⪩'ᦓhyent?'⪨

Try as you might to ignore them, the fantasies come incessantly, vivid images of what it would have been like to meet Scaramouche.

He looks identical to your Wanderer: slender limbs of porcelain draped in traditional Inazuman silks, a head of silky dark hair, and a striking pair of eyes that glow.

But, unlike Wanderer, Scaramouche is cruel.

Scaramouche is more puppet than man, more archon than mortal, and he is devoid of any emotional attachments. In your imagination, you are always kneeling before him, prostrating as you beg for a mercy he does not give.

Scaramouche does not show restraint the way your lover does.

Wanderer would never dare to cause you harm, always handling you with gentle hands during your intimate moments.

But, Scaramouche… You think he would rather like to see you bleed.

You have imagined him torturing you in a thousand different ways. Sometimes it is with the sharp edge of a blade, laughing at the fear in your eyes as he presses it against your throat. Sometimes it is with the hot wax of a candle, silently watching you squirm as the heat sears your bare breasts. Sometimes it is with the cold wood of his bare hands, striking your ass until your skin blooms into red and purple bruises.

Regardless of the method of torture, your fantasies all end the same way: Fat tears streaming down your cheeks as you beg for more.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

The words startle you from your thoughts and you look up to find Wanderer sitting in front of you from you arms and legs crossed and he regards you with an expectant expression.

Glancing down at the scattered research papers and a half-finished story draft on the table, you recall what you were supposed to be doing.

“Uh... Studying,” you offer weakly.

Wanderer raises a brow in a way that tells you you’ve failed some type of unwritten test.

“Not what I asked but this is exactly what I mean. You’ve been so distracted lately…”

He pauses, cornflower blue eyes flitting across your face in search of something.

“You aren’t sick, are you? What are your symptoms? If you are unwell, we need to tell Lesser Lord Kusanali, she can fix you and—”

Your boyfriend’s genuine concern makes your stomach twist with guilt for fantasizing about Scaramouche.

What would Wanderer, the man who has decided to dedicate the remainder of his immortal life to atoning for his past sins against humanity and celestia alike, think if he knew you were getting off to the worst time in his life?

You resolve to never, ever let Wanderer find out about these sick thoughts of yours.

You will not be his fourth betrayal.

“Diarrhea,” you blurt.

Both of you freeze.

Wanderer’s concerned expression drops into something unreadable and your cheeks are beginning to heat up but you are already too committed to the lie to back out now.

“I think I ate something weird at Cyno’s place last week, I’m sure I’ll be fine after a few more trips to the toilet—in fact I think I’ll do that right now—see you at home later, dear!”

You snatch up your papers to stuff in your messenger bag and zip out of the cafe as if a Sumpter Beast were hot on your heels.

What a perfect save, you think.

It was, in fact, not a perfect save.

While your stomach issues excuse bought you a few days of peace, Wanderer seemed to be watching you even more closely than before.

Any time you catch yourself in the midst of zoning out you find him there, already staring right at you. At first you tried to play it off, feigning the usual exhaustion of a dedicated scholar or claiming you’ve been brainstorming ideas for your latest story.

But Wanderer’s stern gaze makes it clear he does not buy it at all and it is only a matter of time before he corners you and demands an answer.

You have tried your best not to have those impure thoughts, you truly did try. But it seems to haunt you, bits of inspiration appearing throughout your daily life.

One time, you had picked up your favorite novel, The Heartless Fae. You had hoped to replace your traitorous thoughts with the frivolous fantasies of fae princes and brave warriors.

Instead, the explicit scenes of passion have you imagining a certain harbinger and yourself in the characters' places. You wondered if the harbinger would throw you down and have his way with you like Jules does with Zakar in chapter twenty-two, binding your arms like a criminal before teasing your bare skin with the sharp edge of a dagger—

You had to borrow one of Alhaitham’s painfully boring essays to calm yourself down after that.

Another time, while researching historical texts for a writing assignment you stumbled across a textbook on ancient Inazuma. You cracked it open without hesitation, always eager to learn more about distant lands and the foreign cultures. But within a few pages the notable lack of information about the Raiden Shogun and electro gnosis became clear, almost as if it were intentionally scrubbed from the records.

You were reminded of the night Wanderer confessed his origins to you, his quiet retelling of his Creator and the search for his purpose. That was when told you about his past title, The Balladeer.

Sixth of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers.

You had only heard tales of the Harbingers.

Just their name seems to strike fear in the hearts of many and Wanderer seemed to confirm why when describing Scaramouche as a particularly ruthless leader.

Scaramouche was not governed by the moral principles of humans. He did not hold any reservations about destroying anything or anyone who stood in the way of his quest for Godhood. In fact, the trauma of his past betrayals inspired him to revel in the destruction. He would raze entire villages with fire, maim innocent civilians with electro, and murder his own subordinates without mercy if they so much as breathed too loudly in his presence—it painted a gruesome picture.

“I was not known to be particularly nice,” he had joked. “But I guess that hasn’t changed much.”

And perhaps that was the crux of the problem and the root of your fascination.

Scaramouche is not a myth constructed from one of your fantasy novels nor an unobtainable relic of ancient history. Even under a different name, following a different purpose, the experiences and memories of Scaramouche still exist.

Scaramouche is still alive.

Sometimes, you swear you can see him in the way Wanderer speaks.

If someone dares to test Wanderer’s patience, they never make the mistake twice. For all of Wanderer’s frequent glares and sarcastic quips, he rarely ever shows true anger. But if someone really pushes him, ignoring his boundaries and repeatedly demanding more than Wanderer is willing to give, something in him shifts. His cornflower blue gaze darkens in those moments, cutting to the person in a way that immediately has them faltering as Wanderer gives one final warning.

The presence of Scaramouche becomes most apparent when Wanderer fights.

You have only seen Wanderer in a serious fight once and it was for your own protection.

The two of you had been on the way back home from something of an impromptu adventure through the jungle. You had pestered him to come help you collect samples of Kalpalata lotuses to study for your latest story idea. You had read they only grow on cliffsides and climbing was not quite your strong suit. Your boyfriend, however, had a perfectly good anemo vision that would make reaching the peaks of cliffs a breeze.

You had told him as much (ignoring how he rolled his eyes at your genius pun) and he must have been in a good mood because he had only protested minimally before relenting.

The lotuses were beautiful. It was your first time seeing them in person and not merely illustrated in textbooks—you had excitedly said as much to Wanderer, who held you in his arms as he used his vision to keep the two of you suspended in the air. He had likely seen them a thousand times before in his long life wandering across Teyvat, but he still nodded along with your words and gave you a small smile that made your heart skip a beat.

You ended up leaving the cliffs without any lotuses. Perhaps Tighnari’s lectures about preserving nature were finally rubbing off on you because you decided your sketchbook and kamera were adequate documentation. The sun was just beginning to set when you and Wanderer could spot the familiar shape of the Divine Tree in the distance, indicating you would be home within an hour or two.

“Tonight I’m craving something fried,” you announce as the two of you walk side-by-side.

“Well you are having curry with rice, I already bought the ingredients yesterday.”

“But what if I don’t want curry with rice.”

“Then you can starve. You need to stop eating all that fried shit anyway—”

Wanderer suddenly freezes next to you, head snapping towards a tree just a few paces ahead.

You nervously follow his gaze but you don’t see anything unusual. You strain your ears, expecting to hear the heavy footsteps of a wild boar or perhaps the warning growl of a Rishboland tiger—but you can only hear the soft rustle of leaves and the pounding of your own heartbeat.

Just as you open your mouth, the hulking figure of a large man steps from behind the tree to reveal himself. Two equally intimidating figures follow closely behind, forming a triangular formation. The red and gold insignia on their clothing catches your eye and your breath catches

Eremites.

The moment they take a step forward, Wanderer slides in front of you.

“We don’t want to hurt you,” the large one in front says.

He is tall, completely drawfing both you and Wanderer with a voice that is deep and raspy. Despite his reassuring words the lopsided smirk on his face and the way his eyes seem fixed on you in particular does not quell the anxiety in your gut.

“Somehow I doubt that,” Wanderer drawls. “If you value your lives at all you will all turn around and leave us alone.”

The eremites seem to find the threat humorous and they exchange looks before chuckling amongst themselves. The once peaceful breeze seems to pick up around you, gusts of wind ruffling your clothing and forcing you to look away from the bandits to blink away the sting. From the corner of your eye you notice the vision pinned to Wanderer’s chest is glowing brightly.

“You’re a brave kid, I’ll give you that,” the leader taunts. “I’m feeling generous today so I’ll make you a deal: We will let you go home in one piece if you give us everything in your bags—”

His eyes slide past Wanderer and on to you.

Your stomach drops.

“—and a few rounds with your little girlfriend.”

The trio burst into another round of laughter but your attention is drawn by Wanderer who speaks to you without looking.

“Take five steps back,” he orders calmly. “Turn around and close your eyes.”

You follow obediently, moving before your brain even processes his words. You take five shaky steps back then slowly turn around.

The last thing you see before you turn is the curve of Wanderer’s shoulders as he summons Tulaytullah’s Remembrance.

You squeeze your eyes shut and listen to the deafening howl of wind.

Then comes the screams, the cries, the pleading as bones pop and snap.