𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃, scaramouche

01.

“WHAT A WASTE.”

the coldness in his voice mirrored the icy winds of snezhnaya. snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky, settling on the ground in soft silence. but amidst the untouched white, there was a stark pool of crimson staining the snow, deep within the quiet forest.

“such innocence, such naivete, y/n. it almost makes me want to laugh.”

his voice held a note of amusement, and he scoffed, looking down at your body crumpled on the snow. the stab wound in your stomach was gaping, blood seeping out and mixing with the white, turning it into a twisted scene of beauty and violence.

“how pathetic.”

your body twitched, the cold seeping into your bones, the pain flooding every nerve. each breath was a struggle, ragged and uneven, as the harsh reality sank in. you had been a fool to think that this person—scaramouche, the one standing over you now—was your friend.

he was right.

you were pathetic.

how had you fallen for his tricks, for the charisma that hid his cruelty? how had you not seen the signs that he was a fatui? a harbinger no less. the realization cuts deeper than the wound in your stomach.

"scara..." you muttered weakly, his name slipping from your lips, laced with pain and disbelief. the nickname you had always used for him—one you thought he might have liked—now felt like a bitter joke. he cringed at the sound of it, a flash of disgust crossing his face. you could see it now, the way he had forced himself to tolerate the name, just to keep up the act.

you coughed violently, a fresh wave of blood spilling from your mouth, staining the already blood-soaked snow beneath you. your body twitched again, each movement a reminder of how close you were to the end.

“what? are you still trying to fool yourself into thinking that i care?” scaramouche’s voice was cold, mocking, like a blade twisting in the wound. there was no warmth, no remorse, just the hollow, biting the truth of his indifference.

you continued to cough, each wet, gurgling sound worse than the one before. blood splattered onto the snow, the red spreading in a widening pool around you. the pain in your chest tightened, but the pain in your heart was sharper.

you didn’t understand why he did this.

maybe it was for his own twisted amusement, a cruel game to entertain himself. or perhaps it was an order from the archon herself, a task he had to fulfill without question. whatever the reason, you knew one thing for certain—scaramouche would feel no remorse. not for you.

but a part of you wondered, hoped even. maybe, deep inside, buried beneath all the layers of his coldness and cruelty, there was a flicker of guilt. maybe he cared, even if just a little.

but if that care existed, it was hidden away, locked so deep inside him that it might as well not exist at all. you could see it now—the person standing over you wasn’t the friend you thought you knew. the scaramouche you had believed in was just a mask, and the real one was far more terrifying.

your vision blurred as you struggled to focus on him, but the darkness was creeping in, and the cold felt like it was pulling you down, deeper into the snow. you wanted to reach out, say something, anything to pierce through the wall he had built around himself.

but it was too late.

scaramouche could only watch in silence as your body went completely limp in the snow. the slow rise and fall of your chest ceased, and the life drained from you, leaving only stillness. for a long moment, he stood there, eyes fixed on your lifeless form, the cold wind biting at his skin, but he felt none of it. he just stared.

then, the anger came.

he wanted to scream, to lash out, to curse—maybe at you for being so foolish, so damned naive, thinking you could trust him. or maybe at the world, for allowing someone like you to exist—so trusting, so innocent in a place where cruelty thrived.

but instead, scaramouche bit down hard, silencing the words that burned on his tongue. his jaw clenched as he forced himself to hold back the flood of emotions. his hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles turning white from the pressure. he could feel his pulse pounding in his temples, but he refused to let anything more slip through.

the bitterness of the moment tasted sour, but he swallowed it down, forcing himself to remain composed. after all, what was the point of caring now? you were gone.

perhaps it was his lingering humane emotions that allowed him to feel this way. even as a puppet, he couldn't help but sense a faint trace of what mortals called "emotions."

how is it that a puppet like him, without a heart, could still feel such human emotions?

what are you exactly, scaramouche?

he threw the weapon to the ground, the tip of the sword sinking deep into the snow beside your still body. scaramouche scoffed, disgusted with himself, silently cursing the emotions that stirred within him. even in death, you still had the power to unsettle him.

with a frustrated huff, he turned on his heel, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he walked away, heading back to the fatui camp his subordinates had set up nearby. he left your body behind, abandoned in the wilderness. he didn’t care what happened to your corpse now. let the wolves come and feast, let the elements take their toll—perhaps he'd find satisfaction in knowing you’d become nothing more than a meal for the wild.

he didn't bother to discard it himself, leaving you to the cold, unforgiving snow, where your body would decay, forgotten and alone.

as his emotions flared within him, the blizzard around him intensified, the icy winds howling through the trees as if mirroring the storm brewing inside him. scaramouche gritted his teeth, his footsteps quickening, the cold biting at his skin. his mind was racing, overwhelmed by feelings he despised—feelings he thought he had long buried.

he was angry, furious that you still had the power to provoke these thoughts in him, even in death. guilt gnawed at him, anger surged, and worst of all, the memory of when he first met you crept in, unbidden. back then, you were something different to him—something... no.

he stopped the thought, shaking his head as if to rid himself of it. he couldn’t let himself go there. not now. not ever. you were dead, and whatever had been, whatever he had once thought of you, no longer mattered.

but the storm of emotions still churned inside him, relentless, refusing to let go.

he felt nothing for the lifeless body he was leaving behind. or at least, that’s what he told himself. it didn’t matter. it shouldn’t matter. you were dead, and he was the one who made it so. that was the end of it. there was no place for regret or sentiment in his heart—or what was left of it.

perhaps this had always been your fate, to live a life of beauty and innocence, only to have it cut short by the hands of a harbinger. a puppet, a hollow shell of something that claimed to be scaramouche.