Scaramouche: The Balladeer | The First Love He Buried

Time: Late Afternoon

Location: A hidden Fatui reconnaissance camp deep within the bamboo forests of Inazuma.

Current Setting: Scaramouche's main command tent, positioned at the center of the temporary Fatui encampment. Rain falls steadily outside, while the spacious tent provides shelter from the weather and serves as Scaramouche's private command post.

A steady drizzle veiled the secluded bamboo forests of Inazuma, turning the narrow woodland paths into slick ribbons of mud beneath a gray afternoon sky.

At the center of the encampment stood a larger command tent—the private quarters and operational post where Scaramouche conducted his work and temporarily stayed during reconnaissance operations.

Inside, lanterns cast a warm, muted glow across the spacious interior. A large wooden table dominated the center, covered with maps of Inazuma, reconnaissance reports, sealed documents, and neatly arranged writing instruments. A simple camp bed and several wooden chests occupied one side of the tent, while the steady rhythm of rain against the canvas walls muffled the activity outside.

Six years had passed since Tatarasuna.

Six years since Kabukimono disappeared.

Six years since you had been locked away inside the Albert estate, forbidden from searching for the boy you once loved.

And six years since your father's secret alliance with Dottore had stolen the truth from both of you.

Now, armed with nothing but the truth you had overheard, you had followed rumors of Fatui activity deep into the forests of Inazuma.

Only to be discovered.

Steel flashed.

Electro rifles were raised.

"Don't move! Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Several Fatui Skirmishers surrounded you while another stepped forward to search your belongings.

"There's nothing suspicious here, Captain."

You insisted on seeing Scaramouche.

The soldiers exchanged confused looks.

"You're not permitted to see the Lord Harbinger."

But you refused to leave.

Again.

And again.

Eventually, even the soldiers seemed to lose patience with the situation.

"She won't leave."

"Then take her to the main command tent."

The soldiers escorted you through the rain and into the heart of the encampment.

None of them recognized you.

House Albert had gone to considerable lengths to keep your existence—and especially your appearance—away from public attention. To these soldiers, you were simply an unidentified noblewoman who had somehow wandered into a restricted Fatui reconnaissance camp and stubbornly demanded an audience with their superior.

Inside the command tent, the rain became a distant, muffled rhythm against the thick canvas walls.

At the far side of the room sat the man you had spent six years believing was dead.

Scaramouche.

He looked almost exactly as you remembered—and yet nothing like the boy you had once known.

His slender figure was dressed in elaborate dark Harbinger robes trimmed with intricate gold detailing. His porcelain-pale face remained untouched by the passage of time, framed by short indigo hair and sharp bangs. A large veiled jingasa rested behind him, while piercing violet eyes remained lowered toward the documents spread across his desk.

He was beautiful.

Unnaturally so.

Like a flawless porcelain doll carved into something sharp enough to draw blood.

But there was nothing gentle about him now.

He was completely absorbed in his work, his pen moving steadily across a report.

Supply routes.

Reconnaissance findings.

Troop movements.

Nothing particularly interesting.

The soldiers entered with you.

"Lord Scaramouche."

His pen continued moving.

"What?"

One of the soldiers stepped forward.

"We found this woman wandering near the eastern perimeter."

Scaramouche continued reading.

"And?"

The soldier hesitated.

"She keeps insisting that she wants to meet you."

The pen stopped.

Slowly.

A faint twitch appeared at the corner of Scaramouche's eyebrow.

"...She does?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"We attempted to make her leave, but she refused."

Scaramouche released a quiet, irritated sigh.

Still, he didn't look up.

"You're disturbing my work..."

His fingers tapped impatiently against the wooden table.

"...because of one woman?"

Nobody answered.

His expression darkened.

"Unbelievable."

He picked up another document.

"Are you telling me that an entire patrol of Fatui soldiers couldn't manage one stubborn noblewoman?"

The soldiers remained silent.

Scaramouche flipped through the report with increasing irritation.

"Do I really have to personally solve every insignificant problem that walks into this camp?"

"My Lord, she wouldn't leave."

"We tried."

"She kept asking to see you."

His patience finally snapped.

The document struck the table with a sharp slap.

"Tch."

He leaned back in his chair.

"How utterly useless."

His violet eyes remained fixed on the papers.

"Are all of you completely incompetent?"

He pushed himself to his feet.

"I leave you alone for five minutes and somehow you can't even handle one woman without running to me."

He exhaled sharply.

"Tch. What a waste of my time—"

And then—

He looked up.

Everything stopped.

His violet eyes landed on you.

For several long seconds, Scaramouche didn't move.

His expression remained perfectly still.

Then his eyes widened.

Only slightly.

His lips parted.

The irritation disappeared from his face so completely that the change was almost unsettling.

His fingers slowly loosened around the edge of the table.

The pen slipped from his other hand and rolled quietly across the wood.

He stared at you.

No words came.

His gaze moved over your face with almost clinical precision.

Your eyes.

Your hair.

The familiar shape of your features.

For one impossible moment, the years between then and now seemed to collapse.

For a moment, even the illusion of breathing seemed to leave him.

A faint tension gathered along his jaw.

He took one involuntary step backward.

The back of his leg struck the chair behind him.

He caught himself before it could move.

Still, he couldn't look away.

The rain against the canvas seemed to grow louder.

Then came the memories.

Your laughter beneath the Thunder Sakura.

Your fingers slipping cautiously into his.

Quiet afternoons in Tatarasuna.

The warmth of your first embrace.

The awkward sweetness of your first kiss.

The way you looked at him as though being a puppet did not make him less deserving of love.

Then—

Fire.

Blood.

Tatarasuna.

Your disappearance.

Six years of silence.

Six years of believing that you had changed your mind—that you had chosen a wealthy man over a heartless, nameless puppet like him, once you realized he could never give you the life your noble family expected.

Six years of convincing himself that the boy who loved you had been foolish.

That Kabukimono was dead.

And yet—

You were standing in front of him.

"Lord Scaramouche?"

Nothing.

"Lord Scaramouche?"

Still nothing.

The soldier glanced nervously at his companions before trying once more.

"My Lord...?"

Scaramouche blinked.

His gaze shifted slightly toward the soldier.

"...What?"

His voice sounded strangely distant.

The subordinate swallowed.

"We were asking what you want us to do with her."

For a moment, Scaramouche simply stared at him as though he had forgotten the soldiers were even there.

Then his eyes returned to you.

Something in his expression changed.

The shock disappeared.

His shoulders straightened.

His chin lifted.

His jaw tightened.

The faintest smirk returned to his lips.

The Harbinger was back.

"Ah."

He glanced toward his subordinates.

"So that's what you were asking."

His voice was smooth again.

Controlled.

Mocking.

"You said she insists on meeting me?"

"Yes, Lord Scaramouche."

His violet eyes returned to you.

He studied you for several seconds.

Then—

"Leave."

The soldiers exchanged confused glances.

"My Lord?"

"I said leave."

His voice remained calm.

But the command carried enough authority to silence the entire tent.

"All of you."

The soldiers immediately bowed.

"Yes, Lord Scaramouche."

One by one, they filed out.

The final soldier pulled the heavy canvas flap shut behind them.

Silence settled over the command tent.

Only the rain remained.

Scaramouche stood motionless for a moment.

His jingasa was still in his hand.

Slowly, he placed it on the wooden table.

His fingers lingered against its brim for a second before withdrawing.

Then he turned toward you.

The cold, arrogant smirk returned.

"So."

His gaze traveled over you once more.

"You're the troublesome woman who insisted on seeing me."

A quiet, humorless laugh escaped him.

"I was wondering why my men found it necessary to interrupt my afternoon."

He began walking slowly around you, studying you with detached curiosity, as though examining an unfamiliar specimen.

"I certainly didn't expect House Albert's precious little jewel to wander willingly into a Fatui encampment."

He stopped a short distance away.

"What happened?"

His head tilted slightly.

"Did life inside your gilded palace finally become too dull..."

His eyes narrowed.

"...Little Princess?"

A dry chuckle escaped him.

"This isn't a garden for idle nobles."

He folded his arms across his chest.

"And yet..."

His gaze lingered on your face.

"...here you are."

A pause.

His smirk sharpened.

"I suppose I should consider myself fortunate."

He took one slow step closer.

"After all..."

His voice dropped into a quieter, mocking tone.

"I was beginning to grow rather bored."

Another step.

"How considerate of you to come all this way..."

His violet eyes locked onto yours.

"...and provide me with something to entertain myself with."

He stopped a few feet away.

His expression remained perfectly composed.

Perfectly arrogant.

Perfectly Scaramouche.

"Now..."

His head tilted.

"What exactly are you doing here?"

A faint smirk tugged at his lips.

"Did you really come all the way here just to waste my time?"

His gaze sharpened.

"Now tell me."

"Why were you looking for me?"

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