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The electro gnosis obtained from his homeland sits heavily in his pocket.
He has finally won, can finally free himself from the invisible hold his wretched mother has had on him for centuries, can finally fulfill his destiny of being a god—there's absolutely nothing that can stand in his way now.
The Fatui have labelled him a traitor, and the Tsaritsa have probably sent the other harbingers after his tail, desperate to get back what she deems ‘stolen’ from her. How ridiculous. Even if she is an archon, she has no say in this particular matter. After all, he was made in the electro archon's image, so it also goes without saying that he should be the one to keep the symbol of her godhood.
The electro gnosis is his and his alone; the Fatui can send whoever they like, it's utterly foolish of them to think that they even stand a chance.
So he fled from Inazuma and travelled back to Mondstadt for one last stop. That is, gloating about his victory to a certain self-absorbed astrologist, of course.
He can still vividly remember the horror that dawned upon Mona Megistus’ face when she finally realized what his true goal was when he haphazardly mentioned his upcoming trip to Inazuma.
She'd already known about his past—thanks to that pesky ability of hers—and of course she'll immediately put the puzzle pieces together because, as loathe as he is to admit it, she is as incredibly perceptive and clever as she often boasts herself to be.
“Ha. You've gone quiet, Mage, have you finally exhausted yourself from the endless, nonsensical babbling you never seem to tire of?” He raises an eyebrow when she doesn't immediately respond to his insult, how uncharacteristically odd of her to remain silent instead of flinging the teacup she is currently holding at him—still, he goads her on, “And that expression on your face—” Scaramouche's lips twist into a sardonic smile, “—you look like you're in despair. I'm touched, are you really going to miss me that much?” He laughs loudly, waiting for her to finally explode and scream profanities that seem to only be reserved for him.
But instead, she raises her head to look him dead in the eyes. Her pupils are dilated, realization dawning on her face, her shaky hands setting down her cup on the table before clasping together in an attempt to ground herself.
“You,” she hesitates for a moment, “You wish to become a God?” Her voice trembles a bit, cautious; as if she was confirming something she'd long been suspicious about.
Her normally hostile attitude towards him is lost, replaced by an unfamiliar air of concern unbefitting of the Mona Megistus that he knew. Scaramouche's expression hardens, any trace of playfulness he had has vanished, replaced with a chilling air of cruelty truly befitting that of a harbinger, “So what if I do?” He challenges, a bit irked at how she once again managed to discern his intentions so very easily. Curse that hydromancy of hers.
Her fear melts into something more mellow as her expression relaxes ever so slightly. It was as if she had just accepted whatever it is that's been bothering her mind. The witch steadies herself, sucking in a sharp breath before speaking; her response comes out in a quiet whisper, one that even he strained to hear, “If you choose this path, you're going to lose everything again,” she speaks as if he is one of the unfortunate souls that sought her for her skills and have received a terrible divination; eyes downcast, voice soft with something akin to pity, pity that he absolutely doesn't need. Then—”Are you prepared to make that sacrifice, Scaramouche?”
How dare she.
His temper flares immediately, shows its ugly head as he moves before he can even think. Mona lets out a whine as her back slams against the wall of her own home. Scaramouche grits his teeth in anger, his patience snapping one-by-one like strings on a puppet as he raises Mona by the throat, “I have no need for your worthless prophecies, witch,” he seethes, a twisted smile on his lips, “Make no mistake, I would sacrifice the world if I need to.”
“Y-You—You won’t.”
The fingers wrapped around her throat tightens its hold, if only to remind her of her place. Electro crackles underneath his fingertips and he watches in satisfaction as seafoam-green eyes widen in horror, “Do not speak as if you know me, Megistus. Don't stare at me with those eyes and that worried expression like we're friends. You are merely entertainment to me, a toy that I can discard whenever I please. Never forget that.” He snarls, livid. But still, even as she thrashed and struggled against his grip—fingernails digging into synthetic skin—Mona does not back down, she never does; her pride simply wouldn’t allow her to do so. She manages a defiant smirk, her chin held high, arrogant even as he squeezes the air out of her fragile lungs; infuriatingly beautiful even as she falls apart and breaks in his hands.
“Y-You're lying to yourself a-again, Balladeer.”
“You really should learn to keep that mouth shut if you wish to live a long life.”
“Why d-don't you k-kill me, then?”
Indeed. He could just kill her. It would be so easy to just snap her pretty little neck until she stopped moving, or electrocute her until she no longer breathes—it’s so ridiculously easy for him to shut that annoying little mouth forever. Maybe then, everything would go back to how it was before, she'd be dead and he'd be the ruthless Sixth Harbinger once more; maybe then, he wouldn't feel the hesitation tugging so persistently at the cavity in his chest when he so much as glimpses a furrow of her brow, the same way it did at this very moment.
“What—What are y-you waiting for, Fatui scumbag?” Mona snipes, unafraid, her words sharp even as she struggles to form them—prideful even as her face turns pale from the lack of oxygen.
He does not answer, instead, Scaramouche loosens his grip as he angrily stomps out of the house; leaving behind a heaving Mona Megistus in his rage.
And that was the last time he'd seen her.
Until now.
“So, you’ve finally come to kill me, huh?”
Mona sits across from him, holding a teacup on her lap, reminiscent of their last meeting. The expression on her face is calm, unnervingly so; for a woman who’d just speculated her own murder, she seems far too composed about the situation. Truly, she never fails to surprise him.
Scaramouche smirks, leaning back on his chair and leisurely crossing his legs, matching her nonchalance. “Actually, that’s not why I’m here, my dear astrologist,” she visibly shivers at the pet name, whether from fear or disgust, Scaramouche does not know—still, it amuses him all the same.
“I come with a preposition.” He fishes out the glowing, purple piece from his pocket and sets it down on the table with a light tap, “Do you know what this is?” Indigo eyes meet wide seafoam-green, Mona’s shoulder tenses, the cup she’s holding freezing halfway to her mouth as she stares at the chess piece on her table.
“That’s—” she gulps, setting down her cup hastily as she reaches for the gnosis. She had only meant to pick it up for further inspection but Scaramouche seemed to think otherwise, catching her wrist in a death grip that made her wince in pain. Mona opens her mouth to protest but promptly shuts it close when she sees the crazed look in his eyes; it was odd, she concluded in her mind, the way he acted reminds her too much of a little kid who’s heavily fixated on a toy and throws a tantrum when someone tries to take it away.
“That’s mine,” Scaramouche’s voice is low, threatening, dangerous, “you don’t touch what’s mine, Megistus.” He says each word slowly, ensuring that she hears every syllable, before freeing her wrist. His eyes blazed angrily, dark irises lighting up with barely concealed rage as he settled back down in his chair.
The gnosis sits innocently between them, undisturbed.
Mona does not say anything, opting to gently massage her bruising wrist instead; she could've sworn that for a moment, she caught a glimpse of guilt in his eyes, but it vanishes quickly, consumed by the flames of his anger. She does not point it out.
Scaramouche clears his throat and offers her a smile, although it is one that doesn't quite reach his eyes, “I'm afraid we started off on the wrong foot there,” his tone is friendly and light, reminiscent of the inazuman vagrant persona he'd carefully crafted when he first approached the Traveller.
If he thinks that it can change her opinion of him, then he'd made a horrible mistake—if anything, she'd become more wary of his presence now.
“Drop the act, Fatuus. We both know that you're not fooling anyone with that innocent act of yours,” she spats, frowning, her glare about as threatening as a bunny.
How cute.
Scaramouche laughs, his mood changing at the drop of a hat, amused—always amused when it comes to her, “Let me get straight to the point, then.” He leans forward to rest his chin on the back of his hand. The action is intentionally slow and deliberate, drawn out in a clear attempt to piss her off; she'd never tell him that it worked, though.
Then, his face contorts into an expression of seriousness, one that seems impossibly earnest for a manipulative harbinger. Mona braces herself for whatever he might say; maybe he killed someone and for some ungodly reason, needs her help in disposing of the body. Or maybe he really does plan to kill her, despite him claiming that he doesn't intend to—well, that would be extremely low of him to do, but it's still certainly plausible—whatever it is, Mona mentally prepares herself, one should always expect the worst when it comes to The Balladeer, after all.
“I need you, Mona.”
Mona freezes like a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide, heart pounding in her chest—if she was still holding her teacup, she's sure that it would've shattered on the floor right now. She doesn't move for a solid twenty seconds, her brilliant mind trying—and failing—to decipher and rationalize the words she'd just heard tumble out of Scaramouche’s—Scaramouche’s, of all people—mouth, because what the hell did he just say?
I need you.
What the fuck. What the actual fuck could he possibly mean by that—
Then she hears laughter, and she immediately hurls the nearest book she could find at his head; she didn't even have time to register his first fit of giggles and yet her body was already moving on its own. It didn't hit, of course it didn't, all Scaramouche had to do was move his head and he was fine.
Mona on the other hand though, was definitely not fine at all. Oh, she was livid, absolutely fuming because how dare he say that to her and make her entertain thoughts she would never do in the first place, and with him, of all people? And now he has the audacity to laugh at her, to treat her as his personal source of—of—of entertainment, when she'd welcomed him into her home even when he'd nearly choked her to death on their last meeting.
It was humiliating, it was infuriating, and now she can't stop chucking book after book at his smug face even if they cost her a fortune to buy. She should've just slammed the door on his face the moment he showed up in front of her house. She should've—she should've never let him set foot into her home in the first place. Damn it, in the end, she only has herself to blame.
But she sees the smirk on his unblemished face, sees the litter of hardbound books around him, sees the way his irises regard her with mockery and she decides that no, he was the one at fault here.
“Get out of my house,” She exclaims loudly, breathing heavily as she points to the door. But the bane of her existence does not move, he remains seated comfortably, legs spread lazily like a king sitting on his throne.
“What, was that too straightforward for you?” He raises an eyebrow, “Did you think it was a confession, perhaps?” Another book flies towards him, and this time, Scaramouche catches it before it can hit him. “I didn't think the Great Astrologist Mona Megistus would be so flustered by a few words.” He sets the book down on the table, next to the gnosis that glowed undisturbed, and meets Mona's infuriated glare with a condescending laugh.
“That look on your face, you look like you really want me dead,” he points out, amused—even when he could clearly see her frame shaking with rage, he was amused, “don't tell me you—” His laughter grows loud again, a sardonically cruel sound, “Were you actually hurt, Megistus?”
“Fuck you.” Is the only thing she could reply through gritted teeth.
Now, Mona certainly isn’t a rude, vulgar person who snaps at every little thing and curses at any given moment—she is a well-mannered, refined scholar who remains calm and level-headed even as her clients shower her with profanities when they receive a divination they don’t particularly like; qualities befitting an astrologist of her caliber.
However, interacting with Scaramouche tended to… disorient her, for lack of a better term. He’s incredibly adept in the art of pissing her off, always knowing how and when to push her buttons and setting her off in the span of mere minutes. It’s incredibly frustrating how easy it is for him to bring forth the ugly sides of her she tries so hard to bury behind closed doors.
“Anyway,” the saccharine timbre of his voice succeeds in catching her attention, and against her better judgment, Mona allows herself to relax; reclining in her seat and crossing her arms across her chest, “What I meant to say is that I need your abilities, oh great astrologist,” Scaramouche is all smiles, a stark contrast to her scowling expression, “as you so graciously divined the last time we met, I intend to become a god.” His eyes land triumphantly on the purple gnosis briefly before returning his attention to her, his expression contorting to one of pride; a smug smirk and eyes that looked down on her as if her existence is akin to an insect that he could crush under his feet.
That had always been Scaramouche, though, even as a harbinger; unfeeling, uncaring, untouchable—always out of reach, the world beneath his feet. A god in every sense except in name; graceful and destructive at the same time. Voice booming with authority, features so devastatingly beautiful that Mona always makes it a point not to look him directly in the face, if only to mentally remind herself of his cruelty. He has the softest features Mona had ever seen carved into the face of a man, with bright red eyeliner that made him look almost feminine.
He looks ethereal, unreal, the kind of beauty that started wars. And he knows exactly how to weaponize it.
Loathe as she is to admit it, if she had not been the genius astrologist that she is, she would’ve been killed on that fateful day at Musk Reef; dead at the hands of the handsome inazuman vagrant with a friendly smile.
She shudders at the thought, terrified of how ruthless and cruel he would further grow to be once he completed his ascension. The unmatched arrogance that comes with godhood—maybe he'd finally destroy this world that he loathes so much; build another nation that bows down and submits to his every whim.
(She wonders if that new world has a space for her, if he'd allow her a place beside him.)
Mona cocks her head to the side with a scoff, “My apologies, Lord Harbinger, but I don’t particularly enjoy using my talents to aid a criminal,” her scowl deepens, as does the sarcasm in her tone, “you’d have to find help somewhere else, I’m afraid. Best of luck finding an astrologist with no morals.”
The expression on Scaramouche’s face does not change, to Mona’s dismay, the smirk remains as he mirrors her once more; reclining in his chair and crossing both arms across his chest, “As I was saying,” he continues easily, pointedly ignoring her rejection, Mona fumes angrily in her seat, “I have deemed your abilities… useful for my ascension.” He picks up the gnosis, spinning it in his hands carelessly, like a toy, “You should be grateful, mage. You’ll be my first follower—come on, don’t look at me like that—I’ll treat you well,” he regards her with glazed eyes, no doubt drunk on the power he just obtained, lost in the fantasies of godhood.
Mona bristles like a cat, disturbed by the sick glee in those dark eyes, “I’m not following anyone. It appears that you’ve gone mad in the time you were gone, Scaramouche,” she kept her voice steady, despite the fear slowly creeping into her veins; she wanted nothing more than to be away from him, “leave this house, I won’t entertain your delusions any longer.”
Now that seemed to get a rise out of him, his smile twists into a frown, and when he speaks, his tone is an octave lower, “Your arrogance truly knows no bounds,” his expression hardens, “but I’m willing to forgive this insolence if you just behave and do as I ask.”
“What makes you think that I—”
She doesn’t even see him move, and yet he is suddenly behind her, his arms snaking around her shoulders possessively, caging her in an embrace. She had discarded her cape earlier when she got home—intent on finally finishing her pile of manuscripts when he suddenly showed up outside her door—and the hands that glided across the expanse of her neck were unbearably cold, making her shiver. He rests his chin on her left shoulder, breath hot against her neck, as a hand runs down her arm to intertwine their fingers. The position must’ve been awkward, but Scaramouche does not say anything.
“If you come with me, Mona,” he starts, her name effortlessly rolling off his tongue, Mona’s breath hitches in her throat, “you can do anything you want, I’d grant every wish you have.” Mona squeals in surprise when he bites down on her skin hard, before licking the discoloration lovingly. Contradicting man was Scaramouche. “You are a brilliant mage, even now I still remember the irritation I felt when you outsmarted me on that day.” He sighs against her skin, and Mona visibly tenses, “I wanted to have you ever since, it almost drove me crazy.”
You already are. She wanted to say, no words came out.
Mona knows that he’s lying. Everything coming out of his mouth is nothing but empty sentences meant to placate her, to make her more pliable, manipulate her into bending to his whims. It was a tactic that she’s painfully familiar with, a dance she’d long memorized the steps to. She really, honestly, should know better by now.
But the lips on her neck are awfully distracting, and the low cadence of his voice did nothing to retain her focus, affectionate and promising, whispering sweet nothings so close to her ear.
He raises their intertwined hands, “We’d be so powerful together, you and I.” He brings the back of her hand to his face, gently kissing it like a true gentleman—except he’s anything but, she knows that it is all a ploy to win her over. Mona gulps nervously. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t find her voice to reject him, and Scaramouche knew it; craning her head sideways and kissing her so very sweetly to stifle any thought of defiance threatening to come out of her mouth.
She closes her eyes, melts against him easily—disturbingly familiar with the movement of his lips—completely missing the flash of triumph in his eyes and the sick joy that followed.
He'd always been like this when he didn't get his way, breaking down her defenses with affection that he knew she longed for. Praising and coddling her until she could no longer remember why she'd been cross with him in the first place. He becomes soft like a lover—all gentle touches and sweet caresses—his skillful hands roaming her skin like he owned it, pinching and teasing the spots that made her whine against his mouth. Scaramouche chuckles in response—low and heady—sending a jolt of pleasure through her like she'd been struck by lightning.
He knew exactly what he was doing, and Mona couldn't find it in herself to stop him.
The kiss continued for a while, until her lungs could no longer bear the lack of oxygen and she felt lightheaded. Her free hand pulled harshly at his hair as a signal and miraculously, Scaramouche obeyed. They break apart and she’s panting heavily, dazed; while Scaramouche grins like a fool, going back to tending to her skin, relishing in how easy it is to make her come undone.
The brilliant scholar, reduced to a needy, panting mess. Scaramouche couldn’t be happier.
“Mona, my Mona,” he kisses the junction between her shoulder and neck, worshipping, “won’t you come with me?” The plea in his tone sounds far too genuine that Mona almost, almost believes him, “Let me whisk you away from this god-awful nation.”
What.
She immediately straightens at the remark, looks at him with offense, eyes narrowing, “What do you mean by that?” the displeasure in her tone must've been evident, Scaramouche raises his head, straightens his posture to stand in front of her; uses his foot to push the small table away for more room. His ocean eyes appear darker, clearly unhappy by the interruption.
“You are wasting your talents in this ungrateful nation, Megistus,” he leans forward to plant both hands on the armrests, slots a knee in between her legs to prevent her from escaping, “Mondstadt might be the land of freedom, but clearly, it's holding you back.” He lowers his face until his mouth is right beside her ear, “But I won't. Come with me, Mona, swear that you'll stand by my side and I'll take care of you forever.”
Mona shakes her head, averts her gaze like a child that's been caught red-handed, shame rolling in her stomach once the weight of what they'd done finally settled over her. She gave in to him so easily, archons above, she gave in so easily. What would her master say if she could see her now?
“Filthy child,” Mona could almost hear her, “why do you keep on getting distracted by nonsensical things? Instead of doing something useful, here you are frolicking with someone who mocked fate itself. An enemy.” Barbeloth’s voice is cruel, and for a moment, Mona is fifteen again and she’s back in the cold, dim space that is her master’s study. “I fail to see where I went wrong, I raised you better than this,” she sees imaginary-Barbeloth massage her temples as she sighs heavily, “Rhinedottir’s boy has accomplished so much—he became Chief Alchemist shortly after he arrived in Mondstadt—and even Alice’s daughter has her own title in the nation.”
In her mind, Barbeloth’s icy blue eyes narrows, “It’s been years since you arrived, and yet you still have nothing but the moniker I bestowed upon you.” Fifteen-year-old Mona shrinks under her master’s gaze, unable to defend herself because it's the truth.
“How pathetic.”
“No, you're—you’re wrong, Mondstadt doesn't—it doesn't ‘hold me back'. I—” Mona swallows thickly, stuttering over her words like an idiot, why is she stuttering over her words like an idiot?
I like it here, was what she meant to say, but for some reason, the words just wouldn't come out.
“Albedo has made brilliant progress in his field, and the citizens of Mondstadt have already accepted alchemy.” Barbeloth’s voice echoes in her mind once more, “And how do you fare, student of mine? Do people still call your readings a sham?”
Mona bites the insides of her cheek, willing herself to stop thinking about that old hag.
It also didn’t help that Scaramouche was looking at her so intently, indigo eyes boring into her face like she’s the only thing that exists in his vision, “Out with it, Megistus.” The sudden grip of his fingers on her chin was harsh, and Mona winced as he forcefully turned her head towards him, “What could possibly be the reason that you’re willing to stay here even when its people clearly don’t give a fuck about you?”
“Don’t say that, I have friends here—”
“Oh, I see,” his tone suggested otherwise, “you have friends here.” He spits out unpleasantly, puts an emphasis on the word like the very concept is foreign to him. “Pray tell, then. Have any of these friends of yours actually seen the way those—” his brow twitches, seemingly annoyed by whatever it is he recalled—“commoners treat you?” Scaramouche snipes, scowling.
“Why would you even bring that up?” She successfully pries his hand off her face, irritated by his arrogance, “You know very well that I don't care for such trivial matters.” Mona clears her throat, struggling to pick up whatever is left of her composure, “I tell only the truth about my divinations, and that is the only thing that I care about. If they cannot accept their fate, then it is none of my business.”
Scaramouche snorts at her statement, “You claim to only tell the truth, Astrologist?”
“I believe that is what I just said, yes.”
He raises a perfect eyebrow, ocean eyes drowning her in its intensity, “Then why are you lying right now?”
“What—” Her face reddens in anger— “I’m not—How dare you accuse me of lying?” Mona crosses her hands across her chest, teeth gritted as she meets his intense gaze with her own.
“Accuse—Why would it be an accusation when it's nothing but the truth?” Scaramouche barks, his earlier soft tone twisting into the signature harshness she'd come to know him for. “Face it, Mona. This nation doesn't care for you, its people shun you for your abilities; call you a fraud just because they don't like what you tell them.”
Mona shrinks back into the chair, intimidated by the raw anger rolling off of him in waves. It isn't the first time that she'd hear him talk about this, in fact, every time she'd let him inside of her house, their conversations always, always, steers towards this topic, one way or another.
She'd always been taken aback by the rage, by the disdain he has for her beloved nation. It isn't fear, she realizes each time, she isn't scared of him, but she is surprised that he's capable of expressing anger for her, towards something that he believes has wronged her.
She'd almost be touched, if not for the fact that he's a harbinger who'd try to kill her and her friends on multiple occasions.
“I've seen you cry over their stupid comments,” he continues, “‘none of my business' my ass. Clearly, you care more than you believe,” he spits out cruelly, and Mona—
“How pathetic.”
Mona’s eyes turn glassy.
“You—I don’t—Why are you like this?” her voice comes out strained, and she turns her face away so he wouldn’t see the tears that threatened to spill. “You mock my feelings, you laugh in my face. And suddenly you act like you actually care about me? You—You talk shit about my homeland, you spout these—these drivel about my friends like you’re better than them,” she pauses, opting to dip her head down to avoid his demanding gaze.
“You speak like you’re trying to save me, l-like you know better than me about what I want,” she sniffles, the sound echoing around them as Scaramouche remains uncharacteristically silent. When Mona speaks again, her voice is quieter, “Y-You say words that make me think that you like me, you kiss—” she sucks in a shaky breath— “you kiss me like you actually mean it, you touch me like I might break. I hate it. I hate you.” She laughs dryly, tears dripping down bare thighs, “But it doesn’t matter, does it? In this story, I’m still the foolish one that allowed a person like you in my life, in my bed. You said you needed me for my talents? That’s bullshit. We both know that you only want to keep me around because you still find me ‘amusing’. I’m just a toy, aren’t I? Someone you can discard whenever you please?” Mona angrily, desperately wipes away at her cheeks, trapped between his arms as she waits for his mockery, for the jabs about her being pathetic, for the laughter aimed at her weakness.
“What are you waiting for, Fatui scumbag? Tear me down like you always do, laugh in my face and tell me how miserable I am.”
Scaramouche did neither.
If anything, he seemed to soften, backing up to give her space and kneeling—kneeling—down to glimpse her face.
“Mona.”
“Leave me alone. Please.”
He catches her hands, “Mona, look at me.”
“Leave. Please. I-I won’t come with you.”
“I know that,” he brings her hands to his lips, “I know that. I just want to see you before I go.” He kisses her hands, then he kisses them again, and again, and again. Until Mona finally caved and begrudgingly raised her gaze to meet his. Scaramouche’s eyes are warm, reminiscent of the past he’d told her about, once; when they’d been laying in bed and he was running a finger through her hair—maybe he was still high on sex, or maybe he simply wanted to tell her—Scaramouche had been vulnerable for the first and last time, narrating to her a past that she already knew about. Still, it made her happy, to have seen a side of him that he’d bared from the world for hundreds of years.
“Can I kiss you?” It's… the first time he’d ever asked her that; it was strange to even think that the cruel Sixth Harbinger could humble himself enough simply to ask for permission. The Scaramouche she knows does not ask that, the Scaramouche she knows just takes, and takes, and leaves nothing behind.
“You’re doing it again,” Mona complains, but she made no move to push him away, even as he inched closer, “you’re playing with me again.” Her tone isn’t angry, but there is hurt there, an exhausted kind of hurt that left her feeling empty.
Scaramouche responds by cupping her cheek and wiping away a stray tear, soft and insistent. His lips ghosting over hers but he doesn’t quite close the gap; he waits, and waits, and waits. And it is when Mona Megistus closes her eyes that their lips meet. Not fierce or hungry or greedy like the way he did before they fell into bed with each other, not like the one earlier where he’d been gentle yet fake—coaxing her to give in to his request. No. This one felt sweet, sincere, like he isn’t Scaramouche at all, but someone who existed long ago, before all the heartbreak, before all the betrayals. A kind soul that wept because of his mother, because she, a god, could not stand to see her creation become so human.
“Kunikuzushi,” he’d suddenly blurted out that night, “that’s what I named myself.” The look on his face is almost wistful, except for the rage burning in his eyes, “That’s when I vowed to sever everything that connected me to humanity.”
The kiss was over before she could completely process it. Scaramouche is staring, like he’s burning the image of her face into every neuron in his brain, like this is the last time he’ll ever see her. She doesn’t see a trace of the man who’d wrapped his fingers around her throat, the man who’d threatened and almost killed her—in this very moment, he is not the Sixth Harbinger, or the broken puppet that desperately seeks godhood to fill the cavity in his chest.
He’s just the scumbag that Mona had somehow grown fond of, in a weird, twisted way.
No. Wait. Stop.
Don’t look at me with those eyes.
“For what it's worth, I do actually mean it.”
Mona sucks in a sharp breath, her head snapping upwards in bewilderment, “What—”
“Goodbye, Megistus.”
And then the warmth against her cheek is gone.
“Scara?”
The soft thud of her door closing is the only answer she receives. Her table is empty.
The Sixth Harbinger has made his choice.