❝ 解決への希望 ❞
hope for resolution
tw. torture, graphic violence, and
depiction of gore
UPON CONFIRMING THAT you were rid of the poison in your system, Scaramouche led you to the dungeons where Dottore had taken over the inquisition in your fiancé's stead. You were told that the champagne you had drank was contaminated with a mixture of belladonna and wolfhook— normally a deadly combination but the composition of the champagne dulled the effects and ironically, it was your body's own rejection of alcohol that caused you to throw up most of the poison. The rest, Dottore took care of to ensure there was no further damage to your body.
You wondered if it was sheer luck or implications of something more sinister to come. That dreadful sensation of something sinister lingering in the air didn't seem to go away as Scaramouche led you down to the dungeons, if anything, it amplified the feeling to an extreme. The atmosphere is dreary, void of any sort of natural light. A dim light fixture lined the hallway, shedding some much-needed illumination into the dark cells full of the guests whom your fiancé had deemed villainous. Two Fatui guards stood by the two cells, their faces covered with a mask that voided them from displaying any sort of sympathy. You noticed the array of sharp metals attached to their hip; silver blades stained with blood.
"Who do you think you are?! Imprisoning me?!" Your eyes fell upon an angry man, rattling against his chained chair as you and Scaramouche walked past. You recognized him as one of the men who had sat at your table just hours earlier. In the cell beside him, there was a bloodied servant sitting on the empty bed frame with his head slumped in his bloody hands— red painting the floor of the dungeon cell. Dottore was questioning him, his sanguine eyes dark like the liquid spilt on the ground.
"You conspired to kill my fiancé. I think I'm authorized to imprison you." Scaramouche snapped, his icy tone silencing the man and the rest of the angry protest echoing the dungeon hall. He slumped against his confinement, eyes casted downwards in resign of his own fate. You stared at the man, unable to offer any words and instead, chased after Scaramouche who was walking towards Dottore.
"And who's your leader? Surely you pathetic lot couldn't have arranged this poisoning and infiltration by yourself." Dottore sneered incredulously, his blood red eyes slanting in disbelief at the words of the conspirators. "I suggest you tell me the truth. I'm not against turning you into one of my toys."
"Did you get anything?" Scaramouche turned to the blue-haired Harbinger, folding his arms across his chest.
Dottore shook his head in response. "They are insisting that they've been outsourced by an unknown party. The man there," Dottore's attention flickered to the man who your fiancé had just silenced. "He was the one who was contacted by the unknown party to the source the poison. He then instructed the servant here to poison your fiancé's glass."
"What's his occupation?" Scaramouche scowled, glaring at the defeated man who slumped against his chained chair in self-loathing over his course of action.
"Pharmaceuticals. He's the heir to the Oaris Medicinal Corporation from Sumeru.."
He could easily obtain the poison with his position. You grimaced, feeling your throat dry at the thought.
Scaramouche was quiet for a moment, pondering in thought before he dismissed Dottore, convincing the mad doctor to leave the rest of the questioning to him. Dottore nodded, silently agreeing to leave before his eyes fell upon you.
"You ought to leave as well." Dottore suggested, lingering by the staircase back up to the palace.
You raised an eyebrow at him. "Why is that?" You glanced at Scaramouche, looking for his reaction but he offered you nothing but stoicism— his expression briefed moments of ire but remained stone-cold. "Scaramouche?"
"Leave. I don't want you to see this." Scaramouche urged you to leave as well, leaving you confused as to what exactly he did not 'want you to see'. His words kept you in the dark, leaving you in a state of confusion.
In the back of your mind, a nagging opinion voiced desires to stay and see exactly what your fiancé was warning you against but there was another part of you that was compelled to leave. The forlorn atmosphere present in the air made your head hazy, clouded with the thick scent of fear and blood.
"It's best if you don't watch." You looked up, seeing his eyes soften just slightly in an attempt to sway you to leave. "My work isn't pleasant to watch."
You breathed shallowly, inhaling the acrid odor in the air. "What... are you going to do?" Your question came out too naively, it made you sound too callow in these infernal circumstances.
Scaramouche pursed his lips together, collecting his thoughts before turning his back to you. "Do you really wish to know?"
His hesitation plagued you with panic. It was evident that Scaramouche didn't want to expose you to whatever his work entailed. Even you were a bit hesitant, the atmosphere and smell didn't ease your nerves.
You breathed heavily, taking in the musky stench of the dungeon. It left a heavy taste on your tongue. "As your fiancé, I believe it's only right for me to know what is going on."
Scaramouche looked wary but said nothing, motioning for you to follow him over to the suspect. The heir who led the operation to kill you lifted his gaze to see you and Scaramouche slowly approached his cell with apprehension.
"L-Lord Scaramouche!" He sputtered, eyes wide as he tried to reason his way out of his predicament. The chains confining him to the chair rattled loudly. "Please! You have to understand! I was merely a pawn in this operation!"
"You tried to kill my fiancé." Scaramouche hissed angrily, silencing him. "Cowering in fear now? Where did all your arrogance from earlier go? Pathetic."
The heir fell silent, breathing heavily as he slowly succumbed to his fate. His head fell to the palms of his head as he cried quietly. Arrogance reduced to pitiful shame, the heir crumbled under the reality of his actions. Similarly, the servant of the other cell wept pathetically.
"Conspiracy and attempted murder. The two of you are both equally guilty. But before we hand you over to the Snezhnayan law enforcement, we will get some answers out of you."
In a swift movement, your fiancé gestured to the Fatui guards to open the gates of the cell, prompting a look of fear from the heir. The sound of creaking metal reverberated off the stone walls as the iron door dragged against the floor.
"Hand me your knife." Scaramouche motioned to the guards, prompting one to step forward and hand one of the bloodied blades attached to his hip to your fiancé. A cold shudder goes down your spine as you watched Scaramouche dismiss the guards, leaving you alone with your fiancé and the man who conspired to kill you.
Trepidation thickened the air in a strained tension that harbored a calamity you had yet to comprehend. You stood by the doorway, watching in silence as Scaramouche approached the heir.
"Who ordered you to poison my fiancé?" His tone was sharp, bitter frost coating his icy words. His hand tightening around the blade that was given to him.
The heir shook his head in desperation, eyes wide. "I said this already— I do not know!"
A harsh slap echoed the room, one that left a darkening red print on the heir's face. The rattling of the heir's chains synthesizing with the resonate of the strike. Scaramouche pulled back, his eyes wide with hysteria.
"Tell me who your leader is." Scaramouche emphasized each word harshly, his voice fell an octave, the words grating over the lies of the heir's words.
"I don't know—!"
The heir screamed, cutting his words off in a violent shriek of agony as Scaramouche plunged the blade into the man's hand— splashing blood onto the floor. An audible gasp left your lips, prompting your fiancé to look back at you. Immediately, your hand flew to your mouth, covering it as you watched the man writhe in his chair in agonizing pain. Scaramouche's cold glare morphed into something that resembled concern.
"You can still leave." His voice was steady, eerily calm despite what he had just done. Your shaky eyes fixed on the heir's bloody hand; his knuckles white from straining, his fingers trembling and writhing under the pain.
"No... I'll stay..." Your voice was low and hesitant, just barely louder than a whisper as you attempted to calm yourself. Slowly, you brought your left hand to your chest, using your right hand to touch the engagement ring as you inhaled the stench of blood, causing your nose to scrunch up in disgust. It was a familiar sight, a familiar smell. One that made you reminisce your childhood— reminding you of the scars upon your body. The sight of violence didn't deter you in wanting the truth, though you weren't desensitized by the act; this was a part of your reality now.
Scaramouche's gaze returned to the heir, face streaked with tears as he sobbed and hissed in pain. "For my fiancé's sake, I'll play the merciful role. Though, if you spout any nonsensical madness, I'll cut your finger off." He warned, eyebrows furrowing in ire as the heir pathetically nodded and pleaded for no more. "I'll ask again, who are the people who hired you to poison my fiancé?"
The heir hung his head down in sobbing pain, mustering what courage remained in him to answer Scaramouche's question.
"When we met... they never revealed their identities to me..." The heir began, his voice low and hoarse. "They threatened to expose my family's corporate secrets— our dealings with poison if we didn't comply with their demands."
Scaramouche listened intently, hand gripping the knife tightly. "Go on," he urged, his voice laced with annoyance.
"We met... a while back in Liyue Harbor... I was personally overseeing the delivery of a shipment of goods for Bubu Pharmacy... since my father had connections with Doctor Baizhu. As I'm the presumptuous heir, I was to meet some of my father's friends... and was expected to bring a gift..."
You held your breath, taking his words to form a cohesive narrative. If his words are true, the perpetuators are likely from Liyue— or have some connection to Liyue. You shuddered at the thought.
Poison in your own backyard, a venomous snake amongst your rank.
"So to preserve your family's honor, you opted to kill my fiancé." Scaramouche growled, eyes slanting at the heir's confession.
"I-I didn't want to! I was coerced to! P-Please... You have to believe me! Your fiancé would've done the same if they were in my position!" The heir pleaded, shaking violently against his confines.
"Where did you meet this individual?" You interjected, suddenly finding interest in his words. Scaramouche glanced back at you but said nothing, allowing you to take over the interrogation.
"Near the wharf, at night... I was sightseeing the Harbor as it was my first time there. They approached me, inconspicuously... I thought they were just some begger by the way they dressed. I thought nothing of it..." The man balled his injured hand into a fist, clenching until his knuckles turned white. "They outright threatened to expose my family's trade if I didn't supply the poison and find someone to kill you... I refused, at first... but he threatened my life! My life over this matter!" The heir glared daggers at you, his tone denunciatory, as if accusing you of the wrongdoing.
"And in that moment, you agreed out of fear." Scaramouche concluded, folding his arms across his chest. "Tsk, how pathetic."
Someone disguised in the wharf as a begger... that's not much to go off of. The darkness of night would've concealed any noticeable features. You deduced, instinctively biting down on your bottom lip as you kept the thoughts to yourself. Conclusively, you weren't necessarily surprised that someone tried to poison you. For a young director such as yourself— it was bound to happen. Assassination attempts have been made upon your life since your adoption into this family, its just a part of the process. The thought made you nauseous, sick to your stomach.
"W-When will I be released...?" The heir's question captured your attention, your eyes snapping over to your fiancé for an answer.
"We're not done with you yet," Scaramouche snarled at him, shutting down any hopes of departure. "You will be put on trial for conspiracy, attempted murder, and poisoning. You're not going anywhere."
Optimism eluded the man, his head hung low as Scaramouche suspended the heir's false hope of escaping consequence. Instances such as this made you painfully aware of your position; the authority of the Harbingers was nothing to scoff at and your eventual marriage to one tilted the jurisdiction in your hands. Should this much power be handled by someone incapable as you? Someone who lacked the gods' favor?
"(y/n)," Scaramouche seized you, grasping your wrist tightly. You looked up, noting the dried blood splotches on his pale cheeks. You scanned his features for any sort of emotion, any sort of remorse or repentance— nothing. It made you wonder, if he really was void of emotions.
"I want to go home..." You whispered to him, voice low as he brought you out of the cell. It ought have been the eighth time you've voiced that sentiment to him.
"Home is here in Snezhnaya," he answered back as the two of you climbed the stairs out of the dungeon. He nodded to the two soldiers standing by the doorway, prompting them to head down and continue guarding the prisoners.
"My home is in Liyue," you retorted, feeling bitter that he was confining you to this wintery palace.
"You're being childish," your fiancé berated you, his eyebrows furrowing in exasperation. "We still have business here in Snezhnaya. We can return to Liyue once we figure out this hot mess."
You didn't argue back, choosing silence as Scaramouche brought you back to the bedroom shared by the two of you. The snow storm beyond the latticed glass panels was barely visible, silver moonlight hidden by the flakes of cold petals and the dark of night. Upon entering the master bedroom, it made you realize exactly how exhausted you were. Your legs gave out the moment Scaramouche led you to the bed, collapsing without another thought.
"Take a shower in the very least," Scaramouche pointed out, shaking his head from the couch near the bed— the same one he sat in a night ago when the two of you argued. You offered him silence at first but eventually complied, pulling yourself up from the bed to walked over the bathroom. You used the wall for support, leaning against it like a drunkard would if they were heavily intoxicated. Waves of nausea crashed into your mind, shaking your mental fortitude.
Once in the white-tiled bathroom, you leaned against a nearby wall, sliding down into a pathetic crouch as you pulled your legs close to your chest. Your right index finger grazed the multi-colored jewel on your ring, the cold touch made you shiver. Unexpectedly, tears began to brim your waterline, hazing your eyes in a mist of wetness. You muffled your cries by bringing your face to your knees, resting against it as you sobbed pathetically. Flames lit your lungs ablaze, and your throat tightened until you couldn't breath. Pressing your eyes closed, you failed to trap the tears that fell onto the floor— dripping rhythmically like a ticking time bomb to your eventual undoing. The divinity of perfectionism was slipping away— wearing until there was nothing left, like a eroded rock.
No matter what crown you wore, you would always be lesser in society than anyone else. A pathetic, groveling orphan who's luck ran out when adopted by the (l/n) family. Perfection is what you sought, happiness was a concept unknown to you. To live a life of superficiality meant a desertion of one's own comprehension of self worth. No amount of money made you happy, your marriage is collapsing before your eyes, and your own life threatened— what do you claim as yours that made you happy?
"You left your clothes out—" Scaramouche had unlocked the door without your knowing. His eyes flickered to you, meeting your glassy hues and tear-streaked face in slight surprise.
"Leave," your voice low, eyes averting to the floor of the bathroom. "I said, leave!"
You didn't dare look at him, couldn't muster the courage to do so. You felt ashamed, embarrassingly so. The performance of earlier tonight probably has people suspecting that you're unfit to be the director of such a grand company. Your entire livelihood now in public suspicion and question. You felt ill, terribly sick to your stomach in spite of the removal of the poison in your system. The images of the horror painted on the man's face when your fiancé stabbed him flashed through your mind. You felt disgusted with yourself. How could you fall so low? You, of all people?
"You're being ridiculous again. I'm not about to leave you here like this." His words were solemn though you couldn't get over his condescending tone.
"I want you to leave... I want to be left alone." Your words' intention failed to reach Scaramouche. Instead, he walked over after setting your nightgown upon the sink counter. He crouched down to your level, brushing your tear-soaked hair from your face with a delicate touch. It was an odd sensation— the cooling affect of his touch.
"I'm not leaving you." His words lacked affection, as did his touch. Scaramouche's eyes wandered to the ring around your finger— signifying your engagement to him.
"You don't care about this, you don't care about me. I'm tired of this game of charades..." You whispered, words frosted over with ice. "I don't want to be here... I hate everything about this place—"
"Stop being childish," he shut you down immediately. "You're twenty for Archons' sake. Act your damn age."
Naivety shielded you from reality; offering you protection when no one else seemed to understand you. At first, the offer of money and status seemed enticing but now, it's nothing more than a ruse. A trap that ensnares you, tearing you apart bit by bit.
"Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, I didn't want to be in this position? Have you ever thought of my happiness? Why must everything I do pertain to my work, pertain to my adopted lineage?! Since signing that paper— you have been nothing but patronizing and demeaning towards me! What little affection you've show me is overshadowed by your own pride!"
Silence followed your outburst, words diminishing into an eerie quietude as you panted heavily, staring at your fiancé's unfeeling eyes. Scaramouche sighed, his gaze fell to the floor as he pulled back and sat down before you. For the first time, he seemingly relaxed into a lazed posture, closing his eyes to think carefully before saying his next words.
"I love you."
You sat there, stunned. Eyes widening as the realization of what he said settled into the depths of your mind.
"Excuse me?" You didn't believe it, couldn't believe it.
"I said," Scaramouche began again, his tone bordered irritation. "... I love you."
The three words that symbolized the epitome of romance; a definite statement of love. It was odd hearing it from him.
"Do you think by saying those words, it can save this marriage from crumbling apart?" You asked, incredulous as to his motive.
"No, I don't. I mean what I said." His right hand moved to hold your face, gently holding it as he leaned in slowly.
"Do you understand what you're saying...?" Your voice fell as Scaramouche's forehead brushed yours.
"I don't see my actions as anything wrong," he began quietly. "Frankly, I don't understand why you're always angry at me."
You were tempted to scoff and roll your eyes at him but opted not to. You were too intrigued by his words, listening with bated breath.
"You told me once, that you want to love me, yes?" Scaramouche's eyes flickered, a cold flame burning within his violet hues. "This arrangement won't go anywhere, you know that."
"I know," your throat felt tight, arid. The closeness between the two of you made you uneasy. His touches were cold yet, it made your skin burn. "My words remain true..."
Scaramouche's free hand pushed against the wall behind you, effectively trapping you. He slender figure towered over you, reducing you to the ground. "Do you trust me?"
The roles reversed; his proclamation still lacked any sort of ardor but, it was a change— a start.
"I do..." Pretty lies spilled past your lips; beautiful falsehood lacing your words.
"My actions and words will always in your best interest." His lips brushed against your forehead before he leaned in, kissing your burning skin. "I love you."
Momentarily, you forgot your worries, your disdain for the world, your anger towards him. He melted away your troubles, capturing you in a moment of twisted bliss. He always had that sort of effect, one that made you temporarily forget and replace that emptiness with false feelings. Scaramouche's awfully good at avoiding any sort of true confrontation but, for now, this will do.
—
END OF CHAPTER THIRTEEN