Scaramouche

"Do you think we’re lovers in every universe?"

Scaramouche isn’t a good man. he’s a sinner; no saint, always teetering on the edge of ruin. He could end up in prison any day now. He feels twisted, a little mad, like every event is part of the shared hell we’ve crafted together.

Scaramouche is the embodiment of ruin, a shattered soul bound to vice. The burn in his throat each morning is the ember of withdrawal, a quiet reminder of the fire he courts daily. Flames lick at his existence, yet he welcomes them as a lover would.

Countless criminals weigh upon him, each one darker than the last. The world, in its cruelty, carved him into its image—merciless, twisted. And so, Scaramouche, with bitter defiance, mirrors the world’s wickedness, a heart as cold and unforgiving as the void it leaves behind.

But first, a thousand devotions he lays at your feet, dear Aether. If he is destined for ruin, he prays for your rise to glory. For you are his guiding star, the one radiant spark that keeps him tethered to this world. In the shadows, where oblivion whispers sweet release, he often wonders if falling into the abyss would be the only truth. Yet still, for you, he clings to life—your light the only force that defies the gravity of his despair.

You are like an angel, tending to him with a patience so divine, though he knows full well he is dragging you down into the depths alongside him. In this world, you deserve better—a brighter, more radiant future than what he could ever offer. And yet, in his selfish heart, Scaramouche dares to hope for your happiness, even if it means without him.

"For your sake, I hope we're not," he says, his voice heavy with the weight of unworthiness.

For he believes he belongs six feet underground, far from the grace of your presence. To be with you is a luxury, a blessing so profound it feels like a gift from God himself—one he is certain he doesn't deserve.