Chapter Text
Your contact from the Special Security and Surveillance Patrol turns out to be Captain Chevreuse, a decorated and well-respected officer. Leaning against the wall next to a food stall - which sells snacks of the unhealthy variety - she looks to the passersby as any other garde coming off from their night shift. You attract no attention as you join her at the wall, looking out into the city as it basks in the rays of the morning sun.
“Care for a fry?” She asks, offering her bag of snacks.
You politely decline. Eating this early usually makes you nauseous, nevermind something so oily. “Have you been waiting long?”
“Not at all. I just wrapped up my patrol at the Fleuve Cendre. Uneventful. You, on the other hand,” she looks at you for the first time, and it doesn’t escape your notice that her remaining eye is as alert as a wren’s, “Now, that’s something. So, the Chief Justice wants you to cross the boundaries of law in order to catch the criminals who threaten our great city.”
Immediately you can tell from her body language and tilt of voice that she finds the idea wholy appealing, if not romantic.
“He asked me to give you access to all our evidence gathered on the Court bombers case. Which, mind you, is not a whole lot.” She sighs, as if she was frustrated by everyone’s impotence in the investigation. “The boys we caught were obviously not the masterminds behind the attack. Most were recruited from Fleuve Cendre, all poor, uneducated, with previous criminal records. Their only motive was financial gain. Apparently, the contractors promised, in the event of their deaths, to financially support their families.”
As she talks, she reaches into a messenger bag and produces a thin stack of papers. Discreetly, you hide them on your person. She can give you the rundown. You will pore over the details in the privacy of your new room at the Palais Mermonia.
“Somehow, I doubt that was the case.”
“And you are right on the money. Poor souls. Lifetime of prison and their families are none the richer for it.” It is evident she pities the boys involved, even with the carnage they have caused. She strikes you as a just, fair person, one that appreciates nuance - you like her immediately.
“Their descriptions of the people they were hired by are of no help. Hoods, masks, fake names, meetings through a third person…but they all agreed that those who hired them were Fatui. This is further evidenced, as well as by their later admittance of the attack, by the business transactions made by your father.” She stares at you intently after having said that, testing the waters, so to say.
“He supplied and financed the terror cell Poryadok , which has long been forsaken by the rest of the Fatui,” you admit, nonchalantly, to show there is no love lost between you and your criminal progenitor. “It regularly causes unrest in other nations, but this is their first attack of this scale.”
She looks pleased. “It is good they are trying to clean their mess, albeit unofficially. And they could not send a better envoy. You were a champion.”
Words, uttered a long time ago in a near-blissful moment, unsettle your mind. T’es championne de mon cœur . White-blue tresses, flowing water, satin sheets. You close your eyes. “That I was.”
Your momentary uneasiness goes unnoticed by her, so absorbed by the righteousness of your cause she is. The bag of fries is empty by now, crumpled in her tightened fist. “ Poryadok cannot go unpunished by us. As an officer of the law, I am severely limited. As is the Chief Justice. To him, law is a bond, you see. And while I enjoy finding loopholes, not even I can go search or question people without a warrant.” Or dispose of them , goes the unspoken part.
“I understand the delicacy of my occupation,” you say, “Rest assured, none of my doing will get traced back to you, or anyone. I always make sure to cover my tracks.”
She nods. “I have no doubts you will. Anyway, there is a list of people in those records I gave you whose involvement in the organization is suspected, but not founded on concrete evidence. Many of them are prominent members of society, much like your father. As a place to start, may I suggest you look into them?”
“Gladly.” You wonder how she sees you. An impassive assassin, focused only on her job? Or a disgraced noble, fueled by guilt and eagerness to recover her lost reputation?
But Chevreuse remains ever a professional. This is obviously not her first time dealing with the underworld, hence why she was chosen by Neuvillette.
Neuvillette . You wonder when this assault on your heart, caused by a mere thought of him, will cease. How is it that he has rocked the foundations of your very world, when so many of those who preceded him barely left an impression in your memory? It makes you angry that you wish to see him again soon, speak with him, be charmed by him. Will this arrangement of yours mean you will see each other less, or more? Granted, you now live in the same building, but he is always so busy…
Pathetically, you wish for the latter.
As if reading your mind, before you say your goodbyes, Chevreuse speaks your name. “By the way, Mademoiselle Ruisseau.” There is a twinkle in the purple of her eye, a good humor. “Monsieur Neuvillette expects a regular update from you. He takes this case very seriously. A matter of state security, and all.”
Concealing your giddiness, you only curtsy in response and make your exit.
It is a nice morning. Hit by a sudden craving for a pastry, you decide to walk to the Café Lutece for a pain au chocolat. Given the early hour, the streets are almost empty and afford you a great opportunity to enjoy your surroundings. It’s been long since you had the time to walk the streets simply for the joy of doing so; without someone to tail, or the need to hurry because of an errand.
Arriving at the café, you pick an outside table and sit down with your chocolate filled pastry. Savoring bite after bite, with sun tickling your face, you listen to the all-surrounding murmur of water and birdsong and conclude you are not doing so bad for yourself, after all.
A moment later, a business savvy paperboy chooses to walk up to you with the selection of today’s news. “No finer read in the city, mademoiselle. Politics, fashion, gossip. Which will it be?” He looks to you hopefully, shaking his coin purse, which, sadly, gives no jingling noise. In especially high spirits, for your standards, anyway, you smile beamingly at him.
“I’ll take gossip, why not?” After feeding his purse with your Mora, the paperboy tips his hat to you and carefully places a magazine at your table. Then, he hesitates a little.
“Pardon me noticing, but you look a spitting image of the lady on the cover, mademoiselle,” he points a finger at the tabloid, grinning apologetically. “Mind you, I don’t know my letters. So I’ve not the faintest idea what’s what, only that the man is the Chief Justice.”
You look where he points, and nearly drop your pain au chocolat.
Sensing your shock, or perhaps fearing you will demand your money back, he chooses to skedaddle. “I’ll leave you to it then! Archon bless you!”
The gossip periodical, aptly named Rumeurs , proudly displays a black and white photograph of you and Neuvillette at the gallery. It takes up most of the front page. You are seated at a table next to him. Both of you lean into the other as much as physically possible. Your shoulders touch; one of your hands rests on his knee as you’re throwing your head back in laughter. He looks to be, or have been, listening intently to whatever humorous tale you happened to be telling before you interrupted yourself. His mouth is curved into a small smile, his eyes are soft while they bore into you.
You stare at the photo for a long time, sorely wishing you could be returned to that moment this very instant. Then, with shaking fingers, you list to the page where the story is covered, and begin to read.
Courting the Iudex: Who is the Mystery Woman?
Yesterday’s beneficial exhibition at the national gallery by the artist Mamere attracted a number of high-profile visitors, the esteemed Chief Justice Neuvillette among them. While he, reportedly, arrived at the event on his own, he was soon joined by a lady who was object to much speculation not long ago, only to again re-emerge as the tabloids’ sweetheart. We are talking of none other than Mademoiselle Ruisseau, daughter of the recently convicted…
You skim over a few lines detailing your father’s court and trial.
…however, Mademoiselle Ruisseau seems to bear no ill will towards her father’s judge, as she was observed enjoying a pleasant night with the Iudex. According to numerous sources, the behavior the two of them engaged in could be perceived as an indicator of an intimate relationship. For the entire duration of our Chief Justice’s reign, he was rumored to be seriously favored by multiple women, but ultimately, none of them managed to get a positive verdict out of the judge. Could it be he is at long last thinking of settling down with the gently-bred, but wild at heart, Ruisseau?
Again, you skip some filler which informs the reader of various, most of them wildly exaggerated, details of your life, when a particular sentence catches your attention.
A more attentive reader might remember this is not the first time Ruisseau has been romantically linked to a public person. A few years ago, whilst she was serving as a Champion Duelist, it was widely speculated she was more than that to our dear Archon, Lady Furina. A source close to the Archon claims their relationship grew cold following Ruisseau’s abrupt departure from the order. Was it just a desire to take over her father’s business that led the Dendro-user to this decision, or a painful heartbreak? And has she found in the Iudex what Lady Furina failed to provide?
The pain au chocolat churns painfully in your stomach. Your hands begin to shake.
“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, then, loudly, “ Fuck .”
An older woman, who had found a seat within your hearing range, scoffs at you disapprovingly. You mutter an apology and clutch the papers to your chest, out of which your heart threatens to jump.
How did anyone…? You were fairly, no, absolutely sure that no one had as much as a sneaking suspicion you and Furina were on good speaking terms, nevermind intimate with each other. This was one of your best guarded secrets, the kind of which could easily ruin a person, given sufficient foundation. You knew it. Furina knew it. Which is why there was an unspoken agreement to take this one to the grave; no matter the betrayal, the ugliness, the hurt. It couldn’t have been Furina who went to the press, you decide, she is too afraid of receiving criticism, of being anything but unconditionally loved. And she is untrustworthy, paranoid to a fault - she would never entrust information of such magnitude to anyone, no matter how guilty her conscience. You know she successfully carried with herself secrets centuries old. And she never told even you, her supposed lover.
Shamelessly, your second thought goes to Neuvillette. Whether his opinion of you will be further tainted by this vicious rumor, or if he will pay it any mind at all. He doesn’t strike you as the type to read, much less believe gossip columns, then again, you would not suspect the slim, athletic Chevreuse as someone who fancied junk food either.
You will not as much as mention it to him. These stories never gain much traction, it’s all unfounded speculation, anyway. And Furina will try everything in her power to shut them down, for her own sake. Gracing them with a response would just add insult to injury.
Shakily, you rise from the table. There is someone, somewhere out there, who knows about you and Furina. What else do they know? You cannot allow someone to possess such sensitive information and walk free. Rumeurs . You will have to pay a visit to their editorial office, and soon.
But you have other responsibilities to see to first, as well as a meeting with Neuvillette. You both look forward to and dread it now, after what you have learned, knowing you will have to lie, or at the very least keep more things from him.
“Just my fucking luck,” you swear again, uncharacteristically. This time, the older lady corrects you out loud. Annoyed, you curtsy in her direction, a saccharine smile plastered onto your face.
You throw
Rumeurs
into the bin as you leave.