destination in mind, and hardly cares about the intensity of the storm. He’s genuinely considering his idea of traveling to another island altogether when he hears wood slip against rock. Scaramouche has his eyes closed in exasperation before the girl even fully hits the ground. 

Of course. 

Just keep going, he thinks, feet frozen to the stone. That’s not his problem, she should have left when he explicitly told her to—

Scaramouche barely catches the sharp intake of breath Ayaka takes, raising herself off the ground, and he looks over his shoulder, already knowing what sight is going to greet him.

He absolutely hates being right. On the bright side, it seemed Ayaka had been trying to move on the path towards her house, and not in the direction Scaramouche was going. That doesn’t change the completely unwarranted pang of guilt he feels when he spots the blood running down her leg and hand from the sharp, wet stone. 

Her umbrella almost flies away, and she just barely catches it with her injured hand, wincing sharply as the wood irritates the abrasions. Scaramouche sighs harshly before moving to help her. 

Humans, he thinks irritably as he snatches the umbrella out of her hand, making her jump at his surprised approach. So pathetically delicate. 

“Apologies,” she says, shaking out her skirt. She reaches for the umbrella. “Thank you, I’ll just—” 

Scaramouche jerks it out of her reach, holding it above them effortlessly like she had been trying and failing to do. 

“Can you walk?” he demands blandly. She should be perfectly able to walk with a scraped knee, but Scaramouche has sometimes been proven wrong about the true durability of humans. He hopes she doesn’t think he’s going to carry her. 

(He would, probably, if she needed. But like hell he’s going to admit that.) 

But Ayaka nods. “Yes,” she says evenly, smiling at him politely. “I can walk.” 

After a moment, Scaramouche gestures some-what mockingly forwards, encouraging her to lead the way to her residence. He’ll escort her there, if nothing else, and hold the umbrella for her like she had done—unnecessarily—for him. 

Ayaka takes this in stride, nodding in thanks, before starting up the path. When her shoes slip once more, Scaramouche grabs her elbow instinctively to steady her, but she steadies herself before his help accomplishes anything. They reach the gates of the large building quickly, and the man stationed at the front regards Scaramouche warily, scanning Ayaka for injuries as if simply part of the ritual. When he actually does find them, he frantically ushers her further inside. 

“My Lady, come inside quickly, we must get that looked at—” 

“I am fine, thank you,” she assures, brushing aside his assistance with the ease of someone who is far too protected for the skills they possess, and far too used to unneeded concern. 

Scaramouche follows her inside the gates without thought, still holding the umbrella aloft to shield them both from the never-ending storm, and doesn’t even realize he’s doing so until the guard blocks his path with his polearm. 

“Who are you?” the guard questions. Scaramouche would snap back at him that it’s none of his fucking business, if he wasn’t so convinced the the man’s just trying to protect his Lord’s sister. 

“He’s my guest, Hirano-san. Please let him through,” Ayaka requests, gently laying a hand on the weapon that had been carefully inserted between them because—again—they were under the same damn umbrella. 

The guard, Hirano, nods in deference and backs up. Scaramouche blinks as he realizes he’s being led to the front of their residence—a large, traditional Inazuman building that Scaramouche appreciates aesthetically for a moment—and pauses, wondering how he was possibly lured in here. He shoots Ayaka an unimpressed glare, though supposes it’s probably his own fault for being so emotionally exhausted his mind isn’t reacting at his normal speed. Ayaka pulls a fan out of thin air, expertly flicking it open and hiding the bottom of her face with it. 

“As you’re already here,” she says, and he can practically hear the smile, “you might as well come in until the storm passes.” 

With that, she turns and walks away, clearly expecting him to follow or let her walk further into the rain. Scaramouche scowls at her back, but does, indeed, follow her towards the large double doors. For a moment there, she eerily resembled a woman Scaramouche is in no mood to think about. Once they’re properly shielded under the wooden patio, Ayaka takes the umbrella and tucks it away. 

“Come,” she requests. They remove their shoes, and the blast of heat that hits them when the double doors open is almost as startling as the tall, blonde man that practically falls on top of them. 

“Mi'lady!” the man exclaims, gently but frantically patting over her drenched form. “I was so worried when you hadn’t returned— what happened?” 

The man kneels, hovering like a mother hen around Ayaka’s bloody knee, practically dry, at this point. He huffs in fake-displeasure, concern bleeding through his reprimanding tone. “I’ve told you it’s dangerous to travel when—” 

The moment the man’s eyes meet Scaramouche’s, he completely freezes. Then, in the next second, he jerks upright, simultaneously yanking Ayaka behind him and summoning his polearm, backing them both away from Scaramouche. 

“Thoma–!” Ayaka exclaims, eyes wide behind this ‘Thoma.’ “What are you—” 

“Mi'lady,” Thoma says, tension coiling through his form, a reaction that he obviously tries to hide from the pair. Apprehension flashes across his eyes, and Scaramouche is acutely surprised to see a hint of fear there. “Perhaps you should go speak to your brother. He’s in his office at the moment.” 

The man phrases this as a suggestion, but it is most obviously a command, as he slightly moves the weapon between Ayaka and Scaramouche. Not outwardly threatening in any manner, but the fact that the weapon is there at all says enough. 

Scaramouche, for the first time in a while, is completely unaware of what he did to inspire such a reaction. He has never seen this man before in his life. And he wasn’t even trying to be intimidating, for once. 

He raises an eyebrow. 

“Thoma,” Ayaka repeats, softer, stepping forwards to edge past him, but he follows her with his body. 

“My Lady, please—” Thoma says, voice still kind but very careful, lowering almost to a whisper as if to prevent Scaramouche from...what? Becoming offended? “I mean no disrespect, but he could be dangerous—” 

As he says this, the hand he was using to gently corral Ayaka away drifts down, almost subconsciously, to the vision pinned to his waist. Scaramouche glances at it, then back at his face, and the man winces and takes his hand away, looking almost apologetic. 

Scaramouche can only think, damn, that Decree really did its job. 

It’s not as if Scaramouche is ignorant. He can clearly guess this man is probably one of the victims of the Vision Hunt Decree—he had something to do with it, at the very least, or he wouldn’t be clutching at the vision like a lifeline. 

Scaramouche is also aware of his resemblance to the Shogun, and the rumors that must be spreading like wildfire throughout his country. He doesn’t know what people think he is to her, exactly, but the likeness between their faces is telling enough. This Thoma must either know who he actually is, likely informed by the Head of the Yashiro Commission he seems to work for, or simply assumes Scaramouche is an extension of the Shogun in some way. 

Scaramouche wants to roll his eyes and explain that the Vision Hunt Decree was abolished, obviously, but he also could honestly care less about diminishing this man’s anxiety. Much less if it’s of himself. 

Does he really look all that threatening, though, dripping mud and water over their spotless tatami and glaring pathetically through red-rimmed eyes? Scaramouche would bet anything he looks more like a drowned cat right now than any intimidating figure. 

Scaramouche is just turning to leave—doesn’t care to stay where he’s obviously unwanted—when a voice sounds from the hall. 

“Ayaka? Thoma, what’s going on?” 

The calm, deep voice seems to soothe some of the tension in the blonde man’s frame. He relaxes a fraction, lowering his polearm slightly. Another man enters from the open doors behind Ayaka. He’s very tall, and dressed in pristine, expensive-looking white clothing. Hair the color of frozen water hangs over his shoulder in a shorter imitation of Ayaka’s, and Scaramouche gathers this must be her brother. 

The leader of the Yashiro Commission. Kamisato Ayato. 

“Oh, we have a guest,” the man comments lightly, either completely ignoring or completely missing the tension in the room. Scaramouche would put mora on the first. 

“Brother,” Ayaka greets, bowing politely. Scaramouche wonders for a moment who taught this girl manners, because she has not once done anything even remotely impolite. 

Ayato quickly scans over Akaya as every other person they’ve met has done thus far, and frowns at what he sees. As he gently but firmly orders Ayaka to change and allow someone to tend to the wound, Scaramouche realizes with startling clarity how much this girl is…loved. 

By her family. 

Bitter anger and hurt swirls, renewed, in his chest, and Scaramouche starts to take very slow, very deep breaths. There’s something unfamiliar mixed in there as well, something that feels a lot like anxiety, but more intense—Scaramouche can’t place the feeling, but it makes him shift in agitation—

A baby, pressed to their mother’s chest. 

A girl, held aloft in her father’s arms, laughing gleefully as her mother brushes her hair from her eyes. 

A woman singing a lullaby to her child, something Scaramouche had tried to mimic with Ei, and was swiftly rejected—

Jealousy. Jealousy burns Scaramouche from the inside out, acidic and poisonous in his stomach. 

He’s not sure if his demeanor changed, or if his energy noticeably darkened, but suddenly all eyes in the room are back on him, and Scaramouche swears his placid expression has not shifted but he so badly wants to sneer at the pair of siblings. 

Ayato regards him with expertly concealed interest. Face blank, eyes guarded, pleasant smile gracing his lips. Scaramouche, suddenly, wants to be anywhere but here. He had thought Ayaka resembled Miko a moment ago, but she had nothing on her brother.  

“Kunikuzushi,” Ayato starts, and Scaramouche practically snarls as his composure breaks. Thoma tries, and fails, to conceal the subtle shifting of his weapon in automatic response Scaramouche’s visible vexation. Irritatingly, this is displeasing, for some reason. 

No. Not for some reason, actually. Every person in this country thinks they know Scaramouche. Know him well enough to be afraid of him, enough to not be afraid of him, enough to assume his name, enough to tell him he was wrong about a situation that he lived through himself. 

Scaramouche is so fucking tired of people assuming they know who he is. 

“That is not my name,” Scaramouche spits venomously. 

Ayato nods, not reacting to his anger. In fact, he seems to brush it off, apologizing and calling over Thoma for a quick word. He turns, and puts his back to Scaramouche. Thoma seems distressed about this, keeping a careful eye on Scaramouche’s dark corner, but turns his full attention on Ayato completely at whatever the man whispers to him. Scaramouche could eavesdrop, if he wanted to, but is too focused on trying to calm himself to turn much attention to anything else. 

Thoma’s face creases in confusion, but he nods in understanding and quickly strides down another hallway, sending the small group one last departing glance—calculating, in Scaramouche’s direction. 

“Ayaka,” Ayato commands softly, “Go, please.” 

She does not argue like Scaramouche half expects, and departs without another word. 

Ayato turns back to Scaramouche, and all at once, Scaramouche remembers that he is not a fucking tree rooted to a single spot. He wants to smack himself, wants to rip something apart. He can leave, could have left minutes ago. He turns to do just that, like he was trying to do before Ayato’s entrance. He has his hand on the door and everything, flexing the muscles in his arm necessary to pull the door open, when Ayato’s voice freezes him to his core. 

“Raiden-sama, please wait a moment.” 

Scaramouche simultaneously flushes at the title and goes cold at the request, thrown back to hours earlier, Scaramouche, stay for a moment.

Though Ayato voices this as a request, and Ei had voiced a demand. It is this, and only this, that has Scaramouche hesitating. He has not turned around, does not care to look into the man’s face, because he feels too vulnerable right now. Too open, and exposed, and Scaramouche has no idea when everything became too much but his skin is suddenly crawling and thunder echoes in his ears and he has no idea if it’s even real or not—

Scaramouche grips the door handle tight, squeezing his eyes shut as overstimulation rushes through him. He leans his forehead on the cool wood, focuses on his breathing as he tries to let the feeling work itself through him and hopefully drain away. He doesn’t move, wanting nothing more than to crawl out of his own skin. 

Scaramouche left Tenshukaku to escape interaction, so how the fuck did he get himself into this mess? This is a terrible time and place to fall victim to an emotional fit, he thinks with scorn. 

“What do you want?” Scaramouche questions, still leaning against the door. He tries for disdain and irritation but gets flat and monotone instead. He wonders how this Kamisato Ayato knew, without prompting, which name was ‘acceptable’ to address him by. 

Acceptable—rather, tolerable, at the moment. 

You never gave me one. 

Scaramouche bites through his tongue. 

“I did not intend to offend you with that title,” Ayato remarks from behind him. “I apologize if I did so.” 

Scaramouche frowns, and turns towards the man, questions emerging at this information. 

“How do you even know that name?” he shoots back, looking the man up and down with distaste. He cannot be that old, because he is human…

Ayato smiles once more. “I have…certain acquaintances. I also recall the painting Mr. Calx submitted during the Irodori festival quite some time ago—the Traveler had recognized you, there, I believe. Though they had called you by your more infamous title.” 

Scaramouche blinks, staring at the man, wondering if he is, somehow, confusing Scaramouche with someone else. Painting? 

“Right,” he says slowly, very much unconvinced. He'll have to look into that. Scaramouche narrows his eyes. “What do you want?” 

“I am not after anything,” Ayato reassures, keeping that same, irritatingly polite smile on his face. 

“The relationship between the Yashiro Commission and the Tenryou Commission has been improving, recently,” the man informs him. Scaramouche wonders why this man thinks he cares. “Your mother and I have…publically reconciled, I suppose would be the right term, so I simply want to introduce myself—” 

“What did you say?” Scaramouche demands disbelievingly, convinced he must have heard that incorrectly—

“Which part?” Ayato questions. “About our Commissions reconciling, or about the Shogun—” 

“Yes,” Scaramouche hisses, “what about her?” 

Ayato observes Scarmaouche’s agitated demeanor with a calm expression. 

“I mentioned that your mother and I—” 

Scaramouche tunes out the rest, staring at the man in shock. 

“Who told you that?” he demands, interrupting the man again. 

“Told me what?” he questions, and Scaramouche almost screams. 

“That she’s my—” he gnashes his teeth together in frustration, the word stuck in his throat. 

Scaramouche is saved from having to finish that statement as the doors behind him open, letting a cold stream of air enter and the raging sounds of the storm fill the space. The door handle is ripped from his loose grip. 

Scaramouche doesn’t get the chance to turn around before an arm curls along his shoulders, and a warm body hovers near his own. 

Ayato bows in greeting. 

“Good evening, Lady Guuji. Do come in.” 

Scaramouche feels a smile curl against his ear, and his stomach drops, ignites with rage, moves with nausea—all at once, somehow. The last person he wants to see, summoned to his side as if attracted to his anger and despair. 

“Ayato,” Miko greets pleasantly. “I’m sure you have both noticed the most unfortunate weather we’re having. The Shogun must be most displeased. I wonder why that is?” 

That idiom, again. Scaramouche closes his eyes against a tremor of rage. Miko squeezes him tighter to her side. 

“Kuni, darling, what have I missed?” 

Chapter Text

Yae Miko isn’t in the habit of lying to herself.

That would be counter-productive. If one cannot be honest with themselves, they should expect to accomplish nothing at all. Dishonesty goes hand-in-hand with incompetence. Lying about your own issues is the perfect way to avoid them forever, and isn't that an inconvenience? 

Miko knows she doesn’t have the best reputation concerning honesty, but she’s not malicious. She bends the truth, of course, but what should one expect? Miko abhors the argument that it’s in her nature, but even she knows it’s not entirely false.  She sees the truth as it is, and if people consult her about their own problems, they shouldn’t be so quick to anger if Miko twists the situation. Again, she’s not malicious, but they took that risk asking for advice. They could have handled it themselves if they so wished. 

Ei is, perhaps, the only person Miko cannot outright lie to. Miko taught that woman everything she knows, and yet, Ei always seems to see the bare truth behind Miko’s adjustments. 

Well, perhaps not the truth of everything. 

The boy had been somewhat of a surprise. Not his existence, no. Miko knew of Ei’s determination. She was familiar with it. 

Miko had also been privy to Ei’s grief. 

Makoto’s loss had destroyed something within the very foundations of the empire. Miko felt Ei’s mourning as acutely as if it were her own. In a certain sense, she supposes it was her own. It is no secret that Makoto’s death brought them closer, but it also, in a way, drew them apart. Both Miko and Ei had been forced to take responsibility for duties they were neither expecting, nor prepared for. Navigating the newly-christened world had been a necessary challenge. 

Miko likes to believe she blossomed under the pressure. 

Ei had not. 

When Miko learned of Ei’s plan to immortalize herself, she had relayed her doubts. It was dangerous. What if the experiment failed? What if Ei lost her own life in the process? There was nobody to take her place; her death would have likely sent their fragile country into a civil war.  One of the most intense arguments they ever had was triggered by Ei’s plan to permanently transfer her consciousness into a puppet. Miko had been furious, but Ei didn’t seem to notice. Her single-mindedness was absolute, and she could not be swayed. 

Miko had hardly admitted it, not even to herself, but she believes that Ei knew what her issue was and ignored it completely. That Miko’s overwhelming fear and anger was not singularity attributed to her concerns about Inazuma. 

Miko doesn’t know what she would have done if Ei had died. 

When Ei requested her knowledge about transferring consciousness, Miko refused to teach her the method she had been taught in her youth. Her own fear sparked a new argument, and they hadn’t spoken for weeks afterwards. Miko had refused to help the woman destroy herself.  She had sequestered herself away in the shrine, but Ei had not come for her. It was during this period of silence that the puppet had been created. 

It was not Ei's first failed experiment, but it was the first one that had gained an actual consciousness of its own. 

Miko had been disgusted the first time she saw it. She knew what it was, how could she not, for staring down into Ei's own eyes set in a face that was practically identical to the woman they were both grieving felt like a slap in the face. 

The attendants brought the puppet to the shrine for purification. It had smiled up at Miko, innocence and happiness swirling together prettily in its bright eyes. It was dressed in the finest cloth available, wrapped tightly in religious wear with talismans dangling from its throat. It couldn’t have been older than a week. 

Miko had wondered why it was brought to her to begin with. She wondered if Ei believed purifying it would somehow rid it of the consciousness she had inadvertently granted it—or was this not an accident at all? How could Ei have created such a thing, when she herself seemed to feel nothing at all? 

The puppet had reached for Miko's hand. Its skin was pale and soft, and Miko could feel raw power humming beneath synthetic skin. She could sense the iron lock that had been placed around the puppet’s core, and Miko instantly knew Ei was still trying to make this vessel suitable for the gnosis. The vessel was accompanied by four attendants and two guards. Miko didn’t have to read the missive Ei sent with them to understand what she was being asked to do, but Ei’s elegant script confirmed it.

Ei believed the puppet’s emotional sentience was the result of Ei’s own corruption. Whether or not this had been an accident altogether had not been clarified. Miko was the only one who knew how to remove the puppet’s consciousness without destroying the vessel, and that was Ei’s request.   

Miko knew that wasn’t true. There were likely hundreds of individuals accomplished enough to do such a task. But Miko understood Ei’s unwritten statement. 

You’re the only one I trust. 

The vessel had leaned in to rest its head on Miko’s side as she read the instruction. It looked up at her, and Miko saw an emotion in its eyes that had no business existing in the world it was created in. It had been too much. Ei had no right to do something like this.

It was disgusting. It was unbecoming. It was pathetic. It was nothing but a failed experiment. 

Miko is not in the habit of lying to herself, but she will always question the reality of her emotions that fateful day all those years ago. 

Miko had removed herself from the puppet's grasp, keeping a stony, uninterested expression carved her face. She ignored it when it started to cry, because it only added to her revulsion. 

In the end, Miko had refused to grant Ei’s request. 

She purified the vessel for appearances sake. It wouldn’t do for the Grand Priestess to openly oppose the Shogun’s orders. It wasn’t common knowledge that anything at all had actually changed, after all, that there had been an exchange in power at the very top. Ei’s own existence hadn’t been known in Inazuma, for the twins had been considered one being in the eyes of the people. 

Miko doesn’t know if this puppet was created from some twisted desire to fill the hole left by Makoto, or if Ei had changed its gender because she couldn’t bring herself to look at a replica of her own face. But that line of reasoning still doesn’t explain why it looks so much like her. Did Ei really plan to inhabit this thing? 

Whatever the case, Miko wanted no part in it. She had instantly despised the puppet for its mere existence, for its representation of Ei’s descent into obsession. It had done nothing but exist, and yet had become the very thing that signified everything Miko hated most. 

She sent it back, purified and consciousness intact, with no explanation. Let Ei believe she failed. Let her believe she held pity for the thing. Let Ei believe what she wants, but Miko wasn’t going to help her kill herself. 

It didn't matter, in the end. She began again, and Ei’s experimentation eventually led to promising results. Miko should have known Ei’s wish had grown past any affection the two might have shared. It was bigger than them, now. And it was inevitable. 

Months later, Ei requested her help again. This time, Miko wasn’t able to refuse. She hates to admit that she had been weak. But she knew Ei was going to do whatever it took for her eternity, with or without her help. The months of silence and anxiety had worn her fear down, leaving nothing but dull resignation in its place. When Miko saw Ei's finalized vessel, her heart had broken. A perfect replica of Ei, of Makoto, hollow and emotionless. 

From that point on, Miko hadn’t spared a thought to the life of the failed experiment, and Ei never mentioned it. 

When the transfer process had been completed, and Ei had successfully entered Euthymia, the Shogun had taken her place. Miko hadn’t known how to react to this entity, despite Ei’s insistence it was not an individual consciousness on it's own. Miko had her doubts about this claim, but decided not to fuss about it. It was enough for her that Ei remained alive. 

Miko had been surprised to learn that the failed vessel was still living at Tenshukaku. She saw it once through a window on the grounds and wanted to destroy it then and there. It smiled up at it's caretaker, clear and bright, and Miko hated it. She wanted to ignore it, but the heavens had evidently not been in her favor, for their paths crossed after that point more often than not. Miko didn’t go out of her way to terrorize it, but she never treated it as anything other than what it was. It was almost amusing when she realized it had grown fearful of her. Such a powerful, tiny thing, running around Inazuma City without a care in the world. 

She was even more surprised when she divined what the puppet believed it was. It had created it's own relationship with Ei, one that Miko wasn’t sure Ei herself knew about. And that was going to cause problems. 

Perhaps Miko still carried vestiges of anger within her, because she kept quiet about it. It wasn’t her issue. Let Ei realize that her actions would have consequences. 

Miko doesn’t know when Ei decided to develop empathy for the thing, but when Ei eventually asked her what she should do with it, Miko’s first piece of advice had been to simply destroy it. 

It had too much potential, Miko explained. If it fell into the wrong hands, it could pose issues down the road. A puppet with divine properties was rare, to say the least—Miko wasn’t sure if anything like it had ever been created. Synthetic beings were one thing, but one with the ability to carry a gnosis? It was very likely it would be pulled apart and studied. Would destroying it not be the most logical thing to do? 

Miko didn’t bring up the puppet’s own emotions, because she knew it wouldn't matter if she did. Ei was not partial to making decisions based on the emotions of others. 

Ei was not concerned with these possibilities and brushed off Miko’s arguments. Miko had wondered why she had even bothered to ask her. When Ei left to bring it to the abandoned domain, puppet following along happily, Miko hadn’t accompanied them. Once the decision of its fate had been made, Miko had lost interest in it. 

She tried not to feel too smug when Ei’s decision did come back and cause a nuisance, five hundred years later. However, she found herself less amused when she was the one cleaning up its mess.  The puppet had grown vicious and vengeful. It wanted what it had been created for, and despised them both for its own neglect. 

Miko isn’t in the habit of lying to herself. But if asked to explain the truth of her reasoning behind letting it walk away with the gnosis, unharmed, Miko doesn’t know if she would be able to answer herself honestly. 

Months later, when she heard news of the puppet’s defeat in Sumeru, she had felt something spread in her chest. It was not a pleasant emotion. 

In the end, Miko had been the one to convince Ei to retrieve her creation. She had poured honey in Ei’s ear, had utilized every manipulation technique she knew to try and make Ei see reason, explained why retrieving it would benefit Inazuma and keep such a large issue from repeating once more. Sometimes, Miko wonders what the puppet would have done had it ascended. Certainly, it would have eventually returned for its revenge against its creator. Miko told herself keeping it here would be all the better to keep an eye on it. 

Seeing it clutching the newly-born Archon's hand had been a surprise. Miko hadn't liked it, and liked it even less when it showed reluctance to leave with them. As if they were the ones who harmed it. Miko had layered her displeasure with layers and layers of mockery, teasing, and playful scorn, until the boy snapped at her and his irritation replaced both his fear and longing to stay in the country he had tried to destroy. 

Everything that had come afterwards had been unexpected, and yet, Miko finds she is not surprised by any of it. 

Miko doesn’t know when, but somewhere between staring down into the innocent eyes of the vessel clutching her arm, and meeting those same eyes, centuries later, filled to the brim of grief and rage, Miko had decided that she didn’t want to see it dead.  

Him dead. 

It’s amusing that now, after everything, it seems as if this desire is going to be the hardest to accomplish. 

—

The storm is unique. It’s not unlike anything she hasn't seen before, but this is the first time its influence seems to be under two different individuals. She can hear the boy following at a distance. Not hesitant, exactly, but very unwilling. 

“Come along, now.” 

Miko glides along the winding path of the mountain, passing under the dripping torii-gates like a pink shadow. She hardly pays any mind to the howling winds around them, maintaining a thin barrier of electro between her and the freezing elements. 

The boy does not do this—perhaps he doesn’t know how, isn’t aware of the electro crackling under his skin just begging to be used. Whatever the case, the wind tears against his clothing, rain slicking the fabric to his body. Water streams over his arms and down his face, but he hardly seems to care. It looks like he’s been dunked in the ocean, and Miko hides a grin against her hand. 

The boy follows dejectedly behind her, eyes furious and downcast. Miko isn't completely sure what he’s thinking. She thought she would have to manipulate him, or rile him up enough to follow her up to the shrine independently and out of pure malice. 

When she had received the Kamisato rascal’s raven, she had been in the middle of damage control. Reading Thoma’s messy and hurried script, rather than Ayato’s flowing one, immediately set her on guard and she had needed to read it twice before she understood the letter's meaning. 

The boy had run for cover to the Kamisato estate, hm? How pathetic. 

When they reach the top of the mountain, the shrine is absent of life. It seems everyone has taken refuge from the storm. Miko silently leads the boy to the tearoom. He drips water over the pristine wood, dropping gracelessly to the floor on one end of the table. His eyes are glassy.

“Tea?” Miko offers, plucking the stasis talisman from the steaming pot she keeps there for instances such as this. Not that she’s in the habit of dealing with petulant children regularly, but certain citizens of Inazuma appear frequently in this room crying about one thing or another. 

The boy ignores her, staring dully off into the distance. She pours a cup for them both anyhow, enjoying the curl of steam that warms her face when she brings it close. 

“I hope you don’t plan to remain silent all-night,” Miko comments after a moment. 

Once more, there is no reaction. Not even a glance in her direction.

“Well,” she says, settling in. “That’s fine. I’ll wait until you’re done pouting—” 

As expected, he does not sit silent and take her snide commentary. Very predictable, exactly how Miko likes it. As if struck from sleep, she watches as fury ignites behind his eyes and a glare darkens his features.

“I am in no mood for this,” he spits venomously. “Leave me alone.” 

“You followed me here,” she reminds him, to which he scowls and turns away. “We may as well speak about it.” 

The boy laughs. It’s rough and gritty. 

“Speak about what? What could you possibly want from me? Oh, wait,” he snarls, “let me guess. You’ve come to mock me for my stupidity.” 

Miko chooses to be the bigger person and not remind him, once again, that he’s the one who allowed himself to be led to the shrine.

“I am not going to mock you,” she says instead. 

He laughs again. It’s really not a pretty sound. “Right.” 

“I wish to speak about Ei.” 

The boy immediately tenses and closes up. Miko can practically see the way he disconnects himself from their conversation. She frowns. 

“I have nothing to say about her.” The boy turns away again, glare boring holes into the wall. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

Miko hums. “Then perhaps we should talk about the raven I received from the Kamisato estate.” 

He scoffs. “I didn’t do anything.” 

“You didn’t,” she agrees. “But young Thoma seemed quite frantic. You were with the Kamisato girl?” 

The boy purses his lips together, frowning. He’s silent for a moment before turning to assess her own figure. 

“Why do you care who I was with?” The demand is harsh and vaguely suspicious. 

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she responds after a moment. She’s positive if she relays that any part of her isn’t wishing for his untimely death, he would accuse her of manipulation. Irritating, but she understands. 

He sneers at her. “Fine. I didn’t do anything to the girl. She started bothering me in Chinju forest. After displaying incompetence from the basic action of walking, I assisted her home.” 

“What were you doing in Chinju forest?” 

The boy’s expression sours, cheeks flushing from anger. “Who cares?” 

Miko leans forwards, meeting his eyes directly. “Me. I am not blind, Scaramouche. You had an altercation with Ei, and I wish to know more about it.” 

He bares his teeth, leaning forwards to mimic her pose. “Well tough shit, because I don’t want to talk about it.” 

Miko sighs. “Why must you be so difficult? I want to help you.”

“Help me?” he hisses incredulously. “When have you ever tried to help me—” 

“In this moment, actually, if you would be amicable.” 

Miko thinks he might pop a vessel. However, he surprises her. Rather than immediately snapping, as he’s prone to do, he displays evidence of self restraint and turns away for a moment. She watches his shoulders rise and fall in the pattern of controlled breathing, and is impressed, despite herself. 

When he turns back, the glare is still present, but he’s no longer turning crimson. 

“Just tell me what you want and be done with it,” he orders. 

Miko watches him for a moment. He really is so stubborn. 

“What did she say to you?” she asks. Miko makes an effort to erase all hints of teasing from her tone. It is more difficult than she anticipated, but the memory of the day still weighs heavily on her mind, twisting in her chest. 

If she hadn’t been studying the boy so closely, she would have missed the way his bottom lip trembles before he sinks his teeth into it, and the way his shoulders hunch with pain. His expression hardens. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he repeats, but the malice he tries to muster falls short. 

Miko lowers her eyes to the table, and makes a quick decision that she’ll probably come to regret, one day. 

“I do not believe Ei was in the right today,” she informs him quietly. If she’s going to ask him to open up, perhaps he needs a little truth from her first. She sees his head snap up to look at her. 

“What?” he demands. 

“I do not think she acted appropriately. From my point of view, you did nothing wrong.” 

His mouth pops open, anger quickly being replaced with distrust and reluctant curiosity. 

“You’re saying you’re on my side?” This is more of a statement than anything, but Miko almost smiles when she hears the disgust in his tone, as if he can’t help but rebel against any congruence with herself. It makes the note of vulnerability and hope all the more pleasing to her ears. 

“Why must there be a side?” she asks wryly. When he gives no reaction, she almost rolls her eyes. “If you prefer to think of it that way, then I suppose you would be correct.” 

A series of expressions flit across his face, so quickly that Miko doesn’t quite catch them all. What she does see amuses her. Disbelief, anger, vicious happiness, before finally settling on pure suspicion. 

He narrows his eyes. “Why?” 

“Why, what?” she asks. 

His jaw clenches. “Why are you telling me this?” 

“I want to know what happened after I left the dining room,” she answers honestly. 

He actually looks stunned for a moment, brows creasing in confusion. It seems as if the question pops out before he has time to think about it, if the surprised look is any indication. “You didn’t stay to eavesdrop?” 

Miko raises an eyebrow. As if Ei wouldn’t have known. Though the boy has a point. She would have, any other day. Truth be told, the idea of listening in had made her so uncomfortable at the time, she hadn’t even given it a second thought.  Miko wants to spend some time analyzing this, but the boy has her full attention. She thinks she may be making some progress. 

“I did not. Ei would have known.” 

He rolls his eyes, annoyance coloring his words. “So you wanted to.” 

“I did not.” 

“Why not?” 

She wants to sigh again. “I did not wish to listen to another argument between the two of you. I did not agree with Ei, and so I did not wish to be privy to it.” 

He stares at her for a long time. 

His voice is quiet when he finally does speak. “Why?”

Why what? Why is she agreeing with him? Why does she want to listen to him? Why does she care at all what happened in that dining room? 

Rather than question him about his wording, she simply answers every possible question truthfully. 

“I don’t know.” 

The boy seems to deflate, sinking in on himself like a popped balloon. For the first time, she notices how exhausted he looks. It’s hard to see with the way he holds himself, a core of anger and fierceness masking his weariness.  Despite everything, he’s still just a child. The bruises beneath his eyes and the heat in his cheeks is all-too revealing. 

Miko doesn’t know if she should be shocked when he actually begins speaking to her. She can see his rumination on the event, and the resulting fury that it brews within him. 

“She told me—” 

The boy cuts himself off, glaring into the storm outside the window. Miko watches as his throat works around the sound she can hear building in his chest, words thick with barely restrained anger. 

It’s not all anger, though, is it? The boy has not begun crying, but his eyes shine like clear pools of water, surface smooth and unbroken. Miko knows he’s nearly there.  

“She told me I was wrong,” he finally spits at her. 

“Wrong about what?” Miko can’t help but ask. She already knows, of course she does. But the desire to dig deeper into his wounds, to simply expose the rotten root of the problem and do away with it once and for all is overwhelming in its intensity. 

The boy shuts his eyes, and—yes, there they are. 

“You’re a bitch.” 

Miko smiles, ignoring his mounting fury and waving a hand through the air. 

“Yes,” she agrees. “I don’t believe I brought you here to insult me, though, did I?” 

He snarls at her. 

“Fine.” His palms crack against the table in his motion to rise, “I’m leaving—I don’t know what I was expecting—” 

“Don’t be silly, I’m only teasing you. Come, sit—” 

“Fuck you,” he snaps, stalking to the door. 

Miko narrows her eyes at this childish display. 

“Scaramouche.” 

The boy freezes. His shoulders rise, and Miko traces her eyes over the stiff line of his back. Miko knows that’s not his name. She knows he is nameless, even if nobody else acknowledges it. The boy is nothing but a spare creation, drifting along where life feels encouraged enough to send him. Miko enjoys playing with him. Riling him up—it’s so easy. 

How peculiar. She is very suddenly not in the mood to play games. 

“Sit down,” she orders. It’s not incredibly kind, but it’s not entirely rude either. “Please.” 

He doesn’t move for a long time. Long enough that Miko really does think he’s going to ignore her and walk away. When he does turn and force himself back to their table, fury coating his movements, Miko wonders what made him stay. 

Silence stretches between them. Miko watches the boy track the storm outside. It’s very loud; the top of the shrine seems to sit in the middle of the storm’s eye. 

Miko considers the directions she wants to lead this conversation, but she doesn’t need to think for long. Surprisingly, it’s the boy that breaks their silence first. 

“Have you spoken to her?” he asks. His face is downcast, and she cannot see what may be lurking behind his eyes. 

Miko purses her lips, not knowing if he will be pleased with her answer. Truthfully, she had not spoken to Ei. Miko believes Ei has handled this entire situation in the worst way possible. It is not often, lately, that Miko feels discontentment with Ei’s decisions. In fact, it is not often that Ei makes any decisions at all that impact Miko in the way this has, and this decision did not have anything to do with her. 

When Ei had voiced her deliberations about the boy’s punishment, Miko remembers feeling confused. Confused about the surprise that had been shaken to life within her. Surprise that had swiftly been followed by displeasure. 

Displeasure for what? Miko is still trying to sort this out, because she does not know to what or to whom this displeasure is encompassing. 

Ah, but she did claim she was not trying to lie to herself. 

It all comes back to the boy, in the end. 

So, no, Miko had not spoken to Ei, because she had not wanted to speak to her. And when Ei called for the boy to stay behind, Miko knew it was a bad idea. Because Ei does not understand the extent of his trauma.  Miko does not claim to be all-knowing in that specific area, either, but she knows enough. She knows the boy. 

And she knows Ei, and those two have been skirting around an altercation for weeks. 

“I have not spoken to her.” 

At this, his eyes flick up to hers, and she can clearly see the confusion before it’s shut behind his usual mask of pure loathing. His face twists into a wry grin. 

“No?” he mocks. “I assumed you were always around waiting to be called on like a common dog.” 

Miko levels his insult with a look of her own. Honestly. 

“Insulting me isn’t going to distract from the tears you’ve shed over this latest argument, you know.” 

“Shut up,” the boy snaps. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Enlighten me, then.” 

The boy glares at her, before his eyes line with pain and he looks back into the storm. Wind howls through the rafters, and that’s the only sound for another long while. The boy seems to lose himself in his thoughts, and Miko takes this chance to study him. His porcelain skin practically glows in the dim light of the room, his slight figure resembling a doll waiting patiently in a child’s room. If not for the way his bitten mouth cuts a jagged red line through the image, set in a permanent scowl, he may almost seem peaceful. 

He turns his eyes back to her, and the illusion disperses. He’s so angry. Miko can see it very clearly. His eyes blaze. 

“She told me she did it for me— for my freedom,” he says in a quick, agitated rush, as if to get the words out before he can attach any real meaning to them. Surprise rushes through her at his easy admission. She hadn’t needed to push very much. 

“Did what?” Miko asks again. 

He glares. “You know what, don’t play coy with me. At the very same time, you wanted to kill me.” 

Miko hums, making a show of nodding in understanding. “Yes,” she says, “your… release from the life arranged for you.” 

“My abandonment,” he corrects harshly, fingers white against the edge of the table. His vision glows against his chest. “Call it like it fucking is. Even you must know that’s what it was.” 

“Why must I know that?” Miko asks him conversationally, tilting her head in mock intrigue. “Though you are correct to some level. It’s true I advised Ei to settle the matter in a more permanent way, but she decided on another path. She benevolently gave you—” 

“If you say ‘freedom,’ I swear to god—” 

“You were practically imprisoned here, if I recall. From my own point of view , allowing you to leave Inazuma alive was more kindness than I had originally expected from her.” 

The boy’s face crumples, but the rage on his face intensifies.

“No,” he denies, voice thick. “Don’t pull that shit with me—I know you knew how I felt about her. I know you did.” 

“What does that matter?” she asks. 

“It matters because you saw how I was, back then. I know you remember what I was like. I didn’t—I didn’t even care, all that much, that we were distant, it was enough that—” 

He cuts himself off again, clenching his fists and taking a few deep breaths through his nose. 

“You knew I saw her as my mother,” he finally spits. “Don’t pretend as if there was any benevolence in her actions. She admitted it herself, hours ago—I wasn’t enough for her.” 

The first tear breaks past his water-line. The boy scrubs it away angrily.  Miko takes time to consider his words, before shaking her head. 

“You’re wrong,” she states. Now, that was clearly the wrong thing to say, for the boy’s head snaps up and pure loathing slides over his face before the words are hardly out of her mouth. 

“Stop fucking saying that — I’m done being told I’m wrong for every fucking emotion I’ve ever had!” 

After this demand, the boy suddenly breaks into maniacal laughter, to which Miko raises a brow. 

“Everyone, everyone keeps telling me I’m wrong,” he forces through his heaving, “but do any of you understand—no, it’s not possible—” 

The storm abruptly surges from outside, rattling the wood paneling of the window. Miko is so focused on watching the latch snap open, that when the first arc of lighting strikes along the mountain ridge, she misses the glowing echo that flashes within the boy’s irises. 

His laughter has disappeared. 

“Scaramouche,” Miko says, and the flippant lilt she usually has no issue injecting into her tone is harder to solidify beneath his gaze. “Putting aside the nature of Ei’s actions, you were not the center of her world, you must understand. She had not intended to create what you believe yourself to be—what you are.” She corrects herself at his mutinous look. 

Perhaps it is a bit harsh, but his bodily flinch at least relays that he understands what Miko is trying to convey. 

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Miko continues, lowering her eyes and staring unseeingly at her pointed nails, “but even you know what was happening at the time of your construction.” 

He stays silent, holding his glare. Miko feels the irrational urge to glare back, like a child. 

“Makoto’s loss took a toll on all of us—” 

“I don’t care.” 

Miko blinks. “Pardon?” 

“I don’t,” he enunciates, mockingly drawing out his syllables as if she is slow. She feels her ear twitch in annoyance. “Care.” 

This time, Miko doesn’t think she hides her glare very well.

“You do not care about your mother’s greatest heartbreak?” Miko can’t help but needle. “Why, that is your aunt we are talking about, if we are to get technical—” 

“Exactly,” he spits at her, and the wood table cracks beneath his grip. One of the shudders on the window hits the wall when it flies open, and rain instantly begins drenching their clothing. Miko doesn’t have the mind to care about erecting a barrier—her entire focus rests on the storm of the boy before her. 

“Exactly,” he repeats, voice rising like he can’t help it, “she had lost family, her sister. She knew exactly what that grief was like, and then turns around and—” 

“It is not the same,” Miko says.

“Yes it is!” he yells back at her, more tears breaking through the mask of anger he’s trying to hide behind. Miko wonders why he tries with her. 

“It is the same—she killed me—maybe not physically, maybe not permanently, but I was dead in all the ways that mattered.” He lowers his head, indigo bangs dropping to hide his face, “she killed herself, in my eyes—what is the difference if she was no longer in my life? No contact, no communication—I left Inazuma—” 

He’s rambling, and Miko can only watch as he spirals into heaving breaths tinged with sobbing. 

“The first time I ever saw her again was in Sumeru. Five-hundred years,” he snarls, but Miko doesn’t think his anger is solely directed at her. “Five centuries—what is that, if not dead?” 

Miko can feel the dam of his emotions spilling over, can feel it humming in the air, like lightning about to strike, the calm before the storm. He’s going to break, now, or later, but he’s going to break, and Miko decides that it may as well be against her. 

“She didn’t know,” Miko tells him. 

The dam cracks. 

“She had just lost her sister. She wasn’t focused on you. She didn’t know what she had—” 

The dam breaks.

Scaramouche breaks. 

“I don’t care!” he screams, tangling his fingers in his hair. “I don’t care if she didn’t know, I don’t care if she was depressed, I don’t care who she lost!” 

The storm surges outside, more intense than anything Miko’s ever seen. 

“I don’t care,” Scaramouche sobs, he screams, voice raw and cracking and so, so hoarse. “I don’t care, because she should have chosen me! She was my mother, and I don’t—I don’t—” 

The boy breaks down, then, curling in on himself and trembling fiercely with his crying. 

“She didn’t give life to any of the others,” he hiccups, slamming a fist into the floor. “I thought that must have meant something, because why else would she have…what was the point? Why didn’t she get rid of me right then—” 

Miko realizes that he doesn’t know. In truth, she’s not sure she knows either, whether or not his consciousness had been purposeful or not. This is a fact she decides will never, ever see the light of day. And as soon as she gets ahold of Ei, she’s going to make sure neither of them ever have that fact confirmed. 

Miko watches in silence while he cries. The boy begins hyperventilating as he gasps for breath, struggling to draw air in between his sobs.

“I know she’s capable of it,” he practically whimpers after a moment, mucus thickening his voice, “I know she loved Makoto, so I don’t understand why she couldn’t…” 

He pushes his hands into his eyes, gritting his teeth. His sobbing wracks his slim frame. 

“I wish she had just killed me,” he keens, horribly, despairingly, concretely. “Just…” 

He sucks in a sharp breath then, and completely freezes. His body stops, his breathing stops, and the storm seems to jump like static on a record. For a single moment, hardly a second, it’s completely silent. It’s unsettling and unnatural, and it can't mean anything good. 

With one look at the boy, Miko knows. She is already shaking her head no before he even looks up at her. 

No. 

“Miko,” the boy breathes, and it’s the kindest he’s ever addressed her. Something painful twists in her chest, in her stomach, in her throat, and its presence is so surprising that she freezes, too. 

They stare at each other from across the small table, two pairs of glowing eyes shining in the darkness. Violet flashes across their profiles, sending shadows across the boy’s face. Steely resolve hardens in his eyes, and Miko laughs before she can stop herself. It’s wet. She doesn’t think he notices. 

“You wanted to,” he accuses darkly once more. The swift change in disposition does not surprise her. 

He is more like Ei than he will ever understand. 

“You want to,” he thickly corrects himself. “I know you do.” 

“I do not,” she denies. Miko clenches her hands into fists atop her knees, letting her nails cut into her palms. It’s the only display of emotion she will allow. “I will not.” 

“I have never asked you for anything,” he snaps, and the crack of his voice over that last word cuts Miko deeper than she can readily admit. For the first time in over half a millenia, Miko feels gentle heat bloom behind her eyes in response to something that is not Ei. 

Well, she thinks to herself, taking in the shaking boy before her, perhaps that is not entirely true. This has everything to do with Ei. Everything, and nothing, because Miko has no idea when the boy’s death morphed from an amusing suggestion to an instinctive dislike. If the boy had asked this of her years ago, months ago, weeks ago, she would have considered it. Perhaps without thought. 

But now? 

The mere idea of tearing his skin apart, of watching Ei’s eyes go blank and dim on that wonderfully expressive face, so much and so little like Ei herself, of knowing she had been the one to do it…Miko’s chest twinges in discomfort. In reluctance. In absolute finality. 

It’s almost amusing, the full circle they have now completed. 

“You will not begin today,” she answers, keeping her composed mask firmly in place. “Listen to yourself. You are overreacting—” 

Miko could have blocked it. She saw it coming, expected it, even. It would have taken next to no effort on her part, as simple as shooing away a pesky fly. But something within her is telling her to just…let it happen. This boy is going to destroy himself from the inside out if she doesn’t do something. 

Miko doesn’t know when she began to care. 

Lighting crackles overhead, and Miko absently wonders if he knows this storm is not only Ei’s doing, but a manifestation of his own emotion as well. That he has more of Ei’s power inside him than he knows, a deep well of divine energy nurtured and budding to life from Ei’s continued presence in his life. 

The boy is slowly becoming as powerful as he was always meant to be, and Miko doesn’t even think he realizes it. 

His nails dig into her neck, and she would be gasping for breath if she had been human. His tears drip down onto her face, tingling across her skin. There’s so much unused electro in his body it’s escaping in the only way it knows how. 

Miko wonders if these electric tears will leave scars across their faces in the shapes of his pain. 

The boy presses her to the wooden floor, teeth bared in her face, nails in her skin, expression sinister in the harsh flash of lighting…before his face crumples in agony, and he looks at her with such desperation she almost closes her eyes against it. It’s a struggle to keep her mask in place. 

“Please,” he whispers, pleading with her, eyes bright with tears. His face is too beautiful to be marred with such an expression. 

“I can’t do it myself, and I can’t live like this anymore,” he says, choking around another soft cry. “I don’t want to live like this anymore.” 

Any other day, Miko would rejoice in his begging. Would mock him for it, would never, ever let him forget how he debased himself to her. 

Stop, s he thinks, paralyzed with the foreign emotions coiling around her. Anything but this. 

“Kill me,” he breathes, leaning forwards. His hands are trembling. He looks—Miko’s eyes flutter shut for just a moment. Just a single reprieve from anger, despair, and hope that seems to transform his face completely. 

“Please,” he says again, reaching down for her hand. His nails draw new blood from her skin, still angry and rough, even in this. His voice breaks around another soft keen. “I can’t do this.” 

Miko’s hands are not trapped beneath his small body. His hand is clenched around her throat, the other holding her hand in a desperate seize, and so he has no way to resist as she brings the other up to his shoulder. Very light, hardly touching at all. He shudders as if she had been violent. 

“And yet…” she says, voice hushed beneath his grip, mocking because she doesn’t know what emotion would exist in its place if she wasn’t mean, “...you will.” 

His break hitches. 

She stares up at him, uncaring if he hurts her. Uncaring if he kills her. Because, at some point, in some undefined moment in the cumulation of their long, warring relationship, Miko began to care. Nearly six-hundred years ago, atop this very mountain, she was introduced to a puppet. A puppet that she, herself, had practically damned to eternal suffering. 

Sometime between then, and now, with that puppet—the boy, the nameless child of the woman she loves—caging her in and begging for his death, she had begun to consider him hers. 

Miko isn't in the habit of lying to herself. And she isn't in the habit of letting her things go, either. 

Now, the boy can never be made aware of this, because it would ruin all her leverage. But this means that he will continue to survive, because—

“Because I have not given you permission to die.” 

The boy’s eyes widen in disbelief, in rage, in absolute fury, and then fall shut in despair. In pain. He shakes with sobs. He abruptly releases his grip on her throat, bracing his hands on the floorboards and dropping his head to the space over her shoulder. 

“I hate you,” he chokes out next to her ear, muffling his crying into the back of his hand. He sounds absolutely miserable. “I hate you, I hate you—” 

Miko reaches up to brush her fingers over his hair, just once, touch awkward and unfamiliar but as effortlessly graceful as always. 

“I know,” she says. 

If all the water on her face is not entirely the boy’s, nobody but herself ever has to know.

—

The walk back down the mountain is silent, but strangely comfortable. 

The storm had calmed, somewhat, and though it’s still gently raining, the lightning has disappeared. Miko glances at the boy from the corner of her eye. His eyes are red-rimmed, and his chest spasms every once and while, betraying his fit, but he seems calmer than he had before their discussion. More settled. 

She can feel him staring at her, and has caught his eye more than once. He still regards her with suspicion and remaining distaste, but Miko doesn’t concern herself with it. 

It’s not as if centuries of purposeful aggravation will be forgiven in a single day.

She still sends him a knowing smile every now and then, usually receiving a wary glare in reply. 

It’s nearing dawn now. 

They’re just rounding a small cliffside on their way out of Chinju forest when three men step into their path. Fatui, from the looks of their clothing.

The one holding a large mallet shifts the weapon in his grip, eyeing them both up and down. His lips lift in a lecherous grin at what he finds. 

Miko doesn’t have to look at the boy to guess the expression on his face. Their obvious lack of fear seems to agitate the man, because his face twists into an ugly expression, still sweeping his eyes over the two of them. They must look worn, drenched with rain and blood spots smeared across their limbs. 

These men must be particularly new in Inazuma, if they do not recognize Miko. 

“We’re not going to hurt you,” the man says, mocking comfort coloring his taunt. “We’ve been traveling for so long, we’re just on our way to the tavern. Perhaps you’d show us the way.” It’s not a question, and his accompaniment snicker behind him, comfortable in their positions. They really don’t think they’re in danger at all. 

Miko hums. 

“Sincerest apologies,” she says, and the boy twitches beside her. “We’ll have to decline.” 

The Fatui member with the long pistol cocks the weapon. It’s loud in the silence. 

“We weren’t asking. Empty your pockets.” 

Neither of them move. 

“Hey,” the boy suddenly speaks, voice steady and dry. “Look what this idiot has tied to his belt.” 

Miko almost laughs aloud when she spots a net of Akasha terminals. How completely convenient. 

The Fatui guards tense, not expecting the veiled threat, and activate their weapons. Cryo hisses through the air as the third one begins to advance. 

"Watch it—if the two of you don't cooperate, we'll—” he stutters to a pause, and seems to study the boy with narrowed eyes. Quite suddenly, he takes a full step back, face paling. 

“Wait a minute,” he says, “aren’t you—” 

“Scaramouche,” Miko interrupts, sending the boy a grin, baring all her canines. It’s not a pretty smile. The boy slides his cold gaze over to her, body relaxed and expression severe. It seems his reputation precedes him. 

All three of the Fatui flinch at the title, stepping away as if on instinct. Perhaps his less common name is unfamiliar in Teyvat, but for Fatui members undoubtedly briefed on the sixth's harbinger's betrayal? 

“They have Akasha terminals,” the boy states. “We should deal with that.” 

“Yes,” Miko agrees. There's no Ei to punish them, here. “It’s such a shame we were attacked so suddenly, and forced to retaliate before we could interrogate them."

The boy turns to look at her in surprise, and she takes joy from her next claim. "I’m sure they will be honored in their country.” 

He stares at her, before boy’s mouth curls in a vicious grin, and they share a look of understanding. For a single moment, Miko can almost believe they’ve overcome all the lingering animosity between them. 

All in due time. 

"Yes," the boy hisses, taking a step forward. “It is, after all, the greatest honor to die in battle.” 

The Fatui attack. 

The grass turns red with blood. 

—

“You must start thinking of others,” Miko will say much later, moving on from the river. 

The boy eyes her, distrust clear in his expression. 

“Your death is no longer your own. Do you understand?” 

His brows furrow, dim residual anger sparking back to life, but she can also see the confusion there. Before he can snap at her, she continues. 

“Did you consider Lord Kusunali?” 

She doesn't have to elaborate, for he freezes on the path and she can hear his sharp, panicked intake of breath. When Miko looks back, she’s greeted with wide, stunned eyes, and an expression so gutted she can do nothing but turn back around. 

“Did you forget?” she asks to the empty air in front of her. She can’t hear his breathing anymore, and he doesn’t reply. 

“I know Ei is being difficult, but do not assume she doesn’t care for you as well. It is selfish of you to play with your life like this. Do you understand?” 

When Miko looks at him again with a hint of frustration, he’s glaring at the ground, arms wrapped around himself in lieu of a comforting embrace. Silent tears have begun to stream down his face once more, but it seems he’s stopped breathing all together to prevent the sound of his distress. When he doesn’t move, she slowly approaches him. 

Her hand on the symbol at his nape doesn’t connect to his core as Ei’s does, but he flinches and shudders as if it had. 

“Do you understand?” she asks him again, softly. 

She can’t guess what he sees in her face when he raises his wet, furious eyes towards her. Such large emotion in such a tiny thing. A smile pulls at her lips, and she doesn’t fight it. His own lips turn down in a responding scowl, but he doesn’t pull away from her. She’ll count this as a victory. 

“Yes,” he eventually mumbles. The early morning sun chooses this moment to break over the horizon, lining their hair in gold. River water drips from their scrubbed hands. Inazuma City looms in the distance, foreboding and promising and everything in between. 

Miko thinks this might be the start of something new. The boy closes his eyes against the gentle breeze that sweeps through the valley. 

“I understand.” 

Chapter Text

The closer they get to the outskirts of the city, the tenser Scaramouche becomes. He’s practically vibrating with energy by the time they reach the giant sakura, sending scathing glares at anyone who glances in his direction. Considering his company, he’s sending quite a lot. 

They can’t see Tenshukaku, not yet, but he can feel the oppressing presence in the air, as if his mother’s very existence in the area has sucked all the oxygen away. Scaramouche seems to be the only one struggling to breathe, though, because life continues on uninterrupted around them. He belatedly notices that the usual chaotic mess of the city feels charged with nervous energy, that it’s not coming from just him. After a moment, he pieces together why. 

Leaves and branches are scattered around aimlessly, blocking foot traffic and storage carts, surrounded in various places by strewn boxes of commodities. Colored cloth hangs from wires, posts, and tiled houses, fluttering damply in the sea breeze flowing from the bay. Fruits and vegetables lay bruised and inedible across the stone path. In it all, people dart back and forth, working to fix their properties from the damage done by—

“Quite impressive carnage for someone your size, isn’t it?” 

Scaramouche blinks, annoyed at Miko’s tone, still reeling in embarrassment from every moment that occurred after they left the Kamisato’s residence. When her words connect to meaning, he scowls at her. 

“Excuse me?” 

She tilts her head at him, waving an arm to the scattered destruction before them. “This was you.” 

Scaramouche stares at her. “It was not.” 

“It was.” 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

When he just continues to stare at her irritably, contemplating what angle she’s trying to get at, she gives a graceful shrug and continues forward. He yells after her. 

“That’s not possible!” 

She ignores him, moving in the general direction of Tenshukaku, and this new grain of uncertainty briefly distracts him from the looming threat of interaction with his mother. Scaramouche darts after Miko and snatches her arm, harshly pulling them both to a stop.

“Explain. Now,” he demands. “That’s—that’s the most absurd thing you’ve ever said. You can’t blame me for this.” 

She raises her brow, looking down at him condescending. 

“You don’t believe me? Why?” 

“I know you aren’t really in the habit of using critical thinking,” Scaramouche sasses, pleased when her face drops in irritation, “but that was an electrical storm. I don’t use Elec—that element anymore,” he corrects halfway through, wary of the passerby. Not that it even matters at this point, apparently. 

“Oh, really?” Miko swiftly accuses, giving attitude back to him, and he rears back in surprise at her intensity. “What’s this, then?” 

Miko’s hand darts out, snatching his wrist too quickly for him to react, and an absolutely ridiculous amount of Electro pulses into his body. Certainly enough to stop a human’s heart. It’s familiar, of course, both searing and freezing at once, slicing through his muscle and curling behind his teeth. Scaramouche knows what it feels like. How could he not? It was his element before Anemo was. More than that, even. He was created from it. 

Miko smiles at him, dropping his hand and turning on her heel to continue up the path. The click of her shoe against the stone echoes in his ears as Scaramouche stares in absolute shock at his fingers, because—

Losing the power of Electro had been an agonizing loss, when it happened. Scaramouche had hardly noticed the power in that brief period after his birth, brought to life already brimming with it, but was intensely aware of its uselessness when his mother sealed it inside him. Even then, he hadn’t really been focused on it. 

Not until Dottore found the seal within him and tore it from his body. The divine power that frothed forth had nearly destroyed them both, crackling through a vessel with no exposure to Electro for hundreds of years and electrocuting everyone in the room. Dottore had survived, the fucking cockroach, but one of his segments had been elbow-deep within Scaramouche’s sternum when it happened, and he had melted. 

Oddly enough, the power had faded after that first wave, receding back into Scaramouche’s core and brewing there until he got strong enough to use it. It was easy to get reacclimated to it, but frustrating because the power was untamed, unpredictable. 

Acquisition of the Gnosis had given Scaramouche a grip on it, control over his power like he’d never felt before. It was like holding a living thing in his hands, but a thing he could manipulate any way he wished, rather than trying to force it under control it didn’t wish to follow. 

Then, weeks later, he had received a Vision, and the Electro in his body had been siphoned away. Scaramouche hadn’t noticed, lost in the adrenaline of his blessing. When it had all been over, and he let Nahida deal with everything else, he reached for the Electro on instinct. Scaramouche had wanted something grounding, something familiar to settle him in his body. 

He reached for the stinging element he had been created from, and only encountered endless swirls of cool Anemo. 

To claim Scaramouche had not taken the loss well would be an understatement. Nahida panicked upon her return, wondering what could have happened in the moments she was absent to send him into such a distressed state, but Scaramouche had been unable to communicate how horrible this loss felt. And he knew why. 

Thinking back to it now, that moment might have been the beginning of the end, the beginning of Scaramouche’s belated acceptance that he might not actually despise his mother like he was trying so hard to convince himself he did. Because the absence of his Electro, for a single moment, hurt as badly as waking up alone in that domain. The only thing that kept Scaramouche from going nuclear had been the pure amount of Anemo coursing through his system, a reminder that he had been enough for this god, at least. He wasn't nothing, wasn’t powerless, wasn’t unworthy, despite everything within him snarling that he was. 

Days into his isolation, he had reached for Electro again, for the hundredth, thousandth time because he loves to make himself suffer, and had practically flung himself upright when he felt something prickle at his awareness . Not really Electro, but the barest, faintest thread of it. Scaramouche had locked onto it, coaxing it closer to the surface, but it had slipped and faded into the encompassing teal of his new element before anything could happen. 

From then on, Scaramouche began to feel strands of it here and there. Not enough to control, not enough to properly grasp, but it was there. When Nahida had introduced Dendro energy into his system, Scaramouche had felt something inside him react, and almost imploded from pure relief. He knew he wasn’t crazy. Because Anemo does not catalyze in the presence of Dendro. 

The air in Inazuma is charged with electricity. It can be manifested without much effort—usually manifests itself in the form of electrical storms—and Scaramouche found those thin strands growing stronger. It had plateaued, after a couple days, but he could feel it in the air, draw on it if he tried hard enough. It was easy enough to make the Sakura Blooms condense, at least. 

Physical contact with Electro is different. Has been different since he lost the element. It passes through him as it would anyone else, cutting a path through muscle until exiting his vessel or fizzling out naturally. He can’t contain it, or wield it, as a Vision user would be able to do. As he used to be able to do. He hasn’t been able to since he received his Vision. 

Even during those brief moments that Ei would place her hand over his nape and power would flow into him, it was always useless. It felt good every time—invigorating, really—because when Ei would remove her hand, Scaramouche always felt shaky with something similar to adrenaline. But he can’t grasp that energy, can’t absorb it. 

At least, that’s what he had thought. He thought it was just a surface-level reaction. Like static electricity, built up on his mother’s hands and reacting to a vessel she made to hold that very buildup. He thought it meant nothing. 

So presently, as he stares at his hand in wonder, buzzing with more Electro than he’s felt in a long time, anticipation bursts to life within him, because he can feel it, because he’s shaking with the mere thought of what he suspects, because when he flexes—

Electro condenses in his hand, sparks between his fingers, conjured as easily as if he had never lost it. Scaramouche pushes past the Anemo swirling within him, something he hasn’t done since Sumeru, hasn’t needed to do, and brushes against the core beneath, sparking and violent and beautiful. Giddiness makes his fingers tremble, frozen in the middle of the street. 

He doesn’t notice the crackle of pure Electro incarnate press against the air, nor the hushed whispers of passerby bowing respectfully. 

Or, rather, he does feel it, because the heady rush of power sets his core alight and he can’t help but pull at the air, pulling the power into his skin, because he missed it so much. He’s pulling at it so continuously that when the first thread of something so intensely powerful and familiar wraps around his core, he jerks back, surprised but also completely not to see his mother there, standing in the middle of the street as if she belongs. 

His breathing constricts, emotion welling beneath the surface, emotion he hadn’t been ready to face just yet, but the blinding relief of this new discovery settles like a fizzing blanket over the twisted tangle of agony. 

Aware all eyes must be on them, he doesn’t know what to do but to stare, taking in her flawless appearance and calm expression. He probably would have been convinced at this little performance she has going on, if he wasn’t so acutely aware of what she looks like when she’s struggling to piece together human reaction in a way that properly conveys what she’s thinking. Her eyes flick up and down his form, zoning in on the blood stains that line his sleeves, which really could have been from himself, Miko, or any of the samurai they slaughtered. 

He’s still reeling with dregs of adrenaline from that little event, surprised that Miko would suggest such an activity. He suspects she had sensed his anxiety at their return to the city, or she felt keyed-up herself. Whatever the case, it had been an excellent outlet for their tension. 

A clap startles him from his rumination, and he glances to Ei’s left, where Miko is now gesturing at them both in a lets’ go motion. “Come, now. We need to get cleaned up and shouldn’t keep that Kamisato rascal waiting.” 

Mention of Ayato has Scaramouche’s nose scrunching in distaste (and embarrassment, but he forces that down).

“Why—” he starts, ignoring his mother for a moment because he honestly cannot deal with her right now, but Miko flaps her hand at him dismissively. 

“The Akitsu Kimodameshi isn’t going to plan itself, you know? We’ve had this meeting scheduled for weeks. We shouldn’t postpone it.” 

Scaramouche crosses his arms, starting to turn away, before Miko blinks to his side and guides him forwards. “No, you too. Let’s go.” 

He’s about to protest when Ei steps forwards, entering their space. He stares into the distance, unwilling to make the first move, when movement draws his eyes to the graceful hand carefully stretched towards him. 

They both freeze, Scaramouche staring down at it warily, tongue feeling thick in his mouth. It’s silent for so long it starts to get awkward, and Scaramouche flushes under the scrutiny of the people scattered around them. 

Miko squeezes his arm, barely, and Scaramouche looks into his mother’s face, angry and searching and hesitant all at once. 

“Please,” Ei says softly, looking at him gently. Breath shudders out of him, wound tight with tension returning full force. He raises his arm up, emboldened by the electricity still swirling through him, but takes her wrist rather than her outstretched hand. It’s a peace-offering, an extension of her apology, but he isn’t ready. 

So he grabs her wrist, looking past her but nodding swiftly, once, before pushing the arm away and starting to the castle. He hears both women begin to follow, Miko piping up with more of her aimless chatter punctuated by Ei’s soft hums of acknowledgement. 

Scaramouche rubs his fingers together, letting out a breath, leading the way to Tenshukaku while the sensation of divine energy gently passing from his mother into him sizzles at his fingertips. 

—

“I don’t understand why I have to be in here for this,” Scaramouche hisses furiously at Miko as she corrals him into the meeting room. He feels the prickle of stares on the back of his neck, of both his mother and Kamisato Ayato, who they had met at the entrance. 

Kamisato had bowed respectfully at his mother, and then at Miko, and then, to Scaramouche’s surprise, turned and bowed to him. It wasn’t nearly as deep as his respects to Ei—nor as deep as Miko’s—but it still was very formal. And Scaramouche could do nothing but stare, because— what? 

It makes him more anxious than anything, because he feels like he’s wading through a dream where everything is the same but not, and all his dynamics have been thrown off.

Respect from Kamisato—which, he remembers, he also received at their residence—and Miko, suddenly being kind and treating him with decency. That alone is enough to throw off his mood, but his mother being the one searching for his forgiveness added onto everything is disconcerting. 

He doesn’t know what to do with this weird tension floating between himself and Ei. Not that he can do anything right now, with so many witnesses around—Kujou Sara is expected soon, along with someone from Sangonomiya Island, apparently. 

Scaramouche has no idea why everyone is acting like they’re about to sit on a council of war, or why there seems to be so much importance revolving around planning a damn a fear festival— which, for the record, is not something he’s familiar with, so he has no idea if this is a new festival or not—and Miko won’t answer any of his questions. 

“Diplomacy is an important skill,” she comments lightly, hushed as she pulls him over to one side of the circular table. 

Scaramouche scoffs. “This is not diplomacy.” 

“You would be surprised,” she mutters softly, and Scaramouche thinks she might be speaking more to herself than anything. She rests her hands on the back of a chair two spaces from what could be considered the head, though there really can’t be one at a round table, which must be the point of it— Ei’s chair—and smiles thinly as an attendant comes around with a tray of dishes. 

Scaramouche waves the woman off when she offers him tea, trying not to stare too intensely at the other side of the room where Kamisato is conversing cordially with his Shogun. 

Miko drums her fingers lightly on the chair, following Scaramouche’s gaze to the three adults speaking quietly. She pulls out the chair after a moment, gesturing for Scaramouche to take a seat. He does so only after she drops herself into the chair next to him, closest to where he knows his mother will sit. 

“Do not forget to speak to the child. I believe we will be discussing that soon.” 

Scaramouche looks at her blankly. “Child?” 

Miko raises a brow. “The child you brought here from the city? You were supposed to question him about the stolen Akasha.” 

Right. Daisuke. Scaramouche frowns, wondering when that slipped his mind. He’s had a lot to deal with. 

He moves ‘interrogating the kid’ up his list of pressing matters to look into because if he doesn't do it, Ei might, and the kid might actually kneel over and die from fear. So he nods to Miko, but then pauses. 

“You seem tense,” he can’t help but comment drily. 

“Diplomacy,” she says again. She leans closer, then, as if sharing a secret with him. Unused to such familiarity, he leans away from her with a sneer. She ignores this. 

“All tensions from the rebelling period have not completely dissolved. It makes organizing Inazuma’s festivals tedious.” She leans back a little, a small, condescending smile sharpening her features. “That’s part of the reason a representative from each major faction is required to be present—it was part of the agreement.” 

He frowns, glancing back towards the easy conversation happening between Ei and Kamisato. “So we’re waiting for the Head of the Kanjou Commission. And a representative from Watatsumi Island.” 

Miko blinks at him in surprise. “That’s correct. I didn’t know you had familiarized yourself with the conflict.” She leans forwards again, teasingly. “Though I do remember the Traveler shedding tears over a certain Watasumi soldier who had fallen victim to the aging effects of a Delusion. So I suppose you did do your homework.” 

It’s true, Scaramouche had briefed himself on the conflict and power-struggle within Inazuma before he had infiltrated the Delusion factory. He had not cared about any of it beyond the information he needed to get closer to the gnosis, but with how recent it was, the knowledge is proving useful now. Scaramouche wonders what his past self would think of him now, using the information he so-scornfully studied for his 'forsaken' country, albeit passively. 

Truth be told, Scaramouche thinks his past self would take one look at him now and attack without thought. It’s what he would do, and he no longer harbors the same resentment for his mother that he did in the past. 

He shakes himself from this useless pondering and looks back at Miko, who’s staring at him in amusement with her chin cradled in her palm. 

“Back with me?” she asks with another humorous smile. He feels heat crawl up his neck, annoyance flaring hot in his gut. For a moment he forgot who he was talking to. 

“Shut up,” he hisses back.

She raises a hand in mock surrender. “Easy. I was only going to congratulate you on a job well done.” 

Scaramouche sends her a look. “I thought you were trying to find peace. Congratulating me for aiding the Shogunate’s tyranny seems counterproductive.” 

Miko’s ear flicks, and she turns away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Scaramouche rolls his eyes, leaning back in his chair with a dramatic huff and throwing another lazy glance around the room. As if he was subconsciously tracking her, he looks towards his mother instantly. When they inevitably make direct eye contact, because of course she’s looking at him, too, he sits up straight so suddenly his chair speaks against the floor. 

He scoffs under his breath at Miko’s knowing look he can feel boring into the side of his head, right alongside his mother's. Not that he can see either of these, because he’s glaring off to the side to try and beat down the heat in his face.

“Scaramouche.” 

He glances irritably towards Miko, frowning on instinct at her tone. She’s abandoned her humorous attitude, staring at him with…something. Scaramouche doesn’t know how to read what’s on her face now, and turns to face her fully when she glances surreptitiously towards Ei. 

Miko lays a gentle hand on the arm of his chair, and he stares at it before narrowing his eyes. Her voice is hushed when she speaks, and alarm bells sound at—at everything about this. 

“I need you to stay calm during this meeting.” 

He’s about to interrupt, demand she explain herself, because she can’t drop a weird order like that and not , but a gentle knock draws everyone’s attention. An attendant politely bows and escorts a group of four into the room. 

Kujou Sara is the first he sees, followed closely by a young woman in a pale blue kimono. 

“Sara. Hiiragi Chisato.” Miko stands to greet the pair. 

Scaramouche slouches further into his seat, determined to do as little talking as possible. With Miko’s weird behavior now creating even more anxiety than necessary, Scaramouche is now even less inclined to try and be civil. 

He gazes at the second set of people to distract himself, and then wonders how he glanced over them to begin with. 

The woman is gorgeous. Ethereal, almost—she’s practically glowing with some weird internal light. Pale hair shimmers down her back, flowing like water as she bows to his mother. 

The man behind her quickly draws his attention, mostly because Scaramouche has felt the prickle of his gaze since he entered the room. Scaramouche vaguely recognizes him—the slim hybrid from Watatsumi Island, with sharp features and an even sharper disposition. Scaramouche had probably distributed Delusions to soldiers from his ranks. 

He catches the man’s bright eyes, which narrow considerably on him. Scaramouche knows the look, but can’t discern whether or not it means the man is wary of Scaramouche because he knows who he is or because he can sense that he’s a threat—but, considering his company, Scaramouche doesn’t think he poses a ‘threat’ in any sense of the word. 

It’s only because Scaramouche hasn’t taken his eyes off the man that he sees his face change. As he takes his turn exchanging ‘pleasantries’ with his mother, Scaramouche sees how his ears perk up and darkness slides over his features. He’s angry, that much is obvious, but it seems to be a dim anger, as if it’s something he’s accepted. 

It’s very apparent to Scaramouche that this man still holds a grudge against Ei, which pisses Scaramouche off, because his accompaniment seems relaxed, and it seems she’s the one in charge. 

Speaking of, Scaramouche flicks his gaze back over to his mother, and hates that beyond his anger, beyond his pain, beyond his vast dislike of being in this room at all, all his general anxieties settle at the sight of her composed figure. 

“Sangonomia Kokomi. General Gorou. Hiiragi Chisato. Welcome to Tenshukaku.” Ei gestures fluidly at the table Scaramouche is the only one seated at. “Please.” 

Scaramouche gets a couple cursory glances from those he’s never met personally, but makes no move to introduce himself. He lets the gazes slide off him like water, turning his attention back to a far point in the room as the meeting begins. 

Sara begins speaking, and Scaramouche braces himself for a long meeting when the agenda doesn’t start with the festival. Perhaps he should have been bracing himself for whatever it was that Miko was warning him about, since his head snaps up just as Sara finishes the word “ceremony.” 

“What?” 

Everyone turns to look at him at the interruption, but he’s too focused on maintaining eye contact with his mother without glancing away. There’s no way he heard that correctly. 

Sara dutifully repeats herself. “We will be discussing the logistics and financial technicalities of Raiden-sama’s ceremony.”

Scaramouche turns his glare on Sara when his mother gives no reaction. “Raiden?” He practically spits the title. He’s trying to keep his composure, because technically she could be talking about—

Ei chooses this moment to speak up, and Scaramouche almost feels lightheaded with how quickly his temper snaps. 

“It’s for you,” Ei states placidly. “Part of this meeting is allocated to planning your introduction to Inazuma.” 

Despite knowing that’s what she was going to say, he still is unable to fight the burning crimson that rises to his cheeks. He suddenly understands Miko’s warning, because the harsh burn of anger flushes through his system, and he grips the arm rests. 

Sensing his displeasure at having this information thrown at him for the first time in front of an audience, Ei tilts her head at him. “You received the formal robes, did you not? Surely this is expected.” 

“It most certainly was not,” he hisses back. “I thought you said we would speak about it first.” 

Not that they’ve really had the chance recently, but that is most certainly not on him.

“Too many people know who you are already.” Miko chimes in. “And those who don’t know, suspect. There have been whispers.” 

“Well,” he snarks, throwing his hands up. “Whose fault is that? I haven’t been saying anything.” 

“Forgive me for interrupting,” the woman, who must be Sangonomiya Kokomi, says gently. Her voice is soft, but Scaramouche somehow knows that she’s more dangerous than she appears. Oddly enough, she reminds him of Kamisato Ayaka, and Scaramouche wryly wonders if every Vision user in Inazuma was involved in the war. Every one he’s come across seems weathered in a way he knows all too well. 

“I am Sanganomiya Kokomi, the Divine Priestess of Watatsumi Island,” she introduces herself politely, nodding to him. Scaramouche stares at her, not intending to return the introduction. 

He had noticed neither Ei nor Miko had moved to introduce him to the room, to which he had been privately thankful, thinking he was simply here to observe the meeting only. Now, he’s wondering if it’s because introducing him would have been unnecessary because everyone already knows who he is. 

“News of your presence in Inazuma has also reached Watatsumi Island,” Kokomi continues. “Rumors of a boy resembling Her Excellency are circulating. I would not go as far as to say it’s causing any issues, but there are questions regarding your role in the Shogunate.”  

She pauses here, glancing from him to his mother. “Some believe you are here to take Her Excellency’s place as Shogun.” 

“What?” he practically screeches, slamming his hands on the table in outrage. The cups rattle on the table, but nobody looks fazed by this outburst. “People think I’m going to usurp her position? That’s—that’s completely ridiculous—” 

“This isn’t the case everywhere, but I too have heard musings about a potential power struggle,” Kamisato chimes in unhelpfully. “Mostly, however, the rumors seem to question whether or not he is her true-born son.” 

“I would think that’s incredibly evident,” Miko murmurs under her breath. “They’re practically identical.” 

“Gossip is making its way through the Tenryou Commission,” Sara relays with disapproval. “Questions about the stability of Your Excellency’s position as Archon have been raised.” 

Scaramouche feels the blood drain from his face as quickly as it traveled there to begin with, icy fury and confusion swelling within him. He understands concern about treason against the Shogunate—he does —but treason against an Archon? Scaramouche had truly never even considered the possibility—and this very thought makes his blood run cold, because memories of a different Archon, a different city, and a different goal flash behind his eyes. 

Because while the very thought makes him sick now, he had been very ready to usurp the position of someone he loved just months ago. He hadn’t loved Nahida at the time, but guilt still eats away at his insides whenever he thinks about the pain he put her through. 

Scaramouche doesn’t know how many of his crimes are public knowledge, or how recognizable he is to the general public. He spent so much time as Dottore’s lab-rat, and then in the Abyss, and then again as Dottore’s lab-rat for a second time, that anyone who knew him as Kabukimono is long dead. But if there are any people who would know who he is, they’re sitting at this table. And this becomes clear when General Gorou speaks for the first time, interrupting Sara and pinning Scaramouche with an accusation he must have been sitting on this entire time. 

“You’re part of the Fatui.” 

The room goes deathly quiet, tension brewing, and Scaramouche wonders if everyone else was waiting for someone to bring it up. He narrows his eyes at Gorou.  

“Aren’t you?” Gorou asks, tone verging on hostile but not quite there. Yet. 

“Not now. Obviously,” Scaramouche shoots back. No use denying it, not really, since the information is probably very readily accessible. 

“But you were a Harbinger? ” 

“Gorou,” Kokomi whispers gently, laying a hand on the arm of his chair. “Perhaps now—“ 

“Please forgive me, Your Excellency.” Gorou continues to glare—yes, now openly glare— at Scaramouche. For a moment, he thinks the General is addressing Ei, but his attention is firmly focused on Kokomi, and this title annoys Scaramouche for a reason he can’t comprehend. “But I think he was responsible for the delusions. Or at least, part of it. He still has the name. ” 

Before Kokomi can reply, Scaramouche snaps, “My name is none of your business. And do you even have proof of that? If not, I suggest you shut your mouth.” 

Gorou’s lips curl up, baring his canines. “It was easy to connect the dots. You killed Teppei.” 

Scaramouche has no idea who that is, but annoyance and anger flare in his gut anyway for being blamed for it. Who does he think he is, insulting him in his own home? 

Electro sparks between his fingers, and this lingering exhilaration, paired with his anger, loosens his tongue. 

“You tried to kill my mother. So, I suppose we’re even.” 

Gorou’s eyes widen, ears flattening down to his skull in rage. 

“It’s true, then.” The other woman speaks up for the first time, startling Scaramouche because he had honestly forgotten she was there. 

Hiiragi Chisato turns to look at Scaramouche kindly, bowing in deference. The respect is so starkly different from what he is receiving from Gorou that Scaramouche feels some of the tension in his body loosen in pure surprise. “You are our Shogun’s son.” 

“I—“ Scaramouche starts without thinking, denial ready on the tip of his tongue, but bites it back just in time and mentally curses himself because he’s not going to say he’s not her son, what the fuck? Not after everything he’s been through. 

“Yes,” Ei says at last, silencing the room. “He is.” 

She takes a moment to look around the table, searching for objections, and stares at Gorou’s raised hackles until he huffs and relaxes. 

“Scaramouche,” she continues, voice leaving no room for argument, “is my true-born son. I assure you, General, he is no threat to Inazuma, nor to Watatsumi Island. He is not a member of the Fatui, and is currently not plotting to usurp my position—“ she glances at him with something he realizes must be genuine curiosity, leaving the statement hanging for him to confirm. 

“Of course not,” he snarls. There is nothing Scaramouche would like less than to rule Inazuma. He has no interest in ever doing that, relations be damned. 

Gorou nods stiffly in response, looking for all intents and purposes that he is doing it purely for show. Scaramouche is too busy trying to beat down the instinctual pleasure that accompanies every public claim that Ei makes on his behalf to glare at Gorou for his disrespect. The phrase she used, 'true-born,' rings around in his head, and he doesn't have time to decide if he likes it or not. 

Pathetic. Have you forgotten why you’re angry with her to begin with? Scaramouche’s mood sours at the reminder. 

“So,” Miko says, speaking directly to him. “You see why an introduction ceremony is very necessary. It is essential we make your place as a citizen very clear, and we have a unanimous agreement about what this means.” She addresses that last part to the room at whole. 

“Agreement is unnecessary,” Ei corrects. Scaramouche looks between the two women, watches as Miko’s face tightens imperceptibly. “The ceremony will be happening. He will be granted the title of Imperial Heir, and given—” 

Ei doesn’t get to finish, falling silent when Chisato’s sharp gasp, Kokomi’s soft “oh,” Kamisato’s interested hum, and Sara’s strangled, involuntary noise of pure shock create soft clamor. All this noise is drowned out by Miko’s harsh reproach and both Scaramouche and Gorou’s chairs clattering to the ground with the force they bolt to their feet. 

“Ei,” Miko hisses, leaning towards her and placing a hand on the table between them. 

“What?” Gorou and Scaramouche exclaim at the same time, Gorou’s sounding mildly panicked and Scaramouche’s incredibly pissed off.

“I never agreed to that!” 

Ei studies him for a moment. “You are not pleased with this decision.” 

“No I’m not fucking pleased—what would make you think—” he wrestles for something to say, to curb the rising anxiety and fear that threaten to overwhelm him. Betrayal practically slaps him across the face, because he’s so frustrated with her, so incredibly angry that after everything that’s transpired between them these last few weeks, all the promises, all the fucking tears— for fuck’s sake, they’re still in the middle of one of the biggest fights they’ve ever had! And this is the first thing she does when she sees him again? Declare to Inazuma’s leaders that she’s making him her—

Scaramouche needs to leave. Right now. He has never been more sure of anything in his entire life that he needs to exit this room and walk, keep walking until he no longer feels like he’s going to burn down the building and everyone in it in a fit of anxious, fearful rage. 

Because if she wants him to be her—then that means— she thinks he is capable. It’s a permanent tie to her, publicly, irreversible in a way that nothing else is, and Scaramouche doesn’t know why the thought of being named heir is frightening him so much more than the much more intimate title of son, because he had been fine with Miko’s public teasing and speculations based on his appearance—  

Heir. A person inheriting the title and rank of their predecessor after—

Absolutely-fucking-not. 

He wants Nahida. 

The thought appears out of nowhere, but once he thinks her name he realizes it’s true, and he suddenly wants to hear her voice with such desperation he’s practically out the door before anyone can stop him. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Miko snaps at him, annoyance at Ei clearly spilling over onto him. 

“I’m not doing this right now,” he snaps back, baring his teeth, uncaring of upholding a polite image to anyone in the room. 

“We’ll discuss this further tonight,” Ei states, looking, for all intents and purposes, like they are discussing export prices and not the controversial future of her country. She pins him with a look, one softer than he’s seen yet. “Please return.” 

He decides not to analyze that request, glaring around the room before snapping, “Not here. Not in front of them.” 

“Alone, then.” She nods to him in agreement, turning back towards the busy table where Kamisato looks like he is enjoying these proceedings far too much. Kokomi and Gorou are exchanging hushed whispers, but it appears as if she has calmed him somewhat. Miko still sits ramrod straight and shock-still, analyzing Ei’s face with none of her usual enthusiasm. Chisato simply looks intrigued, and Sara looks mildly exhausted. 

Without another look back, Scaramouche races towards his chambers. 

—

When Scaramouche’s awareness plops back into his body, he realizes he’s spread eagle on the raised balcony outside his room, watching sakura petals twist in the air around him. Midday sun shines across his figure, warming the slightly chilly air. 

He almost falls asleep, then, relaxing in the calm atmosphere to the soothing noise of Nahida’s soft singing. 

Scaramouche’s eyes snap open, and he makes an interested noise in the back of his throat, sensing the warm pulse of his akasha around his head. 

“Scaramouche?” Nahida asks. “How are you feeling?” 

He can’t answer for a moment, wondering how he got from point A to point B, because he was just escaping from the meeting room—is something wrong with him? Why is he losing time? He has no recollection of even connecting to the akasha, or speaking with Nahida, but he must have—

He’s mulling over the possibility that Miko was wrong, he can’t use electro, and she actually fried his brain when she shocked him this morning, when Nahida calls him back to her. 

“I think you were a bix anxious,” she relays calmly, and he cannot stress how calming her voice is at that moment. “It may have been an anxiety attack.” 

“Oh,” he says, watching the sun reflect through the branches. “Yeah.” 

He can’t catch the sob in time to prevent it from escaping down their connection, and Nahida’s gentle “oh, Scaramouche,” immediately sends him into full-blown, angry crying. If he could groan in annoyance, he would, mid-cry, because it is just so ridiculous that he cannot control his emotions. Its gotten worse, somehow.

“It’s alright,” she soothes. 

“This is humiliating,” he presses into his hands, trying to muffle his sounds. 

“What’s humiliating?” she asks softly. 

“This. Everything. My life. The fucking breakdowns—” 

“It is not. I promise.” 

“It is,” he insists, scrubbing his eyes. “I’m so angry, all the time, and she just—I can’t—” 

“Raiden Ei?” 

“Ei,” he confirms, pressing his palms to his eye sockets, “she just—I feel like we’re not making any progress at all.” 

“What has happened?” she asks gently, no insistence in her tone. Scaramouche knows that she would drop it completely if he asked, and this makes his eyes burn with more tears. 

“She wants to name me heir,” he whispers, and residual anger flares hot. “And this was after I confronted her about my abandonment, and she was so—” his fists curl against the wood, and Scaramouche has no idea if he’s more angry or upset at that moment. 

“That conversation didn’t end well,” he finally admits irritably. 

“I see,” she says softly. Scaramouche pulls himself across the wood to curl against the side of the support pillar. The one he broke, the first night he was here, sits innocently next to him, still standing despite its uselessness now. 

“If you do not want to be heir, Scaramouche, she cannot force you. Do not think she can.” 

“Why does she need one at all?” he snaps. “What use does she have for an heir? Not unless—” his voice cracks, “I mean, does she plan on dying?” 

“Scaramouche,” Nahida says, and there’s so much understanding in her tone. So much affection. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve it. “I do not see death in Raiden Ei’s future.” 

“Then why?” 

“I imagine it’s largely symbolic,” she reassures gently. “Naming you heir ensures there is no doubt of your position in her life, namely to those of your nation.” 

He presses his lips together. “I know.” 

“It’s what I would do, if I were in her place,” Nahida adds thoughtfully, ignorant of the shock it sends through him. 

“You would—” he says, struggling to decide what he feels. 

“Yes. Not only would it prevent treasonous rumors, but it adds a layer of protection over you that nothing else would,” she says. “Threats against you would hold new weight. Few have crossed blades with Raiden Ei and survived, so this would surely cause people to think twice before attempting such a thing.” 

“Oh,” he says after a moment, not knowing what else to say. He can’t believe he needed it spelled out like that, but it does make sense…for a moment. 

He frowns. While that is Nahida’s reasoning, he can’t be sure it correlates with his mothers. It’s entirely possible she never thought about protection at all, and only desired rumors of power instability from continuing. 

“That’s not what it sounded like,” he says at last, bitterness seeping into his tone. “During the meeting, they only spoke about stopping gossip from spreading. It seems a ceremony,” he spits, “is the best way to do that.” 

Nahida hums in thought, probably adding this factor into her mental equation or whatever she does. 

“They’re worried about usurpation?” she asks. It doesn’t really sound like a question, more like she’s thinking out loud, so he doesn’t confirm because speaking about this with her makes familiar guilt rise in his throat. 

“You wouldn’t do such a thing, and she knows that,” she says, and he closes his eyes against the shame that he feels. She sounds too sure of him, so trusting, and it hurts. “I’m sure she confirmed this with you?” 

This time, it’s clear she expects an answer. 

“Uh,” he says, hardly breathing to keep any hint of emotion from his tone, “yeah.” 

Then, he can’t help it, he feels it welling up within him, apologies upon apologies never spoken aloud but clawing their way out. 

“Listen, Nahida—” 

“Scaramouche—” 

They both pause, speaking over each other, and then falling silent to let the other finish. The warmth in her tone indicates she’s going to try and reassure him again, always knowing where his thoughts have strayed, as if they’re a single mind separated into two vessels, and he decides to get it out before she can. 

“About,” he starts, feeling the urge to pace around his room, “I—when we met, I—” 

“Hey,” she interrupts, hushing him gently. “There’s no need to worry about that. We’ve talked about this.” 

“I know,” he says, frustrated. He had only brought it up once, and had barely even gotten the words out before she was cutting him off and telling him it meant nothing between them. It has been, to date, the only time that she had been borderline rude to him, rude in her rush to assure him she had already moved on, and he should too. 

“I know,” he repeats. “But I want you to know.” 

She’s silent for a moment. 

“Okay,” she whispers. 

“I’m so sorry, Nahida,” he says, and is relieved when it comes out strong. He’s never apologized to anyone, for anything, since abandoning his identity as a wandering puppet. He had never thought he needed to. “For everything. For trying to…take your place. I didn’t deserve anything that came after—I’m sorry.” 

Nahida deserves so much more than this, from him. But he doesn’t know how to give it. 

“I accept your apology,” she says immediately, sounding a bit teary, and the relief that rushes through him is just as surprising as her knowledge that that was what he needed, when he himself had not even known. 

Scaramouche wishes she was here with him now. He misses her. 

“As unneeded as it is,” she continues warmly. “Thank you.” 

He hums, feeling kind of awkward. 

“And you’re right,” she says then. “You don’t deserve what came after.” 

Scaramouche doesn’t even have the time to feel shock and hurt before she’s continuing. 

“You deserve so much more than what I’ve managed to give you. You deserve so much, Scaramouche. Everything.” 

He stumbles over a denial. “That’s not—” 

“It is,” she sighs. “And I hate that I can’t do anything to prevent you from getting hurt. I hate it.” 

“Nahida—” he says, slack-jawed. “I’m—you don’t have to worry about me.” 

She laughs. “I know that’s what you would prefer, but I will do it forever.” 

She gives her care so easily. Like he deserves it, like he’s never done anything not to deserve it. His throat tightens, the warmth of it all comforting him in a way he’s felt so little of these days. He can’t say anything, but he hopes she knows of his appreciation. 

One day, he thinks, he’ll be able to tell her that he loves her. He’s not ready, yet, for her to know how he thinks of her. Somehow, Scaramouche thinks that she knows. With how seamless they seem to be, maybe she does. As if she’s waiting for him to be ready. 

God, he misses her. 

“Try and speak with Raiden Ei,” she says in the comfortable silence. His mood drops again. “You’re making good progress, though I understand it may not feel like it. There’s much history between you two. It’s going to be okay.” 

“How do you know that,” he asks darkly. Not towards her, of course. 

“I know everything.” 

A laugh puffs out of him beside himself. “Right.” 

“I’m very serious,” she says, laughing with him. 

“I know.” 

“Scaramouche?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met, you know,” she says. “You’re going to get through this.” 

He blinks, flushing in embarrassment. He doesn’t feel very strong. The word doesn’t connect to him—he’s always been inadequate. He always assumed this is what everyone else thought of him, too. 

But he knows any rejections on his part will not be accepted. 

“I—thank you,” he says gruffly—awkwardly—after a moment. “Okay.” 

“I would never ask you to share anything you aren’t comfortable with,” she continues, “but I want you to know you can always, always, talk to me. About anything. You’re never alone.” 

She’s said this to him before. It’s a familiar statement. But it fills him with overwhelming warmth, every single time. 

“I know,” he says. This too is familiar. 

“Good,” she says happily.

“If I have it,” Scaramouche says hesitantly, “the ceremony.” 

She hums for him to continue. 

“You’ll come?” he asks. “I mean, you’re invited. Obviously.” 

“Obviously,” she teases. He flushes, trying to hide that he would like an actual answer to this question. But he shouldn’t be expecting too much, because she is an Archon, has Sumeru to run, has to be there for her citizens after he—  

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” she says, and he smiles softly because there are no witnesses for it. 

“Oh,” he says suddenly, remembering that she would undoubtedly be interested in this information. “I regained Electro.” 

“Really?” she practically yells, and he laughs at her enthusiasm and interest. “When did this happen? Has it impacted the abilities granted by your Vision? Does it react to your Anemo?” 

Scaramouche settles back, preparing to answer her questions, and sends his thanks once again to Celestia for allowing Nahida to enter his life. 

—

That afternoon, when he goes searching for Ei, Scaramouche feels all that negative emotion rearing inside him, sharpened and ready to use. With it, however, an seed of hope and possibility lie, waiting patiently to grow into something more. 

Chapter Text

Scaramouche spends about fifteen minutes walking around, poking his head into empty rooms and traversing into the less-used corridors of Tenshukaku before giving up and searching for help. The guards and attendants are giving him a wide berth; he’s stalking around as if he’s going to kill the person he’s looking for, so he’s not exactly surprised. Not that he would ever harm the individual in question. 

Exasperated with unfruitful searching, Scaramouche caves and pulls the first person he finds aside. 

“There should be a child staying here,” he says, getting right to the point. “His name is Daisuke. Where is he?” 

The soldier blinks at him in surprise before looking around in veiled confusion. 

“Child?” he asks after a moment. Scaramouche frowns in response. 

“You don’t know who’s staying here?” Scaramouche sneers. “What kind of palace guard are you?” 

The guard scowls at him. “Listen, it’s not my job—” 

Scaramouche crosses his arms and speaks over the man, not intending to listen to any more incompetent excuses. “Are you stupid? How are you supposed to be protecting Tenshukaku if you have no idea who’s even here?” 

“Excuse me,” a voice softly interrupts from behind them, and both men turn towards the young man who’d paused in his path. The attendant bows politely at Scaramouche. 

“I apologize for interrupting, but I overheard that you’re looking for Daisuke.” 

“Yeah,” Scaramouche snaps, before huffing and pulling politeness from the dregs of his social energy. 

“Yes,” he repeats, more agreeable this time. “Do you know where he is?” 

“Not at the moment, no,” the attendant hesitantly answers, looking warily for Scaramouche’s reaction. “But I can take you to Azumi,” he finishes. “She’s been caring for him.” 

Scaramouche finds this answer acceptable. He gives a quick nod, turning to give the incompetent soldier one last glare before gesturing at the attendant to lead the way. The sounds of their steps feel muted in the thick silence. 

The man awkwardly clears his throat. “Well, how are you finding your—” 

“No.” 

The guard lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously relieved. “Of course.” 

They continue in silence until the man pauses at a seemingly random corridor and gives another bow. 

“Please wait here,” he says. “I’ll retrieve Azumi for you.” 

Scaramouche waves his hand in approval, and the man disappears through a door on the other end of the hall. Moments later, Azumi shuffles out, sending Scaramouche a bright smile when she spots him. 

“Good afternoon. Shall I take you to Daisuke? He’s just in the courtyard.” 

“Yes,” Scaramouche says, silently praising her for not wasting any time on mindless chatter. “Take me there.” 

The courtyard isn’t far from them, and Scaramouche takes a moment to give the boy a quick, cursory overlook from the shadows, pleased when he seems un-bothered and unharmed. Two attendants are sitting nearby, monitoring the boy as he draws in a grassy square under one of the maple trees. 

“He’s been very well-behaved,” Azumi informs Scaramouche quietly. “Though he has been incredibly closed off. He asks about you frequently. I think he’ll be pleased to see you again.” 

Scaramouche hums in acknowledgement before striding further in, effectively catching everyone’s attention. Daisuke’s head pops up, recognition brightening his face. He points the charcoal he’s holding at Scaramouche. 

“It’s you!” he exclaims. 

“It’s me,” Scaramouche flatly agrees. He turns towards the attendants. “You can leave.” 

They eye each other briefly, but before they can raise any protest, Scaramouche holds up a hand. “I’m not asking. I’ll call you back when I’m finished here.” 

Scaramouche plants himself in the grass in front of the boy, who’s looking at him curiously. 

“Where have you been?” the boy asks. 

“Busy,” Scaramouche replies. “I need you to answer—” 

“Doing what?” 

Scaramouche pauses, before shortly replying, “That’s none of your concern. Are you going to pay attention?” 

“But you haven’t even told me your name yet.” 

“It’s Scaramouche,” he says, pressing down his irritation. He’s just a child, it’s natural that he’s curious. “Now, I need you to tell me—” 

“Are you going to hurt me?” 

Scaramouche stutters to a stop, ready to snap at the kid for interrupting again, but squints at him when the question registers. “What? Of course not—” 

“But you called the—” Daisuke leans forward a little, wide eyes glancing around. Remarkably, he doesn’t look as fearful as Scaramouche expected after his display in the entry hall that first night. “The Shogun. You called her ‘mother’.” 

Scaramouche presses his lips together, flicking his fingers and sending a little puff of air into the kid’s face. Daisuke’s hair flutters around his head, eyes dropping to the Vision pinned to Scaramouche’s chest and staying there. 

“That’s because she is my mother. Neither of us are going to hurt you. Now stop interrupting me,” Scaramouche orders. “Do you remember the night I brought you here? I need you to tell me about the package you were delivering.” 

Daisuke glances back up at Scaramouche, fiddling with his fingers, and then ignores Scaramouche completely. His eyes return to the Vision. “Can I hold it?” 

“What?” Scaramouche snaps, losing his patience. “No. Why are you ignoring me?” 

“It’s just…” he says, curling in on himself a little and suddenly looking like a kicked puppy. “I’ve never seen a Vision up close before, and I’ve always wanted one.” 

Scaramouche stares apathetically at the kid’s pleading eyes, reading the performance for what it is. 

“No,” he says again. Daisuke’s innocent expression drops, replaced with childish annoyance. 

“C’mon!” he says, a whine lining his voice. Scaramouche can already feel a headache forming. “I promise I won’t break it!” 

“I said, no, ” Scaramouche emphasizes, glaring at him. “Besides, you couldn’t break it if you wanted to. Now, unless you want the Shogun to come speak to you herself, you’re going to answer my questions. I don’t have very many.”

Daisuke pulls his lip between his teeth. “I…don’t know if I can…” 

“Why is that?”

The boy swallows, his shoulders hunching. He fists the grass on either side of him, pulling it up in anxious handfuls. Scaramouche can sense that this fear is real. 

“Did they threaten you?” Scaramouche asks as gently as he can. “Did they say they would do something if you told anyone?” 

A jerky nod is the only affirmation he gets, as if Daisuke is too afraid to verbalize the truth. 

Scaramouche twirls a fallen maple leaf between his fingers. “Do you remember everything that happened when I saved you?” 

Daisuke peeks up at him through his bangs, slowly nodding. 

“You remember what I did to them?” Scaramouche asks. As he’s speaking, he flexes his power, trapping the leaf inside a shaky sphere of wind. 

Daisuke nods again, eyes tracking the red leaf as it spins around in the air above Scaramouche’s hand. 

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Scaramouche says, leaning forward. “Those men that hurt you? The Shogun took care of them herself. She doesn’t tolerate bad men. And do you know what I did to them?” 

Daisuke shakes his head slowly, wide, hopeful eyes trained on Scaramouche. 

The leaf hovering between them abruptly crumples in on itself, trapped between two air currents. Scaramouche lets the small ball of plant tissue fall into Daisuke’s hand. 

“You’re safer in Tenshukaku than anywhere else,” Scaramouche finishes. “And I’m not going to let you live on the streets again. You can speak without any fear, here.” 

Daisuke practically droops in relief. He sniffs, sending a shy, watery smile up at Scaramouche. 

“Okay?” Scaramouche asks. 

“Okay,” Daisuke whispers. 

Scaramouche nods. “Good. Now, please sit quietly and try to remember as much as you can.” 

Just as Scaramouche believes he’s finally going to receive cooperation, the kid shakes off his hesitant attitude and asks, “But how can I be quiet and answer questions at the same—” 

A glare stops that idiotic question in his tracks, and the boy smiles, properly reassured. 

“Okay,” he agrees. “But can I hold your Vision after?” 

“Oh my god,” Scaramouche mutters under his breath, exasperated. “Fine. Tell me everything you know about the package you were delivering that night.” 

—

As Scaramouche watches the child gently take his Vision from his hand, he mulls over Daisuke’s words. Scaramouche had been correct in his assumption that the child hadn't known very much, and what he had known wasn't really of use to them. 

However, Scaramouche had something to report, at least. Daisuke reluctantly relayed that the delivery Scaramouche interrupted was not the first one Daisuke had been assigned—it had been the third in two months. Daisuke hadn’t ever looked in the parcels, unfortunately, but he told Scaramouche they all looked the same to him, so chances are he had been delivering knowledge capsules the entire time. 

Daisuke barely had to describe the men’s appearance on the other end of the transaction for Scaramouche to know who else was involved. 

Fatui. 

But, why? Scaramouche has no idea why the Fatui desire knowledge capsules, or why they’re smuggling them out of Sumeru and into Inazuma. If not for the corrupted energy Scaramouche sensed from the confiscated batch, he wouldn’t be worried at all. They’re not outwardly illegal, just completely useless without an Akasha System. It’s the corruption they’ve undergone that makes them so lethal.

Scaramouche grits his teeth as he considers who may be behind this. If it’s Dottore, Scaramouche can’t be entirely sure that he’s doing it under the Tsaritsa’s guidance. He actively hopes it’s the Doctor, because exacting his revenge has been quite high on his priority list. But if it’s any of the others…well, Scaramouche has never denied that he enjoys bloodshed just for the sake of it. 

Scaramouche considers what information he’s going to relay to Sara while he watches Daisuke. The boy runs his fingers over the surface of the blessing reverently, face full of wonder. When he looks up at Scaramouche, his expression is so open and excited that Scaramouche feels some of his general irritation melt away. 

“It’s beautiful,” Daisuke breathes, watching teal light swirl beneath the glowing symbol. 

“It is,” Scaramouche softly agrees. He often finds himself admiring it when he’s sure he’s away from prying eyes. 

“What’s this design, though?” Daisuke asks, tracing the sharp points of the Sumeran plate. “It looks different than everyone else’s.” 

“It’s different because I received it in another region,” Scaramouche informs him.

“Really?” Daisuke asks, looking up curiously. “Where did you get it?” 

“Sumeru,” Scaramouche replies after a moment, hoping the kid will just leave it at that.

“Oh,” Daisuke answers, looking down at it again. “Where’s Sumeru?” 

Scaramouche studies the boy curiously. “It borders Liyue. You must leave Inazuma by boat and travel northeast. Didn’t you learn that in school?” 

Scaramouche himself hadn’t attended traditional school, but remembers that he learned the geography and location of each region very early on. He assumed it would have been similar in a traditional school environment. 

They boy looks startled, face slowly reddening. Scaramouche tilts his head in confusion before internally wincing, remembering the information he had learned shortly after meeting the child and the conclusions he drew from it. 

Daisuke is an orphan. Scaramouche doesn’t know what his specific circumstances are, but he’s not very old, so it’s very likely his parents died when he was a young child. That, or he had been abandoned. 

“Are you literate?” Scaramouche asks carefully, making sure to keep any judgment out of his voice. 

“Literate?” 

Scaramouche clarifies, “Can you read?”

Daisuke reddens further, looking down at his lap where he’s still clutching Scaramouche’s Vision. 

“No,” he admits. Then, his head snaps up defiantly, and Scaramouche raises an eyebrow at the swift change in his attitude. “But that’s never stopped me before! I’ve never needed to read for anything. I’ve gotten lots of compliments about my ‘work effect’ when I take jobs.” 

“Work ‘ethic’,” Scaramouche absentmindedly corrects. 

He watches Daisuke, watches him hold Scaramouche’s Vision like he feels the enormity of it’s blessed existence, as he looks so hopeful and proud of the things he does in life to get by. 

“How many homeless children live in Inazuma City?” Scaramouche asks. “Do you know?” 

Daisuke hums carefully, considering. “There aren’t, like, that many I don’t think. But I don’t know all of them, so there could be more.” 

“I see,” Scaramouche replies, despite the lack of substance in his answer.

Scaramouche doesn’t know the specifics about how the homeless are dealt with in Inazuma, or how the school curriculum is formatted. There’s not a common curriculum shared between each region to Scaramouche’s knowledge, and he hasn’t cared enough to look into it before. Thinking about it now, Scaramouche wonders how there’s even a common language shared between the seven regions if there is no common curriculum. 

Scaramouche abruptly remembers the idea that had popped into his mind the night he met Daisuke. While Scaramouche had brushed it off then, the more he learns about Daisuke’s life the more he’s convinced it might actually be a good idea. 

One way to ensure children aren’t stranded on the streets, and grow up with the same opportunities as their peers. Scaramouche is blatantly stealing from what he knows of the Akademiya’s system, but he thinks ‘boarding school’ sounds much nicer than ‘orphanage,’ which they should have already had for children in need.  

He will need to speak to Nahida about the specifics of this before he brings the idea to Ei. 

“Why is it this one? Shouldn’t it be Electro?” 

Scaramouche looks back down at Daisuke, missing his comment. “What?” 

Daisuke squirms uncomfortably at being asked to repeat the question, like he thinks it may be offensive. “I just wondered why your Vision is the wind one, and not Electro. Because you said—I mean, she’s your mom.” 

Scaramouche shrugs, nonplussed. “I don’t know. That’s Celestia’s decision. It has something to do with personality traits. I don’t think there’s truly any rhyme or reason to it.” 

“Oh,” the boy responds, carefully passing the Vision back. “Do you think I’ll be able to get one, someday?” 

Scaramouche takes in the boy’s hopeful expression, eyes so full of curiosity and fire despite all the hardships he’s faced at such a young age. A reluctant smile tugs at his lips. 

“I think you will,” he says. 

—

He leaves Daisuke with a brief farewell and half-hearted promise to visit again soon. This was shortly after he reassured the kid that he wouldn’t be returning to the streets, watching as Daisuke’s eyes had filled with panic and reluctant acceptance when Scaramouche stood to leave. Scaramouche was pleased when Daisuke’s form relaxed. 

Scaramouche doesn’t waste any time avoiding his next stop, as unwilling as he is to make it. Unfortunately, he knows that if he continues to draw this out he’s going to lose all his motivation entirely, so he may as well do it now. 

He also did tell her he wouldn’t leave, so there’s that. 

Despite his conviction, Scaramouche practically drags his feet all the way to Ei’s chambers. It’s where one of Daisuke’s caretakers had informed Scaramouche she currently was, and he had paused in confusion before the attendant mentioned Ei was expecting him. 

Scaramouche doesn’t even know if he’s ever actually been in her chambers. He knows where they are, but had never ventured further into the wing of the castle she resides in. So he has no idea why she’s waiting for him there. 

It feels too…intimate, he supposes, for the conversation they’re probably about to have. It’s already bad enough that they have to speak at all because there’s so much tension between them right now. Adding an unfamiliar setting to the entire thing might make it worse. 

Unfortunately, before he knows it he’s standing before the large sliding door he knows leads directly into her rooms. The guards stationed outside the hallway barely gave Scaramouche a glance as he drifted past. He half-wished they had turned him away before he got any further. 

Scaramouche hovers outside for a moment, definitely making it worse by not knocking immediately, but finding himself physically unable to do so. He’s about to turn away and abandon the whole thing altogether when the door gently begins to slide open. 

He bites his lip, wondering how Ei knew where he was. He knows for a fact that his movements were silent; a skill that came naturally and remained useful through various parts of his life. It’s not useful anymore, apparently. 

Ei stares at him from the other side of the paneled doorway. Scaramouche stares back blankly. A perfect rendition of the same scene, weeks earlier, when she had first come to his chambers days after his arrival. 

Their relationship had been nonexistent. Fractured, incomplete, one-sided. Remembering that day hurts—the day she had revealed she didn’t share the same perception that he did of their relationship. 

It hurts more when Ei smiles gently at him now, because he can’t help but accept that they’ve truly come so far in such a short amount of time. The pure relief of it leaves him breathless, weak in the absence of the haunting loneliness he’s suffered through for most of his life. 

But Scaramouche also feels heavy with the weight of uncertainty, plagued constantly by layers of distrust, anger, and frustration that follows his every conversation with her. It simmers inside him now as he remembers what he’s here for. 

When Ei doesn’t seem inclined to make the first move, Scaramouche starts. “Are we doing this here?” 

The bite in his tone is glaringly evident but he has given up on trying to hide it. 

Ei takes a step to the side, motioning for him to enter. “Please.” 

Scaramouche robotically enters his mother’s chambers, observing the space curiously and trying not to be obvious about it. The sitting room is sparsely furnished and dimly lit. Practically uninhabited. If he were to walk in here unknowing, he would assume it to be nothing but a guest room. 

However, as he walks further into the room evidence of life begins to appear, as long as one knows what to look for. A book set aside here, a series of weapons on display over there, a steaming teapot waiting to be used. 

And through it all, the thick, distressingly familiar scent of incense wafts through the air. 

Scaramouche looks further into the space, abandoning all pretenses of concealing his prying—she may relocate them if she doesn’t want him snooping—and sees, to his surprise, a large bed set into the floor. It’s surrounded by thin, gauzy curtains drifting in the breeze from the cracked door leading to the room’s courtyard. 

Scaramouche turns to find Ei studying him. 

“I didn’t know you slept,” he fires off immediately without truly thinking about it. 

Ei blinks, following his eyes to her bed chambers. “Yes. It’s…a recent development, I suppose. Tea?” 

She gestures for him to sit while she busies herself with pouring for them both, not waiting for an actual acceptance. Scaramouche is almost bold enough to believe her actions, while practiced and graceful, are borne from the need to do something to fill the awkward silence between them. 

Scaramouche would consider believing that, if he wasn’t absolutely certain this woman has never felt the need to complete a mindless task for the sake of a tense atmosphere in her life. 

Ei pours for him first, respectful in a way that makes him fidget, and the faint scent of tea permeates the heady incense blanketing the room. He catches himself relaxing too quickly—the atmosphere is making him fucking sleepy. 

Where Scaramouche had expected to smell sweetness, he receives the sharp scent of something earthy and bitter, and he perks up in reluctant interest. His mother had, at some point, developed a very large sweet tooth, so he takes a moment to wonder if the attendants had brewed the wrong tea. 

Taking a small sip confirms his suspicions: perfection. 

Scaramouche honestly hasn’t been paying too much attention to his mother at this point, so he misses the scrutiny he’s still receiving. 

“The tea is to your liking?” Ei innocently asks, raising her own cup. 

Scaramouche nods, giving credit where credit is due. “Very much.” 

Ei tilts her head imperceptibly to the side, a small smile warming her face. “Interesting. I can’t say others have expressed similar sentiments. I am glad you are enjoying it.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Miko has expressed her distaste for the tea I prepare for her.” 

Scaramouche blinks incomprehensibly. Glances down at the cup. Back up at Ei. “The tea you what?”  

“Prepare.” 

“…Yourself?” 

“Yes.” 

Scaramouche points at the teapot accusingly. “You’re telling me you brewed this?” 

It’s Ei’s turn to blink at him. “Yes.”

“But—you don’t cook?” Scaramouche says, completely thrown. This tea is delicious. He had thought so seconds after tasting it, and therefore the thought already exists and can’t be replaced by a petulant grudge. 

“You’re obsessed with sugar,” he adds. “If you actually made this, why is it so bitter?” 

“I do not cook. Despite my best efforts to brew something palatable, it continuously remains too strong and very bitter; Miko has complained about these things on more than one occasion. I can’t seem to brew it correctly, but I thought I would try again.” 

Wow , Scaramouche thinks to himself before he can pretend the thought didn’t appear. He makes his own tea like this, albeit purposefully. What a pair we make . 

Scaramouche shakes his head, clearing his throat and setting the cup aside. “Okay. Whatever.”

He takes a short breath, mentally pulling up thick walls of indifference in preparation for another one of their charming discussions. “I'm here, so what do you want?” 

“I want to understand you,” Ei says immediately. 

Scaramouche’s breath catches in his throat. 

“I want to know you. I want to express my regret of not doing so in the past.” 

Ei looks down at her hands, casting shadows over her face, and her voice softens imperceptibly. Her eyes look very far away. 

“Your creation was not simple. It was a difficult process, requiring years of study and months of preparation. It was easy to focus entirely on it. After your completion, I don’t believe I entirely realized…” 

Ei trails off, eyes moving back to his. Scaramouche is frozen, wondering what this has to do with the ceremony and why she’s bringing it up now. 

“Realized what?” he can’t help but ask. Her stare is intense, hypnotizing, and bright. 

“Your mind is incredibly complex,” she says. “It’s truly fascinating. The Shogun is—it is a different situation with the vessel I am inhabiting. She’s very conscious, but not like you. ” 

Ei settles back, eyes and expression softening into something that may resemble fondness. Scaramouche is too shocked to do anything but listen blankly.

“I created life,” she says gently. “I do not think I properly grasped what that meant in its entirety until you returned to me, because I had not realized I had done so.”  

“You didn’t—are you saying I wasn’t meant to gain consciousness?” Scaramouche demands somewhat snappily. That would just be the icing on the metaphorical cake that is his life. 

Ei holds up a hand. “No. You were meant to have a consciousness. You were my first successful attempt to do so. However, I expected you to be an imitation of myself. And…you are not.” 

Scowling, Scaramouche’s fists clench from their place atop his knees. “Right, I’m well aware. My emotions—” 

“Scaramouche,” she interrupts. “I was naive. I did not realize I had created a child. This is entirely my fault, and I am to blame for the events that transpired afterwards. But I need you to understand that I believed I did what was best for you.” 

“Do you still believe that?” he asks through grit teeth. 

Her eyes flick over his face, searching for something he doesn’t know. Scaramouche isn’t—he doesn’t know which answer will be worse. 

Ei’s voice is low when she speaks. Soft, and quiet. 

“I saw something delicate in you. Fragile. This is not an insult,” she says when his brows furrow together and his jaw clenches. 

“Scaramouche,” she says again, and her voice changes, suddenly, into a tone he’s never heard before. He can’t put his finger on why the sound of it cuts against his insides. 

“You have changed exponentially in the time we have been apart. You are stronger now and much more resilient. But if you had begun harboring the Gnosis on the timeline I had originally intended, it would have destroyed you.” 

“I was fine,” Scaramouche protests. “I had the Gnosis for months and I was completely fine—I was perfect. You didn’t even give me the chance to try.” 

Ei is already shaking her head before he’s done speaking. “No. No; I created you. I remember every piece of myself you hold, and exactly what it would take to destroy them. It may have taken decades, perhaps centuries, but eventually, it would have worn on your mind until you became a shell of yourself. You would have suffered.” 

“You could not have known that. That doesn’t even make sense! You told me yesterday you built me to withstand eternity—”

“I do know this, because I built your body to withstand corruption—your mind was not intentionally built by me and therefore susceptible to trauma, pain, and suffering; all things that you would have experienced beneath the power of the Gnosis. ” 

Her voice has intensified once more, but Ei doesn’t yell. She doesn’t need to. Scaramouche understands just fine. 

“You claim to be worried? Perhaps if you had not abandoned me,” Scaramouche whispers, voice thick, “I wouldn’t have experienced any of that at all.” 

Ei’s eyes flutter shut. 

“I was in no condition to care for you,” she replies, just as quiet. Her eyes meet his again. “I relinquished power to the Shogun upon her completion. That is what I was searching for, and that goal is the reason you are alive. I never considered the consequences of this action, and for that I am sorry.” 

Scaramouche doesn’t respond, staring unseeingly at the cold teabowl in front of him. A moment passes before Ei reaches to lay a hand between them, palm open to the air. 

“Scaramouche—“ 

“You are not sorry,” Scaramouche interrupts slowly, “that you abandoned me.” He looks up at her, composure slowly chipping away. “I assume you also know what I’ve been through. Would you repeat these actions? Do you feel responsible for them?” 

Ei’s brows pull together. “How can I regret a decision I believe was made with sound judgment? Logically, it was the only way to give you freedom.” 

She hesitates a fraction of a second before continuing, voice just the slightest degree tenser. “I feel I don’t know many details about your life, but I know now that I’ve hurt you with my decisions. This is displeasing to me.” 

“Maybe if you would ask me to tell you about my life I would consider doing so,” Scaramouche says. “But you do not.” 

“I do not mean to insult you,” Ei replies. “It has been difficult. All attempts I make to grow closer with you have been met with displeasure and anger.” 

“It’s probably because you’re not actually trying to talk to me,” he snaps back, ignoring the way her face creases at this. “You’re just making decisions on my behalf and doing things that I never asked you to do.” 

“What decisions have I made for you? This is what I don’t understand,” she replies, voice tight. “You agreed to stay here. My decision making reflects that agreement.” 

“God, is this a contract?” Scaramouche says. “This is exactly what I’m talking about—it’s like you don’t see me as anything other than an agreement you must abide by. You told me we would speak about what my staying here would mean, and then you randomly announced, very publicly, that I’m to be your heir.” 

He pauses, watching for her reaction, growing angrier when she doesn’t look the slightest bit apologetic. “Don’t you see why I would have an issue with that?” 

“I do not, because I was under the impression that is what you wanted. I assume your desires have changed?” 

“Stop putting words in my mouth,” he hisses. “I am angry that you didn’t speak to me about it first. I am angry that you didn’t listen when I wanted to speak about the punishment—and I am angry that you refuse to understand you are in the wrong for abandoning me.”