berri 🍓

You picked it up, the texture of the envelope somehow familiar. You memorized the types of envelopes you received. 

If it were from the Knights of Favonius, where you worked, it felt rough, as if mailed in a hurry (it probably was), and white, with a red seal closing the envelope. If it were from your parents, it was slightly yellow, with cursive handwriting on the bottom of the envelope. If it were from your friends, it varied, but you can usually tell from the handwriting and smell.

This one—light blue envelope, soft to the touch, dark red seal, neat handwriting—you knew who mailed this.

You held the envelope between your pointer and thumb, not allowing yourself to actually hold it and admire the intricacies of the envelope and letter. You held it like it was on fire, burning you instead of warming you. Or maybe it was ice, freezing you over. It definitely felt like it.

You sat down on the couch, eyes never leaving the envelope. Your heart thumped wildly in your chest; in anticipation or anxiety, you didn’t know. The past year, the two feelings blended and blurred, and now you weren’t sure which was which. You didn’t want to open it. But you felt like you had to.

Slowly, you removed the seal, and opened the envelope. A letter folded in three was placed inside, alongside a single dried cecilia…

and one of the mints that you bought earlier. Your heart lurched. Absolutely cruel.

You stared at the envelope as you opened a lamp. If you opened it, you weren’t sure what you’d do next. You’ve done so well avoiding him, forgetting him, staying focused on your line of work so it doesn’t blend with his accidentally. You developed a routine curated for removing all traces of him from your life.

This might be the complete undoing of all your hard work.

However, you felt compelled to open it. What if he was hurt? Or in danger? Or something happened to his parents, and needed someone—

(You forgot for a moment that he wasn’t your responsibility anymore as you hastily opened the letter).

December 24, 20xx

My Dear [name],

I understand if you wish to stop reading this letter at this point. I know you’re hellbent on avoiding me and forgetting me; I know who you are. However, I ask you to give me a few minutes of your time. Whatever you decide to do next, I will completely respect you. Just please be a bit patient.

Merry Christmas. I know I don’t usually celebrate Christmas, but I know how enchanted you are with the lights that decorate the street, the carols that echo through the city, and the overall magic the holiday brings. For the past few years I’ve celebrated Christmas with you, I’ve never felt happier. I’ve learned to love the festivities that surround us, and especially, you.

I confessed to you on Christmas Eve five years ago. It became my favorite holiday after, because as all the trees lit up the night before Christmas, it was the first time I kissed you. I never understood how so many people get sentimental over a holiday, but with you, I learned. And after you, I find myself yearning for your presence once more.

I never should’ve let you go. I should have held your hand and begged for your forgiveness, for all the nights I could’ve spent loving you instead of spending it outside, chasing some stupid adrenaline rush. I should’ve promised a lifetime full of love and dedication to make up for the year I didn’t give those to you. I made you feel unloved, which is what I never, ever wanted you to feel. Please, believe me. I never wanted to leave you. I never should have let you leave me.

I promise I’ll try to stop reaching out after this; but you changed my life, [name]. I felt loved; like someone saw past the crazy, warfreak of a vice captain. You saw me for me; for my ups and downs, my good and bad traits, my whole being. You saw that and loved me. You didn’t care when I came home smothered in blood, or injured, or exhausted as hell. You took care of me, giving me love I thought only existed in books. You’re one in a million, and I’m so fucking stupid.

I respect your space and boundaries, so I don’t want to pressure you by being there in person. But I’m still a little selfish. So please, please forgive me. Again, it’s all up to you what you want to do moving forward: but I miss you. I want you back. I want to hug you and kiss you and call you again. I love you. Please forgive me; please come back. 

I hate that I’m not spending this Christmas with you by my side. Still,

Merry Christmas. I miss you.

Forever yours,

Lohen.

You could’ve strangled him on the spot if he were there. You could’ve punched him, yelled at him, tore down everything he had on his person and cried in front of him. 

Although, he would’ve liked that. And the thought would’ve normally made you laugh if you weren’t so fucking mad.

You hated him for sending the letter on fucking Christmas Eve of all times, almost as if it were a deliberate way to claw his way back into your good graces.

He’s lonely on a holiday he used to spend with you. He missed you terribly; and you knew that. You kept your distance from him, but the very few times you saw him, his eyes lingered on you a little longer, his steps would lag, and he’d even sometimes stop whatever he’s doing. It’s as if he wants to run after you and hold you down, forcing you by him, but he loves you too much to hurt you more than he already did. Or did he? You didn’t even know anymore.

You stared at the paper for a little longer, unsure of what to do or say. Every fiber of your body is telling you to burn the paper, and completely forget he even entered your life. However, your heart said the complete opposite.

This was Lohen. The same man who once found holidays stupid, but would be the first to greet you and celebrate with you. The same man who hates writing, but puts the most thought and care into writing letters for you whenever he or you are away, writing several pages, back to back. The same man who everyone thought was incapable of love, yet smothered you with it in every second you spent with him.

Things only changed a year back, when he returned home from Nod-Krai. The Racher of Solnari defeated him in battle, and he returned somehow weaker, the light in his eyes diminished. It was a small yet noticeable change, one that had you worried to the core. You looked after him and tried to be patient when he’d snap and break down. You cared and loved him, and after a while, you thought he was doing better.

Not long after, Adorno died.

He was good at maintaining a certain facade, one of nonchalance and dismissal. But with you, everything faded, and he was angry, hurt, and insatiable. He needed a way to release everything that built up in him, all the messy emotions and grief. As a result, he was away every night, fighting random monsters and people. You’d sleep in a cold bed all alone, and wake up just as alone. 

You barely saw him, and you even began to speak as if you were strangers in your own home. He became someone you barely recognized, but in front of everyone, he was fine. It drove you insane. 

No amount of confrontation worked too. After any and all arguments, it ended with you comforting him, telling him you won’t leave him, that he’s enough, that you love him, even if it hurts. And still, you woke to an empty bed the following day.

Last year’s Christmas Eve was no exception. You thought he’d at least try to be okay with you, to commemorate your fifth year together. 

To your surprise and disappointment, he didn’t change.

You spent your Christmas Eve alone, and left the house to spend it with a friend. You came home to an empty house the next day. 

You ended things from there.

You wish Lohen reacted then, begging you for your forgiveness, begging you to stay, begging you for another chance. However, he watched you walk away, unmoving. 

Then he spoke.

“You finally see who I really am, huh?”

And that still broke you.

You spent the night with him in your arms, his tears dried on his face and in your shirt as he slept. You were exhausted to your core, but the overwhelming instinct of caring for him never failed to appear at the worst possible times. In the morning, you left. You’ve never heard from him since.

Until now, with the paper in your hands. His promises of love and care still chipped at your heart, and you’ve never felt the urge so strong to go running back to him. Maybe he has changed. Maybe it was simply his worst times back then, and you did him worse by leaving him.

And you knew, the minute you thought of that, that you still loved him. And you aren’t supposed to. Because you knew that he’ll hurt you again.

You pressed the paper against your face, tears welling uncontrollably in your eyes. The paper smelled like mint too, with a hint of the dried flower he put in the envelope. It smelled familiar, like Christmas, like home, and that was enough to break you all over again. 

You spent the night curled up on your couch, the letter kept close to you, as if it can replace Lohen without the looming feeling of disappointment and chaos. You woke up alone, as usual, the letter now crumpled and on the floor. You cursed silently to yourself; you almost wished it were all a dream, and that Lohen stopped caring about you.

At the very least, he still deserved a response. You knew better than to go to his house, because you know that you’ll knock on the door and jump right back in his arms. You can’t do that. You’ve worked so hard to live a peaceful, stress-free, anxiety-free life; all induced by him. You’ve protected your peace, and will continue to do so.

A single piece of paper laid in front of you; blank and clean. You only wrote a few words, hoping to get your point across. 

You sent the letter away to the mailman, and as you did so, it felt as if a huge burden was lifted from you. You took a deep breath, a single tear slipping from your eye as you watched the sun rise.

It was Christmas. One without Lohen, but Christmas nonetheless. You should try to be happy. And you will be, eventually.

December 25, 20xx

Lohen,

Merry Christmas, please don’t call.

-[name]

Niwa was an unreliable source. Scaramouche would only realize that once it was too late; when the damage had been done and there was no turning away from the consequences of his actions. Niwa, living on an island secluded from humans from other walks of life, taught Kabukimono life the way he saw it; as did his fellow workers. He was utterly shielded and sheltered, never giving him a chance to learn what to expect from reality. 

Kabukimono’s rose-tinted glasses were never lifted; they were shattered the day Niwa died. The glass wounded his eyes, forever coloring his world an angry, violent red. Pain is forever. Betrayal is inevitable. 

His world was always colored and altered against his own will. 

It seemed he never saw the world for what it truly is; beautiful, as it is temporary.

(Wanderer, what do you seek?)

In the depths of the forests, a child came into view. And his first thought was that of his mother.

Poor child, he thought, an almost painful, twisted feeling emerging from his chest. He’d probably describe this as heartbreak, the same way Niwa described it; though he’ll never truly know what it would feel like. 

Clinging on to the last shred of hope he is able to muster, he cares for the child. A child that came down with irreversible, incurable sickness. He’s seen what happened to the others with his own eyes, yet he believes this one is an exception. Maybe, his mother would hear him, and still grant his silent wishes.

Alas, only disappointment followed.

The broken promise of a family lingered heavily in the air, lightning forcing murderous strikes upon the land surrounding him, thunder violently clapping; though it did not rain.

That’s alright, he thought, as he walked away.

I’ll do worse than a storm ever could,

(Child, what do you want?)

Give a child a toy, and he will break it. Correspondingly, Kunikuzushi destroyed everything in his path. Leaves would wilt in his mere presence, animals scampered, and locals began to fear for their lives. The bloodshed he left in his wake will forever go down with his name. He played with the world as harshly as it played with him.

However, whenever he returns to the same areas he destroyed, he’d find the blood gone. Washed away, perhaps. Maybe it sank in the earth and blended in with the soil. Maybe the locals didn’t want a reminder of what they’d lost, and what their near inevitable fate appeared to be.

It taunted Kunikuzushi terribly so.

So he killed, and never returned. Grinned hollowly at the sight of the destroyed homes, severed bodies, and bloodied grass. Humanity deserves this, he thought wildly, humans deserve a wretched end for being so fragile. I am simply ending their misery; helping the process of a fate so inevitable and final as death. 

(Remember who you are, love.)

Scaramouche was relentless.

Humans around him dropped like flies. He found no worth in these creatures. He’d spit in their faces and condemn them to a fate so terrible they wished they were dead. He messed with their minds, stepped on their chests to watch the life flicker slowly from their eyes, then leave. He even managed to get on his fellow Harbingers’ nerves, and inflicted fear upon his subordinates. He was relentless.

The damage is now irreversible.

Or so he believed.

He claimed to feel nothing. He wore the mask of an uninterested man, a being so nonchalant and uncaring that he’ll do whatever it takes to reach his goal; no matter the cost. But that’s the thing.

He still wanted something.

He wasn’t unfeeling and numb and stoic or whatever he tried to pass off of. Perhaps that’s why he tried harder and harder to mask his despair; because deep, deep down, a horrible sense of longing still remains.

Deep down, fragments of Kabukimono lingered; a desire to fit in and learn still echoing softly within his being. Kunikuzushi was still there too, consumed by grief, and painted himself with rage in an attempt to never confront his grief. Throughout everyone and everything Scaramouche was, there was only a single constant.

Sadness.

He was sad. That’s it.

He felt the sadness to a deeper extent when the Dendro Archon took the Electro Gnosis from him. Misery, was what he almost called it. He’d grown despondent, when cycles upon cycles of Samsara were cast upon him, rendering him truly powerless.

He’ll never get what he wants, won’t he?

But he will get what he needs.

“Be free, my son. Live not bound by the shackles of godhood, but as human as possible.”

“Do you understand now, Kabukimono?”

“Where are you going, wanderer?”

Wanderer. 

The name itself held great promise. It’s non-committal by nature; a life rendering you destined to wander to the corners of the world, to rediscover and learn. Never remaining, never still. 

A wanderer’s thirst for knowledge can never be quenched. Brought about by differing reasons, one is a wanderer for a reason. To understand the world? Yes. To find your purpose? Even more so. 

To recover from misunderstandings? Probably. 

Will he ever learn? Eventually. He visited Inazuma, walking the same path he did when the only thought he had was to destroy. This wasn’t even the same path anymore—his past was far from him, in a lost timeline. Still, he couldn’t help but feel mournful.

Back then, he only looked down, watching the blood dry on the ground. He moved forward, head lowered. He moved quickly; lithe and silent steps leaving almost no trace of a person behind; as if the countless murders were committed by the wind.

Today, he looked up. The sunset was warm on his cold skin, painting him in a golden, nearly ethereal glow. It felt as if the sun embraced him, the leaves that rustled gently spoke to him, the wind hummed a melancholy tune, and the water teased him, splashing lightly on him as he stepped on tiny puddles.

He still feels rage, pain, sadness; and an ugly sense of humiliation when he feels the aforementioned feelings. He had a feeling that he’ll never be fully satisfied with himself, with maturity and humanity now catching up to him, and he began to realize the extent of his actions.

He can still try, though.

He can try, with the hand that caught his—Buer. Nahida. A child, he first remembers thinking, disregarding her position as the Dendro Archon. Wise and playful, he learned, upon spending more time under her care, and his respect (and care) for her deepened.

He can try, when he gave his core to Nod-Krai; to save a nation he barely knew. For the first time, he trusts—trusts Sandrone with using his core for good, trusts the others to make good use of the information he nearly gave his life for, and trusts the traveler to keep him safe.

He can try, with the child born from fiction, hopes, and dreams—Durin. He was born from Albedo’s efforts to prevent disaster, representing hope woven into the seams of something most thought was irreparable. To Wanderer’s surprise, Durin relied on him. He first could not look Durin in the eyes, guilt eating him alive over a reality that was long gone. Still, he tried. And he cared.

He will soon understand his betrayals were misunderstandings. He’s already realized this, but regret and guilt consumes him when he ruminates about the very source of his pain. But there will come a time that he’ll further understand. Now, he isn’t ready to. But eventually, he will be.

He sat on the edge of the cliff beside a cat. For the first time, the cat didn’t move. He contemplated reaching out to touch it, but decided against it, not wanting the cat to run away from him.

He dared to smile, and leaned back, grass tickling his elbows as he rested his weight on his arms. He feels fine for now, he thinks. He could be okay with this.

(Beautiful, despite ruin.)

a/n: wtfreakkk first fic?! actually i've been writing on and off, but never really had the time to finish one,, but here we are! i'm sort of new to this, but it seems all my previous experience has gone out the window, lol. please do let me know if there's anything i must change, add, remove, edit, or more! i mostly based this off of existing lore, and the end was just sort of my imagination (obviously). again, constructive criticism welcome! hope you enjoyed! reblogs r also highly appreciated :p