Skipping towards the carriage cheerfully, I marveled at every aspect of grandeur that surrounded us, from the perfectly trimmed bushes, to the fine snow landing gently on the delicate petals of primroses, to the flawless concrete paths, and the most opulent of all, the large, milk-white coach before us, laden with intricate gilded detailing and four enormous gold wheels.
In the front, sturdy reins with crystal buckles restrained a black hackney, its ebony coat glistening with a glossy sheen. The symbol of the Fatui had been engraved in silver at the back of the carriage, a warning to all who dared to approach.
Scaramouche strode towards the coach with nonchalance, and I rushed to meet his pace.
One of the things I had recently noticed was that, though Scaramouche was not particularly tall, he took remarkably large steps in comparison to mine. To top it off, he seemed in haste to get away from me as soon as possible.
Approaching the carriage, Scaramouche extended an arm in front of me, preventing me from advancing, and stepped in first, stomping on the velvet flooring to test the security of the cabin.
Sitting down, he appeared immensely interested in an obscure point just above my head, and reluctantly reached his arm out to me.
Ensuring that my lace gloves were appropriately fastened, I took his hand, yelping as he yanked me inside the carriage and shoved me into the seat beside him.
Slamming the door, Scaramouche collapsed into the cushion, pulling the curtains closed and placing as large of a gap between us as physically possible.
As the carriage began to move, I unclasped my purse, removing a half-finished handkerchief, a sewing needle, and three spools of thread, in gold, white, and royal blue.
And so, I began to stitch the remainder of the image into the fabric, paying no mind to Scaramouche's occasional scoffs of disdain.
Embroidery was one of my favorite pastimes, and I often liked to say that the needle and thread had followed me from the beginning to the end.
There was a power in being able to mend what had been torn, and to be able to create artwork that didn't wash off like paint or ink.
"What the hell are you doing?" Scaramouche asked, staring at my kerchief as if it was a piece of burlap.
"Sewing," I replied, not looking up. "Don't you recognize this? It's traditional Inazuman embroidery."
He smirked. "Yeah, a crapload of shit that is."
Fuming, I returned to my work, but Scaramouche stopped me, throwing a leather-bound book at my head and causing me to accidentally make an extra stitch on the wing of a crane.
"Might as well cram something into your brain instead of sewing like some dumbass handmaid," he muttered condescendingly. "That is, if it's easy enough for you to read."
Eager to get on his nerves, I said slyly, "You really brought a book for my personal perusal? How very considerate of you. I'm touched."
Exasperated, Scaramouche turned away.
"For the sake of my fucking sanity, just shut up."
Content, I ran my fingers over the embossed letters on the cover: The Duties and Expectations of a Fatui Harbinger.
I turned to the first page of the book, and engrossed myself in reading until I finally succumbed to sleep, or rather, my lack thereof.
----------------------------------------------*:･ﾟ✧------------------------------------------
Scaramouche's Perspective
I stared at her sleeping figure, scowling.
Sewing? How childish.
YOU ARE READING
𝙗𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜'𝙨 𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙬 // scaramouche x oc
Fanfiction--DISCONTINUED-- As the former heiress of the Yashiro Commission, Rin's past in Inazuma is . . . complex, to say the least. She was the true Shirasagi Himegimi, before her sister, Ayaka, took over that role in her stead. But when she left the nation...
