☆ de fontaine
{☆} characters furina
{☆} notes cult au, imposter au, drabble, gender neutral reader
{☆} warnings angst, suicidal thoughts, hurt / no comfort
{☆} word count 1.4k
This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair!
She thought, for one moment, she could put the mask down and breathe – for one moment of daydreaming, she thought she could just be Furina. She thought she would finally get to live the live she should've had in the first place, the life she threw away to play God to an audience who saw her as nothing but a circus animal, dancing to their whims. Furina just wanted to be selfish for one brief and fleeting moment..and it was gone before she could even grasp it in her hand. A comet soaring past far out of her reach.
She can barely keep her hands from violently shaking as she looks down at them – broken and bloody and more a corpse then a person – and she feels so numb she can't even feel the rain pelting against her back. None of this is fair, she wants to scream, why is it always me? But her voice is silent beneath the torrent of rain. She wonders if the ocean would take her if she sank into it's depths – just for a moment, she wonders how it would feel to finally be able to sleep at ease.
Furina is tired.
But Furina is nothing if not useful, isn't she?
So she forces her feet to move, dragging against the stone beneath her heels, and drags their bloodied body into the nearest empty building, letting the rain do the work of washing away the smeared blood following her path. The smell makes her feel sick, the feeling of it sticking to her hands and gloves makes her lightheaded, but she persists. Because Furina is useful, because Furina won't let them die out in the rain, because Furina won't stand by and just let them rot on the streets like some..pest.
Furina wants to go home. She wants to sleep and she isn't she if she wants to wake up, this time. But she keeps going anyway.
Because it's all she's ever done, and the habit sticks.
An Archon she may not be, not anymore, but the expectations of five hundred years still linger like eyes on the inside of her skull. They watch her, pry and prod at her thoughts, mocking laughter and judging eyes following her as she forces herself to dance to the song they weave with glee. Furina never stepped off that stage – she's still there, she thinks, watching the crowd stare at her in disdain as the curtain call looms above her like a guillotine. She still hears Neuvillette deliver her damnation and salvation with a trembling voice, still feels her hair stand on end when electro crackled like the crack of the whip, Clorinde's blade aimed at her like a loaded gun.
She's trapped on that stage and she never left, not really.
She hates it. She thinks she hates them, but it's not their fault. They didn't ask for this, didn't ask for everyone to turn against them, didn't ask for her to save them. Neither did she..yet here they are, she thinks.
She tries to tell herself she's in control this time, though. She can stop performing her part in this horrible, bloody play any time she wants. It makes her feel better, just for a little while, if she convinces herself she's still Furina, painfully human.
And Furina has always been good at lying.
It's the believing that's the hard part.
There isn't time for her to wallow in her own self pity, though. They're still bleeding out onto the dusty, creaky floorboards of some random, broken down house and she's just standing there as the blood stains the wood. She can fix it – she's good at fixing things. She's done nothing but fix things – try to, anyway – for five hundred years. She can fix a little wound, how hard could it be? Her hands are clenched so tight they ache as she kneels down, wincing at the creak of the floorboards beneath her heels– she hesitates just long enough to wonder if she's making a mistake before she peels away just enough of the outer layer of their clothes to see the deep, bloody gash across their chest. She tries not to think about it – it's deep, too deep, and she feels dizzy just looking at it, but she's handled worse, right?
Furina can fix it. That's what she's good at.
She doesn't feel so confident when she tries to wrack her brain for..something. Five hundred years, and a little wound stumps her? No, she had to have learned something, right? She's decidedly not trying to buy time because she's panicking, parsing through hundreds of years of memories like flipping through a book. Furina isn't made for this, not really – she's running on nothing but adrenaline and she's really not sure what she's doing, but she's trying. And just like before, it won't be enough, will it?
She'll fall short again – she'll be too late to fix it before she's alone again.
Furina was an Archon..used to be. What use would she have for that sort of knowledge? Which makes her predicament all the more harrowing and bleak. What was she supposed to do?
Furina had heard it first hand, that vitriol in Neuvillette's voice. She isn't sure she's ever heard him that..angry before. She's not sure he would listen to her if she tried, either. And that scares her more then anything. All of Fontaine was up in arms about this..imposter, yet here she was, staring down at them bleeding out in front of her, and she was trying to save them.
Why? Why is she throwing away her only chance at normalcy for a fraud? Why didn't she just turn them in?
They were dying – that should've been a good thing, shouldn't it? So why didn't it feel like it?
"Why you?" Her voice breaks as she speaks in harsh tones, grabbing the front of their shirt in trembling, bloodied hands. "Why now?" She wants to scream, to demand answers they can't give, to claw back the reprieve she was promised after five hundred years of agony..and all she can do is sob into their chest, pleading for an answer that will not come. "Why me?"
Silence is their answer, and it hangs heavy on her trembling shoulders as she cries.
Of course they don't, she thinks bitterly, no one has ever answered her pleas spoken in hushed sobs. Not her other self and certainly not them.
Furina has always been alone. Furina will always be alone.
Because Furina never left that stage, never left that moment when she looked at herself in the mirror and took up a mantle too heavy for her to bear. She always finds her way back eventually. There's no one on the other side anymore – she stands alone on a stage, waiting for an inevitable end she isn't sure will come.
"Please," She pleads through tears and choked sobs, clinging to them like they are all that keeps her from sinking. "Please don't leave me, too." The words burn on her tongue – how pathetic is she that she craves companionship from the bloodied body of the imposter? Perhaps she's truly lost her mind after all these years..perhaps she's finally gone mad. She must have.
But their presence is like the first feeling of gentle warmth upon her skin as the sun crests the horizon, like the gentle lap of tides along her heels, the sway of branches and leaves as the wind blows through them like an instrument all it's own. They are the soothing sound of rain against the window as she watches the dreary skies in fond longing, the first bloom of spring as color blooms upon the landscape like paint had been spilled across the hills and valleys.
They are like the faint spark she carefully nurtures and stokes, so fragile even the smallest wind could blow it out like a candle. She cradles it within her palms, pleads with whoever will listen – prays that someone finally listens, because if not for her, then for them.
She's failed to protect too much already, let too many people with so much trust in her fall between the cracks of her fingers like grains of sand. She won't let them go – she can't.
If nothing else, if she couldn't be saved when she begged for salvation from that five hundred year long agony, even if she never got that chance..
Furina will make sure they do.
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I don't know what the future holds for the qsmp. I do know that for a lot of people this feels like an ending—but babes, please, remember that you are not your interests. I struggle a lot with identity because of various reasons, especially neurodivergence, and I look at the state of things rn and feel like I'm mourning myself, but that's not the case.
I love how it feels to care about the qsmp, but that doesn't mean that i need it to live. That doesn't mean I need it to be. I feel empty and full of grief and then I put on music and dance to it and I remember that I exist. Stories are powerful and addictive and so so necessary, but they are never more important than people. Never. The best thing you can do for yourself is to invest as much in your own life as you do in stories.
What you miss about the qsmp is how you felt engaging with it and who you were while loving it. Liking things isn't passive, it's a process of constant interaction between you and the story and that makes it deeply deeply personal. But it also means that everything you loved about it came from you and those parts of you are still there!! Please remember that!!
You will feel that way again. I promise. That version of you is not gone. I promise. Take the things qsmp taught you about yourself and the world and hold them up proudly because they are inside of you now, and nobody can ever take them away.
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"Heart of Rome" (1970/1971)
Written by Geoff Stephens, Alan Blaikley and Ken Howard, recorded by Elvis Presley on June 6, 1970 at the RCA’s Studio B in Nashville, Tennessee, "Heart of Rome" was released on the album "Love Letters from Elvis" on June 16, 1971.
MUSICIANS FOR THE TRACK
Guitar: James Burton, Chip Young, Elvis Presley. Bass: Norbert Putnam. Drums: Jerry Carrigan. Piano: David Briggs. Organ & Harmonica: Charlie McCoy. OVERDUBS, Guitar: James Burton. Organ: David Briggs. Percussion: Jerry Carrigan. Percussion & Vibes: Farrell Morris. Steel Guitar: Weldon Myrick. Trumpet: Charlie McCoy, George Tidwell, Don Sheffield, Glenn Baxter. Saxophone: Wayne Butler, Norman Ray. Flute, Saxophone & Clarinet: Skip Lane. Trombone: Gene Mullins. Flute & Trombone: William Puett. Vocals: Elvis Presley, Mary Holladay, Mary (Jeannie) Green, Dolores Edgin, Ginger Holladay, Millie Kirkham, June Page, Temple Riser, Sonja Montgomery, Joe Babcock, The Jordanaires, The Imperials.
THE RECORDING SESSION
Studio Sessions for RCA on June 6, 1970: RCA’s Studio B, Nashville
The last entry of the evening, “Heart Of Rome,” was an up-tempo dramatic ballad in the operatic vein of “It’s Now Or Never” or “Surrender”; it may have had a little more irony going for it than the earlier cuts, but by the end it had Elvis straining for the high notes — and the band struggling to keep awake.
Excerpt: "Elvis Presley: A Life in Music" by Ernst Jorgensen. Foreword by Peter Guralnick (1998)
The song was recorded on the same day as the hits "You Don't Have To Say You Love Me" and "Just Pretend", as well as "I Didn't Make It On Playing Guitar", "It Ain't No Big Thing ( But It's Growing)", "This is Our Dance" and "Life".
It was past midnight when they were working on "Heart of Rome", the last song recorded that night. Elvis, the recording team and musicians spent about ten hours working at the RCA's studio during the Nashville sessions from June 4 to 8, 1970, reporting each evening at 6pm and working until the wee hours, wrapping up the sessions around 4:30 am. Elvis and his band recorded 35 masters over the five-days 1970 recording sessions in Nashville.
June 1970, at RCA's Studio B in Nashville, Tennessee.
Top (left to right) David Briggs (piano), Norbert Putnam (bass), Elvis (vocals and guitar), Al Pachucki (engineer), Jerry Carrigan (drums/percussion); bottom Felton Jarvis (producer), Chip Young (guitar), Charlie McCoy (organ & harmonica/trumpet), James Burton (guitar).
ADDITIONAL INFO
Elvis on June 4, 1970 in Nashville, stepping out of a car at RCA's studio B parking lot on his way to the studio's back entrance. Photography source: elvis-collectors.com.
During that first recording session in Nashville in June 1970, Elvis would record the songs "Twenty Days And Twenty Nights", "I've Lost You", "I Was Born About Ten Thousand Years Ago", "Little Cabin On The Hill", "The Fool", "The Sound Of Your Cry", "A Hundred Years From Now" and "Cindy, Cindy".
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A Look Inside Max Mayfield’s “last word” letters to the party: El
…
Hey El,
Gosh, it’s been so long since I’ve written those two words. Too long, really.
How are you? Are you.. are you doing okay? I know that’s a silly question considering the shitty circumstances of this letter but I hope you are, you deserve every good thing that happens to you. Even if that was me… leaving. Or, pulling away, I guess.
This vecna asshole better leave you alone. Tell him he better not mess with you. It doesn’t matter that I probably won’t be here soon, he better leave you alone. I’ll make sure he does. Somehow.
Shit, I’m so fucking sorry for not writing to you. I miss you so much, you have no idea. And now you’re not even going to see this until after… well. I’m not stupid, I know you miss me too, or… at least that you care, even though I tried to convince myself you didn’t. I got your letters, I read all of them. You’re too good for me El, way more than you even know. I know we technically haven’t known each other for that long but, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I feel like I’ve known you my whole life. I really wish I did, honestly. My life is better with you in it… it still is.
Lucas and Dustin and Steve, they’re all set on saving me, but this vecna guy… he’s really strong. He’s like you, with powers, but like, way less awesome of a person. I don’t think I’m going to make it. Is it selfish of me to wish you weren’t in California? Just so I could see you before I.. go? I’m glad you’re safe though. I just miss you, is all.
I have a bit of a confession. Multiple confessions, technically. And since this is like… my dramatic last words or whatever I should probably tell you. You’re my best friend, so if anyone should know, it’s you.
I’ve never really felt totally in with the party, you know? It was nothing they did, they’re great, really, even Mike. Don’t tell him I said this but I kinda get why you like him, under all his shit, sometimes he’s kinda sweet. Seriously please don’t tell him I said that, if I actually manage to live he’d never let me hear the end of it. Not that… well if you’re reading this that means I wouldn’t really, well. Be here.
Anyway, I got off topic, it’s so easy to do with you though and I wish we could talk more, and I miss you so much and I but anyway my point was, Mike and Lucas and Dustin and Will, they’ve all known each other for so long. They’re all so close and I’m just… I’m just here yknow? I’m just me.
But then I met you. Like, really met you. And I don’t mean when I just vaguely heard about you from Lucas and Dustin who talked about you like you were some otherworldly mystical sorcerer, and then saw you once right before you had to go off again to close a massive supernatural gate. I mean when I met you. And really… you were “just you” too. Just like me.
And El, you is so much. I don’t mean your powers, I just mean you, who you are. You got me, in a way no one else has, not even Lucas sometimes and that’s what and you didnt even have to say it, you just understood. We’re both outsiders, even with the party sometimes, but… never with each other.
El, you’re so fucking special to me. I hope you know that. Please know that. You’re more than your powers, than what you can do for other people, you’re just… so amazing, and supportive, and kind, and beautiful just as you.
Although, I guess if you’re reading this that means I’m not here so… you deserve to know. I think you’re beautiful, El. This is going to sound so cheesy but I really think you’re so beautiful, inside and out. Even when I’m not here, you can’t let anyone make you think otherwise okay? I know you won’t, you’re strong, without anyone else.
I wish I could say more but if I let this keep going I’ll be here all day, and I won’t get to our other friends letters, and then of course Mike would whine to you and Will about it, so I gotta save you guys from that. You’re just… I feel safe with you. Talking with you. Even if you’re not really here.
I’m sorry El. I’m so, so sorry. I’ll try to fight him okay? I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t, because you don’t deserve this shitty letter as my last words to you. You don’t deserve any of this. Or me. I’m sorry.
Love,
Max
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