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The Hydro Archon, Arlecchino realizes halfway through leaving the scene, having disappeared into the shadows, is crying . The sound is soft, meek, and whiny, yet it makes the Knave pause, causes her to turn around and find the god with an icy gaze that almost melts as it lands on the fraudulent Archon before her. The sight should not make her falter, but it does, somehow it does.
Furina is a pathetic, sniveling thing as she cries, hugging herself on her knees with tears streaming down her face, and Arlecchino is not one to sympathize, and yet , yet there's this strange, empathetic tug on her blackened heart, dark and heavy and strong. It's the closest thing to guilt that Arlecchino has ever felt, and it's only her practiced self-control that keeps her from kneeling down to Furina's level with a tenderness she rarely shows, gentle and slow as if approaching a wild animal. If she lets herself, she might do something so bold as to wipe Furina's tears away, clawed hands suddenly gentle as they ghost over delicate skin and tear-stained cheeks. A god should not be so pathetic, but a girl so beautiful should not have to cry, and the sight stirs both contempt and care in Arlecchino - the latter being something she's only displayed to her children.
It's a strange feeling to feel for the pathetic 'god' sobbing before her, this protectiveness that Arlecchino hardly recognizes. She feels- she knows that the next time they meet, Furina will be tragically afraid of her, and Arlecchino will be unable to do anything but encourage that fear - so perhaps the only thing she can do for this detested god of hers is not let anyone but the Knave herself hurt her. This vow she makes to herself, to her own beating heart, despite the calculations of her mind knowing what a mistake it is to allow these feelings to fester. She wishes she could detest this god, but seeing her weep pitifully, hearing the sobs that escape from soft lips, she cannot find it in herself.
Arlecchino knows that logically, Furina is pathetic. A poor excuse for a god. An actor playing a role in real life, a sham whose negligence will be the death of this nation. Not a woman who deserves to be protected, only a clown when she rules with such arrogance and foolishness and brings naught but doom to her nation.
...And yet, Arlecchino, too, is a clown. A sophisticated fool, but a fool nonetheless - born to live tragedy's game, to never escape the endless machinations of time and Celestia as all mortals do. She was, she feels, meant to be a protector, yet the shield she holds over her children is stained with blood from what lives she herself has destroyed. Arlecchino deems bloodshed necessary, but what does it say about the world that hands meant to hold have become bathed in blood, mangled and deformed? A father's love should be firm and warm, but this land- no, the wild tundra, bitter and rigid, has no place for gentleness. In the Tsaritsa's nation, mercy is naught but weakness.
So what does it mean for Arlecchino that in the face of this sniveling girl, she finds herself wanting to show compassion? Furina is pathetic - she tells that to herself like a mantra, like she's trying to dispel what kindness she feels for her - but the grasp Furina has unintentionally found on each and every feeling Arlecchino has tried to grind away in pursuit of her goals is unshakable, tearing her apart from the inside. Arlecchino's hands are so tightly balled into fists that her nails break her skin, just to stop herself from doing something quite out of character, quite foolish. She turns away from the heap on the ground and snarls at nobody but herself, her face flushed at her own weakness, her heart racing, and tries to believe she can hate the girl she leaves behind.
Perhaps, by the end of this endeavor in Fontaine, it will be Arlecchino begging for her life instead - because Furina, she knows now, is the only person who could ever destroy her.