“Keep calm,” Jing Yuan murmurs as he traces her hairline with his fingertips, tucking stray strands behind her ear. “So many people cannot handle even their single life, and you aim to live each and every possible outcome in existence? Weighing every decision between the infinitely forking branches before deciding on which path to take? You may have a vast mind, but have pity on your tiny head, Diviner.”
He leans in, touching his forehead against hers—against the gleaming third eye, without mind for its cold and distant nature. Jing Yuan’s eyelids flutter to a peaceful shut, as he does whenever entranced by deep contemplation. He is gorgeous, the general, particularly up close where she can see each of his moles and creases, all that marks him human. Fu Xuan hears the unwilling quickening of her heartbeats.
“Keep calm,” he repeats. “Breathe, Fu Xuan.”
Irrespective of her racing heart, she joins him as he inhales—chests rising and falling in tandem, again, again. She lets her own eyes close, her vision slipping into the unsettling dark. There’s warm security in the way his hand cups the back of her head, and she basks in it; dwelling in wafts of herbal mist, freshly inked parchment, salts of old regret among lotus leaves.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
“Patiently, let them out. We go through this one by one.”
A steady metronome, to keep the melody flowing. The weight of all the world's fate does not seem so much more daunting to bear now, knowing that there is a head, a heart, next to hers, keeping her in check.
Indeed, no one is not confined by the prison of their past; it is by this very principle the Matrix operates. Even Jing Yuan, for all his might and erudition, cannot escape this primal fate; he spends the end of days cleaning up the messes left in the wake of many yesterdays, of happier afternoons. Fu Xuan is well aware of this, yet never presses him on the how’s and why’s of bygone days. He tells her just enough that she understands the situation, and she works her magic for the present conundrums. And in Fu Xuan’s hands, it is more than enough, for she is beyond even the most capable of diviners.
But neither does Fu Xuan bother the general with a needless account of every possible fate she sees, every potential future for the Luofu. After all, his answer would always be hers: the future they tread will be the future where they lose the least, where they win the most. She need only pick a select few futures from the vast possibilities of tomorrow to present to Jing Yuan, for him to then put these plans into action, in line with his own foresight and cunning.
Simply—he stands to bear the Luofu’s past sins, trusting Fu Xuan with the weight of its future. And, indeed, once he has wrapped up the final chains that tie the Luofu to his age, it will be time for Jing Yuan to leave. He fears not this change, for he knows, Fu Xuan would never hold herself back to pursue the most favorable of futures; that she will keep marching forward, no matter the gravity of past circumstance. Such is her very nature—and he finds reassurance in it.
To know the Luofu is in safe hands. To know there is one last person to trust, in a lifetime of heartbreaks and losses.
That I may find you today, amidst a sea of immutable ‘yesterdays’ and uncertain ‘tomorrows’, is, too, nothing short of fate, Jing Yuan would say. This, too, he eventually decides to store in the drawer collecting dust. What use is there tying more knots in the interstice of eras, one that she will eventually have to tear as she moves further forth into the future?
To be able to watch the bird take its flight from ground, soaring into endless skies—what more can he ask for from today?
neuvillette / furina (platonic or romantic, your pick) | 999 words
“There’s been an uproar in rumors, you know,” says Brigitte, a relaxed countenance accompanied by the darkening night. “Regarding the Hydro Archon—whether she has truly died. They say—“
“—the Hydro Archon faked her death, and is really just shirking her duties? I’ve heard,” the Iudex hums. There isn’t any trial scheduled for the day, so the court of Erinnyes is considerably empty. The winter air blows pleasantly past them, the fountains by the court lazily reaching for the skies. “The idea isn’t particularly new, either. Even the light novel writer who popularized it admitted she drew inspiration from past research that was buried in the depths of Meropide.”
“That explains your lack of surprise. But if the idea managed to persist through time…”
“Perhaps only testifies to how tempting the idea is, to humans—to those who cannot accept loss so easily.”
Neuvillette’s steps slowed down before the Fountain of Lucine, Brigitte following suit. It’s one of the few things in Fontaine that has observed significant change since the Hydro Archon’s resignation; the Chief Justice had been quite insistent on retaining everything in Fontaine as they were, as if the god had never left. Truly, life had continued with all of Fontaine still worshiping their god, no matter that she had become human. No matter that she had passed.
The Fountain of Lucine blooms ever the brighter in the night, water gleaming cyan with a power of Hydro that exists nowhere else. Water sprites swirl around the fountain, crooning a gentle melody, heard only to those with particular affinity.
It’s a wonderful night to treat your friends out to a meal, speaks the teasing voice. Whether the voice is real or simply a figment of his imagination, Neuvillette refuses to discern. Turn back before it is too late—or I will splash you with a rage that rivals the Tulpa’s.
The Champion Duelist remains silent. Then, “I don’t suppose you are so much different than us, in that regard.”
“I don’t make up stories to convince myself she’s alive,” Neuvillette chuckles, but his eyes are still fixated on the statue before him.
“You don’t. You make a shrine of her—a sentient image—that should remind everyone of her existence, her divinity, her sacrifice. An eternal reminder that serves as your company when she is no more.”
The water swims around Furina’s curtseying figure, before resting upon the pool with a splash. “I believe the difference lies in that I have thoroughly accepted her death. I am… remembering her for the life she’s lived, not spun-up tales about boasted magnificence, or a selfishness to her that never existed.”
“Yet you pray, like she's to come save you.” Brigitte laughs, but it is pitiful. “I believe that is your own manner of delusion.”
“Is that what it is, to you?” Neuvillette lets out a gentle smile, running a hand through the diaphanous waters. “Here I thought I’d simply been reminiscing.”
The skies let out its first teardrops; like this has happened one too many times, Brigitte quickly pulls out her umbrella, shielding herself from the rain. Neuvillette, as always, takes the rain as it is—lets it run down the length of his hair, the edges of his coat, his gloved fingertips.
“I’ll take my leave for the day, then,” the duelist says in greeting. Neuvillette lets out a hum, barely casting a glance her way. She turns, but pauses just then.
“You say this is reminiscence, to you.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Why is it that you reminisce of her, when it is your birthday?”
The trickle of rain against the stone road fills the air. Neuvillette hardly budges, gazing still at the fountain, the statue, the vigorous waters, the glowing waters, holding moonlight in its palm.
“What do you do on your birthday, Brigitte?”
“We commemorate our lives, how far we’ve come,” she responds in an instant, “and make wishes for the upcoming year, what’s more to come.”
Neuvillette then turns to her, granting her a small smile. “Isn’t the Fountain of Lucine perfect for such notions? For reflection, for aspiration?”
Brigitte raises an eyebrow. There seems to be a question barred behind her gaze, but she shakes her head, and gives him a nod, before walking towards the station, leaving the Chief Justice to his own company. His own, and the spirits of the fountain before him.
You are hopeless, it seems to be saying. A fine night, and you ruin it with rain and gloom.
Neuvillette takes his gloves off, lets himself feel the touch of benevolent waters. He lets the fountain dance, feeling currents run through his fingers, feeling its poison, feeling its kiss.
He closes his eyes.
In his mind, indeed, are plenty of memories. Of banter in the court from the Iudex and the Hydro Archon’s respective seats. Of watching Furina dance on stage, him holding his heart with the utmost admiration. Of distress, seeing Furina shrieking over the smallest critters, running over the smallest problems. Of all the times Furina would question his faith in her—to retrospectively understand the fear that underlied her accusations, the desperation in her violence.
Neuvillette would spend hours in the rain doing this—to replay each memory, four hundred years worth of a performance; to learn why she had chosen to act the scene in that specific way, to appreciate it all belatedly. The show is over, but Neuvillette has plenty of time going ahead anyway—if there is anything he owes her, if there is anything he can do, as the specially invited audience—it’s to learn.
To learn, to praise, to immortalize.
The skies betray his heart, thundering and pouring through the night, swallowing the full moon with its weight. But Neuvillette stays by the fountain, letting it dance to its heart’s content until it decides to rest.
What is the meaning of my existence? He’s had to ask for centuries.
This, he’s realized. To be your witness, to be the arbiter of true Justice, for past, present, and for all of the lightless future.
