Fall

Suddenly everything came crashing down onto his shoulders, an absurd mimicry of real life, the giant suit of armor hitting the platform in front of him with an earsplitting volume. Lingering pain. A flame uncomfortably burning his inside. The pure anger, resentment and the Tataragami flowing into him through an opening in his back ebbed and ceased its movement into his small, hollow body for the first time in who knows how long.

The lack of fuel left him empty, where there was once so much rage, now a chasm of darkness.

It was a horrible mimicry when he was plunged into the same darkness, the titanic body finally losing the connection to his consciousness as it was torn limb from limb by the golden star darting around. 

He would've felt glad, not having to experience the pain of severed nerve ways, had he not felt so utterly defeated and empty. This was really the end now. Good riddance.

With an impossibly loud metal noise, the titan's head crashed onto the stone platform, the rest of the body now lost to the pit underneath, laying there helpless.

Scaramouche curled in on himself in the darkness, not caring about his ego, his image and his pride anymore. What was there left for him? Maybe he, the Traveler, would be merciful. Maybe he would end this centuries-long misery.

A beam of light broke through the thick, cold blanket of darkness around him.

The metal tearing and bending was earsplitting as the Traveler made his way through what was once the Titan's face.

Scaramouche could have chuckled, remembering the Doctor's boasting. "The thickest, sturdiest metal between Celestia and the Abyss! No one can pierce this!" 

He could practically hear his breathy, nasal laugh. The lunatic Doctor was wrong. It could not hold back the Traveler.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the gold-blonde head emerge in the carved opening, face twisted in a complicated expression. "Balladeer", his floating fairy companion said, seemingly materializing out of nowhere, her voice trembling but she was trying to be brave. The Balladeer closed his eyes. He no longer cared for what would happen, what the Traveler had to say.

He failed. He failed again, not even revenge could he take successfully. He couldn't even stick it to the man, he heard Childe's voice in his head.

"Do what you must", he bit out. His voice was raspy, sore from screaming in his earlier mania, cold and empty.

His limbs felt stiff. The fairy gave off a confused noise.

It really was all in vain. Of course, he couldn't manage to take what was supposed to be his. He was weak . No one needed a worthless abomination .

At least there weren't any pesky emotions. He was too tired.

Hesitant footsteps approached him and came to a halt right before him. "Ba-", the Traveler cleared his throat, "Sc- Scaramouche?"

His voice was cautious, the question confused.

"Just do it, get it over with. I'm too tired."

The Traveler's feet shuffled a bit, unsure what to do.

"I- We didn't think you'd”, he shuffled in his place, “Y’know… Give up so easily.”

Somehow that stung him a bit.

Give up…easily.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he forced out through his teeth.

“Well… We thought, that… You’d fight back, y’know with hands, feet, and teeth, to the very end. But you’re just… lying there, defeated. It feels weird.” the fairy answered for the Traveler who just nodded in agreement.

“Whatever, just do it. It’s what you wanted, is it not?”

The Traveler raised his sword hesitantly, but stopped with the point of the blade hovering over Scaramouche’s vulnerable side. The floating child hid her face behind his shoulder, not wanting to watch, the Balladeer closing his eyes, both bracing for the killing blow.

The blade was trembling slightly, with its wielder being so unsure.

“Traveler?” the fairy asked in confusion when nothing happened for quite some time.

“I-”, he stuttered, “It doesn’t feel right.”

Scaramouche opened his eyes, with the same amount of confusion that the fairy expressed with the noise she made.

“I know… That he did horrible things… I know that… T-Teppei is dead because of him. I know that he massacred clans without mercy and I know that I cannot and will not forgive him. But it does not feel right to strike him dead, in the pitiful state he is in.”

Maybe it was some remaining Tatarigami. Maybe it was just him.

But at that moment he sat up straight from his fetal position. “What do you mean you can’t strike me dead? It is what I deserve and you know it. There is nothing I have not done or would not have done to make everyone suffer. There is no taboo I have not crossed for entertainment, for revenge . How can you say that it’s not right?”, he barked. 

The Traveler averted his eyes and lowered his blade.

“You were once good. You loved once, you laughed once. You had people you loved and who you wanted to protect. I saw them, your memories.”

Scaramouche jumped at that, his blood running cold.

“It does not feel right to cut your story short, right here.”

“What is there left to tell?”, the puppet choked out, “What is there left for me, should I not die right here?”

The otherworldly Traveler moved to sheath his sword, having made up his mind, but Scaramouche scrambled for the blade, pointing the tip right at his own throat.

“I failed everything I ever tried! My own mother abandoned me! He, Katsuragi, even loathed me! Nothing I do is right! I can’t protect anything or anyone!”, there they were, those treacherous tears. The reason this all went down in the first place. 

“Everything I touch decays, it dies. There is no place for me in this world. Whenever I tried to be good, I ruined it.”, a sob choked him, the fine blade digging into his hand where he gripped it, his mechanical blood dripping onto the floor of the titanic head, “Even when I gave up, even when I stopped trying to be good. Even then, there was nothing I did right! I was never good at anything, everyone loathed me, I was nothing but a tool and…”

He let the blade fall, his arm losing all strength. “Not even that I could do. I couldn’t even be a good tool for Dottore… For the Tsaritsa. There is no place for me.”

His sobs violently ripped at him, his mechanical lungs aching as he fought for breaths. “What is there left for me, if not death? What do I do now? What can I do now? Why can you not grant me and everyone I ever hurt this?”

A loud clang echoed through the head when the Traveler let his sword slip from his grip, falling to his knees in front of the sobbing puppet.

“T-Traveler?”, the fairy screeched.

Strong gloved hands gripped Scaramouche’s shoulders, holding him up. “There is no forgiveness for your crimes, there never will be. You hurt a lot of people… B-But-”, he scrambled for the right words, “You were hurt too, a lot and for so long… People loved you and you betrayed their memory. So it is up to you to… to atone for your sins. And to make sure you and no one else can ever repeat them. Show everyone that you can be good again. And stay that way this time.”

Scaramouche lifted his head, staring into his eyes, as well as he could through the tears.

“B-But where do I go now? What should I do?”

The Traveler looked over his shoulder, anxious. The puppet could practically see him think. 

“I-I need you to give me the Electro Gnosis first. Then I really need to get back to Nahida. But… I can’t leave you here.”, he stood, leaving Scaramouche to slump into himself, crying softly, and started pacing. The fairy was uncharacteristically quiet and looked at the pacing gold figure. 

“I’ve got it”, he said after a short while. “First, I will fake your death by burning some of this scrap equipment. Second…”, he turned towards the fairy, “Paimon, go ahead to Nahida, tell her I sent you away because I didn’t want you to see. Third,”

The Traveler kneeled once again in front of the lost puppet, he pulled something out of his pocket, a wooden plaque, almost like the ones used for wishing in Inazuma. The fairy, Paimon, gasped in shock, darting towards the Traveler “Traveler! You can’t be serious! You can’t just-”

“Take this, close your eyes, and push some energy into it. When you open your eyes again, if you find no one outside, knock on the front door. Someone-” he breathed in deeply, “Someone will be there. Tell them you need help, I sent you. Do not tell them who you are under any circumstances.”

“Traveler you can’t! This is crazy! What if he’s there? What if Ka-”, Paimon screeched again, her eyes as big as plates.

“I- I know…”, he interrupted her, “But this is our best shot.”

He then pushed her out of the head, towards the platforms. She floated outside, somewhat hesitantly.

“Leave some of your accessories. It should be enough identifying material.”, the Traveler murmured, starting to remove some of the gold ornaments on Scaramouche’s clothing.

“Why are you helping me?” Scaramouche bit out.

“I guess… I don’t know. Maybe it’s hope.”

“It’s a foolish hope.”

“Maybe, but what else does anyone ultimately have left, if not hope?”

The puppet, once known as the sixth Fatui Harbinger, the Balladeer, closed his eyes and pushed whatever elemental energy, provided by the gnosis, remained in his artificial body into the wooden plaque as flames finally engulfed the head’s inside.

He could’ve easily just stayed there sitting, burning his wretched body. Maybe he should’ve. Why did he not?

Maybe it was hope.

Α⥎Ω

The next time he opens his eyes, it’s no longer dark and there is a soft breeze brushing against his face.

He is outside, sitting on a tastefully done stone path in a front yard. Around him, there are beautiful bushes and glowing flora from his homeland of Inazuma. For a moment he thinks he was sent back to that wretched place he no longer wished to call his home, not for centuries. Maybe it was the Kamisato estate, but the lack of servants milling around gave away that this was not the case.

Additionally, he had never seen this place in Inazuma. It was too peaceful, it lacked the distinct feel of the ever-present Electro, what Inazumans liked to regard as her gaze.

It made him feel sick whenever he felt it.

Yet there was no such thing here. This could not be Inazuma.

He just sat there for some time, trying to wrap his head around it, his mind muddled with so much emotion and stress, listening to the breeze rustling through the leaves of the bushes around him.

He was not dead. He failed the plan, he failed to become a god. He failed.

But the Traveler did not kill him. And now he was here.

Scaramouche rubbed his face, now stinging from his salty tears and stinging more in his cut hand where he had gripped the Travelers blade. Slowly he got to his feet, his knees aching, tired and creaking.

“If you find no one outside, knock on the front door.”

The puppet dragged himself along the path to what he assumed would be the backyard or some private sitting area. He found exactly that, a small one, under a red maple tree. It was simple, just a similarly done stone plateau with a wooden bench and an easel that still had a canvas sitting on it. But not a soul.

With a pained sigh, he shuffled back towards the big front door of the Inazuma-styled mansion. The fight was starting to show its toll on his body. He was exhausted, now starting to feel the ache of the abruptly severed nerve connections. He rapped his knuckles against the expensive wood and leaned against the wall, almost unable to hold himself up any longer.

He hoped the Traveler was right and someone would be here.

But maybe it would be better if no one was.

It was a very long 4 minutes before anything happened.

Suddenly, there was shuffling behind the massive door and it opened a crack.

“Goodness, I thought I was hallucinating when I heard the knock. But it was really there…” a soft male voice said from behind the wood.

“I-” Scaramouche cleared his throat, “the Traveler sent me, he said someone would help me here.”

The door opened further and all of his life fluid, his puppet blood, that was left in his body rushed to his feet making him rigid. The red streak in the boy’s hair… Did he somehow travel back in time? Could the Traveler do that? Why was Katsu-

“Oh!” the boy rushed to his side, “let’s get you inside, I’m sure Traveler would wa-”

When he put an arm around him to stabilize him, the puppet fainted.

Winter

It has been far too long since he had woken up in warmth and softness. There was soft sunshine on his face when he opened his eyes. He squinted against the light, trying to make out his surroundings.

It was a bizarre sight, this Inazuma-styled room with the sliding doors and tatami floors, with the mixed and matched furnishing. Liyuean wardrobes, a desk right out of a Mondstadt mansion. The soft, hardwood bed with the thick duvet and pillows he laid on. It smelled fresh with the window slightly opened.

He sat up slowly, feeling his bandaged hand and torso, where the gnosis once sat, deep in his chest cavity.

A cup of water sat on the bedside table. How considerate of his host , he thought, drinking a couple of sips.

He tested his joints under the duvet, hearing them crack but not feeling them. He figured it was better than pain. He stared blankly at the ceiling.

What was the reason he came here? There was no reason he should be here.

A soft knock alerted him, ripping him from his trance before he entered the room. 

‘Katsuragi’.

Logically, Scaramouche knew that it wasn’t Katsuragi. The boy was too young, too soft. Not to mention the resemblance was that of someone distantly related. The only thing the same was the scarlet streak of hair.

Maybe he had died after all, and this was his personal hell. With Katsuragi who wasn’t really Katsuragi in “not-quite-Inazuma”.

How cruel.

“I heard you wake.” the boy said. His voice was reminiscent of the soft gale he had felt in the yard, when he sat on the stone path, “So I thought I’d bring you some food. It’s nothing special- just some Miso soup and rice. I’m not the greatest cook.”

‘Katsuragi’ smiled softly, setting down a tray next to the still half-empty cup of water.

“You were pretty beat up, I bandaged your injuries, as well as I could though…”, his voice trailed off.

He had seen his nature by now.

‘Katsuragi’ rubbed his hands together, one of them bandaged, mirroring Scaramouche’s own. He was anxious.

“You… Are the Balladeer, are you not?”, he said, his voice dipping low in emotion.

“I was not supposed to tell anyone.”, the puppet croaked out.

“My name is Kaedehara Kazuha. My clan has fallen to your hands many years in the past.”

Silence spread in the room, a tension between them.

‘Katsuragi’, no Kazuha’s - the resemblance making sense now, this was a descendant of the blacksmith - face was unreadable, yet his eyes were filled with hard emotions.

“I swore”, he began, “I would take revenge for my ancestors, should he - the wretched Kunikuzushi - fall in my hands. I swore to cut him down, avenge the loss of my clan.”

“Will you do it then?”

The room fell silent once again, the tension almost thick enough to cut with a knife.

Then Kazuha stood and left the room, leaving the puppet by himself, amongst his duvets, the scent of miso filling the room.

Α⥎Ω

Over the next few days, Kazuha would enter the room to bring food and water and take away still-half-eaten and half-drunk dishes.

All the while Scaramouche would lay in bed, his bed now, turned towards the wall, just staring. His back fully turned to the open room.

Should Kazuha decide he wanted to end him, to cut him down, he would make it easy for him.

The Traveler did not turn up at all. It was just him and Kazuha in the mansion, though some days, he could hear some other voices talking quietly with the white-haired samurai.

By the time Scaramouche had lost count of the days he had laid there half-dazed, staring at the wall, he started to stop eating altogether.

He figured the Kaedehara boy had not yet made up his mind about killing him, so he would just starve himself to death. Or if Kazuha still managed to make up his mind, it would be even easier for him.

To his surprise, that day it was not Kazuha who entered his room.

It was the Traveler.

He walked with soft steps, to not startle Scaramouche, who once again laid facing towards the wall.

“Are you awake?”, he asked softly.

The puppet did not answer.

“I’m sorry it took me so long. The cleanup took longer than I thought…”

He sat on the edge of the wooden bed, “Kazuha took care of you?”

The Traveler fell silent.

“He said he swore to cut me down.” Scaramouche's voice was horse and fragile from lack of use and drink; weak from no nutrition.

“Oh well… yeah… I’m sorry about-”

“Why has he not done it yet?”

“He-”

“Every morning he comes in and brings me breakfast. He opens the curtains, and lets in the fresh air. Every noon he comes in, brings me lunch and takes breakfast away. Every evening he brings dinner and takes away lunch. Before he goes to bed, he comes once again, closes the curtains, and takes away dinner. Not once does he look at me. He says nothing, he doesn’t try anything.”

“Kazuha-”

“Why won’t any of you kill me? You both want to, swore to yet here I am still.”

“I told you, I can’t.”

With that, the conversation is over and Traveler leaves.

The cycle restarts.

Α⥎Ω

A month passes, and the Traveler visits fairly often now.

Scaramouche learns that this place is a ‘Sereniteapot’, an ancient adeptal art from Liyue. The Traveler and Paimon’s portable home in a simple teapot. He also learns that a couple of select people from around Teyvat pass through this teapot on the regular. The chief alchemist of Mondstadt, a detective from Inazuma, and even an Adeptus from Liyue, but they do not live here. They just visit and stay a couple of nights here and there. Only Kazuha seems to be a permanent resident- not even the Traveler stays in his house all the time.

Kazuha leaves the mansion a lot and returns for meals: Scaramouche's meals that is. He still does not speak to the puppet.

Scaramouche doesn't know how long it has been, he just knows he's getting weaker from not eating when the boy finally speaks up.

"Is my cooking not to your tastes?", he asked one day when he brought another tray of food, lunch this time, and found breakfast untouched, once again.

Scaramouche could sense hurt behind those words, though Kazuha seemed to have put great effort into concealing his emotion.

"It tastes fine.", he whispered, barely audible.

"Then why is it that you won't eat it?"

"I don't deserve it. Therefore you are wasting your efforts."

Kazuha shuffled quietly around the room, contemplating the puppet's words.

"Kazuha", Scaramouche said, calling to him for the first time "why won't you kill me?"

Kazuha sat down on the edge of the bed, just like the Traveler had some time ago.

"I thought about this a lot," he starts, his voice vulnerable but just as breezy as ever, "Everytime I brought a meal or changed your sheets I thought about it."

Scaramouche turned to look at Kazuha's back, moving for the first time out of his own will in weeks.

"Yet somehow, when I thought of my vow, the tragedy of my ancestors, it felt so distant. Here you are, you who massacred my clan, you who brought our downfall. For that, I cannot forgive you. But I… I do not crave revenge anymore."

"I wish to be free of the chains of vengeance. And I wish for you to be able to let go of it too. I realized after I talked to the Traveler at length, that your actions were born of a thirst for revenge, of a wish for them to suffer as you have. I do not wish to become like that."

Scaramouche cast his eyes down on the sheets, strangely feeling shameful. A feeling again after so long.

This time the silence did not choke them.

The puppet contemplated Kazuha's words.

It truly was a want for revenge, a thirst for others' suffering, like that had led to so much tragedy in his life, to where he was now. Uselessly wasting away. Wasting away the hope these people had for him.

A foolish hope.

But it was a hope.

"You should eat. It does not matter whether you deserve it or not."

From then on Kazuha took his meals with Scaramouche in his room.

Α⥎Ω

Kazuha left the teapot for a week at one point.

In his stead, two men named Albedo and Venti took turns looking after the mansion, and in turn Scaramouche.

The two could not be more different from each other. Or from Scaramouche.

Albedo was a quiet man, he sort of reminded Scaramouche of Kazuha in some aspects; except for his deeply introverted personality and cold exterior.

He cooked weird dishes, he talked somewhat stilted. He did not sugarcoat.

When he entered Scaramouche's room, he did so with sure steps, not soft and nearly silent like Kazuha.

But his analytical ways were a somewhat welcome change to the Traveler’s dodging of the subject or Kazuha's poetry. Albedo said things as they were.

So it was not a shock when one day he set down the tray with food and asked: "Are you suicidal?"

Scaramouche had to admit he was somewhat taken aback by the question. No one had outright asked him something like this ever in his over 500 years of living.

"I don't know.", he said.

"We noticed you periodically stop eating, you ask about why Traveler will not kill you. He and Kazuha are quite distressed about it. So do you want to die so badly?"

"It is what’s for the best.", he answered, almost like a routine answer.

"But do you want to die?", Albedo followed up, opening the window as he spoke.

One would almost mistake this for a casual conversation, was it not for the macabre subject matter.

"I guess I do."

"Why have you not done it yet, then?"

"I don't-"

"Why have you not killed yourself yet, then? If you want to die so badly."

Scaramouche stayed silent. Why had he not?

He had tried. He was starving himself to death. Why did he start to eat again?

"I don't think you want to die. I think if you wanted to die you would be dead already.", Albedo continues.

"And how do you know what I want?", Scaramouche spat, irritated.

Albedo did not care for this change. "I don't. And I don't claim to know. But generally speaking, and from personal experience, I concluded exactly that. I for one know that one day I will be killed. I will die and it will be for the best. But do I want to die? I do not. I cherish every moment in my life that makes all the sacrifices and hardships worth it. I cherish my sister, and I cherish my friends and colleagues. Thus, should the day come, when I have to perish, I will do so with no regrets.

You should not die with regrets."

"You're easy to talk- you have things to cherish.", the puppet grumbles, once again turning towards the wall. His old friend.

"That may be so, but so do you. Some people care about you, even if it's just enough to have hope in you."

Then Albedo left.

Venti was an entirely different story.

The drunkard bard, the lord of Anemo, could not stop talking for one second, and Scaramouche had to admit, as irritating the god was, his good mood was rubbing off. Even on him. If only a little.

Venti could not cook, but he would bring him food the Traveler sent. Venti would sit with him, making sure he ate. Venti would play him songs; not leave him alone.

"Do you not hate me, Barbatos? I used to be Fatui, you know.", Scaramouche asked one day.

Venti chuckled like a child, a thing he did a lot as the puppet found out.

"That you did, dear friend!"

"So how come you can even look at me, call me friend?"

"We have all done things we are not proud of in the past."

"How do you know I would not do it again?"

Venti tapped his bottom lip, seemingly thinking about what to answer before he snapped on one hand and said: "The winds change, and so do people. You have the freedom to be whoever you want to be; no one is chained by their past."

"The wind, too, stays the same though. I am who I was when I was a Harbinger. I don't change. I will commit my mistakes again and again.", Scaramouche said, sitting up now, though still bundled in his soft, thick duvet.

"In essence, it does stay the same, yes. But does that not also mean you are who you were 500 years ago also? In essence, you are that boy just as much as you are the Balladeer and in the same vain you are someone new in the future. It is up to you."

Spring

He had missed the comforting breeze that came with Kazuha's presence. Though it had only been a week where Kazuha was gone, it had felt like the eternity he once spent in that godforsaken temple.

He had somewhat missed waking to the scent of the fresh morning breeze mixed with miso soup and the sound of soft footsteps milling around his room, tidying up here and there.

When he fully opened his eyes, he saw Kazuha sitting on the desk chair and turned towards his bed, with a poetry book in one hand and teacup in the other. He set down the half-full cup on the desk.

"Good morning", he said, smiling softly.

"Good morning", the puppet answered.

Α⥎Ω

"Kazuha, could you help me cut my hair?", asked the puppet.

His hair had grown quite long in the few months he had spent in the Traveler's house, just laying in an almost vegetative state.

Kazuha nodded, a warm smile on his face.

Scaramouche had started moving around the room sometime in the last week. He often looked out the window towards the small backyard with the crimson maple tree.

Sometimes he would see Albedo out there, painting on his easel. Sometimes he would spot the Traveler out there with him, with the softest expression on his face. Sometimes Venti basked in the sun on the bench. Sometimes it was Kazuha. Sometimes he had the cat with him, that the Traveler had brought for him recently.

Maybe someday he will join them. When he felt ready.

In the afternoon Scaramouche sat on the desk chair, facing the window. Kazuha ran his fingers through his dark hair, finger combing out some tangles, as softly as possible.

"Your hair is long now. It is time to give it a trim.", he said.

Scaramouche just stared into the almost setting sun, peeking above the wall in the yard.

"I never understood why it grew.", he eventually said, "As a puppet, I do not age. Nor is my body of flesh and blood. Yet I starve, I ache and I bleed. And yet my hair grows."

"Perhaps, you're more human than you think.", Kazuha whispers, never once stopping his work on Scaramouche's hair, "It's not so bad, being human I mean. We hurt, we bleed, we cry and yet we also love, we laugh. We suffer but we also enjoy life."

“The Kitsune was right, she should’ve disposed of me. We would’ve avoided a lot of suffering.”, the puppet mumbles.

“But they didn’t. You’re still here, and got through it all somehow.”

"Maybe it isn't so bad, being here. Being human.", Scaramouche agrees.

He watches the sun dip beneath the wall, the soft red of the sky behind the crimson maple tree swaying gently in the breeze, Kazuha’s gentle fingers carding through his hair.

"I wish to be finally free. Of regret. To change. To wander. And feel."

A teal light glows in his lap.

There is still hope.

There always is winter before there is spring.