Chapter Text
The plan was set in motion in the early morning.
Their time schedule was tight, but if you worked as Fatui agent directly under a Harbinger, you were used to being efficient and completing tasks as they were assigned to you - lest you disappointed your superior and paid the price they saw fit.
The prerequisite of today’s mission were stealth and speed as the agents went about a wharf’s warehouse and carried out crates filled with something heavy in a longer line from person to person. Since daytime had passed 8 AM for some dozen minutes already, they had to work without the cover of night and without attracting unwanted attention. However, their Harbinger had made sure that everybody - even the Fatui agent guarding the small boat - had memorized the warehouse’s layout and knew exactly how to work at their best.
Mistakes were not allowed. Distractions were not allowed. Hesitation was not allowed.
The person sleeping on top of a cargo crate inside the warehouse caused all three of them at once and made the Geochanter who had found them stop in cold sweat. Thankfully, the person was sleeping and had not seen or heard any movement going on around the warehouse. Judging by the amounts of empty bottles under and around them (the Geochanter couldn’t tell their gender and didn’t want to impose by assuming), they would not wake up anytime soon either.
If the situation wasn’t so dire, the Geochanter would’ve sent them an impulse prayer so that the hangover come their waking up wasn’t too bad. But right now, their being here sent the Fatuus stumbling over what to do in a panic. This warehouse should've been abandoned. That it obviously wasn't, even if this was just one sleeping person, was a mistake, served as distraction from the plan, and caused hesitation.
“Lord Harbinger …!” The Geochanter decided that the dangers if he didn’t ask his superior what to do in this case outweighed the dangers of asking and making sure what his next steps should be. So, he turned on his heels and ran out of the warehouse, where a little man stood at the piers to oversee the procedure and turned pages of a book in hands, scanning the contents with a disinterested face.
Scaramouche looked up when the Geochanter stopped at his side, short on breath, and frowned up at him past the edge of his signature hat.
“What?”, he asked unkindly. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes, sir. There’s a person inside the warehouse, sir. Waiting for your instructions, sir.”
“Instructions? I said, no witnesses.” Scaramouche snapped the book in hands shut, which made the Fatuus startle in his growing panic. Who knew what (or who) might snap next? “Do you have rocks for a brain? What’s so hard to understand with that order?”
“They’re hungover and asleep, Lord Harbinger, sir! I didn’t want to assume if that counts as being a witness or not, sir!”
“Your sloppy way of talking gives me a headache. Shut up.” Scaramouche slapped the book against the Geochanter’s chest and walked past him, making his way into the warehouse to see for himself
Once inside, Scaramouche spotted the green-white clad figure in question sleeping on a cargo crate and almost laughed out-loud because of the absurdity of the situation. He couldn't have imagined such a turn of events even if he tried.
Scaramouche approached the sleeping figure, put his hands onto his knees, and leaned forward with a smirk, observing the Anemo Archon’s blissfully relaxed face. In his sleep, the Archon was holding onto a nondescript bottle of Inazuman sake and by the scent of it, the bottle wasn’t empty yet. Mondstadt's god was completely defenseless. Wouldn't it be a shame if anyone took advantage of that?
“Hey.” Scaramouche turned his head at the Geochanter who had followed him and immediately stood ramrod straight at being addressed. “Come here.”
Scaramouche plucked the book from the Geochanter’s hands, opened it at the back and tore out a blank page, ordering the Geochanter to turn around so that his back was on Scaramouche. He produced a pen from the folds of his upper clothing, pressed book and page against the Geochanter’s back to use him as a writing surface and ordered him to provide some ink to write with.
Harming the Anemo Archon wasn't in Scaramouche's interest. But messing with the Irodori Festival some more and possibly upsetting Yae Miko - oh yes, that was an extremely promising prospect and a convincing reason to further his intervention like this.
“The Five Kasen, was it?”
Scaramouche wrote on top of the paper: “The Five Kasen’s Splendor: Suiko”. He remembered the words as if he’d heard them yesterday - because his mind was untouched by Erosion, sometimes, he remembered events even too well.
Mine dwelling was far from the wider world, but for my fame my peace was disturbed.
In blue-clad I went before Tenshukaku to present our work, but Aoi’s work was missing a page.
I knelt and begged for divine wrath to be stilled, and I told what I knew of how it was lost.
The previous night I had been drunk, and then a person’s shadow had passed over me.
Some treacherous scoundrel must have stolen the poem, leading to my great loss of face.
When Scaramouche had placed the last pen stroke on paper, he gently blew against the ink to dry it, passed the book back to the Geochanter, and replaced the alcohol bottle in the Anemo Archon’s hands with the piece of paper. Swinging the bottle gently, Scaramouche inspected his work with a content smile.
“This should solve the problem.” He took a look around to see if the rest of work was close to being finished and caught sight of some lingering Fatui staring at him, their actions slowed in favor of looking at their content Harbinger's smile. It added to his attractiveness and was a sight to behold, especially when his subordinates were used to being stared down or frowned upon.
“What are you dunce faces looking at?”, Scaramouche bellowed, his smile dying away, and his voice’s tone brought immediate action into everyone. “Get a fucking move on it!”
Without looking back to not infuriate their Harbinger more, the Fatui left the warehouse leaving the single crate and the sleeping Anemo Archon behind and boarded the ship filled with boxes full of books.
Well, stealing books wasn’t the strangest thing a Harbinger had ordered his subordinates yet. Some agents had heard from colleagues that the 11th, Tartaglia, had been insistent on "making toys and running toy factories" during their stay in Liyue, without doing much explaining how that related to Fatui work. But sometimes, as long as everybody was safe, the most important part was that the Harbingers knew what they were doing.
Of course, Scaramouche wanted to see the effects of his work from up close. In favor of that, he changed his clothing into a plain Inazuman outfit and tied his hair into a short ponytail, mixing under the normal folk as an ordinary traveler. Looking like this, he could probably be mistaken for a local too.
His way brought him to the Outlander Affairs Agency, where he knew that among other things the foreign newcomers would be welcomed and entertained. Scaramouche found a spot from where he could watch the the fruits of his morning's labor and first intervention and leaned against the wall at his side. The commotion would start any minute.
Scaramouche was not let down. These humans - editors, artists and so on - reminded him of panicked chicken, the way they ran around the yard, handwringing, shouting, devising new plans.
They had to have discovered that the entire stock of the latest volume of The Legend of Sword was missing by now.
“The looks of terror on your faces that you can’t meet your deadline is all the payment that I needed”, Scaramouche said, lifted the stolen half-filled bottle of sake, toasted to the people in his view, and brought the alcohol to his lips.
Moments like these were the bane of existence. Panic and fear in Inazuma, the throbbing feeling of power in Scaramouche’s fingertips, the pleasant taste of the finest sake he hadn’t needed to pay for on his tongue, beautiful faces in the crowd -
Scaramouche almost spit out the gulp he’d taken. His attention focused solely on the newcomers who’d now entered the Outlander Affairs Agency and joined the fray to ask about the situation and help find solutions - two blonds and the familiar blond one’s flying pet.
The Harbinger had known that Aether was in Inazuma thanks to his intel - after all, he kept a close eye on the Traveller's movements since their encounter in the Delusion factory. Not because Scaramouche was interested in the Traveller at all; just to keep the pesky guy out of his way. Aether had an annoying habit of intervening in the grand scheme of things.
But the other person … a strikingly handsome face, elegant movements, his shade of blond a touch between the Traveller’s golden hair and the Kaedehara clan’s steel colored hair that rivaled the color of stars. Scaramouche didn’t recall seeing him before.
Scaramouche watched how the three talked to a couple of editors and reassured them about something; he saw how the unfamiliar blond youth received a couple of papers and showed his appreciation; and he watched the three leave again, disappearing from the Harbinger’s sight. No problem, as long as they stayed in Inazuma, all three were always within his reach.
However, as Scaramouche was finishing the little bit of sake he still had, he decided that his watching his prank's effect work out bored him now and that the Traveller’s companion was far more interesting. And so, he left his spot of observation and started strolling through Ritou in casual search for light-colored hair.
Luck was on his side. The man Scaramouche was searching for was standing in front of a painted canvas, by himself. When Scaramouche approached, the youth inspected the painting closely, set down a brush, and added some finishing touches even though the drawn scene looked complete as it was.
Scaramouche recognized the model painted there. He almost laughed out loud when he did. If only Suiko had come to know that one day, he’d be depicted with the face of the Anemo Archon! That would’ve made a splendid story for him.
“You drew that?” Scaramouche left his bright grin where it was, glancing from the painting to the man holding the brush. Factually, he’d asked a redundant question considering the evidence at hand, but nobody would be there to mock him for starting a conversation like this.
The blond man cocked his head slowly, hand with brush hovering over the canvas, attention still fully on the drawing, and mumbled, distracted: “Mh? Does it seem any other way?”
Maybe there was someone mocking Scaramouche for it, actually. But by the even tone the man was talking in, Scaramouche couldn’t tell if he should feel insulted or if the other had been joking.
Due to his good mood, the Harbinger decided to overlook the statement for now.
“Splendid craftsmanship.” He averted his eyes from the blond’s profile and analysed the brush strokes before him. As someone who knew a lot about arts and had met not only swordsmiths and the other four Kasen in his life but also poets and talented word crafters, Scaramouche knew to recognize the high value of art that presented itself to his eyes.
“You know what you’re doing", he observed. "The composition is easy on the eyes yet expressive. Your brush strokes don’t show any sign of hesitation and your choice of colors blends naturally into the scenery. You respected Inazuman culture but added your touch. There's harmony in your art.”
“You know what you’re talking about as well.” For the first time, the other turned his attention to Scaramouche and graced him with more than a glance in his direction. The look from his eyes was intense. “Are you an artist?”
“No.” Scaramouche shook his head, meeting the gaze without blinking. Teyvat knew many arts and Scaramouche was versed in most of them. Not that the person opposite of him would know. “Not like you.”
“I suppose.” To Scaramouche’s shock, the blond threw the brush in hands to the ground, clapped into his hands, and motioned him to follow. “Do you mind showing me a good place to get some food? You look like a local, and I have some time before my sister’s and the Traveller’s return here.”
Scaramouche hesitated for a moment in surprise. What an unexpected turn in attitude out of seemingly nowhere - had Scaramouche caught the blond's interest in this short exchange? Or was it normal for Mondstadtians to assume anyone was friend rather than foe? Could it be because of the Irodori Festival?
Not that Scaramouche minded, per se. Spending some time with this person had been his intention from the get-go. However, with his request, another problem arose: The last time Scaramouche had searched for a place to eat in Ritou had been more than several decades ago. None of the food stalls and restaurants he’d frequented still existed nowadays. On the other hand, how much could dishes change when this had been and still was a wharf town?
Scaramouche shook his head to clear his mind. Could as well go along with it.
“If I’m already showing you around”, Scaramouche closed up to the youth, shaking off the second of stupor that had settled in his bones to move on, “do I get a name to the face?”
This question seemed to perplex the other. He lost tact in his steps and took a moment to regain his neutral facial expression.
“I should’ve expected to not be generally known”, he admitted with a small laugh. “My name’s Calx.”
“Should I have known you?”, Scaramouche followed up, genuinely interested. No way his intel had failed with an important person. Plus, the name didn’t ring a bell at all.
“Do you know A Legend of Sword? It’s quite the popular novel here in Inazuma. I’m its artist and illustrator.”
“I see. Wasted potential.” Scaramouche should've connected the dots earlier. When he'd seen Calx's work of Suiko, he'd mistaken the vague feeling that had settled in his stomach for nostalgia. It would be more accurate to say that a subconscious part of Scaramouche had naturally recognized the brush work from that novel. Now, Scaramouche cursed himself for not seeing it earlier. After all, did he get to see such beauty usually?
The connection had been there - and between the canvas, Calx, the novel's artwork and the person besides him, Scaramouche could now see why the art had struck him familiar.
How curious that they all came from one hand.
“Wasted potential?”, Calx echoed. His voice carried no indicators how he received the off-hand comment made by Scaramouche. Not being able to read him was unsettling. “I like the story. People like the story. To tell you a secret, but don't tell anyone else, a whole stack of the latest volume has been stolen today.”
Yes, I know, Scaramouche thought, saying nothing in return. What he grew suspicious of was why Calx would tell him in the first place, especially if this was supposed to be a secret. Considering the panic this action had caused, should Calx go around and tell this to strangers he just met on the street? Or did he tell that to Scaramouche because of a superior motive?
“How likely do you think is it that a great enthusiast stole those novels to read them?”, Calx mused, lifting a hand to assume a thinking pose.
Scaramouche watched him from the side with narrowed eyes.
Was this some kind of elaborate strategy to have Scaramouche slip up and confess to his actions? But ... could Calx even know that Scaramouche was involved in the theft? Considering that Calx was the Traveller’s companion, nothing was out of the question. Maybe this was even connected to the Anemo Archon in the warehouse, somehow.
Or could it be the case that Scaramouche overthought this and Calx was indeed interested in the answer to the question, genuinely?
Scaramouche couldn’t get a read on Calx and that irritated him. Scaramouche disliked matters that irritated him. Oftentimes, they either ignited his interest - or in the worst and most recent cases, they woke his wrath and were destroyed to stop angering him.
“Who do you take the perpetrator for?”, Scaramouche asked back, voice as even as possible. “Which sane person would need this many copies to read a single novel?”
If he wasn’t mistaken, the novel count he'd stolen went into the hundreds. He could hand out free copies to each of his subordinates and still have a bunch left.
“I suppose there’s a kind of enthusiast who’d want to be the only one able to read a newly published story and rob others of the joy of doing so", Calx continued his line of thought.
Scaramouche took this as a cue and stopped at a food stall along the street, deciding this was as good a place as anything else. Calx noticed, face lighting up.
After exchanging a couple of words with the stall owner and exchanging recommendations, they purchased some food, found a low wall nearby to sit down, and dangled their legs off the edge. Ironically, neither of their feet touched the grass that stretched in front of them on the other side of the wall.
“You have a keen eye, and you don’t think highly of light novels”, Calx stirred the conversation into the old direction after an inane exchange of words in-between bites. “What is the artform of your choice then?”
Sword art, Scaramouche thought, enjoying the bite of his pizza. The art of war.
“I used to write poems”, he said, swinging his legs back and forth. He’d even dare to say that he was enjoying himself. How rare for him.
“Do I know them? Have I read any of your poems?”
“I wrote them for the Shogun only.” A long time ago, Scaramouche added mentally, laughing at his past self for having done so. Old habits might die hard, but Scaramouche had made sure to kill every last one of them.
“Like The Five Kasen …” Calx fell silent, eating on as he thought about his task of drawing all of them. This would be no easy mission to fulfill, considering that especially the last one, Kuronushi, had left no records of his works. A poet associated with the color black and a hint of mystery around his person, not unlike the man Albedo was eating with currently, how was Albedo supposed to depict him?
He still had enough time to find inspiration. Maybe he’d be bold enough to take this fellow, who woke his interest because of unknown reasons, as model for Kuronushi. He was dressed in predominantly dark colors, at least.
Hm … Maybe someone versed in the art of poems knew more about the topic?
Albedo decided to give it a try. The worst that could happen was that his theory would be discarded - and this was no harm done at all.
“As you surely know, his festival is centered around The Five Kasen. Are you, as a local of Inazuma, familiar with them?”, he asked. For some reason, the other laughed as if Albedo had told a funny joke.
“Yes. You could say that.”
“… Who’s your favorite?”
“Kuronushi.”
Scaramouche thought about the wanderer who’d written poems for the Shogun and only her but didn’t want anyone else to talk about him or even remember him, dressed in black like a shadow as he wandered the lands. Because what else could he have been but a shadow to the Raiden Shogun?
What a contrast he was in comparison to the 6th Harbinger Scaramouche who, no matter where he went, left an impression, and made sure that his deeds were remembered beyond people's graves.
“Throughout all chapters, there is never a chapter dedicated to Kuronushi. What do you base your opinion on?”, Calx asked curiously.
“Myself.” Scaramouche leaned back on one arm and licked the rest of pizza sauce from his fingers, fully aware that he was being studied from the side. “What else but my own opinion matters, Calx?”
Calx frowned at that, but Scaramouche gave him no time to retaliate. He jumped up, said “It was nice getting to know you!”, waved, and simply walked away, having finished his initial observations for now.
Albedo stayed behind, puzzled.
It took him a while to realize that he didn't even ask for this stranger's name.