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“Do you resent me?”
Neuvillette knows his reply does not matter. Whether he says yes, or not—lies or truths—it is of no consequence.
Because this is not real.
Because the deity in front of him is long dead.
“Being reborn into a human form means you have the ability to harbor human feelings,” She says, a small smile on Her lips. “It would be quite apt for you to hold some degree of resentment towards me.”
They are, again, on the stage of the Opera—a mimic of her consciousness, and quite a bad one, as there is no blade floating upon Her. Here, She does not dance; She is as still as the dead, but very much alive. In this dream— his dream—She lives on.
Neuvillette closes his eyes. “I do not see how I could ever resent you .”
Amused, she chuckles. “I see a myriad of reasons for you to.”
When he opens his eyes again, She stands before a mirror. Prideful; shoulders squared and arms wide open. “Look.”
On the other side of the mirror, a fragile, crumpled thing shows itself—entirely twisted by pain and hopelessness; quivering like a little bird in a brewing storm with no shelter.
Furina’s sobs echo among the walls of the dream. Mirror-Me, she cries.
Neuvillette moves closer, staring as Furina’s tears seep through the mirror. She is on her knees, her back is curved; alone, terrified, drowning in a sea of tears. Her palm is pressed against the mirror.
Neuvillette makes to reach out to her, but Foçalors stops him. “See.”
It is Her, who grabs Furina’s hand. Her fingers are stained with tears, but She pulls Furina out her abyss and from her mirror, until she tumbles in Foçalors’s arms. Both of them slump on the floor, falling in a puddle of tears.
“My Furina” She murmurs in Furina’s hair. “My most precious thing.”
“Mirror-Me,” Furina sobs pitifully, raising her head from Her chest. “Help me.”
“I am here, fear not.”
“Foçalors, it hurts.”
“I know. Your pain, your sorrow, so sweet, so beautiful,” She tells Furina, her voice filled with tenderness. “You are so lovely—when you smile, when you cry.”
Furina’s pained cries fade into silence as Foçalors presses Her lips to her quivering mouth.
Neuvillette staggers backwards on his feet, looking away.
As Furina buries her wet face in Foçalors’s neck, arms tight around Her waist, the deity’s gaze falls upon him. “Isn’t she a good reason for you to resent me?”
Cold shivers run down his spine. “This is quite enough, Foçalors.”
“Is it? Look at her— look in earnest , not as superficially as you have been doing for the past centuries. See her now: such a perfect being. Whether she cries, or laughs, or screams; she is beautiful. Perfection itself in a human body.”
And with that, Foçalors shows him: She guides Furina’s body with gentle hands; meekly, she follows, laying down on the floor, her head nestled on Her lap; her tears have dried, and the pained cries have become low, soft sighs.
“Furina, my love,” Foçalors calls; a honeyed melody, in rhythm with Her kisses on the crown of her head. “You came to this world with a duty. You ought to carry it out.”
Dazedly, Furina nods. Gaze steady on Her, eyes adoring, so enamored with her divine self; she obeys Her, spreading her legs.
Neuvillette exhales sharply at the sight of Furina's bare body, stretched before him.
“Furina,” Foçalors sings. One hand runs down her body, stopping on one breast, stroking it. Lovingly. “Furina, deceiver of the Gods, and the one who shall trap the Great Sovreign of Hydro.”
He steps closer, legs unsteady. “Foçalors.”
She hums, her lips curled into genuine amusement. “It took you quite a while to realize it. I suppose it is natural: so ignorant of your own feelings, so utterly blind, for so long. I cannot blame you, dear Iudex. She deceived the world and the skies, and hid her perfect nature behind the mask I placed upon her lovely face.”
As Neuvillette sinks on his knees, between Furina’s thighs, a light drizzle starts to fall. Desperate, he seeks Furina’s face. She barely looks at him; her eyes are for Foçalors, and, beyond Her, she stares at the horizon, where the walls of the Opera House open on the endless sea.
Fingers ghost on his cheek, forcing him to look, again. Oh, Furina; so meek and soft under him. Pink and pretty, so humanly fragile and divinely beautiful.
“You do resent me,” Foçalors says laughingly. “How could you not? This creature, my Furina—such a sweet trap, awaiting for you in Fontaine; and you fell for it, for her. You saved the nation, you even saved her somehow, but now, we, she …”
He snarls. “Silence.”
Foçalors chuckles. “It is of no consequence, I suppose. This is your realm—regardless of what she wishes, your will reigns here.” With that, Foçalors stretches her arms, running her palms down Furina’s sides. Her hands—her claws, of a bright blue hue — close around Furina’s thighs, forcing them open wider.
Neuvillette closes his eyes, head bent, his forehead against Furina’s shoulder. His breath is labored—how can this be a dream?—but he pushes himself to her—just a little, oh so gently, as the rain keeps falling—
It is his dream. Oh, the rain.
Furina lets out a soft whine. Foçalors gives her a soothing kiss on her red cheek, licking the errant droplets on her skin.
And then, Furina cries out, closing her legs about his middle. “Neuvillette…”
Neuvillette keeps moving inside of her, his thrusts soon growing fiercer. She throws her arms around his neck, pushing herself closer to him, and his name falls from her parted lips, like a sinful, forbidden prayer. He holds her hips in a tight, desperate grip, blindingly claiming her as her moans echo among the threads of his dream. The skin under his fingertips is cold and wet, yet Furina arches in pleasure, the downpour washing over her.
But, he hears Foçalors’s wicked voice, muffled by the pouring rain: “ Just like that. With your Authority, with your absolute power, you can have her, even outside of this depraved world of yours…”
Neuvillette’s eyes snap open to a moonless night. The stars, gone; clouds gather, as the rain roars.