Shortly earlier . . .
Scaramouche's Perspective
"What the hell is it this time?!"
"Her Imperial Majesty has summoned you, my lord," the servant relayed. "She wishes for you to speak with a young lady by the name of 'Kamisato Rin'."
I tossed my quill to the ground, ink bleeding onto the carpet.
I want nothing to do with that girl.
No, I detest her. I hate her!
Grimacing, I hurled the inkstone on my desk at a mirror, shattering the glass and splattering black spots across the floor. Ink seeped into the rugs and dripped onto the walls.
That's right.
That's how I've always been.
Pitch black, just like ink.
But this girl . . . she is the opposite of shadow, nothing like "her".
"She" was dark, ill-tempered, fickle, but alone and weak.
Yet Rin, who claimed eternal loyalty to her, was bright as a star, gracious, and steadfast.
She was alone.
But she was strong.
The strongest of us all.
----------------------------------------------*:･ﾟ✧------------------------------------------
"S-scaramouche . . ."
While my voice quivered, Scaramouche spoke firmly.
"Kamisato Rin."
As he stared back into my eyes, my heart began to pound.
A eerie silence remained between us, but Scaramouche refused to break it, simply leaning forward with his hands behind his back, as if taunting me.
The red thread isn't real.
The red thread isn't real.
The red thread isn't real.
I was sure that if I told myself that a thousand times, it would become a reality.
But as I closed my eyes, the crimson streak only became more vivid, and my heart only pounded faster, and faster, and faster . . .
Beads of cold sweat trickled down my knuckles.
"You seem peculiarly unnerved, Rin. Tell me, what's the matter?"
I turned to face him, the one face that I knew would destroy me, if not now then in the far, far future, if this red thread was real and my temptation was no product of my delusional mind.
Attempting not to look in his eyes, I replied, "Thank you for your concern. I'm alright, Scaramouche."
He smiled kindly.
"Oh, is that so?"
In his voice, I heard something strangely familiar
The memory was vague, hazy, but I could still hear it.
"Rin."
Who said it like that?
"Rin."
Those eyes . . . someone else had them too.
What mortal would have the audacity to speak to the chosen one of an Archon . . .
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but one who was that chosen one's equal?
My eyes widened.
'She' had the habit of tapping her left finger on the armrest of her throne.
And that day, as Scaramouche looked down on me from the upper platform, he was tapping his left finger on the railing.
'She' would always grin mockingly as she spoke the words, "Is that so?"
He was smiling too as he said those words.
'She' never said much, but it was when she was silent that she was most frightening.
'He' didn't have to utter a word to make me afraid of what he would say once he did.
It couldn't be . . .
"Rin."
"Yes, Scaramouche." I replied, flustered.
Sighing, he took a step forward, and out of instinct, I inched back.
Scaramouche smirked, though I could tell he was annoyed. "Now then, there's no need for the hostilities." He placed his hand over his heart in mock sincerity. "I offer my utmost apologies for the incident the other day. It was fully my fault for mistaking you as an enemy."
"No matter," I assured him. "I must be used to seeing others as opponents. The reflexes of a fighter, as I'm sure you can imagine."
We both pretended to laugh, hiding our mutual irritation.
Nodding, the Tsaritsa materialized by the door, leaving a trail of frost behind, and I curtsied.
"I have prepared a light meal for us in the dining room," she said. "Scaramouche, show Rin the way there."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
----------------------------------------------*:･ﾟ✧------------------------------------------
When the doors shut behind us, Scaramouche drew his sword in a thunderclap, leaving me with but a fraction of a second to avoid his swing. His blade sliced the wall, leaving a gash in the marble. He glowered at me, bloodlust sparkling in his violet eyes.
But I recognized that expression.
I saw it six years ago, on that destined day.
It was the expression that I saw on the Raiden Shogun.
For the entirety of my life, I feared nothing but the wrath of the Almighty Shogun.
But through Scaramouche, I saw a fury that burned brighter than dawn.
I knew it.
I was sure of it.
I was so, so, so certain.
Closing my eyes, I opened them to face not Scaramouche, but the key to prayers.
Six years.
Fighting monsters, eating scraps and drinking rainwater, roaming across the world with nowhere to call home.
Six years.
Endlessly trudging into the uncertain future, desperate to see the faces of my two beautiful siblings just one last time.
Six years.
All.
For.
"You."
Scaramouche turned at my whisper.
"What the hell is it, you wh0re?"
My hands were shaking, my heart was constricting and expanding and constricting and expanding so tightly I was afraid it was burst. I could feel the pulsing of every vein in my body and the rattling of every bone. My lungs suddenly paralyzed, frozen in place . . .
And then it was still.
Absolutely still.
My breathing slowed, and my heartbeat settled.
But I could hardly believe it.
Because what I had convinced myself was an impossible dream had finally been fulfilled.
What I had spent my entire life pursuing finally bore fruit.
Each and every step of the way, I held only this thought in mind:
'I'll find him someday.'
And someday was today.
After all this time.
Finally.
I could finally go home.
"What is it?!"
I smiled. "Nothing it all," I responded cheerfully. "Shall we be going?"
Scaramouche looked perplexed, then suddenly grabbed my wrist, gripping it tightly.
"Slut."
In the smallest fraction of an inch, we vanished.
"Scara--!"
Before I could even finish, I was standing before yet another set of majestic golden doors, though not nearly as large.
"Lose weight," he sighed, brushing off streaks of static from his shoulder. "and get off me, harl0t. You'll make my hands filthy."
But I didn't let go.
"I said, get off me!"
My grasp was tighter than his.
The same anger flashed through his eyes again, but this time I was not as afraid.
"My name is Kamisato Ayame, courtesy name Rin. I am the first daughter of the Kamisato House and the heiress to the Yashiro Commission. You cannot frighten me, Scaramouche."
There was fury that blazed in his expression for a moment, and in an instant, he slapped me.
"Do know your place . . . Kamisato Rin," he snarled, whirling away.
I quickly healed the red blemish that remained with my Vision, continuing calmly.
After all, I had experienced far greater pain than being struck.
Not even bothering to knock, Scaramouche kicked the entrance open, a deafening boom causing me to cover my ears as the doors slammed against the wall.
The Nine Fatui Harbingers were assembled at a large dining table, the Tsaritsa at its end, preparing to dine as maids brought a lavish feast forward. A chair, inlaid with gold and uncut amethyst chunks, waited beside the Cryo Archon, adorned with flowers and small ribbons.
Somehow, I never truly thought that I had been speaking to the Cryo Archon, a god who was revered by an entire nation and who had slaughtered millions ruthlessly, yet spared me upon our first meeting.
Unable to find an appropriate response, I curtsied first to the Tsaritsa.
"Greetings to Her Imperial Majesty, the Tsaritsa. And greetings to the--"
"There, there, now, there's no need." said a young man with ginger hair and blue eyes. "We're equals now, aren't we?"
Though anxious, I nodded.
The Tsaritsa gestured to the chair beside her, and, ever poised, I stepped forth while Scaramouche slumped into the seat on the empress' right.
Though the image still concerned me, I was certain it was fate that had brought us together by showing me the red thread.
Scaramouche . . . 見つけた.
(English Translation: Scaramouche . . . I've found you.)
