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High above the petty trial of the courtroom sat the Hydro Archon as a witness.
She showed little interest in the affair; yawning whilst the crowd leant forward, and giggling where the crowd grew solemn. The Iudex threw her affronted looks as waves upon an unyielding cliff. Cases of this sort always seemed to draw a peculiar reaction compared to the common man. Tickets for these trials were in especially high demand, to see the inner workings of divinity where they waxed brightest. It was thus commonly known that fraud was the greatest sin, though the Hydro Archon claimed to hate them all equally.
Furina watched as the snarling crowd was whipped into a frenzy when the defendant was cornered. She watched as they bayed for blood; fraud an affront to the truth of the very justice they believed in. A mental note was made to write a letter to Wriothesely, to ensure no harm came at the Fortress. It would do no good to denounce punitive justice only to permit vigilantism. After all, even her criminals had their ideals written into their very souls.
But there could be no realization of these ideals without order, for justice without law was simply the rule of might. And though she bluffed, she was hardly mighty at all. What a monster she had created! What starving hounds, hungering for a truth she could not muster and hating the truth she could! What precarity, to sit above the self-same crowd that would surely tear her to pieces for the sin that balanced the scales!
‘And yet,’ she mused, ‘They haven't managed to find the most obvious sign of me being human.’
Furina unconsciously ran her left hand over the contours of her right, tracing the edge of her glove with her thumb. It would be so easy to lose them, for her bare skin to be exposed. All they would have to do is look under her countless layers. It would be easy, immediate- and impossible.
When she first came to power, Fontainians looked far different from their modern selves. This wasn't an excess of limbs or eyes, nor were they half the people they would become. Once, Furina looked no different from the average human. For their bodies had no pigment save that of Hydro.
Of course, their faces mimicked those of other humans. There had never been any doubt of that, even in the early days. But if one looked further, at the base of the throat and the torso, they would see the Fontish organs. Each in their place, and perfectly human. Far more visible asleep than awake, a partner could watch the steady thrum of the heart and the regular movement of the lungs.
Furina, all too human, shared these signs of life. But the gods merely played at the human form. She had no reason for her heart or lungs, the blood in her veins and the accessory spleen. Perhaps, far in the future, she could have called it an art exhibit. The power of the hydro archon, with the human automata proudly on display. But Fontaine was still only developing its arts with a hunger, and she looked no different from the citizenry.
The elaborately layered clothing of Fontaine was thus a relic from those days, as sunburn was one of the most terrible and common ailments. What protection did they have against its rays, with no pigment at all? And worse, the magnifying power of Hydro did nothing to ease their pain. It was only natural that they would find protection by covering where the hair of their heads failed.
That their archon exclusively wore tall collars and nothing less than a full suit every day certainly didn’t hurt either. Long sleeves and long pants covered prominent veins in the crook of her elbows and the back of her knees. If Fontish fashion was to follow, was she really to blame? And really, she simply wore them to set a good example.
Who would suspect that even she had to be wary of burns?
The years passed, and the people flowed like water. Fontainians married foreigners and their childrens’ bodies produced pigment, as if they magically remembered that humans ought to be colored in. The old tales from other nations for identifying a true Fontainian fell to the realm of myth along with the Fontish appearance of old.
Some individuals were born looking like their ancestors. They were called albino, pigmentless and associated with an illness from other nations. Furina knew better. Their translucence was the blessing of Hydro made manifest. She kept silent, even as doctors bickered over diagnoses.
Didn’t her subjects see the blueness of their eyes? Where else could it have possibly come from, in a body whose blood ran red? Surely they noticed the faint blue tint to their hair. And the blessed- could they have known? Did their blood sing for the Primordial Waters it came from?
She never told them of their heritage. They didn’t need to know. Better to let rest evidence for a crime committed before their grandparents’ grandparents were born. The inhuman pallor of the Hydro Archon became a grace of her station instead of damnation. Furina was the last human oceanid to have been born before they had adapted.
They never had to know.
Though dyes and powders were not uncommon in the past, Furina found none that could withstand her demands. She was too active, and she needed it all over her body. Constant sitting and standing would leave marks on chairs and legs uncolored. Forget a false move, they simply would need a false look!
Still, she persisted. It wasn’t until a few hundred years into her reign that a water-proof foundation was invented. This, they advertised as a boon to both enjoy their Archon’s gift and their looks. And if she funded this privately, well it was certainly useful, wasn’t it? Her people did so enjoy their fashion and their makeup, even if it got a little absurd sometimes.
If the standard was powder, then of course their Archon would be powdered. She was the standard and even if, once upon a time she was not, well it was a terribly long time ago. The standards meandered to her whims as an oxbow lake split from a river. Anyone who hadn’t moved on was merely a stagnant crone.
Then, Furina had a radical shift in her attire. With a foundation carefully applied for hours before she even officially awoke, she donned the outfit she came into existence with. No longer did she hide her legs every day. No more was her careful covering of her body. And Fontainian fashion followed.
If she needed sleep? That was too suspicious, it wouldn’t be seen as a whim of hers. No, her body was different. She could withstand; she had to withstand. A goddess did not get eyebags.
The powder helped with that too.
She still at times wore the pants when her anxiety became too great. But even that had to be reduced, to build the perfect image. Who was the Hydro Archon if not a goddess whose half-serious attire shone light on yet another injustice? Decor was not the basis upon which justice was meted. Indeed, justice had no appearance save hers.
Her Iudex could be the bastion of order that Fontaine needed and she would play its fickle truths. There was a necessary discomfort to all the proceedings in trials, a reminder of the gravity of why they were present. Moreover, dullness could never be allowed to seep in, for then her grand trial would surely never be realized!
Furina’s thoughts then drifted to the Knave. Her troublesome behavior and allegiance to the Fatui. How her extremities were blackened and her skin held no pallor. Did she know her past? Did she know she accused with the weight of a thousand betrayed ancestors?
Even then, she still wondered if it was truly a sign. The Knave was solid marble to Furina’s hidden translucence. She was akin to a glass meka, but the Knave’s clockwork was hidden. Black eyes, red pupils, and monochrome hair. Nothing on her reflected the colors of Hydro, not her body nor her vision.
'Nothing on me reflects that I’m see-through,’ Furina thought, ‘but that was with the use of a lot of makeup. I wonder if she could be doing something similar… or, well, maybe she’s using a lot of dyes.’
Dyes would make the most sense, wouldn’t they? Something suitably subtle for her tastes. Her preferences for suits reminded Furina of her own. Still, something seemed off. The Knave was proud but not vain, and such vanity didn’t seem right for her.
‘I really doubt she’d use sinthe. Or anything with primordial seawater.’
Snezhnayan though her vision may be, her heart of Fontaine would always shine within her. No amount of distance could ever change the truth of her heritage. That brought Furina cold comfort, for nothing but her very own element could betray her. Nothing else would be suitably dramatic for her finest trial.
‘Not that she’d catch me.’
Right?
A Fatui Harbinger may as well have been her death knell, but they had come and they had gone. They were all mortal. The Knave was but one more actor called to the stage for a dozen scenes before she had to bow. The show would go on, and Furina wouldn’t rest until the final curtain fell.
‘Oh yes. The trial.’
Furina looked up. Had they noticed she had disappeared into her thoughts? The crowd yelled and Neuvillette called for order.
No, no they hadn’t. And perhaps that was the funniest thing of all. Every tragedy needed some comic relief to prevent audience apathy, and here was hers. Despite her best efforts, the trial had fallen into a cliche rut when left to run automatically. Just like the one before it, and the thousands before that.
Couldn’t they see that every case was unique? Every actor on the stage, every prop and every crime differed. And yet they always reacted the same. Even this trial, so heavily anticipated and emotional, was borne from the tired trope that she hated this crime the most.
Boring! Wasn’t there some better response they could have?
Oh, she didn’t even need to be mentally present to know what had happened. The defendant failed to prove their innocence, the crowd began to hurl insults and threats as the mob mentality overwhelmed them. Neuvillette took control over the trial once more and proceeded. Then came the guilty verdict, and the death glares as she restrained her hounds from the fox.
And it would happen again. And again. And again. And again. What was wrong with them!? Didn’t they learn? Had they not yet exhausted their wrath? Monsters!
But they were monsters of her own design. And there had to be chaff for the wheat to be separated. That’s all. She simply needed to be patient. What was waiting for one more trial, when she had been waiting 500 years?
She wondered if they would discover her first. Who would it be?
Neuvillette, who finally grew tired of her antics and seeming lack of a plan? The non-existent secret he sought veiled behind her crime?
The Knave, who sought answers for justice she couldn’t grant? A gnosis she couldn’t give for a divinity that wasn’t hers?
The Traveller from another land whom her spies informed her of? Would she bring the song of revolution when she spoke?
Ah, the Traveler. She was due to visit soon. Would she kneel and kiss the frail skin under her glove? Would she feel the delicate bones beneath her lips? Was she willing to ruin the house of lies in which they lived to uncover the truth of the foundation?
A manic laugh burbled up from her soul and caught the attention of the audience. Neuvillette gave her a scathing look and a stern question of what could possibly be so funny. Couldn’t they see the hilarity, the disgusting mess she’s made of themselves?
Ah, she needed to control herself. Clearing her throat, Furina said,
“Why, my dear Iudex. Is it not laughable that the people would try to create their own definition of justice?”
The crowd murmured in confusion and slight offense.
“What could she have meant by that?” asked a confused audience member.
“No, of course not!” shouted an offended audience member.
“Wow, the Hydro Archon’s going to tell us hers!” exclaimed a slightly gullible audience member.
Neuvillette tapped his cane and the swell of noise softened. Then he said, “Lady Furina, please elaborate.”
Furina looked out upon them and said, “Simply that this is a trial like any other, so there’s no need for such vulgar behavior when the matter has already been resolved.”
‘I have to make them stop, somehow,’ she thought, ‘Please, listen to me.’
The crowd once again began to raise their voices as they protested the notion that this might be vulgar or that it was enough.
Furina frowned and lifted her voice one last time, saying, “There is law for a reason. If you would like to continue to threaten violence, the gardes can always guide you to a trial of your own. Perhaps that will teach a lesson that sticks.”
Neuvillette spoke, but she did not hear it. The crowd was quelled, but she didn’t care. Could they see through her? Is that why they refused to listen? How many times had she repeated this, for naught? Had Neuvillette? Her gardes? Did it matter?
She needed to sit, and she felt herself land heavily on her throne.
With a heavy head in her hand, what more could she do but marvel? It was clear she had lost control of the opera long ago- and perhaps she never had any control at all. She was the leading actress, not the director, in the end. Her rule was a precarious pile of sticks threatening to fall. And when she fell, she wondered how badly it would hurt to land in the gaping maws awaiting her.