Chapter Text
The landlord of the small apartment at the end of the Quartier Narbonnais is a kindly old man afflicted with terrible nearsightedness and a perpetual hunch. It’s most likely thanks to his failing eyesight that he doesn’t seem to recognize Furina when she finally pens her signature on the lease and hands the forms back to him. He simply takes the papers, adjusts his bifocals, and squints at her signature for an uncomfortably long time before finally raising his head and smiling beatifically at her.
“All signed and sealed. Welcome to your new home, Mademoiselle… ah,” he glances back at the document, “Furny, is it?”
She doesn’t bother correcting him. Mademoiselle Furny it is. What difference will adding one more mask to her vast repertoire of fakes really make anyway.
Her new home is a far cry from the Palais Mermonia. Gone are the familiar white marble floors, shined to a reflective polish, replaced instead by rickety wooden boards warped with age that make her every step uneven. The kitchen was probably fashionable a few decades ago- now, it’s simply in disrepair. Her own room is pathetically small, consisting only of a deflated mattress, a writing desk missing half a leg, and a sole oil lamp. Furina flicks the lamp on, and the small flame comes to life. It tries valiantly to keep the darkness at bay, batting away at the encroaching shadows on the walls.
She turns around, taking it all in. Her new life, her new home. It’s old, it’s musty, it’s in utter shambles.
But it’s quiet and empty and that’s what she needs it to be because she is so, so, very tired.
Furina stares at the little flame for a while longer. Then, she flicks it off, letting the darkness swallow her whole as she falls onto her bed.
—
She spends hours lying in bed, staring at her unremarkable ceiling. There’s nothing really wrong with her ceiling per se, other than the fact that a large water stain seems to have taken up residence in the middle of the space, and that one corner looks as though it’s sagging under the weight of a few centuries worth of inflated expectations. But other than that, it’s fine, as far as ceilings go. If she’s feeling particularly generous, she might even be convinced to call it a rather normal ceiling, special in its overwhelming mundaneness. That is, if she’s feeling generous. Right now, it’s hard to muster up any feeling other than an overwhelming weariness.
Ceiling watching has become her new favorite pastime. It doesn’t require any thought or pretending, just inordinate amounts of time, which she has in spades. Her mornings usually start with waking up and counting the fine grains of wood she can make out on the ceiling, one by one until she loses count and has to start all over again. After a hundred or so rounds of mindless counting, she’ll fall into a fitful sleep again and wake up an hour or two later to go to the bathroom. Then it’s back to watching the ceiling some more and counting even more grains until the sunlight outside her window begins to dim into late afternoon, then dusk, and then finally, evening.
Evening is her most dreaded time of day because that’s when it becomes dark and when it becomes dark, the whispering thoughts in her head become braver and louder. She could easily flick on the lamp beside her on the bed stand to dispel the dark, but the mere thought of moving her arms even the slightest fraction seems like a monumentally draining task. So instead, she strains her eyesight in the encroaching darkness, trying to regain her count of the grains. But the harder she strains, the more the wood seems to shift and warp in the darkness, becoming all manner of absurd images. Sometimes she swears she can see flashes of the prophecy etched into the wood as if to taunt her; other times, she sees a masked face that looks like death holding a gigantic sword in its clawed hand. The sword is poised right above her head like the guillotine, ready to render its judgement.
And sometimes, it’s just eyes. Hundreds, thousands, millions of eyes, watching her, dissecting her like a frog on a tray. Eyes, eyes, eyes.
She shuts her own eyes, but they follow her into her mind as well, cutting and cutting and cutting until the pain finally turns into numbness. And when nothing remains of her original self, she places the pillow over her face and smothers herself until the world once again sinks into inky darkness.
In her dreams, she swears she can still hear the sound of the water rising.
—
It’s around the third day (or is it fourth? Time is a blur when all you do is stay in bed) of her newfound isolation that Furina discovers while immortal she may be, removed from the feeling of hunger she is not.
This presents a new problem to her situation. Back in the Palais Mermonia, she never had to suffer the indignity of missing a meal- not with her personal chef and a slew of servants ready to whip up a fine dining experience at her immediate beck and call. And if she wasn’t feeling the fine dining experience, a melusine guard would have been more than happy to run to the nearest confectionery store and fetch her a cake or pudding of some sort to sate her appetite. Suffice to say, hunger was a non-issue for her in the Palais Mermonia.
But she is not in the Palais Mermonia with her chefs and servers and melusine errand runners. She is in a small rented room that is barely keeping together, located at the end of the Quaritier Narbonnais, with only herself and the unending quiet for company.
Another uncomfortable growl from her stomach reluctantly forces her to action. It had been easy enough in the beginning to ward off the pangs of hunger by simply sleeping more and if she could have her way, she would have just chosen to sleep and never wake up. Unfortunately for her though, it would seem her stomach has other plans. Sluggishly, begrudgingly, she throws off the covers, trudges over to her kitchen, and opens the fridge. She peers inside.
What she sees is far from encouraging. Assorted condiments, while excellent when paired with food, are not food by themselves, unfortunately. A bottle of opened Fonta, half drunk- also not food. Mmm. What looks to be a scone of some sort left by the previous resident of the room- very tempting, but the slightly fuzzy green growth on its side is probably better left undisturbed.
With a sigh, Furina closes the fridge. She considers her options. Going back to sleep is impossible with how angrily her stomach is growling at her and while her landlord seems nice enough, she can’t exactly ask him to go and make a grocery run for her. Which means she has to do it herself.
She has to go.
Outside.
As soon as the thought pops into her mind, she feels her pulse quicken and breath shorten. An unsettling cold creeps into the pit of her stomach and for a second, it feels like she might- but then she ruthlessly shoves the feeling aside before it can overwhelm her.
She breathes in, then out. In, then out.
“It’s just some groceries.” She grits out, gripping the fridge handle with more force than is strictly necessary. “How hard can it be. If you can trick the people into thinking you were their god, you can damn well trick yourself into thinking that you’re okay.”
She pushes off the fridge, striding straight to the door. She lets manic momentum propel her forward, shoving away the doubts as she reaches for the door handle.
“You’re okay,” she mutters furiously to herself. “You have to be,” she says, opening the door.
And then she stops dead in her tracks.
Leaning on the opposite wall, Fontaine’s champion duelist and former bodyguard to the fake Archon of Hydro, Clorinde, raises her head.
Furina freezes.
Her former bodyguard makes no move. Only regards her with a blank gaze from beneath her bycocket hat.
A cold sweat begins to form on Furina’s brow. She remembers hearing a story once, more a rumor, circulating in the hushed whispers of Fontaine’s high society. How Fontaine’s newest champion duelist was descended from the Marechaussee, the famed hunters of old. How they never let their prey escape once they had them in their sights. How they always finished a hunt, always.
Clorinde remains motionless. Arms crossed, eyes fixed on her.
Furina opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. It feels like there’s ice in her throat.
Clorinde’s eyes bore into her.
Another second passes. A minute.
Two.
Numbing fear slowly turns to trepidation, to confusion. Is this a hunt… or is it a trap?
Furina takes a cautious step out. And then another, and another. Her former champion turns her head to follow her every step but makes no other move. It’s only when she’s nearly at the stairs leading down to the landing that Clorinde pushes off the wall.
Furina bolts. She takes the stairs down two, three at a time. It’s a miracle she doesn’t break her neck. She skids down into the shabby lobby, catching herself, and shoves the door open with her shoulder.
Only once she’s safely outside does she finally stop and hunch over, panting for breath. Hunger has left her weak and wobbly. Spots are dancing in her eyes. She squeezes them shut, trying to will them away.
She hears the door open behind her and her eyes fly open.
Clorinde steps out, shutting the door neatly behind her before turning to Furina with a single raised brow. As if to say, ‘Is that really the best you can do?’
It was never a hunt to begin with. Just a cat toying with the little frightened mouse.
The fear suddenly drains out of Furina. She’s so tired. The rational part of her brain is screaming at her to run, run away like she always has but she can’t. Not anymore. She’s just so. Damn. Tired.
“Just get it over with,” she says, the sound of her voice sounding broken even to her own ears. “I don’t care if you make it hurt. Just… make it quick.”
Something finally cracks in her former champion’s expression. For a fraction of a second, her stoic face drops, eyes widening. It’s almost sickly gratifying to Furina, seeing her would-be executioner breaking the icy facade.
And just as quickly as her expression changes, it reverts back to blankness.
Nothing. Not even an acknowledgement of her pain or weariness. Just… nothing.
Suddenly, Furina feels her resignation spark into fury. So this is the sum of her suffering then? Not even worthy enough to be a stain on her executioner’s blade. Fine.
Fine.
“To hell with you.”
Furina brushes past her former champion, walking down the street as fast as her legs can take her. She doesn’t bother looking behind her to see if she’s being followed or not. If her executioner wants to stick the knife into her back now, then so be it. If not, then fine.
She has groceries to get, death sentence or not.
Thankfully, the grocer is nearby, just on the corner of the quartier, only a block away. A small bell tinkles as she pushes the door open and the shopkeeper, a stern-looking older man with a droopy moustache raises his head from the newspaper he’s reading. He gives her a cursory nod before returning back to his newspaper.
A chilly reception. Perfect. Furina snags a basket and heads down an aisle filled with what looks to be bread and grains of some sort. The store is relatively empty, save for the occasional customer here and there, but Furina doesn’t want to linger more than she needs to. The last thing she needs right now is someone to recognize her. Or for Clorinde to follow her in and while Furina might have successfully faded from the spotlight, her former champion certainly has not.
She snatches a loaf of bread, mentally calculating the price and the Mora she has in her purse. This seems like it’s… enough? Maybe. Whatever. She shoves it into her basket along with a few random boxes of what looks to be a pasta of some variety before heading back to the front. She places the basket on the counter and the shopkeep looks up.
“Found everything alright then?”
Furina simply nods, not in the mood for conversation. Unperturbed, the shopkeeper sets his newspaper down and begins ringing her up. As he types the numbers into the register, Furina’s eyes land on the paper.
And freezes when she sees her own image staring right back at her.
Furina de Fontaine: Where Is Our God Now?
Liar, Crook, and Archon.
Court of Fontaine in shambles. The Oratrice no more.
What happens to us now?
That’s her picture. Her picture, right there, for all the world to see. Everyone can see her. Everyone. Everyone has their eyes on her. Everyone.
“Mademoiselle?”
Furina jumps, startling both herself and the shopkeeper.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” He deposits a few coins onto the counter. “Your change.”
Furina grabs at the coins. Her fingers are trembling and they fall out of her loose grip. She bites her lip, tries again.
The shopkeeper is looking at her strangely. He’s squinting.
“Have we met before, mademoiselle?”
Everyone can see her. Everyone. Everyone has eyes on her. Everyone.
She grabs her basket and dashes for the exit, ignoring the shopkeeper's surprised call. Somebody enters the shop and she can’t stop and runs right into them, sending her groceries flying to the ground.
“Sorry, sorry.” She shoves things pell-mell into her basket, not caring if something gets squished. “I’m so sorry.”
She picks herself off the ground and runs. She runs without stopping, faces passing by her in a blur. She runs all the way back to her small apartment at the end of Quartier Narbonnais, shoving the key into the lock. Once inside, she stumbles into the bathroom, catching herself on the edge of the sink.
She can’t breathe.
Eyes on her. Eyes on her.
Don’t look at me. Don’t look, please, please, please, please, please, please, don’t look at me.
Liar. Crook. Archon.
I’m sorry.
Her stomach churns and she dry heaves into the sink. Nothing comes out and she heaves again. She feels their eyes on her skin, judging her, seeing her for the fraud she really is.
Liar. Crook. Archon.
It’s your fault.
I’m sorry.
Her throat spasms and acid burns the back of her windpipe. She can’t breathe, she can’t breathe, she needs to breathe or she’ll drown, drown like the prophecy always said she would. The tears are threatening to drown her.
Someone grabs her by the elbow and she tries to scream but all that comes out is a pathetic whimper. She can’t see who it is. Her vision has gone dark and she’s terrified.
“I’m so sorry.”
And the tears finally drown her, leaving her all alone in the darkness once more.