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Angst Collection

The Echo of a Falling Gavel

The cottage had become a place where sound went to die. The thick carpets, the heavy drapes, and the padded walls did more than just protect Furina from herself; they acted as a sensory shroud, dampening the world until it felt like living at the bottom of a deep, still pool. Even the air felt stagnant, heavy with the scent of the sea-salt candles Neuvillette insisted on sending—a scent that was meant to be comforting but only reminded Furina of the vast, open ocean she was no longer allowed to touch.

She sat in her rocking chair, her fingers tracing the smooth, rounded edge of the armrest. It was a rhythmic motion, back and forth, tracing the absence of a corner. In her mind, she could still see the sharp lines of the Palais Mermonia, the jagged edges of the Court’s architecture, the needle-thin spire of the Opera Epiclese. But here, everything was a circle. Everything was a soft, yielding curve. It was a world without friction, designed to ensure that if she ever tried to shatter herself again, she would only bounce off the walls.

A soft click echoed in the hallway—the sound of the heavy, reinforced front door being unlocked. Furina didn't turn her head. She didn't need to. The weight of the footsteps told her exactly who it was.

Neuvillette.

He moved through the house with a deliberate, agonizing caution. He was a man who commanded the very tides, yet in this small cottage, he walked as if the floorboards were made of thin ice. Furina heard the rustle of his silk coat as he sat in the chair opposite her. For a long time, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the muffled *thwack-thump* of the rocking chair against the plush carpet.

"The seasonal rains have begun early this year," Neuvillette said, his voice a low, resonant hum that vibrated in Furina’s chest. "The gardens in the city are flourishing, though the gardeners complain of the mud."

Furina didn't respond. She felt the phantom sensation of rain on her skin, a memory from a life that belonged to someone else.

"I brought you a gift," he continued. She heard the sound of a small box being placed on the padded coffee table between them. "It is a music box from Fontaine’s finest clockmaker. It plays a melody from the third act of *The Little Oceanid*."

Furina’s hand stopped its rhythmic tracing. "Do... you... think... I... am... a... child, Neuvillette?"

The question was whispered, the words slow and labored, but they carried a sharp, jagged edge that the room’s padding couldn't dull.

Neuvillette went silent. She could feel his gaze on her, heavy with a grief he refused to name. "I thought you might enjoy the music. You always loved the theater."

"I... was... the... theater," Furina rasped, her sightless eyes fixed on the space where she imagined his face to be. "Now... I... am... a... prop. A... dusty... doll... kept... in... a... box... so... the... audience... doesn't... have... to... mourn."

"That is not what this is," Neuvillette said, his voice tightening. "This is about your safety. Your recovery."

"Recovery... to... what?" Furina leaned forward, her hands gripping the rounded armrests until her knuckles turned white. "To... a... world... where... I... am... a... ghost? You... have... taken... away... the... light. You... have... taken... away... the... edges. You... have... even... taken... away... the... right... to... leave... the... stage... when... the... play... is... finished."

"The play is not finished, Furina. Your life is not a performance."

"Then... why... do... I... feel... like... I... am... still... waiting... for... the... curtain... to... fall?" She let out a dry, hacking laugh that turned into a cough. "You... are... a... judge, Neuvillette. Tell... me... what... is... my... crime? Why... must... I... live... in... a... cell... made... of... pillows?"

Neuvillette stood up abruptly. She heard the creak of his boots and the sharp intake of his breath. He walked to the window—the window that was bolted shut, the glass so thick it distorted the sound of the wind.

"I cannot lose you," he said, his back to her. The admission was raw, stripped of his usual judicial poise. "Fontaine has already lost its god. The people have lost their symbol. I... I cannot lose my friend. If I have to turn this entire nation into a nursery to keep you breathing, I will do it."

"Then... you... are... a... selfish... man," Furina whispered.

He didn't deny it. He couldn't. The rain began to lash against the reinforced glass, a dull, rhythmic drumming that sounded like a thousand tiny gavels striking at once. In the silence of the room, the sound was deafening.

"Clorinde tells me you have stopped eating the sweets she brings," Neuvillette said, his voice regaining its composure, though the cracks remained. "She is worried. We are all worried."

"I... am... not... hungry... for... sugar," Furina said. She sat back in the chair, the rocking motion resuming. *Creak-thump. Creak-thump.* "I... am... hungry... for... the... wind. I... am... hungry... for... the... sting... of... the... salt... air. I... am... hungry... for... the... truth, Neuvillette."

"And what is the truth?"

"That... I... am... already... dead," she said softly. "You... are... just... keeping... the... body... warm."

Neuvillette turned away from the window. He walked toward her, and for a moment, Furina thought he might reach out and touch her. She felt the air grow cold and damp, the way it did before a storm. But he stopped a few feet away, his hands clenched at his sides.

"I will not accept that," he said with a finality that brooked no argument. "You are Furina. You are the woman who endured five hundred years of solitude for the sake of her people. You are the strongest person I have ever known. If you can survive that, you can survive this."

"I... did... not... survive... it," Furina said, her voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm level. "I... broke. I... have... been... broken... for... a... long... time. Focalors... took... my... divinity. The... prophecy... took... my... home. And... you... Neuvillette... you... took... my... ending."

She reached out blindly, her hand sweeping across the table until it found the music box. She didn't throw it. She didn't have the strength for another outburst. Instead, she simply pushed it off the edge.

Because of the thick carpet, it didn't shatter. It landed with a dull, muffled thud, the lid popping open just enough to trigger the mechanism. A tinkling, crystalline melody began to play, filling the room with a haunting, repetitive tune.

*The Little Oceanid.* The song of a creature who wanted to be human, only to find that humanity was a sea of sorrow.

"Take... it... away," Furina said, her eyes welling with tears she couldn't see. "Take... it... all... away. The... music. The... pillows. The... fences. Just... let... me... be... alone... in... the... dark."

"I cannot leave you alone," Neuvillette said, his voice breaking. "I don't know how."

He knelt then, right there on the plush carpet amidst the rounded furniture and the soft edges. He picked up the music box, his long, elegant fingers trembling as he closed the lid, silencing the melody. He stayed on his knees for a long time, his head bowed, his silver hair spilling over his shoulders like a waterfall.

To anyone else, he was the Iudex, the Sovereign of Hydro, the pillar of Fontaine’s law. But here, in the silence of the cottage, he was just a man drowning in a grief he had helped create.

"I will have the Melusines bring you a different tea," he said eventually, his voice hollow. "Something with mint. To help you sleep."

"I... do... not... want... to... sleep," Furina whispered. "I... want... to... wake... up."

Neuvillette stood up, his movements slow and heavy. He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. He looked back at her—the small, pale woman in the rocking chair, lost in a sea of sapphire hair and white linen. She looked so fragile, like a piece of glass that had been polished by the tide until all its edges were gone.

"I will return next week," he said.

"I... will... be... here," Furina replied. "Where... else... could... I... go?"

The door closed with a heavy, pressurized thud. The lock turned—*click, click*—and the silence rushed back in to fill the void.

Furina sat in the dark. She listened to the rain drumming against the unbreakable windows. She listened to the wind howling against the fence she could not climb. She listened to the silence of a house where nothing could break, nothing could cut, and nothing could change.

She reached out and felt the rounded corner of the table again.

"Five... hundred... and... one... years," she whispered to the empty room.

The rocking chair continued its rhythmic beat. *Creak-thump. Creak-thump.* It was the only clock she had left, counting down the seconds of a life that had no more acts, no more lines, and no more exits.

Outside, the rain turned into a deluge. In the Court of Fontaine, people tucked themselves into their warm beds, grateful for the safety of their walls and the wisdom of their Chief Justice. They spoke of the former Archon with a mix of pity and reverence, imagining her resting in a peaceful cottage, finally free from the weight of her crown.

They didn't know that in the outskirts of the city, the Hydro Dragon was weeping, and the woman who had saved them all was sitting in a room where even the shadows were soft, waiting for a dawn that would never be bright enough to see.

Furina closed her eyes, though it made no difference. She leaned her head back and let the rocking motion take her. She imagined she was on a boat, drifting out into the middle of the sea, far away from the fences and the padding. She imagined the water rising up to meet her, cool and sharp and real.

But when she reached out her hand, all she felt was the velvet of the chair and the smooth, rounded wood of the armrest.

She was safe.

She was protected.

She was utterly, hopelessly lost.

"Bravo," she whispered into the darkness, her voice a mere ghost of a sound. "Bravo... Neuvillette. A... truly... flawless... performance."

The only answer was the steady, unrelenting beat of the rain, falling like tears from a sky that had forgotten how to be clear.