Palimpsest

Part II

Buer hadn't quite lied when she'd told the Traveler that Kunikuzushi was comatose, her words chosen carefully so that they could easily be misconstrued. The puppet had, in fact, been unconscious for quite a while, but he'd woken up far before she'd had the chance to meet the Traveler after their battle with the failed god. It had been a surprise when he'd finally awoken, unreactive and emotionless in a way that she would never associate with consciousness.

Truthfully, she feared how Scaramouche would react when he met the Traveler once more. Signs of the return of his memories had shown themselves from the very beginning—his already shattered psyche couldn't afford to be prodded any more. For now, she would try her best to introduce him to the world in a way he could palate.

"This way," she whispered, a theatrical finger pressed to her lips. She grinned at the puppet from behind it; he didn't return her excitement—he never had, head tilted with a confusion that didn't reach his features. Nonetheless, Buer kept the smile plastered on her face.

She pushed against the doors at her back, revealing the glittering lights of the Grand Bazaar. Despite her attempts at surreptitiously entering, the little puppet made no such effort, his vacant gaze scanning the market as he walked through the door Buer held ajar. In the end, it didn't matter. No one noticed their entrance, through both planning and providence.

The stands in the Bazaar were unoccupied, the sellers and customers preoccupied with the performance currently being held on the Grand Bazaar's only stage. The performers were already on stage, one of whom was half-way through the spoken prologue.

Buer pulled at the fabric of the little puppet's sleeve, grateful that she'd managed to confiscate his hat as they weaved toward the stage through the small spaces between stands. She shivered at the thought of his owl-wide eyes, staring at her complacently as she tried to explain that the hat was too cumbersome for where they were going. He hadn't expressed any grief at losing his hat at the time, but that did nothing to assuage her guilt. It felt like she'd taken sweets from a child.

They ended up at a higher vantage point, sneaking through foliage until they reached a stone wall surrounding one of the Divine Tree's roots. Sitting down on its ledge put them almost level with the stage—a perfect view.

"This play is called 'The Legend of the Knight of Flowers,'" Buer explained as she settled on the wall, pulling once again at the puppet's sleeve to bring him down to sit beside her. "I thought you might like it."

She looked up to the stage, catching a wide-eyed smile from one of the performers—a young woman with red hair—which she returned with a shushing motion. Today wasn't supposed to be about her, after all.

As the play went on, every so often Buer would glance to her side, watching the puppet's excitement lift his shoulders, pushing him forward until he was clinging to the wall to keep himself from tumbling forward. Every so often she would pull him back, unsure of his ability to keep himself from falling.

For the most part, she was able to enjoy the show. It was more mature than she expected for what was advertised as a children's play, heavy with themes of duty versus loyalty, of purpose versus freedom. The themes served her purpose well, she decided, though she wasn't entirely sure if the puppet would even recognize them.

Eventually, the story came to an end, retired on a slightly ambiguous note that left Buer wanting.

They knew the fates of every other character but the Flower Knight. It was as if he'd stepped back, his happiness secondary to everyone else's. By the end of the story, he'd been all but forgotten and everyone else had their happy ending.

He wasn't a perfect character; he was human, making terrible mistakes, and, more often than not, exacerbating the problems faced by the other characters. It had been portrayed comically—this was a children's play, after all—but that didn't lessen the gravity of his errors. Regardless, the heart he displayed in the face of his mistakes had been more than enough to convince her of his value as an individual. She grieved his disappearance and what it meant for the tale.

It wasn't over quite yet, though, even if the story had been completed.

The final display of theatrical talent was a dance, one of the lead performers depicting a bloody dance from which Padisarahs grew. The sight was breathtaking, to say the least, a glorious show of beauty and macabre that would recur in the dreams of Sumeru's inhabitants for years. A finale in honor of a journey and all who'd been lost along the way.

The wall creaked beside her. The imagery hadn't crossed Buer's mind when she'd picked the play and she glanced at her ward. She sucked in a breath, careful not to let her concern wear on her features when she saw his expression.

For the first time since he'd awoken, Scaramouche bore a tight-lipped frown, eyes alight and seeing.

The day was nearing where the little puppet as she knew him would be gone. And when that day finally came, even with all her wisdom, Buer wasn't sure what she would do.