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There is nothing around to differentiate this place from others he has already visited, but Scaramouche’s senses are good with finding what’s wrong after years on the road. The women are not smiling as they should be and two men are shooting glares at each other that would make a horse stop right in his tracks. Scaramouche can only guess what’s about to happen and what already happened between them, but he learned two things : not to waste his time and, more importantly, not to stick his nose in someone else’s business.
Those two combined make it very easy to look away and sit at the counter, hoping the wood won’t be as sticky as the last one he visited.
The barman appears in front of him shortly after and he orders a drink of whisky as well as some more to fill up his canteen. As the man leans in to pour him his drink, Scaramouche offers him a calculated smile.
“So, what ‘re you here for? Intel or a chamber?” asks the guy, quick to understand.
“Both, actually,” keeps on smiling Scaramouche. He then slides the neatly folded picture always in his chest pocket across the counter. “I am looking for a fellow and a room.”
“For the room, you’re at the right place,” nods the guy, “but for the fellow…”
Scaramouche slightly nods as he waits until the barman examinates the face. The name written underneath must at least be familiar to him, as the scandal opened a lot of mouths and made a lot of ink flow a few months back.
“Albedo, hm,” says the guy again and his tone confirms Scaramouche’s suspicion, “I don’t think he came by, sorry. Maybe the sheriff can tell you more.”
Scaramouche slightly nods as a thank you and quickly finishes his drink. That’s all he had to know. He didn’t expect much anyway.
“I’ll come back,” he gestures, already going to the door.
“Very well. The room’ll be ready.”
Scaramouche nods again and leaves just as swiftly as he entered. Outside, the heavy sun is hard to ignore and the hot wind does nothing to help breathing in this crunching atmosphere. It’s fine, he was expecting that ; one does not simply get closer to the desert without any preparation. He wonders how his guy did it, and the explanation brings him back to the reason for his presence here : he had to at least stop by one of the cities around. In the end, his human nature’s what gonna be the death of him, because otherwise, Scaramouche will just have to look for a corpse. Which wouldn’t be that bad either, all things considered.
He learned to avoid the post office and sheriffs but in a town as little as this one and with his fifty and so inhabitants, trouble shouldn’t be right by his shadow. He doesn’t look twice over his shoulder when he goes to the woody cabin, resembling each and every one of its neighbors, and takes a look at the Wanted poster display right in front of it.
He has to search a little bit, go over new faces and familiar ones and then, there’s his guy. He frowns, because here too, there’s the issue he noticed on every other poster. The name’s the same, Albedo , but the face ain’t. His hair is blond, that he knows, but sometimes he smiles, sometimes he doesn’t, sometimes his nose is small, sometimes it is aquiline. His mouth is either a thin trait right over his chin, or a well-detailed set of pulped lips. Scaramouche doesn’t know what to make of all of this yet, but he snatches the poster from the display and puts it in his satchel, amidst the other. The one in his chest pocket is the one he personally received from the only sheriff he trusts amongst the men he sees as irremediably corrupted, so it’s the one he stands by the most.
Satisfied that he doesn’t have to talk with the one he can see through the window now that he has all he needs, he goes back to the inn, ready to settle for the night.
When he’s shown to his room, he waits until the tenant leaves and does as he always does. He doesn’t dare to put his satchel away even for a minute, even as he discreetly tries to open the other doors. Most are locked, meaning they are currently occupied, but the free ones aren’t. Everybody already has a room and, empty, they’re not worth a lot so the tenant doesn’t embarrass himself with closing a door after someone left, and it just happens to be very useful to Scaramouche.
He finally finds one he can enter and slowly closes behind him. The first thing he does is check the desk : he’s lucky when there’s one since he’s pretty sure his man is a paper worker of some sort. On this one though, no traces of the usual charcoal or ink. He then goes under the bed, but there’s no crumpled piece of paper, and the window frame is spotless.
Unfortunately, the other open rooms don't teach him anything more. He has to go further West to the desert. The thought is enough to suffocate him already, but he knows the reward will be enough to forgive any discomfort.
Once in his bed and finally clean, sleep finds him quickly, and he falls in his arms with the face of a thousand men all sharing the same body printed behind his eyelids.
The next morning, he’s gone by the first light.
Scaramouche learned not to stay too long or get too comfortable in any place, since there is no room for him anyway. He knows and learned his place is on his horse, and he couldn’t fit anywhere better.
The beast has been with him since he fled from home. Even though she’s a little old now and her brown isn’t as dashing as it was, and even if she doesn’t ride as fast as she used to, Scaramouche plans on keeping her with him as long as possible. He knows the game of hunting has nothing to do with rapidity anyway, but rather planning ahead and understanding human behavior – even if he has to admit, this one is a different breed.
The further he strays, the more towns are miles apart. The land is changing as well : green trees and flourishing forests are replaced with layers upon layers of sand, welcoming a few bushes here and then. Stone doesn’t resemble anything like the large rocks decorating North, and there is no sign of a source or waterfall always present up there.
But, he must do what he was sent here for, and not finding the guy just because he can’t get used to the desert would be a blow to his ever-growing career. It’s not like it’s the first time he ever came, anyway.
Soon enough, the landscape blurs in his back and he gets lost in mundane thoughts such as material provisions or refilling the cylinder of his revolver. The ride passes and before nightfall, he’s able to reach the next town with only two breaks to drink some water and let his horse rest a bit.
This one’s not as different as the latest, he thinks tying the reins around a pole and glancing around. Larger, maybe, but it must be a matter of a dozen houses. The now dark sky makes it difficult to really distinguish any type of life, so he goes to the closest inn, probably the only one anyway, and he wakes up the tenant with the sound of his spurs on the wooden floor.
There’s a warm light coming from the ceiling lamps, and a nice scent of spices and pines – rare enough in the desert to be noted. He automatically checks for traces of charcoal, ink or chalk on the receptionist’s desk, but sees nothing unusual if it isn’t for a worn picture of a child.
“I’d like a room.”
The guy’s eyes flicker between his hat and gun, then going back up to his face. A flash of recognition flashes through his face but he doesn’t say anything.
“That’ll be two dollars.”
Scaramouche nods and puts it on the counter, making a mental note that he really needs to catch the guy – if not for the importance of what he can give to him, then the money.
The receptionist shows him to his room and before he can think about getting on the bed and closing his eyes, Scaramouche goes on for his usual sight-seeing. He might be tired, but this is nothing he can’t shake off, and he learned that he’d better check now that in the morning, when criminals don’t feel the falsely protective coat of the night.
And, he’s right : the second room offers him everything on a golden plate. There’s charcoal on the desk, not dried yet, chalk on the floor and traces of ink near the bed, as if someone had been writing, sitting on it. He knows the man he’s after is special in his own way, and after hours of imagining him writing or drawing or whatever he must do, he feels like he knows how it’d happen, how he’d gently lay the pencil on the paper and how the delicate sound would fill the room.
He has seen enough suspects in his life to know that art does not make a beast of a man – but instead, it probably saves their souls.
Still, he must catch him, so he gets down to find the same guy not really sleeping now. He doesn’t embarrass himself with an explanation and slides the precious pic on the counter.
“Have you seen this man?”
The guy's eyes flicker to his face just like before, and he looks at it for a while.
“You’ll kill me if I don’t tell you?”
There’s no fear in his voice, but his look now darts from Scaramouche’s gun to under the counter - probably a rifle, as the bounty hunter’s experience often showed him.
“I think there are worse things I can do.”
Even if his tone was everything but threatening, he can still clearly see the shiver going down the man’s spine.
“He didn’t give me no name.”
“I just need a direction.”
“He didn’t tell me nothing.”
“Stop playing dumb,” Scaramouche says, voice increasing as the conversation continues. He suddenly grabs the guy by the collar, pulling him half on the counter so he can’t reach for his weapon.
Tenants are known to not respect their client’s privacy, and it would be surprising that someone such as the man he has in front of him would be any different considering the customs around here.
“Fine, fine! Stop hurting me,” says the man, eyes wide open. Scaramouche doesn’t let go, so he talks again, breathless, “he went further into the desert.”
“When did he leave?”
“Half an hour ago, I think?”
Scaramouche nods as a thank you and leaves a few coins on the counter, not waiting for any response as he barges out the place. He’s glad he didn’t take the time to take off the saddle and jumps on it, immediately trotting even though he isn’t yet out of town.
The road is barely visible at this hour of the night, but it’s all to his advantage. His guy might know he’s followed, but he can’t imagine how close Scaramouche is right now. Heart racing in his ears and chest, he rides even faster until the town behind him is nothing more than fading lights under the darkness of the night. Then finally, he orders his horse to slow down and he trots for a while before walking completely.
And then, his heart misses a beat. Out there, a little bit further, if he pays extra attention to the horizon, he can see a flickering light. Too weak to be the one of a town, too strong to be a carriage – it must be a fire.
How reckless , he figures as he advances a bit more before getting off his horse. He can barely hear himself think with the way his blood pumps in his ear. The moon is up and round, glowing with all her might, and maybe the guy figured it’d be discreet enough under her basking light. But, Scaramouche’s too close. It only further confirms that he has no idea he’s about to get caught, and it’s enough to fill him with a buzzing thrill – although he mustn't precipitate.
So, he takes his time, and when he’s close enough and his horse’s far enough, when the campfire’s finally totally in front of him, he finds a dying bush nearby, helped by the dark, and hides behind it.
But there’s no one here – no silhouette sleeping under a blanket, no guy cramped against the fire for some warmth. No one’s to be seen. So, Scaramouche will have to wait.
That is, until he hears footsteps behind him.
Albedo lets out a sigh when he finally finds what he was looking for. Ducking and checking first for scorpions or other potentially deathly beast lurking around on the still hot ground, he then reaches under the sand to take the stone in his hand. Its difficulty to be found under the night has been tampered with the help of the moon, but still the darkness of its color doesn’t fade.
Charcoal is indeed an interesting material, he figures as he strays back to his fortune camp : used to draw, to write and even sometimes in some paints and yet, darker than the deeper seas and as tough as every mountain. It’s practically the opposite of chalk, in the end, and maybe he could write about that too. He’d never think his conditional freedom would give him so many opportunities.
He thinks about whistling for his horse to feed him a bit, but decides otherwise : a fire in an open land isn’t the most discreet thing, and first he has to make sure there’s no one around. He was wise to let it burn for a while and only come back once he found everything he needed – even though he doubts bounty hunters would still be after him since it’s been months, he still can’t trust them to be bad at their jobs, otherwise they would be doing something else.
So, he walks calmly back to camp, and he’s glad he did – since there’s a man, right there.
He’s behind him, so he has to take that to his advantage, and yet he’s sure that if he takes one more step, he’d be heard. So, he must come up with a plan of some sort.
The hat’s entirely covering the man’s head and seems to hide his face too. He’s dressed in plain clothes, and he’s too far to distinguish any color.
Albedo might be wanted, but he’s not a criminal. Well, he probably has done some bad things in his life but this, the thing they accuse him of – he had nothing to do with that, except maybe his youth and incompetence. Which could, he learned, prove themselves to be murderous.
He walks forward. Immediately, the man turns around.
The moon’s blocked by his hat so it’s hard to see his face, but Albedo guesses the expression on it – fierce, and menacing. So, he raises both his hands.
“Hi there,” he says with the softest voice he’s capable of, “are you perhaps here to kill or capture me?”
The man gets up, and Albedo can say he is puzzled. He watches as his hand slowly reaches for the holster underneath his jacket. Still, Albedo keeps his own raised.
“What about a nice tea before ? I don’t know if you ever had one. It’s-“
“Are you a fool?” the man cuts him off.
His voice is nothing like he could have imagined, soft instead of profound and clear rather than heavy with the scent of cigarettes or alcohol.
“Perhaps I am. But you deserve some rest. Your journey wasn’t pleasant, I suppose. Unless you’re used to those kinds of travels.”
The man doesn’t say anything back, and it takes him at least three seconds before he finally moves. He still draws his gun very slowly, or one of them as the quick flash on the handle indicates Albedo, but doesn’t point it at him. There’s no reason for him to be menacing, after all.
He takes a small step and when his uninvited guest doesn’t shoot him in the face for moving, points at the campfire.
“Please, have a seat.”
Human psychology showed him time and time again that in times of distress, the head needs nothing more than to hear some instruction to follow them. But the guy seems to work on his own behalf, and he sits like he’s fully aware of what he’s doing. Still, his gun’s in his hand.
“What’s your name?” asks Albedo once he’s in front of him, taking his utensils and putting the leaf in the water to be boiled. It is not a beverage fairly common in those areas of the country, but he’s glad he learned the preparation and picked up a few leaves from a city in the south.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Allow me to insist.”
The guy keeps a close look on him, watching his every move as Albedo stirs the water a bit and then sits back and waits.
“I want to know if you’ll come with me nicely as soon as this masquerade is over,” he finally speaks again.
“Of course,” smiles Albedo, “I have no reasons not to.”
“You have every reason not to. You’ll get imprisoned for life.”
Albedo doesn’t lose his smile.
“Do you think I did what they say?”
The guy cringes a bit.
“I don’t give a damn.”
“Does that mean you’re mindlessly stalking criminals, and perhaps even innocent men?”
“Ha,” snarls the guy, “everyone’s innocence only lasts for so long. And it takes a great mind to find the likes of you.”
He’s proud, figures Albedo. His smile grows amused.
“Does that mean I gave you a hard time?”
He can’t see the guy’s expression, but he snickers a bit. He catches the way his shoulders slightly relax under moonlight.
“Not hard enough it seems.”
Albedo nods towards him, “That’s fair. You still won’t tell me your name?”
“My name is of no use to you.”
“You know mine. It’d be fair.”
“It’s not fair that I have to take you back, and yet here I am.”
Albedo grabs two metal cups from his bag and fills them with hot water, now completely infused. The guy is watching his every move.
“You’re right. But isn’t the fact that I am willing to come with you proof that I mean well?”
“The worst criminals I’ve encountered are the most gentlemen of them all.”
“You seem to have a lot of experience,” says Albedo leaning forward to pass him the cup. The guy looks at it for a while and then takes it, encouraged by his smile.
“That’s none of your business.”
“If we’re going to ride with each other, we might as well make conversation.”
“I’d rather ride in silence.”
Albedo chuckles a bit. He takes the cup to his lips, watching as the gaze of the bounty hunter follows the move. He swallows, and then puts the cup down.
“Very well.”
“Although,” begins the guy, “there’s something I’ve been wondering. Let’s say I’ll tell you my name if you answer my question.”
“Gladly.”
“Are you a writer?”
Albedo can’t say he’s not surprised. His smile falters a bit, and he nods slowly.
“Not really, I’m an artist rather.”
“So you draw?”
“I do.”
“Did you draw all your posters?” he asks, unconsciously pointing at his pockets.
“I did. That’s very clever of you.”
The guy snorts, and takes a sip of his tea.
“You’re good.”
“Thanks. Now, your name?”
“Ah yes,” he says, his words slowing down, “my name’s Scara-“
The cup falls with a cling. Albedo puts his own down, and spits a bit. He didn’t let anything enter his mouth but still, he’s never too cautious.
He watches as the guy’s body falls deprived of life, nothing more than a puppet to be folded and put in a corner.
Too bad I didn’t get the name , he thinks while folding things around and lighting off the fire. But still, he’s glad it turned like that. Weirdly, his years of experience should have taught him not to trust anyone, especially not an overly nice guy, but he probably saw him as an innocent man. But he’ll live, and that what matters.
When he’ll wake up, Albedo will be long gone, and they’ll never cross paths again.
That’s what he hopes, at least – but still, he knows that if it happens, the guy won’t kill him. If he wanted to, he’d be dead by now.
When Scaramouche wakes up, he immediately rolls to his side and vomits all his guts.
Panting, he takes a second to understand his surroundings. He’s still in the desert. The fire was put out, and there’s a blanket on him as well as a cup of water by his hand. Right under it, there’s a note.
He groans something barely human and slowly sits down, belly not really burning but making itself known. He looks at the note before daring to take a sip of water, even if his dried mouth’s practically begging for it. The writing is neat and clear, as if it was written on a school desk.
I promise this one’s not poisoned. Not hard feelings, I hope.
We all need our freedom.
Scaramouche still doesn’t drink the water, but he gets up. I’ll show you no hard feelings , he thinks, almost spitting on the floor.
It’s his fault, he knows that, but still he can’t help himself to blame it all on Albedo. Damn him and his nice smile and his blond nice hair and the rest of whatever his face is made of – Scaramouche’s gonna find him and then, he’s gonna kill him.
He stomps to where he left his horse last night and whistles for a few minutes, the bad taste of tea and vomit still in his mouth. That water looks very appealing right now, but ain’t no way he’s trusting this shitty artist ever again. For all he knows, he won’t even bother with asking him the question he must ask and he’ll just kill him first, that’ll be faster.
He verifies the cinch and quickly gets on his horse, not wasting one minute more. There are traces on the sand, but they are impossible to follow : most of them have been covered by the night and its wind. The sun is an indication for how long he was out, but still it isn’t enough to know how many hours or days he lost, and he’ll never be able to catch them up.
He remembers waking up at different moments but falling back down to oblivion right after, and his head’s still a little dizzy. Still, he rides.
The desert widens around him and there’s no way he could know where Albedo is going, but still the idea of catching him is enough to encourage him. If he’s done it once, he can do it twice.
Although the guy knows he’s after him now, so he’ll be more cautious, but Scaramouche knows he can always count on people to tell him the things he wants to know. So, he goes, and leaves it all behind – the water, the rest of the fire, and the traces of chalk. He only takes the note with him, folding it to put it in his chest pocket – which makes him think of verifying his satchel. With a groan, he finds that there are no portraits anymore. He angrily searches in his chest pocket and sighs when his fingers stroke the familiar paper.
He'll just have to get them all back. The plan now is as simple as it always has been : finding a town, asking around, and keeping up like this until Abedo trips over himself once more – and this time, he won’t let him stand up again.
But, and he has to take that into consideration, now that the blond knows he’s being followed, he’ll probably hide somewhere he knows no one will come to find him. The town is obvious and the people are chatty with the right amount of money in front of them, so Scaramouche must understand that if he finds nothing interesting in the next town which is probably the only one around, he’ll find nothing elsewhere.
Luckily for him, a man can’t hide in the desert. Even if he tried, he didn’t seem to carry that much food, and tea cannot fill his stomach. Even if he eats plants and stuff, they aren’t eternal and the heat will tire him out. More importantly, his horse won’t be able to travel fast and he’ll eventually die either of thirst, either of warmth or malnutrition.
So, he’ll have to find something else, and in a country such as this one, there’s only fleeing abroad or, more affordable, hiding in the forests.
And Scaramouche’s a hunter, so maybe faith hasn’t turn her back on him just yet.
Seeing how many houses and people are here and considering the fact that if Scaramouche had twenty fingers he could count them all on it, it sure is the last barrier of humanity before an undying scope of sand. So, he has to ask , once more.
He first checks the display in front of the sheriff office, but it’s practically empty, and there’s no trace of familiar portraits. Albedo’s missing as well, which means this town doesn’t welcome bounty hunters on a daily basis. He’ll have to be careful.
He crosses the only street, passing by the barber and ignoring the gun shop to go directly to the saloon. If he doesn’t want to scare his informants away, the place seeing the biggest number of strangers come and go is his lair for the afternoon – or the evening, for all he knows.
He’s exhausted, and he’s sure he could use a night of real sleep considering the last one he had was two days ago, but as long as he can stand, there’s no reason for him to stall.
So, he enters. As expected, it’s almost empty except for the barman and a girl playing the piano. Observing further, he notices a man wearing a large hat resembling his and another one, leaning on the counter.
He avoids going near either of them and leans himself, waiting for the barman to put the glass he’s drying away.
“What can I get you?” asks the man.
Apart from the faint melody, there’s nothing covering his voice, so Scaramouche ducks his head a bit and whispers. It’s not enough to not draw attention, but at least people won’t understand what he’s asking.
“A whisky, please. And an answer.”
The guy gives him a knowing look and once his drink is in front of him, Scaramouche leans a bit more.
“In what direction is the nearest forest?”
The guy’s eyebrow quirks up and Scaramouche can see he’s about to laugh, so he moves his jacket slightly. The view of his guns is enough to make him go all serious again.
“Ah, a forest? I guess there’s the one up west, behind the river.”
And a river ? Scaramouche just has to be lucky, it seems.
“How far?”
“Two days if you don’t stop.”
“Anyone asked you the same question before?”
But Albedo seemed to know so much about everything, with his hands seemingly so soft and his calm voice.
“No, no one.”
Scaramouche nods his thanks, and gulps down his drink. At least, it’ll help him for the trip.
He’s about to stand when a heavy hand lands on his shoulder, keeping him still.
“What do we have here?” says a man, and all attempts to slip away from his grip are aborted by the sound of his voice.
Scaramouche’s neck almost snaps with how fast he turns his head.
“Tartaglia? Let go,” he spits.
“Come on, don’t give me that look,” says the guy without taking off his hand.
Scaramouche wants to rip out his arm, but the surprise’s making his guts sink. He thought he was great in dire situation and yet, his entire body refuses to respond to him.
Tartaglia doesn’t look like he did a few months ago – or maybe more than a year now. His hair is falling in front of his eyes and his cheeks are more sunken than they were. He still has his disgusting blue eyes and lean figure, but there’s a new weight on his shoulders.
“If you want to talk, let’s take this outside,” hisses Scaramouche, finally jolting on his feet.
Tartaglia raises his hands as if to say he didn’t mean no harm, and they leave the saloon without a look for the eyes on them.
They don’t stop in the middle of the main street but cross the whole thing, stopping only when they find a field behind a wooden house with no one around.
It’s the perfect scenery for what Scaramouche has in mind, if he ever is able to use his hand correctly again. He just has to breathe.
“What do you want?” he asks, not friendlier than before.
“I can’t have a little chat with my friend?” almost pouts Tartaglia.
Scaramouche wants to draw his guns right now, but he resists and takes another deep breath. He was supposed to find him, in the end, so it just accelerates things a bit. It’s fine. He’ll deal with that as he dealt with them all in the past.
“I wasn’t so happy to see your face the last time we talked,” grits Scaramouche, “and I still ain’t. So you better tell me what you want before I put a bullet in your face.”
He removes his jacket, revealing the two guns stowed in his holster.
“Wow fine,” says Tartaglia hands up, “I ain’t here to hurt you. Well, yes, I actually am, but I wasn’t planning on running into you so fast.”
Scaramouche should just kill him right now. He hates all he carries with him and all he reminds him of, but he can’t help the familiar sting in the bottom of his heart – nostalgia’s keeping him from firing. He didn’t think he’d himself be touched by something like that, and yet, eighteen years of a life are probably not easily forgettable.
“Then what do we do? You gonna kill me? Who asked you to do that?”
Scaramouche can’t help but shiver when he hears how even in his speech, bad habits do not die easily. He worked hard to put all of that behind him and yet, he can’t say that the taste of betrayal doesn’t keep him awake some night or that he doesn’t dream of snapping Pierro’s neck.
Speaking of the devil-
“Pierro put you to it?”
Tartaglia’s face grows uncomfortable. Scaramouche ignores the way he wants to let him go – because he’s just a kid, and because they were raised as brothers.
“He did. He heard you were out and…he got scared.”
“Good. ‘Cause I’m coming.”
“What, you want to kill me too?”
Scaramouche’s eyes do not flicker.
“If necessary.”
“Are we in a necessary kind of situation?”
“Depends on you.”
Because every member of Scaramouche is yelling at him to just shoot him and get the revenge he’d been dreaming of for the most parts of his nights, and yet his body’s frozen.
Tartaglia sighs. He still hasn’t made a move towards his gun, safely put in the holster around his waist.
“You still with them?” asks Scaramouche.
“I am. They feed me.”
Scaramouche wants to nod. That’s what made him stay when he was younger.
“Ain’t you afraid they’ll do what they did to me?”
“They don’t have any reasons.”
“I guess it was my fault, then,” spits Scaramouche.
Tartaglia doesn’t say anything. Slowly, Scaramouche pushes his hat up and lays his jacket on the ground. He rolls his sleeve, inch by inch.
His former friend – his brother, if he dares, understands what he’s doing and with a pained look on his face hard not to recognize, does the same.
Now that they’re both jacket down and hat not in the way, they nod one last time before both taking a few steps back. They know the other too well to betray him, so they’ll have to do it front to front.
After all, Pierro never taught them to shoot in the back. And yet if it was anyone else, Scaramouche would have made a point to ignore that rule.
“Are you sure?” asks Tartaglia.
“You have your duty to do, I have mine.”
“What, hunting?” he mocks.
“Yes.”
And that includes him, after all. Scaramouche ignores the strong tug in his chest and they share one last look.
A breath of wind flies against his arms and before it goes, Scaramouche raises his revolver and hears the powder explode.
There’s a sharp pain on his side and he holds onto his scream as Tartaglia crumbles to the ground.
He quickly puts his gun away and raises his shirt to see how bad it is, keeping an eye on Tartaglia, still, promptly ignoring the scream of his flesh. The ginger is not dead, if his breathing is any indication, but it doesn’t seem like he’ll get up anytime soon.
There’s a wound, indeed, on his side. It’s bad and it bleeds, and the bullet’s still in. He doesn’t try to remove it, remembering that story Arlecchino once told him about having a bullet under her skin because it’d have killed her to remove it.
He tucks his shirt back in, picks up his gun that he doesn’t remember dropping and walks to Tartaglia. Blood is sprawled all over his white shirt, but his face wears the more peaceful expression known to Scaramouche’s memory. He hesitates a second but his moral question is quickly answered : people were drawn by the gunshot and are now observing him for afar.
He turns to them, putting his revolver back in his holster and sighing as the familiar weight finally is equal on both sides again.
“He needs care,” he says to whoever wants to hear him.
And then, he walks away, hat on his head and jacket on his back.
Scaramouche doesn’t feel guilty. He never did about anything, even for the things he knows today were bad or utterly immoral. He doesn’t spend any time sulking on it but rather, if needed,tries to accomplish some sort of not-that-bad action in order to re-equilibrate whatever was to equilibrate.
But right now, he feels like puking.
He has to stop his horse more than once to get down and bend, sun burning his neck and guts moving all around the place. Yet, nothing comes. He doesn’t know if it’s because of Tartaglia or because his wound is beginning to really burn as he pointlessly tries to separate blood and clothes. It’s still bleeding. Not much though, but he doesn’t know how long he’ll hold with his head already dizzy from the heat.
It's been at least fifteen hours since he left the town and Tartaglia behind him if the sun’s any indication. He hears his horse panting under him and yet, the only rest he allows himself and the beast is when he thinks he’s going to return what’s in his belly.
He jolts more and more, wondering if he fainted or if he’s just too tired to even sleep just a little, but he knows he has to continue. He can’t really rest anyway, because anytime his eyelids are closed, there’s Tartaglia lying on the floor. He’s sprawled like a dog under the warmth of the sun, basking in its heat and light, and yet it’s so hard to not notice how half of his guts are on the floor right next to him. And everytime Scaramouche quickly opens his eyes, jumping back awake and to reality, there’s this second when it seems Tartaglia’s actually here next to his horse.
The landscape desperately doesn’t change. It’s all going so slow and yet, he feels he’s been gone for two minutes.
He stops to puke. Nothing comes. He gets back on his saddle. His horse pants. He wants to give him some water but if he stops too much, he’ll die.
They just have to reach the river. There, in the river, he’ll be able to put some water on his wound and maybe take a bath and hide under some trees to give himself some time to heal.
He should’ve asked for a medic himself. He’s able to figure it out by himself.
He just has to hold on a little bit longer – just a bit, just to the river.
He doesn’t stop. Even if it feels like he’s gonna puke. And then, nothing.
When Scaramouche wakes up, the first thing to strike him is the scent of fire. He tries to open his eyes to see where it’s coming from, but they stay resolutely shut. He tries to move his fingers, and when he finally succeeds, a sharp pain tugs on his left, making him groan.
He tries to open his eyes again and this time, it’s the light that makes him close them. It’s not even the sun – there’s shadow, around him, and he can sense a light breeze. He hears the sound of a river nearby.
When he finally understands that it is not where he should be nor how he should feel, he really wakes up.
He sits down ignoring the pain and looks around to find a deserted camp. He’s laying on a blanket that feels very familiar, next to his satchel and hat. Looking further, he finds his horse grazing green grass near the river he was so desperately waiting for.
He’s in the forest.
This is not normal , he repeats to himself as he gets on his feet, ignoring the slight dizziness going up his head. He makes a step towards his mount, still trying to piece the puzzle together. He doesn’t understand how her coat can be so bright since he didn’t take the time to brush her in days.
The weirdest part is probably that, for the first time in what seems to be weeks, Scaramouche actually feels rested. He’s sure his fatigue didn’t help his wound, and by the way – it’s bandaged, he sees lifting his shirt.
So, someone really took care of him. He quickly looks at the grass beneath his feet, near the campfire, and when he finds what he’s looking for, a voice raises from behind him. Charcoal, ink, chalk.
“You should rest some more.”
Scaramouche cleans off the white dust on his fingers.
“I don’t understand how I am still alive,” he answers, turning to face Albedo.
It’s not dark anymore, and the beauty he thought he saw at night is now evidently in front of him. He has a face carved with the delicacy of the most dedicated sculptor, and his blond straws are falling in front of his eyes as if they were trying to keep for themselves how blue and surreal they are.
So, Scaramouche wasn’t crazy to have let down his guard that night. About that-
“I should kill you right now,” he spits suddenly, not waiting for an answer.
But his holster’s nowhere to be found. Albedo looks at him for a second then points at the ground a few inches behind him, where his guns are laying on the grass, shiny under the beam of sun going through the leaves.
“If you wanted me dead, I’d already be,” smiles Albedo answering his confused look. “I figured since you didn’t kill me first thing upon seeing my face that I have to be of some value to you. Perhaps I have information I could give you?”
Scaramouche is, once more, completely taken aback by the softness in his voice, as if he wasn’t even scared or mad that he – technically – chased him down.
“I could ask you the same,” he finally says, softer, “you poisoned me and yet, I woke up alive. You find me on the brink of death and yet, I wake up alive. What is the meaning of this?”
Albedo slowly smiles and takes a few steps towards him, stopping at a reasonable distance. He’s carrying various plants, leaves and roots against his chest.
“I am no killer.”
Scaramouche finds it hard to believe, and yet Albedo’s face tells nothing but the truth. But yet again, he did seem pretty trustful when he served him that tea too.
“Until you are,” he answers almost automatically.
Perhaps he learned that by himself, perhaps it engrained itself in his brain as he made his way in Pierro’s footsteps.
“This again? Don’t you believe people can be good?”
“I do not.”
“They can. You can.”
Scaramouche smirks.
“Which church pays you to say crap like this?”
Albedo merely smiles and moves again, going to put what he has in his hand on the ground. Some leaves go directly in his satchel, others he lets dry under a sunny spot. The roots are all tucked away and he leaves the plants be.
“Is that why you saved me?” asks Scaramouche while making a conscious and immense effort to not sound sardonic.
“It is,” he says.
“You don’t even sound so sure yourself.”
“Well,” says Albedo smiling to him, “you’re the first man trying to kill or imprison me that I save, so I’m no expert in those things.”
Against his will, Scaramouche lets out a laugh. It’s barely audible, he’s pretty sure he was the only one to hear that and yet, it is still a laugh. He immediately straightens up.
“How is your wound?” asks Albedo.
It makes him think of Tartaglia, and he hopes nothing shows on his face. This is something he’ll have to push as far away as possible in his memory, because he has no time to feel guilty over something that was meant to happen.
“Better. I assume I should thank you.”
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” smiles Albedo. “Can I offer you a drink?”
Scaramouche hesitates, still making a few steps towards him and sitting by the remnants of the fire.
“I’m pretty sure that considering the state I’m in, I won’t survive another poisoning.”
“Don’t worry, I know how to calculate a dose.”
They share a look and since nothing shows on Scaramouche’s face, Albedo shakes his head :
“I’m kidding.”
“Right,” says Scaramouche.
He still takes the cup when he gives it to him, but this time he won’t be fooled even if his eyes are very reassuring and his face is really soft.
He wonders if he really should have those kinds of thoughts towards a man who poisoned him, but he’ll think about that later.
“You first,” he says, giving his cup back.
Albedo doesn’t seem really surprised and nods. Thinking about that, Scaramouche isn’t sure he saw surprise on his face ever and even if they had two meetings only, he’s pretty certain the circumstances were damn well surprising.
He watches as the blond sips a little and swallows before taking back his cup. He checks that there is indeed a missing portion of his beverage and then, finally, drinks. Seeing how it doesn’t burn his throat covered by dehydration, he understands that Albedo must have made him drink something in his state of unconsciousness and yet, the liquid on his tongue is enchanting.
He nods towards Albedo as a thanks and they drink in silence for a bit, until Scaramouche finally puts down his cup.
“So, what now? I am in no state of incapacitating you or threatening you. Are you going to leave me here?”
“I must say,” begins Albedo, and his eyes dart back into Scaramouche’s, and he must contain all his will in his gaze to not look away, “I haven’t thought about that.”
“You must have, for the time I was out.”
“I was busy with you,” he slowly smiles.
A weird warmth creeps up Scaramouche’s face and he feels his neck burning, so he averts his eyes.
“Very well. Maybe you should think about it now, then.”
Albedo nods, “Well I guess to begin with, arresting me is not an option. I’m sorry for your money.”
And yet, Scaramouche hasn’t even thanked him for saving his life. He doesn’t dare to shrug.
“I guess I’ll just sell you in the next city.”
Albedo smiles as if it were the joke of a silly child, and maybe it is, and maybe Scaramouche just doesn’t know how to act anymore.
Him, so arrogant with his conviction that kindness is never free, always so adamant to think that people are bad, how could he even have a normal conversation with someone proving him wrong? And yet, he still doubts, he still fears. What if he kills him in his sleep, what if he leaves him to die in the desert, what if, what if, what if.
If he reflected on that, it’d be easy to understand where it comes from – and yet he doesn’t dare. All the memories are locked up behind a wall in his head, where Tartaglia’s resting right now.
“Maybe you should ride with me for a while. I can guide you through this forest.”
“And then?” asks Scaramouche instead of saying he can do that himself, thank you very much.
Albedo doesn’t answer, but rather he takes the time to refill his cup. Then, he raises his eyes to meet his gaze :
“What is your goal?”
Scaramouche flinches a bit.
“I don’t have any.”
There’s a nice glint in Albedo’s look, as if he knows he’s lying.
“Everyone has a goal, otherwise you wouldn’t be here anymore. If your goal was to capture me, you wouldn’t be so calm right now. And since you need me to answer some of your questions, I guess it is part of the mystery. If you share it with me, I can guide you so that our paths may never cross again, and I can live in peace knowing I don’t have one of the fiercest bounty hunters on my tracks.”
“So you’ve heard of me,” says Scaramouche, completely ignoring the rest of his answer.
“I am a very curious person, Scaramouche. I did some research.”
There’s a thrill running down his spine, and Scaramouche hides it by arching his brows.
“What have you learned?”
“That you’re a traitor. That you sold yourself, and you ran away from prison a few months ago. That’s why you’re a bounty hunter now – so that you don’t have to go back in. Some say you were part of a band, others that you were a famous outlaw in the North. Every story has a common ground though : you are dangerous.”
“And yet, I am still alive.”
“Because I’m convinced you are no danger to me.”
“Your conviction might as well kill you.”
“Curious people die easily, I suppose,” says Albedo softly.
Scaramouche nods.
“I won’t share anything with you,” he says after a few seconds of silence, “but I’ll ride with you. I’ll hunt for you and do my chores to make this ride safe and pleasant, and I’ll leave you when I decide it is best for me.”
Albedo’s smile grows wider, and it is as if Scaramouche just announced one of the best news he could think of. This guy is definitely something.
“Great. I hope my company will be pleasant, then.”
“I’m only doing this for myself. Do not forget that.”
“Well, I think it is safe to say that I am not doing this out of graciousness either.”
They share a look, and Scaramouche presents his cup as a contract offering. Once it is refilled, he drinks to that newly formed alliance.
Of course – he’ll betray him. Maybe not by selling him out, maybe he’ll just kill him. Maybe he’ll get sick of him, maybe he’ll steal from him. Maybe it will be yet something else, because that’s who he is. And people never change, that, he is sure of – so why should he be the only one to become a better person ?
They leave at the first light of dawn the next morning. Scaramouche quickly learns two things from this first day of travel.
First, they don’t talk much. If Albedo ever opens his mouth, it is only to say useful things. It becomes apparent that, the first time they met, Albedo only made such grand phrases to get him to lower his guard and drink his cup. The silence is not an inconvenience per say : the bounty hunter is used to riding alone so there is a sense of comfort in only hearing their horses’ hooves on the ground. The surroundings are quiet as well, with only a few birds chirping in from time to time – so, really, it is much more enjoyable than what he could have imagined.
But the second thing that he learns is that Albedo is slow . His horse is old, older than his, and in addition to that, he just must stop every two seconds. If there’s a branch looking a little bit weird, a sudden stream of water, a rock with strange color on it or even a bug looking like it doesn’t belong anywhere on the plant, he just has to cup or examine or observe the thing until he decides it’s enough. And it takes so long Scaramouche almost falls asleep a few times – right, maybe he’s exaggerating, but still, it really takes some time. He’s glad they’re not on the clock and in the meantime, he wonders how on earth he hasn’t caught him earlier. This guy is completely oblivious, and in the end it’s a good thing for him, but right now it is not, as he’s watching him get off his horse to get closer to a butterfly.
The slowness is frustrating, right. But there’s probably worse than that, and it’s certainly that Scaramouche tries really really hard to find that annoying and then, he watches as Albedo gently guides the insect from a flower to another, careful to not touch its wing, and he finds himself speechless.
Allthemore, the travel is everything but restful. He must make something good out of all those silences : he’s trying to think about a plan , and it takes more time than necessary. Now, Scaramouche isn’t much of a planner but he does think that this time, he’ll need a course of action. His companion’s clever, that’s for sure: he can’t take chances.
Sometimes, Albedo asks him questions. It’s not about what he wants to eat or when he wants to start sleeping, but rather about his favorite food or favorite insect. It’s weird, to have someone interested in him like that, but Scaramouche choses when to answer. Sometimes, he doesn’t say anything and sometimes, he tells in detail how it felt the first time he tasted marmalade.
And sometimes, he asks the question back, and Albedo gets to tell him about how much he loves doing his weird stuff with insects and leaves and how he was never meant to be a Marshall in the first place. But they never really talk about the heavy stuff again ; no more of that band crap or criminal stuff. And it’s better like that.
It almost feels suspicious considering how many times Scaramouche catches himself with his shoulders relaxed, truly, for the first time since ever. He’s pretty sure in those times that it’ll catch him up and he’ll end up regretting this weird break he’s having, with a man he very well intends to betray.
He’s proven right after a few weeks. It comes in the form of an ambush.
The sun is high, but the leaves are enough to protect them, although it is too hot for the birds to be singing. Albedo told him that sometimes, they’d rather stay in their nest. It’s awfully quiet when Scaramouche begins to suspect that something’s up.
He turns to Albedo and when he’s about to share his concern, there’s a scream on his right and a gunshot. His horse immediately acts up and he lets her run loose for a few meters before quickly calming her and getting on the ground, the impact getting up to his knees. He draws his guns, trying to watch where Albedo went. He’s nowhere to be seen. There’s only trees, and the treacherous wind.
Suddenly, there’s no more relaxing thoughts or calming atmosphere : his shoulders are cramped again and he feels the pressure of his fingers almost melting against the handle of his guns. He hears a crack on his right and immediately turns, facing a masked man. He’s the fastest and after a bang , the guy falls down.
But the noise was enough to give away his location, so he quickly runs in the forest. Not too far, just enough to get behind a fallen tree. He soon hears voices and yelling, and thanking whoever’s closest to God that he found cover, he waits until they’re near him to shoot them.
He gets two of them that fall down with a cry, and when he’s pointing at the third, there’s a rustle right by his side.
He shoots the guy, turns around quickly, and-
“Wait!” whispers Albedo quickly, “it’s me.”
Scaramouche holds back his reassured sigh and instead frowns.
“Idiot, I could have killed you!”
Albedo merely shrugs, but there’s no time to argue. He takes place behind the tree as well.
“Would you mind lending me one of those?” he asks, and Scaramouche doesn’t hesitate once and gives him one of his guns.
That’s a loan. It means nothing. There are three dead bodies in front of them, and he’s pretty sure that can’t be it.
He’s right : there’s soon more coming, and he must be fast. He quickly searches in his satchel for ammunition and refills the cylinder. Next to him, Albedo is an excellent shot, surprisingly enough. With every blow he shots, his arm gets a little closer to Scaramouche’s and he has to forget about how hot it is out there.
Instead, he gets back in position, and shoots two more men.
A few minutes of silence pass, and his arm’s still against Albedo’s, and when he’s about to turn to him to say that it's over, he hears footsteps behind them.
He quickly turns around but it’s too late : two men are pointing their guns at them. They immediately put theirs to the ground
“Hands up,” one says with a large smile. He quickly scans his preys’ faces and his smile grows even wider, “Oh hell, would you look at that? The hunter, it seems. One could recognize you from a hundred miles away with those mad eyes of yours.”
Scaramouche tries to kill him with said eyes, thinking about how they can escape this hell of a situation quickly. Thanks God Albedo doesn’t seem scared and instead, gently begins to talk :
“Would you be so kind as to tell us what you want from us, perhaps?”
“Just the usual,” smiles the only man talking so far, “money and maybe some water.”
Scaramouche and Albedo share a quick look, not long enough to really be noticed, but heavy enough that Scaramouche knows they thought about the same things. But something in Albedo’s eyes told him that it’s not a good idea – it’d probably take too much time. It’s not like he carries poisoned tea always ready to drink.
Scaramouche really was a fool for that.
He nods, and very very slowly stands.
“We’ll have to get our horses back.”
“Can’t you just whistle?” asks the second man.
Fine, thinks Scaramouche, this one’ll be the first to go .
“My horse’s too old,” explains Albedo, “he’s almost deaf. I must go to him.”
Both guys share a look and it’s enough. Albedo quickly nudges Scaramouche in the arm, taking the gun in front of him to give it to him. Scaramouche, anticipating the movement, receives it. He hastily puts his finger on the trigger. The guys raise their weapons. He doesn’t hear them. He fires two shots, one in the head, the other in the throat.
Soon enough, they’re both on the ground. There’s a bird chirping above them.
Scaramouche lets out a sigh and Albedo quickly imitates him.
“Good shot,” he says.
Scaramouche almost wants to laugh. He puts his gun back in his holster and merely gives him a smile.
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
A quick look around assures him that there’s no one else waiting for them. He presents his hand to Albedo who takes it, and, without a thought, he helps him get up.
“Thanks,” Albedo says and they stroll back to where their horses are.
“Where did you learn how to shoot like that?”
“You know that I used to be a Marshall.”
“Right,” says Scaramouche, cursing himself for having forgotten that.
It’s just that with all the things he does, he seems so normal . He can’t have another life than the one he has under Scaramouche’s gaze only.
“So yes, it comes with the job. And you?”
For once, Scaramouche doesn’t even think about answering his question. He just does.
“Pierro taught me.”
There’s something about all the blood pumping against his ears and his heart still beating against his chest – he faced death. It’s not the first time and certainly not the last, but still he’s always reassured that his body reacts the way it does in front of him. Because his mind certainly doesn’t.
“Pierro?”
Scaramouche almost stops himself in his tracks, but he has to act as if he just didn’t give off this information like it’s nothing to him. Their horses are right there, and they seem calm.
“My dad. Well, not really. He was a father to all of us.”
“I see. He must be the man leading your former band?”
“That’s the guy, yeah,” says Scaramouche, getting on the back of his horse.
They quickly fall back on the track, as if nothing really happened.
“Does talking about him bother you?”
Scaramouche tries to not look surprised, but that is the very first time anyone ever asked if something is bothering him.
“It doesn’t,” he says, and maybe he’s lying a little but it’s fine. Albedo doesn’t need to know.
“Can I ask questions, then?”
“Am I a research subject now?” asks Scaramouche without an ounce of annoyance in his voice, which is to say the least, weird as hell.
“No, I think I’m genuinely wondering.”
“You think?”
“I don’t flatter myself to be interested in humans in particular. But I want to know what you have to tell.”
They share a look, and the forest still envelopes them, and the birds still sing, and the sun still burns. So, it’s not a dream, not a fever. Perhaps he got shot without realizing. He thinks about his wound, thankfully still closed and still slowly healing.
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know.”
Scaramouche slightly nods. He doesn’t really need to know what it means.
“You can ask questions, but I won’t answer them. Your interest will be noted.”
Albedo smiles a bit and then, it quickly devolves into a laugh. Scaramouche is left confused and yet, he can’t help the phantom of a smile floating on his lips.
“Sounds excellent to me.”
So, he asks. Not all at once, leaving enough space and time between the questions to not be annoying. Of course, Scaramouche doesn’t answer much – he tells him about Pierro, about Capitano also. Says how Arlecchino and Tartaglia are like his sister and brother, how the rest arrived later and how it went sideways with the influence of Signora on them. He doesn’t tell the rest, though. Doesn’t talk about the wounded Tartaglia still lingering in the back of his mind, doesn’t tell how the taste of betrayal is still very present on his tongue.
But what he shares, he doesn’t always share with caution and by the end of the day, Albedo learned a lot more than what he intended to reveal. He can’t help it – there’s something about him, about his deep eyes and the damn smile he always carries. If Scaramouche was anything other than a realistic man, he’d start to believe in angels and crap.
They end up stopping for the day on the edge of a cliff. They dare to light a fire while the night is still young and feed themselves with little animals found on the road. The sky is quiet and clear, and the stars are impressive, for once that Scaramouche takes some time to admire them.
Soon enough after dinner, they’re both lying on their blankets and looking up. There’s silence surrounding them, until a wolf hurls far away from them, and then Albedo says :
“Is your goal to kill your former band?”
How he pieced that together, Scaramouche has no idea, but he’s sure he really did reveal too much. He has to say something, and seeing how Albedo came to that conclusion by himself, lying won’t do him any good.
And perhaps he saw enough of the guy during the few days they spent together already to understand that he won’t be a threat to his plan, even though he’s not used to sharing. It can’t be the death of him.
“It is.”
“All of them?”
There’s no judgment nor emotion in his voice. He’s asking, stating facts.
“Yes, ideally.”
“Who’s the first on the list?”
“Signora,” grits Scaramouche.
After all, she’s the cause of this situation. If it wasn’t for her, he’d be still where he was two years ago, safe and sound.
There’s a pause, and then Albedo takes a deep breath and says, “I think I know one of them.”
Scaramouche turns on his side to face him. Albedo is giving him the information he was sure he had, without him even asking.
“Dottore.”
Albedo has the decency to look at least a little bit surprised.
“You knew I know. That is why you didn’t kill me.”
Scaramouche merely shrugs.
“Why didn’t you ask me earlier?” asks Albedo again.
There’s a long silence, stretching also in Scaramouche’s head. He has a few ideas as to why, but as the answer oscillates between he completely forgot as Albedo’s presence seem to chase any idea of revenge to he didn’t wanted to say too much and seeing how they were traveling together, Albedo would surely ask questions, he has to find the middle.
“I couldn’t trust your intel,” he finally settles for.
“Well, I can tell you where I saw him. What you do with that information is none of my business.”
There’s a throb in Scaramouche’s chest. After all, Dottore is also a recent addition to the band, and if he could get his hands on him, he surely won’t go easy on him.
“Where is he?”
“I could take you.”
Scaramouche senses the trap before he understands it.
“What do you want in exchange?” he still asks.
“Nothing,” answers Albedo to his surprise.
He scoffs, “That’s not possible.”
“You have answered most of my questions. I know your name, I know your goal. That’s all I need.”
“Need for what?”
Albedo doesn’t answer but he hears him shrug. None of them talks for a while and when it becomes clear that there’s nothing to add, Scaramouche closes his eyes, still full of questions and confusion. Albedo’ll have to answer his questions as well, that’s for sure.
Guiding Scaramouche to a town is as simple as it seems, but getting him to agree to a plan is hell on earth.
Albedo exposes his wish to move together against Dottore, which is immediately turned down by Scaramouche. It was fine a few days ago but now, they’re in front of the town the doctor is rumored to be. It’s pretty sure he’s still here : he needs to build some sort of reputation if he wants to keep his cover intact, and that sort of thing takes a few months.
“We’re here,” announces Albedo.
They haven’t entered the city yet, observing it from a ledge not too far away.
“Good. I appreciate your guidance. Now, you stay here and I’ll return in a few hours,” orders Scaramouche.
“No. I’m coming with you.”
“You can’t interfere with that.”
Albedo almost wants to tell him that the price for leading him here is that he may come with him, but he knows very well it won’t be well-received.
“I promise I won’t. I’ll just come in, do a few groceries and we’ll leave when you’re done.”
Scaramouche gives him a look, considering the proposition, and then he nods. Albedo doesn’t hold his reassured sigh and soon enough, they enter the city.
It looks like any average one would, with a few streets more perhaps. People are talking over each other and the noise is deafening – you’d have to be born here to really get used to it, that’s for sure.
Albedo is glad in those moments that his job only led him in the quietest part of the world.
They go around a few corners, leaving their horses at the entrance of the main street and after a few more steps, they’re in front of a street busy with shops.
“That’s where we part, and that where we’ll meet,” announces Scaramouche.
Albedo nods and without so much as a warning, the bounty hunter disappears in the crowd. Albedo doesn’t move, looking for him instead, and when he does find him, he’s entering a building with a doctor sign placarded on it.
He doesn’t have to wait long : soon enough, Scaramouche comes out of the shop with a scared man under his arm, with very bright hair.
Albedo knows it is none of his business and yet, he is the one who guided him here. Scaramouche’s trust isn’t earned just now, so he’ll have to be discreet but, this isn’t like he’s going to betray him or anything. He won’t interfere either, just like he promised. Let’s say that he’s just curious. He has known countless interesting objects in his life but there’s something else about this guy. He can’t say for sure that it is something more - although different ; that he is certain of.
He watches as Scaramouche drags the doctor behind the building and follows from afar, glad that the crowd can at least allow him to blend in. He stays at a good distance, but close enough to hear what they’re saying.
“- kill me!” yells the Doctor.
His voice is the voice of a man scared to death, and it’s a wonder Albedo wasn’t afraid of the bounty hunter in the first place. Maybe if he were, things would have gone very differently.
“Where is she?” asks Scaramouche, a repeating tone in his voice.
Albedo only guesses the doctor’s expression.
“I can’t tell you,” he whispers.
“Either you tell, or you die.”
And Scaramouche’s voice is so cold it’d almost make him shiver, even if he sees the way he trembles at night.
“You’re gonna kill her?”
“Yeah.”
From the stories Scaramouche told him, Albedo can easily guess it’s about either Signora or Arlecchino. The former being the closest thing he had to a sister, it’d make more sense if they talked about the first one.
Not that it’s any of his business, in the end. But still, there’s a voice in the back of his head that won’t leave him alone, and it sounds exactly like curiosity – or maybe, just maybe, he knows very well where it comes from and he can’t bring himself to admit that there is an inch of concern for the other man.
He gets back on track, shaking those thoughts away and listening closely again. It seems like their bargain knows no end.
“You’ll just kill me anyway, or she’ll do it,” says the doctor.
There’s nothing coming from Scaramouche, but the noise his victim suddenly makes helps Albedo assuming that he must have reiterated his threats.
“Fine, fine,” says the man with his shaky voice, “I’ll tell you, but I can’t guarantee you where she’ll be.”
“Just tell me.”
The doctor’s voice drops a bit and Albedo can’t hear anything anymore – it’s his cue. He turns back and finally leaves Scaramouche be, pretending to find a store with books displayed in front very interesting – until it really is.
He’s about to pick yet another book to add to the pile of three he already has in his arms when a voice comes from behind him.
“I’ve finished. What’s this?”
Albedo turns to face him and smiles a bit, happy to explain and maybe also, happy to be again the center of his attention.
It’s ridiculous. He should know better about human emotions.
“Books. You know how to read?”
“I did. I don’t know if I still do.”
“Maybe I should read to you. Perhaps you’d sleep better.”
They share a look, but Scaramouche doesn’t ask. After all, there comes a time when traveling together must bring them closer, on some level.
“Whatever,” he finally says, “we should go.”
Albedo nods, picks one of the books he has in hands, quickly buys it and then, they’re already going back.
“Don’t you want to sleep at the inn? The newspaper in front of the shop was saying that the night might be cold.”
“That’s probably true, seeing the cold this morning. But no.”
Albedo nods. He doesn’t mind ; he slept through worse.
They quietly walk back to their horses, and Albedo can’t shake off the feeling that he should tell him. He has never tried to live his life on the good side of morals, but there’s something about lying to him – or rather, not telling him everything, that is just unsettling.
So, he breathes in when he gets on his horse, “I heard your conversation.”
Scaramouche barely looks at him.
“You did.”
“Sorry about that.”
“I don’t really mind.”
Surprisingly enough, he seems sincere – and maybe a little taken aback himself.
“Still. It is none of my business.”
“And yet,” says Scaramouche, “you have something on your mind.”
Albedo glances at him. He looks right in front of him, not sparing him a look.
“I do. But it’s not my place to share that with you.”
“I’m asking you, though. And it’s my concern.”
They share a look, this time, and Albedo gives in with a shrug of his shoulders.
“I wonder if this is really good.”
“Seeking revenge? Of course not.”
“No, not in general. I mean, for you. Aren’t you afraid that it is gonna cost you?”
There’s something in Scaramouche’s eyes, but it passes so quickly. Still, maybe it already cost him.
“It will. Of course.”
“Aren’t you better off moving on?”
Scaramouche looks at him for a while, and when his eyes gaze in front of him again, he takes a deep breath lifting his torso and shoulders. Albedo can’t look away.
“I don’t think I am.”
“Aren’t you afraid it’ll consume you?”
There’s a longer pause and then, Scaramouche looks right into his eyes. He smiles, a bit.
“I don’t think there’s much left to consume, Albedo.”
And Albedo shivers, not really knowing what to say to that – or maybe, having a thousand of things to say fighting in his mind and yet, remaining silent in front of such a look.
They don’t talk much after that, and Scaramouche refuses to dwell on it. He’s sure of himself, and if he isn’t, he’s not really certain about what’s left of him. Isn’t he in the first place a traitor ? So why shouldn’t he go all the way down his plan?
Albedo’s concern is a surprise, though. He didn’t expect that coming from this man and still, the mere fact that it is real was enough to make him shiver. But he can’t get weak like that, he still has a lot to do.
They do stop at some point, when the night becomes too dark to prevent ambushes and when their eyes close themselves with fatigue. They find a spot nice enough and when Scaramouche settles his blanket, he regrets only having one with him : he always spends the coldest nights in the city. But he doesn’t say anything and after their usual goodnight , tries to close his eyes.
He opens them again, probably a few hours later, or maybe barely a few minutes. He doesn’t hear Albedo’s steady breath by his side, meaning he’s not asleep either.
He takes a deep breath, and something stirs in him until he finally asks, “Are you asleep?”
He knows damn well he’s not.
“I am not,” says Albedo’s surprised voice.
If only he could be a monotonous disinteresting man, then Scaramouche wouldn’t even have to think about that. But his lips are shaking from the cold and the shivers running through his body are not enough to get him to warm up.
“Are you cold?”
“I am.”
“I should have agreed on the inn.”
He almost says he’s sorry, but it stays stuck at the back of his throat. It’s good enough like that. Albedo seems to understand, though. He always thought the ones to know him best were the one he spent eighteen years with and yet, he’s sure this guy reads him like a map.
“It’s fine. Will you be able to sleep without being ill?”
“I suppose so.”
“That’s no promise.”
Scaramouche scoffs a bit.
“That’s good enough.”
There’s a long silence, long enough that Scaramouche thinks Albedo finally fell asleep, but the blond speaks again.
“I perhaps have a solution that’ll allow us to sleep better.”
Scaramouche turns towards him, even if he can’t really see him. The stars still find a way to his face.
“Do tell.”
“We could sleep together.”
Scaramouche has to stand up fast, wondering if it’s possible to choke to death with a little bit of his saliva considering how much he coughs.
“I’m sorry,” says Albedo again, “I didn’t mean to cause you distress.”
When Scaramouche can finally breathe again, he shakes his head even if he’s not seen.
“It’s fine, I’m just surprised.”
“I didn’t mean it like… that . I meant that I’ve learned that bodies keep each other warm.”
Scaramouche thinks about Albedo’s skin on him and swallows.
“Is it fine if I keep my clothes on?”
He hears him retain a laugh, and it’s good enough to relax his shoulders.
“It totally is. Come here.”
He hears a rumble and sees as Albedo’s arm is lifted against the sky, inviting. He doesn’t think twice – if he did, he’d die because of the cold, that’s for sure.
He gets closer and closer and closer and close enough that their blankets superpose on the other. He feels his cold legs against his, through the fabric of his night pants. There’s his breath crashing against his hair, and his arm finally falling back on his body. He thought he’d mind, and yet he never felt more at ease.
“This is…” he searches for his words, not able to think straight.
“Nice,” whispers Albedo, and the words are a stroke against his temple.
“Nice,” he says, and scoots a little closer.
He’s close enough to hear his heartbeat, close enough that a single sigh may land on his skin. He indeed feels his body getting warmer by the minute.
Finally, his eyes close under the weight of his fatigue and yet, his last thought is that he’d rather stay awake – just to bathe in Albedo’s warmth for a little bit more.
And there, right there, he thinks that perhaps, there are indeed better things than revenge.
And maybe, when it’ll consume him whole, maybe he can count on Albedo to bring him back.
Scaramouche doesn’t count the days. He knows he should, at least to pretend and keep his mind quiet and in peace, but the truth is – he’s never been so calm.
It’s not about the slow rides, nor about the warming fire they make every night, no, it’s in everything else. It’s in the conversations, Albedo’s soft voice, Albedo’s soft eyes, it’s in the way he looks at him when he thinks he’s asleep and he doesn’t know the fire reflects his gaze, it’s how sometimes, their legs brush when their horses ride too close to the other.
And Scaramouche doesn’t really know what to make of that. They’re going towards the one he wants, of course, but they’re not going fast and he has done nothing to change that.
If Albedo were a woman, he’d be in love with him – or at least, very attracted. But, the truth is, woman or not, he can’t deny the way his heart makes a weird sound every time they brush and how he’s pretty sure he’d kill the first fool to lay their hands on him. Not that Albedo can’t defend himself, of course, but this is to say – he’d probably do a lot for him. He’d certainly kill for him. And that is not something he has done for a lot of people in the past.
And there he lays, eyes on the starry sky, wondering if this is really the path for him. If the one he’s walking on isn’t just another trap from the man who raised him, who taught him that every man should get what they’re due themselves. But doesn’t Scaramouche have the right to the life he wants ? He never became a bounty hunter out of pleasure. And he’s way better like that, as Albedo rests right by his side, eyes closed and far away from the tumultuous thoughts he’s having.
He doesn’t know if he can really change, and he probably has the rest of the journey to figure that out.
He watches as Albedo’s chest slightly rises and falls, daring to approach his hand until the edges of his fingers are tracing his face.
He’s handsome, even with the dying light, and even if Scaramouche closes his eyes.
He could live with that only. That's enough for a lifetime, for sure.
The next morning goes by in a blur as he watches the sun rise with his tired eyes. Albedo doesn’t comment on his state : his look says it all.
They ride a few more miles until it becomes obvious that their horses need some kind of actual refreshment.
“There’s a town nearby,” announces Albedo, looking at Scaramouche.
They lock eyes too easily, too frequently.
“It’d be better to find a river.”
“I don’t think there’s anything close enough.”
He’s grown wary of towns, especially now that he’s with Albedo. A city is the type of set where he can’t exactly control what’s gonna happen. He can’t forget the man is wanted and he’s supposed to be a bounty hunter.
But there’s no other choice, so they turn around and ride for forty minutes before the town appears in front of them. They’re approaching the mountain and it is built on a gentle slope, with houses almost on top of each other.
They can’t fear the fire with trees moisted every morning but still, Scaramouche has this dreadful feeling that something is going to happen.
Yet when they enter town, everything is quiet around them. People are whispering between them and some animals cattle around but there’s nothing too big to worry about.
“I’m going to look for the inn. Are you ok with tying the horses up?” asks Albedo, already getting down from his mount.
Scaramouche merely nods, his eyes still carefully looking around. His fingers touch Albedo’s when he takes his rope and he shivers, enough to get him out of his worries.
He does as he’s told and puts them in front of the saloon. The voices are louder than in the street. There’s a woman talking with a man, and it seems like she’s about to kick his ass.
Except, not any woman could carry herself as if she’d be able to put a man down, and Scaramouche feels the tug on his stomach when the voice finally reaches his head. He knows it. He can even imagine the expression going with it, eyebrows raised and mouth in a thin line, announcing nothing but the worst.
He quickly pushes the door, and is not at all surprised to meet a cold look and a cold face framed by clear short hair. There’s a slight surprise on her face for a second, and then her expression remains still. It’s as if she barely acknowledged the emotion.
“Arlecchino,” he greets her.
“You’re finally here.”
He ignores the wave of feelings rushing in the back of his head and trying to run to his heart. He can’t let that get to him ; everything from her gaze to her stance show that she’s been looking for him.
Around them, men are quiet now, and even the one who was bickering with Alrecchino before he entered stays still. Maybe they can sense it – the fear he’s trying to dissimulate, because even though she’s right in front of him, even though he thinks about Tartaglia as well, Albedo’s everywhere else. They have to go. He has to find him. Now.
“Your friend’s not with you?”
Scaramouche feels his arm hurting him and finally realizes how tense he is, ready to leap and strangle her if she says one more word about him. How could she know ? He can’t show her his disarray – he can’t let her use him against him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She smiles a bit, but there’s no sympathy nor warmth in it. He wonders if she even blinked when they asked her to come and find him.
“I don’t have time for this, Scara,” she says, reaching for something in her pocket and presenting it to him.
It’s a piece of paper, and considering the face and the name plastered underneath, it’s not hard guessing what it is.
Scaramouche lifts his chin a bit.
“I won’t tell you anything,” he grits.
It must have been that rat. He should have killed him when he had the chance, he should have known that Dottore was nothing but a fool who deserved to be six feet underground.
He doesn’t want to have to kill her.
“Tartaglia’s fine, by the way. He still aches, but he’s alive.”
There’s an invisible weight lifting off Scaramouche’s shoulder, but he doesn’t show any of that.
A customer enters the saloon and the door creaks for a bit. Alrecchino nods at him to follow her. If there’s a table in between them, maybe he can stall. Maybe Albedo will understand and leave.
Oh, he wishes they weren’t so close. He should have known that no good would come out of this. He can’t let her have him.
They sit in front of each other, in the back of the saloon. Around them, conversations start again.
“Guns on the table,” she says.
He obeys, not willing to upset her, but still nods in her direction. She obliges and does the same.
“What is it?”
“I don’t want to kill you,” she says.
If her voice wasn’t so cold, he could have thought it was because of what they shared. He’s pretty sure he’s only an investment.
“What do you want from me?”
“Still quick to understand, little brother,” there’s a slight smile on her lips. “I want you to pursue your goal.”
“Which is?”
“To kill Signora, if I’m correct.”
“Dottore really never learns the value of his own life.”
“I hope you never cross paths again.”
“I hope he dies swallowing his own spit.”
“I want you to kill Signora,” she says, ignoring him.
“I thought y’all were friends.”
And they did it all together – betray him, push him away as if he were some kind of nobody instead of a member of their so-called family.
“Never friends, always close from interest. Now, our interests don’t coincide anymore.”
“Why don’t you do it yourself?” he asks, and there’s a shadow darkening Arlecchino’s face for a bit, so it’s easy to understand. “Pierro doesn’t know.”
“No.”
“So what is your plan exactly?”
“You give me the boy, I give you Signora.”
“Why would I do you two favors?”
“The first one is an order.”
Scaramouche closes his fist.
“I do not take orders from you anymore.”
“And yet, I need him. Where is he?”
“Why would you need him?”
“That’s none of your business.”
But it certainly is. As long as it’s about Albedo, Scaramouche can’t let anything slip past him. He sighs. He thinks. He sighs again.
“Dead or alive?”
He ignores his pounding heart.
There’s a smile on Arlecchino’s face. The same she had every time his knife went through someone’s gut.
“Dottore said you wouldn’t give him to me. He was wrong.”
“I guess people never change,” smiles Scaramouche drily.
“I guess they don’t. I want him alive.”
He holds his breath.
“Good. When?”
“In an hour?”
“Fine. Where is Signora?”
“I’ll tell you when I have my hands on him.”
Scaramouche nods and stands up. He’s automatic, he’s not thinking.
She nods back, and she waves at the barman. It’s his cue. He leaves, calculating each and every step to not seem hurried, and he leaves the saloon.
The sun’s a knife to his eyes and he quickly scans his surroundings for the inn. He takes the horses with him – because that’s what he would have done anyway.
He doesn’t tie them in front of the building when he arrives. He goes to the receptionist.
Albedo’s there, in the couch, the newspaper in hands. He’s wearing a large hat to cover his face, and Scaramouche’s pretty sure he took that shirt from his luggage.
He approaches, slowly.
“Albedo.”
He raises his head hearing the whisper, and the smile on his face is begging Scaramouche to stop the time and stay like that, here, forever.
But Scaramouche’s on the clock.
“Come outside,” he says again.
Albedo nods and puts the news back on the table. He follows him. Scaramouche looks around him. It’s quiet enough.
“Albedo.”
“What is it?”
He gets as close as possible to the horses, and then takes a step towards him.
“I am going to count to three.”
“What’s happening, Scaramouche?”
He waves his concern away.
“At three, you are going to get on your horse as fast as you can, and you are going to ride North. Am I clear?”
Albedo looks at him with puzzled eyes, and yet, he nods. He nods and doesn’t ask, and when Scaramouche opens his mouth, one , he takes a step back, two , his hands are already raising against his horse’s back, three¸ he turns back, puts his feet on the stirrup and there he goes. The closer he gets to the edge of town, the fastest he rides.
Scaramouche follows him quickly enough, almost jumping on his horse and as he passes a shop, there’s a bullet flying right by his ear.
He accelerates, following Albedo’s figure on the road. The forest is growing as they go further into the trees now invading the way, there’s still gun detonations behind them – but she’s too slow, she’s too far away.
Albedo trusted him enough to give them some advance.
They ride a bit more, until no noise is to be heard from behind or around them, and then Albedo slows down and Scaramouche joins him.
“What was that?” he asks, out of breath, and even if he tries to remain calm, every tremor in his voice is loud and clear.
“I’ll explain everything,” says Scaramouche.
They share a look.
“You trusted me,” he says again, his voice betraying his disbelief. “Have you perhaps forgotten that I am bound to one day put you in jail?”
Albedo looks at him with confusion, and then a smile slowly appears on his face.
“You couldn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
Their horses are slowly walking now.
“I know you couldn’t.”
“You don’t,” frowns Scaramouche even though his heart is pounding in his chest and he’s sure it’s not only because of everything that just happened. “How could you?”
“We’ve been traveling together for weeks. I may not know in detail what happened to you, I may still wonder who betrayed you, I still know you. I know how you hate the sun but still crave its warmth, I know how you long for the sea even if you never saw it with your own two eyes. I know how you hate the desert but still prefer it to the forests, and I know you’d rather sleep with one eye than risk being ambushed.”
“That’s just normal,” almost stutters Scaramouche trying to get a hold on himself – but his hands are shaking on the rope and he’s sure every bird around is hearing his heart beating like he does against his ears.
It’s terrible.
“You couldn’t know everything,” he says again.
He couldn’t know the way he thinks of him.
“Why don’t you tell me, then? Who did you see?”
“We were in danger. That’s all.”
Albedo sighs and gets down from his horse. The poor beast’s still exhausted. Continuing on foot is better. They’re far enough in the forest anyway, and they’ll probably stay away from witnesses for a while.
Scaramouche imitates him.
“You can tell me.”
“What for?”
He watches as Albedo lets go of his horse’s rope and gets closer to him. He makes him stop, positioning himself right in front of him.
“I can protect myself,” he says.
“I know.”
“Are you scared for me, Scaramouche?”
Scaramouche can’t lie to eyes like that. He swallows, louder than what he wants to.
“I’ll ask again. Do you care for me, Scaramouche?”
This time, his voice is a whisper. Scaramouche is completely still now.
“I do,” he answers equally, finally, “more than I should.”
“You shouldn’t care for a man you’re supposed to betray.”
“I can’t bring myself to it.”
They’re still whispering and yet it’s like their voices are echoing all around the trees.
“What is your plan, then?”
“I don’t have any,” he admits.
It’s so easy, falling into his words, freeing his tongue from all the weight it holds back. It’s so easy.
Albedo’s hand is on his arm, suddenly. It’s soft, it’s a brush. Scaramouche can’t help but to ask for more, leaning into the touch.
“What do you want, then?” asks Albedo.
Their eyes are on each other, and every menace is far away.
“I can’t have what I want.”
Scaramouche tries not to swallow again, but he feels the way his guts are twisting themselves around and how his legs are practically shaking.
No amount of dueling, no amount of killing ever left him like that. At the hands of the softest man he ever met he is weaker than against every shotgun barrel he ever faced.
“What if I told you you can?”
It’s not a whisper anymore, it’s in his head. It’s a murmur, it’s a swish of wind carrying words coming from far away.
He takes a step. Albedo doesn’t move, but his grip on his arm is tighter.
Scaramouche doesn’t believe in God but he’s pretty sure that if he ever did, if he ever did he’d be kneeling in front of every church asking for a redemption he doesn’t deserve just to be worthy of looking in eyes as blue as those.
They don’t part, their gaze don’t part, and Scaramouche wants to stay still for the time he has left on earth. There’s no other place he belongs than against his hands, in between his eyes.
Albedo leans, all in care.
Scaramouche imitates him.
Slowly but surely, the distance between them falls to nothing, as he takes one more step towards him. Albedo’s hand leaves his arm only to go on his waist and as he registers the feeling, as he bathes in the warmth of each and every finger touching him, there’s lips on his.
There’s nothing profane about this. It’s light and faith in a man and in himself, it’s a shrine in his eyes and an altar in his smile when they part.
Scaramouche kisses him again.
“Does that mean your plan is to stay with me?” finally whispers Albedo against his lips.
Scaramouche doesn’t know how to talk anymore and yet, the words flow.
He’s sure he’s never been loved like this before, ever.
“I don’t think I can stay away.”
“Me neither.”
Their foreheads meet slowly, and they stay like that for a while before Albedo puts his arms around him. It’s nice, it truly is, in a way he doesn’t understand.
Scaramouche must tell him everything.
Not right now, but he must.
Right now, he just wants to bathe in him a bit more.
Scaramouche was sure he couldn’t get his hands off him and yet, it’s gentler than what he thought. It’s a brush on his thigh, a kiss on his neck, it’s a body against his in the night. It’s a hand taking his, or it’s a stroke on his hair.
It’s nice.
It’s soft.
They talk a lot. He tells him about everything, and Albedo does the same. He feels like someone was added to himself, as if he had an extension of some sort completing him and his every move.
It’s nice, and it’s soft.
They stay away from the cities for a while and perhaps forever, and they decide to live off little contracts and Albedo selling medicine to the people they meet.
Scaramouche can’t say he’s not scared anymore, can’t say he doesn’t think about them sometimes at night when he can’t sleep, but then he just must lay eyes on Albedo’s face and his worries vanish long enough to allow him to close his eyes.
Sometimes he wonders what it’d be like if Albedo betrayed him in some way, if it was all a manipulative act or a poisonous drink, but the truth is terrible. The truth is, even if he does, even if it is, it’ll mean Scaramouche will have what he deserved – and if it comes to him by the hands of Albedo then, he’s pretty sure there are worse ways of dying.
He’d be happy to oblige.
He knows he doesn’t deserve those sweet eyes nor those soft hands and yet, he takes it all, as long as he can.
It’s not a kind world, neither a kind life, but he scrapes every moment he can and pretends he hasn’t changed – when in truth he knows that now, killing for Albedo isn’t nearly enough. He’d die for him probably, certainly, and he’ll be fine with that.
Revenge is an old friend now, and he can’t look away from the future he has paved in front of him even if it is only the day after or the hour after or the minute after. Every moment is what he always needed.
Perhaps it’ll come back for him to pay what he owns, but he hasn’t much to fear : he’s the richest man alive.