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Hours before Scaramouche defected from the Fatui Harbingers, he visited someone he thought he’d never want to purposely seek out.
Yet he still found himself walking, almost robotically, to one of the Marionette’s tea parties. It was so, so ridiculous. He couldn't believe he was doing this. What did he gain from degrading himself one last time for no decent reason? To any outsider, he only gave off the impression of being an absolute idiot. Joining one of those tea parties that he’s always insulted and rolled his eyes at; like it’d be a good idea.
It was in the warm secluded corner of their city that Sandrone usually makes herself at home, finding an extravagant gathering hall to lay the floors with ornate chairs and tables, decorating every surface with deep, rich colours.
Scaramouche would scoff at how idealistic and prim she was attempting to be, and she would snap right back at him. In some sick way, the bunch of them, not only the Marionette, were trying to be some kind of messed up family. It’s pathetic, since they’d never succeed anyway. He knows, one day, that they’ll all turn into shattered glass on cold grey floors.
Today, he was entertaining their idea. But he wasn’t here to meet Sandrone. He was here for someone else.
Columbina.
The goddess with the closed eyes and shimmering clothes, her lips always curved in a faint smile. Maybe it was how serene she looked, how perfect, that bothered him. Scaramouche hated looking at her. Maybe it was how every time he looked, he saw some form of himself looking back.
Even now, before he’s even in full view of the disgustingly pretty banquet table and figures sitting around it, he’s dreading to see.
He walked, not bothering to hide his footsteps. Let them hear. Let them wonder, judge, hate. He doesn’t care, anyway.
Scaramouche walked through the arch that separated the hallway from the other Harbingers’ protected, homey space. It was then that he let his eyes wander, sliding from each seated Harbinger to the next.
Tartaglia was the one closest to him, surprisingly. Scaramouche didn’t associate himself enough with the rabid animal to know that he too, was apart of this delusional family. Upon seeing the Balladeer’s entrance, Tartaglia frowned ever so slightly.
Seated next to him was another surprising face, or lack of face, maybe he should say. It was Capitano, ever so silent, his presence already quite sufficient to make Scaramouche more bothered than he already was.
Next were the regular faces that he expected to see.
Arlecchino, the Knave. She sat tall and intimidating, almost threatening, and Scaramouche didn’t meet her eyes. He’s never had pleasant run-ins with the other Harbinger, and he would rather not test his luck.
On the other hand, the Marionette, Sandrone, was staring at him blankly. Then she cocked her head expectantly, clearly waiting for him to say or do something disruptive. Daring him to do so.
Scaramouche could really care less. He was quiet for once, gaze moving onto the figure that sat next to Sandrone. It was who he was here to see, the Damselette.
Columbina never opened her eyes, but the oppressive feel of something on him was enough. He quickly glanced away.
“Balladeer.” It was Sandrone who finally spoke, the confident albeit annoyed host of the party. “Welcome, is there something you need?”
Scaramouche carelessly strode past Tartaglia’s chair, making his way over to the other end of the long table. He stopped between Arlecchino and Sandrone, swinging himself easily onto the table, sitting precariously on the edge. The action caused Arlecchino’s gaze to settle on his back heavily, but he ignored that.
“Do I need a reason to be here? Can’t I join just for the fun of it?”
The Marionette rolled her eyes. “Not when it’s you.”
Scaramouche was just about to respond snappishly when a soft, faintly amused voice spoke before he could.
“Oh, it’s not troubling at all, Sandrone. I’d love for someone new to join us.” Columbina leaned close to Sandrone, who immediately froze, quickly reconsidering her actions.
“I agree,” Tartaglia decided to speak up, much to Scaramouche’s displeasure. “I hardly see you around anyway. Have you been avoiding me?”
Scaramouche crossed his legs, eyes studying a cup of still tea on the table beside him instead of even sparing a glance at Tartaglia. “Hm. Is it that obvious?”
Blinking, Tartaglia looked baffled that Scaramouche had admitted it outright. Still, maybe he was wise enough to not make bad decisions so easily, since he didn’t answer.
“Enough playing around.” A cool voice spoke from behind the Balladeer, who tensed. “Scaramouche. State your purpose for being here.”
Scaramouche slowly turned. Even though his shoulders were drawn close to himself, his expression was unaffected, a lazy smirk on his face.
“I don’t want anything, if that’s what you’re asking. Although I suppose I do want to enjoy a nice cup of tea. Is there sugar in this?” He picked up the cup, lifting it to eye level, studying the surface of the hazel liquid. Through the round handle, he could see Arlecchino’s dark eyes fixed on his hands. They flickered up to his face the moment she noticed his gaze on him, which was quite unsettling. Though he didn’t dare break eye contact.
“No.” Arlecchino said dryly. “But don’t drink it. It’s mine.”
Scaramouche was contemplating drinking from the cup, consequences be damned, when Columbina’s light voice interjected.
“I can pour another cup for you, Scaramouche.” She said with sweetness, unbothered by the clear tension in the air, or perhaps she was simply oblivious. Either way, Scaramouche didn’t like that one bit. He didn’t try to hide the distaste practically oozing from him. Even though he knew Columbina wasn’t as unaware as she seemed, she never seemed phased. There’s simply no way she can be like this. Scaramouche finds that unacceptable.
As he fumed silently, Columbina went ahead and poured a second cup of tea for him. She hummed as she did, some pretty, meaningless melody. After finishing preparing the cup, she leaned forward across the table, offering it to Scaramouche.
He stared at the cup for a solid three seconds before letting out a soft scoff. He took the cup without care. Despite the harsh appearance of his movements and his lack of thanks, he didn’t spill a single drop.
“I’ve always wondered, Scaramouche. Why do you dislike sweets?” Columbina asked curiously, tilting her head. It seemed like she was watching him, but he wasn’t sure how that would work, with closed eyes that never opened.
The fact that Columbina was making conversation with him seemed to lighten the atmosphere, even if slightly. Arlecchino didn’t comment on this, and Sandrone just sniffed with mild disdain. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tartaglia prod at Capitano, saying something too quiet to be heard.
Scaramouche glanced right to the deity waiting expectantly for an answer. He didn’t see the harm in responding, so he went ahead and spoke. “… Sweetness is useless. You’re only trying to dress up the true flavour of life in sugar to make it more palatable. I’d rather just have something bitter. Less of deceiving yourself.”
He heard Tartaglia’s small huff. Wisely, he did not let himself react to it.
“Oh… How interesting. I’ve never thought of it that way.” Columbina murmured, seemingly considering what he’s just said. “In that case, is the tea to your liking?”
Scaramouche had no idea as to why she was acting like such. Centuries could pass again and the Damselette would still be the one person he could never glean more than a whisper from. But he wouldn’t be near her, or any of the Harbingers for that matter, in a while. Hopefully never, after this.
He took a small sip from the small cup. It was hot and bitter, exactly how he liked it.
“It’s satisfactory.” He said haughtily.
“Scaramouche.” Now that was a voice on their last straw. Though it was the Knave, and she would never be seen losing her temper, so it was much more restrained than he would’ve enjoyed seeing.
“You’re incredibly lucky that you’re still here. If you’d rather act like this, then I’d politely ask you to leave.” She snapped.
Scaramouche turned his head, glancing at Arlecchino. Her expression remained cold and impassive, but a colder fire burned in her eyes.
“Last I checked, you weren’t in charge around here.” He smiled as sickeningly as he could. Sure, he was testing his luck. But even if he crawled out of here with broken limbs and bloodstained flesh, the Doctor would patch him up. Then he’d leave. Leave everything behind once more, to be replaced by another life. The thought of that made him laugh, mostly at himself. “At least ask our dear host first.”
Said host lifted her head at the mention of herself. Sandrone surveyed the situation with Columbina beside her, who looked almost worried.
“You are all causing a ruckus. Just be a little mature.” She finally said harshly. “I don’t care who’s here and who’s not. It shouldn’t be hard to act civilized. Even Tartaglia is acting up less than you two right now.”
Columbina flicked the side of Sandrone’s face with one finger, causing the other to scowl, pulling away. The former looked amused at her reaction.
“Ah.” Meanwhile, Arlecchino’s gaze slid from Scaramouche to Sandrone. “My apologies. I was acting out of line. Forgive me.”
Scaramouche found it hilarious how she didn’t bother with an apology for him, even if only to diffuse the situation. No matter, he knows he doesn’t deserve one.
“Hm,” was Sandrone’s only response, but no one in the room cared for that.
Scaramouche’s violet eyes were narrowed at the Marionette, and she glared back at him. He kept silent, and then lifted his tea to his lips, sipping on it with nothing better to do.
“Scaramouche, may I ask one thing of you?” Arlecchino asked, sickly sweet, after a terse moment.
“I suppose.” He replied, not looking up from his tea.
“Get off the table.”
Scaramouche froze. Then he abandoned the cup and pushed himself off the table, a slight smile on his lips once more. This time, he couldn’t even tell if his own amusement was fake or not. It was just so ridiculous.
“Was I bothering you?” He asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.
“Indeed.” Arlecchino said coolly.
“That’s my mistake. I’ll try not to do it again.” He answered breezily, making sure she heard the emphasis he put on “try.”
Unamused, the Knave’s face pulled into a small frown. Despite not saying anything in response, she looked like she certainly looked like she wanted to. And really, Scaramouche doesn’t blame her.
Since she didn’t want to keep up the conversation with him, he didn’t push it. Instead, he glanced around for a chair, and surprisingly, there was one in the spot next to Columbina, across the table. He cast one last look behind his shoulder, which Arlecchino noticed, lifting her head, causing him to quickly turn again. Acting unruffled, he strolled over to the empty seat and sat himself down.
Columbina gave him another curious look that he promptly ignored. He crossed his legs, surveying the decorated surface of the ornate table like it was actually interesting.
“Alright. Let’s pretend nothing happened.” Sandrone sighed in loud exasperation. “What were we talking about before he ruined it? Oh, never mind. Just imagine the Balladeer isn’t here.”
Scaramouche didn’t react, but inside, he despised her words. Everyone and their mothers know that the Marionette was no pretty thing. It was common sense to avoid her for her short temper and nasty attitude. So in that case, it should also be common sense to never take her words to heart. It was easy for Scaramouche, since he has no heart, but whatever he does have, he feels enough to hate.
She acted so patronizing, even though she ranked lower and was of much less strength. Truly, who did she think she was?
However, no one at the table noticed his annoyance. At least, he thought it was no one, until he felt a light touch on his shoulder.
Scaramouche almost jumped out of his seat before realizing it was Columbina, who was hovering awfully close to him. She really was creepily weird. Absolutely no sense of personal space.
“You are mad? Would you like to talk?” She prodded.
“I’m not.” He answered stiffly, leaning away.
“Oh.” The Damselette dipped her head, looking like she expected a very different answer. “Then… What about talking?”
“Why are you so adamant?” He retorted instead of answering. Because yes, he did want to talk with her. That’s what he came here for, after all. But when she was the one asking and not him, he felt belittled.
Columbina faced him silently for many long moments. At one point, he began to feel uncomfortable, wondering if his words had somehow offended the usually withdrawn Damselette.
“I don’t know anything about you.” She finally said. “Although I would like to.”
Scaramouche paused. That was eerily similar to what he had thought about Columbina, minus the “wanting to know you” part.
“... There’s nothing to know. Or go ask the Doctor. I’m sure he’d tell you an awful lot.”
“And you? What can you tell me?”
“I can tell you to shut your mouth.”
Even though there was venom in Scaramouche’s voice, Columbina didn’t seem phased in the slightest. In fact, it looked like she was trying not to smile.
“You’re here for something, no? Arlecchino is not incorrect.” She murmured. “What is it? You have hardly returned for a day and you exude the aura of someone already wanting to leave. It’s curious, especially since you still purposely came here.”
Scaramouche frowned at her. How had she come to these conclusions? He wasn’t aware she had somehow been observing him this closely.
“I… No.” He wasn’t sure how to respond. “I suppose… I suppose you’re right in some aspects. I do wish to leave.”
Columbina tilted her head. “Oh. For what reason?”
Scaramouche looked away, fists clenching involuntarily. “The Fatui, us Harbingers… It’s all so fake. It’s like… We’re just playing along. I’m sick of it. I’ve got what I wanted already.”
“You are truly… leaving?”
Columbina sounded taken off guard. Clearly, she had misunderstood the situation.
The fact made him scoff, even if he knew he shouldn’t be telling her this. Just keep it to himself; why is he even bothering? “What is there to stay for?”
“I’d like you to stay. Many others do, I’m sure.” Columbina quickly assured, even though that couldn’t be further from the truth. No one wants him around. No one.
“Doubtful.”
“What about the Doctor? Does Dottore not care for you?”
At the mention of his name, Scaramouche flinched. The Doctor was a peculiar case, one that he would rather not think about.
“He is the furthest thing from caring.” He spit out. That, he can verify. “Don’t you know better? I’ve seen you in his laboratories before, wandering. I know he does the same thing to you.”
He must’ve spoken too loud, because Sandrone gave him a nasty glare. In response, he narrowed his eyes at her.
Columbina looked contemplative when his attention returned to her. “I… I might not know you that well, so I cannot say this with confidence, but you… suffered.” She spoke with quiet, reserved confidence. With subdued empathy.
He despised it.
“I did not–” He didn’t get to finish his agitated sentence before Columbina interrupted him.
“Shh.” She was suddenly uncomfortably close, one finger raised to his lips, promptly shushing him as she clearly intended. “It’s unwise to lie. You’re blocking yourself out from the world, why?”
Scaramouche wanted to snap at her. Tell her off for being so accidentally demanding. But for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to. Instead, he gritted his teeth and evaded looking at her face.
“You’re making this afternoon tea session quite unenjoyable, Damselette.”
Columbina let out a small hum in response. “If you say so… Balladeer.”
He almost side-eyed her for the snark, but he refused to let it seem like she was getting to him. It would be pathetic if he was, because she wasn’t even trying to get on his nerves.
Time passed and the sun set, making the sky fade from baby blue into a creamy orange. The warm, dimming light streamed in through the window behind his seat. He had stayed relatively quiet after his interaction with Columbina. Idle conversation had come and passed around him, all while he acted uninterested and nibbled absentmindedly on some subpar dark chocolate cookies. There was a tinge of sweetness, and that was enough to make him drop it after two small bites.
“Night is falling. I’m afraid I’ll have to make my leave now.” Arlecchino was the one to stand up first, her long tailcoat swishing behind her as she rose. “Have a nice night, all of you.”
Her eyes met Scaramouche’s for a brief second. He wasn’t sure what that unreadable gaze meant, but he lowered his head ever so slightly. She seemed to deem that satisfactory, turning away and exiting without a further word.
The others murmured their farewells, slowly getting up, all except Sandrone, who remained silent and petty despite being the one to invite everyone.
Tartaglia grumbled and groaned as he trailed after Capitano like a dog, most definitely off to work the night away. The thought made Scaramouche hide a smile.
He was the last to get up, since Columbina and Sandrone were still seated. The two were in quiet conversation, and even as he walked all the way to the exit, he could hear Sandrone’s huffs and scoffs.
The sky was darkening steadily, a sign of the time that was quickly slipping through his fingers. By tomorrow morning, he would cut off contact with the Fatui, and become a God.
He doesn’t know why he’s even wasting time. Why did he come here? Columbina had almost immediately proved herself useless, and the other Harbingers were people he’d rather not associate himself with. He thought meeting someone divine would help him. But Columbina had no answers to offer him, only some sick attempt at… befriending him?
He scoffed at himself as he passed through the archway that led to the space of their gathering. Each stride of his legs was fast and efficient; he wanted nothing more than to get out of here, but that was quickly ruined by a hand grabbing his wrist.
He was abruptly yanked around, forced to face, once more, Columbina.
The Damselette didn’t let go of his wrist. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve said she looked determined.
But what was determination but another word for a fruitless endeavor?
“What is it now?” He asked, tone sharp.
Columbina’s grip tightened, and then she suddenly let go, flinching back. If her eyes ever actually opened, he would’ve imagined them to be wide with surprise.
“What?” He repeated, dropping his hand back against his side, eyes fixed on Columbina.
“I– Your joints. They feel… Off. Like–”
“A doll's?" He finished for her. There was sudden coldness in his expression. “Hm. Like I didn’t know.”
“... Why?”
His instincts told him to turn around and ignore the Damselette, but his mouth didn’t listen. For some reason, he decided to speak. Maybe it was the part of him that still believed Columbina could be viable to him in some way. Maybe she would understand. Maybe for the first time, he would be understood.
“I’m not human.” Scaramouche answered quietly, under the emerging moonlight that cascaded down his shoulders. The moonlight was her domain, but tonight, he felt like the one under its gaze. “I suppose you can say I’m a doll. Or a puppet.”
“Like Sandrone?” She leaned closer, attempting to look at his back, as if she'd find a key embedded there like the Marionette that she’s somehow missed for so long.
“No.” He snapped, swatting her face away. “Stop getting so close. I’m not some researcher’s halfassed creation.”
“Oh.” Columbina looked confused, although she finally backed away a bit more. “... Can I touch your arm?”
Scaramouche shouldn’t have expected her to be able to stay away. He sighed, averting his eyes. He didn’t want to say yes. He shouldn’t.
“Fine.”
Columbina stepped close again. She took his hand into hers first, turning his palm and feeling his fingers in her own smooth, slim ones. He quickly realized that she was trying to find more visible joints, but that was a losing game. He was made to be as perfect as a god. It was only on the inside that he was different, some mix between mechanical and biological, Dottore would tell him. The false bones beneath his flesh were only felt where his skin thinnest, like his ankles, his wrists.
Then Columbina pinched Scaramouche’s forearm for seemingly no reason, and he yelped.
“What was that for?” He tried to pull away with indignation, but Columbina was stubborn enough to not let go.
“You feel pain? But… Everyone is always talking about how much you can withstand. I thought they meant you can’t feel anything.”
“No. It’s just that I can’t break from it.” He replied reluctantly, ceasing his struggles for Columbina to curiously inspect more of his body. “What are you trying to find?”
“Some proof of what you are.” She murmured. “A puppet with power… Hm.”
“Are you trying to guess?” He asked, incredulity colouring his voice. “You know you could ask?”
“You won’t answer.” Columbina let go of his arm and reached out for his face. They were about the same height, so that was no trouble for her. He tensed when he felt cool hands on his cheeks and then jaw, dropping lower under fingertips brushed against his throat.
He was used to threats and hurt, but this weirdly careful touch was so unfamiliar. The Doctor’s hands were always gloved and rough, whether it was to twist an arm back into place or to pull on the strings of his fake, beating heart.
But Columbina was no Dottore. She was gentle as she moved Scaramouche’s hair out of the way to feel the back of his neck. She paused, and then moved to look at his back.
He stayed completely still, knowing exactly what she was seeing. Well, maybe not seeing. He really doesn’t know how Columbina is doing this.
“The Electro symbol?” She tilted her head, pulling away from Scaramouche at last.
“I thought you were guessing, not asking.” He responded flatly.
“Hm.” Columbina was smiling. How she could ever find this amusing, he had no idea. “Then I’ll guess. Are you a creation of the Electro Archon?”
Scaramouche smiled bitterly back at her. “Correct.”
Upon hearing this, Columbina’s smile slowly faded, realizing the atmosphere was tense. She didn’t ask anything this time, but she was likely already taking more guesses inside her head.
“You’re leaving soon, aren’t you?” Whatever Scaramouche was expecting her to say, it certainly wasn’t that.
“Yes.” No point in lying. He’s said way too much.
“... Then you should go. I don’t want to waste your time.”
He hated how that had been in his mind as well. Wasting time, not wanting to waste time, it was so repetitive, his thoughts and hers.
“No more questions? That easily?” He remarked, if only to dally for a little more.
“Yes. That easily.” She confirmed, nodding. “Even though you try to seem differently, I believe you are not a terrible being. Go do whatever you like. I will not stop you.”
Not a terrible being? He’d beg to differ. But he doesn’t speak, because really, at this point, there’s nothing to say.
He looks Columbina up and down. She was ethereal, someone who did not belong with the Fatui, of all people. He wonders what he looks like to her. Was he also ethereal? Someone divine, like he wants to be? Although he doesn’t need another’s perspective to know that he doesn’t belong. Not here, not anywhere.
Only people who are lost find the Fatui. In some messed up way, they were both lost. And while Scaramouche might not know Columbina’s full story, he feels like he might, just might, hold a sliver of empathy for her.
He let out a quiet exhale. “How nice of you. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Columbina smiled again, lighthearted and free. That was when she began to turn, a farewell already on her lips.
“Wait- Just one last thing, before I go.” Scaramouche quickly interrupted, as stupid as it was. “How do you even see?”