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The Snezhnayan wind, sharp and unforgiving, howled around their small cottage on the edge of Morepesok, a constant, mournful dirge. Inside, the fire struggled against the encroaching cold, casting long, skeletal shadows that danced across the sparsely furnished room. Scaramouche stood motionless by the window, his arms crossed tightly, his gaze fixed on the relentless snowfall. Each flake, a tiny shard of ice, seemed to pierce him with the cold reality of Childe's impending departure.
Behind him, the soft thud of Childe packing echoed through the silence, each sound a hammer blow to the fragile composure Scaramouche was desperately trying to maintain. The crackling fire, usually a source of comfort, now sounded like the snapping of fragile threads. A heavy, suffocating dread permeated the air, thick and cloying.
“So you’re really going,” Scaramouche said, his voice a low, strained whisper, betraying the carefully constructed wall of indifference. He refused to turn, refusing to see the confirmation in Childe's eyes.
Childe paused, his hand hovering over a worn leather-bound journal. The silence stretched, broken only by the wind's mournful cry. “I have to, Kunikuzushi.” The use of his true name, a rare and intimate gesture, underscored the gravity of the moment.
Scaramouche spun around, his indigo eyes burning with a desperate, wounded intensity. “Don’t give me that ‘have to’ drivel. You choose to. You always choose them—the Fatui, the Tsaritsa, your… duty.” His voice cracked, the carefully constructed facade crumbling. “Do you think I care about any of that? I care about you, Ajax. And if you leave…” His voice trailed off, the unspoken fear hanging heavy between them. If you leave, you might not return.
Childe’s expression softened, a flicker of pain crossing his usually jovial features. He crossed the room, his footsteps muffled by the worn rug, and gently cupped Scaramouche’s face in his hands. The contrast between his warm touch and Scaramouche’s icy skin was stark and unsettling. “Hey… look at me.”
Scaramouche stubbornly averted his gaze, his jaw clenched tight. “No.”
“Please, Kunikuzushi.” The quiet plea in Childe’s voice was a sharp pang in Scaramouche’s chest.
With a shuddering sigh, Scaramouche finally met his gaze. Childe’s ocean-blue eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, were now clouded with a deep sadness, a hint of resignation that made Scaramouche’s stomach churn.
“I’m coming back,” Childe said, his voice firm, but the words lacked their usual confident edge. “You know me. I’m too stubborn to die.”
A bitter, humorless smile twisted Scaramouche’s lips. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Ajax. I’ve had enough of broken promises to last several lifetimes.” The weight of past betrayals, both personal and inflicted upon him by fate, pressed down on him like a physical burden.
Childe leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to Scaramouche’s forehead, his lips lingering there as if trying to etch the moment into his memory. When he finally pulled back, he pressed a small, tightly wrapped packet into Scaramouche’s hand. It felt like it contained small seeds.
“What’s this?” Scaramouche asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze fixed on the unassuming packet.
“Forget-me-not seeds,” Childe said, his voice soft, tinged with a deep melancholy. “They’re resilient. They can withstand even the harshest winters. Plant them in the spring. They’ll remind you…” He trailed off, unable to voice the unspoken fear that hung between them.
Scaramouche’s fingers tightened around the packet. Forget-me-nots. A flower associated with remembrance, with enduring love. He looked up at Childe, his eyes filled with a mixture of grief and a desperate hope.
“You’d better come back, Ajax,” he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. “If you don’t…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
Childe cupped Scaramouche’s face once more, his thumbs gently brushing away a single tear that escaped and traced a path down his cheek. “I promise.’’
–
The snow fell with increasing ferocity that night, a white shroud blanketing the world, muffling the sound of Childe’s departure. Scaramouche stood at the window, his gaze fixed on the swirling white abyss, until the last vestige of his lover’s silhouette was swallowed by the storm, leaving him alone with the biting wind, the dying embers of the fire, and the small packet of forget-me-not seeds clutched tightly in his hand.
──
In the days that followed, the world seemed to conspire against Scaramouche. The oppressive stillness of the cottage felt unbearable, the silence broken only by the occasional groan of the wind as it battered the walls. The forget-me-not seeds remained untouched on the table, their presence a quiet torment. He couldn’t bring himself to move them. To do so felt like acknowledging the possibility of Childe’s absence becoming permanent.
Each night, Scaramouche sat by the window, his knees drawn to his chest, watching the relentless snowfall. His thoughts were a chaotic storm of anger, fear, and longing. The snow reminded him of Childe’s hair, that vivid orange warmth a stark contrast against the icy white. It felt cruel, how even the elements seemed to mock him.
The fire burned low one particularly frigid evening, casting a dim, flickering glow. Scaramouche leaned back in his chair, clutching Childe’s worn scarf. It smelled faintly of the sea and something uniquely Childe—a mix of salt, leather, and the faintest trace of cedar. He pressed it to his face, closing his eyes against the hot tears that threatened to spill. The memories surged forth, unbidden and merciless.
──
They’d argued fiercely the night before Childe left, the tension in the air electric, crackling with unspoken fears
“Why must you always run headlong into danger?” Scaramouche had demanded, his voice trembling. “Is your loyalty to the Fatui worth more than your life? More than… than us?”
Childe had smiled then, that maddeningly calm, infuriating smile. “It’s not about loyalty to them. It’s about protecting what I care about. Snezhnaya, my family… you.” His tone softened at the last word, and it had been nearly Scaramouche’s undoing.
"If I asked you to stay,” Scaramouche had whispered, his voice breaking, “would you?”
Childe’s silence had been answer enough.
──
Childe’s first letter arrived two weeks after he had left, and it was a letter Scaramouche cherished, even as the dread of his impending departure gnawed at him.
It was a simple envelope, stained by the wear of travel, its edges frayed but unmistakably carrying the weight of his lover’s words.
Scaramouche had held it in his hands for what felt like hours before finally tearing it open, almost afraid of the emotions it would stir.
The paper inside was creased, the ink slightly smudged in places where Childe’s handwriting had bled with the movement of the paper. But to Scaramouche, each mark, each letter, was a lifeline, a tether to the man he feared he would lose.
--
𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘒𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘬𝘶𝘻𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪,
𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘱 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥, 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦. 𝘚𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵.
𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘵𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩: 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
𝘈𝘴 𝘐 𝘴𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵-𝘮𝘦-𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵. 𝘏𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘺𝘦𝘵? 𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨? 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘴𝘰, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯, 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦—𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦, 𝘒𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘬𝘶𝘻𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦.
𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴, 𝘈𝘫𝘢𝘹
–
Scaramouche read the letter over and over, each word sinking deeper into him, each sentence more painful than the last. He could see Childe’s smile in his mind, even as the warmth of his words tried to thaw the coldness in his chest.
The mention of the forget-me-nots was a bittersweet comfort; he had started to care for the small seedlings, nurturing them with the hope that one day they would bloom.
The thought of those fragile flowers growing in the harsh winter seemed impossibly optimistic, just like the promises Childe had left behind.
But it was the line that haunted him the most: I will come back. Scaramouche knew better than to believe in promises that were too easily made. The world was filled with broken ones after all. He sighed, crumpling the letter to his chest, feeling the tight knot of grief and yearning swallow him whole.
──
Weeks passed, and another letter came. This time, Scaramouche tore it open with urgency, his heart skipping at the thought of hearing from Childe again. The distance between them felt unbearable, the silence almost deafening, but the letters were all he had.
𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘒𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘬𝘶𝘻𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪,
𝘐𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘢𝘳 𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘐 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦.
𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴, 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩, 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦. 𝘐 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘰𝘧 𝘶𝘴. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦, 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘺, 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘴𝘩 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘦. 𝘐 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦, 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮. 𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰, 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘒𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘬𝘶𝘻𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪, 𝘐 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘷𝘰𝘸, 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯. 𝘐 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘐 𝘣𝘦𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦. 𝘋𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦. 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘦, 𝘒𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘬𝘶𝘻𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪, 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦, 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴. 𝘙𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘙𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘧 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯. 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺, 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘯.
𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺,
𝘈𝘫𝘢𝘹
–
Scaramouche held the letter in his shaking hands, a tear falling onto the parchment as he read the familiar words. Childe’s plea for him to remember felt like a weight that threatened to crush him.
He closed his eyes, clutching the letter to his chest. His mind raced, his heart torn between the fear that Childe might not return and the hope that maybe, just maybe, the man he loved would keep his promise.
──
Another month passed. And then another. The letters kept coming, each one more strained than the last. Childe’s words grew more desperate, filled with a quiet anguish that made Scaramouche ache. He never told Childe about the flowers, not in the way he should have. Every time he thought about writing back, he found himself paralyzed by the fear of jinxing it, of acknowledging the fragile thread of hope they both clung to.
But one letter, one last letter, arrived.
Scaramouche opened it with trembling hands, his heart in his throat as he read the familiar handwriting. Childe had written with a quiet hope, his words once again filled with promises
𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘒𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘬𝘶𝘻𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪,
𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦, 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦. 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦, 𝘒𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘬𝘶𝘻𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪. 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵-𝘮𝘦-𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺? 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴. 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯, 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘥𝘰, 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴.
𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴. 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳. 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘐 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘵.
𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴,
𝘈𝘫𝘢𝘹
──
The wind howled across the battlefield, a cold and biting gust that cut through even the thickest layers of clothing. Ajax sat in the relative safety of a battered camp, the distant rumble of artillery echoing in the background.
The soldiers around him moved with practiced haste, their faces hardened, eyes filled with the same resigned determination that marked this brutal war. But there, in the quiet corner of his tent, he found a rare moment of peace.
The ink on the paper flowed with ease as he wrote, each stroke of the pen a desperate attempt to bridge the widening distance between himself and Scaramouche.
𝘔𝘺 𝘒𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘬𝘶𝘻𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪,
The words came almost effortlessly, as if his heart knew what it needed to say before his mind could catch up. He smiled to himself as he wrote, imagining Scaramouche’s face—the sharp, guarded expression that only softened in private, when they were alone, when the walls between them crumbled, and only love remained. He had a habit of calling him that—Kunikuzushi—the name that felt more like a secret shared between the two of them than anything else.
𝘈 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘐 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴, 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘩, 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺. 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘶𝘵𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
He paused, his fingers gripping the pen tighter as a wave of exhaustion washed over him. His body had grown accustomed to the endless days of marching, the nights filled with the sounds of gunfire and the smell of blood, but it had not yet numbed his heart. He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking of Scaramouche—of his sharp, indigo eyes, his sarcastic grin, and that rare, soft laugh that made Ajax’s heart ache with the memory.
𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦, 𝘒𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘬𝘶𝘻𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪. 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴, 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐 𝘥𝘰. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘳, 𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘯𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩, 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘥𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴.
His hand trembled slightly as he folded the letter, the weight of his own words settling heavily in his chest. He knew what this war could do to a man—how quickly it could steal away a life, how swiftly a bullet could end everything. He’d seen it countless times before.
But he couldn’t shake the feeling that this time might be different
𝘉𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵-𝘮𝘦-𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘥. 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦. 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭.
He tucked the letter into his pocket, his fingers brushing over the worn paper with an unconscious tenderness. His eyes drifted towards the sky, and for a brief moment, the sound of distant artillery faded away. In that fleeting silence, he could almost hear Scaramouche’s voice calling his name. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to imagine the warmth of his lover’s presence, to hold on to that fleeting sense of peace.
It was the last moment of calm he would know.
The sounds of war returned with a vengeance. Gunshots echoed through the air, and the shrill scream of a shell cutting through the atmosphere made his heart skip a beat. He could hear the orders being barked in the distance, the chaos closing in around him.
Ajax stood up, pushing the letter deeper into his pocket, his hand brushing over it one last time. He was about to leave the tent, to face whatever fate awaited him out there. But just before he stepped into the madness, he took a final breath, his thoughts of his lover lingering in his mind.
He didn’t know it then, but the letter, carefully folded and hidden in his pocket, would never reach its intended recipient..
──
The battlefield claimed him shortly thereafter, his body falling in the heat of battle. The letter, still tucked safely in his pocket, was forgotten by all but the cold winds of war.
──
The war had ended. But the letters stopped coming. Scaramouche waited, day after day, staring at the snow outside, at the forget-me-nots that had started to bloom, and he waited for the return that never came. The silence was deafening, the emptiness overwhelming. The seed of hope, the promise, had withered in the cold.
The days bleed into weeks, the weeks into months, until a year had passed. But Scaramouche never stopped waiting, never stopped loving. He cherished the letters, each one more precious than the last, and he clung to the hope that one day, he would hear from the man he had loved again. But that hope slowly began to fade, replaced by the gnawing ache of the reality that Childe was gone.
──
Fifty years had passed since the final echoes of battle had faded into the forgotten corners of history. The war was nothing but a distant memory, buried beneath layers of time, its scars long healed. But for the soldiers who had once fought, the weight of those years had never truly lifted. They were ghosts, haunted by the faces of those they had lost, the promises that had been broken, and the lives that had been torn apart
It was a young soldier, no more than twenty, who stumbled upon the letter in the dust of a long-abandoned battlefield. The landscape was a graveyard of rusted weapons and forgotten memories, the earth scarred and twisted by the violence that had once raged there. The satchel was tucked away in a crumbling trench, buried beneath the rubble of fallen walls. He had been digging, searching for anything that might be of value, when his fingers brushed against the delicate, yellowed envelope. At first, he thought it was a piece of old parchment, but as he drew it from the dirt, he saw the faintest ink—familiar, but distant—etched across the fragile surface.
The envelope was worn, its edges curling with age, the ink faded by decades of neglect. Inside, a letter, so old it seemed on the brink of crumbling to dust, was folded neatly. The soldier’s hands trembled as he carefully unfolded it, almost afraid to disturb its fragile state. But as he began to read, the words jumped out at him, carrying with them a heavy, aching nostalgia. They were the words of a man who had long since disappeared from the world, but whose love and promises had somehow survived the ravages of time.
𝘔𝘺 𝘒𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘬𝘶𝘻𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪,
The soldier’s breath hitched, a strange sense of familiarity rising in his chest. He had no way of knowing who the letter was intended for, but he could feel the weight of the words, the longing and sorrow that dripped from each line.
𝘈 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘐 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴, 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘩, 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺. 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘶𝘵𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
The soldier’s heart tightened as he read on. He could almost hear the voice of the man who had written these words, could almost feel the weight of his grief, the desperate love that had spilled from him onto the paper. This was no ordinary letter. It was a relic, a promise that had never been fulfilled, a love that had been torn apart by the unforgiving hand of war.
𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦, 𝘒𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘬𝘶𝘻𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪. 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴, 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐 𝘥𝘰. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘳, 𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘯𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩, 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘥𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴.
The young soldier’s vision blurred as the final words struck him with an intensity that made his chest ache. He had seen war. He had seen death. He knew what it meant to lose someone, to carry their memory long after they were gone. But this... this was something different. This was a love that had been promised and then lost, a love that had withstood the test of time but had never had the chance to be fulfilled.
The soldier folded the letter back carefully and, without a second thought, set off in search of the man who had been meant to receive it.
──
It was late when the knock came at Scaramouche’s door. The old man, now weary and hunched with age, had long since closed the door on any hopes he once held. His days were spent in quiet solitude, the memories of his lost love fading like the soft whispers of a forgotten song. He had tried to move on, to find solace in the years that had passed, but there were some wounds that never truly healed.
The knock was faint, almost hesitant. He didn’t answer at first, unsure if he had even heard it. But then it came again, more insistent this time, and with a sigh, Scaramouche shuffled to the door. His joints ached with every movement, but there was something in the air, something that felt... different.
When he opened the door, a young soldier stood in the dim light of the hallway, holding out an envelope to him. The soldier’s face was unfamiliar, but his eyes... they were full of something Scaramouche couldn’t place—sympathy, perhaps, or understanding.
The soldier didn’t speak; he simply handed over the envelope, his fingers brushing against Scaramouche’s trembling hands. For a moment, everything seemed to pause, as if time itself were holding its breath.
Scaramouche took the letter, his heart pounding in his chest. The paper was worn, just like the soldier had described, but the handwriting—oh, the handwriting—was unmistakable. His breath caught in his throat as he opened it, the ink still legible despite the years. He began to read, and with every word, the weight of the past pressed down on him
The words blurred as tears welled in his eyes, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care that he was an old man now, worn down by time and sorrow. For a moment, it was as if Childe had never left. For a moment, it was as if the war had never happened, as if the promises made between them had been kept.
The letter slipped from his hands as he sank to his knees, a broken sob escaping from deep within. The promise, the love, the man who had loved him—all of it had been lost to the cruel march of time.
But it didn’t matter. Because somewhere, out there, Childe was still waiting. Waiting for him.
A single tear fell onto the letter as Scaramouche whispered the words Childe had written to him so long ago:
"𝘕𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴, 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦."
And for the first time in fifty years, Scaramouche believed it.