by a_seagulls_hubris
Rating: Teen, Gen, Complete Work
Published 23 November 2023
A god knows all. A god is capable of any and all things. And as Furina stretches and stretches to fill the mould that her beloved people have already carved out for her, she has an answer.
A god is made.
Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Furina (Genshin Impact), Neuvillette (Genshin Impact), Mentioned Arlecchino (Genshin Impact), Post-4.2 Update (Genshin Impact), Character Study, somewhat graphic depictions of furina's mental state, she's really going through it (an identity crisis), i have a thing for hydro fellas who struggle with identity
i cannot stop thinking about her
It is not the first time she thinks about being a god.
She is no fool; she knows godhood to be lonely, incomprehensible even to herself. But it is after the last visitors of the day leave her gilded palace that an emptiness begins to settle in her chest, her body, forming a hollowness echoes one question.
What is a god?
She has asked the people of Fontaine, though not directly. That would fly in the face of her image (omniscient, omnipotent). Their praises attempt to answer that question as their faces light up in awe at the show she puts on before them.
Magnificent, magnificent!
To grasp the true meaning behind her words… ha, a feat beyond any mortal!
Unbelievable. Let all doubt in her abilities be erased!
A god knows all. A god is capable of any and all things. And as Furina stretches and stretches to fill the mould that her beloved people have already carved out for her, she has an answer.
A god is made.
~~~
Crafting a god is hard work, especially for an actress. After all, she has nothing but a half-finished script, left behind by that other self she saw in the mirror once (she has only seen her once).
Fortunately, she is not alone.
Whether he knows it or not, the Iudex is stuck on the stage with her. It is a shame that he does not enjoy the operas and plays of the Opera Epiclese as much as she. He is such a natural, after all.
The people love her, and him as well. But there is a hushed tone of reverence that falls over each conversation about the stern, imposing figure that stands over each trial, handing out to the people the closest thing to divine judgement that they will ever see in their human lives.
But she knows better. Behind closed doors, the mask falls, and he turns to her with tired eyes.
‘I am rather preoccupied at the moment, Lady Furina,’ he says one day when she asks him to join her for a walk. The Fontaine Research Institute has just been finished, and word on the street says it is impressive. Still, the Iudex shakes his head when she repeats those words to him, attempting to get him out of his office for once.
‘When I have more time to myself, perhaps,’ he says. And she laughs at him for being so uptight, though not to his face. Seriously, would the world go up in flames if he stopped working for a moment?
Yet, as the years pass, and the cogs turn, and they continue their masquerade, she wonders if his mask has been welded to his face. She knows the person behind it, and sometimes she thinks Neuvillette is hiding from her.
With a start, she wonders if she is the same.
~~~
She tries to take off her mask once.
The song she is supposed to sing that evening is lovely, courtesy of a beloved composer whose untimely death had brought the nation much grief. She skims over the lyrics in the privacy of a sitting room; something about the glory of the Archon, and the wondrous fate of the people that she holds in capable hands.
She wonders how hard it would be to change those words. Make them say something that was actually true for once. There must be something behind her mask, right? Something that is not the god, nor the saviour. Something that is ugly and human and real for once, just to prove that she is not just an empty body.
She could apologise for creating such an incomplete god, who can only frolic and play to raucous applause as people much, much more capable than her turn the cogs in the machine that is Fontaine. She could say that she is just like them, just as uncertain about the future, about the ominous whispers of a prophecy that threatens to swallow this beautiful nation whole.
Yes, she would like that very much.
Yet, when she stands on the stage, she looks into the crowd and sees the face in the mirror, a few centuries back, warning her of what would happen if she ever let hope die.
Furina smiles, bows, and sings.
The lyrics are the original, unaltered version. The people clap, and she dances across this beautiful stage, and tears begin to cloud her vision.
~~~
It doesn’t matter if she was someone before she built the shell of a god and crawled into it. The shell is what everyone sees, and as long as it keeps the hope of salvation alive, it is all that matters.
Sing, songbird, sing, from the hollows of your throat! You are the mask and the wearer, an empty, decorated shell. All that there is, and all that there will ever be.
It is laughable to think that you ever had a choice to begin with.
~~~
The waters begin to rise. The people murmur, and she searches frantically, amidst the sea of whispers that repeat only one phrase: is the Hydro Archon doing anything about it?
She finds nothing, of course. Everything useful has been scratched out on her script. She is to dance along, as long as she can, as far as she can go.
She is an exceptional actress, but some are not so easily fooled. She knows the doubt in the eyes of those magicians as they hand out their pouches, meant to rescue belongings from the reach of the tides. The smouldering rage in the dark, bottomless eyes of the Knave. The despair in her unshakeable Iudex as he looks to her, at wits’ end.
‘Lady Furina,’ he says, ‘If you continue to withhold information from me, I am afraid I cannot do anything about our crisis.’
The years of denial come crashing down.
This is, and always has been, a solo act.
~~~
The tides rise, and her people die, and they turn their accusing eyes towards their beautiful, wonderful, useless god.
And she sits in the seat of the accused at the Opera Epiclese, heart set on an encore, even as tears begin to fall.
And Neuvillette reads out her verdict, and her people whisper, and she stands up.
Her final dance is as graceful as the first, the shattered shell of a god glorious even in its destruction.
Even as the final bell of judgement tolls, and the blade of the guillotine comes crashing down, she holds her head high.
Liar she may be, but Furina de Fontaine is no coward.
I love Furina!