The substitute - Chapter 9 - Olor_a_Azufre - 原神 (2024)

Chapter Text

It only takes hearing the metallic rings and clinks of badges entering the room for a headache to start tingling right behind her eyes. Sedene brings a paw to her forehead, massaging her knitted brows; it only aggravates the aching.

For Elynas. It hasn’t even been an hour since the workday started. She knows that humans can be fiercely persistent once they set their minds to something, but yesterday Captain Chevreuse already spent two hours demanding a meeting with Monsieur Neuvillette and making a ruckus after she told her that he had abandoned the palais and there was no established time for his return, nor was Sedene able to disclose his whereabouts—which was, sadly, just an elaborate way of saying that Sedene had absolutely no idea of where he was or when he would stop doing whatever he had run off to do—. Captain Chevreuse’s indignation perturbed the pace of the whole staff and the gloom of her visit lingered even after she got called by one of her teammates.

The tension can still be felt now; people work with their heads low and shoulders scrunched, shrunk on themselves like little turtles, as if they were carrying Captain Chevreuse’s words on their backs, heavy and painful, just like her voice while shouting them out, her usual calm all gone.

In the case that she has come here for a repeat of that, Sedene will have to tell her to compose herself or she will be under the obligation of issuing a formal complaint for her disruptive behaviour. The palais does have rules for something, rules that not even the Captain of the Special Security and Surveillance Patrol can disobey, and much less in the palais’ administrative wing. This is Sedene’s jurisdiction, her territory, and she won’t allow anyone to bother again the work of her precious little humans. They are already troubled enough by their workload; they don’t need to worry about anyone’s sudden outburst of indignation, no matter how justified they might be.

“Sedene!”

The surprise makes her gasp, her head jolting up.

Praise the Sea. It is Liath!

The badges on her Marechaussee Phantom uniform clink and ring like the ones in Captain Chevreuse’s do, every little jump towards her desk bringing the song of singing bells. Sedene waves at her, the tension abandoning her body with a sigh that ends in a chuckle, and Liath returns the greeting with her free paw, the other one occupied carrying a bag with a logotype Sedene recognises immediately.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Nothing special, really,” answers Liath, rummaging in the bag and taking out a box that, even closed, smells like paradise, “but they are the best accompaniment for a good chat with a friend.”

“Oh, Liath, you are as sweet as these cakes.” Sedene accepts the offered box and puts it on her desk, not falling to notice how Liath brings a paw to her cheek, giggling bashfully. Ah, she should compliment her more often. “But it isn’t my break yet, sorry, I can’t entertain you right now, there is work to do.”

“As expected of our Super Secretary Sedene.” Now, it is Sedene who feels shy. The whole Super Secretary Sedene started over a century ago and, going by the letters addressed to SSS from Meursea Village that she still receives each and every month, the joke has no signs of stopping any time soon. “Although… It is really a ‘break’ if we eat them while talking about work?”

That… Might be a usable loophole.

(The cakes smell so, so good.)

After all, she is capable enough to manage any problem Liath might want to discuss, with or without sweet, delicious, exquisite cake between her teeth.

“I understand. Is the purpose of your visit the notification of an infraction? Or are you perhaps interested in inquiring about an open case?” She speaks nearly in automatic, momentarily turning her back to Liath to fetch a pair of forks. Normally, she would give her undivided attention to anyone standing at the front of her desk, such is the professional etiquette her mentor taught her, but Liath is a melusine, and her dear friend, so the rules can bend a bit if it is for her.

“Nothing as stiff-sounding as that” says Liath, while taking the fork Sedene is handing her. “I am here to talk about Monsieur Neuvillette.”

The bitterness in her tongue is dizzying. It overpowers the coat of sugar from the cakes’ smell and Sedene doesn’t feel like eating anymore, not even when Liath opens the box and the colourful glosses and creams make the treats resemble a flower garden right out of a dream.

Ah, Monsieur Neuvillette…

“Does talking about him count as work?”

“Well, he is our boss.” Liath pops a comfited cherry into her mouth. “You can see it as me reporting about a fellow employee’s situation.”

If only Sedene knew what situation he is in right now. Yesterday he just ran off in front of her very eyes, like a criminal she will never be able to catch. It was frustrating and worrying and it made her sit up next to the entrance until late into the night, waiting for Monsieur Neuvillette to arrive only for a guard to tell her that he had, actually, returned hours ago.

It probably happened while Sedene was dealing with Captain Chevreuse.

(If only she could have dismissed her sooner. If only she could have handled her better. If only she could have seen Monsieur Neuvillette enter the palais and run to him and ask him what was going on inside his head and yell why, just when Sedene thought the Monsieur Neuvillette she knew and admired had come back, he had to evade her again. Her predecessor wouldn’t have made this many mistakes. She wouldn’t have allowed the situation to escalate. She… She… She would know what to do now.)

“What’s there to report?” Sedene should know, she should know everything about his daily life: his schedule, his whereabouts, his reunions, his worries. She is his secretary, his friend. She doesn’t even know if he is awake yet, she can only hope that he remembered he had an important trial to attend today.

(Since when is she this useless?)

“That the Aquabus of Love set sail!”

What? “The Aquabus of Love?”

Liath nods enthusiastically, her wings flapping and tail wagging. The silver fork glints under the soft morning light as she moves it around, like the baton dictating the orchestra of her happiness. “The Aquabus of Love! Destination: the Opera Epiclesis. Current occupants” and to say this she leans into the desk, playful expression and shimmering eyes, even though one of the gold buttons on her uniform is dangerously close to the whipped cream atop a cupcake “Monsieur Neuvillette and Lady Furina!”

Well, that for sure wasn’t something on his agenda.

“Monsieur Neuvillette and Lady Furina are together?” So soon? How? Just yesterday he sounded so fatalistic, so pessimistic about the possibility of her wanting him nearby. “Inside an aquabus?”

“Not any aquabus” punctuates Liath with a sway of her fork, “their aquabus.”

Sedene hears herself gasp, a shiver that runs from her horns to the tip of her tail making all her fur stand on ends.

“But Lady Furina-”

“I know!” Liath gives a little jump. “Isn’t it amazing? Lady Furina finally left her house! And she came directly to the palais.”

It is almost unbelievable. Lady Furina’s condition has been a recurrent topic of conversation between the melusines in the court. Since the first time that Monsieur Neuvillette requested them to deliver items to her new apartment, they got in the habit of reporting their personal impressions about Lady Furina’s mood. It continued long after the orders to return her belongings stopped and soon, Lady Furina became the centre of an unofficial investigation among the Marechaussee Phantom. Whether they saw her buying at the market or strolling around the city’s outskirts with her pets, whoever caught a glimpse of her made sure to tell the others melusines, putting special emphasis on whether she was in high spirits or not.

Some days, Sedene was able to tell if the news about Lady Furina were going to be good or bad only by looking at the patrolling melusines around the palais. All of them were so invested in their former boss’ wellbeing, it was difficult to see a smile on a melusine face in those days when someone informed that Lady Furina had enclosed herself again.

Humans were already difficult enough to understand, so the melusines had, since long ago, given up on trying to comprehend an Archon. Communicating updates on her status was as much as they could do, it was their way of keeping an eye on the most precious pearl in Fontaine.

That’s also the reason why, when Sedene asked if any melusine volunteered to buy groceries for Lady Furina, there wasn’t a single one of them who didn’t raise her paw. It took quite a while to distribute all the work while trying not to leave anyone out, fortunately, Monsieur Neuvillette had given them quite the elaborate list of items.

Now that she is thinking about it, she still needs a report of how that went.

“It has been months…”

“I know! Menthe is so lucky for having to patrol around her block,” Liath scoops some whipped chocolate cream and licks it from the fork, letting out a pleased sigh, “she is always the first to know if something is amiss with her.”

“You were paired together to go shopping for the meat, right?” She gets a nod, Liath’s mouth too occupied chewing on a piece of cheesecake to answer. “How did it go? Was Lady Furina okay when you delivered it?”

Liath swallows, looking abruptly thoughtful. “That’s the thing.” She says, pointing at her with the fork. “She didn’t open the door.”

Sedene feels her tail drop, the tip touching the floor before Sedene lifts it to grab it with her paws, fiddling with it under the desk. Her fur is slightly rough; the stress is catching up to her.

“Oh, so you weren’t able to-”

“No, we did deliver them.” Liath says before taking another bite of the cheesecake. “Everyone did.”

Her tail goes stiff.

“You broke in?!” She can’t help her volume and a multitude of heads turn around in their direction. Sedene tries to ignore them, composing herself before leaning into her desk and whispering, not in a less harsh tone: “Liath that’s a crime. You need a search warrant for that.”

At least, Sedene thinks, Liath has the decency to appear scandalised.

“We didn’t break in!” For Elynas, if Liath is going to come up with some half-assed loophole again to convince her that it wasn’t ‘technically’ trespassing Sedene is going to have a really serious talk with her. It is one thing to use a pretext to excuse eating cake while they are on the clock, but the transgression of a place of residence is just- “Lady Furina’s pet let us inside.”

Sedene doesn’t think that makes it any more lawful than it was before. The law does say that permission to enter a private property has to be given by the owner, their relatives, the occupants of the building or the members of the domestic service. Now, the question is, can Lady Furina’s pets count as any of those?

Her headache is returning awfully fast. How is Sedene going to put this in an inform?

(There is a little voice inside her head calling her a hypocrite, but Sedene has always told the others to act as she says, not as she does. Besides, she was granted express permission to enter the apartment by Monsieur Neuvillette himself and even if she investigated as an agent she got in as a friend.)

“You didn’t see her? At all?”

“She was inside her bedroom, but her pets forbid us from even approaching.” Liath starts moving a blueberry around the box with the fork’s tip, her eyes unfocused on it. “It made me worry, well… It made all of us worry. That’s why it was such a relief to see her today.” The smile that Liath gives her is big, but unsure in the corners, Sedene frowns at it, twisting her tail. “Perhaps she was just sleeping.”

“It is probable.” She says, as uncertain as she feels. “Lady Furina used to take a lot of naps when she was still in the palais.”

Liath’s eyes soften and she finally stabs the blueberry, lifting up the fork in her direction. “Here, you like them, right?”

Sedene does, in fact, like blueberries. This one in particular tastes more acid than sweet, but because it is Liath who feeds it to her, it is twice as delicious.

“You haven’t eaten any of the cakes yet, are you feeling sick?”

She allows the berry’s juice to completely cover her tongue before swallowing it. Her stomach receives it without protest, though it feels like ingesting a pebble.

“Why don’t you tell me more about Lady Furina and Monsieur Neuvillette’s reunion? Maybe that will work up my appetite.”

The petition has an instant effect on Liath, whose eyes shine like polished conches on a riverbank. It makes Sedene feel like she could really try her hand at eating a bit of the sweet treats.

“Oh, Sedene, you should have seen Monsieur Neuvillette’s face.”

Sedene has an idea or two about the face Liath is referring to.

.

Marcotte Station is uncharacteristically loud when Furina gets out of the aquabus, Neuvillette’s hand immediately grabbing her by the shoulder and rushing her to hide with him behind the entrance’s lateral column. Elphane already stopped the aquabus away from the open platform, but you can never be too careful when dealing with the press; Furina, regretfully, knows that better than anyone.

Even at this distance, she can hear the clicks of the kameras and the shouted questions overpowering Blathine’s demands for silence and order. Ha! As if journalists knew what that means.

“When Liath said you had an important trial today I didn’t think she meant a controversial one.” She tries to step towards the entrance, but Neuvillette yanks her to his side, to which she huffs in protest. It is not like she was going to peek through the corner! That would be a novice mistake and Furina is a seasoned avoider of the press. She just wants to listen and try to decipher some of the multitude’s blabbering; that could give her a clue of the mediatic storm about to loom over the poor Iudex. “They are quite the feral pack of hounds.”

“This particular case has attracted some attention, yes. The Opera Epiclesis has been completely booked in every session.” Neuvillette’s hand rests on her waist and the grasp of his long, strong fingers might as well be around her lungs; it nearly distracts her from the blue tone of his voice as he whispers, almost pitifully. “Have you not read any of the articles about it? I have been told it occupied the front pages of the Steambird for weeks.”

“It is not as if I was trying to not know about it, it is merely that…”

It is just that Charlotte has been on a trip to Sumeru since last month and Furina doesn’t dare read anything in a newspaper if it isn’t written by her. Because Charlotte is the only one who doesn’t mention her every two sentences. Because Charlotte doesn’t start a paragraph with the line “If Lady Furina was there” that develops into a tirade of speculation and incendiary comments that only show the author ran out of real material and is desperately trying to keep the reader interested. Because the press demonizes her in the same breath that they sing their praises and Furina no longer has a façade to hide behind, nor a lie to desperately maintain. Now that the danger of being discovered is gone, why would she care about what people think of her?

(And if all of this is true, why does it still hurt?)

The Hydro Archon might have left the trials (in more ways than the public will ever know), but the press still has her very much present.

“I trust you will be capable of handling every case with the same fairness you have always shown. There is no need for me to follow every trial, as I said, I am no longer your superior.”

When Furina looks up at him, she is confronted with Neuvillette’s conflicted face. She even feels tempted to pat his back and tell him not to dwell so much on her words. Poor Hydro Dragon, he is so used to searching for double meanings and hidden messages. The trust issues are expected after so many revelations, Furina just wishes they didn’t make him look this disconcerted.

“You might not be, formally.” Neuvillette puts his other hand on her shoulder, it is heavy, warm and it sends shivers down her back when it starts to go up, up, up towards her neck. “But, Lady Furina, do not doubt, for even a moment, that you are ever present in my thoughts.” His fingers end up in her chin, they grace the skin under her jaw, the contour of it and his hand feels like fire when he cups her cheek. It burns, pleasantly so, and Furina doesn’t know if she wants to lean on it or jerk away. He is making this on porpoise, right? He is taking revenge for embarrassing him before and Furina might deserve it, but this is machiavellian. “I search for your approval at every deliberation.”

He means Mirror-e.

(Mirror-me was the one inside the Oratrice. Mirror-me was the one agreeing to all of Neuvillette’s verdicts. Mirror-me was the one hanging from his shoulder, whispering at him during the trials. Mirror-me is was the wise, impartial, voice of Justice. Mirror-me is was Neuvillette’s perfect companion. Mirror-me iswas the one worthy of standing by him during the proceedings, giving him the helping hand Furina never offered.)

He means Mirror-me.

He means Mirror-me.

He means Mirror-me, not you.

He means Mirror-me, not you.

He means Mirror-me, not you.

He meansMirror-me not YOU.

How can such tender words be so cruel? How can Neuvillette be so sweetly brutal? And why does she fall for it, again and again and again?

“You are barking up the wrong tree, Neuvillette.”

She nudges his hands away, both of them. The cold bites at her when she puts distance between them, turning her back at him, but anything is better than being set aflame by a fire that isn’t meant for her.

“Lady Furina?”

She wants to cover her ears. He is so unfair; sounding so terribly wounded when she is trying to avoid getting hurt.

He isn’t doing it on purpose and that is, maybe, what makes it worse.

“You should get going, Neuvillette, you have vultures to feed.”

“Come with me.” He pleads, his body towering over her, engulfing her in his shadow. Furina can feel his hand hovering next to her ribs, his phantom touch bristling her skin. “Your royal seat has remained unoccupied; it is awaiting your reappearance.”

“It isn’t mine.” Furina hugs herself, tight and cold and miserably familiar. “My place now is backstage, unseen and unheard and never during a trial.”

There is a beat of silence in which the journalists’ cacophony overflows her senses. They are loud and undecipherable, chaotic, ominous voices from her darkest nightmares. They move backwards the hands on the clock of time and she finds herself hiding, again, from them and their sharp tongues. Their bloodlust for ripping her apart however they found most convenient for their articles. One blink and she is back to those first cases with Neuvillette on the Iudex seat and a rampant public on the rows, every single one of them ready to jump at her throat and question her how did you dare! How did you dare to put our lives in the hands of this freak?! Two blinks and she is facing a tumult, demanding the extermination of the melusines. Three blinks and a furious group of people from Poisson are calling her a murderer and a tyrant and undeserving of her title and Furina can only whisper yes, you are right, it is true, I killed them, you are right, I am sorry, I am so sorry and blink away the dampness.

“They are so loud.” She mutters. “Why are they always so loud?”

Shrieking their incomprehensible questions and shooting with their booming kameras. It is the sound of canyons being fired, one after another. Explosions going off around her, deafening her, blinding her, they turn the world into white nothingness, a sterile never-ending void full of screaming.

They are coming for her; they want to tear her apart. They want to rip her heart out and eat it raw. They want to expose her maimed body in the central plaza, impaled in the fountain as her blood colours crimson the waters.

They take photos of her disfigured corpse and laugh, laugh, laugh.

With joined hands, lifted high in the air, they dance and sing, drunk on ectasis. “The tyrant has been killed!” They chant, circling the fountain, a carrousel of smiles. “Her throne drowned! Her teeth plucked! Her neck gagged! Her body ravished!” They celebrate, raising glasses of her blood to cheer. “Her scalp gashed! Her eyes gauged!”

There is only joy in the plaza, there is only bliss in their laughter, there is only delight in their movements. Only grins on their lips, painted red.

One young man jumps into the fountain, splashing her guts around. Her intestines get entangled on his ankles, tight and grey like shackles. He bites them off his skin and the multitude rejoices; he grabs her head from the bottom of the water and they go crazy. The young man looks into her hollow eyes and his bleed, lavender and crystalline and forgiving.

“Let us feast on her flesh!” He proclaims, her skull his proud flag. “Let us feast on the tyrant!” Responds her people. “Let us devour her bones!” He shouts. “Let us feast on the fraud!” Her nation chaunts. “All hail Foçalors!” He roars. “All hail our true Archon!” Her Fontaine yells, all united under her skinned remains. The happiest they have ever sounded.

“Lady Furina.”

She slaps the hand away.

It was Neuvillette’s.

It was Neuvillette’s and now he is looking at her with crimson rivers down his cheeks and lips tainted red and Furina touches her neck, her head still very much attached to it, but she searches for the wound, for the scar, for the blood and the hand she slapped was Neuvillette’s and now he is looking at her with his bleeding gems and Furina touches her head, her hair still very much attached to it, but she searches for the wounds, for the scars, for the blood and the hand she slapped was Neuvillette’s and now he is looking at her with his face full of hurt and Furina covers her mouth, her teeth still very much inside of it, but she searches for the wounds, for the scars, for the blood.

A carrousel of smiles flashes before her eyes and Furina gags, desperately grasping at the wall, she wishes for support that ends up coming from familiar arms, instead of the granite.

“Furina, breath.” Orders a voice, the young man’s voice, Neuvillette’s voice. “Breath.”

“Drow.” Demand a thousand voices, all the people she lied to. “Die.”

“Furina.”

“Die.”

Her lungs ache.

“Furina!”

She is trying. She is trying her hardest.

But it is never enough, she was never good enough. She isn’t Mirror-me, she never was Mirror-me, why can’t she be Mirror-me?

“What a pity, it seems I am late to the tea party.”

Of all the melusines she expected to see inside the palais today, Sedile was definitely not one of them. Obviously, that doesn’t make her visit any less welcome. After all, she is one of her oldest friends.

“Not at all” chirps Liath “come on, join us! We are drinking coffee, not tea, though.”

“I wouldn’t refuse a cup with milk and three spoons of salt, then.”

“And a touch of cinnamon.” Sedene adds, already reaching for a mug. “Did you think I forgot how you like your coffee? You weren’t gone for that long.”

“But you do have more important things to remember than my taste in drinks, Super Secretary Sedene.”

Sedile’s smile is placid and sharp, somehow tired in the way it curves slowly, nearly forcefully. Exhaustion has become a common look on her, nowadays, and it stings Sedene like a hunter’s ray’s tail to think about the young Sedile she remembers following Carole around. How big and heartwarming was her smile the day she announced she was leaving the village to go live in the city. How tight both of them hugged her before parting; Sedile’s smooth skin against her cheek and the fresh essence of Carole’s fur entangling with hers.

Had Sedene known that that would be her last farewell to Carole, her last time seeing Sedile’s innocent joy, she wouldn’t have let go of them. She would have fallen to her knees, bringing them both down with her and she would have implored and wailed and begged to please don’t go, please, please, stay here, stay with me.

That’s something she should have done with Monsieur Neuvillette too: cry and plead to not be left behind, alone.

(She ends up burning her paw while pouring the coffee, thankfully the others are too distracted talking.)

“I am surprised to see you here, I thought you still had three more days of vacation.”

“And you thought well, I am here to run an errand, not to return to work.” Sedene wonders who in Merusea Village got the nerve to ask the Great Sedile for such a thing. Mmm… Probably Serene; no one can say no to her. “Although I do have some work related matters I would like to discuss with Sedene, that’s why I offered to be the delivery melusine.” When Sedene lifts her head after adding the three spoons of salt, she finds Sedile’s apologetic gaze. Soft and so thoroughly drained. “I feel a little bad for interrupting such a lovely break, though.”

It is hard to tear her eyes away. There has always been something hypnotising about Sedile’s fatigue. In how she carries herself with the mature confidence gifted only by experience, stoic yet approachable. Her body weighted down with years of atrocities, unbending beneath it, but so, so tired of dragging it. Resigned to a work that never gets easier, to dealing with death on a daily basis. Sedile’s specialisation is the identification of burnt remains. Her eyes have witnessed sights that would redeem Sedene unable to sleep for the next five hundred years.

Sometimes Sedene wonders if she is the only one who notices how Sedile crumbles; Liath is speaking to her so animatedly, showing that sunny smile of hers that makes flowers bloom in between her ribs.

“We were actually talking about work, so don’t worry.” She says, her words sounding more like a chuckle.

“If you don’t have a problem with it, we could also talk about what brings you here over some cakes and coffee.” Sedene pats the bottom of the cinnamon flask, seeing the little brown dust puffing out, just like she imagines sandstorms must do. “Well, just coffee.” She adds after throwing the patisserie box a quick glance.

Sedene doesn’t need to look at her to know Liath is giving Sedile puppy eyes.

“Sorry, if I had known you would-”

“Don’t worry, Liath. This is actually truly convenient.”

When Sedene turns around to hand the finished coffee to Sedile, she finds her holding a basket and a sudden sense of déjà vu washes over her.

“This is the very special delivery I was tasked to give you.”

“What is this?” She asks, exchanging the cup for the basket and leaving it on top of her desk. Whatever is inside of it is hidden by an embroidered napkin Sedene identifies as one of Flo’s creations.

“It smells delicious!” Liath leans towards it, her snout wiggling cutely as she sniffs.

Sedene agrees with her on that: the fragrance coming from it is cosy and warm, salty and familiar in the way Elynas’ caverns are. Cold bone and colourful coral. It is Merusea Village’s essence. Of home, of her sisters.

“I assume you are aware of the lumitoile invasion Merusea Village suffered and how we dealt with it.” Of course she does; poor Cosanzeana had a breakdown about it right in front of her eyes, how could she forget her terrified face, while spouting that Monsieur Neuvillette would never forgive her?

Then, Sedile pulls the napkin off and Sedene isn’t sure if the gasp comes from her or Liath.

“This is made from the biggest of them, Monsieur Neuvillette helped us with it yesterday.”

Two pies rest inside the basket, their crispy brown crust asking to be bitten. There is a whole lumitoile on top of each of them, their blues and pinks shinning beneath a compote coverture that turns them into polished porcelain, crowning the appetising sight. Sedene gawks at them for five seconds, before registering Sedile’s words.

So that’s where he went! That’s what he was doing! She mentioned Cosanzeana and he thought about Merusea Village and then remembered the infestation and went to help! Yes! That’s what happened!

WHY DIDN’T HE TOLD HER! It would have been so easy! And there she was, worrying sick about him. He will get a good scolding from her once he gets back from the opera. Those are exactly the kinds of things one should tell a secretary! For what is she here, otherwise?

Monsieur Neuvillette has been a bit absentminded lately, but that’s no excuse for it. She will start crafting her reprimand on her real break from work and it will be stern enough to assure Monsieur Neuvillette will never forget, again, that she has a secretary he can—no—he must count with.

“One of them is for him. I would be very grateful if you could pass it to him for me.”

“I will, of course.” That would be the perfect moment to deliver her admonishment. First her monologue and then the pie as a gift, so he isn’t left with a bitter taste in his mouth in case she gets too intense.

Although, before all of that…

“Let’s share the other one.” The shine in Liath’s eyes could rival the brightest star. Sedene is happy to indulge in it for a few seconds before opening the cutlery drawer and taking out a knife and a fork. She gives them to Sedile, then fetches three plates from the little cupboard under her desk.

“I think you should do the honours.” Sedile presents her the knife with both paws wide open, as if it were some ceremonial blade. At her side Liath chuckles, her tail wagging from side to side, an expectant look on her face Sedene can’t say no.

So, Sedene takes the knife, her head bowed in reverence. “I will show this pie the respect it deserves.”

Playing along, Sedile puts a closed paw over her chest, her expression scarily solemn. “Make all of us proud.”

“I will try.”

The three of them are obviously holding back laughter when the tip of the knife touches the crust and breaks it with a satisfying crack that has Sedene letting out a sigh. After that, she cuts it quickly, making three triangular pieces that smell of sea and blood, of home salty home.

Liath is the first to take a bite of it once her part is put on her plate, her wings flapping in delight. “Lutine really outdid herself with this one, it is so good.”

“Actually, these two were made by Serene and Cosanzeana.” At the mention of the latter, Sedene tears her gaze away from Liath. She wonders if she knows how her dear flower is going. Maybe she saw it when Cosanzeana brought it to the village. Maybe she also fell in love with its twisted beauty, its stunning thorns. Ah, how much she misses her precious lily, how much she yearns to see it again. “The one for Monsieur Neuvillette is meant to be a thank you, while yours…” Then, Sedile looks at her and the heaviness of her stare turns her heart into a fist. Her spiralling yellow eyes, the witnesses to carnage, to carbonised remains and ashen viscera among melted bones, pin her down with sorrow. “Consider it an apology or a plea for forgiveness.”

Her tongue is dry and numb inside her mouth.

“An apology?”

The way in which Sedile frowns shows confusion and Sedene can’t help but imitate the gesture. It is at seeing her reaction that Sedile’s features straighten in that expression Sedene has contemplated uncountable times: it is the face she makes when pondering about a case and Sedene knows, the moment her jaw relaxes in something akin to defeat, that Sedile has figured out the answer.

“So he didn’t tell you.”

The broken parts of the world are putting themselves together, fitting with each other in a dark puzzle of sensations. The coldness of the breeze, blowing without touching her. The solidity of the floor and the comfort beneath her head, something plush yet firm. There is a fragrance tickling her nose: fruits and lovely morning dew. Something big and heavy is covering her eyes, protecting her, then caressing her forehead, brushing away her fringe, entangling in her hair and then starting all over again. Soft and gentle over her lashes, kind and careful on her temple and so tender on her scalp, going through her locks with deferential care. It takes her breath away, it leaves her bewildered, incredulous, wanting more.

To be touched in such a way, to be shown this much… attention, this sweet, sweet affection.

Furina knows whose hand this is. She knows these fingers and this skin. She knows this smell and the meticulousness of these movements.

Neuvillette.

Neuvillette is here, with her and he is touching her as if he loved her. He is stroking her in the way lovers do under trees with long shadows in the middle of sunny spring days, with leaves falling around them and flower petals being carried by the wind. The perfect scene between the main couple in a romance play, just before tragedy strikes.

She doesn’t want tragedy to strike.

A carrousel of smiles. Her eye stabbed by a black claw and a woman liking her lips, red, red, red. She is hungry and she eats, her eye is squashed between her crimson teeth. “Interesting.” She says. “Will the other taste any different?” She says.

“Lady Furina?”

That’s not Neuvillette.

Furina blinks her eyes open and there, framed by a cloudless sky of perfect blue is Neuvillette’s handsome upside-down face. Sharp and pretty and looking so worried. His lavender crystalline, forgiving gems crossed by concern as they stare at her, his hand leaving her hair to gently cup her cheek.

Life is unfair.

“Are you feeling better?”

Life is so, so unfair and Fate must be laughing its ass off right now, watching her melt on Neuvillette’s lap. Having a taste of the meal she will never be served. Filling her eyes with honey that will never fill her mouth.

A carrousel of smiles, red with blood, starving for more. They are thirsty and they drink, her blood dripping down their chins.

In spite of it all, Furina nods and the smile Neuvillette gifts her revolutionises her poor heart. Which, thank the Gods (not included Mirror-me), is still inside her chest. Kept between unbroken ribs.

A carrousel of smiles-

“Does that mean I can stop fanning her?”

That’s the voice!

Deadpanned and slightly annoyed. Furina recognises her before turning her head.

There, squatting down next to her is Elphane, holding a blue fan with her paws, causing the fresh breeze that tickles her jaw. She looks just as she sounds, the spirals in her eyes observing her, unimpressed. They have always reminded her of an old brand of caramel candies, since long discontinued. In a way, they fit Elphane; the candies were white and yellow and lemon-flavoured and their sour taste never failed to make her grimace and scrunch up her face in pure, raw disgust. It is not as if the melusine inspires that same kind of reaction, but her ten-yard stare doesn’t make her feel precisely comfortable, either.

What it does is shake her off her daze, reality hitting her at full speed and straightening her with a jolt. She ends up sitting and dizzy, black dots tainting the landscape, missing pieces in the puzzle of the world.

Neuvillette—dependable and trustworthy Neuvillette—is already supporting her before she can do as much as sway.

“Be careful, you must move slowly.”

It would help Furina, a great deal, if those words weren’t said close enough to caress her ear.

“Thank you, Neuvillette.”

Furina allows herself to rest her head on his shoulder, taking a deep breath. The air is humid and, without Elphane fanning her, a tad suffocating. Despite being under the station’s shadow the world is too shiny, her clothes too warm, sticking to her with cold sweat. It is disgusting, shameful.

“Furina, did you…”

“Yes.”

It feels appropriate, even poetic, that Neuvillette, of all people, is the first to see her suffering a hallucination since she abandoned the palais. Her own personal audience from start to finish, stuck with her even now. Furina doesn’t know where to start apologising, she doesn’t know if she should be laughing. Really, how does he manage to keep seeing her at her worst? Every time she reaches a new low, there is Neuvillette! Watching, worrying, judging. Calling out her incompetence without uttering a word. There is no need for it; Furina can feel it, the disappointment, the resignation. That little groan after every sigh that warned her that his patience was running thinner.

And, even while thinking of her as a failure, he was always so considerate, impossibly caring. Just like he is now, with his hands on her shoulders, gently lowering her onto his lap, yet again.

Laying down it is easier to breathe, the knots on her throat untangling themselves. The floor is also surprisingly comfortable; firm under her drained body, soothingly cold against the bare skin of her legs and… strangely… wet?

Furina palms it in disconcert, the sensation not unlike touching thick glass and her confusion must show in her face, because Neuvillette’s eyebrows furrow in that manner which shows he is holding back laughter and Furina drinks in the sight for a whole minute, before pushing herself up on her elbows and taking on her surroundings.

They are enclosed between the stone wall of the station and the aquabus, slightly turned towards one side instead of parallel to the wall to hide them from prying eyes. Yes, the three of them are, indeed, between the aquabus and the station.

On the water, to be more specific.

Furina would be surprised, had she not spent the past five hundred years with Neuvillette; this is not the first time he pulls out this trick. So, she merely gives the Hydro Sovereign sigil a quick glance and then returns to rest on Neuvillette’s thighs. It won’t hurt, she tells herself, to indulge a bit more.

That’s it, until she remembers.

“Neuvillette, the trial!”

“Furina, you are being imprudent with your health.” And she would refute him, but his face is too hard to locate with so many dark spots dancing before her eyes. Thankfully, his hands are fast enough to find her arms. “You must not worry yourself about it. I will simply cancel-”

“Don’t you dare!”

“But, Furina, you are-”

“Completely okay.” This is it. This is what she was referring to during their ride here. Did he not listen to her when she said the last thing she wanted was to burden him? To be an inconvenience? “I am used to this, I just needed a moment, which I already had.” She pats his shoulders, using them as support to get on her feet. “I am fine now.”

But the face Neuvillette makes—oh, that face—tells her he isn’t believing her one bit. And, honestly, Furina can’t blame him.

“I told you before, Neuvillette, I have given up on the lies.” His jaw tenses and she gulps, deciding to take on a softer approach. “I know it might be too much to ask for, after… everything, but please, from now on, trust my word.”

For one second, Neuvillette’s shoulders drop, his eyes wide, but decayed in a sorrow Furina doesn’t comprehend. Here, in front of her, sitting on the floor and having to crane his neck to meet her gaze, Neuvillette looks too much like a follower betrayed by his faith.

“I trust you.” He says, full of desperate devotion.

And Furina feels like a cruel god, when she declares: “But you think of me as a liar.”

“No.”

“A performer, then. Call it whatever you want.”

And because Furina doesn’t want to be cruel, and because Furina doesn’t want to hurt him, and because Furina means all of this as a critique of her old self, not an attack on Neuvillette; she cradles his face with as much gentleness as she can muster. Her right thumb draws an arc over her cheek, while her left hand brushes away his bangs, tucking them behind his pointy ear and giving it a quick pinch, before setting on his jaw again.

Yes, his blush really is the same hue as wild pink pearls.

“The point is that I am fine and you should go to the opera, the fact that I have delayed you is unforgivable. Besides, you said it yourself; you have a reputation to maintain.”

Neuvillette grabs both of her wrists, his grip as shaking as his breathing. “And you, Furina?”

Furina is one more pleading look away from kissing the tip of his nose, if just to see him turning into a strawberry again so she can take a bite.

“I will walk a bit around the area.” She gives his cheeks a little squeeze, laughing softly when his lips get comically long. “The Salon Solitaire hadn’t had the opportunity to take in the view of the Erinnyes.”

Most of Furina’s visits to the island consist of her going to the opera and then back to the station. Which isn’t exactly an exciting trip, especially taking into account that her dear friends aren’t allowed during plays, so she can only take them out during rehearsals and the poor things spent them helping her with the props and equipment, instead of enjoying themselves. This is the perfect opportunity to do some sightseeing with them or, more specifically, to let them run and frolic while Furina sits under the shadow of some tree to read Salon Solitaire, now safely kept inside her vision.

She has had the burning desire to sink into the novel since Neuvillette came out of the palais with it on hand and spending the ride talking about it just added fuel to the fire. It is time for her to indulge in the craving.

Furina is already rejoicing at the thought, when she feels a weight nuzzling against her palm. Neuvillette is leaning on it, eyes closed and letting out a sigh that coils around the exposed skin between where his hand is and the end of her glove and Furina curses herself again; why didn’t she take it out when she had the change? Neuvillette’s eyelashes are long and dark and shining navy when hit by the sun and they flutter against the knuckle of her thumb when he opens his eyelids and she can only wonder, feverishly, how they would feel on her bare skin. Like the frail whisper of a butterfly’s wings or the shy touch of petal kissed by morning dew.

The more she looks the more she appreciates that Neuvillette—with his bleeding eyes, his regal face, his sharp features, his pointy ears, his pearly skin—looks godly, divine, eerily tantalising in ways humans will never be. A beauty like his can only be born from the sea. Where abyss’ horrors fall in love with nature’s marvels and fill the waters with their ravishing monsters.

“I hoped we could return to the court together.” He whispers, so that close she feels his lips moving through the thin layer of her glove.

(How would it feel, to have these same lips speak against her nape?)

“I don’t see why we couldn’t.” It is difficult to talk, with her throat this dry. The words come out uneven and off key. “Why don’t you tell me about the trial while we are heading back?” She says, after gulping and nearly choking when Neuvillette looks up at her, his eyes bristling with bare hope, “I was the one doing most of the talking on the way here, it is only fair to let you have your own time to shine.”

At that, Neuvillette smiles, that little, soft, private curve of lips that makes him appear younger than he is. A just hatched dragon, taking his first glance at the world and being captivated by it, deciding that, yes, he could come to live among it with her.

(Does she deserve to witness such a sight?)

“I fear my storytelling skills are lacking, to this day.”

“Nonsense, you know I always favoured hearing your explanations over reading them in a report.”

A chuckle and he is leaning on her other hand, that same enamoured look on his eyes and Furina can’t figure out what he sees in her, to warrant this devotion. She guesses it will fade away, some time soon, once he gets used to living alone.

(Does he see Mirror-me in her? He must; he didn’t look at her like this before. It happened after the trial, after the flood, after the prophecy. After Mirror-me invited him to the dimension of her consciousness, a place Furina didn’t even know existed, to reveal all the mysteries she spent years despairing over. What else happened in there, that has him swooning at Mirror-me’s face? Probably more than a dance and a goodbye, but Furina has no way to know, she wasn’t brought along. Mirror-me didn’t bother to bid her farewell herself, Mirror-me didn’t even care to explain things to her herself, she just wanted Neuvillette, to her mattered only Neuvillette. And what about Furina?! Wasn’t her sacrifice enough to deserve a thank you?! A last meeting before ending it all?! If Mirror-me was going to kill herself, shouldn’t Furina have been the one to hold her beheaded corpse?! To weep over her warm chest as it turned cold.)

Yes, this infatuation will disappear, eventually.

But does that mean that Furina will lose him forever? Or that she will finally win?

“It will be my pleasure, then, to offer you some entertainment.”

Oh , if Neuvillette knew of all the ways he could entertain her that she has thought about.

“Although I ought to ask if you would mind accompanying me during a brief detour once the trial finishes.”

Furina pushes her delusions away, trying to give him a smile at least half as pretty as the one he has.

“It depends on the nature of said ‘detour’.”

The hands around her wrists move down, until they are covering hers. “I planned to visit the wild fairy of Erinnyes.”

When Neuvillette takes her hands away from his face, only to intertwine their fingers together, Furina needs a moment to remind her heart that its function is to pump blood, not play the drums with her ribcage as a resonance box.

If she agrees to his request, they will spend nearly all day together. She can’t remember the last time it happened it is a lie, she can, the memory is painfully clearand, honestly, the idea makes shivers run down her spine. This could very much be her first step towards a relapse. There is no turning back.

“How could I refuse such a wonderful offer?”

Pahsiv is as adorable and uncanny as Furina remembers her to be. Too vishap to be a melusine, but too melusine to be a vishap. Furina can’t help but side-eye Neuvillette (too dragon to be a human, too human to be a dragon) when she sees her horns peeking out from behind some brushes at the forest’s entrance.

Neuvillette told her, some years ago—when Pahsiv wasn’t Pahsiv, just a vishap that showed up and that Neuvillette took under his wing (fin? Flipper?)—that vishap’s sense of smell is developed enough to sense their prey from miles away and it is thanks to it that Pahsiv always manages to greet them the moment they set foot into her territory. Furina wasn’t a fan of being called ‘prey’, but after five centuries beside Neuvillette she got already used to his nonchalant use of such… animalistic vocabulary and thought nothing of it.

She accompanies them all the way to the weeping willow of the lake, where most vishaps spend their days, holding paws with both of them and hopping cheerily over the rocks along the path.

(Furina has to put an unimaginable amount of effort into not thinking about how the three of them might look like a family. It is even harder to not think about how she and Neuvillette would be the parents.)

When Pahsiv and Neuvillette talk, they do so with roars and groans, not unlike two dogs about to jump each other. All of it sounds so aggressive and hostile, they keep Furina alert, her hair on ends. She keeps glancing at them, just to cheek, but they look as peaceful and content as when Pahsiv ran to Neuvillette for a hug and a pat on the head. They look undeniably happy to be together, and yet, they groan and snarl and hiss and Furina is startled every time Neuvillette directs her a question, because it is difficult to reconcile his polite voice with the amalgamation of growls that left his mouth one second prior.

It is charming, in a sense, if not slightly terrifying. A glaring reminder that she is, indeed, in the presence of two very-non-human beings. A fairy and a dragon, what a pair. Furina is lucky, right? She is living the life of a fantasy novel’s protagonist. If only she could get her hands on three calla lilies… That for sure would complete the fanciful picture. It gives her inspiration for a future script.

The scene gets a little weirder, though, once they arrive at the lake and Neuvillette announces their presence with a stomp of his cane and a roar that scares the birds away. They all go flying at the same time, a colourful cloud dispersing into the sky. It also makes her flinch and put her free hand over her chest, where her poor heart beats without rest. Pahsiv looks at her with her head tilted to one side, to which Furina gives a reassuring smile.

Vishaps start coming out of the water not a second later, answering the call of their one and only ruler. Their scales shine under the sun, as blue as the lake they emerge from. To Furina, they look like an army, all lined up in front of them, soldiers expecting orders that will send them to hell. Killing machines, vicious beasts, loyal servants.

To Neuvillette, they are the closest thing he has to a family; a blood family.

Furina wonders how he sees them: are they his subjects? His distant relatives, perhaps? His children? She knows that title is already held by the melusines, but Neuvillette has a heart big enough to host two whole species. With a bit of space to spare for the people of Fontaine, too, if they behave.

(Can she fit into it too? Or there is no more room, with Mirror-me around?)

A growl, a rumble and the vishaps disperse, in a less organised way than Furina expected them to do. Some of them return to the water, while others scamper into the bushes and trees surrendering the clearing. There is a group of four that stays in place, staring at Neuvillette. Pahsiv, too, lets go of their hands and skips towards the shore, her tail wagging behind her with all the enthusiasm of a dog being offered a treat.

It is unbearably cute.

Furina decides to follow, sitting in a fallen trunk near the lake’s edge. From here, she can watch over Pahsiv’s comings and goings, the majestic willow as the background of her flower-picking. To think that the sickly yellow of the willow could hide such a crystalline blue. Its form glitters and rejoices in the afternoon light, delicate and imposing, just like fine glass. No artisan in Teyvat could dream of replicating this miracle of life.

It might come out as vainglorious, but Furina really got to rule over a breathtaking nation.

Her beautiful, sumptuous, stunning Fontaine. Every place your eyes can wander to is worthy of being portrayed in a classical painting. No wonder it is the cradle of art and photography, who wouldn’t want to immortalise this natural beauty?

The view inspires her whenever she goes for a walk outside the city. This land has seen so many tragedies, so many romances and acts of heroism so many sacrifices. Furina has read about most of them, without witnessing one herself, trapped as she was under the stage’s lights. She has thought long and hard about touring the land, as shameful as it may be to admit that she is ignorant of most things going on beyond the court.

She wants to explore the ruins buried beneath the mountains, she wants to swim through the corridors of sunk palaces, she wants to- Well, she might not want to do those things herself, but Furina for sure wants to direct a movie where someone does. It would revolutionise the newborn film industry, it could even start its own genre! A feature film where the protagonist goes deep into an enigmatic temple and encounters an assortment of riddles and traps, each one trickier than the last. If done right, the audience will gap at the screen, staring and at the edges of their seats. Afraid that if they blink, for even one second, they will miss the moment the character fails or becomes victorious.

Such a wonderful idea. She could even get the traveller and Paimon to star in it. For as much as they lack taste in literary works, they certainly have the charisma (and looks) to charm the audience. With a little bit of make up and the proper wardrobe, they could totally serve the wild adventurer archetype. Although, if Furina really wants the box office to do numbers, it would be wise to spice up the trope; maybe with a whip, a leather hat, or both things at the same time! She is still refining the details; there is no rush. Creativity needs to ferment, just like good wine.

Getting permission to shoot there will be a bureaucratic nightmare, though. Unless…

She can’t help but glance at Neuvillette, who is exchanging snarls with the four vishaps that stayed behind. Just like when she booked the opera for The Little Oceanid, she isn’t beyond asking him for help. However, it is true that she did it on another person’s behalf and, this time, it would be entirely for her, for her project.

Would it count as being too dependent? She said time and time again that she wanted to stop needing him, but it would be such a tiny favour and it would save her so much trouble and-She has to stop doing this. The moment she finds a practical reason to get on the easy path again, she is gone for good. Living as a normal citizen is difficult and hard and, sometimes, tedious. It is something she has to start embracing, she can’t just cherry-pick all the joy while leaving out the sorrow. Understanding this, too, will make her a better person.

Neuvillette would be proud of her for being able to handle all the paperwork, at least, that’s what she thinks when their eyes connect and Neuvillette smiles, giving the vishaps a final growl before coming to her side.

“Quite the fierce conversation you just had.”

“Not at all. They are truly cordial.”

“They for sure don’t sound like it.”

“The anatomy of their throats does not allow them anything gentler, I fear.” Neuvillette stops beside the trunk, both of his hands grabbing his cane in front of him in that solemn pose he loves to acquire.

That makes Furina ponder if he, too, would sound this aggressive in his true form.

“What about the words, are they any gentler?”

Instead of an answer, Furina gets a raised eyebrow and a question. “Do you mean the lexicon?”

“Yes, for example” she looks around, at the willow, at the grass, at Pahsiv’s happy hops around the water, “how do you say ‘lake’ in vishap?”

“Blood clod.”

Furina turns to face him and blinks. “Seriously?”

“This lake in particular does not flow into the sea, therefore it is given that name.” Neuvillette gives the area a general look, before nodding. “If it did connect to the sea, then the proper term for it would be ‘capillary’.”

That’s so… anatomical. Furina has only set foot in a class to either celebrate the inauguration of a school or to give a once-in-a-lifetime-super-exclusive lecture about classical theatre, but she feels like she has been suddenly transported to a biology course. Or is this more similar to a linguistic seminar?

“Is all vishap terminology this bloody?”

Neuvillette chuckles, his shoulders dropping in the way that shows he is completely relaxed, in spite of his perfect posture. “We have a more literal and unobstructed view of the world, Furina.”

Furina would rather not think of the world as a literal living being, thank you very much.

“What do you call rivers, then, bloodstreams?”

“As perceptive as ever.” Oh, that little proud smile of his…“Although any form of running water is considered a ‘bloodstream’, the rivers carrying primordial water are more specifically referred to as ‘arteries’, whilst the ones composed of sweet water are ‘veins’.”

So technical! However, it shows an insight into their perception of reality. Furina wonders if it means that, when vishaps swim in primordial water, they consider it like dipping in Neuvillette’s blood vessels.

That thought, for obvious reasons, makes her squirm.

(She unconsciously scratches her arms, searching for ants.)

“Does that mean the sea is the ‘heart’?”

“Only the bottom of it.”

His cradle, his origin. The womb of the world. A prison. A nursery. Furina was told enough to know it is profaned territory.

“And the rest?”

“The rest is ‘home’.”

Oh…“How surprisingly sweet.”

So even the vishaps has a place to call home. As dark and cold as it may be.

Furina thought she had one herself, but recently it doesn’t feel safe anymore. She doesn’t feel at ease between those four walls that host her nightmares. Of course, she could run away, find a new house, a new bedroom, a new mirror—Hell. She could even find a new nation—, but what use would it be, when the monsters live inside her head? They will follow her anywhere, slithering in the shadows as they have always been. There is no escaping them.

She wakes up at dawn, feeling like she didn’t sleep at all. The sensation of claws rummaging inside her chest, searching for the divinity that isn’t there. Tearing her lungs, breaking her ribs, scratching her heart and making it bleed. Then, Mirror-me painful caress as she starts mending her scarred skin; stitching her tendons, stretching her muscles, filling her bones. Leaving her as if nothing happened, as if her ribcage hadn’t been opened by a demon.

Furina should have died that day, under the penitent moon. Left alone, abandoned. That would have served Mirror-me right, to have her most important paw killed just before the grand finale.

Yet, she still looks for her every time it happens. Every sleepless night with sheets coated in cold sweat and her pulse agitated, she looks for her. In the mirror, in the shadows, in her head. But she is never there, where Furina needs her to be, right by her side with her arms around her shaking body and her lips on her temple, whispering that it is okay, that everything will be okay, that she is with her, that she is not alone, that she never was alone.

Even now, when her eyes wander and happen to land on a pair of vishaps, enjoying the sun as they cuddle together, she can’t stop it. She thinks about Mirror-me, and how it would be to rest on the shore with her. To simply move her hand, a few centimetres to the left, and entangle her fingers with hers.

“What’s the term for family?” It is an absent question. A useless one.

“Same blood.”

Again with the blood.

“And-” Her eyes leave the two vishaps, feeling somewhat like a voyeur. “And for a mate?”

There is a moment of silence that Furina spends examining her shoes. Dots of mud dirty the edges, but her socks are, thankfully, still pristine white.

It is not that odd of a question… right?

“A mate?” He sounds breathless. Furina digs the tip of her shoes in the dirt.

“As in, a lover. You know.” Are vishaps monogamous? The temptation to ask is there, just like with another thousand questions she would rather keep. This is the closer she can get to talking about love with Neuvillette.

Then, she hears his steps, his shadow starts looming over her and Furina looks at him, like she always does. It is the mistake she will keep committing again and again and again.

His eyes truly are gems.

“Kepper of the heart.”

Hers wants to jump away.

“It is in a… literal sense?”

He has the audacity to smile—a lopsided one, a mischievous one—and Furina is outraged, livid. “Sometimes.”

Neuvillette is doing the same he did during the ride, throwing an enigmatic answer to a morbid question just to catch her attention and it is working, because Furina is a sucker for mysteries.

Then, Pahsiv’s loud roar startles them and for a second Furina is terrified, her heart on her throat, until Pahsiv appears before her, completely unscathed and Furina feels herself deflate.

“Is she okay?” Pahsiv seems okay. She is holding a bunch of flowers between her paws, looking utterly adorable, like a wild fairy, but one can never be too sure regarding these things.

“She is.” Neuvillette says, twirling his cane into his vision’s pocket and kneeling in front of Pahsiv, who gleams and jumps, chirping with glee. “She was just calling for me.”

The wild fairy picks a purple flower from the bouquet and tucks it behind his ear.

Furina needs a moment to catch her breath. Pahsiv puts another one, this time yellow.

“What do they call you?”

Another purple.

“Following traditions, they ought to call me ‘king’,” the flowers are small, but Pahsiv can’t fit more than four behind his ear, that doesn’t discourage her from trying, “but I requested them that, between the borders of Fontaine, they must refer to me as ‘visitor’.”

Pahsiv stops, steps away and seems to consider her options before deciding to put a blue, four-petaled flower on his hair. It is lighter than the hue of his horns. Furina has yet to find a colour as tantalising as that ivory blue.

“Why so?”

It falls to the ground, like a flickering snowflake. Pahsiv picks it up and tries to tuck it again.

“I thought it appropriate, after all, I am technically still ‘visiting’ this land.”

“You must hold the record for the longest visit in Teyvat’s story.”

“It is not as if time has ever been a preoccupation of mine.”

Poor Pahsiv can’t keep the flower in his hair.

“Pahsiv” she turns around and Furina beckons her closer “here, I have an idea. Neuvillette, you too.”

Neuvillette, who has had his head diligently lowered and eyes closed, is the Oberon any director dreams to cast for their A Midsummer Night’s Dream. With flowers behind his pointy ear and the glow of the trees painting him in an even softer blue, he is the king of beings like Pahsiv. The monarch of wild fairies and delirious reveries.

Countless times has Furina tried to have him play a part in some play and countless times has Neuvillette dismissed her request. Yet, he obeys her so fast now, without even uttering a single why, Neuvillette just gets up, walks three steps and sits right where Furina tells him to: in front of her, looking at the lake and the willow of crystal tears.

With a single tug, the ribbon comes undone and Furina has no problem retiring it alongside the brooch.

“Pahsiv, do you know how to braid hair?”

Pahsiv blinks at her, her head titled in confusion, just like before. Then, she looks at Neuvillette, who growls quietly and Furina has no idea what it means, but Pahsiv nods before facing her and saying, in her hoarse voice: “Melusine.”

“You are lucky then. I am a great teacher.” Furina winks and Pahsiv beams, stepping closer.

“Pahsiv!”

“I will need you to be my assistant, could you pass me the flowers while I braid?”

Another growl from Neuvillette, another enthusiastic nod from Pahsiv and Furina is immediately offered a cute little white flower that she accepts with a chuckle. Pahsiv is adorable.

Furina turns the flower between her fingers and the petals swirl like a ballerina’s tutu. Put in Neuvillette’s hair, it stands even whiter among the silver strands, a snow flower born from beneath the ash. Furina holds it alongside three locks of hair, ready to start.

Then, an idea crosses her mind, a little self-indulgent voice whispering desires.

It… It wouldn’t hurt…

(Maybe not now, maybe not in the way she expects. But later it will. This mistake will follow her into her sleep.)

Furina lets go of the hair, sets the flower on her lap and pulls off her gloves.

The touch is so familiar it aches; she remembers doing this nearly every morning during his first years in the court. His hair is as silky now as it was before. It surprised her so much back in the day, to discover that the man who showed up stinking like algae had the hair of a sheltered noble.

Her fingers brush the strands, coiling one around her index. Lucious and shining sterling when Furina pulls and the sun hits it. No wonder the flower kept falling; there is not a single knot where it could have gotten entangled.

“We start by grabbing three locks” she does as she says, starting the braid near his left horn, so Pahsiv can see it better “we are going to do a little braid, so we don’t grab too much hair. Then, we start going like this” Furina crosses the strands, a practiced movement that comes naturally. She too had long hair for most of her life, after all, “and now we put the flower right here.”

The stem ends up where two locks cross and Furina keeps braiding a few more just to be sure it will stay there. It does and Pahsiv celebrates by jumping on place and letting out a howl that almost makes Furina fall from the trunk.

“Now another flower, please.”

Pahsiv is happy to oblige and Furina is happy to keep carding her fingers through this silvery silk, adorning it with colourful flowers that smell like fresh water and morning dew. So nostalgic. Furina didn’t realise how much she missed this fragrance until she smelled it again on him. Lemons and bulle fruit have a refreshing essence, but they don’t suit Neuvillette as well as this natural perfume. Yes, a king of fairies ought to carry the smell of flowers that bloom in his forest.

They keep going like this: with Pahsiv giving her the flowers and Furina braiding them into his hair. It is peaceful, the idyllic afternoon. The sun is warm, the breeze is gentle and other vishaps can be heard splashing around in the water. It is… it is almost surreal. A dream too good to be true that will end as soon as Pahsiv runs out of flowers and she will have to put on her gloves again.

At least, that’s what she thinks, until Pahsiv hands her the last flower and, before she can even tuck the stem into the braid, the wild fairy has already returned with another bouquet in her paws. Her tail wags so hard it makes a swiping sound and how could Furina refuse such an eager smile?

So, Furina finishes the braid and then starts another and she finishes that one too, so she braids another one. Pahsiv’s comings and goings keep getting longer, because every time she has to go further to get more flowers and between the fourth and fifth braid she starts being accompanied by another vishap, that carries the flowers on its mouth until Neuvillette snarls something that makes it hold the flowers on its hand, even if it means moving slower around the lake.

At the end, Furina decides that six braids are enough (that she has indulged more than she should) and scoops all his hair on her hands, caressing it with her fingers one final time, before separating it into three parts and starting to braid it all.

It is kind of funny, how heavy his hair is when handled all at once. The weight is comforting, though, it tempts her to bury her head in it, to sleep tucked between the silver locks. Oh, to be one of these flowers; decapitated and used to decorate the king of the forest.

“Pretty!”

Furina has to agree with Pahsiv; it is a beautiful braid. Although, with his hair tied up his horns stand out even more. Sprouting blue and proud from his head, they frame the braid as they curve down his back. She thinks about touching them, the skin of her fingers itching in anticipation. Her hands were on them a few hours ago, in the aquabus, but she misses the smoothness of their ivory and that minuscule, breathless gasp Neuvillette lets out wherever she caresses them.

She diverts her craving by twisting his ribbon and it is by doing so that she realises that the last detail is still missing.

“Do you know how to tie a bow?”

“Melusine.”

“Do you want to learn?”

“Pahsiv!”

So, so cute. Pahsiv is so cute. Furina has to restrain herself from hugging her when Pahsiv steps into the space between her legs, her back to her chest and her paws on the ribbon that Furina gives her. The other vishap (also curious, Furina supposes) stands next to them, its snout hovering near her shoulder. Furina needs a moment to convince herself that it isn’t going to bite her ear off, before she can take Pahsiv’s wrists and guide her.

A few tries are necessary, but at the end it is Pahsiv who hugs her in celebration, putting her arms around her neck and purring against her cheek. Furina feels about to melt. Pahsiv’s skin is scaly and cold, smooth in a different way melusine’s are. The texture similar to the finest of leathers.

(Would Neuvillette be the same, had he been born in the form he deserved?)

Furina returns the hug, Pahsiv’s tail hitting the side of her knees every time it wags.

“You did splendid Pahsiv. You are the perfect student” they separate a little, just what’s needed for Furina to look at her shimmering eyes, the pupils so big they appear almost round, “and assistant, of course.”

There must be something in her words that Pahsiv doesn’t really understand, because she tilts her head again, before immediately grabbing Neuvillette’s shoulder and groaning. Neuvillette turns his head just a little and Furina bites her lip.

(Yes, the box office would have a sellout in less than an hour if Neuvillette ever acted as Oberon.)

Neuvillette growls faintly in return and, once again, Furina is left none the wiser, but Pahsiv claps her paws and purrs at her, who pats her head.

“Pahsiv. Help. Good!”

“Yes, you helped a lot and did really well.”

Then, Pahsiv points (as much as her paw can point at something, which is at least more than Mademoiselle Crabaletta’s capability to play rock-paper-scissors) at the other vishap. “Help. Good.”

Furina looks at the vishap, at its sharp eyes, at its showing fangs. It doesn’t seem any less ferocious than the others, one soldier more, thirsty for blood. Yet, it stays put, sitting next to the trunk and observing her with those slitted pupils going thinner the more she stares—A predator, a beast. A monster that could tear her apart with the same claws that brought her flowers.

She pets its snout, then its head just behind the horn and the vishap merrily slumps on the trunk, purring as contently as Pahsiv did, while Furina scratches the side of its jaw.

“You did a good job too, thank you.”

Because sometimes it is easy to forget that the adorable fairy still snuzzling against her is also a terrifying vishap. Because if she doesn’t fear Pahsiv, there is no reason to fear the ones like her. Neuvillette’s kin. The Hydro Sovereign’s subjects and loyal vassals. Furina is safe around them, as long as she and their king are together.

A king with the prettiest braid in existence and the cutest daughters to fawn over it. Furina is curious about what Sedene will have to say about it. Maybe she can convince her to braid flowers in Neuvillette’s hair every morning, that for sure would set trends in the court. She can already imagine all the esteemed gentlemen in the city going around with flower crowns instead of hats.

“Neuvillette,” Furina, gently, pushes Pahsiv away to be able to grab the braid “here. Behold the magnificent results of our hard work.”

Pahsiv seems to understand what her intentions are, because soon she is in front of Neuvillette, gesticulating and groaning and snarling with excitement that makes her eyes as bright as lighting. Furina watches her for a moment, trying to find the meaning behind her motioning, but she only gets that Pahsiv is genuinely happy and, well, she supposes that’s all that matters.

She passes the braid over Neuvillette’s shoulder and his hands go up in an instant, hovering over the flowers. With the years, he started being afraid of breaking delicate things, becoming aware of how fragile the human realm was, how easily it could be destroyed, without hopes of repairing it afterwards.

It came out as condescending, at first, but it is not like Furina could deny the reality of Neuvillette’s powers, not even when they were incomplete and unrefined.

Now, with his authority restored, it must be harder to know when too much is too much. Like refamiliarizing yourself with your body after an injury leaves it unrecognisable—Poor, poor Hydro Dragon. His human skin has given him nothing but trouble, has it not?—It is something unimaginable for her.

(She remembers losing something, though. Her body being ripped in two, while staying whole. Something abandoned her, long ago. Someone. And it left her cold and hollow, weak, fragile and disoriented and utterly lost. She has been searching for it since then. But she will never return.)

In spite of his caution, Furina spies a smile stretching his lips. Whether it is Pahsiv’s antics or the braid, she doesn’t know and she doesn’t think it is of importance. Neuvillette is smiling, he is happy and it pulls at her heartstrings, it makes it sing. Joyful and enamoured and Furina wants to tease him, if only a little.

“So? What’s the verdict, my dear Iudex?”

The tips of his ears get the tiniest bit pink and Furina wants to bite themcounts herself satisfied.

“It is proof of how skilled you are, Furina.”

“I am not the only one you should direct your praises to.”

“Of course.” He concedes, laughing his soft laugh and petting Pahsiv’s head. Perhaps expecting some recognition too, the vishap gets up from the trunk and stands next to Pahsiv.

To her surprise, it snuggles its head against Pahsiv instead of Neuvillette. And it raises a question Furina has had since the first moment she saw her interacting with other vishaps. Because, is Pahsiv some kind of second-in-command around here? Something akin to a deputy leader when Neuvillette is absent? They seem to respect her and her orders or, at least, the groans Furina interprets as orders. Besides knowing that Neuvillette is at the top, she has no idea how vishap hierarchy works. Pahsiv could be everyone’s big sister (or aunt, or daughter, or mother), for all she knows.

Furina is about to ask about it, when her eyes catch a dot of colour where it shouldn’t be.

Now, with the braid pushed to one side, Neuvillette’s nape is visible and so is a smudge of pink peeking out from behind the collar of his clothes.

“Neuvillette” she calls, already leaning closer “a flower fell on your neck.”

The pad of her fingers brushes his skin and she feels him still, if only for a second. She waits patiently for some protest, but all Neuvillette does is sit Pahsiv on his lap, completely unbothered by Furina as his hands entangle in the fairy’s dark hair. Taking it as silent permission, Furina sneaks under his shirt and pulls it down alongside the Iudex’s robe.

What she sees isn’t a stray petal.

It is a lipstick stain.

There, in the middle of his pale flesh—strawberry pink and blatantly shaped like lips—is the mark of a kiss. Of someone that got close enough-that Neuvillette allowed close enough to press their mouth to the back of his neck.

Someone who probably hugged him from behind, whispering sweet-nothings to his flushed ear. Someone who spoke, sultry and velvety soft, about perversions and desires. Someone pressed against his back, with their nails sliding down his chest, leaving red trails in their wake. Someone who held his flesh between their teeth, had their tongue on his pulse and their lips on his neck. Where the skin is thinner and the blood runs hotter and passion resides.

Neuvillette hugged them back, right? Yes, he must have. He must have hugged them with those arms that embraced Furina sweetly, but not passionately. And he kissed them with those lips that smiled at Furina privately, distantly. He bit them where they were tender with those fangs Furina has seen, but that her skin hasn’t met. And his partner reciprocated, right? Yes, and they loved it, because it is impossible to not love Neuvillette, and he loved them back, because Neuvillette is just like that and he f*cked them. Yes, he did. His body covered in strawberry pink stains as they-

“Furina?”

It is difficult to breathe. Why? Why is it always difficult to breathe? Why is the air so thick? Why does it smell so sickeningly sweet?

“Yes,” she says, putting her hand away “I already took it out.”

The vishap that helped her with the braid is holding flowers in its hand. It leaves them at Neuvillette’s feet and goes away again. Neuvillette takes one of them (it is small, it is cute, it is pink) and puts it in Pahsiv’s hair.

“Thank you.”

The vishap returns with more flowers. They are strawberry pink and shaped like lips. When they smile at her, they bloom red.

“Furina, you are barely eating.” Neuvillette sounds worried. “Is it not to your taste?”

It isn’t that the food is unappealing, but more that there is a fist closed around her oesophagus that doesn’t allow a single bite to pass through.

“I am not really hungry.”

She can’t look at him.

“But you have not had a meal since this morning.”

The reason is absolutely moronic.

“You aren’t exactly devouring your share either.”

Neuvillette lets out an exhale, something heavy but soft, between a sigh and a scoff.

“Our constitutions and nature differ greatly, Furina.” He declares, like he is scolding her for saying something stupid. Furina deserves it. He should yell at her; she is an imbecile. “It would be imprudent to compare.”

Imprudent. Yes, imprudent can define it. However, foolish has a better ring to it. Yes, it is foolish, unwise, childish, immature, demential, absurd and any other word you would call someone who thought that a mystical beauty like Neuvillette wouldn’t get his hands on a lover once he got her off his back.

During their years together she had her suspicions about what could be keeping Neuvillette out of the dating pool. At first, it was obvious he was more beast than man, snarling as he was at anyone who showed anything less than total submission towards him. Later on, after the improvement of his manners, he was far too awkward and stiff around people, as if all the knowledge acquired about protocol and etiquette was shackling him in an isolated corner, the prospect of not following the social rules to be seen as regal as possible building a wall between him and others. Then, he got interested in law or, to be more specific, he got obsessed with it, captivated by the fact that humans invented their own sins, that they found them in everyday life. Savages trying to rule over their lawless nature, to force chaos into order. For nearly fifty years it was impossible to see Neuvillette more than a metre away from a legal codex.

It was during that period of time that Neuvillette dedicated to studying that he received the first of what, eventually, would turn into dozens upon dozens of proposals.

Funny enough; it was Furina’s fault.

After two weeks straight of being asked nothing but questions about the more bureaucratic (read: terribly boring) part of proceedings, Furina advised (more like pleaded) for him to direct his doubts at a member of the administrative staff. Any of them could, surely, give him a clearer insight into what really entailed conducting a trial and the investigations attached to it.

Back in that moment, it seemed like a good decision. It allowed her a break to enjoy her delicious cakes without having to stop mid-chew to explain to Neuvillette the reason behind the creation of every law he felt curious about. Something difficult for her to do, when every question that left his mouth felt like an accusation and she had to come up with excuses on the spot. Because, really, she doubted that Neuvillette would receive well the real answer, which was that Furina thought that absurd rules could lead up to outlandish trials that could end up in the magnificent finale she was promised.

(Would have hurt Mirror-me to be a little more specific? It would have saved Furina quite a lot of tears.)

What happened is that Neuvillette returned to her with a new set of inquiries far more interesting than discussing normative.

“What do societal norms dictate when refusing someone’s invitation to a date?” That’s what he asked. He jumped directly to rejection, not even considering the possibility of going out with the very pretty and (apparently) very assertive young lady that offered her help when Neuvillette entered the administrative wing demanding (it would take him a few more years to master the art of not ordering people around) for someone to give him detailed answers to his extremely specific questions.

Of course, the one that volunteered was the new hire who had spent enough time in the palais to be confident about tutoring someone, but not enough to come to know Neuvillette for his eccentricities, as the rest of them did.

The years in the court had mellowed Neuvillette’s character and the generation of nobles that witnessed his integration in human society—and spent the entirety of their tea parties calling him quite the colourful assortment of names—had long died down, their rumours buried with them. That did wonders to improve Neuvillette’s reputation (although that wouldn’t impede the tabloids, some decades later, from writing articles about how the just-appointed Chief Justice had to get on Furina’s pants before he could put on the Iudex robe) and so, people started to see him as the great catch he was, instead of some feral weirdo.

The development was surprising, but not unexpected. Neuvillette’s reaction, on the other hand, was exasperating.

“You aren’t even considering it?” She asked, because at that time the word love hadn’t bloomed in her chest and the possibility of him being in a relationship was amusing, instead of heartbreaking. “Good grief, Neuvillette. It would be an opportunity to experience a new facet of human life, aren’t you the tiniest bit curious about it?”

“No.” And then, because he was a petulant, stubborn little piece of… dragon, he added. “Not a smidgen.”

Furina would have rolled her eyes, had the word smidgen coming out of Neuvillette’s solemn face not sent her into a fit of laughter.

Things stayed like that for around two centuries, with Neuvillette receiving proposals and then going straight to Furina to plan the best refusal possible taking into account the suitor’s status, the context, the content of the petition and the level of interaction Neuvillette would need to have with them in the future. It was like a game, one Furina was an expert in, knowing the ins and outs of Fontaine’s politics as well as what place to occupy on stage.

From then on, since Fontaine got used to having Neuvillette as Chief Justice, he became the same level of unapproachable as Furina. At least, in regards to personal relationships. He was this almighty, stone-faced figure, more of a statue come alive than a citizen and so, despite the fact that Neuvillette had displayed a level of sweetness never seen before on him after the melusines’ integration in the court, people barely had the guts to even think about asking him out.

To Fontainians, Neuvillette might as well have been a god and no one was foolish enough to believe they could have a change with one.

Or that’s what Furina thought, until now. Obviously, she was the only fool.

Can anyone blame her? He always showed such disinterest in that kind of matter, sighing and hmmp-ing every time Furina prodded at the subject (“What’s your type?” “I am the purest representation of the Hydro-” “I didn’t mean elemental type, Neuvillette.”) and, once the buds of love started to graze her lungs, she stopped asking and just felt… Content? Satisfied? With the prospect of life just being the two of them together.

Maybe now would be a good time to start talking about it again. One question or two to discover who was brave enough to seduce the ruler of the nation. Who was good enough to succeed.

(Mirror-me?)

Furina closes her eyes and takes the tray of food off her lap to leave it next to her on the couch.

“I am just tired. I walked a lot today.” That, at least, is true. It gives her some comfort when she rests on the cushions, her neck craned over the back of the seat. “Keep telling me about the trial.”

That’s what they agreed on in the station and it is what he has been doing since the moment they said goodbye to Pahsiv at the forest’s entrance. Neuvillette commented on her distraction when they arrived at the aquabus and Elphane served each of them a full-course meal in a silver trail—at which Furina barely picked at, despite having some of her favourite dishes—, but Furina dismissed his worries and so, he continued with his retelling of the case.

She expects him to do the same now, so it comes as a surprise when he nudges her side with his knuckles. Furina almost jumps out of her skin when that light touch turns into a fully open hand splaying over her ribs.

There are five layers of clothes between his fingers and her flesh, yet she feels it on her bones. Hot and intrusive and like the dreams she has on scorching summer nights when even the finest of silks grate her nerves and she imagines that the sweat covering her is mixed with someone else’s.

“You have not been eating properly.”

If he were to inch his thumb the slightest bit to the right, he would graze the underside of her breast and it is utterly humiliating how tempted she is to make the move herself.

Is he even aware of it? Or is his head so full of his lover that he can’t even see her as a woman?

“It was a bad week.”

Do you fuss so much about them? She wants to ask, bitter and brazen, spitting venom. Or do you trust them enough to take care of themselves? She isn’t sure which one would hurt less. She doesn’t know what she desires from Neuvillette. She can’t have his love, she is afraid of his help, she is too desperate for his care, she keeps dreaming about him, she doesn’t want to see him again, she wants to be the one pressed against his back, leaving strawberry pink kisses and bite marks.

And Neuvillete doesn’t have the decency to let her think, before putting his hands on her waist, enveloping it in a hard grip that feels like the tightest corset she has ever worn and makes her gasp for air. Her body jolts, taut, on the edge of something hot and frightening. Furina is going to break under these fingers that dig into her flesh, forceful and tender, a reflection of the bleeding amethyst pinning her in place, peering into her soul and devouring it.

“This” his thumbs sink in her stomach, touching each other right over her navel “does not occur in one week.”

(Neuvillette is holding her by the waist with all the possessiveness of a lover, bringing her closer, his hips meeting hers as they melt together. There are whispers in her ear and teeth in her throat and Neuvillette kisses like he wants to eat her and she is covered in bruises that will never disappear, because she has this passion etched on the space between her veins. It is smothering and liberating, she is being set free by his fire. His hands carding through her long hair, full of reverence for his goddess, for his Archon, for his Justice. Awe sews stars in his bleeding gems when Mirror-me sings his name and he chases after her lips like a thirsty man does after water and they both drown in moans and the strawberry pink gloss coating her mouth. Their love is fogging the edges of Furina’s mirror cage and soon they are two tender shadows following the tidal of the sea, cradled by the mist that covers her eyes and separates her prison from the lovers’ heat.)

Furina whaps his hands in a frenzy, giving a shriek that is a combination of his name and a curse. That seems to be enough to make him recoil and Furina puts her arms around herself immediately.

“All these years and you still haven’t learnt not to comment on a lady’s body?” She is out of breath and she feels her face going beet-red, her blood hot with embarrassment and her eyes stinging with the start of tears.

She inhales, exhales, closes her eyelids and doesn’t open them until the ache goes away. When she does she finds Neuvillette’s worried eyes watching her, contrasting with the disapproving frown on his features.

“It is not a comment on your body, it is a regard for your health.”

You shouldn’t touch others like this! Screams a voice in her head, that wants to slap him across the face. You have someone now, Neuvillette, you should only do this with Mirror-methem, laments a better part of her, desperate to go home and forget.

The signs she thought she saw—all the devotion, the adoration, the affection that she cherished as much as she feared— were an illusion. A trick from her sick mind that put love where there was only worry. Because all this time Neuvillette had a beloved who gave him everything Furina— pathetic, weak, useless, lost Furina—couldn’t.

But from where comes all this despair? Shouldn’t she celebrate? She had decided, long ago, that she wouldn’t love Neuvillette. His dear Iudex deserves someone to ward off solitude, now that she is no longer with him. And he found them! He found them and he is happy! She should be too! She should laugh and tease him, asking when she will be able to meet the one who stole his heart.

“I am taking things one step at a time, Neuvillette. Don’t pressure me.”

Why is she like this? She is torturing herself for naught. Poor, kind Hydro Dragon is looking away from her, his hands closed around the ends of his robe, where the light blue material coils like a playful wave, forming fins. The end of the braid he has kept over his shoulder pools on his lap, fine threads of silver tied by a ribbon blue and black.

“I-” Neuvillette clenches his fist, his eyebrows furrowed in a deep frown as he pulls the words from behind his teeth. “I care about you, Furina.”

There is more there, probably not what Furina yearns for, but for sure more than she deserves.

She is a selfish prick, isn’t she? She has to get over it.

“I know,” the confession is a whisper, “I care about you too.”

The aquabus’ engine grumbles its quiet song. Synchronised twirls and pulls that bring them the clanking of metals and the chirping of the gears. Furina casts it a glance, waiting for Mirror-me to break the glass.

Mirror-me isn’t there. Mirror-me is dead. It shouldn’t be this easy to forget.

“What happened after the big brother’s widow admitted to having contacted a Sumerian scholar from Amurta?” It must catch Neuvillette by surprise, because he blinks at her with his pretty, pretty eyes, looking as lost as she feels. “At the trial” she clarifies and Neuvillette gives a little nod, “that’s where you stopped, I want to know what happens next.”

“I will, gleefully so,” the lopsided smile that forms on his lips is unexpected, to say the least, it puts a mischievous glint on his bleeding gems that makes them appear even bloodier, “in exchange for something from you.”

This feels like venturing into the lion’s den, but Furina can’t help it.

“What, exactly?”

Neuvillette points at the trial of food at her side, Furina looks at it out of reflex.

“I ask you to eat a quarter of the foie gras.” She faces him, incredulous, but Neuvillette’s pleading expression silences any protest. “Please, Furina. A quarter should be acceptable.”

The dish has two pieces of foie, so Furina guesses that ‘a quarter’ is half of one of them. They look mouthwatering and cooked just how she prefers, with one extra sweet flower pulp and caramelised onions on the side. It is obvious that, like the rest of the food, it was ordered to cater to her tastes. The ones Neuvillette is as familiar with as he is with the law.

(Does he do the same for them? Does he know them as well as he knows her?)

Her stomach is still closed tight. Empty and full at the same time. There is a prickling sensation in her intestines that tells her she is hungry, that she should be starving. Nevertheless, the need for food isn’t there.

But, maybe… Maybe he is right. It… It should be doable. It will only be half a portion and it isn’t as if she is ignorant of what going without eating does to her body.

“You better make it worth my time.” She teases, as lightheartedly as she can.

The reaction she gets is a soft smile and eyes that seem about to melt. “I will attempt to meet your expectations.”

The story that follows is one charged with betrayals, schemes, secret alliances and the underlying feeling that there is something more just beneath the surface, wanting for the right moment to emerge and turn the whole case upside down. The perfect example of a family drama and the proof that rich people, when given enough time to spare and the possibility of getting their hands on more money, will elaborate the most twisted of plans to achieve their objectives.

Furina does enjoy it at first, nibbling at the foie gras while listening to Neuvillette’s careful retelling and eating almost all the portion, instead of just half of it. The problem, is that relaxation leaves her distracted and the moment that Neuvillette decides to focus on explaining, in rigorous detail, the reasons why he refused to accept the conversation that one of the widows held with her deceased (hence the ‘widow’ part) husband via a Ouija board as an evidence against the other part, Furina mind wanders.

Like a flower popping up in a barred field, the thought comes at her suddenly and it leaves her transfixed.

What if the lipstick stain wasn’t real?

Then, another flower.

Maybe it really was a stray petal.

Soon, it becomes a full garden.

I didn’t look at it that well.

Perhaps I am misremembering.

It could have been a trick of the light.

A shadow of colour from the braid.

Maybe he got something smeared and didn’t notice.

Did it really have the shape of lips?

Did that even happen?

A thought blooms bigger than the others, spreading its petals within her skull. It overshadows any voice grating at her.

I must have imagined it.

Furina gives him a sidelong glance and confirms her suspicion: with his clothes in place there is no sign of any mark. It is probable that there is no mark at all. The more she thinks about it, the more she comes to realise that it was all in her head.

It makes sense: the supposed stain was the same strawberry pink as that one lipstick she assumes she left at the palais, because she hasn’t been able to find it in the makeup box in her apartment. That’s too much of a coincidence. Of all the existent shades available on the market, the presumed beloved wore the exact same hue of the lipstick she spent days rummaging through her house for?

This is just her brain making weird connections again, making her see things where they shouldn’t be.

…

Right?

Furina is tired.

Furina is so very tired.

But coincidences do happen, after all. So maybe there is a kiss mark on Neuvillette’s nape. Maybe he has a lover that, for whatever reason, he hasn’t told her about. For all she knows, he could have a ring box in his pocket at this very moment, ready to ask the big question to his perhaps non-existent special person. Who—why not? Why f*cking not?—could be no one less than resurrected Mirror-me that, unsurprisingly, didn’t bother to stop by her house to say hi after rising from the grave; it wouldn’t be that weird, at this point in her life.

“Neuvillette,” she is frustrated and it spills from her voice “you would tell me if Mi-Foçalors returned, wouldn’t you?”

The way in which Neuvillette looks at her, his eyes wide open and mouth aghast, shows genuine confusion. Somehow, it soothes her worries to see him this incredulous; Neuvillette could not fake this kind of expression.

“Furina” when he calls her, his voice has the softness of a cotton ball, the type that you soak in antiseptic before pressing it against an open wound. “I fear there is no possibility of that happening now or in the future.”

She knows that.

“But would you tell me?”

Her desperation is grating on her own ears, it makes her throat raw.

Neuvillette’s shoulders drop. He nods, her eyes not leaving hers. A glint of worry crosses his face, before it settles into understanding.

“Yes, Furina, I would inform you immediately.”

The air burns when it slides down her lungs, it is a welcomed ache. “Thank you.” She whispers, the end being muffled by the Iudex robe, when Furina rests against his side. “Sorry for interrupting, you can keep going.”

“I believed you to have lost interest.”

“Impossible. Now it is getting interesting.”

So, Neuvillette complies and he continues explaining how the other widow revealed that she not only communicated with the ghost of her own husband, but also the spirit of her father-in-law, the original holder of the family fortune and the one whose will caused the entirety of the problems that culminated in the deaths of his heirs.

Quite the spiritual ladies, those two. Not that Furina is any better, but at least she has the common sense to acknowledge that the things she hears, sees and feels aren’t real.

Now, though, she knows that the soft fabric under her cheek is real. She knows that Neuvillette is here, with her, and that his voice as he narrates the public’s reactions to such revelations is secretly amused, beneath the superficial exasperation.

She guesses that, if Neuvillette truly has a lover, they must cuddle with him in the exact same way she is doing. She wonders if they are tall enough to rest their chin on his shoulder, instead of awkwardly pressing the side of their face to his arm. Furina decides she doesn’t want to know and also, that she wants to indulge.

That’s why she closes her eyes, evens her breathing and drops all her weight on him. The motions came with practiced ease, after years of going through them.

It takes a while, but between retelling the last defence statements allowed to the parts and the intervention of the guards once things got out of hand, Neuvillette shifts, his monologue stopping to an abrupt end.

For a moment, there is silence and Furina concentrates on not stiffening a single muscle, knowing perfectly well that she is being thoroughly examined. The feeling of his eyes roaming her body is familiar and comforting, when it should be unsettling.

Then, Neuvillette moves his arm and Furina panics, until that same arm crosses over her back half a second later and brings her closer with the hand that cups the curve of her hip. Her head ends up pillowed by his chest, the fabric there as soft as the one in his sleeve and, since Furina is a seasoned actress, she doesn’t stir a bit, not even when the fragrance of the flowers in the braid prickles her nose.

Furina waits for what she knows is coming. She inhales, she exhales, she inhales again and it takes all her concentration to not flinch, when Neuvillette (finally) tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers play with the end of it, she knows because they tickle her neck every time they twirl and give her goosebumps she hopes Neuvillette doesn’t notice. Thankfully, he doesn’t, otherwise Furina doubts he would feel comfortable taking the hat off her head to start caressing her scalp.

It is the gentlest of touches, exactly what she needed. It makes her realise how much she has been craving this, this closeness, this vulnerability. Does he do this to his lover?He is the only one she has allowed to do this. The only one she could bend the rules for.

His fingers press and trace the lines of her skull, they go through every lock with fondness, with meticulous care. As if he were appraising her, telling her how precious she is, how valuable, how loved. Furina is teetering at the edge of a full body shiver, it is getting increasingly difficult to fake slumber. Her poor heart is trembling, shaking, skipping a beat when Neuvillette brushes her bangs away and Furina feels the tingling of his breathing before she feels the warmth of his lips on her forehead.

A kiss, a soft, kind, perfect marvellous little kiss that brings tears to her closed eyes.

Oh, she loves him so much.

The contact lasts a second, maybe two, Furina only knows that he lingers close enough for the tip of his nose to trace her temple, as he whispers, low and hoarse: “What do you dream about, Furina?”

In the good days, she dreams about drowning. In the bad ones, she dreams about not being able to drown.

He had Furina between his arms.

Furina was pressed against his chest, the dainty frame of her body fitting with him. Her hands, small, frail fluttered over his back, like the dance of two birds. Her fingers as delicate as their wings. The memory is burned in his skin, in the white scales scattered over it and that the clone scratches with her nails, when Neuvillette tears off her clothes.

She had her head on her lap as her mind betrayed her, attacking her with visions of dreadful disasters. Neuvillette watched over her as she calmed, observing how her breathing became lighter, how control returned. A spark of life behind the eyes she blinked open and promised him the fallacy that everything would be alright.

Nothing has been alright since she left. Nothing will ever be until she returns and embracing her like this becomes their routine. For her taste to be still on his tongue when the day dies and the moon spies them on each other’s arms, observing their sleep with her hollow eyes.

There is fire in his nape where her touch lingered, it climbs towards his head, extends through his hair and sets ablaze the braid he still wears. The one Furina made for him, the one she carefully tied with a song on her lips, the one she decked with the gifts of spring that are now raining on the replica, as colourful as the marks he left on her yesterday.

When he presses on the reminders of his passion, she bursts into song and Neuvillette hears the echoes of Furina’s joy in it. How her tongue went over the joking words, savouring them. Mischievous and playful, the picture of innocent temptation.

Oh, how much he desired to bite that teasing smile, to sink his teeth into her mouth and drink the memory of afternoons spent between laughter and confessions whispered by sugar-coated lips. Sweeter than the clone’s, warmer, but just as desperate as he is kissing her, all teeth and tongue and desire for more, for who returned his heart to his chest.

Because Neuvillette had her nestled at his side and he felt it beating again. Crazy and senseless, howling in longing and desire and pure, raw bliss. Those eyes, holders of the tempestuous sea and the calm sky, shut in peaceful respite. That, was trust. It was love. A look at what they could always have been, had he dared to question what really was behind her charades. A confirmation that the broken pieces of their existence could be mended.

It felt as hazy as a dream and as clear as a memory, to have his fingers carding through her hair. Pearly white, like the seafoam curling around waves. Kind gust of wind on his hands. Neuvillette brushed her bangs, the blue highlights on them even brighter between his gloves, the same soft hue of hydrangeas and not purple not pink Furina’s hair IS NOT LIKE THIS.

He pulls, she cries and with the blemish out of her hair this Furina is a little more perfect, a little more his.

Her sobs taste like cherries when he drowns them with his mouth. Her tears have the soreness of lemons as he grasps at her hair, where the pinks and purples shine under the light, breaking his fantasy and driving him mad.

Neuvillette rips them, all of them, there cannot be a single one left.

Blood stains the sheets, dots the flowers, paints them red and blue and pink and purple and gold. Locks of hair falling over them, pieces of scalp still attached to them, wet and dripping scarlet and blue and pink and purple and gold. They are snakes between the brushwood, intruders in his paradise of pearly white and hydrangea blue.

But he got rid of them, all of them, and his Furina is one step closer to what she should always have been, so Neuvillette congratulates her with a kiss and turns to rest on the bed.

He puts his hands over her chest, in the exact place where Furina rested her head when she gave him one last hug before running off to her apartment. There, under the tips of his fingers, his heart beats the hymn of happiness. Today, Furina returned it to him, after she ripped it off his ribcage the last time they met and it rejoices in a ballad of joy louder than the laments of the clone wheeping at the bed’s edge.

(Oh my~. That was a magnificent show. Foçalors, come here! Wipe your tears and witness their love. I am sure there is going to be a second round.)

When Chevreuse lifts her gaze, she realises that Valerie has fallen asleep. With her arms as a pillow and her head resting on them, she can only see her brown hair spilling out of her upsweep.

“I should wake her up.”

The chuckle Maël lets out is humorous, but quiet. It shakes his bandaged chest and he flinches just the tiniest bit.

“Has no one told you that you should never, under any circ*mstance wake up a pregnant woman?”

Chevreuse looks at her, at how she is sleeping where her husband’s legs should be, did he still have them. “I think her very pregnant body will be grateful for not having a sore back tomorrow.”

“She is pregnant, Captain, her back is going to hurt anyway.”

That might be true, but still, Chevreuse doesn’t feel comfortable with poor Valerie hunching like that. Nevertheless, there is another part of her that remembers her puffy and red lidded eyes as they waited in front of the operation room and Chevreuse thinks that allowing her to sleep for half an hour won’t be too bad. She is sure Theo would say the same, if he were awake right now.

Well, no. If Theo were awake, he would crawl towards his wife and pull her onto the bed himself, stitched wounds be damned. He would rather bleed to death on the floor than see Valerie be uncomfortable.

Maybe it is good that he is sleeping.

“You seem quite knowledgeable on the topic.” Chevreuse gives his hand a squeeze she intents to be gentle, but she doesn’t know if she quite manages it. “Is there anything you want to share with your Captain? A petition for parental leave, perhaps?”

Maël snorts, looking halfway between scandalised and amused. The muscles that are left on his shoulder spasm, broken and ripped apart beneath the skin turned blue and black. Yet, they manage to move the stump that’s left of his right arm, pointing upright, like lifting the hand that is no longer there, that will never return.

For a second, Chevreuse can see him celebrating a solved case by pointing his guns at the sky, saying, cheeky as always, that he could shoot down the sun. It is like the superposition of two pictures—a memory recent, yet blurred, and cruel reality. Put together to envelope her heart and choke it.

“For the Seven, no! Look at me,” she does, it hurts “I am too young to be anyone’s father!”

He is too young for too many things. Too young to lose an arm, too young to lose two members of his squad, too young to see them die right in front of his eyes and too young to be awakened tomorrow by the wailings of a mourning widow, desperately hugging the cold, mutilated corpse of her beloved, the father of the child she carries, of the man who broke into the house of one of the richest families in Fontaine and stole their jewellery to pay for the wedding she always dreamed about having.

Being part of the Special Patrol means you accept danger, that you get out of your house knowing it may be your last time locking the door. Chevreuse knows it isn’t for everyone, and that’s why the people under her charge aren’t just anyone. She selects them personally so they can atone for their misdeeds by working for the same city they aggravated.

Chavreuse prepares them to look criminals in the face and no waver when it is time to shoot, but no kill. She prepares them to encounter crime scenes that will make them empty their stomachs in the streets. The training she summits them to is meticulous and harsh and she tells them to cherish every moment, that all laughs today will be tears tomorrow.

But this? No, Chevreuse hadn’t accounted for this.

“You are right, you have barely stopped being a child.”

There must be something in her tone, she supposes, something broken enough for Maël to be squeezing her hand, as if she were the one in the hospital, alive only because her stubbornness exceeded even death.

“I will abuse the hell out of the sick leave, though.” He says and it is a tad too obvious that he is trying to make her laugh.

It works, though.

“Planning to visit your obviously real girlfriend, already?” Her teasing paints Maël’s cheeks in a soft pink and it soothes Chevreuse’s worries to see some colour in his sickly pale skin.

When he pouts, he truly looks like an overgrown child. “No you too, Captain.”

Messing with him this way has become routine at this point between the patrol. Not that anyone can blame them for not believing his claims of having a very stunning, very cool, very amazing and yes, very real, geez! Stop making fun of me, you jerks! girlfriend in Inazuma, when he was admitted to the team after Chevreuse investigated him for identity theft. Maël, behind his easy-going smile and enthusiastic demeanour, is a professional impersonator and, consequently, an experienced liar.

That’s the only reason why he can put on a happy face, even when the bandages around his stump have ever-growing spots of red. The doctor warned them that the wound wasn’t closing well. “The borders are too irregular” said she, her voice bordering on alarm “and the muscular fiver has been damaged beyond repair.”

Typical of Maël to be able to pull off such an act, even when high on meds.

“If you aren’t going to bring her here, at least tell me her postal address.”

“So you can send her a letter about how much of a mess I am right now?” He starts shaking his head, going tsk, tsk, tsk in a deliberately childish way, that doesn’t quite hide the way he grinds his teeth. “No can do, Captain.”

Chevreuse squares up her shoulders, her hand tapping over his knuckles.

“What if I make it an order?”

The gasp Maël lets out is so dramatically exaggerated, so impossibly theatrical. It plants a seed of hope in her insides.

“I am on sick leave! I answer to no one.”

“I never said I approved your petition.”

Maël pulls at her hand and Chevreuse tightens her grip. Maël’s fingers are weak in a way she never thought she would see in him. There is no strength in his grasp and no warmth in his palm. It is like the coldness of the hospital has slithered under his flesh, putting ice in the veins she now sees as clear as day, bulging weakly on his ghostly white skin.

“You must be kidding. Captain, look at me!” She does, it hurts. His body wallows in the miserable thin mattress and he can barely move. His voice is strained and his pulse is weak and Chevreuse sees how he tries to hide the shiver that runs down his only arm and that she feels on her own hand. It rattles her bones; it makes them ache. And yet, in his sunken eyes there is a spark. “Are you really going to put me to work?”

He is a fighter, isn’t he?

“One arm is enough to fire a gun.” The mask slips, just a bit, and Chevreuse notices the start of tears in his tired gaze. The curve of a genuine smile. “You will be okay.”

The exhale Maël lets out submerges the room in a strange quietness. Like this, with his eyelids closed, he looks even smaller. Scared, tired. Chevreuse presses two of her fingers over his wrists and counts his heartbeats.

Life is a fragile thing.

“If my Captain says so, I guess I have no other option.”

His hand shakes again when Chevreuse lifts it between hers, when she holds it against her forehead. His bony knuckles digging on her temple.

“That’s right, you don’t.”

He stinks of antiseptics and the sea. Too clean and yet not enough, sterile and sully all at once. It is a far cry from the gun powder that should cover his hand, coat his fingers. Engrained so thoroughly beneath his nails that they leave the smell of firepower in every little thing they end up touching.

Maël and Theo, both of them, shriek of salt and blood and fear. There is terror lingering in their every breath.

Horror for the monster that attacked them.

Panic for the memory of its fangs biting off their flesh, breaking their bones, sinking its fangs and ripping off their legs and arms and heads.

Chevreuse will seek justice for them, all of them.

She will kill that f*cking blubberbeast.