artwork by ayu_kawa3 on twt
𝒩𝑜𝓉 𝒶 𝓂𝒶𝓃, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒶 𝒢𝑜𝒹
TW: Slight yandere implications, puppet Scaramouche, kind of a character study.
Scaramouche didn’t deserve love.
He knew that, almost too well. Worthlessness ran through veins void of blood beneath his porcelain flesh, too cold to be held in anything but a deadly grip by his numerous opponents. There was nothing soft about him - not his words, not his past, not even his skin, puppet-like as it was, disgustingly harsh to any touch. And perhaps that was fitting, in a way. A man too soft not to be discarded turning out to be solely made of sharp edges and icy ceramic.
People liked to play with dolls, and so he played with people.
A just retribution.
Men would fall in the wake of his plans, their lives torn from their hands like a candle flame blown by a mere summer breeze. Blood would spill, the very same kind of crimson he couldn’t find in himself, and there was something fascinating about the way it coated his hands whenever he was done. Had he been human, perhaps the scarlet nuance of it would have sunk into the lines on his palms - life line, luck line, love line. Or just a bit lower, on a soulmate mark branding his wrist, right above a pulsing vein.
But his skin was fair, smooth there, like everywhere else.
Perfect. The most splendid puppet there is, crafted by the hands of a God.
Only second to-
He crushed the thought under his heel whenever it arose in his mind. He’d learned, early enough, that jealousy and frustration were but ambrosia, a nectar to be relished in. Fury was to be feasted on and oh, it satiated him in ways food or drinks never could. Scaramouche bit on his anger, chewed it with fangs sharper than a sword, and spat out the loneliness and powerlessness that came with it, just like one discarded the bones of a chicken after a satisfying dinner.
Just like he’d been discarded, himself.
Sometimes, that very loneliness stuck to his gums, and the taste of it refused to leave his tongue. He caught himself staring at that little spot right before the crook of his palm took shape then, brushing against the emptiness of it with fingers colder than Snezhnayan winds. And perhaps he pictured something there - a mark, a name, a few words that would only make sense once he met whoever was fated to claim them, anything.
But there was nothing on his wrist, and there would be no one for him, either.
The only brand he was ever meant to bear was his mother’s, seared in the shape of her seal on the back of his neck. He’d attempted to get rid of it, once - three betrayals had birthed an anger more bitter even than poison in the void of his chest, and nothing would soothe it, he knew, but pain, blood and that goddamn fury that always seemed to be his most loyal companion.
He’d raised a knife to the back of his neck.
Had let the blade brush against the skin, there.
Before that empty wrist of his was snatched away by disgustingly human fingers, warm and pulsing with life. They’d tightened over him like loneliness tightened over that heart he didn’t own but fantasized he did, and he’d hissed, almost in pain. He couldn’t cling into anger no more for that kind of rage feasted on suffering and he’d been kept from causing it, so-
“What the hell are you doing?” the stranger demanded, and Scaramouche didn’t wait a second before retaliating.
His fist closed around her throat, stealing every ounce of breath from her lungs. Her back hit the shrine he’d been dwelling next to - the very sight that had awaken the blood thirst still clinging to his mind like a parasite. If he couldn’t spill his own, maybe he would spill hers, that stranger’s who dared touch him so casually, that insolent little-
His eyes widened when he took her in.
A shrine maiden.
She took advantage of his confusion. With those clothes of hers, too wide, an ocean of red and white, Scaramouche failed to notice her movements - before he could do anything to avoid the hit, her kick caught him right behind the knee, making him stumble. His grip weakened, and she freed herself from his claws, because of course, she would.
It didn’t matter that in another life, she would have been worshiping him.
They stared at each other for what might have been a minute. He felt her gaze on him, harsh, furious, and the feel of it was so familiar it would have been a breath of fresh her into his lungs had he borne any. Hatred was like coming home, and perhaps he was - she was an embodiment of the divinity that had discarded him, after all. Soon enough, she would attempt to chase him away like his mother had done, and he would kill her and soothe his anger the best way he knew - with blood, and a god-worshiper’s screams for mercy.
Instead, she pinched her lips, as if in deep thought.
And her eyes fell on his neck, right where the blade had slightly broken the skin.
“It looks bad,” she said. “Stay here. I’ll go get something to patch you up.”
Uh?
In less than a second, she disappeared inside the little temple, leaving him alone with more confusion on his hands than he knew what to do with. She hadn’t even acknowledged his violence, as if it didn’t fucking exist. He loathed the mere thought, but either she’d been right or she’d taken that fury of him with her, for he felt it leaving his chest, seeping through his ribs slow and steady like stream water.
He wasn’t used to being ignored, not now that he was a harbinger.
It made his anger feel useless.
She came back a while later, and Scaramouche himself didn’t understand why he’d remained there, waiting. In her hands, she cradled bandages the same white as her sleeves, and he found the gesture laughable - perhaps she hadn’t noticed, but he couldn’t bleed. There was nothing for her to wipe away and secure behind a bit of fair fabric. What he’d cut through was ceramic, and it would repair on its own.
Yet, the strange shrine maiden took a step towards him, raised a hand to push back the collar of his kimono.
He caught her wrist in the same way she’d caught his, earlier.
Tight, tight, tight, like the cage of fate.
“Are you fucking blind?” he spat, his words filled with less violence than he’d meant to. “Can’t you see there’s no blood? Keep your hands to yourself before I cut them off, mutt.”
She eyed her wrist, right where his fingers circled her flesh.
They covered the mark she bore, there. He didn’t want to see it, either, didn’t want to remind himself of the emptiness of his own skin. The mere thought of it made anger bubble inside his chest once more, filling the void birthed by the absence of a heart. The return of his fury was soothing, in a way.
But it escaped him once more when she raised her eyes to his and asked, sour:
“And are you fucking dumb?” she asked, in the very same tone he’d addressed her. “Instead of ripping through your own goddamn flesh, why don’t you hide that mark of yours instead?” A sigh rolled on her tongue, and Scaramouche realized the sound was almost playful. “That’s what most of us do, anyway.”
For a second, he didn’t understand what she meant by those last words.
Then, he let his fingers part from her wrist.
The skin underneath was empty, just like his.
“I covered it with makeup,” she explained with a little hum while he stared, confused. The violence birthed in his chest by her previous insolence was dead now, no more than embers slowly turning to ashes. “Until I make the right shade for you, you can use bandages to hide that mark of yours.”
Hiding it didn’t feel enough - he wanted it gone.
“Why?” he snarled, the word hissing through his gritted teeth.
She met his gaze once more. Somehow, her eyes made him feel small. We’re equals, it seemed to claim. You’re neither above me, nor below. Not a god, not an empty puppet, simply a stranger wandering the woods nearby my temple.
She was wrong, but Scaramouche didn’t have the heart to correct her.
How fucking ironic. Yes, right.
“Why am I being nice to you?” she wondered, an eyebrow arched in pretend surprise. “To some people, it’s natural, you know. Perhaps you should try it.”
A snarl caught on his lips.
His fingers twitched, longing to catch her by the throat once more, and make her spill her truth. Yet, he found he couldn’t - what if her lips stayed shut should he assault her once more ? Answers, that’s what he needed most then, or at least it felt like it.
She was hiding her soulmate mark.
Why would she discard something he’d yearned for his whole life?
“Stupid,” he spat instead, the toughest violence he could afford. That felt weak, still. “Why do you hide it? Doesn’t every pathetic girl dream of their sworn lover?”
A laugh rolled on her tongue, and it echoed in his ears like raindrops.
Clear, gentle, and fresh.
“Misogynistic much, isn’t it?”
Scaramouche only groaned in response. She pursed her lips, holding back her smile - why? he wondered, for he wanted to see it - before sparing him the wait for an answer.
“Fate bores me,” she explained, her gaze averting from his face to get lost in the details of the bandages she held. The fabric seemed softer when she was the one to fold it just right. Scaramouche didn’t even protest when she wrapped it around his mark, too enthralled by her words as he was.
“Perhaps I’ll uncover it someday, but I want to choose,” she kept going. “See my soulmate for myself, and decide whether I want to remain by their side or not. I’ve seen enough men using those marks as a way to collar their lover, in an animalistic claim, almost. Should I marry a beast, I want to choose which one.”
She smiled, her fingers gently tapping on his mark as she tested the strength of the bandage.
“Are all men beasts, then?” Scaramouche wondered in a growl, for he didn’t know why, but he wanted her to keep talking.
The sound of her voice echoed into the emptiness of his chest, as if calling for the heart he didn’t own. There was something fascinating about her words, a ridiculous sense of arrogance he usually loathed in mortals - no one could walk against fate, no matter what she thought.
Perhaps he could see that arrogance in himself, too.
And perhaps that was why she felt like home.
“Lucky you’re not a man, then,” she commented, playful.
For the first time since that morning, when he woke up craving pain and blood, Scaramouche felt a scoff roll on his tongue. She’d softened his edges with the gentleness of her hold on that hated mark of his, and he didn’t know what to make of it.
“No, I’m not,” he hummed in affirmation, glancing at her wrist once more.
Not a man, but a puppet, the words seemed to echo around him, singing into the breeze blowing through the branches of the cherry trees.
Not a man, but a discarded doll, the lying stars seemed to say, twinkling as they were above his head.
Not a man, but a god, Il Dottore’s voice whispered in his ear.
Hours later, the sun rose above the horizon, and he left her there, that shrine maiden. Spared her life and walked away without a single look behind, despite her insolence, despite the fact that her blood should have coated his hands.
If it was his first act of mercy as an all-powerful deity, then so be it.
Soon enough, he would travel to Sumeru, to take his rightful place there.
And perhaps someday, he would come back and teach her, that stranger without a mark.
That the only beings weaving mortals’ fate as they wished were the gods, and he would be one soon enough.
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I wrote this in literally five seconds in between two nightmarish essays, i stg i never wrote THAT FAST in my life. wasn't really inspired but ehhh i think i kinda like it??? oh and i wrote the beginning of a part 2 to this so maybe i'll post it soon
also i've been obsessed with Genshin please send me all the requests thanks ❤️
