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Furina doesn’t quite know what to make of the Knave.
In terms of first impressions, the Knave was fully capable of presenting herself as the perfect diplomat; so very suave and elegant and cultured. A romantic, Furina’s favorite cake in hand and her name on silvered tongue, to be spoken of in sweet serenade. A well-crafted mask if she ever saw one, but tempting all the same.
Truthfully speaking, Furina would’ve swooned right then and there had it not been for the weight of a centuries-long masquerade and the sudden, horrifying revelation that her handsome guest with the charming smile had eyes of lightless black and roiling crimson; the very same pair that had terrorized her in the dead of night, looking down at her as though they knew she wasn’t the Archon.
And it didn’t take all that long for the flowery greetings and polite niceties to give way to the harsh accusations and cutthroat interrogations hiding underneath– for her to get well acquainted with the Harbinger who was ruthless and cunning, disdainful of superficiality. Disdainful of Focalors.
In short, the Knave was firmly cemented in her mind as a dastardly villain: a schemer, taking delight in cornering her opponents. The spider toying with the butterfly in its web.
But, well, as for Arlecchino,
“Are you a vegetable? Because to me you appear to be rad-ish, and I will devour you.”
It takes her a moment to realize that she was not in fact threatening her with a vegetable pun, and another to realize that she was using it to flirt.
…And the only thing that stops Furina from wondering if she somehow stumbled into some alternate universe—or finally snapped, which was an inevitability, really—is the reflection she catches in the cafe window of three spectators, stacked on top of each other as they lean out from the cover of a brick wall. Very distinct in their expressions of pain: Freminet with both hands over his mouth, eyes wide; Lynette covering hers, ears flat; and Lyney, looking wholly haunted by regret as he clutched both sides of his head, mouthing Father this is not what we practiced–
At the lack of a response, Arlecchino dips her head, a sinner seeking absolution. “Apologies if what I said was… strange. The children informed me that these types of lines were popular nowadays, and I deemed that one the most appropriate for the situation.”
“Ah, um, I see?” Furina glances over at the window again, but the trio are gone (was she just imagining things?) “It’s alright– I, I’m flattered?”
“...Is that so?” The Knave tilts her head, eyes glinting like fine knives. “I happen to have an abundance of them, if you wish to hear more–”
“N-No, that’s okay!” She rejects the offer out of consideration for her sanity, taking a sip—well, more of a chug—from her coffee in a desperate attempt to get herself together. (And really, if she thinks about it, she much preferred Arlecchino’s usual– okay, stop that thought.)
They fall into another lingering pause, silence reigning supreme at their little outdoor table despite the noise that surrounds them: the sizzle and boil of coffee, the pedestrians strolling up and down the streets, the soft murmurs of fellow patrons. And under the bubbles and laughter and her own rapid pulse is the disjointed, ever-present chorus of Fontaine’s clockwork; clicking gears and humming machinery making up everything from the Gardemeks to the coffee machines hard at work.
Tick, tick, tick.
“But you’re curious.”
“...I am.” She admits. Terribly.
A crumpled piece of paper is promptly removed from an inner suit pocket, slid across for Furina to eagerly lay eyes upon the aftermath of a brutal, multi-sided conflict. Scattered all over are the many theaters of war wherein the authors fiercely edited each other’s work, layers upon layers of corrections and redactions and newer additions covering almost every inch of free space. “What is your opinion on the third from the top?”
She finds a purple marker boldly interjecting between two of its neighbors and overlapping both, the handwriting lacking in practice but evidently not in spirit. “...The one with ‘ma-damn’ in it?”
“Yes. I question the necessity of asking whether you were Fontainian in the preamble.”
The thought makes her snicker; true, it was a rather silly thing to ask her of all people. “But you would still say the second part?” (And what an image that was.)
“Madame?”
“Pfft– you’re supposed to say it like ma-damn,” she enunciates, leaning into the raunchy intent. It was simply fascinating how some things didn’t change even as centuries pass: a dockworker from five hundred years ago had said something startlingly similar, whistling as he called out after a newly arrived adventurer. “And now that I think about it, what was with that utterly stiff delivery of yours, anyways? Even a meka would have more emotion.”
“Hmph. I admit I am rather… inexperienced with the vernacular involved.”
“So am I. But that’s no excuse is it, Arle?” It’s a little mean to dig into Arlecchino like this, but Furina is entirely too excited at discovering this unexpected weak spot, eager to turn the tables for once.
“...How harsh. Do you mean to say you would do a better job?”
“Of course!” She may have stopped keeping up with the latest trends, but a lack of familiarity was hardly an obstacle for centuries of dramatic reading. Why, “I could pull off any of these if I so chose.”
“Care to demonstrate, then?”
“Ha! Just watch me.” Arlecchino rarely spoke without purpose—let alone questioned her skill when it came to acting—but the actress in her was already picking a line at random, clearing her throat before propping a chin down on one hand.
And with a smile Furina looks directly at the Knave with half-lidded eyes, voice soft and full of sincerity.
“With you I feel like a leaf in Autumn, because I’m falling for you.”
Considering Arlecchino’s apparent admiration for her—as a fan, at the very least—Furina expects praise, clapping even. She’ll take it sarcastically too, because something was better than nothing, and the dead silence that follows makes her want to curl up and die.
And as if to add more salt in the wound, there isn't even a hint of movement, the only change between now and then being a slight widening of bright red crosses.
“W-Well? Aren’t you going to say something?” Furina tries to cover for her own burgeoning embarrassment with the tried and true method of doubling down, curling her lips into a smug smirk in a last-ditch effort to cover up the collapsing sinkhole where her meager pride once stood. “Or has the cat got your tongue, perhaps?”
She tacks on a wink, and the act is enough to effectively kickstart Arlecchino back into motion, blinking as the Harbinger rasps, “Forgive me, I was merely taken by surprise.”
Then, much more smoothly, and grinning just wide enough see her sharp canines, “I wasn’t aware you felt that way, droplet. Consider me deeply honored, to have the affections of a former god.”
Oh. Furina flushes beet red, realizing just what kind of diabolical trap the Knave has tricked her into. “You–!”
That was one of her biggest discoveries, learning that Arlecchino was a horrible, horrible tease. Not that it was all that different from the image of a sadist, but she was playful: so absurdly unserious in their banter compared to the strict exterior she normally directed towards her subordinates, towards her children. (Although, the more said children begin gossiping to her about their Father, the more she suspects the Knave secretly played pranks on them as well.)
And yet, always so horribly easy to talk to outside of that: once Arlecchino has seemingly had her fill of Furina’s distress, and Furina has run out of names to call Arlecchino, they eventually settle into poring over the rest of the pickup lines and sharing idle commentary. And with neither of them in any particular hurry, their discussion is allowed to run freely through all manner of loosely related tangents. It’s nice, it’s comfortable; the Furina of old would never even dream of laughing with the Knave like this– but on their second date since their fight, it comes easily, almost scarily so.
(So horribly charming, it could make her wish the moment never ended.)
She could blame it on the habits of a calm and controlled diplomat, dialogue second nature to someone so used to directing the flow of conversation in her favor, leveraging everything from flattery to threats, from pathos to logos; a smile worn ever so politely as she tightened the net around her chosen prey.
But how could she, if contrary to this, Arlecchino was in truth rather taciturn? Preferring to watch and listen; honest opinions short and to the point, sharp enough to cut.
…So very quiet, when gazing into the sea, or across the fields of wild flowers and forests they trek through. Furina finds that the Knave’s intensity remains a constant, though driven not in pursuit but in focus: uncaring of any outward appearance as she crouches off to the side, staring unblinkingly at the fuzzy caterpillar crawling its way around the edges of an intricate web strewn between a boulder and two low-hanging branches.
(When Furina fully realizes just how big the tarantula above it is she screams, just a little. Okay, maybe a lot.)
The Knave is frightening: a phantom of the night and the monster under her bed. Traitors and beasts cut down with the same cold, mechanical precision; remorse and guilt buried deeply, if there was any at all.
Arlecchino is gentle: Lynette closes her eyes contentedly when a hand kneads her ears, and a fallen hat is brushed free of sand before being placed back onto her head, adjusted to sit just a touch crooked (fashionable asymmetry, Furina will defend.)
The duality reminds her of Clorinde, but the duelist has always acted so as a deliberate precaution, taking care to keep the unavoidably bloody nature of her work from bleeding into her personal affairs, from the hunt taking her down a path of no return.
…And unlike Clorinde, Arlecchino was too far steeped into her roles, the soldier and Harbinger of the Fatui permanently melded into Peruere– an actor whose many masks were now part of them, inseparable. Full of mismatched parts swapped and exchanged based on what was needed, the resulting chimera of contradictions so unlike anyone Furina has ever met, except for, well, herself.
If there was any difference in their approaches, it was in Furina wrapping devotion around her in a shield against suspicion, while Arlecchino donned a mantle of fear.
But even if Furina knew the why of it, it didn’t help her in the slightest when it came to knowing what to do about it.
And that was the crux of it, really: she still can’t figure out what Arlecchino wants from her, not when the words ‘nothing at all’ didn’t exactly provide any enlightening clues.
She was fairly certain normal friendships didn’t include romantic dates and gestures—unless they were being particularly oblivious in that mutually pining way, and happened to have names starting with N and C—but Arlecchino has, for lack of a better term, a habit of flirting with the line between that and something more, brazenly crossing the distance between them only to suddenly stop and go no further.
The first time they dance, everything—from the romantic stroll leading up to it to the sauve, playful invitation—goes so smoothly she wouldn't be surprised if the Knave had orchestrated it all, down to the smallest detail. Arlecchino keeps her close enough to feel the ghost of warm breath against her skin, the tickle of hair against her cheek as the Harbinger bends over her while Furina is dipped dangerously low; exactly the sort of buildup that sets her nerves alight with electric suspense, only for there to be no dramatic kiss or scandalous confession. A rather anticlimactic separation as Arlecchino pulls her back up and pulls away, face blank.
The more imaginative albeit delusional part of her thinks that Arlecchino is being shy– a theory first proposed by Lyney, which gave it some merit, but could she really call it shyness if the Harbinger had no hesitation at all in kissing her hands and wrists; in tracing the line of her jaw with both claw and fang; in (literally) sweeping her off her feet with sweet pet names and embarrassingly suggestive insinuations always at the ready?
By the time Arlecchino has to leave for Snezhnaya and deal with whatever ‘Project Stuzha’ entailed, Furina has yet to find a solution to the dissatisfaction coiling in her gut as they bid each other farewell in a secluded part of the harbor, a touch awkward.
“...And you will come back, yes?” She puts on a brave front, traces of pompous demand leftover from days far enough away to seem distant, and yet linger still in the urge to scratch at her hand. In the redness of her eyes, their conversation on the beach the night before weighing heavily on her mind, even if neither of them have chosen to bring it up.
“Of course, Furina.”
She wonders if she should say more. Kiss her on the cheek, maybe; but was she allowed to? Was that fine? Too little, too much?
She can’t tell, the Harbinger’s usual stoicism always so far removed from expressions exaggerated for an audience.
Left alone, Arlecchino will kiss her hand, light and gentle. One last lingering glance before she turns and leaves.
Her heart flutters; but long after the heat has faded from her cheeks, the disappointment still stays with her as she walks home in a daze, grimacing at how much colder her apartment is, winter coming early.
“Sounds like a crush,” Navia muses absentmindedly, before the observation snaps the president out of her reverie and her friend slams the table with more energy than an ignited Dendro slime. “Who is it– do I know her!? Do you like her back!?”
“No! No, no, I– we’re just friends! And she admires me, yes, but who doesn’t?” Her mouth moves on its own in reflexive, prideful denial; a mortifying relapse into old habits with her brain busy short-circuiting over the image of Arlecchino acting like a blushing maiden, the rising panic at Navia’s followup attack destroying her composure in two-hit combo.
Furina wasn’t dense—she could at the very least admit to herself she found Arlecchino attractive, that she enjoyed both the banter and the quiet, and in all honesty wouldn’t mind if she backed her against the wall again and—she buries her steaming face in both hands and groans, not even caring about the dirt from her earlier fall.(Anyways, point made, moving on.)
Furina knew romance; seen it in stories and plays and countless generations of young and happy couples all stopping to pray at the fountain of Lucine. Seen it in the way Clorinde’s eyes will trail after Navia, full of yearning; in the way Pauleau will slip up during rehearsal and say not Clio but Aurelie; in the way her ever impartial Iudex will make an exception to his own personal rules, allowing himself for once in his life the slightest bit of selfish want.
But was that what the Knave was? A suitor, with marriage on the mind?
Try as she might, it was hard for her to imagine, let alone believe. (She would have an easier time believing Arlecchino was just a particularly enthusiastic fan with a very twisted sense of personal boundaries. Not that that wasn’t true, to be fair, but–)
“Cut her some slack, Navia.” A hand pats her on the back gently before offering her water, and Furina busies herself with gulping it down, grateful for the intervention.
…But she can’t help but feel incredibly pathetic when she misses the rest of what Clorinde says because she was busy agonizing over a (theoretical) romance with a Harbinger.
“‘You’re getting better at this,’ is what I said,” the duelist repeats wryly, handing her the towel next.
Furina puffs out her chest. “Fufufu, am I not a fast learner?”
“You are,” Clorinde answers warmly, and the direct praise has her cheeks turning pink and Navia raising her eyebrows at them.
“Oh my god, is it Clorinde–”
“Navia.” Navia only sticks her tongue out, to which Clorinde rolls her eyes in exasperation, even as a smile works its way through her frown.
“Still,” she adds softly as she turns back to Furina, “We don’t have to keep going today if you aren’t feeling well.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m fine.” She gets up from her seat and takes up the dull practice sword once more, twirling it.
“Who knows,” she teases, cheeky, “maybe my victory is right at hand?”
The duelist smirks. “We’ll see about that.”
Besides learning (proper) swordplay, Furina keeps busy in other ways too: directorial stints, creative pursuits, tabletop scripts, charity work. She still leaves herself plenty of free time of course, having zero interest in keeping the clockwork schedule of her Archon days, spending it on feeding strays in Quartier Narbonnais and jaunts through the forests on Erinnyes island.
All in all her daily routine is no different from how it was before, except, it was different, in the way she looks for pale snow in a crowded audience when she knows she won’t find any; in the way she thinks of something witty and clever, only to turn and find no listener sitting in patient attention; in the way she, in spite of her abject horror, carefully directs Usher to transfer the spider she finds in her bathroom to the freedom of the outdoors via glass cup and paper.
At one point, unable to sleep, Furina sneaks into the bowels of the Opera Epiclese, running her hands along the pipes and gears that lay cold and inert, never to move again. She traverses a maze of glass and metal through pure intuition, the layout chaotic and yet sensible, logical in hindsight. She finds the same design choices she would have made, had she been its architect.
She looks for them, chasing a ghost, only to nearly become one herself when the hallway she returns through partially collapses, letting in a flood of seawater and debris. She panics, caught in unwilling recollection of the last time she’d seen such a sight– the taste of salt on her tongue ever so dreadfully familiar as she drowns.
It is Freminet who saves her in surprise rescue, apologizing for both his late arrival and for arriving at all– but while Furina does feel quite miffed about the reveal of Arlecchino having one of the children serving as her secret little security attaché at all times, she finds she doesn’t actually hate it as much as she probably should.
“...Freminet.”
“Y-yes?”
“Am I… being foolish?”
“Eh– ah, um…!”
(A rather unfair question to ask; but if Freminet, who has known Arlecchino the longest of the trio, didn’t understand his Father, what hope did her former enemy have?)
…In the end, she blames the scenery.
Which is what leads to Furina packing her bags for a longer trip and meandering over to Chenyu Vale, and then over to Liyue; to her lodgings at the inn Zhongli previously recommended to her, to a tea house waiting for the day’s show to begin, to a crowd full of friends and tourists and locals and dignitaries and merchants and Arlecchino, voice deceptively polite as she corners a manager from the Northland Bank.
Maybe, if she were in Sumeru, she could have brushed it off as another embarrassingly wishful daydream, but alas, Furina was very much awake when she makes eye contact, the cup of osmanthus wine still frozen in midair.
But the Knave spares her only a single glance, before returning to her interrogation.
(It wasn’t at all surprising, but she feels the swell of disappointment anyways.)
Then, just as Yun Jin arrives to greet the excited patrons a chair to her right is pulled out, the voice in her ear smoother than glass, curling around her throat like smoke. “What a surprise to see you here, Miss Furina.”
“...A surprise to see you as well, Knave.”
“Indeed. Have you seen this performance before?”
“I have, actually.” She’s even briefly met the inspiration behind this particular opera the last time she was here: distant and intimidating, but not unkind.
“As have I.” Before long the two of them are quietly debating the themes behind The Divine Damsel of Devastation with the same rigor they would have if Furina were leaned up against Arlecchino’s shoulder and still loudly arguing over the ending of Furioso.
…And yet how dreadfully far apart they were, pretend strangers in the eyes of their eavesdroppers; diplomats and fatui watching them both like opportunistic vultures. It isn’t the first time they’ve met like this, but it certainly left a sour taste in her mouth after having looked forward to all the ways a proper reunion could have gone.
“So you say. However, in my opinion, I see no difference.”
“Well, I beg to differ,” Furina argues, more for the sake of arguing than to make a point. Her heart isn’t in it, not when the conversation—the most peaceful one they’ve ever had—feels so hollow when stripped of taunts and jabs and teases; frigid, lacking any of the warmth she’s grown accustomed to when Arlecchino speaks her name.
Idle chatter is soon silenced with the strum of a guzheng as today’s star takes the stage, all eyes turning to her as the opera begins; but the only thing Furina can think about is how awfully ridiculous she must be, to be missing someone sitting mere inches from her.
How Father expresses love… well, not everyone can accept it, is what Lynette once tells her, petting the stray Furina had been trying to befriend for the better part of the month.
Was this what the Knave considered ‘love’? Endeavoring to keep one’s distance? Returning affection with cruel apathy? If it was, Furina was sorely tempted to throw down the gauntlet a second time, thoroughly incensed.
I think Father is… just trying to be considerate, is what Freminet eventually answers, head down as he holds Pers in his lap.
‘Considerate.’ It was a good word for describing the way Arlecchino will interpose herself in between Furina and passing reporters, blocking their view of her; the way Arlecchino will remember likes and dislikes, what she has grown tired of, what she has not yet tried; the way that the Knave no longer pushes her on questions Furina cannot answer.
The way Arlecchino was acting now, careful to avoid letting on to anything beyond polite acquaintance– plausible deniability meant to keep Furina free from any accusations of associating with a Harbinger.
(The way Arlecchino will respect her wishes to the letter, almost frustratingly so.)
She could accept that, even if a part of her hates it precisely because of how annoyingly logical it was. As they were now, it was enough that they were able to converse as ‘acquaintances’; more than what the hopeless romantic in her could ask from a Harbinger at work and an ex-Archon afraid of the public eye.
Arlecchino is being considerate. Which was fair enough, when her dear Iudex is considerate in leaving Furina to her own devices for the most part; when her dear duelist is considerate in doing the exact opposite, dragging her out of her slump and taking the time to help clean and cook until Furina could stand on her own two feet.
They were allowed to be considerate of her, even if a part of her hates it.
...Even if a part of her really hates it.
Yun Jin curtsies to great applause, the tea house lively as many return to their own excited discussions, others getting up to leave– their brief time together coming to a natural end.
Left alone, Arlecchino will soon return to whatever obligations brought her here, and Furina will attend Lantern Rite on her own, as planned. Well, maybe the Knave will seek her out; and maybe she won’t, and the next time they can see each other will be after a few more miserable weeks.
But was she really fine with that?
…Taking the easy way out?
Ah, Miss Furina, since it might come in handy in the future…
“You know, Knave,” she starts, “as much as I enjoy the wine here, I happen to be in the mood for some ‘afternoon tea.’ Perhaps you could share some thoughts on the selection here?”
Arlecchino’s eyes do not stray from the stage in front of them, but she can tell that her attention—split between her, the opera singer, and their surroundings—snaps to her in full, burning focus. “...Do tell. Has something on the menu caught your eye?”
“Yes– I was rather disappointed to see that they had no ‘white tea,’ but I’ve heard only good things about this establishment’s choice of pu-erh.”
It's incredibly nerve-wracking, using the House of the Hearth’s codewords for the first time: Lyney only taught her the basics, the rest left up to her to improvise.
And, well, Furina hasn’t exactly told the Harbinger she knew about what she assumed was an extremely closely guarded secret.
...But, there was nothing quite like the thrill that races down her spine at the way the Knave’s lips tug into a small, discrete smile. “I see. And do you plan on ordering a cup?”
“Perhaps, once I’ve finished the wine. However, I see yours still has some left. Was it not to your liking?” Are you still working?
“Ah, I was only savoring the taste.” Yes, but I will be finished soon. “The scenery here is quite lovely, and I believe you will agree with me that it would be a waste not to take a moment to enjoy such a fine venue.” Where are you staying?
“Indeed. In fact, it was a guest of mine who encouraged me to pair the view with some finely aged ‘osmanthus.’” Baiju Guesthouse.
“They have excellent taste, then.”
“Mhm. I’ve been meaning to pay them another visit.” Come see me?
A claw taps once against the side of fine porcelain.
Of course.
She feels lightheaded. (It must be the wine, she reasons.)
“By the way…”
Otherwise, Furina would never have felt daring enough to push further, the idea that pops into her mind entirely too tempting; dipping into an older accent as she speaks, soft and sultry, “T’as de beaux yeux tu sais.”
Maybe it was dangerous to feel so pleased at the way the Harbinger whips her head to look at her; dangerous to double down as she rises from her seat, still perfectly poised (well, save for the smug grin she can’t contain anymore.) “Tu peux voir les étoiles dedans, beau loup.”
Arlecchino did crush the teacup in her hand, after all; drops of black tea rolling down long fingers that subtly twitch, just barely restrained by a crumbling facade of indifference. Eyes aglow with the fire of a caged sun.
“Ah, pardon me. I always get rather excited when conversing with a fellow Fontainian. Now, if you would excuse me, Knave, I have somewhere to be.” Furina bats her eyelashes for good measure, waving as she turns and strides away, entirely too giddy. “Toodle-oo~”
If it weren’t for the bustling streets she might’ve even started skipping and singing– but alas, the director will have to settle for basking in the comfort of the bookshops and quiet gardens, a victory lap topped off with dinner made rowdy by pirates and overworked Qixing.
It’s not until she ambles back to the guest house—dropping her bags on the floor before shrugging off her suit jacket and waistcoat—and hears the bedroom door lock behind her that Furina belatedly considers the likelihood of retaliation.
“I see you've enjoyed a splendid evening, droplet. Since you seem to be in such a good mood, I assume you have no qualms in continuing our earlier discussion?”
Furina considers it a sign of progress that she does not scream bloody murder, only an undignified shriek as she jumps at the Knave emerging from the shadows in horror movie fashion.
“Hm, and here I thought you were used to my presence by now.” Red-marked eyes burn like embers in the low lantern light, lips curled into a smirk. “Was all of that boasting before only hot air?”
“I-It’s because you’re always p-popping out of nowhere– and it’s beyond rude to sneak into people’s rooms!”
“Ah, but was it not you who invited me in?” Arlecchino lets out an infuriatingly dramatic sigh, “Then again, I suppose it is only natural that I would be turned away by braggarts with frail and delicate hearts.”
“Frail and delicate–!?” Furina stalks closer, only for Arlecchino to suddenly do the same; and to her utter dismay the imposing height and naked hunger she can see in her eyes has Furina instinctively backing down and away in retreat.
“See? My presence frightens you, does it not, Miss Furina?”
“I– I don’t know what you’re talking about, ha ha.” When Furina steps back, the Knave follows. “I could kick you out by force if I so choose!”
“Really? I’m afraid I cannot help but doubt the veracity of your words.”
“And just what do you mean by thaaat–!” Furina, who was (very justifiably) distracted, ends up walking right into the edge of the bed and toppling over– Arlecchino falling right down with her, perhaps having planned this from the start: for Furina to end up under her, one wrist firmly pinned against the sheets.
The suspicion gains significant traction when Arlecchino leans down, chuckling as she squirms. “Allow me to elaborate. I consider self reflection a necessary task, and knowing one’s limits is crucial when it comes to picking fights with opponents much stronger than one’s self.”
Furina tries—really she does—to not think about the leg in between her thighs and the rub of coarse fabric against bare skin. For the sake of preserving at least some of her already tattered dignity she wills her face to stay appropriately offended. “Are you looking down on me, Knave?”
“Not at all,” is what Arlecchino purrs into her ear, making no effort at all to conceal her amusement. “However, as skilled as you now proclaim yourself to be in both blade and Vision…”
Her breath catches as a hand lightly presses down on her stomach; it slides adventurously across the expanse of her shirt, brushing past the buttons on its way to the divot below her ribcage. Without the extra layers, the touch feels like burning, her head dizzy with want as the Knave gives her side a playful squeeze. “You remain quite soft and spoiled, my dear.”
“...How very dare you,” she croaks, unable to hold onto her composure for much longer.
It breaks completely when the Knave tilts her head and leans so infinitely close with that fanged smile of hers, a hair’s breadth from her own parted lips.
It breaks, when the Knave stops and does not move any closer, so very still as her eyes dart to the side and widen. When Furina follows her gaze to where sharps talons were curled around her wrist, at the juncture of flesh and careless claw, their meeting producing the faintest line of beady red.
It’s poisoned. Furina remembers only dimly the muffled, faraway shouting as the server made a run for it, Lynette in cold pursuit.
She remembers Arlecchino having grabbed her wrist just before she could take a sip of the swirling black tea– saving her life.
But she also remembers the contempt the Knave wore as she looked down at her would-be killer with a snarl, and remembers how that same contempt was once directed at her.
“My Loraine, she… I wasn’t there for her. I wasn’t there...!” The man’s name had been Jacques, a common name in Poisson. A former Institute researcher.
O great Hydro Archon, how are you going to save them? Save us?
She lied when she said she didn’t remember how the fight started.
“You forgive too easily,” is what the Knave had stated, cold and blunt.
“And you kill too easily,” is what Furina had snapped back, hot and furious.
“He tried to kill you.”
“He lost his family.”
She remembers the table jolting as they both stood up, angry. She remembers, inexplicably, the sound of the teacup as it rolled across the wood, so clear despite the yelling overhead; the sound it made as it shattered like the breaking of a spell, her nightmare banished from her sight.
‘And if we’re talking about those who tried to kill me, I suppose that would include you as well?’
It would have hurt her, had she said it.
The mask would have slipped, and Furina would’ve relished in seeing the Knave in pain for once.
…She would have hurt herself, saying it when she knew it was a lie.
Clervie was fond of singing. She enjoyed your performances immensely, even risking further punishment to see them. I… admit that there was a time after her death, where I could feel nothing but anger towards the gods. Towards the Hydro Archon.
I suppose it was fate, considering my lineage.
Two children dreaming of a world beyond their birdcage, a future where one did not have to die, and the other did not have to kill them. Did they ever pray to her– to Focalors?
If Furina had been the real Archon, would she have heard them? Could she have saved them?
You have every right to hate me, is what she tells Navia long after everyone else has left for the night, unable to look her in the eye. Unable to accept an offering of macarons; stomach churning at the sight.
...Even without the Gnosis, she could have done more. She knows she could have done more.
She did do more, a long time ago: before Poisson’s flooding, before the Institute’s destruction, before the endless rondo of flamboyant trials and stage plays, Furina had once been more on top of things, not yet crushed under the weight of her masquerade.
Diligent in her research, compiling the reports of her informants; sponsoring those she saw promise in. Hopeful.
“I have come at your invitation, usurper.” The visitor was tall and dignified– neither warm nor cold in his aloofness, and yet still oppressive in the way his stony gaze bore into her in severe appraisal.
‘I shall leave you a seat with the best view in the greatest theater.’
The letter in his hands is one she doesn’t remember penning. But the writing is hers– written in her voice, and so Furina plasters a smile on her face even as it strains, threatens to shatter at his self-introduction. Mirror-her must’ve had a reason for inviting the Hydro Dragon himself here to play judge, of all things.
And just as mirror-her trusted her, so too will Furina trust in her other half. Fontaine will be saved, so long as she could keep up the deception.
“A-Ah yes, ahem! I, the god Focalors, can most assuredly promise you that the view will be no less than excellent, and that you shall witness many a brilliant performance.”
…She stood no chance against the dragon looming in front of her if he so wished to kill her. But she didn’t have to fight him. She just needed him to believe that she could.
Don’t let him know.
His eyes narrow into thin slits, frowning with distaste, but neither does he question her identity. “Very well, Focalors.”
Don’t let him know.
“I will say this once more. You must tell me everything you know.”
“...Seriously? You're questioning me like this is a court case now. I don't know anything about that.”
Don’t let him know.
“Furina, are you alright? I thought I heard crying from your chambers.”
Don’t let him know.
“Furina, might I come in? Clorinde mentioned you were not feeling well and–” Don’t let him know.
Don’t let him know.
Don’t let him know. Don’t let him know.
Don’t let him know. Don’t let him know. Don’t let them know. Don’t let them know. Don’t let them know don’t let them know don’t let them know don’t let them know don’t let them know DON’T LET THEM KNOW–
“Furina.” Too late, the bowl of cassoulet is smashed against the wall.
What a waste of food, she thinks, numb. She’ll have to clean it up later.
Clorinde looks at her with something too nauseatingly close to pity.
…It wasn’t fair of Furina to yell at her. She was only trying to help.
Trying to apologize.
“I’m sorry–”
“Furina,” Clorinde says softly, like a hand left outstretched to the wounded animal cowering before it, not in self-righteous demand but in careful, tentative invitation for trust. For understanding.
“You’re allowed to be angry.”
She can hear the rain pattering against the ground.
Go away!
“As you will. I– I apologize for disturbing your rest, Furina.” Two steps as the Iudex backs away from the door; a familiar scene, played out over and over again across the centuries, and yet the first to have featured her lashing out at him in anger. It fills her with rotten satisfaction, only fleetingly sweet before giving way to regret and shame.
She was angry, yes. But was that not unfair of her?
If she had a right to be angry, then so did everyone else.
“I guess so,” Navia answers back. “But why should I hate you? You were trying to save Fontaine, same as us.”
"And you know,” she hums, idly turning the shortsword in her hands, “Hate never did me any good, really. It can't bring back the people I lost.”
All it did was hollow me out.
...Funny. She wouldn't have wanted me to stay like this.
“...You didn’t kill him.” It’d been a shock to meet Jacques in Poisson again, still breathing. They didn't speak much at the graveyard, but he tells her of his wife’s love for her shows. (There was no happy reconciliation, but neither did he still cling to his hate, having wearily come to a quiet acceptance.)
“I did not.”
“Why?”
A soft hiss as the wave recedes, pulling away at the sand.
“I have chosen to trust in your judgment.”
What a joke. What a cruel, cruel joke, for her to say such a thing. And to mean it, too.
“...Am I a god in your eyes, Knave?”
“If you mean to ask if I believed any of the rubbish published by the Steambird, then I must say you wound me with such low estimations.” Unbelievable. Furina glares at her, wondering just what in her right mind made her ever want to drag such a vile, loathsome, abominable tease of a Harbinger back into her life. “...Apologies.”
“Just answer the question.” There’s no real bite to her words, however, as stern as she says them: it’s hard to stay angry at Arlecchino, not when she knows better than anyone else the telltale sign of a diversion used to avoid speaking one’s true thoughts.
And not when the moonlight has left her features soft and absent of control, unusually vulnerable. Without pretense; speaking in a rasp that ever so slightly stutters, uneven with bittersweet melancholy. “I once thought you an incompetent god, at best. What use is an Archon who did not take action, one who refused to answer the prayers of those who put their faith in them?”
“...But how could it be your fault, if you did not have that power to begin with? And despite your powerlessness, you endeavored to fulfill your duty to your people. And did you not save them? Did you not save my children? What else could you be, but a god?”
“Even if I was never really a god?”
“Even so. In my eyes, no one else has more of a claim to the title of Hydro Archon than you.”
…She laughs.
“You’re not surprised. Did you already know?”
“I had… suspicions, and the Iudex found it in his heart to give me his side of the story.”
‘You should get out more! The world of humans is very interesting, no?’
Idly, she thinks of a note she had once penned with a giggle.
“What did he say?”
“Enough.”
...Furina, I… I sincerely hope that you know the Palais doors will always be open to you. And that I will always be there, if you ever have need of me.
(Silly Iudex. She knew that already.)
“...Why ask me then, if you already knew?”
“Because I would prefer to hear it from you, directly. It is your story to tell, is it not?”
Furina doesn’t say anything for a long time.
You’re allowed to be angry.
She knows anger: the shouts and curses and gnashing of teeth in court, on stage. Hatred that burns in the eyes, a flame blazing crimson against dark obsidian.
Harsh words, curt scoffs, explosive tantrums. The anger of a god.
…When Furina looks at the rising tide before her, she doesn’t do any of that.
“She cursed me, you know,” is what she says, flippant, as though she were commenting on the weather.
“Who.”
“Focalors.”
The Knave’s voice, low and quiet, smolders with vengeful wrath.
Furina's cracks, no louder than a whisper.
Maybe she was angry. Even if she didn’t act like it.
Or maybe she wasn’t. Not anymore.
Just a bit tired.
“Apologies,” Arlecchino murmurs as she lets go of her wrist, but just before she can pull away again Furina grabs the fabric of her vest. “...Furina?”
The Harbinger is strong enough to shrug off her hold but stays in place anyways; long enough for Furina to examine the way her eyes were soft and fragile. Resigned, waiting patiently for whatever punishment was meant to be meted out.
How very honest.
She breathes, deep. “You can keep going.”
Arlecchino blinks at her once, twice; a night sky lit with stars of flared red.
“...Are you sure?”
“I am.” She lifts a scarred hand to the side of that handsome face, feeling the warmth there. “You won’t hurt me.”
“...And if I do?”
“Then hurt me. I won’t break.”
The seasons change, and they stand in the harbor again, a little older. A little closer.
Furina, not quite willing to part yet, takes her time in smoothing the creases in Arlecchino’s suit, the Harbinger obediently letting her indulge in a bit of selfishness.
Still, the Knave tilts her head, mischief in her eyes. “But have you at the very least come up with a name for this chanson of yours?”
Furina scoffs. How incorrigible. “I told you, it’s a surprise.”
“And by that you mean to say you have not started, have you, droplet. Might I remind you that while all’s well ends well, procrastination only leads to–”
“Oh, shut up.”
And while the Harbinger stiffens like a log under her when Furina throws her arms around her in a tight hug, there is no hesitation in hugging her back. “...Have a safe trip, Arle.”
“I will.” Arlecchino holds her tightly, and a part of her wants for the warmth to burn her, brand her– but like soft sunlight it remains gentle; a tenderness she will forgive in light of its honesty. Her head dips low, pressing lips against her neck; a fleeting, butterfly kiss as she whispers into the skin, “I promise.”
Furina watches the Harbinger board the ship; watches it set sail, sinking into the distance; the beginning of another long wait.
But it doesn't hurt as much– while the harbor is bitingly cold as the Knave leaves, the ember in her chest stays with her, warm.