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Sovereign of All Waters upon The Whole Land of Teyvat sways his head sideways, blood trickling down his chin. Each creature of the sea mourns his defeat, their voices solitary wail, as tears pour down the sky with rain. World's rightful order is no more. That accursed God gifted with Heaven's might, that wicked Queen that stole his Power! The dragon rages, yet he is too weak, and on the deepest ocean-bed does coil, and shuts his eyes to hibernate and save the remnants of his force. It shall be centuries - the seas reject his peace, and so he is awakened few years later, lucid with hatred, rid of throne. Curiosity takes hold of him after a minute's while. What kingdoms has his arch-nemesis built while seeing him a threat long gone and withered? He must destroy them one by one!
With teeth as sharp as a bone's edge, the dragon rips off one piece of his flesh, and with that Spark and Song still left inside his heart, it's made into a little snake. Its eyes are his - as it emerges, crawling to the ground, he sees a city of ten marble walls, with joyful laughter and the sound of music from each way. Hiding in cracks, bypassing guards and children, he ends in a lush garden that circles round a palace of high towers and adorned stained-glass windows up above.
The dragon's luck prevails and here she is! Egeria, in all her divine glory, stark as a fallen star while poisonous and vile! Her chest now hides a chess piece of golden waterfalls that pumps her blood through all those putrid veins. The little snake creeps up an apple tree and watches her short stroll through greenery and flowers, tongue flickering to taste the aroma of air. Herself she smells of salt. But then behind her walks a lovely maiden - one of her handmaids none the less, perhaps a familiar or a mere servant - sapid enough to smell of noble lilies under the gentleness of moon. He notices it not, but sight of his forgets the heinous goddess to linger on the young girl's frame: her pearl-white cloak concealing neck and hair, her tender wrists that peek from under fabric. She freshens garden bloom with a swift tilt of a carafe of water, bare feet close following her mistress, not a word spilling down her lips. So it is of surprise when they both pass a lake, he hears the softest sigh. The girl touches her hand in hesitation, yet hastens to reconcile with Egeria - the palace takes them in, and he's left all alone. At last.
Rough skin slithering down the bark, the dragon-snake peeks fixedly into the waters’ stillness and finds the source of maiden’s sweet delay. A silver bracelet on the nest of seaweed. It must’ve slipped off the delicate curve of her body when she kneeled by the bush of rainbow roses. What’s called the thing that prompts him pick it up? A feeling uncharacteristic for a Sovereign, a rumble deep inside unknown to ruthless beast. He slips the bracelet onto this body’s long, strong coils, and escapes. For now he’s flummoxed - back to the seas it is.
+
The little oceanid flees in-between billowing gauzy tulles, close followed by offended angry shouting. Joy curdles in her chest, bubbles of purest water. Perhaps opening up bird cages in palace’s main hall has been a weeny bit unfair to all the other maids. Not all of them at once, leastways! Yet when she saw the graceful flapping of the wings; triumphant, cheerful cries a sonnet in the air… She felt no guilt, and thus she picked her dress and ran.
Now she has escaped to the gardens, filled full with crystalflies and bees. Here's the babbling of a brook, viridian of countless stalks and bushes. Here shall be peace. The little oceanid hears the rustling of the leaves behind her back and halts, plunged deep in thought. However, soon her thinking catches up to feet, two dew-white feet that move her body on own accord, by own needs. She never liked her sapphire tail. The past is dust, and with a soft melody of amour lodged in her throat, she rushes into dance. Mere days ago she watched a couple of performers received by Mistress, merging their movements into something grand and fragile with the intensity of animals let loose. It didn’t come across as warm. Perhaps she simply doesn’t understand human affairs so greatly yet: relationships, emotions, war and art. The twirling of her pretty marble legs causes the grass to tickle, and she giggles, rid of stupid thoughts. So what if she is by no means an artist? During such a very precious moment, the little oceanid feels so much she opens her arms wide, wishing to put an embrace over whole wide world. Is this not love? This not a chalice that keeps giving?
She’s only stopped when deep exhaustion grips every muscle of her flesh, and with a sigh denies fast-falling to the ground, shoulders straight. Some other time, it’s pride that may be her undoing.
“Did you enjoy my dance?”
His intense gaze too apparent for going undetected since her step beautified the garden, the little oceanid turns round only now. An intruder in human form, in human cloth, and yet could really he be human? The roses’ shadow soothes his pale skin; his hand is outstretched in waiting.
She looks and mildly gasps.
“Monsieur has brought my bracelet back. I’m grateful.”
She does expect for him to grab, and yet her fairness stays untouched as her deft fingers pick up silver from his palm. In rightful place, on her young wrist, it catches sunlight like a beggar catches dole. And his eyes narrow, pupils high and slit.
“Beautiful maiden. You shall be my bride.”
He speaks as if he isn't used to speaking. A dauntful growl, a grumble down the throat. She bursts out laughing and he almost recoils back, clearly surprised by such reaction.
“How bold!” the little oceanid covers not her mouth or her tails of hair, merrily bouncing on the wind. Her Mistress isn’t here. And she is free. “Alright then. But may I at the very least be bestowed my future husband’s name?”
A kite of hesitation passes across his face. Is he unused winning so swiftly or does he think she jests? Whatever the concern, he chases it away - and she does not expect a truthful answer, but she gets one:
“Very well. Yes. My name is—“
+
Regina of All Waters, Kindreds, Peoples, and Laws kneels down to kiss child's forehead, the dagger in her hand squeezed in a tighter grip. The clock is ticking short. There is no time. Egeria's untimely demise has stopped catastrophe from ever reaching Fontaine - her Sin remained, of course, a rupture in the ocean depths. She feels it even now, in her own chest. The stolen Power that is so grand it pulses, behind that fake, cold chess piece of a heart; the burden she is passed. Heaven rages punishments to suppress and sustain the world, and there’s no deliverance from justice. Yet… what is justice truly? Does it hide in a trial of detachment, so common to the ones who read out charges? Is it in guilt and shame of those locked in a Fortress, with naught a chance to see the sun again? Is it a song? Is it a bird? Scales adorned both in brightest jewels and soft feathers?
And what was love before it was called love? Was not it justice?
The goddess doesn’t care for answers to those questions - she is stubborn. Stubborn and cunning; she won’t lose to fools and fakes. Her truth is in an altar of a seashell, drowned by the beast of hundred tails. If Heavens want her people, she won’t have it. If Heavens want her husband, well… She smiles despite the rain about to pour.
The palace meets her with chilled silence, and yet she doesn't stop to prick her ears. Her dames have always been extremely keen on sheer avoidance of her husband - now that they fear Celestia will smite their land just like it cursed another nation, they hide in alcoves, pray. It is no secret their new mistress wed a dragon with starwater for blood, dangerous and cruel. Surely this sole connection is forbidden; what woe befell their heads! The goddess knows these rumors and ignores them. One only time she falters is when she's standing before a door, made of ash tree and gilded. Her deep breath knocks against the wood.
His eyes are on her in an instant, as soon as she has stepped inside, and oh— it hurts. To lead him to believe a lie, deceive him. But will he know, he’ll never let it happen - and she will never let him sacrifice himself. Some things are hers. Just hers. As such, she spreads pure silky fabric of her bone-white dress and climbs into his embrace. Her husband kisses like he’s starved and thirsty, a creature of the depths thrown out to wither in the sands of a vile desert. She bares his chest and touches that one place that pulses, warm under her palm. It’s just a heartbeat. There’s no Power. Unfairly, it’s in her. And though she knows for him it doesn’t matter anymore, she is the goddess of her parish. With lips and hands, she puts him down to bed.
“Will the Usurpers come—“ he murmurs when their lovemaking turns to idle snuggling, his claws sharp on her skin as if he is afraid she’ll dust away.
“We will face them together. I’m here,” she lies breath caught, and watches him succumb to sleep.
All prophecies come true, for better or for worse. She mustn’t falter - and thus a dagger’s plunged, deep into the chambers of her dragon-husband’s heart. When his soul soars above, the goddess confers it the final kiss before letting it loose from her own hands. If it’s reincarnation that shall keep him safe and sheltered, she’ll suffer time and time again. For him and for her people. And for love.
Her dress is stained, so she omits it altogether, naked as a daughter of the sea.
Both wind and rain tear window shutters off their hinges until the room's half-drowned.
Alone, the goddess looks at her frame in the mirror. Cuts herself in two.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
Ballet is hard. Furina has to tie her hair and even then, with movements studied beforehand, she fails and trips over her feet. It stops her for a little, a second to jerk her tutu here and there so that it doesn't crumple - then she's at it again. Cold afternoon sun of early autumn filters through the stained glass, the only company she has that colors her feet gold. The ballroom's empty. As is whole palace, truly; today the city holds a festival outdoors, and gracefully, Furina's presence is non-required. Left to her own devices, she chooses on more practice and more pain. Last time her feet bled through the dew-white shoes until she jumped into the waters, hiding her tears in depths. The seas have never once rejected her swanlike body or her breathing - perhaps the only proof she has of being Hydro Archon, if held to a trial; and what a ridiculous one it is. Inside her heart, Furina knows exactly who she is. But that knowledge won't help her save the people she's entrusted.
She shakes her head, banishing ceaseless thoughts. Today's a gentle day, and she just doesn't wish to spend it on lachrymation over her sins. A pirouette here, a pirouette there. Large crystals of the ceiling chandeliers echo her motions with a sway, dotting her attire in a myriad of lights. She doesn't follow any routine, though recently Furina's mind wanders to a very particular performance she once saw in the Opera Epiclese. Her arms become the arms of the main dancer, soft and lithe, two wings that dream to soar higher. Her feet move in a circle, the marble floor reminiscent of waters of a lake. Around, columns are dark trees; the forest intricate and ghastly, with fireflies ablaze. Blow forth the northern winds, gripping expensive fabric of her clothes, ravaging her hair.
On this stage with no spotlights, she is both a youthful maiden and a wicked enchantress, dooming herself to years of silent torture. If she were once to speak, would her nation reject such a flawed god? Furina still remembers the day of her chambers being entered by the highest officials, their unnerve if not hotter than hers, their lips forming Are you by any chance our Lady Focalors?
She remembers crying all night before that very day.
Yes. I am Her.
A sharp thrust forward, spin on the tips of fingers, elbows back. Then crane that neck in a bird manner, knees bowed with no respect. A creek of minutes turns to a river of hours until all that's left in her head is fairydust. Eventually, Furina tires. But she is prideful and will never fall aground as if she's nothing but a doll, strings cut. Her back is straight when she calms down her ragged breathing, closing her eyes to listen to the chime of holiday bells, far-reaching from the city.
“Did you enjoy my dance?”
Foolish to think she'd stay here all alone, no audience left, but he's not come for scoring. Her dear Iudex looks at her with something… Furina doesn't want to discern. You’re marvelous, he says. Of course, as always.
She doesn’t bestow him her smile, but as the sun goes for its zenith, all of the shadows in-between them thin away.
+
Is lie a sin able to be forgiven?
Midnight spills white over the skies, five-pointed dots utterly cold in all their fakeness. Furina twirls a silver bracelet on her wrist, sigh featherlight and caught inside the darkness of her room. The echoes of another futile conversation chase her to this very moment when she succumbs to fear and turns away. Her hair is still disheveled, nightgown glim without a light. Her fingertips scratch the glass of a lovely snow globe placed on her table as a gift by one of her late servants. Furina doesn't remember their name. She can barely remember their face, a whirlwind of never-ending exhaustion setting deep in her bones. So terrifying. So unfair.
Is not she god of fairness?
Yet worse of every peril she’s encountered - Furina’s come to realize - are features of his face. The gentleness that slips itself onto his chin whenever they’re alone, deft movements of his fingers. How strict he is when holding trial, how worshipful when kissing down her hands. Her every word is his command, though never did she ask for this unwavering adoration.
Globe's snowflakes howl - into their world, a snowstorm comes.
"I love you," he says, the cruelest negotiator in the wake of another fight of theirs, one that shakes Palais Mermonia; gestionnaires and melusines alike so greatly accustomed to broken cups and vases here and there.
(Furina knows she should confess it back).
“Take my hand in marriage,” he murmurs as they both exhaust themselves, though even after all the shouting he is calm and she just doesn’t shed a tear.
(Furina knows she should be saying yes.)
But then, how can she? If she’s to be his bride, how can she still keep the facade of reigning in control? And if she’s to confess, how will she save him from the rage of Heavens? No. No. Be it five hundred years or billions yet to come, by a promise she’s given herself back in the day when he first kissed her neck, Furina won’t waver. She’s doing it for him, for people, and for love. All that deceit isn’t for naught; at long last, it will serve its purpose.
Drawn on a laminated card lying by the hands of one skilled witch of those that visit Palais to entertain Her Divine Grace, Furina once saw a similar image. Scene captured wholly underglass: white hills, a tree, a building, windows lit. Home in a cage - and as it's shaken, her eyes notice a crack; too thin to let the blizzard out, but threatening nonetheless. Perhaps she should just get it fixed. Though where's that little rain-eyed ballerina that lives inside the house? Escaped on thin mechanic legs to twirl around her silver-gold toy soldier? Furina's smirk is sad, but she does not check her collection. Lovers have snuck together… and who is she to tear their hearts apart?
Her legs give way and she descends onto the floor, as cold as winter waters. With nobody around, hard-shell goddess allows herself a prayerful of weakness. Though in a second, a knock over the door ceases her weeping. Furina bolts, wiping away her cheeks; she almost clears her throat, though then, Neuvillette's gentle voice renders her speechless. He's here for her, ever forgiving. So maybe, for one night…
For the first time over the city of Teyvat, snow falls outside stained-glass windows. The final curtain is about to fall.
+
Palais is dreadfully quiet without the sound of her voice.
It is an observation Neuvillette makes on a simple day, unburdened by the row of harsh trials or monotonous paperwork, strolling through halls. There's no laugh, no whispering, no clatter - no sound at all that penetrates these walls, mute and in gloom after the Mistress of the House left them. Neuvillette's routine stays unchanged. He wakes (alone), sorts out duties (all alone), enters her chambers (empty, full of dust), dines at the table long and draped (no person at its other end), and with the come of midnight goes to bed (her scent is nowhere by his side). After the flood, court sessions are sparse, and so he directs forces on the rebuilding of most damaged parts of land. There are connections. There are plans.
Sedene watches him with such violent compassion he feels sick.
On a spring night with coldness in its veins, Neuvillette sees his first dream, made by this human mind of human body. In it, she dies. She dies again and then again. Night after night he sees her tide-white dress - three steps away her hand, and yet he is unable to catch up. The violence of golden light steals her away until he's left with nothing. No, nothing would be kind. Her final smile is so gentle it's cruel, and he awakes to burning in his hands and chest, all of his body in a fire of Power.
That accursed Power. If it were up to him, Neuvillette wouldn’t care. He’d know her hand by ferity and fondness. He’d be her slave if ever did she ask. In that world of a time long stilled, he laid his eyes upon her frame and knew he loved her: in every cycle, every life, every samsara. A Dragon falling for a cunning Goddess. And in the end, she did trick even him.
No matter this tremendous pain, Neuvillette chooses to respect her wishes. The part of her that stays retires from Palais grounds. He writes and sends her letters - Furina’s answers sparse and of few words, as if they haven’t shared both bread and blood; though he would never find her guilty. The absence of her eyes shepherds him to the walks around the city - when she is near, he cannot hold but follow like a snake, a creature cold and ill and starving. She’s here. For now. She’s fragile. Mortal. That thought alone keeps him awake, a storm cloud of worry always on horizon. He’d order Marechaussee Phantom to observe her, but well he knows there'll be a formal complaint on his desk.
Time trickles like a river. Then, rivers become rains.
Sensing his distress, a bunch of ever-loyal melusines keep him aware of events of her current life. Lady Furina asked to book Opera Epiclese. Lady Furina practiced with a sword. Lady Furina danced on the main square. Lady Furina went to the sea. Lady Furina had tea party with her friends. Lady Furina kneeled, kissing child's head. Lady Furina went back to the sea.
Lady Furina has not returned.
The Underworld swallows last sunlight; the sands swallow his boots. Neuvillette’s coat is lost somewhere along the way. Ahead of him, a north-cold wind picks up her lush black dress. Furina’s ankles caressed by the water, the jewels on them clang in tune with ebb. Three steps away her hand. But this time, she does waver.
“Please, Neuvi, do not mourn me when I’m gone. I’m tired of mourning.”
Her words are akin to the softest of whispers that strike him harsher than a lightning bolt. Never he should've let her leave alone. His mouth forms a litany of disavowal, a whole passage of no’s - if she’s to die again, then nothing shall survive. If she wishes to drown, he shall drain every sea and lake, doom people to extinction. If she is gone, all love is gone as well - no thing deserves to live, and he’ll make sure the Heavens fall along.
But she’s still here. He has caught up in time. Without a single thought, his knees give way and are kissed by the water - his arms embrace her legs. Furina jerks, surprised, but doesn’t step away.
His voice resounds on the surface, waves polishing it like the finest silver dagger of those bestowed your loved one as a courting gift in all lands of Teyvat:
"Without you, I don't want this country. There's no use for Power you gave back. No words make sense when you are not around." He stops, catches his breath. "I've asked that for a thousand times and I shall ask again. Do not leave. Beautiful maiden, I beg of you - be my bride."
As thick as fog, all silence cuts with the scatter of sunlit pearls that is Furina’s laughter. The tension in her shoulders disappears and for the first time ever, she looks truly happy. Neuvillette will destroy the stars to make her smile last forever.
“Alright then. I shall agree to your proposal, cold-cruel beast of the sea, my dear Iudex… Please treat me gently from now on.”
Her hair is short, her eyes two mirrors. Until the come of moon, they stay in water - he feeds her droplets of his blood.
The next day, Neuvillette orders thirty thousand lilies, each placed in every corner of Fontaine; and when the golden bells are rung, all know the grandest day is here, and joy runs in the air like blossom.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
Before the final curtain falls, Focalors thinks of a beautiful book she once read as a maiden. It was about the deeds of past, long gone and turned to splendor floating over the whole world. Another realm, another cycle, different names, but fate one and for all.
The God of Freedom spent all of his life in mourning for a boy who bled away on a torn battlefield.
The God of Contracts fell for a mortal that broke his heart and fled.
The God of Eternity lost every single darling soul and locked her own into a prison, ignorant and cruel.
The God of Wisdom laid Foolish King to rest and rotted into death alongside his precious body.
And then, the God of Justice. The God that killed herself to bestow her Beloved the Power to collapse The Throne and end all the samsaras.
Before the final curtain falls, Focalors smiles. Perhaps she never did escape that rock of hers, written onto the pages of forbidden knowledge. But as it stands, it doesn’t matter. She walked barefoot, blessed children, and she loved. Above it all, her love itself a sin, and yet she loved!- that Power hid inside her very heart, she rebelled, rebelled! The others will carry that torch for her now, further on.
The part of her that stays will heal his gaping wounds.
And in next life, she shall be born a swan.