Archive of Our Own

i. there’s a fire in my brain and i’m burning up

In the beginning, there was nothing.

Then there was light.

And where there is light, there is fire.

Where there is light, there is fire, so she seeks refuge in the shadows, but this is a flame that burns hidden, unseen, coursing beneath her skin, fed by the oxygen she breathes and though it’s killing her she cannot stop gulping in air because her body refuses to give up even though it should know suffocation is a far more merciful fate.

Where there is fire, there is smoke. It rises from her fingertips, scented of burning flesh and molten blood, searing her throat and drawing bile. Her eyes sting with it.

The fire dies down, replaced by embers that smolder and flicker when prodded, but it never fully disappears. It is always there, lurking under the surface, reminding her even on the best days that she is a cursed child.

Her Mother loves her flames and what they can do for her. The fire does not completely destroy its vessel but the same cannot be said for those in its path, whose faces become unrecognizable masks and whose charred skin flakes off at the slightest prodding.

The House is named for the comforting warmth of controlled flames but that is not what its newest member is. She is a wildfire, destruction incarnate, her own body merely collateral.

(One day, she will learn to be both wildfire and hearth, purifying the rot to keep the rest pure. One day. Today, she is but a match dropped in gasoline, a tool in another’s hands to ignite what her holder wishes.)

It is a cruel fate to be burned alive by one’s own blood, but fate is not something an orphaned child can hope to change. Such heresy requires power, and power requires effort, and effort requires passion.

Passion is said to be a flame, but the girl is merely a collection of dying embers. Winds scatter the cinders — perhaps they will find some kindling, perhaps they will ignite — but for a very long time, she is but a pile of ash before ever getting the chance to truly burn. She is not sure she wants to.

Even so, the wind continues to blow.

ii. but the smoke clears when you’re around

She is not sure when she first takes notice of her Mother’s real daughter.

She was there for her introduction, of course, for the lectures from her Mother about equality and integrity and whatever other words she used to cast the illusion that they were a real, happy family. Peruere doesn’t remember much. She couldn’t have been bothered to pay attention to the sweet little lies Mother told the children — she didn’t need to hear them. She is not driven by such lofty goals as justice and honor. She cares only for the roof over her own head. The blood she must wade through to achieve it doesn’t bother her, certainly not as much as it does the others.

She thinks Mother might be aware that Peruere hasn’t fallen for her tricks. She won’t ask directly — she has more self-preservation instincts than that — but her bored eyes sometimes catch Mother’s, the woman pausing in her preaching to flash a wink and a knowing smile at her most obedient charge. Like she’s saying I know all this pretending is silly, but indulge the rest of them, will you? It’ll be our little secret.

Peruere doesn’t return the smile, but neither does she foment discontent among the children. She cares not for them, and the feeling is mutual.

(Whispers in the hallway, in the dormitory at night: She’s cursed, I heard. Look at her arms; it’s not natural. Look at her eyes, but don’t let her catch you. Did you see that spider she carries around like it’s a pet? I haven’t seen it in awhile. Maybe she killed it. Probably tortured it first, the poor thing. She’s Mother’s favorite, can’t you tell? And she can’t even be bothered to say anything back. I wish Mother would smile at me like that. Hushed giggles, sharing in the delight of gossip, the adrenaline rush that comes from such morbid topics. They do not realize she can hear them, or perhaps they don’t care.)

She sees no reason to take note of Clervie, even if she is House royalty. She can tell from a glance that she’s soft, anyway, the sort to worry about right and wrong as if any of that matters. She won’t make it a month.

She doesn’t see much of the pink-haired girl after that — until, one sleepless night, something interrupts her aimless prowl.

There’s a commotion behind the door to Mother’s office. Peruere knows she shouldn’t eavesdrop, and she turns to go back the way she came (laying in bed and staring at the ceiling rafters does little to help her restlessness or ease the burning beneath her skin, but what choice does she have?) when she hears the voice raised in opposition to Mother.

It’s a child, a young girl about Peruere’s age. One of the Hearth’s. Who would dare talk back to Mother in such angry tones? Peruere runs through the list of names on her head — not Mireille, she’s far too shy, and not Lucienne, she’s far too stupid, and not Eleanor, as of last week she’s far too dead — and comes up blank.

She’s still frozen in the hall when the door swings open and bangs against the wall. Peruere jumps and scuttles around the corner, but there’s no need. It’s not Mother.

It’s her daughter, whose name Peruere can’t quite remember at the moment (something with a C, she thinks). She’s sniffling, wiping tears with the back of her hand, fresh bruises blossoming along her skin.

“You know about it, don’t you?”

Peruere doesn’t move. Has she been spotted? Is she the one this girl is speaking to? Her stealth skills are still not refined enough, it seems.

“You know about it, but you don’t say anything.”

Peruere wishes she would be a bit quieter. It would be unfortunate if Mother heard — they’re right outside her door, after all — but then again, even Peruere can barely make out the words through the hitching sobs.

“You know it’s not about finding homes or any of that nice stuff everyone says. It’s about making us into perfect little tools and hurting people. And if you aren’t good enough then you get hurt, you get sent to that horrible place and get experimented on and — and —” A pause to catch her breath. “And it’s all so awful. And you know, don’t you?”

Her gaze is set on Peruere now. So much for hiding.

Her eyes don’t shy away, though, she doesn’t even flinch. The crossed lines cut through Peruere’s pupils don’t faze her in the slightest.

They stare at each other for a second, two. Peruere drops her eyes. She’s lost.

“I didn’t know about the experiments.”

Peruere never imagined herself someone who could make friends. She’s not sure if that’s what she becomes to Clervie over the months that fade into years, but it’s the closest she’s ever gotten.

Sleepless nights are no longer spent wandering corridors alone. Instead, they’re spent on windowsills, bandaging the cuts and scrapes accumulated by the other girl during her stubborn, fruitless fight for change. They’re spent listening to hushed whispers like prayers, about skies far from home alight with dancing colors as if painted by the gods themselves. Her words, punctuated by that familiar nickname, a fondness Peruere’s never known before given as easy as breathing.

(The ashes stir.)

It’s not just Clervie, either — the pink-haired girl makes friends with the other children in a matter of days, and under her influence, they soften to the cursed child they’d once shunned.

(Peruere doesn’t need their kindness. Naturally. But she appreciates the peace that comes from the lack of whispers behind her back, so she won’t discourage them.)

“We should kill her,” Peruere says one day in a low voice as she wraps another bandage around her companion’s scratched knees. “Then we’d be able to leave.”

The refusal is so emphatic, Peruere worries she’s lost her one and only friend in this world — but the next morning, Clervie’s all smiles and cheer, as if the harsh words and stinging tears of the night before never happened.

Peruere supposes she’s grateful her suggestion didn’t lead to permanent trouble, but there’s a worry fluttering in her stomach, flames of anxiety dancing ever higher.

Clervie is soft. Peruere’s known this since the moment she first laid eyes on her: Mother’s daughter was not made for the cutthroat nature of the House of the Hearth. She’s done better than Peruere expected of her — the caring Peruere marked as weakness is a strength in its own right, giving Clervie a greater cause to pursue despite her fear (oh, how Peruere wonders what that must be like) — but compromise has no place in Mother’s House.

She can only hope there won’t come a day when Clervie is faced to confront that.

iii. this house says my name like an elegy

The orphanage has never been as quiet as it is today.

Peruere shuffles through the door as the sun begins its ascent into the firmament. Her left hand clutches her right arm, which hangs limp at her side. She can feel the flames eating away at her skin. It’s slow, excruciatingly so, but Peruere barely notices it.

She limps into the foyer. Her eyes brush over the soft chairs, arranged around the fireplace in a manner that would seem cozy and inviting to anyone looking to get rid of a child guilt-free.

Her body feels heavy, her feet not even able to make it all the way off the floor as she steps towards an armchair. She’ll take a rest. Only a brief one, though. She doesn’t want to be out in the open once the world starts to wake up.

She collapses onto the armchair, sinking into the plush upholstery. The fabric of her shirt catches on something for a moment; she glances down to see a spot where the cushion’s been torn, the end of the spring poking out just enough to be noticeable.

This must’ve been one of Clervie’s favorite spots, then. She’d had a tendency to pick at the furniture when she was anxious. And all children of the Hearth are often anxious. There were several similarly-damaged cushions, wooden chairs with curious spots worn down, and windowsills with sections of paint peeled off to be found around the orphanage. Peruere didn’t understand it, but she supposed it was better than pulling out her hair in clumps or scratching open old wounds like some of the other children did.

(Clervie’s hands on her arms, their grip losing strength as she slides from Peruere’s grasp, trying to hold her upright but her hands are slick and sticky at the same time with blood both dried and fresh, ragged breathing against her ear —)

Crash!

Peruere’s eyes snap open — when did she close them? She doesn’t remember that happening — to see a girl a few years her junior — one of the newer children if her memory serves, but she’s never been good with names and faces, especially not when they leave as often as they arrive (their faces stay in her mind as they curse her with their last breath but she cannot remember their names) — staring at her from the entry to the hallway. Her eyes are wide, her breathing quick. There’s a pile of shattered ceramic at her feet.

“Oh, I — I’m so sorry, you startled me,” the girl gasps. “Um, y-you’re… Peruere, right?”

Her eyes are blue, like Mother’s, like Clervie’s. She’s trying to hide her fear, but some things can’t be masked, like the pain in those blue eyes when Peruere’s sword met flesh, but not at all like the happy acceptance when she realized it was all coming to an end as the life drained out of her —

“Are you alright?” The girl’s tone is more alarmed now. Ah. Peruere’s probably been staring for too long. “You’re — oh, Archons, is that…?”

Peruere follows the girl’s gaze down, and for the first time she notices the dark substance caking her body. It’s not very obvious at all from a glance on her black clothing — though the stiffness of the fabric is irritating, now that she thinks about it — nor on her hands, charred as they are. But her legs are bare and pale and covered in deep crimson, dried as it slid down her skin in the shape of teardrops.

“I suppose it is.” Her voice is hoarse; she’s done far more crying and pleading for mercy in the past few hours than she has in her lifetime. She glances back up at the girl, who’s gone even whiter than before. “Excuse me. I’m going to wash up now.”

It takes no small effort to lift herself from the chair and drag her aching body past the girl into the hallway, but she manages. She’s been through worse before and expects worse to come.

She pauses on the way to the washroom in front of a certain door. It’s linden wood, intricate designs carved into its face, somehow free from the wear and tear experienced by every other door in the orphanage. How many hours has she spent near this door? Inside, receiving orders to snuff out another life; outside, waiting for Clervie and ignoring the sounds from within.

(She’s escaped now, at least, gone somewhere her mother can’t hurt her, but why did the responsibility have to fall to —)

Peruere reaches out her good hand almost without thinking, resting it on the varnished wood. A moment passes. Two. The smell of burning wood reaches her nose, but she’s breathed in so much ash she barely notices. What she does notice is the smoke rising from where her hand lays. She draws it back quickly to see a blackened handprint set into the door.

She glances down at her hand, innocuous as ever. Back up at the door.

Odd. She hadn’t meant to do that. She’s had complete control of her fire for years, why now?

But when she looks at the door to Crucabena’s office, she feels a tightness in her chest. Her throat constricts, the edges of her vision go red, and the fire in her core roars to life.

And it’s just a guess, but — but is this the first time she’s felt anything stronger than dull indifference?

So this is where the winds have taken her.

(For all the pain, she doesn’t think she hates this new sensation — rage.)

Clervie was always angry, but never like Peruere feels now. Clervie didn’t want to kill anyone. She clung to the hope of a peaceful resolution, even when she’d given up on all else.

But Clervie is dead now. By Peruere’s hand.

And, the cursed child swears here and now, she will not be the last.

iv. and i may yet fall apart

For the first time in her life, Peruere feels cold.

(Physically, of course. No one’s ever considered her an exceptionally inviting person.)

She must be in Snezhnaya. She doesn’t remember how she got here — after plunging her sword through her mother’s heart, everything’s a haze that’s only lifted because of the piercing cold — but she’s found herself in a freezing cell guarded by people in Fatui uniforms after killing one of their precious Harbingers. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

She hears the whispers of the low-level grunts stuck guarding her cell when they think she’s asleep. She killed a Harbinger all on her own? But she’s just a teenager. I don’t know, they’re saying she’s cursed. Look at those arms of hers — she’s not normal, that’s for sure. What do you think they’ll do with her? Execute her, probably. That’s the punishment for killing a Harbinger. She’s not Snezhnayan, though. Doesn’t matter. Fontaine won’t risk the diplomatic nightmare. Why do you think they handed her over so easily? Especially since she’s just some orphan. You know what I heard? I heard they tried to track down where she came from, but the oldest files they could find only go back to when she entered the orphanage. They can’t find any surviving family, or where she lived before. It’s like she’s a ghost.

It’s almost nostalgic, how similar it feels to her early days at the House of the Hearth. Perhaps she’s destined to be spoken of in hushed tones and half-remembered rumors.

(The main difference between then and now is that then, though she was ostracized, she was still among those who considered themselves her peers. Their whispers were malicious, meant to be heard.

Now, the whisperers quickly quiet when they hear her stir or sense that she might be listening in. Their words are not mocking, but full of awe, and something akin to respect.

And fear. No small amount of fear.

She could get used to this.)

For the time being, though, she doesn’t much care. She is too cold to.

She knows what it is like to burn, now. The fire in her heart has been building steadily over the past year until finally it exploded into an inferno that consumed her Mother once and for all. It was painful and it was brutal and it was glorious.

But a fire must feed to stay alive. With Crucabena gone, the Hearth but a shadow of its former self, her flames ran out of fuel and have once again been diminished to ashes and coals.

She should be used to this feeling, to this itching just beneath the surface of her skin, but she has tasted hell and cannot simply return to purgatory.

She could seek revenge against the Fatui, she supposes, for it was them Crucabena served, but she does not have the will to. Her flames will not reignite for a faceless enemy that she doesn’t truly blame.

No, Harbinger or not, Crucabena still bore the responsibility for the tragedy of the House. Peruere spent enough time around her Mother to know exactly how much the former Knave reveled in the children’s pain. So she cannot find fault in the Fatui, at least not enough to bring back a blaze of the magnitude she desires.

She does not know what could.

She is cold.

It seems like it’s always snowing in Snezhnaya. Snowflakes drift in occasionally from the cell window, cracked open just a hair. It does not make the living arrangements any more comfortable. She wonders if it’s some kind of torture tactic, or if a negligent Fatuus wanted some fresh air and forgot to close the window.

It’s far out of her reach, naturally, so she can’t see anything but the yawning sky above. Watching the sky change is the only entertainment she has (aside from eavesdropping on the gossip of the guards, and she grew weary of hearing about a prolific Hydrogunner’s many romantic exploits early on). Most days, it’s an overcast grey, but sometimes the clouds clear and reveal the pale blue firmament above. The nights are a black darker than any in the sleepless Court, and the twilights in between glow a gentle cobalt that almost makes her miss Fontaine’s many lakes. Snezhnaya’s skies are much the same as those of the land she’s left behind.

Some nights, though, they light up like nothing she’s ever seen before. The skies seem to fissure, vibrant greens and blues seeping out from the cracks and shimmering in the air. She’d had the fleeting thought that some creature from beyond the stars would force itself through and steal her away from this world with no place for her, but the guards didn’t spare the lights a second glance, and Peruere’s silly fantasy was quickly replaced by a truth that she’d once regarded as nothing more than a childish dream in its own right.

The first time she sees the aurora, it sparks but a brief pang in the emptiness that’s replaced the burning rage she felt before. Here she is, living Clervie’s happiest wish. Only Peruere is well and truly alone, the closest thing she had to a family dead by her own hands, her own self imprisoned in a foreign and hostile country.

The second time, and the third, she almost laughs at the cruelty of it. Clervie once would have given anything to see the sight that has now become a regular occurrence for her friend.

The fourth time, something shifts.

As she watches Celestia’s shifting handiwork, she wonders. How long has she been waiting for death? Weeks? Months? Long enough that she’s lost count of the days. And yet, she’s still here. The cursed child whose own blood seeks to destroy her from the inside out survives those who pitied her, exploited her, loved her alike.

She sees their faces, sometimes, in the corner of her eye. Mother’s wicked grin. Clervie’s hopeful smiles. The other children’s cautious glances — all gone, lost beneath her blade and her flames.

As always, she looks at the aurora with thoughts of Clervie, but now she thinks of all the other children, too — those gone before her time, those still remaining, those yet to come (for there will always be more, as long as the gods guard their secrets there will always be fresh blood) — and she wonders what their dreams were, are, will be. They must have them. Not all of them are burned-out husks like herself.

Clervie’s dream was to build a world where she and the other children were free to see the Snezhnayan auroras, and anything else they longed for, as they pleased.

Peruere’s dream, or the closest she’s ever been to one, was to protect that dream.

And maybe she was too late this time, but what about the next, and the next?

What about the children? Who will keep their hearth, tend its coals, shelter it from the winds and rains? Who will provide a beacon in the night, a warm place hidden from the creatures lurking in the dark?

It will not, cannot be her, she knows. Hers is not a gentle flame but a blaze that knows only how to destroy, but —

But lately, she thinks often of the fragments of stories she’s heard from Natlan. About lava decimating all in its path, about wildfires wiping away the hollowed-out corpses of trees selfish enough to continue clinging to the landscape. How these fires are not viewed with hatred but respect, for culling the land of rot and providing room for new growth to emerge from the ashes.

She always liked those stories.

When the Tsaritsa extends her invitation, Peruere does not take long to consider before accepting.

v. singing songs to the secrets behind my eye

Peruere is no stranger to nightmares. Her nights — when she bothers to sleep at all — are plagued by fire, Mother, and, more recently, her former housemates.

These nightmares are unpleasant, but nothing compared to those of the other children of the Hearth, who often woke Peruere with their whimpers and screams. Dreams are formed from the waking world, after all, and Peruere has long grown numb to the realities of that world. Nothing her mind has conjured has been much worse than a typical day under Mother’s rule.

(Perhaps her imagination is stunted. Clervie used to accuse her of something to that effect.)

There is one dream, though, whose origin has always been a mystery to Peruere.

She comes to awareness in a desolate plain. The ground is grey, the color of scorched earth, and rivulets of molten lava flow through the fissures. The plain stretches on for eternity, not a tree stump or rock or other living being in sight. In the unobstructed sky hangs a moon, impossibly vast and glowing a crimson the color of boiling blood.

Peruere watches the moon. It watches her back.

It is trying to say something to her but she cannot discern one emotion from the next from the oppressive mass that weighs down on her as if the moon itself is held up on her shoulders. There is a sadness there, deep and aching, and she can almost recognize it as the burden of one who has witnessed much death and will witness more until the stars burn out, and a pinprick of fear — of what? for whom? — and a groaning grief for the ones that have come before and the one that stands before it now.

Nothing happens in this dream. Peruere stares at the moon, trying to puzzle out its thoughts, and it stares back at her in despair.

And when she wakes up, it does not fade into obscure memory like most dreams, but stays vivid in her mind as though she visited this plain in the waking world.

Peruere has never been easily affected by such trifling matters, but there’s a nagging in the back of her mind that there’s something important about this dream. And so, though she only ever witnessed the crimson moon in delicate imagination, it has remained a part of her as surely as the embers in her veins and Mother’s voice in her mind.

When Arlecchino asks the Jester, he guides her to the novel. She purchases it, reads it, reads it again.

She is not Fontainian, then — another point added to her differences from the other children. She is not sure what else to make of the novel, though; where she fits into it, or what she should do with this information, remain mysteries.

But perhaps that is alright. The past has had little bearing on her actions up to this point, and there is no reason that should change. After all, in the words of the Jester himself, nothing is more important than the future.

vi. there’s still cobwebs in the corners

Arlecchino stands in front of the Hotel Bouffes d’ete and marvels at how fickle time can be. She is taller now than she was the last time she was here — the doorknob only reaches to her hip, where before it was nearly chest-height — her hair is longer, bangs still cut in a familiar fashion but back end no longer cropped short; and most importantly, she has stepped into a new identity, no longer the ward of the House, Peruere; but the Knave herself, Father Arlecchino.

The doorway, on the other hand, only shows the passage of a year and a half’s time under temporary management through some wear on its sign and spiderwebs in its corners (matters she’ll have to deal with presently, though she does feel a small surge of pity robbing the spiders of their homes — she’s always been partial to the eight-legged creatures). The Hotel’s main feature is its overwhelming blandness. Too rundown and you’ll attract attention from Fontaine’s many wealthy philanthropists, genuine do-gooders and those looking for a tax write-up alike; too opulent and the authorities will begin harboring suspicions about where the money is coming from (even the most well-meaning of donors are never that well-meaning). So it sits unassuming in the middle, only noticed by desperate children and parents hoping to pawn off their children in a way that still feels legal and above-board and really not all that bad.

This is one of the few legacies of her predecessor that Arlecchino plans to keep in place.

Most others, well — Il Dottore learned for himself what she thought of his partnership with Crucabena when he stopped her right before she could board the ship to Fontaine.

As the sea breeze blew strands of hospital-sheet-blue hair across his face, he’d talked of his “amicable collaboration” with the former Knave — “A real nasty piece of work, personality-wise,” he’d quickly added in response to her frown, “but you have to admit she was effective, yes?” — and he was just wondering if she was open to rebuilding rapport between the Doctor and the Knave.

Her deafening silence and cold glare were answer enough, but Dottore made sure to throw in a suggestion that maybe one day she’d change her mind and he’d ask again the next time they saw each other, so think about it, would she? It’d be a wonderful opportunity for the both of them — a win-win scenario, really! — so just keep it in mind.

She fought back the urge to spit in his face and tell him that if she had the choice, there never would be a next time, but instead she drew her lips into a tight line and told him she’d consider, even though they both knew it to be a lie. The Doctor, unaffected, merely smiled and thanked her for her time and wished her a safe journey. She could feel his eyes on her through his mask as she turned and boarded her ship.

Refusing to send used-up children to be experimented on in the cold of Snezhnaya is not the only change she’s making to the House’s operations, of course. She plans to ease the strictures of daily life — why bar the children from laughing and playing games, so long as it doesn’t interfere with their work? — and there will certainly be no battle royales to determine the next ruler. The type of successor she hopes to find is someone who could improve the lot of the children, not a person who would burn the world down so long as they still stood upon it. Not like her.

Some things can’t be changed, though, no matter how much Arlecchino wants otherwise. The nature of their work means betrayal and defection must be discouraged and dealt with by the harshest means necessary. There can be no exceptions to this rule.

Arlecchino lifts a hand to raise the knocker of the Hotel door, but before she can it opens on its own, revealing a gaggle of preteens. They stop whatever they’re doing at the sight of her, shocked into silence. She thinks she recognizes a handful of them from the time before, but she’d always kept to herself even prior to dedicating all her time to preparing for matricide. Her preference for the shadows meant she usually knew the other children better than they knew her, and she didn’t bother to know much. Her suspicions are proven right as none of the children, even those she recognizes, seem to have any idea who she is, staring at her in awe and fear.

Hm. Maybe the few extra inches from the heels really do have an impact.

A frustrated caretaker in pursuit yells, running up from the back of the foyer. “Children! Get back here at once before I send you all to —” She pauses, herself stunned at Arlecchino’s sudden appearance, before clearing her throat and brushing off her skirts. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t notice you there — have you been waiting long? Are the children bothering you?”

“No, not at all,” Arlecchino says brusquely. “They look to be in good health.” And they do; she can’t imagine their lives have changed much since Crucabena’s death, but in her absence their eyes seem ever-so-slightly brighter, their faces less gaunt than they had a mere two years prior. She reaches out a blackened hand, causing the children to flinch — ah, so some things stay the same — and rests it on the head of a young boy, ruffling his unruly copper hair. The children’s awed expressions don’t change.

The caretaker’s does, though, as she recognizes the Tsaritsa’s symbols on Arlecchino’s attire. “M-My sincerest apologies, Madam!” she squeaks out. “I didn’t realize who you — you must be the new… Father, yes? Please, follow me.”

Arlecchino suppresses a smirk at that — it seems her chosen title is already causing her identity to be obscured, just as she likes it — and glides past the growing crowd of children to take her first step into the House of the Hearth as its ruler.

She cannot change everything, does not hope to if she’s being honest; but at the very least, she will end the tradition of children executing their fellows. The promise to label those harboring knowledge of defections — planned or actualized — accomplices and subject them to a traitor’s punishment should be deterrent enough to keep them from plotting grand mutinies. There is no need to force friends to kill friends and sisters to kill brothers to keep them in line, not when their Father’s presence is all-encompassing.

No, she shall carry out executions herself.

May the Tsaritsa steady her hand.

vii. echoing where my ghosts all used to be

She doesn’t know why she’s so surprised. Really, she should have expected that Clervie would come back to haunt her in the most literal sense possible.

Arlecchino has been haunted for as long as she has had blood on her hands. She was once frightened by the wails and pleas of those she’s killed, hallucinations keeping her up at night fearful of an avenger from beyond, but those days of terror are over. Now, she can walk through the hallways of the House, the click-click-clicking of her heels never faltering even as ghostly hands tug at her clothes and hair; she can keep up conversation with the children even as long-dead voices breathlessly beg her for mercy; she doesn’t so much as startle at the pale faces staring at her from the shadows.

(They are not all accusing specters — a few seem to retain something of themselves, appearing by Arlecchino’s side to drive away the ones seeking their vengeance. They are all pristine and fresh and glowing and Arlecchino feels her sin all the more acutely when they are around.

She does not have many of these guardian angels.)

Clervie is an anomaly among anomalies. Unlike the other apparitions, which only appear to Arlecchino and orbit around her as the reason for their existence, Clervie seems to actively avoid her. On rare occasions, she reveals herself to the children, becoming the echo of a companion to the younger ones unused to life in the House. Sometimes Arlecchino thinks she hears her giggles on the wind, but they’re gone as quickly as they arise.

She’d asked the Jester about the apparitions when she was made Arlecchino, for he seemed the only other person in Teyvat who knew anything about her condition. Afterimages, he’d said, conjured up by her flames. Like her body is a Ley Line in miniature, leaking her memories into the real world. They were not supposed to be visible to any but Arlecchino — Clervie, though, is an exception, and makes Arlecchino wonder if perhaps her flames can do more than just destroy.

Arlecchino stopped worrying about the shadows that chase her long ago. The dead can only affect the living so far as the living allow. The weight of the corpses dragging behind Arlecchino like chains would easily drag her down if she let it; she does not.

Still, it is nostalgic — and a touch painful — to see Clervie back in the House as if she’d never left, as if her bones weren’t decaying beneath layers of dirt in a nondescript grave. As if Arlecchino’s House is one Clervie doesn’t mind living (un-living?) in.

She can only hope it stays that way.

viii. ashes, ashes, dust to dust

It is rare to see all the Fatui Harbingers gathered together in a room — a fact Arlecchino is grateful for, for it takes only a few minutes’ worth of her colleagues’ presence to set her mind wishing for the comfort of her own hearthfire. The Knave is not known for her pleasant company, and that rings especially true when she’s forced to contend with the eight other eccentric individuals —the sixth hasn’t even bothered to show up, damn brat — that stand around an ice-white coffin.

The coffin is custom-made to fit a woman of tall stature, but Arlecchino knows there’s nothing but ashes in it now. Still, when she looks at the icy coffin she tries to picture La Signora’s body inside, resting upon velvety cushions, hands folded below her chest, wreathed by the windwheel asters and cecilias of her homeland.

Her imagination has always been lacking, though, so instead she sees La Signora as she was the day they met, tall and imposing in her Harbinger regalia. La Signora, the first night in Zapolyarny Palace, revealing a nurturing side as she makes sure her newest colleague is comfortable. La Signora, a fellow woman burning, but not like Arlecchino, not as she’d hoped. La Signora, fire doused and embers rustling, gasping for life beneath layer upon layer of ice.

La Signora, who invited Arlecchino to drinks after meetings to complain and gossip about the others. La Signora, who fell to tears and weeping after only two rounds. La Signora, who visited the children whenever she could, one of the only Harbingers to take an interest in the House — and the only one to have no ulterior motives. La Signora, who didn’t mind buying their affections so long as it would ease the loneliness she felt behind that mask of arrogance she wore. La Signora, whose fire glowed hotter than Arlecchino’s at the idea of their pain, the only glimpse the Knave ever got of the Crimson Witch of Flames’ former glory.

Rosalyne, who knew only the extremes of blazing inferno and frozen shell, whose devotion to the Tsaritsa was only rivaled in passion by the love she’d lost.

Arlecchino does not know these extremes — she has only been steadily burning all her life, eaten away slowly by a power she is indifferent to. She wonders what it would be like, to let herself be consumed by the flames as Rosalyne had.

She does not take kindly to her musings and reminiscences being interrupted by petty sentiments among the most useless of the Harbingers — this is always how meetings of the Eleven go — and she snaps accordingly; she would not mourn overly long if something were to happen to Pulcinella and Pantalone, but their work rarely puts them in the line of fire. (All the more reason they should keep quiet about Rosalyne — what good have they been in gathering the Gnoses, when she’d gotten two and sacrificed her life in the process of acquiring a third?)

Propriety keeps the funeral mostly civil, and it is with no small amount of relief that Arlecchino leaves the cathedral to return to her lodgings — and no small amount of irritation when a hand on her elbow stops her in the hallway.

The Doctor grins, holding up a vial containing a flame in miniature. He swirls the vial and the flame jumps, licking the edges of the glass. “Here’s the prototype you requested. I must say, this research has been very useful, if a bit limited in scope. If you’d lend me a test subject, I could experiment further —”

She snatches the bottle away from the Doctor’s hands.

“No,” she says, not bothering to hide the disdain dripping off her words. “I can manage on my own, thank you.”

Dottore shrugs, never losing that smirk of his. It’s infuriating; Arlecchino would love to wipe it off his face, but doing so just minutes after Rosalyne was laid to rest would be inappropriate, even if Arlecchino knows there was no love lost between Signora and the Doctor.

“I’m surprised you haven’t gotten tired of the little brats after all these years,” Dottore begins. “If it’s mercy you’re after, then really, why go through all this trouble? If you ask me, it’s more merciful to just kill them and get it over with instead of ripping away everything they know and love.”

“And I didn’t ask you, did I?” Arlecchino snarls. I know, she thinks. She knows she will still be killing them in spirit, but she does not know how much longer she can cut down her children with her own blade. “Good day, Dottore.”

She turns on her heel and leaves, his laughter resounding in her ears for the rest of her stay at the Palace.

ix. the devil’s after both of us

The Eleventh, Tartaglia, has always been a fascinating child.

She remembers when he was first named a Harbinger. It had come as a surprise — if people were shocked at her age when she killed the former Knave and took her place, how would they react to this man, boy really, who was younger than she had been?

The thought had inspired something like sibling affection in Arlecchino. With most of her colleagues being impossibly ancient (or simply ordinary, but insufferable humans), she found herself looking forward to having a coworker near her age who wasn’t an arrogant businessman or scientist or some such.

That is, until she actually met the young Tartaglia. Watching over children under extreme duress is Arlecchino’s forte, but whatever is wrong with this new colleague of hers is far beyond her pay grade.

Her hopes of developing a rapport akin to friendship were quickly dashed, but that was no matter — they’d never been particularly high to begin with, and anyway, she still gets along with Tartaglia comparatively well. They’re never together for the sake of enjoying each other’s company, of course; but when forced to cooperate there is none of the violent tension Arlecchino often feels with certain other Harbingers. They fill the silence with complaints about Pantalone’s newest harebrained venture or discuss their common interest: family. Arlecchino lets Tartaglia do most of the talking, naturally, and gleaned a great deal of information about his family, three youngest siblings especially. She kept that information filed away in case it’d be of use later.

And it was, though writing letters to a concerned peasant girl while pretending to be her older brother was not quite what Arlecchino had had in mind.

(Neither was this what she’d thought of when Tartaglia had joked that they were both “defenders of childhood dreams,” but in this instance, she supposes he had a point.)

So that is Arlecchino’s first reason for meeting the Hydro Archon and her Iudex today: retrieve her coworker, avoid a diplomatic nightmare, and free herself of letter-writing obligations in the process.

The second reason is to determine whether Fontaine will drown without her assistance.

She hasn’t considered herself Fontainian since reading Perinheri — indeed, the Primordial Seawater would agree — and though the nation has never shown her much kindness, it is the closest she’s ever gotten to a homeland. Her little white lie about being from Fontaine is only a falsehood by technicality.

More importantly, it would be deeply inconvenient to lose her most promising children (and, if she’s being honest, her favorite branch of the House) to the flood. Worthy successors don’t just spring up overnight.

She acts disappointed when Lady Furina makes it clear she’s no more than a figurehead, but truth be told, it’s a boon to the Fatui. Help the people where the government cannot, and the nation will be indebted to the Knave and her children — it’s only right, considering the spectacle they were made into during Lyney’s trial.

And for the heroes who saved the country, well, certainly no reward is too great.

Arlecchino smiles into her teacup. To steal the glory from Celestia and protect her children in the process — there is no satisfaction quite like it.

x. and the backyard’s full of bones (make a mercy)

Arlecchino has lost count of how many people she’s killed.

She has not, however, lost count of how many children she’s killed. How could she, when they follow her through every waking moment?

Each execution results in yet another specter clinging to her ankles, another child she’s let down.

She has figured it out, finally. A method of expelling them without their blood on her hands.

It still hurts, of course it does. Few know as well as she that memories are what make a person, and to rip that from them, take away everything they’ve ever known — it truly is a death all unto itself.

But at least it isn’t a life wasted. It’s a life begun afresh, a life created.

That’s what Arlecchino tells herself, anyway, but it doesn’t ease the sting of taking their personhood from them, of returning to the children who remain and seeing the grief they try to hide etched in the lines of their faces.

And then there’s Clervie.

Clervie, Peruere’s first friend. Clervie, whose life became the spark to ignite a long-dying fire. Clervie, who continues to spread hope even after her death.

The very same Clervie now incites rebellion, spreads rumors of coldblooded murder and fates worse than death, brings more children than ever to Arlecchino’s execution stand.

Arlecchino knows well how effective rumors can be, how little the truth matters — she takes advantage of such whisperings herself — and so she knows the danger in these new stirrings.

Arlecchino had hoped this day would never come, but she knew it was only a matter of time — Clervie’s shadow was frozen in time, trapped in Crucabena’s House, and she was too kindhearted to keep secrets to herself, never mind that those secrets were no longer true. And now that she’s begun to instigate discontent, Arlecchino must get rid of her.

It’s a shame, really. She will miss her first friend’s peals of laughter echoing down empty hallways.

But the rules of the House are unwavering: betrayal shall be punished by death.

The question is, how does one kill the undead? They have no heart to stop, no nerves to sever.

While she ponders this dilemma, the workings among the children reach a fever pitch. She lets them — there are few she dreads to part with as much as Lyney and his siblings, and if they can release Clervie from whatever binds her to the land of the living, so much the better for Arlecchino.

When the time comes, she judges the traitors in the court of the Hearth, and finds them guilty.

And then something surprising happens: Lyney requests a duel.

Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly. Ah, the children think they can challenge her.

It’s good to have some backbone, children. But do make sure to pick your enemies wisely.

They lose, of course.

There was never any doubt of that.

But they do not die, and now, it is the children’s turn to be surprised.

(It is unfortunate to lose the convenient cover of rumors, but, well. That’s a price she’s willing to pay to keep the loyalty of her successor.)

And when she says goodbye to Clervie, watches her first and only friend fade in the morning light, Arlecchino feels, for the first time, that she’s achieved her goal of improving the House.

Lyney proved himself worthy of her expectations today. When he took up arms against her, she saw it — that righteous passion burning inside him, so unlike her aimless, destructive flames — she knew: this is who the House of the Hearth needs.

She tips her head back, lets the first rays of sunlight warm her face.

Not yet, but soon.

Soon he will change the world as you’d hoped to.

Rest well, Clervie, knowing your dream will come true.