Chapter Text
I…I can’t take it anymore. I’m sorry Mirror-Me. I’m sorry Focalors. It hurts so much.
Furina was a liar.
Though considering the circumstances of her creation, how could she be anything else? Born and cursed to play the False Idol, a placeholder worshiped by Fontaine while her divine-half had worked tirelessly to stop the prophecy and save their nation. And Focalors had succeeded, sacrificing herself and passing the Power to Neuvillette. The end-times had passed, everyone had survived. And so now Furina was…
She wasn’t sure.
The only thing she knew at first was that she was so very, very tired. She could barely remember packing and leaving the Opera house or the two weeks spent in bed. Just a constant stream of sleep and tears, along with brief waking periods to consume whatever was at hand and drink enough water to drown in. The pain had been awful, but cleansing in a way. Like she was purging herself of all the accumulated rot, emptying out the centuries of lies and delusions so something better could take its place. It was impossible to know what her life would look like going forward, but for the first time in decades she had felt a measure of hope. Finally, things were different. Finally, she could be free.
It was only when she’d stepped outside that she understood her curse had never been broken, that her hope was naught but ashes. The Eyes followed her everywhere, scorn and hatred mixed with pity and even fear. They judged her every move, witnessed every flaw and stutter, searching for the slightest hint of an excuse.
Inevitably they found one, either real or imagined, and mouths opened to spew streams of filth.
At best she was pitied, treated as a naive young girl who had been cursed to act like a god, the false sincerity bleeding through with every word and action. On its own the treatment would have been unbearable, but when compared to the bare-faced hostility everyone else hurled at her it was almost a reprieve.
The more violent demanded explanations but refused to listen no matter what she said, hands heavy with the urge to “punish” her. Shoves and shouts quickly turned to fists. More than once she stumbled home covered in scrapes and bruises. The worst were those hate-filled few who threatened to carry out the execution Neuvillette had commuted. Thankfully that was still beyond the pale for most and the crowd talked down those baying for her death.
For now.
Every outing came to feel like she was being hunted, helpless against the promised waves of violence that were but a moment away at any time. She was drowning in a sea of hated, desperately reaching out for help, and every hand seemed determined to push her head farther underwater. They didn’t care about the truth or her futile explanations: she was forever stained in their eyes. There would be no coming back from that.
The first hint of salvation came when Clorinde dragged her to a private gathering with some friends, and that for a short time that night she had felt some small measure of relief. It gave Furina a small measure of hope: finally someone was paying Her some small measure of attention, not the facade or persona. It was what she had always wanted, NEEDED: an acknowledgement of her gaping wounds, a kind hand and steady presence to mend the damage so all-consuming she had forgotten it was even there.
But the truth quickly became apparent: all her old “friends” had eyes squarely focused on the future, and she was still stuck in the past, her centuries of pain as shackles on heart and soul. Their visits grew briefer, the invitations sparse: they always had another project or thing to do, lives busy and full of hope.
Most days it took everything Furina had just to get out of bed.
She wasn’t “useful,” had no place or purpose in this new world everything was working towards. It was three months in, when no one had come to visit her in over two weeks, that she finally understood. Her worst fears had been realized: there was no end to this hell, and no one was coming to save her.
Her apartment was so cold…no. She was cold. So very, very cold. And tired.
The bed called to her like a siren song, the nest of blankets promising a hint of warmth and comfort. The darkness was soothing: wrapped in fabric, shielded from the world. She could just lay here and Be.
Days passed. She cried and cried. Until even her tears dried up.
She grew hungry, but it felt so far away. Like the pain was happening to someone else, someone outside the nest of comfortable dark.
It felt like she should get up…she could get up.
She just didn’t want to.
Why bother? There’s nothing out there for her. In time her mind cast back to that moment when all had seemed lost, when apocalypse seemed inevitable, and the cliff had promised an end to it all. To that night with the Knave, hand but a hair's breadth from her throat. To That Day, when the primordial seawater burned her hand like the purest fire, the scars there even now.
She had been given chances to end it all, and had refused to take them out of hope for a better tomorrow. Only now did she understand the truth.
She should have jumped. It would have been a mercy compared to this: slow, isolated, wasting away. But perhaps this is what she deserved, perhaps-
“Miss Furina?”
The Angel spoke, Salvation beckoned, and Furina lifted her head out of the blankets.
“What exactly am I looking at, Miss Arlecchino,” since the death of Focalors and regaining of his Power, the Hydro Sovereign had undergone an invisible transformation. He still acted and spoke exactly the same but now there was a subtle weight to his presence. His control of the newly gained power was, much like his appearance in general, immaculate. And even with such exquisite restraint, she could still feel it, though she was likely one of only a handful.
“A proposal for Mr. Wriothesley to construct a number of smaller wingalet’s for commercial purchase, with myself as the first prospective buyer. As I am unable to enter the Fortress directly I was hoping that you could pass the proposal along,” she graced the new leader of Fontaine with her most disarming smile: a weapon forged by long hours of cultivation, sharpened with years of practice. It seemed to have no effect on Neuvillette, which was the expected outcome, but she had still judged it worth a shot.
“And what exactly do you intend to do with said vehicles,” his eyes narrowed, clearly suspicious of her, a fair and intelligent mindset to adopt when it came to any Harbinger.
“Vehicle, Mr. Neuvillette. I wish to purchase a single vehicle, only large enough to transport myself and my children. But I am also aware that were such a thing to be offered on the open market there would be dozens of prospective buyers knocking down his door, for both personal and commercial uses. The Wingalet was made to avert a crisis, and now that said crisis has passed it would be a waste to allow such a genius invention to go underutilized.”
“There would be concerns from almost every nation I can recall that other nations would use such vehicles as weapons of war,” a reasonable and expected retort, already addressed within the document itself.
“Yes, which is why in my proposal I recommend they be designed as personal sized craft, sized for a half-dozen individuals at most. Crafted in such a way to ensure they could not be deconstructed and reproduced by another nation. Even with those limitations, the uses are more than I can imagine. Rescue operations, research trips, exploration of the world at large.”
“...I shall review the document and provide you with my comments. If all seems in order I will pass it along to Mr. Wriothesley, though I cannot speak for how he will respond.”
“Of course, that is all I ask. Oh, you may also be pleased to know that as per our agreement, all Fatui operatives have been withdrawn and this is the first time I have set foot in Fontaine since our prior meeting. And today is merely a family outing my children have been asking for for some time. Apparently there are many sights within the city they wish to show me.”
“That is pleasant to hear,” warmth colored his tone, proof that her assumptions about how to best manipulate the Hydro Dragon had been correct. Avoid lies, be sincere in your desires, and let sweet follow bitter.
“Good…I must admit, I’m surprised I haven’t seen Miss Furina anywhere, either in person or poster.”
“I also have not heard from Furina for some time, unfortunately."
“Hmmm, she must be quite busy with whatever her latest project is now that she is no longer bound to the role of false Archon. A performance perhaps,” her throat was dry, and thankfully refreshments has been offered beforehand. The glass was raised to her lips, cool refreshing water soothing her parched throat.
“That is unlikely, given how little she’s ventured outside her apartment these last few months,” the purity was soured by a single drop of sludge, the glass leaving her lips after an almost imperceptible pause. It perhaps made sense that Furina had spent most of her time resting, but there was something about his tone…
“That's surprising, I was led to believe she was a star of the stage and had assumed people would be desperate to have her in their plays now that her schedule was wide open.”
“Furina expressed she was done with the stage right after her trial, and even had she not…I doubt anyone would want to work with her,” more and more drops of sludge, staining the clear liquid with filth. There was something strange going on, a wrongness that Arlecchino found distasteful. And given how Neuvillette's tone had grown slightly sour, she was disinclined to inquire further.
With him at least.
“I see. Well, I must be going. You have my proposal, if further discussion is required you may find me at the House of the Hearth, and if I'm not there one of my children will let me know you stopped by. Have a pleasant rest of your day, Mr. Neuvillette,” he offered her a nod in return and she made her way outside, mind awhirl with confusion. The girl shouldn’t matter to her, the affairs of Fontaine were its own now that she had the Gnosis, and yet…
Perhaps a walk was in order, and it just so happened to take her through the marketplace and other well-trafficked areas, eavesdropping. In the course of two hours she heard little of import, and nothing about Furina herself…she heard nothing. Not a mention of her name, not a single utterance of anything related to her, Focalors, or anything of the sort.
If she had simply gone into reclusion then it would make sense for them to not talk about her much, but someone would have at least mentioned her name. Perhaps some of her old works that were the individuals favorite, or at least a comment about how Neuvillette’s governance could be compared to her own. And yet there was nothing. As if everyone was intentionally avoiding even the memory of her.
The water was dark and greasy, more sludge than liquid.
It was the work of half an hour to find her apartment, and barely a handful of seconds to break in. The landlord needed to install better locks.
The first thing she noticed was the smell: wet and rotten, like the sickness of a trauma ward mixed with a diseased swamp. She was standing in the entryway of a simple one bedroom, small and somewhat cramped, with muffled noises emanating from the closed bedroom door. She would deal with that in time, but first to ascertain the situation. The cupboards were empty, fridge bare of all but condiments. Dust coated the furniture, and half-emptied moving boxes were scattered all about. No correspondence within sight, or any signs of recent life.
She turned the bedroom knob slowly, silently, and opened the door.
The room was dark despite the early afternoon, windows blocked by thick curtains that let in just enough light for most to see. Here there was evidence of…something. Not life, given the smell of sweat, tears and filth. But existence at the very least. The bed was in the far corner, thick covers draped over a trembling form beneath.
“Miss Furina?”
There was a pause in the sobbing, and like a turtle Furina emerged from her shell of blankets. Face thin, eyes red with tears, hair matted and filthy, skin pale and clammy. She had been crying for…a longer time than Arlecchino was willing to put a number to.
“Knave?”
She let the covers fall further, and all Arlecchino could think was 'She’s so…thin.' At their last meeting she had been dainty, somehow managing to remain slender despite her penchant for devouring sweets. Now she was bony, almost dangerously underweight, arms and legs trembling from fear?...no not fear. Furina’s eyes were not afraid to look upon her.
They were relieved.
“Are you real,” Furina asked, voice weak and hoarse either from significant overuse or total lack thereof.
“Yes, I am.”
“Are you here to kill me,” it was a reasonable question, given how their previous meetings had gone and how she was currently breaking and entering. But the question was tinged with hope, and that…something coiled in her gut, dark and patient.
“No, I am not,” Furina looked at her for a long time, eyes clouded, head slowly lowering as she collapsed in on herself. Eventually she muttered something so softly anyone else would have missed it, but to Arlecchino the words were loud and clear.
“Why not?”
Well this would not do at all.
“I see…My apologies Ms. Furina, but I seem to have noticed that you do not have the necessary confectioneries for a tea-party. I shall return in an hour, do not leave the premises,” she turned and left without a word, stunned silence in her wake. The front door was quickly re-locked and out into the street she went, drafting out a list of the basic foodstuffs she judged Furina was in need of.
“Lyney. Lynette,” she called and they came to her side in under a minute. “Gather the children. Take half of them to Quartier Lyonnais and buy everything on this list. Keep the receipt and make sure to get reimbursement by Freminet later. Send the rest to Cafe Lutece, I’ll need their help carrying everything,” her children obeyed without a word, splitting and setting off to carry out her will.
The walk was short, and in a scant few minutes she found herself at the end of a long line waiting for Cafe Lutece high-quality pastries. Unfortunately for the other patrons, she had neither the time nor inclination to wait, and thankfully it was a simple matter to scare most of them off with a wave of her usually restrained terror and bloodlust. The last few required a more direct application of her glare, and in less than a minute she was the next and only remaining customer, though her request for service was delayed by the proprietor cowering behind the counter.
“Good afternoon Mr Arouet, might I ask what you’re doing down there,” thankfully her calm words seemed to help, and eventually he managed to find a spine and stand back up, though still without ever looking her in the eye.
“Uhhh..nothing. Nothing. How may I help you today,” he asked, the now unnecessary fear giving him a slight stutter.
“I’d like to purchase the remainder of your stock for the day,” there was another long pause as he stared at her once more, though this time the shock was genuine.
“E…everything? Are you quite sure miss, that is a significant amount of-” she cut him off by depositing a large sack of Mora onto the counter with a dull *thud.*
“Yes, everything. Gift-wrap one of each item in those fancy boxes you have, and pack the rest up for transport as efficiently as possible. Also, why is ‘La Lettre a Focalors’ crossed out on the menu, have you run out for the day,” Arouet continued to stare at her for several long moments while his helpers came to the front and began the arduous process of packing away her purchase.
“Uh..no… it’s not that, Ma’am. After everything that's happened no one would purchase them, not when-” her glare intensified once more and Arouet turned white as a sheet, the useless expanse of air caught in his throat.
“You are to make me the finest ‘La Lettre a Focalors’ that has ever been crafted in this city. It shall sit in the nicest parcel your shop possesses, elegantly wrapped with the blue ribbon you have over there. I have an appointment to make in 45 minutes so you have…35 at most. Work fast and careful, Mr. Arouet,” she took a step back and leaned against the wall, gaze firmly fixed on Arouet. After a moment he gave her a slow nod and got to work without another word.
It seemed he was capable of learning.
In exactly one hour she had returned to Furina’s apartment, arms laden with bags containing the carefully wrapped boxes of sweets. Thankfully Lynette had been clever enough to hire a cart, so all it took was her and Lyney to transport everything else. Her children had been quiet so far, but she could see the questions bubbling behind their carefully crafted masks.
“I can tell you’re curious. Ask,” her permission had clearly been unexpected, as it took them several moments to respond.
“Father…what are we doing? We have the Gnosis and Ms. Furina is…,” Lyney asked, Lynette staring at her with bottomless curiosity. Her children weren’t wrong, but they were also failing to grasp the larger picture, and this was a flaw well-worth correcting. That and…Arlecchino herself wasn’t quite sure why she was putting so much effort into this. She had her reasons, but there was more to it than that, something at the edge of her awareness. Just out of reach.
“Ms. Furina spent five centuries living a lie not for herself, but for the people of Fontaine. They reaped all the benefits and tossed her aside as soon as her usefulness had ended,” recognition dawned on their faces. It was not the same as their House's circumstances, but the similarities were too many to ignore.
“If nothing else, such sacrifice deserves recognition, especially given the part you two played in that farce of a trial,” her tone was clinical, without weight or intent to harm. Their actions had been discussed months ago, poured over as she patiently corrected the mistakes they had made, and still guilt bloomed on their faces plain as day.
“We…we should apologize,” Lyney eventually said, Arlecchino shaking her head in response.
“Yes, but not today. For now just put away her groceries and go about the rest of your day,” she turned without waiting for a reply, the hesitant “yes Father” following her into Furina’s apartment.
The Knave was long gone and yet Furina remained outside of the covers, mindlessly staring at the nightstand on the far side of the room. More specifically the clock she had casually tossed on top of it. Seconds turned to minutes as she waited…watched…hoped. Mentally smothered all the while by That Voice, a horrid amalgamation of the screams and accusations forever seared into her mind after that day. It screamed at her that Arlecchino would be just like the rest, that she would never be coming back and that door would never open again. That Furina was better off-
*click* she threw the covers off and ran out of the room.
“Ms. Furina I’m- Oh,” the door was open. Arlecchino was here. Furina stared at her, at the terrifying woman clad in the same elegant gray, red and white clothes she’d been wearing at their last encounter. That same handsome face and those razor-sharp cheekbones, strikingly framed by long white and black hair. All meaningless compared to the Eyes, those terrifying orbs that had promised her death a lifetime ago. Only now there was something soft in them, a sense of care and concern and-
“Get out,” it hurt to speak, her throat was sandpaper and her limbs trembled with the effort of standing upright after weeks in bed. The Knave said nothing and just stared back at her, firm and unyielding.
“Get. Out. Get OUT. Why are you here? Why Now? After everything, Why-” she was suddenly lightheaded, her legs turned to water. The floor careened closer, only for her fall to be stopped at the last second by a strong yet surprisingly gentle grip. She was carefully picked up and deposited on the couch, then handed a glass of water. One turned to two then three, her body desperate for the clear, cool liquid.
Nothing had ever tasted so good.
Only when she was satisfied did Arlecchino leave her side, filling up the glass one last time and sitting down across from her, carefully placing a gorgeously wrapped box from Cafe Lutece on the coffee table between them. She could vaguely hear cabinets being opened behind her, but it may as well have been an entirely different world. Right now it was just the two of them.
“I…what is this?”
“I never bothered to get the recipe for your favorite, but I believe this was the runner up,” long fingers, strong and nimble, carefully unwrapped the box to reveal a generous piece of La Lettre a Focalors. The merest hint of that decadent mix of coffee and almonds made her stomach erupt with growls of hunger. It took every ounce of control she had to remain still, instead of devouring it with her bare hands.
“I…I don’t understand. What's going on, what are you doing here,” the Knave stood and approached her before slowly falling to one knee. Those lethally dangerous weapons reached out, oh-so-gently cupping Furina’s trembling hands in her own.
Warm. She was so warm. It spread through her like a blessing.
“You have done a great service, sacrificed more than any of us will ever comprehend, and are deserving of anything but this. I will correct that injustice, if you are willing to have me.”
Ah, Furina had been wrong: she had plenty of tears left to shed.