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Angst Collection

The Mask of Glass and Sugar

The cottage had become a monument to the fear of sharp things. Every corner was a radius of soft wood, every window a thick, unyielding barrier of reinforced glass, and every silence a heavy blanket of surveillance. For weeks, Furina had existed as a ghost within these walls. She had moved when she was told to move, eaten when a spoon was pressed to her lips, and spoken in that broken, stuttering rasp that made Neuvillette’s eyes shimmer with repressed moisture.

She was a masterpiece of brokenness. She was exactly what they expected her to be after five hundred years of lies and a final, desperate attempt to flee the stage.

But then, something shifted. It wasn't a recovery. It wasn't the light returning to her sightless eyes. It was a snap—a clean, cold break in the center of her spirit.

*If they want a performance,* she thought as she lay in the velvet dark of her room, *I will give them the greatest show of my life. I will play the part of the 'Recovering Archon' until it kills me. At least then, they will stop looking at me with that pathetic, suffocating hope.*

The following morning, the change began.

When Menthe entered the room with the morning tea, she didn't find Furina huddled in the rocking chair. Instead, Furina was sitting upright on the edge of the bed, her long, silver-blue hair draped over one shoulder. She had attempted to brush it herself; it was a mess of tangles, but she was smiling. It was a small, fragile smile, devoid of the manic energy of the Hydro Archon, but it was a smile nonetheless.

"Good morning, Menthe," Furina said. The stutter was still there, a jagged edge in her voice, but she pushed through it with a terrifyingly familiar poise. "I... I think I would like to wear something... colorful today. Is the blue silk still in the wardrobe?"

Menthe dropped the tea tray. The porcelain didn't break—it simply thudded against the thick, padded carpet—but the liquid splashed everywhere. "Lady Furina? You... you’re speaking! You’re smiling!"

"I am... trying, Menthe," Furina replied, her voice soft and airy. "It is a beautiful day, is it not? I can feel the sun through the glass."

By noon, the news had reached the Palais Mermonia.

Neuvillette arrived within the hour. He didn't walk; he practically surged into the cottage, the air around him crackling with the humidity of his agitation. He found Furina in the living room, sitting by the reinforced fireplace. She was huming a faint, airy tune—an aria from an opera she had once critiqued with ruthless wit.

"Furina?" Neuvillette’s voice was breathless.

She turned her head toward him. She didn't flinch. She didn't scream. "Monsieur Neuvillette. You are... early for our weekly visit. To what do I... owe the pleasure?"

Neuvillette froze. The way she said his name, the tilt of her head—it was a ghost of the woman who had sat on the throne. But it was uncanny. It was like a painting that had been left in the rain; the colors were right, but the lines were blurred and running.

"I heard you were... feeling better," he said, stepping cautiously across the padded floor. He sat in the chair opposite her, his hands gripping the silver head of his cane. "You sound more like yourself."

"I realized that... moping is quite... tedious," Furina said. She reached out, her hand hovering in the air until it found the edge of the padded table. She patted it gently. "You have gone to such... trouble to make this house... safe. It would be... rude of me to continue being... difficult."

Neuvillette watched her closely. Her eyes were still clouded, still wandering, but she was projecting an aura of calm that felt… manufactured. It was too smooth, like the rounded corners of the furniture he had ordered.

"I am glad to hear you say that," he whispered, though a cold knot of anxiety tightened in his chest. "Clorinde and I have been very concerned."

"Clorinde is... a dear," Furina said. "In fact... when she arrives... I would like to ask her... for a favor."

When Clorinde arrived for her shift that evening, she was met with a request that made her pause in the doorway.

"Baking?" Clorinde repeated, her brow furrowing. "Furina, you’ve never... well, you’ve never been one for the kitchen. Even when you had your sight, you preferred the patisseries of the Court."

"I want to... try," Furina insisted. She was standing now, leaning against the padded wainscoting. "I can smell the... flour and the sugar. It sounds... peaceful. A domestic... hobby for a domestic... woman."

Clorinde looked at Neuvillette, who was standing in the corner of the room. He nodded slowly. To him, this was progress. To him, this was Furina re-engaging with the world. He ignored the way her hands were trembling beneath the sleeves of her dress.

"Very well," Clorinde said. "I will help you. We can start with something simple. Madeleines, perhaps?"

The "baking" was a disaster of the highest order, but it was a disaster performed with an eerie, tooth-rotting sweetness.

Furina stood at the kitchen counter, which had been lowered and its edges softened with silicone guards. Clorinde placed the bowls in front of her, guiding her hands to the flour, the sugar, the eggs.

Furina’s movements were clumsy. Without her sight, and with her body still weakened by the toxins and the months of lethargy, she was a mess. She spilled the flour over her silk skirts. She cracked an egg directly onto the floor. She burned her finger on the edge of a bowl that shouldn't have been hot.

But through it all, she laughed.

It was a soft, tinkling laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "Oh... dear! I am... quite the... klutz, aren't I? Look at this... mess!"

"It’s fine, Furina," Clorinde said, her voice strained. She reached out to wipe a smudge of flour from Furina’s cheek. "It’s just a first attempt."

"I will... do better," Furina promised. Her voice was thin, and Clorinde could hear the way her breath hitched in her chest—a sign of the immense physical and mental strain it took to maintain the facade. "I want to make... something for Neuvillette. He... loves the... people of Fontaine. Perhaps... he will love my... cakes."

She continued for hours. She insisted on whisking the batter until her arms shook with exhaustion. she insisted on feeling the texture of the sugar until her fingertips were raw. Every time Clorinde suggested she sit down, Furina would simply tilt her head and offer a brittle, porcelain smile.

"I am... fine, Clorinde. Truly. I have... never felt... more... alive."

It was a lie so profound it felt like a physical weight in the room.

Neuvillette visited more frequently now, drawn in by the "improvement." He sat in the living room and ate the lumpy, slightly burnt madeleines that Furina presented to him with trembling hands. He told her they were delicious. He told her he was proud of her.

He watched her move around the room, navigating the padded obstacles with a grace that was entirely forced. She had memorized the steps. Ten steps to the chair. Five steps to the table. Turn left for the window.

She was performing a choreography of "Well-Being."

"You seem tired today, Furina," Neuvillette said one afternoon. He noticed the way her head was drooping, the way her stutter was becoming more pronounced as the day wore on.

"Just... a bit of... a headache," Furina lied. She reached for her tea, her fingers fumbling against the cup. "The... baking is... hard work. But... rewarding."

"Perhaps you should rest. You don't have to do this every day."

"But... I want to!" Furina’s voice rose, a flash of the old, dramatic Archon piercing through the calm. She quickly caught herself, smoothing her expression. "I mean... I enjoy it. It... fills the... time. And I have so... much of it... don't I?"

Neuvillette reached out, his hand hovering over hers. For the first time in months, she didn't flinch. She let him take her hand. Her skin was cold, and he could feel the frantic, fluttering pulse in her wrist.

"Furina," he whispered. "You don't have to act for me. Not here."

She stilled. For a heartbeat, the mask slipped. Her sightless eyes filled with a sudden, overwhelming terror—the look of a trapped animal realizing the hunter is standing right behind it.

"I... I don't... know... what you... mean," she whispered, her voice cracking.

Then, with a terrifying effort of will, she pulled the mask back into place. She squeezed his hand, her grip surprisingly strong.

"I am... happy, Neuvillette. Can't you... see? I am... finally... the woman... you wanted... me to be."

He wanted to scream. He wanted to tell her that he never wanted her to be a hollowed-out doll in a padded room. He wanted to tell her that he missed the bratty, arrogant, brilliant girl who had challenged him at every turn. But he looked at the bars on the windows and the fence around the river, and he realized that he was the one who had written this script. He was the one who had demanded she be "safe."

And this was what safety looked like. It looked like a woman dying from the inside out to keep her keepers happy.

"I see," Neuvillette said, his voice thick with a grief he could no longer hide. "I see that you are... trying very hard."

"Yes," Furina said, her smile widening until it looked painful. "Very... hard."

As the days passed, the physical toll of her performance became impossible to ignore. Furina grew thinner. The circles under her eyes became dark bruises against her pale skin. She would often faint in the middle of a conversation, her body simply giving up under the weight of the stress.

But every time she woke, she would apologize. She would smile. She would ask for the flour and the sugar.

One evening, Clorinde found her in the kitchen, staring toward the window. The sun was setting, casting long, orange shadows across the padded floor. Furina was holding a wooden spoon, but she wasn't stirring anything. She was just standing there, her body swaying slightly.

"Furina? It’s late. Let’s get you to bed."

"Do you... think... they like it?" Furina asked.

"Who, dear?"

"The... audience." Furina turned her head toward Clorinde. Her face was a mask of pure, unadulterated exhaustion. "I've... been... dancing... for... so long. My... legs... ache. But... the... applause... hasn't... started... yet."

Clorinde felt a cold shiver run down her spine. "Furina, there is no audience. It’s just us."

Furina let out a soft, breathy laugh. "There is... always... an audience, Clorinde. Even... in the... dark. Especially... in the... dark."

She took a step forward, her knees buckling. Clorinde caught her before she hit the plush carpet. Furina was as light as a bird, her bones feeling fragile beneath her skin.

"I'm... so... good... at this... aren't I?" Furina whispered into Clorinde’s shoulder. "I'm... the... perfect... girl. No... sharp... edges... left."

Clorinde carried her to the bed. She tucked her in, feeling the way Furina’s body refused to relax, even in sleep. The woman was still performing, her muscles tensed as if waiting for a cue.

Clorinde walked out into the hallway, where Neuvillette was waiting. He had seen the whole thing through the open door.

"She’s failing, Neuvillette," Clorinde said, her voice sharp with anger. "This 'recovery' is a lie. She’s using every ounce of her strength to pretend she’s okay because she’s terrified of what you’ll do if she isn't."

"I am trying to protect her!" Neuvillette hissed, his eyes glowing with a faint, draconic blue light.

"You’re killing her!" Clorinde countered. "Look at this house! It’s a tomb! She’s baking cakes she can't taste and smiling at a man she’s afraid of! She’s not getting better, she’s just becoming a better actress!"

Neuvillette leaned his head against the wall, his shoulders slumped. The sound of the rain began to pick up outside, a low, mournful thrumming against the reinforced glass.

"What would you have me do, Clorinde? If I take down the fences, she will go to the river. If I give her back the sharp edges, she will use them. She told me... she told me she wanted to wake up. But she doesn't want to wake up to this world. She wants to wake up to a world that doesn't exist anymore."

"Then let her grieve!" Clorinde shouted. "Let her scream! Let her hate you! Anything is better than this... this mask of glass and sugar!"

Neuvillette didn't answer. He looked through the doorway at the small, still form on the bed.

Inside the room, Furina lay in the dark. She wasn't asleep. She was listening to them. She listened to their arguments, their fear, their love. She listened to the rain and the wind.

She reached out her hand, feeling the soft, padded edge of the headboard.

*Almost there,* she thought. *The final act is almost over. I just have to keep smiling. I just have to keep the sugar sweet.*

She closed her eyes, and in the theater of her mind, the lights finally began to dim. The audience was silent. The stage was empty. And for the first time in five hundred years, the actress was ready to take her final bow.

"I... am... doing... so... well," she whispered to the shadows.

A single tear escaped her sightless eyes, disappearing into the silk of the pillow. It was the only thing in the house that was still sharp, still real, and still hers.

Outside, the Hydro Dragon wept, but the rain was no longer a storm. It was a slow, steady drizzle—the sound of a nation mourning a god who was still breathing, and a woman who was already gone.