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Every year, on this particular day, the first thing Neuvillette would do is greet the Hydro Archon a happy birthday. He is several steps up the staircase when his walking slows down, remembering that no one resides in the upper floors of the Palais Mermonia anymore.
No guards remain stationed in the vacated floor, either. Some Melusines are peeking at him from below, perhaps curious about his intentions.
He does not stop to turn back his course. The Chief Justice continues walking, down the hallway until the sounds of the Palais Mermonia’s daily business fades into crystallized silence. Sundust flickers in the small cracks of light, slipping past heavy curtains; this floor hasn’t seen any life in a while. It has—had once been reserved for a most distinguished person, one whose crown has been shattered. One who has returned to the ground to dwell amidst the people, as the people.
It is the late Hydro Archon’s birthday, but she is no longer.
It is Furina’s birthday, but she is not here.
Every year, on this particular day, he would come up to her chambers to greet her a happy birthday. He was usually the first to do so, only because no other guard seemed to be brave enough to disturb her tranquility so early in the morning. Neuvillette did it only because he wished to get back to work as soon as possible, and Furina would always ask, without fail: “Not taking today off, either?”
When his workload was heavy, he’d say it as it is; most times, he’d just give her a shrug. She never needed to hear his answer—there was nothing Furina hated more than hearing a repeat, having more than once called him a “broken record” for using the same sentence twice in a week.
It makes sense, in retrospect, why she hated so much his monotony.
Neuvillette stares at the door—what was once her door—in prolonged silence, even though his mind was anything but. His hand hovers over the cold door handle, as though there is any reason to hesitate; open, closed, his decision makes no difference.
No one resides in there.
A stone thrown across a river will not bend its flow; so does the Chief Justice have work to attend to. Perhaps he’ll write a letter to her wishing her a happy birthday, just as she occasionally does for him when their schedules conflict and she can’t wish him a happy birthday first thing in the morning.
He heads back downstairs with an empty mind, and the feeling of a pebble lodged in his shoes.
This year, on this particular day, Neuvillette decides to take time off work. Sedene fails to hide her surprise when Neuvillette informs her of his decision to leave the office for the day.
“Do you have something to attend to, Monsieur…? Ah—forgive me for my insensitivity, it’s just—”
Neuvillette chuckles, giving her a head pat. “It’s not insensitive to be curious, Sedene. I am well aware of my proclivity to work around the clock, disregarding the state of public holidays. Recently, a friend advised that I should allow myself some vacations when I need it—although vacation is not the right word for this either, I suppose.”
He pauses, gaze dissolving into the depth of his own thoughts, the layered contemplation that’s boggled him for the last twenty minutes. “It’s just as it is—I thought it only proper to commemorate the Hydro Archon’s existence.”
The question lingers like the annoying Mitachurl: why only start now? Why never, not once, in the past five centuries where the Hydro Archon still very much existed?
Must one's life only be commemorated upon death?
Neuvillette doesn’t want to linger upon the question too much—not yet, at least, when the sun hangs high and the day’s festivities are in full swing. The people do not need uninvited flood now of all times; it is a day of celebration before all else. For many, the public holiday serves as a rare opportunity to meet up with family and old friends, a break from daily toils, opportunities far and wide across the city.
Sedene seems to sense that, too, and quickly nods in agreement. “That’s good, that’s good! Blathine tells me the shows in the Opera Epiclese have attracted quite the crowd—they’re free, so you should definitely check them out if you have the time, Monsieur!”
“Mhm. I will be sure to stop by.”
The Palais’ workers have already fallen into muffled chatter, no doubt spreading word of Neuvillette’s unordinary decision to take leave. Their faces are hazed mainly with surprise, some with the mildest suspicion, some with knowing smiles.
“No doubt he’s going to be spending time with the birthday girl herself,” one whispers within earshot.
A funny assumption, even to his ears. Neuvillette is not as well versed in human affairs as Furina is, but since when is it desirable to meet up with an old coworker during a public holiday? A coworker, no less, from a workplace that brought her great anguish, that trapped her in an endless cycle of helplessness for five whole centuries, while said coworker did nothing and only doubted her when it counted the most?
There are far better things Furina could be doing with her time in this special day. The last thing she needs is for Neuvillette to be bringing his blues into her bliss.
He hardly spares the gossiping workers a glance, simply heading out of the Palais in quiet long strides.
As soon as the elevator doors open, revealing the main hall of the aquabus station, people catch sight of Neuvillette, and begin to spread the inevitable ruckus. Perhaps taking leave was a poorly thought decision.
Before the damage is irreversible, Neuvillette takes rapid steps through the main hall to the door, but the crowd is quick to hold up their Kameras and shout their questions at him. In all fairness, their attitude towards him has not been half as invasive as towards Furina—no matter that she had been the real Hydro Archon, they have always been more daring with her than they are with him, no doubt because of his reputation in court, whereas Furina has always carried an approachable disposition. Even so, the flurry of flashes and clicks and incoherent yelling is enough to get under Neuvillette’s nerves.
Ultimately he stops and clears his throat as loudly as he can. A wave of silence washes over the people.
“It is the former Hydro Archon, Lady Furina’s birthday,” he declares. “Rather than casting your gaze upon myself, a mere enjoyer of the festivities, I suggest you highlight the efforts that the people have put into commemorating our Archon. There are ample events dedicated to her life’s story worth writing about—conversely, to have them shadowed would greatly sadden the God of the Arts herself.”
He does not speak with an edge, but the people seem to get the point: they slowly lower their Kameras, some nodding as a frail attempt to curry favor with the Chief Justice. He pays them little mind.
“I hope you enjoy this brief but pivotal holiday.”
Sunlight strikes his eyes as he leaves the station, just as he feels a tinge of iron in his tongue—he knows how Furina feels about being subject to all the attention. He understands that it is partially due to all the misplaced attention—the weight of responsibility thrown over her shoulder, whereas she did not have the means to carry that heavy mantle; or at least, never knew if she had it, the truth hidden from her all along.
But now that the truth—if not most of it—has been brought to the light, Neuvillette thinks Furina deserves every bit of the appreciation for everything she’s had to endure.
She doesn’t have to be under the spotlight—let them cast their attention towards her gentle shadows, her silhouettes. The truth, as it is, is that she’s left so large an impact upon the people of Fontaine that it warrants no excuse not to commemorate her, impossible to pretend her existence bears no significance. Furina doesn’t see herself as any god, but Neuvillette sees her as so much more than a capable god. A true god gathers their strength from her people—Furina has managed to inspire faith in so many more, and wavered not once, come what may.
Neuvillette knows this best. Anyone else doesn’t come even close, and anyone who doubts his testimony is nothing short of a fool.
So does he feel the tiniest bit apologetic for redirecting all the headlines to Furina’s glory, but Neuvillette has always been an advocate of justice, of nothing but the impartial truth. And the truth, as it is, is that for all of Furina’s flaws and mistakes, she has led Fontaine the best she can in the hand given to her, played a winning game with those wretched cards.
Near the edges of Fontaine’s capital, close to the gardens, a humble art stall is set up; some orphans from the House of the Hearth are selling portraits for charity, as well as holding classes for children to learn to paint. The oldest of these organizers do not look to be much older than twenty; the young man shows his clear alertness to see the Chief Justice, only a little perplexed at his uncanny appearance.
“You’re not here for… work, are you, Monsieur Neuvillette?” It’s clear he has the necessary confidence in quotidian contexts, but even the highest heads have faltered before Neuvillette; this is no rare occurrence. “The House has applied for and been granted all necessary permits—“
“Please, be at ease. I am not here for work. Rather, I am quite interested in these watercolor paintings.”
“Oh, okay—I’m sorry?”
Neuvillette sits himself next to a young girl who seems the least scared of him. She only gives him a brief stare before resuming her painting of a woman with a radiant smile. “One of the Melusines—Mamere—is particularly fond of painting, and occasionally gifts the others and myself some paintings. I am curious as to how they are done… According to my observations, as well, people come to adopt individual, unique techniques when it comes to painting.”
“Of course! Everyone has their own style,” explains another member of the House of the Hearth, the young woman leading the art class. “So it is for every art form, such as singing, writing, photography or fashion. For beginner artists, we tend to give them samples for reference, because not everyone might know how to start yet, but personal styles develop over time with exposure and enlightenment.”
“As they say, there is no teacher better than doing it yourself,” the young man from earlier speaks up. “You do seem quite interested, after all—if you have the time, Monsieur…”
Neuvillette doesn’t hesitate in giving him a nod. “If you can accommodate me, I’d be happy to learn, thank you.”
“But we should be thanking you, Sir!”
The teacher scrambles for the tools, handing Neuvillette first an empty canvas, and then, a pencil. “You’ll first want to sketch an outline of what you want to paint. Don’t worry about not being good at drawing—art is not a perfect replication of reality; you can even draw completely abstract shapes, if you so wish! Or you can just draw something right in front of you, simple as that.”
Neuvillette turns to the little girl, whose paint is overlapping her pencil strokes, but she doesn’t seem to stress herself too much over it. “This is just a woman from my imagination.”
He doesn’t have such a creative imagination, but if nothing else, he has a good memory. He begins to draw the outline of a hair, then a face, then—
“You can loosen your wrist a little, Monsieur,” suggests the teacher. “Draw multiple strokes if you have to; we have an eraser if you need one, but you don’t really need to erase much. The paint will cover most of the pencil strokes, anyhow.”
Neuvillette doesn’t quite know how to loosen his wrist while still drawing with the pencil, but he tries to remember when Furina tried to tell him the same, that time she tried to teach him how to play the piano. It’s been a good couple of centuries since then, and even then, his memory carries.
He keeps drawing, eyes never leaving his canvas. Erasing again, drawing again, all the way to the details that make up the background. It is another kid that pops up behind his shoulder and says, “Are you sure this is your first time drawing? You draw so well, Monsieur Neuvillette!”
“Ah—really? I was merely drawing from memory.”
“That’s an… insanely beautiful sketch, for something drawn from memory,” compliments the teacher, and her smile does look genuine. “It’s not technical like that of a seasoned veteran’s, of course, but you managed to capture the details in a manner true to its model, true to reality. Perhaps it helps that the model herself is beautiful.”
Even the indifferent girl is looking at the canvas in awe. “For an image in memory to be so vivid, it must have been such a beautiful moment, too.”
About three centuries ago, the Chief Justice was dragged out of his office, forced to “enjoy his birthday”. He was led to the coast, to the sea, because it was the only other thing he seemed to enjoy aside from paperwork. He was shown—shoved, rather—a Lumitoile, a Blubberbeast, and a leisurely otter, none of which seemed to shake his will to return to the office.
Furina proceeded to grumble, petulantly dropping herself on the ground, the sticky sand inevitably latching onto her bare skin. “Whatever. I’ll celebrate your birthday for you, then,” she’d decided, an ultimatum. “It’ll be a holiday for me. And I’m the Hydro Archon, so whatever I say, goes.”
It was not that moment, but the moment after—when her smile slowly melted into the billowing wind, and a rare instance of pensiveness washed over her; when her resolute, mismatched eyes flickered for once, and a faint sigh escaped her lips—that Neuvillette etched in his mind, and kept dearly in unfading memory. A moment of silence, of uncertainty; an instance where it felt like her, and yet, a stranger, altogether.
An image he only came to understood three centuries late.
“It is…. a precious moment,” Neuvillette echoes.
The Chief Justice is not usually late to court, but today, he enters the Opera Epiclese a few minutes into the play, when a musical score is well in full swing.
Every year, on this particular day, the court is closed for hearings, and the opera house serves as a stage to highlight the Hydro Archon’s might. They usually focus on historic feats that involve her—some of which are purely fictitious, based only off rumors, never to be confirmed by the god herself; others being things the Palais Mermonia have accomplished, most of which have very little to do with her directly. It’s not to say, of course, that Furina has done nothing for the past five centuries—public perception prior to her ultimate trial has made it such that she enjoyed shirking off her duties and could care less about governmental affairs, although Neuvillette knows better—she had always tried to involve herself, even if some things weren’t within her capacity, and was never the irresponsible god they made her out to be.
This year’s play, of course, has taken on a completely different tale than that of the rest. It’s the first of Furina’s birthday following her resignation; it’s been the biggest of the festivities yet, with the prophecy having been overcome, and Furina’s story as the Hydro Archon having been concluded. Today’s play takes on an interesting narrative—it starts, and centers, around the final trial leading to her death sentence. With every few arguments from the prosecution, the story rewinds to show the evidence, and when they return to the trial, the actress playing Furina denies it haughtily with a thinly veiled argument, not unlike how the actual trial went. When it was time for the defense to make their case, the flashback scenes switch to Furina’s stories—the truth that she’s had to burden on her own—and still, the arguments she gave in the trial contradict her own experiences, all in order to conceal that truth.
Many parts of the story were, of course, embellished, if not exaggerated to make the audience feel a little more sympathy for the lonesome Archon. Many of the truth, after all, has not been revealed to the public—even the very matter with the gnosis, with the Oratrice and Focalors’ consciousness in it, and Neuvillette’s own role in it all remains unbeknown. The best explanation they could give for how the prophecy was resolved was that Furina accumulated her divinity to sacrifice it during the trial, and in the process, saved the people of Fontaine from the prophecy. It’s a neat ending, and it’s one that people need—no need to know of the extent of that sacrifice, no need to know who bore witness to that sacrifice, and who’s to bear the weight of that history going forward.
Neuvillette himself finds him captivated by the play, but he cannot be quick to judge its value from an art perspective—Furina is a better assessor for that. Yet she would not be watching this play—artistic quality aside, she would not be enjoying this story, even if the whole theater, the whole nation, gives her a standing ovation for it.
Every year, without fail, the Hydro Archon would be here as a show of appreciation for the actors and parties who worked hard to perform a play dedicated in her honor—no matter that it was her birthday they celebrated, that it was her who deserved the appreciation, who gets to decide how her day went.
Now the Hydro Archon is no more, and she no longer hears the songs heralded of her, the praises for her. People gather still, with respect towards her irreplaceable existence, because Furina has always been Fontaine’s light.
The Chief Justice does not usually leave the court early, but today, he leaves the Opera Epiclese before the curtain call comes and the applause thunders.
Light rain usually comes before the trial, but today, it falls well into the evening, following the conclusion of the drama.
“It’s one day in a year. One,” she’d argued, tainting her face with a frown first thing in the morning. “No one will die if you take the day off—justice won’t die if you’re absent for a day, certainly not while I’m alive, Neuvillette.”
“Conversely, what valid reason do I have to be taking the day off?”
“What valid—it’s my birthday, Neuvillette! I’m the Hydro Archon!”
He’d only sighed, giving her a plain stare. “And what do you do on your birthday, Lady Furina?”
The question had seemed to surprise her, which she conceals—as always—by loudly clearing her throat. “Ahem! I start the day off with the finest cup of tea made by unsurpassable tea artisans from all over Teyvat, get myself some warm pastries to energize me through the day, then grace the world with my bountiful, generous presence! And then—”
“And then you take a stroll down every street of the city, greeting people and thanking them for their hard work, accept gifts that proceed to pile up in the corner of your bedroom, travel to the opera house to cry and clap at plays about yourself?”
“That—that is exactly what I do, yes! Enjoying the revelry, as a god should!”
“So what reason do I have to take the day off? Whether or not I work will not interfere with your birthday celebration,” he’d said frankly—perhaps a little coldly, given his unrefined tone in the early days in his post as the Iudex. “The only thing I can do for you—to honor you, on your birthday—is to do my job dutifully, as I am now. I am your Chief Justice, after all. I do not understand what there is to gain from taking leave on your birthday.”
“You do not—“ She’d let out another exasperated sigh. “I’m demanding rest of you, Neuvillette. I want you to enjoy a day’s break, for a change—with my birthday as a mere excuse. An excuse. Get it?”
“I do not. Frankly, the excuse makes no sense, but also, I do not need a day’s rest. I do get enough rest in a day, in between work breaks.”
She’d thrown him an incredulous stare, and it was then Neuvillette realized they would never come to understand each other, no matter how many years it took down the line. “If I said it’s my birthday wish for you to take the day off, would you do so?”
“… If you’d make it a law, I suppose I would have no right to break it.”
She’d narrowed her eyes, but quickly proceeded to drop the matter. “Who am I to stop you from being a good servant of mine?” Her frown had dissipated, and she was no longer trying to argue her way with him—she was out of his office in no time. He hadn’t gotten to see her again, the rest of the day.
It was then Neuvillette realized there was more to Furina than her whimsicality, than her occasional irrationality.
Why did it never occur to him what it really was?
How had he never caught it, for all the centuries they’ve spent together, for all the time he spent looking up to her?
Why did he not once stop, think, to celebrate her birthday with her, to thank her—just as she’d come to thank him every year, without fail?
The skies pour in tiny drops, drops no lighter than a peck. It is not one deterministic moment that strikes him in one go, but these little moments—seconds scattered across time and memory—that seep their way into his skin, drowning him in a flood of inescapable sorrow.
Take out any one second, and it would not lessen the rain. Yet the rain would not be here, were it not for these abounding seconds.
Neuvillette remembers, as he does all things, every single moment spent with her. He looks to Furina every time—she, or Focalors, first gave him his purpose, defined his once listless existence. Furina herself led him to realize it, over a painstaking five hundred years. Every enactment of justice has always been in her name, has always been for her.
Still, he lived in the dark, all the while, veiled by justice’s blindfold.
He does not shiver from the cold, nor move to wipe the stray drops off his garment—they keep coming, anyway. He only leans against the silent statue, eyes unflinching against the rain, the bleak and moonless night.
Where does a river go, without the sea to call home?
Dear Furina,
Wishing you the happiest of birthdays this year, as I’ll continue to wish for you the years to come. I hope your day has been a pleasant one, spent with pleasant company, doing things of your own choosing.
Initially, I had wanted to keep this letter concise and end it there. But the more I went through the day, more of my personal wishes for you came to mind. People pray to the gods to fulfil their wishes, but Fontaine no longer has a god. The Statues of the Seven have been quiet. You have always been my anchor, and you are also the recipient of my sincere wishes—I thought it only fair to relay them to you.
If my assumption is correct, it does not bring you particular enlightenment to hear that the world is still celebrating your birthday, reminiscing your time as the Hydro Archon. You have, in several instances, mentioned of your preference to be treated as a humble director, that the matter of your godhood be left to the past. I believe it is a fair desire to have, having so long be consigned to chains you did not ask for, and being continuously commemorated for falsehoods. Far be it for me to dispute how you feel—I have no right to say anything on this matter, not when I have never been tactful of how you felt all this time.
But—and although I cannot claim myself to be an expert in matters of human perception—from what I’ve seen from my time outside today, I’m inclined to believe that the admiration and love people have for you has always been genuine, and will continue to remain so. In fact, regardless of how you personally perceive your worth as a god or as Fontaine’s leader, the people look up to you and put their faith and their hearts in you. Matters like these have little to do with whether you have the power of a gnosis or the ability to enact real change—it’s always been about how you care for the people first and foremost, how you inspire them and give them hope for a future that seemed bleak. It has been a year since you’ve had anything to do with the Palais’ affairs, and so scarcely have you made any public appearance, yet still the people revere you—this is how much you mean to them, Furina.
I don’t know whether you’ve left the house at all today, but the streets are lined with festivals and booths of every kind, some even sponsored from different nations. The owner of Chioriya Boutique has arranged for representatives from the Kamisato Clan of Inazuma to hold a flower arrangement stall—they told me you mentioned your interest in Inazuman ikebana, the last time you met with the lady of the clan. I fear I cannot predict your affinity for floristry, but I decided to acquire a pot of blue and gold flowers—I’d wanted to deliver them to your doorstep, but it’s been raining, and I’m afraid the flowers, if not its arrangement, will be ruined. I’ll send someone to send you the flower pot tomorrow, first thing in the morning.
Aside from that, musicians from Liyue and Mondstadt have also come over, combining their native string and woodwind instruments and playing local Fontaine music all around the city’s streets. It has been quite the lively day indeed, a hub of opportunities for reporters and curious children alike. I myself took the time to learn the art of watercolor painting—I dare not claim any talent in the art, though it fascinates me how by simply manipulating the intervals of time in layering colored water over each other, one manages to bring to life an empty canvas, in a myriad of shades and hues. I am also curious as to whether different types of water would result in different painting results—theoretically, it should, or so deduced the scientifically inclined orphans of the House of the Hearth. Perhaps when I have some free time in the future, I will attempt to test that theory myself.
There have been so much more, dedicated in honor of you, events and stories that will no doubt flood the headlines of every newspaper journal. I will not enforce you to go through each and every one of them, nor is it my intention to overwhelm you into realizing all this. The point I wish to make is, as much as it is fair that you do not wish to be affiliated your past going forward, I also wish you would realize that the same past has saved many, and inspired so much more. Your life is a testament to resilience and ingenuity like no other, and so many people are grateful for it.
I cannot claim to truly know you; it would be an unforgivable sin, after everything I’ve done to you, and everything I haven’t done for you. But if there’s anything I’ve learned after all has elapsed, it’s that you have always cared about the people more than you do yourself. It is no longer your responsibility to care for them, now that your life is yours alone, but I believe you would be glad to know that all your efforts for Fontaine have reaped invaluable results, invaluable fates, and have changed their lives for the better.
This is secondary, but you have also done so much for myself—you became the light when I had no sense of direction, and set my river’s course. You reminded me to find my own life’s meaning, despite the responsibility that eclipsed my individuality. You taught me humanity’s beauty, such that I may be a better judge for all. You gave me a place in this world when I had none—the sea to call home.
I hope you know, Furina, that I am immensely grateful for you.
This, truly, is my sincerest wish.
Yours truly,
Rainwater dampens the parchment paper, and teardrops stain the thick ink. The hand holding the letter by the corner clenches, leaving creases along the weary paper.
Neuvillette’s message is nothing less than gentle, yet she struggles to breathe like her airways are clogged, as though her lungs are empty. The room is silent, but she hears him all around—hears these soothing words, even though he so rarely displayed such warmth to her. She keeps his voice in memory, because it has always been that important.
Neuvillette has always been so important, so precious, and so much more.
There's leftover cake and tea on the dining table, courtesy of Navia and Wriothesley respectively; Tabletop Troupe scripts and props are strewn around, a wreckage accompanied by Clorinde’s whirlwind of a narration. The laughter has since dwindled into echoes, but even as night draws to an end, rain pelts softly against the window—nudging, calling, like the stray feather.
She forces herself out of the comfort of her couch, taking hesitant steps towards the window. She watches, like she often does, the raindrops as they trickle down the window pane. Like watching sand stream down the hourglass, except she could never tell how big the hourglass was, and could only ever see the bottom half—the ever rising sea, the inevitable end looming. She would place a finger just before the raindrop reaches the bottom, still unable to stop the inevitable. The rain ignored her fingers, her presence. The rain kept coming.
Today, she pushes the window open, a cool breeze greeting her. She takes off her glove, revealing her only scar, one painted by water.
Regardless, Furina sticks out her hand into the rain.
This scar will not disappear. The rain will not cease. Time will keep flowing, even if her past remains. Yet the heart in the letter reminds her these are no longer things to fear, in light of her performance’s finale. The future takes on a different direction, no longer as bleak as her nightmares once were.
“What a—a nuisance. I tell him to take the day off five hundred times, and he does it the one time I don’t tell him to?”
Perhaps rain, too, can be a friend. One day, slowly, as softly as rain trickles down the glass pane.
Even when her tears have all but dried, Furina continues to stare at the lingering rain, the hazy streets lit by dim lanterns. She holds tightly against her human heart the blue ribbon that tied his letter.
“Fool,” she whispers weakly, not without a serene smile.
Where does the river flow, when it has finally found the sea?
It becomes the sea, home to so many more.