Palimpsest

Part I

"You handle it gently, like this."

Eyes, an oasis against sandy skin, stared at the bird cupped in Buer's hands. She pulled it closer into herself, letting it burrow its head into her dress, allowing her room to remove one hand. She smiled softly at the creature, running a free finger down its back. A blank gaze followed the motion, unreceptive and naive. It was a reaction that wouldn't last for much longer—with every passing day she would look up and find the spark of intelligence concealed within those eyes had grown.

Scaramouche, the discarded puppet thrown at Buer's feet without care, would return eventually. But for now, he was hers to care for.

He wasn't her responsibility; she knew that. The Traveler had come and gone every other week, and with them came assurances that no one would place the blame on her if she left the failed god to fend for himself. Assurances, however, meant nothing in the face of the empathy she held toward Scaramouche. She had been abandoned, too, left to fester in her hopeless desire to become the god her people wanted.

Those empty eyes fell upon her, attempting to mirror her expectancy as she held out her open hand. The puppet didn't notice it, too focused on the sight before him. With a sigh, she moved as if to take his hand in her own, careful not to touch him as she guided his hand toward the bird.

The bird remained still in her arms, the only proof it was still living being the slow rise and fall of its breast against her chest. She held her breath as Scaramouche reached toward it. His fingertips were a hair breadth away before he suddenly jerked back, blank expression congealing into disgust, then hurt, before finally fading back into placid neutrality.

It was progress. Undeniable, immutable progress. He had, before, struggled to remain in her company for longer than a few minutes. That intolerance had grown by astronomical levels in a mere month—he could almost touch a living thing. Buer hadn't known Scaramouche before his fall; she could only imagine who he'd been before. Still, to know that he was so uncomfortable with the presence of the living, especially with the loss of his memory, spoke volumes of his past life.

During the brief period of time they'd spoken in person, he'd been calamitous, furious, and unflinching. He'd expressed disdain towards life and was not detached from the pain he inflicted on others. Knowing Scaramouche as he was now had torn away that facade.

Without his past at the forefront of his mind, the puppet was forced to bear his soul to Buer. In return, she allowed him to catch glimpses of hers. Scaramouche had once preached about the betrayal that had put him on the path he'd followed, had told how much he'd offered of himself to people who forsaken him in the end. She wouldn't contribute to his pain in that respect. She had the power to do that much.

It was odd, truly, to watch the innocent puppet interact with the world as if it had only just been born. He couldn't grasp his expressions, empty in every way that mattered, except in small moments where Scaramouche—where Kunikuzushi—bled through.

Those moments were agonizing; there was never a way to tell when they would come and go, save for ensuring that all contact with the living was limited. Buer could only watch as Scaramouche cycled through the course of his life, a tapestry of agonizing memories, bright and burning, torturing his features. Every time he fell back into a vacant expression was a relief.

The puppet's hand fell to his side, fingers twitching. His shoulders were tensed almost imperceptibly, remorse for his violent reaction written across his stiff posture. Buer offered him a soft smile, soothing the bird in her arms as she met his stare.

"It's alright. We'll try again tomorrow."