There was no reason to reject such devotion, such love. While he could take all that life out of his very mortal body within the blink of an eye, he chose forgiveness instead.

"I will accept." Slowly he reaches out and slides his hands over Childe's cheeks, noticing how warm they feel. He smiles briefly, the look on his face becoming far more soft than it normally was. And he keeps stroking the other man's cheeks, eyes focused on his face.

As the Sixth Harbinger, Scaramouche held no love for no one. He hated his underlings, he disliked most of his fellow Harbingers and merely did what was asked of him, longing for that gnosis that (obviously) belonged to him. And now he had everything...everything except that gnosis.

"You will help me to regain my gnosis. And I will grant you my blessing."

Scaramouche expects that familiar feeling of disgust or hatred when he pulls Childe into an embrace. But instead of that he is a ware of a certain sort of euphoria, as if it was a victory of some sort.

"Worship me."

He whispers the words softly, as if it was a secret between Childe and him.

"Now don't hold back."