littlesilhouettoofaman | The Brightest Things Fade The Fastest

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The Brightest Things Fade The Fastest

First they were nothing but echoes, noises without a source or purpose, just something he could blame on the battle he just lost. But echoes changed into soft voices and footsteps and eventually he could even hear the sound of rain outside.
And his body did not hurt after the fall he made, it is merely a familiar sort of uncomfortable sensation of joints popped out of place and cracks that shouldn’t be there. But he had expected to be beyond angry, to feel that rage surge through him, that sense of absolute frustration and that undying desire to serve a certain purpose, that certain purpose. But surprisingly enough there was nothing for now. Just a dreadful, heavy emptiness.

Of course he remembered everything. How could he forget it? Yet another setback. He had been so close to fulfilling his birthright and then that idiot… Oh, yes, the idiot. That buffoon who ranked way lower than him and had the audacity to stand up to a god. And had the audacity to win.

The room is quite dark and when he opens his eyes he can see a couple of figures standing close and half of his mind expects to see the Doctor standing between all of them. But he is nowhere to be seen.

“Get out.”

Did they all come to look at a fallen god? Because seriously, who’d given them the right to do so? So when he repeats the words for a second time they are louder and a lot more threatening.

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The sudden change in weather doesn't go unnoticed by Childe, and yet there's nothing he can do to stop it. All he can do is continue his fight, launching devastating blow after devastating blow at Scaramouche. He doesn't like how this is going, how his opponent isn't even trying to block his attacks. His celestial blade leaves deep cuts on the mechanical body of the former Harbinger, his abyssal energy that comes from beyond this world not enough to keep whatever is happening from occurring. It's like the whole world is starting to fall apart, and Childe goes in for one last strike that will hopefully quell the lightning that streaks down from the sky nearby with a deafening clap.

And from that last strike, Scaramouche catches him, a power he hadn't seen before nor knew he even had emerging from his body, like a laser that strikes him hard and cuts through his dark armor, sending him flying. Everything goes sideways, his body limp as it flies through the air, slamming into the ground to send chunks of earth flying every which way. Childe isn't sure when he stops, the pain radiating through his body almost seems to numb him. He can't move a muscle, barely has the strength to groan, and isn't even sure how long he's been on the ground when he comes back to his senses.

The fallen Harbinger blearily looks around for his opponent, alarm bells ringing in his head that this could be it if he doesn't move, but he can't. Whatever hit him wrecked his body, and he's having a hard time focusing, looking all around for Scaramouche and where he is...

The strength that surges through him is something else. Something mere humans cannot comprehend. Something all-consuming and all-powerful. So very fitting for the god he really is. Yet, after unleashing it, Scaramouche is very aware of how it wrecks his body. How nerve endings burn and wires snap.

So the second he manages to send Childe backwards he has no time to finish the job. Even though every part of his being wants to stomp Childe's stupid head into the ground until there would nothing left but mush, Scaramouche slumps against a nearby tree.

Of course, Scaramouche keeps a close eye on Childe and eventually he finds himself convinced that the other is dead. Slowly he moves to stand on his feet, unaware of the the fact that an obvious crack has appeared on his face, running from his brow, to his cheek and down his neck.

"I have had worse."

And then he notices that Childe seems to be alive. The movements are small but visible.

'Oh? You still live, worm?

Scaramouche isn't speaking this time but Childe should hear the words.

'What does it take to kill you?'

Through his bleary eyes, he can see movement from a tree, when his vision begins to focus. The lean stature of Scaramouche stands before him, a little ways off but too close for comfort. He's a sitting duck, he can't move a single muscle in his body. And to make matters worse, his opponent is still able to speak, where his mind is a muddied mess. The words enter into his mind, and all Childe is able to do is groan in response.

'I...have to...get up...'

It's the only thoughts Childe is able to have, ones that Scaramouche can hear, trying desperately again to move and failing. If he can't get up soon, who knows what will happen to him. Blood obscures his vision as it drips down into his eyes beneath the mask of the Foul Legacy Transformation, and panic sets in his chest that he desperately tries to fight down.

'Got to...move...'

'So desperate'

Scaramouche comes closer and, to be fair, there's not one single thought inside his head that is a sane one. There's just an immense urge to be the absolute awful person he can be.

'Is that panic?'

Now he did not expect that Childe could be like this. From what he knows, the 11th is quite fearless. Stupid, rash and absolutely not afraid to die. Well, it seems he was wrong.

"Beg, little insect. If you wish to live I want to see you grovel."

The words ring in his head, sounding like a predator zeroing in on their prey. The panic in his chest rises a little more at being called out so blatantly. He's promised to do everything he can to keep himself alive, to see his family. To see the Traveler. To keep them in his sight and him in theirs.

And yet, he can't move.

"͍̫͍N̫͙̞e͇͔̠v̙̘͉.͕͖.̡̻͙e̦̟͓r͙͎͇.̠̫̝"͙͔̦

The wracking cough that comes out from his response is filled with blood, looking up defiantly at his opponent despite how much panic he feels.

"̼͔͍T̝̠̙h̪̼̼i̡͉̠s̙̙̟.̞͔͍.͖̞̼.̘͔̠i͙͕͖s͇̞͕.͙̦͙.̡͓̺.̪͜n͕͓͕'̠͍͇t̢̠͕ o̢̝̦v͔̝͙e̙͇͓r̙͎͙.͍͕͇"̝̘

Edited 2024-03-12 17:08 (UTC)

There's so much panic. And yet, so much resistance as well. This is the type of idiot who would never accept death. And really, Scaramouche can't help basking in it. The sweetest victory there is.

"It is."

Scaramouche moves slowly, ignoring the damage done to his own body. He has had worse. After all, the Doctor has never been particularly gentle and well, when chasing strength there are sacrifices that need to be made. All in all, a fair exchange.

For a moment Childe can hear nothing. No voice in his head, no footsteps. Until there is a certain weight settling on top of him and if he might look up he is looking straight at Scaramouche's face, hovering close to his.

"I could end your suffering. Swift and painless. After all, you did put up a good fight." But there's so much panic inside the other. "But there are some things I want to find out first."

Truly, there is nothing on Scaramouche's face that looks sane. De grin around his lips is absolutely malicious and anyone can see he's getting so much pleasure out of this. Slowly he reaches out, removing some of Childe's armor as if he has all the time in the world. And then he slides his hands around the other's neck, squeezing slightly.

And there's one word Childe might hear, ringing inside his head.

"Beg"

Tartaglia's vision blurs, recedes and comes back again. He's losing blood somewhere, maybe internally, maybe not...either way, it's not good. The silence is eerie, like a haunted house with no creaking or wind outside to accompany it. It makes his blood chill when he realizes he doesn't know where Scaramouche is until he's on top of him, looking up to meet the face of his opponent.

There's nothing but malice in that stare, and he wonders what plans the puppet has in mind for him. Whatever it is, it's probably going to hurt, and he watches helplessly as some of his armor falls to the ground. Would he try to see how many stab wounds it would take to kill him? Or worse? But instead, Scaramouche's hands slip up under his mask and wrap around his throat, squeezing hard.

The Harbinger feels his air become completely cutoff, lungs burning desperately for air, his whole body screaming at him to breathe. Childe fights hard to lift his hands to try to remove Scaramouche's hands from his neck, but the blast had hit him so hard he can barely move them an inch. His body writhes under the pressure of not breathing, but his mind holds, defiant in his thoughts.

'No.'

But even so, even that begins to weaken, the need to breathe overriding everything else.

'Let go of me...'

His own family flashes through his mind, his goals, his dreams...

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."

There's no letting up from his opponent at all. Even the thoughts of his family running through his head get fuzzy before they dissipate entirely, due to the lack of oxygen. He can feel his consciousness dip in and out, fighting to stay awake, but unable to do much of anything about it other than stare defiantly back up at Scaramouche.

"̫̠̦N̢̢̺.͚͙͙.͍͔̻.̠̘̦.͔͉͕"̡̦̦

'Never...'

To beg is dishonorable, dying in battle would be the death he'd want. Begging for his life is out of the question, and these morals are clear through his demeanor and mind as he refuses to give Scaramouche what he wants. He would like to see him beg for mercy, but until his eyes shut and never open again, there's a chance he could live, or die a way a warrior should.

'Make me...'

'There is barely any life in you left.'

Really, Scaramouche could end everything in the blink of an eye. But, alas, he isn't forgiving and he isn't kind either. He knows very well what he has become and, to be fair, he likes to bask in it. What is a mere human in the eye of a god? Nothing but disposable garbage. Fragile and useless.

Slowly he moves back, letting go of the other Harbinger's throat in the process. For a moment he stays silent, his hands resting on Childe's chest while the look on his face is perfectly neutral. He tilts his head a little when he hears thunder rumbling in the distance. It sounds like a reassurance of some sort. Permission, maybe.

"Let me see your face."

Without any further ado he hooks his fingers around Childe's mask and slowly lifts it. Because there is something there inside of the other. Hidden deep. He wants to uncover it, see what it is.

'If that is the choice you wish to make... Worry not, I can be quite a benevolent god.'

Scaramouche wonders if Childe can feel it. A certain pressure, a sweet, reassuring whisper that there might be some blood. And really Childe free to wrap his own hands around his throat.

Much to his surprise, Scaramouche lets go of his throat, and the moment he does Childe sucks in air to keep himself from passing out and dying. It's beautiful, life-giving oxygen, and he gasps helplessly for it, filling his lungs once more. The pain of not breathing was worse than the rest of the pain radiating through his body, since at least he can live for a few moments longer.

Unable to resist, he can only look up to see his opponent studying him, lifting his mask, wanting to see his face. Lifting the mask reveals the blood that's spilled all over him, staining his skin red and dripping down over one eye. There's agony written all over his features, yet somehow managing to stay awake and in control of his transformation.

As he stares upward, something in his mind shifts, something that falls in line with those last words.

'I can be quite a benevolent god.'

It soothes him and takes him by the hand, opens up the hidden corners of his heart and mind, beckons him closer. And in his state, Childe isn't able to resist it, gazing upwards at the god in front of him that's giving him the chance to take one last life.

Before he knows it, somehow, his own hands wrap around his own throat, choking himself with as much strength as he can muster. He neither knows how he's able to even lift his arms up to do so, or how he's able to find any strength to squeeze his own life out of him, but none of that matters underneath the benevolent gaze of his new god.

As the lack of oxygen begins to make his mind muddled and confused, there's one thing that floats to the surface underneath the power and control that Scaramouche has been searching for since he woke from the battle between the two men- a strong feeling of love and admiration that exudes from the Eleventh Harbinger that was hiding previously. It's not a warmth that formed as a result of the mind control that's gotten him to want to take his own life, but one that's been there the entire time. How Childe appreciates that Scaramouche has never been like the other Harbingers, straightforward and to the point, unafraid to step out from the shadows unlike some of the other Harbingers. There's admiration for his strength too, Childe always wanting to challenge himself against him. And though Childe finds him rough around the edges and hard to get along with, there's still these amorous feelings that show themselves fully now as life depletes from his wrecked body, looking happy to take his own life for Scaramouche in his weakened state.

At least he was able to save him from being destroyed when he took the gnosis from him and sent it back to Snezhnaya. At least he was able to do that much. But now he'll gladly die, if this is what his Lord wants...

Watching the other makes him realize even more that he is completely above humanity. That he truly is a god, a being superior to them, a being who isn't fragile, who doesn't bleed. But still, there is something quite interesting about the sight of Childe's face when that mask comes off. He's suffering. In pain.

'Death would be so sweet, don't you think?'

Scaramouche leans in closer, eyes widened with the hint of a smile around his lips. And then his hands come up, sliding up his throat briefly before those fingers do as his god has commanded them to do. Squeeze.

'Do it for me...'

And really, he would have watched all up to the point where that life, all that strength would wither and die. Because, in the end, humans are simple, fragile bags of flesh. Everything seems to end as it should end. At least, until Scaramouche picks up something else. Perhaps it was what he was looking for, the part he wanted to uncover. It was something that felt like a smouldering fire. Warm and cozy, intimate and somewhat tingly.

Is it...?

'Idiot.'

The word would echo through Childe's mind and perhaps the urge to squeeze his throat shut could lessen. Maybe Childe just wanted to live. Maybe, his god would allow him to live. Maybe said god has missed such things since they reminded him of a sweeter time. A time before betrayal and anger.

He squeezes his throat with a renewed strength that only a god, his god can give him.

He can feel his consciousness slip away as his oxygen is depleted, smiling as he silently agrees with Scaramouche's statement. Yes, death is sweet, especially when commanded by this divine being that he's so lucky to be able to interact with directly. So few mortals ever get the chance to be so intimately connected with a god, and Childe is one of the few that's been able to serve not one, but two gods now. He knows he's about to pass out, barely able to keep his eyes open before a harsh insult is thrown his way.

It rips through his mind, making the urge to end his life lessen, confused. Did he offend Lord Scaramouche...? What is it that's made him go back on his own will? He looks up in anguish at possibly doing something to fail him...

'Lord...?'

Still incapable of having the energy to speak on his own, the thought comes though, asking. What's wrong? How could he possibly make it up to him?

Scaramouche sits back a little, gazing at him with a look on his face that is right between annoyance, confusion and amazement. And after a short moment of silence he finally speaks again, using his voice this time.

"Why did you fix me after our fight? Tell me the true reason."

He has to know if Childe is that much of a weird idiot. He has to know if that warmth is meant for him and him alone.

"Tell me what it is. What is in your heart."

Still under the influence of his divine will, even though the words aren't being delivered by telepathy, he's still unable to resist the control that Scaramouche has over his mind. Childe's hands finally drop from his own throat as life-giving oxygen refills his lungs, sucking in as much air as he can before coughing violently as he hacks blood up onto the ground. He's been commanded to answer this question, and he's struggling to answer, but he must, he has to tell him the truth.

The truth he'd buried deep in his heart, locked away for fear of rejection, something he told himself he never needed to be reciprocated...

"I...couldn't...bear to leave you."

The words are heavy and laden with the weight of his body still on the brink of death, but he answers, finally.

"I've always...admired you...loved you from a distance. ...I could never...tell you."

Childe seems apologetic in his admission to his new Lord, ready for retribution from the divine God in his presence. His heart burns with embarrassment and fear, because now he's sure he'll be rejected and laughed at, a lowly mortal who's not worthy of his god.

"...Sorry. I had to...obey the Tsaritsa's orders."

Scaramouche knows he can be vile and cruel. He also knows he is bad at controlling the anger inside of him. But he also knows he's meant to be a god and he's quite sure he is able to be a benevolent one. Even to fragile little humans who are so reliant on oxygen as this one.

"Tch." He crosses his arms. "You are in no way suitable to be a Harbinger."

Still, he would be quite a terrible god to turn away his first follower like that. Even when that follower admits to quite foolish things. Scaramouche could punish him for that, to take such heavy words in his mouth, to let such feelings live inside his heart.

"How human of you." Slowly he moves to reach out and when he touches Childe's cheek the touch is almost kind. "How your heart must have ached..." Then he cackles softly. "Would you betray your beloved Tsaritsa for me? Is that love of yours rooted this deep? Or is it a mere lie?"

Though battered and beaten, his ego can withstand the criticism of Lord Scaramouche- many a Harbinger has uttered that phrase before, that he was not fit for his position. But it never mattered to him, no matter who it came from. The position simply was a reward for all his victories in battle, though it doesn't mean much now that he's bathed in his own blood, and lucky to be on the receiving end of the mercy of his Lord who hasn't killed him yet. Tartaglia's eyes roll in their sockets, trying his best to stay conscious, the toll of the battle slowly overtaking him. Soon, he's sure he'll pass out, but he'll hang on for as long as his Lord demands him to.

"I..."

To ask him that question now, under the strong influence of this divine being's power is hard. Childe loves the Tsaritsa, and is deeply devoted to her, but the love in his heart for Scaramouche is a different sort. One that drove him to keep Scaramouche alive during their battle, one that led him to fix him and keep him hidden away from the Fatui.

"...I already have."

He should've killed him, ended him in the labyrinth under the Akademiya. That's what was expected of him as a Harbinger, and yet, he disobeyed that order. Childe's body shudders under Scaramouche's touch, his breath ragged, realizing his position and what he's done. He has betrayed the Tsaritsa. The one thing he looked down upon some of the Harbingers for, he's committed himself. And now, in the presence of a god, one that's beaten him almost to death and could take his life any second on a whim, what is he to do? He can't move, and is struggling to breathe...blood pours from his head and his body is wracked with pain.

Whatever Scaramouche decides from here will be his fate. He's lost, and now his days of seeking endless battle just might end.

Scaramouche can see how the other is trying his very best to remain conscious. Despite his flesh giving in to those injuries, he keeps his eyes open, he keeps talking and yes he can see that shudder after his touch.

"Is it worth it?"

He reaches out again, catching some blood on his finger as he leans a little closer.

"Is it all you have wanted?" Scaramouche wants to hear those words of praise, in fact, he needs them. Slowly he brings that bloody finger to his lips to take a curious lick. Now he is familiar with the scent of human blood, but he has never tasted it. "Heh. It tastes disgusting. Unworthy of a god like me."

He leans in even closer, both of his hands sliding over Childe's cheeks now.

"What will you do about it? Cast off your human shell? Become something more?"

He asks Tartaglia questions that he doesn't necessarily know the answer to.

Was it worth it? Was it what he really wanted? He's not sure. As he sits there, bloody and broken, he does wonder if it was all worth it in the end. If he dies here, he loses everything, but to restore Scaramouche to at least a fraction of his previous power...it's all confusing and conflicting to him. Childe doesn't answer right away, looking into the god's eyes as his hands cup his cheeks.

More questions he doesn't know how to answer.

"I don't know what you mean..."

He doesn't exactly have the ability to do that. The closest thing he has to transforming into something else is the form he's in now, a broken Foul Legacy Transformation that came from beyond the heavens itself. Or is it a trick question, if he says yes, then he'd be granted a painful death and lose his human shell? It's a dangerous position he finds himself in, and Childe thinks on how to proceed while also not withholding the truth. It's hard, with the world spinning and his mind muddled with the overwhelming power and presence that Scaramouche has on it, plus how lightheaded he feels.

"I don't want to die, if...that's...cough...what you're asking."

"Of course you don't want to die. Humans are quite afraid of death to begin with. And you are, most of all, nothing but a fragile little human."

Scaramouche keeps his hands on Childe's cheeks for a while as he studies his face, thinking about what to do with his new (and only) follower. What to do with his new fate? What to do with a dream he has given up on a while ago, only to be able to live it anyways?

"And I do think you are too valuable to lose. I am a benevolent god, you know?"

----

And Scaramouche keeps his word. He waits, in an almost patient way, for Childe to finally stop talking. And no, he doesn't have plans to let him die. In a way, being worshiped by a Fatui Harbinger isn't the worst outcome. Of course, Childe is the weakest one and the one he deems the most stupid, but still, all in all, it could be worse.

As the dark settles in he busies himself with examining the idiot's injuries, carefully removing armor and fabric. And, somewhere along the line, he makes sure that his first follower is a little bit more comfortable than before. At least, the comfort a small abandoned house can offer.

And then, somewhere along the line, he realizes what it is that hides inside that heart of the other. What his motivations were.

"You are beyond stupid." Scaramouche whispers the words softly, not really knowing if the other is awake or not. "Yet, as your god I will not complain about that devotion of yours."

Childe ponders in that short moment, what his fate will be. He can't move, he can't do much of anything but wait for Scaramouche to decide what he'll do. Relief floods his mind when it seems he decides that he's worth keeping alive, that dying here would be a waste. A small smile unfolds on his face, and his eyes droop now knowing that Scaramouche is indeed, a benevolent god. The lightheadedness finally gets to him after a time, and he feels consciousness slip away from him, until he finally passes out from his injuries.

---

He wakes up having returned to normal, the armor gone off of his body, lying down in an old, dilapidated bed in a house he doesn't recognize. Quiet whispers fill his ears as he slowly opens his eyes, looking over to see a blurry image of a dusty old house and a figure standing over him. He's still in a lot of pain, there's crusted blood across his face, but he's no longer on the verge of dying.

"Ngh..."

As Tartaglia's sight comes to focus more, he sees Scaramouche tending to him, as he lies there immobile. He doesn't dare to move, quickly realizing that he's still in a bad position.

"Scaramouche...? Where am I?"

When Childe wakes up he might notice that his legs are tied up. For some reason it would not be wise to lose him at this point. Scaramouche still finds himself torn between breaking him or manipulate him so that he might be useful.

"Does that matter?"

He gazes down at the other while a small smile forms around his lips. Scaramouche doesn't want to be a god of destruction. All humans have to know is that they're inferior beings in need of guidance from a superior being like himself. And this particular human definitely needs guidance.

"I should ask you how you feel, not? But your fragile bones still looks broken and your skin still looks bruised." Scaramouche crouches down next to the other, looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. Then he reaches out, his fingers brushing against his cheek. "Is there a spot on your body that doesn't hurt?"

As he comes more to, he realizes his bad position is worse than what he thought. His legs are bound, and Scaramouche is looming over him. It's not wise to make any kind of rash decisions, so Tartaglia chooses to calm himself. That malice in the puppet's eyes is still there, but yet for some reason he hasn't hurt Childe more. In fact, he's rescued him.

"Why didn't you end me back there?"

The brush against his cheek feels mocking, not at all the way he'd ever imagined that happening in his wildest fantasies. Childe looks down at the hand and back up at Scaramouche, not answering his question. Feels a bit rhetorical to even bring up where he might not be hurting...which is no where.

"You had me right where you wanted me. Don't tell me you're just returning the favor."

"Heh." Scaramouche chuckles briefly, still studying the other as if he still has to make a decision about his fate. "I have to admit, you are weak. Yet, there is no reason for me to end the lives of those who worship me."

After all, what is a god without followers?

Of course, there is an urge to finish Childe off, for his insolence, for daring to think he was having the upper hand in this situation.

"You underestimated me greatly, worm."

Scaramouche keeps stroking his cheek, the touch almost soft, almost as if he truly cares.

"You listened to the lies your heart told you and look at you now..." That is one thing he finds extremely amusing. "...you do know that loving is a sin in itself."

A part of him wants to jerk away from that touch, realizing that he admitted to a lot of things while he was dying back there. But there was also this compulsory feeling that welled deep within him, something that revered and worshipped Scaramouche and his stupid face. Not to mention that the truth finally came out, his own personal feelings about him...something he wanted to hide and push away into a dark corner that no one, not even him, would be able to find. And yet, he'd still freely admitted everything.

"You were controlling me. Making me say those things."

His retort comes out half-hearted. There's no backbone to it, because he knows what he's saying now is the real lie. Childe hates himself for it, and his first urge is to retaliate and swing his weapon right at Scaramouche's throat. But that's not a smart move and he'd surely die if he made any rash decisions now.

"What did you do to me? Going to turn me into something for you to play with? Well, I won't let you."

The Brightest Things Fade The Fastest

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I AM SORRY FOR WHAT HE IS GOING TO DO

haha MOUCHIE UR SO MEAN

YES HE IS

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OKAY I HOPE I WRITE THIS RIGHT DFDF

I THINK I GOT IT let me know if I didn't hahaha

U GOT IT

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sorry, he's just a little insane right now

isn't he always a little tho

I'm gonna put in a little timeskip

is mouchiebaby still using his mind control here btw

the reigns are a little bit more loose, I leave it up to you to interpretate :3

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OKAY HE IS TOTALLY BEING CREEPY TO HIM, FEEL FREE TO INTERPRET IT THE WAY YOU WANT

omg no you have to tell me what he's doing with his powers, i can't decide that for you lol

I HOPE THIS IS OKAY

lawl yeah ofc it is silly haha

he is about to do something more silly

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