Chapter Text
I
Scaramouche found her, at last, picking mushrooms at the edge of the forest.
She didn't see him at first, too distracted by the flora at her feet and the low, simple melody she was humming. Even when he came to a stop thirty yards or so away from her, her attention didn't wane. Scaramouche ran his eyes down the curve of her back beneath her purple dress, her dark hair cascading over her shoulder, before raising a hand and calling out.
“Good morning!”
The woman froze, then gazed back at him. The distance did nothing to dull the intensity of her eyes, the colour of a mountain lake beneath a summer sky. Scaramouche smiled at her cheerfully, removed his black leather hat, and placed it over his heart as he bowed his head.
“Good morning, Sir,” she responded, a little warily. Then, after a pause, “Are you lost?”
“Not at all,” said Scaramouche, walking up to her. “I simply fancied a stroll through the countryside on this beautiful day.”
The woman glanced around at the empty field they were in, bordered by the dense woodland behind her. “But the nearest village isn't for miles. Don't you have a horse?”
Scaramouche thought of Ajax, who he'd tied to a tree in a thicket about half a mile west of here.
“I don't,” he said simply.
He came to a stop a few yards short of her, reluctant to make her feel too crowded by his presence. He could already sense her unease, the stiffness of her shoulders and whiteness of her knuckles around the handle of her wicker basket; little telltale signs that broke through the facade of her forced politeness. Her eyes darted over his person, no doubt taking in his dark clothing, his long black cloak that concealed the pistol at his hip. Though he'd checked and checked again that there was no way it could be seen without pulling the garment back, he noticed the woman's gaze linger there.
Determined to draw her attention away, Scaramouche gestured to the basket she was holding. “That's an impressive haul.”
It took a couple of seconds for the woman to drag her eyes from his hip and look down at the basket. “Mm. This area is perfect for mushrooms. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot to do before dark.”
She clearly thought that was the end of the conversation, as she turned away from him. Scaramouche's advancement had her spinning back.
He fell to a crouch near her feet and pried one of the mushrooms from the grass, ran a gloved thumb over the creamy cap. “Back when I was a child, I used to forage all the time. Fish, too. I don't have the time for it nowadays, but you never lose that instinct.” He raised his head. “I can give you a hand, if you'd like.”
The woman pursed her lips. “That's kind of you, but really, I'll be fine alone.”
“If you insist.” He straightened up again and extended the mushroom towards her. “Here.”
After hesitating once more, the woman reached out a tentative hand. The moment her fingers closed around it, Scaramouche grabbed her wrist. The woman's eyes widened as she stared at the place they were joined, the black digits that encircled her pale limb. Then she gritted her teeth.
She tried to jerk away, but Scaramouche's grip was too strong. He pulled her forward sharply, a move that had her dropping the basket and sending mushrooms flying to the grass. Her shoulder slammed into his arm.
She screamed, only for Scaramouche to twist her arm behind her back and push it upwards. His other arm wrapped around her chest and pulled her into him. She struggled in his grip, clawed at his thigh with her free hand and drove her heel into his shin over and over.
The click of a pistol hammer made her freeze.
Scaramouche pushed the tip of the barrel into the soft underside of the woman's jaw. Her breaths came fast and shallow, her neck jumping as she swallowed back whatever protest she'd been about to hurl at him.
“No more words, now,” Scaramouche whispered against her temple.
The woman didn't reply. She didn't have to. There was nowhere for her to go, no way for her to fight back. Even if she did, by some miracle, manage to break free of his hold, he'd simply shoot her as she retreated. Both of them knew that as well as the other.
He could have done anything to her in that moment. Her lips were only inches from his, her body pressed up against his own. No doubt most men would have taken advantage of such a situation, especially with the privacy of the forest just a few strides away. But Scaramouche felt no such desires. In fact, the knowledge that just a few layers of clothing stood as a barrier between his own body and such heretic filth was enough to inspire a deep disgust in the back of his throat.
“You'll be good for me, won't you?” he mumbled. “We're going for a little walk through the woods together, just the two of us. Witch.”
II
“She calls herself Mona Megistus.”
Scaramouche's eyes lit up at the name, which had Pierro raising a brow. “Do you recognise her, Balladeer?”
The hunter shook his head. “Not at all, Sir. I was simply taken by the uniqueness of the name.”
Pierro grunted and began to flick through one of the piles of papers neatly stacked on the desk in front of him. White light beamed down from the window at his back, illuminating his crown of silver hair and casting an imposing shadow across the stone floor of the chapel.
“Witches may seem unique from the outside, but peel back their skin, and they're all the same repulsive, Abyssal creatures underneath.”
Scaramouche could attest to that. In the near decade he'd been serving as a hunter, he'd observed all manner of heresy being carried out across Teyvat: men and women who used their powers to enchant their victims before possessing them; people who bent the elements to their will and performed acts of sickening blood magic to appease their gods; even children who walked around with animal familiars at their sides. But no amount of false innocence had ever managed to sway Scaramouche's heart, just as he'd never allowed himself to be seduced by any show of beauty, no matter how alluring. The contempt he held for such scum had driven his hand mercilessly over the years and led him to quickly rise to the rank of Sixth Harbinger, one of the Church of the Fatui's notoriously elite inner circle.
“What are the charges against this Mona Megistus?” Scaramouche asked.
“The usual,” said Pierro. “Elemental magic. Blasphemy. She lives alone in the forest, so she's managed to fall outside our detection for a number of years, but those who have glimpsed her say she spends her time dabbling in runes and staring up at the moon.”
Scaramouche nodded. A woman living on her own in the wild was enough of a cause for concern, let alone any kind of witchcraft she was practising. The forest had a way of warping one's mind, twisting it and creating cracks that allowed the Abyssal influence to seep in. At that point, the person was far beyond saving in this world. Only confession and death could provide the slither of salvation their soul needed to pass onto the next.
“Here.”
Pierro finally found what he was looking for among his papers and handed Scaramouche a thin bundle of sheets. Flicking through showed that they were a collection of yellowing maps.
“Fontaine?” he asked.
“Mm. You'll find her in the western forests, along the pass.”
The area wouldn't take too long to reach on account of the fact that Fontaine bordered Snezhnaya to the east; a few days on Ajax's back, then a couple more gathering intel from the locals at village inns. He'd been in this situation enough times to know the process inside and out by now. He also knew that only the most foolish people would dare withhold information from a Fatui Harbinger, no matter which nation they hailed from.
“I'll see her tracked down and brought to justice, My Lord,” said Scaramouche.
“Good.”
As always, Pierro's instructions were brief, cold, and to-the-point. It was the main reason why Scaramouche had never minded their meetings, even if his true place was out in the wilds, wandering the continent on his horse's back. With the maps in hand, he could already feel himself itching to head out, his fingertips tingling with excitement at the prospect of another hunt. Another heretic brought to their knees before the might of the Fatui.
Placing the map under his cloak, Scaramouche bowed his head to Pierro one final time and marched from the chapel. The heels of his boots clicked against the stones.
Mona Megistus...
Not even a pretty name could save her from fate, it seemed. With Scaramouche on her trail, she was as good as dead.
III
But not quite yet.
Now, she trudged before him along the forest path, exhausted and annoyed, but very much alive. Not that Scaramouche particularly cared about her state of wellbeing. The only thing that mattered to him right now was that she remained a constant distance in front of his horse, something he was ensuring with the pistol balanced on his thigh and aimed at the back of her head.
“Would you at least be so kind as to loosen this thing around my neck?” she snapped, turning to glare up at him.
Scaramouche resisted the urge to tug sharply on the length of rope attached to his saddle, the other end of which he'd tied tightly around her neck. Her hands, too, were bound together at the small of her back. Scaramouche had been making sure to keep them in his sights at all times.
“Silence, Witch,” he mumbled. “I'll not have you enchant me with your words.”
Mona laughed dryly at that. “You certainly let me do a lot of talking back in the field. How do you know I didn't cast a spell on you back then?”
Once, such a comment might have struck fear into Scaramouche's heart, but he'd been around enough witches to have grown accustomed to their little lies and tricks by now. He made a noise of contempt under his breath. “I know my own body and mind. You cannot hope to corrupt me.”
“No? If I really am this 'witch' you keep accusing me of being, then surely I could have enchanted you without your knowing? There's no way for you to—”
“I said enough.”
This time, Scaramouche pulled hard on the rope, jerking Mona's head back and transforming her words into a strangled cry. With no arms to catch her balance, she almost toppled over, but managed to draw herself upright at the last second. The scathing look she shot Scaramouche before turning back didn't escape his notice.
They walked along in silence for a while. As he often did when he travelled long distances like this, Scaramouche let his eyes wander across his surroundings (although he made sure never to let Mona leave his sights). He'd always held a fondness for this particular area of Teyvat. The temperate climate made a welcome change from the frigid chill of Snezhnaya without straying into suffocating heat, and the occasional rain shower kept the air crisp and filled with the earthy scents of the soil. The forest itself, too, was a sight to behold. Sunlight streamed down through the canopy, highlighting the dust motes that danced in the air, and either side of the path, the floor was covered with bracken and patches of wildflowers.
When a fallen tree lay across their path, Scaramouche made sure Mona stepped over first before directing Ajax to do the same. The grey stallion was more than used to such manoeuvres, and took the obstacle one calm step at a time, something Scaramouche praised him for with a little scratch behind the ear.
“You never told me where we were going,” said Mona once they were back on the level path again.
Scaramouche sighed. Hadn't he told her to shut up just ten minutes ago? Regardless, he replied, “Snezhnaya.”
“All the way to Snezhnaya?” asked Mona turning her head to look back at him. She barely seemed upset by the fact. Perhaps she'd been expecting such an answer. “You don't really intend to take me all the way to Zapolyarny Palace, do you? That'll take weeks.”
The Church headquarters were located in the northern ice plains of Snezhnaya and were home to the Tsaritsa, the benevolent head of their organisation. Just as Scaramouche had predicted, it had taken him a mere four days to travel here. With the snail's lace they were moving at now, the return journey would no doubt take closer to two weeks. Luckily, Scaramouche had an alternative up his sleeve.
“There's a church just past the border. You shall be tried and put to death for your misdeeds there.”
Mona pursed her lips. “If you've already decided I'm guilty, then why go to the trouble of a trial? It's not like I can prove my innocence to you.”
Scaramouche just scoffed under his breath.
“I bet it was Nimrod who sold me out. That bastard's been pursuing me for years. Just because he can't have me, no-one can. You spoke to him, didn't you, Harbinger?”
Come to think of it, Scaramouche did remember talking to a young man in the nearest village who'd seemed all too eager to provide details of Mona's heresy and point him towards her whereabouts. He hadn't caught wind of his name, though. He already had all the evidence needed for her conviction in writing from Pierro.
“You will be trialled and put to death,” said Scaramouche simply. “That is all you need to know.”
“And if I confess to these so-called misdeeds on the spot?”
“Then I shall string you up from the nearest tree and leave you to hang.”
That appeared to strike some fear into Mona at last, as she turned back to the front. For a long time, she said nothing more; so long, in fact, that Scaramouche wondered whether he'd finally managed to shut her up for good. But she did turn back, and when Scaramouche caught sight of the cold fury in her eyes, he felt an involuntary shiver trickle down his back.
“You can't watch me forever. You still have to sleep and eat. How are you going to keep me in check then?”
The question felt like a threat as much as a warning. Scaramouche tried not to let it sink under his skin.
“Not to worry, Witch,” he said calmly. “I'm a light sleeper.”
It wasn't like she could do anything to him with tied hands, anyway.
IV
Just after noon, they came to a stop by a stream that crossed their path. Scaramouche slipped to the ground first, making sure his pistol didn't leave Mona for a heartbeat, before reaching for the end of the rope tied to Ajax's saddle.
“You are to stay in front of me at all times. If you so much as think of running, you'll be walking to Fontaine with a bullet in the back of your leg. Do you understand?”
She didn't respond, didn't even turn to look at him, but Scaramouche could tell his words had sunk in. With a grimace, he untied the rope from the saddle, then walked forward and loosened the knot around her neck. She didn't resist. When the rope was gone, Scaramouche nudged her in the ankle with the tip of his boot – an indicator to make her way to the water's edge. She obeyed silently.
The majority of the stream was shallow enough to stand in, except in those places where it dipped between the rocks to create deeper, slow-moving pools. Scaramouche didn't exactly relish the thought of travelling with wet boots for the rest of the day, so he made sure to tread carefully as he made his way in. Once he'd found a spot where the water looked cleanest, he took off his gloves, pulled his leather flask from his belt, and plunged it below the surface. The water was like ice between his bare skin.
As he raised the flask to his lips, Scaramouche eyed Mona. She sat at the side of the stream a few yards away, a constant figure in his peripheral vision since he'd entered the stream. She didn't move, just stared down into the water. If it weren't for her open eyes, he might have thought she was asleep.
“Here.”
He refilled the flask and extended it towards her. After a few seconds, she turned her head away. It was a clear, deliberate refusal. Scaramouche had to applaud her stubbornness, if nothing else.
“You're not going to drink?” he asked. “It could be hours until we reach a new water source. Maybe even tomorrow.”
When Mona continued to ignore him, he snorted to himself and muttered, “Fine.” If she wanted to die of dehydration, then he wasn't going to force the water down her throat. So long as she didn't expect him to carry her when she inevitably passed out.
He took a drink and refilled the flask one final time, then started back towards the bank. That was when he spotted a shift in the corner of his eye. Mona had finally decided to move. It took a little effort with her hands tied behind her back, but she eventually managed to pull herself up into a kneeling position and lean over the water, her long hair hanging down.
Scaramouche folded his arms. This would be a spectacle, at least. He watched Mona lower her head to the water, thighs trembling at the strain of keeping her rooted to the bank as her face edged closer and closer to the bubbling surface.
And then there came a splash.
Scaramouche had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. Mona floundered on her front in the water. She'd managed to land in one of the deeper parts, and while this had saved her from hitting the stones too hard, it gave her little purchase to push against as she kicked out and twisted onto her back.
Idiot, Scaramouche thought to himself. He walked over and reached down to grab her shoulder, only for Mona to kick out at him.
“Get off me!”
The outburst shocked Scaramouche so much, he took a step back. Mona glared up at him, her chest jumping with her laboured breaths, eyes alive with rage. Scaramouche was used to receiving such looks in his line of work. Looks of anguish and despair; looks of hatred so intense they threatened to bore into his very soul. He'd grown to steel himself against them.
Why, then, did Mona's have him shuddering all over again?
She turned her head to look up at the canopy, gritted her teeth, and pushed back her shoulders. Clearly, she was trying to sit up. Scaramouche was about to go over and pull her up once more, forcefully if he had to, when all of a sudden, her elbow jutted out to her side.
The realisation hit Scaramouche in a flash.
He moved on instinct, surging forward through the water and whipping his pistol from his hip. At the same time, Mona rolled onto her side. The hand she'd managed to free from its bindings flew into the air, and at once, Scaramouche found himself stumbling, as if the water itself were moving against him.
As if the water itself were moving against him.
He hit the water before the horror of that thought could properly sink in. His hands slipped against the stones, the sharp edges cutting through his gloves and dragging a hiss from his mouth. He looked about wildly for his gun, only to spot it lying beneath the surface nearby. His fingers had barely closed around it when something came thundering through the water towards him.
Scaramouche rolled just as Mona landed on top of him, knocking the air from his lungs. One arm wrapped around his neck while the other, now free from the rope too, snatched at the gun in his hand. Her nails raked against his wrist in her attempt to wrench it away.
“No!” he snarled.
His mind raced with the urgency of the moment. Mona's weight was bearing down on him, her forearm pressing against his throat so hard he could barely force the air back into his chest. If he rolled onto his front, he risked his face becoming trapped under the water that was currently splashing in his nose and mouth, stinging his sinuses and throat alike. All the while, Mona's hand clawed desperately for the gun.
He had to act quickly.
Kicking off the riverbed, Scaramouche threw himself backwards as hard as he could. The gambit paid off: Mona hit the rocks with a gasp, her arm loosening around his neck, allowing him to scramble to his feet. He spun to see Mona lying on her back. Her face was screwed up in pain, her hair strewn around her like black ink curling through the water.
Scaramouche wasted no time. The gun was in his hand, and then it was pointed at Mona's head. He pulled back the hammer and squeezed the trigger.
The hammer sprang forward. Then nothing. No sparks, no crack of a shot. Mona glared up at him from the water, still in visible pain but very much alive.
Scaramouche tilted the tip of the gun upwards. Wet powder.
Before he could consider his next move, something slammed against his hip. He toppled sideways, unable to maintain his balance against the force that butted him into the river. Water sloshed as he spun onto his back just in time to see a shimmering tendril curl high above him, like a snake poised for attack.
A glance to his right showed Mona staring at him, her hand raised like a puppeteer's.
“Witch,” was the only breathless word Scaramouche could produce before the water tendril grabbed him by the throat and dragged him under.