#lethe writes

“Paimon? Are you here?” she whispers. Her voice echoes, and it must be a grand hall that she’s in, because the sound fades away too slowly. A little braver for it—larger space means better fighting chances, if she can just get these damn bindings off of her somehow, get her hand on some sort of weapon in this ridiculous situation—Lumine says a little louder, “Paimon!”

“That’s not my name, traveller.”

At the silky, low tone, Lumine flinches, expecting a blow. Nothing. Just his voice, echoing around her, rich with amusement. She grits her teeth. “Balladeer.”

“That’s not quite right either,” Scaramouche hums, “but I’ll forgive you this time. On account of your ignorance.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“You should know by now,” he says, “that I hate repeating myself.” The clip of sandals around her, one step, two step, three. Circling around her like a vulture, the shift of his position disorienting to track. 

The last she’d seen of him had been when she’d been transferred to Nahida’s body, the brief glimpses she caught of his position. The giant mechanical armour he’d been standing on. That indigo crackle of his eyes, bright enough to match any lightning storm. And that knowing smile as he’d glanced at her. His ominous proclamation nestled in her chest, cold and foreboding. Yet to be dislodged. Words, but not spoken. Felt, in her mind. I see you.

“Where am I?” she demands, trying to shift her head, trying to figure out where he is. “What kind of sick, twisted plan is this, Harbinger?”

Finally, the sound of his footsteps fades. He’s stopped moving. “Where do you think you are, traveller?” he whispers—right next to her ear. When had he shifted so close?! His breath feathers against the shell of her ear, his mouth just barely touching. Enough for her to feel the warmth of his lips. Lumine bites her tongue, struggling harder against the chains, but to no avail. 

“You—!” she splutters, every muscle in her body tensed for a fight. But she can’t do anything other than bare her teeth, not when she’s naked and weaponless, chained up for his convenience. It’s only a miracle that he hasn’t—

“Killed you yet?” At his lilting words, Lumine flinches. How did he know what she’d been thinking of? But his voice continues, mocking her. “Why would I do that, when you’re tied up like a pretty gift? I don’t even have to prepare you to receive me.”

Receive me. The words make her go cold, even colder than she already feels, a chill running down her spine. What is happening to her? What kind of cruel plan does he have in store for her? “You’re sick,” she spits.

“Am I?” His voice is soft, but dangerously sharp against her skin. Cool fingers grab her by the jaw, forcing her head to tilt up. Even though she can’t see, she knows he’s looking at her, inspecting her as though she’s a particularly interesting specimen. “You may think I’m cruel now, but I could be so much worse.”

“Go to hell.”

“Been there, done that,” the Balladeer says coolly, his grip on her tightening, hard enough to feel the heat of pain. And then his hand leaves her jaw. She almost misses the warmth. “Not too interesting, the Abyss,” he continues. “A little too dark for my taste. Nothing as fun as you to play with, traveller.”

Lumine takes in a deep breath, steadying her nerves. “Is this all a game to you?” Lumine asks flatly.

A hand splays across her neck. Not clenching, fingers only delicately poised on the spine of her back, but the threat of it makes her freeze all the same. “Not a game,” Scaramouche murmurs. “Something better.”

“Enlighten me,” she challenges.

“Curious choice of words, traveller.”

“Either answer me or shut up, Balladeer.”

“What does every god need?” he says, a question asked with no pause, spoken only for him to answer. “A nation to prove his existence, followers to prove his worth”—the hand at her neck tightens, and she whimpers, breath cut off—”and tribute to prove his power.”

Madness, she thinks. This is madness.  And that’s when he releases her. She splutters, gulping for air, and he laughs. He laughs, as though she’d performed an amusing trick for him. “I’m quite sane,” he says. “More sane than I have been, at any point of my miserable existence before my ascension.”

“I don’t belong to anyone but myself,” Lumine rasps.

“You came at such a convenient time, traveller,” Scaramouche says, ignoring her. Or perhaps her opinion matters as little as the stone floor beneath him, something not seen and not heard, only there to be used. “I’d been getting bored, waiting for something to happen.”

And then, the space rearranges around her. Lumine gasps as the chains rattle, pulling her up until her toes are barely touching the ground. Suspended in the air, useless weight, hung like a weather doll tied at both ends.

“I’d like to carve my name here,” he muses, finger pressing down on the left side of her chest, nail digging into the skin right above her pounding heart. “As proof.

“No,” Lumine says, fear snaking down her spine. “Don’t.”

Scaramouche only hums again, cupping her left breast. Lets it rest in his palm, rubbing his thumb over the perked nipple—Lumine starts at the contact. Suddenly realizes how warm his touch has become, searing like molten metal. How it flashes down her body, straight to the area between her legs. “I could make it good for you,” he purrs, a quietly-veiled threat, a knife on her skin. “I could make it so, so good.”

“As if—” And then. Rough, wet heat, the lap of a tongue at her breast. A knee, between her thighs, pressed against her crotch. Lumine gasps, any words she meant to say lost in the exhale that feels as if it’s been punched from her gut, and Scaramouche shoves his fingers in her mouth, the bastard. She gags, caught off guard at the sudden intrusion, her saliva getting everywhere. It’s too much, this strange place she’s been transported too, at the mercy of a man—a soon-to-be god, now—who’d hurt her over and over again, but his mouth is latched onto her chest, teasing her nipple with a flash of teeth that makes her keen. 

Any movement she has available is only shiver and sway, two-dimensional, reduced to a golden bead of pearl, strung on an unseen leash.

Scaramouche releases her from his mouth, a pop of saliva that has her tremble in acute shame, sedimenting anger. When he removes his hand, it’s only to skirt down from her breasts, the tip of his index fingers trailing past the belly button, the slick of her drool marking her skin. He parts through the soft hair above her mound to find her cunt, tracing the dripping seam. “Why,” he purrs, “I didn’t expect you to be so wet—is what I would say, if I wasn’t so intimately attuned to your thoughts.”

He’s insane, she thinks. Something in his mind is not right. She’d thought him mad before, but nothing compares to this delusion.

“Just treat this like a dream,” he coos, revelling in her desperation, and then his finger dips inside her, no resistance at all. He strokes her walls, humming when she lets out a strangled whine. “Release your inhibitions. Enjoy yourself, like your god intends.”

“I don’t,” Lumine says, an unwitting moan escaping her throat when he bites down on her neck, no finesse, just brutal ownership. 

“You do,” he says.  One finger becomes two, and it’s all she can do to stifle herself when he grinds the heel of his palm against her clit, and she is so close to begging—for him to stop immediately, for him to hurry up with whatever it is that he intends to torture her with, if only to stop this dream—

A dream, he’d said. Like a dream.

In her panic, she’d forgotten. There is no way he could have reached her; not while he was linked to that machine. And if that was impossible, this is not reality.

Who is the origin of this dream? Does a puppet dream?

He stiffens, staccato thrusting of his hand suddenly ceased. “Give it up already,” Scaramouche says, voice blisteringly cold. “You can’t do anything.”

“You’re wrong,” she says, the note of triumph sweet on her tongue.  “I’m not helpless here.”

“You are. I am your god.” His voice trembles for a second. She bites the inside of her cheek, hard enough to taste blood. The taste grounds her, and she wills the world to change, bending the atmosphere around her. The air tenses, and then it’s all flurried motion—a blast of wind from nowhere, ripping off her blindfold, silk undulating in the gale. When she opens her eyes, she’s inundated by the dim violet glow of his eyes, glittering with a terrible, terrible anger. 

“You will not leave,” he demands, his hand snatching for her throat, but it’s all crumbling, the platform, the chains, her body. “This is my domain!”

“And this is my dream, Balladeer,” she says, defiant. “You won’t have me so easily.”

“This is not the end, traveller,” he snarls. “I promise you, we will meet again.”

“I hope you rot,” she snaps—

—and that’s when she startles awake, eyes flying open, her heart pounding in her ears. Reality blankets over her like first snow, familiar sensations returning to her. The warmth of her blanket over her clothed body. Shallow breathing next to her head, small, soft hands rested on her cheek.

The burn between her thighs is still there, carried over from the dream. If she were to touch herself under her dress, she knows she’d be sticky with wetness. 

Lumine stares up at the night sky, and the twinkle of the stars reminds her of his eyes. That furious glare as he’d swiped for her body, only to have everything fade away. Lumine does not scare easily. She’s seen too much, fought too hard. But remembering the vow he’d made—the desperation in his voice, the hunger in his eyes—she can’t help but shiver. 

Beidou resists the urge to shout louder. She softens her approach, because unlike the image her enemies enjoy painting, Beidou is not without tact. “These are honest men and women, Ningguang. Children. I am only asking for temporary lodging while I divert the pursuers. Please. There is no one else I could ask.”

Ningguang hums, taking a long drag of her pipe before exhaling. Wisps of hazy smoke writhes in the air, sweet and heady and hard to understand. Of course the tobacco Ningguang smoked had to be perfumed too, the scent layered in expensive secrets. “You should have thought better than saving them, then,” Ningguang says. “Did you think their lord would not retrieve what was stolen from him? That he would not give chase?”

“Better drowned in the ocean than with him as lord!” The curse comes out unbidden, an old saying from a village that’s now underwater. Better drowned in the ocean than to believe an outsider—and they’d paid for it, hadn’t they?

“So there is your answer, Captain,” Ningguang says. “As I've said before, the Jade Chamber island will harbour no fugitives. We remain neutral on all fronts… even with you.”

Beidou runs her hand through her hair, fingers trembling ever-so-slight, hoping Ningguang would not notice and knowing she would anyway. “You’ve not seen what I’ve seen on his estate. The scars on their bodies. The tremble of their voices. He is a monster to the people he has sworn to protect.” 

“And when have the nobility ever kept their lofty promises?” Ningguang laughs bitterly, a knowing arch of her eyebrow. “The naivety of your heart is what has landed you in this trouble. I had no hand in your own undoing.” 

“You must be heartless, then.”

“No. You merely do not understand, Captain Beidou,” Ningguang murmurs.

“What don’t I understand, Ningguang?” Beidou counters.

Ningguang presses her lips to her pipe, closing her eyes briefly before glancing out the window beside her. She leans back in her opulent chair, a tilt of her head as she stares at the pipe spinning atop her finger, scarlet as finely honed as any bloody sword Beidou has ever had the displeasure of meeting. Nary a glance at Beidou.

“Have you ever seen the corpses of a hundred thousand men, Captain Beidou?”

Beidou mutters, “I’ve seen an entire village drown.” A village of fools, who refused to believe the outsider girl when she’d warned them of the coming flood.

“And even then, it would not compare,” Ningguang continues, “to the sheer carnage of war.” She holds up a clawed hand when Beidou makes to argue. “You’ve fought for your life, your crew, I know. But have you ever had to wake up in the middle of a battlefield, crawl your way through maggot-infested corpses as though you were one of the maggots yourself? So many dead that you could not differentiate from friend nor foe?”

“...No. Have you?” 

Because Beidou could blink and she would see it, the tight curl of Ningguang’s fingers, claw-like as they drag their owners forward, her hair a mess of disturbed silk. About to unravel. 

“What does it matter if I have or have not?” Ningguang says, a lazy wave of her hand. “The Jade Chamber hears many stories. A part of the trade—and the scenario here could be as true as the sun rising in the east. Or it could not. It was merely to make a point. I wish to ask: what is war to you, Captain?”

Beidou makes a fist and touches her chest. “A vow to protect.”

“Wrong. It is senseless murder.” And here, Ningguang’s voice sharpens, dangerously thin, “And I will not have it on my doorstep, you see.”

“Meaning it’s fine elsewhere?” Beidou snorts. “Have you no compassion?”

“Compassion does not win wars, Captain.”

“I thought you wished to avoid war.”

Ningguang smiles, her lips a crescent moon threatening to wane. “I am at war with war itself,” she says. “Therefore, you must take your fugitives and leave at once.”

“I cannot convince you.”

Ningguang lays her hand over Beidou’s clenched fist, soft and comforting. An infection that threatens the stability of pillars that Beidou cannot compromise. “No, you cannot.”

Beidou sighs. She’d been expecting this outcome, truth be told. The reason why the Jade Chamber has survived despite its lack of strong military presence was its trade. All the secrets of the world, it was said, were within its walls. More like within the skull of its founder, Beidou thinks ruefully. But the price for the trade was neutrality in all things. Information could be bought and sold, but in affairs between others, the Jade Chamber never displayed support. 

Fine. Even if Ningguang would not help, Beidou would. She’ll figure it out somehow. She always has. Hasn’t died yet. 

Beidou stands. Just as she’s about to march entirely out of the room, Ningguang calls.

“Oh, and Beidou?”

After every meeting with Ningguang, Beidou vows to never look back. And yet, upon hearing Ningguang utter her name without any title attached, Beidou always does. Perhaps the true fool is me! 

Ningguang gazes at her, finally. Red meets red, another front in the war. The slightest tremble in Ningguang’s shoulders, as though one more second of staring into Beidou’s eyes will end her.

Beidou says flatly, “What is it.”

“I hear Mondstadt is sunny this time of the year. Perhaps try your luck there.”

Beidou frowns. “Decarabian?” Perhaps not cruel, but certainly uncaring. Definitely not one to receive fugitives.

Amidst the glowing plants of the cave and sitting on a rock, The Tenryou general herself. Kujou Sara.

“What are you doing here?” they both say simultaneously. Kujou Sara immediately tucks her hand behind her back.

Curious. Very Curious.

But he doesn’t get the opportunity to ask, because Kujou Sara narrows her eyes. Uh oh. “This is Tenshukaku. On whose authority are you here?”

Itto huffs and points a finger at the sparkling beetles. “The onikabuto,” he says dramatically, making buzzing noises in imitation of their flight. “They called out to me in a dream.” Well, that was a lie. But it’s as close to the truth as it gets. Itto did dream of onikabuto in what Shinobu said was an unhealthy degree. He thinks it’s quite a normal degree.

“Of course they did,” the Tengu mutters. She clears her throat. “Well, you need to leave.”

“Wha—Why?” He didn’t even get to catch any beetles yet. “What does the Tenryou Commission want with a cave of nothing but beetles?”

Kujou Tengu stiffens, her face red. Weirdo. “I don’t have to answer that.”

“You do if you want me to leave,” he says, stubborn tilt to his chin. A sudden thought occurred to him; he rears back, horrified. “Or are you here for the beetles too?”

“I’m not here for the beetles, you stupid oni!”

“Then are you here for?” he rebuts. “Because I’m not leaving without a fight.” Actually, that would be the best-case scenario. His hand twitches for the claymore strapped to his back, beetle all but forgotten. Challenging her face to face like this—isn’t it better than scrawling a message on the bulletin board?

The Vision at his throat warms in agreement. Itto wonders if he could get Kujou Sara to draw both her bow and her sword. He’s still proud of the fact that he’s managed to force her hand into using her sword—not many can claim to have met its sting. It’ll be another epic battle, just like their first. His blood is humming just thinking it.

But his eyes must have shown too much excitement. The Tengu rolls her eyes. “How you found this place, I don’t know. But I’m also not here to fight, Arataki. If you must know…” She mumbles something.

He strains his ears and catches a whisper of ‘game’ and ‘spinning top’. “What was that?”

The Tenryou General—temporary Commissioner now—scowls. “I said, ‘I was just here for some peace and quiet.’ Away from public disturbances like you. That’s all.”

“I could have sworn I heard that—”

“—you heard wrong—”

“—you said something—”

“—I did not—"

“—about a game.” His eyes light up. So she likes them too? “Can I play?”

“I said nothing of the sort.”

He squints at her. She meets his suspicious stare with flatness, but Itto isn’t stupid. At least, not when it comes to Kujou Sara’s actions—he notices too much, to his chagrin. Even while he’s during a duel against some egotistical kid who refuses to acknowledge his status as the best hopscotch player in Teyvat, she randomly comes to him.

The thoughts would drift harmlessly into his mind, but then pierce as fast as her arrows: the light of the setting sun reflected on metal—her sword, drawn against him; the black feathers adorning some of Yoimiya’s trinkets—the flutter of her wings, darkness unfurled; the strike of lightning during a thunderstorm—the flash of Electro, sparking her arrowheads. He’d paid for the last one with singed clothes and numbness in his veins when the lightning struck him in his stupor. All because she refuses to leave his thoughts alone.

So, no. Itto’s not fooled at all. “You’re hiding something behind your back. Is that what you were talking about?”

“I’m not. Your brain’s working too hard, Arataki Itto.”

She’s never said his name like that. He tilts his head. She steps back, hands still hidden behind her. The shimmering grass beneath their feet cast an ethereal glow on the walls, as their amorphous shadows blend into one.

“Then show me your hands.”

She jerks her head away, golden eyes avoiding his gaze. “I don’t listen to trespassers.”

“Awww, c’mon.” If he wins against her, just once, maybe then he won’t feel the burning urge to bash his face into a tree out of embarrassment every time thoughts of her bubble up. And because it’s fun. Everything seems fun when it’s a match against Kujou Tengu. “I’m good at games. Let me play with you!”

“You can’t!”

“I so can!” He snorts. “What, you scared of me?”

“That’s definitely not it,” she says dryly. The Tenryou Commissioner sighs. Slowly, her hands drift apart from behind her back, revealing a clenched fist. “It’s because this top can only be played with by one person—which I was in the middle of, until someone so rudely interrupted me.”

And then she unfurls her fingers. In her palm sits a small spinning top, decorated with the purple, circular tomoe symbol of the Raiden Shogun.

Itto inspects with the careful eye of one who has taken many toys from children. He’s become something of a toy connoisseur; he’s won many such trophies in battle, after all. It’s oddly familiar. He stares at it, and then slaps a fist over palm. “Ah! I remember Yoimiya making something like this in her workshop one time. So you like this kind of thing, Kujou Tengu?” He nods his head. Imagines a spinning top, etched with a feather design. It’d match her wings. His mouth not quite caught up to his mind, he blurts out, “When I get back to Hanamizaka, I’ll ask Yoimiya to make you another one if you like it so much—”

And then slaps a hand over his stupid, stupid mouth. What was he saying? Why did he want to do something like that? As if he wanted to see her smile when he gives it to her? Shinobu’s right. Kujou Sara is scrambling his brain into mush.

“Oh?” She quirks an eyebrow, eyes flashing with amusement.

“Nothing!” he squeaks. Kujou Tengu is your rival, his mind stressed, not your lover! The last bit sounded suspiciously like Shinobu. Itto coughs, cheeks warm. Hoping to divert the Tengu’s attention elsewhere, he says, “You should show me how to play with that top.”

“I must refuse,” she says immediately, tucking away said toy. “I said it’s a single-player toy, oni. It’s called ‘Solo’ for a reason.”

He bristles at her rapid dismissal. “Y-You can’t just refuse Arataki ‘The Pride of Oni’ Itto like that!”

Her face is serene. “I just did.”

She’s right. She’s totally, completely, utterly right. But still!

“I—You—” Itto points a shaking finger at her, pride wounded. Familiar words rise in his throat. “I challenge you to a sumo duel, Kujou Sara!”

“I refuse,” she says again, a small curl of her lips, as if mocking him. The worst part is that she’s walking toward the entrance of the cave as Itto’s left speechless, staring at her back.

“You’re leaving?” he calls out. He wasn’t hurt. He’s not. “Just like that, Kujou Tengu?”

Her back stills. And then she turns around. “If you keep this our meeting a secret,” she says, eyes half-lidded, “then I’ll agree to that rematch of yours, Arataki Itto. But not sumo.”

“You’re so on! Doesn’t matter what it is, ‘cause you’re going down against Arataki Itto either way, Tengu,” he flings back an automatic response. He doesn’t even pause to think what he’s saying. “Tomorrow, you and me, Hanamizaka at sunset!”

“Only if you keep your end of the deal, Crimson Oni.”

It only occurs to him after she leaves, so frozen was he in place, that she’s finally agreed to a rematch. “She agreed?” he whispers to himself. “She agreed!” And then for a good minute, the cave echoes with whoops of triumph as he celebrates his small victory.

He bursts out of the cave and sprints his way home, heart racing, lungs burning as his legs trample over sandy shores. He doesn’t even try to avoid the eyes of the Tenryou Commission. No one can catch him now; not when he’s got a challenge with Kujou Tengu on the calendar.

The first thing he’ll do when he gets back will be bragging to the gang. The Tengu never said anything about telling other people about their rematch, after all, and none of them—not even Akira, the most supportive of his underlings—had believed he’d be able to secure a rematch.

“Just give up, Boss,” they’d told him, face full of pity.  Ha! That’ll tell them to ever doubt Arataki ‘The One Who Cannot Be Denied’ Itto!

And after that, he’s going to gather all the trinkets he’s bought from Yoimiya and bring it to the duel. When he wins their battle, he’s going to parade them and rub it in her face about the fact she couldn’t get any of them. All sorts of scenarios race in his mind, going as fast as his running.

If he was feeling generous, if Kujou Tengu asked nicely and called him ‘Boss’ after her defeat, he’d share. Hell, maybe he’ll even gift her one as a consolation prize. A spinning top, maybe?

➴

It’s only after he returned home to Hanamizaka that he’s reminded of his mistake, because the first thing Akira asks is, “Hey, Boss! How’d the onikabuto hunting go?”

Oh. Ohhhhh. Itto’s brain combusts into a billion pieces. The onikabuto in the cave. The cave that he left without taking a single one.

But then he thinks of Kujou Sara. Of their promise… And can’t bring himself to be mad. “Good,” he says with frantic nods, heart thumping erratically. “It went pretty good.”

Maybe Nimble Ninja will get crushed by Crimson Cyclone (definitely). Maybe he’ll lose the battle to Daisuke (definitely).