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A table was laid out in front of him, and there was tea– Tea? Scaramouche hoped it wasn’t the sweet kind– in pretty little cups, and krumkakes lined up along with countless other desserts. Next to him, Tartaglia draped his long arm over his shoulder. On the other side, Arlecchino politely sipped from her own cup. Capitano was saying something to Tartaglia, but Scaramouche couldn’t discern exact words.
(Why couldn’t he-?)
Rosalyne sat on the other side of Capitano, at the foot of the table, smiling fondly at Sandrone, who was describing something animatedly to her and Columbina.
Columbina. The moon goddess. She turned to Scaramouche. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he felt her piercing gaze, and it made him feel everything else he couldn’t. Why couldn’t he feel anything? Tartaglia’s arm, Arlecchino’s warmth, always there with her vision, the chair digging into him, his legs dangling in the air. Nothing. Why, why, why-
He couldn’t taste it, but he knew the tea was bitter. Sandrone always made his tea bitter. He’d deluded himself into thinking it was because she was scared of him; she’d always claimed she pitied him and his poor tastebuds, but secretly they both knew she did care. She always cared, ever mindful of others’ tastes: Arlecchino liked her tea perfectly balanced, the kind straight from Chenyu Vale, not too sweet, but not too bitter, Tartaglia liked his reminiscent of the tea from his childhood, incredibly strong and nicely smelling. Capitano wasn’t picky, he’d take whatever Sandrone gave him. That usually meant he’d always be trying the new teas she’d present Columbina with: Columbina, who’d never had tea before. Rosalyne liked her own tea earthy and strong, sweetened with honey (to keep her skin fair and beautiful). Sandrone knew this all. Scaramouche did too, because this lot of people was the closest he’d ever had to a family.
Arlecchino, ever-omniscient, always knew when something was wrong with Scaramouche. (Sometimes, he’d wonder if Arlecchino thought of him as one of her own, like one of the children at the House— the same way he’d thought of her as-) Her calculating gaze swept over him, and she said something to him.
He couldn’t hear her (Why can’t he hear her?) but he knew she was asking if he was okay (Was he okay?). He scowled at her, scathing remarks flying from his lips, as he sipped his tea again (Why couldn’t he taste it? Was it not bitter enough?).
He missed this. Why did he miss this? He was right here. Something in his chest twisted and ached (Capitano had told him that’s where the heart is. That’s where his heart is. No one had ever told him he had his very own heart before.). Columbina was still looking at him, her gaze burning him.
And slowly, Scaramouche felt himself smile. He knew Capitano was telling Tartaglia and him a story (Why couldn’t he hear it? Was he going deaf?), and he could hear Rosalyne’s tinkling laugh, and Sandrone’s own cackle, and he felt so loved, so cared for, so wanted, and if only he could stay like this forever, if only this moment could never end, and then they could always be happy.
But then maybe Scaramouche had blinked too hard, but suddenly Rosalyne had died. Rosalyne, eternally beautiful– sacrificed. How fitting: the Harbinger of the god of love died mourning her own love. They held a funeral. He couldn’t go, because he was getting his heart back (If being caged in a metal contraption meant having a heart- if not being able to mourn the ones he loved meant being human, then maybe he didn’t want to be human after all-). And Scaramouche felt so liberated, and he was sure, so very sure, that if Rosalyne could see him now, she’d be happy too.
But Rosalyne couldn’t see him now. The only person who could was Dottore: Dottore, who always knew how to make him cry in pain, Dottore, who always knew how to shatter his mask (He wanted away. He wanted this to end. He didn’t want to relive this again- Again?)
But still, Scaramouche couldn’t feel the pain, the metal pressing against his own wooden skin, the pipes and wires and ichor running in and out of him and yet he still felt so lightheaded so good it was too much far too much he needed it to-
(When will it stop? When will everything stop? Tears stained his wooden cheeks. He missed the rest of them. He doesn’t want the gnosis- that heart anymore. He has his own heart, right?)
“They wouldn’t grieve you like that if you died, you know?”
“I know.”
“Does it not hurt your little heart? Oh, right, you don’t have one, do you, Puppet?”
“I don’t.”
“Are you crying? A mere Puppet showing human emotions? How curious! Let me note this down!”
Stripped bare. That’s how he had felt. That’s how he still felt, floating in Irminsul, watching those his happiest memories flash before his own eyes. One last time, he was allowed to relive them before they, too, were gone.
He didn’t want them gone. He wanted them to love him again, but why would they love him? A Puppet, a failure, a mistake, an accident, someone who couldn’t even show up to mourn the loss of his own family. Wasn’t Rosalyne’s death his own fault, anyway? He should’ve been there. Why wasn’t he there? Was that gnosis really so important? He wanted Arlecchino’s warmth, Tartaglia’s brashness, Capitano’s stories and Sandrone’s loud, unnerving laugh, weaved in with Rosalyne’s more respectable one. He wanted them back, more than he wanted that heart.
It hurt to know that they wouldn’t remember him. A part of him hoped that he wouldn’t remember them, either.
His energy was sapping fast: after all, altering history was a hard task, and his immortality was perfect to be drained from. Scaramouche couldn’t find himself to care.
The stains on his cheeks were fading. His eyes slid shut.
Sandrone’s tea parties were no longer as they were before. Tartaglia swirled his wine. Arlecchino took a polite sip of her bitter tea. Sandrone poured tea into cups belonging to no one. Four seats were left empty: Capitano at the head of the table, Rosalyne at the foot. Columbina next to Sandrone, and an extra chair next to Tartaglia, one Sandrone claimed was there to just fill up space.
The tea for it was still bitter.