Folly ✤ Scaramouche

Folly ✤ Scaramouche

A/N: This takes place in the same universe as 'Devilry' (aka the crackfic), where MC is the previous Sixth Harbinger dubbed as 'Mistress Fiore'.

✤ Mentions of death

✤ There's nothing wrong with indulging in dangerous follies every now and then, especially if that folly is nothing but that fascinating defector.

Words: 2.1k

Within the expanse of the temple draped in a frosty twilight gathers a handful of dignitaries, all with a single purpose; to grieve for the fallen.

Well, their grieving may be a tepid act—after all, one cannot overlook the possibility that their hearts are more bristling than mourning. The fact remains that it is still only a mere assumption, though.

Despite being... comrades in arms, not one of them truly knows what the other bears inside their chest. Aside from the obvious mutual belligerence, of course.

“Who invited the mistress here?”

The voice rises amid the frigid air, biting as though it carries frost in its tone.

Naturally, everyone's attention is piqued. It's a question that serves both to distract themselves from the loss of an ally and to ascertain the reason for the arrival of an unsought guest.

But is the aforementioned person truly uninvited?

“You wound me, can I not be present to send my own farewell to the Eighth?” you speak up with faux umbrage, stepping beyond the shadows of the pilasters.

Far from being disconcerted by the number of eyes nipping at your profile like tiny cicins, you lift your head, meeting the faces of those you previously deemed comrades. Now mere... 'acquaintances'.

“Besides, don't you think it's only expected for me to fill in the blank slot that the Balladeer left open for this moment?”

It isn't like you're going to take back the position afterward.

The knowing hum settles an air of brewing resignation, tinged with a bit of vexation that seems to come to the group naturally.

Tartaglia clicks his tongue from his place at the pews, voice amicably austere. “Calm down, it was I who invited Fiore.”

His answer dispels most of the lingering bafflement in the crowd and the ceremony carries on without delay and reluctance.

Although, you huff in disbelief. It's more of a business meeting than a funeral ceremony.

You decide not to speak against it, however, aware of your standing in the place. Instead, you've taken to observing the varying expressions on their faces. They're all so impervious as ever.

The plan not to opine fails later on though, following the ludicrous decree about the momentary pause of business and other affairs as well as Pantalone's opinion about it.

“Half a day's holiday?” you find yourself giggling, though it's crystal clear that you're far from being amused. “Careful, your gracious facade seems to be slipping, mister disingenuous mayor.”

Pulcinella crinkles his nose and adjusts his spectacles with a sigh.

“Hm, I'd rather not open my ears to the words of an ex-Harbinger. Do be content that we allowed you to stay.”

You whistle, finding no reason to deny the latter portion of his statements. It's irking how he seems to dismiss your previous rank as the Sixth and denigrate your current status, though.

As if sensing the subdued venom beginning to rise from your throat, another voice cuts in.

“Can you cease the farcical banter?” Arlecchino gives her fellow Harbinger a pointed stare, scrutiny evident in her eyes. “[Name] may no longer be in the official ranks, but she was the only one who ever sought camaraderie between you half-hearted dignitaries.”

Her concern for this shoddy, half-hearted excuse of a holiday is thus valid. Is the underlying message.

You cup your cheeks with a pleased smile, drawing out a long, grateful sigh. “My, thank you, lady Arle. Ever the justiciar.”

Her auxiliaries are anticipated, yes, but you didn't think she'd actually support you. But then again, she seems to be the only one who genuinely grieves the death of Signora. Apart from Pantalone and Pierro—and maybe even Tartaglia.

The Knave transfers her look towards you. It's nothing short of perfunctory, perhaps even a bit scunnered.

“That does not remove the fact that you are no longer one of us. You've only until the end of condolences before you are to leave.”

Of course.

“Oh, the woes of being unwanted!” you bemoan, holding your head for a melodramatic show.

You can tell that doing so has earned you a couple dirty looks and though you feel a tad awful—borderline catalyzing the enmity when again, this is no place to start a fight—you do not apologize.

Well, not to them.

It's an indecent, immoral act, but you like to believe that you're the lesser evil in the room.

With a step forward, you ascend a few inches into the air, moving past the Harbingers and hovering over the intricately gilded cenotaph. No one stops you.

Caressing the marble surface of the tomb makes you note how it's a lot colder than the atmosphere.

Unfitting for the Witch whose heart only knew how to be set ablaze.

But if you consider the Delusion she's been gifted, then it is appropriate; for a blazing heart to freeze and shatter, unable to rekindle its loving warmth.

“Looks like I am only as transient as a minute here, Rosalyne.” there is silence in the temple. Not one voice overpowers yours.

Maybe they have finally gotten self-conscious? It's funny to think that someone who is no longer a Harbinger is the first to send her farewell. What ridicule!

With a silent, single clap, you expel a breath and hum. Your time here is done—you'll have to thank Childe sometime for the official invitation.

Pierro is just about to say something- business talk, maybe. Whatever it is, it does not include you, and to be honest, you'd rather not be included, either.

You vanish into a myriad of snowflakes before anyone can raise a word, leaving only your final murmurs resonating within the temple.

“May your soul find peace in the embers of that which you burned.”

Your next destination leads you to the familiar lands of Liyue and to the terra that stretches past its borders.

The swift travel from the icy nation back to a more tropical one has depleted most if not all of your stamina, so you stayed at an inn for a little while to recuperate.

Although you do have an objective in mind, you aren't in a rush. It's safe to say that you are one step further than the Fatui Harbingers, hence the insouciance.

Besides, like some magical work of nature, you are far attuned to the presence you're seeking, so searching doesn't come off as difficult. In fact, you are able to find him merely two days after staying at Wangshu Inn.

Conspicuous even without trying to, the violets and reds of his attire are emphasized amid the drying greens of the environment. He's dwelling in discreet places, however, managing to shroud himself in the shadows and not make a sound.

Any traveler—not the blond one, though—will fail to see him. But unfortunately, he sticks out to you like a sore thumb.

“For once, you are trying to be discreet.”

The defector stills with a muted hiss, swift to register the arrival of someone as well as the lack of additional weight on his head.

His buttons are already pressed, but annoyance and genuine indifference aside, he's at least thankful that he's found by non-Fatui first.

“Mm, but the hat's still remarkably ostentatious, don't you think so?”

Not like being found by Harbingers poses that much of a problem, he'd simply fight them. That said, he's this close to flicking out his catalyst, too...

“Scaramouche.”

He doesn't, though, and decides to just humor the person who's managed to trace his steps from Inazuma.

Immediately, he meets a pair of gushed [c]s and the usual smile he's seen—unwillingly—far too many times to count. Clicking his tongue, he grumbles.

“Tsk, Fiore.”

No sort of communication has transpired between them in the past months, not after the research about the meteorites and the godawful luncheon shared between them along with Signora and Tartaglia.

So, he isn't going to lie and say that he's not surprised to see her in front of him.

'Fiore' sighs hyperbolically, the theatrical action quick to make the man roll his eyes. He expected nothing less.

She starts with a spin, showing off her apparel that although carried a few similarities from her previous Harbinger attire, looked more... liberated.

In the sense that it's unique, a style that screamed 'Fiore' instead of the nations in Teyvat.

“You misunderstand, Balladear, I'm not Fiore, but [Name]. I'm a free woman. I'm in no organizations.”

That's new, for the last time he saw her, she was still rather attached to the organization. Or perhaps that's her way of supervising him, the one who had taken her place.

He must've been scrutinizing her appearance with a silence that lacked his usual aggro—because before he knows it, the lady leans forward with a wink.

It sends a chill down his back.

“Nor in any relationships, if you catch my drift.”

Bitter Archons above-

“Get the hell out of my sight.” Scaramouche snarls with pinched brows, turning away in disgust after snagging his hat back.

He really doesn't know what else to expect of her, but he's a little relieved that she hasn't grown out of that preposterous charm of hers. Still devilishly annoying, but he's not one to talk.

Uninterested in the laughter that rings behind him, he continues his trek toward the neighboring nation of Sumeru. At the moment, there's nothing but the crucial need to get away.

An impossible thing—for the Fatui always manages to catch up, he knows that better than anyone—but that's a headache for another day.

He already has one just seeing this woman and the humid air is not helping alleviate it. Sweat is rolling down his temples and it's only the nice cover of his hat that prevents him from melting into mush under the raging sun.

A cold gust of wind blows through him, the discordant chill amid the otherwise dry area implying that it was done with the use of both a Vision and Delusion.

Perceptive as always, that girl.

“The Tsaritsa is rather upset, you know?” she calls, voice steadily growing closer.

He was about to address her use of Anemo and Cryo—maybe slot in an impossible thanks—but that's thrown out of his mind a second later.

The Tsaritsa?

Huffing, he doesn't bother stopping and facing her, wary of his growing headache 'cause damn. “Two-faced liar, so you were with them.”

“To pay respects,” the response is quick, as though his censures were foreseen. “Signora was a nice comrade. A little haughty, but nice.”

Nice. Scaramouche almost laughs. Signora, nice.

Perhaps her competency with taking the Queen's piece, yes.

But only someone with a loose screw can ever describe the pile of ash as nice, but then again, this is [Name]. If devilish isn't her middle name, then perhaps eccentric is.

“They will be coming after you. You are aware of that, aren't you?”

Exasperating works, too.

“What do you take me for? An idiot?” he finally stops, unable to hide the offense on his face as he swivels with a glare.

Is he being disparaged? Him?

The venom on his tongue is milliseconds away from coating the words he's about to convey, but he receives an answer before he can do so.

“A renegade with a bounty over his head heading to Sumeru. I hope you weren't blinded by what you sought.” [Name] answers with a shrug, her pretty [c]s fixated on the glimmer of violet peeking behind the overlays of fabric.

On the defensive, Scaramouche lifts a hand to cover the glow of the Electro Archon's Gnosis. He does this even though he's aware that [Name] has no intention of stealing it from him.

In any case, she's much more likely to steal his damned hat again.

He scoffs once more. “I'm none of your business.”

Leave me alone.

The message needn't be said when it's already so obviously implied.

Having uttered what he wanted, he resumes his pace, thinking of feasible plans for the coming few days. He has no doubts that a Harbinger is going to be sent after him.

Eyes forward, he walks with his chin tipped high, confident and unfaltering of what lies ahead. There is nothing to fear, nothing to be bewildered over.

The macabre art of war comes to him naturally and there aren't any qualms about death, he is used to such things. But if there is one thing he isn't used to, then...

“Do you have a death wish?” he halts and asks this, genuinely lost in a confusion that he won't admit out loud.

Only the sound of his feet against the terra is heard a minute ago, but he isn't oblivious to the following figure at his back, levitating as always. Nonchalant as she can possibly be.

“What you're doing is nothing but utter folly.”

Why are you still here?

He doesn't even need to turn around to see [Name] shrug. As if she isn't at all deterred by the fact that she can die if she continues to follow him.

“I know.” she answers, sounding insanely delighted.

Scaramouche clicks his tongue again.

If there's anything he isn't accustomed to, then it is the devilish [Name].

“You're mad.”

Only a giggle answers his words as he begins to walk again, making no move to stop her any longer and letting her float around him with a bunch of jests rolling past her tongue.

He's irked, but that's alright.

He's fond of pretty and exasperating devils, anyway.

a/n: mm, nothing like scara pretending not to care that mc decided to stick with him when in fact he's actually all "aw ye" about it deep down lmao

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