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Here lies Amalie Snezhevna.
"A Fatui Operative trainee," The Knaved named, one knee down on the packed dirt next to the grave. "She died recently on a ruthless mission."
"How old was she?"
"Thirteen."
The tip of Furina's shoe dug at a patch of grass a few steps away from the Harbinger, arms crossed behind her back as she politely attempted to formulate any next words. This was a rather awkward appearance, Arlecchino should've realized. Forcibly wringing a detour from their scheduled tea party just because she forgot to visit a grave should have been a rather obvious indicator of how out-of-place her companion would be.
Not to mention, from appearance alone, the two already styled the part of an unceremonious meeting—Arlecchino, who had switched coats for a more casual look, and Furina, who held a bag that carried tea boxes and sweets for their little commitment.
But such oddities in visiting slipped her mind, she supposed; Whether that be due to her own entitled obligation to visit the graves of the recently fallen, or because of the sickening sense of sympathy that Furina herself radiated, The Knave did not know.
"When did she..."
"Just last week. Couldn't wait to go on another mission before she passed"
She did not even have to turn around to tell that Furina's face fell into a frown. It baffled her, truly, how the ex-archon could feel unadulterated sorrow for a person she had never seen before. A Fatuus, no less. For a lady she once thought was a snobbish aristocrat uncaring of the poorer classes, Furina was quite empathetic and dutiful towards respect for the dead.
...Arelcchino supposed she herself was once like that, too.
Mother always saw the act of mourning as a weakness; she was personally told that herself.
It was a smog that lingered in the air subject to a replaceable afterthought. A drag for something more sinister, a weakness to be disadvantageous—she had learned to treat it as such. Furina never saw it that way. Arlecchino might've admired that about her.
"No memorial for this fallen soldier?" her companion asked further. And it was only then did Arlecchino notice the harmony of her voice—the way Furina spoke with a tone so indubitably parallel to the aura around them. Light, airy, considerate, kind ; even the aching swell of Arlecchino's heart could not begin to fathom Furina's unconditional compassion. "Not even flowers from the other children?"
"It's already been a week since her burial; Someone must've cleaned it up already," the Harbinger steadily answered. "But, I do leave them adorned with a cross a certain time after their body has settled... A parting prayer, if you must call it something." Her explanation fell upon attentive ears and silent lips as careful, mismatched eyes surveyed her movements. And after she delicately laid the wooden offering down atop the grave, she thought it mindful to add, "The other children do give memorials to their fellow fallen members, yes, if that's what you were asking."
With no verbal response, she heard Furina shuffle behind her. It happened for only a few seconds with the paper bag in her hands, until quickly enough, she heard footsteps approach her atop the grass. As the image of Furina slowly kneeling next to her occupied her peripherals, the familiar scent of light, candied perfume filled her senses.
Gods. It was so sweet.
"I brought cake."
Delicacy—such a delicacy placed by the most delicate of hands in all of Fontaine. Placed so ridiculously for the grave, right next to her cross.
So familiar, it was sickening .
"You must know..." Arelcchino rasped, words caught in her throat. "The dead cannot eat cake."
She sounded colder than she'd intended to.
"Oh...!" Furina awkwardly coughed into the glove upon her hand. Such a minor slip-up seemed to return her usual jumpy state, even if for just a second. "Yeah, I know...!" She sheepishly laughed to the side, scratching the back of her head to save herself.
It took every fiber in Arlecchino's body (every chord of the woman's heartstrings, pulled taut yet practically forced to be strum) to swallow down the heavy feeling of throwing up in her chest. The weight tied to her heart was dragging the artery down to her stomach, spotting her vision and stealing her breath until she forcibly spoke. Just spew random words for her own sake. "Isn't that cake yours for later?"
"Well, it was," Furina garnered. "But I can't simply visit one of your fallen children without an offering of my own now, can I?"
"You really don't have to force a sentiment."
"It isn't forced if this child is one of my citizens, too."
Arlecchino scoffed at the response, rising to her feet and turning her back to the grave as she paced just a few steps onwards.
"I mean," Furina continued, "I think every child in Fontaine should be able to try these expensive cakes... And I'd offer it to them even after death..."
Of course you'd say that... The Knave sighed louder than she intended. She shut her eyes from the brightness of the grey sky. Blackened hands, blackened heart—in times like these, it still beat against her lungs like a reminder of her human parts. Anger and admiration, both for the notion from a rich lady that all Fontainian children deserve desserts. Someone I used to know would've said the same thing, too.
You remind me of her a lot.
Sweetness once again filled her lungs to the point of near suffocation, and a sugary rotten tightness clamped her ribs—Arms; It was arms of a faulty aristocrat encircling her chest. Furina's head laid right above the space of her heart, and she had no doubt that the former archon felt how tense she had suddenly gotten.
When did she...
"You looked like you needed a hug," Furina mumbled, her cheek pressed against her coat. Almost as silent as the light breeze, she nearly whispered, "I'm sorry for startling you. It's okay if you don't reciprocate."
As calming as her words were—as desperately needed as her presence itself was—Arlecchino found that the kinder the phrases, the sharper the dagger. The stiffness in her frame did not leave, nor did the tightness of her chest and breathing. And through it all, as if she ignored all these indications of growing panic, Furina kept still in her embrace.
It was like the undeserving wings of a goddess blessing a cursed soul like hers.
"In the eyes of justice upon motives..." Furina continued, her embrace growing tighter. She tip-toed until her chin rested endearingly atop The Knave's shoulder. And when Arelcchino felt it—the feeling of Furina's lips brushing against the skin of her jaw as it curled up into a smile —she really might've lost all sense. "You're a good person, Arle."
Red and silver. A bloodied sword pierced right through Furina's chest.
Arlecchino blinked.
The sight was gone, quicker than it came.
In one harsh, agonizing breath, Arlecchino torturously choked on her own gasp as her arms dashed out forward, instantaneously encircling Furina's frame. She squeaked quietly at the sudden movement, but did not seem to mind when Arlecchino trembled almost vulnerably and buried her face down into the crook of her neck. It was a despairing act of actually needing comfort; and the Harbinger almost didn't regret her defenselessness when Furina responded immediately.
Delicate hands of a goddess soothing her hair, one fell downwards to trace light massages on her shoulder; her own cursed hands were frantic, bunching the blue fabric of Furina's coat and searching —searching for the phantom feel of any blood or wound or sword.
"Arle," Furina called, attempting to calm her. "Arle, I'm here."
The former archon forcibly pulled herself away from the Harbinger when she saw that she continued to act restlessly, holding down her shoulders to steady the woman right in front of her. Furina's face was serious; this might've been the most focused she'd ever seen her. She looked so sweet, so kind, so concerned, and so easy for Arlecchino to kill again—
"Did I hurt you?" the Harbinger croaked.
"No."
One look at Furina's eyes made it clear that she could see everything. This might've been the only time Furina could see right through her.
The notion of 'hurting her' in this situation—Yes, it was obvious Furina could tell her question meant more than just the boundaries of this moment.
"And honestly, I don't think you ever will hurt me."
"But once before— And as a Harbinger—"
"How about we skip the tea party for today?"
"What?"
Furina only smiled. Her hands squeezed lightly on her shoulders as an act of reassurance. Arlecchino isn't sure how that little deed alone actually calmed a bit of her senses.
"We can just go back to my apartment," Furina offered. The most beloved smiles adorned her face as one of her hands reached upwards, settling along the cheek of Arlecchino's face, thumb tracing in a way that finally slowed her breathing. "We can just read books together, maybe bake..."
Yes. Yes, all of that sounded nice. Sounded lovely, actually. Arlecchino liked the thought of that, especially doing all those things with Furina guiding her.
"And if you want to talk about it, we can talk. Does that sound good?"
It sounds like... Comfortable, older days...
"Yeah," Arlecchino answered. "Sounds perfect, to me."
But first, she couldn't help but lean in gentler for one more embrace.