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Mondstadt had never been more at war with Snezhnaya than now. It was gruesome, bloody, and there weren’t any signs it would stop soon. The Fatui had started it. The Tsaritsa had suddenly ordered the complete wipe-out of the nation of freedom because of a “conflict of interest” with Barbatos, the Anemo Archon.
“Make his people suffer until he surrenders,” the woman had requested, voice cold as ice prickling at the harbingers’ skin. “Bring him to me, whatever it takes.” Those had been her last orders before hell broke loose in the north of Teyvat.
The Balladeer, Sixth Fatui Harbinger, was on the battlefield, not only leading the army, but also engaging in the battles himself. The thrill of it, of seeing knights in agony and completely at his mercy; he’d been feeding off it from start to finish. He’d get so lost in it that he’d forget the main objective of the war. Even silently wished for the Anemo Archon to not make any moves.
After all, did Archons care about anything at all? The Electro Archon certainly hadn’t, Scaramouche would think bitterly at the end of each day. If someone died or had issues, then eternity just wasn’t for them, nor life on its own. At least the Tsaritsa was clear in demands and had a clear reason for every decision. You wouldn’t be thrown to the side with no explanation unless you’d betrayed the organization there.
The Knights of Favonius weren’t saints either. They fought like kids with sticks only to break down and curse at everything around them when despair plagued them. Their true selves would surface, and the curses aimed at their so-called merciful deity went unheard among other screams.
“Why, Barbatos, why?!” A knight had screamed one time as Scaramouche’s foot was pinning his wrecked figure to the ground.
The harbinger’s eyes scanned him with indifference. “What if it was your fault?” he asked in a sickeningly sweet voice. “What if your dear Lord just doesn’t think you deserve salvation?”
The man looked at him as if thunderstruck. He mumbled a bunch of denials, but the damage had been done, and it had been worse than any wound. With that, his protests stopped and he had let Scaramouche finish the job. No more emotion, no more hope. And if that wasn’t the most beautiful sight of all, then what could it be?
As weeks passed, they were getting closer and closer to Mondstadt City. The heart of the region, where Barbatos must have been hiding. Killing humans was one thing, but killing a God… Scaramouche knew that if he got that confirmation that he was stronger than an Archon, he would be unstoppable. However, his mission wasn’t to kill Barbatos. Yet.
In the distance, a golden light that made the earth under his feet tremble flickered. That couldn’t be Barbatos; he’d have used Anemo, which was nowhere near that color. What Scaramouche was looking at was more like Geo elemental energy, but a shade lighter.
He rushed towards the light like a moth to a flame. There, in the middle of the battlefield, was a group of unusual knights, not wearing their generic uniform, and each of them had a Vision. But the harbinger’s eyes weren’t on them. On the ground beneath them was a wide circle with flowered patterns, golden lines pulsing at each collision of blades. And in the middle of it, a man with blonde hair, a mere lab coat, and gloves stood there, keeping the field stable. A strange diamond-shaped sign was adorning his neck, and his teal eyes focused on where to direct help, waves of Geo striking from the ground at random each time a Fatui agent entered the circle.
This was not just elemental energy, Scaramouche observed. This was alchemy. Khemia. But how…? And the strikes were not meant to kill. They knocked the breath out of the agents and let them writhe on the ground.
Their eyes met as the harbinger was close to crossing the golden line. The man looked at him, as if daring him to get closer. Scaramouche clenched his jaw. All the people of Mondstadt were fools, thinking they’d have a chance against him.
Fine, then, I’ll humor you.
He took the last step, and suddenly the circle became a dome. The Fatui agents bumped against translucent walls that were sealing the others inside. Scaramouche laughed, drawing power from his Electro delusion. “Playing dirty, aren’t we?”
“I don’t want to kill you,” the man said in a steel-like voice.
“Oh?” The harbinger tilted his head to the side. “Get me a cup of tea then? Talk about our hobbies?”
He sent a slash of Electro that the man dodged at the last second. Then another one, and another. Fast, sharp, aiming to destabilize him, but none grazed him.
The blonde man struck back with Geo, rocks flying around them with enough precision and force to feel like a jab on the skin. It didn’t feel like a fight. It felt like their powers were having an unresolved banter.
Finally, Scaramouche had enough. He struck a few more times to distract him and lunged at the first opportunity, knocking him down on the ground. The alchemist was struggling to get out of his hold, but it was futile. Scaramouche stared at him, eyes narrowed. He noticed the golden diamond on his throat moving as he swallowed. How quaint…
“Forgiveness is a God’s job,” he hissed. “Tell me where yours is, and I’ll play the part this time.”
The man looked at him, chest heaving. “No.”
“But you know where he is.” If there was one thing he could tell from looking at him, this alchemist had a higher rank than a mere knight. He must have known.
“I won’t tell you,” the stranger said, and his words were followed by a loud rumble in the ground, the base under Scaramouche’s hands shaking.
The harbinger gritted his teeth and let himself fall to the side, immediately feeling the weight of the other on him, pinning him down. “Having fun? While your people are dying?”
“Why are you doing this?”
Why? Because it was his mission, the Tstaritsa’s order. And rightfully so, since Barbatos was a coward and refused to come out of hiding, forcing her hand.
“Don’t try to be a hero,” Scaramouche said. “None of this would be happening if your dear Lord had made an appearance. So in the end, who should take the blame?”
The light didn’t even waver in the teal eyes staring at him. He wasn’t getting swayed by the words. He was stronger than the other knights, both mentally and physically. Well, no fun, the harbinger thought.
“Unless…” he decided to take a different approach. “You’d like to take his place?”
At that, the alchemist’s lips parted. “Pardon?”
“If you prove useful to us, we might,” just might, “lower our weapons.”
The grip on his wrists tightened. “You’re lying.”
“Maybe, maybe not. It’s your gamble to make.”
The alchemist looked around them at the battle that had continued during their talk. His colleagues were struggling, their stances sloppier due to fatigue, and their energy draining with each move. Fatui agents were swarming them, attacking from all angles.
“Tick-tock, alchemist,” Scaramouche idly reminded.
The man took one last look at the others, then stood up and offered a hand to help the harbinger up. “I’ll come with you. But tell your troops to retreat.”
Scaramouche stared at the hand. Smirking, he took it. “Wise choice.” He called out to the Fatui soldiers: “Retreat! Enough for today!”
The soldiers stopped immediately. Despite the initial confusion, they listened and backed away. The translucent walls around disappeared, and the alchemical array on the ground faded with them.
“I must tell the others,” the alchemist said slowly.
The Balladeer looked in their direction: a tall blonde woman with her hair in a ponytail, a red-haired man leaning on his claymore, and a blue-haired one next to him, checking for damages. Mondstadt’s measly line of defense.
“Go,” he said. He was in a good mood, so might as well. “Tell them you’re not coming back.”
The alchemist strided towards them. They quickly checked on him, then focused on his words. Scaramouche couldn’t hear the exchange, but the horrified expressions on their faces were enough. They tried to argue, pointed angrily at the harbinger who just stuck his tongue at them. But in the end, the woman gave up first and hugged the man tightly. The other two men followed, and only when the alchemist turned to come back did they all break down behind him.
“Popular, aren’t you?” Scaramouche asked.
“Just lead the way,” the voice was clipped, different from their first exchange earlier. Cold.
Albedo — for that was his name, Albedo Kreideprinz, creation of Rhinedottir — stumbled inside what seemed like a ballroom. A set of instruments was collecting dust on a stage to the left: a harp, a piano, and a bunch of violins. The room was otherwise empty, polished marble floor reflecting everything that passed above it, and dark stone walls decorated with only a few old garlands from another time.
So, this is where I’ll spend my last moments, the alchemist thought.
This, his sacrifice, was for Mondstadt. For Klee, for Master Jean, Varka, Kaeya… This was the obstacle he couldn’t get past in order to find the truth of this world, to heed his creator’s last order to him. Yet, he found he didn’t resent it as any human would have, this turn of events. Perhaps it was a flaw in his system since he wasn’t a real human.
There wasn’t any way to escape either, besides the door they’d entered through and another one on the other side that only led deeper into the Tsaritsa’s quarters.
Besides Scaramouche, or The Balladeer — he’d told Albedo he didn’t care much about the way he’s addressed as long as it was with utmost respect — there were ten other people: four women, and six men, from the most delicate faces he’d seen to some closed-off ones that showed signs of age and battle scars like trophies. They were all wearing long white cloaks with intricate designs and smooth black fur at the edges.
Albedo recognized the Khaenri’ahn eye on the man in the middle immediately. This man was from Khaenri’ah. For a moment, his breath halted. But it was in vain; whether he’d known Gold or not, this man was a Fatui harbinger, so he didn’t owe anything to anyone aside from his leader. Still, one could hope…
“Oh?” A ginger man, slimmer than the others, looked at him. “Who is this, Balladeer? He looks familiar.”
“Tch,” Scaramouche huffed next to Albedo. “How would you know him? He’s the Chief Alchemist of Mondstadt. He can prove useful as a hostage.”
He couldn’t guess what Scaramouche had planned for him, but anything against Mondstadt would be the ultimate betrayal from Albedo. His stance was clear on this.
“It’s not like I’ve just recruited the 12th harbinger or anything,” the man continued. That was the last straw for him.
“I won’t help you in any way,” he said before he could think twice.
Scaramouche snapped his head in his direction with a frown. “What? So I only brought you here to kill you? Seriously? I could’ve done that on the field.” Frankly, Albedo didn’t care, though it pleased him to know that struck a nerve.
“Well,” the Khaenri’ahn man stepped up, sizing him up and down like he was weighing a bag of meat. His voice was hoarse and authoritative. “We can still make him do something. Do you know how to entertain, Mister…?”
“Albedo Kreideprinz. Son of Rhinedottir.”
Something glinted in the man’s uncovered eye. “Gold, you say…” There was recognition, but it was unclear if the memory was received fondly or bitterly. “Very well, Albedo. Know how to play an instrument? Anything?”
“The piano.”
“Wonderful! Give us a show, won’t you?”
Scaramouche’s hand twitched when the man motioned for Albedo to climb onto the stage. “Is this really necessary?” he asked, losing the edge in his voice. If Albedo hadn’t known better, he’d think the harbinger was worried for him.
His colleague ignored the question. “We can make it even more interesting. Sit down, get a feel of our piano.” Once Albedo was settled on the cold bench and the instrument was at a hair’s distance, the man looked pleased. “And now, you are sure you will not help us with the war, yes?”
A decisive nod. “Yes.”
“Then, once you stop playing this piano, you are to be executed.” He turned back. “If you don’t want that either, then we will draw our weapons here and now and get it over with.”
Scaramouche gaped. “What?”
The other harbingers didn’t comment, either engrossed in their own thoughts or simply not caring. The ginger man visibly winced at the words, though, looking apologetic on behalf of everyone else.
“You all wanted something interesting. Might as well make the best of it.”
Albedo considered the deal. He would die either way, be it right now or later. However, he could do one last thing to help Varka and the Knights back at home. “...I understand. I will play. But you must stop your attacks on Mondstadt until I am done.”
At that, the harbingers glanced at each other. The blonde woman who wore a mask that covered half her face regarded him, unimpressed. “Are you really in a position to negotiate? Remember where you are.”
“I’d say it’s a fair deal,” the other tall harbinger lady who was wearing a flawless black and white suit under the coat chimed in. “We should pay for the entertainment. Besides, it’s not like he will last long. He’s giving us a break, too.”
A short woman who was eerily similar to Kathryne crossed her arms over her chest in indignation. “This is ridiculous. I can make a robot to sing and play for us all the same.”
“But, Sandrone,” the one next to her, whom Albedo had thought of as an angel at first, laid a delicate hand on her colleague’s shoulder. “You would feel terribly offended if it was destroyed at the end of the performance.”
“Obviously!” Sandrone replied. “I’m proposing a long-lasting piece, not a mere human who gets tired after one hour.”
Albedo had stopped listening at that point, staring at the piano in front of him. He could last more than one hour, more than a whole day or two if he had to estimate, though that would mean repeating quite a few melodies. Would that be enough for Mondstadt’s line of defense to get back on its feet or find more allies?
The first key was pressed on the piano, and the note resonated sharply through the room, cutting the discussion short. The harbingers watched him as he got used to the feeling of playing. It had been a while. Still, he let the music flow while the harbingers left the room one by one, until only The Balladeer stood by the door, fists clenched. Albedo didn’t acknowledge him, so he left.
However much time he managed to buy for Mondstadt, Albedo could only assume it had value. If it didn’t, then perhaps this uncertainty — this inability to know the worth of his own end — was proof that he truly was not a perfect human after all. And worse, nobody would correct this mistake in his absence.
If he had to estimate, Albedo would have said at least half an hour had passed until one of the harbingers returned. It was the angel lady. A blissful expression adorned her face underneath the lace that covered her closed eyes. As she got closer to the stage, feet barely touching the ground, Albedo could hear her humming over the piano, not entirely in sync with it, but enough to give the melody an ethereal touch.
The woman gracefully sat down on the floor, arm resting on the stage to lean her head on. After one beat of silence from her, a brief pause, she opened her mouth to let out song lyrics. They were sung in such a way that Albedo could not recognize the lullaby or its meaning, but he could feel it resonating in his body and throughout the wide ballroom. His fingers felt compelled to follow her tune, changing their trajectory over the keys. It was melancholy, yearning for something that couldn’t be named, yet existed deep in one’s being.
Without communicating directly, they had just become a duo. Albedo had never had such a partner — Sucrose was his assistant, but hardly a proper lab partner due to their separate research endeavors — and, despite the new experience, he couldn’t allow himself to feel the thrill of it. It was beautiful but, as most beautiful things he’d witnessed, this moment was ephemeral.
The reminder of his own end came with the acknowledgement of the fact.
Perhaps the angel lady understood that, because she stopped singing, letting the piano go on and trying to make sense of her silence. She didn’t move from her place on the floor, and when she opened her mouth again, it was to speak: “Do you not value your life?”
Albedo’s fingers faltered on the keys for a moment. “I do,” he answered, focus back on the piano in an instant. “But it seems I value other people’s lives more than my own. Over my own, if you would.” He really hoped they were alright and developing new defense and attack strategies.
The woman had no noticeable reaction. “They must have done you great favors to earn your sacrifice.”
“They have,” if a home and friendship could be considered favors. “But even if they hadn’t done anything, this outcome would be the same.”
She got off the floor, not one hair in disarray from her earlier position. She faced him and, though her eyes were closed, he could feel them pierce through him. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Humans are not selfless to this degree.”
“Not the ones you’ve met.” And also, he wasn’t human.
The woman’s breath stuttered, smile slipping. “You may be right…” She turned back, towards the door. “You play well, Mr. Albedo. May the light of the Moon Goddess guide you when you’re done.” And with that, the wide door closed behind her with a soft click.
Albedo did not know what that meant. A sort of religious wish, similar to greetings he would have heard during Windblume in Mondstadt or whenever Lord Barbatos would be mentioned. Jean would say ‘May the Anemo Archon protect you,’ to Knights headed outside the gates and other colleagues. That had been the last thing she’d said to him back on the field, as well. But he knew about Venti, and he knew there was nothing the Archon could do for him that wouldn’t impact the whole region.
Albedo had never relied fully on anyone before, and it seemed he would never get to.
The door did not announce its next guest.
The Balladeer slipped into the ballroom quietly, so the sound that reached Albedo first was not footsteps, but the subtle shift in air. He’d wanted to get away from Dottore’s experiment talks and he couldn’t be on the field either, so this was the next best option.
The piano did not stop. When would it stop? The harbinger wondered. If the alchemist noticed him at all, he gave no sign of it.
For a moment, Scaramouche stayed by the wall, arms crossed, watching. Albedo’s back was straight, shoulders set in that infuriatingly calm way, fingers gliding across the keys as if nothing in this place could touch him. As if he hadn’t just been granted a reprieve measured in hours. A fool.
“I can’t exactly run away,” Albedo said suddenly, eyes still on the keys. “I’m sure you must attend to more important matters.”
So he had noticed. Scaramouche scoffed and pushed off the wall, boots clicking deliberately against the polished floor as he approached the stage. “Don’t like having an audience, huh?”
“I prefer a genuine one over any other kind.”
That made him stop short. His lips curled, more out of reflex than amusement. “And you think I’m not genuine.”
“I don’t mean to judge.”
“Well,” Scaramouche said, leaning a shoulder against the side of the piano, close enough now that he could check if any tension had made its way into Albedo’s wrists. It hadn’t, yet; this alchemist was holding on too well. “Not like I can attend anything battle-related until you take your hands off that thing.”
“How unfortunate,” came the unbothered deadpan.
The harbinger clicked his tongue and leaned in further, resting his weight against the instrument so that Albedo had no choice but to be aware of him, of his presence, the shadow he cast over the keys. Irritation curled tight in his chest.
“Why are you doing this?” he demanded, using the voice he’d use with a dying knight. “You know you will die in the end, right? You can’t play forever.”
Albedo, who acted nothing like a dying knight, despite theoretically being one, only clenched his jaw. “I am taking time to think about the people I cherish.”
Scaramouche barked out a laugh. Just how much time could anyone need for that, anyway? A few good hours had already passed. “Oh? Got a lover back at home waiting for you?”
“No. I’ve got a family.”
“Tch,” he scowled, moving back. Such a familist, and look where that got him. “They won’t care, don’t worry. You’re of no use to them dead, so why mourn someone useless?”
The alchemist let a few soft notes fill the air before his reply. “Is that what you want to be referred to when you die? As someone useless?”
A part of him answered immediately: I already am that. But at the same time, he spat out, “I cannot die, Alchemist.”
The other ducked his head, a corner of his lips lifted to an almost self-deprecating smile. “Must be nice.”
“It is.” It wasn’t.
“I don’t mind death,” Albedo said then, voice conversational. “I admit I hadn’t expected it so soon, but perhaps it’s all in favor of a final equivalent exchange.”
Scaramouche snapped his attention back to him. “Your life traded for what?” If he was going to answer with something inane, like the safety of the survivors in Mondstadt, or Barbatos, the harbinger was ready to mock him to the bone. However, it was much simpler than what he’d expected. One word.
“Peace.”
Had it not been for the piano, one could have heard a pin drop in the room. Scaramouche’s eyes darted around, waiting for a punchline, for the acknowledgement of a joke, but nothing. This man truly believed in his cause, in his worth and effort.
There was nothing left to say. The word just lingered in the air, heavier than any note the piano had played so far.
The Balladeer didn’t say anything else. He straightened up and ducked his head as he took several steps back, as if pushed away by a sudden feeling of shame. He didn’t leave immediately; he loitered around, silently watching from a dark corner. The sun had set long ago, and streaks of moonlight fell onto the ballroom stage. Blonde hair became ashy, but kept its shine and order, occasionally moving together with Albedo’s torso when he’d lean into the piano. Disturbingly peaceful.
At some point, The Balladeer left silently. Albedo observed he might have struck a chord during their talk, but he was being sincere. He hadn’t expected the other to understand, or have a noticeable reaction. It wasn’t wrong to feel satisfaction at seeing his discomfited composure, was it? Perhaps the harbinger was not inherently bad; that, or Albedo still hadn’t mastered being a good judge of character.
A pair of heels disrupted his thoughts, as another woman — Sandrone, the one who looked like Katheryne — emerged, frown set on her face and angry mumbles escaping her mouth one after the other. She was so engrossed in her issue, that when she belatedly realized there’s music around her, she stopped short in the middle of the room and looked up.
Her surprise didn’t last, as she scoffed and scowled again in a second. “Ugh, you’re still doing this,” she rolled her eyes. She closed the distance little by little. “You’re an alchemist, right? Got anything interesting? My robot assistant is malfunctioning, so humor me for a while.”
The image appeared in his mind; the robot towering over everyone from behind when he’d first set foot in this place. “The one that was with you when I arrived? Fontainian technology, no?”
“Why yes. Good, you know your stuff.” Sandrone relaxed a bit, thankful she didn’t have to explain anything like she would to a child.
“It is well made. It couldn’t have malfunctioned from nothing.”
“What? You think I did something to Pulonia? I assure you, my machines are treated better than some human children.”
Albedo had no doubts about that. Her robot was flawless, polished and fluid in its moves. Still, the light in its face had flickered briefly earlier. “It’s an incredible creation, but it doesn’t look new. It may sound presumptuous, but in the case it doesn’t already, I believe there would be fewer issues if this Pulonia got regular breaks.”
“He does get breaks!” came the indignant response.
“Any that involve a complete system shut down?”
“Well, that would be ridiculous,” the harbinger lady waved her hand in dismissal. “What if I suddenly needed him for something?”
“I don’t suppose he’s needed you for anything other than solving malfunctions like this.”
“And so what?”
“Then the problem is not the machine,” he said. “It’s the assumption that usefulness is constant.”
Sandrone crossed her arms. “He was built to function.” She said it like it was the most obvious thing ever. Perhaps the alchemist seemed increasingly less worth talking to in her eyes. If he’d had any to begin with.
“So was I,” Albedo replied, without emphasis. Without accusation.
Sandrone stared at him, eyes narrowing in calculation and mild irritation at best. The piano continued, each note measured, deliberate, alive in a way her creations never were.
“Tch.” She turned sharply on her heel. “You alchemists are all the same. You get attached to your tools and start assigning them feelings.”
“I don’t believe tools can suffer,” Albedo said calmly. “But I do believe creations can be exhausted.”
She paused at the door. “For someone with a death sentence,” Sandrone said, glancing back, “you’re awfully concerned about longevity.”
Albedo met her gaze at last. “Perhaps that is why.”
For a fraction of a second, something unreadable flickered across her face. Then she left, heels striking the floor in quick, irritated steps, the door slamming shut behind her.
Concerns about longevity didn’t seem like a fitting term for what Albedo had in mind. Human bodies were not immortal, after all. Since he’d been created to be like a human in all possible ways, wasn’t his life meant to end at some point on its own? Albeit later than the normal human.
Had it not been for this turn of events, he would have, what, a few hundred years ahead? That, too, with proper care and good habits. And he’d get to watch his companions in Mondstadt go one by one. He wasn’t too pleased to think about that. He could barely think about them now, after seeing how disheartened Jean and the others had been to watch him leave. At the time, he’d felt like doing himself a disservice, just offering his life like that, even though he was fine with it. But from the look on their faces, it didn’t look like anything was in their favor either.
“Here,” Scaramouche slid a small basket of fruit and packaged goods on the bench next to the man when he came to see him again. He’d happened to pass by a buffet and decided to be a decent host. Not like he’d particularly thought about the lone alchemist in the meantime. He had no reason to, just…
Albedo glanced at it, then back to the piano keys. “I appreciate it, but if it is a ploy to get me to stop, it won’t work.”
“It’s not,” Scaramouche glared. “If you don’t plan to eat, you might just die from starvation and exhaustion before anyone gets to execute you.”
“Thoughtful, if it weren’t for the fact that I cannot remove my hands from the keys.”
He let out an irritated sigh and took a fresh mora meat sandwich from the basket, tearing the packaging up. He held it up to Albedo’s mouth. “Eat.”
It was ironic, spiteful even. A food with the stamp of good fortune on it served to a man who had a death sentence pending. He ignored the faint guilt creeping up. It was what he had managed to gather in his hurry.
The piano keys descended into an easy, softer sequence, where the notes needed time to breathe, and so, also gave the alchemist the smallest illusion of leisure. His eyes darted from the sandwich to the other man. The moonlight reflected in them, making the teal color glossy, pretty.
“Open your mouth while I’m being nice,” the harbinger thrust the sandwich closer to his mouth. “Otherwise I’ll force it down your throat.”
“Charming,” Albedo mumbled with a faint smile. “Thank you.” He took a bite, then another, and so on until the sandwich was gone.
Scaramouche’s eyes were fixed on the man’s jaw and the mark below it, on his throat. A peculiar mark. He remembered Albedo had mentioned Rhinedottir, which confused him. Surely a creation of Gold would have a long life ahead, so why… He’d asked Albedo already, but still, he couldn’t comprehend the answer.
“Are you always this calm, or is it just because you’ve got nothing left to lose?”
Albedo considered the question while his fingers moved, the melody unbroken. “I don’t find panic particularly productive.”
Scaramouche let out a short laugh. “You really talk like that all the time...”
He leaned back against the side of the piano again, lighter this time, drumming his fingers once against the polished wood before stopping himself. The sound was almost swallowed by the music.
“You know,” he said, tone casual, “most people would be begging by now. Crying. Making promises they can’t keep.” A short image of the battlefield resurfaced in his mind. Blood, tears, dirt, death…
“Would that be more entertaining?”
His gaze snapped to Albedo. “You think this is entertainment?”
“I think,” Albedo said, carefully, “that you came back with food.”
The words weren’t accusatory. But the food hadn’t been brought for entertainment! How dare he downplay the small good deed he’d just done for him? Scaramouche bristled. “Tch. Don’t read into it.” Giving it a different meaning than what it was. Childish.
“I won’t,” Albedo said. A beat and a smile. “Should I?”
Scaramouche stared at him, searching for mockery and finding none. The piano filled the space between them. “You’re strange,” he muttered, almost drowned out by it. “You know that?”
“I’ve been told.”
“By who?”
“My assistant,” Albedo replied. “Occasionally my superiors.”
Scaramouche snorted despite himself. “Sounds about right.” He shifted his weight, then paced a short distance away, only to stop and turn back again. “You really think this is going to change anything?” he asked. “You playing until you drop.”
“I don’t know,” Albedo said honestly. “But doing nothing would change even less.”
That answer lingered longer than the notes. Scaramouche looked away, jaw tight. “Hmph.” He stayed there, arms crossed, listening to the notes that had started to drag out, delays that showed weariness was actively seeping through the cracks.
The conversation drifted after that, losing any clear direction. Albedo spoke occasionally about his work, about Mondstadt’s terrain, about nothing in particular, and Scaramouche responded when he felt like it, filling the gaps with half-formed remarks and idle complaints.
Scaramouche fed him again when the opportunity presented itself — fruit this time, then water. He told himself it was efficiency. Albedo accepted both without looking away from the keys. He also adjusted his shoulders, rolling them back to relieve tension.
“Can you answer me honestly for this?” The alchemist mentioned once. “Was this — our conversations — an attempt at throwing me off balance at any point?”
And The Balladeer’s lips parted, but no sound came. At first, he’d thought about it; he wanted to. But this time… “No.”
Albedo accepted that with a nod.
The harbinger hadn’t left, but by the way his eyes had started drooping while sitting in the corner of the room, he hadn’t taken too long to fall asleep to the sound of the piano. Albedo slowed his hands, more careful with the tune, so as not to disturb him.
Funny, wasn’t it? The man who had brought him here made sure to feed him and keep him company. A quaint host, The Balladeer. And now he was fast asleep, allowing the alchemist to glance at him with controlled envy, but also understanding.
Albedo got tired from social interaction as well. Adding that to administrative business such as the war (which, hopefully, had subsided), it was exhausting. He’d have liked to lay down somewhere, too. To eat with his own hands, to close his eyes for a moment longer than a quick blink. Alas…
The door opened again, revealing the man with a helmet over his face. He stood tall and emanated a heavy presence, like a commander ready to give orders, or a high-ranked knight ready to receive them. His face was not visible, but there was no need to see it to assess his authority.
“I applaud your attitude, Mr. Kreideprinz,” the man said, his only greeting being a sharp nod. “You would have made a great commander.”
“Thank you.”
The harbinger looked behind him where Scaramouche was still asleep. Must have been a strange sight. A harbinger didn’t have to spend this much time with a hostage. If his colleague had such a view, however, he kept it to himself, choosing to stick to business. “Are you quite sure you don’t want a position under the Tsaritsa’s order?” he asked. “You would make your family proud and offer them protection.”
It wasn’t as persuasive as he’d meant it to be. How could an affiliation with Snezhnaya be viewed as a benefit in Mondstadt at a time like this? Less so something to be proud of. And as for family…
“I reckon my mother would prefer having another son than seeing me choose this.” Albedo rarely spoke of or on behalf of his master, but he could infer what she would have thought. “Not to offend, of course. It’s a great honor,” for someone from any other nation, surely. “However, I would like that honor in my home city more.”
The harbinger didn’t react, letting a few notes pass before sighing and shaking his head. “Devoted until the end, huh.”
Albedo shrugged his stiff shoulders. “This is my last battle. I’m just playing the part.”
“Commendable.” The man turned to leave, but stopped. “Forgive me if it comes out as insensitive, but… My condolences.”
“...Thank you.”
He nodded once more and closed the door after himself.
Albedo let the melody continue once the door shut, though his back no longer held the same perfect alignment it had at the start of the night. His shoulders had begun to slope forward by imperceptible degrees, the proud lift of his chin lowering just enough to ease the strain on his neck.
He’d adjusted his posture deliberately between phrases, straightening whenever footsteps echoed too close to the stage. It would not do to appear weakened before an audience that thrived on it. Still, the stiffness crept in regardless, settling in his spine and wrists like a quiet claim.
It wasn’t that he’d overestimated himself. He could go on playing more, but not well enough. His pulse sped up as he stared down, hands still moving, but the keys were blurry. It really was getting close. The sun had started rising. A whole night had passed.
Scaramouche woke up from his unplanned slumber only to find Albedo’s face bathed in sunlight. It must have been close to noon. The alchemist, not aware he was being watched this time, gnawed at his lower lip, frowning at a note he’d just missed.
“You missed that,” he muttered, voice still thick with sleep. He wasn't versed in this field, but it was obvious when a transition between notes wasn't smooth.
Somehow, over the music and the distance of the room, the other man heard him. “I am aware. I seem to have forgotten this particular piece I wanted to play.” He recalibrated, a different tune surfacing.
“You’ve repeated quite a few melodies anyway,” Scaramouche stretched his arms up like a cat before standing up. “How many do you even know? I’d almost say you missed your true calling.”
“Quite a few. But I can adapt to new sheet music quickly. I looked around in case there was any on the stage, but I assume this stage hasn’t been used in some time.”
Indeed. This ballroom had used to be grand, decorated to the brim, lively, but Albedo was the only one who used it properly after months of inactivity. He brought a certain life that had been missing. “No cause for celebration, lately.” Scaramouche came to sit down on the stage with his legs crossed. “But it wouldn't fit the general ambience of this nation, either. You don’t see much color around here.”
“You can find it in the people, then.”
He snorted. “Sure.” Scaramouche looked at the alchemist’s hands, still moving with rhythmic precision despite the visible trembling in his fingers. “You talk about them like they’re a masterpiece you’re afraid to smudge. But look at you. You’re the one being erased while they sit behind stone walls waiting for a miracle.” He found that his own words irritated him too as he said them. “Does it ever occur to you that they might not even be worth the ink it’ll take to write your name in the casualty reports?”
Albedo didn’t flinch. He simply transitioned into a minor key, the sound pulling a low, mournful resonance from the piano’s wood. “A masterpiece is not defined by its longevity, Balladeer, but by the intent behind its creation. If I am the ink, then I choose where I am spilled.”
They hadn’t spent so much time together, but that was such an Albedo answer. One that would have required more time for anyone else to think of, but for him it was one second. And he found himself wanting more of it.
Scaramouche hated hypotheticals, hated imagining mere what-ifs. He’d never seen the point in them. Still, he asked: “If you could change one thing, what would it be?”
Albedo paused, not in his playing, but in his breath. For a second, the mask of the alchemist slipped, revealing a tired traveler who had seen the end of the road long before he reached it. “I would have liked to see the Cecilias bloom one last time,” he murmured. “Not for the sake of the flower, but to see if I could finally capture that specific shade of white on canvas. I left my sketchbook in the lab back at the Knights Headquarters.” He looked at Scaramouche, then. “You said the piano could’ve been my calling, but I would rather think it would’ve been art.”
Scaramouche let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. He leaned back, looking up at the high, vaulted ceiling of the ballroom. “A sketchbook is just paper, Alchemist. It rots, or it burns, or it gets lost in the archives of a city that might not even be there in a century.” Who could vouch for anything certain in the future? “You’re worried about capturing a shade of white so the world doesn't forget? Look at me. I’m not some Knight who’ll forget you by next winter. I’m a puppet built to last forever. I’ve heard every note you've played since last night. I’ve seen the way you look when you talk about those flowers.” He got up to stand next to the piano and leaned in, his shadow stretching over the keys. “Your art isn't lost in a lab. It’s here. I’m the witness you’re looking for. And I’m not going anywhere.”
He surprised himself by his honesty. But if there was anyone who deserved to hear that, it was a dying man.
Albedo’s fingers trembled, the grace in them now fueled by sheer, flickering willpower, the melody slowing as if the music itself was leaning into the harbinger’s words. He looked at Scaramouche, and for the first time, the clinical distance in his eyes was replaced by a look of profound, exhausted relief.
“You may be right. But I must be the one to go.” Albedo looked him dead in the eyes, removing one hand from the piano completely. Then one last note was played, and then silence. Complete, still silence, where you could hear a pin drop. Where Scaramouche felt a sensation that could be described as his stomach dropping as well.
Wait. He looked at the alchemist’s arms distanced from the piano. No!
“What are you doing?” he asked with urgency. “Play!”
“I fear the show is over.” Albedo stood up, legs wobbly and numb from sitting down for so long. “It’s about time I left.”
“No, sit back down!” Scaramouche looked around them, hoping nobody had noticed the silence yet, then leaned over the instrument. “I won’t tell anyone you stopped now.” He could make an excuse, say he’d stopped him for a moment to make a request, and nothing changed. “Just play again.” Please.
“I’ve played enough for this lifetime,” Albedo smiled wearily. “I hope the entertainment has been up to your standards, friend.”
Friend.
No. No no no no.
“Don’t do this.”
A playful tilt of the head. “Should I…apologize?”
He shouldn’t, no. He shouldn’t have even been here. Scaramouche had brought him here, had let Pierro serve him the end on a silver platter. He should have been the one to apologize.
“I’m,” he started. “I’m sorry.” The words were foreign on his tongue, and the sound of them passing his trembling lips was just as unfamiliar.
He’d taken every death and abandonment as betrayal. His creator, then Niwa… They had deliberately left him alone in his head, and he resented them for it too often to keep count. But this time, Albedo wasn’t betraying him. This time Scaramouche did this to himself. From start to finish, he’d been with the alchemist, pushed him around, made him talk, watched him fall apart right in front of him a whole night and day. This was no betrayal. It was his fault. Acknowledgeable, stingy, and ugly in his selfishness.
Albedo stepped closer and put a hand on his shoulder, looking at him flinch. “It’s not my job to forgive. But if that’s the last thing you seek from me, then you’re forgiven.”
“But…”
“I may not know much about death, but holding grudges in any circumstances is impractical. Would you lead me to the execution room?”
Scaramouche met his eyes, not trusting himself to speak anymore. He nodded and led the way out of the room, signaling for two Fatui guards to come with.
In front of the execution room, he turned one last time towards the alchemist. “You must be angry at me.” If anything could resolve his guilt — because that’s what it was! He felt it deep in his core more than anything he’d felt before — it would be knowing that the other man resented him.
However, Albedo, the kindest man he’d ever met, wasn’t going to do that. “I’m not angry. You’ve kept me company. I’m grateful. I should thank you.”
“Don’t,” he snapped, running a hand over his face. “Just… I’m sorry.” Again and again.
The alchemist took his hand away from his face and held it in a firm grip. A warm handshake. “I chose this.”
The Balladeer watched as two Fatui agents pushed Albedo’s handcuffed figure in the middle of the room. The alchemist stood proudly in front of all the Fatui Harbingers, chin up, back straight and shoulders rolled back. A rueful strand of blonde hair had fallen to frame the side of his face. He was everything the Anemo Archon should’ve been, Scaramouche thought grimly.
“Well?” Sandrone nudged him. “Isn’t this usually your part? Get to it.” She was standing on her own, without Pulonia anywhere near, which was unusual.
A beat of silence passed. Enough for Albedo’s eyes to catch his. I don’t mind death, he’d said.
“No,” Scaramouche said, surprising everyone in the room. They looked at him, waiting for a punchline of some sort, but there was none. He couldn’t do it. This man… Albedo… he didn’t deserve this. A bright mind being sacrificed for the sake of a God who was hiding, deliberately letting this happen… This was not right.
“I don’t,” he started, words lodging in his throat. “I don’t feel like it.” He looked away.
Sandrone didn’t seem to care. “Suit yourself. Guards?”
In less than a second, a sound he’d heard too many times before resonated in the room. The sound of a blade cutting through flesh and bones. Someone — Albedo — gasping for air that was being stolen from his lungs each second.
Scaramouche squeezed his eyes tightly, trying to tune everything out, to not think about his death, about any of the deaths he’d witnessed in the past and had left their marks on him. Stop. Stop. Stop.
He looked up.
Albedo was on his knees, a dark red patch in the middle of his chest getting bigger and bigger. Some blood was dripping down his chin, and a small frown adorned his face. He was clutching at the wound, blood capturing his white knuckles. His gasps were like a countdown until his last breath. One. Two. T-three…
He looked at Scaramouche then, eyes softening despite the pain and tension. Albedo wiped the blood away from his mouth, and he almost looked fine, normal, like he wasn’t dying. But he was, Scaramouche couldn’t ignore that, and he also couldn’t ignore that he took a major part in this outcome.
So Albedo looked at his killer and, with his last breath, smiled.
Childe burst through the door just as the harbingers began to scatter. He caught his breath, hands on his knees. “Got word from the agents on the field,” he said, to which Scaramouche tightened his hands into fists. “Lord Barbatos showed up.”
Too late. Too fucking late.
The rest had been a blur. Scaramouche saw red as soon as he’d heard Childe’s words. He took off immediately, feet flying through the halls as the ginger-haired man tried to catch up to him. Once he was in front of the door, Childe trapped him in a tight hold from the back.
“Balladeer, stop! The Tsaritsa wants to talk to him.”
If only there was any part of him that cared. “Let me go!” Scaramouche demanded. “I’ll kill him. I’ll make him burn, I will—”
Then something wet dripped on his cheeks, and he went slack, his eyes wide. Tears.
He zapped Childe with Electro enough to make him yelp and loosen his hold, then bolted. Not after Barbatos, but to a quiet place as far as possible from the rest, to do something he hadn’t done since before he’d left Inazuma.
And now, days later, there he was. Mondstadt, Knights Headquarters. After the war had ended, he didn’t receive any new tasks, so no one had sent him there. But this felt awfully like an obligation.
As soon as he entered the Acting Grand Master’s office, she stood up from her seat. She recognized him. “You brought Albedo back?”
The Balladeer avoided her gaze, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Albedo is dead.”
Her expression crumpled at the words. Like she’d expected it in some way or other, but it still stung. “You… You killed him?”
Yes. “Not me. One of our agents did.”
“You killed him,” Jean repeated, not as a question this time. “You monsters!” He heard it directed to himself specifically, despite the plural form. “He was the kindest man. He did nothing to you. We waited and waited for him to…”
Of course, she was right. “I didn’t get to know him that well. I’m just passing the news here.” The harbinger nodded then, having said everything there was to say.
He turned back to the door. He had to get out of there fast, lest he felt compelled to check Albedo’s lab, which he had no right to even get close to.
“How can you live with yourself?” Jean asked, voice dripping with resentment he’d sought from the man himself before.
He gritted his teeth. “I wonder, too.”
Starsnatch Cliff was peaceful at any time of the day, especially at night. One of his few favorite places to go to when he had free days from the Akademiya. The Wanderer, a man no one remembered, stared at the sky above. Although the moon was fake, he appreciated the way it meant that it didn’t change. It was the same tonight as it was before. It brought a sort of comfort to him. That, together with the Cecilias on this cliff, was all he needed to relax.
Bittersweetness was a friend of his. An invisible companion that he carried with him everywhere. It had been anger before, then sadness, then grief…
The man twirled a Cecilia flower in his hand, petals in a shade no one could recreate on canvas. Why mourn someone useless, he’d asked, decades ago, when the feeling had been in a transitioning state. “Well, you tell me. Why are you mourning him?” After all this time… A sudden breeze snatched the flower from his grasp, and dandelion seeds floated in the air with it from behind him. He clenched his fist, warmth lingering. He could use Anemo to play around with them, but he let them go on their way.
So, the wind asked, do dandelions mourn the seeds they lost?