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Irritation simmered beneath Scaramouche's skin like corrosive acid. His return from Liyue had been nothing short of a cruel joke, he had been starving for even a single moment to drown in Childe's brightness, though he would sooner die than confess such a weakness aloud. Instead he was called back the very next day after reaching Liyue, forcing him to abandon his Childe and board the frigid ship back to Snezhnaya.
He had clung to the desperate hope that returning home would grant him a moment of respite, some semblance of peace. Then he had been plunged straight into the suffocating darkness of the Abyss. The Abyssal energy clung to his bones, leaving him feeling more volatile and frayed than usual, his temper simmering.
To make matters worse, his attempt at finding sanctuary within the Zapolyarny Palace had been thwarted by an unexpected encounter with the Damselette.
It wasn't her fault, strictly speaking the palace was a labyrinth of shared halls and public spaces but it was her approach that grated against his nerves. He had no desire for pleasantries, certainly none with someone who existed on a plane of unsettling detachment. He had no intention of bridging the distance between them.
"You love him," Columbina stated, her voice carrying that eerie, melodic quality that made his skin crawl.
Scaramouche froze, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Huh?" he managed, genuine confusion cutting through his anger.
"Tartaglia," she clarified, the name falling from her lips like a prophecy.
"Don't be ridiculous," he scoffed, forcing a harsh laugh that sounded hollow even to his own ears. He turned to stride past her, but the way she remained perfectly still, watching him with those unsettling eyes, made him hesitate. "Whatever delusions you're nursing, keep them to yourself."
In a blur of motion too swift for the human eye to track, Columbina was suddenly there, blocking his path. "It wasn't a question, it was a statement." she murmured, a faint, ethereal smile playing across her lips. "The only question left is how you love him."
She counted on her fingers as though reciting an old prayer. "Do you love him as Rosalyne loved Rostam? As Peruere loves the Damslette? As the Tsaritsa loves her children? As Thrain loves freedom? As Zandik loves Feofan?"
A beat of silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, before she whispered the final offering "Or as Kuutar loves Marionette?"
Scaramouche froze, his gaze locking onto Columbina. He was caught off guard, he had expected riddles and veiled threats, not this startling almost cruel honesty bleeding from her lips. The air felt thin, charged with the weight of those legendary tragedies she had invoked.. "None of them," he snapped, though the venom in his voice lacked its usual conviction. "Because I don't love him."
"You love him as Sandrone loves Columbina," she countered smoothly, her voice devoid of judgment, carrying only observation. "Do all puppets share this same fondness for denial?"
"You've lost your mind." Scaramouche recoiled slightly, but she only leaned closer, violating his personal space with an eerie, unhurried grace.
Then, she tilted her head, and for the first time, he truly saw them her eyes. They mirrored his own, reflecting the same sharp intelligence and ancient weariness. The recognition was innate, a mirror held up to his very soul that he found loathsome.
"Then tell me, Balladeer" she pressed, her breath cool against his cheek. "Do you love as the rooster needs power? As the Doctor thirsts for knowledge? As the Regrator depends on mora? As Tartaglia loves Snezhnaya? As the Jester yearns for justice?" She paused, tilting her head as if listening to the frantic rhythm of his pulse.
Scaramouche froze, the words dying in his throat as the weight of Columbina's confession settled between them. How was he supposed to answer that? How could he articulate a feeling that felt less like affection and more like a slow, inevitable surrender?
"Hmm is that too confusing?" She asks "Well you see Rosalyne loved until there was nothing left of her but ash. Peruere loves so completely that she cannot see what she refuses to lose. The Tsaritsa loves by demanding sacrifice. Thrain loves freedom more than peace. Zandik loved Feofan, but never enough to abandon his ambitions."
"And Kuutar..." Her voice softened. "Kuutar loved the Marionette simply because she existed."
Scaramouche stands he opens his mouth to deliver a scathing retort to dismiss her philosophical musings as sentimental drivel but the venom dies in his throat. For once, the Balladeer finds himself caught between the urge to flee this uncomfortable vulnerability.
"The Rooster loves power because it elevates him above the mire. The Doctor loves knowledge because it promises to perfect his broken form. The Regrator loves mora because it grants him worth. Tartaglia clings to the Snezhnaya he imagines can exist because because it gives him purpose. The Jester loves justice because he longs for a world where it needn't bleed to obtain it"
Columbina's voice remained melodic, a sweet lullaby that sent an unnatural, bone deep chill cascading down Scaramouche's spine. "But none of them truly love without taking" she continued, tilting her head with unsettling grace. "None of them love what they claim to adore. They merely love the promise of what that thing might do for them."
Her eyes remained impossibly wide, unblinking as if she weren't merely looking at Scaramouche, but peeling back his skin to examine the machinery of his soul. "They mistake desperate need for love, and fleeting purpose for devotion." She leaned forward, her breath cold against the space between them. "So tell me, how do you love like Scaramouche?"
"My love is pure. My love will outlast their fickle bones." The words tore from Scaramouche's throat sharper than intended,but words once spilled could not be reined back.
"He is everything…" Scaramouche swallowed hard, his throat tight as he struggled to articulate the impossible. "Everything I am not."
His fingers curled into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening."Do you even know how much light he carries? Every crack and crevice of this world that his soul touches becomes warm. Even sunlight softens in his proximity. The coldest wind feel warm when he's around. The world turns warm wherever he touches. Colors appear when he enters a room. There is no color to love, and still he has dyed my soul with his"
Scaramouche's chest rose and fell sharply "And you dare compare him to those worthless, pathetic fools who wrap their vanity in the guise of devotion?"
"I don't blame you, for you haven't truly seen him," he murmured, his gaze distant as if he were already lost in a memory. "His eyes are a war I would not mind dying in, and his voice is an embrace I could surrender to forever. To me, he is the very epitome of all the beauty and glory this wretched mortal world could possibly offer."
Scaramouche's voice was quieter now. "Everyone else has always wanted something from me. They wanted my strength. My loyalty. My potential. The things I could become, the things I could offer, the things they could take."
"But him?" Scaramouche's voice cracked, the confession spilling out like blood from an old wound. "Ajax has never looked at me and seen a weapon. He has never looked at me and seen some crude tool waiting to be sharpened or some instrument waiting to be played. He has never once glanced my way and wondered what use I might be to him."
A bitter laugh escaped his throat. "My entire existence has been nothing but a vicious cycle being used until I am dull, then discarded like scrap metal once my purpose has been served. Yet he holds me as if I am precious. As if I am everything. When his eyes meet mine, he doesn't see a Fatui Harbinger or a failed creation. He sees me." He lifted his head, his gaze searing with a desperate intensity. "Do you understand how rare that is?"
Columbina offered a slow, solemn nod, her usual eerie detachment softening into something resembling genuine remorse. "I understand. I'm sorry, Scaramouche. I shouldn't have imposed those labels on you."
"You love him as Scaramouche loves Ajax"
Her voice is faint yet the words struck Scaramouche harder than any physical blow could have, knocking the very air from his lungs. He felt exposed, stripped bare beneath her unnerving scrutiny.
"How did you know?" he rasped, his voice hoarse.
Columbina tilted her head, her expression unreadable yet knowing. "Because people don't spend that much time memorizing every minute detail of someone they plan on losing."