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It’s raining when Furina exits the Opera Epiclese first, the dark storm clouds casting a gloomy dourness to the plaza outside and darkening the late evening.
It was not a heavy rain; some might even say it was but a light shower– but the moment she takes two experimental steps down the stairs and feels a drop on her cheek she recoils.
The storm roared overhead as the opera house flooded, the water pooling at her legs as she sat on her throne, listless. She failed.
“Furina?” She blinks. She remembers retreating back to the safety of the veranda, back pressed against the wall in hopes that the other theatergoers leaving the building wouldn’t notice her as they passed. Of course, she hadn’t been trying to be seen in the first place—given who she had come with—but now she really didn’t want to run into anyone she knew. Too bad that plan hadn’t worked.
“N-Neuvillete! Ha ha, what a coincidence!” The Archon coughs, and straightens her posture. No, no, it wouldn’t do for him to see through her. “You came to see the play as well?”
“...Ah, yes, so it seems. Sigewinne was given some tickets for it, and so invited me and Wriothesley to come watch it together. But, are you alright? You look–”
“I’m fine! Perfectly fine!” She forces out a smile, feeling her cheeks stretch a little too wide. “You don’t have to worry about me, just go and enjoy your evening.”
She could tell from the crease in his brow that Neuvillete remained skeptical, but with the nurse calling for him from somewhere in the crowd, the Iudex was forced to relent and bid her a good night. The Archon watches him leave with one last apologetic look, the blue coat joining one in black and red just before the sea of umbrellas obscures them both.
Really, how silly. They might be coworkers, but there was no need to peer behind the curtain. He should be content with what she presents: the perfect image of a–
(Oh. She was no longer Archon. She no longer had to pretend.)
Furina shivers as an icy wind brushes past, rubbing at her arms.
Just why did he have to be so moved by the story, anyways? And the duke should hurry up and make him laugh, or something. Anything to get this horrible rain over with.
…No, it wouldn’t do to go about blaming someone else for the misfortune. She, she supposes that it was her own fault, really, for ending up here. Scared of a light rain.
It wasn’t even a big deal. Barely even a drizzle. It was only reasonable to assume something like this would happen– yes, it had definitely happened before, hadn’t it? And she, the Archon, had laughed it off, because what else could she, a god do, but–
She jolts as a hand alights on her shoulder. “I wonder, Miss Furina, just what has that brilliant mind of yours so distracted, so as to ignore someone calling your name?”
“O-Oh! K-Knave, um,” it’s hard to focus with the way the sharp nails dig into the fabric, just deep enough for her to feel it, and too close to her neck for comfort. Even though she’d been the one to accept the Harbinger’s invitation, the reminder of those claws sets every nerve in her itching to flee after the Iudex, regardless of the downpour.
But, as if sensing her discomfort, the talons quickly retreat, replaced with a more gentle brush of a curled palm against her other arm—lower this time—nudging her closer to the Harbinger. “No need to fret. It’s fine if you do not wish to share.”
The statement is rather rich coming from the person who had so thoroughly enjoyed chasing after her secrets, but the Knave is unusually warm (the wonders of a Pyro Vision, she supposes), and Furina refrains from making the jab in favor of leaning into the tall and pale shadow at her side, just enough for the chill to recede. “...It’s nothing, really. Rain like this tends to, um, bring up unpleasant memories for me. Sometimes. I just, ha ha, need a moment.”
“I see.” There is the sound of a clasp being undone before, without warning, a heavy white cloak is laid across her shoulders. The smoky aroma of cedar and a hint of—she guesses roses, or Lumidouce bells, or perhaps even both—fills her nose as she finds herself (unintentionally!) burrowing into the dark fur out of reflex, relaxing into the warmth in spite of her initial shock.
“May I suggest, however,” the Knave continues, as if she hadn’t just handed Furina the mantle of a Fatui Harbinger, “that it might be better if we head back to your residence quickly?”
She startles. “Now? But–”
“Ah, I’m not suggesting that we make a run for it. As it so happens, I ran into Lynette on my way out, hence my delay.” With that, she opens the umbrella she carried in her other hand and lifts it over them both, the inside of it lined with the teal shapes of frowning boggle-cats. “I hope this helps you forgive my tardiness, Miss Furina.”
The sight of the Harbinger with a cat-themed umbrella gets a light giggle from her, dispelling the tension. “It’s rude to keep a lady waiting, but I will allow it.”
With a careful swap of hands, the Knave holds the umbrella up between them, extending her elbow in silent invitation. All things considered, Furina feels a little like she’s unwittingly walked right into a gentle ensnarement, unable to refuse with the cloak wrapped around her and the poor weather hanging over them both; but the surrender in securing the metal clasp before slipping her arms around the Knave’s doesn’t feel entirely like a loss.
Together, they join the meandering crowd heading back to the station, and if the Knave notices her settling into the cloak, she makes no comment.
Instead, in a low timbre, she asks, “Well, Miss Furina, did you enjoy the show?”
Furina dips her head at the question, debating on what answer she should give. In her experience, the premier of The Unexpected Dream was neither good nor bad: lack of sufficient practice led to more than a few obvious gaffes, and while the execution of the story beats were good enough to please the crowd, the director had relied too much on conventional cliches despite the themes in the script. A play of this quality was, to be completely honest, far less interesting than the audience that had gathered to see it, full of giggling couples and motley crews of friends from all walks of life. As a newfound director and longtime purveyor, her answer was this: a fair attempt, though far from perfect.
And yet, was this answer what her host wanted from her? There was no hint to be found in the smooth, well-oiled movements of a trained soldier, or in the affable smiles that never extended to the eyes above, full of cunning and guile. The Knave was harder to read than anyone Furina has had the pleasure (or displeasure) of knowing within the last century, the mask of a polite and charming diplomat more than capable of concealing what she knew was a ruthless Fatui operative. Neuvilette had once compared the Harbinger to a lightless obsidian mirror, her emotions kept in such perfect control that he could not peer into the glass. (But, he could never fully see into Furina, either.)
It was unsettling, not knowing what she was meant to act as: if she should don the swagger of a god, or the gratitude of a guest. She did not feel inclined to either role, and the suggestion of needing to perform at all turns her stomach; The Little Oceanid was an exception, and she would prefer that it stayed that way.
Still, even she knew not to show her hand in the opening round.
“...I enjoyed it.” Light, and noncommittal. The safest option.
“Really? Something of that quality managed to receive your approval?” The soft, dulcet tone remains bereft of any real expression, but, with a shudder, she could clearly tell from the slight hum that follows that the Harbinger was displeased.
A disappointment. Bile gathers in her mouth, sour and rotten as she swallows and looks at the bushes that have suddenly become very interesting to examine.
“W-Who knows?” She replies, “Whether or not it was a perfect performance, the audience certainly seemed to like it, no? Or d-do you happen to share a different opinion?”
A light sigh drags her attention back to the Harbinger, and Furina watches her tilt her head in that unsettling way that reminded her of a hawk observing a field mouse, the somber overcast only making the red marks in her eyes that much sharper as they stare. The cloak feels heavier now, like a weighty net meant to hold her in place while the Knave prepared to take her apart, piece by piece, until she was devoured whole.
“I suppose you could say that. I am quite particular about the performances I watch, you see, and I would even fancy myself rather knowledgeable when it comes to… acting. Perhaps it was rather forward of me to have assumed such, but I had suspected that your thoughts on the matter might align closer to mine.”
…What?
How unfair, to say something that made Furina all too curious.
“Oh? Then, just what are your thoughts, Knave?”
She swears she sees the Harbinger's mouth twitch upwards, a nail tapping against the black handle in a hypnotic rhythm. “I found it a compelling tale of love that blossomed through all manner of strange coincidences and circumstances. The writer did a commendable job in stirring the pathos of their audience.”
Furina nods carefully; she had thought so too.
“The execution, however, was rather unpolished. The audience may have laughed and cheered them on regardless, but it was still, from an objective perspective, an imperfect performance. I found it especially egregious how, at the story’s climax, the lead actress was forced to cover for her partner’s forgotten lines, for example.”
“...You caught that? I didn’t think anyone else would have noticed, given how well she did in improvising.”
“I happened to notice a slight disconnect between the musical arrangement and her added lines, that is all. The actress did well.”
This she smiles at, leaning her head against the Knave’s shoulder. “Mhm, that is only to be expected after all, given a performer of her caliber.”
The closeness lets her hear the quiet sound of assent the Knave gives in return. “She was also in ‘Romaritime Romance,’ I believe. And if I recall correctly, she had a similarly stellar showing there.”
“Exactly! I’ve met with her before, you know, back when she was an understudy to an actress from another troupe. I always thought she had promise, and lo and behold, she was the only one in the cast to not make a single mistake on stage. In fact, were it not for her, I fear that the entire production would have fallen apart. If I were the director, I should be singing her praises about now! Hmph, it reminds me of that time I–” too late, Furina realizes that she has begun to ramble; and she looks up at the Knave nervously. Neuvilette never let it show on his face, but she knew he had always tired of her critiques long before she could ever finish them, and few others ever truly tolerated it beyond necessity.
And yet, she did not find any trace of annoyance within her usual neutrality, though her eyes were almost… softer. Still steely in that inquisitive manner, but not maliciously so. They gleam in a way that has Furina averting her gaze, feeling something warm dust her cheeks.
“Hm? What is the matter, Miss Furina? Please, do continue. You have me quite invested now.”
“Ah, I-I, um…” Was she making fun of her? There was the slightest lilt of amusement to her voice, the sound setting her nerves alight; if she thinks too hard on the way the Knave says her name—soft and sweet and, were she to really get ahead of herself, possessing the barest trace of fond adoration—it only worsens, and Furina almost stumbles as they ascend the aquabus’ boarding ramp.
“Careful.” The Harbinger’s other arm quickly comes around to steady her, and she feels a warm breath dance along the skin of her ear as she hears her chuckle, low and dangerous, “We wouldn’t want you getting wet.”
Her entire face heats up, and the sound that comes out of her mouth was entirely unintelligible. If this was all a cold and calculated attempt in turning the former Archon into a pathetic, blubbering mess– well, there was nothing she could really do about it, especially not when it was working.
And it certainly didn't seem like the Knave was intent on letting up anytime soon: considering how well she had done in concealing her secrets in the past, Furina will be embarrassed to admit that, yes, the silver-tongued diplomat is easily able to tease the rest of the story out of her during the ride back to the city, though it did lead to the longest discussion of theater history she has ever had the pleasure of indulging in. She hadn’t taken the Knave to be a connoisseur when it came to knowing all the classics, let alone familiar with even the most obscure, backstreet productions that have never made it to the grand stage.
“Dabbling in various fields is something of a pastime of mine. I find that the more you broaden your horizons, the easier it is to see how the world operates on a whole.”
A statement like that had led to Furina curiously prodding at what else the Knave had on hand, and before she knew it they were vigorously debating everything from the mutation of Fontemer Aberrants in the Nostoi Region to the exact protocols followed by a melusine tour guide when it came to confiscating stolen Bulle fruit; whatever esoteric idea she could think of, there was either a decent familiarity with it or, if not, a suitably interesting opinion that was formed on the spot.
By the time they had moved onto the difference between the regional variations of cream stew, she hadn’t even noticed that the rain had stopped, leaving behind a fresh scent of petrichor and the streets within Vasari Passage glistening with scattered lamplight.
It feels all too fast: the conversation has kept her in such a good mood that she only realizes that their time together is over after they've already reached the door to her apartment, agreeing to another excursion as they part ways.
“Have a good night, Miss Furina.” The Harbinger ends her sentence with a chaste kiss to the back of her hand, though the slow and teasing enunciation she adds to her words sounds anything but.
It leaves Furina simmering in flushed crimson long after the Knave leaves, and in an effort to at least agonize about some choice thoughts she really shouldn’t be having in the privacy of her own home, she retreats into the darkened apartment and slams the door close, nearly tripping over the trailing fabric of the cloak in the process–
Oh. She was still wearing the Knave’s cloak.
She had forgotten to give it back.
Furina steals furtive glances at her surroundings once, twice—she doesn’t know why, but she expects someone, Crabaletta perhaps, to be staring at her in disapproval—but there is no one around but her. She is decidedly alone.
Still, she does not pull it tighter around herself.
She does not press her nose into the soft fur, inhaling the comforting scent.
And she absolutely does not, during a particularly heavy storm, bury herself in it and peacefully fall back asleep.
…After all, if there is no one around to see it, then who could say that it happened?