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Angst Collection

The Gilded Cage of Mercy

The transition from the velvet darkness of unconsciousness to the sharp, agonizing reality of the waking world was not a gentle one. For Furina, it felt like being dragged through shards of glass. Her head throbbed with a rhythmic, sickening pulse, a reminder of the toxins that had recently coursed through her veins. Her throat was parched, tasting of bile and iron, and her limbs felt like leaden weights pinned to the mattress.

But more than the physical pain, it was the atmosphere that alerted her. The air in the room was stagnant, heavy with the scent of sterile antiseptic and the unmistakable, suffocating presence of others.

She didn't need eyes to know who they were. The silence of the room was punctuated by the rhythmic, heavy breathing of a man trying to maintain his composure, and the faint, metallic creak of leather armor.

Neuvillette. Clorinde.

They were watching her. They were hovering over her like vultures over a carcass that refused to rot. The realization hit her like a physical blow, igniting a spark of white-hot fury in the center of her chest.

"You..." her voice was a jagged rasp, barely a whisper.

"Lady Furina, please, do not try to move just yet," Neuvillette’s voice came from her left. It was calm, too calm—the sound of a man speaking to a wounded animal. "The physicians said you need—"

"I don't need anything from you!"

With a burst of adrenaline that defied her weakened state, Furina lurched upward. She didn't have the coordination to find her footing, but the rage fueled her. She threw herself off the side of the bed, her hands clawing at the air, desperate to strike out at the voices.

She missed them entirely. Her knees buckled the moment her feet hit the floor, and she collapsed in a heap of tangled nightgown and pale limbs. The impact sent a jolt of pain through her hip, but she didn't care. She scrambled on the floor, her sightless eyes wide and weeping.

"Why?" she screamed, the sound tearing from her lungs. "Why am I still here? Why couldn't you just let the curtain fall?"

"Furina, stop this," Clorinde said, her voice closer now. Furina felt a hand reach for her shoulder, and she recoiled as if burned.

"Don't touch me! Don't you dare touch me!" Furina swung her arm blindly, her nails catching on something—sleeve or skin, she didn't know. "You think you're heroes? You think you've saved me? You've only extended the torture! I was finished! I had finally found the exit, and you dragged me back into this... this nightmare!"

She pushed herself up into a kneeling position, her breath coming in ragged, hysterical gasps. "Curse you, Neuvillette! Curse your justice and your mercy! And curse you, Clorinde, for being such a loyal dog to a master who wants to die!"

The silence that followed was worse than the shouting. She could feel their pity, and it made her want to vomit.

"Fontaine is safe," she laughed, a high, brittle sound that bordered on madness. "The prophecy is broken! The people are happy! They walk in the sun while I rot in this hole! I gave them five hundred years! I gave Focalors everything! And what did she leave me? Darkness! This... this hollow, aching nothingness!"

Her hand brushed against the nightstand. Her fingers closed around a heavy, cold object. It was a porcelain pitcher. Without hesitation, she hurled it toward the sound of Neuvillette’s breathing. It shattered against the wall, the ceramic shards raining down like hailstones.

"I hate this house! I hate this nation!" she shrieked, her voice breaking. "I hate the people who cheer for a god that never existed! I hate Focalors for her 'magnificent plan' that left me a broken shell! But most of all..." She clawed at her own chest, her voice dropping to a terrifying, guttural sob. "I hate myself. I am useless. I am a fraud. I am a blind, pathetic girl who can't even manage to kill herself properly because of you!"

She reached out again, her hands sweeping across the floor until they found a small side table. She upended it, the sound of wood hitting wood echoing like a gunshot. She found a vase—a piece of sapphire-blue glass she had collected centuries ago during a trip to the Poisson markets. It had been one of the few things she truly cherished.

She threw it with all her might. It hit the floor and exploded into a thousand glittering pieces.

"Go away!" she wailed, her strength finally beginning to fail. Her heart was racing so fast she felt it might burst. The world began to spin again, the grey darkness turning into a suffocating black. "Just... let me go. Please. I’m so tired of acting. I don't want to play this part anymore..."

Her knees gave out. She slumped onto the floor, her forehead resting against the cool wood, surrounded by the wreckage of her own life. The silence returned, heavy and absolute, as her consciousness flickered and died once more.

***

Neuvillette stood in the center of the room, his boots surrounded by shards of blue glass. He didn't move. He didn't even blink. His face was a mask of stoic grief, but his hands, hidden behind his back, were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.

Clorinde was at the door, her hand on the hilt of her sword—not out of a desire to draw it, but as a grounding gesture. Her eyes were fixed on Furina’s unconscious form.

"We should get the doctors back in here," Clorinde whispered. "She’s hyperventilated. The stress..."

"No," Neuvillette said. His voice was cold, vibrating with a terrifying finality. "Let her sleep. The sedation will take hold again soon."

He looked around the room. The shattered porcelain, the overturned table, the sharp edges of the furniture that Furina had nearly brained herself on during her fall. He looked at the window, where the glass was thin and easily broken.

"This cannot happen again," Neuvillette murmured.

"Neuvillette," Clorinde said, stepping forward. "She’s hurting. She’s grieving. You heard what she said. She feels like a prisoner."

"And she will continue to feel like one if she is allowed to harm herself," Neuvillette snapped, his eyes flashing with a rare, draconic intensity. "Did you see her, Clorinde? She threw herself into the dark. She doesn't care if she breaks. She *wants* to break."

He walked toward the door, his long coat sweeping over the debris. "Wait for me outside. I have orders to give."

"What are you doing?" Clorinde asked, following him into the hallway.

Neuvillette didn't stop. He walked toward the front of the cottage, his mind already cataloging every danger, every sharp edge, every vulnerability.

"I thought that by giving her beauty, I could give her peace," Neuvillette said, his voice echoing in the small hallway. "I thought a 'softer' place would heal her. I was a fool. A blind woman in a house full of obstacles is not at peace; she is in a minefield."

"Neuvillette, don't do this," Clorinde warned, sensing the shift in his demeanor. "If you turn this place into a cell, you’ll only prove her right. She’ll hate you even more."

"Then let her hate me," Neuvillette said. He turned to face her, his expression unyielding. "I would rather be the object of her eternal hatred than the one who presides over her funeral. I am the Iudex of Fontaine. I have spent centuries ensuring the safety of this nation. I will not fail the one person who gave everything to ensure its survival."

He summoned a group of Palais Mermonia workers who had been waiting in the garden. They filed in, looking confused and intimidated by the Chief Justice’s presence.

"Listen to me carefully," Neuvillette commanded. "Every piece of furniture in this house is to be modified. Every corner is to be rounded or covered in soft padding. The glass in the windows—replace it with reinforced, shatter-proof material. I want it bolted so it cannot be opened more than a few inches."

"Monsieur?" one of the workers stammered. "That... that will be quite an undertaking. It will change the aesthetic of the—"

"I do not care about the aesthetic!" Neuvillette’s voice boomed, causing the man to flinch. "I want this house to be a fortress of safety. The fireplace—install a heavy iron grate that cannot be moved. The staircase—add tactile strips and high-friction padding. And the river outside..."

He looked out the window at the sparkling water of the stream that wound past the cottage. It was the very water she had tried to drown herself in.

"Build a fence," he ordered. "A high, sturdy fence that follows the bank. Ensure there are no gaps. I want no access to the water without a key held by the staff."

"Neuvillette, stop!" Clorinde grabbed his arm. "You’re suffocating her! She’ll wake up and feel like she’s in a padded cell! You’re taking away the last shred of her dignity!"

Neuvillette looked down at Clorinde’s hand on his sleeve, then back at the Champion Duelist. His eyes were weary, filled with a depth of exhaustion that surpassed even the five hundred years of his reign.

"Dignity is a luxury for the living, Clorinde," he said softly. "I am trying to keep her among them."

"You're acting out of fear," Clorinde challenged. "You're terrified because you can't control her grief, so you’re trying to control her environment. This isn't for her. It's for you, so you don't have to worry."

The accusation hung in the air, heavy and sharp. Neuvillette didn't deny it. He couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Furina sinking beneath the water, or the sightless scrawl of her suicide note. The anxiety was a physical weight in his chest, a constant, gnawing pressure. He was a being of ancient power, a sovereign of the elements, yet he was utterly powerless against the despair of a single human woman.

"Perhaps you are right," Neuvillette admitted, his voice barely audible. "Perhaps this is for my own sanity. But as long as I am responsible for her, I will use every resource at my disposal to ensure she remains. If I must be her jailer to be her savior, then so be it."

He turned back to the workers. "Proceed. Every sharp edge. Every potential weapon. Remove them all. I want this house to be impossible to die in."

The workers hurried to obey, the sound of hammers and saws soon filling the air. Clorinde stood by the door, watching them with a look of profound sadness. She knew Furina. She knew the pride that still flickered beneath the misery. When Furina woke up and realized what had been done—when she felt the rounded corners of her tables and the bars on her windows—she wouldn't feel safe. She would feel like a specimen in a jar.

Neuvillette walked back to the bedroom door. He didn't go in. He couldn't bring himself to look at her again, not yet. He leaned his head against the doorframe, listening to the muffled sounds of the Melusines cleaning up the broken glass.

He felt the phantom sensation of rain on his face, though he was indoors. Outside, the sky over Fontaine began to darken, the clouds rolling in with a heavy, mournful weight. The people in the city would look up and wonder why the Iudex was sorrowful on such a beautiful day. They would never know the storm that was raging in the heart of a small cottage on the outskirts of their world.

"Forgive me, Furina," he whispered to the closed door. "I am doing the only thing I know how to do."

Inside the room, Furina lay in a drug-induced stupor, her dreams filled with the sound of waves and the sight of a stage light that slowly, agonizingly, went out. She didn't know that when she woke, the world would be even smaller than it was before. She didn't know that the man who loved her most had just built the walls of her prison a little bit higher, all in the name of love.

The hammers continued to fall, the sound of construction echoing like a countdown. Neuvillette stood guard, a silent sentinel of a gilded cage, waiting for the moment the bird would wake and realize she could no longer even bruise her wings against the bars.