Archive of Our Own ^beta

Act I, Scene I.

Though it was long ago, the memory of his false, fabricated birth still remained fresh in his mind. He had blinked his indigo eyes, his freshly constructed eyelids fluttering open, and was greeted by an overwhelming deluge of new experiences. The deafening shuffling of clothes and tumultuous chirping of birds grated against his fragile, artificial ears. An uncomfortable dryness rested in the back of his throat, but when he tried to swallow, the itchiness seemed to only worsen, as if mocking his false creation. Blinding lights seared into his eyes, eliciting a soft gasp and a warm liquid that flowed down from his eyes and over his carefully crafted, porcelain cheeks, wetting the linen that lay beneath his head.

He had heard a soft murmur of concern, then, at the sight of the warm caress of a liquid which left behind a cold, aching trail that flowed down his cheeks; he later learned that these were called tears. 

And then a figure, hazy through his tears, leaned over his bedside. The figure lifted a hand.

Then came a soft, inquisitive touch, that flitted away like a butterfly’s wing as soon as it grazed against his cold, false skin.

That fleeting warmth of his creator’s touch – he longed for it again, as soon as he had felt it. He tried to express as much, too, but only a soft rasping breath wheezed out of his lungs, his own body indulging in the cruel delight of denying him his desires. 

His creator – his mother – leaned over him again, closer, to examine him. A soft strand of radiant, plum-coloured hair drifted into his sight, bringing with it a sweet, comforting scent that soothed his frayed senses.

And he saw her – the first and last time he would ever gaze into her eyes again. Her face and features were perfect, inhumanly perfect – almost as if carved with a light and meticulous touch to achieve a flawless finish, befitting of a god. Her vivid, violet eyes were cold and distant; and yet, in that moment, held a tinge of pity and regret.

She brushed away one of his tears, which was trembling upon the tip of a diligently crafted eyelash. The warmth radiating from her gentle, motherly touch remained and lingered, even after her fingertips left his skin.

“You are… not fit for the purpose I coveted. Too gentle, too frail, too weak…” (Rest well, my child.) She had whispered, the last few words of her sentence left unheard, trailing away like mist in a breeze, as she rose to her feet.

His eyes followed her graceful movement, feeling every part of his body yearning to rise and follow her, his mother. At that time, it was not that he realized she was going to abandon him, but he knew. Somehow, inexplicably, he knew, from the intricate and unbreakable connection between creator and creation. But despite his desire to move, his body remained still and inanimate upon the bed, almost as if his body were not his own. 

“Please… do not leave me.” He forced a feeble, plaintive rasp out of his stiff mouth, speaking a jumble of sounds that sounded strange and yet felt familiar, as though he was created with the linguistic knowledge in mind. 

She turned to him, her hair sweeping elegantly behind her back with not a single hair astray. As she looked at him, his mouth began to move, lips curling around another plea. 

Then her eyes met his, and his mouth promptly fell shut with a click, like a puppet’s jaw on strings. His mind began to cloud with exhaustion, like the slow creeping of thick, murky mist along the ground after cold rainfall.

Then his eyes closed, and the curtain was drawn.

And like that, the first act had ended.

Act II, Scene I.

When he woke up, he was alone. 

But this time when he woke, he was not met with a pleasant, homey scent and the light rustling of his mother’s clothes. 

He blinked his eyes open, for the second time, and was greeted with a dizzyingly high ceiling that spiralled into darkness. Large, red-leaved trees towered over his small, fragile form; their leaves lay scattered at the trees’ bases, as though countless seasons had come and gone since the last time they had been tended to. He glanced upwards, and his disoriented glance met a large, painted eye atop the surface of a lamp, like that of a god’s omnipresent gaze. 

It was his mother’s, he knew. 

He clambered laboriously to his feet, glancing with curiosity around the room. Was this part of his mother’s home, too, then? 

Tree roots spread over the overhang in front of a large wooden door, and dust motes hung thick in the air. It was a stark difference from the well-kept, clean room of his mother’s before. 

He suddenly felt a little afraid. Lonely, and afraid. But then he remembered his mother’s gentle touch, and reassured himself that all was well. 

Walking on unsteady legs, he wandered to a corner of the room where he spotted a small beetle, upended and struggling with all its might and six legs to turn back upright.

“You poor thing,” He murmured, his gentle voice soft as he kneeled down, prodding the insect lightly until it regained its footing. Smiling, he watched as the bug skittered away and into the darkness.

(A/N: For the reader’s reference, this is the room in which Scaramouche awakens in this fic, in Shakkei Pavilion.)

Act II, Scene II.

How much time had passed since he had awoken in this place? He didn’t know.

He spent his days aimlessly wandering the vast pavilion like a ghost, trailing along the hallways endlessly until every step and turn had been etched into his memory. 

When he had first awoken, he had wandered the pavilion in great curiosity, pondering for long hours at each painting, jug, or swath of vibrant purple cloth that he came across, each item a reminder of the past that must have been. He would practice his newfound ability to speak in anticipation of the day his mother would return for him, and he would speak to her and regale her of all the adventures he had while she was away. 

Gradually, however, as months bled into years, and years stretched into decades, his eyes lost that childlike curiosity and shine. He had waited, and waited, and waited, for his mother’s return. With every storm and gust of wind that rattled through the pavilion, he would scamper eagerly to the door and wait. 

The artifacts, once subject to his curiosity, seemed to reflect his endless wait. The jugs stood silent, heavy and breathless; the paintings, lively scenes of captured life now veiled by dust; and the cloths, vivid hues faded by the passage of time, lay untouched. They held their breath with him, collectively. 

But she never came. 

Act II, Scene III.

Thunder crashed, and bright, blinding flashes of lightning flared outside the pavilion. Inside, the boy gazed outside, his indigo hair having grown long enough to sweep across the floor. He bit his lip as he gazed at the brightly lit sky outside, bitter resentment rising in him like bile, burning a sour path up his throat. 

Why? Just what wrong had he done for his mother to abandon him?

She had time enough to strike lightning across the land, but not enough to visit him. To see him, her puppet. Her creation. Her son.

Resentful tears sprung unbidden from his eyes, crafting a cold trail down his porcelain cheeks. But this time, as he cried alone in the pavilion, his tears held no warmth — warmth that was leached away by the frigid misery of betrayal. He slid to the floor, curling up into a fetal position as sobs wracked his small frame, feeling more lonely than he ever had before.

“Why?” He croaked aloud, voice cracking from minimal use, his anguished cry lost amidst the thunder roaring outside. He couldn’t understand why he had been tossed aside, abandoned heartlessly by his mother like a worthless doll.

His mother remained indifferent to his question. Violent, violet lightning continued to flash, and the storm roared on. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but each thud of his heart betrayed his anticipation, a silent hope for his mother’s response. But why did he wait here, for her? For his heartless mother, whose back he could still envision when he closed his eyes, as she turned away and abandoned him?

“Why?” He repeated, a sudden rush of fury burning a hot trail up the back of his neck. He leapt to his feet, staring bitterly out the window and at the lightning outside. He knew she was there. He could feel it. He glared up at the blazingly bright sky that housed his mother’s cruel, unresponsive vestige. “Why haven’t you ever come back for me? Even though I waited like this?”

He often wondered. Was his mother ever haunted by the memories of her abandoning him, on the day of his creation? Or was he the only one, still clutching hopelessly to the fading skirts of her memory like a lost child?

“ANSWER ME! WHY?” He screamed, nails drawing blood from how tightly he clenched his fists. He stood unsteadily, fists shaking and body trembling from the sheer amount of resentment that overwhelmed his small and childlike frame, drowning his rationality in a bitter rage. 

He waited, and waited, and waited for her to come back for centuries. But it had been so easy for her to forget him. Were gods all so cruel, so indifferent to even their own children that they had brought into existence with their own hands? 

His vision blurred from the tears that streamed down his cheeks, and he crumpled to the floor like a broken puppet, the sting of betrayal burning beyond what any purgatory could achieve. The thunderstorm, ever indifferent and cold, roared on despite his anguished shouts and cries, drowning out his feeble voice as though he had never existed. The booms of thunder seemed to echo the hollow resignation that settled in his heart.

His mother remained indifferent to the pleas of her forsaken puppet.

Act V, Scene II.

Kunikuzushi despised humanity. But what he despised more than humanity was that he was created to mimic that weak, fragile race. He longed more than anything to transcend such weak beings, to erase the anger and guilt and fragility that tormented him since the day of his creation.

Identity meant nothing to him. It meant nothing in the face of eradicating the memories of Katsuragi and his mother and the boy, which plagued both his waking moments and dreams. It meant nothing in the face of cleansing himself of his humanity. 

It meant nothing in the face of forgetting.

He wandered through the dark forests of Inazuma, spotting along the way a small, upturned beetle whose six legs cycled wildly in an attempt to upright itself. 

Weak, pathetic, and so easy to crush, mirroring the humanity Kunikuzushi abhorred more than anything else.

It was truly laughable. Had he really once wished to integrate himself into that fragile society?

“Weakness disgusts me the most.” He spoke, ice lacing his voice as a cruel, deprecating smile curled his lips.

With a crunch, the insect was crushed beneath his sandal.

Act VII, Scene III.

Always.

Scaramouche’s dreams, from birth to present, were always and unfailingly crushed. From humanity to godhood, they never failed to spurn and betray him. From his mother to Katsuragi to that boy, the gods never failed to crush his ambition and grind them beneath their feet, as though he were an insect.

And now, he lay at the feet of a god, her bright green eyes casting upon him a light that felt like the mockery he had struggled against all his life. He lay there, a shattered shell of a broken puppet.

And at that moment, a light breeze, carrying with it a faint melody that hummed gently against his bloodied skin, blew against Scaramouche's cheek. Tenderly, ever so gently, almost like his mother's feather-light touch from so long ago. Fragmented memories lost to time.

The light wind swept his indigo hair back, and a small, round object settled itself within his loose, exhausted grip, fitting itself snugly within his hand. As soon as his fingers brushed against the smooth, viridescent surface of the object, a euphoric, heady feeling spread through Scaramouche, its intoxicating pleasure blazing a rapturous path through his body.

He let out a small, nearly inaudible gasp and his eyes flew wide at the unfamiliar and yet addictive feeling. Scaramouche stared at his hand — at the vision, small and round, that lay nestled in his hand. The symbol of a god's mercy.

An anemo vision.

The element of freedom. How incredibly ironic, for him who sought freedom through transcending his mortal tethers but was ultimately thwarted.

Scaramouche let out a light, derisive laugh. It was a brittle sound, like the light dusting of ice over a glistening winter lake, frozen in time. How ironic, and disappointing, that at the end of it all, he was left with nothing but the shattered remains of his humanity. With drifting thoughts of what could have been. Regret.

But Scaramouche could find no more resentment within him, only an everlasting exhaustion. He could only find dull acceptance within his hollow heart.

He was, after all, created for a world that was simply never meant to be his.

And the puppet fell from broken strings as the curtains swept shut.