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It’s been years, since Arlecchino has returned to Fontaine. Her duties as a Priest of the Benevolent Tsaritsa have led her to exterminate demons all around Teyvat, with the exception of the very same place she’s once called home.
That is, until a flood submerged most of Belleau Region.
Everything pointed to one culprit — the fury of the Regina of All Waters.
Strangely enough, in the centuries that Focalors has dwelled in Fontaine, she hasn’t inspired as much fear as the rest of the Seven Major Demons, at least in Arlecchino’s opinion. The common folk treat her as some sort of celebrity, with Focalors parading herself around towns, putting on shows and offering cheap blessings.
However, with the flood, everyone is understandably terrified, and even the Fontainian Church, which has always closed an eye to Focalors’ presence, is now seeking help from their allies, namely Snezhnaya.
Officially, that is the reason she’s been chosen for the job — high ranking, “Fontainian” at least in name, it makes her the perfect candidate.
Arlecchino knows better. The Jester always keeps his cards close, but at least for this, she can easily surmise his intentions. As a Priest of the Benevolent Tsaritsa, Arlecchino is supposed to form a pact with a demon, in preparation for the War To Come. Unfortunately for everyone involved, she’s no interest in doing so.
This job won’t be any different — she’ll slay the demon, Focalors, and then go back home. Even her children aren’t in Fontaine anymore, so she’s no reason to linger around.
After the flood, Arlecchino’s agents located Focalors far away from the capital, near a small village situated close to Erinnyes Forest — a poetic hiding place for Egeria’s successor.
It seems that after the flood, Focalors dropped her cavalier attitude and went hiding, not without leaving behind a trail of missing people.
Predictably, the villagers are wary of outsiders, in particular when they present themselves as part of the Church of Snezhnaya and wear its garbs. Arlecchino wouldn’t be surprised if among them most are — or used to be, at least — adoring fans of Focalors.
Arlecchino has no intention of immediately spooking the villagers. The sun is setting and most are preparing to retire for the day. She’ll question them tomorrow. For now, she’ll limit her actions to acquaint herself with the local church.
“A demon, here?” The old priest, whose responsibilities are to look after the small local church and the villagers’ wellbeing, doesn’t seem too fond of Arlecchino’s presence — understandable. “Father, you wouldn’t mean… surely…”
“I’ve no intention of overstepping,” Arlecchino reassures him. “I’ve been sent here to help, in regards to the missing people. The Church of Fontaine is worried about the possibility of a demon infesting the bordering forest, and has asked its friend, the Church of Snezhnaya, for help,” she explains, though she’s sure the old priest is already aware of the problem. “I’m but a humble servant sent to help. It’d be a disregard of my responsibilities not to check in with you.”
Curiously, the old priest shrinks in fear at the mention of the forest.
“But the… there isn’t…” he pauses, his eyes never meeting hers. “You should rest here, for now, think about… your duty with the splendor of the sun back.”
Seems she won’t get much from the old priest, at least for now. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she says, curtly.
The old priest shows her one of the few unused guest rooms, adjacent the local church. It’s small and probably moldy, with only a bed, a table and a squeaking chair as furniture. After stuttering more reassurances, eventually, he leaves her be.
She sets her stuff on the trembling table, close to the only uneven window in the small room. Then, she sits on her bed for the night.
Tomorrow, she’ll talk with the villagers and plan ahead, before entering Focalors’ forest. For now, she needs rest, in preparation of taking the demon’s Heart — the source of all their power.
—Did her curse flare up again?—
It dripped down her fingers, coating her palm, wrist, down to her arm. It was but a lonely vein, pitch-black and searing hot.
It dripped from her nails, chipped and bloody, down to her bruised knuckles.
It stained her gentle, bruised hands — it scalded her, yet she didn’t draw her hands away.
—Poor thing—
It drowned her. Her lungs expanded, breathing in nothingness.
She was all alone.
It was void that surrounded her. It was nothingness.
All alone, surrounded by her tears.
It was still void, no matter the time — but there was no time. Her time ran out long ago, her clock stuck, before it even had the chance to tick once.
She was trapped, surrounded by her tears.
She was alone in this void without time.
—I’m sorry—
She was smiling. Her lips pale and trembling. Yet, even as she withered in her arms, she was happy — she hadn’t seen her this happy in years.
She should be happy, for her. Yet, selfishly, she wasn’t.
She let it course through her, poisoning her mind and body.
It dripped down her fingers, coating her palm, smudging her blood that would never wash away.
It dripped from her nails, chipped and bloody, and it was her blood, always her blood.
It stained her sword — and when it wasn’t enough, it bloomed into a searing scythe of death.
—Thank you, ◼◼◼◼◼◼—
Even in the morning, the sun barely shines on the small village, as if the bordering forest keeps its warmth away. Humidity seeps through her clothes, dampening her hair. It easily reflects on the villagers’ disposition, in particular the adults’.
She can see the distrust, so she doesn’t force a conversation, opting to take a stroll in the opposite direction of the forest.
In a way that can’t be claimed to be anything but a coincidence, she encounters a group of kids from the village playing near a stream.
“You should take caution when playing close to bodies of water,” she says, making sure her footsteps can be heard.
The kids jump at her voice, but don’t show the same fear and distrust of the adults.
“You’re the priest they sent from the city!” a little girl with pigtails exclaims, before being shushed by one of her friends.
“I am. I come from Snezhnaya, though I once lived here,” she says, crouching down to be at the kids’ height.
The mention of Snezhnaya seems to spook the kids.
“You won’t harm our knight, will you?” the girl in pigtails cries out.
The same friend reprimands her, immediately. “Emilie!”
Emilie puts both her hands over her mouth, mumbling softly. “Sorry, Amanda…”
“Your knight?” Arlecchino asks, puzzled.
The little boy who’s kept silent until now tugs on his friends’ sleeves. Arlecchino suspects they want to run away, but instead they seem to want to hold a consultation, before deciding on what to tell her.
“Why are you here?” Amanda ends up asking, taking the lead.
Arlecchino decides to be more forthcoming. “To investigate the series of disappearances,” then she adds, seeing as the kids are still hesitant, “if your knight could help, I’d be very grateful.”
“She didn’t do anything bad…” the little boy mumbles.
Emilie nods, energetically. “Yeah, those were bad people!”
“Bash… Emilie…” Amanda sighs, still distrustful of her.
Arlecchino puts on what she’s confident is a comforting smile. “I understand you want to protect your friend, but we can help each others. Why don’t you tell me what those bad people did?”
After more hesitation, they eventually tell her what they know. Even tinged in the innocence of children, Arlecchino easily pieces together what truly transpired in the village and forest.
Apparently, the first missing person was a drunkard who’s been harassing a recent widow in the village, who’s practically barricaded herself in her house to evade his harassment. However, one evening, as the sun was setting, people saw him walking into the forest, after the widow’s harried steps. Yet, unbeknown to the man, the woman had never left her house.
The drunkard never came back.
After his disappearance, some of his friends from the village caused ruckus for the poor widow, whom they accused of having cursed their friend. In the end, the old priest had to intervene, claiming it must’ve been the work of a demon or ghost.
Even with the recent flood, the stories that circulated in the village about Focalors were mostly associated with frilly shows and cheap tricks. So they ignored the warnings and ventured into the forest, never to return.
“I understand,” Arlecchino says, reassuring the kids. “Your knight wanted to protect the widow.”
“And she’s really nice, too…” Bash mutters, shyly.
“Yeah!” Emilie exclaims. “She lets us play with her pets!”
“Emilie!” Amanda yells, exasperated.
“Oh, Amanda! Miss Priest is nice, too!” Emilie says, smiling. “Just like Miss Knight!”
“I…” Amanda sighs, turning her eyes on Arlecchino, looking much older than a kid her age. “Just… don’t hurt her, please. She’s our friend.”
Arlecchino blinks, surprised. “Of course.”
Then, she pats their head, one at the time. “I’ll be going, now. Be sure to return home before the sun sets.”
Arlecchino steps into the forest, as the sun bleeds into the sky, with the sunlight weakly dyeing the stream that cuts the forest in halves a golden hue. Arlecchino doesn’t wander around, following the stream, until she reaches a corrupted lake with a dying large willow on the small island at its center.
The corruption spreading in the area isn’t a surprise, but its abyssal nature is. An unexpected variable — even if to normal people the Sevens and the Abyss are both considered evil forces of similar nature, Arlecchino knows better.
Even more surprising is the small feminine figure dressed in blue, barely visible under the cover of the willow’s dying branches. The woman seems to be praying to the willow, as she’s surrounded by three small hydro mimics.
As she summons her scythe, Arlecchino has no doubts of the woman’s identity.
Without hesitation, she attacks.
Focalors doesn’t see her coming, but her mimics do.
They teleport at Arlecchino’s sides, attacking her on both fronts, while Focalors straightens up, standing proudly on the lake’s corrupted water as she looks down on her.
“How dare you attack me!” Focalors shouts, flaunting confidence as she redirects her mimics to attack her. “You should bow before the Great Focalors, Regina of All Waters, and beg for forgiveness! I may even take pity on you and let you go, Father!”
Arlecchino pretends to ignore her, focusing on the annoying mimics, while never letting Focalors out of her line of sight.
Repelling the mimics is surprisingly easy. She’s never fought against one of the Sevens and is aware of the difference in strength they possess. When preparing herself to fight Focalors, Arlecchino hasn’t expected to face someone on the level of Baal’s prowess. However, she can’t help but find the fight underwhelming.
Doubts creep up — the missing people, the corrupted lake, the abyssal energy, Focalors praying. Something is missing, though Arlecchino isn’t sure what exactly is eluding her.
After disposing of the last mimic, she goes for Focalors, who is still standing on the lake, as if paralyzed in fear.
Ridiculous. Arlecchino needs to focus on her duties.
She disposes of her scythes, kicks the now defenseless Focalors in the pit of her stomach and sends her flying off the lake.
Readying herself to take the demon’s Heart, the source of one of the Seven’s power, Arlecchino strikes.
Before Focalors can summon her mimics once more or get up from where she’s laying on the ground, Arlecchino forcefully pushes her down. Focalors’ struggle is futile — it’s surprisingly easy to immobilize her, clasping her wrists over her head with a hand, and blocking her legs with her knees.
Arlecchino is ready to pierce her chest and steal her Heart, when she realizes why this has been all too easy.
This close, Arlecchino can’t mistake “Focalors”.
There is no Heart. “This” is no demon.
Trapped under her, scared to the point of tears is but a human girl, tainted by a curse so strong that Arlecchino has no doubts as to why everyone else believed she was a demon.
“You… what are you?” she asks, her hand still hovering over the girl’s trembling chest.
“Wh-what do you mean? Me? I’m the Great Focalors!” she says, in a pale imitation of her earlier confidence.
Arlecchino scoffs. “Oh? Going to ask me to bow before you again?”
“Y-you!”
“You’re cursed,” she says, bluntly. “I can feel it so clearly. Could it be that…”
“No! No, I am Focalors!”
Arlecchino sighs. “Foolish… human?”
“…No.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence,” Arlecchino says, though she stands up, offering the girl some respite — uncomfortable at seeing this previously proud being so clearly terrified. “I can tell the difference, you’re no demon.”
The human passing herself as Focalors grinds her teeth, pushing herself back on her feet, forcing her knees, fists and shoulders to stop shaking and trembling.
She’s still obviously scared. Yet, her voice comes out clear and loud.
“I told you, I am Focalors!”
“And I told you,” Arlecchino takes a step towards her, pushing but a finger against this human, which is enough to make her fall back on the ground. “I see through your lies.”
Arlecchino can tell the moment the fight dies in this human’s eyes — her limbs tremble and her already small body seems even tinier as she curls up on herself.
She looks so defenseless, Arlecchino can’t stand to look at her any longer.
“Let us go,” she says, curtly. “I need to report this to the Chur—”
“Wait, no!” with a surge of strength that surprises them both, the human tackles Arlecchino. “Please I beg of you, my cover, don’t tell anyone, please!”
Speechless, Arlecchino lays down, letting this human cry, grasping her robes, as she begs for her silence.
“Why would you wish to live as a demon?” she asks, not unkindly. “You’re cursed.”
“I know! I know…” she screams, her voice wrecked with grief. “But I can’t… I can’t just stop. I need to protect this place, it’s my duty!”
From their position on the ground, Arlecchino can’t look back at the lake and tree, but an idea is already forming in her mind.
“The corruption is abyssal in nature,” Arlecchino comments, not really needing a confirmation.
The human nods, still grasping Arlecchino’s robes too tightly. “It is… why, do you have an idea?”
“Partially,” she admits. “What is your name?”
“My… name?”
“Yes. Your human name,” she clarifies. “How do you want people to call you?”
The human is looking at her strangely — it’s trepidation, though Arlecchino can’t tell if she’s more scared or excited of her own answer. “Oh. oh! I—it’s Furina. My name… is Furina.”
Arlecchino blinks. “Then, Lady Furina, do you want a cure?”
“A cure… is it even possible for me to… to…” then, she shakes her head. “I can’t think of myself, when this place is dying.”
Arlecchino sighs, looking up at the moon peeking over the branches of the trees surrounding the cursed lake. She makes no move to push Furina to sit up. Instead, she lays her hands over Furina’s shoulders, in a pale imitation of comfort.
After all, the Jester has been annoyingly insistent about her finding a demon to partner up with.
“Very well, Lady Furina,” she says, eventually, her smile as sharp as a blade as she looks up at the woman in her arms. “Let us make a deal. I’ll burn the lake’s curse for you. In exchange, you’ll become mine.”
That night, as the lake is enveloped in the flames of rebirth, a new pact is forged.
Would it bring salvation to the cursed soul of Furina, or chain her down to the Circles of Hell?