❝ 死のダルケット❞
dulcet of death
"MOMMY LOVES YOU."
HER WORDS, SOFT as prayers reached your young ears. Her embrace was tender, gentle as she held you close. She feared that by letting you go, each momentary time she allowed you to slip past her fingers, you would disappear and be beaten by her husband. She couldn't live with that, she wouldn't live without you. It was all she had left— you were everything to her. Her star of life, the sun that lit up her world.
"Mommy loves you, so so much."
Her words rang in your mind as she repeated the same utterings like a prayer, chanting it in hopes of you remembering her words. She feared that if you were to forget her, you would fall into the void of desolation like she has. That was a fate she could not stand for and did whatever she could in order to ensure you of a brighter future.
"Don't leave me... Mommy will protect you."
Her hands clasped tightly around yours. The shakiness in her grip revealed everything, her phobia of losing you to the darkness she tried so hard to fight off. She swore to defend you, swore to keep you safe and sound. No harm would ever come to her precious child—
"Your mother is dead."
Ying Yue had promised that she would stay by your side as your mother when you had no one. She had broken her promise to you and left behind her cold, dead corpse instead. You felt indifferent towards her death— that was what you told yourself to cope with the loss. The gaping hole in your chest grew and the empty cavity only worsened when your adoptive father grew even more distant and cold than before. Apathy conquered your mind and left you as an empty shell.
Everyone was certain of it— that (l/n) Li Chen gave the orders to kill his own wife. The wife whom he drove insane all thanks to his obsession with perfection. Whether it was lechery or the tragic coping mechanism of a broken sanity, Li Chen's actions were unforgivable in your eyes. To protect the image and reputation of the falling house, Li Chen did what he believed to be necessary. His belief drove him to killing his wife and torturing his only successor for the sake of honor.
Vainglorious was the word you often used to describe your adoptive father— his fixation with obtaining more wealth and honor had finally caught up to him.
Evidentially, growing up without a mother figure in your life meant you lacked the capacity of comprehending the ideals of nurture and love. What you read in fairy tales and myths contradicted what you saw within your own adoptive parents. Marriage, as you perceived it, was supposed to be picturesque, this elysian of love. What you saw, in reality, was the continual scrutinizing of one another— the infidelity and the arguments. There was no love and if there was left, the passions of romance had long been extinguished under the heels of lechery.
What she had taught you about the concept of love and compassion eluded you; as her ideals died with her. You grew without her teachings, learning only from what you read and saw.
There was a semblance of Ying Yue in Wenling— the gentleness and benevolence of maternal instincts. Your head maid has been with you since the start, hired to look after you as a friend and servant. She is four years your senior and though she wasn't much older than you, she is certainly gifted with a maturity you did not have. Though you never saw your mother in your personal maid, she did dote on you like one. Perhaps it was more of an instinctual habit of looking after you.
"Your mother was a good woman." Wenling often said to you, repeating the sentiments of your dead mother to remind you of how much Ying Yue supposedly cared about you.
"What's so good about her anyway?"
Those sentiments fell on deaf ears as you grew to feel apathetic towards your mother. Maybe it was the beatings by her husband that drowned out the feelings of motherly love. Maybe it was her inability to cast away the pain and suffering you crumbled under whenever her husband was around. Maybe it was the fact that she had left you to fend for yourself through the rigorous training that you weren't prepared to undergo. Maybe it was the feeling of abandonment that was too far too familiar for you and in that, you detested her for leaving you.
Everything culminated into one ugly response whenever your mother's name was uttered in your presence— hatred. Disgust, abhorrence, abomination, detestation; you absolutely loathed her name and existence.
All of her presence had been wiped clean, her memorabilia, painting, and photography. You did not wish to see the woman who had abandoned you after swearing to protect you, to love you. You took it upon yourself to rid her presence everywhere (of which your late adoptive father agreed with). Slowly, Ying Yue's existence faded to a tormented backdrop of violent youth and wretched childhood. She became nothing more than a bad dream, a nightmare.
Often, the question of whether or not your adoptive father has finally seized your independence came to question. Were your thoughts and feelings a product of your own personal belief? Or was it the cruel teachings and influence of the despicable man who claimed to be your father figure?
Even though you detested Li Chen as much as the woman who had forsaken you— there was no doubt that he still possessed leverage over your life. That shadow of compliance you remained under, it wasn't so easy to escape.
It was that very darkness that you thrived in; the plague and disparage. Your domain of sovereignty— the only aspect of control you had over your own life. Li Chen had only ever taught you to harm, to taint, and to tarnish. Ying Yue had only ever taught you the woes of love; how love was used to hurt others, how love could only bring others pain, how love did not exist.
Romance could not persist— romance only brought on ruination and suffering. Blind love came and went, dying as the embers of passion were smothered by the quarrels and tumult of woes.
Those around you often told their tales of romantic ardor but none ever quite reaches the pinnacle of a perfect marriage like the ones depicted in fairy tales and fictional fables. If you accepted the reality that was presented before you, what would make of your own soon-to-be marriage? Should you accept defeat? Accept that you will never find happiness in this trivial, superficial life?
"Fight, you pathetic child— why play the grieving role?! Know your place in this world!"
When the villains fall, no one grieves. No one sings any requiems, no one mourns, no one cries. Not a single tear could be shed— this momentary weakness could not be shown. You were not touched by divinity but you must pretend. Feign a life you could never live up to, write the fairy tale you so desperately want to live.
Fake it— pretend. Put on a show, a sham.
"I loved him... at one point."
She told you with a soft voice, gently caressing your face with her calloused fingers. Slowly, she leaned close and kissed you quick before pressing you close.
"But... not everything is as perfect as we want them to be..."
Her cradling made you feel imprisoned, trapped with her spewing madness and hysteria. She was trying to corrupt you— you were sure of it!
"Everyday... I feel like I lost a part of myself. He doesn't care at all... no one does, really."
You wanted to squeeze your eyes tight and clasp your hands over your ears— shutting her out with her poisonous words.
Light glimmered over your eyes as the darkness began to fade away. Her existence waned as your waking self pulled you from the abyss of stifled memories. Before you could be taken from your dreamscape, she uttered her very last words to you— before the sentencing of death by assassination. Her words stung you, provoking a discord in your heart as it echoed in the chambers of your nightmare.
"I'm sorry that I couldn't be a better mother to you."
YOU WOKE IN by jolting up your bed, feeling the temperate air brush against your bare skin. Silvery moonlight illuminated the darkness of the room, filling the shadows with lustrous light. The cotton blanket weighed against your body as you heaved quietly— panting as you tried to recall what had occurred in your wicked dream. Slowly, you brought a hand to your temple and gently massaged it. The latent dream had escaped you, the contents forgotten.
"You're up awfully early." Your eyes danced to the shadows beside the bed, noting that your fiancé was wearing a white button-up as opposed to his usual dressed up attire. More specifically, a white, long sleeved button-up with black dress pants. He was hunched over the coffee table in the room, eyes fervently scanning over some documents. At the corner of your eyes, there was something resembling a tall bottle in the darkness— the dark amber glowing under starlight. A sour scent accompanied your gathering thoughts, a certain tartness that was oddly familiar.
"It's nothing... just a bad dream." Your voice quivered just slightly, pulling the blankets closer to your chest— opting to ignore the smell and bottle. Another twinkle caught your eyes as you glanced down to notice the opal of your engagement ring shimmering in the luminescence.
"I assumed so. You were tossing and turning." Scaramouche plucked another sheet of paper from the table, examining it with absent intrigue. You felt your skin goosebump at his words, the thought that you had woken him up began to weigh on your conscience.
"My apologies..." You muttered bitterly, feeling a sense of guilt in waking him up from his slumber.
Scaramouche glanced up from his papers and noticed the light sheen of sweat over your skin. He observed your dejected expression with a keen eye. "Do you wish to talk about it?" His words slurred a bit, you noticed.
Pursing your lips together, the frown on your face grew in displeasure . "I... don't really remember the dream."
Scaramouche raised an eyebrow at you. "You were mumbling around someone named 'Ying Yue'."
The mention of her name made your heart drop to the pits of your stomach. Ying Yue was synonymous with your ghastly past, something that was often projected out of your mind.
"That's adoptive mother's name. She... never mind, I don't want to talk about it." You shook your head, gripping onto the blanket. An uncomfortable lump began to form in your throat, prompting you to force it down thickly.
"You ought to share it with me. Maybe it will relieve you of your night terrors." Scaramouche suggested, setting the papers down. He leaned back into the couch, crossing his right leg over the other. The familiar scent grew a bit more intense; there was a cherry-like fruitiness but again, you opted to ignore it.
"Maybe... not today. I don't like bringing up the past." You chewed on your bottom lip, shaking your head at him. In your peripheral, you observed Scaramouche holding back a scowl of annoyance.
"You asked for my past. I believe it's only fair that you share your own." It is fair, but you don't want to give him any of your problems when you can barely sort out your own problems. Your eyes jumped throughout the room, scanning for a topic to change the conversation into.
"What's on the paper?" Your eyes landed on the papers sprawled across the coffee table.
Scaramouche rolled his eyes at you, it was evident that you wanted to avoid the topic entirely. "The reports on your adoptive father's death."
A deathly smog settled at his words, clouding the room in an uncomfortable silence. Your chest felt tight again, the pressure of your adoptive father's death constricting your airflow. "What... does it say?" Your words left you in caution, fearing the worst.
"The assailant of the 'accident' most likely wielded a Vision judging by the fact that they defeated the guards with ease... Remnants of elemental energy were also found to support this theory. The back wheels of the carriage were dismantled by blade, causing the carriage to fall to its side and tumble over the side of the road... After this, the assailants killed the coach driver and your father's two body guards. Based on the time of death at early noon, your father was the last to be killed. His throat was cut, bled to death." Your fiancé explained in brief pauses, composing himself with gestures such as clearing his throat after each momentary silence. He scanned over the report before tossing the file atop the blankets of the bed. "Feel free to look at it yourself."
Curiosity nagged at the back of your mind as your hand slowly reached out to the file, attempting to read through the report though the unsettling twisting of your stomach urged you otherwise. A part of you desperately wanted the catharsis in knowing what had happened to your adoptive father yet another part of you argued that in knowing the truth— it could end up hurting you more than it can benefit you.
"I'm... good." Your voice trailed off as you retracted the hand that had been slowly inching towards the file. You swallowed thickly, too afraid to see with your own eyes of the truth.
"Why in the Archons' name are you trembling for?" He noticed your shakiness, your shallow breathing, the fear emitting in the air. "There's no need to be afraid. I've told you before, no harm would ever come to you as long as I'm beside you."
You couldn't explain it either— exactly why you were so scared for your life. Maybe because you don't feel like you belong anywhere; the ghostly whispers that echoed about in Liyue, the wry glances and scornful stares in Snezhnaya, and that you have no home and have no stability anywhere you went. Not to mention, your friends' and servants' lives are constantly threatened, your father has been killed and you, forced to live under the thrust of looming death. As one of the most powerful, wealthy, and influential figures in the entirety of Teyvat— you've never felt so helpless, so goddamn callow and vulnerable in your circumstances. A chasm of your darkest phobias drank in your decaying form; picking you apart piece by piece like withering flowers in icy wind.
"I don't feel safe— anywhere I go... I feel threatened, dreadfully afraid of everything. I am a living target, constantly ridiculed and attacked. Why do I feel like I'm burdening someone with my presence?" You muttered bitterly, pulling the blankets close to your tightening chest. Each breath drew those dreaded emotions of incompetence at close quarters of your heart. That crown upon your head began to slip, threatening to fall and reveal your mortality to the dissecting crowd— that immortality, that facade of godhood began to fade away as the crown hung by a single strand of desperation.
At first, your fiancé was silent— listening in to your plight and allowing you to articulate the emotions that you have learned to bury deep within your body. Scaramouche learns something about you; that you are stubborn, refusing to show an ounce of weakness to anyone, let alone him. Whatever dream you had long forgotten at this point seemed to have triggered something within. This led to you pouring your emotions out to him in a sputtered flurry of words.
"Do you regret having chosen me to be your equal?" You asked quietly, keeping your voice low as you gripped the blanket for some sort of relief.
Scaramouche frowned at your words, raising an eyebrow. "I believe I made it quite clear yesterday. Do you doubt my intentions?"
His words made you feel rather guilty in doubting him. Why did you feel the need to ask for assurance? Satire began to strangle your mind; the mentality you possessed made you feel weary and thoroughly disgusted with everything you said or did.
"No, I..." Your voice fell again, straining to say something that resembled a pathetic scorn of one's self. "Never mind— this is not worth arguing."
Scaramouche sighed which you took as a sigh of disappointment or annoyance— one of the two. "What's with you and this switch in attitude? You're acting like a completely different person."
Buried beneath your luxurious exterior was an orphan who deeply feared loss and desertion. At your core, that very fact would never change. You rarely ever showed this feeble, sensitive side to anyone in fear of getting reprimanded like you were now— being crushed under the weight of expectations you couldn't achieve. Weakness is not permitted or that sliver of false divinity begins to spiral into mortality. Scaramouche saw you as someone befitting him yet it made you wonder if what he saw was the picturesque version of you. The version of you that was not permitted to make a single mistake, breath an error or be at fault. A version of you that simply you are not.
Perhaps he misjudged you for who you are. Proving that that as swallow as this marriage is— so are his affections towards you if this was to be the case.
"Me? And what of you? You've been drinking this entire night..." You pointed out the obvious; the bottle in the room, the smell of tart cherry wine. He reeked of heavy intoxication.
"What's wrong with me drinking? I don't see how this involves you." Scaramouche scoffed at you.
"I don't like men who drink." You snapped at him, retorting in a sharp tone. "My adoptive father was a heavy drinker and your drinking is reminiscent of his old habits..."
"Oh, so it's problematic when I drink but your holier than thou attitude is not? And what of your father? He's long dead and soon to be six feet under like your mother!" There was no doubt the intoxication of the wine had flooded into his system. Therefore he lacked any coherent thoughts but his words evoked anger in you.
"How dare you disrespect my family like that! Do you honestly believe that being engaged to me gives you the right to insult my family name?!" You bellowed at him, fist clenching tightly at the bedcovers.
"As a matter of fact, I do have the right!" He raged, voice raising louder than yours— drowning out your angered scolding. "I'm the only family you have left at this point!"
—
END OF CHAPTER TEN