( fatui harbingers x gn! reader )
─── 𝘿𝘼𝙈𝙉𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝙍𝙀𝙋𝙀𝙉𝙏𝘼𝙉𝘾𝙀 𝙇𝘼𝙔 𝙏𝙃𝙄𝘾𝙆 𝙊𝙉 𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙄𝙍 𝙇𝙄𝙋𝙎. lies reign aplenty in the realm of the tsaritsa, yet your shred of truth may captivate those deprived of the light.
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C H A P T E R XII . ᵃᵍᵃⁱⁿˢᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈⁱᵛⁱⁿᵉ
【✧】
THE COLOR WHITE WAS LOATH TO TELL LIES. From the moment they fell onto the ivory expanse, every insignificant mark and scratch had sealed their fate, left bare for the world to lay its prying eyes on. White seemed to like reflecting the ugliest of things; who often fled to seek shelter in swaths of coal black and insipid gray in desperate attempts to hide from alabaster's iron fist.
Maybe that's why the Harbingers' uniforms consisted of dark colors. The darkness was safe. It hid the things you wanted to hide, spoke only the things you wanted to hear. It wasn't as prudent as blinding, unblemished white, who showed impartiality to no one but itself. Bloodstains looked too bright on white. They were almost unidentifiable on black.
But Dottore couldn't help but wonder if one could still see the crimson blotches that wet the fabric of his undershirt. The intricate, heavy layers of his overcoat accented with threads of pure silver concealed the mess underneath nicely, yet the thought still continued to gnaw incessantly at the back of his mind, angrily demanding for his wandering attention.
A frown pulled at his lips. How annoying. He wouldn't normally be preoccupied over things as trivial as this -- blood could be washed out, depending on the process you use. The smell of metallic seemed to follow everyone around here; it came off of the infantrymen in waves, sharp and heady and reminiscent of gunpowder and steel. It was the perfume of the battlefield, the scent of imminent victory and unavoidable loss. It would be silly to be upset over something so omnipresent in the palace of the Tsaritsa.
And yet, despite the knowledge ingrained into his mind, it still bothered him to an uncomfortable degree. Why did he suddenly care so much? It was so odd, so new; and it irritated him to no end. But he knew better than to let his vexation show. Weakness was frowned upon, and he was hardly audacious and volatile enough to so outwardly express his emotions in front of important company.
His eyes, fragmented like uncut ruby and hidden beneath his domino mask, idly roamed over the long table of individuals clad in the same attire as him. His gaze skimmed over heads before it settled on an empty chair -- the only one whose inhabitant hadn't even bothered to make an effort to attend.
La Signora was the first to respond. Her lips, red as a freshly picked apple, curled into a condescending sneer as she eyed Scaramouche's vacant spot with distaste. "No. Who knows where he's gone this time. Good riddance, I say."
"Signora, must you always have something impertinent to say among this court?" A deep voice rumbled out, like the distant reverberation of booming thunder.
