Chapter Text
Furina got by. She made simple meals and wore simple clothes. She used her vision in the bathtub to make shapes and friends, made them act out the scripts that existed in her mind and nowhere else. She read complicated fantasy novels and trashy romance ones, too. She met with her actors at least once each week, and during certain periods, everyday. She went to shows (always wearing a cloak to hide her blue hair and twinkling vision).
A friend of one of the actors asked her out once. He was blond and nice, but she detested the feeling of his hand in hers, and declined to kiss him. Part of it was the fact that it was a man she barely knew, another being that she wasn’t sure she really liked men in that way anyway (the novels she read were a dead giveaway, probably), and the last was that she wasn’t sure any of the Fontaine citizens could ever love her the way she wanted to. She had once been their Archon.
She got by, but nothing ever quite felt normal. Of the times where her passion for theater and storytelling were ignited--after meeting with the acting group or while laying in bed and thinking about what her own plays might look like—the feeling faded within a few hours, and once again she was left a useless ball on a couch, eating boiled noodles and pastries from the nearest bakery, wondering if this was how she would spend the rest of her now quite short life.
Sometimes another emotion got thrown into the constant loop of happiness-so-loud-it-drowns-everything-else-out to utter-uselessness-and-apathy, and that emotion was fear.
It was not like the two intense sides of the spectrum she had gotten so used to. She cherished it, almost, because it was so subtle. It allowed her to think less about herself, but also less about fiction. It was real, but it did not concern her current depressing life. It concerned her old one, the image the Knave likely still had of her.
They came in cardboard boxes, the desserts. Melted frosting on yellow cakes in the middle of summer. Pastries crusted with sugar and syrup, meant to be heated up, sent in winter. Jars of jam in spring, paired with crackers and scones. Full pies in autumn.
A note, always.
For the lady Furina.
Arlecchino and the House of the Hearth
Every time she found one at her doorstep, she thought: I am throwing it out this time. Surely this time it is poisoned. Surely this time they are watching me. Sharp fear would course through her, scrape at her insides, make the dessert look sickly. She would not eat the entire day because of the nausea.
She wasn’t quite sure she was exactly scared of the prospect of poison, though. The Fatui really had nothing to gain by poisoning her.
Perhaps she was more scared of the reminder of who she used to be, and the power she had. What it used to mean to the Fatui to send desserts to her. They would have been gifts, or perhaps tricks, for an Archon.
Now she just couldn’t figure out why the Knave (and her orphans, apparently) kept sending her desserts.
To intimidate her? To soften her, so that they could pry information from her (information she didn’t even have)? To exercise power? To do exactly as they were—to make her feel small and insignificant because no longer could she worry that she had a target on her head, being the Archon and all? Because she wasn’t anymore, but she never really had been, of course.
500 years.
Eventually, she would succumb to her own sweet tooth and eat the desserts.
And they were—always—divine.
--
It was cold when a knock came to Furina’s door. She was bundled up in a thick, soft blanket, resting a novel atop it as her fire blazed and crackled. Underneath her blankets, she was wearing thin pajamas. Rain pelted down on the ceiling and the roads outside.
It was not the time for visitors.
Furina couldn’t really fault whoever it was. Most likely, it was Neuvillette, or perhaps the Traveler, or even more unlikely yet still a possibility, Navia or Clorinde. The cold and the rain never bothered Neuvilette, and if it was any of the other three, there was probably an issue at hand, so Furina had no right to shoo them away. Even though she desperately wanted to.
She pressed her bookmark into her book and rose out of her blanket cocoon, hissing at the cold air that hit her body. She rushed into her hallway to find a robe, then ventured towards her front door.
She peered through the covered window, past the curtain.
It was not Neuvillette or the Traveler or Navia or Clorinde.
Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn't open this door in her robe. She couldn’t open the door at all!
That familiar fear shot through her again, and suddenly it made sense why she hadn’t received one of those boxes of desserts in so long. To build up to this? To make her forget that fear so that when it came again, it was detrimental? Or—Furina looked through the window again—so that the Knave could personally deliver it this time, because in her arms was a cardboard box, similar to all the other she had received.
Furina ran, again, past her living room and down the hall. Quickly, she threw on a proper undershirt and a button up. Long pants, to cover her legs. And despite the cold, she was sweating from the haste and anticipation.
The Knave knocked again. Three slow knocks, a second between each one.
Furina brushed her hand through her hair several times, then placed herself before her front door. She took a deep breath before resting her hand on the doorknob, and another before turning it, only by an inch.
Seeing the Knave like this again was—odd. She wore a hood like she had that night where Furina was sure she would die, but no mask, and an outfit much more casual. More akin to what Furina wore now.
Furina gulped. “Hello?”
The Knave’s mouth twitched, like she was going to say one thing then switched to something else. “Lady Furina.”
Furina chuckled, nervously. “There is no need for the… the Lady, anymore.”
“You are still a lady, are you not?” Her mouth quirked up, curious. This was the same face and voice that had once questioned and borderline mocked her, had made Furina tremble in that street then shake in her own office, extraordinarily careful of everything she said. Her eyes were piercing. Surely she could tell that Furina had been dressed in just her pajamas mere minutes ago. That she, a woman who once had the status of Archon, had spent the entire day curling up and reading silly novels. That her hair was unbrushed in the back. That she—
“Lady Furina?”
She let out a shaky breath. “Not one of… any high standing anymore.”
“Nonsense. You served the people of Fontaine for 500 years. I must admit, I was surprised to learn that you chose to…” her eyes scanned the room behind Furina, “stay somewhere such as this. Unless it wasn’t your choice? Shameful for Monsieur Neuvillette, if it wasn’t.”
“It was my choice,” Furina insisted. How dare she treat her like this? She was—she was—
Not a lady of high standing anymore.
She choked on her own words. Sputtering, she asked, “What brings you here?”
The Knave pushed the door open, and Furina’s hand slipped from it. Now it was halfway open, both of their bodies fully exposed to the other. The Knave could easily slip a knife from her pockets and slice open Furina’s throat. She could drop the box and strut into Furina’s home and choke her there.
She did none of that. The Knave was wearing a black, buttoned top, a proper jacket over it, and straight, black pants. Her hood clipped under her chin and poured past her back. If someone were to walk by, they would not suspect a possible murder. They would suspect a delivery or a secret hook-up. She pushed the box into Furina’s space. “How odd that you act as though you don’t know.”
Furina took it, mostly because she had no other choice but to, with it up against her chest. “I do not.”
The Knave peered once again past Furina, into her apartment. “I suspect you do, because nowhere do I see the packages I’ve sent you, unopened. Unless you send them straight to the trash? Or give them to friends? If it’s either, I do take great offense, and if it’s the latter, I take offense for your friends. What if I had poisoned those desserts?”
Furina sputtered once more, and as if on instinct, it trailed off into a laugh. A forced, high laugh, the type she once adorned while playing a crazed villain or nervous girl. “I don’t—I don’t—“
“But the Lady Furina I once dined with could not resist sweets, even when she was posing as an Archon. So I find it unlikely that you’ve been refusing them now, given your solitude. Your… tiny home.”
The laugh fell into quick, deep breaths, trying to keep her own composure. “You—you got me. I have received and enjoyed… your gifts, Knave—“
The Knave raised an eyebrow.
“But I fail to understand the meaning of this visit, or the meaning for the gifts at all.”
“You didn’t think to ask?”
Ask who? The Knave herself? Or Neuvillette, who Furina could barely face these days?
Run to the Traveler or Navia or Clorinde? But then the severity was lost, and she would have sounded like a confused schoolgirl, wondering what the behavior of her crush meant, because the three of them never would have understood her true fear. They would’ve told her it was unfounded. That it was an attempt at peace.
“I told the Traveler once, and they thought it a good idea. To show my admiration for your show of the last 500 years. To apologize for how I questioned you, even though I had it nearly correct.”
“Well,” Furina tried to laugh in that casual, coworker way she had learned to since working with the acting troupe, “I thank you. And I thank you for this,” she waved the current box, “but there is really no need. I simply did what was needed of me. And, of course, you were… correct. Now I really must—“
“Must what? What duties do you have these days? I’m curious.”
“For someone asking my forgiveness, you are being quite judgmental.”
The Knave cocked her head. “I don’t mean to come across such a way.”
Furina’s lip trembled.
“Do you review novels, Lady Furina? I hear you also direct plays. It would make sense, to devote the rest of your life… to fiction.”
Furina turned. The book she had been reading was on full display atop the pile of blankets, the bookmark nearly to the end. When she looked back at the Knave, she was smiling.
“Y…yes, exactly. And I’m on a deadline.”
Get out, she pleaded internally. Leave. Leave and never come back again.
The Knave nodded. “Well, I do hope you enjoy the desserts. I wanted to deliver them personally this time because I am in Fontaine for some work.” Then her eye twinkled, a warning.
She would come again.
--
It was still raining. Furina was shaking off her umbrella before a bakery when a hand touched the small of her back, light and cautious. “Lady Furina.”
She looked up, startled by that smooth, deep voice. It was the Knave, once again casual, once again with a hood on. She, too, shook out an umbrella.
Furina didn’t really know what to call her, so all that came out was a choked “Ma’am!”
“Ma’am?” The Knave laughed, then shook her head.
“Um…”
“Arlecchino, please.” She smiled with only one side of her mouth. “Lady Furina.”
Furina nodded. “N—nice to see you,” she stuttered, then turned quickly, pushing open the glass door to the bakery. Inside it was warmer, and much less wet, with the smell of bread and jam in the air. A few teenagers idled by the glass case of desserts on display, and in a corner, a man and woman spoke in hurried whispers over some stacks of paper and croissants.
The door opened behind her again, and a hand touched the same spot on her back. “A coincidence that we meet here,” The Knave said.
“I didn’t know you had an interest in… bakeries,” Furina mumbled. A stiffness crept into her, especially in her back where the Knave touched her, but that pounding fear was absent. They were in public. The Knave couldn’t do anything to her here, and it wasn’t as if Furina would ever follow her somewhere more private willingly.
“Not quite,” the Knave said, then bent down to whisper in Furina’s ear, “but an interest in certain Fontainians.” She cocked her head to the side, and Furina’s eyes fell on the arguing couple. They were too engrossed in themselves to look up at the spectacle the Knave was, what with her white hair and red eyes and—very tall stature.
The Knave put her back to them. “Join me, would you, Lady Furina?”
Her heart beat fast and hard against her chest.
Okay. The Knave was spying on these two for—whatever reason. And the Knave was only asking her, now, for her company, so that nothing would seem suspicious about her presence. But she hadn’t said that outright, had she? So Furina couldn’t really be blamed in any crimes that would come about this.
And truthfully, she was scared for what the Knave might do if she said no.
“Okay,” she blurted. Her eyes darted to the front counter. “I, um, wanted…”
“By all means,” the Knave said, then sat down at the nearest table, one down from the couple, her back still to them. She did not take down her hood.
Furina ordered her pastry and cup of coffee quickly.
She sat down across the Knave moments later.
“Is this a usual spot for you?” the Knave asked.
Furina grabbed a few napkins, setting them down next to her pastry. She mixed the cream foam into her coffee, and the color turned pale, nearly milky. “Nowadays, yes. I find their menu up to par with my,” she coughed, “tastes.”
“I imagine you have tasted the menus of many lavish restaurants. Why settle for a small cafe? Lady Furina.”
“Are you trying to insult me?” Furina suddenly blurted, voice high, her cheeks pink. If she had been the person she once was, there would’ve been a second part to her response. How dare you question the taste of an Archon?
“I don’t intend to.” The Knave cocked her head. “I intend to understand.”
Furina took a sip of her coffee, then tried to resist hissing at the heat of it. She licked her lips quickly and set the mug down, the sound awkward amidst her silence. Why she came here instead of all the other, more refined places she’d once been so used to? The most simple excuse would be to say she didn’t have the funds for it; she was still recuperating from one of her shopping spree bouts. But then would the Knave question why Neuvillette had not left her with an abundance? She had asked him specifically not to.
The more complicated answer was that she could not bear to look into the faces of people that once served her thinking she was an Archon. Who had served her for free, had volunteered to let her try their most expensive. Had knelt before her and thanked her endlessly for her support.
What a joke, that she had lived like that for 500 years, and now she was sitting in a cafe, scrounging for coins in her purse, hoping desperately no one would approach her (they saw her and whispered, of course, but that was always inevitable, even when she tried to disguise herself).
All she said was: “I prefer it these days.” Then she tried to smile, added half of that coworker-tone she’d learned: “To now be able to see many of the Fontainians I once did not spend much time among. The normal people, as some would say. Those I read of in plays but did not personally visit.”
“The sort of Fontainian you are now.”
She could have cried.
“Are you still fascinated by them? Or do you find the plays more entertaining? Or,” her voice took on a softer tone, “the novels, the ones you review.”
She took a deep, stabilizing breath. The Knave was playing a nasty game with her. She didn’t want to kill her, just belittle her until she broke.
But what was the point?
Now the Knave could clearly see how little power she had—was flaunting it in front of her, in fact. She was no threat to the Fatui or Snezhnaya.
The Knave waited for her answer, her eyes boring into Furina.
“What a difficult question,” Furina said, then laughed nervously.
“I apologize. Perhaps I’m overstepping.”
Out of all the ways the Knave had acted this morning, that was the most shocking.
She waved a hand back and forth as if literally clearing the air. “I find myself intrigued by the concept of freedom. Is it to be free of duty, as you upheld for 500 years? Or is it to be free of the problems of the working class, like money and dinner? Why is it that both sorts of people perceive the other to be free? Is it possible, Lady Furina, to be free at all? Or is life just a series of going from one prison to another?”
“I…” Furina struggled to find words.
And before she could even really attempt to, the Knave stood. “I must attend to something. But it was nice sharing this morning with you, as gloomy as it has been.”
Furina’s eyes shot past the Knave to the whispering couple, the ones the Knave was meant to spy on. “But you didn’t—they—“
The Knave turned, glancing at them for half of a second. When she looked at Furina, she seemed genuinely perplexed.
“What about them?” she asked.
--
Furina could not stop thinking about it.
Why is it that both sorts of people perceive the other to be free? Is it possible, Lady Furina, to be free at all? Or is life just a series of going from one prison to another?
What did the Knave know about freedom? She was part of the Fatui. She held children captive all their lives, raised to be spies and murderers, not allowed to leave unless they accepted death. The Knave was the embodiment of prison.
Yet she had said those words as if she was not. Or, at least, as if she wasn’t the very creator of that prison.
And then afterwards, the realization that the Knave had not used her to better spy on that couple at all. Furina was the certain Fontainian she was interested in.
But why? Was Furina free?
She supposed she was, technically. If she so desired, she probably could ask Neuvilette for all the money in the world to buy all the treats and clothes and novels she could ever ask for. She didn’t have to sit at trials anymore. She slept, ate, and showered when she wanted. No one attended to her. No rules were upheld in her own home. The only confining thing, she supposed, was the acting group and her job as director, but even then, she had chosen it.
She was free.
So why did she still feel like this?
-
"I want you guys to do this play,” Furina said at the head of the round table. She slid a thick book to face them, opened to a section in the middle. It was a collection of famous plays from 200 years ago.
“Oh, one of my favorites,” said Dulphy.
“Such a sad story,” said Lauwick.
Furina sat back.
“Sad?” Dulphy shook her head, waving a hand. “She escapes it all.”
“Sure, at the cost of it all.”
Several others around the table shared their own opinions, and Furina found her vision and her hearing go fuzzy. A knot built in her stomach. She bit at her lip before taking a deep breath.
She interrupted, “I would really like for us to do it. Dulphy, I think you’d be perfect as the lead.”
“It depends, Miss Furina,” she said smoothly. She rested her chin on her hand. “What’s your take on the ending?”
Furina frowned. The knot grew tighter. “I’m not sure yet.” She crossed her arms. “So you all will have to convince me.”
--
Several weeks later was opening night. Furina had been anxious for the outcome. All of the cast members seemed to have different opinions on the ending, and if they didn’t all at least vary somewhat, they were at least split on whether the heroine had found freedom or despair.
What if it wasn't thematically coherent? What if they all seemed like they came from tons of separate plays instead of just this one? Had she created a disaster?
In the end, she concluded that the point was not whether the heroine had found freedom or despair. There was always going to be a different opinion on the matter, and that was the point.
Still, she tittered anxiously backstage. She gripped the script in her hands as if it gave her any remaining control over the play, but at this point, it was completely the work of the actors and the stage crew. She had given her pointers, her thoughts, the script itself. It was now their turn to execute it all.
She stood from her place on a stool and stuffed the script underneath her arm. She walked towards a crew member holding the ropes carrying the curtain. “How much time now?”
“Two minutes, Miss Furina.”
She nodded curtly, then ducked past several more members, then out into the audience. She quickly pulled a hood over her hair, and moved to cover her vision with the bundled script. No one looked her way as she scurried towards another set of stairs, quickly showing her identification to be let through, then up to the balcony seats.
She was taken aback when she saw Monsieur Neuvillette sitting there with Clorinde and Navia.
Furina pulled her hood down, but did not say anything as she sat, swallowing.
“Lady Furina,” Neuvillette said, speaking across Clorinde and Navia. “When I heard you were directing this play, I decided I must make time.”
This was always one of his favorites. It must have been fascinating for him to watch such a mortal struggle. Fiction, to him, was never about reaching desperately for something that might finally understand you. It was just—fiction.
“A classic,” Clorinde said, voice deep and reserved as usual.
Navia suddenly reached over and grasped Clorinde’s hand, intertwining their fingers.
Furina immediately looked away from the display of affection, the nausea that had been brewing in her since she woke up finally coming to a complete lurch. How easy it was for them. How easy it was for Neuvillette.
The lights suddenly switched off, and a hush fell over the talkative audience.
The curtains began to open, and light spilled in again, though this time from the stage lights shining over the set. Dulphy came on, and Furina felt her stomach twist and twist and twist as it always did on opening night, on almost all nights these days.
As she looked down, her eye fell on the front row, the only heads in the crowd with light still illuminating them, all except for one.
A hooded figure with crossed legs, white hair that poked out just slightly.
“Excuse me,” Furina said then, afraid she really might throw up.
Clorinde and Neuvillette sent her a concerned glance, but did not rise from their chairs.
She was gone in an instant.
--
Furina took refuge in Dulphy’s dressing room. Here it was cold, and quiet, and not full of figures from the past you wanted to disappear from and the present you had stupidly indulged in. She should have known that the Knave would catch wind of the play and come. She would sit in the front row to make sure Furina would see her, to taunt her, to tell Furina I knew my words would haunt you.
Furina had been keeping to shadows, sure, but she had failed to realize that she was in the very specific shadow of the Lady Furina, and that was not the sort of shadow one could hide in. It was the sort that shamed you.
Everyone knew what tormented her at night, only the Knave had decided it would be fun to bring her nightmares to her door.
She was halfway through rereading the play’s script. She still didn’t know what she thought of it, but she knew that the whole idea was foolish. Putting this play on did not put any of her ceaseless thoughts to bed—it was only making them worse.
She was curled up on a love seat pressed against the back wall, the script folded over to the page she read. She had been biting at her lip, and now all the stray skin was gone, only leaving behind the faint taste of blood. Dulphy’s room was a mess around her, with clothes and makeup strewn everywhere, but Furina couldn’t bring herself to truly care.
Not until there was a knock at the door.
She panicked, hot alarm creeping into her body. It couldn’t have been Dulphy, because she wouldn’t knock. Surely whoever it was thought Dulphy was inside, which meant the play was over, and that Furina would need to run out and bid thanks to the three friends that had come to see it.
The door opened before she could do anything, and from behind it came the hooded figure of the Knave. It felt as though she towered over Furina even from across the room, though less so when she reached up to take her hood off. “Lady Furina,” she said.
“How did you know I was here?”
She shrugged softly, the movement so human and empathetic that for a moment Furina thought she saw a flash of a person that was not the Knave. “I sensed you."
Furina continued to stare up at her. She let her hands release the play, and moved to rest them in her lap. She was collected. “Do you not like the play? Why step out and seek me?”
The Knave smiled, amused—though this was soft, too. Furina’s hands twitched in her lap. “The play is over, Lady Furina. I suspect the cast are all bowing right now while the audience goes mad.”
Where softness had grown within the Knave, boldness grew within Furina. “And so you declined to stay to give applause to the crew? I have no choice but to assume you found it unsatisfactory.”
“Not necessarily.” The Knave took several steps forward, shutting the door behind her gently. She sat upon the stool before Dulphy’s vanity, her legs spread in a way unlike how she had crossed them in the past during negotiations and in the cafe. Furina was unsure whether it was a display of power or a display of—vulnerability. Familiarity, perhaps? “Maybe I adored the show so much that I was desperate to speak with the director, who unfortunately missed the entire play to… reread the script?” she mused.
Furina’s eyes flickered down to the script then back up to the Knave’s red eyes. She spit the Knave’s words back at her: “Not necessarily.”
“So why did you leave?”
Because of you, her mind begged her to say.
“How did you find it?” Furina said instead.
“Avoiding my questions.”
“Avoiding mine as well.”
The Knave’s soft smile turned more into an amused grin. “You have not lost the attitude of an Archon.”
And so the attitude quickly fell away. Furina disconnected the eye content and opted to look at the door instead, as if asking the Knave to leave. “You should go. Dulphy will be coming to her changing room soon.”
“The truth is that I did want to share with you my thoughts on the play.”
She did not really care to hear them anymore, but neither did she have the energy to deny the Knave.
So the Knave continued. “The idea you hoped to have your actors portray was the multiple perspectives of what freedom is. Because we all feel trapped, we all deem different things to be freeing and others confining. But I think in doing so, you are denying your own exploration on the matter. Why does a former Archon, now released of all duty, allowed to do anything she pleases, choose to trap herself? Why does she sit in her bird cage despite holding the key?”
“Because…” Furina blinked. Her body felt impossibly still. “Because it is almost as you said,” she said and realized at the same time. “It might not always be that we go from one prison to another, but that the prison follows us.”
She could not see the Knave’s face, but she heard in her voice that her smile had faded. “Elaborate on that.”
“Imagine a man grows up impoverished and sickly. One day, a miracle is bestowed upon him, and he is cured and suddenly rich. But it doesn’t matter. He already lost half of his life to being sick and poor. He will never relate to the new rich circles he stands in. He will never be able to relive past years. He will forever be haunted by the fever, the hunger.”
The Knave’s voice fell a level quieter. “What if he were to forget his past? Have it remade?”
Furina thought for a moment. “Then I guess that would agree with your idea that we find new prisons. He would build new walls and think himself still tortured, and perhaps he is. We are all birds in cages.”
“So when is freedom possible?”
“In death, I suppose.”
Furina finally looked back to the Knave, and was taken aback by her countenance. With her eyebrows furrowed and her mouth in a sad, stern line, the Knave looked uncomfortable. “A sentiment I have heard before.”
“From who?”
The Knave’s eyes shifted away, an attempt at rebuilding her mystery, but it failed. “I oft wonder how possible it is that we become content in our cages. Content enough that the walls seem to fade away.”
“An answer I don’t have,” Furina admitted.
The Knave stood. As she went to the door, she said, “We have more in common than you think, Lady Furina. We are both prisoners.”
“And what prison is yours? The Fatui?”
She shrugged just as she had when she entered. “Always a pleasure to hear your thoughts, former Archon.”
It stung for a moment, and then Furina remembered how upset the Knave had looked mere moments ago, and knew it was only a petty get-back. “I would prefer if you called me by name,” she said.
“Yet I have never heard you call me by mine,” the Knave replied, or practically snapped.
A beat of silence.
“Arlecchino,” said the Knave, like it was some secret.
--
By the time Furina returned to the balcony, much of the audience had dispersed, and the troupe was back in their rooms. Despite that, Neuvillette, Navia, and Clorinde had stayed. They were chatting still, standing from their seats. Navia and Clorinde’s sides were flush together, their arms intertwined. Furina wondered what they were like behind closed doors, especially considering their history. Did Navia make her desserts? Did Clorinde swear to protect her? Furina could not imagine living a life where one other person loved and understood you so deeply. What was it like to always have someone like that, if not by your side, then a call or letter away?
The three of them turned when she came in. As their eyes all fled with realization of her arrival, Furina felt embarrassment wash over her. She had made such a scene, and then missed the entirety of her own play.
Neuvillette was quiet with a sort of knowing glare, and Clorinde looked almost concerned. Navia seemed oblivious as she exclaimed, “Miss Furina! Why did you go? It was an amazing show.”
Furina’s mind turned. “I deeply apologize, I—well,” she didn’t know how much to reveal, “this particular play filled me with the worst nerves. I nearly couldn’t bear it. I thought I might be sick. I awfully regret it now. The actors work so hard, and I…” the more she scrambled, the more true remorse and shame filled her. It was not just embarrassing for her to storm off. It was unprofessional, it was unkind to all those who she had worked with. She felt a tightness in her face, and found it hard to continue. “I’m still adjusting,” she sighed, “to it all, I suppose.
She exchanged a short glance with Neuvillette. His knowing face had turned curious, too, as if he could tell there was more to the story.
Clorinde’s concern was more evident now, but her silence deepened. She seemed to shrink next to Navia. She could not duel away any of Furina’s current worries. Furina wondered if that was, too, a wedge in her relationship with Navia sometimes? If they ever… Furina shook the thought away. She was too used to analyzing people as she had when she was an “Archon”, in treating them like fiction. She was human too, now. If they were all storybook characters, so was she.
Navia let go of Clorinde and took the few steps towards Furina. Fear rushed through her, but all Navia did was hug her. “I understand,” she said, her voice somehow both cheery and tender, “We all understand.”
Furina did not get a chance to hug her back before Navia pulled away, but the weight of the embrace clung to her. She imagined it would stay for a long, long time.
“It was wonderful. Your actors—are wonderful.”
“Definitely,” Neuvillette agreed coolly, then cleared his throat. “A refreshing take on the old classic.”
Clorinde nodded, still reserved. Furina missed her voice.
Furina missed… all of them. She had told the Traveler, that time, that all she wished for now was to learn about real people and real stories. And she did, God, she did, but had she? It had all been so shallow. She had run from three people who had come to this play for her sake, and even now, she could feel herself shrinking away. She didn’t want to sit in her bird cage despite the key lying right before her. She did not want her sole freedom to be in death. She would never be free, truly, but she could try. She could peek into the light and feel its warmth on her skin, even if just for a moment.
“How about we catch up in a more casual environment?” she suddenly blurted.
Navia’s eyes lit up. She glanced at Clorinde, who was smiling now.
Neuvillette stepped forward and grasped Furina’s hand with both of his, enveloping it comfortably. “That would be lovely.”
“Clorinde and I have a dinner reservation for tonight, but…”
“Oh, no!” Furina felt her facade building up and could not stop it. She already regretted asking. Oh, God, she wanted to go home and wallow. “Not tonight, but sometime soon.” What was she doing?
Navia thought for a moment. “Well, I have heard many things about Miss Furina’s tea parties.”
One of her tea parties! Okay, Furina could do tea parties. She would have to do some shopping, and tidy up her little backyard, but it would be pleasant. It would be in her own home, away from wandering eyes, the faces of the people she previously would have called her people.
That would be okay. Great, even. A nice time.
“It’ll be grand,” Furina exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “How is this weekend? It can be at my own home. I’ll handle everything.”
Look at me, she thought, All the talk about prison and freedom doesn’t really mean anything. The Knave—Arlecchino—doesn’t really mean anything. She may be in a prison, one of her own making, that damned fourth Fatui harbinger, but I don’t have to be! Optimism was coursing through her. Arlecchino’s words weren’t going to bother her anymore.
“It sounds,” Navia smiled warmly, “like a perfect plan.”
--
It was a terrible plan. Furina was in a prison of her own making. She had made it the moment she agreed to that damn tea party. She was so humiliated! She was not who these people thought she was anymore. And despite her plea not to, the Knave's words once again rattled around in her mind. Why does a former Archon, now released of all duty, allowed to do anything she pleases, choose to trap herself? Why does she sit in her bird cage despite holding the key?
Because this happened. In the face of old friends, she slipped into her past self and committed to things she was not ready for. She didn’t know who she was anymore, if not that former Archon. The person she was now was so pathetic, unable to talk to others, unable to let herself do anything but indulge in fiction, unable to write her own plays that she wanted so desperately to, unable to plan a tea party for old friends. She dreaded seeing them. She hated acting as she did in front of them. She hated feeling trapped in that person. She hated relishing their amazement and trying to desperately ignore their concern. She hated analyzing her behavior after the fact and feeling the shame of all her mistakes. She hated—she hated everything. She hated everyone. Especially the Knave, or Arlecchino, or better yet, that damn fourth Fatui harbinger! She was the reason she left the balcony in the first place and thus needed to make it up to the three of them. She hated her comment as she left: Always a pleasure to hear your thoughts, former Archon. She said former Archon like some derogatory term.
She was a sad, sad woman who found her only joy in torturing Furina. Furina was glad she had said that thing, what was it, that freedom is only found in death? She was glad she had been able to elicit sadness from her. She’d pushed some button of Arlecchino’s, and that was the greatest satisfaction of all, even if she didn’t know what button it was.
She put all her energy into furiously scouring grocery shelves. For the first time in a long while, she was in the downtown district of Fontaine, in the fancy grocery stores that sat next to jewelers and boutiques that specialized in custom clothing. For a while she had put herself on a ban from this district because of how she tended to splurge, especially when she was in these—erratic—states, but she wanted the tea party to be as nice as possible, to make up for her own lack.
Two shopping bags weighed down her arms now, some decor and some ingredients for sandwiches. Probably, she should head home now, but instead she wandered. She might stumble upon something.
Her mind was finally gaining some clarity, some gusto (The tea party will be fine, they all want to see me, they like me, even the new me, perfectly fine…), when it all suddenly stumbled away. Down the street was that white hair again, Arlecchino, looking proper but not out of place this casual evening, entering a shop she could not see the name of.
What was she buying? Murder weapons, probably. Books about the former Archon (a few investigative, slightly offensive things had been published) so that she might torture her better. Tools to lock-pick. Maybe it was a bakery, and she was looking for the next gift to send Furina.
Furina needed to know.
She sped walk down the street. Once she was near enough to the end, she started glimpsing the windows for Arlecchino’s white hair, tall stature, piercing eyes. Despite her alarming appearance, she seemed a shadow in Fontaine, slithering here and there unnoticed. Furina couldn’t understand it.
Finally, she stopped. In a store with its name in cursive on a sign out front, there Arlecchino was. She scanned aisles of—Furina checked the shop name—wine. The bottles were blood red like her eyes, red like the blood Arlecchino had surely spilled before.
Furina was frozen. For the first time, this was her finding Arlecchino in a moment of vulnerability. She could take her surprise.
She imagined herself slithering up to Arlecchino like a shadow herself. She’d grab a bottle of wine, forcing Arlecchino to turn to see who it was. There Furina would be, smug and confident. “I’ve been thinking a lot about how startled you seemed,” she’d cock her head the way Arlecchino did, “when I said that freedom was found in death. You seemed sad, even. I wonder—did you lose someone? Did they find freedom in that way? Yet in doing so, they put you in a prison. Ha! You say I am trapped, have trapped myself, but clearly you have, too.” Then Arlecchino would weep and kneel and apologize for her pettiness. She would say Lady Furina, Lady Furina, at her feet. She’d blubber. Those dark eyes would be rimmed with tears, and her cheeks would flush, and her lips would be wet with her own saliva. As she looked up at Furina, the muscles in her neck would stretch as if, too, begging for forgiveness. Her jawline would be sharp and strained.
Oh, God.
Furina was reading too many trashy romance novels. Especially ones about handsome women, kneeling…
Her face was growing exceedingly hot. She was utterly pathetic. To think she had once held herself together for 500 years. But at least then she refused herself mortal struggle like this, had only indulged in the feeling called loneliness. Now all of them crashed down on her.
She continued to stare at Arlecchino’s slender frame, with her sleek suit and long arms, which surely were toned and strong. She reached out for a bottle of wine, gripping it by its neck. With her other hand, she traced the sticker with its brand name as she read. The glass on the bottle glistened while the red liquid inside was tilted.
Furina’s eyes had been locked on the bottle when she heard, quite loud, “Lady Furina?”
She thought of immediately cursing her out, but did not. She forced a smile, holding up her shopping bags. “We keep running into each other,” she said, voice high.
Arlecchino flashed a smile at her.
And despite the whirlwind of emotions Arlecchino had put her through at the play, the hatred she’d harbored for her in the last few days, and probably because of the sudden fantasy that had just coursed through her, Furina stepped into the shop. She took up place beside Arlecchino, but looked at the wine instead of meeting her gaze.
“Looking for a bottle?”
Furina thought. “Maybe,” she frowned, “but I am not sure.” Wine might be a good option to have near the end of the tea party, if it ended up running into the evening and into her living room. Though, she’d have to buy wine glasses as well.
“I imagine you are well versed?” Arlecchino said, though it sounded inquisitive. She put the bottle she’d been examining back. Furina still refused to meet her eye. Instead, her eyes skirted over the tons of bottles, unsure of what she was looking at at all.
Now, to lie, or to be truthful? If she lied and said she was, Arlecchino would probably test her.
“Unfortunately not. I find alcohol… unpleasant.”
“Really?”
She thought back to the last 500 years. “Unless it is a very sweet wine, it’s a type of beverage I usually decline. I dislike the sluggishness it brings me.”
This was something she had not revisited in a long time, though. Back when she was playing Archon, she rejected alcohol for the fear that the wrong words would spill from her. She granted herself small servings sometimes, but still detested the taste, unless it was very sweet, the bitter taste of alcohol masked. She didn’t find it refined at all, despite the great wealth of some wineries and the prestige of a few. To her, it was like purposely belittling yourself, to open yourself up to the affects of alcohol.
But—she wasn’t that fake Archon anymore, was she? She didn’t have to fear words slipping anymore, half because she didn’t have any real secrets, and half because she wasn’t constantly surrounded by people anymore. And even if she still found it… unrefined, was her very existence now not unrefined?
It would probably be nice, now, to get drunk and lost. To let it all fade away in a sea of haze.
Arlecchino presented a bottle to her, her fingers once again grasped around its neck, another finger pointing to its branding. “A new company, from a vineyard in the countryside. The taste, I hear, is extraordinarily sweet.”
She ought to give it a try.
Furina reached for the bottle, her fingers brushing Arlecchino’s clothed ones. It was somehow even heavier a touch than Navia’s hug. She nearly shuddered.
For the first time, Furina looked up, eyes catching Arlecchino’s. “My treat,” Arlecchino said, “since I haven’t sent a dessert in so long.”
--
Arlecchino insisted on walking her home. “Oh, please, Lady Furina,” she said lightly, almost laughing, “your arms will surely break if you carry everything on your own, all the way home.”
Furina didn’t complain. She let Arlecchino walk her home, but she made sure to keep to lit, crowded streets. She was starting to think Arlecchino probably didn’t want to murder her, but she would rather have been safe than sorry.
They crossed into Furina’s street in a cloud of silence, though Arlecchino quickly dissipated it. “So, what’s the occasion?” Her voice was smooth.
“I am hosting a tea party,” Furina wondered if she should say who for, but decided against specifics, “some friends are coming by.”
“Your acting troupe?”
She should have lied and agreed, but she did not. Avoiding specifics was impossible with Arlecchino. “More like—old friends.”
“Ah.”
They were at Furina’s front door. She reached out for the two bags Arlecchino held, one carrying the wine.
Furina wondered if—hoped—her hands might brush against Arlecchino’s again, but her sleeves were long and covered the skin where the bags hung. How might her arm look bare right now, her muscles tensed from carrying the items for so long? Did her wrists feels strained under them, or did their presence make no difference at all?
Arlecchino angled the bags away from Furina’s grasp. “Don’t you need to unlock your door first?”
Furina gulped, feeling stupid. “Right.” She dug in her pockets for her keys, then whipped around. She tried to put the key into the keyhole. It slipped. She let out a breath of frustration, face getting hot, sweat building at her neck. Arlecchino was just behind her, watching.
“Do you need help?”
“No!” Furina yelped. The door finally unlocked. “I can unlock my own door, thank you.”
She turned around, and again reached for her things.
Arlecchino handed her bags over gently, as if Furina was a piece of glass that would crack under their weight. She was not, but she appreciated the gesture. Arlecchino knew how to torment her, but she also knew how to make her feel…
These were terrible thoughts that she was having about a terrible woman. She had killed so many people. She’d—she’d—
“I, ah,” Furina took a few steps into her home, then set everything down on her coffee table, “should get to preparing for tomorrow.” She went back to the front door. “Thank you, again, Arlecchino, for the recommendation and for walking me home.” The smile she flashed was nervous, one that she used to be able to do very well, but hadn’t practiced as much lately.
Then, Arlecchino did something straight out of one of Furina’s trashy romance novels. She leaned forward and took Furina’s hand, lifting it to her lips and placing a chaste kiss on her knuckles. Furina’s hand was only a few centimeters away from her mouth still when Arlecchino said, her voice low, “A pleasure, Lady Furina.”
Furina’s heart did cartwheels in her chest. Her eyes were locked onto the thin line of Arlecchino’s lips, the way her eyelashes laid over her dark eyes. Furina did not care anymore if there was condescension in Arlecchino’s words, because there was something else, too. It was not quite romance or lust, not yet, but there was genuine interest, and since Furina stepped down as Archon, no one had expressed anything like this towards her. There had been concern and unwarranted reverence. Rumors and questions. They all thought they knew her. Arlecchino knew she didn’t.
Furina’s mouth couldn’t do much more than let out a soft sigh which tapered off into another gulp. “Arlecchino,” she started, but wasn’t sure how to finish. She had just wanted to say her name again.
Arlecchino dropped her hand. Grief bloomed where her heart had just been ramming against its cage.
“Yes?”
“Why don’t…” Furina’s eyes dropped from Arlecchino’s face to her chest, where buttons collected where her heart must lay. Her shirt was prim, tucked into her pants. She was alarmingly handsome, wasn’t she? “Why don’t you try the wine with me?”
Arlecchino’s face did not reveal whether she was caught off guard by this, but she did flash a small, not quite happy smile. “Why not?”
Furina would not have invited her in if she had not been sure that she had cleaned the house earlier. In the living room, books were set upright in shelves, two laying tastefully and intelligently on the coffee table next to her grocery bags. One was a collection of short stories from 200 years ago, the other a collection of scripts by one of the most iconic Fontainian playwrights. She wished Arlecchino might ask about them. It would make Furina sound very smart, to talk about how she’d witnessed these writers’ times. It was a shame that nowadays she spent more of her time reading fantastical garbage.
Arlecchino did not ask about them. She went straight for Furina’s dining table, and when she sat, she crossed her legs. Furina wondered if she would ever sit as relaxed as she had when they were backstage of the play, with her legs spread and outstretched. Even more so, if she would ever show a piece of vulnerability to her again, as she had in that slight twitch of face, then her saying A sentiment I have heard before. From who? Why was it such a sore subject?
Maybe wine would get it out of her. Furina took the two bottles she’d bought from their bag and followed Arlecchino to the dining table. Before she set the bottles down in the center, she froze.
Arlecchino asked, “Everything alright?”
Furina blinked. She set the bottles down and sighed. “I was supposed to get wine glasses. I forgot.” She was so stupid, so forgetful, and now she looked like an utter fool in front of Arlecchino.
“But you have the wine.”
Furina looked at Arlecchino. Her eyes were soft.
“The glass does not change the taste,” Arlecchino assured her.
“Sure,” Furina smiled sadly, “but my guests, tomorrow.”
“Why do you think they will react any worse than I have?”
Furina paused, completely. Arlecchino was right. If she, of all people, wasn’t shouting insults at her, instead was staring up at her with that soft gaze, then…
“I thought you were a renowned host, Lady Furina.” Arlecchino raised an eyebrow at her.
All the fluttering in her chest ceased. She hurried into her kitchen and threw open her cupboard of cups, pulling out two glasses. She was more forceful than need be when she sat them down at the table, one in front of Arlecchino, one in front of her own seat, across from her. Furina nearly hurt herself as she sat down with haste. Then she frowned and stood again. She avoided eye contact with Arlecchino as she grabbed the wine and went to open it. She did not have a wine opener.
Furina did not know why the urge to cry suddenly filled her. She had invited Arlecchino in with that childish fantasy in her mind, and now she was cruel again, her gaze warm and judgmental. She wanted to kick Arlecchino out, then to go ahead and cancel her tea party, too.
Arlecchino took the bottle from her and popped the cork out herself. She handed it back to Furina by its neck.
She resisted tears as she poured Arlecchino’s glass of wine. She poured her own, then sat herself down, putting the bottle back on the table.
Arlecchino raised her glass, gesturing to a toast. To what? Furina’s inadequacy? Maybe her ability to not burst into tears just yet.
Their glasses clanked, the sound rippling through the silence of Furina’s home. The ripple continued as they both took their first sip, then their second, then their third.
By her fourth, Furina’s tears were successfully pushed back. The wine was sickeningly sweet, more like candy than alcohol, but that was why she was even able to make it to a fifth sip. The wine fell down her throat as Arlecchino finally broke their silence. “Usually, I drink alone.”
A beat of silence passed before Furina responded. “Really? Whenever I found myself forced to drink, I was with people. Usually many people.”
“I do not like the feeling of intoxication in front of others. Even a few sips is enough for me to feel the foreign thing in my bloodstream, changing the workings of my brain. I find it demeaning to be tipsy in front of coworkers, especially, which the Harbingers, mostly Childe… hound me for.”
Her words were careful. They were casual conversation. But they were also from Arlecchino, stone faced and known for mercilessness. The reminder that she was a Fatui Harbinger whacked itself over Furina’s head, but it was not more shocking than the other realization. “But you’re drinking with me,” Furina said.
Arlecchino took a sip. “And you invited me into your home, which is also something I imagine you don’t do often.”
Furina didn’t say anything to that. They had both caught each other red-handed.
They fell into another silence as they both finished their glasses. Furina’s head was already starting to feel hazy, her cheeks turning red and hot. She resisted the urge to put her cold palms to them. She briefly wondered if Arlecchino’s hands were cold, too. No, they were probably warm underneath her gloves.
The storm had come back. A light drizzling ensued. Arlecchino watched the rain from the dining table, her eyes angled thoughtfully towards Furina’s glass back door. The rain would make it a hassle to set the tea party up—she might have to have it inside.
But Furina wasn’t really thinking about the tea party. Every thought blurred into the woman sitting in front of her, her hands concealed under black gloves, her eyes lidded and watchful. Her hair looked like it was quite soft—thin but fluffy, like it had been artificially dried or had natural waves brushed out. Fresh out of the shower, it would probably seem much longer, a few centimeters past her shoulders.
Arlecchino took one last sip of wine. As she moved the glass away from her lips, her tongue jutted out to swipe at an excess drop of wine. It left an extremely thin layer of spit on her bottom lip, glistening like rain on pavement.
Furina swallowed. “Why… do you keep showing up?”
Arlecchino’s eyes slid over to her. “What do you mean?”
Furina took a breath, gaining resolve—probably because she was slightly tipsy. This was why she hadn’t drank as Archon. “You kept sending me desserts. Why? For what? And then you came to my door. Then you found me at that cafe. You came to my show. And finally,” she trailed off, sighing. Finally, I invited you in to have wine because you bewitched me with your handsomeness.
“The desserts were at first apologies for how I treated you, before I knew your true circumstances. I understand, now, that you were not a weak, ineffective Archon. You’d been effective for 500 years. You persisted despite the centuries, the loneliness, and the secrecy.”
“I owe a lot of my strength to the people of Fontaine. Their love kept me going.”
“Oh, please,” Arlecchino rolled her eyes. “Sure. They motivated you. But you did the thing.”
Furina looked down at her empty glass. All that strength was gone from her now. The 500 years had sucked her dry. Her life would be over, finally, in less than 100, and she will have spent her remaining time just as lonely, secretive, and obsessed with fiction rather than reality.
“I don’t owe all my success to the Fatui. They don’t complete the missions I do. They don’t run my Hearth. They helped me to where I am now. But they didn’t do anything else.”
“We’re not the same,” Furina whispered.
“Come again?”
Sterner, “We’re not the same.”
“Not entirely, of course.”
“You’re still that person. You’re still the Knave. Arlecchino of the House of the Hearth.” She narrowed her eyes at her. “I’m no one now. I’m human. I’m trying to learn how to be, and I can’t. I don’t know who this person is. I don’t know what she wants. She wants nothing. She wants to never be seen in public. She wants to write something meaningful but doesn’t know where to start. She—“ Furina took a deep breath, “She’s afraid her life will never be normal.”
“It won’t,” Arlecchino said, flippant. “Do you think I was always Arlecchino? Do you think I’ve always wanted this? No one gets where I am in the way I have by wanting it or by wondering what it would be like to instead have a normal life. There will always be two of you from now on. They’ll stare each other down in their prison. They will start to hate each other. But one can not kill the other. They will just have to live with each other until they’re one again. In other words, you just have to live with it. Emphasis on live.”
“I am. I’m alive, aren’t I?”
Their eyes locked, the connection heavy. Arlecchino said, “Are you sure? Because it seems to me you’re wasting away in that bird cage because you don’t know how to sustain yourself. It’s why I’ve…” she seemed, for an odd moment, unsure of how to continue, which was unnerving a thing on her face, “found you.”
“Found me?”
“I think you’re an exceptionally strong person. I think you’re intelligent. I think you’re letting fear strip everything away from you. You could be vacationing. You could be writing that famous play.”
Furina scoffed. “So, what? You’ve come to convince me of my worth? Maybe you’re planning to kill me. This was your plan all along, to get me vulnerable and sappy and then slit my throat. Do it. Now you know I haven’t much going for me anyway.”
Arlecchino’s frown was genuine and severe. She slipped both of her gloves off, then enveloped Furina’s hand in both of hers.
Furina was right: her hands were warm against her chilly ones. Her nails were prim and well kept, but there were callouses on the pads of her fingers, some she recognized from writing too many letters, others that were probably from wielding a weapon. Her fingers were thin but firm against her. The hold was soft, reassuring. But--her hands were black, like they were stained with soot. Furina felt several questions running through her mind, but they all dissipated when Arlecchino looked into her eyes. “No,” she said, “I don’t want anything from you. Just to hear your voice.”
Furina didn’t know what to do.
She had dealt with people’s pity. She had dealt with their praise. She had dealt with Arlecchino’s digs. She had not yet dealt with something like this, never a worship so intimate. One that came, not from one deeming themselves inferior to the other, but equal.
“Though I would like to see you get out of that bird cage.”
“So you do wish to pity me.”
Arlecchino ignored her. “Because maybe then we can both prove to ourselves that freedom is not just in death.”
Furina didn’t get to answer before Arlecchino was pulling her hands away and putting her gloves back on. “I ought to go,” she said.
Stupidly, Furina said, “It’s raining.”
“I have work to do. I’ve been sidetracked.”
Sidetracking Arlecchino was a luxury. Furina wanted to keep doing it. She opened her mouth, then closed it.
“We’ll continue this another time.”
“Wait,” Furina blurted. “Come tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“My—tea party.”
“With Monsieur Neuvillette? And who else?”
“C—Clorinde. Navia. If you know of them.”
“I’ll sour the mood.”
“No!” Furina grabbed Arlecchino’s sleeve as she moved to stand. “Please,” she said.
Arlecchino’s gaze was hard to read as she looked down, but still she said, “Alright.”