Chapter Text
—
Eula’s eyes look like sunsets.
At the time, Jean hadn’t known her name, but that was her first thought when those pretty colors glared at her from across the cobbled plaza.
The blue-haired girl hides behind a tall man’s legs. He’d been arguing with Blanche’s father at Mondstadt General Goods for a while now. Jean knows, as she sits on the fountain, beside a sleepy Diluc, that she shouldn’t eavesdrop. Mother said it wasn’t proper, but she can’t help it; not when the men are practically screaming at each other, with half the plaza as their audience.
“You would have us starve, you miserable, no-good charlatan?” The irate man has the same hair color as who must be his daughter. His finger shakes with rage as he jabs it near the shopkeeper’s nose. “It is not like we want to resort to your lousy wares. There is not another shop for thousands of miles!”
Blanche’s father was usually a kind, soft-spoken person that sometimes gave the children sweets under the counter. But the way he screams back at the man is anything but, “I don’t care what you do! You might as well change out of those fancy shoes and travel those miles,” he folds his arms in front of his chest, defiant. “You and your clan may be unhappy about it, but this is the city of freedom. I’m free to refuse your business if I so please.”
“On what grounds?”
“On the grounds that you’re a Lawrence, how ’bout that?”
The girl with the pretty eyes flinches. The name is one Jean knows. She may be a kid, but Gunnhildr, Ragnvindr, Lawrence… mother made sure she knew them, as the firstborn in their family. Barbara was long gone, along with their father, so knowing Mondstadt’s history fell on her.
Lawrence. It explains the screaming, really.
The shopkeeper’s words stun the Lawrence man for a few seconds, but he recovers. The finger he’d been pointing with is suddenly aimed at the little girl beside him, “If you will not sell us goods, what am I supposed to feed the child?”
“You’re the parent,” the shopkeeper has already turned his back on him, “figure it out.”
The Lawrence man’s face has gone a deep shade of red. His shoulders shake. He looks like he wants to argue, but the indignity of yelling at a man who has turned his back would be too low. He decides against it.
“Come, Eula,” he snaps. He grabs her arm and tugs her close like he wants to break it. The small crowd that had gathered boos and hisses, but they don’t intervene. They only step aside as father and daughter storm away.
“I’d never seen her before,” Jean says, wondering why the Lawrence clan would hide who must be their heiress, their future. Or maybe Jean hadn’t been paying attention. After father left with her sister, things had become quite hectic for Jean, and her mind had been a little scattered.
“Eula is our age, I think.” Diluc throws a pebble inside the fountain, causing a minor splash. His bowtie’s come undone, his fiery hair loose around his shoulders, curling around his ears, always so carefree. But his voice was serious now. “My daddy says we should ignore her.”
Jean’s mother had said that, too, about that family in general. Frederica’s lips always pulled into a sneer whenever the Lawrence’s slinked around town with their ‘false air of superiority’ as she called it. Jean didn’t know they had a daughter her age, though.
“Eula,” Jean repeats.
Her name was pretty, too.
Jean doesn’t listen to the advice of Diluc’s daddy, or her own mother’s. If anything, their warnings make her more drawn to Eula.
Although her mother tried very hard to suppress that side of her, Jean was also her father’s daughter. He was very pious and important in the Church, but also a famous adventurer. She had a rebellious streak in her, however small it may be, that need only be stoked.
Against her better judgement, she sneaks inside the Lawrence manor. Their garden, at least. The gate is rotting, poorly maintained, and it’s easy fit through the bars. She wipes the grime off on her pants and feels the unfamiliar, but welcome rush of doing something she probably shouldn’t be doing.
It doesn’t last long.
She wasn’t counting on the feral child that tackles her against the overgrown grass.
Her attacker is about her size, and she initially fears it may be a dog. She hadn’t accounted for a pet. Her experience handling animals was limited to turtles. Jean cries out as a knee gets pressed into the small of her back. A human knee.
A person, then.
Jean is left gasping when she’s flipped into her back. The stars overhead are of little comfort, for they’re immediately blocked out by the pale face of Eula Lawrence.
“Gunnhildr,” Eula growls. Her eyes are cold with hate, and in the inky night, they don’t look like sunsets. They look like dark pits.
“H-how do you know?”
“Uncle Schubert pointed you out once. Said you’re Frederica’s daughter.”
The fact that Eula knew of her existence long before Jean did makes her feel embarrassed for some reason. Trying to struggle free feels hopeless, as Eula’s thighs are pinned tightly around Jean’s hips and her hands press Jean’s shoulders down. She can feel the back of her clothes getting grass stains and mud, and the fit that her mother was going throw over it only adds to the panic rising inside her.
“What’re you doing here—” Eula stops her own sentence before it can be raised into a question. She seems to mentally scold herself. She changes her voice into an aristocratic drawl, “State your business, Small Frederica.”
The blonde winces. The last thing she wanted was to be considered her mother’s clone. “My name is Jean.”
“Hmph. That’s not what I asked.”
Jean cants her head, best as she can while laying down. “You didn’t ask anything… you ordered me to state my—”
“I know what I said,” Eula hisses, and despite the dark, Jean can see her face flush self-consciously at the misstep.
She doesn’t like talking like this, even if Eula’s weight on her doesn’t feel so threatening anymore. She actually kind of liked it. Jean rolls her shoulders as if to rise, “Get off of me and we can talk—”
“No!” Eula’s grip tightens, and her voice is loud. Loud enough for someone in the house to hear. Eula must have the same thought, because she glances nervously over her shoulder, at the manor looming behind them. She draws her bottom lip into her mouth, “Maybe I should get father. You shouldn’t be here…”
There was no way Jean was willing to meet the screaming man from the plaza. If he told her mother, she would be in heaps of trouble. For the first time, Jean forces herself to be calm, even if her voice betrays her when she says, “I b-brought you something.”
Eula scoffs, “So! You reveal your motive at long last. You’re here to mock me.” Her eyes narrow into slits, “Tell me. Is it rocks, or garbage?”
Jean blinks, surprised that that’s Eula’s first guess. That she was here to be cruel, which-- it honestly never crossed her mind. The blonde swallows, tries to speak around the growing lump in her throat, “No, no. It’s nothing bad,” she worries the other girl will get agitated again, so instead she tries to make her eyes as earnest as possible. “See for yourself. It went flying when you tackled me.” Jean can’t crane her neck very far, and with how tall the grass is, she can’t see very well where the bundled cloth landed. “It… it should be around here.”
The hateful glow in Eula’s eyes dims somewhat, but her tone is no less hostile when she says, “Tell me what it is.”
Jean opens her mouth, but a sound rings out in the night that makes both girls freeze.
“Eula! Is it you out there?”
The girl straddling her goes stiff, and she slaps one of her hands over Jean’s mouth after she lets out a gasp. The fact that it is not Eula’s father is of little comfort. Any Lawrence grown-up, Jean wanted nothing to do with.
“Yes, aunt.” Eula calls back. Her voice is a different timbre. Higher, more careful.
Thankfully, the woman does not approach them. “And what in the blazes are you up to? It is well past your bedtime! A young lady of your standing should not be tumbling around in the dark.”
A beat of silence. Then, Eula’s response, “Father said to stand out here as punishment.”
It dawns on Jean that Eula probably wasn’t lying. She had been prowling her deserted, creepy backyard, and that’s how she’d found Jean so quickly. Frederica could be strict in her methods, but never so callous as to make her stay out in the cold darkness to learn a lesson.
“… very well. Lock the door when you are finished, will you?”
Jean was no stranger to punishment from a parent, but even in her worst days, her mother would never lock her daughter out of the house, let alone so close to the unforgiving winter. She wonders what in the world Eula did to make her father so mad.
Her aunt’s intervention seems to break a spell. Eula rolls off, brings her knees close to her chest, making herself look smaller. “You should go,” Eula’s not looking at her anymore, “none of the grownups will take kindly to your visit, if they find out.”
“Are you going to tell them?” Free at last, Jean sits up, tries to fix her messy ponytail. Instead of following what was probably very sound advice, she stays sitting right beside the strange girl.
Eula shakes her head, “My vengeance will come at another time, in a different manner.”
She’s funny, Jean decides. Instead of leaving, she folds her legs under herself. “Aren’t you cold?” Jean asks, as her own teeth begin to chatter.
“No.”
The blonde has a hard time believing that, but the other girl doesn’t sound like she’s messing around. Eula is wearing a thin cotton shirt, her elegant coat from the plaza long gone, but she’s not shivering or anything. They like to keep up appearances, Diluc had explained on the walk home. But daddy says their mora from years ago is running out.
The other girl finally looks at her, “Stop staring. I get enough of that outside these walls.”
Jean can't help it, can't tear away her gaze. She squints at her through the dark, “Are you lying? About being cold.”
“You will pay dearly for such an insolent question,” Eula parrots, with words she obviously copied from someone else. In the five minutes of knowing her, Jean had picked up on this trend of hers, in the way she spoke. Eula seemed to try really hard to talk in an old-fashioned way, like the nobility they had long moved past. It sounded kinda silly coming from a little kid.
“Sorry. It’s just-- it’s chilly tonight, is all.”
“I don’t get cold,” Eula says, maybe deciding Jean’s question wasn’t said with malice. “I… don’t mind it. Never have.”
The fireflies start to buzz to life, providing some much-needed light. Jean is grateful for it, for now she can see the soft lines on Eula’s face, not just the sharp edges. She looks a lot less scary in the light. Thanks to the glow from the fireflies, Jean can finally locate the reason she’d even come here in the first place.
“Oh! There it is!” Jean brightens as she spots the tightly wrapped package. It didn’t go flying too far after Eula’s rough welcome. She doesn’t want to startle her host or anything, so she simply crawls on hands and knees and brings over the goods, holds them up for the other girl to take. “Here! For you.”
Eula’s dainty nose wrinkles as the smell probably hits her. By now she must realize it’s not rocks or garbage, but one of the specialty dishes from The Good Hunter. Jean didn’t know if the Lawrence girl had any preferences, so she just went for one of their best dishes.
To her dismay, Eula doesn’t immediately take it. She hugs her knees closer to her chest and murmurs, “But… we’re sworn enemies.”
Jean’s brows furrow together, “We are?”
“Yes! You’re a Gunnhildr,” with her index, she points to Jean. With her thumb, Eula points back to herself, “I’m a Lawrence. Duh.”
“Well,” Jean begins. She didn’t like the way Eula said that, like it… like it was a given that they should hate the other’s guts just because of their families. She raises her chin slightly when she tells her, “I didn’t ask to be a Gunnhildr.”
“And I didn’t ask to be a Lawrence!” Eula shoots back immediately. Her pretty eyes go wide, and Jean can’t help the way her lips tug into a smile. Right on the nose.
“Then you’re not my sworn anything,” Jean taps her knuckles against the still-steamy package. “You’re just Eula. And I’m not-- I’m not my mother, or anyone else. I’m Jean.”
Eula puffs out her cheeks, still looking dejected, but she’s eyeing the food container with unmistakable interest. “And you’re willing to sell this meal to a Lawrence?”
“No.” Jean says, and her heart breaks a little when Eula’s face falls-- she probably thought this was just some elaborate prank after all. Jean hurries to continue, “No, I’m not selling it -- I’m giving it. To you. For free.”
Eula’s mouth opens, but before she can vomit some more of her uncle’s words, Jean forces the package into her hands and loudly states, “Just take it, please. Don’t argue with me. No mora necessary, a-and no take-backs.”
She quickly draws her hands back and clasps them together, refusing to take it back even if the other girl tried. The face Eula makes is exactly like the one her father did today-- like she wants to argue, but decides it’s pointless. Hunger was a good way to bypass someone’s pride, Jean had come to learn.
Before Jean can apologize for not bringing any utensils, Eula tears at the wrapping, and her jaw falls open as the delicious fowl comes into view. It’s roasted to perfection, coated in the restaurant’s signature gravy, still steamy from the oven. Jean bought it from Sara right before they closed for the day.
The way Eula eats is frenzied, like she’s afraid it will be taken away. She slurps and chews and smacks her lips, and Jean can’t help but think that if the rest the Lawrences were to see, they would reprimand her for it. For her part, she can’t look away. Eula licks the grease from her fingers, sucks every tender piece of meat from the bone; Jean had never seen someone enjoy Sara’s cooking this much. And everyone loved Sara’s cooking.
While she’s busy devouring what could very well be her only meal of the day, Jean risks another question.
“Why did your father lock you out?”
Eula’s entire frame tenses, and she hesitates. It serves to get her to slow down somewhat, to search Jean’s face in that careful way of hers. Eventually, Eula sighs. “He doesn’t approve of my chosen mentor. He… hoped the night air would ‘clear my head’, and persuade me to change my mind.”
Jean’s insides twist with hatred for Eula’s father, but she doesn’t want to make the other girl feel any worse. Instead, she asks, “Who’s your mentor?”
“The leader of the Outriders,” Eula says, offering her first smile of the night. “The man from Liyue.”
“Oh! I know him. He’s just had a granddaughter,” Jean’s family was deeply connected to the Knights of Favonius, for she would join their ranks one day, as would Diluc. A few weeks ago, Jean’s mother had brought the family an embroidered blanket with the little girl’s name, Amber.
“Father doesn’t like that he’s… a knight,” Eula whispers the last word like it’s a dirty one. “But… I like him. He’s something of an outcast, like... like me. And he promised to teach me Favonius bladework.”
Jean grins, “That’s the style mother wants me to learn, too. You’re going to train in swords?”
“Yes, but double-handed. Claymores,” Eula chirps, looking a lot more relaxed. No wonder the other girl was so strong. Diluc was barely getting started on his own training with the same weapon. He was progressing very fast and becoming very powerful.
Eula goes back to her food, only more calmly, finally pacing herself. There’s still that slight sense of urgency in her, but it’s tame, now. With a full belly, Jean wonders if Eula’s smiles will come more easily.
When she’s done, Eula seems to remember herself. Like a reflex, her back straightens, and she wipes the grease from her chin as delicately as she can. Before Jean can say anything, Eula blurts out, “I’ll have to get you back for this.”
“W-what?”
“I shall deliver you a meal so delicious you will have no choice but to devour it like a wild beast. Then you’ll see.” Eula says, in what she may think is a threatening manner. Jean can’t see very well in the dark, but she does think the other girl may be blushing.
“Oh… okay, yeah. I would… like to eat with you sometime,” Jean says, trying not to sound too eager. Diluc was her buddy, but boys could be dumb. Jean wouldn’t mind having another friend, even if her mother was against it.
“It was not an invitation,” Eula says, far too quickly. It was almost like a defense mechanism, but Jean finds that she doesn’t mind it. When Jean doesn’t snap back with anything, the young Lawrence fumbles to add, “But… but, if you insist… I suppose it will be easier to settle this if we are in close proximity.”
Eula sniffles. Then, in the darkness:
“Thank you.”
Jean smiles. She hadn’t done this looking for anything in return, but the gratitude is nice. Originally, the plan had consisted on leaving the package by the back door and ringing the doorbell, then fleeing into the night. She’s glad the plan didn’t work out like she wanted.
But there was a downside. Jean had stayed far longer than what was safe. It would be a miracle if her mother hadn’t already filed a missing person’s report.
She stands, pats herself off even if it’s just for show. The mud would remain caked to her pants unfortunately. “I should go,” Jean says.
Eula nods mutely. As Jean starts to shuffle away, feeling her way through the dark, she thinks they’re going to leave things as is. She’s proved wrong when Eula clears her throat behind her, getting her to turn.
“May the gentle breeze softly send thee into a sweet sleep,” Eula’s delivery of the old aristocratic saying is exactly as dorky as one would expect. She’s awkward about it, but Jean finds the gesture very endearing.
Yes, even if the world didn’t want them to, Jean would befriend the strange Lawrence child and prove her mother wrong about them. Prove everyone wrong. She hopes Eula will let her.
The thought makes Jean smile. She raises her hand, offers something more appropriate with the times. “Goodnight, Eula.”
“... goodnight, Jean.”