Chapter Text
It had all started when Tartaglia, ever a constant annoyance in Scaramouche’s life, wouldn’t shut up.
Zapolyarny Palace was an immense and grand place, the greatest architectural wonder in all of Snezhnaya. Yet, somehow, the youngest of the Harbingers would always find some way to interfere with his fellow Harbingers’ work. Unfortunately today, it was Scaramouche’s turn to take the brunt of it. He had just finished reporting his findings on the meteorites to the Tsaritsa. Scaramouche had to admit, albeit begrudgingly, that she had seemed rather displeased that he hadn’t killed the Traveler.
Still, she had dismissed him with a smile and thanked him for his service, telling him he was free to recover after his ordeal. He had left the throne room, only to find Tartaglia waiting outside of it for him. The Harbinger had a look in his eyes as though he was a predator who had finally caught his prey.
“Finally I found someone to talk to, Comrade,” the Childe had said, “I was getting oh-so lonely.”
Had he been anyone else, Scaramouche wouldn’t have hesitated to slit their throat.
Now, the two find themselves walking along the frozen hallway, intricately designed glacial chandeliers hanging above, unmelting despite the burning candles on them. When Scaramouche had first become a Harbinger, he had been taken by surprise by how warm it had actually been within the palace, a sharp contrast to the frigid, never-ending blizzard outside. It was a shame he could not take a moment to enjoy the intricate designs all over the hallway wall because Tartaglia was still talking.
The younger Harbinger is going on and on about ice fishing in the dead of winter of all things. As someone from Inazuma, Scaramouche had absolutely no interest in such a dull topic. He yearns for the day when he can wrap his hands around the other man’s throat and keep him silent forever, but much to his chagrin, the Childe was the apple of the Tsarista’s eye.
“My Childe…” she would say with such fondness, like a mother addressing her baby.
It had been an irritating realization for the rest of the Harbingers as well, who knew they could not take out their frustrations on him as they all had hoped. Which is how he was stuck in the current predicament of him trying desperately to tune the other out.
“Come on Jingles, I know you’re not listening!” Tartaglia says, “At least pretend a little better than that.”
Scaramouche wrinkles his nose at the nickname, and his fingers twitch towards the knife hidden in his sash. Irritatingly enough, when he lifts his gaze to glare at the other man, his headwear jingles at that very moment.
“Tartaglia,” Scaramouche replies through clenched teeth, “Can you not be silent for a single minute?”
“I could, but I won’t.” Tartaglia shrugs. “I like seeing you so mad, but if you want me to be quiet so badly, I’m always open for a fight.” Of course, that was what he wanted, it seemed as though the youngest of them always had an unquenchable thirst for battles and blood.
“It wouldn’t be a real fight for you unless one of us ended up dead, so what’s the point?” He can feel a headache start to form at his temple, but he refuses to let the other know just how much his presence was affecting him. He detested showing weakness. He shifts his gaze forward once more, already tired of looking at the other Harbinger.
Tartaglia sighs, as overdramatic as ever. “Guess I’ve been caught. Should have figured the acclaimed skirmisher would have seen right through me.”
“Don’t you have a job to do?” He asks sharply, “Preferably somewhere far away from me?”
“Sheesh, relax Mouche.” Wonderful, another terrible nickname. “After the whole Liyue fiasco, I’ve been given a few weeks vacation, so I’ll be out of here by the end of the day anyway. I’ll take a couple of weeks with family and then…” He hums. “I’m off to Dragonspine.”
This makes Scaramouche pause in his steps, studying the other Harbinger who had now stopped in front of him. Childe’s eyes gleam with something unreadable as he turns to face him. Scaramouche almost doesn’t want to ask, but he knows it’ll gnaw at him for weeks if he doesn’t.
“Dragonspine? Why?”
“What’s this? Haven’t you heard of the legend of Dragonspine?” Tartaglia leans forward, lips twisting up into a wide grin.
“There are plenty of legends, idiot.” Scaramouche sneers in response. “So which one, in particular, are you talking about?”
Tartaglia, for his part, doesn’t seem offended, which in his opinion was a downright shame. The other Harbinger heaves a sigh as he leans back, lifting his shoulders in a shrug.
“They say there's a dragon deep within its caverns,” Tartaglia meets his gaze, his grin sharp with savagery to it that would have easily scared a lesser man, “And I’m going to be the one to find it and kill it.”
An unbidden thought comes to the Balladeer then, staring back into the dark, cold eyes of his most infuriating associate.
Not if I kill it first.
He doesn’t say this out loud, of course. Instead, he simply shakes his head and shoves the younger Harbinger aside, moving past him. “There’s work I need to do Childe,” he hisses, “I don’t have time for stupid fairytales.”
Tartaglia does not follow him, but his laughter echoes down the hallway.
The laboratory doors slam open, but Scaramouche does not pay them, nor the flinching guard, any mind.
“Lord Scara─”
“Oh do shut up.” He snaps to the guard, who quickly goes down on one knee, bowing his head.
“Apologies, my lord. I simply wanted to say that Lord Dottore is rather busy at the moment and─”
“I don’t care,” Scaramouche interrupts once more and the guard only seems to lower his head even more, “Just tell me where he is.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“I need a favor,” he declares as he enters Dottore’s office.
Il Dottore groans, not bothering to stop hunching over his desk filled with large tomes and papers strewn across it. “This had better be worth it,” The Doctor mutters, “For you to come all this way and bother me during such a crucial point of my research. Delusions don’t make themselves, you know.”
Scaramouche resists the urge to gnash his teeth together, his fists curling at his sides. Just what in the Tsaritsa’s name was he doing? To be so desperate to come to this bastard of all people.
“I need you to finance an expedition to Dragonspine.”
Dottore pauses in his reading. He tilts his head to look over his shoulder, revealing that he was in fact, unmasked. Such a hideous face deserves an equally hideous mask, he can’t help but think. He watches as shark-like teeth stretch into a grin. “Oh?”
“I’ll pay you back when I can,” Scaramouche begins, sensing the amusement from the other Harbinger steadily increasing, “You know I don’t go back on my word.”
“A few questions first,” Dottore hums and turns in his seat to look at him, a single eyebrow lifting, “If you don’t mind, of course.”
“Of course I mind,” he says, already feeling himself growing more and more annoyed, “But you won’t take no for an answer.”
“Why come to me, of all people?” The Doctor leans back in his seat, throwing one leg over the other and resting his clasped hands on top of his knee. “Why not pay for it yourself?”
“I already used my monthly budget on researching the meteors, so I can’t do it myself. That damn Pedrelino gave me a good lead and I couldn’t afford to miss it,” he explains impatiently, “But you never go anywhere, so I know for a fact that you’re sitting on a pile of mora.”
The Doctor brings a hand to his chest, mockingly affronted. “I go places. Why I believe I went to Mondstadt only recently, did I not?”
“That was over a year ago.”
Dottore blinks. “Ah.”
“If anything, you’re the least suspicious out of all of us to want to send your people there,” Scaramouche admits after a beat of silence, “Her Imperial Highness never cares about what you want, as long as you produce the results.”
“But there is nothing in Dragonspine that is relevant to my research at present,” Dottore shrugs, “So what use would an expedition be to me? I’d be better off going to Fontaine in search of new scientific equipment.”
Scaramouche mulls this over. “What about pieces of the dragon, Durin?” He finally suggests and Dottore’s lips twitch downwards. “You never did end up getting everything you wanted from that drake you took care of at Mondstadt, did you?”
“The explosion had been… a bit more substantial than I had anticipated,” Dottore reluctantly admits, “But I haven’t considered picking up that particular theory since. Immortality is a tricky thing to work on.” Scaramouche doesn’t even want to bother with asking further about that particular topic.
“There are pieces of Durin scattered everywhere on that wretched mountain, we’ve both seen the proof ourselves,” Scaramouche offers, “I’ll have my people collect all the samples you desire.”
“So this grand proposition of yours, is that I pay you and your men to collect dragon samples for my research?” Dottore heaves a sigh, getting bored with the conversation at hand, “That’s nice and dandy for me, but what could you possibly want in Dragonspine, Comrade?”
“Tartaglia,” Scaramouche spits, “Is being a nuisance again, and I want to put him in his place.”
“In Dragonspine?”
“Will you do it or not?!” He finally snaps, tired of the back and forth between them. “As long as I do what I promise for you, then what does it matter my reason for going?”
Dottore smirks, though he seemed to be seriously considering his offer.
“Pantalone is the one in charge of our monthly budgets,” he says, “He will know something is off when he takes note of an expedition that I did not supervise myself.”
“Then keep it off the books.”
“He’ll find out,” Dottore warns, tone far from kind, “And I simply refuse to be the one held accountable.”
“Then I’ll take the punishment,” Scaramouche scowls, “If that’s what you’re so afraid of.”
“It’s not.” Dottore’s eyes widen with sadistic amusement. “But I can’t wait to see what happens to you when he finds out. Perhaps I’ll finally have the chance to dissect you as I’ve always dreamed.”
Scaramouche meets his gaze, Electro energy racing through his veins. He would need an outlet after the irritating conversations he’s had today. “Maybe you will.”
“Alright then.” Dottore waves a hand and begins to turn away, a clear signal of dismissal. “I’ll give you your expedition and you bring me back as much of Durin as you can. I do expect to receive samples of teeth, blood, scales....” he trails off thoughtfully, already getting lost in his new theories.
Scaramouche is already turning away with a nod. “Fine.”
“Oh, and Scaramouche?” Dottore calls out as he turns back towards his desk, “Don’t forget a piece of his heart, that will be absolutely paramount to my research.”
“A piece of Durin’s heart?” Scaramouche mutters to himself, mind racking over the files he had gotten on the mountain, “Should be simple enough.”
Cold, brittle air met his skin as he stepped out of the tent, causing Scaramouche to shiver. He brought his gloved hands up to his covered arms and rubbed them in a futile attempt to add heat there. Dragonspine Mountain was a cold, unforgiving place where some of the foulest of creatures made their home. Why anyone would ever be willing to explore the mountain was simply beyond his comprehension.
At least Snezhnayans were prepared for the frigid cold, and their clothing kept most of the icy chill away. He was currently missing his usual headwear, though his mask and vision rested carefully within the pockets of his thick, tan coat. A red scarf wrapped around his neck and dark snow boots, made of the finest leather, completed his expedition outfit.
He had noticed that some of his men had taken more easily to the cold than he had. Having grown up in the warmer temperatures of Inazuma, he could never get quite used to it. This would have to do for the time being, even with such garish-looking tents. It was like Dottore had wanted the entirety of the mountain to know that they were here with such a loud blue color.
“Listen up you fools,” he begins, finally looking down at the skirmishers kneeling before him, “Make sure there’s absolutely no one here. We need to conduct our investigation swiftly and carefully, without any interruptions. Should you find anyone, kill them on sight.” His words are met with nods, but that wasn’t quite enough for him.
His facial expression contorts into one of sheer hostility. “If any of you fail to do so, I'll take care of you myself.”
“Yes, sir!”
At least they were quick to reply. With a roll of his eyes, he waves his hand in dismissal, and the sound of crunching ice is the only indicator that his orders were being followed. He lets out an annoyed breath, which forms into mist against the freezing air. This was ridiculous. Why he had even decided to do this without a single shred of evidence that a dragon even resided within the icy caverns of this mountain?
Perhaps this is what Tartaglia had wanted all along.
He shakes his head to rid himself of those thoughts. He couldn’t think like that. If he found no traces of a dragon, then he could just hear of Tartaglia’s own disastrous attempt later on. Yes, that would be a reward in and of itself.
“My Lord Harbinger,” a voice stirs him out of his thoughts and he turns towards one of the Cryo Cicin mages, who crossed her arm over her chest, bowing her head. “I come bearing news from the eastern side of the mountain.”
“What is it?”
“A few of our troops came into contact with the Traveler, near the ancient ruins located by the Statue of the Seven. It has resulted in several losses on our end and his escape.”
The Traveler was here as well? Quite surprising, since Tartaglia had reported that their apparent next move had been to find a way into Inazuma. “Do you know why he was in the ruins?”
“No, my lord. We have our suspicions that it may have something to do with that sword that we saw him with, but nothing concrete.”
He scowls.
“Yes, I remember. The sword he managed to get away with because none of you that were already stationed here were capable enough to handle him.” She doesn’t respond but winces at his harsh words. “Where is he headed now?”
The Cicin mage hesitates. No, no, that just wouldn’t do at all. He shakes his head and snaps his fingers. A ball of Electro energy flung itself from his hand into her chest, causing her to let out a scream, dropping to her hand and knees.
“W-we don’t know!” She gasps out, fingers shakily curling into the snow.
“Useless,” he hisses, “How dare you come to me with only a half-assed report?”
“My deepest apologies, I-I swear it won’t happen again.”
“Make sure that it doesn't.”
He brings a hand up to his chin and cradles it, weighing his next course of action. It seemed more than likely the Traveler would have gone even further down the mountain by now, or perhaps within the very caverns he was to explore himself.
“Take me to where he was last seen.”
“Yes, my lord.”
It is approximately an hour later when the Cicin mage delivers him to the ruins. Much to his anger, the ancient palace door was already ajar. The room had been completely cleared of all of its contents, with lit torches as the only indicator that someone had recently been inside.
The ruin door, that had been told to him by some of their best archaeologists that it was impossible to open, had been opened.
Scaramouche sighs, bringing his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Just what sort of imbeciles were under his command here? “I thought it had been reported to me that this particular door was sealed shut,” he says, words slow and as frigid as the air around him, “So one of you needs to explain to me, why I’m staring at a perfectly open door, now.”
The agents kneeling around him were deadly silent, and it was clear they were too frightened to speak. Finally, one of the archaeologists stands, not daring to look at him, but rather, at his feet.
“My lord, we have only been stationed here for a few weeks, it would have been near impossible for us to figure out the puzzle that─”
“Impossible?” Scaramouche echoes, lowering his hand to glare at the man, “Clearly not, since it seems as though the Traveler was able to figure out how to open it just fine. Oh! And in a matter of days too, just to add salt to the wound.”
“It’s because he clearly had help!” one of the other agents suddenly speaks up, standing straighter, “I-uh- sir!”
“Help?” He frowns. “Help from whom?”
“There were sightings of the Knights of Favonius here as well. In fact, their Chief Alchemist is said to have a station here.”
“How interesting,” Scaramouche chuckles, “That none of you seemed fit to tell me about that particular tidbit of information beforehand.”
Stark silence follows his words.
“I won’t kill any of you today,” he says, “But if I hear of another failure, it seems that I will happily be providing The Doctor with more test subjects.” He suddenly grabs the collar of the last agent that had spoken and drags him in closer, pointedly ignoring the other man's whimpering.
“Now tell me,” he growls through clenched teeth, “Where exactly is it, that I can find this Knight?”
The evening had fallen upon Dragonspine, and Scaramouche had never felt more grateful to see the warm glow of a fire. He steps into the makeshift camp and raises his eyebrows in surprise at the sight of so many scientific instruments. There was a man who was peering into a tube filled with green liquid, quietly murmuring to himself.
He takes another step, allowing the wooden planks under his boot to creak in response. The other man chuckles and shakes his head, setting the tube down into its holder.
“By Barbatos’ name Aether, as much as I’ve come to enjoy your company, I have no more ex─” the man pauses upon seeing Scaramouche, his warm smile plummeting from his face. He shifts into a more neutral expression, standing a little straighter as he finally acknowledges him, “Ah, apologies. I thought I was speaking to a friend.”
“No need for such a look,” Scaramouche easily allows an amused smile onto his lips, “Who knows? Perhaps you and I can become friends as well.” The other man doesn’t seem at all impressed with him, but the Harbinger’s smile doesn’t waver.
“Can I help you with something?” he finally asks, eyes narrowing, “It is often deemed rude to enter someone’s camp without a word as to why.”
Scaramouche places a hand over his chest and bows his head politely.
“In truth, I am simply a vagrant from Inazuma, who decided to attempt to climb this mountain without proper preparation.” Scaramouche shakes his head, motioning to himself and his lack of proper gear. “I was hoping that you may allow me to take a bit of respite here, so I may gather the strength to be able to head out once more.”
The blonde man furrows his brows. “You wish to keep climbing?”
“Archons above, no. I plan to head back down as soon as I possibly can. I can’t quite take this cold.”
Albedo, the Kreideprinz, and Chief Alchemist of the Knights of Favonius, his mind easily supplies. He did not look like someone who had seen many battles, so Scaramouche already has no doubts that he could take him in a fight, should it come to that. Still, he thinks to himself as takes note of the Geo vision hanging from the other man’s collar, it was good to not underestimate other vision users in his line of work.
Not that they rarely won against him, as even Tartaglia struggled during their practice spars.
“I can offer you some coffee,” the alchemist finally sighs, “But you cannot stay here longer than necessary. I work with too many unstable chemicals, so I would rather not have someone else here.”
“Some coffee sounds lovely, and I promise I can stay quiet,” Scaramouche assures, “You will not even notice that I am here.” Albedo shoots him a frown, like he can’t quite believe that, but he moves away from his workstation towards a small campfire. He watches as the man lifts a kettle from the ground, seems to test the weight of it, nod, and finally hangs it over the fire.
“It should only take a few minutes to boil. In the meantime, please sit here.” The man sweeps his arm out towards a small wooden stool near a chalkboard. Scaramouche makes his way over to it as the other looks around his shelves with a frown.
“Is something wrong?”
“Hmmm, it seems I’ve forgotten where I placed any of my cups. I haven’t used one in days.” Scaramouche blinks, his faux smile dropping in response to the sheer surprise he felt.
“Don’t you drink anything? How have you not used any?”
The alchemist ignores him in lieu of searching through one of his many shelves, making a small noise of victory as he manages to eventually locate one. He was probably just like Dottore, Scaramouche reasons with himself, always about his experiments, rather than eating or drinking.
Except Dottore had Pantalone or his assistants to remind him to take care of himself, so who did the Kreideprinz have? He glances around the campsite for signs of another person, but upon not seeing anyone, he finally speaks up.
“Are you out here by yourself then?”
“Yes, though it seems that I have managed to have more guests lately than I could have anticipated.” There is a fondness in the other man's tone that Scaramouche takes note of. Again, Tartaglia’s report had been correct, the Traveler carried around an aura that seemed to draw people to him.
Scaramouche hadn’t quite seen it himself, though they did barely speak to one another.
“Perhaps you happen to draw people in,” he says, “It could be a gift of yours.”
The alchemist shakes his head, lifting the kettle away from the fire as it begins to whistle. “No, no. I was never one for making friends, or conversation.” He carefully pours the hot water into the metal cup, the smell of coffee already permeating into the air.
“Clearly,” Scaramouche teases, “Since you have yet to introduce yourself.” This causes the other man to start, coffee splashing over the edge of the cup and dripping onto the floor.
“I have heard no name come from you either, stranger,” he replies, making his way over to Scaramouche and offering him the cup, “But I am Albedo.”
Scaramouche takes the cup carefully, and the other seems to wait for him to introduce himself as well. But when he makes no move to do so, Albedo simply sighs and goes back towards his workstation.
“It seems that I haven’t been entirely honest,” Scaramouche says before taking a sip of the coffee. He frowns at the bitterness of it, more used to tea.
“I assumed that was the case,” Albedo says, picking up a vial. Scaramouche chuckles, pouring out the coffee into the frozen ground below him. He can see that Albedo’s shoulders begin to tense, watching him from the corner of his eye.
“In truth, I'm here looking for a dragon,” Scaramouche says, watching the alchemist pour some sort of grey liquid from a beaker into the vial, “All I'm asking is if you have happened to see signs of one.”
Albedo sighs, lowering the vial and turning his gaze to the Harbinger. “Durin has long been dead, but his remains are scattered all across the mountain,” his tone indicated how done he clearly was with the topic, “I'm sure some light exploration will yield you the results you want.”
Scaramouche barely keeps himself from electrocuting the other man there and then, so instead, he simply allows the cup to fall from his hand and clatter onto the floor. “You misunderstand,” he says slowly, “I am looking for a dragon that is very much alive because I seek to kill it.”
Silence meets his words as Albedo frowns, setting the vial down completely, though Scaramouche takes note that he had been careful about doing so.
“What a ridiculous thing to ask,” Albedo finally says, “There are no dragons here.”
“Interesting,” Scaramouche scoffs, “You say this, and yet, I'm not quite sure I believe you.”
The alchemist, for his part, does not look affected by his words. “And why would that be?”
“You look like you're hiding something.” It’s then that he suddenly moves at an almost indiscernible speed, shoving the slightly shorter man against his workstation. The glass containers rattled from the force of it, and Albedo glances back at them with a wary expression. “Where is this dragon, Albedo, of the Knights of Favonius?”
“You know who I am.” It wasn't a question.
“Of course,” Scaramouche sneers, wrapping a hand around his throat, thumb rubbing against the golden diamond etched into his skin. “As a Harbinger, it's my duty to know the ins and outs of a nation's power structure.” If Albedo is surprised to find out who he really is, he doesn’t look it. “My name is Scaramouche, the Sixth of the Harbingers.” Upon receiving no response, Scaramouche rolls his eyes.
“There is no living dragon here,” Albedo inhales sharply when Scaramouche digs his fingers deeper into his throat, “You are on this mountain for nothing.”
“Then you will show me the entirety of Dragonspine,” Scaramouche replies, forcing their eyes to meet, “And prove to me that is the case.”
“No.” Albedo’s eyes flash with anger. “I have no time for such a frivolous request.”
“Frivolous?” Scaramouche’s lips curl into a sneer, allowing some Electro energy to flow into his fingertips, “How dare you? Do you honestly think you have a choice in the matter? You must know that I am no ordinary vision holder and that you will lose should you try to fight me. After all, you’re alone here.”
Albedo, to his credit, doesn’t flinch when he feels the first brush of electricity against his skin. “Fine,” the alchemist finally relents, “I’ll help you with this fruitless endeavor.”
Scaramouche’s smile is all teeth. “Lovely.”