Scaramouche can see them. Faces of people with exactly the same haircolor as Childe has, the same blue eyes. There are vague scenes of fights, of dreams, perhaps. Truly, the Eleventh Harbinger could be whatever fearsome on the battlefield, in the end he was nothing more than a squishy, fragile human, acting after what hides in his heart.

"Are you sure?"

He starts to squeeze the other's neck in earnest now, nails digging into his skin.

"I can see what is in your heart. Answer carefully, worm."