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Tell me a story, little Canary.
Of course, dear Fox. There was once a pale man with dark hair who was very lonely.
Why was he lonely?
All things must meet this man, so they shunned him.
Kazuha breathes slowly, taking in the smells all around him. The ocean air, stinging in its saltiness. The wood, permeated by the same salt. And the usual stink of sailors on a long voyage. No storms on the horizon, nor in the air.
He lets himself relax atop his post on the crow’s nest. It’s rather common, him taking over for Xu Liushi when the other wants to sleep. Kazuha lies awake most nights anyway, and up here, he can breathe a little easier. Used to it as he is, the smell of booze and bodies never gets any more pleasant.
Kazuha casts a lazy gaze down towards the deck, polishing his blade. There, he spots an unfamiliar silhouette. He blinks. By now, the ship is all but silent, everyone asleep or about to be. Then who…?
He leaps off the crow’s nest, unafraid of the heights as Anemo curls around his legs and breaks the fall. His sword glints silver in the moonlight and he lands, the tip pointed at the back of the stranger.
The ship hasn’t docked in a while, so how did a man board it in the middle of the night, without anything but water surrounding them for miles? As Kazuha breathes, slow and controlled, he picks up no scent of… anything, really. All things have a scent, and for this man to lack one suggests that there’s something else afoot here.
“Well, that was impressive.”
“Who are you.” He doesn’t ask.
“How direct. I’ll play along, then.” Striding out of the shadow of the mast, and into the light properly, the man says, “I have a great many names. You may know one of them, considering your origins. But for the purpose of today, I’ll tell you this. Up north, they call me Scaramouche. Others, the little Skirmisher. Take your pick, as every name comes with an understanding.”
“Why are you here?” Kazuha says, his blade unmoving.
Scaramouche smiles a bit. “I come for your life.”
Cryptic. An assassin from Inazuma? His clothing suggests it’s possible, the patterns and design familiar enough.
When Kazuha doesn’t move, Scaramouche tilts his head. “No reaction?”
“Many have come for me. Someone’s blade is always following my steps, the same way the wind is always at my back. You just happen to be the most curious.”
“Poetic. Unfortunately for you, I am far from the others.”
It’s true. Scaramouche appears unarmed, languid, almost. For someone after his life, he appears far too at ease. It would be wrong to underestimate him. Keeping his blade steady, Kazuha asks, “Who are you?”
“I heard you were well travelled, but I suppose the name hasn’t come up in all your wandering. Shame. I’m particularly fond of it. In Inazuma, I am the Taker.”
Kazuha blinks and there’s a mask in the Taker’s hand, one he knows from fables and stories told to him as a child. Again, and a distinctive gasa appears on his head. “You…”
A smug smirk spreads itself across Scaramouche’s face, seeming every bit the mythical spirit Kazuha had heard so many stories about. The aura the spirit exudes sends his instincts afire. Danger, death, and the hairs on his arms stand on end. The silence is deafening. He can’t even hear the gentle lapping of the waves, nor the wind as it whistles past. Everything is fixated on Scaramouche and he’s as still as death.
Quiet has always unsettled him, at least once he got used to the ways he could hear everything, from laughter across the street and the heartbeat of everyone around, and especially now, surrounded by people who are naturally loud . Quiet means that there is no life. The heart doesn’t beat, the lungs don’t breathe. The voice falls silent and the mind stops working. As human as Scaramouche appears, he doesn’t breathe and Kazuha can’t hear his heartbeat.
Kazuha breathes in again, tells himself that he can pretend that it’s his own ears tricking him, and breathes out.
“Why show yourself?” He asks and his voice is unwavering. This man is Death, but he is only here to claim Kazuha, not slay him himself. “Why now?”
“Unlike for you all, there is no Taker for beings like me. When we are forgotten, there is one of us, who will be the last and will take us to the beyond. Showing myself to particularly interesting ones like you is just a way of extending my existence.”
Scaramouche’s hands drop to his side and his face shifts through a myriad of expressions, all unreadable, until it settles on carefully neutral.
Still reeling from the aura Scaramouche exudes, Kazuha sheathes his sword, arm starting to complain from the position. “What happens now?”
He briefly wonders if this is a hallucinated dream, if his crew mates could see this being.
“You die.”
It’s so simple, he could laugh.
“Just like that. When?”
“Months, maybe.”
Taken aback, Kazuha asks, “Then why are you here so soon?”
“Observation. Time and space don’t affect me the way they do you all, so I am here, there, and around the world all at once. Of course, I wasn’t meant to be spotted. It appears I’ve underestimated you.”
At this, Kazuha laughs. “You’re not the first. Most who do don’t stay alive very long, though."
Scaramouche raises an eyebrow. “Are you really threatening me?” He asks, seeming more amused than angry.
“Purely anecdotal. I’ve fought to stay alive before, although I had hoped to avoid it here with only nature for company. Nevertheless, I’ll make sure you have to wait to claim me.”
“All will meet me, in time.” Scaramouche stalks a little closer to him until they’re face to face. “And you… I don’t mind waiting for.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” In the shade, Kazuha had thought his eyes black, but this close, they’re a vibrant indigo and entirely unreadable.
“Nothing,” he replies simply. Scaramouche steps back, giving him a lazy salute. “See you then, Kazuha.”
And he’s gone, like he was never even there, in the span of a breath.
The sounds of the ocean grow sharper then, like it was the aura of death that dampened Kazuha’s senses. He breathes a little easier and the night grows brighter, yet he misses the dry voice and intense eyes. The thought draws a laugh out of him. He was just told he’s dying and he’s standing here wishing to see the Taker sooner. Perhaps the ocean’s driven him insane, or one too many shifts alone up in the crow’s nest.
Some solitary wanderer he is.
Kazuha busies himself in the following days, always feeling an impenetrable obsidian gaze on him. He’s in the kitchen, preparing a meal for the crew when he sees something amiss from the corner of his eye.
The spot of darkness has him turning to look to his left, where a familiar figure stands.
“You said months, I recall.”
“You saw me again? Impressive for a mortal like you.” Scaramouche strides into full view, looking the same as he did that day.
“A talent of mine, I suppose. Even you cannot hide from nature’s eyes, Taker.”
“There is nothing that I cannot do, Kazuha. Don’t presume—“
“And yet, I spot you each time.”
Scaramouche glares at him and he grins back, grabbing one of the strawberries he’d been washing, holding it out. “Try this.”
“I am not your taste-tester.”
“That is not what I am asking of you, dear Taker. I'm sure one as busy as you doesn't get to spend much time enjoying fruits.” The crew didn’t get to either, but ever since they figured out how to use a member’s Cryo to keep food fresh, they’ve been handily avoiding scurvy.
“You are assuming I eat.”
“Am I correct?”
Scaramouche hesitates for a moment and that tells Kazuha everything he needs to know. The strawberry glistens, ripe and round. Scaramouche blinks to his side, moving faster than Kazuha can see and plucks the strawberry from his hand. The spirit pops it into his mouth, clearly savouring the taste. His eyes glimmer with a content satisfaction that Kazuha expects from a cat with a treat, rather than an almighty entity.
“Enjoy, great Taker,” Kazuha says, his voice dripping with faux respect. Poking at Scaramouche’s short temper is the most fun he’s had in weeks. Sailing is not quite as eventful as one might hope, so it’s welcome entertainment, as well as distraction from that unsettling silence about Scaramouche.
“You are insufferable,” He growls, but there’s no heat behind it. Like a petulant child, the Taker plops down on the stool next to him. He’s still dressed in the simple black kimono and the bells on the gasa jingle as he shifts.
Kazuha can’t help himself— he laughs at the sheer absurdity of it all. The Taker, in all his spiritual flesh, is sitting beside him eating strawberries and he jingles .
Scaramouche, for his part, doesn’t get offended immediately. He stares at Kazuha, mouth slightly open. Then his frown, which almost seemed permanently etched on his face, returns. “What are you laughing at?”
“Nothing in particular.”
After a moment of hesitation, he reaches and grabs a pair, popping one in his mouth and tossing the other from hand to hand as he chews.
They coexist in amiable silence, Kazuha washing various fruits and vegetables while Scaramouche steals from his work. When he stops, drying off his hands with a towel, he glances down at what’s left and frowns. “Just how much did you intend on eating, Taker?” His cutting board is no fuller than it was when Scaramouche arrived.
“Stop calling me that,” Scaramouche grumbles. “It sounds insolent coming from you. And you offered, so I accepted, is there something so wrong with that?”
Kazuha smiles, bemused at his defensive behaviour. “My apologies, then. I did not intend to come off that way. You should know these are for the rest of the crew.”
“Then why offer at all?” He grumbles.
“When you have a guest, it is only polite. The centuries must have worn away your pleasantries, Scaramouche.”
“Time has done nothing to me. Your mortal concept of erosion aside, I am not as simple as your earthly gods. My existence surpasses any of them.”
“Still, you were so pleasant the day before.” Kazuha shrugs. “Now, you’re far more…”
Scaramouche raises an eyebrow.
“Abrasive.”
“You really have no respect, do you?” There’s a scowl on his face and a wrinkle between his brows that Kazuha has the strangest urge to poke.
“What’s the worst you could do, Taker? Kill me?” Kazuha hides a laugh as Scaramouche splutters. “So no, I have no fear of you, and my respect for you comes in the form of such banter. I hope you don’t take too much offense to my banter.”
When he gets no response, Kazuha turns, finding that in Scaramouche’s place is nothing but empty air.
He huffs. “See you soon, Taker,” he says to no one in particular.
The next time Kazuha sees Death, it is as the Alcor passes through Inazuma’s storm. He’s safely below decks, sitting on his bunk alone, trying to fend off the memories plaguing him. The Masterless Vision turns over and over in his hands, its empty glass taunting him.
He looks up on instinct and Scaramouche stands there, hand on his hip. “Are you alright?”
He’s gotten used to Scaramouche just appearing. Over these past weeks, he’s been a staple in Kazuha’s life, so he pays the sudden arrival no heed. “I’ve been better.” He doesn’t have it in him to say more, too preoccupied by the noise in and outside of his head.
Storms have never been kind to him, not since the crack of thunder stole his friend from him. And even before, the noise it made never rested easy on his ears. Kazuha draws his knees up to his chest and drops his chin down on them. He can’t stop hearing it, remembering the Musou No Hitotachi cleaving apart the sky and the taint it left in the air. He had jumped into it for his friend’s sake and he could still feel the nauseating pressure it caused.
Kazuha’s scalp suddenly stings, and he yelps, clapping his hands to the top of his head, where Scaramouche was holding onto a tuft of his hair, tugging on it lightly.
“Ow,” Kazuha says flatly. “What was that for?”
Scaramouche releases his hair, seeming content with Kazuha’s attention. “You were the one going on and on about manners, and yet you’ll sit there ignoring your guest?”
“Uninvited,” Kazuha points out. Scaramouche sticks out his tongue and pulls at his eye, but there’s a softness in his gaze.
“Your mind is clouded.” It’s not a question, but Kazuha nods anyway.
“The storm is a reminder of loss and pain, among other things: our destination doesn’t help and it’s no easier on my hearing.” For once, he doesn’t have the words to properly express himself, so he falls quiet again.
“Let me tell you a story,” Scaramouche says into the silence. When Kazuha sends him a confused look, he tilts his head, half a smile on his face. “I’d hope my voice is better than the storm.”
Feeling warmed by the gesture, Kazuha smiles as well. “I’d say so, yes. What stories do you have to tell?”
“Many. When you’ve lived as long as I, there’s an endless number of things I could tell you.”
Kazuha thinks about their conversations. “You said… you visit interesting people. Tell me about them.”
“You realize how many that is, right?”
He shrugs. “I want to see how I compare.”
“You… really are something.” But he indulges Kazuha anyway, taking a moment to think.
Then stories fall from his lips, all told with care. There’s something different that comes with each tale, a different version of the person before him woven in each.
Kazuha learns about the girl who loved the stars so much that when she looked back at earth and saw Death, she met him with a barbed tongue and knowledge her beloved stars had given her. Scaramouche’s voice sharpens then, with an edge of fond annoyance, as he speaks of the way they traded quips like blows, laughing all the while.
Scaramouche tells him about the young god, lost before she could truly begin. She was generous and kind and believed in good, poured her entire self into trying to preserve it in the midst of a war where Death reigned. She fought him, as most did in that war. Many of those that met her fate hang just outside his grasp, in a state where they are claimed and unclaimed by him by sheer will. But this god chose otherwise. She fought him all the way until the border, and only then did she choose to walk hand in hand with him. Even in her fallen state, she chose good, Scaramouche explains, quiet and morose.
And recently, the boy who fell far too young. Bright and blue eyed, named for a hero and in love with adventure. He was young to be in the hands of Death, as are all his age, but imagine the surprise when he fell through , beyond, into a place where Death dared not roam. A place where Death was cheated, although he worries not about his own stake on their lives. Borrowed time still runs out, Scaramouche tells Kazuha, eyes distant. But the boy… this second life cost him greatly. He still lives and laughs, but his adventures are not quite the same, nor is his gaze.
Scaramouche tells these stories like they are a part of him, Kazuha says as much, and he laughs hollowly.
“They are. I claimed them, one way or another, and their stories became intertwined with mine.”
He tells one after another, and eventually Kazuha works up the nerve to ask for one in particular. He doesn’t hear the storm anymore.
“May I ask… a friend of mine joined you some time ago. Tell me about him please, if you wouldn’t mind.” His heart rate picks up as he waits for an answer, though he wonders if his fear is of the response, or rather the truth that awaits him.
Scaramouche gives him a knowing look. “He met me with acceptance, same as yours. Your friend fought for his life, you know that as well as I. He was— could be many things to different people. Brave, foolish, hopeful, naive. When his blade was cleaved in two, he did not go with fear. He went with disappointment and satisfaction in equal measure. But he accepted it. He chose that risk, he chose that death. Respectable, if you ask me. I have seen far worse, those who screamed and cried as I took them to a death they deserved.”
“Was he smiling?”
“Like no other.”
Scaramouche watches Kazuha, observing his reaction almost clinically. Kazuha himself isn’t sure what his expression is, too caught up in memories of lightning flashes and the booming thunder. He hasn’t yet grieved his friend, he thinks. Since the— since Kazuha had lost him, his life was all running and hiding in the wilds of Inazuma, learning an entirely different way of life on the seas, and now, a quiet existence where nothing matters but the present. He remembers a warm smile, bright laughter, and a small kitten. He remembers a back to him, a Vision leeched of life, and the crack of thunder. He reconciles the two with what Scaramouche told him, and his eyes open. Kazuha is unaware he’d even closed them, and a slow laugh builds in his throat.
“It’s… he’s the type of person to smile at that.” Kazuha shakes his head, slightly incredulous. “I was there, and the sight of the Musou no Hitotachi… although he got what he wanted in the end, I suppose.”
The glass of the Vision shines in the light. “Are you alright?” Scaramouche says gently, like he’s afraid to break the fragile silence.
“…Yeah. Yes, I am,” Kazuha repeats himself, growing more assured. He mulls the thoughts over and makes his peace with them. “Tell me another story, will you?”
Scaramouche obliges. “This one, he was young. Young, hopeful, and his voice brought rebellion. He…”
Kazuha latches onto the sound of his voice, smooth and almost melodic. He rests his head on his knees, watching quietly as Scaramouche talks. He’s okay, even as the storm rages outside.
The Alcor breaks through the storm and passes Ritou, heading southwest. Scaramouche spends more time with him, the two of them sitting on the bow of the ship together.
(Kazuha asks Scaramouche once, if he’s the only one who can see him.
“You’re the only one dying,” Scaramouche says simply.
“What a nice sentiment. So I just look insane to them, huh?”
“Absolutely.”)
As they sail, Kazuha spends more and more time looking out towards the familiar landscape. Ritou, the villages, the grand mountain where the Sacred Sakura resides. His mood sours a bit as they pass the Kujou encampment, but when they near Nazuchi Beach, a familiar figure approaches the ship, delicately stepping over the water as if it were solid as stone. It brings a smile to his face.
“My lady,” Kazuha says from where he’s perched on the bow, “it’s been a while.”
Sanganomiya Kokomi waves at him, friendly as ever, but quickly turns her attention to Beidou. “I’ve been gone far too long. We must make haste.”
Beidou motions to her crew, docking. Everyone surges off the ship, slipping into the undergrowth. Waiting for their cue, Scaramouche looks down. “This battle…”
Kazuha grits his teeth, steeling himself for what’s to come. He wonders how many of the soldiers can see Scaramouche now. “Death is abundant, it seems. Hopefully our arrival will minimize it.”
“Know that I cannot fight with you. It is not my place to interfere in a fair fight such as this,” Scaramouche says, morose. “Be careful.”
There’s no worry in his face, but Kazuha knows Scaramouche doesn’t worry about life or death. No matter the outcome, he will fight until the end.
She throws out an arm and they charge. Kazuha flies into the fray, feeling the wind at his back pushing him forward. It’s been a while since he’s fought Shogunate soldiers, and a familiar rush runs through his veins. The previously struggling resistance bolsters at their presence, and the Shogunate’s army retreats.
Kazuha wipes blood off his cheek, straightening with a stretch. He’s still alive.
He glances to the side, and Scaramouche is there, that same almost-fond smile on his lips.
“Were you wrong about me?”
He shrugs. “You’ll die eventually.”
Kazuha flicks him. “You're so cryptic, you know? All that about the battle and death.”
“It’s true,” Scaramouche says defensively.
Kazuha shakes his head, then remembers how strange he must look to the other resistance fighters. He coughs, then ignores Scaramouche pointedly. It’s petty, but he’s still riding the high of victory so he heads over to join the traveller and get a proper reunion with Gorou.
After Kokomi heads back to Watatsumi, the resistance decides to celebrate their victory by holding a feast in the evening. The traveller disappears off to wherever, but with the way they always smell of the different corners of Teyvat, Kazuha’s pretty sure they’re teleporting. How, he could never guess.
Kazuha finds himself in the kitchen, helping prepare enough food for an army, literally. It’s then that Scaramouche makes his reappearance, looking sulky, perched on the counter.
He tosses a glance over his shoulder. “I’m sorry for leaving you earlier.” His voice is quiet, so he doesn’t alert anyone else in the kitchen. Going around saying he could see the spirit of Death and that he could talk to him seems like a good way to get sent to a doctor.
“You harped on me for manners but you treated me so rudely.” He sniffs, but hops off the counter, shoes thudding on the ground. Sauntering over to Kazuha, Scaramouche peers over his shoulder. “What’s all this?”
“A celebration of sorts. For the others, celebrating the win against the Shogunate. For me, it’s more that I’m not dead.” Kazuha holds up a strawberry for Scaramouche, who complies with more than a little enjoyment, his previous pouting gone. “If you’d like, you’re welcome to join them outside.”
“I’ll pass,” Scaramouche says, stepping back. “Most don’t take as well to my presence as you do.” There’s an odd note in his voice, but when Kazuha glances over at him, Scaramouche’s face is neutral.
“I’ll save some for you regardless,” he decides, continuing to prepare the dishes. As he cooks, Scaramouche is unusually quiet, but when Kazuha finishes up and plates everything, he speaks up.
“Thank you, Kazuha.” It’s quiet and subdued. When Kazuha looks back at the spirit, he’s leaning against the counter, illuminated by a warm ray of sunlight. Scaramouche looks at him, eyes unreadable as they’re hit with the glow of light, illuminating to a vivid indigo. Something in that gaze betrays a sort of vulnerability that Kazuha hasn’t quite seen yet.
“You’re welcome,” is all he can find to say. Kazuha doesn’t want to leave Scaramouche behind, all alone, but someone calls for him, and he exits, feeling onyx eyes on his back.
The festivities wind down as the moon rises in the sky, Kazuha feeling a warm flush on his face from the sake. Gorou is passed out on the ground, propped against a wall. The general had eaten his fill, drank, and partied until he dropped. Kazuha figures the stress of leading an army is bound to get fatiguing and it has to catch up to him.
Now that nearly everyone is gone, Kazuha piles a selection from each of the dishes onto a plate, ignoring the looks that some of the more sober soldiers give him, and finds a more secluded hill to sit down. Scaramouche is there already, leaning sideways against the tree.
He looks half asleep, gazing out onto the horizon. In the moonlight, the hair that seemed dark as night glows with a cool indigo, and Kazuha pauses for a moment, mouth open.
He has something to say, he’s sure of it. Flowers, Beidou called his words. Yet, as he stands, basking in the light of the moon, Kazuha feels his voice die in his throat.
Luckily, Scaramouche notices him anyway and speaks first. “Oh, you’re back.” He turns and stands, pausing as he sizes Kazuha up. “Kazuha?”
It takes a moment for Kazuha to find his words, but eventually he blinks, a shudder passing through his body. “Yeah. I— I brought you some food.”
Scaramouche, thankfully, doesn’t comment on it, instead striding towards him to take the plate from Kazuha’s hands. “You really…”
“I told you I would, didn't I?” Kazuha is starting to feel more like himself, so he follows Scaramouche back to the tree, sitting beside him. “Go on.”
The spirit eyes him for a moment, searching for something in his face, before picking up the chopsticks and beginning to eat.
“Thank you for the food.”
It’s quiet in the night, even with a few soldiers nearby, still chattering amongst themselves. Moonlight turns the scenery silvery and the only sound is Scaramouche’s chopsticks on the plate. He’s eerily silent even when he eats, and Kazuha is distinctly reminded that Scaramouche isn’t human.
Kazuha nearly dozes off, sitting there next to Death. The alcohol from earlier sends a pleasant buzz through him, warm and muffling. It’s only when his head nods and he jolts that his eyes snap open. Beside him, Scaramouche’s eating has stopped as he watches Kazuha with a fondness he has yet to see from the spirit. An expression Scaramouche himself doesn’t seem aware of, because it stays on his face as they talk.
“Tired?”
“Not really.”
“Sure doesn’t look that way.”
“Looks can be deceiving, dear Taker.”
At that, Scaramouche scowls. “I thought you’d moved past that name.”
It draws a little chuckle from Kazuha, the way Scaramouche draws himself up with a little frown that looks more like a pout. It’s reminiscent of a cat close to his heart. “I did, but perhaps I take a little enjoyment in the way it ruffles your feathers.”
“You’re cruel, Kazuha.”
“I’m sorry,” he says as a smile dances on his lips.
“I’m guessing you aren’t at all, are you?”
“You know me well then, I suppose.” A thought occurs to him then. “Although, it’s a shame I don’t quite know you in return.”
“I told you all those stories.” Scaramouche looks confused. “You know what it is you need to know.”
“Those are not yours, in the way that I wish to know you. They became yours, yes, but what about the one that was always you?”
Scaramouche gives Kazuha a once-over, before sighing. “You’re pushier than you look, you know that? But fine. That’s not a discussion for today, though. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you holding back a yawn for the past five minutes.”
“Guilty as charged,” Kazuha says. “But I’ll hold you to it.” He gets up, collecting the plate and chopsticks from where they were left on the grass.
When he looks to Scaramouche, intending to say goodnight, Scaramouche speaks first. “I enjoyed it. The meal, that is.” He stands awkwardly beside the tree, fiddling with his fingers. “Thank you.”
“It wasn’t anything much. You’re welcome. I’d be glad to do it anytime.”
Kazuha takes a glance back to the camp. A few soldiers are still up, chatting around a small fire, Beidou and her sailors among them. She looks up, sees him, and waves. He returns the gesture, intending to stop by to say hi and check up on his friends before heading to sleep.
Something draws his gaze back to the tree, but Scaramouche is gone, leaving no trace behind.
Scaramouche doesn’t show up again for a while. The summer months are dwindling to a close, the trees echoing the passage of time as their canopies turn the brilliant scarlets and golds of a fire. Kazuha works alongside the resistance, feeling lonely among its masses.
He wonders if it’s the number of people around. Scaramouche seemed uncomfortable with the idea of spending time with anyone else. It’s a bit of a foolish thought; Scaramouche never had any qualms appearing while Kazuha is near others. After all, only one person can see him. Knowing that doesn’t stop Kazuha from slipping away whenever the resistance can spare him, finding seclusion in the forests of Inazuma.
Today, he strays a little farther than usual to find a warm rock, one flat enough for him to lay on and stretch out in the way he so likes to. The heat of the sun makes him drowsy and the same warmth emanating from the stone beneath him doesn’t help.
The telltale crunch of leaves underfoot tells him of another’s arrival, and the voice tells him who it is. “You’re a lot like a cat, you know?”
“You’re late,” Kazuha mumbles.
“Well, you’re not dead yet.” Scaramouche remarks casually, walking over to him. “Scoot over.”
Kazuha rolls from his back to his stomach, resting his head on his forearms. “Awfully callous thing to say to someone. I meant that you disappeared for a while.”
“Callous seems to be your sort of thing.” Scaramouche settles on the rock beside him, knee brushing against Kazuha’s side. “You asked a great thing of me, Kazuha. It’s been… a long time since anyone has wondered about me.”
“But those people, you told me—“
“They all met me, yes. They interested me, so I followed them. Most fought me, some spoke to me, others even flirted. None have ever treated me the way you do.”
Kazuha turns his head, gaze falling on Scaramouche’s side profile, those dark eyes downcast. “How so?”
“Like I’m real. Like I’m not just a spectre of their dying minds, a hallucination. They speak to me, they laugh with me, and when it comes to it, they look away. You hand me strawberries, you offer to let me meet those you call family, you save leftovers for me. You mess with me like I am a person. I am… far from human. Above human. But never did I think that someone would treat me as such. To everyone else, I am a ghost, one they can deny. If I am real, their fate is real.”
“I’m sorry.”
Scaramouche’s head snaps to face him. “What for?”
“For calling you the Taker. You’ve long since been Scaramouche to me, but I enjoyed the rise I got out of you. I had no intention of reminding you that you were…”
“Inhuman?” There’s a hint of derision in Scaramouche’s voice, not directed at Kazuha, but at himself.
“Of our distance.”
“It’s not your fault,” Scaramouche says quickly. “I’ve accepted the way you humans treat me. I just… didn’t expect that anything different would feel so good.”
Kazuha watches him. “It must be lonely.”
“Unbearably so.”
The trees rustle in the wind. “What happens after I die?” Kazuha rolls over again, shuffling carefully, but doesn’t manage to avoid bumping into Scaramouche’s knee as he does so.
“Changing the subject so quickly?” The way Scaramouche looks at Kazuha is so blank. His eyes are filled with a quiet acceptance. “I move on to the next. Claim them with my blade.”
“What happens to me in particular?”
“Your soul… It goes off to beyond. Across the border. Unless you’ve lingering regrets. Those who do, wander this land as ghosts until those regrets and wishes of theirs have been resolved.”
Kazuha presses on, half an idea beginning to form in his mind. It’s a fool’s plan, but he's resolved himself to being a fool. “Is there any other way to remain?”
“So many questions. It almost makes you think a certain someone is trying to plot something.”
Ah, so he’s been caught. “I was just thinking… Allow me to accompany you.”
“What?”
“You’re alone, correct? I would like to join you, if you wouldn’t mind. Either become an aid or just a ghost who aimlessly follows you.”
“You have no need to pity me, Kazuha.”
“Pity? This isn’t pity. It has been a while since I’ve had companionship resembling anything like this. The last time, I—“ Memories of laughter and wandering return, but this time they don’t hurt. “I’m offering for myself, not for your sake.”
Scaramouche is quiet for a long moment, and the only sounds are Kazuha’s heart beating and the quiet rustling of the trees as the wind flows by.
“You’re serious?”
“Of course,” Kazuha replies, staring up at the sky.
A mask appears in Scaramouche’s hand, ornate and beautiful. There’s not a person in Inazuma who doesn’t recognize it, or at least, that’s how it used to be. The Raiden Shogun isn’t a fan of it. Even her eternity is no match for Death, and the mask that serves as a reminder is no longer visible in the streets of Inazuma.
“I think some would call this sacrilege,” Scaramouche remarks wryly. He throws the mask high, high, into the air, before a bolt of something cleaves it in two. As it returns to Scaramouche’s hand, one has become two, and the previously grey mask is split into one, white as snow and another, dark as night.
He examines them. “This one matches your hair,” he notes, holding the white mask up to Kazuha. But Scaramouche tosses the black mask to him and he barely catches it, sitting up in the process.
“Why give me this one, then?”
“Contrast. These are the masks of the Canary and the Fox, now. I have… split my duties. Split myself. The holders of these masks will be what I am now. Although it will take a while for my legend to become ours, it will still belong to the both of us nonetheless.”
“What does that mean, splitting yourself?”
Far too casually, Scaramouche leans back on his hands, looking up. “It would halve my lifespan.”
He says it so casually, Kazuha nearly misses the implication. Is he truly giving up so much— hold on. Kazuha casts an accusatory glare at Scaramouche.
“You—“
A slow smile spreads on Scaramouche’s face. It builds into quiet laughter, stifled by the hand he claps over his mouth. From behind it, he says,
“Half of forever is still forever, Kazuha.”
Kazuha rolls his eyes. “I get that now. You’re a pain sometimes, you know?”
But there’s no heat behind his words, not when he got to listen to that rare laugh. A smile was common enough from Scaramouche, sarcastic or otherwise, but that laugh… he wanted to bottle it up so he could hear it again and again. Although, they have forever and a day for that.
“Yeah, I am. Returning the favour, I suppose. You badgered me long enough. Still want forever with this pain?” He gestures at himself, shifting to rest his head on his hands languidly. There’s an ease about him that draws Kazuha’s attention.
“Out of pure curiosity, could I ask; have you done this before?”
“What, have some dying sap offer to keep me company for all eternity?”
Kazuha smacks the Spirit of Death on the head.
“Ow?” In hindsight, not the greatest idea, as Scaramouche sits up, rubbing the top of his hand with a scowl on his face. But he’s beyond fearing him, so Kazuha crosses his arms.
“That was a serious question, Scaramouche.”
“You didn’t answer mine, so why, pray tell, should I answer yours?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Yes to forever.”
A soft look crosses Scaramouche’s face then. “Then my answer is no, no one’s offered this before. You are the only one.”
“Alright then.” Kazuha relaxes, and they settle into a comfortable silence as he turns the mask over in his hands. His mask. “What happens now?”
“I kill you.”
It’s so casual, Kazuha wants to laugh. “Now?”
“Well, you’re supposed to die in a few days, but I can speed up the process.” That knife from before appears again, blade a shining ebony in the sunlight.
“You can just do that, then. Control who lives and dies, even without fate’s design?” Kazuha stares at the way Scaramouche toys with the knife, as if it was an extension of him. Which it is, in a way. He flips it between his fingers, the metal glinting as it whirls.
“I can. I don’t save people’s lives, though. I’m not a healer, the opposite, rather. I can keep someone’s life from slipping away, but I can’t heal the wounds that put them that way. A sort of stagnation, I suppose. Killing people is a bit simpler.” He pauses. “You’ll be able to do all of this too.”
“In due time,” Kazuha says, a quiet resolve settling in. “I told you when we first met that I would fight for my life as I always have. That doesn’t change now. And, like you said, a few days means nothing to forever.”
Scaramouche nods, stretching his arms. “I’ll see you then.”
“Wait.” It was more subconscious than anything, but Kazuha grips Scaramouche’s wrist. “Stay with me.”
“Are you sure you want Death alongside you as you fight to live? It’s a bit counterintuitive.”
“Not Death, you .”
“We’re one and the same, Kazuha.”
A leaf drifts past. Kazuha catches it with a hand, then lets it go. “Not to me. Just… follow me where I go. I’d like not to be alone.”
“You wouldn’t be alone. There are many who love you. But,” Scaramouche pauses. “I’d follow you anywhere.”
“Then stay with me. No questions asked.”
Even though he’s holding onto his wrist, Scaramouche feels like he’s barely there, skin cold. Fragile, Kazuha realizes. That’s what Scaramouche seems like. But Scaramouche nods, tilting his head. Dark hair falls over his eyes, but kindness shines through when he says, “Okay.”
Around them, the leaves keep falling.
Soon, Gorou receives word from Yae Miko that the traveller is at Tenshukaku. He mobilizes their forces instantly, and a small team, Teppei and the rest of Swordfish I in tow, rushes toward the capital city. They’re aided by Kazuha’s Anemo and swiftly approach Tenshukaku.
As they near, Kazuha feels a familiar sensation. Dread pools in the pit of his stomach. The Musou No Hitotachi has been used. He can only pray that the traveller survived.
They race up the steps, déjà vu thrumming through Kazuha’s mind.
The traveller walks towards them, looking worse for wear. But they flash a relieved smile at the sign of friends, and Kazuha’s worry fades. He shares a relieved glance with Gorou, but only for the slightest moment, because in the next second, the world fills with violet light.
They say time slows down to a halt when you’re about to die. But it’s not Kazuha who has a god’s blade at his neck, and yet, the hourglass freezes. He sees the traveller, half smiling, exhaustion visible. He sees an execution waiting to happen. He will not see it again. He hears a voice in his head. In? Around? Somewhere, it echoes, and it calls to him, the same words his dear friend spoke when they parted.
“There will always be those brave enough to endure thunder’s glow.”
Courage and kindness. That’s what Kazuha knows drove his friend to the peak of Tenshukaku, and that’s what drives him now, at those hallowed grounds’ entrance.
He doesn’t know what happens, really. All he knows is the voice, and his feet leaving the ground as something surges through him. He flies over the cement, faster than even his own Anemo could take him, and Kazuha’s blade meets the executioner’s. It briefly occurs to him that the violet glow comes not only from the Raiden Shogun’s bloodlust, but from himself, as Electro swirls with Anemo, bolstering his strength.
Face to face with the Musou no Hitotachi, Kazuha hisses just for the two of them to hear,
“This is for what you’ve taken from us.”
Something flickers over the shogun’s eyes, nothing enough to be readable, but her strength suddenly increases, pushing and pushing, and pushing and his blade, naught but ordinary metal against a god’s might, snaps in two. The Musou no Hitotachi continues its arc, and Kazuha is cleaved.
He sees the sky as he’s flung backwards, sees arcing lightning.
He sees Scaramouche’s face.
“You were brilliant.”
Past tense, huh?
He can’t speak. Something about being torn by a god’s blade does that to you. It doesn’t hurt though. He figures it’s just the shock.
“You did amazingly. It’s time.”
He manages the tiniest of nods. Will they avenge me? Kazuha thinks. He looks to Scaramouche as if he has the answers.
“They won’t. You never needed avenging, did you? Just the hope that your dream would become reality. They’ll do it.”
Kazuha gasps out, struggling for breath.
“Don’t struggle, Kazuha.”
His eyelids get heavy.
“I’ll see you, little canary.”
There’s voices, hands touching him. Someone is trying to heal him.
His eyes close.
It doesn’t hurt. He thinks the other made sure of that. He can hear the trees and the rustling of their leaves. He hears each individual leaf and the life that thrums through them. Around him, life swells. His eyes reopen, and across from him, the Fox smiles. The Canary smiles back.
What did he do?
He met another and chose to split himself into two.
So he would always have a friend?
So he would always have a friend.