There’s no end there’s no glory
There’s a slow resounding story
There’s no place to feel certain
There’s nobody waiting for me
The absolutely cloudless night sky gave way not just to the dimly glimmering company of the contemplative moon, but also a myriad of stars, twirling on the firmament in a dance so enthralling, so opulent, it has managed to successfully distract all of Teyvats inhabitants for centuries from seeing through the scintillating facade. She feels strikingly indifferent towards their allure.
The Knave walks at a leisurely pace, though it is hardly a leisurely walk. She’s returning to the House after a solitary mission, one of those which demand her and only her presence. The ugly kind. One of those tasks which must be done, yet no one is willing to commit to them. Some would think them ruthless, a needless spilling of blood – vicious acts of a crazed vigilante. She doesn’t quite see it as such – this is, in a way, the meaning of justice. One which the clean, self-indulgent court does not dare to dirty its hands with. Where they fail to take action, choosing to pompously talk of virtue instead, she operates, bringing justice to those not fortunate enough for the court to provide it for them.
A thankless, ostracizing job, but then again, she was born in the ugly, sloppily concealed cracks of this world, she was raised to live a life outside the perimeter.
She begins the slow descent from the lush green slopes of Mont Automnequi, from which one could get a panoramic view of nearly the entirety of Fontaine. At this point one is seized by the landscape – the entire Court to the left, the Opera Epiclese to the right, the ruins of Fort Charybdis behind, and the gravity-defying remains of the old Reseach Institute looming over all of them. And if one turns even slightly more to the left, they come face to face with Poisson. That is exactly where she spots their former Archon, which throws her for a loop.
Arlecchino can count on her fingers the amount of times she has been truly surprised in her life, and it seems that the retired Hydro Archon now takes up not one, but now two of them. She sees Furina sitting on the grass right by the vast and calm waters of the inland sea. Hunched over, she rests one arm on her knees and uses the other to smoke a cigarette. She puts it to her mouth, taking a slow, almost meditative inhale and pauses in that position, letting the smoke fog her lungs completely before the release.
Arlecchino stands in her position for a longer while, observing silently from the shadows. She watches Furina light another cigarette, take a couple of whiffs before she puts it out on her arm, observing it closely without a twitch. She repeats this process in a series of completely mechanical movements. The Knave can’t see her face from where she is positioned, but she knows Furina is completely numbed to the burn wounds. Once the cigarette is out, she lights a match. This time the burn is intense enough to elicit a flinch of pain from her. She doesn’t even use the Hydro vision, which has apparently been bestowed to her, to cool it off. She merely splashes water on herself with a sway of her other arm and bends forward, clutching her arm sharply with her hand.
She sits motionless, taking in the wounds, letting the throbbing high of the burning sensation consume her. Arlecchino hears her deep breaths evening as the sharp pain takes over her entire system, dissipating all emotion, clearing her from all thought. The cathartic tranquil of self inflicted wounds brings a relief so intense it makes one’s head spin. But it’s all a farce – nothing more than a trickery of the mind, the dopamine rush is just the fuel which puts in motion the machine cogs accelerating an endless cycle of guilt and shame. The Knave is well versed with how these things go.
It doesn’t take long before she reaches out for the next cigarette.
Arlecchino considers her next move. She has no interest in righteous charity missions. She categorically rejects nurturing pity. She loathes open displays of weakness – a clear sign of letting emotions take control over one, instead of taking control over them. She is far from being a stranger to such methods, however. It is no stranger to the children of the house, either. She knows the only solution can be found only inside the person themself, there’s no point in trying to pry it out against them.
However, she feels a strange need to engage, and it’s most bewildering to herself. It is the first time she has seen Furina in person since their diplomatic quarrel all the way before the flood. Knowing what she does now after the fact, it is a unique opportunity to come face to face with the ex-archon using more… organic means of confrontation. And, after all, she supposes there is a lot to be said to the woman in question. Especially now, seeing how whatever remains between them is no longer a game of politics, but a personal matter.
Arlecchino can’t shake the feeling of being put in place. And though she admits defeat, it grinds her gears nevertheless. She was outplayed at her game, and not only that, she was outplayed by someone whom she didn’t even respect enough to consider a player. It’s true that she held absolutely no respect for the woman, not just due to her disdain for the gods as a whole. The spineless megalomaniac has proven herself to be a stronger and more dedicated to avoiding the prophecy bastard than the nation as a whole. Arlecchino hates being wrong.
„Lady Furina,” she starts, making her presence known and beginning to approach the ex-Archon. The woman in question immediately flinches, and quickly covers her arm back in an animalistic, instinctive response to danger. The Knave suspects at first that it may be a result of Furina being absolutely terrified of her, but she soon realizes it truly could only be that primal need to avoid getting caught that could elicit such a fast and lucid response.
The retired Archon doesn’t even turn around to face her after that, and does not answer the taunt. The Harbinger walks closer.
Furina is not drunk. Arlecchino can smell no trace of alcohol from her, and there are no bottles to be found in the vicinity. Good, she thinks to herself. One less problem to take care of.
„What a chance meeting,” She tries, hoping to focus her interlocutor either on her fear of the Harbinger, or on her anger.
„I am of no use for you to toy with anymore. Or did you come here to finish the job?”
„That is not what i’m after.”
„Okay.”
Shit.
If Arlecchino is being honest, this may have been one of very few cases where she did not think through her course of action very well. She still isn't sure what she wanted to achieve by doing this, but she is certain the conversation is not going anywhere she was planning it to. She also heavily underestimated the sheer exhaustion Furina’s voice exuded in every word. There is no bite to her words. The Knave knows the woman has given out. There is not enough of her left inside to even fear her assassin.
She is hit with an uncomfortable familiarity.
Furina has remained unresponsive. The harbinger simply sits down on the grass, a safe distance away from the other, but close enough for her presence to be felt. She feels no pity for the woman, she does not care for what she indulges in. She is now stuck in a situation completely of her own.
The irony of it all is not lost on her. Truly, she is close to bursting into laughter – if only she could have seen herself from the side right now. Most who happen to see her have their fate already sealed. She has never had to be confronted with her past prey – those encounters only end one way. Yet here she is, not just defeated, but humiliated. And feeling unlike herself, like she hasn't felt in years. Though, she supposes, the situation the two of them have found themselves in is so surreal it’s hard to not feel an almost dizzying disconnect from reality.
Furina burns her gaze into the horizon as she continues to sit motionless. She must have been basking in the pain, taking in the wounds and feeling the treacherous sense of relief to her senses as she could finally concentrate her spiralling mind only on the striking, burning sensation. Arlecchino lets her have it, and before she realizes, her own gaze starts travelling somewhere distant. Though the Court of Fontaine is the furthest visible point on the horizon, The Knave is looking somewhere far beyond it – all the way to a place no longer existing on Fontaine’s maps – a monument of an era long gone.
She does not know how long they have been sitting in complete silence. Hours pass before the first word is exchanged.
“There’s no relief.”
The surface of the water ripples. The tranquil sea carries Furina’s words somewhere far, far away.
“There’s no triumph to victories like this. They bear no fruit of solace.” Her reply is left hanging as silence falls between them once more. Arlecchino comes to realize they are having two conversations completely parallel to each other, yet wholly intertwined.
“It’s all I’ve ever wanted. It’s all I’ve ever prayed for. And yet I feel nothing.” Arlecchino hears the other woman say, though it might just as well have been the freshly crowned king Peruere talking. She takes this in, realizing the stark similarities and even more glaring contrasts overflowing the suddenly claustrophobically small space between them. It’s suffocating.
“The pain is better.” Furina says, quietly. “It gives a purpose. It sharpens the senses, clears the mind. There is nothing to the numbness but the slow and quiet submission. I know no existence without pain. I never have.”
“It’s a false ally. Only one outcome awaits gamblers who expect a jackpot to save them from their debt.” The Knave counters sharply.
Furina refuses to respond directly. Maybe she’s too caught up in her thoughts. Maybe it’s all still too fresh. Maybe she doesn’t care.
“You hold onto the future like the last gasps for air before you drown, like the most fragile branch before you fall from the cliff. Hoping, begging, that it will save you from the present. Until that future comes and you realize – nothing lies beyond it.”
Arlecchino is hit with a pang to her head with these words. In a flash, the ruins of the old House rise from the liminal space in the corners of her eyes. She towers over them - the new King. There is nothing to rule over, however. Everything she's known her entire life just came down crumbling before her with the very building. The king of an empty kingdom. She hears the words said to her by the Jester upon her coronation. Rather than dwelling on how the world is now, you should consider to where it should go.
“You only stand to lose by being gone. Rebuilding yourself, even if only out of spite for this world, is the only true victory.” Furina seems to dwell on this response, possibly caught by surprise by this offer presented to her.
“Does it ever go away?”
“No.” is all Arlecchino manages to say before she bites her tongue. It always lingers beyond our sight. We will always be hollowed out by what could have been. You learn to circumvent it, but you can never fully eradicate it. “Isn’t life just enduring for the scarce moments of joy?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Then find your answer and argue it.”
Furina says nothing, but turns her head sharply and looks at Arlecchino for the first time this night, surprised by her words once more. Her eyes stay on The Knave for a while and she courteously pretends she does not see it. The conversation, if one can even call it that, ends here for a while. The silence gets swiftly filled by the distant song of early birds, the calm, steady hum of the waves hitting the shore, the delicate wind forcing the blades of grass to bend to its will.
A faint hint of dawn slowly starts to develop. Still working in the dark, it begins sluggishly easing the landscape in the East from the heavy cluster of stars, one at a time.
...
“Here the last light of the setting sun lies buried. Here the coming dawn finds a welcome.”
“Is that a poem?”
“No.”
“They are parting words to the person whose blood I had to carve myself anew with.”
It’s like a flash bang. Arlecchino gets up and leaves. She has said too much.The children will be worried if she does not return by the time the sun gives way to the morning. Her steps are quick and stiff. The sunrise picks up the pace.
The cloudless night sky dissipates completely, bowing down to an equally artificial cloudless day.